Allacan (human, she/her), in disguise, in an abandoned building, at night, with a growing crowd. INVITE ONLY
More people were entering, until the tavern was almost as full as it would have once been on a regular night when it had still been fully functional, but (Allacan) paid them little heed. She was still watching the strange figure Silendris warily, trying to figure why this person unsettled her so. They were reaching a hand towards her and for some reason she was... frozen in place. She wasn't normally one to bridle at physical contact, and the hand that still sparkled with sequins seemed innocent enough. But for some reason, Allacan's arms weren't responding to her wishes any more, and she could not seem to muster clear thought long enough to form speech. Her muscles seemed to grow weak in this person's presence, such that Zarâm felt the resistance on the saw give way and was able to slip it from her grasp. For a few moments, she was entirely unaware of the voices of people around her, the movement of activity elsewhere in the room, the flash of light flickering only briefly above Sil's head in the rafters above.
"Fyrefly. That was your name once, wasn't it?" The name grounded her for a moment, and she opened her mouth to respond with a sly smile of her own. "Actually, these days I go by..." and sputtered to a stop. What was she doing?! Why had she lost all wisdom in this person's presence?! She could not say her name here, in this place, locked as she was between her two loyalties. If she spoke her Rohir name, she would be condemning herself in the eyes of those denizens of darker persuasion and revealing her identity as a revered cavalry soldier. Few of the minions knew the origins of her darker side, or of its previous loyalties, unless things had changed in Mordor since she left all those years ago. And if she spoke her Minion name, she would be revealing to both Gwai and Taeth (presuming they were both in position as directed) that she was in fact the very same minion assassin who had attacked Rohan years ago. That information had been kept classified by the highest ranks in the cavalry, and known to only the few who had witnessed her capture, the current First Marshal being among them, to protect Allacan during her rehabilitation. Taeth, with her amnesia, was unlikely to know the details of that day, but Gwai? She had no idea how well informed the Meduseld paethfindian was, and if she revealed herself to be a once-enemy of Rohan that might damage the trust Gwai placed in her, and right now she needed both women to trust her, however convincing the ploy would appear.
"No need to fear us, our Shadow," The world shifted again, as though she had taken a blow to the head, though she was still frozen in place. But was it a ploy? Even Allacan wasn't sure any more. And being named Shadow, Burzum... confidence found its place once more as a different aspect of her character ascended to the surface. Yes, a ploy, but not against the minions. She breathed in and it almost appeared that she threw off the spell cast over her by Silendris. Cast off, or perhaps succumbed to it. She turned confidently away from Sil and back to Zarâm with a mischievous smile.
"Someone with as fine an eye as yours need not stoop to such primitive instruments, if you know the right people." she teased gently. "I like to procure the best for my work, and I know how to do so even here. I have an interest in the finest, the most effective, the most lethal." she said, in an admiring and complimentary manner towards Zarâm, leaving the end of the sentence confidently there so that the well-muscled and imposing orc could infer what she wished.
There was a distraction across the room, the injured Allacan glanced in that direction to witness the injured man Frost standing top-less, the shirt slipping from his fingers to the floor beside him. Time seemed to slow to an infinitesimal pace so as to tease the audience with a slow reveal of his handsome body, the shapely muscles curving and flexing in a glorious manner, an overwhelming exhibition of his shapely masculinity and lithe strength. With such a display of beauty in the room some may have expected Allacan to blush or swoon in place; she was certainly someone who delighted in carnal attraction and Frost certainly had a beguiling aura about him. She wasn't sure whether it was her concern as a healer for the injured man's delirium, respect for her friend Taeth, or the looming sense of mortal peril that made her impervious to Frost's guiles. But as the room seemed to slow in response to his presentation, Allacan unexpectedly found herself glancing at Zarâm face, curious to see what the orc woman thought of his display.
The sharp tone of Thali seemed to break Frost's spell on the room, and Allacan quickly turned her eyes away from Zarâm, hoping the woman hadn't spotted her looking. The onslaught recalled Allacan to the room of people. Her hand flinched towards a dagger as Thali shouted into the rafters, claiming to have spotted Taeth in the vaulted recesses of the ceiling, and Allacan made a quick assessment that yes, that would most likely be where Taeth the skilled archer would have placed herself, although she could not yet spy the woman there. She hoped the Pæthfindian had not been so predictable, although she could hardly blame her given the circumstances; it was possible that neither of them had expected Taeth's best friend Thali to turn up. At least Gwai's location hadn't been outed; even if Thali had presumed her presence, she clearly didn't know the Meduseld Pæthfindian as well as she did the Eastmark one. Wait, what was that Thali had said about a ghost horse?!
"You've done very well, today, but you want to come home and rest with us now, don't you?" There was nothing in particular in the vocality of Sil's words that made them seem enthralling. Not that the tone and sibilant crooning were unappealing, alone they might have warmed one's heart, but the tone and timbre did not explain the strange hypnotic effect they were having on Allacan. Her heart was pounding as though trying to warn her of some impending danger, and locked into those strange, dark eyes once again she found herself momentarily oblivious to the room about her. Unaware of the presence of the ghost of her beloved cavalry horse Beaducyrm's, at least for the moment, she calmly slipped from her stool, half-turned to lift it by the seat all the while keeping Silendris warily her peripheral vision, and then threw it forcibly into the rows of glasses and bottles stacked neatly behind the bar.
SMASH! The noise erupted through the tavern with the same ferocity as Thali's voice had, but this commotion was accompanied by the swift motion of the flying stool colliding with the neat stack of glasses that swiftly exploded into scattering slivers of glass. The abrupt interruption might even have made one or two of them jump, but Allacan wouldn't have noticed, Allacan's head was elsewhere.
It had been an over-dramatic way to get the attention of the room, especially when Thali had so brilliantly demonstrated that one only had to put the full fury of a cavalry warrior's commands behind her words to gather the focus of those gathered there. Except that it was not intended for that purpose. Allacan's mind was shattering into a hundred thousand pieces every time that Silendris spoke and the could feel those tiny shards digging painfully into her even as they scattered out of her control into the shadowy corners of her mind. She needed something, anything, to reflect the internal struggle that was tearing through her head. A lesser person might have screamed of gripped at their head, rocking, but all of Allacan's training, cavalry and assassin, had taught her to keep her expressions clear of emotions and beyond the sudden assault on the pub's equipment, to all outside appearances her face was calm. Deadly calm.
She took a long, deep, slightly quavering sigh of suppressed emotion and, staring at the broken shards of glass, deriving some element of peace and pleasure at their broken forms. She opened her mouth to speak, but rather than her usual confident tone of Allacan or the crooning tease of Dulug ob Burzam, her voice was a quiet, cold, sibilant and lethal tone that was reminiscent of her relative, almost as though some shadow of Gecko had planted its seeds in Allacan's mind and now, after long being suppressed, they rose to the surface.
"You are all here because you need to learn the meaning of the word subtle" she said, turning to meet a few choice faces eye-to-eye. "You traipse through Edoras like a rambling pack of mindless wolves, assaulting peddlers, stealing candied-apples from children, blatantly sabotaging anything that takes your whim, and your cursed crude invasion is set to overthrow all the careful machinations that I have spent over a decade setting in place. The fredegaring straw-heads are defensive enough - do you have any ]idea how impossible it has become to gain an audience with the King today? - and I have been working tirelessly to ingratiate myself with these horse-huggers, to gain the trust of the highest commanders in the land, and to put myself in a position where I can be certain that we can wipe out the highest ranks of both cavalry and royal family in one fell swoop. I am not about to let your jolly little holiday throw all those careful preparations down the drain, do you understand me?" she eyed them with sinister threat, her hands resting casually against her throwing knives ready to take out anyone who argued with her.
She then turned back to Silendris with recognition and understanding now alight in her gaze, and a smile appeared on her face that did not reach her eyes. "No, my sweet one. I will not return home just yet, for my work here is not yet done, and I will yet achieve what I was sent here by you and the others to complete."
(OOC @Sil (I hope you don't mind that I spread your comments out a little. Not that I didn't want you to have the chance to swoon and sigh at Frost in your own time, I just wanted Allacan's slowly bubbling turmoil to be a gradual thing to reflect the time and events that had passed in the thread between my posts.)
Fields and Forests
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Pæthfindian of the Eastmark
Forged in fire, shaped by shadow
She/her.
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(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning's hard ride from the Undeeps
Eléo emerged from the copse of trees, wringing water from her hair, to the smell of bacon. She felt a moment of guilt at having left Ringbold to do all the cooking, but she would make it up by taking care of the clean-up. She had needed the bath, and the time alone to gather her thoughts.
"Only three courses!" she laughed. "'Tis like a feast in the circumstances. Smells delicious." She gratefully accepted the plate and mug from Ringo and took a seat on the ground not too near the fire. The food was exceptionally good for camp fare, as it had been throughout their journey. Traveling with a hobbit had its advantages.
She ate hungrily, scraping her plate so as to not leave a morsel behind. They chatted as they ate, about the day's journey and about old times, but steering away from what was really on their minds--what the morrow would bring. That talk would come later.
Once done, Eléo took Ringo's equally scraped plate and said, "My turn now. I shall take care of this, while you have a few moments for a smoke, or a bathe, if you prefer, or both."
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléo slept deeply, untroubled by any dark dreams. She felt neither the hard ground beneath her, nor the chill air outside the snug blankets, only the comfort and warmth of lying close to her husband. Nearby, Goldwhæt thrashed and moaned in troubled sleep, but Eléo heard him not. Her last conscious thought had been to hope the night would not pass as quickly as had the day.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléo emerged from the copse of trees, wringing water from her hair, to the smell of bacon. She felt a moment of guilt at having left Ringbold to do all the cooking, but she would make it up by taking care of the clean-up. She had needed the bath, and the time alone to gather her thoughts.
"Only three courses!" she laughed. "'Tis like a feast in the circumstances. Smells delicious." She gratefully accepted the plate and mug from Ringo and took a seat on the ground not too near the fire. The food was exceptionally good for camp fare, as it had been throughout their journey. Traveling with a hobbit had its advantages.
She ate hungrily, scraping her plate so as to not leave a morsel behind. They chatted as they ate, about the day's journey and about old times, but steering away from what was really on their minds--what the morrow would bring. That talk would come later.
Once done, Eléo took Ringo's equally scraped plate and said, "My turn now. I shall take care of this, while you have a few moments for a smoke, or a bathe, if you prefer, or both."
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléo slept deeply, untroubled by any dark dreams. She felt neither the hard ground beneath her, nor the chill air outside the snug blankets, only the comfort and warmth of lying close to her husband. Nearby, Goldwhæt thrashed and moaned in troubled sleep, but Eléo heard him not. Her last conscious thought had been to hope the night would not pass as quickly as had the day.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning’s ride from the Undeeps: NPC: Ringbold Took
Ringo decided on both: a bathe first and a smoke after. He returned from his ablutions pink-faced and bright-eyed. The fine grit of the stream's bed had scoured away most of the road grime, but his muscles and bones still yearned for the bliss of a hot tub.
Eléowyn was busy with the last of the plates and pans; he took up his seat opposite her and prepared his pipe. He loaded a goodly measure of weed (it was going to be a long, gruelling talk) as he gazed out over the twilight lands below their camp.
The hobbit’s brow furrowed. The strange herringboned bank of cirrus still drifted over the plain, on over the summit of the Tafelberg it rolled and onward still into the southeast. But this was not what vexed him.
Where was the evening star?
He turned west, blinking in the last of the daylight. The Mariner’s star was prone to movement with the seasons, of course it was, but Ringo had never known it to vanish entirely. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, or the rising mists off the Great River?
The hobbit shook away this riddle, took a brand from the fire and lit his pipe. He was not surprised to find Eléowyn seated opposite him gazing at him intently. He took up the parcel from his side, a parcel he’d carried with him from the fishing village below Eryn Vorn, and unwrapped it carefully.
A book bound in faded red leather, much read and much loved, lay in his lap. Despite it taking up valuable food space, he’d carried it in his gunna throughout his adventuring - Arthur and Ælfred had often teased him about this! But the book was a precious thing: it had given comfort more nourishing than victuals when times proved bleak and lonely. And, when the world proved a dark and uncertain place - as it so often had - answers too.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he said suddenly to his friend. “I’m sure you think you are, and I wouldn’t doubt it if we were coming up against the usual suspects – Wildmen, brigands, orcs or wargs – but listen to me now, Eléowyn, dearest of friends. The weapons you carry cannot dint the foe we shall meet, and a graver danger than the Dark Man, the one you know as Scielda, may await you.
You said to me in Edoras that you had no recollection of returning there from the Tafelberg. Have you considered that is because you never truly left its summit? Ringo saw sudden turmoil in his friend’s eyes, but he pressed on: “You know what I speak of seems foolish – the very thought of madness, but consider the many strange things we hold as true!”
The hobbit held up his book, a second edition of the Red Book of Westmarch. “Many tales there are in this book, many things I once believed were stories told to wee hobbits before bedtime. The world outside The Shire has changed my view. I’ve seen many wonderful things… and I’m sure you have to. If we believe that Gandalf returned from death, or that Eärendil sailed the night sky to seek aid from the Valar, are not all things possible?”
I shall ride with you to Tafelberg in the morning, but I ask of you a promise, Ælfred was crystal clear about this: you shall wait on the plain until Aodh has overthrown our Enemy and returns to us. But, if you cannot do this, you must surrender your sword to me before climbing the summit..."
Ringo paused, tears coursed down his cheeks: "If you choose to go to your death, so be it. But if I can prevent it, it shall not be by your own hand!
@Eléowyn << As requested we'll allow Eléo and Aodh a night of undisturbed bliss >>
Ringo decided on both: a bathe first and a smoke after. He returned from his ablutions pink-faced and bright-eyed. The fine grit of the stream's bed had scoured away most of the road grime, but his muscles and bones still yearned for the bliss of a hot tub.
Eléowyn was busy with the last of the plates and pans; he took up his seat opposite her and prepared his pipe. He loaded a goodly measure of weed (it was going to be a long, gruelling talk) as he gazed out over the twilight lands below their camp.
The hobbit’s brow furrowed. The strange herringboned bank of cirrus still drifted over the plain, on over the summit of the Tafelberg it rolled and onward still into the southeast. But this was not what vexed him.
Where was the evening star?
He turned west, blinking in the last of the daylight. The Mariner’s star was prone to movement with the seasons, of course it was, but Ringo had never known it to vanish entirely. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, or the rising mists off the Great River?
The hobbit shook away this riddle, took a brand from the fire and lit his pipe. He was not surprised to find Eléowyn seated opposite him gazing at him intently. He took up the parcel from his side, a parcel he’d carried with him from the fishing village below Eryn Vorn, and unwrapped it carefully.
A book bound in faded red leather, much read and much loved, lay in his lap. Despite it taking up valuable food space, he’d carried it in his gunna throughout his adventuring - Arthur and Ælfred had often teased him about this! But the book was a precious thing: it had given comfort more nourishing than victuals when times proved bleak and lonely. And, when the world proved a dark and uncertain place - as it so often had - answers too.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he said suddenly to his friend. “I’m sure you think you are, and I wouldn’t doubt it if we were coming up against the usual suspects – Wildmen, brigands, orcs or wargs – but listen to me now, Eléowyn, dearest of friends. The weapons you carry cannot dint the foe we shall meet, and a graver danger than the Dark Man, the one you know as Scielda, may await you.
You said to me in Edoras that you had no recollection of returning there from the Tafelberg. Have you considered that is because you never truly left its summit? Ringo saw sudden turmoil in his friend’s eyes, but he pressed on: “You know what I speak of seems foolish – the very thought of madness, but consider the many strange things we hold as true!”
The hobbit held up his book, a second edition of the Red Book of Westmarch. “Many tales there are in this book, many things I once believed were stories told to wee hobbits before bedtime. The world outside The Shire has changed my view. I’ve seen many wonderful things… and I’m sure you have to. If we believe that Gandalf returned from death, or that Eärendil sailed the night sky to seek aid from the Valar, are not all things possible?”
I shall ride with you to Tafelberg in the morning, but I ask of you a promise, Ælfred was crystal clear about this: you shall wait on the plain until Aodh has overthrown our Enemy and returns to us. But, if you cannot do this, you must surrender your sword to me before climbing the summit..."
Ringo paused, tears coursed down his cheeks: "If you choose to go to your death, so be it. But if I can prevent it, it shall not be by your own hand!
@Eléowyn << As requested we'll allow Eléo and Aodh a night of undisturbed bliss >>
- he hath not forgotten 
the face of his fathers -
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Zôrzimril, Abandoned Building
A flicker of lantern light caught the edge of the saw in Zarâm's hand. It looked a fine, sharp weapon, regardless of its origins. Zôr caught a glimpse of the orc's vicious teeth and began imagining what that combination of teeth and saw together could do to an arm or leg. The shadowy stranger (Allacan) describing their own affinity for instruments of torture interrupted her reverie.
Now that she was closer to this person Silendris had called "our Shadow," Zôr took a good look at them: dark hair, a smudged layer of powder on their face barely covering a dark imprint, and panic in their eyes. This was someone who felt caught and cornered. Had they been the one to lead them all here? If so, why did they look so afraid?
She watched as if in slow motion when the stranger hurled their stool at the dusty bar. Zôrzimril panicked as shards of glass sprayed the room, and she darted from Zarâm's side to the corner where Frost lay. To hide her self-interested flight beneath concern for Frost, Zôr snatched the jar of oils from his hands. "I'll take care of this." She stepped around Thali's bandaged companion and knelt beside her friend once more.
Zôr uncorked the bottle, gagging a bit as the oil's floral scents hit her nose. She began to breathe through her mouth and poured a generous handful of oil onto her left palm. Rubbing her hands together so they shone slick in the lantern's glow, she applied the treatment to Frost's bruised ribs. She fought back the instinct to cause more harm and took care not to apply too much pressure to his injury, instead letting her hands slide gently over his abdomen. As she worked, she leaned her head back and gazed into the shadowy rafters above. She smiled smugly, hoping the hidden Taethowen had seen. Only when the stranger began addressing the gathered minions did she withdraw her hands from Frost.
Never one to feel actual guilt, Zôr did recognize that they must have caused trouble for this spy, but the damage was done. "What would you have us do now, then?" she asked in a whisper, which contrasted with the crash of glass but matched the spy's soft tones. "We can't undo the burning of the tent any more than you can undo that mark on your face."
A flicker of lantern light caught the edge of the saw in Zarâm's hand. It looked a fine, sharp weapon, regardless of its origins. Zôr caught a glimpse of the orc's vicious teeth and began imagining what that combination of teeth and saw together could do to an arm or leg. The shadowy stranger (Allacan) describing their own affinity for instruments of torture interrupted her reverie.
Now that she was closer to this person Silendris had called "our Shadow," Zôr took a good look at them: dark hair, a smudged layer of powder on their face barely covering a dark imprint, and panic in their eyes. This was someone who felt caught and cornered. Had they been the one to lead them all here? If so, why did they look so afraid?
She watched as if in slow motion when the stranger hurled their stool at the dusty bar. Zôrzimril panicked as shards of glass sprayed the room, and she darted from Zarâm's side to the corner where Frost lay. To hide her self-interested flight beneath concern for Frost, Zôr snatched the jar of oils from his hands. "I'll take care of this." She stepped around Thali's bandaged companion and knelt beside her friend once more.
Zôr uncorked the bottle, gagging a bit as the oil's floral scents hit her nose. She began to breathe through her mouth and poured a generous handful of oil onto her left palm. Rubbing her hands together so they shone slick in the lantern's glow, she applied the treatment to Frost's bruised ribs. She fought back the instinct to cause more harm and took care not to apply too much pressure to his injury, instead letting her hands slide gently over his abdomen. As she worked, she leaned her head back and gazed into the shadowy rafters above. She smiled smugly, hoping the hidden Taethowen had seen. Only when the stranger began addressing the gathered minions did she withdraw her hands from Frost.
Never one to feel actual guilt, Zôr did recognize that they must have caused trouble for this spy, but the damage was done. "What would you have us do now, then?" she asked in a whisper, which contrasted with the crash of glass but matched the spy's soft tones. "We can't undo the burning of the tent any more than you can undo that mark on your face."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.
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(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning's ride from the Undeeps
Something was troubling Ringbold, something more than the uncertainty of what the morning would bring. Eléo decided not to question him about it, but rather let him proceed at his own pace. She watched with curiosity as he unfolded the parcel and drew out a book.
Her brow furrowed ever deeper as he spoke. Her instinct was to interrupt when he spoke of her having never left the Tafelberg, but she held her tongue until he had finished. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts before she spoke, but the sight of the hobbit’s tears moved her to action.
“My dear Ringo, my dear friend,” she said, kneeling before him and taking his hands in hers, “I have always considered you a friend, from the very day you wandered into the pub in Edoras. But after our days together on this journey, I have come to love you as a brother, and my heart aches to see you in such distress. It is true, I may be going to my death, but I do not fear death. I am no longer young, and I have seen many battles. What I fear more than going to my death is waiting for death to come to me. But why in the name of Bema would you think I would die by my own hand?”
She paused to gently wipe a tear from the hobbit’s cheek. Her next words were less confident, and her voice halted at times as she spoke. “But this idea you have, that I never left the tafelberg’s summit … yes, I have to come to accept many things as true that may not seem possible. But this? How, how can this be true when here I am, right before you, no longer on the summit of the tafelberg? If I never left, I am not here. If I am here, then surely I left?”
She paused again, eyes crinkling as a realization, a memory, came to her. When she next spoke, it was almost as if to herself. “I remember now, suddenly finding myself by the river, not knowing how I came there, and discovering that somehow years had fallen away from me, and my hair was once again untouched by gray, and the lines of my nose were unbroken. The world was younger, and so was I. Yet now, here I am, again with graying temples and nose slightly askew.”
Another pause, and deeper furrows. And then a look of almost panic in her eyes. “Ringbold, if time can move both forward and backward, swinging like a pendulum, then I grant you, even what you speak of may be possible. Though I know not how! And what will I find on that tafelberg summit? Another version of me, or merely my dried bones? And what of Aodh?”
In all her years, she had never felt such fear. But face it she must. She must know what lay atop that summit. And suddenly it came to her how it might be that she would die by her own hand.
“I cannot promise to wait here,” she said. “But I will surrender my sword. I think I will not need it in the end.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Something was troubling Ringbold, something more than the uncertainty of what the morning would bring. Eléo decided not to question him about it, but rather let him proceed at his own pace. She watched with curiosity as he unfolded the parcel and drew out a book.
Her brow furrowed ever deeper as he spoke. Her instinct was to interrupt when he spoke of her having never left the Tafelberg, but she held her tongue until he had finished. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts before she spoke, but the sight of the hobbit’s tears moved her to action.
“My dear Ringo, my dear friend,” she said, kneeling before him and taking his hands in hers, “I have always considered you a friend, from the very day you wandered into the pub in Edoras. But after our days together on this journey, I have come to love you as a brother, and my heart aches to see you in such distress. It is true, I may be going to my death, but I do not fear death. I am no longer young, and I have seen many battles. What I fear more than going to my death is waiting for death to come to me. But why in the name of Bema would you think I would die by my own hand?”
She paused to gently wipe a tear from the hobbit’s cheek. Her next words were less confident, and her voice halted at times as she spoke. “But this idea you have, that I never left the tafelberg’s summit … yes, I have to come to accept many things as true that may not seem possible. But this? How, how can this be true when here I am, right before you, no longer on the summit of the tafelberg? If I never left, I am not here. If I am here, then surely I left?”
She paused again, eyes crinkling as a realization, a memory, came to her. When she next spoke, it was almost as if to herself. “I remember now, suddenly finding myself by the river, not knowing how I came there, and discovering that somehow years had fallen away from me, and my hair was once again untouched by gray, and the lines of my nose were unbroken. The world was younger, and so was I. Yet now, here I am, again with graying temples and nose slightly askew.”
Another pause, and deeper furrows. And then a look of almost panic in her eyes. “Ringbold, if time can move both forward and backward, swinging like a pendulum, then I grant you, even what you speak of may be possible. Though I know not how! And what will I find on that tafelberg summit? Another version of me, or merely my dried bones? And what of Aodh?”
In all her years, she had never felt such fear. But face it she must. She must know what lay atop that summit. And suddenly it came to her how it might be that she would die by her own hand.
“I cannot promise to wait here,” she said. “But I will surrender my sword. I think I will not need it in the end.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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(Then) The high country of the Wold: NPC: Ringbold Took
The hobbit took his hands from Eléowyn's, he wiped the tears from his cheeks, slipped the 'kerchief from his neck and blew his nose vigorously. "Who knows what you will find?" he said at last. "Surely not your bones, for if you lie dead upon the Tafelberg, how can you be here... here with me, now?” Though his little heart toiled with doubt, he said this boldly hoping to offer comfort and strength to his friend. What would they indeed find? Death seemed likely, for them both, if not for Aodh Hammerhelm.
Ringo found his thoughts drifting to Goldwhaet, the man he knew as Arthur Heath. His long ago rescuer had been fond of books too. Not fond enough to carry them the length and breadth of Middle-earth, but he’d kept a little store of them on a shelf in the sitting room of their cottage down by the sea. The hobbit could picture two of them clearly: Charlie the Choo-Choo and The Sages’ Book of Wisdom.
“In the end is my beginning,” he said to Eléo, quoting from the latter. “Let us hope for a happy ending and a bright new beginning? Yes, let us pin our hopes on that… And as for your sword, thank you! But keep it for awhile, there may be dangers we face before we reach the hill. I shall ask it of you when we get there. Time for bed now, I think, we’ve prattled on way too long. Dawn is not far off."
(When) On the plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: The Ageless Stranger:
Rædwulf Fleðð sat cross-legged before the mouth of the cavern he’d passed the night in. He gnawed at a rabbit bone as the northern wind tousled his hair. His face was handsome, cheeks flushed with rude health, but it writhed with doubt. His plan, long in the making, was finely set; his nemesis and his wretched tet trapped like flies in a bottle.
Why then did his heart hammer so?
Something had woken him, movement from the west, he deemed. But gazing out over the plain his Eye was blinded by the luminous disc of a full moon. This was ridiculous of course: the moon was waxing, had been for the last four nights, and it lay behind him now as it dipped east towards the Great River.
“Nerves!” he said aloud, chewing at his fulsome lower lip. “Stage fright only…”
It was time to move, the cover of the late spring night would not hold out much longer. He had no gunna to stow, only the battered deck of cards that lay in his lap. The precious green book, his inventory of spells, a catalogue of bile and hatred, was long gone; plucked from his hand, along with the horn of the Eld, by the Laughing-boy on the slope of One Tree Hill.
He licked his fingers clean, wiped them on his cloak and slipped the cards into his breast pocket. He rose and crossed to the bundled figure behind him, knelt and parted the folds of dark cloth. Nadene gazed up at him. She was gagged and battered, a runnel of dried blood below her left nostril, but unbowed. Her eyes flashed defiance as he leant in over her.
“Sssssssh!” the Dark Man whispered, raising a long finger to his lips. “Not a sound if you want to see lover-boy again!”
He picked her up easily, despite her wriggled protest, and tossed her over a shoulder. Along the lower contour of the flat-topped hill, a black shadow against the dark slope, the Ageless Stranger moved. Reckoning lay ahead of him; revenge hove nearer with each cautious, clocking step.
(Then) The high country of the Wold:
Ringbold awoke before dawn. A chill breeze from the north had found his exposed cheeks. He blinked, and blinked again. His forehead wrinkled. Summer then spring, how can that be? High overhead the moon, waxing rather than the thin sickle he’d seen at dusk, rode the swirling mists from the River.
He slipped from his bed, rolled and tied his blankets and crossed quietly to the campfire. He set his bedroll beside his backpack, stowed his cooking gear above the carefully packed contents at its base, and hurried to the horses.
He led Sandy and Daesûl to the stream and hung their nosebags on a nearby pine tree. While the horses drank their fill he turned to survey the land. From a dense wood to his right a road cut across the plain; it disappeared between two conical hills a mile or so south west of the Tafelberg. One road in, and one road out, he thought. True, if you followed the route Eleo had traced on the Map, but not if you travelled on instinct or the will of… Ka?
Beyond the Tafelberg, overhung now by ominous looking thunderheads, the sky and land showed the first flush of the coming day. “There you are!” Ringo smiled, as he marked the glint of the morning star, bright Eärendil. He swept his little sword from the scabbard, held it above his head and, in a voice not quite his own, called out: “Eru! Father! We walk on the path of Light, guide us well. We come in the name of the White, protect us!
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
Aodh lay open-eyed beside his sleeping wife. He savoured each second of their embrace, as if it might be their last. He kissed Eléo gently on the forehead, kissed her once more, then rolled away and gathered up his gunna and folded clothing.
He stood awhile on the ledge, as naked and as vulnerable as the day he’d first drawn breath, and peered out over the countryside south east of Anduin. Old Mother twinkled through the mists from the Great River, the moon fled towards the woods on the far shore. The northerly wind ruffled his long hair, and raised gooseflesh on his exposed skin, but he withstood it. The Last Debate was done - there as well as here. The Captains of the West serried now their companies against impossible odds on a far away plain. They stood on the very edge of doom, as did he.
His clothing lay at his feet, but his belt, the belt he’d worn at the start of his journey, was grasped firmly in his hands. The broad buckle, enamelled with the motif of the White Sun, glowed in the coming daylight. The weight of his father’s killing irons, the awesome engines of destruction passed down from his long-fathers, hung not upon the belt. They were long gone, lost in the mists of time.
His hand found Bælslean’s worn sandalwood grip and swept her from the scabbard. He pointed the blade south east, squinting down its length as he’d done with the weapons of the Eld countless times before. Suddenly he swept the sword skyward, hilt high over his head. “Sköldpadda, Maturin!” he called in a loud voice. “Damn Ka and her folly. Eru, father! We walk the path of the Light, guide us. We walk in the path of the White, spare her!”
(Then) The high country of the Wold:
From across the plain, high atop the Tafelberg, Ringbold saw, as if in answer, a flash of light that matched the brilliance of the Mariner’s star. Hope soared in his heart. He waved his little sword once more, sheathed it, then gathered the horses and hurried back to the camp.
Eléowyn was still fast asleep. The hobbit hung his gear and the remains of their provisions on Sandy’s saddle, doused and covered the campfire then knelt beside his companion.
“Wake up!” he piped, shaking his companion’s shoulder. “Wake, up Eléo, It’s time to get moving…”
--
@Eléowyn
The hobbit took his hands from Eléowyn's, he wiped the tears from his cheeks, slipped the 'kerchief from his neck and blew his nose vigorously. "Who knows what you will find?" he said at last. "Surely not your bones, for if you lie dead upon the Tafelberg, how can you be here... here with me, now?” Though his little heart toiled with doubt, he said this boldly hoping to offer comfort and strength to his friend. What would they indeed find? Death seemed likely, for them both, if not for Aodh Hammerhelm.
Ringo found his thoughts drifting to Goldwhaet, the man he knew as Arthur Heath. His long ago rescuer had been fond of books too. Not fond enough to carry them the length and breadth of Middle-earth, but he’d kept a little store of them on a shelf in the sitting room of their cottage down by the sea. The hobbit could picture two of them clearly: Charlie the Choo-Choo and The Sages’ Book of Wisdom.
“In the end is my beginning,” he said to Eléo, quoting from the latter. “Let us hope for a happy ending and a bright new beginning? Yes, let us pin our hopes on that… And as for your sword, thank you! But keep it for awhile, there may be dangers we face before we reach the hill. I shall ask it of you when we get there. Time for bed now, I think, we’ve prattled on way too long. Dawn is not far off."
(When) On the plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: The Ageless Stranger:
Rædwulf Fleðð sat cross-legged before the mouth of the cavern he’d passed the night in. He gnawed at a rabbit bone as the northern wind tousled his hair. His face was handsome, cheeks flushed with rude health, but it writhed with doubt. His plan, long in the making, was finely set; his nemesis and his wretched tet trapped like flies in a bottle.
Why then did his heart hammer so?
Something had woken him, movement from the west, he deemed. But gazing out over the plain his Eye was blinded by the luminous disc of a full moon. This was ridiculous of course: the moon was waxing, had been for the last four nights, and it lay behind him now as it dipped east towards the Great River.
“Nerves!” he said aloud, chewing at his fulsome lower lip. “Stage fright only…”
It was time to move, the cover of the late spring night would not hold out much longer. He had no gunna to stow, only the battered deck of cards that lay in his lap. The precious green book, his inventory of spells, a catalogue of bile and hatred, was long gone; plucked from his hand, along with the horn of the Eld, by the Laughing-boy on the slope of One Tree Hill.
He licked his fingers clean, wiped them on his cloak and slipped the cards into his breast pocket. He rose and crossed to the bundled figure behind him, knelt and parted the folds of dark cloth. Nadene gazed up at him. She was gagged and battered, a runnel of dried blood below her left nostril, but unbowed. Her eyes flashed defiance as he leant in over her.
“Sssssssh!” the Dark Man whispered, raising a long finger to his lips. “Not a sound if you want to see lover-boy again!”
He picked her up easily, despite her wriggled protest, and tossed her over a shoulder. Along the lower contour of the flat-topped hill, a black shadow against the dark slope, the Ageless Stranger moved. Reckoning lay ahead of him; revenge hove nearer with each cautious, clocking step.
(Then) The high country of the Wold:
Ringbold awoke before dawn. A chill breeze from the north had found his exposed cheeks. He blinked, and blinked again. His forehead wrinkled. Summer then spring, how can that be? High overhead the moon, waxing rather than the thin sickle he’d seen at dusk, rode the swirling mists from the River.
He slipped from his bed, rolled and tied his blankets and crossed quietly to the campfire. He set his bedroll beside his backpack, stowed his cooking gear above the carefully packed contents at its base, and hurried to the horses.
He led Sandy and Daesûl to the stream and hung their nosebags on a nearby pine tree. While the horses drank their fill he turned to survey the land. From a dense wood to his right a road cut across the plain; it disappeared between two conical hills a mile or so south west of the Tafelberg. One road in, and one road out, he thought. True, if you followed the route Eleo had traced on the Map, but not if you travelled on instinct or the will of… Ka?
Beyond the Tafelberg, overhung now by ominous looking thunderheads, the sky and land showed the first flush of the coming day. “There you are!” Ringo smiled, as he marked the glint of the morning star, bright Eärendil. He swept his little sword from the scabbard, held it above his head and, in a voice not quite his own, called out: “Eru! Father! We walk on the path of Light, guide us well. We come in the name of the White, protect us!
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
Aodh lay open-eyed beside his sleeping wife. He savoured each second of their embrace, as if it might be their last. He kissed Eléo gently on the forehead, kissed her once more, then rolled away and gathered up his gunna and folded clothing.
He stood awhile on the ledge, as naked and as vulnerable as the day he’d first drawn breath, and peered out over the countryside south east of Anduin. Old Mother twinkled through the mists from the Great River, the moon fled towards the woods on the far shore. The northerly wind ruffled his long hair, and raised gooseflesh on his exposed skin, but he withstood it. The Last Debate was done - there as well as here. The Captains of the West serried now their companies against impossible odds on a far away plain. They stood on the very edge of doom, as did he.
His clothing lay at his feet, but his belt, the belt he’d worn at the start of his journey, was grasped firmly in his hands. The broad buckle, enamelled with the motif of the White Sun, glowed in the coming daylight. The weight of his father’s killing irons, the awesome engines of destruction passed down from his long-fathers, hung not upon the belt. They were long gone, lost in the mists of time.
His hand found Bælslean’s worn sandalwood grip and swept her from the scabbard. He pointed the blade south east, squinting down its length as he’d done with the weapons of the Eld countless times before. Suddenly he swept the sword skyward, hilt high over his head. “Sköldpadda, Maturin!” he called in a loud voice. “Damn Ka and her folly. Eru, father! We walk the path of the Light, guide us. We walk in the path of the White, spare her!”
(Then) The high country of the Wold:
From across the plain, high atop the Tafelberg, Ringbold saw, as if in answer, a flash of light that matched the brilliance of the Mariner’s star. Hope soared in his heart. He waved his little sword once more, sheathed it, then gathered the horses and hurried back to the camp.
Eléowyn was still fast asleep. The hobbit hung his gear and the remains of their provisions on Sandy’s saddle, doused and covered the campfire then knelt beside his companion.
“Wake up!” he piped, shaking his companion’s shoulder. “Wake, up Eléo, It’s time to get moving…”
--
@Eléowyn
Last edited by Aodh Hammerhelm on Sun Jul 12, 2020 1:23 am, edited 10 times in total.
- he hath not forgotten the face of his fathers -
the face of his fathers -- Points: 469
Doorwarden of The Mark
Posts: 344
Joined: Tue Jun 09, 2020 5:49 pm
Blædtunge, in West Emnet, with blodsweostor @Amhran
"We need to leave. NOW." Amhran choked out.
"YAH!" shouted Blædtunge instanter, and Blacstan leapt forward, his Rider low over his neck.
Two more sets of tracks, at least, one with a distinctive dragged foot, Blædtunge's pæthfindian-mind noticed in the background.
Something else he noticed, after some time, was the pursuit: there was none! Wheeling Blacstan around and hefting his spear, Blædtunge scanned the ground whence they'd just traveled, squinting his eyes through the dust the two steeds had kicked up.
"Well," he remarked to Amhran, "We're not going to be difficult to track, anyway."
"We need to leave. NOW." Amhran choked out.
"YAH!" shouted Blædtunge instanter, and Blacstan leapt forward, his Rider low over his neck.
Two more sets of tracks, at least, one with a distinctive dragged foot, Blædtunge's pæthfindian-mind noticed in the background.
Something else he noticed, after some time, was the pursuit: there was none! Wheeling Blacstan around and hefting his spear, Blædtunge scanned the ground whence they'd just traveled, squinting his eyes through the dust the two steeds had kicked up.
"Well," he remarked to Amhran, "We're not going to be difficult to track, anyway."
- Points: 2 417
Arien
Posts: 1982
Joined: Thu May 07, 2020 8:56 pm
Silendris, Abandoned Building, Invite Only
Silendris was smiling encouragingly at Allacan, even as their hand gently brushed the woman’s cheekbone (leaving behind a single pink sparkly sequin rather like a beauty mark, even as Silendris found a smudge of concealer left on their hand). A number of emotions were flickering across Allacan’s face, difficult for Silendris to read in the half-light - especially because one of their eyes kept wandering off to see exactly what Frost was doing. The man was half-shielded by the number of people inquisitively crowding around them but Silendris could still make out some gleaming pectorals, shining with intricate inked designs, and an absolutely fantastic hair-flick that Silendris immediately longed to emulate.
“When all this is done we must go to Frost and ask him exactly how he does that,” Silendris mumbled to themself. Once upon a time they, too, had had a magnificent mane of hair, but the ashen climate of Mordor turned the finest golden locks to brittle straw in a matter of months. Naokis’ features weren’t too bad, with a lithe, androgynous frame that suited them well, but certainly the body could do with a little work in general. Silendris made a mental note to pick up some of that fabulous Mane And Tail conditioner whilst they were in Rohan - the Rohirrim apparently mainly used it for show ponies, but it worked a treat on elves and mortals too - and even made the Wargs delightfully floofy and plushy, if incredibly angry. Silendris had not been able to finish the impromptu grooming session with their improvised blow-drying equipment, and in fact had had to make a run for it with the seat of their pants torn out - an episode that had inspired the famous bumflap, perhaps?!
Írimë and her crew slunk in - late to the party, as usual. Silendris relaxed slightly, even as - out of the corner of the eye that was still focused on Business - they made out what appeared to be the wraithlike outline of a horse. One met a lot of curious characters as one of the undead, but a ghost horse was the first; it must’ve had a strong spirit indeed to remain cohesive. Either that or Silendris had been partaking of too many spirits themself. Not for the first time. Anyway, it was ADORABLE, and -
SMASH
Allacan had thrown a glass. Silendris blinked, eyes refocusing.
“Subtle? You call smashing a pint glass subtle?” Silendris complained, a person who had just merrily skipped down the streets of Rohan with pink, spangly lettering on their behind, and therefore exhibiting a keen understanding of subtlety. Zôr had immediately ducked around to the far side of the room, in the finest spirit of the Orcish (Self)-Preservation Society, and began vigorously... massaging oils into Frost in an attempt to look busy?
“We weren’t here *just* for a holiday, anyway,” Silendris continued in a slightly injured tone (not just because there was a shard of glass embedded in their cheek), sticking a sequinned hand into their pocket to fondly fondle their beloved Pony Trophy (did you know it poops candy?). “We won an important victory today, no doubt demoralising to all the horse-honchos; we were a presence both glamorous and magnificent on the field of Campian - Frost’s stunning aside, which apparently is turning out to be advantageous for us anyway, due to him being, erm, stunning... and that’s all beside the fire lighting.
But you, our precious one. Are you indeed working for us behind the scenes?”
A tiny drop of blood inched its way down Silendris’ cheek, even as their fingers mimicked the tear track down Allacan’s face.
“You drew attention to yourself without any help from us, sweet,” they continued, shaking their head in mocking sadness, “when you stepped forward in our competition... We can’t say your words weren’t moving, or would be if we cared for the same sort of thing that these Rohirrim do... but what is your play here?
Would you like any help?”
Silendris kept their voice low. The skin on the back of their neck was still prickling; they hadn’t forgotten Thalionwen’s assumption that other Riders were concealed and listening.
And that wasn’t even counting the ghost horse.
cave anserem
- Points: 834
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 417
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:55 pm
Beaducyrm, abandoned building
The horse snorted and arched it's neck in reproach when told by the one who had stuck her fingers in someone else's mouth (Thali) to choose in or out. He was in! He was nervous about being in, he had never been in here before, but he had come in! SHE called him, so he had come. He took a minute to look around; he wasn't sure what to expect, but this wasn't it. The place was covered in dust, tables and chairs broken and knocked over, the fireplace empty. He remembered it as somewhere with a lot of light and warmth coming out from the inside, but if this was what the inside really looked, why had SHE spent so much time here? It wasn't that nice. Definitely not as nice as the Throne Room the one time he'd been in there with the other horses.
He caught the scent of honey and nickered quietly, his neck stretching out and his nostrils flaring at the scent. He knew that smell. And he knew the taste. Was that what the one had put in the other's mouth? He took a few steps forward, ears pricked and nose sniffing out where the sweet smell was coming from. On the way he knocked into a chair, sending it toppling. He was a sturdy, level-headed horse though and only gave the chair a startled look before focusing back on the honey smell.
He clip-clopped forward a bit more, to where the one with honey was still standing (Zor), and stretched his neck out as far as it would go, snuffling at the person's arm, then following the scent up to where it still was on the person's face. He snuffled around a bit, tongue sneaking out to clean up some of the sweet honey, but pulled back after a minute. He didn't like the smell of this person under the honey. They didn't smell.....Rohirric. That was it. He was used to the smell of the people in Rohan, and this one didn't smell like that.
Swinging his head around he searched the room until he found the other one, who had put it's fingers in this one's mouth (Thali). He shifted around in the slightly constricting space - clearly the interior of the pub had never been made for horses - and made his way over, his hooves still making the distant clip-clop sound on the floor. Reaching her, he stretched out his neck and snuffled at her fingers, smelling honey again. Yes, this one smelled like a Rohir. That was better. His tonuge snuck out and licked at her hand, his lips moving over her fingers in search of the sweet treat.
He heard the one this one was leaning against (Orco) ask to pet the "ghost horse" and snorted, but kept busy in his search for honey. He wasn't letting anyone pet him, he just wanted honey, and to help the one who had called him. And speaking of the one who had called him, a loud SMASH! had him jumping back, his rump colliding with a table and half going right through it, half knocking it over. His hooves skittered on the floor, and he whirled around, almost taking out the two sitting there (Thali and Orco) with his rump. He stared, nostrils flared, at the one who had called (Alla) as she yelled at the others. He wasn't sure he recognized her the way she was, but he did know that it was her, and if he had to, he would protect her.
For now, though, things seemed to have calmed. The air was heavy and tense, and his senses screamed danger, but it wasn't immediate. She had been angry, but now she was calming down, talking quieter to the woman with her. He could be on guard, but still find the source of the honey. Turning back to the two sitting there, his rump almost knocking them over again, he went back to searching for the source of the honey.
The horse snorted and arched it's neck in reproach when told by the one who had stuck her fingers in someone else's mouth (Thali) to choose in or out. He was in! He was nervous about being in, he had never been in here before, but he had come in! SHE called him, so he had come. He took a minute to look around; he wasn't sure what to expect, but this wasn't it. The place was covered in dust, tables and chairs broken and knocked over, the fireplace empty. He remembered it as somewhere with a lot of light and warmth coming out from the inside, but if this was what the inside really looked, why had SHE spent so much time here? It wasn't that nice. Definitely not as nice as the Throne Room the one time he'd been in there with the other horses.
He caught the scent of honey and nickered quietly, his neck stretching out and his nostrils flaring at the scent. He knew that smell. And he knew the taste. Was that what the one had put in the other's mouth? He took a few steps forward, ears pricked and nose sniffing out where the sweet smell was coming from. On the way he knocked into a chair, sending it toppling. He was a sturdy, level-headed horse though and only gave the chair a startled look before focusing back on the honey smell.
He clip-clopped forward a bit more, to where the one with honey was still standing (Zor), and stretched his neck out as far as it would go, snuffling at the person's arm, then following the scent up to where it still was on the person's face. He snuffled around a bit, tongue sneaking out to clean up some of the sweet honey, but pulled back after a minute. He didn't like the smell of this person under the honey. They didn't smell.....Rohirric. That was it. He was used to the smell of the people in Rohan, and this one didn't smell like that.
Swinging his head around he searched the room until he found the other one, who had put it's fingers in this one's mouth (Thali). He shifted around in the slightly constricting space - clearly the interior of the pub had never been made for horses - and made his way over, his hooves still making the distant clip-clop sound on the floor. Reaching her, he stretched out his neck and snuffled at her fingers, smelling honey again. Yes, this one smelled like a Rohir. That was better. His tonuge snuck out and licked at her hand, his lips moving over her fingers in search of the sweet treat.
He heard the one this one was leaning against (Orco) ask to pet the "ghost horse" and snorted, but kept busy in his search for honey. He wasn't letting anyone pet him, he just wanted honey, and to help the one who had called him. And speaking of the one who had called him, a loud SMASH! had him jumping back, his rump colliding with a table and half going right through it, half knocking it over. His hooves skittered on the floor, and he whirled around, almost taking out the two sitting there (Thali and Orco) with his rump. He stared, nostrils flared, at the one who had called (Alla) as she yelled at the others. He wasn't sure he recognized her the way she was, but he did know that it was her, and if he had to, he would protect her.
For now, though, things seemed to have calmed. The air was heavy and tense, and his senses screamed danger, but it wasn't immediate. She had been angry, but now she was calming down, talking quieter to the woman with her. He could be on guard, but still find the source of the honey. Turning back to the two sitting there, his rump almost knocking them over again, he went back to searching for the source of the honey.
First Marshal of the Mark
Eastmark Eored
Forth Eorlingas!
Eastmark Eored
Forth Eorlingas!
- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Though her earlier slumber had been untroubled, as dawn approached, dreams came to Eléo. They were strange indeed, and in them she felt stretched thin, almost translucent. There was a woman walking toward her, though in the shadows she could not see the face. As the woman drew nearer, Eléo felt a chill, and a shadow fly across her vision. Just as she came into plain view, the woman said, “I am Eléowyn, of the Westfold. Where is my husband?”
Just as Aodh was calling “Spare her!” Eléo awoke and sat straight up, stifling the scream in her throat. She drew one of the blankets close about her and found her husband standing on the ledge. Without a word, she went to his side and pulled him into the folds of the blanket, shaking as she laid her head on his shoulder.
(Then) The high country of the Wold
Morning came all too soon. Eléowyn’s sleep had been filled with dreams, dreams that reflected her apprehension of what would happen when, or if, she came face to face with the Eléo from another time. How does one prepare for such a thing, she had wondered. Not even the stories of old told of such happenings.
Another thought had troubled her as well, as she had lain on the hard ground, hoping for sleep to find her soon. Aodh had not returned from the tafelberg with her. Perhaps he was dead, but her heart told her that was not the case. So, if he was not dead, and he was still there, he would be the younger Aodh. And so would be his then-wife, Eléo of the still-golden hair. He would want to stay with her, of course; why would he not? But where did that leave her, the Eléowyn of the graying hair and the creased eyes?
At length, she had deemed it all too difficult and terrifying to contemplate and had fallen at long last asleep, only to have the thoughts trouble her sleep as well. In her dreams, she made her way to the tafelberg where she saw her other-Eléo lying on the ground. When she was sure the woman saw her, she asked “Where is my husband?” The woman had replied, “You mean Aodh? He is my husband.”
Mercifully, the dream was interrupted by Ringbold’s insistent shaking. “I’m awake,'” Eléowyn grumbled, but not angrily. “Let’s get this over with.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Though her earlier slumber had been untroubled, as dawn approached, dreams came to Eléo. They were strange indeed, and in them she felt stretched thin, almost translucent. There was a woman walking toward her, though in the shadows she could not see the face. As the woman drew nearer, Eléo felt a chill, and a shadow fly across her vision. Just as she came into plain view, the woman said, “I am Eléowyn, of the Westfold. Where is my husband?”
Just as Aodh was calling “Spare her!” Eléo awoke and sat straight up, stifling the scream in her throat. She drew one of the blankets close about her and found her husband standing on the ledge. Without a word, she went to his side and pulled him into the folds of the blanket, shaking as she laid her head on his shoulder.
(Then) The high country of the Wold
Morning came all too soon. Eléowyn’s sleep had been filled with dreams, dreams that reflected her apprehension of what would happen when, or if, she came face to face with the Eléo from another time. How does one prepare for such a thing, she had wondered. Not even the stories of old told of such happenings.
Another thought had troubled her as well, as she had lain on the hard ground, hoping for sleep to find her soon. Aodh had not returned from the tafelberg with her. Perhaps he was dead, but her heart told her that was not the case. So, if he was not dead, and he was still there, he would be the younger Aodh. And so would be his then-wife, Eléo of the still-golden hair. He would want to stay with her, of course; why would he not? But where did that leave her, the Eléowyn of the graying hair and the creased eyes?
At length, she had deemed it all too difficult and terrifying to contemplate and had fallen at long last asleep, only to have the thoughts trouble her sleep as well. In her dreams, she made her way to the tafelberg where she saw her other-Eléo lying on the ground. When she was sure the woman saw her, she asked “Where is my husband?” The woman had replied, “You mean Aodh? He is my husband.”
Mercifully, the dream was interrupted by Ringbold’s insistent shaking. “I’m awake,'” Eléowyn grumbled, but not angrily. “Let’s get this over with.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
- Points: 243
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Posts: 85
Joined: Sat Jun 13, 2020 2:09 pm
Amhran, in the West Emnet, with @Wamba_the_Fool
Amhran had half-drawn her sword from its scabbard tied to her saddle. Now she slowly, reluctantly resheathed it and grimaced at the long line of hoofprints gouged in the trail behind them. "Might as well blow a horn to announce our position. But maybe they won't follow us; I don't know why they should, unless..." she shot a look at her companion. "They didn't see you when you were on that river voyage with your captain, did they? Any chance they might recognize you?" Blaedtunge shrugged.
It was getting dark, so they decided they had better find somewhere to lay up for the night. The open plain was rocky here, hillocky and pockmarked with outcroppings of boulders and standing stones as it approached the foothills towards the Ered Nimrais, which was still only a faint haze many leagues distant. Blaed and Amhran chose a large cluster of stones, almost like a fallen natural henge, a couple hundred yards off the trail and walked their horses in an arc through the long grass towards it, to avoid leaving any further tracks.
The stones were easily large enough to screen them and their horses from the road, but they still judged it unwise to light a fire and instead ate bits of cold food out of their packs. Amhran took out her knapsack of apples and shared them with her friend and with the horses. When they had finished eating, she unpacked her bedroll blanket and huddled it around her shoulders, her back against the cooling stone, watching the sky darkening. Suddenly she remembered what she had been going to ask him.
"Blaed? In your story, you mentioned someone named Astoril. I take it she's your wife? Tell me about her, please, what is she like? And your children?"
Amhran had half-drawn her sword from its scabbard tied to her saddle. Now she slowly, reluctantly resheathed it and grimaced at the long line of hoofprints gouged in the trail behind them. "Might as well blow a horn to announce our position. But maybe they won't follow us; I don't know why they should, unless..." she shot a look at her companion. "They didn't see you when you were on that river voyage with your captain, did they? Any chance they might recognize you?" Blaedtunge shrugged.
It was getting dark, so they decided they had better find somewhere to lay up for the night. The open plain was rocky here, hillocky and pockmarked with outcroppings of boulders and standing stones as it approached the foothills towards the Ered Nimrais, which was still only a faint haze many leagues distant. Blaed and Amhran chose a large cluster of stones, almost like a fallen natural henge, a couple hundred yards off the trail and walked their horses in an arc through the long grass towards it, to avoid leaving any further tracks.
The stones were easily large enough to screen them and their horses from the road, but they still judged it unwise to light a fire and instead ate bits of cold food out of their packs. Amhran took out her knapsack of apples and shared them with her friend and with the horses. When they had finished eating, she unpacked her bedroll blanket and huddled it around her shoulders, her back against the cooling stone, watching the sky darkening. Suddenly she remembered what she had been going to ask him.
"Blaed? In your story, you mentioned someone named Astoril. I take it she's your wife? Tell me about her, please, what is she like? And your children?"
- Points: 2 582
Thain of The Mark
Posts: 1399
Joined: Tue May 19, 2020 10:44 pm
Taethowen, Abandoned Building
Taeth swore silently as the rafter creaked beneath her, and one of the newest arrivals (Swiltang)turned his face to the ceiling. His hood slipped back, revealing his orcish features, and she heard the suspicious, rumbling hmm that escaped him.
Taeth was quickly, quickly distracted though when it quickly became evident that something was very wrong with Frost.
Frost clearly thought that everything was fine, but she saw the way his footing stumbled as he Bema-damned finally motioned for Zôr to back off, and then... was he... was he stripping?! Or trying to, anyway, because it seemed his shirt got stuck at some point briefly as he was pulling it over his head, but he eventually managed, and as his torso and tattoos became visible, her mouth went dry.
She'd seen--so much more than seen, really--it all, already, of course, but the bruises from the Campian made her wince. Resisting the urge to take a deep breath--you're supposed to be hidden, woman, she silently scolded herself--Taeth forced her eyes away. She already knew about the sea serpent tattoo, the Forodwaith runes... the scar on his left shoulder where a fell beast skewered him through. The burns from a fight with an orc wizard. The shark bite he'd gotten while saving someone else. She'd traced every scar and rune with her fingers, asking about the stories and purposes behind them all. And he'd answered her, without hesitation, and also told her so much more.
However, when he started flirting with the orc, she scowled. Clearly, there were some ground rules about their relationship that still needed to be established. Such as not getting concussions and not drinking while concussed. She didn't expect him to never flirt with anyone ever again--it was too ingrained in who he was--but this was ridiculous.
And then Thalionwen snapped. She thoroughly scolded everyone, which was mostly well-deserved, and Taeth was relieved when her friend sent Frost to the corner.
But then her gaze wandered back to Fyrefly (Allacan), and while there was too much commotion going on to hear what the exchange between Fyrefly, and first Silendris, then Zarâm, and just as she saw Silendris taking Fyrefly's attention again, Thalionwen shouted her name.
"Taethowen Anhyrne, I know you're up there! I could hear you gasp when this one touched the pretty Númenórean. Come down at once. And if you're here, I expect Gwai's skulking about too. I want to know what a lot of Cavalry pæths are doing holed up in an out of use pub with my Mordorian friends."
Taeth's rage was only apparently through the tight clenching of her jaw, if anyone else would have been able to see her. She didn't hear the rest of what Thali said through the blood rushing in her ears. She knew Thali was a bit of a dunce, but she'd been Cavalry at one point too. How stupid could the woman be?
Taeth craned her neck around, searching out for where Gwai might be, but she couldn't find any indication for sure of whether her fellow pæth was present or not. She'd almost decided not to reveal herself when Fyrefly sent a stool flying into a stack of glasses.
The words that followed, though not as bitingly, achingly painful as the words that Thalionwen had uttered to her just a couple nights before, still made Taeth wince. She was... fairly certain that Fyrefly didn't really mean them... she hoped. Whatever had happened to Fyrefly... Taeth was certain that Silendris had played a part in it.
And that settled it, she needed to get down there. Though if Fyrefly's obvious distress had not settled it for her, the sight Taeth saw when she looked over to check on Frost in his corner would have made up her mind.
The woman (Zôrzimril) who had touched him earlier was doing it again, this time slathering some sort of oil on his ribs. She caught a whiff of lavender and chamomile even up in the rafters. Nearly every muscle in her body threatened to tighten into a tension of discordant jealousy, but she took a deep breath and forced it away, perusing the pub below her as she made her plan.
With a quiet urgency, Taeth crossed the rafter to the other side of the pub as she tucked the arrow she'd nocked earlier back into the quiver. It didn't matter now who saw her, but she still had some pæthfindian pride in keeping her footsteps silent and presence unnoticed. Then she crouched down, gripped her bow firmly in her left hand, and used her right hand to hold onto the rafter--as well as she could, anyway--as she swung herself down. Taeth landed with a quiet thud, feet-first, on the wood floor.
Whether the sight of her was formidable or not was certainly up to each individual watching, her entrance certainly felt good. She landed, smoothly, and straightened to her full--if almost diminutive--height. In some ways, with her red linen shirt, dark brown leather armor, and black scarf, she thought she perhaps looked more like a Mordorian than a Rohir. Perhaps.
Please, Gwai, if you're here, just stay hidden for now, Taeth thought desperately, wishing the other pæth could read her mind.
Ignoring all the others present, Taeth slowly unwrapped the black scarf from around her head and face, tucking it into her cuirass, letting that hide the motion of her retrieving the HCMA's insignia from its hiding spot and tucking it into her palm. Then she fixed her gaze first on Thalionwen, and strode across the room as she nestled the grip of her bow into the crook of her left elbow. Traversing a path which took her conveniently between Silendris and Fyrefly, Taeth let the rage she was feeling inside flow across her features. It was the perfect excuse to let herself stumble, with an angry hiss, into Fyrefly, and deftly tuck the insignia into the woman's hand. Taeth glared at Fyrefly, as if the stumble had been the other woman's fault, and then continued on her way.
Taeth wasn't sure if the insignia would do anything to help Fyrefly, but it was all she had at the moment without completely giving away that they were both fully Cavalry. Far better that the Mordorians think at least Fyrefly a spy, if not herself as well. But Frost would come in handy for that.
When she reached the corner containing her friend, with her own husband, and her nearly unconcious lover being practically molested, Taeth turned to Thali first, tugging at her arm harshly to draw her close.
"How dare you out me as Cavalry in front of so many unknowns, Thalionwen," Taeth hissed in her ear. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
While Taeth loved her friend dearly, there was only so much she could take without expressing her ire, and in that moment, it meant berating her and then completely ignoring her.
Then she turned to the woman (Zôrzimril) who kept touching Frost over and over again. With a snarl, Taeth grabbed the woman's wrist and tugged the jar of oil from her hand. "The Númenórean's mine," Taeth growled. "Touch him again and I'll cut your hands off."
Taeth swore silently as the rafter creaked beneath her, and one of the newest arrivals (Swiltang)turned his face to the ceiling. His hood slipped back, revealing his orcish features, and she heard the suspicious, rumbling hmm that escaped him.
Taeth was quickly, quickly distracted though when it quickly became evident that something was very wrong with Frost.
Frost clearly thought that everything was fine, but she saw the way his footing stumbled as he Bema-damned finally motioned for Zôr to back off, and then... was he... was he stripping?! Or trying to, anyway, because it seemed his shirt got stuck at some point briefly as he was pulling it over his head, but he eventually managed, and as his torso and tattoos became visible, her mouth went dry.
She'd seen--so much more than seen, really--it all, already, of course, but the bruises from the Campian made her wince. Resisting the urge to take a deep breath--you're supposed to be hidden, woman, she silently scolded herself--Taeth forced her eyes away. She already knew about the sea serpent tattoo, the Forodwaith runes... the scar on his left shoulder where a fell beast skewered him through. The burns from a fight with an orc wizard. The shark bite he'd gotten while saving someone else. She'd traced every scar and rune with her fingers, asking about the stories and purposes behind them all. And he'd answered her, without hesitation, and also told her so much more.
However, when he started flirting with the orc, she scowled. Clearly, there were some ground rules about their relationship that still needed to be established. Such as not getting concussions and not drinking while concussed. She didn't expect him to never flirt with anyone ever again--it was too ingrained in who he was--but this was ridiculous.
And then Thalionwen snapped. She thoroughly scolded everyone, which was mostly well-deserved, and Taeth was relieved when her friend sent Frost to the corner.
But then her gaze wandered back to Fyrefly (Allacan), and while there was too much commotion going on to hear what the exchange between Fyrefly, and first Silendris, then Zarâm, and just as she saw Silendris taking Fyrefly's attention again, Thalionwen shouted her name.
"Taethowen Anhyrne, I know you're up there! I could hear you gasp when this one touched the pretty Númenórean. Come down at once. And if you're here, I expect Gwai's skulking about too. I want to know what a lot of Cavalry pæths are doing holed up in an out of use pub with my Mordorian friends."
Taeth's rage was only apparently through the tight clenching of her jaw, if anyone else would have been able to see her. She didn't hear the rest of what Thali said through the blood rushing in her ears. She knew Thali was a bit of a dunce, but she'd been Cavalry at one point too. How stupid could the woman be?
Taeth craned her neck around, searching out for where Gwai might be, but she couldn't find any indication for sure of whether her fellow pæth was present or not. She'd almost decided not to reveal herself when Fyrefly sent a stool flying into a stack of glasses.
The words that followed, though not as bitingly, achingly painful as the words that Thalionwen had uttered to her just a couple nights before, still made Taeth wince. She was... fairly certain that Fyrefly didn't really mean them... she hoped. Whatever had happened to Fyrefly... Taeth was certain that Silendris had played a part in it.
And that settled it, she needed to get down there. Though if Fyrefly's obvious distress had not settled it for her, the sight Taeth saw when she looked over to check on Frost in his corner would have made up her mind.
The woman (Zôrzimril) who had touched him earlier was doing it again, this time slathering some sort of oil on his ribs. She caught a whiff of lavender and chamomile even up in the rafters. Nearly every muscle in her body threatened to tighten into a tension of discordant jealousy, but she took a deep breath and forced it away, perusing the pub below her as she made her plan.
With a quiet urgency, Taeth crossed the rafter to the other side of the pub as she tucked the arrow she'd nocked earlier back into the quiver. It didn't matter now who saw her, but she still had some pæthfindian pride in keeping her footsteps silent and presence unnoticed. Then she crouched down, gripped her bow firmly in her left hand, and used her right hand to hold onto the rafter--as well as she could, anyway--as she swung herself down. Taeth landed with a quiet thud, feet-first, on the wood floor.
Whether the sight of her was formidable or not was certainly up to each individual watching, her entrance certainly felt good. She landed, smoothly, and straightened to her full--if almost diminutive--height. In some ways, with her red linen shirt, dark brown leather armor, and black scarf, she thought she perhaps looked more like a Mordorian than a Rohir. Perhaps.
Please, Gwai, if you're here, just stay hidden for now, Taeth thought desperately, wishing the other pæth could read her mind.
Ignoring all the others present, Taeth slowly unwrapped the black scarf from around her head and face, tucking it into her cuirass, letting that hide the motion of her retrieving the HCMA's insignia from its hiding spot and tucking it into her palm. Then she fixed her gaze first on Thalionwen, and strode across the room as she nestled the grip of her bow into the crook of her left elbow. Traversing a path which took her conveniently between Silendris and Fyrefly, Taeth let the rage she was feeling inside flow across her features. It was the perfect excuse to let herself stumble, with an angry hiss, into Fyrefly, and deftly tuck the insignia into the woman's hand. Taeth glared at Fyrefly, as if the stumble had been the other woman's fault, and then continued on her way.
Taeth wasn't sure if the insignia would do anything to help Fyrefly, but it was all she had at the moment without completely giving away that they were both fully Cavalry. Far better that the Mordorians think at least Fyrefly a spy, if not herself as well. But Frost would come in handy for that.
When she reached the corner containing her friend, with her own husband, and her nearly unconcious lover being practically molested, Taeth turned to Thali first, tugging at her arm harshly to draw her close.
"How dare you out me as Cavalry in front of so many unknowns, Thalionwen," Taeth hissed in her ear. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
While Taeth loved her friend dearly, there was only so much she could take without expressing her ire, and in that moment, it meant berating her and then completely ignoring her.
Then she turned to the woman (Zôrzimril) who kept touching Frost over and over again. With a snarl, Taeth grabbed the woman's wrist and tugged the jar of oil from her hand. "The Númenórean's mine," Taeth growled. "Touch him again and I'll cut your hands off."
Last edited by Taethowen on Fri Jul 24, 2020 1:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Second Marshal of the Mark
Westmark Éored
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Chieftain of The Mark
Posts: 656
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
Aodh drew Eléowyn close to him. Turning toward her he marked her troubled face. He drew her closer still and kissed her lightly upon her forehead. “Love,” he whispered to her. “Love is all there is… remember it well, and believe it!” Her shivering subsided, and the erratic flutter in her chest. They stood together, breast on breast, hearts beating in perfect cadence, with the wind in their hair. Aodh could have stood in this embrace forever and it would not have been long enough.
Something moved in the corner of his vision - a mote of dust thrown up by the morning breeze? He looked to his right, down onto the rocky scree at the base of the Tafelberg and marked a dark and scuttling thing making its way towards the footpath. “He comes,” he said to Eléowyn, then more urgently, as his eyes found two figures crossing the plain from the south west. “We must dress, we have little time!”
He lifted her, turning her so that his body shielded the passage of the oncoming Riders. A small mount, with a small rider led their way, behind came a large charger - a horse of the Cavalry, surely? But there was no mistaking, even at distance, the golden hair and posture of its master. How long before the Dark Man reached the head of the footpath? Ten... fifteen minutes at the most! Would the lessons he’d drummed into Ringbold’s head down the years hold true? Was the holbytla truly a gunsl…”
His eyes found Goldwhæt Dughlaich standing above his rumpled blankets. His friend looked dreadful; sunken eyed and slump shouldered. “Fix yourself!” Aodh growled. “Have you forgotten the face of your father? Take the horses behind yonder overhang and picket them securely. Wash your face, steady your hands, gather your thoughts. Come only when I call thee!”
He took Eléowyn’s hand and led her from the ledge. “Hurry!” he called to her as gathered up his gunna and clothing.
He began to dress. The clothes he’d worn, the roughly weaved woollen shirt and trousers, all save his battered hat and worn boots, went into his backpack. He donned a deerskin shirt, taken and tailored in the clearing of the Great Bear, and the faded blue work trousers he’d worn in a barony by the sea long ago. Over all he pulled a brightly coloured, multi-patterned mantle, a serape, may it please ya!
He hefted his sword belt, buckling it about his slim hips as he moved across the tet’s campsite. He set himself in view of the head of the path, feet slightly apart with his back to the steps that climbed to the summit of the hill, and waited for his wife to join him.
(Then & When) Across the plain to the Tafelberg: NPC: Ringbold Took
The two companions rode down onto the plain. Ringbold sensed his friend’s disquiet and took their lead. The time for map and memory was gone; their destination could be plainly seen under the dark thunderheads in the distance. The hobbit made a straight line for the conical hills on the southern spur of the Tafelberg, perhaps to shield them from unwanted eyes, mayhap by instinct only. The terrain they crossed was devoid of feature save for tall grasses that sprang up from the rich deposits of Anduin.
Ringbold felt a strange sensation as the koppies drew closer; it was as if some unseen obstacle lay across their path. He spurred Sandy to a canter. A button popped from his wes’kit, he looked down and was not in the least bit surprised to find his stomach straining at the remaining two. Sandy leapt suddenly into the air, as if jumping a fence or hurdle and the feeling of resistance passed.
The hobbit looked back over his shoulder, Eléo and Daesûl were close behind and he reined in allowing them to draw level. “What’s that over there, beyond the river?” he peeped at Eléowyn. “Is it Gondor? I’ve never travelled this far North… Do you suppose if we turned that way we’d come to Cair Andros, and in time to the White City of the King, fair Minas Tirith…?”
The hobbit kept up this patter as they moved into the shadow of the conical hills, for he’d seen, away to his left, something moving along the foot of the Tafelberg. Black it was, and loathsome, moving like some fell insect or creature wrought in the dungeons of Isengard or Mordor. But it was something far worse - Ringbold knew this in an instant - The Dark Man, The Ageless Stranger, immortal Enemy of Will Dearborn, the one who would destroy Aodh Hammerhelm and all he held dear.
The travellers passed on between the hillocks and came at last to their destination. The Tafelberg soared up into the sky above them. Ringbold saw a chalk path set between two tall stones. There was no sign of the dark creeping creature but a terrible quietness lay over the land. Ringo slipped from Sandy’s back, hands clinging to the saddle horn. He took a deep breath, let go and landed nimbly upon the stony ground.
“We’re here!” he said gazing up at Eléowyn, hands outstretched. “I’ll have your sword now, please…”
--
@Eléowyn
Aodh drew Eléowyn close to him. Turning toward her he marked her troubled face. He drew her closer still and kissed her lightly upon her forehead. “Love,” he whispered to her. “Love is all there is… remember it well, and believe it!” Her shivering subsided, and the erratic flutter in her chest. They stood together, breast on breast, hearts beating in perfect cadence, with the wind in their hair. Aodh could have stood in this embrace forever and it would not have been long enough.
Something moved in the corner of his vision - a mote of dust thrown up by the morning breeze? He looked to his right, down onto the rocky scree at the base of the Tafelberg and marked a dark and scuttling thing making its way towards the footpath. “He comes,” he said to Eléowyn, then more urgently, as his eyes found two figures crossing the plain from the south west. “We must dress, we have little time!”
He lifted her, turning her so that his body shielded the passage of the oncoming Riders. A small mount, with a small rider led their way, behind came a large charger - a horse of the Cavalry, surely? But there was no mistaking, even at distance, the golden hair and posture of its master. How long before the Dark Man reached the head of the footpath? Ten... fifteen minutes at the most! Would the lessons he’d drummed into Ringbold’s head down the years hold true? Was the holbytla truly a gunsl…”
His eyes found Goldwhæt Dughlaich standing above his rumpled blankets. His friend looked dreadful; sunken eyed and slump shouldered. “Fix yourself!” Aodh growled. “Have you forgotten the face of your father? Take the horses behind yonder overhang and picket them securely. Wash your face, steady your hands, gather your thoughts. Come only when I call thee!”
He took Eléowyn’s hand and led her from the ledge. “Hurry!” he called to her as gathered up his gunna and clothing.
He began to dress. The clothes he’d worn, the roughly weaved woollen shirt and trousers, all save his battered hat and worn boots, went into his backpack. He donned a deerskin shirt, taken and tailored in the clearing of the Great Bear, and the faded blue work trousers he’d worn in a barony by the sea long ago. Over all he pulled a brightly coloured, multi-patterned mantle, a serape, may it please ya!
He hefted his sword belt, buckling it about his slim hips as he moved across the tet’s campsite. He set himself in view of the head of the path, feet slightly apart with his back to the steps that climbed to the summit of the hill, and waited for his wife to join him.
(Then & When) Across the plain to the Tafelberg: NPC: Ringbold Took
The two companions rode down onto the plain. Ringbold sensed his friend’s disquiet and took their lead. The time for map and memory was gone; their destination could be plainly seen under the dark thunderheads in the distance. The hobbit made a straight line for the conical hills on the southern spur of the Tafelberg, perhaps to shield them from unwanted eyes, mayhap by instinct only. The terrain they crossed was devoid of feature save for tall grasses that sprang up from the rich deposits of Anduin.
Ringbold felt a strange sensation as the koppies drew closer; it was as if some unseen obstacle lay across their path. He spurred Sandy to a canter. A button popped from his wes’kit, he looked down and was not in the least bit surprised to find his stomach straining at the remaining two. Sandy leapt suddenly into the air, as if jumping a fence or hurdle and the feeling of resistance passed.
The hobbit looked back over his shoulder, Eléo and Daesûl were close behind and he reined in allowing them to draw level. “What’s that over there, beyond the river?” he peeped at Eléowyn. “Is it Gondor? I’ve never travelled this far North… Do you suppose if we turned that way we’d come to Cair Andros, and in time to the White City of the King, fair Minas Tirith…?”
The hobbit kept up this patter as they moved into the shadow of the conical hills, for he’d seen, away to his left, something moving along the foot of the Tafelberg. Black it was, and loathsome, moving like some fell insect or creature wrought in the dungeons of Isengard or Mordor. But it was something far worse - Ringbold knew this in an instant - The Dark Man, The Ageless Stranger, immortal Enemy of Will Dearborn, the one who would destroy Aodh Hammerhelm and all he held dear.
The travellers passed on between the hillocks and came at last to their destination. The Tafelberg soared up into the sky above them. Ringbold saw a chalk path set between two tall stones. There was no sign of the dark creeping creature but a terrible quietness lay over the land. Ringo slipped from Sandy’s back, hands clinging to the saddle horn. He took a deep breath, let go and landed nimbly upon the stony ground.
“We’re here!” he said gazing up at Eléowyn, hands outstretched. “I’ll have your sword now, please…”
--
@Eléowyn
Last edited by Aodh Hammerhelm on Mon Jul 13, 2020 12:23 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Black Númenórean
Posts: 2854
Joined: Sat May 16, 2020 9:29 pm
Zôrzimril, Abandoned Building
Zôr's ears perked as Silendris buzzed questions at the supposed spy. It was true, the sequinned one had won a great honor today, upending the standards of beauty in Rohan and injecting a hilariously utilitarian element into the local fashion sense. But if Silendris couldn't tell this person's loyalties . . . Zôr was glad she'd scurried out of their reach for now.
As she listened to the muted conversation, a cool draft blew over her as if from nowhere. She shivered, wishing she had a cloak on for warmth. Why was it so cold, when there were so many warm bodies packed into the room? No one else seemed to feel the chill. Perhaps it was just the dissipation of the heat from Frost's shirt-removal. But Zôr tensed and froze at the sound of muffled snuffling and as a light, tickling touch brushed against her chin. The fine trail of honey below her lip (which she'd missed in her own earlier lickings) vanished into thin air. And then, it was over. The air around her warmed, and her chin was clean.
She barely had time to register that she'd just had a close encounter with the ghost horse (which had now gone on to upset a nearby table) when a figure dropped into their midst from above. Zôr stood as the woman - who must surely be Taethowen - unwrapped a scarf from around her head and stalked across the room to their corner.
She snorted as Taethowen took the bottle of oil easily from her still-greasy hand, then clasped Zôr's wrist in a gloved fist, pulling her close to utter a threat. "The Númenórean's mine. Touch him again and I'll cut your hands off."
Zôr raised an eyebrow. "Well, darling, I'm Númenórean, too." She twisted her wrist in Taethowen's now similarly-slick grip to free herself, then cupped the stranger's face with both palms. "So I hope that means I also count as yours." She pulled the Rohir in and planted a kiss on her mouth, inhaling the mingled scents of honey and alcohol on her own breath as their lips met.
Ignoring the woman's protestations, she drew away quickly and grinned, eyes alight with amusement. This, more than fire, was Zôrzimril's favored brand of chaos. "Now, where were you? Reclaiming your lover, telling off your friend, or chasing away half a dozen armed enemies single-handedly?"
Zôr's ears perked as Silendris buzzed questions at the supposed spy. It was true, the sequinned one had won a great honor today, upending the standards of beauty in Rohan and injecting a hilariously utilitarian element into the local fashion sense. But if Silendris couldn't tell this person's loyalties . . . Zôr was glad she'd scurried out of their reach for now.
As she listened to the muted conversation, a cool draft blew over her as if from nowhere. She shivered, wishing she had a cloak on for warmth. Why was it so cold, when there were so many warm bodies packed into the room? No one else seemed to feel the chill. Perhaps it was just the dissipation of the heat from Frost's shirt-removal. But Zôr tensed and froze at the sound of muffled snuffling and as a light, tickling touch brushed against her chin. The fine trail of honey below her lip (which she'd missed in her own earlier lickings) vanished into thin air. And then, it was over. The air around her warmed, and her chin was clean.
She barely had time to register that she'd just had a close encounter with the ghost horse (which had now gone on to upset a nearby table) when a figure dropped into their midst from above. Zôr stood as the woman - who must surely be Taethowen - unwrapped a scarf from around her head and stalked across the room to their corner.
She snorted as Taethowen took the bottle of oil easily from her still-greasy hand, then clasped Zôr's wrist in a gloved fist, pulling her close to utter a threat. "The Númenórean's mine. Touch him again and I'll cut your hands off."
Zôr raised an eyebrow. "Well, darling, I'm Númenórean, too." She twisted her wrist in Taethowen's now similarly-slick grip to free herself, then cupped the stranger's face with both palms. "So I hope that means I also count as yours." She pulled the Rohir in and planted a kiss on her mouth, inhaling the mingled scents of honey and alcohol on her own breath as their lips met.
Ignoring the woman's protestations, she drew away quickly and grinned, eyes alight with amusement. This, more than fire, was Zôrzimril's favored brand of chaos. "Now, where were you? Reclaiming your lover, telling off your friend, or chasing away half a dozen armed enemies single-handedly?"
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.
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New Soul
Posts: 608
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:40 am
Gwai, in the Abandoned Building, in a Supply Closet, Getting Hungry
Join the cavalry, they said. It will be fun, they said. Defend your king and country, earn renown for brave deeds, they will sing songs about your brave deeds on the battlefield...they hadn’t mentioned sitting in a dusty supply closet for hours. Why hadn’t she put a chair in there? Or at least a pillow?
It was difficult to see what exactly was going on through the dirty window, but at least it helped keep her hidden. Gwai could catch a few words here and there as well. The “tent inspector” (Frost) was slowly--and rather dramatically, from her viewpoint-- taking his shirt off, making Gwai wonder if he was either mostly dead, or perhaps not as sick as she had originally thought.
One of the recent arrivals, a rather exotic looking woman (Irime) was slapping one of the men with her, and Gwai wished she could overhear more of the conversation. She heard an odd word here and there, but couldn’t follow the entire conversation as it was spoken in too low of tones.
Despite the lack of clear narration (really, would it hurt people to enunciate to accommodate the eavesdroppers?) Gwai could tell Thali was taking charge of the injured man, before taking care of one of the stranger’s burned arm (Zor). And was that licking going on? Gwai didn’t pretend to be a haeland, but she was fairly certain that was not a traditional medical technique.
She did overhear, however, Thali calling Taeth out as being present, and called out Gwai’s name as well, saying she had a feeling she was hidden. Gwai’s eyes widened. Thali was not incorrect, but why was she calling them out? Was she trying to get them killed? She knew Thali had minion friends, in addition to being married to Aelorco, but she wouldn’t deliberately cause her fellow Rohir harm...or at least Gwai didn’t think so. And what was this about a ghost horse? She probably hadn’t heard that correctly. Enunciate, and project, people! she thought once more, irritated.
Aelorco was clearly commanding the injured man (Frost) toward the corner, and seemed to be lecturing him about flirting, from what she could overhear. She definitely overheard his comment about a ghost horse. What is this about a ghost horse? she wondered again to herself. She’d never seen a ghost horse before, but if a horse was going to haunt something, it was likely this particular old building.
Shaking her head and deciding the question of the ghost horse could likely wait until later, Gwai turned her attention to where Allacan was standing closer to the bar, with Silendris nearby. She could not overhear their conversation, but it appeared intense. She forced herself not to jump when Allacan suddenly threw her stool into the row of glass bottles lined up by the bar. It certainly got the attention of the crowd. Fortunately Allacan spoke loudly so Gwai could eavesdrop easily.
Allacan spoke of deliberately gaining the trust of the royal family and cavalry before wiping them all out. This was treason! Gwai slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She was sure it was only to gain the trust of this crowd, but she was shaken. Allacan spoke forcefully, and with passion, as if she truly believed her words. Could this be true? Gwai remembered a time, long ago, when Allacan had been not herself, to put it mildly. But that was quite some time ago…
A woman (Zor) who had been massaging oil onto Frost’s ribs was asking a question of Allacan. Gwai couldn't quite hear it, but she could tell from the body language that she was asking Allacan what was next. What was next, however, was Taeth swinging down from the rafters, landing lightly in the crowd.
Gwai gripped her sword hilt, wondering if now was the time to make her presence known, and offer some backup to Taeth as well as Allacan. Taeth seemed to have matters well in hand, as she grabbed the woman touching the wounded man, looking threatening, although Gwai couldn’t quite make out the words, but words seemed irrelevant as Taeth was pulled in for a kiss with the other woman (Zor). A hint of a smile spread across Gwai’s face, as she wondered how Taeth would react. At least Taeth had not been met with a dagger in the back. Was there possibly a peaceful solution to this? It seemed an unlikely hope, however, as Gwai once again wished she had picked a more comfortable vantage point, as she slowly reached inside her seemingly bottomless canvas bag for the chocolate she had brought. This was getting good.
Join the cavalry, they said. It will be fun, they said. Defend your king and country, earn renown for brave deeds, they will sing songs about your brave deeds on the battlefield...they hadn’t mentioned sitting in a dusty supply closet for hours. Why hadn’t she put a chair in there? Or at least a pillow?
It was difficult to see what exactly was going on through the dirty window, but at least it helped keep her hidden. Gwai could catch a few words here and there as well. The “tent inspector” (Frost) was slowly--and rather dramatically, from her viewpoint-- taking his shirt off, making Gwai wonder if he was either mostly dead, or perhaps not as sick as she had originally thought.
One of the recent arrivals, a rather exotic looking woman (Irime) was slapping one of the men with her, and Gwai wished she could overhear more of the conversation. She heard an odd word here and there, but couldn’t follow the entire conversation as it was spoken in too low of tones.
Despite the lack of clear narration (really, would it hurt people to enunciate to accommodate the eavesdroppers?) Gwai could tell Thali was taking charge of the injured man, before taking care of one of the stranger’s burned arm (Zor). And was that licking going on? Gwai didn’t pretend to be a haeland, but she was fairly certain that was not a traditional medical technique.
She did overhear, however, Thali calling Taeth out as being present, and called out Gwai’s name as well, saying she had a feeling she was hidden. Gwai’s eyes widened. Thali was not incorrect, but why was she calling them out? Was she trying to get them killed? She knew Thali had minion friends, in addition to being married to Aelorco, but she wouldn’t deliberately cause her fellow Rohir harm...or at least Gwai didn’t think so. And what was this about a ghost horse? She probably hadn’t heard that correctly. Enunciate, and project, people! she thought once more, irritated.
Aelorco was clearly commanding the injured man (Frost) toward the corner, and seemed to be lecturing him about flirting, from what she could overhear. She definitely overheard his comment about a ghost horse. What is this about a ghost horse? she wondered again to herself. She’d never seen a ghost horse before, but if a horse was going to haunt something, it was likely this particular old building.
Shaking her head and deciding the question of the ghost horse could likely wait until later, Gwai turned her attention to where Allacan was standing closer to the bar, with Silendris nearby. She could not overhear their conversation, but it appeared intense. She forced herself not to jump when Allacan suddenly threw her stool into the row of glass bottles lined up by the bar. It certainly got the attention of the crowd. Fortunately Allacan spoke loudly so Gwai could eavesdrop easily.
Allacan spoke of deliberately gaining the trust of the royal family and cavalry before wiping them all out. This was treason! Gwai slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She was sure it was only to gain the trust of this crowd, but she was shaken. Allacan spoke forcefully, and with passion, as if she truly believed her words. Could this be true? Gwai remembered a time, long ago, when Allacan had been not herself, to put it mildly. But that was quite some time ago…
A woman (Zor) who had been massaging oil onto Frost’s ribs was asking a question of Allacan. Gwai couldn't quite hear it, but she could tell from the body language that she was asking Allacan what was next. What was next, however, was Taeth swinging down from the rafters, landing lightly in the crowd.
Gwai gripped her sword hilt, wondering if now was the time to make her presence known, and offer some backup to Taeth as well as Allacan. Taeth seemed to have matters well in hand, as she grabbed the woman touching the wounded man, looking threatening, although Gwai couldn’t quite make out the words, but words seemed irrelevant as Taeth was pulled in for a kiss with the other woman (Zor). A hint of a smile spread across Gwai’s face, as she wondered how Taeth would react. At least Taeth had not been met with a dagger in the back. Was there possibly a peaceful solution to this? It seemed an unlikely hope, however, as Gwai once again wished she had picked a more comfortable vantage point, as she slowly reached inside her seemingly bottomless canvas bag for the chocolate she had brought. This was getting good.
- Points: 469
Doorwarden of The Mark
Posts: 344
Joined: Tue Jun 09, 2020 5:49 pm
20200712 Blædtunge, in the West Emnet, with @Amhran ((with fond apologies to S. Morgenstern))
Blædtunge laughed from where he sat across the way, scratching in the dirt with a wayward stick, his naked sword over his knees.
"Bless you, Amhran; my mind has been chewing on what might happen this night, or tomorrow, and you're thinking of days gone by! Nay, that's not fair; Astoril is anything but my past only, Bema keep us."
He gazed into the middle distance between them (where the fire would have been, providing comfort for tired bodies and entrancement for tired eyes), and began the tale.
"Twenty years you say? Aye, near enough, near enough." He pursed his lips and considered. "Well, hwæt, anyway:"
"For nigh on five years I'd shipped with the Skipper, the same one as died recently, when we had the adventure down southaways I've already laid out for you. Things changed after that, which - besides all the wyrd of the day itself - is probably why it's stamped hard in my mind. See, we'd done all sorts of things before that day: smuggling, escorting other ships, one or two rescues, treasure hunting, privateering against the remnants of the Umbaran corsairs who refused to believe King Elessar had actually taken the throne, some sabotage against the same... And aye, what I'll do is take a big swig of ale, wipe the foam off my beard, an' say 'Ah, good times, good times' because y'see, they certainly weren't, all of 'em."
He glanced up at his blodsweostor's eyes, his own glinting in long-buried outrage. "D'ye know what they do to a man when he dies at sea? They dump 'im overboard! Oh, they say some pretty words, sometimes, when there's space enough to draw a breath, but there he goes - sinking down into the depths, where no man's ever lived and none ever will, unless he grows gills." He shuddered in disgust. "If there's anything that kept me comin' back alive, besides Bema's own breath, it was the thought of that. Me, disappearing down into the drowned depths of dank, dark forgetfulness instead of mounded up proper on Bema's green earth, ready to ride again when his trump sounds on doomsday." He looked as if he would spit, but reconsidered. Maybe things had changed between them, he bemused. His eyes returned to the middle distance.
"After that day though," he continued, "the Skipper started taking shipping jobs - arbitrage, you know - until he found some export-folk he liked and settled in reg'lar with them. Most of the officers an' crew left, or were forced out; that wasn't the life they wanted, or were willing to let the rest of us have, but some good lads stayed on, and we found more, of course. He made me third mate, in spite of me 'smellin' like horse,' an' I tried my best. And aye, what I'll do is take a big draft of ale, wipe the foam off my beard, an' say 'Weren't those some dull days!' because, of course, they were among the best we'd ever had." A smile pulled at his lips contemplatively. "It was a fine time for me. I was learning to fence, to navigate, anything anyone would teach me. And the Skipper and I eventually became friends - and then it happened."
The Rider stood up and began pacing carelessly, his blade resting listlessly against a shoulder, the stick swishing through the air in the other.
"The Skipper had a daughter, see, - shush! Hwæt!" he commanded his blodsweostor fruitlessly as she reacted to what she surely must have predicted by now, "An' she was just a slip of a thing, coming along behind her mother to meet the Alagossel when we came back to port; an' even the former crew knew not to say anythin' to either of 'em, pulling a forelock to the missus at the most. But then one voyage the missus wasn't there; 't'was just the daughter, not a slip of a thing any longer, an' all in black, but the sun shone on her hair as it streamed in the wind so's it was almost golden as me ma's, an' the gulls screaming about the fishermen were the closest thing to any song sounding at that moment - unless 't'were in my eyes."
"There she stood, shining though shadowed,
Head held high, hair half-binding my heart,
Gimlets grey as gull-tails, gifting grave good,
Withholding no witty wisdom; there was a worthy wīf!"
"Well do ye know my eyes, sweostor min, an' how I can hide no guile in them - they've not changed in the twixt-time - an' I'm sure the Skipper knew the next he clapped his own on mine. Hard it went for me the next few voyages, an' the harder I toiled an' sweated, for even the thought of treasure at the end of the trail - 'til I'd saved, an' spoke to him one night at the eve of the end of a voyage:
'I suppose ye know what I want to say,' said I,
an, 'Aye, an' I know what I want to say,' quoth he.
'Well, say on first,' says I, 'An' mayhaps I'll save my breath.'
'Mayhaps,' he fairly growled."
"'I know what killed her mother, an' I'll not have it kill her. Unless ye give this up an' sail no more, I'll not have ye try for her heart'n'hand - not though I love ye like me own son, if I did;'
Oh, how I wanted to laugh, Amhran! 'Give up' the sea?
'Well then, I hope ye will love me like your own son,' says I, 'For I'll no more step aboard when next I land ashore.'
I think he was more than a fair bit surprised, but he had salt in his veins, much less his beard; whereas I was a grass-stained stallion chained aboard a wooden sea-cart on the whale-road - no more for me!"
"I stayed on in the Skipper's employ, getting jobs an' repairs an' in-port things done for the Alagossel and him, and in very short time we bought another ship (the Blæstridda that one was named, no matter how much the Skipper shook his head; ha!) - partners in that one we were, an' 't'was shortly after that Astoril pledged her heart'n'hand to me, an' I to her - ēalā, it was very good."
Blædtunge stopped pacing and sighed happily. "My little Alfirin came first - not so little, now! - an' laughing Helin after her, an' then my hysecild, my son, Eohtoss. Littlest Ninglor came most recently - her hair's almost rosy, Amhran! Ha!" He grew suddenly serious and wheeled on his companion.
"I will not be dying here this night, Amhran, nor any of these near days to come!"
He realized he was jabbing at her across the space not with his stick, but with his sword; he put it back on his shoulder, abashed.
"Well, I'm not."
"Besides," he said with a grin, "I'm sure I'm not the only one with a tale to tell this night! Come, pretend there's a fire, an' ale, and say on! Twenty years is a long time, time enough for many a story!"
Blædtunge laughed from where he sat across the way, scratching in the dirt with a wayward stick, his naked sword over his knees.
"Bless you, Amhran; my mind has been chewing on what might happen this night, or tomorrow, and you're thinking of days gone by! Nay, that's not fair; Astoril is anything but my past only, Bema keep us."
He gazed into the middle distance between them (where the fire would have been, providing comfort for tired bodies and entrancement for tired eyes), and began the tale.
"Twenty years you say? Aye, near enough, near enough." He pursed his lips and considered. "Well, hwæt, anyway:"
"For nigh on five years I'd shipped with the Skipper, the same one as died recently, when we had the adventure down southaways I've already laid out for you. Things changed after that, which - besides all the wyrd of the day itself - is probably why it's stamped hard in my mind. See, we'd done all sorts of things before that day: smuggling, escorting other ships, one or two rescues, treasure hunting, privateering against the remnants of the Umbaran corsairs who refused to believe King Elessar had actually taken the throne, some sabotage against the same... And aye, what I'll do is take a big swig of ale, wipe the foam off my beard, an' say 'Ah, good times, good times' because y'see, they certainly weren't, all of 'em."
He glanced up at his blodsweostor's eyes, his own glinting in long-buried outrage. "D'ye know what they do to a man when he dies at sea? They dump 'im overboard! Oh, they say some pretty words, sometimes, when there's space enough to draw a breath, but there he goes - sinking down into the depths, where no man's ever lived and none ever will, unless he grows gills." He shuddered in disgust. "If there's anything that kept me comin' back alive, besides Bema's own breath, it was the thought of that. Me, disappearing down into the drowned depths of dank, dark forgetfulness instead of mounded up proper on Bema's green earth, ready to ride again when his trump sounds on doomsday." He looked as if he would spit, but reconsidered. Maybe things had changed between them, he bemused. His eyes returned to the middle distance.
"After that day though," he continued, "the Skipper started taking shipping jobs - arbitrage, you know - until he found some export-folk he liked and settled in reg'lar with them. Most of the officers an' crew left, or were forced out; that wasn't the life they wanted, or were willing to let the rest of us have, but some good lads stayed on, and we found more, of course. He made me third mate, in spite of me 'smellin' like horse,' an' I tried my best. And aye, what I'll do is take a big draft of ale, wipe the foam off my beard, an' say 'Weren't those some dull days!' because, of course, they were among the best we'd ever had." A smile pulled at his lips contemplatively. "It was a fine time for me. I was learning to fence, to navigate, anything anyone would teach me. And the Skipper and I eventually became friends - and then it happened."
The Rider stood up and began pacing carelessly, his blade resting listlessly against a shoulder, the stick swishing through the air in the other.
"The Skipper had a daughter, see, - shush! Hwæt!" he commanded his blodsweostor fruitlessly as she reacted to what she surely must have predicted by now, "An' she was just a slip of a thing, coming along behind her mother to meet the Alagossel when we came back to port; an' even the former crew knew not to say anythin' to either of 'em, pulling a forelock to the missus at the most. But then one voyage the missus wasn't there; 't'was just the daughter, not a slip of a thing any longer, an' all in black, but the sun shone on her hair as it streamed in the wind so's it was almost golden as me ma's, an' the gulls screaming about the fishermen were the closest thing to any song sounding at that moment - unless 't'were in my eyes."
"There she stood, shining though shadowed,
Head held high, hair half-binding my heart,
Gimlets grey as gull-tails, gifting grave good,
Withholding no witty wisdom; there was a worthy wīf!"
"Well do ye know my eyes, sweostor min, an' how I can hide no guile in them - they've not changed in the twixt-time - an' I'm sure the Skipper knew the next he clapped his own on mine. Hard it went for me the next few voyages, an' the harder I toiled an' sweated, for even the thought of treasure at the end of the trail - 'til I'd saved, an' spoke to him one night at the eve of the end of a voyage:
'I suppose ye know what I want to say,' said I,
an, 'Aye, an' I know what I want to say,' quoth he.
'Well, say on first,' says I, 'An' mayhaps I'll save my breath.'
'Mayhaps,' he fairly growled."
"'I know what killed her mother, an' I'll not have it kill her. Unless ye give this up an' sail no more, I'll not have ye try for her heart'n'hand - not though I love ye like me own son, if I did;'
Oh, how I wanted to laugh, Amhran! 'Give up' the sea?
'Well then, I hope ye will love me like your own son,' says I, 'For I'll no more step aboard when next I land ashore.'
I think he was more than a fair bit surprised, but he had salt in his veins, much less his beard; whereas I was a grass-stained stallion chained aboard a wooden sea-cart on the whale-road - no more for me!"
"I stayed on in the Skipper's employ, getting jobs an' repairs an' in-port things done for the Alagossel and him, and in very short time we bought another ship (the Blæstridda that one was named, no matter how much the Skipper shook his head; ha!) - partners in that one we were, an' 't'was shortly after that Astoril pledged her heart'n'hand to me, an' I to her - ēalā, it was very good."
Blædtunge stopped pacing and sighed happily. "My little Alfirin came first - not so little, now! - an' laughing Helin after her, an' then my hysecild, my son, Eohtoss. Littlest Ninglor came most recently - her hair's almost rosy, Amhran! Ha!" He grew suddenly serious and wheeled on his companion.
"I will not be dying here this night, Amhran, nor any of these near days to come!"
He realized he was jabbing at her across the space not with his stick, but with his sword; he put it back on his shoulder, abashed.
"Well, I'm not."
"Besides," he said with a grin, "I'm sure I'm not the only one with a tale to tell this night! Come, pretend there's a fire, an' ale, and say on! Twenty years is a long time, time enough for many a story!"
- Points: 6 125
Balrog
Posts: 3682
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
He took a deep breath, and let the attention wash over him. He would never admit it, but he was very well aware of the effect that he could have on people if he really tried. Even in his state, he knew what he was doing. Thali’s voice, however, broke the spell with the kind of power only a kobold mother could possess. Admittedly, Frost didn’t hear most of she said but he had a bottle of oil shoved into his hand and was banished to a dark corner of the room with Orco. Did it really have to be Orco? There were worse companions, Frost mused. He slumped to the ground and rested his head against the wall. He could still see everything, but Thali had put the fear of… well of Thali into him and he stayed put.
Something then caught his eye, a brief flash of light and color. The shape was… a horse? What the hell was going on in this tavern? That wasn’t just a horse. Frost rolled his eyes and smiled tiredly. He thought spectres only regularly showed up in Mordor. Maybe there were enough residents of the Black Lands for this thing to manifest. What was it doing? Frost had trouble following the movements of the incorporeal (or maybe not) creature as it shifted throughout the room. His eyes grew tired and he watched absently as Thali stuck her fingers in Zôr’s mouth. He had missed something there for sure. He sighed in disappointment.
Orco spoke up then, breaking Frost’s concentration. He was speechifying about Frost’s predilection for flirtation and his consternation with it in regards to his wife, the hæland Thali. Then, his tone changed to one Frost would have never thought to hear from the orc. Was that reverence? Fear?
“Orco,” he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “Orco, I have no desire to seduce your wife. She’s the mother of our kobold child. We’ve both seen each other in the most un-sexy way imaginable. Besides, she’s a friend and you’re…” he paused and chewed his words, “as much as I dislike you, you’re a part of who she is and I have to accept that. I remember what you did to the egg-seller.
“So that’s the mighty Swiltang?” Frost looked lazily back at the big orc next to Írimë. Maybe it was the painkillers, the remnants of the alcohol, the fact that Frost has just propositioned him, or a combination of all three, but Frost suddenly found the legends to be a bit too grandiose. “I thought he’d be taller. That must be his brother, what was his name? Yarltang? What’s the Maugân doing here of all places, is he bored? Or does Írimë boss him around too?” He chuckled wryly and chewed the piece of bark Thali had given him.
He’d only been paying half attention to the dark figure that was not Gecko. Silendris seems to have them well in hand (perhaps a bit more of the old Sil was emerging now). That changed as soon as they decided to shatter all the glass left in the place. That got Frost’s attention. There was a flicker of recognition then, he had seen this person recently hadn’t he? The crash seemed to get everyone’s attention. All eyes were on her as she spat venomous accusations about lacking subtly and the overwhelming urge for destruction and mayhem and candied apples (Witch-King’s Dead Balls it was just an apple!). Then she said something that peeked his interest. She had been working for over a decade to bring down Edoras? Frost snarled. She had an air of Mordor about her, and Silendris seemed to know enough about her, but there was an itch at the back of his mind that told him not to believe a word.
Before he could stand up and address the madness that was quickly unraveling, Zôr was suddenly rubbing oil on him. What the…? When did she get here? Frost was too stunned to stop her (not that he would have had he been aware of her). Her hands were warm. The oil smelled exactly the way he imagined something in Rohan would smell. Overly sweet, with hints of too much open sky and fields.
Complicating the situation was the dramatic and sudden appearance of Taeth. When had she gotten here? Had she been here the whole time? He saw her drop from the rafters like an assassin out of the old stories. Suddenly, as if it hadn’t occurred to him already, he was aware that he was half clothed and Zôr was rubbing oil on him. This was… not the most ideal of circumstances to find himself in, at least at the moment. Frost could certainly see this situation playing out differently if they hadn’t all be summoned to an abandoned building by a dubious “conspirator” and surrounded by a dozen people and ghost horse.
Focus!
Taethowen was none too pleased, it would seem. That was reasonable. He hadn’t known her that long, but he had already seen a jealous streak in her. She grabbed the oil from Zôr’s hand and threatened her with dismemberment. Frost could not help himself, despite the danger he was likely, he grinned. He had found someone with a real fire in her. He pushed himself up to a standing position, wavering half a heartbeat stars flashed before his eyes. By the time he was steadied himself something had happened. Zôr and Taeth were… kissing? What the hell had he missed? He suppressed a grin, feeling very much aware of their surroundings. This was going to be filed away later for discussion for sure, perhaps with a few bottles of wine and some pipeweed. Now though..
He stepped in between the two women, the Rohir on one side, and the Númenórean on the other. He faced the stranger, the woman that brought them all together, accused them of ruining her plans, and hand to bring up the void cursed apple.
“And who are you then? Eh? You speak of subtly, yet you seem to lack it when you’re rattled,” he gave a quick nod to Silendris, “perhaps, you can tell us who you really are. My paramour here seems to think you are a Rohir, Zarâm and Silendris seem to think otherwise. You’re playing a very dangerous game here. Fyrefly is it? Shadow? Allacan? Aye, I remember you from the Campian now, come to think of it, you were at the Mx Meduseld competition too weren’t you? Busy little bee. I’m impressed you put this all together.” Frost’s hand went to his side. His sword was missing. Had he left in at the tent? Taeth’s house? All he found in his pocket was the glass marble he used as a focus for his illusion magic, it wasn’t going to help right now.
“You didn’t bring us here to lecture us. I would be severely disappointed if you did. So, are you going to help us escape? Arrest us? Or do you have something more incendiary in mind?”
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléo felt the fear from the early morning’s dream easing as Aodh held her tightly. She debated with herself whether to tell him about the dream, and had just decided that she would; perhaps he might have insight about why she would have such a strange and disturbing dream.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Aodh’s body tensed. “He comes,” he said. Perhaps that was the moment her fear should have mounted. Instead, she felt relief. At last, it would soon be over, for good or ill. She lifted her face for a quick kiss, repeated “Love is all there is, I will remember,” and hurried to dress. What form this battle would take, she did not know. But she was well trained, and well experienced, for battles both fierce and battles requiring patience, waiting for the enemy to make a move.
The shirt and trousers that had been given to her by Nadene lay where she had left them the night before. As she slid one leg, then the other, into the too-long trousers, Eléo thought about the kind woman and hoped she was safe. She heard Aodh chastising Goldwhæt, and she hoped the man could rouse himself enough to make an honorable showing. For Nadene’s sake.
One other creature she had sudden thought of—Wulf. Where had he disappeared to? She had not worried about him, as he could easily fend for himself. But it had been days now, with no sight of him. Perhaps he was now lost in the mists of time.
She dressed quickly and knotted her hair into a thick braid. Shirt, tunic, trousers and boots on, Eléo reached for her sword. The sword that was not there, not where it should be, nor anywhere in sight. She realized now, too late, that was what had been amiss the night before (or was it two nights ago? Time was no longer to be trusted).
“Aodh!” she cried, rushing to his side. “My sword is gone!” He was standing tall and proud, with his eyes focused intently on a path leading to their campsite. And suddenly she knew. “You took it.” It was not a question. Once again, as when he had commanded her to sleep at his bidding, she felt a moment of betrayal. But she had made an oath, a promise that she would trust him.
And so she took a stand beside her husband, planted her feet, and asked, “What would you have me do?”
(Then & When) Across the plain to the Tafelberg
Their destination drew ever closer, the flat-topped mountain now covering the horizon. As they approached the two small hills that lay just southwest of the tafelberg, Daesûl snorted and threw his head up in protest but did not slow his pace. “Come now, my love,” Eléowyn crooned into his ear, “there is nothing to fear. Not here, at least.” He snorted again, to show he clearly did not agree, but he continued forward, making a small leap as Sandy had done. As he did so, Eléowyn felt as if she were almost being knocked from her saddle.
Ringbold slowed his pace, and soon Eléowyn and Daesûl were by his side. She eyed the hobbit curiously, and even more so at his question. “Gondor is some distance to the south,” she replied. “And, aye, if we turned that direction, we would come eventually to Cair Andros and the borders of Gondor. Minas Tirith lies just south of Cair Andros. If Bema wills it, perhaps some day we can journey there together.”
As they traveled on, she could swear that Ringbold looked, well, heftier. Odd, she thought, given the meager meals they had taken along the way. For herself, she definitely felt lighter, and different, though she could not say how.
When at last Ringo stopped, Eléo slid from Daesûl, who was now nervously dancing about. She could not blame him—the still, quiet air was unnerving, though she was both excited at the prospect of soon being reunited with Aodh, and fearful for what (or who) else she might find. She took a deep breath to steel her nerves, then turned to find Ringo standing right behind her, arms reaching outward.
“I’ll have your sword now.” The impulse to deny him was overwhelming, but she had made an oath. More to the point, she trusted the small hobbit. With her life, it now would seem. Slowly she unlashed the sword and sheath from the saddle and laid them across the hobbit’s hands.
“Well,” she said, “the time has come. This is not your fight, you know. I will not hold you at fault if you stop here. You have served me well by bringing me here. I could ask no more.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléo felt the fear from the early morning’s dream easing as Aodh held her tightly. She debated with herself whether to tell him about the dream, and had just decided that she would; perhaps he might have insight about why she would have such a strange and disturbing dream.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Aodh’s body tensed. “He comes,” he said. Perhaps that was the moment her fear should have mounted. Instead, she felt relief. At last, it would soon be over, for good or ill. She lifted her face for a quick kiss, repeated “Love is all there is, I will remember,” and hurried to dress. What form this battle would take, she did not know. But she was well trained, and well experienced, for battles both fierce and battles requiring patience, waiting for the enemy to make a move.
The shirt and trousers that had been given to her by Nadene lay where she had left them the night before. As she slid one leg, then the other, into the too-long trousers, Eléo thought about the kind woman and hoped she was safe. She heard Aodh chastising Goldwhæt, and she hoped the man could rouse himself enough to make an honorable showing. For Nadene’s sake.
One other creature she had sudden thought of—Wulf. Where had he disappeared to? She had not worried about him, as he could easily fend for himself. But it had been days now, with no sight of him. Perhaps he was now lost in the mists of time.
She dressed quickly and knotted her hair into a thick braid. Shirt, tunic, trousers and boots on, Eléo reached for her sword. The sword that was not there, not where it should be, nor anywhere in sight. She realized now, too late, that was what had been amiss the night before (or was it two nights ago? Time was no longer to be trusted).
“Aodh!” she cried, rushing to his side. “My sword is gone!” He was standing tall and proud, with his eyes focused intently on a path leading to their campsite. And suddenly she knew. “You took it.” It was not a question. Once again, as when he had commanded her to sleep at his bidding, she felt a moment of betrayal. But she had made an oath, a promise that she would trust him.
And so she took a stand beside her husband, planted her feet, and asked, “What would you have me do?”
(Then & When) Across the plain to the Tafelberg
Their destination drew ever closer, the flat-topped mountain now covering the horizon. As they approached the two small hills that lay just southwest of the tafelberg, Daesûl snorted and threw his head up in protest but did not slow his pace. “Come now, my love,” Eléowyn crooned into his ear, “there is nothing to fear. Not here, at least.” He snorted again, to show he clearly did not agree, but he continued forward, making a small leap as Sandy had done. As he did so, Eléowyn felt as if she were almost being knocked from her saddle.
Ringbold slowed his pace, and soon Eléowyn and Daesûl were by his side. She eyed the hobbit curiously, and even more so at his question. “Gondor is some distance to the south,” she replied. “And, aye, if we turned that direction, we would come eventually to Cair Andros and the borders of Gondor. Minas Tirith lies just south of Cair Andros. If Bema wills it, perhaps some day we can journey there together.”
As they traveled on, she could swear that Ringbold looked, well, heftier. Odd, she thought, given the meager meals they had taken along the way. For herself, she definitely felt lighter, and different, though she could not say how.
When at last Ringo stopped, Eléo slid from Daesûl, who was now nervously dancing about. She could not blame him—the still, quiet air was unnerving, though she was both excited at the prospect of soon being reunited with Aodh, and fearful for what (or who) else she might find. She took a deep breath to steel her nerves, then turned to find Ringo standing right behind her, arms reaching outward.
“I’ll have your sword now.” The impulse to deny him was overwhelming, but she had made an oath. More to the point, she trusted the small hobbit. With her life, it now would seem. Slowly she unlashed the sword and sheath from the saddle and laid them across the hobbit’s hands.
“Well,” she said, “the time has come. This is not your fight, you know. I will not hold you at fault if you stop here. You have served me well by bringing me here. I could ask no more.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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Amhran, in the West Emnet, with @Wamba_the_Fool
Amhran had listened with growing pleasure to her blodbrothor's tale - had indeed smirked and let out the "heh!" which had prompted him to shush her; his evident joy in his family delighted her to her soul. "Of course you're not going to die here, old friend. Neither am I. I've got as much to live for as you do." She pulled a stalk of grass seed and chewed the end thoughtfully - a habit she had certainly not had before, but she thought she knew where she'd picked it up.
"Though perhaps my story isn't quite as fraught as yours. You remember after I left Edoras all those years ago, I went back to my old village. My parents were already gone, so I lived with my cousins under my uncle's roof for a time. One day a young man - Athelstan, his name is - came to have his father's wheat crop threshed and ground at my uncle's mill. We didn't exchange but a few words, but after that he seemed to show up every chance he had, even after all the wheat was in - ostensibly to talk shop with my uncle, but somehow we always wound up talking by ourselves. He must have gotten my favorite riding trails out of my cousins, too, because he would often show up to ride with me. I was perfectly willing: he was pleasant to talk to, wise in his opinions, gentle in his corrections, truth telling in his conversation, possessed of both humor and kindness." Her lips quirked. "It may sound strange, but it was his hands I always particularly noticed. Large hands, with rough, blunt fingers, but that I felt I could trust myself to, body and soul. Anyway, this went on for more than two years, and I began to wonder why he didn't speak. Then one day I came back from running errands for my aunt, to find him coming out of my uncle's house. He had been to see my uncle, because he had come into his inheritance: his father had decided it was time he retired and gave land, house, crops, animals, everything to his son, and Athelstan wanted to know, now that he had something to offer, if I would be his wife.
"It's a hard life, Blaed, but a happy one. Our children work alongside us as they can - Artos, our eldest, who has his father's hands and his mother's head; then Magda, and Ethelfled - a wild shieldmaiden, that one! - then Hrothgar, and little Athwulf, little but strong. And before Artos there was Felaleof, and after Athwulf Gemyndelic. Neither saw daylight, but we remember them." She realized she had been doodling in the dust with the seed-head of the grass stalk as she spoke, and discarded it. "I was supposed to be home the day after tomorrow. I wonder what Athelstan and the young ones will think when I don't show up?"
She blinked for a moment, then shook her head and grinned at her friend. "Ah, being gloomy doesn't help. But let's make a deal here: I will make sure you get back to Astoril, and you watch my back so I can come home to Athelstan."
[[OOC: Due to RL pressures, this story will be on indefinite hiatus. I apologize for leaving everyone hanging, including myself tbh, but as my husband keeps quoting, "that's the way baseball go".]]
Amhran had listened with growing pleasure to her blodbrothor's tale - had indeed smirked and let out the "heh!" which had prompted him to shush her; his evident joy in his family delighted her to her soul. "Of course you're not going to die here, old friend. Neither am I. I've got as much to live for as you do." She pulled a stalk of grass seed and chewed the end thoughtfully - a habit she had certainly not had before, but she thought she knew where she'd picked it up.
"Though perhaps my story isn't quite as fraught as yours. You remember after I left Edoras all those years ago, I went back to my old village. My parents were already gone, so I lived with my cousins under my uncle's roof for a time. One day a young man - Athelstan, his name is - came to have his father's wheat crop threshed and ground at my uncle's mill. We didn't exchange but a few words, but after that he seemed to show up every chance he had, even after all the wheat was in - ostensibly to talk shop with my uncle, but somehow we always wound up talking by ourselves. He must have gotten my favorite riding trails out of my cousins, too, because he would often show up to ride with me. I was perfectly willing: he was pleasant to talk to, wise in his opinions, gentle in his corrections, truth telling in his conversation, possessed of both humor and kindness." Her lips quirked. "It may sound strange, but it was his hands I always particularly noticed. Large hands, with rough, blunt fingers, but that I felt I could trust myself to, body and soul. Anyway, this went on for more than two years, and I began to wonder why he didn't speak. Then one day I came back from running errands for my aunt, to find him coming out of my uncle's house. He had been to see my uncle, because he had come into his inheritance: his father had decided it was time he retired and gave land, house, crops, animals, everything to his son, and Athelstan wanted to know, now that he had something to offer, if I would be his wife.
"It's a hard life, Blaed, but a happy one. Our children work alongside us as they can - Artos, our eldest, who has his father's hands and his mother's head; then Magda, and Ethelfled - a wild shieldmaiden, that one! - then Hrothgar, and little Athwulf, little but strong. And before Artos there was Felaleof, and after Athwulf Gemyndelic. Neither saw daylight, but we remember them." She realized she had been doodling in the dust with the seed-head of the grass stalk as she spoke, and discarded it. "I was supposed to be home the day after tomorrow. I wonder what Athelstan and the young ones will think when I don't show up?"
She blinked for a moment, then shook her head and grinned at her friend. "Ah, being gloomy doesn't help. But let's make a deal here: I will make sure you get back to Astoril, and you watch my back so I can come home to Athelstan."
[[OOC: Due to RL pressures, this story will be on indefinite hiatus. I apologize for leaving everyone hanging, including myself tbh, but as my husband keeps quoting, "that's the way baseball go".]]
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Doorwarden of The Mark
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Joined: Tue Jun 09, 2020 5:49 pm
((OOC: Public thank you to @Amhran for writing with me and delighting all your readers. You've got your head on straight in regards to your duties, and your return will be the sweeter for it. Ferthu Hal - Blaed and Amhran will be quite fine waiting for the next dawn, howe'er long it be.))
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Thain of The Mark
Posts: 1399
Joined: Tue May 19, 2020 10:44 pm
Taethowen, Abandoned Building
Taeth liked kissing. Enough so that she'd... occasionally kissed someone in random pubs while she was wandering Middle-earth, supposedly in search of rare textiles, but really just running away from herself. Especially after it had been months since her husband finally stopped replying (however sporadically) to her letters. She hadn't often wanted more than kissing though, and she'd certainly never been disappointed in a just a kiss.
So when the apparently also Númenórean woman (Zôr) cupped her face, Taeth knew what should have happened. There should have been heat, and Taeth's hands should have trembled ever so slightly as warmth snaked its way down her spine, but there was... nothing. Zôr tasted like honey and alcohol, but that was all there was. An observation of taste.
I don't have many regrets in my life, Taethowen, a memory of a moment invaded, but not kissing you was one of them. Now that I have, I never want to stop.
Oh. Was that why?
Surprised, she tried to pull away, but the woman's hands on her face were steady, though the kiss still broke a moment later.
"Now, where were you?" the woman asked. "Reclaiming your lover, telling off your friend, or chasing away half a dozen armed enemies single-handedly?"
Taeth laughed softly and stepped back, pulling her face away from Zôr's grasp, a strange, quiet confidence sweeping through her. "I don't need to reclaim him," Taeth stated, turning to where Frost now stood--likely unwisely--with a ridiculous grin on his face as he watched them. "He's mine. That's all there is to it."
Then Frost, oblivious to the moment, stepped between the two of them. Taeth snagged his hand, weaving her fingers through his. Your skin, it talks to me. I shall heed it well, another moment invaded. But Taeth forced it from her mind, and slammed the emotions suddenly bubbling up behind a wall. This was not the place. Not the time. Later, she silently whispered to her heart, as she let the feel of Frost's hand around hers become grounding. Later.
And then Frost was confronting Fyrefly. Taeth let his hand slip out of hers when he reached for a weapon that ended up not being there.
She found herself watching Fyrefly--rather, Allacan? That would fit with how the Marshals addressed her as Alla in the Dragon Room earlier.--waiting for the answers herself. For truly, she only had three priorities here. Protect Rohan, protect Frost, and protect Thalionwen. And she was rapidly becoming unsure of which presence here was the biggest threat to Rohan--the minions, or Fyrefly.
Taeth liked kissing. Enough so that she'd... occasionally kissed someone in random pubs while she was wandering Middle-earth, supposedly in search of rare textiles, but really just running away from herself. Especially after it had been months since her husband finally stopped replying (however sporadically) to her letters. She hadn't often wanted more than kissing though, and she'd certainly never been disappointed in a just a kiss.
So when the apparently also Númenórean woman (Zôr) cupped her face, Taeth knew what should have happened. There should have been heat, and Taeth's hands should have trembled ever so slightly as warmth snaked its way down her spine, but there was... nothing. Zôr tasted like honey and alcohol, but that was all there was. An observation of taste.
I don't have many regrets in my life, Taethowen, a memory of a moment invaded, but not kissing you was one of them. Now that I have, I never want to stop.
Oh. Was that why?
Surprised, she tried to pull away, but the woman's hands on her face were steady, though the kiss still broke a moment later.
"Now, where were you?" the woman asked. "Reclaiming your lover, telling off your friend, or chasing away half a dozen armed enemies single-handedly?"
Taeth laughed softly and stepped back, pulling her face away from Zôr's grasp, a strange, quiet confidence sweeping through her. "I don't need to reclaim him," Taeth stated, turning to where Frost now stood--likely unwisely--with a ridiculous grin on his face as he watched them. "He's mine. That's all there is to it."
Then Frost, oblivious to the moment, stepped between the two of them. Taeth snagged his hand, weaving her fingers through his. Your skin, it talks to me. I shall heed it well, another moment invaded. But Taeth forced it from her mind, and slammed the emotions suddenly bubbling up behind a wall. This was not the place. Not the time. Later, she silently whispered to her heart, as she let the feel of Frost's hand around hers become grounding. Later.
And then Frost was confronting Fyrefly. Taeth let his hand slip out of hers when he reached for a weapon that ended up not being there.
She found herself watching Fyrefly--rather, Allacan? That would fit with how the Marshals addressed her as Alla in the Dragon Room earlier.--waiting for the answers herself. For truly, she only had three priorities here. Protect Rohan, protect Frost, and protect Thalionwen. And she was rapidly becoming unsure of which presence here was the biggest threat to Rohan--the minions, or Fyrefly.
Last edited by Taethowen on Sun Aug 09, 2020 4:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Chieftain of The Mark
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(Here & Now) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
NPCs: The Ageless Stranger, Nadene & Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
There were many thoughts that rushed through his head as Eléo crossed the ledge and stood beside him, many things that he would have liked to say to her. But the time for explanations and apologies was gone. “Stand!” Aodh said simply, taking her hand gently in his left. “At my shoulder, always. Do nothing unless I command it!
"Goldwhæt! Cuthbert, old friend, to me!” Goldwhæt emerged from the shadow of the overhang. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright and alert; he carried no weapons, but a rook’s skull dangled about his neck on a rawhide thong. He placed himself at Aodh’s right shoulder, eyes darting over the opening through which their Enemy would come.
“Stay your hands,” Aodh said, glancing quickly at each of his companions. “Aim with your mind and, if it comes to it, kill with your heart!”
Silence hung over them and they heard the approach of slowly clocking footsteps. Goldwhæt reached out and took his din’s hand. Aodh quelled his comrade’s twitching fingers with a firm squeeze. The clocking footsteps halted.
Another long silence… "Boo!"
Rædwulf Fleðð’s ruddy face popped through the aperture at the path’s head. He threw up his hands in mock surprise and chortled happily. "Hi, ho – the gang’s all here! Miss Pert ‘n’ Pretty, Laughing-boy and the doubty Hammerhelm. Haven’t you all led me a merry dance? Aye, indeed so. I misjudged you all it seems, not least your captain.
But come, I have no truck with thee, Madam Golden-hair, Ældred Jonæs and his culls were nought to me but pawns… Nor even thee, Master Allgood, jester, thief - bride-tupper! Your parts in this - well played, I'll grant you, are done. You are excused! Go where thou wouldst and leave me and your proud thain to attend weightier matters."
Aodh and his companions stood resolute and silent.
“Ah,” the Dark Man grinned. “You are not tempted? I thought as much, but one has to try. A tet it is then, which hardly seems fair, three against one. I've brought something along with me, cry your pardon, a little surprise to even up the odds.”
Fleðð turned his back on Aodh and his companions, bent and dragged a writhing bundle onto the ledge.
“Our bedcover!” Goldwhæt gasped.
“Aye, so,” The Dark Man beamed, mischief in his eyes. “And in it your bed mate!”
He seized the struggling bundle - "Hold still, would you feel my hand anew?" - and stood it upright before the startled tet.
"Stand!" Aodh said, staying Goldwhaet with a sharp tug.
The Dark Man clutched a handful of the counterpane and wrenched. The soiled blue fabric fell away, pooling around his captive's bare feet. Nadene blinked in the sunlight; blood stained her gag and bodice, her hands and feet were bound with intricately knotted ropes. Aodh's hand slipped from Goldwhaet's and grasped his friend's upper arm.
"Still not convinced? Fleðð chuckled, as his eyes met each of his enemy's in turn. "Perhaps I should have brought along something to sway each of you? But, nay, you have your dearest at your side, Missy Eléo, and he thee. A pretty pair, hmmm? Made for each other, a velvet glove for a hand of iron… The Dark Man paused, cocking his head is if listening to something far away.
"Come," he said. "Let's get down to the bare bones of things, the beeswax, if it please you. Time moves on, I have places to go and many things to do. Where's the Horn, Laughing-boy? Hand it over and I'll spare you and your pretty maid."
"Loosen her bonds," Goldwhaet replied. "And the gag."
"Fleðð's eyes flashed with sour amusement. "Are you sure you want that? Dear Nadene's apt to bend your ear from here to month's end. The poor cow has had to bite hard on her pretty tongue these past few days. Oh, how that must have burned her - she has a little secret of her own for you"
"Release her!" Goldwhaet said as his right hand slid beneath his shirt.
"Verily," the Dark Man replied. His forehead wrinkled, his eyes closed for a second. "Bool!" he spat as he opened them. The ropes fell away from Nadene's wrists and ankles, the gag dropped about her neck. Fleðð threw an arm around her throat.
Aodh's gaze slipped from his enemy for an instant, long enough for him to mark the relic held in Goldwhæt's palm. Bird and bear! The horn of his long-fathers, the one he'd carried down all the long miles until the catastrophe on One Tree Hill. He'd thought it lost forever, but there was no mistaking it. There it was a plain as day, without embellishment or jewel, save for the brass mouthpiece and fine silver wire wound end to end.
Goldwhaet stepped forward. Aodh did not stay him. He felt a tremor, almost imperceptible, beneath his dusty boots. "Stand," he said firmly to Eléo. "Not yet…" Six yards stood between Goldwhaet and the Dark Man's outstretched hand. Five, and still Aodh held his ground. Four…
On the plain below Ringbold Took, the hobbit stood before Eléowyn of Westfold. He turned her sword awkwardly in his little hands and settled the scabbard's tip between his woolly feet. Comical he looked, the sword almost as tall as him, but his face, peering at his companion over the pommel, was deadly serious.
"Thankee-sai, sai," he piped, his cheeks flushing as he shuffled his feet. "I hate to be a nuisance, but there's one other thing. Ælfred said you keep another weapon about your person, an ace in the hole he called it. I know you have a dagger tucked away in one of your boots… the left or the right, I can't remember which. I’ll have that too, please…"
Ringbold held out a hand. The ground beneath his feet trembled slightly, a rock clattered down the slope of the Tafelberg. He looked over his shoulder, out over the eastern bank of the Great River, as the handle of a knife found his palm.
Three yards… Stand and wait! A far off voice rang in Aodh’s head. This is the hour of doom! He turned his head and beheld a great fume of fire streaked cloud rising into the sky in the distance. A drumming rumble rolled from the eastern horizon towards the Tafelberg; the inexorable flow of the Great River seemed for a moment to stand still. The Dark Man roared his triumph as the ledge began to rock like a flet in a gale. His laughter turned to a screech of pain.
Aodh swung his gaze back across the ledge Nadene’s teeth were buried deep in the flesh of Fleðð’s forearm. The Dark Man screamed again as she slipped from his grasp and raked his face with her nails. “No, Fællon!" she yelled as Goldwhaet stepped closer. "For him, nothing - never!” She swept the horn of the Eld from her husband's palm and sent it flying across the ledge.
The Dark Man howled again, this time in fury. He dropped his shoulder and thrust it into Nadene’s hip as he rushed to retrieve his prize. Nadene reeled across the narrow space and teetered on edge of the abyss. The tet sprang forward as one, arms stretched to save her. Aodh felt the tips of her fingers brush his. Goldwhæt marked her eyes and sad smile. “Love," she said to him. Love… Love!" Then the void snatched her from them.
As Ringbold’s hand closed around the handle of Eléowyn’s dagger the ground shook beneath his feet once more. The hobbit staggered as the tremors intensified almost throwing him to his knees. A great wind out of the North fell suddenly upon land and hill; Sandy and Daesûl reared and whinnied in terror. But even above the sudden tumult Ringo heard the Dark Man's awful shrieking.
He looked up the slope of the Tafelberg and beheld a terrible sight: a woman swayed on the lip of a precipice high above. Before he could throw his hands over his eyes, she fell. He watched in horror as she tumbled through the air. The Eagles! Ringo's mind yammered. Where are the Eagles? The out thrust spur of the hill spared the hobbit the sight of the woman striking the plain, but not the terrible sound of impact.
Aodh Hammerhelm drew his tet from the ledge. He tapped the base of his throat thrice and turned his eyes from the plain.
The Dark Man stood on the stairs that led to the summit, his cloak swirling on a rising wind. "Whoops!" he chuckled. He waggled the Horn at the companions then raced away up the steps.
Goldwhæt’s eyes darted from cliff edge to stairs and onto the faces of his friends. Tears coursed down his cheeks, his lips trembled. Suddenly he uttered a terrible cry, the sound of one mortally wounded, the sound of a man beyond hope. Before Aodh could stop him he fled the ledge, feet scrambling frantically as they found the path to the plain.
Ringo stood transfixed, heart hammering wildly as the gale howled about him. That poor woman… Who was she? Nadene? Oh, Bema - poor Arthur! At last he turned, seeking Eléowyn amidst the scouring dust and whistling wind. The hobbit caught a glimpse of her Cavalry cloak and the flailing limbs of their panicked steeds. A hoof struck him upon the shoulder; somehow he clung on to Eléowyn's weapons as he struggled to stay erect.
A new horror now confronted him, Arthur Heath, the man Eléowyn called Goldwhæt, dashed towards him. It was the same man that had stepped onto a path near Archet years before; the man who'd saved Ringbold Took from certain death, but he was changed, changed utterly. Gone were the raffish good looks and lazy smile, gone too was the impish twinkle in his eye. Goldwhæt bore down on the hobbit like something out of a nightmare; his teeth were bared in a mouth twisted and spittle-flecked, his eyes swirled with madness.
Ringo had no time react; Goldwhæt punched him hard in the centre of his chest, Eléowyn's weapons spilled from his hands as he was bowled head over heels. "Arthur! Arthur!" the startled hobbit bawled, as he scrabbled on hands and knees in the whirling dust.
"Stay back! Stay back from me, you hear!" Goldwhæt yelled and Eléowyn's sword flashed in his hand. "Don't you dare come near me... Don't you dare! I swear on the face of my father I'll slay you if you try."
Ringbold forced himself upward, eyes slit against the flying grit and grass. "Eléowyn! Eléowyn! Where are you?"
Aodh pulled Eléo closer, he reached for her chin and turned her face towards him. "Come," he said and kissed her lips lightly. He took her hand and strode towards the stairs that Fleðð had taken. He paused, boot on the first and kissed Eléo again, harder this time. "Trust me, love. Trust me and all shall be well."
If this would prove true, Aodh Hammerhelm could not tell. Sometimes those who cursed Ka had to place their trust in her capricious hands once more. He squared his shoulders and led his wife up the last steps to the summit.
NPCs: The Ageless Stranger, Nadene & Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
There were many thoughts that rushed through his head as Eléo crossed the ledge and stood beside him, many things that he would have liked to say to her. But the time for explanations and apologies was gone. “Stand!” Aodh said simply, taking her hand gently in his left. “At my shoulder, always. Do nothing unless I command it!
"Goldwhæt! Cuthbert, old friend, to me!” Goldwhæt emerged from the shadow of the overhang. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright and alert; he carried no weapons, but a rook’s skull dangled about his neck on a rawhide thong. He placed himself at Aodh’s right shoulder, eyes darting over the opening through which their Enemy would come.
“Stay your hands,” Aodh said, glancing quickly at each of his companions. “Aim with your mind and, if it comes to it, kill with your heart!”
Silence hung over them and they heard the approach of slowly clocking footsteps. Goldwhæt reached out and took his din’s hand. Aodh quelled his comrade’s twitching fingers with a firm squeeze. The clocking footsteps halted.
Another long silence… "Boo!"
Rædwulf Fleðð’s ruddy face popped through the aperture at the path’s head. He threw up his hands in mock surprise and chortled happily. "Hi, ho – the gang’s all here! Miss Pert ‘n’ Pretty, Laughing-boy and the doubty Hammerhelm. Haven’t you all led me a merry dance? Aye, indeed so. I misjudged you all it seems, not least your captain.
But come, I have no truck with thee, Madam Golden-hair, Ældred Jonæs and his culls were nought to me but pawns… Nor even thee, Master Allgood, jester, thief - bride-tupper! Your parts in this - well played, I'll grant you, are done. You are excused! Go where thou wouldst and leave me and your proud thain to attend weightier matters."
Aodh and his companions stood resolute and silent.
“Ah,” the Dark Man grinned. “You are not tempted? I thought as much, but one has to try. A tet it is then, which hardly seems fair, three against one. I've brought something along with me, cry your pardon, a little surprise to even up the odds.”
Fleðð turned his back on Aodh and his companions, bent and dragged a writhing bundle onto the ledge.
“Our bedcover!” Goldwhæt gasped.
“Aye, so,” The Dark Man beamed, mischief in his eyes. “And in it your bed mate!”
He seized the struggling bundle - "Hold still, would you feel my hand anew?" - and stood it upright before the startled tet.
"Stand!" Aodh said, staying Goldwhaet with a sharp tug.
The Dark Man clutched a handful of the counterpane and wrenched. The soiled blue fabric fell away, pooling around his captive's bare feet. Nadene blinked in the sunlight; blood stained her gag and bodice, her hands and feet were bound with intricately knotted ropes. Aodh's hand slipped from Goldwhaet's and grasped his friend's upper arm.
"Still not convinced? Fleðð chuckled, as his eyes met each of his enemy's in turn. "Perhaps I should have brought along something to sway each of you? But, nay, you have your dearest at your side, Missy Eléo, and he thee. A pretty pair, hmmm? Made for each other, a velvet glove for a hand of iron… The Dark Man paused, cocking his head is if listening to something far away.
"Come," he said. "Let's get down to the bare bones of things, the beeswax, if it please you. Time moves on, I have places to go and many things to do. Where's the Horn, Laughing-boy? Hand it over and I'll spare you and your pretty maid."
"Loosen her bonds," Goldwhaet replied. "And the gag."
"Fleðð's eyes flashed with sour amusement. "Are you sure you want that? Dear Nadene's apt to bend your ear from here to month's end. The poor cow has had to bite hard on her pretty tongue these past few days. Oh, how that must have burned her - she has a little secret of her own for you"
"Release her!" Goldwhaet said as his right hand slid beneath his shirt.
"Verily," the Dark Man replied. His forehead wrinkled, his eyes closed for a second. "Bool!" he spat as he opened them. The ropes fell away from Nadene's wrists and ankles, the gag dropped about her neck. Fleðð threw an arm around her throat.
Aodh's gaze slipped from his enemy for an instant, long enough for him to mark the relic held in Goldwhæt's palm. Bird and bear! The horn of his long-fathers, the one he'd carried down all the long miles until the catastrophe on One Tree Hill. He'd thought it lost forever, but there was no mistaking it. There it was a plain as day, without embellishment or jewel, save for the brass mouthpiece and fine silver wire wound end to end.
Goldwhaet stepped forward. Aodh did not stay him. He felt a tremor, almost imperceptible, beneath his dusty boots. "Stand," he said firmly to Eléo. "Not yet…" Six yards stood between Goldwhaet and the Dark Man's outstretched hand. Five, and still Aodh held his ground. Four…
On the plain below Ringbold Took, the hobbit stood before Eléowyn of Westfold. He turned her sword awkwardly in his little hands and settled the scabbard's tip between his woolly feet. Comical he looked, the sword almost as tall as him, but his face, peering at his companion over the pommel, was deadly serious.
"Thankee-sai, sai," he piped, his cheeks flushing as he shuffled his feet. "I hate to be a nuisance, but there's one other thing. Ælfred said you keep another weapon about your person, an ace in the hole he called it. I know you have a dagger tucked away in one of your boots… the left or the right, I can't remember which. I’ll have that too, please…"
Ringbold held out a hand. The ground beneath his feet trembled slightly, a rock clattered down the slope of the Tafelberg. He looked over his shoulder, out over the eastern bank of the Great River, as the handle of a knife found his palm.
Three yards… Stand and wait! A far off voice rang in Aodh’s head. This is the hour of doom! He turned his head and beheld a great fume of fire streaked cloud rising into the sky in the distance. A drumming rumble rolled from the eastern horizon towards the Tafelberg; the inexorable flow of the Great River seemed for a moment to stand still. The Dark Man roared his triumph as the ledge began to rock like a flet in a gale. His laughter turned to a screech of pain.
Aodh swung his gaze back across the ledge Nadene’s teeth were buried deep in the flesh of Fleðð’s forearm. The Dark Man screamed again as she slipped from his grasp and raked his face with her nails. “No, Fællon!" she yelled as Goldwhaet stepped closer. "For him, nothing - never!” She swept the horn of the Eld from her husband's palm and sent it flying across the ledge.
The Dark Man howled again, this time in fury. He dropped his shoulder and thrust it into Nadene’s hip as he rushed to retrieve his prize. Nadene reeled across the narrow space and teetered on edge of the abyss. The tet sprang forward as one, arms stretched to save her. Aodh felt the tips of her fingers brush his. Goldwhæt marked her eyes and sad smile. “Love," she said to him. Love… Love!" Then the void snatched her from them.
As Ringbold’s hand closed around the handle of Eléowyn’s dagger the ground shook beneath his feet once more. The hobbit staggered as the tremors intensified almost throwing him to his knees. A great wind out of the North fell suddenly upon land and hill; Sandy and Daesûl reared and whinnied in terror. But even above the sudden tumult Ringo heard the Dark Man's awful shrieking.
He looked up the slope of the Tafelberg and beheld a terrible sight: a woman swayed on the lip of a precipice high above. Before he could throw his hands over his eyes, she fell. He watched in horror as she tumbled through the air. The Eagles! Ringo's mind yammered. Where are the Eagles? The out thrust spur of the hill spared the hobbit the sight of the woman striking the plain, but not the terrible sound of impact.
Aodh Hammerhelm drew his tet from the ledge. He tapped the base of his throat thrice and turned his eyes from the plain.
The Dark Man stood on the stairs that led to the summit, his cloak swirling on a rising wind. "Whoops!" he chuckled. He waggled the Horn at the companions then raced away up the steps.
Goldwhæt’s eyes darted from cliff edge to stairs and onto the faces of his friends. Tears coursed down his cheeks, his lips trembled. Suddenly he uttered a terrible cry, the sound of one mortally wounded, the sound of a man beyond hope. Before Aodh could stop him he fled the ledge, feet scrambling frantically as they found the path to the plain.
Ringo stood transfixed, heart hammering wildly as the gale howled about him. That poor woman… Who was she? Nadene? Oh, Bema - poor Arthur! At last he turned, seeking Eléowyn amidst the scouring dust and whistling wind. The hobbit caught a glimpse of her Cavalry cloak and the flailing limbs of their panicked steeds. A hoof struck him upon the shoulder; somehow he clung on to Eléowyn's weapons as he struggled to stay erect.
A new horror now confronted him, Arthur Heath, the man Eléowyn called Goldwhæt, dashed towards him. It was the same man that had stepped onto a path near Archet years before; the man who'd saved Ringbold Took from certain death, but he was changed, changed utterly. Gone were the raffish good looks and lazy smile, gone too was the impish twinkle in his eye. Goldwhæt bore down on the hobbit like something out of a nightmare; his teeth were bared in a mouth twisted and spittle-flecked, his eyes swirled with madness.
Ringo had no time react; Goldwhæt punched him hard in the centre of his chest, Eléowyn's weapons spilled from his hands as he was bowled head over heels. "Arthur! Arthur!" the startled hobbit bawled, as he scrabbled on hands and knees in the whirling dust.
"Stay back! Stay back from me, you hear!" Goldwhæt yelled and Eléowyn's sword flashed in his hand. "Don't you dare come near me... Don't you dare! I swear on the face of my father I'll slay you if you try."
Ringbold forced himself upward, eyes slit against the flying grit and grass. "Eléowyn! Eléowyn! Where are you?"
Aodh pulled Eléo closer, he reached for her chin and turned her face towards him. "Come," he said and kissed her lips lightly. He took her hand and strode towards the stairs that Fleðð had taken. He paused, boot on the first and kissed Eléo again, harder this time. "Trust me, love. Trust me and all shall be well."
If this would prove true, Aodh Hammerhelm could not tell. Sometimes those who cursed Ka had to place their trust in her capricious hands once more. He squared his shoulders and led his wife up the last steps to the summit.
- he hath not forgotten the face of his fathers -
the face of his fathers -- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
(Here & Now) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
And so it begins … or ends, Eléo thought as she stood shoulder to shoulder with @Aodh Hammerhelm . Any fear, any hesitation she had felt was gone. The waiting was the hardest part.
Nonetheless, she had to restrain a startled jump when at last Scielda (as she had known him) popped into view with a loud “Boo!” Her hand twitched at her side (where her sword would have hung) as the odious man spoke so dismissively. Hold steady, hold steady, she kept reminding herself, her face remaining stern but unemotional.
A small gasp did escape at the sight of Nadene, bloodied and bound. Yet still she stood resolute, though in her mind she ached to show Scielda how hard a velvet glove could hit. “Stand,” Aodh said. She planted her feet even more firmly. Somewhere, off to her left, she heard a snarl, a low growl that came ever closer. Wulf! Eléo placed her palm outward toward the dog, signaling him to stay. Wulf obediently slunk low to the ground and waited with bared teeth, but his snarling did not abate.
Reluctantly she had handed over her sword. Even more reluctantly, she reached into her right boot and pulled out the dagger. For a moment she struggled with her conscience, for there was yet another weapon hidden in her left boot—the kitchen knife she had grabbed at the last minute. At last she withdrew the knife, her final weapon, and as the ground began to shake, she placed the two blades in Ringbold's outstretched palm.
A sudden flash of fire to the east seemed to set in motion a rapid series of events. As the ground began to rumble, the shocking realization came to Eléo--Orodruin! Before she had time to consider the implications, Nadene had broken free, only to plummet to her death a moment later. Eléo cursed under her breath, held back the tears that threatened, and turned toward Scielda with hate and fire in her eyes. Wulf, startled by both the sudden action and the rumblings to the east, broke his command and rushed to his lady’s side. Eléo was too heart-broken to notice, and the dog’s snarl rose once again to a menacing growl.
The small tremor became a fierce shaking, and Eléowyn struggled to remain upright. The flash of fire to the east and the violent rumblings reminded her of…. Suddenly she realized: Barad-dûr! And she understood at last where, or rather when, she now was. Time had once again swept her upstream.
A hideous shriek coming from the mountaintop, followed soon after by the horrible sight of a woman falling from the ledge left no time for contemplation. For a horrifying split second, Eléowyn thought it might be her other self, but quickly she saw, to her equal horror, that it was Nadene. Sweet Nadene. Goldwhæt’s love Nadene. Eléowyn let out a small scream and turned her head.
Eléo’s wrath grew at the evil man’s taunting “Whoops!” as Nadene fell to her death. Never in her life had Eléo felt as much hatred toward anyone as she did at that moment toward Scielda. Aodh had been right to take her sword. She would gladly have relieved the wretched man’s neck of the burden of holding up his smirking face. Yet she knew it would have been her undoing, for clearly the man possessed some sort of dark magic.
Eléowyn could barely see now, but she heard the panicked stamping and stomping of Sandy and Daesûl, then a soft “mmph” from Ringo. “Are you …,” she began, but her cry was cut short as Goldwhæt rushed past, clearly maddened by the horror of watching his wife fall to what was certainly her death. She started to go after him, or to check on the hobbit, but she was now drawn to the path that led to the flat-top of the mountain. The path that would lead her to Aodh.
She heard Ringo calling her, as if from a distance, but did not reply. Onward she marched, until she reached the path’s edge. She hesitated, then took the first step upward.
Aodh’s kiss reminded Eléo of his command: “Aim with your mind. Kill with your heart.” She shook her head to clear the rage and hate. Love would be their strength, and hopefully not their undoing. “Trust me, love,” he said. She did not hesitate, but followed him upward, beckoning Wulf to follow.
And so it begins … or ends, Eléo thought as she stood shoulder to shoulder with @Aodh Hammerhelm . Any fear, any hesitation she had felt was gone. The waiting was the hardest part.
Nonetheless, she had to restrain a startled jump when at last Scielda (as she had known him) popped into view with a loud “Boo!” Her hand twitched at her side (where her sword would have hung) as the odious man spoke so dismissively. Hold steady, hold steady, she kept reminding herself, her face remaining stern but unemotional.
A small gasp did escape at the sight of Nadene, bloodied and bound. Yet still she stood resolute, though in her mind she ached to show Scielda how hard a velvet glove could hit. “Stand,” Aodh said. She planted her feet even more firmly. Somewhere, off to her left, she heard a snarl, a low growl that came ever closer. Wulf! Eléo placed her palm outward toward the dog, signaling him to stay. Wulf obediently slunk low to the ground and waited with bared teeth, but his snarling did not abate.
Reluctantly she had handed over her sword. Even more reluctantly, she reached into her right boot and pulled out the dagger. For a moment she struggled with her conscience, for there was yet another weapon hidden in her left boot—the kitchen knife she had grabbed at the last minute. At last she withdrew the knife, her final weapon, and as the ground began to shake, she placed the two blades in Ringbold's outstretched palm.
A sudden flash of fire to the east seemed to set in motion a rapid series of events. As the ground began to rumble, the shocking realization came to Eléo--Orodruin! Before she had time to consider the implications, Nadene had broken free, only to plummet to her death a moment later. Eléo cursed under her breath, held back the tears that threatened, and turned toward Scielda with hate and fire in her eyes. Wulf, startled by both the sudden action and the rumblings to the east, broke his command and rushed to his lady’s side. Eléo was too heart-broken to notice, and the dog’s snarl rose once again to a menacing growl.
The small tremor became a fierce shaking, and Eléowyn struggled to remain upright. The flash of fire to the east and the violent rumblings reminded her of…. Suddenly she realized: Barad-dûr! And she understood at last where, or rather when, she now was. Time had once again swept her upstream.
A hideous shriek coming from the mountaintop, followed soon after by the horrible sight of a woman falling from the ledge left no time for contemplation. For a horrifying split second, Eléowyn thought it might be her other self, but quickly she saw, to her equal horror, that it was Nadene. Sweet Nadene. Goldwhæt’s love Nadene. Eléowyn let out a small scream and turned her head.
Eléo’s wrath grew at the evil man’s taunting “Whoops!” as Nadene fell to her death. Never in her life had Eléo felt as much hatred toward anyone as she did at that moment toward Scielda. Aodh had been right to take her sword. She would gladly have relieved the wretched man’s neck of the burden of holding up his smirking face. Yet she knew it would have been her undoing, for clearly the man possessed some sort of dark magic.
Eléowyn could barely see now, but she heard the panicked stamping and stomping of Sandy and Daesûl, then a soft “mmph” from Ringo. “Are you …,” she began, but her cry was cut short as Goldwhæt rushed past, clearly maddened by the horror of watching his wife fall to what was certainly her death. She started to go after him, or to check on the hobbit, but she was now drawn to the path that led to the flat-top of the mountain. The path that would lead her to Aodh.
She heard Ringo calling her, as if from a distance, but did not reply. Onward she marched, until she reached the path’s edge. She hesitated, then took the first step upward.
Aodh’s kiss reminded Eléo of his command: “Aim with your mind. Kill with your heart.” She shook her head to clear the rage and hate. Love would be their strength, and hopefully not their undoing. “Trust me, love,” he said. She did not hesitate, but followed him upward, beckoning Wulf to follow.
- Points: 1 204
Chieftain of The Mark
Posts: 656
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
(NOW) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
NPCs: Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
Aodh climbed the stair without fear or caution, it led upward through a narrow cleft in the granite cliff. Each steep was cut with precision, smooth and evenly spaced; his pace never faltered as he counted them off with each footfall. When three remained he paused and squeezed Eléo's hand - once, twice, thrice. Up the last steps he went, speech shifting from the lilting tongue of the Rohirrim to the language he'd learned on his mother's knee: Chusset… Chisset... Chasset!
A tangled mat of wild thistle, flattened by hurried footfalls, stood at the mouth of the fissure; threads of The Dark Man's cloak clung to its spiny leaves. Aodh plucked a purple flower, placed it in the hair above Eléo's ear and drew her out onto the crown of the Tafelberg.
The summit was revealed to them at last. It was not as Aodh had expected , but it was achingly familiar all the same. The wind was not fierce here, dark cliffs encircled a bowl scooped from the chalk by the hands of folk long since forgotten. Fine white dust fanned and swirled in the half-light; the black scar of Rædwuld Fleðð's spoer bisected the dell.
A ring of pillars, twelve in all, had been set about the depression at precise intervals, like hours upon a clock face. Most had crumbled or toppled over, but two stood still; one near the stair and opposite, at twelve of the hour to Aodh and Eléo’s six, another like an upturned fang in the gloom.
"Trust me," Aodh said to Eléo, marking each detail of her fair face. "Not as din, as husband; not as overlord, as dearest friend." He held her close to him, the thistle flower brushing his lips as he bent his face to her ear: "I'll see you in a little while… sleep, léof!"
Eléo’s body went limp. Aodh took her in his arms and laid her gently behind the standing stone. He tucked her cloak gently around her and kissed her forehead. For a long moment he gazed down upon her sleeping face, knowing, that however the dice fell, it would be the last time he saw it in this light. Few, if any, had a chance to see the one they loved as they were before they met them. Few discovered that they'd have loved them in any when.
He smote his left hand upon the sarsen as he stood and saw a leaping horse carved deep into the stone. Another creature, a hunting hound, graced the far stone - he knew this as a truth without seeing it. He turned, surveying the bowl with fresh eyes: skulls littered the dell - hare, deer, eagle, bear and nameless others - all half-buried in a fine powder of desiccated bone.
Aodh stepped out into this dusty golgotha, the detritus of long ages puffed beneath his boot heels. Overhead stars, innumerable and strange, whirled in a sky as black as jet. It was night! A scent, bitter and dry, that of a vast desert, filled Aodh’s nostrils. “I’m here again, Cuthbert,” he sighed, “at the ending and beginning of all things… Alone!”
---
If only I could see! Ringbold thought as he dragged himself to his feet. His chest and shoulder ached; the howling wind and flying grit left him totally bewildered. Sandy and Daesûl barrelled passed him. He heard Eléowyn's faint call and groped his way toward her. Just when he was about to give up, the wind swung, driving now away across the plain toward Anduin. He saw his friend at the base of the footpath. "Go to him, Eléo!" he shrilled. "Find Aodh before it's too late. I'll deal with Arthur."
The hobbit turned his back on the Tafelberg, dipped his head and scampered towards the out flung spur. Had Arthur gone that way? Of course he had, unless the dust cloud had thrown him off course.
Ringbold Took made a run fit for the Annals of The Thain's Book. He ran until his little heart seemed ready to burst, woolly feet flying across the ground at a pace that matched, if not Wingfoot, then that of his companion, Gimli the Dwarf, he of the natural sprinters.
The high ground loomed closer, too high to climb. He aimed for a green tump on the eastern edge of the spur. Huffing and puffing, bent over his knees, the hobbit saw below him a pebbled beach. Arthur Heath knelt a short distance away. Ringo steadied his breathing and edged quietly forward. Arthur’s shoulders were racked with sobbing; Nadene's tangled legs were visible behind his bowed back. Ringbold dropped his head and tapped his throat, then stepped cautiously around his friend's left shoulder.
Oh Bema, help me! The hilt of Eléowyn’s sword was wedged in the pebbles beside Nadene’s broken body, the point of the blade hovered an inch below Arthur Heath’s left breast.
---
“I come in the names of the White,” Aodh called as he stepped down into the blighted dell:
“Stephen, Gabrielle, David & Cort, they of Gilead.
Alain, Cuthbert, Sheemie & Susan, from far-flung Mejis.
Eddie, Oy, Jake & Susannah, true-hearts of Mid-World.
Laer, Mowena, Ælfred & Nadene, they of Middle-earth.
Ringbold… Goldwhæt…
And Fair Eléo, then, when, now and evermore!”
He stood now dead centre of the circle of desolation. He drew Bælslean from the scabbard and thrust the sword’s blade into the ground at his feet. Nineteen yards away The Dark Man leaned lazily upon the standing stone. He stirred and Aodh saw that he'd been mistaken. There was no stone at his enemy's back; a wooden door, painted in fresh strokes of white, glimmered in the gloom. Five letters were scoured deep into its lintel.
"Ah, good," Rædwulf Fleðð chuckled, stepping out towards Aodh. "No trouble and strife, I see. You've cast off the old ball and chain, excellent. It as it should be… One on one, two old friends about to set off for pastures new."
Aodh gave no answer. His kill hand dropped to his waist in a blur.
"You may not harm me!" Fleðð squawked, falling back a pace. "We are in a place of palaver!”
"Parley?" Aodh smiled grimly, a wooden box in hand. “No inviting fire I see this time though, no roasted coney. Are you off your game, freond? What else have you forgotten?”
"Much and much, the quandary of a wayward bride-to-be does that to the best of us," The Dark Man answered, eyes fixed firmly on Aodh's hand.
"Parley,” Aodh said again as he flicked the box open. "What have you to say that you have not a thousand times before, Wælter?" He poked a thin brown tube into the corner of his mouth, sparked a match with the tip of his thumb and set its flame to the last of the Barony smokes. "What would you offer now that might stay or sway me? You have fresh blood on your hands!"
"Don't speak to me of murder, matricide," Fleðð replied, managing to sound annoyed and amused in the same breath. "What would I offer thee? The same I always have: you and me, brother, two sides of the same coin, rolling along Ka's endless highway."
Aodh remained silent, squinting at The Dark Man through a cloud of sweet smoke. He shook his head, eyed the letters etched over the door, then looked over his shoulder at the swaddled form of his wife.
"Oh, ho, ho, Rho.. Rho… Roland!" Rædwulf Fleðð chortled: "Where’s your imagination? We are done here, do you not see that, or will you not? The West has triumphed over the East; nought remains here for us but the long slide into dotage. Would you work the fields, tend beasts or eke out your days in a tawdry store? For what? Love..?
There is only death in this world, no field of signing roses or path of endless glory. Is this what you would choose? Coffin dust or a green mound dotted with itty-bitty white flowers? Stay if you must, but chew on this: the mound might not be yours, all you now love might perish before thee, leaving you alone to gnaw on was and might have been."
He threw the Horn at Aodh's feet and grinned his hateful grin. Certainty gleamed in the dark pools of his eyes. "Pick it up, friend, take it in your hand and follow me!"
Boots set slightly apart, hands ready at his hips, Aodh stood as he'd stood many times before, on the dusty streets of Tull, atop the rocky slope of One Tree Hill and countless other killing grounds. He held The Dark Man's gaze for a long while and smiled. "Aye, I shall take the Horn, for it is mine, a token of my birthright, but I shall not kneel. Bring it to me, bondsman!"
Fleðð tittered and scuttled forward; he lifted the Horn and placed it gently in Aodh's out held palms. A peal of thunder shook the summit, the door behind The Dark Man shimmered as lightning flared.
Fleðð hurried away, threw out a hand, thumb and forefinger forked in the sign of the evil eye. A blue flash sprang from his fingers and the door swung open. Aodh felt something tug eagerly at his clothing and hair; his hat spun from his head as the insistent snatching strengthened. He drew the last sweet mouthful of the Mejis smoke deep into his chest, shut his eyes and turned his back on The Dark Man.
He knelt now, bony powder drifting over his legs and boots, his serape and hair billowing as a terrible keening sounded from behind him. He dropped his head as he’d seen Pere, The Old Fella, do with his flock in the Calla, and cleared his head of all thought, save that which he most desired.
"May it be?" he murmured "Let it be…"
Aodh eyes flew open, he blinked and smiled. His wife stood on the edge of the circular hollow, Wulf sat at her side, hackles raised. She was as he’d first seen her under the warm lights of the Ældsel Inn, as she’d been when they rode together into the high country above Helm’s Deep. Eléowyn! Eléowyn the Fair - beautiful, weaponless and undaunted.
Aodh grinned at her through the whirling dust and marked well the hard edged heels of her riding boots. The Dark Man saw her too and hissed his hatred at her.
Aodh threw himself upon the ground. His boots clattered as his body begin to slide towards Fleðð and his accursed door. Twenty yards lay between him and his wife - twenty yards between redemption and damnation. But that distance was widening.
With his left arm outstretched, horn clasped tightly in his kill hand, Aodh found his wife’s eyes.
"Eléowyn!” he roared. “Eléowyn, to me… If you love me, maim me!"
---
@Eléowyn
NPCs: Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
Aodh climbed the stair without fear or caution, it led upward through a narrow cleft in the granite cliff. Each steep was cut with precision, smooth and evenly spaced; his pace never faltered as he counted them off with each footfall. When three remained he paused and squeezed Eléo's hand - once, twice, thrice. Up the last steps he went, speech shifting from the lilting tongue of the Rohirrim to the language he'd learned on his mother's knee: Chusset… Chisset... Chasset!
A tangled mat of wild thistle, flattened by hurried footfalls, stood at the mouth of the fissure; threads of The Dark Man's cloak clung to its spiny leaves. Aodh plucked a purple flower, placed it in the hair above Eléo's ear and drew her out onto the crown of the Tafelberg.
The summit was revealed to them at last. It was not as Aodh had expected , but it was achingly familiar all the same. The wind was not fierce here, dark cliffs encircled a bowl scooped from the chalk by the hands of folk long since forgotten. Fine white dust fanned and swirled in the half-light; the black scar of Rædwuld Fleðð's spoer bisected the dell.
A ring of pillars, twelve in all, had been set about the depression at precise intervals, like hours upon a clock face. Most had crumbled or toppled over, but two stood still; one near the stair and opposite, at twelve of the hour to Aodh and Eléo’s six, another like an upturned fang in the gloom.
"Trust me," Aodh said to Eléo, marking each detail of her fair face. "Not as din, as husband; not as overlord, as dearest friend." He held her close to him, the thistle flower brushing his lips as he bent his face to her ear: "I'll see you in a little while… sleep, léof!"
Eléo’s body went limp. Aodh took her in his arms and laid her gently behind the standing stone. He tucked her cloak gently around her and kissed her forehead. For a long moment he gazed down upon her sleeping face, knowing, that however the dice fell, it would be the last time he saw it in this light. Few, if any, had a chance to see the one they loved as they were before they met them. Few discovered that they'd have loved them in any when.
He smote his left hand upon the sarsen as he stood and saw a leaping horse carved deep into the stone. Another creature, a hunting hound, graced the far stone - he knew this as a truth without seeing it. He turned, surveying the bowl with fresh eyes: skulls littered the dell - hare, deer, eagle, bear and nameless others - all half-buried in a fine powder of desiccated bone.
Aodh stepped out into this dusty golgotha, the detritus of long ages puffed beneath his boot heels. Overhead stars, innumerable and strange, whirled in a sky as black as jet. It was night! A scent, bitter and dry, that of a vast desert, filled Aodh’s nostrils. “I’m here again, Cuthbert,” he sighed, “at the ending and beginning of all things… Alone!”
---
If only I could see! Ringbold thought as he dragged himself to his feet. His chest and shoulder ached; the howling wind and flying grit left him totally bewildered. Sandy and Daesûl barrelled passed him. He heard Eléowyn's faint call and groped his way toward her. Just when he was about to give up, the wind swung, driving now away across the plain toward Anduin. He saw his friend at the base of the footpath. "Go to him, Eléo!" he shrilled. "Find Aodh before it's too late. I'll deal with Arthur."
The hobbit turned his back on the Tafelberg, dipped his head and scampered towards the out flung spur. Had Arthur gone that way? Of course he had, unless the dust cloud had thrown him off course.
Ringbold Took made a run fit for the Annals of The Thain's Book. He ran until his little heart seemed ready to burst, woolly feet flying across the ground at a pace that matched, if not Wingfoot, then that of his companion, Gimli the Dwarf, he of the natural sprinters.
The high ground loomed closer, too high to climb. He aimed for a green tump on the eastern edge of the spur. Huffing and puffing, bent over his knees, the hobbit saw below him a pebbled beach. Arthur Heath knelt a short distance away. Ringo steadied his breathing and edged quietly forward. Arthur’s shoulders were racked with sobbing; Nadene's tangled legs were visible behind his bowed back. Ringbold dropped his head and tapped his throat, then stepped cautiously around his friend's left shoulder.
Oh Bema, help me! The hilt of Eléowyn’s sword was wedged in the pebbles beside Nadene’s broken body, the point of the blade hovered an inch below Arthur Heath’s left breast.
---
“I come in the names of the White,” Aodh called as he stepped down into the blighted dell:
“Stephen, Gabrielle, David & Cort, they of Gilead.
Alain, Cuthbert, Sheemie & Susan, from far-flung Mejis.
Eddie, Oy, Jake & Susannah, true-hearts of Mid-World.
Laer, Mowena, Ælfred & Nadene, they of Middle-earth.
Ringbold… Goldwhæt…
And Fair Eléo, then, when, now and evermore!”
He stood now dead centre of the circle of desolation. He drew Bælslean from the scabbard and thrust the sword’s blade into the ground at his feet. Nineteen yards away The Dark Man leaned lazily upon the standing stone. He stirred and Aodh saw that he'd been mistaken. There was no stone at his enemy's back; a wooden door, painted in fresh strokes of white, glimmered in the gloom. Five letters were scoured deep into its lintel.
"Ah, good," Rædwulf Fleðð chuckled, stepping out towards Aodh. "No trouble and strife, I see. You've cast off the old ball and chain, excellent. It as it should be… One on one, two old friends about to set off for pastures new."
Aodh gave no answer. His kill hand dropped to his waist in a blur.
"You may not harm me!" Fleðð squawked, falling back a pace. "We are in a place of palaver!”
"Parley?" Aodh smiled grimly, a wooden box in hand. “No inviting fire I see this time though, no roasted coney. Are you off your game, freond? What else have you forgotten?”
"Much and much, the quandary of a wayward bride-to-be does that to the best of us," The Dark Man answered, eyes fixed firmly on Aodh's hand.
"Parley,” Aodh said again as he flicked the box open. "What have you to say that you have not a thousand times before, Wælter?" He poked a thin brown tube into the corner of his mouth, sparked a match with the tip of his thumb and set its flame to the last of the Barony smokes. "What would you offer now that might stay or sway me? You have fresh blood on your hands!"
"Don't speak to me of murder, matricide," Fleðð replied, managing to sound annoyed and amused in the same breath. "What would I offer thee? The same I always have: you and me, brother, two sides of the same coin, rolling along Ka's endless highway."
Aodh remained silent, squinting at The Dark Man through a cloud of sweet smoke. He shook his head, eyed the letters etched over the door, then looked over his shoulder at the swaddled form of his wife.
"Oh, ho, ho, Rho.. Rho… Roland!" Rædwulf Fleðð chortled: "Where’s your imagination? We are done here, do you not see that, or will you not? The West has triumphed over the East; nought remains here for us but the long slide into dotage. Would you work the fields, tend beasts or eke out your days in a tawdry store? For what? Love..?
There is only death in this world, no field of signing roses or path of endless glory. Is this what you would choose? Coffin dust or a green mound dotted with itty-bitty white flowers? Stay if you must, but chew on this: the mound might not be yours, all you now love might perish before thee, leaving you alone to gnaw on was and might have been."
He threw the Horn at Aodh's feet and grinned his hateful grin. Certainty gleamed in the dark pools of his eyes. "Pick it up, friend, take it in your hand and follow me!"
Boots set slightly apart, hands ready at his hips, Aodh stood as he'd stood many times before, on the dusty streets of Tull, atop the rocky slope of One Tree Hill and countless other killing grounds. He held The Dark Man's gaze for a long while and smiled. "Aye, I shall take the Horn, for it is mine, a token of my birthright, but I shall not kneel. Bring it to me, bondsman!"
Fleðð tittered and scuttled forward; he lifted the Horn and placed it gently in Aodh's out held palms. A peal of thunder shook the summit, the door behind The Dark Man shimmered as lightning flared.
Fleðð hurried away, threw out a hand, thumb and forefinger forked in the sign of the evil eye. A blue flash sprang from his fingers and the door swung open. Aodh felt something tug eagerly at his clothing and hair; his hat spun from his head as the insistent snatching strengthened. He drew the last sweet mouthful of the Mejis smoke deep into his chest, shut his eyes and turned his back on The Dark Man.
He knelt now, bony powder drifting over his legs and boots, his serape and hair billowing as a terrible keening sounded from behind him. He dropped his head as he’d seen Pere, The Old Fella, do with his flock in the Calla, and cleared his head of all thought, save that which he most desired.
"May it be?" he murmured "Let it be…"
Aodh eyes flew open, he blinked and smiled. His wife stood on the edge of the circular hollow, Wulf sat at her side, hackles raised. She was as he’d first seen her under the warm lights of the Ældsel Inn, as she’d been when they rode together into the high country above Helm’s Deep. Eléowyn! Eléowyn the Fair - beautiful, weaponless and undaunted.
Aodh grinned at her through the whirling dust and marked well the hard edged heels of her riding boots. The Dark Man saw her too and hissed his hatred at her.
Aodh threw himself upon the ground. His boots clattered as his body begin to slide towards Fleðð and his accursed door. Twenty yards lay between him and his wife - twenty yards between redemption and damnation. But that distance was widening.
With his left arm outstretched, horn clasped tightly in his kill hand, Aodh found his wife’s eyes.
"Eléowyn!” he roared. “Eléowyn, to me… If you love me, maim me!"
---
@Eléowyn
- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
(NOW) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin,above the Undeeps
Wulf did not understand what was happening, but he sensed danger, and he could smell evil radiating from the man who laughed with his voice but not his eyes. He followed his lady up the steps at her command, hoping for a chance to rip the man’s throat open. But as they neared the top, his growls turned to whimpers, and when his lady and her man paused at the final steps, Wulf was relieved. When they moved again, he hung back, whimpering louder, afraid of some unknown force he could sense but not understand.
“Come, Wulf” Eléo called to him sternly, with her voice this time. He crept along behind her, keeping low to the ground and whimpering still, love for his lady overcoming his fear.
At the top of the mountain, where Aodh suddenly began speaking in a tongue unfamiliar to her, Eléo realized, not for the first time, that there was much about her husband’s past she did not know. She wondered if she had asked more questions, if she had insisted he explain his strange disappearances, would she be better prepared for this moment.
Her doubts dissipated with the whistling wind as Aodh placed a purple flower in her hair—a forsaken thing of beauty at the threshold of a site filled with so many signs of death. She smiled at Aodh, and said “I do trust you, my husband, my dearest of friends.” Those were her last words before her body fell limp and her mind shut, but with a look on her face as if caught in the act of saying “Not yet!”
Eléowyn heard Ringbold’s cry, but did not acknowledge it. She was now focused on making her way to the top of the tafelberg. She could feel Aodh’s presence now, and though she would later grieve with Goldwhæt over Nadene’s passing, her thoughts now were focused on one thing only—finding her way to her husband.
Her progress quickened with each footstep until at last she reached a ledge, where she found the clear signs of a camp, but no sight of Aodh. This is where Nadene plunged to her death, she realized with a start. But there was no time to delay, and a quick glance around the site revealed a stairway leading to the mountaintop.
Her boot touched the first step, and she felt a sudden sense of urgency. One step, then another, faster she climbed, dark falling swiftly around her as she did so. Bright stars lit the way, but she would have found it even in deepest gloom. One more step, and she would be there. The sweet scent of tobacco greeted her as she took a deep breath and stepped onto the flat top of the mountain.
She blinked, needing a moment to take it all in. To one side, she noted a standing stone, with a shadow of something at its feet. It was a cloak, she realized, though she could not tell in the dark shade if it was inhabited. Another shadow moved, and Eléowyn reached instinctively for the sword that was not there. The shadow emerged, and with a happy yelp, Wulf sprang to her side, though he kept looking back at the lump behind the stone in confusion.
Then she saw him—Aodh, her love, her husband, kneeling in the dust, and grinning as if he had just returned from a day’s ride. She rushed toward him, but as she did so, he was suddenly pulled away and she saw him receding, slipping away just at the moment she had at long last found him.
“Stop!” she yelled at The Dark Man standing in a doorway. “You will not have him! YOU WILL NOT HAVE HIM!” The swirling dust almost choked her as she screamed into the wind, but she was not daunted. She could see something reflecting the starlight in Aodh’s hand, and his eyes met hers.
“If you love me, maim me!” The words almost stopped her in her tracks. Had he gone mad? She saw his outstretched arm and started to throw herself forward to reach for it, before he could be pulled through the door that loomed like portal of death.
And then it came to her. The outstretched arm, five fingers on the hand that reached out, and she knew what she must do. Again, instinctively her hand reached for a weapon, and she cursed the wretched sense of honor that caused her to hand over the only means of salvation she might have brought with her. Desperately, she looked about for anything sharp, a rock, a bone cracked and weathered into a point. She was frantic, and crying now at the futility of her search. And Aodh was slipping ever farther away.
In desperation she removed one of her boots, and threw herself toward Aodh, managing to grab his arm. For a moment there was a tug of war between her and the force that was pulling him away, but she was able at last to slow, though not stop, the slide toward the door. With tears running down her face, she said, “Please forgive me, my love,” as she began hacking at one of his fingers with the heel of her boot. Though the heel was sharp-edged, it could not cut through the flesh and bone. Frantic now, she scrabbled for anything within reach, but never letting go of Aodh’s arm. They were being drawn closer and closer to the looming door.
Her fingers touched a small bone, but it turned to dust when she reached for it. There was a jagged rock, and she tried again to hack away at the finger, but it was not sharp enough. Her hair blew across her face and stuck to the tears coursing down her cheeks; a white dust swirled in the air, choking and blinding her. And the door loomed closer.
Wulf was barking and running back and forth behind them, and suddenly she had an idea.
“Wulf!” she called. “To me!” The dog quickly obeyed and Eléowyn whispered a quick command into his ear. He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. There was no real hope he would understand what she had asked of him. Eléowyn let go of Aodh’s arm and grabbed him by the armpits. “Now!” She called to Wulf. “Do it! Now!” The dog did not hesitate; in one leap, he was on top of his lady’s man, and his mighty jaws clamped down on a finger. When he lifted his head, blood was dripping from the severed finger hanging from his mouth.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
NPF has tribbed you
Wulf did not understand what was happening, but he sensed danger, and he could smell evil radiating from the man who laughed with his voice but not his eyes. He followed his lady up the steps at her command, hoping for a chance to rip the man’s throat open. But as they neared the top, his growls turned to whimpers, and when his lady and her man paused at the final steps, Wulf was relieved. When they moved again, he hung back, whimpering louder, afraid of some unknown force he could sense but not understand.
“Come, Wulf” Eléo called to him sternly, with her voice this time. He crept along behind her, keeping low to the ground and whimpering still, love for his lady overcoming his fear.
At the top of the mountain, where Aodh suddenly began speaking in a tongue unfamiliar to her, Eléo realized, not for the first time, that there was much about her husband’s past she did not know. She wondered if she had asked more questions, if she had insisted he explain his strange disappearances, would she be better prepared for this moment.
Her doubts dissipated with the whistling wind as Aodh placed a purple flower in her hair—a forsaken thing of beauty at the threshold of a site filled with so many signs of death. She smiled at Aodh, and said “I do trust you, my husband, my dearest of friends.” Those were her last words before her body fell limp and her mind shut, but with a look on her face as if caught in the act of saying “Not yet!”
Eléowyn heard Ringbold’s cry, but did not acknowledge it. She was now focused on making her way to the top of the tafelberg. She could feel Aodh’s presence now, and though she would later grieve with Goldwhæt over Nadene’s passing, her thoughts now were focused on one thing only—finding her way to her husband.
Her progress quickened with each footstep until at last she reached a ledge, where she found the clear signs of a camp, but no sight of Aodh. This is where Nadene plunged to her death, she realized with a start. But there was no time to delay, and a quick glance around the site revealed a stairway leading to the mountaintop.
Her boot touched the first step, and she felt a sudden sense of urgency. One step, then another, faster she climbed, dark falling swiftly around her as she did so. Bright stars lit the way, but she would have found it even in deepest gloom. One more step, and she would be there. The sweet scent of tobacco greeted her as she took a deep breath and stepped onto the flat top of the mountain.
She blinked, needing a moment to take it all in. To one side, she noted a standing stone, with a shadow of something at its feet. It was a cloak, she realized, though she could not tell in the dark shade if it was inhabited. Another shadow moved, and Eléowyn reached instinctively for the sword that was not there. The shadow emerged, and with a happy yelp, Wulf sprang to her side, though he kept looking back at the lump behind the stone in confusion.
Then she saw him—Aodh, her love, her husband, kneeling in the dust, and grinning as if he had just returned from a day’s ride. She rushed toward him, but as she did so, he was suddenly pulled away and she saw him receding, slipping away just at the moment she had at long last found him.
“Stop!” she yelled at The Dark Man standing in a doorway. “You will not have him! YOU WILL NOT HAVE HIM!” The swirling dust almost choked her as she screamed into the wind, but she was not daunted. She could see something reflecting the starlight in Aodh’s hand, and his eyes met hers.
“If you love me, maim me!” The words almost stopped her in her tracks. Had he gone mad? She saw his outstretched arm and started to throw herself forward to reach for it, before he could be pulled through the door that loomed like portal of death.
And then it came to her. The outstretched arm, five fingers on the hand that reached out, and she knew what she must do. Again, instinctively her hand reached for a weapon, and she cursed the wretched sense of honor that caused her to hand over the only means of salvation she might have brought with her. Desperately, she looked about for anything sharp, a rock, a bone cracked and weathered into a point. She was frantic, and crying now at the futility of her search. And Aodh was slipping ever farther away.
In desperation she removed one of her boots, and threw herself toward Aodh, managing to grab his arm. For a moment there was a tug of war between her and the force that was pulling him away, but she was able at last to slow, though not stop, the slide toward the door. With tears running down her face, she said, “Please forgive me, my love,” as she began hacking at one of his fingers with the heel of her boot. Though the heel was sharp-edged, it could not cut through the flesh and bone. Frantic now, she scrabbled for anything within reach, but never letting go of Aodh’s arm. They were being drawn closer and closer to the looming door.
Her fingers touched a small bone, but it turned to dust when she reached for it. There was a jagged rock, and she tried again to hack away at the finger, but it was not sharp enough. Her hair blew across her face and stuck to the tears coursing down her cheeks; a white dust swirled in the air, choking and blinding her. And the door loomed closer.
Wulf was barking and running back and forth behind them, and suddenly she had an idea.
“Wulf!” she called. “To me!” The dog quickly obeyed and Eléowyn whispered a quick command into his ear. He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. There was no real hope he would understand what she had asked of him. Eléowyn let go of Aodh’s arm and grabbed him by the armpits. “Now!” She called to Wulf. “Do it! Now!” The dog did not hesitate; in one leap, he was on top of his lady’s man, and his mighty jaws clamped down on a finger. When he lifted his head, blood was dripping from the severed finger hanging from his mouth.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
NPF has tribbed you
- Points: 1 204
Chieftain of The Mark
Posts: 656
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
(NOW) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
NPCs: Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
The relentless force beyond the white door drew Aodh bodily along the ground. Instinct would have had him dig in his heels for a foothold, or clutch at something to stay his passage. There was nowt to cling to, only the horn of the Eld, and the hope Eléowyn would reach him in time.
Something round and hard struck his chest. Aodh's teeth clattered and his head juddered, but he kept the fingers of his outstretched hand clasped firmly around the relic of his forebears. The mournful shriek at his heels shifted register - now the manic sound of a deranged band playing as their hall burned around them, now the grindstone and hammer of Aule’s smithy. And beneath it all an idiot, hungry murmur: Dad-a-chum? Dum-a-chum? Ded-a-chek? Did-a-chick?
Across the charnel ground Eléowyn came, blonde tresses flying against the sable sky. Aodh’s heart leapt with joy. He’d seen many wonderous things, beheld more than any man had right to, but this was the most marvellous of all. His wife raced towards him, long limbs flying through the winnowing white dust; at her shoulders, converging from the standing stone to her left and the stairs at her right, two diaphanous shapes matched her pace for pace.
Three hands grasped Aodh's forearm. Lighting flared crowning the summit with a circlet of blue fire; Bælslean’s blade and cross-guard flashed, like Pere's totem had long ago. And then there was only one Eléowyn, boot flailing desperately at Aodh's clenched hand.
___
Ringbold Took weighed up his options, all seemed stacked against him. The slightest movement - a careless breath - could spell death for him, or for the man who'd saved him once upon a when.
Goldwhæt's shoulders stilled, his back straightened as he rubbed furiously at his face. Ringbold crouched, took up a smooth rounded stone and edged closer. Thunder boomed. Goldwhæt's head swung towards the summit of the Tafelberg as a ring of lightning seared its purple-mantled crown.
Ringbold sprang forward and rapped his friend firmly behind the left ear. Goldwhæt rolled away and the hobbit's foot kicked out at the killing steel of Eléo's sword. The blade skidded across the strand, ringing brightly, and Ringo hobbled after it. His foot was cut, quite deeply he saw, but the hilt of the sword sat firmly in his grasp.
The hobbit swung around, ready to face down his friend. Ringo's body shook with relief: Goldwhæt Duglaich, sprawled beside his wife's lifeless body, was out cold.
___
The Dark Man’s wails, rising over the clamour beyond the door, filled Aodh’s ears. His body slipped ever closer to the threshold. Through the whirling dust he saw Wulf at Eléowyn’s side - she leaned in and whispered in the hound’s ear. Intuition, premonition even, sparked in Aodh’s mind. As Eléowyn threw her arms toward him he rolled onto his back. He felt her hands, strong and unyielding in the hollows of his armpits, and sighted down the length of his blue work trousers.
Six yards away Rædwulf Fleðð capered manically, cloak flapping like a crow’s wings. His fingers, twisted into strange sigils, jabbed at Aodh and Eléowyn. Hex and hatred spilled from his twitching mouth. But the magik The Dark Man had brought into Middle-earth was spent, expended on the sorcery that had conjured the portal at his back.
"Now! Do it now!" Aodh heard Eléowyn call. His hard calibres were long gone, the blade of Rohan stood yards away. He squinted, setting the notched sight made by his dusty boots over Rædwulf Fleðð’s bobbing chest. Wulf’s paws landed heavily on his chest.
Aodh closed his eyes, held aim with his mind, dead centre of the jostling
button that filled his head. Wulf's teeth clamped down on his kill hand, the horn of the Eld shattered in that mighty jaw.
Die! Aodh’s heart sang.
The Dark Man shrilled, long fingered hands white-knuckled on the frame of the door. A hole smoked where his heart had been. In the whirling gyre of time gone thin, and the shrieking friction of world upon world, sparks eddied and flared around Rædwulf Fleðð’s writhing body. Aodh saw him for a moment as he truly was, a creature void of form, a shadow-thing robbed of mischief and malice.
Summoning the fading doggedness of Gilead's last champion, Aodh Hammerhelm struggled to his feet. He held his mangled hand out to his wife and stepped forward.
The Dark Man left Middle-earth as he'd found it, without fanfare or fireworks. Aodh's boot lashed out at the door. It swung closed smoothly tipping Fleðð into whatever lay beyond. The portal blazed in sudden daylight. Then it faded and was gone.
A wave of shock and exhaustion broke upon Aodh Hammerhelm. His hand slipped from Eléowyn's. He hunkered, savouring the summer sky beyond the Great River, and the silence that had found the summit of the tablemount. /color]
---
@Eléowyn
NPF has tribbed you
NPCs: Goldwhæt Dughlaich & Ringbold Took
The relentless force beyond the white door drew Aodh bodily along the ground. Instinct would have had him dig in his heels for a foothold, or clutch at something to stay his passage. There was nowt to cling to, only the horn of the Eld, and the hope Eléowyn would reach him in time.
Something round and hard struck his chest. Aodh's teeth clattered and his head juddered, but he kept the fingers of his outstretched hand clasped firmly around the relic of his forebears. The mournful shriek at his heels shifted register - now the manic sound of a deranged band playing as their hall burned around them, now the grindstone and hammer of Aule’s smithy. And beneath it all an idiot, hungry murmur: Dad-a-chum? Dum-a-chum? Ded-a-chek? Did-a-chick?
Across the charnel ground Eléowyn came, blonde tresses flying against the sable sky. Aodh’s heart leapt with joy. He’d seen many wonderous things, beheld more than any man had right to, but this was the most marvellous of all. His wife raced towards him, long limbs flying through the winnowing white dust; at her shoulders, converging from the standing stone to her left and the stairs at her right, two diaphanous shapes matched her pace for pace.
Three hands grasped Aodh's forearm. Lighting flared crowning the summit with a circlet of blue fire; Bælslean’s blade and cross-guard flashed, like Pere's totem had long ago. And then there was only one Eléowyn, boot flailing desperately at Aodh's clenched hand.
___
Ringbold Took weighed up his options, all seemed stacked against him. The slightest movement - a careless breath - could spell death for him, or for the man who'd saved him once upon a when.
Goldwhæt's shoulders stilled, his back straightened as he rubbed furiously at his face. Ringbold crouched, took up a smooth rounded stone and edged closer. Thunder boomed. Goldwhæt's head swung towards the summit of the Tafelberg as a ring of lightning seared its purple-mantled crown.
Ringbold sprang forward and rapped his friend firmly behind the left ear. Goldwhæt rolled away and the hobbit's foot kicked out at the killing steel of Eléo's sword. The blade skidded across the strand, ringing brightly, and Ringo hobbled after it. His foot was cut, quite deeply he saw, but the hilt of the sword sat firmly in his grasp.
The hobbit swung around, ready to face down his friend. Ringo's body shook with relief: Goldwhæt Duglaich, sprawled beside his wife's lifeless body, was out cold.
___
The Dark Man’s wails, rising over the clamour beyond the door, filled Aodh’s ears. His body slipped ever closer to the threshold. Through the whirling dust he saw Wulf at Eléowyn’s side - she leaned in and whispered in the hound’s ear. Intuition, premonition even, sparked in Aodh’s mind. As Eléowyn threw her arms toward him he rolled onto his back. He felt her hands, strong and unyielding in the hollows of his armpits, and sighted down the length of his blue work trousers.
Six yards away Rædwulf Fleðð capered manically, cloak flapping like a crow’s wings. His fingers, twisted into strange sigils, jabbed at Aodh and Eléowyn. Hex and hatred spilled from his twitching mouth. But the magik The Dark Man had brought into Middle-earth was spent, expended on the sorcery that had conjured the portal at his back.
"Now! Do it now!" Aodh heard Eléowyn call. His hard calibres were long gone, the blade of Rohan stood yards away. He squinted, setting the notched sight made by his dusty boots over Rædwulf Fleðð’s bobbing chest. Wulf’s paws landed heavily on his chest.
Aodh closed his eyes, held aim with his mind, dead centre of the jostling
button that filled his head. Wulf's teeth clamped down on his kill hand, the horn of the Eld shattered in that mighty jaw. Die! Aodh’s heart sang.
The Dark Man shrilled, long fingered hands white-knuckled on the frame of the door. A hole smoked where his heart had been. In the whirling gyre of time gone thin, and the shrieking friction of world upon world, sparks eddied and flared around Rædwulf Fleðð’s writhing body. Aodh saw him for a moment as he truly was, a creature void of form, a shadow-thing robbed of mischief and malice.
Summoning the fading doggedness of Gilead's last champion, Aodh Hammerhelm struggled to his feet. He held his mangled hand out to his wife and stepped forward.
The Dark Man left Middle-earth as he'd found it, without fanfare or fireworks. Aodh's boot lashed out at the door. It swung closed smoothly tipping Fleðð into whatever lay beyond. The portal blazed in sudden daylight. Then it faded and was gone.
A wave of shock and exhaustion broke upon Aodh Hammerhelm. His hand slipped from Eléowyn's. He hunkered, savouring the summer sky beyond the Great River, and the silence that had found the summit of the tablemount. /color]
---
@Eléowyn
NPF has tribbed you
- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléowyn could not bear to watch as Wulf fulfilled her command. She turned her head toward The Dark Man, who was dancing about as if he had won the day. You have not won, you will not win! she cried out in her heart. Now die! There was a spark of fire, a sound more terrible than any she had ever heard, and suddenly all was still.
Having spent his last bit of courage in this place of dangers he could not understand, Wulf retreated behind one of the sarsens to lick his paws clean of the blood. The finger he had dropped; he would touch it no more.
Eléo pulled herself to her feet, accepted Aodh’s outstretched hand, and watched with satisfaction as he slammed the door to the portal that had almost claimed him.
It had taken his last strength, it seemed, and as Aodh's hand slipped from hers, Eléowyn feared he would faint from loss of blood. In the new daylight, she could now see his sword. She rushed toward it, cut a swath of cloth from her tunic, and lovingly wrapped Aodh’s hand in it. She worked without speaking, but when she was done, she buried her face in Aodh’s chest and sobbed deeply—relief and grief mixing in equal parts.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléowyn could not bear to watch as Wulf fulfilled her command. She turned her head toward The Dark Man, who was dancing about as if he had won the day. You have not won, you will not win! she cried out in her heart. Now die! There was a spark of fire, a sound more terrible than any she had ever heard, and suddenly all was still.
Having spent his last bit of courage in this place of dangers he could not understand, Wulf retreated behind one of the sarsens to lick his paws clean of the blood. The finger he had dropped; he would touch it no more.
Eléo pulled herself to her feet, accepted Aodh’s outstretched hand, and watched with satisfaction as he slammed the door to the portal that had almost claimed him.
It had taken his last strength, it seemed, and as Aodh's hand slipped from hers, Eléowyn feared he would faint from loss of blood. In the new daylight, she could now see his sword. She rushed toward it, cut a swath of cloth from her tunic, and lovingly wrapped Aodh’s hand in it. She worked without speaking, but when she was done, she buried her face in Aodh’s chest and sobbed deeply—relief and grief mixing in equal parts.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
- Points: 1 204
Chieftain of The Mark
Posts: 656
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
The Forest Road above the plain around the Tafelberg: NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed.
At the edge of the woods that lined the road to the plain below, the old wigend sat in the saddle and smoked. Woken by a nagging compulsion, he’d set out through the forest above Nadene’s homestead at midnight. He’d pressed his steed on relentlessly under the dark canopy, certain that the moment of his din’s triumph or failure would come with the dawn.
He’d arrived at the edge of the forest at daybreak; held his mount steady as a great wind and thunder-heads broke on the countryside below. It had taken every jot of his mental and physical strength to quell the urge to race down to the Tafelberg. Each had their part in great matters and he deemed he’d played his well, small though it seemed.
--
The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Aodh sat cross-legged for a long while. He said nothing to Eléowyn, simply held her to him until her sobs had ceased. There was no need of words - they would come later - for now it was enough to know that they had found each other again, that they were together in a world that made sense.
And what a world it was: wide rolling lands beneath a seemingly endless blue sky; the Great River, between its meads and strands, hurrying away south towards the gauzy spray above Rauros. It was their world and it was at peace!
At last Aodh roused himself, left hand falling to his side for the makings of a smoke. Preparing a pipe single-handed had been second nature to him - as natural as breathing - but he fancied it would not be so now. The ‘baccy bag dangled between his thumb and index finger and he noticed something which made his eyebrows arch. There was no blood on the bandage Eléowyn had tied about his damaged fingers!
“Eléo, léof,” he said at last. “I’d like to sit here forever like this, but we have things left to do. Could you uncover my hand? I’d like to see what damage has been done… and see if I can still do something as simple as load and fire a pipe.”
--
@Eléowyn
At the edge of the woods that lined the road to the plain below, the old wigend sat in the saddle and smoked. Woken by a nagging compulsion, he’d set out through the forest above Nadene’s homestead at midnight. He’d pressed his steed on relentlessly under the dark canopy, certain that the moment of his din’s triumph or failure would come with the dawn.
He’d arrived at the edge of the forest at daybreak; held his mount steady as a great wind and thunder-heads broke on the countryside below. It had taken every jot of his mental and physical strength to quell the urge to race down to the Tafelberg. Each had their part in great matters and he deemed he’d played his well, small though it seemed.
--
The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
Aodh sat cross-legged for a long while. He said nothing to Eléowyn, simply held her to him until her sobs had ceased. There was no need of words - they would come later - for now it was enough to know that they had found each other again, that they were together in a world that made sense.
And what a world it was: wide rolling lands beneath a seemingly endless blue sky; the Great River, between its meads and strands, hurrying away south towards the gauzy spray above Rauros. It was their world and it was at peace!
At last Aodh roused himself, left hand falling to his side for the makings of a smoke. Preparing a pipe single-handed had been second nature to him - as natural as breathing - but he fancied it would not be so now. The ‘baccy bag dangled between his thumb and index finger and he noticed something which made his eyebrows arch. There was no blood on the bandage Eléowyn had tied about his damaged fingers!
“Eléo, léof,” he said at last. “I’d like to sit here forever like this, but we have things left to do. Could you uncover my hand? I’d like to see what damage has been done… and see if I can still do something as simple as load and fire a pipe.”
--
@Eléowyn
- Points: 1 170
Esquire of The Mark
Posts: 664
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 1:46 am
*She'd moved quickly after the Campian and she moved here. It was close enough that she could get into Edoras for mail with just an hour or two on her mule, and far enough out that she wouldn't exactly run the chance to walk into someone out foraging. She'd remained just outside what would technically the borders of the Aern Freblod estate. Past what had once been vines.. She knew these lands. She'd sequestered on them for several years after all, practically becoming a hermit. So much of the estate was overgrown now that she could have safely camped IN the borders and not consider discovery. But she did not want her presence on the grounds that had been her home for these last years. Not until she was given.. well permission? Blessing? Forgiveness? She did not know exactly what.
She also knew that.. remaining here was not an option. Not long term. Which left her.. two choices. She could run or she could stay.
It would have been easier were it not for the words learned at the Campian. And it would have been easier if she had not given her word to join the cavalry. She could just.. disappear, as she had before.
Coward. Deserter. Dishonorable? Which of the labels hurt most, she could not say?
She wanted to go back to the days of the Aeldsel. The idea of reopening it had been almost too hard to resist. But if rumors spread.. would anyone even come? There was a pub after all. But what of the Cavalry? True.. she had not yet taken an oath. But she had given her word. She'd never actually taken the oath in Gondor either.. the balance of that actually made her chuckle, but it was not a merry sound. Haste is never a good idea. She'd made a hasty decision to join the campian and look what had come from that. For a moment when her gaze had crossed Arnyn's it had seemed like.. a new start. A chance. Especially when the other woman and she had acted in accord. Forgiveness? But then the attack had come, both in sword and in words. She'd managed to stave off the first two. But the words.. ahh they had unsettled her enough. And when Elvh had joined in... well.. She had not withstood, let's keep it at that.
Coward. Deserter. Traitor. Dishonorable.
And yet she was more. *her hand tightened, this time not around the hilt as she tried to keep her mind from getting lost in the past.* She had HELPED Rangers. Beds. Food. An ear for their troubles. Whatever else she had done there, she had lived that. And in Rohan...She had finally emerged at the Mettare festival. How.. ironic in a way. And she'd seen a cook most likely to cripple half the festival goers due to questionable practices at the booth. Something inside her had boiled over and within half an hour he had been.. out of the booth with the promise he could keep all the money from the sales.. and she was..baking and chatting as she had in her own mess hall and kitchens. And then the Aeldsel. For years there she had served, had listened to trouble. Had made sure people had good food in their stomachs and a place to call home. She'd battled rats, drunken cavalry members, lean winters, and strange wizards, all without doing more than raise her voice, use her wits and offer a soft request.
Coward. Deserter. Traitor. Poisoner. Dishonorable.
But she was more. She should not forget that she was more.
She also knew that.. remaining here was not an option. Not long term. Which left her.. two choices. She could run or she could stay.
It would have been easier were it not for the words learned at the Campian. And it would have been easier if she had not given her word to join the cavalry. She could just.. disappear, as she had before.
Coward. Deserter. Dishonorable? Which of the labels hurt most, she could not say?
She wanted to go back to the days of the Aeldsel. The idea of reopening it had been almost too hard to resist. But if rumors spread.. would anyone even come? There was a pub after all. But what of the Cavalry? True.. she had not yet taken an oath. But she had given her word. She'd never actually taken the oath in Gondor either.. the balance of that actually made her chuckle, but it was not a merry sound. Haste is never a good idea. She'd made a hasty decision to join the campian and look what had come from that. For a moment when her gaze had crossed Arnyn's it had seemed like.. a new start. A chance. Especially when the other woman and she had acted in accord. Forgiveness? But then the attack had come, both in sword and in words. She'd managed to stave off the first two. But the words.. ahh they had unsettled her enough. And when Elvh had joined in... well.. She had not withstood, let's keep it at that.
Coward. Deserter. Traitor. Dishonorable.
And yet she was more. *her hand tightened, this time not around the hilt as she tried to keep her mind from getting lost in the past.* She had HELPED Rangers. Beds. Food. An ear for their troubles. Whatever else she had done there, she had lived that. And in Rohan...She had finally emerged at the Mettare festival. How.. ironic in a way. And she'd seen a cook most likely to cripple half the festival goers due to questionable practices at the booth. Something inside her had boiled over and within half an hour he had been.. out of the booth with the promise he could keep all the money from the sales.. and she was..baking and chatting as she had in her own mess hall and kitchens. And then the Aeldsel. For years there she had served, had listened to trouble. Had made sure people had good food in their stomachs and a place to call home. She'd battled rats, drunken cavalry members, lean winters, and strange wizards, all without doing more than raise her voice, use her wits and offer a soft request.
Coward. Deserter. Traitor. Poisoner. Dishonorable.
But she was more. She should not forget that she was more.
Last edited by Eldrith on Sun Jul 26, 2020 2:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
Kill-Stealing Skirt Wench
When others ride out to win renown, let me chosen to tend the house.
When others ride out to win renown, let me chosen to tend the house.
- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps
When the tears had ceased, Eléowyn felt spent, turned inside out and back again. Yet she felt more whole than she had in longer than she could remember.
She lifted the remains of her tattered tunic to dry her face, and watched with satisfaction as Aodh pulled out the pouch to fill his pipe. Such an ordinary thing, something she had watched him do countless times over the years, and yet it made her heart sing to be able to watch him do it now.
He held out his hand for her to unwrap; as she reached for it, she gasped. “Aodh, léof, there is no blood!” Quickly she rolled off the layers of cloth, with each layer being as clean as the next. “How can this be?” she cried. One long look at her husband’s face, now more lined that it had been only an hour earlier, gave her the answer. She need not even peer into a mirror to understand, at last, what had happened. Ringbold’s puzzling suspicion also now made sense. Time had split, crossed paths, and now merged into one glorious time, time as it should be.
“Here, look,” she said with a smile, when at last the layers were removed. “I think it will give you little trouble.”
She waited for him to examine his hand and begin filling his pipe. “Aodh, I would happily stay here for days with you, overlooking this beautiful river. But I think perhaps we should seek out Goldwhæt. He rushed past me in such a state, while I was still on the plain, but my mind was single focused and I did not follow him. Hopefully Ringo has found some way to console him.”
She paused, pushing back the tears that threatened to well up again. “We saw her, you know. Ringo and I saw Nadene fall from the ledge. Goldwhæt will be devastated. He had only just found happiness with her. They were newly married.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
When the tears had ceased, Eléowyn felt spent, turned inside out and back again. Yet she felt more whole than she had in longer than she could remember.
She lifted the remains of her tattered tunic to dry her face, and watched with satisfaction as Aodh pulled out the pouch to fill his pipe. Such an ordinary thing, something she had watched him do countless times over the years, and yet it made her heart sing to be able to watch him do it now.
He held out his hand for her to unwrap; as she reached for it, she gasped. “Aodh, léof, there is no blood!” Quickly she rolled off the layers of cloth, with each layer being as clean as the next. “How can this be?” she cried. One long look at her husband’s face, now more lined that it had been only an hour earlier, gave her the answer. She need not even peer into a mirror to understand, at last, what had happened. Ringbold’s puzzling suspicion also now made sense. Time had split, crossed paths, and now merged into one glorious time, time as it should be.
“Here, look,” she said with a smile, when at last the layers were removed. “I think it will give you little trouble.”
She waited for him to examine his hand and begin filling his pipe. “Aodh, I would happily stay here for days with you, overlooking this beautiful river. But I think perhaps we should seek out Goldwhæt. He rushed past me in such a state, while I was still on the plain, but my mind was single focused and I did not follow him. Hopefully Ringo has found some way to console him.”
She paused, pushing back the tears that threatened to well up again. “We saw her, you know. Ringo and I saw Nadene fall from the ledge. Goldwhæt will be devastated. He had only just found happiness with her. They were newly married.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
- Points: 1 204
Chieftain of The Mark
Posts: 656
Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:
Aodh smiled at his wife, shyly almost, as he took in her slightly crooked nose and silvered temples. She removed the makeshift bandage carefully, eyes widening as the last of the wrapping fell away.
“How can it be?” he echoed Eléowyn, holding his hand before his face and flexing its fingers. He felt no pain or stiffness, the nubs above the knuckles of middle, ring and pinkie were calloused, the scar tissue tanned. “Because all is now as it should be, léof.
We have vanquished Fleðð, but we have paid in blood for victory. Nadene, la! I will carry her death with me to the grave. Mayhap there was more I could have done to save her; perhaps all paths would have led her to her death?”
The thought of a smoke set against Nadene’s sacrifice, and the needs of Ringbold and Goldwhæt, seemed now a paltry whim. He stowed his smoking gear and made to rise, but paused as his left palm fell upon something lying where the threshold of The Dark Man’s door had stood.
A jawbone, set with sharp-filed teeth, flashed in the daylight as Aodh turned it in his fingers. He shook off the urge to jam the grisly relic into his hip pocket; stood and clenched his maimed hand about the bleached mandible. The jawbone snapped in two with a sound like a whip crack. Aodh cocked his left arm and tossed the last traces of Rædwulf Fleðð into the sky over Anduin.
"I love you, Roland," he whispered, turning his back on the Great River and great deeds. "Goodbye and good luck!"
“Come, Eléo,” Aodh said, offering her his maimed hand. “Let us put now our joy and grief aside for awhile - the living have need of us.”
The summit lay before them. It was not what Aodh had expected, for it bore no semblance to recent memory, or the dream-scape that had haunted him down the years.
The bowl was no longer a sterile, charnel place; tall grass grew within the mound and furrow that enclosed it. Harebell, poppy, yew and foxglove had taken root in the niches of the encircling cliffs making them less sheer and sinister; the thistle at the head of the stairs had died back, giving way to a dog rose in full red bloom.
Aodh hurried across the glade pausing only to retrieve Bælslean; he cast a wistful look at the empty space below the horse-marked sarsen as he took the stair to their encampment.
Here too everything was different, there was no sign of picket or steed, their camp-fire and belongings were conspicuous by their absence. One thing remained - his tattered leather pack.
He slung his gunna over his shoulder as he stepped to the edge of the ledge. Far below he spotted three figures: two prostrate another bowed and seated.
“Send Wulf ahead, Eléo, and keep an eye out for our horses when we reach the plain.”
--
The plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed.
Four speeding shapes caught the old wigend’s eye and he moved at last. Spurring his mount onto the plain below, he stood in the stirrups and let out a loud series of yips and whistles. Presently his steed slowed her pace and neighed loudly as four horses appeared around a bend in the road.
“Hi-yep!” Ælfred called as Daesûl, Sandy and the harrier mounts Aodh and Goldwhæt had ridden out of Edoras approached. The beasts drew up alongside the old wigend, nickering and snorting. Ælf' slipped from the saddle and gathered their reins. “Tjoe! Tjoep! Stil, me darlings!” he clucked as he fussed them each in turn.
--
@Eléowyn
Aodh smiled at his wife, shyly almost, as he took in her slightly crooked nose and silvered temples. She removed the makeshift bandage carefully, eyes widening as the last of the wrapping fell away.
“How can it be?” he echoed Eléowyn, holding his hand before his face and flexing its fingers. He felt no pain or stiffness, the nubs above the knuckles of middle, ring and pinkie were calloused, the scar tissue tanned. “Because all is now as it should be, léof.
We have vanquished Fleðð, but we have paid in blood for victory. Nadene, la! I will carry her death with me to the grave. Mayhap there was more I could have done to save her; perhaps all paths would have led her to her death?”
The thought of a smoke set against Nadene’s sacrifice, and the needs of Ringbold and Goldwhæt, seemed now a paltry whim. He stowed his smoking gear and made to rise, but paused as his left palm fell upon something lying where the threshold of The Dark Man’s door had stood.
A jawbone, set with sharp-filed teeth, flashed in the daylight as Aodh turned it in his fingers. He shook off the urge to jam the grisly relic into his hip pocket; stood and clenched his maimed hand about the bleached mandible. The jawbone snapped in two with a sound like a whip crack. Aodh cocked his left arm and tossed the last traces of Rædwulf Fleðð into the sky over Anduin.
"I love you, Roland," he whispered, turning his back on the Great River and great deeds. "Goodbye and good luck!"
“Come, Eléo,” Aodh said, offering her his maimed hand. “Let us put now our joy and grief aside for awhile - the living have need of us.”
The summit lay before them. It was not what Aodh had expected, for it bore no semblance to recent memory, or the dream-scape that had haunted him down the years.
The bowl was no longer a sterile, charnel place; tall grass grew within the mound and furrow that enclosed it. Harebell, poppy, yew and foxglove had taken root in the niches of the encircling cliffs making them less sheer and sinister; the thistle at the head of the stairs had died back, giving way to a dog rose in full red bloom.
Aodh hurried across the glade pausing only to retrieve Bælslean; he cast a wistful look at the empty space below the horse-marked sarsen as he took the stair to their encampment.
Here too everything was different, there was no sign of picket or steed, their camp-fire and belongings were conspicuous by their absence. One thing remained - his tattered leather pack.
He slung his gunna over his shoulder as he stepped to the edge of the ledge. Far below he spotted three figures: two prostrate another bowed and seated.
“Send Wulf ahead, Eléo, and keep an eye out for our horses when we reach the plain.”
--
The plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed.
Four speeding shapes caught the old wigend’s eye and he moved at last. Spurring his mount onto the plain below, he stood in the stirrups and let out a loud series of yips and whistles. Presently his steed slowed her pace and neighed loudly as four horses appeared around a bend in the road.
“Hi-yep!” Ælfred called as Daesûl, Sandy and the harrier mounts Aodh and Goldwhæt had ridden out of Edoras approached. The beasts drew up alongside the old wigend, nickering and snorting. Ælf' slipped from the saddle and gathered their reins. “Tjoe! Tjoep! Stil, me darlings!” he clucked as he fussed them each in turn.
--
@Eléowyn
- he hath not forgotten the face of his fathers -
the face of his fathers -- Points: 2 265
Elven Enchanter
Posts: 1451
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:15 am
Zarâm, in an abandoned building
Orco seemed very pleased with the entrance of Írimë and her gang and also shouted something about wanting to pet the ghost horse's mane. Ghosts and physical interaction didn’t mix, at least as far as Zarâm was aware. By now, she had full control of the saw and had managed to get it away from the strange, yet intriguing woman.
As Silendris mentioned the name Fyrefly, Zarâm wrinkled her eyebrows, wondering if the name should be familiar to her. She said the name with such familiarity that it surely meant the strange woman had had affiliations with Mordor in the past, at the very least. And it would certainly explain the wonderful allotment of torture instruments that were carefully laid out upon the counter.
With a sly smile, Allacan turned back to face Zarâm and said teasingly, “Someone with as fine an eye as yours need not stoop to such primitive instruments, if you know the right people. I like to procure the best for my work, and I know how to do so even here. I have an interest in the finest, the most effective, the most lethal.”
“Lethal is good,” Zarâm agreed, “especially if they can cause great pain before actually killing the intend individual. Death is an art after all.” This woman, who in some appearances was a Cavalry soldier, was proving herself to be something else as well, the entire set-up in the After Party had certainly proved that, but she had also assisted in the burning down of the giant After Party tent. Such a creature with so many different whiles and whims was dangerous, but alluring. If only there was enough light to make out her face and see what the woman was thinking. Before she could do much more thinking about Allacan’s face, she slipped off her stool and proceeded to throw it with a resounding SMASH into a row of dusty bottles and glasses behind the counter.
Zarâm swiftly moved to one side to avoid a potential incoming spray of glass and also to stay close to the intriguing individual. She almost immediately regretted her choice when Allacan began to shout something about the art of subtly. Zarâm was about to say that she knew all about subtly (how many orcs had successfully gotten into and out of Imladris) but decided against it. If this woman was as powerful as her voice sounded, she was not someone to cross unless you wanted a brawl. And as much as Zarâm enjoyed fighting, that was probably not something to do right now in the middle of a very dark and tense pub. As Allacan spoke, Zarâm became more and more convinced that this woman was spy, someone who probably served in the Black Lands in a powerful capacity. That made her all the more interested in getting to know this woman over a pint of something, probably Elf Blood.
Allacan turned towards Silendris and said something about not returning home quite yet, while Zôr dashed across the room towards Frost. Zarâm rolled her eyes as the woman began to slather a sickly sweet smelling oil across Frost’s still naked chest. “My, was he a handsome warrior,” Zarâm thought, her eyes briefly leaving Allacan’s face, while Silendris continued to say something about Allacan helping them. Just at that moment she felt cool air pass by her as the ghost horse (Beaducyrm) darted past her in the direction of the honey and Taethowen chose that moment to make a rather dramatic entrance. She crossed over to where Zarâm, Allacan, and Silendris made an interesting trio and almost fell on top of Allacan. With an angry glare, she marched over to where Frost and Zôr were, and in a very minionesque tone, threatened the Númenórean woman.
Zarâm was unable to see the aftermath, but from the sounds, there was certainly an adventure going on in Frost’s corner. But, it would seem that the drama was headed their way as Frost somehow managed to get himself on his feet (did the Númenórean not realise that human heads weren’t quite a hard as orcish ones?) and he too remarked on the strange woman’s (Allacan) presence in the pub, and in areas throughout the Festival as well.
Ah, so that is where Zarâm had seen her before – the Campian, which she desperately wanted to forget. All that fighting with rules and whatnot was awful. Where was the blood? Or the literal backstabbing? Rules when it came to fighting were for sissies who didn’t have a drop of bravery (or perhaps even blood) in their blood.
By this point, Zarâm was certain she had had enough of all this standing around and jabbering. She reached into her pocket, and found the flint that was still there from the incendiary party earlier in the night. She stepped behind the counter, wondering if there was anything that could be used for a light. She found an unbroken bottle of some kind of alcohol and reaching once again into her bag, pulled out a thick piece of rope that had probably come from the tent. Popping open the cork, she stuffed the rope down into the bottle and placed it on the counter.
“Let’s have some light and perhaps we can figure out what in the name of Melkor is going on,” she said rather impatiently. With that, she scrapped the flint and lit the rope in the bottle. The light gave her a chance to finally see the intriguing woman clearly. Zarâm grinned wickedly, but in the friendly Mordorian fashion, in Allacan's direction, her hand brushing against the woman's as she turned to fully face her.
As Zarâm glanced at the woman in the light of the alcohol lantern, she thought she saw the briefest flash of metal in Allacan's hand and made a move that could either be defensive or offensive, as the case may be.
Orco seemed very pleased with the entrance of Írimë and her gang and also shouted something about wanting to pet the ghost horse's mane. Ghosts and physical interaction didn’t mix, at least as far as Zarâm was aware. By now, she had full control of the saw and had managed to get it away from the strange, yet intriguing woman.
As Silendris mentioned the name Fyrefly, Zarâm wrinkled her eyebrows, wondering if the name should be familiar to her. She said the name with such familiarity that it surely meant the strange woman had had affiliations with Mordor in the past, at the very least. And it would certainly explain the wonderful allotment of torture instruments that were carefully laid out upon the counter.
With a sly smile, Allacan turned back to face Zarâm and said teasingly, “Someone with as fine an eye as yours need not stoop to such primitive instruments, if you know the right people. I like to procure the best for my work, and I know how to do so even here. I have an interest in the finest, the most effective, the most lethal.”
“Lethal is good,” Zarâm agreed, “especially if they can cause great pain before actually killing the intend individual. Death is an art after all.” This woman, who in some appearances was a Cavalry soldier, was proving herself to be something else as well, the entire set-up in the After Party had certainly proved that, but she had also assisted in the burning down of the giant After Party tent. Such a creature with so many different whiles and whims was dangerous, but alluring. If only there was enough light to make out her face and see what the woman was thinking. Before she could do much more thinking about Allacan’s face, she slipped off her stool and proceeded to throw it with a resounding SMASH into a row of dusty bottles and glasses behind the counter.
Zarâm swiftly moved to one side to avoid a potential incoming spray of glass and also to stay close to the intriguing individual. She almost immediately regretted her choice when Allacan began to shout something about the art of subtly. Zarâm was about to say that she knew all about subtly (how many orcs had successfully gotten into and out of Imladris) but decided against it. If this woman was as powerful as her voice sounded, she was not someone to cross unless you wanted a brawl. And as much as Zarâm enjoyed fighting, that was probably not something to do right now in the middle of a very dark and tense pub. As Allacan spoke, Zarâm became more and more convinced that this woman was spy, someone who probably served in the Black Lands in a powerful capacity. That made her all the more interested in getting to know this woman over a pint of something, probably Elf Blood.
Allacan turned towards Silendris and said something about not returning home quite yet, while Zôr dashed across the room towards Frost. Zarâm rolled her eyes as the woman began to slather a sickly sweet smelling oil across Frost’s still naked chest. “My, was he a handsome warrior,” Zarâm thought, her eyes briefly leaving Allacan’s face, while Silendris continued to say something about Allacan helping them. Just at that moment she felt cool air pass by her as the ghost horse (Beaducyrm) darted past her in the direction of the honey and Taethowen chose that moment to make a rather dramatic entrance. She crossed over to where Zarâm, Allacan, and Silendris made an interesting trio and almost fell on top of Allacan. With an angry glare, she marched over to where Frost and Zôr were, and in a very minionesque tone, threatened the Númenórean woman.
Zarâm was unable to see the aftermath, but from the sounds, there was certainly an adventure going on in Frost’s corner. But, it would seem that the drama was headed their way as Frost somehow managed to get himself on his feet (did the Númenórean not realise that human heads weren’t quite a hard as orcish ones?) and he too remarked on the strange woman’s (Allacan) presence in the pub, and in areas throughout the Festival as well.
Ah, so that is where Zarâm had seen her before – the Campian, which she desperately wanted to forget. All that fighting with rules and whatnot was awful. Where was the blood? Or the literal backstabbing? Rules when it came to fighting were for sissies who didn’t have a drop of bravery (or perhaps even blood) in their blood.
By this point, Zarâm was certain she had had enough of all this standing around and jabbering. She reached into her pocket, and found the flint that was still there from the incendiary party earlier in the night. She stepped behind the counter, wondering if there was anything that could be used for a light. She found an unbroken bottle of some kind of alcohol and reaching once again into her bag, pulled out a thick piece of rope that had probably come from the tent. Popping open the cork, she stuffed the rope down into the bottle and placed it on the counter.
“Let’s have some light and perhaps we can figure out what in the name of Melkor is going on,” she said rather impatiently. With that, she scrapped the flint and lit the rope in the bottle. The light gave her a chance to finally see the intriguing woman clearly. Zarâm grinned wickedly, but in the friendly Mordorian fashion, in Allacan's direction, her hand brushing against the woman's as she turned to fully face her.
As Zarâm glanced at the woman in the light of the alcohol lantern, she thought she saw the briefest flash of metal in Allacan's hand and made a move that could either be defensive or offensive, as the case may be.
Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm
- Points: 1 271
Thain of The Mark
Posts: 660
Joined: Wed May 20, 2020 9:40 pm
IMPORTANT OOC NOTE; Inspired by the tradition of long-standing TV shows like Buffy and Scrubs, this is a musical episode post. There are three songs parodied in this particular post, the lyrics for which will shortly be posted separately in my Poems and Songs thread in Cottage of Lost Play. To those of you who engage in “Storytime with Allacan” (you know who you are) I suggest not clicking the links as I will be performing these numbers live in Discord for you all during the next read-through and I would hate for you to have spoiled the reveal for yourself ahead of time. If you don’t know what I’m talking about when I say “Storytime with Allacan” then feel free to click and read away to your heart’s content.
Allacan, human, she/her, in a derelict tavern
A number of them asked her purpose, and her proposals for what to do next. In the manner of many a foolish mastermind seeking the affection and approval of someone they admired, she monologued, spilling forth all her machinations and manipulations for both minion and Rohir contingent to hear. Well, we all make mistakes.
“I admit, the allure of joining you all was powerful with so many of you gathered together. I could taste the mischief in the air from half of Edoras away. And I wanted to join the feast, but I hadn’t intended to act on that impulse. If you not had been so obvious as to gain the attention of the Second Marshal in the M Meduseld tent I might have been able to resist; I would never have been summoned there to oust and evict you. But you made your intentions so Melkor-damned clear that even the straw-heads could see something was up, and so she called for me. That alone was clear evidence my efforts these years have not been wasted. She summoned me.”
She smiled smugly. “Consider that a moment; a Marshal who should have been fully briefed on my past summoned a newly-returned cavalry-trainee over the aid of her known comrades? Already my work is bearing fruit, for surely if the commander trusted her more immediate colleagues then she would have turned to the two paethfindians judging the contest, or indeed anyone in her Eored. Perhaps the First Marshal Shiva put her desire to keep her old friend Allacan safe above the welfare of the kingdom and never briefed Rowena on my death and re-birth. Perhaps Rowena did not trust Shiva and believed that I could be used to serve her purposes, mistaking me for someone who could be easily manipulated. I had to demonstrate to her that my guiles could serve her in ways the cavalry had never dreamed, but also associate her with a known ex-Mordorian-assassin in a manner the rest of the cavalry could not ignore, to help fester this distance among the highest ranks.
I planted into her mind the seeds of doubt, manipulated her with just the right balance of suspicion and doubt to ensure she was turned away from her duties and towards other aims. With someone as simple as she it was easily manufactured; I killed the just right person at the just right time and used his words to my favour. Only a few hours ago I incited the First and Second Marshal to bicker in the Dragon Room where all the cavalry could hear it. Over me. And now I have moved an easily-fooled Aethelwigend into the Meduseld Eored and established that he owes me a favour, while simultaneously Rowena has stepped away from her Marshal duties and even now I suspect she rides to Gondor on a fool’s errand chasing a lesser evil than the one that has planted itself in her very home, and I am one Marshal closer to my goal. And the most beautiful part of all this is, the First Marshal of the cavalry let me get away with it. She trusts me, more than most, and it will be her downfall. You don’t kill a kingdom from the outside with war-machines and flame, you infest it with poison and paranoia and let it devour itself.
“Despite your interruptions I have manipulated the scene to my whim, placing myself as confidante and comrade to all but in a manner that is not deceptive enough to avoid giving them justified reason to doubt my loyalties. In all things I am being honest and sincere, and therein lies the art of the deception. I am minion and Rohir both, and I can easily step between these mindsets as it suits me best, but not once have I strayed from the purpose I was sent here for. And, call it a matter of pride, I will resolve this my way. I only ask that you... all of you who hold yourself loyal to the black lands, begone this day and ready for the call when I am ready for your aid to complete my grand plan. And mistake me not, this is my city and you will not interfere with my workings here again without my express permission. Although, I have to admit some of you been of great assistance.” She turned towards Frost, “Good job on your infiltration work; it’s quite impressive how you have manoeuvres yourself into Taeth’s confidence and turned her...”
Her words faltered as Taeth chose that very moment to drop from the rafters, almost like she had been summoned by Allacan’s words. She sneered as Taeth moved to cross in front of her, and threw out a foot in an attempt to trip the woman maliciously, her eyes glinting for a second as though wishing she could bury a blade into that exposed back. Taeth stumbled and snatched at Allacan‘s hand for stability, which she hastily withdraw but not until after depositing the insignia of ‘High Councillor of Military Affairs’ into her hand.
The small metal disc was so familiar that Allacan immediately knew what had been surreptitiously passed to her, and the world shifted nauseatingly again as alliances and loyalties span out of joint and back into kilter. It was a masterful stroke by the Pæthfindian, it dragged Allacan forcibly back from the world of callous cruelty and cunning mere moments after she had finally ceased resisting. But it came at a cost.
She turned her gaze away from Silendris so her tormentor might not see the shift in her alignment, and caught the gaze of Zarâm as then orc woman approached and crossed behind her. Every instinct told her that she should turn to watch her back, wary of a knife slipped upward between her ribs, but something about this alluring woman made Allacan desire to trust her, against all wisdom. Zarâm stepped behind the bar and lit a male-shift lantern by stuffing cloth down the neck a bottle and lighting, Molotov-cocktail style. Allacan had leant casually against the bar during her incautious evil-mastermind monologue, and for a moment Zarâm’s hand brushed against hers as their eyes once again met. It had not been Silendris Allacan had been attempting to impress with her words.
Time shifted; slower than Frost-time. Slower even that Taeth falling. Slow that the flight of an arrow could be tracked by its every centimetre of movement. In an uncharacteristic breaking of the fourth wall, Allacan sings into the stillness an external projection of her hopes and emotions as they ricocheted through her in reaction to that piercing gaze...
[Song/spoiler link]
Frost last words suddenly recalled her to herself, particularly the word incendiary. It seemed such an appropriate word for her; Fyrefly Brightflame, who once fled the burning ruins of her home and abandoned all her friends and kin to their incendiary deaths, who was reforged with heated iron and molten coals in the black-pits of Mordor, and who even now burned inside with a raging inferno of blue and red flames warring with each other and finally converging.
She glanced over to where Frost stood with Thali and Taeth and others gathered nearby, and for a moment she wondered if she had in fact mistaken his loyalty and intent; perhaps it was Taeth who had charmed him and Thali who had coerced the orc man, in much the way this orc woman was now beguiling her. A twisting of evilness into good. A wave of remorse overcame her as her eyes fell on those whose loyalty might still yet be to the Riddermark. For a moment she could almost see the spectral form of her beloved cavalry war-horse Beaducyrm standing there, his eyes filled with hurt and disappointed, heartbroken by her words of betrayal. She squeezed her hand tightly around the insignia until the pulse throbbed painful my against its intrusive presence, and wavered visibly.
She was the rope in the middle of a tug of war between her loyalty and devotion to Rohan and her desire to serve Mordor. Every solution she faced would inevitably lead to either or both of the nations she was loyal to suffering. But for one path.
She drew out her knife from her belt and held it pointed towards Sil aggressively, as though about to lunge at the M Meduseld champion with it. As she did so, time once again seemed to slow in motion as the world around her grew still. All those around Allacan were again suspended in time to allow her this opportunity to express her inner monologue through the medium of song as the world shifting almost imperceptibly slowly...
[Song/spoiler link]
She glances over at Zarâm standing behind the bar one last time with regret that if she takes her intended action, she will never have the chance to live long enough to find out more about this woman who fascinates her so. Zarâm, as though sensing her attention watches her intently, and once again their eyes meet. Allacan’s is a look that seems to say goodbye to all her hopes and dreams of the future, and in that moment those beautiful blue eyes gaze into her very soul, and recognise there the grief and regret that has almost overwhelmed her.
Allacan tears her gaze away from Zarâm and back to Sil one more time. She turns her blade back on herself and before Silendris can intervene, goes to plunge it deep into her own heart.
The sudden force of the strike against her torso knocks clean away from the bar, driving all the air out of her lungs and throws her bodily across the room skittering the broken shards of glass even further across the floor. Even as her head resounds solidly against the floorboards, stunning her, Zarâm’s make-shift lantern smashes against the floor and the area behind the bar erupts into flames. The dagger skids away, unbloodied, and as the flames begin to lick against the other remaining bottles left behind the counter, Allacan stares up at into the face of the orc woman who had just rugby-tackled her and saved her life, her expression a picture of wonder and awe...
[Song/spoiler link]
OOC (Special thanks to @Dimcairien Luiniel for allowing me to godmode her character through pre-agreed actions so as to stop by oldest and favourite character from offing herself.)
ALLACAN EDIT; All 3 song links have now been added in.
Allacan, human, she/her, in a derelict tavern
A number of them asked her purpose, and her proposals for what to do next. In the manner of many a foolish mastermind seeking the affection and approval of someone they admired, she monologued, spilling forth all her machinations and manipulations for both minion and Rohir contingent to hear. Well, we all make mistakes.
“I admit, the allure of joining you all was powerful with so many of you gathered together. I could taste the mischief in the air from half of Edoras away. And I wanted to join the feast, but I hadn’t intended to act on that impulse. If you not had been so obvious as to gain the attention of the Second Marshal in the M Meduseld tent I might have been able to resist; I would never have been summoned there to oust and evict you. But you made your intentions so Melkor-damned clear that even the straw-heads could see something was up, and so she called for me. That alone was clear evidence my efforts these years have not been wasted. She summoned me.”
She smiled smugly. “Consider that a moment; a Marshal who should have been fully briefed on my past summoned a newly-returned cavalry-trainee over the aid of her known comrades? Already my work is bearing fruit, for surely if the commander trusted her more immediate colleagues then she would have turned to the two paethfindians judging the contest, or indeed anyone in her Eored. Perhaps the First Marshal Shiva put her desire to keep her old friend Allacan safe above the welfare of the kingdom and never briefed Rowena on my death and re-birth. Perhaps Rowena did not trust Shiva and believed that I could be used to serve her purposes, mistaking me for someone who could be easily manipulated. I had to demonstrate to her that my guiles could serve her in ways the cavalry had never dreamed, but also associate her with a known ex-Mordorian-assassin in a manner the rest of the cavalry could not ignore, to help fester this distance among the highest ranks.
I planted into her mind the seeds of doubt, manipulated her with just the right balance of suspicion and doubt to ensure she was turned away from her duties and towards other aims. With someone as simple as she it was easily manufactured; I killed the just right person at the just right time and used his words to my favour. Only a few hours ago I incited the First and Second Marshal to bicker in the Dragon Room where all the cavalry could hear it. Over me. And now I have moved an easily-fooled Aethelwigend into the Meduseld Eored and established that he owes me a favour, while simultaneously Rowena has stepped away from her Marshal duties and even now I suspect she rides to Gondor on a fool’s errand chasing a lesser evil than the one that has planted itself in her very home, and I am one Marshal closer to my goal. And the most beautiful part of all this is, the First Marshal of the cavalry let me get away with it. She trusts me, more than most, and it will be her downfall. You don’t kill a kingdom from the outside with war-machines and flame, you infest it with poison and paranoia and let it devour itself.
“Despite your interruptions I have manipulated the scene to my whim, placing myself as confidante and comrade to all but in a manner that is not deceptive enough to avoid giving them justified reason to doubt my loyalties. In all things I am being honest and sincere, and therein lies the art of the deception. I am minion and Rohir both, and I can easily step between these mindsets as it suits me best, but not once have I strayed from the purpose I was sent here for. And, call it a matter of pride, I will resolve this my way. I only ask that you... all of you who hold yourself loyal to the black lands, begone this day and ready for the call when I am ready for your aid to complete my grand plan. And mistake me not, this is my city and you will not interfere with my workings here again without my express permission. Although, I have to admit some of you been of great assistance.” She turned towards Frost, “Good job on your infiltration work; it’s quite impressive how you have manoeuvres yourself into Taeth’s confidence and turned her...”
Her words faltered as Taeth chose that very moment to drop from the rafters, almost like she had been summoned by Allacan’s words. She sneered as Taeth moved to cross in front of her, and threw out a foot in an attempt to trip the woman maliciously, her eyes glinting for a second as though wishing she could bury a blade into that exposed back. Taeth stumbled and snatched at Allacan‘s hand for stability, which she hastily withdraw but not until after depositing the insignia of ‘High Councillor of Military Affairs’ into her hand.
The small metal disc was so familiar that Allacan immediately knew what had been surreptitiously passed to her, and the world shifted nauseatingly again as alliances and loyalties span out of joint and back into kilter. It was a masterful stroke by the Pæthfindian, it dragged Allacan forcibly back from the world of callous cruelty and cunning mere moments after she had finally ceased resisting. But it came at a cost.
She turned her gaze away from Silendris so her tormentor might not see the shift in her alignment, and caught the gaze of Zarâm as then orc woman approached and crossed behind her. Every instinct told her that she should turn to watch her back, wary of a knife slipped upward between her ribs, but something about this alluring woman made Allacan desire to trust her, against all wisdom. Zarâm stepped behind the bar and lit a male-shift lantern by stuffing cloth down the neck a bottle and lighting, Molotov-cocktail style. Allacan had leant casually against the bar during her incautious evil-mastermind monologue, and for a moment Zarâm’s hand brushed against hers as their eyes once again met. It had not been Silendris Allacan had been attempting to impress with her words.
Time shifted; slower than Frost-time. Slower even that Taeth falling. Slow that the flight of an arrow could be tracked by its every centimetre of movement. In an uncharacteristic breaking of the fourth wall, Allacan sings into the stillness an external projection of her hopes and emotions as they ricocheted through her in reaction to that piercing gaze...
[Song/spoiler link]
Frost last words suddenly recalled her to herself, particularly the word incendiary. It seemed such an appropriate word for her; Fyrefly Brightflame, who once fled the burning ruins of her home and abandoned all her friends and kin to their incendiary deaths, who was reforged with heated iron and molten coals in the black-pits of Mordor, and who even now burned inside with a raging inferno of blue and red flames warring with each other and finally converging.
She glanced over to where Frost stood with Thali and Taeth and others gathered nearby, and for a moment she wondered if she had in fact mistaken his loyalty and intent; perhaps it was Taeth who had charmed him and Thali who had coerced the orc man, in much the way this orc woman was now beguiling her. A twisting of evilness into good. A wave of remorse overcame her as her eyes fell on those whose loyalty might still yet be to the Riddermark. For a moment she could almost see the spectral form of her beloved cavalry war-horse Beaducyrm standing there, his eyes filled with hurt and disappointed, heartbroken by her words of betrayal. She squeezed her hand tightly around the insignia until the pulse throbbed painful my against its intrusive presence, and wavered visibly.
She was the rope in the middle of a tug of war between her loyalty and devotion to Rohan and her desire to serve Mordor. Every solution she faced would inevitably lead to either or both of the nations she was loyal to suffering. But for one path.
She drew out her knife from her belt and held it pointed towards Sil aggressively, as though about to lunge at the M Meduseld champion with it. As she did so, time once again seemed to slow in motion as the world around her grew still. All those around Allacan were again suspended in time to allow her this opportunity to express her inner monologue through the medium of song as the world shifting almost imperceptibly slowly...
[Song/spoiler link]
She glances over at Zarâm standing behind the bar one last time with regret that if she takes her intended action, she will never have the chance to live long enough to find out more about this woman who fascinates her so. Zarâm, as though sensing her attention watches her intently, and once again their eyes meet. Allacan’s is a look that seems to say goodbye to all her hopes and dreams of the future, and in that moment those beautiful blue eyes gaze into her very soul, and recognise there the grief and regret that has almost overwhelmed her.
Allacan tears her gaze away from Zarâm and back to Sil one more time. She turns her blade back on herself and before Silendris can intervene, goes to plunge it deep into her own heart.
The sudden force of the strike against her torso knocks clean away from the bar, driving all the air out of her lungs and throws her bodily across the room skittering the broken shards of glass even further across the floor. Even as her head resounds solidly against the floorboards, stunning her, Zarâm’s make-shift lantern smashes against the floor and the area behind the bar erupts into flames. The dagger skids away, unbloodied, and as the flames begin to lick against the other remaining bottles left behind the counter, Allacan stares up at into the face of the orc woman who had just rugby-tackled her and saved her life, her expression a picture of wonder and awe...
[Song/spoiler link]
OOC (Special thanks to @Dimcairien Luiniel for allowing me to godmode her character through pre-agreed actions so as to stop by oldest and favourite character from offing herself.)
ALLACAN EDIT; All 3 song links have now been added in.
Last edited by Allacan ob Burzum on Mon Aug 03, 2020 4:12 pm, edited 5 times in total.
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The plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed.
The old wigend rode towards the Tafelberg at a slow, steady pace. Strung out behind him were the errant horses of his comrades. Did the steeds’ empty saddles mean their owners had found the clearing at the end of the path? Ælfred was sure this was not so, or was this hunch wishful thinking?
The two conical hills below the table mount drew nearer. He espied a white scar winding up the Tafelberg’s near slope – a footpath? – and a rocky spur flung out towards the Great River. The land was quiet, peacefully so, and devoid of any sign of movement.
Ælfred reined in and laid out the makings of a smoke in his lap.
The old wigend rode towards the Tafelberg at a slow, steady pace. Strung out behind him were the errant horses of his comrades. Did the steeds’ empty saddles mean their owners had found the clearing at the end of the path? Ælfred was sure this was not so, or was this hunch wishful thinking?
The two conical hills below the table mount drew nearer. He espied a white scar winding up the Tafelberg’s near slope – a footpath? – and a rocky spur flung out towards the Great River. The land was quiet, peacefully so, and devoid of any sign of movement.
Ælfred reined in and laid out the makings of a smoke in his lap.
- he hath not forgotten the face of his fathers -
the face of his fathers -- Points: 634
Knight of The Mark
Posts: 269
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 pm
The Tafelberg, and leaving
Eléo watched a range of emotions play over Aodh’s face. She wanted to tell him he could have done no more to save Nadene, but she could not find words that would be adequate. But words were not needed, she realized, and when Aodh reached out his hand for hers, she took it with a firm clasp and squeezed. She understood that, with the tossing of the jawbone toward the great Anduin, he was putting a final and fitting end to a chapter in his life.
Wordlessly, she followed him toward the stair and downward, Wulf at her heels. At their campsite, now void of any sign of her gear, she turned back for one last glance at the stairway. It had seemed so ominous when she first mounted those stairs, but now it seemed more like a relic of a lost time--the stones weathered, with creeping thistle shooting up between the cracks. She turned back, and saw Aodh scouring the plain below.
“Wulf,” she called, with a forward gesture of her hand, as Aodh headed toward the path downward. “Go.” The dog obediently trotted ahead, happy to be leaving this place of hidden terrors behind. Eléo was equally happy to be leaving the mountaintop, though with a heavier heart than that of her faithful dog.
She moved to Aodh’s side and once again slipped her hand into his. “Aodh,” she said, with a bittersweet smile, “we have vanquished one evil today, but I know there are others. There will always be evil in this world. And we must properly grieve Nadene and help Goldwhæt through his grief. But for this moment, these few minutes while we walk down this path together, can I just be happy that I have found you?”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléo watched a range of emotions play over Aodh’s face. She wanted to tell him he could have done no more to save Nadene, but she could not find words that would be adequate. But words were not needed, she realized, and when Aodh reached out his hand for hers, she took it with a firm clasp and squeezed. She understood that, with the tossing of the jawbone toward the great Anduin, he was putting a final and fitting end to a chapter in his life.
Wordlessly, she followed him toward the stair and downward, Wulf at her heels. At their campsite, now void of any sign of her gear, she turned back for one last glance at the stairway. It had seemed so ominous when she first mounted those stairs, but now it seemed more like a relic of a lost time--the stones weathered, with creeping thistle shooting up between the cracks. She turned back, and saw Aodh scouring the plain below.
“Wulf,” she called, with a forward gesture of her hand, as Aodh headed toward the path downward. “Go.” The dog obediently trotted ahead, happy to be leaving this place of hidden terrors behind. Eléo was equally happy to be leaving the mountaintop, though with a heavier heart than that of her faithful dog.
She moved to Aodh’s side and once again slipped her hand into his. “Aodh,” she said, with a bittersweet smile, “we have vanquished one evil today, but I know there are others. There will always be evil in this world. And we must properly grieve Nadene and help Goldwhæt through his grief. But for this moment, these few minutes while we walk down this path together, can I just be happy that I have found you?”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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Anduin, above the Undeeps:
As Wulf set off down the path to the plain Aodh squeezed Eléowyn’s hand. He said nothing until they were halfway down the slope, weighing carefully his wife’s concerns.
There was always a place for wickedness in the world, always had been. Aodh sensed that the fall of Sauron – and their tet’s triumph over the one who had sought to fill the vacuum he’d left – would greatly reduce evil’s menace from Middle-earth. But not entirely! There would long be pockets of malcontent left by the Dark Lord and Saruman’s machinations; Dunland for one, just over Isen, and the lands allied to Sauron over long centuries.
Aye, the residue of ages of malice and strife would linger on a time, he deemed. He could only hope it would fade entirely before he and his wife were laid in their graves. Thank Bema, he and Eléowyn had no children!
And, as for grief, aye, there was grieving to be done, not least for Goldwhæt Dughlaich. His friend had paid dearly for their stand against The Dark Man, and Eléo knew only the half of it. They would mourn Nadene in a fitting manner soon enough,but heal Goldwhæt of his loss, that was far less certain.
Something else made him uneasy, something Eléo had not mentioned.
Would the memory of the great deed they had done upon the Tafelberg vanish along with their recollections of the when they’d shared? He hoped not, for they had been magnificent then! But if those memories did not fade away, would he and Eléowyn be able to return to a life less ordinary?
“Aye,” Aodh said at last, smiling at his wife, “that you can, léof! My heart is happy too, despite the tasks ahead, and, it would appear, a long trudge to comfort. Edoras lies far away and even Nadene’s homestead seems remote on foot… ”
Aodh’s voiced trailed off as they reached the plain of Anduin, he walked at peace with his wife by his side. Presently they found Wulf; the hound wagged his shaggy tail and pawed the ground as they approached.
“Good feller!” Aodh beamed, crouching to take up the water skin. “What a good boy you are!” He ruffled Wulf’s ears as he eyed the ground and took in the discarded knives and distinct footprints of a hobbit in flight.
“These are yours,” he said to Eléo, handing her the dagger and kitchen knife. “Keep them hidden… I pray you’ll have no call for them, but stay alert just in case!”
Onward the pair walked, following the trail of Ringbold’s run. They walked in silence, revelling in each other's company and the solitude that lay over the land. At length they climbed a green hummock.
Aodh held a finger to his lips.
A stony beach lay below them and the stooped figure of Ringbold Took beside Nadene’s broken body.
There was no sign, living or dead, of Goldwhæt Dughlaich…
--
@Eléowyn
As Wulf set off down the path to the plain Aodh squeezed Eléowyn’s hand. He said nothing until they were halfway down the slope, weighing carefully his wife’s concerns.
There was always a place for wickedness in the world, always had been. Aodh sensed that the fall of Sauron – and their tet’s triumph over the one who had sought to fill the vacuum he’d left – would greatly reduce evil’s menace from Middle-earth. But not entirely! There would long be pockets of malcontent left by the Dark Lord and Saruman’s machinations; Dunland for one, just over Isen, and the lands allied to Sauron over long centuries.
Aye, the residue of ages of malice and strife would linger on a time, he deemed. He could only hope it would fade entirely before he and his wife were laid in their graves. Thank Bema, he and Eléowyn had no children!
And, as for grief, aye, there was grieving to be done, not least for Goldwhæt Dughlaich. His friend had paid dearly for their stand against The Dark Man, and Eléo knew only the half of it. They would mourn Nadene in a fitting manner soon enough,but heal Goldwhæt of his loss, that was far less certain.
Something else made him uneasy, something Eléo had not mentioned.
Would the memory of the great deed they had done upon the Tafelberg vanish along with their recollections of the when they’d shared? He hoped not, for they had been magnificent then! But if those memories did not fade away, would he and Eléowyn be able to return to a life less ordinary?
“Aye,” Aodh said at last, smiling at his wife, “that you can, léof! My heart is happy too, despite the tasks ahead, and, it would appear, a long trudge to comfort. Edoras lies far away and even Nadene’s homestead seems remote on foot… ”
Aodh’s voiced trailed off as they reached the plain of Anduin, he walked at peace with his wife by his side. Presently they found Wulf; the hound wagged his shaggy tail and pawed the ground as they approached.
“Good feller!” Aodh beamed, crouching to take up the water skin. “What a good boy you are!” He ruffled Wulf’s ears as he eyed the ground and took in the discarded knives and distinct footprints of a hobbit in flight.
“These are yours,” he said to Eléo, handing her the dagger and kitchen knife. “Keep them hidden… I pray you’ll have no call for them, but stay alert just in case!”
Onward the pair walked, following the trail of Ringbold’s run. They walked in silence, revelling in each other's company and the solitude that lay over the land. At length they climbed a green hummock.
Aodh held a finger to his lips.
A stony beach lay below them and the stooped figure of Ringbold Took beside Nadene’s broken body.
There was no sign, living or dead, of Goldwhæt Dughlaich…
--
@Eléowyn
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Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléowyn took the knives from Aodh, with a slight grimace at the memory of what the lack of them had almost cost them. She tucked one into each boot, as before, glad to have them recovered. They would need food for the return journey, and the knives would come in handy for skinning coneys and hopefully chopping some wild parsnips.
Aodh was a step ahead as they topped a mound overlooking the rocky beach of the Anduin. Despite Aodh’s signaled warning, Eléo let out a small, though barely audible, gasp at the sight of Nadene lying on the rocks, her body twisted into an unnatural pose. Ringo looked as though he were holding vigil. But why was he alone?
Eléo moved closer to Aodh and took his hand. “Where is Goldwhæt,” she whispered. “He should be….” Her voice trailed off as a horrible thought struck her. “You don’t think he …,” she nodded her head in the direction of the river, not finishing the thought with words.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléowyn took the knives from Aodh, with a slight grimace at the memory of what the lack of them had almost cost them. She tucked one into each boot, as before, glad to have them recovered. They would need food for the return journey, and the knives would come in handy for skinning coneys and hopefully chopping some wild parsnips.
Aodh was a step ahead as they topped a mound overlooking the rocky beach of the Anduin. Despite Aodh’s signaled warning, Eléo let out a small, though barely audible, gasp at the sight of Nadene lying on the rocks, her body twisted into an unnatural pose. Ringo looked as though he were holding vigil. But why was he alone?
Eléo moved closer to Aodh and took his hand. “Where is Goldwhæt,” she whispered. “He should be….” Her voice trailed off as a horrible thought struck her. “You don’t think he …,” she nodded her head in the direction of the river, not finishing the thought with words.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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Joined: Fri May 15, 2020 10:53 am
West bank of the Anduin, above the Undeeps: with NPCs Ringbold Took & Ælfred the One-Eyed
Aodh squeezed Eléowyn’s hand and followed her glance towards Anduin. "Let us hope not," he said, as he turned his eyes toward Ringbold and Nadene’s stricken form. "Some answer we might find on the strand. Stay alert, what state of mind afflicts Goldwhæt, or what weapons he has to hand we cannot know. Watch over me in case he lurks in yonder reeds."
Aodh slipped his hand from Eléo’s and edged towards the hobbit. Keeping his gaze locked firmly on the sword resting on Ringbold’s crossed legs, right arm primed should the hobbit react wildly, he set his maimed hand lightly upon his friend’s shoulder. "What can I get you, little master? What can I offer to ease your pain, sai-Hoblyta?"
Ringbold turned, his face was pale and drawn and his dirty cheeks were lined with the runnels of tears. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then sprang up. Eléo's sword clattered onto the stony strand. "Ælfred!" the hobbit piped, his eyes focused at a point beyond Aodh's right ear. "How wonderful to see you - you've missed all the action!"
Aodh's face clouded with concern, he shook Ringo gently by the shoulders. "Ringbold, come back to me, 'tis Aodh, not Ælfred. Have you banged your woolly pate? Has Goldwhaet harmed you?"
"Of course it's you, Master Hammerhelm, well met!" Ringo said as his eyes found Aodh's. "And Lady Eléowyn too… No, Arthur, erm, Goldwhaet - I shall never get the hang of that name! - hasn't harmed me. On the contrary, it was me who gave him a punishing blow that put him out of action.
But what of you Aodh, did your duel with The Dark Rascal turn out right? You beat him didn't you, for here you are alive and well? But it seems whatever happened on the hilltop, your senses were left scrambled! Look behind you, friend. If that's not Ælfred with our horses I'm no Halfling…"
"Hile Æthel, M’lady Eléowyn and brave Sai Took,” the old wigend said, as he dropped from the saddle. “Your wayward horses I bring, and one other – Rustbucket’s, I deem it. Provisions also, for I warrant you are low on rations if you set forth in haste."
"This is a hope unlooked for," Aodh said. "Picket the horses a-time, freond. Have you wood? Aye, another boon! Make a fire, Eléo and Ringbold can help you prepare warm food and drink while I search for signs of Goldwhæt..."
"Lord," Ælfred interrupted, "you three are careworn, and injured, mayhap. I shall set out in search of Goldwhæt; Master Ringbold and M’lady Eléowyn, if they have no objection, can see to a meal while you attend the fallen."
"Aye, so" Aodh smiled. "I’ve missed you Ælfred, you see things well with one eye that most would miss with two. May I burden you with another request? I’m loath to bury Nadene within sight of that accursed hill - I would take her home. But not carelessly, do you kennit, not slung over a horse’s back like baggage. We have blankets and skins aplenty, but no timber to make a litter."
"I’ll find what you need, lord, though it might mean a ride back across the plain to the forest. Miss Eléowyn, are you able to help me secure the horses? Master Ringbold, I have some cords of wood and kindling for you..."
"Oh, no… No, no, no!" Ringbold piped. "Arthur is my friend, he saved me in the Chetwood from murder, but more so he saved me from grief and loss in the months that came after. I will help Aodh tend Nadene - it is my duty and my due!"
"Let it be so," Aodh said. Taking the hobbit’s hand he knelt beside Nadene Dughlaich and bowed his head.
Aodh squeezed Eléowyn’s hand and followed her glance towards Anduin. "Let us hope not," he said, as he turned his eyes toward Ringbold and Nadene’s stricken form. "Some answer we might find on the strand. Stay alert, what state of mind afflicts Goldwhæt, or what weapons he has to hand we cannot know. Watch over me in case he lurks in yonder reeds."
Aodh slipped his hand from Eléo’s and edged towards the hobbit. Keeping his gaze locked firmly on the sword resting on Ringbold’s crossed legs, right arm primed should the hobbit react wildly, he set his maimed hand lightly upon his friend’s shoulder. "What can I get you, little master? What can I offer to ease your pain, sai-Hoblyta?"
Ringbold turned, his face was pale and drawn and his dirty cheeks were lined with the runnels of tears. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then sprang up. Eléo's sword clattered onto the stony strand. "Ælfred!" the hobbit piped, his eyes focused at a point beyond Aodh's right ear. "How wonderful to see you - you've missed all the action!"
Aodh's face clouded with concern, he shook Ringo gently by the shoulders. "Ringbold, come back to me, 'tis Aodh, not Ælfred. Have you banged your woolly pate? Has Goldwhaet harmed you?"
"Of course it's you, Master Hammerhelm, well met!" Ringo said as his eyes found Aodh's. "And Lady Eléowyn too… No, Arthur, erm, Goldwhaet - I shall never get the hang of that name! - hasn't harmed me. On the contrary, it was me who gave him a punishing blow that put him out of action.
But what of you Aodh, did your duel with The Dark Rascal turn out right? You beat him didn't you, for here you are alive and well? But it seems whatever happened on the hilltop, your senses were left scrambled! Look behind you, friend. If that's not Ælfred with our horses I'm no Halfling…"
"Hile Æthel, M’lady Eléowyn and brave Sai Took,” the old wigend said, as he dropped from the saddle. “Your wayward horses I bring, and one other – Rustbucket’s, I deem it. Provisions also, for I warrant you are low on rations if you set forth in haste."
"This is a hope unlooked for," Aodh said. "Picket the horses a-time, freond. Have you wood? Aye, another boon! Make a fire, Eléo and Ringbold can help you prepare warm food and drink while I search for signs of Goldwhæt..."
"Lord," Ælfred interrupted, "you three are careworn, and injured, mayhap. I shall set out in search of Goldwhæt; Master Ringbold and M’lady Eléowyn, if they have no objection, can see to a meal while you attend the fallen."
"Aye, so" Aodh smiled. "I’ve missed you Ælfred, you see things well with one eye that most would miss with two. May I burden you with another request? I’m loath to bury Nadene within sight of that accursed hill - I would take her home. But not carelessly, do you kennit, not slung over a horse’s back like baggage. We have blankets and skins aplenty, but no timber to make a litter."
"I’ll find what you need, lord, though it might mean a ride back across the plain to the forest. Miss Eléowyn, are you able to help me secure the horses? Master Ringbold, I have some cords of wood and kindling for you..."
"Oh, no… No, no, no!" Ringbold piped. "Arthur is my friend, he saved me in the Chetwood from murder, but more so he saved me from grief and loss in the months that came after. I will help Aodh tend Nadene - it is my duty and my due!"
"Let it be so," Aodh said. Taking the hobbit’s hand he knelt beside Nadene Dughlaich and bowed his head.
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West Bank of the Anduin, above the Undeeps
Eléowyn was glad that Aodh did not want to bury Nadene by the Anduin. She should be bathed, and clothed in her finest dress, a task that would rightly fall to Eléo upon their return to Nadene’s homestead. It was a woman’s privilege to lovingly prepare a fallen sister for burial, a task not rightfully performed by menfolk, unless it be her husband.
Eléo stood in silent respect for a moment, then turned and gave Ælfred a kiss on the cheek. “Well met, freond,” she said. “I will take care of the horses and prepare us a meal. Though I have little appetite at the moment, I think we could all benefit from something other than stale bread and dried-out fruit. What have you in your bags? If you could leave it here whilst you make your search, I will have something hot and ready by the time you return.”
After picketing the horses, with a loving pat and a whisper in each one’s ear, Eléo turned to the task of getting a fire going and pot of water heating. Once she was sure the flames were well established, she opened Ælfred’s bag. There she found herbs and various root vegetables, as well as some rashers of bacon, among other things. She was busy chopping turnips and carrots when she saw Wulf loping toward her, with something large dangling from his mouth.
“Why, you angel!” she cried when he dropped a fat grey partridge at her feet. “Not only are you a clever hunter, you are a generous one as well. I will be sure to save some tasty pickings for you.” The bacon rashers could now be saved for another meal, other than two that she would fry up for drippings to grease the pan to cook the partridge.
With the bird cleaned, cut into pieces, and now sizzling away in the pan, the meal was well on its way. There was no sign of Ælfred yet, and Aodh and Ringbold were still sitting vigil. Her mind turned back to Goldwhæt. Ringo had said he had “put him out of action.” What had he meant, and where was their friend now? Perhaps Aodh was finding these answers even now.
Eléo turned her attention back to the partridge that was now spattering and popping as the skin began to turn a golden brown. She found herself humming as she worked, happy to have a normal task to occupy her mind.
The food was nearly ready, but she was reluctant to call Aodh and Ringo to the fireside. It was Ælfred, after all, who had supplied most of the bounty, and they should wait for him. She took the opportunity to walk to the river’s edge, with Wulf hard on her heels, to gaze over the blue water. How calm it seemed today, and peaceful. It felt like forever since she had been at peace. She only hoped it would last.
Eléowyn was glad that Aodh did not want to bury Nadene by the Anduin. She should be bathed, and clothed in her finest dress, a task that would rightly fall to Eléo upon their return to Nadene’s homestead. It was a woman’s privilege to lovingly prepare a fallen sister for burial, a task not rightfully performed by menfolk, unless it be her husband.
Eléo stood in silent respect for a moment, then turned and gave Ælfred a kiss on the cheek. “Well met, freond,” she said. “I will take care of the horses and prepare us a meal. Though I have little appetite at the moment, I think we could all benefit from something other than stale bread and dried-out fruit. What have you in your bags? If you could leave it here whilst you make your search, I will have something hot and ready by the time you return.”
After picketing the horses, with a loving pat and a whisper in each one’s ear, Eléo turned to the task of getting a fire going and pot of water heating. Once she was sure the flames were well established, she opened Ælfred’s bag. There she found herbs and various root vegetables, as well as some rashers of bacon, among other things. She was busy chopping turnips and carrots when she saw Wulf loping toward her, with something large dangling from his mouth.
“Why, you angel!” she cried when he dropped a fat grey partridge at her feet. “Not only are you a clever hunter, you are a generous one as well. I will be sure to save some tasty pickings for you.” The bacon rashers could now be saved for another meal, other than two that she would fry up for drippings to grease the pan to cook the partridge.
With the bird cleaned, cut into pieces, and now sizzling away in the pan, the meal was well on its way. There was no sign of Ælfred yet, and Aodh and Ringbold were still sitting vigil. Her mind turned back to Goldwhæt. Ringo had said he had “put him out of action.” What had he meant, and where was their friend now? Perhaps Aodh was finding these answers even now.
Eléo turned her attention back to the partridge that was now spattering and popping as the skin began to turn a golden brown. She found herself humming as she worked, happy to have a normal task to occupy her mind.
The food was nearly ready, but she was reluctant to call Aodh and Ringo to the fireside. It was Ælfred, after all, who had supplied most of the bounty, and they should wait for him. She took the opportunity to walk to the river’s edge, with Wulf hard on her heels, to gaze over the blue water. How calm it seemed today, and peaceful. It felt like forever since she had been at peace. She only hoped it would last.
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Anduin, above the Undeeps: with NPC Ringbold Took
Aodh knelt with his head bowed and his eyes closed. The sounds of Eléowyn and Ælfred busying themselves with their tasks, the bird song in the nearby reeds and the ceaseless murmur of Anduin faded. He pictured Nadene as he’d first met her: afraid but steadfast, alive and leaning against the rail of the stairs that led to the stoep of her cottage. He’d sensed some foreboding of her fate at that moment, done all he could to send her on to safety after their palaver.
Why had she tarried, why had she set herself at risk?
Ka! His old self spoke. Some things are just meant to be.
Nay! He shoved this thought away. Wyrd had not done for her, Rædwulf Fleðð had, and in some measure, so too had Aodh Hammerhelm. Had he not brought The Dark Man to her door?
Aodh steeled himself for what lay ahead. He squeezed Ringbold’s hand as he opened his eyes and reached into his gunna. He retrieved a neatly folded shirt from his pack, one which had travelled long leagues from the city-state he’d once called home, it was careworn and patched, but it was clean. He rent the shirt into ragged, red cloths then took the water skin from his shoulder.
“Make a cup with your hands, little friend,” he said to the hobbit as he uncorked the skin. Aodh poured a small measure of water into the hobbit’s palms and wet one of the cloths. Only then did he set his gaze upon the face of Nadene Dughlaich.
He’d readied himself for the slack mouthed, flat-eyed stare of the dead. Mercifully Nadene’s eyes were closed and she seemed, despite the dried blood below her nostrils, asleep and at peace. Aodh blew lightly over her face before washing it gently. He set his cloth aside and cupped his hands so that Ringbold could repeat his actions.
The hobbit dabbed tenderly at Nadene’s face, removing every trace of gore and grit, then took a second cloth and patted it dry. “She was beautiful, Ringo sobbed, “and oh, so very young!”
“Aye, indeed,” Aodh said, placing an arm around the hobbit’s trembling shoulders. “And brave and true! Without her I would not be here with you… But come, friend, we shall mourn her properly when we reach her homestead. Take off your serape, but step away downwind lest you would undo our work.”
As soon as the hobbit moved away Aodh straightened Nadene’s body and limbs; he crossed her arms over her breast and tucked his poncho tightly around her torso. “Thankee-sai,” he murmured, as he kissed her forehead. There were other things he longed to say to her, penitence and pledge not the least, but a simple thank-you seemed enough for now. He took Ringbold’s mantle, paused for a long moment then covered Nadene’s face.
“Aodh,” Ringbold peeped, his weight falling against Aodh’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but…”
“Bema!” Aodh took in the deep cut on his friend’s right foot for the first time. “You’re hurt, Ringo… Why didn’t you say so?”
He took the hobbit up in his arms and hurried over to Eléowyn. The aroma of the meal she’d prepared was maddening (he heard the hobbit’s tummy growl), but it would have to wait.
“Have you hot water to hand, and the makings of a salve?” he said to his wife. “Master Ringbold is injured – a sword cut I deem it. Can you tend him, léof, for I am no leech?”
Aodh knelt with his head bowed and his eyes closed. The sounds of Eléowyn and Ælfred busying themselves with their tasks, the bird song in the nearby reeds and the ceaseless murmur of Anduin faded. He pictured Nadene as he’d first met her: afraid but steadfast, alive and leaning against the rail of the stairs that led to the stoep of her cottage. He’d sensed some foreboding of her fate at that moment, done all he could to send her on to safety after their palaver.
Why had she tarried, why had she set herself at risk?
Ka! His old self spoke. Some things are just meant to be.
Nay! He shoved this thought away. Wyrd had not done for her, Rædwulf Fleðð had, and in some measure, so too had Aodh Hammerhelm. Had he not brought The Dark Man to her door?
Aodh steeled himself for what lay ahead. He squeezed Ringbold’s hand as he opened his eyes and reached into his gunna. He retrieved a neatly folded shirt from his pack, one which had travelled long leagues from the city-state he’d once called home, it was careworn and patched, but it was clean. He rent the shirt into ragged, red cloths then took the water skin from his shoulder.
“Make a cup with your hands, little friend,” he said to the hobbit as he uncorked the skin. Aodh poured a small measure of water into the hobbit’s palms and wet one of the cloths. Only then did he set his gaze upon the face of Nadene Dughlaich.
He’d readied himself for the slack mouthed, flat-eyed stare of the dead. Mercifully Nadene’s eyes were closed and she seemed, despite the dried blood below her nostrils, asleep and at peace. Aodh blew lightly over her face before washing it gently. He set his cloth aside and cupped his hands so that Ringbold could repeat his actions.
The hobbit dabbed tenderly at Nadene’s face, removing every trace of gore and grit, then took a second cloth and patted it dry. “She was beautiful, Ringo sobbed, “and oh, so very young!”
“Aye, indeed,” Aodh said, placing an arm around the hobbit’s trembling shoulders. “And brave and true! Without her I would not be here with you… But come, friend, we shall mourn her properly when we reach her homestead. Take off your serape, but step away downwind lest you would undo our work.”
As soon as the hobbit moved away Aodh straightened Nadene’s body and limbs; he crossed her arms over her breast and tucked his poncho tightly around her torso. “Thankee-sai,” he murmured, as he kissed her forehead. There were other things he longed to say to her, penitence and pledge not the least, but a simple thank-you seemed enough for now. He took Ringbold’s mantle, paused for a long moment then covered Nadene’s face.
“Aodh,” Ringbold peeped, his weight falling against Aodh’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but…”
“Bema!” Aodh took in the deep cut on his friend’s right foot for the first time. “You’re hurt, Ringo… Why didn’t you say so?”
He took the hobbit up in his arms and hurried over to Eléowyn. The aroma of the meal she’d prepared was maddening (he heard the hobbit’s tummy growl), but it would have to wait.
“Have you hot water to hand, and the makings of a salve?” he said to his wife. “Master Ringbold is injured – a sword cut I deem it. Can you tend him, léof, for I am no leech?”
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Anduin, above the Undeeps
“Ringo!” Eléowyn cried as Aodh came rushing toward her with the hobbit in his arms. “Aodh, what happened? A sword cut, you say? But who …,” her voice trailed off.
“Here, set him here,” she continued, indicating a spot where Ringo could prop his foot on a rock. “I shall take care of it. I am no haelend but you cannot raise two boys on a remote farm without gaining some skill in tending wounds.”
She started to cut another swath of cloth from her tunic to wash the wound, then realized she would need even more to bind it. The thought of standing there with but a few remaining strips of fabric dangling about in the breeze seemed ridiculous, so she slipped the entire garment over her head, leaving her in only her under shirt.
She dipped one of the strips in the already boiling water, then waited for it to cool enough to clean the wound. “Aodh, could you fetch me Ælfred’s bag? There is some rosemary in there. I can make a crude salve from it as well as some tea to help soothe Master Ringbold’s nerves. Oh, and then could you remove the meat from the fire before it burns?”
The wound looked deep, and she wished she had needle and thread to hand. Once it was clean, she took the rosemary, crushed some of it to release the oils, and mixed a thick ointment. The rest she threw into the boiling water for tea. After carefully rubbing the ointment over the cut, she bound the foot as tightly as was safe, to keep the wound closed yet not cut off the flow of blood.
It was the best she could do in the circumstances, but she thought it would suffice. At least for now. She poured each of them some tea. Handing one to Ringo, she advised him, “Keep that foot propped up. It will help stem the bleeding. Aodh, can you come help me a moment?”
Once they were out of earshot, Eléo said, “The cut is deep, and I have not what I need, nor the skill if truth be told, to treat it properly. We need to get him to a proper haelend as soon as is possible. He will not die, if we keep the putrefaction at bay, but he may lose feeling in, or even use of, that foot if not attended to. How far to the nearest village, do you think?”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
“Ringo!” Eléowyn cried as Aodh came rushing toward her with the hobbit in his arms. “Aodh, what happened? A sword cut, you say? But who …,” her voice trailed off.
“Here, set him here,” she continued, indicating a spot where Ringo could prop his foot on a rock. “I shall take care of it. I am no haelend but you cannot raise two boys on a remote farm without gaining some skill in tending wounds.”
She started to cut another swath of cloth from her tunic to wash the wound, then realized she would need even more to bind it. The thought of standing there with but a few remaining strips of fabric dangling about in the breeze seemed ridiculous, so she slipped the entire garment over her head, leaving her in only her under shirt.
She dipped one of the strips in the already boiling water, then waited for it to cool enough to clean the wound. “Aodh, could you fetch me Ælfred’s bag? There is some rosemary in there. I can make a crude salve from it as well as some tea to help soothe Master Ringbold’s nerves. Oh, and then could you remove the meat from the fire before it burns?”
The wound looked deep, and she wished she had needle and thread to hand. Once it was clean, she took the rosemary, crushed some of it to release the oils, and mixed a thick ointment. The rest she threw into the boiling water for tea. After carefully rubbing the ointment over the cut, she bound the foot as tightly as was safe, to keep the wound closed yet not cut off the flow of blood.
It was the best she could do in the circumstances, but she thought it would suffice. At least for now. She poured each of them some tea. Handing one to Ringo, she advised him, “Keep that foot propped up. It will help stem the bleeding. Aodh, can you come help me a moment?”
Once they were out of earshot, Eléo said, “The cut is deep, and I have not what I need, nor the skill if truth be told, to treat it properly. We need to get him to a proper haelend as soon as is possible. He will not die, if we keep the putrefaction at bay, but he may lose feeling in, or even use of, that foot if not attended to. How far to the nearest village, do you think?”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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OOC: Hælands all: (Might I bring our injured hobbit to you for treatment? A location in the East or West Emnet would be good, or somewhere in the Eastfold at a push. Thankee-sai, AH)
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@Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Amadhrill
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@Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Amadhrill
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“He’s mine,” those words from Taeth echoed down the hallways of his mind. It was not the first time he had heard those words spoken about him, or even in this context, but they felt… different this time around. Before anything could be said or done, the air in the room shifted and warped. All eyes turned to Allacan as she began her grand Brobdingnagian “villain speech.”
As far as monologues go, it was not half bad. He had been forced to sit through worse while watching a theatrical performance. Listening to Allacan, or Fyrefly, or whoever this person was or wasn’t, felt strange. There was a prickling at the back of Frost’s neck, an itch between his shoulder blades. Something was off about the whole thing. Why would she point on the flaws of the Cavalry, the backstabbing, the bad decisions, the infighting and melodramatics, in front of one of the more prominent Cavalry members? And why was she taking credit for it? Either she was responsible for the de-stabilization of the military (something which Frost would give her a modicum of acknowledgement) or she was merely stealing credit where a vacuum of responsibility existed. Either way, something was not quite right. He pulled both Taeth and Zôr closer. If something else happened, if Allacan decided she wanted to start throwing more stools around, he wanted to be in a better defensive position.
Vaguely, as if watching someone through a translucent curtain, Frost saw Zarâm come closer to Allacan, and set what by what all accounts was a bad idea, an open flame near a bottle of alcohol, near the Rohir. Was… that a signal of some kind? Had he missed something between the two? There were too many moving pieces here. Zarâm being more friendly to Allacan lend a small amount of credibility to her story but, it still felt off.
Then she mentioned him. She accused him of manipulating Taeth, to the end of using her Cavalry position for… what purpose exactly? A pulsating orb of anger began constructing itself in his stomach. His vision began to go red at the edges. How dare she. It was true that he had used his charms to manipulate people on many occasions in the past, that was something he freely admitted to. But this. This was something else. Was Allacan trying to hurt Taeth now? He cursed the absence of his sword as his hand tightened over the empty air where it should have been.
“That,” he said slowly and thickly, “is not a wise thing for you to do, to project your own feeble motives onto someone else. You really think I serve the Shadow? How bleeding dull do you think I am? Do you truly think I’m manipulating Taeth to further the cause of… Mordor?” he wanted to laugh at the idea. He had made it very clear, through his many years of smuggling, piracy, and general vagabondage that he was not servant of the Eye? Foolish, foolish young woman.
Without responding, suddenly and without seeming provocation (unless that entire bloviating speech had been a lie), Allacan turned a knife on Silendris. That was the final straw for Frost. He knew without a shred of uncertainty that Silendris could handle themselves just fine without his assistance even with their occasional confusion over which eyebrow to waggle or which direction to stare. He made it three steps before… what?
Before he could move into a defensive position toward Sil, the Rohir turned the knife on herself. Frost, utterly flummoxed, actually stopped dead in his tracks. What in the roiling hells was going on in this pub? Was her overdramatic soliloquy a suicide note? Why did she need witnesses? As his head swam, Frost began to wonder if any of this was even real or it was some wild, vivid fevre dream. Nothing in here was making any sense.
To add to the confusion, Zarâm, Zarâm of all people, tackled Allacan to the ground before she could fulfill her death wish. This sort of wild dramatics were the kinds one read about in books or heard about around a bottle of whisky. The wild split second decision threw him off. He had been about to relax, seeing the danger to his companions snuff itself out when one of his companions kept the threat alive! What in the utter roiling hells was going on?
He didn’t a chance to voice his confusion and frustration though. Flames, for the second time tonight flames, began to lick the dry wood, hungrily devouring everything in its path as the bottle Zarâm had put near Allacan a moment before slipped and shattered. Suddenly, everything was a roaring blaze. Frost shielded his eyes as the light and heat in the old tavern suddenly increased.
Whatever trace of alcohol had remained in his system was gone. Still, his head throbbed from his earlier injuries, slowly his thinking process. He needed to get out of here. There were several paths in which he might be able to do this, but he couldn’t. He was not alone in this pub. Zôr and Taethowen were close, he could pull them to him and barrel through before the flames became too much to deal with, but those were not the only people he felt responsible here for. Sil was a few paces away but he could reach them before…
Another burst of roaring flame brought his thoughts to a halt. He didn’t have time to plan this out to the nth degree. He ducked on a large floating ember and with two quick steps found himself near Sil. “Excuse me darling,” he wrapped an arm around their waist and began to push them toward the door, “but I do think it is time for us all to extricate ourselves.”
Smoke was rapidly filling the room. With a single outlet for it, the smoke billowed toward the roof and, finding itself trapped there, reached out with ashy tentacles for victims below. Frost tried to pull his shirt up over his face, but growled in frustration when he remembered he’d taken it off already. He mimed for Silendris to do the same with their clothing. He was not entirely sure if they… breathed but he was not going to take the chance. He pointed toward the door. The yawning portal was wreathed in black, ichorous smoke. “Go! Get out of here!” he pushed them toward the door, dodged another, larger ember that nearly fell on them, and darted his way back to Zôr and Taeth. Without pausing, he pulled both of them as close to him as he could, feeling the heat of their bodies through their clothing. In any other moment this would have felt like the beginning of something extraordinary but for now, it simply felt good that they were both near him. He pushed them along with him, dancing from side to side as he did to avoid the flames as they licked down the sides of the walls.
He spared half a second to look back for Zarâm. Why had she stopped Allacan? What sort of madness had possessed the orc? She was too far from him now. As much as he wanted to save her, he knew there was nothing he could do. She had made her choice and would have to live with it, or not. He pushed onward, biting back his anger.
A beam crashed behind them. A massive, heavy thing alive with red and orange flame, fell just where they three had been standing but a moment before. His legs nearly gave under him but he willed his body to make it a few more steps. The door was just a few paces away now.
What about Thali?
The question slammed into his mind like a hundredweight of stone. He looked back, but the smoke and flames were too much. He felt responsible for her presence too, but there was nothing he could do now. Thali was going to have to save Thali (and probably Orco) by herself. An explosion of glass on the far side of the pub, heavily obscured by the heat, gave him a tiny amount of hope she’d found a window and tossed her “husband” through it.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Swiltang, heave both a protesting Írimë and the little puppy over his shoulders and barrel through the smoke and fire.
Frost coughed. The smoke was quickly becoming too much for him in his current state to deal with. He coughed again, great, wet, hacking coughs. He could feel his lungs seizing. Taeth was coughing too. He pushed them closer to him once again and with what remained of his strength managed to push them all out of the door and into the open air.
“Are you alright Karîbâri (A: Horse queen)?” he looked at Taeth, her face streaked with ash, her eyes red from the smoke. “And you Zinî (A: The Woman)? Are you okay?” he asked Zôr, turning to his left, her eyes were as red as Taeth’s and he couldn’t tell if she was having trouble breathing or not.
Before either of them could answer though, a heavy wave of dizziness rolled over him. The world around him spun wildly. He couldn’t keep his balance as the sky suddenly became the ground. He fell hard into the packed dirt of the street. Black flecks began forming and floating around his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to clear it. He coughed and blackness closed around him.
OOC: In keeping with many good singing episodes, most of the characters in the shows do not, in fact, know that singing is even occurring, therefore it was appropriate of me to not acknowledge all of @Allafyrefleorhtlig's wonderful songs in the heat of the moment.
"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open... Fear the Old Blood..."
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Amadhrill - conveniently visiting her parents in the Eastfold
She rode up to homestead, taking a moment as she approached to enjoy the sight of her childhood home as the few buildings seemed to rise from the tall grass of the Rohirric plains. As she came closer she could make out the vegetable patch, the small garden of fruit trees, red and black current bushes, and the hedge that was made from raspberry bushes. The homestead was small, just what was needed for a family to make a living. The biggest house was clearly separeted into two different parts, the eastern part held the family's home. It wasn't much; a living room with a fire place for cooking and a small adjecent bed room on the first floor and a steep and narrow staircase leading to the first floor with its low ceiling and three smaller bedrooms. The western part was clearly a combined stable and barn, holding a horse, a cow, a few goats, and some hens. A few minor outhouses were scattered around the main building. In a few moments her nieces and nephews would hear her horse and announce her arrival, her mother and her sister-in-law would come from the kitchen or the fruit garden, her father and brother would come from the field, or maybe the barn or from repairing a fence that the goats would've tried to escape from.
Now, in the heat and abundance of summer it looked peaceful and gave her a nostalgic feeling, driving away the memories of blizzards and winter days so cold and dark that all they could do was to keep the fire going and share the warmth with the animals, and the late winter and early spring when so little grew and last year's harvest had diminished and the fear took them that they would not have enough food.
And she was home, with her parents and her brother's family, all greeting her, asking for news from Edoras, the children asking if she had brought anything with her and could she come and see this right now. And how was her husband and her children? She could hardly get off the horse and tend to him for all the questions and hugs, the offer for food and tea and water. Eventually, however, she managed to extract herself long enough to empty her saddle bag of what little she had brought along, handing out some sweets for the children and stabling her horse with some grain and water in the stable. She washed herself quickly and then came to the bench outside in the sun, where tea and food was prepared for her.
She rode up to homestead, taking a moment as she approached to enjoy the sight of her childhood home as the few buildings seemed to rise from the tall grass of the Rohirric plains. As she came closer she could make out the vegetable patch, the small garden of fruit trees, red and black current bushes, and the hedge that was made from raspberry bushes. The homestead was small, just what was needed for a family to make a living. The biggest house was clearly separeted into two different parts, the eastern part held the family's home. It wasn't much; a living room with a fire place for cooking and a small adjecent bed room on the first floor and a steep and narrow staircase leading to the first floor with its low ceiling and three smaller bedrooms. The western part was clearly a combined stable and barn, holding a horse, a cow, a few goats, and some hens. A few minor outhouses were scattered around the main building. In a few moments her nieces and nephews would hear her horse and announce her arrival, her mother and her sister-in-law would come from the kitchen or the fruit garden, her father and brother would come from the field, or maybe the barn or from repairing a fence that the goats would've tried to escape from.
Now, in the heat and abundance of summer it looked peaceful and gave her a nostalgic feeling, driving away the memories of blizzards and winter days so cold and dark that all they could do was to keep the fire going and share the warmth with the animals, and the late winter and early spring when so little grew and last year's harvest had diminished and the fear took them that they would not have enough food.
And she was home, with her parents and her brother's family, all greeting her, asking for news from Edoras, the children asking if she had brought anything with her and could she come and see this right now. And how was her husband and her children? She could hardly get off the horse and tend to him for all the questions and hugs, the offer for food and tea and water. Eventually, however, she managed to extract herself long enough to empty her saddle bag of what little she had brought along, handing out some sweets for the children and stabling her horse with some grain and water in the stable. She washed herself quickly and then came to the bench outside in the sun, where tea and food was prepared for her.
Hælend of Meduseld
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The plain below the Tafelberg: NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed.
Ælfred set forth on foot, his horse and his quarry’s mount trailing along behind him. Goldwhæt’s progress was not hard to follow for the northern gale had swept the plain clear of all other spoer.
At first his friend’s tracks cut a wavering path towards the river, after a mile or so they steadied and veered back across the plain toward the nearest of the conical hills. At the summit of this kop Ælfred noted flattened grass and scuff marks left by boot tips and fingertips.
Ah, Goldwhæt had lain here at-time, most likely watching as I rode towards the strand over yonder, before breaking cover and marching north west along the flank of the second butte.
The old wigend followed Goldwhæt’s trail for another mile then halted. Hoof marks merged suddenly with the footprints of his friend, they headed south west towards the road that led to the forest Ælfred had travelled through. He’s headed for home, surely?
But nothing was certain in the tracking game, only a fool made judgement without following a spoer to its end. The old wigend walked a circuit around the hoof marks, keeping his eye close to the ground.
Aye so, Goldwhæt had mounted a horse, or sprouted wings, for no other trace of his footfalls were evident. But was he headed for home, the ‘stead in the vale below the Wold? There was only one way to know for certain.
Ælfred climbed onto his horse’s back and sent her cantering along the road towards the wooded high ground.
--
Anduin, above the Undeeps: with NPC Ringbold Took
Aodh did as Eléowyn bid without question; it felt good to place the weight of responsibility into the hands of another, not least those of his wife. He set the hobbit upon the ground, fetched Ælfred’s gunna then moved to the fire to watch over their meal.
He sat and watched Eléowyn and Ringbold intently, marvelling at the bond they’d formed since he'd last seen them together. They’d been friends in the carefree past of Edoras; they were comrades now, he saw, veterans who’d faced hard choices and dangers without flinching. He loved them both dearly, and could not bear the thought of losing them.
“I’ll keep the foot up,” Ringbold chirped, as Eléowyn made her way to Aodh. “It’s wonderful to sit at ease at last. A pipe would make things perfect… I don't suppose my pack is anywhere to be found?"
Aodh’s brow furrowed as Eléo revealed her concern for the hobbit. Too many miles away, was his immediate thought. There were villages dotted across the Wold and Emnets, but none which would have the service of a hæland to hand. The frontier post on the Mering, Aldburg in the Eastfold and Edoras seemed the best choices, but they were leagues away!
“You can stop whispering and plotting,” Ringbold called, before Aodh could answer Eléowyn. “Have you forgotten hobbits have very sharp hearing? I don’t think my foot is about to fall off just yet - I feel quite well, actually!
Let’s have no more of this wild talk now… Can the pair of you possibly quell the urge to go rushing off to find help? You’ve only just been reunited, I won’t hear of you separating again so soon – especially not because of me.
Let us wait for Ælfred to return with news of Arthur, erm, Goldwhæt then we can decide on who rides where - and when and with whom. And while we wait another mug of tea and whatever you’re cooking, Eléo, would not go amiss."
--
@Eléowyn
OOC: @Amadhrill <<A One-Eyed Rider and hobbit might chance upon your parents' homestead in the not too distant future ;)>>
Ælfred set forth on foot, his horse and his quarry’s mount trailing along behind him. Goldwhæt’s progress was not hard to follow for the northern gale had swept the plain clear of all other spoer.
At first his friend’s tracks cut a wavering path towards the river, after a mile or so they steadied and veered back across the plain toward the nearest of the conical hills. At the summit of this kop Ælfred noted flattened grass and scuff marks left by boot tips and fingertips.
Ah, Goldwhæt had lain here at-time, most likely watching as I rode towards the strand over yonder, before breaking cover and marching north west along the flank of the second butte.
The old wigend followed Goldwhæt’s trail for another mile then halted. Hoof marks merged suddenly with the footprints of his friend, they headed south west towards the road that led to the forest Ælfred had travelled through. He’s headed for home, surely?
But nothing was certain in the tracking game, only a fool made judgement without following a spoer to its end. The old wigend walked a circuit around the hoof marks, keeping his eye close to the ground.
Aye so, Goldwhæt had mounted a horse, or sprouted wings, for no other trace of his footfalls were evident. But was he headed for home, the ‘stead in the vale below the Wold? There was only one way to know for certain.
Ælfred climbed onto his horse’s back and sent her cantering along the road towards the wooded high ground.
--
Anduin, above the Undeeps: with NPC Ringbold Took
Aodh did as Eléowyn bid without question; it felt good to place the weight of responsibility into the hands of another, not least those of his wife. He set the hobbit upon the ground, fetched Ælfred’s gunna then moved to the fire to watch over their meal.
He sat and watched Eléowyn and Ringbold intently, marvelling at the bond they’d formed since he'd last seen them together. They’d been friends in the carefree past of Edoras; they were comrades now, he saw, veterans who’d faced hard choices and dangers without flinching. He loved them both dearly, and could not bear the thought of losing them.
“I’ll keep the foot up,” Ringbold chirped, as Eléowyn made her way to Aodh. “It’s wonderful to sit at ease at last. A pipe would make things perfect… I don't suppose my pack is anywhere to be found?"
Aodh’s brow furrowed as Eléo revealed her concern for the hobbit. Too many miles away, was his immediate thought. There were villages dotted across the Wold and Emnets, but none which would have the service of a hæland to hand. The frontier post on the Mering, Aldburg in the Eastfold and Edoras seemed the best choices, but they were leagues away!
“You can stop whispering and plotting,” Ringbold called, before Aodh could answer Eléowyn. “Have you forgotten hobbits have very sharp hearing? I don’t think my foot is about to fall off just yet - I feel quite well, actually!
Let’s have no more of this wild talk now… Can the pair of you possibly quell the urge to go rushing off to find help? You’ve only just been reunited, I won’t hear of you separating again so soon – especially not because of me.
Let us wait for Ælfred to return with news of Arthur, erm, Goldwhæt then we can decide on who rides where - and when and with whom. And while we wait another mug of tea and whatever you’re cooking, Eléo, would not go amiss."
--
@Eléowyn
OOC: @Amadhrill <<A One-Eyed Rider and hobbit might chance upon your parents' homestead in the not too distant future ;)>>
Last edited by Aodh Hammerhelm on Sun Aug 09, 2020 2:28 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Anduin, above the Undeeps
“Forgive, me, please,” Eléo said, turning back to Ringo. “Aye, I had forgotten your keen sense of hearing, but even so, I should have included you in the discussion. You are not, after all, a child.”
She stepped to the boiling kettle and poured Ringo a cup of tea. The aroma of the rosemary was quite soothing, and she was glad once again that Ælfred had put the herb in his pack. They would all benefit from a nice hot cup.
“Here you go,” she said, handing the mug to the hobbit. “I did not mean we had to rush off without so much as a meal. Only that we should not tarry longer than necessary. You need salves we do not have, and the wound should be properly closed. It is deep and if it cut through certain sinews, your foot would never heal properly without help. I have not the skill to tend to such a wound. But I am encouraged that you feel little pain. Now let me get you something to eat.”
She walked back to the fire and gave Aodh a quick kiss. The sight of him tending their meal was as intoxicating to her as seeing him defeat their enemy. “I will take back over now,” she said, “if you might round up Ringo’s pack for him. Unless you have a spare pipe in yours.”
The bird was now golden brown and tender, so Eléo found shallow bowls in Ælfred’s pack, placed a piece of the partridge in each, and covered it with the vegetables. There was nothing with which to thicken the gravy, but she carefully poured a little of the pan drippings over each bowl. The heart and liver she set aside to give Wulf once they had cooled. He had earned them.
“I had hoped Ælfred would have returned by now,” she said as she handed Ringo his bowl and sat down with the other two bowls and waited for Aodh to join them. “I hope he finds Goldwhæt soon.” She gave an anxious glance in the direction of Nadene’s covered body lying in the warm sun.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
“Forgive, me, please,” Eléo said, turning back to Ringo. “Aye, I had forgotten your keen sense of hearing, but even so, I should have included you in the discussion. You are not, after all, a child.”
She stepped to the boiling kettle and poured Ringo a cup of tea. The aroma of the rosemary was quite soothing, and she was glad once again that Ælfred had put the herb in his pack. They would all benefit from a nice hot cup.
“Here you go,” she said, handing the mug to the hobbit. “I did not mean we had to rush off without so much as a meal. Only that we should not tarry longer than necessary. You need salves we do not have, and the wound should be properly closed. It is deep and if it cut through certain sinews, your foot would never heal properly without help. I have not the skill to tend to such a wound. But I am encouraged that you feel little pain. Now let me get you something to eat.”
She walked back to the fire and gave Aodh a quick kiss. The sight of him tending their meal was as intoxicating to her as seeing him defeat their enemy. “I will take back over now,” she said, “if you might round up Ringo’s pack for him. Unless you have a spare pipe in yours.”
The bird was now golden brown and tender, so Eléo found shallow bowls in Ælfred’s pack, placed a piece of the partridge in each, and covered it with the vegetables. There was nothing with which to thicken the gravy, but she carefully poured a little of the pan drippings over each bowl. The heart and liver she set aside to give Wulf once they had cooled. He had earned them.
“I had hoped Ælfred would have returned by now,” she said as she handed Ringo his bowl and sat down with the other two bowls and waited for Aodh to join them. “I hope he finds Goldwhæt soon.” She gave an anxious glance in the direction of Nadene’s covered body lying in the warm sun.
@Aodh Hammerhelm
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<<<Private RP, Invite Only>>>
Taethowen
human, she/her
Abandoned Building
Taethowen
human, she/her
Abandoned Building
An odd, fuzzy pain bounced through Taethowen's head as she stood next to Frost, waiting. She gasped quietly, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, forcing herself into the present. This happened off and on since her illness, but she'd never been able to find a firm trigger for it, and neither had any healers she'd consulted in her travels through Middle-earth. The moment passed quickly--at least this time, fortunately, though she wondered what of this night she would forget when all was said and done--and when her gaze landed on Allacan again, some of the words the other woman spoke earlier finally wormed their way to the forefront of her mind. Words that had been spoken as she dropped down from the rafter.
Rowena has stepped away from her Marshal duties and even now I suspect she rides for Gondor on a fool's errand chasing a lesser evil than the one that has planted itself in her very home, and I am one Marshal closer to my goal.
Taeth had been there for the argument, but when she'd left, Rowena had still been the Second Marshal. Bema's horn, what in Arda had conspired in the time between the Dragon Room and the After-Party? She could have sworn she'd seen Rowena there... but she'd been so distracted--distraught, really--trying to make amends with Frost that she'd not truly paid attention to the other people in the tent.
Frost's hand wrapping around her wrist, tugging her closer, brought her back out of her thoughts. When she looked up, Zarâm was setting a cloth stuffed into a bottle of... alcohol?--Oh that cannot end well! Taeth thought--alight, and Allacan accused Frost of manipulating Taeth and while... Taeth couldn't lie that the thought hadn't crossed her own mind... there was something more. There were things he'd said, vulnerabilities he'd exposed to her, even just a few hours before, that told her this was more than manipulation. It made no sense for him to become so enraged over her asking him to be discreet if he didn't care. If anything, he should have willingly obliged to keep her placated. Compliant.
Taeth watched Allacan trying, to see a glimpse into her motivations, because she was thoroughly confused now. She'd thought that, surely, she could trust the HCMA, but there was far more at play here than she'd realized. She was stuck in a situation where she knew far too little, and Taeth hated that.
"That is not a wise thing for you to do, to project your own feeble motives onto someone else," Frost spoke then, and she could hear the rage he was fighting to contain, could see it in the taut, trembling muscles of his neck. "You really think I serve the Shadow?" --Taeth had suspected he didn't, but she did, even in that moment, feel some modicum of relief to hear him say it.-- "How bleeding dull do you think I am? Do you truly think I'm manipulating Taeth to further the cause of... Mordor?"
Taeth almost wanted to laugh at the idea. She was a lowly pæthfindian who'd once, briefly, been a Marshal. She'd done no great deeds worthy of renown, unless Mordor was in need of a new clothing line. Even if Frost was manipulating her, it would be for her business prospects. Not her influence within the royal court of Rohan, or the Cavalry.
Everything which followed next happened so quickly that Taeth barely understood what was going on. Allacan turned the knife on Silendris, and then herself, and then... Zarâm tackled Alla, and suddenly there were flames licking at the bar, and then at the layer of dust that covered everything in the old, unused pub, and then dry wood began to catch.
Frost stepped away, pushing Silendris forcefully toward the door. Taeth turned to check on Thalionwen, only to find a thick, black wall of smoke and heat between her and where she knew her friend had been standing a bit ago. Taeth pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose, but since it wasn't damp, it did little to block the smoke. Her eyes burned. She turned back just as Frost reached for her and Zôrzimril, pulling them close and herding them toward the door just as a rafter crashed behind them to the ground.
It was odd, how quickly the pub was going up in flames, but that would be a matter to figure out later. Despite the scarf over her mouth, she began to cough from the smoke. Frost was coughing too, but his was wet and hacking and she remembered that he'd taken a blow to the side at the Campian which definitely cracked a few ribs, then he presumably spent a few hours wandering around Edoras avoiding her, before finally showing up at the after party. Smoke inhalation didn't cause wet, hacking coughs. Not right away, and she worried that a rib had punctured is lung in the interim.
Frost pushed them out front door, though, and while there was heat and smoke behind them, she was suddenly met with blessed, cool air. Frost turned to her first, asking, "Are you alright, Karîbâri?" and she recognized the word for horse but not the rest. He was already swaying on his feet as he turned to Zôr, and Taeth scrambled to get under his arm and support him but she wasn't fast enough.
He crumpled at their feet, knees hitting the ground first, and with a weak cough he slumped to the ground. "Dô-" his name started to slip from Taeth's mouth with alarm, then cut off in a grunt as she just barely managed to catch him around his shoulders, and then awkwardly lowered him to keep him from hitting his head again. "Of all the Bema-damned timing," Taeth swore.
She wanted to stay here, beside him, but she wasn't a hælend--and the only immediately available hælend was still in the fredegaring pub--and there was precious little she could do for him. So, with desperate tear-filled eyes, Taeth turned to the other Númenórean (Zôr). "Please watch over him for me," she requested, not daring to leave him alone in the condition he was in. "I have to make sure everyone else gets out, and he needs the hælend who's still in there."
Taeth stood, turning back to the pub just in time to see Zarâm stumble out with Allacan in her arms, but Taeth didn't stay to see what they did next. She quickly darted back around to the back of the pub, retrieved the spare key from above the window again, and checked the backdoor. She couldn't feel any heat through it, but there was smoke visible through the window. Quickly, she unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open. There was, thankfully, no sudden burst of flames from the added oxygen. She pulled her scarf back over her nose and mouth, and ducked back inside.
"Thalionwen!" she hollered, followed by a cough. Fortunately, the flames had seemed to spread toward the front of the pub faster than towards the back. "Gwai!"
She really didn't know if her fellow pæthfindian was there, but she'd seen the boots Gwai had attempted to hide under her dress at the after-party, and so she'd be surprised if she wasn't. Before she could hunt further, though, Thali and Orco stumbled out of a smoky corner and toward the door. Taeth followed them out, the haze too thick for her to see anywhere and she wasn't familiar with the full layout of the pub to even know where to start looking for Gwai. It had obviously been rebuilt, at least once, since her original Cavalry days.
Taeth snagged Thali's sleeve before the hælend could go far. "Frost collapsed," she said, trying not to appear too terribly distraught. "He's out front, with the... other woman. So please go check on him. But it would... probably be best if... your husband disappeared for now. At least some Cavalry troops will be here any minute. We're practically on their doorstep, after all."
Taeth turned back to the pub then. She knew that Thali wouldn't abandon a patient, but Taeth had no desire to see what her friend's husband's (Orco) decision was. But a moment of perusal told her it would be unwise to head back into the pub. The fire was still building, and she could hear bottles of alcohol starting to burst from the heat. Gwai... where are you? she thought with a grimace as she hurried back around to the front of the pub.
Frost and Zôr were still there, but she didn't have a chance to see if Frost had regained consciousness yet before she noticed Cavalry soldiers (NPCs) appearing from the south. She moved to intercept them, pulling out her pæthfindian insignia, as she stepped between the nearest soldier and where Frost and Zôr were. "It's an alcohol fire," Taeth said. "It'll be better to wait it out rather than dousing the flames with water, but we need to keep it from spreading, especially after the other fires we've had already tonight. There's one injured, and potentially one person trapped in the building."
She hoped that Thali had directed Orco somewhere safe, for Thali's own sake, as the Cavalry troops, meager as they were after being spread thin through Edoras tonight, surrounded the pub. Taeth checked the surroundings, noting the direction of the wind, and wishing that it had rained recently. The midst of summer was always a bad time for a fire.
OOC @Allafyrefleorhtlig @Dimcairien Luiniel @Tarawen @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Gwai @Shivased - working with what we discussed on Discord for starting to wrap this up. I think I left plenty of space for all of you while still speeding Taeth's portion along and getting this toward a reasonable conclusion.
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The plain below the Tafelberg: with NPC:Ælfred the One-Eyed and Ringbold Took
The scent of warm tucker filled the old wigend’s nose, the soft murmur of voices drifted up from the strand. He secured the horses quietly, unwilling to break the well deserved peace that his companions were enjoying. The news he brought would fracture the illusion of a picnic under pleasant skies, the tidings he’d found would mean palaver and hard choices. He made a smoke and hunkered in the grass, waiting for a lull in his friends’ conversation.
“Well, there he was about to fall on your sword, Eléo,” Ringbold said, eyeing the cooking pot. “I really didn’t want to, you know, but I had to. Are you sure he’s not nearby? I hit him quite hard after all…”
“Nay, he’s gone,” Aodh replied. “Evidently you smote Goldwhæt hard enough to stun him, but he was gone when we arrived. He must have sneaked off while you dozed… Do not be hard on yourself, Ringo - you did not fail in deed or vigil. You stayed Goldwhæt’s hand when it mattered, and loss of blood caused you to nap.”
“I see that, Aodh," the hobbit piped. "But I wish I hadn’t… dropped off, I mean…”
“And if you hadn’t, Ringo, and Goldwhæt had woken, what then? Aodh said. “Would you have smote him afresh, or would he have overpowered you and done you injury more grievous?
Let us not dwell on might-have-been… We are where we are, as Wyrd wills it. Now I must weigh two courses against each other. I cannot be in two places at once, and I would not be separated so soon from Eléowyn, but I have obligation to the living and the dead!”
“Then let new counsel inform thee, lord, and thy lady!” Ælfred said stepping into the camp and taking a seat alongside Eléowyn. “I have brought what you asked – timber for a litter and news of our wayward friend – but now my stomach craves a hot meal and yon’ holbytla looks ready for seconds…”
--
@Eléowyn
The scent of warm tucker filled the old wigend’s nose, the soft murmur of voices drifted up from the strand. He secured the horses quietly, unwilling to break the well deserved peace that his companions were enjoying. The news he brought would fracture the illusion of a picnic under pleasant skies, the tidings he’d found would mean palaver and hard choices. He made a smoke and hunkered in the grass, waiting for a lull in his friends’ conversation.
“Well, there he was about to fall on your sword, Eléo,” Ringbold said, eyeing the cooking pot. “I really didn’t want to, you know, but I had to. Are you sure he’s not nearby? I hit him quite hard after all…”
“Nay, he’s gone,” Aodh replied. “Evidently you smote Goldwhæt hard enough to stun him, but he was gone when we arrived. He must have sneaked off while you dozed… Do not be hard on yourself, Ringo - you did not fail in deed or vigil. You stayed Goldwhæt’s hand when it mattered, and loss of blood caused you to nap.”
“I see that, Aodh," the hobbit piped. "But I wish I hadn’t… dropped off, I mean…”
“And if you hadn’t, Ringo, and Goldwhæt had woken, what then? Aodh said. “Would you have smote him afresh, or would he have overpowered you and done you injury more grievous?
Let us not dwell on might-have-been… We are where we are, as Wyrd wills it. Now I must weigh two courses against each other. I cannot be in two places at once, and I would not be separated so soon from Eléowyn, but I have obligation to the living and the dead!”
“Then let new counsel inform thee, lord, and thy lady!” Ælfred said stepping into the camp and taking a seat alongside Eléowyn. “I have brought what you asked – timber for a litter and news of our wayward friend – but now my stomach craves a hot meal and yon’ holbytla looks ready for seconds…”
--
@Eléowyn
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New Soul
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Gwai
Abandoned Building
Should Have Brought Her Harmonica
Abandoned Building
Should Have Brought Her Harmonica
It was difficult to hear in the storeroom behind the bar, but Gwai could make out a few words here and there. Taeth was confronting Allacan, and then…it was difficult to see, but it appeared her fellow paeth was being kissed by one of the women from Mordor, before taking the hand of the man injured in the campian. Gwai smirked. Here she was, spying in a cramped supply closet, while Taeth was being kissed, not to mention clearly having some sort of…something, with the man she was now holding hands with (Frost). Now was not the time to think about her own love life, or lack thereof, but she made a mental note to ask Taeth for some advice.
Her wandering thoughts were quickly pulled back to the scene unfolding when she heard someone singing. She had difficulty making out the exact words, but she was fairly confident it was Allacan. What in Bema’s name was happening? she wondered, confused, even as she found her foot tapping along with the tune. If she had known this was turning into a musical number, she would have brought her harmonica.
Suddenly, Allacan turned and threatened Silendris with a knife. Gwai hesitated, unsure how to respond. Should she stay in secret? Was this the time to make her presence known? It was difficult as she had little idea what Allacan wanted her to do. Another question was begged, was Allacan needing saving from herself as well? It seemed likely, from the snippets she could overhear.
But even as she thought that, Allacan confirmed it by turning the knife toward herself. Zarâm promptly tackled Allacan, but as she did so, the makeshift lantern crashed down on the bar, and fire quickly spread behind the counter, greedily consuming the alcohol that had been left in the old building for many years.
Gwai immediately backed away from the door. The flames were growing behind the bar, and therefore blocking her exit route. She looked around desperately. Nobody knew she was in here, and over the roar of the fire, they would not hear her call out, even if they did want to save her, which was potentially doubtful. No, she was likely on her own.
She briefly tried touching the door handle, but it was hot to the touch. Smoke was beginning to fill the supply room. There was no window, but she knew the back wall approached the outside. If she could break through that, she could escape.
Gwai looked around desperately. She searched the shelves, pulling sundry items out of boxes and tossing them on the ground. She reached to a box above her head on a shelf, and ducked as she accidentally pulled the entire box down, not having expected it to be as heavy as it was. Who puts a tool chest that high? She wondered to herself even as she mentally thanked them for having a crowbar as well as a hammer.
She grabbed the tools and ran to the wall bordering the outdoors, dropping to her knees. The building was old, the wood dry, and it took little time with the hammer to get a small hole in one of the boards, immediately above the floor. She started coughing as more smoke filled the room.
She hurriedly took the crowbar to the hole in the board she had made, and pulled with all her strength. The board was loose now, but stubborn. She continued pulling with the crowbar, and at the same time took the hammer in her other arm and started swinging. Finally, the board gave up, and she now had the beginnings of an exit.
Coughing, she continued to work as smoke continued to fill the room. She could hear the roar of the fire as it began to try to consume the door of the storeroom. A crash behind it startled her, and she turned, but couldn't make out anything through the thick smoke. It must have been part of the rafters, she thought to herself, as she turned back to working on her exit. The second board was not as stubborn, and she soon had it removed. She scooped up her bow and pack, and hoved them out through the hole she had made. She pushed her head out, gulping a deep breath of the clean air, and tried to scootch out. She squirmed a bit as her shoulders were momentarily stuck, but she soon managed to push herself free.
It was too early to celebrate, however. She continued coughing as she stumbled toward a line of trees, dragging her bag. There were still many people about with suspicious loyalties, and she was not eager to be found by them. She slipped into the small line of trees, relatively sheltered and hidden, but fell to her knees next to her bag and doubled over coughing, tears streaming down her face from the smoke, as she tried to catch her breath.
Flames were devouring the abandoned building, which had no hope of salvage. She desperately hoped Taeth, Thali, and Allacan had escaped, along with all the rest. Despite whatever happened tonight in the old building, she had no desire for anyone to die in a burning building. She hugged her ribs as she continued to cough. She wanted to go back inside and search, but between the flames and trying to catch her breath from the smoke she inhaled, she was in no shape to mount a rescue mission.
From where she was, she could see Taeth at the back of the pub, unlocking the back door. Gwai's voice was gone from the smoke and coughing so much. “Taeth!” Gwai tried to call, her voice cracking, but there was no way the paeth would hear her over the loud roar of the flames. She sat in the trees, concentrating on taking deep breaths, the coughing slowly subsiding, as she watched the building burn.
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Knight of The Mark
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The plain below the Tafelberg
Eléowyn was only marginally following the conversation between Aodh and Ringbold. Her eyes wandered occasionally to the bandage on Ringo’s foot, watching for any unusual redness or swelling. And her mind was on Goldwhæt, and wondering why Ælfred was taking so long finding him. Surely he could not have gone far if Ringo was correct about the blow he had dealt him. And of that Eléo had little doubt. Hobbits were surprisingly strong.
Her attention was snapped back when she heard Aodh mention her name. She was about to suggest they await Ælfred’s return, hopefully with Goldwhæt in tow, before they made any decisions but her words were quickly rendered unnecessary. Here was Ælfred, alone. Her heart sank.
“Ælfred,” she cried, “of course you must be famished. Let me prepare you a bowl. Here, Ringo, hand me yours and I will fill it again. And you, Aodh? More for you?” She did not wait for his reply, but took the bowl from his hands.
Within moments she returned with a steaming bowl for each of them, followed shortly by a fresh mug of tea. “I myself have had my fill. I will go start on the litter while you finish your meal. We should at least move Nadene into the shade soon, away from the heat of the sun.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
Eléowyn was only marginally following the conversation between Aodh and Ringbold. Her eyes wandered occasionally to the bandage on Ringo’s foot, watching for any unusual redness or swelling. And her mind was on Goldwhæt, and wondering why Ælfred was taking so long finding him. Surely he could not have gone far if Ringo was correct about the blow he had dealt him. And of that Eléo had little doubt. Hobbits were surprisingly strong.
Her attention was snapped back when she heard Aodh mention her name. She was about to suggest they await Ælfred’s return, hopefully with Goldwhæt in tow, before they made any decisions but her words were quickly rendered unnecessary. Here was Ælfred, alone. Her heart sank.
“Ælfred,” she cried, “of course you must be famished. Let me prepare you a bowl. Here, Ringo, hand me yours and I will fill it again. And you, Aodh? More for you?” She did not wait for his reply, but took the bowl from his hands.
Within moments she returned with a steaming bowl for each of them, followed shortly by a fresh mug of tea. “I myself have had my fill. I will go start on the litter while you finish your meal. We should at least move Nadene into the shade soon, away from the heat of the sun.”
@Aodh Hammerhelm
