[piosenniel]

Elves of Eregion


Amanaduial's character

NAME: Narisiel Mirdain

AGE: 1210 at the time of the forging of the rings, 1313 at the beginning of the War. (born in SA 380)

RACE: Elf, originally from Harlindon, now dwelling in Ost-in-Edhil

GENDER:[ Female

WEAPONS: As a woman, Narisiel was not formally trained with weapons, but her father taught her more than a little practical knowledge with a sword and arrows, somewhat more than simply self-defence. Her husband, Sirithlonnior, a soldier, echoed this concern that she should be able to use a weapon, and so subsequently Narisiel is fairly proficient with a sword. She therefore crafted for herself a sword that can be used double-handed but also works well when used single handed: she is strong enough to wield a heavier weapon due to years working in a forge and is therefore strong for a woman, but knows that in a battle situation when she might have to use her sword, there would certainly be others with simply more brute strength than her, and so the skill that can be gained with a lighter weapon may be favourable. Hers is therefore lighter than a traditional double-handed sword, but a little heavier and longer than might be expected of a single-handed short stabbing sword. It is more a thing of beauty than weaponry, with the finest leather binding its hilt and a pommel and guard laid over with silver, and alfirin leaves winding a slim, delicate chain down the blade to the tip: Sirithlonnior teased her that such a flower is too associated with death, but Narisiel simply smiled and pointed out that did that not make Alfirin all the more appropriate for a weapon?

APPEARANCE: Narisiel’s features could have been crafted by her own delicate fingers, her fine boned face symmetrical and certainly striking. Her skin is pale due to the hours hidden behind a guard in a forge or in her workshop poring over some delicate piece of finery, her chin a little pointed and determined, her sharp, intelligent eyes solemn and thoughtful yet quick to flash with amusement: they are surprisingly dark and so are all the more striking when set in her pale face. Her pale face is framed with almost black hair, again making a stark contrast against her light skin; it falls down to her waist, although this is not particularly practical for her work, and so is usually tied up in a long plait down her back, or twisted in several plaits to keep it out of the way: this means that whenever she lets it loose, her hair retains a permanent series of waves all down its length. Narisiel is not especially tall for her people, standing at about 5’9”, and she is quite slender but muscular: outside of her forge or workshop, she wears clothes similar to any other lady of high standing, for her profession has taught her to love beauty, and such dress belies her muscles to an extent, lying in context with her delicate features; but in the forge she wears clothes much like any of the other smiths but obviously with a few adaptations: dark, sturdy clothes, often of leather or similar primarily practical, hard-wearing materials: a jerkin worn over a shirt, whose sleeves are usually rolled up above her elbows, breeches of a softer, more easily moveable material, over which a long apron is worn, which reaches down to mid-shin. These are the clothes that are usually only seen by other smiths, however: in public she dresses as a lady.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Narisiel is a woman of natural intelligence that she had done her best to use in her studies to become one of the foremost smiths of Eregion. This also required a fair amount of determination of course, and determination she certainly has: she is not one to back down from a challenge or from something she believes in or loves dearly, and her determination reaches to the point of stubbornness. However, that is not to say that her heart will always rule her head, and her prudence and wise advise is valued by Celebrimbor, as is her quick wit by both her Lord and her husband. It is a wit that is not always seen, however: in public, Narisiel remains quite quiet with those she does not know well or yet trust, and she is quick, often too quick, to judge other people. Her quiet, often solemn nature probably came initially from her father’s own rather sombre personality when she was growing up, always in comparison to her dead older brother although he always valued his daughter for what she was. The quiet, modest understanding that existed between Narisiel and her father is something that remains in her relationships in the present as well, and she is not, as some are, afraid of silence in a conversation. But that is not to say that she is always so: she is quick to show her amusement or her love when in private, and her son’s birth has perhaps extended her capacity to love, and love him she does, with a fierce, protective love that, for almost the first time in her life, overshadows her work. Maybe some of the fire from her forge has slipped into her nature, for her fierceness often shows in other areas as well, and in a debate her quietness can quite vanish in place of powerful and heated oratory skills. She is a skilled smith, a wise counsellor, a loving mother and a good wife, all at once a very private person as well as a public figure.

HISTORY: Born in Harlindon, Narisiel was the only daughter and eventually the only child of her parents, her mother and brother both drowning only a few weeks after she was born. Her father, an elf much older than his young wife, never blamed his daughter for surviving in place of her strong, intelligent older brother, and neither was he consciously disappointed in his only child being a daughter, but nonetheless Narisiel always felt the pressure, his need for her to succeed in place of her brother. As she was female, Narisiel would not trained as a warrior, as a brother would have been; but her father was not an especially affectionate or excessively extravagant man, and subsequently his way of showing his love for his daughter was not to spoil her as an only child, but to instead lavish upon her a gift that would last her far longer than material goods: the gift of an education. Instead of being given jewels, Narisiel was to learn how to make them – to earn a living and, at the same time, to earn a way of making her father proud. Subsequently when she came of age, Narisiel was sent East to Eregion to a friend of her father’s, for where better to learn to be a smith than from the Mirdain themselves?

Narisiel studied hard and her natural intelligence and hard work paid off as she rose in renown in her profession, being unusual both as a female and as a foreigner, but always with the backing of her father, although he remained in Lindon, and her mentor, an experienced jewelsmith – Narisiel in turn specialised in jewellery especially. The great effort and time she put into her profession often left the young elven woman with little time for herself, but, coming herself from the ‘land of music’, she had a love of music and kept this up – and eventually it was through music that she met her husband, Sirithlonnior, a captain in the army of Eregion, who she married in 1482. But Narisiel continued to rise in renown and skill, reaching the dizzy heights of the innermost forges in which Celebrimbor himself worked, and there faced her greatest challenge yet: working on nineteen rings, the greatest rings that would ever grace the face of this earth. Like the rest of the smiths and craftsmen who talked to Annatar of the rings, Narisiel fell under the spell of the magic and wonder that these rings would be, and so with those select few, she threw herself into the creation of those rings. To an extent, maybe, she was jealous of Annatar, his skill so great that he was immediately welcomed into Ost-in-Edhil without question, rather than having to work his way up as she had; on the other hand, maybe part of her wished to impress him, and to impress the Lord Celebrimbor. But the best was not yet to come: in the year 1590, Narisiel, along with a few more select jewelsmiths, was to work on the pinnacle of nearly a century’s work: the forging of three rings, three rings that would almost cast the others in shadow, fire, water and air; the three greatest elven rings.

Her enthusiasm in those last six days almost turned to an obsession, and not for any of the three men in her life would she come out of the forges – or reveal her work to them. Narisiel barely stopped to sleep or eat, so determined was she to prove herself as one of the Mirdain, to live up to the honour that had been bestowed on her. But as she had worked on the rings, from about halfway through their forging in the 1540s, she had felt some sort of unease, something…not quite right about the making of these nineteen rings, and in the last six days as Celebrimbor locked himself away with only those few smiths and the mysterious Annatar, she realised that she was not the only one to feel that unease: Celebrimbor had the air of a desperate man, a man working to forge paradise but with the worry that it would simply yield only an empty utopia. And as the three rings were finally completed, their delicate finishing touches detailed by Celebrimbor himself, the pride in Narisiel’s heart was somewhat overshadowed – overshadowed by a doom sense of ‘what have we done’. Things that powerful could not be all good…but little did she know the power of what those beautiful, perfect creations could do.

In the last one hundred years, the elven smith continued her work as a jewelsmith, but also extended her expertise into other areas of crafting, working secondarily on armoury, often fine, ceremonial pieces, as close to jewellery as possible; for how could she work solely on jewellery when she knew that she could never create something as perfect and powerful as those rings? She tried to put them out of her mind, but seemed haunted by them: she was blessed with a son, and Sirithlonnior gave him the name Artamirion, noble jewel, and although the name seemed to fit, her son being the only thing she could imagine more beautiful than those rings, she was unsure if she liked such a comparison, the dread that it seemed to entail. After the creation of the rings, Narisiel became an advisor to the Lord Celebrimbor, and at the same time a friend, but it was a somewhat wary, almost guilty friendship, both elves unable to forget the three elven rings. In time, the memory of them dimmed, and Narisiel was able to get on with her life as a counsellor, as a wife, as a mother, and as a smith – but little did she know how those rings would stir the folds of history, more than a century after their creation…


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Amanaduial the archer's post

Seated gracefully on the banks of the river, Ost-in-Edhil spread it’s elegant almost lotus-shaped leaves out over the River Glanduin. Bordered on one side by mountains and surrounded by rivers on all others – the Glanduin and smaller Siranon, glancing off the larger river, the tributaries of Nin-in-Eilph, and the majestic Mitheithel – it sat harmlessly in the South of Eregion. In the capital of the ‘holly region’, all was hustle and bustle as always: the year was drawing on yet above the heads of the elven inhabitants the holly leaves still swung gently in the winds, and the sound of the elvensmiths in their forges, always, always sang out among their evergreen leaves. From a birdseye view, little could the eagles that circled regally overhead have guessed what busy little bees had been working on inside those forges – and what evil their creations would bring from over the mountains of Mordor…

As Maegisil was rushing hastily down the stairs of Celebrimbor’s regal dwelling from his master’s rooms on his master’s errand, one of the Lord of Eregion’s other advisors was also working hard, but far away from the finery of Celebrimbor’s rooms, where her lordship played games of strategy. Hers was another type of work indeed: the work that Ost-in-Edhil’s Mirdain were famous for.

The clang of Nerisiel’s hammer rang out again and again on the anvil, the flat-ended instrument chiming out almost musically. The elf took careful aim each time before she clashed iron against steel, but the force with which she smashed down her tool seemed to convey anger more than anything else. Eventually, her pale face glinting in the firelight of the forge, the elvensmith set her hammer down, with a pair of tongs, lifted the object of her attentions from the anvil; and after close inspection, she nodded slightly, her delicate features satisfied, and took the item over to her workbench. Setting the article – a new sword blade – carefully down on the bench, Nerisiel seated herself beside it, her feet curling up around the chair leg in an almost lady like manner that was somewhat contradicted by the loose, dark workman’s trousers that they were clad in, overlaid with the shin-length leather apron common to working smiths. Not that any who came to see the Master Smith would have commented on it – or not out loud anyway. After all, in Ost-in-Edhil, female smiths were not entirely uncommon – but for one to reach her standard of craftsmanship: that was.

Humming softly to herself, the elf studied the blade she had made closely, holding it almost delicately in the tongs although it had now cooled sufficiently to be touched. It was a commissioned blade from one of her husband’s colleagues, a Captain in Eregion’s army, as a gift for his son, and would therefore be rather more ornamental before she had finished with it. After all, her own blade, which hung proudly over her forge as an example of her work, was testimony to the fact that simply because a weapon is a tool of violence, it cannot also be a thing of beauty – and having known the boy to whom the sword would be bestowed since be was a small child no more than about ten summers, she intended to make this article just such. Nothing less would do for Nerisiel, for she was after all a jewel smith above all else. A profession which had come back recently to haunt her… The elf pursed her lips grimly and turned back to the task in hand. Yes, the blade would have to take another heating before the engravings that she planned were carved on it, but not too much: she could begin them today, it was not too late in the day…

“Who is that for?”

The voice came from the entrance to the forge and was one so familiar to the smith that it did not make her jump but instead prompted a smile on her pretty features. She turned, smiling, to face the young elf who leant with his arms nonchalantly crossed against the door post of her workshop, the leaves of the holly that was trained around her doorway lightly brushing hair as dark as his own. Her finest work of art: her son.

“It is for a friend of yours actually, Artamir – Leneslath, Captain Rimborien’s son. A gift from his parents, a reward for his recent promotion?” Artamir nodded, coming slowly forward into the dim of the forge, the light glinting mischievously in his eyes, lighter than those of his mother, as he examined the blade from behind his mother’s shoulder. She turned to watch her son proudly: he would be fifty summers this year and had truly grown into a beautiful young man, a son who both she and her husband were proud of.

Artamir smiled at his mother, stepping back slightly, and then nodded towards the beginnings of a hilt that lay further down the bench. “For the same?” When his mother nodded, Artamir raised his eyebrows. “Silver? Will you be using rubies with it?”

She smiled and shook her head. Although he was bound to be a soldier, as his father was, she was glad that her son nonetheless did not dismiss his mother’s art and had come to appreciate her craft – even to the point of knowing some of her designs. “Emerald. His previous sword was made of the same, Rimborien informs me, and besides, they will suit his nature more: he is a far less fierce young man than yourself, Artamir!” she chided teasingly.

“And where did I get such a trait, I wonder, mother? Not from my father I think…” the younger elf grinned and raised a sardonic eyebrow at his mother. “Am I then to have rubies?”

Nerisiel kept a straight face as she replied, “What makes you think you shall receive such gems in your sword, my son? Why, I had intended simply a plain design for you – nay, in fact, your current training sword shall do just fine, I shall model my design on that!” she teased, referring to the sword that Artamir used for sword training, a plain, blockish instrument that the smith’s trained elf regarded critically as the bare essentials – that is, it had a blade, a hilt, and not much else. Her son’s eyes widened – he still had the innocence of youth enough to be surprised – then he put on a mock sad face. “As you wish, mother…”

Nerisiel laughed and embraced her son fondly before sending him on his way out of her workshop – he had come by on his way home from training with a few of his friends, and he proudly informed her that Rimborien’s son – a boy no few years older than himself – had complimented him on his style. Nerisiel smiled at the doorway that her son had just left. Style, they said? And style his gift would most certainly have, once his coming of age was reached next summer – as Sirithlonnior, his father, would certainly have been able to tell him, had Nerisiel not sworn him to secrecy, for a light came into her eyes whenever she spoke of the sword’s details. The blade she made as her son’s first sword would be one of her finest weaponry creations yet…

Her finest creations yet…

Nerisiel sighed heavily and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of one hand. The thought of those rings, those finest of all pieces ever created, and her part in their making had returned more and more often to her mind of late. Pushing away the sword blade she had been working on, the smith walked across her workshop and stepped out into the street outside to behold the view from the city walls. Although she had the privilege to work for and with Celebrimbor in the innermost forges, she had not wishes to give up her own workshop at the East side of the city, for the memories it had of her earliest days with her mentor, and for the view it held over the Sirannon and the mountains to the East. Maybe this siting was no longer such an advantage: every day, Nerisiel was reminded of the darkness that was growing in the East, over those mountains in Mordor…

Sighing, the elvensmith returned to her desk and, after a slight hesitation, she put aside the soft cloth that she had her hand on with a mind to wrapping it up. No: she had people to see but what use would it be to brood on the dark thoughts on her mind? After all, Leneslath’s blade would not get done itself… Picking up the tongs again and resuming her humming as she tried to lighten her heart, Nerisiel returned to her forge to heat the blade – the engraving would be next. As her humming continued, the elvensmith’s heart lifted as she turned once again to the business in hand – weaponry, rather than those three, beautiful pieces of jewellery…