Kin-Strife

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Kin-Strife

Postby elora » Mon Apr 17, 2017 2:56 pm

Prologue: Edholland III 1437


How was this possible, Amarwen wondered. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been brushed until its ebony lengths glowed and set into a high braid that fell over one shoulder to her waist. She had donned Edholland's colours too in a dress of rich gold velvet but Amarwen did not see any of this.

Osgiliath had burned. The Dome of Stars cracked and charred. The Master Stone lost in the Anduin. The city itself sacked, its people fleeing for their lives. And all of this by their own people.

And where was father? Alive? Dead? Prisoner and if so for how long? A chill ran through her blood and she shivered as a tap sounded at her door. In the mirror, Amarwen saw her mother slip through and she took her fears and her sorrow into a firm grip. For her mother's sake. Since the tidings had reached them in Edholland, her mother had not slept nor ate. She was pale as a ghost and dreadfully afraid. Amarwen rose to her feet and crossed her bedroom to take her mother into her arms. This woman had always been Amarwen's haven in a storm. Now, it fell to her to be the same.

Her mother leaned into her daughter's embrace for a long moment and then collected herself up. She was quivering like a leaf but her jaw was clenched. She, too, had dressed formally to receive the men below. She had added her circlet, a clear symbol that she too was descended from a line of kings. Perhaps it would be enough to give those waiting below pause for thought. Perhaps.

"They are waiting," she said through it, voice strained.

Amarwen's first response was to let them wait longer still but that would not serve them well. They needed to secure her father's release.

She gathered her mother's hands in her own, "Then let us greet our guests."

Down to the great hall they went, arm in arm. The household staff were silent, fearful. For the men waiting within were hardly guests. Guests did not arrive swathed in armour and gripping their weapons, the stink of a sacked city still thick in their charred cloaks. Guests did not pound on the doors and demand entry.

Their chamberlain met them at the doors to the great hall with pleading eyes, almost as if he was begging them to run. Amarwen would have, all the way to Osgiliath to demand justice and the return of her father.

"These...these men, they are-"

"I know who they are,"
her mother answered the Chamberlain, somehow finding a store of steely resolve within even now.

The chamberlain nodded and, with a sigh, pushed open the doors to admit them into their hall.

The first thing Amarwen noticed was their number. There had to be at least ten of them all gathered. All wore mail, some plate and no few weapons. Hard travel stained their gear, and that was not all. She did indeed see smoke and blood and a fresh wave of anger began to bubble.

Osgiliath sacked by their own people.

At their arrival, the men swung about and aside from two, Amarwen did not recognise them. The Master of the Mariner's Guild spread his stance as they approached and had the decency to incline his head, barely. As well he might, given the many times he had been greeted in this hall as a guest and indeed a friend by her father. At his shoulder stood his son, Halvarin. His expression was taut, carefully held blank, and she could not tell what he was thinking as his eyes flickered over her and her mother.

"My Lady," his father intoned as they closed.

Amarwen's mother did not say a word. Instead, she stared at the Guild Master as if she somehow already sensed his tidings. The tension mounted rapidly until Amarwen broke the silence.

"The Lord of Edholland, what is his fate?"

A blunt question to be sure, but Amarwen saw little to be gained with diplomacy now. These men had come from war, for war. Of that she was all but certain.

"Alive," Halvarin answered and at that her mother sagged on her arm.

Halvarin's father stepped in to support her and Amarwen had no choice but to surrender her mother so that she could be assisted to a chair. The others followed to gather around her even as Halvarin drew her back and away.

"Why did he ride out for Eldacar?" Halvarin hissed in her ear.

Amarwen's gaze did not shift from the knot of men crowding her mother but her tone was ice, "Because the alternative was treason."

"I am not a traitor!"

"Tell me Halvarin, were the women and children of Osgiliath traitors?"

"Osgiliath chose to fight, even though they had no hope of prevailing. It was foolish. Reckless. Unnecessary"

"And so you burned it. Yes, it all makes sense now."

"Edholland will be next. Open the harbour for pity's sake. It need not come to this. Not here."

"You want that harbour open, return my father to Edholland. It is as simple as that."


Beside her, Halvarin pushed out a sorrowful sigh, "Nothing is simple any more, Amarwen."

The plaintive note in his voice pulled her eyes to his and she was struck, as she had been in the past, by their colour. Like the storm tossed sea, they were, blue and grey both depending on how the light hit them. There had been a night not so long ago that she had gazed into them and they had been laughing. Filled with joy and no small degree of mischief as they danced in this very hall. She still remembered the feel of his hand around hers, sure and steady.

"Perhaps you are right," she sighed, for that merriment was gone now and she wondered if ever it would return.

In a way, this was no more Halvarin's fault than it was hers. Their fathers had declared for different kings and one had prevailed over the other. Amarwen washed a hand over her face but before anything more could be said, her mother rose to her feet.

Amarwen's eyes widened at the terrible wrath upon her mother's face. She made to step forward but Halvarin caught her elbow as the men around her mother closed.

"Never. This house, nor Edholland, will never support the Usurper of Pelargir!"

A single word, ringing and clear.

"A terrible mistake, Lady," Halvarin's father declared ominously, "Edholland is even more vulnerable than Osgiliath. It is indefensible."

"And you, sir, are unforgivable."

"You fail to comprehend, though I do not know how, that you are alone in your opposition to the King. All the others are dead, or have fled into north."

"Castamir is no more King than I."

"And that is why your husband will rot and your people will starve."


Again Amarwen tried to go to her mother but Halvarin held her fast.

"Do not," he warned and at that the doors opened, pushed in by the men of the household.

From the chamberlain to those that tended the kitchen and stables, some of them armed with no more than their fists, all with a frenzied, desperate light in their eyes.

"Unhand the Lady of Edholland and leave this place," the chamberlain said, lifting his silvered chin.

Amarwen had never seen him so wroth before. This was a man that had tossed her on his knee.

"Have them stand down," Halvarin pleaded in a low voice, "It need not end like this."

But already it was too late for one of the men by Amarwen's mother seized her roughly and threw her to his fellows as he cleared his sword. The great hall filled with the terrible scrape of steel clearing scabbards and this sent those in the doorway flying forwards, intent on casting these men out. But, valiant as they were, they were no match for the men they sought to drive out. Horrified, Amarwen was momentarily transfixed until Halvarin pulled her away.

"Hide," he hissed at her, urgent, even as he drew his weapon.

She heard her mother cry out, "RUN AMARWEN! RU-"

A strangled sound and then nothing as Halvarin's father turned to where she stood on the other side of his son. Throught his legs she could see her mother's form, prone on the flagstone floor. An outstretched hand, limp, and blood. Blood pooling.

"Bring the lass here, lad," his father bade him and at that Amarwen ran.

Running was something she had always been good at, skirts or not. She had won every footrace she had been in as a child, fleet as fox she was and so she was out of the great hall ahead of those now pounding after her. Weighed down by their weapons and armour, she had no small advantage in that. Also, unlike them, she could get to the harbour and get a ship onto the water. No matter how fast their horses were, if the wind was with her she leave them in her wake like dust.

Whilst she slipped through the halls and streets of her childhood home like the wind, those pursuing her were not so fortunate. The fate of her mother uncertain now, indeed all of Edholland, Amarwen knew she had to do one thing and one thing alone: unseat the Usurper as quickly as she could. As fortune would have it, she was on the water with the tide before Castamir's men gained the docks. Unlike her, they had been stalled and waylaid at every pass. And if they thought they'd appropriate a ship to pursue her, the actions of the harbour master at Edholland had put paid to that.

Amarwen whipped through the headlands and towards the sea with the ships of Edholland all aflame. Back on the docks, Halvarin pressed his arm to his mouth and nose to keep the smoke at bay.

"Every last bloody ship, boat and dinghy," his father raged, appalled as any mariner would be, "These people are mad!"

Halvarin said nothing, his eyes tracking the small sail of the one ship that had slipped away. Doomed, she was. He knew it. She'd be a fugitive now, a traitor to be hunted down. Castamir would show no mercy. Assuming she somehow managed to land the tiny boat safely. It was not made to withstand the sea and she could not risk hugging the coast.

He pushed out a sigh and then returned his attention to their immediate surrounds. The smoke was thickening and the people of Edholland were not their supporters. No telling how emboldened they would be once the smoke gave them cover. Word would reach them soon of what had unfolded at the hall.

"We should be away, father," he said, "Nothing to be gained here now."

"Aye,"
his father growled as he turned on his heels.

As they strode back to where they had left their horses, Halvarin asked what was probably an unwise question, "Was it necessary to kill the Lady of Edholland?"

His father rolled his shoulders, "I did not come here seeking it. I had hoped that she might see reason in her. For Edholland, for their daughter.

"And what fate the Lord of Edholland now?"
he asked as his father grimaced.

"For the King to decide," his father answered, "But I doubt it will be a merciful one."

"And Amarwen?"
he pressed, at which his father turned about to study him.

He lifted a hand to set upon Halvarin's shoulder, "The kindest thing, lad, is to hope the sea claims the lass before Castamir does."

By the time they had ridden back to Minas Tirith, his father's words proved true. The new King had swept through the court of Gondor like a bloody scythe. The dead included the Lord of Edholland and Eldacar's eldest son. Their deaths had not been easy and an uneasy pall hung over the city that Halvarin rode through.
Last edited by elora on Fri May 26, 2017 5:21 am, edited 6 times in total.
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Re: Kin-Strife

Postby elora » Mon Apr 17, 2017 2:59 pm

Minas Tirith May 1437

Halvarin maintained his silence as they wended their way through the White City’s tiers. With the truth so clouded, and so many dead at the hand or order of their new King, he had pondered his position at length after what he had witnessed in Edholland. Amarwen’s words to him about the events of Osgiliath hung particularly stubborn in his mind.

Their arrival at the chambers the Mariner’s Guild maintained in Minas Tirith revealed many grim, if not outright displeased faces at the aftermath of Castamir’s rise to the kingship. Instead of mercy and wisdom, Castamir had responded with a show of force and merciless. Unsullied as his descent from mighty Numénor might be, he seemed set to rule from fear instead of love.

No sooner had their party dismounted did Guild members press in, demanding to know the outcome of Edholland. A heated discussion sprang up and as it unfolded, Halvarin noted that a number of Guild stalwarts were absent. He stood back, listening closely as his father and other senior mariners traded terse words in hushed tones. Almost as if they feared they would be overheard.

When the words were spent, the criticisms set free, little had changed. The Guild remained steadfast in their t determination to support Castamir. These men, who had stared down the might and power of the raging oceans had balked. His stomach twisted at the thought, and later that night as the fine wines began to flow, Halvarin found himself unable to take part. He shook his head at the offer of a glass and that would have been that if his father had not interceded.

He watched his elder swoop up a glass of dark wine and hold to him with the admonishment, ”The King is victorious! We all should celebrate!”

Were it not for the flat note of his father’s voice, Halvarin would have missed the sarcasm altogether. Still, for all of that, he appreciated the wisdom of his father’s counsel. The absences in those gathered that night spoke volumes. Dissent was no longer a luxury any could afford in Gondor. Halvarin accepted the wine from his father and followed those present to lift his glass to salute the new King. Yet, he lagged in sipping at his wine, his thoughts again drifting to Edholland. Amarwen’s pale, stricken face as she witnessed her mother’s death rose in his mind, her dismay and fear palable even now. Inwardly, Halvarin mused, ‘To Lady Amarwen, now Lady of Edholland. May you find your way through this storm to safe harbour.’

As the others were finishing their drink, Halvarin tipped his glass and took it all down in one gulp. There was a silence in the guild room which was only broken by someone speaking in a low tone. At that, those present in the hall resumed their usual chatter. Halvarin studied the bass of his glass, swirled what remained and raised it to his mouth to drain the final drops. With that seen to, he set his glass aside and turned for the door as his father seemed set to speak further. Halvarin hesitated at that but in that moment his father seemed to think better of it.

He watched him turn to one of the Guild’s senior officers. Never any shortage of men seeking his father’s ear as Guild Master. Aware that his father would likely be preoccupied by such matters for the remainder of the evening and unable to find his peers present in the hall, Halvarin considered his departure anew, determined to find time for his own thoughts before his sour disposition was noted.

Too late, as it turned out, for the captain of the Foamcutter pounced on Halvarin and father, ”Impolitic to doubt our King now, even no one could possibly have anticipated this state of affairs.”

Halvarin’s father nodded, ”The Mariners Guild have no role in determining the King’s course.”

Masterful, Halvarin thought, for such a statement could be seen in more than one light. The Foamcutter’s captain nodded in agreement and with that Halvarin made his break from the Guild hall. It was not long before he found himself at the White Tree Inn where he ordered a glass of the strongest port wine they had.

It was no match for the Dorwinion wine they had been supping at the Guild Hall, he thought as he sampled his drink. Ironic, he realized, that the Mariner’s Guild even now were enjoying the fruits of the Northmen they had repudiated to such an extent that they had overthrown their King. Halvarin drank deeply from the rough wooden mug, his mind careening about. Drinking and thinking, he thought, a dangerous combination in these times. Still, for all of that, he could not pretend that he did not fear. What was happening to his beloved Gondor?

A few days and nights passed in this fashion before Halvarin received fresh orders. He was assigned to a large ship that would be leaving from Pelargir south to the rumoured woodlands of Far Harad. With these orders in hand, Halvarin felt a sense of profound relief. This he could do. Far better, far preferable, than the orders that had sent him with his father to Edholland. As he set to readying himself for the river voyage to Pelargir, Halvarin found himself reviewing just how he had come to find himself in this predicament.

It could all be traced back to the disillusionment he recalled several years earlier as he studied the art of navigation whilst an Ensign. Trouble with the Northmen of Rhovanion had flared then and Halvarin had agreed with a great many others with the Mariner’s Guild that Valacar should not have taken a Rhovanion princess to wife. It had emboldened these middle men. Still, when that disapproval had developed into open, rumbling dischord within the maritime provinces of Gondor, Halvarin had subscribed to the view that come what may, the Line of Kings was to be adhered to.

Yet, he was part of a diminishing minority within his Guild as the Master of Ships rose in prominence and position. One by one, Halvarin watched senior Guild offiers fall under Castamir’s sway. Opposition to Valacar had waxed, and it seemed almost inevitable now that he looked back on it that this had grown to outright rejection of Eldacar. And now he was, about to take ship and guide them south to the woodlands that would enable Castamir to expand his fleet. Amarwen’s bold actions at Edholland had meant that the King had no other means to strength his dominance over the waves. He must build, for there were no more ships to appropriate by one means or another.

Setting out from Pelargir, their ships made good time south in favourable winds. They carried Marine soldiers and engineers mostly. Once a landing was secured, the soldiers were to move inland and find where to set fortifications in case of possible attacks on the camps the engineers planned. Halvarin’s duty lay in getting them south and returning them home safely. Whilst in Harad, though, Halvarin had little to do there once they arrived. He spent his time tending to his ship and studying the stars at night so as to make notes and update his charts. This was not, on the whole, unpleasant but Halvarin’s mind was not easy even though he had managed to escape the suffocating city. He slept through the day, or tried to at least. Time and again he woke, swathed in a cold sweat as the events of Edholland rolled through his mind. Bloodied. Night, then, was his only comfort for in gazing at the night sky he found it easiest to recall Amarwen. Her hair was dark as the night and her eyes glimmered like the stars. Remote though it was, Halvarin clung to the hope that somehow Amarwen had survived her flight from Edholland. Somehow, despite the flimsy dinghy she had taken to the sea.

When his ruminations locked on her dingy failing her, Halvarin tried instead to recall happier times. He had visited Edholland with his father often over the years. The first time he had encountered Amarwen, they had both been scarcely more than children. Still, even then, he had found her captivating. Shy as he had been, Halvarin recalled the gradual way in which she had carved out her own little notch in his heart. Whether or not she knew that she occupied that place or not he could not guess. But, he liked to think that they had been friends. They had danced in her father’s hall, her eyes sparkling and her laughter curling in his ears as she filled his arms. Vibrant, lively, glorious with her midnight hair and starlit eyes.

Yet, for all of his attempts to recall brighter, happier times, Halvarin found it all but impossible not to dwell on the unkind twist of fate that had seen him sent to Edholland as her foe. He had done what he could, as he could, but for all of that it seemed to him that any friendship between them had died that day with her mother. If she had survived her escape, the only desire Lady Armarwen was likely to have with regard to him would be to plant a good five spans of steel in his belly. And he could not fault her for that, even if his sword had not been the one to claim her mother.

For a month they stayed there at anchor and in that Halvarin began to sicken. Still, he remained at his duties as they set out for Gondor again. By the time they reached the shipyards in Pelargir, Halvarin had lost weight and could barely walk off the ship. He immediately went in search of a healer. He avoided the usual ones that the Guild retained and instead sought an unconventional herbal sorceress. Some might even call her a witch. Whatever she was, she cured his body but could not set his mind to rest and Halvarin returned to ship in time to sail up the river to Minas Tirith.

Would that he had not, he thought, as he gained the Guildhouse and with it the tidings that Lady Amarwen had been lost at sea. The evidence was conclusive. A shattered dinghy washed ashore, scraps of sodden golden velvet caught in the shattered timbers. Robbed now of even his faint hope, Halvarin withdrew into himself. He became silent and distant as he threw himself into finalizing his star charts of the south for his Guild.

Time drifted by, turgid and bloated, and in that time the news of Castamir’s purges faded. Halvarin found himself longing to return south, away from Gondor where he might study the night sky closer. It was there he felt closest to Amarwen, as if she watched him from far away. Wherever it was their people went when their lives were spent. However this was not to be for Halvarin was given a very different command. One which would test his faltering loyalty.

Summonsed to the Guild chambers, Halvarin found himself facing three senior captains. His father, nor any he knew, were amongst them.

”These have been trying times for us all,” said the one in the middle, ”But you have acquitted yourself very well. You have shown yourself worthy of advancement, Halvarin.”

The flanking captains nodded at this and Halvarin struggled to keep his expression suitably neutral.

”You are to take ship up the river, to Osgiliath. There you will assume command of the Eastern Watch from Beregon of Anorien. He seems to be missing,” the man let that last dangle in the air, bait.

Missing. Was he killed or had he deserted? Halvarin nodded, understanding that part of his commission would involve sorting out whatever had happened to Beregon. With little more to say, Halvarin took his leave to prepare for his post at what was now a ruined, crumbling ghost of a city.
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Re: Kin-Strife

Postby elora » Wed May 24, 2017 4:52 am

Dol Amroth – 1437


Amarwen paused in the hall before the door that led to the study of the Prince of Dol Amroth. He had been a steady and true friend of her father, their bond extend well beyond her birth. He had welcomed her into his hall without hesitancy, despite the fact that she had arrived unannounced and expecting Castamir’s fleet to descend upon her any moment now. And yet, that had not come to pass. Indeed, within the Prince’s halls one could be forgiven for not knowing what had come to pass within Gondor.

Despite that her father and the Prince had been united in their opposition to Castamir’s ascension to the throne, King’s gauntleted fist had not fallen so heavily upon Dol Amroth as it had on Edholland. For all his proclivities and failings, Castamir was not so reckless as that. His emissaries had come to Dol Amroth armed to the teeth with proclamations of good faith but the Prince had not been gulled. Or so she hoped.

Were she mistaken, these last few steps would be the last she would take of her own choosing. Of that she was sure. She was aware that she had been declared a traitor for the burning of Edholland’s fleet. Never mind that it had been a precaution against a force of armed, violent men sent by the King to disturb Edholland’s peace. And so here she was, delaying before the Prince’s door wondering whether friend could remain friend in this tumult.

She smoothed her palms over her borrowed garb and knocked on the thick oak door. When bidden, she entered to find the Prince at his desk. It was late afternoon and the hearth was well alight, intent on defeating the rapidly approaching dusk. As she closed the door behind her, Amarwen saw the Prince’s dark head lift. His line was woven with the Eldar and it showed in his features and character, or so she thought. She could not know him as her father had. Indeed, he had such an advantage of years that he could have been her father.

As if he somehow guessed the thrust of her thoughts, the Prince smiled at her fondly.

”Like yesterday it seems,” he remarked, ”When your mother set you in my arms.”

This came as she offered him the courtesy he was owed. Amarwen smiled as she rose from her curtsy and the Prince pushed aside whatever he had been reading to select a fresh sheet of parchment.

He folded his hands over it as she approached his desk, ”Our ruse, it would appear, has succeeded.”

Amarwen nodded, grateful, for she had arrived without so much as the nearest crumb of a coherent plan. The Prince, however, had not been nearly so tardy. No sooner had her sorry tale tumbled out of her had he swung into action. Before she knew it, he was issuing orders to his most trusted men to take her battered dinghy back out and beach it with shreds of her sodden yellow velvet caught in the ruined timbers.

If she was honest, Amarwen had been skeptical that the ploy would work. The Prince had proved wiser, as might be expected of a man that had been dealing with the White City since before she had been born.

”I am dead, then?” she asked for good measure and the Prince nodded.

”Quite. Lost at sea…and stripped of your titles for good measure,” he replied and she sighed.

Still, what had she expected given the turn of events at court?

”I am most grateful for your assistance, your Grace,” she answered and the Prince gestured at a nearby seat.

”And so, now we arrive at what is to follow. You are most welcome to remain here.”

If Castamir found she was alive and being sheltered in Dol Amroth, his restraint would end and Dol Amroth’s fate would be far worse than that of Edholland. Amarwen shook her head from side to side, her hair shifting with her movement.

”I could not imperil your people in such a fashion, your Grace.”

His eyes glinted as he studied her for a long moment and then he reached for a fresh quill, ”Very well, safe passage to Rhovanion it is. I will provide the necessary bone fides to assure you are received by Eldacar’s people.”

Rumor had it that Castamir had already begun to send his spies north, seeking to infiltrate his foe’s people. Stragglers, those that had waited before setting out, were now met with steel until they could vouch for themselves. Even Amarwen, the daughter of the man who had been executed by Castamir with Eldacar’s own son, would not be assured of a welcome amongst the rightful King’s people now. That, she very much thought, had been one of the Usurper’s objectives. Even if he obtained no information of any use out of Rhovanion, what better than to have his opponents supporters picked off in this fashion.

”It is not to Rhovanion I would go,” Amarwen said and the Prince’s head lifted.

He hoisted a dark brow at her and she pressed on, ”Minas Tirith.”

“To what end?”
he asked and, when she did not answer, set his quill down again and sat back in his chair, his expression now grave and stern.

”Surely you understand that my first thoughts cannot be for my safety, your Grace.”

The Prince grimaced at that, ”Your fate, should you be discovered, will be grim indeed.”

“How fortunate that Amarwen of Edholland is already dead,”
she answered, lifting her chin as she did so.

At that the Prince shook his head at her, ”I had wondered why you had cut your hair.”

His comment made her reach for her shortened lengths. It fell past her shoulders still, but only to the middle of her back. As was proper, as was necessary for what she intended to do. Only noble born ladies could afford to wear their hair as long as he had and Amarwen of Edholland rested in a cold, watery grave.

“I will not be able to protect you in Minas Tirith,” he warned and Amarwen’s gaze did not waver.

”I doubt there is any who might shelter us from what is to come, your Grace.”

“Again, Amarwen, I ask for the sake of your dear parents who cannot, what is your purpose in this?”


Her eyes shifted then, dropped to the Prince’s wide desk of dark polished wood and the blank parchment upon it for a moment. Her parents would be appalled at what she was enterprising. And yet it had been them to raise her with the firm belief that her people always came first. Always. Amarwen drew in a deep breath, clasped her hands in her lap and returned her attention to the Prince.

”I seek to serve my people, your Grace.”

The Prince’s mouth pressed into a straight, thin line as he shook his head slowly. She thought he would refuse her then and there and wondered what might follow if he did. Instead, though, he straightened in his chair again.

”What would you have of me, Lady Amarwen.”

“A letter of recommendation…for a scullery maid.”


He considered her for a moment, pressed out a long breath and then inked his quill. Amarwen didn’t dare move an inch nor make a sound as the Prince wrote. Nothing that might cause him to reconsider.

”What is this scullery maid’s name,” he inquired, head bowed.

”Marece,” Amarwen replied, thinking of the wife of Edholland’s head cook.

Strong, unflinching and brave Marece had been. Indomitable. Assured, right up until the moment the wasting sickness had claimed her three years ago now. Marece had known she as going to die but she had faced it on her own terms all the same. Amarwen hoped she could live up to Marece’s legacy of fierce, enduring valour.

Soon enough, Amarwen found herself sitting in the back of an empty cart bound for Minas Tirith with scarcely more than her recommendation letter tucked into her worn, humble clothing. She would have to shed everything she had become accustomed to in order to succeed. Her hair and name, the fine clothing of a noblewoman were just the beginning.

Behind her, the driver of the cart set it in motion. It rocked back and forth briefly before it started off proper. Watching from a window, she saw the Prince. His misgivings had not abated but she could say nothing for to assure him would give him information that might bring Dol Amroth into peril and she could not do that. Would not do that. There must be one safe haven yet in Gondor and the Prince had ever been a friend and ally to Edholland.

Amarwen lifted her arm to bid him farewell, uncertain if she would ever see him again. She glimpsed him raise a hand to her just before the cart rolled out of his courtyard proper. Beyond the walls, a stiff breeze held dominion. It made her pull her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders to little effect. Shivering, she set her teeth and made no comment on it. Being cold, hungry, tired were simple facts of life now. Unremarkable and mundane. And there were other things to consider…such as how best to begin once she gained the White City. She shifted closer to hang her arms over the back of the bench the driver sat upon and set to asking him all he knew of Minas Tirith. Had to start somewhere.
Last edited by elora on Fri May 26, 2017 5:21 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Kin-Strife

Postby elora » Wed May 24, 2017 1:50 pm

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