In-character posts thread

[SpymasterGend]

As the Pindar tacked into the Havens, he looked out over the rail and grimaced. The towers of the Vizier's palace soared over the walls, but the rest of the city was really quite horrid. That was Umbar--sordidly, hideously, irrepressibly, gloriously seedy.

Once ashore, he strode purposefully toward the Palace, and in the plaza, quite suddenly, surprising himself, he stopped. The scene itself was typical: the men bringing gifts to their mistresses, the barely noble women flaunting themselves to procure a "good" marriage, the umpteenth sons trolling for whatever scraps they could find--the pretenders and the climbers and the graspers.

It was his milieu, and normally he would at least circle these waters and scent what else was swimming here. But not just then. For just then the plaza's revealingly clad materialism struck him as...immaterial.

It was this thought that made him stop so abruptly, the recognition of the extent of the change within him. Change that continued, change that had brought him back--to see her.

He exhaled, curiously, in stages, then took a deep breath and resumed his determined stride--into the Palace, past the courtiers and the courtesans, and down the hall. His pace slackened gradually, almost imperceptibly, until he reached the door--the door to the Shrine, or the Temple, or whatever the hell they called it.

He scuffed his feet, then looked around to see if anyone was watching, or had noticed his hesitation. Of course not, they were all too wrapped up in themselves. He reached out and gave the door a halfhearted try. It didn't open, but whether that was the result of a lock or his lack of effort he didn't investigate. Instead, he spun on his heel and headed back toward the docks.

"Garin, is that you?" The voice called as he was about to leave the plaza. The words froze him, but the voice, lyrical and enticing, was not hers.

"Of course it is, Nuriana," he said, even before turning, the voice bringing back the name and a handful of vaguely pleasant memories of an attractive girl, fascinated with men with mysterious dark pasts, from a minor family that had fallen on very hard times. "Who else wears an eye-patch even half as jauntily as I? Come," he said, gallantly taking her arm, "it's been far too long. Let's take a stroll by the wharf in this beautiful sunset and share our innermost secrets. And after, perhaps some wine?"

[Trista]

Miss Trista helped herself to a second midgeberry muffin and nodded a grateful “don’t mind if I do” to her most generous Hobbiton host.

“Ever considered traveling, Mister Hairylobes, sir? No shortage of remarkable things beyond the Shire, you know. Venture no further than Bree, and for the price of a pint the dwarves will tell heroic stories of former glories, and of lofty lords reclaiming dragon hordes.”

Grandpa Hairylobes leaned back in his chair behind the kitchen table, smiled, and arched an eyebrow skeptically.

“Or… or… with a stout walking stick and a full-stuffed pack,” Trista continued, “one can trek to the great elven valley still further to the East — where the trees and the waters seem as if they remember the world’s first day, and yet seem altogether brand new — having aged not a minute. You’ll sleep in no softer beds, sir, and hear no sweeter songs — of this I assure you!”

The senior Hairylobes scrunched his face and slowly shook his head.

“Of the merits of these things I’m certain you’re quite right, Miss Trista, dear. But I suspect this old hobbit is altogether content just here, in the West Farthing, with his hearth and home. After all, were I to leave, who would be left to remind the youngsters of their ‘pleases’ and ‘thankyous’ as they help themselves to my berry bushes? And who would sweep the stoop, and train the tanglevines up the terrace, and shoo the pigs from the melon patch?”

He chuckled softly.

“And I needn’t tell you, Miss Trista, of all young hobbits, that there are no shortage of equally remarkable things just here in Hobbiton. The sparrows in the willows just up the lane, and the chirpings of their new-hatched young. The smells of the cinnamon scones wafting over from the Ivy Bush as I throw open my shutters each morning at daybreak. The butterflies fluttering just there betwixt the mint and the marjoram in the windowbox. How would I surrender even a minute spent with these things? And I have that good lad Frain as well, who boils up his whole-tater mutton stew on midsummer’s and yuletide, and often other times in-between.”

Miss Trista nodded, and caught herself thinking of Granny and Grumpy Tanglefoot, cozy in their Trundle Hill hobbithole — and how she often longed to spend more of her own time with them… Indeed, she thought now how she could so easily finish the rest of her own days in the gardens on that handsome hillside, tending to life’s simpler wonders and life’s smaller surprises.

She lifted her teacup saluting Grandpa Hairylobes, paused as her slightly-mistied eyes met his, and marveled that her times were blessed with friends so dear and so wise.


// Thank you, Araw.

[SpymasterGend]

Funny, she thought, as Khalad boldly stepped into the glowing circle...and vanished. And as she and the others rushed after him, suddenly appearing in some sorcerous workshop, the thought developed more. Battering away at the monstrous metal creations they found there, she wondered what had prompted that particular memory from the Hornburg. Until the din of clashing arms ended, and they all stood panting around the fallen metal shells and the sad, dying ent that the orcs had somehow brought there.

"Take...my heart...home." The tree-thing's final words made it perfectly clear why she'd recalled that memory. For the seemingly simple job of staking the Dike, like this one of removing orcs from the Wold, had taken on a life of its own.

Her meticulous father, of course,had spent the better part of a day pacing the Dike, fiddling with a bundle of javelins to determine the best angles and spacing and density, and then calculating what they would need. He'd shaken his head after he'd checked the sum for the third time.

"Bema's boots, but that's a lot of wood," he'd said. "And..." He'd trailed off, then, and a moment or two later he'd nodded, just once, and continued. "But it's still an excellent idea. Tomorrow I'll get the lads started, and I'll need you to carry a message to Edoras for me. You remember Miss Emryn? Find her, if she hasn't keeled over yet, or Damas. They'll help you find a man named Hartsson. Tell him I need him for a week or so when he has the time. Then ride back here--with him, if he's free to come now."

"But, Father, a week? How long will it take?"

"Oh, we'll be done before the first snow," he'd said, smiling at the disappointment clear on her face. "Don't be discouraged, girl...not yet, anyway. Think how much more you'll appreciate it, after all the work we'll have to put in. Ah. Speaking of work...I, uh, told the lads already it was your idea. Couldn't help it--I'm proud of you, see? But those lazy garrison duffers are doubtless dreading the labors ahead of us, so I'll be looking to you for some ideas to keep their morale up."

So, she'd thought about that, all through the journey to Edoras. And back, the quiet, grey-cloaked Hartsson--who'd readily agreed to accompany her--leaving her largely to her own, fruitless thoughts.

It was only over the next few days, after Father and Hartsson had ridden off on some mysterious errand, that she'd begun to get some ideas for boosting morale. She'd been inspired, perhaps, by the garrison's lackadaisical and seemingly nonsensical efforts to build a handful of firepits out around the dike, each pit surrounding a trough-like iron rainwater basin hauled bodily by the men from the storage rooms in the fortress' depths.

When Father had returned alone a few days later, he'd peeked on the way in under the canvas covering the basins and nodded at the men, but her confusion about the project had only deepened when he rode through the gate, dismounting with a scowl and uttering, like a curse, the single word, "Scabs."

She'd decided, right then, to wait until he was in a better mood before broaching her ideas for heartening the men, ideas that she'd feared might be as incoherent as her understanding of the staking project itself.

[SNarfel]

The war had ended in defeat for the east, and this was no bad thing for the villages and towns whose men had been pressed in to the dark armies. While the spirit of the dark lord still was scattered to the winds there came a brief mellowing of some hearts even as other tyrants vied for power. Though the truth of it may be lost to time, it is said by those who make such matters their concern that the darkness diminished greatest in the eastern most lands. For in the villages therein began to travel a handful of strangers counselling kindness where there once was cruelty, co-operation where there once was coercion, faith where there once was fear and steadfastness where there once was disappear. Yet a peoples under the yolk of tyranny for so many years and now suspicious by nature are not born anew overnight by the speaking of words from transient strangers. Such seeds of better ways as were planted in minds would need time to take root and even more the rise of a leader to bring them in to unison bloom so that they may stand against those who would become oppressors themselves. The years passed, tyrants rose only to be defeated by others like minded and the labours of the strangers never resulted in the fields full of flowers they hoped for. Still here and there from every generation were the few who would themselves set out from village to village to recount the tales of that brief time when there was respite from the dark in a few oases; and they too would speak of a better more fruitful path.

[SNarfel]

The seasons came and went many times over and the old shadow was once more cast far and wide. The lesser despots became as one with it and all that was once under its dominion again came to be so. To the furthest east though, there still remained the folklore of the fakir travelling from village to village, giving counsel to those who would listen; though now even children were taught to shun the old travellers lest someone be watching and retribution come upon them. Through such a village passed an elderly man, children gathering about him; though slowly each whose mother or father stood near was ushered away until but a few remained. A small flock being better than none, the fakir sat under the shade of a great tree and began his teachings. As he spoke, one by one the parents of the remaining children appeared and whisked them away until but one remained. The fakir finished his tale and looked intently at the one who remained, awaiting a reaction.

“Thy words fall on deaf ears old one”, the boy gestured towards some of the houses in which the other children had been taken.

“Perhaps it is so, yet thou art here still, and I would know thy thoughts on matters spoken.”

“Thy words mean well old one but art discordant from the life that is.”

The fakir nodded a little and gestured the boy come closer and sit by his side.
“What is thy name?”

“I am Mahboob-Ali”, the boy touched his forehead, followed by his lips and then his chest followed by a slight sitting bow.

“Explain thy words Mahboob-Ali.”

“None would do things as would draw attention to them, even among those who might think thy words worthy. What thou speaks, if such is practiced then attention would surely follow. Thy words hold no contention against the power to the west.”

“And what of thee? Is thy heart not filled with fear of attention? Why doth thee remain?”

“My father is dead, my mother is dead; I am but an urchin of the street. What interest in me other than the passing kick, and I remain because even though thy words ill fit what is, still there is an appeal to them; and unlike the others who would listen to thee, there is none to drag me away.”

“The manner of thy talk is not that of one who sits in the streets, thy words are falsehood or thee tells me only that which thou wish me to hear.”

“I speak no falsehood, truly my father is dead and my mother is dead. Of the manner of my talk, I have lost my parents not my wits. The lady of the tavern tolerates my presence in return for chores and errands, and is not such a place where one with wits even though of the streets might learn much.”

“And what hast thy time in thy place of learning revealed to thee.”

“This and that, but most recently all words of armies swelling in numbers, villages called to make payment of all manner of things and that soon such calls will come this way, and that there will be no place to hide when the call cometh.”

“And what of thee, what doest thou think of all that thou sees and hears?”

“I am but a street urchin whose mother is dead and whose father is dead, what thoughts am I to have other than where my next meal comes.”

The old man laughed. “Now thou doth indeed speak falsehood and try to make me the fool. I think not thou hast troubles of finding a meal for did thee not inform me thy wits is about thee, and then too thy talk is that of one far beyond thy seeming years. I would have knowledge of thy thoughts if thou see it fit.”

“As thou wish, so will it be then old one. All that I hear doth make me wonder what a miserable life we hath on this earth. What worth to a life lived in fear and under the command of that who thinks thee worth not more but an extension of sword, shield, field or beast. Better the guise of an urchin than that I say to thee; to roam the land as one desires and walk a direction of ones choosing with a care but to sharp eyes that might see beyond thy humble rags.”

“Yet thou risks such eyes the longer thee sits at mine side, thy desire reaches not just for the free roaming of lands. Thou doth seek to fill they mind, for such also is thy hunger.”

“I think I risk not much yet, for I see none who would give me concern, and this sharing of words has appeal worthy of a little risk for thee and me.”

“Then thee finds pleasure in the speaking with others?”

“Pleasure, if the words are interesting as they be now. To talk of thoughts strange and not yet known such doth stir something in the belly that be not unwelcome, and more so for the danger of it.”

“Thou is but a child but with thoughts and ways of one not so. Wouldst thou consider travel with me if thee has none?”

“Why would thee wish it? And what gain to Mahboob-Ali?”

The old man smiled. “Thy second question I tend first. I would converse with thee and present thee with thoughts new and strange such as thy would never imagine. I would teach thee the words written and I would teach thee the writing of words. I would recount to thee tales of old both long and short such best as I recall, and of distant lands I would speak to thee too. In turn from thee I would wish that thy hunger in such matters remain strong and ever more thee hearken to such words and ways of which I first spoke.”

Mahboob-Ali nodded. “Thy words and ways are dangerous old one, and the danger grows by the day if all that be carried on the wind be true, but Mahboob-Ali cannot forsake all that thou promises even if all the comforts of the land be presented to him. I will gladly be thy chela”.

[MilouOpo]

Faint glimmer of light caught the eye of lone deer in the depths of Greenwood. Like a distant lighthouse on horizon its flash lasted a moment and disappeared, only to appear again. That deer had wandered too far from its pack and made hasty sprint to to rejoin them. It did not know that the elf would not have harmed its kin, even if he had seen it. And that elf's toughts were elswhere.

Elcamring lead white gelding through the woods, far south from Men-i-Naugrim or the Old Forest Road as people called that part of it nowdays. He was returning from the stronghold of East Blight and could not afford the time to follow ancient dwarven highway.

Rumors had told that she was in Imladris.

Elf was swamped on his toughts and kept readjusting glimmering, pale grey ring. He had not wore that long enough for it to feel natural on his finger, a thing he had tought on this journey more than once. His mind was much clearer than it had been during past months, but while the strain had grew lighter, Elcamring did not want that old piece of jewelry to become part of his normal set of adornments. His torment had to end before the treatment became as familiar as the symptom.

He had seen her briefly after their heated discussion in Lothlorien. There had not been much time for discussion since Aerendur, a man from Gondor had arrived there, seeking help to vanquish a spawn of ancient Urulóki. The drake was a threat to all ships that sailed down the river Anduin, towards Great Sea and hence a reason strong enough for Elcamring to take a risk and leave the banks of Celebrant.

A trick of faith or blessing from Valar, he could not decide. Something had lead that man to those woods and thus him to Tol Falas. From there he had found that very same ring which had scared a deer away from danger just a moments ago. Elcamrings horse neighed abruptly as it became obvious that huge forest spiders were upon them. Elf managed barely to unsheath his glimmering blade before first of them lunged at him. Crying the name of Elbereth he was compelled into another meaningless battle under the darkened trees of Greenwood. Study of that ring had to wait, untill he reached the other side of Hithaeglir. Design, sensation of calmness and tranquil suggested that it might even be one of the earlier works of gwaith-i-mirdain.

Father.

Elcamring's mind rushed with images and he could almost see him working at the forge.

Spider nearly impaled his foot.

His horse had galloped away from this danger already. Hopefully he would find it before spiders did. Elf braced himself, he had to hack his way through these abominations. Amon Lanc was far, but yet too close for him to risk anything else.

Answers! He needed those. More than ever before.

[SNarfel]

A young man in his late teens or perhaps early twenties sits engrossed in lovingly messaging the feet of a sleeping frail old man. The old man stirs and with a few wheezy coughs comes to.

“A welcome return to thee, I hope thy rest was well Huzoor.”

The old man began struggling to sit up from the rope bed and the younger quickly moved forward to help him up and support his back.

“With thy tendings and fussings like that of a mother to a child how can my rest be otherwise Mahboob-Ali, though thy persistence in calling me huzoor still does not sit well with me.”

Mahboob-Ali handed the old man a warm drink, “I could not call thee otherwise for that is what thou art to me”.

The fakir sipped at his drink, “Be that so but I do not like it still”. He shakily put the drink on to the simple table by his equally humble bed and turned his attention back to Mahboob-Ali.

“But that is not what I wish to talk to thee of today. It is now well gone 7 years since thee and I first began our journey together. Now the dust beckons to me and its call is soon to be answered. I have taught thee all that which I know and my one regret be that more like thee were not found by my order in the days when the great evil was newly vanquished. But, to despair of the opportunities not come earlier is against our teachings, and this thee must remember always too.”

A fit of coughing came to the old man as even the quite talk taxed him and he reached for the drink, Mahboob Ali quickly passing it to him.

“Thee must not talk Huzoor, thy strength is not for it; thee must rest.”

The old man shook his head, and laughed; not at all in bitterness or melancholy.

“Rest enough I will have soon and talk I must. Truly thy mother and thy father named thee well in Mahboob, for thee has become a beloved friend to me but now is thy last chance of any questions that thou might still harbour, before we be parted and thee and I begin our next journey alone. I ask thee not to restrain any thoughts that thee may have.”

“Thou does me great honour with thy words Huzoor and I have but two questions. First, thy order's tradition be that of the spoken word even though thee be well versed in the ways of the scribe. The reason for this I have come to understand well, but the spoken word can change from the time of the father to the time of his child’s grandchild. Your order doth stretch back many generations and thy kind often travel alone and even though I have had the privilege of meeting others like thee and so heard confirmed many of thy words; And though I doubt thee not, still the changing nature of tales across the sands of time I cannot ignore. So I ask thee what weight should I give to the actuality of histories and practices thou hath taught? And this I ask thee also, that thou hath spoken much of thy order and thy philosophies, but though hast never mentioned the beginnings of it.”

[SNarfel]

“Of the beginning of my order, there are many tales and I cannot tell thee that, such and such is truth and such and such is not. I can tell thee only this much with certainty, that even long before the great evil was scattered to the winds are the beginnings of our order and its wisdom comes not from the men of the east but from those of elsewhere. After the great conflict, to give succour to light and make quick the spread of all that is good was our task; though in time it became apparent that such was not to be. Now our hopes for the East sit for the most in the hands of the West; in those few such as thee we have nurtured, it is hoped will come to be a distraction for the growing strength of evil such that it may lend time and lessen the burden of the West. More than this I know not to tell thee.”

“Of thy first question, what weight must thou give to the truth of all that I have spoken to thee over the years? Matters of the East my order knows well and all this thou can trust; thy own heart knoweth thy peoples well and of their fall in to bondage and the manner of its happening thou should also by now understand. Of the West our knowledge is old and sparsely renewed and in these matters thou must tread in care if thee has ever need of what thee hast been told. This much I have some certain faith though; that still there is a Kingdom of elves in a great wood whence even to us word reached that the dark one had been driven out perhaps not long ago. It is also known that the half elven still has a hidden seat and that the dwarves have reclaimed a Kingdom of old. This also thee can trust, that among the high men only Gondor now stands as a force of reckoning for the North Kingdom and the strong among it are no more. But such distant lands it is unlikely thou will have concern of, for thy labours should have no direct approach to such.”

The old man gestured to Mahboob-Ali to let him lie once more, “Now, thy tending’s to me come to an end as does my worth to thee. Thou hast clarity of thy tasks and the conduct of them, the hour of thy actions and the testing of thy mental is come and I will not have thee remain here a moment more. Thee and thy kind, is to seek out the first of the nuisances thou art to bring upon the schemes of the dark and thou art not to cease until the light is spread to the East or thy breath leaves thee.”

Mahboob-Ali stood slowly and silently, touched the tips of his right hand fingers to his forehead, lips and then chest, following through smoothly in to a bow; then, gathered a blue robe, a shortbow and a sword and left the old man; at last to rest in eternal piece forever.

[DM_Eönwë]

Beregôr is sitting in the Grey Flood Inn and is taking nips from his dwarven ale. It is indeed not the best he have drunken, but at least better than nothing. He spend the last days (which were very rainy by the way) on the road between Bree and Tharbad. But while listing to the general gossip, it is becoming clear that he will not be able to enjoy warm food and dry clothes for that long, since there are rumours that the Lossoth in Forochel tribe has some serious problems to deal with. Beregôr shrugs thinking "Well, at least I will see my home again on the way." He takes a huge sip, empties the mug and left by leaving some gold coins on the table.

Alignment: Good only!
Level: 8-12
Meet at Forochel!
Today, 22.00 GMT

All of you are welcome, but I am afraid that some will not be able to join, if there are too many players, but that we will figure out in-game.

[SNarfel]

For many years, the band of about 200 individuals in cabal’s of 4 or 5 had spread and struck where ever possible and in whatever way they could to hinder the growing strength of the dark forces. Like flees upon a ferocious beast they distracted and annoyed, making the great lumbering hulk pause now and then to tend to the irritation. When the call for all to gather had come, at first it was thought by many to be too dangerous a thing, yet for one of them to have had the means and knowledge of all; that alone was compelling enough in the end for the call to be answered.

Mahboob –Ali entered the caverns with his wife and companions, the place teaming with tired looking faces but with an air of contentment about them that comes from those sure of the path they follow.

Shortly after their arrival, a man stood upon a chair and called for order.

“Welcome my brothers and sisters, I thank thee for the answering of my call; I am heartened that so many of thee still live and continue the long struggle. Many questions thou must have few of which it is likely I will answer, but for now I ask thy heads of each cabal come and gather about me so that we may discuss that which thee hath been summoned for”

Magboob-Ali turned to his own group, “Well, seems we know the face of our caller if not the name and he gets straight to the issue. Not that thee all need reminding, but share not any of thy activities, names and such; I will return shortly”

Already others were gathered around the man who was busy unfurling a large map. Once the map was spread on the table before him he looked at the cabal leaders.

“First, no doubt thee all have a wish to know who I am and how it is that I knew of all of thee. A name I could give thee but the question of who I am, will still remain unanswered. To thy satisfaction perhaps I could give thee information but all I will say is that always there was the prospect that a need may arise for all of thee to be gathered and for such a time a means was put in place; I am thy means. Doubts and concerns thou may have but I ask thee put them aside and observe what I present to thee; thou will be swayed and thy doubts cast aside by the end of it. Is this agreeable to thee?”

A murmuring of agreement followed and the man continued, turning his attention to the map before him.

“ Here", he pointed at a location on the map, "3 days journey from Khalishan, a great and permanent camp has been set up with tall and thick wooden boundaries. My own cabal watched the structure grow for 6 months with not a hint of its purpose; for this land is many miles from any conflict and the size of this place suggests thousands of warriors if it be a barracks. But recently, there have been arrivals which suggest even higher ambition by the builders of this place and an opportunity requiring all our numbers.”

[SNarfel]

“ All of my cabal have made themselves one in the activity of the building of this camp, it is learnt that on its completion it will be a fortified breeding come training ground for Mumakil.“

He unfurled another nearby parchment to reveal sketches of the camp and continued; referring to the parchment and pointing out various points of interest as he did so.

“Not just the usual camp where there is perhaps a bull and 5 or 6 cows; this will hold no less than a hundred cows and still leave room for the training of new born and the garrisoning of near 800 defenders and 200 of the best trainers of Mumakil, not to mention the training of the mahouts and the builders of howdah. As thou see if this comes to full fruit then in not too many years it will produce a dread force to wreak terror among the ranks of any who stand before it. The defences are already in place and the Mumakil, their trainers and such others have begun to arrive; it is expected that all will be in place by another week or so. That is when we shall strike, our aim to destroy as many Mumakil and all the training supports so that not only is this place left useless but the possibility of establishing such again is set back by many years.”

“When the time comes, my own men already in the camp will light fires in four equidistant locations; as the fires take hold and the enemy is distracted, the gates will be opened for us. Our aim is total slaughter of that which lies within, especially those with the skills to recreate and make practical such a camp again. Few of us will survive for the ways of combat are not ours, but such an opportunity to strike a blow from which the enemy will be long in recovering is unlikely to be had again; so I ask that thee consider it well and hope that thy support is given.”

It did not take long for the cabal leaders to arrive at a decision and offer agreement to that which was proposed; all that remained was for them to return to their cabals and make preparations.

The day of the planned attack arrived, and the leader of all stood before them for final words both bold and encouraging.

“My brothers and sisters! The Dark Foe has a mind to build a Mumakil army the size of which has never before been reckoned with and that which none would stand before! Our task this day is to ensure that such a force does not come to be! Few of us if any will return from this foray but succeed we will! For our lands shall taste the fruits of freedom and our success this day will ensure that our hope stays alive even if fate deems it that we ourselves do not see such a day!"

"For the tomorrow that which is yet to come! Is still but a dream! but one which we have pursued for many a year as did those few of our forebears with wisdom! Long has been the draught in our lands and few of us will live to see the storm that is to come and from the cleansing of which our dreams may yet be made true! The hour draws near and our moment is nigh! This day we few of the east ensure that when the greater battles are fought, and even though our deeds may never be known!, yet still in that blessed future it will be as if we stand and battle by the very sides of the free! Stay true to thy teachings men of the east, stand firm in the face of thy foe and forget not thy dream! The coming of which is now not afar!"

A tremendous cheer went up among the cabals and, masked by the moonless night, they began the track to the fortified Mumakil training ground.

[SNarfel]

A costly victory had come that day, for no less than a handful of Mahboob-Ali’s comrades had survived; his own beloved Haseena amongst those who fell. A victory never the less it was and a complete one at that, for the camp was raised to the ground and none of the enemy escaped to tell of the what and the how. There was time enough now for mourning, which the three of them did, and then as the ache of loves lost dwindled, so the desire to continue the struggle against the enemy returned. Each was soon to take to his own path and so continued the labors.

This was the second year of Mahboob-Ali’s cover in the scribing service of Lurgan the lore master. It served his purposes to be in the employ of such a person, news came this way often and so the occasional opportunity. The scribing itself was tedious, often hours of laborious copying of texts, some of which Mahboob-Ali did not even understand. But it did afford him opportunity to build a few contacts and even help escape persecution the occasional person seeking refuge. It was not much in the way of what he had hoped he would be able to do, but during the ten long years since the Battle Of The Mumakil, it had increasingly became difficult to do much more. For fear now reigned supreme and none risked the wrath of those who loyally followed the Dark One.

It was on such an occasion when such musings were upon Mahboo-Ali’s mind, that Lurgan came to him and handed him a number of parchments.

“Mahboob-Ali, I have a task for thee. Thou art to copy the text of these parchments many fold but these sections here, here and here thou are to replace with this text”, and he handed him another three parchments, a look of distaste clearly visible on his face.

“Thou art displeased with something Lurgan?”

“It is always displeasing to change the words of ancient texts and then for the original to be hidden away or destroyed. One now wonders how much of what one has been told and even read is but fabrication.”

Mahboob-Ali looked at one of the parchments, “I have never seen such writing, what language is it and of what does it speak?”

“They are the words of the elves this much I know, but words which even I do not understand enough, for I am not high born to have been offered such learning. But little good will these do to even the highest born if the words be changed from that of the original.”

“From whence did this come? And why trust thee for the scribing?”

Lurgan pulled Mahboob-Ali to the doorway, from which he saw four men blocking the distant exit.

“Trust hath naught to do with this, the house is to be watched and all those who come and go. As to where the scrolls came from, thou hast no doubt heard of the great trading city of Tharbad, where all can be bought or sold. It is said that the ruler of that place holds a great land in his possession which was once the abode of elves and from there he recovers much to sell and make his own wealth grow. I have heard that, much of value and power has already been purchased and much more there may still be that could be used against our enemies in the west. I am certain these parchments are from such a place.”

In the days that followed, Mahboob-Ali carried out his tasks diligently, for they were watched all the time. He soon concluded that if they were watched so close, then it would be unlikely that they would be left alive once the task was done. Lurgan, he could not be trusted to aid in any escape for his fear was stronger than his wits at such times, and so Mahboob-Ali took the first opportunity which came his way to add zehr to the food of those who watched them. That night he gathered his possessions and set himself a new task, to seek out the distant city of Tharbad from whence he may perhaps be better placed to continue the struggle against the darkness in the hope of light for the East.

//So endeth the back-story.

[SpymasterGend]

Bloody waste of time, he thought. Should have stayed in Umbar with Nuriana the Nubile. But no, leaving her there had turned out to be the most satisfying part of the encounter. He'd rather taken out on her his frustration with his own earlier hesitancy at the Shrine, and the exhausted, tousled-haired look she'd given him as he paused in the doorway had been priceless. The unfocussed eyes, rounded ever so slightly with a spark of interest in the mysterious errand that pulled him away from her soft sheets--"duty calls, love"--and the tantalizing, womanly smile that had told him she thought she knew him in some profound way. Poor, lovely, misguided, self-deluded Nuriana--still on the hook. Beautiful.

He shifted slightly, hiding his discomfort by reaching back into the sack behind him and pulling out yet another bottle of spirits. He pretended to take a swig of the foul stuff and again passed it off to the old man on his right. How did the Dunlendings sit like this with their legs crossed for hours on end? Barbaric, really, not even a stone or log to sit on. "This the way we do," they'd said, nodding emphatically.

Well, that brilliant sentiment is what had brought him here, to this impoverished Dunland village southeast of Tharbad. Bearing gifts of rotgut and some suitably wild-looking daggers he'd cobbled together out of steel and animal teeth. To talk to the elders--about their Dreamers, and the way they dream.

So, he'd simply returned their nods and squatted down with them into the damp earth, wondering how much old Math at the Greyflood would charge him when he returned to polish his black boots and to brush the mud off his gorgeous blue silk pantaloons. And eventually he'd turned the conversation away from the elders' bizarre curiosity about what specific animals had provided each dagger's tooth and back to his questions.

"Dreamers all gone now," they'd said, motioning about them as if that alone explained their current marginal existence in the swamp. But how they dreamed, or what, the elders really couldn't say. He'd asked in many ways, over the past hours, and he'd gotten a few tales of Dunlending folk history, but nothing particularly helpful. He didn't sense they were hiding anything from him, just that they didn't know, and that they were saddened by their people's lack of dreams.

"But surely, among you are those who can still dream? Who picture better for your people? And strive to get it?"

The old woman across the fire from him looked at him for a long moment, and then stared into the bottle of spirits. After a silent minute or two, she looked back up to him, motioning with the bottle off into the distance. "Over there, traders," and she spat. "There, riders," and she spat. "There, beasts," and she spat. "And there, white lord," and she shuddered and spat. "We no room for dreams."

He wasn't exactly sure why, but the Dunlending woman's words made him stand abruptly. He focussed his mind on one of the dreams he'd had recently, and a wolf came bounding out of the nearby woods to his side. The Dunlendings, oddly, didn't react, not even when the wolf curled up at his feet.

"Was it like that? Was that the sort of thing your Dreamers did? Is that how it worked?" He looked around at the white-haired faces plaintively, frustrated, and his confusion hung in the moist air long after his words had melted away.

The old woman slowly got to her feet, and walked around the fire to him, stepping past the wolf and leaning down to pluck his last two bottles of rotgut from the sack. One she took for herself, and the other she handed to him. She shrugged, and patted his shoulder. "Maybe," she said, seemingly with sympathy. "Maybe too," she added, tilting the neck of the bottle to point at his eye-patch, "maybe you see dreams different." And with that the old, hopeless Dunlendings rose as one and vanished into their huts for the night.

[SpymasterGend]

Lost in thought, he started the journey back to Tharbad, unthinkingly moving quietly and unseen through the unfamilar woods. Just no damned help at all, he thought, and muddy boots and trousers for my trouble. He looked down and noted with dismay that he still held the bottle of spirits the old woman had handed him. He cocked his arm back to throw the foul stuff far away from him, but then thought better of it as he saw a body off in the shadows about where the bottle would have landed. He looked around, and all seemed quiet, so he went over to investigate.

Wolf attack, he thought, as he looked down at the pathetic remains, noting the ravaged throat and the long-dried pool of blood that had spread from it. Dunlending, by the look of his shredded clothes. And those two observations suddenly made him drop the bottle of spirits, which fell unbroken to the leafy forest floor. He stepped over to a nearby log, swiping ruefully and halfheartedly at the moss covering it, before sitting. He pulled a wineskin from his pack and took a long swallow.

It was astounding, really. Remarkable. How much he'd learned since leaving Jonil. Wolves? Dunlendings? What had he known of them before? His mind raced to follow the thought, an idea that lurked just beyond that recognition of how much he had grown. What else? Mai had told him once that even spiders wouldn't bother with a wolf-eaten corpse--something about the juice being all drained out. Mai--spirits. She said the spirits were strong with him, and her spirits seemed strongest in woodland areas like this.

He looked around, but just saw woods, and the corpse. He took another long pull of wine, trying to prepare himself for what he knew he was about to do. Prepare himself--either to discover something earth-shatteringly important or to look an utter fool.

"Are you here, spirits?" Nothing. "Come now, spirits, you talk to Mai all the time, and she says you like me, too. Come on, now." He listened intently, but there was still nothing beyond the ordinary noises of the wood. "Want something first, do you? An offering? This wine's really quite good, and begging to be shared. Come on, now, give me some sign...."

He went on in a similar vein for several minutes, with similar results. Talking to yourself sure makes you thirsty, he thought, and pulled yet again on the wineksin. Then he laughed, a single explosive guffaw. You're ridiculous, he thought to himself. Mai's spirits were strong, and they might well like him, but they were Mai's. And she was...well...tribal, wasn't she? He guessed they'd never quite be his spirits, and she never really spoke of dreams, did she?

He glanced over at the corpse, and raised the wineskin in a toast. "Just you and me, mate. Here's to us. Sorry, this red is too good to waste on you--I mean, look at your damn tongue! Have some of that rotgut there." And the instant he drank the toast, he spewed the wine out with another bark of laughter. "Rotgut! Sorry, that was unintentional, mate." And he pointed at the corpse's missing midsection.

And as he looked where he was pointing, his face clouded. There was something...familiar...like....

Like a dream you can't quite remember when you wake, he thought. And he sat up straight, serious, and frowned in concentration, staring at the corpse and still pointing. Staring until his eye became dry and painful, and then he stood up, still pointing. And the corpse stood as well.

"Gaaahh! Hells!" He blinked and fell back on to the log. But the rotting corpse just stood there, tendrils of flesh and scraps of clothing hanging from it, with a horrific smell now emanating from it. He looked around--still alone, this was something he alone had wrought.

He thought about that for several minutes, the corpse just standing there, reeking. And then he nodded to himself, and hoisted his wineskin again. "Cheers, mate. We are most definitely not in Jonil anymore."

And as the wine squirted into his mouth, the corpse bent, picked up the bottle of rotgut, broke it at the neck, and poured it into its mouth. But what caused him again to spew the wine from his mouth, in a near-hysterical mixture of laughter and horror, was the subsequent flow of rotgut down and out from behind the ribs into that chewed away gut-space.

[Trista]

6 Foreyule, Michel Delving, West Farthing

“If there was ever any doubt, we’ve certainly seen proof today that big taste can come from a little lad’s stew pot.”

It was with those words that Brumwick Bolger, renown chef of Michel Delving’s Chalk Horse Supper Club awarded 7-year-old Pettiman Proudfoot first prize in the West Farthing’s “Young Hobbit’s Yuletide Stew-Doings.” The annual event pits hobbit lads and lasses from Gamwich to Tookbank against one another in a day-long test of savory stew-making.

“It’s an extraordinarily proud day for Master Proudfoot,” Chef Bolger proclaimed. “Few lads his age own such sophisticated palettes to season their stews so precisely.”

Parents of other contestants went even further in their expressions of incredulity after Perriman Proudfoot, the victor’s father, was found to have pocketsful of pepper and paprika — and not a few opportunities to flavour his son’s concoction out of sight of the judges and other onlookers.

“Let’s just say that some parents carry encouragement of their hobbit-children’s endeavors a wee bit further than others,” protested Whimsy Whitfoot, mother of a disappointed third-place finisher. “I found Mister Proudfoot’s defense more than a little lacking, after he decried the blandness of the Ivy Bush’s shepherd’s pie where he’d supposedly eaten earlier in the day. I, for one, will be looking to confirm so unlikely a claim!”

In other news, travelers making their ways east so far as Budgeford are urged to view with amazement the six very handsome, miniature models of historical hobbit sitting-rooms — all constructed of gingerbread — on display in shops on the northernmost side of town, now through the end of the holidays.

Reported by Trista Tanglefoot, of the Daily Bugle

[Trista]

7 Foreyule, Bywater, West Farthing

A crowd of nearly three dozen was on hand earlier today for Dando Sandheaver’s winter waistcoat fashion debut, the event known to set the style trends for jackets, breeches, and hats crafted in the coming year. And, as usual, the new line-up was met with a decidedly mixed reaction: enthusiastic cheers from the younger hobbits in attendance, and unmistakable grunts of disappointment from the older folk.

“We’re very, very excited,” Sandheaver reported after the unveiling. “Clients this season will enjoy the exact same quality cloth and cut as they’ve come to expect from Rushlight, Gambin and Sandheaver. But, as one can plainly see — this year… a SIXTH button!”

That extra button was enough to sharply divide the generations.

“I was only just asking a mate the other day — why limit ourselves to just five buttons on a waistcoat?” confessed Barto Brockhouse, the 32-year-old son of Tighfield farmer, Balmo Brockhouse. “It’s as if Mister Dandy’s tailors have read my mind! I think this is a very promising development, and I will most certainly look with similar excitement for extra buttons on overcoats, as well.”

Codger Burrows, the 85-year-old Ivy Bush regular who’d traveled from Hobbiton with the express intent to purchase two new waistcoats for his wardrobe, made it very clear to this reporter that he’d be returning empty-handed. “My granddad used five buttons, my pappy used five buttons, and I’m not about to confine this hearty hobbit’s torso with six. It makes no sense at all to me, really. One reaches to loosen one’s waistcoat after an especially satisfying supper, and there’s this extra button with which to contend! It’s an outrage — that’s what it is. An outrage.”

In other news, patrons of the Floating Log, Frogmorton, were greatly relieved when Verbina Hubbs — mother of Miss Nan Hubbs of Whitfurrows — reported to management the mysterious loss of a very fine turquoise-studded ring from her right hand, only to find it a moment or two later on her left hand. “Since the passing of Mister Hubbs several months ago, I suppose I’ve come to miss wearing my wedding band, and I must have rather absent-mindedly slipped this ring in its place to fill the void,” she confessed. “Next time, I’ll know better than to create such a stir before looking from one hand to the other.”

Reported by Trista Tanglefoot, of the Daily Bugle

[Trista]

10 Foreyule, Oatbarton, North Farthing

Instruction methods employed at the North Farthing Regular School came under fire yesterday, as a public oversight group protested the use of certain “bawdy” Stoorish poetry taught by Miss Mertsy Marblemallow, a twelve-year veteran of the Oatbarton educational system.

Cheevers Chubb, chairman of the Oatbarton Citizens Education Advisory Network (OCEAN), delivered a petition signed by eighteen area residents to headmaster Bidwell Burrows, calling for the immediate cessation of the controversial lessons. “It’s just not right,” Chubb explained, “to have impressionable young hobbits hearing the J-word, the K-word, and any reference at all to ‘frunicious frolicking.’ The teaching of basic letters and numbers is worrisome enough — but no good at all can come from children being exposed to these sorts of obscenities.”

Speaking in her own defense, Miss Marblemallow charged that the members of the oversight group were out of touch with modern teaching standards, that an anti-Stoorish bias had no place in her classroom, and that “one hears the K-word on a routine basis these days, even in the politest company.”

The matter seems to have reached something of an impasse, as the advisory group has held to its position. According to Mister Chubb, “Miss Marblemallow would do well to keep her interests in Stoorish poetry to herself. We just want cooler heads to prevail in this fretful situation, and Miss Marblemallow just wants to turn up the heat on our well-meaning citizens’ group. But, I assure you, she'll have no success in her attempts to boil the OCEAN.”

In other news, preparations are well underway for the celebration of the fiftieth wedding anniversary of Anise and Aldagrim Bracegirdle, longtime residents of Rushey. “We hope to mark the occasion with great fanfare,” reported the couple’s grown daughter Adamanta, who is coordinating the event. “Everyone from Stock to Willowbottom has been invited. We’ve baked a cake with so many layers it nearly touches the ceiling, and expect as many as 200 guests.” But this reporter couldn’t help but pose the most pressing question of all — will there be party hats? “Well, of course,” Miss Bracegirdle wanted to assure everyone, “it’s not a party without party hats, now, is it?”

Reported by Trista Tanglefoot, of the Daily Bugle

[SNarfel]

Tharbad; he found the place to be a spectacle of contradictions; on the one hand those who seemed to be in power claimed to rule it by the will of the people and for the people, yet on the other hand there were many of its citizens who seemed to live in extreme poverty whilst their leaders spent time and wealth excavating ancient artefacts in distant lands. It was chaotic and yet among the chaos were many islands of calm and structured effort towards numerous goals. One could look upon the city and despair and yet still it presented opportunity for those many willing to step through its gates. It conferred freedom upon those who dwelt within it more than any place else he had travelled to and yet within it he had glimpsed assemblies which vied against each other and which demanded the strictest adherence to set codes. It was the wider world in lesser form but much hastened; for here a moments respite could give another an advantage which would be long to redress. Here perhaps the greater battles to be fought were being addressed to a lesser scale; here perhaps the strategies to be employed were being tested; here perhaps was to be glimpsed the part the ancient ones may choose to play and the manner of it; here perhaps there would be signs of outcomes to come and how they may be swayed for the better; Here would likely be the last of his continued efforts to make a difference, a difference to the ultimate betterment of his homeland, and most certainly his time that was left would be interesting indeed.

[Brindisium]

The sleek, finely crafted weapon appears to be of Elven origin. With carefully controlled movements, as though performing a ritual, Dirimsiel removes it from its scabbard and examines it. The blade shimmers in the starlight and, she gasps and pulls her fingers away quickly, it feels bitingly cold to her touch.

She walks across the narrow stone bridge spanning the mountain stream and follows the path down to the water’s edge. There she holds the long, slightly curved sword so that the tip of the blade penetrates the surface of the water. A dead leaf is swept against the iridescent edge and effortlessly cut in two.

Respectfully and very, very carefully she pulls the blade from the stream and dries it. As she returns the sword to its scabbard she notices an inscription on the hilt:

Órenya lóra ringa nomessë

She leaves the weapon and a brief note in Hir Inglor’s chambers; he will know what to do.

[Trista]

23 Foreyule, Long Cleve, North Farthing

A double dose of good news was visited on the Harley Harfoot hobbit hole earlier this week when Harrietta, Harley’s wife of just more than a year, gave birth to twins — a boy, Harlo, and a girl, Henna. The mother and hobbit children are all reported in good health and high spirits, and a pantry-full of baked goods from dozens of Long Cleve neighbours has arrived to make the work of the very busy weeks ahead a bit lighter for the new parents.

“It wasn’t an altogether unexpected blessing, the two little ones at once,” the North Farthing farmer reported. “Given the size to which the missus had grown, one could have easily surmised twins, if not triplets. Must be something in the Long Cleve water, I’d wager — my milk cow, Bitty, mothered a pair of calves both at once last fall, and egg production in the chicken coop is way way up, year over year.”

The region’s recent wave of fertility hasn’t gone unnoticed. Tuffy Trumpkin of nearby Dwaling-on-the-North-Moors announced just this morning that he and his wife would be relocating to Long Cleve, at Missus Trumpkin’s rather firm insistence. “It was nine full years after their marriage that my parents had me,” Trumpkin confessed. “That’s a timetable apparently not at all suitable for repeating, at least so far as my dearest Tess is concerned.”

In other news, the Digby All-Brass Band and Whistle Corps will be performing a benefit concert next Thursday evening at the Hillside Lodge, just south of Digby. Proceeds from the event will go toward repairing the rear axel of Buddy Burrows’s large wagon, which collapsed under the weight of the combined Band and Whistle Corps as they played in the Cottonbottom Torchlight Parade three weeks ago Saturday. Rather than set responsibility for the mishap on any particular performer from the group of distinguished, albeit portly, hobbits, the benefit concert was scheduled. Admission is ten gold coins for the general public, seven for members of the Four Farthings Social Club.

Reported by Trista Tanglefoot, of the Daily Bugle

[vulpex]

Carry the Traitor's Stone, you who walk in blood from your kin.
In your chest, a coiled snake.
Cold is the water that soaks the stone
that flows through streams and steeps the mists.
Icy the river, but the Rock is aflame.
A mist arises... a wrath in your core, Kinslayer.
A burning flame, a burning frost
The Traitor’s stone is your heart. A coiled snake

Ulegai, of-once-Sarai
Somewhere in west.

---

Petturin kiveä kantaa, joka omansa hylkää,
Rinnassa, käärmeenä kiertyy.
Vesi kylmänä sitä kiuasta kastaa
Virtana kääntyy ja usvaan uittaa.
Kylmä on koski, kuumempi kallio.
On henki. on raivo,
Juurena sen ken sukuaan surmaa, lieskaa, routaa.
Ja silti, kivi petturin kantaa, käärmeenä kiertyy, rinnassa.

---

Segh-na kahvar, sa mho thû ka mo-negh
Khovar-te, lo ranakhe
Hala, thâna, tha-senge ka ranthâ mwa.

Short chant for banners, Lûgamur

---


Serve the chieftains, serve the Lord of the Men.
Serve the nation, serve the kin,
Before, now and coming.
He gathers the herds together, he shakes the earth,
Horses dance in joy of his coming,
Brave see their hearts in clarity.
He burns away the mist of lies from west.
Serve the nation, serve the kin,
Serve the chieftains, serve the Lord of the Men.

Chant before a battle, Khâinamur

[SNarfel]

Twice now he had been rebuffed, nay, accused of being a spy and threatened with imprisonment or death by a man of Gondor. He did not hold this against them; had he not with his own eyes seen the butchery some of his people treated even to their own, and those of Gondor could be expected to know no more of the common folk of the East than he had known of the West not so long ago.

Still, the effort of it had to be made to be certain of their minds and such it was at a place of his choosing, for madness was not upon him though it must have seemed it to be so bold. As ever, hope he had not forsaken and even in the threats made much could be gleaned from the words that flanked the intimidation. Despite their hatred they did not become blind to the need of the moment and though one of them thought his very words possibly bewitching, still he had managed enough discourse to perhaps give them pause for thought.

There were hallowed grounds upon which he knew he would never be allowed to set foot, The City of Light was not the least of such places which his soul yearned to enter yet which would likely ever be out of his reach; but he would do all in his power to aid them, even if it was from the shadows and without their acquiescence. For, through the triumph of such would come free will and quiescence to his own home, and along that path the small risk and pleasure of conversation was one he could not resist. Where there is discourse there is always the chance of new learning and the hope of swaying the heart and the mind, and if such comes to be, is that not reward enough?

[MilouOpo]

Wind howled between ruins of an outpost and formed small dunes of snow, like frozen waves of an ocean, those rolled over the small valley that had seen too much death devastation. The grim sight of bare bones and mangled pieces of armour was almost covered with that cold, white embrace. Sudden high pitched shriek broke the silence. Elcamring could feel something moving high over him, but as blizzard blocked his view he decided to continue the journey.

He had travelled through the snow for days now. Mountain of Kibil-Dûm had grown bigger and bigger, and now it loomed over him with might that could only be expected from a peak that was part of Ered Mithrin. Dwarves had told of great peril which dwelled in the former silver mine these days; a dark drake, Mori Loki, as they called it. Elf was chasing, not that malicious beast, but a member of a lost dwarven expedition that was sent to investigate those mines nearly a month ago. Bogmar, one of Ren's apprentices, had made an unexpected breakthrough with the lost tome that was found from Himling during last year. Unfortunately that dwarf had not managed to document his progress as prudently as he should have and hence all the progress might be already lost.

Dwarven statue marked path to the entrance. Not far from it revolting sight stopped him. Blood splatters on the cliffs, the only remains of the expedition were not yet covered by snow. Only few mangled weapons and torn pieces of tent cloth were left. One set of heavy footprints were visible on the bloody snow.

Drawing his sword the elf stepped into the darkness of Kibil-Dûm. Ring on his finger glowed with pale light that cast long shadows along the ruined dwelling. Path that dwarves had used was visible even for untrained eye as heavy layer of dust covered the floor elsewhere. Elcamring followed that obvious trail; hall after hall fell behind him. Narrow passage was leading him deeper below the mountain, only echoes of his footsteps greeted him behind the corners. Air begun to grow thick and the smell of decay became overwhelming. Something crunched under his foot, a part of pottery or shrivelled piece of wood; he had no time to look at it as something tumbled into him.

Fumbling for his shield Elcamring made defensive swing with his sword and rose from the dust covered floor. Ring shone brighter now and the light was reflected from numerous eyes around him. With soft rustle pale man sized spiders leaped forward. Elf fought fiercely and after while he was able to make his way to a narrow doorway; one of them challenged him and others fled. The trail and sense of direction were lost during that confrontation. He leaned to the wall, but was quickly alarmed by rasping sound; almost like breath beyond grave.

Shiver ran down his spine as he raised his blade again and peered forward. A tall lean shape, darker than all the shadows around it, was standing before him. He had seen former minions of Witchking at the barrows of old Northern Kingdom, but this was something much worse. Light shun away from it as it mouthed foul words of horrid language. In a blink of an eye Elcamring was thrown to the opposite wall by an invisible gale of evil; the hall begun to grow darker around him. He felt that he was drowning. The Elf struggled for a breath and riffled through all his memories regarding such creatures. Only few of those servants could command dark chants and manifest them in that way. He did not dare to say it aloud.

Gathering all his might the elf forced himself up and threw his cape aside; chanting ancient words of Quenya, Noldo's voice became louder by a word and faint glimmer surrounded him as he prepared to face that abomination with the unflinching valour of Eldar. The shadow rushed forward like a striking viper and swung it's blade against elven steel. The air split with a sound of muffled thunder and arc of white energy whipped against the black figure. So they started their deadly dance in the ruins of dwarven hold of Silverdelve. Duel lasted for hours and Elcamring's strength was waning. He rammed his shield against the unremitting opponent, pushing him backwards and fell to a knee himself. For a second that lingered for ages the two looked at each other. Elf slammed his gauntlet to the floor tiles and uttered words of power; the corridor shook and part of it begun to cave in. With the last burst of his strength Elcamring plunged his blade forward at the staggering, baleful enemy.

"A Varda Elentári! Heca úlairë!"

A bright flash of light engulfed him and the blade was pried from his hand as it struck the figure to the chest; empty black robes landed to a crumpled heap along with his elven sword; force of the blow had twisted the blade useless. Shrilling wail echoed through the corridors and then there was silence. Elcamring felt a tidal wave of sorrow flooding past him. He was alive and in a way more than he had ever been before.

[the-small-print]

The boom and crash of the tide against stony cliffs rolled in like a sea mist; the harsh-edged sounds became smooth and sibilant with distance, softening on the sunned grass and hushing through the gnarled branches of golden elder trees.

A flash of white skimmed along the wavetops down by the rocky shore. Fork-tailed and delicate, it flicked its wings, catching the sunlight and seeming to sparkle amongst the rolling blue waves. A pair of soft, stormy grey eyes watched the little Tern as it fluttered up to its nest upon the stack, and then was lost as the carriage rolled on.

The eyes turned down instead, to watch the rutted, stony road gently rumble by. A line of pale standing stones set upright by hands long forgotten stood mantled in a thousand years of lichen and moss, keeping silent vigil over the sea.

The face in which the eyes were set was young, pale and exquisitely delicate; a white marble carving given life. A smooth arc of feathery black hair as dark as a raven’s thoughts fluttered and blew across the child’s face as she rested her chin on her folded arms and watched the landscape pass sleepily by. She was clothed in a simple black dress of fine material, and around her neck hung a silver pendant of elegant design. It depicted the form of a leafless tree with seven bright stars set in an arc above, and it dangled and clacked against the sill of the carriage door as it swayed.

The child chewed her lip for a moment with a sleepy frown, and then sat back in her seat with a heavy sigh.

“Ada, idhenna im! Garo ammen haeron i heltha lend?”

“Not far now, Aewen.” Replied the man sitting opposite her, after glancing out of the window. “Practice your Common, they do not speak Sindarin in the provinces.”

“I bored,” the girl uttered rebelliously.

“I am bored, you mean,” replied the man, looking up from the roll of parchment he had been reading and grinning at his daughter. “Repeat – I am bored”

“I – am – bored,” she echoed. “And hungry”

“Well, moaning will do you no good, and hungry will be remedied soon,” interjected an equally fair-faced woman sharply, who could only have been the girl’s mother. “As for bored, you can read these tales of lore with me,” she offered, with a brief smile. Without waiting for a reply, she shifted closer to her daughter and wrapped an arm about her, unbinding a thin, leather-bound book from its case and opening it primly.

Although she did not smile, the child’s face became relaxed and content. A warm fluttering sensation slowly filled her stomach and her scalp tingled as her mother’s voice turned like magic the loops, dots and curls of the tengwar on the page into images of great heroes riding white horses, fighting unspeakable evils, reigning victorious or going beyond, far away over the sea, to where the sun sleeps and the dead sit in peace.

Her finger traced the lines on the page and she made the sounds they spoke, too slowly to keep up with her mother, unless she slowed her pace to let Aewen read along. A giddiness seemed to hold her still in her seat; a comforting sway of balance, as though the world around her were rocking like a cradle, slowly and gently, with her head tingling and still in the centre. It did not make her feel sick, but loved and warm, and she felt safer still when her father came and sat upon her other side, closing them both in his arm and making with his body a nest with her in the middle. He began to read the parts of the heroes and villains in the tales, raising his voice to clear nobility or lowering it to a cruel hiss as each character spoke his piece, whilst her mother carried the tale between.

The enclosing warmth and comforting, familiar smell of her parents lulled her into the sense of a waking dream, and her hunger and all thoughts of complaint were forgotten. It seemed all too soon that the grass and stone outside became the timber-and-daub houses of a town upon the coast, and a grey sea mist began to roll in. Aewen felt a pang of regret as her parents’ manners changed and they broke apart, closing the book and setting it away. As they moved away and began to bustle about the carriage and correct their appearance, ready to meet the town’s dignitaries, the cold crept in at her sides, seeming the more bitter in those places where their bodies had warmed her.

Aewen shuffled across in her seat to look out of the carriage window and see the town. The mist had closed in; a bright grey shroud that wrapped a cool salve around the sunned wood and stone. Looming out of the fog came the old walls and sea-defences, solemn and dignified spectres of a past age, whose proud bearing outstripped the newer dwellings and storehouses, but did not belittle them.

The carriage rumbled to a stop before a handsome stone hall, with a slim tower keeping watch out to sea set in its midst, casting a silhouette before the muted flare of the sun. Aewen hopped out of the carriage as soon as the door was opened, putting a hand down on the step to help her balance, and ran in a quick circle about it, enjoying the cool breeze and the shrouded sky.

“Aewen, stay close. We are going to meet the Captain of the garrison here, so you must be good and stay quiet.”

The girl frowned and tugged on her mother’s hand to make her look down.

“Nana, can’t I look at the town? The last Captain was boring.”

“No, Aewen. You’re coming with us. You’d get lost.”

Pouting, the girl dropped her mother’s hand and looked to her father hopefully.

“It would be better if we didn’t take her, Nimwen. There is one matter at least I need to discuss with the Captain that she should not hear of. Come, Tildur can watch her until we are done, and then we can eat together later.”

The girl’s mother frowned briefly, and looked at her daughter sternly, a slight glint of her eye observing the practiced look of hopeful innocence that had hastily replaced Aewen’s pout.
“Well, alright… Tildur, would you?” she asked of one of the guards who had been riding closest the carriage. “Don’t let her get out of your sight. And don’t let her order you,” she added with a brief smile.

The guard nodded, and began to dismount. Without waiting another second, Aewen turned and ran down the cobbled street towards the sea, her arms spread wide, and her tongue sticking out of her mouth to catch the cool mist. A muffled curse; a sigh; a brief laugh and the pounding of heavy feet followed her, but she paid them no heed. She did not stop running until she came to the toothed wall that looked out over the docks below, ranked with a dozen heavy crossbows which were tarred against the weather, hanging silent and still from their pedestals.

She paused for a moment, listening to the keening and twittering of invisible gulls and the soft tinkle of the boats as they ducked and bobbed in the little swell of the waves. Running her hand along the smooth stones of the wall, she skipped along it for more than a hundred paces until it met with the grass and pebble of a promontory that jutted out over a shingle beach like the prow of a ship.

Aewen was not sure when it happened, but from one moment to the next, something felt wrong; alert. The mist ceased to be cool and balmy, and became chilling and wet. She frowned and stood on her tip-toes, feeling that something was amiss, and looked out over the waves, though she could barely see half a dozen horse-lengths ahead. The mist swirled and danced, making shadows on her mind; spiralling dragons and flocks of birds, running horses through the fog, and so quiet. Somewhere the gentle tolling of a bell cut harmony with the gulls, and a dockhand called out. Aewen stared again into the sea mist, willing it into different forms; an ox, charging; a great eagle; a great black-sailed ship…

Her mouth dropped open, aghast. The ship was real! A great moving shadow skimmed silently through the waves, then landed with a crunch against the shingle beach. Its trimmed, fan-like sails were black as the night, and two ranks of oars like the legs of a centipede were raised high and withdrawn into the hatches without a sound. As she watched, the blurred forms of five dozen men shimmed down ropes into the surf and began to run up the beach.

[the-small-print]

“AEWEN! TOL! TOL!”

Her heart nearly stopped in shock as Tildur’s voice bellowed her name. His broad form came rushing at her out of the mist and grabbed her up by the waist as if she were a doll, then ran for the town, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“CORSAIRS! CORSAIRS ON THE BEACH! ARM YOURSELVES! THE CORSAIRS OF UMBAR ARE HERE!”

Moments later, a hail of blind arrows came hissing out of the mist, clattering on the stones or thudding into the grass around him, as though the sky were raining barbs.

The shock that ran through Aewen had held her paralysed until now. The serene calm had been ripped away so unexpectedly that she could barely breathe, but when she found her voice she began to bawl and scream like an infant, her face a pale mask of tragedy as she clung her arms around her guardian’s neck.

His pounding feet carried her into the town proper, where hers was not the only voice screaming. A dozen guards had rallied, and looked urgent askance at Tildur, whilst the townspeople screamed and pelted back and forth around them.

“From the east beach! Two ships and more a hundred men! Where is my Lord; where is Brandir?”

“In the town hall, sir! Guards! Man the gates!” bellowed the Sergeant of the group, rushing to a bell and ringing it with all his vigour.

Tildur ran on, grunting his effort, and holding Aewen so tightly it was a struggle for her to find breath. Before her mind had caught up, though, she was being set down, and her father was there, and her mother, looking deathly pale, tensed and shivering like a racing hound.

“Nimwen, take her to the stables and go! Ride! Don’t turn back; just ride! Tildur, Captain…”

The rest of Brandir’s orders were lost as a new pair of hands grabbed her up, and she was pressed with a furious fear against her mother’s breast as she began to run, as her father had said, toward the stables. Before they had left the cobbled square, the hail of arrows began again, and there were yells of agony and gasps of shock as men, women and children fell dead or wounded, black-fletched arrows projecting from their bodies.

“AADAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Aewen’s voice made a gut-wrenching wail as she saw her father fall, an arrow striking the place between his shoulder and his chest. She clawed at her mother’s shoulder, trying to climb over and run back to the square, but her grip was like iron, holding their bodies pressed painfully tight together, and Aewen could not move.

She barely noticed the warm fug of horses and hay, as startled whinnies filled the air, and it was not until she was thrown across the saddle of a tall, strong black horse that she knew where she was. Before the thought had completed itself, they were away. Her mother’s sobs and the rasping of the great beast’s breath became one as they galloped out of the stables and through the narrow streets, the sounds of battle fading behind. The saddle beneath Aewen’s dress seemed to slip and slide away from her, and it took her a moment to gain her balance.

Everything came to her with difficulty, for control of her body was not hers; her mind was stunned, her eyes streaming, her breath fast and deep, gulping in too much air so that she was made dizzy, and a hand held her clamped tightly in place. She had never known such panic.

In a half-daze she made out the shapes of a hundred women and children as their horse passed them by, running towards the hills, and the acres of wilderness beyond. If they were making any noise, she could not hear it, for her heart was thumping too loudly in her ears.

Her fingers wound their way into the coarse black mane and she felt the immense power of the horse beneath her with something close to exhilaration, hurtling tirelessly forwards away from a danger that seemed to be pressing on her back.

But then, just as her head began to clear, something sharp jabbed into her from behind and scraped on the bone of her shoulder blade, making her squeal out in pain. Her mother’s grip loosened, and was gone, leaving a vast cold gulf at Aewen’s back that nothing in the world could now fill.

Struck dumb, she slipped sideways from the horse’s sweaty neck and fell, gripping onto the flailing reins and mane. Her heels bashed against the grass below, and she fell onto her back beside the horse as it snorted to a stop, its head low, trying to tug the reins out of her hand.

No bodily pain could match the panic inside her now, as she tugged herself to her feet and ran back to the broken bundle of black silk and white skin that lay sadly on the hillside. If only she could shake her hard enough, she would wake up and none of this would have happened. She had to scream and scream and shake her, harder and harder until she woke up, and everything would be all right. Nana always came when she was upset, always….

Aewen was blind to all of her own pain, blind to the screams and clashes from away down by the shore, blind to the dozen swarthy figures jogging up the hillside, bearing bows. She was blind to everything except the two gently-lidded eyes before her that refused to open, set in a pale face like a white marble carving given life, and then left without it.

She did not break away or look around, not even when rough, unsympathetic hands dragged her from her feet and tugged her away. If only she could keep shaking her… but she could not reach. Her mother’s body was left further and further behind, until it was simply another black dot among many upon the lonely hillside.



//I find I can finally release a little more back-story; this was written about 8 months ago

All comments, criticisms and death threats are welcome