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Old 04-14-2004, 08:18 PM   #97
Tears of the Phoenix
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Join Date: Jun 2003
Location: Putting dimes in the jukebox baby.
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Imladris has just left Hobbiton.

It is said that the dawn comes softly. Aeron was of a different opinion. The dawn was no shy maiden, but a resplendent queen with a host of heralds at the fore of her crimson train. Long before the mist of dusk had vanished, the birds sang of their lustrous queen with all their might, calling forth men from their pillows and warm blankets to gaze upon her radiant coming.

Dawn glimmered upon the edges of a mottled sky when Aeron opened his eyes. He rubbed them and yawned, shoving his blanket off as he did so. Stray pieces of firewood were scattered about…the mangy dog had evidently been up to some mischief for when Aeron had gone to bed the wood was stacked neatly.

The corsair, with a soft hiss, drew his sword from its scabbard. The Gondorian was asleep. The fool! What, did he think that because he reposed the enemy would not draw nigh? The grass barely whispering of his coming, the corsair placed the point at the Gondorian’s throat and said, “Draw your sword, Scum of the White Tree.”

A prickly, ticklish thing pricked Gwyllion’s throat. She opened her eyes and saw her brother, a cruel smile etched upon his face, pointing a gnarled, twig stubbed stick at her throat. “Draw your sword, Scum of the White Tree,” he commanded.

Snorting, she shoved the branch away and clambered to her feet.

The Gondorian (whose ears were awake even though the rest of his senses slumbered) heard the Corsair slink through the grass and, with a mighty, sprang to his feet. He drew his sword and shouted, “Is it not bad form to attack an enemy in repose?”

The Corsair laughed. A silver tooth glittered in the sun and beads jangled in his raven hair. “If I was in the habit of Bad Form, I would have slain you already.”

The Gondorian scoffed. “And you expect me to believe the word of a Corsair?”

“I spit on your insinuations!” the Corsair said.

Aeron spat at Gwyllion. The juicy blob landed on her chin.

“I care naught for your spittle!” the Gondorian cried, as he wiped it from his chin. “It cannot harm me, nor kill me. And as I have no pride, there is nothing for it to wound.”

“You have pride in the lack of your pride. But enough of this petty talk. Are you ready to fight?” the Corsair asked.

With a flourish, the two soldiers saluted each other.


The Gondorian is weak, his muscles still bound in slumber’s shackles, eyes wishing for the sweet blackness that their lids bring. See how he slashes futilely at me! Why he can barely hold his sword properly! It is wobbles in her palm as if it has a life of its own! It will be an easy game, easily won.


Gwyllion shifted the branch in her hand for a better place to hold it. It was full of shedding wood that lodged itself in her tender palm. It hurt. She looked about her and saw the relatively smooth stick resting in the smoldering fire.

The Gondorian cast his ill made sword away (curse the troublesome blacksmith who had forged it!} and dived for his other sword that rested in the fire. Fire burst from its point.


Aeron drew back as he saw the Gwyllion heave the stick aloft from the fire. A small candle flame wavered softly in the breeze as she poised it before her. Warning him that it was alight. The wind would be sure to extinguish it, but the stick would still be hot in the meantime. He shrugged.

“Bad form!” the corsair shrieked, evil laughter bubbling from him. “What is that but not bad form.”

“Cleverness,” the Gondorian replied.

The two were at it again. Sparks flew from their swords: the sword’s flame shortly died in feeble glory, but the tip yet glowed. The dale rang with clashing metal. Sparks flew as the silver blades rasped and vied with each other.

Aeron and Gwyllion danced as they lunged and parried. Their sticks thudded together and splinters flew at the shock. Gwyllions stick snapped and

The Gondorian’s sword snapped in twain as the Corsair with a mighty roar, bore his own sword across the blade. The shards fell from his hands, sparkling in the pure sunlight. With a final lunge, the Corsair drove his sword into the belly of his foe.

Gwyllion clutched at the stick, and, with an agonizing groan, fell to her knees. Her fingers grasped for her broken stick and

with the Gondorian’s final breath, he drove the shard into the bowels of the gloating Corsair. Blood gushed from the wound, entrails spilled onto his hand. With a final, shrieking scream, the Gondorian died.

Aeron clutched at the wound and staggered about Gwyllion’s prone body.

The Corsair, hands dripping with his own blood, cried, “Shall I die in the glory of my victory? No!” He crumpled to the ground.

With a gasp, Aeron pulled himself to his feet and said, “I shall not die! I shall not be vanquished by a Gondorian!”

Gwyllion’s hand snaked out and jerked him to his feet. “Just die!” she hissed.

And thus two men slew each other…
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