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The Seekers * II - Flight from Mithlond

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*Alandriel*
Post subject: The Seekers * II - Flight from Mithlond
Posted: Sat 04 Dec , 2004 11:20 pm
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  • ~~~ The Seekers I - The Gathering ~~~


“You are telling me that none… NONE!... of these vessels will take up my commission?” Alandriel’s voice, tight and controlled, held in check by the awe inspiring presence of the regal elf, nevertheless betrayed her exasperation.

“My lady”, the Teleri’s tone was soothing and appeasing as he shook his head slightly, “I have tried to tell you for a few days now. There is nothing that I can do; maybe at a later time.”

Alandriel bowed in return and he soon disappeared amongst a small crowd of elves that had gathered by the pier.

‘Now what….?’

“Still no luck, aye?” Alandriel turned around.

Leaning nonchalantly against a stack of crates, scraping a piece of wood with a knife, was the same rugged, dark haired man she had talked to on a few occasions these past days: by her reckoning a Ranger from the North; one of a few that since the end of the War of the Rings seemed to have made the Grey Havens, or rather – it’s environs their haunt; for adjacent to the ancient harbour had sprung up a new settlement, a village of sorts: a trading outpost, ideally situated closer to the mouth of the river Lhûn.
Fishermen mostly lived there, trading their bounty from the rich estuary with the few farmers that determinedly scraped a meagre living off the marshy land. Infrequently river-men from the North hawked furs and ivory there, the latter even attracting the occasional dwarf from the Blue Mountains. Peace seemed to have driven some of the more adventurous folk to seek out new opportunities in the largely empty lands of the West. The village, despite being not much more than a shanty town had nevertheless the feel of a warm and close-knit if not vibrant place common to communities forced to work closely hand in hand.
Yet these were ‘normal’ folk; rugged, yes – even ‘rough’, just like the man who had addressed her. What set him apart however were his eyes, the way he looked at her with that disconcertingly sharp gaze of his. What had brought the likes of him, for she had noted the presence of a few others, to the ancient and fading elf haven she could only guess at. Maybe it had something to do with King Elessar’s renewed interest in the North and his resolve - so she had heard - to one day revive the old glory of what once had been the cities of the Kings of Arthedain. Mithlond after all had played an important role also as a port for many a party of allies, be it Númenorean or Gondorian. Maybe this Ranger had been sent to keep an eye out; and what better ‘disguise’ than as in an ‘official’ capacity of harbour master’s assistant?
Surely if she had been greatly troubled by the sudden exodus of many high lords and ladies some weeks ago and their subsequent return, others must have noticed too. That is what had drawn her here: rumours of a great gathering in a mysterious place by the name of Tor-Ontó.

“No luck.” She sighed. “And there I was hoping that since the parties have all now returned, I would be able to secure….”

“They are all taken. I’ve told you so before.” Another wood shaving fell to the ground. “See those?” With the knife he pointed briefly at the group of elves by the pier before returning to his carving.

“They have been waiting to set sail and now that the ships have returned…..”

“Yet more elves are leaving these shores?”

He nodded and then lowered his voice so that Alandriel felt compelled to step closer in order to hear his words.

“They call themselves Cuiviémar… somewhere from the North. A strange sight - with their elaborately embroidered robes of grey or white, their thick fur cloaks. Dark haired yet fair……very fair… so much so it is almost as if the light shines through them….”

He lowered his hands and sheathed his blade, holding up the pointed piece of wood for her to see. “That will do.”

Alandriel nodded yet it was not the sharply pointed peg that held her attention but his last words. Some elves indeed could give that impression, especially the ones born under the light of the trees. Only once had she encountered such a being. But despite that only brief meeting, she could well understand the awe and uneasiness she had detected in the man’s voice. Cuiviémar…. She only possessed a fleeting knowledge of the High Elven tongue but it had something to do with ‘to awake’, ‘awakening’. The exact term she had never heard before, of that she was certain yet it reminded her of another word….

Elves from the North? Where from the North? By the looks of them and the manner of their attire they certainly had not come from any ‘North’ that she knew. And why were they leaving now? Did that have anything to do with what she had begun to suspect? To fear? Was he trying to tell her something? She looked at him sharply yet he only grinned back crookedly. Exasperatedly she sighed and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. She knew she would not get anything further out of him. She had tried before – a few times and all in vain.

“Well then, let me know if a vessel becomes available… ANY vessel. Please! It is most urgent. You can find me…”

“Yes, yes I know, my lady,’ he said almost mockingly, “at the House of the Seven Stars, you’ve told me a few times already.”

‘Strange woman, and quite insane…. wanting to set off this early in the year…. and going North, of all places’, he mused, watching the woman climb the stairs that lead to the promenade lining the harbour area. As she vanished into one of the many alleys he sighed and retrieved the large leather-bound harbour log from atop the stack of crates. ‘So slight, almost fragile but my, her hair is the colour of her spirit! Don’t envy the captain that will take her on…..if indeed there is one foolish enough to do so; for that amount, why, she could purchase a new ketch!’

His gaze wandered over the harbour and then he grinned. A single mast sailing boat, smaller than the elven vessels yet well built from some dark wood he did not recognize was just rounding the pier in search for suitable anchorage.

***

With measured steps Alandriel set off down the same, by now all too familiar lane framed by ancient, imposing buildings. Despite their showing signs of crumbling, fading like the elves that had built them, they had, to her eyes, lost none of their splendour. This route would take her more or less directly to the outskirts where the House of the Seven Stars stood, a dwelling once of the Eldar, long ago deserted by its previous owners.

A burly man of dubious origin had taken over and transformed the once magnificent mansion into a guest house of sorts with many chambers and complete with taproom and stables. Business had been brisk the past months due to the influx of travellers. When Alandriel initially had enquired for a room she had been turned away, taking up temporary residence at the tower of Elostirion instead. Some time later, after the ships first departure she had returned and managed, quite easily to secure lodgings. Two connecting rooms actually that once must have been the chambers of a high elf lady; much to the current owners chagrin for she had refused point blank to yield her quarters when the travellers had returned and refused to pay a higher price than initially agreed. There was no way she would go back to Elostirion. Despite the fact that she never regretted having followed her instincts there, for she had made some interesting discoveries not to mention a certain fortuitous acquaintance, the ruined tower had a haunted feel to it – too many lingering memories of times long past.
It had been from there she had sent missives asking for aid, messages that then had been mysteriously carried to places as far away as Edoras, her childhood home; Lothlórien; even Minas Tirith and Dale. Letters, she hoped, that would yield a response; for there to be hope of success with the endeavour she had in mind, she needed reinforcements. Help from valiant people of any race willing to risk their lives for the continuation of peace and prosperity in Middle Earth. That there was something foul afoot, something potentially very evil of that she had no doubt. She needed to see for herself, certain that many of her questions would be answered if only she could find Tor-Ontó, that strange place whose exact location no-one she had dared question seemed able to remember. And in order to seek out that place, she needed a ship.

‘No ships! No boats! Not even a tub!’ she cursed under her breath, almost stubbing her soft booted feet on some protruding cobblestones. ‘What am I going to….?’

Suddenly a high pitched shriek issued from the small street ahead of her and she saw some passer-by’s duck, yelling out in angry surprise. Raising her arm to shield her eyes against the glare of the mid-day sun, a sudden, forceful rush of wind blew her hood back, tangling some strands of fiery hair into her face and thereby occluding her vision once more. The strong gripping motion on her raised arm however left her in no doubt as to what had just happened.

“I told you not to follow me – not here,” she whispered urgently, lowering her arm and stooping as the other people had done.

Drawing her cloak swiftly across her chest she effectively hid the brown and white speckled falcon that had come to a perch on the almost black braces she wore underneath her tunic but which had become exposed during her shielding motion. Neither of them she wanted noticed by curious eyes nor did she want to answer any queries. Quickening her step, she disappeared into yet another side street, away from the frowns and prying glances.
Having turned yet another corner and certain she had not been followed, she stopped under a graceful arch that supported a veranda stretching between two buildings.

“Why did you come?” she enquired of the raptor that only blinked a few times. “Has someone finally asked for me?” A small croak escaped the falcon’s beak. Alandriel smiled.

“Go back then, and wait for me. And don’t let anyone see you.” And with that the Ranger stepped out from under the shadow of the arch and tossed the bird high into the air.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


She stood on the deserted beach, and stared down at the broken ship. The hull was like a skeleton, with planks ripped away by the fury of Ossë and the timbers reaching for the sky like the hand of a drowning man. The ragged shreds of the sail still clutched the wood, caught on splinters, flapping in the wind like ghosts angry at an unforgiving world. Only the shrill cries of the seagulls answered the ragged pleading of the canvas, and they did not care.

Under the broken spars, a sailor cried in pain. His arm still moved, the broken fingers clutching at the sand trying to drag his shattered body up the beach towards the woman who watched him with disdain. But the woman only looked to the East. When she turned back to the sailor again the arm was still and scuttling crabs picked at the cold flesh, warring with the gulls for the choice bits.

The woman turned and walked away from the corpse, wiping her mouth on a silken scrap from the sailor’s shirt.

Last edited by *Alandriel* on Wed 29 Dec , 2004 9:05 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Posted: Tue Feb 17, 2004 2:13 am

Lady Legyviel Khelekwen, elfess of Lorien, lay on the mound of Cerin Amroth, her long silver-blue hair spread out around her like silken streams devoid of an Ether. Huge, blue and captivating eyes surrounded by thick silver lashes peeked out from a pale face. Clad in a blue gown of elven fashion, she was a sight to make any man’s pulse quicken with desire.

Sighing, the elfess rolled onto her side, unseeingly examining a golden elindor growing near where her long, pale hand rested. Lorien was steeped in sadness and the sorrow of farewells. Ever since the Lady Galadriel had left about nine years ago, that had been the predominating state of the golden wood. It had been fading slowly into memory as, one by one, the Galadhrim left it for western shores. Soon it would be empty, devoid of life save for that of the ageless melorn trees, living in perpetual slumber. But she was not yet ready for sleep.

For the fourth time that day, Legyviel pulled out the letter she had received in the morning. It was from Alandriel, a feisty ranger she had been acquainted with long ago. She’d read it over and over, and the message was clear: she had to get to The House of Seven Stars as soon as possible. But first…

“Milady,” a voice broke through the thoughts running lazily around her head. The letter disappeared into the folds of her dress as Legyviel raised her eyes.

“The Lady Oreath requests your presence, milady. She says it’s urgent, and bids you come immediately,” the messenger added, looking slightly nervous. Oreath had that effect on people. Legyviel nodded.

“Thank you for telling me. I’ll go there now,” she said, rising to her feet. The messenger bowed and left. Legyviel ran a hand quickly through her hair, dislodging stray leaves and flowers that had become twined into it by mistake. “There” of course, would be the glade where the Mirror of Galadriel still stood, and which of late had been the Lady’s abode. Legyviel weaved her way slowly through the trees, unwilling to be party to the upcoming meeting, and yet longing for the news she knew she was about to receive.

She reached the glade, and the green-clad figure standing there turned to survey her with calm blue eyes. Huge, seductive eyes. The mirror image of her own.

“Mother,” she whispered, her voice emotionless. “Mother, why have you called for me?”

“Come now, dearest, must we really play these pointless games? You and I both know why I’ve called you” Oreath replied. Her voice was beautiful, melodious and deep.

“And what would that be?” Legyviel settled herself lazily on the grass, maintaining a nonchalant tone while her emotions seethed. Her mother walked over to crouch in front of her.

“Oh my daughter, why must you be so cold towards me? Long have I waited for your return from the harsh north, and I’m not sure I like who you’ve become,” she said.

“And exactly who is it that I have become, mother?” Legyviel asked, a dangerous note edging her tone now. Oreath didn’t reply, and a long silence stretched out. Legyviel spoke first, if only to fill it.

“Perhaps you feel your sweet little elf-maiden is gone, beyond your reach physically and emotionally, even though she is before your eyes. Perhaps, even, you blame yourself for that change, though I highly doubt that. Guilt is an emotion you never mastered.”

“Enough! You are not here to discuss that, and neither am I. ‘Tis not worth dwelling over, for what is done is done,” Said Oreath. Suddenly, she took both of Legyviel’s hands in hers, her voice now beseeching.

“My time in Middle-earth has ended, and I must now leave for Valinor. Happily would i have left with my Lady Galadriel, but I wanted to see you one last time. That I have done. My escort and I leave in three days time,” Legyviel stifled her sigh of relief, yet Oreath wasn’t one of the sharpest elves for nothing. Her eyes immediately hardened; she stood and moved away. Legyviel stood and brushed herself off.

“I have received a letter from a friend, mother. I’m leaving for the House of the Seven Stars tonight,” she said, seeking to fill the tense silence. Oreath didn’t turn around.

“Well then. I wish you good luck in your wanderings,” she said tightly. Briefly, the elf put her hand on her shoulder, stung by the coldness in the tone. After all, she was her mother.

“May we meet again where there is no darkness. Namarrie, mother,” she whispered.

“Namarrie,” said Oreath, but it was spoken to the air, for Legyviel was already gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To fly, riding the currents of the air and examining the world below you, is a dream that few morals and immortals have had the luxury of fulfilling. To fly, and be lifted above the mean things that crawl on the earth, glare at then with disdain as the feeling of power floods you, to know that you can be anything and anyone you want, as the wind ruffles your feathers and your exuberant screeching mingles with the strands of wind, is an experience few forget.

Thus was the means of travel Legyviel used to reach her destination. In the guise of a sparrowhawk, a small, fast bird of prey, she landed in a small cluster of trees not far from the House of Seven Stars. Taking only the time to change back into a human form, she dropped to the ground and leaned against the tree, exhausted.

The weeklong journey from Lothlorien, flying as fast as she could and taking time only to eat, had taken its toll on her human form. The sun was just rising, and she knew a few hours of sleep could do wonders.

Snuggling up under the tree, the elf wrapped her long, black cloak closer to her body, covering everything but her face. Completely spent, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


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The_Seekers
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Posted: Wed 08 Dec , 2004 10:34 am
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Posted: Wed Feb 18, 2004 1:23 am

Braganil


It rained and Braganil hated rain.

Rain made the paths slippery, almost as much as if ice and snow were covering the ground. He already had lost one horse to such perilous conditions, his beloved Rhandir. A loyal horse he had been, to have to give him over to Bema because of a broken leg had riled and pained Braga to no end. Rahedan, the horse who had been with him for the past eight years now, snorted… as if to agree with his Master's morose thoughts. The Rider patted his neck and pressed his heels into Rahedan's flanks again.

"C'mon boy, we're almost there. The House of the Seven Stars, I am sure they have nice stables there, warm and full with hay and fresh grass." Yeah right, Braga thought, although maybe this elven town would have such surprises like fresh grass for horses. he had heard much about elves, maybe they could grow grass where normally none would be expected. "C'mon, just a little bit longer!"

Braganil didn't like riding during this time of year, he hated to chance having another horse lost to the peril's of the road, but the summons he had received from the Grey Havens had been too enticing to ignore. A letter from Alandriel had arrived in Edoras a while ago, calling for the help of any willing man or woman in a mission of mystery. People were gathering, then leaving, then coming back, not able to clearly state where they had been. If that wasn't mysterious enough for any man to follow the call, Braga didn't know what would be.
But there had been another reason why Braga had volunteered to go to the far away elven port – Alandriel.

Their paths had never crossed before personally, but their families' paths indeed had. When Braganil was 10 years old, his family had lived in Minas Tirith. The life of Braganil's father geric had been saved by a Gondoran soldier a few years ago and to repay that kindness to him and his land, Geric had decided to move his family to the White City. There he had served Gondor as rider in their guard and Braganil had been eager to watch him when he would drill in the training grounds. Life had been good and Braganil, as young as he had been, soaked up any piece of knowledge he could, the library being as much his playground as the backyards behind the guards' quarters. Only two years after the Rohirrim family had arrived, however, Braga's father was accosted by a group of bandits which would roam the streets from time to time. Badly wounded, Geric was brought to the Houses of Healing and there – or so Braga was told – a ranger by the name of Alandriel had tried to safe his life.

She had failed, Deowine (Braga's mother) soon finding the White City too bleak a place to remain after her husband's death and thus moved her son and herself back to Rohan to live with her brother and his wife in the Westfold. Braga always feared that his mother held some resentments against those who couldn't save Geric. However, Braganil could only feel gratitude for a stranger who at least had tried to safe his father. And that stranger had been Alandriel.

The summon would provide a perfect chance for Braganil to meet that woman, and maybe find out a bit more about the last moments of his father. Would he have mentioned his son with his last breath? Did he hate the men who had brought about his death, as muchas Deorwine had hated them and, in turn, became to despite the White City? Did he have a chance to make his peace with Bema? Well, one thing was certain, he would be riding Mearas now, in Bema's company, hunting the great boar and feasting with the best warriors. An idea which always brought some semblance of peace to the Rider and let him almost look forward to death.

But only almost, for there were many things in life the Rohir enjoyed far too much to enroll into Bema's company just yet. Hunting for one thing, both beasts and females. A good ale and a just fight, his horse Rahedan and his weird little pet he had left at home this time. Tegi would be well taken care of by one of the stable boys who had found a liking in the spiny fella, Braganil was certain, although he missed the gentle, reassuring snoring which usually accompanied him, coming from Tegi's traveling pouch.

At last, the first lights of the Grey Havens came into view, beacons of hospitality and warmth, or so Braga hoped at least. He was tired, eager for a good warm meal – his cold rations of dried boar meat, hard bread and the occasional rabbit or forest hen he caught were slowly but surely loosing their taste for the Rider.

"The House of the Seven Stars… now where would that be? Any idea, Rahedan?" The horse neighed and shook his head, but more to shake out the countless raindrop that had been soaking his shaggy mane than in actual reply to Braga's inquiry. A bed and some hot stew, that was all he wanted now, so he followed the beckoning lights and slowly approached his destination, knowing he'd find the Seven Star House eventually.


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KalinelDineen
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Posted: Wed Feb 18, 2004

Waves lashed the rocks, pushing the remaining detritus of the ketch, ‘Reavers Pride’ against the granite outcropping where it was ground to splinters. The long sorry mess that had until recently been the mast and sail of the tiny ship, dragged against the tide, washing up and down the beach that stretched a mile either side of the rocks. Even a cursory glance would tell anybody looking at the scene that to drive up against these rocks would take either abysmal seamanship or cursed bad luck. Pity and remorse would be felt for anybody whose ship had floundered in such a way.

And seeing the dejected figure on the rocks, your heart would melt. Until you looked in his eyes, and saw not the woe begotten panic of a man who had lost everything, but the considered absurdity of a man that this had happened to before.

Kalin el Dineen looked at the remains of his ship and sighed. He had driven his small ketch onto this beach in the night, a way of avoiding the docking fees at nearby Mithlond. The beach had been clear, he was sure, until the outcrop had reached out from the surf to rip the keel from his ship. He spat into the waters, and shivered, and looked at the flotsam he had retrieved. All his worldly goods.

His long grey cloak was drying on the rocks, and the dim sunlight was gradually desiccating his fine white shirt and crimson pantaloons. His head, shiny and bald, was dry but salt crusted around his golden earrings and he was missing his head scarf. He had seen a gannet fly off with it some hours before, the trail of footprints along the beach showed his failed attempt to retrieve the garment, a long rent in his cloak showed how the other seabirds had taken advantage of his distraction. He sighed and looked at his sea chest again. At least he had retrieved that.

The chest was two and a half foot long by one foot wide and one foot deep at the top of the curved lid. It was of strong oak, bound with brass and carved with effigies of men going to war, and monsters of legend. He had it bequeathed from his business partner, an antiquities salesman called Nindalf from far off Pelegir. He had been told the chest was from the last days of Numenorë, but Kalin did not trust Nindalf and the ‘Made in Dale’ runes on the inside of the box gave it away. But it served, and was normally watertight… until it was bashed against the rocks that were the only frickin rocks on this whole frickin beach. Kalin snarled, at the sea, at the sand, at the seagull hovering overhead looking for scraps of food.

And at the contents of his chest, which lay drying in the sun.

A collection of letters from Gondor to the new court in Fornost. Well they had been protected by a leather bag from the worst of the water, and most of the addressees were still clear. Well, he had been paid half for delivering them; if some were missed he would still collect the pay. His clothing was wet, and would dry. The leather ships coat and long trousers would be clammy, as would the silk shirts. They would need cleaning. A bag of gems and coin, well they would take no harm, but the leather scabbard around his ‘Nazgûl’ knife would be rotten and the steel blade rusty. He had been given that by Nindalf, apparently nobody would buy such an artefact. As if it had ever really belonged to a Ringwraith, smirked Kalin as the blade gently smoked in the sunlight. He looked at the blade, wrinkled his nose, and hastily wrapped it up in the dry silk of a scarf he had taken from a rich Gondorian lady. She had been pretty but feisty, and his hand reached up to the scar above one eye she had left him with. Underneath lay the package tightly wrapped in buckskin leather and sealed with wax. That would be safe.

He smiled and reached for one of the bottles of rum in the chest. Neither broken, the pervasive smell would fill the beach had they been. And his spyglass, spoils of victory from an Elvish captain, was intact if dirty. Not much to show for the life of the terror of the seas, whose collection of maps of the western shores of Middle Earth dried out. He looked in dismay at them; they showed the land to the south of Lindon, but only roughly the lands North. But marked clearly in tiny writing next to the Grey Havens, was a beach with ‘beware rocks’.

He looked at the sea, and snarled some more. Storm clouds were approaching from the west. Sighing deeply he gathered all his goods and packed them securely in his chest. Picking up the clammy cloak he shook the sand from it and spread it around his shoulders as the first splattering of rain started to hit the rocks, a particularly large drop hitting his shiny pate.

No not rain, not that one. Kalin looked at the unfed gull as it sped away cawing to itself about its victory against the selfish man. Unperturbed, Kalin raised the chest over his shoulder and made for the port.

An hour later Kalin sat in the ‘House of the Seven Stars’ drying his cloths before the roaring fire. A plate of ‘meat’ stew sat finished by his side along with a flagon of ale. Now he sipped a fine brandy, and whilst his feet toasted, he read through the letters he was to bring to the Harbour Master for onward delivery. Three he had discarded already and they burnt in the fire, but they had dealt with taxes and an order for troops to be sent to Tharbad. Not of interest to the corsair. What was interesting was a letter from Darthir, Knight of Dol Amroth, to Alandriel, Ranger, for aid in a quest. The letter was ruined by sea water, and not clear but the words ‘great opportunity’ and ‘will be payment enough’ caught Kalin’s trained Haradrim eye. And the place this was to be sent to was this inn.

A plan, not subtle or long in the planning took root in Kalin’s mind. He would wait for this Alandriel, and claim to be sent in place of Darthir. And from this venture he would be rich. Smiling, he sat back to savour his drink, then pulled back his feet quickly. They were too near the flames.


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Areanor
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 1:40 pm
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posted: Fr. Feb 20, 2004

“Here we are.” Slowly she loosened her grip around his waist and looked around. An ancient looking house it was with a sign above the door showing seven stars. The grey stones of the walls were very different from the white buildings she was used to seeing at Minas Tirith. “It looks so old. Everything.” She stated. He half turned around, which proved to be difficult, and smiled at her. “Well, it’s an ancient city. You should get a room here and maybe a horse.” Swinging one of his legs over the neck of his horse, he glided down, then waited with open arms to help her getting down the giant horse. For a short time she felt his arms around her, but the moment was gone far too soon. With a quick movement he took down her bundle and gave it to her. “Well, it’s farewell then now. I’m already late in getting to Annúminas. And I’m sure you’ll be getting along on your own now.” With a fluent movement he was back on his horse. She laid her hand on his hands holding the reins. “Farewell, then. And thanks for all you did for me.” A last reluctant glance was exchanged between the two of them and words that would never be spoken hung in the air. Suddenly Englethorne spurred his horse. And for quite some time she stood there, silent, listening to the sounds of hooves on the paving-stones dying away.

Then Areanor straightened her shoulders and turned around to face the guest-house on the outskirts of the Grey Havens. Duty was calling. She took her bag and the roll with the last remaining message parchment and limped to the door. When she opened it, grey vapours of smoke swelled out of the damp room. The Gondorian glanced through the dark and smoky guest room which was only lit by some candles on the tables and a small fireside. There sat the man she was looking for, tall, dark haired and with handsome features, with a mug of ale in front of him and smoking a pipe. “Baradan.” He looked up. “Areanor. You’re late. I nearly was giving up waiting.” She sighed and settled down on a chair next to him. “I must apologise. But I lost my horse in the woods of Harlindon and got myself a nasty wound by a wild boar. If it wasn’t for a Dúnadan I might have lost my life there, too. But that’s a different story. Here is a letter for you from the court.” She handed over the parchment and while Baradan was reading it, she waved at the inn-keeper to get an ale, too. “I can’t.” The message rider looked at her table companion. “You can’t what?” He looked hard at her. “You don’t know about it, do you? It says here that I’m supposed to find a Lady Alandriel here at the House of the Seven Stars and to help her with a quest. It looks like she has called onto the court of Minas Tirith for help. At the same time they want me to fulfil my earlier task, but that will lead my path to Rivendell right now. I was only waiting for you to arrive here, and I can’t be at two places.”

He fell silent and watched Areanor’s drink arriving. She inquired to the inn-keeper for a room and having received a positive reply, she turned back to face Baradan. With a stern look at her face, he said. “You’ll have to do it.” Her eyes went wide. “I’ll have to do what? Go on that quest instead of you?” “Yes.” With a nod at the brooch she was wearing, he added: “You’ve been made a member of the kingfishers not without reason. I know it will be your first real challenge, but you’re all that the Lady will get, I presume.” She looked down at the table and saw her hands tighten the grip around the mug. “So be it. They only told me to deliver some letters, yours the last and then follow the orders you might give me. When will you be off for Rivendell?” “Right now. I’ve lost a lot of time already. I trust you to find your way on your own.” With those words he stood and smiled down at her. A heavy hand laid on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know you can do it. Good luck.” And with those words he went to the inn-keeper to pay his debts. A final nod into her direction and he was gone. Now that was great. Here she was, sitting alone in the farthest corner of Middle Earth, with nothing but a name to search for, being abandoned by two men on one day.

Last edited by Areanor on Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Dindraug
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:10 pm
Tricksy Elf!
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Posted: Sat Feb 21, 2004 7:58 am

The long road from Gondor had been hard this time. Maybe it was the sporadic weather, maybe it was what waited for him at the end. Dindraug smiled at the night sky, and looked down upon the gulf of Lhûn as it curved round the Mithlond haven and flowed to the East. It was a site that had at one time brought such joy to his heart, but now it just brought…ghosts. The Men Rhomen, the road of the sunrise, had stretched from the Northern passes of the Misty Mountains to Lindon since the earliest days of the Sun. The Men may claim it was built to join the Great East Road, but Elves had walked that way before there were men.

He smiled sadly, and looked West through the narrows towards Belegaer. He watched the seas fall away as they had been bent when Numenorë fell, but his vision still followed the path and on the farthest reaches of his sight he could see a brief glimmer, a glint of light. The Noldor claimed it was the lights on the walls of Avallonë on far off Tol Eressea, but the Noldor had been wrong many, many times. Smiling, and shouldering his backpack, he walked the last few miles into Mithlond.

The old city was falling into ruin, but it had been almost an age of the world since he had last been there. The once proud Elven towers that Gil Galad had built to show the way into the city were looking worn, and the white marble of the great houses had been brushed by the gentle hand of age. And the shanty town of men that had sprung up along the beach front did not help. Thin slivers of greasy smoke filtered from wooden halls and from behind wooden shutters where Elven glass had previously gleamed. The old city was encroached upon and would never be the same. Bright paint daubed over age old signs proclaimed the new masters of the city. And in the shadows, furtive movements of human and rodent vermin; a sure sign of decline.

He sighed, and a cursory glance told him that the Elvish inn, that was called the White Beacon, was not the one he looked for. But he searched still, and moved towards the ornate marble mansions where he had once lived.

A sight on the docks drew him away. A group of Elves were talking to one he had not seen for a very long time. The old bearded Elf was talking patiently with a group of Elves, so the Avari stood back and waited until they had finished. Then Dindraug looked at the old Elf, and smiled, and the Master of the Havens looked at him, and a great smile appeared over his face.

“Harth, coul tal mathirin Cirdan” said Din, stepping forward to embrace the elder.

“Tomithal, Alvaric” the old Elf laughed “Shal man…thou coul tal.”

“Comist, coumist” The two laughed and carried on a conversation such as had not been heard for many years. The tongue was harsher, more archaic than Sindarin, but flowed like a stream down a mountain side, clear and lyrical.

“What are they saying?” Jaeniver whispered to the Northern Elf who stood by her side. “I do not recognise this tongue”. The haughty Elf turned and looked down her nose at Jaeniver, sighed deeply and almost turned away before she spoke in tones that dripped contempt.

“It is rarely spoken now, it is T’Qyenith. It is the oldest of tongues, that which the Eldar first spoke when they greeted the stars. Only the Avari continued using it when they refused the long journey to Valinor, but there are those who still remember the days before the Valar found them. Cirdan is older than most in Middle Earth, and that strange Elf is only slightly younger.”

“But what do they say” insisted Jaeniver.

“I think they are greeting each other. I know only part of this language, but they know each other of old. The strange Elf is called Alvaric, and was a prince of the people who refused to make the journey. No not a Prince, but his father and mother were held in the same respect as Elwë and Olwë, they looked over the Avari. They were taken, and he wandered long.” The haughty Elf looked puzzled. “I do not fully understand what they are saying, but this Alvaric is still refusing to sail to Valinor, and Lord Cirdan has acquiesced. It sounds like an old argument. Now they mention something called the Hunter and the Rider, I think they mean the old horrors from before the sun rose. Now Lord Cirdan is telling Alvaric he is foolish, or a deer. The same word I think.”

Alvaric Dindraug turned to look at the other Elves, and shook his head. “So why Oldest, do so many come here now?”. He still used the oldest language, he knew few would understand it.

Cirdan looked at Dindraug long and hard. He remembered his birth, just before the long journey, and meeting him later, under the twilight of Middle Earth. The horror of the Rider and the Hunter had been with him since then, and even when Morgoth fell and those ancient evils vanished in the ruin, Dindraug had never forgotten. Even his bitter hatred of The Witch King had not overridden that.

“They are sailing for Valinor, Alvaric Dindraug, as should you”. The ancient Elf smiled “It is time at last, even for the Hunter of the Hunter, the Silent Wolf as we named you under the stars. Now it is time to leave that in Endor”

Dindraug looked and sighed. The other Elves gathered before him had the air of anticipation, of desire. But it was not the desire to return to the Elvenhome that had been promised to them so long ago. It had another taint, a feeling, nothing more, but he still remembered the whispers from the woods around Cuivienen, that unnerved him.

He recognised one young Elf maid, Jaeniver, who was chatting, or rather listening, to an Elf in reindeer furs. His eyes met the haughty Elf’s; she had understood every word Dindraug and Cirdan had said. ‘I was right. How interesting’, mused the Avari.

He bent to pick up his backpack, his eye catching on the letter that had been sent to him in Gondor of all places, directing him to this place at this time. ‘Very interesting’.

“I am not ready to sail yet, Cirdan. I will, like you, await the last ship. But for now I think I must go to Mithlond and an Inn. The House of the Seven Stars. Do you know it?”

Cirdan shook his head, his eyes widening, and then he threw back his head and laughed. “Yes I know it. So you have had a letter from the Ranger as well. The sea front is awash with people looking for her and she has no ship. Yes, I know that house, as do you. You used to call it Thoron a hên, the Eagle and Child. Wasn’t that what you called Erioion?”

“Yes it was, but that was before he became King. I know the place. I will go and meet this Alandriel. Fair thee well Oldest and wisest” said Dindraug, smiling, he picked up his bag and moved off down the quay towards the town.

Mithlond had changed, the ancient glory and beauty was being lost as humans moved in and took what little there was left. They made it gaudy by comparison with the past. He stopped by Thoron a hên, or the House of the Seven Stars. He was assailed by a thousand memories; of his wife and her family, of the fine wines drank with Gil Galad as they mused on Celebrimbor’s folly. And of the heartache that had filled him the last time he had entered this door. He smiled, that story was over now. Perhaps this one would bring the ending he so needed.

Pushing gently at the carved door, he entered the inn.

The room had changed since he had last stood there. The ornate paintings that had decorated the walls were gone and the faded glory of Noldorian geometry, that had replaced the landscapes of Arda, were partially whitewashed and stained with smoke. But the shape was the same. The great fireplace that he had stood at for a thousand years still held its shape, though the lintel must have been changed. The narrow fluting, carved by Munlin of Belegost, had faded with time so that only a vague ghost of the bright leaves and flowers remained. But to Dindraug’s eye, it was as if an entire age of Middle Earth had not happened. He could still see the King, his raven hair shorn to fit his helmet as he laughed with Elenath and Algaraint and the rest of his guard on the night before they marched on Mordor. It had been the first time Dindraug had truly laughed since Cuilmelith had died. Dindraug could see his wife now, as she had walked down the stairs to wish him well before he had journeyed to the East. Tears sprung into his eyes, and his heart felt heavy.

“Hey Elf, are you going to shut that door!” shouted the bar keep from behind the rough wooden bar that had once stretched across his atrium.

“Yeh, come in or go out, but decide”, muttered another human voice by his side. Dindraug looked down at the travel-stained man who sat nearest the door, his warm rest disturbed by a draft.

Din reached down and pulled the man from his chair and lifted him until his face was inches from his own. “In my house, Attani, show respect.” He dropped the man, walked to the centre of the now silent room and looked around.

“Errr, what is it we can do for you?” muttered the barman, continuing to polish a pewter mug but edging closer to the end of his bar; for a weapon, or for escape, Dindraug did not know or care.

“Do any of you know Alandriel?”. Some patrons shifted uneasily, but none answered. Dindraug snorted, reached into his pocket and drew out a small purse of coins. “Tell her that Dindraug waits for her in the White Beacon. If you bring her, this pouch is yours”.

With that the Avari turned and walked out of the inn, not bothering to shut the door. There were too many ghosts in that house now. Turning to the sky, he took a deep breath and headed towards the Elven Inn.

_________________

'When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity. When many people suffer from delusion, it is called Religion'.

~Robert M. Pirsig


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Jaeniver
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:11 pm
I can't count but I'm cute
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Posted: Mon Feb 23, 2004 1:32 am

The streets that had lain quiet for weeks suddenly stirred with excitement .
Whispers of return were heard on every street corner. People from different countries in middle Earth, from different races, had gathered to welcome back those who had left so many weeks ago in such mysterious haste, to see who had returned and who had not. But now the commotion had died down and most of the travellers had returned to the comfort of their own lands and houses. But another group travellers had detected their time had now come and a new journey was about to begin…
~
“It’s not far now.” their guide reassured them while he hurried down the small streets, glancing over his shoulder from time to time to make sure his unusual party was still close behind him.

When ever he caught the eye of one of them he quickly looked away, afraid just looking would insult them. But rarely did one of them speak and if they did on the rare occasion ,it was to each other in a language he did not understand. Most were dressed in soft grey robes, others in blue. All but one wore cloaks made of thick fur. Though the clothes were rather plain, somehow it gave them a majestic look. But in his mind he shrugged, majestic looking or not, he was asked to lead them to the quay and there he’d get his payment. More he did not need to know nor did he want to. The Grey havens weren’t a safe place for one like him to walk around with knowledge on his sleeve. Almost automatically he rubbed the scar given to him long ago as a reminder and quickened his pace.

The elf without a fur coat who walked closely behind him frowned at the boy’s sudden haste after she had given him an approving nod.Could it be that he was ashamed to walk these streets? She glanced at a squalid backstreet that led between two crumbling Elven buildings. There the dregs of human society searched through the detritus of the older civilization to make a living. The sight of such poverty almost made her pity the men squatting over the garbage but she quickly averted her eyes.

‘Not everyone deserves to be pitied.’she thought and pulled the hood of her grey-blue cloak a little further over her forehead as they began to ascend the last set of stairs that let to the quay.

At the first sight of the sea, the whisper of the gentle waves echoing off the pier, the group of Elves halted, enchanted by the silver glistening of the water. The sound of white gulls gliding on the wind were a melody to their ears. The sea embodied their hopes and dreams which had been forgotten for a long time. But now it was time to leave these shores, for others were calling. A land they yearned for with aching desire was waiting.

“My lady…”

The young guide looked at the woman in blue who had her gaze fixed on the sea. A smile lingered on her lips when she, after a second call, finally turned to him.

“You said you’d pay me on the quay.” He looked uneasy from the lady to the silent group that stood a few paces away and mumbled:

“You gave me your word lady Jaeniver.”

He then seemed to gain some courage as the young man held out his hand , clearly waiting for his payment. With a silent laugh Jaeniver nodded and let a few coins fall into the man’s palm.

“You can go now.”

She watched him put away his precious money and leave after an unsteady bow. After he disappeared Jae’s momentarily locked eyes with a pair of cold amethyst eyes belonging to a pale woman dressed in a reindeer fur cloak, who hadn’t said a word all the way down, but she had watched – always - weighing every decision Jaeniver had made. She didn’t need to speak out loud to let her disapproval be known. A movement of her hand or head were enough. But surprisingly enough the woman did not move.

Slightly irritated Jae broke off her gaze and turned away and wondered, like she had done many times during the last few days; ever since she had accepted the task of accompaning the Cuivémar to the harbour of the Grey Havens. But when her eyes settled in a stare on the rhythmic movements of the sea her aggravation melted away gradually. The sound of the waves breaking on the pier was soothing to the turmoil in her head and just for a moment she longed to get on board on one of the Elven ships and sail away. Away from the weary life that sometimes seemed to catch up with her. Often she asked herself what kept her here, lingering under fading trees in a land that had become more distant to her over the years. With a faint smile Jaeniver’s hand slid underneath her cloak and her fingers caressed the soft black leather pouch. The cool leather calmed her but not as much as the object that was clearly tangible through the animal skin. Suddenly, she turned her head away from the sea. Her time had not yet come to give up this life she knew.

‘I will wait.’ she whispered and she reluctantly closed her eyes from the blue scenery.

“The sea’s beauty never fades; I have seen many who could not keep their eyes off its sparkle.”

Only then did she notice the elf that stood next to her, looking at her with compassion. Jaeniver wanted to ignore the words of wisdom even though his words were true but when she opened her eyes again and looked to see who had invaded her private moment she slowly nodded. Lord Cirdan’s words were not to be ignored.

“The words that you speak are true my lord, my company fully agrees as you can see.” And she casted a glance in their direction. The harbour master smiled as the elf looked at him again, waiting untill she spoke again.

“ I have come to enquire after a ship, I was told one would be ready around midday.” He nodded momentarily. “Yes…yes I had hoped the ship would have reached the Havens by now, unfortunately it has not. Not yet that is. As soon as the vessel comes into sight I shall have someone inform you at once my lady.”

“Very well then. Send word to the White Beacon if all is ready.” And she gave him a small bow before she turned around, knowing all she could do now was wait until the harbour master would send word.

She was about to return to the group of elves that stood huddled together when her eyes spotted a familiar face belonging to an elf who stood a few paces back, it seemed as if waiting for her to finish her business with Cirdan. She wasn’t the only one who had noticed him as now a wide smile spread over the harbour master’s face.

Dindraug. He was as much as a stranger as he was an acquaintance to her. She hadn’t even really met him. She ran into him more like. It was not till months after their ‘acquaintance’ that she learned his name. And now he was here, talking to Cirdan like old friend would do. Even though she tried hard to follow the conversation the words made no sense. Desperately she tried to hear familiar vowels or even words but nothing. Jae’s eye then spotted the pale lady who listened with a tensed face.

‘She can understand them!’her mind shot. And for once she’d swallow her pride concerning this elf lady and slowly moved towards her.

“What are they saying.” She whispered to the pale lady who now stood next to her. She heard the woman sigh deeply before she spoke with a contemptuous voice

“It is rarely spoken now, it is T’Qyenith. It is the oldest of tongues, that which the Eldar first spoke when they greeted the stars. Only the Avari continued using it when they refused the long journey to Valinor, but there are those who still remember the days before the Valar found them. Cirdan is older than most in Middle Earth, and that strange Elf is only slightly younger.”

She ignored the woman’s tone and explanation. If she had wanted a history lesson she would have asked for one. And so she urged: “But what do they say”

Again the woman sighed and shook her head lightly at such ignorance before she looked away from Jaeniver. Jae gritted her teeth not to say anything that would insult the lady and would stop her from translating. Soon, she promised herself, soon the haughty woman would be gone. It was the only thing that kept her from doing something very foolish. But her patience paid of. Again the woman translated quietly not to disturb the ongoing conversation.

Suddenly Dindraug turned to the elves and locked eyes with the lady that stood next to Jae. The woman tensed under her fur cloak.

‘Strange.’ Jae bit her lip. The was more to this vagabond that one could tell at first sight. ‘Very strange. ’

After Din announced his leave for the House of the Seven Stars slowly the translated information began to sink in. the pieces began to fall in to place. A letter send by a ranger named Alandriel. She narowed her eyes while she thought. She had indeed received a letter but was in too much of a haste to meet the Cuivémar on time. It lay on her writing desk in Rivendell, untouched, the wax seal unbroken. Could it have been the same letter send to those who had gathered here now like Cirdan had said? she could only guess.

A sniffing sound made her look up from her thoughts and saw woman looking at her. Amethyst eyes cold as always but now a cold smile lingered on the lips of the elf. She had triumphed over her.

“We are waiting.” Was all the pale lady said before she turned away, her tick furred coat making a rustling sound with the movement.

Looking past the group, Jae was just able to see Dindraug with his pack hoisted over his shoulder dissapearing off the quay. She wished she had asked him what was written in the letter but alas, it was too late now. Drawing her cloak tighter across her chest against the chilling wind, Jaeniver followed the pale lady. All the questions would have to wait. The Cuivémar were her top priority and right now they were waiting for her.

None complained when they silently moved up the promenade and returned to the White Beacon after Jaeniver explained the situation. The hearts of most Cuivémar were filled with songs and poems about the sea, content enough for the moment with the smell and the sound of the sea. Jaeniver however was not. She looked up at the sky where dark rain clouds moved over the city and she could hear the distant thunder. A heavy night was on its way she knew. This meant another night in her room if the weather persisted with nothing but water and wind to keep her company.

_________________

So give me your forever.
Please your forever.
Not a day less will do
From you

~Other half of the Menacing Glare Duo~ partner-in-crime out to confuse the world!


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Tibodom Took
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:12 pm
Touti rikiki, kifkif kosto
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Posted: Tue Mar 2, 2004 2:25 am

Lutz was heee-hawing loudly – attached to an elm tree in the middle of a small clearing, the mule wanted to move. With his grey snout, he gave his sleeping master a little nudge - then a second, then a third. Nothing helped. So, he brayed directly in the slightly pointy ear peaking out of the mass of brown curls. And finally, the peacefully sleeping youngster opened an eye, twinkling in the sunlight. He yawned and got up on his feet – he did not get up very high and on his bare feet, of course. Because the young fellow sleeping in the morning sun that had already risen high in the sky, was a hobbit. And not just any hobbit. But a Took.

Rubbing the last remnants of slumber out of his eyes, the hobbit pinched his eyes together – then – what else should he do – lit a fire and took out of the saddle packs fixed to the mule’s flank a rather complete cooking gear – pan, pot, cup… Even the mule was snorting disdainfully at this sight: it was late in the morning already, and the House of the Seven Stars still far away and nevertheless the hobbit would take his time for a huge breakfast. Luckily he was running out of provisions – if not their voyage would take another five or ten days.

The hobbit was whistling while he watched the water boil waiting to put the eggs in – his last eggs. The bacon was already warm and crispy and cracking in the pan. It was as nice as a travelling breakfast could be. After all, travelling was not as bad as his parents had always told him. Finally, after a long and boring waiting time for the mule, the meal was eaten, the dust shaken out of the curls, the feet washed, the bags fixed again, the pans cleaned, the second breakfast prepared to be eatable on a mule’s back. The hobbit was ready to leave.
“So, Lutz, we really must make it to this house of the Seven Stars today. Are you ready for the road?” The mule found nothing to answer- it had almost fallen asleep again.

But don’t be too severe with our young Master Took – it is hard enough for a hobbit to take the road, to leave his beloved Shire – and most of all-alone without the company of other little woolfeet like him. But what had pushed this little Shireling out of his hole? To know it, we have to go a few days back… to the Green Dragon.

The inn is packed as usual, when Thain Peregrin comes to visit Hobbiton, leaving the smeals of his home region behind, to stop by close to his old friend’s home and see Master Samwise latest baby with his friend Merriadoc. He has taken his young cousin along – the one sleeping beside the mule a few days later – because – well, because everybody in the Shire knows that young Tibodom has a weakness for a few things: good beer (like all good hobbits), good stories (like all good Tooks) and Daisy Cotton. The lovely younger sister of the legendary beauty Rosie Cotton is nowadays the waitress in the Green Dragon. Not that he will speak a word to the woman, but sit and watch and dream that she would see him nonetheless. But this day is Tibodom’s lucky day – it is no ordinary day in the Green Dragon. A message gas arrived from distant shores, written in magnificent letters on heavy paper, as it has rarely been seen in the Shire before. The Thain sometimes receives a message from the White Tower and they just like this one, but at the Green Dragon it’s an event.

Thain Peregrin reads it out aloud with his solemn voice that he can take when recalling his adventures during the War: it is a call for help, a plea to come to a place called the House of the Seven Stars. A row goes through the Inn… Pippin, Merry and Sam stare at each other. And all the Buffins, Bolgers, Proudfoots, Bracegirdles, Cottons and Gamgees in the inn start to talk at the same moment. Tibodom does not know why, but his cousin Pippin and his uncle Merry start to laugh – as if the bunch of hobbits speaking all at the same time had awoken a memory of their adventures.
And then, Pippin jumps on a table (no, not over the moon), summons everybody to silence. Tibodom sees Daisy look with admiring eyes at his cousin.

“The Shire cannot stand back, when help is needed.” Loud agreement from the crowd. “Thus I have decided to send one of the most capable of hobbits to this Gathering, one whom I can trust that he will not bring shame on the name of our country…” No agreement – every hobbit in the room is afraid, that Peregrin will say his name. “I speak of my young cousin Tibodom” In his surprise, Tibodom swallows half a mug of beer and starts to cough – he does not want to leave the Shire… But then he sees the eyes of Daisy – looking at him like at a hero already, the smile of Daisy as she stretches out her hand to congratulate- and under the hoorays of the relieved hobbits in the inn, seeing his cousin twinkling with one eye, he says yes. The next day, the mule is ready and Daisy herself has packed the provisions… Tibodom Took is on the road.

Now that you know, you will not judge our unprepared hobbit so severely any more. But let’s go back to him and Lutz and their long and tasty voyage, which will come to an end soon.

The sun had accompanied Tibodom all throughout the day and after he understood in the morning, that if he wanted a decent meal in the evening he should better arrive, he stopped indeed less often than in the days before. A wind started to be in the air, and if Tibodom had been prepared, he would have known that this was the wind of the sea, carrying the taste of salt in his breath. He would have known then, that soon he would see the waves clapping against the shores for the first time in his life and that he would become one of the very few hobbits who had seen the sea.

But Tibodom was dozing on the back of his faithful Lutz, who was luckily enough a fine beast, able to find his way almost on his own and eager enough to arrive. Then, all of a sudden, on the top of a hill, the mule stopped. And hee-hawed. Tibodom opened his eyes and before him lay in the grey dusk of the evening slowly falling on the land the Grey Havens- really looking grey in this light. And even if he was hungry and felt dusty, the hobbit took a moment to look at the scenery – the high, slender tower with the fair elvish form, the harmonious arranged houses – yet in all its beauty, the place seemed like faded, less alive, less breathing than the Shire. And for a short moment, the young hobbit felt terribly homesick.

Rather sooner than later however, Tibodom had made his was to the place mentioned in the parchment – the House of the Seven Stars. Getting on his tiptoes to push the door open, he wondered if there would be a room and a bed at his size. Clearing his throat, he tried to catch the attention of the inn-keeper, but then stating it was useless, rather took a chair to the reception and, and almost yelled: “Does anybody know a ranger named Alandriel? I have come all the way from Hobbiton. And me and my mule are hungry….”

The innkeeper threw a mischievous grin at the little fellow – it was rare for hobbits to wander in those lands.

“You and your mule – I only see a mule so far.”

And under the roaring laughter of the crowd, Tibodom wondered if it had been such a good idea to look in the beautiful eyes of Daisy Cotton that day.

_________________

Nin's hobbit [ img ]Don't worry, be hobbit!


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Arunakhôr
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:13 pm
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Posted: Mon Mar 8, 2004 10:32 am

The tanned hand held the body tight against the floorboards so it couldn’t squirm. No sound was made. Not even a single word was uttered since the victim did not possess the ability to speak and the man in whose shadow it lay had other priorities.

His other hand grabbed for his knife, but not with the intention to kill. All he had to do was wait. And indeed, after no more than a few seconds the victim’s eyes bulged and its mouth gaped open, limp and lifeless, offering no more resistance.

Accurately the razor sharp blade sliced over the neck and the man’s eyes didn’t even blink once. He had done this before. Many times even.

When the knife almost had gone through, he eased the head away from the body with a flick of his wrist. Then, the tip of the knife penetrated through the soft tissue of the belly and soon after slimy entrails lay on the boarded floor. After boning the herring the sailor laid it on the smoking ashes next to the haddock and threw the entrails overboard, into the water that sloshed against the hull as the ship proceeded.

After he had splashed some water over the floorboards there where he had cleaned the fish, the rugged sailor wiped his hands with some cloth and thought about his supplies, or what was left of them.

There was the timber he had gathered during one of his rare stops near the Reunited Kingdom’s sandy beaches, which he used for cooking. He knew most of the dangerous spots slightly offshore where many a ship already had been taken by surprise, and so he knew where wreckage often washed ashore: broken into shivers on one of the perilous rocky reefs that rose near the surface yet were still veiled by salty white-caps. One man's poison was another man's meat.

That supply now was all but used, as were his provisions that as usual existed of salted beef and fish, cheese and ship’s biscuits -the latter already having been reduced to powder, if not filled with maggots, after a couple of days at sea. But his companion seemed to like those especially, so nothing was lost.

Repeatedly he had revised the rationing of the still edible food. And that supply had decreased quickly since moisture and rats affected it, and in advance it was hard to know the exact length of any journey, for the sea was as unpredictable as a woman was.

For days, even weeks, her surface could be smooth, letting you enjoy the ride, her spirit seemingly tamed. And when she had almost rocked you asleep with her paradisiacal façade, she would reveal her true powers and turn against you: playing with your ship like it was made of nothing more than parchment-paper, trying to break the timbers beneath your feet. Toying with you, deciding if she would claim the very life of you or if she would let you be the keeper of it for a little longer. Claiming you… forever? Or spitting you back out like someone who already had grown tired of her newest toy, to let your purple and puffed remainders wash ashore… Aye, a fierce creature she was indeed.

This far though, he had always survived her antics, this sailor named Arunakhôr. Which did not mean that all her endeavours had let him, and his ships, unscathed.

Looking upwards he glanced with some satisfaction at the newest rough stitches that decorated the largest dark canvas, fully bulged by the wind. Nothing too serious this inconvenience had been. Nothing he hadn’t handled before. And a fine job he had done, he mused while a grin curved his lips, showing a few golden sparkles between his otherwise perfect white teeth. Fine enough anyway to get him to the next port on his voyage.

Yet he was already looking forward to what would come after that: steering his vessel back south, to Umbar – home port of the Corsairs since ages past. He had put his ear to the ground here and there during the last few months. He had listened and he had learned. And now it was time, once again.

"Everything passes, everything returns," he said to no one but himself. "Like a wheel…" His chilled hands caressed the helm, the slow movement producing a cold sound when the few rings on his hand scraped over the dark wood. The look in his eyes suddenly became weary, melancholic even… "No beginning and no end." But also these moments where he lingered in the past passed.

A shiver brought him back to the present, which was a cold day in winter; the year was the 10th of the Fourth Age. The icy wind flogged his cloak and he had troubles keeping the fabric huddled around his large frame instead of flapping all around him. He tried to warm his frozen hands with his breath and rubbed them together while he narrowed his charcoal eyes, his gaze wandering over the coast. That accursed storm had driven him further out of his course than he first had thought, yet last night the stars had not been hiding behind clouds and they had assured him his next goal was not far off anymore. And indeed, at last he had found the mouth of the Gulf of Lhùn, the gateway to the ancient elf dome founded at its shores.

His hands let go of the helm as he walked back to check on his meal. While the fish hissed on the improvised galley and their flesh slowly turned soft like butter, Arunakhôr grabbed one of the last bottles of rum he still had in stock and took a draught.

The voyage had been long and weary and even though this last port on his trip was not his favourite, he was glad he had almost made it. Especially an encounter with a storm several eventides ago had tested both man and ship, had ripped his mainsail and had drifted him off course to where the waters were always restless and sea shanties of yore still seemed to be carried by the winds.

No hood or change of hairstyle could fool the Holy Ones that guarded the sea and shores, and once in a while they loved to show him that they were still aware of his presence and had not forgotten.

A shiver that ran down his spine quickly made him take another draught of the amber coloured liquid, in an attempt to suppress the haunting memories - luckily bottles and kegs were moisture and rodent-proof. For forgetting was something that he had not been able to do thus far. And after a few more draughts the only thing he at the moment cared about was when that fish finally would be done.

After he had turned over the sizzling fish –their fragrance making his stomach growl- he took his knife again to cut a bit of the white flesh off, and stuffed it quickly in his mouth. Aye, perfect! It melted on his tongue and it didn’t taste like he was chewing on pure salt, which was nice for a change. Famished as he was he quickly scraped all the flesh from the already smoked side of both fishes and then ate the other side until there was not one crumb left. Licking his fingers the taste of the fish had made him aware of all the delicious dishes one could eat in the various Inns one found in any harbour city and the thought almost made him drool.

A grating "Sail ho, ye salty sea dog!" suddenly resounded from above.

A frown marred Arunakhôr’s brow while he looked up to where his companion now was entrenched near the top of the mast. He was such a quick learner. Shaking his head –yet with a grin on his face- the sailor walked ahead and grabbed his spyglass, pinched one eye and placed the casing against his other. Looking through it he indeed saw the first sails appearing, there where the entrance to the harbour of the Grey Havens was. Then he put the spyglass away again, and prepared for bringing his ship in.

Steady the vessel approached the harbour, its captain acting as if he was not paying much attention to the environment. Standing behind the helm, his head a bit bent. Yet his dark eyes roved from ship to ship, from pier to houses which became clearer and showed more details as he approached. Noting, remembering every detail he thought to be relevant. And thus he also noted the people who started pointing at his ship, which were most of the people who were present on and near the pier at the time.

After mooring at a free spot he threw the lines to one of the young harbour hands, who quickly secured the ship and then went back to gape at the vessel that was of a make he had never seen before. And he had seen many already.

Arunakhôr hoisted and bonded the sails and saw that his skulky companion disappeared through the hatch to below deck without saying another word. Probably shy, Arunakhôr concluded with a shrug. He frowned, though the reason was the gathering dark clouds at the Western horizon. Before nightfall these environments would be drenched with pouring rain, while squalls would try to tear your very clothes apart.

Walking his first large strides on the pier he soon noted that people quickly stepped aside to let him pass. Their eyes filled with curiosity yet even more with distrust over his -according to them- unusual looks. His almost black rat-tails reached mid back, some flew in the sudden breeze, a few were decorated with colourful beads and they ticked softly everytime they touched one another. His head was covered with a head wrap, its black and purple print affected by sun and salt. His cheeks were somewhat reddish -marked by the bitter cold wind for which sailors could hardly ever hide once winter had started- yet on his countenance a memory of warm, if not tropical, days in the sun still could be read. Dark leather pants and boots appeared from under the long, black cloak with every step he took. But of all his features it was his eyes that were the most striking; black as bottomless pools, black as most of his background was. Yet there could be little sparkles of light seen in them –reflections, like stars on a velvet cloth.

He turned his head aside to lock one of the landlubber’s stares and in the same movement he pulled his hood over his head, yet sent the wench a crooked smile exposing some of his golden teeth before his face was huddled in shade. Whether that little exchange had made her shudder or blush, he didn’t care much.

Grinning he left the pier, then he slowed down his pace until he stood and took a few moments to let his eyes wander over the Grey Havens.

He had to try to arrange some repairs for his ship before he could go wandering off into the city. Before he could indulge himself into all that one had to miss if one was on the high sea for a long period: a nice bath, fresh food, some fruit, more than one good pint of frothing beer -or rum- and quite preferably also some female company. Though he wondered if there were more hussies to be found now than when he had been here last time. In the past this harbour city had always been poorly provided for satisfying the bodily lusts. And from the looks of it things hadn’t changed much, he noticed while he turned around. And if you didn’t find them in the part of town located directly around the harbour, then chances were as good as non existent that you would find them anywhere else.

But yet he noticed something else: there were enough tiny cracks in the elfen façade to assure him that, also here, humans slowly started to take over. Just like it seemed to be the case in every other place in Middle-earth he recently had visited, or where he had received information about.

A smile of contentment brightened up the sailor’s face. Maybe now the day would come soon, where the last of the elfs would leave the shores of Middle-earth forever. What a good day that would be.

Talking about elfs, maybe that ol’ pointy ear, Cirdan, still dwelled around here somewhere… When he was gonna get his sail repaired, he might as well go to the ship-wright himself, he mused silently.

"You’re passing through, sailor?" a low voice suddenly asked, awaking him from his reverie.

Arunakhôr turned –his hood a little pulled back by the sudden movement- and saw a man clad in traveller's clothes who held a knife in one hand. It was one of the people he had passed on the pier, he knew. One who had been carving some wood.

"I might," he answered while he straightened himself to his full length. Feeling the cold hilt of the cutlass that was attached to his belt, hidden under his cloak, he at last moved his gaze to the stranger’s face. "But what’s it to ye if I am or not?"

"I know someone who is looking for a sailor and a ship, for a voyage to the North. She’ll pay-"

"She?" Arunakhôr chuckled. Then, as quickly as he had started laughing, he stopped again and looked deadly serious, all other emotion drained from his appearance. "No women on me ship. Bad luck they bring to a man and his ship. Second, I’m no travellin' guide. Third, no one in his right mind goes north when it’s already winter. And forth… I already have other plans."

"The lady in question will pay good money."

"Ah, a wealthy lass she is! Good for her! For me, that changes…" Frowning he seemed to be weighing his words. "Nothin'," he said at last. "Even if she paid me a brand new flagship, I still wouldn’t be interested. Besides, I’ll be here for a couple of days at the least. Me ship needs some mendin' before I set sail again. But there are other ships in this port besides mine," He said, making a gesture at the other moored ships that were of elfen make. "Surely one of them must be more than happy to accept the job. If the payment is indeed as good as ye claim it to be, that shouldn’t be that difficult. Good day to ye."

That said, he pulled his hood lower over his eyes again, took a few steps back while he bent his head in a greeting and huddled his long cloak even tighter around him. Then he turned and set forth to the city.

He hadn't walked far when he suddenly stopped. A sound in one of the side streets had caught his attention. Words, uttered in Haradrim. And sabre-rattling…

_________________

Dreams of war
Dreams of liars
Dreams of dragons fire
And of things that will bite...


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The_Seekers
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posted by Aliana

Posted: Sat Mar 13, 2004 8:13 pm


“Well, what do you think?” The young maiden turned to her brother in the failing light, an expectant look in her dark eyes. The cool breeze which moved off the water was turning more petulant, and it whipped loose tendrils of brown hair across her plain round face.

The young man considered his reply for a moment.

“I don’t like it,” Ceorth said, and his tone was flat because he was weary and hungry, and because, even though he had almost reached the ripe, wizened age of nineteen, he had a childish wish in his heart to punish his older sister for believing the things she read in books. Why wouldn’t he be captivated by the sea, she might wonder, as so many had been, before him? Why wouldn’t his eyes widen with awe at its beauty, its mystery, its vastness? Well, Ceorth knew why. The sea was impressive, and it was unlike anything he had yet seen in his young life, he would grant it that. But already he disliked the way it shifted before his eyes, the way it receded hazily into the grey distance, the way it refused to settle into anything real. They had only just arrived in this strange place, and already he was beginning to long for the sweet smell of fresh grass and solid, sun-baked earth all around him. Home.

Not that he would ever tell this to Aliana, of course. The fact that he didn’t like it was all she needed to know.

***

In truth, Aliana was not sure how she felt about the sea, either. She had heard that the water had a sharp, salty taste, that a man could drink of it and yet die of thirst. But somehow she had long imagined that it had a bittersweet flavor that sparkled at the tongue and burned at the back of the throat, perhaps a fitting taste for the waves that kissed the edge of this land and absorbed its myriad sorrows.

She also knew, however, that things were rarely so fitting. That was why poetry existed.

She snorted at her brother’s moody response. “Always so quick to judge, Ce. It may grow on you, yet.” Before the young man could come back with a retort, Aliana quickly moved on to matters at hand. “Now, what was the name of the inn we were to find? Something with ‘stars’, was it…” She reached into the plain, well-worn leather bag which hung at her waist, but before she could draw out the needed scrap of parchment, Ceorth said, “House of the Seven Stars.”

“Yes, that was the one,” she nodded approvingly. Ceorth had always been good when it came to matters of detail. Aliana took the reins of her brown gelding once more and began to lead him down the small hill on which they had been standing to glimpse the water, down the path which led into the harborside village. Her brother did the same, following with his mare in tow. “Look at those towers, Ceorth!” she exclaimed as the graceful spires materialized out of the mist before them. “They must have been made by the elves.”

“And when we find this Inn?” Ceorth asked, the marvels of elven architecture apparently lost on him. “Then, what?”

“Then,” Aliana replied, staring resolutely ahead, “we will do whatever is deemed necessary.” If only she could figure out what that was.

***

But even now she can see the old man’s eyes clearly in her mind, a strange shade of grey, the same, it turns out, as the ocean. A man of Gondor, who had lingered through all the years of darkness and doubt, all the years of war and death and looking Eastward that his soul had been bent and by the time the King returned it was probably too late to restore it entirely. And he lived in Edoras now, by the kindness of a distant relation, and although the lines of his own life were faded and blurred in his memory, the lineages of kings of stewards, and the dates of war and the borders of dead nations were still clear in his mind, and so her father had engaged him to help in the writing of an ambitious History of the Second Age.

She became accustomed to his presence, and called him Grandfather, as his venerable age mandated. And among the endless names and battles he could recount hour upon hour, with stunning clarity, sometimes an episode from his boyhood, or his courtship of a wife long dead, would shine through briefly, like the flash of a gem in a wall of steel, and she would listen and marvel and mourn.

One day with trembling hands, he laid a letter on the table before her. It had arrived mysteriously at Edoras the previous week, he told her. The royal advisors had not even deemed it worthy of Èomer-king’s time, he said, had laughed and let it flutter to the floor. A strange summons, to the North and to the Sea, and from a woman, no less, a woman who called herself a Ranger. The King has no time for such petty tricks, they had said.

What if this was meant for you? the old man whispered. They grow soft with this new peace, he told her. They forget what the darkness is, they forget their need for fear. You must remember. You must remember all that has been gained. All that has been lost.

His grey stare was suddenly too sharp for her, and she had laughed nervously and turned her eyes away, but the letter and his words had stayed in her dreams. She told her brother about it, and reluctantly he agreed: the old man knew something. Besides, she had always wondered what the North was like…

***

And so they made their plans, and asked leave from their father to go and stay with their uncle’s kin in Minas Tirith for a time. He had granted it; it was all too easy, and Aliana still felt a twinge in her heart at the thought that she had deceived him so. But here they were, after a lengthy and relatively uneventful journey with a group of traders who had fortunately expressed no interest in the business of the two young Rohirrim. Here they were, because of little more than a strange letter and the hoarse promptings of an age-scarred grandfather, and there was no turning back.


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*Alandriel*
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:16 pm
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Posted: Fri Mar 19, 2004 2:32 pm

Brûnir, for that’s how he was known here amongst the few remaining elfs in town, the name somehow having stuck, roared with laughter.

“No offence Master Hobbit,” the inn-keep finally huffed between wheezing gulps to gain some air, “forgive me. It is rare that one sees your kind in these parts and the concern you show for your mule, well…. truly no offence, but here they are treated like the beasts, uhm, well, they are, aren’t they? They way you said that just now, one so small yet astonishingly loud and stubborn just like….. as if you meant to share…. well……ah, never mind.”

Tibodom cocked his head slightly to the side and waited. Brûnir, feeling rather ashamed at this point that his mouth once more had run away with him, wiped his eyes with a corner of his apron and then offered:

“Well, hobbits have a reputation for merry songs and if you will indulge us all with one or preferably both later, then I offer you food and board for free. Mind you, I don’t have any hobbit size rooms available and we’re full to the brim. There is however a small store-room in the loft I can ready or, if you prefer, you could….” He chuckled again and moved to fill a half-pint pitcher fresh from the tap. “Well, there is always room in the stable if you prefer…..but here….” He put the pewter mug overflowing with white foam in front of the youngster with a clang. “This one is on the house; regardless of whether you’ll sing us a song or tell a tale although…..”

Suddenly a loud bang interrupted his verbal outpour. A shutter had become unhinged in the ever increasing breeze. Storm clouds were gathering, making the friendly taproom suddenly seem gloomy.

“Else! Light some more candles,” he ordered the serving maid who just returned with a tray of empty glasses and then, turning back to Tibodom he said:

“Excuse me young Master. I must see we lock down. Storms this time of the year can turn quite nasty. This is an old house, can’t afford new repairs so soon after the last one.”

“Hilda! Take over the taps,” he shouted in direction of the kitchen to the woman who was his wife in all but name and then left, closing the heavy, ornately carved door firmly behind him. The bronze edged wooden sign mounted on cast iron brackets above the door creaked in the stiff breeze. A surprise gift that had been simply left at his doorstep one day, it depicted seven stars and some elegant elvish writing beneath that apparently read Car-in-odog elin – House of the seven stars, so he had been told. He rather liked it despite the fact he could not read the lettering.

‘Must get Lob to oil that,’ he thought.

Lob was the stable hand and general handy man – or so he liked to believe. He was but a boy, grown lanky and rough probably due to the lack of having a mother to properly take care of him. His father, the blacksmith had been happy to have him out of the forge and away to a paying job, although it was not much, just enough to keep him clothed. Lob was good-natured, even kind but he certainly was not the brightest kid in town, or the quickest. His wits were probably about the same as those of the donkey that stood sullenly in the yard awaiting the return of his young master.

For a moment Brûnir scanned the darkening skies. Lightening suddenly crashed through the black clouds looming from the East, South-East, casting the mighty Tower Hills momentarily into a stark and eyrie light. “Vile things come from the South and East” he shuddered, remembering the dark skinned strangers with burning coal black eyes, shrouded in white cloth and bearing some strange insignias he had seen only yesterday in the market. They had sent all the children running to hide behind their mothers aprons but then they had disappeared as mysteriously and quietly again as they had come.

He worked as quickly as his meaty hands allowed to secure window after window for he wanted to be back inside before the downpour began. There was no better way to spend an afternoon or evening than cosily cooped up, in the warm, with some ale and the chance of a tale or song or two. That certainly would drive the shadows away.
And so he waddled along, slowly rounding the building; his midriff, as it had done earlier when he had laughed almost to the point of choking, heaving mightily, not unlike the unpredictable waters he had come to love yet for which he also held respect, if not awe. The changeable weather of late, the moody seas were a mirror image of his own temperament. Perhaps that was the reason why he had never been able to pack up and leave as he had sworn he would countless times. Each time he had stayed on, for something elusive seemed to keep him here, a certain sense of familiarity, belonging even – somehow; he could never quite explain it. That it largely had to do with the fact that he had grown quite attached to the old mansion and its permanent inhabitants he would never admit to himself.

Mithlond was old and crumbling, but a shadow of its former glory. The only thing left here were memories…. and stories. And ale, he reminded himself quickly as he barred the doors leading into the underground cellar he had expanded just last autumn. The finest! He brewed it himself, a fact he was rather proud of. His secret concoction had acquired quite a reputation amongst those few discerning souls that favoured a hearty drink; quite unlike that mellow and tasteless elvish stuff they served over at the White Beacon. Ale, of that there was always enough. Being rather partial to it himself he made certain his supply never ran out. Stories however, of that there had been far too little as of late, for despite the fact that many a foreign folk had passed through they had been – well, they had behaved most strangely, downright odd actually and had not been talkative at all.

That woman with the fiery hair for example, keeping to herself, eating her food in silence at the same corner table night after night. That was the only time he ever saw her, for she left each morning without taking so much as a morsel. Quite to the disappointment of Hilda, who, amongst many other talents possessed an uncanny knack of producing the best fare out of what to any lesser woman would have seemed scraps. And she did it with love, never complaining that the potatoes were rotten, or the flower had too many maggots in it, as had happened so often this winter. Hilda had a sweet, warm disposition quite unlike that Alandriel, as she had introduced herself. Cold as ice she was, condescending at times, certainly hard headed and not up to any reasonable bargaining; not when it came to the arrangements of her rooms. But despite all that and the fact that she had shrugged off any attempt at polite conversation, she at least had never been boorish, unlike the elf of earlier who had behaved as if he owned the place. That outburst had caused raised eyebrows and astonished mutters from more than one quarter, even from the distinctly roguish looking customer who had kept tossing parchments into the fireplace. Only that one had also smirked.

Solely the fact that the elf had shown him his bulging purse had stopped Brûnir from pulling out the club he kept near the end of the counter, hidden next to the heavy coin box at the far end of the counter. He knew that sooner or later Alandriel, the woman everyone suddenly seemed to take an interest in, although why and to what purpose eluded him, would show up again. And then, sooner or later, that purse would be his. If there was anything he liked better than ale and stories, it was the sound of tinkling coins. And tinkled they had today.

Satisfied that all was in order he stopped, turned and glanced up at the skies once more. He had settled here quite a number of years ago. A storm from the east was a rare sight; disconcertingly so. Off in the gloomy distance he could make out the shape of an approaching rider. Behind him, up further towards the hills… he squinted. His eyesight was not what it once had been, but he thought there were more riders approaching. Knowing that their path, the only path into the Grey Haven would inevitably lead them to his doorstep he chuckled. But then he sighed, for the last room he had given earlier to the woman from Gondor. Now that one - she also carried the potential of a story. For how often did one meet a woman, a young and pretty one at that, attired in the ‘official’ manner of the White City? Her escort had left abruptly, as if in a great hurry and after that she had seemed lost somehow, forlorn almost. A few drinks might make her feel more comfortable; loosen her tongue and some other things besides perhaps. He chuckled once more to himself. Ah, how he wished to be young again!

Splat! A heavy raindrop hit the centre of his balding head. He cursed and wiped it with his apron. High time to get back inside! As he strode off he saw a hooded figure emerge from under a stand of trees and make a dash towards the main door. He shook his head, hoping it was not another peddler, too cheap to spend coin on food and drink in decent guesthouse, only out for some warm shelter and company. Too many had flooded the city recently, building crooked huts and shelters not much better than pig sties. Yes, he could sympathize, somewhat, for he had known this kind of life himself. Yet pity he did not afford them. Hard work had eventually made it possible for him to mop up this place that had long been decrepit and deserted. Now it was something – he had become something, someone, a respected inn-keep. Unlike them he had pulled himself out of the filth and misery.

“Hey! Don’t rattle my poor door so.” He called out to the hooded figure. “I’m coming already. There’s a latch….”

The figure turned and Brûnir almost fell over his own short legs in astonishment. It was an elf…. a woman!

“My lady….” he stuttered, “what where you….”

Her piercing stare silenced him at once and he coughed. “Let me open and let you in,” he recovered, “it’s turning very nasty.”

As soon as the door was open an inch, she pushed her way in and strode towards a table. ‘Elfs! What’s wrong with them these days?’ he thought exasperatedly, shaking his head as he made his way behind the counter.

“Ah, young Master, there you are,” he voiced, giving Hilda a soft slap on her rotund behind which sent her back into the kitchens with a smile. “Have you thought of my proposal yet? Lob will find room in the stable for your friend,” he gave a good-natured wink, promptly forgetting all about the elf lady. “You better bring him there before it starts pouring in earnest. And then I’ll find you a bowl of Hilda’s most excellent stew. Is this not an offer you can’t refuse? Besides, there is no reason to try and search for Alandriel. She’ll be back here and latest before nightfall. So, what is your answer to old Brûnir, that’s me, Master….? ”


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woman-of-secret-shadow
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:19 pm
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Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2004 10:37 am

The wind tore aside the veils of mist that clung to the rock isle, sending ghostly shapes dancing across the beach, only to be torn asunder by the white tipped waves. Dark shadows from the laden storm clouds blotted out the sun and crossed the isle like dark bands of horsemen riding to damnation, broken only by brief flashes of lightning.

She clutched the cold stone as she had for uncounted years, her long nails like shards of obsidian that caught the light falling un-mourned on the lost shore. Beneath them in the black crenulations, scars of battles long forgotten clung to the stone, like the last memories of those consumed by the cyclopean walls. Behind her, he stood. She was aware of his presence; her faithful knight, her servant, her Paladin. But she let him wait while the rain lashed down against the walls.

Below, the last small ship sailed out of the tiny harbour and struggled into the turbulent sea. The crew were now hers, unconditionally, and the passengers she had freed; they knew it and wailed against the night. Should they make landfall, they would forget, and the myriad small cuts on body and soul would be healed over. But she would remember and the taste of each and every one still haunted her mouth. She smiled and ran her tongue across her teeth, feeling the sharp edges and a ferric hint of blood from her last victim.

No not her last.

She had kept… three. She could feel them now, hidden deep in the darkest soulless corners of the fastness, beneath the grim walls of this most ancient of fortresses. She could sense their fear; feel the butterfly touch of their fluttering hearts as they waited in the dark, alone. She smiled again, her eyes lit with anticipation as much as the flash of lightning overhead. And she relished the fear, the flush creeping down her throat to her belly where she cradled the warmth in her hands, clutching at the sensation, searching for the warmth of new life. There was none.

She whipped her hand away; there would never be new life, not there. Not for her, not even his. That had been lost to her, torn asunder and thrust into the dark.

She turned suddenly to face her knight, his eyes snapped down. He never let her catch him staring at her, but she knew he did. She could see right into his psyche, his broken mind so full of desire and loathing of love and hatred. She stood for a time watching him, as the rain lashed down against the thin elven tunic. It was all he was allowed to wear, his Noldorian constitution was more than enough to stand the cold. If he shivered, even once, that would be insulting to her and she would punish him severely. Even after all this time, she could think up new ways.

“Well” she said finally, her silken voice cutting the air.

“The ship has sailed. We have kept three, and one will not last the night” He rasped, his voice harsh and broken.

“You fool.” She whispered, “I can see the ship has sailed from here. And do you really think I care for one elven princess?” She turned to watch as the ship sailed on , struggling against the wind. “There will be more coming soon, but they will not be like the others. They will be hunters, old foes and new” She stared beyond the ship, to the East, where lightning flashed on distant mountains and beyond the curve of the world on a crumbling city.

“Shall I greet them.” Said the elf, it was not a question.

“Of course you will greet them, but greet them with hate Osgarcam”. She waved her hand dismissively, and the Knight bowed and turned to leave. He looked back briefly at his mistress, then with eyes that flared a brief smouldering desire, he walked down the stairs.

She smiled, and watched the ship sail on. In the East she knew they gathered, and she wondered if they would succeed. If they would even sail from that mausoleum or they would die in some forgotten corner. But they would prove interesting, and she would savour the taste of them. The young and the old, the beautiful and the scarred, the laconic and the carefree. She would catch them all and make there spirits sing her praises as they cried in pain.


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Dindraug
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:20 pm
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Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2004 11:35 am

Dindraug walked up the hill towards the White Beacon; the cobbled streets beneath his boots had changed since he had last walked that way. The cobbles, for example, were new.

So was the sense of unease, not at being back in this city where so much hope had been born and died. Not even the ever present pull of Valinor, which lay off the horizon. No, this was unease, a sense of dread, of being watched and stalked.

He knew about the human footpads, they stuck to the shadows and prayed on the unwary; they always had but not in the Elvish quarter. Now they clung to everything like crows on a corpse. They hid in shadows, they struck then ran like rats from a sewer. But sometimes there was more than petty human greed. He stopped, and looked at the tall buildings to get his bearings. On occasion, the thief in the dark was an assassin.

“You can come out of the shadows if you want to see me my friend,” said the Elf, “but I will not enter them while you and your friend skulk there”. Din turned to look at the place where the men hid, and watched them slide back into the dark alley between the buildings. They walked like hired killers, and bulky shapes under dark cloaks looked more like swords than the knives which were usual for a footpad. He watched them go…. then followed.

Yashin slid into the dark, sure that the elf-demon could no longer see him. He clutched his fetish which hung around his neck and whispered a faint prayer to the dark to hide him. He had been told to come to this city, to wait and give aid to the ones who waited here. And now, when it turned out that they who waited were fat and unkempt, unskilled in the arts they must practice, Yashin and his followers were doing all the work. He looked behind him, thinking he had heard a noise.

A fist struck his face and he passed out immediately.

Dindraug bent over the unconscious man. The companion had slunk off, not noticing what had happened, as the Elf covered his captive with alley detritus. A minute passed, then the second footpad returned, silent, looking for his companion. On seeing nothing he turned and quietly ran off, accompanied only by the barking of a disturbed dog.

Din pulled back the cloak on the unconscious man. He was dark skinned, his face wrapped in white silk. His teeth were good, his body sinuous. He was a desert man, from the deep sands. What was he doing in Mithlond? He was also stirring. Sensing he needed more time, Din punched him unconscious again, and continued to rummage through his pouches and folds of cloth.

There was little to find; a few coins, a curved dagger in a sheath of Oliphant hide, a rough map of Mithlond with the word Sapient on it. The only thing of real interest was the man’s scimitar, which indeed showed him as a man from the deep deserts of Harad, and a necklace of fine silver chain. On the necklace was a small piece of highly polished black stone with a white star shape painted. A mystery, but not a vital one at this time.

Taking the man’s weapons and the necklace, Din walked back to the road. He could see the White Beacon up ahead. It appeared to be a sedate looking inn, one that would meet the approval of an Elf. He sighed deeply, and walked to the abandoned well by the side of the building. Lifting the flagstone that covered the shaft he dropped the sword and dagger down to clatter in the rubble below. Then he re-covered the shaft, and turned to open the door, suddenly aware of raised voices within…….

_________________

'When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity. When many people suffer from delusion, it is called Religion'.

~Robert M. Pirsig


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KalinelDineen
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:21 pm
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Posted: Sat Apr 3, 2004 4:55 am

Kalin sat and stared into the now empty bottom of his tankard. This soft northern brew was too easy to drink, and too fruity for his southern tastes. But the fire was warm and the inn was pleasant enough, and he had time to sip brandy and watch the patrons. Especially the beautifully attired Dúnedain woman writing at a table opposite. She was a fine looking woman, clearly the most beautiful in the room, and was refusing pointedly to meet the eye of Kalin el Dineen.

Unperturbed, he coughed loudly as the serving wench passed his chair. She turned to him, unassumingly.

“What can I get you sir, more ale or more brandy?” she said. Kalin looked her up and down, she was tired around the eyes and experience told him that he would have a task to charm her if he wanted company later. He smiled broadly.

“I would like some more of this fine spirit, lass. And if you have some more of the stew, that would go down a treat. My compliments to the cook, finest vitals I have had since I set off on my quest…”

Else looked at the pirate and nodded, as much to hide her smile as anything else. As if she would fall for such flattery from this obvious vagabond, this misfit. She let her eyes glance quickly at his costly looking clothing. Mismatched clothing and not suitable for such inclement weather. Under the drying cloth, muscles were obvious and …. She turned away and hurried to the bar to fetch his drink and food.

Kalin sighed, and looked round the inn. She would be back. Or the scrivener may need a drink.

He could see the fat old barman chatting now with a Halfling. That was an oddity of the north; strange little folk. Rumour had it they had managed to bring down Sauron, and therefore should be held to blame for costing him his first ship. But he had said one thing of interest.

“Does anybody know a ranger named Alandriel? I have come all the way from Hobbiton. And me and my mule are hungry….” .

That was the name on the letter. If this Halfling was part of all this, he may know more. But Kalin, with his well honed streetwise skills, knew to be careful. If a Halfling was to be requested for this mission, then that Halfling must be either a cunning thief or assassin. What other use did they have? He looked at the Halfling who looked back at him, his eyes suddenly wide and staring, looking just past Kalin.

The Corsair turned, and his hand lashed out grabbing the arm of a man who had just been about to make off with his purse. Snarling, he pulled the scruffy looking… Haradrim… to him and pinned his other arm against the table.

“What you doin’ with me purse then mate?” he muttered to the desertman. “And more importantly, what’s a desert rat like you doin’ this far from your camel lover?”

“You will find out only when we kill you, Yashak- Arrgh”. Not being partial to being called a dung beetle, Kalin leaned on his arm. Across the room, the barman Brûnir was taking an interest and moving towards the bar.

“Who’s ‘We’, mate” said Kalin leaning on the man’s arm.

“Arrgh. Why do you fight us…join us Umbar. You will have great riches and glory under the Black Serpent. Arr-Owww” SNAP. The sound of the man's arm breaking was clearly audible, causing the inn’s customers and staff to stare at the man.

“What are you doing?” shouted Brûnir, rushing across the room with a cudgel raised.

“This desert scum tried to take me purse and me chest, Innkeeper.” Said Kalin coldly “And he did this under your roof, and pulled a blade on one of your honest customers. I thought this place was supposed be the safest inn this side of the Mountains. That’s what you said to me.”

Brûnir looked at the Corsair, and sighed inwardly. He looked thoroughly disreputable, he had arrived dripping and stinking of the sea and rum, and spent coin like it was going out of fashion. He could not trust the man, but it was true, he was rich. And the thief he had caught was unconscious on the floor, his arm at an odd angle. It was one of the strangers that had caused such a fright in the market yesterday; he recognised the swarthy looks and white cloth. And saw the strange curved knife that the pirate had trapped under his foot.

“Many thanks then. Please accept a bottle of brandy on me” smiled the barkeep. “I will just get rid of this for you. Lob, LOB! Get this body out of here, and then run it down to the brig. Have the guard keep him there. And he is not to come back into my inn”
Kalin sat back down in his seat by the fire, and thanked Else profusely, and coquettishly. He insisted she sit with him for a time to share the fine brandy, but not before a glass was given to the Halfling, along with an invite to sit with them.

The only disquiet in Kalin’s mind was that the beautiful Dúnedain woman who had so caught his eye earlier had vanished. He had seen her look at him in the brief melee; the coldness in those eyes has chilled him to the bone.


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Jaeniver
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:22 pm
I can't count but I'm cute
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Posted: Sun Apr 4, 2004 12:07 pm

The fur clad lady of the snow elves barged into the cubicle in one of the lower chambers of the inn that Jaeniver was waiting in, poring over shipping documents. Without waiting for the elf to give permission to sit Losp’indel slammed her goblet against the ancient oak wood table and glared at Jaeniver. Behind them the beautiful voice of the elvish bard wavered slightly at the noise.

“I already told you. You will sail the moment lord Cirdan sends word.” Jaeniver sat back in her tall wooden chair and did her best to remain polite. Yet she could barely hide her slowly building agitation and that was most discernible in the forcefully controlled tone of her voice.

“I cannot condone this!” replied the lady who stood with her hands on her hips on the far side of the large oak table glaring at the young Nandor. “I was told I will sail today. Not tomorrow nor two weeks later, but today!” She let her hands rest on the aged brown top of the table, leaning a bit forward, marring her appearance with a scowl.

Jae let out a deep sigh and rubbed her temples with her fingers. Ever since the Cuivemar had returned to the White Beacon the pale lady had appeared to find pleasure in harassing Jae with questions, demands and more. The ancient elf would not settle for any excuse or apology and started a new issue as soon as Jae finished the first one. And so Jaeniver, who was trying hard to remain polite and diplomatic, held on to the chair’s strong arms to prevent her from picking up the first thing within reach and throwing it at the lady’s head - the ink pot looked very enticing for a moment but she could prevent herself from giving into the urge.

With jaws clenched she managed to give a little smile. “I am truly sorry that you cannot sail today, believe me I am. But…” she grabbed the arm rests a little tighter as she heard a snort coming from the woman, who had now crossed her arms. “But the ship is not yet ready. It may need provisions or repairs in this storm and…” Jae’s attempt to dismiss the issue was interrupted by a sneering laugh.

“And even so, Jaeniver, isn’t it your job to find us another ship if the original one has been delayed for whatever reason?” The patronising tone was more insulting to Jaeniver than the quiet words mumbled in addition “…shouldn’t have sent a Nandor to help us. You’re not capable or mature enough to handle this job.”

Jae’s face hardened and she narrowed her eyes as she looked at the snow elf. “At least I don’t deny myself, unlike some,” Jae would have hissed, but instead she quickly swallowed the antagonistic words. She allowed herself a moment to dwell on the bard’s voice, slightly out of key as it was, it still helped to calm her.

The snow elf was one of the Lossidil she knew, one of the few elven races that lived in the north. Erestor had told her the night before she set out from Rivendell that the snow elves were related to those Nandor, who had settled in the north. With the knowledge that the woman was her distant kin, Jae had made haste to reach her, yet was terribly disappointed with what she found. It wasn’t long until she realised the snow elves would never consider themselves Nandor nor did they recognise such distinction. It was a great offence to them. Ever since she had openly told Losp’indel, the pale Lindi lady, that she was of the Nandor, her attitude towards Jaeniver had become unbearable.

Jaeniver looked around the room and saw many faces looking her way, distracted from the bard’s interpretation of lay of Lúthien by the argument. She wanted to end this altercation not fuel it. “I think I’m handling this pretty well considered the circumstances.”

The eyebrows above the iced eyes arched giving Jaeniver a mocking look. “Oh really? You couldn’t even understand the elf called Alvaric. Maybe I didn’t tell you everything he said and something important slipped past your ears.” Losp’indel shrugged uncaring but with a mocking sparkle in her blue eyes. “You surely couldn’t tell. Such a shame that the prince of the Avari remains amongst such foolish Nandor. He doesn’t belong in such a place, don’t you agree?”

A frown crossed Jae’s brow as she heard the name of Dindraug. She found it strange to hear the name that belonged to another side of the elf she got to know. Memories of the elf caused her to smile. ‘He sure lost most of his royal qualities.’ She quietly mused. It made her realise how little she knew of him, she had met him once, no twice, and they had hardly exchanged words. Now music on the other hand...

She bit her lip as she remembered the enchanting melody he had haunted her with. It had been a burning sensation inside her that forced her to play with him. Just a song, a simple melody that forged a bond, maybe not more then a thin thread but a bond it was.

“Well? Do you think you can?” Losp’indel’s voice interrupted Jae’s quiet musing. She had drifted off and stopped paying attention to the endless ranting of the woman and had apparently missed some sort of question or compromise.

“I can what” said Jae, turning to look at the snow elf.

“Can you find me and my companions a ship, any ship, as you were contracted to do little Nandor. Or do we have to go and find somebody who can do the job?” She stood back from the table, her arms crossed, her voice cold and filled with scorn. Jae had had enough. She stood slowly and stared at the snow elf, who took an involuntary step backwards.

“Alright,” shouted Jae. “I will go and find you any damned scow sailing west”. With that she grabbed up the shipping documents and stormed out of the Inn, slamming the door open and almost walking through the elf who stood there. Without a glance at him, she stormed off down the road.

_________________

So give me your forever.
Please your forever.
Not a day less will do
From you

~Other half of the Menacing Glare Duo~ partner-in-crime out to confuse the world!


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peeg
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:24 pm
You Tolkien to me?
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Posted: Sun Apr 4, 2004 7:10 pm

Legyviel woke with a start and sat up, wondering grouchily what had woken her. A glance at the sky told her it was noon. She groaned softly, not able to believe she had slept for so long, and then struggled to her feet. The woodchuck that had been perched on her stomach fell off and landed on the ground with a thud. Legyviel looked down in surprise, having only just realised it was there. She crouched on the ground again, staring at it. She rarely ever came across the small animals that walked Middle-Earth- her raptor friends often discouraged any meetings.


This certain woodchuck, however, was chattering angrily, but the elf couldn’t understand a word of what it was saying. For a few minutes she crouched in front of it, fascinated by it’s angry repartee and furious gestures. It finally gave up on her, after it realised she didn’t get a word of what it was saying, and scampered away.


Still half asleep, Legyviel stared after it for a moment, then got up with a sigh and shook back her cloak. A few feather floated to the ground, and she quickly brushed the rest off her black cloak. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her silver blue hair, tight in a bun at the nape of her neck. It was pulled back, the cloak wrapped carefully around her body again, leaves and dirt hastily brushed off it. Time was slipping away, and she knew she was already late. So much for taking just a ‘nap’. She must have been more tired than she realised.


Ready at last, the elf set off through the trees. She had not yet gone far when she felt a shifting in the wind, a change in it that she had never felt before. Raising her nose delicately to the air, she sniffed. A number of scents assailed her- the damp, fresh earth, the scent of wood animals, various flowers, and the different scent of each tree. Along with those came the not-far smell of humans and building. Smoke, food, horses and the slight underlaying stench of human waste reached her, and Legyviel wrinkled her nose. Her opinion of most humans was not a nice one.


But it was not those smells that had caused a change. There was another, more subtle tang in the air, and as she sniffed again she realised what it was. The sea! The very thought of it made her excited- to think she was so close to it now, that vast, ever-changing landscape that she had only ever seen in eagle shape, was enough to make her feel wide awake and cause her elven blood to stir in excitement. Her pace quickened, and soon she had reached the city.


Mithlond was all she had thought it would be. Her nose had already warned her of that, but actually seeing it with her eyes was a different thing. It had the look of a place that had seen its days of glory and was now fading into the memory of History. Legyviel sighed and surveyed the street she was walking down with disgust. She didn’t like cities, even elven ones. The narrow streets and endless stream of people walking down them made her head spin and draw even further into herself.


Turning a corner, she found herself in front of a large house. The Seven Stars Inn. It had the same look about it that the city had- a sense of greatness falling into decay. Shaking her head, the elf opened the doors and walked in. It was extremely noisy inside. Judging from the comments people walking around were passing, it seemed that she had missed a lot of excitement. Something about a hobbit and broken arms. A man- he looked like one of the Haradrim people- was being dragged away. Legyviel felt overwhelmed, and longed to slip away and take a good look at the sea, but she knew she had to find the ranger Alandriel first. A long time ago they had met, but she could not be sure she would remember her. the sooner she found her, the elf decided, the better.


Walking towards the main counter, Legyviel signalled to the man who seemed to be in charge. He lumbered over, looking dubiously at her hooded and cloaked figure, then plastered a fake smile on his face when he realised she was an elf. Elves meant money.


“Milady…what can I do for ye?” he asked. Legyviel regarded him with distaste, but her face remained smooth and not a flicker of emotion crossed her eyes.


“I seek the Lady Alandriel. I was told she is staying here,” she replied coldly. The smile faded from the man’s face and he glowered at her.


“Damn elves an’ hobbits an’ all means of strange folk lookin’ fer her…sure she’s got ‘em cold eyes on her, nearly gave me a chill. An’ those flamin’ hair, but she ain’t much to look at…” the barman muttered under his breath, obviously thinking she couldn’t hear him. Legyviel gave him a curious look, wondering what he meant. He caught her looking and cleared his throat.


“Ye’ll do well to speak te the Mister Hobbit there…came in screechin’ at the top o’ his teeny voice, askin’ after the Lady,” he said, raising his voice and pointing to a small curly head that was sitting with a strange-looking man. His voice had lost its sincerity, since he’d realised he was getting no money out of the elf. She gave him an icy smile in thanks, then scanned the room until the found the curly haired head again.


Legyviel headed towards the fireside where the hobbit and strange man were sitting. As she watched, a woman got up, gave the man a kiss and, weaving slightly, left them. On closer inspection, she saw that the stranger was dirty and wet, and that other people were giving the two a wide berth. The story about a broken arm earlier sprung to her mind, and she regarded the man in a different light.


She was close enough now for the two to notice her. The other didn’t even bother looking up, though he must have known she was there. The hobbit craned his neck and stared up at her. Legyviel regarded him silently for a moment, then smiled. There had been no malice in his gaze. A hesitant smile broke over the small, sweet face and he gestured for her to join them. Legyviel took at seat next to him and leaned back in her chair. Her hood fell back slightly, enough to reveal her face but not her hair.


There was a short, uncomfortable silence in which the elf scrutinized the dark, silent one and the hobbit gazed in awe at the elf. Finally growing impatient, Legyviel turned to the hobbit.


“I hear you seek the Ranger Alandriel”


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The_Seekers
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:26 pm
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posted by Braganil

Posted: Mon Apr 5, 2004 2:26 am

The House of the Seven Stars – at last Braganil had reached the Inn he was looking for. By now he was drenched by the still pouring rain and wondering whether he had made the right decision in coming here in the first place. He wanted a warm bed, even if it was in the hay of some barn. Dismounting his horse Rahedan, the Rider grabbed the edges of his cloak, shaking it out a bit before he entered the establishment. Already people were inside, a warm fire was burning and the smell of ale as well as stew was palatable in the air standing in the main room.

What a mottled assembly of people, Braganil thought, still standing in the entrance and dripping onto the wooden floor. And this was where he was supposed to find Alandriel? Shaking his head just a bit, his feet set him on a course to the counter also serving as a bar.

His inquiry about a room was answered in the negative – no room to be had, the Inn was full. Frustrated, Braganil looked around once more and sighed. “If ye have a stable, I will be more than happy to sleep in it with my horse. We just need a to dry out again?”

He was too tired to mention the actual reason why he had come, surely, if this Lanadriel was here, she would be here the coming day as well, when he had still time to look for her. The barman grunted and quite reluctantly lead the Rohirrim out to the stables, pointing him towards one of the empty stalls.

“There’s food and some ale inside if ye care and have the coin!” Politely Braganil nodded at the invitation, and the began to unsaddle Rahedan, brushing him dry for the night and then taking a simple blanket, curling himself into it in the corner of the stall, and instantly fell sleep.


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Tibodom Took
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:26 pm
Touti rikiki, kifkif kosto
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Posted: Mon Apr 5, 2004 4:33 am

At least, the ale was good. Sitting on a chair, several inches too high for him and watching his feet balancing forth and back, Tibodom sipped on his pint. At least, this one was good. Not as good as in the Green Dragon, of course, not as good as in any inn of the Shire, nothing in comparison to a real 1420, but still good enough to put a smile on the face of our tired hobbit. And while he was emptying his glass – wait he has already emptied it and is just about to order a second one with a decent meal, young Master Took looked forward to a good night of sleep in a bed – little did he care that it would be in a small store room.

In the mean time, his head slightly turned towards his right shoulder, as he liked to hold it, he examined the strange fellow who had invited him to a brandy, and who – if he had understood things well, was also in search of the mysterious Alandriel. But whoever the mysterious Alandriel was, she was not here. Tibodom still had to overcome the surprise that the ranger he had been sent after, was a woman. He had never really thought about it – and after all those foreign people had so strange names – Glorfindel being a man, whereas Morwen was a woman… He had simply supposed that a ranger must be a man. But apparently not. How could a woman be trusted with such an important mission?

The waitress had arrived at his table and she bent towards him, with a huge welcoming smile – maybe a hobbit wakes her motherly instincts- giving Tibodom a very interesting insight into the décolleté of the young lady- but that does not matter at all to the storyline. And with a smile even huger, Tibodom started his order: “ First I want a couple of mirror eggs, with crispy bacon on them, but the bacon fried in an extra pan, please. Then some of your bread, warmed up, but not too crispy this one, to accompany a bit of cheese. As a main course I would want some potatoes, fried and not cut too thin, and as we are close to the sea, some fish with that, fried of course. With that a plate of mashed peas would be most welcome.” Tibodom paused a while, but he was far from being done with his order. Only he felt that maybe the waitress would want to take some notes. And indeed the waitress thought that if she had more often clients like this, she would need to learn to write. “Then, I would want your pan of mixed mushrooms, and with this some white and soft bread aside, and a couple of fresh tomatoes, if possible mixed with cucumbers. For the desert…. Well for the desert, we shall see. With all this bring me some more pints of your rather acceptable ale.” Once the order was done, Tibodom felt much more relaxed – nothing but the perspective of filling his howling stomach made this hobbit far more comfortable. And now, lightening his pipe, he started to balance on his enormous chair and to look around in the inn. Never in his life before had he seen so many of the big folks in the same place!

Do you think that our young and adventurous hobbit should feel offended by the words of this rough innkeeper, Brûnir? That he should defend his honour? Or the honour of his mule? That he should refuse to sleep in a storeroom and claim for a room? That he should go and search for the mysterious Alandriel right away? Should he mistrust the dark stranger who had offered him a brandy? 0r should he be afraid of thieves, thinking of the scene that he had just witnessed? Will you loose all respect for his young person because he seems to show so little pride and attention? Now once more before you judge our young hobbit to harshly, think practically. Tibodom is small, of course. What for does he need more than a small room? A storm is gathering outside, he wants a warm bed – and certainly not in the stables – a warm meal and a warm bath (that is the last item of the list). He has the chance to get the three of them – and he knows very well, that a big person in a hobbit inn might have got more inquiry than that. And less ale… A brandy sounds always good, and unlike other hobbits, young Tibodom is curious to try the taste to foreign drinks – food would be a different matter – but drink – of course. The whomever he was looks just like any of the Big Folk for him – his knowledge, unlike his curiosity and his appetite is limited, and he is easy to trust anybody as far as a drink. As for finding Alandriel on that very evening, let’s just go back to our master hobbit – who in-between has arrived at his mushroom curse. Maybe now your opinion about him has improved a bit – and if not I will tell him his four truths, and in the next episode he shall behave better.

Tibodom just has shovelled a huge spoonful of mushrooms in his mouth and chewing merrily started to feel a lot better –warmer, less hungry and more cheerful. For the first time since he began his meal, he lifted his head from his plate longer than one second – and once more heard the name of Alandriel was pronounced once more towards the reception of the common room – by a melodious voice, unlike those of men which he had already heard, unlike those of hobbits too – unlike anything he had ever heard. How the hobbit managed to hear the voice of the arriving elven lady from his place? Must I remind you of hobbit’s fine ears?

To the surprise of Master Took, the owner of the melodious voice turned towards their table – for a moment in his greed – or more politely said hunger, he had forgotten about the dark stranger who had invited him. The owner of the voice was a lady- surprisingly tall and very, very fair – almost as fair as Rosie cotton walking barefoot over the light green grass of the Shire…. Tibodom was not aware that he stared at the newcomer. But he saw that his companion frowned his eyebrows and seemed somehow disturbed by the arrival.
There was a short, uncomfortable silence in which the elf scrutinized the dark, silent one and the hobbit gazed in awe at the elf. Finally growing impatient, Legyviel turned to the hobbit.

“I hear you seek the Ranger Alandriel”

Surprised Tibodom jumped at his feet – on the chair of course, knowing that if it had been on the ground the lady would have to bend almost to the ground to hear him speak.

« Yes – I am – and so is the young gentleman who was kind enough to invite me to share a drink. Tibodom Took at your service. Are you an elf? »

« Yes I am. » Legyviel did not have the time to place any more words, for Tibodom had already started to chatter again (the effect of food on a hobbit is amazing…).

« You have chosen the right moment to arrive, the waitress will be back in a minute so that I can order my desert, and until then, if you don’t mind, I could have a bit of a pipe, which I would gladly share with you, lady… » There the hobbit paused, terribly embarrassed, because he remembered the name of neither of his recent companions. Not that he had asked for it !

« But I forget the good manners of the Shirefolk and don’t leave you any time for presentations – around a glass, I am sure that we will all quickly know who we are, and why we are all looking for this Alandriel. »

And back to sitting on his tiny bottom, Tibodom lighted his long pipe stuffed with a deliciously smelling herb, puffed a few times and hoped that of them would cover the newly risen silence with words of his own.

_________________

Nin's hobbit [ img ]Don't worry, be hobbit!


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*Alandriel*
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:27 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 18, 2004 7:28 am

‘Who has come?’ The Ranger mused as she watched the falcon soar. Storm-clouds were fast approaching from the south and east. Her brow furrowed. An omen? Had Baradan in Minas Tirith received her letter; or Darthir, Knight of Dol Amroth , a trustworthy friend of old? Had her plea reached Dindraug, or Legyviel - or was that too much to hope for? The former had a restless streak… Where was he now? And what of Aram in Dale? Would he answer? Who would come from Rohan….. the Shire?

Maecheneb *), having completed a few graceful rounds overhead suddenly veered off. Alandriel raised her hand high to shield against the strong glare of the noon day sun. Zzzzhhh – thud! The sudden impact threw her arm down and for only and instant her eyes focussed……….. a black and white feathered shaft! There was no time to contemplate the finer points of the strange fletching as her hand instinctively completed the motion, her fingers closing hard on the Eket at her side. Like a coiled spring she reversed the movement and whirled around. The gem encrusted Eket held high cast angry red sparks.

Zzzh – thud. Zzzh – thud. Several more arrows rained down on her but were deflected by the smooth stonework of the arch under which she had dashed to seek temporary shelter. Alandriel’s eyes furiously scanned her surroundings as she suppressed a curse, trying to dislodge the embedded missile with her other hand. There were too many niches to hide, too many balconies, too many windows…. Unable to pull the arrow free, she snapped its shaft and the slight ‘clang’ as it fell onto the stone paved road was the only other sound discernible besides her quickened breathing in the sudden eerie quiet.

Where was the shooter? Judging from the angle the arrows had fallen …. not far……. and not too high….. but not on the roof. Quickly she stuck her head out to get a good look at the second and third storey of the building opposite. Zzzh …. Thud! Another missile buried itself in the mortar of the wall where only seconds ago her head had been. ‘Darn, he’s good’. A crooked smile curved her lips. ‘But not good enough!’ She re-sheathed the Eket and went into a crouch. Her eyes never once left their focus on her half-obscured target, a second floor balcony with half-broken stonework from years of neglect, as her fingers searched. A mid-sized stone and a good knife throw should do the trick. The rock was meant as a diversion: it would shatter the window above the gallery where the shooter was positioned. Most likely, that was, if her guess was right. With a bit of luck, a shower of glass would bring him out of his rat hole in the shadows and then…..

‘Let’s find out how good you really are’ she thought grimly. An wry smile spread on her lips as she pulled herself up against the deep, cool shade of the arch. One step out was all she needed …. Would it be enough? Her hand momentarily weighted the stone. The other tightened resolutely on her dagger. Now! With gritted teeth she jumped, the rock leaving her hand instantly. The noise of shattering glass was drowned out by a triumphant shout which almost immediately turned into a yell of surprise and her own cry of pain. The impact made her stumble backwards yet the close proximity of high walls saved her from loosing her footing. Pushing herself off with a curse meant as much for the pain that coursed hotly through her left shoulder where an arrow had struck as for the assassin who was now clearly visible flinging his hands wildly to rid himself of the many sharp shards, she let the blade fly. His mutterings suddenly stopped and turned to harsh gurgles as both his hands flew to his neck. With a good measure of satisfaction the Ranger saw that her dagger had found its target, just above the collarbone. The dark robed figure swayed and then fell heavily onto the half-broken stone railing which collapsed entirely under the weight. Body, broken stones and mortar tumbled down into the street.

Alandriel stood, her back pressed against the wall and waited for the dust to settle. A tug at the arrow embedded in her shoulder, luckily a flesh wound only, told her she would not be able to pull it free without incurring more damage. Suppressing a groan of pain she broke the shaft off and then studied the fletching for a moment. The black feathers were unmistakeably raven. The white, streaked with grey, almost silver-like…… no! They were certainly not from any bird she knew. This could wait however and so she tucked it securely under her sword belt.
Unsheathing her Eket, she walked over to the lifeless form and turned the body over with her boot. A dark skinned man of middle years with short cropped black, wiry hair. His racial features as well as the fine white silk shirt now thoroughly soaked with blood left her in no doubt as to his origins: a Haradrim. What was a Southron doing in Mithlond….and why had he….? There was something around his neck. Supporting herself on the short sword with her good arm she went into a crouch to have a better look. Pulling the loosely fitting tunic her eyes narrowed: a tattoo, black, depicting a coiled snake ready to strike decorated his chest; and there was a silver chain with a pendant of polished black stone…….With her fingers, she tore the shirt aside more fully, baring his shoulder. Another tattoo – this time of a dark red colour….. a flame.

“Baudarain!!” **)

The sudden cry made her head snap around. Two more men, running down on either side of the alley, brandishing curved swords! There was no way out. Cursing her bad luck Alandriel pulled the dagger from the dead man’s throat and stepped into the centre of the alley. This would be very unpleasant.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

*) Sind: ‘sharp-eye’
**) ‘Keepers’


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The_Seekers
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Posted: Thu 09 Dec , 2004 2:29 pm
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posted by Shadowjack

Posted: Sun Apr 18, 2004 7:30 am

“She fights like a tiger – all the more dangerous when wounded. Good! The pain will keep her sharp.”

He watched the melee from the deep shadows of a decaying terrace adjacent to the arch that bridged the rows of houses to either side of the narrow alley. True, the fight was somewhat unfair yet this was a perfect opportunity to see, to watch, how she would try and break the odds. One opponent, the one who had reached her first, had already suffered a mortal wound although he was not aware of it – or at least not yet. As he had leapt for her like a cat on a mouse, yelling his blood-curdling battle-cry of ‘Baudarain!’ she had ducked at the last moment, ramming her elbow into his midriff, making him roll over her back while twisting and thrusting her dagger upwards delivering a clean stab into his side. The spleen – probably even a little higher, judging from the way he had recovered, clutching his ribs in agony. There was hardly any blood though; and that had quickly reassured the assassin who had gone into the offensive almost immediately again, forgetting about the dull pain. That his abdomen was most probably filling with blood from a ruptured main artery …. He smiled. That stab was a good tactic especially when unevenly matched in height and raw strength. The tall Southron was fast loosing stamina, something which became clear very quickly. His blows were now clearly slowing.

‘That stab has gone higher’ he thought with grim satisfaction some moments later, when he saw the Southron sway, almost loosing his footing. ‘If she struck his stomach now…..’

The other killer however was quick to fill the momentary gap. With that one Alandriel seemed to be less lucky. All she could do was deflect the blows which came fast and furious. He drove her. She gave way, inch by hard inch… until…. there was nowhere to go, backed up against the wall as she stood now. Matters were getting desperate for her. It was time…..

Almost lazily, he swung one leg over the balustrade. But then, with an agility that would put any predator to shame, he leapt over the railing and landed in a soft booted crouch in the street below, sword at the ready. Gliding along the opposite wall - the shadowy side of the alley - was not really necessary for none of the contestants would hear nor see him, not until it was too late – yet it added a nice touch, or so he thought as he silently approached.

There was a sudden last, fierce determination written on the face of the doomed Haradrim as he recovered from his sway. He tightened his grip on his scimitar and gave an unearthly howl. That was it. The man finally knew he had nothing more to loose - he knew he was as good as dead. The howl turned into a wild snarl and with astonishing speed and force he hurtled himself, sword at a point, towards the Ranger.

Out of the shadows, the man whose appearance had changed many times over the ages saw Alandriel’s eyes flash at the new threat. She let go of the dagger and with a groan took hold of her Eket with both hands, throwing all her might into a push towards her as of yet unharmed opponent. The air rang with the impact of Númenorean short sword on curved scimitar. With a growl of effort as much as outrage and pain she pushed onwards once more, forcing the Southron to sidestep and then suddenly disengaged, falling back. The ten feet of distance she gained were vital. She needed room to manoeuvre. She spun…. too late. The suicidal Southron threw his full weight against her and sent her crashing back against the wall. Before she had time to recover the scimitar was but an inch from her throat and her eyes locked with a pair of black orbs loomed down on her with a sheen of fervour bordering on madness.

“Take your last breath, usurper of the essence,” he snarled, his breath as foul as his heavily accented speech.

Now she was in serious trouble. It was a split second decision. With a mighty leap, he left the shadows.

The Ranger, intent only on keeping the scimitar balanced and away from her neck, did not see the formidable sword that cleaved the other assassin in half. She never saw how the mighty Southron fell like a tree struck by lightening. Only when her opponents suddenly slacked, when his eyes bulged and seemed to almost pop out of their sockets - only then did she notice the shiny point that emerged from his chest and pointed right at her heart. The scimitar fell to the ground with a clang. She could hear her blood rushing in her ears in the sudden silence and then, a voice:

“One inch can make all the difference….”

With a short, forceful heave, he pushed the body of the dead Haradrim aside and withdrew his blade. Fixing the wide-eyed red headed woman with a mock stare he arched one eyebrow and said:

“Surprised? Don’t tell me you don’t know me.”


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