Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

Lirimaer wrote: ↑Fri Oct 30, 2020 7:33 pm I love that idea, Fuin! I have to say I didn't know there was so MUCH of it though!

Taethowen wrote: ↑Sat Oct 31, 2020 2:51 pm5. Just for fun, I'll keep a running tally of deaths by author. Author with the most deaths at the end of NaNo wins... admiration?

The eldest villager on the council stepped forward, holding a crown of dried vines. Eira looked up at the elder’s face, and she recognized her as the one who—while insistent that N’reldan’s strange abilities might be something significant and potentially dangerous—had been the most compassionate to Eira’s plight with her son. This elder had stood firmly against separating Eira from N’reldan early in his infancy, when the most superstitious of the council had been busy spreading rumors, whispering about the shadow-kissed babe who could already make the shadows come to life in his sleep.

The elder stood before Eira. “Kneel.”

Still grasping Inga’s hand to steady herself, Eira complied. Inga released her hand once Eira was on her knees.

“With this crown, the people bestow on you their benevolence,” the elder spoke, invoking the oath all Spring Maiden’s swore to. “Do you swear, with all your ability, to awaken the earth from its winter slumber, and bless your people with new life?”

“I swear.”

The elder lowered the crown of vines onto Eira’s head. She reached up to steady it as it settled into place, and her finger caught on a thorn with a painful stab. With a cry, she jerked her hand back down and looked at her finger. There was a jagged, bloody tear across the pad of her index finger, and Eira brought it to her mouth to suck at the wound and soothe the pain. It wouldn’t do to get blood on the Spring Maiden garb.

“Eira…” Inga’s voice was low and awestruck. “What did you do?”

Eira twisted her face up to look at her friend, confused. Surely Inga had seen her scratch her hand on the crown. She’d heard nothing, ever, about the Spring Maiden acquiring a minor injury being an ill omen or simply bad manners.

But then, Eira’s own jaw dropped as fresh, living flower petals slowly drifted down in front of her face.

Eira sank back to sit on her calves instead of her knees, bringing both hands up to the crown. Instead of dry, tangled vines, her fingers brushed against velvety petals, soft leaves, smooth stems. When she looked back up, the elder’s face had paled. The woman swayed on her feet, and Eira pushed herself back to her knees and reached for the elder’s arms to steady her.

“What have you done?” the elder whispered, but Eira could only shrug helplessly. She had no answer. She hadn’t consciously done anything.

The elder shook Eira’s hands off and backed away. Eira remained kneeling, not sure how to respond to the situation. She looked down at her hands, turning them over again and again in disbelief. What had happened that she’d suddenly been able to do something she’d never been able to do before?

Was it because she’d sworn the oath of the Spring Maiden? Had the Spring Maidens of ages past been gifted with the same abilities she’d kept hidden from everyone, even Inga, for her entire life?

She’d coaxed plants from one state into another before, quickening them through the life stages. But she’d never brought a thoroughly dead plant back to life. The same crown of drive vines had been used every year for the Spring Maiden since she’d first seen the ceremony as a child.

It was thoroughly dried out. There was no hope of reviving it, even if it was allowed to sit in water for several days. There was nothing left of it.

How had she brought it back to life?

Bevthoutsa, Captain of the Twelve Dozen, Sheathed Blade at the Emperor's Side, took slow and steady steps along the entry path. She was armored in wide links of ceremonial bronze, with a too-wide bronze helm upon her head. Her Krixian face was narrow even by a Davh woman's standard, and the helm had been made when the Oak was young, and for a man besides. Like the throne, it was an ugly thing of twining roots, wrapping around from the back of the helmet to act as nose-bridge, cheek-guards, and frames about her eyes. Those, normally sunken, retreated fully into the shadows beneath the roots. When she wore the helm on the moonless nights of the harvest feast, she roamed about as if a headless spirit out of the old stories of the small gods, and the children ran from her with mad shrieks. But now Vael-in-his-Chains was strong in the sky, so she looked only mismatched, ill-tempered, and as a mess of shifting half-shadows. She carried the Ironwood Spear, and that was death. Bevthoutsa, the Demon Foundling of Tyvvos, walked slowly, but through each step the butt of that spear clacked against the pavestones and was a soft shudder to his heart.

“Unless you have more than one human on your ship. Yes.” She said a bit of her ire and sass coming out and Keelan looked at her shocked at how they spoke to the Head of the Ship. They would never have thought to speak to the head of the ship like that. Apparently the Head of the ship didn't expect that either and they sat quietly for several minutes unsure of how to respond.