| Dinenlasse |
 The Legacy of Ivriniel
on: November 19, 2007 03:52
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The crying of the gulls as they floated on warm swells of air was the sound of home for the windswept maiden. She pulled her three-cornered hat low over her eyes and stepped off of the gangplank onto firm ground. She stumbled forward a step but managed to steady herself. The crowds of people surrounding the docked galleon shoved her back as they pressed forward to find loved ones. Their cries mingled with the gulls’ keening into a loud cacophony of noise. Wanting nothing more than a quiet room, she grabbed the top of her hat to keep it from falling off and elbowed her way through the masses of people, young and old, rich and poor. Glancing once back over her shoulder at the vessel that had been her home for the past year, she sighed sadly and hurried on her way.
Her destination was that of an inn, the little-known Heathens’ Harrow. The ne’er-do-wells of the city gathered here in discourse, swigging ale, mead, beer, whatever was the special in the house. Today it seemed to be a nut-brown concoction called November ale, a thick spiced affair flavored with apples and pumpkin. She sidled up to the counter and slapped her hand. A burly stout man with a ruddy complexion stomped over and huffed, “Aye, what’ll ‘t be fer ye?” He wiped his nose unceremoniously on his sleeve, leaving a streak of grime on his face.
Trying hard not to recoil in disgust, the girl replied, “Ale, bread, and cheese.” She thrust a silver coin onto the counter. Greedily, the barkeeper snatched it up and put an edge of it into his mouth. Biting it down and seeing that it did not bend, thus proving it was real silver, he pocketed it and replied, “Right away.”
When he turned away, she swallowed the bile that had gathered in her throat. Casting around, her eyes landed on some of the more ‘respectable’ men in the tavern. They were playing a game of sorts with cards, flipping them up and down and calling bids. She watched with curiosity until the barkeeper returned with her food and drink. “’Ere ye go,” he muttered in his gruff voice. “I ‘opes it settles yer stummick, ye seem a bit green in the face.”
“’Tis nothin’ more than the seasickness,” she returned in an equally gruff voice, trying to mask the fact of her gender.
“Ye from the Swan’s Wing?” he inquired, leaning on one elbow and peering up at her face.
She turned away to hide her face. “Nah, jist the Galloway.”
His face registered surprise, and his eyes widened. “Tha’ ol’ leakbucket? I thought tha’ un sank a long time ago.”
She shook her head. “Nah, she’s as seaworthy as a fish and sleek as an otter. ‘Tis a good vessel.”
“Storms get ‘er at all?”
“Some as we was comin’ into port last night, but everythin’ else was fair.”
“Well, I ‘ope when ye set out agin, the weather’ll be fair yet.”
“Thank you,” she muttered as the man went away to attend to more business.
Grabbing her wooden plate, she moved away from the bar and sought a quiet corner. Devouring her coarse fare hungrily, she hardly paid notice to anything else in the tavern. After a few minutes, she became aware of a rather plump looking woman watching her. Her bosom was bulging out of a low-cut bodice, and there was an unpleasant smell of something musky about her. She eyed the girl hungrily and muttered in a husky voice, “You must have had a long journey, my good man. Surely you can use some company.”
The girl stood up hastily and remarked, “I am not who you think I am. Go back to the brothel where you belong.”
The woman glared at the girl and pulled back a hand to slap her. “You impudent wench!”
Reaching behind her, the girl pulled out a dagger. “Don’t touch me.” She shoved the older woman out of her way, and downing the ale in one gulp, she threw it at her. The tankard hit the woman in the head, and she fell into the seat, cursing the girl mightily. Instinct told the girl to leave, and without a second thought, she hustled out of the bar before something worse happened.
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Out on the dirty cobblestone streets of the prosperous port of Linhir, a small city on the conjunction of the Rivers Serni and Gilrain in Lebennin, the girl Rhîwenil tried to get her bearings. The Heathens’ Harrow was right on the edge of the seaside Linhir. Her home was roughly a half-mile northeast, heading along the River Gilrain. Her father Hingel was a scholar, lately come to Linhir to research the history of their family. He was a descendant of the late lord of Dol Amroth, Adrahil, through his daughter Ivriniel. Her grandfather, Gwahir, was the son of Ivriniel and her husband, a man of Minas Tirith named Targath. And though they were related to the present lord of Dol Amroth, Alphros, grandson of Imrahil, her father never claimed any power or used the prince to forward any ambitions. Her father was a man of the mind, preferring to keep to himself and his books rather than the glamour of court. Rhîwenil was the same way; being noble was far from her mind. Instead, she loved traveling by sea around the southern coast of Gondor, meeting different people and learning their cultures and dialects. She was well-versed in the tongues of Gondor and Rohan, and even knew a touch of Sindarin. Her name was Sindarin-derived even. ‘Rhîwenil’ was taken from the Sindarin words for winter and lady. She was called thus because her eyes were a piercing grey-blue and seemed almost cold when she was angry. Instead of calling her winter-eyes, or Rhîwhendu, Hingel decided Rhîwenil sounded fairer.
Hingel encouraged his daughter to travel, though she was only nineteen. He felt that the more experienced she was in the ways of the road, the wiser she would be. And thus far, his inkling was true.
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Rhîwenil arrived at her father’s door and knocked gently, calling, “Father, it is me. I have returned from Belfalas.” The door opened, and she entered the room. It was dark, with only a few candles burning brightly from the wall. Numerous books lined shelves, and there was parchment covering almost every available surface. But to Rhîwenil, this room was her favorite, her father’s library. Here she could lose herself in the dusty annals of history and debate with her father about why the elves truly left Middle-Earth and how halflings came to be as short as they were. While Rhîwenil could match her father on many things, there was still so much he knew that she didn’t.
“Welcome back, Rhen,” Hingel said to his daughter, hugging her affectionately and pressing his lips to her brow. “How was your journey?”
“Interesting. I met with Grandfather’s kin, and they gave me a book that tells about some lost branch of their family. They thought that you would like it.”
“Indeed I do,” he said happily, proud and sure in his knowledge. This was a treasure for him.
Rhîwenil brought the book out, entitled The Line of Dol Amroth: From Ivriniel and Targath and Previous Kings, and gave it to her father. He clutched it to his chest protectively like a favorite child, and he sat in his favorite chair and brought a candle close by. Its golden light spilled over the yellowed pages, and the scent of old book filled the air.
Rhîwenil sighed happily. This was home: her father, his library, and the river coursing swiftly about twenty rod away. Nothing could be better but the sight and sound of the open sea.
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"What was in there?" she asked him the next morning as she entered the library bleary-eyed but excited.
"A secret that I found that I want you to search out," her father replied, giving her a sly smile.
"And what is that, Father?"
"Take this book and find out for yourself. Set sail on the next ship bound for Dol Amroth and seek out our relatives again. Ask them about the Rhedhadin."
She cocked her head in wonder and pondered his words, for it seemed to her that a great adventure was going to be undertaken.
[Edited on 7/30/2009 by Dinenlasse]
[Edited on 2/21/2010 by Dinenlasse]
"There is no such thing as a geek, just those who love things the rest of humanity finds weird."
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| RodwenofRohan |
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| elendil2 |
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| Hainima |
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| Dinenlasse |
RE: The Legacy of Ivriniel
on: December 04, 2007 03:50
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“Rhedhadin?” she repeated, getting her tongue smoothly around the tricky dh sound; instead of pronouncing it as two separate letters, the dh combined to form a soft th sound, thus ‘RAY-theh-din’ versus ‘red-HAD-din.’ “What does that mean?” she inquired of Hingel, taking the book from him and running her hand over its leather binding, as if to ascertain the meaning of the unfamiliar word.
Her father smiled slightly, enjoying the secret. “It is an archaic word, derived from the Dol Amroth dialect of Sindarin speech, as taught to our forefathers by the elf Mithrellas. Its true meaning has been lost, but the closest thing I can come up with, using my resources,”-he gestured around at the many shelves lined with volumes-“is silent winter-elf.”
Rhîwenil furrowed her brows in thought and replied, “And what is it you wish for me to seek?”
“Find more about what it means to our family. My guess is that Rhedhadin refers to a companion or something of Mithrellas’. There have been stories of her companions being lost as she accompanied her husband to Belfalas. Perhaps Rhedhadin was one of those lost, and it is through her that our kins’ lineage has elven blood.”
Perplexed, Rhîwenil remained silent, pondering her father’s hypothesis. She knew the story of how Dol Amroth received its name, from the elf Amroth who plunged into the sea when his love Nimrodel was lost. Mithrellas had been one of her companions, and the lord of Belfalas took her to wife; it was through their son Galador that the line of princes of Dol Amroth were of elven descent. It made sense that another of Nimrodel’s companions could have married a man of Belfalas and a daughter of that line married into the royal line, thus her kin in Dol Amroth (from one of Imrahil’s sons) would have been descended from Rhedhadin and Mithrellas both. She flipped open to the page where a bookmark was placed. Her eyes read the lines and read between the lines, trying to discern any hidden meanings. It read:
It is no light thing that Rhedhadin came to settle in Dol Amroth. Such a fragile thing, but as beautiful as the evening star. As silver as the moon, but grey as the sea; green as an oak leaf, but blue as the sky. In the shape of what men call the fairest, there is nothing as precious as Rhedhadin that has graced the palace of our great Prince. In love with Rhedhadin he is, and is not willing to give it up to anyone, not even his descendants. Lost it was, but is now found.
“That is all that is mentioned of it in the book,” Hingel said. “In context, the passage is about the reign of Galador, but this talk about Rhedhadin does not make sense. His wife was named Enghlewine, not Rhedhadin.”
A thought struck Rhîwenil. A gem of her mother’s, given to her by Hingel when they wed, which had since been passed on to their daughter, seemed to fit the description of what was written in the book. “Father, I do not think Rhedhadin was a person. It appears to me this is describing a prominent piece of jewelry Galador owned.”
“And what gem is that, my daughter?” Hingel asked, not embittered at being told differently but genuinely curious.
“The one that belonged to Mother, the emerald and sapphire pendant you gave to her at your wedding.” Rhîwenil grasped the silver chain and pulled out the pendant. It was beautifully made, wrought of what looked like silver, with a leaf made by an emerald and a wave made by the sapphire, intertwined with more silver, casting a pale aura around it. “It is all too simple, but the description matches it perfectly.”
“But then why would it be called a ‘silent winter-elf’?” Hingel asked to no one in particular.
“That I do not know, but maybe it is that I can find out. How did it come down from Galador, and why did he regard it above anything else he owned? Indeed, in the passage, it is spoken of reverently but also direly.”
“Then, my daughter, you have your end in mind. Find out the history of the Rhedhadin, and what makes it so valuable. You might begin with our kin back in Dol Amroth, with your mother’s father, and see what he knows. But be warned, such a gem is then considered priceless, and there would be others who would prize such a thing. Thus, call it by another name until you reach Dol Amroth, even in writing. Nimloth, white flower, then no one will know what you are talking about.”
Rhîwenil inclined her head in deference, understanding the wisdom of her father’s words. “Nimloth it is, and Varda be willing, let us find out what importance this gem holds for our family.”
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The marketplace was full of stalls, their vendors calling out their goods and how much better theirs was than their neighbor’s. “Fresh fish from the Bay of Belfalas! Guaranteed to be fresher than anything else you have ever had the misfortune to eat!” “Quality cloth from Minas Tirith! In variant shades of green, blue, red, yellow, and even purple! Made of the softest wool you will ever find anywhere!” and so on and so forth. The noise rang in her ears as Rhîwenil fought the market goers in order to get to her destination, a shipyard about a quarter mile up from the Heathen’s Harrow.
Donning her three-cornered hat to avoid recognition, she dodged through the crowd and found herself in front of a large wooden building entitled Greeley and Sons. Reynard Greeley ran the shipyard with his two sons, Aerith and Iolcho. Having known Reynard ever since she was a young girl, she felt he would give her a fair deal on a ship, or at least he would know who would be coming into port within the next week or so.
She ducked through the door and avoided a cursory glance at Aerith, the elder son, who looked up from nailing shoes onto his horse to smile at his friend. Rhîwenil was fond of Aerith, but she never told him that in person. He was a sturdy fellow of twenty-three, with dark hair and heartbreakingly blue eyes. He had broad shoulders, broad chest, broad everything, but he moved with the grace of one confident in what he was doing, and was the kindest person Rhîwenil had ever met.
“Ah, Reni, what can I do for you today?” Reynard asked, stopping in mid-conversation with a client. He was a portly man, with an honest open face and a ready smile, just the sort of person one wanted to do business with.
“I was wondering if you could help me find a ship,” she answered, taking of her hat and shaking her dark hair free from its restraint. Fretting with it as she waited for Reynard to finish, Rhîwenil snuck a glance at Aerith from under her eyelashes. He had returned to shoeing his horse, a huge black beast that was worrying a bit. Holding her breath, Rhîwenil sauntered up to him and queried, “Where is it you’re going?”
Tapping in the last nail with his hammer, Aerith straightened his back (she heard a distinct crack) and turned his eyes to his friend. He replied, “Morchir and I are off to the docks. There is a shipment of wheat coming in, and they need an extra hand. You wouldn’t care to come with, would you?” he added, a twinkle in his eyes.
Blushing, Rhîwenil shook her head emphatically. “I would, but I have other business to attend to.” She nodded her head towards Reynard, who was speaking earnestly with his client. “And besides, I am physically incapable of lifting such a load as those crates.”
Aerith laughed pleasantly, causing Rhîwenil’s heart to leap. “Of course not. We couldn’t damage your complexion with the sun, now could we?” he mocked her gently. Rhîwenil was not known for being vain. “But I understand. They might even turn you away, not for you yourself, but because you are a woman.” he added seriously.
“And a good day to you as well,” Reynard said loudly, ushering his customer out the doors. He wiped his sweating brow with a cloth and turned his attention to Aerith and Rhîwenil. “And good riddance too. Never have I had such a tough customer. I told him three weeks minimum could we build such a ship, but oh no, he wants it in two. Impossible!”
“What kind of ship?” Rhîwenil asked, moving her gaze from son to father.
“Something of a cross between a schooner and a galleon. I told him that I can’t do both; it was one or the other.”
“And he wasn’t happy,” Aerith chimed in.
“That is putting it mildly.” He looked to the heavens for patience and heaved a sigh. “Now, my lass, what is it you wanted me to do for you?” He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
Trusting Reynard and Aerith beyond all others, she relayed the strange passage and her purpose. “I seek to sail to Dol Amroth, as I said, and I was hoping you could tell me when the next ship leaves for Belfalas or if one was coming in anytime soon.”
Reynard looked astonished. “Didn’t you just arrive home yesterday, and you are seeking to leave again? What, are we that bad for you?” He chuckled and embraced Rhîwenil. “Just jokin’, lass. Here, let me tell you what I have.” He steered her away from Aerith and Morchir, towards the announcement board. “There are three ships leaving for Minas Tirith on the morrow, one leaving for Tol Falas in three days, one leaving for the Grey Havens in a week, and one bound for Dol Amroth in a fortnight,” he said, summarizing what was tacked onto the board. “Were you looking to hire on or are you just a passenger?”
“Either or. It is not as if I cannot lower myself to become a cabin boy…or girl,” Rhîwenil laughed, completely at ease with Reynard. “But anything goes. I just want to get to Belfalas in one piece.”
“Well, the Galloway is the one leaving for Dol Amroth, and the captain held you in high regard. He said he would take you on again in a heartbeat.”
“Only because he fancied me and would take me to his bed if he had half a chance,” she replied ominously, remembering the advances of the overly friendly captain.
Reynard spat in disgust. “The minds of some men.” He regained his composure quickly. “But there are two coming in from Belfalas within the next week, one from the Grey Havens by next full moon, and at least one from Osgiliath within a fortnight.”
“Well, I cannot foresee going on the Galloway again, for one,” Rhîwenil said, not unhappy, but unsure as to when she would leave. “The sooner I leave the better. Any indication as to where any of the incoming ships are headed?”
“Not a one, my dear.”
She bit her lip. What would she do? But then, Aerith came over to them, having finished tacking and shoeing his black. “What about the ship I’m signed for, the Ninglor? I’ll bet she would stop if but for a moment on the banks of Dol Amroth. I’ve heard tell she has a new captain, some granddaughter of Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn, daughter of Elboron, not much older than either of us. Should be an interesting journey. Maybe you should sign on to that one.”
“When is she arriving here?” Reynard asked, eyeing his son apprehensively. He didn’t care for the fact the Ninglor’s captain was female, even if she was descended from greatness.
“Within the next week or two, I am thinking. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t come. She is a cousin of yours somehow anyway.” That would be true. If the captain was granddaughter of Faramir (son of Ivriniel’s sister Finduilas), who was nephew of Ivriniel, then they would be related in some distant way. “I will let you know when she docks, and you can decide if you wish to come. I for one would be happy if you ‘jumped ship’ with me.” He smiled at her shyly and grabbed the reins of his horse and left.
“He feels for you, my dear, if you haven’t guessed,” Reynard muttered to Rhîwenil, who was red in the face and watched Aerith leave. “And I believe you are the same way. But about the ship…” he tried to edge her back into the conversation.
“I will wait it out a week, and if I do not like what I find, then I can leave with the Galloway, and if the captain attempts anything, I have my daggers to speak for me.”
(I am sorry this is so long…the words and details kept coming, and I couldn’t stop. I have the idea with the Rhedhadin all sorted out. In short, Galador coveted it from his mother Mithrellas and took it from her. Instead of silver, it is made of mithril. The effect if had on him is similar to that of Isildur and the Ring, but not nearly as destructive. Galador’s obsession over the gem is just going to lead to the decline of his reign and his popularity with his people when he starts to neglect them. If anyone has other ideas, please let me know. Maybe there could be some jealousy over it when someone sees it on the ship. Maybe Merides knows something about it that no one else does. But at least the plotline is set, for now (though I think we still should have a mutiny or shipwreck or both). But we’ll have to see what happens.)
(And if anyone wants to know anymore about the story of Dol Amroth, there is a really thorough article in the encyclopedia detailing its history. I have tried to include what I could from memory.)
[Edited on 8/8/2008 by Dinenlasse]
"There is no such thing as a geek, just those who love things the rest of humanity finds weird."
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| RodwenofRohan |
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| elendil2 |
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| Hainima |
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| Dinenlasse |
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| RodwenofRohan |
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| elendil2 |
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| ~Elenduriel~ |
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| Hainima |
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| Dinenlasse |
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| RodwenofRohan |
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| elendil2 |
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| ~Elenduriel~ |
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| Hainima |
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| smellyeggs |
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| Dinenlasse |
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| RodwenofRohan |
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| elendil2 |
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| ~Elenduriel~ |
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| Hainima |
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| Dinenlasse |
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| Merides |
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| elendil2 |
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| ~Elenduriel~ |
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| Hainima |
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| Dinenlasse |
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| Merides |
RE: The Legacy of Ivriniel
on: August 20, 2008 11:40
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“No, I’ll take care of it, Cap’n.” With his free had, he motioned to two other men nearby. “Cutter, Lud! Take care of im.”
“Sah!” The men took hold of the corpse; one with the hands, one holding the feet, and carried it out of sight.
Ah! Bafraim! What are you doing, contradicting me like that?!? The thought lanced through her mind like fire. She had thought he was on her side... but here he was, disregarding her orders! Who was Cironhir of the Ninglor, Merides, or Bafraim? She would have to talk to him privately, later. And she would, for it seemed that all the men on board were bound and determined to go against their new captain. She would not have it.
She shot a glare at the tall first mate, then turned her attention back to the whimpering boy in front of her. He needed her comfort, but there was little she could do to help him at this point, beyond proving his innocence. She was certain he was not guilty, but the crew was out for blood... The challenge before her was to find the true murderer, get Gwalion out of the noose, so to speak, and save face with the crew at the same time.
She sighed as she listened to the boy's pleas.
“It weren’t me, Cap’n. He were alive the last time I saw him. Ask Cook.” He sniffed and tried to stop his knees from shaking. “Please, Cap’n. He’d have knocked me overboard ‘fore I got near ‘im. He was on watch so he wasn’t drunk. Even if he’d been drunk he was a good fighter. If I’d sneaked up on him he’d have had his knife in me before I could do anything like that.”
“Plenty of us never heard Tump sneaking round till we found he’d had his fingers in our pockets,” one of the other sailors muttered.
“But I didn’t hurt him,” the boy wailed. He turned towards Merides. “Please, Cap’n. You got to believe me. I don’t know who did it. I saw nothing.” He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his hand, before wiping his hand on the leg of his breeches.
“I finished the watch when you all came back on board and the mate said I could go. I don’t know if he counted the crew then. I was too tired. Cook took me into the galley and gave me some broth. He lets me sleep there, in the corner. When I drunk the broth I went to sleep. Cook was there, you ask him if I went off round the ship again. He’ll tell you.”
He looked round the crew. He knew he had few real friends there but he hoped someone would speak for him.
Merides turned to her crew, feeling small in the presence of so many men, taller, stronger than her. She willed herself to be bigger, if not in size, then in mental strength. Her grandmother, Eowyn, had stood in the face of similar odds, and come out with the death of the Witch-King on her hands. Or blade, to be precise. The very blade that now hung on the belt of her granddaughter, Merides. She placed her hand on the hilt of the sword for reassurance. It seemed an inner peace flowed from it, though she knew it was only her imagination. She felt comforted, even so.
"It seems, men," she said, turning her back on the boy, lest she gather him up in her arms, "It seems we have a crisis on our hands. Someone, aboard this vessel, has committed the most heinous of crimes- the murder of a fellow crew mate. Someone attacked this man, knocked him to the ground, and strangled him, with a rope, no less." She looked around, aware that every eye in the crowd was on her at this moment. She had them hanging on her every word, like children with a bedtime story. She felt a bit more confident.
Meri pointed at the trembling, sniffling boy behind her. She made a mental note to talk to him about how to behave in public when upset. Tucking that thought away, she continued with her monologue. "This boy has been accused of said crime. However, I beg you, despite his habits of 'sneaking around,' tell me honestly- can this boy knock down any one of you? Can he hold a rope to your throat, while pinning your arms to your sides? Can this Boy strangle you? I think not. Even I, small though I am, could shake one of his size. This child is not your murderer."
Like an echo, one man started yelling, at the back of the crowd. “Murderer! Murderer!” Heads whipped in the direction of the cries. Suddenly, Gwalion was not the center of attention, and she could hear his sigh of relief from behind her.
Rhîwenil slipped back to Meri’s side and whispered in her ear, “That gent there would cause a mutiny on this ship. I’d be alert over the next few days. And I believe he is the cause of your troubles here as well,” she nodded her head at Gwalion. Looking over her shoulder, Rhîwenil met the lad’s scared glance and smiled slightly, trying to ease his worries.
Meri nodded, then pushed her way through the crowd to the two sailors, one of whom had the other's hands pinned behind his back. She immediately recognized them as the two that Bafraim had sent to take care of the body, Cutter and Lud. Lud was the accused, Cutter the accuser. She was not surprised- they had both sided with Morion at first, before coming to her crew. She was only surprised that Bafraim had singled them out. Nevertheless, she was eager to make the most of the situation, and get it over with as soon as possible.
"Now, crew, hear me!" She raised her voice over the mumble of the men. There were a few discontented murmurs, but they finally quieted. "Who among you doubts that this man is strong enough to strangle his fellow? Is he not more likely a suspect than a boy?" There were murmurs of "aye" and "yes ma'am" from the crew. However, something was still not right.
That gent would cause mutiny... keep alert... cause of your troubles... Rhiwenil's words rang in her memory. She looked at the two, and realized what was strange. These two men were inseparable, normally. In fact, they did everything together. She had a sinking feeling as she grasped what she must do.
"Bafraim." The large man was at her side immediately. "Lock this man in the brig." She referred to the pens below deck that were normally reserved for cattle, sheep, and other livestock. They did not have room on board for, nor did she want, an actual pen for holding men.
She held him back however, as he reached for Lud. "Take them both to the brig. I do not trust a traitor to his crew-mates." The gasps from the crew were music to her ears. She had won.
"Back to your posts, men. We have a ship to sail." There was a general bustle as the men dissipated to various areas of the small ship. They tried as hard as possible to look busy.
Looking for Rhiwenil, she spotted the girl next to her friend, Aerith. She vaguely remembered him saying something during the 'trial.' Something about Belfalas. She joined them at the rail, noting Gwalion's presence, and looked out toward shore.
Sure enough, there was land. She patted Aerith on the shoulder. "Are you sure you shouldn't be in the crow's nest, Aerith? We could use sharp eyes above..."
She heard Bafraim walk up behind her before he spoke a word. She whirled on him, her green eyes flashing. "Bafraim, I will see you in my cabin. Immediately." She turned to her cabin, stalking in like a cat that has been offended. Once the door was closed, she walked to the window, not trusting herself to look at her first mate.
"Whose side are you on, Bafraim? Are you serving me, your captain, or yourself? Why did you contradict me?" She could not help the slight tremor in her voice. It had been a hard day, and it was starting to take its toll on the young woman. She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword again.
"Are you for me, or against me?"
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| ~Elenduriel~ |
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| Hainima |
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| Sava-Tennoio |
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| Dinenlasse |
RE: The Legacy of Ivriniel
on: October 19, 2008 05:32
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As Meri strode to her cabin in a huff, obviously angry and insulted by Bafraim’s actions, the first mate in question slowly following, Rhîwenil turned her back on the dissipated crew. The boy Gwalion had been taken in tow by a kindly cook, and for that, the Linhirian maiden was grateful. She was glad the tense situation defused the way it had. Wanting immensely to talk to the mutineer Cutter about his knowledge of Gilmith but knowing Meri would not look kindly upon it at the moment, Rhîwenil instead began to make her way to the mess to grab some victuals.
She turned on her heel and almost ran into a tall lean man with dark, shoulder-length hair and sharp grey eyes. His face was lined with years of worry, and pride defined his features. “I beg your pardon,” Rhîwenil muttered apologetically, taking one step to her left in order for the man to pass. He stayed where he was, however, and began to look her over, his eyes taking in everything: her clothing, her stance, her demeanor. He seemed to be sizing her up for some reason unbeknownst to her but clear to him. Uncomfortable, Rhîwenil made to pass him with another muttered, “Excuse me,” but he gripped her forearm tightly and held her.
“Sirrah, I tell you to let me go. There is no reason for you to lay hand on me when I am a guest of the captain,” Rhîwenil said sharply. There was no mistaking the haughtiness of her tone. Unused to this pretense, the girl thought to play up to it now that she had begun.
The man ignored her and tightened his grip. “I saw you watching Cutter and Lud before you exposed them to the captain,” he started menacingly. “How do I know you are not in league with them? I overheard their conversation about Azrakarbú, and I know you did also. My village was the one they burned for I had received word from my wife that foreign ships were seen off the coast. They raised no flag of truce or surrender. Black sails flew from the masts.” Barely concealed anguish flashed in his eyes, and he bowed his head sadly. “I’m certain my wife and son were slain.”
Rhîwenil stood there, paralyzed with shock and pity, all pretenses of arrogance gone. “My good sir, I am deeply sorry, and if there was anything in my power to help you I would. But, how could I be involved with the likes of them?”
The man lifted his chin and met her eyes. He dropped her arm and replied, “I trust no one entirely these days. I saw your hand clutch your neck when they mentioned the jewel he is supposed to be seeking. Why?”
Rhîwenil rubbed her arm. “I know nothing of Azrakarbú. I have heard his name once or twice in whispers of terror over the last year or so, but never would I ally myself with such a man. As for my neck, the chain around it was rubbing hard against it, and I repositioned it.” Knowing full well this was a lie, she swallowed her revulsion at such an act. Continuing her tirade, she asked, “Why would I involve myself with him or the mutineers aboard this ship?”
“Again, I know not. You appear to have no reasonable purpose aboard this ship from what I have discerned and have been seen walking about. There are whispers about you.”
“Like what?” Rhîwenil inquired curiously.
The man looked dubious. “Just whispers of your purpose. Some say you are here to find a husband. Some say you are a criminal stowing away on here to escape justice. Some of the more adventurous say you are a daughter of Prince Alphros come to reclaim your inheritance in Dol Amroth. You have the look of those people about you, and it is not often when a woman boards a ship, much less captain one.”
Incensed-which was quite unlike her- Rhîwenil replied, “My purpose aboard this ship is to travel to Dol Amroth to find information on my family. That is all. I am not searching for a husband, and I am certainly not the daughter of Prince Alphros. Also, times have changed since the end of the War, my good man. Women are venturing out more into the worlds where men inhabited. Merides is a captain; I am a scholar and adventurer. What is less harmful than that?”
The corner of the man’s smile lifted slightly, taken aback at Rhîwenil’s answer. “I humbly apologize for interrogating you so, lady. I have a great deal of respect for the captain and thought she handled the situation with the cabin boy admirably. As for you, my respect grew for you as well. Most other women would have quailed after being grabbed by a man and subjected to such scrutiny. You are courageous. My name is Meinir, son of Hreun.” Meinir held out a hand.
“I am Rhîwenil, daughter of Hingel of Linhir,” she answered with a smile. Always ready to make a friend and forgive a quarrel, Rhîwenil shook the man’s hand emphatically
“Now,” Meinir said graciously, all tension between them gone, “if there is anything else I can do for you while we are aboard this ship, I will only be too happy to assist you.”
Inclining her head at her newfound friend, Rhîwenil returned, “Thank you, Meinir. I am off to throw something down my gullet before midday.”
He chuckled deeply. “Ah. Watch yourself in there, miss. The boys will be sure to rough with you if you aren’t careful.”
Saying farewell, Rhîwenil went to the mess, grabbed some hardtack biscuits, cheese, salted ham, and a tankard of water, and went back out on deck to avoid the unwanted attentions. Going to the cabin reserved for her, Rhîwenil set her food down and ate sporadically while poring over the book her grandparents and their cousins had given her.
Reading deeper into the text, she perused one chapter entitled “The Legend of Galador.” The very first line went: “After enduring the death of his father and the later departure of his mother, one can understand why Galador’s reign was filled with tumult, obsession, and decline.” Then, “But yet it is said that his was one of the most successful economically, for while the Lord eventually lost his mind, his princedom gained prestige and honor.”
Rhîwenil marked her place in the book, closed it, and stared at the titleThe Line of Dol Amroth: From Ivriniel, Targath, and Previous Kings. But the rulers of Dol Amroth were never called kings, she thought. Galador was the first Lord of Dol Amroth, but not king. Her eyes slid down to the author, a well-known scholar from Imrahil’s reign, Sir Bretin of Port Anon. Rhîwenil knew little about Sir Bretin, other than the fact he often incorporated riddles into his text, hence the one about the Rhedhadin. But, for all his humor, he had been a formidable intellectual and so the maiden and her father had held him in high regard.
But yet, she mused, he called the Lords kings and not their proper title. Maybe it was another of his antics, she concluded with a sigh. Putting the book aside, Rhîwenil sipped her water and pulled out her journal. A quarter of an hour later, she had written only this much:
29 August, The Ninglor
We have been at sea roughly two days a night, and already things have taken an interesting turn. I have come into acquaintance with my cousin Merides, the daughter of Elboron. She is a proud woman, much Éowyn’s granddaughter, and how evident it is that the shieldmaiden’s blood runs through her veins! We had a situation on board where a sailor was strangled by a mutineer named Cutter. It was thought a young lad by the name of Gwalion murdered the man, but he was no more capable of slaying such a large man than a sparrow would of slaying an eagle. Whilst the remainder of the crew was attending upon this scene, I overheard a conversation between Cutter and another man, Lud. Before they broke out into a brawl with each other, Cutter mentioned that Azrakarbú, a scourge of a Corsair, was rumored to be on the search for a gem from Dol Amroth that made Galador go mad, the Rhedhadin. Little do they know the gem in question is in my possession. After this incident, I was confronted by a man who questioned my loyalties and intentions aboard the Ninglor. Meinir was his name, and while we got off to a rocky start, I believe I have found a friend in him.
A knock sounded on her door, and she called out, “Come in!”
-------------------------------------------------------
Sure enough, there was land. She patted Aerith on the shoulder. "Are you sure you shouldn't be in the crow's nest, Aerith? We could use sharp eyes above..."
Aerith was astonished and could only nod his assent and gratitude as the captain walked away. His admiration for her grew tenfold, and he vowed to never let her down. He turned to find Rhen, to tell her the great news, but she appeared to be deep in conversation with another sailor. But, Aerith noticed, he had her arm in a vicegrip. Just as he was about to go over to set the man straight, the man let her go. Rhen went to the mess, and the man headed to the ship's bow.
Aerith was glad the lad had gotten off well. He had never suspected the lad of killing the man.
Life was good, Aerith decided. The sea-breeze ruffled his dark hair, and he was to be promoted already!
(Note: I realize I took a lot of dramatic liberty here. Neither Sir Bretin nor Port Anon exist in Tolkien's works whatsoever, and as I've said before, there is hardly anything written about Galador's reign. If there is anything I need to change though, I will!)
[Edited on 10/19/2008 by Dinenlasse]
"There is no such thing as a geek, just those who love things the rest of humanity finds weird."
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