The Seven Rivers of Ossiriand – Free RP

[Dungeon Delver]

The Seven Rivers of Ossiriand – Free RP
Original Artwork

“In Ossiriand dwelt the Green-elves, in the protection of their rivers; for after Sirion Ulmo loved Gelion above all the waters of the western world. The Woodcraft of the Elves of Ossiriand was such that a stranger might pass through their land from end to end and see none of them. They were clad in green in spring and summer, and the sound of their singing could be heard even across the waters of Gelion…

- “Of Beleriand and Its Realms” The Silmarillion

Ossiriand was the green heart of Beleriand, rich and verdant fields and deep viridian forests covered the landscape of the land of the seven rivers. It was the home of the Green Elves, the Laiquendi, descendants of the Nandor. They were a simple folk, in comparison to their Sindar and Ñoldor cousins, but what they seemingly lacked in technological advancements they made up for in spirit and in song. They were not, as their cousins, overly welcoming of the Secondborn, naming those that hunted and hewed the trees to be their “unfriends” and they that would deal with them if the Ñoldor and Sindar did not. However, overall they were not a violent people, preferring to stay out of conflicts unless it was absolutely necessary. When one sees the land of the seven rings though, they understand. Outside the Undying Lands themselves, there was no greater paradise in Middle-earth. It was a wild, vibrant land full of life and light.

The Seven Rivers of Ossiriand
River Gelion – the principle river of East Beleriand, flowing from Himring and Mount Rerir into the Belegaer
River Ascar – the northernmost river in Ossirand, from the Noldorin word “asgar” which means rushing or impetuous
River Thalos – from the Ikorian word “thalos” meaning torrent, were Bëor and his people met Finrod Felegund
River Legolin – from the Ikorian word “legol” meaning running free
River Brilthor – from the Ilkorin words “bril” meaning glass or crystal, and “thórod” meaning torrent
River Duilwen – from the Ilkorin words “duil” meaning river, and “gwene” meaning green
River Adurant – the southernmost river in Ossiriand, home of Beren and Lúthien on Tol Galen


Rules and Guidelines:
1. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story)
2. All races are welcome! Timeline is whatever you like, from the beginning of Arda through the fourth age (though after a certain point it’s gonna get a bit waterlogged)
3. Keep any OOC comments to the Imladris Activities General OOC Thread
4. Refrain from using overly bright colors or potentially incur the wrath of the TR (Frost)
5. Icons and small images are welcome, but please no moving gifs
6. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread and there is room for different interpretation amongst posters
7. We are all adults here and can decide for ourselves the stories we want to read so rather than dictate what can and cannot be written in this thread, we will ask that any CW (at the discretion of the writer) be placed at the top of the post

[Dungeon Delver]

The Kingdoms of Ossiriand


Thargelion

this version of Thargelion was created by Moriel. All are welcome to utilize it, but it is not required- if you wish to devise your own version of Thargelion, you may!
Please feel free to ask Moriel if you have any questions about this version, or would like to interact with her version of Caranthir

Caranthir's kingdom is a land of pine and stone, great swaths of coniferous forest stretching from the Dwarf-Road and Mount Dolmed in the south to the Mount Rerir in the north, and the far reaches of the Greater Gelion where it flows down to border Maglor's Gap. Most of Targelion's population dwell in its mountains and their rugged forests, primarily Silvan elves who have dwelt there for uncounted generations. Some Sindar live amongst them as well, usually closer to the rivers and feet of mountains, or the capitol, where also dwell the Noldor who came with Caranthir, and some few others. The capitol city is also known as Thargelion, and sprawls over the slopes of Mt. Rerir, dwellings both on the ground and in the trees, connected by many swings, hand trams, and rope ladders and bridges; the elves of Thargelion are as at ease in the trees as they are on solid earth, and may spend days without touching the ground. Down below, paths trodden by many feet create the only roads, winding amongst ancient trunks. Lake Helevorn is a place of both plenty and play, its waters providing ample fish and forage, and also waters for its people to swim and sail. Its shores are frequently the site of bonfires and merriment, below the side of Rerir. Partway up Rerir, in a large saddle below the peak, lies Caranthir's manor house: a great stone shelf jutting out from the hill provides the base, several huge old oaks frame it, and the tiers of the house have been carved back into the hill and built up to meet the trees; bold, imposing, but not unfriendly, and still part of the hill: a bulwark to protect, not a parasite to invade. All are welcome in Caranthir's hall, and in winter when Thargelion's stores bulge and the one bridge providing easy access to the city is cut off by deep snows, the manse blazes with the light and music of revels for one and all. Thargelion was founded by Caranthir in FA 7, and razed by Glaurung's fire and horde in FA 455 during the Dagor Bragollach, thereafter abandoned.



Tol Galen

Coming soon!



Aside from Thargelion and Tol Galen, there were myriad petty kingdoms, sanctuaries, and hidden valleys that dotted Ossiriand:
(Note: many/most/all of these can be considered non-canonical and Plaza originals)

Maudrimad-a-Palis – A small commune of peaceful Edain living between the rivers Ascar and Thalos, ruled by a woman known as the Arinwatári who led them over the Ered Luin to a place of safety and prosperity. The place is quiet and secluded, the community is a small, but fiercely loyal one, They are on good terms with the Laiquendi of the area, trading different kinds of grain with the elves that they cultivated and grew before they travelled over the mountains. (Frost Original)

Tol Kiparisse – A large island of tall, fragrant cypress trees on the river Ascar often hidden by mists coming up from the waterfalls nearby, home to a sacred Ent Grove: the Garden-of-Many-Flowers-and-Trees-and-Bushes-and Ferns-of-Gold-Red-Blue-Orange-Violet-Yellow-and-Indigo-Upon-the-Flat-Stony-Hill-Overlooking-the-Sunrise. It is rare that the Ents allow anyone to visit, Edain or Eldar as they consider the place hallowed. (Frost Original)

Carcolondë – A hidden, refugee cove on the western end of the river Adurant, home to a tribe of Avari elves who turned pirate after a land dispute with the elves of Thargelion. They often raid along the rivers and Adurant Gelion, particularly after the Dagor Bragollach when Thargelion was lost. At times they are known to traffic in hard to procure hallucinatory substances. (Frost Original)

Núralóna – A deep cavern system hidden behind a series of waterfalls on the river Duilwen, home to a tribe of Avari elves and petty dwarves. Part of the river flows into an underground stream that leads to deep caverns whose walls are decorated with ominious carven faces. The sun still shines on them from above, the tribes utilizing fissures and mirrors to redirect natural sunlight into their homes (Frost Original)

Bhoghdurl – A dwarven refugee city, full of religious dissidents from Nogrod and Belegost. The city is hidden deep with a forested dale, in a valley of petrified trees that the Dwarves use as their homes rather than stone and metal. The splinter group believes that the dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost have lost their way and no longer follow the tenets of Mahal, they believe they are more concerned with material goods and status that as humble craftsmen and women. They preached for years until the persecutions became too much to bear. They found the hidden glen and vowed to never leave. What became of them and their beliefs after the destruction of Beleriand is not known. (Frost Original)

Tumánîawdraug – A large, deep valley running north to south on the river Gelion, home to a dozen species of bear, well known for its mead, possibly the ancestral home of the Beornings. The valley is very large, hemmed in on all sides by the Morco Tarminas, the Bear Towers, and roughly three hundred square leagues. There is a single Edain settlement in the valley, near the center. They were allowed to enter by the Laiquendi that guard the valley on the promise that they would not disturb the sacred bears. It is believed by some that many of these bears eventually found their way to Númenor then to the Dae-Brôg-Tewair. (Frost Original)

Ost Iaurist - A small city of scholars and explorers nestled in a valley between the Rivers Duilwen and Adurant. From here, those who join their ranks set out on expeditions to uncover artifacts of the ancient wars between the Valar and Morgoth, the better to understand the powers that shaped the world - and, in turn, the world itself. Originally a settlement of Laiquendi, Ost Iuarist has welcomed scholars and visitors of all races. A council of senior scholars, elected by their fellow students, leads the city and dictates its policies, trade, and civic life. (Tarawen Original)

Imrath Enederad - also known as Noonvale, the secret valley of mid-day. A hidden enclave deep in the heart of Ossiriand, north of the River Brethil. Known to few and found by fewer, it hides deep amongst the forest, a valley dipping unexpectedly from the forest floor, found by secret ways and hidden paths. In places the valley is steep and sharp-sided, in others widening into a more gentle incline, and all through the vale runs a river. The nameless watercourse burbles swiftly over rock and gravel in some places, and in others widens into laziness, where the elves of the valley punt of a warm afternoon, singing and feasting. There dwel Nandor and Sindar, together in the country of the Green-Elves which the Noldor had named Lindon, for the ceaseless singing of its people. Song can always be heard in the valley, and when in the evening or morn sunlight lances through the vale, illuminating river, rock and tree, it rises to a crescendo as each soul sings their praise to the sun. At night they sing to the stars, whispering choral melodies to the Starkindler. In the day they sing songs of everything: of legend and of battle, of tree and river, of a lover, or of a lost love. At times they sinng without words, for song began thus, and would always return to its beginnings. This is a place of peace, where no weapon may be carried. No one rules here, but the inhabitants of the vale work together to maintain it, guided by their elders. Imrath Enederad was utterly destroyed in the War of Wrath and ceases to exist after FA 587 (Moriel Original)

Please do feel free to create however many other places, kingdoms, and locales you'd like and the TR will add them to the list

[Dungeon Delver]

The Arinwatári
Maudrimad-a-Palis, FA 465
(Private)

The morning was bright, the northerly breeze was cool and sweet, the dew on the grass was gorgeous. The mountains in the east looked like two great stacks of pancakes and the sun was a golden, perfectly fried egg between them. The birds were busy signing, a dozen different kinds with a dozen different songs. Some of her people played woodwinds or drums, but none of them could match the simple, somewhat cacophonous, beauty of the morning chorus. Nature had a musicality to it that she found delightful. Every morning the song was different. Sometimes there would be just one or two birds weaving melodies to each other back and forth, other times the music was so wondrous that even the crickets and cicadas would join in. She loved the feeling of dew on her bare feet. The sun was going to be hot today, she could feel it. The coolness of the dew gave her comfort. She was not the first of her people up this morning. She could smell the enduringly sweet fragrance of berries and cream, of pancakes with mulberry syrup, of freshly baking flatbread in their overly large brick ovens. Beyond the song of the birds, there was a murmur of voices, people gathering for the first meal. There were many traditions among her people, but none were more sacred than the gathering for the first meal.

No one really remembered where it started or how or why. Some of the village elders suggested that it was formed during a time of hardship, when food and shelter were scarce. They had to come together and share what meager offerings they could find with one another in order to survive. They had come a long way since then. How many years had it been since they crossed those terrifyingly huge mountains? That dark, green forest full of shadows and glowing eyes? That rampaging, endless river? Her people were resilient. They had come through so many hardships, so many of them giving up their lives so that others could continue. They found a paradise at last. This little glade with a sweet-smelling stream and green-golden trees. The land rolled gently over sloping hills. They had made friends with the quendi here, a secretive, ethereal lot that looked down on hunting and carnivorism. She and her people had taken up a different lifestyle then, modeled in part from those tree-dwelling folk that vanished into the deep woods. They called this land Ossiriand, Land of the Seven Rivers. Some of them had taken members of her tribe to see the fabled rivers. The tales that came back were filled with awe and wonder.

She didn’t remember arriving here in the glade. She was only an infant then. Her great-grandmother was the Arinwatári at that time. It felt like so many years ago now. So many things had happened. The War happened.

They had been quite comfortable with their small glade and their fields and forest gardens. They lived simply and happily for years. Echoes of battles came to them, refugees running from smoke filled lands, terror-stricken orphans so distraught they’d forgotten their own names, and people so lost and broken that they barely understood the concept of first meal. She and her people had managed to stay away from the fighting and the violence and the endless streams of blood and fire. The day the north exploded, and the sun was blotted by ash was the day that all ended. Monstrous things followed the refugees, twisted mirror images so broken and ugly that many of her people fled at the mere sight of them. Some blamed the refugees, saying they brought the demons with them. Others suggested they return back to the land beyond the mountains, where such monsters were fewer easier to hide from. Others still suggested they take up arms and do battle. Those voices were the loudest. Her grandmother, an intelligent woman with a gentle heart, took up the cause and led some of their people into a sortie with the enemy. No word ever came back from those that left Maudrimad-a-Palis that day. Her mother became Arinwatári then, but she had never wanted to title. She had hoped it would pass directly to her, her daughter, and bypass her altogether.

Harvests didn’t yield enough crops, plagues of sickness and locusts blew in, and winters began lasting too long. The people of Maudrimad-a-Palis grew more and more anxious. They blamed the refugees even more, despite many of the refugees having completely integrated into their community, saying it was their fault any of this happened. They called them warmongers and thieves, liars and tricksters. Her mother had not fought to keep the peace. She joined the side of those who blamed the refugees. Conflict was brought to their peaceful glade, death and misery were more abundant than apple trees berry bushes. They drove the refugees away. She protested to her mother, but her pleas for peace and mercy fell on helmeted ears. When her mother returned from the battle, if battle a slaughter could be called, she had new ideas, dangerous and xenophobic. She began to speak against the Laiquendi, their elven friends that had shown them the place they called home.

She had not choice then. She gathered up her two younger siblings and the rest of her people that had not fallen under the sway of violent rhetoric and banished her mother, stripping her of the title of Arinwatári. In a dramatic turn, those gathered had named her their leader, placing the ancient title on her. When she banished her mother and those that followed her poisonous words, she had not meant to take up the position. She meant to give it to someone else, and elder wisewoman or a grand matron of many years. She was too young. She had her life ahead of her. The title of Arinwatári was more than just a title. It was more than “king” or “queen”. She had to forsake her old name and past. She had to put aside all dreams and desires she’d held. The first Arinwatári was chosen in the many centuries past from a unanimous vote. She led them to prosperity and plenty. Each field she led them to was filled with fruit and grains, each river and lake as full of fish, each forest was full of game. Her name was lost in the mist of time beyond the Blue Mountains. Later generations simply called her the Arinwatári, the Queen of the First Meal. The title became hereditary, passing from mother to daughter for years beyond count. Each new queen took the title and forsook her name. She had not wanted to do this. Yet her people needed her. Her sisters needed her. And so, she did. She ceased to be the young girl with dreams of far-off seas and became the Arinwatári.

“What is for breakfast today?” her sister, still a child of less than ten years, ran up and grabbed her hand excitedly, her bright eyes gleaming with eagerness. “Can it please be pancakes? I do so want pancakes this morning! And some fresh baked apple slices! Oh please, sister! Please!”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. No matter what happened, her little sisters were an endless source of joy and eagerness. They helped her on dark days when the weight of responsibility threatened to squash her. “Not just pancakes,” she said, squatting down so she could look her in the eyes. “Cinnamon and oatmeal pancakes!”

Her sister squealed with glee, giggled and ran off toward the large building in the center of their glade: the mess hall, more sacred than any temple or shrine to her people.

“Mistress Arinwatári,” came a papery thin voice behind her. She turned. It was Dassam, an elderly man with barely a wisp of white hair on his head and gnarled hands that gripped his cane.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you Dassam. I missed you yesterday. I hope you are alright?”

“You are so kind,” he said distantly, looking into her eyes. “So unlike your mother…” he added absently. He coughed and looked shamefaced. “Sorry, please forgive an old man for rambling on so. I was with my grandsons yesterday. Palom and Porom. They are growing so fast. They’ll be fine young men one day, as soon as they learn to wash their faces on their own. We were traipsing through the woods, playing some game or another. They have so many games, it’s hard to keep track of them.” He laughed, his eyes sparkling. “We ended up on the far side of the glade, right where those dark evergreen trees start to take over, by the cliffs? They found a cave and decided to explore it. So rash and carefree! I told them not to, that it was too dangerous to just dive into a cave like that. What if they encountered a bear or a boar, or worse… one of your mother’s old supporters…” he looked worried, his eyes suddenly began to avoid hers. “They came out a few minutes later. I yelled and yelled to them. I couldn’t follow them; I am older than I was when I was younger. I’m not as spritely and agile as I used to be in my youth. They came out all a fluster and buster. They said they found something in the cave! I had to spent ten whole minutes trying to get them to calm down long enough to tell me what it was.” His expression was unreadable, a mix of concern and amusement and… worry? “They said they found a treasure. A great and valuable treasure, by the way they described it. They didn’t touch it though. No. No. No. They told me a voice as calling to them, told them they weren’t allowed to touch the treasure yet. They said the voice sounded… sounded like your grandmother.”

[Dungeon Delver]

Apéritif
Ost Iaurist, FA 87
(Private)

The world was quiet. The morning sun ignited fields of viridian green and cast long, wispy shadows. Bees, plump and wobbly, buzzed around flowers of a thousand different colors. A dozen or so bird flittered in and out of drooping willow branches in search of food. There was no breeze this morning, the air was still and calm with a hint of sweetness. He loved it here. Every morning was a beautiful, serene painting upon a vast canvas. He counted himself lucky when he found this place, a tiny enclave of quiet people looking for nothing in life but pure contentedness. Each morning was a soft reminder to look after one another and to find the time to enjoy what you did. He sat on the bank of the stream for some time, letting the morning’s warmth wash over him, to let the glow of an Ossiriand summer morning ease the troubles of his mind and push the remnants aside. On the bank was an old redwood tree, older, taller, and wider than all the rest. He was quite certain this tree had burst from the earth the same hour that he himself had. He saw the lines of age, dignity and steadfastness, written on the tree, along with scars and scorch marks. He, too, had a fair share of those. The wise ones said this world was marred and imperfect, but when he looked at this tree, this reflection of himself, he did not think so. The scars and wounds that each living being carried were more than imperfections or signs of trouble. They were stories of hope, of survival, of endurance. This tree had endured for beyond a thousand years and would be here longer still. It would bear the scars of aeons long past and hold the memory of a thousand thousand creatures. He leaned over and touched the wood with index and middle finger. The wood was rough to the touch, gritty and sticky with dirt and sap, yet it felt real, real in a way that could only be explained by tactile enlightenment. There was the slightest teasing whisper of petrichor in the air, his tanned, dark face split into a wide grin. When the rains came, he would be sure to enjoy from his yard. Standing in the rain made him feel young again. There were days of his youth he sorely missed. They felt near enough to touch when it rained. He looked at the clouds in the west, they were small now, barely whisps, but he could see their potential for a cleansing summer rain. He sighed slowly with easy content. There was nothing quite like an Ossiriand summer morning.

Rain meant, of course, that the fish would be stirring and eager. Cútaþar chuckled to himself. There was a chance after all that he would finally catch that pike that had been eluding him for months now. He took up his fly-fishing pole and opened the box of lures. The old Nando had few things in the world as precious to him as his lures. He sometimes amazed himself that he did not have hundreds and hundreds of them by now. There was only a dozen in the box, each in their proper place. He touched each one of them in turn, a ritual he conducted before he selected them. He was fastidious about his lures, a perfectionist with a critical eye for functionality and beauty. The people of Ost Iaurist knew him as an elf of superior taste and a very particular aesthetic. He had twelve because these twelve were the epitome of perfection. They were both functional and symbolic; each lure had a story to tell, each were greater than the sum of their parts. His first lure was here still, even after more than a hundred years, a hook made from the bone of an elk with magpie tail feathers, white deer tail fur, wound with silvery thread. He smiled at it as he touched it, memories of serene rivers and quiet lakes. Next, he looked at what he had dubbed his lake lure, pheasant down with white rabbit fur and a piece of shimmering mother-of-pearl. He touched his favorite lure, one that had seen more battles than any bard could retell, swan down and silver chicken feathers tied with horsehair he’d once used to string his lyre. Then he found the one he wanted today, a raven tailfeather, a magpie feather, and the down of a silkie chicken with a single, flattened piece of pure silver. It called to him, the black feathers shimmered purple in the growing sunlight and whispered his name. He pulled it from its spot and closed the book. After attaching the lure to his line, he waded out into the stream in naught but his breeches. The water was cold, with the bite of the Ered Luin behind them, it was an invigorating cold that woke that atavist, feral nature within him. His fingers jumped and danced in anticipation as he through out the line, letting the lure fly first through the air then through the clear stream. Again and again and again the ritual hunt went, testing the water, teasing the fish. He and the pike had played this game many times. Move and countermove, call and response, tricks and puzzles, feints and attacks. He felt like he knew this fish by now, was almost on a first name basis. It was smarter, smarter than all the other fish that lived and passed through this stream on its way to the River Adurant.

“I see you, old friend,” he mumbled under his breath, his eyes catching a silvery glimpse of scale. “So now we start again. I’ll have you this time.”

He cast the lure again, past where he’d seen the old pike, and drew it slowly in an arc around until he drew it back out. The pike didn’t take the bait, would never take the bait on the first trip round. He cast the line long again, moving it just a little closer before zipping passed and back out of the water. He made half a dozen more passes, each time landing the lure just a little closer, seeing if he could get the fish to move, to bite, to attack. Finally, the fish did move, it struck out at the lure barely missing it as the black feathers shimmered passed.

“I’ve got you now,” the old Nando whispered with an air of triumph.

He could see the long, thin body of the pike as it dove for the lure then tried to reposition itself on the opposite back. It hung back, tentative still. Cútaþar cast the line short, hoping to draw the pike out just a little more into the open, but the fish was too clever. It stayed still, barely visible as the sun’s rays turned from pink to gold, but he was there. He cast a few more feints, attempting to draw the fish out without success. Thankfully, after living for years beyond measure, he’d learned the most imperilous art of patience. He was not alone on the banks of the stream. He caught sight of a familiar friend, a stag, the biggest stag he’d ever seen with tall, hooked antlers that shone like opals, his fur was unlike anything Cútaþar had ever seen. It was black as the new moon, so dark it almost glowed with purple iridescence. The fur itself was wild and unkempt and even seemed to sprout feather and the joints of the great beast. It was silent. They looked at one another across the vast gulf of space, between wilderness and civilization. He couldn’t tell if there was appreciation in their mutual gazes or envy, as something feral called to him, did so something domestic call to the stag? They gazed at each for what could have been as long as a heartbeat or as short as an hour. The knotwork of time and causality slowed and slipped over the edges of the cup. Then, all of the sudden, the stag reared back, kicking his legs into the air. He sent up a great splash and snorted as he evaporated into the woods behind him, fae and unpredictable. The pike, disturbed by the sudden movement, shimmered out into the open. Cútaþar barely registered the movement in time. He cast his line a final time, almost directly in front of the pike. He took the bait, agitated and disoriented. The elf did not wait long. He pulled the fish in with as much speed and ferocity as he could. The pike, even caught, fought like hell. Catching him had only been half the battle. He pulled and yanked, trashing back and forth with enough force to almost snap the line. Slowly, an inexorably, like the incoming of the tides, he was drawn in until his strength was utterly sapped. Cútaþar pulled him in and up and admire the spoils of victory. The fish was larger than he’d first thought, five feet long and at least forty pounds. The beast still thrashed and fought, but each combatant knew the battle had finally been won.

He carried his prize to the shore and laid the pike on the banks of the stream. He closed his eyes and mumbled a short prayer of thanks to the undine and nokken of the stream and to the pike itself. He brought out a jawbone club from his fishing gear, a fearsome thing that had been at his side through many battles now, against pike and orc alike. With a single, swift stroke, he killed the pike and began to clean and gut him. He would be eating well tonight. Once the fish had been cleaned and the innards offered as a sacrifice to the stream once more, he turned home.

His home was massive, truly larger than he had any need, but he had made the place a living museum. The center point of the house was a great petrified oak tree with branches splayed out like a dozen fingers in all directions. It stood as the foundational column for the roof and walls. Over the years he affixed the antlers of his hunts, the trophies and sacrifices he offered Arōmēz for continued favor and success. There were deer and moose and stag and elk antlers all twisting around the tree in a display of both natural savagery and civilized beauty. It was the dichotomy of Cútaþar himself. Around each of the pairs of antlers were roses, red, white, and black intertwined with foxglove and wolfsbane, deadly but magnificent. His walls were a deep, rich teal blue that he mixed and quite literally, hand painted. There were small, almost imperceptible imperfections in the layers of paint and he knew each one and the character it gave the wall. He’d then taken a bone sharpened to a razor’s edge and carved out a fresco, filled in with sky blue, of his crossing of the Hithaeglir and the duel with the spirit of Carnirassë. He paused to look at it, he could still feel the biting cold of the mountain, even after all these years. He chuckled softly, hoping he would never have need to cross back. He came to the kitchen and laid the body of the pike down reverently before whispering another prayer of absolution to Ivōnnākementarīz. He set his lures and fishing rod in their proper place, taking time to make sure the spot was exact, then made his way down. He took his jawbone club with him into an almost perfectly circular tunnel. The sound echoed here like deepest caverns of the highest, coldest mountains.

He came to the body of the thing tied by silverly hempen rope and bent down to touch it. It jerked and scuttled away from him like a beetle missing half its legs. He spat as he looked at the creature’s glowing red eyes.

“You’ve been terribly rude, Watain. What shall we do about that?”

[Moriel]

continued from here

Thargelion. FA 455.
The Song of Selchenebeth.
Part I

(Private)

”Go, my love! Go, and don’t look back!”

Her son disappeared into the snowbound forest, her tiny daughter, still warm from the womb, strapped to his chest. Selchenebeth’s tears froze to her face as Capalimo ran, and all her hope went with him. Speed your heels, my love, and may we meet again on the final journey o’er the sea. But Breigon, crouched behind her, had begun to move. Selchenebeth’s husband moved with purpose, turning to face her, and he took her in his arms. “Forgive me,” he choked, and his voice was a whisper in her hair, a rasp of his file on steel, and the steel itself, unbending. Her arms found their way about his neck and, though she trembled with fear and grief and pain, locked him to her. But Breigon was stronger, and withdrew just enough to press his forehead to hers as he whispered, “Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for what I must do.”

“No,” Selchenebeth gasped, “No! Breigon!” But he pried her arms gently from his neck and laid her back upon the snow. She was too weak to stop him as he turned away, and began to dig at the side of the snowbank beside them, excavating a cavern. Even as he moved away from it she knew what he intended. “Breigon!” She cried, “No! Breigon!” Selchenebeth screamed, scrabbling at his forearms with her bloody fingers as he thrust his hands beneath her hip and shoulder. With a surge of the mighty strength of his profession Breigon heaved Selchenebeth into the hole, sending her tumbling over like a log. She cried out in both pain and despair, coming to a rest in time to see Breigon’s knees straighten as he stood. Then came a crunching sound, and a seeming avalanche of snow came down before her, covering the entrance to the small cavern, blocking out the light, and pushing her back against the wall. “Breigon!” she wailed, ”Breigon!”

But there were new sounds now, muffled by the snow that sealed her in, roaring and hooting and gibbering. And even as she registered that the enemy was upon them, Selchenebeth was reminded that her job was not yet done. She had borne a child once before, and knew well that the baby was not the only thing that must be delivered. Pain ripped through her again, and she stifled a scream, writhing in the snow and thrusting her heels against it as what felt like every muscle in her body contracted, striving to expel the tympanus mass that had nourished Glîniel. Selchenebeth’s labor had returned with a vengeance, and she thrust the edge of her hand into her mouth.

The ground beneath her vibrated with the pounding of many feet. Selchenebeth bit down hard to stop herself from screaming, but the pain was nothing compared to the rest of her body. Her eyes screwed shut, and through the muddled harsh vocalizations of the orcs, she heard a new voice arise: that of her husband. Breigon’s roars and cries of effort and defiance penetrated both the snow and her pain as he fought above to defend his family. And Selchenebeth focused the whole of her being on them, panting against her hand and straining with every convulsion of her body until at last the afterbirth slipped from between her legs. The sensation drew an explosive gasp from deep in her core, and she collapsed limply upon the snow, scarcely aware of the blood still draining to pool at her feet.

A thunderous crash brought her back to reality, as something fell from above her hiding place. It fell against the snow covering her and she shrank back against the rear of the small cave, terror flooding her once more as her concealment threatened to break. But whatever had fallen did not move to dig. Selchenebeth became aware, suddenly, that she no longer heard Breigon’s voice, only the hooting and howling of the orcs. But those too had changed, become higher pitch, and as she listened began to move away. Selchenebeth lay trembling, and listening, until the orc-sounds faded completely, and for a long time after. Finally she could bear it no longer and began to dig. Her nails and fingertips tore, scraping through the inner layer of icy snow, melted by the heat of her breath and blood and frozen again, before reaching the softer stuff that gave way rapidly beneath her hands. A rush of air struck Selchenebeth, and her spine quaked. She had not realized how much warmer the air within her haven had become. Silence too rushed through the hole she had made. It was a silence so profound it stopped her breath: the forest always moved, the mountains always breathed, and their life always made itself known. Not so now. Her fear turning to panic. Selchenebeth thrust both her hands into the hole and ripped away at the snow until the opening was large enough for her to thrust her head and shoulders through.

The sight that greeted her was what she had known, deep behind her heart, must be there, but that she had been wholly unprepared to see. Breigon lay sprawled upon the ground; head, torson, and arms upon the path, his legs still draped upon the snow over the cavern that had sheltered her. His clothes were ripped and torn, pieced by a multitude of blades; the shaft of an arrow stood stark from one shoulder, and his blood mingled with that of countless orcs in the snow as he lay, eyes still glassily open. Selchenebeth did not hear the scream that was finally unleashed from her chest as she flailed, breaking through the snow as she hauled herself from the cave and staggered to her husband, falling to her knees at Breigon’s side. The sounds of her grief were unrestrained, mindless of any further thread among the trees. But none came, and only the pines were witness to Selchenebeth’s desolation.

But even grief could not hold back reality forever. The cold pressed in upon the Nandorin nís as she knelt beside her fallen husband. The loss of blood and the lack of food and the falling adrenaline gripped her, and the urgency of survival took hold. Selchenebeth’s fingers dug into Breigon’s arm as she squeezed his wrist, and she leant forward to press her lips to his cold face one last time. “Forgive me, my love,” she whispered, “Forgive me for what I must do.” With shredded fingertips she tenderly closed his eyes. Then Selchenebeth set about her work, first stripping both bootes and trews from Breigon’s legs. She pulled on the trews over her own torn and blood-soaked garmets, having to tie them at the waist, he was so much broader than she, and his belt gone with Capalimo. She thrust her feet into his boots over top of her own, then set to removing his shirt. With both hands Selchenebeth gripped the arrow still buried in Breigon’s shoulder and pulled it away. Then she pried his fingers from the hammer, which slid a few inches down the path.

With great effort, Selchenebeth removed Breigon’s shirt, and pulled it over her head. It flapped down nearly to her knees, and well past her hands, but she thrust the end into the waist of the knotted trews, and folded back the cuffs. Pain of a different sort lanced through her to see Breigon lying nearly naked in the snow, but she knew he would forgive her. To survive was the best way to honor his sacrifice. Exposure was the enemy now, and hunger, and fear. She cast about and found the satchel they had fled with, containing a few meagre supplies. Selchenebeth forced down a few bites, alternated with handfuls of clean snow. She must both eat, and make what she had last. At length, she threaded her arms through the straps of the pack and shouldered it up onto her back. She looked down, and saw the hammer. It was coated with blood and bits of bone and gore, thick and viscous and half-frozen, the evidence of Breigon’s stand to save her, and give their children time to escape. Without realizing that she had given the command, Selchenebeth’s fingers curled around the shaft of the hammer, and drew it tight into her fist. It was almost as if she could still feel the warmth of Breigon’s hand, and the strength of his heart.

A deep breath and a sudden lunge brought Selchenebeth to her feet. Her legs shook, her head spun, and all around her lay the corpses of those who had destroyed her village, her family, and threatened to kill and devour all she knew. But her eyes were hard with determination as she set off down the path, hammer in hand.

Don’t look back.

[Dungeon Delver]

The Arinwatári
Maudrimad-a-Palis, FA 465, the Day After
(Private)

The news spread wildly throughout the settlement, moving like an uncontained fire from person to person, growing and shifting with each new telling. Dassam’s story about the voice of her grandmother had spread a sort of unease and discomfiture throughout the people of Maudrimad-a-Palis. Her grandmother had been well loved, but what did it mean that years after her death her voice had been heard by a pair of expeditioning youngsters? Was she really dead? Was she alive somewhere— trapped by her daughter and her mad supporters? What did that mean for the Arinwatári? What should be done about this? Was it a prank, a jest, a trick? All sorts of stories and questions fanned the flames of rumor and the whole village was alight with it within just a day. By the time the day ended, the Arinwatári had had to field a dozen or more questions about what they were going to do from a dozen or more different faces. What was she going to do? Thankfully, if indeed there were any thanks to be had, her two little sisters had not been pestered and bombarded with questions and thus, as she put them each to sleep, did not subsequently bombard her with questions. Their innocence was preserved a little bit longer.

She woke the following day far earlier than she’d intended. The sun was still hours from peaking over the eastern horizon and darkness shrouded much of the village. There were a few torches here and there, lamps from someone’s home that spilt some light into the streets or the occasional hearth burning low. It was quiet today, quieter than usual. The news from yesterday cast a pall over her home. She herself didn’t know how to feel about any of this. She knew her grandmother was gone, she’d held her hand as she gave up her last breath, and yet all the same she doubted. What if her grandmother was still alive? There was a sense of relief building up, something akin to a sneeze before it’s pushed through. It was strange and uncomfortable. A voice plagued her dreams all night, voices really. The voice of her grandmother, exhorting her to remember all the things she taught her and all the things she’d learned over the course of her short years here, the voice of her mother, shouting words of hatred and unkindness, telling the people they were like sheep to the slaughter. She heard the voices of Palom and Porom, the two mischief makers that had heard the voice and reported to their grandfather. Sleep was too fragile to contain so much dread. When she woke, she felt sluggish, like she was moving through molasses. She did move though, dressing quietly so as not to wake her sisters and took a walk outside in the brilliant, sparkling darkness.

A thousand and one thoughts ran through her head as she walked, but she ignored them all. What good was it to fret and worry right now? She wasn’t going to find a solution now, in the midst of a half panic. A solution wasn’t going to just appear out of thin air and sit in her lap at First Meal. The thoughts kept coming, but she ignored them as she walked a slow, meandering course through the village.

She passed one of the bakers’ homes, alright lit with an inner light, an orange glow seeping out of the windows. Herodir was always the first person up on the village, without fail. He’d taken over his father’s bakery duties a few years ago and had been working nonstop ever since. He was without doubt the best baker the village had seen and, while being far from the only baker in the village, never tried to be the only baker in the village. He was very open with his recipes, sharing all of his ideas with his fellows so that each of them could put their own spin on them. She could see his shadow on the wall as she passed, moving frantically to and fro. Each day he made something different, and no one knew what it was until he revealed it at Breakfast. The Arinwatári had to suppress an impish urge to sneak to the window to get a peek.

She suppressed the urge though and let the handsome baker work in peace. She had her own peace to seek out. She passed another house, dark as the couple inside slept until the rising of the sun. The vintner’s house was unassuming and small. A newcomer to the village would never know that the best wines and juices in all of Ossiriand were made in that house, squeezed, pressed, and fermented by hand by a newlywed couple with a child on the way. Passing their home, the Arinwatári felt her throat go dry. She swallowed, imaging what a cup of orange and grapefruit juice would taste like just in this moment. She smiled softly before moving on from their house.

Chickens began clucking as she neared the next house, a soft cooing cacophony. There would be eggs today, and plenty of them. Gannrien raised several dozen or so chickens and supplied the entire village with eggs. She’d done so ever since her husband and son were killed in the fighting. She was too old to remarry, so she said, and needed something to take her mind off the loneliness that loomed over her. Everyone loved visiting her though, her house was constantly filled with people, and children often came to her yard to play with the goats she raised, developing half a dozen nonsensical games. Her own sisters were masters, if they were to be believed, in a game called “Two Goats in the Pen”. They were so secretive about the rules or objectives that she assumed it was really about running around the goats squealing like maniacs.

The tell-tale signs of the orchard came into view, trees wrapped in shadow that reached high into the sky. She remembered in the days of her youth climbing those very trees, doing her best to reach the highest branch because it was rumored that the highest apples were the most succulent. It was true, of course, but she had to keep some secrets to herself. The orchard keeper, Iorthonor and his wife Galriel, had more than a dozen varieties of apples in their orchard. They didn’t like to call it an orchard though, they insisted that everyone call it the Apple Forest because of the wild, untamed nature of the trees. The only thing that separated the Apple Forest from the rest of the trees around the village was a hand carved fence made with special guarding runes.

Down the road from the Apple Forest was the Maple Farm, a relatively new addition to Maudrimad-a-Palis. A woodsman named Curuchon and his husband Solchanar had found, by sheerest happenstance, that the sap from a certain tree was sweet and tasty and perfect for the cakes the bakers made for First Meal. They began to cultivate the trees and farm the delicious syrup within.

The people of her village were simple folk, but they were good and sturdy too. She took a deep breath, breathing in all of the village. She took comfort in this place, in the simpleness of it. There was happiness here, joy and contentment. Come whatever may, she and her people were going to be okay. Whatever this storm on the horizon truly was, they would all weather it together and share a meal together afterward. The more she walked, the more confidence she found. Each house, cottage, and building held people dear to her heart, integral to the village and a part of the unending circle. They were all a part of one another. She would be strong for them. Whatever this thing turned out to be, her grandmother or otherwise, she would find out for them and make sure they were safe, that their happy, simple way of life was protected, and that Breakfast would continue on and on for hundred, for a thousand more years. They were her strength, so she would be theirs. At First Meal, she would tell everyone what she knew, and she would offer a solution: she would go to this cave and search out whatever it was that was making her grandmother’s voice and find the answer. It was the only course of action she could take. She was their leader, their protector, their shepherd. She would gladly take up her responsibility to ensure their safety. She exhaled, feeling the anxiety, fear, and unease flow out of her.

It was time to get back to her home, her sisters would be waking soon and she had her own preparations to make for First Meal.

[Dungeon Delver]

Folie à Deux
Somewhere in the Wilds Near Mount Rerir, FA 455
(With Moriel)

Stand in the thrall, stand in the thrall, stand in the thrall of my wall
- Sunn0))), “My Wall”

Finnbarr was not consciously aware of anything moving around him. He was so wrapped up in his pain that even blurs of light and color meant nothing. His voice felt thick and lifeless, any sound he made died before it exited his mouth, often coming out as little more than an incoherent moan. He was moving, maybe, he was so absorbed in his pain that there was no way to tell what was real and what was a hallucination. Perhaps everything had been a hallucination? None of this night’s events could have been real, could it have? Orcs and trolls and dragons practically appearing out of nothing in such numbers as to bring the mountain of Rerir itself down? That could not be real. Such things were the province of nightmares and gothic poetry. Real life, real life could not hinge on such ridiculous fantasies. Yet. Yet. It was real. All of it. Every smell, sight, sound. Every wound had been struck, every stone had been rent. The dead. The dead. The dead. The vast uncountable multitudes of dead. He remembered the faces, so many faces, faces of the dead, the dead, the dead! Doom had come to Thargelion…

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

“So what will you do now, Finnbarr?” a woman asked him.

He was no longer on the slopes of Mount Rerir. He was no longer in Thargelion. He was, he was on a boat floating in the middle of the ocean. He was on his parents’ boat. But, but how? That was impossible. That boat had been set free. Set free and burned in their memory. This, this land was not real. This was just another hallucination, a hallucination within a cascade avalanche of hallucinations. What else could it be?

“I asked you a question,” said the woman, insistent. “What will you do now?”

Finnbarr noticed her for the first time, she was standing in a great swirl of seaborne mist, grey tendrils like the tentacles of an octopus. She stepped forward. No. No. No. She was not who she was. The woman standing before him was not, could not, be. It was his mother. His heart nigh ripped itself in two, joy and grief tugged at him so. He wept.

“Mother?” he asked, afraid that speaking would break the illusion. He did not want this illusion to end.

“Who else would I be, darling? Of course I’m your mother.”

“And I’m your father, your adar, if you remember me.” A man walked out from the mist, his father, his real father.

“Father!” he cried. His voice caught. He took a step forward, the little boy who missed his parents suddenly so strong that he overrode Finnbarr the adult’s better caution.

“My son,” said his mother, closing the gap between them. She touched his cheek with a tenderness he had nearly forgotten. “You’ve not grown much since we last saw you. We thought you would have sprouted like an ash in our absence. Yet…”

Finnbarr didn’t understand. He looked down at his feet, at his chest. He was wearing armor, his armor, but it was large, too large. How could—? His chest and hands were the chest and hands of a boy, a lad of seven learning to fish beside his father. The armor was far, far too large for him.

“I’m sorry mother. I’m sorry father. I failed, I failed you. I could not…” he broke off, his voice cracking with the well of sorrow that burst from his chest.

His mother and father, though, did not move. They stared at him and the sounds he was making as if he were something alien and foreign. “What have you become Finnbarr? They called you Galedeep but there is no depth within you. There is no storm either. Who are you? This man, this boy is not our son, surely. Our son swore an oath. He swore an oath to defy the gods, the stars, and the elements in his search for revenge. Now? You sup with our killers. You break bread that has been soaked in our blood. You are a glut for the words of praise from your parents’ killers. What good is a son that refuses to carry on the legacy of his mother and father? Are we that worthless to you?”

“No,” Finnbarr said, his voice small and weak.

“Are you so enamored by pretty titles that you forget why you are even there?” his father asked.

“No,” Finnbarr gulped and shrank back.

“Would that we had a son that loved us, that was no king’s favorite.”

“I am no king’s favorite!” Finnbarr shot back, his hands shaking with rage and shame. “I do not sit in the halls of Thargelion to hear my name praised, to be given lands or titles! I am not here to— I am not, no…”

“We were once proud of you, my son,” his father said, his face suddenly bloody and mangled, though the timbre of his voice never faltered. “We loved you. We laid down our lives so that you could live. We happily exchanged our lives so that you could have yours.”

“Why have you wasted our sacrifice, my son?” his mother finished, her face a bloody ruin. “What have we done that we no longer deserve your love? Surely you do not think that Tavari or Carnistir or Verco or any of the other sycophants love you. Do they know anything of you, my son? Did they see you hold your first seashell? Did you share with them the song you heard in the conch shell? Do you tell them stories of your sea creature companions as you told us? Do they laugh at your tales of dolphins and whales? Did they teach you how to mend your net? Sing? Swim? Tell me, my son, why is their approval so much more important than the memory of your parents?”

“I, I’m not,” Finnbarr stuttered and his voice cracked. The armor began to grow in weight. Where once it was merely heavy and cumbersome, now it was threatening to crush Finnbarr and bury in him in the sea. The deck began to crack and splinter beneath him. His parents shook their heads and walked away. They disappeared into the mist and he was alone. The armor continued to grow heavier and heavier. His shoulders both snapped. He howled as the ligaments and tendons were pulled to their tearing point. He wept as the pain overwhelmed him. The sea. The sea rose angry around him. The deck ruptured beneath him, and he sank to the lightless depths.

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

The world was small and inconsistent. The stars that wheeled above were pinpricks of light so far out of reach that to say they existed at all was tantamount to a lie. Legends say that elves woke beneath these same stars and saw hope and mercy and joy in the twinkling lights. Perhaps that had been true of generations long since passed into ethereal song, but now there was no hope to be found, no mercy, no joy. The stars that wheeled and careened in the heavens were cold and lifeless, to each hand extended they rejoined with curse and malignancy. They mocked Finnbarr in his weakened state, they whispered to him of all his failures. They whispered the names of the dead, those that he did not and could not save. The litany was endless and as unceasing as the waves against the shore.

The world moved underneath him, but he could not understand how or why. It did not matter. Nothing much mattered in the moment. Life and death were not so different as mortal men were led to understand. They were lied to, as the elves were lied to. Lies and lies and lies to make the world go ‘round. If the lies were ever stopped, the sky would burn and the seas would boil. Truth was not to be found in the philosophies of stars and songs, nor was wisdom the providence of kings and nobles. Finnbarr had seen the truth, rolling down a mountain with a troll on top of him. He saw the bleak emptiness that awaited everything, the gaping maw of the abyss, hungry to devour. Why fight the inevitable? Not even the deathless are safe from death. Sooner or later, even the stars would falter and crash. What would those stars bring to earth, what untold ruin and devastation could the wishes of children bring upon their unsuspecting world?

Everything smelled of festering wounds, a grey, soft, squelching smell that pervaded the senses and sunk into the psyche. Finnbarr could not bear it…

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

He was on dry land. He again wore his armor, but he was himself again, not a frightened boy of seven. A figure approached him out of the gloom. They stood in a desert, the air was hot and shimmered. A reef stood behind him, the skeletal remains of one, at least. He felt like vomiting.

“Really?” said the figure, a mocking joviality to his voice.

“Who…?” Finnbarr asked, squinting against the heat haze.

“Don’t you recognize me?” It was Ossë, his patron and erstwhile teacher.

“This isn’t real. You are not you.” Finnbarr said. He was right. The Ossë that stood in front of him was dry and desiccated. He looked as skeletal as the reef that suddenly now surrounded the pair.

“Who are you to tell me, to tell anyone, that they aren’t themselves? Finnbarr the Galedeep,” the water spirit’s voice was mocking. “What a lie that turned out to be. I taught you the ways of the sea, the interconnectivity of all streams and rivers to the great vastness of the sea. I opened up the waves and showed you all things that would otherwise be hidden from all creatures, even the Valar themselves. And here you are, standing like a jester before a king. Of all the lands and peoples you could have gone to, of all the waters you could have found, you chose this place. Do you not even remember the oath you swore? You wrecked your life for it. You destroyed your home and your loved ones. I promised Davos that I would look after you. I should have lied to him. Maybe I did. What use are you, Finnbarr Galedeep? You sup with tyrant colonialists and swim in a lake. A f(ucking) lake! You deceive yourself so much it is a wonder you know day from night. Is the Helevorn so precious to you now? Is she that which you would devote yourself? Or will you betray her too for some nameless pond filled with muck?

“What are you, Finnbarr Galedeep? Once that name had meaning, once that name commanded admiration and respect. Now? Now it is nothing more than a vestigial tale to tell your pretty, painted courtiers. Do they hang on your every word? Do they simper at your every mood? Do you think the oath you swore is going to let you live? You are a fool, child of the lightness cavern. You ignore the plight of your kin, your cousins’ cousins’ cousin, to sit at the foot of a man whose every step is soaked in your own blood? Do you cut yourself for him every night? Do you open your veins at his request? Does the noble king offer you succor and title when you are done debasing yourself?

“Oh ye have fallen, ye once mighty mariner! Woe to the elf that rejects the sea, for the sea will reject him in turn. How art thou fallen from heaven to the uttermost parts of the abyss? Shall ye rejoice in the suffering of the waters? Will you stab the beaches with your blades and wound the arms of Uinen? Everything thou touchst turns to decay and ruin, Finnbarr Stormblåst, Finnbarr Shallowfoot! It is you that sets the seas alight with flames unquenched. It is the hungry winds from your insipid lies that torments the sailor in the storm! Woe to you, Finnbarr, for you are a lord of desiccation. There is no so vile as you, Finnbarr Lichmaster.

“Once, you were the prince of the seas. Once, you were the light of the farthest shore. Once, you were the companion of mermaids and selkies. Now, now you are nothing but dry bones and hot breath. This ruin is your fault, and yours alone.”

Finnbarr shook. He did not understand. Ossë was hot tempered and tempestuous, a wild storm at the witching hour, but his vibrancy was never equated to cruelty. Yet, Finnbarr knew. Not a single word he’d spoken was untrue. Finnbarr had not thought of the sea in years. He was content with his dry life, only occasionally dipping into a lake to pretend he was still Finnbarr Galedeep.

“Please, my old friend. I don’t know what to do. Please, please help me. I’m lost.”

“You are lost, but you will find no help from me. Seek your king. Seek your dry friends and lake fish lovers. Or drown yourself. Rid the world of your algae bloom.”

“But,” Finnbarr looked despondent, sank to his knees, and held up his arms pleading.

“I will not speak to a creature of the earth,” Ossë said, turning to go. “Find your answers in the worms and roaches.”

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

It was easy to hate. It was hard to find peace. Yet, had he not done just that? His oath drove him, tormented him at night in lightless caverns of dreams, but he had found peace in Thargelion. He’d found favor and friendship with the king and his courtiers. They had made a place for him. Or had they? Was his life some jest, a sly mocking that he could not understand? He was no land creature, but he had forsaken the sea. What river or stream would accept him? He was doomed to be a feast for crabs.

He was being carried somewhere. He was still disoriented and disjointed, but he could tell that much now at least. His armor was crushed and dented; he could feel parts of it digging into his flesh. His axes were gone, buried under the rubble of Mount Rerir no doubt. Some orc had found his body and was delivering it to the cook fires. The entire world smelled like burning. He did not want to die. Not now, not like this. He could not face his parents, his mentor. He was a broken shell, a hermit crab with no home. He could not endure such shame.

He sprang to life, hurling himself as best he could to the ground. He was ripped from the grip of the orc that bore him and felt to the earth with a dry thud. He groaned from the impact, something inside him snapped. What was one more broken bone amidst the myriad injuries he’d already suffered? He could feel the breath leave him, but that was no strange sensation to a man that made water his home. He whirled on his attacker and bore down on him.

He couldn’t see, everything was still blurry and unfocused, light and darkness played unrelenting tricks. He grasped at his foe, raining fists into the body of the creature until he found the neck, and began to squeeze…

[Dungeon Delver]

Amidst the Waters of Creation
At one of the Falls on the River Gelion
(Open)

"The Gods are here, if they are anywhere at all in the world."
- Algernon Blackwood

What the fredegar? One moment the ancient bear was taking a well-deserved rest on the riverbank after a night of slamming salmon, the next he was, well he was somewhere else. He was immediately unhappy with this development. Where was he? What happened to his river? Was this a trick of some kind? He sniffed the air, great plumbs of water shot from his nostrils, like smoke from a dragon (like what from a what?) No, this was no trick. He’d heard stories from bears before him in the long ago times that told him of times they would nap and wake up to find themselves in completely new worlds. Was that what had happened to him? Surely, surely not. That was too fanciful, too fantastical. This smelled of Chunk or of Bear Force One. No. He sniffed again. He couldn’t smell either of them. His rivals (and sometimes companions) were nowhere to be smelt. This was deeply, deeply troubling to the old bear. His ear twitched and his stomach rumbled. He’d eaten quite a bit of salmon the night before. Maybe one of the salmon was bad? No bear had ever told a story of a bad salmon that took people to different rivers, but that did not mean they could not exist, and he ate so many salmon it was possible something like that could slip him by. Even though nowadays he had to eat slower owing to only having two of his front teeth left, he couldn’t remember each of them, their taste and smell. Each of them were different, but when one ate all night and slept all morning it was easy to mix up one with another.

None of that was helping though. Otis, that was his name of course (or rather “King” Otis), was hungry. He was hungry most days now. As the days grew shorter and the salmon grew more plentiful on the falls, so his hunger increased. Were there salmon in this new place? There was only one way to find out. He waded out into the river. The waters felt different, colder, crisper. He shivered, shaking of a great spout of water. He missed Chunk and Bear Force One, he even missed Holly and Grazer. Were they here, somewhere, along this river? He was an old bear, used to his space and his solitude, but that did not mean he wanted it all the time. In fact, right now, he could really use a few friendly faces.

He dipped his head below the water, catching sight of something shimmering. He missed it, whatever it had been. It smelled like salmon, only a little different. Not the salmon he was used to. He watched the waters churn around him. He’d found a spot near the rivers edge, where several trees of indeterminate type hung low, giving the old bear much needed shade. He watched the water, focusing on each shimmer and shammer, each glimmer and glammer. He’d been doing this for nearly thirty summers, he knew exactly what he was doing. Patience was the key. Even though he was mightily hungry, patience was the key. In a strange land that smell almost, almost like his own but didn’t, patience was the key.

There was a shimmer, then a glimmer. Otis sniffed, then dunked his head below the water. He was gone for one moment, then two, then three. He arose from the water, dripping and sopping, but not empty mouthed. A great, twinkling salmon wriggled in his primordial mouth. He bit down hard, and used his front paws to rip at the struggling fish. Gouts of pescatarial blood filled the air only to be washed away by the rapidly moving waters. Otis ignored the blood and ripped and pulled at the fishy flesh. It tasted good. Just as it smelled almost like the fish of his river, this fish tasted almost like the fish of his river, but there was something different, something else to it that he could not quite put his paw on.

He fished for several more hours, searching spots along the river’s edges, moving closer to the eddying of the falls, and shallow pools further downstream. He was still not certain where he was, only where he was not. He did not smell anything or anyone that was familiar to him. Certainly he smelled other creatures on the woods and the wilds, but none of them were familiar. What if he never saw his companions again? What if he never saw Grazer or Walker or Bucky again? Was he in bear heaven? Arcadia? Arktotopia? Callisto’s Refuge? It was time to go out and search the woods and the fields for answers.

After a small nap. He was getting old after all.