Tales from the Deeps of Time: Second Age Free RP

[Zôrzimril]

Tales from the Deeps of Time:
Second Age Free RP


Haven of the Eldar by benef on deviantart

Timeline
This thread is for free RPs which take place during the Second Age. For the purposes of the thread, the Second Age is defined as the time beginning with the founding of Lindon & the Grey Havens and ending with Sauron’s defeat by the Last Alliance. See the Tolkien Gateway’s timeline and article on the Second Age for reference.

Locations
Stories in this thread can be set in any location - canon or otherwise - that existed during the time period specified above. All are welcome to roleplay in canon locations or to invent locations suited to their stories.

Rules
1. All are welcome!
2. 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). You can mark your stories as private, open, etc. if you choose
3. Keep any OOC comments to the Fangorn Forever - OOC thread
4. For accessibility reasons, no overly bright colors
5. As stated above, feel free to RP in canon locations from the Second Age or simply make your own
6. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread
7. If you decide your post warrants a content or trigger warning, please place it at the top of the post to help others decide what to read
8. Icons and small images are welcome, but no moving gifs

[Dungeon Delver]

Making Your Way in the World Today
1845 SA; Orrostar, the Hellëmbon, Númenor
(Private with Tara)

The sun moved across the sky like a golden sailboat, the wind was brisk and lively, the sky was a shade of blue that not even he could have conceived. It was beautiful outside; it was the perfect kind of day to go flying. Even if you’re immortal, perfect days like this don’t come around very often and Númenyraumion was not about to let this one go to waste. He sped up the hill as fast as he legs would carry him; even dragging his ornithopter, he was making good time. His heart was pitter-pattering. Today was the day and it was going to be fantastic. He had been working on this flying machine for months. He’d seen a sketch in an old book in the library and had been immediately obsessed with it. Flying had been a dream of his ever since he looked up at the sky and wondered if Arien, the sun’s pilot, was lonely. He was determined to find a way to go up there and talk to her and make sure she was happy. It was a child’s fantasy, but even now, as a teenager, Numey was obsesses with finding a way to get up there. He wanted to see her, wanted to meet her. He wanted to show her the little stuffed balrog he made, an imitation of her brother. Now that he was gone and mature, his motive was less to make sure she wasn’t lonely so much as to talk to her and hear all the stories she must be able to tell. The libraries were woefully short on stories about Arien. Aside from a brief treatise on the nature of her elemental powers before the she flew the sun, there was nothing but speculation. She was held in such a high honor, but the people that depended on her, the people that loved her the most, barely knew anything about her. Numey himself wasn’t even sure his theory about her and the balrogs was correct. It made sense thematically and followed mythological tropes, but when did mythology play a practical part in the real world? The only way to find out, was to ask. The only way to ask was to get up there. The only way to get up there was to fly. In his mind, the logic was perfectly sound, and no one could dissuade him and or convince him otherwise.

“If elves were meant to fly, they’d have wings” was a phrase he’d heard over and over from those nominally responsible for him and he’d grown tired of being told he wasn’t capable of something. No one ever told Finnbarr “if elves were meant to swim, they’d have fins” right? Although it was entirely possible that Finnbarr did, in fact, have fins. That wasn’t the point of course, the point was that no one stood in the way of Finnbarr’s dreams, so why would they stand in the way of his? He wished he could tell Finnbarr all this, he was sure the old seadog would immediately side with him and help him build the ornithopter or find a great place to let it fly, but he was off sailing to somewhere in the southeast, looking for a kind of rare shark he’d heard a rumor about. He might be gone for years and Numey just didn’t have that kind of time to wait. Sure, he was immortal he was going to live to be a million years old one day, but right now he was in his youth and that time was precious and fleeting.

He stopped halfway up the hill, gasping and breathing hard. He had had no idea how heavy this flying machine was until he’d trying to drag it up a hill. This was his second design. The first had been made of a much heavier wood that never got off the ground. It was sturdy and well built, but it was far, far too heavy. This new design was much lighter, or at least in was in theory. The entire thing had been built in secret, out in the woods off the property of his guardian. She had been among those that disapproved of his interest in flight, in fact she’d been the most vocal against him. He’d show her! He spent every free moment in those woods, pre-dawn hours light by star and lantern light and dusk when he only had the fireflies and flame beetles to help him light the area.

He plopped down hard on the soft, spongy grass and wiped the sweat from his brow. Gothmog and Meldi were with him, hanging out in the haversack he kept around his shoulder. Who better to have with him when he proved all the fuddy-duddy adults wrong? They spilled out over the haversack’s flap and bounced into the grass. A bumblebee the size of Numey’s thumb landed on Gothmog’s face buzzing around in search of pollen. Satisfied that the stuffed balrog was not, in fact, a flower, the bee wondered off to one of the larger sunflowers that dotted the hill’s western side. Numey took a moment get his breath back and began to notice all the flowers. There were so many of them. Shades of colors he’d only seen in books and pictures. This hill was alive with all the colors of the rainbow. He wondered if he should pick a few and press them in one of his notebooks to show his horticulture tutor. They would be most impressed with this array he’d found. They might not know that this absolute cornucopia of blooms was here. What a surprise that would be! Numey would be a flower hero! He laughed at that. He spent some time sampling the flowers. There were so many to choose from, so many that he’d never even seen before. There was one in particular, a pink flower with petals that looked almost like they were drawn rather than grown. They were so pink it seemed unbelievable that they were real. Numey picked several and pressed them into his notebook. His tutor would know what they were. Or, Numey thought with a widening grin, he’d found a brand-new flower that no one had ever seen before!

He was quite proud of himself. Whether he’d found a new flower or not, they were lovely. Once he had finished his experiments today and done the appropriate note taking, he make himself a flower crown. He was able to get started pulling the ornithopter to the top of the hill, where it dropped off like a cliff face on one side and gently slopped back toward the north down to another field and a forest beyond, when he noticed something. It was the briefest flash, but he was sure he’d seen something bright and pink move from under a copse of trees nearby. Something pink. Maybe it was just another group of those pink flowers, but he wanted to check, there might be animal or person nearby and he’d rather know now than as he was trying to flap and peddle his way into the air.

“Hello there? Is anyone out there? My name is Numey, hello?”

[Ercassie]

To what Depths we must Delve - Part 1



Erfaron Sílûgnir, Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion, 1522, SA
In custody of Lord Celebrimbor after a violent brawl with another survivor of Gondolin

He was sat against the far wall, seemingly transcended to a state of cool repose. But there was something about the cold blue stars of his eyes. They froze all hearts that entered and observed him. More than one had made excuses to return before time to the floors above. But this one visitor did not. He was younger than the others, too young for a guard. Maybe a messenger. He stared openly at the caged Elf and did not trust himself to speak. So it spoke first.

“Are they charging an admission fee for entry now ?”

The healer stared, his mouth falling open with a gasp as the prisoner turned.

“You seem determined to get some grubby coins worth of a sight,” the assaulting opinion continued. “What ails ?” Erfaron sighed. “Have you never seen a Mole before ?”

“I thought ..,” the youth swallowed, “that is, I read they .. you, umm were all dark of hair.” His accusation sounded almost an apology.

“Dark of soul, you mean,” the prisoner scoffed. “Scribes will do anything to sound dramatic, particularly for the sake of those who never saw what is now written of.” A roll of bored eyes slowed the Eldar’s tone, so the explanation devolved unto condemnation. “If you spent months at a time in Anghabar, figure then if your hair does not happen to resemble the recesses of the sunless deep, as lore would then allege.” The justification birthed a pause. “You are still here ?” the guest was charged, as an invitation to depart.

“I have just come from seeing the other elf who ... well, I am to change your dressings as well,” the young Elf raised his supplies in both hands as evidence. And a confession, that the other survivor had been tended to foremost.

“He is still with us then ?” the Mole lamented.

“If he were dead, you would be expected to pay far more than an apology in compensation,” rallied the now righteous youth. Who had been born in an age long after it was tendency for Elves to slay their kin.

“Apologise ?” Sílûgnir took his back from the wall, and the healer recoiled, finding the opposite bars now as a wall behind him. “To him ?” the Mole spat at the floor between them, as though the disagreeable survivor of the House of Fountain was sat there. “After he spoke so derogatory of the grandson of Finwë ?”

“The apology is to our Lord Celebrimbor, the only now living descendent of Finwë, for disregarding his law, his peace ..”

“They have said all this already,” the pale veteran waved one wrist dismissively, unmoved by all reason. “Leave if you have nothing new to offer. For naught yet has altered my opinion on the matter. I shall not apologise for defending those whom can not defend themselves. Only cowards would attack the dead, even with the ignorance of words.”

“A coward would not volunteer to change your dressings,” countered the youth. “But our Lord would not see even you to suffer needlessly ..”

“Yet here you are ..” the disdain was not subtle.

“I must ..” the healer began anew.

“Change the dressings,” his ‘patient’ proved that he had heard. More than once. “Must you ?”

“I should not like to have to ask the guard to restrain you,” the youth decided to recall who was in the wrong here. And who was supposed to be in control.

“Oh you really would not like that,” Erfaron agreed, though glanced idly to the strong chains stapled to the wall at either side, as though to taunt him, and ignored them, being that he was thankfully able to. For they had not impeded him. The smith lord was not needlessly cruel and had not insisted upon fetters. His attendant thought better of his bluff, and dealt out a threat more liable.

“This may hurt some ..” he warned, edging closer, as though readying to tend a cornered beast, which was not far from the truth. Though the Mole was a very well-spoken beast.

“Why does that look as to frighten you more than I ?” Erfaron scoffed. “There is little you can do to .. ” a sharp exclamation which was not so well-spoke escaped him, and the patient drew his injured arm away from further such ‘treatment’.

“I did say,” his healer almost smiled.

“You did,” the agreement did not sound at all agreeable. ”You think I brought this hurt upon myself.” the prisoner assumed.

“We both know that you do not care what I think,” the healer mentioned, reaching for the affliction a second time. “You don't even know me,” he added. And yet, in so doing, reminded the elder elf of a healer he had known, countless years ago.

“I'm bored,” the Mole admitted. “You are the first means of entertainment I've had all day .”

“And here I thought you had no want for company,” the younger elf, applying his trade to a begrudging but less now mutinous patient, found himself more bold..

“I would not count you any kind of company,” he was informed.

“And we are done,” the young healer sounded as though it had been an ordeal for them both. ”Rest, be still. Let those stitches mend swiftly. And consider apologising. If you want the sword back ...”

“We are done, you said,” he was reminded, of who he was lecturing. The Mole shifted in his seat, and the healer, gathering his things, dropped some upon the floor. “So leave,” the prisoner demanded, as though he possessed the right. “You are not half so intriguing a distraction as I assumed,” a yawn supported the insult.

“You want to never leave this place ?” the elf of Eregion backed up, his supplies seized up in a jumble in both arms. “You're going the right way about it,” he declared, sliding the door back into it’s place, and recovering his safety on the far side of the bars.

“Do you want to never leave this place ?” pale eyes returned though the thin lips barely rustled, countering the warning with one of his own. “You are going the right way about it,” he repeated back the healer’s warning, turning it unto a warning of his own. And rose up to his feet.

The sound of the healer’s own feet flapping in their hurry to fly out, to safety, mingled with the laughter that the Mole echoed about the dingy room.

**********************************************
"Evil shall not be harnessed by laughter or fair song, whatever noble Lords might have you to believe. The world is a darker place than ever we once gave thought to imagine, and our labours to address such threat have likened us to adapt, wheresoever necessary.”

(Erfaron Sílûgnir, speaking to Menellote Silosse - his mother)



Igneous 'Iggy' Bloodbeard and Erfaron Sílûgnir
The Ruins of Ost-in-Edhel. After the Sack of Eregion, 1699 SA approx.

It was now eighty years since he had finally grown bored enough to speak up an apology. Eighty years since he had seen these cells. Since he had seen that same young healer elf, in this self-same prison. Of course the Lord Celebrimbor was no more lord than this was even a city any more. And healing was far from likely for anyone who now loitered in the wake of Sauron’s invasion.

The healer had looked better, and could not have likely looked much worse; having evidently took his own turn now as captive, at the pleasure of orcish interrogators. Ever since the sack of the city by Sauron's minions, those same fiends were eager, ever eager, to know of the 'elvish sneak ways' into the renowned valley refuge. The ways into Imladris. By the looks of the unfortunate healer, he had not obliged their requests, even if he had been aware of the answers which were sought. Or maybe he had. Orcs possessed little restraint where opportunity and resources both set at hand. They simply could not help themselves.

The result was .. Horrific. Eyelids cut off, ears removed, lips sliced. The interrogator sure can't have been too genuinely interested about receiving the answers to his croaking demands. But now his plaything had fallen beyond the ability to even bleat denials. So the Dwarf and his accomplice were granted the opportunity to inspect the damage done, while the interrogator found his frolics elsewhere.



“This one still draws breath,” Iggy noted, peering up at the trembling tatters of the not so young now healer. Drawing his great battleaxe to ready, the Dwarf presumed to shatter the chains which held the unfortunate soul. A hand on his shoulder stilled him, and saw the gruff warrior turn where he stood.

“Not for long,” the Mole diagnosed, tilting his head to better surmise the captive’s sorry situation. “And if he slows our missive then we shall ourselves fare no better,” he turned, and walked away from the beleagoured gasps of the mutilated healer.

“You want to leave him here ?” the Dwarf sought to confirm what he could not completely believe he had heard. “Like this ?”

“I do not want that guard to come back and find his meat stole. And risk his alerting the entire garrison that there must be an escape or some intruder,” Erfaron did not break gaze with his friend, who slowly lowered his weapon.


“Sorry friend,” Iggy clambered unto the great stone slab littered with torture equipment. “Can’t be doing with it,” he swore to himself. And dealt a valiant blow over head from his stage, cracking the tormented healer’s skull like an egg with one sound blow. Brains bled from the fissures that dyed the honeyed hair unto a crimson crown.

Erfaron leant an eye back from where he was poised at the door. He dropped the firm line of his mouth and shook his head in disapproval.

“Can’t say as they’ll think one of ours did that,” Iggy crashed from the raised stone back down to ground, with a graceless landing. “They’ll believe it one of theirs. And he wont go giving us up, even if he wanted to.” the Dwarf concluded.


“We are behind schedule,” the Mole let him know. And led the way through the dungeons, as one who was so familiar was able. Their scheme to bring down the entire foundations of the crumbling ruin upon it’s occupying army, depended upon it. And upon the strength of stomach that would not be stalled, no matter what. They had broken in, at great risk, and if they never wanted to leave this place … then to delay would be to go the right way about it.