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Old 09-03-2003, 01:26 AM   #211
Elora
Shade of Carn Dûm
 
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Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Kalrienmar
Posts: 402
Elora has just left Hobbiton.
Sting

OK, here's the edited first posts for Naiore and Vanwe.

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(place prior to Vanwe post)

Elora's post for Naiore

The afternoon shadows grew lush and long, reaching further a field as the Sun made her way into the West. Naiore watched the darkness stretch and grow around her with pleasure. With the night would come other things and she had been waiting long and driven for. 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 its bounds. She was difficult to see, enfolded as she was in twilight darkness. Her inky leathers bore the stains of hard travel. Mud daubed her boots, all but obscuring the delicate silver stitching tracing vine tendrils up her boots. Her hair was no longer smoothly braided. Unearthly golden wisps escaped to graze her cheek on the lifting breeze of a midsummer afternoon. 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 ravages of war. She should, by all rights, be at the pinnacle of power, all the might of Mordor at her back.

Naiore flicked a braid back over her shoulder, its golden weight added to the other seven that hung long to her waist. Instead, she had been cheated of all that should have been hers, 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 her, bound hand and foot, to face justice as the ignorant liked to call it. There was no justice in this world. There was no love either. No softness, no compassion, certainly no valour or glorious. Those who sought it were fools, nothing more. If anything, two ages spent in the turmoil of Middle-earth had taught her that. The much vaunted values of her kin and the infant cultures that clambered noisy and brash at its feet were lies. They deluded themselves. There was only death, fear, pain, woe, suffering and one other thing. Revenge. That was all.

She who saw the truth and in doing so mastered both it and the world around her, 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 to seek release from these mortal lands, 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 from a beggar king of mortal descent to come to this!

Naiore raised starlit grey eyes to the darkening sky. In them were the long tale of her years. A sadness so heavy it could suffocate her was allowed to surface for air as she glanced at the sky. Then cold anger and revenge settled in and pushed the tiredness away. She looked at the inn, considering it 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 glowing with firelight in the early evening. Her gaze shifted to the stables, where it was said her daughter worked. 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 Ravennor. Naiore’s reputation was not conferred to her without merit.
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. Only the perilous consequences of a lack of restraint keep her silent. Rangers were about, though not as thickly here as they were further West.

Vanwe should be well south, in the desolate Haradwaithe, kept with the goats and the barbarians Naiore 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, grown and no longer a helpless babe. There was no telling the danger she was. Perhaps, Naiore thought, she could use Kaldir to put an end to Vanwe 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 soon hoped to.

Naiore waited out the twilight. Travellers were still straggling in to the inn. 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 after all. 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 ignominy 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. She needed but the slightest opportunity to begin, and she had tired of idle waiting and ceaseless flight. In the depth of night, she would strike. Snare Vanwe, lead her away and draw Kaldir after her… and then when both were dead and no longer able to scheme against her, she would no longer have the inconvenience of a bounty hunter to hamper her north ward’s push. The lanterns of the stars began to spring into life as Naiore maintained her watch on inn, pondering who had found sent Vanwe north. Elrond’s son’s mayhap? Celeborn? A contemptuous smile curved her lips as she pondered her kinswoman’s husband. Yes, Celeborn of Doriath would do just such a thing. She would see to it that much ruin came of his impertinence.

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(place after Snowdog's Hanasian post)

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 fitfully 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 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, reluctant 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 unfolded.

“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 its 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 is 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…


“Vanwe, have you found that cider yet?” The innkeeper’s voice called down into the cellar from atop the stairs. Vanwe started from her reverie, blinking at the bar of torchlight that shone golden on the earth floor of the dark cellar. She gathered her wits, pushing the cobwebs of unwelcome recollection aside.

“Yes,” Vanwe responded as she made for the stairs. The innkeeper smiled in relief. Vanwe had been gone so long in the cellar she had started to worry. With a shake of her head, she returned to the common room which was starting to fill with the rapid onset of evening. Vanwe reached the top of the stairs with a final shiver that slide down her spine. She looked over her shoulder, back into the darkness of the cellar and then firmly shut the door on it as she shut another in her mind. No more memories, not tonight, she resolved as she too returned to the common room.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Vanwe said as she handed the cider to the innkeeper. Busily filling waiting cups and placing them on a tray, she shook her head and shot Vanwe a brief smile.

“I thought something was wrong, is all. Go have some supper. You look pale. Have you eaten today?”

“No,” said Vanwe though she meant to deny that anything was wrong. She was but a wandering Elf, nothing more, no past, nothing.

“I thought as much. Quickly, sit before Cook sees you and I’ll fetch something from the kitchens as soon as I see to these.” The Innkeeper hoisted the tray of mugs and pints and whirled off. Vanwe passed crowded tables where Men and Hobbits spoke or ruminated in silence. There were no Elves tonight. At least she would not have to avoid them. There were Rangers though and that was unsettling. Rangers were only slightly less enthusiastic in their pursuit of her mother than the Rohirrim. Choosing a quiet and unoccupied table, Vanwe sat with a heavy sigh and a heavy heart.

Lespheria had left the key to her room in her keeping. Vanwe played with it absently upon the table top, wrapped deep in her thoughts once again. It had been months since she ventured north and she had found nearly nothing. Her mother was not here and neither was her father. Perhaps those who whispered of their deaths were right after all.

“No need to look so sad, Vanwe, have some wine.” Vanwe looked up at the Innkeeper’s kind smile as she set the wine glass down. Then she was off again as a table full of Men called for ale. Oh, Vanwe said inwardly as she stared at the glass and then at the key, there was need. Here she sat, alone and no closer to the truth and her family than she had been when she set out from the South. It was possible that they hunted her even now. They had done so all through Gondor and Rohan. Their wrath at her flight would break upon her shoulders and back, and all for nothing. She had failed.

As Vanwe sat faced with the vast pointlessness of her life, she felt the weight of another’s gaze upon her. She dared look up to find a Ranger, not Kaldir nor Hanasian nor Amandur, considering her closely. A sliver of fear lanced through her and her hand closed over Lespheria’s key. She looked sharply away again and withdrew inwards. The urge to flee to Lespheria’s room and hide was strong. Her brow furrowed and she rested her head on one hand. Elsewhere in the room someone laughed loudly. The door opened and closed.
Vanwe looked up in time to see Hanasian walk through the door, the road clearly upon him. He had come back, as he had said he would. Her heart was glad for that. His alert gaze combed the room as he took in his surrounds. When it swept over her, the Ranger would only have seen the long golden curtain of her hair as her head rested once more on her hand. A small flame of hope had sprung up within her, though. Hanasian had spoken of her mother under the stars and he had said he wished to speak with her upon his return. Perhaps he held what Vanwe needed. He had returned. It was a sign that not all was lost. Perhaps he knew something she could use. If nothing else, he was a friendly face. In the Sea of Strangers she was surrounded by in the common room that too made her glad.

Kaldir wished her only for the gold on her head. Of that she was certain. Amandur suspected her of the same incredulous crimes laid at her mother’s feet. Lespheria had left with the morning. Hanasian was the only other person who knew who her mother was and was neither suspicious or a bounty hunter. The night did not seem so large nor alone now. Vanwe set down the key and sipped at her glass a little.

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The timing of posts is that Naiore's comes before Vanwe's and that Vanwe's comes after Snowdog's Hanasian.

Imladris, if you want the Ranger that Vanwe notices studying her to be your character, that's fine. If not, then that's fine too.

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Elora

I set off your posts from each other only for ease of my placing them on the game.

Is this correct? - Snowdog's Hanasian post is followed by Naiore and then Vanwe when it gets to the game.

~~ Pio

[ September 03, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
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Characters: Rosmarin: Lady of Cardolan; Lochared: Vagabond of Dunland; Simra: Daughter of Khand; Naiore: Lady of the Sweet Swan; Menecin: Bard of the Singing Seas; Vanwe: Lost Maiden; Ronnan: Lord of Thieves; and, Uien of the Twilight
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