Lindon Free RP

[Tharmáras]

"In the east, in Ossiriand, the walls of Ered Luin were broken, and a great gap was
made in them towards the south, and a gulf of the sea flowed in. Into that gulf the River Lhun
fell by a new course, and it was called therefore the Gulf of Lhûn. That country had of old been
named Lindon by the Noldor, and this name it bore thereafter; and many of the Eldar
still dwelt there, lingering, unwilling yet to forsake Beleriand where they had fought and laboured long.

"Upon the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn the Elves built their havens, and named them Mithlond;
and there they held many ships, for the harbourage was good. From th Grey Havens the Eldar
ever and anon set sail, fleeing from the darkness of the days of Earth; for by the mercy of the Valar
the Firstborn could still follow the Straight Road and return, if they would,
to their kindred in Eressëa and Valinor beyond the encircling seas."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age

"Beyond the Lune was Elvish country, green and quiet, where no Men went; but Dwarves dwelt,
and still dwell, in the east side of the Blue Mountains, especially in those parts south of the Gulf
of Lune, where they have mines that are still in use. For this reason they were accustomed to pass
east along the Great Road, as they had done for long years before we came to the Shire. At the Grey Havens
dwelt Círdan the Shipwright, and some say he dwells there still, until the Last Ship sets sail into the West.
In the days of the Kings most of the High Elves that still lingered in Middle-earth dwelt with Cirdan or in the
Seaward lands of Lindon." - Tolkien, from Appendix A (III): Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur

"So Thráin and Thorin with what remained of their following returned to Dunland,
and soon afterwards they removed and wandered in Eriador, until at last they
made a home in exile in the east of the Ered Luin beyond the Lune.
Of iron were most of the things that they forged in those days,
but they prospered after a fashion, and their numbers slowly increased."
- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - Durin's Folk

"There were however Dwarves on the road in unusual numbers. The ancient East-West Road ran
through the Shire to its end at the Grey Havens, and Dwarves had always used it on their way
to their mines in the Blue Mountains. But now Frodo often met strange Dwarves of
far countries, seeking refuge in the West. They were troubled, and some spoke
in whispers of the Enemy and of the Land of Mordor."
- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - the Shadow of the Past

Rules:

1.)This activity is for roleplaying in Forlindon and Harlindon for both Elven and Dwaren characters. You may also write of your adventures on the Sea west of Lindon but all isle-based writing (Look at the Rivendell Archives https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=192 ; more will be added by me next month, including the guilds of the Lindon Dwarves from the Old Plaza) can be written in the World Beyond thread where the islands are already being established https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=274. There is already a shipyard thread made by Lirimaer for the Grey Havens so there's no need to use that capital harbor in this activity in a major way. There has been a need to seperate all the Elven nations to their own respective threads (Rivendell: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=30 . Lóthlorien: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=72) so now I will make the prior one I which combined Lindon and Mirkwood its own space for the latter (Mirkwood: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=55 ) but Lirimaer did make a thread for Thranduil's halls specifically (https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=414).

2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. Keep your IC Middle Earth/Tolkien believable; no crossovers with other fiction are permitted in this thread. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.

3.)@Annúnfalas will make a thread concerning roleplay at Círdan's Court where she will write the titular character for RP'er interaction. In this thread, Tharmáras RPs Dís - the sister of Thorin - who reigns as queen in her late brother's halls in Forlindon. Tharmáras solely writes Aragorn, Ulmo, Ossë, Uinen, Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf. Annúnfalas writes Arwen and Galdor of the Havens in this thread.

4.)3.)The year is TA 3014 but "Flashback RP'ing", writing in the past, is welcome.
You may write alone and mark your post(s) as private or you may team up with a member.
The Rivendell Activities OOC can be used for out of character posts and plotting.


5.)All OOC conversations are hosted in the Imladris OOC https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=34 .

[Sur Vanar Utírieste]

Fíllaniël, her sheepdog Caesar, and his puppy daughter Olympia
at the Harlindon beach in western Lindon

~ Private RP ~

His mate in Harlond had turned him away the last time he had visited her, and Caesar had failed to understand why at the time. He and the affectionate Empress had been close but now all she did was bark and growl moodily whenever he was within sight of her.

One day, when she was away from her resting place, Caesar had slipped past the swinging door and snuck inside. It was an impressive abode, with silk sheets and plush cushions; and in a wide rope basket, that is where he saw them: four little mewling puppies. Children he had fathered with Empress.

One of his offspring had crawled towards him with unsteady limbs, bleached and stubby with her eyes sealed shut. She sort of looked like a little white potato to Caesar. This one will be mine, he had declared in thought, tenderly wrapping her in the upper and lower portions of his muzzle before stealing her away.

Caesar had managed to conceal her presence in his own resting place for some time before being caught by his emel. His mother. She had blinked in surprise at first. “Why is there a puppy in your pile of Telkelion’s chewed boots, Caesar? Is she one of yours?” Fíllaniël had asked him with an amused smile, squatting down to the newborn she-pup and stroking her gently. “Well, if she is going to stay here we must feed her appropriately and see that she grows healthy,” she said before looking at Caesar with a more serious expression, “You are a father now my darling pet. You must love and protect her always, and teach her all that you know.”

The short-spanned attention of his canine mind had wandered mid-speech, but the message of his emel was not lost on him entirely.

Fíllaniël sat on the sand of the Harlindon shore. Salty autumn wind tossing her dark brown hair about every which way. Caesar and his daughter had been chasing one another, but now the growing she-pup turned her gaze towards the Sea. “Look big pillow, look!” cried Olympia in delight, “It is the foamy hills!”

Olympia dashed in the direction of the Sundering ocean. “No little potato! No!” barked Caesar with a rumbling growl, becoming angry now. “You are too small for the big water.”

She skidded to a halt and turned to her father with beady, sad eyes. “Oh, I am sorry big pillow,” she whined, returning to her father with her diminutive tail tucked between her hind legs.

“It is alright little potato,” he lovingly replied, placing a paw on her lowered head - a confirmation that all was forgiven.

“Come,” said Caesar trotting over the base of a nearby tree and resting in its shade. He looked at Olympia attentively before speaking again. “Now listen little potato, being a ‘goodest boy’ is a lot of hard work.”

“Really big pillow?”

“Yes,” responded Caesar, unfurling his tongue, “We must taste and clean everything using our pink wets, especially the walkers, for they do not know how to bathe properly. Cyclops-walker does not let us make him moist and shiny, so we go nom-nom on his feet hides."

"I like feet hides. Corn-hair walker has them too," remarked Olympia in agreement.

“You must mark every stone tree with your golden water,” he continued.

“But, why?”

Caesar panted. “Because other woofers will want to do the same and you must be let them know it is your stone tree and not theirs. Do you understand little potato?”

“I… think so,” said Olympia, who then proceeded to practice her marking stance before losing balance and stumbling.

“You must bury your prizes where no one can find them. Not even me.”

“How do you get prizes?”

“Emel gives me tasty prizes. Corn-hair walker is your emel but we can share until your sharp whites grow okay?”

“Okay,” panted Olympia, placing the pads of her forward paws on her father and wagging her tail.

“Lastly, walkers must always share their foodies. Even when they do not give them to you. You cannot eat the nut cream though. Never.”

Olympia whimpered.

Caesar licked her face comfortingly. “Nut cream will stick your pink wet to your sharp whites… forever and ever.”

The she-pup let out a brief, high-pitched bark. “No nut cream. Never!” she proclaimed, reiterating her parent’s words.

As the sky and grainy earth of the beach were painted in the fiery orange glow of the afternoon sun, Caesar let out a yawn. “It is the snooze time little potato. Let us nap,” he announced, resting his shaggy head on his forward paws. Olympia nestled herself in a puff of her dad’s coat and curled her own head beneath one of his large soft folds.

Warm embraces from her new emel and delicious morsels filled her dreams.

OOC ~ As it was discussed with @Tharmáras, my Elven character - Fíllaniël - will be giving the sheepdog puppy to his NPC, Elmarya. From henceforth the character of Olympia is his. :) ~

[Ercassie]

**


Sarnir Erondo and Menellótë Silosse,
Ostelemar Manse, Tirion-Upon-Tuna, Aman.
At the point of departure – 1495 YT

The city was mantled in a darkness, not only of the ruined twin of trees, but of the heart that wept within every Elf there gathered. Silosse and Sarnir raised a hand each together, the one right to the other’s left; their heads drawn in soft incline to near touch close about the brow. The Noldo dared an obliging lock of his wife’s incandescent veil and smoothed it reluctantly against his fingers. The notion of removing his person from hers threatened to shake emotion from his countenance.

“No bond is set upon you to depart ..” his devoted wife would swift remind him, softly. For had he not tarried at home before, when all of similar mind went instead to Formenos ? Her husband had remained still in the service to the King, to long stoke the home fire; to secretly keep watch out for the interests of the Crown Prince, throughout his younger brother’s hold over the realm. He could do so again, somehow she felt it important that he ‘should’. But there was no telling the Sculptor so.

“I go now for I did not so afore,” Sarnir sought to have his lady comprehend. “Even the ilk of the lesser princes seize up dare. And what manner of an example should I else set to our son, if I do not stand for my convictions ? If I speak loud in support of the motion, and yet withdraw toward silence when time comes to test ? You married not a craven. You knew ever who I was .. ”

“You are my husband,” the lady dropped her hand from grazing her lord’s grasp. “Not the King’s fool.”

“The King suffers no fools,” the Proud Noldo raised his head, with pride to know such an Elf as their new-crowned monarch. “His Grace does as what needs doing. He does what none else dares, and he speaks as what he thinks is right. Not what he thinks others have want to hear. He has suffered much for all that he has endeavoured in the name of our folk. He needs now his friends. For who could turn from him ? Who could not attribute empathy and seek for justice in his plight ? If it were my father the demon had slain .. ? ”

“You shall go not from these shores” the elleth sighed, her pale eyelids fluttering with the weight of the words, as though confessing a great burden of her soul.

“Do you look to forbid me ?” Sarnir turned a stare at her, and grasped for understanding. But Silosse took a step back from his reach. Her arctic stare was as a wall of silent protest. “Oft you have asked of me to come with you to the coast and visit there your kin ..” he clutched for purchase in her unmoved ocean of response. “I shall give them your regards.”

“You do as you will,” the elleth admitted. ”You always have. And I love you regardless. Always shall I so. But none may deny the mighty heavens, and they vow that you shall not depart these shores. They swear to me that you shall not take ship. Nor ever pass beyond Swanhaven. So there is not a need to depart from this city, only to return again in small amount of time.”

“We shall go then to Alqualonde; and there, the sea king withholds aid of passage ?” The Noldo assumed interpretation of his wife’s portent. Silosse nodded, with stately reluctance. “Very well,” her husband shrugged. “What need then for tears ?”

“No tears,” she would have him see the lack of such about the vast orbs of her eyes. “But a plea that ought stir deep,.” She knew well her husband’s opinion of ‘tears’ and all else ‘emotional blackmail’. He respected none who resorted to either. And she had never felt the need asides. The emotion as much as the insight had startled her.

“If our King’s sole hope for vengeance be denied him, he shall come to great grief upon waters edge, ” Sarnir would have her to understand. “I should be at hand, in show of support and of fealty that may subdue his disappointment. You it was that petitioned for me to make friends outside of my kin. Now my King, my friends, and indeed my own kin also .. they go ? So I go. With lighter spirit now than afore, in anticipating our early return to those loved ones we leave behind,” he smiled.

Wordlessly, her fingers cast against the winds of will to take him once more in her hands, and never let him go. Yet the portents did seem to promise, he would not be lost to her. Why then, the nagging tear to halt him, each time he had set to walk away.

“I shall return to you,” he persuaded her, now by sheer repetition. “Your will, it would seem, campaigns the stars and seas alike to hold me captive to your side. What hope have I to ever know escape ?”

“I am most joyful gaoler,” Silosse smiled slowly, “And yet stand myself a prisoner of patience until you come back to me.”

“I am your husband," Sarnir basked in one last, lingering glance, "I shall take our son see this thing through, for all that we stand for. And then to home, I vow. I know not why it be of such import to you, but as such, you have my word."

That was the last that she ever had of him, her husband, for though he did not depart into Exile, neither did he ever come home to his love again. His death robbed him of that right during the First Kinslaying. And his Falmari wife rued more bitterly than all, that silly intuition she had ever thought to try and interpret.

Menellótë Silosse
a beach below the Tower of Uilosorn
in Forlindon, 3014 TA – PRESENT DAY

Her hair was dusted starlight, wild whipping tendrils, every one contending for the wind to wrest it toward freedom proper from the pale face that served as unaffected anchor. And her raiment fluttered in white wings of cloth about her slender form; that the line where such flowing attire ended and the she within began, it was difficult to tell. Wan eyes both as vacant and discouraging as is the swift approach of an utterly overwhelming blizzard, saw her forth. Feet steady-stepped, although there stood no settled path in sight. Firm and forlorn both was she, in some clear, invisible, resolve.

Time uncounted, she had trod with toes unclad, and felt the crumble of cold sand that longed to bake in the glow of day’s warmth to come. Waves beat their fists in spite as she passed them all, oblivious, pounding against the last vestiges of lazy night. Onward, obstinately onward still she went, even as the ocean spat his foam about her feet and littered her in salty protest. Teetering upon that fence where land was swallowed by the sea, she turned, and whiled back up the haven of shore, until she sank to both knees.

Head thrown back, she beheld the aloft, the stars, those flowers that thrive best in darkness, idling latent about the comfort of their velvet bed. Arms like roots drew down and deep until her fingers earthed through sand at either side. She plummeted, first left, then right, and convulsed in a whipping flourish as though lightning struck fast from below. Lips moved without words. Eyes looked without sight. And for the expanse of a time uncounted, she swayed, as a feather teased by the current of cold air. Until it, whatever it was, was spent. And she too.

Dawn had refrained thus long from bold proclamations and instead swept in with cautious brushstrokes of a tide across the skyline, diluting the glimmer of those sleepy, blinking beacons until they stood undistinguished from all else. The morning was come. And Menellótë Silosse found herself returned to the world. Unsure how long or for what cause she had traversed the beach, she gathered the folds of her loose gown about her, and ascended a staircase of shorn rock, to her chalky tower, set as a lone tree at the height of the cliff. It was not until she glanced down, that she read the pattern that her untamed footsteps had set into the sand.

What she saw there was a tempest, tattooed into the canvas of beach, brandishing as it’s herald a winged demon; a dragon, or perhaps a bat, although her heart eschewed all sense and saw the both at once, a terrifying blend. The vision caused her to draw a sharp intake of breath which rattled as a dose of icicles thrust down her throat. Dust assailed from all sides, until tears blinked their intrusion to naught. But naught could keep her balance steady. The entire ground trembled beneath her. Something gnashing, pierced the cliff with hungry, hooked hands to conquer the hard rock. Some unseen thing, she felt, she knew, was dragging it’s heaving mass of dread up to meet her. Whatever it’s obscure form, she felt it’s advance as though it’s progress was punched through her solitary figure, stood awaiting for it to emerge over the precipice. An avalanche of her anaemic hair swept then both fear and her frozen face aside, for time to compose, and recover a hope of breath. When she glanced back again, when she dared to edge closer, closer to the perilous edge, there was naught to behold below, naught but a mess of tiny imprints, gyrating nonsensical and far too far away to interpret.

It had been three ages, more, since she had last been set upon by such a storm. Since long afore she had set out, in penance, within that fell Host of Wrath, and come to reclaim her lost child out of the gloom. Retrieving now at least her full height, the albino stumbled back until she felt the sure hard armour of her home meet those hands which grasped blindly behind her. Hastening beyond the portal, she closed wood and iron on the world beyond her safest borders, and laid her back against that door as a final impediment to any further visitation.

Thoughts beat around her mind as might a flock of caged things, frightened and fluttering. Only one thought was clear enough, rallied by her heart itself to find the strength, and speak her understanding, to no one. This time, she would not tell any what she thought she’d seen, nor dare to contemplate what it might mean. As misinterpretation had proved so bitter before, she had paid a high price for the pride of prophecies she had no skill to shape.


***(All credit to the icon/ insignia of the Noldorin House of Skysight, attributed to it’s creator, Winterwolf)

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda
Celonsend Inn
Shortly after the Lindon Masquerade (open)

The dark carriage rolled up to the small Inn where she had checked in quietly with as much discretion as was possible for one as well known as her. She slipped from the carriage and into the building rage still consuming her in that she hadn't been able to fully get her revenge upon Hatholdir as she had wanted to after he had harmed her as much as he had in years long past. Those in the Inn seemed to know some great wave of malice was coming and hid from the darkly adorned woman as she passed like a wraith of Morgoth.

That he would call her the same as him. She snarled at the mirror in her room as she shut the door. She pulled the mask from her face and unpinned her hair tossing the gemmed mask and circlet that had held it in place aside like petty toys that children might play with. She lashed out striking the mirror in her rage cutting through her glove and flesh as the glass tumbled down. She tore at the dress, ripping the sleeves and gloves off before tearing at the dress itself until she was free of it's bonds. Rusca had been going to help her out of the gown after the ball, but this was not a dress that she would ever dawn again, it was befouled now by the very memory and touch of the King of Dirt and she had half a mind to burn it.

"Miss are you all right?" a soft voice from behind the locked door interupeted her as she stood the black dress bundled haphazardly in hand debating on throwing it in the low burning fire in the hearth of her room.

'Go away.' It was no corporeal voice that answered the woman but a booming command that echoed into the Inn workers mind from the Unseen not aimed at any particular person or being just echoing throughout it to anyone near enough to hear it. causing their eyes to go wide and them to flee from the door. Fuin tossed the dress on the floor and crumpled then knowing full well the poor worker had not deserved that fright but she had no doubt it would buy her some time before another came to bother her in the room. She sobbed clutching her wounded hand to her bare stomach hot angry tears spilling down her cheeks. How long had it been since she had felt so utterly alone? The hull of the ship once she'd woken in the First Age, she'd only known hatred and rage and sorrow when she'd woken. She had hoped not to wake from whatever blow had made her pass from the world of the waking then. Now. There was no such blow coming. Though the soft voice right before she had left the masquerade...

"Mel?" The question in it, the look in the eyes on the ellon that she did not recognize. How would one such as him know her name? It was perhaps the closest thing to the blow that had sent her into blessed blackness ages ago and made her pause tears still streaming down her face.

[Tharmáras]

- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later

Celonsend Inn, Girion Coruben's posh guesthouse, was situated a a mile downriver from Mithlond. It was built near a tower bridge connecting both regions of Círdan's realm. The ornamental gardens of the gabled edifice offered a panoramic sight of the lush riverine fields of southern Forlindon. Patrons were presented with a marvelous view of the Lune, its meandering rivulets, and the great nameless tributary flowing into the distant Hills of Evendim. Whether you were a traveller or an Elf bound for the Wethrin Isles or the paradise of Aman, anyone found a measure of peace and contentment at Celonsend.

Tonight however, there was a Telerin elleth who wept in anguish and the flame of hatred burned hot within her tempestuous spirit. Her lamentation and furnace fury troubled Ulmo for he keeps all Arda in thought. He loves both Elves and Men, and never abandons them. He spoke with his vassal concerning the Telerin woman who had been wronged and the ire of Ossë was awakened.

*

"Ulmo arose and went to the Outermost Seas that were set beyond the Outer Lands...
leaving the governance of the Great and lesser seas to Ossë and Ónen his vassals.
Yet ever of his magic deep in his outermost seahalls of Ulmonan
he controlled and ruled the lakes and springs and rivers of the world."
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One: The Coming of the Valar

The depths of Arda belonged to the Dweller of the Deep but every wave belonged to the Master of the Seas. All coasts and islands belonged to him but these he shattered in sudden willfulness. Glorying in tempestuous rage, Ossë wrecked ships and terrorized the shores of the world with floods of tremendous power.

Eons ago Melkor swayed Ossë to his allegiance since he could not subdue the ocean. Many lands perished in great ruinous tumults. It was the love of Uinen his wife which restrained the Destroyer on the prayer of Aulë the Smith. The hair of the Lady of the Seas lies through all waters and all weeds which grow therein; to her mariners cry, for she can calm the ocean and restrain the wild nature of her reckless husband. The Númenóreans reigned long in her guardianship and they held her in reverence coequal to the Valar.

Ulmo pardoned the sins of Ossë. He graciously permitted him to be his chief lieutenant. The Maia remained faithful...for the most part. The delight in violence has never wholly departed from him. Without command he makes mischief, rejoicing in the winds of Súlimo he bends to his awesome power. Storms are his delight and he laughs in the roaring of the waves. Elves and Men love him but they do not trust him.

*

[Tharmáras]

- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later

"The departure of a pleasure cruise, on some vacation all about the Wethrin Isles,
was a timely alternative and she was very grateful to Girion for making the suggestion."
- Ercassie in narration, from the Voyage of the Môrcelebren

"She slipped from the carriage and into the building rage still consuming her in that she
hadn't been able to fully get her revenge upon Hatholdir as she had wanted to after
he had harmed her as much as he had in years long past.
Those in the Inn seemed to know some great wave of malice was coming."
- Fuin in narration, from the Lindon: Free RP

"Little Merry you have never seen so many Elves in your life!" exclaimed Ethir who led the eight-year-old son of Sirdis by hand. She served as the noble's handmaiden on her ventures in Belfalas and voyages to Lindon. Ethir, nicknamed "Effie" affectionately back home, was a jovial and talkative young woman with a drop of blueblood. She was the daughter of a Lond Côl Gentleman which was the lowest rank of the Belfalas landed gentry. Effie was lithe as a doe and pale as Mindolluin snow. She tried painstakingly to disguise her freckles with cosmetics. She knew how clear porcelain skin was so desired in Dor-en-Ernil and she wanted to emulate the Lady Isys despite the earnest assurances of Sir Halgwain that she was the fairest lass in Imrahil's realm. Effie wore her long sable hair in a waterfall braid her grandmother, Lotte, taught her how to style. She was getting older now so Effie had taken responsibility of shaping the tresses of Eressild and Sirdis into marvelous fashion. This evening Effie had coiled the locks of Sirdis into the crown braided updo she often fancied.

"Perhaps we'll find you a few Elfin playmates on Tol Sangwa!" Effie presumed with joyful exuberance and kissed Merry's brow. She liked children and hoped to have one of her own someday. Halgwain still hadn't proposed to her yet. She heard rumors at Lond Côl that her beau, a Swan Knight, had spoken with Lady Eressild about commissioning one of her jeweler relatives to build an engagement ring... If the gossip was true, she would be incandescently happy.

Ethir acconpanied her mistress anx the boy from their suite and down the carpeted stairway to reach the inn's chandeliered common room where Telerin pipers played their seamusic. The noblewoman and her son, Emeredir the Azrubêl heir of Lond Côl, had come to Lindon with Effie and their guards, Halgwain and his old storied uncle Sir Hebinthorn. Presently, the senior and his nephew and Effie's father were patrolling the surrounding wooded coast since Umbarians had been attacking Lindon in recent years. Emeredir's father, the Lord Edhelmir, and his herald Ribedir had been en route to a celestial observatory many leagues west of Lindon three years ago. Galudess of Tol Noldare who was a sailor of Mole Island had come with her Elvish mariners then. They brought unhappy news to Lond Côl that rainy night similiar to the one this evening; they claimed Serendipity had been rent asunder in a hurriance with all souls lost aboard. Now Sirdis had come, attempting the same voyage her beloved husband had sailed.

"Milady, you are the bravest woman I know!" Effie praised Sirdis, coming to a round table draped with a teal cloth. She pointed at a carved upholstered chair for Merry to sit on and embraced her mistress. Sirdis was like a second mother to Effie. "Legends speak of men's courage oversea but seldom do the bards sing of women sailing the high seas." Effie tousled Merry's hair and dropped low to the floor. She rolled her thumb tenderly over the bairn's cheek. "Perhaps one day you'll be as intrepid as your parents!" She grasped the arms of the chair eagerly, grey eyes glazed in wonder. "You'll be a celebrated mariner and the valiant Lord of Lond Côl, Merry the Magnificent!" She kissed the lad between his eyes and stood, winking at Sirdis.

"Araldur would have been proud of you, Emeredir." Cora, Girion's wife descended from Tatyar and Avari, had been listening as she stoked a warm fire to life in the hearth this cool drizzling night. She was a svelte elleth with olive skin and thick onyx tresses. "It's always a pleasure to host the Gondorians of Lond Côl!" said cheerful Cora, drawing closer toward the Azrubêl and Effie.

"Beause we bring your favorite garments?" giggling Effie asked, waggling her brows. Her mother was a sericulture heiress on the Azrubêl side of the estuary owned jointly with the Dimaethors. Cora who smiled as she swished the glistening hem of her skirt wore a scallopneck gown from Lond Côl made of black and white silk.

Girion Coruben emerged from the wine cellar driving a cart laden with several bottles of wine. The slim weaselly Sea Elf wore a navy blue belted tunic brocaded in silver thread. His shadowy hair was slicked back like Edan Amrun's but Girion's eyes was a vivid blue of a forget-me-not. He wheeled the cart out mumbling in a melancholic tone how he didn't expect so many people on the Cruise, that he wouldn't have the opportunity to have guzzle all the wine for himself. He caught notice of the Gondorians and hurried to them with one of his broad toothy smiles that was genuine and heartwarming. Girion had been a confident of Araldur when that heroic Swan Knight lived so he had been a frequent visitor at Lond Côl for over half a century.

"Lady Sirdis, this is an unexpected luxury! We are honored by your presence!" Girion declared kindly and kissed her hand in the chaste respectful manner of a Belfalas courtier. Cora bussed her husband's cheek then accepted his plea to build a display table for the wine. He spoke with the Gondorian women. "These vintages are cultivated in the Harlindon vineyard of Telkelion and Fíllaniël," Girion explained to Sirdis and Effie, "and will be served on the Môrcelebren Cruise which will set sail for the western isles soon. A brief visitation of Forochel is slated for the final duration of the voyage." Girion had been a friend and welcomed his favorite Mortals into his home but now he needed to play the role of a merchant. He knew Sirdis visited the observatory and places of learning in Mithlond. Girion wanted Sirdis, her son, and their companions to be safe. They had the option of attending the Cruise or tarrying in the Grey Havens until their return to Lond Côl. Which would mean they should rent suites in Celonsend until the ship sailed...

"I hope your scholarly interest keeps you anchored at port, milady, considering the awful reports concerning Tol Sangwa." Girion shook his head ruefully. "Horrid tidings, madame! Bloody if you can believe it!" Girion divulged with melodramatic apprehension then smoothly put on his innkeeper's smile. He spoke with his silver tongue oozing charm, indicating what delicious appetizers the Gondorians would fancy best. He was cognizant of the dismayed expression Effie shared with Sirdis and crestfallen Merry but kept speaking though he was readily prepared to answer their worried questions. "I suggest the Mussels of Ossë," said Girion, tapping one sheet of parchment in a leatherbound menu. "Ice-cold mussels tossed together with chopped tomatoes and green onions laced through with treads of saffron threads. It's sprinkled with Azrubêl olive oil-"

Girion would have enjoyed waxing lyrical over his impressive menu but a gust of wind shrieked like a demon of Angband, clamorously muffling his words. Torrential rain drummed the rooftop of Celonsend. Large hailstones the size of Shire golfballs smashed through windows of the Common Room, startling all who reveled inside. Some great malicious force was come. Perhaps Ossë whom both Elves and Mortals loved had turned volatile...

[Tharmáras]

- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later

Fuin Elda, Master Smith of Rivendell's Forge, entered the establishment like a wraith of Morgoth. It broke Girion's heart to see her incensed like this; he was used to her fey moods but in all the millennia he had known her, Girion had never witnessed Fuin aggrieved as she was now. Against his better judgement, overwhelmed by his anxious thoughts of her well-being, he reached out to hold her but she she roughly brushed past him. Giron gasped in fright, teetering back. He would have collapsed were it not for the Elvish grace of his Moriquendi wife. Girion, a longtime companion of Aigronding, was friends with Fuin. He called out her name but she ignored him, locking the door of her suite.

"This cannot be borne!" Cora averred, seething. Girion calmed her and apologized to the Gondorians. He hastened upstairs and ran to Fuin's chamber. He flinched, hearing the telltale discordant music of broken glass. Girion frowned, rapping his knuckles on Fuin's door. "Miss, are you alright?" crooned Girion. He expected Fuin to shout vulgar insults or impressive expletives. What Girion did not expect was a disembodied voice of some unseen devilish phantom bellowing to go away. Girion didn't sprint down the stairs. He hopped on the fleeging bannister and slid down the varnished railing, eyes bulging wide.

"I don't want to be whoever made Fuin mad," Girion confided in Cora, trembling as if he just fled a Lossoth igloo. Girion held his willowy wife when the wind whistled through jagged shards of a window, now resembling the maw of a great white shark. The howling gale stirred sheer curtains in a frenzy to reveal the threatening rise of the swift Lune River. The mounting tide surged higher by the second but no one moved to bolt out. There would have been no escape. By miraculous intervention the frothing waves subsided, seemingly halted by an almighty invisible hand.

Was it the sound of trumpeting mermen or the siren blaring of the tempest proclaiming the arrival of a fearsomely tall stranger? No one could know for sure. The fierce breeze flung open the portal of Celonsend. Out of the deluge, illumined by blazing spheres of ball lightning, a powerful Telerin Elf came sauntering over the inn's threshold. The sailor whose origins had been shrouded in mystery since the dawn of the Second Age was known as Falman in Lindon and Yssion in Gondor. These were the titles of Ossë he accepted for his own however, he had a special liking for Gaerys most of all and told no one his true name.

He sole article of clothing was a long loin-cloth and vambraces built of phosphorescent leviathan scales. He seemed scultped from marble, every hard muscle honed to beautiful immaculate proportion. The tanned Ancient Mariner had a thick beard and unruly mane of hair, luxuriant and sun-browned. A sharktooth dangled from the thong around his neck. Swirling in intricate luminous patterns along his mighty arms and brawny torso were images of sea-dragon hide and runes of Tengwar reverencing his love for wind and rain and tumultuous waters.

"It is a dark and stormy night," rumbled Gaerys in his deep resonant voice. "My kind of night but it belongs to someone else and there will be Udûn ("Hell," Sindarin) to pay," he spoke cryptically. Anyone would have guessed Gaerys was the real subaltern of Ulmo by his mere suggestive words but all who knew him were aware he enjoyed teasing the doubtful. Once Cora's staff got the shutters closed and returned inside, scurrying upstairs to repeat the emergency procedure, Gaerys closed the door and demanded a drink.

"Shall wine please you?" Girion beseeched. He flourished his hand toward the display in tandem with Cora's identical gesture.

"Never has, never will," answered Gaerys. His guttural reply sounded like the growl of thunder.

"A beer then," Girion offered.

"Same answer, Weasel."

"Rum?" Girion said, already at wit's end.

"Kraken Spice."

Gaerys wandered past swooning Elf-girls and bowed low before Sirdis. "I am honored to behold your beauty again, milady." Gaerys was permitted at Lond Côl though he suffered the adornment of shirt and breeches. There he played his pipe for the enjoyment of Eressild just as he did at Círdan's palace likewise. His wife, a lissome elleth of plentiful silvery-gold hair, was named Solmë. She would join him at the courts of the Lord and Lady singing her sweet enchanting songs of power which wrought wondrous visions in the minds of all who listened.

"If Girion hasn't warned you, Tol Sangwa is a perilous island. Since you have the bairn present, I will spare you the sanguinary details; I'll save that for a crueller fellow. Trust me, friend... You'll be safe ashore." He glanced at doleful Merry and gave him a fistful of colorful pearls to lift his spirits. "A prince needs adventure so you ought to take the lad on the Cruise Girion is hosting with Davos for the Historical Society," Gaerys told his mother. "A tour of the Wethrin Isles, the remnant of Doriath, and the icy coast of Forochel where one of your Gondorian kings met his doom. Greater than the stars of Varda are her shimmering Northern Lights. It would be a majestic substitute, Sirdis."

"Círdan will need a Gondorian for Avedui's annual wreath-laying ceremony," solemnly addressed Girion, caressing the wad of Cruise tickets inside his pants pocket.

"Where's my beverage, Weasel?" Gaerys commanded, meandering toward the bar. He smirked, hearing a familiar chuckle from the nearest corner of the taproom. "Why are you skulking in the shadows, Old One?" Gaerys called out to Davos in a ringing voice. They had been the best of frenemies since the Elder Days; most of their disputes were the fault of Gaerys' infamous temper, of course...but never once had Garys shipwrecked the scarred Nelya. "Slide your briny arse over here and take a shot with me, you salty dog!" Gaerys clapped Davos on his back but he knew the wiry Light Elf could withstand his brawn. They had been wrestling mates for centuries.

"Solmë is in one of her beserk moods she gets every couple millenniums. I'm on my own for a while before the wife simmers down." Gaerys admitted this in a resigned drawling voice, knowing Davos would give him shire about it. "I don't know when she'll let me back in. I'm destraught about it. It is a glamorous abode, you've seen it."

Gaerys was being vague since he had the same home in Belfalas and Lindon as he did...oversea. The ones in Middle-earth were no secret to the Gondorians of Dor-En-Ernil or the Elves of Cirdan's realm. Gaerys and Solme constructed each with elven magic and wreathed their silver abodes in shining white mists. The floors were of oceanwater and the lustrous tapestries shone with glinting fish scales. The roofs were clad with foam and thousands of pearls were used for exterior decoration. "She asked me for the umpteenth time what I thought of her hair. I told her it's become a weedy mess and she's in bad need of a haircut." Gaerys nudged Davos and tossed back his head, belting out rich laughter in spite of himself. "Solmë got defensive about it and pitched a hissy fit." Gaerys shrugged with cavalier indifference.

"She threw you out?" Girion snickered.

Gaerys snorted laughter. "Literally. I was both frightened and aroused." He took one of three small cut-crystal glasses of Kraken Spiced Rum Girion filled for himself, Gaerys, and Davos. "Tho' much is taken, much abides," quoted Gaerys in toast, meeting each rim with his own and downed his shot. He slammed the glass down with a sigh of exultation but it burst apart. "Sorry about that," said Gaerys though he didn't sound regretful in the slightest. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength." He arose abruptly like a shark breaking the ocean's placid surface.

"I will return!" he assured his friends. "I must terrorize someone. Er...I must speak to a woman in a friendly, jovial manner, I meant to say." He winked at Davos and crept upstairs with a menacing tread, ignoring Girion's insistent pleas not to intimidate his patrons.

"If it's Fuin, get her out!" Cora urged in a vociferous whisper, touching Gaerys midway. "We discovered Hatholdir's suite broken into and ransacked hours ago. We don't need any wars started here. We don't want messy guests, Mole hunters, or murders. Do you know what it took to hide the last body Erfaron mutilated?"

"Ease up on the Snake," counselled Gaerys, patting her. "He probably left that corpse out on purpose. As a warning.”

"Hmmpf! I want Fuin gone and Hatholdir."

"They won't be here tonight. I'll see to that." His emerald eyes glowed. Cora took a step back, stumbling really; she almost fell backward if she hadn't caught the railing. "Don't follow me," he spoke in a gruff murmur. Cora nodded hesitantly and rushed off. She issued orders to the staff to mop the wet floor and encouraged the Telerin musicians to resume their pipe music to sooth their guests.

[Tharmáras]

- A Prelude to Departure -

With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later

"Ossë piles rocks and boulders of huge mass that Melko's ancient wrath
had stewn about the seafloor, and builds these as a column..."
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One: The Coming of the Elves

"It is some work of Ossë's, who at times with his storms caused
great mists and darkness to be wafted off the Shadowy Seas."
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One:
The Theft of Melko and The Chaining of Melko

"Ossë...his silver and dark fish silent
and strange amid the deep waters.... fish luminous...
beneath the Great Sea shone..."
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One:
The Coming of the Elves

Out of sight of from the anxious guests below Ossë walked purposefully yet with a calm regal carriage, drawn by Fuin's spiritual anguish. A golden trident pulsating with a luminous sheen materialized in his mighty hands. He leaned it against the door to unbolt the lock and stood in the threshold.

His moody gaze softened when he saw the Telerin woman who sobbed, convulsing in a fetal position. He outstretched the trident, healing her self-inflicted wounds. The heart of Ossë melted. He could have taken the tormented elleth in his veiny arms and kissed her fair teary face....but he recovered his steely composure.

"This storm must end."

He sympathized with her, truly. When he basked in the gratifying pleasure of his monstrous potential, Gaerys never wanted to let go. He enjoyed reveling in his own glorious strength despite the dangers he posed to lesser creatures. She needed to feel in control but sating her own hatred...it could not be condoned, neither by Ossë or Ulmo.

He lowered the trident and exerted his godly power. Now they stood on a hilltop near Mithlond where she could behold the destruction wrought by her mad ire. Huge clumps of hail pummelled Círdan's palace. Sizzling ephemeral streaks of ball lightning soared in terrifying arcs above Forlindon's vast picturesque woods.

A sudden pique of jealous pride in his own abilities inflamed his wrathful soul. His eyes were torches of emerald fire, wreaking unrestrained havoc upon the capital shores. Ossë manipulated the vaporous storm of Fuin, heaving waves over elegant stone quays. Trees of the coastal forests groaned, snapped, and toppled. Masts of white elven ships splintered, cracking vessels apart when leaping water surged over the slender boats.

- ARE YOU NOT FAITHFUL -

Ossë, submitting to Ulmo's authority, relinquished his attack The waters of the bay turned choppy but the flooding ceased and the waves obeyed his strained command. Yet he struggled with the bridle of Fuin's tempest. Tall pines quivered and boats jostled in their moorings. "You must end the storm as I have shown you." She remained defiant. "You test my patience, Fuin!" Ossë snarled. He caused a screen of devious shadows to encircle them both. When the wreathing smokes dissipated they were no longer in Lindon but atop a pillar of stone amidst the gloom of the Shadowy Seas. The lone gigantic pillar beneath their feet was formed of rocks and boulders which Melkor's ancient fury scattered about the ocean-bottom. Ossë had assembled them into a soaring gargantuan column clinging with Uinen's hair.

"Assent or perish." Ossë outstretched the three-pronged spear glimmering with golden sparkles, vibrating in mystical splendor, level toward her. Leathery ropes of seaweed bound her.

"With one thrust I would rid this world of you," intoned despondent Ossë in a somber voice of ominous foreboding. Refulgent leviathan scales rapidly overlapped his carven body as he repositioned himself, spreading his armored feet apart in a decisive stance. Tentacled Watchers in the Water, sinuous sea-dragons, and fish - silver, black, radiant, and strange - emerged from the deep, bearing honored witness to Fuin's execution. "I have ever been a friend to your people so I will give you one last chance to end the maelstrom. Perhaps if I cannot threaten your life I can warn you of another's. You jeopardize someone you cherish. He searches tirelessly for you now. I swear this by the Throne of the Timeless Halls."

Though far away from the Grey Havens Ossë could sense the safety of the Elves and Gondorian visitors. A steady drizzle and pleasantly peaceful peals of distant thunder. She chose wisely. Ossë struck...the stony ground. Fuin's leafy chains became silver floral embroidery of a fitted green dress. She laid in the lush grass of the hill miles down river from Celondsend. "You will enter Fort Gloaming of the Dúnedain in decent raiment," said Ossë in a rare display of chivalry. He claimed he was not gentle or forgiving but he raised the barefoot elleth into his kind embrace and pressed his full lips against her ivory brow. "Ulmo is Lord of Waters. I am his vassal. A long time have I watched you, a long time have I cared for you - unseen, unheard - in the valley of Bruinen. It's with a broken heart I banish you from Lindon...until you master your anger. Promise me that never again will you trouble the realm of Círdan and I will allow you to return. If you are calm in several days, I will meet you aboard Môrcelebren."

Ossë rolled his palm over her sable hair. "Do not let the Noldo hurt you..." He gave her a roguish grin. "Get even instead. I will do my part." Ossë chuckled devilishly then clasped her shoulders with a fond tenderness. "The Elf who yearns for you....he is like a young sapling but you will recognize him if you listen to your heart. Go on. Your beloved will meet you beyond a lofty fence...on a field of flame. I have foreseen it." He turned away. "The white stars of Ilmen will be unveiled soon before the dawn. The morning will be warm and bright..." Ossë didn't know if she'd hearken to his counsel but he left her on the hill amongst the swaying trees.

*

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda
Celonsend Inn/Near Fort Gloaming
Shortly after the Lindon Masquerade (open)

She had been fighting with herself mentally in an attempt to get herself up off the floor and get dressed when the door burst open and she growled low like the wounded animal that she was. She glanced at the broken shards of glass debating on throwing one at this man before she realized who it was as her hand healed.

She blinked at the command that the storm must end. What was he talking about? She didn't even realize that her rage that had originally been directed at Hatholdir had conjured forth the storm that she was beginning to hear pattering against the windows in hard drops that worsened with every minute. That rage still twisted in her and fueled the storm she was about to run, knowing Osse had a temper and she had no wish to see him angry only to find herself transported to a slick wet hill top the rain pummeling her even here and below a storm pulled into the shore pummeling Mithlond with a fury that had not been seen in many years. And it was only then that she realized that Hatholdir would still be down there and the thought of him drowning brought a dark smile upon her face as Osse seemed to forget that he was there to halt this storm not make it ten fold worse.

The vassal of Ulmo though was quickly brought to heel by his master and he turned to her demanding she end the storm. She shook her head. "I would watch the Noldo that drew such ire from me drown in the froth of the whipped sea." She spat only to find herself enveloped in shadows. She knew not where she was and she cried out in alarm as she was bound and kept from moving, fear now taking place of her defiance, though the storm still did not abate. It's power was drawing from Fuin herself and she looked at the trident level at her, and she was ready to die. She had lived many long years alone, with the hateful words of Hatholdir ringing ever in her ears. No kind words of Aigronding, Arasoron, Roina, or any other that had come to know elleth had ever managed to penetrate that veil that Hatholdir had set upon her. It was only Hatholdir's own words that they were the same that had unleashed what was now happening. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever pain was to come, she had been stabbed and cut many times, she had been on the very cusp of the Timeless Halls before, when she heard Osse state she was threatening the life of someone she cherished. She was was about to tell Osse to hurry up and kill her then for she had no idea how to stop what was happening, never before had she drawn so much power or put forth so much effort when she started to collapse. Her body and spirit utterly spent and with it, the storm itself though she knew it not. Fuin's eyes were half shut and she panted for air watching that trident come at her only to strike the ground at her feet.

With the loss of her bonds she collapsed weakly to the ground even as the strong cords of seaweed gave way to an elegant dress. She stay still on the ground tears silently slipping from her eyes once again her fists curling around the grass beneath her only to find herself gently lifted by strong arms, and a warm kiss pressed against her brow making her shiver. "I was almost through with him when Cirdan stopped me." She said finally as Osse suggested she get even with the Noldo instead of unleashing... whatever it had been that she had let go. She sank back down too tired for the time being to make her way towards the keep She barely managed to keep her eyes open long enough to watch the Maiar of Ulmo walk away. She didn't even begin to think of what he was talking about. After all, as far as she knew no reborn elves had come back in Middle Earth ever when they had the chance to live in Aman in peace. No her father and her friends and her beloved were all well out of her reach, and she wished with her final thought before she fell asleep on the dew strewn grass amid the flowers where Osse had left her, that he had struck home with his trident instead of releasing her to suffer alone further.

[Baphởmet]

Reunion

Continued from the Lindon Masquerade

(Private with Moriel)

Joy, trepidation, confusion, elation, giddiness. Emotions beyond count or name filled him. After more than three thousand years alone, Númenyraumion had been reunited with his sister. He’d found his sister again! The thought kept ringing in his head over and over again, growing more and more lively and real. He’d found his sister! He wanted to leap and jump. He wanted to run through the ballroom and shout it to everyone there. He wanted to tell Finnbarr, Gellam, even the Lady Tavari. Few times in his life had the nimir felt so much joy. Indeed, the last time had been at the masque where he’d met Anárion. The circumstances were different, but the pure elation was the same. His eyes, mismatched blue and brown, were light with a wild, carefree light. He hugged his sister. No, he hugged his sister! How was this possible? How and why had such a gift been bestowed upon him? He hugged her as tightly as he could. The last time they’d embraced she’d been about to board a vessel and travel south. She’d been just a wisp of a girl then, more apt to practical jokes and sea shanties than serious philosophical conversations or physical exertion (though now that he saw her again, all the memories of playing hide and seek, of playing with wooden swords, and swimming in the bay came back to him with full clarity). She had been much shorter than him then, but now he had to look up, nearly a foot above him now. A giddy, effervescent laugh bubbled out of him. He hugged her tighter, squeezing once more before letting go. She was real. This night was real. His head swam. They had so much to catch up on, so many things to say, so many things to show each other. He had been on his own for so long, he was unsure of how he’d be able to entertain her, but he pushed that aside. This was Izzy! Even before he had dedicated his life to wandering and collecting stories, he’d managed to make up a hundred different stories to entertain her. Whether it was a scary story by the light of a campfire in the deep thickets, or a starry romance under the vault of heaven, whether it was a story of adventure, of knights and valkyries fighting off hordes of orcs, or silly stories about sly, crafty animals stealing food from unsuspecting farmers. There was little doubt in his mind that he couldn’t find a story for her. He had collected so, so many now.

“I don’t actually live here,” he confessed. He sat on the lip of the fountain and tapped the spot next to him. “I… after I went to Umbar and had that encounter, for lack of a better word, with your uncle, I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t just come back here and pick up my life as though nothing had happened. Umbar changed me. It changed both of us, it seems. I wandered for years, aimlessly drifting with the fortune of the winds. For the first year, Finnbarr travelled with me, making sure I was safe and steady, but he doesn’t belong on the land. I found a plant that would make him sleep and slipped away. I travelled around for years and years without a purpose. Then, by happenstance, I found a little cottage in a hidden valley. The family welcomed me in, a husband, wife, three daughters and a son. They were celebrating the birthday of the mother and told me it was good luck to have a visitor on special occasions. I stayed with them that night and they told me half a hundred stories, passed down from generation to generation. When they asked me to share some of mine, I froze. I never thought anyone would be interested in a story of mine. But, but they were. It felt strangely comforting to exchange tales like that. It felt right. I left the next day, but I decided then that I would collect as many stories from as many people as I could. I came back to that little family year after year, generation after generation. Each time I visited, they had new stories to tell me, and I had new stories to tell them. It wasn’t the same as sharing stories with you and ammê when attô was out sailing, but it was close.

“Over time, I think I began to heal. It could never be a full healing, I don’t think elves can fully heal from emotional trauma, not in any measurable way at least. Each story I heard and recorded healed me a little, pulled me back from the ever-widening abyss, but it was never out of sight. I went to Gondor, saw what Anárion’s descendants were able to make of what he built. I think he’d be proud. I went to the Iron Hills, was plied with so much whisky and roasted boar it’s a wonder I was able to move at all. I’ve spoken with ents, learned of one’s journey from Beleriand to Fangorn in such detail as only an ent could manage. I even went to the east. I saw the shores of the Sea of Rhûn and heard tales from men most of our race would have deemed uneducated and simple. I heard stories that did not reflect the so-called barbaric nature a few men had earned for the whole of the race. I went south, so far south I think I found the end of Middle-Earth itself before it gave way to warm, wild seas. I was alone though. I needed to be. If I travelled with someone, I was afraid I’d forget you and mother and father completely, that I’d be able to move on from my grief and that by moving on I would be betraying you.

“But tell me, Moriel,” he was going to have a hard time adjusting to that name. There was something about it that he found oily and uncomfortable, but it was her name and he of all people knew that names must be respected, names were a person’s history, and by denying a name he would be denying her history, a grave crime. “Tell me what happened to you. How did you escape Umbar? Where did you go? Where did you get that name? What other names have you gone by?” He blushed, realizing he'd unloaded a mass of very complicated questions on his sister in his overexuberance. “Tell me that you at least were able to find a measure of happiness. You deserved that, you still do.”

[Tharmáras]

- A Prelude to Departure -

With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later

"Falman-Ossë of the waves of the sea and Ónen his consort, and with them
of the troops of the Oarni and Falmaríni and the long-tressed
Wingildi and these are the spirits of the foam and the surf of ocean."
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One: The Coming of the Valar

"At the coming of the Noldor many of the Grey-elves
lived in Nevrast near to the coasts, and especialy about Mount Taras
in the south-west; for to that place Ulmo and Ossë had been wont to come in days of old."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and Its Realms

"Yes, it is Elves," said Frodo. "One can meet them sometimes in the Woody End.
They don't live in the Shire, but they wander it in Spring and Autumn,
out of their own lands away beyond the Tower Hills."
- The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - Three is Company

"It will be a pleasurable excursion you said!" Halgwain mimicked Hebinthorn's jolly temperament. He raised his voice above the clamor of hailstones. The round clumps of ice pelted his swan shield, meanwhile pummelling the helms of his uncle and Accar in relentless barrage. The Knights of Lond Côl patrolled the coastal woods this side of Lune Bay for an hour. They had ben searching for signs of Umbarians. When they determined there was no sign of eminent danger, they were were caught in the deluge a short distance from Girion's inn.

The weather turned unexpectedly fouler. Accar, his sweetheart Effie's cynical father, claimed they were going to die for the dozenth time. Halgwain agreed with sardonic humor that would probably happen. Though it appeared he meant this in jest, Halgwain privately considered again their demise was certain. Misfortune plagued the Azrubêl domain of Lond Côl ever since Araldur's fiery murder years ago. It might as well be renamed Lond Gurth, Death's Harbor, Halgwain mused in mordant brooding.

"This gale will blow us to Framsburg!" cried Accar in gross exageration. He yelled over blaring thunder and struggled to calm his chestnut steed. "You'll be the first to fly, old man!" he declared, laughing in spite of himself. Hebinthorn had stubbornly chuckled, riding his white charger in cavalier defiance of the storm. Proven right for once, to Arrac's great astonishment, a fell gust of wind ripped Hebinthorn off his silver gilt saddle and flung him into the lightning-ridden air.

"If only Araldur could have seen that ridiculous spectacle!" said the wheezing senior knight. Halgwain and Accar found him in a thicket of bracken. The aged fighter laid near the splintered remains of a broadleaf tree cloven in the wrath of Ossë. The hardwood trunk was toppled over seven Dwarves, warriors by the look of their bright mailcoats. "Go ahead, son. Say it." Commanded Hebinthorn with a resigned expression.

"What are you playing at, Uncle?" Halgwain seemed oblivious of the intended joke. Accar joined him to raise Hebinthorn gingerly.

"Miranda Peppermint," rasped Hebinthorn, still trying to catch his breath. "Snow White and Several Dwarves, out with it!"

"Merry is getting too old for your reading of Faerie Tales and you are too old to enjoy or reference them I might add," Accar dryly replied. With surprising swiftness, the rain fell lighter and the shrill winds no longer buffetted them.

"We must speak with the Lindon Guards and the Three Beard Army. The bodies should be identified on the morrow."

"How noble of you Uncle," remarked Halgwain, unable to repress a fond grin. Hebinthorn was well famed in Imrahil's land for his gallantry. "Let's worry about ourselves first or we fall beside them."

"Are we even headed in the right direction?" Arrac turned about in frantic desperation, hoping for a random glimpse of Mithlond's splendid grey spires. He was blinded in a wash of silver brilliance. When his blue eyes adjusted to the luminous glow, Accar beheld a lithe Elven maiden of wondrous beauty. Haloed in lanternlight the ethereal maiden shone like a star. Her long wet tresses, red as precious coral, fell marvellously in thick rippling waves beyond her hips. She wore an aquamarine cloak and carried a blued steel lamp. It was unhooded, casting forth a white flare of dazzling light from a flaming crystal in a netted chain of mithril.

"A few miles up river!" merrily answered the green-eyed elleth. The cheerful woman introduced herself as Ariel, a mariner of Gaerys the Great. He was a famed Telerin voyager known amongst the sailors and knights of Dor-En-Ernil. Many companions, mostly Elven women of surpassing loveliness, journeyed with him and his wife Solmë oversea. She led the knights of Azrubêl to Girion's inn.

Effie knocked over her chair, having bolted up so quickly when she saw the trio return to the common room. "Perhaps there's some Azrubêl luck in Lindon, darling!" Halgwain boasted, putting his arms out to receive her. Although he was wearing armor and a sodden cloak, Effie flung her arms around Halgwain's neck and joyously cried out. She kissed him soundly. "I'm alive and well, lass. Can't say the same about the few Dwarves we found."

"We discovered no sign of the Umbarian scourge, Milady," Hebinthorn reported to Sirdis, short thinning white hair spilling over his brow as he removed his winged helm. "Sadly, we encountered a group of Dwarven soldiers crushed by a tree. He thought it apt to inform her of such things in her son's presence. Merry would one day become Lord of Lond Côl. It would not behoove him to be a stranger to ill news. Merry was somewhat accustomed calamitous messages, considering the fateful ends disclosed to him already.

"Dead Dwarves, how delightful!" Girion happily shouted, clapping behind the bar. The brightness of his smile did not reach his cold blue eyes. Girion had been a loyal subject of King Thingol in the First Age of the Sun. Though the ruler of the Beleriand Teleri was murdered by Dwarves eons ago, the Elf's enmity toward the Naugrim aged like fine wine as centuries unfolded.

"I will ask Elves and Dwarves to assist with me determining their names and origin come daybreak," Hebinthorn continued in blithe ignorance of Girion's racisim, being the righteous Swan Knight that he was. The guards ordered baths drawn for them in the suite Sirdis purchased for them and retired to their chamber.

"We have put new towels in your room, Ariel," Cora told the quiet mariner, startling her. The elleth had been watching Elves fastening the shutters outside andsweeping broken glass with rapt attention.

"I should dry my hair!" Ariel supposed as if this was a novel idea. She seemed genuinely thrilled about the mundane prospect. She hurried upstairs but paused midstride, asking Cora if more tickets had been sold for the Cruise. When told that the passage was nearly sold out, Ariel grasped Cora. She squeed with such alarming ebullience, the innkeeper's wife gasped in abject trepidation. Ariel profusely apologized when the realization dawned on her. "I want to be where the people are!" Ariel renewed course to her room, setting loose another flurry of ecstatic squeals. Cora assumed young Ariel hadn't sailed with Gaerys until recently.

Her captain entered requesting a new drink. "Girion, your mixed drinks are weak!" Gaery addressed the publican boldly and belted out rich laughter. "Davos, get behind the bar and make me something fruity!" He chuckled when Girion glanced at the stairway. "I ushered Fuin out of a back door," he said, clasping his forearm. "I didn't want any guest gawking at her. The storm has ceased. She should be safe to find shelter with the Rangers of Fort Gloaming in Emyn Uial if she desires. Fuin shouldn't venture too far, I recommended, since she paid for the Cruise."

"She must checkout by the afternoon or there is a penalty fee," said Girion.

"Coruben, you are weasel of the first order, always scheming for another coin or jewel for your coffers!" Gaerys barked out a laugh. "There are large rubies and garnets in her room which she discarded for reasons I'm not inclined to share. Fuin wanted to leave quickly so I will send her belongings on a boat at first light."

"Let Shadowing, Fuin's horse, roam free!" Aigronding Mordagnir advised Gaerys, stepping off the porch with his wife Roina. "She trained it to be mean." Gaerys met the High Elves gladly, having known them since his visitations to Nevrast in the Elder Days. By the look of their raiment, Gaerys could tell they recently attended the Spring Masquerade of Lord Círdan. Accompanying the unmasked couple was a blonde Elf with grey eyes they introduced as their friend Afarfin.

"We must have a hearty meal and a soothing rest this evening," explained Roina. The Calaquendi woman handed her cloak to a servant as did her husband to be dried before their morning ride.

"Môrcelebren sets sail in a few days," Gaerys stated. "Will you both attend?"

"Our son and daughter will since it's their aunt's birthday," said Aigronding. "I want them to be with Tavari since we have duties to fulfil at home."

"It will be a fortnight until we're at Linyamaril," said Roina, hooking arms with her husband, "but first we are visiting the palantír of Elostirion. We have an annual coming to the Tower Hills we never fail to miss. The crystal permits us a glimpse beyond the Straight Road. We can see Tol Eressëa and Aman...even Varda herself. We come there twice a year. If we're lucky, there are some friends amongst the Wandering Companies which frequent the region every Spring and Autumn."

"Speaking of friends, have you seen Fuin Elda?" asked Aigronding. "Afarfin needs to see her. It's important to him."

"She was here tonight briefly, not even an hour," Girion responded carefully, under contact. "I am bound by a confidentiality agreement and I must honor her private wishes..." he mentioned airily but changed his tune when Aigronding gave him a flawless Elfstone of beryl. "Of course for a very small fee such as this I am reminded of a tiny loophole in the fine print. It regards what happens in the event of property damage..." He asked Gaerys for confirmation.

"There was a broken mirror in her room," said the laughing sea captain, shaking his head ruefully. "Keep the large rubies and garnets she left scattered on the floor for whatever you need. She won't care."

"Since she broke the rental lease of her suite, I can discuss what I know. Gaerys spoke with Fuin since she angrily returned here. I know not why."

"Hatholdir upset her at the Masquerade," revealed Gaerys moodily. He cared for his Telerin people with a fervid intensity.

"I witnessed the moment myself," Roina acknowledged with a contemptible expression. "Well...I assume it's memories of him which disturbed her. He didn't actually do anything to hurt her that I saw but there's no doubt in my mind he aggravated her at some point, whether it was tonight or sometime ago."

"Cora thinks Fuin wrecked his chamber before the Masquerade," gossiped Girion. "Hatholdir must depart as well before he instigates feuds with others."

"The Mole King should be here any moment..." worried Aigronding.

"And find himself escorted to the porch a second hence! Fuin could be found in Emyn Uial if she decides to go there until the Cruise or if the Rangers discover her first." Girion turned to Afarfin with a rare stern countenance. "Be careful tracking her. Caution I strongly advise. I don't know if you are a friend of hers but I have known Fuin well since the last days of the First Age. She doesn't like to be coddled nor does she fancy being pursued."

A short while later the Swan Knights rejoined Sirdis, Merry, and Effie. They were feeling refreshed and dressed in silk belted tunics of black, white, and navy-blue. Girion and Gaerys offered them dishes which would be served on the Cruise.

Halgwain chose Belegaer Stones, crisp shrimp cakes with lemony whipped cream and sprinkled with shredded wheat. Hebinthorn decided he'd try Charms of Emlissel, grilled seasoned shrimp with a dipping sauce made of chocolate, hazelnuts, and roasted red peppers; it was named after the Marquess of Lindon. Accar went with Caesar's Treats, salted cod fritters dedicated to a sheepdog beloved by Elves of the realm. They selected their wines for the evening and relaxed with Sirdis.

A Belfalas sea shanty was played for the Gondorians of Dor-En-Ernil. The strumming of lyre and lute weaved a melancholy spell. Their melodies interwined in bittersweet harmony. The music summoned listeners into a tragic tale with crystalline notes of tubular bells and delicate rhythmical strikes of a triangle.

"Lowlands Away," uttered Accar. It was a Gondorian song of a mariner who dreamt of his late wife. There was a female equivalent concerning a sailor's wife who dreams of her drowned husband. She cuts away her bonny hair for she wouldn't have another man to think her fair. Effie usually sang those verses in a round with men at parties at Lond Côl until the passing of Edhelmir in respect of her mistress. Hebinthorn, a widower, solemnly sang the sorrowful words with tears rolling over his strong cleanshaven face. Halgwain and Accar chimed in, providing the somber eponymous refrain.

I dreamed a dream the other night
Lowlands, lowlands away
My love she came, dressed all in white
Lowlands away

I dreamed my love came in my sleep
Lowlands, lowlands away
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes did weep
Lowlands away

She came to me at my bedside
Lowlands, lowlands away
All dressed in white, like some fair bride
Lowlands away

And bravely in her bosom fair
Lowlands, lowlands away
A rose of Lossarnach, my love did wear
Lowlands away

She made no sound, no word she said
Lowlands, lowlands away
And then I knew my love was dead
Lowlands away

Then I awoke to hear the cry
Lowlands, lowlands away
Oh watch on deck
Oh watch, ahoy
Lowlands away

(Adapted from the sea shanty Lowlands Away)

[Raisins]

Before the Departure - Post Masquerade
Open

Afarfin
With Aigronding et al.


Afarfin was pleased when the carriage arrived quickly and the three of them piled inside and raced towards the Inn that Aigronding had mentioned before. Outside the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the light smattering of rain and come to be a full gale akin though still lesser than the workings of Uinen she discovered what had been done to the Teleri. Aigronding and Roina of course were confused at his insistance that something was wrong with Melviriel and that he knew it.

"Surely you can't know something is wrong with her, you two were never..." Aigronding stopped before he said wed as Roina gave him a firm elbowing in the ribs for being rude.

"No but I've seen her I've never seen her so angry, the last I saw someone that angry was perhaps Feanor in Aman after the slaying of his father, how could you have missed it you were right there."

This brought a look of confusion to both Aigronding and Roina, they'd not seen or heard Fuin at all.

"Are you sure you saw Fuin? I don't remember any elleth at that ball in trousers." Aigronding said his brow furrowed further.

"Fuin?"

"Yes Afarfin, that is her name, at least what she goes by now, there are very few elves in the world that know her by Melviriel, she had not gone by that name since... well your death dear friend." Roina tried to sooth the confused reborn Noldo of old but this only caused his eyes to go wide.

"Fuin? Why would anyone give her that name? They not seen her in the Unseen she was a bright shining soul."

Roina and Aigronding looked at each other as the rain pummelled the carriage that they were in with a bit of a worried glance to each other.

"She gave it to herself mellon." Aigronding said with a firm tone looking at Afarfin once more. "She... she is not as she once was something inside of her broke when she found you slain on the battlefield... She nearly had my life if it were not for my brother. And I feel if he did not love her as he had once before you found that she was your soul mate she'd have joined you swiftly in the Halls, I do not think I could have stopped her on my own without his help." Aigronding said working hard to keep his tone level and watched his brothers best friend try to process this information. Afarfin for his part grew quiet and his face dark, he did not like the thought of his beloved seeing him slain as he had been on the battlefield, but she had started to become a fighter by that point and she would not have left her kin defenseless she would have fought even with their plans. He swallowed. Their wedding had been meant to be that night before all their friends under the lighting of the first evening stars.

"She was there Aigronding I saw her, I know her eyes and the curve of her lips, the tipping of her head she was there plain as it is storming outside now." Afarfin said finally his voice cracking. "I know she was in pain though from what I do not know, something... Something had to have brought such wrath from her, the woman in the black dress covered in gems like a living bed of coals." As if to accentuate his declaration a might wind stirred and hit the carriage sending it tittering along the road making the horse cry out in fright as the hail drove down hard upon it and it's driver that tucked his head low rushing to get the carriage to the safety of the Inn and it's stable.

This brought a gasp from Roina who had been standing right near as well as Aigronding, they had been mere feet from her and yet had not known, she'd spoken not a word, had she they'd have caught her voice clear as day, but Fuin in a dress? And such an elegant and lavish one was beyond their dreams, not a scar was showing, and she smelled like rich warm perfume, that was from their family and there was no doubt that that child would have not been able to keep her mouth shut that someone as esteemed and set in their ways as Fuin would buy perfume from them.

"Mellon, Fuin doesn't wear dresses, and she most certainly does not wear perfume or makeup." Aigronding had thought she'd looked familiar but had brushed the elleth aside as a stranger becuase of those exact reasons. One of them perhaps she would do at a time, but all three was quite unheard of for Fuin. "And I do not think that dress could be gotten into or out of without help. Nobody I know could keep that sort of secret reguarding Fuin that would be the talk of all the elven lands to see her in a dress."

"It was her or I'd cut my own heart out Aigronding." Afarfin said firmly as the carriage turned sharply coming up to the hotel the storm still building as lightning forked the sky overhead, the storm was still raging as they rushed into the Inn and the carriage was off to find shelter and safety as ancient tall trees waved their limbs groaning from the strain of keeping upright and as they entered the inn the winds shifted almost as quickly as they had picked up, and the rains lessened thought the storm was still there it was easing the worst of it had passed from what they could tell as they went into the inn.


Afarfin for his part searched the crowd that was in the common area and Aigronding and Roina went to speak with several others and finally after longer than the Noldo would have liked asked Girion himself if Fuin was there. Afarfin hated that name, but if it was her own choosing what could he do to correct those that used it. He frowned even further and debated on doing property damage to Girion himself for withholding information of Melviriel but Aigronding was faster and set a gem before the greedy elf and Afarfins eyes narrowed he honestly wished he'd had a hammer with his costume to blugeon the man as he casually described in as few details as possible what happened with her shortly before they left, she could not have been there more than a few minutes, they had not been that far behind, but Gaerys spoke as if she had managed to travel a great distance from what he remembered of the maps he'd seen of Lindon in a very short time for that Fort was a good hard two days ride North and east of where they were. He glared at Girion with disdain of how he gossiped about Melviriel like she was some commoner to be looked down upon, "You're a worm Girion I like you ill, keep your tongue behind your lips where it can do less harm or I should think to cut it out." He growled before looking at Gaerys who had been in Melviriels room, and from what he understood while she had been undressed for why else would the gems from her dress be strewn about the room.

Afarfin turned to Gaerys and went to him his eyes blazing with rage thinking perhaps he'd done ill to his beloved.

"You would do well to speak more clearly about what happened to her, sai-" He grabbed a hold of Gaerys spinning the larger elf to face him and lock eyes, all of his rage diminished to naught as he looked at Gaerys whose eyes blazed with a green light at the invasion of his space. "Lord Osse?" He whispered, though he knew not who heard him; realizing who he was about to possibly come to blows with and suddenly Melviriels sudden and distant departure made far more sense and his hands slipped from the Maiar and he blinked standing dumbfounded for an instant.

"Please I... I need to know that she is safe that whatever storm in her mind has abated?" He asked his voice cracking knowing full well the temper of Osse could be lethal. "Was she hurt?"


Fuin Elda and the Dunedain Arnubên
near Fort Gloaming


The ranger came out from under the cover of the woods he'd sheltered under from the rain and hail. What maddness of Osse had whipped up that storm he wondered so far inland? He began to head back to the fort, there would be no finding tracks of the dark dwarves that he had been following trying to find their base. The rains would have washed all proof of such things away. He drew his cloak around him to keep the still falling rain from soaking him to the core. He was climbing one of the last green crowned hills before ascending up the path to Gloaming Fort when he found on the ground curled in the slumber of sleep a maiden. He blinked thinking perhaps he'd been struck by a tree limb and this was some dream that he was having but when his eyes opened once more she remained as did the rain that gently fell upon her, soaking her hair and dress until it was laden with water, her hair fanned out on the ground like some dark halo about her head and her hand wrapped in a black cloth as if it were wounded, her dress blending her into the soft deep moss and were it not for her pale skin and the silver work upon her gown he may have missed her in the darkness beneath the limbs of the swaying trees above them

He knelt carefully. "My Lady..." He spoke softly and pressed his hand to her face her cheek was cool to the touch but there was warmth there, and she let out a small whimper as if she was pained at the prospect of waking. He gently but quickly looked her over he could find no wounds upon her nor any blood save some from her wrapped hand where they rain seemed to be making the crude bandage weep what blood it had been in the bandage. "This is strange that you would be out here, unmarred by the hail that even I hid from." He whispered checking her head to see if she had any wounds from the hail that perhaps had injured her and caused her to be left in so open a place. Were it not for the dunedain constantly patrolling the area and keeping it free of wolves he would have been worried she'd have been killed laying unconscious in the open they were too close to the Fort though for the dark dwarves or men of the far east to be near. He took her wrapped hand and untied it, figuring that he should see what wound she did have perhaps it was infected or poisoned yet when the final wrap of black silk fell away her hand was unmarred despite the wrapping having gotten progressively more blood upon it the closer to her hand he had gotten. "This is strange work," He said softly staying beside her looking about as raindrop settled on her skin before running of into her long dark tresses. "I cannot leave you here in good conscious." He said finally and scooped her up wondering if the jostling would waken her but she remained asleep her head lulling against his shoulder as he held her tightly. "Perhaps next time fair lady, you'd find some lighter fabric than this heavy velvet when you decide to nap in the rain." He said as he resumed his march towards the Fort.

When he arrived she was still sound asleep and his brothers in arms came to see what he was carrying for often a Ranger might bring home a hart or hind to feed the Fort if one was found but he was carrying it wrong, and inside the other Rangers were shocked to see that it was an elfmaiden that he was carrying.

"What strange tidings are these after that storm? Asked one of the younger rangers as Arnubên carried the woman to the fire and laid her down on one of the soft furs near it so that she might dry off.

"I do not know, but we owe much to the elves of Eriador and I would not leave this one out in the rain close as she was to the fort, it is no place in the wilds for a helpless maiden to be so alone. When she wakes we will see if we can summon some soldiers to escort her to Mithlond, for I do not see her being from elsewhere for she had no other items with her. Perhaps her horse threw her and ran but I saw no tracks of any beast though they could have been washed away long ago with that hard rain." He said pulling off his own soaked cloak. "Fetch some towels for both of us, my mission in seeking the dwarven base was ruined I wish to find out what misfortune caused this maiden to be so far from safety alone. when she wakes."

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda and the Dunedain Arnubên
near Fort Gloaming

He lay the sleeping elf maiden by the fire on a soft bear skin that was nicer than the stone floor of the fort while she slept and dried off before he used the towels that were brought to dry himself off. He hung his cloak and headed to change out of his own wet clothing.

He came back to a few of the younger rangers sitting watching the woman.

"Arnubên I've never seen someone sleep so soundly are you sure she's not been injured?" One asked finally looking at him it had taken Arnubên a while to come back.

"You've been trying to wake her up?" He asked glowering at the younger Dunedain

"No sir, just, normally someone brought in and put by a fire with other people around them sort of wakes them up"

"That is true if you want you can run and get a proper healer, I didn't find any injuries but I am only good at field medicine in combat she may have something else wrong with her." He said calmly and bent down to check on her, the warm fire was slowly drying the heavy velvet dress out, he rolled her onto her side the fur beneath her soaked from the sodden dress which brought no response at all and he glanced at the younger Dunedain and motioned for him to go and get the healer. He didn't want to be the person that didn't get a maiden proper care if she was injured, there were too few elves left in the world.

***

When the Healer came he got Arnubên to carry her to a bunk and checked her, changing her into a clean shift her dress hung nearby to dry. The healer was a bit shocked at the number of scars but aside from the old long healed ones there were no wounds on her and her eyes were reacting to the candle lights as they should. He was at a loss and the only thing he could suggest was that she simply needed to sleep, the last he'd heard of anything like this was Nienor and Glaurung, but unless Arnubên and the rest of them were losing their minds there were no ancient dragons in Eriador. For now all they could do was let the mystery maiden rest.

[Taethowen]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Androthelm

With the business that had brought her to Lindon in the first place mostly complete, Taethowen found herself wandering the not-so-quiet streets of Mithlond close to midday. Her new, mysterious elven friend (well, hopefully a friend, though she'd not had conversation quite as moving or stimulating as they'd shared at the masquerade in quite some time) had not specified a time for her to call. Simply invited her to do so.

The last two days had been spent finalizing a shipment of textiles and dyes to be sent to her cousin in Edoras, and between the busy-ness of that, and her... overuse of her arm at the ball itself, the healed-but-not-yet-old stab wound had protested, and so today her right arm was bound up in a sling. It was annoying, but she could deal with it. It wasn't the first time it had happened on her renewed travels so far, and she doubted it would be the last.

But still, her heart was lighter than it had been in quite some time, and she lifted her face to the sun and took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the ocean on the wind. She loved the smell of the hayfields in Rohan too, but this was equally as pleasant in a different way.

With her left hand, she carried a leather-bound sketchbook, as the mysterious elf had said he'd wanted to see more of her work. She had puzzled over that for a time, but finally settled on an idea. A soft smile played over her lips for a moment, and then her steps slowed as she began to look around.

"A smaller pier at the northern end of the city, he said," Taethowen murmured thoughtfully. "With a crying gull carved over the doorway, facing westward."

She wandered up and down a couple more streets, until she was within sight of the pier itself, then turned to face the remaining buildings. There. She spotted it a little further down, facing the sea, and eager steps carried her up to the home's stoop.

A little thrill of nervousness fluttered through her as she stepped up to the door. Carefully, she shifted her sketchbook so that it was held in place between her torso and her sling-up right arm, then took a deep breath. With her left hand, she reached up and knocked on the door.

[Androthelm]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Taethowen

Viewed from the street, Angcair’s home appeared not unlike the other dockside houses. The low steps -- which descended, rather than climbing, from the pier down to his door -- rested on solid beams, sunk like so many down into the deeps beside the great harbor of Lindon. Making up the great harbor of Lindon, that was -- for Angcair’s workshop, like so many of the buildings out here on the piers, had dockings and water access of its own.
On closer inspection -- and once you’d set foot on the stairs down to the House of the Crying Gull, especially -- the illusion of firm foundations would give way. Indeed, visitors -- what few Angcair ever received -- were often put to the test to say just what it was that disconcerted them about the short walk down those stairs. The world seemed suddenly unsettled beneath their feet -- Lasmeleth had always described a similarity between Angair’s abode and the branches of high trees, a guess which came close to the mark.

The House of the Crying Gull rested, as it happened, on no foundations at all. It was itself Angcair’s greatest masterwork, a secret vessel to rival those of Cirdan’s own hand. Years of cautious work had gone into its envisioning and construction -- that this shipwright could be, eternally at sea. Long chains beneath the water anchored it in place, connected it to the pier -- but the floating workshop itself moved gently with the coming and going of the tide.

Within, there were chambers on chambers. Each was, in its turn, carved and lacquered by Angair’s own hand, furnished with the riches he’d gathered -- been gifted, mostly, by friends over a lifetime of travels. Here was the room of the Lossoth, where furs of snow-beasts and winter-bears hung from bone-carved hooks. Here the richly furnished chamber of Umbar, chairs upholstered in the leather of creatures unknown.

Angair found them gaudy. He looked back on his younger years with a distaste born of long nostalgia, and occupied few, if any of the rooms. The entry hall was long and plain, and he walked from one end to the other -- from the door to his workshop, at the heart of the vessel. It was there he slept, and there he spent the most of his waking hours as well. Now he hurried the other way -- smoothing back his hair and retying the loose strands of the leather apron he wore when working. Sweat beaded on his forehead -- only in part thanks to the exertion of his craft. He had been lost in anxious murmurings since the night of the Masquerade -- awaiting, at any moment, the knock at the door. He’d half thought it would never come. And yet...

The moment had arrived. A guest, long awaited. Steeling himself, Angcair slid back the bar and allowed the shifting of his palace to open the door wide. There she was, waiting on the stoop.

“Hello,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I am glad to see you again.”

[Sur Vanar Utírieste]

~ Prelude to the Autumn Banquet in the Tham-en-Gaearon ~





Egleras Denethor, Master of the Hunt, and Caesar the Sheepdog
in the heart of the Forlindon woods

~ All Are Welcome/Open RP ~

Egleras Denethor sat straight and square on the buttoned saddle of his horse, as outstretched cedar leaves prodded and brushed against his tall, dark leather boots on either side of him. The last of the autumn leaves fell, twirling like spinning tops and seesawing in midair as they descended to the soft moss-covered ground of the Forlindon woods.

The space between the treetops had grown more vast as of late, for the fall season approached its imminent end in the coastland realm. Winter was coming, but before the first snowfall, the hunters and courtiers of the Hall of the Great Sea would return to Mithlond with one last bounty of animal flesh and celebrate the most recent harvest of the year with an opulent banquet in the white palace of Lord Círdan the Shipwright. Egleras smiled to himself, as curtains of dark yellow, burning orange, and deep red foliage blended together all around the Masters of the Hunt and their fellow hunters.

“I will miss autumn when it is gone,” he muttered thoughtfully, thinking aloud.

Egleras wore a suit of reinforced leather armor, darkened and sculpted precisely to his athletic physique. Shapes of Ered Luin elk with raised forward limbs and tall, branching antlers were engraved on his pauldrons. Red foxes curling into themselves with curving voluminous tails were etched on either side of his breastplate. Egleras also donned a pair of sturdy leather gloves, studded with steel buttons. His recurve bow and a quiver of long feathered arrows were slung on his back, and a coiled leather weapon was tied to his right hip.

Bounding to his side in sheer jubilance, Caesar the Sheepdog barked like a puppy at play. He ran this way and that, rustling the nearby shrubs and unbraiding the threaded foliage the season had blanketed the woods in. “A bit absent-minded for this particular activity of ours wouldn’t you say?” remarked a fellow huntress, raising a pointed brow at the fun-loving pooch. Egleras chuckled softly. “I happen to disagree,” he responded politely with a widening grin, “I have found my sister’s pet to be quite determined when willing. Others may doubt, but heed my words companions, I shall make a hunting hound out of the whimsical Caesar yet.”

Then, as if the canine himself understood what had been said. Caesar let out a signaling bark, darting in a northwest direction. His abrupt cries became more frequent, with pressing urgency weighing heavily in each utterance. “Hunters of Lindon, to me!” shouted Egleras, quickly placing a padded leather helmet on his head crested with a dark horsetail. He spurred his steed to a full run, following after the sheepdog. Golden horns echoed a sweet and valiant melody throughout the pine and cedar trees, a resonant chorus that was quickly followed by the barking of many hunting hounds.

Egleras on his horse leaped over a fallen evergreen trunk with pristine Elven grace, baring his bow and notching an arrow swiftly as the hooves of his steed met the ground once again. He looked to Caesar, who came trotting contently back to the Green-elf and appeared to be no longer in the same haste he had been just a moment before. Tail wagging, the sheepdog approached the mounted Master Hunter and dropped a tree branch he had collected from the woods. Caesar barked once in merriment, spinning in place and inviting the Laiquendi ellon to a game of fetch.

When the others and their dogs had reached them and crowded around Egleras in confusion, the Green-elf let out a hearty laugh. “Well,” he chortled, looking back at their disappointed expressions, “it looks like an antler, wouldn’t you say?”

[Taethowen]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Androthelm

Taethowen had noticed the odd sway when she stepped up to the house, her brow furrowing. She'd not been on many ships, but she'd been on far more ships than she had treetops, and the sensation reminded her of that.

She didn't ponder it long, though, and instead found herself nervously gnawing at her lower lip as she waited to see if the door would open to her.

Her heart began pounding in her chest when she heard the latch jostle on the inside. It hadn't surprised her to not hear footsteps--her still nameless friend was an elf, after all.

The door swung open with not even a creak, and just inside stood... well, her nameless friend. There was a moment of silent hesitation, but when he said hello a soft smile beamed across her face.

"Hello," she replied. "May I come in?"

[Androthelm]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Taethowen

She was nervous. Naturally. Had he done something to put her ill at ease? Angcair didn’t think so, only --
“Of course.” his instincts finally took over as his mind lagged behind. “Please, follow me...

Angcair couldn’t help but worry he was holding himself a little stiffly -- not just in action, but in physical posture as well -- as he strode down the hall which connected the entryway to what served as his lounge and workshop. Perhaps we would be better suited to speak in the Umbar room... he wondered. Or the Antiquities..., but, no. If Angcair was ill at ease he was sure to make his guest all the more so. The sea itself reminded him to loosen up -- by rocking the mansion, just subtly enough that Angcair was forced to relax his stance or stagger. He shifted -- moving in time with the motion beneath as the pair stepped into the workshop, where a half-carved figurehead hung on twisted ropes from the ceiling. The rear of the house, too, was open to the sea, without a railing or doorway to separate the chamber from the water. The furniture was plain and elegant, well-carved wooden stools and simple easels, loaded down with fanciful sketches of ships yet-to-be. And bookshelves, lining one wall -- the workshop was a scholar’s home, as well as a craftsman’s, and Angcair had long memory.

“So, he said, turning to face his guest as she entered the room. "How have you been?"

[Taethowen]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Androthelm

Taethowen stepped inside the house, a little surprised at the plainness of the hall she found herself in. She followed quietly behind her host, as bidden, at times having to use her left hand against a wall to stabilize her footing. She hadn't expected a dockside house to... sway.

She was not good at small talk, so she made no comments as they walked. They passed by several doorways, some open and some closed, and she caught the briefest glimpses of themed rooms. When he led her into what was clearly his workshop, Taeth couldn't help but gasp quietly. The sea breeze wafted gently into the room, and she wondered a bit at how the ocean spray didn't ruin the sketches spread about the space.

As she gaped at the half-carved figurehead overhead, she almost missed his quiet greeting, and nearly stumbled into him as well when he suddenly turned to face her.

"I've been well," she replied a moment later with a smile when her footing was secured. "I'm sorry it took me so long to take you up on your invitation to call. I had to finalize a shipment of textiles to send back to my cousin. This is the first free moment I've had since the masquerade."

Her fingers clenched nervously at the sketchbook she still held tucked between her sling-bound right arm and her torso. The sling was not terribly obvious beneath her lightweight cloak, and she hesitated to take it off quite so soon. She still struggled to manage people's questions and comments about her... disability. Especially since it was still so new, and it was still uncertain how permanent the damage was.

Her eyes wandered over the room again for a brief moment, though, and then her gaze focused back on her host.

Someone had to break this odd tension.

"Westu hal," she said. "I am Taethowen, of the Riddermark. Will you give me the pleasure of learning your name at last?"

[Androthelm]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Taethowen

“Westu...” the words felt large and clumsy in Angcair’s mouth. Taethowen of the Riddermark... In all his travels, Angcair had never visited the kingdom of Eorl, on Gondor's west-march. It was... A young kingdom, was it not? Once again the seafarer felt the sharp awareness of his own age. He bowed slightly, touching the tip of his thin beard with one hand.

“Mae govannen, melna. You may... learn my name, indeed. I am Angcair of Lindon -- although in truth I am merely of Lord Cirdan’s following, wherever we should find ourselves. It seems to me only a brief while we have dwelt in this particular haven.” For a moment, he was at a loss for what to say -- but her eyes on his partially-finished work prompted the next question: “Do you like it? I am shipwright by trade -- and by art, I suppose.”

The figurehead was shaped in the form of a plunging bird, lifted upwards on a sprayin wave. It was, like all of Angcair’s work, unpainted -- but the silverwhite wood carried a weight in its own color, a shifting gray-adjacent palette without pigment. At the bird’s throat a notch had been carved -- a pearl would be set there, no doubt. Angcair bit his tongue. The truth was that he did not enjoy works drawn from... those histories. But he was a scholar, and an artist -- and above all else a paid craftsman, and the request had been clear.

“You will forgive me.” he said finally. “I have never visited the land of the Horse-lords. The coasts alone I have traveled -- and other lands, which once were to our west. You are of the... Pardon, I suppose the Westron word would be ridderlings? The folk of Riddermark, I mean. I have met -- only one of your people, I think, in all my life.”

[Ercassie]

A Prelude to Departure (after the Lindon Masquerade Ball)
with @Tharmáras


“I am the show,” The One who Walks in Twilight whispered. “It is just that nobody shall know, until there is no me to be seen.”

- Excerpt from ‘The Lindon Masquerade : Spring Ball’ thread.

The sky throbbed at its very seams, a burgeoning contusion that swallowed up the stars. Waves rose, clouds bled, the tallest heads of trees bent so far low to kiss the earth and cower there, where the impudent squalls of the storm might pass them by. Hatholdir might have believed that to be so shamed and despoiled as he had been, at the masquerade, was the worst this night might hurl at him. He would be proven wrong. The King of Tol Noldare had sought out sanctuary on the dunes, but whatever ills he had evoked were enraged with a wrath it seemed unsated. So as rainstorm turned to hailstones, there was but a single cave close by. And that one cave seemed as sinister as any promise of shelter might manage.

For one, a chasm there looked to be, stood central to the grotto’s mouth, of some deeper hue than the abyss in which it stood; as though indeed it’s shape had been erased somehow out of the world. The form of this solitary silhouette was an armoured soldier, his whole clad in a darkness which somehow glimmered amidst the depths; like coal, in answer to the spears of lightning which smote down haphazardly to scar the beach. And bright as it was dark, there glimmered a sword, or so it seemed; immense in height and in girth enough to stand a sentry in it’s own right. The dark gloved hands which folded around it, were obscured at it’s hilt, that it may in fact be stood up of it’s own accord. Save that he stood in it’s shadowed wake; a priest before his altar, a judge before his bench. A knight behind his blade.


A knight he stood indeed, his helm of fluid metal, polished smooth as oil made firm, pitch black. The turrets of a none-too-subtle crown, soaked in the same ink shade, stretched about the orbit of this headpiece, like a proud fence. Hair as lightless as the deepest abyss stole as though a silent waterfall to coat his high collar, and still this seemed to pale against the dark fathomless burn of his coal-dark eyes. All that could be seen of him beneath the skin of star-made steel.

Wordless he waited for the dishevelled figure on the dunes to note him, or the sword. Either one of them ought to be cause for Hatholdir to remember himself. Both ought be cause for him to realise quite who he was dealing with here. The storm supposed that seeking shelter in the cave was inevitable. The stubbornness of the Elf in question meant that even so, it might take him a moment or so.


“Your room at the inn was ransacked,” the dark knight heralded the immoral Noldo, and expected that would inspire some manner of response. “And so, it would seem, were you.” A slight smirk swiped at the corner of an unseen mouth. “What are you waiting for ?” the mystery demanded.

[Taethowen]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Androthelm

Taethowen smiled at his attempt to repeat her Rohirric greeting, then explained it. "Westu hal is..." well, she attempted to explain it. "It essentially means 'be well.' There is another term, ferthu hal, and it is 'be well in spirit.'

"Mae govannen, Angcair." she returned his own greeting, then asked curiously, "Melna?" After the time she'd spent in Gondor, and then traveling, she was at least conversational in Sindarin. But there was much she didn't know yet.

Her eyes wandered back over the figurehead as Angcair asked her opinion of it. "It's quite lovely, at least to my untrained eye," she answered. "Is there a story behind it? I am... not entirely learned in Elvish lore."

Then she looked back at Angcair with a teasing glint in her eye. "I will forgive you for neglecting the Riddermark, if you will forgive me for never having visited Lindon before. This is my first time here."

The corners of her mouth quirked slightly upward as he coined the term ridderlings. "Most call us Rohirrim," she answered with a quiet laugh. "We call ourselves Eorlingas. Would this other one that you met have been within my lifetime, I wonder?"

She looked back around the room again, eyeing the furnishings, easels, and worktables. "Is there a place where I can sit?" she asked. "And a place to hang my cloak? You asked to see some more of my work, and I couldn't figure out how to bring many samples, so I brought my sketches, though I fear they are not as refined as your own."

Taeth reached up then and unclasped her cloak with her left hand. The clasp was a clever little contraption that she'd had commissioned after her injury, one that she could unfasten with a single hand, though it had taken quite a bit of practice to get into her cloak with her right arm in a sling. It was manageable, though, and she was glad to have maintained that small amount of independence as she traveled.

[Baphởmet]

Leave Her Johnny

TA 1087, 10 miles off the coast of Tol Fuin

(Private)

The work was hard and the voyage was long,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
The sea was high and the gales were strong.
And it's time for us to leave her!

The storm was bad. The sky was bruised with black and purple clouds, violent and angry from horizon to horizon. Lightning, bright as the noon sun, split open the air and blinded the sailors aboard the Pearl Queen. Thunder rolled so heavy and so deep that the sea itself looked as if it had been torn asunder. The winds roared like harpies and the sails of the ship tugged and pulled on the ropes, begging to be free and fly in the midst of the maelstrom. Orders were being shouted, oaths were being sworn, prayers were being muttered. It was hard to tell if anyone could hear anything over the booming thunder. Lightning girdled the massive ship, pinning it in like a bull about to stud. The ship rocked back and forth, as angry as the sea. The ship seemed, at times, to have a mind of its own, and it wanted to rage at the storm as much as her captain. Finnbarr has not seen so much rain since he had earned his surname. It came down, sheet upon sheet, frozen, biting, and virulent. The air around him smelled like burning metal, like something sweet and pungent. He watched as a bolt of lighting burst though the clouds and roared as it slammed into the ocean below. So much rain. The sky was emptying its coffers into this storm. He swore under his breath as he wrestled with the helm. The ship did not want to maintain her course, she wanted to steer into the heart of storm and shout her defiance. Finnbarr could not begrudge her that desire, he too wanted to scream his defiance at the storm.

The world was obscured all around the aged Falmari; standing from his position at the helm, he could barely see the end of his ship. The waves were so violent and so numerous it was hard to tell he was even on the sea. The ship bucked and shifted like a wild stallion in heat. Finnbarr was not afraid, but he was nervous. Below him he saw several of his crew skittering about like maddened ants on a log. They only appeared in the briefest of glimpses as bolt after bolt of lightning gave the world an eerie, ghostlike illumination before plunging them all back into the darkness.

This storm had come out of nowhere, a fast-moving wild beast intent on havoc and destruction. Finnbarr and the crew of the Pearl Queen had been caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tempest. The sky in the morning had been clear and cloudless; the air had been temperate and mild; the waters had been calm and serene, Finnbarr himself had swam with a pod of dolphins not an hour before the first black splotches appeared on the western horizon. The winds had swept up and before they could make it to Tol Fuin they were caught in a ferocious squall that threatened to capsize them at any moment. There was something alive, something hateful in that storm. He could not be certain, but every time he looked up at the clouds, he could swear there was a face, twisted with malice, looking down at him. He was not the only one to see it either. His first mate, a tall woman with jet black hair and dark blue eyes, was the first to say something. Astaninde was superstitious. All sailors were to one degree or another, even Finnbarr, but Astaninde could teach a masterclass in all the rituals and rites and stories of sailing. She had been a quartermaster with him for nearly three hundred years, the best he’d ever had. Despite her predisposition to see signs and portents in the sky, she made an excellent first mate. She was in the midst of tying down several of the crew with strong hempen rope when she saw it. Finnbarr thought she’d seen the Abhorred, for how loud she screamed. The sound, so shrill and emotive, actually beat out the wind and thunder for a moment. When he saw what she was screaming at, then making all sorts of warding gestures, he did not blame her. The rest of the crew nearby followed suit and made warding gestures, though by the time they did the face, or whatever it was, disappeared.

“Reduce the sails!” Finnbarr shouted, his voice barely peaking above the wind. “Run on bare poles, batten down the hatches, pump the bilges and prepare the ballast!” he heard his orders repeated half a dozen times as the word spread across the massive ship. They’d failed to outrun the storm and continuing to try and sail through it was a fool’s errand, and Finnbarr was no fool. He’d have to try and keep the ship at right angles to the wind and waves, this would cut the battering strength of the storm, but the noise would be horrendous. There was no easy way to victory with a beast of this magnitude.

“What’s that cap’n?” a frantic voice next to him caused him to break eye contact with the storm. It was the boatswain, Ferionn, he was pointing at some smudge on the horizon. Finnbarr squinted and brought up his spyglass, a brass thing wound about with red gold filigree.

“I don’t see anything,” he shouted as another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. Instinctively, both men ducked. The wave of thunder hit the ship and rattled the rigging.

“There sir! I saw something, just for a moment before that a wave came about. There!” the lithe elf darted to the rails and pointed. Finnbarr was next to him in a flash, eyes scanning the dark grey waves as they crashed about. Still nothing. He was about to give up when he saw something. Not much. Barely a blur, a smudge on the wine dark sea. “There! Sir, do you see it? There! Fifty degrees off the starboard hull. Maybe a mile or two out. What is it?”

Finnbarr sighed. He knew what it was instantly. It was another ship, and it was sinking. “Goddammit!” He slammed a meaty fist on the railing. “Bring us about and open the sails! Raise the anchors! How did we not see her before?”

Once again, the orders spread across the deck, able seaman racing to and fro in a wild, intricate dance of rope, sail, steel, and wood. Finnbarr watched with growing unease. Attempting a rescue was a difficult thing in the best of times, in the midst of a storm it was nigh impossible. The Pearl Queen would be lucky to get anywhere close enough to mount a rescue. It also bothered him that they’d not seen the ship before now. In the midst of a storm was one thing but being only a mile off they should have seen them before the storm hit. He cursed and darted back to the helm. He slid, grabbing the wheel just as he was about to fall. He caught himself and pulled himself up, he cursed again. “Come on then you devil’s twhit twoo!” he shouted to the black and purple clouds that menaced his ship. “If you think you can you take on the Pearl Queen with some water, wind, and lightning, you don’t bloody know who you’re messing with!” He roared wordless as he forced the wheel to obey his command. His back and shoulder muscles strained and stretched. There was an unseen battle of wills between Finnbarr and the storm, elf versus nature. He might have been small in comparison, a speck of dust passing through, but he was also Finnbarr Galedeep, Commander of the Waves, Kraken Whisperer, the Prince of the Deeps. No storm could make him blink. The crew fed on his defiance and soon burst into a vibrant, fast paced song, moving in near perfect unison. The massive first-rate ship turned slowly and inexorably against the wind. The winds and waves buffeted the ship, but she made headway, insolent and resilient.

Their progress was slow. Too slow. His fingers itched with anticipation. Slowly, slower than the rising of the sun, the ship came into view. “Ready the life rafts. Tell Amoneth to be prepared for casualties.” he shouted, keeping his emerald eyes on the ship ahead of them, he angled the ship again, tacking into the wind and putting the sinking vessel on the aft side of the Pearl Queen. On the deck, his sailors were readying the boats, a full dozen of them ready to take on survivors. “Astaninde! Take the helm!” He roared. His first mate appeared beside him, appearing out of the deluge and looking all the part of a drowned cat. She was smiling though, her grin was wide and feral, full of the energy he’d bestowed upon the crew. “Aye, cap’n. You taking charge of the boats?”

Finnbarr tossed his head back and laughed uproariously. “Something like that.” He leapt onto the railing and before anyone could say a word contrary (not that any of them would) he dove into the churning, roiling sea.

“Heave to!” Astaninde shouted, her voice carrying above the tumult. She grabbed the wheel with deft, agile hand steered the ship steady until it came to a halt. “Drop the anchors!”

Her orders were obeyed, and a song came from the crew, cutting through the sounds of wind and rain

Oh, a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind

Come on and roll the old chariot along
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
A night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
A night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
A damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
A damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind

Oh, a nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
A nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
Aa nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind

Oh, a long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
A long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
A long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind!

Oh, a nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
A nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
A nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind!

Oh, a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind!

Finnbarr was fast beneath the waves, faster than any other living elf. He was more at home under the water than he was above it. He moved as naturally and as fluidly as a whale that had lived in the seas their entire life. The water tonight was frigid and angry. The choppiness of the waves above him made his going slow. To compensate, he dove deeper. He could see sinking ship easily now, his vision in the great salt waters was just as good as it was above. There was a great crack down the center of the ship, the mast had been struck by lightning and the wind and waves had used the broken timber as a battering ram against the ship, tearing a hole in it. He could count a dozen bodies already floating in the water, trying to move upward against the current. The Falmari diver surfaced, inhaled a massive lungful of air and dove back down. The first person he came across was a man, sturdily built but limp, as Finnbarr pulled him up above the water, he gulped in a breath of air and begged the diver to find his wife who’d fallen overboard before him. Finnbarr passed him along to the life rafts then dove down again, searching for the man’s wife. He found her, or assumed it was her at least, in the same area of the sea as him, but she was several feet below the surface of the water. Finnbarr feared the worse as he approached, she seemed lifeless and adrift, yet as soon as he grabbed on to her, her body twisted moved, she fought him for a moment until she realized he was a rescuer, then went limp from exhaustion again. He hauled her up to her appreciative husband, then dove back into the inky depths again. He found three more, all grouped together and, once he’d gotten them all to hold hands and paddle toward the boats, made his way into the ship, swimming through the great rent in the side of the ship. By now there were other divers in the water, men and women he’d trained to free dive, to handle the rest of the people that had gone overboard and the life boats would be able to take them on. The interior of the ship was dark and cramp, jagged broken beam jutted out haphazardly, blocking his way. Still, he was able to make his way through the sunken half of the ship. The degree of difficulty was increased by the backward nature of the ship’s interior, it was not built anything like the ships he’d been on for thousands of years, it was not a cargo ship nor a scientific vessel nor a ship or war, it was a pleasure cruiser. If he had had time, he would have rolled his eyes and cursed them. Perhaps though, that was a bit too on the nose at the moment. He heartily disliked most cruise ships, undermanned, underprepared, and woefully inadequate should any wave more than three feet arise. Once, twice, three times he swam into a room that had been blocked off, wood beams collapsed. In a hallway, there were the bodies of a woman and what he could only surmise were her two children. They were all huddled together, blue and lifeless. His air was growing thin. He could search for one more room before he had to find a way out.

The room was lit with a fading orange light. There was still a pocket of air, and the light of a lamp inside. Finnbarr surfaced and gasped for breath. The room was in shambles, nearly everything had collapsed inward. The lamp was leaking oil and leaning precariously. He could feel his heart skip. This was going to be a very dangerous place to be in a few moments. He took a quick look around, his mind admittedly still on the leaking lamp. There was no way to reach it without having to crawl over precarious beams of wood. He couldn’t trust his weight to those beams, they were unstable, and the ship was sinking. He was able to leave when he saw her. She was small and slight of frame with blonde hair that was almost white. He would have missed her in his search if it wasn’t for a quiet moaning sound. She was trapped under one of the beams. With a quick, nervous glance at the lamp, he leapt under the water and made his way to her. She was injured, quite badly it seemed. Finnbarr was no shark, but even he could taste the blood in the water. The beam had pinned her down, it was pressing hard on her right leg. She was bleeding from there as well a head wound, likely caused after she’d been crushed by the beam.

“Hey, are you awake? My name is Finnbarr, I’m here to help.”

He received incoherent moaning as a response. She grimaced and rolled her head from side to side like she was in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Frowning, Finnbarr examined the beam more closely. The angle was bad. Lifting it off her would be easier said than done. It was more than pining her to the wall, it had very nearly speared her there. If he were able to shift the beam out of the way, the pressure it was exerting on her body would release, which also meant the wound that had benefiting from the pressure would burst open again. She’d bleed out before he had a chance to save her. And there would be sharks here soon, real ones.

“What’s… who’s…” she was awake, if only just. Finnbarr was quick, darting to her side.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help.”

She looked at him with lavender eyes, wide with fear and mistrust. She tried to move, screaming in pain as she found the massive beam to which she was attached.

“Easy, easy,” he said raising his hands to show her he meant no harm. “My name is Finnbarr. What’s yours?”

She looked at him as if that was the stupidest question in the world, then something else passed over her face, something Finnbarr couldn’t recognize. “I’m…” she paused again, the same look passing over her face. “Saererys…?”

Finnbarr looked at her very concerned. Her answer was more of a question. That head wound…

“It’s good to meet you Saererys, the cruise ship you were on is sinking. I’m here to help. I have a ship nearby and an excellent surgeon, they’ll be able to –”

“Cruise ship? What are you talking about? What’s going on? Where… where…” her eyes closed, and her head dipped forward again.

Finnbarr’s frown deepened. That hit to the head and really done a number on her. Elves didn’t usually get disoriented like that. “Saererys? Saererys?” he called her name loudly but to no avail. She was out cold. He growled in frustration. She was not going to like what was to come, and he needed her awake so she could put pressure on the wound, assuming he was even able to lift the beam off her.

There was another problem. The water was rising, quickly. He had a minute at most before he would be forced to abandon the rescue attempt. The thought gnawed at him. He saw his parents’ faces. After five thousand years they had lost some of their prominent features, but he knew them. Verco and Delynna were there too, watching with concern on their pale faces. A heavy fist slammed into water. Finnbarr growled, took a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the salty, frothing water. The elf and the beam struggled against one another each one an immovable object, each an unstoppable force. He could almost feel his skin splitting from the effort. On any other day, in any other circumstances, Finnbarr would have had no chance against the beam, lodged and angled as it was, but on this day he would not be denied. It took much longer than he was willing to admit, but finally the massive piece of carpentry shifted, and he was able to yank it aside. But his victory was short lived. Just as he knew it would, red blossomed from the woman’s leg. He pulled off his shirt in a hurry and bound it around the wound as tight as he could.

“Saererys?” he came up for air and tried to wake her. But she was still unconscious. He cursed. He was not going to lose her. He was not! He’d already lost a mother and her children; he was not going lose this woman too. He was not! He placed two fingers against her neck and prayed. There was the faintest trace of a pulse. His shoulders relaxed.

“I hope you don’t think this too forward of me,” he said with biting humor only he could hear and leaned in, placing his lips on hers and blowing a full breath of air into her lungs. “That should suffice until we’re able to get back to the surface.”

He took another deep breath of cold, icy air, took the woman Saererys in his arms, and dove beneath the water. She weighed almost nothing as he moved through the ship, the place that had nearly become their graves. His ears popped as he exited the ship. When he had entered, there was still part of the ship above water, now there was no part of the vessel not covered by at least ten feet of water. He swam hard, using only his legs. He could feel the pull of the undertow, the force of ship pulling him and the water above pushing down. He held Saererys tighter, let out his air in a shout of defiance and pushed until they broke the surface. She coughed as they did, spitting up a lungful of blood and salt water. She clung to him, but even as she did, he could see there was no recollection of her situation in her eyes. Something was very wrong.

He flagged down a life boat and they pull the pair aboard.

“How many were we able to save?” he said through gasps for air.

“A full three dozen cap’n. Not sure what the full complement was, but I’d say we got most of them.” The young man’s face looked proud, but tired, his brown hair was plastered to the side of his face, covering his left eye. Lightning still wreathed the angry sky. The storm was yet to abate.

“A few more than three dozen,” he said bitterly watching the spot where the ship had gone down. “Call everyone back; we’ve done what we can without putting the Pearl Queen in danger.”

The boy, Finnbarr couldn’t recall his name as the lighting kept changing and shadows screamed and exploded around them, looked crestfallen. “We did all we could sir.”

“I know you did, we all did. Not every rescue is going to be completely successful. It’s sucks, but it happens. Those we didn’t save will get to feast in Ulmo’s icy palace tonight. Don’t weep for them over overmuch.”

The young man nodded and put a horn to his lips. He blew three short blasts and one long one, signaling the rest of the ships to return.

Aboard the ship again, and out of the torrents of rain that continued to fall, Finnbarr watched Amoneth as they looked over Saererys. The rest of the survivors suffered minor scrapes and bruises, a few were concussed, and one had a broken arm, but Saererys was troubling. The surgeon had been able to stitch up her leg, removing several splinters that had remained lodged from the beam that had fallen on her, and was able to wrap her head wound, but she still had not woken up. Captain and Surgeon were both uneasy.

“What are her chances, would you guess old friend?”

Amoneth grimaced and shrugged. “I don’t know,” they said plainly. “There’s no way to tell until she wakes up, if she wakes up.”

Finnbarr closed his eyes and mumbled a short prayer to Ossë, the patron water spirit that had looked out for him his entire life (though the only one he’d yet to see). “Spare her, spare her. Enough have gone to your lord’s hall for one night.”

“Where am I?” the voice was soft and melodic, but scratchy and apprehensive. “What’s going on… Ow! What, what’s wrong with my leg? Where am I?”

Finnbarr opened his eyes as Saererys tried to sit up on the surgeon’s table. Both he and Amoneth kept her from trying to move. “It’s okay. You were on a ship that sank, but you’re safe. We are able to rescue you. You had a nasty run in with a beam, but you were able to get the best of it. You’re safe now though, everything is okay.”

She looked at him, narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What? What ship? What are you talking about?”

Amoneth’s brow furrowed. “Can you tell me your name, my lady?”

She looked confused and thought for a moment. “I’m, my name is Saererys.”

“And can you tell me where you’re from Lady Saererys?”

Again, she looked confused and thought for a moment, her expression growing panicked. “No… I, I can’t remember. What’s going on?”

[Androthelm]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Taethowen

“Westu hal...” Angcair murmured after her. “How interesting. And then... Furthu.. this would be a more formal mode of speech, I assume? I am something of an amateur lover of languages -- a scholar, but only by way of long life. You collect such interesting details when you live through history -- though, perhaps then you miss the big picture. Nevermind that.”

Flushing slightly at her confusion, the woodworker put up a hand. “I am sorry -- melna is a silly old word, a way we spoke when I was young. Mellon is the word now, if you are more familiar with the modern form. But we are a stubborn race, if you must know the heart of it. There was an... elf, once, who saw in a minor phonetic change a direct insult to himself and his mother. I suppose we all have things like that, which we carry with us.”

Angcair’s eyes lit as she drifted back his carving. “Y-yes,” he stumbled, “There is a story, though it is long and sad. Two lovers, a sailor and his wife. They dwelt in a haven -- not Lindon, a place called Sirion, long ago. The husband was out to sea when... Evil peoples attacked, cruel cousins of their dwindling, ancient house. When all became clear that the defenders -- Elves and men alike -- were to overrun, the sailor’s wife cast herself into the sea with the treasure of their house, rather than let the betrayers lay claim to it. But Lord Ulmo of the Shattering Wave swept her up and transformed her into the shape of a bird, that she might fly to her husband’s ship. And thus she survived, though her children were taken in the sack. Lord Elrond of Imladris is of that line, as were the seafaring kings of Numenor, in their time.” Angcair stopped, the bitter weight of history pressing him suddenly down. “I do not find joy in these histories, though I love them. But there is hope, I suppose -- that at the end of all things, in the darkest moment, a sudden act may save us. Those who subscribe to this philosophy call it the maratulma, the eucatastrophe.”

Angcair sighed and rested a hand gently on the bird’s neck. “I hope to place a gem befitting the story here, when the time comes, but the jeweller is a... Trouble to work with. Artists, I’m sure you understand.”

As she went on, he blushed again. “I- You must forgive me. I will forgive anything if you’ll forget ‘ridderlings.’ Clearly my westron isn’t as good as I think, after all these years. Eorlingas... Yes, that sounds right. Although, the man I met -- this was perhaps thirty years ago, you must understand -- was travelling in the North, between Eryn Galen and the mountains. He called that the ancient home of his people -- before they were Eorlingas it was the... Eothods? Am I saying right?”

“Oh!” Angcair said, when she raised the question of taking a seat. “Of course. Please -- There are stools here, though if you’d wish we can sit in a more comfortable chamber. I can take your cloak and hang it in the hall... And my d-deepest apologies, again,” he stammered, sweeping out of the room with her cloak, certain that as soon as he returned he’d make a fool of himself again. “For ‘Ridderlings’.”

[Baphởmet]

Leave Her Johnny

One Week Later, the Valetudinarium Majorum of Mithlond

(Private)

Oh my poor old mother, she wrote to me.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
She wrote me to come home from sea.
And it’s time for us to leave her!

“Saererys?”

“Saererys where…”

“Don’t touch that, you could…”

“… easy does it, ease up on the…”

There were a dozen voices, spread out, smooshed together, and blended until it was a mass of shouting, mumbling, and whispers so cacophonous that the universe itself felt like it was going to rip apart at the seams. There were dozens of images that passed before her, so fast that she had no hope of trying to retain them. They looked familiar, as familiar as a hazy blur could be familiar. Some of the images were hidden behind a thick veil of shadows. Everything was swirling vortex. There was nothing for her to hold onto. She was falling, falling, falling. Her stomach dropped and she thought she was going to throw up, but as soon as she reached the point of retching, the sensation stopped abruptly, so abruptly that she fell over on the soft, squishy earth under her feet. It was cold and it gave way far too easily, like there was something beneath it. There were sounds here, different sounds. No voices, nothing human or elven, even in the vaguest sense. The sound of animals maybe? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t remember what animals sounded like. There was a clicking noise, hollow and echoing across the vast… sky? She looked up and what she saw was not a sky, at least none that she’d ever seen. The clouds were red and orange, like they’d been set on fire, the sky was like a gaping mouth. It was wide, dark, and an oppressive stench, like a thousand open graves, suddenly fell on her. She gagged. She could taste it. Taste whatever horrid thing was filling the air. Something that could have been called a fog rolled in. But it was not a fog, there was no way this thing could be a fog. The cloud of miasmic iridescent colors was preceded by a heat, a heat that made her want to shrivel and die. There was something in that heat, in that fog that was not fog. She turned to run, but it was like she was running through frozen honey. She trudged and trudged and trudged and yet she made no progress. Desperately, she tried to push herself along with her arms, grabbing handfuls of earth and pulling herself forward as her legs struggled to make any progress. She could not escape the fog. The strange, unearthly colors followed her, swarmed her. She could not get out. Something above her in the sky, a face in the cloud like structures, looked at her and grinned.

The woman who knew she was Saererys awoke with a start. Her head was pounding, and her vision was blurry. She was laying on something soft. The room was dark. It smelled like lavender and honeysuckle. What were lavender and honeysuckle? She tried to get out of bed, but her legs were still sluggish and unresponsive, and she twisted herself up enough to fall in a clump on the floor. After gathering herself up, she went to the window and opened the shutters. Golden afternoon light streamed into the room. Her eyes stung as they adjusted to the sudden change in brightness. The view opened to the ocean, blue as a cornflower and bright as a sapphire. A wave of sea salt washed over her. It was clean, but earthy and natural, neither pleasant or unpleasant. She was not close to the ocean, however; from her best guess, she was several city blocks from the docks. How did she know that? She looked out again and found that she had no way of telling how far the docks were from where she was. She had no idea where the docks began, nor where exactly she was. She could hear gulls on the wind, their cries both raucous and unpleasant and melodic and soothing at the same time. There were other bird calls she couldn’t place. How had she been able to tell what the sound of a gull was? There were mounting questions in her mind. With every conceivable answer, there came a hundred more questions. Who was she? Who was Saererys? How did she know that that was her name? Why didn’t she know anything else about her? What color were her eyes? Where did she come from? Why did she know it was five city blocks from here to the docks? How did she even know where and what the docks were? Who had she been? What had been her profession? Who were the people in her dreams? What happened to her? Who was Saererys?

She dressed in a white robe she found hanging by the door. It didn’t fit her very well, but it was better than the bedclothes she had woken in. There was a silver wash basin in the corner of the room. She could see her reflection. She had nearly iridescent purple eyes that shimmered with silvery light at the edges of her irises. That answered one of her hundreds of questions. A slight tinge of a smile appeared on her lips. She liked her eyes. She always had. Her mother had said she caught a purple starling before she was born and… how did she remember that? She tried hard to recall the face of her mother, but she could get no further than outlines of a face. Even her voice was a mystery, the memories were of Saererys’ own voice, not that of her mother. Was it her that had said it to her child? There are far too many questions. She looked at her reflection in the mirror a bit longer. Her face was heart shaped; her eyes were large; her hair was golden blonde and fell passed her shoulders. She needed to wash it. How long had it been since she had been able to wash it? Almond oil. She would need some almond oil. She ran her fingers through her fine, wavy hair. Did she use almond oil?

She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Not a soul in sight in either direction. She could hear voices ringing from somewhere down the corridors, so she knew the place wasn’t abandoned. She drifted out. She thought she must look like a ghost out of some overly dramatic gothic novel. Was she the heroine, or the ghost of the ex wife doomed the roam the hallways of her husband’s manse until the end of time? She wanted to laugh, but the humor died in her throat. She might as well be a ghost. She had no identity, no sense of person, she was barely corporeal as it was. She was a loner, a drifter.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

She had been so focused on her own inner thoughts at the myriad pathways that she hadn’t noticed the woman in the white and blue robes come up behind her. She jumped and yelped, slamming her head into the side of the wall. “Black stars!” she cursed.

“Well you have a mouth on you and no mistake?” the woman said with a jovial, welcoming chuckle.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” she rubbed her forehead and winced. “I don’t normally curse. At least, at least I don’t think I do.”

“You needn’t think you offended me, believe me I’ve heard, and said, far worse than that.” Her laughter was lyrical. “But that doesn’t really help with my original question: what are you doing out of bed?”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed,” the woman who knew she was Saererys said. “The door wasn’t locked so I assumed I was free to, to leave, or to, to, I don’t know.”

A well of frustration, anxiety, and apprehension began to bubble up and overflow within her. “I know my name, but that’s all I know. Well, that’s not true. I know how far it is to the docks, I know I can work an abacus, and that I like the color purple, but I don’t know why. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know anything. I have no memory of anything older than, than 10 minutes ago but I know what a gull sounds like as opposed to a pelican or an albatross. How do I know that? How do I know how to saddle and tack a horse, but I don’t know where I was born? Why can’t I remember? Why… who… when?” words began to sputter and fail. She slumped against the stone walls and began to sob, her purple eyes glistening. “What is wrong with me?”

The nurse caught her before she slumped all the way to the floor and gently but firmly pulled her back to a standing position. Saererys was at least half a foot shorter and disappeared into her robes. The nurse stroked her hair and mumbled wordlessly. They stood that way for some time, the nurse not daring to move, Saererys unable to break away.

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

“The mind is still a mystery, despite all that we’ve learned about it here. It could be tomorrow, or it might not,” the nurse said after a moment’s pause. “I wish I could tell you that everything was going to work out.”

“You could lie to me,” the shorter elf offered, still clinging.

“I could,” the nurse said matter-of-factly, but I am terrible liar. Ask the friends I play bruus with, I couldn’t bluff my way out of a wax seal.”

That brought a short burst of laughter from Saererys. “I’m Saererys. It’s all I know about myself.”

“Not the only thing,” retorted the nurse, “you know how to use an abacus, you can ride a horse, and your favorite color is purple. Things will come back to you, dearie. It might come as a flood; it might come as a never-ending trickle.”

“What if it doesn’t? What if I can’t remember?”

“Then I’ll help you.” The reply came quickly and resolutely. Saererys pulled away and looked at the nurse. There was no hint of misgivings or regrets. She saw confidence and assuredness in the eyes of the taller woman. Somehow, for some reason, that felt nice. She tried to smile but tears had sapped her energy. “Why? Don’t you have more important things to do? Why me?”

“Why not?” the other woman countered. “I have duties here, yes, I have important work and research to do. But who do you have?”

“I…” Saererys looked down.

“I’m not saying that to shame you, and I’m sorry if I did. I am in your corner because you need someone. I simply happened to come across you first. Any of the nurses or doctors would be willing to help you. I’d wager they all might try at some point or another.” She said that last sentence with a smirk and an eye roll. “It’s what we do here, Saererys. We help people.”

“How will I be able to pay for –”

“No,” the nurse cut her off, “none of that. You needn’t worry.”

“But –”

“No,” she said again, more firmly.

“Alright, fine.” Saererys rolled her eyes. “You never did tell me your name.”

The nurse chuckled. “Oh, so I didn’t. You can call me Rynvena.”

“Well, Rynvena is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Rynvena smirked and nodded. “Oh aye, there is. Let’s get some food in you first. I bet you can’t remember the last time you ate. Then, we’ll see how good you are with a charcoal pencil. I have some bodies that need dissecting, and someone’s got to do the artwork. Most of the students are too squeamish. What about you?”

“I think I can help with that,” Saererys grinned.

[Taethowen]

After the Masquerade
Private with @Androthelm

Taeth chuckled and shook her head. "Westu hal and ferthu hal are... of the same formality?" her voice was a bit uncertain there. "I will confess that I am no linguist. But we tend to use the former as a greeting, and the latter as a farewell."

As Angcair spoke of the story behind the carving, her eyes continued to trace over its lines. Despite its unfinished state, she could see the care and precision he had used so far, and she couldn't help but smile. When he stumbled over the darkness of the story, though she turned a comforting gaze toward him.

"If all of Arda's histories were full of joy... would we learn anything from them?" she mused quietly. "And sometimes, in the darkest moment, a sudden act may save us. But those sudden acts are often underlaid by the quiet, loyal workings of those we never notice."

She thought, in that moment, of the battle of the Hornburg. Though she'd been spared actually being present for it, and even if she had been there, she and her mother and siblings would have been tucked away, sheltering in the Glittering Caves. But she'd spoken to veterans of that battle later on, after she first joined the Cavalry, had heard of the seemingly miraculous moment when Gandalf arrived with aid. But even that was the work of many smaller parts, all aligned at the perfect moment.

When he brought up the... finickiness of artists, she laughed softly and nodded. She knew it well.

Angcair's mortification over 'ridderlings' was so palpable that Taeth just shook her head. "It is forgotten as of this moment, I swear it. And yes, in the past, before we were Eorlingas, we were the Eotheod."

It was her turn to blush then. "I will admit that thirty years ago, I was not much more than a babe in arms," she said, handing him her cloak as he gestured for it. Then he was stammering an apology again as he swept out of the room, and for a moment she contemplated waiting here, and perusing his work a little more, but then she followed behind him.

"Perhaps a room with an armchair?" she suggested, "and a soft, tall back? My shoulder is getting weary."

She'd promised Trewyn to be careful with her arm, and not to push too hard, especially if she had to use her sling. As much as she didn't want to draw attention to it, she knew that sitting on a stool for very long, and the work her back and shoulders would have to do to maintain her balance, would be extremely tiring.

[Ercassie]

A Prelude to Departure (after the Lindon Masquerade Ball)



Menellótë Silosse (and Herumacil Licumorner)
Homecoming, the Tower of Uilosorn, in Forlindon

The massive door clapped it’s lonely, wooden wing against the outside of the white stone tree. The astounded resident of that tower stopped there, a few paces short of her front step, a corpse expression at her pallid face, and for a whole moment could not be moved by the buffeting of the violent storm which ravaged the entire coast. What ought to have been a most welcome sight, her hearth and home, was instead laid open, utterly exposed to the storm. Countless caterwauling chimes and bells, leashed to the vaulted ceiling, told tales of trespass. The wind at least ran riot still in their midst, throwing down precious ornaments and trinkets from the shelves down to the floor, belligerent. This was not the home she had left some hours earlier. But she was home now, and so it would be again.

Gathering resolve, Menellótë laid hands about the deviant door and towed it back toward compliance. As the latch snapped shut, the tornado inside deflated. A carven wooden box slammed shut upon itself. Papers cowered around the legs of a massive glass table. The She-Elf’s entire collection of conch shells glanced up wistfully from the smooth sea-glass floor, at their emptied ledge of driftwood shelf. An elaborate sand castle, once built up with meticulous detail, in the middle of the floor to reach up as high as her thigh, was decimated utterly on just one side, as though the monument had been swatted to ruin by an enormous whimsical wave, it’s other half left standing in a mocking reminder of spoiled promise. The Falmar scrutinised the complex mosaic of her shell-studded walls in silence, evermore evolving silence, as the cacophony above slowed its swing, and stilled its screams to but the memory of mayhem. The muted glow of her wan eyes circled her lair, unblinking, as her arm slowly extended, her palm calmly flattened, as though to quell some beast. A full ten minutes she stood, frozen in expectation, and was startled to not be startled anew. For the billowing howls which protested their exile outside were some reminder. For the billowing howls which tended to ascend the stairwell were notably absent. The smothered hush inside now was as unnerving as had been the so recent din. Her gaze fell to a sidedoor, it’s shadow prophesising great descents. The silence suggestive that whatever they had housed, had long been liberated.


She had grown accustomed to his keening cry, that crawled out of those depths all the hours of both day and night. It kept unwelcome disruptions from her neighbours (the nearest some miles off) to a minimum, though doubtless swelled their stories of her odd reputation. Quite what dwelt in the deep places of her home might be laughed off as the wind, but she was not laughing. Already the disquiet that was knotting in her stomach led her down those steep, stone steps. The further that she ventured, the more muted was the world she left behind. The closer that she came toward her destination, the more candles were to be found, littered on the staircase. Like a growing fungal infestation, rising out of a waxy scab. Some of the candles were low and squat, and others long and tapered, nesting in small clutches of abandoned bottles of all hues. Down here, the true colour of that glass was shrouded, rendered unto only altered shades of gloom. The tiny heads of candleflame were not enough to paint them in their full resplendent glory. There was cause, though, to maintain such a low light.

For more than a hundred years, he had been lost deep in the darkness, fire alone his means of sight, a brutal dangerous source of perception. When first Silosse had led him, blinking out of the depths of ruined Angband, the Noldo had collapsed from rickety motion unto scarred knees, both arms thrown up to shield his eyes. He had not been able to bear the bright of the sun and so she had brought him by moonlight only, led by stars, to a place she deemed safe. That was as much as she had been able to do for him. For of the proud, arrogant soldier who had been dragged into the depths of the earth, there was little remnant.


Her breath no longer caught in throat to recognise the coiled creature, and no exclamation rose in response to his ruined form. She was grown well used to the seeing of that, after all this time. But the seeing of him, when she’d been so sure, so concerned, .. that he had somehow wandered outside. It was dark after all, even in the world beyond this, his sanctuary.

“Licumorner” she used his first name, that of a happier existence, or so she assumed it must have been. Before the war, before the ravaging, before what he had been brought unto after. He did not even turn at her word, did not turn to see. Perhaps no longer recognised that previous identity. She did not reach for touch, nor force a reaction, for he was here. And that was what she had come to ascertain. The figure before her could be no one else.


The back of his head was sparsely curtained by sporadic falls of brittle colourless hair. No more the full voluminous waterfall of sable glory that once had spilt out under his mighty helm. Here and there, like braided spider’s legs, they did not encourage admiration, but grasped to his pale scalp like a sorry part-wig of dehydrated seaweed. There was not enough cover to shroud the deep scorred channel that ran up haphazardly from the back of his neck, gorging an unnatural furrow of disrupted skin, a Faultline of a scar. It dented it's demise across the otherwise plain terrain of his temple and severed one thin eyebrow, so that his head seemed like an egg, on point of cracking open.

Still naught emanated from within, and his visitor released a breath. At which the Noldo caught a sudden sense of undue concern, scuttling away on all fours, his back arched in this desperation, to display the deep compressions which had been beaten into his spine, and grow more space between he and the only She he ever saw. The melted globe of wax which he had been coveting between splayed legs, was gone now far beyond the slightest hint of recognition quite what shape it had once worn. Fingers had clearly gored through it’s softer structure, their telltale gloved his fingers still, to further decimate the design.



His hostess checked the bowl she had left on the lowly wooden table, retrieving it from the floor, where it had been cast down. The food was gone at least. The wooden spoon missing. But the jug of water was more than half emptied as well. And he was home, as far as this was home. Efforts to house him upstairs had found him ever cowering back down here. Silosse had since brought down to him, what would not keep him upstairs. The bed though was a nest of blankets, slashed by long nails of hand and foot that he used to see off attempts to cut and soften those same nails. There would be no softening now what had been ground hard, against the grain. Whatever the motives of his keepers might have been, Herumacil now resembled in form as malicious a sight as ever his uncompromising spirit had been shaped since way before.

Still, the Falmari had saved him. She would save him. She could not see an end to him, not like this. Not when there might be some glimmer of his former self still locked deep away in the recesses of the howling, scuttling, nervous bundle of limbs that was left. No matter what anyone might say. Some might say it was kinder to have seen his suffering ended. But she remembered him, and knew she could not forget him.

An hour spent humming, and engaged with needlework at her stool, before Silosse left him, apparently at rest. Her eve out at the Masquerade had been managed without a compromise to his care, for he remained safe. And all was well. And it must just have been the wind that dashed her front door open …


A patient two hours more he spent in silent wait, until there was no doubt in his contorted mind she must now have gone to her own rest. Then he stretched. The long limbs uncurled and straightened, and the dark eyes dawned wide, like a pair of blackened suns. Licumorner Herumacil reached his full height, rolled his head upon a resounding clacking audience of it’s neck and shoulders. Then he calmly strode, as well could any other Man, or Elf, across the dank stone floor. Hauling up a loose stone of the floor, he retrieved a small but heavy-set chest. The massive lock was made very little of in moments, as he could turn the convoluted key as required in the deepest of all darkness. And there, from amidst a collection of perfectly identical made candles, the Noldo raised one, the latest, of a thousand that had come before and he would see to come after. The perfectly sculpted wax likeness, of the head of Earenolwë, margrave of Lindon, shaped by the Noldo's own practiced and talented hand. The Nelya’s long time nemesis returned his secret hoard to where it would not and had not been yet discovered, not all this long time. Then sat, and calmly considered the waxen face before him. One he would see stamped into his memory, one that he would never mistake. One that he could never forget. For all of the worst kinds of reasons.


It might take a time before he was ready to light it’s wick, but Herumacil could wait. Herumacil had become a master of the waiting game. Tonight had been but the first step in a long series of carefully calculated steps to obtain his ambition. To destroy his enemy from the inside out … it had already begun. Tonight had gone better than he might have hoped for and nobody yet had any idea. That arrogant sense of hierarchy lit a fire in his own dour heart. They would not know, any of them, until it was too late. And that made every moment spent waiting a fair taste of sweet anticipation.

So he waited, mind fixed, gaze fixed, on the countenance of one he blamed for his entire misfortune. One hand warming the means in his already twitching hand that he would see set the sculpted candle toward a slow but assured ruin. That he would revel in the gradual decay of his foe. It was going to have to take an enormous amount of time, when he saw the living muse for his effigy to an end. For that had been his goal so long, he had no real conception what cause he would have to exist for after it was done.

[Ercassie]

**Bad Blood - Part 1
(This 'interim' tale occurs after the ‘Old Friends, New Friends’ RP in Ever Beyond,
and before the ‘Home’ RP in the Valley of Imladris. For reference.)




Matsu Halsad and Iggy Hammerstorm
The Dwarven Halls of Ered Lindon

From atop the dizzying heights, the blanket spread vibrant below, a kaleidoscope of fair and naïve arrogance. Royal blue crowned by a pearl white swan; the banner of Cirdan, the Shipwright. Lush green promise set against the argent crescent moon of Earenolwe, the counsellor. Valiant golden griffin, basking in his crimson bed, courtesy of Aigronding, the merchant gentleman. All of them warriors. All of them Elflords. All of them stood tall together against the vast armada ruled by Sarabeth Gameela, her dauntless invasion straddling the shoreline like an army of molluscs encrusting a rock. The wily pirate Captain tread water, privy to a secret none of them could guess. For, their backs turned to their city, behind their armed line amassed another army. That of Dwarves, long nurtured in hostility for their sharp-eared neighbours.

Kfir, brother of Sarabeth had made work of decimating the Harlindon forests, inciting the wrath of local Laiquendi, and setting that blame of wanton forestry upon the Dwarves, who rose up, proud and stubborn as their very race suggested in protest. The Elves ought to have found themselves now beset on two fronts, netted between the one foe on foot and the other, a vast fleet.


There was but one flaw with the intricate conspiracy and that was the apparent absence of Dwarves. In the hour that they ought to have assembled, there was no sign nor sound of those promised reinforcements. And there was but one man who had been tasked with uncovering the cause. Matsu Halsad, Captain of the Scourge, First son of the Burned Man, heir of the Jackals .. had proposed he personally undertake the venture, not merely to secure favour with his alluring accomplice, but for means of his own personal interest. A fact which stoked the fire of his resolve, and drove the Umbarian the ascent of the cobalt cliff-face. So it was that when he did there encounter a Dwarf, that was far from what in truth he searched for.




“I am looking for an Elf.”

The Man was incongruous and apparently quite unconcerned by the fact. His strong legs were staggered against the brace of a chilling wind. Bare-chested but for a thong of twisted leather, wherein hung from the slick coils of his neck, a sharp fang of some unnamed beast. His hair was not dark nor slick as rich mahogany cascades, but blacker than starless night and twisted long to tendrils, unruly as tentacles from the seas which had spawned him up unto this shore. The curve of the Corsair’s blade was more scythe than scimitar, and swung from his garnet pantaloons by way of a gleaming belt bedecked by gold. His eyes were as lustrous as heartfire and his lip curled into an assuming smirk.

Rather more accustomed to the anaemic pallor of his aloof Elvish neighbours, the Dwarf was intrigued, but not of the habit of revealing his mind. He crossed burly arms, never releasing possession of the mighty war hammer which he folded like a candlestick between his bulging biceps. The man was strange but it would take more than some foreign oddity to set his informant to unrest.


“I look like an Elf to you ?” Iggy thrust one caterpillar of an eyebrow forth, that it could be seen even amidst the thatch of his dark mane. The Corsair skated his gaze disdainfully right over the stunted sentry’s head, taking more heed than he would wish noted to how keenly he avoided gauging the strong iron armour. What strength must exist to bear it with as much ease as a child bears a feather ! The Dwarf stood a walking vault, an armoured rock.

“You look a meal,” Matsu decided, in a lilting accent which the Dwarf had never heard before. The stranger, fearing he had not been understood, dropped his head to indicate the jackal which explained the low growl rumbling about the blustery pass. The beast curled like smoke around his Master’s legs, slavering a thick coriaceous tongue haphazard about an ungainly arcade of blood-flecked fangs. The Corsair stood proud of his four-legged companion. “He isn’t picky,” he warned the Dwarf.


“Just the one, single, solitary Elf that’s seen right to trouble you, that right ?” Iggy did not stir, his eyes straying not toward the low-browed brute who now was fixed upon him. Hammerstorm ran one hand the length of his heavy tool. It was difficult to observe even the twitch of his lips, but the tone of amusement could not be concealed. Matsu was not like to overlook the insult. Any insult. He commenced to make account of the colours favoured by the errant Elf sailor. Golden unicorn upon a purple sail ? Iggy allowed the image no time at all to make an impression on his stony countenance. “He is out of town,” the Dwarf let Matsu know, in a droll tone.


“Sail away, did he ?” the Corsair spat, earning himself a mute nod in reply. Iggy did not trust himself to respond, sure that this oddity was naming Tharmaras a coward. The hardy Dwarf knew full well that the only reason why the Lord’s colours were not amongst Mithlond’s naval defense, was because he had taken his young children to visit relations, before the conflict had ever come to such a boil. “On his precious boat I’d bet," Matsu did not know enough to stop himself. "And here you sit, too scared to stand up to him. Though he grows rich on the logging of the forests, and directs the Green Elves here to blame your people for that deed. It is time you rose. It is time you proved that Dwarves shall not be made fools of ..”

“Time you left,” Iggy sighed, his patience straining at it’s leash. The Dwarf was not ignorant of conflict between his folk and the Green Elves. They, incited by Mallosel, had brought recent arguments and worse throughout Lindon. But Tharmaras was naught to do with that, he felt certain. What with not having been here … “You won’t find what you’re looking for here.” Hammerstorm made certain to pronounce each word in his last sentence slowly, as though the foreigner was disadvantaged, mentally.


“Maybe there are others who are as bold as you are baulking,” Matsu was not like to accept any less than he felt he was owed. That was how he had ended up in this situation on the first place ! “Maybe they should like to learn that you are too much a coward to defend the honour of your folk !” he reached up as tall as he could, meaning to intimidate, although this was a mis-step, and not the wisest means to balance at great heights. “No rightly-informed Dwarf would protect an Elf who thinks so little of his bearded neighbours ! Come ! Where is his camp ? Who are his people ? I will have of him whatever I can find, if you dare not. Or I will take whatever thinks it may stand in my way !”


“It is unwise to believe that a Dwarf shall not do what must be done. For sake of his people ..” Iggy appeared to relent, in face of the overwhelming threat, to himself and furthermore to those he gave a damn about. Such as his brother, who dwelt in the valley of Imladris, with an Elf … Their family’s alliance delved as deep as the histories of Eregion. Their bond had been strengthened by what happened in the wake of that city’s sack. “Hold your breath until I return,” the Dwarf threw down his challenge, and retreated through a door shaved into the side of the rockface. Matsu was left to stamp his very inappropriate shoes in the waxy gleam of the heights and quiet the predator beside him.



The Corsair may have thought that he had manipulated the Dwarf, or at the least turned his head with talk of dishonour. Particularly when Iggy returned, with the gruff bourne news that one who wore the colours of both purple and of gold was known to prance and sing throughout the forest, come twilight. The Elf whom Matsu would name scapegoat was not within reach, but that meant he was not on hand to safeguard what he had left behind, unprotected .. Great attention was lavished on the Dwarf’s description of Nariel Eregwen, and mind paid to how alone and vulnerable she would be.

“How many have you at your disposal ?” the informant’s eyes gleamed, and did not quake when Matsu boldly boasted of his ship's crew. “That might be enough,” the Dwarf pondered, and cast a last glance over the strange Man who was now struggling to hide anticipation at the prospect of such hunt, any more than was his beast. “Go bother her then if you think you can outwit a slip of a girl,” he bid his unwelcome guest. “I will have no more of you.”



And with that he slammed his door upon the jubilant Corsair, made his way down the long winding corridor and propped for a moment at the doorframe to the hall. It took just as long the second time as it had done the first, to obtain the attention of the She-Elf. She was in the thick of all the dancing which, now that he came to think of it, she had made good efforts in starting. The Lord Earenolwe had charged the maid with the flaming hair toward this aim after all. A feast, a party of sorts, to mend the fragile relations between Elves and Dwarves. A sore trial and a challenge. The feast had been the emissary’s brainchild. The excited She-elf had conceived the theme; Eregion and Khazad-Dum. Songs she bade them sing of the great glories their two cultures had combined to see beloved. Nariel had even brought her paternal aunt, Mallosel, to prove to the Dwarves that the Sinda was not unreasonable. Iggy would have far rather that she had brought other, equally unreasonable, friends, like Silugnir. But he was gone to visit upon Tol Sangwa, apparently. Something to do with his Uncle’s astronomy Guild. Which the Dwarf believed far less than the likelihood that Erfaron was dodging all the dancing here at home.

“It is done ?” Nariel ascertained, winding restless feet toward Hammerstorm. “They shall seek me ?” she would be reassured. Her intrigue brought to mind a young, excited lover, caught up in the prospect of a secret tryst in the woods. There would, at least, be woods involved. That was where the similarity of this scenario though ended.

“I told the Man what you told me to tell him,” the Dwarf confessed, nursing serious misgivings but unable to deny her. “Still don’t like it though. He won’t like it either.” There was no need to clarify whether 'he' now referred to Erfaron or Tharmaras, since clearly both and either of them would disapprove of the She-Elf’s plan. She was a rare thing the two Elves had in common and Matsu (though none knew it as yet) had mistook the one protector for the other. Still, his target would strike true, if this went awry.

Mallosel however had swiftly been enlisted to task, dismissive of any thought for danger save to thrive on the adrenaline. “I would be about this,” the Sinda declared her desire to start, joining her paternal niece and ignoring her host. What had been proposed appealed to her far more than acting jovial and amiable with a hall of Dwarves. Though perhaps she stood alone in that regard.


***With permission granted to reference characters not mine, in the narration/not actually Rpd here by me.***

[Ercassie]

Bad Blood – Part 2





Matsu Halsad and his jackal of Harad
Vs
The combined conspiracy of Iggy Hammerstorm and Bronte Gildbrow
Dwarves of Ered Lindon

He entered the forest with all the premature swagger of purpose in a bold advance, the support of a dozen comrades to swell his confidence. Any misgivings about his errand were put down by the curdling howl unleashed by his gluttonous jackal. The beast had after all took small time to seize upon the scent of their oblivious quarry. This lead he assumed would culminate in capture. And in that he was not wrong, but that he was not quite the hunter he believed. He was himself being hunted, and he knew it not.

The first clue ought to have been the unlikely desertion of his blood hound. No sooner had the beast of Harad proclaimed the chase forth, it rounded upon itself with a speed which near bowled his Master over. Matsu and his crew whipped about in the brute’s wake, left to gape after it’s avid flight back the way they had come; their faces a tapestry of bewilderment. More than one of the Corsairs began to voice silent trepidation as to their proceeding. For was the desertion of their cur not a sure omen of some ill portent ?


It proved so for the Jackal itself, if none else. Bait was the name of this game and Iggy Hammerstorm had unearthed the largest and most juicy slab of venison that he could make a trophy of in such short time. His apprentice, Bronte Gildbrow raised the bleeding, still warm hunk of meat which stood as tall as he, when the younger Dwarf was not shuddered down into a slumping prop beneath it’s heft.


“Wait for it,” Iggy rumbled through his huge thatch beard. “Hold ....”

“I am holding,” Bronte grunted, growing all the more hapless as the baitmeat’s warm blood trickled over his outstretched hands. He was spared from making sore enquiry of what was taking quite so long, when the sound of scattered stones fell aside from swift pounding paws across the bare-backed vista. All at once a weight collided with the fleshy shield, and the young Dwarf was heaved a good count of feet from where he had been stood, on impact. A moment of panic swamped the would-be-miner as he floundered, his sight shadowed by the heft of what hampered his every movement.


After what felt like an hour but which could have only been but minutes, Iggy shouldered what was left of their bait, capsizing it with a rather cavalier snort and one great, burly arm. Bronte emerged from his showseat and surveyed the devastation of their goal.


The Jackal lay several feet, prone, from where it’s decapitated head had rolled and settled, great roils of deep garnet sap belching from the ruptured arteries to nourish the earth. The same mawkish spill stained one half of an almighty axe.

“Feast on that, you slobbering flea nest,” the Dwarven warrior slung his colossal weapon with an unnerving lack of effort and some gluttoned satisfaction in his hair-framed face. His apprentice kicked at the exotic dog and cast a half-mournful glance about the ruined meat which had served the beast’s fate.


“Waste of good meat, that,” Bronte lamented, before harrying behind Hammerstorm. Leaving the dead jackal to the flies, the true victors of an unlooked for feast.

Matsu Halsad and the crew of ‘The Scourge’
being led a merry (dangerous) dance by Nariel Eregwen
The Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond

‘Neath the eaves of Forlindon wood, the Corsairs stood in a broken circle, awaiting with baited breath for the return of their dread mascot, or word from their leader to leave it behind. They were practiced to follow the Jackal, literally and here in an alien surround, all sense of normalcy was slowing being skinned of their embassy. In the face of their apparent indolence, a soft trilling rippled on the cooling breeze, a taunting dare to proceed against all better judgement. It was just a bunch of trees ! It was just some foolish girl who capered like a blind doe somewhere close at hand ! Matsu curled his fingers around the comfort of his cold, steel cutlass. A symbol of strength and man-made determination in the overwhelming face of nature herself. He would not turn back, could not. And so, he set upon his path, as expectation fell away and apprehension slithered in it’s stead.

As though bidden by the unseen She-Elf’s song, the nearest tree shook out the lengths of it’s long limbs; which fluttered like the fleetest of fingers out of waiting sleeves, to conduct a dawning orchestra. All corners of the woodland at once took up a tranquil cacophony of melodious masterpiece. And, above them all, from the heart of the forest’s soul arose the dulcet trill of sweetfair song. At the first not unlike to all that accompanying birdsong, but the longer it endured, the clearer it became. Words, shaped by lips, but shared not by the mind of any Man there present. It was Elvishsong. And there ! A maid with long hair not unlike a comet’s tail, eyes as fluid as the sea, stood gathering the hem of her long burnished dress with one dainty white hand, a sprig of some wild scarlet posy bedecking the other. She endowed a gentle dusting of the ground in a half-circle, as though she blessed it with the small vivid spray of colour that graced her hold. And then she was off, darting with head bowed, her hands flung high, as she reeled on her toes, stirring up the leaf litter like a flurry of mist in her wake.


He had not cared to learn the name of the elusive vixen, only that she was held dear to that Elf Matsu had been wronged by. Robbed of vengeance against the one, he would have it indirectly, through the other. That was all that mattered. It took no time for the Corsair to acknowledge that she seemed not to have laid down any mind toward her being followed. Alone in the woods, prancing, frivolous, so vulnerable. So Elvish, he might have rolled his eyes if the maid’s lunacy had not proven so fortunate. Her signature russet tresses splashed through breaks in the unarmed foliage. Like the sun searing through wisps of cloudcover. Her light-hearted refrain summoned forth pursuit as would the ribbons of a fly-away kite.


The crew of the ‘Scourge’, as a man, made after the ripples which her capricious passage conceived, until they could see her not. But snatches of fairest laughter turned their heads in every which direction. To heights in trees which she could not have ascended so swift. To here, and there, and all at once where she could not be all at one time. If but one Man had paid heed to how far he had been induced from his fellows, then he might have concerned smart about his plight. But each Man amongst them believed he and he alone had chanced upon the maiden’s trail, and so each, alone, they followed. And each went further from his friends than he ever realised.

[Ercassie]

Bad Blood – Part 3




Mallosel Ehtyanar and her granddaughter, Ennora Rameryn
The Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond

Ennora lounged easily along a long slanting branch, her legs set at an upward angle against the tall vase split of it’s trunk to hold her pose. A flayed skirt of mottled dun and chartreuse allowed for constant flexing of her restless limbs but she was in no fear of being noted. The Woodelf was cocooned in a softened corset fashioned out of feathered sheathes of thin, layered bark so that she was almost indistinguishable from her perch. Her rufescent locks tumbled in a hood to blur the perfect oval of her face, where large bright eyes of warm brown gleamed like amber beads. Unwilling to warble like a bird, nor prance amongst the tree-roots, she had played as squirrel; leaping and then crouching, snaking up about the greatest heights of tall trees. Strong limbs bore her weight aloft and every deliberate movement kicked up soft soundless clouds of nature’s daubed confetti that it span and sailed down to where her pursuit trouped in willing subjugation.

One such Man had persevered where most others had merely become embroiled and lost. This one steered his wary but tenacious advance into the clearing below. He was not unhandsome, with such dark eyes and a strong jawline and it occurred to the Woodelf that she had no means of knowing if this man were one of those they were luring into the trap. He might just as soon have wandered aimlessly into the forest. But .. no Men came into Lindon so her grandmother had counselled. She regarded the oblivious Mortal a time more sadly, knowing in her heart what she must do but now that it came to it, aggrieved because the doing was more difficult. He was like a small vole skittering across a moonlit field, and she the all-knowing hawk, who had sanctioned his demise before he ever registered his peril. He was close to passing on from her position, undisturbed, when the elleth gave a sigh.


It sounded just enough for the Corsair to halt and turn in a small circle where he stood. He glanced every which way but upward, though she saw his knuckles tighten to the point of white about his basket-hilted sword. Rising as she might from slumber, Ennora brought her legs down in the same shift, and dropped each upon a side of her broad branch now, winding them deftly into place to support her. Rearing up in her seat, she laid one hand sure against the bole for balance, and exhumed her spear from it’s repose toward it’s aim. The slender missile lanced the air with no whistle to betray it’s intent. The only sound was a pulpy ‘whomp’ as the silver leaf-shaped blade broke through the Man’s throat, thrusting to a point which did not quite pierce the flesh at it’s back.

Dropping from her perch, the Woodelf warily approached her ‘kill’. He was not quite killed. He had staggered backward, his sword careering now wildly in front of him as though he could still ward her off until, reaching a trunk at his back, his whole collapsed like a pile of dirty laundry with one leg bent under him. As she edged closer, his handsome eyes found hers, his lips parting in frantic spasms as might a fish flung onto dry land, struggling to breath. All the time she wished that it would end, it carried on, until she could not bear it any more. The same moment that his hand fell limp, it’s blade now forgotten by his side, Ennora cast what strands of her long hair had sought to dab at her tears, over one shoulder. She leant in and clasped her spear with both hands, meeting his eyes so intent upon her face as she extracted her weapon. A fresh geyser of blood erupted from the wreck of his windpipe, and the WoodElf wheeled the polearm in hand, to bring it’s hilt down heavy on the Mortal’s head. His life’s blood continued to seep from his throat down his clothes like vomit, but he would not know now when the moment came he was no more.



A roar propelled the other Corsair who she had not seen approaching in a lumbering stumble of a charge. Though her chest caught in a flutter and she yearned to never have dropped down from the refuge on high, it became apparent that he was not so much running to her but from something else. The blast which broke from his thrown-wide mouth was not so much a battle cry as it was drawn up from the deepest pit of terror. He blundered over his own feet as Ennora quietly sidestepped his landslide of an entrance. Inhaling leaves, the unfortunate scrabbled on hands and knees. He laid eyes about her, and without the She-Elf ever having to react, he cowed, dropping his head in dejection.


“Akshur,” he panted, in a foreign speech she did not understand. Then added, “Back there .. !!”

Perplexed, the WoodElf threw sight up as whatever plagued him stalked swift in the wake of her designated victim. For that was his state, in her mind, and in moments. Mallosel’s spear gored the crawling Corsair in the same second that he sought to rise up and flee anew. The limp sagging of his lifeless body slumped upon it’s stem, as the wooden spear’s honed blade planted firmly in the ground.

The Sinda spat her curse on the wilting corpse, standing boldly akimbo with long hair the hue of caramel descending in twirled cords of bullion over both shoulders. Mallosel was swathed in leaves of interwoven fern and juniper hued cloth, the fall of which convoluted close to form, as though a second skin of downy moss. Braided corkscrews of what looked like flawless vine meandered down each of the She-Elf’s supple arms, and gathered about each wrist as might a writhe of snakes, denouncing any need for conventional bracers. Some things never change and she was one such thing.

Her knee veered in a sharp angle as the foot below found purchase against the unfortunate Corsair’s shoulder, and the Sinda extended her pliant limb so that the flaccid lump of the dead was eased the entire length of it’s penetrating stake. Mud from her boot left it’s imprint on the crimson cape which now served as the Mortal’s shroud. Ennora’s grandmother held out her free hand, and clasped the other She-Elf in kinship.


“Veer right,” the younger was instructed, in the briefest passing between them before the game renewed. “I will have what’s left.”

Matsu Halsad come close now to Nariel Eregwen
Departing the Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond

All across the forest whirs of movement, shadows leaping, darting, declared the slow decimation of the Corsair crew. One by one they fell, as leaves torn from their tenuous bond of tree. Matsu, self-possessed, had not an inkling of his apparent isolation from where he had spearheaded their advance. He was not laid low with alarm by the lack of sound which should have signalled his jeopardy. He but revelled in the opportunity to better note his quarry. No novice to wading through the lush jungles of Far Harad, Matsu held no qualms that he could vanquish this muted, pale woodland. He scoffed from the outset at the faded silverbark, the trees here sprouting up so arbitrary, as though scattered ancient statuettes, each lost and abandoned from even one another.

The trees in the south were an impregnable labyrinth of deep black stems, each vying against the other for some strain spilt of the high sun. There a Man was forced to make his path through the undergrowth by sweat, and blood, to observe a breath-taking kaleidoscope of sharp contrasting colours. In the jungle there was no fear of silence, for the cacophony of a vast array of life, never ceased. The ravenous gurgle of waterfalls, the scream and hoot of monkeys and the endless miasma of bugs that swarmed you, a living, buzzing veil of insects.


This was far from the Jungles of the Sunlands, and all that he had thought he knew. Here the only sound was stillness, an anticipation, tattooed by the gentle thunk of hollowed-reeds hung in small clusters from the outspread branches of forked trees. Disrobed all by autumn’s clutch, their toothed green leaves had come to yellow hue, pirouetting each in their unspoken turn, down to clad the ground like a storm of gold-spun doilies. They rustled underfoot, those fragile skeletons of summer, faded paper-thin and crumbling to nothing but dust and memory. He would have the memory of his embarrassing defeat rendered to dust as well. By this latest, presumptuous triumph already in reach ..

Come then to the hem of the dulcet surround, the Corsair obtruded through the already receding treeline, as a swimmer thrashing through the fine haze of a dream. It required a short moment's worth of blinking to attune his senses to the revised ambience as calm woodland fell away behind him and he scanned the stark horizon against the scream of a bitter wind. There was little challenge in deducing the intention of his mark. There was but the one direction she could take up if to know now shelter. The lone white tower, stood, it seemed, against the edge of the entire world.

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda (Mystery Maiden) and the Dunedain Arnubên
Fort Gloaming

The Mystery Maiden laid on a bed there was nothing left that they could do now but let her sleep. And sleep she did, as if she were dead and locked in a dragon spell unmoving and if one did not have plate or glass to hold to her mouth and nose one would not have even known that the elleth was breathing at all. As the night came to a close they expected her to begin to stir with Arien and the singing birds around the Fort as the storm that had blown up earlier in the evening continued to fade. Arnubên and the rangers noted that the sun broke red and they knew that there had been deaths from that storm that and come up so violently and swiftly and had started to dissipate just as quickly it seemed as all that was left by the crimson rays of the sun was bursts of clouds smattered on the western horizon that held only the barest threat of rain.

He set young rangers to check the nearby grounds to see what damage had been done by the storm, after all if there was one stricken maiden there could be others and they may not have been so blessedly fortunate as the Green Maiden as they had taken to calling the elleth in the green dress. Arnubên went to where he had found the maiden in the storm the previous night and tried to find out where she had come from. When he retraced his steps which where heavy and pressed deep into the mud from the rain to where he had found her and frowned. He bent low his brow furrowed as he looked closely, he knew elven prints were hard to detect but in the rain even the lightest foot steps would have left some information for him to follow. Aragorn might have seen something, but the leader of the Dunedain was no where near them so he could not ask him his thoughts on this. He couldn't find even the barest trace beyond one foot step towards Fort Gloaming and then crushed grass and an imprint of the maiden on the ground. He looked being as light footed as he could be he circled as far as he could looking for any sign of where she had come from. He could not understand how she had arrived there, there were no steps at all from any direction. He returned to the Fort by noon and went to check on the Green Maiden, she still hadn't stirred in the least and he and the healer both were concerned.

Reports came in slowly and soon they were certain there were no other casualties near Fort Gloaming by the time evening meal came round every one had returned from their task and the clouds in the west and fully dissipated and it had been a warm and beautiful day, eventually they did get notice that there had been dwarves slain in the storm but not near enough to them that they could do much about it. Arnubên for his part decided that as Arien cast an equally ruby glow on the horizon as she dipped down in the east that he would try to wake her up and see if he could get information from her directly. She was still sound asleep but had in fact turned ober in the bed which was more movement from her than any of them had seen so far over the last almost full day. He leaned low and gently shook her shoulder trying to wake her.

She let out a small groan and then Arnubên found himself on the floor struggling to keep a dagger - his own dagger he realized- from his throat as a set of bright blue eyes staring at him as he tried to buck the elleth off of him. "My Lady you're safe, we found you outside the Fort!" That seemed to wake her from her trance and she blinked.

"Dunedain?" She said and drew back the dagger from his throat and rolled off of him leaving him coughing as he rolled onto his side and pressed himself up.

"Indeed I've never been tossed like that by a maiden."

Fuin for her part pressed the heal of her hand to her head and pinched her eyes shut before looking down at herself and the dress she was in her nose wrinkling. "I don't remember where this dress came from it's not..." she paused trying to remember what she had been wearing the last thing she remembered was going after Hatholdir in the unseen at the Masquerade. "It's certainly not something I would normally wear." She said and put her fingers up and touched her hair that had been somehow put into delicate plates that framed her face the flowers had been plucked out by the healer and her nose wrinkled. "Morgoths bloody werewolves. Tell me that you've got extra clothing here I can have I am not wearing this any more. I will put the knife back to your throat and steal your damn clothing if I have to."

This brought a laugh from Arnubên "This I can help you with preferably without the knife at my throat." With that he stood up and took his dagger back before helping her back to her feet. "Though I would like to know how someone that we've come to know as the Green Maiden tossed me around like I was a new recruit."

"You may know me as Fuin - and I am an Taidril with the Ost Halatir, I've been fighting in Wars since before Numenor existed, so don't feel too badly." Arnubên chuckled.

"Fuin is a name I have heard, you are who we at times send our weapons to in Imladris when they need to be repaired - you are the Grand Master of the Tingdain. Let's find you something more suitable to wear and not from my closet, you've got a good two inches on me the pants will fit horribly and you'll be in flood pants." At this Fuin laughed as well as they went to raid a taller dunedains belongings for pants and a shirt.

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.

[Ercassie]

Bad Blood - Part 4




Matsu Halsad, in pursuit of vengeance
Come now upon Uilosorn, on the cliffs North-west of Mithlond,
still in sight of Forlindon Woods.

The architect had named it ‘Uilosorn’, the everwhite tree. For though the pallid tower bore up seemingly out of the very clifftop, it’s stone roots ran deep. All the way down to the sea which roiled at the base of the indifferent rockface as does an infant whine and grumble at it’s distracted mother’s skirt.

There beneath the water had a secret channel worn away the stoic stone, forging a slender and airless, claustrophobic passage to the lowest level of the residence above. The stairs ascended in a wearying mount from this depth to the highest perch of the lonely bleached spire. And who could say what the reclusive resident did besides the walking of those stairs. For rare was it she received any guests. Until the day that Nariel learned of her. And would not be turned away.

Menellótë Silosse was not accustomed to playing the hostess. Those few friends she deigned to spend time with would find her come about their lands, that she might always leave when she was weary of company. There were few who might ever consider calling upon her at home regardless. Those who knew her would not press themselves upon her without cause. Those who knew her not, knew of the rumours, that some wailing beast (‘tis claimed) abides deep in the lowest levels of her solitary residence. Sometimes the most dejected cries of such torment carried through the windtrap of Uilosorn, and were liberated into the clear sky to bear down woe and grief on all that heard them. And sometimes it was just the wind itself, bolstered by an inflated reputation. The wind did not fear the daughter of Lindesul.


Matsu knew naught of the legend of ‘Uilosorn’, nor possessed the slightest clue or care for who might call that abstruse structure home. The image of the girl with flaming hair, he’d pursued all about the forest lured him still, as a siren here upon the shore. Her voice rose and fell as her capering silhouette likewise wove in and out of the burgeoning mist. The Umbarian raised his free hand to shield narrowed eyes. His other hand found still confidence in his sword. The fact that he stood now forsaken by his beast and divided from his brutes, did not tell him enough of the odds he faced and would not have made difference if he had observed such facts. He had faced the odds before, and he had survived.

The eldest, though his brothers had not looked to him as children as much as he had demanded they heed him. Keket believed himself to be ‘so’ cunning, and Uhta outweighed any other who might try to move his indomitable heft. But Matsu, he was naught if not a leader. And when the other children in the streets had called the triplets out for being sons of a slave, it was Matsu who had roused them to stand up for themselves. It was Matsu who had raged and thrown himself in fury at any, child or other, who thought they could shame him. The first time, he had persevered against a small gang of other urchins, and earned himself countless bruises and worse in so doing, before ever his two brothers felt enough pride to support him. Their unshakable bond against the rest of the world was perhaps all that the siblings had in common. They went about their own interests and ambitions, but never were they more dangerous when the three were primed upon one mutual objective. And it always was always Matsu, the only one of the three who could make them one.


There were not here to help him on this day. Nobody was. But he was not a man to forego of a prize by any means. Neither was he like to baulk at the unknown. Much less when all his crew had looked to him to rain down vengeance, as he had sworn that he would. Matsu made a habit out of swearing. Promises and speeches ushered from his maw like flatulence from a boar’s backside. Or so he had been informed, by his mother. But it was a matter of pride for the Umbarian that he lived up to all that he assumed for himself. He had more to live up to than most. The world would never remember him if he did not stand out, and satisfy all of his promises. He had sworn to be avenged and he would be. Or be naught indeed.


The door gaped wide, even as he approached. An invitation he ought not accept, but would. A violent mobile of tiny bells convulsed like frantic puppets on the thin twine which hung them above the entrance. There was nowhere else the girl with flaming hair could have gone, but over the cliff. Part of him was sure that even an Elf would not be so foolish. The other, dominant part of him would have trespassed inside the tower, whether his quarry were drowned or not. There was much of an adventurer about the young Umbarian, and he could not think of a place existing without the knowledge of his mastery over it. To intrude and leave his mark would be to conquer another new enclave. And it’s treasures he meant to pillage. The girl, and .. whatever else he might encounter.

The sand made him stall, not because he feared it but because it was some way up a long and winding trail from the nearest beach. Somebody had bourne that sand back here, a toil strange indeed, when it had clearly been employed only in building sandcastles. All about the circular room where he found himself. There was no mistaking that the structures were quite intricate, or that they could not be thought as unimpressive. Still, to even Matsu’s eyes it seemed rather a pointless venture. Whatever he had expected of an Elf’s home to look like, this was far from any inkling. There was little furniture save for the incessant mobile. And it was conjuring up such a headache for him that one hand seized it down, and to ground. Boots shattered the fragile decoration underfoot and a smile pulled at the Corsair’s face in some glee at the (though meagre) devastation. He commenced the kicking apart of all three sandcastles in the room, for good measure. The room did not react or retaliate, silence rounded off the tapestry of shells, pressed into the stone for skin. A high orbit of tracery window frames allowed light to pour in through the mosaics all of mottled sea-glass.


The Corsair astounded at the odd apparel of the room, and for all the lack of substance obstructing his view, soon located a door at the far end opposite. He almost imagined that it would lead back outside, but this nestled just ajar; a wall hung of driftwood which looked like it had been scavenged of some shipwreck, and hung, ill fitting to meet the frame upon all sides. Beyond it’s insufficiency were steps curving both upwards and downwards, a lone rope coiled through intervals of rusty iron rings to serve as bannister in both directions.

The enduring wisps of Elvish song called from the depths rather than heights of the tower. And so downward Matsu went, clutching at the rope to steady one hand, his scimitar held aloft in the other, as though it were a torch which might lend him sight. It would have been advantageous, for the further that he went from the front room, the deeper the darkness, until the man might as well have swum in ink. He could see not his hand before him, and the stone steps which he puzzled must be of white stone, as was the entire tower, yet evaded his eye. There were times they grew steeper, to fool him, and in other places abruptly more narrow, so that his feet stumbled and hung over the edges. It was impossible to gauge a safe passage, but he could not turn back now. It felt he had been winding down the levels of the earth for so long that thoughts he could still turn back and be forced to ascend the same distance was exhausting. Besides, the girl’s merry prattling persisted, and it was not in the Corsair’s nature to retreat where a mere ‘slip of a girl’ would dare lead.


Finally even her song seemed to desert him, else other sounds which became more and more prevalent merely drowned out the trill. There were drips now, from every which direction, and occasionally to burn the Man’s temple with a piercing cold. The wailing began in earnest, and if he had heard the stories of the creature abiding in the white tower, he might have been fearful. But for all that he knew, it was one Elf girl alone. So puffing out his chest, the Corsair rallied onward.

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda (Mystery Maiden) and the Dunedain Arnubên
Fort Gloaming

One slightly upselt Dunedain later Fuin was no longer in the dress and she'd pulled the fancy flowers and braids from her hair and tied them back in her archers braids and Arnubên nodded. "Yes that is the Fuin I would recognize given the descriptions that sometimes come from the men." He said with a chuckle and Fuin could not help but to laugh.

"I've worn a dress recently not this one, but I'd dare to say that nobody recognized me in it. At least I know how I can slip away unnoticed if I ever want to" She said with a laugh stretching and getting use to the different clothing. They weren't her style either nor were they really cut for her but they were far superior to the dress.

"Well I can say I saw-" The look that the Dunedain got for thinking of stating he saw Fuin Elda in a dress was quite honestly enough to make him stop and rethink all of his life choices up until that moment. "absolutely nothing. I saw nothing."

As this Fuin nodded. "I need to go back to Lindon, I do not know how I got here do you have any horses that aren't needed for a few days? I'll set him free to run home once I get where I am going." She said calmly trying to remember just how she had come to be at Fort Gloaming and why she was in a dress that was not hers and she didn't even know where it would have come from.

"Aye we always have a few spare horses and Lindon is not too far away though how did you get here from Lindon?" Arnubên asked frowning. Fuin for her part gave a shrug

"I do not remember at all, perhaps I'll find something out in Lindon itself, I am suppose to go on a cruise departing from there to relax, perhaps I'll find answers on that I would have sworn that I was in Lindon only the other night and I do not remember travelling. Something ill perhaps is afoot?" Fuin shrugged once more. "I will start right away, I have slept long enough I think I could not rest another hour." To this the Dunedain nodded and led her towards the stables.

[Ercassie]

Bad Blood – Part 5




Matsu Halsad, faced with Nariel Eregwen and Menellótë Silosse, Mallosel Ehtyanar and Ennora Rameryn
The Tower of Uilosorn, on the cliffs North-west of Mithlond

The steps of Uilosorn took him for a sleepwalker, so long had the Corsair been tasked with not tumbling their entire descent. The echo of his own advance seemed at times to jest with the man’s heightened mind, and imagine that there were footsteps of many chasing him, from both directions. But there was only Matsu upon the stair. And he fled from himself so often that his hand grew coarse through the friction of rope burn at his endless handrail. Finally his efforts or sheer obstinacy dispensed with reward, of a door that opened up into a dimlit chamber. There had been some countless such doors he had passed upon his journey ever downwards, though he had not noted them in all the pitch of shadow.

This room though, was high ceilinged, and though the floor remained obscure, there was some ring of good many candles squatting on a circled shelf that ran a dizzying orbit around the room’s circumference. Wax dripped off the edge of that stone shelf like tiny stalactites. Laughter also drizzled down from unreachable heights. Beneath a bonfire of the She-Elf’s blazing hair, her face could be gleaned amidst the drape of a burnt-golden ball gown, the hang of two slender white legs. Nariel was perched upon that same high shelf, casting as much colour as the tight-packed stumps of wax cast light.

Glancing up at his elusive prey, Matsu nigh slipped where he stood, even as he astounded how she had climbed aloft. Elves did not, to the best of his knowledge, fly. Nariel, allowing a hand on either side of her to anchor sure balance, swung her legs and even dared to wave at the Umbarian, afore a second sprinkling of mirth saw him close to explosion. There had to be an answer to such a riddle, the Man knew, though he knew not what it was. Warily he ventured further into this new round room, and could only find for all his explorations, the sound of water, close at hand. Closer than he’d come all this long way.


The longer he scrutinised his surroundings, the more sure that he became there was a hole in the centre of the floor. Silver glistened thereabouts, as it pollutes an old woman’s hair, betraying the motion of the sea below. A hole then, it seemed, leading to where there was water aplenty. Still no ladder. And he saw small recompense in going further down when he wished to instead rise up. At least the damp might answer though for why the Corsair was so easily from right balance, sliding as though the floor had been iced or polished so excessively, that he could not make purchase where he stood.

That was the moment, that uneasy moment in which Matsu feared the tide of doubts would gush forth from beneath him and be done with it. For his eyes caught notice of some figure, and she stood as still as stone, as pale as the walls, as silent as the scream which he dragged back down his treacherous throat. Silosse’s hair was spun of pure snow, her eyes as ghastly mesmerising as an advancing blizzard. Her garb was so fluid about her that it seemed she wore the wall itself. And she smiled, to see that he saw her. Though she spoke not at all. She did not laugh as the other had. She simply stared.

How long she had stood there while he'd obliviously sought his bearings, the bewildered intruder could not have said. Still it was another She-elf, and hasty then was the search he threw about the room to identify more, if there were any more here to be seen. Never had the man known such unease, as the tower clocked a shuffle of footsteps approaching from the staircase behind him, to find himself surrounded at last by folk of the fairer sex. By the time he'd begun inching back toward the way he had come in, Mallosel and Ennora were come, a two headed monster to block any retreat. The corsair was already considering that hole into dark waters as more a means of escape than cause for alarm ! Quite how this had gone from he and his outnumbering a mere slip of a girl, to he alone standing solo and surrounded by She-elves .. They did not speak, the one up in the rafters cut her silvery laugh off, abruptly. Then the two barring the door showcased their spears, and the one that seemed to walk out of the wall itself .. raised her trident high.

At that point all the candles were extinguished from their high and distant hope. The room went dark. The Umbarian swallowed, then reached for his blade and his courage both.

[Ercassie]

Bad Blood – Part 6



Matsu Halsad, Captain of the ‘Scourge’
Losing himself and his mind, in the Tower of Uilosorn

It had been a sometime dream of his, to be surrounded by a round of fairest females. But in all that time he had imagined it, Matsu’s heart had never clattered quite so hard against his ribs. It verged somewhere between terror and excitement, and he was not sure what was about to happen, but he raised his sword erect to warn all he was no craven. He would meet it standing, as the man he was. Dark hair strained against the pitch and the great length of time he had descended down the staircase now weighed heavily upon his mind, where all thoughts flailed like a flock of startled birds, confined in his skull. The eyes of Elves, tis said, by contrast are stars that do not diminish in the darkness. They would see him still, in this, their lair. And he stood blinking uselessly, surrounded, in a trap he’d walked into of his own accord.

Even as the mellow light had been extinguished, the Corsair had thrown up a glance to gaze one final time upon the beautiful smile of his prey. If it were to be the last thing he would perhaps ever see in all the world, it could have been worse. A sailor drawn to his doom by a siren of the sea, well, the seaside. But there was time not to fester in such a maudlin despair, when new perils and concerns abounded. The Man turned in a belated, vain hope of which direction he believed the doorway stood, but found in the moment that he made to run that his feet were taken out from under him. The entire floor began to rise, and yet not solid. A distinct sprinkle of shattering bells assailed the Umbarian’s ears as he found that what he’d thought was wet floor, was in fact a web of kinds. A web it seemed spun of silver, bejewelled with the shrill song of small bells, it’s unrelenting metallic ribbons slender, cold and slippery.



A sailor as much as an adventurer, the eldest son of Halsad fared better than another might. Decks he’d rode awash with fierce and grasping waves. Nets he’d climbed and masts, to unfurl sails. But in darkness, assaulted by countless ringing bells, the man slipped and slithered as he sought to disentangle first his ankles and then his calves out of the cloying web. For a time thenafter he manfully managed to bear a while on his hands and knees upon the treacherous mesh, avoiding the chasms where his hand randomly plummeted through, his breath escaping until he retrieved nerve. And when it seemed at last that the floor net had ceased rising, the Corsair, his blade caught still within one hand, tried to force a larger hole or means else to escape this reckless tide. But this net was not meant for giving. This net was for keeping.

It was only once the man had stalled his struggle that he realised the bells were chiming not for naught, but to signify the motion of another, who traversed the silvered net besides him. Their shifting silver stage was further raised about the edge, and there it seemed that something circled the depression which clawed to have him. Carrying about the outskirts it was, that unseen albatross, ever moving closer in a whirlpool’s pull. Matsu hauled at his blade which had become tangled, grasping otherwise the metal streams he balanced on. The bells raised up their beautiful pandemonium to yet greater degrees, and the man darted his helpless eyes about him, as though expecting the sky itself to fall upon him from above. There were whispers in his ear that made the corsair flick his head incessantly. There seemed wings, far larger than spanned any bird, that soared and then closed fast about him. The Corsair fell into a strange half-recall of sitting in a playhouse he had made with a sheet draped across two out-facing chairs, and how it had felt when that silken canopy sunk down to engulf him.


The snagged blade fell loose, fell through the net and from his reach, as the unseen web began more and more to turn. Come to his behind upon a rising seat, fiercely he swiped left and right and any else which way that he might imagine the presence arriving, but there was never any purchase made. Just sound. Just that feeling. Just the fear. As though he were being swallowed without ever even realising it. Floundering he lost one leg through the firm-woven mesh, and felt his foot strike the cold floor below. In seeking to heave it back up, his hand slipped on the smooth strands they clung to, and his face met the horrifying mask of the silver net against his face. A grunt managed to right himself out of the countless holes, even as the bells swarmed all sound until there was too much and not enough to hear all at once.

He never saw the blunt end of the trident coming, and when it struck hard at the back of the man’s head, Matsu could have sworn he saw a wave of silver butterflies all pulping to macerate that blended with his skin, his eyes, his ears. On opening his mouth to scream, he choked on nothing but a lack of consciousness. And finally was still.