Mirkwood Free RP

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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"Now of old the name of that forest was Greenwood the Great, and its wide halls and aisles were the haunt of many beasts and of birds of bright song; and there was the realm of King Thranduil under the oak and the beech. But after many years, when well nigh a third of that age of the world had passed, a darkness crept slowly through the wood from the southward, and fear walked there in shadowy glades; fell beasts came hunting, and cruel and evil creatures laid there their snares. Then the name of the forest was changed and Mirkwood it was called, for the nightshade lay deep there, and few dared to pass through,
save only in the north where Thranduil's people still held the evil at bay."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age
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"Wood-elves...are not wicked folk. If they have a fault it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong,
even in those days they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West, and were more
dangerous and less wise. For most of them (together with their scattered relations in
the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went to Faerie in the West.
In the Wide World the Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon but loved best the stars;
and they wandered in the great forests that grew tall in lands that are now lost. They dwelt most often
by the edges of the woods, from which they could escape at times to hunt, or to ride and run
over the open lands by monlight or starlight; and after the coming of Men they took even more
and more to the gloaming and the dusk. Still elves they were and remain, and is Good People.
The subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts
on the ground and in the branches. The beeches were their favourite trees."
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Flies and Spiders

"The Silvan Elves were hardy and valiant, but ill-equipped with armour or weapons
in comparison with the Eldar of the West; also, they were independent...
compared with the Elves of Doriath his Silvan Elves were rude and rustic."

- Tolkien, Unfinished Tales: Appendix B - The Sindarin Princes of the Silvan Elves
Rules:
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This is a Free RP so you may RP any stories here privately or with other members.
The time is 3014 but "flashback RP'ing" roleplaying in the past, is welcome.
You may visit the Imladris Activities OOC for out of character remarks and plotting. [/color] [/color]viewtopic.php?f=10&p=565#p565 /
Lirimaer has a thread for RP at Thranduil's halls specifically https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=414.
No one has claimed using Thranduil so I will be playing here in my thread.
Last edited by Eriol on Tue Nov 24, 2020 6:44 pm, edited 13 times in total.

Elven Enchanter
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Artinas yawned and stretched her arms above her head as she woke up. How long had she been asleep. It felt like it had been years. She slowly sat up and began to undo her long braid to brush it out. She might be an elf, but an elf still needed to take care of their hair. It didn't naturally stay smooth and shiny.

It was a cool, dark morning, just the type of morning that Artinas enjoyed. Even though she had travelled a fair amount and had spent a long period of her younger days in Lorien, the somewhat gloomy forest was where felt truly at home. Of course, there were places in the forest that one would not dare to venture (at least alone), but anywhere close to Thranduil's halls was sure to have that perfect balance of gloom and joy.

Once her hair was ready, Artinas threw on a long, light cape, picked up her bow and arrows, and went out into the forest. Who knew what adventures this day would bring. It was looking to be a beautiful day and as she left her dwelling she wondered what old or new friends she might meet that day.

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Cinnamon "Cafe"

Down a random path in the middle of Mirkwood sometimes you will find a grove of cinnamon trees. Amongst those trees several have grown together to shape a sort of hut. If you venture through the opening in the trunks you come to one of the many wonders of the seemingly magical forest. It feels more open than you would have expected. The sun can actually be seen through the opening of the foliage. Then a warm, delightful aroma will hit your sensed, drawing you back to the room. There are boulders and oddly bent trunks of trees that make several places to sit, a few with similarly natural tables. In the center of the circular area there is a mound of stones, and while they look natural and random in their placement, you soon realize they make up a stone oven. On either side of this are more official, intentional, looking tables. One is littered with what just appears to be bits of bark. The other is obviously used as a cooking surface.The platters and pitchers, and even the cups and cutlery, all looking like they were grown for Radagast the Brown himself. In fact, even he was known to show up, and briefly forget this was not his own dwelling. You will find the elven proprietor, Veowyn, of this secret establishment usually seated there before the oven's opening, or standing tending to the bits of cinnamon bark.

Today is no different. Veowyn has an array of goodies ready for company. Apple cider steaming on top of the oven, trays of treats, all smelling of cinnamon some showing signs of apples and or chocolate. Her wolfhound, Trek, was laying lazily by the heated stones. Veowyn's normally loose curls were tied back in a mess of a bun that was streaked with flour, much like the apron that covered her simple green dress.

Suddenly, Trek's tail wagged and brushed her bare feet. Usually his only reaction to random guests, to the cafe, was perked ears. "Did the forest send us a familiar friend, boy? "

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Cinnamon “Cafe”

Not familiar, not yet.”, a deep voice almost whispered into the grove. Into the Cinnamon Cafe strolled a tall, broad shouldered and muscular elf. His gunmetal eyes peered out from a dark gray hood, as he looked upon the elven woman before him, a smile flashing across his sharp features. Peering down his hooked nose, the elf spoke again, “The smell in here is delightful, and I feel I could not have arrived at a better time.” Stepping up to Veowyn the elf extended his right hand, long and thin fingers at the end of a muscular arm.

It was at this moment that he noticed the large wolfhound that had stood up and approached him. Leaning a hand down he spoke first to the animal, ”Hello, friend. The name is Aulendur he flashed his brilliant white teeth again, ”I was led here by my nose, and it rarely gets me into too much trouble.”. Trek sat down, turning and giving Aulendur a sideways look before returning to his place beside Veowyn happy with the security of his mistress.

Aulendar approached Veowyn and it was now that she could see clearly that he was not typical for elves. He was tall like most elves, but also broad. His shoulders looked like those of a blacksmith, and his arms were built like thick cords. Turning and pulling the hood down from over his head, he revealed his striking features. Most elves could not grow facial hair until their third cycle, but Aulendur had a deep copper beard, with matching braided hair running down his back. He smiled freely, his hands on his hips. Wearing simple traveling clothes, mostly deep shades of green with a gray cloak. On his arms he wore circlets of copper, matching the copper piercings in his ears. On his back he wore a large bow, common among the Sylvan elves. Aulendur was one of the Avari, a family who had joined and made themselves one with the Sylvan elves of Lothlorien, but whose features had remained harsh and different. On his hip he bore a single long thick bladed falchion. Looking Veowyn in the eyes he spoke again,

”I was led here by my nose, and I hope to try some of your sweets. But my eyes have me stunned at your beauty. It is a pleasure to meet you...” and he waited for Veowyn to respond.

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CInnamon "Cafe"

"Indeed, not yet familiar. Welcome to my humble dwelling. A few have christened it 'Cinnamon Cafe'. I am sure you can deduce the reason." Veowyn's blue eyes twinkled with her smile in return to his. Trek had been pleased to meet this Aulendur and she would show no less enthusiasm, and placed her hand in his in return to the greeting. "My name is Veowyn, and you are correct. This is the perfect time. Though, the mysteries of Mirkwood would not have let anyone here otherwise." She winked, drawing her hand back from his after shaking it.

She did note the size and tone of this elf towering over her. There were not many elves with his particular set of features. They seemed even more rare than her own mixed Noldor and Vanyar features and short stature. His seemed like those right out of the lore scrolls that Aigronding had once made her and Thoreandan read from. Then, when his hood was pulled down she realized he had a beard! He could very well BE one of those very elves that the scrolls spoke about. And now he was here, in her quaint little kitchen. The moment of the realization only phased her enough for it to flash briefly in her eyes. Then she remembered she had met plenty of "historic" figures throughout her time. Besides she was a minor legend in her own right, not that she expected or even wanted Aulendur to even know about her own wild-thing past.

Veowyn's cheeks colored slightly at his flattering words. "Well, of course your nose led you here. This cinnamon grove is the only one like it." She boasted a little, the pride she felt for this little hidden wonder was evident. "Find a branch to hang your things, and take a seat. He would easily see a satchel, quiver, bow, and cloak hung on a tree opposite the opening to the cafe. "I shall bring you an assortment to try, along with some cider." She quickly turned to the baked goods that were still warm. She made a miniature pyramid of 4 cinnamon rolls, and surrounded them on the tray with the other treats. She also filled 2 wooden mugs with cider and brought it all to Aulendur.

"So, tell me: what brought you close enough to smell the cinnamon path? No one wanders this part of Mirkwood without purpose." She sat down across from him, her eyes again twinkling with delight, as she awaited his story on his travels.

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Cinnamon ‘Cafe”

Hanging his pack, sword, and bow onto a nearby branch, Aulendar took a seat across from the lovely woman whose kitchen he had randomly found. As Veowyn offered him a wooden mug full of cider, he sipped on it and smiled back at the woman whose twinkling eyes were capturing his eye and his attention. ”Well I am a craftsman, a smith, and I have traveled to Mirkwood to find some of the renowned Mirkwood crafting wood. I happened upon your abode while searching off the beaten path. He took one of the cinnamon rolls and bit into it deeply. Taking another sip of cider and clearing his throat he continued, ”And beyond that I am on my way to Erebor to improve my craft with the dwarves.

He took another bite, finishing off the first cinnamon roll and could not believe how sweet and tasty the cinnamon was, ”I must say this cinnamon is amazing better than the smell. How does one randomly find and live in a cinnamon hut?”. Aulendur was not only impressed with the tastes, and smells but also of the ingenuity of the entire cottage in the woods. He still had to look for some of the wood that was a tougher and more difficult crafting material, but now he was losing interest in that as he sat across from a beautiful elf whose mysterious cottage and amazing foods had intrigued him. He smiled, Veowyn, that is a pretty name, tell me about yourself.”

He leaned forward as he said this and looked into her eyes, his own slate gray eyes piercing hers. There was much more to her story just like there was much more to his, but any relationship is a bit of back and forth, each learning about the other in small tasty bites.

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Cinnamon "Cafe"

"Crafting wood. Hmmm." Veowyn pondered this for a moment. She took had skills in a crafting trade. Woodworking, carpentry. Aulendar said he was a smith, so it was not just any wood he needed, but rather something that also worked well with metal. She knew there were many rare types of wood and trees within the forest. However, the trees they were surrounded with would be of no help in that. Cinnamon trees are too soft for crafting. The bark is fragrant, flavorful even, and the sap and leaves are occasionally medicinal. I can even find use for the oil made from it. Those do not help your cause though." She tapped her finger on her lip, while she thought more.

She was brought out of those thoughts when Aulendar asked her about her cinnamon hut. "My parents started the grove. They brought saplings and seedlings when they moved to to this forest. Each brought a different type of cinnamon. One from Imladris, and the other from Lorien. You can see those first 4 trees out near the edge of the grove." She smiled, as the scene played out in her mind. "Once those trees reached their first blooms, they were cross pollinated, and gave us the seeds that grew the rest of the grove.

The grove was then left abandoned for many, many years."
A shadow briefly touched her eyes, she swallowed down a bit of cider and continued. When I found my way back here, several of the trees had grown around the area where my parents used to dry the bark. I merely encouraged them to come together more" The twinkle in her eye returned. She was proud of her little kitchen. The skills she had learned over her own travels had made this a most unique place. "Now, I get to share it with fascinating travelers, such as yourself. Not many elves would consider learning from the dwarven folks in Erebor. Though, dwarves do love to hone their crafts. "

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Cinnamon “Cafe”

Veowyn seemed to ponder the strange request of hardened woods for working with metals, and then began to inform him of the uses and properties of cinnamon trees. Aulendar stifled a laugh and then shook his head, ”I understand the uselessness of cinnamon in my ventures, I was brought here by my nose and my stomach; of course.”. He looked through the clearing and then back at Veowyn as she told the story of her particular grove.

He kept intent focus on her, watching her body language and her pride as she spoke of her parents. Then saw the shadows flood in as she told of the abandoning of the grove. Taking a mental note to remember this, Aulendar watching as the shadows receded and the twinkle again returned to Veowyn’s eyes as she proudly reclaimed her cinnamon grove in the story. Brushing his hand through his beard, knocking crumbs free that had gotten stuck with the glazed icing on the cinnamon rolls, he nodded as she spoke, ”Fascinating, and now you get to share it with travelers like myself. It is truly luck that brought me your way.“

He stood up and took the mug of cider, draining it with another sip before turning back to Veowyn. ”Your hospitality has been beyond reproach. I am honored to dine with you. Would you do me another favor and walk with me as I search for materials?“

He took the sword and attached it to his hip again and threw the bow over his back, before grabbing his cloak. ”Mirkwood can be rather dangerous, and I believe two would fair better than one. And you know the forest better than myself” Then he sheepishly looked over her and grinned, his angled bird like features glinting off the light of the cafe, ”And I would be lying if I didn’t want to know more about you, ma’am.”

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Elven Stables
Closing a part of Aelita's story from days long past.

For years Aelita had avoided passing through the woods of Mirkwood. The memories here were too painful, and there was nothing left for her here anyways. Her dear sister and most cherished friend on this earth, Lariel, had been all the family left to her when their mother disappeared, and when Lariel had died, Aelita felt as though her heart had gone with her. The news had come to her through a mutual friend when she had been back in the Riddermark for a brief time, and all she remembered afterward was falling to her knees in grief and despair. There was still so much she needed to say, laughs to share, hugs to hold..., but then none of that mattered and all she knew was that she wouldn't get to say goodbye. And, oh, how that truth weighed so heavy on her soul...

It had been exactly six years since Lariel's passing and since that time so much had changed. And yet, it was eerie how much things had also stayed the same. Sometimes it still felt like Lariel was there just beyond those trees or on the other side of a closed door, brooding as she was often apt to do, and at any moment she would appear, dropping the hood of her cloak and softening her face into a gentle smile that Aelita knew she only reserved for her closest family and friends. She missed that smile with her whole being, though now she took some comfort in knowing that it lived safe and sound in her heart and there wasn't a damn thing in all the world that could take it away.

As Aelita approached the plot of land where her childhood home, the Elven Stables, once stood, other memories began flooding back into her mind's eye. She thought of her adoptive mother, an elf, Sil-Gathien, and the first time she had carried Aelita home to meet her sister, Lariel, and other members of her extended family. She had been so young, a child, though from that moment onward she had never felt more loved or accepted in her entire life. But not long after her mother had disappeared and neither Lariel nor Aelita heard from her again. Now she wondered whatever happened to her and where she could be in this whole wide earth and if she was okay. Aelita bowed her head and after a moment brushed away a single tear. Then she touched her breast pocket to make sure what she carried was still there before carrying on to her old home.

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Cinnamon "Cafe"

"The forest is often in more control of our fates than we give ourselves" Veowyn said mysteriously. Even she had no scope of the full meeting, but she knew that it was always more than just the smell and hunger that led anyone to her little "cafe". Trek moved from his place near the oven to the door. The elf noticed that the fire in the oven was slowly dying. Looks like Aulendar would be her only guest today. So she was content to accept his request for a companion to travel the forest with. "It would be an honor to help your search. Trek and I will join you for a while. Let me grab a few things."

She rose and finished her mug of cider. She grabbed her bag, and placed a few things from the counter into it. Including a tin of cinnamon powder, a drawstring bag of bark and leaves, and vial with oil. As well as a few of the unused fruits and a loaf of bread. She then pulled on her boots. They were made from the black leather of an unnamed beast of Mirkwood, and they fit her like a second skin. She also slipped her over dress and apron off, traveling was much more comfortable in the light green tunic and tan leggings she had been wearing under the dress. She hung the discarded garments from a branch, and then dawned her gray cloak, and grabbed her quiver and bow. She had also attached a black belt and a dagger. The weapons were unique of themselves as well. The string of the bow was made of the threads of a giant spider, but it was the wood that was more important. She had decided she would lead him to the trees where she had found the wood for them. In the sunlight that came into the hut they were a pale gray, but the moment they were in the shade, they faded to a charcoal color that would blend with the shadows of the forest.

When she joined him at the opening of the hut, her hair had also been let down to reveal the fullness of her brown curls. She was almost a different person. "I must warn you." She said, looking up at Aulendar "While I know the forest, there are creatures within the forest that know me. Not all of them are friendly." She then took a look back at the hut, and nodded. Trek then led the way out of the grove.
Veowyn, Vandani, Jakiewyn, Caddrick, Ailura, Túrelia, Vigri, Vinca
Maldir - you are missed

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With Veowyn

The tall fiery haired, Aulendar stood patiently waiting for the wonderful baker to change into her traveling gear and collect her equipment. Under her apron and dress she wore a green tunic and tan leggings, then throwing on her gray cloak a transition seemed to occur overall . She went from the innocent looking baker into a battle hardened adventurer. The elf stroked his beard thoughtfully, taking mental note that Veowyn was, like one would expect from a mysterious elf, much more than she seemed. He laughed internally at the thought of underestimating her due to her innocent seeming baker persona.

As the large wolfhound, Trek, led the way into the forest, Aulendar held back, taking the rear of the group. As the least experienced in these woods, it would be for the best, that he protected the rear. One hand on his sword handle, the tall powerfully built figure seemed out of place beside Veowyn, who was the definition of quick and agile. Every step she took was purposeful and graceful. Like a prowling feline. Aulendar could help but watch her move through the forest as if she and it were one.

After a few minutes of silence, the male elf spoke in an almost melodic tone, “I have always believed that Mirkwood and its denizens are both beautiful and deadly, and seeing you in action does not dissuade me of those notions at all”. He chuckled, and turned to ensure that no person or thing was following them. Any journey through Mirkwood could be ones last, as if the forest itself was sentient, praying on its victims. Aulendar was distracted by Veowyn only so much as he was also hyper vigilant. He would not let anything negative befall them if he could.

Picking up his pace to keep up with the wolfhound and elf, Aulendar couldn’t help but wonder if his journey to Erebor was going to be cut short by some other adventure, if a distraction would pop up that was enough for him to cancel his plans moving forward. He was a craftsman, and that was his entire focus. But, the view from the rear guard was not bad.

Veowyn, tell me about yourself. What made you into this fierce being I see before me?”

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With Oro's Aulendar

"What made you into this fierce being...?" He asked. She stopped, b trialsut did not look back at him at first. Her eyes darkened, as the memories flooded her thoughts. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, and she made a fist at her side.

When Veowyn did finally look back at Aulendar, she only had one word for him. "Survival." She rested a hand on Trek's head when he came back to her. She knew this would not be enough to truly satisfy the curiosity of this wandering elf. She knew it would not have been enough for her own either. "I had to learn to survive on my own at much too young an age. Within this very forest. Even when it was still 'Greenwood the Great', it was not without dangers. I bore witness to it falling to 'mirk'." She shuddered. "My life has been filled with many of such lasting trials. But it is that which gives me intimate knowledge of the forest, and where to find the materials you seek. "

"We're a few hours treck away from where there should be a tree that will have what you need. Maybe you can tell me more of yourself? I'm sure someone seasoned as you has many stories to tell. Especially one who seeks for rare craft materials, and exclusive training. " She was hurried to get the topic of herself, as they started out again. She used the twisted trunk o a tree to climb up into the one next to it. She wanted higher ground, but still lead a path that allowed her companion the chance to walk on the ground still if he chose.
Veowyn, Vandani, Jakiewyn, Caddrick, Ailura, Túrelia, Vigri, Vinca
Maldir - you are missed

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It had been far too long since she had spent a quiet day in the forest, Artanis decided. Yes, there was a sense of gloom about the place, but then, there always was, at least when you started to get far away from Thranduil's court. At least, things were no longer near as gloomy as they had been some fifty odd years earlier. However, if the rumblings she had heard were true, something even worse than Dul Guldor was in the air. Shaking her head to try and rid herself of the darkening thought, Artanis decided to try her hand at some target practice. If things were getting darker, it would be good to refresh her skills with the bow.

Artanis held out her bow and carefully set an arrow to the string. She ran her fingers down the shaft as she carefully aimed the arrow towards the branch of the tree. She pulled the string back and let the arrow fly in a straight direction.
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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With Veowyn

The tall, broad shouldered elf lumbered after the creature of speed and agility that was, Veowyn and for the first time in many years he felt oafish compared to her. He was relatively nimble and agile compared to his fellow elves, but this one before him had a talent for it. He had spent his youth, feeling clumsy and inept at the typical sylvan tasks of archery and climbing of trees, but had quickly picked up swordsmanship and forging. He had enjoyed crafting and creating new things from raw chunks of metal. This was where he excelled and was becoming more renowned among the elvish smiths of the world. But where Aulendar had grown up in relative happiness, it seemed that his and Veowyn’s stories had few similarities.

He followed closely behind her, attentive to her story, occasionally looking over each shoulder. She finished her story, although Aul knew there had to be much more to it, he did not press her for more information. And then the expected question of his history was thrown his way. He hated this part of the conversation, he loved to learn about others but felt awkward sharing his own past. “Well there isn’t really much to tell. I grew up in Lothlorien and spent many years training to be a soldier of the woodland army. I did not fit in well with the people of the great forest of Lorien, sticking out in many ways.”

He was sure she had noticed the beard and his size, so he did not feel the need to explain, continuing, “I was a loner, and my mother noticed it. She also noticed and encouraged my love of creating and crafting.” He put his hand on his falchion, a noise to his right gathering his attention for a moment, before returning to his story, “She sent me to Rivendell, to learn the ways of the smith and there I blossomed. I served under the sons of Elrond himself, waging war with the goblins and orcs of the north. Working as a smith and fixing broken blades and crafting new ones.”

When Veowyn climbed into a tree, Aulendar followed without hesitation. He was not afraid of climbing, just never had been as prone to it as his brethren. He finished his story, “I spent many years there, perfecting my craft until I the Lord Elrond proposed I learn different styles to improve my own. He told me ‘Go to the humans and the dwarves, learn from them. See how they craft, breath of experience will guide your growth.”

He remembered that day, standing before one of the wisest elves, and kindest. He remembered feeling as if he was being shown the paths before him. And that Elrond had highlighted a particular one, declaring it the wisest. He was always grateful for that. He had lived among humans since then and learned of their craft, of the ingenuity of their short life spans. And now he was traveling to Erebor to learn from them. “So I took his advice. And here I am. I have spent years learning from others, and I have learned one thing. You are never done learning.”

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Reunion
(private with Aig)

(when this post was made, this thread was also the Lindon free RP!)

Moonlight skipped off the rippling surface of the ocean water. The sun had only just receded below the receding horizon, leaving the sky deepest blue-black, and the moon shone bright as a stiff wind filled the small ship’s sails. The two-masted schooner’s canvas billowed out with gusto, and her hull skimmed over the moonlight, carrying her two passengers swiftly over the water. One was her maker, the heavily muscled, salt-weathered, silver-haired and stubbled Nelya with the unfinished-looking face, marred by ropy scars. Davos Seaworth was ancient as the young stars, and laughed as they twinkled down at him. The other- a mere youth by comparison, though she had been born in the light of Laurelin- was a nís of feral beauty, the wind buffeting loose tendrils of her wheaten hair about her face, starlight reflected in her periwinkle eyes. Tavari Mordagnir stood upon the topgallant yard of the mainmast, her lean body standing out as though a spar itself in its surety, and her eyes were fixed on the dark shape of the island ahead. Not so long ago she had refused to so much as set foot on a ship at sea, but after a tumultuous outing with Seaworth and tutelage at his hands, a new freedom gripped her: and so she now stood at ease, fingers of one hand loosely curled about a line, otherwise unsupported high in the ship’s rigging. A fervor burned behind the starlight as the black shape grew nearer: Valion was on that island. It had not been so long since last Tavari had seen her nephew; just over ten years, the mere winking of an eye in an elvish life, but she had thought him lost to her forever.

At first Tavari had been furious, railing at Aigronding for not telling her sooner of Valion’s lingering on the shores of Middle-Earth; how could he have kept him from her, denied her the love and reunion of a most beloved nephew? But the more she thought on it, though it still stung of betrayal, the more the revelation saddened her. He had thought she might leave, or that the hardship of losing Valion and finding him again might be too much. And then she had cause to wonder, how long had Valion known that she had returned to Imladris? Had her brother kept the secret from both of them? And if Valion did know of her return, why had he not written? And so the silence had persisted: until after a recent visit to Mel Lóna when Aigronding told his son of his sister’s avoidance of his attempted entreaties to accompany him, a letter had arrived. Borne by a seabird of brilliant color, the scroll was bound tightly and wrapped in oilcloth to protect it on its journey. And when she unrolled it, there was Valion’s strong, familiar hand, the hand that had accompanied her and been the one constant through so many years of exile; the hand that had summoned her north to farewell when he had decided to sail West. He wrote of his island, his wife, their children, the life they had carved for themselves on their beautiful shore. He wrote of the brilliant sun and the shining moon, the water beneath the stars, and at last he implored, will you not come?

When Valion asked, Tavari could not deny him. If he has asked her to travel to farthest Rhûn, she would go. But there was the trifling matter of crossing over the sea to Mel Lóna, and so she had gone to Seaworth. Aigronding had, of course, his own bark for traversing the waters, but he and his company were already away by the time she had determined she would go. She had sat at the rough wooden table in the ancient mariner’s Mithlond home, tapping the corner of the letter (long since flattened by folding and traveling in her pocket) against its surface anxiety. She had told Davos everything- or the essentials of everything, for to lay out every detail of her relationship with Valion would have taken weeks.
He had responded with appropriate surprise, delight, outrage, and laughter over the course of the telling, and then sat back in his chair, rocking it back and forth with his heels on the table. “So you’re telling me,” he had said, “that you pulled this boy out of Angband,” –Valion was far from a boy, but practically everyone was a child compared to the ancient- “kept him and only him apprised of your movements, took him with you when he was exiled, and have only recently found out he did not in fact sail West as you thought, and you are hesitating as to whether you should go and see him?” Tavari had sprung from her chair, jarring the table and dislodging her host’s feet. “I’m not hesitating!” she had snapped, waving the letter at him, “I’ve already replied to tell him I will come! So I’m committed now, aren’t I? I’ve finished hesitating.” Seaworth had raised his eyebrows at her then and given her a look that clearly said: well, why are you here then? A smile had crept onto Tavari’s face and she said, “I didn’t come here to be convinced. I came to convince. Will you ferry me to Mel Lóna?”

Davos had laughed uproariously at that, and so it was that he stood at the tiller now, piloting his craft skillfully towards Isle Harmony. It was with no small amount of pride that he looked up at the lithe figure perched in his rigging: the Mordagnir girl had turned from shrinking violet to competent sailor in less time than he would have guessed. And there was a bond between them now that he would not have guessed at either- after all, he had almost killed her once. But perhaps that shared experience was part of the reason. Whatever it was, Seaworth was glad of it. He liked her attitude, and the wildness she had retained despite her years. Too many of their kindred had become soft and sophisticated as the ages wore on, and it was a pleasure and a relief to find another in whom time had not eroded the knowledge and awareness of primalcy and war. And, truth be told, there were not all that many níssi with whom Davos associated without, at some point, attempting to seduce. It was part of his charm and he had a reputation to maintain as the biggest scoundrel in Lindon of course, but Tavari came as a change of pace. “Ahoy, Mordagnir!” he called out to the nís aloft, “Are we there yet?”

Tavari laughed aloud and tore her eyes from the ever-nearing island to grin down at her friend. “You’re the one steering, shouldn’t you be reporting to me?” she mocked. But they were coming ever closer, and soon he would begin the business of piloting into the harbor. Grasping the line more firmly, Tavari sprang away from the yard she stood on and locked her ankles over the line, sliding with ease and whizzing speed to the deck below. She darted to the main cabin in the fo’c’sle and re-emerged with a blazing lantern. Edging her way onto the bowsprit, she hung it from a hook at the spar’s end, signal to the harbor that they were coming. And there she lingered, crouched atop the broad beam on hands and knees, reminiscent of a cat waiting to strike. Davos’s deft hands and the following wind brought the ship with haste into the calm waters of the harbor, and Tavari picked out Nim Rausoron from among the other vessels- though she had never boarded it, it was a distinctive craft and easy to identify. Next to it was the berth into which they would slide. She arose, standing tall upon the bowsprit. A group of figures came into view in the silver shadows of the harbor lamps. Two young girls she identified there, mortal and elf, Aileen and Calselda; the striking, red-gold hair marked the next figure as her eldest niece, Eilianthel, but in that moment Tavari had eyes only for the last and tallest figure, who might have been the mirror of his father but that he wore his bright-gold hair short: Valion. The ship nosed into her homing and Tavari did not wait for line to be thrown or gang to be lowered, she raced from the bowsprit and vaulted over the side of the ship to land upon the pier. Valion had broken from the group and was running towards her. Tavari sprinted to meet him and they crashed together in a tangle of limbs, her arms clenched fiercely about his neck. It was a long, long moment before they drew far enough apart to look at each other, and she grinned broadly at him through the tears that dampened her cheeks. When she spoke, it was with joyous mirth.

“I put you on that boat to visit your grandmother, boy, and now look at you!”

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Faeleithel

As soon as the arrow issued forth from Artanis' bow, a soft voice rang out,

"Please halt your fire. I am no orc."

A black-haired elf appeared from behind a tree, wearing chainmail underneath dark blue attire. On her back was a longsword with a bag attached. Her face was plain, neither ugly nor fair for an elf. She had her hands raised in the air to show that she was no threat to (Artanis).

"I come in peace," Faeleithel stated calmly, awaiting Artanis' response.

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Hearing a disembodied voice startled Artanis for a brief second. She peered into the wood and waited. An armoured elf stepped out from behind a tree, hands raised, and requested her to stop her fire.

"Suilad. I apologise for startling you," said Artanis, lowering her bow to her side, but not fully dropping it. She had not expected to see someone in this corner of the forest, but then, she was still close to inhabited areas. The elf, who she know could tell as a female, was unfamiliar to her. In these times it paid to be cautious, but courteous.

"I have new string on my bow and was testing it's accuracy. I pray you were not too startled by my wayward arrow?" She paused for a moment, then continued, "What brings you to this corner of Mirkwood?"
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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Faeleithel

"Nay, I heard the drawing of your bow just in time. New strings always had a different... timbre, you see," Faeleithel responded as she remained still with her hands in the air, "I was tracking another elf. I hear that she has a passion for Dorwinion wine you see...

She is relatively short for an elf, has black hair, wears shiny plate armor, has two swords, and is a bit... rude, so to speak. She has a habit of causing trouble, like... getting in bar fistfights, stealing barrels of wine, the like. Do you recall ever meeting an elf like that here?"

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with Aulendar (Oro)

"You spent time in Rivendell learning with Elrond and his sons?" Veowyn spoke almost excitedly. She had fond memories of her own, learning from Lord Elrond and his children. "I learned many things in my own time in RIvendell." Most important was her ability to speak, but she would save that story. She had learned history, healing, cooking, how to work with a team, including in a combat sense, among many other things. She had taught the elves of Rivendell a thing or two about stealth too, and how spider silk could be used as rope or string. It was as her time training to be a healer that rekindled her desire to find her parent's cinnamon grove. She had remembered being with her parents when they had gifted the Lord that tree, when she was very young. She had also met the father of her children during her time in Rivendell. She bit her lip realizing she had not told Aulendar of her family.

She began to wonder if she had come across this elf before. Maybe he had been with the Men by then, or even still in Lothlorien? She hoped he had not heard of her, during his time in Rivendell. The barbaric youth she had been was quite a story, she still stutters like a tongue tied fool when she meets with one of the Lord's stewards. She did relate to Aulendar's earlier mention of feeling like a loner though, all too well. She also could appreciate following Lord Elrond's advice. She had done the same, when after her schooling, she struggled with the longing to return to this forest, and the desire to stay where she was loved and had social more than the trees and a pack of wolfhounds. He had told her to find her parents' families, as well as the grove. She had also pursued love in that time, and now she had the best of it all. Hidden mystery of the forest, as well as a trade that kept her social and traveling often with cinnamon deliveries. She was more determined than ever to help this elf follow the path he had been set on. "It is always wise to follow his advice. There is much you will yet learn from it."

She was pleased he had chosen to climb up in the tree with her. She looked back at him, and almost let out a giggle. His larger size was not meant to climbing trees, she could see, though he managed without issue. A noise caught her attention, though. Her eyes narrowed as she stared into the shadows. Trek, on the ground below them was still, but not acting ready for a fight. "Aulendar," she whispered. "Have you ever seen one of the giant spiders of Mirkwood?" She took a crouching position, and motioned for him to follow her forward through the branches of the trees. She parted some moss, and found her hand entwined with the webbing of spider silk, and offered him a chance to look. The giant 8 legged creature was fighting her own web, trying to leave, and not currently a threat. It was hissing something inaudible, and Veowyn chuckled to herself. She knew this one would eventually tell her sisters of their presence. "I leave our next choice to you. She is currently not interested in us, fearful even. However, the straightest path to the tree you seek is through this web trap. Or we go around, adding time to our trip."
Veowyn, Vandani, Jakiewyn, Caddrick, Ailura, Túrelia, Vigri, Vinca
Maldir - you are missed

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With Veowyn

Climbing behind Veowyn, the tall elf looked out of place. She was so nimble and agile that it seemed easy, but to him it was difficult, But not too difficult to do, he had trained with the Lorien Guard. When Veowyn mentioned having trained in Rivendell with Elrond, Aul took that as a mental note for later, he would ask her about it but for now they had to continue their journey. He did not remember seeing her there, maybe he was gone when she arrived but who knew. He shook his head reminding himself to get back to business. Climbing after the younger elf, he saw the wolfhound following from the ground below them.

Soon she stopped and he followed suit. She seemed to be peering through some moss. Crouching beside her, he leaned forward to look at what she was pointing out. There was a large spider, eight legs snapping about fiercely in anger. He could hear it talking to itself, hisses and screeches of wordless anger. Veowyn spoke, “I leave our next choice to you. She is currently not interested in us, fearful even. However, the straightest path to the tree you seek is through this web trap. Or we go around, adding time to our trip.”

In all honesty, Aul was is no hurry. He did not need the wood today, nor did he care to give up the company of this young elf lass. But he was interested in the spiders, for this was his first time seeing one of the creatures, ”Does it have kin nearby? How many would respond to one being attacked?”. Thoughtfully he brushed his beard and then continued, ”Would the journey have potential dangers going around this one as well? Is it even worth cutting around?”. He did not know if Veowyn had these answers, but he guessed they were common sense answers. Yes this one had kin, probably plenty of them. And yes there was danger going around.

”I say we leave the poor beast alone, cut around. It is no loss to spend more time with you. But if you wish, we can fight this beast and more like it. What say you?

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Artinas listened with intrigue as the elleth described the individual she was tracking. She nodded in understanding as the elleth explained her reaction to the fired arrow. Yes, new strings always took some getting used to, even for an experienced archer. "I have not seen anyone of that description," she said at last, "but, if it is helpful, I could join you on your quest?" She brushed her long, blonde hair behind her shoulders and slung her bow on her back. It was never a wise idea to venture far beyond Thranduil's realm alone, even if one knew the area. She was unable to tell of the elleth was of Mirkwoodian origins or not, but either way, it would pay to be friendly with this new individual.

"I am Artanis, of the Laegial's," she stated. "And you are?" She waited, wondering if the elleth would take up the offer of help and if she would venture to offer her name. It had been far too long since she had gone on quest, though something told her that in the years to come, she would be going on a lot more of them.
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With Aulendar (Oro)

"Indeed she should have kin. They will know of us no matter which way we proceed, now." Veowyn smiled a little as he suggested to leave it be. Either plan had it's dangers. To attack would invite that danger more quickly, but to wait allowed planning by the spiders themselves. However, she was pleased, as this would have been her course of action, had she been on her own as well. "We may have to fight them, yet. However, I agree we should leave her be. No need to be the ones to start the trouble."

She let go of the moss, but took a handful of webbing with her, using her dagger to cut it free of the connections. She rolled it into a ball off her fingers, then stuffed it into her satchel, in case they needed it later. The webbing of Giant Spiders had a wide range of uses. And if they did not use it today, she would spool it and use it at a later date. "Come, we will go around." She took a step back away, then turned to the right and hopped from that tree to the next. "I am glad that we get more time together, without being covered in spider ichor." She chuckled at the last bit.

The next little bit through the forest, Veowyn showed Aulendar where to step, where not to place his hands, things he did not want his face too close to, and other minor dangers of the forest. They were soon on a slender branch, over an inky black stream. From this height it almost looked like there was green mist coming off the water. Veowyn noticed how the branch she had planned to cross to was now laying over and damming the stream, instead of hanging where it should. She crouched in her spot, hand on her chin, thinking of the best way to proceed. She started to form a plan. She stood quickly and turned around, but all her thoughts left her...
Veowyn, Vandani, Jakiewyn, Caddrick, Ailura, Túrelia, Vigri, Vinca
Maldir - you are missed

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Faeleithel

"I am Faeleithel of Lindon, and... Gondolin of old. The person I am pursuing is not particularly friendly with me," she responded and put her hands down to her side after Artinas slung her bow away, "she would likely think you aligned with me, and would probably be hostile towards you. Your aid would be helpful as I am not familiar with this area, but are you willing to take the risk of a possible fight?"

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At the mention of Lindon, Aratnis opened her eyes wide in surprise. She had thought all the elves of Lindon had left the realm of Middle Earth long ago. "Le nathlof hi! You have been on quite a journey if you've made your way from Lindon. How fares the place? I had thought all the elvenkind of Lindon had journeyed to the Valinor?"

She paused for a moment, and then continued, "I am not afraid of this individual of whom you speak. My life has seen enough conflict and hostility that the thought of an unfriendly individual seems of minor issue. I am glad to offer my aid as a guide, though I will admit my tracking skills for bipeds are a bit rusty."
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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

"She is not exactly subtle," Faeleithel responded as she moved closer to Artinas, "a lover of battle and the bottle if you will. If there is an unusually strong scent of Dorwinion wine around where there should not be, that may be the clue. That or corpses of spiders and maybe broken teeth of any unfortunate other beings.

The journey has been long indeed, though it has been good to see all of these new areas in Middle-Earth. Most everyone in Lindon has moved to the west, but the last ship has not sailed yet, and somebody has to guard the ships."

Faeleithel paused as she looked at Artinas, "we should walk as we converse. You speak of conflict and hostility? Were your enemies ever anything other than orcs and spiders?"

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With Faeleithel (Rivvy Elf)

"Ah," said Artanis. "Either someone is very lost or has simply decided there are only two pleasures in life. And if this person of whom you speak has indeed had negative dealings with the spiders, it would be wise to avoid meeting them alone. The spiders of Mirkwood are smart, even civilized in their own way. And are unfriendly towards outsiders. Even the elves are wary of them. It has been a long time since I journeyed beyond the borders of Mirkwood or Lorien, but it greatly pleases me to hear tidings of Lindon."

Artanis gave a quick nod to Faeleithel's question as to whether they should begin to walk and they began to make their way through the forest. When the elleth asked of the conflit she had mentioned, Artanis sighed and said, "Orcs and spiders, yes, and even evil men. The battles of the Last Alliance gave me enough bloodshed to last a lifetime. Now I only enter conflict when my help is needed, as it is now."
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

The pair began walking through the forest, as Faeleithel's eyes darted this way and that, as if searching for any trace of what she was trying to find. She looked closely at a few trees, looking for potential marks. Her eyes shifted upwards, seeing very little of the sky.

"You were a soldier in the Last Alliance as well?" Faeleithel softly replied, "as was I. The elf I am pursuing fought in it as well. I served as the bodyguard of a... general you may or my not have heard. Did you serve under Amdír or Oropher?

She may marked a few trees in case she lost herself in the woods. Could you keep an eye out for any markings?"

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With Faeleithel (Rivvy Elf)

"I fought under the command of Oropher," Artanis answered, giving the elleth a curious glance at the mention of being a bodyguard. Such a role was a great honour. As they began to walk through the forest, Artanis continued, "as did many of us Mirkwood elves. Sadly, petty rivalry between leaders kept the elven alliance as strong as it should have been." She sighed and slightly shook her head, "Which I am certain you are aware of, being from Lindon. I myself didn't agree with the squabble, but what could I do but follow my king?”

Artanis found her gaze following in the same direction as Faeleithel's. "What sorts of markings is she known for?"
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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

"It would depend on her mood," replied Faeleithel softly, "if she is calm it would be thin and almost imperceptible. But if she were angry... well then the markings would be noticeable and unpredictable."

Faeleithel unsheathed a knife, giving a quick slash at her eye level across the thick Mirkwood bark, after inspecting the tree.

"Oropher... I do not think he approved of many of us. I heard his name mentioned often whenever my general discussed strategy with the late High King," Faeliethel continued, pausing for a few seconds, "I doubt you would necessarily like my thoughts on your former king. Not offending you of course, you had little choice but to follow him after all."

The black-haired elf scanned quickly across her front. Her eyes narrowed, "there!" Faeleithel whispered, "see the repeated broad slashes on that tree?... Did even bring a knife?"

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With Faeleithel (Rivvy Elf)

"Ah," Artanis murmured in understanding as Faeleithel explained how the elleth they were tracking would leave markings. It made sense, but also caused her to wonder about the mental stability of the elleth in question. Surely even an angry one would know it wisest to make barely perceptible markings.

Faeleithel demonstrated what a mark might look like as she continued to discuss the Last Alliance. "This High King of whom you speak, is he the one of men or of elves?" Artanis inquired, not that it made much of a difference when it came to disapproval of Oropher. He was a … difficult man to say the least. And while he was right to join the fight, his stubbornness had cost many an elven life, including his own.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Faeleithel's hushed whisper. Artanis' eyes followed the other elleth's and immediately she noticed the broad slashes. Hmm, perhaps the elleth was angrier than they had thought. "Yes, I have a knife," she whispered back. "I never leave my home without it." She placed her hand on her left hip and reached inside the secret pocket to grasp the dagger that was kept there.

"How fresh is it," she murmured, partly to herself and partly to her companion.
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Egledhryn
TA 1410
Northern coast of Forlindon

Water swirled in eddies of ice-grey steel about the treacherous points of rocks, many meters below the edge of a precipitous cliff. Not a hint of white sea-foam clung to those rocks, nor topped the smallest swells disturbing the surface of the sea. The sky above the sea was just clear enough that, twoscore and a quarter miles off the coast, a stony flat-topped protrusion could be seen. And if one squinted just right, with a tilt of the head, it seemed that the crumbling outlines of a ruin were faintly visible. It was upon this protrusion that one such set of eyes lay, their normally periwinkle light dimmed nearly to the hue of the sea. A fallen tree lay on top of the cliff, half-mouldered into the ground beneath, providing a comfortable backrest for the nís who sat, leaning against it, one leg drawn up into her chest and an arm curled about it.


“What have you done to your hair?”

The voice sent a thrill of surprise down her spine and a surge of trepidation in her gut. And yet, she did not look round.

“I should have thought that was obvious. I’ve cut it off.”

The voice was now accompanied by a presence, palpable waves of its approach buffeting her like the waters far below buffeted each unmoving stone. Just before its cresting threat broke over her head with the promise of drowning, it ceased.


“May I?”

“…”

“Yes.”

Outstretched fingers descended and, with the lightest touch of a hummingbird’s wing, ghosted over the tips of her close-cropped wheaten hair. Further they fell, running through the shorn lengths, until a palm came in contact with her scalp. Her eyes fell closed and her head tilted back as she exhaled with a sigh,

“Makalaurë.”

“Tavari.”

He stepped over the log and sank down next to her, the dark nér wrapped in a grey traveling cloak, whom she had not beheld in many lives of men. They sat, not touching, but companiably close, for many moments.

“Makalaurë.” She said again.

“Tavari.” He repeated.

The silence stretched on.

“It’s going to take forever for it to grow back, you know.”

She laughed, a bitter noise.

“What is time to an elf?”

“Hmmmm. What indeed?

“…”

“These are troubled times, Tavari.”

“Times are so often troubled.”

“The Witch-king ravages Cardolan, and Rhudaur falls under his sway.”

“Amon Sûl has fallen”

The Sindarin place-names fell from their mouths with an uncomfortable ease, harsh amidst the Quenya lyricism with which they otherwise spoke. The events of which they spoke were perilous, momentous, even- Arnor, that great kingdom of Men founded by the legendary Elendil, was crushed beneath the first of Sauron’s most powerful servant, whose threat proposed to crest and crash over the whole of these Northern lands. And yet, those years in which Elendil had lived, died, and become legend, were but a single heartbeat in the lives of the two elves who sat together on that cliff. Fourteen hundred years before Elendil had even been born, she had begun her exile. And he? She had not seen him for nearly seventeen hundred years before that. And even so, his voice and been as familiar as if it were only days ago they had sat, all of them, round the fires beneath a silver hazy beam of night, singing, hunting, laughing, and not knowing where their paths would lead. As if, the previous morning, she had risen and trodden pale-cool floors of a deep-forested manor with her feet bare and loose of hair in the place she had called home, in the world that once had been.

“But Imladris stands.”

“It does.”

“And Elrond?”

She looked at him sidelong. His gaze was still seaward as he spoke, but at her movement he glanced and their eyes met, before each flicked away. He had helped to raise the Lord of Imladris from orphanage. She too had known the child, long since grown, and nodded once.

“He stands, too. When last I saw him in any case, he was well.”


“…”

“And… your family?”


“…”

“My father fell at Gondolin. My mother has taken a ship. Arasoron- Arasoron was slain by the hand of Sauron at Eregion. Indilë followed him.”


“Maltahtar?”

The breath which had come so easily to her throughout their conversation now froze in her throat. He receded from her awareness and a different face filled her thoughts: strong, classically handsome, with eyes as blue as the sea would have been under a cloudless sunlit day; blue as the many ponds of Valinor had been, blue as the sky on a clear night just before the sun’s final salute below the horizon, and just as sparkling with stars. The golden hair- more jewel-bright than her own, which was often likened to wheat- which had hung in bouncing ringlets once, now stretched to fall down his shoulders in seeming likeness of the lion for which she herself had been named in battle. In silence her lips formed his name. Maltahtar. Golden warrior. The name their father had given him had been as prophetic as many a mother-name, for he had grown strong and skilled in the ways of combat, her baby brother. And truly he had been that, for she and her twin had been grown when he was born, the little thing that had brought their mother such joy as her older children struck ever further afield from home, upon whom their father had doted. She had seen him grow from potato-like infant to squalling and clutching toddler, to sometimes-sullen adolescent, to the young nér he had been at Alqualondë, still growing in the manner of a young birch and beginning to test his sturdy limbs. She had helped to raise that sun-touched boy, and as there were no words that could describe the bond she shared with Arasoron, none could fathom her love for the youngest Mordagnir, long before that name had been imagined.

So long they had been parted, and then come together once more, and yet wrenched apart again, by her inability to tether herself for what seemed forever to once place. In Gondolin he had flourished, married, fathered children, and been the witness to their father’s downfall. He emerged a different soul: Aigronding, they called him then, a bastardization of his mother name- Aiyangon, Aimira had named him, but no more was that name spoken. They had reunited again, and for so long, this time, they had lived in happiness- she came and went, with Arasoron and Indilë too, but in fellowship and love with her little brother upon her returns. Until Sauron had come to Eregion in force. It was the valiant Maltahtar who had saved her then; when the rock of Arasoron had gone, he arose like the sun and pulled her back from certain death, from sword and spear and wheels of fire; from the threat of demonic destruction and sway of darkness, and from herself. And it was he whose heart she had broken. She saw his face, grim and careworn, worried and dirty, and felt his gentle fingers brushing the hair from her bloodied face. It was why she had left without a word, without a note, without any explanation; why she had fled from Imladris in the night, taking with her naught but the weapons of the two she had lost: she could not have borne to see his face, its sensitive lines never good at concealing emotion, break and crumble and well with tears; his voice grow husky and crack as he asked why; pleaded to know and begged for her to stay. She could no longer bear his love. And yet, she could see his face.

But all she said, was:

“I have not seen him since I departed Imladris, not long after Eregion fell. When last I saw him, he also was well.”


He knew there was more to the story, and no denying it, but he did not pry. She was far away.

And then she was there, shaking the cloak from about her body where it had wrapped her sitting form. “Night draws on, Makalaurë. We ought not be on this shore much longer.” She had shifted herself to her knees on the ground and he followed suit. As one, they turned to look out to sea. The outline of the rocky place was still there, faintly visible under the fading clouds. “Himring,” he said, unnecessarily. “Yes,” she replied, “And it looks no warmer now than it ever was.” He laughed, and offered her his hands. She took them, and they arose, remaining handclasped once they stood. For some reason she had been expecting his hands to be cold, but they were warm, and soft but for the calloused fingertips of the harper. The silence had returned and time seemed to pass both interminably and so very fast as they stood. Until a sound interrupted the reverie- he had begun to hum softly, a light, bright, yet slightly wistful dancing tune. The eyes rolled up in her head and the lids descended as she allowed the sound to consume her. Back to those pale-cool floors and deep-forested walls, to a warm hall full of crackling firelight and another tall, dark nér; broader of shoulder than the one she now found herself moving closer to, resting her left hand on his shoulder and his fell to her waist, and they began to move gently on the spot. Back to a deep winter when none of it had mattered and they had danced many nights to the tune he hummed now, composed and named in her honor.

“The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.”

His voice brought them both back to the present, but it was not a rude transportation. As she opened her eyes to look up at him, the kept-in waters broke and ran down her face, and she could see them shining unshed in his as well. Yet both their lips held trembling smiles.

“We ought to be gone.”


“Where will you go?”

“Where have I ever gone? Where I must. To learn and live and survive. To take no king and no home, and to try and make peace with my fate.”

His face turned troubled.

“He didn’t mean it.”


She laughed, both at his childish turn of phrase, and the transparent denial.

“He did, Makalaurë. You may have prevented his killing me, but you cannot prevent the finality of my last king’s command. Maitimo declared it thus, and thus it is so. In some ways I think this is best.”

He nodded, though not with pleasure. “Very well… as you know, I understand well the power of allegiance.”

“…”

“We ought to be gone.”


“Yes.”

They did not move.


“We ought to be gone.”

She spoke the phrase a third time, and with a simultaneous exhalation, they stepped back. But their right hands remained joined, and he looked at her questioningly.

“I don’t suppose we ought to walk together for a time.”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “I do not think we should.”

“You are probably right. But let me tell you where a letter may sometimes reach me.” He did so, and she smiled.

“I am glad to have found you, Makalaurë Fëanorion. Will we see each other again?”


“I rather think we shall.” He pulled her close for a first and final embrace, and his hand again found the back of her head. His voice was amused as he murmured into her ear, “He did so love your hair.” The he had changed, but there was no need to explain.

“I know,” she said as they broke apart, “That was one of the reasons it had to go.”

He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it reverently.

“Namárië, osellë.” (Be well, sworn-sister. Quenya)


“Namárië, otorno. Yá lúme tene.” (Be well, sworn-brother. Until we meet again. Quenya)
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Bard of Imladris
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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

Faeleithel raised her eyebrows inquisitively, "I thought you would know the tree bark here and how soon it heals," she commented in response to Artinas. Without waiting for a response, the former put a hand on each of the marks, feeling the dried sap from the tree, "not fresh."

The black-haired elf sighed, momentarily resting her head on the wood. Then she raised her head, and signaled with her head to Artinas, "let us continue to look," she said softly.

In the midst of their walk, Faeleithel stated, "the High King I spoke of earlier, he was Gil-Galad, High King of the Elves. My general consistently complained and warned of your former King's arrogance and insubordination. I do hope that you do not take offense to this. Did you know him well?"

Elven Enchanter
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With Faeleithel (Rivvy Elf)

Artanis looked at Faeleithel in annoyance. "I do know the feel of tree bark here," she answered. "Mirkwood has been my home for thousands of years. But you are a newcomer to these lands. If I am to journey with you, I need to know that you have some amount of competence in these woods.

"You are correct. The markings are not fresh. I would say they are about a week or two old. New enough to still be visible, but old enough to have hardened slightly."

As they continued to walk Faeleithel elaborated on the High King and the many grievances he and others in the elven leadership apparently had had with Oropher. "No, I do not take offense," Artanis answered at last. "I saw first hand the horrific outcome of his insubordination. If he had followed the commands of Gil-Galad, perhaps not so many Silvan lives would have been lost." She paused, looking around the forest. Despite the proximity to Thranduil's halls, this part of the forest was sometimes filled with woodland creatures, of both the light and dark variety. "No, I did not know Oropher well. In fact, I only met him once or twice. I was not high enough up in the army to have that honour."
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

Bard of Imladris
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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

"I do apologize for my remark earlier," Faeleithel responded as she focused her eyesight ahead towards the continual forest, "I have been walking through this endless forest for days and were it not for your well-kept path, I would have lost myself. Seldom did I travel across Greenwood the Great"

She asked, "Were you in the van, middle, or rear? How did you escape?"

Soon after Artinas answered, the black-haired elf stopped, sniffed, and muttered "that smell."

With that, she walked closer to the scent, noticing a small emptied barrel, "Artanis of the Laegial's, I am not an expert in wine smell. What wine is this?"

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With Faeleithel (Rivvy (Dwarrow) Elf)

"The forest is unwelcoming to many outsiders," Artanis answered. "It has a mind of it's own, though I do believe it is more … gracious towards elves, even if they are from far away. I am thankful the Forest Road has helped you and that you had enough sound judgement to not stray from it as you journeyed across."

They continued on in silence for a short while before Faeleithel asked about her placement in the army. At last, Artanis answered, "At Dagorlad I was placed in the rear. Once it was realised that Oropher had been slain, chaos ensued. Many archers ran forwards to try and avenge their king and others of us stayed where we were, leaderless. Somehow we survived and were eventually regrouped with the other survivors under Thranduil."

Faeleithel soon spotted a small, empty wine barrel and asked her to determine what type of wine. A quick sniff told her that this wine was the special wine of Thranduil. "I believe this is the Dorwinion wine that is reserved for Thranduil!" she exclaimed. "How a barrel got out here is beyond my knowledge. But, whoever left this here has a deathwish on their hands. No one drinks this wine except for those invited to the elvenking's table."
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

Bard of Imladris
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With Artinas (Dimcarien)

Faeleithel sighed, "With how this wine is the favorite of this elf, I truly wonder how many hundreds of times somebody stated what you stated. I know not how many times she has been imprisoned, how many times she has either evaded the wardens, escaped through some way, or was imprisoned and paid off the cost. All I know is that she is attracted to this wine like a dying plant to water.

I know not exactly the logistics of how the wine is transported from east to Thranduil's realm. Perhaps she took it from a merchant? Let us continue forward; perhaps we could find a wheelbarrow or the original transporter of this wine."

So they continued further, looking for further evidence of any more wine barrels, a wheelbarrow, or even a merchant. At some point, she asked Artinas, "and you have stayed here henceforth? Have you ever visited Dale and the Lonely Mountain?"

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Elven Stables
Closing a part of Aelita's story from days long past


After some time, Aelita stepped foot in the glade where her home and the home of her family once stood. She was sure if she searched, she would find remnants of its foundation hidden among the overgrown grasses, but that was not the reason for her visit. Instead she crossed into the glade's center and for a long while stood still as stone; listening; remembering; her eyes closed and chin tilted up towards the eaves of the trees above. A soft breeze cooled her face and tousled the dull, dirty hair pulled back in a tail at the base of her neck...

There was no bridge back to the way things had been; no magic to bring those she loved home again no matter how much her soul ached for one and tried to convince her otherwise. If she didn't put it to rest now, then surely it would drive her mad until nothing, not even the memories, could bring her back.

Aelita opened her eyes. Overhead, the faint blues of the sky were barely visible between the greens, golds, and browns of the forest around her. She swallowed against the growing lump in her throat, and reached tenderly into the breast pocket of her tunic for the reason of her visit. Inside a carefully folded piece of linen was a tiny silver bell, the very bell that had once hung above the door of her home leading into the common room. She had loved it as a child as much as her sister, Lariel, hated it for its clear, tingly ring. Aelitabegan to laugh thinking about it as tears streamed down her face.

"You hated it so much, Lariel, " she said aloud, her voice cracking before she sobbed out another laugh. "And yet you wanted me to have it."

Yes, Lariel had gifted it to her soon after their house had burned. It had been one of the only things left. Now, it was the only thing that remained of a family that had lived and loved together in this place that time was forgetting. Oh, how she wished for a final time with all her might that she had known the last time they were all together had truly been the last time. She would have embraced everyone a bit longer.

Aelita folded to her knees and with her fingers dug a small hole in the earth. Then with one deep breath, she pressed the silver bell into the soft dirt and covered the hole. She pressed her fingers to her lips, then gently placed the same hand against the earth where the bell now lay buried. "Cin gar-nin mel, muinthel. Na lu e-govaned vin," she whispered. A few tears streamed down her cheeks, but there was a smile present, too. "Rest well, my dear Lariel."

Then with a heavy sigh, Aelita rose to her feet and left the glade behind her.

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