Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by BaskinJR, Sep 17, 2015.

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    Jinnaë felt a sudden relief. The sensation of the immaterial becoming material, of shattered essence becoming again whole. The bliss of being, the throb of power so prized by the maiar.
    And then he stood, and he was again. There was a frantic looking human before him, sweeping at the remains of the infernal bird bath thathad housed him in his years of un-being. The mirror of Galadriel, torn asunder, its iridescent waters gracing the stone.
    Jinnaë had experienced no better pleasure than seeing the accursed prison in pieces.
    He took a material form, a man in a rugged, white jerkin, and eyes of jade. His waist receded into a wisp of the same colour, and the human staggered back.
    "Oh god... oh god..." The boy stammered.
    "You." Addressed Jinnaë, voice studded with cruel, uninviting joviality. "Are the one who freed me?" His demeanour was smooth, malleable, impeccable. Like a syrup that oozed from his very pores. A syrup slick with magical charms that addled the mind of the boy.
    "Y-yes..." The boy was traumatised. This made Jinnaë smile. He seemed naive, gullible, easily manipulated.
    "Well are you not a king among men?" Jinnaë contorted in the air, craning his neck back to look the boy in the eye. "You have a heart of gold, boy. Never have I met such charity among men."
    The boy retreated coyly. "Well, I just work here sir... knocking over the mirror was just a horrible accident..."
    "Accident? No, no, my dear boy. Destiny! It is destiny that a heroic soul such as yourself would be the one to free me!"
    The boy's chest puffed out in pride. Jinnaë grinned. They always responded well to flattery. "So what's your name, boy?"
    Jinnaë smirked.
    "Well, Animir, I believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." Jinnaë's sickly-sweet smile concealed a repressed malice. The malignant, primal force within all divine things. You bet it was strong in a maiar like Jinnaë. He pressed his immaculately slender hand against his chest. "Jinnaë, the benevolent (he grinned at the humour of this) and powerful maiar, indebted to you. My power is yours. We'll make you a king, Animir."
    Animir seemed to like the idea. He was oblivious to the deception. He thought he was the big boss. No, Jinnaë would pull the strings.
    #1 BaskinJR, Sep 17, 2015
    Last edited: Sep 19, 2015
  2. Tūlkor lumbered forwards through the thick forest, littered with the exuberant green of foliage, the sounds of life, birds singing complex tunes, insects fluttering through the air, rang loud in his ligneous, sizeable ears. Sedately he reached out with his arm and gently touched a pine tree, with branches winding up to about his size. Their 'souls' connected, a soft, simple form of communication, and feelings flourished through him. Love. Pain. Shame. Guilt. Forgiveness. Despite the numerous times he had done it, he couldn't work out who felt what.
    Determination suddenly hardened inside Tūlkor, and carefully he stepped away. He had to complete his quest. The duty of shepherd to the trees of Mirkwood could wait, no danger would come to them when hidden away safe in the protection of much wiser, stronger ents. Older ents. Speedily, he glanced around (well as fast as an ent could), to make sure no-one was watching.
    "Goodbye," he said as a final goodbye, in the lengthy tongue of Old Entish, and walked off into the distance. To find the long-lost sisters of the ancient guardians of trees. The Entwives.
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    Chrysanthemum-Fleur "Christoph" Gamgee rubbed the treacly veil of lethargy furiously from his eyes as he boiled his kettle. He shot a cursory glance out of his windows, and saw the tendrils of 'The Water' flexing and winding through the countryside, glimmering and alighting off the opulent shimmer of the mansions on Hobbiton-Across-The-Water. He could see the Baggins-Gamgee estate, distinguished in its poise on the bank.
    Past these ostentatious buildings, The Water churned through treacherous rocks and flowed into the mirrored surface of the Bywater Pool. Young hobbits with little clothes to speak of splashed about in its opaque water.
    Christoph sighed. He remembered being youthful like that. How could great grand-uncle Bilbo have lived to surpass old Bullroarer Took at one-hundred-and-thirty-one when Christoph was at twenty-six and already felt old? He laughed at this internal jest.
    Then the kettle began to squeal.
    With haste he snatched it up and began to pour it into his teacup. As he did so, his inherited cat came by, jostling Christoph's leg.
    It gave the hobbit a great shock. He cried out, lost the integrity required to hold the kettle properly and spilt its contents all down the front of his trouser leg.
    He moaned in distress and set upon rubbing the water dry.
    But something perplexed him. The water wasn't even remotely warm. In fact it was chillingly cold.
    He felt a presence behind him. He tensed for a moment, then quickly turned around. He saw the ethereal face of Great-Uncle Frodo emanating from the benchtop. He recognised the face. It had been on paintings all over the estate back when he lived there.
    And he had been seeing this face a lot recently.
    "Third time this week..." He mumbled irritably as he slammed the kettle down atop Frodo's head, obscuring the man's face. Whatever words the man was soon to say became muffled, incoherent mumbles through the lead-lined vessel.
    Christoph sighed and settled on the sofa to drink what little tea he had prepared.
    He sat there for a while, and sighed aggrievedly as Frodo came to join him.
    "You must come to The Grey Havens..." Droned Frodo. The voice reverberated across the planes of reality, creating a ghostly resonance.
    "No thanks." Said Christoph. He began tuning his radio. Perhaps he could catch his favourite show.
    Frodo blinked, baffled. "You must come to The Grey Havens..." He repeated. "As your predecessors have always."
    Christoph stood and began to walk away. "No, I don't."
    "Do you have no desire to live among your ancestors in the lands of the gods?" Frodo inquired, worry on his face.
    Christoph opened his fridge and brought out a carrot. Around a chunk of the rigid vegetable, he mumbled. "Nope!"
    And he walked off, leaving the apparition of Frodo on the sofa, watching him go with disbelief and disappointment.
    #3 BaskinJR, Sep 18, 2015
    Last edited: Sep 19, 2015
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    Christoph looked up at the Baggins-Gamgee estate. He had fond memories of this place. Its sweeping gables and ornamental spires, its marching vineyards, supported by rows upon rows of trellises. Its meticulously maintained garden.
    But now it was very nearly unrecognisable to Christoph. The house was a parody of itself now. The paint was flecked, the trellises were a graveyard of splintered, heaped wood. Christoph knelt down and examined the garden critically. Grandad Sam's orchids had wilted. Lobelia evidently hadn't given a trice of thought to them.
    He stood, shaking his head. He hauled his paper bag over his shoulder and strode up to the door. Knocked.
    Immediately it swung open. A portly looking hobbit in a bonnet, black gown and white bib. Nora, the estate's maid. Once Christoph's servant.
    She awkwardly grimaced in address. Christoph responded with a jittery, subtle wave. He hadn't seen the kind old woman since his father had left for the Grey Haven and left the estate ripe for the picking by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' greedy mitts.
    Speak of the devil, the harsh voice of Lobelia resounded through the house. "SERVANT? WHO'S AT THE DOOR?"
    Nora made swirling gestures about her temple and a wink of knowing. "The Gamgee boy, miss."
    "Chrysanthemum-Fleur? With my groceries, I assume?" Lobelia's voice was shrill.
    Nora appraised Christoph's paper bag. "Yes miss."
    "Ask him to put it on the kitchen counter and leave!"
    Nora stepped aside and gestured for Christoph to walk on through. Christoph thanked her and walked over the threshold.
    As he wandered the gratuitously decorated halls, Christoph felt a sense of longing. Perhaps things would've been better if he hadn't lost the court case. Perhaps his sister Lydia wouldn't have been so hasty to leave for The Grey Havens. Perhaps Lobelia would've been satisfied with her acquisition of Bag End and been done with it.
    He spitefully spat into a potted plant. Unlikely.
    Christoph found his way to the kitchen. He could almost smell the aroma of chopped spring onions. He had a vivid memory of his mother's smile, directed over the bench down at him as she prepared the meal, assisted by Nora. Lydia read directions from a cookbook.
    His vision was cut off by the trepidation of a baleful, smug stare being directed at him. He dumped the groceries and turned. Lobelia cleared her throat and tapped her foot.
    She was an old crone of a woman. Short, grey hair, a veritable beak of a nasal protuberance. Age had twisted her head to slant into this proboscis. Rheumy little eyes regarded Christoph like a nasty fungus. But a fungus that she felt the need to convey her superiority to. "Nice kitchen, isn't it." She chuckled. "It's a shame you just gave it away."
    Christoph did not want to endure another scoff-fest from Lobelia. "Yes, it is. But I'll be leaving now. Have fun with your groceries." He approached the door.
    Lobelia made flamboyant strides, like a peacock, and cut him off at the doorway. "What's the matter, sonny? You look like you've seen a ghost." She sneered. "Ol' Bilbo, maybe?"
    "Frodo." Christoph said curtly. He attempted to sidestep the woman but she strutted in front of him again.
    "Something about the Grey Havens? I've been plagued by Bilbo's apparition for fifty years. We are the last stalwart members of the Baggins clan. We're made of sterner stuff than our predecessors, not tempted by the promise of something better. We're not quite selfish enough to leave the world behind. To make the implication of us being transcendent beings better than any common folk. We survive on the bare minimum." She reclined on a plush chair. "While those others live in the lap of luxury." She stepped toward Christoph. The old crone would've been most imposing, were it not for her stature. "We're not so different, you and I. Despite what you think. Fate doesn't bind us. The actions of our predecessors don't bind us. Not like Samwise." She spat. "Little weakling."
    Christoph finally outmanoeuvred Lobelia and stepped into the hall. "That's really nice, but I have to go."
    Lobelia watched him go, and grinned.
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