The Merry Bowmen of Dale: Journeying East

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

Postby Lysandros » Sat Nov 16, 2002 1:49 pm

<b>Introduction and Guidelines for this RP</b><BR> <BR><b>NB:: Currently we are NOT solliciting new players.</b><BR><BR>This RP is being run by the Merry Bowmen of Dale, and while outside participation is not discouraged, we emphatically insist that you confer with us before posting, in our OOC thread. <BR><BR><a href='"http://www.tolkienonline.com/thewhitecouncil/messageview.cfm?catid=25&threadid=58242"' target=_blank>OOC:: The Merry Bowmen of Dale - Journeying East</a><BR><BR>More broadly however, it is preferable to have people who are familiar with the Merry Bowmen of Dale guild and have associations with it to join rather than total strangers whom we do not know, as this RP is a guild based activity.<BR><BR>An important note to any that read this RP. For a long while the story was being written in the Guild thread of the MBoD, hence its apparent start here in the middle of complex affairs. To read the whole story, I refer you to the MBoD guild, <BR><BR><a href='"http://www.tolkienonline.com/thewhitecouncil/messageview.cfm?catid=37&threadid=23128"' target=_blank>The Merry Bowmen of Dale</a><BR><BR>and the posts beginning January 8th, 2002.<BR><BR><BR><u>Current Players</u><BR><BR>Mistress Archer Canamarth<BR>Master Archer Lysandros<BR>Dragonslayer Maeglin<BR>Member of the Order of Girion Themedes<BR>Noble Sniper Smaug's Bane<BR>Noble Sniper Bardhwyn<BR>Friend of the Bowmen SilverScribe<BR>Jiyadan of the East<BR><BR><u>Non-Player Characters</u><BR>Menon of Rohan - Currently accompanying the Bowmen<BR>Athic-Zol - King of Dorwinion<BR>Dramul - King of the Easterlings<BR>Delkarnoth - An evil sorcerer<BR>Sargus - The henchman of Delkarnoth<BR>Moreistar - The Black Istar<BR><BR><b>The Compact Synopsis</b> (N.B. This synopsis is <u>still</u> out of date by many months)<BR><BR>The Merry Bowmen of Dale and The Mission East<BR><BR>Shortly after Yule a messenger arrived in Dale from the East. He addressed the Merry Bowmen of Dale grimly, informing them of a foul crop blight in the East which threatened to drive the Easterling nation to starvation and cease the movement of all goods westward. Dramul, king of the Easterlings, laid the blame for this upon the West and issued a warning that unless their plot was ended Dale would face invasion.<BR><BR>As agents of King Bard II, the Bowmen were appointed to investigate this charge secretly and in the guise of simple merchants. When they were ready Mistress Archer Canamarth, Master Archer Lysandros, Maeglin, Themedes and Gorin set forth into the harsh winter of Rhovanion. After many weeks travelling through barren, uninhabited wastes they drew nigh to the kingdom of Dorwinion, a buffer state between Dale and the East.<BR><BR>As they entered Dorwinion they came upon a caravan of merchants and journeyed awhile with them, learning rumours of coming war and invasion. Dramul, it seemed, had already made up his mind and was committed to war. Proof to this was given when the caravan was assailed by desperate starving peasants. When subdued they revealed that some lords in Dorwinion already bowed to Dramul and were ready to aid him in his attack. It was during this attack that Lokia, a keen warrior-maiden, joined them for a short while before being called away by other affairs.<BR><BR>Shortly before parting ways with the caravan the Bowmen happened upon a young man naming himself Smaug's Bane, and thereafter known as Dirk; a young Laketowner driven into flight and hiding after an unfortunate misunderstanding with the Mayor of Laketown's daughter. Seeming a likely lad he was heartily embraced by the Bowmen and joined their mission.<BR><BR>Alone the Bowmen went on, seeing more signs of Easterling aggression in the sparsely populated regions of northern Dorwinion. With snow still thick on the ground they arrived in the village of Les, the childhood home of their own Lady Canamarth, and found accommodation in the Black Fish Inn. <BR><BR>In the Common Room the Bowmen encountered yet another mystery in the person of Bardhwyn, a lady of Dale. She had lived in the region for a while and also had tales to speak of Easterling attacks and corruption of the nobles in this land. The Bowmen accepted her proposal to act as their guide upon the road to Dor- Domoi, the capitol of Dorwinion, which ran through a thick forest. For her part, Bardhwyn was keen to discover more about these strange folk who were obviously much more than merchants. <BR><BR>In the night the horses of the Bowmen were stolen. Bardhwyn kindly arranged for them to procure mounts to pursue the thieves and with her they made their way along the road. It was soon apparent that the thieves might have left the road to hide in the woods, and so the company divided, with Bardhwyn, Gorin, Themedes and Dirk continuing along the road and Canamarth, Lysandros, Maeglin and Lokia plunging into the forest.<BR><BR>In the woods, the latter came upon the ruins of Canamarth's own home, causing painful recollections of Easterling savagery to well up within her. With such reminiscences kindled it was deemed beneficial that they should go to the manor of the Duke of Khorl, who lived nearby and had shown kindness to Canamarth in her youth. He might also have tell of what was passing in the region. There she was recognized by the household as Nymis, her Dorwinion name, and they found the Duke of Khorl nearing death. This kindly lord took joy in the return of Nymis and they closeted together in speech while the others replenished their supplies by the Lord's generosity. The next day they departed for Dor-Domoi.<BR><BR>The former party continued upon the road. Under advice from Bardhwyn to beware of an ambush the thieves were in their turn surprised and quickly overwhelmed. Worse than mere thieves, they turned out to be notorious brigands in the service of one Ulkar, a nobleman of Dorwinion who paid allegiance to Dramul. They continued on, coming to Dor-Domoi near dusk. Bardhwyn announced that she would soon like to collect her fee and take their leave. Dirk exhorted her to remain with them as a fellow Daler and she considered it out of politeness rather than genuine interest.<BR><BR><i>Here the story turned aside for a period so that the Bowmen could celebrate their One Thousand Post Anniversary at the Bowmen's Ball. Although the original intent was to pick up the Journey East right where it left off, so much occurred at the Ball that it was deemed a shame not to incorporate some of its plot elements into the other story. As well several friends had such a good time at the ball that they wished to return to Dorwinion with us. So here transpire the events of the Ball and in turn they flow right into the Journey East. The transition is hardly seamless, but was done as best we could manage.</i><BR><BR>In the comfortable and well-provisioned confines of the Merry Bowmen of Dale's Guildhouse the celebration of The Bowmen's Ball was held. Many contests and much merriment filled its hall and guests from across Middle-earth joined our revelry. There was all our august fellowship and also Thenie of Rohan, friend to Bardhwyn, Magpie Jen, an excellent bird of great resource, Leoba, excellent Lady to Dirk, PrincessMelika of Dale generously provided cookies, and the boisterous Thalas of Gondor appeared unlooked for. Dancing took place, as well as myriad competitions over the two day event. Naturally the highlight was the Grand Archery Tourny, where Ladies Leoba won the Golden Arrow, Lokia the Silver, and Canamarth the Bronze.<BR><BR>But despite this festive setting, much transpired that was not merry. Themedes wrestled with the mysterious illness that had stricken him after his battle with the foul creatures in the dungeon of the Dark Mage of Mirkwood. It was also then that Bardhwyn revealed the traitor's brand upon her arm to Lysandros. He, aghast and torn between his duty to submit her to justice and his sense of loyalty to her as a comrade, ordered her to stay in the Guildhouse while he secretly left to learn more of her past.<BR><BR>The next day while the archery competition was held Bardhwyn and her faithful Thenie departed to journey back to Les. Lysandros began to foster suspicions that Bardhwyn was spy of the East. The gathered attendance began to disburse, with Dirk departing a while to escort his Lady home. However the ranks of the Bowmen were increased by Thalas and Magpie Jen begging the boon of joining them. Thus Lysandros revealed his knowledge of Bardhwyn's traitorous past and his suspicions of her. And so the Bowmen quit Dale again to continue their mission in the East and forestall war, and track down Bardhwyn to reveal her true purposes.
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Postby Lysandros » Sat Nov 16, 2002 1:50 pm

<i>Lysandros turned from Scribbles and walked out of the Inn. He was livid with rage. 'How dare the Scribe question and ridicule his orders in front of everyone! If he had ever spoken like that to Boromir in Ithilien he would have received a fist in teeth, first from his Captain, and then from half of his own Company. This was war, not some pleasure stroll.'<BR><BR>Fuming he began to search for any sign of the three wagons which they had purchased, hoping they had not been cast up and burned in the battle. Three he thought, but then he remembered the departure of Thenie. They could probably get by with just two now. <BR><BR>Cries and laments echoed throught the streets as the women, children and elderly came out to find their kin slain in the streets. The air reeked with the metallic tang of blood and bodies lay scattered thickly about, gaping with the long slash-wounds of Easterling sabres. At least half the menfolk of this village lay low. Surely if Dorwinion survived the dark days ahead this town would be richly rewarded for its sacrifice. At least Lysandros hoped it would. <BR><BR>Suddenly Lysandros came upon a sight that horrified him, amongst all the carnage. There on the ground lay the shrewd Dorwinion who had negotiated the wagon sale. A wound ran through his stomach and he had bled to death. Behind him sat the wagons, pushed into an alley out of harm's way. Before him an Easterling was spawled out with a pitchfork thrust into his throat. The little merchant had died protecting the goods he had sold. They were indeed a true hearted folk, more akin to the men of the West than the Bowmen had first thought. True he knew Canamarth to be brave and loyal, he trusted her with his life. But there had always been an aura of mystery and danger about her. Something slightly dark, lingering beneath. A remnant of her past, dim glances of which had been revealed on their journey thusfar. Lysandros knelt and lifted the man in his arms to carry him to the square where the bodies of the Dorwinion fallen were being placed.<BR><BR>That done, in a short while he had yoked his and Dirk's mounts to one wagon, and Canamarth and Maeglin's to another and had parked them in front of the Inn. He entered the Inn's common room and found Dirk still unconscious while the Scribe and Bardhwyn attempted to succour some of the wounded whose recovery was still hopeful. Swallowing his grudge against the Peredhel for the time being he spoke to them both.</i><BR><BR>"I have brought round the wagons. We will travel in two I suppose, now that we are reduced in number. Maeglin and I will load them and fashion something of a bed in both for Canamarth and Dirk. Then we must depart. Maeglin and I will drive them for now, and Menon and Bardhwyn will rest on the benches also. Themedes will ride ahead and the Scribe will be covering our back as she comes along later. I doubt we will meet trouble between here and Tibyana now, and if we do, nothing will save us anyway."
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Postby The,real,Maeglin » Sun Nov 17, 2002 2:24 pm

(ooc, lol my pleasure with making you sigh Canamarth<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0>)<BR><BR><i>When Lysandros came towards Maeglin, to aks for his help, he wasn't that happy to leave Canamarth alone for even that short of a moment, but atleast it provided him with the idea and knowledge that they would depart soon and try to find the cure for Canamarth.</i><BR><BR><i>He parted with Canamarth by a kiss on her forehead and walked away with Lysandros, giving one last glance at her...</i><BR><BR><i>When passing some bandages (put down by the people who helped the wounded) Maeglin took some quickly and asked Lysandros to help him a little to make a good stop for the bleeding and keep the pressure at the right place, he removed the shirt and revealed a clean cut by the pole-axe.</i><BR><BR><i>Lysandros showed no other emotion than a flinch in his eyes, his hands put the bandages at place while Maeglin kept his arm right and pressed on the bandages, in few minutes they both were satisfied with the result.</i><BR><BR>"This will do for now, and will make me able to hold lightly my bow in times of need, but atleast i have my right hand for my sword"Maeglin added with a smile<BR><BR><i>They took what they needed from the inn and started to "decorate"the wagons, making comfortable places for the wounded friends and made sure that there were enough blankets and pillows to make the travel comfortable enough.</i><BR><BR><i>Finishing Maeglin a last place in the corner for Canamarth to lie on he looked at Lysandros who seemed still filled with emotions.</i><BR><BR>"What troubles you my friend": He asked"surely it cant be this battle, i think you have seen enough of this to take it all personal.."?
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Nov 18, 2002 9:53 am

In a cloud of dust, the two wagons and their escorts on horseback took to the road. Standing beside the Scribe, watching the Bowmen leave was Maire, the one-time chambermaid. Her life was now changed forever. She was a warrior-maid now, like the heroes she would never forget: Bardhwyn and Canamarth. <BR><BR>She turned now to the task at hand: cleaning the streets of enemy corpses, tending the wounded, and honoring the fallen villagers with proper burials. She herself had managed to escape with only minor scrapes and bruises, while killing six of the enemy - a testament to her natural ability as a fighter. <BR><BR>Maire was ever as Scribbles' right hand, even though the strange half-elf frightened her a little, assisting the Scribe almost to the point of exhaustion, learning from the wisdom of the Peredhel's many millenia. <BR><BR>Later that evening, while tending to some of the wounded inside the Inn, Keiran, Maire's brother, handed her a curious bundle wrapped in butcher paper, with her name insribed on it. <BR><BR>"Who gave you this?" she asked.<BR><BR>"No one, I found it in the stables where the one who wore all black kept that huge black horse."<BR><BR>Maire carefully opened the package. When she had gotten it open, the seemed to Keiran to be a light emanating from its contents. But upon closer inspection, he saw that it was the light of the room relfected from thousands of tiny silver rings. <BR><BR>For inside that unassuming paper bundle was a gift finer than could be imagined: Dirk's <i>mithril</i> mail shirt. Inside, there was a small piece of paper. <BR><BR><i>Maire,<BR><BR>I have seen the warrior-spirit in your eyes. And as we prepare for the fight of your village's life, it is clear to me that you mean to take on the warrior-adventurer lifestyle. I hope this gift finds you unhurt, and that it serves you well for your new life as sword-maiden.<BR><BR>The shirt is mithril, stronger than steel, yet light as a feather. Wear it hidden, but remember it's limitations, and it should protect you. <BR><BR>Remember that the life you are choosing is as full of death and sorrow as it is adventure.<BR><BR>If you are ever in Dale, seek the Bowmen's guildhouse and I'll pour you a glass of wine and hear your tales of adventure upon the road!<BR><BR>-Dirk</i><BR><BR>She quickly re-wrapped the gift and ran up to her room. There she donned the mail shirt under her ill-fitting and battle-soiled tunic. She found that it fit her well; and once she was fully dressed, she hardly felt the shirt at all. Remembering Dirk's note, she said to herself, "...remember its limitations..." She knew the wisdom in his words: that the <i>mithril</i> would protect her, but not make her invincible. She wondered briefly why the tall, dark warrior had given up his armor. Perhaps it was the wound he had recieved, despite the shirt. Maybe he had forgotten the same wisdom he now imparted on her. If so, it was a hard lesson, and one she would never forget.<BR><BR>Smoothing the tunic as best she could, she returned to the taproom and reassumed her duties.<BR><BR>******************************************************<BR><BR>It had been both a terrible day of loss and a glorious day of triumph for the little village. The tale of the battle would be remembered in the lore of the town forever - passed on from generation to generation. The songs of the heroic men that were lost that day would be sung to the wide-eyed youth of every generation that followed. And every now and then, in the taproom of the town's Inn, an old man who was there would recount the tale of the group of hard-looking Bow-men and -women and how they raised the village against the onslaught of the easterling army. Glasses would be raised to the health of the Dalers, despite the sorrow of that day.
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Postby Lysandros » Thu Nov 21, 2002 12:01 am

<i>Lysandros heard Maeglin's words, but did not speak for a while. His face was thoughtful. At last he broke the silence as he fastened down a corner of the canvas which would form a roof for the wagon.</i><BR><BR>"Nay, Maeglin. The blood spilt here is but a drop compared to what I have seen." <i>That much was true. In his lifetime, short though it measured thusfar, he had seen slaughter and horrors beyond reckoning. One more village and a handful of peasants hardly made much of a difference. He continued, </i>"But much has happened to us, besides this battle, and this journey is already long past the point where it was more than we bargained for. I expected more matters like this. Matters you and I could settle with ease, or at least be easily settled ourselves. But what has happened to our poor Bowmen? Friends lost. How many more of us will end up like Thalas? New friends found, apparently. Though what their purpose in this world might be I cannot tell. And now what have we done? Saved a village of Dorwinions, though you could scarce call it saving. We didn't come here for that. We are not an army, yet we have acted as one today. We are not ambassadors, but we have forged a poltical alliance between Dale and Dorwinion. What is next for us? What is next ...for me?" <BR><BR><i>His voice trailed off as he glanced back towards the Inn where he knew Bardhwyn was. Maeglin replied,</i><BR><BR>"For us, we know that we have to go to Tibyana. That is enough for me. Once my Lady is saved, then we can worry about pretending to be ambassadors and armies later. When she is awake, things will be better, you'll see."<BR><BR><i>Maeglin's face was sunny, cheered by the mere mention of Canamarth's curing. And as if he suddenly missed her presence, he went back inside to carry her to the place he had prepared in the wagon.<BR><BR>Lysandros lingered, moodily inspecting the wagons to ensure they were ready. It was true that for the most part the slaughter of battle did not disturb him any longer. He felt sadness at the Dorwinion loss, and pity for them. It was never easy to see civilians fall before the well-trained and the fierce. But he knew that fretting over it would not change their plight, and if it had not happened here, it would have happened somewhere else. Nor did he feel any great remorse for the killing of the Easterlings. He did not particularly hate them. At least, he didn't hate them as much as orcs or the Southrons he had mainly encountered in the past. But they were an enemy, and he knew his cause was just. <BR><BR>His gloom came from the things he had spoken to Maeglin about. But he had left off his greatest concern; Bardhwyn. The day had been so frantic thusfar that he had not had time to consider her. The next portion of their journey would hopefully be uneventful. But that also meant that he would be granted the time to begin to try and repair the hurtful things that had passed between them. <BR><BR>As he headed back inside to begin policing up his comrades and be off, he almost wished that another Easterling column would forestall them and avert a while longer his need to explain his heart to her.</i>
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Postby Bardhwyn » Thu Nov 21, 2002 12:19 pm

<i>At Lysandros’ description of how the company was to proceed, Bardhwyn cast a glance at Silvercribe, full knowing the tensions that were there, under the surface. Several of the wounded villagers recuperating in the Inn's common room looked up as the Westron man spoke, obviously saddened at the announcement of their departure.<BR><BR>‘I doubt we will meet trouble between here and Tibyana now, and if we do, nothing will save us anyway.’ he said. Bardhwyn nodded, too tired to reply and besides the villager she was tending to had just reopened his wound while rolling over in his sleep.<BR><BR>The Master Archer turned and beckoned to Themedes. After exchanging a few short words, the armored Bowman departed with the orders to ride ahead. Bardhwyn stopped and watched as Maeglin softly kissed the Mistress Archer as she lay, motionless, on her cot before joining Lysandros to help finish their preparations.<BR><BR>Llerner, the village healer, stood by wiping his cleanly washed hands on a linen towel. After the two Bowmen departed, he spoke quietly to Bardhwyn and the Scribe.</i><BR><BR>“I doubt you will meet trouble also. Though you may meet with grief between here and Tibyana. Your good lady is dying.”<i> He said gravely.</i> “Leaving now or later will make no difference. You will be burying her here or on the road. I am sorry.” <i>With that he walked away, his mind bent on attending yet another wounded villager.<BR><BR>Bardhwyn quickly moved to Canamarth’s side. Placing her hand on the woman’s forehead she was shocked to feel the cold, clammy skin. Her breath was barely discernable.</i><BR><BR>“SilverScribe! Quickly.. tell me..” <i>Bardhwyn urged in hushed tones as she pulled out from under her tunic the pouch locket given to her by her mentor. The Half Elf knelt by the Dale woman, her eyes drawn to the gem-encrusted locket as Bardhwyn slowly romoved it's cap.</i><BR><BR>“This locket is filled with something, I do not know what it is, but it has properties that are unusual. I think it is what healed you when you were poisoned by that snake... and yet, your reaction was so violent. Something tells me it could save the Lady Canamarth, but I am unsure. It could kill her, too.”<BR><BR><i>SilverScribe took hold of the locket in her forefinger and thumb, only to jerk her hand away as if pained, suddenly. </i><BR><BR>“Who gave you this!” <i>She gasped, her eyes wide.</i><BR><BR>“Ani-La gave it to me. You were there. She gave it to me the night I met you, in Les. The night before I left.”<BR><BR><i>SilverScribe reached out again, carefully taking the locket, the chain still hanging about Bardhwyn’s neck, and she peered at the grainy, gray sand it contained. </i><BR><BR>“What did she say when she gave this to you?” <BR><BR>“That I will know what to do with it when the time came. The same for the other gifts she gave me…”<BR><BR>“I think I know what this is.” <i>The Peredhel said, her hand trembling slightly.</i> “You’ve been given a wonderous gift, an ancient gift of great worth. I’m sure it comes from across the Sundering Seas, from Valinor. Guard this and if Ani-La trusts you to use your instincts, do so. Don’t hesitate.” <i>She concluded, placing the locket back into Bardhwyn’s hand. <BR><BR>The Dale woman looked down at the sand, absorbing the words the Peredhel had said. ‘From Valinor?! This?! Oh, Ani-la…!” Bardhwyn gaze fell once again on the unconscious Canamarth.</i><BR><BR>“No, I don’t think it will harm her.” <i>Bardhwyn said softly, her confidence growing.</i> “I think it will save her. It may not revive her entirely, but I think it will keep her from the brink of death. She must drink it, SilverScribe…a strong liquid, something distilled. Help me, quickly!”<BR><BR><i>A bottle of distilled malt was found and a small portion poured into a small cup. Bardhwyn sprinkled a bit of the grainy substance into the cup and swirled the contents slightly. SilverScribe eased Canamarth into a sitting position and held the woman while Bardhwyn placed the cup to the woman’s lips. Surprisingly, Canamarth responded and the liquid was taken easily. A few tense moments passed. </i><BR><BR>“You can release her, SilverScribe.” <i>Bardhwyn said. The Half Elf shook her head and said, simply..</i> “Wait.”<BR><BR><i>The Mistress Archer’s face suddenly became flushed as the first of many of fierce convulsions worked through her...</i>
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Postby SilverScribe » Thu Nov 21, 2002 9:47 pm

<BR><i> Scribbles watched calmly as the Master Archer, his jaw clenched tight with rage, stalked from the Inn. When he had left, she sighed and glanced towards Bardhwyn. But the Archer had returned to bandaging a wounded man and Scribbles began to move among the makeshift cots and sickbeds, taking mental notes of whom needed succor first and most desperately, and whom could wait. When the young maid Maire appeared, she sent her for bandages and warm water, and while the girl fetched these, she returned to where she had left her pack, next to Menon. She rummaged through it quickly and withdrew her flat leather packet of herbs.<BR><BR>When she checked Menon, he gave her a wan smile and waved her away. </i><BR><BR>“I am fine Scribe, see to the villagers. I just need to rest.”<BR><BR><i> She nodded silently, then beckoned to the returning Maire and began to tend the worst of the wounded. Some needed stitching, some needed more drastic tending, like cauterizing or tying off severed fingers and in one case, a missing hand. Grimly, she set to the tasks, using no magefire but only a clean heated poker, herbs and the fine silken thread and one of the mithril needles that she kept with her herb packet.<BR><BR>They worked steadily as time slipped along. Finally, she bade the young Maire to sit down and rest, just as Lysandros returned to the Inn and began issuing instructions for their departure. Scribbles listened while she continued to work, breathing a silent thank you to the Valar that the Master Archer had appeared to acquiesce with her earlier suggestions. <BR><BR>When Lysandros had left again and Llener pronounced his dire opinion on the fate of the Mistress Archer, Scribbles looked quickly at Bardhwyn as they moved to the stricken woman’s pallet.<BR><BR>When Bardhwyn produced a locket, her memory tweaked. A quick, blurred vision of something very like it, swinging over her head as she struggled with incredible pain and heaviness . . . she reached out, fascinated. The blinding flash in her brain was a surprise, and she drew her hand back quickly. But the image was not to be denied, and she looked keenly at the Archer.</i><BR><BR>“Who gave you this?!” <BR><BR><i> As Bardhwyn answered, she too remembered, the memories rushing fast and hard through her mind. Of course, Ani-La. Fellow understudy and student to Luinil, surely the Blue Istar would have provided her with many secret and powerful charms and talismans, just as he had when Scribbles studied with him. She looked into the locket and her heart skipped a beat. Could this be?<BR><BR>If this was indeed the fine sand that had laid at the roots of the Two Trees, long before the defiling by Ungoliant, then it was potent magic, and to be used carefully. But Ani-La would not have gifted it to Bardhywn, if she thought the Archer would not come to understand its nature and wise usage.</i><BR><BR>“Guard this and if Ani-La trusts you to use your instincts, do so. Don’t hesitate.” <BR><BR><i>She held Canamarth, while the Archer administered the drink, and then after. She knew what was coming.</i> <BR><BR>“Wait.”<BR><BR><i> The word was no sooner out of her mouth, than Canamarth went rigid. Her face flushed as the sinews in her neck stood out. Scribbles held her firmly but carefully, willing the contortions to pass before Maeglin or Lysandros returned. After several powerful convulsions wracked the Mistress Archer, she relaxed with a hoarse sigh.<BR><BR>Scribbles reached out and placed her hand gently on Canamarth’s forehead, wishing for the thousandth time that her elven blood was stronger, so that she could clearly ‘read’ the womans condition. But the impressions she could draw were vague and foggy, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate harder. However, it was no use.<BR><BR>She sighed and opened her eyes, then regarded Bardhwyn solemnly. </i> “I will be honest with you, I cannot sense her fully, but I think she has a clear chance now. Time is still of the essence Bardhwyn, you must get her to Tibyana with as much speed as you can muster.”<BR> <BR><i> They rose together and instinctively moved to where Dirk yet lay, drifting in and out of consciousness.</i><BR><BR>“I don’t understand why he is so weak,”<i> Bardhwyn said softly, laying her hand on Dirks arm gently.</i><BR><BR>“He stood on the very threshold of death, Archer,” <i> Scribbles answered, then nodded as Bardhwyn raised stricken eyes to hers.</i><BR><BR>“Aye, his body cannot keep pace with his spirit. With only a few hours of sleep, he was forced to fight when he should have rested further. Watch him Bardhywn, let him sleep as much as possible, and make him eat so that his body can replace the blood he has lost.”<BR><BR><i> She looked around at the moaning villagers. </i> “Would that some of these poor devils get the same chance, but I fear many will not see the next dawn. What evil have we wrought here?” <i> she muttered softly, then looked up as Lysandros entered the Inn once more.<BR><BR>She knew, by the look on his face and that on the face of Maeglin, that there would be no more delays. They had come to take Bardhwyn, Canamarth, Dirk and Menon, and be on their way.<BR><BR>She dropped her head politely to the Master Archer, saluted Maeglin solemnly, then turned and moved to the next groaning villager. </i><BR><BR><BR>
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Postby Bardhwyn » Fri Nov 22, 2002 10:22 am

It was 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon when they set out. The sun was warm and the skies clear, though the air was acrid with smell of burned wood and cremated bodies.<BR><BR>With Dirk and Canamarth safely bedded, one on each cart, the company’s gear carefully covered, stowed under tarps and with provisions seen to, Lysandros and Maeglin each climbed up into their seats, taking up the reigns of the disguised mounts – Maeglin seated himself at the cart carrying his Lady. At the rear of each cart were tied two more horses: Thain, Bardhwyn’ s horse and on the other, Menon’s. <BR><BR>In front of the Falcon’s Nest stood SilverScribe, Llerner, his brother the Innkeep and the InnKeep’s two children, Kieran and Maire. The two young people, now having seen battle, seemed older. Bardhwyn said quiet goodbyes to each as Menon slowly made his way to the carts. <BR><BR>“Rejoin with us as soon as you can, SilverScribe.” Bardhwyn said, her hand clasped firmly with the Peredhel’s.<BR><BR>“That I will, you have my word. And get some rest, the road is long yet.” The Scribe replied.<BR><BR>Bardhwyn nodded and without further words, turned towards the carts. Seeing Menon climb onto the bench next to Lysandros gave rise to a strange mixture of feelings within her; relief, anger, sadness. Maeglin gave her a kindly smile as she approached, however.<BR><BR>“Come, Lady Bardhwyn.” Maeglin said, holding his hand out to help her. “We can share tales of our past. Between us, I am sure, we could fill the archives of Minas Tirith!” He added with a quick laugh. <BR><BR>“True enough, Master Maeglin.” Bardhwyn said, throwing a glance at Lysandros as she took her seat. The Master Archer’s countenance seemed calmer, though she could tell many thoughts troubled him. Would he come to trust her and her counsel? Only time would tell. She was too tired to wish for anything more, however. <BR><BR>Maeglin watched as Bardhwyn seated herself, noting her quick glances to the other cart. He wisely kept quiet. Bardhwyn saw his knowing look and sighed a bit. She then smiled and spoke to the Peredhel: “You begin. I fear I have only the energy to listen.”<BR><BR>"Ah, then I shall begin at the very beginning. It was a day very much like this, the day I was born, so my mother told me..."<BR><BR><BR><BR>In a cloud of dust, the two wagons took to the road.<BR>
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Postby The,real,Maeglin » Sun Nov 24, 2002 7:49 am

<i>When Maeglin was on the chart, talking with Bardhwyn, he couldnt help but hearing the words of <i>the villager "You will meet grief, that lady will be death soon".</i><BR><BR><i>He knew that the "antidote"Bardhwyn had given his lady was atleast keeping her from doing immediatly what the villager foretold, but she was far from save and it troubled Maeglin's mind.</i><BR><BR><i>When they had left Silverscribe there in the village Maeglin couldnt help but feel sorry, she had helped them a lot and he felt like they had left her behind, gladly the talks of Bardhwyn took away some of his troubles and he knew she would prefer to talk with Lysandros, but also the time wasnt there for them yet, but he wished it would be soon.</i><BR><BR><i>With the sun on his face and the talks with Bardhwyn, although she was tired, he finally felt less tense, and he could let his arm and shoulder rest in the mean time.</i><i>Bardhwyn did not say much and Maeglin always had trouble telling about himself, the conversations were kinda global, still he could feel that they both needed that. Every now and than he would take a look in the chart to see how Canamarth was doing, and on these moments his face turned grimson...</i><BR><BR>"So Lady Bardhwyn, if you feel like it, could you please tell me a bit what we can encounter here, like I just told I have never been in this region and the habbits, aswell of the whereabouts of the people here is a total mystery to me.."<BR><BR><i>Bardwhyn gave a smile, even in this situation and accepted the flask of water Maeglin offered her, after taking a sip she explained shortly but direct what the people believed in here and where they were, Maeglin listened with lots of interest to prepare for further upcommings, also because Bardwhyn knew how to use weapons and spended lots of time with the army her she could tell them a bit about the strength and the weakenes of the easterlings, he wasn't willing to take another beating by them.</i>
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Postby Lysandros » Mon Nov 25, 2002 10:05 am

<i>It was with relief that Lysandros left behind the last straggling houses of Myena. It seemed so long ago that they had arrived there, their group in shambles. Finally they had left, yet the group still seemed in shambles. The carts trundled along the road, which was wide and paved, through the gentle hills of southern Dorwinion. Rows of vines lay everywhere and early spring with its gentle, warm airs breathed new life them. The smell of the great sea of Rhun filled the air, though it could not be seen from the road, it was only a few miles away.<BR><BR>Lysandros sat on the bench next to the Rohirrim Menon. To pass the time he questioned his companion about the doings of the Mark and heard much of Rohan's policies and fighting alongside Gondor. But after a while Menon fell asleep and Lysandros held the reins silently. He could not see Bardhwyn, riding the cart behind him. <BR><BR>And so the afternoon passed into the dusk of evening, though they did not halt until the night was nearly set in. They found a quiet open space off the road, evidently often used by merchant carts though they had seen no one all day. Lysandros would have preferred to continue a while longer, but he realized they were all weary from their eventful day and a long night's rest would enable them to carry on longer tomorrow. Soon the camp was set and with a fire kindled food was readied.<BR><BR>Lysandros attended to Dirk, who still lay unconscious. The young man stirred uneasily in his slumber, but some colour showed in his face again. He would soon awake, to be sure. When he turned he saw Bardhwyn beginning to clean the pots and pans while Maeglin scrutinized the condition of Canamarth anxiously. Without hesitation Lysandros stepped forward to help her.</i><BR><BR>"Bardhwyn, rest. I will look after this. You should have a moment to sit at ease."<BR><BR><i>Holding a dripping pan she looked up, the firelight dancing upon her face, and replied,</i> "I am fine Lys. I sat on that bench all afternoon, remember."<BR><BR>"Nonetheless, you also fought in a battle and tended to the wounded all morning."<BR><BR>"So did you." <i>she replied, gesturing towards him with the pan.<BR><BR>Stepping forward he gently took the pan from her and tried to smile.</i> "But I am not also wounded like you. Rest, I beg you. Great trials are ahead for us, it cannot be doubted. There may be a time when I might not be able to wash a pan and you will have to carry the burden. We all need each other now, and it will be so in the future. Do not begrudge the toil to we who may bear it as we can."<BR><BR><i>Relenting for the moment, Bardhwyn acquiesced and sat upon a treestump near enough for them to continue speaking. While Lysandros scrubbed she began,</i> "Lys, what do the Bowmen need me for?" <i>Her voice was mournful and the words struck him to the quick. He knew that her words were not measured to flood him with guilt, that they came rather from her own sense of self-doubt and her long time as an outcast, but nevertheless he felt it; profound and shameful. He thought immediately to mask his feelings with the patriotic rhetoric of duty to Dale and the worth of all valour, as he so often did. But he could not. Such feelings were empty and barren out here. In truth the Bowmen did need her, but that was not why he wished her to stay.<BR><BR>He struggled to find words. He was not ready. He did not wish them to be spoken here, where others might hear the things that he was so long overdue to say. </i>"Tomorrow you shall ride with me, and I will tell you."
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Postby Bardhwyn » Mon Nov 25, 2002 3:44 pm

“Tomorrow. Yes, of course.” <i>Bardhwyn said, twisting the dark jewel she wore on her right index finger.</i> “I am sorry, I do not mean to be morose. I am weary, is all. Maeglin, he plied me with questions about the Easterlings earlier and I tried my best to answer, though I could only speak from my experience fighting them in Dale, years ago. I reached the limits of what I could offer and I didn’t like it. Watching them today its clear they’ve developed new armor, new tactics. Why, even their horses seem better bred. They did take many captured steeds away when they retreated over the Carnen…”<i> she said, staring into the fire, her voice quieting. She caught sight of the Rohirrim, returning from the stream with fresh water and she thought of Thenie. She missed her terribly. Her thoughts then turned to SilverScribe, aware she would be arriving at some point before the moon sets...</i><BR><BR>“I feel very small, suddenly.” <i>She said aloud, not realizing it. </i><BR><BR>“Why?”<i> Lysandros asked, standing up, the pans now clean and dry and his voice curious.<BR><BR>She stood and looked at him in the firelight and for a moment her memories returned; of Lys laughing heartily in the Bowmen’s guild house, then dancing with her – it seemed another lifetime. So much had happened and now she is riding East and her heart, her heart will have to stay firmly under her command. She has a duty to do and this man is her Captain. ‘He’s being kindly towards me, that is enough.’ She thought.</i><BR><BR>“Why?” <i>Lys repeated himself, bemused.</i><BR><BR>“What?” <i>She asked, her reverie broken.</i><BR><BR>“You said you were feeling very small, suddenly.” <BR><BR>“Did I? Forgive me, I am weary. I meant to say I am feeling very tired, suddenly. I shall sleep now.” <i>She said, masking an embarrassed smile.</i> “I can relate more of what Maeglin and I discussed tomorrow as we drive.” <i>She added, standing up from her seat on the tree trunk. </i>“Good night, Master Archer.” <i>She said, before moving towards her bedroll, which lay between the two carts. She walked around the fire and passed close to where he stood. Just as she stood before him, he spoke.</i> “Good night. Rest well.”<BR><BR><i>Bardhwyn stopped and looked up, hearing the same gentleness she’d heard in the early hours of that very morning, as she lay on the bier, bleeding. Again, fighting off that vulnerable feeling, she could only nod, drop her eyes and keep walking.</i><BR>
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Postby Menon » Tue Nov 26, 2002 9:45 am

<i>Menon waited until the woman had left the campfire before seating himself. He pulled out from inside his tunic two leather armguards and stared at them before tracing the white horses tooled on them both, his fingers brushing over the intricate designs around them.</i><BR><BR>“Lysandros, I will stand watch.” <i>He said.</i> “I have slept long this day.” <i>He held out the arm guards for the Master Archer to see.</i> “Do you think they will fit her, Bardhwyn?” <BR><BR><i>Lys took up an arm guard.</i> “They may, though a bit big. Where did you get them? You’ve not carried them all this time, have you?”<BR><BR>“No, I took them off a dead Easterling in the village. You do not recognize them?" <i>He asked, a bit surprised. He then shook his head.</i> "No, why should you. They were Thenie’s.”</i> Menon said, without emotion.<BR><BR><i>Lysandros nodded solemnly. Crouching down, he took the other arm guard and while holding both he carefully chose his words.</i><BR><BR>“This could mean many things, not only her death at their hands, Menon. She could have used her mount as a decoy and escaped. They could have stolen her horse. She may still live.”<BR><BR><i>Menon nodded, silently and stared into the fire. </i><BR><BR>“I think Bardhwyn would appreciate having these.” <i>Lys added.</i> “No doubt she misses her friend.”<BR><BR>“Yes. I will give them to her tomorrow.”<BR><BR>“No, wait a day or so.” <i>Lysandros interjected.</i> “She’s still very weary from her injuries. Wait until she shows a bit more strength.”<i>… ‘and after I have spoken with her.’ He thought to himself.</i> “She will then be better able to master any fears she may have for Thenie’s safety.”<BR><BR><i>Lysandros handed the arm guards back to Menon, who, without further thought, tucked them back inside his tunic. <BR><BR>Pulling himself up, so his back was flat against the half hewn tree trunk and unsheathing his blade, Menon sat and began his leg of the the watch.</i><BR>
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Postby Menon » Tue Nov 26, 2002 9:48 am

...
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Postby Menon » Tue Nov 26, 2002 9:50 am

...
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Postby Lysandros » Thu Nov 28, 2002 12:03 am

<b>Far Away From Sight and From the Bowmen</b><BR><BR><i>The veil of blackness rolled back, and he could not see into the light. ‘How ironic’ he thought, ‘that what ought to bestow clarity now serves to obscure my sight.’ With his agents temporarily foiled in Dorwinion, the penetrating vision of Morëistar now scattered and was obliterated by the blinding power of light. Yet where he was still uncontested the black shroud of his thought could still perceive all. He saw his agent Delkarnoth hastening eastward with his foul underling in tow. He saw the undead doppelganger of Malthus also lumbering towards the capitol of the East. <BR><BR>His first stab westward had missed the mark, but no matter. It was always preferable to attempt corruption first. Failing that, brute force would reign and thusfar, in the east, all his stabs had struck true. His plans went forward undisturbed despite the ripples of light along his frontier. He arose from his thought and walked across the chamber. It was dimly lit by small torches, for nothing else but the benefit of his servants who relied on the cheating virtues of luminance to guide their sight. It had been long since he made use of his proper eyes, and now they could not be used at all. But being as he was, his eyes were, to begin with, merely a part of the disguise in which he walked Middle-earth. For indeed he was one of the five Istari sent in the Third Age to check the machinations of Sauron. Pallando he was, though he forbade that name be spoken. Like his counterpart Alatar, he had changed his name. Now he was Morëistar, the Black Istar. Black because it was mighty. By mere chance had Sauron been defeated. The power of the Dark had not truly been tested. Against it, however, the light could not contend. Black was constant, all consuming. The White could be bent, distorted, changed into the myriad hues of the world and its mysteries revealed. But Black was forever, massive, unchangeable and incomprehensible.<BR><BR>So Morëistar had made Black his study. With its power he had been able to elude the sight of Middle-earth for centuries and serve his Master. He had learned much from Sauron the Great. Though he had learned much more on his own and hidden it from his Master. The time was now nigh to make test of that knowledge. The West had triumphed, but its strength was not as great as might have seemed.<BR><BR>In truth Morëistar did not hate the West anymore than he hated the East. He scorned all mankind as equally pathetic. Yet the Easterlings had their uses. Centuries of thralldom to Sauron had made them easy to corrupt and turn against the West. But in the end he would ruin them all. Total Darkness would be imposed on Middle-earth and all life would cease to be.</i><BR>
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Postby Canamarth » Thu Nov 28, 2002 8:38 am

Canamarth at length returned into the land of dreams. The glimpses of dreams were short and erratic but they were there.<BR><BR><i>An elf of Lorien stripped to a pole, tortured by Orcs.<BR><BR>Aglarel standing on a table in a tavern, singing.<BR><BR>A courtroom in Minas Tirith.<BR><BR>Ancalime shot through both her kidneys.<BR><BR>Folcwine reciting a poem in Rohirric.<BR><BR>Maeglin sitting in a forest.<BR><BR>...</i>
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Postby SilverScribe » Thu Nov 28, 2002 9:03 am

<BR><i> The creaking of the wagons had finally faded from her keen hearing. In the middle of bandaging a mans leg, Scribbles turned to Maire, who had re-joined her. </i><BR><BR>“If there are two able bodied men or boys left in this village, fetch them. The dead must be carried out and given proper rites.”<BR><BR><i> Maire nodded, her eyes determined yet still, some hollowness lurked there. Scribbles sighed as the girl left, here was yet one more young life that would be forever marked, forever changed.<BR><BR>When she returned with two men, one young with a bandaged neck and the other, old and unmarked, Scribbles raised her eyebrows.</i><BR><BR>“They want to help,” <i> the young woman stated simply.<BR><BR>Scribbles eyed them critically. The old man was slightly stooped, but his shoulders and forearms bespoke of a long life of hard work, and still considerable strength. He returned her appraising look with a dignified defiance of his own, one corner of his mouth twitching, daring her to turn him away from this errand. Scribbles sketched a shallow bow instead and turned to observe the younger man.<BR><BR>He was barely out of his teens, but his carefree youthful days were over. Fear stood out in his eyes as they darted over the tall Peredhel, then away, but he stood still next to the old man, determined.</i><BR><BR>“Does your wound not pain you, young edain?” <i> Scribbles asked quietly. </i> “For it would not be well to have you bleed to death as well.”<BR><BR><i> The young man’s eyes finally rested full on the half-elf’s face. He swallowed, hard.</i><BR><BR>“ ‘Tis but a shallow cut, been done worse durin’ harvest I ‘ave. Don worry yerself, I kin ‘elp, sure as day I can.” <BR><BR><i> Scribbles nodded. </i> <BR><BR>“Very well, your help is needed, as you see.” <i> She turned and one hand swept in the direction of the bar area, where in extreme haste and need, many dead had been laid to make room for the wounded as they had poured into the Inn during the fighting.</i><BR><BR>“Please, take them out and lay them in the courtyard, inside the main wall. If you can find any living kin, do so, and see that any ceremony is arranged quickly, immediately if possible. Then, either prepare a pyre or bury them, but do not waste any time.”<BR><BR><i> Both the men glared at her like she was one of the Nine.</i><BR><BR>“D’ye have no shred of decency fer the dead in that icewater blood o’ yourn?” <i> hissed the old man.<BR><BR>Scribbles inclined her head politely, then fixed both men with a level stare.</i><BR><BR>“Aye, so I do, but with this many dead and the warmth of the season, to leave them unburied or unburned for any length of time is to invite worse than war, it is to invite disease and pestilence, which will turn what is left of your village into a plague pit and then into a town of naught but Death himself.”<BR><BR><i> Maire, biting her lip, stepped forward and laid one hand on the young man’s arm.</i><BR><BR>“She speaks truly, come, waste no more time,” <i>she said softly.<BR><BR>The two men relented, and shuffled off to their task.</i> “I will direct them, unless you need me further?”<i> Maire asked anxiously.<BR><BR>Scribbles smiled at her, and shook her head as she pushed up her tunic sleeves.</i> “No, I think the healer and I can manage what is left here. Go, Maire, and go with my thanks.”<BR><BR><i> The young woman returned a wan smile of her own, then turned and strode after the men. Scribbles caught Llener watching their exchange, and with a polite nod of her head, she returned to those wounded who were left.<BR><BR>They did not stop to rest or eat, but worked steadily to ease the discomfort and pain of the injured villagers. Some were treated and sent to their homes, others were moved to pallets and beds and given draughts to aid sleep, they would be re-assessed in the morning. And a few, even after their best efforts, succumbed to their wounds and breathed their last.<BR><BR>The sun had been down for about an hour when Scribbles washed her hands for the last time, then raked her hands through her hair. Llener handed her the cleanest towel he had, then sank to a chair against the wall in the taproom, now looking more like a healing house than a tavern. He looked up at the tall Peredhel grimly.</i><BR><BR>“I would appreciate it if you could stay just until morning, surely some will develop fevers and an extra pair of hands, well, you know . . .”<i> he ran down.<BR><BR>Scribbles hung the damp towel over the edge of the bench that was serving as a washstand and sat down on the free space at the end. She regarded the exhausted healer sympathetically.</i><BR><BR>“Would that I could Master Llener, but my word is given and I cannot break it. Master Lysandros expects me before the sun rises, you know that.”<BR><BR>“Indeed I do Scribe, but I could not help but ask and hope. ‘Tis all I have left, really, hope.”<BR><BR>“Hope is a strong force, Master Llener.”<BR><BR>“Ah, yes, but hope will not nurse the sick, bathe the fevered limb or change bandages.”<BR><BR><i> Scribbles sighed.</i> “No, it will not, but human hands will. Before sunup Master Llener, send Maire out into the village. Tell her to bring the women, for only a small number of them took arms. There are many old women who will come, and the wisdom of their years will be more help to you than one Peredhel, believe me. And even the very young can fetch water or place cool cloths on a fevered man’s brow. Call them, they will come.” <BR><BR><i> Llener scrubbed at his face with both hands, then grinned at Scribbles. </i> “Ah, you are right, and if I wasn’t so tired, I might have thought of it myself. But tell me, will you not take an hour or so of sleep yourself before you have to ride?”<BR><BR><i> Scribbles rose, shaking her head.</i> “No, Master Llener, I do not require sleep just yet, though your concern is appreciated. I must be on my way.”<BR><BR><i> The healer rose and clasped arms with her.</i> “A safe road to you, Scribe.”<BR><BR>“Thank you Master Llener, and may Eru’s blessings be yours in days to come. Get some rest yourself, you look done in.”<BR><BR><i> Llener laughed softly.</i> “There will be no rest for me either Scribe, but do not worry. I shall take an hour or two after sunup, when I have help.”<BR><BR><i> Scribbles smiled, then collected her pack where it yet laid next to the wall and the bench where Menon had sat what, earlier that very day? She sighed as she bent to retrieve it, careful not to disturb a young boy who lay sleeping deeply on the bench now, one arm swathed in bandages and his left ankle firmly splinted and bound. She bit her lip, he couldn’t be more than twelve years old.<BR><BR>Turning on her heel, she made her way out of the Inn and over to the side of the stables where her warhorse yet stood as he had been left. He snorted as she swung her pack up, after first checking that his saddle blanket was yet dry. She checked then tightened the cinch, which someone had been thoughtful enough to loosen.<BR><BR>Swinging up into the saddle, she surveyed the innyard one last time. Smoke from pyres yet drifted into the air and torches yet burned in the streets. Several small groups of villagers were still working to clear the broken lumber and housegoods that had formed the roadblocks and a few dogs fought over grisly trophies or slunk along, snarling, in the shadows.</i><BR><BR>“The spoils of war,” <i> she growled to herself, then cantered out onto the road. Kicking the tall warhorse to the gallop, she rode out, following the clear marks of the two laden wagons.</i><BR><BR>
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Postby Jiyadan » Sat Nov 30, 2002 12:19 am

Myena. <BR><BR>Jiyadan knew the village. It lay on the south-west edge the Sea of Rhûn, on the road to Tibyana. <BR><BR>He considered the news he had just received. Whether of pain or indifference, Jiyadan's face betrayed nothing of his feelings.<BR><BR>The sun was just sinking into the Western sky and it lit the horizon as if a great fire raged. <i>"An ill omen,"</i> he thought to himself.<BR>Turning Nothea east, he spurred the mount towards his camp. Jiyadan had much to do in the days to come. The word was they were now en route to to Tibyana, and he would be waiting.
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Postby The,real,Maeglin » Sat Nov 30, 2002 9:59 am

<i>Maeglin took voluntary the watch that night together with Menon for a while, he wasn't able to sleep because his arm ached to much, and the worries of his lady kept him awake anyways.</i><BR><BR><i>Every 15 minutes approximatly he looked in the chart and gave Canamarth some water and depped her forehead with some water out of his flask, she was sweating and murmering in her sleep</i><BR><i>Every now and than he catched a word he did understood, but nothing made sense to him, his heart every time ached seeing her like this.</i><BR><BR><i>When he finally set himself at the wagon, he placed himself so that he could see all of the camp and meanwhile a wide area could explore the area, in the middle of the night when it became finally some colder he went in and gently dragged Canamarth, in her blankets, into his arms and lied her outside in his lap.</i><BR><BR><i>Sitting like this, trying to lessen the heat for Canamarth, the night passed and the warrior had not discovered anymore trouble, than the worries in his heart...</i>
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Postby Bardhwyn » Sat Nov 30, 2002 11:42 am

<i>Not feeling the hard ground, Bardhwyn fell into a deep and restful sleep on the bedroll she'd placed between the two carts - her intention being if the injured awoke, she could respond to them. <BR><BR>She would not wake that night, for she herself slept the sleep of one injured - though throughout the day she refused to think of herself as 'injured'. There was too much at stake and too much to do.<BR><BR>The potion offered her by Myena's healer combined with the healing offered by SilverScribe had worked far beyond what the Dale woman expected, because of her own fierce determination to continue. Or so she thought.<BR><BR>Unbeknownst to her, her robustness came, too, from the powerful talisman she wore about her neck. The fine grainy substance carefully secured in the jewelled locket, so artfully crafted to resemble a pouch, had sustained her as well.<BR><BR>And she dreamt....<BR><BR>Of fire and horses, of swords flashing and of bloodied bandages. Of Lys. There were many sets of stairs, which she climbed willingly, pulling her weary limbs up with every step.<BR><BR>She dreamt of two heavy, clay feet pounding the earth, walking, ever walking... and a stranger, in the distance. Waiting.<BR><BR>She dreamt of falling asleep on the hard ground and of an arm placed around her, pulling her close as she lay. She then felt a wave of warmth and security wash over her. In the dream, she drifted blissfully off to sleep and happily she dreamt..... </i>
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Postby Lysandros » Sun Dec 01, 2002 11:42 am

<i>Two hours before dawn Lysandros was shaken by Menon to relieve him on the watch. As he rose he saw the fire was a glowing bed of coals with only small flames flickering. It cast forth much warmth but little light to reveal them to unfriendly eyes. Maeglin had finally dozed off though his visage looked unhappy. <BR><BR>Shaking off his sleep he put on his mail shirt, the chill ice of the rings stunning him like a cold bath. Just as he wondered where Scribbles was he heard the soft fall of hooves nearby. Suddenly up out of the shadows the peredhel appeared, much nearer than the sound of her approach would have led the Daleman to believe. She dismounted and quietly spoke a few quiet words with him.</i><BR><BR>"You have not come far, Archer."<BR><BR>"Aye, we stopped early to gather our strength. Today will be a long day and I hope we will do better."<BR><BR>"How are the injured?"<BR><BR>"Most are unchanged. Dirk and Canamarth still slumber and Bardhwyn's fitness seems to be growing. However I believe Maeglin's hurt is more serious than was first thought."<BR><BR>"I will see to it today then."<BR><BR>"Thank you. Now take your rest. Even a peredhel should be weary after such a day."<BR><BR>"I have rested my mind while riding and so I am not as tired as I could be. How long until we start today?"<BR><BR>"I will rouse those that can be woken in an hour and a half so that we might be on the road as the dawn begins."<BR><BR><i>The Scribe nodded and tied her steed to a wagon and walked over to sit near the glowing embers. Lysandros quietly retrieved some breakfast fare from a wagon to have it ready to eat as soon as the Company awoke. He came to the small campfire and hung a kettle of water over it to make some coffee. He looked across it to the Scribe, who stared emptily into the coals.</i><BR><BR>"Scribe,"<i> he whispered,</i> "are you asleep?" <i>He had heard tales of the weird slumber of elves and wondered if she truly did walk, eyes open yet dreaming, on the earth.</i><BR><BR>"Nay. What is it?"<BR><BR>"Do not question me again as you did today. It is one thing to guide my decisions in private, sharing your wisdom, which I would gladly use. It is another to openly hold up my orders in contempt with the entire group present."<BR><BR><i>He measured his words carefully and maintained his voice as a quiet whisper. It was difficult to rein in his anger but he wished to try and quell any rancour in the Company. It would not do to be at odds with the Scribe as they entered the territory of Dramul and encountered true danger.</i>
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Postby SilverScribe » Sun Dec 01, 2002 5:24 pm

<BR><i>She sighed inwardly, knowing in advance what his words would be after he asked if she slept. She had regretted speaking to him so harshly at the Inn, but the horror of the state the wounded villagers and his seemingly callous attitude towards those who had followed him so willingly had inflamed her anger, and still did. But she bit her lip and waited long moments before replying.<BR><BR>He busied himself preparing water for coffee, and she used the time to gather her thoughts, to choose her words carefully. Men! she snorted silently to herself. So full of themselves no matter what, and always so eager for power and control. They lived such short lives, cramming so much into every moment, frantic to claw their way to their prime and then all too soon, wallowing in spent pride and self pity as they slid down into their dotage. She watched the Master Archer from under her lashes for a few moments, then closed her eyes.<BR><BR>She must not forget that his fate was once her own. That she might have lived longer than him because of her mixed heritage, but at the end of three or four centuries, she too, would have had to face the trip to the Halls of Mandos. Only her own stupidity had changed the course of her life, turning her lifestream from one of men, to that of the Eldar. And Pride was a sin she was well acquainted with herself.<BR><BR>Still, for all that he was a decent sort and an acceptable commander, he was still too cocky at times and still far too tactless. Was he capable of learning the difference between loyalty that was given because a leader demanded it, or because he earned it. She opened her eyes, and found Lysandros regarding her expectantly. She drew her cloak tighter around herself and sat up straighter.</i><BR><BR>"You may control many things, Master Archer, but you do not control my thoughts nor my tongue."<BR><BR><i> As his eyes hardened, she spoke again, quickly.</i><BR><BR>"Hear me out, please. One thing you cannot afford Master Lysandros, is to appear to hold human life in such low regard. It speaks badly of a man and doubly worse for a commander when he will leave severely wounded to fend for themselves, and especially since these were not men under your command, but men who followed you into battle of their own accord. Did you not owe them at least some recompense?"<BR><BR>"I don't appreciate it Scribe, your telling me what I can and cannot afford. You have pledged your sword and your service to the Bowmen, by your own words. What I would appreciate however, is if you could follow orders in public and offer your counsel in private."<BR><BR>"Fine, we are in private now, or as private as we are going to get," <i> she snapped softly, her patience still thin. The vision of the dead, filling the courtyard, and the last image of the young boy, barely twelve, still haunted her.</i><BR><BR>"What would you have had me do? The Mistress Archer needs to get to Tibyana desperately, you yourself said hers is a race against time." <i> Lysandros voice was quiet but hard.</i><BR><BR>"I would have had you think of more than one alternative, Master Archer. There are always many roads to the same end. You should have at least offered to give them assistance . . ."<BR><BR>"I ordered the course I thought best!" <i> Lysandros hissed, cutting her off, raking one hand through his blonde hair in frustration. She stayed silent.</i><BR><BR>"I just do not want to be constantly at odds with you, it is bad for morale," <i> he continued, now softly, though his face was grim.<BR><BR>She sighed, audibly this time, he had a point.</i><BR><BR>"True enough," <i>she agreed quietly.<BR><BR>He shifted where he squatted, watching the fire and the kettle of water. </i> "Then you will not hold my orders in open contempt again? Have I your word?"<BR><BR><i>She snorted softly.</i> " Give me less reason, Master Archer, and I will gladly agree."<BR><BR><i> She did not wait for him to answer but rose from her seat, pulling her hood up.</i><BR><BR>"Now, if you will excuse me, I am in sore need of solitude. I will not be far, and no, I will not sleep."<BR><BR><i> She melted into the shadows beyond the meagre firelight. Moving without a sound, she circled the camp first, mostly to re-assure herself that the camp was safe, but realizing that it was simply restlessness. She was still angry with the Master Archer, still plagued by the faces of the dead. She found a shadowed spot under a large oak and squatted down, her back to the tree. Pushing her fists into her burning eyes, she ground her teeth in frustration. No matter how many times she had faced war, battle and death, it had never gotten easier. It was always the same.<BR><BR>The faces, so many faces, over the centuries they stretched in a funeral pile so wide and so high that she could no longer discern the beginning or ending of it. The faces of the enemies were blurred and troubled her not, but it was the other faces that froze her blood, the terrible flatness in their eyes. The eyes of the innocent. The women, young and old. The young men and boys. The children, dearest Eru, the children. A low moan escaped her, and she rose, raking her hands through her hair. She would find no peace in this.<BR><BR>She found an open space in the deep forest, where only meagre starlight strayed. But for her, it was enough. She pulled off her cloak and drew Celebamarth. Only in the discipline of her training would she find solace.<BR><BR>Silently, she went to work, the long memorized and well practiced moves heating her body and as usual, soothing her thoughts. She let herself be drawn into the movement of limb and blade as her mind finally quieted and went still.</i><BR><BR><BR>
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Postby SmaugsBane » Mon Dec 02, 2002 9:28 am

"Have I missed breakfast?"<BR><BR>"You have, Dirk. But if you can eat, I'll find something for you," replied Bardhwyn, who stood nearby stowing her gear in the wagon for the imminent ride. She would sit beside Lysandros that day, to hear the words he had alluded to the evening before.<BR><BR>It was the sounds of the others breaking camp that woke the young warrior. The smell of breakfast still hung in the air, but the cooking gear had already been cleaned and packed away. Bardhwyn managed to find a small loaf of soft bread and a mug of coffee for Dirk, which he gleefully accepted. <BR><BR>After his stomach had been appeased, Dirk climbed out of the wagon and stretched his legs a bit. He was sore and fatigued; but other than a few bruises and scrapes, he was uninjured. <BR><BR><i>Endlómë</i> (OOC: Midnight in Quenya, and SB's horse's new name) was unhitched and replaced with Bardhwyn's mount. Dirk would ride today, partly out of pride and partly so that his sister-in-arms and the Master Archer could speak in relative privacy. The mighty black warhorse was overjoyed - both to be relieved of draught duty and because his master had recovered enough to ride. <BR><BR>Dirk saddled <i>Endlómë</i> by himself, despite protests from Scribbles and Bardhwyn. But he would no longer allow himself to be coddled. The Dúnedan was sorely embarassed for his inability to stay conscious during the fight in the village. He was guilt-ridden for not doing more to defend the brave people who fought to the death in the streets to save their homes. Moreover, he was still filled with self-reproach for the fact that all his troubles stemmed from the foolish, childish feeling of invincibilty that had caused him to take a sword in the gut. <BR><BR>Dirk vowed that he would remove himself as a burden for his comrades - one way or another. If he could not recover enough to be of use in their mission, then he would leave.<BR><BR>Moving as quickly as he could so that he would not slow down the departure, he lashed his saddlebags to the saddle. In checking his gear, he noticed that all thirteen of his ash-shafted, black-fletched arrows had been returned to his quiver. He turned to Scribbles, under whose close scrutiny he worked, and nodded his thanks. <BR><BR>He found it surprisingly easy to mount his steed. Perhaps he had finally gotten sufficient rest to recovery a measure of his strength. He was ready to make the final trip to Tibyana, as was the rest of the group.
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Postby Jiyadan » Mon Dec 02, 2002 12:25 pm

...
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Postby Bardhwyn » Mon Dec 02, 2002 10:36 pm

<i> Having lost two battles; now both Dirk AND Menon had saddled their horses and insisted on riding, Bardhwyn stowed the last of the Company’s things away and checked on Canamarth one last time before waving Maeglin ahead. SilverScribe and Dirk had already ridden ahead, both taking the front guard. <BR><BR>Finally she pulled herself up onto the cart’s bench, seating herself next to the Master Archer. With a brisk shake of the reins, Lysandros urged the horses to set off.<BR><BR>Menon hung back with the intention of riding rear guard. Bardhwyn turned in her seat and quickly scrutinized the Rohirrim’s face, for it seemed pained to her, though he declared he was fine and fit to ride.<BR><BR>And Lysandros, too, seemed …preoccupied, to say the least. <BR><BR>Bardhwyn sat quietly, aware that they’d be alone in each other’s company for a good part of the day, save stopping for a meal. She curbed whatever anxiety she felt as best she could, thanking the Gods for the decent sleep she had the night before, else her nervousness would be getting the better of her. <BR><BR>There were so many things she had to say; thoughts about their comrades, the mission, what disguise to take once in the East. And there were so many things she wanted to say; that she was in control of her emotions and was committed to the mission, that she was all right and fit to go on, that the Bowmen could count on her. Perhaps even explain why she attempted to leave and follow Athic-Zol - all for the sake of redemption.<BR><BR>But there were things she didn’t dare say; that she was still in love with him, and it was thoughts of him that sustained her in those dark moments when she had to forebear the Beast and maintain her excruciating charade. No, she didn’t dare say those things. <BR><BR>The wheels of the wooden cart creaked along, pulled patiently by both Lys and Bardhwyn’s horses. The sun had now cleared the horizon and the sky shimmered blue and promised an idyllic spring day for the benefit of the travelers.</i> <BR><BR>“There is so much to discuss,” <i> Bardhwyn said, breaking the silence.</i> “I have been thinking o’er much while we ate this morning. I hardly know where to begin.” <i> She said, clearing her throat slightly and keeping her eyes forward.</i> “Perhaps I will begin by saying I am concerned that Dirk, and Menon, will push themselves out of pride or think themselves ‘weak’ when they are merely recuperating. They’ve both been seriously wounded. Neither would listen to me, or SilverScribe, but they will listen to you, Lysandros, were you to say something. I would encourage you to do so, if and when warranted of course.<BR><BR>“If warranted, I will. We need all members of the Company fit and willing to see this mission through.” <i> He replied, his eyes cast ahead onto the cart bearing Canamarth which rambled on, a good 30 feet ahead of them. </i> <BR><BR>“She’ll recover. I am sure of it.” <i> Bardhwyn said, gently.<BR><BR>Lysandros looked over, a bit surprised that Bardhwyn had correctly sensed his thoughts, though he allowed no outward sign to manifest. Bardhwyn carefully avoided catching his eye…knowing she’d find it too difficult to hold without dropping into a strong feeling…</i><BR><BR>“You wanted to describe your thoughts about my role in the Company,” <i> She said, looking ahead, once more.</i> “… how I ‘fit’ in. Please, I would like to hear.. or, rather I need to hear what you’re thoughts are Lysandros, especially after all that has happened since we last spoke, alone that is.” <i> Bardhwyn stopped, suddenly feeling embarrassed, for the last time they spoke she confessed her feelings - before hell, itself, descended on her.<BR><BR>She clasped her hands in her lap and waited, wondering what would be said. She had her hopes but tucked them away, along with all the other hopes she’d had over the years. Instead, she prepared herself for a description of her duties and function as a soldier to the King.</i>
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Postby Lysandros » Tue Dec 03, 2002 12:13 am

<i>Lysandros hardly knew where to begin as well, and his reply started oddly, suddenly remembering Bardhwyn's words the night before.</i><BR><BR>"I have never felt small in this world. I left Dale because it was too small for me. But even when I took part in some of the world's greatest events, I never felt insignificant. Rather I felt filled by fate's immensity as it hung by a thread, either to sweep us up or cast us all down into darkness. Whether I was seeking battle alone or one man amongs thousands it has always felt like I could sway fate. But perhaps our lifetimes have been more eventful than some. But whether we see ourselves as small or great I suppose we all have our own place. When I wandered about before the war I went to many places. I even travelled alone quite a bit. But I never really felt lonely. But before I found my way back to Dale and to the Bowmen, I don't think I really knew what it was like to have a home with friends. <BR><BR>Now I do. It can be <i>your</i> home also, Bardhwyn, if you wish it. </i><BR><BR><i>His eyes flickered in the slightest glance towards her face.</i><BR><BR>"All the Bowmen care for you and have taken you as one of their own...though some were later in it than others..."<i>he murmured,</i> "and would be sadly parted from you now. <b>I</b> think you belong with us, Bardhwyn. For that all you need do is continue to be as you have been; valiant, noble and true." <i><BR><BR>His brow then became troubled as he approached the true core of what he felt needed to be said, and what he thought Bardhwyn needed most to hear from him. He, who had been so unjust and unkind to her while she suffered in brutal torment. Inhaling deeply he wrenched his eyes from the wagon ahead to look at her and speak the words.</i><BR><BR>"All of the Bowmen have accepted you. But I cannot. Has it not seemed so since our council, only two nights ago? I swear I cannot accept you, not as matters stand between us, with so much that I have done so wrongly!" <i>His face grew agitated, pitching as storm between shame and self-loathing.</i> "I cannot bear to have you as a companion when I have treated you so cruelly with unkindness after unkindness; after I have borne such bitter thoughts, caught between despite and despair in my darkened mind. Such cruel thoughts! Beyond such horror I compounded my sin by treating you so wretchedly. I would beg forgiveness if I merited any but alas, you would be remiss to grant it. Cruelty in kind I truly deserve and could endure. Forgiveness, I do not know if I could stand to live with it. <BR><BR>"No, <i>he raised his hand slightly to ward off her objection and her lips froze,</i> "no I could not stand it. <BR><BR>"And so you will be in the Bowmen. And though I continue on in our mission, I cast myself out until redemption for me be found and I might stand for a fair judgement, attempting to sway fate again to sweep me up...or cast me down to darkness. I will not rely upon the gentleness of your heart, which I know would pardon me. This secret exile will be known only to you and I. And you and I will both know when the time comes, that it might be over."<BR><BR><i>Unsaid he left his feelings for her. Such things he could not even begin to voice now.</i>
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Postby SilverScribe » Tue Dec 03, 2002 12:19 am

<BR><i> When the faces receded and the demons had fled her mind, Scribbles stopped, sheathed Celebamarth and raked her sweat soaked hair out of her eyes. When she reached for her cloak, she stopped.<BR><BR>Her hands! The palms were slick and dark, and she squinted in the fading starlight. Blood? Had she taken a head wound and not known it?<BR><BR>No. Surely one of the company would have noticed, and failing that, Llener himself would have insisted on tending to her if that were the case. Suddenly, she laughed softly to herself.<BR><BR>Boot blacking. Of course, she had blacked her hair in the predawn, when they had planned merely to leave in disguise. She had totally forgotten about it, but now, surely it was not only on her hands but smeared across and down her face. She wiped her palms on a bit of grass, then cocked her head, listening intently. Ah, no sound of running water nearby, but surely she could dip a bit out of one of the water barrels in the wagons.<BR><BR>She returned to camp, nodding silently at the Master Archer where he leaned against one of the wagons, alert and watchful. She retrieved a bit of soapstone and a cloth from her pack. Then, going around to the back of the largest wagon, she pulled one of the water barrels to the tail. She pryed up the lid, splashed a bit water over her head and neck and vigorously applied the soapstone several times. Another meagre rinse and she rubbed the excess water from her hair with the cloth, wishing desperately for a proper hot bath and knowing that she was probably a long way and a good many days from one.<BR><BR>When the Master Archer began to rouse the camp, she went directly to Maeglin. She helped him gently place the Lady Canamarth back into the wagon bed, then asked to see his arm.</i><BR><BR>“It’s nothing, just a deep scratch,” <i> Maeglin declared, pulling away. Scribbles shrugged.</i><BR><BR>“Fine Master Maeglin, have it your way. But if that wound festers, you will not have the use of that arm for long.”<BR><BR><i> Reluctantly, Maeglin gave in, but only to the point of accepting clean bandaging and a bit of help to re-dress the wound. Scribbles bit her lip at the depth of the cut, but once it was well cleaned and re-bandaged, she was fairly certain it would not trouble him for more than a few days.<BR><BR>She accepted coffee and a bit of bread and cheese from the Master Archer quietly, standing apart by her horse to eat. Once she was done, she returned the tin cup to one of the wagons then quickly saddled her horse. When Dirk finally roused, she watched him closely, objecting right along with Bardhwyn when he insisted on swinging the heavy saddle up onto his mount. Scribbles knew his wound was well closed and posed no danger, but she was still concerned for him. As he was lashing his pack, his eyes fell on his quiver. Scribbles had sent one of the village lads out to recover every single arrow, and had cleaned them and replaced them in Dirks quiver herself, recognizing their value. He looked up and nodded at her, and as he turned to check and re-tighten his horse’s cinch, she led her own mount over.</i><BR><BR>“Well Master Dirk, you appear refreshed. How did you rest?”<BR><BR><i> Dirk turned a calm face to her, betraying nothing. </i> “I slept very well Scribe, very well indeed.”<BR><BR>“So you will ride today?” <i> she asked, purposely keeping her voice casual.</i><BR><BR>“Aye,” <i> he said, </i> “and if I do not miss my guess, you are about to offer to ride point with me.”<BR><BR><i> She could not help but grin as he swung up into his saddle. She followed suit, then held up a hand. Turning her horse, she walked him over to where Lysandros and Bardhwyn were making the last preparations.</i><BR><BR>“Master Archer,” <i> she began quietly, carefully.</i> “Master Dirk has offered to ride point. Do I have your leave to ride with him?”<BR><BR><i> Silent relief in his eyes, Lysandros nodded from where he was seated, waiting for Bardhwyn to climb up.</i><BR><BR>“Aye, out front is a very good place for keen elven eyesight and Menon has already offered to ride rear guard. Just don’t get too far ahead of us Scribe, in case we have to stop.”<BR><BR><i> She inclined her head politely.</i> “Understood, Master Archer.”<BR><BR><i> Wheeling her horse, she cantered to where Dirk waited next to the wagon that Maeglin drove. After exchanging a few words of encouragement with the other Peredhel, they turned their horses and pushing ahead slightly, set out. They had miles, and days, to go.<BR></i><BR><BR><BR>
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Postby Bardhwyn » Thu Dec 05, 2002 10:18 pm

<i> After Lysandros had finished, Bardhwyn sat, silently, on the bench of the cart. The wheels rolled on and a dusty haze filled the air. The Master Archer’s speech was completely unexpected. A discussion of her tasks, yes, or what was expected of her as a member of the Company, perhaps, but not this confession - this bitter look into his heart and mind. <BR><BR>She tried her best to hold all the painful words in her own mind. The ones that stood out to her most readily, however, were the words. ‘I cannot bear to have you as a companion…’ <BR><BR>His intent was soon clear to her. The man was letting her down easy. Of course - he was taking the blame, as it were, so she would feel less ashamed and only slightly humiliated for blurting out her affections all those weeks ago in that dingy Inn before hell broke loose. <BR><BR>The thought of it, of Lysandros treating her wretchedly, made her want to laugh! Cruel, was he? Unkind? She’d been living in hell for, how many weeks? Little did he realize that a scowl from him was like a beacon of light compared to the vicious brutality she had endured. One cruel thought of his would have seemed like a balm to her beaten mind. He was trying to be kind and despite the upwelling of pain, she couldn’t help but love him more. Yet, she understood and accepted. <BR><BR>The hopes she had tucked away in her heart now rested in her lap, and like pieces of dried and shriveled parchment, these hopes crumpled and dropped, falling under the wagon’s wheels and lay pressed into the dirt, all to be left behind.</i> <BR><BR>“Of course, Master Archer. I understand.” <i> She answered, after a long spate of silence.</i> “I understand you very well.” <i> She followed, looking at the man directly. Lysandros met her look, his brows still furrowed and Bardhwyn forced a smile.</i> “A home? Friends? I am fortunate and the Gods have been kind to me, a woman who has fallen so low in life. I will endeavor to do as you ask; I will be valiant, noble, true and live committed to this mission. A family have I, now? Brothers and sisters-in-arms? Yes, like brothers and sisters shall you be to me.” <i> She concluded, still smiling, now wanly and nodding her head - hoping he understood that she undertsood. <BR><BR>Bardhwyn looked away and ahead, her eyes falling on Canamarth’s form, wrapped and bundled in the cart ahead of them.</i> “You needn’t ‘exile’ yourself, Master Archer.” <i> She finished, while also standing up, pulling her cloak around her. <BR><BR>Though bright and sunny, Bardhwyn felt cold inside and felt a need to wrap herself tightly. The moment was inopportune for as she stood the right hand wheel of the cart hit a large rock firmly rooted in a rut in the road and over she fell, into the arms of Lysandros who caught her, else she’d have fallen over headfirst into the horses rigging. Without a word, she scrambled back, out of his arms and into her seat, her face flushed crimson - aware that she'd have much work to do to think of this man as 'a brother' but such was her fate.</i> <BR><BR><BR><BR>
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Postby The,real,Maeglin » Thu Dec 12, 2002 3:05 pm

<i>After Silverscribe had helped him and drove off Maeglin was lost again in his thoughts, something he was doing a little to much lately.</i><BR><BR><i>His contacts in the group became less and less and after the death of Thalas, the absence of Themedes, and now his lady wounded he really felt alone.. his wound ached more than he had told SIlverscribe, but he didnt wanted to bother that courage full lady more than she was already.</i><BR><BR><i>Looking to her and SB back he overthought his postition, SB wounded and a fate upon him greater than he could imagine and it had to do something with darkness........the same darkness he fled years ago, and Silverscribe, lately his only contact in the group and she showed him unknowingly more than she had intended.</i><BR><BR><i>Just like he and Themedes always did when their emotions got at hand, they did things to drive them out instead of talking, or accepting them, the tiredness he had read in her eyes this morning showed him she probably had driven her thoughts out by hard work.</i><BR><BR><i>Looking back, softly nibbling on his bread (all he could take at the moment) he saw Menon, a warrior who showed lots of potential but where he knew nothing about, and further aback Lysandros his leader already for so long and Bardhwyn, the fierce human warior busy in a conversation that in his eyes should have been long ago. He did not know what they said to each other, but he hoped the best, they had walked past each other for to long already he thought...</i><BR><BR><i>Crimping again by another flash of pain he turned his head and looked back into the chart where Canamarth was lying, so silently...and so grievely missed by him, time was passing way to quick and the road was way too long, he felt like every day that passed could be the last one and in all his live he had encountered many things , but most of them he could fight or deal with, this one....The fate of canamarth was not in his hands and it made him more insecure than he would like to show...</i><BR><BR>
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Postby Lysandros » Thu Dec 12, 2002 11:45 pm

<i>Lysandros helped Bardhwyn back to her seat. He was glad she understood, or at least seemed to understand what he felt. The burdensome weight of his guilt felt slightly lessened now that she knew that he did not depise her. But it allowed him to give her no more, not yet. But his heart told him that before their journey's end it would be permitted to him to release his heart to her without shame. After such tribulations, that prospect alone would sustain him and he cheered a little.<BR><BR>The journey wore on and the miles crept by. Day fell into night and then again and they encountered no misfortune on the road. Few of the region's inhabitants came forward to meet them or gather news. Most of the vine-tending farmsteads lay well back of the road, and there was no traffic moving. The threat of Easterling invasion had driven people into their homes or further; the road to Tibyana was sure to used by an attacking army. The road turned westward to maintain its proximity to the shore of the Sea and its flat grey expanse filled any valley which chanced to offer them a view. <BR><BR>The fifth morning after their departure from Myena dawned clear and warm. Spring was loosening the slumbering greenery here, though in Dale it was still cold and frost-filled. Lysandros did not doubt that soon it would be uncomfortably hot in these regions, especially when they moved away from the moderating effect of the Rhun. He did not care for heat.</i><BR><BR>"We ought to reach Tibyana today, from what the Dorwinions said," <i>he spoke aloud as the Company ate a hurried breakfast,</i> "I doubt that the Royal Villa will be difficult to find but perhaps we should be ready for anything. I think that our first priority ought to be to get to the Dorwinion's Pride. That was the Inn where Delkarnoth's henchmen were to receive Athic-Zol from the Easterling raiders we have dealt with. But do not fear Maeglin," <i>he added quickly</i>, "When we reach the town it might be enough to send only four of us on swift horses to secure these gentlemen for questioning. Two may remain driving the wagon straight on to the Villa to find succour for our Mistress Archer. We will abandon the other one today I think. We are all fit to ride, and our pace will be easy. So we must share out some of the baggage."<BR><BR><i>The group nodded in agreement with his reasonable plan; even the Scribe, he noted. In a short time all that they could bear was taken from the second wagon and rearranged among them. When they were ready to depart Lysandros stood by Bardhwyn to help her into the saddle. She had ridden on the wagon at ease for the past three days and he fretted over her as she pulled herself onto the steed's back. With a self-satisfied expression on her face she looked down at him with a knowing smirk. A shy look of remorse for doubting her shot back from the Barding, and with a pat of the steed's flank he turned to mount his own horse.</i>
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Lysandros
Ranger of the North


 
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