IC - The Lord of the Rings: the Northern Defense

[Red Thunder]

IC • OCC • CS

The Lord of the Rings
~
The Northern Defense

September, TA 3018​

~The Woodland Realm~

The Mirkwood was uneasy again. The spiders were out in force, terrorizing the southern settlements as they once had, more than half a century ago. Their webs were spreading, the threads suffocating even light, and there were worse things striving to gain ground north. But his forces kept them at bay, beating back the evil sickness as only the Elves could. Thranduil sat in his hall, reclined in his throne but not nearly as relaxed as his posture and the half empty goblet of wine he clasped in his hand might indicate. It'd been a wise move, in the end, to welcome her back and reinstate her to the rank of Captain of the Scouts. The...incident concerning the Dwarves' escape had been forgiven in the interest of his people, and the king was doing his best to not regret it.

The soft plucking of the lyre filled the shallow but wide hall, its gentle notes seeming to cause the carved leaves of the stone pillars to dance in an impossible breeze. The player hummed a tune of forgotten familiarity, and Thranduil simply couldn't place it. Not that his mind wished for distraction; his captain was working outside of his direction, and that did not sit well with him. Effectiveness be damned. Grunting unhappily, he took another sip of his drink, closing his eyes as he did to better enjoy the Dorwinion flavors. Men. They could be faulted for much of the world's woes, but the Devontry family were masters of their craft.

The lyrist looked up, stopping her humming as she did. Thranduil could be rather passionate, and she was smart enough to not wait around to be the target of one of her king's tantrums. But Thranduil only lowered his cup, eyes still glazed in introspection, so she continued with the entertainment.

And there was the matter of that creature the wizard had asked him to guard. Gorrum? Galen? Some misshapen orc more than likely. Hopefully those assigned the duty kept their wits about them; it was supposed to be clever.

Ah, but the spiders. Sitting a tad straighter than he had been, Thranduil raised his voice.

"Troan! Come; I have a message for the Scout Captain in the south."

A few moments later, Troan was striding out the doors to Thranduil's impressive throne room and making his way to the gates of their underground city. It was an amazing feat, for Elves. It's true that perhaps the Dwarves may have thought it a fair attempt at stonecraft, all the more had they seen the underground halls that inspired Thranduil in the building of this one. But for Sylvan Elves more accustomed to the boughs and limbs of the mighty oaks, pines, and others that were their forest home, the capital of the Woodland Realm was a feat indeed. It went deeply into a wooded hill, using the very earth itself as a fortress, and the path to the gates was narrow.

As Troan walked briskly toward the exit, the gate guards stood aside, saluting. It was a dangerous job, to be a Messenger in Mirkwood, far more dangerous than it would be elsewhere, and they were treated with the utmost respect. The elf gave a cheery wave, and one guard at the gate a sarcastic salute, and stepped out the gate onto the path to the forest. It was a quiet day; perhaps a bit cloudy, but not so much as to dampen the spirit. That would be different as he moved south, of course. Mirkwood got progressively thicker and darker, more oppressive, as one drew closer to Dol Guldur, and Troan felt his mood dampen as he planned his route. Oh well; the faster he found Captain Tauriel and her company, the faster he'd be back home. Hopping from one foot to the next in a kind of stretch, he began moving forward. It was slow at first, as if he were finding his pace, but soon Troan was sprinting through the forest path, silent on elf feet and invisible in the browns and grays of his cloak.

~Erebor~

"They have been gone too long!" A heavy fist pounded the stone table, and Dwalin scowled, his face tight in anger. "No word has been sent for nigh on two decades, and I won't wait any longer!"

"And you think I like sitting here?" Gloin roared, stamping his foot, his patience with his cousin very close to reaching a breaking point. The council room felt empty with so few in it, and the red headed dwarf's voice rang against the bare stone. A great table chisled expertly out of the floor, looking almost as if it had grown from it, sat between the two. Parchment of all sizes covered it, though a large map showing quite clearly the northeastern portion of Middle Earth lay prominently atop all the others. At the head of the table, King Dain II Ironfoot sat in a highbacked chair. Elbows on the table, hands clasped together as if in prayer, the PD dwarf sat with his chin in his hand, his generous beard spilling out upon the table and cascading back upon him like a waterfall. He stared blankly at the map, as if deep in thought. There was much to consider: trade relationships with Dale and with the Woodland Realm, rumors of an attack on an outlying Mannish settlement on the shores of the Rhun Sea, the state of Moria and Balin and his company, and...the secret matter. That last was of serious concern, and none save a few council members knew of it.

"You forget, Dwalin: my brother is missing, too!"

The argument pulled Dain from his introspection. Placing his hands upon the tabletop, he pushed himself to standing, having to steady himself perhaps a bit more than he liked. While no invalid, Dain was old for a Dwarf, and his age was beginning to show since his last great foray into battle sixty years prior. The cousins broke off arguing immediately, each stepping over to assist their king with his balance. But he shoved them away.

"Bah. If a Dwarf can't stand, he's is not fit to be called a Dwarf."

Gloin grimaced, shaking his head with a shrug. "I shouldn't say that around Bomber, your Majesty." But Dain grinned. "I said he's not fit, didn't I?"

Chuckling, Dain, moved around the table and began walking out the door. There was a thunk with every other step; the lower half of his left leg was an intricately wrought pillar of iron, attached by leather straps to his stump. Still laughing to himself at his immature joke fat joke, the king pushed through the door and out into the hallway. Great windows, opening through the mountain face deep into the closest caves, let in the morning light. This hall in particular lead from the gate to one of the Lonely Mountain's main forges, and many a Dwarf passed by, some even with enough awareness to see and recognize the king, and to genuflect appropriately. It was perhaps a strange thing, for a Dwarves king to walk freely among his people as he did. But it had endeared him to them, and most every subject that greeted him was genuine in their respect. Dwalin and Gloin both stood behind him, arms crossed or at their sides, each looking more than a bit grumpy that their argument was unresolved. But Dain reached back and thumped them on the chest.

"Do you see this? Do you see how happy they are? This is not from my being available to them; it's because they're safe. Because their king keeps them safe." He turned and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. Usually powerful and loud, Dain's deep voice dropped in volume conspiratorially. "But what if I can't keep them safe against some threat, and that same threat offered to accept my allegiance so that I could keep them safe?"

His brow furrowed, and Dwalin and Gloin looked each other in the eye curiously. What could he mean, and why was he so cryptic? Finally Dain looked back up.

"Come," he said. "Gather the others of Thorin's Company. I must discuss something with you."
_______________

"Something's the matter, Dorlis." The she-dwarf looked after their king worryingly as he strode off in the other direction with his friends. Beside her, Dorlis rolled her eyes.

"You're always saying that. Last year you thought the Elves were going to increase the cost of wood. Year before that, it was the furs from Dale." Her yellow curls bounced as she shook her head. The shovel on her shoulder felt like it weighed as much as the forge itself, and she was ready to be done for the day. "Let him be, Mafte. If there's something for the rest of us to worry about, he'll let us know.

"But until he does, I'm gonna worry about getting a bath. The smell of charcoal is lovely, but I could use a change."

With a wave, Dorlis turned and strode off. Mafte gave a halfhearted goodbye in return, still staring after Dain with concern. Finally she shrugged and followed her friend.

~Dale~

Fyréga Grimeblade looked about, her brow furrowed as she tried her best to figure out where she was to go in this strange city. Beneath her, Blaecwine drug his feet. He missed the fields and open spaces, where one could run when one needed. Here, it was too crowded. Even Edoras felt expansive, compared to this place of close stone. The black steed whinnied grumpily, and the Shieldmaiden placed a hand on his neck.

"I know it, Blaecwine. I feel the same. We will hopefully not be too long within Dale, and you and I both can head home again."

She still wore her riding gear. It made her uncomfortable, to be sure; Fyréga felt far more at ease in the open dress than in her leather armor. But only a fool would ride the distance here from Rohan and not come prepared at all times for battle. Luckily, she'd avoided any.

The city, however, most certainly hadn't. Much of Dale had been reconstructed, since the Dragon, and it was plainly evident where old stone and brick stopped and new began. Indeed, in many parts of Dale, reconstruction was still in progress. But the Men of Dale had spent their time well: the multistory towers of the warehouses looked stable and strong; the palace, small but significant, seemed to have been given special care by the people, as if it were a symbol of their defiance against the destruction the Dragon had wrought; and the front gate stood opened wide, serving both as a ready welcome to those who might come for refuge or to trade but as a clear promise of defense against those who meant the Men of Dale harm.

Even in Edoras, Fyréga hadn't seen this level of devotion to protection. Guards seemed stationed at every corner, and without too many exceptions, they all seemed to want to be at their respective posts, keeping watchful eye over the multinational and indeed even multiracial goings-on of the Dale market.

For so it was. Lake Town, positioned as it was on the northern shore of the Long Lake, may have been where the action goods moved through, coming up from or down to the River Running to smaller ports farther south, but it was in Dale that the transactions were handled. The street was a very vocal throng as different crowds of different sizes pushed against other crowds for ground or to maintain it, all the while negotiating, trading, laughing, and visiting. Fyréga peered up, one hand blocking the late morning sun from her eyes. The palace wasn't too far off, all things considered, but it wouldn't be a quick trip through the mass of traders.

To her left, out of the corner of her eye, she spied a reasonable looking inn: the Black Arrow. Smiling, she pulled on Blaecwine's reins to direct him towards its door. It wouldn't do, after all, to go before King Brand still in her riding gear. Not that she'd head there as soon as she changed; holding out a hand, Fyréga frowned. It had started to rain.

~Lake Town~

All around him was cackling and blood. The foul faces of misshapen orcs sneered and scowled, grinning evilly even as their heads were separated from their shoulders. About him were his brothers and sisters in arms, all fighting against the forces of the Great Enemy himself. Blades of steel flashed in the glimmers of sunlight that forced its way through the black reek that the Mountains of Thangorodrim had spewed out, ending evil one orcish head at a time. But it seemed a fruitless task; for every one he put down, two more jumped forward, eager to maim him in ways he shuddered to think about. Wargs screamed around him, orcs chittered, balrogs yelled. It didn't matter, thank goodness; they seemed to be falling back! The Elves were winning!
A great shadow filled the sky, blocking out what little sunlight there was. Filled with a fear he couldn't describe, he looked up. It-it was huge! It's head was easily as large as the Fountain his farther had guarded in Gondolin; what kind of hell would it blast from its mouth? And the wings! In his darkest nightmares, he'd never considered what it would be like, if one were winged! But wasn't just one; the largest was the first. From behind it flew rank upon rank of its demonspawn: winged dragons! Fire worse than Aulë's furnace enveloped his fellows, and Celegóst screamed.

For such a friendly town, despite the cheerfilled air of greeting he always received and the bright morning sun, Celegóst couldn't help feeling uneasy. Well, apart from last night's nightmares. He stood on the southern most dock, staring placidly as the boat that had brought him here headed back down the Long Lake, bearing cargo for some unknown port. As with every other place the wandering Elf had stopped, this was just yet another place to rest his head. Just another place to find work. He'd heard no news of late; the world seemed quiet, so even his wanderings had been more pointless than usual. Picking up the odd job had kept him busy, but it was never a job worth staying for. He'd soon left, getting bored and finding nothing to fill that emptiness his spirit felt. Not since-

He turned on his heel, determined to find something to do. Something to occupy his mind and soul. And hopefully his body. Surely there was work in this place. Lake Town was in something of a similar plight as Dale, if perhaps slightly better off because it had been destroyed more recently. The rebuilding had gone well, with much of the building being focused on the more sturdy shoreline. But tradition is difficult to break, and many of the older codgers had been insistent that the town was much more defensible from the middle of the lake. So the builders had capitulated: homes, storehouses, and shops all stood on thick posts that sunk deep into the Long Lake's muddy bottom. Built to withstand the sometimes aggressive weather on the lake, the wooden paths would often shift and creak, and unless one were used to it, the effect could be unnerving. Rounding a corner, Celegóst pulled up fast, just barely missing colliding with a someone. Mumbling a sorry, the Elf stepped around, giving the cloaked figure the room they needed before continuing in his vague direction. But suddenly he stopped, looking back over his shoulder. He'd suddenly gotten an uneasy feeling, a feeling of- it was hard to say. It wasn't good, that was for sure. But the cloaked figure was already gone. Shaking his head and chalking it up to his overall bad mood and inopportune nightmares, nevermind the incoming sun shower, Celegóst carried on.

@fyrelily @Effervescent @Elle Joyner @SpaceCowboyEin @Spectre @mr_pibbs @Doctor Jax

 

[Spectre]

Arastor
The Woodland Realm ​

It wasn't as easy as just any other day. They had just run a sortie from one of the scouts' temporary forts in the southern half of the Mirkwood. The elven guard wouldn't think of going this far alone, and it was left to those that were slightly different- those with a more proactive mindset- to do what others likely wouldn't. King Thranduil was a great Elven King, but his isolationism would only prolong the sylvan demise. There were plenty of Sylvan elves who loved their king, but didn't necessarily share the same mindset. Those were they that served in the elven guard, who wanted to do more than just sit complacently and wait for death to knock at their door. These were selected to serve something like scouts, hunters, and guerilla warriors within the shadows of the great wood. Seeking out the darkness to rid it from their homes, rather than complacently letting it spread.

Four of these elves trotted across a fallen tree, it's large grayish form grown over with spongy green moss. The four looked, and moved as if they were leaves blowing in the wind- swift, and effortlessly. They were in need of re-supply, and probably only had just over a score of arrows left between them. Shrouded in natural colors of greens, grays, and browns- with materials that allowed them to blend in, and almost become part of the Mirkwood. Three males and a female, had almost an hour's worth of running left to do before they saw the well-blended gates of their unit's fortification.

"It feels almost futile." The female voice crept up like a song, bounding over a thin stream. She was the last in the column.

"Here we go again." A fair haired male in front retorted, ending in a grunt as he heaved himself up a small cliffside, then turning and offering a hand to the elf behind him.

"It's not like she's totally wrong." A copper haired male kicked up the side of the same cliff, and grabbed onto the far haired elf's hand. Hoisting him up, the fair-haired elf crow-hopped away into a jog, while the copper haired male turned to assist the other two up the small cliff.

"I'm serious. It's just like someone trimming a hedge." She waited for the brunette elf before her to bound up the cliff and help her. She grunted a bit as she took his hand and hopped up. "Cut it away, but in a short time, it will be back." Her tone was quite dismal, foreboding.

"Less than an hour's trek from here." One of the males piped up toward the front. Sounds like they were desperately trying to change the subject.

"All right, all right." The female droned back, rolling her eyes. She snickered a bit, and the brunette male before her gave a light chuckle.

"Commander Faindes expects news soon. We should pick up the pace…" The previously silent brunette male spoke.

"Arastor-" the blonde male interjected,

"Yes, I don't let you have your fun. I know." He chuckled, as he turned his trot into a faster paced jog, overtaking the two in front of him. "But Gilren has a point. One day, we will need to seek out the source." A pause was taken to not over exert himself as he vaulted himself over another downed tree. "You bet your bows we'll be the ones to have to do it." A firm believer in their cause, Arastor was however proud of the fact. He didn't speak his mind as much as his female companion, however.

"Kill the Queens" both the other male elves retorted in unison- in a bored tone, looking at each other. Gilren was one of the ones who heavily believed they needed to uproot the problem, rather than just trim back the leaves. She often talked about searching for the spider queens- a likely 'root' of one of their problems, and eradicating them.

"Just because I've said it a lot- doesn't make it any less true," Gilren, the elven lady among them, responded in a chiding tone to them. They continued to run through the brush- bounding over trees, dips, and streams, their movements fluid as water over stone. The company of four kept quiet for a while longer, tirelessly making their way through the wood, toward their unit's encampment.

As they encroached, they saw two elves almost forty yards from one another, camouflaged into the trees. They were only noticed because the scouts knew where to look. They were watchmen, keeping an eye on the area outside the camp. The entrance would be but a few minutes to go.

As they arrived, they saw the makeshift gate open for them, a single guard at the door. The camp was a circular shape, with a few military tents toward the center. The walls were like interwoven branches of trees and thick brush nearby. Behind them were some head-high towers for them to stand and keep watch from- or take defensive posture. The day had been a bright one up until a few moments before reaching camp. Dark clouds began to form, and rain lightly began to spit at them through the thickest of these ancient trees.

"Of course." Arastor thought to himself. "The second we get some rest, discomfort knocks." Bounced around his mind, as he gave a nod to the door guard- who politely greeted them all back 'home'. Pulling his hood up to deflect the rain, Arastor made his way, with the other three, to the gray tent in the center of the camp, passing extinguished torches, smaller tents, and crates covered with large leaf foliage to protect from light rain.

The tent was rectangular, with the entry flaps on the long end. A single guard stood outside. All four elves stood shoulder to shoulder before the guard, and Arasator spoke,

"We've just returned from a patrol. We're here to report to Commander Faindes."

The guard nodded her head, looking over them all from beneath her helmet. "She's got a visitor for the moment. But she will want to hear your report." Spear in her left hand, she stepped back and pushed back a flap with her right, allowing them to enter.

Inside was a single table in the center, a few crates to one side, a couple chairs, and a small cot for a bed. Two elven guard by the table, and two figures with their backs to the entrance flap staring at the table. Presumably a map upon it. Commander Faindes was easy to pick out, she wore Sylvan scale armor under a few light plates, and a white sash draped over her shoulder. Her long silver hair braided on both sides of her face at the temples, tied up in back, and she wore a thick mithril circlet that framed her hairline. The other figure next to her, the visitor, was however wearing mostly green, with a hood up. Figure didn't look familiar to any of them.

The four looked to each other briefly, not sure who the 'visitor' was. They shared an unsure facial expression, and a shrug between themselves. Arastor then took charge for a moment.
"Commander Faindes, Fourth Scouts rep-" Arastor's voice, smooth and gallant- was interrupted by the commander, turning with a wide smile.

"I know who you are, Arastor. But thank you- " she gave a nod to let them know they could relax. Arastor himself exhaled silently to allow himself to breathe. Commander Faindes was a passionate and benevolent leader, but also commanded the respect of her subordinates. It wasn't normal for her to speak so informally to even her most experiences soldiers. "I'm glad to see you've returned- and successful- I more than presume…" She turned away from her table, and fully toward him. "But currently I, myself, have news. Or rather, a visitor with news." Her silvery eyes peered over to the visitor, who slowly turned around.

 

[Effervescent]

Dunen's feet dangled off the ledge of a bridge within Erebor. He had come to this quiet section often to think away from the more populated spaces. Sixty years and the halls still hadn't quite reached its former glory. This bridge and all its surroundings were still left in a bit of ruin, the stonework crumbled in rubble that cascaded down the layered framework. And yet it was still sturdy and unwavering, for it was of dwarven make. Like all things dwarven, nothing could waste them away no matter how hard they try to break them down. But still the image burned in Dunen's mind as he knew he should have been there the day his people took back this magnificent and imposing city.

He had missed so many opportunities thus far in participating in the struggles of dwarven livelihood. His hands were calloused from hard labor rather than the hilt of a weapon against his palm. He looked, and felt, weaker than his kin, and at his age it was quite the embarrassment. All his friends had tasted war upon their palette and brought back magnificent stories to regale around the table. Some were older, but some were just as old as Dunen, if not a bit younger. The struggle of his failures quietly haunted him, especially when they came back a bit fewer in number all those years ago. None of them called him a coward at least. They knew he wanted to partake in something greater than himself. Had he known of the advance to take back Khazad-dûm in time he would have jumped into the march.

"You best not be pouting again," came a familiar voice from behind. Dunen turned his head quickly about to see his father, Denhen, staring down at him. His gaze was stern, ever fixed in a furrow that set his wrinkles deeply upon his forehead, or at least what could be seen through his bushy brows and wild hair. He carried with him his battle axe resting on one shoulder as he shifted his stance to the balls of his feet. Dunen didn't even bother to question it, and looked away. Perhaps this was his father informing him he would be off to fight the coming war they all knew was inevitable. Darkness continued to rise in the lands, and with it whispers and strange rumors.

"I'm not pouting," Dunen grumbled. Denhen sat himself next to his son with effort, grunts and groans escaping him as he situated his sticky legs off the ledge and set the axe aside. He had grown fatter in these past years, his thick beard hiding his double chin and pushed out the bristles that rested upon a barreled chest. The aging dwarf sighed through his nose that carried a faint whistle.

"I'm getting old, Dunen," he stated matter-of-fact. "I don't move as well as I used to. Can't even see much past my own beard these days." He let out a hearty chuckle and slapped Dunen's back with the mirth. Somehow the gesture released Dunen's hold on his frown, and he joined in on the laughter with his own faint huff. As much as his father was judgmental, he carried his moments when they could better bond.

"You can still eat your way through mother's brisket," Dunen added, which only heightened Denhen's laughter to echo through the abandoned commons.

"Aye, that's catching up to me, too!" he said cheerily, and stroked his beard to rest flatly upon him. A silence grew in the hollow cavern, and Dunen's smile faded as he looked back out at the dilapidated splendor. His father's own slowly fell as he nodded somewhat. It seemed as though he was trying to collect the right words to say but couldn't muster the courage.

"Has there been another call to fight?" Dunen asked in a quiet tone. He muted his hope in front of his father in efforts to keep the chiding at bay. But his father shook his head somewhat in response.

"Our people have been through too much," Denhen continued in a solemn tone. He heaved another sigh from his chest, his hands slapping his knees lightly as he straightened his back. "Ban tells me you've gotten pretty good with an axe. As you should, considering you come from a long line of axe wielders!"

Denhen brought the weapon back into his hands and slid it across his lap towards his son. The hilt was long and lined with scars and lines where blades had been kept at bay, and the grips were lined with leather. The blades were lined with worn ornamentation from generations of use. For a moment, Dunen didn't realize he was being handed the axe and instead looked it over with little thought. He had seen much of it in his life and knew never to touch it. But his father prompted him to take it, a grin pushing up his bushy mustache as Dunen hesitantly brought it in his hands.

It was heavier than he anticipated, but his arms were quick to find the balance and hold to carry it without strain. Dunen's smile returned as the gift registered. This was for him, and with it came understanding that his father finally felt he was ready. This was a moment of bonding he always dreamed of yet never anticipated that left him without words.

"Another fight is inevitable," Denhen continued. "We all can tell, even if no one is saying it. What we do... Where we go... We just need to fight, and fight for us all. I can't hold you back from your destiny, son. We will need you now more than ever. The next call, you go, you understand?"

Dunen nodded his head without regard to the solemn tone his father carried within his deep voice. His heart was too elated with news that his presence would be more accepted on the battlefield, especially while wielding the heirloom axe. He wouldn't have to sneak out this time. His plan to do so was now thrown out of his mind along with his introspection. "Aye," he said in return, and pried his eyes away from the axe to look over at his father. "It'll be an honor."

 

[Doctor Jax]

B R E G O L I A NXXXXXXX

The elf sat at his barrel, staring listlessly at the stack of coins before him. Two of his friends, Gollor and Fordir, had negotiated contracts with a tavern in Laketown some time before, and they were there to deliver the promised goods. While Mannish drink was a touch better than Sylvan, the allure of the exotic kept them coming to the three. While their profits were quiet handsome, Bregolion could not but help wondering if perhaps he was wasting his time as he counted another pile of coins, set them aside in another small bag, to start on another pile of similar coins.

He was, along with being a negotiator, their moneyman, and unfortunately that meant he had the delightful task of sorting through the disgusting coins that had spilled from the pockets of their Mannish patrons. Some were encrusted with unspeakable substances, others were merely clammy, some weren't even coins, and several appeared to have spent considerable time at the bottom of someone's boot.

Sighing and rubbing his strained eyes, Bregolion leaned back in his chair and tried to clear his head by looking out at his surroundings. He was sitting at a walkway while his compatriots were inside, counting the many kegs that had been offloaded and ensuring that the correct amount had gone to the right tavern. He sincerely hoped that Gollor hadn't been in their stock as of late, otherwise the numbers they would bring back to him would make not a single lick of sense. The tavern's sign swung over his head, a leaping fish wood-burned into it. By Elfin standards, it was a crude and mean construction, lacking any sort of finesse or artistry, and Bregolion wondered how Man managed to make any works of beauty at all, if their laziest efforts produced a fish that looked more akin to a drowned cloak.

Across from him, the cold waters of the Lake rippled with the passage of a boat or two, but otherwise it was fairly quiet here. About ten strides across the canal sat the opposing walkway, full of shops and considerably more people. Meanwhile, Bregolion's side of the walk seemed far more bare in comparison, perhaps due to the fact that the pub was also in the vicinity of a fish salesman who'd been trying to rid himself of a large catch of trout for nearly two days (and their age was beginning to show-- or rather, smell). It did nothing to relieve Bregolion of his boredom, as he enjoyed watching Men squabble over this or that. They had such fiery passion, something that was lacking in the halls of Thranduil. Perhaps the only ones who exhibited any sort of true fire were the guards--

But that was enough of that, wasn't it? He had coins to count.

As he put his mind back to the task at hand, someone walked by, and Bregolion's quick eyes barely noticed a slim hand nick five of the several bags of coins he had lying on his impromptu tabletop. Had they chosen a less attuned target, perhaps they could have passed off unscathed, but rather, they chose an elf as their mark, and Bregolion felt his ire rise.

"Ho, praytell return a moment, child?" Bregolion yelled at the small figure (for it was indeed of childish size under that cloak), and in that moment, the figure took off on sprightly feet. Unhappily, Bregolion tossed as many of the coins into a larger purse and strapped it to his waist as he hobbled after the thief. For a brief moment, he managed to grab hold of the cloak of the thief, but in their skirmish, Bregolion lost footing on the narrow walk and slipped.

With a shock of cold, Bregolion fell into the water, and he swam to the surface, waterlogged and humiliated as he listened to a pair of feet slap the boards of the walkway.

"Stop them! Thief! She stole from me!" Bregolion shouted, pointing after the perpetrator, as well as making paddling his way towards the wooden platform, shivering.

@Red Thunder

 

[Elle Joyner]

The last few hours of her journey to Dale was fraught with rain, dark clouds hanging over head, sodden and swollen, sparks of lightning spitting heliotrope forks across the horizon as thunder rumbled above the creek and crunch of cart wheels, the clattering of thick hooves along the cobbled road. Great, heavy raindrops smacked against the dirt loud as slapping hands, drenching horse and rider to the skin, but Catriona Devontry felt nothing.

A numbness had settled over her that couldn't be attributed to the fierce summer storm. The coldness ran to the depths of her, infecting her heart, her soul, her every thought. Dorwinion, her family, her entire world as she knew it was gone.The Easterlings. They'd come and gone, ripping and tearing like savages, like animals, and left nothing in their wake but utter turmoil. No one had survived… from the eldest to the youngest, a massacre, burned the vineyard, the village to ashes.

Through the downpour, the gates of Dale came into view and Rion tugged against Taura's reins, the cart mount slowing as they passed beneath the arched opening, thick droplets skittering from the stone. It had been nearly a full year since she'd been there last, but it looked as she remembered, even drenched, bright and warm, yellow sandstone hugged by golden-green strands of ivy, red roofs steaming from the cool wetness against hot clay. Normally, her heart would be lifted by the familiarity of the town, by the scent of the dusty roads and the sound of laughter, children playing,splashing in puddles, but as Taura plucked her way along the path towards the home of Dale's blacksmith, Rion's heart grew heavy and dull in her chest, her eyes misting, stinging with hot, bitter tears.

Swiping angrily at her cheeks, she pressed her heels into Taura's side and the horse picked up her pace as much as she was ought (which in truth wasn't much at all). No more than five minutes passed before the familiar house came into view and the sight of it brought a lump to her throat. How many times had she come here with her father or brothers? How many times had she sat in the back of the cart and swelled with anticipation at the thought of seeing Dale again, at the thought of the parties, the food and the dancing, of staying up too late and catching crickets with the other children in the town. How often had she dreamed of their return, and each time felt more exciting than the last. It felt as though it would never be that way again. It felt as if nothing would.

Giving the reins a sharp pull, Taura came to a stop and climbing down from her mount, Rion moved to the door of Althaus Randwulf, raised a trembling hand and knocked.

---

@mr_pibbs ​

 

[mr_pibbs]

​

A loud hiss echoed against the cobblestone walls as the ferocious blade was plucked from its molten bath from within the forge, the malleable steel glowing bright red, filling the room with the burning heat of a million torches. Quickly moving, a masked man gripped the hilt of the blade with a set of iron tongs and carefully tipped the heated metal into a large stone well that was only as deep as the floor. As soon as the blazing hot steel touched the icy, chilled mountain water, an explosion of steam erupted from the well, replacing the previous heat of molten metal with the scalding intensity of an apparently endless stream of steam. Despite how overheated the smithy might have been on the inside, the men who toiled within had grown used to the feeling and carried on as if nothing were wrong, their burnt-red skin shimmering with a combination between sweat and steam.

"Keep those fires burning, lads!" called out an older man situated at the other end of the metal workshop, a greying beard stretched across his tired face. Despite how frail he might have appeared to those who didn't know him, the man wore a smile at all times, proudly watching from a distance as his employees tirelessly worked to fill their latest order. "Four more swords and we'll be ready to ship out the King's order! Keep up the good work and I'll have you all over for dinner. Well, those who aren't my son, I mean to say. He already gets free dinners, don't you Maerath?" called out Althaus Randwulf, his vibrant green eyes turning towards the masked man standing over the well. The others laughed pleasantly at Althaus' comment, knowing that despite the hardships he had endured, their employer hadn't yet lost his sense of humour.

Removing the steel mask from his face in order to get a proper view of his father, Maerath Randwulf smiled at the man and laughed. "Of course, father! Although if you're cooking, then I think I'll pass on the 'free dinner'. No offence, but I like not having the taste of burnt rabbit in my mouth." the young man replied, causing another outburst of laughter from both the employees and his father. Sliding the mask back on, Maerath playfully winked at his father before returning to the forge, ready to work.

The smithy was just next door to the Randwulf household, connected at the back by a short hallway that linked the two buildings together. The smithy wasn't impressively large like the forges of Erebor, but Althaus was known for providing some of the best weapons and armour that a man could ask for. Dependable, sturdy, and affordable; that was the motto Maerath's father lived by when it came to his practice, and the man did a damn good job with living up to his reputation. However, Althaus knew he wouldn't be anywhere without the aid of his trusted employees and his son, especially after his dilemma, so he was always humbled whenever customers provided him with personal thanks or tokens of their gratitude on top of the payment.

But while the men toiled away in the blistering heat, Maerath's mother, Cathalia, and sister, Fwain, were busy at their homestead, pleasantly working on the night's meal. A pot of water boiled over the fireplace as Cathalia worked on cutting up the three rabbits she had purchased from the butcher earlier that day. Fwain kept herself busy by washing the few vegetables they had so that the ingredients would be ready by the time the water had properly come to a boil. As the two women worked, there was a sudden knock on the front door. Looking up from the half-dissected rabbit, Cathalia spoke. "Fwain, could you answer that?"

"Yes, mother." said the young women, nodding at her mother as she set down the leeks in her hand. Wiping her hands dry on the front of her dress, Fwain slowly walked over to the door and opened it. What she saw, however, shocked her. It was Catriona Devontry, a young girl who's family had been long-time friends of the Randwulf's. Fwain hadn't seen the young women in what felt like years, but surely couldn't have been so long. However, the look of despair stretched out across Rion's face forced Fwain to immediately pull her into the homestead, wrapping the young woman in a tight embrace. "Catriona! What's happened to you? Are you alright? Here, come sit down by the fire, warm yourself." hurriedly uttered Fwain, quickly leading Rion over to the fireplace before Cathalia took notice of the state of the young woman.

"Oh my goodness! Fwain, go get her a blanket and a washcloth, then get your father!" commanded Cathalia in a concerned time before she reached over to the counter and grabbed a piece of bread she had previously cut up. Taking the bread over to Catriona as Fwain ran upstairs, Cathalia handed it to her and gently draped her arm around the girl, rubbing her back nurturingly. "What's happened, sweet one?"

 

[Red Thunder]

~the Woodland Realm~​

It was perhaps odd to see Faindes stiff in her conversation. For so she had been, for all the informality she'd shown Arastor, and his male companions looked at each other worryingly. But when the visitor turned and threw back the obscuring hood, all three of his companions snapped to full attention, right fist on their left breast in salute; it was Captain Tauriel, leader of the forces in the south and the Spider's primary antagonist. Her face was careworn and tight with stress, and the she-elf's red hair lay over one shoulder in a tight utilitarian braid. Like Faindes her subordinate, Tauriel wore a elven shirt of scales, allowing for the greater freedom of movement that made the Woodland Elves so capable in their environment, except that she bore a sash of red across her chest. At the moment she was unarmed, though it was likely that her weapons weren't far. Her mouth pulled up in a tired smile as she was saluted, and she waved a hand in dismissal.

"At ease, Scouts. I trust you are all well? Faindes has spoken positively concerning each of you, and it gives me no small amount of relief that we have fighters such as you in our ranks." The smile fell suddenly, and the Captain's shoulders slumped. "But I'm afraid my visit is not for congratulations nor encouragement. In fact, there is one here whom I must ask much of, though it seem like a minor task.

"Gilren, Niendel, Adhros. You are not needed for this; Commander Faindes will be briefing you later on another assignment, a recon mission, not to mention needing detail about your last assignment. For now, you're dismissed."

Niendel and Adhros exchanged looks again. With a final salute, they and Gilren turned and left the tent. Once they were in the open air, Adhros turned to his sister and his friend. "What do you supposed that was about?"

Niendel shrugged his shoulders dismissively, but Gilren placed her hand to her chin in contemplation.

"It has to be the Spiders, right? That's all we've ever really dealt with down here. It's our specialty; why would the captain come to us about anything else?" Her uncertainly hid almost entirely underneath the mask of confidence, but Adhros shook his head.

"I don't know. It might concern that...creature." The companions gave him quizzical looks. The elf furrowed his brow. "You've heard the rumor, surely: that Mithrandir himself asked the king if we could guard some prisoner of his? I'm fairly sure it was said to be in our area..."

"Nonsense," Niendel spoke up, scoffing, as he turned and began leading them away from the command tent. "As if the wizard would drop more responsibility in our lap. He knows how much we have to do down here, and what we face."

"Perhaps." Gilren glanced back as she followed, wondering what the captain could have wanted with Arastor.

Back inside the tent, Tauriel had beckoned Arastor forward to the table. Upon it lay a detailed map of the Mirkwood, or at least, until it drew near Dol Guldur. The haunted fortress was still uncharted, even after its fall. Tauriel pointed at a location just south of their own position.

"Arastor, this is the location of a secret, a secret requested of us by Mithrandir himself to keep for him. It is a secret that has since escaped." Sighing, she turned away to sit heavily into one of the chairs. Faindes stood silently by, her face expressionless. "There is a creature known as 'Gollum' that he asked us to keep imprisoned, for he knew much and could cause much mischief. But he was a small thing, easily handled if he got violent, so the watch on him was reduced over time to two guards. It was my call, and my mistake. For somehow a band of orcs broke through our perimeter watch in the south and killed he guards. It happened overnight, and by the time the next rotation came to take their assignment, the creature and his rescuers were long gone."

Faindes crossed her arms, face taut with restrained input. Tauriel gestured toward the tent entrance.

"Your friends will have the thankless task of trying to track this creature down; the Commander has spoken well of them concerning the task. But you will go to warn King Dain of Erebor. If orcs have once again gained the confidence to infiltrate our borders, then I fear their strength is growing. Dain needs to be told, and given the chance to take what steps he feels she should." She picked up an envelop of plain description from the table and proffered it to Arastor. "Here is a letter in small detail for the king. You are to deliver it to him and to him alone.

"Now. You must have questions; this is much to take in."

@Spectre

~the Lonely Mountain~​

Her curiosity had gotten the best of her, despite her better intentions. Pick axe still weighing heavily on her shoulder, Mafte had broke off following Dorlis, choosing instead to make tracks after the king. He wouldn't mind, right? He was a king of the people, always walking among them, greeting them merrily and joyfully. It only followed that any of his people might want to know the king's business. The nagging absurdity of that leap in logic tickled her brain, but the she-dwarf shoved it away. She had to know.

Mafte followed the king and his friends at a distance, pausing only to look nonchalant as the Dain's messengers sped past her in search of the remaining members of Thorin's company. Questions filled her mind as they did, and she tugged at the silver hair in frustration. The silver hair. She greatly enjoyed it herself, being very nearly the color of Moria silver itself, but it tended to draw the assumption that she was far greater than her actual 90 years.

Shaking her head, she forced herself to concentrate. For all her curiosity, Mafte's mind wandered regularly. It would perhaps take several minutes to gather the Company, and she couldn't very well linger in the hall like this, covered in dust and sweat. Or could she? Leaning against the wall, she slouched against it until she was sitting on the stone floor. The pick axe she lay beside her, and her chin dropped to her chest as she tried her best to emulate an exhausted miner taking a much needed break. It was an ideal location; she could watch the comings and goings of those who visited the king in the gate house in which he now resided without drawing too much attention. So she waited, eager to sate her curiosity but worried at the same time about what had the king so concerned. And wondering for the life of her why the Dain was in at the front gate.

Thirty minutes later saw Mafte speeding down the halls sans pick axe, looking for Dorlis. This was bad. This was very bad. The messenger, clad in a black cloak that obscured his features, had practically taunted the Dain with his offer. And what did he mean, "the next time would be the last"? King Dain may not have capitulated on the spot, but he hadn't said 'no' either. That was probably why he'd called Thorin's Company to join him; he wanted their advice! Her eyes frantically darted to and fro, seeking her friend.

Her wandering path lead her from the main halls and down lesser traveled streets. Despite her best efforts, she could not find Dorlis. But another familiar face appeared: Dunen. They'd seen each other on occasion in the mines or in the halls, even sharing enough small talk to be considered acquaintances. Normally perhaps Mafte wouldn't have shared a secret with just anyone, preferring to divulge it to Dorlis. But this information was about to jump out of her, and heedless of his father's proximity, the she-dwarf ran up.

"Dunen! Dunen! The king is in trouble! Mordor is making threats and offering alliance, and I'm afraid King Dain may give in!" The odd bit of news concerning Mordor's actions in the south had found its way to Erebor, and it was generally known that Sauron was no one you wanted for enemy. Or ally, for that matter. The stress of it all, combined with her worry for the king, was too much for the usually rough dwarf woman, and she collapsed to the floor in tears.

@Effervescent

~Lake Town~​

If felt as though he'd wandered hours. Celegóst was having no luck all finding work; it seemed all the jobs were already taken. Even a task as menial as hauling crates as unavailable. Maybe the economy had hit a plateau, and no one needed more help at the moment. Sighing, the elf slumped against the wooden wall of a storehouse. His nose wrinkled involuntarily; it seemed there was a fish monger nearby. Despite his best efforts, the elf just couldn't get past the smell of fish. It had such a cutting odor; worse, it permeated everything. Last time he'd visited, Celegóst had smelled of fish for two weeks.

The sound of distress filled his ears, and he stood up in a hurry, his armor clanking a bit as he did. Suddenly there was a splash; someone or something had fallen into the lake. He ran up just in time to see an elf struggling to mount the platform.

"Here!" he called out, extending his hand to the soaked elf. "Take my hand."

@Doctor Jax

~Dale~​

What had looked like it might be a quick shower had turned into a veritable downpour. Fyréga stared out her window in the second story in frustration, arms crossed. She'd even gotten changed into more suitable attire for the court, taking the time even to sponge off the roaddust and sweat her travel had accumulated. The innkeeper, an older man of little strength and infinite kindness, had given her the best his inn could offer, and had taken it upon himself to wrestle Blaecwine into a stable to feed and water him. The Shieldmaiden might have felt quite doted upon indeed, had the experience ended with her approaching the palace.

So much for that. Fyréga grunted in a very unladylike manner; her father would have given her an earful. She was likely getting herself worked up over nothing. King Brand would almost certainly still see her, and the sale would still happen.

Her eyebrows raised as movement caught her eye. A red headed woman of young age rode a weary horse through the heavy downpour, apparently with little concern about getting wet. She might have run down to bring her in, but the young woman looked to have a destination in mind, The blacksmiths? Shaking her head, she turned away. Oh well; best to take the chance to go over the details of the arrangement.

@Elle Joyner

 

[Spectre]

Arastor
-Woodland realm scout camp-​

At first, he was a little alarmed by calling off the rest of his scouting party. His eyes darted between them all, and his eyelids widened to them, and expression of surprise. He then faced their Captain promptly. He listened intently, as he was sure something of great import was about to come. Lady Tauriel would not be here otherwise.

Feeling a little uneasy about the story of the orccs coming to steal away a little 'Gollum' creature. Especially if Mithrandir himself was giving advice to the Sylvan Elves. The Istari were mysterious creatures, but certainly wise. Having never had the pleasure of meeting any of the m, Arastor couldn't say for himself, but certainly the rest of Middle-Earth could agree- especially in Mithrandir's case.
Though as soon as he thought it would be him personally tasked for hunting this Gollum creature down, he was told the 'rest' of his scouting party would be tasked with that job. His brow lowered a bit, and his eyes narrowed in thought. What was it that they would trust him with, if not working with the rest of his team?

It then hit him. Maybe his passive complaints to Commander Faindes had reached the ears of someone higher. His skill as scout could not be questioned, and his loyalty to Thranduil was equal. Though his love for his king and his lands lead him to think outward. Maybe this was his chance to help the elves of the Mirkwood by starting to look outside their own borders.
He dipped his head as he gently took the letter from Tauriel's hand.

Butterflies flittered around in his belly. Excitement, and yet a great fear, and anxiety washed over him. The offer for him to do something of this import- the honor he felt was near overwhelming. Then his mind raced back to the seriousness of the situation. If this creature caught Mithrandir's attention to keep it a secret- and the orcs now have this secret...

"Thank you" he responded without thinking. She had asked if he had questions. He had several- but tried to pick his brain for the most important ones to not waste her time.

"If Mithrandir advised we watch this Gollum creature, just how important was it?" he asked, tucking the letter safely away. "And what power could one small creature hold for the orcs?" His face looked puzzled, thoughtful. "Something has felt increasingly wrong over the centuries, and I fear that it may only get worse- and can't help to think this is confirming my suspicions…There is plenty here that worries me, and I will swiftly carry out your command."

He would await the response of his superior and to be dismissed before he himself would depart.
'Erebor', he thought to himself. 'I have only been there once… but one can't forget the imprint it leaves. Should take me quite some time on foot, even going full speed. This is not going to be easy.'

 

[Doctor Jax]

B R E G O L I A NXXXXXXX

The soaked elf tread water for a moment to get his bearings before hearing a voice shout from the walkway. With weary strokes, he made his way closer towards the outstretched hand. Oh, the earful he would get about all this. At the least, he'd managed to keep the lion's share of the profits from sinking to the bottom of some thief's pocket -- much less the lake. He only wished that he'd been a bit faster on the uptake, or at least taken the stinking cur by surprise.

At last, he was within reach of his helper -- another elf, it seemed, if his ears were of any indication -- and he grasped the hand he was given with due strength, clambering out of the water. He coughed a bit, suddenly freezing. Laketown was colder than the surrounding area due to the great cold of the waters chilling the air, and now that he was soaked to the skin, the chill gripped him by the marrow and shook him like a ragdoll. He shivered a bit and nodded to his savior.

"M-my thanks," he sighed as he peered over the tall elf's shoulder.

Alas, the thief was long gone on sprightly feet. Oh, for shame! If not for this lame foot... No, he'd gone down that road before, and naught lay down it besides self-pity and overgrown grief. The elf shook his head with disappointment, feeling at his side the bag of coins he'd managed to keep. Ah -- whoever they were, they'd nicked perhaps a fifth of their earnings. It seemed disappointment was Bregolian's lot.

"Foul luck... It seems they made off with a fifth of the whole. Ach, nothing to do for it now," Bregolian sighed. "And may I inquire the name of my savior?"

While said with genuine affection, there was a slight lilt to his words that could easily be mistaken for insolence. Bregolian had the unfortunate habit of prodding others with a tone begging for a fist, perhaps to compensate for his lack of fight. Whatever the case, he could have stated his ultimate question with a bit more respect that he had.

@Red Thunder[/QUOTE]

 

[Effervescent]

Hurried footsteps echoed through the cavernous expanse leading up to the wing still left in ruin. Both father and son were locked in quiet conversation as their voices carried above the clatter. But Mafte's voice resounded, laden in panic and concern as she called out to Dunen. The two shot their heads towards the frantic dwarf, and Dunen quickly rose to his feet to greet her. His hands did not relinquish the gifted axe as he walked forward in a hesitant gate that only slowed with each uttered word. Mafte fell, stricken with emotions from the news that now gripped his own heart.

"Mordor, you say?" Denhen asked as he stood. Dunen looked over at his father completely at a loss for words. Once again his people were faced with threats they could not ignore. Why would their king ally with Mordor? He had heard of Sauron's efforts, and to think King Dain would partake seemed fabricated.

"Surely he would not…" Dunen's voice trailed off, and he crouched before Mafte's sobbing form to bring himself to eye level with her tear stricken face. "Mafte, are you sure? Where is the king now? We can't let this happen."

"We've been threatened before," Denhen chimed with a gruff, disgruntled tone. "That never swayed our resolve. Maybe you just didn't stay long enough for his rebuttal!"

 

[rissa]

Mirien, The Lothlorien Foster

---

Her lower back ached from the previous day's ride and she was still leagues from Lake Town. Mirien had been travelling for more than a fortnight and both rider and mare were exhausted. Slowing the dutiful horse to a trot, the woman glanced down the long, winding road in front of her and sighed. It was only midday and if she kept their pace, would arrive at her destination shortly before dark.

If she was lucky, that is. And fortune rarely graced her with it's presence.

With another sigh, Mirien and Mithroch continued their trot. Leagues turned into more leagues as they raced against the sun. Ever north they rode, and slowly they ate away at the distance before them…

Almost a month prior, Mirien had been summoned by the Lord and Lady of Lorien. With a stomach full of knots and encouragement from her brother Alagos, Mirien traveled to Caras Galadhon to see why she, of all people in Lothlorien, would be summoned to the great city in the trees. From her home in the southern woods, it took a day and a half to arrive and every moment was filled with anxious curiosity.

Once before the Lord of Lorien, Mirien trembled from head to foot, terribly unsure as to why they'd summon one of her stature to the graced halls.

And then his Lordship spoke and Mirien absorbed it all.

"My Lady is, I'm afraid, dealing with other matters. So I must communicate her fear to you myself...

"The Enemy in the South reaches far and strikes hard. And the assumption that he has abandoned Dol Guldur is foolish indeed. Yet neither it nor an army from Mordor, nor indeed a union of their forces, should be enough to subdue Sauron's enemies in the north."

The elf Lord paused, the furrow ever present in his brow deepening.

"The Mirror has shown my Lady a vision of the great wyrm himself: Smaug the Terrible. Though dead, it is known to the Wise that Sauron most certainly had plans for the dragon before his death. We fear that perhaps the Enemy has not abandoned this plan, and seeks another wyrm.

"King Dain of Erebor and King Brand of Dale must be warned. It is imperative that they at the least consider this possibility. But their relations with the elves have not been of great account, and the Golden Wood carries an ill rumor among those who know no better. So I send you, Mirien, hoping against hope that you may bring such a warning to their ears. And I pray to Elbereth that they should listen."

Lord Celeborn gave her a moment before finishing, the mask of horror on her face betraying her unusually calm interior. Anxious trembles transformed into fearful ones and Mirien, still coming to terms with what she had just been told, stared blankly in front of her. She recovered quickly, nodding towards her Lord for him to continue.

"Speak to King Brand first. He is less biased against elf kind, and his grandfather slew Smaug; he may take your message better."

There were farewells and safe travels and Mirien made her way back home, only to give more farewells. She had spared two days before beginning her travels. Two days to gather supplies, fletch new arrows, sharpen her blade, and clean Mithroch's shoes. Two days to say goodbye, perhaps for the last time, to the only ones she loved. Two days to stomp down the fear growing in her belly.

As the sun lingered on the horizon, Mirien and Mithroch made their way across the last league until Lake Town. Fortune, it seemed, was kissing them goodnight. Entering the town as light dimmed from the world, Mirien climbed from her saddle and led her mare down the canal lined streets, in search of an inn or any warm place to sleep for the night.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Holding the bread in her hand, Catriona stared down at it with something of an absent expression. In the back of her mind she knew she should eat - she'd come straight from Dorwinion and hadn't stopped, not to rest, to eat, not for anything. But there was a void in her, an emptiness that seemed to surpass all need. She felt hollowed out and as she spoke her words wore thin and frail, flat.

"Dorwinion. It... it's gone. They were attacked. Ambushed... There wasn't time. There was no warning. There... there's nothing left. There's no one left."

Cathalia was, to say the least, shocked at what Catriona was telling her. "Dorwinion's been attacked? By what, or whom?" she asked, looking at the young woman's face with a look of concern. She wanted to ask more, but Cathalia could tell that Catriona wasn't in any sort of condition to properly answer questions without further straining herself. Gently rubbing Catriona's back as she embraced the young woman, Cathalia leaned Catriona's head against her shoulder as she attempted to comfort her.

Rapidly returning from the upper floor of their home with a knitted blanket just in time to hear about Dorwinion, Fwain draped the quilt over Catriona's shoulders and helped her wrap it around her body. Before long, Fwain departed once again, this time heading for the hallway that connected their home to the smithy. Dashing down the hall and throwing open the wooden doors separating the two buildings, Fwain's eyes darted around the room, searching for her father and brother.

"Fwain? Are you alright? What's happened?" asked Althaus, who took immediate notice of the concern Fwain wore across her face. "Is it your mother?"

"No, mother's fine... It's Catriona! Something's happened in Dorwinion, some kind of an attack."

"A what?!" Maerath suddenly said, throwing his helmet back once more as he stared at his sister. "What kind of attack? Is she alright?"

"She hasn't said, but she's roughed up. Mother's got her some bread, but she looks like she's been travelling on her own for a few days."

Both father and son cast each other a look of bewilderment before they decided to go see the young woman for themselves. Quickly throwing off his metal smithing gear as his father reached for his walking stick, Maerath quickly rushed down the hallway past Fwain, who went to go assist Althaus.

Entering the homestead and seeing the distraught form of his childhood friend wrapped in a blanket within his mother's embrace, Maerath quickly ran over to her and knelt down in front of Catriona, staring into her eyes with a look of concern. "Cat... What's happened to you?"

As she sat before the fire, the numbness began to dissipate like steam, Cathalia's comforting ministrations bleeding from her the last strength of will, the last desperate attempt to hold herself together. She could feel her resolve crumbling and as the blanket found it's way around her shoulders, tears blurred her vision. Shutting her eyes, she grit her teeth, her jaw tense, tight.

Footsteps approached and opening her eyes, Catriona looked up to see an all too familiar face as Maerath crouched before her chair. Breathing in, exhaling with a soft, shuddering sob, she shook her head.

"...They're dead, Maerath. Everyone... They're all dead. I... I didn't know where to go. I... didn't know..."

Watching as the tears continued to roll down her face, Maerath immediately placed a hand on Catriona's cheek and helped wipe them away. Her words forced the young man's eyes to dart around the room, looking at the concerned and shocked expressions on their faces. Althaus sat down silently in a chair just by the kitchen, his heart heavy with the news of his long time friend's death. Maerath took a deep breath before casting Catriona a small smile, still helping her to wipe away the tears. "I-I don't believe that... You came here, so... So you did know where to go." he said softly, trying to lighten the mood a little with an upbeat comment. "You know that you were always welcome here. Mother can prepare you a bed and you can stay as long as you need to... Right, Mother?" Maerath asked, turning his head towards Cathalia.

"Of course." his mother replied. Catriona's parents were like family to the Randwulf's, so the idea she would be staying with them was like a simple request.

Breathing out, Catriona shook her head and reaching up, she grasped Maerath's hand with trembling fingers, as firmly as she dared, "...No. No, I... I didn't come to... Maer... They won't stop, the Easterlings. They won't stop at Dorwinion. They will tear through these lands, without mercy and they will burn everything in sight. I..."

Wavering, she paused, closing her eyes for a moment to fight a wave of dizziness, "I road as fast as I could... I didn't stop. I couldn't. I... I came to warn you. All of you. Dale isn't safe. Nowhere is."

Maerath watched Catriona as she spoke about the Easterlings, his face growing paler by the second. Gently placing his free hand upon her shoulder, Maerath tried to steady his friend as she apparently began to warble due to fatigue. Without saying a word, Maerath gently moved the hand on Catriona's cheek down to her back and pulled her close, hugging his terrified friend. "We'll alert the King of the Easterlings at once... But you need to rest, Cat. You've come a long way, if you strain yourself any longer then... That won't happen, not as long as you're here. Come, I'll take you upstairs to the guest room..." he said, holding her close to him like they had done when they were children. His body softly worked on warming up her frozen bones, his gentle heartbeat resounding against her chest comfortingly. After a moment of hugging, Maerath gently picked up Catriona as if she were his bride, and carried up upstairs. Not that he believed she couldn't walk in her tired state, but Maerath knew her feet would have been sore, so he did what he could to alieviate the pain.

Once they reached the moderately well-decorated bedroom, Maerath carried Catriona over to the bed and gently placed her down, pulling the warm wool-sheets over her body before he moved to the closet to retrieve another layer. Before long, Maerath had provided the young woman with three layers of blankets and an extra pillow for her feet.

"I'll get mother to bring up some food and warm water for you in a moment. Father and I will go inform the King of what you've told us. In the meantime, rest, Catriona. You're safe here, I swear that to you. Like when we were children, remember?" said Maerath, gently patting her shoulder through the thick blankets, recalling the time when she had forced him as a child to swear he'd look out for her so long as they were friends.

Smiling supportively at his friend, Maerath gently wiped a strand of stray red hair that lingered on her face and sighed. "Rest up, alright? If you need anything at all, just let mother know. I'll be back soon, alright?"

She'd tried to argue, to tell him not to worry himself over her - that it was more important they got everyone out of Dale - but she knew him well enough to know that it would do little good. He was too good, Maerath, too noble and he would never leave her to suffer. As she curled beneath the warmth of the blankets she could feel the exhaustion deepen, feel the weight of her tired eyes, of the ache in her head. Maerath reassured her, but she could only nod, words failing her. He reached to brush her hair back and she covered his hand with her own for a moment before letting her eyes drift closed.

She had to trust... to trust that he and his father could convince the king. She had to leave it in his hands, for there was little else she could do. In moments, mere moments, that powerful weight of weariness had claimed her and without a word, Catriona slipped into unconsciousness.

---

Collab with @mr_pibbs ​

 

[Red Thunder]

~the Woodland Realm~
​

"Gollum is of inestimable value, if Mithrandir's urgency was any indication. Word will undoubtedly be sent by our king south to those who need to hear it." Tauriel's face grew more somber yet. "But I fear his freedom will be a boon to the Enemy. Thus the purpose of your journey."

She stood up. Not as tall as most of her kind, Tauriel yet still displayed the dignity of elfkind, tired though she clearly was. When Arastor expressed his concerns regarding travel, she nodded.

"Indeed, and this has been considered. There are paths through the Greenwood, paths kept utterly secret from all save them the king determines must know. These paths will take you swiftly to the Long Lake, and my horse remembers the way. Maeclyn he is, swift and noble, if spirited, and he has been instructed to bear you. He is tethered at the north end of camp under guard and should bring you swiftly to-" She paused, as if suddenly reconsidering. "No, not Dain. Erebor is yet farther than you need go. Take it to King Brand of Dale, and he can send word to Erebor. Go swiftly, and bear this message to good fortune."

Tairiel tilted her head in a nod of dismissal, and turned back to speak with Faindes.

@Spectre

~Lake Town~​

At Bregolian's earnest if blunt question, the robed elf laughed.

"You may indeed! I am called Celegost, and I am here seeking employment. You don't happen to know of any who might need the services of an old war veteran, do you? Ah, but you're cold and wet. Here." Undoing the clasp at his throat, Celegost pulled his robe from his shoulders and laid it onto Bregolian's. Being a bit too long for the lame elf, it's edge drug the wooden planks of the walkway. But Celegost seemed to have little concern. Having been so stripped of its concealment, his armor now showed readily. Old, dull, and worn, it bespoke a time of ages long past, it's rents and blemishes telling much of the elf's history that he himself might otherwise avoid speaking about. As he covered Bregolian, Celegost glanced about. "I had actually considered traveling to Dale to find what they might have available for work, but I'm afraid I'm at a loss with directions. Could you at the least point me to the best route there?"

@Doctor Jax

~Erebor~​

With Dunen's help, Mafte regained her composure and stood. Her face was red with her distress, and she still shook.

"I...I don't know. He-he was in gatehouse last. He may have intended a rebuttal, but if Mordor is demanding cooperation at the risk of destruction-" Her chest heaved, and she fell silent, unable to finish. Denhen frowned, looking on. His eyes were narrow and his brow was furrowed in contemplation. He took a soft step to Mafte and placed a light hand on her shoulder.

"Tell me: did he or any make mention of such offers made to King Brand?" The meaning of the question was plain: if Dain was being plied with such an impossible choice, then it was likely that Brand had been as well. Mafte shook her head.

"I don't know. I...I don't know."

With another sob, she covered her face. Denhen pulled on his beard. He longed to return to an active involvement in the affairs of the world. But he had made his mark; it was time for his son to make his. He turned his gaze to Dunen.

"Son, go. Find King Dain and speak with him. Surely he has a plan, for I have never known him to stand idle in the face of danger. I shall care for Mafte."

@Effervescent

~Dale~​

The rain was finally slacking, slowing to a heavy mist, but it was far too late now for an audience with the King. Fyréga stood in the doorway of the tavern, staring out at the muddy lane that ran from the gate to the palace. Hopefully it would dry before the morning, for the impression that a dirty skirt would conjure was not the image the shieldmaiden wished to convey. Suddenly she spotted a lone individual traveling into the city. A steed of good breeding but hard riding drug it's feet up the street, and its rider looked just as weary. The occasional glance at the rider's surroundings told Fyréga quite plainly that a warm dry bed was sought for earnestly. She raised her hands to her mouth and called out.

"Rider! I'd welcome your company! The Black Arrow has provided much in the way of a full belly and a roof, but little in the way of company! I am Fyréga of Rohan!"

@rissa

Some streets down from the Black Arrow, Althaus watched as Maerath carried their visitor up the stairs. He sat heavily in his chair, weighed down by both age and care. Cathalia stood at the foot of the stairs, concern filling her face. When the thud of their son's steps had dwindled to a dull thump, she turned to her husband.

"I don't want you going. Either of you. Gods know what errand the king will send you on if you do, and both of you are foolhardy enough to accept it."

"Peace, Cathalia." Althaus' brow was furrowed deeply, and his eyes were closed in contemplation. "I assure you that I am in no condition to be volunteered for anything by anyone, king or otherwise. Maerath is his own man, however. And the love of a woman, even if not yet recognized as such, drives men to great deeds.

"And anyway," he grunted as he pushed himself up from his chair, "the sun has set, and the king will not be granting any audience tonight. We shall go at first light, afterward to take council and make plans. You and Fwain I may yet send away, but I will be no means flee to allow any Easterling to ranksack the house of my family."

Cathalia's lips pursed in controlled anger, but she bit back her reply. At that moment, Maerath's steps returned, and his mother turned to smile at him lovingly.

"Now that you have seen her to bed, you must sleep yourself. Your father wishes to see the king at first light, and I would not have you exhausted from a night of worry when speaking to him."

Althaus nodded in agreement.

"The palace gates are shut for the evening, Maerath; they will rise with the rise, as must we."

@Elle Joyner @mr_pibbs

 

[rissa]

Mirien, The Lothlorien Foster

---

Almost slipping on the muddied road, only to save herself from the embarrassment of being covered in mud by steadying herself with a hard yank against Mithroch's reins. She neighed in annoyance, and Mirien, alone and far away from Lorien, felt terrible. Not only did her back ache something fierce, but she had pushed Mithroch far too hard the past few days. She deserved to rest, receive a nice groom, and eat the finest oats Dale had to offer. That was, if she could find a place to rest her head that offered a stable as well.

As if fate had heard her plea, a feminine voice hollered from down the road: "Rider! I'd welcome your company! The Black Arrow has provided much in the way of a full belly and a roof, but little in the way of company! I am Fyréga of Rohan!"

With a new skip in her step --and a more careful placement of her feet-- Mirien walked to the Black Arrow where Fyréga stood waiting for her. Tying Mithroch's reins to the hitching rail, Mirien walked to the woman and with a slight bow, introduced herself.

"You have my greatest thanks, Fyréga of Rohan. I am Mirien of Lothlorien and indeed, I would very much like a full belly and a roof over my head for the night. If I may, does the Black Arrow have a stable and if not, do you know of one nearby?"

The woman, a few years older than herself if Mirien were to guess, had sharp features, eyes the color of new leathers, and the rugged figure of one who'd seen battle. Thanking whatever higher power who sent her to Mirien's aid, she waited until the Rohhiric answered her inquiries before unlacing her saddlebag and procuring a small coin pouch to pay for her room and Mithroch's stall.

 

[Doctor Jax]

B R E G O L I A NXXXXXXX

Bregolian's face split with a wide smile. Well, here was a man who could take a jest! He found that his woodland brothers were often so imposing and serious, more inclined to frown and look down their nose than enjoy a jab at their expense. However, this elf seemed a bit on the jovial side, and a willing helper to boot. That was not a sort one found every day.

The older elf noted Bregolian's chattering teeth, and he handed over the cloak. While, under normal circumstances, the elf would've been prone to politely refuse, the residual warmth off the cloth seemed a heaven-sent token to stave off the cold that had dug its way into his bones. He gave a violent shiver and listened to the man who had so valiantly helped him out the lake.

"Dale? Well, good Celegost, Fortune smiles. As it would be, my friends and I are on our way to Dale."

"Someone speaks of us? Who is this?"

A tall elf with long, dark hair, followed by a shorter, but handsomer, companion appeared at Bregolian's side, perplexed at his sudden acquisition of another person's cloak and subsequent sudden loss of gold coinage. The two, Gollor and Fordir, looked at Bregolian with raised eyebrows and slight smirks, an expression Bregolian met with sour dismissal.

"Fordir, Gollor, this is Celegost. He fished me from the lake after a thief took hold of our fat purse and shoved me in."

"Ah! And he happens to be on his way to Dale?" said the shorter elf, fair of skin and hair, with blue eyes to rival the sky. Gollor gave a pleasant nod and stated, "Aye, 'tis true, we're to stop there to retrieve casks for our business."

"Perhaps you'd care to join us, in this case? If not, we'd be just as obliged to give you the name of the best ferrymen to Dale," Fordir offered graciously.

"Though we would be heartsore if you refused," Bregolian joked, shifting. His lame foot ached from the cold water in which it had been submerged, his shoes completely soaked. He would need to sit soon, else he'd be so fraught with pain, he'd be laid about for hours, and still there was work to do.



@Red Thunder

 

[mr_pibbs]

Maerath slowly made his way out of the spare bedroom and descended down the stairs. However, he only made it about halfway before his mother addressed him. "Very well father. Let me know when we are going to depart. I'll retire for the night just as you asked. Goodnight, Father, Mother, Fwain." he said, knowing full and well that the most they could do to resolve the situation at the present time was to care for Catriona until they figured out what the next step was.

As he walked over to his bedroom, Maerath passed by the guest room and lightly placed a hand over the door, silently hoping that his childhood friend would rest easy for the night. He smiled softly and turned back toward his own room, which was right next to Catriona's. He pushed through the door and quickly changed into his night wear, throwing his dirt-covered clothes onto the floor. Maerath climbed into bed and laid down facing the ceiling, stretching his arms out behind his head. His mind wandered to the sudden events of the day. The Westerlings were pushing their way through Middle Earth... What kind of horrible Age were they living in? If these events were capable of happening... Could that mean that whatever remnants of evil lurking in Mordor were slowly returning to the world? What would that mean for the rest of Middle Earth? War, surely...

Trying to get comfortable, Maerath let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had to sleep... After all, they were going to have a long day.

@Elle Joyner, @Red Thunder

 

[Elle Joyner]

She woke in the silent still of the night, her heart pounding agonizingly against her ribcage. The dream that had pulled her from her slumber had been so vivid... so real that she had been almost certain she would open her eyes to find Dale set aflame, the sound of screaming in the streets. But she was alone and Dale slept on without her. The candle that had been lit by her beside table flickered, it's bronze light filling the small space. Beside it, a cup of water and a bowl of some sort of stew sat, no doubt where Cathalia had set it. It was cold now, but the painful tightness in her stomach overruled any sense of comfort. Plucking up the bowl, Catriona leaned up against the wall behind the bed and ate with urgency, then drained the water.

Through a broken slat in the bedroom window, she could see the cusp of dawn across the horizon, pale peach and golden and far too vibrant and jovial for the weight of misery in her chest. Grimacing, setting down the bowl again, she pushed herself to the edge of the bed and sat for a moment. Everything ached... from the tip of her head to the soles of her feet, but nothing quite so much as her heart... Each day that passed, what happened to her family, to her home became all the more real, and with that reality came the terrifying realization that she was alone in the world.

Maybe not so alone, though... Her thoughts returned to Maerath's words the night prior. His determination to help, to care for her and a soft frown formed as she rose to her feet. If the men from the East attacked Dale, Maer and his family would be at risk. That was why she had come... to warn them. To warn everyone. And there was little time to waste.

From the bedroom, Catriona made her way downstairs, where she found her cloak where it had been discarded. Securing the clasp around her throat, she moved swiftly to the door, but her hand hovered over the knob and with a sigh, she took a step back.

Not so alone, indeed. She'd come to warn the people of Dale, but in the end, these were Maerath's people, and he had a right to be with her when she went to the king. That, and the dizzying sensation of being on her feet, even for so short a period of time, was a pretty decent indicator that she might not make it very far on her own, anyway. Crossing the room again, she sank down into the chair she had occupied the night prior, dropping her head into her hands with a soft sigh.

@mr_pibbs, @Red Thunder​

 

[Effervescent]

Mafte's concern etched in his heart like a lithograph forming a picture upon his soul. He looked to his father for guidance, much as he did all his life. Dunen knew his father was far wiser than he, and even as he inquired of King Brand Dunen felt a little lost. If this all was a matter of keeping their people safe, was it worth the cost of morality? Their enemy was cold and unforgiving given the evidence.

He was almost reluctant to leave them. Dunen fought back the urge to beg them to come with him to the gatehouse for moral support. Hands gripped his father's axe as he brought it to rest upon his shoulder. It was weighty and reminded him that it was a gift given by a father who felt his son was ready to prove himself. Dunen needed to find the courage to face his king on his own.

With a nod of his head, he accepted the task. "I will return to you both with what I learn," he promised, and then rushed off towards the gatehouse with purpose. His booted feet padded across the magnificent stone floors chiseled from dwarven hands and smoothed by years of traffic. These grand halls reaching thousands of feet upward were at risk yet again to attack. He hoped beyond all hope that King Dain had a masterful plan; one of glory and honor and that of a chance at success.

By the time Dunen reached the gatehouse he had mulled over all that had been presented to him well enough. His Light footsteps turned heavier with invigorated determination as he stormed up to the guards stationed outside the entrance.

"I need to see the king," Dunen said, his head craning in an attempt to see into the room ahead. "Please, I just spoke with Mafte."

Yet who was he to demand an audience with King Dain? Dunen had no experience in battle or merits achieved. He did not even carry sway within his work as a mason. This was the first time he carried an axe he could call his own, and it had still only seen battle by his father's hand. Name dropping Mafte was all he had, and it suddenly felt weak.