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RE: Beyond the Horizon (KEEP) on: June 03, 2011 10:47
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The next morning, Díore and Hasulfen appraised their supplies one last time before they began their journey to Minas Tirith. It was not a long journey, comprising five days at the most, three if they spurred their horses into the ground. Each of them carried a haversack of hardtack, cheese, dried fruit, three flasks of water, a spare change of clothing, blankets, medical supplies, plenty of rope, and other survival essentials. Hasulfen also carried a tent coated with resin to ward off the rain. It had stormed heavily the night before, and the Rohirric captain was not taking any chances. "Now, there's enough in there to last you four days plus whatever you find along the way," Awyndel said assuredly, taking charge like the mother hen she was. She faced her husband and daughter and continued to speak matter-of-factly. "I'm not expecting you back anytime soon, knowing the nature of things. Those blasted Corsairs have no business at the Mouths of the Anduin, and I've a feeling the problem might be worse than what I imagine. Only today word spread through the market that the brown-skinned louts are planning an excursion to Pelargir."
Hasulfen and Díore exchanged knowing glances. Awyndel, for as much as of a housewife she was, also had a fiery and determined spirit. She was knowledgeable in the ways of enemies, especially since her native land of Belfalas also fell under the predatory ambitions of the Corsairs from time to time. Awyndel's own father had oft fought them under the banner of the Princes of Dol Amroth. Awyndel brooked no nonsense from anyone, least of all her family. But beneath her tough exterior was a woman with a heart of gold and a strong sense of loyalty to both her native and adopted homes. Awyndel heaved a sigh and wrung her hands. "I'd assume Eldarion will be summoning a council of defense shortly as it is. Inland raiders have struck out from Osgiliath and threaten traders along the Anduin. It hasn't been enough to hinder trade, but such a threat needs to be nipped in the bud." Her demeanor turned almost ferocious at the thought.
"Why go to Minas Tirith when the market tells your lovely mother the goings-on of our southern cousin as it is?" Hasulfen stated almost matter-of-factly to Díore with a grin. He cowered slightly as Awyndel threw a dirty rag at him she had used to wipe dishes dry.
Awyndel glared at him but then softened. "Just be careful," she returned, her concerned motherly side now showing. "There's no telling what vagabonds are out there and what they'll attempt, especially on one as pretty as you, Díore."
Díore nodded in agreement at the wisdom of her mother's words. "Aye, but they'll taste steel and blood before much else," she returned, placing her hand on the sword attached to her hip. Awyndel smiled, proud of the fact her daughter was turning into a proper warrior.
The family shared a tender moment before Hasulfen cleared his throat and noted, "We might miss the sunrise ere too long if we aren't on our way, dear." Already the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, shooting the ebony sky with radiant reds, golds, pinks, and oranges. "I figure we can make Minas Tirith in four days, weather and horses permitting. Though I'd like to see us there in three if at all possible. Prince Alphros has already taken up residence in the city, and it won't be long before Lord Elboron returns along with those of Lossarnach, Lamedon, Lebennin, Anórien, Anfalas, and elsewhere. Necessity drives our pace." He leaned in to kiss his wife on the cheek, and she placed a hand on his cheek. Awyndel then turned to Díore, crushed her in a hug, and sent the pair out the door. Durithil and Hasulfen's destrier Iaur were tethered outside, tossing their heads anxiously in anticipation. Díore placed her left foot in the thick stirrup, heaved herself onto Durithil's broad back, and settled her weight evenly in the saddle seat. Hasulfen quickly followed suit. Both gave one last wave to Awyndel before turning their horses' heads eastwards and kicking them into a gallop.
The pair continued in a southeasterly direction at a rapid pace, their horses beating a steady drumming on the dirt road. Their blistering ride that first day allowed them to cover an extensive amount of ground. It was around three hundred miles to Minas Tirith, around 60 to their first stop in the old city of Aldburg. The town's chief was a Marshal of the East-march and a descendant of Elfhelm, to whom the late king Éomer gave the chieftainship after the War ended. Deorwine and Hasulfen were on good terms, and Hasulfen hoped Deorwine would provide accommodations for the night. They rode into the town just before midnight. The gatekeeper allowed them through, and immediately a messenger was sent to Deorwine. Graciously he allowed Díore and Hasulfen to spend the night in his residence, and Durithil and Iaur were stabled for the night, exhausted by the day's journey.
The next day, they set out again at a more consistent rather than tiring pace to give the horses a chance to conserve their energy. A mile to their left was the River Entwash and to their right were the Ered Nimrais. Had they not been in a hurry, the ride would have been pleasant. But as such, they needed to cover as much ground as possible. The sky above them was a clear azure with barely a wisp of cloud, nothing like the rain that had pummeled Edoras two nights past. Díore leaned back as the horses slowed to a walk to catch her breath. It was around midday, and they had already covered about twenty miles. Fortunately, Díore and Durithil were accustomed to a hard ride, and Hasulfen and Iaur were old campaigners; those two had dealt with much longer distances in harsher weather. While some horses of Rohan were built for speed and agility, Durithil and Iaur had strength and endurance in copious amounts. Speaking of copious amounts, the pair led their horses to one of the Entwash's small tributaries, and the horses gulped water, glad for a reprieve. Equally glad were Hasulfen and Díore who spread out in the sun for a half hour, drinking from their flasks and grabbing a quick bite of victuals from their stores.
Soon enough, refreshed and in better spirits, the horses picked up their blistering pace again and tore down the road, kicking up plumes of dust in their wake. Onward they galloped, mile after mile, until they crested a large hill overlooking the Great West Road. Hasulfen surveyed the river, the mountains, and the plains that lay between them. Hardly any traffic traversed this stretch of road. The tawny grass swayed in the wind as it flew across the region, creating a ripple effect. Satisfied with their progress, Hasulfen urged them on. Iaur and Durithil went slowly down the hill, and once they reached flat ground, their strides lengthened and quickened as they raced headlong down the road, their riders bowed low over their saddle pommels. Father and daughter pitched camp again that night, and they set out the next morning, determined to travel even farther. The black and chestnut seemed ready to depart again; surely the horses of Rohan were fashioned out of the wind, Díore mused, as Durithil and Iaur took to flying on the third day.
Hasulfen and Díore encountered no one for the first leg of the fourth day. But as the sun reached its zenith, a slow-moving party appeared as small dots on the horizon. The group of three shifted to the right of the road to allow the riders to pass, but Díore saw a wounded amongst their number which she mentioned to her father. The horses slackened their pace and eased into a walk. With a shock, Díore realized a visibly paled elleth halfway falling onto the ground in a faint. In a moment, she vaulted off Durithil and caught the male elleth. "Hail friends," Hasulfen greeted the man and a young woman with a slight bow of his head. "Where are you bound?"
"Can we aid your wounded? What happened?" Díore chipped in, surprised at the lightness of this strange man.
*~*~*~*~*
"Will you stop that?" Leyn remarked to Verelin as she attempted to pick his hooves. He had managed to pick up a stone between the frog and wall on the underside of foremost hoof on his near side, but the stallion stubbornly refused to allow his mistress near him. He hobbled off and pinned his ears back. They had been at this for around an hour now, and Leyn had made no progress. She stood back and considered her horse, hands akimbo. Arching an eyebrow, Leyn addressed Verelin, "Fine, have it your way, Verelin. If you want me to leave you, I shall. You never were anything better than a mangy pile of horsehair anyways." She shrugged indifferently and turned away, leaving Verelin behind. The ebony stallion whickered after her, but Leyn ignored him, persisting in her efforts to make it to the White City. Verelin neighed imploringly again, taking a step or two towards Leyn. Her head swung around, and a wry smile lifted the corner of Leyn's mouth. "Well?" she asked, holding her ground. Verelin limped on three legs to his mistress and suffered his hoof to Leyn's control. Taking a metal pick, she dug out the stone and dropped it to the ground.
Leyn glanced at the sky. The shadows were lengthening, and they had already wasted enough time. Tossing the pick back into her haversack, Leyn remounted Verelin, and without any urging, he took off. The effects of her night of revelry had finally worn off after two days, and it was with a clear mind that Leyn ventured to Minas Tirith. The flatlands in the foothills of the Ered Nimrais soon gave way to greener fields and forested cover as horse and rider reached the River Erui. The road soon reached a crossroads, and a stout little man slumped against the road marker, snoring, head on his chest and spittle dripping out of his mouth. Dismounting her horse, Leyn approached the man warily. "Excuse me, sir, could you tell me which road to take to the ford?" The man snuffled in his sleep and kept snoring. "Sir?" she asked in a louder voice. Still no response. Angrily, Leyn picked up a small stone and lobbed it at the man, striking him on the forehead.
He awoke with a start. Eyes blinking rapidly, he cursed profusely. "Blimey, why'd ye go an do 'at to me? I wuzzint 'urting anyone 'ere," he protested indignantly, scrambling to his feet. "Wut do ye want?" He wiped his arm unceremoniously against his running nose. The man struck a very comical figure with a darned and stained tan tunic, dark brown breeches, and strangely, enough, bright red boots.
Feigning courtesy, she bowed, "Where is the nearest ford?"
Still reeling from the stone blow and still intoxicated, the man hiccupped. "'At way," he responded, pointing to the northern road.
Leyn was about to thank him and be on her way when she paused, deciding to take the plunge. "Where in the world did you obtain those boots? They're…unique."
The man smiled widely, revealing yellowed and cracked teeth. "I made 'em meself, I did. Would ye like a pair? I'd make ye 'un for a mere two pieces of silver."
Leyn declined the offer while stifling a laugh with her hand. "Sir, your talents would be wasted on a vagrant like me."
He blinked even more rapidly if such a thing was possible and stared at her as if for the first time. "Ye're a pretty thing, aren't ye? Ye should come and keep me company. I'll tek ye home, and I'll mek ye all the shoes ye could want!" His lascivious glance raked her up and down.
She did not even deign to give him a response. A minute later, Verelin and Leyn left the man behind, him protesting and hurling curses behind her. Once they were out of earshot, a wave of laughter overtook her, for the first time in months. Mood uplifted, they forded the Erui and continued until Minas Tirith loomed in the distance.
*~*~*~*~*
Dressed in a cream petticoat with an overgown of navy blue, an astonishing gem of glimmering brilliance around her neck, Rhîwenil met her father, and together they walked through the lower level of the White Tower where Alphros, the Prince of Dol Amroth, resided. It was to be the three of them at dinner that night. Rhîwenil wondered why they had been summoned. Yes, they were akin to Alphros, but she suspected an underlying reason. The page sent to fetch them announced their arrival in Alphros' spacious presence chamber and bowed them in. Used to such finery by now, Rhîwenil could not help but gasp at the sheer magnitude of the Prince's lodgings. He had at least three rooms to himself, not including a privy. His retinue had their own quarters. All had numerous tapestries, woven rugs, elaborately carved furniture, large fireplaces and windows. Her cousin stood from writing a letter and welcomed them graciously. "Greetings, friends! It has been quite a span of time since we've last crossed paths," he smiled.
"The Yuletide before last, my lord," Hingel returned, bowing his head in deference to Alphros. Alphros was a handsome man with the dark hair and sea-grey eyes of his people. He was well-formed, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested, of about a score and twelve years of age, not much older than Rhîwenil who had a score and one years under her belt.
Rhîwenil dipped a curtsy and was enveloped by Alphros in a bear-hug. "Cousin!" he cried, planting a kiss on her brow. "Please tell me that is not you! Why, I knew beautiful women came from Dol Amroth, but truly the elven beauty runs in your veins! The sea does wonders for us all, I firmly believe."
The maiden stepped back, attempting to smooth out the creases in her gown. "Little formalities with you still, my lord, is it not?" she retorted, laughing. "In that case, I cannot see why you'd think that when your nose was always plastered in front of a mirror. 'Tis heartening to see you recognize fairness beyond your own!" A passing servant glared at Rhîwenil for the breach of protocol, but Alphros shooed him away.
Alphros waved a hand dismissively. "Enough with the 'my lord' business, Hingel, Rhen. You're family after all! But please, sit." He gestured emphatically at a table laden with all kinds of foods imaginable. All kinds of seafood from prawns to mackerel and meats from venison to mutton graced the table. Between those were tankards of gravy, trays of vegetables, breads, cheeses, almost anything to satisfy the palate. Rhîwenil was the first to be waited upon. Dipping her hands in clean water, she accepted everything placed on her plate.
As they ate, Hingel inquired of Alphros, "What brings you here to Minas Tirith? I've heard King Eldarion summoned all the lords for a council of defense…"
Alphros bowed his head, sawing at a piece of mutton with a fork and knife. "Aye, you've heard rightly. Cousin, the coasts are in dire need of aid…"
(Sorry for the novel-length. If you made it to the end, congratulations!! )
[Edited on 6/3/2011 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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RE: Beyond the Horizon (KEEP) on: June 08, 2011 07:29
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“My name is Felaléof, and this is Leah and Arafi,” he said shaking the other man’s hand. Felaléof was a big man and broad-shouldered, with honey blonde hair and a scraggly beard, it was very hard to mistaken him for anything other than a man of Rohan. “He was attacked by wolves,” Felaléof said glancing back at the elleth his eyes narrowed, either he remained annoyed that this wounded elleth had slowed their journey considerably or he still felt him untrustworthy. Felaléof did not like the way Arafi looked at his ward...
“I am Leah, and this fine gentleman is Arafi,” she bowed her head politely, “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she introduced herself and Arafi to the young woman opposite her with a generous smile, the less Arafi spoke the better she thought due to his state.
“We are bound for Minas Tirith,” she said, her voice soft and almost shy as she looked to the man in their company of two.
Hasulfen introduced himself and his daughter to the company of three. “I am Hasulfen, First Marshal of the Riddermark, and this is my daughter Díore," he said, casting a glance around the odd company. He waited before continuing, weighing his next words. How much should he reveal to those who he barely knew but who openly offered hospitality, and indeed, mead? The Rohirric Marshal stroked his beard thoughtfully. "We are of Edoras but have recently been summoned to Gondor for matters of state. We shall not abide here long." In Felaléof Hasulfen found a kindred spirit so as they ate the delicious stew Leah had prepared, they traded stories of the good life in Rohan. For a moment, Hasulfen leaned back on the tawny grass, picking up a stray blade and chewing it reflectively. It was not often he could capture moments like this with being caught up in business so the Rider would savor it while he could. His gaze strayed to his daughter as she aided the young lass in propping up the he-Elf. A brief half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth; Díore had always been a ready hand to help.
Then, out of the blue, yet another rider flew toward them. Hasulfen leapt to his feet, wrapping his sword belt around his waist, and cursing under his breath that he of all Riders would be caught unawares. But Leah flew faster than him, approaching the rider as he halted with an exclamation of familiarity with the bay mare. They exchanged words about the man buying a horse off of Lord Danethor, a noble whom Hasulfen knew by name, face, and deed. Indeed, Hasulfen was acquainted with most of Rohanian nobles; his position and title required it.
He remained in the background with Díore by their horses, observing the goings-on. Hasulfen had misgivings about the lone man, however-he had yet to give his name. Felaléof must have had similar thoughts because his hand edged to the sword on his hip and watched the rider's every moment like a hawk. Hasulfen supposed Felaléof would rather have the rider decline Leah's invitation for dinner, but even to his own dismay, he accepted. Leah was either brave or stupid, but youth blinded the making of wise decisions. Had he interfered, however, Hasulfen might have only spurred on conflict. As such, the man made no sudden moves or gave any indication of violence towards Leah. He busied himself by stowing his cloak, now grass- and insect-filled, into a saddlebag.
Díore also noticed something odd about their new addition. Appearance-wise, the man could hardly have come from enough wealth to purchase as fine of an animal as the bay, especially since she was of Rohanian stock. Díore suspected something afoot but chose not to pursue. Such was not really in her nature; that, and Felaléof's reactions already demonstrated that Leah was the only person who truly believed the man's story. Durithil nudged her hair and tossed his head. His ears flickered back and forth, alert to something. "Father," she muttered, attracting her father's attention. Durithil began to dance, clearly not happy about something. "Father, can you help me?" She grabbed his reins and held him while Hasulfen began to rub his hands over the black's head, withers, back, belly, hindquarters, and finally his legs in an attempt to determine the horse's ailment. He stood perfectly still which gave Díore a chance to voice her concerns.
"That man," Díore mentioned quietly, using Durithil as a shield from the others' scrutiny; they were immersed in conversation. "His story irks me, Father."
Hasulfen nodded from below as he picked up the stallion's hoof and checked for stones. "Aye, 'tis the same to me. If he bought that mare, then I'm an orc. But who are we to say anything? Listen, if I leave off and ride hard for Minas Tirith, will you remain here and keep an eye on the Elf…and our ‘comrade’? I trust not that rascal, especially with Leah around. The lass appears to not know her way around a weapon; your sword would not go amiss, love.” Durithil remained perfectly still, then tossed his head again, continuing the ruse.
Díore kept silent and nodded as the others’ attention fell upon them. Hasulfen patted Durithil’s flank as the horse nudged the man in thanks. “All’s well now. Now, I’m not sure about you, but I wouldn’t mind a tune. Can anyone here sing?” A murmur of assent rippled through the group. “Then afterwards, I shall leave Díore behind and fly to Minas Tirith. Vagrants and horse rustlers frequent this road, but I trust you’ll be safe with capable swords amongst you.” He walked off to find what sparse firewood there existed in the area.
“Tell me about yourself Díore?” she began making polite conversation.
Díore had opened her mouth to respond, but the man who had ridden into their midst had stolen everyone’s attention. But now that they settled good-naturedly around the fire, Díore began to speak and thanked Leah for the wonderful, sustaining meal. “Well, you already know my name,” she continued with a smile that lit up her fair face. Díore had a stocky but slender build. Her hair, rather than the golden halo of the Rohirrim or the dark, raven hair of the inhabitants of Dol Amroth, favored the dark brown hair of the Northerners (remnant of her father's mother's origins near Tharbad). Her eyes matched the leaves of trees in summer, and her skin tanned easily. Díore knew her way around a weapon, but she had never truly engaged in warfare or armed conflict. Overall, her countenance pleased many an eye, but she never truly desired a husband as of yet. “Let’s see, my family hails from Edoras, always has. I have no siblings, and my favored companion is Durithil over there.” The black horse lifted his head from grazing at the sound of his name; his little charade to allow Díore some private time with her father had earned him an untethered chance to graze. “And? My favorite food is a good roasted chestnut and almond flan with a light dusting of honey.” Although relaxed, she remained alert, especially for the return of her father. Her sword lay close at hand. “Now,” she said, shifting her balance from her back to leaning on one elbow, she settled her gaze on the newcomer, “what is your story, your name? You haven’t introduced yourself, sir.”
*~*~*~*~*
Night fell, cloaking the land in darkness. An enormous silver moon hovered in the air, sending its light in all directions. Although allowing enough light to travel by, the effect was eerie. Even more so, as Leyn urged Verelin over a final hill that oversaw the Pelennor Fields, the huge White City was cast into relief against an ebony sky set with gemstone-like stars. Leyn took a moment to catch her breath, one for the site of the city but also for the sharp air. The temperature dropped considerably since midday, and she tightened her cloak in an attempt to ward off the chill. Verelin paused at the crest of the hill, his breath furling out in tendrils in front of him, mixing with his mistress’. Soon enough, Leyn rode in the middle of the main road through several small settlements in Minas Tirith’s shadow. Her stomach ached with hunger, but she persisted further. The food she had brought with had been long spent since her night of revelry left with a fierce hunger for the next day or two. What was one more night in the open fields, however? Once the sun began its ascent, Leyn would go to the weekly market and begin haggling for her breakfast. It was not a welcome prospect, but for now, it would have to do.
(I'm leaving Rhîwenil out of this for now...I'm going to bring her in when Alphros, Hingel, and the others have the counsel. Would anyone like to do a joint post for that with me? It'd be fun to have some differing opinions in this. And alack again for a dead muse. I blame the tornado warnings we had tonight. :/)
[Edited on 6/9/2011 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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RE: Beyond the Horizon (KEEP) on: July 21, 2011 05:22
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(Sorry for the terribly long wait for this! Here's a JP between Lilypad and myself.)
The morning dawned bright and warm with sunlight streaming through castle windows, highlighting particles of dust in its golden furls. This same morning found Rhîwenil and Hingel in the king’s council chamber with nobles from all of Gondor’s fiefs. A myriad of people from all walks of life were present, from high-ranking nobles to middle-class artisans whose expertise in judging the situation were desired. King Eldarion was not one to seek counsel only from his peers but rather his other subjects as well.
Heat began to waver on the distant horizon like steam rising from a quickly cooling blade plunged into a basin of water. It was on such a morning that Artemis, the son of the royal Blacksmith, hurriedly prepared himself for the council. He walked stiffly through the corridors, late as usual. He had been deliberating upon not attending entirely, but did not greet the wrath of his father so readily. As a result he found himself striding down the corridors which lead to the king’s council chamber. The beams of sunlight filtering through the castle windows were split into shards as his body moved through them, instead the golden light playing upon his hair, legs, and arms like the glistening of fairy dust. Artemis appeared quite noble in his fine, royal blue linen shirt, embroidered around the neck with a smocked panel at each shoulder, his dark hair made into a manageable coiffure, and his trousers tucked into boots which had been polished for such an occasion. He felt awkward and stifled in such a place. This was ironic considering he was stifled nearly every day in a forge filled with smoke, yet he felt right at home like a dragon breathed fire he supposed, content amongst the molten metal and burning embers.
Artemis entered the large circular room and tried to appear pleasant, rather unsuccessfully. A few faces turned towards him but none seemed too off-put by his presence as he went to sit beside his father- a tall gaunt looking fellow with a short beard, dark eyes which appeared much colder than his own, and black hair hung like small curtains framing the sides of his thin face- who immediately snapped his beady eyes condescendingly down at his son.
“Stop your grimacing,” Voramon hissed at his son, malice flickering in black eyes, “We don’t want our King to think we do not appreciate such a gesture of gratitude,” he whispered with a false smile as this interaction gathered a few nosey onlookers. Artemis had been pouting without even realising it. He rearranged his features quickly to a more reserved and nondescript expression, one that was not necessarily pleasant, but not necessarily standoffish either. Voramon was a rather crafty and slimy individual. He was cruel by nature but could fool even the smartest of people into thinking he was a kind and benevolent man. The only person he could never deceive was his son. Artemis knew if given the chance Voramon would probably overthrow the King and rule Gondor himself, luckily his ambitions did not stray too far from where he might find his next pint of lager and maiden he could defile. It was then that such a maiden entered the room.
Immediately, a cry arose as Rhîwenil entered the large circular room. Benches lined the walls, and upon a raised dais sat the king himself on a large, oaken throne. He had grown up well, with his dark hair and grey eyes. Eldarion had inherited the grace of his mother’s people and the sturdiness, good looks, and deliberateness of his father’s.
“A woman?! How can a woman be found among a council of peers?!” a sturdy, broad-shouldered noble cried out disapprovingly, rising from his chair, and causing all others present to cease their conversations and turn their attention to the young woman. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and not just one or two men shook their heads at the sight of a female in their midst.
She was quite beautiful Artemis thought of the woman as the others grumbled amongst themselves about the addition of a woman to their council. It was a strange thing true, but Artemis saw no harm in the intellect of a lady, he found some quite philosophical. A small smile hinted at the edges of his mouth as his thoughts drifted to the redhead he had left that morning. She had been quite philosophical. Voramon’s eyes had narrowed into slits but he had noticed. His father was not pleased by this new addition.
Alphros stood defiantly and was about to defend his cousin when the king began to speak. “Whoever so is here comes here at my request. Let it alone, Culloch,” Eldarion said lowly, deliberately softening his voice to ensure silence. “Now my friends,” he continued, “I’ve called you here to discuss an important concern. Rumors have flown that Corsairs once again pose a threat to our borders, and in addition, trade along the Anduin has come under attack. What know you all of it?”
Culloch of Osgiliath pounded a clenched fist on his chair arm and growled at Eldarion, "Vagabonds, vile heathens no less, have stolen at least three shipments of lumber from my lands. My steward in South Ithilien has reported a net loss of at least an eighth percentage of what we were harvesting last year! Added to that has been the disappearance of several of my emissaries to Pelargir along the great road. What say you to that, my King?" Culloch threw his chest out challengingly and directed his sharp gaze to his monarch.
Rhîwenil took an immediate disliking to the man. Nudging her father in his ribs, she whispered in his ear, "Methinks yon Culloch's a bit hasty today."
"Hot-blooded fool," Hingel returned, catching the sidelong glance of his cousin. Neither man from Belfalas had ever had positive dealings with the lord from Osgiliath. Alphros quickly raised his voice in addition to Culloch's. "I've also heard word from my tenants that they've sighted dark ships with black sails off the southernmost coast of Belfalas. I've thought that Umbar had ceased its piracy and privateering, but perhaps they've taken to sea again." His reasonable, calm tone masked an increasing concern for his people.
Members of the council began to witter and gossip angrily amongst themselves about the goings on of the prevailing threat to their livelihood. Voramon rose slowly from his seat and with measured steps addressed the council. All fell silent as they looked upon the lofty man, his dark eyes piercing uneasily into the hearts of every person as his robes of midnight billowed ominously with the light breeze wafting through an open window.
“My King,” he bowed deeply from the hip and then, “And fellow council members,” he nodded graciously around the room his gestures directed at a select few members of the council, those well respected amongst royalty but most importantly there were those with a lot of wealth which Voramon deemed most worthy of his extra attention. “It is true of what Lord Culloch and Alphros speak of,” a wave of shock filtered through the crowd and voices rose once more before Voramon quickly silenced them, “I have witnessed such an assault on our good countrymen whilst delivering weapons to port,” the look of horror on everyone’s faces was enough for Voramon to know he had them in his grasp. A small smile, ever so slight, hinted at one side of his thin mouth. Only Artemis knew well of such an expression. “I lost a load while trying to aid and escape these vile heathens,” Voramon hissed like a snake ready to pounce upon its prey. This was the one area where Artemis agreed with his father. He disliked the Corsairs to the depths of his being. They had taken enough from him as far as he was concerned and it was time to fight back.
Eldarion considered the increasingly grave reports, and he sighed, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "My lords, I hear your concerns with foreboding. I trust not our enemies' motives, but I cannot assemble and dispatch an army until we know more. Therefore, I suggest this: I will gather more information, intelligence before deciding on a plan of action. In the meantime, increase your border defenses and lookouts on the coasts. 'Tis time we become ever more vigilant."
Culloch refrained from arguing, not wanting to disrespect Eldarion, but the king's suggestions left a sour taste of disappointment and bitterness in his mouth. A loss to his own livelihood meant losses to his tenants. Despite his gruff demeanor and appearance, Culloch cared deeply for his people. He stoically maintained his silence, and upon Eldarion's dismissal of the council, stalked out of the room like a tomcat.
Rhîwenil caught the king's glance and inclined her head in thanks for his chivalric defense of her. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth in return, then his back was to her. His retinue following immediately behind, Eldarion proceeded out of the chamber, leaving the rest of the lords and nobles behind. The lone maiden took her cousin's arm and muttered as they stepped out behind the king, "What can I do to help you, cousin?"
Alphros leaned his head close to her like a lover, "We shall discuss this later, Rhen. Right here is not the best place for such matters."
Hingel strode along at his daughter's other side. "Aye, child," he agreed, keeping his voice low. "But it might turn out we haste back to Linhir to ensure the safety of our own town." With a sinking feeling in her gut, Rhîwenil fell silent. The other nobles still passed her glares, but she chose to ignore them. She would talk to her father about the king's blacksmith later, Rhîwenil decided; out of all the men there, he seemed the most able to aid her cousin should it come to defense of Gondor's southern borders. Armaments and metal supplies were never not needed when it came to military usage.
(I will get another post for Di and Leyn soon. Again, I apologize about the wait!)
[Edited on 8/6/2011 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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Dinenlasse |
RE: Beyond the Horizon (KEEP) on: December 15, 2011 07:39
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Thinking that he [Aroden] had secured himself at least for the moment he settled down into a more comfortable position. "This is certainly an odd company to keep." he mused as Diore continued to scrutinize him. He looked at her pointedly then glanced around at the others. The one was indeed an elf, he found out, and that was bizarre enough if it were alone. "What cause all of you to come together on this sad stretch of road?"
“So,” she [Leah] started with a sigh as she sat between Díore and Aroden. “What was the reason for your journey did you say?” she asked again.
Díore heard both Leah’s and Aroden’s inquiries but hesitated to answer them until her father left them. He took leave of them graciously, mentioning that he would see them in the White City. With a final wave at his daughter, he mounted Iaur and spurred the horse eastward, the destrier’s hooves coughing up spumes of dust in his wake. Knowing now that she and Felaléof held the majority of the strength and authority in the party, Díore weighed the odds of shifting the group after her father. Gravely, she returned her gaze to her fellow party members and finally responded to their questions. “My father and I are bound for Minas Tirith for word has reached the ears of Edoras of Corsair activity along the coast and inland raiders attacking merchants and traders along the River Anduin. My king has sent my father to Minas Tirith to find out the veracity of these rumors. ‘Tis all.” She did not let on that a score of Riders had left a day behind Hasulfen and her, to ensure that nothing ill befell the pair. The king of Rohan always erred on the side of caution, and surely, if the small company continued on their gradual approach, the Riders would overtake them.
Deciding they had wasted enough time around the fire, Díore stumbled to her feet and brushed the tawny grass off of her tunic and cloak. “Friends, I hate to end this conversation short, but we need to be along. We can continue to discuss our lives along the road. We cannot hope to travel quickly with Sir Arafi injured as he is. Can he ride with one of you? Durithil hardly suffers me to ride him much less anyone else.” As if to agree, the dark stallion tossed his head and whickered. Grasping his reins, Díore heaved herself into the saddle and prayed the others would follow suit. “I mean not to hurry us, but night will be upon us soon.”
Eventually the group broke camp and began to move at a quicker pace, greatly pleasing Díore. “Now,” she commented as the horses loped along the road, the open sky above them slowly streaking with swathes of amber, cinnabar, and sienna, “what purpose have all of you towards Minas Tirith? Is there a festival of some sort I should know about?” she asked with a chuckle. As they rode, Díore stole a glance at Aroden. He was handsome in a roguish way, but his arrogant confidence and equally unsettling gaze outweighed any attraction she had for him. He clearly disliked her in the same way, given the pointed gaze he shot her just fifteen minutes previously. But she’d goad him anyways to see what she could learn; as Hasulfen said, Díore had to keep alert. “Aroden, what is your story?” she asked congenially.
Durithil took the bit in his mouth and lounged forward, disliking the crippled pace they had taken when compared with his last three days of plunging headlong into the wind. Díore steadied him with a firm hand and word and kept her eyes on the road. They had made it a few miles down the road when Díore looked to Felaléof to make the decision as to when and where they camped for the night. “I should not think we light a fire, eh, sir Felaléof?” she asked, seeking his wisdom. “’Tis too open a place for us to chance one. Unless you disagree?”
*~*~*~*~*
The next morning after fording the River Erui, Leyn watched the sun break over the horizon from her hill, casting the mountains into relief behind her. Minas Tirith was directly in her sight, and it never failed to steal her breath. The seven-ringed city stood out brilliantly against the lightening sky like a gem. Here represented opportunities for the maiden. Certainly here would be her change of fortune! Verelin grazed near her, his contented munching reaching her ears. Leyn savored this moment for only a while more before the morning began to wear on. Soon enough, Verelin loped along the road at a steady pace, passing several market-goers, their carts full of wares.
As they came within the proximity of the great city, Leyn’s innards decided enough was enough. She needed nourishment, and she needed it now. Mentally willing her hunger pangs away, Llweryn dismounted her horse, and leading him by the reins, decided to see what could be had in the way of a repast. The small dirt road that served as an unmarked highway to Minas Tirith (not being the South Road most travelers embarked upon on their travels to the Gondorian capital) wound its way through small hamlets which provided livestock, fruits, and vegetables to the Citadel. Leyn sought to not attract attention to herself, but soon enough, a woman hailed her. “Ye aren’t from around ‘ere, are ye miss?”
Leyn halted in her steps and sought the voice which spoke. Her eyes met those of a stout housewife wringing out linens and draping them over a line. “Nay indeed, mistress. I hail from Rohan,” she replied courteously, bowing her head.
“Ye seem fair famished, my lady. Can I provide ye some brekkist?” the woman went straight to the heart of the matter. She tossed the last cotton linen over the line and beckoned Leyn to her straw-thatched hut. Leyn, not remotely thinking of declining the generous offer, tied Verelin to the fence, and followed the woman inside her quaint structure. But almost as soon as the pair sat down to almond scones and butter, a howling rent the air outside. Hooves thundered all around, and screams escalated louder and louder. Verelin was frantically yanking at his reins, rearing and tossing his head. Leyn raced outside and untied him just as a score of ragged horsemen galloped through the small hamlet carrying torches and throwing them at the houses. Soon enough, smoke began smoldering in the woman’s house and others, and Leyn’s benefactor immediately started panicking. “Bandits, thieves, heathens!” she screeched, running back into her house.
“Lady, no!” Leyn shouted as a man galloped past her. Fires slowly started to spread throughout the town. “Lady, NO!” She grabbed the woman’s shoulder and shoved her roughly, explaining her scheme. “The king’s men cannot be far behind them, not with you being so close to the city. Take your fellow kinsman and put out the fires with water from your wells. Go!”
Leyn’s assumption proved to be right. The King’s Guard flew through along the main road, scattering the bandits. But, the thieves refused to relent on their streak of terror. They thrust their torches at the king’s soldiers but to no avail. Leyn, desiring to help them, climbed back on Verelin’s back, and withdrew her sword. A brawny man on a blue roan caught sight of her and charged, an evil glint in his eye. Verelin easily side-steppe the charge, and Leyn knocked the man off his horse’s back where an arrow from a guard pierced his shoulder.
The skirmish continued. Leyn aided where she could but sustained a nasty cut from a rusted blade to her hand that sliced open the skin to the bone. The King’s Guard ultimately won though the village was a complete loss. The fire had spread quickly throughout the thatched roofs, decimating the few houses that had existed for years. It had happened rather quickly, over the course of an hour or two. After the surviving bandits were rounded off to be led to Minas Tirith, the guard set off back towards the capital. Suddenly, the column halted, and a large, broad-chested man rode up to her as Leyn nursed her wound. “You there!” he cried officially. “Follow us to the capital.”
Leyn held back, shooting the man a glare. “What for? I am no bandit.”
The man, called Glaedin, smiled briefly. “My lady, I beg pardon for my brusqueness. I commend you for your help and ask that you accompany us to Minas Tirith to share your story. I know not from whence you come, but your aid was very much welcomed. Please follow, and your wound shall be attended to.”
The Rohanian maid shook her head and backed Verelin. “My lord, I hardly helped. You needn’t concern yourself with me.”
“Lady, it is my honor to accompany you. Please,” Glaedin continued earnestly. “You have the look of a warrior about you, and I’m sure you have a story to tell.”
Reluctantly, Llweryn urged Verelin alongside the Captain of the Guard, and the column made for Minas Tirith, four prisoners in tow. Leyn allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps her luck was changing already!
[Edited on 12/16/2011 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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