Best Small Collaboration
Small Collaborations are very popular both as a concept and as an ARPY category. As you can see from the sheer number of nominations!
This category is near and dear to me, however, it’s also extremely challenging to present. The stories created by these collaborations are not limited to just one post, nor are the link(s) provided by the voters or the quotes I selected for your perusal a summary of the whole story.
This category is full of editorial choices: the voters' choices of link(s) and my choices of what to quote from the link(s) provided to give a summary of the story, as well as to give titles to the stories that didn't have one. In addition, in some nominations, we were provided with links from all the participants, while in others we got just one link. In these instances, it was my editorial choice to show a quote only from the link the voter(s)' provided. Links to the post(s) of the other people in the collaboration are provided in the comment below. All of these choices and editorial decisions make this category Nessa's choice as much as the voters' choice.
The Triumvirate would urge you to not only read the quotes the editor provided but also the entire posts that are linked. Since there is a lot of information to go through I have refrained from adding additional comments. (Some of you might be thanking the Supreme Being for this and quite frankly, I can't blame you for that. For those of you who miss my random commentary - you'll see it in other presentations).
And with all of that said, grab a drink, get a snack, find a comfy chair and buckle up, folks! Lots and lots of greatness coming your way!
Ama wrote:Amadhrill entered the Houses of healing with eager, curious eyes darting around to take it all in at once. Her cloak was dusty and stained from the travel, but the green cavalry tunic and breeches underneath were clean as were her hands and face for she had found a place to do a quick wash before entering Mundburg. Even the cavalry insignia shone proudly on her breast.
She took a moment to take in the room, letting her green eyes adjust to the inside. Her eyes glittered with excitement at the room, how different from the infirmaries of the cavalry. And it seemed to be only the first room, she marvelled at books in the shelves, for a moment she forgot herself and stepped towards the book.
Pele wrote:So it was that at first she did not pay much attention to Amadhrill's entrance, but overhearing her speak to the receptionist, Pele said to Afird: "Excuse me for a moment, if you will..."
Taking a few steps over to intervene, she nodded to the receptionist: "I will take this over, if I may." She looked at Ama with a somewhat sheepish smile, wondering if the woman remembered her foolish antics of throwing bread at contestants, and then rather by well-practiced habit offered her a fist-to-chest salute in response to the visitor's military bearing before she realised that she herself was not in a Ranger uniform.
Ercassie wrote:“What it is?” Narradir ducked down too, although with an overly exaggerated drop and a lot of noise. A hand was raised across his friend’s lips, in warning or in plea. But curiosity got the better of the burlier man, who sat up and craned his neck to see. “It’s only Pele” (...)
For his part Addhor lifted his tankard in one hand, pensively, to measure the remnants. Drinking alone was a very bad idea. Particularly when Master Healers were at hand with their far healthier lifestyles. On the other hand, it was a waste of hard earned coin to walk out on all the elixir that was left.
The story continues
with Pele’s post and there’s more where that came from in The Old Guesthouse thread.
Moriel wrote:Somewhere along the way, Davos had stopped worrying about Finnbarr. He no longer paced at the rail when his ward was beneath the surface, fearing he might not reappear. And he no longer spent nights in sleepless dread that the boy might give in to despair. He still kept careful watch, of course, but in the early days of what had become their partnership, the ancient mariner had not known how Finnbarr might react to life going on without his parents, and with the echoes of the Kinslaying all around them. He had not known what to do, but always tried his best. He, too, felt a great despair, and had spoken to truth to Finnbarr on that first day when he said they both needed a friend. But with the boy’s continued presence, his house had grown more crowded, and his heart more full. After a time, Davos had expanded his modest dwelling, adding on an extra room for Finnbarr’s own, thought when at home they still spent most of their time in the central room by the fire. The house became as much Finnbarr’s home as his own, and Davos was gladder than he could have imagined. The despair faded, and a new kind of happiness grew.
Frost wrote:Why had Ossë sent him down here? Could have just been to find the pearls? What was the point? Was the water spirit trying to tell him something, give him a message, a lesson? He had no idea, but he knew he could not ruminate on it for long. Davos would be worried by now. Finnbarr had gone down further than any elf ever and had been gone for longer than any living elf could have been gone. A pang of guilt struck Finnbarr in the chest suddenly. Whilst he was down here playing Prince of the Deep, Davos would be pacing the deck, fretting and worrying about him. The image did not sit well with Finnbarr. He loved the old mariner too much. It was wrong to keep him waiting so, no matter how much Finnbarr loved it here. He was a boy of two worlds: the surface and the waters. They each pulled at him, begged him to stay with him, until he was torn asunder. Was this the message Ossë meant for him? That he was a boy of two conflicting worlds and if he did not find a way to reconcile them, to make peace with both sides of himself he would kill himself? The thought was a cold one, as cold as the waters around him.
Sil wrote:Most of them were unready. Many of them would be discarded, their souls shucked from their worthless bodies so that the Necromancer's pupils might try again. They still desired life; weaker yet, some of them desired death. Vorhúna had seen them cast hungry eyes on the edge of her knife, gleaming dark with desperation. Soon they would come to beg.
You will be a dagger in the heart of our enemies, a whisper of fear in the minds of our foes.
And soon she would be unsheathed.
The story continues
in Frost’s post.
Frost wrote:This party was a shout of defiance and triumph. All hail Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, Matron of Crows!
She’d invited members from all the houses, great and small. Sure a few fights and scuffles would break out, a trade war might ignite, or a few heirs go missing or find themselves with the wrong child, but it was all under her auspices, all under her control. She would be cause of the strife or the fortune. She was the master of fates within these walls. And by the end of the evening, every damned person here was going to know that. She smiled. Everything was ready.
The story continues
in Tara’s post
Frost wrote:What time was it? Finn-adan, commonly known to Breelanders simply as Finn, knew what time it was. It was Adventure Time! It was always adventure time for Finn and his trusty canine pal, Jake! The question was, more often than not, what were they going to do on this adventure? Being a ranger in the northlands meant there was always something to do, even if the mission itself wasn’t very fun. Finn had been through a lot recently. He’d accidently become the king of a tribe of goblins who wanted him to lead them on a glorious holy war against the orcs of Gundabad. That had been a weird week.
The story continues
in Tara’s post.
7. @Hop-Frog (Frost) and @Zôrzimril (Tara) in Dusk, and Her Embrace – “Frost and Zôr discover the depths of their genderfluidity.”
Frost wrote:He looked behind him. She was standing there, grey eyes on the flames as well. He could see the flames dancing in her eyes. Somehow in the glow of the destruction, she looked more beautiful. How was such a thing possible? Heʼd seen her in a hundred different environments and situations and postures, yet none of them compared to this moment. She was fiercer and more vibrant and wilder than Arien, the mistress of the sun. She was what one of the old Númenóreans in that light, powerful and defiant, unrestrained by weakling morality.
Then he saw something else in her. Something he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the heat haze, or the smoke dancing in his eyes, but he saw something in her. It was as if there was another image of her superimposed over her physical form. It was her, but it was not her at the same time. The image swayed with her, but it moved on it own. He squinted. It was Zôr, whatever it was, that was undeniable. The features of this wraith, this phantasm, this mirage, were hers, but they were altered just so. They appeared masculine, a strong jaw, a sneering lip, broader shoulders and narrower hips. It was lovely, intoxicating. What was it?
The story continues
in Tara’s post.
Frost wrote:Then they came across the corn. So much corn! Corn as far as the eye could see! It was a beautiful golden sight. From afar, Jorgy could imagine it was, in fact, a field full of shimmering molten gold. When he’d first seen corn, nearly a year ago now, he thought it was a strange variety of cactus and stayed as far away from it as he could. It was only once he’d settled into his home and went to the market that he learned the kernels were actually edible. They tasted like heaven! They were sweet and juicy and tart and savory and so bursting with delicious golden happiness that Jorgy thought he himself might burst. But today was a day for revelations. Corn… on the cob?! Jorgy couldn’t believe his ears. How could… and how did you… with your… oh goodness… oh goodness!
The story continues
in Tara’s post.
Frost wrote:Something formed out of the mist. A long, slender shadow apparated out of the mist and formed something solid. He squinted in the darkness, thrusting his torch forward. It looked like a small tree, a sapling. But there were no trees within this distance of his farmhouse. He crept closer, his nerves beginning to fray. It wasn’t a tree, he could see after a few more steps. It was a post, with a crossbeam and a horse skull sitting in the middle. He stopped, flabbergasted. It was his own marker, announcing the boundaries of his farmland. But it should be in this direction. He had turned, he was moving away from the boundaries now. He was going back home. He wasn’t going out! Fjörn began to hyperventilate, in his confusion he gasped for air but found his lungs could only take in so much. Faster and faster he breathed until he toppled over, landing face first in muck. He yelped and pulled himself out. There was nothing but darkness around him. He’d dropped his torch when he fell and it landed in the same liquid muck that he had. He was blind.
Tara wrote:That changed, though, on the night of the will-o’-the-wisps.
Ancient as she was, the Kumiho was not privy to all the secrets of the natural world, and she knew not where the blue lights came from nor what, if anything, they intended. Still in her vulpine form, she stood on the edge of the forest once more, gazing down upon the little cottage. She stretched her neck and reached her nose toward a blue light. It eluded her touch, but it delighted and amused her all the same. A splash and a SHLOMP below alerted her to the movements of her mortal prey. She flowed down to the edge of the dank marshland, stalking enshrouded in the misty vapors which rose from the ground.
Just as suddenly as the sounds of his struggles in the marshes had begun, they stopped. The fox paused, one forepaw lifted. She saw the faint outline of a cross through the mists. The air was taut with panic. He had frozen, fallen, shut out the world in his fright, then stood and stumbled on his way. Away from her. She sat upon the damp grass and closed her eyes. With practiced focus, she brought into her mind’s eye the amber stone hanging from the chain about her neck. The image she saw turned slowly on the spot, then began to glow from within.
Let the earth shift beneath his feet and lead him to me.
Frost wrote:She wrapped it around herself and purred as the warmth began to seep back into her. She wasn’t cold per se, being an elf had some advantages, but she was wet and didn’t want to catch a cold, if that were possible. She sneezed. Her stomach growled again. She was hungry. And thirsty. Mead. The sight, taste, smell, and texture of the sweet golden liquid filled Yoshiyo’s thoughts. Lailyn had said she made mead. An oddly placed wicked smile of mischief spread over Yoshiyo’s face. She was going to find Lailyn and they were going to have mead for breakfast. Or brunch. Or lunch. It all sort of depended on when she found the young Rohir.
The story continues
in Lail’s post.
Frost wrote:He wasn’t tired. He was never tired. He was bored. Yet he remained there, his shadow cast upon the mountainside, and waited for her to arrive. She would arrive eventually, he had been reassured. There would be no point in letting her go, making a deal. He’d been assured. He blew another smoke ring. The perfect circle evaporated with a sick wind of pestilence. Trasander breathed in that air and smiled. He could smell the coming of War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. They rode on horses blacker than the Nazgûl and faster than old Ancalagon in the long days of the dawn. They were relentless and hungry. He was hungry too. For what, Trasander could not say. He had always been hungry, but the more he scoured the earth for the thing to slake his appetite, the more he found that it could not. Still there were myriad distractions, flesh, both sentient and non, served as entertainment and distraction. He was a man of many interests, but he was also a man of duty. In the long days he’d been sent to wait here, he’d not been able to pursue his passions and his interests. Someone was going to have to answer for that, and he didn’t care who.
The story continues
in Windy’s post.
Nessa wrote:To her delight the Lady Grandmother, who now had a name even, was awake and Matilda grinned ushering the lads in; making sure they kept their gaze firmly on the floor. She didn’t need them gawking like schoolboys and dropping something or spilling all that hot water around the room. However, Fuin, the 7.000-year-old elf who was shocked to be called grandmother (honestly!), was amused by the whole situation. Matilda tried hard not to laugh at poor Fred, who was redder than a cooked lobster at this point. Faced with 3 women in various stages of amusement at their expense, the lads made quick work of their task and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind them.
Fuin wrote:"Nudity wise indeed, Fred may not survive though if you start picking at my wits! Of course you can come in." She chuckled and shifted on her bed so that she was facing them. She was not prepared for what they had to tell her at all.
Her brain railed against it utterly but she had her mask she had the years of training to hide herself, and what she was from her kinsmen who were far sharper of eye and ear than humans were. A message from her family?
She couldn't have family she was a monster, Ruindil Mylien, she nodded a smile still upon her face faces she vaguely remembered and names that went with them both humans pirates yes she remember them, they were like her in a way and they knew the darkness that dwelled in her that coiled and sprang and they accepted what she was yes. That family the family that she hid from all of elvendom - just like the rest of her true self. and then...
Afarfin.
Nessa wrote:“Too much time chasing Fred has affected your wits, Grandmother,” Matilda says sternly, but the twinkling of laughter in her eyes betrays her. “Porphyry,” she breathes out and Nessa laughs at the nurse’s daring.
“I’ll get some shells from Dol Amroth to make the dye, it will be fabulous,” Fuin says with a grin. “Also, we all know I did not chase after Fred,” she says airily with a dismissive wave of her hand. “My leg is too wounded to permit that and you’d yell at me because I could stumble and hit my head again. You yelled at me three days ago for hobbling my way to the garden,” she looks pointedly at the nurse who tries to come with some sort of response to this but does not manage in time. “No,” the elleth continues, shaking her head slightly. “We all know I am reduced to yelling obscene sexual things and seeing if he faints. Alas, no chasing involved.”
“Grandmother!” Matilda cried striving to be stern. “You are not helping your case!”
“But she is providing much-needed amusement,” Nessa remarks in between bursts of laughter. “Well, I suppose poor Fred isn’t amused. A pity.”
“And how am I hurting my case?” Fuin asks mock-seriously. “I have been a model patient and stayed in my room, knitting scarves for sweet grandchildren,” she says innocently. “Yelling obscenities as asked.”
“I did not ask you to yell obscenities at the ninny!” Matilda cried interrupting Fuin mid-sentence, but the elleth paid her no mind.
“Well, I could chase him instead,” Fuin muses aloud. “It would provide far more entertainment – the poor boy can try to avoid me… If I catch him we make him wear a frilly short skirt and apron while he mops the floor at the reception. It will be fantastic!” there's a gleam in the elleth’s eyes as she paints such a vivid picture of this event that the two young women cannot help but laugh.
Rillewen wrote:"Kydran?" A call startled them as they were preparing to leave. The two arachnids crouched down, waiting. A bigger human was calling, holding a light in hand. Spindra watched, the light hurting her eyes, but the human didn't look too big for the two of them to carry, between them. She crawled up the side of the nearby wall, hissing softly to Skreech to stay where she was. As the human drew nearer, Spindra waited for the right moment, and then leapt down. The human female hardly got a chance to scream, as Spindra's venom rendered her unconscious rapidly. The two spiders had quite a haul by the time they returned to their forest, delighted with the results of this evening's hunt.. and felt encouraged to venture nearer and nearer to the human dwellings.. maybe one of these days, they might even brave climbing over the big stone walls and into the bigger human city...
The story continues in
Ercassie’s and
Fuin’s posts.
Ercassie wrote:Wives are meant to nag their husbands, after all. And she was his wife now. It said so, on the deed which they had forced the landlord to write and legitimise. The Witchwood cabin was now the property of Mr and Mrs Sullivan Spruce. Newest residents of Archet, and of Breeland. Tanner was a fair enough profession. The smell would hide all manner of secrets and there would always be a reason to find blood in the house, a knife in her strong husband's hand.
She had not wanted to come home to Bree. But the more she thought about it, this could be the best thing she dared wish for.
The story continues in
Rillewen’s and
Pele’s posts.
Rune wrote:He stood outside for about a minute, rubbing at his chin, and rehearsing what he needed to say. It wasn't that he was concerned about offering the skill and experience of his body and mind to the defense of Gondor and her peoples. No, he was concerned about any complications his prior affiliations with Umbar and Harad might create. After all, it was rare for anyone of those lands to willingly venture into Gondor's borders, let alone remain in them, and Rune was not ignorant of the history between Gondor and their southern neighbors. For all he knew, they may think him an infiltrator with intent to sow discontent and chaos among their ranks.
"It'll be fine," said Rune. "I'm just a humble man tying to do what he can for a better world."
The story continues in
Pele’s post
CW: Cavalry related PTSD
Lail wrote:“The truth is…” Her voice was soft as she fought against her trembling breath. “Every battle wore me down until I was a hollow shell of myself. I know I couldn't have stayed. But no one else seems affected by the things that trouble me or if they are, no one talks about it…I have nightmares about what I've done, what I've seen…” she whispered. “Sometimes they strike when I am awake and they are more real than the world around me.”
If she let go and let herself fall into those dark memories, if something made her go back to them, she knew exactly what would happen. Everything would spin out of control around her until she couldn’t breathe beneath the crushing weight, couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it. She would be trapped, a captive in her own mind. She would not let go.
Ama wrote:«I have spent many a night trying to wake a soldier from nightmares, assuring them that the battle is over... you are not alone in experiencing battle again and again. Nor are you alone in feeling that you have failed your comrades by leaving, indeed, it is my professional opinion that the cavalry, your comanders, and hælends that failed you. And in time, if you wish, that is, I hope that this can be at least in part corrected.» She paused, stroking the cup with her finger and mentally reminding herself that she was not to blame for those in the same situation as Lailyn. Again she took a deep breath, continuing in a calm, grave voice. «But have no illusions, I cannot remove the memories from your mind, and what I hope might help you to learn to live with the memories will take time and hard work. Though I see that you have already begun to find a way to return yourself to the present when the memories come, so I have hope that you will find a way to overcome or perhaps more correctly, ride the wave rather then fighting it...»
Lail wrote:When the distant tolling of the bell sounded the hour and the start of her shift, she shuffled her parchment into a neat pile, gathered her things and slid the book shut. The spine read Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth or The Debate of Finrod and Andreth. Finrod claimed that death was not a curse, and death and shadow were not the same, yet it felt so to her. It would take hours of study to untangle the words and their meaning and still, she knew she may be no closer to understanding. It was time to put it aside for now and lose herself in the tedium of sorting, shelving and stacking.
The story continues
in Tara’s post.
Tara wrote:Tara took yet another step back from Maenion’s bed as Enara began to fuss over her sleeping husband. Was it intentional that Enara had turned her back on Tarawen and blocked her access to and view of Maenion? Or was this just a coincidence? Tara’s brow furrowed in frustration at the way her thoughts had already turned suspicious. She had never been close with her family, but she had never felt this kind of prickling paranoia about any family member’s intentions, either. She’d certainly been angry and irritated with members of her family in the past - and for years at a time, too - but she had never questioned the soundness of their intentions. With Enara, it already felt different.
The story continues
in Windy’s post
Congratulations to everyone nominated in this category! You are all absolutely amazing!
) which categories you voted for feel free to ask in the 
