IC Post of the Month (ARCHIVE)

[The Frenchman]

Huer crept back into the forest, leaving Tharbad behind him. He had crept in under cover of darkness with Kix, the young woman he had met at the Ranger's camp, and Krystell. It angered him to use No-Face's form to get into the city, but he could find no other solution. They had scouted out the sewers as a possible option for a more discreet entry, but if anything that fruitless effort had left him angrier and in need of a long bath in a river's clear waters. Something was rotten in the city of tharbad, but he could not put his finger on it. Kix had seemed to know something, but Krystell's presence made her hold her tongue. Huer's trust in the Southron girl was fading rapidly, her show of wide-eyed foolishness and innocent beauty smelt wrong to the big man. He was used to being looked at with fear or pity by women, and it was rare that they sought to charm him... but he knew what an ambush felt like, and that was the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the elves, or Kix if free to speak, would cast more light on the darkness in Tharbad's heart...

//been posted elswhere, but thought I would keep the IC stuff together as well, please throw stuff at Huer if this is bad... He is rather partial to boar but dislikes tomatoes...

[AIKI-KEN]

It was a source of amazement to Harry that he could ever miss any factor of his adventures; he certainly did not miss the confrontations. He was however, secretly impressed with his improvement with his bow, he had thought himself adept before but now his skill was beyond his ability to measure.

It was a warm day and the smell of spring was strong in the air as Harry cleared the last rise and came into view of the river. It had never been a glad sight in Harry’s eyes, moving to Buckland when he was in his early teens it had been a constant source of fear in the young hobbits heart, one of many, but now the evening sunlight glanced of the rippling surface of the water he was filled with a strong sense of well being; this was where he belonged, he was not an adventurer and was certainly no soldier.

He strolled along the riverbank humming a simple tune, sword swinging gently by his side, as if an extension of his hip. There was no awkwardness in his step.

Harry had never been good at making friends. His early childhood had been a solitary one; with no kin and only his mother to keep him company, His father, a hunter, spent most of his time away, he had never developed the outgoing nature that can be found in most hobbits. Living a half-day’s walk from the nearest village Harry seldom spoke with other children and it was only when they had moved to buckland, after that terrible day, that Harry began to spend time with other young hobbits of his age.

Much to Harry’s distress the youths had been almost obsessed with adventures, their heads filled with strange tales of a hobbit named Bilbo. It was not long before Harry’s peers discovered their new companions timid nature and began to taunt him. The game of “frighten Harry” was never a hard one to win and the more they played it the more Harry withdrew. Through his isolation Harry had come to believe that people were cruel and harsh, that he would never feel comfortable around anyone but his mother. Yet again his thoughts strayed to his companions of the last month.

Lost in his thoughts Harry followed his feet over familiar paths and as the sun set behind the distant hills Harry arrived at his aunt’s small dwelling. The small round doors and windows seemed somehow unusual to Harry. Having spent the best part of the last month abiding in the bustling town of Tharbad, Harry had become quite accustomed to the many-floored stone buildings.

As the days passed Harry began to find himself overcome with boredom. It was a delight for him to be in the company of his mother, whom he loved deeply, but the lack of things to occupy his mind began to frustrate him. Harry tried to practise his archery, spending hours at a time in the garden shooting at the worn target that had occupied him for so many years, but it could not satisfy him. Shooting the target was just too easy for him now. There was for Harry an aching in the gut, one that no amount of food would get rid of.

The boredom increased rapidly each day until Harry had finally had enough. On the advice of his cousin (his aunts husbands brothers son, a close family tie as hobbits go) who was a minor hobbit sheriff, Harry took a job delivering letters around the shire. The job, to Harry’s surprise, quite suited him. Never in the past would he have been willing to venture away from home on his own, now he found it quite relaxing.

It was on one of these long journeys across the shire, west to Hobbiton, that things all started to go wrong for him.

[AIKI-KEN]

One evening, preparing to make camp, Harry came across a pair of elves. Strange to look at and queer without a doubt, the creatures put a strange foreboding feeling in Harry’s stomach, one that even the most gargantuan of meals will not put right. It was not that they looked dangerous, although they most certainly were, or even smelt foul, it was simply a feeling, and Harry was never one to disregard those. Carefully, as only hobbits can manage, Harry edged off of the road and made his way round the strange creatures, giving as wide birth as he could and making sure to keep his footsteps silent. This was another skill that Harry had almost perfected through his childhood as one of his many methods of making the game “frighten Harry” that little bit harder for the other children.

“Hello there” said one of the pair, slightly shorter than the other and looking directly at Harry. Upon hearing his companions voice the taller elf looked up from what appeared to be a map and smiled at Harry.

Startled, Harry acted as though he had not heard the elf and continued to make his way slowly from the pair. This however was useless, as the tall elf had begun to walk towards the apprehensive young hobbit, leaving the option of avoiding a meeting out of the question.

“Greetings friend” said the tall elf as he approached, the shorter companion followed behind, now looking fairly disinterested.

“Hello sir,” said Harry, trying desperately not to show his astonishment that he had been noticed, “Can I help you?”

“In fact you can young master,” said the tall elf, “we were just in the process of making our way to a place called Buckland.” he gestured towards the map, “It appears to be by a river, but we’ve not seen a river for days”

“It’s not far sir, I can take you there if you’d like” said Harry, his good manners taking effect before he had time to stop himself.

A strange man, clad in green, armed with a great bow and a long sword rode slowly towards the group, dismounting unnoticed by Harry to the greeting of the short elf.

“That would be greatly appreciated young master,” said the tall elf “please, lead the way”

Holding back from kicking himself for his stupidity Harry turned round to make a move and walked straight into the side of the newcomer. Stumbling backwards and tripping Harry fell, only to be caught by the scruff of the neck by the newcomer and lifted back to a standing position.

“I’m ever so sorry sir!” exclaimed Harry, failing to keep the redness from his cheeks, “thank you.”

“That’s perfectly alright master hobbit,” said the man, “and who might I have the honour of sharing in this collision?”

While he was speaking the short elf muttered something in elvish to his companion and began gesturing towards the west, from where they had just come.

Harry smiled politely at the man, glancing occasionally at the elves for a moment, a blank look in his eyes

“Your name, master hobbit. What is your name?” said the man; an amused smile flickered across his face.

The elves now turned towards the west and began to run, lightly across the dry dirt road, kicking up no dust. As an afterthought the short elf called out a farewell as the two rounded a bend and went out of sight.

“You’re going the wrong way,” cried Harry in a strangled voice, too late to be heard. Letting his head drop momentarily he groaned, Harry turned back to the minstrel, “o-dear.”

“I’m sure they know of some secret short cut,” said the man reassuringly, “the actions of elves are oft beyond the rest of us, but please master hobbit, your name if you will”

“Oh… yes, my name is Harold sir, Harold Bracegirdle, from buckland” he answered, bowing clumsily

“Well met master Harold, I am Malweth Erdil”

“People normally call me Harry sir, it’s a little less of a mouthful”

“Then Harry you shall be”

“If you don’t mind my asking sir, what might you be doing in the shire,” Harry said, relaxing after the man’s polite manner “it’s not often that we have big folk in the shire, that is, men sir”

It transpired that the man was a minstrel, from Gondor, travelling to the grey havens, west of the shire, and then onwards to visit a friend in the mountains near that area and the pair agreed to travel together as far as they followed the same path. Dusk was beginning to settle at this time and the man lifted Harry into the saddle in front of him and sped their way to the nearby village of Frogmorton where they spent the night in the inn, ready to travel fresh the next morning.

In the inn a strange tension was about. The barman looked fearful and the noise in the place was more of a quiet murmur than the usual loudness found in the inns of the shire. Harry himself was content to sit quietly while he ate his morning meal and was unaffected by the strange atmosphere. Harry’s new companion however was not.

Getting up he said to Harry “I’m just going to have a word with the barman”

Harry groaned audibly at the minstrel’s insistence to become involved and tried to make the most of eating his breakfast.

“A monster you say” the sound of the minstrel’s voice travelled to Harry, putting him off of the remainder of his meal.

As the pair left the inn to continue their journey the minstrel began to ask more questions about the marsh that bordered the north side of the village. Much to Harry’s distaste there were many mentions of adventuring and excitement, two things that Harry was almost certain he wouldn’t like.

Sitting down outside the stables waiting for the minstrel’s horse to be readied the subject of the “monster” came up.

“Young master Harold, I think there is an adventure here waiting for us,” said the minstrel with an excited glint in his eye that was quite beyond the understanding of the hobbit.

“If its all the same sir, I’d much rather just continue travelling, I’ve got an important letter to deliver sir” said Harry, knowing very well that the letter in question had been waiting for delivery for several months and would probably not be missed if it was another week or two late.

“Come on Harry,” said the minstrel, his eyes now alight with energy, his hands twitching with the thought of the adventure, “surely there must be some adventure in you?”

“None at all sir,” said Harry stubbornly, “I’ve had my fill with adventure.”

“That my friend is an impossibility,” said the minstrel, now pacing in front of Harry, “surely you’ve felt it”

“Felt what sir?” Harry was now completely confused.

“The aching,” said the man, “it’s like a burning in the gut that cannot be quenched. It is caused by adventure and only the excitement of an adventure can get rid of it. It is like an addiction. Surely you’ve felt it Harry?”

A glint of understanding came to Harry, a shocking revelation that he could not bring himself to accept. “What you need sir is a good meal, when I get a rumbling in my tummy that always sends it packing.”

“Come on Harry, time to go” said Malweth exasperated.

The minstrel collected his horse from the stables and began to lead it away. “Come on Harry,” the man paused, “here, Harry, I believe I know a short cut.”

Satisfied that the risk of adventure was almost completely gone, his judgment somewhat affected by the aching in his stomach that had still not subsided in spite of the enormous breakfast that he had just devoured, Harry got up and walked after his companion.

[AIKI-KEN]

Taking his horse by the reins, Malweth lead towards the north. The pair travelled at a gentle pace happily talking until they reached a small stream that bordered an area of lightly wooded marshland.

“Are you sure this is a shortcut?” asked Harry, a little uncertain.

“Calm down my friend,” replied the minstrel, a mischievous smile crossing his lips “the elves aren’t the only ones who know secret ways”

Entirely out of character Harry accepted this and continued to make his way behind the minstrel through the swampland. They walked for another hour before Harry began to regret his decision not to contest this longer.

“Best arm you lad,” said the minstrel, stringing and arrow and loosening his sword in its sheath.

“You never mentioned any fighting sir,” said Harry, preparing his bow nonetheless.

“It’s to be expected in an adventure my lad” said the man, loosing his arrow and drawing his sword, “you’d best know how to use that thing!”

Before Harry could protest he saw something that chilled his blood. Speeding towards the pair where seven creatures, each half as big as a man and green in colour, one of the seven had an arrow protruding from it’s shoulder and began to lag behind the group. The creatures brought to Harry’s mind the toads that used to inhabit the pond at the bottom of his garden and as they drew nearer Harry saw that apart from their size the only difference between these creatures and those were the enormous claws that scraped the ground as the creatures leapt towards them.

Harry, calmed by the sudden absence of aching in his gut, took careful aim and released, taking the foremost in the side of the head as it cleared a rotten tree trunk and hurtled towards his companion. The creature died in mid flight and plummeted to the ground at the feet of the minstrel, only to be followed by a second who’s head was cleanly removed by the minstrel’s gleaming sword.

As the group of creatures reached their goal the remaining five split, three heading towards Malweth and two for Harry who only had time to shoot one more arrow as the creatures closed on him. His arrow took one of the three high in the chest and it collapsed, knocking the minstrel to the floor.

The two other creatures reached Harry, coming from either side. Dropping his bow Harry drew his short sword and plunged it towards the closest of the attackers. The strike missed its mark and the creature swung its great claw at Harry’s head. Diving out of the way of the blow Harry rolled along the floor and regained his feet. As he rose he pulled his small shield from his back and took the wide stance that the dwarf Nalnain in Tharbad had taught him. The two creatures, now side by side, approached more slowly. Jumping forward to his right keeping, Harry made a slashing cut at the one of the pair, keeping his shield raised against an attack from the other beast. Harry’s blade glanced off of the creature leaving only a small scratch on the creature’s chest.

“Cut through the universe” muttered Harry, recounting the dwarfs words he cut again and watched as his short sword cleaved through flesh and bone, slicing through the creatures chest and killing it instantly. At this moment the second beast leaped at him. Forcing up his shield arm again, Harry threw all of his weight towards the second creature, thrusting his sword through the monster’s throat, as it’s great claw slammed into Harry’s shield knocking him from his feet and on to the corpse of the first dead beast.

“You’ve had your fill of adventures have you?” said Malweth, grinning he pulled Harry to his feet, “I’d say your better at dealing with danger than you think. You certainly know how to use that bow”

Calmness had settled over Harry, the shaking that he associated with the end of conflict was lessened considerably. Harry was happy. The fear that had held Harry all of his life had cleared for the first time, it had left his body with the aching and he had stood his ground. Pride filled the young hobbit. Speechless Harry collected his bow from the ground where he had dropped it and returned his sword to its sheath. There was the barely perceptible beginning of a grin on Harry’s face.

“Come on Harry” said the minstrel, turning away from Harry and beginning to walk, “the adventure’s not quite over yet.”

Harry, fingering his bow eagerly, took little heed of the minstrel’s words, following him with a look of excitement in his eye.

The pair faced many dangers that day. As evening settled the pair stood by the corpse of a creature much like those that attacked them upon their entry to the swamps, different only in size. The beast, it’s corpse littered with arrows and its head lying several feet from it’s body, was twice the size of a man in every dimension and truly horrible to behold.

Crouching by the body, Harry began to pull his arrows from the brutalised corpse. Upon removing the last arrow from the beast Harry stood, picked up his bow, and looked at his companion.

“This wasn’t shortcut, was it sir?” said Harry a wry smile on his face.

Chuckling the minstrel replied, “Not as such Harry, come, let us return to the inn and get some rest. I still have a journey west to continue.”

Grinning broadly now Harry set off behind the minstrel, both fear and the aching were absent now and Harry felt truly at peace.

The pair came across Malweth’s tethered horse and sharing the saddle, they rode together the remaining miles to the frogmorten.

Harry walked alone into the inn, the minstrel busy tending to his horse in the stables. A small pang of hunger ached in Harry’s stomach as he sat down at the table nearest the fire, he realised suddenly that it had been almost a full day since he had last eaten a good sized meal. Shocked at himself Harry ordered from the barman an enormous meal of roast boar and all the fixings, this, he thought, would satisfy his gradually increasing hunger.

As Harry finished the last morsels of his meal, as fine a meal as he could have desired, the minstrel entered the inn. Strange to Harry was the realisation that the feeling of hunger had not disappeared, he was certainly full and had even refused a third course, forgetting entirely the possibility of pudding. The dull aching in Harry’s stomach was stronger now, and with it came a sudden awareness of the people all around him in the small inn, Harry let his shoulders drop and made himself appear small.

“There you are!” called out the minstrel, heading towards Harry from the bar with a jug of ale in one hand and a two pitchers in he other, “I couldn’t see you!”

Looking up at his companion of the last day Harry gave his old self-conscious smile and sat quietly staring at the burning embers.

Malweth gave a knowing smile and poured out the ale.

“In time it will slow,” said the minstrel, moving closer to Harry, “each time you fight it will return more slowly”

Looking up at the minstrel Harry smiled, “will it ever go completely?”

“Now that is something I do not know,” replied the minstrel, returning Harry’s smile, “for myself it does not return now for some weeks and I have, to some extent, learnt to delay the ache, but it’s coming is inevitable. I am fortunate in that I am strong and brave, compared to some at least, so I am able to face that which will end the feeling readily and without fear.”

“Is battle the only way to get rid of it again?” asked Harry; it was beginning to dawn on him the significance of this on his lifestyle, among other things.

“I’m afraid so Harry, battle and adventure, as far as I know are the only things that will take from you the aching. We are like the drunk with his bottle, the urge to drink is only satisfied by the drink itself, and yet it is the drink that causes it all I the first place.”

“How can I face battle if I am afraid of it as I always am?” asked Harry, recalling the pinning fear that had struck him before every encounter leading up to this day.

“I did not see fear in you today, Harry, you may be braver than you think”

It astounded Harry that people kept telling him that he was brave when he himself knew that he could not be brave, the fear that was on him was too strong, no one as afraid as him could be brave. “The fear went away when the battle started sir, along with the aching, but I was still scared sir, before that, I was scared to the core. What should I do Mr Malweth, how can I live with this constant ache and too much fear to do what I need to get rid of it? ”

Smiling sadly, the minstrel looked at Harry “I am sorry Harry for I believe this is something that I cannot council you on. Bear in mind what I have told you when you decide how you live from now on but do not look to me for advice for only you can know yourself well enough to make the decision.”

A wave of understanding flowed across Harry, deep down he had known that he would have to make a decision, that something would have to change, but only now did he understand. Standing Harry excused himself and made his way to the toilet his short sword still strapped to his hip. On the table remained a small bundle of letters tied together with a piece of string.

A small dark silhouette climbed from the round window on the back of the inn and headed east at a slow jog, a short sword swinging at it’s side and a clear purpose in it’s step.

[the-small-print]

Braint shouldered open the heavy door to the Pony, her hands laden with the hares she had caught, and two plump pheasants hanging over her shoulder, their necks dangling against the stained sky-blue of her sodden cloak.

She was met by a variety of sullen stares and the guttering light of a dozen oil lamps. Bertram Appledore sat huddled in a corner with his brother and three friends, each of whom wore the special look of resentment that they kept just for her. Braint smiled a humourless smile under her dripping hood and kicked the door shut behind her, wiping her feet on the muddy rushes and straightening up.

Bertram had not been able to walk easily since last week - a fact he owed to an ill-judged attempt to woo Braint, given courage by no less than seven flagons of ale. This had not made Braint overly popular within Bree; Bertram and his brother Rowlie were well known and liked through the town, and she was a grim-faced outsider with little humour and strange mystical marks upon her arms and legs. In fact, the only face inside the Pony who seemed pleased to see her was that of Barliman Butterbur, the balding innkeeper, who bustled over and admired Braint's catch happily.

"Well, you've done me a favour and no mistake Miss Braint! We're fresh out of hares, and those pheasants'll go down a treat once they've been hung for a week or two. I'll just get Rugni to make you up something now...."

He took the game from her and bustled off towards the kitchen, breathing heavily through his mouth and looking furrow-browed at a small slate in his hand, scratching tally marks upon it.

Braint quietly moved to an unobtrusive corner with a brightly burning reed lamp and huddled close to it, allowing the warm fug of the room into her bones. The burning rushes....

The fire-sprites hugging close to the Urk, making their skins crack and pour smoke... the Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. Braint nic Gwyddhien, leading a charge of five hundred horse against the attackers, cutting them down like corn to the hook. Standing victorious, Warrior-queen.....

"Here you go miss. I'm afraid you'll have to move to the ground floor for tonight, we're all full up upstairs."

There was a warm thud as a bowl of steaming soup and a flagon of ale were set upon the table before her, with a small loaf of crusted bread.

Eagle-dreamer, Warrior-queen....

Braint nodded her thanks to Barliman.

Her neck still stung where she had ripped off the plaited golden torc, and her hair was matted and tangled, bearing no braids.

The red-faced portly innkeeper gave her an encouraging grin before turning away and calling out for his assistant in a loud voice. He was a good man.

Braint tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup, letting the smell of it fill her nose and steal her attention. Chewing slowly, she savoured the mouthful, swallowed and took a swig of ale. Concentrating on the flavours and guessing the ingredients helped. It meant her mind was occupied and not free to wander.

".... all orcs and goblins, said he!" Braint looked up sharply. The speaker was Rowlie Appledore, brother to the unfortunate Bertram.

"On my honour, last week it was, took that ole Missus who lives out past Bromley's place. House cleaned out and burned to the ground, an' her an' her son visitin' her, all taken away and eaten up!"

The Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. The screams of the children and elders ringing in her ears. Lanis upon a pike, raised high in the air, still mouthing her shock as her lifeblood drained away.....

There was a growing whistle in Braint's ears.

"Well I never!" interjected Bram Oakley in an angry grumble. "I 'ad the young man muckin' out the pigs fer me last week! Baril were 'is name. Cheery young chap and a good worker to boot. What's the world comin' to, I ask you...."

Coward. Runaway.

Braint turned quickly in her seat and cleared her throat, causing him to jump and spill his drink. He gave her an unhappy grumble and looked away. The others glanced at her with mixed looks of suspicion and derision, muttering into their drinks.

Braint's pulse was racing, and her expression fierce.

"Where? Where are these goblin? These orcs?"

Braint felt her tongue stumble on the harsh-sounding language. She had been being tutored in it until her bleeding came, but the time after that had been filled with numerous ceremonies and rites, and so she had had little chance to practice.

"What business is it of yours, eh Miss?" asked Bram, giving her a suspicious leer.

"You want them dead? Tell me where they are."

Rowlie laughed.

"You mean ter say that you're going to go and kill 'em all, Miss? Just you by yourself? You'se mad I say. No girl's a match for a band o' goblins, true as it rains in spring!"

Braint's mouth twisted as she bit back an angry retort.

"I did not ask for your opinion, sir. I asked where they are," said Braint, narrowing her eyes at him.

...not a coward, not a coward...

Bertram gave a measured sneer and leaned back in his seat airily, adopting a businesslike, mocking tone.

"Well now, gents, it seems what we have here is a genuine firebrand. I say we should tell the young lady where these disreputable characters might be found, so that she can save us from them!" He gave a pompous smile, which Braint returned mockingly. "And I think a wager is in order!"

"Hrrr, aye! A wager!" growled Bram appreciatively. Braint gave him a venomous look.

"Well, my dear, how sounds this: if'n you return to this place bearing the head of the chief of this meddlesome band" - he gave a disbelieving wink - "then I shall give you twenty silver pennies and a round of ale, eh? And if you, say, return battered and bruised, or without the prize, then you shall give me - ah - the... pleasure of your company, for one night. Eh? What say you?"

The flare of anger that might have left Bertram headless was stayed by a gruff look from Barliman as he shook his head disapprovingly at the man.

"Now now, Mr. Appledore, let's not be making no silly wagers that'll get the young lass killed! I thought better o' you..."

"Sixty pennies," Braint cut in.

Fool. 'The pleasure of your company'. I could agree to that and spend a night throwing rocks at you.

Barliman gave an unhappy groan and bustled over to Braint, meaning to discourage her, but before he reached her, Braint had grabbed Bertram's hand and shook it hard.

And so she found herself, two nights later, creeping through the dripping forest, her bare feet padding silently across the wet leaves and mosses. Her skin tingled under the woad-lines she had painted upon herself, the writhing form of the dragon grappling its talons with the sky-blue eagle. The gods were watching her, but whether there was approval in their gaze, she could not tell.

Her palms tingled. There was light over the next rise. Gripping the tangled roots with her toes, she climbed the slope silently. She could feel the cold wind raising goose-pimples upon the skin of her bare legs, and sending the loose leather of her tunic flapping. This day she was acting out the plans of the gods, for good or ill. No armour would stop the killing blow if she was meant to die, and her minimal dress showed faith and acceptance of their will.

An ugly chattering and rasping laughter rode on the wind, and as Braint grew nearer to the flicker of firelight, she could see the huddled, swarthy figures of a dozen goblins biting strips of meat from chunks of stewed bone.

A sentry fiddled with the strap of his crossbow, thinking himself concealed in a tangle of holly. He was not looking in Braint's direction, and she pressed a thumb to her forehead in thanks for it. She changed her course and drew her skinning knife from her belt.

Twenty paces... ten... five...

Braint's heart beat so hard in her chest that she was amazed the sentry had not not heard its clatter. Two paces behind, she stopped, adjusting her grip on her knife and feeling cold sweat roll down her back. Her eyes were wide and her tongue moistened her lips nervously.

Coward! Coward! Coward!

Achingly long seconds passed, and she did not move. The sentry sneezed and wiped his nose on his arm, leering into the darkness.

Her arms were paralysed by fear, and there was no way out. No way back now. A shivering terror and heart-rending sorrow welled up inside her, so that she was almost ready to drop to her knees and beg the goblin's forgiveness for her intent. An unbearable longing swept through her chest for strong, warm arms to close on her and lead her away; loving hands to give her spiced warm milk; a cheerful, rumbling voice to sing her to sleep by the last embers of the fire and keep her in peace. A tear rolled down her face, stingingly cold in the night air, and a tiny, shaking gasp escaped her. The goblin stiffened....

Never again. All dead.

... and the gods intervened. As the goblin began to turn, a decisive rush of rage took her and her arm darted out like a striking snake, the knife's blade pushing its way fully through the sentry's neck, and trapping the wind in its gullet, so that it could not make its death-cry. Warm, black blood welled up out of the wound and soaked her hand as she twisted the blade and followed the goblin to the ground, ensuring that it did not clatter.

She straddled its chest on the ground and pushed her blade slowly into its heart, allowing no darting scrape that might be heard at the camp. The goblin's beady black eyes fixed on her own, wide with panic and hatred as it clutched at its throat, mouthing wordlessly as a bubbling flow of black blood flooded its mouth and spilled over onto its face. She stared into those eyes as the squirming ceased, cursing it with all her soul and reveling in the creature's bowel-voiding terror and shock.

All dead....

[the-small-print]

The forest seemed to turn blistering red and she stood, breathing levelly, and looked up at the fire. starting at a silent stride, she moved towards it, breathing harshly, light-headed with wrath and grief, but as she grew closer caution left her, and she drew her father's notched testing-blade with both hands and let out a wordless roar, her war-cry not finding the names that it so longed to give voice to, but nevertheless seeming to shake the trees to their roots and make the goblins cringe and cower, and sending one of them diving headlong into the fire in shock.

Nothing could stop her. The gritty long blades of the goblins shook in their hands as they madly swung at her, and the pommel of her sword crashed down onto the skull of one, sending it tumbling blank-eyed to the ground with a muffled 'crock'. Her blade whipped around and hissed through the air, barely slowing as it met the stomach of another, unseaming him and spraying his lifeblood over his bewildered and enraged fellows.

Another fell, and another. The slippery woad on her leg turned aside a long knife and her flapping cloak few in the eyes of its wielder, allowing Braint to bring about her blade and behead him.

She was vaguely aware of one of them roaring orders, its voice becoming more and more shrill as its audience was made into a bloody tangle, writhing in the mud of the campsite, and when none remained but it alone, she saw it turn tail and run towards the distant rocks, madly throwing its knife at her face.

Dragon-fire burned at her chest as she gave chase, ducking the blade and charging down the goblin with the speed of a wild horse. The goblin's many bangles and heavy helm were making him trip and stumble in the knotted mud and leaves, and a fearful glance over his shoulder caused him to run directly into a blackthorn bush, whose sharp embrace made him squeal and jump back into his pursuer.

Braint rammed him into a tree and knocked him to the ground, where he squirmed, hissing and squealing as she brought the dragon-headed pommel of her sword down into nose, and then again, and again, and again until the squirming gave way to twitching, and black blood stung in her eyes.

She stood, and brought her sword down once, decisively, removing his head. She stooped to pick it up, but as her heartbeat began to slow and she saw what she was reaching for, the battle-rage left her, and an uncontainable wave of nausea took her, followed by a choking sob and an unquenchable feeling of loneliness.

_________________________________

The door to the pony barged open once more, causing everyone within to jump and turn their heads. One or two reached for their weapons as the bedraggled figure pushed her way inside, soaked in black blood and reeking, her war paint smudged and blended until her skin looked blue-black and scratched, and her hair hanging in a dripping mess about her head.

The Pony's patrons gasped as one, and Bertram Appledore virtually cowered in his corner, his friends and brother visibly edging away from him as it became clear what they were looking at.

Braint walked over to his table and Bram Oakley fell from his stool in an effort to remove himself from the nightmare apparition. She dropped the mangled, pulverised, sodden thing onto the table by its hair and said, in a voice so much stronger than the one they had come to know as to be almost unrecognisable:

"There. Sixty pennies. Spare the drink, I don't think I could stand the company."

Bertram's mouth flapped, and a brief hint of argument crossed his face. Braint was impressed. She did not think he would have the nerve to argue.

"I... I - I mean to say, how do I know this is..?"

"Because I do not lie," She said flatly, her hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the hilt of her sword.

Bertram hastily looked down and gathered his purse, emptying its contents and looking imploringly at his friends to make up the remainder. They grudgingly did so, and Braint took ten coins directly to the bar and put them down in front of Barliman.

"For the upset, and the mess. Thank you, Barliman, for all of your kindness. I shall take my leave of you now. Keep well."

Not waiting for a response from the stunned barman, she strode briefly outside and disappeared into the rain, where old Vallan the beggar would awake the next day to find himself, unexplainably, fifty coins richer.

[the-small-print]

///since Elenuial's thread (and this one actually) seem to have vanished through lack of use... I'll put El's story here




There stood a low hill, and upon it were five beech trees, greater in height and girth than all others in the sunlit glade. One was in the centre and the four were set about it in a ring. High in their branches hung a great hall; fair beautiful it was, with wooden arches and lofty balconies, and set upon one wall was a black banner, bearing the device of a white bird set against a dark tree, with a winding path at its foot.

The leaves rustled softly in the wind, and the forest stream gurgled sparkled its way through the trees, bright flowers growing upon its grassy banks. Perhaps only the very keenest of eyes would have noticed a small figure, cloaked and hooded, that was stealthily lowering itself through the branches of the most westerly of the hall-trees.

She would get into trouble for this, she knew, but Nana had said, had she not, that so long as the Tirinmen watched over her, she could come to no harm, and the Tirinmen could find her anywhere. Eleri would know where she was. No one was wiser than 'leri. Except for Ada, maybe. And Nana.

The watcher's head was turned.... Hastily brushing aside all other thought, the girl darted forwards, towards the deeper, dark shadows among the trees.

Once she was well clear of the glade, the little figure removed the hood that had been muffling her senses, and slowly panned her head around, listening for the slightest giveaway noise. As she did, she revealed a curtain of soft, straight, and braided golden hair the colour of a misty winter's sunrise, that framed a light-skinned and delicately beautiful face. Her eyes were a shocking emerald green, and seemed to sparkle brilliantly in the gloom cast by the cathedral-like silent canopy far above. Her slight, pointed ears were p ricked sharp and alert.

She had to go deeper into the woods. The Gaurohim lived where there was true dark, even on the highest summer day. She journeyed on for what might have been two or three hours, though she could not see the sun to tell, and she had not been counting, being too taken up with her own thoughts. Suddenly, a smell hit her nose that made her stop dead.

Wolf...

Her heartbeat quickened. The Gaurohim were wolf-people, had that not been what Ëarhith, the old scholar had told her? Wolf-men that lived in Greenwood's darkest depths. The girl wondered why they lived alone, without any wolf-women. How did they have cubs? Perhaps they didn't like cubs, and that was why they hid in the dark; so the wolf-women wouldn't give them any to look after.

Something caught her eye. High above in the canopy there was a flash of white and a flurry of wings. A ringing 'Craaaauk!' broke the deep, muffled silence of the woods.. Elenuial smiled, and her silky, lyrical voice piped high into the trees:

"Mae govannen, Hir Craban. Le tiria-or enni sen aur?"

The raven did not respond. Instead, it stared at her for a moment, cocked its head and then fluttered away back in the direction form which she had come.

The girl closed her eyes and let her nose impart to her all it could find in the still air. It was definitely a wolf. She recognised the rich, musty smell - like moss, yet more alive and animal - from her father's hall. The wine-keeper would sometimes wear his wolfskin cloak when there were important guests to stay, like Hir Thranduil, or Hir Elladan, Or Balin, that kindly little man with so much curly hair growing from his face, who had given her her pendant. She fondled it affectionately as she thought of him. A twisted knot pattern of bright, shining white silver shaped like the wings of a bird, mantling a little sparkling stone. It was much prettier than that odd man had been, but he had made her laugh and said kind things of her to Ada when he left.

She smiled warmly in the quiet darkness and wand wandered forward, following the smell. Perhaps she would learn all about the Gaurohim, and write songs of lore about them, so she could sing in front of the court and they would applaud her and call her wise, like they did when Eleri or Nana sang.

She was getting close now... the smell was thick in her nostrils and she could hear a feint rustling of decades-dead leaves and a slow, heavy pant a little way before her. She sped up, still making no sound, until she could see the massive shadowy shape, loping along in the darkness ahead.

Suddenly the shape stopped, and so did the girl. Its ears were p ricked up, and its nose was in the air, jerking up and down as it searched for the elusive smell.

There was a short pause, and the creature wheeled around and fixed its burning yellow eyes on the girl's . Its head bowed low to the ground and it looked her up and down. She smiled and bowed in return, with all the grace and respect she could muster.

"Suilad, Hir Gaura! Im Elenuíal, sell uin Hir Doronras ned Craban Nim! Treneri nin o Gaurohim?"

Elenuíal looked up expectantly into the creature's eyes, which were still locked solemnly on her own. She took a few steps closer and the beast let out a deep, rumbling growl that shook the air in Elenuíal's chest and made her ears tickle. She giggled.

"Tur Gaura! Dae Gaura! Bain Gaura! Im iest ista ned le, le alpedo anim?"

The wolf stopped growling and looked at the little elven girl in sheer bewilderment.

Here stood one of the arrow-people, a little cub. It was barely worth eating, and he was not hungry, but what was it doing? Standing there without bent string-wood or long-claw, it did not smell afraid, nor look it. It was showing its teeth, but it did not stand in threat. What did it want?

The wolf growled again, and Elenuíal stepped forward, laughing at the tingle in her stomach. One swift movement, and she had wrapped her arms around the wolf's neck and felt its powerful muscles bunch as the it jerked back and snapped its jaws at her.

The poor thing is afraid of me!

"Algosta! Tol-aphad!"

With a reassuring smile, Elenuíal turned her back on the great wolf and began to walk away. She heard no steps following, so she turned and beckoned to it.

"Apahad, Daegaura..."

The wolf turned its head to one side and made an unmistakably inquisitive noise.

"Hrmmm?"

Elenuíal laughed richly, turned and began to skip away into the shadow of the trees and, back in the darkness, the great, shaggy-haired beast watched, paused for a moment and then padded after her.




Note: I decided to stick to Sindarin for her speech, becuase as a young elf (something that I've never heard Tolkien discuss), it was the language that came easiest to her. And it sounds nice. What she says is not, for the most part, essential to the story. And just so you know, the wolf's name is now Taygara.

P.S.: Apologies for having to write 'p ricked'. If I removed the space, the forum seemed to think it was too offensive a word for your delicate eyes to see.

[the-small-print]

Just in case anyone was desparate to know exactly what Elenuíal is saying:

"Mae govannen, Hir Craban. Le tiria-or enni sen aur?"
"Well met, master Raven. Are you watching over me this day?"

"Suilad, Hir Gaura! Im Elenuíal, sell uin Hir Doronras ned Craban Nim! Treneri nin o Gaurohim?"
"Greetings, Lord Werewolf! (She does not know it means werewolf) I am Elenuíal, daughter of Master Doronras of the White Crow! Will you teach me of your people?"

"Tur Gaura! Dae Gaura! Bain Gaura! Im iest ista ned le, le alpedo anim?"
"Strong Wolf! Shadowed Wolf! Beautiful Wolf! I wish to learn of you, will you not teach me?"

"Algosta! Tol-aphad!"
"Do not fear! Come, follow!"

"Aphad, Daegaura..."
"Follow, Shadow-wolf..."

Just realised the story might not have quite the same feel to it if you completely didn't get the monologue....

[Pvt .T.]

New Journal entry :

A few days ago I had to do my duty and bring a punishment to a man who in my eyes was innocent. It was hard to do, but if I wished my plan to move on, I had to make this sacrifice.

Only by gaining the Mayors trust might I be able to try and change this city, the city who I wish to serve. I am only here to serve the people, not the Mayor. Everyone with a half a brain would have found out themselves while being in that courtroom that that whole trial was a huge cock-up.

But soon, a new age will come. An age of justice, freedom, order and security in this city. But is this all just a fools dream?

I must not give up, I must contact an old friend now, Joel Quilby.

[the-small-print]

The warm tropical rain clattered against the haphazard panes of the window, making a sliding, moving sheen that blurred and rippled everything outside. A pair of dockhands scrambled to bring some crates of coloured silk in under the palm-leaf awning before they were ruined by the rain, the coppery storm-sun glinting off their soaked bodies.

A pair of grey eyes watched with a detached boredom as the men slipped and cursed on the cobbles. They belonged to a boy; tallish and gangly, with the look of someone who has grown much in a short time. His features were sharp and strong, but marred by a large purple bruise across one cheekbone and a scabbed lip.

The air was warm and humid, making his tongue tingle and his tunic stick clammily to his back. Behind him he heard the simpering giggle of the bloated landlady chatting to a customer. Her insincere, ratty voice jarred at his nerves as she named the price of his mother to another crack-toothed corsair and ushered them away, hastily outlining the house rules.

Something burned at the back of his throat, and his face twitched, causing the split on his lip to reopen painfully and bleed onto his chin. Cursing, he wiped the blood away with his forearm and made for the door, thinking to walk for a while in the fading rain, and maybe find some food.

"Dog! Where do you think you're going? Come 'ere!"

Scowling at the shrill voice, the boy turned on his heel to face the landlady and glared at her. Her jowely, bulldog-like face gave him a look of sharp impatience. He found it hard to believe that she had once been a courtesan too, let alone a successful one.

"Out. I'm hungry"

"Out is it, eh?" she cut in shrilly. "Youse going ter get some lead an' fix that damn leak is where youse going, Dog. Get some money from the kitty, and don't go stealing none, 'cause I've got it counted, mind, ev'ry penny"

The boy she called 'Dog' considered for a moment hitting the ugly old hag's face, but there would be no point. Sdapeze, the bouncer, would stop him before he could do any real damage, he'd get a beating, and things would go back to how they were, only a little worse. She didn't care enough to kick him out.

He nodded, and gritted his teeth as the woman's haggard features twisted into a look of triumph. He pushed past her, and went to his dingy little room to retrieve his battered leather pack.

Ten minutes later he was trudging the muddy street, his sandaled feet splashing through deep, brown puddles of luke-warm rainwater and enjoying the refreshing coolness that comes after a heavy downpour. He shouldered his way through the soaked crowd, another unremarkable face among many, nothing to mark him out except for a slight tension in his step that one would have to be watching closely to notice.

He pushed past one of the masons at the entrance to the builder's yard and earned himself a slap around the back of the head for knocking the man's elbow, which he took without reaction. He stopped in front of the counter, where a wiry man with a stubbly chin was chewing his quill as he pored over a large, dusty ledger. The man looked up distractedly, his one eye not quite lining up with the other, and said,

"What?"

Dog shuffled a little and responded in turn, "Roofing lead, for a leak. Two ells by one."

Grumbling, the thin man stood and loped off behind a stack of part-worked column segments and shoring blocks, and emerged a minute later bearing a shiny-edged roll of lead the length of his forearm, holding it as if it weighed nothing. He tossed it down onto the ledger and took up his quill again. Without looking up, he said "...two crowns," and crossed out some numbers on the page. Dog dropped a few coins onto the ledger and took the lead, and began to push his way back through the marketplace.

No one looks at me.... look at them, all walking along, staring at the pavement ahead or talking to one another. They don't spare a glance. But what would they see? The whore's son and errand boy. Why waste time looking at filth like that? But I don't need them to approve....

His pace quickened and his scalp began to tingle in anticipation. The sack clinked slightly at his back, and its strap bit into his shoulder. He moulded the roll of malleable lead in his hand.

Shouldering his way through the bustle of the market square, his roving eyes landed on something revolting but somehow fascinating: Cato the Slaver; a little man with a squint, who smelled of pork grease and unwashed male. He was backed by his two tall, grim-faced Haradrim guards with their scarified skin like carved ebony.

Behind the revolting little man there were four long wooden cages, bound with iron staples and filled with grubby-faced men, women and children, all looking distinctly ragged and strained. They were crouched in the corners; pacing up and down; staring out from between the bars with expressions of hatred, fear, grief, sadness or simple blankness, or holding one another and speaking reassuringly in their own tongue. Always that same tone, the hushing, reassuring whispers one might use to calm a spooked horse. Dog found it almost enchanting to listen in on them.

He wandered up and down the cages, examining their occupants. Very few even of them looked at him either, except....

...a tingle ran up his spine as a pair of eyes locked briefly with his own. They belonged to a girl, roughly his own age and despite the filth of the cage and her tattered clothing, he could not take his eyes from her. She was being held by what could only have been her brother, whose defiant face was a remarkable reflection of Dog's own; proud and stubborn, grey eyes and silken black hair - now tousled and greasy - and a split lip. As the girl hastily looked away and buried her face in her brother's neck, he felt a stab of loss, and knew clearly what it was he longed for.

He was going to run away anyway - it had been laughably easy to distract the house guard long enough to empty the savings kitty - so why not? He would have less to live on, but still....

A rushing force of impulse made up his mind and he sidled over to Cato's table.

"Get out of it, boy. Ain't nothing 'ere you can afford, so stop ogling."

Dog frowned

"That girl there... how much?"

Cato leered at him. "Too much for you, an' we don't do rental. Now bugger off."

Dog glanced back at the girl, who was watching them with a worried expression.

"I can give you four hundred crowns for her," he said, confidently. An odd rush rippled through his veins. Somehow it felt like being in a fight with one of the other boys, but without the pain, just the excitement. Cato glanced at him shrewdly, trying to judge his expression.

"Where's the likes o' you got four hundred crowns from?" he asked disbelievingly. Dog gave such a look of contempt that the Landlady would have been proud.

"That's not your concern, you filthy little creature, now what do you say, four hundred?"

Eyes were upon him. Angry eyes, bemused eyes, look of passing interest. But still, not enough.

"I could get eight hundred for 'er at Indre's place, no trouble."

"For her?" Dog scrabbled in his memory for scraps of relevant information. "She won't stay, look at her.... You've got to be careful of buying siblings, they always say. They'll do anything to get away. You know that; it would halve her price, for a start. Besides, it dosen't look like she's been treated well, look... shackle sores, might go nasty, could do with some feeding up, and some bulk too. She'd be no good for work at the moment. You'd need to invest to get her in condition."

"All right, all right. Six fifty, no lower."

"Five hundred."

"Yer what?" Cato gave him a disgusted look. "She's worth that much in the arena. Gotta pay more for a keeper."

"Alright, six."

"Six fifty, final. Any less and I'll get Manek 'ere to toss you in the cage with 'er, see how cocky you are then."

One of the Harad guards leered.

"Right, six fifty it is then. I'd shake your hand but I might catch something," said Dog, aping the tone of the better class of patrons to the Landlady's establishment.

A swell of victory rushed through his chest as he counted coins into the man's greasy palm, and signed his name on the necessary scrolls. He felt secretly proud of himself: at the auction, a girl as pretty as this one - no matter her condition - would go for at least nine hundred crowns.

He watched silently as the guards opened the cage and strode in, and wrestled the girl apart from her brother, who was screaming curses in his language so loud that all eyes were drawn to him. One of the guards hit him hard in the gut and he doubled over onto the floor of the cage, gasping for breath. The girl was shoved forwards until she stood in front of Dog, pale-faced and quivering.

The blood pounded in his ears, and he was aware of the eyes of every slave boring into him like hot pokers, none more fierce than the tear-rimmed glare of her brother. There was a moment of serene, unreal quiet as he rested a hand upon her shoulder and felt her flinch like a bird. There was a yawning flutter in his stomach. He gave her a reassuring smile and said, in the common tongue so she could understand:

"It's alright. I'm going to set you free."

...and then the noise returned with a rush. She collapsed to the ground as the roll of lead hit her fully on the side of the head, and the square echoed with gasps, cries of outrage and panicked shrieks. In the middle of the tumult Dog stood, every sense burning like wildfire as he repeatedly hit her on the ground again and again, until the strong arms of two Umbarian guards grabbed him and yanked him backwards away from the stricken body. He glanced around the square, a manic grin across his blood-freckled face and yelled out;

"She's mine! Look at the papers! Right there! I can do what I want!"

[the-small-print]

One of the guards hit him hard over the back of the head to silence him and grabbed up the papers from the slaver's table.

Around the square, mothers were shielding their childrens' eyes as they ushered them away; merchants were craning their necks or hopping up and down to see over the press of bodies, and citizens were making noises of outrage, shock, or even amusement. Every eye was upon him, but none touched Dog's cracked soul and burned like the eyes of the girl's brother. Such fierce hatred was in them that Dog could feel his heart stammer as it flooded with adrenaline and made him dizzy with energy.

Every sense burned and blistered like wildfire as he looked into that frenzied gaze; not all good, but... exhilarating. The boy smashed at the bars of his cage, tearing at them with his bare hands and screaming hard enough to crack his throat. He hurled every curse and threat his frenzied mind could find as the other slaves stood dumbfounded, weeping, or quivering in mortal fear.

Dog glanced at the guard, his eyes wild and his mouth twisted into a maddened grin. The guard looked up from the page and gave him a look of disgust, before rumbling,

"It's all here. Maybe get him on a charge of littering and Disrupting the Peace."

His colleague turned Dog around and looked him up and down.

"Hate Gondorians do you lad?"

"Yessir! I do sir!" lied Dog, in his maddened state sensing an opportunity and siezing it.
Behind him, the brother stood in dumbfounded shock.

"Well, don't go taking it out on the slaves, eh?" the guard chuckled - another explosion of screaming from the cage was shortly cut off when one of the Harad guards rammed the butt of his spear between the bars -

"Upsets the citymen, you know? And a looker like that could've bin put to good use. 'Ere... you like to 'ang around the docks, do ya... eh?"

The guard winked conspiratorially

Catching on, Dog managed to stop gawping long enough to grin and nod.

"Mebbe once you've got some scars you'll get a place on a ship, get to go out and get the ones that ain't worth anything, eh?"






Every blood vessel in Dog's body tingled for the next week, the moment of the kill rushing through his mind and back again, bringing nausea, excitement and morbid loss in turn. He wasn't sure if he regretted it, or if maybe it would have been better to take the girl and use her, but it was done now, and all that Dog knew was this:

All eyes were upon him, and he wanted more.

[Uinen.]

*bumpety bump.*

[the-small-print]

//any feedback would be appreciated, even if it is along the lines of "...you should see a psychiatrist".

*nudge nudge*

[DM_Olórin]

Clearly a great deal of thought has gone into this, well done small print!

*the Old Man smiles in approval of such a bold expenditure of literary effort*

[DM_Kev]

Very nice

[Uinen.]

The story has some rich descriptive passages giving the reader a good feel of both the locaton and the denizens of Umbar. The characterization of the people our 'hero' comes accross fits very well with the attitudes we might expect from a city that trades slaves and again the reader is encouraged to empathize with their unfortunate position with the use of the brother and sister.

It is not clear why Dog behaves as he does but I suspect this will come clear as his story progresses and may just be a part of his nature, already reflected in some of his quirks you have already described. All in all a gripping read, I shall watch this space with interest.

[the-small-print]

*big dumb grin*

[Dakota Strider]

Obviously Dog's mother never gave him a hug.

[DM Mav]

Loved it.. Wish I could write like that

[Cindi Angelheart]

Wow, very well done. Your description is fantastic, I didnt have to try to picture it because I was there (or it sure felt like it) . Gritty and dark it carried me along but I was shocked when he suddenly hit her, even though I had been warned before hand. As someone that has begun to write I am extremely jealous. I am sure the girl lives and meets a fine young plastic surgeon in the end. A pleasure to

[SNarfel]

Wonderful read and inspiring, not least because different cultures fascinate me. It is also always interesting to read how someone else perceives the lesser developed aspects of Middle Earth.

Looking forward to how things turn out for "Dog".

[mattimus]

it sounds like Dog is soon to be a Sea Dog , very nice work.

[Avalyn]

Walking alone through the gates, the tall man glanced at the tower he had come to know as home and spat with disgust. Much had changed, and none of it good. Anger was coarsing through his veins, but he held it with a coldness he had previously thought he was not capable of. His cold fury would be held, and used against those who had taken from him what he knew was his right.

Instead of heading to the tower, he headed for the graveyard, the skies beginning to cry for the dead there as he moved with soundless haste along the cobbled streets. He stopped just before the grave of the man he had assumed the legacy of, his grandfather.

He looked up at the rain from under his grey hood and twisted his lips into a smile. He had come a long way since the old man had been dealt with, his life snuffed out by his supposed protege and grandson. It had been so easy to end the life of the old man, simply poison his wine, lovingly prepared for by his own grandaughter.

He smiled at the memory, his mother had been willing to help her son kill her own grandfather and see her son assume control of things. Now things had changed though, he no longer need the legacy, he could forge a future with just his own two hands, and he would. His hand slipped down to rest on the hilt of one of his swords and he looked at the grave.

'This time, Old Man, I shall show them the true meaning of what it is to suffer' Syrenik laughed, a howling maniacal laughter that echoed eerily around the silent graveyard.

[Johanna]

On the grave a small bouquet of freshely picked flowers were places.

[Avalyn]

The fires had long since died out, leaving the room feeling considerably more cold and empty than it actually was, the darkness that had flooded his senses when the last flicker of the light faded was a welcome feeling. A curved sword sat on the table, whilst its twin had pinned some poor unfortunate to the wall before the man.

Syrenik had precious little time to waste on cowards and traitors, but this one was special. This one deserved all the time in the world. A rat scurried by the victims feet, and they began to whimper, the soft cries of someone who had screamed until their voice failed them, the harsh sobs forced from them ripping at their throat. Syrenik smiled a sadistic twisted grin, evoking stiffled sobs from his victim. He reached up and gently stroked the womans face, brushing aside the hair that had hidden her face, all the while whispering soothing things to her.

'Well mother, I have decided to merciful after all. You should be thankful, raising a generous son, who even after being betrayed by his own flesh has decided to give you one last gift.' The sword on the table had almost jumped into its owners hand. 'Good bye mother, may Mandos take pity on a wretch such as yourself' Syrenik leant over as his mother increased her sobbing, and gently kissed her on the cheek, as he stepped back, he dragged his second sword from her stomach, leaving her staring at her only son with unblinking eyes. Syrenik raised his arms and slowly closed her eyes, before tearing the first blade from her shoulder, leaving the body to slump to the ground before him. He turned around and looked up.

'And now it is just you and I.' Syreniks twin looked at him and smiled, her determination and loyalty to her brother showing in her pale blue eyes. 'It is your turn now.'