Island of Sorrow Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

This thread is open to complete the planning for an upcoming Shire Game. Only these people may post on it at present:

• Anguirel
• Envinyatar
• Feanor of the Peredhil
• Firefoot
• Piosenniel
• Child of the 7th Age

All other posts will be deleted.

[piosenniel]

Here is the proposal as it stands now:

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Piosenniel invites you to play in a game co-hosted with Anguirel:

Island of Sorrow

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Historical Background

The First Age was a time of constant war, the exiled Noldor against the hordes of the Dark Lord Morgoth. Though all the Princes of the Noldor showed valour, none was more courageous than Maedhros, the son of Feanor, who took the lands closest to Morgoth’s fortress at Angband so that the brunt of Morgoth’s attacks would fall on him and his brothers.

For hundreds of years Maedhros and his uncle Fingolfin besieged Morgoth in Angband, and Maedhros made his stronghold at the Chill Mountain, Himring, a castle even Morgoth could never take. But at last, at the Fourth Battle of the Sudden Flame, Morgoth, with a dragon at his side, broke the leaguer around Angband and slew Fingolfin. Maglor, Maedhros’ brother, driven from his domain, joined Maedhros upon Himring, reinforcing it further still. The road south from Himring was secure thanks to the vigilance of the Sons of Feanor, and many refugees found their escape easier. But all those Noldorin Elves who bore arms in those lands hastened to Himring; and their smithies were bright.

Alas, Maedhros marched forth upon Morgoth in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears; and after he was betrayed and the battle lost, he fled to Ossiriand, leaving Himring empty and desolate behind him, its walls and gate wrecked by Maedhros’ own catapults to stop the Dark Lord from making use of it.

But by some curious fate, when all Beleriand was sunken in the War of Wrath, Himring alone survived, as an isle, and was called Himling in later ages.

Maedhros, meanwhile, in his eagerness to recover his father’s Silmaril, carried out two Kinslayings at Doriath and Sirion. All his brothers fell in these battles, save Maglor, his comrade at Himring; and of his fate no tale tells.

[piosenniel]

Basic Storyline

It is the last year of the Third Age. Six Elves, the only survivors of Maedhros’ host, meet at the Grey Havens. They are planning to sail to the ruins of Maedhros’ old fortress at the isle of Himling, paying a final visit to their former home before they sail West. Little do they know what danger bides on this chill, grim remnant of Beleriand.

[piosenniel]

The purpose of the story is to: Sail to Himling, explore the ruins of Himring, and sail back to the Grey Havens to embark with the Ringbearers into the West.

This means we will know the story is over when: The surviving Elves are sailing to Valinor.

Starting Location: The Grey Havens

Likely destination: Cirdan’s ship

[piosenniel]

Timeframes

This game takes place in the Third Age at around year 3021.

The storyline itself or plot covers a week.

This game requires a time commitment of 8 - 10 weeks from me, the game owner and from the major players.

[piosenniel]

CHARACTERS NEEDED

-- Any number of houseless spirits (Coavalta) - Elves

-- Any number of houseless spirits (Coavalta) - Orcs

A player may control more than one should they wish. NO BIOS NECESSARY FOR THESE CHARACTERS.

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

1.) Anguirel’s character

NAME: Malris of Forlindon

AGE: 7251 years (born 1299, Age of the Trees)

RACE: Noldorin Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Cirlach, a blade forged by Curufin and wound about with ancient runes in Tengwar and Certh, given to Malris in the years of the Leaguer around Angband. The blade is exceedingly sharp, and the balance is well-crafted. Were Malris encountering Orcs, it would no doubt be very useful, but it is no substantial foe he is to face now...

APPEARANCE: Malris is not as tall as some of the Noldor. He is slender, but in no way effete; his face is grim and hard, and his grey eyes given to glaring. His hair is black and cut short. He is left-handed, and it was he, with Curufin, who helped to train Maedhros in swordplay after he lost his right hand. He wears the star of Feanor proudly on his tunic.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Malris brooks very little argument, and has a short temper; though he is always respectful and loyal to those who have won his regard over his long years. He is cautious, experience having taught him this vital lesson. But once he has decided to hate, his pride means he will rarely be reconciled. He is still uneasy as to how to behave to the Teleri, and as to men, he cannot forget the treachery of Uldor the Accursed at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

HISTORY: Malris was born in Tirion, in the blessed land of Valinor. As he grew he excelled physically, performing feats of athleticism far beyond his size, though Artanis, called Nerwen and Galadriel, always outdid him. Once he noticed another youth of the Noldor, flagging behind in a run, on the point of collapse. Malris ran back across the track to stop the other falling. It turned out that this was Maglor, son of Feanor, whose father had urged him to run a race he did not possess the stamina to finish.

Maglor and Malris found in each other opposite, and consequently attractive, characters, and soon befriended each other. So it was that Malris, not of noble stock, nevertheless found himself frequently at the house of Feanor, where he met Maglor’s six brothers. Maedhros admired Malris’ honesty and courage, and Curufin enjoyed teasing him, competing against him in games he would win by trickery. At first Malris was affronted by this, but Maglor persuaded him to forgive Curufin, and Curufin also won his esteem by his arts in the smithy. Only Celegorm actively disliked him, and derided his lack of breeding.

When Feanor broke the peace of Valinor, Malris would have accompanied him and his sons into exile, but his father, who took Fingolfin’s side, forbade it. After Feanor’s return and the theft of the Silmarils, Malris journeyed with Feanor’s host; without regret he joined the Kinslaying, and so fell under the full force of the Doom of Mandos. He fought in the Dagor-nan-Giliath and the Dagor Aglareb, and bore Maedhros’ standard for a time. At this time he married Giledhel of the Noldor.

When the Leaguer was broken at the Bragollach, Malris helped fortify Himring with all his skill. After the loss at the Nirnaeth, Malris helped destroy the walls he had built, to stop the Dark Lord occupying them. In the retreat his wife Giledhel was lost, and he never saw her again.

He joined Maedhros and the brothers in Ossiriand, and was one of the captains in their army on the assaults on Doriath and Sirion, though by the Third Kinslaying he felt sick to the heart. When the host of Eonwe arrived in Beleriand, Malris met his father again, but refused to sail home with him. The break was complete.

Malris travelled far to the east, seeking Maglor and Maedhros, and found only the chasm where Maedhros had fallen. He returned to Lindon, not going to Mithlond, for he knew Cirdan hated him and with good reason, but building a small hall near the Ered Luin. At last, Gil-galad summoned him to court, and he was pardoned on the instigation of Elrond, Maglor’s foster-son, who declared him of good character.

Celebrimbor called on him to join the Gwaith-i-Mirdan of Eregion, but he remained loyal to the High King, distrusting the Maia Annatar.

After the fall of Gil-galad and Sauron Elrond invited him to come to Imladris, but he refused, keeping to his abode in Forlindon, for a sea-longing was creeping upon him. Now, in the year of the Ring’s destruction, he plans to depart; but he wishes to see Himring again first, and so he has called the other five survivors of Maedhros’ army to meet him in Mithlond.

~*~*~*~

In addition to Malris, Anguirel will control the Voice of Maglor and Cirdan, as they are canon characters.

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Anguirel’s post -- FIRST FOR GAME

It is a curious thing to leave behind your house in any circumstances. A house is forged and tempered to appear, if not like its owner’s soul, then like a perception of that soul. It wrenches the spirit to abandon it.

How much odder, then, the Elf reflected, that he-who had been driven out of his last home by all the might of the Valarin Host-now countenanced leaving his small, utilitarian hall behind willingly; leaving it intact, pristine, down to the smithy, armoury, everything-but without anything but mice to dwell in it. And why was he doing this? Because of some water mixed with salt. O Sea, beloved thing, yet a stifler of hopes. The gulls were singing again as he looked out from the harbour of Mithlond.

But Malris had one last errand to attend to; half a tribute to lost friends, half, as he had to admit, self-indulgence and nostalgia. Before he set out to Tol Eressea, he would visit another domicile; the place he had lived when life still held excitement, possibilities; when the Long Defeat still looked like victory. He, and the five other survivors of Maedhros the Tall’s host, would go back to Himring.

Why else, after all, he thought, did the Valar preserve it? Surely if it alone survived the ruin of Beleriand, there is some greater purpose bound up with it. But what care I for things arranged by the uncaring Lords of the West? No; my reasons are private ones. I would look on the castle of Maedhros one more time before it is lost to me. And the others feel the same; have felt the same all this long age, or they would not have agreed to come.

“Gnome! Cease your maundering!” a harsh voice cried, scattering his thoughts. It was Cirdan’s harbour master, and like most of the Telerin Elves here, he hated Malris the moment he saw the Star of Feanor on his chest.

“Are you moving on or aren’t you?”

“I want a boat, fisherman.”

“Why don’t you kill for it? You’ve done it before.”

“And little good it did me. Silver,” Malris muttered, “is cheaper than steel. I learnt that eventually.”

“Yet you wear the murderer’s ensign.”

“I wear it for Maedhros,” Malris answered, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “For the beautiful, unmatched, fearless Prince who kept your lands safe from Orcs.”

“He proved little better than an Orc himself. I lost my wife at Sirion, blood-drinker.”

“Then,” Malris said, “we are more similar than you imagine. Find me a boat that will carry six, and then, truly, Teler, you will never have to set eyes on me again.”

There was a cough behind them. At first sight the new arrival might have been said to resemble an old bearded Man; but his eyes were too bright with starlight and wisdom.

“Malris of Forlindon. I received your missive. A vessel is provided for you and your five companions. In a week, return here, and we will take the Straight Road together.”

“I thank you, Shipwright,” Malris replied with a slight bow. “Now I will go to the boat. Tell the others where I have gone. Namarie, for better or worse.”

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

2.) Piosenniel’s character – Rivendell Elf

NAME: Endamir (known now among the Elves of Rivendell as Quettano)

AGE: Born in the Age of Trees – 1400; twin to Orëmir.

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: male

WEAPONS:

Plain bladed, short sword in leather scabbard. The scabbard bears now faint traceries put there by his father – two vines, intertwined, one bearing silvered leaves, the other bearing golden. ‘For remembrance, and for strength united,’ his mother had said when she designed them. The words * Ever may you defend one another * are all but faded from the crosspiece of the blade. A long, oaken spear, with a sharp iron tip. He is quite skilled in the use of these two weapons. A hunting knife hangs from his belt, though these many years it has served more to sharpen quills than to kill. The years in Imladris have acquainted him with the use of the long bow. His is made of yew wood and plain in the crafting. He prefers the back slung quiver. Though if truth be told the bow and quiver gather dust on the wall of his room. But then they have the good company of the sword and spear to make complaint to.

Armor: A simple, short sleeved light chain mail shirt beneath which he wears a thick soft padded shirt. Boiled leather vambraces without device, and a thick, waistlength, boiled leather vest. There is a plain and slightly dented helmet, too. But it and the other protective pieces spent their time in Imladris bearing witness to the years of long disuse, though at times they were given the honor of being paperweights.

His present weapon is the quill and ink as he battles the fading memories of the Eldar with capture on vellum.

APPEARANCE:

Grey eyed. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing, braided neatly in a single plait down his back. The old habits of keeping one’s eyes and arms free for the use of weapons have not left him. Tall, as are the Noldor; about 6’5” (1.96 m). Broad shouldered, and still well muscled. Graceful and trim, not bulky. Left-handed.

Wears soft brown breeches held up by a braided leather belt with brass buckle. Tunics in muted greys or blacks. Worn, dark brown leather boots. When needed he has a hooded, grey-green cloak woven in Imladris.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

He is a reserved person; quiet. Given more to observation and review of those about him than to interaction. He wasn’t always so. His early years found him an eager participant among the followers of Fëanor, a loyal and steadfast supporter despite the first of the Kinslayings. But long years spent reflecting on the actions that allied him with Fëanor’s Oath and its far reaching doom have tempered greatly the ardor and earnestness of his youth. He is not retiring to the point of cynicism. Nonetheless, there is a certain taste of ashes about life now for him, mingled with considered but yet unwept tears.

One facet of his life which has not changed is his fierce devotion to his brother and his brother’s well-being. Such devotion has prompted him at times to act in an ill considered manner, putting himself at risk in an effort to uphold his mother’s long ago request.

HISTORY:

Born in the Blessed Realm, in Tirion, but in an unfortunate year – The Unchaining of Melkor. His father, Maltanië was a capable metal craftsman who held Finwë, the High King, in great esteem as a leader and admired the creative skills of his son, Fëanor.

As a young Elf, Endamir in turn looked up to Fëanor’s sons, especially Maedhros; delighting in those times when the older Elf would cast a glance his way, or best yet, speak to him in passing. This admiration matured as the years passed into a deep respect for the sort of person he found Maedhros to be – brave, true to his family and friends, true to his word.

When the Silmarils were taken by Melkor and the sons of Fëanor stood by their father’s side and took his oath, Endamir was resolved to go with them. He pleaded with his father, who was loath to let him go. But in the end, his father’s respect for Fëanor, and his grief at the slaying of Finwë, won out. And Endamir was allowed to leave with the host of Fëanor. His brother, Orëmir, also begged leave to go, not wanting to be sundered from his twin.

Together, they followed in Maedhros’ van; caught up at first in the excitement of their first adult venture. They were both skilled in the use of their blades, but only in competition. And they had never ventured far from the boundaries of Tirion. Older, more seasoned Elves took the youngsters under their tutelage and brought them safely into Endore, Middle-earth.

There is no need to speak of the terrible battles fought against Melkor and his creatures. Or of the great War of Wrath which ended the bloody saga. Or of the other Kinslayings, the last of which was done only by the hands of Maedhros and Maglor against the Elves who guarded the camp of Eonwë. Endamir and his brother were not present at this last grievous act. They had been separated from Maedhros after the sinking of Beleriand. But on their hands were the blood of other Elves in Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

Many of their companions were returning to the Blessed Realm after the defeat of Melkor, bound West from the Havens in Lindon. Endamir and Orëmir took counsel with each other, and found to their mutual agreement that they were not done yet with their taste for adventure. Albeit they hoped for one more pleasing to the eye and heart than battle and its carnage. There were new lands, to the East. And remnants of Elves, they had heard, that lingered from the First Days. And there were other folk, too, whose ways might be of interest. They became wanderers.

Neither of the brothers ever married. Melkor was gone. They were wary of bringing new life into an uneasy place. There was still a certain unease, a shadow that had crept through much of Middle-earth. Numenor, the shining star of Men, was destroyed, A new Dark Lord rose, intent on bringing Men under his submission. Long were the new battles fought against him and his minions.

Weary of battle, the two brothers did not lend their blades to the aid of the Second Born. They had come to Imladris and been welcomed without question; without reprehension. They took on new names, reflecting their choices of the roles they would assume there.

During their travels, Endamir had begun to keep a journal and to collect stories gathered from folk along the way. More precious was the rare bit of written word gleaned from dusty storage places here and there. Orëmir was more interested in the flora of the regions they passed through, and often sought out those knowledgeable of their uses. Of especial interest to him were the medicinal plants and the various combinations Men used them for the healing of their hurts. And when no healing was possible, to ease the frights and pains of death.

Long years had they spent in contentment among Lord Elrond’s folk, until the short and simple message came from a companion of their younger days.

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Piosenniel’s post ------ SHOULD FOLLOW ENVINYATAR'S

There had been a brief pause for the evening meal. Made briefer by the silence which had grown on them since they’d come down from Lake Nenuial, heading south to Mithlond. Endamir cleared away the remains of the food and drink, then settled in, cross-legged, his pack within easy reach. A battered leather journal lay open on his left knee; the pot of ink on the ground by the same thigh. His eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into the distance, gathering his thoughts to continue.

. . . So little is left of that fair land. Once we would have ridden for days, following the course of the Sirion, until we reached the great bay. And from there a ship would have borne us to the Isle of Balar. No longer. Beneath the might of the Valar, the land fell; the sea rushed in.

The sea rushed in with a will those days.

It covered the places where we fought and fell; it could not cover our deeds . . .

Endamir’s quill moved quickly over the page. His eyes narrowed at the last few sentences. His hand hesitated, the quill raised, as if he might cross off the offending thoughts. ‘Leave them,’ he thought to himself. ‘It matters not. They will be left behind with none but Men to read them. And what will they know of undying sorrow and cankerous wrongs. Their little lives are too short for such consideration.’

Tomorrow will find us at the Grey Havens. Will we see Cirdan there? I wonder what he thinks of this last of the Havens. Does he find it rude in comparison to his others? Most likely not. He seems from all accounts an accommodating and adaptable sort. I wonder, too, how he can stand to return and wait for us who have taken so long to come to the sea. Does he pity us? Is that what fuels his patience. Does he gather us in like some shepherd with his bleating flock? Or like a father, his strayed sons.

I feel like neither – sheep nor child. Nor have I want of pity.

There is only that one small flame of hope, far in the distance. By the grace of the Valar, Cirdan and his ship will bear me there . . .

And Malris, he is sure to be there. And what of the others? Will they . . .

A stream of colorful words, heated imprecations, distracted him from his thoughts. Orëmir had cut his finger and was having no luck in bandaging it. With a half smile at his brother’s predicament he helped him fix the small strip of linen that held the mossy pad to the wound.

‘Now who is the healer?’ he chided, holding the bandaged digit up for Orëmir’s inspection. ‘And nicely done, I might add. Though there are smudges of ink on the knot, I fear.’

His brother smiled and Endamir found himself returning it in kind. ‘Come, brother,’ he said, slipping the carving knife back into its sheath. ‘It grows too dark for playing with knives or quills. Let us put them away for the night and make us a small fire to drive away the growing chill.’ He laughed, drawing his cloak more tightly about him as he gathered up his journal, quill, and ink and tucked them in the front pocket of his pack. ‘It was always so cold here,’ he continued. ‘You remember, don’t you? I must say that is one thing I have not missed these long years . . .’

~*~

Day found them leaning together, backs against a tall rock, their shoulders pressed against one another. Huddled within their cloaks, talking still. They had put that final question aside for a little while, now that the sea was so near; their arrival so final. And were for each other the brothers they had been in their younger years.

With lighter hearts, the truce still unbroken, they rode through the morning and arrived before mid-day at the Havens. With a minimum of false starts they found their way to the ship someone had told them was Malris’ vessel. Dismounting from their horses, they approached the boarding plank and seeing no one on deck, Endamir called out in a loud voice.

‘Malris! Are you there?’

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

3.) Envinyatar’s character – Rivendell Elf

NAME: Orëmir (to the Elves of Rivendell known as Curuma)

AGE: Born in the Age of Trees – 1400; Endamir’s twin brother

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Bears a sword identical to his brother’s; The scabbard also is the same. A long, oaken spear, too, with a sharp iron tip. He is skilled in the use of these two weapons. A short dagger in a dark leather holder hangs from his belt. Unlike his brother, he is not much interested in the bow. He still has a heavy oaken cudgel, well balanced so that his arm might swing it easily and with great force.

His armour consists of a short sleeved light chain mail shirt beneath which he wears a thick soft padded shirt. A thick, waist length, boiled leather vest serves as another layer to protect his upper body. Boiled leather vambraces without device protect his forearms. There is a plain helmet and a small round metal shield.

APPEARANCE: Dark grey eyes. Black hair cut very short. Tall, 6’5”. Broad shouldered, lithely muscled. Graceful in his movements. Ambidextrous, though prefers using his right hand.

His brown breeches are held up by dark brown leather belt. Tends to favor tunics in shades of grayish green. His boots are knee high, of supple, dark brown leather. He has a hooded, grey-green cloak woven in Imladris.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Orëmir is a softspoken, gracious man. Unlike his brother, he is not reserved or withdrawn. He enjoys the company of others and is the sort who with a few light words and a quick smile can draw one out. He is well liked by his fellows and often sought for his companionship.

He has taken on the role of healer with such naturalness that it would seem his hands and mind had been schooled from the first in the arts of gentle touch and healing words; that they had never been put to use with sword, and spear, and cudgel - with the multitude of cruel ways that one person can kill another.

Unlike his brother, he has come to terms in his own way with the bloodshed done by his hands. In part, perhaps, because he feels he has made some redress of his actions through his skill as a healer. It grieves him deeply that he cannot lighten his brother’s burden.

HISTORY: His history, of course, is much like his brother’s. Though it was not for love of Fëanor and his sons that Orëmir joined them in their pursuit of the Silmarils. Not that he thought them wrong in their choices. Truth be told, he really did not care much one way or the other. He simply did not want to be apart from his brother.

And once the battles and the war were done, he supported his brother’s choice to stay in Middle-earth and to see of it what they could. They wandered long in distance and in years before coming to settle in Imladris.

During their travels, it was from men that he gathered much of his knowledge of the healing arts . . . the uses of herbs in different combinations to ease pain or to restore the sick and injured body to its normal courses. From his fellow Elves met along the way were the deeper lessons of using thought to probe the illness or injury and speed the course of healing. Death, too, he found to be an exacting teacher, coming as it did despite the skills used to hold it in abeyance. And often he wondered at this Gift of Men, how some welcomed it and others were frightened.

In the long course of this last war, that which brought about the fall of Sauron, Orëmir had much to do, especially among the Rangers who dwelt south of Imladris, in The Angle. His skills were often called upon to heal the wounds made by the Shadow and his foul creatures. Even now that the victory has been won and there is peace, there is still much to be done.

The call from Malris was not a welcome one for Orëmir. It brings into sharp relief an ongoing dialog between the two brothers. Endamir grows weary of Middle-earth. Orëmir can see him withdrawing more and more as the years pass. There is a longing in Endamir to return to the West. It is there he feels he will be at peace. Orëmir does not share his brother’s longing. Malris, it seems, has also turned his thoughts to the journey home. Being so close to the sea, and with his old friend wanting also to go West, Orëmir knows will be hard to dissuade his brother. Impossible, perhaps. And if he cannot change Endamir’s mind, then what is he to do?

~*~

Will also play a contingent of Orc houseless spirits if needed

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Envinyatar’s post

The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll.

Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food.

His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading.

It had not proved so.

And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made.

In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys.

‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound.

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

4.) Feanor of the Peredhil’s character – Lorien Elf

Name: Tasarënì

Age: 7221 years

Race: Noldorin Elf of Lothlorien

Gender: female

Weapons: twin blades, slender and slightly curved; perfectly balanced with black hilts. Silver dagger elaborately carved with vines on the hilt. Is adept with both longbow and staff, but prefers niether. Years before she carried her blades crossed on her back. These days she goes weaponless but for the dagger which she keeps tucked away.

Appearance: Tall and slender, Tasarënì has long golden hair that is usually partially braided to stay out of her eyes, but still falls to the middle of her back. She has pale skin that rarely flushes and shimmering grey eyes. Her favorite colors are blue and silver, and so usually she is clothed in flowing gowns in those colors. She wears a belt made to look like twining lengths of willow leaves. In days of battle, she was more likely to be found in men's garb, favoring knee-length tunics over loose breeches. Her armor was crimson, but is no longer around, having been cloven asunder during the Nirnaeth. She bears a long white scar along her left jaw bone.

Personality: Tasarënì is unsure of herself, though not in battle. She avoids large gatherings at all costs, preferring fireside chats with old friends. When she was young, her love of all things good and her mercy brought her to become cold to those who were too ambitious to recognize what was right. Her heart melted some when she once witnessed a handsome young Elf turn aside from a race to help the son of Fëanor. From that moment she loved him for she saw in that instant past his short temper and to the kindness in his heart.

Through the years, her heart has softened considerably until the only creatures who do not receive her unconditional love and mercy are the spawn of Melkor; those with no hope of salvation. To them, she is as cold as ice, and will slay them swiftly at need. Tasarënì is quick and intelligent, but saves her judgements, keeping counsel only with herself, and, in later Ages, with Galadriel.

History: As a maiden in the fairest lands about Tirion, Tasarënì has always had a fondness for beautiful things. Her heart was open and she was merciful, but could not bear to tolerate ambitious types who would ignore a call for help to achieve their own ends. She was cold to most people, until they won her respect, but ever after would she be kind and gentle with them. When she was young, Tasarënì witnessed Malris in a race and loved him. Her unsurity caused her to delay in informing him of this fact, and eventually she decided not to. However being the perceptive lad that he is, he figured it out and was sick at heart, for he knew that he could not return her love, and so allowed her to believe he was unaware. However they became fast friends regardless.

When Melkor stole the silmarilli, Tasa was absolutely devestated by the malice and the loss of such beauty. She could not stomach evil, and so when Fëanor called for war, her heart was kindled, and she joined him. When she learned that Malris rode as well, she was overjoyed.

Her heart, kind and merciful as it was, was torn between her love of the Valar and her hatred of Morgoth. During the Kinslaying, though she took part, she knew that it was wrong and wept, her tears mingling with the blood of the Teleri.

Through all battles, Tasa fought valiantly, believing it the greater evil to allow Morgoth's evil to spread than to destory it. Through this time, her friendship with Malris grew and at times they would meet in the midst of battle and smile to know each was there.

At the Nirnaeth, Tasa was grieviously wounded and was unable to fight again for a very long time. It was at this time that she met Galadriel and knew that her allegiance was torn. Though she loved Maedhros and would happily lay down her life for him, she loved the goodness and purity of Galadriel and at this time vowed that she would lay down her arms and become a handmaiden, if allowed. It was, and she did. Through the many long years, Malris and Tasa lost touch, but she never forgot that her heart belonged to him, and he never forgot that he could not accept it.

---------------------------------------

Feanor of the Peredhil’s post

Tasarënì wiped away a quiet tear as she slowly passed through her deserted home for the last time. She had lived in Lothlorien as a maiden of the Lady of the Golden Wood for years beyond count. Though named for her love of the willows, the mallorns quickly became their equals in her heart, and she was loathe to leave them behind. She had watched silently as many of the first born passed from the land, tarrying long. For what had seemed an age, Tasarënì waited for an unknown sign, certain she would recognize it when it came. Every twilight she would walk the silent woods, marvelling. Song birds came to her, singing quiries of her sadness, and she smiled.

She looked to the sky, noting a single ray of starlight passing through the canopy. She smiled softly, eyes downcast. It was time. She turned, glancing for the last time at the water by her feet, the trees that had been her silent companions for many long years, bearing witness to her grief, never condemning her, and never asking of her what she cared not to answer.

A harsh cry pierced the air and she looked up, startled. A swift falcon was weaving carefully through the trees, making its way to Tasarënì. She lifted her arm, sending out a quick prayer that the handsome bird's sharp talons not hold too tightly. He landed gracefully and met her eye with the intelligence of his kind. She looked at him in amazement, noting not without a start the roll of paper bound to his leg.

She removed it quickly with one delicate hand as he perched patiently. With a flick of her wrist, Tasa unrolled the letter, tears coming to her eyes as she received the long awaited message... Malris requested her presence, accompanied by Lómwë, at the Grey Havens. It is time, she thought. Time to go home.

Silently, but with a small smile, Tasarënì walked through the woods, seeking for Lómwë. They would leave at the first light.

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

5.) Firefoot's character - Lorien Elf

NAME: Lómwë

AGE: Born 1256, Age of Trees

RACE: Noldorin Elf of Lothlórien

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: His sword, Coruthel, is his weapon of choice. It is of Dwarvish make and was acquired soon after the Noldor returned to Beleriand. The scabbard is plain leather, bearing no devices. However, he has had little practical use for his sword of late, requiring more his bow, which is such as the Galadhrim use. He also carries a long knife, which is a useful tool if not always used as a weapon.

APPEARANCE: Tall, lithe but well-muscled. Black hair which he wears partially pulled back; it falls to just past his shoulders. Eyes are grey, with a blue tint; his gaze is keen. He has high cheekbones and a firm jaw line.

He wears a tunic of an unassuming-green shade with a belt of dark brown leather, and underneath this a shirt of chain mail. His breeches are earth-colored and his boots, also dark leather, extend to about mid-calf. He also wears one of the grey-green cloaks of Lórien.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lómwë suffers from a strange combination of longing for the glory of the Elder Days and regretting them, desiring both to remember and to forget. He has never been one to let go, and while he has adopted the customs of the Galadhrim, in many other ways he dwells largely on the past. He has never been overly friendly, though neither was he outright cold, and has put many people off by this; he has had few close relationships. He is more of a follower than a leader, but will readily make his own decisions. Though less impulsive than he had been in youth, he still maintains a quiet intenseness about him. He is proud, though not arrogant, and can be stubborn.

HISTORY: Born in the fair city of Tirion upon Túna, Lómwë spent much of his youth exploring the lands around the city. Though he loved the beautiful land of Valinor and the bliss of the light of the Trees, he eventually found that the trails and woods seemed too well-traveled and found himself to be more than a little curious about the lands beyond the sea: the realms of Beleriand, the great Mountains of Mist, Cuiviénen under the stars. He contented himself, however, desiring not to leave the fair land of his birth; that is, until the flight of the Noldor.

In the years following Melkor’s pardon, Lómwë was more of a passive spectator than a participant, though his father, a jewel-smith, received aid from Melkor numerous times. Lómwë was ever wary of these interactions, though he soon found he could little untangle the lies from the truths of Melkor. He respected Fëanor greatly, and when Fëanor called for the Noldor to follow him to Middle-earth, Lómwë followed gladly. He made some attempt to find his family first, but found them not. He later found out that they, too, were among the throng.

He was in the van of the host, and, still under the influence of Fëanor’s heated words, readily took part in the Kinslaying, an action he eventually came to regret. His sister, his only sibling, was killed in the Kinslaying, and partially because of this his parents afterwards followed Finarfin and forsook the march. Thus Lómwë was the only one of his kindred to land in Middle-earth.

During the battles of Beleriand he marched always in the vanguard. Once Fëanor fell, he immediately turned to Maedhros for leadership, of all Fëanor’s sons the one he found the best leader and most courageous. During the Long Peace he fell in love with and married a Green Elf of Ossiriand, Ellothiel. Also in this time they had a son, Aradol. Both wife and young son were killed during the Dagor Bragollach while Lómwë was away fighting.

After this Lómwë lost most of his taste for fighting, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he fought no more until the War of Wrath and dwelt for a time among the Green Elves, his wife’s kin. After the War of Wrath Lómwë found himself bereft and without purpose. He desired not to return to Valinor, in part for pride but mostly in hopes for finding someplace new and not filled with memories. He wandered about Middle-earth for a time, soon settling in with the Noldor under Galadriel’s leadership, who alone of the Elvish leaders remaining in Middle-earth had been present since the Unchaining of Melkor.

He did not fight in any battles of the Second and Third Ages save to defend Lórien. He assimilated himself into the culture of Lórien, caring little for outside affairs. He eventually wound up as a marchwarden. Though melded into the new ways, he felt deep longing for times as they were, for though there had been sorrow, there had also been valor, and courage, and glory. So when Malris’ summons had come, he accepted almost full-heartedly, the exception being the small part of him that wanted to let the past be past; it haunted him enough without searching it out.

---------------------------------------

Firefoot's post

Dreary step by eager step, Lómwë drew ever nearer to the Grey Havens. He and Tasarënì would reach their destination by midday, he estimated. The journey had been long if uneventful, and traveled mostly in silence. It was not that there existed any particular aversion between the two; rather, they had nothing of importance that they cared to share. Lómwë could scarce remember the last time he had had a lengthy conversation of any real import – import to him, that is. The truth was, very little seemed important to him anymore. Now this trip; this was important. It was everything he had longed for and tried to escape for the last six and a half thousand years, and naturally, after so long he had some very strong feelings about it, feelings which he had expressed to no one. He had made it clear early on (subtly) that this topic was not open for conversation on his part, and fortunately Tasarënì did not seem overeager to discuss the subject either. Always though it lurked around the corner, ready to come up in discussion like a dark cloud preparing to storm. So, they hadn’t done a whole lot of discussing.

As was the norm, Lómwë was wrapped in his own thoughts, and currently his mind was turned towards the thought of home. He was going there, he supposed, though he was not exactly sure where “there” was. Certainly, home was not Lórien, where he had dwelt for so many years. In sunken Beleriand? Maybe. Valinor? Perhaps. He honestly wasn’t sure. He had long since lost a feeling of belonging anywhere. He wondered if finding this home, this sense of belonging, was his desire for the trip to Himring – now Himling, he corrected. He honestly did not know, for with the belonging he had also lost an ultimate purpose. It had all seemed so clear before we left Valinor, when Fëanor explained it, he mused. Yet it hadn’t been clear at all, nor was it now.

With a shake of his head, he cleared his thoughts. He had found that dwelling on these things changed the past not at all and his feelings about them hardly. If he did not fear to forget, he would not think of it at all, if he could help it.

Instead he concentrated on the path, for something to do rather than for need. He tried to think of something to say to Tasarënì to lighten the quiet, but found nothing. Thus the remainder of the trip was continued in silence.

They knew they were getting closer as the grey gulls wheeled overhead in increasing frequency. Soon the harbor came into view: the end, and the beginning. One of these grey ships would carry them on a voyage into the past, a past Lómwë felt ready to confront, or at least knew he needed to. It was a past full of sorrow and defeat mingled with valor and glory. Yet none of these were what Lómwë sought.

He sought peace.

[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

6.) Child of the 7th Age - Noldorin Elf of Lindon

NAME: Lindir

AGE: Born 1258, Age of Trees.

RACE: Noldorin Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPON: Lindir bears a well crafted blade with a cunning design of flowers and leaves engraved in silver and surrounded by an inlay of fine jewels. It is a weapon that he himself designed and forged with his own hands under the direction of his father, who was also a talented craftsman. He has had little use for this weapon since the end of the Second Age. By preference, he now uses a hunting knife and a long bow of simple, practical design in making his way along the coast and up into the foothills of the Blue Mountains.

APPEARANCE: He has the face of an artist rather than a warrior, with grey eyes that hold a great depth of sorrow. His features are fine, and he is unusually short for one of the Noldor, standing just under six feet tall. His hair is black and straight, held back from his face in a single braided plait and secured with a simple leather band. His clothes are so plain, lacking any elegance, that some mistake him from a distance for a Man of common birth. Only an ornate silver brooch of unsurpassed workmanship that graces his shirt hints at his family and artistic heritage. This jewel at his throat is evidently a gift that Lindir holds dear, yet he does not say who gave it to him.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Lindir is a quiet Elf who, in the past, was driven by his love to create beautiful things: weapons, jeweled necklaces, and rings. Over the years, he has become increasing closed mouth and secretive. Lindir's fierce desire to craft objects of beauty was both his great strength and his weakness. Because of his singleminded devotion, he chose not to take a bride. Since his return from Eregion (see below), however, he has laid aside his skills as an Elven-smith and has learned a totally different trade: that of a scout who wanders alone beside the seacoast and into the mountains, hiring out his services to other Elves and Men.


HISTORY:

Lindir’s father was an Elven-smith of Fëanor’s house: Lindir followed in his footsteps. As such, he inevitably became involved in the wars of the First Age, seeing his blades employed in fierce and bloody battles in Beleriand, as well as in the Kinslaying. After the drowning of Beleriand, Lindir had turned from the crafting of weapons to the making of rings and jewels, thinking that it was better to forge objects of beauty rather than destruction. He was perhaps moved by some impulse to make amends for the sorry events of the First Age.

In the Second Age, a time when many of his earlier companions had left the seacoast and journeyed eastward, Lindir remained in Lindon and joined the remaining Noldor Elves who were ruled by Gil-galad Ereinion. Lindir had been among those smiths who, led by Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor, moved across the Blue Mountains in 750 and founded the city of Eregion under the walls of Moria. These Elves had sought to make amends for earlier evils by helping to forge Rings of Power intended to heal the ills of Middle-earth. At some point, before the fall of Eregion, Lindir had fled back to the coast of Lindon. He refused to discuss the events of this period in his life, just as he refused to discuss the great bloodshed and sadness of his earlier time in Beleriand.

------------------------------------------

Child of the 7th Age's post

Lindir stood silent on the banks of the Lhûn, vacantly fixed on the churning waters that emptied into the Gulf. Far beyond, he could glimpse the distant Sea. At his back, to the north and west, hung the peaks of the Ered Lhûn. It was strange, he reflected, that the river and the mountains were called by the ancient Grey-elven term that meant “Blue” in the Common Tongue. In the past week, he had seen no hint of blue, only brown and green, in the miles of tangled forest and matted bracken through which he had trudged. Nor did the waters in front of him show any bluish hue, despite the bright sunshine that beat down from the heavens. He saw only dusky grey waters that gave no promise of comfort or a glimpse of better things to come. A lone gull appeared overhead, circled once, and then disapeared.

Lindir felt he had come to the end of his journey. He could not stay on in Middle-earth. The shores of Lindon and the lands further east brought no relief to his aching discomfort. Yet that decision held no measure of joy or anticipation. His journey from the Havens was not a well deserved rest after a life of purposeful activitity, but almost an admission of guilt of too many mistakes and missed chances that had slipped through his grasp. The events of the First Age as well as those of the Second had left him uneasy, deeply aware of the evil that shadowed the world and the fact that he was seemingly unable to do little to alleviate it. It was not only the bloodshed of the First Age that preyed on his mind, as ghastly as that had been, but his bungled attempts to atone for things at Eregion that had ended in such disaster.

When Malris had come to him some time ago with the suggestion that they pay a final visit to Himring and then sail from the Havens, Lindir had promised to think on the idea, but had not given his consent. Now, after spending a week secluded in the mountains, he had finally decided that Malris was right. It was time to leave behind the past and sail West. Whatever awaited him there surely could not be worse than what had happened in Middle-earth.

He had thought of asking Malris to forego the trek to Himring and have the group head straight out to the West. Himring was fraught with bitter memories, and Lindir could see little good in awakening these images. But Malris seemed determined; Lindir felt he had no chance of changing his comrade's mind, and he did not wish to disappoint him. There were too few Elves whom he could still call by the name of "friend". With a sigh, he picked up his pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders continuing on his path towards the harbor as he wondered what the morrow might bring.

[piosenniel]

Fea and Firefoot

Please post your Character Bios and First Posts on this thread. No need to PM them to Anguirel.

~*~

Anguirel

Please feel free to review the submissions and make suggestions and comments

~*~ Pio

[Anguirel]

What can I say? I'm very impressed, and I eagerly await your posts!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

I am incredibly excited... being exhausted, I asked if I could switch my hours at work to Friday. My request was met with enthusiasm, and now that means that I get to go home on time.

Which means that I'll be working on my character who just informed me (she's well enough developed to have a personality of her own, if not a concrete appearance, age, or set of skills) of something incredibly interesting. Anguirel, this twist in my character is sure to make you lean forward with interest. I'll have my bio done by tonight (I'll probably post it in the morning), and my first post... I'm not sure yet. But soon.

Fea

[Envinyatar]

Looking forward to playing in this game.

Will have a post up by Friday, barring some major catastrophe.

- E -

[Firefoot]

I'll have my bio up soon, and a first post shortly after that. These are a busy couple days for me, but I'll do my best to get it up as soon as possible. (Also I am in desperate need of a review of the Sil, so I'm working on that as well...)

I'm very much looking forward to playing in this game with you all!

[piosenniel]

Please note

I have invited Child of the 7th Age to play in the game. She will take one of the Elf roles.

~*~ Pio

[Firefoot]

I'll play the Elf of Lothlorien, if Child doesn't mind taking the Lindon Elf.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Regretfully there's a change of plans for my bio and post... I wasn't able to write it all up last night, which is why it wasn't posted today. But I am working in the few seconds I can swipe. I'll have it up soon.

[piosenniel]

Firefoot

Go ahead and work up the Lorien Elf. I've PM'd Child about being the Lindon Elf.

~*~ Pio

[Child of the 7th Age]

The Lindon Elf sounds fine to me. I am just starting work on the profile and post so I am the laggard in the group. I will be writing it over the weekend.

This sounds like an interesting storyline so I am very happy to be joining you all!

Child

[Anguirel]

Which leaves only the rather complex, but I hope rewarding, role of Giledhel's ghost. Lots of tragedy and nostalgia in this part! Roll up, roll up...

[piosenniel]

Giledhel is found! Here's the list of players and characters so far:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PLAYERS/CHARACTERS

• Anguirel – Malris (Forlindon)
• Child – Lindir (Lindon)
  
  
• ~*~
  
  
• Pio – Endamir (Imladris)
• Envinyatar – Orëmir (Imladris) *will also play some of the ‘houseless’ Orc spirits
  
  
• ~*~
  
  
• Fea – Tasarënì (Lórien)
• Firefoot - Lómwë (Lórien)
  
  
• Pio – Giledhel (Malris’ dead wife)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHARACTERS STILL NEEDED

Any number of houseless spirits (Coavalta), either of Elves or Orcs – NO BIOS NEEDED A player may control more than one should they wish.

Just let us know here on the discussion thread if you plan on playing one or several of these character types.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Envinyatar]

Here's my first post.

Pio, I've brought us just north of the Havens - the night before we find Malris' ship. Can you get us to the ship?

- E -

------------------------------------------------------

PLACED ON PROPOSAL ~*~ Pio

The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll.

Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food.

His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading.

It had not proved so.

And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made.

In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys.

‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound.

[piosenniel]

Will do, Envinyatar!

~*~ Pio

[Anguirel]

Brilliant stuff, Envinyatar...I hope to have lots of fun arguments...

[piosenniel]

My post is now on board.

~*~ Pio

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

*** PLACED ON GAME PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO ***

Name: Tasarënì

Age: 7221 years

Race: Noldorin Elf of Lothlorien

Gender: female

Weapons: twin blades, slender and slightly curved; perfectly balanced with black hilts. Silver dagger elaborately carved with vines on the hilt. Is adept with both longbow and staff, but prefers niether. Years before she carried her blades crossed on her back. These days she goes weaponless but for the dagger which she keeps tucked away.

Appearance: Tall and slender, Tasarënì has long golden hair that is usually partially braided to stay out of her eyes, but still falls to the middle of her back. She has pale skin that rarely flushes and shimmering grey eyes. Her favorite colors are blue and silver, and so usually she is clothed in flowing gowns in those colors. She wears a belt made to look like twining lengths of willow leaves. In days of battle, she was more likely to be found in men's garb, favoring knee-length tunics over loose breeches. Her armor was crimson, but is no longer around, having been cloven asunder during the Nirnaeth. She bears a long white scar along her left jaw bone.

Personality: Tasarënì is unsure of herself, though not in battle. She avoids large gatherings at all costs, preferring fireside chats with old friends. When she was young, her love of all things good and her mercy brought her to become cold to those who were too ambitious to recognize what was right. Her heart melted some when she once witnessed a handsome young Elf turn aside from a race to help the son of Fëanor. From that moment she loved him for she saw in that instant past his short temper and to the kindness in his heart.

Through the years, her heart has softened considerably until the only creatures who do not receive her unconditional love and mercy are the spawn of Melkor; those with no hope of salvation. To them, she is as cold as ice, and will slay them swiftly at need. Tasarënì is quick and intelligent, but saves her judgements, keeping counsel only with herself, and, in later Ages, with Galadriel.

History: As a maiden in the fairest lands about Tirion, Tasarënì has always had a fondness for beautiful things. Her heart was open and she was merciful, but could not bear to tolerate ambitious types who would ignore a call for help to achieve their own ends. She was cold to most people, until they won her respect, but ever after would she be kind and gentle with them. When she was young, Tasarënì witnessed Malris in a race and loved him. Her unsurity caused her to delay in informing him of this fact, and eventually she decided not to. However being the perceptive lad that he is, he figured it out and was sick at heart, for he knew that he could not return her love, and so allowed her to believe he was unaware. However they became fast friends regardless.

When Melkor stole the silmarilli, Tasa was absolutely devestated by the malice and the loss of such beauty. She could not stomach evil, and so when Fëanor called for war, her heart was kindled, and she joined him. When she learned that Malris rode as well, she was overjoyed.

Her heart, kind and merciful as it was, was torn between her love of the Valar and her hatred of Morgoth. During the Kinslaying, though she took part, she knew that it was wrong and wept, her tears mingling with the blood of the Teleri.

Through all battles, Tasa fought valiantly, believing it the greater evil to allow Morgoth's evil to spread than to destory it. Through this time, her friendship with Malris grew and at times they would meet in the midst of battle and smile to know each was there.

At the Nirnaeth, Tasa was grieviously wounded and was unable to fight again for a very long time. It was at this time that she met Galadriel and knew that her allegiance was torn. Though she loved Maedhros and would happily lay down her life for him, she loved the goodness and purity of Galadriel and at this time vowed that she would lay down her arms and become a handmaiden, if allowed. It was, and she did. Through the many long years, Malris and Tasa lost touch, but she never forgot that her heart belonged to him, and he never forgot that he could not accept it.



Shoot... the bell just rang. I have school until 11:30 and then work until 5:00, but after that I should have time to finish writing this up and editing it a bit. Like Estelyn says... better finished than perfect. I'll get this finished if it takes me a dozen edits!

[Anguirel]

Originally Posted by Feanor of the Peredhil

Her heart melted some when she once witnessed a handsome young Elf turn aside from a race to help the son of Fëanor. From that moment she loved him for she saw in that instant past his short temper and to the kindness in his heart. Sadly, seeing his love for Giledhel, and hers for him, Tasarënì never spoke of it.
[/i]

Allow me to lean forward in interest...

[Firefoot]

I promise, I'm working on my bio. I've just been busy.

I was thinking, though. Fea, since both of our characters are from Lothlórien, will they have travelled together? I'm open to either way, but I was curious to your thoughts on this.

[Anguirel]

By the way, can I cry mercy to all you Elves who are nicely kitted up with accents? Rendering them is beyond my computer, so if you don't mind I'll refer to you as, for example, Oremir. Is this alright?

[Envinyatar]

Oremir is fine.

I'm surprised, though, that the accent/diacritical marks don't work on your computer. They've worked on both my very old and then new PC. They also work on my laptop.

Have you tried the guide to making them found here? Do make sure the NUM LOCK light is on when you try it.

-E-

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

I was thinking, though. Fea, since both of our characters are from Lothlórien, will they have travelled together? I'm open to either way, but I was curious to your thoughts on this.

It's entirely up to you. I honestly hadn't given it thought yet, since I've been going nuts trying to get my bio complete. After this week, my life should slow down, but it's just a bit crazy right now (think huge project, prep for art show, art show, clean up after art show, work, work, work, work, chores, homework, huge project, and 8 poems a night read and analyzed for English).

I'm open to travelling together. Now, I'm going to finish typing my bio and start editing it.

[Firefoot]

*** PLACED ON GAME PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO ***

NAME: Lómwë

AGE: Born 1256, Age of Trees

RACE: Noldorin Elf of Lothlórien

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: His sword, Coruthel, is his weapon of choice. It is of Dwarvish make and was acquired soon after the Noldor returned to Beleriand. The scabbard is plain leather, bearing no devices. However, he has had little practical use for his sword of late, requiring more his bow, which is such as the Galadhrim use. He also carries a long knife, which is a useful tool if not always used as a weapon.

APPEARANCE: Tall, lithe but well-muscled. Black hair which he wears partially pulled back; it falls to just past his shoulders. Eyes are grey, with a blue tint; his gaze is keen. He has high cheekbones and a firm jaw line.

He wears a tunic of an unassuming-green shade with a belt of dark brown leather, and underneath this a shirt of chain mail. His breeches are earth-colored and his boots, also dark leather, extend to about mid-calf. He also wears one of the grey-green cloaks of Lórien.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lómwë suffers from a strange combination of longing for the glory of the Elder Days and regretting them, desiring both to remember and to forget. He has never been one to let go, and while he has adopted the customs of the Galadhrim, in many other ways he dwells largely on the past. He has never been overly friendly, though neither was he outright cold, and has put many people off by this; he has had few close relationships. He is more of a follower than a leader, but will readily make his own decisions. Though less impulsive than he had been in youth, he still maintains a quiet intenseness about him. He is proud, though not arrogant, and can be stubborn.

HISTORY: Born in the fair city of Tirion upon Túna, Lómwë spent much of his youth exploring the lands around the city. Though he loved the beautiful land of Valinor and the bliss of the light of the Trees, he eventually found that the trails and woods seemed too well-traveled and found himself to be more than a little curious about the lands beyond the sea: the realms of Beleriand, the great Mountains of Mist, Cuiviénen under the stars. He contented himself, however, desiring not to leave the fair land of his birth; that is, until the flight of the Noldor.

In the years following Melkor’s pardon, Lómwë was more of a passive spectator than a participant, though his father, a jewel-smith, received aid from Melkor numerous times. Lómwë was ever wary of these interactions, though he soon found he could little untangle the lies from the truths of Melkor. He respected Fëanor greatly, and when Fëanor called for the Noldor to follow him to Middle-earth, Lómwë followed gladly. He made some attempt to find his family first, but found them not. He later found out that they, too, were among the throng.

He was in the van of the host, and, still under the influence of Fëanor’s heated words, readily took part in the Kinslaying, an action he eventually came to regret. His sister, his only sibling, was killed in the Kinslaying, and partially because of this his parents afterwards followed Finarfin and forsook the march. Thus Lómwë was the only one of his kindred to land in Middle-earth.

During the battles of Beleriand he marched always in the vanguard. Once Fëanor fell, he immediately turned to Maedhros for leadership, of all Fëanor’s sons the one he found the best leader and most courageous. During the Long Peace he fell in love with and married a Green Elf of Ossiriand, Ellothiel. Also in this time they had a son, Aradol. Both wife and young son were killed during the Dagor Bragollach while Lómwë was away fighting.

After this Lómwë lost most of his taste for fighting, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he fought no more until the War of Wrath and dwelt for a time among the Green Elves, his wife’s kin. After the War of Wrath Lómwë found himself bereft and without purpose. He desired not to return to Valinor, in part for pride but mostly in hopes for finding someplace new and not filled with memories. He wandered about Middle-earth for a time, soon settling in with the Noldor under Galadriel’s leadership, who alone of the Elvish leaders remaining in Middle-earth had been present since the Unchaining of Melkor.

He did not fight in any battles of the Second and Third Ages save to defend Lórien. He assimilated himself into the culture of Lórien, caring little for outside affairs. He eventually wound up as a marchwarden. Though melded into the new ways, he felt deep longing for times as they were, for though there had been sorrow, there had also been valor, and courage, and glory. So when Malris’ summons had come, he accepted almost full-heartedly, the exception being the small part of him that wanted to let the past be past; it haunted him enough without searching it out.

[piosenniel]

Nicely done, Firefoot!

~*~ Pio

[Anguirel]

Well-matched to Tasareni, too, in that you both left after the Nirnaeth. And Malris will sympathise about your wife...

About accents; I'm on a laptop, and I can't seem to access any equivalent of the NumPad on a desktop. Hope it's not too irritating.

[piosenniel]

What sort of laptop do you have, Anguirel?

[Anguirel]

Ahm...does Acer answer that question? Or Windows XP Professional? Or some Mysterious Other Presence?

[piosenniel]

Let me explain how my laptop works: (it's a Dell)

On the keyboard there is an Alt key and next to it an Fn key in light blue. I don't have a separate number pad on my laptop like I do on my main PC. But there is one that functions off the main keys. (eg, M = 0, J = 1, etc. [there are faint light blue numbers on the particular keys])

By pressing the Fn and Alt keys at the same time, then holding them down while you punch in the code for the accented letters, you should be able to get the accented letters.

For ë it's hold down the Fn+Alt keys while punching 0235 - when you let go of the Fn+Alt keys, the accented letter appears.

Don't worry about it though - maybe your laptop simply doesn't have the capability