Woodland Realm - Free RP

[Lirimaer]

The entrance to the path was like a sort of arch leading into a gloomy tunnel made by two great trees that leant together, too old and strangled with ivy and hung with lichen to bear more than a few blackened leaves. The path itself was narrow and wound in and out among the trunks. Soon the light at the gate was like a little bright hole far behind, and the quiet was so deep that their feet seemed to thump along while all the trees leaned over them and listened. As their eyes became used to the dimness they could see a little way to either side in a sort of darkened green glimmer. Occasionally a slender beam of sun that had the luck to slip in through some opening in the leaves far above, and still more luck in not being caught in the tangled boughs and matted twigs beneath, stabbed down thin and bright before them. But this was seldom, and it soon ceased altogether.

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If your travel coincides with an Elven feast day, you may be lucky enough to see from afar the celebrations of the Woodland Elves. Be careful though, for they do not like surprises!
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Wood-elves feasting by Ulla Thynell

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The feasting people were Wood-elves, of course. These are not wicked folk. If they have a fault it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong, even in those days they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West, and were more dangerous and less wise, for most of them (together with their scattered relations in the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went into the West.

In the Wide World the Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon, but loved best the stars; and they wandered in the great forests that grew tall in lands that are now lost. They dwelt most often by the edges of the woods, from which they could escape at times to hunt, or to ride and run over the open lands by moonlight or starlight; and after the coming of Men they took ever more and more to the gloaming and the dusk. Still elves they were and remain, and that is Good People.

In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived at this time their greatest king.
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Before his huge doors of stone a river ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marshes at the feet of the high wooded lands.
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This great cave, from which countless smaller ones opened out on every side, wound far underground and had many passages and wide halls; but it was lighter and more wholesome than any goblin-dwelling, and neither so deep nor so dangerous. In fact the subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches. The beeches were their favourite trees. The king's cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies.

It was also the dungeon of his prisoners.

Far from being all together in one place, all the King's cells were in different parts of the palace, and it would take a stranger a great deal of time to find them all. And farther down in a deep place, fortunately not far from the lowest dungeons, lay the wine cellar.
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The great gates were not the only entrance to the caves. A stream flowed under part of the lowest regions of the palace, and joined the Forest River some way further to the east, beyond the steep slope out of which the main mouth opened. Where this underground watercourse came forth from the hillside there was a water-gate. There the rocky roof came down close to the surface of the stream, and from it a portcullis could be dropped right to the bed of the river to prevent anyone coming in or out that way. But the portcullis was often open, for a good deal of traffic went out and in by the water-gate.
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The elf-road through the wood now came to a doubtful and little used end at the eastern edge of the forest; only the river offered any longer a safe way from the skirts of Mirkwood in the North to the mountain-shadowed plains beyond, and the river was guarded by the Wood-elves’ king.
~ The Hobbit

If you come hither in the far past, perhaps the Shadow has not touched the Greenwood yet, and the fair home of the Woodland Elves is unsullied by evil. Perhaps you have arrived when evil haunts their doorsteps, pushing them ever northward. The difference you may find here after the end of Sauron's menace is palpable.

Mayhap you live here, in which case abide by the rule of the King and live in peace and joy. Mayhap you are passing through - if so, do not touch the water, stay on the path and be prepared to give an account of your doings to the King should he catch you trespassing in his realm. If you are an evildoer, beware, for the Elves of this realm are swift and deadly in defence of their borders.

Whatever your tale, whenever your tale, you can tell it here.
Free RP for all races

[Lirimaer]

Some other locations within the realm: PLACEHOLDER

These will not be canon. Fight me.

[Lirimaer]

Sérëlindë Liriasîdh, a Silvan elf

In the house of her parents
TA 3013, late Firith

"- requested whether I might study the original texts. The Ar-Golwen has long lamented that our Library lacks some of the most noble histories. The Master Librarian agreed, and went to the King again to ask his leave to travel, and he has finally relented and said that we might go! It has been agreed that we might join a company from the Golden Wood; they are heading to Imladris again at the time of flowering, but we will need to winter there," Liria said, somewhat breathlessly. "We shall be leaving before Ithil renews, so I would barely have time to pack a valise amongst my other duties, but the Master of the Watch has taken me off rotation. Naneth, do you think you might make me something for the journey?"

The shock which greeted her words made her check her enthusiasm.

"Are you really so surprised?" she asked her mother. "I've been talking about it for a thousand years!" And really, she was only exaggerating a little.

The mildly raised eyebrow of her Ada filled her with contrition. "I am sorry, Naneth," she whispered to her mother's bent head.

Calanglass Tîrthandion held up a hand, rose from his chair by the fire, and went outside. Liria stood to follow him, obedient as always to his silent command.

He stood on the balcony, gazing up at the stars as she fell in beside him. They stayed there for a while, the night breeze cool and enticing after the warmth of the hearth.

"Saedarein is never going to be overjoyed when one of her children flies the nest," he said softly.

"I must leave, nevertheless, Ada," Liria murmured.

Her father smiled ruefully. "It is not that your mother does not know of your endless need to cut loose your ribbons," he said. "You are surely your Naneth's daughter, Liria-hên. But if you could shield your delight as you bring to fruition her deepest fear, it will greatly ease her distress."

Liria breathed out a long breath. "Ada," she complained softly, "you ask the hardest things."

"Of course I do, hên-nín. If it were easy, you would not need to be asked."

"Do you - Do you think me undutiful?" she asked hesitantly, taking hold of the smooth wooden rail as if steadying herself for the answer.

Her father's hand settled on her shoulder warmly, squeezing gently. "Nay. Headstrong and spirited, surely," he said mildly, "but never undutiful. Look at your studies - you entered the Great Library at a tender age, not yet sixty summers, and you never left. Our predictions that boredom would overwhelm you within a decade have been proved vastly underestimated. We would not make that mistake again. It is just -"

His long pause drew Liria's attention, and she turned to look into his well-beloved face, seeing in his expression an echo of the sorrow of their last visit to the Hidden Valley. He glanced down at her, quirking a rueful half-smile. "We would not lose you."

Liria held herself very still for a moment, before folding herself into her father's side. What could be said to mitigate his fear? Their People's long separation from the world meant they had become insular, not so much rejecting the outside world as fearful of it, whatever they told themselves. She might have been like it herself, had it not been for the histories in the Library and their immersive tales, which had given her a hunger for more.

"I am not going to my death," she replied, eventually. "The King would not grant us leave to go if he had foreseen danger."

"You speak truly, Liria-nin, but the King has made no formal contact outside of these lands for three milennia. He is not sending you as an envoy of our Woodland Realm," Calanglass said softly. "You will be under the aegis of the Galadhrim, who are their kin."

"You think -? No, Ada, I am no lethril!" Liria recoiled from the thought. She would not spy on her hosts as if they were enemies.

"Our King is wise," her father murmured thoughtfully. "It is an opportunity to gain knowledge in many ways, and you were ever a ready sponge."

"Easily squeezed?" she retorted.

He laughed. "Quite so! Hên-nín, you will learn so much there that may be valuable to our King."

Liria stared up into the night sky pensively. Could Ada be right? Is that why Naneth was so concerned? Was she naïve not to have considered this? But no, Thranduil would send no timid librarians into the home of Elrond Half-Elven on an espionage mission; not when he had any number of honour guard, with their specialist training.

"Come," her father said, breaking into her thoughts. "I can see I've given you something to think about. Let's go and try to reassure your Naneth that your trip shall be of short duration."

[Moriel]

TA 257
(Private with Alma)

This spur of Greenwood the Great curled eastwards towards the town of Dale, away and slightly to the south so that it seemed to stretch away from the forest quite deliberately, but not quite reach out to the town, either. The thick, denseness of the Greenwood lifted by degrees as one proceeded further through the spur of trees, and rather than the continuous darkness-to-semi-darkness of the deepest woods, thin green light began to become the norm, filtering through the loosening branches as though through shallowing water, growing gradually more substantial until the trees thinned out a small clearing. More properly it ought to have been called a glade, for it sloped down into a shallow depression and every surface seemed to be covered with moss- thin and light or dark and springy, interrupted here and there by rocks and the dark rambling roots of trees. The canopy overhead was thin enough to allow in plenty of light, but thick enough to both impart a greenish hue to the light, and to dapple the floor of the glade with bright spots here and there, which swapped about as breezes stirred the branches overhead. On the far side of the clearing stood a massive, gnarled tree whose huge roots protruded well above the ground, and behind this tree whispered a small, clear spring.

In the crook of this trees roots and against its trunk had been built a dwelling- not insubstantial for a single person, if roughish and lean-to in nature. It almost seemed to have grown up out of the glade itself, being joined with the tree in this manner, and heavily encroached upon in the years since it had been built by moss and vines. But its door was visible to anyone who felt like looking, and the smoke trickling from the roof made no effort at concealment. Within this dwelling lived a solitary elf, a nís who did not belong to the community of wood-elves and Sindar led by Thranduil. They, or at least some of them, knew she was there, but they kept to themselves and she to herself. The men of Dale also knew she was there, for two such close neighbors sharing a river and hunting and foraging grounds could remain in ignorance of each other for long. Some of them did not like having this strange elf living “practically on our doorsteps!” as a few of the more suspicious were inclined to say, but she left them well enough alone, and none of them seemed motivated enough to enter even the fringe of Greenwood to do anything about it so long as things remained how they were. Apart from which, it had been more than a generation of men since she had first appeared, and there were a few now who weren’t even sure she was real. Which was all well and good, as far as she was concerned.

From the thickest edge of the glade emerged Tavari Mordagnir, the carcass of a deer slung about her shoulders. Small bits of blood flecked her twill-and-leather garb here and there, melding into the dark green and dunnish brown, but she had bled the deer out in the forest so as not to bring that mess into her living space. Thrust through her belt was the weapon that had done the slaying of the deer in its snare: a dirk, pommel set with a crystal and the blade chased with curious silver designs, obscured at the moment by dried blood. Tavari made her way across the clearing and pushed open the door of her dwelling, sliding through the door sideways to keep it clear of the deer. Once inside, she strode across the beaten earth floor to where a hook hung from the ceiling near the fire, and looped the deer’s bound rear feet over it. This same hook could be used to suspend a pot or cauldron, but for now she twisted its crank so that the deer rose to a comfortable face-height, its head dangling down near the floor. For a moment Tavari paused, catching up a clean cloth, and scrubbed and burnished at the dirk until it shone, before laying it aside and taking up an ordinary skinning knife. She rolled back her sleeves, and got to work.

As she sliced away inside the deer, removing organs and laying them to one side on clean-scrubbed boards, Tavari attempted to put at bay her thoughts of the morning, but like an insidious disease, they continued to worm their way back into her consciousness. Two thousand years. It had been precisely two thousand years since she had left her family –what little remained of it- since she had taken to her heels, taken flight, run away; all this and more she had done without guilt, but to escape her agony, and the pressing shame of her last king’s last command. Two thousand years, spent in near total solitude: as the world changed and shifted and grew ever more populous her wanderings grew ever more broad, and she stopped in no city long enough to become well-known, keeping on the move or, at times, finding secluded spots such as this in which to live. But even so, she could remain in no one place too long until a driving need dislodged her. As with this place, she could pass many lives of ordinary men, but when one had passed nearly five thousand years in the light of trees and stars and sun and moon, what was the life of a man in time’s reckoning?

For the first thousand years of her exile, the maintenance of her abundance of rich, wheat-gold hair had been a part of Tavari’s routine and attempt to maintain normalcy, but in a fit of pique she had simply sat down one day and spent many hours turning the flowing mass into many thin, hard dreadlocks. They were now as long as her loose hair had ever been, bound back with a leather thong, and ornamented her and there with a wooden bead or silver amulet. It still required maintenance, but of an entirely different kind, and much less frequently, which suited her well. Since the change there had been a few encounters with people she knew, or had known- but she found that, in passing, it was dramatic enough for many to pass her by, with scarcely a double-take. But that was not entirely surprising, considering that most of the people she cared deeply enough about to wish they would notice here were dead, or deliberately avoided.

These wandering and morbid sort of thoughts had occupied Tavari through the extraction of the deer’s internal organs, its skinning, and the removal of its forelegs, but of a sudden she stopped. Frozen with the knife worked deeply into a hindquarter, she listened, imagining that she had heard the tread of feet on rock or wood outside, an unusual presence in her glade. And yes, there it was again- someone was approaching, and doing so in a fairly direct manner, not like the curious inhabitants of the forest who occasionally stumbled upon the place. Silently Tavari released the skinning knife and took up the dirk from the table where she had left it. She crept over to the door, crouching slightly, and waited behind it; waited until the footsteps halted, and she could sense the figure on the other side of the door- perhaps considering whether to raise a hand and knock, or perhaps something more sinister. Not waiting for the intruder to make up its mind, Tavari whipped the door open, straightening as she did so and snapping her arm up to bring the edge of her blade to the stranger’s throat. But even as she did so, the dirk prepared to tear into the pale flesh beneath it, Tavari recognized the intruder, and her eyes widened fractionally.

“Almarëa!”

[Baphởmet]

Mokkan
Northern Mirkwood

Softly, softly now. A black paw pressed into the underbrush, light as a feather. The ground was damp from the morning dew. He sniffed the air. The entire area was brimming with fear. The scent was heated, acrid. He savored it for a moment, inhaling the scents of the forest deeply. Tiny flecks of light filtered down from the trees tops, casting long purple shadows. He loved the darkness, it was a soft, weightless blanket he could wrap around himself. He could hide within it, move about utterly unseen by his many prey. He sniffed the air again. His prey this morning was near. He smiled, his lips parting to reveal his jagged, sharp, needle-like teeth, a very red tongue flicked out and glided over his teeth. The forest was slowly coming to life . He could hear the flittering of bat wings, beings subservient to his will. He could hear their gentle squeaks as they dived in and out if the trees, flying with a dreadful, malicious grace. He could hear the hooting on an owl, a soft musical note. He could hear the whimpering of mice huddled together in terror as he came near. A cold, grey wind d blew through the trees, rustling the leaves and wrapping them up in a whirlwind. He watched the decaying vegetation as it moved up and up and up until the wind died down and they floated gently back down. He sniffed the air again. He could smell his prey’s pungent fear, he could smell petrichor in the air as well, there would be rain this afternoon. There was something else in the air as well, something, or someone he did not recognize. He did not like that. His lips peeled back in a snarl. This was his domain. His and his alone. Who would dare to presume to enter without his leave? A low growl escaped his throat. After his prey was feasted upon, he would deal with this intruder, with this interloper. This thing this presence, was old, but he was older. He was very, very old.

His prey was on the move. The rabbit darted out from the underbrush, a blur of white and grey. He had been distracted momentarily and lost a step behind it but he was swift as the pestilent eastern wind. His jaws opened wide and he leapt. His teeth found fur and clamped down. Blood filled his mouth. He swallowed greedily and tightened his grip. The rabbit kicked madly, desperately. He ripped his jaw to the side and felt something pop. The rabbit screamed. The sound filled the morning air. It was the sweetest sound he could hear. He released the rabbit’s dislocated leg and it darted off, moving much slower, whimpering, and bleeding. He could have finished the rabbit, it would have been kind and put it out of its misery, but he enjoyed the pain. He could feel it, as the rabbit moved through the underbrush, limping and whimpering. He could hear the rapid heartbeats.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

Yes.

He liked causing pain. He liked causing agony and terror. It was his capacity for cruelty that had led him to this apex of power. He waited. Let his prey get just far enough away that it would think it had escaped him. Then he was on the hunt again. It was shorter now, he moved slower, pushing the rabbit this way and that until it came to his tree. The center of his domain, the heart of his territory. It made a mad dash, doing it’s best to ignore the pain in its leg. It burst out of the underbrush, moving a like a burst of lightning. But Mokkan was waiting. He snatched the rabbit's neck in his black turned jaw and threw the rabbit into the tree. There was a horrible crunch, the hollow, echoing sound of bones breaking and ligaments tearing. The rabbit's back was broken. Lazily, Mokkan moved in on his prey; he licked the rabbit’s shuddering face. He could taste the fear as it morphed it panic and utter terror. He barked. A harsh, raspy sound that came from deep within him. He snarled and tore into the rabbit’s unprotected belly. The blood and organs and meat tasted like heaven, utterly blissful. The heart beat so fast as he lapped the blood up around it that it quick literally burst. The rabbit shuddered once then laid still. He enjoyed the rest of his meal quickly. The innards steamed in the morning air. His deep red eyes darted back and forth, still aware of the new scent in his home. Still, his meal was deliciously enjoyed. His black about was covered in gore and blood when he was done.

The black fox grabbed the dead rabbit’s neck in his powerful jaws and dragged the body away from his sacred tree, dumping the corpse into a ravine on the opposite side.

Mokkan. Mokkan. Mokkan.

That voice. It was her. It was the Mistress. He had not heard her call in an age. He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice. It was the sweet sound of thunder, the sound of a hundred thousand voices screaming in pain, it was the roar of the ocean and the cracking of the mountains. He closed his red eyes, gifts from his Mistress and cooed involuntary. Triggered by the sound of her ancient, deadly voice, he remembered the feel of her fingers through his black fur, he remembered the way they felt like ice, like fire, like the jaws of a dragon. She brought him such pain, he had never experienced pain such as what she gave him. She ripped him apart, turned him inside out, rendered every part of his being asunder. Then she remade him, reformed him, built him back into the thing he was now. She had been drawn by his cruelty and love of violence, by his wicked intelligence. She made him more. The wicked light of his eyes was shifted to red, seeing further and deeper and sharper than before. He was wiser and more savage. His life, too, had been extended far longer than a fox’s life should have been. He had seen her plant the seed of his sacred tree and watched it grow and grow until the monstrous thing pierced the sky like the daggers she carried with her.

She had vanished. Before, he could feel her connection, heard her thoughts in his head. She was a comfort and a terror, one he had come to crave daily. He craved the utterly awful intrusion of her mind into his. He craved her horrifying presence. But she had gone, had vanished, had left him to fend for himself once more. He hated her for a long time after that. He tried to kill, the tree she had given him in his wrath, but his vile rage was all for naught. Nothing he could do would destroy the tree. Eventually, he accepted this tree as a last vestige of her and began to use it as an altar upon which he sacrificed many, many beings, and more than just rabbit’s and badgers. His savagery extended to those that wandered lost in his domain, be they elf or man. Blood fed the tree, blood fed his devotion, blood fed his cruelty.

Now she was calling him again. The pull was gentle but unavoidable. He must go to her, must find her. He would have to leave his domain, a place in the great forest of Mirkwood that all feared. None but the largest, oldest of spiders, none but the savage direbears would dare enter his domain without his approval. He was master of all here. But his Mistress was calling. And he must not disobey her.

So he left that very second. He fled from his sacred tree, his home, his domain. He came to her, in the far off lands he had only seen in visions. He went to the Home of Iron.

Still he could not suffer the thought of his home, his vast kingdom, to be conquered and ruled by another in his absence. The thought enraged him. No. None other could have this place of nightmares. It was his, and his alone. He followed the scent of the interloper. The closer he came to that scent, the more he recognized the smell of an elf. His needle-like teeth ground in rage. An elf, a filthy starspawn was in his kingdom he came upon the camp, nothing more than a tent and a campfire. The fire was dying low, the elf was absent. A wicked thought entered Mokkan's mind. With his paws and snout, he pushed the stones that held the fire inside then, with a swift, decisive kick of his back legs to the kindling, send the flames roaring outward. He watched a few moments as the flames came to life and slowly but inexorably began devouring everything in sight. Nothing would escape that fire once it truly began. Nothing but his sacred tree. Mokkan barked his rage to deep black canopy, then turned to go, not once looking back.

[Ercassie]

Domanol Raxelilta and Erfaron Silugnir
At Harts Grove, Mirkwood
Several years after the Gondorian left the South
TA, 2999

The incandescent roar began to flower in the belly of the gathered bracken. It rose in warmth and flare until it brewed a nest of fireflies. They swarmed in a pride and a fierceness that would not be consoled, all clamouring to eat their way out of the kindling cage. They spat out laughter of a thousand sparks. They crackled and they glowed, and they erupted in miniscule diamonds that raised their unseen wings unto the inky dome of night. Smoke billowed like a mantle, to proclaim the celebration of all those who frolicked about the almighty blaze. The Men, Women and Children of Harts Grove made welcome those of their kin who had been returned.

"You have not told them," Erfaron realised aloud. "That you did not slay the filth."

The Man he addressed swept aside a fall of sable hair, and laid his amber eyes upon the pale Elf. The solemn duo stood offside the unbridled excitement and the dancing, and the songs that rose in merry voices over their concern. "We drove him off," the Gondorian shrugged. "He is alone and unsupported. And forced to pass through Beorning territory, no less. He is as good as dead."

"It," corrected the Elf. "Not he. And 'It' survived the Battle of Five Armies with enough foul wit to gather other dejected refugees of his repulsive creed to rally to it's name." Silugnir lost his thoughts in the fire, as the buzz of Mortal rapture fell behind the backdrop of due interest. "It might make further attempts to present as a menace," he mentioned, with foreboding.

"No more shall these good folk be forced to sacrifice their children as though they were livestock !!" his Mortal accomplice would not be aggrieved by all they had managed to achieve. "One a month as ransom for the rest to be spared from the wrath of a horrific fate ?" The Man shook his shaggy head in despair at the very thought of all those lives that had been stolen. "If you truly wished for the utter annihilation of all those foul breed that slink yet within the corners of this dreary realm, then you might have given thought to bring the matter to the Elvenking himself," he put upon his friend, "and had your people properly eradicate the entire clan of them."

"Those Elves that abide here are not 'my people'," the Elf took pains to make the fact abundantly understood. "Any more than these rustics are yours. And as I do recall it was yourself who undertook the promise to resolve the matter, and committed us the both. This was all you."

"She was very convincing in her request," was the Mortal's justification. The travel-stained warrior ducked his gaze as the fond recall of affection threatened to colour his cheek. "Her brother had been named, mellon nin," he would clarify. "The maiden was in dire need .. and none other but we would dare to go unto that nightmare pass, and wrest her kinfolk up from the chasm of doom .."

"She fluttered her eyelashes and you risked both our lives," Erfaron interpreted, under his breath.

"It was my turn," the Man observed with a glint of wanton chaos in his grin. "I do not see your quarrel, friend. I took the creature's eye,'" he waved a half-devoured cup of mead before the unblinking gaze of his immortal accomplice. "You are the one who said 'kill not, but leave them learn their lesson. And in Harondor .."

“Not Yrch,” Silugnir stole the ale from his friend's grasp. "They are not of a kind that ever learn," he mentioned, grimly. "They deserve only the surest death that we can offer, And this one died not. There are always consequences, Haradion. I would go on, pursue it through the deep places of .."

"I might stay here a time," the man mused aloud, as he drank of the celebratory scene. "These are not my people. but I yearn to be once more amongst ... people. Moreover, the creature may return once it deems time enough has passed for us to have departed."

"Excuse me," The young woman stood tall, as though a young tree grown within this very forest. Her long dark hair was busily entwined with carefully constructed garlands of most dainty flowers, and her brown eyes swam in some awe of the tall (if somewhat grizzled) Man's countenance. She lost her words within the amber fire of his deep eyes. She studied his strong lantern jaw. "I wanted to thank you for ... what you did," she exuded some idolatory want for her hero, while the Elf fought off rising nausea. "Will you do me the honour of this dance ?" she offered forth her hand, that trembled like a leaf on wind-assaulted bough.

The Man glanced to his friend, his look already proclaiming his intention. Yet he halted at the last and drew mercy before the Elf. "Come, find a fair one of your own and know the merry consequences of our recent tribulation," he bade him, and observed the Elf recoil, as though he had suggested suicide.

"I had heard it told that the fair folk were spritely and nimble upon their feet," the woman blinked, surprised. "Their distant laughter carries on the breeze. It is said they love sweet music and good song above all !"

"Not all," the Man laughed, at either the responding image in his mind, or else the Elf's expression, but made a gift regardless to his pretty new acquaintance of his firm hand, that gathered with quiet regard about her soft skin. "These are 'not his people'" he recited, dutifully, ignoring the narrowing of pale Elvish eyes.

"Have you never known the joy of dance ?" the woman stood as though one disillusioned before the solemn Immortal.

"Not for a considerable time now," Silugnir confessed at length, and slowly but still surely. "And I confess, this demonstration here does little to awaken memory …" A cursory glance directed disapproval toward the cavorting woodsmen and their consenting partners all. Wild whoops of joy and gladness reveled all around the rising flame, as though their meagre blaze and their rapturous music would see off all evil that existed yet within the world.

"Watch awhile then," his friend bade him with mock command. "Perhaps the want may grow on you," and before he could endure some scathing response, the Man made his getaway, the faithful hand of his sweet partner in his grasp.

As Silugnir looked to make his departure, he glanced one final time over his shoulder. His friend, the Gondorian exile, paused briefly but returned to beholding of that lovely prize who regaled him and their bloodied efforts with great praise. At length, the Mortal raised one hand to halt her gushing admiration. "You have had much of my speech this night already, and doubtless there shall come more. But I would have your name, at least," he pleaded.

The woman of the woodsfolk smiled, not with such grace as her partner had heard tell in songs and verse long recited in school, in yonder history. But there was something of that sheer and untainted neutrality that sang to him regardless, as a siren of unblemished modesty that would not be denied, or corrupted. She threw back her head, and the night-hued river tumbled in smooth ripples down her back. The music turned them this way, and that, but throughout it all, she never released his hand.

"You have a strange way with your words," she observed, not unkindly, as their vivacious rollicking came to a panting conclusion. And then the Woman relented, at his unwavering, enchanted gaze. "Nera," she admitted. "My name is Nera. But what should I call you ?"

"I am whoever and whatever you will," the Man confessed, more than he had intended, and yet less than he might have. She did not though mock his open-hearted honesty. Neither did she question what sort of a man would choose to reinvent himself, in a new land, amongst strangers and far from all he once had been.

"You walk with Elves," she considered. "You seem as though you need nor want for nothing but the living out of each day on an unknown path. Unafraid of where the world make take you. You are my Gwandhyra," she attempted her best effort at what Elvish she had heard from the fair folk of Thranduil. Falling short, for certain, but the gravity of her gift chased off the Gondorian's want for laughter.

"I am yours," he allowed. And in that moment he knew that the ventures he and his Immortal accomplice had partaken, these last seven unsettled years, ... it was at an end. He had more of a want for love than hate. And his experiences so far had been heavily weighted toward the latter.


"Consequences," Erfaron shook his head with a blend of dread and exhausting expectance. With a sigh, he turned and left the Man to Nera. The hunt would persevere and yet his friend, Gwandhyra, was already captivated into a new cage from which no manner or amount of words might save him. It was indeed ... done. And he knew he would rather hunt the foul Orc throughout all the deep places that yet abounded in this world that watch his friend be reined into a life that ever now would be for others. Time to leave. Love, Silugnir had learned the hard way, was more foul and iresome than any Orc.

[Moriel]

Shadow's Reach III
the not so distant past
some time after the events of
Requited and Elenion Sunquelë

Their duties at the court discharged, Gellam had at once taken Tavari by the hand and swept away out of the Elvenking’s halls at a run, with Thranduil’s laughter echoing behind them. Tavari bounded along with the Fool, her grin irrepressible at his infectious giddiness and together they sprinted into the forest. Tavari was the swifter, but no one knew Mirkwood like Gellam, and he took the lead on the winding paths, guiding them to who knew where. Tavari followed him without question, and the pair of elves yelled and whooped as they ran, leaping fallen logs, swinging off tree branches and vines, jumping puddles and startling the local wildlife to no end. Twigs and branches whipped them, tearing loose strands of Tavari’s once-neat braid, spiderwebs from the smaller inhabitants of the forest stuck to their faces, and mud spattered their garments, but they only laughed. At last, they broke out into a riverside clearing; one of the tributaries of the Forest River, and Gellam leaped down into the water.

“What are you-“ But Tavari’s question was forestalled when, his mischievous eyes gleaming even more mischievously than usual, Gellam dragged a punt from beneath overhanging foliage at the river’s edge. “Stealing, are we?”

“Of course not!” the Fool protested stoutly, “merely borrowing! The owner of this particular craft is a dear friend and he won’t mind. Or if he does, I shall apologize later. Come along!” With a shrug, Tavari jumped lightly down into the punt and lounged against the backrest which had been installed in the front, while Gellam stood in the rear and propelled them skillfully along watercourse. He sang as he poled, interrupting himself every so often to point out things of note along the way. It was becoming a familiar pastime, this, Tavari thought as they skimmed the river; each time she had come with the Mirkwood since meeting Gellam, either in his company or meeting him after her arrival, they had played out some version of this scene. He delighted in sharing the wonders of his home, and she was happy for the moments of playfulness and peace. At length, the punt nosed into something solid, and she sat up straight. Gellam had brought them to a broad, flat, gravelly bank that sloped ever so gently into the water as if it had been designed that way, and it transformed quickly into a wide and mossy clearing, surrounded by trees with drooping vines, and just enough space overhead to allow in, here and there, filters of golden sunshine from the sky above. Tavari arose slowly and stepped out of the punt, unconsciously placing her hand into Gellam’s politely offered one as she did so, her head tilted back to gaze around at the clearing.

“A pretty scene,” she smiled, and glanced at him sidelong, “Do you bring all your maidens here?”

“Now now my Lady, that would be telling!” Gellam shot back cheekily, skipping up the bank onto the mossy sward, “You can’t expect a charming lad such as I who grew up in the Greenwood not to have a few special spots!” Tavari snorted and followed him. At the edge of the moss she paused briefly, and bent to unlace her boots. When Gellam looked back to see what was keeping her, he saw Lady Tavari Mordagnir, the Rávnissë, heroine of countless battles, born in the light of Valinor, friend of Kings, legendary warrior and horsemaster, wiggling her toes in the moss. His attempt to stifle a chortle turned into a sort of choking sound, which caused Tavari to look up sharply, and Gellam dissolved into helpless laughter, even as he pulled off his own boots to join her. She darted towards him and the Fool fled, but the moss was slick and the Lioness not to be denied, and Tavari hit him in a flying tackled that sent both elves sprawling over and over on the springy ground, alighting upon a small knoll in a tangle of laughing limbs. As they were extricating themselves, the loud croak of a toad broke the stillness of the air, and Gellam scrambled to his feet.

“Aha!” he cried, and scampered away. Not bothering to enquire, Tavari unlaced her leather jerkin and pulled it off, tossing the outer garment aside, and sighing as the cool air touched her skin beneath her mossy tunic. She undid the leather thong from the end of her braid and pulled her fingers through her hair to bring all the bits pulled out by their flight through the wood back into some semblance of order, quirking a curious eyebrow at the yelping and splashing sounds coming from the direction Gellam had disappeared to. When he reappeared, it was with his hands clutched around something. Panting from his exertions, the wood-elf dropped to his knees beside the nís, grinning.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever- hmm.” Gellam sobered slightly, and a muffled croak came from within his hands, causing Tavari’s eyebrows to shoot upwards. “Have you ever.. partaken of what some might call illicit substances? As I’m sure you know, in addition to medicinal uses, there are many plants and animal components that can offer, er, alternative experiences.” Tavari guffawed, and kicked Gellam’s knee lightly with her toes.

“What a question. You know that I have spent millenia studying the flora and fauna of this world.”

“Yes, but there are many of our kind outside of Mirkwood especially, particularly of your kind, that is, high elves, who heartily disapprove of such things. Their loss in my opinion but one never-“

“Have you ever heard of the plant known as dreamwing?” It was Gellam’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and he nodded. His grip had slackened slightly, and whatever was inside his hands made a valiant bid for freedom, but his reflexes were quick and he clamped down again.

“Yes, but I was always told it might be legend, or at least exaggeration.”

“Well, it’s not,” Tavari shifted her weight to sit cross-legged opposite the Fool, “and let’s just say there was a period of my life where I didn’t want to be aware of reality any more. Believe me, Gellam, no recreation you can offer me could be stronger or more alarming than the things I have tried. Now, what do you have there?” Gellam cracked his hands apart just far enough to reveal the warty snout and yellow eyes of a large and disgruntled looking toad.

“There are many varieties of frogs and toads that live in the Wood, and while some of them are deadly poisonous, venomous, or both, there are others whose secretions offer more entertaining diversions. This fellow here gives the user a particularly blissful feeling, and makes everything seem more beautiful and amusing. Would you care to sample his wares?”

“I’m not sure he’d see it that way,” Tavari giggled, “but yes. How does one obtain such ‘wares’?”

In answer, Gellam gripped the toad firmly under its belly and front legs, raised it to his mouth, and gave its back a long lick. The toad gave an affronted croak, and the Fool held it out to Tavari. She shook her head ruefully.

“When in Mirkwood!” And she too licked the toad. Almost immediately, a slightly tingling sensation filled her mouth, followed by a very similar sensation in her head. And it almost seemed to be inside her head, as if a light and fluffy cloud was passing through. Gellam appeared to be experiencing similar sensations, as he released the toad, which hopped swiftly away. The Fool sighed with deep contentment and gestured at the canopy above them, throwing back his head.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Tavari looked up, and where before she had seen beauty in the trees and the sunlight filtering through them, she now perceived the ecstasy of the forest, and every bird call and toad croak seemed to be music in her ears.

“It is,” she had risen to her feet without realizing it, and Gellam did the same beside her. “Look!” Tavari exclaimed, seizing his hand in one of hers, while the other shot out to point at a squirrel that had come to see what all the fuss was about, “Let’s go say hello!” Hand in hand they pursued the squirrel, which of course fled at once, but didn’t reckon with the enthusiasm of a pair of elves well used to climbing trees and completely lacking any usual inhibitions. It was Gellam who finally caught their quarry, at the price of a bitten finger, and handed it over to Tavari, who was captivated by the softness of the squirrel’s fur as she petted its head and tail. Perhaps accepting its lots in life, or perhaps merely enjoying the attention, the squirrel submitted with only a few chitters to these attentions, and was released soon enough after Gellam spotted a fox. For quite some time the unruly pair continued in their wanderings and prevarications. Everything was hilarious and their uninhibited laughter rang out frequently; everything was beautiful and fascinating, and by the time they skipped back into their mossy clearing, they were laden down with shiny trinkets from the forest, interesting leaves, bits of fur, and all were tossed unceremoniously into a pile as they splashed into the creek where Gellam had caught the toad. The initial effects of its excretions had begun to wear off slightly, and another began to manifest itself within the Fool- the compulsion for honesty. This particular toad wasn’t exactly a truth serum, it just also happened to make those who enjoyed it lose their inhibitions- including about any falsehoods they might be harboring. As they regained the mossy bank and settled down upon it, Gellam flopped over onto his back, lacing his fingers across his stomach

“I have a confession to make.”

“Oh, yes?” Tavari chortled, flopping down opposite, so her head lay next to his, legs stretched away. “What dark secrets have you been keeping, Fool?”

“Oh, nothing so dark! Merely something I’ve kept to myself that I feel I should air. Or am inspired to air. Did I mention one of the side effects is excessive wordiness?”

“No but by now I’m not surprised. Well, go on then!”

“Alas!” Gellam exclaimed dramatically, throwing one hand into the air above them, before allowing it to collapse back to his chest. “Well then. Remember after the battle where you were injured by Swiltang-“

“Smell-tang,” Tavari giggled.

“My lady, I am trying to make a confession here, if you would please focus!”

“Sorry.”

“Ahem. In any case, after that: when you were recovering in Imladris and you and Lord M had the most blazing row-“

“Oh if you think that was blazing-“

“-and you decided to run away to Ost Halatir-“

“I did not run away!”

“-and I offered to come with you?”

“Yes, which you did. Did you ever tell my brother?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I? Anyway, after parted ways at the gates, I didn’t leave right away. Kitchens to raid, officers to harass, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“And then after some time, I went to the garden.”

Gellam had skipped into the garden, kicking up sprays of light, powdery snow with his boots, practically jigging through the drifts in his delight. He loved the winter and the snow, and if it did get much colder here than his home in the Greenwood, the Fool was quick to laugh and exclaim at the invigoration of a chill wind. There didn’t seem to be anyone about with whom he could engage in a quick bout of snowballing, but that was no matter. He would surely find a victim before long. Gellam came to a halt after a particularly vigorous spin, and caught sight of a set of footprints in the snow before him- ah! So there was someone else in the garden! Only one it seemed, though; other than the solitary set of tracks, the whiteness blanketing the walled sanctuary was undisturbed. Pausing only briefly here and there to reach out a leg and tap the edge of a curling cornice with his toes, causing it to avalanche downward, the Fool continued his skipping progress. Rounding a corner, he spied the garden’s other occupant: standing before Mar Aldaron was -there was no mistaking her, even cloaked, from behind, at a bit of a distance- Tavari Mordagnir. Gellam hurried forward, thinking to greet and then farewell her, but as he strode toward Oromë’s shrine a cloud shifted, illuminating the dome and, as if by invisible hands, the nís was drawn inside.

The Fool slowed his rush. There was something about how she had flown up those steps, an urgency not to be interrupted, that caused him to hang back. Still Gellam did approach, taking care even in the snow’s concealment to move on silent feet. He stole up beside the open portal that was the entrance to Mar Aldaron, and slipped into the lee of a pillar. Peering around it, he blessed his timing; Tavari was gazing up at the stained-glass dome, taking in the scenes depicted there, and had just turned away from the entrance of the shrine. She rotated on the spot, until her back was to him. Again he thought to go to her, but some hesitation stayed his feet. Then, as a marionette whose strings had been rudely severed, she collapsed, and a terrible sound filled the air: the wracking, wrenching, choking sobs of ancient grief. Though the sounds she made were muted due to her injury, Tavari’s cries seemed to press on the Fool’s ears like deep water, and he stood rooted, paralyzed by the shock of this sudden cataclysm. He wanted to run to her side, to comfort the valorous nís, but something would not allow him. The only motion that seemed to be permitted to him was a slight step back, and a turning of the body that slammed Gellam’s back into the outer wall of Mar Aldaron, in the space behind his pillar. Slowly his knees bent and he slid down the wall, until at last the wood-elf sat upon the marble that formed the shrine, and he was still and silent.

It was a long time before the sound of Tavari’s weeping died away, during which his mind seemed as frozen as the garden before him. He felt as if he were violating something sacred by being here, and intruding on her pain; and yet, Gellam could not bring himself to move and leave her alone, though she did not know he was there. And so he sat. At last she fell silent, and at even greater length, she spoke. Her voice was weary and sad, such as he had never heard before, and Gellam found himself clutching the jerkin over his heart, as the tones of her plea to Oromë washed over him. She spoke of her exile, of her good fortune, of her penance, of the Halls of Awaiting. Of her uncertainty, and of Maitimo’s command. The Fool did not know what that meant, though of course he knew the name, but he did not have long to wonder. Tavari had fallen silent once more, and when her voice broke the silence, it was no longer weary, nor did it speak in words he understood: it sang, and in a tongue he had never heard, though he was sure what it must be. The sound of it drew Gellam to his feet and again he peered around the pillar to look within Mar Aldaron. The nís knelt in the center of the floor, and the soft white light from the oculus set a glow about her as though from within. Her head was tilted back as she sang, and the wheaten hair tumbled down her back, glittering with flakes of snow.

Without realizing it, Gellam had stepped out from behind his pillar, and the soaring Valarin song filled him with a kind of vibration. He yearned to join it, to feel what his own small measure of power might be with that inherent in those words, and was filled with an unreasonable regret that he did not know this tongue which so few had ever touched. Upon a ringing note the song ended and before Gellam could make a decision as to what to do next, another sound rent the air: the neigh of a horse. As soon as it began, panic overcame him and the reflexes of the acrobat kicked in: the Fool vaulted back out of the doorway and ran down the steps, skittering over the frozen ground an snow to the side of the building, and pressed himself into one of hollows of the wall. Had she seen him? He was breathing as though he had just outrun a horde of Mirkwood spiders, and this was not calmed when his eyes fell upon the snow before him. Footprints! Of course, he had left footprints leading up to Mar Aldaron, and again in his flight from the entrance. Surely she would see, and then he would have to explain himself. But when Tavari emerged, she took no note, and hurried away. When she had gone from his sight, Gellam gave vent to a long sigh, his body slowly relaxing. Afire with curiosity, he tripped back up the steps, and into Mar Aldaron. The faint echo of the song still seemed to shiver on the air as the wood-elf paced forward, and came to a halt in the center of the floor, as she had done. He looked up, and saw: there in glass, plain for all who cared to look, Tavari riding at Oromë’s side. For a long while, Gellam stood gazing at the glass, and wondering.

“So what is your confession?”

Gellam jerked up to a sitting position, one hand splayed on the ground to prop himself up, the other gesticulating wildly.

“That I betrayed your trust! That I spied on you! I don’t know- that I wasn’t a good enough friend to you, or something. It seemed like a thing that needed confessing. I- oof!”

Tavari swept Gellam’s supporting arm out from under him, sending his back thudding into the moss, even as she twisted to roll herself over, one forearm resting across Gellam’s chest, the other outstretched into the ground near his head.

“Listen to me, you Fool,” she growled softly, the loose strands of her hair falling around their faces, “and this isn’t the toad talking- well, not just the toad- I don’t consider any of that a betrayal. How were you supposed to know? What were you supposed to do? More than anyone-” Tavari stopped, cutting off the words that threatened to tumble out before she had considered them. But once she had, she allowed them to proceed. “More than anyone… you’ve helped me move on from that place. I had to come to terms with many things on my own but,” here she dipped her head and pressed a brief kiss between his brows, “a wise fool has made it much easier. If you like,” her lips skipped off the tip of his nose, “I’ll teach you the song.”

Gellam gave a shout of laughter, and reversed the roll, flipping Tavari back over onto her back, and as he came back into contact with the moss on her opposite side, rolled over onto his stomach and propped his chin on the heels of his hands. “Tell me about how you met King Caranthir.”

“King Caranthir.” Tavari smiled, propping herself up on her elbows. “He wasn’t King Caranthir then. In Aman, most knew him as Morifinwë,” she could not remember the last time she had spoken this name, and it felt like chalk in her mouth. “But not me. And even in Endórë, he was never King Caranthir to me. To me, he was always, has always been, Carnistir.” This name filled up her mouth with the sweetness of its vowels and the lightness of its trills, and left her lips like a sigh of relief. “Carnistir. Fëanáro’s temper, and then some, and Nerdanel’s face. That complexion,” she laughed, “How he blushed when he told me- when first we met, he did not know, you see, and could not tell whether I was Elda or Maia. The confusion vexed him greatly. But you can imagine my satisfaction and flattery on discovering it,” her laugh became almost a cackle, such was its mischief, and her eyes shone with the light of remembrance. “We met three times before he knew for certain.” And before she knew it, Tavari telling Gellam of the first time she had met Caranthir face to face (though she had been aware of him, even if he not of her, before then); of the second time, when amidst her flight with the companions of Nessa she had made so bold as to kiss the son of Fëanor and leave him perplexed; and of the third, when she had danced beneath Laurelin’s light and Caranthir’s song had wrapped up her heart. And finally, of the winter’s ball she had attended upon Celegorm’s arm, where Caranthir had finally accepted the truth of who, and what, she was, and first called her by name.

“Huntress,” Gellam repeated the name by which Caranthir had called Tavari prior to that day, and she nodded.

“My oldest title, and dear. I never got tired of hearing him say it.”

“What was the song?”

“What song?”

“His song.”

“Oh.” She lay back on the moss, hands resting on her stomach, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t that Tavari had forgotten the tune, merely that for so many millennia it had echoed only in the chambers of her mind. It was a wordless melody that had come from Caranthir’s lips without conscious thought, an expression of his emotions in the only way that he had been able to articulate them in that moment, in that first and most natural mode of their kind: song. It was a song that had only once been heard aloud in Middle-Earth, but when she allowed herself to think of it freely, returned to her as if she had heard it first under Laurelin's light mere moments ago.

“La la la la la la la…” the lilting notes came from Tavari softly at first, then grew stronger, “la la la la la la la…” it was a simple refrain; haunting, but beautiful, only a few lines, but complete. Gellam’s eyes welled of their own accord as he listened, and his voice joined in softly as she repeated the melody, looking down at her peaceful face from where he had raised himself on one elbow. Their voices fell silent together and Tavari opened her eyes, and they were smiling at him like a clear spring sky.

“I am going to write a song!” Gellam declared, flinging an arm into the air again, this time with impassioned determination. “This is a story that demands an epic!” He had risen to his knees, and Tavari surged to join him, catching hold of his gesturing hand.

“Make it a happy song, Gellam.”

“Yes.” He placed his free hand on top of hers, capturing it between both of his. “Yes. Not a sad song. A love song. Your song. The Huntress… Moryo and the Huntress, perhaps.” His brow furrowed and he began to sing, the inimitable skill of the bard, deriving his melody from that which she had sung, the words springing from him without conscious thought.

“But he fell in love with a beautiful lady
Who ran up above in Oromë’s green field;
He fell in love with Tavari,
Who was dancing with Nessa in Laurelin’s light;
And I know how it was because
He was like me
A man in love with a woman
Singing la la la la la la la…”

Without realizing it, Gellam had allowed his hand to drift up Tavari’s arm to the side of her neck, and the tips of his fingers slipped into her hair. She leaned towards him as his voice trailed away, and their eyes met.

“Tavari.” There was a question in his voice.

“Yes.”

Together they leaned to close the distance, and their lips met, soft and slow. Tavari’s arms slid up around his neck as his free arm did around her waist, and their bodies met as well. This time, no harsh vision sprang up before her; no harsh voice, no snapping jealous eyes, no ghost twisted into being by guilt and shame, showing her visions of a person that had never been. There was only Gellam, with his strong, gentle hands, and radiant joy. In his kiss there were promises, but no demands. There was happiness, peace, safety, and so many things Tavari had thought she would never feel again. When they briefly broke apart she murmured, as she had on the first occasion they had come to Mirkwood together, after he had comforted her- though this time she breathed the words against Gellam’s lips-

“Oh, my Fool.”

(verse adapted from Epic III, Hadestown)

[Moriel]

Glîngaereth
Part I



TA 2950.
(Private)
(originally posted in Shadow's Reach in four parts)

The she-wolf ran, mindless of the twigs whipping her muzzle and face as she fled. Her run was not the joyous, exhilarating thing in which she normally indulged, but a mindless speed. The spectral lights of Dol Guldur flickered in the distance behind her, the once proud fortress now subject to Khamûl and his drones. Far behind, the keen ears of the she-wolf could hear them pursuing her. Their movements were hasty and inelegant, but there were many of them and before long they would no doubt be joined by more sinister servants of the Wraith. The brush grew thicker as the scent of water reached the she-wolf’s nose. Her haunches bunched and she leapt over the trunk of some ancient tree lying before her; her stride faltered slightly as her paws hit the ground and a yelp of pain echoed off the trees. A river, cutting its powerful way through the greenwood, now rushed before the she-wolf. She paused upon its bank, eyes darting this way and that, ears swiveling to take in the sounds of the forest and her followers. Suddenly, a horrid, indescribable screeching sound reached the she-wolf’s ears and unhesitatingly she threw herself into the river. It was late in the season and the river had begun to take on its winter chill and swell with rain. The current was swift and caught at snags, creating riffles of whitewater throughout the width of the water, and deceptively smooth patches disguised dangerous, sucking holes.

On the opposite bank, a woman hauled herself from the river, hands grasping wildly at the grasses, catching hold of a root to break her momentum in the current. Upper body free of the water, she paused for breath, clinging like a burr to the bank. The dirt of the riverside began to grow damp, mixing into mud beneath the her’s hands, rivulets running between her fingers. A heavy rain had begun, soaking the greenwood and all who dwelt or moved within. With an effort, she removed the remainder of her body from the river, rolling up over the bank and into the mossy brush above it, continuing the motion until she came to her hands and knees. One arm curled around her body, hand pressing tightly to her side, from where seeped dark blood through the layers of her clothing. It seemed briefly as though she would fall, the long, tangled dark strands of her hair drenched and shaking as she quivered, drawing breath labouredly. She gathered herself, sitting back on her heels before rocking unsteadily to her feet. Cobalt eyes cast about the forest before her as she stretched out an arm to lean against a tree for support. The rains thrummed against the earth and splattered leaf and tree, erasing the track, scent, sight and sound of all. Her sensitive hearing was all but negated by the force of nature’s flood. Disconcerting as it was, the fact that she could no longer hear movements at any great distance meant that neither could those who pursued her, and that gave yet another advantage to her immediate evacuation.

Unfortunately she was not well equipped for this- unarmed but for a dagger which had survived in her belt, with clothing and boots damaged and senses dulled by injury. Nevertheless, determined to press onward, she tore a long strip from the bottom of her tunic, raising the hem by many inches, and wrapped this strip around her middle, knotting it tightly at her lef side, over the wound. Hardly the most effective field dressing, but athelas was nowhere to be found, and there would be time enough to tend herself better once under some kind of shelter. The forest grew steadily darker and thicker as the rain continued to fall heavily, adding weight to mosses and blurring the outlines of tree, bush and landmark alike. Even to one familiar with the wood as she it was difficult going, and she trudged on, pausing now and then to more closely examine certain areas, searching for familiar signs. Her search, though careful, was hurried- one did not walk about in certain areas of the greenwood dripping blood unless it was absolutely necessary, and her wound had begun to seep through the makeshift bandage. It would not be long before she could no longer continue, despite all will, and if that occurred she would be at the mercy of the wood, and the searchers of Dol Guldur, who would eventually come upon her if she lay unmoving, exposed.

A root caught at her foot and she stumbled, catching herself against a tree. In frustration she gripped the tree, fingers curling, nails biting into the bark as she threw her head back, crying out in wordless frustration to the night, the rain, the forest itself. Her body curled downwards as a spasm wracked it, spreading from her side outwards like the tendriling fingers of a vine. She hissed, pulled her hand away from where it had clamped to her side again. The fingers were stained in blood, and time was swiftly running out. Just as she was staring out into the forest, despair creeping up her spine, she stiffened. Ahead, atop a small rise, was a stone. It was unclear from this distance, but it seemed to be of a peculiar shape; she hurried towards it and as she drew nearer a spark of hope flared in her chest- it had taken on the visage of a cat, naturally graven by years of water trail.

Turning, she followed a path burned into her memory by long experience, leading away to the east of the cat stone. It seemed only moments later that she was parting the foliage which concealed the entrance to a natural cavern, hidden in the side of one of the hills which rose from the greenwood. Within, she knew would be a spring and a warm, dry haven deep within the hill. As she passed into the cavern, one hand against the wall, and began to move deeper within it, her stomach dropped. The flicker of firelight shone against the wall of a curve in the passage, and a few steps more revealed the movement of a person in the light. Those who occupied these refuges these days seldom welcomed intrusions and were equally seldom to be trifled with. Before she could turn and make good her escape, her legs finally abandoned their strength and she fell to the ground with a stifled cry, struggling to remain on her knees as the darkness began to edge her vision. An oath sounded from around the bend and vaguely she could hear the sound of running footsteps and drawn steel, then a male voice. “Who- lady! What- are you all right? What-" The figure silhouetted in firelight rushed forward as she toppled, and she felt arms supporting her, catching her before she hit the ground. The world grew far away, and she could not quite make out his face, only the voice, which seemed much more distant than it ought. “What are you doing here? What is your name?” The blackness which had edged her vision now began to intrude upon it more forcefully, but she managed to breathe an answer before the veil of unconsciousness claimed her.

“Haldanis.”

*

A fire crackled on the floor of the cavern, larger and warmer now than it had been several hours ago when the woman had first intruded herself on Darellon’s solitary refuge. He watched her now as she lay beside the fire, cushioned by his cloak and garbed in his spare traveling clothes. She was long and lithe- slender, but not slight. Dark she was, darker than any woman he had known, onyx hair stark against her paleness, its waves reaching slightly beyond her waist. When first she had appeared, Darellon had mistaken her for some denizen of the wood, as would any sensible man whose evening had been interrupted in a place he thought secret, but closer examination had revealed this woman- Haldanis, she had called herself. It was a name of the old high tongue, that much he could divine, though its meaning was unclear to him. Darellon rose from his place by the fire, frustrated by the mystery of it all. A rumble of distant thunder drew him away from the flames and to the mouth of the cave, where he leant against the rock wall and stood, staring into the screen of vegetation that covered the entrance, listening to the rain pounding against the ground outside. The Dúnadan was a plain sort of man, and for a few moments he allowed the rapture of nature’s flood to enthrall him, momentarily cleansing him of his cares. It were as well his business in the wood was finished, for he could not now abandon she who had come into his charge. He had done what he could for Haldanis; the wound in her side was deep and bled profusely, but appeared to have missed anything vital- if it had, judging by her current condition, she would have been long dead. Darellon had cleaned the wound, packed it with the athelas which he carried, and bound it. Beyond that, there was little he could do but keep her still, quiet, and fed.

He shook his head; it seemed there was no escaping worry over the situation. Mirkwood was no place to languish, particularly not this close to Dol Guldur. Concealed as they were, if they remained in one place it would only be a matter of time until they were discovered. Darellon returned to the fire, sinking down near Haldanis. The shaking which had gripped her body had subsided and she lay still now, breathing steadily. Again his eyes were drawn to her- it was not her beauty which attracted his eye, Darellon thought, although he would not deny its great presence, but his inability to discern her origins. Named in an ancient tongue now used only for kings and with none of the absolute distinguishing feature of any country of men of which he could think. As moments passed and he watched her more closely, Darellon’s eyes could discern a faint luminosity about the woman, and his wonderings grew into an insistent demand. He crawled forward, crouching near the woman’s midsection, and reached out a hand. His fingers brushed her face, reaching up to push back the heavy black locks.

No sooner had his hand touched her skin however than fingers clamped tightly around his wrist and he found himself staring into the wild, unnervingly deep blue eyes of the woman below him, her expression one of mingled fear and aggression. Her free hand smacked to her thigh where she clearly expected to find a weapon, while her torso rose from its resting place- but this effort caused her to fall back with a pained cry. “Lady, please!” Darellon scrambled to catch hold of her free hand, attempting without success to free himself from her grasp. “Lie still! I am Darellon, son of Helvon, a Ranger of the North, and I mean you no harm.” For a tense moment they both were still, then the woman relaxed, sinking back into the cloak.

“You are a long way from home, Ranger,” She said cautiously, releasing Darellon’s arm. He did the same with hers, settling both limbs to rest, before settling back on his heels.

“Yes. But it was fortunate for you that I am,” He replied, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth upwards. “You are in no condition to be wandering about the forest.”

“I- yes. I thank you, this place is not usually occupied and I cannot have guessed what would have happened if someone less benevolent had been here.” A silence stretched between them for a moment, then she continued. “I… suppose I ought to properly introduce myself. I am Haldanis, also of the North, though I have not ventured there in many years.”

Before Darellon could reply she began to cough, clasping a hand to her side as the spasming wracked her body. Quickly he scrambled to retrieve his water flagon. Popping its cork, the Dúnadan slipped a hand behind the woman’s head, supporting it as he brought the vessel to her lips. “Try to drink, Lady.” Haldanis took a few swallows before asking,

“How serious?”

“The wound is deep but not penetrative- nothing vital seems to be damaged, I think you will recover, if slowly.”

Haldanis breathed a low sigh of relief, allowing her eyes to close briefly and her hand to drop again to the ground. For a moment Darellon thought she had fallen to sleep or lost consciousness again, but then the eyes opened once more and she fixed him with her stare.

“You must go.”

“What?”

“You must leave here at once. Darellon,” Haldanis addressed the ranger seriously, “you cannot burden yourself with me, not least in this place. I am sure you know the risks of the area in the best of times and I will only endanger you,” She paused briefly before continuing, “I am being pursued by the hounds of Dol Guldur, if they find us-“

“Do not be foolish.” Darellon replied brusquely. “I will not leave you alone and at their mercy.”

“It is you who are foolish!” Haldanis cried, rising again from the ground, ignoring the pain of her wound as she did so, grasping the front of his jacket in her fervor. “I cannot allow-“

“Stop.” The Dúnadan shoved the woman back against the ground- gently- holding her there tightly by the shoulders. “Nobility is a virtue but does not become you now. Do you think me so dishonorable that I will leave an injured woman alone to die in the depths of Mirkwood? No, Haldanis, whoever you are, whatever pursues you, I have taken you in my charge and I will see that obligation through to the end. Now, you must rest, while I find food for the both of us. I am not above restraining you.”

Fury burned in the depths of her cobalt eyes, sending a shiver down Darellon’s spine, though he did not betray it in his face. Then, without warning, the anger dimmed and her body relaxed beneath his grip. “Very well.” She said softly, her voice cool, but passive enough that Darellon believed her. He released her shoulders and rose, stripping off the long, heavy coat he wore. Stooping, he draped it over Haldanis and, holding up a finger admonished her, “Sleep,” before exiting the cavern. By the time he returned, carrying a brace of rabbits by their ears, she was fast asleep by the fire, a peaceful expression on her face. Darellon smiled, and set about preparing a stew.

*

Day broke grey and heavily over Mirkwood. The torrential rain had halted a several hours before in the night, and by this time the uppermost leaves had begun to dry out, and the wild things to emerge from their refuges. But one wild thing still slept; bundled in jacket and cloak by the fire Haldanis dozed fitfully, her head resting upon Darellon’s pack. The smell of the stew that the Dúnadan had made the previous night still lingered in the cave, a portion re-warming over the fire. When he had finished, she had been deeply asleep, and so he had not woken her, thinking to feed her properly in the morning. Then in the depths of the night and earliest hours of the morning her cries had woken him several times. At first the ranger thought Haldanis had awoken in terrible pain, but her eyes remained tight shut, screwed down even, and it seemed that her pain was more of dreams than body. She burnt and froze at once, a pale sheen of sweat standing out on her face as she shook uncontrollably, and Darellon had kept his vigil at her side until at last whatever force had ravaged her body quietened, and she fell into an uneasy slumber. He had redressed her injury, and passing his hand over the flesh was astonished to find that much of the heat had left wound. All in a few hours she had passed through infection and into healing.

That had been barely two hours ago, and Darellon sat against the stone wall, head nodding against his chest. He was weary; when Haldanis had staggered into the cave he had been on the verge of retiring after a long day of trekking through the wood, and her interrupted night’s sleep had given him little opportunity for his own rest. For a moment his eyes closed and his consciousness drifted away- then he jerked sharply up from his reverie, and when he did so, found himself staring into the cobalt gaze of the woman across the fire. Quickly Darellon shook himself and rose, crossing to her and crouching again at her side. He took up his flask of water, and unstoppering it, gently slid a hand beneath Haldanis’s neck. To his gladness, she lifted her own head as he brought the flask to her lips, and he merely supported her as she drank, swallowing the clear water eagerly. When she had drunk, the Dúnadan shifted onto his knees and looked down at her. “How are you feeling?” he asked, wondering what her fevered dreams had been, or if she even knew they had existed.

“Weak as a baby sparrow and hungry as a wolf.” Haldanis replied with a slight laugh, shifting within her coverings; they had become twisted around her and at once Darellon moved forward to help her, easing the cloak away and taking her under the shoulders as she strove to sit, settling her carefully upright against the wall and draping the cloak across her lap again. The jacket he set to one side, before going to the fire and filling a bowl of the now hot stew. The ranger handed it to Haldanis, but it bobbled in her grasp and he quickly seized her by both hands, settling the bowl firmly between them. She drew it carefully close behind her bent knees, inhaling the rich aroma. “My thanks.” She said, nodding slowly at Darellon, who had settled himself cross-legged opposite her. “I know I was not the most courteous of guests last night.” Haldanis’s memory flashed briefly with blinding pains, strange and unmentionable sights, fire and beneath it all a light touch and a soothing deep voice. “Nor the most tractable patient, I imagine. I am grateful for your help.”

Darellon shook his head, watching as she et, savoring the thick stew. “Lady, what I said before still stands. You have come into my hands and I will not be parted from your care until you are whole again. Let us speak of it no more.”

“Please, Darellon. I am no Lady.”

“No?” the ranger chuckled. “A fool could see that you are highborn, Haldanis. Even beneath your wildness- the wood cannot take from you that which is so ingrained. And in your fevered sleep you cried out; I do not lay claim to the mastery of either, but I know the tongues of the High-Elves and of Númenor when I hear them. I myself am surnamed in Adûnâyê, but have never heard one speak it so fluidly as you. You say you are of the north, and if the Númenorean speech comes to readily to your tongue you must be of the Dúnedain, and of a family long preserved of tradition. I know of no such, but will not deny the possibility of their existence. It is well known that in the south true lines have been preserved where evil dwells, so why not in the north, where there is good?”

“You are astute.” Haldanis said, but no more. After a moment’s pause she continued, “Tell me of yourself, ranger. How did you come by a name of Anadûnê?”

“They call me Balakân.” Darellon smiled, he wanted to know more of this woman, but her deflection was plain enough, she did not wish to speak. Perhaps his talking would bring some of her story forth.

“Darellon of the ships.” She interjected, and he nodded.

“Yes. There have always been sailors and shipwrights in my family, since before the Fall. Though I was born in Rhudaur, much of my time as a boy was spend on the coasts of Harlindon, and was even fortunate enough to spend a small amount of time in Mithlond, where I learned a great deal. Although I now roam inland, as do most of my fellows, the sea is never far from my mind, and I yearn to return to her. It has been a long time since seafaring was the primary occupation of any of my kin, but if I could have it be mine, I would. And it seems my devotion to it earned me the name, which was given me by a ship’s captain of indeterminate age who I would have thought fit to die long ago. He said that the salt strengthened his blood. I rather suspect him of black magic.” Darellon laughed. But as he did so and his eyes flicked up, he saw that the woman’s head had begun to nod forward and her eyes to close, before sharply snapping upwards again. Haldanis began to apologize, but Darellon cut her off with a shake of his head. He rose and lifted the nearly empty bowl from her fingers, then knelt again to draw the cloak up about her shoulders. “Rest now. You are already healing rapidly and the food will do you good. We may speak more when you awaken again.”

*

Haldanis stood at the entrance of the cave, pushing back the mossy screen as she leant against the stone wall. Cool air brushed against her face and she inhaled deeply of it, her eyes falling closed against the breath of evening, the golden light shafting through the trees glowing the inside of her eyelids a deep orange as she tilted her head back in the fading sun. When she opened her eyes again, Darellon had come into view, trekking back through the woods with a small fallow deer slung over his shoulder. His pace quickened when he caught sight of her, and she watched him draw near with a concerned frown creasing his features. “You should not be up.” The Dúnadan said firmly. Haldanis raised an eyebrow at him- but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “You should not be so fussy. One would think you were an anxious mother. Besides, isn’t fresh air supposed to be good for invalids?” Despite himself, Darellon fought back a chuckle, turning it into a “Hmph,” instead, as he lowered the deer from his shoulder and strung it up by its feet outside the cave, from a rope he had rigged before going hunting. He drew his skinning knife and gestured at Haldanis with the hilt. “You really ought to listen to me, you know. I’m the one who’s going to have to carry you if we set off before you’re ready and you collapse.” Darellon began skillfully to skin the deer. Haldanis made as if to push herself away from the wall, but the movement sent a harsh twinge up her side, and instead she scoffed.

“If we set off before I’m ready? Really, I do thank you for your assistance, but it won’t be long before I’m well enough to travel, and I do my best traveling alone.” Darellon continued at his work as though he had not heard her. The silence stretched out for such a time that Haldanis was considering repeating herself, but finally the Dúnadan spoke. “You are not well now, and you will not be well for some time, if my assessment is correct. I may be wrong, I am no healer. I am sure you are quite competent to make your own way and defend yourself under normal circumstances, but being injured as, and you put it, ‘pursued by the hounds of Dol Guldur,’ I cannot find it in my conscience to leave you alone. As you know it is not safe to remain in one place too long in this area of the forest, so you will at least need to relocate several times before moving on completely. I beg you let me stay with you at least that long- and it would ease my conscience further if you would allow me to accompany you until you are fully healed. I have no definite destination, and will go wherever you are going.”

He sighed. “I know it is much to ask, but apart from the fact that I believe you need help right now, even if you are too proud to admit it, how could I forgive myself if I found out someday that you had died because I did not stay?” The skin was off the deer now, and Darellon had started on the organs. His arms were bloody to the rolled-up shirtsleeves, and Haldanis’s eyes were cold as she looked upon him. “You know me so little, ranger,” she said, silkily, “and yet you profess to know so much.” She considered him, but he did not interrupt her silence. The tactic was plain to see- he wanted to guilt her into keeping him around. She did not think that he would strongarm his way into staying if she truly commanded him to go, but it was plain that he would not give up without a fight. Haldanis did not know this Darellon, his intentions or his motives… but there was a genuine quality about him, something that, despite her hard misgivings, made her believe that he wanted only to help. What did this matter? Plenty of well-meaning people littered the shoulders of the road of her past, cast off for one reason or another. But though she did not like the idea of binding herself to a companion, one might prove useful in these circumstances. If truth be told, he did have a point about her injury- and, right now, Haldanis needed a route of escape; from these woods, and from what lurked behind the spectral lights of Dol Guldur. At length, her voice softened, she said: “Very well. We will go together.” Darellon withdrew from the deer, turning to face her with a grin, the animal’s heart dripping in his hand, and there was nothing Haldanis could do but laugh.

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

The sun would not rise for another three hours. The night had closed around the little cottage that Fjörn thought he was going have an anxiety attack. The mists were heavy, he was almost afraid to breath as he stepped into the obscuring cloud. The farmstead was strangely quiet, an insect here and there buzzing and chirping was the only thing that broke through the blanket of suffocating silence. It had been quieter and quitter these past few weeks. His farm was never quiet. Between chickens, goats, rabbits, and pigs there was always a hum of sound coming from some direction. He’d gone to check on his chickens one morning and found a half dozen of them had been ripped apart and partially devoured. At first, the farmer had no idea what to think, a predator would have eaten the whole thing, but the whole scene looked foul and ritualistic. However, the natural logic and reason of common folk won out. Mere coincidence. It was probably just a fox, hardly a new occurrence. Fjörn had been living on his own for nearly fifteen years now and had his share of run ins with the predatory faunae that haunted the lands between the marshes and the forest. Foxes, badgers, wolves, serpents, crows, and rats, he’d dealt with them all at least once, he’d even had to scare a bear once in naught but he bedclothes. He expected to find the culprit and deal with the beast accordingly within a few days, but luck had not been on his side. All but two of his goats had succumb to the predator, his chickens had been annihilated, and his rabbits had all escaped to their fate a few days before. He’d spent the night with the pigs, assuming they would be the next to suffer from the ongoing predations.

He’d slept fitfully, if at all. His dreams were troubled by a single fox that flitted about, just on the edge of his vision. No matter how he chased it, the fox eluded again and again until finally he was forced to give up the hunt. It was always once he gave up that the fox attacked. He woke covered in sweat despite the cool air. He tracked through his farmstead, walking on quiet feet. The mists obscured his vision and the silence was heavy enough to cause a ringing in his ear. He didn’t like this. There was something unnatural at work here. Something strange and sinister. He felt the hair stand up the back of his neck and couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. He strained his ears as much as he could, but the further he tracked along, the less he could hear. Even his own footsteps had been dampened by the heavy silence. Armed with naught but a torch and a short sword, Fjörn made his way out further and further, doing his best to follow the plough lines of his fields. The onions would be sprouting soon, wild ones that he was determined to cultivate and domesticate. Even in the gloom and the mists, he could see tiny green shots jutting up from the ground. Somehow, that little bit of normalcy was enough to ground him. He’d had a run of bad luck, that was it; it could have, and often did, happen to farmers all the time. Adversity was second nature to those that chose to live alone, farm from the jingle and light of cities and towns. The Northman preferred the company of animals over humans, they were better listeners and mind their manners better than his fellows. He stomached them enough to take the fruits of his labor into the nameless trading post once a month, but even that small amount of time away from his home was tortuous. This land had been his father’s who, like Fjörn was a recluse who preferred animals to people. They’d worked the land and husbanded the animals together until the old man finally died of a bad cough. Fjörn heard stories of the world outside, of elven strongholds in the trees and dwarven fortresses deep in the mountains, but that’s all they were, stories. The only place in all the world he knew was real was his farm, the marshlands, and the great mountainous trees of the Greenwood.

A blue light appeared somewhere in the distance. He froze, a hard chill ran up his spine. A will-o’-the-wisp. He’d lived near the marshes long enough to know one of those on sight. When he was younger, and foolhardier, he’d followed one out into the middle of the marshes and nearly drowned in a bog. Had it not been for the timely arrival of his father and a pig, he would have been stayed down there for a thousand years and no one would be the wiser. He’d seen them more than a dozen times now, each time he wanted to follow them, to see if he could finally catch one. According to some of the rumors he’d heard at the trading post, if he caught one he could force it to reveal where a trove of elven gold was hid. But he never gave in to the impulse. Each time he tried to take a step near them, his legs began to lock up and freeze, the same as they had the first time when he trampled into a sludge of nigh frozen water. He shivered involuntarily. Another light appeared, maybe a hundred paces beyond the first. His heart skipped a beat. He’d never seen two will-o’-the-wisps at the same time. Something supernatural was happening here, that fact settled like a stone in the Northman’s stomach. His limbs felt leaden. Every impulse screamed at him to turn and go back, to wait until the mists cleared, to wait until the sun was high enough in the sky to vanquish all the shadows. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to follow the lights. A run of bad luck could always be turned around with a trove or two of elven gold. He slapped himself hard in the face. He’d never been so greedy before! What had gotten a hold of him? His empty stomach growled as if to answer. He’d not eaten in two days, saving what he could for his animals. If this continued, he’d have to butcher one of the pigs or goats to make it to trading season. A reserve of elven gold though… he cursed violently. The mists drank up the sound and seemed to move closer in around him. Turn back, this isn’t a safe time to be out and about. The hour of the wolf isn’t safe for a lone man to be wandering out in the cold mists with naught but a torch and a bit o’ steel. The voice of reason was the voice of his father, cold but sage. He tried to turn to go, but his will couldn’t seem to connect to his feet. He remained rivetted to the spot, staked to the ground like a misbehaving goat. Not for the hundredth time, he wished he’d bought a hound to help him keep the farm safe. But his father had never had one, so he had always surmised that he didn’t need one either.

But his father had never dealt with two will-o’-the-wisps before. Or if he had, he never told his son about it, never prepared him for the lights that took hold of his soul and refused to let go. Every impulse screamed at him, but he couldn’t help himself. The lure of the lights, of the prospect of gold, of ending this nightmare, it was too great. No matter how much he wanted to turn back, he couldn’t. He took a step forward, closer to the pale blue lights. Each of the lights moved back a pace. He took another step, moving with less difficulty despite his mind screaming at him. The lights moved back as well. This continued on and on for a dozen paces. He stopped and shivered. Why was it so cold here? He stepped into a hidden puddle and his boots sank to the brim. Icy bog water filled his boot and he yelped in pain. Something just beyond the edge of visibility moved, a poorly formed shape, amorphous and incorporeal. It laughed, it giggled, it tittered. He barely had time to register though, as a bolts of ice cold energy shot up his leg until he could barely feel his foot. He tried to pull the boot out but only succeeding in pulling his foot out. There was a wet SHLOMP and the boot vanished under the murky green liquid. He cursed, stumbled, and fell backwards. He landed hard on his backside. For a moment it seemed like there were more blue lights, a hundred or more. His heart seized. He grabbed at his chest and closed his eye as tightly as he could. All sense of self preservation, all thought of logic and reason fled and all he could do was think of hiding.

When he opened his eyes though, after what felt like an hour, the lights had disappeared. All except those first two. They almost looked like eyes as they peered at him through the gloom. Yet if they were eyes, the creature beholding him would be as big as the dragons that the traders would talk about, beasts the size of mountains whose breath was hotter than the fires of the earth. Fjörn didn’t believe anything so large could exist. But those two lights almost gave him pause. He watched them, sitting motionless and silent. They remained just a still, flickering here and there, consuming some unknown fuel to keep their eerie glow. No one knew what the will-o’-the-wisps really were. Some stories said they were faeries, something akin to the elves or something darker and more treacherous like the Black Enemy. Fjörn wasn’t sure about either of those, he preferred to believe they were something different altogether, aligning neither with the elves or the enemy. Like him, they were focused solely on their own world.

A beetle crawled over his hand and the trance ended. He awoke from the daydream with a start. He was cold. His foot was numb, as he tried to stand, he couldn’t feel it there. He tried to move but he tumbled over, quickly losing his balance. He whimpered, more out of frustration and anxiety than out and out fear. That thing, that shape just beyond the mist laughed again. He couldn’t see it, but the sound came from all around it. It wasn’t muted the way all the other sounds were, it carried and echoed. He started walking, moving away from the will-o’-the-wisps. Their spell had been broken and he knew he was in dire trouble if he tried to follow them, elf gold or no. He looked behind him once more, the lights were still there, hovering. There was an itch in the air, like something was about to break. He could feel the tension in the air. He wanted to scream. They were hypnotizing him again, he realized. He tried to tear his gaze away, but he kept getting drawn back to those eerie silent balls of blue flame. Like a moth to a flame. He squeezed his eyes shut and began muttering to himself, trying to break the spell. Step by slow step, he finally broke free and began moving. His stride was uneven; he struggled as the muck and mire seemed to grow and expand. What was going on? This wasn’t the way his farm was laid out. The closer he came to his home the more solid the ground should be. He should be able to see the tops of the trees over the mist by now, their silhouettes at least. But there was nothing there.

Something formed out of the mist. A long, slender shadow apparated out of the mist and formed something solid. He squinted in the darkness, thrusting his torch forward. It looked like a small tree, a sapling. But there were no trees within this distance of his farmhouse. He crept closer, his nerves beginning to fray. It wasn’t a tree, he could see after a few more steps. It was a post, with a crossbeam and a horse skull sitting in the middle. He stopped, flabbergasted. It was his own marker, announcing the boundaries of his farmland. But it should be in this direction. He had turned, he was moving away from the boundaries now. He was going back home. He wasn’t going out! Fjörn began to hyperventilate, in his confusion he gasped for air but found his lungs could only take in so much. Faster and faster he breathed until he toppled over, landing face first in muck. He yelped and pulled himself out. There was nothing but darkness around him. He’d dropped his torch when he fell and it landed in the same liquid muck that he had. He was blind.

Then a blue light appeared behind him. Gooseflesh prickled over his arms and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned, crouching to make himself as small and defensible as possible. The will-o’-the-wisp hovered not five twenty feet away. Then another, and another and another and another. They were surrounding him. He began to shake uncontrollably. His legs and arms were nearly frozen, he could have pissed himself and never known it. The lights moved closer to him. Closer and closer until they were almost within reach. He shrank back, squeezed his eyes shut. It had worked the first time, he prayed it would work again. He opened them and let out a sad wail. They were all still there.

Then he saw a shape move from behind him. He heard it laugh.

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

A cool breeze passed above and through Greenwood the Great, rustling the trees’ full leaves and sending clouds scudding across the moon. Shadows on the edge of the wood lengthened, retreated, then lengthened again as the moonlight brightened and dimmed, and, as the moon’s full radiance was revealed once more, a fox stepped out of the trees and into a pale pool of light. Her white coat glowed with a pearlish iridescence, and nine tails fanned out behind her, swirling gently and receding into the darkness where their tips turned grey. Her eyes glowed pale green.

She had prowled the forest and seen all that she could see, and now it was time to emerge. The denizens of the woods had provided some nourishment, but it had been a long, long time since she had tasted the flesh of elves or men. She had, of course, killed those she fell upon, but in recent months, she had subsisted on game. By the way her hair stood on end as she stepped into the moonlight, she knew that a veritable feast awaited her. All she had to do was take it. She pricked up her ears and turned her head, then lifted her snout to the sky. Creatures - many of them, and of varied kinds - slept down below. She heard their soft breathing, smelled their food and their feces, and saw in her mind’s eye the little settlement in which they were raised by the man who called himself their master. She padded forward, midnight dew clinging to her fur and lending its own luster to her form.

Within the figure of this fox resided an ancient spirit. She had fed on flesh and soul alike through the ages, taking nourishment from each. Before the changing of the world, a single blue stone had hung at her throat; now, she bore a collection of several stones of varying hues and sizes. Each was a prize she had won, and each imbued her with the gifts of the soul she’d seized. Savaging livestock required no special skill for a fox of her size and brutal nature, but there were other occasions which warranted something special: perhaps a turning of the world to disorient, or a burst of flame to scorch, or a song to dull the senses and ease suspicion. These skills and more she had taken from her most prized victims, gorging herself upon the richness of their essence and profiting from their demise. The Kumiho was practiced in using these tools to wind up her lesser victims’ terror to such a pitch that one soul might nourish her the way three once had.

The chain and its stones nestled softly in her fur, untouched for this night. She stole on silent feet toward the source of the sounds and the smells, a snarl of hunger tugging at her upper lip as she went. She crept through rows lined with pungent sprouts, her tails still swirling of their own accord, as if in cross breezes from several different worlds all at once. The scent of animals, their flesh, and their filth nearly drove her mad with desire. She would begin with the chickens. The mortal…well, she would invest in him.

The great fox entered the chickens’ enclosure silently. Given her unusual size, this required no more than a light leap over the fence. As she considered the birds before her, the snarl she’d held back on her approach loosed from her throat, and the closest chicken startled awake. Before it or its fellows could squawk an alarm, she unleashed the energy that had built within her every muscle. With a lunge and one sweep of a powerful paw, she smashed a row of chickens against the wall of their coop, crushing their heads all in an instant. The wood was painted deep red, and blood oozed thickly from the ruins of their skulls to stain their feathers. She lifted each of the birds from where they had fallen, carried them into the yard, and proceeded to eviscerate them. First, she devoured the livers she craved, small and tough though they were - they were but the first taste of the feast. Snout and paws slick with blood, she proceeded to yank shining intestines from the chickens’ bellies with her teeth and shake them out, creating an intricate, haphazard, yet almost beautiful pattern with them in the grass. The curling entrails and clumps of feathers surrounded each ravaged body in a grim pastoral tapestry. Would the mortal who dwelled here be self-possessed enough to look at what she’d left for him? Would he understand what was coming? Or would he turn away in fear before he truly saw? She would wait patiently to find out.

* * *

In the subsequent weeks, she tested his limits, working her way through his livestock by night. By day, she lay in wait, licking her bloody paws clean and listening. He was so quiet. He spoke little - with whom would he speak, after all? He was alone, save for the animals she had slaughtered. In the silence, the Kumiho found that she wanted to hear his voice. What would he sound like in measured dialogue? In elation? And how would the tones of his speech shift when terror took hold of him? She would know that last one, at the very least. While she speculated idly on his voice, the mortal’s limited mind fixated on a mundane threat to his domain. He did not perceive the calculated malice which underlay it all.

That changed, though, on the night of the will-o’-the-wisps.

Ancient as she was, the Kumiho was not privy to all the secrets of the natural world, and she knew not where the blue lights came from nor what, if anything, they intended. Still in her vulpine form, she stood on the edge of the forest once more, gazing down upon the little cottage. She stretched her neck and reached her nose toward a blue light. It eluded her touch, but it delighted and amused her all the same. A splash and a SHLOMP below alerted her to the movements of her mortal prey. She flowed down to the edge of the dank marshland, stalking enshrouded in the misty vapors which rose from the ground.

Just as suddenly as the sounds of his struggles in the marshes had begun, they stopped. The fox paused, one forepaw lifted. She saw the faint outline of a cross through the mists. The air was taut with panic. He had frozen, fallen, shut out the world in his fright, then stood and stumbled on his way. Away from her. She sat upon the damp grass and closed her eyes. With practiced focus, she brought into her mind’s eye the amber stone hanging from the chain about her neck. The image she saw turned slowly on the spot, then began to glow from within.

Let the earth shift beneath his feet and lead him to me.

She opened her eyes. It was done. She heard him still struggling onward, but the splashing of his steps grew nearer now. She stood and slunk into thicker mist. A sharp yelp fell flat on the heavy, humid air. Too sudden and short to give her an idea of his voice. A cloud of blue lights appeared, surrounding him. The will-o’-the-wisps were stalking him, too. Why? She would know their purpose, before the end. The flickering blue light blinded him to the shadows outside their glowing sphere; under this cover, she moved nearer. She could not close the distance between them in one bound, but she saw him clearly now. Pale. Long hair damp and disheveled from his mishaps in the marsh. Fear radiated from him; the air around him pulsed with it.

He let out a wail of despair. The Kumiho’s eyes glowed momentarily brighter in the pleasure that washed over her at the sound. It was far richer with grief than she had expected. There came a disembodied laugh in reply, and her eyes dimmed as they flicked toward the source of the sound. She exposed her teeth and gave a growl of displeasure. She would suffer no one to claim this prey from her, her work of weeks. She shut her eyes once more and saw the amber stone.

Turn quickly and send the blue flames spinning. Let darkness enshroud him.

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

There are those that believe the land itself has a soul, a soft thing that exists in the hidden places. In the elder days, that soul made itself known to the inhabitants, but increasingly, as attentions were turned outward, the soul turned to the quiet spaces, under the shadows of trees, in the gently bubbling of the brooks, and spread under the roots of the hills. There were isolated locations, far from the madding crowd, where a land’s soul might manifest itself more openly. In the days of the Second Age, those places were incredibly rare, and the people that could see and understand this soul were even more so. People were going less and less attuned to the world around them, ignoring the hints and suggestions that there might be more to the sky, the water, the earth, that what could be easily seen.

Fjörn’s farm was one of those special places were the land’s essence could still reveal itself. The land between Greenwood and the marshes was understated and reserved, a shy thing that would shrink back and hide as often as not. The onion farmer himself was barely even aware that his land was special in any way. He never noticed the patterns of dew and how the light shone on them a little brighter than anywhere else, he never noticed the smell of the wind as it came off the trees. He did have a feeling, a deep feeling that he’d felt from childhood but never been able to articulate or express, that his home was different. He was not more attuned to the land than any other farmer might have been, but the land was more attuned to him. Dangers that he should have known nothing about he managed to avoid, his crops always yielded results, weather too, was never too harsh or too inclement. Fjörn and the land both wanted the same thing, a quiet existence unbothered by the outside world, to exist as an island of ignorance in black seas of infinity.

The will-o’-the-wisps were a natural part of the land as well. Neither Fjörn nor the land knew where they came from, what they really were, or what they wanted. There was nothing to be done about them either. The space they all three occupied simply had to be shared.

Everything changed the day the animals started dying. The land was unable to stop the blood, unable to shroud itself and keep itself safe and untainted. The most it could do was cover the eyes of the farmer to the worst things the creature tried to do, to lessen the terror and anxiety it spread. But even then, it could only do so much. The soul of the land, betwixt bog and forest, was slowly being eaten alive. Corruption, greed, and hunger entered and nothing could drive it out. Day by day, inch by inch, the land was slowly dissolved and transformed, destroyed and reconstituted. Each day the farm was different. It would not be immediately obvious except for the most perceptive, the most sensitive. Slowly the marsh would creep in, its cold rot growing larger and larger.

The will-o’-the-wisps took advantage of the shift in dynamics. Each night the blue lights would shimmer and shift and come to life. What they did and why was still mystery but their appearances at night and the sense of doom and dread poisoned the well. The animals grew more and more skittish, growing sickly and less formidable. The crops began to wither as though the life was being drained out of them. The air grew unseasonably cold and mists, with the horrid strength of a dead thing, encircled the tiny farm. The isolation, sense of peace and quiet, and freedom Fjörn had enjoyed was now closing in on him, ripping away everything until he was all alone. He’d never feared isolation and loneliness before, but the more the mists and marsh closed in on him, the more he understood that that fear was going to swallow him up.

The land’s spirit fled, forsaking the farm. The will-o’-the-wisps moved in, hungry and rapacious.

Fjörn heard the laugh, the tiny giggle that bubbled into a full throated chuckle. He was frozen to the spot. The ground and the air were both unnaturally cold. His breath fogged and clung to him, sluggishly moving through the ether as he tried to bat it away. It clung to his hand, his own breath becoming part of the mist, letting it grow just a tiny bit stronger.

He swallowed a whimper. He would not cry out, not again. He forced the panic in his chest to subside. His breathing became more and more erratic, the panic would not be forced down. A scream burst from his chest with violent force. He began to crab walk backwards, moving faster and faster until his limbs tangled up and he fell in a cold heap. He couldn’t breath. He tried to inhale but it was as if his lungs were already full of something. He tried to exhale, but at the same time his lungs felt utterly empty. He grabbed his chest involuntarily, trying to will his lungs to work. He gasped for air like a fish, his mouth silently contorting and stretching. Soon he began clawing at his chest, desperate for air. He slipped and rolled into another bog. The cold water held him as tightly as he he’d been clapped in irons and left to rot in a prison cell. His lungs blossomed and finally he could breath, but his limbs refused to move, the will to move them, to escape was rapidly dissipating. There was another laugh, another giggle. The blue spirit lights moved closer and closer. If he reached out, he could have touched one of them. Something in the back of his mind told him to try, to give into the curiosity. He reached his hand forward, then snapped it back before he touched it. What was wrong with him? What was going on? He stared at the hypnotic blue flame, stared and stared and stared. His entire existence seemed to drip away, flayed and torn. All his life he’d been looking at this one light. His entire purpose was to… watch… these… lights.

Then something else was there. Something darker. Something malevolent. Something hungry. The will-o’-the-wisps must have sensed it too. They shimmered, shuddered, then vanished, leaving Fjörn in total darkness. The cold was so intense he thought it would crack his bones. His teeth chattered so much he chipped one, he grunted in pain and spit out the broken piece.

“Who…” his voice was ragged and scratchy, subdued and muffled by the mists that continued to crowd in on him. “Who’s out there?”

With painful slowness, Fjörn rose to his feet. A voice in his head told him he was about to die. He’d lost his light, his weapon, and his way. He was so disoriented he couldn’t even tell up from down. He fell in a river once and lost all sense of spatial orientation. This was that feeling, amplified. He was alone. He was scared.

“Who’s out there?”

[Moriel]

Aman's Light
the not so distant past
some time after the events of
Shadow's Reach III

The forge among the alders glowed umber-bright, a spot of blazing light in the gathering dusk of the greenwood. Mormerildir the mastersmith worked within, and the sounds of his hammer rang in steely song against the trees. And his voice, too: a rough and ready baritone, chanting the words of an old Greenwood work song in time with the blows of his hammer. Sweat dripped down his brow and his bare back, hard-muscled from the long centuries of plying his trade. The hiss of steam sounded a quenching of hot metal, and in the clearing of its smoke, another figure was revealed: Gellam the Fool emerged from the darkening path to lean against the doorway to the smithy, his eyes alight with anticipation.

“Is it ready, father?”

Mormerildir shook his head, lifting the spearhead from his slack barrel with the long tongs.

“Not yet.”

“Father!”

Mormerildir smiled, his back to Gellam as he turned to place the spearhead to one side. His son’s exasperation was clear despite the restraint he always strove to exert over such things- very little truly agitated Gellam, but many things were important to him, and this was one. Mormerildir laid down his tongs and turned back to the doorway. In so many ways the Fool was a slightly softer version of his father: long and lanky but not quite so tall as the smith, who towered above many other wood-elves; his hair not quite so dark as Mormerildir’s, a mahogany so deep it was almost black, and his face not so pointed, for the smith’s sharp, scarred face had not quite imparted all its angles to his son. But his face was a mirror of many of Mormerildir’s expressions, and while Gellam was habitually open in allowing his emotions to show on his face, he could not have hidden anything from his father even if he wanted to. Seldom did he want to, and Mormerildir knew before he faced his son that he would see his brows slightly furrowed, a tension in his cheeks, and his lower lip thrust ever so slightly forward. The smith restrained himself, and did not laugh as he turned around to see exactly what he had imagined. He was not exactly pouting, as he had been prone to do in childhood, but it wasn’t far off.

“Gellam, you know how busy I’ve been,” Mormerildir cajoled, gesturing around at the smithy, which was full to bursting with things his extensive clientele had ordered. But the Fool, ever-shrewd, was not the put off. Gellam’s expression shifted and his eyes narrowed fractionally.

“Father…” he drew out the vowels and lifted the end of the word to indicate he knew Mormerildir was not telling him the whole truth, and this time the smith did laugh. He put aside his tongs and stripped off his heavy leather apron as he replied.

“Very well, you caught me. I have started it, but I think this is a project you should be doing yourself.”

“Father!” Gellam protested again, a hint of desperation creeping in as he strode across to Mormerildir, who was taking his shirt down from its peg. “I couldn’t possibly. I want it to be as perfect as can be, and only you have the skill. I could never trust it anyone but you, and it must be ready for Yestarë!”

“I know,” Mormerildir pulled the dark, piney shirt over his head, and its laces flopped loosely below his throat. “And I also know you haven’t forgotten all I taught you in the arts of the forge. Don’t think about its perfection, but rather its purpose and your intent,” he turned to Gellam again, and his crooked smile was broad as his dark eyes were both sympathetic and kind. He laid one calloused hand on his son’s shoulder. “This one is yours to finish, Gellam. You’ll thank me in the end. Use Beriabreigon,” he nodded to a small hammer resting in pride of place on a pair of hooks above the door, “And use your gift. Goodnight, son.” Giving Gellam’s shoulder a squeeze, Mormerildir ducked out of the forge and strolled away down the path, hands in his pockets, whistling, the clawed foot of his wooden leg clacking now and then on rock or root.

Gellam watched him go, his consternation already beginning to fade. His father might not have been a scholar, but he was wise, and there was very little he was ever wrong about- and even less when it came to anything related to his trade. Metal spoke to Mormerildir in the way that music and poetry spoke to Gellam, and if he said this was something Gellam must do himself, he must be right. The Fool walked slowly back to the door and reached up to take down the hammer. It was one of the smaller implements of the forge, not a great heavy hammer, but a ball-peen hammer, for more delicate work than shaping slabs of steel. It had taken on the heat of the forge, and lay warm in Gellam’s hands. Beriabreigon, Breigon’s Protection. This hammer had once belonged to his mother’s grandfather, Breigon the blacksmith. His grandmother, Glîniel, had been born during the Dagor Bragollach, on the day that Glaurung came east of the river Gelion and laid waste to those lands. While Glîniel was spirited away to safety, Breigon took up the only weapon he had left: this hammer. With it he had defended his just-delivered wife, concealed in deep snow, against the oncoming tide of orcs, until he was overcome. Beyond all odds, Selchenebeth survived, and took with her the hammer, pried from Breigon’s cold fingers. She had passed it on to Glîniel, who gave it to Mormerildir on the day he wedded her daughter Lhindes.

”This hammer is a promise,” Gellam had heard the story enough times to feel the long-ago whisper of his grandmother’s voice, swirling about him upon the heated air, “That you will be always loyal, brave, and true.”

Gellam’s fingers closed around the shaft of the hammer. He turned on his heel and crossed to the far corner of the forge, where rows of pidgeonholes were built into the wall, small box-like hardwood shelves where Mormerildir stored smaller and more delicate items of work. It took but a moment for the Fool to find what he was looking for: a dirk scabbard, crafted of black lebethron and lined with fine wool. The body of it was complete, but what lay unfinished was the metalwork work Gellam had asked his father to create to wrap the scabbard, a silver chase scattered with gryphons rampant. It would be sturdy when complete, but the making of it was a delicate business. Mormerildir had roughed the shapes together, but there was much still to do. Doubt flared briefly in the pit of Gellam’s stomach as he carried it to the anvil. But he strove to tamp it down, rolling the hammer in his long, clever fingers. Surely even Breigon must have felt doubt now and then. There were so many uncertainties in the world, but some things, Gellam was absolutely sure about. As he stared down at the silverwork, he thought back to the last time Tavari had come to Mirkwood.

*

They had discharged their duties at the capitol, and spent an idyllic afternoon deep in the wood. Something had changed between them that day; a tentative step in a direction Gellam had scarcely dared to imagine. He had spoken a word in song without forethought that he had previously kept locked away, not wanting to intrude on the ongoing process of her grief, to make her think him less of a friend to her- and not being completely sure that she would reciprocate it. Since the revelation of her past loss, the Fool had told himself, quite truthfully, that he would be content to occupy whatever role Tavari most needed of him, for is that not what friends do? But said the word he had. And though she had not replied in kind, she had joined him upon his heady pinnacle of unintentioned daring, and there she said many things without words at all.

Though she could have had the finest of chambers in Thranduil’s halls, as had become her custom on her visits to Mirkwood, Tavari stayed with Gellam’s family in the cottage amongst the alders, outside the boundary of the capitol. That night she had slept more deeply than in many months, and awoke to a house full of sunshine. As she rubbed her eyes and began to sit up among the furs and bedding before the hearth, Lhindes dropped down cross legged beside her, holding out a cup of tea.

“Gellam didn’t want to disturb you,” she smiled as Tavari gratefully accepted the cup and sipped, “he’s gone with his father to the big forge in the city. They’ve asked Mormerildir to oversee a large production, and every pair of hands helps.”

“Gellam is a smith, too?” Lhindes laughed at Tavari’s surprise, and reached out to pat her hand.

“My son is a Fool of many talents. His father taught him well, before he found his true calling, and he hasn’t forgotten, or let himself get too rusty. When Mormerildir lost his leg, Gellam worked the forge day and night to keep it up until his father healed.”

“Extraordinary.” The crinkles around Lhindes’s cloudy grey-green eyes deepened as she nodded.

“Yes, he is. Why don’t you go along to the city after you’ve had some breakfast and catch up with them? When all the smiths get together to work on something it’s almost like the old days, and a thing worth observing.”

Tavari didn’t know exactly what Lhindes meant, but she had learned on their first meeting to listen carefully to Gellam’s diminutive mother, and trust the wisdom behind her sightless eyes. Lhindes was much younger than Tavari, but there was an ethereal air about her that made her seem part of the forest itself, and reminded Tavari of the maiar of Yavanna she had known in her youth. She ate the good food Lhindes set before her, and set off at an easy run along the path to the capitol, calling her farewell. In no time at all she had come to the edge of the city, and wended her way through its paths until she arrived at the forge. She heard it long before she could see it: the striking of hammers and ringing of metal, the whoosh of the bellows and, oddly, a chorus of voices. As the drew nearer, she began to discern words: the smiths were singing, their voices in harmony with each other and with the blows of their hammers. Intrigued, Tavari hurried across the street and inside the long building with its open sides, the roof held up by many columns.

Though the morning had not been cold, walking into the smithy was like crossing the border into farthest Rhûn, where the air was hot and steamy well into the night. Natural light filtered into the building through the walls, and from within it was alight with the amber glow of many forge-fires, and huge crucibles full of molten metal. It was a hive alive with sweating smiths at their work, some pouring from the crucibles into casting molds, but many more working at anvils, hammering out she did not know what, and all together they sang. It was a work song, a story-song that told the story of Oropher’s coming to Greenwood the Great, and the founding of the Woodland Realm. Now and again as she moved along the smithy’s edge, her eyes darting about for those she knew, Tavari received a nod or a smile, but none broke from their work, and all together they sang.

“The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes,
To the bells of Amon Lanc;
To the big bells as loud as the thunder,
To the little bells soft as a song,”

Rumbling basses and powerful baritones sang of the thunder, then faded to underscore the tenors whose strident timbre called out the song. In this group, she could discern the voice she had been listening for, and she increased her speed, a smile creeping onto her face. And there, as she came to the center of the building and passed beyond one of the cruicibles, was Gellam. Like many of the other smiths he was stripped to the waist and clad in a leather apron as he stood at his anvil, hammer in hand. His forehead shone with perspiration and his hair was slicked back away from his face. His cheeks were ruddy and his muscles strained with the exertion, but his dark eyes were alight with joy as he worked, Tavari could see even from this distance, and his voice was unbridled as he sang with the rest.

“And some say the soul of the city’s the toll
Of the bells, the bells of Amon Lanc!”

The bells rang out as the hammers came down in time, blacksmith’s bells, ringing in memory of a home lost. Unnoticed by Tavari as she watched Gellam, Mormerildir had approached from behind her.

“You are welcome,” he said from her shoulder, causing her to jump, “to stay and watch! My apologies, Lady Mordagnir.” He was grinning, and Tavari laughed. “You’re as bad as Gellam, Mormerildir. No titles here.” His eyes twinkled and he nodded. Offering Tavari his arm, he led her over to the edge of the smithy, where a low wall ran among the columns. “We used to sing this at work in Amon Lanc,” Mormerildir offered as they walked, “In those days, we smiths worked all together every day. Now, it’s rare we gather like this, but there’s enough of us left that know the song to still make the wood ring with it. I’m pleased you’re here to hear it.” This was more words than Tavari thought she had ever heard Mormerildir string together at once before, and she could only nod. He was a man of few words, the mastersmith, in her experience. “Have a seat here, you’ll have a clear view and be out of any danger.” Mormerildir, gestured her to the low wall, before inclining his head and saying he must return to work.

Tavari sank onto the wall, her back resting against a column. Mormerildir passed by Gellam and leaned in to speak with him, and at once the Fool looked up to see Tavari there. He raised his hand and waved enthusiastically, a gesture she returned. Then he fell back to his work, and she to her watching. The song went on as the smiths worked, weaving its tale. As it went on, the harmonies multiplied and a descant formed, cascading in a cavalcade of ringing hammers and voices, and Tavari found herself holding her breath. She had heard and sung many songs in her long life, heard many choruses lifted in communal celebration or mourning, but never anything like this, the song of the Silvan smiths. Though her eyes flitted about, taking in all the workers at their tasks and their parts in the song, they kept returning to Gellam.

Tavari knew enough of music to feel the song nearing its climax, but there was something else happening to the air around the Fool. His face was both intent upon his work and utterly ecstatic, lost in the song, and it was as though he exerted a powerful pull on everything and everyone in his vicinity; the air seemed to vibrate, and the piece of steel upon his anvil, rather than cooling, grew brighter and brighter.

“Now here is a riddle to guess if you can
Sing the bells of Amon Lanc;
What makes a monster and what makes a man?”

The hammer looked as a feather in his hand, and as the smiths sang the final lines their voices ascended both in volume and pitch, the tenors splitting into an impossible variety of tones as they sang of the bells, and on the final word, Gellam’s voice soared high, high above the rest.

“Sing the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells
Bells of Amon Lanc!”

The final note rang against ceiling and column and floor and every surface of the forge and beyond. And as the final hammer blow came down, the power- for Tavari now realized what she had been sensing from the him- that had been gathering around Gellam seemed to condense and burst from him in a shower of sparks and light. The spearhead in his tongs shed its rough edges and burnished to a polished sheen all at once, and the keenest of edges honed it. Everything seemed to slow down, and Gellam appeared to glow in the light of the forges; but not just the light of the forges; some inner light that came from his voice and the force it had unleashed. The sparks cleared in the fading of the song; both the song of the smiths, and the Song of Power, and time returned to normal as chatter broke out amongst the smiths. Gellam tossed aside his finished spearhead and, turning to an elf behind him who had approached with a glowing ingot, took it in his tongs to start another. And still Tavari stared.

“How wonderful,” she whispered.

*

He hadn’t intended to put his gift on display that day, or to show off for Tavari, but the forge and the song of the bells had been where it was born, and there were times when Gellam simply could not restrain it- nor did he want to. Songs of Power were a thing of the past, of long-ago heroes and epic battles the like of which, he hoped, the world would never see again. But though those wars had passed, there were still echoes of them in the world: Tavari had seen such things, and been part of those conflicts; she was a living, tangible, experiential reminder of those times, and as she lived in the world, the ancient days lived in her memory. And Songs of Power lingered in the world- their singers of long ago might have departed from Middle-Earth in one way or another, but the songs themselves still whispered, and Gellam was sure he was not alone in being their bearer. Why had he been chosen to receive this gift? He did not know, but strove always to be worthy of it. Loyal, brave, and true. A warrior of virtue. My Fool.

Gellam’s hand tightened again around the hammer, and he raised it. As he turned over his thoughts and memories he had begun to softly hum without particular thought, and the silver lay warm below him on the anvil. Beriabreigon was part of him as he held it, and it was as though he could feel the shades of his ancestors as he took in a long slow breath, and that intangible something from within and without filled him up with a sensation he could never quite describe. His mind cleared and his uncertainty settled, falling like a drop of water from a leaf. It splashed down, and a ripple of surety and insight flooded the Fool, releasing the power of his voice through the gentle whisper of his song, as the first ping of the hammer sounded.

“So many times out there,
I've watched a happy pair
Of lovers walking in the night;
They had a kind of glow around them,
It almost looked like Aman's light,”

The words came to him as they so often did, from Gellam knew not where. But he knew they were the right words, a combination of his truth and his imagination. The silver yielded, bending to his will as the words grew plaintive, but hopeful, a baring of his fëa into the work, the vulnerabilities and questions of one who appeared always to the world lighthearted and playful.

“I wondered if I’d ever know
That warm and loving glow,
Though I might wish with all my might;
Could a face as homely as my face
Ever be meant for Aman's light,”

Gellam loved the world into which he had been born. And he loved himself, inside and out. But he had always been fascinated by the idea of Valinor, the Undying Lands, of this place that elves had lived, and still lived, in peace and bliss with the higher beings that had sung all creation into being. He had never seen the light of the Trees except in their vessels of the moon and sun and the eyes of those who had been born in their light. But it seemed to him that it was infused in all things, waiting beneath the surface, and emerged at times to suffuse those who had never beheld it, when something about them called out for such illumination. To Gellam’s mind, the light of the Trees was love, in all forms, and a special kind of softness for those who were in love. The Fool was a lover of many things, and loved to dance attentions on beauty of all kinds; he was a notorious flirt, but a genuine one, and always strove to inspire joy. Though he knew he did not need what might be called true love to be complete, he had always wondered whether he might find it, whether he could be worthy of such a thing, and what it would feel like. Now he thought he knew.

”But suddenly an angel has smiled at me
And looked upon my face with ancient sight;
I dare to dream that she
Might even care for me,”

The silver rang as many bells; like a windchime, like her voice in laughter. Beriabreigon danced in Gellam’s hand as it landed its final precise blows. The light of the forge, which had cooled and darkened, began to grow again. But this time, it was not the light of coals aflame: it was a softer, sweeter thing; warm and calm, silver and gold at once. It spiraled out from the hammer to encompass the Fool as he sang, lancing through his silverwork to etch the faces on the gryphons, perfect their shape, and harden them beyond their temper. The light surrounded Gellam and as his final, neverending note rang clear against the stones of the smithy, it expanded to encompass the entire building in a faint glow that shed its mingling aura on the trees beyond.

“And as I ring the bells tonight,
My cold dark forest seems so bright;
I swear, it must be Aman’s Light!”

At the end of the path, in the cottage amongst the alders, her face framed in its window and bathed from afar in the warmth and light of the forge, Lhindes smiled.

(Songs adapted from Heaven's Light and The Bells of Notre Dame from the Hunchback of Notre Dame musical)

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

The fox’s eyes remained shut. With the flames now extinguished, only a frigid void separated her from her prey. She could hear the man trembling with cold and with fear. She was aware of the cold tonight just as she was aware of the scorching heat in summer and the crisp chill in autumn, but none of them brought her discomfort. She had come into existence before the shaping of the world and its cycle of seasons, and though she resided now within the world, she was not of it.

For a few long moments, she stood frozen in place. The amber stone had slowed its rotations in her mind’s eye, then finally ceased all movement. She was pleased. This stone held the power of an elf who had dabbled in sorcery. She had consumed his liver and his essence half an age ago but only rarely used his power. She could not turn land that fought back, and it was useless in places to which the servants of The Creator still gave thought. But here, the land had ceded control to her. She had felt it withdrawing as she spilled blood night after night. And the great Powers had forgotten this place, insignificant as it was. These marshlands were amenable to her influence. They, and their caretaker, would fall to her.

She let the man take his clumsy flight. She was patient. He screamed, and the panic in that sound pierced her with a jolt of exhilaration. Before she could flick open her eyes and continue her pursuit, though, tendrils of blue flame waved along the periphery of her mind’s eye. She was at first mesmerized, then irritated. She was ready to proceed with the hunt, but she found that she could not open her eyes. A growl grew in the back of her throat and her breathing quickened as she strove with whatever power had dared challenge her. The flickering flames grew stronger and more saturated. She wanted to open her eyes, to return to the physical world. The growl escaped her as she strained to do so, but her eyelids remained frozen shut. The blue lights grew still stronger, and then two will-o’-the-wisps slowly danced into the image in her head. They circled the amber stone, bobbing along in what seemed a curious consideration of the things only she could see. They dodged and wove, as if evading blows from an invisible foe or dancing to an unheard song. The fox, still blind to the world, was forced to watch.

She let out a snarl and a bark, and her eyes flew open. The amber stone had gone, and with it the flames. The impression of their light lingered in her field of vision for a while, eventually fading into the mists like everything else around her. Darkness pressed in upon her once more. At last. It was as she had designed: the stone’s power had blanketed this forsaken place in abyssal black. Even the stars and the moon appeared to have fled the night sky. Her breathing slowed again.

The man had crawled away from her. No doubt he’d sensed her presence, or heard her snarl in frustration. Crouched low to the ground, the great fox stalked after him, following the scent of his fear and the quick, desperate sound of his breath. She heard a crunch and a crack as his tooth snapped. Her eyes flashed brighter once more. She relished these moments, when her prey realized they had something to fear and everything to lose, and let their bodies betray them. She pressed herself lower still, her belly grazing the wet, soft ground. Though she looked at rest, her legs tensed and prepared to propel her forward and pin the man down. Then, he spoke.

“Who’s out there?”

The Kumiho had long enjoyed cataloging her victims’ voices. You could learn so much about a person by simply listening to their voice, and how it changed when they realized their lives were at an end. Some were soft and melodic, others were grating, and still others silvery and seductive. When gripped with fear, some voices went shrill. Others went quiet, or even - like her brother - completely silent. This voice was low, coarse, and desperate. The fox shivered. The man was afraid, but he was not yet done with life. He spoke his words twice, and he rose to stand. It seemed he would cling to life, and she would tear it from him, but slowly.

She rushed toward him, fox-shaped, but as she closed the distance, she changed. The fox’s front paws lifted from the ground as her rear legs lengthened. She straightened and, where there had been white fur, she was clad now in a white gown. A cascade of black hair fell down her back. Her eyes, though, still glowed green. The Kumiho stood tall just a few paces from the man. If he could see anything in the oppressive darkness, she thought, it would be her eyes. Unbeknownst to her, a pair of blue, flickering flames appeared in the distance behind her and began bobbing ever nearer.

There was a long silence while she contemplated him. Finally, she broke it with whispered words.

“You are alone, child. There is only darkness for you.”

She stepped forward. The will-o’-the-wisps continued their dance toward this creature they did not comprehend.

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

Only darkness? What did that mean? Fjörn’s senses were fogged, everything felt as if it was coming from too far away or too close up. Everything smelled too strong but smelled like nothing at all. The darkness hurt his eyes, he tried to shield himself from it. There was something out there, something other than the will-o’-the-wisps. Their menacing, glowing light had begun to return, one then two then three and four. There was something in the midst of them, something that had spoken to him. He could hear the whisper like it was the roar of the ocean, the baying of hounds. Yet, he could not see what it was. There was a darkness, an emptiness that his eyes, nor the light of the will-o’-the-wisps. He stared hard, so hard that his eyes began to lose focus. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. Would that be too much to ask? His breath came out ragged and desperate. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. The innate curiosity of man mingled with something or someone manipulating that same curiosity. He could not pull his gaze away. Fjörn convinced himself as he stared more and more into this patch of midnight that he could see something. Something green and shimmering. But each time he thought he found it, each time he thought his eyes center on it, his vision blurred and the green iridescence vanished without an afterimage, as if it had never been there. But he knew it was, knew it. He could not explain it, but something in his gut told him there was something there. It had spoken to him, with a roaring whisper that made him want to crawl into the fetal position.

A rancid feeling began to crawl in his stomach, like a hundred spiders all crawling on him at once, a swarm of nausea erupted from him. He retched, but there was nothing inside to vomit up. He heaved and coughed, doubling over and hugging his legs. The air was fetid and gross. It felt the same way a rotten apple looked. There as something brown and decayed just below the surface He wanted to touch it, feel his finger press into the skin of the universe and feel lit bend and twist. The nausea erupted again, but he held it back this time. He heaved. “What…”

His senses were all wrong, his head was swimming and his spatial orientation was off. He knew he was only flat ground, but his eyes were telling him he was on a slope, one that was steadily increasing. He stepped back, his arms started to windmill in different directions as he tried to right himself.

BOOM!

Fjörn landed on the ground face first. He hadn’t even realized he was falling. More black stars flashed around him. But now he could see something, a shape outlined by the blue of the will-o’-the-wisps. Something, someone was there. He was right! An alarm bell went off in his head, so loud he couldn’t even hear his thoughts. The silhouette, the will-o’-the-wisps. He remembered a story he heard once when he was in town, about fish in the deepest parts of the ocean. They were horrifying, nasty, ugly creatures, but they could lure their food to them with an intoxicating light. What was the name? He wracked his brain. The Angler! Whatever this spirit was, it was the same kind of creature, luring with an entrancing light. He wanted to run but his legs wouldn’t move. His legs shook.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!”

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

Tendrils of mist wreathed the Kumiho in obscurity, the perfect vantage point from which to watch the man struggle. Eyes agleam, she stood fast in one place, and the hem of her skirts and the ends of her hair moved as if caught in a gentle afternoon breeze. But the night was cold and dark, and the air had begun to thicken. The demon licked her lips and tasted rank fear: it was rolling off her prey now in waves. She inhaled deeply and gave a sigh of pleasure.

From one wide sleeve of her gown, she withdrew a small bottle. A rich and nutty aroma mingled with the night air and the stench of fear when she uncorked it. Carefully, she poured its thick contents onto one palm, then ran the oil over her opposite hand and forearm until they glistened wetly in the light of her eyes. Behind and around her, the will-o’-the-wisps winked in and out of sight.

With a sudden crash, her prey fell to the earth. He lay there and looked up. HIs eyes were wide, and they combed the darkness for ... something. Answers, maybe, or even hope. The Kumiho smiled and paced toward him. He would not find them there. Darkness was her domain, and beneath its shroud she had always had her way. There was no reason to believe that would change on this night.

She stopped at his side and knelt slowly down, her skirt spreading about her in a pool of fabric. The will-o’-the-wisps moved in. Three of them darted to the man’s head, crowning him with flame. Ordinarily, they tricked and led creatures to them, but in a rare reversal, they had been drawn to this scene. Recalling how they had invaded her consciousness, the Kumiho’s lip curled. Were they protecting this man? Had he formed some unholy alliance with them? Or did he control them? Not once had she doubted that she would be this man’s demise, but if she had guessed correctly, perhaps he could serve a purpose beyond providing her with nourishment. She planted her oil-free hand on the ground between his neck and shoulder, then flipped him onto his back and lifted her other arm to strike. Where his voice had been gravelly, hers was liquid.

“Yes.”

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

Cold fire ran through Fjörn. Simultaneously, he felt as if his insides were about to melt and freeze. She was still moving in the shadows, too much for him to see her clearly. He only called her “she” in his mind because the first, and only, real glance he had had of the creature revealed feminine lines and angles, but there was no way to tell. In his panicked state, he could mistake a goat for a bear. But there was something else in him. The cold fire. He’d never touched a Will-O’-the-Wisp before, no on ever had. The more he lay there in the freezing mud, staring into the shifting shadows of the pre-dawn, the more he felt something growing within him. The cold fire. It was a strange sensation, a burning one but cool at the same time, frozen. His vision had narrowed so much on the woman, or what he thought was a woman, maybe it was something else, a fox or a spirit or something, the he did not see the blue wisps of fire that crept in around him. He did not see the finger-like tendril of blue that reached out to touch him. He felt it though. It was a sensation the farmer had never felt before. It was strange. His arm went numb but it vibrated, it continued vibrating until a spark of blue light appeared where the tendril was touching him. He howled in pain. Or thought it did. As soon as the pain increased his senses took leave and he felt as though he were experiencing everything in a haze, as if it were a dream, someone else’s dream. He imagined this was what it must be like to be struck by lightning. Thunderstorms were monstrous and gigantic out here in the Wilderlands. He’d seen the sky rip itself open and those light fractals set fire to the earth. He was vaguely aware of himself looking at the tendril, from the tendril to the Will-O’-the-Wisp. He should be terrified, he knew. Any other morning, he would have shire himself in fear. But now? The horrors had only been mounting. This seemed horrifyingly mundane by comparison.

The numbness faded. Understanding, an alien presence, made itself known in his mind. The creature. The Will-O’-the-Wisp. Somehow… somehow they had connected. The knot in Fjörn’s stomach intensified.

We… need… we… want… we…

The farmer couldn’t make sense of the what the creature was trying to tell him. Words were so plain, so two dimensional, but the images, hundreds and hundreds in a length of a breath, were too much for him to handle, too much for his mind to process. He could sense something from the blue flame though: fear. Fear of that thing that moved in the shadows like a panther, that slid off the light like oil on water. Whatever the Will-O’-the-Wisps were, they were a natural part of the landscape. They were an invasive species, but they still had the same physical make up as all the things around him. They were as real as the earth, the crops, the chickens. Whatever that thing was that stalked him, was not. It was made of something different, something unnatural and otherworldly. Fjörn had heard stories about the elves and their history, where they came from and what they created, what they met and what the fought. His mind was cloudy and unfocused, too full of images forced into his brain, but he thought this creature might be from the days of the elves. Maybe.

Run… walk… fly…

More words, more disjointed images. His head hurt, it felt like something was in his skull and trying to force its way out. Every vein throbbed; his eyes felt like they were going to pop at any moment. The place where the blue flame touched him looked, looked different. It was blue, it shimmered like moonlit water.

Run… fly… away… go… death… fox… death… fox… death… fox… death… fox… death… fox...

The images were clearing. They knew her, or knew what she was, or rather what she was not. They were afraid of it. Of the fox creature. Any creature terrifying enough to scare them… Fjörn didn’t want to think about what that meant for him. But why… had they come to him? They were his menace, his antagonists, his bane. There was that old saying “enemy of my enemy…” but that seemed too simple, to pedestrian or corporeal. But he could think of no other reason.

Before he could anything, she was on him. Th vulpine creature was on him and tossed him like a ragdoll. He did not scream, but something did. The Will-O’-the-Wisp that was attached to him was thrown as well, still connected physically and mentally to him. It vanished. Blinked out. Disappeared.

But it was not gone. There was still an alien presence in his mind, throwing images of flying creatures, of running beasts, of slithering snakes, and skittering insects. He understood. But he was powerless to do anything. His legs, he couldn’t feel his legs.

“What… what do you want?” He asked, his voice cracking like old wood.

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

One arm raised, the other planted firmly on the damp ground, the Kumiho’s eyes flashed with anticipation. Her prey, despite his pitiful struggle, would soon watch the blood flowing from his own body while she devoured him. He had proved a fine treat, fearful yet unexpectedly resilient, but he would die all the same. The aftermath of her feast, much like his life, would be a mundane repetition of the cycles of mortal misery. Flesh would rot, bones would dry and crack, and all would disappear into the land before a single generation of his people had come of age.

She had observed mortals through the ages. They never failed to strive and strain for more: more wealth, more food, more progeny, more time to inhabit their senses, their flesh, this world. The vast majority of them clung to life like ivy, and only the cruel passage of time or forced removal could pry them from it. Elves were different, their blood fuller-bodied. It was the richness of the reward, rather than the sport, that drew her to them. Of course, she played with them, too, sending their spirits fleeing in terror, but it was different with men. The Kumiho mocked their obsession with long life by offering the gift of a long death.

In an instant, her fingers transformed, the nails elongating into needle-sharp claws which would allow her to strike with surgical precision and extract her prize in the blink of an eye. For the Kumiho, this was a time-honored ritual: strike with the force of a hundred arrows, crack open ribs, feel pliable flesh yield to her reach. The liver would glisten in the moonlight, soft and slick and nourishing. While nothing and no one could sate her the way her parents had, this man would suffice. She considered the angle of entry and anticipated how he would squirm away in fright, and how she would pin him to the ground if he did: with her hand through his heart.

But in the brief moments she took to prepare her fatal strike, several things happened that she did not expect. She chanced to look down from the will-o-the-wisps crowning his fear-lined face and saw that his arm glowed with the same blueish, flickering light - but from within. A chill rose around her, and the tendrils of mist which had enshrouded her mere minutes ago began to curl toward her with intention. The wisps of fog reached for her arms, her neck, her face, her hair, all passing through her like smoke, but reaching and grasping just the same. Where the mists touched her, they left behind a barely-perceptible prickling. The Kumiho’s lip curled, and she shook her head to rid herself of the sensation as if shaking away a bothersome fly, forgetting she was not fox-formed. The air, cold and heavy already, chilled noticeably. The demon lifted her nose and inhaled. She smelled cold, fear, sweat, grass, water, and cold. Something was exerting all its influence to drive her away. The challenge incensed her, and she thought she knew what that something might be.

She lowered her arm. The unnaturally long nails receded into her fingers as she contemplated the man and his little allies. There was no doubt in her mind that the floating fiends were both protecting him and defying her. He was unexpectedly resilient, yes, but more than that, he was allied with a minor force of nature. Powerful as the demon was, she had never turned down a chance to amplify her own abilities. The necklace she wore was proof of that. It seemed that an investment of time was in order here. A delayed meal would be a small price to pay if she could come to understand this man and those vexing flames.

“What… what do you want?”

The cracking of his voice betrayed his mortal dread. Still, not every mortal would have had the presence of mind to ask what she wanted. The best answer to this was no answer at all. Knowledge - even knowledge of an unwelcome truth - could serve as a comforting cocoon within which to hide. She would not grant him that retreat from his fear.

From the neckline of her dress, she withdrew the chain adorned with stones. She placed the round, emerald green gem in her mouth and bent to kiss his forehead, ignoring the will-o-the-wisps still dancing above his brow. She felt the cold from the air rush through her and into him, leaving him paralyzed in place. When she pulled back, she was fox-formed again. The necklace and its beads fell from her mouth and settled, with a gentle clacking of stone against stone, into her fur. She seized a booted ankle in her great jaws, and began the long walk into the woods.

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

A hundred different sensations filled Fjörn as he lay there on the cold, cold ground. He could feel the panic, rage, and terror of the will-o’-the-whisp inside his head. It felt like there was something coiled around his brain. He could feel something wrapping around him, tighter and tighter and tighter. What was happening to him? He almost understood the woman, or whatever she was. She was going to kill him. As terrified and horrified as that made him feel, that feeling was mundane, ordinary, a programmed response. What she was doing was evil and it was going to be more painful than anything he’d ever imagined, but somehow that felt… secondary. The farmer had no idea how to explain it, how to come to terms with that conclusion. What sort of world had he been living in that being torn apart was just a banal fact of life? The true mystery, the thing that occupied his mind in what he assumed would be his final moments, was what the will-o’-whisp was doing. Why had it spoken to him? What had it done to him? Was that the presence he felt in his mind? Why wouldn’t it leave him? He felt himself being squeezed. It was not physical though. It was like he was being pushed back so far into his own mind that he could watch himself die without feeling it. The more the thing squeezed his mind, the more he felt disconnected from the only reality he had ever known. What was this thing doing? The question made him want to panic, made him want to lash out and strike at it, fight it like a bear or a wolf. But he couldn’t. Or rather, he didn’t want to. He only felt like he should want to, but he didn’t. What was wrong with him? Had he surrendered to this thing, this invader, this parasite without a fight? Was it protecting him? Shielding him from the horrors that were about to be visited upon him? What would that gain the creature? For what felt like an eternity, Fjörn’s mind wandered the vast empty spaces between thoughts. He examined all he knew about the will-o’-the-whisps. They were malevolent spirits, not malicious though, closer to capricious and intractable. They were unfriendly and dangerous, but they never seemed to cause harm on their own. They were sneaky tricksters. They tricked the lonely wanderer into hurting themselves. What if that was not all they were though? What if, what if they were psychopomps as well. Guides from the mortal coil here in Middle-Earth to the place beyond the stars, where the Second born waited. Elves might now, he thought vaguely. The thought was slippery and it was gone off into the void before he cold catch and hold it.

Something was happening outside. Fjörn was dragged from the serenity of nonexistence and ever wandering back to a world of blood and pain and torment. He screamed. He screamed in pain and rage, in agony and fury. How dare this thing, this fox faced woman, drag him back here! What right did this monster have to force him to experience pain and loss and death? In the back of his mind, where his mind and the consciousness of the will-o’-the-whisp seemed to merge and become something different, he remembered something he asked. What did this daemonical thing want? Why was it doing this? What was the point? She was brutal and silent. Fjörn couldn’t tell what was worse. Irrationally, a sense of anger began to build in him. He was not going to die like this, no better than a pig let to slaughter, not without knowing why. This woman owed him that much! His breathing was wet and hard, there was blood in the back of his throat. He could taste the copper. He could smell his acrid sweat. He could feel his pheromones drifting in the air around him, the world shivered as it might during an earthquake. But it wasn’t an earthquake. She kissed his forehead, he wanted to vomit. Then he was being dragged. Dragged by a fox that looked like it had stalked the halls of Angband in the forgotten days. His rage was still there, still strong, still pushing him, but sheer bloody panic began to overwhelm him. His vision blacked out; he returned to the cold darkness. His hearing faded; he screamed as loud as he could to upset the balance of the animals. His taste vanished; the taste of his own blood suddenly became nothing. His sense of touch vanished too; he felt like he as floating in a sea of nothingness. His sense of smell died; the smell of his own fear, and the fear of the land itself was snuffed in a single moment.

There was nothing. Nothing but fear and rage.

He couldn’t see or feel anything, but that did not stop him from kicked out with his free foot as hard as he could. “Answer me, you monster! Tell me what you want! By the powers of earth, tell me! Damn you, what do you want from me!”

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

The fox walked in silence for a long while. Her pace toward and into the woods was steady and sure, but never rushed. There was no deadline for the work ahead. Sunrise would come as it always did. She might move about with more stealth, but the fiery rays of day did not harm her as they did some servants of darkness. For one thing, the Kumiho was no servant. She had come into being before there was a dark lord to serve, and she passed through the ages quite alone. Where others like her were seduced by the promise of power, she was content to invoke terror without all the troubles of dominion. Since the days before the rising of the sun and moon, she had gone where and as she pleased, hunted what she desired, and melted into and out of her two favorite forms as each situation required. She could move freely under the sun, but the night was hers: stars might shine and the moon would wax and wane, but beneath their pale, weak light, she was the grim realization of countless fears.

Her footfalls made no sound, but the man’s body dragging along the earth left a soft whispering in her wake. In the distance, an owl hooted; closer by amid the fetid marsh waters, a frog croaked. The Kumiho stalked on. The earth began to rise toward the crest of a hill which marked the edge of the forest. She dragged the man into the trees and felt darkness pressing close around her: the moonlight could not penetrate the thick canopy of leaves overhead.

Then the stillness of the woods erupted with screams, howls of anguish the likes of which the innocent trees had never heard before. The Kumiho knew the sound. The man’s cries betrayed his terror and rage, his determination to cling to life, his confusion at what was happening to him and the visceral misery deep-rooted in facing down the eternal void. He raged in vain against his own helplessness.

Such sounds were, ordinarily, music to hear ears. But a strange sensation pricked the back of her neck, and her hackles raised. Something was wrong. All her instincts longed to draw out protestations of this sort, but she realized that they should not be happening now: he was meant to be stilled and silenced by her spell. A deep growl rumbled from her throat, and she made to move on toward their destination. But the freezing had not worked, either: he was flailing and kicking at her now. His thrashing was desperate, wild, and ineffective. His free foot collided with her head and she barked her agitation through the mouthful of flesh and boot she carried. She could cope with his blows, but now he was flinging words at her, too.

She let fall his foot and turned, quicker than lightning, to pounce. Her forepaws pinned his shoulders and she caught a flailing arm in her teeth. Soon her mouth was full of blood, and it trickled thickly through the white fur of her snout. She shook his arm to shock him; she heard a pop and felt bones shifting and grinding together. She flung the useless thing aside and snapped her jaws a hair’s breadth from his face. Still fox-formed, she could not speak; instead, she answered him inside his own mind. The chill presence of the will-o-the-wisp irked her, but it could not silence her.

You will yield your secrets to me in time. Until then, sleep.

Her eyes glowed even more vibrantly, unnaturally green, and the ubiquitous night mists flowed with purpose into his nose and open mouth to settle him into slumber.

[Baphởmet]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000

Liver and Onions

(Private with Tara)

Why… was… he… so… sleepy…

He fought to stay awake. He refused to listen to the voice in his head. It was not his voice and it was not the voice of the terrified will-o’-the-wisp. It was a steel voice, a voice with a razor-sharp edge to it. He could feel it slicing through him. Whatever buts of him were left were getting shredded and turned to nothing. What secrets did it think he had? He was naught but a simple farmer, a Northman with a tiny scrap of land. He was no one, no one! He was back inside his head, but he was still, if only the slightly sliver of him, in the waking world. Which world was better at this point? The waking world had turned into a world of utter nightmares. It had started so simple, so mundane. He was crying and begging for that mundanity now. The fox, the woman, they were one and the same. But, but how? She was, she was the fox, but the fox was her too, but they were different. How did it make any sense? Fjörn would have panicked if that were something of which he was capable. He was not serene, far from it, but he could not bring himself to the level of anxiety to panic. In the world of dreams, a black world of starless skies and endless fog, he knew there was nothing he could do. He could never understand what was happening to him. He was too small, far too small, to understand the scope of the thing he’d stepped in front of.

So… sleepy… just… need… to… rest…

Fjörn was just a simple onion farmer, a carer of pigs and chickens and goats. He was not meant to understand what was happening to him. No more than the spider can contemplate the rotation of the stars. He was utterly incapable of comprehending this thing, this beast, this woman, and why she had taken him and what she meant to do with him. The will-o’-the-wisp. It seemed to know what she was. It was afraid. It was still afraid. It was a terrified fly in a glass jar, banging and banging to get out. But there was no way out of this prison. Only, it seemed, a way in. His mind had trapped them both. What was going to happen to the blue wisp of smoke and light when he was dead? Would it die too? Would it escape? Could, could he escape with it? That thought had not occurred to him. Perhaps his mind, what was left of it, could escape with the will-o’-the-wisp and hitch a ride, just like it had? What would that mean though? Would he be a spirit? Or a will-o’-the-wisp? Was this how they made new ones?

Sleep… rest… can… wait… til… morning… so… tired

Even in the world of sleep, in a world where his thoughts shaped his environment, he was losing control, losing his grip. Reality was a place he no longer wanted to be. The nightmares were only part of it. He’d grown so tired of the world, he would walk under the sky and under the sun ceaselessly, toiling over and over, pushing the boulder up the hill only for it to fall to the bottom where he must start again. He was so tired of it all. Endless, ceaseless monotony. Only in his most private dreams had ever wanted more. He forced himself to walk the same banal pathways, forced a smile on his face, forced thoughts of contentment into his mind. But it had all been for naught. It had all been an exercise in futility, in wastefulness. He was going to die and none of the toil, none of the work, none of his struggle would matter. He wouldn’t matter. Just another nameless body, an abandoned vessel. No one would remember him, no one would care that he was gone. No one would care about all his hopes and dreams and secret desires. Fjörn would pass on like a wind in the grass. The dreams of Fjörn the Wanderer were gone, slipping away like sand slipping through fingers.

So… tired… so… empty… just… want… it… all… to… stop…

Then, for Fjörn the Farmer, and for the little will-o’-the-wisp, it did.

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

The ruined cottage sat nestled deep within the woods. For more than ten generations of men, it had stood empty and decaying in a little clearing. Rot had set into the wood, and the once-sturdy beams supporting the roof had cracked and sagged, lending the place a defeated, deflated air. At the same time, shrubs and brambles encroached little by little upon the house and made it wild in defiance of the strict pruning its former occupants had once done. In spring, the various bushes flowered and bore fruit, and the berries fell heavily to the earth even as the delicate white flowers wilted in the summer sun. The clearing was fragrant then and loud with the buzzing of bees. The forest would take possession of the whole place one day, returning the logs to the soil that had sprouted them ages ago.

The people who had once lived here - their names, their faces, their dreams, their desires - were lost to the cruel march of time. They could have been men or elves who had long ago passed across the sea. The Kumiho had never seen them. The place had been abandoned by the time she came across it, but the cottage’s former inhabitants had left behind no shortage of stoneware: tea pots, cups, saucers, and bowls. She could deduce only that they had been artisans, perhaps plying their trade and selling their wares at some market or other. It mattered little enough to her, though. As much as she delighted in the terror she could instill, she shrank away from the daily comings and goings of other beings, and this was the perfect retreat from the world. She was interested not in life, but death.

With time, she had found the bushes growing wild just outside the cottage were fragrant, and their dried leaves supplied a burst of earthy flavor when steeped in boiling water. She experimented with various means of drying the leaves: some she let wither and dry, whereas she let others steam before drying them. The art of pouring and serving her tea was one she had honed over time just as she’d perfected her deadly strike. Both practices were purposeful, meditative, and infused with the power of the stones she wore around her neck.

Her snout bloodstained and sticky, she grasped the sleeping man’s leg once more and continued her long walk toward the cottage. Slivers of moonlight fell between the leaves above from time to time, illuminating a snow-white paw or the berry-red blood trailing down the man’s broken arm. With him stilled and silenced, the rest of the journey passed quickly.

The vegetation around the cottage had grown so thickly now that the man’s clothes caught on branches as they crossed the final yards to the doorway of the place. The fox was protected from the worst scrapes by her thick fur, but small tufts of hair occasionally fell away when a bramble snagged at her coat. The little white hairs blew away on the night breeze and came to rest without a sound upon the earth.

She crossed the cottage’s threshold and hauled the man’s heavy body into her domain. She sniffed at him where he lay. He reeked of fear and sweat and blood. She let out a purr of pleasure to see that he had not overcome her command. This fact lent her confidence that she could master both him and the will-o’-the-wisp. She would need time, yes, but there was no limit on her time.

In the form of a woman, she rose and walked to an aged cupboard. Moving with fluid grace, she removed all the pieces she would need and placed them gently upon a low table: a kettle of water gathered from a nearby stream, a teapot, a bowl, a single cup, a long wooden scoop, and two jars of leaves dried long ago. The ceramics were pale green, an unintentional and poor imitation of the light of her eyes.

She bent to light a fire in a small stone hearth set into the far wall of the crumbling cottage, uttering words in an unintelligible tongue. She fetched the kettle and set it over the flames. While the water boiled, she meant to learn what she could from this man. He would taste the tea if he could not answer satisfactorily. She went back into the night to gather strong, supple vines and returned to bind his hands and feet; even if he broke free of her this time, physical bonds would prevail. Grasping the emerald green gem once more in her mouth, the Kumiho pressed a freezing kiss to his brow. It was time to see what he could tell her.

“Wake.”

[Baphởmet]

Liver and Onions
The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
(Private with Tara)

He was happy. He was actually happy. He wasn't sure how far down into himself he'd gone, but wherever that place was, he was at peace. It was dark, but he wasn't afraid. It was empty, but it was full. There was no up nor down but he wasn't disoriented. Distant points of light like shimmering stars passed overhead and beneath him. The more he searched, the more he found. This place was far from empty. He didn’t want to leave it. He watched scenes from his life play out, he watched his father work the fields with him at his side. He saw blurry visions of his mother, a woman just at the edge of his recollection. She had red hair, it flamed like the sun. She danced with wildflowers in her hair. Yet he never saw her face. He heard a voice he didn’t recognize coming from her. Had her voice been hard with lilting sarcasm? There was something wrong? That… that was not the voice of his mother. He could see her face now. But her hair was no longer red, it was black, black as midnight. And her face, her face was a fox. No. No. No. No. That was not his mother. He screamed and the scene changed. He was alone. It was night on his farm. It was his farm now; his father had died. He’d buried him in the bogs, as was the family tradition. That night was the first night. He remembered how the wolves howled in the distance. Blue light filled the scene. But, no, no that was wrong. There had been no will-o’-the-wisps there that night. The light surrounded him, but his memory was unaware of the light. He walked out in that soft hazy light and touched the glowing embers of a dying fire. The blue light solidified and came into focus. No, that’s not what happened! In his memory he could see it now as well. But, but he wasn’t afraid. Why was he not afraid? This was wrong, this was not what happened! He felt a sting of panic rise in his chest. This was not the way it happened. The creatures, they had not been friendly. They were malevolent, they led farmers to their doom. Why was this memory different? It was not the right memory. Then the howling of the wolves changed. It began the giggling of a fox. The sounds grew so loud it cracked the vision in half. Blackness returned. He screamed again but instead of sound, light emitted from him. Blue light.

“Wake.”

The voice made his world crumble. There was no fighting it. He was wrenched through all the layers of his subconscious. He tried to grab onto to something, anything, but there was as nothing within reach. Everything around him was air and ice and cold. He was yanked back to consciousness. His head roared with pain, his stomach twisted and pulled, trying to tear itself free of his midsection. His arms and legs felt as though they’d been pulled apart. Every joint and socket had been pulled and ripped. He wanted to scream.

No. No. No. No. No. Make no sound. Make no sound. Make no sound. Make no sound. She cannot know. She cannot know. She cannot know. She cannot know.

The voice inside his head, not his voice. His head, but not his voice. The will-o’-the-wisp. It was still there. Why. Why was it…

He couldn’t focus. There was too much pain, too much noise. This place. What was this place? His head swam, his eyes rolled around in his skull, refusing to look in the same direction. He’d been nearly trampled by a cow when he was younger. He wondered if this was the same, somehow.

But then she was there. She…

“No,” his tongue felt thick, too big for his mouth, he wanted to vomit it up. “What do you want from me?”

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

The man seemed to struggle against wakefulness. Eyes closed, he flinched and spasmed in a vain fight against the inevitable return to reality. While the Kumiho gathered her stoneware upon the low table, she saw his neck muscles straining, his hands clenching into balls, and a grimace of pain passing over his face. Had he realized that, from now on, his dreams would always be preferable to waking? That even his nightmares would pale in comparison to the truth? If he had not arrived at that particular conclusion yet, he would soon enough. Frightening as nightmares might be, they were still finite. But the Kumiho’s plans for this man and his little secret were infinite, stretching into the far distant future through years uncounting.

Within the kettle, the water had begun to stir, too, but it was not yet at a full boil. She continued her careful table setting: a solitary cup to her left. An empty pot before her. A large bowl with a pouring lip on her right. She set the tea leaves and wooden scoop above it all.

A soft, hoarse, “No,” rose from where the man lay prone upon the ground. She smiled. With a gentle touch of a single fingertip, she straightened the scoop minutely so that it sat perfectly parallel with the long side of the table.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

Her table set, the Kumiho rose from the pool of fabric around her. She could hear his anxious breathing, could hear the sound of his heart pounding with fear and uncertainty. Wordlessly, she swept to his side and knelt so that she could see his eyes properly. She wanted to know if she could see the will-o’-the-wisp inside him, and what it would look like when he died.

She considered him for several long moments, then reached a long-fingered hand forward to brush the damp hair from his brow. Bound as he was, he could not deflect her. He was ghostly pale in the dim firelight, yet his skin was warm, pulsing with life. Her expression, as she looked down on him, was one of tender hunger. One hand went to her neck, where the strand of colorful beads hung at the ready. A slight smile tugged on the corners of her mouth. It was time to speak with him.

“I want to know,” she said, her voice low and lyrical, “how you came to control a power of the world. Tell me, and I will let you rest.”

[Baphởmet]

Liver and Onions
The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
(Private with Tara)

He was groggy. His head throbbed and pulsed like it might if he’d spent the night drinking into oblivion. His mouth was dry, a crust of snot and saliva formed on the corners of his lips, dried tears obscured his vision. He woke up angled all wrong; Fjörn thought he would fall into the sky and land on the sun. He waved his arms about weakly; they felt so heavy. Had he even been able to move them? I couldn’t even feel them. Slowly, the young farmer was turning into a statue. Inch by slow inch his extremities were transforming to stone. He blinked away the tears, his head still swam. He felt dizzy; even though he was laying down, he still felt as though he might fall off into nowhere. He tried to look at his hands, to see them for what he knew them to be. They were not grey and rough, though, nor were they scored by stone or mineral; they were simply his hands. He tried to move again, but the result was the same. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he run? What sorcery kept him nailed to the spot so prodigiously?

Then she leaned in, her form taking the whole of his vision. She was… she was beautiful, but she was awful to behold. She was feral and monstrous. Her eyes were deep pools he could drown in, and drown in them he would, in his own blood, if he stared too long. Fjörn tore his eyes away from her, only to find his gaze wandering back to those terrible, terrible eyes.

She was speaking. He could hear the words, but they didn’t make any sense. The words were lyrical and had the ferocious tenderness of a bear trap, but they did not mean anything. They were merely sounds without context or gravity. Fjörn stared at her. There was no use trying to tear his eyes away from her. Her presence demanded his attention; he had no choice but to obey. He wanted to obey. He could feel his will slipping through his fingers like sand through the hourglass.

What are you doing? Stop looking! Stop looking or she will see us! She will see us!

The voice formed on his own lips, but the sound was for his mind alone. It was not his voice, but it was his mind. Whatever it was, whatever power of earth and spirit had crammed itself into his skull, it shook him from the hypnotic stupor he’d been falling headfirst into. Then the woman’s words made sense. She was asking him…

Save us, save us, save us, save us and we save you, we save you, we save you.

“Listen, you bat shire crazy witch, I have no idea what you are talking about! Let me go, damn you!”

[Marceline]

The Edge of the Greenwood, SA 1000
Liver and Onions
(Private with Frost)

“Shhhh.”

The Kumiho hushed the man, running her hand across his brow once more. He was feverish now, flushed and clammy. Were he not in such a frenzy at the very sight of her, the gesture would have appeared almost motherly: her touch was soft and her utterances soothing. As it was, his eyes bulged and flicked from her gaze and back again, making him appear more crazed even than he sounded. He let out a string of human obscenities - as if he could match her strength with that of his words.

“No.” she said softly in reply. “Not until you tell me all you know of those meddling blue lights.”

He remained tense and tearful, resisting her with all his will. She laughed a little at his fruitless struggles. The ties and forces which bound him held fast. His muscles tensed and quivered, and veins stood out from his forehead and neck as he tried in vain to move. He must be strong, to have handled his animals and to have worked those fields all alone. He was alone, wasn’t he? She had seen no human companions while she observed him - no wife or children to mourn his disappearance and death, and no ailing parents to care for. But he did have the will-o’-the-wisps. Perhaps they helped him move the earth and his harvests, or perhaps they chased away hungry wolves and foxes which came prowling toward his chickens at night. There was no telling what they did for him.

Some small powers of the world could meddle in men’s affairs in this way: she herself was one such example. The great powers of the world, ancient and mighty, had neglected in their arrogance to purge the world of all the lesser creatures who still roamed these broken lands. Those divinities believed intervention in the affairs of elves and men to be their dominion alone, but in that they were wrong. Her powers - and those of these maddening blue lights - might be more circumscribed than theirs, but they each had their influence and abilities. She had never yet encountered another power which could hold her against her will, though. She was fixated on finding out all she could about them.

“Is there not something sharing your mind?” she whispered. The Kumiho settled in and leaned over him to gaze into his wild eyes. Was that a glimmer of the blue flames underlying his consciousness, or was it merely the firelight flickering in the dark little hut? She leaned closer, pressing herself to him in her eagerness to see the light within him. There was something there, she was certain. It was only a momentary change in the way he looked up at her, but she knew that, for an instant, his eyes saw her with another’s mind. The fear there deepened; ancient dread replaced the desperate panic of the mortal’s understanding. His heart beat an erratic, frenzied cadence beneath her. Her own pulse beat in a slow, steady contrast to his.

The water over the fire had begun to stir more urgently within the kettle, building up its breath. Soon it would emit its dreadful shriek, like a night-ghast wailing. Still leaning over the man, her face mere inches from his, she decided to give him one more chance, in life, to tell her his tale.

“You are unwise to withhold your knowledge. I will have it, one way or another.” She raised one hand as a threat, her nails sharpening and elongating once more. Her eyes flashed a brighter green as she said, “Tell me about the blue flames.”