- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
~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
Last edited: