Dirk the Daring of Esgaroth, R.I.P.

Pull out your pack and head on down to the Prancing Pony for some great Role Playing (try to stay in character)!

Postby PrincessMelika » Tue Jul 02, 2002 12:59 pm

I was mostly joking, SB. No worries. <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0> <BR><BR>*wonders how her caffeine high will get her into trouble next* <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-rolleyes.gif"border=0>
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Postby PrincessMelika » Tue Jul 02, 2002 12:59 pm

I just found out that I've gotten a new job! <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0> Hence the "English teaching-fellow" thing...I really did like your addition. <BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Fri Jul 26, 2002 10:17 am

From <a target=new href="http://www.tolkienonline.com/thewhitecouncil/messageview.cfm?catid=25&threadid=47190">Redemption: The Curse Breaker's Journey</a>, a small bit of information regarding Midnight's ancestry:<BR><BR>Date Posted: Jul/23/2002 10:23 AM<BR> <BR> <BR>The first faint rumor of the sun lightened the eastern sly, creating a startling black silhouette from the mighty mist-enshrouded peaks of Hithaeglir. Dirk stood shirtless at the window of his room and watched this vista for some moments. In the room, the only sound was the sleeping Easterling's steady breath. <BR><BR>The Númenorean first donned his linen undershirt, followed by the precious <i>mithril</i> mail and over the top of all went his tailored black linen shirt. He pulled his hair back tight and bound it with a black leather lash. He girt himself with his baldric, placing <i>Neleg Amlug</i> into position at his back for riding; and the four Dorwinnion throwing knives into their clever holding devices. He checked his saddlebags once more, ensuring that bowstrings were readily available. Then slinging the saddelbags over his shoulder and carrying the unstrung ash bow, he silent exited the room, ensuring not to rouse Matrim.<BR><BR>Dirk navigated the darkened halls and stairs easily and his passing was noted by none. He entered the kitchen, whose hearth was as yet cold, found some day old bread and two apples and left the building through the kitchen service door. <BR><BR>He entered the stables as quietly as he had made his way through the Inn for he knew that still others of his company slept here as well. SB found Midnight in high spirits and itching to get back upon the road. Dirk slipped a halter over the great stallion's head and led him out to the yard. Once there, Dirk put down the saddlebags and bow against a fence and produced the apples and the loaf. One apple he gave to Midnight, the other he ate hungrily, along with the bread. <BR><BR>Dirk spent the last hour before sunrise brushing and grooming the great black son of the horses of Rohan's kings. Midnight was distantly related to the <i>Mearas</i> of Rohan, those famed steeds of which Shadowfax is one, who would suffer none to mount them save the rightful King of the Mark and his heirs. Midnight's line was of mixed blood with the more common horses of the Mark, but he still retained some of the characteristics of that great line: indomitable spirit, lightning speed, tireless stamina and long life. Midnight however, allowed saddle and bridle and would not live to so old an age as his greater ancestors. The great black stallion was invaluable to SB, in terms of wealth and more importantly, in uncountable sentiment. Dirk truly loved the horse, which his foster father, Drake bought for him at great expense.<BR><BR>He mounted Midnight bareback and jogged him about in the yard a bit. While he moved fluidly with the horse, controlled only by gentle words, Dirk's thoughts strayed to the events of the day before: the struggle in the wee hours with theives, the amazing afternoon with his life's love, and finally to the conversation with Cerrimir and its implications. This last thought he carried with him for many hours into the morning.<BR><BR>The sun had fully crested the mountains, and the rooster crowed signalling the start of a glorious day. Birds chirped and the breeze whispered in the trees. Midnight, now fully saddled and readied for departure was led back to his stable and Dirk reentered the Inn. <BR><BR>Though he joined his friends for coffee and breakfast, his thoughts were far away to the north, trying to piece together how Cerrimir's tale could fit into his own scarred history.
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Postby Lord_Tarquin » Fri Jul 26, 2002 12:26 pm

Good addition, SB.<BR><BR>One of these days, Midnight and Shadowbane need to have a horserace...to prove once and for all which is the faster! <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><BR><BR>PM: Are you causing trouble again? <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-tongue.gif"border=0>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Tue Aug 13, 2002 5:24 pm

From <a target=new href="http://www.tolkienonline.com/thewhitecouncil/messageview.cfm?start=20&catid=37&threadid=23128">The Merry Bowmen of Dale : </a><BR><BR>Date Posted: Aug/01/2002 7:59 PM<BR><BR>They galloped headlong and heedless down the narrow track. Boughs from the lush vegitation whipped Dirk's face as he held on atop the great steed, Midnight. SB was amazed at the velocity Lysandros' will wrung from his horse. Nonetheless, his own esteemed horse, cousin to the <i>Mearas</i> of Rohan's kings, was able to keep him in sight on the road. <BR><BR>Presently, the road became a tangled, snaking trail, with many blind corners. Perfect for an ambush. Dirk had hardly finished the though when he heard clashing of steel intermingled with the thunder of hooves. Lysandros had already sprung the trap as he rounded a blind bend ahead of SB.<BR><BR>By the time Dirk came upon the ambush, Lysandros had already felled one rider and left two others stunned upon the road. The ambush had hardly slowed the Master Bowman down. One was just remounting as Dirk came upon them. Both were waiting for the next charging enemy. <BR><BR>Dirk wouldn't leave them so lucky before he moved on. The paisley-eyed easterlings wheeled to face the raven-haired, sable-clad rider.<BR><BR>Dirk reined in Midnight some 30 yards from the two would-be ambushers and drew <i>Neleg Amlug</i> slowly and deliberately; his gaze never leaving that of the two enemies before him, shifting from one man to the other. In a taunting gesture, SB laid the reins upon Midnight's neck, raised the Dragon's Tooth in his right hand until it was even with his head and signalled beckoningly to the men. Enraged by the young <i>Roquen's</i> arrogance, they charged with blood-curdling battle cries in their own language. <BR><BR>As they accelerated, Dirk tensed and stood in his saddle, yet Midnight remained rock solid- nonplussed, throughout. Dirk's heart was in his throat as he guaged the enemies' speed, but the horse remained calm- fearless, in fact. <BR><BR>The man on the left was a little faster than the right... They were approaching very quickly... <BR><BR><i>"Wait for it,"</i> he thought, even though his pulse beat loudly in his ears, like the drums of the Púkel-men... They were nearly upon him... The closer man's black eyes shone with furious flames... <BR><BR><i>"Wait."</i> Both easterlings were raising their curved blades to smite Dirk... They were upon him now...<BR><BR>And he struck.<BR><BR>With a single fluid motion, first left, then right, then into it's sheath, the mighty Dragon's Tooth ended the standoff. <BR><BR>Two horses continued on the road back to Myena at a full gallop, their riders' hands clenching the reins tighly.<BR><BR>Two heads rolled into the brush on either side of the road.<BR><BR><BR>Dirk sighed heavily and took in a deep breath before spurring Midnight on to follow Lysandros. But he only advanced a few paces when suddenly everything went dark and he had the strange sensation that he was floating...<BR><BR><BR>The floating sensation was quickly replaced with the disheartening feeling of not being able to breath. <BR><BR>He'd been knocked from his horse...hard; and the wind had been pounded from his lungs. Slowly, SB opened his eyes as he struggled to inhale...<BR><BR><i>"Krieg!"</i> his inner voiced cried. The ruddy-faced, stout, sadistic lackey of Malthus was standing over the fallen Dúnedan with his weapon raised above his head, poised to strike the killing blow.<BR><BR>Dirk finally took in a sharp breath and rolled away from the blow. But it was wasn't quick enough to escape the sword. Dirk was struck on his left shoulder, rending his shirt and exposing the gleaming <i>mithril</i> beneath. Dirk's second roll cleared him from the second swing of Krieg's blade and the third managed put him into position to deliver a kick to the easterling's knee, dropping him temporarily and giving Dirk time to rise and draw his own weapon. <BR><BR>Krieg recovered quickly and the two circled each other, each waiting for the other to blink. In the ensuing moments of silence, shouts and ringing swords could be heard around the next bend in the road. <BR><BR>Kreig struck first, feinting high with the sword, but striking low with a previously unseen dagger in his left hand. He buried the dagger into the left side of Dirk's abdomen, cutting deep into the muscle and sinew of his belly and finding the soft tissue beneath.<BR><BR>Dirk was shocked. His mail should have turned the blow. But stretching to parry the high swordstrike had pulled his shirts up, exposing the gut just above Dirk's hip. Now he was losing blood fast.<BR><BR>Krieg's ego was his downfall, for he said, "I have been dreaming of killing you, arrogant whelp." <BR><BR>But in taking his time to gloat, he robbed himself of the chance to end Dirk's life. For the grey-eyed youth recovered from his incredulity and struck.<BR><BR><i>Neleg Amlug</i> had still been high, holding Krieg's sword in place above their heads. But when Krieg began to speak, he relaxed the pressure on Dirk's sword, allowing him to bring it down upon Krieg with all of his might. <BR><BR>The sword entered Krieg between his neck and his left shoulder and exited just above the right hip. Sending him to the ground in a pair of gory heaps. The blood that gushed from his heart with its last pumps bubbled as his last breath escaped. Not through his nose or mouth but from the gaping flesh of the carrion that was once Krieg. <BR><BR><BR>Dirk at once heard the fighting of Lysandros again and pulled himself up into the saddle with some effort, for his blood loss was beginning to weaken him. And as he passed the upper half of Krieg's carcass, he looked at his face. Krieg's eyes still bore the look of stupefication as they stared, unseeing at the clear, star-lit sky between the overhanging leaves on either side of the trail which was now his grave.<BR><BR><BR>Midnight slowly brought Dirk to a wider place in the road just in time to watch as Lysandros pulled his sword quickly from Malthus' chest. Dirk turned away briefly to check his wound. He wasn't seeing straight and was very nearly in a swoon. He slid from the saddle and turned to go to his friends. They were victorious and Bardhwyn was finally free.<BR><BR>But as Dirk's eyes focussed he saw that Lysandros had not come to the correct realization regarding Bardy's innocence. He approached her with grim determination and tearful eyes. He raised his sword...<BR><BR>Dirk lunged in a mighty feat of strength and placed himself between Lys' sword and Bardhwyn's neck. <BR><BR>"This is madness, Lysandros! She is innocent! Can't you see! She was falsely accused and unable to prove her innocence until now, in the last hour."<BR><BR>Lys relented, dropping his sword arm to his side. <BR><BR>SB continued, "She loves you, Lysandros. And you love her, I've seen it in your eyes when you look at her."<BR><BR>He stood silent in thought for just a moment, but raised his sword once again.<BR><BR>"If you attempt to bar the execution of the law, then you too are a traitor and must also die."<BR><BR>Lys once again began to strike.<BR><BR>"Stay your hand, Daleman!" It was Zol. He sat upon Thain and now used a commanding voice. He seemed taller now in the saddle and imposing. No longer was he the doting old man of earlier in the morning. Now he was a regal authority figure. "You stand in my kingdom. I have witnessed this woman's deeds and she will be judged anew. But in my court, not here. And not by you."<BR><BR>As the king spoke, Canamarth, Scribbles, Thenie, Menon, Maeglin, Themedes, Gorin, and a remnant of the King's men began to file into the small clearing.<BR><BR>Lysandros, seeing this and hearing the force of Zol's royal voice, dropped his sword to the ground and fell upon his knees, with his face in his hands.<BR><BR>Dirk looked down at his hands clutching the wound in his abdomen. Blood was flowing unchecked through his fingers. Once again all went black. But this time there was no floating sensation. SB's massive loss of blood had rendered him comatose. <BR><BR>He collapsed upon the road at Bardhwyn's feet, his blood pooling beneath him and mixing with the dirt of the road to form a sticky, pungent mud...<BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Tue Aug 13, 2002 5:33 pm

From <a target=new href="http://www.tolkienonline.com/thewhitecouncil/messageview.cfm?start=20&catid=37&threadid=23128">The Merry Bowmen of Dale : </a><BR>SB is healed physically through the combined efforts of several of his companions. However, his old demons haunt him as he hovers near death from loss of blood. (This post also contains a slight flashback explaining the circumstances of the fight.)<BR><BR><BR>Date Posted: Aug/05/2002 7:21 PM<BR><BR>Bright-red oxygenated arterial blood began to coagulate and blacken. Dirk's shallow and ragged respiration began to regulate. Soon the pulse was palpable in his neck. However, his skin remained cold to the touch and ashen, bereft of colour. <BR><BR>____________________________________________________<BR><BR>Krieg was a wily and much more experienced fighter than SB. He lay in wait as his men died at the hands of Lysandros and the young Dúnedan. When the insolent black clad boy had dispatched the last of the ambushers, Krieg wasn't about to let him foil the death of the hated woman and the bothersome blond archer. Thus, as the Númenoréan passed his hiding place, Krieg pounced, unhorsing and stunning Dirk. <BR><BR>When first Krieg's blade penetrated the quick-witted and quick-moving defenses of SB, he discovered the protective mail shirt. In the ensuing melee, Krieg found the opening he was looking for: the mail shirt had been made for a shorter man. Each time Dirk raised his arms, he exposed his lower flanks-the soft tissues of the abdomen where so many vital organs and blood vessels were located. So Krieg drew his dagger from the small of his back, made like he was coming over the top with his sword and sunk the dagger just above hip, where the large arteries that supplied blood to Dirk's legs flowed directly from his heart. The stab was perfect. He'd found the exact mark and knew that he'd killed the irksome youngster. But he didn't live long enough to enjoy the victory nor even to know where he'd made his mistake for SB put all of his last strength into <i>Neleg Amlug</i> in order to rid the Earth of the foul lackey of Malthus.<BR><BR>__________________________________________________<BR><BR>Dirk lie upon road. His fate had been seemingly reversed at the last possible moment by the heroic sacrifices of Scribbles, Maeglin, and Lysandros. A few moments more and the last of his blood would have stained the soil. <BR><BR>As he lay there, appearing lifeless to all that observed, his mind struggled and his fight was far from over. <BR><BR>The visions were beautiful at first: his childhood, playing pranks upon the hapless merchants of Esgaroth, his foster father Drake, his brothers, the Golden Dragon Inn and its colorful guests, Thranduil and Glorfindel: his teachers and mentors. Then there were the visions of Leoba: her silken alabaster skin flawless like a porcelain doll, her amber curls flowing with every whim of the wind. Her emerald eyes as deep as the western sea and filled with only her love for him. <BR><BR>But suddenly his subconscious went black. His mind no longer governed the dreams. The darkness that ensued was a living thing, roiling black ink that moved unlike any river or wave in nature. Then a man emerged from the utter blackness. He appeared first as a man: regal and tall, beardless with burning grey eyes and flowing white locks. He held his hand outstretched, beckoning. But Dirk's spirit felt a foreboding. He percieved a sense of dread that had never heretofore gripped him. He resisted the man's summons. <BR><BR>Then visage before Dirk's mind's eye changed slowly: from a man of flesh and blood who looked not unlike SB himself into a sable-clad wraith, formless as mist, yet overbearing as the tide before a great seastorm. The wraith bore upon its head an iron crown and upon its finger was a gold ring with a crimson stone. <BR><BR>It was Dirk's true father, the Witch-king of Angmar. <BR><BR>The wraith seized Dirk and attempted to pull him down into the abyss from which he'd come. And in that abyss lurked far greater, far fouler evils than even the Nazgûl.<BR><BR>To the living, SB lay motionless, seemingly saved from the danger that had nearly taken his life. <BR><BR>But in another place, he fought the greatest battle of his young life; at stake was his very soul.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sun Sep 08, 2002 8:34 am

Edit: Scribbles helped me out above, so instead of changing the name, I am adding new names in other languages.<BR><BR>To anyone with interest in this character:<BR><BR>I am giving <i>Neleg Amlug</i> (the Sindarin form) two new names:<BR><BR>Black Speech: <i>Kasak Kulkodar</i>. Thus it was called by the Witch King when he enchanted it and turned it to his evil uses.<BR><BR>Quenya: <i>Carch Urulóki</i>. It was called this by the Dúnedain of the north who fought against Angmar and his accursed blade.<BR><BR>Both still mean Dragon's Fang (or tooth) in Westron.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sun Sep 08, 2002 8:51 am

I have also re-written the part of the Council of Thranduil pertaining to the blade, from <u>The Newbies Set Forth</u> c. March 2002:<BR><BR>Dirk explains his weapon to Thranduil and his council:<BR><BR><BR>"Here follows the story of my treasure and my bane:<BR><BR>In the second age when Mithril was discovered in the Misty Mountains, this blade was forged by the Dwarves and given in tribute to Gil-Galad, High King of the Elves. It was the first weapon ever forged of the metal and was beset with the emerald you see here. <BR><BR>It was counted as the highest of honours to own the knife, whose original name has long since been forgotten. It has always been given from lord to lord in trbute of loyalty and friendship. <BR><BR>Thus it came to the house of the Lord of Arnor in the early Third Age.<BR><BR>When Arnor fell to the Witch King of Angmar, most of the hierlooms of the house of Arnor were secreted away to Imladris to the safe keeping of Elrond's house. But this the Witch King did find and keep for himself. <BR><BR>He named it <i>Kasak Kulkodar</i>, in the black speech. In Sindarin, it is called <i>Neleg Amlug</i>, and in the speech of the high elves it is known as <i>Carch Urulóki</i>. The names mean Dragon's Tooth or Fang in the Westron tongue of men. And the Witch King enchanted the dagger to possess great strength. Indeed he gave it his very spirit. The blade touches nothing. It is as if all things give way to its edge. Its wounds never heal and there is no substance it cannot penetrate. <BR><BR>When the Witch King was defeated at Fornost by Glorfindel and Arnor retaken, the Witch King lost his weapon. It fell from his hand as he fled Glorfindel's wrath and it was taken up again by the Eldar. So it was that it came to the house of Elrond once again. But it was given to Glorfindel for his valour in retaking Arnor and so it sat in Glorfindel's house until The War of the Ring. <BR><BR>When the Witch King fell to the blades of Eowyn and Meriadoc, the nature of the blade changed. It seemed to take on a life all its own, choosing who will and won't wield it. It now changes in size with the needs of its bearer. I have used it as dagger and as sword. It also changes with the conditions in times of threat, it is black as the void in which Eru first created everything, and in battle it is as fire. It also communicates with its bearer, in a fell whisper, to warn of impending danger. <BR><BR>Glorfindel found that part of the very spirit of the Witch King resides in the blade, trapped since his banishement from Middle Earth. <BR><BR>The blade came to me when I was travelling in the west. I befriended Glorfindel in his last months 'ere he sailed from the Grey Havens. It was there that we sat many evenings and he told me the histories of old. He told me that he saw in me a great destiny - and great sorrow. <BR><BR>It was on his last day before crossing the sea that he presented me with Neleg Amlug, The Friendship Amulet of Gil-Galad, which now hangs around Leoba's neck, and my mithril shirt, forged for him by the Noldor in Eregion before they were enslaved by Sauron. He said that I, too will pass these heirlooms on to a lord in tribute. <BR><BR>The blade cannot be held by anyone save its rightful owner. And none can win the blade, it must be given freely. If anyone touches it, save me, they shall be poisoned as if pierced with a Morgul-Knife."
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sun Sep 08, 2002 9:01 am

After the hobbit, Juwel, cut from Dirk's finger the Ring of men (one of the nine) and he renounced the legacy of the Witch-king, the blade changed in nature. It no longer appears as gleaming <i>mithril</i>, but it is blackened as with ash from Orodruin that cannot cleansed. It has also lost all of the powers that were imbued by the Witch-king. It no longer changes shape or size, but remains as a great hand-and-a-half sword. It has lost its fell voice, which was Angmar's own, whispering and foul. It may or may not still carry the black Morgul-poison. The fear instilled by those who know the blade has prevented any from attempting to touch it. <BR><BR>However, it retains the powers first given it by the mighty Dwarven smiths: It cannot be broken nor notched nor even dulled by regular means (without great magical power). It can still penetrate any substance found or forged in Middle earth. Save only that which has been enchanted by powerful Necromancy. <BR><BR>Its fire is greatly reduced and now only glints fiercly red at its edges in the heat of battle.
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Postby SilverScribe » Sun Sep 08, 2002 9:02 am

<BR>Dirk darlin', ya don't need to "rename" your blade. The name Neleg Amlug is actually the Sindarin form.<BR><BR>Neleg is from the root "nêl" which means 'tooth'.<BR>Amlug is the word for 'dragon'.<BR><BR>So you see, it is just the same name in the Sindarin tongue.<BR><BR>Hope this helps. <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>PS: I can send you the Zip file of the Sindarin Dictionary (in *.pdf format) if you like.<BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sun Sep 08, 2002 9:12 am

Thanks so much Scribbles. Instead of re-naming it, I'll just ad the names. It should be a famous blade anyway. <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0>
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Postby Leoba » Mon Sep 09, 2002 1:47 pm

You have indeed been busy.<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0> And more complex languages to remember <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0>. <BR><BR>I like the partial rewriting of that original post (from Thranduils's court) - it's all coming together nicely my friend.<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Fri Sep 13, 2002 11:05 am

Posted 13 September, 2002, an alternate story fitting the circumstances of the Merry Bowmen of Dale:<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>Dirk sat silently for an anxious moment. How much should he tell? How much <i>could</i> he tell? This was Bardhwyn, after all. The sister he never had. On many occasions, they’d held each other’s lives in the palm of a trembling hand. At that moment he could think of only two or three other people he could trust as implicitly. He decided to recount the tale the best that he could. He sucked a deep breath between his teeth.<BR><BR>“What I tell you now, I recount aloud for the first time. Some of the events are cloudy at best and others are lost to me altogether. I ask that you please keep this tale to yourself. In time, it may serve that others hear this, but for now I ask that you please repeat none of this to anyone.”<BR><BR>Bardhwyn, beginning to feel a bit of anxiety herself, simply nodded in acquiescence.<BR><BR>“When Leoba won the archery contest at the guildhouse back in Dale, unbeknownst to me, you and Thenie had already stolen out of the house and were well on your way this direction. My lady and I left before anyone realized that you were gone from your room.”<BR><BR>Bardhwyn blushed and hung her head, shamed at all that her flight from Dale had caused, not the least of which was the mental anguish that Lysandros still felt.<BR><BR>“We left the next morning at first light, when you were still thought to be in your room.” He continued, “Leoba and I rode through Mirkwood that day and the next. After three days, we arrived at the foot of the Misty Mountains; and three days beyond that, we arrived at our destination, a little waystop in the road call the Lucky Fortune Inn. Leoba is close to the proprietors and works there between adventures. She can gather news of the world there and it is a convenient place from which to leave, should she have need on short notice.”<BR><BR>“After seeing that she was settled back into the Inn, I returned by the roads which we had just taken, stopping briefly at Imladris. Elrond’s sons joined me for the trip east and twelve days after you left the guildhouse, I arrived back at the Halls of Thranduil. That night, after supper, I was summoned to a private council with Elrohir, Elledan, Thranduil, and other distinguished guests, including Faramir and Eowyn, the Steward of Gondor and the Rohanion Lady who is now a bright jewel among the beauty of Ithilien. Also among them, were Drake, my father and Derek, my eldest brother.”<BR><BR>Bardhwyn’s eyes widened at the famous names he spoke; and that Dirk was summoned to, nay, was the reason for such a council, amazed her.<BR><BR>“There I was told that I am not the son of an Innkeeper in Esgaroth. Rather, Drake is my foster father. I was taken from my real family when I was a child and brought to the laketown to be kept safe from my real heritage.”<BR><BR>Bradhwyn’s face twisted in anticipation. It became clear that Dirk’s tale was indeed sinister and her fear was not eased; instead it increased. She fought the instinct to shy away from her brother-in-arms.<BR><BR>Dirk’s already low, harsh voice became a steady whisper, barely audible even to Bardy. <BR><BR>“In that council, we discussed the blade and the prophesy given to me by Glorfindel, whom I befriended whilst we journeyed west together to Mithlond. He gave to me<i>Neleg Amlug</i> and told me its history. He said that he would have no need of such an artifact in the Undying West; and that he foresaw that using the blade, I would do great deeds. He also said that such great deeds would come with sorrow.” SB shifted amongst the pillows. “Thranduil then bade me bring forth the blade and recount its history and origin as told to me by Glorfindel.” SB then told Bardhwyn of its forging and its original purpose as a thing of honour passed between Lords in Ceremony, and its theft in the sack of Fornost and how the Witch-king came to imbue the blade with his spirit and fell power. * “ ‘Dirk,’ said the King, ‘you were given this blade because you are twice it rightful owner.’ I was confused and fearful for I guessed that it must be a grave thing that this blade belonged to me. But what they told me next came as a complete surprise. I could not have guessed so fell a thing.”<BR><BR>Dirk paused and closed his eyes for several seconds. When he opened them, the grey orbs were locked onto Bardhwyn’s. <BR><BR>“ ‘First, you are not of Dale, or Esgaroth, but rather you are of the people of Elendil the Tall.’ I am the son of a Dúnedan woman. Her name is unknown to me, but she was the sister of Halbarad who fell on the Pellenor fighting with Aragorn. They said that she died giving birth to me. The Rangers brought me to Imladris seeking counsel for I was not merely the orphan of a Dúnedain couple.”<BR><BR>He closed his eyes again.<BR><BR>“ ‘Also,’ said Thranduil, ‘you have a claim on the heirloom from your father’s side.’ My mother was taken, just before the war broke out in earnest by the power that once held sway in the land of Angmar. They told me that in his arrogance, thinking that the Dark Lord would soon reign supreme over Middle-earth, the Witch-king endeavoured to reestablish his kingdom in the North Mountains. A child was conceived through necromancy in the womb of the kidnapped woman. That child was to be his heir. That child was me.”<BR><BR>He sat still while the gravity of the statement settled in with Bardhwyn. He did not look at her, and she shied away from him.<BR><BR>“To prove this, I was presented with a large stone casket that none could open save Angmar himself or his heir. The lid gave way easily to my touch and they all gasped. Inside was a black mantle of wolf’s fur and an onyx amulet in the shape of a sneering winged Dragon. The Mantle of Angmar and the Eye of Ancalagon, the elves named them; and they were given to me. I was advised not to wear the mantle ever, but to keep it safe, that none could don it in an attempt to retake the throne as Carn-Dûm. But the amulet they bade me wear. The elves determined that, though it was mightily enchanted, its power held no malice of its own, but rather it derives its purpose from the wearer. They went so far as to opine that it would help me to harness the power of the Dragon’s Tooth. I donned the Eye, and listened whilst the great men and elves discussed my fate. I swore to never succumb to the dark that enthralled my true father. After much heady talk, I was dismissed.”<BR><BR>“That night, I did not sleep and I dreamt horrible nightmares of utter darkness and despair. I woke despairing of my future and also of my past. But I also began to foster resentment towards those who’d deceived me. (As I accounted it then – deception) I took my leave of the elves and Drake at the edge of Thranduil’s forest and set out with the intention of following the Bowmen as they resumed their mission in the east.”<BR><BR>Dirk paused again and reached for the wine pitcher on the table. He poured himself some and drank deeply.<BR><BR>“What happened over the next few weeks is mostly lost to me. I can recall very little, but some of it can be guessed or surmised based on witness accounts.” He stared at the ceiling, as if reviewing what he knew once again in his head. “Something changed in my spirit while I wore the Eye. I began to harbor hatred for those I’d loved only days earlier. I turned my horse northward, not knowing where my road would take me.”<BR><BR>“At this point my memory fails me. I am told that I somehow managed to cross the mountains in the extreme north and come to Carn-Dûm. I am told that a Ring of Power, one of the Nine, Had lain upon the throne of Angmar since he was cast into the abyss and I that must have taken it up. I remember not, these are only the conjectures of those who saved me later. When I donned the Ring, it summoned the orcs of the northern mountains to me, and they were ordered to begin rebuilding Carn-Dûm. But another fell beast was summoned: the winged steed of the Nazgûl. One came and bore me away to the Land of Shadow. Some speculate that I actually summoned many of the servants of the shadow and began the rebuilding of the Barad-dur itself. I know not.”<BR><BR>Fear gripped Bardhwyn like a living, breathing creature. She could not speak, nor move. <BR><BR>“No one knows what happened after that; but some days later, I was found by the Rangers of Ithilien and by a fortunate stroke, the ring was cut from my hand. What I was doing or where I was going, none can tell. I was taken to Minas Tirith and held there until I was adjudged to be innocent of my crimes and allowed to go free. It was determined that the Eye had indeed held its own power of malice and it had persuaded me to find the Ring at Carn-Dûm and begin a path that could have certainly led to disaster.”<BR><BR>Bardhwyn, though still visible shaken, breathed again and asked. “So what happened next?”<BR><BR>“Soldiers were sent to dipatch the as-yet-small forces that had begun to gather towards the power of the ring. They were easily slain or driven back into hiding. Neither evil stronghold will be rebuilt. As for me, I was ordered to relinquish the Eye of Ancalagon and it was taken by the elves with the Mantle and the Ring and destroyed. As for the Dragon’s Tooth, it was changed drastically; it lost most of its enchantments and now appears only as an ordinary sword of blackened steel. The great ones thought long and hard and allowed me to keep it. It retains only a few of the qualities that were given it at its forging, namely: that it is unbreakable and cannot be notched, that it can penetrate any substance save only <i>mithril</i> or metal strengthened with a powerful magical spell. I have seen that it still glows in the heat of battle, but now only faintly at its edges.”<BR><BR>“On the day that I had been awaiting, the day when I would leave the White City and continue my search for the deeds Glorfindel prophesied, a curious thing happened. Upon the road from Rohan a great black horse had been espied running with terrific speed towards Minas Tirith. I went out from the city’s gates and beheld Midnight, fast as the wind, galloping directly for me. I had set him loose to graze in the north and he followed me to Gondor. I was happy beyond reckoning at the reunion.”<BR><BR>“That afternoon, I left the City and made for Les, where I’d hoped to catch up to the Bowmen. I crossed the Dagorlad two days later and a week after setting out from Minas Tirith, I crossed into Dorwinnion.”<BR><BR>He drained the wine. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders; it felt good to tell someone of what had befallen him. He looked to Bardhwyn; she too looked relieved, as if a shadow that had darkened the room now had passed. But her face was furrowed with questioning.<BR><BR>“What of your throat, how did you sustain that injury?”<BR><BR>“I know not. I am told that it was already a weeks-old scar when I was taken in Ithilien.” He reached up and touched his throat.<BR><BR>“And what can you tell me of the Black Speech and your troubled sleep?”<BR><BR>“Of my dreams, I only remember icy hands pulling and clawing at me, trying to suck me into the blackest abyss.” He shuttered as if a chill wind had bitten him. “As for the Black Speech, I am unsure, but I probably learned it in the Land of Shadow.” He sat in thought for a moment. “Yet, my understanding of the foul language, which I had not known of until this moment, is profound. Perhaps it was instilled in me when I took up the Ring. I know not. I care not. I shall never use the language unless to interpret some message from an enemy.”<BR><BR>He looked at the Barding and saw uncertainty written in her expression. He reassured her.<BR><BR>“Bardhwyn,” he reached out and touched her arm. His touch was warm and gentle and she did not pull away. “Fear not; neither for me nor for the world. I have utterly rejected my father’s legacy and feel nothing at all with regards to that foreign part of my ancestry. Know also that the works that I begun while under the seduction of evil have been utterly destroyed and will never be taken up again, for the power to again reunite the Dark Lord’s former forces no longer exists. I promise you, on my life.”<BR><BR>There came a knock on the door at that exact moment. Slowly, tentatively, the door opened and the face of the serving girl who’d looked to Canamarth so reverently appeared. <BR><BR>“Excuse me, the lady with the silver hair sent me to summon you to them. The rest of your folk are gathering and you are to meet with them in the private banquet room as soon as you can.”<BR><BR>“Thank you,” Dirk smiled at the girl. “Please tell them that we will be along shortly.”<BR><BR>As the girl left, SB turned back to Bardhwyn and attempted to gauge her reaction. He hoped she be able to see that he was not a thing to be feared, as he might have been. Rather he was a young man now who’d been through many trials in recent weeks and come out with new wisdom.<BR><BR>Another thought occurred to him while he awaited her reaction: Lys had remarked about his following Lysandros blindly into danger. Perhaps it was guilt that drove him on. Guilt for his deeds of the prior weeks and maybe guilt for his ancestry.<BR><BR><BR>(*OOC: for brevity, I did not recount this entire history. The interested reader can find it in the History of SB. )
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Oct 14, 2002 11:01 pm

<BR><BR><BR><BR>From the Mithril Knights Warrior's Guild--Knights-in-Training thread, October 14, 2002. Dirk gets some new goodies.<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>The Lady Mithril Knight exited the room, leaving Dirk to ponder her words. “<i>…not only is patience a virtue...listening is a must</i>” He stood there long minutes, motionless, speculating on the cryptic message hidden within Parador’s kind invitation to visit the Guild’s armory in search of items that may be useful. <BR><BR>In the end, he decided to do as she bid. Even though he was well-armed: he had <i>Neleg Amlug</i>, the Dragon’s Tooth, in the high speech it was called <i>Carch Urulóki</i>, which he had always with him, attached now in the hip position upon his baldric, in its black leather sheath bound with fine gilded silver, a gift of his childhood mentor and teacher, Thranduil. Also attached to his sturdy leather baldric was his brace of throwing knives, four blades of hardened, blackened steel affixed cleverly in inverted sheaths at the small of his back devised and forged by the smithy Grechos of Dor-Dormoi, the capital city of Dorwinnion. Also, lashed to his saddlebags, there was the carved ash bow of Mirkwood, with its quiver of matching arrows. He had never lost a single arrow in the many battles he had seen in the short time since he had left his foster father’s house in search of his destiny. So long it seemed, since he had been a boy - the son of an innkeeper, cleaning the taproom floor and fetching kegs with his five older brothers. Yet it had only been a year and a half. He had since learned of his true heritage, fallen from grace for a short while and finally, utterly rejected his father’s legacy. He truly was a different person. He was a man – a man in search of meaning, in search of the answer to Glorfindel’s prophetic riddles. <BR><BR>“Ahem. Pardon me, Master Dirk. The Lady Parador bid me show you to your room, then to the armory.”<BR><BR>Dirk had been standing, wide-eyed, still staring at the empty threshold that Parador had used to quit his presence. His eyes were open, but he saw naught of the physical world. Now he had been roused from his reverie by a fair, polite voice. A voice like that of all elves, clean and pure, a stark contrast to the broken and ruined whisper that was Dirk’s own. Reaching up and lightly fingering the raised scar that stretched from ear to ear across his throat, he turned and saw an elf clad in white, his raiment adorned with embroidered leaves of silver and gold. <BR><BR>“Yes, forgive me. I was caught off guard by something the lady said. I certainly hope that I haven’t ignored you overlong.”<BR><BR>“No, Master Dirk. The in the span of the lifetime of an elf, a few minutes are as quick as a lightning flash.”<BR><BR>He turned without a word and left the Grand Hall through one of its many doors. Dirk followed. Soon they mounted a flight of stairs. They passed two stories on the way to the fourth and top-most floor. Down a long, elegantly wood-paneled corridor, lined at even intervals with many doors, he finally caught up with the mysterious elf. He stood waiting beside an open door.<BR><BR>“Here is your room. You will find fresh water for drinking as well as for cleansing, along with a little bread and some fruit, to hold you over until your supper, which will be brought to you after you visit the armory. There are also some fresh clothes. Leave yours on the chair beside the door when you change and we will see that they are cleaned and mended from their hard road. Also, you may leave your arms in the room as long as you walk in Caras Galadhon. You will not need them.” <BR><BR>Dirk’s forehead furrowed, for though he trusted these elves implicitly, he also knew of the dangers of the Dragon’s Tooth. He was loath to leave it unattended for other’s safety alone - because certainly none could ever steal it from him. To even attempt such a thing would mean death to the thief. <BR><BR>But the elf’s next statement uncannily addressed the dark youth’s concerns, “We know of your blade, Dirk. Aye, we know it well. You may rest assured than none will disturb it from wherever you decide to lay it.” <BR><BR>With that, the elf turned and strode the corridor, his long legs carried him swiftly away, and soon Dirk could no longer hear his footfalls. <BR><BR>Dirk began to undress, placing his baldric across a chair-back, and leaning the sheathed sword against the wall beside the bed. As he disrobed, he became once again aware of the absence of his <i>mithril</i> shirt. One of the parting gifts from Glorfindel, Dirk had worn it ever since the day he stood upon a hill at the Grey Havens and watched the tall mast of the ship that carried the elf fall away beyond the horizon toward the undying west – for ever. He had come to rely upon the mail blindly; it gave him a misplaced sense of invincibility. He had learned a hard lesson when it failed – harder still it was to give up the precious garment. The smooth white scar above his left hip ached slightly as a reminder. He looked at it, as well as the rest of his divested body. Perhaps he might find something of use in the armory. His mortal body was fragile, surely he could find some trusty bit of mail or plate in the Mithril Knight’s armory: something that would fit his needs, something that would befit his future status as Mithril Knight.<BR><BR>Dirk found the large basin of cool, clear water and laved his face, neck, head and hands. Folded upon the bed were a woolen tunic and hose of grey, and a pair of the light, flexible shoes that the elves wore. These he donned, placing his black leather breeches and boots, as well as his white linen under-shirt and black linen tunic upon the chair as the elf had instructed. <BR><BR>There was a small loaf of sweet white bread on a plate with and apple, a tall vessel of water and a cup – of a metal that was shined to mirror-like perfection. He poured the water and took the bread. He suddenly realized that he was famished. Alternately munching the soft bread and sipping the water, he found the snack satisfying.<BR><BR>However he was now fairly excited to visit the Knight’s armory. Therefore he took up the apple, opened the door to his room and stepped into the hall, intending to call for the elf. However, there was no need, for there was an elf maid waiting silently in the hall. She was clad in a simple white shift, similarly adorned with embroidery to the garb of the first mysterious elf. <BR><BR>“Do you wish to visit the armory now?”<BR><BR>Dirk felt as though he were in a dream. He could not speak. His moments alone and perhaps the few bites of food had stemmed the flow of adrenaline in his body and the beauty and enchantment of Lothlórien and its inhabitants struck him full, like a leather gauntlet across the face. He merely nodded.<BR><BR>Without another word, she led him back down hall and the stairs, to the first floor. Dirk followed, absent-mindedly chewing on the apple as he drank in the wonder of the place with new eyes. Presently, they left the main guildhouse and crossed a small yard to a smaller building. Low, and devoid of windows, it had only one door; and it was wide and bound with the iron. Another elf, this one in bright mail, set about with a magnificent cloak of iridescent silver stepped from an alcove beside the door. The young man finished his apple, tossing the core across the yard, toward the stables, where it was quickly snatched up by a large grey mare. The to elves exchanged a few words in Sindarin, to low for Dirk to comprehend, and he produced a set of keys, admitting Dirk, led by his escort. As he passed the guardian, they exchanged glances. To the young Dúnedan’s mind, the elf warrior seemed to be welcoming him and sizing him up all at once. He proceeded with a nod of his head towards the elf, who returned the gesture.<BR><BR>Dirk’s eyes widened as he entered the armory. It was the most magnificent collection of arms he’d ever seen. The walls were set about with racks of weapons: spear and pikes, maces, war-hammers, axes of every size and shape, knives, bows and, oh yes – swords. Dirk’s mind raced as he looked and them: thin rapiers, cutlasses, scimitars, giant claymores, of every make he recognized – elvish, Westernesse, Gondor, Easterling, cavalry blades of Rohan – and many more that he did not recognize. There were mannequins dressed in mail: leather, plate, chain and ring. He looked about in reverence for a few minutes, stopping every now and then to marvel at some new thing that he’d never seen designed quite in such a way before. <BR><BR>“Go ahead young master, touch them, try them out. Choose what you would. But choose wisely.” <BR><BR>Dirk’s childlike wonderment ceased. Here again was the warning of Parador rousing him from the giddiness like a splash of chill water. He stared at the elf, who only smiled, turned and left him alone.<BR><BR>Now he began to inspect the armory’s contents in earnest. As beautiful and wonderful as the weapons were, he reminded himself once again that he was well-heeled in that respect. Indeed, he could hardly carry more. He turned his attention to the armor. Remembering the importance of stealth and agility to his wilderness survival, quickly eliminated the loud, clanking, heavy plate armor, as well as the various implements of interlocking rings of steel. He tried a few stout bits of leather armor, checking their buckles. But nothing quite worked for him. <BR><BR>And then a glimmer caught his eye. Upon a shelf, he espied a hauberk that was black as the shadow cast over Lórien when the sun dips below Celebdil westerly upon its setting. But it also shone like the moon full-waxed. Dirk was dumbfounded. He approached the shelf and reached for the hauberk. To his surprise, he found if soft, pliant. <BR><BR>“This cannot be,” he whispered to himself, turning the piece over and over. “It is. It must be. There is only one way to be sure.” <BR><BR>He propped the chest piece up against the wall, took up a great axe and struck with all of his might. Returning the axe to its rack, he returned to the hauberk, took it up and checked it over – not a scratch. <BR><BR>“It is,” again he spoke aloud to himself, incredulous, “this is <i>galvorn</i>, Eöl’s metal. But it can not be. It is only legend now. No one has seen it since the Valar cast Beleriand into ruins. Eöl, the dark elf of Nan-Elmoth and his works had vanished even before the final battle of the First Age. These Mithril Knights are truly wondrous.”<BR><BR>He strapped the hauberk about his chest. It fit perfectly. He bent this way and that; he climbed the racks of weapons. It was not as light as <i>mithril</i>, and neither was it as hard. But Eöl’s metal surpassed plain steel on both counts. It reflected only direct light, easily remaining hidden in the shadowy corners. And it was utterly quiet, no matter how Dirk moved. <BR><BR>Dirk returned to where he had found the hauberk, looking for more pieces. He found a pair of matching vambraces, but nothing more. But then it was enough. A helm would hinder his sight and hearing. And his leather breeches were stout enough to fend off a glancing bow or an off-center bowshot. He tried on the vambraces, again a perfect fit. With one more cursory glance around the shelves and Dirk doffed the three pieces of assuredly prized armor and began to carry them towards the door. <BR><BR>Then something else caught his eye – a small knife. Quite an ordinary knife really – with a wooden handle and plain steel hilts in such a sheath as would be fit to conceal in a tall boot. It had no markings of any kind; neither did it sparkle with the polished finish of the elven or Númenórean master smiths. But it was a well-made, stout little knife. And Dirk was oddly attracted to it. He added it to the three pieces in his arms and left the armory. These things he would ask for. Surely the Mithril Knights would not allow him to keep the rare armor, but they would probably not begrudge him this small knife. <BR><BR>The elf maid was there, waiting beneath a young Mallorn. She stepped forward as Dirk emerged from the doorway. He heard a sharp <i>snick</i> as the guardian stepped silently and swiftly behind him to re-lock the door.<BR><BR>“You have chosen. Good. Follow me.”<BR><BR>Dirk was led back into the guildhouse to a large room on the first floor. It was set with benches and tables. On the walls were shelves and racks of rolled charts, as well as a small hearth with an inviting fire. The elf motioned for him to sit. He did so, setting the items he’d chosen in the armory down beside him on the bench. This was obviously the maproom in which Lady Parador was to meet him. He was alone.<BR><BR>However, he did not have to wait long. Soon the Lady Knight entered the room, inquiring about the small bit of food, the clothing and the armory.<BR><BR>“They all surpass my expectations, Lady.”<BR><BR>“Did you find anything of use in the armory.”<BR><BR>“Yes, Lady.”<BR><BR>“Bring them to me. Let me see what you have found.”<BR><BR>Dirk gathered up the hauberk, vambraces and knife from the bench and set them on a table before the Mithril Knight. She began to inspect the items.<BR><BR>Dirk awaited her reaction to his choices.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Fri Nov 22, 2002 8:47 am

The first post has been updated to reflect the latest changes in Dirk. Including: his birthday, he's 20 now! and the changes in his armor/weapons. Also, the Sept. 8 post referring to Neleg Amlug has been editted.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sat Nov 23, 2002 4:34 pm

<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0><BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Sat Nov 23, 2002 10:40 pm

I want to change the name of SB's horse. Midnight is just too plain. I have been playing with the languages and am now debating between:<BR><BR><i>Endlómë</i> - "Midnight" in Quenya<BR><BR>and <BR><BR><i>Karbû-Anlômi</i> - "Stallion of Night" in Adûnaic<BR><BR>Anyone wanna give me an opinion?
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Postby SilverScribe » Sun Nov 24, 2002 7:54 pm

<BR>They are both cool names, however, isn't Quenya sort of a forbidden speech now? <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>Whatever you pick will be great. I have a couple of other suggestions to offer if you like . . .<BR><BR>In Sindarin:<BR><BR>Mor Celeg - Night Swift<BR><BR>or<BR><BR>Mor Roch - Night Horse, the implication in 'roch' is that this is "a swift horse for riding".<BR><BR><BR><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Nov 25, 2002 8:12 am

<i>They are both cool names, however, isn't Quenya sort of a forbidden speech now?</i> Plus I chose Adûnaic, the language of Númenór because it would annoy Scribbles to hear that language every time SB refers to his horse. LOL. <BR><BR>Actually, I like your suggestion of Môr Roch. But, since it is a proper name, would it be bad form to combine them? (i.e. Morroch)<BR><BR>edit: Just a language question for my info - Isn't "Mor" the version of "night" that implicates darkness as in evil? (i.e. Morgoth, Morgul)
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Postby Leoba » Mon Nov 25, 2002 8:39 am

<i>I chose Adûnaic, the language of Númenór because it would annoy Scribbles to hear that language every time SB refers to his horse</i><BR><BR>You are such a stirrer. <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>I have to say (if you still want opinions?) that the name in Quenya sounds best IMO.<BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Nov 25, 2002 8:59 am

Of course I am interested in your opinion. That was my favorite, too, until Scribbles' suggestion. I was having trouble putting a Sindarin name together. I still think that it has evil connotations, but that's okay, it kinda fits with SB's personality. Besides, Midnight was with him when he went evil, remember?
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Postby SmaugsBane » Wed Dec 04, 2002 10:21 pm

From the Mithril Knights Warriors Guild RP thread on 4th December, 2002, Dirk's dreamquest.<BR><BR><BR><BR>The moment Dirk entered the ceremonial chamber, a change came over him. He would later learn that the heightened senses and the mantle of calm that that enveloped him was caused by the herbal incense that was burning. He immediately became aware of the immense fresco on the east wall that fairly dominated the room. The mural commanded all of Dirk's attention. He saw nothing else. He was drawn in by its power, its emotion as if the artwork were a living, breathing thing. <BR><BR>He then became aware of the Guildmaster's presence. Dirk was beckoned to a comfortable arrangement of rugs upon the floor. His head was annointed with oil; and he was given a pungent sprig of Rosemary. <BR><BR><i> "This represents the life within you and the life around you, keep it in your hand, smell its aroma, know it is in this room, and when you wish to return, it will bring you here,"</i> spake Elbren.<BR><BR>Dirk sat, Rosemary in hand, transfixed upon the image of Dagor-nuin-Giliath until Lord Elbren returned and offered the young Dúnadan an odd bit of metal, rather like a spoon, but fully enclosed.<BR><BR>Again Elbren addressed Dirk, <i>"You have come to answer the summons of the Ancients, Dirk of Esgaroth,"</i> he said, <i>"within this room lies the future and the past...and to know one's self, one must see all aspects. Drink...and know the origins of this Order."</i><BR><BR>The would-be knight closed his eyes, took the contents of the metal implement into his mouth and swallowed the thick, bitter liquid.<BR><BR>At once, he experienced the awareness of the elixir's journey through his body: Down his throat and into his stomach, then very quickly into his bloodstream. The sensation was that of warmth coursing throughout his entire body, completely navigating from the center out to his fingertips and toes, then back into his heart.<BR><BR><BR><BR>Then he opened his eyes to darkness. Not the foreboding darkness of evil, but the exhilarating darkness of the pre-dawn hour before a long-anticipated morn. He became aware that he was now standing.<BR><BR>The first sensation was that of a bitter cold wind. Then, blackness gave way before him to a bright twilight, revealing a barren wasteland, a plain devoid of flora or fauna. As his sight increased, he saw before him a great cloud of dust. Still more of the slowly waxing starlight (as he now understood it) completed the scene in which he now stood:<BR><BR>Beyond the cloud of dust there were a few black figures standing in contrast against the dust. Looming above the entire vista before him were three vast peaks of naked black stone. He recognized them immediately.<BR><BR>Thangorodrim.<BR><BR>Dirk stood on the plain of Ard-Galen before the very gates of Angband. He was still dressed in only his shirt, breeches and boots. No armor, no weapons, not even a cloak to ward off the blustery weather.<BR><BR>Suddenly, a cry went up from his right, "They have stopped running!"<BR><BR>He turned to see that he stood amongst a small company of tall, fair elves in bright mail. He had not realized it at the time, but they spoke in Quenya, a language now little used, except for ceremonial purposes, in Middle-earth.<BR><BR>Then beside him on his left a powerful voice answered in a deathly serious tone, "Nay, they still run, but no longer in retreat. Morgoth has sprung his trap."<BR><BR>Dirk turned to see an elf-lord more regal than any he had ever dreamed of. Then another elf beside the lord spoke.<BR><BR>"My Lord Fëanor, there are more than orcs approaching."<BR><BR><i>Fëanor!</i> thought Dirk.<BR><BR>Looking out to where the lieutenant pointed, Dirk caught a sight that sank his heart into despair. <BR><BR>Balrogs... led by the fell father of Balrogs: Gothmog. Balrogs had issued forth from Thangorodrim and were descending upon the elf-warriors and the solitary mortal man. In hopeless desperation, the elves, with the single exception of Fëanor, turned and fled before this grim host. The leader of the elves in exile instead ran headlong at his enemy, shouting battlecries of vengeance.<BR><BR>Dirk was stuck were he stood. He could not retreat and he could not follow after Fëanor. He stood out upon the plains as a lone figure, a member of the race of Second Born, apparently unnoticed by the High-Elves, standing unarmed, surely to meet his doom at the hands of the evil creations of Morgoth, the demons of flame and shadow.<BR><BR>Fear gripped Dirk. He watched in horror as Fëanor was surrounded by his attackers until the Lord of Elves was no longer visible. Dirk opened his mouth to scream in horror and sorrow, but he was unable to utter a single sound.<BR><BR>Then, contrary to the story as Dirk knew it, Gothmog turned and marched towards him. Struggle though he might, Dirk could not escape. The heat and the dread that spread before him hit the young man like a giant wave crashing on the rocks below Mount Taras. He reached Dirk with impossible celerity.<BR><BR>The Lord of Balrogs reached down with his mighty taloned hand towards Dirk's throat...<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>Darkness.<BR><BR>Utter, clinging, suffocating blackness.<BR><BR>Dirk found himself in a place devoid of light, sound, and smell. He neither stood, nor lay, nor floated. He could not speak, nor move, nor even breath.<BR><BR>He simply was.<BR><BR>He existed in a place which deprived him of any stimuli.<BR><BR>A vacuum.<BR><BR>A Void.<BR><BR>He dwelt there for an immeasurable amount of time. Unfeeling. <BR><BR>Then a voice seemingly from within himself, but simultaneously from every direction without himself as well, shattered the silence like the sound of a mountain falling about Dirk's ears.<BR><BR>"Welcome to the home of thy Father; the home of thy Father's master, and in turn, his master before him."<BR><BR>Dirk regained his voice - his pure, unbroken voice.<BR><BR>"Who are you?"<BR><BR>"I am he whose home thou stood before moments ago...or was it ages?"<BR><BR>"Melkor?"<BR><BR>"Thou knowest me, young one. Thou knowest me and cannot deny me. Thou art chosen. And where thy father and the ruined Maya failed wilt thou succeed."<BR><BR>"Never! I have rejected the powers that enthralled my father! You have no hold on me, phantom of the Abyss. You have no power over me nor any other thing, alive or dead. You are merely ghost in exile, banished forever in the Abyss that exists far befyond the lands of Illuvatar! Leave me be!"<BR><BR>"Thy conviction is strong, little one," mocked the fallen Vala, "But thou and all your ilk will fail in the end. I am mightiest among all beings, no matter where I dwell. Follow me and thou shalt be at my right hand when I return. Thou shalt be mightier even than Sauron the Great. But forgo my offer and I shall deny you the Gift of Men and this banishment I shall grant thee: to exist in madness in the Abyss for ever."<BR><BR>"Foul deciever! You both offer and threaten that which you are powerless to deliver. I have seen the corrupt world you would have me live in and I have rejected it at great cost. You shall never have me!"<BR><BR>By a force of will that astonished even himself, Dirk broke the illusion that seemed to hold him at the mercy of the banished Morgoth in a shower of light, like a million shards of a broken diamond...<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>His consciousness looked now from above into a large room. The windows of the room were unglazed, and a warm tropical breeze with the smell of the sea upon it blew the curtains inward. At one end of the room was a great dais upon which an ornate throne sat. Resting upon the throne was a tall man, with long raven hair capped with a circlet of gold. <BR><BR>His vision drew him in closer and he could see that a scroll, written in the ancient flowing script of the elves, Fëanor's script, lay upon his lap. The man opened his clenched left fist to reveal a ring. <BR><BR>Still closer his perception took him until he beheld the sorrow and pain in the man's grey eyes. Dirk cast his sight downward upon the ring. It was gold, with intricate filigree-work. The man slipped the ring onto his right index finger.<BR><BR>This lord of men's head snapped back, his mouth open in a silent scream. Suddenly his hair flashed white as driven snow and his skin paled before Dirk's eyes. He stood. <BR><BR>Where once a strong, noble man was, now a withered thing, enslaved with an insatiable hunger now existed. The shell of the once great man advanced upon Dirk with an outstretched hand...<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>Light. <BR><BR>A warm, inviting springtime sunrise.<BR><BR>Dirk now stood upon a green hillock facing east. Below him a small encampment of tents encircled the dying embers of the night before's fire.<BR><BR>A woman's scream echoed off of nearby rocks. <BR><BR>Inside one of the tents, a woman, flanked by two other women, laid upon a pile of furs. Dirk saw that she was a beautiful woman with chestnut brown hair, jade green eyes, and skin like the unblemished petal of a white lilly. <BR><BR>She was about to give birth. <BR><BR>Pain.<BR><BR>Agony.<BR><BR>So much blood.<BR><BR>A child's wail.<BR><BR>The women burst into hysterical sobbing. <BR><BR>The child lives.<BR><BR>The mother dies.<BR><BR>"No, Minya, no! First the curse of the child's father. Now you give up your own life to bring it into the world! No!"<BR><BR>The swaddled child is taken by strong hands and delivered south.<BR><BR>Dirk looks once more into the now lifeless face.<BR><BR>"Mother?"<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>Blinding light and searing fire.<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>Dirk was now again in corporeal form upon the Ard-Galen. Before him, the prostrate form of Fëanor lay amongst his sons. A bier was fashioned from the shields and spears of the fallen and Fëanor was borne away from the wretched land of Angband to die elsewhere with dignity. <BR><BR><BR>One of the Elf-Lords sons (later Dirk surmised that it must have been Maedhros, his eldest) turned and placed his elegant hand upon Dirk's shoulder.<BR><BR>"Listen to your heart, <i>atan</i>. Only you can shape your destiny."<BR><BR>The fresh aroma of Rosemary filled Dirk's nostrils. <BR><BR>Darkness.<BR><BR>It was dark like a restful night, like the comfort of a warm bed after a large meal.<BR><BR><BR><BR>Dirk awoke upon the floor of the ceremony room too physically and emotionally exhausted to process what had just occurred. As his eyes began to focus he realized that he still sat before the mural. <BR><BR>Elbren's voice roused him further from the dream-state.
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Postby Leoba » Thu Dec 05, 2002 6:26 am

You don’t do these things by halves do you. <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0> <BR><BR>I really enjoyed reading that and (at the risk of inflating your ego beyond repair<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0>) I’d say that you’re getting better and better all the time, with each post surpassing the next.<BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Feb 24, 2003 2:11 pm

From the "Mithril Knights Warrior's Guild - The Witch of Mordor" rp, February 24, 2003. Dirk fights at Helm's Deep and Esgaroth is raised in defense of Dale and Erebor.<BR><BR><BR>Dirk swung his sword as quickly as he could. Each time he felled a dwarf from the latter before him, another took its place. Seeing that this tactic was only slowing the tide of the Red Hammer up this particular ladder, Dirk stabbed at the next Dwarf to gain the top rung instead of hacking off his head, as he had the previous six. The young Knight thrust the black blade of Neleg Amlug into the dwarf's chest up to the hilt, piercing his heart and lungs and killing him instantly. Dirk did not recoil right away, the blade had a firm hold in the dwarf's spine and he was able to hold the heavy dwarf in place, though it took all of his strength. He peered over the edge of the ladder and saw the succession of Red Hammer warriors waiting to follow the impaled fellow at the top. Dirk then leaned back and placed his foot on the dead dwarf's chest just below the Dragon Tooth's entry point and shoved. After considerable effort, the blade pulled free with a loud hissing sound as the Dwarf's last breath escaped through the jagged wound in his left breast. The dwarf stood still for half a second, and Dirk stared into his lifeless open eyes, waiting. Then finally he crumpled, falling straight down the ladder, taking his brethren with him to the floor of the valley.<BR><BR>Dirk then pulled up the wooden ladder before any new dwarves could mount it and threw it toward a watch-fire inside the wall.<BR><BR>"Burn it!" he shouted to the waiting Rohirrim below.<BR><BR>He looked up and saw that some of the other defenders had witnessed Dirk's idea and were following suit. Soon, ten ladders burned in a mighty bonfire in the hollow behind the Deeping Wall. <BR><BR>The mighty Horn of Helm Hammerhand blasted the signal for the Éoreds of Rohan to close in about the vale and surround the Red Hammer armies. <BR><BR>The echoes of the horn blast faded in the distance and Dirk was throwing a second ladder over onto the fire when he was struck from behind by glancing hammer-blow. Few have ever felt the bite of a dwarven hammer and lived - he had felt it twice now in the last few days. Dirk was a fortunate young man...<BR><BR>Though the shot was indirect, it was still enough to send Dirk to the blood-slicked stones. He rolled over quickly preparing to dodge a second swing of the hammer. But a second blow did not come. Dirk caught sight of the dwarf, standing stone-still with a dumbstruck expression written across his face. A moment later the dwarf fell, revealing the blood-streaked face of Athelos. As she reached down and offered Dirk a hand, she was struck in the back by a flying shard of steel. It did not penetrate her Mithril Cloak, but struck with enough force to catch her attention. The shard clattered to the stone floor beside Dirk as Athelos helped him to his feet. After a quick salute of thanks, Dirk and Athelos both caught sight of the shard's source: Elbren was weilding a broken sword.<BR><BR>"I'll keep it for him," Athelos screamed above the din, and she picked up the broken sword-point and tucked it into her belt.<BR><BR>Both Knights turned to rejoin the fight on the wall, but there were no more dwarves attempting to breech. That's when Athelos and Dirk recieved Elbren's orders that the Dwarves were turning to meet the flanking Éoreds and that they were to prepare to ride. <BR><BR>The raven-haired youth sheathed his blade and quickly descended the stairs to the ground beyond the wall and ran to the staging area that was set up for the Éored of Éomer. He found his sable stallion in the adoring care of a twelve-year-old Rohirrim squire. Dirk tousled the child's blond mop as he took the reins and mounted Endlómë. The Mearas-bred warhorse stamped and tossed his mane. The sounds and smells of battle had gotten his ire up and he was ready to fight. <BR><BR>Dirk fell into formation with the Éored and awaited the second sounding of Helm's Horn. But it did not come. Instead, an eery silence fell accross the battlefeild and the sky lightened like the early coming of dawn. Dirk and the other riders could not see what was happening from behind the gates, but the silent flashes of lightning lit up the rider's faces and the Knight read fear in many of their eyes. <BR><BR>Suddenly, a great explosion from the other side of the wall assailed their ears and spooked many of the horses. A few riders were thrown to the ground. Dirk heard a whistle and looked up to the wall above the gates. There stood Elbren with Éomer, signalling the "stand down" order.<BR><BR>Dirk dismounted and patted the warhorse's flanks, "Soon enough my friend, you'll get you chance."<BR><BR>He handed the reins back to the startled esquire, "Here, he likes these." Dirk produced several sugar cubes and placed them in the boy's hand.<BR><BR>"What's your name, boy?"<BR><BR>"Hama, sir."<BR><BR>"Hama, after the famous guardsman of Théoden?"<BR><BR>"Yes, he was my father," Hama stood tall and thrust out his chin with pride. He was a bold, brave boy. Most of the boys his age were hiding the caves, but he was here doing what he could to help. <BR><BR>"He would probably be on a horse ready to ride with the Éored, if he could lift a lance,"thought Dirk.<BR><BR>Dirk smiled, "You are brave, like your father. Keep my horse safe for me. Will you do that?"<BR><BR>Hama nodded. Dirk knew that Endlómë didn't need to be 'kept', but he liked the boy's boldness, it reminded him of...himself.<BR><BR>"Good, I'll be back for him."<BR><BR>Dirk turned on his heel and bolted back up to the wall, where he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Mithril Knights and watched as the awesome power of the Sickle smote their enemy.<BR><BR>****************<BR><BR>The Bardings stood side-by-side with Lonely Mountain Dwarves, attempting to hold back the tide of the Red Hammer. They were assaulted on two fronts: Between Ravenhill and the River Running, two thousand Red Hammer axemen were attempting to skirt the City of Dale and gain the Front Gate of Erebor. Meanwhile, a mixed force of orcs and dwarves had built rickety bridges and crossed the river from the east. The forces of Dale and Erebor were divided and already the eastern front was beginning to lose ground. Orcs by the dozen were breaking through and ravaging the streets of Dale. <BR><BR>A single Mithril Knight was dispatched from the Erebor Guildhouse, on the fastest horse they could find, to find Elbren, who was last known to be at Edoras, and bring back reinforcements.<BR><BR>He managed to break through the lines of Dwarves at the southern front and gallop straight for Laketown. Once there, he immediately sought out Drake, the innkeeper at the Golden Dragon, who had fought at The Front Gate with King Brand and Dáin Ironfoot during the War of the Ring.<BR><BR>Within two hours the Knight was on his way galloping south at the horse's full speed and the whole of Esgaroth was raised. Every man between fifteen and fifty (and a few who weren't) were marching north along the river. Seven hundred men, many wielding rakes, hoes, and shovels as weapons, went to the aid of Bard II and Thorin Stonehelm, led by Drake of Esgaroth and five of his sons.<BR><BR>"Where, I wonder, is Dirk?" asked Derek, the eldest of Drake's sons about the youngest.<BR><BR>"I do not know, son. But I am glad that he is not here for we may all die in Dale and I wish for one of my sons to carry on our line," he said, noting with irony that his line would indeed die out if only Dirk survived, because the youngest of Drake's sons was adopted, and not of his blood.
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Postby Leoba » Thu Jan 22, 2004 7:19 am

In the (temporary) absence of this thread's owner, I didn't want to see it accidently archived. <BR><BR>So a justifiable *bump*<BR><BR>I miss you.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Tue Jan 27, 2004 6:29 pm

Why thanks for thinking of me, fair lady. And yes, I should think that soon enough new posts may be added here, if the new RP muse I am wrestling with sees fit to change the character at all...
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Postby SmaugsBane » Wed Jan 11, 2006 6:49 am

With the desire to post again growing in my heart, I think I'll make Dirk's little thread a bit easier to find for the newer members of the Pony who might not know him...

See you soon?
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Postby Jiyadan » Wed Jan 11, 2006 9:33 pm

Drik? Drik? Who is this ... what? oh.. Dirk? Oh. hmmm.... I seem to remember something... that does sound familiar...

Will ponder on this a while...






:P:D
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Postby SmaugsBane » Thu Mar 09, 2006 2:01 pm

So I have just reread this thread. And I must add a little disclaimer and an apology to anyone who actually decides to read it. First, please forgive the typos. Apparently, in years past I did not deem it necessary to proofread my posts before putting them up. Secondly, the posts herein are from no less than 6 or seven different stories, so there are a few inconsistencies. The basic character and themes flow throughout, but the details are different in order to fit each story. I hope it isn't to confusing.

In any future or current RP's, I'll try to be as detailed as possible so that there will be no guess-work as far as which details pertain to a particular story.

Finally, I have changed the name of the thread because I have decided that since I am now writing more than one character, SB is my TORC handle and Dirk is the character's name.

Thanks.
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Postby SmaugsBane » Fri Sep 07, 2007 8:17 pm

I realize that "bumps" are a frowned-upon thing here, but as I think I may be in a good place to start this little RP character rolling again (last time, I underestimated the time consumption of a newborn child!), I thought I'd put it where i can get at it a little easier. Oh, and please read my last post for some info regarding the writing herein.

Thanks.
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