The Lands of Arnor: Free RP

[The Good Hunter]

Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Tara and Moriel)

Frost’s neck wound throbbed and pulsed for the first few hours after they departed the company of the vampires. The further they got from the blood sucking bastards the life his injuries seemed to possess. Bruises would be forming soon in a dozen or more places all over his body, he could feel the dull ache from so many places that it all seemed unfocused and uncentered. The damp, freezing air was the only thing that dulled the pain. Frost grumbled and mumbled to himself for a few miles, turning back every so often and looking at the spot in the ashen sky were Arioch and his bride had disappeared. He could not shake the feeling that this was not the last time he was going to see him, nor was it the last time he was going to cross blades with the creature.

The landscape ahead of them was cold, desolate, and dreary. The sky was a depressingly simple mixture of grey heartless clouds, ashen shadows passed over the ground where they walked and slate hills rose up and materialized out of the gloom. The Ettenmoors were hellish pits of nothingness, sagging hills and dried up riverbeds. Tombs were scattered across the land, laid open and bared and devoured by crows and wolves and worse. Wordlessly, the pair of them passed a totem made up of over a dozen skulls and femurs. Was it a warning? An invitation? A challenge? The nonchalant attitude of his guide made him think that if it was a threat, it was not one they needed to be concerned with. The bones looked old and cracked with years and years of age and decay falling upon them. Frost spat; the sound echoed louder than it should have been. The structure of the land was bent like a massive bowl, his head swam but he could feel them reach the nadir of the moors. They camped and Hrafnhildr vanished on some pretense of “hunting”.

Frost, alone with his swirling thoughts, looked to the clouds. There was indeed a massive storm coming. The sky all around them was dark and foreboding. The darkness stretched from horizon to horizon. The storm was still a long way away, with any luck they would be able to get to Angmar and Carn Dûm before the thing hit. Frost thought he could see faces in the clouds, angry, misshapen faces screaming in agony without mouths or sound. What tortured spirits had been forced to take shape within the clouds at the bored whim of some sorcerer? He grumbled to himself, half formed words of protest and annoyance. The cold didn’t bother him, it would be a poor nickname if it did, but he was getting tired of the smell of horse and peat and shire and the feel of lumpy malformed rocks underneath him.

His thoughts strayed to the Lossoth, his distant kin, as they continued their way north. They were a cold and stony people, as harsh and as humorless as the ice they seemed to be carved from. This Hrafnhildr was cut from the same block of flavorless ice as the rest of them. He asked a few gentle probing questions here and there to get a measure of this supposed Amazon he was traveling with, but she proved to be as communicative as a lump of bog iron. They were all like that. He remembered his time with them, so many years ago. They were a harsh and unloving people, untrusting of strangers or southerners (and he had been both). It had not been until that night with the wolves that they started looking at him without the suspicious squint to their eye. The longer they travelled the less likely it seemed to Frost that this particular Lossoth would do any warming. She was a frigid block of concentrated annoyance. Was it just him, or was it all of life that this woman seemed to hate? And more importantly, did Frost even care? There had been only one Lossoth that truly warmed to him, that truly welcomed him. That night, instead of dreams of blood and fire and death, he dreamed of seal skin blankets, walrus ivory, soft whimpers, interlocked fingers, and a voice that whispers "Don't leave me here".

He woke in a foul mood, made fouler by the weather and the lack of interest from his travelling companion. How much did he need her anyway? Frost’s urge to kick his horse into and unrestrained gallop grew greater and greater with every passing hour. It was not the dreams of burning ships and rivers of blood that unsettled him, he’d almost grown accustomed to them now, nor the lethargy that seemed to hold onto him like a squid’s tentacle, it was the boredom of traversing faceless, nameless, forgotten hills and rock formations and ruins that were older than man’s first breath. The closer he came to the north, the more the past seemed to throw itself at him. There were memories here, memories both sweet and acidic. Whatever it was that he was supposed to do here, he hoped it was over quickly. There was very little left for him in the northern wastes of Middle-earth.

His bones ached, his blood simmered. Frost wanted a fire but his taciturn compatriot refused to help, wanting to push on through the slagging hills and rugged mountains that tore the earth around them. Frost was in a unique position. He’d never been to Angmar before, it was an alien place with mountains and skies foreign to all the lands he’d seen before. He’d been to the most extreme places on earth, from Mordor to Lemuria in the Uttermost East and the Lands of Forever Winter in the north, yet this place may as well have been on another plane of existence. It made his skin crawl. His spiders whispered in his ear, complaining of the cold and the damp. They were almost as eager to be done with this place as he was.

“How long is it now?” he mused aloud, loud enough for Hrafnhildr to hear but he addressed the very air around him. The mists and vapors swirled around them; their iridescent grey limbs threatened to entangle the horses’ legs toss them from a cliff. Frost had heard stories about what lived in mists, and at the bottom of cliffs ready to feed and fit into their skin.

They travelled on and on, passing rocks that looked like the rocks they had already passed and dry stream beds filled with the bones of armies of unfortunate fools. How much further did they need to go? Frost could feel his energy sapping from his bones faster and faster the further north they went.

Hrafnhildr stopped and pointed to an orange bloom in the distance and casually mentioned dragons. Frost inhaled a lungful of frozen, fetid air and groaned. “Dragons. Naturally…”

He’d had his fill of dragons in the past. They were fantastically nasty creatures, even if they had a certain appeal. He remembered one dragon in the far east that had been quite… persuasive, not that he would tell that story in polite company.

“So,” he asked with more than a hint of frustration and bitterness in his voice, “how long?”

[The Good Hunter]

Burn After Reading
Outside the Gates of Osdolen
(Private with Moriel)

Sleep came fitfully for Beranwine. There were half a hundred sounds that caused him to jerk awake every time was within an inch of sleep. His head pounded with the anxiety. The stables were cold and damp, but they were far from people, far from her. The old ranger was not sure what the Grimoire had seen or sensed within the tall woman, but it had unnerved him, it had caused him to err in his judgement. He’d made mistakes within the Four Winds, mistakes that might cause him his life. In the darkness and relative safety of the stables, he laughed grimly. Life. Something he’d lost long ago now. What was he now? Some undead servitor, a zombie, a wight? He shuddered. He didn’t know what he was, he didn’t know what it was that kept him moving, kept him from decaying, but he knew it was foul. The Grimoire had hidden the fact that he was dead, hidden that he’d been brought back to life just to serve as a transport of the dread book, the work of the Witch-King himself. He hated it. Every fiber of his being fought against it. He wanted to destroy the book, to leave it behind, to be rid of it some way, any way. But he couldn’t. He had tried earlier to toss it into one of the fires that burned in the streets of Osdolen, but he had not the will to do it. It was not that he did not wish the book harm, he did, but he lacked the mental ability to destroy it, to even contemplate its destruction. The Grimoire had laughed at him as he dejectedly put the book back in his pack. The sound created a pressure inside his head. The pain was so great that he verily believed his head would rupture at any moment. There was a loud POP deep within his brain and suddenly all the pain vanished. His sight dimmed and his hearing faded to nothing. He stumbled around for nearly an hour after that, whimpering and moaning. He managed to find the stables and, after nearly getting kicked in the head by a moody stallion, he found an empty stall where he could huddle up in the corner. It was so cold. His hearing eventually came back, and his eyesight seemed to sharpen in the empty darkness. He could make out vague shapes and textures, the horses seemed to have an unearthly glow about them, he could feel them more than he could see or hear them. It was distracting. All he wanted to do was rest. But the Grimoire was not about to let him off so easily.

Some time later, Beranwine had no idea how long he’d spent huddled in the corner like a drowned puppy, something stirred. Someone was entering the stables. They moved on feet far quieter than any ranger Beranwine had encountered, before or after his death. A strange feeling began to creep into his gut. Anxiety. His breathing caught. He stayed as silent as he could, quiet as the grave. More gallows humor. The rustling didn’t last long. The horses didn’t seem perturbed by the intrusion. Was it just an animal? He wanted to believe that. He so wanted to believe that. But he knew it was not. Who or what was in that stable with him, he did not know. The Grimoire, though, was restless, endlessly chittering to him, mumbling words and phrases in a language that made him want to vomit. Words that sounded like the dying breath of drowning men, like him in his final moments. He could still feel the bone cracking cold of that frozen lake in the measureless north. Could he feel it, or was the Grimoire simply forcing him to relive it? Over and over and over again. How many times had this cycle gone around? How many times had he remembered and forgotten? The thought made him shudder. He just wanted to rest. He was fairly certain he didn’t actually need sleep anymore, but the ghost of that feeling, of relaxation and bliss kept him hoping, hoping for the briefest of respites. He knew it was very unlikely to happen, and the more he wished for it, the more it hurt when he found it perpetually out of his reach. He wanted it all to stop.

He slept. But the dreams were dark and foreboding. He was chased by a wolf through a forest of trees with branches that tore at him and leaves the color of blood. The wolf was larger than any wolf had a right to be, hulking, wrathful, and hungry. It hungered for him, hungered for what he had. He ran and ran and ran, but the forest never gave away. He only traveled deeper and deeper, down and down and down. The trees turned from trees to bones in the shape of trees, with branches like harpy fingers, clawing at him, ripping his flesh. The howls were behind him, ahead of him, above him. He tried to scream, tried with all his willpower and might, but nothing came. He gasped for breath, choked, and blacked out.

He came to wakefulness in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun’s light would crest the horizon. His head pounded and his muscles ached. It would have been better for him if he’d simply left Osdolen, made his way blindly in the wilds beyond. He was not safe here. No one was safe here. Everything was turning to rot. He tried to stand up, his muscles cramped, and his heart seized. He fell, his pack when flying from him. The Grimoire spilled out of his back and fell open. Horror filled Beranwine, a greater horror than anything he’d ever known. He scrambled blindly, moving like a worm as he tried to cover the book, deny it any sight of the world outside. He felt something bite him as he landed on the book, a thousand teeth felt like they ripped into him. He threw the book into his pack and threw it hard against the wall of the stable. Horses whinnied angrily and snorted all around him. He began muttering to himself, a desperate sound to try and keep the voice from reentering his head. But that attempted failed.

Really? Are you so gullible and naïve that you think that’s the only trick I have? Foolish little kitten. You are about to be devoured by a wolf.

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up! Shut the fredegar up you leeching monstrosity! I will find a way to destroy you. I will, I swear it on my--”

On your life? How much worth is that these days?

Cold rage filled Beranwine. He wanted so bad to throw this book in the sea, in a fire, in a gaping endless chasm. He would. He squeezed his eyes shut and hummed discordantly. He saw himself in his mind, doing just want he wanted. He could visualize it. That was a start.

Still in pain, the one-eyed ranger forced himself up and collected the pack, tying it off and buckling it so the bloody tome would not have the opportunity to escape again. He exited the stables and made his way as furtively as he could to the front gates. He was almost home free! Then a voice out of the darkness shook him to his core. It was her. The woman. Moriel. His heart sank.

“Lead the way,” he said. He wanted to die.

[Moriel]

Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Frost and Tara)

“There’s nothing natural about it,” Hrafnhildr muttered, her eyes narrowing as she stared into the distance at the faint, fading plume of the dragon’s fire. Tezcacoatl, a name that chewed as it came out; a name that permeated the folklore of the Lossoth. There were many dragons that dwelt in the farthest north wastes of the world, and over the ages her people had encountered them. Tezcacoatl was one of the greatest, and now he found himself if not under the sway of the Iron Queen, in close alliance with her. How had she done it? What had she offered the fire-drake that he submitted to carry her about? “No good can come of her joining with that beast.” She looked up at Frost, slumped in his saddle, and the rapidly darkening sky behind him. “A day and a half,” Hrafnhildr answered his question finally, then paused, looking him up and down critically. “Maybe two days. I’d rather not deliver a corpse.” Whether this was merely truth or whether it motivated him to move faster in defiance, either was fine with her.

“Get down. We’ll camp here tonight.” Not waiting for Frost to agree, Hrafnhildr turned from him and set about building a fire. She largely ignored his complaints and stamping about as he dismounted and took care of the horse and whatever else he did to occupy his time when she wasn’t looking. Once the fire was going well, Hrafnhildr untied from her pack the spit she had fashioned on their first night on the road, and set it up over the flames, the skewer thrust threw a rabbit she had killed that morning. With the kind of exhalation that comes at the end of a long day, she sank down onto the log by which she had built the fire. Hrafnhildr surveyed the horizon of the mountains as she sat. It was not yet fully dark, but nearly so, the deep blue of the sky still just lightened by a deep gold behind the peaks. For a moment she allowed her mind to drift, imagining that those peaks were white with snow, and that the breeze which teased about the camp was a stiff wind from the icy waters of Forochel.

But when she inhaled, all Hrafnhildr could smell was the scent of the rabbit as it began to cook, the dung the horse had deposited nearby, and the mulch of unfrozen ground. She reached out, and began to slowly turn the spit. Her eyes settled on Frost, on the opposite side of the fire. She knew, she had known from the beginning, that the Delgaran sending her on this task had been no accident. What was the witch plotting? The more Hrafnhildr looked at him, the more she recognized, and it disgusted her. The details she had noticed from this close, and for such an extended period of time, were both abhorrent and unsettling. Her past experiences had not involved such proximity. Deep in the back of her mind she wondered if in his addled and ignorant state he had noticed a thing. She doubted it. Even if he were that sharp normally, even if he were able to ignore his hurts from the battle with Arioch, that dagger wound was causing him a different kind of agony.

“Tell me, Frost,” Hrafnhildr said aloud, amid her speculations and in spite of herself. Her voice was thick with disdain on his name. “What do you suppose the Iron Queen could want with you?”

[Fuin Elda]

The Valley of Imladris
The Cottages of Adab Nestad

Fuin drove the cart to the cottages a small collection and as she came up to it she wondered if in fact the cottage would be big enough for all three of them. She had not stayed there in some time and looking at the cottage now it was clear that it was barely larger than the Captains quarters of a ship but they soon all pushed in and Fuin lit one of the lanterns shedding light on the small but beautiful cottage, it was filled with herbs that kept it smelling nice and the pests out, mostly mints. Everything had a fine layer of dust upon it for there was no one to tend to her home in her absense. She felt a twinge of pain at that - all the homes she'd kept clean and waiting for friends, and none had done the same for her.

"I'll go grab some water so we can wash up before bed as well as some linens from the main healing house once I get the horses settled," She said softly and Ruindil raised an eyebrow and moved to follow her back out of the house only to be stopped by Mylien.

"Give her some space, she's needing it." The woman said softly as she held her Captain and husbands hand.

"She-"

"Is in a place she knows well, and has just seen her reborn husband again for the first time in weeks. Trust me she needs some time alone." She said with a smile. "Asides, we should see how she lives here in this Valley." Ruindil of course narrowed his eyes at this but nodded giving one last glance out the window the the retreating sight of the cart that they had travelled in before following Mylien further into the cottage.

It was bare, he thought wrinkling his nose, and dirty for an elf - dirt and dust covered most of the surfaces thickly, likely it had been months since Fuin had used her house here and it showed. Mylien looked about and eventually found a small bit of food - dried apples from the look of it in one of the cupboards and a single cup. The glanced at each other worried about this given how she lived with them in Bar-en-Raveara this was far off brand for her in there minds. She lived like a queen there. Here. They were not sure if beggar would be too high a title for how this cottage was outfitted. They pressed on past a partial wall and into the sleeping area, it was little better, though they were both relieved to see she did not have tiny hay stuffed mattress that would only fit her. She at least had a comfortable bed, though it would be tight for all three of them Mylien was certain it could be done especially if they pressed the bed against the wall so that one of them could rest against the wall itself while they slept without worrying about rolling off of the bed.

They pushed the bed over and began the task of fluffing the bed up and clearing away the dust, opening the windows and using the cloths that they found to wipe away the grime before finding some kindling and starting a fire to warm the cool house a bit. They would have to watch Fuin, this was not something that they had been expecting, and they had a feeling that Afarfin had no idea about this cottage either, or he'd likely be even angrier about everything.

[Zôrzimril]

The 31st of Nórui
Carn Dûm, TA 1305
(Private)

Where once there had stood only bleak, barren slopes, there now stood the beginnings of a city. Five years had passed since the orders came down from on high to move out and build. He had accepted the orders from his commander with relish: establish a base from which to sow treachery and destruction in the north kingdom. Arnor had troubled them for far, far too long. It would be his pleasure, he reassured his master, to obliterate the legacy of the Adûnaim pretenders. The five years since had passed quickly. From deep foundations, high stone walls had risen like strange, icy mountain plants.

First, they had built the city’s tallest tower. Its stone walls deadened all sound, and cold - both the stinging frost of the north and the chill sprung from terror - permeated the place. He permitted his servants only the sparest use of fire to light their way and cook all meals and keep themselves from freezing - they were no use to him dead, after all. The tower was his sanctuary. It gave him a broad vista of his city and served as a retreat from the comings and goings of the common rabble on the streets. The press of bodies and the buzz of their voices were enough to make an isolationist like himself dig a tunnel so deep he would never be found. He hated them all: the builders and armorers and barmen and cooks, the footsoldiers and servants and schemers - in short, everyone whose work would ensure the success of his task. He hated them and needed them. To survive it all, he stood alone in his tower, cloaked in shadows and silence.

The rest of the buildings had followed in quick succession under his penetrating gaze. Any man, orc, or beast who stumbled and delayed the course of the work was terminated swiftly by his lieutenants and their power-hungry subordinates. Terror lashed at the surviving workers’ heels like a fiery whip, driving them on. Once enough hovels and inns and barracks had been built, the population swelled. More men and orcs and all manner of strange spirits snaked their way through the north to join him. He watched them enter the city and throw down their things, staking their claims to small pieces of his domain. Try as they might to seek ownership here, it was all his, of course. His, and through him, his master’s. All things he did were in service of one lord.

But then, inexplicably, the city began to shrink. Reports reached him of uneaten food rotting in stores, despite the budget committee’s careful planning. His sargeants awoke to beds in barracks mysteriously emptied with no accompanying increase in executions - disciplinary, sacrificial, or otherwise. Murders were, of course, to be expected amongst the ilk that populated his city. The planners had adjusted their forecasts for the population accordingly. But run-of-the-mill murders were quite a different thing from losing nearly a whole legion’s worth of people in the space of just under a month. His councilors tried everything to stanch the bleeding: new incentive programs for enlisting in the army, creating a permit system to allow select sorcerers to perform stronger spells in the hope that the magical residue would attract still greater magical beings, and even straight-up capturing and enslaving more people. Still, the population continued to decline month over month before it had even reached its planned zenith. Bloody graffiti appeared on the walls. “The Witch-king’s promises are as empty as his cloak!” and other such nonsense. And that is how, after five years of cloistering himself at the top of his tower, he found himself sitting in a great chair on its ground floor, facing down the entrance to his private haven.

“It will be good for your public image, sir.”

“The people need to see their leader and know that he understands their troubles.”

“If we are not accessible to the masses, how will we spread word of His power? Without contact with you, how will the people know what is possible when they give themselves to Him entirely? You have risen higher than any of us dared dream, an inspiration to us all!”

Such had been the words of his scheming advisors. The very idea of being seen by the people or, even worse, talked to twisted at his core and poisoned his mood. To make himself available by holding court like some spineless child-king of men, frightened of his own people, was to debase himself. Yet these councilors’ schemes had helped elevate him to greatness centuries ago, and nothing else had worked to keep the people in his city, so he acquiesced. He had not died - could not be killed, in fact - and yet here he was, suffering for the cause in his own special, personal hell.

The irony, of course, was that dread rolled off him in waves and seeped like mist through every crack in the masonry, every window left open, and the gap beneath every door. In ordinary circumstances, precious few would even have dared approach him, regardless of the grandeur of his tower. But those brave souls who now brought to him their qualms and quibbles set upon him a kind of torment that even he and his master could not have devised: mundane bureaucracy.

The door creaked open and a sliver of wintry sunlight shot through the comfortable darkness. A man. An angry man. He’d noticed that most of the people who chose to enter this tower had been carried through their dread of him on a wave of rage. Today would, it seemed, be much the same. The man knelt before him before rising to speak in a quavering but passionate voice.

“I’m here,” he began, making a concerted effort to stand up straight, “because I want to talk to you about the amount of snow in the parks.”

The Witch-king hissed his displeasure. Snow? Snow?? This man was here - in Angmar, in the north, in the mountains - to complain about snow? And what parks? He had not ordered the construction of any parks. Recreation was forbidden to all but his most trusted advisors, and even they might be punished for reveling too hard if the sounds of their merriment ever reached him.

“And the benches. There is a disturbing lack of benches in Akhâs Park!” The foolish mortal’s voice was solid and strident now. It seemed he was running on pure indignation. “I want to sit more!”

The Witch-king raised a hand and beckoned with two fingers. Erechil folded the piece of parchment she’d been reading in the scant light from the doorway, then stepped from the shadows.

“I’ll take care of this, my liege,” she reassured him. She was officious and efficient, and he trusted her to handle the situation in whatever way she saw fit - so long as it didn’t make more work for him later. To the man, Erechil said, “Come with me. We’ll see to it that your concerns are taken care of.” She took the man by the arm and practically dragged him into a nearby room. The door swung wide before her, and the man beheld a space lit dimly with one torch. On display, mounted to the wall like prizes from a great hunt, were the limbs and tongues and personal effects of the visitors who had thus far displeased the Witch-king. His deputy slammed the door behind her and threw the man to the ground.

“Now,” she began, “how shall we deal with your problems with the snow?”

[The Good Hunter]

Puppeteer
The Bree Community Theatre
(Private)
CW: arachnophobia and body horror

She stretched in her seat and yawned as the scene ended and the curtain fell. The monologue was not good, it was trite and full of overused tropes about redemption and hope for the future. It was ironic though, in a way, and she supposed that’s what made it watchable. Whoever was writing these monologues needed a crash course in the bard’s techniques. This was the eighty-second scene she’d made the wretched man act out. He looked like he was about to keel over, his eyes were sunken deeply in their sockets and his frame was so emaciated that, even through his costume, his skeletal nature was obvious. His voice was weak and papery, a level of tired he’d never experienced before. His hair had begun to fall out in clumps somewhere around the seventh act, and his balding pate was liver spotted and stretched poorly over his skull and there was more she wanted to see. There was more he was going to give her, whether he wanted to or not.

The theatre was empty, quiet, and still. Annabelle Crane leaned back luxuriously in her seat. A private show, for her eyes only, this was class she could get used to. There was no orchestra, but that did not mean there was no music floating through this haunted place. The theatre had been closed down years ago, fallen into dilapidation and disrepair. Once this place had been grand, or at least grand by the Bree terms. Poetic ballads, dramatic soliloquys, arias, concertos and operettas, and interpretive dances were all performed here over it hundred or so years of history. It had been closed now, though, for as long as anyone could remember. It was only the older, more senile people that had any recollection of what went on here. No one remembered why the theatre closed, why mummers stopped performing, why troubadours began to avoid them. Annabelle wasn’t old enough yet to remember, nor was she even in Bree when it closed. However, when she’d arrived here from Pelargir, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with this place.

The stage was a death trap of hidden rotting wood and a gaping, empty maw beneath it. It was scratched and scuffed with rudimentary designs were carved into the floor, mostly declarations of love or curses, but there were a few symbols and signs that would have elicited a shocked gasp from the older generations. The curtain and rigging were twisted and torn, looking more like a sad spider web that golden rope. Most of the seats had been stolen years ago, either as trophies or as seating in the less than reputable inns. The orchestra pit was exactly that, a pit. Something was growing out of the conductor’s stand, something that was not a tree but was green and bloomed. The catwalk was full of vines and spider webs, so much that it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Across the stage, the auditorium, even in the atrium, there were stains that could have easily been blood. She hadn’t seen the dressing rooms or the green room, but if they were anything like this, it was magnificently decrepit with a history that no one in town wanted to even think about. Something had happened here, something so terrible and wicked that they would prefer to behave as if the theatre itself did not exist. They were too afraid to knock it down, as if doing so would call down some wrathful spirits onto them and plague them with, well there were so many things to fear in this part of the world. The youths of Bree often dared each other to hide in the box seats until midnight and then call out to the ghosts. They stopped when something answered back.

Annabelle’s seat had been stolen too. Not for the theatre of course, that would have been trite and unexciting. And the word “stolen” was a bit of a misnomer. The chair belonged to the man currently withering and shivering on stage, the mayor of Bree himself. She’d asked him to bring his favorite chair, and by asked she meant asked, the way the older spider had taught her, using words and webs that addled the poor man’s brain until he didn’t know up from down. That was the way of the spider; playing with her food was part of her practical nature. She enjoyed it. The way the fear ebbed and pulsated off him was majestic. The more the play went on, the more she forced him to keep going, the more the fear rose. Each word he spoke was with his own voice, but it was not his mind that put those words upon his quivering, cracked lips.

He wasn’t really a poor man in any sense of the word. He was the richest man in Bree, or near enough, and he was an absolute bastard, raising taxes for some, lowering them for others, presiding over land disputes he had no business being involved in, running an animal trafficking ring, bribes from traders and merchants to look to other way when it came to the regulations his predecessors had put in place. In short, he was not a good man. That’s not why she’d chosen him for this performance, though it certainly did make acts one through eight compelling. Act nine was where the tale began to get boring. He reached some sort of epiphany and began to list all the wrongs he’d ever done, from devious child to vile old man. Intrigued, she made him write them all down on a canvas as big as the stage itself. That had been a mistake. The canvas was nearly black now with writing so small and compact not even she could read it. That was not going to make her stop of course. No, it did not matter how boring this play was, or how formulaic his imagination became. He was not going to stop until he hatched.

The curtains rose on a new scene, pulled apart by tiny, unseen hands. The mayor was already hard at work on something, his back was to the audience, but it was clear there were things in his hands that were moving at a twittering pace. The light was orange and grim, it cast an ugly light on him, accentuating all his vile features, making him appear even less human than he had in the previous scenes.

“Stranger than I dared to dream, I cannot even bear to look or dare to think of it…” he began as he lifted something over his head, a long piece of silk thread and a needle sharp enough to pierce the hide of a troll. With a dramatic flourish, he looped the needle around a lattice that had before been unseen and twisted it around and back down. He grunted as if something pricked him, then continued on with the monologue.

“She who speaks of nightly treasures, she who wraps the silk around my neck, she who pours poisonous wine in my chalice, she who lets me serve and slip away…” his voice rose and fell, almost as if he were singing rather than speaking. Annabelle smiled; he was getting into the performance finally. He continued his work with the needle and silk, his hands flying up and down over the lattice until a beautiful, delicate web began to form around him. After some time, too, his legs began to lift off the ground; he was levitating with the power of his performance. She clapped excitedly, leaning forward in her chair so as not to miss a single movement of his hands.

He still faced away from the audience, shouting his lonely mystically infused words to the rafters. Each time he grunted as he brought the needle down there was another gap in the performance, as if something else was taking part in the scene, responded to each of his monologue sections with a silent monologue of its. Every now and then he would look up and his knees weakened. He never quailed or cried out though, never gave any indication that anything about this was out of the ordinary or not part of his performance. Annabelle smiled.

The more the web came together, the more he moved closer and closer to the center of it. His chest seemed to heave now with each speech, the weight of his words, his character’s dramatic confession and denial of absolution, was causing him physical pain. His character was vile and wicked, yet sought out all the angels, begged them, to save his damned soul for restless torment. He writhed now each time he looked up. The times between his speech grew longer and longer, the silences grew heavier and heavier. Any less experienced audience member might thing something was wrong, that he was forgetting his lines, or he was being too melodramatic for the scene. But not Annabelle; she knew what was happening. He had found an angel willing to listen to him beg, to let him prostate himself before her, to fill him with the light of palingenesis. The words of the angel were not meant for the audience to hear, they were meant only to interpret and extrapolate, if they could not, then what good were they as an audience? This was older art, less symbolic and more representational. Modern art was too willing to spill meaning to the audience, to vomit purpose on their unworthy heads.

The lights flickered as the scene went on, morphing from a sickly orange to grey to purple. Shadows danced in the background; the web itself casting a magnificent silhouette across the audience. Something dipped down from the catwalks, something long and thin but made up of material that did not make sense. It was an anachronism, a device meant to call attention to something. It was not a scythe or a skeletal hand. It was not the welcoming, cold touch of death. Annabelle smirked. The mayor’s speech was over, and all he could do now was hope his angel would grant him mercy. The audience knew though, they knew no mercy could be shown to a man like him. This sort of play looked like a jeremiad, a man complaining about his lot in life, but soon it become something different, something sinister. He would suffer, for the wrongs, for the slights, for his very existence. It did not matter how much he repented, because repentance was futile. One cannot repent of evil; they must embrace it or be overwhelmed by it. A man like this, he could never embrace it, he spent most of the play denying he was a walking, fetid corpse.

The scene closed. The curtains fell again, and the lights dimmed. Just as they did, though the mayor turned around, his face was purple and bloated, covered in what could only be described as bites. The play was nearly finished now. There would not be must left now that he’d been found.

The curtain rose again, barely giving a break between the scenes. The set was the same, the web was front and center, stretching from wall to wall, hung with silvery silk that gave off its own pale light. However, instead of facing away from the audience, the mayor was turned, his sins now exposed for all the world to see. His penance, the mercy he so desperately sought, would not come, the audience understands now. There was never any hope of that. He was hung upon the web. Dripping with blood, the silk web was strung through his body. His own veins had been fused to the web, become part of his torment. His stomach, torso, arms, neck, even his cheeks were all stitched with spidery skill. His face was covered in bites, welts that look more than painful. He was strung motionless at the center of the web, a torment devised by his own hands. It was fitting, this punishment. All men, all creatures are guilty of wickedness only by their own spirits, and thus their bodies must create and bear the torture.

“I'm the only one who can forgive and the only one to create future worth believing in…” the voice did not come from the mayor, but his hidden counterpart within the rafters, the man’s destroying angel. Annabelle clapped giddily.

As soon as the words were spoken, the spiders appeared. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand, more than could ever be counted by a single mind. They poured in like a seething flood of legs, eyes, and fangs from all angles, running and skittering down the web. They overwhelmed the scene. There were so many the web itself began to snap and twist. The man screamed, his torment only beginning. The spiders did not bite him as they climbed over him, they found the tiny holes were thread met flesh and entered. The spiders swelled and filled him. He screamed again, but the words of the monologue he was reciting were lost. Pity that. The mayor was only just becoming a tolerable actor. It was too bad this one night only performance would not engender him a change of careers.

Annabelle watched, enthralled and smug. The web collapsed as the weight of the spiders increased so much that even a web meant to hang a man for a thousand years could not hold them all. The body of the mayor convulsed and twitched. Blood was coming from his mouth, but he was still speaking, delivering his monologue dutifully.

Now was the time. Annabelle stood up from her comfy seat. A spider climbed out from beneath it, large enough to be mistaken for a small cat. It climbed on her shoulder and wrapped its eight spiny legs around her shoulders. She touched the spider gingerly, the way a mother touches her child when they need comfort. Another spider, smaller, crawled out from her bleach blonde hair. It left webbing behind in her pompadour hairstyle as it crawled across her brow, nestling in her eyebrow. She rolled her neck and felt the satisfying pop. The closer she moved to the stage, the more she could hear the hissing and scuttling and skittering of the spiders. It was a buzz just beyond the edge of normal human hearing. It was delightfully awful, a part of her felt sour and small to be a part of this all. She bounded onto the stage like a gazelle, cobwebs woven into her hair like bows.

She moved on spider like feet to the place where the mayor had fallen. His speech was over and the play had ended. It was time for him to take his final bow. She stared at him, eyes so intensely bearing down on him that for a moment, only a moment, it looked, to him, like there were more than two eyes staring at him. His hand began to twitch and move. He looked down to it, bloody and torn from the web and the spiders, and screamed as it began to move on its own accord. Something was wrong, he could feel it, but he couldn’t. He felt the muscles tearing and shredding as the spiders devoured him, but he could not stop his hand from coming toward him. It was not him in control. He didn’t want to die. But he did. He did. He wanted to die. This was what he deserved. His hand wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until…

Annabelle stepped away, satisfied with the work she’d done. The body of the mayor stopped moving, stopped twitching. The spiders would make fast work of him now that his performance was over. She’d enjoyed it. Mr. Spider had told her she would, and he was right. Each scene was a new horror for her delve into and exploit. The mayor never had a choice. From the moment she came to Bree, Annabelle knew exactly what would lead him here and what would happen after. His body would be strung up by the spiders and left to liquify. He would never be found, because why would anyone search here? Unless she were to poke and proud a few here and there. She would, eventually. The new mayor would be better, more compliant. This would be her home, she decided. There was a wound here, a tear that could not be healed. The Web had touched it, claimed it, Slaughter too, and even the Eye.

She had been searching for a place like this since she left Pelargir, since she’d been taking under the tutelage of Mr. Spider. Annabelle was pleased with this place. She breathed in the scent of decay and death. It was invigorating. The fear that seeped through here was palpable, it dripped off the walls like toxic slime. Yes, this place would be good.

She did not look up though. She dared not. She knew what was there and did not wish to see it. Her imagination was more than enough for her. Reality, and the thing in the rafters was more than reality, did not suit her in that moment. She’d seen the thing before, in the old crofter’s shop.

When a spider gets to be a certain size, it’s not entirely made up of spider.

[Arnyn]

Shortly after the War of the Ring
Open to all

The horse snorted. Its rider smiled faintly - a smile which did not reach her eyes. "I know, I know." The quietly spoken words settled her mount somewhat. She couldn't blame him. After a lifetime in familiar surroundings, she had taken him to another part of Middle Earth. He didn't recognize home anywhere. She herself had to admit that even the air smelled different, here in the North.

"Let's go." Only needing the slightest indication, the dark brown horse started a trot.

***

Three Northern Rangers were sitting around a fire. They looked at ease, but were alert. Even though the Enemy was vanquished, many of his former servants were still looking to serve some old or new foul purpose. One of them looked up, then rose to his feet.

"What is it? I heard nothing." One of the others murmured.
"It's not..." The Ranger who was standing, hesitated. "It's more of a feeling than a sound." He drew his blade, taking a step away from the fire.

"I bear you no ill will," a woman in grey said, her hands raised slightly as she brought herself into the light of the fire. They would swiftly see she had no weapons in hand. The sword on her belt was visible enough, however, as well as the bow and quiver sticking out over her shoulders. "My horse is still a ways back."

The two still sitting down still seemed at ease - but appearances could be deceiving. The Ranger who was standing, focused on the stranger. How had she gotten this close without any of them picking it up? She didn't look like one of their own. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night, by yourself, no less?"

The stranger slowly lowered her hands and raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I cannot handle myself, sir?"

One of the others dismissively waved a piece of bread in the air. "By Tulkas, let the woman sit. She could have killed us one by one with that bow of hers in the dark. None of us would have heard her, apparently."

The standing Ranger wasn't appeased. He didn't take his eyes off the new arrival for so much as a second. "And you conclude that means she will do us no harm?"

"Three of us. One of her. The math speaks for itself. Besides, we still have manners."

Recalcitrant, the standing Ranger gestured at the circle around the fire. He would not sit until she had done so.

[The Good Hunter]

Somewhere in the Wilds of Arnor
(with Arnyn)

The Man in the Wide-Brimmed Hat didn’t look up when the woman came into view. He’d heard her a way off, or more precisely heard her horse, but felt no inclination to tell his fellows because, well these men were rather a bunch of idiots who couldn’t feel the ground tremble beneath them as a mumak lumbered by. It was amazing that any of them had survived as long as they had. He’d only fallen in with them the previous night, much like this young ranger had, sneaking up on them and making himself known at the very last moment. He didn’t have anything planned for them, not yet per se. He’d only joined them because he was curious. It was a time of growth and change these days and one could never be too careful. If the Man in the Wide-Brimmed Hat had been seen on his own, travelling by ill-kept roads and forest byways, he might be thought a ruffian or worse. He didn’t have time to deal with consequences of all that, as it happened. He was not in a hurry, but he was not in the mood to be waylaid by pseudo intellectual lawmen looking to make a name for themselves.

He was content to let the men with him debate and prognosticate about what happened and what should happen without any input of his. In recent years he’d become an observer of human behavior and he found panicked and startled men to be a fascinating subject of observation. He was sitting a good distance away from them, the brim of his hat lowered over his face so that he could watch the events unfold without partaking. The fire’s warmth didn’t reach him as well as he might have liked, but he’d experienced much deeper cold in the past, and of course what was a little discomfort when it came to the knowledge of observation?

The little stand off was silly. If he were not so focused, he might have laughed at them all, rangers and woman alike. Suspicion was strong these days, brothers eyes sisters with cautious eyes and neighbors heard plots from everyone. One would think that now, after everything had been said and done, that trust might take root and blossom. Well, the Man in the Wide-Brimmed Hat wasn’t much of a gardener.

“Are we all going to make veiled threats at one another or are we going to eat?” he finally said when it seemed like violence might erupt. He was perfectly fine with it happening, he could more than handle the men he’d been traveling with if it came down to it, but he was rather comfortable, and bloodshed tended to be uncomfortable work. His muscles tensed, nonetheless. “If you all continue to jump at shadows, then you aren’t ready for what you’re walking into.”

[Arnyn]

Shortly after the War of the Ring
Open to all
(with Frost)

She waited as two of the rangers discussed among themselves, and frowned curiously when another spoke, asking whether they were going to continue making veiled threats, or whether they would eat. The woman in grey held back a snort. The manners one of them had spoken of, were indeed much harder to find than the not-so-veiled threat aimed at her.

"Worry not," she responded to the standing ranger's recalcitrant gesture of invitation, a slight smile on her face as she smoothly stepped into the circle around the fire. Herself, she truly wasn't worried about possible aggression, outnumbered or not. "I've no hunger for blood. I've already eaten." Letting the words stand on their own and only allowing herself that little smile, she chose a spot from where she could see all of them, including the man in the hat who was sitting farther away. Perhaps the standing ranger would object a little less to her presence now he knew she wasn't about to cut down his share of the food. And maybe, just maybe, one of them would pick up a bit of her humor. She did hope the Northerners - as she assumed they all were, even though she herself was not - wouldn't be a completely humorless lot.

She took note that the man in the hat didn't quite seem to match with the others, but chose not to voice any comments or make inquires. Surely, she did not quite match either. "Don't procrastinate on my behalf," she said, when none of them immediately seemed to make a move to eat. She held out her hands to the fire, raising an eyebrow as she looked around. "Usually, I would say: well met! But am I allowed to state such a thing, out here in the wilderness, after whatever that was that passed as a greeting just now?"

[The Good Hunter]

Somewhere in the Wilds of Arnor
(with Arnyn)

He did laugh, finally. His companions might have been sticks in the mud without half a sense of humor between them, but at least he did. Perhaps they were too tense, too ill at ease to find anything amusing, but found the whole exchange to be quite funny. Laughter was a strange sound in these parts. The way it echoed off the trees and rocks made it sound weird and mechanical. How long had it been since anyone laughed here? How long had mirth and merriment abandoned this land and allowed the dour and the witless to run wild? “You two are acting like a pair of frightened rabbits! Do you really think she’s the big bad wolf in ranger’s clothing? Come now!” He sat up, pulled off his hat, and joined them all around the fire. He shook his hair loose; black cascades fell over his shoulders as he pushed his way between the two would be rangers. In truth, he only assumed they were rangers, not many went about in that garb for grins and giggles. It was practical but it had the look of being unwashed for at least a moon’s turn. He wasn’t going to smell them to test whether his theory was correct.

The dinner that night, as it had been the night before, was wild stew with squirrel and rabbit sausage. Not the most inventive of meals, gamey and bland without the right mix of peppers, but it was warm, and it was filling. At least one of them knew how to cook. He poured himself a bowl and let the clay warm his hands. The closer he got to the fire, the more he realized it was, in fact, rather cold tonight. And likely to get colder as the night wore on.

There was tension in the air. He’d not called his companions rabbits just as a jest, they eyed the woman as if she were about to transform into some many tentacled beast. “You’ll have to forgive my companions’ utter lack of manners, traveler. I can’t tell if they’re not used to people in these lands, or if its just women they seem skittish around. They treated me the same. Well-met, in any regard.” He took a sip of the stew. It was still too hot, but his body was glad of the warmth. “By all means, stranger, have some stew, such as it is. Perhaps you care to regale us with a story of how you came to be in these sad, dolorous lands?”

[Arnyn]

Shortly after the War of the Ring
Open to all
(with Frost)

One of them seemed capable of humor, at least. It wasn't that she was feeling all that merry and lucky-go-round herself, but there were definitely things to be grateful for - and besides, could you really call a life void of laughter, a life worth living? Not as far as she was concerned.
The laughter from the man with the hat seemed to brighten the fire, while at the same time sounding terribly out of place. Strange. Gondor had been so close to the threat of the Enemy, but now the sun was shining on Minas Tirith with blazing glory. As if the country needed to make up for past time. Arnor had been far from the Shadow; perhaps now it had lifted, these lands were slower to see the difference and would need more time to adjust to the new world.

The one who'd laughed seemed the least inhibited to speak, as well as the least worried about the words he used. "A wolf? Perhaps that is how I will let you call me," she laughed quietly. She kept a casual eye on the man as he came closer to the fire and almost squeezed between the other two to get to the food. Despite her not showing any aggression, the overall mood didn't seem to relax. The two rangers seemed to need more time to acclimate to her presence.

"Well met," she nodded to the black-haired man. He was much more talkative than the others, and it seemed like he was determined not to turn the rest of the night into a very awkward one. She was grateful for that much. "That is a very nice offer." It would be impolite to refuse such an offer, especially when made after she had stated she had already eaten. "My own dishware is back with my horse. I could retrieve it, unless you have spares."

"I suppose it isn't about women, since you are obviously not one. By appearances at least." A measured grin. She didn't want to alienate the other two even more than she had done by simply showing up, so she looked at the two others with small smile. "It's understandable to be weary, though. I haven't been here long, but I am getting the sense that things here are not the same as they are in the south." She hesitated when the talkative man asked for the story of how she'd found her way here. "There is not much of a story. I come from Gondor, now part of the Reunited Kingdom, and I was curious to the lands we were reunited with, you could say."

She gave the three men a thoughtful look. "Do you three come from these parts?" Her dark eyes returned to the most talkative one. "Is it necessary to jump at shadows, here?" She also wanted to know what they would be 'walking into', but she could hold off on that question a while longer.

[Fuin Elda]

The Valley of Imladris
The Cottages of Adab Nestad

The three of them curled up eventually deciding to toss aside the frame that the mattress sat on and they went and raided another cottage that Fuin swore was not in use - it's mattress was small and hay stuffed but it was well enough that once they had bedding across the two mattresses shoved together they could all comfortably sleep without issue. Ruindil kept an arm wrapped around Fuin and Mylien pressed against her back making sure she felt safe. The great beast of a pirate captain looked at Mylien in the darkness, the moon coming through the window letting him see well enough that his wife and first mate was worried as well running her fingers through Fuins long dark locks. They looked at each other for several moments they never realized just how good Fuin was at hiding things - they'd have worried more for her if this was how they knew she lived when she was here alone. Over the next few days they would have to see if they could catch Afarfin and let him know that Fuin needed some place better to stay, she was in their mind a heavenly creature that deserved the best of everything and she had given them a safe home for years in a place that made this place seem like a dirt hovel even if it was elven built. Did she have no friends in this land that would look out for her?

They slept lightly holding each other tightly until the morning broke grey and cool with the song of birds and the three of them crawled out from the bed as strange as it was it was still far more comfortable than anything that they had slept in recently on their travels. Fuin smiled and headed outside. "We'll need to go and get some food at the House of Healing, they've a kitchen there that is stocked since I've not been home in a while so the cupboards here are bare save what we found last night."

"Bare indeed." Ruindil said stretching glancing at Mylien. "Where's this house of Healing? I'm starving." He said and Fuin shook her head.

"Starving is hardly what I'd use to describe you Ruindil." Fuin laughed and led the two of them on, the House of healing was only a short walk away and the sprawling building and Fuin walked up to it calmly and the young looking woman, Ruindil and Mylien both realized that could be deceiving though they knew very well how old their wife was greeted Fuin with a proper title, Minestor, though they weren't entirely sure what it meant, but from the tone it was certainly said with a form of reverence as she lead them through to a room with tables and chairs and a stove that was stoked and warm with a kettle upon it.

Fuin sat the two of them down and headed to go get some food cooking for the three of them. Mylien joined her shortly and soon there was the smell of frying eggs and bread and tea brewing.

[The Good Hunter]

Somewhere in the Wilds of Arnor
(with Arnyn)

There were shadows crisscrossing the ground as the flames flickered and jumped, filling the air with all sorts of imaginative shapes, some looked playful as they reached out with smoky tendrils, others looked more sinister, holdovers from lordless days when shadows at noon were not at all uncommon. There were some charlatans down south that claimed they could read the future in the flames, apparently there was a manual list of interpretations depending on whether the flames dipped this way or that, whether it died or grew, whether it was blue or red or white. As he looked at the flames and how they danced, he almost believed that the pyromancers were onto something. The sight was hypnotic, he would give them that anyway. However, not one to be mesmerized, he looked up from his temporary distraction and listened to the woman. Gondor? That made sense, after the war he expected there would be many more southerners making their way up here. The King will come one day, he thought to himself, and the lawless darkness will be exposed to naked flame. He nodded. “Gondor, eh? I thought as much when I heard your accent, you aren’t from the White City by chance? I think you are being rather modest, from the news I heard, there’s a thousand and one stories to tell about what happened. It’s not often this sad, lonely land is met with such a flower as you. Right lads?” Flowers were the wrong metaphor, perhaps, but from experience the man knew not to compare women to trees, it was not often taken well, and indeed, he looked forward to stories from people about the battles down south. He’d missed much of the war, being in the far east when word broke that the teacup had finally shattered.

He looked, then, to each of the rangers with him (the more he thought about it, the less convinced he was that these men had any idea what a ranger really was). The first looked suspicious, narrowing his eyes as he pulled his bowl to his lips, the other looked recalcitrant, apparently the only expression the dull man could manage. “Oh, come now!” he laughed mockingly at them. “She snuck up on you, that’s no reason to treat her with such discourtesy.” The man rolled his eyes and took another sip from his soup. At his prodding, however, neither spoke. Either himself or the woman had truly hurt their precious feelings and they nursed invisible wounds to their pride. He rolled eyes. Northern men were so bloody prickly about that sort of thing.

“I can’t speak for these two,” he said after a moment staring at the men, “not that they would do much speaking for themselves either mind you, but I am from a bit east of Arnor. I’m passing through on my way to Bree to visit my daughter. Her thirteenth birthday is coming and what kind of father would I be if I missed that? I’m not sure I would make much of a tour guide through these lands, being a bit of an interloper myself, but I can at least show you the way to Bree. As to jumping at shadows—” he paused and rubbed his chin in thought, “I suppose it depends on whether or not you’re a skittish rabbit, like these two oafs, or if you’ve a steadier head on your shoulder. I won’t lie to you, my lady, this land has not seen a real leader in many years and in some places where the shadows are thickest it can be dangerous. But if what you say is true and a real king is coming north, then perhaps the light of the noonday sun will wither the shadows and brambles.”

He stopped himself, feeling far too poetic for his own good. It was high time his two companions divulged their secrets. He’d been trying to get them to talk without luck during the previous day, but they were taciturn and intractable. One of them, the recalcitrant one (it was his only personality trait, so it was more than fair for him to be called that), coughed and grumbled something under his breath. He couldn’t quite make out what he’d said but it was enough of an opening. “Sorry, what was that lad? You have something you want to share with everyone here?”

[The Good Hunter]

Into the Unknown
Several Leagues North of Tharbad
(with Moriel)

Sleep, that night and for several more nights to come, did not come easy or restful for Walpurga, as Kamion had predicted. Though she fell asleep rather easily, the dreams forced her back into wakefulness enough times that her head began to pound and throb. The landscape she kept finding herself in was grey and lifeless, with shapes similar to the smears of paint on an artist’s palette moving to and fro across the landscape. From somewhere, a wind blew at her face, catching and scraping like branches in a storm. Above everything though, she could hear the sound of bones cracking and snapping, the sound of the man’s jaw as it snapped beneath her hands. That sound would never leave her, as long as she lived. She felt the sound as much as she heard it, and now, in her dreams it was amplified. The hollow, gooey sound of snapping bone echoed all around her like the sound of bells on a holy day. She awoke a dozen times with a start, only to fall back to sleep and find herself back in that dream world of lifeless grey and the synchrony of breaking bones.

Before she was able to sleep, they cleaned themselves in the stream nearby. The water seemed to flow unnaturally fast and felt preternaturally cold. Neither of them spoke a word. Walpurga’s limbs felt heavy as she dipped them in the water. The blood looked different under the moonlight, the color metamorphized from crimson to shining black. It was strange and hypnotic. For a moment, before she dipped her hands below the icy, mooncapped water, she thought it looked beautiful. Her little ones were waiting for her by the bank, terrified and shivering. The sight of her babies brought her back to reality, pulling her away from the sense of unreality she’d been drifting through in the moments after killing the man. She held them as tightly as she dared and waited for them all drift to sleep until she herself felt like she could. They left the previous campsite behind, travelling another half hour or so and plodding through deceptively shallow shadows the moon cast. They left the bodies as they were. Part of Walpurga wanted to bury them, but the majority of her wanted to let them rot and be a feast for worms and beetles. It would be more than they deserved.

When she awoke in the morning, when the first light of the pink sun flittered across the sky, Walpurga woke up and promptly vomited whatever was in her stomach on the ground. The sound of the emptying of her soul was wretched and awful, it scared her babies who had all snuggled up to her in the cold of the night. The trio of skunks bounded backward and raised their tails reflexively. It was not the start of a good day.

The next few days, in fact, were not very good. The days, hours, and minutes all passed in silence. Walpurga couldn’t bring herself to speak to her companion, and she assumed he was still too aghast with what she’d done to speak to her. She’d never killed anyone before. She’d killed wolves and other predators before, but never a man. She felt, she felt— what did she feel? She didn’t feel different. She didn’t feel ashamed. She felt bad that she didn’t feel ashamed. She killed a man! Not only did she kill someone, but she killed him so brutally. The sound of the snapping bones still haunted her dreams. She should feel some shame in that! Whatever he was, thief, robber, or marauder, he was still a person, a person who no longer was. She’d killed him the way she’d killed the wolves. What was she to make of that? She’d been defending her babies, the only things in her life that loved her unconditionally, but it still felt wrong. They, however, did not thing so. They crowded her on Svanhildr’s back and cuddled with her every night. Their presence was the only thing that kept her spiraling into shame and self-hatred.

Then, as bright and unexpected as anything could have been, they came across a field of sunflowers. They crested a ridge then were assaulted by a field of yellow so wide and so bright that it seemed an impossibility. The field was wide, spreading out for leagues in either direction. Walpurga had never seen something so beautiful and so simple. The land was flat and plain, without a tree or bush in sight. If they’d passed in the night, they’d never even noticed that something so beautiful existed. Seeing it, seeing a thing so spread out and so beautifully ordinary, Walpurga found that maybe, maybe she could find a balance, sense of homeostasis. Whatever was bound to happen, she could manage what she’d done and what she would do. Yes, yes she’d killed a man. But what would he have done if she hadn’t? She would not have survived, nor would her babies have lasted much longer. He deserved it. If she had it to do all over again, she damn well would.

She pushed herself off Svanhildr’s back and looked back north for a moment, back to Tharbad and to Rohan, the world she was leaving behind.

When you get out of here
When you leave me behind
You'll find that the years passed us by

And I can see you
Running through the fields of sorrow
Yes I can, see you
Running through the fields of sorrow*

Then she ran. She ran through that field of sunflowers, her arms spread as wide as she could. She ran and ran. She felt the sun on her face, warming the tears that began to stream down her cheeks. She felt the flowers, the petals and all, under her fingers as she ran. She felt alive. The sound of her laughter echoed across the meadow, golden as the sunflowers.

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

He’d seen everything he needed to see. He saw why that marshal wanted her so bad, the girl. She was formidable, a raw well of untapped strength. She was undisciplined and gangly, but she could be forged into something. Or, at least, she could have. She didn’t deserve the marshal’s tutelage now. He had to stay his hand as the band of ruffians attacked. He felt the blood rushing to his fingers, he felt the urge to run and rip them all to shreds. He had no doubt he could have killed them all. The ranger, of course he was a ranger because every Beren, Beleg, and Faramir from Gondor was a ranger, hapless and dull as a pull of marsh water, might cause him some trouble, but even his height couldn’t save him. They were going north. He didn’t to follow so close now, he didn’t have to follow them at all. It wasn’t like there was many places for them to hide. He could learn all he wanted about the girl by going to her old village. He had the scent, but now he needed to lay the trap. The ruffians were gold well spent. He whistled as he dug through their pockets and retrieved the thirty pieces of gold he’d paid them. Gold well spent indeed.

OOC: (lyrics taken from "Coil" by Opeth)

[Moriel]

Burn After Reading
Departing from Osdolen
(Private with Frost)

He looked like death. There had been a brief flare of hope in his eye as he approached, snuffed out like a torch in heavy rain the instant he caught sight of her. Though it was concealed, no doubt stuffed as deep as could be within his pack, the essence of the book clung to Beranwine like a foul miasma. Moriel could feel the edges of it, though its whispers did not return. Whether it was still chastened from her previous evening’s rejection of it or biding its time she did not know, but the quicker they were away from here the better.

“Lead the way,” Beranwine said, and she did. Turning from him with a nod, she strode through Osdolen’s gates with purpose, another black-cloaked ranger off to roam abroad in the wild. But her thoughts were anything but those of an ordinary ranger. They churned on Beranwine and the Grimoire that possessed him as they began their journey together, faint dawn lighting the way as they emerged from the hidden path that concealed Osdolen. Moriel struck out in the direction of Esteldín, north and east. As promised to Khallador, she had already sent to Grath Longfletch with news of the orc raids and their red claw-score markings, entreating her to take up the mission. Though she had said that she might join with Longfletch’s party, she had made no promises, nor any mention of Beranwine. She led him towards Esteldín, but reaching the outpost was not her goal.

The hours dragged out in silence. Moriel moderated her pace, so that though Beranwine trailed her, she did not leave him behind. He was old, slow, and in many kinds of pain. More vicious things than age gnawed at his bones. Dawn’s early promise was betrayed, and a thin drizzle began just past noon, following the unlikely pair into early evening. Everything about the weather seemed sharper than usual, and she blamed the book. She was sure that it was both influencing Beranwine’s endurance, and increasing her perception of the chill and sting of the rain. Moriel was well used to malevolences, but this one had a mind and mischief of its own- dangerous in a fell object. When not even the rain could drown out the sounds of Beranwine’s ragged breathing any longer, she changed tack. The sun was rapidly descending, and the section of rolling moorland they had been crossing now gave way to a thick stand of trees, many weather-beaten spruces clustered together; not tall, but hardy in the way only such northern trees could be.

Moriel led the way to the edge of the copse and inside of it; there they found a small clearing between two broad trees, surrounded by taller and more slender kin. All the heavy boughs came together above and around the clearing so that it was quite dry, and the sound of the rain, which had begun to fall more heavily, became muted. Moriel unshouldered her pack and slung it down familiarly against a log at the edge of the clearing, as if she had done so here many times before. “Rest,” she said, “I’ll get a fire going.” It was but the work of moments for her to gather sufficient material for a fire, and the spark from her flint took hold at once in the small nest of bark shavings she created at the center of the clearing. Crackles of growing flames filled the silence as she added more twigs, then sticks, to the fire. And when it was well established, she banked it with logs. The dry sprucewood hissed and popped as sap met flame; its voice grew louder, louder than the faint mutterings of the Grimoire which Moriel had been blocking from her senses, and both umber light and warmth spread in the clearing as dark descended outside the trees, to both she and her grim companion across the fire. She regarded him levelly.

“How are you faring, Beranwine?”

[Arnyn]

Shortly after the War of the Ring
Open to all
(with Frost)

She nodded slowly when the talkative man asked whether she happened to hail from Minas Tirith. When he said he thought she was being modest, worry gripped her. He could not possibly know who she was.The next moment, the feeling faded, as it became clear he had been talking about tales from the War. She arched an eyebrow when he compared her to a flower, although she supposed compared to these rather desolate lands... perhaps she was. Nonetheless, she rolled her eyes, meanwhile thinking of what tales she could tell without having to explain who she was, or had been. While she was about as far away from a ciminal as one could get, she simply wanted to avoid certain prejudice - as well as certain expectations.

A bit east of Arnor? Apparently, she wasn't the only one in this company who liked a bit of vagueness. Curiosity killed the cat, they said - but she considered herself difficult to kill.
"East of the mountains?" she inquired. Imagine if this man came from Mirkwood! He would have some stories of his own, then, would he not? "Aye, birthdays are special to children." She left the rest of his comments about visiting his daughter alone for now. If he brought her up again, she would venture a question, perhaps. He didn't seem the easily irritable sort, but personal matters had a way of bringing about moodiness more than the other business of the world. "I would appreciate that," she responded to his offer of showing her to Bree. "I left the North-South road near Tharbad, since I wanted to see more of the land. But I have heard about Bree, and it was always a plan to pass through there at least once on my travels." The Gondorian gave him a gauging look. "If it's truly no imposition."

"I wouldn't know if the King plans on coming North soon. I would imagine, at some point," she mused aloud. She wondered how Aragorn would go about it, when he did. A slight shrug. That wasn't something useful to ponder. "He seems the sort of man who would want all under his charge to be and feel safe." The tales of how he went around the City to heal those afflicted by the Shadow, after the Battle of the Pelennor, had spread through Minas Tirith like wildfire.

"Either way - if what you say is true," she continued, slapping her hands on her upper legs, "it's a good thing I'm not skittish, then."

Just then, the talkative man spoke to the other two. In the brief moments she had been here, she'd gotten the distinct impression that the interloper wasn't a fan of the two others, and didn't mind pushing their buttons, either.

The ranger glared at the interloper. "I wouldn't press my luck with us," the recalcitrant one replied with a scowl on his face. "You're a stranger, too, after all."

The Gondorian woman frowned slightly. "Considering someone a stranger should not equal considering them a threat. I will admit I probably should have made myself known sooner, but in turn I did not want to risk being shot at with an arrow or the like, myself. My sincere apologies if my arrival was cause for concern. I truly mean you no harm." She rose, gloves in hand. "If my presence is unwanted, I can leave."

The recalcitrant ranger gave her a thoughtful look and then waved his hand. "No, it's fine. If we can bear with this blabbermouth," he nodded to the interloper, "you seem like less of a challenge."

One corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. "Not sure if that is a compliment or the opposite." Her dark eyes rested on the second ranger, the one who had stood and had been the least welcoming. "And you?"
The man sighed. "No, like my brother said, it's fine." He seemed to think for a moment, and with a look at the interloper, scooped himself a bowlfull of the stew. "We were born here. Life is more on the bleak side here. So forgive our mannerisms. They've kept us alive this far."

"Fair enough," the woman said with a nod. Her gaze returned to the man who'd called himself somewhat of an interloper. "Might I ask... earlier, said you were walking into something? I dare admit my curiosity..."

[The Good Hunter]

He Who Searches
Beneath the Ruins of Amon Sarn
(Private)

He was having the most wonderful dream, running through green and golden fields, flying across the cerulean sky. He could smell a hundred different quarries, all just begging to be chased down. The sun was out, shining golden and fiery. The world was perfect. Draugûrdaer loved his dreams, especially the ones he knew were dreams, in which he could accomplish wonders that no one else could even conceive. He could chase down elk, moose, even a bear here in the beast fields of his dreams. He wondered if this was a land his ancestors dreamed of, if this place was a shared reality that all the great wolfhounds of the ages past could visit and feel a sense of freedom. He had never seen another hound here, just himself alone in fields of verdant green. Perhaps this wide, vast place was so large that even he had not explored it all, had not sniffed out every nook and cranny, had not climbed every mountain and scratched every tree. A world as wide as this could not be so empty as it appeared to him.

As if on cue, he smelled something, someone. It was not the smell of the elk he’d been changing, it was a stronger scent, a much stronger scent. He turned, ready to give chase, to find out the owner of this new scent, when he saw the shadow of something large moving toward him, flying at a speed that he could not believe possible, even within the realm of dreams. He started, barked a great echoing bark, then took a step back, ready to turn and run should he need it. There were predators here, the wolfhound well knew, but none so great as this, whatever it was. He was just as eager to learn the identity of this person or thing as he was nervous.

The closer the shadow flew, the more Draugûrdaer felt ready to fly or to pounce. It moved like a wisp of cloud moving against the wind, darting to and fro faster than any bird or butterfly. The closer the shadow came, the more corporeal, the more real it became. By the time it was within a hundred strides of the wolfhound, he could see something akin to a face in that shadow. And by then, it was too late to run.

“Draugûrdaer,” a voice said out of the shadow, a male voice, strong and gravelly.

“I am he,” he said, taking another step back.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice said. Something came out of the shadow, or the shadow coalesced into, he could not quite tell. A hound appeared, bigger and broader than any wolfhound Draugûrdaer had ever seen. He was as big as a pony and twice as strong. “I am Huan, or at least I was.”

Huan! The wolfhound was taken aback. Every pup knew the legends of Huan, they were weaned on them. Every puppy with his eyes opened wanted to be Huan, going on adventures, rescuing companions, and slaying evil monsters. Huan! Huan was appearing before him. “How is this possible?” he asked, pawing sheepishly at the ground. What does one do in the presence of the great legend in canine history?

“You are in the Beast Fields, Draugûrdaer, where we all go once we’ve passed on from this world. You run wild in your dreams, but I run in here in truth. I have come to you because there is something required of you.”

He bowed his head, “What must I do, Huan?”

“Like me, you are called upon to act, to save the life of a companion, to search her out and protect her from an oncoming darkness.”

“I— an adventure, true and real?” he could not keep his tail from wagging.

Huan chuckled, his voice like the great echo of caverns. “Do not be too excited, young pup. Though I know you are ready, it will not be an easy road. There will be many obstacles, many things that will try to pull you from the path you have been set on. You will face hardships that you could not believe.

“You will see the face of joy,” he continued, “as legends are kind to me, so too will they be kind to you. Our brethren will know your name when they bark and howl. Across aeons will your bravery be known.”

“I am willing,” Draugûrdaer said, straightening to his full height. He was not as large as Huan, a wolfhound of far away Aman, but he was the greatest wolfhound of the age, a mixture of northern spitz and wolfhound, giant and shaggy but agile and quick. He’d run with many packs and spent much time alone. He’d encountered wolves and bears and mountain lions. He had experienced a life of brutal hardship but felt the warmth of triumph, tasted the sweet wine of victory and rest. “Where must I begin my search? Whom shall I call my companion in the road against evil?”

“Your journey lies south of here, far from the comforts of your land in Amon Sarn. You must cross mountains and rivers, fields and forests, you will come to the White City of Man, a great bustling place willed with two legged folk. There you will find her. It is of great importance that you find her. Her name is Walpurga.”

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda)

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

The sky was grey overhead as the girl awakened, stretched out on the muddy bank of the river. Everything ached, and there seemed to be nothing and no one around, except for her. Without a clue where she was, nor of anything else around her, she somehow dragged herself to her feet, nearly collapsing a few times, grabbing onto some nearby trees for support. Details were getting fuzzier by the moment, which she was glad for. She didn’t want to think about anything. She stumbled forward, dazed. There seemed to be some reason she should get up and follow the river, but she had difficulty recalling why. Then, as if out of a distant dream, the thought flitted into her head; she must find her daddy. Daddy will make everything alright. If she could only find him, he’d keep her safe, and he’d know what to do. With that thought in mind, the girl set off unsteadily along the river, some distant recollection telling her that he would be somewhere along the banks. She couldn’t have said why, but that didn’t matter.

Onward she walked, for an unknown amount of time, oblivious to night and day. “Daddy?” She called faintly, periodically. Walking slowly, stumbling slightly with each step, the girl moved onward as if in a dream. The nightgown she wore was heavily streaked all over with blood and dirt, and had several small rips and snags, from where it had gotten caught on brambles or tree limbs. Her blond hair, once done in two neat braids, was a bedraggled mess of knots posing as braids, soaked in mud and who knows what else. Scratches and bruises covered her face, arms, and legs, and the nightgown hid plenty of other bruises. Though she seemed to be around twelve or thirteen, she was oblivious to the state of her appearance, and her blue eyes remained somewhat glazed as she tripped on some roots, climbed to her feet again, and kept walking.

“Daddy…” The call was a mumble more than anything. She had no idea how long she had been in the river. She had even less idea how long it had been since she awakened on the bank. She could have been walking for days, or only five minutes. Time seemed to not exist, and all that mattered was finding her father. “Daddy?” She repeated her feeble call every so often, as if expecting a reply at any moment. There was no reply, however, aside from the steady rushing of the river beside her. Her faint voice was mostly covered up by the sound, but she didn't notice. On and on it rushed, never tiring, drawing her to keep on going, as if she might see her father if she rounded that next bend, or crested the slight hill ahead of her, or perhaps he would be waiting beyond that cluster of bushes. "Daddy..."

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring


He was lost. He was quite certain of it. Melviriel and Mylien and Ruindil had all tried to tell him where exactly her keep was on the southern coast of Eriador. They'd even offered to take him with them the last time but he'd been stubborn and had not wanted to go. He'd needed more time, he'd also needed to come to an understanding that Melviriel had a Keep. He'd stumbled on a Dunlending camp, or they had stumbled on him it was a bit of a mix of the two both had been on the move. Fortunately he'd been on his horse and his horse had alerted him before he had gotten to close to avoid their primative spears and arrows. He'd raced away for a good few days and nights keeping an eye out for them and making sure that they were not within striking distance or visual distance for a good long while.

He had spotted the dark stain of trees in the distance a day ago and remembered that his partners had said the Keep was on the far side of the Black woods, now those trees were growing ever closer, as was the roar of water and soon he found himself at the edge of the Greyflood. Melviriel had talked about fording a river with the cart so perhaps this was it? He stood and looked at the banks for several moments. Riding up and down a goodly length of the river before he found an area he was certain he and his mount would be able to cross. Slowly they made it across the river the horse stumbled a few times but Afarfin guided it gently and slowly and soon they were out the other side and into the woods.

He was happy an excited that perhaps before night fall he would find himself in a nice warm bed with a hot meal instead of his dried fruit and travel bread and the arms of his partners as he urged his horse on, knowing that the horse needed to keep moving after that cold river crossing. He wondered how many families Mevieriel housed in and around her Keep. From the sounds of it it was quite substantial when he heard a faint call and he stopped his brow furrowing as he pulled up his horse. 'Daddy?' There it was again, he was certain that's what he'd heard the first time though it was soft and faint and somewhere ahead of him in the mess of brush and bough. Perhaps some child from Bar-en-Raveara had become lost? What better way to introduce himself to the people that called Melviriel their Lady than to bring back a missing child. He reigned his horse gently towards the intermittent calls of Daddy, letting the beasts sharp ears track the call and movement as well as he could as he headed towards the childs voice.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda)

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

"Daddy.." The river stretched on and on. Where was her daddy? He should be there, just ahead. Where did he go? "Daddy?" She had to find him, though she couldn't quite remember why. Dark shadows lingered at the corners of her memory, threatening to sweep over her and envelope her in the terror that had held claim to her mind for a time, before. She didn't want those memories to catch up to her, and kept walking, pushing her tired, aching feet to keep carrying her onward, away from all those frightful things. A portion of the bank crumbled from under her foot, and she fell down, nearly slipping into the river. But she picked herself up without seeming to notice, and continued onward.

The sounds of a horse riding through the brush didn't even phase her. In fact she may not have heard it, for she seemed not to, as she plunged her way into a thicket of underbrush, filled with thick briers that she didn't notice. They caught on her nightgown, tangled around her legs, and held up her progress. The sting of the thorns didn't register, but they wouldn't release her clothing, and the more she tried to step forward, the more tangled she became. "Daddy?" She called out, a little more anxiously. He must come and rescue her, or the monsters would catch her again.. if they hadn't already. Oblivious to the scratches on her arms and legs, she tried to pull free of the thing holding her captive, but the girl was quite trapped in the midst of the thorns, and not in a proper state of mind to know how to get back out. "Daddy!" She called, panic starting to rise within her, now. Perhaps he would be close enough to come to her rescue, now.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

It did not take him long to find the source of the calls. The grew louder each step his horse took until he saw something, he wasn't entirely sure what it was at first tumble near the river and keep walking completely ignoring him. It took him a moment to realize that this was a young girl for all the mud and sticks and wretchedness that she presented. Shaking his head he followed her at first curious as to what happened to her, and afraid to wake her from her stupor. She may not take the sight of a stranger well not that he couldn't defend himself he did not know if it would harm her more. Melviriel would know what to do.

That was an odd thought. Before she would have sought his guidance and now he was wishing he had hers. She was a healer, a good one she'd know what the child needed without a doubt. His mind was made up for him though when she plunged into a thorny thicket and became tangled the thorns cutting at her and her calls for her father coming louder, more desperate than they had been before. He slipped off of his horse dropping the reins and pressed into the thicket after the small child. He was acutely aware of the stinging barbs that cut at him and he was better dressed than she was. He reached out gently and put his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay little one I'll get you out." He said softly he hoped that the action would be soft and kind enough that she would calm down and that he'd be able to extract her from the thicket with as little damage as possible, he could see tiny wells of blood from the scrapes and scratches over the mud already. "Just be calm little one I'll help." He kept saying similar things over and over, remembering once when he'd needed to sooth Melviriel from a similar state. She'd watched her fathers death at the hands of his oath brothers sword. She had been utterly lost and he'd needed to get her out of there to protect her from harm then as well, at least hear there were no Noldo trying to kill the child.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

A soft, comforting sort of voice crept through the edges of her panic, drawing her gaze slowly toward the source. How long had she been searching for her daddy? Was that him? Had he finally come? The touch on her shoulder was gentle, stilling the girl's struggles against the thorns. Staring at the person in front of her, she tried to make sense of why his face didn't look like any she remembered. She didn't know him, or at least she didn't think she did. But he wasn't a monster, coming to rip her apart or, or...

No, she pushed those thoughts away swiftly, not wanting to let them in. The other person continued speaking, softly, comfortingly. It was something to focus on, something better than the fear and desperation, and she stared at the unfamiliar face while he worked, dimly aware that he was doing something to help her. Where was Daddy, she wondered, baffled that it was a stranger to come help, instead of him. And now that she had finally come to a halt from pressing onward, she found it difficult to stay upright, suddenly. Eating and sleeping seemed like things from a long-forgotten dream, or else she was trapped in some sort of dream where such things didn't exist, and all that mattered was that she kept going. But she couldn't now. "Have.. to find..Daddy." She murmured wearily, trying to make the stranger understand that it was important that she keep searching.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

Her struggles further into the thorns ceased and he was able to very carefully remove her from the thorns that held her though her clothing was a bit worse for wear for it. She was quite weak he could tell that it had to be days since she'd eaten or possibly slept? His brow creased for a moment, these woods didn't seem large enough for her to be lost for days without him being able to hear calls of someone else looking for her. That worried him. As did as he looked closer at her the state of her clothing. It wasn't just mud and mess from being lost in a forest. She smelt like death, and there was old blood on her clothing, and the hand print on it... it was massive, and there was only one thing that he could think of with a hand print like that. Trolls.

"I know little one first lets get you a bit of water and food that way you can stay strong enough to help me look for him with you." He said keeping a hand on her to steady her as se seemed to sway and threaten "Perhaps you should sit down for a moment." He offered trying to make sense of how a child would be covered in such gore and in such terrible shape if she came from Bar-en-Raveara. Perhaps she hadn't. That was the only comforting thought he had, after all the thought that something had done this to a child where his partners dwelt terrified him. No. Melviriel described the place as a Keep, that was hard to assault by sea and almost as hard to assault by land. He was coming from land, he'd have seen seige works if someone was attacking a Keep by now, especially if they were keeping trolls to fight. Some sign of an army or makeshift shelters for trolls to hide in at night. He hadn't even seen goblin sign of late. He pulled his water canteen from is waist and undid the lid encouraging the girl to drink, he didn't have much food left but some dried fruit would be the next thing that he'd try to get her to consume. Then... He debated on if he could talk her into a bath in the river though the water was cold and would likely not be the best he was not sure he wanted to ride the rest of the day to the keep on the far side of these woods with her smelling like death. He'd not had to deal with that since the First Age, he wasn't sure his stomach would take it now.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

The water from the canteen flowed past her lips, making her realize how thirsty she was. She drank eagerly, until she got a little too much at once, and choked on the water, ending up in a fit of coughing, as an unwelcome memory flashed into her mind.

Water swirled around her, tugging her downward, turning her this way and that, as she struggled helplessly against the current. Her head broke the surface briefly, gasping and spluttering in desperate gulps, but she inhaled some water with the air, and couldn't stop coughing. Then, she was pulled under again for a long moment, and it was all she could do to stop her body from trying to gulp in another breath of air, at least until she’d found the surface again. Panicked, frantic, she fought to swim in any direction that wasn’t downward, although she had trouble distinguishing which way that was. For a brief moment, she thought she broke through to the surface, but by the time she gasped in what she hoped was air, she’d been shoved downward again, and she felt herself being carried along with wherever the river chose to take her.

Memories swirled around in her mind for a moment as she coughed, blue eyes wide with alarm as she frantically pushed the canteen away, caught up in a moment of panic. No, she couldn't let those memories back in, she didn't want to remember the terror, or anything else at all. Blindly struggling to push away both memories and the water that had choked her, she whimpered in fright.

In her struggle against the unrelenting water, the girl felt her hand hit something solid. She frantically flailed her arms about until she found it again; a log, floating and bobbing with the current. Clutching it with all her remaining strength, she dragged herself up toward the surface, until she found air again. Coughing and gasping, she clung to the log with desperation, giving no heed to anything else but trying to satisfy her lungs.

In her flailing, this time, she clutched at the stranger, trembling as she buried her face against his shirt, breathing shakily. "Don't let'em find me again.." She whimpered, unsure even who 'them' were, but felt some recollection that someone or something had been chasing her. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to find out... she just knew she didn't want them to catch up to her.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

He realized she was drinking to fast and too greedily to late and she choked on the water before he could slow down the pour from the canteen. He pulled it away from her even as she panicked and shoved it away from her face, he could not tell what was going through her head, he could tell she was afraid but of what? The trolls that he guessed had put her in such a state? Perhaps though if they were about they'd likely be stone by now, they would be safe until night fall at the very least. "it's alright little one." He said as she clung to him suddenly and asked that he not let them find her. He was certain it was trolls, he doubted that the Dunlendings would do this, at least not and leave a survivor to run. No. They would want one that was a little more mentally sound so that it could tell tales of what had happened. He rocked back and forth gently, and wished that Melviriel was there she was a healer. She would have some understanding of what to do.

"I won't let them find you, I'm going to take you to an elven Keep we'll look for your father from there." He said softly and did his bests to try to keep his voice soft and reassuring. Indeed he was certain that while they rode his mount he'd get her to eat a little bit. Hopefully they would find the Keep on the far side of these woods. He did not want to add that if they did find find them that he would defend them. He did not want to draw her attention to the fact he was well armed, he most certainly did not want her trying to grab for the weapons and hurt herself or him in her panic. He gently patted her back a bit at a loss waiting for her to calm down enough that they could mount up and get going. If there were trolls about even if he hadn't spotted them he wanted to put even more distance between them especially if they were in the woods themselves.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

The rocking, the soothing voice, the reassuring words.. all combined began to finally lull the weary girl into much needed sleep. There was no telling how many days and nights she had walked without stopping to rest, or how long she had been in the river before then, without rest. There was some dim recollection of having been carried along helplessly by the swift current, but not much before then, nor did she have any idea how long this journey had taken her before reaching this point.

As exhaustion finally caught up to her, the frightened girl relaxed gradually against the stranger. Her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed to a steady, restful pace, at last. Once enveloped in some sense of safety, she was swift to drift off into slumber. And when she finally allowed the sleep to come, she slept deeply, so that it would take quite a lot to wake her for the next several hours.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

She relaxed in his arms and for a moment Afarfin was relieved when he realized that she was asleep. Of course this did mean that he had a new problem in that she was asleep and they were not on his horse. However as he moved about she remained asleep and he was able to get them both up and onto his horse. He rode his horse as quickly as he dared through the woods hoping not only to get to the Keep so that they would be able to give this girl a warm bath if she'd take one, as she still absolutely smelt of death and he was not enjoying it at all.

Soon they cleared the forest and he was excited to see his wife and this amazing Keep he'd heard of from her as well as Mylien and Ruindil, only to discover nothing but open plain all the way to the ocean and the Greyflood to his west. There wasn't a keep in sight and he could see the flat shore of thi coast. Nothing here looked right. There were no cliff faces that could hide tall shops, there was no massive keep that couldn't be missed with a wall near the forest. There was nothing. He glanced around, suddenly very aware of his food and water situation as well as the possibility of trolls or the Dunlending that had followed him previously. There was a good chance that they were following him still just far enough behind. He had to back track he couldn't cross the Greyflood here. He cursed several times and spun his horse about getting it going back the way he'd come along the river edge. If he could find a different place to ford he would do so. He knew that wouth from here was the River Isen and that it too opened out in a much gentler harbor that had once upon a time been a thriving city from what he had learned but Melviriel had said nothing of that sort. No he neeeded to go west he was certain of it. But how long of a trip was it to the next forest on the coast? A day? Two?? He didn't know he wasn't about to let the child go hungry and had a feeling that he was most certainly about to.

He just hoped that she stayed asleep while they were crossing the river as she didn't seem to fond of the idea of water at the moment. The canteen had spooked her badly enough when she'd choked on it.

He looked as far as he could searching for the stain of the next forest on the western horizon... it was a long ways off but he did see one. He bit his lower lip and urged his horse on especially once he'd found a ford and had crossed the river that blocked his path and travelled at a swift pace until night was threatening to settle in about them and Arien was dipping low on the horizon. The forest he could see was till easily a hard days ride away if he pushed his mount. Two if he took a kinder pace on the beast, however the beast had food abound to eat when they stopped, he and the girl did not. Only scant dried fruit and the like now and he had a feeling that she would eat a goodly amount of that when she woke up and unlike his wife he was not proficient with a bow.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

The first thing she became aware of, upon beginning to wake, was the sound of the hoof beats on the ground. An occasional horse-snort, further confirmed there was a horse nearby. She wanted to roll over and curl up, go back to sleep. Just a few more minutes, she told herself, tempted to sleep on for another few hours. But then, as she was entertaining the idea of doing so, she became further aware that she was sitting on the horse. And they were moving. Blue eyes slowly eased open, confused. She was traveling? Riding on a horse, while she slept? Still drowsy, she focused her gaze ahead, and saw the neck and head of a pretty, chestnut colored horse. She didn't remember getting on a horse. She didn't recall having a horse, for that matter.

Finding no explanation for these things, the girl stared at the back of the horse's neck for a long moment, before she realized that someone else was on the horse as well, someone who was holding her, to keep her from falling over, or off the horse. Was she a captive? The light was growing dim, but not so dim she couldn't see.
There were no ropes on her hands, but.. was that blood?! Her breath caught as she spotted the condition of her clothing, and her arms and legs. Many, many scratches, and blood stains?

Tensing slightly, she stared down at the bloodstains streaked down her front, then slowly turned to try and see who was behind her. His face was not one she recognized. "Who are you? Wh-where are we going?" Her voice was slightly shaky, but not dazed-sounding, as before. Twisting around like that brought a slight wince, disturbing some bruises she hadn't realized were there, around her ribs and sides. So, instead of trying to turn to see the man behind her, she took a moment to look around at her surroundings, but nothing at all looked familiar. Not in the slightest. "Where.. are we?" She asked hesitantly, confused by all of these unfamiliar things. Meanwhile, she was acutely aware of her sharp pangs of hunger, and wondered how long she had been asleep. But, at the moment, she was slightly more interested in finding out if she was with a friend or foe...

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

It was many hours before the girl finally stirred from her slumber, but it was slowand he was in no rush to speed her along to wakefulness. He figured she needed all the sleep she could get, he doubted she'd actually slept since whatever had attacked her and seperated her from her family, more likely she was in a haze awake yet not protected from what was happening by her mind. A few elves had had such things happen to them in the Great battles of old, often wandering around looking for their missing ring, not realizing the hand that the ring was also missing. She wasn't quite in that state blessedly but certainly she had been through a lot. Finally she started moving more, even as the light of Arien began to fade into the West behind the stain of the forest that he could see, he'd hoped she'd stay alseep long enough that he could find Bar-en Raveara but alas she was awake now and asking questions.

"Easy child. I am Afarfin Mordagnir of Lothlorien and now Imladris. And we are, hopefully going to my wifes Keep Bar-en-Raveara though she's not so good with directions, which is bad for me but perhaps good for you." He said calmly. Her voice was certainly clearer now than it had been before, more forceful more aware of what she was saying and asking. "And we are between two woods in Dunland near the sea. I found you in the woods near the Greyflood, my wife is a healer and will hopefully be able to tend any wounds you might have from the thorns you were in and whatever may have driven you into those thorns." He said as he slowed his chestnut mare so that they were at a plodding walk now that she was awake perhaps they would be able to make camp. She'd likely eat the last of his rations tonight if he let her, he could feel the pangs of hunger as her stomach seemed to roar for food. "Hopefully we arrive at her keep tomorrow, for now though now that you are awake we may wish to make camp as soon as we find a small hill to hide behind. There are plenty of dunlendings around and a fire will draw them to us like moths and you I think need the warmth and a bit of a meal." He said with a soft smile that bordered on a smirk.

[Fuin Elda]

The Valley of Imladris
The Cottages of Adab Nestad

Fuin slept well, curled half ontop of Ruindil with Mylien pressed tightly against her back for warmth on the small but soft mattress it was disconcerting for Ruindil and Mylien who were far more use to sleeping in this size of bed on a rocking ocean for the bed to be perfectly still and then for the sweet sounds of birds to awaken them as the warm light of Arien slipped through the windows as a different experience. With her still asleep Ruindil was stuck laying on his back his lips pressed together looking around the room without moving to terribly much He could see spider webs in the rafters, and dust everywhere their quick dusting now showed particles swirling in the air in a strange dance as he gently stroked his elf wifes hair.

The cottage had looked far worse at night now in the light of day it seemed it was more dust that was piled up and a lack of living here that made it seem so strange and cold. He knew Fuin often was with them in Bar-en-Raveara, and she did say she rarely slept inside when she was away from them. She'd maintained having a home though even if it was dusty incase she needed a place to stay. He felt better about that. He and Mylien would help her clean the place up a bit more and stock some food as he figured they'd be here a little while longer at least before they headed back to her keep with all of it's luxury trappings compared to this dwelling.

Soon enough both of his wives stirred and he gave each a gentle kiss before extracting himself from the small bed and stretching rubbing life back into his arm where both Fuin and Mylien had been laying upon it sound asleep for hours sharp jolts felt like they were running through his hand. "So we've a breakfas' with Afarfin, 'ow early does he get wake up?"

"Valar only knows he was military in his last life so probably earlier than the singing birds knowing him."

"Indeed." Came a voice from outside the cottage and all three of them jumped. Ruindil could see Fuin looking about her cottage it was not ready to recieve some reborn elf lord, and he grabber her pants tossing them to her letting her bounce to the door pulling her pants on so that she could go stall him so that he and Mylien could at least get to some semblence of dressed.

"Afarfin." She said half tumbling out only to be caught by him which brought a smile and a laugh from him.

"I see you're still the same old Mel - Fuin. You've not even bothered with your shoes." Fuin blushed.

"Sorry I'll admit I've lived a bit of a pampered life of late, sleeping in and the like." Afarfin steadied her, wanting for a moment to kiss her good morning but stopped himself as he looked down into her eyes and instead brushed her hair back away from her face.

"You'll be happy to know that I too have been a bit more pampered, the issue was I could hardly wait to see you again as well as -" He hestitated for a moment, "Your husband and wife."

"Mylien and Ruindil."

"Yes Mylien and Ruindil. I don't think I actually slept much at all so it's not entirely fair I hope you slept well at least?"

"Like a bleeding log, me arm is dead from 'er and Mylien." Ruindil said coming out the door Mylien following him Fuins boots in hand having heard his comment about her shoes. Afarfin laughed at that. "Laugh all ye like, I'll lay on yer arm see how funny it is when I make ye me husband." Ruindil said with a cheeky grin and Afarfin gave a snort at that and shook his head. He'd not decided yet, but they had plenty of time to get to know each other before he had to let Ruindil carry out his threats.

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

His voice sounded calm and soothing. She listened, facing ahead so not to have to keep turned around. Much of what he said didn't hold much meaning for her, however. The names of places meant nothing. She heard something about his wife being a healer, though, and that seemed comforting somehow. He found her in the woods? She frowned as she tried to remember being in the woods. Nothing came to mind. Why had she been in the woods? Why was she like this, covered in blood? He spoke of thorns, that explained the scratches all over her arms and legs, but not the rest.

"What are dunlendings?" She wondered, puzzled by this strange word. It sounded, by the way he spoke, like something unpleasant. A monster perhaps? She shivered slightly at the thought of monsters coming for them. "Will we be safe?" She asked, frowning in concern. Warmth and food sounded very nice, however, and she made no objection to the idea of stopping to camp. He spoke of going someplace near the sea, and she tried to think whether she had ever seen the sea before. No memories of it came to mind. And then, with a bit of concern, she realized that no other memories came to mind either.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

She seemed calm considering how he had found her, and he frowned slightly when she asked about Dunlendings after all everyone that lived in Eriador and a good portion of the lands beyond the Misty Mountains to the East especially near the Gap knew what Dunlendings were. Perhaps she'd bumped her head? It was hard to tell.

"They are men that inhabit the steppes near the mountains that are to our backs right now. We are mostly far enough away that we should only get a few outlayers of their people for the most part even if we were to put light to wood at the highest point we can find. I prefer not to deal with them so we will find a small depression or a hill to put between us and the mountains and the north so that we are harder to see to them and hopefully easier spotted by my wife and her men." Afarfin said with a smile. "And we will be safe I promise." There was of course always a chance of danger in these lands he knew that but he doubted they would be set upon by any organized group which should mean that they would be safe. As light was just about to finish fading out Afarfin found what he was looking for a bit of a washed out gully formed by rain. It was not so deep that they couldn't stand and get out of it but it was not so shallow that the light of their fire would be in the open it was perfect.

Afarfin pulled up his mount and slipped off his horse offering a hand to the young girl. "I'll get you seated where the fire should give you a decent amount of warmth. He got her near the end of the small washed and gathered up some grass and small twigs from the brambled brush that grew about, the fire would be small but in the wash it would reflect and keep her warm. He offered her his cloak as well to keep her warm knowing he wouldn't need it tonight aside from if he wanted some extra comfort. and set to work starting the small fire. the brush and brambles were dry and they caught swiftly and soon there was a tiny fire that would go out if not tended but Afarfin would keep it going all night and stay on watch just in case.

Happy that the girl had some warmth and shelter he pulled out a small parcel of dried fruit and nuts and handed it to her. 'So friend you've my name might I get yours?'

[Rillewen]

(Private with @Fuin Elda )

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

Steps to the mountains? She tried to imagine this, and thought of a tall stairway winding up the mountainside. And the people he described didn't sound like much to be worried about, but perhaps he had made them mad. Maybe they were guarding the staircase up the mountain. But it didn't sound like he wanted to go up the mountain, but rather past it, into the woods. So, why were they a problem? Trying not to get too wrapped up in the confusing matter, she nodded slightly as she let him talk and explain, and didn't ask much more for now.

Instead, she continued looking around curiously as they traveled, but soon there was little to see as the sun went down, casting the world into darkness. She couldn't tell much about their surroundings, then. Eventually though, he stopped and helped her down from the horse. Now, she might have taken a better look at her new friend, but it was too dark. She huddled into a little sheltered cove and wrapped the offered cloak around herself. As the fire flickered to life, she was able to see him better, and noticed with some surprise that his ears were pointed. She blinked as she became aware of that detail, but didn't ask about it. She was far too busy accepting the fruit and nuts, eagerly trying to fill her complaining stomach.

As he asked for her name, the girl paused in the middle of chewing, and took a moment to think. And think. Slowly chewing what was in her mouth, she continued thinking, harder. Swallowing at last, she looked up at him with a puzzled, and slightly worried, expression. "I don't know." She frowned. "I.. can't think of what it is." The realization of it hit her, and her eyes widened slightly in alarm. How could she forget her name? What happened that would have caused that?

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

Afarfin raised an eyebrow at her comment that she couldn't think of what her own name was, he'd never heard of such a thing but he had no idea what she'd been through and he was not a healer. Perhaps Fuin had. "That's alright little one, I'm sure you'll remember it eventually." He said with a small smile and tossed another few small twigs onto the small fire. "I'm going to go and grab some more scrub to make sure we have enough for the entire night." He said and hopped himself up put of the wash and wandered about the area where they had stopped finding several bramble bushes that were dry and dead. He snapped them off at their bases before returning so that he could snap a few tiny branches off and throwing them in as needed. He sat back down and leaned back against the wash wall relaxing as well as he could knowing he would be on fire duty all night to keep his charge warm and safe until morning.

In the morning he would see if he could find any greens or other food around them, he wanted to do that when the girl was awake and was able to see him just incase she panicked thinking he'd left her alone in this strange place. "If you can sleep more I would suggest it I don't have much food left and will have to find more in the morning when we have light again so your stomach will probably thank you for a bit more sleep."

[Rillewen]

Private with @Fuin Elda

Somewhere along the Greyflood river, south of Nîn-in-Eilph
A few years before the War of the Ring

His reassurance did little to actually reassure her. How could a person forget their name? She found this confusing. Furthermore, she found it confusing that she couldn't remember anything else before this. She finished eating what was in her hands, watching Afarfin set off into the darkness beyond the fire light, to find more fuel for the fire. She wrapped her arms around herself, then winced as she found more bruises. It felt like she'd been squeezed and nearly crushed by some enormous hand, but that was absurd. Nothing had hands that big, right?

As he returned with stuff to add to the fire, she smiled faintly, relaxing. Were there wolves out there, she wondered? What other scary things might there be, beyond their fire? She glanced up at him as he suggested sleeping some more, and having no more food. None? She was a little surprised by that, and frowned, trying to think if she had seen him eat anything. And what she had eaten was very little, not very much at all. Her stomach was claiming there had been nothing, although she knew better. He was right about trying to sleep. It would probably quiet her stomach if she could sleep, but would she be able to? It would certainly be difficult, but she nodded in reply to the suggestion, and tried to get comfortable there on the ground. As it turned out, she was still quite sleepy, and falling asleep was much easier than she had expected, for she was soon sound asleep.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring


Light came slowly to the east as Afarfin sat slowly feeding the tender flame watching the girl sleep and keeping a keen ear and eye out for anything that might be out of place in the open plain. So far they were safe he'd seen nothing of the Dunlending that had had followed him for so long. Perhaps they had turned back he wasn't sure of where they were but he had other things to worry about. Slowly the grey mist of premorning light gave way to soft colors peaking gently until it was easy to see for some distance. He fed several pieces of the scrub he'd gathered into the fire that way it would still be burning when he came back.

He quietly slipped out of the wash and went to his horse, rummaging through the small pack that was still on his horses back. He found one more small parcel of dried fruit and nuts, and tucked them away so that he could give them to the young girl when she woke up before he slipped about beginning to look for clover and other greens that he might be able to eat. There was not a lot but he found several mouthfuls and quickly ate those quickly though he looked a little longer staying near the wash so that if the young girl woke once more she would only need to peak her head up over the edge to see him. He looked to the west and the stain of the forest that they were heading towards. It was still a long ways off but he was quite certain they would be there by the evening and then he wouldn't need to be worried about scavenging food anymore if what Fuin had told him was right there would be plenty of it. With that he began prepping his mare for traveling drawing her near the wash.

[Rillewen]

Private with @Fuin Elda

Somewhere in the wilds
A few years before the War of the Ring

Wakefulness crept upon her slowly as the first beams of sunlight found their way onto her face. After a little bit of enduring this annoyance, she rolled over and tried to pull the blankets over her head. Then after another few moments, she blinked her eyes open slowly and looked at what she had assumed to be blankets. It was a cloak, not blankets. Stretching carefully, she winced at the pain around her torso, and the reminder of all the cuts and scratches on her limbs. Sitting up slowly, she looked at the fire, and remembered Afarfin, and stopping to camp. She rubbed her eyes and looked around curiously, and spotted him rummaging around in the grass and things.

After watching him quietly for a moment, she shifted to sit cross-legged by the fire, trying to ignore how hungry she felt. Putting her hand up to scratch an itch on her head, she was a little surprised to find what felt like some twigs knotted up in her hair. What the..? Realizing, by feeling the rest of her hair, that it seemed to be a big knotted mess divided into what had begun as two braids, the girl began trying to work one of the braids loose with her fingers, digging out the twigs and whatever else had found its way in there. It became clear almost right away that it was going to take a while to accomplish, but maybe it would distract her from her hunger.

[Fuin Elda]

Private with @Rillewen

Afarfin
Heading towards Bar-en-Raveara
A few years before the War of the Ring

He heard her wake up and glanced towards her wondering how she would react now that she had had some rest how she would react or if she would have some of her memories restored. He kept rummaging through the grass a while longer picking and eating sorrel and clover and dandelion leaves greens that would hold him over well enough for the day. He was glad to see that she didn't seem to be panicking at all and was working on her hair. Something that he'd not even thought about.

He stood slowly and headed for his mount and the pack their he'd been awake most of the night so his hair hadn't gotten mussed by sleep and he pulled a comb from the pack and headed for the girl with a smile offering her a small ration pack and the comb.

"I hope you slept well, that's for you to eat you seem to need it a fair bit more than me at the moment." He said as he sat down beside the fire that was low embers now though there was still some heat from hit. They'd be moving soon so it was good that they fire was out already besides embers and coals though the early morning was chill and damp from dew. "We'll head out as soon as you're ready so we can hopefully make it to the Keep tonight and have some comfortable warm beds and full bellies." He scanned the north and west looking at the forest that they were heading towards he could see figures to the north by they were a fair ways off outside of human vision from what he could tell though he was beginning to think that they were the Dunlendings that he'd run into before, his detour had likely made it so that they had been able to catch up a little bit but he was certain that they would be safe even if they were walking slowly because of how far south they were.

[Rillewen]

Private with @Fuin Elda

Somewhere in the wilds
A few years before the War of the Ring

Glancing up as she saw him approaching, she watched while he got something from his pack, and handed it to her. Food! But didn't he say last night that there was no more food? She tried to recall, but then decided it didn't really matter. He was also handing her a comb, she noticed. She smiled and accepted both, foregoing the comb for now in favor of the food. It wasn't great food, but it was better than nothing, and her stomach seemed quite eager for anything. Once she had finished what was in the ration pack, she glanced around. "How far is it to the Keep?" She wondered, a little unsure what a keep might be.

Picking up the comb, she began wondering if she should bother with it. Though she couldn't see how her hair looked, she had a feeling the knots were going to be more than she could manage in a short time. The dying fire left her feeling a bit chilled, but she tried not to complain. Standing from her spot by the cold fire, she wrapped the cloak around herself to keep warmer. "I'm ready to go." She declared, deciding the comb could be used along the way. She wouldn't be the one guiding the horse, after all, so she'd have her hands free.

[Hanasian]

Hanasían


The Battle at Raven Falls
Rhudaur - The Ettenmoors ~ 30 Lótessë 3009 T.A.
(Private)

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It was a time not thought of too well among the brethren, for the world was darkening and the way of the lands were ever being pressed by darkness. But still we would ride to curb their forays into the lands about Eriador. One of these such times, seven of us rode east in pursuit of wargs who ravaged the lands, and we drove them back into the woods of Rhudaur. But there was something not right about it, and mistakenly Elendir, who was in command of this ride in the absence of Chieftain Aragorn and Captain Halbarad, decided we should see what lingered there, and we set out into the rough country along the upper Hoarwell.

There in the lands that we Dúnedain called Rhudaur, we encamped by the river, above the great long falls named after the Raven, for there were nests of the birds, and the trees tall darkened the forest floor even in the brightest of days. But their inescapable beauty could not be denied, and with three on watch, the other four prepared camp.

Silently they came... hillmen they were and knowing of the terrain. they were upon us before we were aware. Elendur was down before we could react, and Gilrom we heard not from as he was on point watch. Kaldir who was following him came tumbling back toward the river from the rocks with a large brute of a man wrestling him for a knife. These battled with unusual tactics and this made me wonder... for they were known for their stealth and brutality, but not known for much for tactics in battle. Even in the few annals from the days of the Northern Dúnedain kings that had been discovered and restored spoke of how the hillmen knew little of tactics and had Orc commanders of Angmar lead their assaults.

Little time I had to ponder this as I was nearly impaled by a thrown spear, but Kallum had my back and we took down three. The rest were pushed off by the others and we gathered in defence to watch, sure the orcs would come. But they didn't, and I again pondered how we got taken by this hit-and-run attack.

But time was fleeting for I was now beside Elendur. He was face down in the water with his legs ashore, the water lapping about him as the peace of the falls returned. Death was like that. The sound of it was the sound of the water rushing over the falls, or the sounds of flies buzzing about. The sound is there so peaceful, then total mayhem, then the peaceful sounds again... Elendur was dead, and Gilrom was missing. It was told elsewhere different, but it is I who write these records for the annals, for I was charged by Halbarad who wished not the job. Give it to the young guy who can write the Elven script well. Kallum and Kaldir made a wary search for Gilrom, but returned in weary silence. The darkness held us close, and close and alert we remained by a fire blazing hot and large. For they knew we were there, and they knew we were not many, but we waited until dawn to move.

The first light caught me jumping awake, for I had dozed and entered into dream of which I will not speak here. We readied our horses, who somehow Kallum managed to gather after the attack. I climbed to the top of the falls and looked about for sign of Gilrom, but there was none. I did though see in the distance upon a rock a figure standing. The rising sun had not yet shone down on us and a mist from the upper reach of the river obscured my view, but it was no hillman or orc, but seemingly one of stature of the Dúnedain. My first thought, was it Gilrom? No, for his attire was ragged and unkempt, but in my attempt to move and gain a better place to look closer, he was gone. I chose not to pursue, but returned to the others who had Elendur's body ready to move, and so we left in haste, to return to our camps in the North Downs before another attack came.

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The North Downs
Memorial for Elendur ~ 7 Nárië 3009 T.A.

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Elendur lie there, prepared for burial there in a place many Dúnedain had been lain to rest through the years of battle and siege. Silent this place was in the North Downs, yet it seemed the fear of the Dúnedain dead kept the evil away from this hallowed place. It was here we would lay to rest Elendur, feared commander of the brethren of Dúnedain Rangers.

There were words spoken in an old language... Adûnaic I believe, a language considered disgraced and long forgotten with the fall of Númenór. I wasn't sure who exactly spoke them, but the silence of the brethren with just the steady patter of the rain being heard, it was a short statement followed by a mourning of death. Sindarin words and murmurings were spoken by many. I myself said nothing, but I listened to the sounds of the words that were carried through the histories of our people. My mind went back to the days when I first spoke to Elendur in the days before I would ride out for the first time...

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Renhir licked his lips and took in each wolf, each tortured soul forever doomed to a wild, wandering life. He stroked the thick fur of the leader and the touch softened something in him. “Go and be free, and be at peace. You serve no one but yourselves now.” Wasn’t that what every man truly wanted? Freedom and solitude. Was that what he wanted? To serve only himself and years spent grovelling at the heels of the Rangers? The wolves howled one by one, growing into a rapturous chorus that echoed across the wilderness. Renhir fled, leaving behind the blood and body, the wights and wolves. If only he could run from himself. - Written by Lailyn MOS/IX

Locking the darkness away I
The North Downs, Arthedain
A year later - TA3020

Utchuk

He came from the northern fells long ago. He wore a good mask that made him look human, but he would never be near one. In his time so far he had travelled through most lands, where humans lived and remained this far inconspicuous. He travelled around in selfmade clothing, in what he had developed a good hand and a warm skin from a bear as cloak. His belt supported an once stolen human sword, a Morgul knife and a dagger. He got a pouch with a few important possessions as money and papers. He had a necklace of animal bones to complement the wild men of Palisor. With his six feet he was pretty tall and thus not easy to hide his stature, but the shadows did a lot. In pure daylight he wore a cap over his head, the greyness of his skin was hidden under clothes and in handshoes. He couldn’t deny his real nature, but humans were excellent meat eaters, so he was no exception in an inn. In desolated lands, like old Arthedain, he was a lone traveller nobody really bothered. And if he met people who had questions, he spoke in the common tongue a bit grunting and brusque, but never out of hatred.

The land was deserted and covered under a light mist in the early morning. It was neither cold or warm this time of the year. Arthedain was a plot of land north of the Shire, where the small creatures known as hobbits lived. They were usually a nice and tasty catch for the hungry. But Utchuk was not in catching one of them for a meal. He hunted animals for that part, roasted the meat and ate it as humans did. Looking and impersonating like a human meant you were one. Utchuk did it for quite a long time now. He had gotten used to it, to sneak in among peoples his kind would never venture otherwise. Arthedain was a kingdom long ago, but also had been a breakup from an even bigger kingdom. Old towns lay in ruins and people lived instead in small hamlets with wooden homes. Those were easily overrun and set afire. Utchuk had seen it more than happening. That orcs and uruks roamed these lands to murder and pillage.

There was no fruit in brainless pillaging and murdering. Not in the cold of the north, where humans and uruks had to battle the cold. They had to unite to win the fight against the cold dragons. They were a mortal enemy out there, both hunting human and uruk. No distinction they made, brainless and greedy as they came. Dragons could never be mastered or enslaved. As he travelled outside the Shire borders, it could be felt something was off, there lay a mist of death over the land. As far he could determine, against the fresh green of the land, it was not normal. Was it intentional? Someone who favoured the ill-fated dark lord in Mordor? It could be. He had to research what happened. But there were also animals roaming over the land, that were supposed to hide in the woods. Not in the open land.

The rocky outskirts would suggest there could caves in the surroundings. Acsess points in the earth below ground. It was quite hilly in these parts, but the mountains in the west were too far away to be of major significance. From the droppings in the grass and on rocks he could determine there were quite lot of wolves in these parts. They were some days old, meaning there were no wolves close now. Not that they would be a hinder to Utchuk. But neither he liked wandering into a whole family. It could be a bit too much for him and injure him severely. He didn’t want strangers to find out, he was an uruk himself and not what he looked like. So Utchuk threaded carefully, just as he would do in his homelands, not to alert the sensitive ears of the dragons. He looked into the distance, what was just roaming grasslands, with trees standing here and then, hills blocking the view widely and rocks appearing the grass. This was quite treacherous ground to walk, let alone to run a horse around. You could take the old roads off course, but those were also dilapidated. The wolves wouldn’t roam throughout daytime in the open, only in the secluded areas. Dusk and dawn were the better hours. In the midday they would sleep in their burrows. Utchuk sighed, it was a mystery, this vague mist.

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Locking the darkness away II
The North Downs, Arthedain
A year later - TA3020

Utchuk

He felt if the vague mist would hide invisible claws. It was like a death breath on the soft wind, that went along the senses of the body. He was not used to feel a shiver running down his spine. He was always cautious for detection, but seldom afraid. Or was there a power here? The grounds ran out toward a small stream of water where he found blood. It had this smell of iron. Utchuk knew as soon he smelled it. Normally it could invoke a lust for a meal, but not today. Instead his stomach made a leap it would want to lose what was in it. But Utchuk had his morning meal hours ago and his stomach was empty. The conflicting of feelings and what he saw so far, definite made his mind up, something was truly off and it was not good at all. It had the signs some sort of battle had taken place.

He got a hidden wire of sorts to know where evil was brooding on plans and working them out. The grass between the rocks sticking out of the ground looked normally. So did the few tree stumps out here, that had been hit by lighting in a thunderstorm, quite a time ago. Largely bare, but they clung on to life with each two branches full of leaves, looking healthy. Was it pretty? Humans said it was so. Hobbits would dig the earth over. But the wilds allowed them not to come here. Deeper than a small handspade it was mostly rocky bottom. Hence why the water ran over the rocks and grass. The layer of earth was thin. Why? Who could tell him that? Explain? Utchuk was glad not be an elf. How horrible such a life would be, with all the grief for dying things? He had a gaze at it, shrugged his shoulders and went on. Nature would grow without his help, or gazes or care. It grew even under darkness, twisted. But it won over still. Triumphed in fact.

The blood was not that old. From an animal perhaps? But then after a few days the stream ended up at some rising hill with boulder rocks close by. Grass did run around and to his left between all of that, opened the earth like a gaping mouth into something dark. A cavern, it had to be. The rocks were grey on the outside, black at the mouth. It didn’t look inviting. In fact it didn’t even feel inviting. But it was where this death breath on the wind was emanating from. What had happened out here, Utchuk couldn’t tell. The blackness said there had been some kind of implosion, as it had the looks of it? His grey eyes drank in the scene. He didn’t enter the cavity. What had happened, it was surely over more than a year. Maybe lesser, maybe more? Another summer, winter, spring and autumn had passed over until the moment Utchuk came upon it. If there had been fresh spurs, they had washed away with the rains and the snow.

Arthedain was a hotspot of these deathtraps. Layers upon layers of materials of death, that told of matters happened long ago, and had vanished from the consciousness of society. Had the elves recorded something? Like not. Had the humans written records? Surely. But if those records had survived? Annúminas had been such a town. It was a telltale of twothousand years old ruins. Its successor Fornost Erain and the lands around were haunted by the dead. Civilisation rose, blossomed and fell to ruins. Where had all the inhabitants been? Where lay their bones? Or had they withered away with the snow and the water, penetrating the grounds between the rocks? Wildlife however found the best home around these western parts. Utchuk could see from afar wandering deer, just cosily eating around without any fear. Twolegged creatures were thousands of miles away. And the short legged could never be fast enough to reach them. Utchuk trapped for a pair of rabbits and made small fire ten miles from the gaping mouth in the earth. Here he would have a meal and spent the night by himself, as so many before, he couldn’t count no longer.

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Locking the darkness away III
The North Downs, Arthedain
A year later - TA3020

Utchuk

The dusk brought the nightlife to a cacophony, that died off soon the last rays of the sun had left and plunged the surroundings lands in the darkness. There was starlight overhead. But Utchuk had naturally no love for that kind of light. It was cold, just as the vague mist that grew thicker now the ground lost the warmth, damp evaporating in the air. The fire burned steadily and casted a light far and wide. It attracted flies and bees and even an owl that nestled in the nearby tree to watch. The rabbits roasted nice on the stick and Utchuk consumed his meal, leaving some raw leftovers for the hungry eyes around. The owl popped by for a part of the meal, but also fox. The wilds had something reassuring. Although long ago been developed as a kind of abomination to all of this, hundreds of generations later his kind had also improved the survival chances with cunning and cleverness. The lessons from the lands across the northern waste had been very harsh, never take more than you needed. Otherwise nothing was left and you starved to death. Anything alive eventually succumbed if they didn’t eat.

The second prepared rabbit Utchuk packed carefully up for the next morning. He should catch up with rest and sleep, but if that would be possible? The fog towards the mountains was thickening up and forced an idea on him that inside that mist the dead were walking around, in search for life essences to suck up for the energy. A shiver crept down his spine and involuntarily Utchuk pulled the warm bearskin cloak around him. His grey eyes pierced through the dark as he could see exceedingly well. After the meal he stretched out on the ground and closed his eyes, the fire burned steadily, keeping dangerous animals and ghosts away. Fire was not their liking. Light exposed too much. The thick mist didn’t reach the open lands, where Utchuk made up camp by some trees and bushes.

Utchuk dreamed not bad at all and couldn’t know that a pack of wolves actually joined him by the fire. When he woke after four hours, it was still dark. He threw some new wood on the fire and then discovered about seven bodies around at some distance from the fires. It were no humans or elves, no orcs or hobbits, but animals. Wolves to be exact. Creatures also that had some shady origins, but there was no soul that could tell. In old tales they were the allies of his kind, and perhaps that was why they lay quite close to Utchuk. Could they sense what he really was? Utchuk was known with the white furred predators of the frozen lands. They were a different breed from the wolves close by. It was a pack, a family together. Wolves were no loners, they were socially connected. It was how they survived. For a small time Utchuk watched them as he lay on his back. Over the lands from the mountains were soft hisses now and then, wights that roamed free there. By the morning the mist broke and the creepy sounds of night changed for the lively ones by the first rays of the dawn. Utchuk woke again, finding himself alone by the fire, his nighttime companions had left. The owl however was still sitting in the tree.

Utchuk had a large part of the second rabbit as cold breakfast. One leg he lay aside at some distance that his furry companion picked up and carried into the tree, picking at it. As impersonating human Utchuk could appreciate this. Young white wolf cubs were fed by humans and uruk tribes in the same fashion. The colour of their fur was their protection against other predators in these icy wastes. But not all was ice, there were green arid lands as well, with large pine forests that survived the long winters and blossomed in the short warm summers. After the rabbit meal it was time to pack up and leave. Utchuk threw some dirt over the flames of the fire, that died instantly. He couldn’t risk a wild spreading fire, though it would do good for the wights out in the mists. They would burn down to a crisp, that nothing was left. He had some idea what had taken place. The blood of a day before told a tale of slaughter. But where the body was? Or the bodies? Or had it been animal blood? The riddle wasn’t solved. But one thing Utchuk knew, it didn’t bode for news that was well, not at all.

[Hanasian]

*Private

Gilrénna



~ 3 Nénimë ~ 105 IV ~
(24 January of the Year 105 of the 4th Age
The Hanavía estate in Minhiriath, located on the coast of Cardolan west of the Port of Lond Daer


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Gilrénna's Note: I recently discovered in a wooden crate in the catacombs of the Hanavía estate (This discovery is a mystery in and of itself), I found more writings of the Chieftains of the Dúnedain. There are other books and parchments found as well. Most are quite degraded and will need extraordinary care if they are to be preserved. I have begun this work, and so far my success has been mixed. Among the old decaying parchments and brittle journal books, the crate had a rough scribbled note from 'Halasian' who I believe is my great-grandfather on much newer parchment. Also on this parchment was a tick mark with my grandfather Hanasian's initial mark. Also, another 'find' in this crate is Chieftain Arassuil's journal. The paper seemed to endure much better than most, and his flowing tengwar script is quite readable. This is what I have preserved from it so far...

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Arassuil's Journal

Year 2718 III, month of Víressë, 26th day

We had time to rest, and each Ranger that was not on watch were allowed to return to their families. It was a welcome relief, for days had been long and the miles hard. My father and I stopped in the town of Bree for a bit of rest. He was going to stay here when I go tomorrow to my wife and sons, still a day's ride away. It will be a blessed time, and I know my eldest son Arathorn will be eager to tell me and show me all he has learned. I long for his eagerness of youth, something that seems to leave a man soon after he becomes a Ranger. He will be one soon, and I dread what his days will bring. But I rest for now, writing my thoughts, for it is my fear that rest will be something we will not find much of in years ahead. Why? I don't know why. I only have a feeling in my gut.

It was a feeling that only grew worse when, as we relaxed this evening with an ale, enjoying some bread and cheese at this fine Inn, the Prancing Pony of Bree, that my father told me he was too old to be riding so long. Age had crept up on him in the exceeding lines about his eyes, and the once dark curled locks were well peppered with silver. Here, for the first time, at hearing his words, I could see in him that his days were short.

Mother had passed a few years before. I have yet to write about this, for it had pained me to ponder. But her passing had affected father more, for when mother passed, she took a part of my father with her. He remained strong as our chieftain, but evermore did he lean on me after that time. I knew then that my day of becoming chieftain was fast approaching. He again expressed his confidence in my being able to lead, pointing out that I had been second in command for twenty years now. I can't say I look forward to being chieftain, but it is the destiny of first-born of the line of Isildur, heir of Elendil. I cannot see it, but I can feel that in days long ahead, well past my days, all that we have held to in our heritage will come to fruit.

We talked of this a little this night, of a glimmer of hope warmed us from inside. A warmth that spoke silently to us of the great deeds of our forefathers, and or hope in the deeds of our children and grand children, lest evil seek out the flame and extinguish it. It is my feeling, and that also of my father's, that the days of my time will be evermore hard. I pass short thought of the days of my son, for I will hope to pass onto him days that will be better.

I grow weary as this night reaches for the morning. A light rain is falling, just enough to allow water to run off the roof in its melody. I will sleep now, if I can on a comfortable mat. I have grown used to the wild, where if there is no rock or twig jamming me in the back, I feel something is out of place. Yet I am tired, and I look forth to seeing my beloved again.

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Year 2718 III, month of Víressë, 27th day

The sun broke through the cloud that had poured forth rain all night. Only now did it cease, with the trickle of water still running from the roof. Bright it was though, and I am readying to go to the common room for a small meal. I am sure my father awaits me. I hope to be home tomorrow in the arms of my wife, and the next day, to spar swords with my son.

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 9th day

Time home has been a blessing! Yet it seems so fleeting. My eldest son has become a man in my absence, and I have decide that he will ride with me back to Bree so he can see his grandfather. My daughter is blossoming into womanhood, and my youngest son has grown straight up. Soon too he will be a man full grown and ready to ride, but for now he studies the lore and trains in weaponry. Sparring with him and his brother was such a joy, especially when I see they lack not in their cunning and vigilance.

Yes, the time has gone by so fast, and again we are summoned. I was meaning to write of my days afield while at home, but it was the farthest thing from my mind that I could not take it upon myself to pick up the quill. Let me just say that the unquiet nights whispers of the stirring evil in the east, and it will likely be there where we go. Ever vigilant must we be on the eastern watch, and also to the north, for the wisps of the darkness of Angmar linger long, awaiting their day to arise unseen. But we watch evermore.

It is late, and I will rest this last night holding my wife. For in the morning light we ride.

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 10th day

Setting out in the morning dew was bittersweet. I look long on the dark curls flowing free about her shoulders as she wraps her arms tight around herself to ward off the chill. Only moments before we were warm, in an embrace I wished would never end. Arathorn was eager to ride, but I was not. The days were growing dark, and the Rangers were evermore hard pressed to watch and protect. Still, it was time to go. With a whisper and a kiss, I turned my horse and we rode away.

We would go to Bree, and we will gather at the Prancing Pony Inn. There we would talk and decide where we should go. There were too many places and not enough Rangers, but this was the way of the Dunedain of the north, ever since the dark dais of the Gladden, when Isildur, his sons, and army were wiped out oh so long ago. Will we ever recover from that? Can the days get darker than that? I look to Arathorn and watch him as we ride. His senses were keen, and his horse well-mannered. I see the future in him, but I am weighted by a feeling he will not see the fullness of his days.

But enough of such thoughts. The day was growing bright even if clouds began to obscure the newly-risen sun. We would be in Bree soon, and it will be a joyous time, especially for Arathorn, for he has not seen his grandfather Arahad in many years. He has grown up.

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 12th day

Yesterday was spent mostly at the Prancing Pony Inn, where we paced ourselves on the ale. It was a local Bree version of one of the ever so fine Shire ales, and obviously a local favourite. We had gone out and stocked supply after breakfast, but was back after the peak of the day. There we sat an dtalked and laughed. As the shadows outside grew long, the talk simmered into more serious words. Arathorn asked many questions, and Arahad told him much of his days in the wild. The local townfolk left pretty much to ourselves, for we sat in a distant shadowy corner of the common room. It had become known over the years as "them Ranger's table", for if one of us were in town and wanted to be found, here we would be. Our rough look and quiet shadowy demeanor made most ill-at-ease, but we took comfort in seeing they were little bothered by rumour of what lurked outside the city gates not far away.

Darkness settled and stars appeared in the skies above, and the scent of lamp-oil and candle joined the woodsmoke, herbed-stew, and ale. Arathorn grew quiet and we listened to the banter of the night's crowd. He rose and went to the bar to get a finishing tankard of ale for each of us, and both my father and I watched as he walked away. Arahad then said to me,

"It is time. As I spoke before, I say now. It is time for Arathorn to ride out with us. I will tell him when he returns. He will ride with me as part of my hand, and you will go east to the Forsaken and meet Halbaril. There you will take command of his hand while he goes home. He has been out too long and is in need of rest."

I heard the words, but was silent. So it would be, for my father, still chieftain, spoke. But I had to ask why I did not get to ride out with my son his first time.

"Do I not get to see my son ride out his first time?"

I said gravely, Arahad answered,

"It will not be. But it will only be a brief time, and we will meet at in a short time. I will arrange to send word to his mother that her boy has become a man"

I was quiet after this. The look on my fahter's face spoke much more than what words could say. Arathorn's somewhat heated demeanor coupled with his strong will was cause for concern in Arahad's mind, seeing days ahead. I settled and told myself this would be a good thing to do now. I nodded as Arathorn brought back three tankards.

At first we sipped at the edge and wiped the foam from our lips. And I sat quiet while Arahad told Arathorn the news. Excitement followed by concern came over him. Saying if he knew he would have brought this sword or that knife, and packed different and such was cut short by Arahad.

"Young Dunedain, a ranger does not always have the luxury of planning and many times is caught wanting. But it is our way to adapt and use what we have, no matter. This is a first test and you will learn that all you need is within grasp at all times. Now I suggest we down our drinks and settle up, for the morning will be here soon enough."

So today as I sit under an oak midway between Bree and the Forsaken, resting and capturing my thoughts while alone on the road. Arahad and Arathorn rode away south out of the gate while I went east. I spent the few moments before sleep writing a letter to my beloved wife who will find the news hard. Arahad's courior took his note as well as my letter and one from Arathorn. I feel it will be long before any of us see home again.

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 12th day

Evening grew as I waited by the deserted inn. No sign of Halbaril was seen as night closed around me. Malvil showed silently in the darkness, only giving sign another ranger would know. Se sat and waited, silent in the night. Maybe Halbaril would come by first light.

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 13th day

Light has come but the sun has yet to rise above the far off Mistys. Halbaril had not shown, but the rest of his hand has. Besides me and Malvil, there was Earundur, Kallidan, Daerol, and Turgan. A fairly seasoned bunch these with Turgan being the youngest having been riding for only 5 years. They had all been out on observation, and were to regroup here this day. Maybe Halbaril would come this day. No matter. If he didn't show in due time, I would lead these men and search where they thought he may be. They had confidence he would turn up, but I myself had a gut feeling something was off, and the clouds I saw gathering in the east before the sunrise spoke of an ill wind. But it is not Halbaril's, for ere mid-day he approached, albeit somewhat worse for wear. We will now meet in the old deserted inn....

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Year 2718 III, month of Lótessë, 14h day

We had discovered a keg of untapped ale in the cellar of the inn, and it served as refreshment to those who had come. By evening, all had been discussed pertaining to the darkness that approached. The meet was good, and Arathorn asked many questions of the others. Intriguing, and insightful he was, and as I sat silent listening to him and the others talk, both pride and a forboding filled me. Times were ever darkening, and my time was evermore drawing near. But as I closed my eyes, I could see Arathorn riding forth, engaging battle with the fell wolves of the north and their riders from Carn Dum. Yet this was my time. with my father passing lordship to me, that it should be that I fall before my time? No. My eyes opened to several Rangers taking this time in sharing news and talk of home and loved ones, and what they would do when they find the time ahead when they would not be called to guard the lands. I myself smiled in a stressed sort of way, agreeing with their words and wishes, but deep down, knowing that those days would never come. And as I looked at each one as they talked, I could see in their faces that they too knew that it would not be so.

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[Ercassie]

An Uncomfortable Interlude – Private / One-off post



’Gwandhyra Harion’ and Erfaron Sílûgnir and Anardil ‘Warder’ Thavron
Making camp in Enedwaith. In Late February, of a year after the War of the Ring (aka ‘earlier this year’).
(Bridging my North-South RP gap)

The frosted moon stalked lonely about the expanse of a darkened sky. For night now wreathed the lands, predominantly bare and bleak, all enveloping and bereft of winking stars. Far below with hands outstretched toward a small but wilful fire, were cast two figures, all too evident against the bracken and the mud. From a distance they at least seemed indeterminate from one another, draped in what warm garb and humour might fend of the mild climes. There existed moments when it seemed almost as a further, third, figure was present, stood off from his fellows to stand sentry to a single, untethered, horse. The length of time though that amassed without this ‘third’ making with movement, could suppose ‘he’ were a tree rather, or some otherwise indifferent landmark. He did not even react when one of the two men squatting by the fireside, began to sing.

“I sit here thinking as the sun is sinking
Over the mountain and the dry, dusty ground.
As the night is falling, I start recalling
the nights in my own home town.” **


The marginally taller man leaned back, to reflect upon the unexpected entertainment, without feeling compelled to join in himself. He recognised the song, if only because this was not the first time that his companion had decided to embark on sharing it aloud. And he smiled in lieu of any more interactive support. For the behaviour recalled to mind many instances of sailors back in his father’s day. They always had seemed to spring from their ship, in the harmonious throes of merry song, or head out from the harbour in the same fashion. The fact, too, of the song itself remarking on the subject of ‘home’ rooted it rather deeper inside of the man than it might have done else.

He stretched both legs out, unfolding the stiff limbs over swiftly flattened grass. Though the ground below him was no pillow, he had grown (from habit rather than want) to be used to it by this point. They had been travelling in this fashion since Bree, with the horse bearing what gear they had amassed between them. The tallest, and youngest of the group was in fact aware that it was mostly all his gear, in fact. But he had come .. further ? He might have argued that he had been on the road thus .. longer, but for him that constituted a journey up north, and then headed back south toward home. His company meanwhile seemed to have existed on some constant journey for the last however many years, maybe even longer. The Belfalasian might have pondered if his kinsman even ‘had’ a home, were that not at least half the point of their venture. To bring Domanol home.


“I see the faces, familiar places
I hear the music that they played way back then
My heart rejoices as I hear the voices
calling me home again.

Home. oh take me home
Oh to the people I left behind
Oh to the love I know I'll find
Oh oh, take me home.”


The elder man was more than singing the song, he was living it. For all that he was easily accustomed by this point to all means of terrain, he was no more entirely comfortable than his kinsman. The words he gave to sound were meant to cheer and reassure him as well as did the small blaze which their huddled forms guarded from a serpentine breeze. But there was a tremble in the man’s tone which was wholly of emotion. And though he had cloven to the sentiment of the song before, never did he so require to as much as now, when it’s meaning was coming true. He would come home to a place he had determinedly held away from. Nigh a score of years had passed since he had been here, in any proper sense. For efforts to convince himself to loiter, and seek out his folk there after the siege, had been hampered by doubts. By all of the reasons he had stayed away. So far. So long. It was easy enough to assure himself that welcome would be forthcoming, until he truly was facing the chance that it might, in fact, not. Of course, he knew now that it could not .. would not .. ever be the same. For his mother was lost to him, lost to all that yet drew breath. His Kinsman had told him so, gently breaking the bad news, and the Ranger might have kicked himself for it had been so recent a passing. Was it worse now to attend in person, to bid a heartfelt, belated, farewell ? Or to wait off in the wings still, each day wondering when might come distant news of the next ?

Domanol did not register that he had ceased his singing, until he glanced up, to hear his kinsman taking up the next verse, with a reassuring smile.


“As the sky is burning, my mind is turning
To the cold winter evenings by my own fireside
So far away now, but any day now
I'll sail on the morning tide

Home. Oh take me home
back to the people I left behind
Oh to the love I know I'll find
Oh oh. Take me home.

Take me home, far across the sea
Home is where I long to be …”


As Anardil broke into the soulful chorus, raising his voice in new heights of fervour, the confidence that he had felt in a want to support Domanol dropped like an avalanche of regret. For the Elf, their third, had stalked off from the small party, without not word or warning to explain his decision. They were far too early for the planned division of their little fellowship, and so there was only supposition left.

This was not the first time that the Elf had taken himself off and from the mortals, to spend the night entirely masked from their sight. The Ranger had assured the Belfalasian that Silugnir simply liked his solitude, and tended to assume the mens’ camp as a bait which he could with his sights and aim both, safeguard from a more comfortable distance. There had never yet though arrived a morning when the Elf broke their night’s fast with any account of his needing to intervene in an overnight assault. These were, far and wide, days now of peace of course. But war does not neatly tuck itself into a new world once the bloodshed was over. There were peoples displaced and some desperate, many devastated and some determined on vengeance. For all that there was a well established road from the Northern realm, that would see them straight to the South, the Belfalasian’s companions had steered a far more wandering course to that ambition, as might a stream meander at its whim through the countryside.

The paranoia that they were yet, ever, in peril was one thing. The fact that their rather haphazard trail might be an unspoken amusement between the two more keenly travelled companions, meant largely to unsettle the Southerner from all notions of comfort … had crossed his mind also. For his kinsman was not above falling to some jest with little warning and, for all his reading on the subject, never had Anardil felt so uninformed about the Eldar since he had spent this time around one. Silugnir was neither the mournful poet or the intrepid veteran of ages which the youngest of their party had hoped to know better. He seemed possessed of little humour, save at another's expense. The prospect of the man's own escort of the Elf, alone, once they left Domanol in the White City .. had been exciting for about as long as the man’s first very curt conversation with the immortal. And now somehow it felt as though he had just offended his charge. If he had not already believed that was the case. How and why, or even when exactly, he could not venture a guess. For by doing only what his kinsman had begun and been about for days now ? Since when did an Elf despair at the sound of song ?

The words of that fated chorus slowly traipsed about his thought to haunt the younger man, only once it was too late to drum up any sense of apology. A home across the sea, where he should ... long to be … Ah. Yes. A rather bad choice of words by all accounts. Grey eyes sought after the departing member of their oddball small group with no cause to think he ought run after him. But never had the long stretch of hours approaching seemed to draw in with less appeal. He would be unsurprised if the eldest of their own party were the one who chose to murder him now overnight.


Glancing over to where his kinsman had been last seen poking idly at the fire, the Belfalasian noted that Domanol was suddenly, inexplicably asleep, or else giving his best impression of being so. Calmly, Anardil took himself up and over to check on the horse. He might have taken comfort from the strong-bodied steed, save that it’s evident breeding now reminded him. When efforts had been made to speak on one of the Southerner's most well schooled subjects, the Elf had assured him that the horse was ‘not his’. Was the animal stolen then ? Did Elves even understand such concepts ? Were they likely to be set upon by some angry farmer who had followed them all this way, forget any other more wrathful and dangerous foes … ?

How many more leagues did this path yet hold before he would rightly feel ‘home’ ? He was bringing his kinsman to that man's home, and then escorting the Elf to his. There would be then little solace upon even that arrival, until the unusual guest chose to depart. They had to get there first of course.

** The lyrics of the song in this post are not my own. All credit is hereby awarded to ‘Take Me Home’ by ‘Celtic Thunder’***

[Vardarianna]

Vardarianna


(Private with @Hanasian)
Annúminas City
Loëndë 44 IV

Vardarianna was excited to be in the old great city of Elendil for the Mid Year's Celebration this year. She had come north eight years before when she was a child, and the work being done then had her in awe. It was also a time of bonding with her father, for mother stayed in Gondor then with her little brother, and she was expecting their third child. Word would come from the south as they traveled back to Gondor that Eldariën was born healthy, and Vardarianna now had a little sister.

Before, the work had begun reclaiming the old, abandoned buildings that were never destroyed, but had merely fell into decay over the centuries. Now, so much had changed. Where there were lichen and ivy overgrowing walls and streets now were cleaned so the hands of craftsmen of old could be seen and wondered about. With the restoration of the Royal Palace by the lake undergoing its finishing touches, they would reside there until they depart for Gondor when the signs of autumn came.

Today though was Mid Year's Day. The shoreline of Lake Evendim to the west of the city was tended and became the parkland that had been envisioned long ago by King Elendur. Then, work had paused, for the resources were turned to building Fornost Erain on the western reach of the North Downs. Now with the parkland finished and a tournament ground prepared to the south, this celebration would be one to be remembered.

The day began with the rising of the sun in a cloudless blue sky, and as the rays stretched yellow over the blue waters of the lake; the green grasses of the parkland, with great shadows stretching west from the tall structures of the city, they were greeted by Vardarianna who sat by the water's edge. She had wandered out before dawn to admire the stars of Varda, different in this northern sky, and though a light dew had made her damp with chill, she remained in the quiet as the city awakened. Quiet. This festival day had even the workers step away from their projects, and the fair began to come to life with the cooking of food and the brewing of beverage.

As the sun lit the dark hair that hung limply around her face and shoulders, Vardarianna lay back in the wet grass and stretched before coming to her feet. She felt so at peace here in the north, and the joy of the day was just beginning. As she walked back to the royal palace, Vardarianna greeted people she passed by, and would talk with the vendors setting up their stalls in the market. Pausing to breath in the exotic aroma of a brew at one stall, a merchant with a distinct Pelargirian accent offered her a small cup.

"Do you miss the aroma?" he asked as a gleam of silver in his blue-grey eyes looked past her.

"It has been long since I have smelled the brewed Haradian mountain bean. My mother was gifted some years ago, and I remember its distinct smell." Vardarianna held the cup up and breathed in the steam. It was invigorating just from its warmth. With a slight sip, Vardarianna breathed out sharply. "Bitter. I had never tasted it before; only smelled its aroma."

"I can tell you that it gives a whole new perspective on the day. let it cool some and drink it down m'lady."

Vardarianna spoke with the merchant for several moments, admiring him for coming all this way for the city's Mid-Year festival. She learned his name was Maemaitë and he was thirty-three years of age, and he had been born blind. He was the first of many interesting people she would meet this day.

When he went quiet and turned his head slightly, Vardarianna turned her head to see Sinsimelle, one of her maidservants, approach.

"Lady Vardarianna, your father calls for you to dine with him for breakfast. He sent me out to find you when it was discovered you were not in the palace."

"And found my you have." she replied before turning back to Maemaitë. "Thank you for your brew, kind sir. I hope to see you around later."
"M'lady... for you." said as his hand took hers for a brief moment. Vardarianna withdrew her hand and looked at what he had given her before quickly slipping it into a pocket of her dress.

She gave him a nod as he turned to a couple men who had walked up to his stall. "He seems strange." Sinsimelle said, but Vardarianna laughed lightly. "There are many different people in this world Sinsimelle. Have you met any of the halflings?" The two women talked much as they walked back to the royal palace.

When they arrived, her father was there at the table with another man she recognzed from her last visit north. Her sigh did not prevent her father from giving her a scowl as he dismissed Sinsimelle. Once the servant had left, Aragorn turned to his daughter. "Young lady, what did I say about wandering off unattended?"

"Father, I assure you that I can look after myself."

"Of that I am sure Varda. But all the same, you must have an escort with you. The darkness may have receded in this land, but it does not mean you can run about as you see fit."

Vardarianna sighed as she eyed Mecarnil who stood quietly by his side. She was feeling stimulated and knew that maybe drinking Haradian brew on an empty stomach was not the best thing to do. "I promise I remain aware and observant..."

"As you have been taught, yes, I know. Still, I have assigned..."

"Dad! I don't need one of your guards shadowing me whenever I decide to go out." Vardarianna eyed the man coldly. He stood expressionless, and she tried to place him in her thoughts as to where she had seen him before...

"Varda! You know it is protocol! Now, this is so ordered, and I will know if you try and..."

"I get it dad." Vardarianna retorted as she threw her hair back and walked by the two men to go sit at the table to eat breakfast.

[Hanasian]

(Private with @Vardarianna)

Annúminas City
Loëndë 44 IV


Mecarnil and Mercain

Mecarnil and his wife and son had come to live in Annúminas as it was reclaimed from the ravages of time. He worked as a local hand of King Aragorn in the north, and it was great tidings when he learned that King Aragorn would be visiting with his daughter, Princess Vardarianna. He had met her once before when she was a child, and he remembered how displeased his son Mercain was having to 'entertain' the younger Vardarianna that summer. Now, twenty-two years of age and having joined the Northern Army, he may or may not have opinions of the duty he was about to get assigned.

Having met with King Aragorn and the city architects about the progress being made in the city's restoration as the northern capitol the night before; the new day had both he and Mercain summoned to the royal residence. Mercain stood at ease in his informal dress uniform as Mecarnil was neat, yet a bit more casual. Having ridden to war with Aragorn afforded him some leeway that was not afforded those who had not.

"You have done well with your training, son. Have you been given new orders by your commander?" Mecarnil eyed his son, giving his dress a casual inspection.

Mercain kept his parade rest stance as he answered. "No sir. I was assigned to the temporary duty roster."

"That is good." Mecarnil stepped back and picked up his surcoat and put it on. "I believe your temporary duty will be to King Aragorn while he is here."

Mercain cleared his throat. "It will be a great honour to directly serve the king, sir."

"You should know that I highly suspect you to be part of the family's personal guard."

Mercain took a deeper breath and nodded once in acknowledgement. "Yes sir."


The walk to the royal lodging was short, and though the sun was bright and rising, clouds thick and grey loomed to the north and west. As they arrived, Mercain went to report to the house commander with a few other young soldiers to await their assigned duties. Mecarnil was escorted to the king's residence where he was met by Aragorn.

Mae govannen brethren." Aragorn greeted him and they clasped wrists. "

"Thank you for allowing me to request your son for duty to my house.

"He told me it was a great honour m'lord. And I am honoured also by your request." Mecarnil turned and walked beside Aragorn as he led then to a dining table.

"You will dine with me this morning?"

"I will be delighted to dine breakfast with you..." Mecarnil started to answer but paused when voices of two women could be heard approaching. Aragorn to turn his attention to them as they walked into the room.


Mecarnil stepped back and stood quietly with his hands behind his back as he listened to and watched the dynamics play out between father and daughter. He gave her a polite nod when she looked his way, but otherwise remained still. When Lady Vardarianna went to sit at the table, Aragorn gave him a look of parental frustration. Nodding his head slightly, Mecarnil remembered a few times when Mercain tested he and his mother's will.

"Come join me and my daughter, Lady Vardarianna." Aragorn said and they went to join Vardarianna at the table.


The talk was mostly about when the whole family had come to visit the north, and toward the end of the meal, Aragorn again brought up assigning Vardarianna a personal guard...

[Vardarianna]

Vardarianna

(Private with @Hanasian)

Vardarianna took in the Dunedain ranger that had fought in the war with her father, and she gave him a polite smile. Remembering him in Gondor when she was a child, he and her mother spoke much of the days before her birth... the war, the loss of so many in all the lands, and the healing in the days after.

As he and her father conversed about the future of the northern realm, Mecarnil spoke of the progress of the many restorations works that had commenced. Vardarianna was mostly quiet and listened intently.

"I am impressed with the new bridge being built in Tharbad." she said, figuring she should get into the conversation. Her interest in the engineering of the old works had built her interest in possible new works and renovations here in the north, and so this subject was quite interesting to her.

But when her father brought up the subject of a personal guard for her, she frowned. She looked to Mecarnil and sighed. "I really don't think it necessary dad..." she cut herself off as she glanced to Mecarnil. Was her father assigning him to be her personal guard?

"As I said dear daughter, it is necessary. Don't worry, I have much for Mecarnil to do for me here. Bu this son Mercain has taken up duty with my household, and after I talk to him, I will be assigning him to the duty."

"Mercain?"

"Do you not remember Mercain? You and he played together when you were children..."

"Oh, I remember him..." Vardarianna had a neutral expression as she turned her cup in her hand. Resigning herself to not being able to talk her dad out of this, she reluctantly said, "If I must have someone to watch over me, it may as well be someone I know."

"Then it's settled." Aragorn said as he finished his tea.

Vardarianna then stood up, prompting Mecarnil to stand. "I would ask to be excused, for I wish to get myself ready for this day. Have my guard report as soon as possible, because I'm not waiting around to enjoy this Mid Year's Day."

Aragorn nodded and as Vardarianna turned to leave, she quickly gave Mecarnil a soft curtsey before she disappeared out into the hall. She wasn't going to have her 'personal guard' ruin her day...

[Hanasian]

(Private with @Vardarianna)

Mecarnil

Mecarnil was stoic; ever so polite and one to adhere to protocol. He did at times wonder if he should be more formal with the king, but it seemed Aragorn liked the comfort when his brethren from before the war kept it somewhat informal. But in the presence of Lady Arwen and the children, Mecarnil kept his place and to formality. He gave Lady Vardarianna a bow of the head as she departed.

After the princess left the room, he looked to King Aragorn and raised an eyebrow. "A spirited one she is. Do I sense some angst there?"

"You do indeed. She's a bit sore about the law of succession of Gondor after spending too much time in the library archives reading accounts of old Numenor." Aragorn sipped his tea before setting the cup down and standing up. "Come with me to my study. Darhilas has returned from Pelargir and will have much to share."

Mecarnil nodded his head. "Darhilas. He was the only one to stay on with you after the war. It has been long since I saw him."

"He stayed on and has been invaluable to me, but I fear he is thinking of retiring. His wound has been giving him trouble for a while now." Aragorn walked into the hall and Mecarnil followed. Aragorn paused a step so they could walk side-by-side before he went on. "Hanasian had been afield with his free company working for me... the kingdom for decades. I heard about Durian. He was always on edge, but I think he would have handled things had he not gotten the news of his wife and child right after the war. Have you been in contact with him?"

"Not in many years... maybe ten." Mecarnil scratched his chin as he thought. "He was working on the Tharbad Bridge and seemed to be steady, but he abruptly quit and went wandering. The last I talked to him was after I bailed him out of the Combe watch house after he got in a fight with some local men at the Blue Trout Tavern."

"Losing Sirenna broke something in him." Aragorn shook his head.

"Yes, the war never got out of his head either. Last I heard was rumour he was living in an old cabin in east Chetwood near the marshes. It’s pretty inaccessible, but I should try and check on the place..."


The talk carried on even more once they were joined by Darhilas. It only came to an end when Lady Arwen came to find her husband to remind him they had to make an appearance to commence the Loëndë festivities.

_____________________________________________

Mercain

Mercain had reported to the Captain of the Royal Guard and he was mustered in to their ranks with other new inductees before they all went into a small auditorium. The young men had all received their first assignment to the Royal Guard, and they all were nervous. There were six of them, and they expected the captain to come out and assign them. Instead, a greyed, rough-looking man in field greys walked in with a stack of parchments.

"Lisiten up." he said as he stood before them. "I am Farbarad, and I have been tasked to get you boys situated and settled into your new roles. Now I'm not one for speeches, but I will say this. There is no tolerance of shirkers. None. Screw up one time and you get assigned to the northern watch for a year."

Farbarad gave a couple iof the guys a long stare, as if he was reading their thoughts before he started calling out names. As each was named, they would come and take their official order. The four before him were assigned to the grounds perimeter. The fifth name was to be read, Farbarad hesitated as he looked at the parchment.

"Mercain. You get special duty?" He glanced at the parchment again before looking back to Mercain. "You're Mecarnil's boy, yes?"

"Yes sir, I am." Mercain stood still.

"Your dad and I go way back. We had the watch of Cardolan together before the war. Anyway, you are to report to the King's House. Remember, no mater who your father is, no shirkers."

Taking the parchment, Mercain went back in line before he read it. With the last name assigned, Farbarad dismissed us to report to our duty officer.


Mercain made his way to the royal house, and upon his admittance, was escorted to the duty officer. He didn't realize he would run into Lady Vardarianna on the way...

[Vardarianna]

Vardarianna

(Private with @Hanasian)

Annúminas - Loëndë - 44 IV

Vardarianna had gone to her chambers and prepared herself for the day. Not wanting to appear 'royal', she opted for a simple yet intricate dress to allow herself to appear more 'common'. It would be her father's insistence on her having an escort that would likely inhibit any such illusion.

Not wishing to wait any longer, she left her chambers and strode down the hallway and down toward the front doors. If she was quick enough, She would be out amongst the faire alone, not yet burdened by the personal guard her father insisted upon.

She was nearly out when she glanced over to the house captain's office. Pausing to have a second look, Vardarianna was taken aback for the briefest of moments before she sighed and asked questioningly, "Mercian?"

Walking up to him, she brushed some lint from his surcoat as she said, "You need to appear less formal if you are indeed assigned be my personal guard. Should I go in with you and request that you be my personal guard?"

She smiled slightly as fond memories from when they were children came to mind. They hadn't seen each other in a long time. “I would much prefer it be you, someone I know and is around my age than one of the senior officers of the Royal Guard.”

Putting her hands together in front of her and entwining her fingers, she gave Mercain a coy look, as if should she get her way, there could be a lot of fun to be had.