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Old 08-12-2003, 11:21 AM   #98
piosenniel
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Elora's character - Naiore

NAME: Naiore

AGE: 6,450 (at the commencement of the 4th Age)

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS:
Naiore possess a range of weapons. She carries a curved long sword of Noldorin make and numerous daggers. She is at all times in possession of a long silken cord she uses as her garrote. She owns a range of torture devices, some made for her and some she invented herself over the years. Most dangerous of all is her ability to sense and manipulate the emotional states of others. She is expert in breaking apart the spirit and souls of others, inflicting pain to an infinite degree.

Naiore has adapted the typical amour of her people to suit her needs. She blends a light, finely wrought chain mail with leather. Her amour is as black as the unlit night.

APPEARANCE: Naiore is fair by Noldorin standards. She is said to be reminiscent of Galadriel in he beauty. Her hair is golden and hangs to her waist. Her eyes are a starlit silvery grey, wide, clear and large. She is slender and deceptively strong for all of her fragile beauty. Her voice is velvety and her skin is without flaw. Naiore usually wears a serene expression that belies the intensity of what passes through her mind.

Naiore favors opulent clothing, silks, velvets and brocades. She often wears jewelry, and was an incongruous figure as she passed through the halls of Barad Dur in her finery. She has exquisite taste and prefers luxuriant indulgences. Even her amour and leather are impeccable. Despite her work, Naiore is fastidious and has not great like of blood and gore. When not in amour, Naiore resembles the highly born Elven noble woman she is.

However, her inky amour is known throughout the southern lands and is etched on the minds of survivors. It is that, combined with her serene expression and emerald eyes that most remember no matter how much they crave to forget.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:
Naiore is a complex blend of some of the strongest abilities and worst flaws in her kindred. She is a self-possessed and highly disciplined character. Ambitious and driven, she has contempt for weakness such as she sees it. She is manipulative and exploits her appearance whenever possible. Naiore has a formidable intellect, and is calculating. Her curiosity and need for knowledge are what rules her. She has a fascination for the baser darker and wilder aspect of life.

Naiore has no time for crudeness or other indecency. Indeed, she can be the soul of decorum and sophisticated grace until such time as she is murdering you. Naiore is a loner, rarely forming any lasting relationships. She avoids openly lying where ever possible, but uses deception readily. Naiore is tenacious. She refuses to admit defeat.

She has considerable contempt for rulers and nobles, and an implacable hatred of Numenorian and Eldar alike. A sensualist, Naiore’s weakness is for finer things in life and beauty. She believes herself superior to most around her. Any compassion or capacity to love is hidden deeply. Naiore is an Elf who believes all is lost and henceforth she has nothing to loose. The only limits she observes are those she sets herself.

HISTORY:
Naiore was born 12 S.A in Belfalas during the time where her people started to rise to dominance. Elven cities were being founded across the land and it was a time of great hope. She was born into a noble family, her father and mother both holding a place at Gil-Galad’s court. Naiore was also born with the ability to sense the emotions of those around her. This ability grew as she did. A serious child, often lost in her own world, she was doted upon by both parents. Naiore was both fascinated and slightly repulsed by other people. She sought few friends and had little regard for the opinions of others.

As she grew older, her mother began to wonder about her daughter. They tried to induce Naiore to participate in the society in which she had been born. Whilst she was not openly rebellious, she found ingenious ways to avoid or discourage such ventures. As her gift grew, Naiore noticed a discrepancy between the façade of civilization and the inner emotions of those within it. She became fascinated with impulses that many refused to acknowledge existed within themselves. The forbidden nature of her inquiry seduced her further. When her forays became too confronting, Naiore was prohibited from further investigation.

It was then that Naiore realized that she was somehow wayward and different. She became more isolated, and developed contempt for the apparent foolishness of her parents and kin. Meanwhile, she continued to explore the more fundamental aspects of personality such as fear, anger, pain, greed and lust. Her pride grew, and she discovered she had a certain power from this knowledge. In particular, pain attracted her. It was so prevalent in those who had survived the First Age.

During this time of secret forbidden knowledge, Naiore met and became betrothed to Menecin, another who was different. War was brewing over the sea, and Naiore could sense a power growing. It tempted her. Proud and contemptuous of her own kindred, Naiore sensed that many of her forbidden questions could be asked and mayhap answered by this new power. Then she would have new knowledge and with that so much more. The alternative was a stultifying life as wife to a wandering, itinerant bard whose insights into the emotional jungle were limited to songs and poems. Or perhaps she could beg leave to serve as Galadriel’s hand maiden. It was not enough.

She waited as war loomed larger and larger. She became distant, for she had already left. Her ambitions always traveled far ahead of her. On a stormy night, Naiore abandoned Belfalas in the year 3429. When Sauron returns to Middle-earth, Naiore is waiting for him. As Menecin and her people sought her, Naiore found herself in a new place. She was both welcomed and mistrusted. It amused Sauron greatly to have an Elf in service with orcs. She was tested, time and again, and grew in stature within Mordor.

Her special talents were encouraged and grown. She became adept at interrogation and torture. She was able to plan and execute terror campaigns that could not be left to orcs nor even entrusted to Wraiths. Naiore sought one answer in particular. She would often ask victims in the throes of their last moments, “From where does fear spawn?” The answer never came, but her hunger for it did not abate. Sauron used her throughout Khand and Harad, to inspire obedience and terror in the lands under his yoke. She worked alone, and proved gifted. Her discipline, ability and determination made her a horrific weapon and she ranged widely.

Naiore entered Rohan for the first time in the year 3430 S.A and there began to bring Mordor’s insidious terror to the north. She preyed for long years upon the Men of that land. Rumor of her spread, but it was not until the Battle of Dagorlad that Naiore openly emerged. She fought with Sauron’s hosts against the Last Alliance, Elven fair with foul shadow at her back. She slew Elf and Man alike, in the grip of terrible desperation. Her kindred saw her and recoiled in horror at what she had become.

At the defeat of Sauron, Naiore fled south with those that survived. Barad-dur was under siege. She plunged into Khand and Harad, where her terror still kept the Men there compliant, and waited. She could sense Sauron still and she had nowhere else to go. Naiore slipped into Dol Guldur over the long years, and once again aided Sauron in her addictive search for power and knowledge. She made one detour that was not at Sauron’s bidding, and it is rumored that she did this more than once.

Naiore encountered Menecin. She all but destroyed him through deception, cruelty, manipulation and suffering. She thought him dead when she left him again in the year 2091 T.A. When she discovered she was pregnant, she believed it was Menecin’s revenge from beyond the grave. She kept all knowledge of her pregnancy to herself. Her competitors in Mordor would use it against her. Elven fundamental beliefs prevented her from ridding herself of the child. Naiore went back to Harad, much to the wrath and chagrin of Sauron, and bore Vanwe. She sensed her child’s gifts could perhaps rival her own. Naiore made an arrangement with the remote village. They were to keep Vanwe there, in perpetuity, or suffer her full ferocity. That arranged, Naiore returned to Mordor and Sauron. Vanwe’s existence was secret.

The fall of Sauron brought Naiore’s career to a sudden end. Gone was her stature and position. Gone was the protection Mordor offered her. Gone also was the reason she lived. She had no answers still, and the prospects of ever finding them seemed remote. Naiore again went to ground, this time utterly alone. Her people were leaving, yet she had no place with them. Her foes were hunting for her, and her usual safe haunts were no longer safe. Bereft of ambition, and having sacrificed everything for knowledge she did not have, Naiore is faced with a crisis. She had been waiting for the day when Sauron would have dominion over the lands. Revenge on those who had taken her future from her galvanized her into action. As she set about, Naiore learnt of a land called the Shire, citizens of which had engineered this ignominious defeat. Once again, she sets herself a northward course, choosing that over accepting defeat. The Shire would be made to suffer more than Khand, Harad and Rohan ever had.

_____________________________________________

Elora's post for Naiore

The morning shadows proved stubborn despite the rising of the sun in her summer glory. Naiore made the most of what little providence seemed availabled in their existance. She remained still and at relative ease in the embrace of a shadow cast by the ancient bole of a fig tree. It loomed massive over her, surrounded by the adjoining woods that carpeted the land around the inn she was watching.

Some may account it a pleasant place. For Naiore, it was a land of failure and frustration, a wretched place and she had little love for the tree or anything else that lived within it's bounds. She was difficult to see, folded as she was in morning darkness. Her inky leathers bore the stains of hard travel. Mud daubed her boots, all but obscuring the delicate silver tracing a vine up her boots. Her state and presence gave rise to a great many questions, the answers to which Naiore did not greatly care to entertain as she cast a simmering glance towards the Forsaken Inn.

Rangers, cursed scions of Numenor, had pushed her hard through the wilderness. She had managed to elude them, her skills tested as they had not been in the past 12 years. Still, although she was for the moment safe, she was far from pleased. It grated to be sitting beneath a shedding tree encrusted with mud. She should, right at this moment, be running in free abandon further to the north. She should, as she sat in darkness gathering her wits and thoughts, be bringing a new tide and era to a land that had escaped the harsher ravanges of war.

Naiore flicked a braid back over her shoulder, it's golden weight added to the other seven that hung down her back. Instead, she had been cheated of even the small prize of the Shire. Rangers and her own people conspired to hem her in and bring her down like an animal. They would take, bound hand and foot, to face justice as the ignorant liked to call it. There was no justice. Those who sought it were fools, nothing more. If anything, two ages spent in the turmoil of Middle-earth had taught her that.

She who had held such power in countless lands, mastered terror and was mistress of the hounds of war and hell, sat in a cold wood. Even had she tried for the Havens, she could not penetrate the bristling ring set in place by Elessar around the Shire. His name curdled in her mouth. Twelve years spent running for this!

Naiore raised starlit grey eyes to consider the Inn once more. Her face was impassive, as often it was, carved elven beauty remarkable even amongst her own kin. Her face had beheld horror untold, she had wrought it with her own hands, for reasons few could understand. Now she sat waiting for an incipient snare to spring, dirty and desperate but not without her pride. She wore that like armour. It had gotten her through before this day.

The Inn was quiet in the early morning. Her gaze shifted to the stables, where it was said her daughter was. Naiore could see no sign of Vanwe just yet, but her sources were adamant. They well knew the price their lies would earn them. It was a difficult death at the hands of a Ravenner, merciless at the pinnicle of Sauron's Order of terror and suffering.

Somewhere was a Ranger too, one she knew. She had expected to find Kaldir skulking in the forest. Such acts were not beneath him as they were her. The presence of both Kaldir and Vanwe was not a coincidence that could be ignored. She should have killed the whelp when she was born, unwanted by-blow that Vanwe was. The idea that some long buried maternal instinct prevented her was laughable should the consequences of her restraint not be so perilous.

Vanwe should be well south, in the desolate Haradwaithe, kept with the goats and the barbarians she had left her with. The fact that she was not, had left and survived the journey north and eluded capture told Naiore much. The fact that Vanwe was known to be tracing her told her more. She would be a woman now, mature and no longer a helpless babe. Perhaps she could use Kaldir to put an end to her and her threat. She could see to Kaldir after that.

But the fallen Ranger would need to be pushed, if only to see past his immediate mercenary loss in Vanwe's death. It remained to be seen if she could achieve that. He had proved difficult to break, those years ago. Kaldir was a rare challenge, one she had enjoyed then as she hoped to soon now.

Naiore waited out the morning. Soon they would rise and begin their days. Vanwe would appear. She worked in the stables, assisting a man who was no real threat for the likes of Naiore. Kill Vanwe and Kaldir, attempt again to push north without a tail, and see if bloodshed could not find the Shire afterall. She was without any other purpose, and she would pursue this with a breathtakingly singular will that proved stronger than steel.

The Free Peoples could not hope to contend with her. Sauron himself had never truly conquered all of her heart and soul. Menecin neither. In the face of all she had endured and perpetrated throughout the wars of the Second and Third Age, rising time and again, ceaselessly vigilant in her quest for knowledge that had consumed her life, achieving the death of her daughter and Kaldir was nothing but a light aside.

Perhaps, Naiore mollified herself, one of them held what she looked for. Perhaps they could tell her from where fear spawned. It was unlikely, but possible. She held to that, for it made the ignomy of her failure in recent months to reach the Shire, her fugitive life since Sauron's fall lesser. How they would have laughed to see her reduced to such a state, provided they escaped her with the facility to laugh intact within their bodies and souls. She could endure a rough night and hard travel if it meant the achievement of all she had endured and suffered for.

Whilst her riddle of fear circled in her head, Naiore watched from the trees still garbed in morning shadow. She needed but the slightest opportunity to begin, and she had tired of idle waiting and ceasless flight.

_____________________________________________

Elora's character - Menecin

NAME: Menecin

AGE: 6,729 (at the commencement of the 4th Age)

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:
Menecin possess the weaponry expected of an Elf who lived through three tumultuous ages. He has a sword and bow and daggers, all of Noldorin make. His amour is typical Noldo, a combination of light steel and leather worn by all who fought in battle. At the opening of the 4th Age, he has all but forgotten weapons and amour.

APPEARANCE:
Menecin is a tall Noldo by their standards. He has the dark hair of his people and their fairness also. His eyes are a piercing blue sapphire and they see far indeed. He is not powerfully built, but is by no means thin or weedy. His hands are long fingered and deft, a mark of his profession and ability. His voice is deep and musical and his smile, when it is seen, is as bright as the lamps of his people.

Menecin’s clothing reflects his Elven heritage, although in latter days he pays it little attention. He wears the natural fabrics favored by his people in deep shades of jewel color. Menecin favors royal blue, and has done since he was a boy. He is no stranger to elaborate court garb, however he prefers more functional clothing by habit. In the times he roamed the land, he went clad as a hunter and warrior, for he was a little of both at that time.

His trademark possessions are his richly carved leather pack, in which he carries his papers and music, his flute made of mithril silver and his lap harp which he carries over his shoulder in a beaten and scuffed hard leather case.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:
Menecin was born at a time when Elves were discovering Men in Beleriand. He is well acquainted with the Edain, wandered amongst them. He showed his gift for music at an early age, something his parents thought held extraordinary promise. He was a quiet child, peaceful and patient. He learnt quickly. He had little to say, and most of that he said through his craft as a bard. Those around him realized that when he did speak, Menecin was an individual that bore listening to. He had an artist’s insight and perspective. Fostered by Maglor, Menecin attained a first hand understanding of the depth of grief and woe that beset the Noldor, the Sons of Feanor in particular. He is no stranger to sorrow and strife.

Menecin’s solemn nature sometimes seemed fey. He formed few close relationships and was not a man given to whim. What he did, he did with all of his being, possessed as he was of great passion and the strength to feed those passions.

He is a capable fighter, terrifying when battle merges with a passion. He fought in the First Age where necessary and acquitted himself well at such times. He has little interest in such reputations though. He acquired an air about him that resulted in few people wishing to trifle with him. He was quiet, possibly dangerous, and liable to see things exactly as they are no matter how bleak that may be.

He is sometimes seen as taciturn, and is stubborn. He resists being led. In recent years, Menecin is a shell of his former self. He has lost his passion for life, but cannot bring himself to let go of mortal lands. He is dangerously melancholy, given at times to bouts of black rage that consume all around him. Those few whom truly know him see a stranger. Many think him insane, until they see the entirely sane streak of agony in his eyes. There are few who can withstand his glance now, and what little music he puts his mind too is achingly painful.

HISTORY:
Menecin was born in 305 F.A during the time of the “Long Peace” in Beleriand. His birth coincided with the emergence of Men, and so Menecin grew up at a time when the Noldo were discovering the Edain and times were relatively good for the Exiles. His parents were of good standing, although not high born. They discovered his musical promise and he went to be fostered by Maglor to study the craft of the bard. There, Menecin developed a reputation for his musical ability and his love of language.

Menecin also discovered the tragedy of the Noldor. His mentor was bound by the terrible oath that caught all Feanor’s Sons. The Long Peace ended, war fell on Beleriand and the oath claimed Maglor. Menecin fought battle and acquitted himself well in that time. He was habitually quiet and somewhat grim, and had little time for merriment during the First Age. The tragedy of his people touched him deeply, particularly when he turned away from Maglor towards the end of the First Age. In this time, Menecin started to emerge as a gifted composer and musician.

Menecin decided to remain in Middle-earth, restless and unready to go to Valinor with the bulk of his people and his parents. He drifted with the remnant of the Noldor to what is now known as the Bay of Belfalas. For a time, Menecin again knew peace. His reputation grew and he rose in status in the court of Gil-Galad. Menecin largely kept to himself, the merriment of the feasts interesting him little. From time to time he would wander the wild places of the world.

It was as he returned from one such a journey that Menecin first encountered Naiore. She was at that time a maiden. Like him, she had little taste for feasts and had strayed from one on that fateful day to wander in a stand of fir trees by the shore of the ocean. As she danced over the sand to the wind singing in the fir trees, Menecin watched. Beautiful even amongst her own kin, he knew himself lost as he watched her move. He added his voice to the song of the wind, and a courtship was begun.

Menecin found cause to remain in Belfalas and not wander. He found in Naiore a muse of sorts. She fascinated and captivated him, most unlike the other maidens of their people. She was of noble blood, descended from Finarfin, and he harbored little hope of marrying her. Yet, Menecin sought her hand and to his enduring surprise was granted Naiore. They became betrothed in 3262 S.A, the year that Sauron was taken as prisoner to Numenor. Unrest after a long peace was stirring again, and Menecin decided to wait until that unrest had calmed before he wedded Naiore. It proved to be a fateful decision.

Menecin, an experienced warrior from the First Age and now betrothed to a noblewoman, found his responsibilities in this time increased. He was drawn into Gil-Galad’s court and there he felt the winds of war blowing around him. He noticed a change in Naiore too, something he attributed to the growing strife. He knew his love was sensitive to such things. Menecin did not discover that Naiore had vanished until her distraught father came to him seeking his daughter.

Thinking that she had fallen prey to the growing shadow that Numenor was falling rapidly under, Menecin abandoned court in search of her. His search failed, as did that of his kinsmen. Haunted by guilt and grief, for Menecin loves deeply or not at all, he refused to abandon hope. War returned to Middle-earth with Sauron, and he became embroiled in the Last Alliance as did many of his kin for he followed Gil-Galad.

Menecin was not at the battle of Gladden Fields. Word came to him after that terrible battle of Naiore. She was alive, it was said, and she fought with Sauron. Scandal and shame gripped her family. He could not believe it, and did not. Her family renounced her as a traitor, and her parents fled to Valinor in horror. Menecin was outspoken in his denial and it earnt him disfavor. He forsook court and embarked on a series of searches for Naiore.

At the time that Ithilen was abandoned in the year 2901 T. A due to orc incursions from Mordor, it is known that Menecin encountered Naiore. He barely survived. The refuge of Henneth Annun found him all but dead on their doorstep. The Men aided Menecin as best they could. Menecin went north, seeking death, and found instead Lothlorien. Recognized, he was taken in and there held under protections should Naiore return. He was also protected from himself. Menecin sank into hopelessness, depression and rage.

He refused to go West at the end of the 3rd Age without Naiore. Unable to take him out of his madness, he was left at Imladris with those few who remained behind. Menecin barely spoke by that time, and his music lay dormant and silent within him.

_____________________________________________

Elora's post for Menecin

The stars were perhaps their most beautiful in early morning. Menecin had remained sleepless through enough nights to make such assessment with certainty. Imladris was peaceful. He was not. It was an irony that never failed to shred what little grip he had on lucidity. The rage and grief twisted upon itself a little tighter. It never got tight enough to stop.

If he stilled, he could hear the breathing of those that watched. As he studied the clear morning sky, he wondered not for the first time what they watched for. They were waiting for the storm to break loose. He knew it for he saw it in their eyes when they thought he was not watching. He never stopped watching though. To stop would be to surrender to the dark fog that sinuously seeped into every thought and dream.

Beside him lay a lap harp. He had left it out all night, instead of covering it from the cool air. A harp such as this deserved better. This harp had played with Maglor. Maglor himself had overseen its construction, had plucked it's strings. Menecin plucked at a string himself. Maglor had gone mad. He had watched it unfold before him. Another irony that did not escape him. He was following in Maglor's steps, but he had taken no terrible oath other than to love her.

Her face was carved upon his memory, as was her voice and her scent. He could feel her upon his skin still. Menecin's eyes closed, the ache rising. She was there, just beyond his touch. No evil was in her that could be seen. Yet her actions were filled with such malice of intent. The rage sharpened and the grief. She was there but was lost, as was he. Adrift in pain, the world shattered by love, vast gaping wounds in his spirit that did not heal. Neither did he die. Even in her pain there was no mercy.

"Perhaps a song to welcome the day will grant what succor sleep did not this night, Menecin."

He could not keep the bitter smile from his lips as he struggled to keep what raged within him in abeyance. The savagery must have shown in his spahhire eyes. It was a brutal light that was revealed to one of the many who watched over him.

"There is no more music," he snarled in reply. The expression of shock was to be expected. Menecin saw it too often to expect anything less. He drew himself back, sealing off his senses. A few short hours, when night was done and the day not yet begun, he allowed himself. He would awaken within him, undead, unalive, in the transitory hours of each day. He would float. He had been brought to anchor by the Elf who had watched him through the night.

Menecin unfolded his tall frame, clad in the customary finery of a skilled bard who had performed remarkable feats of bravery and courage. Wisdom gleaned from three Ages in Middle-earth blended with his distress, making him dangerous to any and all, including himself. He turned, and walked unhurridley back towards the chambers they alloted him at Imladris. Their comfort was barely noticed by Menecin. All was hell.

Behind him, in the eastern sky, day's blush had begun. The stars winked out, one by one, and he withdrew into himself. The startled Elf trailed him, wary and concerned with the bard's beloved harp cradled carefully in his arms. Menecin closed the door to his bedroom firmly. The Elf found the harp's aged and battered case and gently placed it into it's wardship. He straightened, looking at the wooden door that sealed Menecin away from the world.

As many had done before, he shook his head in sorrow. A hint of the bard's formidible passion and greatness had emerged, only wracked with anger. All of it was brought about by one woman, her name no longer spoken. Her bounty price was the highest ever set. No trace of her though, apart from the trail of ruin she left scattered through the lands. For her, he suffered. The Elf seated himself at a nearby table and inked the quill that waited.

Next to the date, he recorded his observations.

"No change, no glimpse of relief, only rage."

His quill hovered a moment and was then set aside. He did not add the other comments that filled his head. Instead, what he did record was the latest on a page filled with similar comments. Books spanning decades, hundreds and thousands of years, contained the same dreary pattern. How anyone endured such torment, refusing to believe that she was indeed what she was known to be, defied imagination. It would have been better that he did not survive. Sometimes, it is best if the healers fail.

The Elf rose once more and stoked the small fire in the grate to warm the room for the next who would watch Menecin. Within his room, Menecin sat disconsolately with his thoughts and attempted to free himself from madness that always loomed and never swooped to relieve him of self-awareness. He longed for it with a need that shamed him.

_____________________________________________


Elora's character - Vanwe

NAME: Vanwe

AGE: 120 (at the commencement of the 4th Age)

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS:

Vanwe possess a belt knife only, but will make do with whatever is to hand as she needs to. That includes anything or sometimes nothing, all depending on where she finds herself. Her limited wealth and propensity to leave in haste wherever she may be makes it difficult to accrue and keep any possessions, weapons included. Uneasy with weaponry, she prefers to avoid it if possible.

She has no armour apart from her wit and survival instinct.

APPEARANCE:
Vanwe is in many ways her mother’s daughter. She possesses the delicate beauty that is the hallmark of Finarfin’s descendants. Her hair is spun gold that falls long to her waist. Her face is evocative of her mother also. She has ivory skin, delicate facial bone structure, high cheekbones and high brow. Her eyes are a deep blue, sapphire, courtesy of her father. She is tall and lithe.

Vanwe’s clothing reflects her childhood in the Haradwaith. It is simple, worn and somewhat sparse by Elven sensibilities and custom. Her stature in the Haradwaith was low, and so she wears no gold or any jewelry. Vanwe wears a simple periwinkle blue cotton dress, acquired on the road when her southern clothing was in imminent danger of unraveling and brought much suspicion upon her whilst traveling. Gondor was still skirmishing and fighting with the Harondor in the opening years of the 4th Age. She also has heavy cloak, cotton, the colour of which is now indistinguishable. This is also acquired, at the time of her flight from the Haradwaith, and is her only protection from the weather. It shows signs of hard use and wear, much like her dress, and once was a deep indigo blue in kinder times. It has a deep hood in which Vanwe shelters from the elements and unwanted inspection and dwarfs her slender frame.

Vanwe wears worn boots on small feet of brown leather. They are light, for the heat of the Haradwaith and not well equipped for the cooler north. She has a belt of brown leather with a sturdy and distinctly mannish design. From it hangs a pouch and her belt knife, whatever else she has stowed there.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:
Vanwe is an unusual character for an Elf, attributable to both her parentage and how she was raised.

She is decidedly wary of strangers, a product of her upbringing. She has a keen intellect and a thoughtful demeanour. She can be withdrawn and shy, but once she warms to a person she is generally of good cheer. Vanwe is a little unsure of herself and has learnt that meekness can work to her advantage.

She is slow to trust, tends to underestimate herself and expects cruelty from other which she blames upon herself.

However, if nothing else Vanwe has the remarkable ability to survive most things. She is tenacious and when she believes she is cornered she is fierce. She has a natural affinity for music, inherited from her father. Like her mother, Vanwe is able to sense what cannot be seen. In her, this emerges as an ability to heal. She can sense injury and illness as “wrongness” and can manipulate it back to the way it seems it should be. This sensitivity is something she has inherited from her mother and her distant relative, Galadriel.

Vanwe often carves wood as an outlet for her anxiety and distress, finding the shapes she senses within them and setting them free, another example of her abilities. She has a love of beauty and peace. Vanwe is a skilled observer, quiet and fleet footed. Nimble and flexible, Vanwe can earn a living in a number of ways as she is quick to learn.

She is not criminally inclined in a general, but survival sometimes necessitates petty theft that plagues her with guilt even if it does fill her stomach. She can make a good living on the docks and streets with thievery, but this is a risky lifestyle for a lone young Elven woman and so she will exhaust other options first before resorting to theft. She has an aversion to authority that is hard to shake and very much prefers to slip into and out of places unnoticed as a general rule.

HISTORY:

Vanwe is the daughter of the infamous Naiore Dannan. Her mother was of extraordinary beauty and ability, related by birth to the mighty Elvenwise Queen Galadriel. Yet, Naiore chose instead a path of darkness that shamed and horrified her people and terrorized those she came to prey upon. Vanwe is the result of a nefarious union between her mother and the bard she had been betrothed to prior to her betrayal of her people. Menecin had never accepted Naiore’s choice in his heart and had pursued her through the years both in an effort to curtail Naiore’s activities and prove to himself that the woman he loved was not malevolent and twisted.
What came of that is not known to Vanwe, only that Naiore fell pregnant with Menecin’s child.

The Terror of Mordor for reasons known only to herself decided to bear the child and so Vanwe was born. Wanted in Gondor, Rohan, Mirkwood, Lothlorien, Rivendell, Hollin and the Shire, Naiore fled south into the heartlands of her chosen Master. In Harad where she had preyed unstoppable upon the people, Naiore delivered Vanwe in a small and isolated village, remote from the North and also Mordor. She remained long enough to instill such terror in the villagers so as not to dispose of her daughter and then vanished. Vanwe was abandoned without explanation once her mother was certain Vanwe would not arise in the future to trouble her. Her mother saw her as a potential threat and she never considered her daughter as a possible ally.

Vanwe was not welcomed by the villagers. Elven and the daughter of such a feared creature, she was treated with suspicion and resentment. The villagers saw he as some kind of demon spawn. She represented everything they feared and loathed of the north, of murdering Elves and of Mordor. Vanwe's differences from the children of the village were marked.

This only reinforced the chasm between her the people around her. Yet the possibility of Naiore returning to wreak her vengeance upon them was more terrifying than the quiet and sweet natured Elven child. In her early years, before she understood just how cruel people could be to that which they did not understand, Vanwe was given to laughter. This soon faded as she grew older.

Vanwe was cared for, in a fashion, collectively by the village. It was far from a happy childhood. At best she was isolated, alienated and feared. At worst, she was hated as the scion of evil and was the village’s scape goat for any and every disaster that beset them. Lest she exploit their weakness, Vanwe was treated with harsh discipline.

Being strong and clever, Vanwe soon proved of some use to the village. She readily took to the work given her, eager to earn some regard or reprieve. She was trusted so far as to tend to the animals. Life in Harad under the yoke of Mordor is harsh. Outsiders, especially possibly malevolent ones, were a threat no village wished no matter how beautiful the child. When visitors came, she was hidden away. Vanwe was excluded from celebrations and all meals. She ate alone, worked alone, with the exception of those instances where she had somehow come to the attention of the villagers through misfortune or misadventure.

She was seen as a possible bad luck omen by the superstitious villagers. Illness or untimely death in the village was also her doing. Her emerging abilities only further alienated her and inspired further mistrust. Mordor had been instilling in the people of Harad myth and lies about the people of the North, particularly Elves, for generations. Naiore had been the principle agent of that fear campaign, and her daughter paid a costly price. Yet it was the only home she knew, and so Vanwe remained.

As the years rolled past, Vanwe found the fragmented yet vivid memories from early childhood that were empty and devoid of a mother or father did not fade. Like all Elves, she lived them when she slept. An innate curiosity about her own roots grew within her. For a long while, Vanwe spoke to no one of her desire to know more about her origins. When at last she ventured a question, she was hurried into an emergency Village Council and stood before the Village Elders. It was then that she learnt of the terrible woman that was her mother. To the villagers, Naiore was akin to a demon and they saw her reaching for her terrible doom.

Vanwe emerged from that grueling night with their stories, fantastic and seemingly improbable, spinning in her mind, torn and bruised. The Villagers, concerned that Vanwe’s approach to maturity over 100 years would bring her mother back, prompted the fearful re-telling of tales about her mother, some were accurate and some had accrued embroidering of details.

For Vanwe, the shame was an intense pain that haunted her every step. No one could tell of her father, and her questions only grew in number. She grew steadily more determined to get to the bottom of it all, and come to know the truth of both her mother and her father.

When the spring celebration of a good season came to the Village, Vanwe slipped free amidst the bustle as the Villager’s got on with their annual celebrations. It was the year 3021 T.A. Young by elven standards and poorly experienced, Vanwe’s first months of freedom were both terrifying and dangerous. She emerged from the perils of innocence and a hard road in one piece mainly by the grace of providence and her sharp wits. She always learnt her lesson quickly.

By chance or design, Vanwe gravitated towards to coast. By sheer good fortune and determination, she survived the waste of Harad and came to Umbar, where she picked up the trail of her mother. She found employment, shelter and food by whatever means necessary. It was a precarious existence, but it was free of the village. She resolved never to return that hell again.

Vanwe was becoming adept at mastering her environment to varying levels of control. On the coast and particularly in the docks of Harondor, Vanwe excelled in survival. She slowly made her way north, earning passage on a ship to Dol Amroth. Quite unaware she was in the original homeland of both her parents, whom hailed from the Bay of Belfalas, Vanwe set about searching out any little thing she could of them. It was not long before she realized that it was not only the villagers that loathed and feared her mother’s name. Vanwe spent some time in custody, suspected of being Naiore. It left an indelible impression upon her, her new freedom replaced by dank cells and bars.

Across Gondor she drifted and then through Rohan, a land that had particularly cruel experiences with Naiore Dannan. Vanwe learnt to be more circumspect and cautious with her inquiries. However, she asked a wrong question of the wrong person and it brought her to the attention of the Riddermark. The experience taught Vanwe that she may as well be her mother by the time she wiggled free of the mess. Her appearance only worked against her. With a now strong aversion to soldiers, warriors, lords, bailiffs and any other possible authority figure including the Village Elder, Vanwe continued to drift north on the scant trail left by her mother.

She slowly gathered information on Naiore and Menecin. Rumors conflict, suggesting that one or both are dead and simultaneously alive and in hiding. Where and from what depended on who she spoke to. It is a frustrating puzzle, and Vanwe is not helped by the fact that she feels it necessary to mostly avoid the lands her mother is still wanted and hunted in. In those lands, particularly those of Lothlorien and Rivendell, a young Elven maiden cast adrift in the wide world could learn much. It is precisely those places that Vanwe assiduously avoids.

The recognises the latent threat in Rangers as she moves further north, another peril to navigate. She also fears that the village are hunting her. Out of place in the world of Men, strangely odd to her own kindred and treated as most Elves are by most Dwarves, she moves on the ebb and flow of the current of the mortal lands.

She strives ever to learn but it is the haphazard and unpredictable manner of her circumstances, tossed hither and thither, that is perhaps her undoing. She is terrified of the very people that could aid her and show her the place that is hers in the world.

_____________________________________________


Elora's post for Vanwe

… The water dripped in a regular ceaseless rhythm throughout the day, the night and the day. It was broken up by the scratching of rats in the straw, perhaps a wet and hacking cough nearby or a croaked song that had taken possession of a man’s voice and raised it like a tattered flag of insanity against the reality of the bars. Torchlight flickered fittfully against slick and dark stones as through the flames resented their presence, free as they were from the bars but locked in damp darkness. They would come by regularly, sometimes relighting torches that had rebelled and gone out. Some brought a hard bread that was passed through the bars. That marked the beginning of another day. Sometimes it was water. That marked the night. It was race to claim bread or water before the rats did.

In that bleakness, a spider spun a silken web in the far corner of her cell. The strands caught the intermittent torch light, tiny gems caught in the web to dazzle unwary observers. It would float in the icy blast of wind that raced down the passage every time the outer main door would open. Then the sound of boots would start, counter tempo to the dripping water. There had been a lot of boots on the stone one morning after the bred had been pushed through the bars. The tiny jewels in the spider’s web became fiery with torch light that they had brought with them. She remembered that. It was beautiful, even if everything else was not and she had smiled faintly in that grimness to behold it.

The men had golden hair, like hers in many respects and yet not. It fell thickly around their shoulders, sometimes braided. Her own was a more delicate shade, lighter in weight and smoother in texture. Some clutched helms under their arms. Their torches glinted off mail. It was not as fair as the spider’s web. She remembered a saying as she took in their grim presence. Silk was stronger than steel. She looked into their faces and wondered about that.

One of them had produced a large iron circle. Many keys jangled discordantly from it. He fitted one to the lock at her bars. The others stepped back, hands tightening around sword hilts that jutted from their belt encircled hips. She looked back up at the spider’s web as the door creaked in protest at its opening. Two men stepped through.

“On your feet,” one roughly ordered in Westron. He glowered at her. She did as she was told.
“We need more light,” the other one spat over his shoulder. Men slowly stepped closer to the bars. They held their torches out, relucant to cast light on those within. She was struck by the realisation that they did not really want to see what they thought they were going to.

“Move but a muscle and you die,” intoned the man who had first spoke. She believed him. The other renewed his grip on his hilt, swallowed hard and stepped forward. He tipped her chin up, his fingers hard and rough against her skin. She stared blankly ahead, not daring to breathe. She heard movement, the sound of paper being folded.

“She is reported as claiming her name to be Vanwe,” he said. Doubt was in his voice, tempered also by suspicion and a dangerous anger that could flare brighter than any torch at any moment. Vanwe could smell it. She knew its scent well.
“Perhaps it is so, Farald. Look at her,” urged the man who held her chin so tightly.

“I’ve seen that face often enough,” the other replied heavily. She heard the paper bunch in his fist.
“Then by what sorcery did she achieve this?”

She saw two faces crowd her vision. They peered at her in silence. One shook his head as the other released her chin. She sagged back at the sudden change in balance, recovering quickly. A curse hissed in the silence, and somewhere else someone laughed blindly to fill the hole that insanity left in his mind.

“Silence,” roared one of the men in her cell. He cast her another glance. She lowered her eyes and mentally withdrew. If the anger came now, it was best she was not here. She knew what that glance meant. It was best if she was far away when it started. It was easier.

“It is not her Farald,” the other said.
“You had best hope that it is not,” Farald spat. He turned on his boot heel and stalked from her cell.

“What about her,” a man called after him.
“She can go. If I find her again, she’ll not fare so well. Rohan has had more than it’s share of the wider world and it’s Elves.” His voice floated back down behind him. There was a blast of air as the main door was opened. The men followed him, boot steps filling the prison's sagging emptiness once more. One remained by the open door to her cell.

“I would be swift, were I you. This is no place to dawdle with the doom of Rohan on your head,” he said. He walked away, a slow and measured tread. She watched him open the main door and pull his helm on. he had reports to make. Naiore Dannan was not in custody as they had thought. Those who already readied the gallows would have to wait a little longer. After 12 years and centuries of suffering, a little longer was both an instant and an eternity.

Vanwe ran then, the wind at her heels. She ran running fast, past grass and trees and village. Faster and faster, away from Rohan who nearly hanged her in mistake. Away from Umbar and the slave galleys where soldiers had nearly sold her when their error in her identity was known. North, where her mother had gone it was said and perhaps where her father was buried. Mirkwood, loomed ahead of her. It would be an arduous task to avoid those within it…



“Come Vanwe, the horses are missing you and will not take their breakfast!”

She groggily pushed herself up and out of her bed and dreams. Morning light shone through the open hay doors in a warm puddle. Pulling her dress over her head, Vanwe climbed down the ladder from the stable loft as the Deruvin chuckled good naturedly outside in a giddying contrast to her recently left dreams and rememberances. She pushed open the stable doors, stretching as she did so, and turned back to see to the horses. Some whickered at her as if the innkeeper had spoken truly. Vanwe smiled quietly and soon had the stable’s guests on their way to the day pasture.

She returned to an empty stable, collected rake, shovel, buckets and broom and began the morning’s work. Soon, the spider that sat in one of the many webs in the stable’s rafters had her song to keep her company. Vanwe hummed it, a lilting southern melody as she worked. It was odd, to have fled Rohan only to finish here, tending horses of all creatures. In the sunlight the cold memory faded a little and her song picked up strength. The spider caught the early morning rays in its web to lure and bewilder wandering breakfasts, lunches and suppers as the Elf worked below.

Her thoughts wandered. What would the day bring? Would she be any closer to what she sought? That was an interesting question. What did she seek? Sometimes she thought it was peace and freedom, but then there would be neither without knowing of her parents. She had accepted that fate long ago now. As she swept and raked, her song shifted to a more merry melody.

Would the Ranger return today? He had said he would return and wished to speak with her. She was unwise to seek his company, for Rangers had proved as perilious as the soldiers of Gondor and the Riddermark of Rohan. Still he had spoken gently and did lay upon her shoulders the crimes of her mother. He did looked at her and did not see only her mother's face. He had given her the name of a star.

Vanwe's song was ended by a call from the Inn.

"Vanwe, hurry! Cook's wanting to know why you haven't had breakfast and she'll accept no explanation from anyone else!"

She quickly stowed the broom, rake, shovel and now empty wheelbarrow and raced from the stables towards the inn with a contrite expression on her face. Cook was determined to have her resembling a hobbit in girth. Her golden hair streamed behind her as she crossed the intervening distance on long legs, rubbing her hands on whatever skirt material came to hand hastily.

Vanwe pushed open the door to the inn, spied Cook waiting with stern expression in place and entered. The inn door closed on her words. "I was just seeing to the horses!"

"Those horses eat better than you do, missy! I expect an Elf to have more sense than a herd of shaggy ponies and mismatched horses."

[ August 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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