Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Mhairi |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Syriana |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Mhairi |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Mhairi |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Mhairi |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
PotbellyHairyfoot |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
|
PotbellyHairyfoot |
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep on: October 17, 2005 08:30
|
|
(OOC: sorrysorrysorry!!! i hope this makes up for things...i will have another post soon.)
Part One
He regained his footing, chest heaving, and tore through the brush, ignoring the brambles tearing and pulling at his leathers and the flesh on his arms, hands, and face.
...that voice...
It called to him, echoed in his mind, clawed at his spirit...
Tripping over another outgrown root, he tumbled down a leaf-laden knoll, stabbed by dead laden branches and bruised by rocks. He gained his feet quickly, eyes darting, and continued his flight. The horizon continued to become swallowed up in darkness, in a bottomless chasm, and as an animal he fled, not wanting to be taken.
He tripped once more, arms and legs flailing, furs ripping and flung aside in his wake. He grunted as he came to a rapid stop against a still standing tree. Clutching his sides in pain, he rested for a moment, only a moment, and once again, tried to remember.
What is left to remember, darkling? he heard. You are naught but an animal now - you know this to be true. Naught of your friends have come for you. Naught of your heritage is left, not even your fairness. For you bear the marks of your brokenness. Come to me!
He felt too weak to respond, to scream his defiance. Yet what rebellion had he left? What form or trinket did he bear that bespoke of his bearings, of his home?
What purpose was there to resist?
He remembered little now. The grief he bore upon being at the hands of Grimbald and the Dark One destroyed all happy memory that proved him Elven. All he could retain were memories that caused him pain, as readily as he was to deny it - battles, injury, death, losing comrades to the halls of Mandos. The Dark One knew him, and continued seeking to break him.
He leaned his head against the tree, and looked up at the branches. The trees used to sing to him, to tell him the currents of the world. Now they spoke silence to him.
"Eru..." he whispered, with the remains of his strength. "Forgive me my pride...i wish not to be taken. Please help me...for my strength has left..."
He closed his eyes, his spirit's strength waned. He could do little to fend off Angband's master. He rested, allowing fate to decide his doom. He accepted, and prayed he could no longer retain new memories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He opened his eyes, feeling a fluttering at his cheek. It was a butterfly, brightly colored yellow, shimmering in the meager moonlight the forest canopy allowed. He watched it as it fluttered near his face and the green he rested upon. He lifted his hand, and it lit upon his finger briefly before cautiously wafting away. Everything forgotten momentarily, he watched the butterfly and its harmless movements. And remembered a memory.
He sat quietly near the table, resting in the lodge after a day of roaming. He didn't want to eat, to roam, to come in contact with anyone. He was content to just sit, and watch the lady healer write, wash, or cook herself a meal.
At one point, she noticed, and blushed, quickly stopping her work. “Would you have me prepare you a meal, my lord?” she said softly.
He shook his head slightly, and continued to study her. She was beautiful, yes, but that wasn't his subject of study. He wondered of her motives, of why she hummed elvish lullabies while she worked, why she diligently stitched holes in his tunics late in the night with only lamplight to brighten her room. Although unstable as he was, he wasn't ignorant of her work.
He continued to say nothing, and Eruntalle continued to grow uncomfortable underneath the scrutiny of his distant blue eyes. She looked away, and resumed the preparation of her own simple meal.
Then, abruptly, he spoke: “Why are you here?”
Eruntalle blinked, looking over to him. “What mean you, my lord?”
“Why do you stay here to care for me? They've dubbed me insane, in Menegroth. I'm not oblivious. Why have you decided to inhabit this place here with me?”
The lady healer looked away for a moment, folding her hands, and it was clear she was searching for the appropriate words to respond with. “My lord Strongbow...it...it is because I want to see you become well.”
“To see me well? Or to make me well yourself?”
She held his gaze for a moment. “No. I want to see you well again, in the prime of your life again – it matters not if I have a part in it. In truth, the Lord and Lady asked me to accompany you here. I know you suffered much, and my only wish is to see you at peace.”
He laughed derisively. “Dear Eruntalle. Your wishes are lofty.”
She was near to respond, yet a butterfly had wound its way through the open window, gossamer wings flapping gently as it fluttered to greet Eruntalle. It brushed against her cheek and she laughed softly, holding out her hand. It lit upon her hand, thin legs crawling and examining her skin.
“All of life is such as this butterfly, my lord,” Eruntalle said gently, watching the butterfly's movements. “There are forces that could easily destroy it. Yet there are forces at work that move to protect this creature and all that it represents.”
“And what does it – and all life – represent?”
She looked at him, and smiled tenderly. “Goodness. As long as there is goodness, then life is worth living, and it is worth protecting that goodness. If an inkling of goodness lives in your heart, then you are not lost, my lord Strongbow. The Dark One fears goodness.”
He drank in Eruntalle's words and memory as water. He rose once more, and dropped his spear, pulling off the remainders of his furs. The chasm continued to grow and slither towards him, accompanied by the sound of a growling, unidentifiable beast, yet he stood firm.
“You may have broken me, but have not sapped my spirit,” he spoke darkly. “There are forces here that work against you.”
With his regained memory of Eruntalle, triggered by the butterfly, he knew he could overcome instinct, and begin to feel once more – feelings not just of pain, anger, and suffering. He knew he wasn't an animal. He had a destiny, a purpose. What that purpose was he wasn't certain of, but he knew that he was meant to fulfill it. He knew his other memories would return to him. While instinct still controlled him, its reins, from that moment, began to weaken. He examined himself, and he knew.
As long as he was the Strongbow, goodness still lived in his heart.
The chasm continued to threaten to engulf him, but it slowed its approach.
“Begone from me,” he spoke aloud. “You own me no longer. I only grow stronger because of you.”
The chasm kept approaching, its endless maw stretching to his feet.
“Leave me!”
The beastly sound that followed the chasm began to roar in angry defiance, and the chasm began to shudder violently.
“By Eru's power, LEAVE ME!”
The chasm began to waver, stretching further, and began to crumble in upon itself. He could hear the sound of the beast roaring in anger. The chasm crumbled further and further into a pile of rock that slowly dissipated into a mist, and faded away, along with the incensed sounds of the beast.
He closed his eyes in the silence, relishing it. A weight had left his chest, and his heart. He winced slightly, as he felt the cuts upon his arms and face, and the bruises upon his torso. He breathed, and he felt the cool, clean air enter his lungs. He looked up through the forest canopy, and noticed the bright rays of the moon. And he smiled.
He knew the Dark One would not cease to hunt him, but was merely deterred. Melkor would never stop haunting his path. But this did not mean the Strongbow was not able to heal.
He started as he heard the growls of a beast once more. He looked through the brush and brambles in the sounds' directions and recognized the sound; it was no longer the sound of the chasm, but of a warg. He realized that even as the chasm left him, he was still not alone in the forest. His eyes pierced the brush and descried a small form fending off the beast. He could also hear the sharp sounds of a Dwarvish tongue.
...Findley!
[Edited on 19/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
[Edited on 26/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
|
|
Beleg_StrongbowMaster marksman, and ancestor to that Greenleaf kidPosts: 148 Send Message |
RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep on: October 26, 2005 11:53
|
|
Part Two
The battle had waged for a time before Mablung arrived with a start. He had covered the distance the Dwarf had made rather easily, and peered through the brush. He withdrew his sword and cautiously walked into the fold; he did not want to injure the Petty Dwarf's pride, yet also he had no wish to see Findley slain.
“Might I join?” He called, flipping forward his sword, eyes locking onto the warg that had already sensed him.
“Don't be taking all of my fun, Master Elf! Hah!” Findley responded, a glint in his eye. Mablung wondered if he had become fey again; he could not be blamed, for he had lost almost all whom he loved to the dark creations of Angband such as the warg they faced.
Mablung narrowed his eyes slightly, looking upon the fur patterns of the beast. “This is the warg of the Easterling,” he declared. As he noted the bloodied slashes upon its thick hide, he added, “We should not kill it, friend Findley.”
“And why not?” What good is it to respect her effects, meaning this hulking mass of corpse flesh?” The Petty Dwarf sputtered.
Mablung regarded Findley gravely. “Remember the refugees, my friend.”
“I remember them,” Mablung couldn't see the Petty Dwarf's expression, yet knew it was pained. “She was only there to help to earn her own freedom.”
“You know that not to be truth,” the Elf gently rebuked. “She fought for them, alongside us. She fought for you.”
Findley said nothing, only nodding after a time. “Aye. What to do, then?”
“To weaken it, if anything – or to fetter it somehow--” Mablung stopped short as the beast charged once more. He leapt away as Findley scurried between the warg's thick legs, narrowly being mauled and crushed by its fearsome paws.
Heavy-Hand deftly climbed a tree and pulled a length of silvery Elven rope from his satchel. Typing a portion of it tightly to a thick branch, he called to Findley, who continued to unwillingly distract the beast. He cast the other end of the rope to the Petty Dwarf, who toddered towards it and continued his flight from the warg.
“What am I to do with this?!” Findley cried. “Make some sense, blasted Elf!”
Mablung left the tree, swiftly removing his bow and training an arrow upon its bowstring. Quickly he released the dart, lightly nicking the beast along its backside to serve as a distraction. And distract it did – te beast stopped its pursuit, roaring in pain, forgetting Findley and turning its dull glare upon the Elf.
He sprinted towards a tree opposite of the first one, the Warg snapping at his legs, and leapt into the tree's branches.
“Catch it within the rope!” he cried to Findley. Blinking momentarily, Findley did so, tossing the rope into a loop about the beast's hulking neck- after several tries and several near-maulings - and pulling. It reared back and roared fiercely, slobbering and snarling, its front legs clawing the air.
Findley then understood, and quickly tied the other end of the rope to a large rock. Hobbling over to the tree Mablung lighted in, he cried as he threw the rock and thus the rope, “Take the rope, laddie! Tie him off!”
As Mablung did so, he added warily, a good distance from the angered warg, “Although it still wouldn't be my taming of choice for this smelly bag of orc refuse. You're too gentle, I say.”
Mablung grinned as he finished the complicated knot around the trunk of the strong, sturdy tree. The beast roared in indignance, thrashing its head and body about and pulling at the rop that anchored and ensnared it. It snapped its jaws once more at Findley, who taunted it with one of his axes. Mablung left the tree and gently moved Findley away from the beast's mouth, smiling.
“No need to incense it further, Master Dwarf.”
Mablung paused, looking away and into the forest. Elven eyes pierced the brush and bramble, and he stepped forward. He had been able to sense his brother-in-arms ever since their first training together, ever since their mission to help the refugees, ever since the Strongbow's capture and release from Grimbald, and his descent into madness.The strength of his presence had ever wavered to Mablung, and had grown very faint, even to the point of fleeing existence. Yet now, Heavy-Hand sensed his comrade very well; he felt the same strength he bore before his madness. ...was it possible?
“What is it?” Findley interjected, following the marchwarden. “What do you see?”
Mablung smiled. “You revere him, friend Findley. You should sense him now as well.” He watched the Dwarf train his small brown eyes towards the brush, and laughed heartily. “It's him, is it not?”
The Elf stopped short as he heard a tearing. He turned to see a branch missing from the first tree he tied the Elven rope to.
...where was the warg?
A dark blur blocked his vision, and he quickly found himself flat upon the ground, his abdomen searing in pain. It took him only a moment to realize that the warg's strength proved great enough – break not the rope, but the branch – and charge and gore him. His senses were assailed with the filthy stench of the warg and the metallic odor of blood. He felt the weight of the warg, it's razor teeth in his shoulder. He momentarily yielded to unconsciousness only to hear the shouts of the Petty Dwarf, and of someone else. After a moment, the warg moved its bulk off of him. He lifted his head enough to see the beast back away slowly, growling still – but its head bowed, relenting to someone behind him.
He looked back, and beheld his brother-in-arms, stained, bloodied and disheveled, slight, furs gone, eyes clear. He had returned to them. Though he was dirty and looked the least bit of an Elf, he was the Strongbow once more. The warg had yielded to his command.
Mablung lifted a crimson-stained hand to him, and felt the Strongbow take it and cradle his head.
“I appear to have caused you ill, my comrade...please, forgive me. For everything.”
He looked upon the Strongbow for a time. His comrade bore the same facade, but a different spirit. His eyes still blazed blue, but darkness boiled behind them no longer. Something had happened during the Strongbow's time in the wildnerness, with the Easterling, within himself. He had changed.
Findley arrived near Mablung's other side, bushy beard twitching, small brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Blast that beast! I should slay it now! Why couldn't you heed the advice of a Dwarf, you blasted Elf?”
“He will live,” the Strongbow calmed Findley's unspoken worries, then smiled down at Mablung. “I will care for you as you have cared for me, Heavy-Hand. Rest now.”
Mablung nodded, smiling weakly, and released his worries, fears, and doubts, and sank into unconsciousness.
Findley held the Strongbow's gaze. “You've come back. I told him you never did leave us. I told him we would come to find you once more. His worries have finally rewarded him.”
The Strongbow lifted Mablung into his arms, and glanced over to Findley. “Thank you... for not conceding defeat,” he said simply.
Findley nodded, eyes gleaming, grinning through his beard. “Aye. I knew you were still there.”
The journey from the Strongbow's wanderings to the lodge where Eruntalle waited initially allowed for several days. But with the Strongbow's renewed strength and retained leechcraft, he wrapped Mablung's wounds tightly and traveled swiftly with his comrade throughout the nights, with few rests.
Upon the Strongbow's wait, Findley urged him forward. “I'll only serve to delay you. You get him to the lady healer; I'll arrive in due course.”
Thus the Strongbow entered the lodge in half the time, delivering Mablung into the arms of Eruntalle. Upon her great surprise and jubliation at his return, they both knew Mablung was the one that direly needed Eruntalle's well-versed attentions.
He already sensed marchwardens nearby. He turned, walking out of the lodge and to the front entrance, and beheld two of them who had left their posts and stood before him. They bowed before him for a few moments.
“We welcome your return, Cuthalion,” they said. “You are very well met.”
He bowed his head slightly. “Please tell the Lord and Lady.”
One marchwarden hesitated. “But Cuthalion – what of the Easterling?”
He paused as he turned away to enter the lodge once more. “She has done her part. Leave her be. She is still an ally to myself – and to Doriath.”
[Edited on 26/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
|
|
PotbellyHairyfoot |
|
Happy_Hobbit |
|
PotbellyHairyfoot |
|
Mhairi |
|
Mhairi |
|