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#1 |
Ghost Prince of Cardolan
Join Date: Nov 2005
Location: In hospitals, call rooms and (rarely) my apartment.
Posts: 1,538
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Losse was as good a dancer as she had said and Farael was not really a good match for her skills. He did not intend to dance for too long anyway. Just as soon as they jumped into the dancing area, Farael started making his way towards a little drunken hobbit who was dancing really merrily. The good man was barely half Farael's height which suited him well. Taking Losse along with him, he got close enough and in what seemed an accident, got tripped by the hobbit's foot and fell to the floor, pulling Losse down with him. There was a moment of confusion in which he made a minor change as he helped Losse up. Acting really embarassed he muttered something about maybe being a little too tipsy for such a good dancer and started making his way back to Teluyaviel, with his little prize secured in his fist.
It was not without surprise to find her talking to the same elf he had seen before. "Smart man you are, Farael..." he told himself "seeking your petty revenge you let Telu alone and... but no, she is an elf and he is an elf. You should not interfere." He sighed then, having completely forgotten Losse who was not too far behind and walked up to Teluyaviel "Excuse me, M'lady, I would not want to... interrupt you. I just wanted to give you back what belongs to you" with a bow and a smile he offered the hairpin she had given to Losse before. While helping her up, he had changed the expensive, well crafted hairpin fora simpler one he had borrowed from an unsuspecting hobbit. Forcing a smile to his lips, Farael bowed again "Now I shall leave you two alone if you wish, Teluyaviel. It was a mightly pleseant night in your company so far but I should not keep you away from your own people"
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I prepared Explosive Runes this morning. |
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#2 |
Haunting Spirit
Join Date: Feb 2005
Location: Halls of Oromë
Posts: 54
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Her touch, light as it was, made him gasp. Emlin stifled his reaction, but could not avoid the next when her thoughts gently touched his. He was glad for the interruption as the man came near and spoke with Teluyaviel. It gave him time to order the sudden tangle his thoughts had got into.
Emlin waited as the man gifted her a pretty, jeweled hairpin, watching the interaction between the two. The man had a soldier’s bearing and Emlin wondered that he would withdraw so readily. ‘I am no warrior, yet I would not retreat given a prize as fair as she,’ he thought to himself. He nodded at the man as he made to go. ‘M’lady,’ Emlin said, offering her his hand as he stood. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we walked about and spoke. My thoughts have suddenly gone all topsy-turvy. I’d rather they not frighten you with their incoherency.’
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But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Lúthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity . . . |
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#3 |
Shade of Carn Dûm
Join Date: Nov 2004
Location: Curled up on Melko's lap
Posts: 425
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Tevildo was doing a nightime perambulation of his regular haunts in Bywater and Hobbiton. He'd already been down to Bag-end and paid his respects to the tiger colored feline who was the boss of the place responsible for keeping Samwise and his brood in line. Then he'd stopped off at the Proudfoots' orchard to check out a nest of mice. They had apparently been told of his approach and had managed to hide inside a hollow log whose opening was too narrow for him to do anything more than reach in with a single paw and blindly grope about with his claws, coming away without a single prize.
He was feeling rather grumpy and wanted to do some mischief. He'd picked up a cold somewhere during the day that made his nose run and his eyes water. He liked playing tricks on the stupid two-leggeds and was searching for a place where he could make a grand entrance. As he padded down the road that led from Hobbiton to Bywater, he noticed that several hobbits were heading towards the Green Dragon, talking excitedly about a party that was happening there. As he rounded the curve in the road, the sound of music and of two-leggeds talking quickly assailed his ear. How wonderful! Tevildo loved a party. Perhaps he could snatch a bit to eat. Cook made the finest fish fry in all of the Shire. Or, better yet, he could cause a spot of trouble and get everyone to look at him. Slinking in to the party grounds, he could see an assortment of hobbits, elves, and men: some dancing, others eating, many talking with each other. A few hobbits were laughing over some private joke, but many of the other partygoers seemed extremely solemn, engaged in weighty conversations. First, he sidled up to one of the large tables and caught a lovely odor coming from a steaming bowl. He managed to stick his nose inside a goodly pot of Cook's chicken stew and was thoroughly enjoying himself when a rude person came along and chased him away. I'll show them! Tevildo's purr had disappeared, and, in its place was a threatening growl. He eyed the main table where the desserts were sitting. That looked like a good target, but it might be risky. A large Elf with a grim face was standing at one end. Then he saw a smaller table where several female figures stood close by. There was a fine white tablecloth and on top of that a large bowl of punch and a smaller one of nuts. How perfect! All he had to do was get his claws into the tablecloth and the whole thing should come tipping over, punchbowl and all, perhaps splashing skirts that the two-leggeds were wearing. With a single bound, Tevildo leapt. He landed half on and half off the table, his body hanging over the side and his tail lashing menacingly back and forth. The weight of his body--he was definitely a fat cat--dragged on the cloth. Slowly, the contents of the table inched over to the edge until Tevildo and the cloth went hurtling into the air and the brightly colored punch sprayed in all directions.
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Now Tevildo was a mighty cat--the mightiest of all--and possessed of an evil spirit,...and he was in Melko's constant following; and that cat had all cats subject to him, and he and his subjects were the chasers and getters of meat for Melko's table. Last edited by Tevildo; 02-04-2006 at 11:47 AM. |
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#4 |
Ghost Prince of Cardolan
Join Date: Jan 2004
Posts: 704
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‘Don’t need any planning!’ Hanson whispered, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He pointed to where the cat and punchbowl were flying through the air. There was a loud crash and the punch fanned out, splashing a great number of the partygoers. The attention of most of the crowd turned to the soggy fiasco.
‘Come on!’ said Hanson, pulling on Wren’s hand. Tim and Woody followed after. The table on which the cakes sat had a lovely tablecloth that hung over the sides and ends; making it, for all practical purposes much like a secret cave beneath. The four children sneaked along the side farthest from the party area. One by one, each ducked beneath the table. The light from the candle lanterns in the trees threw a soft glow through the white cloth. ‘Now here’s what we do,’ explained Hanson, who had done this once before at a gathering held up by the party tree. One would stand by the table, keeping watch. One would spy out an easy to grab cake, and pass it down to the two beneath the table, along with some spoons. He looked to where the mess around the punch bowl was being sorted out. Surely no one would notice if they borrowed a small pitcher of milk, too, to pass round. ‘Woody . . . you and Wren go fetch some milk for us first. Then we’ll bring the cake under when you’ve got back.’ He looked at Tim with a grin on his face. ‘Me and Tim’ll spy out the best cake while you’re gone.’
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If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world – J.R.R. Tolkien |
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#5 |
Shade of Carn Dûm
Join Date: Mar 2005
Posts: 400
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She smiled up at Emlin and took his hand. ‘My wrap, if you don’t mind. I’ve left it on the verandah railing. Would you mind terribly fetching it for me? I really don’t want to run into my brother at the moment.’
Teluyaviel watched as Emlin wove his way through the crowd. She was glad for these moments to herself. Like him, she found herself perplexed, her thoughts . . . not exactly confused, just pushed into new channels. What exactly did he mean to say to her? They had only met this evening. And that by chance, not design. She picked one of the small flowers from the vase on the table and twirled it about in her fingers, the rhythmic motion focusing the direction of her thoughts. There was something so . . . she could not think of the exact word. ‘Meldo . . .’ she whispered to herself . . . ‘dear friend . . .’ She smiled, thinking of Farael. ‘Melda,’ she said aloud, trying another word on her tongue. A random breeze made her shiver a little. Telu’s brow furrowed as she thought on it. ‘Melda . . .’
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . . Last edited by Undómë; 02-05-2006 at 04:09 AM. |
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#6 |
Vice of Twilight
Join Date: Nov 2002
Location: on a mountain
Posts: 1,121
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The hobbit looked as though perhaps he had tried to keep tidy on the road, for he certainly wasn't as dirty-looking as he might have been. And, indeed, the expectant light in his eyes seemed to signify that he had a good reason to look his best. But Posco Brandybuck was often referred to by those in his hometown as the 'muddy hobbit.' He had a wonderful genius for attracting dirt, and nobody had been able to break him of his grimy habits, not even himself, for in truth it was not that he did something to make himself dirty. It simply happened.
The lights of the Green Dragon warmed Posco's heart greatly, for he had fond memories of the place. No, memories not merely fond, but beautiful. What bright, bonny eyes she had, and her lovely chestnut hair. Dear, sweet little Lily... he had not seen her since he had escorted her back to her home, despite their engagement. And his shyness, sometimes so deep that it was absurd, forbade him to go call on her at her home, and ride off with her as his bride. And so he made his way to the Dragon, hoping that she would be there. Perhaps she would be. And even if she wasn't... perhaps he could gather enough courage to go to her. "Good grief, we're terribly lucky. I have such bad memories if this Inn. First we arrive in the pouring rain, soaked and miserable, and nearly dead with exhaustion. And now we arrive in the midst of a party! I prefer the rain." Posco did not even turn to the gruff voice that had uttered such cheerful words, but gazed with some consternation at what did indeed seem to be a party. He hesitated for a moment, for he was not very fond of parties either. All the people... But, then again... "If it's a choice between Aunt Malva and a party, I choose the party, Marcho," said Posco. "I don't want to go stay with Aunt Malva. Besides, I think Lily would like a party." "Yes, yes, Lily would like a party," said Marcho. "I can't understand how you can go traipsing all over the Shire, and risk your sanity by rushing into a crowd of people when you know very well you're afraid of them, just because of a hobbit lass called Lily." Posco made no reply, but strode with great determination along the road. Yet as the lights grew nearer, and the sound of voices and merry laughter drifted to their ears, Posco's steps began to falter, and his face grew worried. Marcho had been watching him keenly, and took advantage of the moment. "It isn't too late to turn back, Posco," he said. "I said from the beginning that it would be more sensible to go to her house, anyway, if you really must go see her at all." "I couldn't do that," said Posco. "And whyever not?" "Well... well... well... well, you see, it's much too dangerous. Bree isn't safe place. There are too many Big Folk there." "We learned last time we came here that there are no lack of them at the Dragon. Posco, you're simply too shy to visit her." "Why should I be shy around Lily?" "Very well, then, you've changed your mind and you're only making this trip to satisfy your conscience. You'll say afterwards that you tried to find her, and you couldn't." Posco drew himself up to his full hobbit height. "That," he said, "is utterly absurd." And then he strode firmly to the Inn. |
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#7 |
Haunting Spirit
Join Date: Feb 2005
Location: Halls of Oromë
Posts: 54
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‘Now where have you been, my dear Emlin?’ Rowan caught up to the Elf as he was walking away from the verandah. ‘An interesting shawl you’ve got there. On your arm.’ She plucked it from him and unfurled it, clutching it about her shoulders. She twirled, letting the ends fly out about her.
‘You are in a most excellent mood, Rowan.’ Emlin stood hands on hips watching her. His eyes slid to where the band were gathered on the stage. ‘Ah! Master Gil, is it?’ He raised his brows at her, nodding toward where Gil stood, about to begin a song. The Hobbit glanced often toward where Rowan stood, his eyes lingering on her. ‘And are you leading him along, little mistress? He seems quite besotted. Where do your affections lie?’ He took back the shawl, folding it neatly over his arm. ‘Take care, Rowan. It is strange, this fair night. You may find yourself reeled in by your own nets.’ Emlin left her standing there, a puzzled look on her face. ---------- She was still sitting on the bench where he’d left her. Emlin stopped in the shadows of the little copse of trees near the edge of the party area. He could barely catch his breath as he looked at her. And why was this so, he wondered? It was not a thing he had looked for. He had, in fact, considered leaving at the end of this year; once he and his companions had returned to Lindon. Let them continue on their way, playing and singing as they went along. He would scarce be missed with his small talent in playing the flute, his singing. His intention was to take one of the ships that still left from the Havens and sail Westward. Now those plans seemed all confounded. And he cared not. Emlin came upon her quietly. She twirled a small fragrant flower in her fingers. And he caught the word she’d murmured quietly, to herself. He plucked the blossom gently from her grip, his own fingers securing it amidst the dark strands of her hair. He wrapped her shawl about her, tying the ends loosely at the front so that it would not slip from her shoulders. ‘Shall we walk?’ he asked, offering his hand to her. Melda . . .?
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But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Lúthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity . . . |
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