Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

There is no set timeline, nor is there any set location but the following may be a fun place to dip your toes in.

Numenor: The kingdom of Men set in the sundering sea with in eye sight of the Blessed Realm for those that could reach the summit of Meneltarma

Valinor: The Blessed Realm has many fantastic locations to explore as an elf, or perhaps as a man with the changing of the world at the end of times?

The Upset Hammer, Valinor: -a pub harkening to the sensibilities of 2003 Imladris but set before the awakening of the elves check here for additional pub rules

The Far East: The lands beyond even the influence of Mordor - past the Eastern Seas and to lands not yet known fully know like the Walls of the Sun and Kalorme the Sun Rising Hill.

RULES
Please avoid using the colour RED (#FF0000) unless you are posting Content/Trigger Warnings at the top of your posts for for others. This colour is reserved for Tread runner updates otherwise.
Please post if your story is Open or Closed/ Private as was as if they are AU or CO at the top of each post so there is no confusion.
Alternate Universes, and BELIEVABLE cross-overs ARE welcome in this thread but should be marked clearly.
Anyone is welcome to use ANY canon character in their stories as there is no ownership of these characters in this particular thread.
Please keep use of overly bright colours and excessive images to a minimum as they can be difficult for certain members to deal with
OOCs and Requests to join RPs can be taken to the Imladris General OOC HERE
OOC Citations for quotes etc may be made in thread with parentheses around them or otherwise clearly marked.

Eönwë was quite pleased with himself. The bar looked magnificent. Well, of course it looked magnificent, he made it. As with all things in Valinor, it was a Brobdingnagian beast of a building, probably more suited for a theatre or a sporting arena but the Herald of the Valar never liked to do anything small. If his name was going to be associated with it, it was going to be so grandiose and so over the top extra that no one would have any doubts as to who created it. It had everything too. Arches and pillars in the entrance way, a small river moving alongside the marble and onyx path with a hundred different kinds of marine life floating on through. Ulmo had lectured him on the importance of maintaining the river and cleaning it out every so often but Eönwë knew the old hermit was just being overprotective of his fin friends. And if it needed cleaning there was always some poor underappreciated Maia of Vairë who would jump at the chance to stop making giant yarn balls for their mistress. The feasting hall itself, no not feasting hall, the communal area, that was a better word, was filled with a hundred tables with chairs and booths enough to seat all of Valmar without being a fire hazard and able to socially distance for anyone who wanted to have their own personal space. Each table came with its own hearth and roaring fire. The bar itself though was what Eönwë was most proud of. Every kind of food under the stars, from Anasazi beans to yak steaks to dragonfruit, he used all his connections as Herald of Valar to bring it all in, nothing but the freshest ingredients. He had a special deal with Tilion too, if the silver haired starwhale lover caught something in the woods of Oromë, it would automatically call for a feast. And the drinks. Oh the drinks! Whatever an Ainu could desire lined the walls. Mezcal with a scorpion inside? Got it. Fermented goat milk? If that’s your thing. Mineral water? Well, yeah but come on. Whisky aged for three hundred years in oak barrels? Of course! Rare Burgundy wines? Hundreds of bottles ready to go!

The idea for a pub had come when Eönwë realized that being Herald of the Valar didn’t take up near as much time as he thought it was going to. There was only so many times you announce the arrival of Manwë before people got bored and uninterested. That’s when the pranks started. The Lord of the West, the Lord of the Breath of Arda, the Elder King. One would not think someone with such lofty titles would try and pull so many pranks. But he did. So. Many. Pranks. It call came to a head when he tricked Eönwë into announcing his arrival in a new building he’d never seen before. Turns out, the place was an empty tool shed. From that point on he and the King of the World were going to have to set some boundaries. These boundaries ended up giving him a lot more time. A lot. A lot a lot. He tried hanging out with some of the other Ainur, he and his wife Imarë put together every single 80,000 piece puzzle they had together, counted all the stars, cloud watched until they were certain they were getting trolled by Manwë again. He listened to Tulkas go on and on about a new fad diet he’d developed (coffee and peanut butter) until he fell asleep with his eyes open. He even tried to make it through a coherent conversation with Lórien without the Fëanturi offering him a new strain of weed.

He needed something to do. When he watched Aulë storm out of his house for the fourth time in a week, he knew what he had to do. The Upset Hammer was born a week later. And today, in the golden light of Laurelin, he was ready for his first customer.

Some quick guidelines for The Upset Hammer, with permission from the TR
- A throwback to the hyper-silly days of 2003, have fun, do whatever you’d like (within TR rules of course) and enjoy yourselves
- Play whatever Valar or Maiar you’d like, it’s a free for all here, just try to stay away from duplicates
- The time period is sometime before the Awakening of the Elves but I’m not gonna be too futzed about it

Ilmarë snapped the 79,999th piece into place and sighed with satisfaction. This latest puzzle, a tricky one of the star-studded night sky, was nearly complete. She ran a hand along its surface, feeling the slight dips and grooves where each bit of slim wood connected with the next. There was just one piece remaining: a black spot of darkest night with Luinil smack in the center. This puzzle had taken longer than any they’d chosen thus far, not least because Eönwë had given up ages ago to go and build his tavern. “If it makes you happy, dear,” she’d said when he rose from the puzzle table to put his plans into motion. She had barely seen him since.

With keen eyes, she scanned the table for the final piece. It was nowhere in sight. She ran her soft, hallowed hands along the edges of the table and the puzzle again, thinking perhaps it had been tossed onto the rest. It wasn’t there. How could it have gone missing? She had just seen it the other day and admired Varda’s handiwork with that blue star. Perhaps it had fallen to the ground. It didn’t help that the black marble floors of their residence were of a hue with the vast majority of the puzzle. Anxiety rose in her, and her left eye twitched at the thought of leaving the puzzle unfinished. It must be, was ordained to be, could not be OTHER than be finished. She was a goddess! Goddesses finished their puzzles. She let out a dramatic, keening cry of frustration and decided it might just be best to find something to take the edge off.

She swept from their halls and into the hallowed streets of Valmar, a pale blue light much like Luinil’s sheen itself trailing behind her as she went. The tavern was not difficult to find: size mattered to Eönwë, and he had spared no expense or effort to ensure that his tavern rose high above the rest. She must be sure to heap lavish praise on the breadth and girth of the thing; such reassurances always seemed to help boost his confidence.

The handmaid threw open the doors with a flourish and glided in and along the path laid for only the holiest of feet to tread. “Eönwë!” she wailed. “Have YOU seen my last puzzle piece?” She flung herself into the plush cushions of the nearest booth. “It’s gone! Gone, and the puzzle is ruined!” She cast a pale arm over her eyes. “I require the strongest drink you have, my love!”


A little rectangle of earth detached itself from the ground. Yavanna stood, and it rose into the air to float beside her at shoulder-height. She arched and flexed her fingers above the bit of sod, willing meaty stalks and caps to sprout from the soil. This was how she experimented: on isolated bits of turf detached from her successful creations. She had learned, after that three-headed spider had devoured several snakes mere seconds after being created, that it was better to keep her latest ideas separate from the rest - at least until they proved stable. She missed those sweet snakes.

Several things sprouted from her experimental patch all at once: three of them were green, eight black, one neon pink, and sixteen white. She gave them all a gentle poke with her forefinger. They were soft and squishy. “Mushy,” she murmured. She was quite pleased. It was time to see what the others thought.

A new building had gone up not long ago, apparently the work of Eönwë, with the promise of space to stretch and perhaps to plant new things. She headed there now, thinking he might like these new creations. Upon entering, she found that it was far larger than expected. She passed through the arches at the entrance, leaving a burst of new plant life in her wake to line the little stream which ran the length of the hall. “Oh hello!” she called to the clearly-distraught handmaiden of Varda and the rather self-satisfied-looking herald of Manwë. “Look what I’ve brought!” she said, gesturing at the patch of grass newly-sprouted with her latest invention. It was still floating in midair beside her. “What do you think? They’re new!”

It was not often that the Lady of Chaos exited her halls where she enjoyed beating the dickens out of her brother, as well as on occasion Morgoth though he was off doing other things more often than not these days which made for very very boring sparing. WHAT she had heard from Tulkas who occasionally came to visit was that there was a new pub in town. Well Valinor. Which wasn't really a town more of a giant land mass with a bunch of poncey building that who knew if they would ever get used by anyone other than the Valar and Maiar.

Did she care? No

Did she want VERY STRONG DRINKS? Yes

Was she willing to go to the land of poncey (and the bar was by no means an exception to this rule as she drew nearer but what else could one expect of Eonwe?) to get said VERY STRONG DRINKS? Yes. She most certainly was.

Which is how she found herself slipping into the Upset hammer in her least bloodied clothing shortly after Yavanna who had some.... fascinating things floating near her. Measse was absolutely intrigued by this and was very tempted to grab one of the green ones and lick it. Although the neon pink one was ALSO very very tempting and she narrowed her read eyes at them and tried to figure out if Yavanna would be upset with her if she licked...well she wasn't sure what they were and Yavanna was currently trying to calm down Varda's handmaiden Ilmare. More than once her hand slipped towards them but she caught herself and turned to the bar and Eowne at least she assumed he was back their somewhere the way Ilmare had requested her drink. "I'll have what Ilmare is having. Two of them." She said with a smile that was some how not missing any teeth. The same could not be said for her brother Makar though she did keep eyeballing the strange capped THINGS growing in a floating patch of grass by Yavanna until she couldn't stop herself...

"What are those and can I have one?" She asked a strange grin on her face and her finger tips tapping together. "I'll give it back in a moment I promise." She added more like Vana the ever young that a war valir.

Well that didn’t long. No, Eönwë was not referring to the dramatic entrance of his wife (they had a very healthy relationship with lots of variety), but the first customer! The fact that it was the dramatic entrance of his wife was merely a coincidence. He had told her how grand this place was going to be. He’d gone on endlessly about his plans whilst she toiled away at her latest puzzle. It was nearly finished, so he thought. He hadn’t really been paying attention to Ilmarë and her puzzles. If he were being honest, they all looked exactly alike. Supposedly this one, a panorama of all the stars in the sky, was different from the last one, also a panorama of all the stars in the sky, because it was a picture created during winter rather than summer. They were totally different. He had to acquiesce to that because, well, she was the handmaiden of the Star Maker herself. He didn’t really pay attention to the stars as closely as she did. Whenever they were out stargazing, he was looking… elsewhere. But none of that mattered now he had a drink to… wait, there was a missing piece? “Oh no,” he mumbled as he looked over his array of drinks. The last time this happened, when there was a missing piece she’d torn their home apart looking for it (as it happened the missing piece had been stuck to the bottom of his shoe). She was going to need some very strong alcohol.

He pulled down a bottle of clear liquid and swirled it. The liquid inside moved much faster than water. He smiled. Triple distilled vodka. Often it was served in a shot glass, but they were all gods here, why would they need something so droll as a shot glass? He set a long collins glass on the bar, added some an ice cube then filled it to the brim with vodka. “There you do darling. Did you want me to check my shoes again? Don’t want a repeat of last time.” Reflexively (he was very flexible after all) he twisted around, lifted his foot, and checked. Nope, no puzzle piece. “Don’t you worry dear, I’m sure we’ll find it. It’s always in the last place you look, right?” He immediately regretted saying that. Of course it was in the last place you looked, why would you look elsewhere once you already found it?

Thankfully, he was saved by the arrival of none of than the Giver of Fruit herself! Business had only been going for about ten minutes and already he had two patrons! We’re overlooking that one of them was Ilmarë and she had come because she was upset rather than because she wanted to socialize. Eönwë beamed (he was a Maiar so this could be taken literal as well as metaphorical) and bowed low. When he rose again, he noticed… was that earth floating next to her? He gave her a quizzical look and a nervous chuckle. “Lady Yavanna! You do me a great honor. Please, please have a seat.” He stuttered through first statement, too focused on the weird and brightly color objects sitting atop the earth floating around her (in a hole in the bottom of the sea). “Another, eh, experiment?” She was always experimenting, creating new plants and new animals. Really, she was the most creative of all whole lot. Well, the platypus was kind of strange, and centipedes just seemed unnecessary, but on a whole they were amazing. The last experimental plant she brought in had turned out to be a psychedelic cactus, she called peyote. He and Ilmarë had had a lot of fun with that. It was a toss up who made the better mind-altering substances, Yavanna or Lórien. And no, there is no judging here, what were they supposed to do for days and days and days and days on end? Play harps and float on clouds? Whatever, he was absolutely going to try one of those kaleidoscopic little things. “So what are you calling these mushy things? My, there’s not a lot of room on the patch of earth.” His smile was smug as it was eager.

And then there were three! Meássë made her way in just as Yavanna had entered. It was not often he saw her these days. She was one of those that kept to herself, beat the ever-loving hell out of her brother in their constant fighting, and never came to the parties. Of course, she had been invited to all the greatest raves (Teleperion’s light as a backdrop with thousands of color glass beads floating in the air, it was a thing to behold) but she had always had some excuse not to come. He smirked. “Two straight up vodkas.” He poured them quickly and efficiently then, with a practiced wrist, slid them across the bar. Maybe Tulkas would come in later and the two would start arm wrestling. The great muscle head was easy to provoke when drunk or high. This could be fun.


“And I’m gonna be… high… as a kite by then…” Yeah that was a great line. Totally. Pallando blinked his heavy lids as the light of Laurelin peaked through the trees at him. He giggled and waved. Some of the light curled around his fingers and ran down his arm. Totally rad. Far out! He pulled his newest instrument out of his satchel and began to tap the little wooden bars in a silly rhythmic pattern. It was so cool. He couldn’t wait to show off his latest creation with the gang. They were gonna be so stoked. Hey, wasn’t Eönwë gonna like, make a bar or something? Was that right? “A bar of what?” he giggled to himself and fell back on the grass in the garden. He put the pipe in his mouth and inhaled as deeply as he could (and being a god that was pretty deep indeed). Ahhhh! He held his breath, felt that sweet smoke fill his lungs, then exhaled, blowing out a dozen smoke rings (see if Olórin could top that!) Hey, Eönwë was gonna have a bar where he could like, play his music, right? That would be totally rad, they were all gonna freak out! They all went bonkers for his last creation: the keytar, and this new one was even cooler. How did Pallando know it was cooler? The name! The xylophone! He giggled and took another deep toke from his pipe. Man that was some good grass. Yavanna was really totally amazing at all that green stuff. Oh right, the xylophone. What a name right? Totally the most fab name out there! He should play a little at Eönwë’s digs. That would be rad. It was a bar right? There was music at a bar right? This was the first bar so there was just no telling what he might find there. Hey, maybe Yavanna was there and he could ask her about that opium poppy flower she was working on. He could trade a song for a flower. He laughed. “Totally!” With a quick hop and a dash, he was off. He forgot where he was going for a moment once he exited the gardens but it was all cool. He remembered once he saw the giant archway (dude, was Eönwë trying to say something? Weird).

“Hey everybody!” he shouted as he entered. “Check out my latest musical innovation.” Without asking or being given permission, Pallando pulled out his giant instrument, set it on one of the tables and began to tap a tune with his hammers. “Totally rad, right?”

“Totally!” Oromë confirmed to Pallando, having followed hot on the heels of the perpetually stoned maia. The Huntsman’s booming laugh filled the pub as he entered The Upset Hammer. Eonwë had thoughtfully made the door wide enough for the shoulders of his fana, he noted, which was very nice. He strode across to the bar, where Eonwë was plying his trade, and hefted onto it the enormous earthenware jug he carried. “Congratulations!” Oromë cried, “I’m sure this new venture will be a smashing success. Right up until Aulë finds out you named it after his moods, but we can all have a good time until then. I bring a gift of mead to christen the place, with honey from my happy bees.” Bees which had no doubt fed upon some of Yavanna’s more interesting creations, but that was all right. “As for me, I’ll have…” One might have expected the Huntsman to indulge in some of his own mean, or a large stein of ale, or at the very least a fine scotch. However… “gin! The biggest glass of gin you can muster. With a splash of elderflower tonic if you please. And maybe a snack- have a haunch of boar handy?” One couldn’t break free of all the stereotypes at once.



Tilion was never one to pass up a good deal. Or a feast. Did ethereal spirits of the heavens require feasts or even food to survive? Well, the answer was unclear, but probably not. But that wasn’t about to stop him from enjoying a good feast. The silver-maned hunter had spent all morning carousing through Oromë’s woods for an offering worthy of the opening of Eonwë’s new bar, and had finally come away with a magnificent stag. The beautiful animal was slung about Tilion’s shoulders like a mantle or the ruff of a cloak, heavy with meat and the promise of a rollicking night to come. His hands occupied in steadying his prize, he kicked open the door to The Upset Hammer and stepped inside with a yeeeehooo! of delight. As it happened he was far from the first to arrive, and as he strode across the room he was distracted by one of their more reclusive brethren. “Meassë! Come out of your cave for some fun, eh? Good choice, get some air once in a while.” Tilion was then distracted by Yavanna, or rather the little patch of floating grass beside her, from which was growing a couple of toadstools. “Ohhh, are those new?” He asked delightedly, and turned to get closer look at them, the dangling head of the stag swinging from his shoulder so that its antlers nearly crashed into Yavanna. “Apologies, my lady, but those do look very interesting.”

Ilmarë took a great, shuddering breath. If the puzzle piece wasn’t stuck to her husband’s shoe, then all was decidedly lost. She would have to disassemble the whole thing by sweeping it dramatically off the table and onto the floor. Some lesser Maia or other would no doubt come along to tidy up once she’d gone to bed, whether in an alcohol-induced stupor or no. By the looks of the tall glass her dear husband poured her, the former was more likely than not. She accepted the drink Eönwë offered and took a deep draught with her eyes closed. The stuff burned pleasantly as it went down. It was liquor for the gods: powerful and undiluted. Eönwë knew what he was doing. So did Ilmarë. After another long gulp from her drink, she cast herself dramatically over the back of the booth. One strap of her sleeveless gown slipped from her shoulder as she did so, exposing more pale skin beneath the tavern light which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. She lifted her head ever so slightly to check that her husband was watching; he usually had an eye for such situations. This was a little routine she’d played out countless times over the course of millenia: distraught for some reason or another, she wailed and flailed until her powerful husband swooped in to comfort her.

Her diversion was, alas, interrupted by the arrival of the Giver of Fruits, or in this case, the giver of . . . something weird and misshapen. Yavanna was followed swiftly by Meassë (when was the last time she had emerged into polite society? wondered Ilmarë), Oromë, and Tilion. Ilmarë chose to remain in her mildly uncomfortable position even as the alcohol began to go to her head, hoping that her broad-shouldered husband might turn his attention to her after he’d finished taking care of her fellow patrons. She rolled her eyes when Pallando arrived and began to play a cheerful little tune - honestly, some people were so oblivious to the sufferings of others.


How splendid! If the large number of inquiries into her newest project were any indication, the mushy things would be a great success wherever grass and trees grew. “They are, in fact, quite new!” she said to Tilion, backing away slightly (the little patch of earth followed in the same direction) to avoid the pointy horns of the dead stag. “I do hope you’ll show them a bit more respect than you did that poor baby you’ve got slung around your shoulders.” While Yavanna mourned the loss of all her creatures, she also could not resist a sumptuous feast. “I’ll forgive you just this once,” she teased.

“I haven’t yet decided what to call these new things!” she said to the little gathered crowd. “I wondered, though, if they might make a nice addition to our feast. I’ll set them aside until we have eaten,” she said. With a flick of her wrist, the little rectangle of soil and grass and stalks floated off to settle upon the bar. “Meassë, you may be particularly fond of the black ones. I’d expect they’re best cultivated in damp silence and solitude, which would suit a lover of the Void such as yourself.”

Until now, she had managed to ignore the general clangings and ramblings of Pallando, who - as usual - was carrying on as if he was the only one in the room. Her project safely out of the way for now, she rushed toward the carefree flower child and leaned over him menacingly. She was, after all, one of the Valier: tall and imposing, though not without grace. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed at him. She detected, beneath the distinct aroma of patchouli (one of her cheekier inventions), the lingering scent of smoke. “Pallando,” she thundered. “Have you been burning my children AGAIN?” After several long moments, her scowl lightened and she leaned back, her features softening into a smirk. “Which ones? And what were the effects? Tell me everything.”

She smiled broadly and ran a finger round the rim of the first vodka drink eyeballing Eonwe for a moment before tipping the back in one smooth motion which went down with a slight burn, being a war goddess it was incredibly mild to her but so very good. She was about to take her second drink when the Tilion of all people decided to pass comment on her Fortress. "Indeed, though thanks to you and the stag, it smells like home. Sweat and blood.." She said with a lopsided grin with a slight sniff in his direction (which was exceptionally close so she didn't need to sniff hard) since they were both hovering close to Yavanna and the questionable items that she had made were put aside.

Measse couldn't help but pout about not having one of those darn mushrooms yet after all Aule wasn't there so it wasn't like the lord of Fire would be cooking that stag perfectly but... they were at the bar waiting for some feast... and she was out of her drinks. TIME to strategically bother Eonwe once more. She slid towards the patch of mushrooms and glanced at Yavanna who was busy with Pallando. She set her the empty glasses she'd had on the bar. "Get me a tall Rum this time a dark rum. Honestly Eonwe, if your raves had this much alcohol you should have just mentioned those instead of music and Teleperion and bead nonsense I'd have come to more of them." She said leaning forwards and licking the neon pink mushrooms cap.

It tingled fantastically on her tongue which she had no idea was now bright pink fortunately Yavanna was busy. She also had no idea that her pupils were looking rather like when she was singing the music in the halls of Illuvatar - nearly swallowing her irises entirely as she waited for the rum.

A few moments later by the time she had her rum and the mushroom despite still being right there and only slightly worse for wear having not been bitten but merely licked Measse was giggling as Yavanna was grilling the Maiar now about what he had smoked. "I don't care what he smoked the pink mushroom is fantastic love them, I want more Neon Pink looks good with black they can grow in my fortress." She said with another giggle which was.... out of character at best, terrifying at worse. After all a War goddess giggling right up there with that one time that Melkor wore a bright red sequined dress and was doing the Can-can, honestly she wasn't sure she'd told ANYONE about the time her and her brother had seen that. And she wasn't imbibed enough yet to share the hilarious stories of her Halls.

"WAIT WAIT YAVAAAAAANNA..." She trilled "YOU should make another one of these things. But... Red. With like. WHITE spots that are like STOP" Her eye twitched and she giggled a little bit. "STOP don't eat me and if a mortal or an elf eats it..." She giggled maniacally for a moment and sucked a breath in dramatically before finishing her idea. "It kills them with poison." She said with an absolute high pitched giggle.

Ever the dutiful husband, Eönwë rushed to his wife’s side. He knew it was a game, and he knew that she knew that he knew it was game. But that never stopped either one of them from playing it. Ilmarë was master of histrionics (one might even say she was the creator and perfecter of them). Eönwë only fell for it the once, but when he saw how happy it made her to be the absolute center of attention, how could he not indulge her? She always paid him back for his acts of selfless heroism as well. Being able to rescue the damsel in distress (or tame the shrew as a bard might call it) always reflected well on him. It reflected like, well, like starlight!

“Oh my darling, my darling!” he tried not to sound too overdramatic, acting was not his forte and he did not want to ruin the mood his dearly beloved was trying to cultivate. “There, there. I’m sure the piece will turn up in a few days’ time. I swear they have a mind of their own sometimes. I’m trying to think,” he pulled her in closer and smoothed that perfectly out of place lock of hair she always managed to create, “had anyone visited us the last few days? Nessa came by yesterday didn’t she? Something about running a marathon because she was bored? She left a package on the table. We should look there when we get home.” He removed himself from his wife’s side for just long enough to take her glass and refill it, emptying that particular bottle (luckily he had about a hundred more so it was no great loss). He managed to return to her side, broad shoulders and all, and delivered her drink. As part of the play, he was supposed to move her to a more comfortable position, better to watch all the eyes on them of course. One cannot be the center of attention without having all eyes on them? Eönwë liked to placate Ilmarë. He was nowhere near as vain as she, ignore the giant cathedral sized pub with the most outlandish style that screamed “LOOK AT ME” and you would see it. The Herald of the Valar was simply a good and loyal husband.

As soon as he moved his wife in to a better vantage point, not too much so that she looked drunk and not too much so that she looked pedestrian and boring, just right, like they rehearsed, the crowds really starting coming in. Oromë, the Huntman himself! Followed closely by Tilion, who brought with him the most outrageously gorgeous stag! They were going to be feasting today! Venison and… whatever those little things Yavanna created, who could ask for more? “Ah! He’ll get over it! A tall glass of gin with elderflower tonic and a hunch of boar, coming up!” He snapped his fingers and, as if by magic (because it was) both things slid across the bar, floated across and landed right at the table nearest the Huntsman. He leaned back on the nearest table, admiring the admiration he was getting and laughed uproariously. “Besides, I think he’s too distraught over the fact that Illúvatar said he can’t make sentient fungus people to go along with his, oh what was he calling them, dweebs? No, duerger? Hmmm, ah, dwarves! He’ll be grumpy for a few weeks at least. And during that time, we get to feast on the most delicious edible experiments in all the world! It’s always a party when the happy couple are on the outs.” He waggled his brows and was about to say something likely very inappropriate for a man in his position when the music started playing.

What? He hadn’t order any…. Oh himselfdammit! Pallando had arrived. Pallando the Ever-Stoned. Pallando the Toker. Pallando the I-can’t-sing-but-that-will-never-stop-me. Well, things had been going smoothly. At least Meássë hadn’t started a fight yet. He managed to waggle his finger at her in an “oh you” fashion before the music started grating on his ears.


“Holy shire!” Pallando yelped, the Huntsman had appeared behind him, scaring the wits out of him (again, how was a guy so big so sneaky? And why was he covered in camo?). Thankfully it did not affect his playing. The show must, like, go on man. “If I could save time in a bottle, there’s nothing that I’d like to do…” there was supposed to be more to that song but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Forgoing lyrics, Pallando decided it was best to just play his xylophone, it was the centerpiece of his sound after all. It was going so well, everyone, and I mean everyone was looking at him. The music was totally groovy and the vibes, man the vibes were tubular. Wait, oh, oh, oh no!

Before he was able to make it through most of his song, she saw him. Oh man, oh man, oh man. Things just went sideways, full on FUBAR man! This was not radical! He had no idea SHE was gonna be here! He thought the Mother of Fruits would be off in a garden somewhere, like, making some excellent grass. He realized he still had his pipe in his mouth. Oh man, this was the worst. Game over man, game over! Yavanna had caught red, no wait, green handed. Last time she caught him smoke her righteous herbs she half buried him in the garden for a week. He… he did not enjoy that. There had been no place to go, you know…

“Oh, ah, hey, hey there Yavanna. So crazy running into you like this. I, uh, I was gonna tell you. I, uh,” Pallando was a horrible liar and he was having difficulty coming up with an excuse. He really wished there was a hedge around here that he could back into and disappear. Wow, Eönwë had really let him down. Yavanna was gonna toss him up and hang him on Laurelin’s high branches. Oh man, oh man, oh man.

"Huh?" Pallando was dumbstruck by the sudden change in her demeanor. He blinked several times. "Well, like, so I tried this one that looked like a star but but it was green. Then I tried another one that had leaves that were sharp and had some red berries. I chewed the berries and smoke the leaves and, let me tell you it was like totally far out. A full body high. I saw like, double stars. So, uh, you got anymore?"

The New King of Gondor Eldarion has put out a call for a Fellowship of the West, you have been invited to answer that call, you all gather in the throne room of Minas Tirith where he speaks with you....

"There are stirrings in the East and while my father Aragorn had created a peace with Harad in the end I worry that the peace and trust that was grown may now be crumbling. I wishes to entreat with the King of the Corsairs to see if Harad is falling away from the West and any news on what is happening and if it is not Harad and the Corsairs then if they have news of the Far East beyond the sands of Khand." The young King paces the room before the gathered group. "You are being sent with my authority and unless proven otherwise under a banner of peace, hopefully the Corsair King is still with us as are the people of Harad." He let out a sigh and sat down upon his throne and looks at you. "Do you have any questions?


This is a Pathfinder/Plaza based hybrid RPG you are welcome to build your character in the OOC/Character Creation Thread HERE

Questions are also welcome in the OOC -

The Upset Hammer, Valinor

Nienna did not visit the Upset Hammer often. She was usually too busy wailing and staring at the Walls of the World. The place could get loud and the din hurt her sensitive ears made for listening to grief and despair. Also, the laughter rather got on her nerves; she could only take so much. It made her feel sick. But even the Lady of Tears got thirsty sometimes.

Her grey hood was lifted over her silver sheen of hair as she slipped into the pub and ignored the more noisome patrons. She really needed a hood that muffled undesirable sound so she could focus on all the weeping. When she arrived at the bar, she heaved a very woeful and dramatic sigh. “The usual, Eönwë, please.” A pitcher of salt-water. To replenish her tears. Not that she was a regular but she was the only one who ever ordered it. The pitcher was now molded to the shape of her hand, which she rested on the bar. Black nails painted with tiny teardrops peeked out from beneath her robe.

Then, turning to Ilmarë, whose distress was so magnetic, she could not possibly resist. “Oh dear. You seem terribly upset. What’s wrong? Why don't you tell me all about?” She put on her most consoling tone, used to press the grief from others like wringing water from a sponge. And she lapped it like water, too. She tried not to seem too keen to enjoy hearing about the Star-maiden’s suffering but failed miserably. “Do you need another drink?” She sniffed and arched a brow. “Vodka, is it?” Oooh melancholic drunks were her favorites.

“Apologies, apologies!” Tilion repeated, bowing to Yavanna and giving her a wink. “I shall look forward to sampling your latest wares!” On his way to the bar, her sidled over to Ilmarë, who looked dramatically distressed about something, and was being consoled (or something) by Nienna. “Ladiiiiiiiiiies,” he said with his most charming manner and winning smile, as casual as one could be with a huge stage slung about one’s shoulders. “How can I make your day better? We’re going to be feasting, I can tell you!” He shrugged his shoulders energetically, causing the stag to bounce. “Perhaps a massage? A poem praising your skill and beauty? I would be only too happy to oblige. Let me just deal with this.” Tilion moved blithely onward to Eönwë at the bar, not at all concerned that he might have seen him flirting (or something like that) with his wife. “Eönwë!” Tilion roared, “Brought you a present!” With a heave and a duck, he flipped the stag over his head and slapped it down onto the bar top. Oromë, who had just finished laughing at Eönwë’s jibe about the happy couple and been mid huge gulp of gin when this occurred, choked and spit, spewing a fine mist of elderflower G&T over both maiar.

As predicted, her dutiful husband rushed over to comfort her. At his cry of, “Oh my darling, my darling!”, she felt as though a spotlight had fallen upon her. This was her cue to take it up a notch! She sighed dramatically and let two fat tears roll down her cheeks (she had applied extra powder to her face before setting out for the tavern so that the inevitable tear tracks would be extra-noticeable, even from a distance).

“OH!” she gasped. Eönwë was right - Nessa had come to pay them a call not long ago. “Of course, my dear - Nessa would sabotage my little project. She’s always trying to run fast enough to take off into the skies, and she’s always been jealous of my proximity to the firmament. She must have done this in spite!” She let out another wail of misery. “I’ll set her straight the next time I lay eyes on her!”

As if it required all the strength she had left, she lifted an arm to accept the newly refilled glass Eönwë brought over. She sniffed sadly as he lifted her to rest upon a more comfortable bench, though her theatrics did not stop her from admiring his strength. Had he always been this strong? She supposed he must have been, to be chosen from among them all to hoist the standard of the King of the World. It was, after all, a very big flag on a very long pole. Once he had fulfilled his part and pushed a lock of hair from her eyes, Ilmarë whispered, “Thank you my love, and well done. Be ready in case Nessa shows up - an accusation from the two of us will have a much greater effect than mine alone.”

She lay still for a long while on the bench onto which Eönwë had deposited her. Several long moments went by in silence, and when she next cracked open an eyelid to see why no one was paying her any attention, the Lady of Mourning had appeared at her side! How perfect: Nienna loved sad stories, and Ilmarë was skilled at hyperbolizing even the smallest of grievances into tragedy.

“Oh, Nienna, it’s awful,” Ilmarë moaned, gladly seizing the opportunity to revisit her troubles with the missing puzzle pieces of heaven. “You know how long it takes to put together a puzzle worth finishing, and you know how long Varda labored in the creation of the night skies. I was there by her side, replenishing her coffee and wiping her brow as she worked. It took us ages! I have labored similarly on my latest puzzle in honor of her great work, but I find it cannot be completed. The works of the gods are not to be interrupted!” she concluded, her woe giving way to righteous fury. She rubbed at her neck; the tension from this whole situation would have killed her if she wasn’t a goddess.

Fortunately, not long after, she was offered a massage! “Oh Tilion, would you?” she cried in mock disbelief. “Please, see to the feast, but then if you wouldn’t mind . . . I’d be ever so grateful.” She drained her cup and tossed it over her shoulder. It crashed to the floor with an explosion of glass. In an indirect answer to Nienna’s earlier question, she called after Tilion, “And bring me another drink, won’t you?”


Yavanna smiled and took careful mental notes. “A full-body high, eh?” she mused. “Well then, I’ve outdone myself! I had only psychoactive effects in mind when I brought them into being, but I see my children have some of their own tricks.” She thought about the starry-leafed plant with particular fondness. But her questioning was incomplete, so she carried on, “Now, what is it you’re currently smoking in that pipe? Have my children had any effect on how you perceive, for instance, the music from this little contraption?” She tapped a fingernail on one of the wooden bars. It let out a surprisingly plinky little noise. “And how does it influence your compositions? I wonder what a bit of a high might allow me to create.” It was true: she had no idea how substances of her own creation might impact her own generative abilities. Perhaps it was time to find out.

She turned toward the bar to order a drink just in time to witness Meássë licking one of the vibrant pink things that had just sprouted into existence. “Well,” she said, one brow arched, “how did that taste?” The warlike goddess giggled uncharacteristically. Oh my, thought Yavanna. Those effects certainly are quick. The little thing also seemed to be the source of some . . . strange ideas. She blinked. “Red with white spots?” she repeated. She could not recall creating anything with such a fantastical pattern. There were ladybugs, of course, red with black spots, but that wasn’t quite the same. “Hmmm,” she mused. “You may be onto something. I shall give it every consideration.”

She glided to the bar, wincing only slightly when Tilion heaved the stag onto the counter. She was, alas, too slow to evade a shower of gin and tonic. She snatched up a bar cloth and dabbed delicately at her face, shooting Oromë a poisonous glance. “Eönwë,” she said, “which of your wines has the most complex bouquet?”

So typical of Valinor, there were years and years and years (really so long) with not a single bit of news, no parties, no scandals, no Yavanna-Aulë gossip, then all of the sudden it blew up and there was madness everywhere. Had he planned it this way? Well, he was never going to reveal that. A bartender has to be good at keeping secrets. He had just decided that. It looked like Nienna was attending to his dear put-upon wife. Good, it was not that he did not like having a starring role in his wife’s ultra-dramatic performances, but from time to time he liked to be a spectator.

He delivered the Tear Maiden’s salt water. He literally one had one bottle of the stuff because, well it was salt water, who besides Nienna would ever actually drink this stuff? Tulkas would probably answer something about electrolytes but Eönwë would have already tuned him out by the time he finished the word “Actually”. Eönwë was not into fitness, he was just into looking naturally flawless and wonderful while putting next to no effort. Herald of Valar, after all. Did he mention that? “Thank you so much Nienna. I know that my wife is in excellent hands with you. You are such a good listener.” He held his wife’s hand, gave her an imperceptible wink. “You’re in excellent hands my sun and stars” (what was a sun?) “I will only be a call away. You need not fret.” He took her hand and kissed it. “We’ll find that dastardly puzzle piece, never you fret, and your reputation as a master puzzler will remain in tact.”

As soon as he moved away, Tilion moved in to offer his condolences. That was nice of him. It was a made a little less dramatic and sympathetic with the stag still slung over his shoulders, but he was trying. Eönwë took said stag from the Huntsman’s apprentice and smirked as the silver hair (and silver tongued) devil offer up a massage and a poem. If Eönwë were the jealous type, he would have thought something was up. Poetry? Really? Isn’t that Lórien’s thing? Or Olórin? He could never keep it straight. Still, he was the Herald of the Valar, had he mentioned that? He had nothing to fear. “A present for me? My dear Tilion, I almost fear you have designs on my wife and I both!”

He chuckled and made for the kitchen. He had almost made it too when he was sprayed by an enormous about of gin and elderflower tonic. Clearly the joke he’d made about Aulë was a good one, that or Oromë’s sense of humor had previously been limited to puns. Either way… he wiped his brow and laughed good naturedly. “Stop trying to season the meat before it’s on the spit!” It was not just him, Tilion, and Yavanna (boy that one was gonna be fun to watch) that had been caught in the Ossë style spit take. The stag was now both dead and soaked in gin. Still, it could be worse.

“Complex bouquets,” he said after a moment getting his bearings back. “Hmmm, hmmmm,” he looked at his wall of wines. Really, he knew nothing about wine. He like the colors and all the crazy bottles he could put them in. He had bought them wholesale from Curumo at the last craft fair. Eönwë himself liked a sweet wine, one with a very high alcohol content preferably. “I’d say this one is rather complex, notes of rose, cinnamon, and lavender.” He pulled down a random bottle, looked at the label. It was a white. That was about all he could figure. Wait, no it was a rosé. “I bottled it just a few weeks ago, had it stored in cedar barrels for a decade at least.” Was that right? He had no idea what he was saying at this point.

Danger apparently averted, Pallando was much more willing to engage with Yavanna about the ingesting of special herbs. This was not at all what he expected from her. He thought she’d surely find a way to kill him this time. But she was interested in his opinion? Totally radical! The vibes in this pub were certainly picking up. He bobbed his head along to the music in his mind. “Like, yeah, so I was out this morning, right, when Telperion was still doing his thing, you know, with the silver light and all that, really putting in a radical show, man the vibes were good. But so like I was wandering around behind my house” (Pallando, did in fact have a house, to the surprise of most) “and like, I saw this little white and green star looking flower and like, I thought to myself “Pallanado, this looks like a pretty stellar herb. We ought to give it a try, see if it’s, like, something to toke” and well, you know, I’m not gonna argue with myself, right? Except that one time when I was sure I’d taken something that gave me a split personality, I argued with myself that time. Said there was no way I was having any of that snow that Nessa likes so much. Like that stuff is way too intense for me. But back to the story, so I found this little guy and I decided, you know, I bet Yavanna would like to know what I thought about this little guy so I, I had to, you know. And let me tell you, it was the most groovy thing that ever was man. Like, I was hit with it right away. It was little of grass and a little bit of opium and man, it was the best stuff I tell you. I should totally show you the place I found it at. Like, just behind where my house meets the meadow. You ever been back there? It’s a pretty groovy out there. Nice and quiet. I can see Telperion doing his thing, Laurelin getting all high and golden and the like. It’s great. I invited Ilmarë out once but she laughed and asked about bugs. I don’t think she like, likes bugs. I dig the little weirdos. Totally, like the coolest little guys, six legs and so tiny. I bet you were feeling good the day you made them huh? Like, reeeeeeeeeally good.”

Finally, it occurred to Pallando the Ever-Stoned, that maybe the Giver of Fruits didn’t need to hear him go on and on and on about bugs and such. “Sorry bout that, I get a little carried away when I get excited. Oh! Music! Oh man, you have no idea! This stuff, this stuff as totally like opened my third eye, hell maybe even my fourth eye. How many eyes do we have? But like, I can seeeeee the music, if you smell what I’m stepping in. I don’t play the music, it more, like flows from my brain waves straight to the hammers. Oh, oh I bet you’ll like this. I’m coming up with a new instrument, sorta like this baby here,” he patted the xylophone that tinkled a weak note, “I think I’m gonna call it the vibraphone, after the great vibes I’m getting from you. What do you think of that?”

Ryu Sachi and her twin sister Ryu Miin Si stood on the battlements of the fortress overlooking the bay. The waves were crystal blue, tipped with white. The sun glinted off them, cascading a thousand thousand rainbows in all directions. There was not a cloud in the sky, the clear blue sky stretched from the sea green horizon in the east to the shadowy mountain purple in the west. Gulls called noxiously, screaming at each other as they fought and wheeled about, searching for fish or crabs. The sisters were too high to hear the noise of the streets below, naught but a dull cacophony reached them. The wind was sweet, a mixture of salt and mango. Sachi was leaning against the stone under an umbrella, reading from a book, Miin Si was pacing back and forth staring fixedly at the ship coming into harbor. The more she watched it, the more she felt like it was never going to get to its destination. It was their ship, their freedom, their redemption. How could Sachi be reading at a time like this?

“You know, it doesn’t matter how much watch the boat come into port, it’s still going to take another day for us to leave,” she did not look up from her book.

Miin Si scoffed leaned further over the edge of the stone embankment. It didn’t matter to her that it was still going to be a full day before they were on their way, the fact that they would be on their way was what mattered to her. She squinted and shielded her eyes from the sun. “I can see figurehead, it’s a Fenghuang. The same kind as on the hilt of my sword.” She ignored what her twin said.

Finally, Sachi looked up, fixing a lock of white hair that had fallen out of place. “I heard the town criers this morning. Apparently, a man was found nailed to the doors of the police station. They said he had bits removed from him. They said he was the one assaulting women over the last fortnight.”

“And?” Miin Si asked, shifting the weight of the hwando at her hip. “Sounds like he got the punishment he deserved. Too bad the police couldn’t do what they’re paid to do.”

Sachi sighed. “Indeed. Where were you last night? You weren’t in your room when I came home.”

Miin Si continued to stare out at the bay, “What are you asking, sweet sister?”

Sachi stared at the back of her sister’s head. They were nearly identical, save for their hair. Sachi had been born with hair as white as snow and thick as river moss, Miin Si had black hair, wispy as a willow’s branches. Their mother named them for the two things she had wanted most from them: Prosperity and Beauty. It had been a presumptuous act. One that did not benefit her at all. She had died before the twins’ fifth birthday. She died a pauper, convinced that her daughters were about to bring her fame and fortune. They were taken in by the state, then by an uncle they’d never heard of. He lived in this fortress, the mayor of Sunju. Since then the twins flourished. They did not have to live with a mother ready and willing to force her daughters to do anything that might give more honor to her name. Sachi was able to attend school and study the classics of Lemurian art and literature. She received the very best tutors in all the providence. Miin Si was allowed to attend an academy for Geomdo where she learned how to fight. The time was coming when they were going to have to pay their uncle back by accepting marriage proposals that would bring him more power and influence. They’d be shipped off in opposite direction to rich, old, wrinkly faced fools, or, worse, to young inexperienced manchildren. Naturally, neither of them was going to do anything of the sort. Their uncle was getting on his years. His raven black hair had long since turned to a sickly gray. Each day more and more liver spots could be counted on his thinning head. Many of the stairways in this old fortress were crumbling as well. Many of the stones were loosening by the day. It was only a matter of time…

“All I ask is for a little subtlety.”

Miin Si laughed, her voice had the same resonance as a zither, but with an edge of hard steel. “Afraid it might bring attention?”

Sachi rolled her eyes and closed her book. “If what we are planning is to succeed, we can’t have this many death’s attributed to us,” she hissed.

“Relax,” Miin Si turned and sat under the umbrella with her sister, “no one saw me. If anyone saw anything, they’ll have just seen the Winter Dragon doing work the police are incapable of.”

“And when we’re gone, and no one sees the Winter Dragon for a year? Sister, I don’t think you have thought your vigilantism through.”

“You are too serious, Sachi. Truly, stop reading for once and look up at the blue sky!”

They spent the next few hours together, each in their own thoughts. The sun peaked in the sky. The heat came in waves. Both sisters were glad of the umbrella. They dined on spicy beef soup for lunch. The servants barely looked at them, they returned the favor. It was not until the sun began to vanish behind the mountains of the west that they spoke again. The city’s populace was loud tonight, and why not, it was a holiday after all. In any other year they would have begged their uncle to take them down to the streets so they could enjoy the crowds and lights and colors. It was different this time. Each sister felt a sort of detachment from their surroundings. The celebrations and fireworks barely registered. The smell of sugar and confection barely reached their noses.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Miin Si was the first to break the silence.

“I am,” Sachi sounded like she wanted to say more, but she remained silent.

“And you’re sure that our plan will work?”

Sachi sniffed haughtily. “You know I have the gift of foresight. I told you exactly what I dreamed and what we had to do. Are you doubting my interpretation?”

“Sweet sister, I do not doubt you or your interpretation. I just like to have reassurances from time to time.”

They looked each other in the eye, the sun’s dying orange and gold light catching the deep ocean blue color. Sachi brushed her sister’s cheek and pushed back a strand of black hair. “We will be off tomorrow. Uncle thinks we are simply going to sail down to Huinrae to visit a prospective pair of husbands. As soon as we arrive, we’ll, you’ll, dispatch those that need to be dispatched and then we can continue around until we reach the port city of Umbar. We won’t be the only children of our father converging on him there. We’ll give him no other option than to come back home with us, and once dear Uncle has passed on, we can use him to get us the estate. Our cousins won’t know what hit them.”

They both smiled, eyes glimmering. They had an empire to build. It was foretold by their mother after all, prosperity and beauty. She was simply foolish enough to believe those things were going to belong to her.

“We’re coming, father.” Miin Si whispered into the sweet evening air, “we’re coming.”

The Upset Hammer, Valinor

“Yes, Eönwë, you know I am always willing to listen to the trials of the woe-begotten. If you ever have a need...I am here.” The salt water went down a treat and now Nienna was back in business!

And just in time! Her eyes shimmered with newly refreshed tears upon hearing of Ilmarë’s puzzle struggles. “How. Torturous. That is the most harrowing thing I have heard since Melkor’s little solo.” (Which she secretly rated quite highly even though it hurt her ears a little.) Nienna reached out to brush an idle strand of Ilmarë’s hair away like a mother to a child would someday offer comfort. “I’m terribly sorry you’re having to go through this stasis in your work. Please. Tell me how awful it feels...don’t hold back.”

“Ladiiiiiiiiiies,” Tilion interrupted them with a rude offer to ALSO console Ilmarë? No, no, NO. That was Nienna’s job. His bright, charming demeanor was ruining all her plans!! Here she was, right where she wanted to be, the center of utmost suffering and he had to come in and offer a massage of all things! And poetry! Augh. And- and- she felt just a little bit less unhappy in his presence...this would not do at all. The Lady of Tears did not, as a rule, feel happiness!

“Tilion, dear, you really aren’t my type.” Did she even have one though? Maybe lonesome, dark and brooding and that was definitely not him. “I hope you aren’t upset,” she lied. If he was, she could console him next. Oh she really needed to come here more often and see everyone with their feathers ruffled. “Does it hurt terribly to be spurned?” She asked, jutting out her lower lip at him in a well-rehearsed pout.

“I certainly hope you’re right, dear,” Ilmarë said with a sniff. He was right - she had a reputation as a master puzzler, and she would not let one wayward piece tarnish it. She would find that puzzle piece, even if she had to look at the sole of every shoe in Valmar or tear the whole place apart. Yavanna could regrow everything, and the builders who’d erected this incredible tavern would surely be glad of the work to restore all the collapsed buildings. Of course, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she had to be ready to take a stand for her reputation.

Her angry thoughts subsided when she looked into Nienna’s pitying face once more. The lady of tears had such a way of drawing the sadness out of you, like someone sucking poison from a wound. But instead of relieving the sadness, Nienna only encouraged its greater expression. Ilmarë found she was quite ready to continue enumerating her woes.

“Oh my dear,” she whined, “the loss I’ve experienced is far more disruptive and chaotic than any of Melkor’s musical stylings, to be sure. It is one thing to interject a bit of discord into a song not even fully composed, or to throw down mountains and towers not even halfway incomplete, but to snatch away the last, tiniest bit of a project that has a known ending? No, that is far worse. All the toil and labor for nothing! Whoever is responsible must pay.” She let a few more tears slide down her cheeks. Maybe Nienna would like to catch them in a glass and drink them alongside her saltwater? Ilmarë drained her glass and caught her tears. “I’ll save these for you, Nienna, in thanks for your commiseration.”


“Yes, yes, that sounds perfect,” Yavanna said to Eönwë. She was afraid he was going to start rambling. He always rambled when he lied, and she could tell he was making up a load of nonsense about this wine. She had caught him off guard. He was a spirit far more interested in the shapely curves of the bottles than what was in them, she knew. “Thank you, Eönwë. Please send a very full glass over to me when you get a moment. I’ve just realized that Pallando is still talking to me, poor thing. Seems my children have addled his senses more than usual this time.” With a smile, she turned to rejoin Pallando and to hear the rest of his ramblings.

“That sounds fascinating,” she interjected vaguely, not knowing fully what he’d just been talking about. Something about bugs? “Yes, bugs were quite the clever invention, weren’t they? Six limbs instead of four like us. It just seemed time for something new!”

She sank into a cushioned seat near Pallando. “Third and fourth eyes? Hmm, I might have to steal that idea when it comes time to put together some more creatures. You don’t mind, do you?” She guessed he wouldn’t, and that he likely wouldn’t even remember this conversation. Still, it never hurt to ask. “Visible music, hmm,” she murmured, her tones low and conspiratorial. “I’d like to experience that myself. Tell you what - let’s try out this new vibraphone sometime, you and me - we can go lay in the meadows outside the city and look at the stars and just relax with the help of my children. Ohh, maybe we can even throw a concert for everyone to enjoy! But keep this little plan a secret for now, you hear? I’d like it to be a fun surprise!” She grinned.

The Upset Hammer, Valinor

Measse was absolutely tickled pink that Yavanna was asking what she thought. She giggled once more at the pun she'd made mentally and smacked her lips together a bit like someone trying to find the words to describe what something tasted like... "Exceptionally sweet, like eating honey." She said and smacked her lips a few more times. "Honestly if I didn't think it would be interesting to see everyone else on it.... I might eat it whole. Probably dangerous. I want like 50 of them. I want to stuff them down Makar and Melkors gullets." She said with a nod figuring that that review was worth Yavanna considering her poisonous mushroom idea. She thought it was brilliant, also the two boys of War and Destruction... or whatever Melkor was actually the God of could use some sweetness... She was still giggling and looking around to try to see where the noise was coming from simply because she was so.... unfamiliar with the noise. it only stopped of course when she was drinking her tall glass of rum. Which made her narrow her eyes in suspicion. Listening closely to the OTHER sounds in the bar.

Ilmare was still lamenting the loss of a puzzle piece... Which honestly considering all the other things Melkor had done over all seemed fairly trivial, but one should not judge what someone found horrific and unbearable. After all she tended to find Tulkas' laughter grating and enjoyed when he came to visit to fight simply so she could punch him in the mouth to try to get him to stop laughing. She sipped at the rum some more, Nienna was also seeming to enjoy the drama and Measse wondered if the Lady of Tears would like to hear Measse lamenting over how horribly annoying Melkor was when he was whining about Manwe and Varda and everyone else ruining his plans. Worse the Makar whinging about her splitting his lip every other time she punched him, honestly one would think to put a guard up in front of ones face when one was getting swung at or duck, or dodge or something. Great bloody lumps. They were boring to fight however Nienna was still quite decidedly busy with Ilmare and the puzzle piece and Measse despite not generally being considered polite company, was fairly polite and did not want to interrupt.

There had been darkness for so long. The light of the stars was pale, cold, and distant. He did not see what his fellow quendi had seen in them. They saw beauty and majesty worthy of endless song. He saw the machinations of cruel, unknowable deities looking to cast their chains upon the land. He rejected them all. He spurned the stars and his kindred. The love of stars was naught but false worship, the glory of the Western Powers was naught but blind adoration. Adam had his eyes wide open. He saw each of them for what they were. He preferred the measureless caverns and darkened byways of the earth to the clouds and trees. He loved the echoing blindness. There was terror within that darkness, but he could harness that terror and allow himself to feed off it. He grew strong, alone in the Dark. The creatures of Belekōrōz fled from him as readily as they might one of his mighty servants. His own people did not stand against him either. He was darkness personified, he would swallow them up in nightmares of the nethermost hells. Yet it was never enough for him. He hungered for more, so much more.

He had sought out the Mother of Abominations in the early years of his life, before his kindred left their sacred gardens and groves. He heard rumors on the winds of a creature born of the Void, a Lady of Perfect Darkness. He knew that it was his destiny to find her and beg of her knowledge. He searched in the darkest pits and shadows for her, yet his search had been fruitless. Whatever darkness she had shrouded herself in, it was a stronger thing that his. That changed though, the light of the West had been snuffed out. He had felt the light go out. He had been in the depths of the earth, searching for the most perfect darkness; that loss of light in the world had filled him with such vitality that his screams of ecstatic jubilation could be heard for miles. He knew it had been her, the Great Spider, the Child of the Void. He renewed his search for her, ready to devote his existence to her. He had found her and had been so awed by her iniquitous aura that he wept tears of unlight. His endless search had come to an end. He had been blessed and given purpose. He escaped her webs then. So desperate for light that she tried to devour him for the light of the stars in his eyes. Yet, even as she tried to destroy him, she blessed him again, this time with sacred knowledge. Men. The Second-born. They were coming soon. They would be here at the rising of a great and terrible light. The image was so burned in his mind that he went blind.

Yet he did escape her, and he began to search for the Second-born, the low creatures. Along the way, he found his perfect darkness. It was at the bottom of any cavern, or behind the darkest of stars, it was within him. He could no longer see light, but unlight had given him a sight that did not need such frivolities as shimmering light. It took him years to find the place of the Second-born. Yet it was not so fruitless a search as the search for the Child of the Void. He did not need eyes to see where he was going. He was driven by an urgency, a hunger, an all-consuming urge to bring about the darkness. The thing that was coming, the last light of Tulukhedelgorūs, it filled him with dread. Of all the enemies he had faced down and sent into the night, this was the most terrifying. A single glimpse of her in the mouth of madness had blinded him. What would happen when it arrived in truth? The knowledge he bore gnawed at his soul, eating away at his fëa like a canker. Adam was more powerful now, more in tuned with the power that gave him purpose. He did not know what that purpose was, but he trusted that his purpose would be made clear to him. The Darkness had never failed him, and he would not fail it.

The valley stretched before him, leagues of lush greens and blues and yellows. Trees of every kind, flowers, fruits, and vines. It was a far superior paradise than he had been born into. Adam felt a tinge of jealousy. If he had been given such a lush garden upon his Awakening, he might have sought the darkness. He might have sought the Green Lady and begged her to teach him the ways of cultivation, agriculture, and fertility. Now, though, the idea reviled him. He spat. This place would not be a paradise for long. He would stretch the fingers of Darkness and unlight into the valley, into the hearts of Men as they awoke. He would sow seeds of fear and desperation. These children of the light would fear the darkness and from that fear he could bring about his domination. He would not cultivate flowers or corn or wheat, he would cultivate dread, panic, and dismay. There would be other fears that fed on Men in the days to come, but he would make sure that his fear was the greatest in the minds of these poor unfortunate souls. There would be those that loved the Darkness, those that would worship him and give themselves to the Forever Blind. He could manipulate them, pretend to be one of them, guide them so that they would find the perfect darkness of the sacred unlight.

There was a light in the west. He could not see it, but he could feel it. It felt like ants crawling all over his skin. His flesh felt as though it would burst at any moment. It was the most horrid agony he had ever felt. The jaws of Ungoliant were nothing in comparison to the rays of the Sun. He screamed. The sound of his anguish filled the valley, but it was swallowed by the Sun, by the light. He truly had not been prepared for the horrors it would bring.

There was a rustling beside him. What had once been a cold, soulless stone, now stretched to life. He snarled, grabbing the newly awakened Man by the back of the head. He vented his rage and pain into the animal. His fingers found the eyes of the Man, newly awakened, gazing at the Sun in all it’s profane glory. He squeezed, jamming his thumbs into the Man’s eyes. Soon, the Darkness claimed him.

The hrovaquendi rolled her eyes. Balls and masquerades were stupid anyway. Why had she thought she'd be allowed in? She'd managed to peak in and saw that even the poorest dressed fop was dressed in finer clothing that she'd ever managed to stitch together. Illuya eyed the fussily dressed porter, his eyes half hidden behind rose-colored pince-nez. His nostrils were flared as if he smelt something rotten. She knew it wasn’t her, she’d made sure to bathe before attempting the party, she even used the fancy oils and soaps these Ñoldor brought back with them. Personally, she found them to highly overfragrant and irritating and made her eyes water. “Ma’am…” he said as though he expected her to know what to do. His lips twisted in bewildered annoyance. It wasn’t her fault she had no idea what the protocols were. The festivals and blóts the Nandor celebrated were nothing on this level. The extravagance made her both envious and nauseous. The music was better though. Even from without the hall, she could tell the musicians were of the high-class variety, playing songs she’d never heard of on instruments she’d never seen.

“What?” she finally said, mirroring his look of annoyance and befuddlement.

“Ma’am…” he started again and paused, peering over the rim of the glasses. He looked constipated. “I’m afraid that without an invitation you cannot be allowed to participate in the night’s festivities. And you…” he paused and looked again at her outfit, a dyed leather jerkin with a crisp white tunic, and woolen trousers, “are not dressed properly for such an auspicious event.” With that, he went about as if she was not standing five feet away from him and they were not the only two people in the hallway.

It was odd that she’d managed to make it into the palace of Thargelion at all, now that she thought of it. She was not a citizen, she was not a guest, yet here she was. She shrugged, made a dramatic sigh of agitation, and turned to go. She’d come in hopes for an audience with the king. While most of her people had collectively decided fighting in these wars was an ill-conceived venture, she had not. The contrarian outlook had, among other things, made her an outcast. She was often at odds with members of her family and the community at large. No matter how often she had tried to be persuasive in the arguments for allying with the Sindar and the Ñoldor against the powers of Morgoth she was rebuffed and branded a hrovaquendi: wild elf. She was a woman of impetuous mood and fiery temper. Effectively, Illuya had been exiled. She sought out distant kin in Doriath, Himlad, and Ossirand but all the responses had been the same. She was too wild, too volatile. It hadn’t help that often after being told this and denied sanctuary she would fly in a rage and break things. She earned the nickname “Barbarian” for that. She was running out of places to go. Thargelion was one of the last places any of her kind lived in any quantifiable number, and by the look of things, that opportunity was slipping like sand through fingers.

She felt angry, she felt desperate. She wanted to break something. She wanted to break a lot of things, maybe even a few someones. The shrimpy little dandy could easily suffice. Her fingers itched. Best not said her oft ignored inner voice. Being hunted is the next rung down, do you really want to take it? Did she? At least then she’d be noticed. She cracked her knuckles, considering. No. No, it was not what she needed now. She had a long, long journey back over the Ered Luin and into the ancient forests beyond.

“When do you think the next audience will be?” She asked, stalling for time for reasons beyond her.

“What?” the little toad had forgotten about her! She was standing right there! What was…

“The. Next. Audience.” She said with deliberately slow, forceful tone. “When?”

“I don’t know what you mean… ma’am. King Caranthir isn’t having an audience at the ball.”

“I can bloody tell, you addle brained sycophant. And do not call me ma’am again, or I will rip out your tongue.”

Well that did it. Or at least it was going to. The doorman went pale, his ugly face turned even uglier as he rang a bell. Three guards in full armor appeared out of thin air. “This… this woman has no invitation. She must be removed from the confines of the palace before his majesty hears about gatecrashers.”

The guards moved toward her; she took a step back. Then everyone froze. Panic started in the ballroom. Something was happening. Something bad. She took the momentary reprieve to run back in the direction she came. The guards were distracted, and they were slower. Whatever was going on out there was not her concern. Royal dramatics were of no interest to her. She darted down the halls, becoming lost and frustrated. Then things began to get worse, as if they could. Warning bells and horns began to sound through the complex. Whatever was going on was not royal dramatics, unless royal dramatics had included an assassination. But the air was different, there was panic in the wind, not rage. Something very bad was happening. Several people rushed by her as she stopped to catch her breath, barely heeding her existence. They weren’t just rushing; they were running for their lives. What in the black stars was going on? She looked north and saw it. Fire. More fire than Illuya had ever seen, moving as if it was sentient, as if it had a mind and a purpose. A chill ran through her veins. It could only mean one thing. It was not something that was coming, it was a someone. She gulped but found it hard to swallow, her mouth was dry and her throat went numb. This was very bad.

Instinctively, she went for her weapon, a great war hammer with a handle as tall as she was. It was not there. She cursed. She had been forced to surrender it when she arrived. But she was lost in a maze of screaming, panicked people. She barely had any sense of direction. If it had not been for the fires, moving impossibly fast, she would have no idea where anything was. There was a window in front of her though. She looked out and down at a courtyard maybe thirty feet below.

“Well, at least I’m not gonna fall down the mountain,” she mused. She took a few steps back, judged the distance, then leapt. She crashed through the glass like a bolt of lightning. The sound though, barely made a wave against the sounds of terrified people, bells, and the call to arms.

Perhaps she could join in the fighting, show off her skills for the king firsthand, distinguish herself, and be offered sanctuary. For a brief moment, she thought it was a brilliant idea. Then the sounds of the enemy reached her ears. They were still a long way off and nothing was clear. Except one thing. This place was no longer going to be a sanctuary. Not for her, not for anyone. The flames roared like something was in them. Something was in them, she realized. What sort of hellish monster had Morgoth unleashed on Thargelion? Illuya didn’t want to wait and find out. That knowledge meant death, and she very much preferred to stay alive.

She brushed the bits of broken glass out of her flaming red hair and sped on out of the courtyard, looking for a way out of this doomed city. Within the space of a few minutes the place had gone from cacophonous to utterly silent. She was running through a graveyard; the only sound was her breathing.

Then the fighting started.

The hrovaquendi could hear the sounds of screams, of fire, of death all around her. She was so focused on the sounds that her attention drifted for half a heartbeat. In that heartbeat, someone rounded the corner, wielding a sad looking dirk. She crashed into him so hard he dropped the blade and wailed as his head bounced off the pavement.

“You!” he screamed.

Indeed, it was her. But who was… oh. It was the pince-nez wearing doorman. He was no longer wearing them. He was still dressed in ballroom finery, but he had armed himself with a dirk, though clearly whatever training he had with it didn’t include how to hold onto it after encounter anyone.

“You!” he screamed again.

Yes, it was still her. “Raging bullocks man, yes, it’s me. What does that have to do…”

“You’re a spy. You’re a foul creature of…”

She pulled him up off the ground, yanking his bodily into the air like flailing baby bird, then slapped him as hard as she could. Her hand stung and came away with blood. “Be quiet you moron!”

“You, you were sent to kill the king. I knew it! I…”

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by the sound of something crashing and breaking. Orcs. It would have be orcs. What else could it be? They came in like a flood, a singular seething mass of bodies. The air turned foul as soon as they rounded a corner. They began hacking and slashing and burning everything they saw. Without thinking Illuya grabbed the dirk the man had dropped and charged into the fray. She was not as good with a dirk as she was with her war hammer (it was hard to knock heads off with a dirk) but she was fast enough and strong enough that hopefully she could cause some damage, get them to flee. Orcs were cowards, they would run from anything they saw was too strong for them. She tore through the first orc with a jab through his middle that came out his back, his momentum carried him through her, her arm ripping through his guts until she held his heart skewered on the other side. She tossed the blade in the air, twisted around to pull her arm free, the grabbed the dirk with her free hand, switching the grip so she held it ready to stab upward. She brought the dirk through the skull of an orc screaming some obscenity in her face, she shrank back as the smell of brain and bad breath filled the air. A dozen more crowded her, but she was too fast for them, her ferocity overwhelming her sense of self-preservation.

She cut through them like butter, a half dozen steps later and she was covered head to foot in blood. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered if the man had managed to get his scrawny ass to safety, but that was far in the back of her mind. All that mattered right now was killing. Blades bounced off her, turned just right so that she was able to dodge the worst of the blow, deflect, or make them miss altogether. Whatever reprieve she was given by their hesitance was met with mad, blood boiling rage. She was not called barbarian and hrovaquendi just for show. She threw herself at the orcs. She’d lost her grip on the dirk, buried in the chest of some sad creature. She tore off the arm of another and beat a third with it until his head caved in. She wrenched a crude club from one of them and shattered the spine with a single blow. The club cracked and splintered though. The next orc she met was greeted with a splintered piece of wood through his face. He fell and had his head stomped to mushy pink and red pulp. The orcs did not flee though. Their numbers were vast. Her rage, though, was equally vast. She snapped an orc’s neck and used his body as shield, barreling headlong into the throng, bowling them out of the way, knocking them flat and stamping them as she went as if she were a mighty stallion. Finally, she ripped off the orc’s head and threw it, knocking another off balance long enough for her to grab his sword and stab him through the chest with it. How long had she been fighting? She had no idea, it didn’t matter.

There were still more orcs. So many orcs. How many of these vile monsters had come to Thargelion? How many had Morgoth held in reserve? The sheer number must have been staggering. Where else were they? Had they attacked all at once? Was Thargelion alone to hold the ire of the black enemy? Why was it so hot? The fires had reached the mountain. Those half living flames that sought to devour and consume. There was a great roaring above her, worse than any crack of thunder she’d ever heard before. She dropped and covered her ears; instantly brought back to that time she was a child and terrified of the storms that swept through the forests. It was only a second, but the swarm of orcs fell on her. How many? Surely, she was going to be crushed by the sheer weight of the monsters. No. She was not going to be defeated like this. She was not going to die in some nameless doomed courtyard amidst a thousand orc corpses. She found her second wind and pushed off. Her legs burned like the fires all around her. She grabbed a fallen bit of masonry and smashed an orc’s skull, kicked him forward, and bought herself some room. She threw the rubble at the next orc that approached her. They were still coming. An endless horde of filth and villainy. All the buildings around her were aflame now, tongues of fire licking the dry wood. She ran. She hated it, but she knew she had to do it. She ran and ducked behind a flaming building, a haberdashery or what remained of one. The building was tall, but the fires had gutted it. They were still coming. They were never going to end. She had only one choice. She turned to face to building and groaned. This was not how she had thought this night would go. She pushed. She pushed with all the strength she had in her. All the rage, all the fire, all hatred and frustration and anger she had kept stockpiled inside burst forth. She pushed. The building creaked and groaned. But slowly, inch by inch, it began to give. The fire had destroyed so much of the building it was like pushing over the skeleton of a giant. Finally, gravity took over for her and the building careening sideways, exploding as it crashed to the ground. It had fallen the way she’d hoped, just so that fire blocked the path of the orcs. She looked down the alleyway, the idiot doorman was still there! She howled and ran to him, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him hard enough to nearly rip the arm of out of the socket.

“Come with me if you want to live.”

He followed her wordlessly, both of them running as fast as they could through smoke choked alleyways. The stars had been blotted out by the darkness sent forth from Angband. Illuya was not one to fear often, but tonight, she was very, very afraid. Soon it became clear that she was still lost, still a rat in a maze.

“Where are we? How do we get out of here?” she pulled him forward and slammed him against a wall.

“I… I… you, and then the… the fires… but you, I,” he babbled between huge gasps of air. He looked like a fish. Clearly he was going to be no help.

She slapped him. “Focus! If you don’t tell me how to get out of here, we’re both going to die. I need my hammer. Where do they keep the weapons they steal from guests?”

“Steal? I, I, I, we do not…” she slapped him again. He wailed. “This way,” he said, finally cowed.

They ran on for several more blocks, hiding in abandoned buildings as orcs continued to swarm inside. Her lungs were on fire, she had to fight for every breath and every breath felt like she was inhaling the fires of Angband. Her eyes stung. She’d been wounded in a dozen different places; a leather jerkin was no substitute for armor. She would worry about that later.

“You’re wounded,” the man said, stating the obvious.

“Yes,” Illuya responded flatly, “but we’re alive thanks to me.”

“Maludor,” he said, almost sheepishly.

“What?” she squinted at him, wanting to kick him.

“My name. It’s Maludor. What’s yours?”

“Too busy not dying to give you a name. C’mon, the cost is clear. Where is my hammer?”

They continued. The shrieks of the orcs were all around them now, there must have been thousands here, every crack and crevice bursting with the monsters. The gateway loomed large then, a great piece of stonework and craftmanship. It was now barely more than a hulking ruin; the gates had been ripped off the hinges and the stones torn down. Somehow, though, the majority of the towers stood. She recognized the place. She’d entered here, had left the weapon she cared for like a child here. She could almost hear the hammer calling her. She swung up on the door to the guardroom. The door crumbled. She shrugged and moved inside. Maludor behind her, crowding her.

“You know, earlier you thought I was a spy sent to kill the king. Now you won’t let me breath without feeling me up. What’s your bloody deal?” She didn’t look at him, her eyes scanning the rubble.

“I’m sorry, I panicked. I, I thought you were a…”

“I’m a hrovaquendi, not a bloody traitor,” she spat. “Aha!” she found it. Buried under a desk and the remains of a fresh faced young ellon marred with blood and a look of everlasting horror. She closed his eyes and took the hammer.

“What now?” the doorman asked?

“Now, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Can, can I come with you?”

She turned and looked askance at him. “Excuse me, what? You want to come with me now?”

“Well, you did say… to come with you if I wanted to live.”

She growled and pushed him aside. “I meant the courtyard, you pudding headed lump.”

“Still…”

Again, his words were drowned up by the screaming of orcs. They’d been found. Illuya could feel the ache in her muscles, in her bones, but she had her hammer. She rushed through the gateway and was met by half a dozen orcs, all well armed and armored, but she had her hammer. The first orc met the hammer in chest and was knocked back into the wall on the other side of the gatehouse that he nearly exploded, cracking the façade. The next orc faired a little better, he managed to sidestep her first strike, but the weight of the massive hammer carried her forward and through to another swing that caught him in the shoulder. He screamed and stabbed at her. The blade nicked her shoulder, nearly skewering it. She roared in his face, swung up then down again and the orc’s head disappeared, moshed into his chest. The body fell limp. The rest of them faired no better, the next was decapitated by a wild swing, the next managed to get in a slice across her chest but paid for it by getting thrown against the wall by the hammer’s head. The rest fled, shrieking into the city. Illuya had half a mind to follow them and finish them off. But something stopped her. She felt her ribs and found a bone sticking out. She screamed in pain as she pushed the bone back inside.

“You’re a madwoman!” the doorman, Maludor, said, his mouth agape.

She gave him an insincere smile. “No, I’m a delight.”

Then the bolt of lighting struck her and the world went blank.

Freedom smelled good. It smelled like salt and seaweed and sunlight. Sachi was below decks, but she could smell the sea. It was an all-consuming, monumental smell. It made her thirsty. She took a drink of her soju. It went down smooth. She went back to reading. There was not much for her and her twin to do on this voyage except wait. The real journey would not take place for several days. As excited as she was about the prospect of their journey, she did not bother getting as animated and eager has Miin Si. Her sister was doubtlessly pacing the deck, challenging any and all of the sailors to a duel. Some might even take her up on it, thinking it a jest. Sachi expected to see at least three men pass her on the way to infirmary with various contusions, broken limbs, or worse. Miin Si would never go so far as to kill someone, not unless it served her needs. She was reckless and impulsive, but she was calculating. She was trolling the deck, watching the men as they worked and how they reacted to her. Some of them would have to be culled and disposed of. There was no way around that. For their journey to be a success, the twins required absolute loyalty from the people under their command. Doubtlessly, their cousins and uncle had planted spies here and there to keep on eye on them. Though they had been careful, kept their ambitions under wraps, spies were an inevitable part of intrigue. Each of the sisters had their own way of sussing out the traitors.

The longer Sachi tried to read her book, the more the words drifted out of her vision or sloughed off the page. She’d read the same poem four times now and she could barely remember what it was even about. Was she letting her nerves get the best of her? She closed her eyes and let herself drift back and forth, counter to the motions of the boat. In her mind’s eye, she stared at a single part of the sky, a speck of cloud that was darker than the rest of the great blue vastness. She drifted toward that point, leaving her body behind. She floated far above the ship, the sea, the earth itself. She could see beyond the great western wall into the lands beyond it. Sand, jungles, and steppes. There were hundreds, thousands of leagues between them and their goal. It seemed so far at times, but here, now, she felt like she could reach out and grab it, she wanted to hold Umbar in her hands and squeeze it until her father appeared. What would he be like? She’d seen things in her dreams, knew what to look for and where, what her did not show, was the character of the man. Was he a flaccid noble, a white knight? Or was he a ruthless pirate, hungry for domination and control? She and her sister had to have gotten that urge from somewhere and their mother was a head-in-the-clouds fool. She was as ruthless as she was rich.

Sachi was bored. Poetry was not the thing to read on a long boat ride. But it was what was expected of a lady of her station. Reading campaign journals of conquering generals was generally frowned on if it were found. Thankfully, among her things was hidden the complete works of On Yeong-Ho and his campaign against the Variags of Khand in the form of poetry. She’d spent weeks painstakingly copying the material in secret. It was a masterpiece of deception. She put to down the book of flowery, purple prose and began rummaging to find the first volume

“How can you read when the boat keeps rocking back and forth like this?” She froze for a second, having turned her back to the door temporarily. But it was the voice of Ga-In, an old schoolmate of hers going to Huinrae to meet a prospective suitor. She relaxed her muscles and released the grip on the knife she had secreted under the sleeve of her hanbok.

“The secret,” she said in a perfect false smile, “is really to read, just appear to read. It’s the perfect camouflage.”

“Oh you are so smart Sanchi! You are going to find a wonderful husband. You are going to marry the Prince of Huinrae, I just know it.”

Sanchi hoped not. The Prince of Huinrae was a fat balding man with larger breasts than her. They had met once when he came to Sunju to celebrate the New Year Festival last year. He smelled so overwhelmingly like lavender and honeysuckle she thought she was going to vomit, and his skin was already starting to jaundice. He was rich, but he was dying and the power he held would evaporate. No.

“Oh I would be so lucky! Have you heard how large his libraries are? They say they all have seven wings, one for each day of the week. How extravagant!”

They giggled together like they did back in school. Ga-In was a precious thing, pretty with a perfect heart shaped face, round green eyes, and a demure attitude. She was not the smartest girl in school, or the prettiest, but she was the nicest. That, along with good birthing hips would fetch her a decent dowry.

They talked for what felt like hours, catching up on all the gossip of their schoolmates, who was sleeping with who, who was about to ruin who’s reputation, who was going to fail out in the coming years, and of course, which of the boys they’d be sad to see join the military. Sanchi felt a strange sense of normalcy when she talked. She hated it, but she hid it well. She and her sister were not meant for normalcy. They were meant for greatness. They were meant for empire building.

The sun was almost ready to dip into the great eastern sea when they came to the deck. The sky was beautiful, streaked with red and gold. She came to her sister who was pestering a young sailor, hanging on his every word as he explained the different types of knots to her. For a moment they locked eyes, deep ocean blue looking into a mirror. She shook her head ever so slightly then went back to listening to her sailor as if her sister was never there. Sanchi did the same, ignoring that her sister was even there as she and Ga-In made their way to the prow of the ship, hand in hand.

“If I am being honest,” she said tenderly, moving closer so that their fingers just grazed on the railing, “I am not looking forward to finding any man to marry in Huinrae.”

“Oh whatever do you mean Sanchi? You are sure to get all of the attention at all the balls and galas. You always were the brightest star in school.”

“I…” she hesitated and pulled her hand back. “I shouldn’t say…”

“What do you mean, you know you can tell me, Sanchi.” Ga-In moved closer and placed her hand on Sanchi’s.

Sanchi’s smile was timid and beguiling. “I know I can trust you,” she whispered.

“Is there someone else? A boy?” Ga-In asked, “A girl?” she added as an afterthought.

Sanchi’s cheeks reddened. “Well, I…” she giggled softly and turned to look at the sea as it expanded the distance between them and Sunju. “Will you promise not to tell? I… I have never told anyone before…”

Ga-In’s smile was a fox’s behind sweet eyes. “I swear,” her voice was husky, intimate.

“I… well… oh no, I couldn’t. I don’t want to burden you with a potential scandal.”

Ga-In reached for Sanchi’s cheek and caressed it. “Scandal might be the only thing helps me find a match half as good as yours. Tell me your secret.”

“Oh okay,” Sanchi’s shoulders rounded and she took a step closer to Ga-In, she could feel the girl’s heat as if it were her own. “I think I have feelings for… for you…” she hesitated for a moment then took Ga-In’s face in her right hand and pulled her in for a deep kiss. At first her schoolmate froze; she could feel her body stiffen in confusion for just a moment before relaxing and melting into her.

She pulled back, her deep ocean blue eyes cold and calculating, her right hand still on Ga-In’s cheek. “And I know you’re working for my uncle.” The knife appeared in her left hand and jammed itself into Ga-In’s stomach. It did not take long for blood to start welling up out of her mouth, staining her perfect, pouty lips. “You should not have been so obvious. You are a good kisser though.” She kissed her once more, tasting the thick red blood, then pushed the dying girl overboard. She didn’t even have time to squeak as she fell. The splash was soft and unremarkable. She didn’t resurface.

She returned to her quarters below deck, nodding to her sister on the way.

“What do you see?” Adam’s voice was both resonate and discordant, a hollow sound from a deep well but with the roar of a lion. His voice was wrong. His voice issued darkness that had nothing to do with light and shade. His parishioners were gathered in a lightless cavern under miles and miles of tunnels, as far from the light as they could get. They were all huddled together, pressed in tightly against one another. There was ample room, though, in this prodigious space. They all cowered from him, shrieking with fear if any of them came too close. Though they worshipped him without hesitation or reservation, they feared him and his darkness. In the beginning, he had forcibly converted those he found, gauging out their eyes so that they would not behold the light of the poisonous sun.

The night became his ally. The silvery moon and the twinkling stars were poor substitutes for the golden light of the dying sun. The darkness of night caused more fear and apprehension than he ever could have alone. Each time to sunset, whispered a mocking prayer of thanks to the Valar in the west. The fools had brought about their end.

Adam did not offer respite from the dark, nor did he offer a cessation of the fear. Even his most fervent followers, acolytes of lightless flames, feared the darkness and what lurked in the unforgiving void. He offered them an exchange. He would teach them to extract the fear of the dark from others if they would serve him. Humans were so eager to capitulate to whatever came to them and offered them protection. They thought he would protect them from the things of their nightmares. Yet he did not; he would not because he was the very thing in their nightmares. He was the one that brought about their fears. And still, they loved him. What choice did they have?

The man before him was naked and shriveled, eyes milky white and sightless. He was a new follower, or at least he wished to be. “What do you see?” Adam repeated. He was seated in the center of the chamber upon a seat carved from a single piece of onyx. His voice filled the chambers, from the ceiling to the floor. As his voice echoed, the world grew darker still. There is blindness, and there is that which lies behind blindness. Adam was the avatar of something that was not merely the absence of light, but the very lack of the thought of light. He was the sound at the door when the fires died. Adam was the beast that stalked them through forests and valleys. He was the thing that flew in the sky and blotted out the stars. His blood was unlight; his eyes were the void; his voice was silence.

“I… cannot…” the man whimpered, tried to wrap himself up in his spindly arms. Even in the bitterness of the cavern, Adam could see him. The man was a wretched thing, more animal than human. He shivered there in the darkness, unseeing eyes gazing upon him. An inimical murmur passed through the congregation. Adam smiled. This thing was not a child of darkness, no matter how hard he tried.

“No?” Adam asked mockingly, malicious mirth in his tone. Another murmured began to ripple through the stygian chambers. The people were hungry; as soon as they realized this creature before them, displayed like a rotting carcass, they began to see him for what he was. He was food. Those not devoted to the darkness and the void could only be victims of it.

If Adam could pity, he would have pitied this poor fool. So desperate was he that he looked into the maw of night and prayed for friendship. "You cannot see. There is naught for you to see for you are naught but a mimic. You bandy words that have no meaning to you. You do not know the fear of the dark, but you will."

"Please, please..." the man quailed, his voice reverberating off the empty stone and roaring back into his face.

There was a new sound in the chamber, sourceless and moving. It was not the eager thrumming of a hungry crowd. It scraped against the stone, dragging some behemoth bulk with it. The darkness grew, melting stone and flesh alike; the room grew cold, so cold that streaks of hoarfrost formed on the smooth stone of his throne. Adam could feel the void as it took shape. He could sense the maw of nightmares ripping through the air. For a moment, even Adam was afraid. There were places and things even he did not know; that even he feared.

A shape loomed. No one could see it, but they could feel it. One of the parishioners shrieked and tried to run. He did not get far; something amorphous and incorporeal snatched him out of the air. Adam felt the cavern walls expanded into endless, brooding darkness. The space was different in this cavern. It was both a part of the physical world and it was not; something in this cavern touched the void beyond creation. He closed his sightless eyes and welcomed that which was to come. The naked man tried to run, his feet padded hollowly against the stone; his breathing was ragged and loud, as were his supplications for mercy. But the darkness has no mercy. There was a terrible sound like that of a hurricane, a roar that brought them all to their knees. Then, just as it had appeared, sourceless and illimitable, it vanished. The man's sobs could no longer be heard.

"Let that be a lesson," Adam's voice once again rang clear and cacophonous, "if you are not a creature of the Dark, you are just a victim of it."