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Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 14, 2004 07:59
Thingol's interrogation of Morikelva was swift yet tedious. The Lord was stern, grey, and unmoving, as if he was made of the same rock his halls were hewn from. Morikelva was no different, dark eyes returning the glare given to her, every fiber bristling with the contempt she felt around her. Mablung found himself continually fighting the contempt he himself felt - he continously reminded himself of the great deeds she had done alongside him. Her allegiance was no longer with the Dark Lord, he told himself.

Thingol's questions were rather pointed, aiming moreso at the things Morikelva knew of the darkness stewing in Angband rather than how to heal the Strongbow. In summation she told him the same things she told Eaniel in the Girdle before...the Strongbow was held in a place between dark and light - and the Dark One was hunting him. If he did not stay true to himself and resist, he would be taken. He would become a thrall just as the rest - only in his mind, not in body. Madness would take him, and he would be worthless in the society of Menegroth and Doriath. She also spoke of other things Angband was capable of, but it was clear to Mablung, Thingol, and the rest of the court that she spoke much less than she knew.

At the end of the session the Lady Melian persuaded her husband to give the Easterling woman the same priveleges and probation the petty dwarf Findley was given - close watch, but no fetters or chains. It was not yet determined what should be done with her, but she was to be free within the kingdom - but not free as a whole. After a most vehement time, Thingol sullenly complied. Mablung was ordered as one of the many who were to watch the Easterling as hawks.

Morikelva's dark presence soon left - back to her chamber/cell, Mablung devised - and he left the halls to seek out Findley. He smiled slightly, his heart lightened to find the Dwarf trying to pull his weight in Menegroth, yet suited aimicably to do nothing. Mablung found himself making excuses for the stunted one, watching him from a distance. He saw it as a game - until Findley's sleeve was caught by an arrow, and the royal prince Celeborn chided him severely for interfering with archery practice. Mablung once again found himself making excuses for Findley to stay the young prince's anger.

"You would protect this stunted one?" Celeborn sniffed. "Menegroth is failing, I think; to let a...dwarf and an easterling live in its hallowed halls."

Mablung interrupted Findley, who under enough tension and prejudiced eyes as it was, was surely ready to fling back a string of inappropriate words. "He meant no offense, my lord. He is healing, and he wishes to repay his stay here."

"Repay his stay here? Or for not saving his friend the Strongbow?" Not noticing Dwarf's reddening face, Celeborn addressed him. "At any choice I pity you -- he's only a marchwarden. There is no royal blood in him to salvage."

"What know you of blood?!" Findley sprung at the prince, stayed only by the heavy hand of Mablung. "He spilt his blood to save fugitives from the pits of darkness! It was drunk before his own waking eyes! What know you of blood??"

The prince and his followers took a step back, eyes cautious but steady. It was not so much Findley's anger that disturbed him, but the presence of another. Mablung turned to follow their gazes.

It was Morikelva, the Easterling, dark hair flowing about her shoulders. She said nothing, but only returned their gazes with no expression. She bore no weapon, no fetters.

The prince Celeborn retrieved his arrows and gathered his dignity. "...may it never be said that the Strongbow wasn't strong." His cool gaze shifted from Findley to Morikelva. "But his choice in refugees is questionable." He turned and left with his company quickly, leaving Findley, Morikelva, and Mablung alone in a thick and loud silence.


[Edited on 14/11/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 14, 2004 08:41
After three days, or eternity, the door opened, but Beleg was too weak to storm out of the hellish chamber. He felt a searing, purifying presence and realized that the Lady Melian was speaking to him. Her voice, the voice of a Maiar was clear and powerful to him, and he clung to it as if he was drowning. She told him he was emerging from the darkened caves and leaving towards the outskirts of Doriath, to a small lodge. There he would be cared for by the gentle lady healer Eruntalle, and hopefully there he would heal. But it was truly his responsibility if he wished to be healed - for only he knew the real battle inside of him. He acknowledged enough of her speech - anything to get out of the cell, out of imprisonment.

So his hands were bound and a thick cloak wrapped around him - to warm him as he still felt cold even outside, and to hide his bound wrists. He heard the voices of Mablung and Findley, and took great comfort in them.

The lodge was not expansive, but still spacious. Things there were very familiar to him, things that spoke of trees and leaves and green - of nature, the only true love he ever had. Memories came to him and left swiftly, teasing him like mischevious elf-children done too soon with their studies. His wrists were untied, and the marchwardens that accompanied him and the lady healer left - but not too far. Marchwardens were everywhere. The meaningful glances of concern they gave her nearly slapped him in the face - he was an animal, and they feared he might hurt her.

What hurt him the most was that he agreed.

He stared at the gentle beauty, working around the lodge, for the longest time - remembered what little he knew of her. Slowly he began to realize that she was the lifeblood that was to nurture him, to restore him to the Strongbow of old, and he feared that he would drain her of all of it.

For...for he felt a twinge in his heart, as if a creature was nestled and growing there, becoming ready to spring out and unleash what evil it was sown with. He cursed it with all of his being. He felt Cuthalion slipping away. He felt Menegroth leaving him. He felt as an animal ready to flee. His fingers ached....ached...

And so the first thing Beleg did upon the arrival of the lodge was carve a new bow and arrows with it. Crude as they were because of his ailments...their aim was not lost. Eruntalle noted that Beleg trained all of his darts on only one young tree, splitting it in two.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 14, 2004 09:34
Morikelva, too, kept a distant watch on the Strongbow, having no other companions and being entirely disturbed by the gentleness and light of Doriath. It somewhat dazzled her senses, leaving her restless and quick to anger.

The elves kept their distance but their watch was nonetheless constant. They did not converse with the warrior woman and left her much to her own devices to form her own den some distance from the Strongbow's resting place. Morikelva wove together the supple branches of young trees into a low arch and created a litter of dried leaves beneath. Her rich supplies of fur and sturdy woven cloaks and clothing had been confiscated by Thingol, together with her impressive battle armour and all weapons. Her warg remained within a cave deep within Menegroth. All this further frustrated Morikelva and she would oftentimes curse the elves in dark language.

Without her adornments of civilisation, such as they were, the Easterling returned to an animal-like state, more akin to the wolves of the mountains than to a woman. She awoke and prowled the forests mainly at night and, despite the elves' greatest efforts, would, on occasion, prey upon the wildlife of Doriath, taking rabbit or bird or squirrel, eating them still-warm, squatted on the forest floor.

Mostly, though, she watched over the Strongbow. The shadow which hung about the forest lodge drew her close and gave her peace from the light and music of Doriath. She did not directly approach Beleg but watched with dark, glittering eyes, his internal battle. The bow he fashioned, she noted, was more akin to that made in Angband, save for the accuracy of its aim and she looked thoughtfully upon his chosen target. The tree was young and supple, with music in its slender branches. Beleg's arrows, though, rent and scarred the silver bark, tearing at the flesh beneath until the tree could bear it no longer and split asunder.

Finally, on a starless night, when the Strongbow sat, restless, on the doorstep of the lodge, idly fingering his bow and muttering in a language only half Elvish, Morikelva approached. Beleg, his senses focused in a fashion to which he was not accustomed, stood and raised his bow, a snarl of warning eminating from his twisted mouth. Morikelva's dark shadow flitted over the lawn in front of the lodge and she answered his snarl with an animal-like snort of her own. The Strongbow lowered his weapon.

Morikelva stood before him. She had stained the ivory clothing given to her by the elves with some dark fruit from the forest and now it was a shade of violet not dissimilar to that of her glittering eyes. Her hair flowed wild about her waist and she was barefoot. She regarded Beleg with her head tilted to one side, like to a wolf listening to a distant call.

"Do you know me, then, Strongbow?"
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 21, 2004 11:03
Eruntalle sat on the small wooden seat beside the bed, the figure lying on it was for the moment silent and this allowed her to think.

She reached for the book that lay on the table lifting it to smell the soft leather cover. A small smile crossed her lips as she opened the page. In her own neat handwriting she reread the first few lines.

Lady Melian has blessed me, for she has deemed me worthy of being the Strongbows healer. I am both excited and nervous. I know that the Lady Melian would not have bid me do this if she was not confident I am capable. So I must trust to her instinct and do my very best for him.

Glancing up from the page she noted the Strongbows pale face, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, yet she had seen thought this before only to have him suddenly scream whether in pain or anguish she knew not.

Lifting her pen she turned to a fresh page and set about writing the days events.

The Stronbow still walks in darkness. I have tried many things, recounted tales of old, sung to him, tried the smell of fresh flowers and leaves I even cooked his favourite foods. Still he fails to respond, sometime he is peaceful, as if he dreams of fair things but this is but a brief lull before he is lost to the nightmares again.

I do not understand what power drives him from his return to good health, still I believe the solution is here all I need do is find it.

Eruntalle carefully set down the pen and scanned the page, satisfied the ink was dry she was just about to close it when a eerie scream rose startling her she leapt up dropping the diary onto the floor.

"Strongbow," she called "I am here, fear not you are safe, Strongbow!"

She gripped his hands but he fought her touch and soon she was fighting to save herself, His eyes stared straight ahead, he did not see her, fighting instead some dark ghost that only his mind could see.

"Strongbow please," she begged

"It is I Talle, you know me do not be afraid,"

For a moment the Strongbow paused, loosening his grip on the frightened Elf maiden then without warning he lashed out barley missing her

"Leave me be dark one." His voice strange and filled with desperation.

Stepping back Talle tried to straighten her dress and smooth her hair.

"Don't worry Strongbow," She whispered

"I will find you"
Syriana
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 24, 2004 08:46
[[ooc: I guess I'm back, but I need to catch up... give me some time okay... ]]

Somewhere to the edges of Menegroth a lone figure was wandering around. Polgara never feeled comfortable in this area. But they couldn't move on until the Strongbow has recovered. All this time she had on the outside of the REalm, and now she thought it was time to move inwards. She was feeling lonely, she needed someone to talk to...
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 26, 2004 12:57
Beleg nearly fell out of the large, warm bed, disentangling himself from the thick covers and stumbling into the night air, outside of the lodge. He would not go far, despite his instincts urging him away from this place. He knew invisible marchwardens were all around him; even now, they watched his every breath.

He noted a white dove staring at him from a nearby tree, Eruntalle's dove. He could eat it for dinner.

He covered his face in his hands. He had nearly struck the lady healer...what was her name?....Eruntalle. He had nearly marred her lovely face. He could have killed her, if he wanted. He did not trust himself; he decided to leave her presence. He wandered around the grounds, mumbling nonsense to himself, his ears unheeding to it but only to the internal dialogue he had with himself.

Was this what is was like to be mad? To be unsure of yourself, of your surroundings, of everything you see, hear, sense? To see your brother elf one moment - then see a vile orc standing in his place? Was he in Angband or Menegroth? Did he feel searing heat from Thangorodhrim (sp?) or the cool winds of Doriath?

Is this was Grimbald had intended for him? To slowly wither away into insanity?

...were these hands, or paws? Nails, or claws?

A twinkling of pure light in his darkness was in the form of Eruntalle. As if he had fallen deaf and was desperately listening for any sound at all, he clung to every song that passed from her lips, tried to remember the tales she told of elven heroes everyone knew since childhood, tried to gain taste from the delicacies she made for him. He cherished every moment with her that restored his civility, but still he felt himself giving in more and more to instinct, to becoming an animal walking on two legs. He wanted to thank her for all she had done...but he could not. His spirit was willing, to fight, but the flesh was not. He began to feel trapped inside a body that he did not own nor control.

And he had nearly struck her. He would've asked her forgiveness...but he knew himself incapable.

He retrieved his bow, discarded next to the sapling he rent in two, and returned to doorstep of the lodge and seated himself. He continued to mumble nonsensically. ...someone wandered the woods...further than the lodge...someone...

His flesh sensed her before his spirit. His body snarled and trained an arrow upon her - and for a brief moment he relived himself in battle, relived his lost purpose.

She snarled back, emerging from the shadows. He had sensed her long before...but still he sensed someone else wandering the woods. He lowered his bow.

"Do you know me then, Strongbow?"

It was Morikelva, the Easterling, sister of the wolves. Even without armor she was beautiful and terrible...and the one person that he saw clearly and without influence from a spell. He wanted to kill her - but he also wanted her to save him.

"Why do you call me Strongbow?" he said. "He died in battle, under torture. He was too weak with pride."

Morikelva's dark eyes did not falter. "Is this what you tell yourself? Are you conceding defeat?"

He looked at her, steel eyes flashing. "Is anyone fully prepared for the devices of the Dark Lord? Do you think anyone could stand them and survive properly?"

The Easterling did not respond, but only held his angry glare. For a time the two were locked in this way, strong wills straining. Suddenly, she charged him, war cry shrill and small sword gleaming towards his midsection. Without thought he bellowed a war cry of his own, and caught her arm. Disengaging the sword from her hand, he flipped her onto her back, pressing the sword against her throat.

"Do you mean to destroy me also, she-orc?!" he cried.

Morikelva only smiled up at him from the ground, panting slightly. "You are still fighting. You will never stop."

He sneered slightly, removing the sword from her neck, where it left a very slight cut. "You are nothing but an animal. I am nothing but an animal." After a pause, he asked, "Did Grimbald destroy you as well?"

A sound came from the doorway of the lodge, and both looked to find gentle Eruntalle blinking in wonder and surprise at their struggle. He threw down the small sword and stepped towards her to re-enter the lodge. He heard Morikelva's voice call to him.

"So you will continue playing the pet for the lady healer?"

Again, his body acted before his mind and spirit willed it. In turn he charged the lady Easterling, snarling, and found himself in a wrestling match. Yet Morikelva proved herself quicker this time. He felt a foot pummelling in his stomach, and a hard fist slam against his jaw. Hearing Eruntalle's shrieks and commands to end the altercation, his face and body were soon cushioned by leaves and moss.

As Eruntalle rushed to his side, he looked up at a victorious Morikelva, who slowly squatted next to him. The light caught the glint of metal that rested against her breastbone; the wolf-whistle.

"You are still fighting, kindred spirit," she said softly. "You will never stop fighting."


[Edited on 26/11/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 26, 2004 04:56
Days passed and Mablung was pleased to learn that Findley had fully recovered, his strength and fiesty nature returned to him in full. Yet it also became clear that the Petty Dwarf was becoming a aimicable nuisance of sorts in that he had impatient energy to expend. The calmness of Doriath, even most of it was underground, was holding him back. He wasn't able to "waste time as you elves," he would tell Mablung often. The anxieties of Findley - as well as the anxieties of the whole kingdom - needed to be put to rest.

Mablung ascertained that Findley's restlessness was in correlation to that he was given nothing to use his time with - as well as his concerns for the Strongbow. Mablung made his decision.

He would teach Findley archery.

This earned a hearty laugh from the Lord and a gentle chuckle from the Lady. "What is he to do?" King Greymantle asked. "Shoot at the knees of his adversaries?" Nonetheless they both agreed that it would prove useful to use up the Dwarf's energies, and to also give him purpose as he was usurped from his homeland so long ago. News of this rippled throughout the kingdom, and Mablung often found himself the recipient of odd glances and shaking heads. And a sneer from the prince Celeborn.

Irregardless, he told himself. Findley was most worthy to be taught, and was a Dwarf among dwarves. His respect was earned. And as soon as the news reached the dwarf himself, his brown eyes brightened and his impatience grew.

After a time Mablung took him to a small clearing, a long journey free from other archery practice grounds, and fashioned targets at different heights. He had carved a special bow for Findley, smaller in length for his short arms and wider in girth for his large hands. His quiver and bows were special too - smaller in scale, as if they created for a learning elf-child.

Teaching the special skill proved difficult, but Findley's passion to learn never faded. Day after day slowly slipped by, but the Dwarf slowly began to understand the delicate art of the bow.

[Edited on 27/11/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 02, 2004 05:25
Eruntalle rushed to Beleg's side, distraught at the violence she had been witness to. The Strongbow propped himself up on one elbow and spat into the grass. Blood and spittle flecked the turf. He rubbed his jaw and glowered at Morikelva.

The Easterling woman stood slowly, blood seeping from the cut at her throat.

"What is this madness?", exclaimed Eruntalle, looking first at Morikelva and then at Beleg. The Easterling ignored the she-elf, her voice and the gentle light she seemed to exude grated against Morikelva's already irritated senses. She fixed her gaze instead on the prone Marchwarden, whose light was fading as the winter sun in mist.

"You are strong, elf, and you hate me yet. But He searches for you. I feel it. His shadow is upon you and upon this glade. Through you, and through I, He is closer to Menegroth than he has ever been".

"And yet you survive", muttered the Strongbow, darkly, pulling himself to his feet. "Somehow, you, live under the shadow of darkness and yet do not submit. What price have you paid? What cost to the Dark Lord?" He drew close to Morikelva, his mouth curled in disgust.

The Easterling woman bared her teeth, her voice trembling with barely-restrained anger.

"I pay no price to anyone. My dark spirit is entirely my own. Animal-like I may be but mine own self is as unsullied as that maiden there". She nodded towards Eruntalle and then placed a hand gently but firmly around Beleg's throat. "Watch your mouth, Marchwarden, for it becomes as dark as any pit of Angband".
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 10, 2004 08:18
Beleg struck Morikelva's hand from his throat, blue eyes near glowing with anger in the moonlight. "Continue to spread those lies, if they fit to comfort you." He turned and stalked to the lodge, flinging open the door and disappearing inside.

The moonlight soon melted into sunlight, but he barely noticed. Eruntalle soon returned, cleaning his wounds, and continued to read to him, to stroke his hair, to prepare his favorite meals, but he paid her little heed. One thing he did sense clearly from her was her frustration.

Sorry, pretty one, he thought. I know you wish to save me. But the Easterling speaks the truth.

Days became weeks...so he thought. He lost track of time long before. It had been long after his altercation with Morikelva, but he remembered every detail.

He knew he was never in Angband in the first place. The notion that he could not enjoy or appreciate or recognize anything, that an elf brother looked like an orc, that his instincts began governing him - that became his own personal cell in Thangorodhrim.

Once again he sat at the doorstep of the lodge, dressed in a simple tunic, breeches and boots, trying to discern the starlight from clouds and darkness. He stopped and turned - he heard a feminine voice lingering in sadness. Upon rising and entering the lodge, he heard it clearer. It was in Eruntalle's personal chamber. He stepped towards it silently, peering through the crack of the door. He saw her slender form shaking. ...Eruntalle was weeping.

Not one for formalities any longer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Eruntalle gasped slightly, trying to gather herself, dabbing at her cheeks. "Oh! My lord...I-I am sorry...did you wish for something?"

"You were crying."

She blinked, large eyes betraying her tears. "...only because...I miss my family."

"Then you should return to them."

Eruntalle paused, looking into her lap. "No, my lord Strongbow. I stay here for you."

"Why? I have gone mad. Let madness take it course."

"Madness does not take it course, my lord. It takes it's toll! You will only waste away and become like...like...that dark ogress!" Fresh tears overtook her, and she buried her face in her hands.

He furrowed his brow. Stepping in front of her, he sat down. "You do not weep for your family. You weep for me."

She barely nodded, but he percieved it. Stiffly, he took her into his arms. Her warmth and soft scent began to melt his stiffness away, and he gathered her closer. She was frightened at first, in fear of violating the grounds of nurse and patient, but began to lean into his strong, iron embrace.

She leaned her head back, looking into his darkened, cloudy eyes. Her voice was very quiet. "If Doriath's finest son succumbs to the Dark Lord...then what will become of the rest of Doriath?"

He found himself struck by those words, and struck by his own selfishness. He was succumbing. Doriath's finest son. Giving in...

~~~~~~~~~~~

Once again he was at the doorstep of the lodge, in the darkness of Telpion's new moon. It was then that he heard her footsteps in the dead leaves.

"Did you intend to be heard? Nearly fifty marchwardens could have slain you based on sound alone."

Morikelva smiled, shadowed by a the branches of a thick tree. He continued.

"I do not hate you, Easterling, and I am not sure if I trust you. But what I do know is that I begin to understand you now."

The Easterling continued to stand silently.

"What you said after our altercation I judged to be the truth. But what I said - that you paid a price - I deem to be the truth as well." He rose, and stalked towards her, and in the shadowed night he began to resemble her - his hair became dark, his skin blackened.

"What mean you, elf?" Morikelva's voice was deep and fluid.

"You may not have paid a price to the Dark One, but you have still paid a price to survive beyond his shadow."

A wind passed through the trees, and they began to rock and groan, as if they were telling the two warriors that something was soon to happen. He turned, muscles tensed, scenting something sinister passing through the mist of the Girdle of Melian. Momentarily he straightened and returned to her.

"I am of this place, Morikelva," he spoke quietly. "Animal that I am, I still love it. I will not have it tremble underneath the Dark Lord's hand."

"And what is that to me?"

He stepped closer to her, close enough that their breaths mingled, their heartbeats audible to each other. "...if I show you the path leading out of the Girdle, allow me to run with you and your wolf brethren, for a time. Allow yourself to show me how you live life unsullied. Show me how to survive my own Angband. Show me what price you have paid."

Morikelva started slightly. "Do you tell me that you are willing to leave your beloved trees and stone halls indefinitely?"

He took a lengthy time to answer her question. " I will not let the Dark One have Doriath."

[Edited on 12/12/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 20, 2004 01:12
"HAH!" Findley cried, arms raised in celebration. Mablung laughed and clapped from his sitting place in an alcove near Findley's practicing grounds. The Petty Dwarf had sucessfully hit a target.

"Superb, Master Dwarf," Mablung called. "Strength, precision, and...something akin to skill. Now, if we could perhaps focus on patience..."

Findley's brow furrowed at Mablung as he pulled his arrow free from the target. "And that's enough squawking from you, Master Elf! Let me bask in the news that the arrow stayed in the target this time!"

Mablung smiled and arose. "You will have to do that several times more if you wish to continue." He tilted his head, looking down at him, and raised his eyebrow. "Do you?"

Findley glowered at Heavy-Hand's tauntings. "My thoughts were that Elves didn't ask stupid questions!"

Mablung silenced, and grinned inwardly; he had found that the best way to encourage Findley was to taunt him, to suggest that perhaps he was not able to fulfill his task. Steadily the Dwarf was beginning to comprehend the bow and the arrow...to realize that it was a fine form of art more so than a form of war. Steadily Mablung's people were becoming acclimated to Findley's presence in Menegroth and Doriath. And, he had to admit, he had grown fond of the surly Petty Dwarf and his robust, noble-minded ways.

Yet Mablung knew it was not to be this way for too much longer. Elves did not comprehend time as others did, but they did know of the grief and beauty of change. He knew of a brother-in-arms who was undergoing change whilst he trained Findley.

His head bowed slightly; he prayed that the Valar would hear his prayers...to have mercy upon the Strongbow.

"A prayerful marchwarden?" he heard Findley's harrumph. "I did not think you and yours depended upon the Valar to save your lanky hides."

Mablung blinked, slightly irritated; he did not realize how attentive Findley was. "You would be surprised, Master Dwarf, as to how many of us are."

"The Strongbow?"

Mablung looked upon Findley's weathered, hairy face. "Not entirely. He was too haughty to rely on anything except his own abilities. But now... I imagine he is learning to be."

After guzzling water from his flask and wiping the remaining dribble from his bountiful beard, Findley abruptly said, "I want to see the Strongbow."

"I'm afraid that won't be for some time-"

"Nonsense! It has been months since our arrival here, has it not? Why then shouldn't I see him?"

"Findley, listen to reason. The Strongbow is no condition to--"

"No condition?? What has he been doing there all that time? Just what exactly do you people do? Brush your pretty pretty hair all the time?"

Mablung began to grow angry. "I know your illness hindered your senses, Master Dwarf, but surely you were able to notice everything that was prescribed for Cuthalion during his stay in Menegroth! That lodge and that handmaiden are his only hope for now!"

Naturally, Mablung's protests were flung against a stone wall in the shape of a heedless Petty Dwarf. "I shall still see him! And if you won't show me the way, Master Elf, then I'll find this lodge myself!"

[Edited on 20/12/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 28, 2004 12:42
A dark shadow passed by the window, hurridly Talle stepped to close it. Ever since the dark woman had shown herself she feared she might return to exact who knows what revenge upon her unfortunate charge. Yes it may seem that the Strongbow was her equal, but Talle still held hope within her, the slimmest hope that even now her healing would guide the Elf back to her.

She gently laid the fresh linnens on the bed, now that the Strongbow had regained much of his strength she allowed him to dress himself, hoping that something in the feel or smell of the clean clothing would trigger a response, she had taken to sneaking away his dirty laundry for if she did not her would wear it and she could not bear to think of him dirirty.

She turned sighing softly, the dawns first rays lighting her face, showing her soft frown as she pondered on the mornings meal, honey and some soft oatmeal would help to take the chill from the frosty morning air, she was about to leave when the Strongbow caught her arm, Eruntalle stiffened, afraid but there was no sign of wildness in the Elf face.
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 28, 2004 01:00
Mablung soon succumbed to Findley's protests and led him to the lodge, not because the Dwarf had astonishing negotiation skills, but because he too wanted to see the Strongbow. The trek was simple and pleasant for Mablung, but rather long for the short legs of Findley, who made sure to occupy his time with complaints and grumblings. Mablung smiled to himself, shaking his head, and tried to allieviate the Dwarf by pointing out certain kinds of trees and animals descried along the way. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of other marchwardens, camouflaged and nestled in the branches of trees, their eyes smiling with mirth at Mablung's bearded prodigy. Soon, they reached the lodge, a simple cabin, ensconced with large oaks and birches.

"At grand last!" Findley cried, stomping quickly to the door. "You needn't have given me the scenic route to this place, Master Elf!"

Mablung caught his shoulder. "Careful, Findley. You must remember the Strongbow is still healing. In ways beyond physical."

Findley paused, and nodded, before stomping more quietly inside the lodge. Mablung took one look around the lodge, his eyes narrowed, pointed ears pricked. Something was not right.

He stepped around the outside of the lodge, looking within the trees, at the patterns of disturbance in the dead leaves on the ground, keeping watch for any broken branches or twigs. There were several. Reaching the door again, he stepped inside.

The main chamber was quiet, the fireplace aflame. Nothing was disturbed. Mablung could hear Findley's voice, low and angry.

"What mean you? I don't understand this insanity!"

The marchwarden stepped past the Strongbow's room after glancing in it, and cautiously walked into what appeared to be Eruntalle the healer's room. There he found Findley speaking with her. Mablung's heart clenched; Eruntalle sat in her chair, looking very tired and very heartstricken. She looked up, and looked away quickly. "Mablung, my lord. Welcome."

Mablung nodded slightly. "Eruntalle. What is wrong? ...where is Cuthalion?"

"He up and left, he did!" Findley sputtered, shaking his head. "She said that he went stark raving, and left the place!"

"No, no," Eruntalle said gently. "I had fallen asleep, walking in my dreams, because i was very tired in caring for him. When I awoke, i went to prepare breakfast for him. He ate it calmly, looked at me for a moment and thanked me, and told me he was to leave. I did not believe it, but... he quickly left. I left the lodge to have him listen to reason, but...but I feel the female Easterling had something to do with his disappearance."

The female Easterling? "Morikelva?" Mablung said incredulously.

"Yes...she had visited him a few weeks before...it ended in an altercation. She...she called him a kindred spirit."

Mablung noticed that Findley had become ominously silent upon the mention of Morikelva the Easterling -his expression darkened, and he gripped his bow rather tightly. "Was there anything else, Eruntalle?" Mablung asked.

"No, she soon left afterwards. I truly thought his condition was improving, but...I was wrong, apprarently." the healer looked into her lap; she was in pain for the Strongbow.

Mablung stepped towards her and gently cupped her cheek in his hand, guiding her glance up towards him. "Fair Eruntalle, think not that you have failed. You have nurtured the Strongbow indeed; but a healer can only accomplish what she is meant to. As a marchwarden can only accomplish what he is meant to accomplish, and nothing more." With a gentle smile he left her some instructions, and stepped outside of the lodge, Findley on his heels.

"What now?" Findley asked, looking up at him. Mablung noticed that he changed weapons, from his new bow to his axe.

The marchwarden looked up at the trees. He knew that several other wardens waited for his command. He whistled the song of the sparrow, and two wardens immediately left their posts and walked towards him.

"What have you seen?" he asked them.

"We saw the altercation of Cuthalion and the Easterling," one replied. "But weeks later she returned to the lodge. Cuthalion spoke to her, but we heard it not; he knew we listened. But it did seem as if he was negotiating with her."

"Negotiating? For what?"

"We know not, Sir Mablung. But soon afterwards, he emerged from the lodge, then left with the Easterling."

Both Mablung and Findley were struck dumb.

"Did you follow him?" Findley spoke up, stepping forward.

After a pause, the warden said, "Yes, but in his sickness he is still Cuthalion. His tracking and stealth skills are surpassed by no other here. He knew we followed him. He was soon lost by us."

Mablung narrowed his eyes, and felt himself growing angry. "Did you have an inkling of where he was to go?"

"Yes, my lord. Past the boundaries of Doriath, into the mountains."

[Edited on 28/12/2004 by Beleg_Strongbow]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: December 31, 2004 03:01
Morikelva and Beleg track their route by stars and moon.

"You will show me the route from this sunlit place, which rejects me as much as any other". The Easterling's words ring in the Strongbow's mind. His battle between good and evil, light and dark, is epitomised in this strange woman of the night.

"It cannot be true that you have paid no price to the Dark Lord. I do not believe it". His words resonate with Morikelva.

"I am a leader of men. A leader of those darker than men. I had a place. A purpose. That is not a price. It is a meaning."

The two move through shadows, stealthier than any elf trackers. They are as darkness. The Strongbow leads, showing the dark warror woman the path from the elf-haven to the unknown mountains beyond. The crisp, dark air beckons. Morikelva feels her animal instincts return. Only her caged warg is absent. She calls to him, nightly. He is wise in the ways of dark underground places. He would find her. Meantimes, she watches the Strongbow with dark eyes. He is close to her, shrouded in night and the probing fingers of consuming evil.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 11, 2005 09:56
They moved together steathily and silently, evading the penetrating eyes of the marchwardens, and the growing green of the forests. The mountains loomed high and mighty, as the powerful guardians they always were, but at this moment seemed more intimidating than secure. As they neared the mountains and left the Girdle, the climate grew colder. They moved only during the night, where the stars and moon lit their trek.

The path leaving the Girdle was relatively simple, as Morikelva's guide was once Doriath's finest guardian, the one that knew the forests from every tall tree to every little plant. He still knew them - but he was no longer connected to them. All he knew now was to let Morikelva follow him out of the forests, and then he would follow her.

Several presences joined them, ones of the dark but not serving the darkness. Beleg sensed them immediately - wolves, Morikelva's kin, in a way. They were accompanying her, guarding her, guiding her. He knew that they were wary of him, but accepted his presence well enough, since daily he gave in more and more to his instincts. The wolves traveled with him and the Easterling for days, weeks, eternity - it mattered not; he was an elf. The two spoke little as they traveled. He did not ask where Morikelva was leading him; he did not ask if she even truly knew. What he did surely know was that he was doing what he deemed right.

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

He stopped short upon a short cliff, looking down upon the slight ground they have covered. The climate was very cold. He wore furs now over his tunic and leathers - furs from wolves and other animals that gave themselves up for his survival. They did not go unthanked. Amongst bright wolf eyes peering from cracks in the cliffs, he looked far and long, past wastelands, forests, plains - and descried two lone figures staring back at him. One was tall, willowly, beautiful - not unlike himself - and the other short, stocky, bearded. One bore a bow, the other axes. He knew who they were.

He felt the Easterling step behind him. "...they follow you," she said. "They truly fear for you."

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

Mablung narrowed his eyes, aghast at the Strongbow's altered appearance. He no longer saw evidence of the esteemed elven culture he hailed from; there was nothing but leathers and furs, nothing but an animal left. His golden hair had grown dim, his brow darkened. Although they were several leagues away, Mablung could feel the icy, unwanted disposition the Strongbow was giving him.

"What? What do you see?" Findley demanded. "What is it?"

Most of the Strongbow had darkened and was covered in fur, including most of his face. But Mablung was still pierced by his uncovered, blazing blue eyes that spoke a clear, definite order: Follow us no further.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 13, 2005 07:36
"You're wrong"

Findley stormed not wanting to hear Mablungs words,

"And in anycase" he went on, "He is not himself, whether by his own will or some bewitchment of that dark one"

Findley's eyes blazed as he sought to put into words the anger and frustration he was feeling without giving voice to the gnawing jealousy that his friend had chosen anothers help not his.

"You may go back if you wish, but I I will continue and when the Strongbow calls for me I will be ready"

In his heart Findley believed the call would come, though he could not see the manner or the reason an Elf would need the aid of a small Dwarf, still he beleived it and to his oath of Kindship he held true.

Such an oath would drive the petty Dwarf on, even when all hope was gone, when all his clan had been slain, his one thought was for the oath, he was bound to it, it had taken him into the jaws of death, when he had given himself up to the servants of Morgoth, now it set him on the path to free his friend the Strongbow or to die trying.

He had no idea how, he just knew he must find a way.
Shrugging off Mablungs hand he stepped forwards, his own hand tightly clenched on his axe.

During his time in Doriath he had learned much of the ways of Elves, for although he said little he had been carefully noting how they used the smallest stirring of leaves or the shrill call of birds to track their prey. He had been delighted to find that many of Mablungs choices had matched his own as thay had tracked the Strongbows movements thus far.

"I will follow you laddie even into Angband itself, if that be where you are going"

With one last nod to Mablung and he was off, his heavy footfalls matching the beat of his heart.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: February 20, 2005 12:56
The night was bitter cold, icy fingers stole under their furs. A bright sickle moon, large amongst pointed stars, cast a pale light over the mountainous landscape.

The Strongbow walked on, head down, his heavy clothing pulled tight around him. He felt the chill of the night on his skin but yet a greater cold crept over his heart. He said nothing and kept his glittering eyes from meeting those of his companion.

Morikelva strode alongside him, more accustomed to the cold of the mountain ranges. At some distance and in silence, moved the accompanying pack of wolves. Morikelva muttered to them quietly in a language the words of which Beleg had never heard, but who's meaning he was coming to understand.

Finally, he spoke. "They would harm them, if you did not tell them otherwise?" He looked to Morikelva with weary eyes.

"Yes", she said. "An elf and a dwarf are rarely the friends of my kin. Often they are slain by arrow or axe, thrown in fear and without understanding".

The Strongbow grunted. "You speak not only for the wolves".

Morikelva snorted indignantly. "Do not try to pick me apart with your elven empathy. I am not to be pitied or excused. I have blood on my hands which I bathed in knowingly".

"Must we always", exclaimed the Strongbow in frustration, "compare our deeds like old soldiers no longer fit for battle? You are tiresome!"

To his surprise, Morikelva threw back her head and laughed out loud. "The darkness must be ever nearer your heart if my acts are tiresome to you! Never has an elf shirked the opportunity to berate me. Come. We must rest".

At that, she stepped from the rocky road, into a narrow ravine which all but closed up above their heads. From a recess, she withdrew dry kindling and proceeded to light a fire.

"You know this place?"

She nodded. "This is the edge of my most familiar territory. Far enough from Doriath. Far enough from Angband". She continued rousing a fire. The Strongbow looked out from their resting place. The landscape was wild and craggy, beset by teeth-like rocks erupting from the springy, heather-covered hills. His eyes glittered with excitement.

"This is good hunting ground?"

Morikelva looked up, reading his expression with curiousity. "For deer and grouse and rabbit. If such would interest you".

"I have never hunted for sport".

"Neither have I. I hunt when I must. You mean to say, you have never felt the thrill of the hunt, the sheer animalistic pleasure in the strength of your limbs and the sharpness of your senses. You have not run, barefoot and predatory over the heath in pursuit of your quarry and felt the satisfaction of warm and sustaining flesh in your hands".

The Strongbow held her gaze. "Perhaps that is so. You will show me?"
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: May 10, 2005 12:05
He followed her steps, barefoot, and became her shadow. He only hunted as a warden because he had to, in order to supply food to the city. His heart wept each time he took a life from the lush forests of Doriath. But now, in the charge of the warrior woman, the weeping began to leave him. He still felt sorrow, but the bloodlust that he slowly dappled in began to overpower it.

They traveled as members of a pack - and in certains ways, they were. Glittering golden eyes would peek out in the shadows of the crags, and he knew they were there. Always there. They spoke little to each other, for they didn't need to.

She showed him knew ways to stalk, hunt, and kill. His memories of Doriath began to waver each time he heard the cry or struggle of another spirit he quelled. She rarely spoke to him, only showing, and he slowly began to understand.

He had left his precious Menegroth behind, for fear of destroying it. He though he would find some sort of peace - but still he felt none. The darkness manifesting in him was still with him. The only thing Grimbald sought to destroy was the Strongbow.

And he was still succeeding in doing so.


He wasn't hungry, but he needed to eat. He decided to hunt at night, guided by the stars and moonlight. Taking up the spear he had carved, he deftly lept from crag to crag, peering in each crevice for any small creature seeking shelter. Covered in his furs, he resembled a beast moreso than an Elf.

He walked alongside a large boulder, more familiar with the land now that he had spent time there. Some snow had melted, yet there was still chill in the air. He stooped down to fill his skin with the water, and took pause. He looked upon his twin staring back at him in the small puddle, illuminated by the moon. Dirt covered his face, fur covered his golden tresses.

His brow furrowed, and once again his heart cried out. "Who are you, friend?" he said softly.

He turned his head sharply, and left the puddle, spear ready in his hand. Regularly at night, the crags were quiet, somber. Something was with him. It was not Morikelva; he had began to be able to sense her presence now - and this was not her.

He quickly braced against a boulder as he catched sight of moving shadow close by. He thought a growl reached his ears - was it his own?

Quickly he lept from crag to crag the way he came, towards the direction of the shadow. No matter what it was; he was sure it was much larger than the little creatures he was searching for. It would supply more meat and furs, hopefully. No matter if it had claws or teeth or powerful strength. He no longer feared death - at some times he almost welcomed it.

He hid behind another boulder as the shadow stopped moving. He realized it was moving towards the outcropping of rock he and the Easterling used as shelter. Alarmed, he feared for Morikelva's life.

He moved to spear the thing, bracing for a battle. He left the boulder, and paused.

The thing was gone.

He turned, and his senses alarmed him a moment too late. He grunted as his body struck a nearby rock. He rolled away, taking a moment to clear his senses, and blocked a clawed, furry hand. He sliced his spear at the thing, earing a yelp in return. It roared at him, and he roared back, voice strained and muscles stretched.

"Stop this!" he heard a voice cry.

He stopped, looking up to see Morikelva at the entrance of the ourcropping. She stood at the side of the...the thing. She was stroking its head.

"I would have you keep your hunting skills to grouse and deer, warrior," She said.

He began to understand what the thing was. It was Morikelva's warg. It had been searching for her, and finally found her. He watched, slightly dumbfounded, as she led it to the outcropping and began tending to the wound he had inflicted upon it.

He threw down his spear and sat roughly, nearby the same puddle of melted snow. He looked upon his image again, and threw his hand into the water, casting most of it aside and destroying his twin reflection. Burying his face in his hands, his thoughts traveled to the last few people he could remember clearly.

Inwardly, deeply, desperately, he hoped that Mablung and Findley had the same tracking skills - and loyalty - as Morikelva's warg.

[Edited on 10/5/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: May 11, 2005 04:21
Findley continued to track the Strongbow, now that he travelled with the Easterling his passing was more marked, he had lost the skill of travelling undetected, or perhaps it was that Findley had gained in his ability to track for he now saw their passing as clearly as foot prints on wet sand.

Despite all his efforts he never gained ground, if he fell behind he would compell himself to greater effot until he once again lay but two days from them. As he travelled his strength grew, slowly his muscles found their old form, he was leaner now and fitter too, his diet of lean meats and wild berries gave him a healthy glow, he became one with the forest, more Elf than Dwarf.

At night he would sit, fashioning the wood that he carried, at first it had been crude and unweildy but now it was a thing of beauty, not the slender bow of elves but a stout handsom bow that could fire a bolt tho he had only the one to practice with.

When dreams came he stood with it, watching across the great plains, he knew war was coming and he waited, every sinew tensed, then with a great howl it emerged. He would ready the bolt and send it singing through the air, death riding on its tip but the bolt never struck for before the bolt hit he would wake, his hands trembling and his mind tumbling, he did not understand why.

Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of the beast, its form unrecognisable, its face so familiar, he tried to change it,but he could not, ever it remained the Strongbow.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: May 28, 2005 10:48
The rays of sunlight played upon her hair, yet she seemed unaware as she carefully stitched the torn sleeve, she had almost finished when her hands began to tremble belying her inner turmoil, she fought down the choking feeling that came into her throat,

"Where are you ?"

There was noone to answer her question, nor to soothe her, tears trickled down her cheek and drpped onto the shirt lying crumpled in her lap. She tried brushing them away but more quickly took their place. Slowly she stood and hastened to the blue jug that stood upon the dresser, she careully poured water into the large blue bowl that stood beside it. Dipping her hands into the water she splahed some against her face, slowly at first but then more quickly, the cold water made her catch her breath and as she could not do both she stopped crying. She dried her face, burying it in the soft towel, then looking up she gazed out of the window.

The sun was still shining brightly, flowers bobbed and nodded in the gentle breeze that blew in through the window carrying the heady aroma of lavender, close by bees buzzed lazily acompaning the chiiping of small birds in the low slung branches of a large silver birch.

Eruntalle was about to turn away, when she notice a small flash of yellow among the purples of the lavender, approaching the window she looked at where she thought it should be but could see nothing, she sighed thinking she had been seeing things, however as she reached to lift the Strongbows shirt from the floor the same yellow caught her eye. There perched upon the sleeve was a small yellow butterfly.

She smiled,

"This is no flower"

she said as she carefully carried the shirt to the window

The butterfly flapped its wings slowly but did not move. Eruntalle tried to tip it off onto the flowers, but it clung on and crawled further up the sleeve.

"You belong outside now off you go."

She nudged it gently but instead of flying away it flew up and sat on her finger. Its dark eye stared unblinking into her own. Studying the small insect Eruntalle marvelled at its wings each one covered in tiny scales most of them were a rich yellow but among them some paler yellow and some almost white, these caught the light and with each gentle flap made the wings shimmer. Indeed it was such a pretty thing that Eruntalle was held entranced.

Without reason she suddenly began to talk to the butterfly telling it of the events of the last months,

"And now he has gone and I do not know where he is nor if I shall see him again."

She felt the same sadness welling up

"I never got to tell him I loved him, nor to say goodbye"

she sobbed. The butterfly flew up startled by her sudden movements as she dabbed at her eyes.

"Oh I'm sorry."

But it was too late for it had flown out of the window and was now lost in the golden hue of the summer sunshine. Eruntalle turned slowly from the window, lifted the shirt and then returning to her seat began once more to repair it.

[Edited on 28/5/2005 by Happy_Hobbit]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: July 24, 2005 04:50
OCC: I'm going to post soon. I don't want Away to die.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 16, 2005 10:46
Without sound he watched the Petty Dwarf travel, impressed by his gain of Elven-like qualities. The Dwarf was tracking the Strongbow, painfully slowly, but evenly and without fail.

He marveled at the Dwarf's dedication to the fallen warrior. The Strongbow had only thrown insults upon him - during the time when he was a capable guardian of Doriath - which made it all the more difficult to understand why treasured the Elven archer's friendship. The Strongbow had never favored Dwarves - why would he decide to do so now?

He could only reason the Dwarf's admiration was not through words and rapport, but through skill. He admired the Strongbow's dedication to complete a mission, to fulfill his duty, to protect his people. He marveled at the Strongbow's abilities; he had fought alongside him during the rise of Grimbald's army, sent to capture the fugitives. In this the Dwarf respected the Strongbow, and in this the Dwarf had set out to rescue the Strongbow from himself.

He took pause, and wondered if the Strongbow was even worth the trouble anymore. Moment to moment, he slipped further to the clawed hands of instinct, and left the gentle bosom of his kingdom. He wondered in his heart if there lay any more hope for the Strongbow.

Mablung opened his eyes, and sighed softly as he watched Findely feverishly poring over crushed leaves, searching for the Strongbow's step, muttering underneath his thick beard.

He thought of the healer Eruntalle, praying for the Strongbow's return, holding anticipation, and, quite possibly, love in her heart for him. He thought of the King and the Queen, and of the young archers who kept asking where the Hunter had gone.

He looked up and saw sunlight peering through the thick ceiling of the forest he found himself in.

Yes, there was still hope.

...but he held none of it for himself.

Without sound he stepped forward to follow Findley.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 28, 2005 11:58
He sat atop the rocky outcropping, leaning forward on his haunches, spear in hand. The climate was warmer than it had been, but he continued to wear his animal skins. He had grown used to them; removing them would only serve to make himself vulnerable. His face was lined with dirt, blue eyes peering over the countryside and wastelands. He was no longer the Hunter now - he was a predator. He was no longer graceful and skillful in the art of hunting - he simply spied weak prey and took advantage of it.

It was only during the night when he felt at ease now. it was only when the moon shone would he decide to show his face to the forests. Any sunlight or purity only served to irritate his senses, to spark his ire. He was beginning to loathe it - everything wayward reflection, even the golden tone of his tresses, which were still darkened by dirt.

And within, the last remote part of him that was Elven was reaching for it, crying out for him to return to it and embrace it.

No. The darkling tortures that Grimbald subjected him to had opened his eyes and his soul to Angband. He could never serve Doriath now. He knew it with each wary glance his kinsfolk would give him. He knew it as Mablung looked upon him with pity. He could feel it from all of them - he is no longer the Strongbow.


"Why do you ask me to show you the ways of wolves?" Morikelva asks him.

"I told you. To protect Doriath. I do not trust myself in this state."

She walks closer to him, eyes almost level. "There is more reason than that. You could have taken yourself with your own sword, and your Doriath would have been safe."

He looks at her sharply, his jaw taut. "Yes, I could have. Death is always the final answer, isn't it?" His eyes bore into her own. "I am not ready to die. As any animal with proper instinct, my fight for life is intrinsic. Is not your own? Isn't it how you survived Angband?"

The Easterling remains silent.

He continues. "Every animal depends upon instinct to survive. They do not stop to decide their fate - it is born within them to want to live. And I am that animal now, Morikelva. Even now I drift closer to becoming one - so that my mind and heart can be muted, even so, permanently. So I can no longer feel the sting of Grimbald's whip nor the pain of leaving Menegroth nor the separation of leaving her embrace!"

"...you do not speak of Menegroth's embrace, do you?" Morikelva replies brazenly. "You speak of someone else."

"Yes," he answers, turning away. "I will never see her again. This is why I asked you to show me how to live as one of your wolves, as one of you. I know I am still Elven because I still feel pain, so very much. Yet slowly it ebbs, with every kill I make and every moon I watch. And slowly this pain will leave me."

"And no longer will you be an Elf." she finishes.

He looks at her, and grins mirthlessly.


He left his darkness to dwell upon the Dwarf for a moment. Findley, with his small, knobby hands, and his gruff bravado. With his shock of red hair that would serve to frighten any dark agent away. He found himself laughing.

He wagered that if Findley had succeeded in entering Doriath, he was well healed by this time. He wondered where the Dwarf was now...

His head turned sharply. This was not Morikelva, nor her warg. He sudden felt uncomfortable; he felt he was being observed. Rising silently he left the outcropping and slithered into the forest; perhaps there was a wild rabbit or some berries.

Losing himself amongst the trees, he still felt uncomfortable. Even in his darkness he still felt some warmth from their branches. But it was not the same. The trees were strangers to him.

He whirled around, eyes sharp to any movements. Something was following him.
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 29, 2005 01:43
Another fish swam between the two rocks he was standing on. Tiraldaron once again released the spear and speared the fish right behind the gills. He would eat well this day.
He had left Menegroth 10 days earlier, and said he was going on a hunting trip, but everyone knew that this was just another of his odd trips alone ; a chance to get away from everyone that teased him about his lack of abilities in the finer things. Tiraldaron was a great hunter and tracker but felt very uncomfortable when conversations moved on to philosophy or the arts , as he was lost on these topics. He could read leaves, and trails , and was never ever lost, but he would never be considered among the wise.

This was his third journey alone. the prevous two had each lasted several months. They gave him a chance to renew his love of the forest and he would come back eager and refreshed. His goal for this journey was Amon Obel; for he loved the view from the top of the hill. At night there was a clear view of the starts and in the day he could see the tops of The Forest of Brethil and all that wonderful foliage. Yesterday he had crossed the Sirion, at the mouth ofthe Minder, and tomorrow he would continue on his way, but today was a day for fishing, and relaxing and enjoying the sounds of the river.


[Edited on 30/8/2005 by PotbellyHairyfoot]
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: August 30, 2005 12:19
Findley crouched watching, time passing un-noticed, so intent was he upon the scene before him. His legs had long forgotten their pains and his shoulder's dull ache he heeded not. He was waiting until they went their seperate ways, each hunting in their own company. Findley had decided earlier that this would be his best chance for alone he might yet persuade the Strongbow to return with him.

All the same the small Dwarf knew it would be no easy task, he had thought long and hard as to what method he should use. During his days tracking, many plots, many different scenes had played out in his mind, and tho he was loathed to admit it most had ended in abject failure. Findley however was resolved, no matter what danger this attempt held he was determined to see it through.

He made to move forward, his cramped leg now reluctant to bear weight suddenly sprang to life as if pierced by a thousand small needles Findley yelped, then realising he had cried aloud, shhhed himself whilst frantically rubbing the offending limb.

Finally he was able to move forward, the ground here was fairly easy to cross, there were signs now of rocky layers lying beneath the thin soil. Deep forest undergrowth could not grow here, ecept in a few sparse glades, there were however plenty of briars and large brackens that provided ample cover for those wishing to keep hidden.

Now and then Findley would find a stubborn tree clinging desperately to a small patch of soil, its roots like boney fingers gripping tight, holding the ground in a vain attempt to prevent the winter from robbing it of its percious lifeline. They reminded him of the Strongbow for he saw in him the same desperate struggle for life. noting how he clung to his diminished sanity, he was aware that at any time he might easily be felled.

Findleys musings were brought to a sharp halt, they had parted, now was his chance. Findley watched carefully as the Strongbow set off down towards a small glade, this was good, for whilst he was hunting his attention would be upon the prey he sought. This would allow Findley to reach him before he could lose himself among the trees.

His thick hideskin trousers afforded ample protection against briar and rock, his hands too were used to the harsh ground and now with his insights into Elven technique Findley padded softly forward, now and then he would pause and listen. He could hear the Strongbow moving, for now there were times when he would slip upon the gravel track, or tread noisily upon a dry branch or curse when briars caught his skin. Each time he did Findley would find himself thinking how little of the Elf remained. This then urged him forward and now he too became a hunter stealthily approaching his prey.

He reached a small clump of four trees, surprisingly he had not noticed them earlier, still there was shade here and that would allow him to stand, ahh well no not quite for he bumped his head on a low branch of so he thought, still intent on his quarry Findley was oblivious to all else. A low grumble reverberated against the stoney ground.

"Hmm and my belly had best learn to stay silent, despite its hunger."

Findley dropped back onto all fours and crawlled forward once more, it wasnt long before he found himself in another clump of trees, again his belly rumbled noisily.

"I don't remember these, Findley you should pay more attention to the lay of the land son, who knows what dangers you could crawl into."

He felt in his pocket, eager fingers searched for some small morsel he might chew on, finally after much searching he gripped a small piece of dried meat. It was stale and dusty, popping it into his mouth Findley began to chew.

"Tastes like old boot leather, no matter it will surfice."

The Strongbow was now stationary, his attention waivering between unseen prey and what?

Had he seen him? Findley pressed himself close to the ground, his heart thumping and his mind whirling,

"What if he were to attack him, could Findley restrain him without serious injury to both of them?"

He tried to sit up but his sleeve was caught on a great thorn,

"Gahh like claws these old briars are."

He tugged gingerly at his sleeve, not wanting to alert the Strongbow further, it didnt budge so he tried again still it remained firm.

Findley pulled out a small knife and more in frustration than thought stabbed at the briar, suddenly the sleeve came free, though it was not as silently as Findley had hoped, for it seemed as if the old wood moaned indignation at being poked by Findley's knife.

The Elf was moving again, Findley heard a distinct crack of dry twigs, he seemed much closer that he had been, perhaps his quarry was moving this way, darn and he was less than ready, what would he say

"Oh Hi Strongbow and by the way you are coming with me . . . " No that was no good.

"Strongbow ohh good to see you . . . I'm err lost . . ." No No . . . not that either.

Findley chewed thoughtfully, absentmindely scratching his ear, a large drop of rain splashed onto the back of his neck closely followed by a familiar rumble.

"You fool Findley, it wasn't your belly after all, its a storm brewing and now it seems its going to rain,"

Another drop splashed close by, Findley glanced up, blackness, not even a single star, this was going to be a miserable night. He drew his cloak around him awaiting the torrent.

He would have to wait for another opportunity, for to try to persuade the Elf in the rain did not seem at all likely, Findley pressed himself against one of the trees, it yeilded, much to the Dwarfs surprise,

"Poor soil has taken its toll I guess, hmm well Finds you'd best . . ."

"What the . . ."

Suddenly things turned ugly for the tree was in truth the leg of Morikelva's Warg. Findley was now in grave danger, the beast had been toying with him as he hunted the Marchwarden but being stuck with Findleys knife it now wanted to exact its revenge.

A large tooth filled maul crashed down beside Findley, he barely avoided its fatal grip. Scrambling onto his feet he dodged a swipe of its claws, he could hear others coming, but who he knew not for he was staring into the dark eye of a murderous beast.

It was then that it came to him, something he had long suspected, he had met this foe before. Ever since THAT day, the day he'd lost all, kept in the dark recesses of his mind was the form of this very beast. It was this one that had ravaged his family. There was no doubt for he could see the scars where his blade had fallen. Findley drew his axe, setting down his bow and the single arrow, they were too close to use those now.

"This time I will kill you or you will send me where you took my own"

Despite his determination he could not stifle a shudder as the great beast roared acceptance of the challenge.

"Now to it" He muttered darkly



[Edited on 30/8/2005 by Happy_Hobbit]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: September 13, 2005 06:48
OCC: sorry to hold up progress! here we go:


He could sense Findley, ever so near yet not close enough to touch him. He sniffed slightly, arrogance making him chuckle. What had the Dwarf to say to him? What was his mission?

To bring the Strongbow back?

He threw his head back and laughed. Insanity.

He continued to walk away, ignoring the Dwarf's stalking. Findley was not the one hunting him. Something else pursued the Strongbow, something not of sound body, nor of any body.

He felt dread growing in his stomach, and gripped his spear tighter. He pulled his furs closer, and walked faster. Stopping once more upon hearing the sharp cry of a bird, he contemplated talking himself out of the fear he was beginning to feel.

He struggled against the iron grips of the orcs, holding him down as Grimbald strutted over to him.

Where were the others?

Grimbald grinned, rotting teeth displayed, gently stroking Belthronding his bow as he spoke. "You are most mighty of warriors, Beleg the Strongbow. But there is no warrior walking this earth that withstand the Dark One's power. You will tell us of the refugees, or you will be broken by his hand."

He didn't speak, but only lifted his chin in silent indignation.

Grimald bowed slightly. "Very well then."

With that the Strongbow was forced to look into Grimbald's face, to where the Dark One was housed. He looked into the Easterling's eyes, and found himself looking into his...Morgoth's...Melkor's. He looked into pure malice and distortion, into every darkness that threatened Arda. It filled his ears, eyes, and mind.

He cried out, trying to pull away. "AI! AI Orome! Mercy!"

But it was much too late.

Where were the others?


He moved faster, pushing aside brush and branch, his breath growing labored. His heartbeat pounded in his pointed ears, throwing off his concentration. He knew not where he was going, but simply wanted to flee.

"Return to me what is mine," he heard the voice in his ears, echoing from each side of the mountains. "Bear them to me, or face death."

He no longer felt the orcs holding him down, but only dark hands probing his mind. He was helpless, and found resistance only in his heart. "May Eru strike you!"

He felt an iron hand clutch his throat. "Do not curse me. I know your mind. I know where your spirit lies, and I will hunt for you, great Cuthalion. You are nothing. Your great pride will destroy you."

He fought against the darkness, willing every fiber in his being to combat it.

"There is nothing for you now. Yield to me."

"I will not be broken!"




He stopped walking, defeat evident. He knew what hunted him.

He was already destroyed. He was already broken. The Breaker was only returning for the pieces of the warrior he had scattered.

"No..." he stammered. "No...be..be gone from me..."

He stumbled back, tripping over the wayward root of a tree. "Stay away!"

Sitting up quickly, he looked to see the vegetation decay and fade, the sky falling into an inky, murky void. He knew it to be an illusion. It was certain to be one.

He heard his name being called...but not by any earthly voice.

He climbed to his hands and knees, and wept. "...no..."

The Dark One was searching for him. He was fulfilling his vow.

He was coming for the Strongbow.


[Edited on 14/9/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]

[Edited on 17/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
PotbellyHairyfoot
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: September 28, 2005 12:52
( I guess that we'll keep this RP moving slowly , but moving-lol)

The game trails were all different from the last time Tiraldaron had travelled to Amon Obel. perhaps the frequent incursions of Orcs and other evil creatures had changed the habits of the forest's residents.
In the three days since he had left the river he hadn't found the trail he needed to follow and had steadily travelled too far to the West. He wasn't all that concerned as a bit of exploration beyond his planned route could be helpful , as he could descibe the changes in the trails upon his return.
He was now far to the Southwest of his goal and he needed to find a trail that would lead him to the Northeast of his present position. Failing to come across one. Tir followed a taril that headed North , hoping to eventually find a trail that would lead to the East .
__________-
The next day, shortly before mid-day, he found what he sought, a trail that intersected the one he was travelling, and seemed to head directly towards Amon Obel. But this trail was covered with more than just the footprints of game! Tir carefully studied the signs ; they were a few days old but he was expert at reading a trail. There were some signs of a somewhat careless elf, perhaps a soldier as they tended to travel in ranks and were a little bit careless about leaving signs of their passage. But this elf was bing trailed, by what was either an orc that had lost its footware , or perhaps a Naugrim, although if it was a Naugrim , the individual was a bit sma;ller that those that had visited Menegroth and done such wondeful work. Tir rstrung his bow, just in case the Naugrim , as he was now pretty certain the footsteps were from a smallish Dwarf, was following this elf for evil purpose. He then qickly headed down the trail, deciding that he would now start to use his waybread, rather than hunt, as he needed to catch up with these two individuals and see what they were doing here
.

[Edited on 26/10/2005 by PotbellyHairyfoot]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 17, 2005 08:30
(OOC: sorrysorrysorry!!! i hope this makes up for things...i will have another post soon.)

Part One

He regained his footing, chest heaving, and tore through the brush, ignoring the brambles tearing and pulling at his leathers and the flesh on his arms, hands, and face.

...that voice...

It called to him, echoed in his mind, clawed at his spirit...

Tripping over another outgrown root, he tumbled down a leaf-laden knoll, stabbed by dead laden branches and bruised by rocks. He gained his feet quickly, eyes darting, and continued his flight. The horizon continued to become swallowed up in darkness, in a bottomless chasm, and as an animal he fled, not wanting to be taken.

He tripped once more, arms and legs flailing, furs ripping and flung aside in his wake. He grunted as he came to a rapid stop against a still standing tree. Clutching his sides in pain, he rested for a moment, only a moment, and once again, tried to remember.

What is left to remember, darkling? he heard. You are naught but an animal now - you know this to be true. Naught of your friends have come for you. Naught of your heritage is left, not even your fairness. For you bear the marks of your brokenness. Come to me!

He felt too weak to respond, to scream his defiance. Yet what rebellion had he left? What form or trinket did he bear that bespoke of his bearings, of his home?

What purpose was there to resist?

He remembered little now. The grief he bore upon being at the hands of Grimbald and the Dark One destroyed all happy memory that proved him Elven. All he could retain were memories that caused him pain, as readily as he was to deny it - battles, injury, death, losing comrades to the halls of Mandos. The Dark One knew him, and continued seeking to break him.

He leaned his head against the tree, and looked up at the branches. The trees used to sing to him, to tell him the currents of the world. Now they spoke silence to him.

"Eru..." he whispered, with the remains of his strength. "Forgive me my pride...i wish not to be taken. Please help me...for my strength has left..."

He closed his eyes, his spirit's strength waned. He could do little to fend off Angband's master. He rested, allowing fate to decide his doom. He accepted, and prayed he could no longer retain new memories.

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

He opened his eyes, feeling a fluttering at his cheek. It was a butterfly, brightly colored yellow, shimmering in the meager moonlight the forest canopy allowed. He watched it as it fluttered near his face and the green he rested upon. He lifted his hand, and it lit upon his finger briefly before cautiously wafting away. Everything forgotten momentarily, he watched the butterfly and its harmless movements. And remembered a memory.



He sat quietly near the table, resting in the lodge after a day of roaming. He didn't want to eat, to roam, to come in contact with anyone. He was content to just sit, and watch the lady healer write, wash, or cook herself a meal.

At one point, she noticed, and blushed, quickly stopping her work. “Would you have me prepare you a meal, my lord?” she said softly.

He shook his head slightly, and continued to study her. She was beautiful, yes, but that wasn't his subject of study. He wondered of her motives, of why she hummed elvish lullabies while she worked, why she diligently stitched holes in his tunics late in the night with only lamplight to brighten her room. Although unstable as he was, he wasn't ignorant of her work.

He continued to say nothing, and Eruntalle continued to grow uncomfortable underneath the scrutiny of his distant blue eyes. She looked away, and resumed the preparation of her own simple meal.

Then, abruptly, he spoke: “Why are you here?”

Eruntalle blinked, looking over to him. “What mean you, my lord?”

“Why do you stay here to care for me? They've dubbed me insane, in Menegroth. I'm not oblivious. Why have you decided to inhabit this place here with me?”

The lady healer looked away for a moment, folding her hands, and it was clear she was searching for the appropriate words to respond with. “My lord Strongbow...it...it is because I want to see you become well.”

“To see me well? Or to make me well yourself?”

She held his gaze for a moment. “No. I want to see you well again, in the prime of your life again – it matters not if I have a part in it. In truth, the Lord and Lady asked me to accompany you here. I know you suffered much, and my only wish is to see you at peace.”

He laughed derisively. “Dear Eruntalle. Your wishes are lofty.”

She was near to respond, yet a butterfly had wound its way through the open window, gossamer wings flapping gently as it fluttered to greet Eruntalle. It brushed against her cheek and she laughed softly, holding out her hand. It lit upon her hand, thin legs crawling and examining her skin.

“All of life is such as this butterfly, my lord,” Eruntalle said gently, watching the butterfly's movements. “There are forces that could easily destroy it. Yet there are forces at work that move to protect this creature and all that it represents.”

“And what does it – and all life – represent?”

She looked at him, and smiled tenderly. “Goodness. As long as there is goodness, then life is worth living, and it is worth protecting that goodness. If an inkling of goodness lives in your heart, then you are not lost, my lord Strongbow. The Dark One fears goodness.”



He drank in Eruntalle's words and memory as water. He rose once more, and dropped his spear, pulling off the remainders of his furs. The chasm continued to grow and slither towards him, accompanied by the sound of a growling, unidentifiable beast, yet he stood firm.

“You may have broken me, but have not sapped my spirit,” he spoke darkly. “There are forces here that work against you.”

With his regained memory of Eruntalle, triggered by the butterfly, he knew he could overcome instinct, and begin to feel once more – feelings not just of pain, anger, and suffering. He knew he wasn't an animal. He had a destiny, a purpose. What that purpose was he wasn't certain of, but he knew that he was meant to fulfill it. He knew his other memories would return to him. While instinct still controlled him, its reins, from that moment, began to weaken. He examined himself, and he knew.

As long as he was the Strongbow, goodness still lived in his heart.

The chasm continued to threaten to engulf him, but it slowed its approach.

“Begone from me,” he spoke aloud. “You own me no longer. I only grow stronger because of you.”

The chasm kept approaching, its endless maw stretching to his feet.

“Leave me!”

The beastly sound that followed the chasm began to roar in angry defiance, and the chasm began to shudder violently.

“By Eru's power, LEAVE ME!”

The chasm began to waver, stretching further, and began to crumble in upon itself. He could hear the sound of the beast roaring in anger. The chasm crumbled further and further into a pile of rock that slowly dissipated into a mist, and faded away, along with the incensed sounds of the beast.

He closed his eyes in the silence, relishing it. A weight had left his chest, and his heart. He winced slightly, as he felt the cuts upon his arms and face, and the bruises upon his torso. He breathed, and he felt the cool, clean air enter his lungs. He looked up through the forest canopy, and noticed the bright rays of the moon. And he smiled.

He knew the Dark One would not cease to hunt him, but was merely deterred. Melkor would never stop haunting his path. But this did not mean the Strongbow was not able to heal.

He started as he heard the growls of a beast once more. He looked through the brush and brambles in the sounds' directions and recognized the sound; it was no longer the sound of the chasm, but of a warg. He realized that even as the chasm left him, he was still not alone in the forest. His eyes pierced the brush and descried a small form fending off the beast. He could also hear the sharp sounds of a Dwarvish tongue.

...Findley!

[Edited on 19/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]

[Edited on 26/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
Beleg_Strongbow
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 26, 2005 11:53
Part Two


The battle had waged for a time before Mablung arrived with a start. He had covered the distance the Dwarf had made rather easily, and peered through the brush. He withdrew his sword and cautiously walked into the fold; he did not want to injure the Petty Dwarf's pride, yet also he had no wish to see Findley slain.

“Might I join?” He called, flipping forward his sword, eyes locking onto the warg that had already sensed him.

“Don't be taking all of my fun, Master Elf! Hah!” Findley responded, a glint in his eye. Mablung wondered if he had become fey again; he could not be blamed, for he had lost almost all whom he loved to the dark creations of Angband such as the warg they faced.

Mablung narrowed his eyes slightly, looking upon the fur patterns of the beast. “This is the warg of the Easterling,” he declared. As he noted the bloodied slashes upon its thick hide, he added, “We should not kill it, friend Findley.”

“And why not?” What good is it to respect her effects, meaning this hulking mass of corpse flesh?” The Petty Dwarf sputtered.

Mablung regarded Findley gravely. “Remember the refugees, my friend.”

“I remember them,” Mablung couldn't see the Petty Dwarf's expression, yet knew it was pained. “She was only there to help to earn her own freedom.”

“You know that not to be truth,” the Elf gently rebuked. “She fought for them, alongside us. She fought for you.”

Findley said nothing, only nodding after a time. “Aye. What to do, then?”

“To weaken it, if anything – or to fetter it somehow--” Mablung stopped short as the beast charged once more. He leapt away as Findley scurried between the warg's thick legs, narrowly being mauled and crushed by its fearsome paws.

Heavy-Hand deftly climbed a tree and pulled a length of silvery Elven rope from his satchel. Typing a portion of it tightly to a thick branch, he called to Findley, who continued to unwillingly distract the beast. He cast the other end of the rope to the Petty Dwarf, who toddered towards it and continued his flight from the warg.

“What am I to do with this?!” Findley cried. “Make some sense, blasted Elf!”

Mablung left the tree, swiftly removing his bow and training an arrow upon its bowstring. Quickly he released the dart, lightly nicking the beast along its backside to serve as a distraction. And distract it did – te beast stopped its pursuit, roaring in pain, forgetting Findley and turning its dull glare upon the Elf.

He sprinted towards a tree opposite of the first one, the Warg snapping at his legs, and leapt into the tree's branches.

“Catch it within the rope!” he cried to Findley. Blinking momentarily, Findley did so, tossing the rope into a loop about the beast's hulking neck- after several tries and several near-maulings - and pulling. It reared back and roared fiercely, slobbering and snarling, its front legs clawing the air.

Findley then understood, and quickly tied the other end of the rope to a large rock. Hobbling over to the tree Mablung lighted in, he cried as he threw the rock and thus the rope, “Take the rope, laddie! Tie him off!”

As Mablung did so, he added warily, a good distance from the angered warg, “Although it still wouldn't be my taming of choice for this smelly bag of orc refuse. You're too gentle, I say.”

Mablung grinned as he finished the complicated knot around the trunk of the strong, sturdy tree. The beast roared in indignance, thrashing its head and body about and pulling at the rop that anchored and ensnared it. It snapped its jaws once more at Findley, who taunted it with one of his axes. Mablung left the tree and gently moved Findley away from the beast's mouth, smiling.

“No need to incense it further, Master Dwarf.”

Mablung paused, looking away and into the forest. Elven eyes pierced the brush and bramble, and he stepped forward. He had been able to sense his brother-in-arms ever since their first training together, ever since their mission to help the refugees, ever since the Strongbow's capture and release from Grimbald, and his descent into madness.The strength of his presence had ever wavered to Mablung, and had grown very faint, even to the point of fleeing existence. Yet now, Heavy-Hand sensed his comrade very well; he felt the same strength he bore before his madness. ...was it possible?

“What is it?” Findley interjected, following the marchwarden. “What do you see?”

Mablung smiled. “You revere him, friend Findley. You should sense him now as well.” He watched the Dwarf train his small brown eyes towards the brush, and laughed heartily. “It's him, is it not?”

The Elf stopped short as he heard a tearing. He turned to see a branch missing from the first tree he tied the Elven rope to.

...where was the warg?

A dark blur blocked his vision, and he quickly found himself flat upon the ground, his abdomen searing in pain. It took him only a moment to realize that the warg's strength proved great enough – break not the rope, but the branch – and charge and gore him. His senses were assailed with the filthy stench of the warg and the metallic odor of blood. He felt the weight of the warg, it's razor teeth in his shoulder. He momentarily yielded to unconsciousness only to hear the shouts of the Petty Dwarf, and of someone else. After a moment, the warg moved its bulk off of him. He lifted his head enough to see the beast back away slowly, growling still – but its head bowed, relenting to someone behind him.

He looked back, and beheld his brother-in-arms, stained, bloodied and disheveled, slight, furs gone, eyes clear. He had returned to them. Though he was dirty and looked the least bit of an Elf, he was the Strongbow once more. The warg had yielded to his command.

Mablung lifted a crimson-stained hand to him, and felt the Strongbow take it and cradle his head.

“I appear to have caused you ill, my comrade...please, forgive me. For everything.”

He looked upon the Strongbow for a time. His comrade bore the same facade, but a different spirit. His eyes still blazed blue, but darkness boiled behind them no longer. Something had happened during the Strongbow's time in the wildnerness, with the Easterling, within himself. He had changed.

Findley arrived near Mablung's other side, bushy beard twitching, small brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Blast that beast! I should slay it now! Why couldn't you heed the advice of a Dwarf, you blasted Elf?”

“He will live,” the Strongbow calmed Findley's unspoken worries, then smiled down at Mablung. “I will care for you as you have cared for me, Heavy-Hand. Rest now.”

Mablung nodded, smiling weakly, and released his worries, fears, and doubts, and sank into unconsciousness.

Findley held the Strongbow's gaze. “You've come back. I told him you never did leave us. I told him we would come to find you once more. His worries have finally rewarded him.”

The Strongbow lifted Mablung into his arms, and glanced over to Findley. “Thank you... for not conceding defeat,” he said simply.

Findley nodded, eyes gleaming, grinning through his beard. “Aye. I knew you were still there.”

The journey from the Strongbow's wanderings to the lodge where Eruntalle waited initially allowed for several days. But with the Strongbow's renewed strength and retained leechcraft, he wrapped Mablung's wounds tightly and traveled swiftly with his comrade throughout the nights, with few rests.

Upon the Strongbow's wait, Findley urged him forward. “I'll only serve to delay you. You get him to the lady healer; I'll arrive in due course.”

Thus the Strongbow entered the lodge in half the time, delivering Mablung into the arms of Eruntalle. Upon her great surprise and jubliation at his return, they both knew Mablung was the one that direly needed Eruntalle's well-versed attentions.

He already sensed marchwardens nearby. He turned, walking out of the lodge and to the front entrance, and beheld two of them who had left their posts and stood before him. They bowed before him for a few moments.

“We welcome your return, Cuthalion,” they said. “You are very well met.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Please tell the Lord and Lady.”

One marchwarden hesitated. “But Cuthalion – what of the Easterling?”

He paused as he turned away to enter the lodge once more. “She has done her part. Leave her be. She is still an ally to myself – and to Doriath.”

[Edited on 26/10/2005 by Beleg_Strongbow]
PotbellyHairyfoot
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 26, 2005 12:55
When he spotted a third track heading in the direction of the Elfand Dwarf, Tir became alarmed; for it appeared to be the track of an oversized Wolf or possibly a Warg. Judging by the length of its stride it was moving quiclkly and from the freshness of the tracks it had been by only a short time , maybe just an hour or two ago.
Tir made a qiuick stop ,to organize his quiver and his weapons for easy reach, and then started running down the trail as fast as he could , while remaing silent . He was fortunate in that the wind was in his face, so the animal would not scent his approach. Of course , a wolf would always try to approach its prey from downwind , so that wasn't really a surprise.
After about 25 minutes of running Tiraldiron heard a loud yowl in the distance and he quickly sliipped off hs pack so as to pick up his pace

[Edited on 26/10/2005 by PotbellyHairyfoot]

[Edited on 26/10/2005 by PotbellyHairyfoot]
Happy_Hobbit
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 21, 2005 01:25
"This time I will kill you or you will send me where you took my own"

Despite his determination he could not stifle a shudder as the great beast roared acceptance of the challenge.

"Now to it" He muttered darkly


The air seemed unnatural as if the whole world was suddenly holding its breath, the soft twitter of birds fell silent and even the wind stilled. All of the small Dwarf’s concentration now focused on this one moment, this one foe and the fight that was about to start. Gone were his concerns for his friends, forgotten the pains of his aching shoulder, even the Strongbow was a far distant thought. Now he was a fighter, a Dwarven warrior, renowned in the eyes of his fellow clansmen, for here he stood ready, nay eager to do battle.


At first the two combatants circled each other or rather the great Warg circled the Dwarf as it easily outpacing his smaller stride. Findley soon found he was turning in a much smaller circle as the Warg moved slowly round him looking for a chance to rush him. The Warg stopped circling choosing the slightly higher ground then with an ear splitting snarl it launched itself at the Dwarf. Findley ducked as the great beast leapt, for a moment the sky darkening as its shadow passed over him. It quickly rounded snarling and pawing the ground great clouds of dirt flying up to land with a crackle covering Findley in dirt.

“Is that the best ya can do?”.

Findley searched quickly either side, there was a small rise to his right and two trees quite close together, he decided they might afford him a safer place and as the Warg moved to charge he turned quickly , bolted up the rise \nd scrambled between the two trunks. The Warg’s jaws barely missed him.

In its rush to bite it misjudged the distance between the trees. There was dull thud followed by the sound of wood splintering, as Findley turned to face the beast once more he found that its great head was caught between the two trees. It snarled shaking the trees viciously, claws ripping at their fibrous trunks. His hind legs set trying to haul his great maul free. Findley flinched, luckily the trees still held. It took but a few moments for Findley to realise it was caught there. Yelling he launched himself at it bringing his axe swiftly down into the brute face.

At first it did not seem to recognise that Findley’s axe had struck for instead of retreating from the blow it tried in vain to move forward, growling fiercely it clawed at the hard ground trying to reach the Dwarf. Findley scarcely able to hold onto the shaft struggled to free his axe; he had barely managed this when the Warg suddenly tossed its head in an almighty jerk releasing itself from the trees grip, its great paws rubbing its wounded nose.

For a moment Findley thought that it was going to flee,

“Nooo I will not be denied”

Desperate to keep it from leaving Findley almost made the mistake of running after it, he had taken a couple of steps when the folly of such a move hit him and he halted. The great Warg lifting its head to roar its renewed challenge, its voice was now somehow different still carried the menace of the brute of its owner. Endeavouring to make good of Findley’s misjudged steps it now ran full charge its great bulk thudding over the rocky ground. The Dwarf no longer safe behind the trees was suddenly aware this may prove fatal and it may well have been so had it not been for a small crevice in the ground;

Suddenly Findley was falling backward, a short sharp cry of alarm as he disappeared between the stone walls, a sudden thud and pain as sharp rocks dug into his back. For a moment he lay unmoving trying to understand what had happened. He passed a hand over his face swearing fiercely, he was surprised to find it wet, it was sticky, he reached up examining further, he was cut, for the moment he thought it was the Warg but quickly dismissed it.

“Had it been that brute Findley lad you’d be short one head”

He grinned wryly trying to check if there were any more serious injuries but apart from bruises it seemed there were none. He tried to stand up his head barely below the surface, the Warg’s great teeth clashed together making Findley duck it was closely followed by a huge paw that smacked against the Dwarf, pinning him down. He felt it tugging at him, its claws dug deeply into his belly, frantically Findley sought a weapon, his axe he could not wield here instead he tried to retrieve his knife whilst the Warg snarling and slathering attempted to hook him out from the crevice.

Long moments passed, beads of sweat running down Findley’s face as he grunted and squirmed his fingers desperately trying to pull the knife from his belt, it was proving harder than he had hoped as it was jammed between his hip and the hard rock, its sharp stones scraping flesh from his hand, but it was his only hope and despite the stinging he fought to release it, all the while trying to keep himself jammed in the crevice whilst the Warg threatened to disembowel him. Drips of stinking saliva rained down stifling the air and causing Findley to wretch violently, during one such convulsion the knife suddenly came free, wielding it the Dwarf plunged it deep into the leg above him. For a moment nothing happened, desperately Findley twisted the blade and drove it in harder; he was suddenly dragged skyward and flung across the ground the wretched beast biting its own leg as it tried to rid itself of the Elven blade hilted in its flesh.

Findley rolled over and over senses whirling, his hands and feet desperate to find some purchase. When he finally came to rest he found he was lying in a ditch on the edge of the trees at the base of the rocky outcrop. He was expecting at any moment to be assailed by the Warg, yet his thoughts were not on the beast for it had occurred to him that should he perish, who would there be to take retribution against the Easterling, wasn’t it she who was ultimately responsible for his clans demise?

He was angry now, not so much with his immediate situation but with himself for allowing his pride to most likely rob him of his life and thus of the chance to bring honour to his family. He glanced up expecting to see the brutes ugly maul but he did not, causiosly he peered over the edge of the ditch to see that another had joined them . . . for a moment he stared blankly at him, then with a sudden grin of recognition, he spoke

“Mablung, welcome friend, fancy giving this Dwarf a hand to slay this Morgoth Pup?”

Mablung narrowed his eyes slightly, looking upon the fur patterns of the beast. “This is the warg of the Easterling,” he declared. As he noted the bloodied slashes upon its thick hide, he added, “We should not kill it, friend Findley.”


Findley nearly choked, such was his indignation and disbelief that his 'friend' would wish to preserve this beasts life. What was he thinking? Had he lost all sense of reason?

He was not convinced that it merited life solely for being owned by the Easterling but then Findley had not yet had time to explain, reluctantly he complied with Mablungs request that they should fetter it, it was only when it had attacked and severely injured the Elf that Findley knew his way would have been better.

"Blast you Elf why wouldn't you listen."

He spoke harshly but already his heart grew fearful that he might lose the 'annoying' Elf. When the Strongbow arrived to take his fallen commarade back to Doriath there was little time for Findley to react, recongnising at once the need for urgent action he let the Marchwarden depart.

Sinking slowly to the ground Findley rested his head in his hands trying to make sense of these last few moments. His body now ached every muscle seemingly angry and sore. His mind was a whirl of unanswered questions. So absorbed was he that he did not here the approach of the Elf.


[Edited on 21/11/2005 by Happy_Hobbit]
PotbellyHairyfoot
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: November 21, 2005 03:22
It suddenly grew quiet ahead, and Tir qickened his pace, fearin that he would be too late .
He suddenly burst into a clearing, not far from the top of Amon Obel, and found himself face to face with a dishevelled Dwarf, blood spatterd, injured, and out of breath. Though the tracks of the beast wher all over the ground, there ws no sign of the beast, or even of the Elf the Dwarf had been following.
Tir shot an rrow into the ground beside the Dwarf's abdomen, just to get his attention, and quickly reloaded. he then forced himself to relax his breathing , and calm himself down before he addressd the stranger.'I am Tiraldaron, a Guard and Tracker of Doriath. Who are you and what business do you have here, following an elf, on Amon Obel? Also where is the great beast , a large wolf or Warg I believe, that was menacing you, and where now is the Elf you follow?'
The dwarf quickly explained that he was Findley, the Petty Dwarf and that he accompanying, not following, his Friends. The Warg had run off and Beleg was now assisting the wounded Mablung back to Doriath for treatment of his, warg inflicted, wounds.
" Beleg !! and Mablung!. ; Tir exclaimed, as he relaxed the tension in his bow. 'You were accompanying the Strongbow and the Marchwarden? But they have been gone for many a season. How came you to join them and to call yourself their friend? Tell me your tale, and quickly, for we must catch up with them so I can treat Mablung's injuries. If the injuries were from the teeth or claws of the war , they would likely fester without immediate treatment.
In my bag I bring medicines and I think that it would be better to delay them a bit and give some treatment now, to reduce the chance of the damage spreading, rather than have them rush off to Doriath , many days away, for better treatment, but of more severe injuries at the hands of the healers.'

Tir was now both happy and confused. Beleg Strongbow had returned , with Mablung,; and this ws great news for Doriath, but from whence had they come, and how did they become joined with a Petty Dwarf?

'You look hungry and careworn,;' Tir said after taking a closer look at Findley ; 'though your injuries appear superficial. Let me run back for my pack, Master Findley the Petty-Dwarf , and I'll return with some salves , some herbal infusions and some waybread.'
As Tir was about to depart , he tossed a short sword to the Petty- Dwarf. 'Use this if the Warg should return. This sword has hewn many an enemy and should serve you well, until I return.
With that Tir ran off down the path to recover his pack. He wanted to catch up with Mablung and The Stronbow as soon as possible, but he needed his pack if he was to treat Mablung's injuries . The waybread should help restore the Dwarf, and he should be able to explain, while they travelled, the story of how he met up with and was accompanying, The Strongbow.

[Edited on 22/11/2005 by PotbellyHairyfoot]
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 10, 2006 05:59
Bumping this up for a post later.
Mhairi
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Post RE: A Way to Freedom (scripted) Keep
on: October 10, 2006 12:06
Morikelva was perched on a rocky outcrop, watching the distant horizon darken. The hunt was on and the Strongbow was not yet able to free himself. She closed her eyes and listened to the whispers carried on the icy winds. Shadows. Shadows of Angband. In her mind's eye they gathered. Vultures attending a death.

But they were yet wary. The Easterling's dominance of the ranks of the Dark Lord was not yet forgotten. In a realm unperceived, Morikelva rose, dark and wrathful, glittering in her armour, her wild mane of hair alive in the wind.

"He is mine yet! Leave him or I will banish you from all existence!" She drew her great glittering sword and howled a terrifying war-cry.

Morikelva's trance was broken by a closer, more earthly cry. Dizzy from her encounter, she rose unsteadily and turned to the west. Her nostrils perceived the smell of familiar blood spilt.

"No!" Regaining her balance, the Easterling sprang from her perch and bounded down the rocky hillside. Her senses were barraged with the smell of warg and elf, iron and timber, and the familiar stench of dwarves.

-------

From her vantage point, she saw Findley drive his knife into the warg's leg. Her eyes narrowed and in a moment, she was amongst them, sword drawn, eyes flashing. Snarling and wheeling, she placed herself between the warg and the party of travellers.

"Leave him!" And for a moment, the realms in which Morikelva strode connected, shed a brief glimpse of her very soul, and then parted.
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