The End of the Fourth Age of Middle Earth

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

Postby Wandering but not lost » Wed Jan 07, 2004 12:23 am

****see OOC thread first********<BR><BR><BR><i>Slowly Elladir stretched his fingers against the hilt of his sword grasping the handle so firmly, so resolutely. He stared amazed at the elasticity of their flesh, the sureness of his muscles, the throbbing might he felt in each capillary merging with his skin. He remembered just months ago how different it was. The small aches in the joints, the painful tearing of his muscles each time he worked the lethargy from his palms. It used to be so difficult practicing with the bow or weaving basic maneuvers with a blade. Yet suddenly, ever since that moon appeared, it had been different. He has felt something within him he can only remember in the collective memory of his ancestors. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows a warmth which is so familiar yet he used to be sure had faded only into legend. Each time he closes his eyes to blink he thinks he sees the white trees... so bright like twin stars... But some how he feels like he is profiting off of these dark times, that his whole race is gaining strength while all the rest of the world rips itself apart. He has heard from the eagles, bereft of their greatness and might and now only brothers to the hawk, that the realm of man is fading. There are rumors that the line of kings has been tainted- that another war is stirring. Yet while his hands speak and tell him the world is glorious and wonderful again, his heart quivers and palpatates each morning for it knows the truth.</i><BR><BR><i>It happened every night now. It had used to be every week, then every 3 days, but now the dreams seemed more urgent. A white tree, a large emptiness, a distant flame, and then, since last week, a sound- crisp like all possible notes blending together perfectly into one- and again nothingness... complete cold nothingness... a void that pulled his emotions from his being... He always woke up crying- afraid and yet happy to have feeling once more.</i><BR><BR><i>The new moon, the strength in his hands, and the dream- so many strange oddities had happened. Yet his body felt a synthesis between the madness. His mind could feel the earth changing, his ears could hear the waters and the winds shifting. The world was mourning something. The sky was calling for something... the stars seemed to be shifting closer together... fires seemed to burn more readily and with greater intensity.</i><BR><BR><i>Even his hands, though filled with a primal power that felt so raw, seemed incomplete as if their power came from something beyond themselves. His body was filled with emptiness. The world churned and made his emotions flutter like sand sliding through a sieve. Happiness, sadness, each replaced the other on a whim. He yearned for stability- something to cling onto that had purpose and reason. Something which was complete and independant and beyond randomness.</i><BR><BR><i>And then the song occurred and he knew perfection again. He could feel stability in his bones and his emotions held meaning again. The winds seemed to pause each night when he dreamed this... the earth softened for but a minute... the sky stopped calling. The universe hushed. But somehow he knew in the wind that the world wasn’t listening. He felt such strength in the world at such notes and yet he felt the world less. It reminded him of the elves he had seen fade. Somehow they seemed so content with their passing and yet, though they seemed so happy, there was an absence in them. They were vivid in their absence until they vanished altogether.</i><BR><i>It was this that worried him, the wholeness of the song.</i><BR><BR>“It is the song of the Valar... what else could be so complete, so pure?”<BR><BR><i>Haradir shruged with indifference. He remembered Haradir before the moon appeared... he was so close to fading. His skin had grown cold and his limbs had slowly felt the lethargy of each morning with a greater fervor. The elves had done vigils for days, knowing the end was coming near and feeling the presence fade as his life slowly condensed itself into nothingness. And then the moon had appeared and something revived within his body but left his mind still burdened by the same melancholy.</i> “Things are odd I know. And I am aware of Eru’s promise that indeed they will sing again, but I cannot question fate nor have you the will to change it. Our race has vanished, we have no power anymore. Even if what you speak is prophecy, I would deem it impossible to change such fate or petition the Valar; you are aware the ships to Valinor are lost. You know the extent of which or race is now capable. The Valar have forsaken us. We have no means to reach them anymore. The gift Eru granted us, our immortality, is also our curse. I long for the white shores and regret with every passing morning the choice I made to stay in such a forsaken space. Indeed, if Eru himself had ordered the Valar to sing, I would welcome such a change- a cleansing of that which has grown stale and corrupt. Do not the men themselves wane in power? Why preserve such a world? I would rather see it vanish than the orcs take claim of it.”<BR><BR><i>Ellesandra sat next to Haradir gazing intensely into Elladir’s eyes. The other elves, summoned likely to the council, discussed amongst themselves individually tasting Haradir’s remarks.</i> “I am not one to judge the power of races anymore Haradir.” <i>She glanced at the elf still wearing the shroud of one fading from Middle Earth.</i> “You used to be among the wisest remaining in Middle Earth and now look at how quickly despair seeps wisdom from your bones. I learned long ago that even fragile races can tremendous purpose for the world. Without them where would be the Ring...</i><BR><BR>“But that is pointless... the halflings lived in a different time and they too have faded from Middle Earth or so the world has told us. I would not risk us being revealed to the world for something so slight as a dream. As for the moon...” <BR><BR><i>Elladir interjected.</i> “Isn’t that proof enough? I have found power in my veins that give me strength which our people haven’t felt since the elder days. It was strength enough to save you from...”<BR><BR><i>Haradir’s eyes contorted with pain and anger. Somewhere in his eyes Elladir could see how much he despised the fate that was denied to him. He could see how much Haradir despised the moon for what it had restored in him. It had taken his chance for nothingness...</i> “But what has strength to save us? Our numbers are so few and our race so strange in this age. To be exposed would tempt the world of men to seek our people and perhaps end our race entirely! You know how greedily they seek to rule the peoples whom they discover... how much they yearn for new soil. You call me wise and yet this council rejects my wisdom! Why open ourselves up to detection... why risk our race and all its ancestry to pursue a random dream to help the world of men?”<BR><BR><i>Elladir paused. He knew that was the issue... he could feel the bitterness in Haradir’s words. He was bitter for how their race had fallen into its descent and that Haradir’s desire to fade was in part because he couldnt bear to see the elves decay any further...</i><BR><BR>“Because what other purpose is there for our race? We can either remain within our walls and pass away with whatever glory we have remaining in our bones nothing but a rumor barely worthy to be read in a child’s fairy tale. I do not question why we should open ourselves up to the world. I question why we should even seek to live within the confines of our self-made prison. The beauty of the Mallorn trees has been lost to me for years now. The taste of water has grown stale and lembas is no longer sweet. What point is there to life in such a world? Why worry the purpose of a quest when instead we should worry the purpose of our idleness? I wish to leave if anything to try to find some of the glory that has been stripped of my lineage from these confines. My heart longs so much for the sea that I would love, if anything, to view it again even in vain. What council, however wise, can be so unfair? When reason deprives one of purpose and pleasure, then will I lament for those who have grown wise...” <i>He sat down slowly in the center of the semi circular council. The elves, his friends, stared at the passion in his eyes. It was apparent he believed his dream. Equally apparent was their doubt.</i><BR><BR>“I cannot be convinced in truth of your dream. However, I know the desire for purpose and I know the pains of this lethargy. I do not have the strength to challenge this malaise and I envy your desire to do so. In truth, our race has already faded. We cannot descent further however much you might fear Haradir. If the men discover us, what value would they find in us worth taking and even if we had thousands which one of us has the will to stand up and challenge them? It is not numbers that has defeated us. It is our own race which defeats ourselves more than any legion of men. Elladir, if you have the resolve to break from our curse and seek something- anything whatsoever- then there is more power in you than all of us combined. If anything, I cannot deny you of your purpose because I so long for purpose that I would hope even to gain some vicariously through your actions. If you wish to go, I will not deny it to you. Nor should this council. For in denying that, we are admitting indeed that our disease has become insurmountable. I would let you go, if anything to know that we are capable of more than what are currently are. Merely in leaving here do you restore to us some of our honor...”<BR><BR><BR><BR><i>The next morning, when the city gates opened, he could hear in his mind the song again- but for just one second. He could see the light of the forest seeping across the city threshold like dust flowing from a world long untouched. Something in him paused for a moment. He could see beauty in the leaves shimmering in the city again. He realized how much the sunlight played on their leaves and how they swayed in the wind again. It had been so routine but now everything seemed different. The world itself wasnt the same... He knew that. But somewhere inside of him he couldn’t regret the course of events. If anything, how could he trade all this beauty for anything? In his heart, he knew why he hadn’t faded. Somewhere inside of him he had longed so much for this beauty again that his being had held on to the physical world. Somewhere he knew still there was a purpose for him.</i><BR><BR><i>Seeing the open paths now, he knew if anything this sight was purpose enough. His heart could not ask for more than to see the physical world again. In his step outside the gate, he felt the will of his people and for a second he knew there was envy in their glances.</i><BR><BR><i>He would find his glory while they would linger as shadows.</i><BR>
User avatar
Wandering but not lost
Mariner
 
Posts: 5022
Joined: Fri Jan 28, 2000 1:00 am
Top

Postby GollumsTorment863 » Wed Jan 07, 2004 4:21 pm

Drethlind felt the anxious beat of his heart within his chest as he ascended the crumbled fragments of the stone staircase, careful not to trip on any tree roots which prised apart the broken stone. He took one last glance at the tattered and yellowed piece of parchment he held in his hands. With a slight smile of triumph, he folded it as carefully as his trembling hands would allow and placed it in the small haversack he carried over his shoulder. He climbed faster, skipping as many as three stairs at a time in each stride. This was definitely the place he had been searching for, the place the old and buried parchments and scrolls had described: The Ancient Elven Domain of Imladris. It had remained hidden to all men for thousands of years, and now he, Drethlind, would be the first to find it.<BR><BR>Leaping to the top of the staircase, Drethlind stopped short as he reached the top step. His breath seemed to leave him as he gazed at the sight before his eyes. A large mass of stone ruins, obviously having once been a vast house, with surrounding buildings as well, greeted the man's eyes. Autumn's dried and withered leaves littered the stone floors, and a tree had fallen over in a gale, causing a split in the middle of a beautifully carved stone archway. Clouds seemed to be perpetually hung in the sky overhead; it was difficult for Drethlind to imagine sunlight ever entering this secret haven. As Drethlind continued gazing at the dismal scene, he observed that there were no flowers or plants growing within the valley, save for the tall and silent trees, and that there were no traces that any living creature, neither animal nor man, had trespassed upon this domain for many years uncounted. <BR><BR>Drethlind breathed softly, scarcely daring to break the infinite silence which permeated the still air. While he had known that the Elven place called Rivendell would be in ruins by now, he had not expected it to retain such a joyless atmosphere. It was if the elves who had once dwelled there had left much of their hoplessness and despair within the valley, perhaps leaving it behind because they knew they would have no need of it in the Paradise they were traveling towards. Drethlind sighed. He didn't blame them. If he could leave all the sorrows of life behind and depart for the West...<BR><BR>Drethlind shook his head, not even bothering to finish his thoughts. He had dreamed like this before and it always failed to accomplished anything. It only made him wistful and unsatisfied with the life he was living. <BR><BR>Drethlind walked slowly forward, breathing in the scent of the valley. Dismal, yes, but at the same time beautiful, in a way he could hardly describe. The man ran his fingertips along the stone rail of a bridge as he crossed it. He peered down over the edge, surveying the dry riverbed which ran along beneath it. Standing straight again, he continued across the bridge. As he did, a breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, causing them to shiver with cold. Drethlind looked up at the trees, startled at the sudden disturbance. He turned his head again at the sound of a raven flapping it's way to roost in a tree which stood in the midst of the elven city. A raven...or a dove? Then the tree was no longer a simple oak, but the White Tree of Gondor. Drethlind stared hard. Surely this wasn't real? The White Tree could not be here in the midst of ruins, whether they be elvish or no. But wait, this tree was similar to the White Tree of Gondor, yet far more majestic than the fading Tree Drethlind was accustomed to seeing in his city of Minas Tirith. <BR><BR>Drethlind stepped closer to the Tree, no longer focused on the ruins around him, but only on the Tree...<i>Trees</i>...in the center of Rivendell. There were two now. One with dark green leaves tipped with silver, like the one in Gondor, the other with light green leaves trimmed with gold. Both glowed magnificently in the twilight of the elven ruins, and all the while the raven and the dove, now split into two personages, perched on the limbs of each tree. The raven sat in silver Telperion, the dove in golden Laurelin. <BR><BR>As Drethlind gazed at the glorious sight, he suddenly heard a sound unlike anything he had heard before, coming forth through the two birds' beaks. A sound so sweet and melodious that Drethlind could scarce bear to listen to it. Covering his ears and closing his eyes tightly, he turned away, for the sight had suddenly become too intense for his mortal eyes to behold. The man fell to his knees and remained on the leaf-strewn floor for quite some time. When finally he looked up, he saw that the vision was gone. Rivendell was how it had been when he'd arrived, cold and bereft of hope. Turning his eyes towards the sky, he gazed in wonder at a shining Moon which had appeared, huge and full. Surely this was some sort of sign, such as the ones Drethlind had read about in countless scrolls of old. But these were different times now, surely whatever supernatural force that could create such a vision would not care about the Men of the world, bickering among themselves as they were.<BR><BR>Drethlind gazed once more around Imladris. He would not come here again, for reasons which he knew not. He had planned to stay here for a week at least, finding any information he could about the Elves that had once dwelled here. However, the vision had unsettled him, and he felt as if he was needed at Minas Tirith, for reasons unknown. Strangely feeling no regret for his brief time spent in Rivendell, Drethlind turned to go, wrapping his dark cloak about him as he descended the broken stone staircase.<BR><BR>
User avatar
GollumsTorment863
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 528
Joined: Sat Apr 20, 2002 6:12 pm
Top

Postby Lady_Aremin » Wed Jan 07, 2004 6:00 pm

Fallan, cloak and long hair flying behind her, pounded her white mare over the hard-packed earth of the wide road out of Minas Tirith. She was so eager to be free, out and about, finally gaining the right to travel alone, two days ago on her sixteenth birthday. As she pounded her four year old steed, Oreth, over the Pelennor, Fallan thought of how astonishingly wonderful her sixteenth birthday had been.<BR><BR>In her childhood years, Fallan's mother had made it a point to have a lavish gathering with a feast and a ball, to celebrate Fallan's birthday. Many officials in the Gondorian government, friends of Fallan's father, would attend and Fallan would have to be pushed into frivilous and extravagantly gaudy gowns and tight corsets. Her hair would be curled and put into monstrous up-do's that took days to unravel, and all the guests at her party that she hardly knew would pretend to adore her and smother her with flattering compliments. Fallan had hated every minute of these celebrations while her mother had gloried in them, and Fallan's father had seen them as an oppurtunity to inconspicuously gather information on current military and political intrigues. Her two older brothers, Amras and Amrod, had endured them simply for the purpose of humoring their mother.<BR><BR>These gatherings had been stopped before Fallan reached her twelfth birthday for several reasons, mainly because of Fallan's ever increasing protests, aided and abetted by her somewhat doting father, Aidan. He knew she had an interest in other things, such as riding, fighting, and wearing clothes more suited to boys her age, and being the military general that he was, Aidan had virtually no objections to ending the expensive and very formal parties. Another pressing reason was the intensifying political situation of Gondor. <BR><BR>Just after Fallan had turned eleven, King Eremond the III had died quite unexpectedly, leaving no proclaimed heir to the throne, which had left Gondorian politics in chaos. General Aidan, being second-in-command of Gondor's armies, with only the Steward in command above him, had had to put most of his time into helping restore stability in the country, leaving no time for planning and hosting parties. But stability was not to be had. <BR><BR>Aidan had proclaimed his allegiance to Eremond's oldest brother, Eldrich the Fair, and with Aidan more than half the army in Minas Tirith had followed, allying themselves with Eldrich. Aidan held great influence in military matters, being a wise, fair, and trusted general and commander. So parties had ceased, and Fallan breathed easier in tunics instead of corsets. <BR><BR>Now her long-anticipated sixteenth birthday had passed in a wonderful day full of gifts and time spent with the family, including Aidan, which was rare because of his role in pressing government matters. From her father Fallan had recieved a new sword. She still could not get over her shock at the weapon, for it was of extreme worth and had a long and eventful history. <BR><BR>Uveneth was its name. An exquisitely crafted sword of the elves, Uveneth had been crafted in the second age, before Gondor was even founded. One of Fallan's most ancient ancestors, a Debourelle like herself, had been friend to the elves and had served them greatly, his reward being the powerful elven sword that then became an honored heirloom of the Debourelle family. Fallan had heard of it in the lore her family was constantly pushing on her and her siblings, but she had never dreamed that it would be given to her. <BR><BR>Fallan's next gift was from her mother: a white mare from her uncle's stables in Dol Amroth. Fallan had been shocked out of speech also when she found Oreth in the usually vacant stall next to her father's horse, and afterwards had almost cried while thanking her mother for this great gift. Oreth was tall and lithe and graceful, yet sturdy and with good temperment, a perfect horse for traveling long distances, yet hardly a war horse. Fallan's final gift were two jeweled daggers given to her by Amras and Amrod, her twin brothers. <BR><BR>As Fallan thought over that day, which had been almost surreal because it was for once, peaceful and not stressful or hectic, she realized that Oreth was getting very tired. The two travellers were only about a half a day out of the White City and now somewhat closer to the gates of the Pelennor. Fallan spotted lights ahead, and rode on at a swift gallop, hoping to find lodging before it was completely dark, as the light of day crept away with the blood-red sun setting in the west.
User avatar
Lady_Aremin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1495
Joined: Thu Nov 06, 2003 3:01 pm
Top

Postby Elrámë » Wed Jan 07, 2004 8:22 pm

It was a beautiful knife.<BR><BR>The ebony hilt shone against the paler wood of her <i>flet</i>, the delicate yet strong lines of the Fëanorian script wrapping around it catching the light and holding the <i>Tengwar</i> in shadow. The blade, wrought of steel long ago in the days of the Eldar, glittered faintly, though the maker’s mark had been all-but obscured by the wear of time.<BR><BR>She reached for it slowly, the starlight coming through the ceiling-canopy lighting her Vanyar-fair hair and reflecting from her grey eyes, Elbereth’s light giving her for an instant the appearance of one who had seen the Trees in their time. <BR><BR>She stopped, hand still outstretched towards the knife and eyes alight with that perilous beauty, and slowly a cloud passed before those stars- but the fire in her eyes and body did not fade with the light as they had for so long. It was a part of her now, yet far distant from her, the light it filled her with as alien as the second moon. She wondered absently what the Maia was called whom had been put put to accompany Tilion’s beautiful moon. Beautiful, yet always a reminder of the end of that starlit dawn of the world which she ever longed for.<BR>Painful to say the least.<BR>And beyond those stars, to the West, she knew that Aman waited for her and all of her kin, awaiting only death to bring them to it, now that the white ships had gone and there was no other way she knew of to take the Straight Road.<BR><BR>A death that grew more unlikely the longer they remained here, fading slowly into the beings of fëa alone, bodiless and nigh-on indestructible.<BR><BR>She completed her movement towards the knife idly, dreamily, and then lifted it in her hand, the smooth-carved surface familiar against her palm. The knife she had received not long after her fifteenth birthday…her only remnant of the family who had left her on that last journey to Aman.<BR><BR>"Lothlómë," she whispered, remembering the times that had come before the Fading of the Elves, though she had never lived in them, only read of them in those records she could find, left behind by accident or design. "Dusk-flower."<BR>Thus named for her unexpected beauty as a child and the sorrow with which her family regarded her coming, last of her family to be born in Middle-earth.<BR><BR><i>And only one to be left there.</i><BR><BR>No, that was not necessarily true. She did not know if any of her father’s kin had survived into the Fourth Age, but Sindarin and Silvan Elves might still linger, though she had not seen them.<BR><BR>She stared at the sharp, star-bright edge of her blade. One cut, that would be all necessary to end her life.<BR><BR>No.<BR><BR>And then she would go to Eldamar, to the Halls of Mandos to wait till she was judged fit to be reborn. A simple action, to rid her of all her grief and pain.<BR><BR>No.<BR><BR>She would not do such a thing, a terrible deed by the thoughts of the Eldar. Beyond that, had she truly wished to, it would have been possible to let herself pass from her fading body and let herself be drawn into the West by Mandos’ calling…but the Moriquendi blood in her loved the lands of Middle-earth, though her heart ever yearned towards the Sea.<BR><BR>And beyond that, she felt that her kindred still had a purpose in these lands.<BR><BR>Sheathing the blade smoothly in the slender leather scabbard that hung at her side, tooled with stars for her second name, Elwen, she rose from where she had knelt upon the cool wood of the floor, and climbed nimbly down the tree. Unlike most of her companions, she had not been overjoyed by the return of her strength, but rather frightened- what could this, when taken with the bright second moon in the sky, mean? Perhaps it would once have been better if the Valar reforged the world, without the shadow of Melkor within it- but not now, when the peoples of Arda had grown so.<BR><BR>Even so, something in her heart longed for a chance to be born into the time of her people, to be cast into the beginning of days, rather than this poor shadow of the beauty of those times; a perilously pure portion of her soul, deeper and perhaps more foreseeing than the others.<BR><BR>She moved swiftly along the path to the gates of the city, for the sun was rising, and she had determined in the night that she would travel with Elladir, to live in brightness if for but a short time.<BR><BR>She moved beyond the gates as the others watched her, envy and fear clear in their gazes, her step light and graceful. One of the other Elves, Aldorn, called out to her, pleading with her to stay in the safety of Lórien and not endanger herself in the world outside, for those who had long since forgotten her. She heard, heart aching for him, but did not turn back.<BR><BR>It was time, time for the love of the world which she had borne for so long, sustaining her will and keeping her from fading or dying to come forth. She would tread the paths of sunlight before the end- and, if she could, halt that end.<BR><BR>She would live.<BR>
User avatar
Elrámë
Rider of the Mark

 
Posts: 826
Joined: Fri Dec 05, 2003 8:45 pm
Top

Postby Shieldmaiden_pippin » Wed Jan 07, 2004 9:07 pm

In her flet, Alqualossen could not sleep. She had decided the yestereve that she would not travel with Elladir. It was too dangerous. That night, though, visions of disaster flooded her dreams, visions of her dying if she did not do something- visions of all the elves dying. <BR><BR>That morning, before dawn, she dressed in her tunic and packed a satch of a few extra clothes and food for the journey. She then ran, which was unusual for her to do, towards the City gates and found Elladir and Lothlómë preparing to leave. <BR><BR>"Two Elves is not enough to bring honor to a fading people, nor is three," she said as she ran up to them, "But I will contribute what I may on this journey, or I fear the worst. Please, accept my help, late though it be. Let me journey with you?" <BR><BR>With nodded consents, Alqualossen breathed a sigh of relief. The wind was blowing with force, that day, so she took a small piece of leather and tied back her pure white hair, shifted her pack, and followed her new companions. <BR><BR>She rarely ever talked, and in fact it had been so long that she had really spoken that her kin had forgotten that she had a voice. <BR><BR>Alqualossen, The Snow Swan, adjusted the staps of her weapons -a partizan and two long knives- as she walked. She turned around one last time and saw far away the gates of her home, her kin still watching them as they walked. <BR><BR>'Goodbye, my friends. I hope to see you again, soon,' she said in her mind. She then looked forward and looked not on the city ever again. <BR><BR>Alqualossen had heard of the war that was stirring in the south. How she hated war, yet she yearned for blood on her blades. 'How ironic,' she thought. <BR><BR>'Ai! Elbereth! What am I getting myself into? I hardly even know these two elves, yet I am traveling with them freely, into lands unknown to me. Please let all go well!'
User avatar
Shieldmaiden_pippin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 4482
Joined: Tue Sep 02, 2003 8:03 pm
Location: Lost in Thought
Top

Postby orliesmyhusband » Wed Jan 07, 2004 9:10 pm

A din of voices was all about the city. Magdalen sat upon a high stone on the wall of the third level of the Citadel. She looked out over the city below her, merely observing as she casually tossed an apple in one hand, the other resting on her lifted knee. The fair woman, in about her mid-twenties, loved to perche herself in such spots, as the wind always blew in her face. She liked to imagine she could smell the sweet scent of the lands beyond the mountains. That she could once again feel the touch of the grass of Rohan under her hands and the musky smell of the forest of Mirkwood. She dearly missed travelling and sorely wished she were doing more of it as of late. <BR><BR>Reluctantly she leapt down from her spot, her boots making a slight thud as they met with the cobblestone streets. She looked all about her, still tossing her apple thoughtfully, as if it helped her concentrate. Odd things have been stirring of late, whispers of riders and messages being sent. Even one of their own had been heard to have gone on a quest for the Ancient Elven city of Imladris. This was the talk as she entered the Inn...<BR><BR>All the wisened men, knobbed and bent with age, sat about downing ales and telling tales of late. It seemed that one man had left to search for the Elven city. They jeered at this thought, for most had forgotten the beauty of old. Magdalen, however, was fascinated with this, even to the point of obsession. Endless days and nights were spent pouring over old records and parchments, telling of the ethreal elves and of the Lord of the elves. She sat quietly upon her stool, not rejecting their views. She wanted no trouble. <BR><BR>Soon Magdalen downed the rest of her drink, tipping the tender and taking her leave. She pulled her cloak high up over her neck, as a chill wind had begun to blow. Her rich dark brown hair tossed gently as she descended the levels of the Citadel, her fawn like eyes searching for something...though what she knew not... it seemed some unknown force was directing her, leading her very steps as she walked toward the Gate.<BR><BR>Now she stood at the front of Minas Tirith, her arms tightly folded over her chest in an attempt to shut out the cold. The chaos of the city seemed to be behind her, people still ran and shouted behind her, vendors selling things, children becoming loose from their parents and people just wanted to return home to their hearths. Her fair yet silent eyes now scanned Pelennor Fields for a sign... perhaps she was to meet someone here... purposefully she scoured.
User avatar
orliesmyhusband
Ranger of the North

 
Posts: 4081
Joined: Tue Feb 12, 2002 7:09 pm
Top

Postby Wandering but not lost » Thu Jan 08, 2004 4:19 am

<i>Elladir looked causally to his two companions as he saw the golden light envelop him from beyond the city gates.</i><BR><BR>"Question not my purpose in travel and I will not question yours. We know what we are doing. We know the consequences so I will not state them. Nor will I ask or offer for you to leave for never did I force or ask for your presence. Yet know I welcome it."<BR><BR><i>He tossed his hood over his face, the green fabric of his people over his hair... it had been so long since he had felt the hood pulled over his face. It reminded him of when he was young and the war had not yet occured. He would travel with his family and friends often to Imlandris and rest in the great hall of fire. They'd read stories and everything seemed to fade away. It felt like floating on water. Being carried by the stream of events without any will or need to challenge them. How he longed for such a feeling now. How he wished he had no need for such a purpose. But he knew the complexities of such a desire- the factors that caused such a need: the lethargy, the prophecy, the political strife of Gondor, this new weapon the birds say spouts flames like a wizard's stick. He wondered if he'd ever feel moments like that again where he'd be able to withdraw into fairy tales and ballads and merely listen- nothing more.</i><BR><BR><BR><BR>*************<BR><BR><BR>I am going to edit this bottom part. I forgot that I intended for us to go to an inn that was 10 days from the city. That was my fault because I posted late and kinda rushed my post. I apologize for that oversight.
User avatar
Wandering but not lost
Mariner
 
Posts: 5022
Joined: Fri Jan 28, 2000 1:00 am
Top

Postby Legs_all_lost » Thu Jan 08, 2004 2:21 pm

Maggrotz gripped the edge of the battlement wall as he stared out, watching the glowing orb of the setting sun as it sank into the distant west. The west - Minas Tirith, seat of the despised Gondorians. Citadel of the king. Only, there was no more king! The last maggot to wear the crown of the white tree was dead, leaving no heir. And his three puling brothers were now poised, ready to go to war over the succession. Fools! Mordor would certainly not object to the idiot humans doing the orcs' work for them! Maggrotz would be the first captain at the head of the first column to march into the stone city. Captain - or perhaps, General?<BR> <BR> Maggrotz smiled grimly, his grip tightening, the massive muscles in his arms tensing. Suddenly, one hand clenched into a fist, which came pounding down on the wall, his smile becoming a snarl. Not all fools lived in Gondor! He spat fiercely, but carefully, to avoid the wind which whistled around this high battelment of the tower, Minas Morgul. From his vantage point, Maggrotz could see far across Ithilien. His mind leapt to the White City. Now was the time! Why couldn't the old fools see it? Why did they hesitate? The new weapon would insure their success! Victory over mankind - a throwing off of the accursed yoke of Gondor - a chance to rule all of Middle earth!<BR> <BR> Just like in the myths of old. How magnificent Mordor must have been in those ancient days! With such powerful allies as the fabled all-seeing eye, the orcs of old had stood ready to conquer the world! Maggrotz often wondered what had really happened. How had the legions of Mordor been defeated by a handful of puny humans? For that is what the legends claimed. And the oppressive taxation imposed by Gondor and it's smug kings gave the ring of truth to at least some part of the stories.<BR> <BR> As for the tales which spoke of a magic ring, wizards, and flying witch kings - Maggrotz snorted in derision. Nursemaids' stories for children and simpletons! No, Maggrotz had no use for magic. What he believed in was the cold, hard fact of what had been kept secret for so many ages, but which now invested the future rule of all Middle Earth in the hands of the orcs. The black powder - and all the deadly uses it could be put to! If only the blind leaders of Mordor would be made to see that this was the method of bringing the humans to their knees, of crushing their very bones into the dust! But so many still clung to the old ways, and refused to trust to the power of the ancient formula.<BR> <BR> Well, no matter. The smile returned to his face. There was time yet. And more than any other power on earth, Maggrotz believed in himself - his strength, his intelligence, his ability. Somehow he would bring these to bear to gain that which he wanted. For now, his sites were set on yet another swift promotion. This time to Captain of a battalion of 1000 highly trained swordsmen. But he would not be content to stop there. Oh, no! He'd show his brothers a thing or two. And by the time he was done, he'd be marching into Minas Tirith at the head of a column of thousands, all armed with weapons which released the "magic" of the black powder.<BR> <BR> He heard a hesitant cough behind him. <i>My lord, the council awaits within. Your father has sent me to summon you. Will you come?</i> The small servant trembled, not from fear, but with excitement at the prospect of what decision the council might reach this very night. All Mordor held it's breath, awaiting the word to march.<BR> <BR> <i>Yes, lead on.</i>Maggrotz inhaled deeply, relishing the chill air as it filled his lungs. He too awaited the outcome of tonight's meeting.
User avatar
Legs_all_lost
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 502
Joined: Tue Mar 05, 2002 1:51 pm
Top

Postby Arenial » Thu Jan 08, 2004 4:57 pm

<i>She was running. From what or who she didn't know, but nor did she care. She loved running. She loved the feel of her skirts and hair blowing around in the wind. It was a feeling of freedom... But suddenly, she wasn't running anymore. She was walking, with a group of people she didn't recognise. And then she wasn't walking, but a face of someone flashed before her eyes. And then a picture of a moon flashed in her mind--</i> <BR><BR>Kyla awoke. It was still dark outside. The windows of her room let in a small breeze. Now unable to sleep, she stepped out of bed and walked over to the window, staring out into the night at the stars and... the moon. It was unusually bright tonigh.<BR><BR><i>Just like the moon in my dream!</i><BR><BR>What did this mean?
User avatar
Arenial
Ranger of the North

 
Posts: 2088
Joined: Fri Apr 04, 2003 9:58 am
Location: Winnipeg, Manitoba
Top

Postby GollumsTorment863 » Thu Jan 08, 2004 5:28 pm

Drethlind quickened his pace as he approached the gates of Minas Tirith, hoping to reach them before the night guards began their shift. Though almost anyone could gain entrance into the White City nowadays, the night guards tended to ask far more bothersome questions, and in the end usually asked you to pay them a little admissions fee before they opened the gates. Drethlind usually could talk them out of it, the guards not being the most intelligent of Men, but it was much easier to simply not bother with them at all. <BR><BR>Looking up at the gates, Drethlind saw two of the day-guards standing at their posts, but another figure was there as well. A woman with dark, flowing hair stood beneath the stone archway which contained the gates. She seemed to be lost in her thoughts, yet as he approached the gates, she seemed to come out of her thoughts and look at him with curiosity. He glanced at the ground, not bothering to look back at her. He had more important things to think about. The vision he had seen in Rivendell continued to haunt his thoughts. He wished to go to his library (well, not <i>his</i> library, but he liked to think of it that way) and try to discover what his vision could mean. Or if nothing else, he wished for the solitude and quiet the libraries of Minas Tirith provided. <BR><BR>The guards merely glanced at him as Drethlind crossed the threshhold; they knew his face. Yet as he passed, he saw the woman approach him out of the corner of his eye. She touched his arm, trying to get his attention. She opened her mouth to speak, but her words were lost to Drethlind as a troupe of little boys ran past the entrance, shouting loudly to one another and creating a temporary distraction. Drethlind took advantage of the slight confusion caused by the rowdy boys and slipped past the gates and around the corner, making his way up to the 6th level of Minas Tirith, where his library stood.<BR>
User avatar
GollumsTorment863
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 528
Joined: Sat Apr 20, 2002 6:12 pm
Top

Postby orliesmyhusband » Thu Jan 08, 2004 8:31 pm

Why was she here? Thought Magdalen in frustration. What unknown force had compelled her to walk to the gate of the Citadel... she looked again to the figure. Cursing her mere human blood she strained to catch any signs of the person. 'If I were an elf I could easily scour the horizon beyond!!!' she thought in angst, but soon elvish sight was needed not. The guards too now spotted it, it was a man, perhaps just a traveller or even an inhabitant of the city. She now wondered why it was not strange that she was merely standing at the head of the city, uncomfortably staring at the approaching man. <BR><BR>He neared the Gate itself, the guards seemed to recognize him and Magdalen reached out to touch his arm. Something about this meeting was different, preplanned even. Her gentle hand made contact and for a split second their eyes met. His gaze was startlingly fixed upon hers. She went to speak, but her voice was drowned out as an unusually loud rabble of children passed. Her brows frowned in agony as the man took his leave. She sighed in frustration, wondering where he was going... 'I must follow him...' she thought, determined to find out more about him, their meeting was not chance. <BR><BR>She kept a safe distance behind him, trying to seem natural as she could. Up a level, then another. Where was he headed? She thought in distress, wondering if perhaps she would follow him to the White Tree to find that he had special business... <BR><BR>'Finally!' Magdalen nearly spoke aloud. They had reached the sixth level of the Citadel now and he seemed to be heading toward a final destination. She followed more closely, intrigued about his path. Suddenly he turned and disappeared into a stone framed doorway. The young woman looked up at the magestic entryway...'The Library...' she said aloud with some satisfaction. 'Perhaps I have found another scholar seeking answers!' she laughed, entering the doorway and searching for him among the rows of documents...
User avatar
orliesmyhusband
Ranger of the North

 
Posts: 4081
Joined: Tue Feb 12, 2002 7:09 pm
Top

Postby Legs_all_lost » Fri Jan 09, 2004 2:32 pm

Maggrotz followed the servant orc along several winding corridors, moving upwards on a series of steep staircases. He had spent most of his life in and around Minas Morgul, his father holding a prominent position in the Army of Mordor. But this was part of the tower that Maggrotz had seldom visited. It seemed a veritable rabbit's warren of chambers, antechambers, passageways, stairs and doors. One could easily get lost in its intricacies. That being the most probable reason for which this part of the tower had been chosen by the leaders for their most secluded meetings.<BR><BR> After several minutes, the servant paused before a dark wooden door, banded by steel reinforcements. Its crude artistry bespoke it as a leftover of times long past. Most of the tower and surrounding fortress reflected the aesthetic tastes of the orcs – stark, yet with beautiful lines of simplicity underlying superb workmanship of skilled artisans. But every so often, one ran across an anachronism such as this door before which Maggrotz now stood, a testament to a culture now overcome, of which few had any knowledge. Maggrotz himself had possessed little interest in such matters, consumed primarily by his desire for advancement and power from an early age. However, recently, with the "rediscovery" of the existence of a formula for the black powder, Maggrotz had spent hundreds of hours in the great library in the bowels of the tower, perusing such documents that still existed pertaining to the history of his race. There were few enough, either due to the neglect of their ancestors to safeguard whatever annals had been complied in those days; or, as Maggrotz was beginning to suspect was more likely, because there had been little to no writings made in those far-gone days.<BR><BR> The culture of their forbearers, certainly a mist enshrouded one, was a matter of some embarrassment for the orcs of Mordor. And thus, they were not inclined to delve too deeply into their past. Most accepted the popular sentiment that, although learned and refined, as the orcs were now, the ancients had been beset by some calamity which destroyed all records they had created. A few bold iconoclasts, however, propounded that the orcs of old had been a vicious, ignorant, and cowardly race which were little better than slaves to a mysterious overlord. These naysayers were always shouted down whenever the topic arose; indeed a few of them had actually disappeared under mysterious circumstances, which certainly had a dampening effect on their brethren. But Maggrotz, who had never before given the matter much thought one way or the other, had run across certain ancient tomes which referenced a society of orcs which were all, or as little, as the iconoclasts claimed. But for now, as unpopular as though ideas were, Maggrotz had kept his knowledge to himself, waiting for a time more suited to bring such writings to life.<BR><BR> Exhaling slowly, Maggrotz strode in a dignified manner through the door, which the servant now held open for him.<BR>
User avatar
Legs_all_lost
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 502
Joined: Tue Mar 05, 2002 1:51 pm
Top

Postby Istariquendi » Fri Jan 09, 2004 4:56 pm

<i>Why did I ever trust that damned cartographer?</i><BR><BR>Lorne thought with frustration as he walked blindly through a cavern he had never heard of before. This apparent well-lit and perfectly made tunnel turned out to be little less than a ruined hallway that he couldn't even see! How long had he been in here? It seemed as if hours had passed by here in the darkness. His stomach grumbled for food though he ignored it. He didn't trust this place enough to stop for food... <BR><BR>A stone that jutted out from the ground grabbed at his foot, making him stumble until he smacked his head against the wall he couldn't see. Damn it all! If he could curse, he would have, and loudly. However, his little condition prevented anything of the sort. With a sigh, he took the staff hanging from his back and held it before him, tapping the end of it against the ground. It was a trick he used quite often. It was one of the few things he was grateful for his ability. Wizardry did not bode well with others in this magicless age... He smiled slightly as the tip of his staff began to glow, revealing to him the extent of the mess he had gotten himself into. <BR><BR>Well, he was in a great cavern, that was for sure. Though he knew not where within the mountains this place lay. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rub away the sting of pain the bump had caused him. At last, he looked about him, using his staff to light the shadows before his eyes when suddenly, a skeleton clad in magnificent armor lay by his feet, gems glowing in the faded light. Both horrified and entranced by this strange, tomb-like scene, Lorne walked slowly forward. It was strange. Who was this man who had fallen here? The bones looked ancient encased within the armor. It almost seemed as if he were to touch them, they would simple disintigrate into dust and be borne away by the next breeze, if one could reach so deep a place within the earth. A glitter in the side of his vision made him turn, seeing a notched sword rusted upon the ground. Ever curious, Lorne bent down over it, gazing upon the finely crafted blade. Despite the rust, he could see the intricate designs upon it. Carved in flowing script were these:<BR><BR>"Baldor son of Brego, King of Rohan."<BR><BR>So this was the mysterious man. And he had been alive at the time when Rohan had kings! By the gods, this skeleton was ancient! But what was this? Inscribed beside the script was a series of crude letters that took Lorne a moment to decipher. The result disturbed him:<BR><BR>"Prince made Beggar before The Door..."<BR><BR><i>Door? What door? </i><BR><BR>A shadow moved above him, catching his attention He looked up to see nothing before him. But wait! There was something beyond the edge of his light. It seemed as if the darkness writhed about his tiny globe of light like millions of serpents twined together. Lorne rotated his staff to make the light shine brighter, but it did naught to help. There was a great evil about him. Of that he was sure. And his heart began to thud loudly in his chest as he came to realize it...<BR><BR>He hadn't known he was walking backward until he felt the wall against his back. Lorne took in a deep breath, trying desperately to calm himself down. It was only his imagination. It's only dark down here. That's all. Yet the darkness still seemed to move about him, as if it were but a congregation of shadows with nothing to cast them upon the floor... <BR><BR>Something distracted him as he stood there, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. The wall he was leaning on... it was too smooth to be the rough hewn walls of a cavern. Could it be? His hand searched beside him, his fingers running through the tiny rifts rent into the surface of the stone until at last they found a hollow with what seemed to be a stone latch. So, this was the door that they had described? Where did it lead? Why had the prince Baldor died trying to get in? What was so important?<BR><BR>The darkness began to hum about him, so low as to be beyond his hearing, yet he felt it nonetheless. It was as if this... presence about him was becoming excited, the movement becoming more apparent and seeming less as if it were born from his imagination. Fear gripped him then, sending chills through his body. He had to get through the door. Anywhere was better than this... it had to be. He gripped the latch and pulled with all his strength, yet it did not move.<BR><BR><i>Damn... Locked...</i><BR><BR>He prepared himself to try a spell, well, a potential spell. This was how he usually did this, on a whim. There really was no controlled way to do this anymore... As fast as he could he touched the four corners of the door and in the center he drew a symbol he learned that meant gateway. A soft light trailed from his fingers, making his mark glow in the darkness for a moment before it was absorbed into the door. He knocked on it, the hits ringing against the cavern walls until he heard a click from behind the door. He would've laughed if he could as the door swung inside revealing a stairwell, spiralling upward endlessly. He ran inside, slamming the door behind him, feeling the sweet relief as the evil was shut out behind. He took the opportunity to calm himself, waiting at the bottom of the stairs as his heart slowed within his chest. Thank the gods it worked!<BR><BR><i>Now what?</i><BR><BR>He looked up at the stairs before him. There was really only one way to go now. So there he stepped, climbing up higher and higher. It was strange, walking there in equal darkness. Yet the walls here were no where near as oppressing as the darkness beyond the door... He kept on going, wondering after many minutes when the stairs would end... At last, the hall opened before him, his small light spreading through a great circular room open to th sky. Stars twinkled brightly in the deep blue-blackness, surrounding two bright moons. Strange, that thing... He wondered what it meant.<BR><BR>With a smile, Lorne let the light from his staff fade, letting the starlight do its work. He walked over the floor, toward an open window. A breeze alighted him then, lifting his brown hair from his face. At first he reveled in the touch, yet it brought with it a strange scent. Salt... Suddenly, he was very alert as he walked the rest of the way, hanging over the side. There, many hundreds of feet below him, the sea crashed against jagged rocks that stretched high into this great tower. Where in Middle-earth was he?<BR><BR>"You're not in Middle-earth, Lorne." A voice said behind him, sounding familiar... Lorne turned about to see an old, bearded man behind him. He put a questioning look on his face, unable to speak the question on his mind.<BR><BR>"I think this will make you remember." Suddenly, the figure changed, a hood covering his face. Lorne remembered him all right. He was the man who had taught him how to use his gift, those years ago. He smiled slightly to affirm the man's statement.<BR><BR>"I bet you're wondering what you are doing here?" He asked. Lorne nodded his head. "Well, it seems as if you possess a certain skill that can help us Lorne. Or at least, those on Middle-earth who will do so." Lorne was confused again.<BR><BR>"As am I." The man said. His blue eyes sparkling with knowing. "It seems the world is changing faster than I would have guessed." He laughed slightly, looking deep into Lorne's violet eyes. Suddenly, his voice contained an ominous tone to it. "You've been handed a special gift, Lorne. The world has grown old, and seems ready to give in. There are few with the strength of old. You must go with them. Don't ask why. You'll find out soon enough, unfortunately. All I can tell you is that you must go to Minas Tirith. You'll find your way soon after." Lorne was still confused, wondering what the man was talking about. He sounded mad... "Trust me." Lorne smiled. He had no other place to go... "Good." The old man placed a hand on Lorne's shoulder, a comforting gesture. Suddenly, with a surge of strength, he gripped Lorne by his jacket and hurled him over the edge. <BR><BR>Lorne wished he could scream, wished he could focus all his fear and grief of the moment into one solid, agonizing sound. Yet his voice as always failed him. So, this is where trust got him. Yet, just as the cold waters were about to embrace him a blinding white light blinded him...<BR><BR>With a gasp, Lorne woke up in a cold sweat. He lay on a distant hill, looking down upon the white city, gleaming in the distance. He couldn't believe it. Had it all been a dream? Well, whatever had happened, he was on his way to Minas Tirith.
User avatar
Istariquendi
Ranger of the North

 
Posts: 2420
Joined: Sat Jan 19, 2002 6:48 pm
Top

Postby Belegûr » Fri Jan 09, 2004 5:25 pm

Grashûkh stood by the window of his house in Minas Morgul. That strange new moon was shining again, brighter than ever. For some reason, that moon frightened him. He grimaced. He did not like being frightened. Neither was he used to it. But now...he couldn't help but feel that this had to be a sign of some sort...a sign of something about to happen. Could it be related to the war? He didn't know. That was another thing he didn't like; not knowing. What he did know, however, was that he felt...changed...after the moon had made its appearance. It was as if something ancient was stirring within him, something that had always been there, buried, unnoticed. Somehow, it made him feel better, in a way he was unable to put words to.<BR><BR>Should he tell the Council? Should he try to discover if the others had felt the change? It didn’t take him long to discard that idea. He knew how the Council worked; it would be taken as a sign of weakness, and before the week had passed he would be replaced...probably dead. He hadn’t come this far only to throw it all away so rashly because of a feeling, never a highly valued subject in Orcish discussions. And even less so now. Not with the chance to cast off the Gondorian yoke seeming so real, so close. Everything had changed so quickly. Only a few years ago, all the tales of the old glories had been laughed at; something that was taught to children, perhaps, but nothing an adult Orc really believed in. The diggings at the believed site of the Dark Tower had been a heavily opposed undertaking. He himself had been among the detractors. Dark Tower? All-seing Eye? Ring of Power? Children’s tales, no more. But then they had found something. Nobody had understood what, not until an entire team of researchers had been killed by the explosion. After that, they had been quick to figure out uses for it. Always a people with a keen sense of the practical, his race; especially in matters of war. And so it had began. Experiments first, and once they were over: mass production. Ever done in secret, ever kept carefully hidden from the human “masters”. Until now. The Council had debated violently; it had almost come to blows on several occasions. In the end, though, they had all agreed as he did. This new weapon gave them an advantage. An advantage such as they had not had for an Age. An advantage that must be used while it still existed. Once again, their armies would spread fear through all of Middle-Earth. With Gondor divided like now, it almost looked too easy.<BR><BR>But then there was the moon. And once again, he felt the world changing too quickly for him to keep up. No, he would not tell the council. He would find his answers, and he would find them alone. Wearily, he turned away from the window. The world might be changing, but it could hardly get worse.<BR>
User avatar
Belegûr
Mariner

 
Posts: 7063
Joined: Mon Oct 09, 2000 4:00 am
Location: Oslo, Norway
Top

Postby Aduial » Fri Jan 09, 2004 6:12 pm

Larenteth awoke to the insistent prodding at his back. The more he moved, the more it prodded. Groaning, the young lanky swordsmith opened his bleary eyes. The last heat of the cooling forge was but a memory now; the room was dark and cold, except for a single, low-burning lamp. Larenteth sleepily picked himself off the floor, throwing aside the thin blanket. Still only half-awake, he pulled out from behind him a stack of swords. <BR>“Fabulous,” the young man groaned with a yawn, realizing he had fallen asleep on a pile of lethal weapons. With a clang and clatter he pulled his relatively tall body to its feet. His face was darkened and chill with cold sweat from a morning at the forge; he had fallen asleep for an afternoon nap without paying much attention to cleaning up. <BR><BR>With quickening pace Larenteth flitted with light foot around the forge, placing tools and projects in their rightful places. He stopped for a moment to lovingly eye his current work: a beautiful sword for a lady in town. What she wanted with a sword, he had no idea, but she was a customer nonetheless. Three knives with decorative handles were on order for a wealthy man – Larenteth needed to take extra care with those. <BR><BR>With everything in its place, Larenteth scurried to the shallow bowl of water that resided at the far end of the room. He washed his face, shivering at the cold temperature of the water, and neatened his clothes. The clothes had been a gift from some women that he knew well and was on good terms with, after filling their order for twelve personalized swords for a very decent price. They made him outfits of grey and black that not only suited well for work, but, as they had put it, made him look “dashing.” It had become a long-running joke between him and many of his friends, ladies and lads alike. The tight grey shirt kept out of the way of his work and allowed mobility in manning the forge, and the black pants were suited for all types of heat and cold. Thick, light-colored leather straps crisscrossed twice over the pants, down to his sturdy black boots. His hair also being black, Larenteth had protested the rather dark look. They women only complied enough to make him an evergreen cloak that brought out his intense green eyes. <BR><BR>Lastly, Larenteth took out the leather cord that tied back his hair during work. His long black hair fell down to mid-back. Two shorter pieces, only shoulder length, hung in front while the rest tucked behind his ears. The swordsmith donned his evergreen cloak and black hat before walking out the door into the chill evening.<BR><BR>The wind stung at his face; Larenteth was thankful his long hair kept at least the back of his neck warm. The black hat, wide-brimmed and long-pointed, fluttered in the breeze. He abandoned the scenic rout on the outside walls for the roads in between buildings. Though not as pretty, passing through here was always very social for Larenteth. He was well liked, and indeed a very likeable guy. His sarcastic wit won him more fights than muscle ever could – indeed it rather saved him from fights. Not that there were many, but occasionally someone would not be amused by the young man’s humor. <BR><BR>“Larenteth! Oy!” He turned to see a plump woman, a steaming pot in hand, calling to him from a doorway. “You runnin’ from someone?” She asked shrewdly.<BR><BR>“Not today, Mrs. Lunter, but I can assure that you will be the very first to know if I ever become a convict running from Gondor law officials. But if you like, I can stir up something to run from,” Larenteth replied, touching his hand to his hat.<BR><BR>“Yer a good boy Larenteth,” she replied with a grin. “Would ya like some stew?” She asked, raising the pot in her hands.<BR><BR>“It smells delightful, but I am afraid I must be off. Business tonight!” He lifted his right arm, which held an oblong package. <BR><BR>“Oh, you’ll be going to the bar straight after and yeh know it!” The woman scolded with a smile, brandishing her soup ladle at him. <BR><BR>“Caught again! I fear that I have to be going though. Fare well, Mrs. Lunter, I shall see thee anon!” Larenteth saluted with a cordial bow. The woman smiled, stirring her soup.<BR><BR>“Yer a good boy, Larenteth. You stay out of trouble, hear?”<BR><BR>“I always do,” Larenteth replied with a smile and continued on. <BR><BR>“Oy, Larenteth!” A smaller boy called, “You finish my sword yet?”<BR><BR>“It should be done in about five years, when you get big enough to hold it,” Larenteth answered with a wink. <BR><BR>He continued through the city as evening wore into twilight, receiving similar remarks and acquaintances. Many people called out to him jokes no one else really understood, greetings and shouts. Little kids would swarm in his footsteps, mimicking him as he walked. He would purposely walk funny, making people laugh at the mini parade that tramped after him for a street or two before disbanding. He stopped finally at one door and knocked. A boy only a few years younger than him answered. A smile broadened across his face and the two greeted each other as old friends. “I have the knife for your father,” Larenteth announced, bringing a smaller box out of the longer package. The young man took it and went to put it in his father’s room. In the meantime, an older woman stepped out of a warm kitchen, smelling of a wonderful dinner. <BR>“What’s this Larenteth? No greeting for me?” She was a stout little woman, plumper than Mrs. Lunter and with a round, jovial face.<BR>“Aw, how could I forget? Greetings and salutations, my dear Mrs. Filhearth.”<BR>“Boy, you’re getting taller and taller! Bend down and give old Mina a hug!”<BR>He did so, catching a waft of floral perfume mixed in with the seasoned smell of cooking. Two small girls ran out of the kitchen, their short brown hair tousled and their cotton nightgowns tangled around their legs. “Can we braid your hair again Larenteth?!” They giggled excitedly. Larenteth picked up on of the twins and mussed her hair before setting her back down.<BR>“Not tonight, I must be going on more business.”<BR>The girls let out an “aww!” of disappointment and pouted. <BR>Larenteth smiled and gave Mrs. Filhearth, who had been like a mother to him since childhood, a kiss on the cheek before heading for the door. He made to leave, then popped his head back in. “Tell you what, girls,” he addressed to the twins, “I’ll dance with both of you at the next dance. I’ll even buy you pretty ribbons for your hair.” The little girls giggled with glee and Larenteth closed the door. <BR><BR>Outside the chill air hit him harder, having been indoors. He needed to get down to the tavern to meet his next client, a person he did not know much at all. The sword he ordered was long and about two inches wide. Not too ornate, but very demanding and craftsmanship. The curving hilt was bound in soft leather and the metal had to be impeccable and immensely strong. He had confidence in his skill, but it still made him nervous. Plus it had taken a whole pile of metal mess-ups before the sword had reached a moderately okay stage.<BR><BR>A strong, older messenger boy leapt out and caught up with Larenteth. He heaved a heavy shoulder bag, clanging with metal pieces, onto Larenteth’s left shoulder and held his hand out for payment. The bag, however, abruptly slid from Larenteth’s shoulder. “No that shoulder, boy! The right one!” They older boy looked at him reproachfully a moment, then remembered. Larenteth’s left should was slightly lower than his right, perhaps some form of scoliosis in his spine from heaving heavy metal around without all the care he should have. <BR><BR>When the boy stooped to pick up the bag, he saw an oblong item that had fallen from Larenteth’s pocket. It was about a foot long, sheathed in worn, ancient leather and bound with crisscrosses of thinner leather strips. Before the boy could touch it, Larenteth scooped up and back into his pocket. “Come on, hurry with that bag, I have to drop that metal off before I run to the tavern to deliver a sword,” Larenteth scolded the boy. He threw the messenger a coin before hurrying on his way. The moon was rising and his customer was waiting.<BR><BR>Larenteth took a double take on that moon. How strange it looked lately. <BR>His long hair blew across his fair face, shielding his luminous green eyes from the sight. Business waited for no man. <BR>
User avatar
Aduial
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1991
Joined: Sat Mar 02, 2002 6:24 pm
Top

Postby GollumsTorment863 » Fri Jan 09, 2004 6:54 pm

Drethlind entered the library with a sigh of satisfaction as the smell of aging books and old documents flooded his senses. He spent practically all of his time here, and even lived in quarters which were built off of the main building. And what a magnificent building it was. Huge, with several stories and many rooms and hallways filled with books, documents, and scrolls. Beautiful statues and paintings also were contained in this building, many of them dating from as far back as the beginning of the Third Age. However, the older articles were kept in the back rooms, where they would be better preserved due to less air coming in from outside. Most citizens of Gondor weren't very interested in the old documents anyway, so it was more sensible to keep the newer books in the front rooms. <BR><BR>Dropping his haversack on the floor and throwing his traveling cloak over a chair, Drethlind stretched briefly, trying to relieve his travel-weary muscles. Sighing, he meandered slowly between shelves, trailing his fingers along the spines of the books, not bothering to read the titles. He had memorized the proper place for every text in the library, save for a few which always seemed to escape his memory. He continued to walk through his library, his home, not really bothering to think about anything important, save for a few vague thoughts which entered his mind. <i>I suppose Talin has headed home early, the library wasn't supposed to close for another fifteen minutes or so. Lazy boy, that's the last time I let him look after the library in my absence....This book's not in its place, it should be in the architectural section....Hmm, once I get some rest I'll start looking up more information about my dream. I think I might know what it means. And then that woman at the entrance, she seemed like she knew something I didn't, but perhaps that's just my tired mind delving too deeply into matters....</i><BR><BR>Drethlind was suddenly startled out of his reverie by a voice.<BR><BR>"Excuse me?"<BR><BR>Jumping slightly, he turned around. He tried to hide his surprise when he saw who it was. The woman who had tried to approach him at the gates had followed him all the way here? Feigning disinterest, Drethlind sighed in an irritated fashion and brushed past her, trying to look as if he had been doing something useful. Taking out several random books from the shelves, he hoisted them in one arm and walked to a desk towards the front of the library. He placed the books on the desk and opened one, then started scribbling nonsense on a piece of parchment. <BR><BR>"The library is closed, madam. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow."
User avatar
GollumsTorment863
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 528
Joined: Sat Apr 20, 2002 6:12 pm
Top

Postby Lady_Aremin » Fri Jan 09, 2004 9:13 pm

The endless horizon was now lost in the dark chasms of night as Fallan rode on to the Inn. Now in the middle of the Pelennor, about a day from Minas Tirith, the young woman was beginning to feel truly free for once, able to explore her world and also able to take care of and defend herself. <BR><BR>Fallan reached the large Inn, or large for the time period, being three floors high with two common rooms, which was a haven for travellers on the Pelennor. Fallan dismounted with relative ease from Oreth's tall back, jumping agily down as her long, very dark brunette hair flew up and then cascaded down her back. The sixteen year old's large, deep green eyes gazed sharply hither and thither, taking in their surroundings before proceeding the final hundred or so paces to the entryway towards the inn. Even on the fields near the White City a maiden alone was not safe, not now in these turbulent days, anyway. <BR><BR>Oreth, reins dragging along the ground and saddlebags swinging from her thin stomach, followed behind Fallan without hesitation around the back of the Inn and under its swinging sign which read: The Inn of the White Tower. As Fallan rounded the back of the massive wood and stone establishment, she heard heavy breathing and distinct yet stumbling footfalls bumbling towards her. <BR><BR>Suddenly she heard a loud and cracked voice singing a broken and badly rhyming song from the shadows cast by the large stone stable building which was followed shortly by an obviously drunk, old grey man holding a full pint of sloshing, yellowish ale. Fallan fingered her sword hilt and as Oreth walked by, Fallan slapped one of the mare's white hindquarters sharply, which sent the mare trotting in through the open archway of the stable. The haggard, grey bearded man came closer and closer to Fallan still repeating the slurred words of a song. Fallan quickly discerned bits a pieces of the lewd and rather offensive song as the drunk swayed within three strides of her.<BR><BR><i>So the wench I think so fair<BR>With the long and shining hair<BR>Won't talk to me<BR>And turns away<BR>Soo I force her up the stairs!<BR><BR>When I get her up the stairs<BR>Her into a room I bear<BR>Oh she kicks and...</i><BR><BR>General Aidan's daughter had heard enough. She drew Uveneth, which shone with a silver luster and flash in the light of...two moons?! Her sea-green eyes quickly inspected the sky, thoughts racing as her knowledge of the lore and tales of old clouded her mind. Fallan stood, sword tip almost touching the ground, lost in contemplation with her situation quite forgotten, until a rough and calloused hand came from behind and touched her slender neck, closing around it in a lustful and commanding gesture. <BR><BR>The warrior maiden reacted with the speed of unconcious reflexes. In less than half a moment the drunkard howled in confused pain and dropped his pint of ale onto the dusty path as his hand came up to cover and stop the blood flow of a long but shallow gash on his left forearm. <BR><BR>"Let this be a warning to you, foul drunk. Too much ale and lustful intentions will bring you nothing but strife," Fallan said,her green eyes flashing disgustedly. She worried not for the man's blood loss because the cut was shallow enough and would stop bleeding on its own within minutes. She quickly turned to wipe Uveneth clean as the grey beard made his way hastily towards the Inn but she looked in amazement at the blade as it shone brightly in the moonlight. <i>It has no blood upon it! But I saw the blade pierce his skin!</i> Fallan was amazed at the ancient elven weapon but returned it to it's plain leather scabbard as she remembered Oreth and her saddle bags.<BR><BR>Upon entering the dimly lit stable many strong fumes of manure and fresh hay met Fallan's nose and a laughable sight met her eyes. Oreth was standing in a stall patiently awaiting her master as her large black eyes looked calmly around the stable. The mare tossed her white head and mane in greeting as Fallan ran up to her and smiled, scratching between Oreth's swiveling white ears. <BR><BR>"Truly, my friend, I am blessed to have you," she said, and laughed as Oreth neighed loudly.
User avatar
Lady_Aremin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1495
Joined: Thu Nov 06, 2003 3:01 pm
Top

Postby Aduial » Sat Jan 10, 2004 2:24 pm

Larenteth hurried as fast as he could through the winding streets, the bag of metal weighing him down. He dropped that off at a friend’s house; he would return to pick it up later. <BR><BR>At last Larenteth reached the tavern. It was one of the nicer one’s, frequently visited by guards and officials. With a deep breath, the young swordsmith walked through the hand-carved door. The smell of ale and evening dinner greeted him, taunting his tastebuds for the third time tonight. Through fairly thin, Larenteth could easily eat more than most men in a meal. He ignored his growling stomach, however, to sit at the table where he would meet his customer. He had not yet met this person; a messenger boy had delivered the order. Larenteth laid his parcel on the table, breathing a sigh of relief that he had arrived a little early and not late. He did not have to wait long before a deep voice spoke his name. <BR><BR>Larenteth turned to see a man, not the tallest of people but by no means short, standing before him. His beard was a brunette, though a few strands of grey shone through. His straight, shoulder-length hair was likewise in color and age, and though the man seemed only just getting to middle-age, his face was careworn. But what drew Larenteth’s eyes was the man’s fine clothing, which consisted of a black tunic, black breeches, a white belt, and knee-length riding boots made of medium brown doeskin. A silver mantle hung about his shoulders – a characteristic of Gondorian military leaders. This man had to be a prominent man in the Gondorian military.<BR><BR>Larenteth almost laughed with the memory of the words he had spoken to Mrs. Lunter earlier: “<i>I can assure that you will be the very first to know if I ever become a convict running from Gondor law officials”</i> Law officials, try military. At least he wasn’t running from him…this was certainly a sharp man. The keen look in his eyes told Larenteth that. <BR><BR>Larenteth introduced himself formally, and the man, General Aidan Debourelle, did as well. A general? Good thing the sword had come out all right. <BR><BR>“General, here is the sword you ordered with all specifications,” Larenteth said, taking the sword out of its package. The general examined it from hilt to tip, gripping it and testing its balance. Larenteth held his breath through all of this, praying it had come out well enough. To his relief, the general smiled and replaced the sword to its package.<BR> <BR>
User avatar
Aduial
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1991
Joined: Sat Mar 02, 2002 6:24 pm
Top

Postby orliesmyhusband » Sat Jan 10, 2004 8:03 pm

"The library is closed, madam. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow." The words came like a heavy to blow Magdalen. Infact the woman became so flustered that she forgot her motive of following this man. <BR><BR>'The library is not closed, and you are not one with the authority to do so...' she said in a sarcastic joking way. The man looked up at her after apparently pouring over the same page of his book for some time. 'What do you want?' he said with a sigh, obviously trying to roll her off his shoulders. A satisfied and persistant Magdalen sat down at the table across from him, a few flickering candles illuminated her every facial crevice. 'I want to know why you are here... what is your purpose...' <BR><BR>She stared meaningfully at him, but again he lowered his head to his pages. He anxiously fingered the corner of the aged books, the smell of must and a few dust particles being cast airborne. She leaned in closer and slightly cocked her head. ' What is stirring beyond the walls...' she asked, a slight rise in the intensity of her voice. 'I feel it and yet I can experience nothing... something is happening, a new power is rising...but what...you must know... I believe I was sent to receive you... did you not feel something too?"<BR><BR>The young man looked slightly put aback at this question. As he pondered the brunette infront of him Magdalen noticed the acute handsomness in his face. He was a good looking man, if not slightly older and weather beaten. A traveller perhaps...but a learned man if anything... not many people come to this library without purpose... and as she had followed him it seemed that he knew exactly where every book was supposed to be placed.
User avatar
orliesmyhusband
Ranger of the North

 
Posts: 4081
Joined: Tue Feb 12, 2002 7:09 pm
Top

Postby GlassHouse » Sat Jan 10, 2004 9:31 pm

The Inn of The Winged Nazgul in the Pelennor district of Minas Tirith was packed with the usual collection of all the worst the city had to offer. The long, low ceilinged and dimly lit room reverberated with a jumble of disjointed words, laughter and.... music. <BR>In one corner of the long-room, a particularly tallentless bard, adamantly plunked away at a song, crooning in a wavering, wispy voice, just barely to audible above the noise of the raucous patrons. <BR>It was a deeply sentimental ballad of his own making, about the passing of the Late King and he was quite proud of this latest - and to his mind - best effort of his. He had spent all day honing it to perfection in his small, bare room and had been eager to debut it this evening. But as usual, his audience was less than enthusiastic about his work. <BR> <BR>"Pling Plink"<BR>"Pling Plink"<BR>"Pling Plunk"<BR><BR>Gwennor, Lieutenant of the Guard of the Third Circle, snorted into his ale, spewing it over the top of his cup and onto his two companions. His mirth caused him to swallow down his windpipe and he choked loudly, slamming the tankard down on the plank tabletop and splattering more drink everywhere. <BR>Gwennor had come to the tavern directly after getting off duty and he was still wearing the fine black and silver livery of his office. Even so, he was a rough looking man, he was well known in this district and not at all out of place in this gathering. <BR>More than six feet in height and powerfully built, his eyes so strikingly dark that you could not tell where the iris ended and the pupils began and though his complexion was fair, the hair crowning his head was as jet black as his tunic. He would have had a rugged, dark nobility about him - if his black eyes were not quite so cold and hard. <BR><BR>"In name of all that glitters and is <i><u>not</u></i> Gold!!" he gasped. "What possessed this artless tool to think he should purge his dreamy, dewy eyed, dismal dissembling in a public place!" <BR><BR>The bard, a skinny, frail looking kid with greasy hair and too pale skin, seemed so intent upon his playing that nothing, not even the taunts of the unruly crowd could break the spell he was under. His tattered clothes were barely more than rags. Faded and patched, they bespoke a prolonged lack of prosperity and he looked like he had neither slept nor eaten in days. Yet his face was rapt with an angelic concentration and beads of earnest perspiration glistened on his forehead as he played.<BR><BR>Gwennor's companions guffawed, slapping each other and spilling more ale about the table.<BR><BR>"I'm getting quite tired of that tune, boy!" Gwennor shouted at the hapless minstrel. "Perhaps you should play another?"<BR><BR>"No! No! Please! Not another!" laughed his friends. <BR><BR>Now, now, you disreputable drunkards, give the boy a chance. Perhaps he just needs better material. Hey boy! Do you know this one?<BR><BR><i>"Oh, the minstrels sing of an ancient King<BR>of many long years ago<BR>he ruled this land with an iron hand<BR>though his morals were weak and low.<BR><BR>His only garment was a tattered old shirt<BR>That barely kept hid his royal pride<BR>but never could hide the dirt..."</i><BR><BR>The crowd roared, cutting off both Gwennor's deep baritone and the bards own weak voice. Yet the bard bravely pretended not to hear the insults and clearing his throat, continued to murder his simple melody.<BR> <BR>"Agh! he's be takin' no prisoners! StoP! No More, Please! You windless, guts-griping, canker-blossom!" <BR><BR>Now the crowd in the Nazgul was starting to really pay attention to the bard and the bard was finally beginning to notice them too. More jeers were hurled his way and someone threw an empty tankard which the boy managed to dodge only by falling off his stool and clattering to the dirty, sawdust strewn floor. The crowd roared again with laughter and more missiles came his way. Crocks, bones and half eaten food filled the air. <BR><BR>Gwennor blinked heavily and tried to focus his bleary eyes. He saw the mounting fear in the minstrel's glassy eyes and a tiny spark of pity stirred somewhere in his fuzzy brain. <i>"Poor dumb bast*rd,"</i> he thought, <i>"I hope this doesn't get too messy"</i>. <BR><BR>The boy struggled to his feet, clutching his broken harp in one hand and looking dazedly around the room for an escape route. Another heavy tankard came sailing from somewhere in the crowd. This time the missile found it's mark and the boy went sprawling back to the floor, a large gash on his forehead. Sawdust and blood smeared and matted the boy's stringy hair as he sought desperately for any sympathetic face in the crowd for help. <BR>His eyes lit on the black and silver of Gwennor's uniform and he reached out beseeching to the Guardsman for his protection, not realizing that it was Gwennor himself who had been the instigator of his misery.<BR><BR><BR>Gwennor sighed and heaved his huge frame up from the table and in his deepest, most commanding "Guardsman's voice" he bellowed at the crowd to settle down. The missiles trailed raggedly off and Gwennor dragged the limp form of the skinny boy from off the floor. He marched the confused and humiliated bard as quickly as he could through the crowd and towards the door. <BR><BR>"Listen boy," he said. "I don't want to tell a man how to make his living... but perhaps you're not suited to this trade."<BR><BR>"Huh?"<BR><BR>"It's something to consider." said Gwennor as he pushed the still bleeding boy out into the dark city street and slammed the door.<BR><BR>"Uhm, thanks..." said the minstrel to the empty street.
User avatar
GlassHouse
Mariner


 
Posts: 7479
Joined: Mon Nov 05, 2001 6:51 pm
Location: NH
Top

Postby Legs_all_lost » Sun Jan 11, 2004 12:38 am

Stepping into the room, Maggrotz rapidly assessed the other occupants. He was not surprised by most of the attendees of tonight's meeting. Fifteen or so of the most prominent leaders in both the military and the ruling class were present; faces which were recognizable, if not exactly familiar, to him. Having been raised a son of one of Mordor's most charismatic and influential generals, Maggrotz, and his two older brothers, had numerous opportunities to meet and greet some of the most important personages in the country. <BR><BR>However, 'meeting and greeting' did not mean forming close relationships with these powerful orcs. He was after all only a lowly lieutenant himself. In Mordor, one still had to prove one's worth; it was not a society given to easy acceptance of anyone. "Dog eat dog" might be the first phrase to come to mind when considering the social structure of the orc society. And Maggrotz had certainly eaten his share, especially lately, since the discovery of the formula for black powder. He now stood as the one most responsible for its development – at least that was what his supporters stoutly claimed, anticipating future rewards for their loyalty. For if, ruthless backstabbing was the watchword for rising through the ranks, forming strong alliances with others who had the same goal in mind was also an essential facet of success. One simply had to keep a very close eye on one's allies.<BR><BR>With this thought in mind, Maggrotz scanned the crowd, looking for his brothers, two of his closest allies. Allies, but not friends. He needed them, just as they needed him. But each one knew there would come a day when one must make his move to step ahead of the other two; and where that would end, they could only surmise. Each brother nursed an all-consuming vision of himself as supreme commander of all the armies of Mordor. Something their father had not yet been able to achieve. Now, given his sons' ambitions, it was unlikely that he ever would.<BR><BR>Maggrotz did not see either his brothers or his father. A flicker of unease ran through him, like the feeling of tension before a storm. His summons before the council had been sudden, yet not unexpected. Maggrotz had indeed been waiting, somewhat impatiently, these last few days to have his chance to appear before these leaders to convince them of what he knew in his heart was going to be the salvation and liberation of his race. When Suggruck had found him an hour ago and said the council was ready for him, Maggrotz was prepared to lay his case before them. But he had not anticipated doing so alone, especially as it was his father's influence that was gaining him this opportunity in the first place.<BR><BR>"So, Maggrotz, we are to hear at last of your wild plans for this fire powder! At least this meeting should be entertaining!" General Chunt, one of his father's oldest cronies, smiled slyly at the younger orc, his face an unreadable mask. "And I hear that not only do you hold the key to our future victories in your hand, but you even promise knowledge of our enemies' secrets! Well, well, well! An orc of great versatility – undoubtedly one to keep our eyes on." Maggrotz was well used to keeping his own face impassive, giving away nothing. He was unsure how to take Chunt's remarks; Father's allies were not always his own.<BR><BR>"Yes, General, I believe I can convince the council of the necessity of utilizing the black powder to its fullest potential as our primary weapon. There is no need to rely on outdated methods. We must be prepared to wage this war on an all out basis – to free our race and see us take our rightful place as rulers of all Middle Earth . . ."<BR><BR>"Outdated methods?" Chunt interrupted. "I'd be careful of how you phrase your proposal, Lieutenant! Choose your words well, or you may risk alienating those who could be your staunchest supporters. And I've heard WHO your little spy is! A poor choice on your part; I would have counseled you otherwise. But your father has indicated that you have been reluctant of late to take the advice of your betters." With this, the General turned away abruptly, with a loud snort.<BR><BR>"Maggrotz, son of Gaggolz, the council is now ready to hear you speak. Step forward!"<BR><BR>Having no time to consider the nuances of Chunt's rebuke, Maggrotz turned towards the speaker, Suggruck, the council's odious toady. With a slight inclination of his head, he cleared his mind of all but the matter at hand, and began "My lords ..."
User avatar
Legs_all_lost
Rider of the Mark
 
Posts: 502
Joined: Tue Mar 05, 2002 1:51 pm
Top

Postby Tobias_Red-tail » Sun Jan 11, 2004 7:31 am

In the small tavern off the docks of Umbar named the Cove, impoverished nobles mixed freely with thieves who had suffered the punishment of having their fingers shattered to prevent them from repeating the offence, and young runaways from all walks of life bumped shoulders with the seasoned Corsair captains that came to the place to recruit new members for their crew to replace those who had lost their lives in raids. Yet now, as opposed to their predecessors who had helped found the city of Umbar, the new Corsairs were its outcasts, men and women who were dealt a particularly cruel hand by fate. Bitter as most of them may be, they live by romantic notions such as the looting only vessels that carry a great wealth with them in the form trade goods, and the careful avoidance of causing excessive injury to the parties involved, unless the man traveling on board happens to be the one who caused the downfall of one of their own comrades, and then the entire ship would be sent to the bottom of the ocean after revenge was claimed, and every last thing of value taken from it. <BR><BR>That day, however, strangely enough, the place seemed to lack the hustle and bustle that usually surrounded it, and the tavern, for the first time in all the years it had been open, had its doors locked. Yet inside, voices could be heard, at times even shouts of protests. Something important was going on this day, and the men and women who waited outside the tavern for their captains were engaged in discussions over what could be serious enough for the Lord of Corsairs, as they called their chieftain, to send for the captains from all ships to meet at the Cove. Inside, however, the discussion was getting increasingly heated, as all the captains were unable to agree on the course of action.<BR><BR>“We should not even be discussing this foolish topic Sachairi. My ship will not be choosing one of the three contenders to the throne to side with in the coming battle.”<BR><BR>“Can you not see, Adil, that Sachairi is doing this to return you to your place in the business sector?” Sachairi’s first mate retorted.<BR><BR>“Kirin, you are but a child, completely removed from the world of politics and business. The man we choose to support will use and discard us like rubbish.”<BR><BR>“Adil, we have to see the bigger picture as well. How many of those present here, and those waiting outside, would love the chance to return to life as they knew it?” Another captain answered.<BR><BR>“I for one. My fingers were shattered for the foolish crime of stealing a rich man’s purse, and being slow enough to get caught. To return to a life in the streets cannot vie with the sense of freedom that comes with the feeling of the sea breeze blowing in my face.”<BR><BR>“Stop this foolish banter, the whole lot of you. For any who love the sea this much, an agreement will definitely be possible between us and the man whom we choose to serve, should he become king. If you wish to avoid taking sides in this battle, allow me to inform you why we should. By supporting one of the three, we can supply him with a force strong enough to be reckoned with, and after his ascension to the throne, we can try to get him to place those of us who desire our rightful positions in them, and for the rest, another agreement can be reached.”<BR><BR>“Your words drip with uncertainty, Sachairi. Nothing is confirmed. We could end up supporting the wrong party and lose all we have, perhaps even end up prosecuted for supporting who we chose. What will we do then?”<BR><BR>“And it is precisely because of the choice of who to support that I called the meeting!”<BR><BR>“Can you safely proclaim that more than half of those gathered here will risk their life on a foolish attempt to return to their rightful positions? All those who agree with our Lord here, place the white parchment into the box up front, and for those who do not, place a red one there instead.”<BR><BR>In an hour or so, the voting was done, and there were many more white parchments than red, and Sachairi’s eyes were filled with delight. Those who disagreed were forced to remain silent now, after they had seen the amount of people who desired their former lives back.<BR><BR>“Now whom do we vote for? Eldrich, who has Gondor serving him, or Elestar, who has mustered the forces of Rohan and the outlying territories?”<BR><BR>“What about Gothmond?”<BR><BR>“He is already our enemy, in a way. He had allied himself with Umbar, allied himself with those who have cast us out of their society. To serve him would mean being forced to work with the men who have made us into what we are now, a band of impoverished nobles, starry-eyed runaways, thieves suffering an eternity for a single petty crime, and illegitimate children of the eminent personalities of Umbar.”<BR><BR>Now the assembled captains muttered among themselves, trying to decide which of the two would be a better choice. After a while, a decision was reached, and they had chosen Elestar over Eldrich. No reason was offered for their choice, the closest being.<BR><BR>“He seems an easier man to trust than Eldrich.”<BR><BR>Now, with the decision made, the captains returned to their respective ships to break the news to their men, and Sachairi turned to his first-mate.<BR><BR>“I need to send some representatives to Elestar, to inform him that for the first time in the history of Middle Earth, the Sea Wolves will be joining forces with that of Rohan. You will go with the ship that I will be sending, and although you will not speak directly with Elestar, for we are all used to their reactions when they discover that the representative I sent is only sixteen, accusing me of disrespect even though I send my first-mate with them. You will set sail with the crew of the Wavedancer tomorrow for Dol Amroth. The way you take to Rohan will be your own to choose.” <BR><BR> ***<BR><BR>That fateful day had occurred nearly a week ago now, and after this last night spent at sea, the Wavedancer would be pulling into the harbor of Dol Amroth, appearing to be no more than another merchant ship bearing wares from the south. Kirin sat alone in the crow’s nest, a position she had made her own because of her ‘young eyes’, reflecting for the hundredth time on the discussion that had took place that night. In a few days, they would be riding for Edoras, the place where they were to meet Elestar, the man whom the Lord of Corsairs was about to swear their allegiance to, for under the pretense of returning his men to the positions that were rightfully theirs, his whole purpose for staking the lives of his men in a foolish civil war that could claim the lives of half his fleet was to claim a long awaited revenge on those that had cast an important noble family plummeting from the heights of wealth and glory to the depths of poverty for being accused of some obscure reason. <BR><BR>She pushed these depressing thoughts out of her mind for now, telling herself that she might as well enjoy this last night of drifting in the sea before the war set in. Yet when she turned her eyes to gaze at the sky, Kirin noticed that instead of the usual one moon, another had rose to accompany the silver disc that had hung alone until now. Something big was happening to the world, and a thrill surged through her at the thought that she could be in something great enough to go into the annals of history.
User avatar
Tobias_Red-tail
Ranger of the North
 
Posts: 2102
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2002 11:07 pm
Top

Postby Belegûr » Sun Jan 11, 2004 1:45 pm

Grashûkh sat with the other councillors, listening to the lieutenant…what was his name again? Ah yes...Maggortz... He couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. How could he possibly know that the Council had debated and decided this issue three days ago? But then, that was how Orcish society worked, and the lieutenant probably didn’t expect to gain too much from this single meeting anyway. He seemed bright enough, especially for one from the military. And there seemed to be more to his words than what was obvious...an unusual degree of fervour from an officer on the rise through the ranks. No, this Orc was not just your normal soldier. Grashûkh made a mental note to find out more about him...maybe he could prove useful. He certainly was ambitious enough; that much was for certain. And ambition could always be turned in the right way.<BR><BR>The rest of the meeting went exactly as it was suposed to, of course. A lot of fiery arguments for appearance’s sake, but in the end everyone agreed. Permission was given to continue developing the military uses of the black powder. Of course, the process was already well under way, but the additional proposals made tonight opened up even more possibilities. Always a practically minded people, indeed. And with everyone eager to discover something that would give them some added status, that held even more true than usual these days.<BR><BR>Coming home after the meeting, Grashûkh thought about his further course of action. He would arrange to have this Maggortz watched for a few days. He did not employ spies, of course. No Orc would ever admit to that. But he did have ways to aquire information, and he knew how to use them. Whatever it was the lieutenant knew, he would learn soon enough. <BR>
User avatar
Belegûr
Mariner

 
Posts: 7063
Joined: Mon Oct 09, 2000 4:00 am
Location: Oslo, Norway
Top

Postby Telgerond » Sun Jan 11, 2004 3:08 pm

It had been raining for the past three hours now. The mare and the rider himself were wet to their bones, weary and still far from their destination. He should rest, Telgerond told himself, rest and try to find some herbs that would still the throbbing pain in his leg. But he couldn’t stop, he needed to press onwards. Minas Tirith was still far, and he had only been out of Edoras for about two days.<BR><BR>“Blasted scum! They didn’t know whom they tried to rob, eh? They’ll know better now…”<BR><BR>Muttering to himself, the deep gnash in his left leg sending waves of pain up his leg each time his horse took an uneven step over a rock or root, Telgerond tried to find a reason behind his present situation.<BR><BR>Elestar King had send him to Gondor, to Minas Tirith, in a secret mission to find out how far his brother’s preparations had become reality. How many troops he would be able to muster, how many cavalry, infantry… how much support his claim to Gondor’s throne still had, and whether any of those in the upper echelons of the White City would be willing to place their weight and fortunes with the younger brother of Eldrich.<BR><BR>Telgerond had been chosen for his obscurity. A loyal soldier of Rohan and its King, he was deemed inconspicuous enough to be able to do discrete inquiries into military things without provoking immediate suspicion. He would pose as loyal supporter of Eldrich if need be, but in his heart the ruler of Rohan knew he could count of the middle-aged man’s loyal support for his own claim to the throne of Gondor.<BR><BR>He was bid to ride at night, given enough gold which would open a few doors to him, given a few names as contacts, and then sent on his way. If only he had taken the straight road, not the shortcut which still was plagued by Dunlendings. He had run into a straying group of these foul creatures, they had wanted food. Food which Telgerond wasn’t prepared to share with these animals. A fight had ensued, Telgerond had taken them down one by one, but not before one f them had plunged his sword deep into the Rohirrim’s leg, which had cost the Rider a fair amount of blood. But he had prevailed, sending this last attacker to his forefathers with a carefully aimed stab across his neck, severing the main vessel there and watching the dark brown leaves of the forest ground taking on a distinct red color. <BR><BR>Nobody would grieve these animals, Telgerond knew, and he needed to move on. This mission was too important. So he rode on, through the rain, the water dripping down his face and nose, the make-shift bandage he had applied to his leg being soaked with blood, water and grime..<BR><BR>As long as he stayed in his saddle, all would be well. It was all he needed to accomplish now – stay in his saddle… until he would come to the White City, or a farm or inn on the way between him and his destination.<BR><BR>“Just stay in the saddle… all you need to do… all that counts!”
User avatar
Telgerond
Petitioner to the Council
 
Posts: 8
Joined: Fri Jan 02, 2004 5:14 am
Top

Postby Lady_Aremin » Sun Jan 11, 2004 3:23 pm

Aidan was late. Had there not been an unexpected meeting with the Steward tonight he would not have been late, which was extremely unlike him. His schedule had been laid out for the day, as always, and was carried out to the tee, until it was disrupted unexpectedly by the Steward sending a messanger to the General requesting a private, and indeed very secretive meeting as soon as Aidan had the time. <BR><BR>After finishing his dinner at home with his now decimated family, which was missing two of its members (Fallan was out of the city celebrating her freedom tied to her arrival at the age of sixteen and Amrod was also out of Minas Tirith, now stationed with the small garrison at Osgiliath, where he was the Captain), Aidan had set off from his lavish house on the sixth level and made his way up to the Citadel. <BR><BR>Upon entering the courtyard of the White Tree, the general pulled his silver cloak tight around his shoulders as he met a cold wind coming from the East. The guards currently on duty he knew, and greeted by name as he passed the flowering tree of old. Instead of making for the large stair at the end of the courtyard, Aidan cut sharply to the right to a guarded carved wood door near the base of the stairs. He glanced with keen blueish green eyes at the guard, who stepped aside and saluted him smartly before taking a key and pressing it into the lock on the door.<BR><BR>The door swung open easy on oiled hinges after the guard removed his key. Sketching a salute to the guard at the door, Aidan then proceeded down a brightly torchlit hallway, eventually stopping at one of the heavy wooden doors that appeared at intervals in the arched hallway of cold, white stone. He knew the Steward awaited him in this private room, and had met him here many times as of late in secrecy to discuss the matters concerning Gondor's political unrest. <BR><BR>He did not knock, but put a firm hand on the black knob and twisted his wrist, at the same time pushing on the heavy cherry wood door. As Aidan entered the room, the Steward stood and grasped him in a soldier's embrace before going behind Aidan and shutting the door himself. <BR><BR>"Do not sit, general. This will not take long," Steward Oranen said briskly. Aidan remained standing as the tall but thin man came to stand before him. <BR><BR>"Eldrich knows of Elestar's favor and power in Rohan, and he has gained knowledge from creditable sources that Elestar's mercenaries move steathily across the White Mountains into Gondor in small forces. He asks that you relieve half of Osgiliath's forces so that they can go into the mountains and track or deter some of the Rohirrim. Eldrich trusts you, and therefore he trusts your family. He wants Amrod to lead the expedition into the mountains," Oranen finished. <BR><BR>Aidan shifted uneasily and looked at him longtime friend,"My son? Tis an honor that he trusts me, but a curse also. Shall we not send another into this peril?"<BR><BR>Oranen looked hard at the unwilling general and said sternly,"Aidan, I am extremely fond of Amrod, this you know, but you as well as I know too that he is in the flower of his manhood, and that he would do more than an exceptional job with this mission. You must let him out from under your wings, for the good of Gondor!" <BR><BR>'For the good of Gondor' never failed to grab Aidan's attention, for he deeply loved his country. "Yes, Oranen, you are correct again," Aidan said, making for the door. "Have Amrod notified."<BR><BR>"I already have," Oranen said with a small sheepish smile.<BR><BR>"I should have known," Aidan said, returning the Steward's smile before he opened the door and headed into the hallway, all too aware that he would be late to get Fallan's new practice sword at a certain tavern. Hurriedly General Aidan made his way down through the streets of Minas Tirith, finally reaching a tavern he and his friends frequented much before work and unrest lessened their time there.<BR><BR>From the description one of his messenger boy's had given him, Aidan thought it would be easy enough to find this dark-haired young man even amongst the many dark Gondorian heads. 'Handsome and outstanding' and 'strange yet in a good and striking way' were phrases that had been used by the formerly uninterested messenger that had delivered the order for the weapon to the swordsmith named Larenteth.<BR><BR>Seeing a tall, slender man sitting alone at a table, Aidan made his way through the crowded common room full of some men he knew, and others that he knew but cared not to talk to. Before Aidan even reached the table, he had confirmed that this was indeed Larenteth from his remarkably dark, jet black hair and intense yet jovial gaze, and of course, the long, slight, wrapped package sitting on his lap and poking out from under the wooden table. <BR><BR>"Larenteth, I presume?" Aidan said, his silver cloak still swinging slightly from his last step before stopping. The young man stood up and introduced himself formally, and in fairly educated speech, which the general took note of. "A pleasure to meet you, Larenteth. I am General Aidan Debourelle."<BR><BR>Aidan saw the young man's eyes give an internal start, but other than that he showed outward calm and the same inviting attitude. Aidan also noted this, and Larenteth grew better in his sight. He handed over the package and unwrapping it carefully, Aidan tested the slim but wonderfully supple and strong blade before returning it to its wrapping. <BR><BR>"You are a skilled swordsmith, Master Larenteth. How much do I owe you for this fine weapon?" Aidan said. "On second thought, would you like to join me for an ale or two as a supplement to your payment? Craftsmanship as good as this deserves more merit than a few coins."<BR><BR>Aidan could already see the worth in this man, not having even spent five minutes with him. He needed this type of steadfast and educated man amidst the unpredictable society in the city of Gondor. Before Larenteth accepted or declined, the general's mind was already buzzing with ideas on how to use Larenteth 'for the good of Gondor'.<BR><BR>ooc- Edit: for one spelling mistake.
User avatar
Lady_Aremin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1495
Joined: Thu Nov 06, 2003 3:01 pm
Top

Postby GlassHouse » Sun Jan 11, 2004 7:59 pm

All around Gwennor the gathering at the Winged Nazgul continued it's cheerful debauchery. They crowded together, laughing, shouting, bashing, swearing, fighting, flirting and stealing with each other in unconstrained, drunken revelry. <BR>Normally Gwennor would have been in the middle of the fray. Joking and laughing, eating, drinking and wenching with the best of them. But the episode with the out of tune minstrel had spoiled his good mood, leaving him with a curious feeling in the back of his skull. <BR><BR>His companions at the table continued to slosh down more ale as they relived every detail of the poor bard's humiliation with unrepentant, malicious delight. <BR>They sang snatches of the minstrel's dreadful song in a high pitched, wobbling voices - or recounted the look on the boy's face as he fell off his stool and sat on his harp - or told how his eyes had bugged out upon seeing his own blood - and especially how Gwennor had picked the fool up in one hand and pitched him out the door like so much garbage. <BR><BR>But Gwennor found that his companions' humor was becoming flat and tiresome. He remained silent, glowering over the top of his cup. His fellows, becoming aware of his growing ill humor decided they had best leave the dour giant to his gloomy mood - and they moved carefully off into the relative safety of the crowd. <BR><BR>Now alone, Gwennor scowled at the collection of petty thieves, whores and worse that inhabited the Nazgul. These were his friends - such as they were. Among them he commanded a certain respect - or more accurately, fear. For he was known to be a man to reckon with in the lower districts and no one crossed him lightly. Yet he longed for better than this.<BR><BR><i>"Well, a man must sacrifice, if he's going to get ahead."</i> he thought. <BR><i>"I've left the comfort of real friends and family far behind me.... and it's a waste to time find regrets now - not at this stage of my life.</i>" He tossed back the last of his ale and threw the cup down.<BR><BR><i>"It's the life I've made. I suppose this is where I belong... for now anyway. But not forever! No, not forever...Someday... someday I'll have real power.. and the respect of decent folk.. and enough money to buy my way out of this dun heap!<BR><BR>For now though, I must keep focused just one thing: the path ahead of me."</i> <BR><BR>Gwennor held on to the clarity of that vision. <BR>It was what made his life tolerable.
User avatar
GlassHouse
Mariner


 
Posts: 7479
Joined: Mon Nov 05, 2001 6:51 pm
Location: NH
Top

Postby Wandering but not lost » Mon Jan 12, 2004 7:05 am

<i>It had been a shorter journey than expected and, apparently, an easier one at that. He was afraid of travel- having been so long apart from the world. What plants were suitable to eat outside of the forest? What regions were prone to bandits. How could he hide his elven descent?</i><BR><BR><i>However, most of these fears had yet become a problem. The lembas bread he had made still survived in fairly large quanitity- their feet moved quickly through the trails in eager anticipation to view this new wonderous city of humanity. He remembered vaguely seeing pictures of the city, long ago, around the time Aragorn was crowned. He always regretted missing that ceremony. But he had more pressing issues at the time. Earame had been waiting for him then in the alcoves of the forest, like every evening. There was something about those eyes that he could never deny. When she had wanted a family, the began to raise one. 2 sons came from her womb. Strong, beautiful sons. The ships were still sailing back then. But how could he have left with a family so new to the world? Things were so precious back then. Every leaf and every breath of wind had different meaning. The world itself was beautiful.</i><BR><BR><i>When Earame died however he felt the blackness of the world seep over him for the first time. How could the Mallorn compare to the beauty that had left the world? Where was the glory enough to replace her smile? The world seemed a void now. Within his heart there was a nothingness that yearned to be filled but nothing could quench it. Instead it roared in him like a fire slowly breaking away at his being. Yet, the ships, however tempted they were then... could not be taken. He had 2 sons, still young then to raise. They could not leave a world that they had barely seen. To them there still was beauty. They did not know their mother as well... the did not know what loss was and thus everything seemed plentiful and eternal as it once had to himself even.</i><BR><BR><i>It was only 5 years ago when his sons had achieved a smiliar void within themselves. He remembers the day that he first saw them begin to fade. They had chosen the immortal life... they had the option to live like an elf among their people and their father... but the great disease of lethargy was so evident around them. They saw their friends fade, merely vanish leaving only a wisp of their presence remaining. The beauty that was once immortal became scarce, dying, diseased. When the disease reached them, and finally proved to be their end, Elladir felt the bitter dispair within his soul. The blackness filled his heart and gave nothing for him to see which gave purpose to the world.</i><BR><BR><i>Yet as much as he wanted to fade, cruel fate did not allow him. Some other hand maintained him and kept his soul bound into the world. Somewhere within him he was blocked from passing from Middle Earth. He had been blocked from the ships and he was blocked from vanishing. Despair became his sustenance. His only comfort was that finally his emptiness had become complete.</i><BR><BR><i>The knife within his boot grimaced at him. He could sense its presence and its guilt- always its guilt. He remembered the blood on the dagger... but it was the only way for honor... yet he could never bring it to his own flesh... he could spare others... but not himself. He was to afraid of such a simple passing and yet he desired it so... his hand was so still whenever he held that dagger.</i><BR><BR><i>Last year he inscribed upon its small hilt "In death there is a corpse and memory. In fading, none."</i><BR><BR><BR><BR><i>But that song, that wierd song, had filled the void for some reason. There was something complete now besides his grief... something that filled the void for perhaps only a moment... He had to understand why...</i><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><i>The wonders of Minas Tirith were not lost upon the elves but something urged them forward only granting them scarce minutes to marvel at the glorious wonder which they had long so much to see. Elladir felt some pressing purpose on his heels, and regardless of the immense beauty which indeed did surpass the wonders of the elves- for how prideful were the Eldar race to claim that they had once achieved beauty that no man could challnge; either the elves had let a wonder decay which his eyes could never fathom or men themselves had proven themselves the more glorious- he could not stay his pace for long.</i><BR><BR><BR><BR><i>Elladir and his company of 2 elves wandered into the city's surrounding district of Pellenor feeling a sense of purpose surround him. Something would be here- something had to be here. He merely needed a sign. All he wanted was a sign...</i><BR><BR>Inn of the White Tower. <i>His feet were so weary... his body so tired. It had been a long time since a rest and though his resoluteness bore him need to press forwards perhaps he could find someone inside that could give him direction as to where he might be able to find anything that might help with his quest. Besides, maybe he would find some information about the recent activities within the politics of the world. In truth though, he knew these were excuses for him to rest...</i><BR><BR>"I am going to enter. Stay near the door incase there is trouble. Try to not make yourselves drawn to the attention of others. Let me handle the room and such."<BR><BR><BR><i>With that, he entered the tavern.</i><BR><BR><BR><BR><i>Immediately the smell of alcohol pounded his acute elven senses into a blind submission. He walked into the inn, his body at first strong and resolute, then suddenly off balance, stumbling, startled at the potency of such violent smells. He immediately seemed like an outsider- and a peculiar one at that. His elven cloak, though purposely one which he had woven with intent to mask its elven features and culture, still stood out as a weaving of much greater quality than any ordinary traveler could ever bear. It clashed strongly with the garments underneath, ones he had chosen and created to promote the image of a poor journeysman. He was thankful though to have his hood- a specially woven elven hood- that could cast shadows over his features regardless of the lighting in the room.</i><BR><BR><i>Faces glanced over at the bumbling strangers. Though most people were too busy being entertained with the usual bards, cards, and drunken stupors, the few with an accute sense of order focused intently on the three men emerging into the tavern.</i><BR><BR>"Excuse me." <i>Elladir pardoned himself, still reeling from the nauseating smells, as he bumped into a fairly large burly man standing near the bar.</i><BR><BR>"Pardon me." <i>He stumbled into a slightly well dressed man with bright green eyes, obviously intoxicated, this time. The man looked up, in a minute of awareness, and smiled. Elladir thought he saw something knowing in the man's smile for a second but assumed it to be the alcohol.</i><BR><BR>"Sorry... Excuse me... pardon me..." <i>He jumbled his way through several other people, only slowly gaining footing in the in as the smells began to desensitize his nostrils. Only slowly was any sense of balance returning.</i><BR><BR>"May prosperity shine on this... establishment good sir! May I bother you to purchase a room?" <i>He glanced at the man he assumed to be the innkeeper behind the bar counter hoping to draw attention. Several men next to him seemed a bit taken aback by the irregularity of his comments. What type of greeting was that?</i><BR><BR><i>The innkeeper ignored him and continued at his tasks. What buisness could be found in such odd strangers? Besides, the inn was full... tonight was a busy night since a regiment had just returned from training.</i><BR><BR>"Sir. I need a room. I am willing to pay a substantial amount. I do not know the running rate for a room but I would be willing to pay a gold coin if necessary."<BR><BR><i>The innkeeper paused suddenly. An entire gold coin??? What fool was this! That was near 15 times the rate of a room. These men may be odd but they were crazy in a way he could appreciate! Several other men heard this comment too and seemed intrigued at what strangers could offer such a price.</i><BR><BR>"A gold coin? Why... I think I can find something for you. Give me a few moments..." <i>He immediately ran towards his ledger trying to figure out which reservations would be least damaging to cancel.</i><BR><BR>"Play me cards." <i>The large burly man he had bumped into earlier was now standing next to Elladir.</i><BR><BR>"No thanks sir, I do not have time right now to play nor do I find gambling a pleasure." <i>He remembered several of his elf friends and how they had used to play cards during the winter months. It had become an addiction though and slowly drew more happiness from them than it could contribute, like most things nowadays. They had faded though... the thought depressed him.</i><BR><BR>"I did not say will you play. I said play!" <i>He stared at Elladir knowing such a tall seemingly frail individual would feel the intimidation of a glance from such a muscular burly man.</i><BR><BR>"Sir, I refuse and please dont make trouble..." <i>The man laughed. The stranger had too much money to let the conversation end so easily. A good few games would easily earn him a month's salary...The military didnt pay as well as it used to.</i><BR><BR>"If you won't play... I'll take your money." <i>He threatened. Several people were now very intently watching the argument between the stranger progress. Perhaps a fight would provide a distraction from the bland bards and their strange unbelievable tales...</i><BR><BR>"I will not allow it..." <i>Elladir began to walk away towards the door hoping to avoid trouble. Immediately the man grabbed Elladir by the back of his cloak trusting him back towards the counter. Elladir recoiled against the sheer force of the pull.</i><BR><BR>"Dont walk away from me!" <i>Elladir's friends were watching shocked from near the door. Elladir glanced at them, urging them with his eyes- which only they could see readily from beneath his hood- to remain hidden. He didnt want more trouble.</i><BR><BR><i>The man thrust his fist into Elladir's gut causing the elf to lurch forward violently. Immediately the bard stopped singing and the entire tavern focused their attention on the new found brawl. Perhaps tongiht wouldnt be as dull.</i><BR><BR><i>Elladir felt physical pain. Such an odd feeling. He had forgotten it.</i><BR><BR><i>The man picked Elladir up holding him high into the air. His arms forcibly holding his arms to his sides.</i><BR><BR>"For a puny man you shouldnt be saying no!" <i>The man butted his head with immense vigor into Elladir's face causing Elladir's head to jar back. His mind reeled. His body ached. His senses again began to stumble upon themselves.</i><BR><BR>"What the hell!" <i>The man dropped Elladir in shock. His hood had fallen back...</i>
User avatar
Wandering but not lost
Mariner
 
Posts: 5022
Joined: Fri Jan 28, 2000 1:00 am
Top

Postby Shieldmaiden_pippin » Mon Jan 12, 2004 8:08 am

Alqualossen reeled at the stench of the alcohol, " I...don't like this place...it has a stench... fouler than...an orc's den."<BR><BR>The two she-elves surveyed the inn patrons, and noticed that many solidiers were haveing a drink or two while gambling. <BR><BR>Something caught Lossen's attention, she heard a hard fist jam itself into someone's ribs. She quickly surveyed the room, looking for the source. What met her eyes drove her insane. A rather large and brawny man was punching Elladir. She saw him look over at herself and Lothlómë, telling them to stay hidden. <BR><BR>Alqualossen wasn't able to stand it. She ignored Elladir's advice and walked over to where the trouble was. <BR><BR>"What the hell!" said the man who was hurting Elladir when his hood fell off. <BR><BR>Lossen went around the man and helped Elladir stand up, "Are you all right?" she whispered. <BR><BR>"I thought I told you to stay by the door," the He-elf hissed. <BR><BR>"I never obey orders," she replied. "Please, leave us in peace. My companion's and I only yearn for a bed in our days of travel."<BR><BR>"You can have my bed," mocked one of the patrons. Alqualossen gritted her teeth and continued, "If you do not leave us alone I will be forced to take extreme measures. And you don't want that."<BR><BR>"Who are you?" asked the big man who had punched Elladir, while the rest of the crowd jeered. <BR><BR>"Your worst nightmare if you do not let us in peace." Alqualossen drew her partizan as proof, "Where I come from I am almost a master with this weapon, though you may count on brute force, I count on speed and accuracy." <BR><BR>
User avatar
Shieldmaiden_pippin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 4482
Joined: Tue Sep 02, 2003 8:03 pm
Location: Lost in Thought
Top

Postby Lady_Aremin » Mon Jan 12, 2004 5:24 pm

After taking her saddle bags from Oreth's back and paying the stable master for two days worth of lodging for her steed, Fallan had hurried in to the Inn, Uveneth in its scabbard, still ready to snap out at the slightest sign of trouble. To be out of Minas Tirith!<BR><BR>This adventure held many marvels, but Fallan was wise in warmaking, and knew that many perils came with a girl, nonetheless a strikingly beautiful, wealthy girl (though Fallan thought not of those things) to be traveling alone. <BR><BR>She entered through the heavy wooden door under the swinging sign of the Inn of the White Tower. Suddenly the acrid scent of mixing pipe smoke and heavily fermented ale made Fallan's senses just the least bit dull, but being used to and having many soldiers as friends, Fallan rebounded quite quickly from the fumes. She proceeded to haggle the Inn keeper into a reasonable price for the room, which had been hard because the Inn keeper had taken note of Fallan's quality clothes and had drawn the conclusion in his shrewd mind that a wealthy younger woman, almost a girl, would be naive enough to be very overcharged and not know it. He had been more than wrong, and had been rebuked for it, but nonetheless the Inn keeper had given Fallan a good rate, though sullenly.<BR><BR>As she went to request a glass of water at the crowded bar, she suddenly heard the room grow very quiet, as if the many patrons of the common room were attentively awaiting something. She quickly turned, set her saddle bags down, and gripped Uveneth's intricately wrought, vinelike silver hilt, bejeweled with three large sapphires. <BR><BR>From what Fallan could see, a fairly tall but extremely thin traveller, hooded and cloaked, though very finely cloaked, Fallan took notice of, was being bullied by a large, very burly man. The gruffer, larger man wanted the newcomer to play cards with him, no doubt to win over some of the traveller's clothes, or the possibly large sum of money used to buy and maintain those garments. Fallan understood yet liked none of this. Quietly Uveneth slid halfway out of its sheath, ready to right a wrong should the need come.<BR><BR>Making her way easily through the packed crowds, Fallan got right up next to the large man, just within striking distance of his neck. Suddenly the man hit the traveller and held him up high, throwing back the traveller's hood. Fallan saw none of his face, however, because the minute the burly man had launched his assault, Fallan's curved elvish blade had ripped free of its scabbard and flown to the man's neck. <BR><BR>Immediately the brawling thief dropped the traveller, whom Fallan was about to look at, but something caught her attention. Another curved elvish sword, no it was a partizan, but obviously of elvish styling, for Fallan had seen pictures of them in the ancient books in the library of Minas Tirith under the constant instruction of her parents, stood parallel to Uveneth at the man's neck. <i>Another elvish blade?</i> <BR><BR>Dumbfounded and scared, the man could not turn around for fear of the blades digging deeper into the back of his neck, so he gruffly asked "Who are you?"<BR><BR>And then a fair, melodiously dangerous voice said,"Your worst nightmare if you do not let us in peace." Alqualossen drew her partizan as proof, "Where I come from I am almost a master with this weapon, though you may count on brute force, I count on speed and accuracy." <BR><BR>The brawler again asked, with more fervor,"And who might you be? Another woman?" he said half in jest but more in fear and shame.<BR><BR>"I am Fallan, daughter of General Aidan, whom you serve, as I can see from your silver and black cloak. It is tattered and stained, so obviously you care nothing for your military post, and obviously you care nothing for the good of our country, seeing as you attack incoming travellers for no more reason than very lowly thieving," Fallan said, her voice quiet but powerful and echoing, full of disgust. The attacker hung his head in absoloute shame. "I will report you to my father soon enough. Your name is?" Fallan slowly lowered her weapon to waist-level and so did the partizan wielder, whom Fallan had not yet looked at, her attention totally focused on the wrongdoer now turning to shamefully face her. <BR><BR>"Dagor, son of Daron," the man said, now facing the slim woman, whom he beheld in absoloute wonder. How could a girl, or bearly a woman, overpower him. Fallan thought his eyes could not get any wider until he turned his gaze to the second lady, and then his eyes got so round Fallan feared that the eyeballs would just roll out because of nothing holding them in.<BR><BR>"I should have known...Dagor...the elvish word for battle," Fallan said quietly to herself as she turned to look at her lady ally, who was now bending over her dazed friend. <BR><BR>The General's daughter almost dropped her sword. Their EARS! Their lovely pale ivory skin, their luminescence. Their presence of life, their voices...and the language! Fallan understood...But it couldn't be! All the lore that her whole life, the Debourelles had pushed upon their children...all those documents of the elves...Fallan had been fascinated with them and had always dreamed of living in their times at the heights of their race's glory, but of course she never shared these thoughts with anyone, save her family, because the popular view in Gondor, and all of Middle Earth for that matter, was that the Eldar had never existed, but were a crackpot's imaginary idea of a perfect race.<BR><BR>They couldn't be!!....But they were. <BR><BR>Fallan hurriedly pushed all of the staring people out of the way, with considerable strength for her tall but slender frame, and helped the elven lady to pull the elven man's hood back over his head, and then the lady pulled hers back over her head to to hide her features.<BR><BR>"Come now, please. Up to my room, away from these people," Fallan said. The lady looked suspiciously at Fallan as she helped the other elf to his feet. Fallan decided to address her in her native tongue.<BR><BR>"Tula sinome. Khila amin," she said. <<Come here. Follow me.>>
User avatar
Lady_Aremin
Ranger of the North


 
Posts: 1495
Joined: Thu Nov 06, 2003 3:01 pm
Top

Postby Elrámë » Mon Jan 12, 2004 5:36 pm

Lothlómë watched in growing uneasiness as the burly man attacked Elladir. As Alqualossen moved forwards and threatened, she moved forward, her own hood falling from her face and her Vanyar-bright hair as she stepped forward.<BR><BR>"Elladir, Alqualossen. Dina, iquista," [Elladir, Alqualossen. Be quiet, please.] she ordered quietly, and turned to the human, her slender hands outstretched.<BR><BR>"We wish only for a place to stay the night, sir," she said softly. "I would suggest that you leave Elladir in peace."<BR><BR>Before he could say anything, another human stepped forward and offered them a place to stay. She tensed, expecting further trouble, then sighed in relief- and considerable surprise- as the human spoke to her in her native tongue. Her accent was fairly terrible, of course- most likely because she'd learned it from scrolls.<BR><BR>She smiled slightly at Fallan, and then moved towards the stairs, pulling her hood back over her hair. It was ridiculous for them, most likely; golden hair had been the province of the Rohirrim, when last she went abroad from Lórien, which would just confirm their notions of the insanity of the Elves having been there.<BR><BR>Or something along those lines...in her relief that they hadn't been forced to leave, her mind didn't seem to be working as clearly as it ought to have.<BR><BR>"Mae govannen, Fallan," she said, once they were safely in the human's room. "It is good to learn that not all Men have fallen into crudeness...then, perhaps it is merely this tavern?"<BR><BR>(OOC: I don't really want to edit her out of the action, as that's not really something Loth would do, but if you really want me to so that Pip's post fits, I can.)
User avatar
Elrámë
Rider of the Mark

 
Posts: 826
Joined: Fri Dec 05, 2003 8:45 pm
Top

Next

Return to Role Playing: The Prancing Pony (Middle-earth Only)

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: Ahrefs.com and 4 guests