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Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: July 26, 2003 08:59
(from a joint effort with the lurvely HH)

Mablung looked around, he could see the dwarf was stuggling, his breath coming in harsh gasps. "Keep going ladd . . ." remember Angband, dont want that for him do ya?
He was scolding himself trying to force the last of his energies into reluctant legs.

Mablung stopped and swung round returning to Findleys side. "Good Findley, you should rest," he called. "The wound you bear will not heal should you act as if you were never injured."

"Nay, Heavy-Hand," Findley replied, shaking his head and the axe in his hands. "The herbs you gave me bid me well; I shall be first there to find the Strongbow with you."

Mablung only smiled softly and sighed, exchanging hopeless glances with Eaniel and the others. He searched for the Strongbow within his mind; he only knew that his fellow warden was still alive. But his whereabouts, he knew not. Silently he called to him but recieved no answer; quietly he entreatied the Strongbow to offer them some direction as to where he was, but he was given none.

"I thought you elves could mind read, can you not ask him where he is?" Findleys voice echoed on the edge of Mablungs own thoughts. "Do you have any of that sweet water with you . . . I could go a little faster with it to warm me through." He shivered a worried look passing across his face, replaced by a determined one.

Mablung handed Findley a bottle of the elvish liquid first given to the Dwarf when the Elven troupe found him unconcious in the forests. He opened the bottle for the Petty Dwarf upon request.

"Blast you elves and your fancy contraptions," Mablung heard muttered from behind.

"In such a case, Master Dwarf -- blast the stunted people and their impatience." But Mablung could not be entirely firm with him-- for Findley only outwardly expressed an ardor and urgency that Mablung had held within him the moment he first realized the Strongbow was missing.

"Well Laddie what are you waiting for? Go on the others will be there afore you. Dont you be worring about me now I got this!" He waved the small flask at the Elf hoping it will convince him to continue the hunt. For a moment Findley was resolved to stay put. He couldn't keep up, logically he knew he would only slow them down. They needed speed and he couldn't match it. A great sadness and helplessness fell like a shadow over his heart as he watched the Elves move off once more.

Their footsteps remained soundless, even upon dry leaves-- save for the petty dwarf who chose moister ground to stomp upon. Mablung kept his bow taut with an arrow, pausing to straighten his stature and listen. He looked to the other Elves as they left Findley behind, and their expressions mirrored his own. They were to continue. He felt the Strongbow's presence grow stronger; they were nearing.

And ever so faintly...Mablung heard voices, and laughing. But not one from an elvish banquet, or even a dwarven celebration as he would have accepted at that point -- but Orc voices.

As he sat watching them leave he had already begun to argue with himself, "Go hunt Orc " he told em but he knew he would be there too even if it be a little late, rising to his feet he found they were strong enough to bear him again, such magic was in the fine liquid, he would ask for the recipe someday soon. for now his concentration was upon the ground. Since he had known the Elves he had learnt to follow a finer trail than those of old, carefully at first he moved forward until he was sure of the direction they were heading then he settled into a steady trot, weather it was the drink or the cold or just sheer guts he knew not, he kept going for over an hour until at last he caught sight of them ahead.

They had stopped he feared at first all was lost then upon the air he heard it the thin blast of a whistle followed by the clamour of Orc voices. Could it be the Strongbow still lived. Urged on by hope Findley ran forward once more.

With his elven sight he descried far off a dark troupe of ghastly folk amongst a bright fire. Mablung caught a golden glint reflect the fire-- he spied a slightly slumped over figure, the Strongbow. He paused only for a moment, taking in the Strongbow's appearance -- was his golden hair shorter--?

He signaled to the others, even though they already knew; they brandished their weapons, their faces growing dark and determined. The closer they neared the Orc camp, the darker it seemed to be...not just in the absence of light, but in the air itself. Mablung realized that he neared labored to breathe-- they were near to Angband, he reminded himself; he suppressed a shudder.

The group of elves paused, and breathed rhythmically, as a pack of predators silently sizing up a promising, unsuspecting prey. Mablung slowly lifted up a hand to signal an attack; they need not take pause to choose one, for they left their battles to the individual Elf. They all had their share of Orcs to fight from the past. Yet a small blur rushed by them, shaking and shuddering shrubs and leaves.

Findley had almost reached the clearing when he was hit with a weight pinning him to the ground, a hand placed over his mouth to stiffle his yell he was rolled quickly on his back, staring down at him an angry looking Marchwarden. For a moment Findley was too stunned then with a nod to Mablung he whispered " ohhh Oh right not just yet then eh?"


Mablung shook his head slightly, his eyes rather hard. He released the petty dwarf and rose silently to his feet, once again catching sight of the Strongbow, and a shadowy, hulking figure dressed in the pelts and skins of animals -- Grimbald.

"I will break you, fey Elf," he heard the Easterling gurgle angrily. "You will cry out as all the others I have tortured. Yet now I am beginning to see just how to torture you...not in the body...but the mind."

"What does that orc-lover mean?" Findley sputtered. "Why hasn't the Strongarm run him through yet?"

After clamping his hand around the dwarf's mouth once again, Mablung narrowed his eyes. He knew nothing of what the Strongbow truly feared -- and should he be apprehended, he would fight until he had no breath. His essence was within his name, the Strongbow---

--his bow. His bow!


At first they were a little confused for an orc was fetched before the Golden haired Elf something made the Strongbow draw a sharp intake of breath.

"My name was 'Hildor' once, Cuthalion," The Orc's voice was barely audible above the hiss and snarling of the gathered Orcs. "I was once your fellow warden. But see you now what Angband can do to even the mightiest of elves? And soon, it will happen to you......do not fear...for as time goes by, you care less...."

Grimbald's harsh laugh gave way to a snarl as the Orc walked over to the Easterling and placed something in his hands. Grimbald lifted it up into the light. It was the Strongbow's Bethronding. Placing one end upon a rock close to the Marchwarden's face he began to bend it, continuing until there was a slight snapping of fibres, he retsed for a moment delighting in the look of sheer horror on its owner's face and then with a hiss of delight he continued for a few moments it seemed that the bow would not yield, but then suddenly, it snapped.

Findley's heart sunk and Mablung's heart was pierced as perhaps the entire forests heard the maddened cryl of the Strongbow.




[Edited on 27/7/2003 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Happy_Hobbit
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 02, 2003 10:17
(Co-written with the wonderful Beleg)

Grimbalds mood was black, he had wanted to break the Strongbow's spirit and yet even now he still remained defiant. He had left his sorry form lying barely able to support itself, exhausted beyond limit. The Easterling glowered at the He-Elf his mind searching for the one weakness he knew must be there.

He had thought the nights torments would have brought him to his knees, few if any would fail to yeild to Grimbald's personal attention. He had enjoyed beating him, but that enjoyment had turned to seething anger when it became obvious the Strongbow was still unbowed.

What more could he do? He would not risk the wrath of his master by killing him. Maiming the Elf? He doubted even that would do it. No there had to be another way.

When light came, and the Strongbow was forced from much-wanted rest as the orc party jostled him awake and forced him along the route to their hellish abode. He struggled to breathe through sore lungs; he realized that the air was thicker, darker...and he realized that Angband was nearing.

He opened his red-tinted eyes to keep his step and his balance; he tasted blood along his lips. His hands were still securely tied behind his back, remaining as they were days ago, when he was captured. More blood he had lost...and weaker he was becoming....

He was shoved again. They would not let him rest.

As they marched Grimbald thought. He had not much time left again he called a halt, he needed to find it the one way to break him before they reached home.

He looked at the Orcs about him, some slumped on the ground others in twos or threes haggling over the meagre rations. They had all been elves once, now a terrible ruined race. Their pride lost, their beauty ruined, hopless, hideous within as well as without. They were Elves once.

He called one to him,

"Keep him on his feet, don't let him rest."

"I will break you, fey Elf,"


"You will cry out as all the others I have tortured. Yet now I am beginning to see just how to torture you...not in the body...but the mind."



He peered closer at this Orc.

"Wait! tell me, you were once a marchwarden were you not?"

The Orc eyes grew wide, he still remembered the cruetly with which he had been forced to 'forget' his identity, the pain still filled him each night driving his sanity away.

"Nooo . . ."

He felt Grimbalds anger rising, felt his grip tightening he began to beg, to plead, pitifully squirming under the Easterlings gaze. Grimbalds hand caught his chin gouging long claws across it. He snarled menacingly.

"Answer me. You were a marchwarden once were you not?"

"I dont know,"the Orc sobbed.

He was practically jabbering, his hands clawing desperately at his leaders garb as he tried unsuccessfully to soothe the Easterling,

"Tell me what I must say."

Grimbald hissed furiously, he shook the hapless Orc, half strangling the creature, such was his rage.

"Ai Elbereth!" the Orc whispered barely able to breathe."

Closing his eyes he waited for Grimbald to silence him.

Instead a great roar issued forth

"Haaa! . . . go introduce youself to our guest,"

His eyes now filled with a hint of triumph as they again fell upon the prone form lying a few feet away.

The Orc shuffled over to the Strongbow, hissing darkly he aimed a well placed kick to gain the Elf's attention..

My name was 'Hildor' once, Cuthalion,"

The Orc's voice was barely audible above the hiss and snarling of the gathered Orcs.

"I was once your fellow warden. But see you now what Angband can do to even the mightiest of elves? And soon, it will happen to you......do not fear...for as time goes by, you care less...."


The Strongbow raised his head to listen to the words of the seemingly repentant orc...and he remembered one called Hildor...one that he trained with, one that he became a marchwarden with...one that was beside him and Mablung as they flew through the trees.

The Orc seemed to smile slightly, lifting a malformed hand to the other members of the orc party. Some stared at the Strongbow in fascination or in malice, others looked away and would not meet his eye. "My kin," the Orc said simply. "These are my family members....those who once knew me...know me not at all...but that's because we lose that part of ourselves, you see..."


"And because we lose it...it matters not any longer..."

The Strongbow managed to find his voice amidst the repulsion that crept up his back. "Your children....and what of your children?"

The Orc dropped its arm, and turned away.

"Dead. Yet I know not their names anymore."


The Strongbow felt a rush of grief begin to overtake him; tears flooded his eyes. Yet he clenched his jaw and swallowed them; the former elf that stood before him would not be granted his sympathy and grief. He was an Orc now-- the Cursed. No compassion would he recieve from the Strongbow--he would not be broken.

Something came to the Orc, something from the past, his mind whirled with dark thoughts. So Strongbow you show me no pity, nor grief for my children,You have forsake me,then I forsake you, He walked to Grimbald handing Bethronding to him.

"Here is the means by which you will break him." His eyes lit as he percieved he had pleased his master.

Grimbald's harsh laugh gave way to a snarl, at last at last he knew how to break him, he held the bow in his hands, striding purposely to where the Marchwarden lay. He looked down the rage was gone replace with pure malice.


He placed the bow upon the ground careful to ensure the Elf could see it well, Without words he began to bend the bow, slowly, slowly, delighting in the Elf look of despair and sudden realisation, the fibres were strong but even they had limits, gradually the sound of ripping was heard.

Grimbald stopped, he was now sure he had the Elf.

Finally with a flourish he broke it. Bethronding, lay in two pieces and Grimbald loud roar of pleasure was soon replaced by another maddened cry.

The Strongbow immediately stood up from his place on the ground, and soon two burly Orcs were flanking him, clawed hands clinched into his upper arms.

His steel gaze rippled such as a lake when a pebble is thrown into it. He did not speak, but let his glare say all that he dared.

You challenge me still?

"You will pay for that, I am tired of toying with you 'LITTLE' Elf. I will break you like your bow and give the pieces to Morgoth to hang from his tower so all may see you broken."

"Where is the honeyed-tongued Easterling that stood before me? Why has this hairy warg-child come to me with his forked tongue and angry beatings?"

The Strongbow's voice was low, very low...he forced his head up as he knew he sustained more open, bleeding wounds.

"Why does he hide behind Yrch and wait until the hardened clay is melted before he tries to beat it and mould it to his own?"

"And beat you I will,"

With mocking snarl he brought his hand down knocking the elf to the ground. Poncing upon the Elf's beaten body, Grimbald held him. He had no weapon to hand. He searched the ground for a moment then with a snarl lifted Bethronding's blade.

With a growl he brought it down, as if in slow motion the Marchwarden twisted to his right the blade reached the binds of his wrists freeing them, almost as if it refused to harm him. The Strongbow rolled away, and reached into his bloodied shirt; he pulled out something bright and silver hanging upon a chain - the wolf-whistle. Shrilly its call echoed into the forests.

In rage Grimbald lept up , he did not need weapons, feet would do well enough. Somehow the Marchwarden swept his legs and Grimbald fell. Elf hands clawed at Easterling eyes, gouging in desperate attempt to blind. Bloody streaks appeared upon the Eastering's cruel face.

Grimbald yowelled in pain, staggering away and back to his feet. He lifted his foot, ready to bring it down upon the Strongbow.

His foot never fell, for into the clearing came the others, now was their time, Mablungs voice calling to them

"Strike Hard. Do not spare them for they will not spare you."

[Edited on 17/8/2003 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 16, 2003 02:12
The thin shrill of the silver whistle was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. The elves had raised their heads in query, wondering on the strange noise. Only Morikelva had understood the call.

Now she stood in shadow, outside the ring of the orcs' fire, every muscle tensed, her hand on the great claymore at her side. She was listening, but not to the low and spiteful voice of Grimbald, so intent on torturing Beleg. She sniffed the air. A soft rustle of dried leaves someway back up in the hills. A brief flash of something silver amongst distant undergrowth.

The elves sensed it and stiffened. Mablung came alongside Morikelva.

"What moves this night that chills and yet emboldens me?" he whispered.

Morikelva's dark eyes glittered, focused on nothing, moving in the direction of each tiny sound.

"For many years I have been alone", she murmured, "and yet never without company. Take heed not to stray too far from me, for what comes now is the spirit of the wild, which has taught me all I know and is at once fearsome and yet true".

Mablung stared at Morikelva, his eyes searching for answers in her face but the Easterling woman was motionless.

"When the time comes", she continued some long moments later, "take care with your blade and bow, for there will come amongst you those who seem foul but are yet fair. Creatures of the night. My brethren. Dark and yet not of Angband. I will be among them and you shall know them as friends from the valour in their hearts".

Mablung blinked disbelievingly at hearing Morikelva speak so eloquently. The Easterling warrior turned her head and smiled at Mablung, bemused but before she could reply to his questioning look, a sharp crack came from the camp. Grimbald was holding Beleg's bow, shattered, in his massive hands.

Mablung took a sharp intake of breath, risked one more glance at Morikelva and then melted into the shadows to rouse the elves to action.
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 31, 2003 09:09
He went mad; he saw his beautiful bow break and lost all sense of restraint. Grimbald the haggard Easterling was the only adversary in his sights, the only enemy that he was bent on destroying. All orcs faded away, and vaguely he heard warcries not from orcs, but from his own kind, he thought....briefly he caught a glimpse of flowing hair and flashing steel, and a glint of animal eyes hidden in the foilage -- he realized that he wasn't alone.

Yet all was forgotten as he pitted himself against Grimbald, roaring in his indignation that this foul excuse for a man dare to cut his hair and beat his body and break his bow. He let all elf-like demureness leave him, and felt as if he was a mighty, fiery Noldor of old released into a war. Yet it was as if he had left his body and watched an entirely different Elf fight against the Easterling. He was part of the fight, yet strangely unattached. He began to sense his fellow marchwarden near.

He struck the Easterling against the jaw, against his temple, and placed a firm hand hard against his solar plexus. He kicked the swarthy one in his side as he sank to the ground, leaping away from a clawed hand swiping at him. A burly orc lumbered at him, slobbering and pawing at him, in order to save Grimbald-- but the Elf was too quick; he whirled behind the orc. A muted crack signaled the orc's neck was broken.

The Strongbow threw the orc-corpse down and blocked a heavy fist from Grimbald, then another. He sensed a presence behind him nearing--and wheeled around quickly to catch another Orc keeling over, an arrow sent through its temple. A dark wolf leapt over the body and threw itself at another orc, biting at its throat.

Wolves...? Ah yes...

Grimbald roughly shoved the Strongbow away, sending him flying against a tree. The Elf rolled forward, quickly retrieving a rusting blade once belonging to a fallen orc. He lifted the blade to block the Easterling's own heavy, daunting sword, and slashed the dark one's stomach. Grimbald's roar of pain filled the forest; the Strongbow dropped to one knee, ducking to miss the swinging blade aimed for his decapitation. He thrust his weapon directly into the Easterling's chest, feeling the blade crash through bone and muscle. The Strongbow looked into dark, shocked eyes, forcing the blade even deeper, and grinned the grin of madness. A deathly silence suddenly settled over the din.

"You would break me?" he whispered over Grimbald's gurlges. "Who is broken now?"

Roughly he pulled the blade out of the dark one's chest, and watched as the body of what was once Grimbald the feared Easterling, leader of Orcs, slumped over. His eyes were glazed, his mouth open in disbelief.

The Strongbow realized then that he was breathing hard. He dropped the bloodied orc-blade, and stumbled as he turned around. He was too weak to feel joy or relief; yet he saw his kin standing before him, horror and disbelief in their expressions as they looked upon him. He saw the female Easterling; though her eyes were steady, her lips were parted in shock at his appearance. Dark shadows that flanked her side crept back into the foilage they came from; the wolves were leaving.

And he saw the dwarf...that...that blasted petty dwarf.....what..what business had he in...in coming...

The last image he saw was that of his comrade in arms Mablung, rushing over to him. Heavy-hand grew blurry as the ground rushed to meet the Strongbow. Then everything numbed, and darkened.

[Edited on 1/9/2003 by Beleg_Strongbow]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: September 13, 2003 11:08
The battle began, this was the time for revenge out here beyond the walls of Angband, where still its stench filled his nose excting the senses with feavered menace.

Fey was the Strongbow and fey too the pettey Dwarf, had it not been so his injured body would have been numbered among the dead.

He took the first orc with a swift blow of the axe, but his shoulder was too pain filled to lift it for the next, instead he brought it hard against the attaking orcs legs, severing the first and breaking the second, a wolf finished it.

The swish of a blade warned of another close by, Mablung had caught him before the machette he wielded fell, nodding his thanks Findley turned seeking another.

His eyes fell upon the Strongbow, mighty even in his battered and ragged state he had the Easterling on his back, a wry grin lit Findley's face. As he tried to move forward, he was hit in the back not by weapon but the weight of a dead orc falling, trying to save himself he thrust out his arms, one held but the other crumpled as the pain hit him.

He lay in agony gasping for air, trying to determine where the next attack was coming from, his legs seemed pinned, the dead orc was lying across them, struggling to gain his feet he looked up to see evil eyes looking down, the Orc snarrled.

Findley drew the small knife tucked in his belt, the Orc grinned bearing its teeth running a rugged hand over the curved blade he held, he raised it the knife hit the Orcs throat sendinghim crashing to the ground, with a desperate grip upon the orcs flying leg Findley was pulled free.

He bent to pick up the knife, darkness began to swirl, he suddenly felt sick and very weary, looking to his left he could see the strongbow, the Easterlings blood dripping from the blade he held,

"You have triumphed my friend" He wispered to him trying to reach him with what remained of his strength, the battle seemed to move away, it was quiet now save for the odd snarl and cry of despair from the fallen.

Mablung gently lifted the Strongbow, he was so light, almost an empty shell yet within that shell the fire that was the Strongbows spirit still burned fiercely.

Setting him to his feet he held him upright allowing him the dignity of taking a few steps from the battle field, then as he slipped into unconciousness once more he carried him.

"Come firend Findley, we are done here, let the others finish those that remain, we must seek safe haven."

Findley nodded.

Slowly the threesome moved out of the battle field. When they were a safe distance away Mablung laid the Marchwarden on the ground, casting a critical eye over his unconcious form.
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: September 22, 2003 07:56
The Strongbow was much too light in Mablung's arms. He ignored all other sounds of battle as to him, it was over; he called Findley to his side as he settled his comrade against a soft bed of leaves and laid a gentle hand upon him, speaking soft words of elvish.

*My brother....can you hear me?*

The Strongbow's breathing was faint...his lips barely moved. Mablung was taken back at his deathly pallor and the blue black shadows on his face and arms, the red tinge upon his lips and in various open wounds. He let his emotion overtake him for a moment as his eyes grew cloudy with tears and his hand gingerly lifted a shortened lock of his kin's hair.

*What have they done to you??*

"Heavy-Hand," Findley's gruff voice broke his mourning. "Tis no time to be overtaken by soddy emotions....just be glad he is as fiery as he is. If he was as gentle as yourself...well...I doubt he may have survived."

Mablung deigned not to answer, except only by a nod. He felt all professional training leave him as a captain of the marchwardens. Only instinct answered as he knew he must deliver his friend and kin to the hands of someone skilled, even skilled beyond the hands of Heliana. He must deliver his fellow marchwarden to his Queen....and soon. For the Strongbow was withering, and had been through much. He knew that he needed to be taken to Menegroth...to Lady Melian.

Yet the Petty Dwarf-- what would they say? What would Lord Greymantle agree to?

Mablung pushed such thoughts aside. Dwarf as he was, Findley was valuable. Ornery and raucous as he was, the Dwarf was....was a friend. He would not be left behind...not alone with his poisoned and enflamed shoulder...not alone with his deeds of valor.

The others...what of the others? Mablung paused only for a moment. He knew that many of the fugitive troupe hailed from Beleriand; he hoped that they did not forget their way to the Hidden Kingdom. He would tell the guards to keep watch for their arrival and to prepare food and rooms for them all. In his thoughts he sent a message to Artalion to keep track of the steps Mablung made into the spongy ground.

With that he scooped the Strongbow's limp form back into his arms and walked on. Thankfully he was not injured, and felt not tired. He glanced once at the Petty Dwarf who was slowly limping behind, and smiled softly at what the stunted one held in his hands -- each held a broken half of what was once a beautiful bow of black yew-wood...Belthronding. The Strongbow's quiver was slung over the Dwarf's back and nearly touched the ground.

Mablung glanced again-- and noticed the Dwarf's steps falter. The wound in his shoulder-- it was taking over again. Findley needed true attention to that would as much as the Strongbow needed aid....Heavy-Hand only hoped that Lady Melian didn't mind to tend to a dwarf.

He shifted the Strongbow's body to drape over one of his shoulders, and used his free arm to steady Findley and allow him to lean against him.

Findley pulled away slightly and blinked up at Mablung, his bright eyes clouding over with sickness and pain. "Aye..thank ya Master Elf...."

"Stay true, Master Dwarf..." Mablung command in as firm of a voice as he could find. "Aid will come to you soon. Listen for the song of the nightengales...it soon grows louder."

"Night-nightengales?" Findley wrinkled his nose. "What mean ye......aye....the Girdle....are we...are we in it?"

Mablung smiled slightly down at the dwarf, but did not take time to answer as he shoved the dwarf to the ground and gently dropped the Strongbow's unconcious body down with him -- just as a cruel, rusted blade sailed through the air, through the very space Findley's body was occupying -- and rammed into the trunk of a tree.

"Ai! BACK!" Mablung commanded at the Orc that slithered through the Girdle. "No foul fiend of the Dark One shall step foot through the Girdle of Melian, Maiar of Este! Back to your darkness! May you be lost FOREVER!"

The Orc paused, balking at the other-wordly form the Elf had taken, as if a light was shining through his body and skin, as if a poweful Maiar stood before him and was revealed in his true terrible form. The Orc held up his hands and shook his head, and was soon swallowed up in the golden mist, crying out for direction, losing his sight...and losing his senses.

Mablung's form was taut, then relaxed as he saw the Orc fade away. As he picked the Strongbow back up into his arms, he smiled slightly at Findley's weary but awestruck expression, and helped him back to his feet with a firm hand. "Tis no time to be overtaken by soddy emotions, Master Dwarf...leave us to continue. Quickly, now. Help is soon arriving."
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: September 26, 2003 11:27
It was obvious from the first moments she saw him that Heliana could do little to heal the stricken Marchwarden. True she could patch up the open wounds but to heal him fully was beyond her skill.

Findley stood grim faced already he knew he was going to leave her behind, it could not be helped, she needed to attend to Eldaline the Strongbow was in urgent need of help.

As she finished tying the last bandage Findley reached out to take her hand, tho wearied beyond exhaustion he gently pressed a kiss upon it then smiling hoping to ease her sadness he bid her farewell.

Although they were in a desperate hurry Findleys injuries meant that progress was slower than they hoped, try as he might his strength failed Often Mablung was forced to wait for the petty Dwarf to catch up, yet never once did he lose patience.

Findley found a growing respect for the younger Marchwarden, though it would never match that for the Stronbow. For although the Strongbow was a Sindar Elf Findley saw in him the light and strength of the Noldar, the race of Elves that carried in them all the pride and promise of the Valar themselves.

He was Dwarven yes and fiercely proud but still this Elf had more than prooved his worth, for that reason Findley bore Bethlonding, his own tribute to the Cuthalions hero status.

When they finally reached the outer edge of the Hidden Realm Findley was witnessed to the power of the Elves for by voice alone Mablung turned an Orc.

Such wonders filled Findley with awe and for the first time in his life he wondered what it would be like to be an elf, brief as it was he would never again be quite the Dwarf he was.

Watching Mablung lift the Strongbow once more, he followed encouraged that Mablung at least felt hopefull that help would soon reach then.



[Edited on 26/9/2003 by Happy_Hobbit]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 06, 2003 10:07
During the battle- not that it really could be called a battle, or even a skirmish, Eaniel had hung back, not as much afraid as she had been unsure. Ever since the fight with the Orcs outside of Heliana’s home, where she and the other women had hidden in the back room, a fog had settled upon Eaniel’s mind. She couldn’t think clearly, and dreams seemed more real than waking.

Threads of song, a melody or a phrase, wandered through her mind as she watched the others with detachment- lullabys from her childhood, war-lays of the warriors, love songs from weddings, all swirled about in her head. She saw Mablung carry the Strongbow to a sheltered spot, and heard the others talking in low, worried tones.

She saw then something clear, something she had seen since before the fight had commenced- the light. Around each of the Elves had been a faint nimbus of light- even around some of the orcs. But the orcs’ light had been red, and angry. The color of the Elves’ light varied from gold to green to blue. She couldn’t always see it, but she knew it was there- as one knows there are pebbles in the bed of a stream, though the water is clouded. What stuck out in her mind, though, was that when the orcs died, there light went out- but Beleg’s was not out- it was as bright as the others’, even when he was so injured. She knew then, without knowing, or making the connection, that he would be alright. Oddly, though, instead of comforting her, the knowledge made her afraid. Beleg’s fate was set; hers and he others’ weren’t anything could happen to them.

Walking from tree to tree, she then noticed something lying on the ground, glowing as it were in the faint light. Cautiously, Eaniel reached down to pick it up.

“His hair” she said aloud, and let it fall from her fingers back to the ground, like a child playing with the silk from corn tassels. Suddenly a memory flashed back to her, of golden silk- sitting and weaving with her mother- the stone wall bathed with the warm light of afternoon- her sister sitting at her harp, playing- what was the song? She shook her head to clear the memory. No, that was long ago. Those days were over.

The memory left, but it also took some of the fog with it, and Eaniel could see and think more clearly. She gathered the golden locks again, with a faint idea that the Strongbow might want them when he was well again, though for what she didn’t know, and rejoined the others.

As she reached them, Mablung once again lifted Beleg, as easily as he would have lifted a child, and continued on into the forest. She went with them, with the cool breeze of the night taking away her fears, at least for the moment. She tried, softly, to begin a song- the one her sister had ebb singing in the memory, but she couldn’t remember it. Only snatches of the words, a fragment of the melody. But she could remember the rhythm, a dancing rhythm, for feasts and merrymaking. As she walked, clicked out the beat with her tongue, a cadence rising and falling and leading her into the next day as the first grey of dawn touched the treetops.

Morning and the day's beginning
And I leave my home
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 07, 2003 07:42
Morikelva breathed heavily as she pulled her great claymore out from between the ribs of the final fallen orc. She felt very much alive, the presence of the wolves and the dark fury of the night enlivening her senses. Mablung, Findley and Beleg were nowhere to be seen.

The Easterling woman kicked at the different corpses, turning them over to inspect their faces. Finally, she found Grimbald, his body a mutilated wreck. Despite his failing strength, the Strongbow had fought with an intensity and hatred which surprised Morikelva, who looked upon the elves as a somewhat fragile and all too sweet-natured race. This looked... well, it looked like her work.

Bending down, the tall warrior woman pulled at Grimbald's hair, exposing his throat. She placed a foot on his chest, stood, raised her claymore and then let it fall heavily, beheading the Easterling man. She took a long leather thong from her belt, entwined it in Grimbald's matted hair and then tied the head to the branch a gnarled, dying tree. The dead eyes stared out at her blankly.

"Let Angband's vultures peck them out", she muttered darkly, her mouth turned downward in a grimace of disgust.

As Morikelva turned away to join the elves, she noticed a flash of silver in the mud. Crouching down, she picked up the silver wolf's head whistle she had gifted to Beleg. It's chain had been cut through when Grimbald had hacked at the Strongbow's hair. A few golden threads remained entwined in the links. The Easterling woman stared at them. A strange pang of emotion flashed in her chest. She raised her violet eyes to the receding road.

"They go where I cannot", she whispered quietly to herself. "For the Girdle of Melian will not let pass those who carry dark deeds in their hearts". She sighed. "And I have wronged many".

Sitting cross-legged on the cold earth, Morikelva untwined the golden hair from the silver chain and braided it. Then she removed the whistle from the broken chain and threaded it onto the braid. Finally, she tied the braid around her neck. The whistle sat on the curve of her breastbone. The braid felt warm. She touched it thoughtfully.

"I will follow them as far as I can. A rearguard is never a waste".

With that, she sprang to her feet, crossed the dark battlefield and climbed onto her waiting warg. With a sharp squeeze of her legs and a dark word, the two rode off into the night.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 20, 2003 08:18
Soon-- and finally-- Mablung reached the guards of the outer realms of Doriath, who quickly took the Strongbow into their own arms and ushered him within the hidden halls, to see the Lady Melian. Mablung realized that not once did the guards make mention of Findley -- for he did stand out as would a warg among horses. Then he heard the echoing song of nightengales and smiled; the Girdle must have shielded him from their sight. The Lady knew they were here, and knew Findley was here. Clearly he was deemed worthy to enter the halls.

Though Mablung was more worried for the King's reaction. A dwarf?

He turned and took up Findley into his arms, for the Petty Dwarf had grown quite weak. He found his way into the healing houses, covering Findley's small form with his cloak, and laid him gently upon a bed. An elf maiden trained in healing quickly and routinely strode up to Mablung and Findley, pulling back the cloak before Mablung could stop her-- and gasped rather audibly.

Mablung pressed a finger to her lips. "Please," he said softly, holding her close so no one else could hear. "I know he is dwarven, and I know our people have not had good stay with his kind -- but he is invaluable. He fights as if he were ten feet tall. Please, I will explain later. His shoulder is badly enflamed; even now it seeps all life from him."

The elf maiden blinked up at Heavy-Hand with large, doe eyes, and nodded. "Very well. But I fear more for you than the dwarf. Lord Thingol will not heed any explanation for you bringing in a stunted one into Elven halls!"

"Let me stand for that as I may," Mablung responded rather firmly. "But make me a promise you will not tell anyone, and let me tell instead."

"I won't," she promised, keeping the cloak over Findley's face and beard as she tending to his shoulder, gently cooing over his grunts of pain. "Poor dear...an arrow did pierce him..."

Mablung quieted, letting her tend to the Dwarf, stepping back silently. "Thank you." The elf maiden didn't respond, except only to Findley's curses and delerious threats.

Mablung brought his thoughts together. The Strongbow was in hands much capable then his own, Lady Melian's. Findley was being healed as well. Yet Heavy-Hand was being expected by the King; a report was due to him. Quickly he stepped into the lit halls, walking in front of Lord Thingol's throne and bowing to one knee. "My Lord."

"Good Mablung, the outer guards tell me that you encountered a band of fugitives, and the Strongbow was sorely injured in the process of their rescue."

"We did not rescue as much as we did help them," Mablung responded. "They were perfectly capable of handling a battle themselves, I feel; they escaped from Angband itself. As for the Strongbow -- I blame the fervor in his heart for his injuries."

He saw the King blanche slightly at the mention of the Dark Lord's kingdom. "Indeed. Where are the fugitives now?"

"I...I left them."

"Left them?? You could not lead them here?" The King was nearing anger.

"I was not-- I did not think, my Lord," Mablung cast his eyes to the tiled floor. "I feared for the Strongbow's life, as - as he is my kin...yet I did send a message to the leader of the fugitives...to follow my footprints as I chose spongy ground to walk upon. I am sorry; I should have put the fugitives before the Strongbow."

He was too enveloped in his own chiding to hear the dismissing words of Lord Thingol. Numbly he left the lit halls and wandered down the houses of healing, peering in each door left ajar-- hoping to find a momentary glimpse of the Strongbow, with color in his face, hoping to catch a meager promise that his comrade in arms was gaining his health again.

But all he kept seeing were injured elves from other wayward battles, a deathly glaze on most of their faces; and numbly he felt any hope dispersing from his heart. For if the mighty leader of the marchwardens of Beleriand were to fall and be claimed by death, where did that leave the other wardens?

His fears and worries were not allowed rest, as finally he happened upon an open doorway, and found the shimmering Lady Melian, clothed in grey, singing softly, hands over the Strongbow. His brow was moist and furrowed in fever, his face was wrinkled in pain-- as if his spirit was away from the Lady's soothing voice and touch, away from his homeland, but nestled somewhere dark and confining and full of torture.

Mablung pulled away and rued the fact he was born an elf-- curse these empathic abilities! He walked away from the room, further and further until he had left the houses of healing altogether. He still had his sword and his quiver, and a group of fugitives who still needed shelter, despite their recent victory. He would busy himself in finding them. Perhaps Findley was right-- he was too gentle to be a marchwarden.

Without anymore hesitation, he stole into the woods, swallowed by the leaves, trees, and golden mist of the Girdle.

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[Edited on 21/10/2003 by Beleg_Strongbow]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 22, 2003 06:01
Morgoth's rage grew, as time passed and Grimbald did not return hes temper seethed until he could contain it no longer. Darkness grew bloking the light of the sun turning the sky to black, the lightless shaddow walked upon the land, all that could fled before it, those that could not perished beneath its edge trampled beneath its foreboding evil.

Down the mountains and out across the wasteland grew, no living thing, not aninal not insect nor plant could withstand, not those that flew those that ran or those that crawlled. In fetid pools the fish trapped lay dying the trees and grass blackened and seared twisted beyond growth.

When he reached the place upon which the easterlings body a great wail went up for its soul was wrenched from the empty shell, then sated with his prize Morgoth retreated.

The land lay scarred and empty the only witness to the new evil that was born that day, one that was not dead at yet dwelt in the darkness of the void. A new force was borne, Morgoth's will empowered it with all his cruelty and malice, what had once been Grimbald was now the wraith known as Death star.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Findley lay oblivous to all, for his body had finally given up, driven beyond all mortal effort, and yet now care was laid on him and healing power gently lifted the Petty Dwarf from the shadow.

Carefully Eruntale bathed the shoulder, trying desperately to keep the Dwarven curses from the ears of the other Elves. She trusted Mablung, she had known him all of her life, if he said this stunted one was worthy she would work to heal him, and yet . . . could she? There was a deep infection here, were her skills enough?

Hours later he still lived yet his temperature raged unabated. Eruntale feared for him. Quietly she slipped from the house of healing to look for her co-conspirator, he however could not be found. She sighed and returned sadly towards the house. Something caught her eye, a glint of golden gown, the Lady Melian.

The Lady!!

Eruntale's face paled as she hurried forward, was she too late? She quailed, not only had she failed Mablung's trust, but her betrayal of her own King and Queen were now about to be discovered.
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[Edited on 23/10/2003 by Abraon]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 09, 2003 11:12
Eruntalle, quailed fearing Melian's wrath and yet she had never known the Lady Melian to judge unjustly, surely she would understand, if only she could explain . . . but how do you explain Findley, she knew little of this small Dwarf save that Mablung had brought him and pleaded she should tend him.

Mablung, she knew as shrewd a judge of character, if he deemed Findley wothy then it must be so. She headed towards the room where Findley lay, carefully opening the door she glanced cautiously inside, the Lady Melian was not there, curious Eruntalle looked around her.

Slipping inside she went again to the large Ewer to draw water to fill a small basin filled with a herbal powder, taking this she turned to the bed on which Findley lay, she shuddered involuntarily as her eyes fell upon the sweaty tangle mass of hair and beard.

There was an imbuilt loathing to touch him but she had promised and it was plain to see that he needed to be cooled, for his face burned red hot and his lips quivered as the fever raged through him.

Soaking the cloth she began to gently wipe his brow, noting the deep furrowed ridges of his face, much like the furrows on a ploughed field or the cracks in a weathered rock. His brow was deep and below the twin busy eyebrows she imagined small beady eyes though these were tight shut.

His nose was large and rather unsightly half lost in the bushiness of his mustache and beard. she could see his lips though they had cursed greatly earlier they were now silent and from what she could tell deathly white.

A sudden fear made her stop bathing his face and she leaned in closer to see if he was breathing, for anxious moments she waited hoping to feel the warmth of his breath upon his cheek, then suddenly his eyes flew open staring wildly at her, he seemed to choke and then in a voice barely above a whisper uttered a single word . . .

"Strongbow"

Eruntalle had not expected the stunted one to utter an Elfs name, she was shocked. She had thought him as a rough uncultured man who had by some deed found favour with Mablung. But it seemed that this small Dwarf had some connection to the great Marchwarden himself and that he was still concerned for him even though he himself was sickly.

Suddenly tears sprang into her eyes as she thought how badly she had misjudged him, for surely he must hold the Strongbow close to call his name when he was so close to death. death, it was something that was seldom witnessed in Doriath, few had knowledge of this bane of mortal man.

Eruntalle had herself only read about such things in the books stored in the great libarary, could it be she would now see death for herself? She began to fear greatly, trembling she rose from Findley's side and half in panic ran from the room down the corridor. She was no longer scared of the lady Melians wrath, for a greater fear haunted her now, the fear of death.

In desperation she searched the rooms until at last she came to a single ornate door, flinging it open she tumbled inside, the lady herself had to make a quick sidestep to avoid Eruntalle. Catching her arm she ateadied her, her calm gentle eyes falling on the young Elfmaidens frightened face.

"Ohh my Lady." she sobbed,

"I . . . he . . . he's . . . I think, you must come now!" she pleaded trying to drag Melian forward.

Melian smiled gently, she however did not move to follow and it was soon obvious to Eruntalle that some further explanation was needed,

"He's dying . . ." she started, but her eyes had now caught sight of the occupant in the bed a small gasp escaped her lips as the bruised face starred blankly up at the ceiling,

It had Elven features and yet they were cruely distorted by the beating it had endured, there was something familiar, that bright golden hair, but it was shorn short like that of a man, but no the ears told of an Elven heritage.

Her eyes were drawn down to the Elven hands, long slender fingers, once strong and elegant now withered and crooked. It looked as if the very life had been sucked from them, it was then she noticed something familiar lying on the chair beside the bed.

She felt the room begin to sway as she fought back a wave of sickness and shock . . .

Bethlonding . . . the Strongbows beloved bow lay in two, a sad reflection of its former glory, but how? What was it doing here beside this poor creature?

Her hand found her mouth as she tried to stifle a wail,

Is it was him? Her eyes travelled to Melian standing closeby as she nodded in reply to Eruntalle's unspoken question, she felt the Lady Melians arms support her as her legs finally lost their strength.

"Oh no . . . noo . . . no"

"Fear not sweet Eruntalle, for he has not found the Halls of Mandos yet, nor will he, true he is very weak, and yet he may recover his strength once more."

"But . . . but,"

Eruntalle struggled to find words, she was still tying to comprehend what kind of evil had brought Doriath's finest son to lie stricken.

"Why does he lie so, does he not know we are here?"

"His mind is not here with us Eruntalle, understand he has suffered greatly, not all his wounds are shown on his body, his mind has suffered much, and it is this which troubles me more than his physical state."

"But you can heal him my Lady, you are gifted with such healing powers, you must, hes the Strongbow, he's"

Eruntalle faultered

"You can't let him die . . . Oh oh no Findley!!"

Eruntalle's flushed face suddenly paled and she began to tremble.

Melian took Eruntalle by the hand, leading her gently to a seat by the window,

"My dear child what is it? You must tell me and quickly,who or what is this Findley?"

"Hes's ummm, he's . . . well he's one of Mablung's friends and I believe one of the Strongbow's too, but he's so sick, with fever I have tried the past two days but he fails and . . . I think he's dying . . . oh please my lady forgive me, but please will you go look at him?"

She would beg if necessary, even if it meant she would be dismissed from the Lady Melian's service, she must try to save the Dwarf. Something in her face told the Maair that Erutalle was not telling everything she knew, a slight curiosity burned and she decided that she would indeed go to see this Findley

"Will you stay here with Beleg? Whilst I go tend to this Findley?"

Eruntalle stammered a yes, desperately trying to find a chance to tell the Lady Findley was a Dwarf but the Lady Melian was already leaving, it was too late. Eruntalle stared blamkly out of the widow hoping againnst hope that she would be forgiven.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 09, 2003 02:42
Soon Eruntalle swallowed her fears, and began to tend to the Strongbow. She strided up to him, her soft robs flowing with her, and winced softly upon seeing his face; one so handsome and so stately became so withered. What had he done to deserve such punishment? She soon turned away, looking upon the rest of him; his slender figure dressed in new, clean linens must have certainly been an improvement from the garments he arrived in. His chest rose and fell slightly. She looked closer, and realized his breathing was irregular. She looked once again to his face and found that his brow was furrowed, and his lips parted -- as if he was enduring a struggle within himself. The Lady told the truth.

She endured the distorted sight of his countenance, and sat on the side of the bed, smoothing his shorn hair. She began to sing to him softly, a simple lullaby, one sung to elflings to send them to rest or remedy any fears, but it was the best one Eruntalle knew of to soothe a troubled spirit.



He was kept in darkness. He saw nothing, felt nothing....it was as if blackness took a corporeal shape and engulfed him. Numbly he strode in and out of conciousness, forgoing time, forgoing life...he knew not what happened to his body...but all that he did know- was that he was not yet dead. He was lost in this darkness, feeling it pull and grab at him. He could not remember just where he was or what had happened to him, but he knew enough that he was not supposed to be...wherever he was. He felt himself stripped naked almost, taken down to a primal level, all Elven dignity and poise ripped from his person. He fought to maintain control.

He was in the forest, near the house of healer once again. A wave of orcs descended upon him again and again, and despite his weaponry, despite his skill, they would not be abated. They leered and slobbered at him, slicing at his body, pulling at his hair. He growled back and released warcries that could rival a son of Feanor-- yet his strength was not enough. The Orcs were undying, and multiplying. He felt them hold him down, heard the leather straps of his quiver snap once more...heard the loud crack of his Belthronding once again....saw the grin of the Easterling Grimbald oozing with sinister glee.

He growled and cried out, as an animal caught in a cruel, grievous trap, his ears filled with raucous laughter, his eyes seeing red, his nose filled with the stench of Angband. He pulled and thrashed, kicked and flailed - but he would not be released.

And then he heard something through the hideous laughter, a sweet melody that broke through the darkness of the orcs as a shaft of light. It was a song, by a female voice. He lifted his head and his eyes searched for the light. The orcs began to cower, and Grimbald began angrily spouting intelligble orders. And the Strongbow, even for a moment, broke free from the tangible blackness, his arm outstretched to the heavens--

-- he sat up, releasing a final warcry he still had left in his lungs, raising up an arm to defend himself from whatever chose to assail him now-- but only saw a small maiden before him. He blinked several times, and peered at her through his blurred vision; she glowed against the darkened room, of which the details of it he could not determine. It could have been daylight, or night time, but he knew not, and could not be certain. She stepped back, her eyes wide in shock--fear?-- as she gripped the bowl of water tightly. He remembered that look-- it was the same look that Mablung at the others gave him...before darkness took him over.

He broke her gaze, lifting a hand to feel his battered face. He felt grooves and cuts where he should've felt smoothness. He prodded his memory to remember just what he had done to become so disfigured-- he glanced at his hands. Crooked, bloody, cut...

Once again he lifted his eyes to the young elfmaiden. "...where am I?"

He could tell the reticient beauty was forcing herself to look upon him. "You are in Doriath, my lord Strongbow. You have been through much. Please, rest."

Rest? To go back to where he was? To be taken by the thick darkness that held him captive?

"What....what has happened to me?"

She stepped closer to him, placing the bowl onto the nearby table and wrung out a small cloth. "My lord, please...all that matters now is that you are safe, at home. Go back to rest."

He batted her hand away, which was lifted to dab at his wounds. "NO! I will not!" He tried to leave the large bed he was placed upon. The weight of the linens and covers seemed so heavy...they threatened to smother him as did the blackness he had left.

Once again he was fixed with a shocked glare...this poor young maiden...she was only trying to do as she was taught. But so was the Strongbow. He knew and feared that succumbing to physical rest would only place him back in the dark prison he was fighting from...from the hideous, clawing visions of Orcs and of Grimbald, laughing in his face...he feared he would become fey again, and hurt the maiden.

Yet...he was so weak...he had never felt such weakness. It angered him, though his strength was siphoned from him and he could not express it.
He was angry...and he was afraid.

He tore his eyes from her pure, innocent gaze, and covered his disfigured face in crippled hands, not feeling the tears seeping from his eyes and onto the new, linen undergarments he was dressed in. "...do not...do not look upon me, lady..."

He did not realize that the slender maiden had slipped her arms around him, trying to comfort him. He did not know that his head was leaning against her bosom. All he did know and hear was the same sweet voice that brought him from the darkness...from fighting tireless, undying orcs...

He closed his eyes as he began to feel some sort of brief relief. He listened quietly...and a new pain entered his heart. He realized that in her sweet cadence, and the lovely sindarin rolling from her lips...he could not understand a word.

His body was so weak, being lulled by the sweet sounds of the fair maiden holding him. His eyelids slid shut, and the maiden's song began to fade...but within he was dreading to meet the adversaries that were waiting for him, preparing to do futile battle once again.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 20, 2003 07:17
Morikelva rode some distance behind the straggling band of survivors, out of sight on the winding road which was leading them to safety. The Easterling warrior rode quietly, musing over the future. The recent past, for all its bloodshed, darkness and pain, sat quietly in her conscience. It was little worse than all she had known before, although she noted, with a raised eyebrow, she was more accustomed to being attacker than attacked.

Her mind was turned, instead, to a future which had been changed not by events, which washed over her strange sensibilities like so much rainwater, but by company. The company of the elves and of the petty dwarf, who headed now for the refuge of Doriath.

Morikelva knew of the legends of the Girdle of Melian; had, indeed, scouted it's perimeter in the past but even she had feared to venture further.

"So what now?" she muttered to herself. "Where now for one hunted by Angband? No safe place in this world for the likes of you and that's for sure".

As she rode and wondered, the path became wooded and green. The grace of Melian extended outwards, even beyond her fabled barriers. Life ventured forth, cautious but vital. Morikelva stopped. Ahead of her, the path descended into a rich green forest. A haze hung before it, altering the light, playing with perspective. The Easterling dismounted from her warg and stood, silently, regarding a wall she could not see but which was stronger than any she had ever before encountered.

"We all have our fortresses", she mused, "be they of black stone or of will alone. And into neither is Morikelva welcome".

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[Edited on 21/12/2003 by CarolP]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 29, 2003 03:45
Unable to travel any farther and with dusk drawing close, Morikelva retreated off the path to the shelter of some overhanging trees. Her senses were alert. She knew that she was not safe, neither from the armies of Angband which, she concluded, would be following still, nor from the border patrols of Doriath. She gave a small, grim smile. Things were very much as they had been prior to her enrolment in Morgoth's vast armies.

The Easterling warrior lit a small, discreet fire and tethered her warg. From a saddlebag she took a small supply of cured meat. It was old and tough and tasted of decay but she had eaten worse. She had survived on the creatures that lived in the fissures of the mountains, dark and unspeakable. She had hunted delicate deer through dappled woods, a dark snarling predator enraged by bloodlust. She had eaten orc flesh, man flesh. Elf flesh.

Morikelva stared thoughtfully into the forests of Doriath as she chewed on her unsavoury meal. What punishment did elf-folk mete out to such as her? She knew only what she had learnt from her companions, but death did not seem to be a sentence which would sit comfortably with elven sensibilities. She had not heard of any of Angband's soldiers being taken prisoner by the elves, although she had seen a good many slaughtered on the battlefield by elven blades. Elves are not timid, she mused, simply...

Her thoughts were disturbed by a sound in the trees. A subtle difference in their sighing. Morikelva placed her hand on her blade and rose to an alert crouch, her animal senses reaching into forest around her.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 29, 2003 09:53
Eaniel stumbled along with the rest of her companions as they wandered into the famed Girdle. The woods seemed to be playing tricks on her mind: strange mists rose and fell away again; tree boughs tossed in the silent air; strange bird songs echoed through the swells and dales of the forest. The young Elf soon became quite bewildered by it all, and began to lag behind her companions. A stream bubbled up from an underground spring, and Eaniel unwittingly began to follow its course- a course no one else took.

For a time she wandered along the stream’s banks, lost in amaze at the strange place. Suddenly, where the water made a small fall, she slipped on the rocks and fell quite unceremoniously in a small but cold pool. The chill, or the fall, at last knocked some sense into Eaniel, and she pulled herself up, dripping and muttering, and looked around.

Eaniel suddenly realized that she was quite alone, and had no idea where she was. Mists still eddied here and there among the trees, but they no longer seemed to have any power of bewilderment over Eaniel, for she found her head was quite clear as she shook out her damp skirt and took stock of her situation.

Though she was lost and alone, Eaniel was no stranger to hidden kingdoms, and knew of a few signs that would guide her. The river Esgalduin, she knew, flowed directly past Menegroth, and the stream she was following now was undoubtedly a tributary to that great river. Deciding that there was nothing else for it, Eaniel shrugged to herself and continued walking along the stream’s edge, this time being more cautious of her footing.

How long or far she walked Eaniel did not know, but in time the filtered forest-light faded, and dusk fell about her. As twilight faded into evening the elf became aware of a pinprick of light ahead of her. It grew and brightened as she approached, until the glow and flicker of a campfire became unmistakable.

Eaniel slowed her pace until she was barely creeping along the forest floor, her light footfalls all but silent on the mould. Drawing even closer to the fire, she could make out a dark shape hunched next to it, a shape black and broad. Caution and curiosity warred within her mind as her thoughts tumbled about like pebbles in a stream-bottom.

An Orc? It looks like one.

Don’t be daft. This is the Girdle.

Orcs have broken through sometimes.

No orc could have made it this far. Even you were bewildered, Eaniel.

But I’m not anymore. How near the edge of the Girdle am I?

All internal arguments became moot when the dark shape by the fire suddenly stood up and whirled around. Eaniel’s breath caught in her throat, but the next instant she heaved a sigh of relief as she recognized the ‘orc’.

“Morikelva!” she cried softly, stepping forward into the soft ring of firelight, her hands held out in a sign of peace.

Morikelva also visibly relaxed, replacing her weapon and sitting down again. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” the elf replied. “I thought you had left.”

Morikelva shrugged. “I decided a rearguard could be a help to you all, at least until you were safely within the Girdle. Where are the others?”

Eaniel looked a tad sheepish. “Well...I became separated from them. The Girdle plays strangely on one not familiar to Melian’s mazes.” Eaniel glanced sidewise at Morikelva, but the Easterling women did not reply for a moment.
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 30, 2003 02:44
Morikelva stared into the fire.

"The armies of Angband will be spread far and wide, looking for us. Doriath is likely to be the only safe place, although you should warn your border patrols to expect many raiding parties. It has always been Morgoth's greatest desire to reach beyond the Girdle and this gives him the perfect excuse. Many will be sent to their death in the trying. His armies are inexhaustible".

The Easterling woman looked up at Eaniel.

"The net is drawn very tight. It will be difficult for me to find safe passage to the East. My only real hope is to pass through Doriath and take up one of the lesser roads where the watch will be less concentrated".

Eaniel's eyes opened wide. "I do not think it possible for... one such as you... to pass into Doriath. There is much enchantment laid to distract and bewilder".

"Then find me another way past Morgoth's armies!" Morikelva's voice took on a snarling quality. "I will not sit here like an animal in a trap, waiting to be slaughtered! Enchantment cannot be so terrible as the torture chambers of Angband!"

The Easterling woman rose and untethered her warg. "I see no blades, nor bows to stop me entering Doriath. I shall take my chances". She mounted the warg and looked down at Eaniel. There was a moment's silence. "Are you coming?" Morikelva offered her arm down to the elf.

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[Edited on 30/12/2003 by CarolP]
Gilraen
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 31, 2003 09:38
Enchantment cannot be so terrible as the torture chambers of Angband!"

Morikelva's words rang in Eaniel's mind, and for a moment she was unable to speak. As if suddenly coming to a decision, she raised her hand but did not take Morikelva's proffered arm yet.

"No," she said, "Nothing is so terrible as the torture chambers of Angband. And," she pused again, "In the mazes of an Elven Queen, the mind of an Elf will be less easy to bewilder. I believe that a way can be found, and I will guide you, if you will let me."

Morikelva nodded gravely.

Eaniel finally took Morikelva's hand, and swung up onto the back of the warg behind the Easterling. Morikelva nudged the great wolf into a loping walk, and then a run.

"Follow the course of the stream!" Eaniel cried. "It flows to the Esgalduin."

Morikelva gave Eaniel a skeptical look over her shoulder. "The Esgalduin? Surely you can't mean..."

"I do. The only way to reach the lesser roads you speak of is to travel through the very heart of Doriath. But perhaps, another road is already laid before our feet..."

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[Edited on 31/12/2003 by CarolP]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: January 10, 2004 06:52
The stream gurgled and splashed its way down the gentle hillside to join the Esgalduin, enchanted waters of which Morikelva had seen very little, save their very earliest beginnings in the Mountains of Terror.

The Elf and the Easterling rode ever onwards, until the haze of enchantment which surrounded the borders of Doriath engulfed them. Morikelva's warg slowed to a lope and growled uncertainly. Here was a strange place. The wide reach of the Easterling's animal instincts deserted her, as though she were being wrapped in an invisible blanket. A drowsiness overtook her.

"What is this?", she muttered thickly, shaking her head. "All sense leaves me". With great effort, she reached behind her and drew her sword. She could barely carry it's weight.

Unchecked, the warg slowed to a walk, a gutteral snarl coming from deep within it's throat. Their route began to meander away from the stream and deeper into the darkening forest.

From deep within Morikelva's fading consciousness, dark shapes began to arise. Voices, screams, piteous wailing. Dropping her sword, she clapped her hands over her ears and howled, animal-like. Startled, Eaniel caught the sword as it fell and jumped from the warg, who was now stumbling and tripping with every further step into the forest. She stepped back as the animal snapped at her with a foaming mouth, eyes distant and unfocused.

Morikelva fell forward onto the animal's neck and together they tumbled to the ground.

Eaniel ran to the side of her companion, who lay panting and growling in the soft bracken.

"Morikelva!" The Elf lay a hand on the Easterling's shoulder.

"Stay away!", snarled the woman, her head snapping up, fixing Eaniel with wild eyes. "And you!" She turned on all fours, cursing at some spectre which Eaniel could not see. "Leave me alone! I shall not help you!"

Morikelva fell to the ground, alternately shrinking away from some intruder and then lunging at it, fingers fixed like claws.

Eaniel, aghast, looked on. Yet she too felt the slow, ceaseless embrace of the enchantment.
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[Edited on 1/10/2004 by Tasar_Took_Nualda]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: January 14, 2004 09:59
The woods around Heliana's house echoed to the cries of the newborn child, but there was no joy at the birth of this infant, for even as a newborn its heritage was clear, not the child of an Elf but the unwanted spawn from the loins of Morgoth's minion, Grishnak.

The baby wailed grabbing frantically with its small claw like hands in desperate search of sustainance, but none came. Heliana fearing for Eldaline took it and wrapping it in a cloak laid it in the main room, then turning she headed back to the bedroom, as she did she saw Malathar bend down and lift the small infant, so there was some hope after all.

What Heliana could not know was that Malathar held nothing but hate in his heart for this infant, for he could not see that this was a child of his beloved Eldaline, he saw only the pain and shame that she had bourne and he had already decided she would suffer no more.

Hurriedly he swept out of the house, good there were no others to see him leaving, the infant seemed lulled by the movement perhaps it was tired from its birth for it now lay silent in the He-Elfs arms.

Perhaps tho it knew that if it had protested a swift stoke of a knife would have silenced it, whatever the reason it was now taken from its mother without any seeing. Long into the night he ran, unsure of direction, heedless of time and terrain until at last he deemed he was far enough away that none would see or hear. He laid the infant upon the ground and then without thought he left it.

Manthar had meant to return to Eldaline, he had begun the journey back but as he neared the house wherein she lay he found his consience began to trouble him.

How could he explain where the infant was?

What reason could he give her for taking the child from her?

Surely he could have at least tried to love it?

No, No he could not, for he hated it with every fibre in his body, nothing could persuade him that even the smallest part of it could be his beloved Eldaline.

His gait shortened and he slowed his pace, he could not face her now for she was gentle and loving beyond all things How could she understand what he had done.

He turned away and fled into the forest.


Heliana went to fetch more hot water and towels, she thought to mix a herbal infusion for the weakened Eldaline, she was just adding athelas to the water when a stifled cry brought her to the bedroom door, Polgara rushed out almost flooring Heliana.

"Quick!!"

She stammered desperately trying to drag Heliana though the door,

"She is . . ."

Heliana saw the pale form lying on the bed, she looked as if she slept but Heliana knew at once that Eldaline would not wake again, bowing her head in silent prayer to Eru she stepped forward and gently covered the still form with a fresh white sheet.

"Alas poor child you suffered much, go now in peace and rest until the end of days."

Helinana turned glimpsing Polgara's smiling face, she did not think it strange for her words she felt had brought to a close a tragic life.

Heliana looked around the room, strange Malathar and the baby had not returned, she had dreaded the task informing the He-elf of Eldaline's death now she felt desperate to do so.

"Will you stay here and tell the others?"

She barely waited for Polgara's answer before slipping away into the forest, something told her that all was not well, perhaps it was instinct. As she left she gathered a small bundle she had earlier prepared and taking a firm hold of the rope took Findley's goat with her.

Her searching led at last to the abandoned infant, It lay still wrapped in the Elven cloak, hidden from all eyes, Heliana would have passed it by unseen had it not been bawling fit to burst. Gently cradling the Orcling child she carefully took from the bundle a small skin filled with sweatened goats milk and with this she fed the baby.

She looked down at its small angry face

"There now little one, I will not risk the wrath of the Elves nor will I abandon you to Angbands horrors, I will take you and care for you as my own."

She did not return to her house, Instead she headed south leaving Angband, the Elves and all she knew. Soon her trail dwindled and was lost. At the house Polgara waited, she realised that Heliana was not coming back anytime soon.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Findley was weakening, the feaver was rapidly spreading through his body turning flesh to flame. As his temperature climbed his body began to fit throwing him into contortions that mirrored the pain he endured. Eruntalle was right he could not endure much longer.

When Melian entered the chamber she thought at first that a small child lay upon the bed, as she lifted him, she frowned for this was no child, turning to the light she gasped as she beheld the bearded face and then softly chucked as realisation dawned that this was one of the stunted folk.

Her smile soon faded as she realised Findley was indeed close to death, concerned now she made to hurry to her room, wherein she hoped to find some cure, she had taken only a few steps when Thingol's voice halted her.
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: January 17, 2004 08:37
The Girdle began to take the two travelers. The golden mist began to lay upon their eyes and enter their lungs, and they were both prey to their own fears, both part of their own dreams.

Morikelva stopped fighting an unseen enemy as she and Eaniel spotted an even more tangible ghostlike figure emerge from the dimness of the trees. It was tall and gaunt, clothed in shadows, its white face sunken in and eye sockets as mere holes. It floated near them, and nearer...and slowly a transformation began.

The ghost's face gained color and became beautiful, and its clothing gained folds and texture. Golden hair flowed about its shoulders. It held a bow, and a quiver was strapped on its back.

It was Mablung, his countenance purposefully distorted by the Girdle.

Eaniel and Morikelva visibly relaxed, sagging almost to the ground. Mablung smiled grimly.

"Welcome to the Girdle," he said quietly. "I am glad to see you alive. You have not been lost to the Girdle, nor to its strange ways...therefore do not fear."

"Tis easy for the marchwarden to say," the female Easterling said lowly. "You live here."

"Where are the others?"

Eaniel spoke. "We know not. I had been following you since when the Strongbow fell, and you left to take him away. I became lost...then I met Morikelva again."

Mablung nodded, his expression unreadable as he gazed out past the trees and their branches, past the haze of the Girdle. "I have not found the others. Either they are lost to oblivion...or they do not wish to be found."

"Or you do not wish to find them," Morikelva finished. Her gaze was sharp and steady as Mablung challenged it with his own.

He turned around, his cloak flowing with him, and began to walk. "The Strongbow may die because of you all. And the dwarf as well. Although death would be a more welcome guest than hearing that he failed lord Thingol in one of his quests."

Eaniel quickly closed the distance between her and the marchwarden, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We are not all lost, good Mablung."

Mablung paused, gray eyes softening, and nodded. After a long moment's silence, he spoke again. "You will follow me."

"To where?"

"...to the halls of Doriath, of course."

[Edited on 17/1/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: January 17, 2004 11:15
With the arrival of Mablung, the enchantment of the Girdle lessened, as if his own will might have allowed it.

"The Strongbow may die because of you all. And the dwarf as well. Although death would be a more welcome guest than hearing that he failed lord Thingol in one of his quests."

Morikelva rose to her feet, still somewhat disoriented but seething under the cool disdain of the elf.

"Most certainly the Strongbow would be dead if it weren't for us". She grabbed her claymore from Eaniel's hand as she strode past her, gaining on Mablung with long, if somewhat unsteady strides. "And ours was not a quest". She gave a low, derisive snort as she mimicked the elf's tone. "It was a choice. Made by us all. An eternity of suffering, or death in the pursuit of freedom".

Mablung turned to regard the Easterling woman with cool eyes. "The Strongbow made choices also. He is still making them". The cool gaze shifted slightly, belying a torment which, momentarily, Morikelva could not decipher.

As Mablung moved swiftly on, the Easterling woman lowered her sword, nodding gravely to herself. Eaniel stopped next to her companion and looked at her quizzically.

"What is it? What did he say?" Eaniel's gentle face filled with apprehension. "The Strongbow? What is it?"

Morikelva raised her dark eyes to the canopy of the trees. "When an elf is brought to the brink of death by one of the servants of Melkor, his spirit finds it's way to a place where it may easily be claimed. For good or for evil. Ever does the will of Morgoth stalk that place, ensnaring those lost".

She lowered her gaze to Eaniel's face. "It is a common practice. It is rumoured that we have enslaved more elves than we have killed. And it is almost true. The torture chambers of Angband serve more purpose than only to punish".

Eaniel's eyes widened. "And... and... is it possible... to not be... claimed?" She raised a hand to her throat.

Morikelva looked away to the receding form of Mablung.

"If it is so, then I have never seen it".

She strode off after the Marchwarden, whistling to her warg to follow on.

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[Edited on 1/17/2004 by Tasar_Took_Nualda]

[Edited on 18/1/2004 by Mhairi]
Gilraen
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: January 31, 2004 07:31
Eaniel stood frozen for several moments, her hand still at her throat, a sick fear in her heart. So that was what happened to all the Elves in Angband, the ones whose eyes glazed and tongues fell silent.

Finding her feet and voice again, she sprinted to catch up to Morikelva and Mablung.

"It must be possible" she gasped out. "We escaped."

Morikelva turned to regard her coolly. "But you were not brought to the brink of death, as so many others were."

Eaniel shook her head, her eyes wide and clouded.

"I was," she said softly. "I was ready to give in to the pain. I was ready to give up life. I was worn down from the struggle of living. I thought giving up would bring me forgetfulness, and peace. I was not the only one to think so. But if I had given in..."

"You would have been claimed." Morikelva said, and Eaniel shuddered.

Mablung, walking some paces ahead of the two, turned.

"Why did you not give up, Eaniel?" he asked. His face was unreadable.

"Lainauriel, and the others, gave me hope, of escape, and freedom. Hope gave me something to live for." She paused. "Does the Strongbow have any hope?"

Mablung turned away from her and began walking again. "Who knows? I do not."

Eaniel stared at the ground as she continued. Spectres of another kind began to fill her head.

Echoes of steel on steel from the forge. The cries of the prisoners. The blistering heat of the forges. The hunger and the weariness. The blank eyes of those whom Morgoth had claimed...forever.

The mists around her shivered, and seemed to her to become the shimmering heat from the unceasing flames of the forges. Despair crept into her heart, and she tried to shake it off. As she had done in Angband, she raised her head in defiance to the prison, her eyes flashing the star's challenge against the night. She had almost given in once, but she would never do so again.

But how many others would?

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[Edited on 31/1/2004 by CarolP]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 01, 2004 10:20
"To where are you going my lady?"

Thingol stepped forward noticably blocking the way into Melian's room,

"To my chamber dear."

Melian hoped the simple truth would curtail the conversation, however Thingol was in no mood to allow her to pass by unchallenged.

"You take one of the stunted ones to your room? Have you forsaken all sense of decency? Why would you do this am I not the everloving husband you so desired?"

Thingols face grew redder with each question, his fists clenched tightly trying to stop the urge to dash the Dwarf out of his wifes arms and stamp upon him. One swift kick and it would be over.

He could feel his own self arguing he had got it wrong and yet here in the full light of day she was stood cradling the Dwarf. He was maddened enough by that alone to seriously harm Findley it was only the strange stillness of the Dwarf himself that held him back , perhaps he was already dead?

"My dear Melian's eyes blazed angrily,

Iit is not I who has lost all sense. Since when have you denied me giving aid to those that need it? He is a dwarf yes and yet he still is stricken. Why would you have me treat him any differently?

Thingol could feel his heart sinking ever when they had spoken she would find words when he could find none. So it was now he stood sullen,

"So he is not dead then?"

The hopeful note in his voice was quickly lost by the look she gave him.

"He soon may be if you do not stop with this foolishness and allow me to minister to him."

"Thingol you have ever had my love do not let jealousy rob you of it now."

There was almost a note of pleading in her voice, a subtle change but one noted by Thingol, it was enough that it was there he could deny her nothing and if she wished to play nursemaid to this Dwarf then he would let her, but he'd be keeping a close eye, for he did not trust this small Dwarf who it seemed was able to charm Elves as if they were birds seeking lembas crumbs.

Melian of course was well aware of her husbands thoghts for to her they were as clear as the spoken word, she however turned her mind to the potion bottles that stood in the cabinet in the corner of her room.

She had brought them from the healing room having found the lables faded and hard to read, she had planned to rewrite them little knowing they would be needed so soon. Old they may be but these were potions she had brought from Valinor and were blessed by Estë herself, for many were made fron the night herbs grown in Estë's garden.

carefully Melian laid Findley upon the bed. He seemed to be almost as pale as the sheet on which he lay, the brightness of his hair standing out in sharp contrats. Melian smiled as she recognised the elven robe as one of the childrens. Yes he was small but this dwarf had some strength in him for he had by accounts come from Angband wherein he had slain an orc, and to do that as a prisioner was no small feat.

She found the bottle she needed and drawing fresh water she took a soft cloth and moved to the bed side. Sitting upon the bed she carefully moved the robe from Findleys shoulder, it was painfully thin, the muscle wasted, carefully she bathed the area lifting the poison from the wound, as she worked she sang quietly.

Perhaps it was some spell to draw the poison from the wound, if it was then it worked, but to Findley it seemed that out of sight on the edge of darkness a soft voice was calling him home and he eager to return followed it. Slowly he came back until with a deep sigh he breathed again then sleep came.

He would live to see another day in Middle Earth. satisfied Melian dressed the shoulder carefully packing the wound with a medicinal potion that would aid healing. She lifted the dwarf and with a nod to Thingol carried Findley not back to the hidden room but to the room wherein the stricken Strongbow lay.

Lets hope the friendship you have fostered is strong enough to reach him, as she spoke she saw the Dwarfs eyes flick open he gazed for a moment at the Strongbow and then fell into dreams once more.

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[Edited on 1/2/2004 by CarolP]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 13, 2004 10:10
A group of elf children, running and playing through a field of lovely simple flowers. Although they are dressed in finery, they care not, and although they are elves, they play not like elves. It is pleasant and warm with Arien's rays upon them, lighting up their tresses as if they had heads of fire and flame.

They laughed enjoying the warmth on their youthful faces, fingers dancing along the breezes that rushed through at every interval.

Then...screams...carnage....the children run for their lives, into their mothers' arms, watching their fathers don armor and fight against dark creatures. Creatures unspeakable, created and molded from an unspeakable dark lord.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He is in the heat of battle once more, reveling in fulfilling his duties and his purpose, but grim at all the death that lay at his feet, and the death that he held tightly in his hands -- Belthronding. He is the picture of a fierce elven warrior, the leader of the mighty Sindarin, standing tall and calling them to battle, to wage war against the race they have fueded with long before the Dwarves-- the Orcs.

He hacks and slashes, he fires arrow upon arrow into several dark, hopeless hearts and minds. He begins to lose himself in the pattern as wave after wave descend upon him and his fellow warriors...and just for a moment, his eyes blur, his hands numb, his ears deafen....

...but still he continues the pattern. He opens his eyes, and much to his horror, he watches as his hands slowly darken and wither and roughen. He continues to fire, to maim and to kill, and he cannot stop. He watches as his hands become clawed, and hears as his warcries become intelligible, slobbering, cursing growls.

He comes upon-- what was this, a Dwarf??--and grapples with him for a short time before backhanding him. He swiftly scoops up one of the stunted one's fallen axes and quickly ends the Dwarf's miserable life.

He comes upon a fair elven warrior, helm gleaming and countenance commanding. He matches the warrior move for move, Belthronding having become a twisted, rotting bow unworthy of his hands. Yet he still uses it.

The elven warrior blocks his fist, but he only counters that move by spinning around and driving a blade of Belthronding into the warrior's heart. The warrior releases a soft gurgle of pain, and his once steely eyes meet his own, softening as he realized Mandos was waiting for him.

He holds on to the body of Mablung as his former comrade sinks to the ground, immortal life slipping out of a mortal body.

He hears a vile, chilling laughter ringing through the atmosphere, through the battlefield, a laughter devoid of mercy, of goodness, of light. And it is not Grimbald's...

And yet he continues to stab the lifeless vessel that was once Mablung.....knowing full well that he is dead....yet he cannot stop himself--

no! No! NO!

"MABLUNG!" The Strongbow quickly sat up from his bed and linens, fighting with them as he easily became ensnared. He would have fallen off of the bed if not for the strong, steady arms of two male Sindarin who held him down. They spoke to him soothingly, although he could not understand them. He had quickly healed his outer countenance, but not his inner; he continued to fight against them, speaking in what seemed intelligible, cursing growls, until Eruntalle entered - the same lovely maiden that had previously held him in her arms and sang him back to slumber.

Yet someone followed her, filling the room with a soft, warm light. It was the Lady Melian!

Quickly he calmed as her cool, soothing hands touched his forehead, neck and shoulders. He remained sitting up as the Lady sang softly to him, checking his humors, his eyes, his breathing. He relaxed more, sighing as Eruntalle dabbed a cool cloth upon his skin. Although he was terrible embarassed at the attention he was recieving, he was quite glad for it. He barely noticed that it was past dusk.

His mind wandered in and out of conciousness as the Lady took her time with him, and willingly he remained. He glanced off to the bed at the side and paused-- Findley...that terrible, stubborn Dwarf--

The Strongbow hoped he was faring well.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He had returned to a more restful sleep, not so much peaceful as it was thankfully eventless. He knew little, but only that the Lady left his side, as did the two male Sindar, but Eruntalle stayed and continued to watch over him, and the stunted one, probably.

He heard quiet talking, talking from across the hallway and into a separate room. He mumbled slightly, trying in vain to speak, to ask what the talking was about.

"Quiet now, my Lord," he heart Eruntalle whisper. "They seek to find the best solution to heal you....the Lady and Lord are speaking with other healers." He felt her slender fingers gently stroke his shorn hair. He struggled to listen to snatches of conversation that the Lord and Lady were having.

"It will help him the most. As darkness calms a frightened animal..."

"....he will stay there until he is fully strengthened......guards will be posted...."

"....should suit him well........those chambers are the darkest within the kingdom..."

"....it is best then....he will be placed there soon."

The Strongbow's mind raced to think-- where were they going to move him? The darkest chambers in the kingdom--- the dungeon? ....darkness....?

....orcs....

......Morg--

no! No! NO!

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[Edited on 15/2/2004 by ithillinde]
Happy_Hobbit
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 15, 2004 12:22
The day broke bright and new and Findley lay on the flat stone warmed by the suns rays. There was something comforting in the smell of heated rock, not the smell from a furnace but the sun baked rock. Findley stretched allowing the heat to warm his limbs. He was tempted to open his eyes but then again lying with them shut felt good.

He could feel the soft breeze gently tugging at the hairs on his chin, he smiled as he thought of the little whisps waving from beneath his nose, ah it was a fine day.

A sudden wail startled him.

The cry like some stray beast struck by a cruel hand.

Findley sat bolt upright, his eyes shocked by the brightness of the suns rays. For a moment he was completely lost. He had expected to be lying on fresh rock outside his home but instead he was in some sort of garden for wherever he looked flowers grew.

Whether it was the heady scent of the flowers or the sudden movement of siting up Findley was feeling very sick. He gingerly attempted to stand, just as well he didnt try to jump up for his legs could not hold him and he slipped back into a crumpled heap.

Cursing he raised his head trying to catch sight of the beast that was wailing , he knew the voice, strangled though it was, not beast but elven and in some terrible trouble.

Findley shook his head slowly, trying to rid himself of the nauseous feeling that threatened to overwhelm him. He was caught again, all their efforts had been in vain, though the land had somehow grown fair out beyond Findleys sight he was sure that Grimbald held the Strongbow once more.

He had no weapon, save for a small sharp shard of stone that lay close to hand. Grasping it tightly he tried once more to rise and this time he was able to, at first his steps were carefull but as the Strongbow's cries grew louder Findley felt compelled to abandon caution and blundered forward into a clearing.

There was no sign of Orcs, nor of Grimbalds ugly maul. Instead a small gathering of rather agitated Elves stood outside a wooden door. Findley stood rather shakily, the adrenilin rush subsiding quickly, The shard of rock slipped from his hand as he passed out.

Gentle arms caught him and carried him to the room he had shared with the Strongbow. As they lay him on the bed he stirred noticing at once the elf was no longer there.

Panic took him again,

"Where is he . . . Where's the Strongbow,"

The very effort of the words left him gasping for breath.

Melian came swiftly into the room and seeing Findley in such a state she carefully filled a glass with water and some herbs and handed it to the small Dwarf.

"Drink this. " She commanded

"It will help,"

Believing it to be just flavoured water Findley did as he was told.

"The Elf" he managed and then as she began to speak he felt the sleeping draught take hold.

"We have moved him." he heard her say, something about "cave" and "dark"

"No." he murmered but she did not hear him for he was already asleep.

He did not sleep well, this troubled Eruntalle deeply for it had been a strong draught and should have ensured the Dwarf a good long rest.

Findley however did not mean to sleep and he fought it with the determination and courage that had brought him from Angband.

Within the hour he was stirring, and by the following half hour he was trying to stand.

Eruntalle tried to argue with him, but to no avail even without her help he managed to reach the door. Fighting the sleeping potion he was barely able to speak. His speech was slurred but he made it absolutely clear that he would not rest until he had spoken to Thingol, the Lady Melian or to Eru himself, he would not rest until the Strongbow was returned to the room.

Seeing that the Dwarf would not be calmed Talle decided her best option was to allow the patient to speak to her Lord and Lady and so it was with her help that the small Dwarf finally stood before Thingol.

He was not amused for he had been in a private discussion with Mablung trying to ascertain the reasons why his marchwarden deemed it necessary to bring unwelcome guests to the hidden realm. He was halfway through a tirrade about Dwarves when he was interrupted by one. Findley's arrival had come just as he was building to dress down the errant Elf.

Findley half staggered half fell into the room. At once Mablung had stepped forward and with Eruntalle's help lifted Findley back onto his feet. Findley however was not able to bear his weight and so hung like a limp rag between the two of them.

Thingol was already telling them just what he thought when the Lady Melian's arrived. It was she that finally brought calm to the room.

She ordered chairs to be brought and a soft cushion for the Dwarf, a wise descision for he would surely have slipped from a chair.

"Theee Strongbow hess"

Findley struggled with the words. Melian sighed and went to the cabinet pouring out a small amount of clear liquid.

"Here this will help."

She offered him the glass but he refused to take it. Eruntalle, rather embarrassed quickly took it instead.

Findley looked at her coldly

"Noo No more sleeppp."

"Its not a sleeping potion, it will help you to wake up, to think clearly and . . ."

But Findley was having none of it, he wasn't going to trust her no matter what.

For a moment he sat silent leaving both Mablung and Thingol staring at each other. Mablung was hoping the Dwarf would wake for he did not relish listening to his Lord Thingol speech again especially as he would start the whole lecture from the beginning.

Findleys voice came at last, weak, but clear.

"The Strongbow where is he?"

"He has gone to rest in the darkened caves. Do not fear Findley for the dark will bring peace and gentle calming. The night will last through the daylight hours. He will find peace there and time will heal him."

"You Fools" Findleys head jerked up as he brought his wild brown eyes to meet the Elf Lords

Thingol positively bristled with Indignation.

"Mablung." he ordered

"Remove this this . . . Dwarf."

He almost spat the word Dwarf as he turned to Melian, one look told him he was wrong,

"What?" he yelled

"Are we to be insulted in our own home and you will STILLfavour him over your husband?"

"Calm yourself Husband, you know you have ever had my love and loyalty. Now be silent let Findley tell us why he thinks you are foolish."

Mablung could not help a slight smile at the Lady's choice of words, still he hoped Findley had more reason than just a loathing of Elves for calling Thingol a fool.

It took Findley several attempts, at times he would falter much to the dismay of Talle and Mablung, but it seemed, unlike her husband, Melian wanted to know what Findley needed to tell them. She understood it was important, something so desperately important, that not weariness, nor failing of limb, nor the strongest of sleeping potions could silence him.

She waited and listened and slowly as Findley struggled to tell them she understood.

"The cavesss they are Angband, dark . . . evil. The Strongbow will find no resss . . . ressst you are torturrrin him see. See?"

Findley lay in a crumpled heap,

"Please . . I beg you Thin . . . no cave . . . no cave for Stronbo"

It was Mablung who carried Findley back to the room. Had he heard Melian say she understood? Had he seen the shocked look on Thingol's face? Mablung did not know, but he Mabllung had seen it. He too had felt shocked, for he had never thought to hear a Dwarf beg an Elven King.

Thingol stood silent, then almost in a whisper he asked

"We are doing the wrong thing for the Marchwarden?"

He looked to his wife,

"Thats what he was trying to tell us right? That the caves would not help the Strongbow."

"Yes my dearest I believe thats exactly what the Dwarf was trying to tell us."

"He begged, Did you hear him? He pleaded for the marchwarden. Why would he do that?"

Eruntalle who had sat quietly now spoke

"I believe my Lord they . . "

She hesitated but Melian smiled and indicated for her to continue.

"I believe they share a bond of friendship, its more than friendship, they were as brothers each caring and looking out for each other. Alas that the Strongbow is unable to care now, but Findley can and is determined to continue to do so."

"I think." she said, hesitating until Melian smiled and asked her to continue.

"I am almost certain that the Dwarf understands the torments of the Elves in Angband. He was there, I do not doubt it, his body bears the scars of that evil place. I believe he knows my Lord."

"Maybe so but, it is I who will judge how best we treat our own not a Dwarf."

He did not spit the word Dwarf this time for it seemed in his own mind he knew that it was only a great respect and loyalty that had brought Findley to his room that day.

For Findley a great wave had swept over him finally he was unable to turn it aside and he sank beneath sleeps curtain like a leaden weight falling in water. In dreams he drifted, some beautiful and fair, in other he was back in the dark tortures of Angband.

Sometimes he would walk with the Marchwarden and at others he would be searching for him through horrors untold. Until after three days he finally awoke.

[Edited on 15/2/2004 by Happy_Hobbit]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 27, 2004 05:59
Morikelva sat, as she had done for so long previously, in a cave-like cell. Her warg laid beside her, grumbling quietly.

The elves had not know what to do with her and, despite Eaniel's protesting - Mablung, the she-warrior noted, had not protested so strongly - had taken her to the cells until a decision could be sought from Thingol.

The cell was small, dry and clean but nonetheless its walls were of impenetrable stone and its bars of the strongest steel. Morikelva snorted at the irony of it all. Hated by all, mistrusted by all. Good and evil. She longed for the dark forests, for the feeling of pine needles beneath her feet as she hunted under the moonlight.

Her reverie was broken by an anguished scream, guttural and tortured. She stood and peered through the bars into the torch-lit shadows of the stone tunnel.

"The Strongbow?". Her brows furrowed. "One of their own? Here in this place?" Morikelva shrugged her shoulders and wondered. What breed of elves were these, who would punish one of their own so fearless and strong? She touched the golden braid which hung around her neck and shouted for the guard in foul and dark language.
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 27, 2004 08:53
OOC: ....*speechless*

He could scarcely believe the animalistic scream was ripped from his own throat. But it mattered not - he was in the very pit of the place he hated the most, Angband. There were many that let loose screams like his own. Of course he heard voices that resembled elves' voices, and maybe even caught a brief snatch of an elven chorus echoing through the halls, but it was only fakery, only some evil spell.

With eyes opened or closed, he could only see the fires and horrors and tortures of Angband, could only think that he was now a thrall to a soulless Dark Lord. Deep within himself he knew it was a spell, an unending torture that Grimbald was responsible for. He was really nestled safe in the deepest annals of Menegroth, his cherished city, under the care of the finest healers, of those who knew leechcraft better than himself.

Or was he? Wasn't he really in Angband? Didn't Grimbald himself really throw him into a cold, dank, putrescent cell? Weren't the cells, nay, all of Angband itself comprised of cold stone and harsh metal, like this?

No, no. He was in Menegroth. He barely heard others telling him that all was well, that he was in the cold, hellish dark to heal, but he found that it proved difficult to believe them. He thought that he saw his own kin - were they even really elves? - and saw that they did truly want to help him...but they seemed so far away. Every word they said to him was muted, every touch - save the Lady Melian's - was faint, or numb. Slowly, he felt he was slipping away from them, yet at the same time he was in their presence. He was in the tunnel one enters of sleep, or walking in dreams...everything was fading. He felt intoxicated and thus limited in his senses and strength. He was falling asleep, yet he was wide awake.

The Strongbow was in his beloved city...yet he felt so displaced. He didn't even feel was the Strongbow anymore...simply Beleg. He had done his duty...why was he suffering? He thought back to the time before Mablung and the others came to his rescue, to the tortures Grimbald and his slathering orcs subjected him to. The darkest times in his long life were brightened as fresh linen compared to the darkling tortures he was put under. Everything in his memory was hazy, yet, as if the Dark Lord himself willed it, the memories of that time were shown in painful clarity.

It was as if Morgoth himself stood before him and plunged his hand, black as night, into his heart. It was as if...as pure and as lovely as Menegroth was, Beleg had carried a bit of darkness into it. Darkness that would never be his own.

He laid his hands against an immovable stone wall, and looked upon them. His hands were bloodied, especially around his nails - as if he were trying to scratch and clamber up the walls to escape.

Like an animal.

This was exactly as Grimbald wanted. To reduce him to his base instincts. To confuse and vex him. To have him go mad. To break the Strongbow - just like his beloved Belthronding. Grimbald had accomplished what he had intended to do.

Cuthalion was broken.

The tunnels of the darkened caves were once again filled with a anguished, painful, despairing scream.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 27, 2004 01:54
Thingol considered carefully the small Dwarfs words.

Elves did indeed shun the darkness of caves and their ilk, he himself did not relish their confines, even the splendors of riches such as gold and jewels would not lure Elven kind below ground.

And yet they had sent one of their most loyal and beloved brothers to lay in the darkness of the prison cells, true they had meant to aid his healing but now with the insight the petty Dwarf had given him he realised this was not the best for the ailing marchwarden.

He had felt it a relief to have him out of earshot, for noone could here his cries of despair and not be moved, but now he knew his orders had condemed him to more torment.

He dismissed the Dwarf and Mablung, but to the young she Elf he spoke,

"My dear Child I see you have already learned much from my Lady wife."

He paused staring at the young Elven maiden until she grew uncomfortable at his gaze and blushed.

"I deem," He continued

"You are ready to perform for me a service of some importance, Eruntalle, I am bidding you to care for our fallen hero, he is to be moved to the far reaches of this ward, into a small hunting lodge no less where the smells and sounds of the woodland realm will aide his healing. You are to remain with him and care for him, I will send provisions for you and you will be well paid for your efforts."

"Are you willing to do this?"

"Eruntalle stared at her Lord, she had thought only to spare the Strongbow the torment of the cells and now she was to be sent away to nurse him alone."

"I do not require payment my Lord for it is an honor you do me I pray that I will be worthy of your faith in me, yes my Lord Thingol I am willing to do this."

Melian smiled, you will be able to send for me anytime you feel need of guidance my dear, take with you my white dove, release him on a morning wind should you need help, he will return here and I will hasten to your side, but I believe you will not need my aide for you have shown much promise in the skills of the healer.

Again Eruntalle, blushed, for she was unaccostomed to such praise.

"I wll need to gather my things" she muttered trying to think quickly exactly what things she would need,


Thingol smiled. "Be ready in three days my child, all will be made ready for you and your charge on the sunrise of the forth day."

Eruntalle bearly managed a curtsey before fleeing from her Lord chambers, finally she had a chance to be a nurse and to none other than the great marchwarden Beleg Strongbow.

And so it was on the forth day Beleg was brought from the cells, a great cloak was wrapped around him.such that none could see he was bound to prevent him harming those who carried him. Still he did not leave unnoticed for in the shadows a small Dwarf stood and beside him the unmistakable outline of an Elven marchwarden.

"So they are sending him away are they?" Findley hissed and wheezed, for him even speech was an effort,

"Well he will not go without me"

The small Dwarf took a few steps forward all be it shakey ones, but he did not fall for Mablung made sure to catch him.

"Do not worry Findley my friend, there is no place that they can take him, where I cannot track him, let them go, we will follow soon enough once you are able to bear weight for more than a few steps."

You give me your word, Findley gazed up at the Marchwarden

"I do" replied Mablung earnestly.

So it the pact was sealed,

Findley allowed Mablung to help him back to his room and there the two friends sat each deep in their own thoughts.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 29, 2004 11:27
Morikelva raised her head at the sound of soft elven footsteps approaching her cell. The bolts were drawn back and a tall elf in light armour stepped in. At his side was a fine sword but he took care to keep it beyond the reach of the Easterling woman.

"Lord Thingol wishes to speak with you. You must wear these".

He threw a set of leg shackles, sending them clattering along the floor to the feet of Morikelva. The woman stared up at him with cold, glittering eyes.

"I see my deeds are as much appreciated of those of the Strongbow". She snorted quietly, her mouth curled in a faint snarl. "Indeed, the elves of Doriath are almost as charitable as the orcs of Angband".

The elf's clear grey eyes flashed with anger. "You should watch your tongue whilst amongst our people, who have lost more to Angband than you can ever imagine".

Morikelva rose. "More than I can imagine? Is it not clear to you? Do you not know who you have, trapped here in the maze of Menegroth? Pride of Angband! Innocent you are, who have escaped the cold steel of my blade!". Morikelva's rage grew. "I will show no humility to such a pup. I have travelled many dark miles with your people, have fought alongside them, protected them and brought them to their homes. And in return? From the renowned generosity of the elves. What for me? Imprisonment! No home for Morikelva! No freedom! What difference should I see between Doriath and Angband?"

Morikelva stood, eye to eye with the elven guard, trembling with rage. The elf stepped back and drew his sword, its tip at Morikelva's throat. "The leg irons". His hand was steady. "As requested".

"Certainly", snarled the Easterling woman. "Take me to your precious King, who hides behind the protection of a woman and yet claims ownership of this forest".
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 29, 2004 03:55
"She is a Maiar, one of those who has seen the Valar themselves. She is more than a woman. She is ages old than you, or me. And I am ages older than you."

Mablung's soft but firm voice reached the two's ears as he stepped into the room, in similar attire as that of elven guard. He bore no weapon, but it was evident that he was prepared should Morikelva take her chance.

He lifted a hand and placed it upon the should of the other elf, who replaced his sword with a glare. "You would do well to show some sort of respect, Morikelva."

The Easterling woman sneered as she looked away and sat down roughly, fastening the leg irons around her ankles. "You say nothing of your king. Do you not agree with me?"

"Lord Thingol can be hard-headed - but he is not the only one of this nature." Mablung's eyes were steeled, and Morikelva bristled at his implication. "But I do agree that such temperament could possibly herald ruin."

They knew that Mablung spoke of the disillusioned Strongbow, broken in body and in mind. Morikelva finished with the leg irons, and stood up, dark eyes darkening further. The elven guard escorted her out of her cell, with Mablung following.

They walked in silence for a time, pausing once as the tortured wail of the Strongbow rang again through the halls. They continued.

"The Lord wishes to speak with you concerning your deeds with the fugitives," Mablung began.

Morikelva snorted slightly. "And does he think I was trying to herd them back to Angband?"

"No. I gave him a full report-- that you warned us of the coming army. And that you fought alongside us. That your bravery and cunning matched our own. He wishes to thank you, and to ask you if you would suffer a request of his."

"What request?"

"You will be told when you see the Lord and Lady. But for now, you should eat something."

The elven guard took pause, stopping to look at Mablung. Without any words, he nodded at the elven guard, who then guided Morikelva to an outer chamber laden with foods.

[Edited on 30/10/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 30, 2004 11:45
Morikelva shuffled into the chamber, her distinctive, long-swinging stride hobbled by the leg-irons. On the tables before her lay a feast fit for many. Her guard, still wary despite Mablung's advice, nodded at her to sit down. The Easterling held his gaze for a long, contemptuous moment and then sat on a long bench, swinging her bound legs under the table. She pulled a large silver plate towards her and tore at the sumptuous fare.

The food was unlike any she had tasted, used as she was to the dark flesh of animals hunted under the shadows of the mountains. There was a taste of sunlight, honey-sweet and of clear crystal waters, cool and refreshing. Morikelva raised an eyebrow.

"Your food is strange. It is light, as if it shouldn't fill the stomach of an infant". She addressed the guard directly. He stood resolutely at the entrance to the chamber, his gaze slightly beyond Morikelva herself. He did not answer.

"Mablung has the ear of your King, it would seem but perhaps not the blind respect some might carry". This was plainly a question. The guard focused his grey gaze upon her.

"Mablung is a brave warrior, who faced the great wolf Carcharoth. His opinions are those of one who has seen much of the world which others would fear".

"Carcharoth!". Morikelva's eyes glittered. "Indeed. Great wolf of Angband. Melkor's pet. It is in part to Carcharoth that I owe my promotion to the Personal Guard, for it amused Melkor to see two such dark creatures allied".

The guard drew back his chin in surprise. "Allied? How can one be allied to such a creature?"

Morikelva gave a dark laugh. "You have my armour, you must have noted the work upon it. It was gifted to me by Melkor when he discovered I, too, could speak to his pet. Not to command - Carcharoth would obey only his Master - but he would walk with me and allow me to accompany him on the dark watches of Angband".

The warrior's recollections were broken by the entrance of Mablung. "You knew the creature Carcharoth?" His eyes were darkened almost to black, his brow furrowed.

Morikelva nodded. "Indeed, until the jewel of the West drove him to madness. Long could I hear him calling in his anguish and for a time I followed but he recognised me not and nearly took my life". Morikelva raised the loose sleeve of her shirt, displaying a deep scar across her right shoulder blade.

"Then you were present at the wounding of Beren?" Mablung's voice was heavy with accusation.

The Easterling held the elf's gaze. "No. Although I tended him whilst he slept, I was not there when Carcharoth awoke. But you were there when he was slain?"
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 30, 2004 08:10
"Yes," Mablung said quietly, briefly allowing himself to descend into memory. "Huan, Hound of Valinor did slay him after a long and grievous battle. The Strongbow and I did our best to stay the beast - but arrows can only pierce so far. He assailed us and deterred us for the moment; when we arrived, Lord Thingol was saved....but Beren Erchamion was not. Huan, brave hound, died with him. Indeed...a mortal man taught us much about love."

Mablung arose from where he sat at the edge of the table, and grimaced slightly as if scolding himself for his soft countenance. He turned away slightly, a hand to his mouth, and was lost in thought for a time, the only noise being that of Morikelva eating her fill.

He turned again, looking upon her, and asked the elven guard to leave for the moment. He did so reluctantly, giving Morikelva one last grey glare before leaving. Mablung waited until the guard left before he spoke softly.

"You understand the ways of the Ainur as we do," he said. "Or at least partly. You understand that the Dark Lord waits to claim the spirits of our brothers for his own will. You understand that Cuthalion lies in that very place, even now."

Morikelva's eyes shifted slightly. "You heard me speaking with Eaniel in the Girdle."

"Yes. You know and have seen what atrocities the Dark Lord can accomplish. You have committed many of them yourself."

The Easterling bristled, but did not protest. She threw a crust of bread back onto the table. "Why are you speaking to me of such things?"

"King Greymantle will say the same things to you," Mablung began.

Morikelva sneered. "Pah! You have his ear and his mouth!"

"No," Mablung replied patiently. "I have his ear, mayhap - and he has mine. I listen to his words, as you should do. I say these things simply to inform you, to give you adequate time to consider answering appropriately to his questions." After a purposeful pause, he continued. "Our Lady examined the Strongbow, and was greatly afraid. She knows of the seed of darkness in his heart. Darkness not his own."

"And you wish for me to prescribe a medicine where she cannot?"

"If possible. But we are doubtful. The Lord Thingol will ask you of all that you know of the Dark Lord - of anything that will restore the Strongbow. For darkness cannot overcome light."

"What mean you by that?" Morikelva narrowed her dark, ferocious eyes. "Why do you give me advantage?"

Mablung smiled slightly, mirthlessly, blue-grey eyes betraying nothing. "Were you wounded? I will tend to you if you were. Let it not be said again that Doriath is as hospitable as the Dark Lord's lair."

[Edited on 31/10/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 31, 2004 01:14
Morikelva's dark eyes glittered. "You are strange, elf". She pondered on the Marchwarden. "But then, these are strange times, when Morikelva finds herself within the realms of Doriath". Her eyes narrowed. "Much harm I could do to you and your kind and yet you bring me words of friendship. For my part, I should ask what is to become of such a sworn enemy. If I were to impart all my knowledge of Melkor to your King and, perhaps, save the Strongbow, still I doubt I would be allowed to walk free".

Mablung raised his hands, palms outward, in a gesture of openness. "Of such things I cannot speak but to say that petitions have been put forward to treat you with leniancy. These are, as you say, strange times".

Morikelva took a swig of water from a silver cup, all the time watching Mablung for signs of deception. Silence fell.

Finally, with a sigh, Morikelva stood. "Very well. I am loyal to none, but the Strongbow proved himself a great warrior and his path through the Dark can perhaps only be charted by one whom herself is wrought from the night. Let me speak with your King and share counsel on the redemption of your friend".
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 08, 2004 02:41
Findley woke, sitting up he gazed for a moment unseeing, his mind still wandering in the threads of nightmare, but they passed and faded much as they had done these past few months. A large yawn and he was awake enough to take in the early morning light filtering in at the open window.

He rose and clambered ungainly to the edge of the large bed to look out and watch what remained of the early spring sunrise.

"Findley my dear Man, its about time you stopped lazing and got busy, these Elves will never tire of telling you to rest for they fear you will show them what hard work is."

With a confirming nod, he jumped off the bed grabbed the neat pile of freshly laundered clothes and headed for the stream. Despite there being fresh drawn water in a ewer atop the wash closet Findley much preferred to wash in the river, somehow its icy coldness lent to him the vigour of the earth, and for those Elves who chanced to spot him in the water it was obvious that he more than enjoyed the feeling the river gave to him.

"Perhaps it was that the water was free in the river and by bathing in it he feels himself free also."

Mablung was forever answering the seemingly strange behaviour of their Dwarven guest, whether it be questions from the Elven children who were more than a little curious or to the elder Elves who realised that their ideas of Dwarves had to change. In any case Mablung now seemed all be it unofficially the expert on Findley, to him they would come with questions as to why and if, and with Patience Mablung would answer, even though sometimes he to was puzzled.

For a start Findley showed no interest in precious metals or jewels. It had been suggested he might like to work in the silver-smithy, whilst he recuperated but he had snorted indignantly suggesting he would rather shovel the good earth, a totally inappropriate occupation given his shoulder still remained weakened and unable to function at any but the lightest of tasks.

Other tasks such as pottery, cooking and wine making were similarly shunned by the diminutive Dwarf.

"His one true love is his axe."

Mablung had replied when asked, by a stressed Elven healer on retuning from trying to find Findley something to do, what he could suggest,

"He is neither fit to sharpen an axe nor yet to wield one"

The Healer had sighed and set about gathering pens and paints a canvass and other like materials, Mablung smiled and then gently taking them from the Elf's hands,

"He is no artist my friend, no we must find some other thing for Findley to do,"

The Elf opened his mouth about to ask what HE would suggest, but the look Mablung gave him told him it would be better not to ask.

And so it was Findley wandered away into the woods. looking for something to while away the long hours between breakfast and dinner. A sharp thwack brought him up short, for a moment he was puzzled, it seemed suddenly as if the whole forest was suddenly full of Elves, some shouting some looking concerned. But what was more apparent to Findley was the arrow which had pinned his shirt sleeve to a nearby tree.

A Elf know as Celeborn ( ) approached and carefully retrieved the offending arrow.

** What on earth do you think you are doing?**

The Young Elf stared at the Small Dwarf oblivious to Mablung hurrying in their direction.

**Who but a fool wanders onto an archery range in the middle of practice, Did you not see the warnings?**

Findley was unable to understand this obviously angry Elf, but seeing him waving his arms in the air, began to laugh, this infuriated the elf still further

**Answer me** he demanded.

Again Findley laughed,

The Elf's face was now bright red, his fist white knuckled holding the shaft of the arrow. The Elves close by stood rooted to the spot the younger ones looked ready to run the older ones carefully closing the circle.

Although Findley could not see it, he was in trouble, for the Elf he mocked was a young prince who was not use to being so treated, not only was he unuse to such behaviour he was also a master archer and no one messed up his lessons whether intentional or not.
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