Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

The Three ~ A Prologue

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

In the Second Age of Middle-earth, deep within the heat of the forge, the rhyme was fulfilled. Sauron, under the disguise of one named Annatar, had come to the Elven-smiths, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of Eregion. Dark magic bred deception, and Sauron the Deceiver seduced the Elves, taking on a body fair and majestic. The might of a Maia and the skill of the elven craftsmen brought into the world a new power, a power which few knew the true greatness of. It is unlikely that even its creators knew its full power, besides perhaps the great trickster, the servant of Morgoth. Might and authority, fueled by deep magic from the dawn of time, was poured into the molds in the shapes of rings, and these creations, the greatest of crafts forged by the Noldorin smiths, became the Rings of Power.

The magic of all nineteen of these rings, and one other, would be a part of Sauron’s greatest treachery. Only three would survive and make the journey to Valinor with their bearers. These were the greatest of the Rings, named Narya, Nenya, and Vilya, which had been forged by Celebrimbor himself, Lord of Eregion.

~*~*~*~

c. SA 1590

“It has been quite some time since I saw Lord Celebrimbor…” The Elf trailed off, an unspoken question hanging on the silence that followed. “It has been some time for me as well, Master Annúnfin,” Maegisil replied, speaking as if he was only lightly commenting, but answering his companion quite seriously. He knew it was important business when Annúnfin wished to speak with the Lord Celebrimbor, and when the Elf-lord had been absent from his normal duties for so long. “I will be sure to inform him that you wish to speak with him, when I do see him,” he finished, his last words bringing many thoughts to his mind. When…I hope that shall not be much longer.

It was difficult for Maegisil to explain to all those who wished to receive an audience with the lord that he could not even speak to his master, and had not been able to for many days; this was unexpected, as Maegisil had served Celebrimbor as the lord’s attendant for many years now. Though Maegisil would never be so bold as to say it, he was also a close friend, and an old friend, of the lord.

Celebrimbor had been spending almost all of his time in the forge, sweating over his work, and conversing mostly with the visitor, Annatar. The strange elf – at least, Maegisil believed he was an elf; he was certainly of a fair race, though it was impossible to say which he belonged to for sure – seemed to be some sort of a magician. What business this elf had with the Lord of Eregion was a mystery to Maegisil, as well as to all those who had never even had a chance to speak to the lord before, and those who knew him well. It was bewildering to all except those who worked in the forge with Celebrimbor and this ‘Annatar’, some of the greatest of the Noldorin craftsmen, second only to Celebrimbor himself. For almost seven days now the forges at Ost-in-Edhil had been burning, it seemed, day and night, and had been kept off-limits to most of the city dwellers. Maegisil had ventured to speak to his lord the previous afternoon, and had briefly watched several of the smiths at work. There had been much noise emerging at a constant rate from the forge for those past 6 days, so that Maegisil had barely been able to hear his own voice over the clamor, but now all was quiet, and only the barred doors told anyone that they were still hard at work. Hopefully, though, the silence meant that their task, whatever it was, was nearing completion, and Maegisil would no longer have to wait in his Lord Celebrimbor’s antechamber, spending hours pacing and straightening gemmed statues and chests, and delicately woven tapestries on the walls, and rich cloths over table-tops…none of which needed any straightening whatsoever.

Annúnfin muttered some kind of thanks with a slight bow of his head in simple respect, and turned to go. But Maegisil watched as the elf turned back in one swift motion and looked him in the eye, and he prepared himself for more questions that he could not answer. He was surprised when Annúnfin simply said, “I was pleased to hear you have found yourself a wife, Maegisil.”

Maegisil stumbled on his thoughts for a moment, his mouth open to reply but words coming out. Finally his mind caught up with his mouth and he responded. “Thank you,” he began, a little uncertain, and obviously caught off-guard by Annúnfin’s comment. “It has been wonderful, very wonderful.”

A small smile formed on Annúnfin’s face, his eyes full of an understanding that Maegisil believed he would never have. Master Annúnfin was decidedly his elder, and never left any doubt of this in Maegisil’s impression. The elder elf turned to go again, and this time, Maegisil watched him walk away through the large gilded doors that exited into the great hallway that led up to his chambers. Maegisil’s mind traveled to thoughts of Sairien, his wife. But he did not have long to dwell on these, as they were interrupted by the flinging open of the doors of the antechamber. Immediately Maegisil looked up from the patch of beautifully tiled floor he had been staring at, knowing before his eyes even had a chance to see who was entering the chamber that only one person had ever flung those doors open before, and normally in excitement.

“Maegisil! My dear Maegisil!” Celebrimbor was practically shouting, seemingly frantic with excitement, full of energy, and obviously quite happy to see the elf that he had just found waiting in his antechamber. “I have much to tell you!”

“As have I to tell you, my lord,” Maegisil responded, maintaining an outwardly calm and dutiful appearance, though he was full of happiness to see that his lord was quite safe and healthy, and to finally be able to speak with him. He also felt a certain amount of excitement following Celebrimbor’s entrance, matching the elf-lord’s manner.

“Please, Maegisil, there is no necessity for any ‘my lord’s. These are my chambers, and so you may call me what you please.” Maegisil knew this, though he did like showing what he felt was the proper respect, and was prepared to respond, but he was ran over by Celebrimbor’s words, which rushed out in his enthusiasm.

“But you must know…I have finished them, and they are the greatest of all things I, or anyone, has ever crafted. Perhaps they are great enough even to relinquish my cursed House’s honor, though I doubt there is anything even an immortal can do in this Age or any Age to come that would out-do the power of the Oath of Fëanor.”

The lord paused long enough for Maegisil to speak quickly, “What have you finished, my lord?”

In his haste, he had forgotten to leave off the ‘my lord’, but it seemed that Celebrimbor no longer cared, as he was too deep in thought, seemingly enthralled with this new accomplishment that he spoke of vehemently. “Why, they are the Three. They are the greatest of the Rings of Power, of all 19. Yes, 19, after 90 years. And I fear there must be more to come. They truly are like nothing this world has known, even in Ages past, even with the War of the Silmarils long behind us. Of course, the creation of most of the rings was made possible by Annatar, and now…” He trailed off, his excitement slowly turning from confusion to what could only be fear. That was not something Maegisil was accustomed to seeing on the face and in the eyes of the elf-lord.

“Now what? I do not understand…” Maegisil trailed off, realizing that he really had nothing to say, though there were hundreds of questions running through his mind.

“Now, I am afraid I have made a grave mistake. A mistake that will affect the lives of many in both this Age and the Age to come, perhaps even Ages to come. I am very afraid, Maegisil, very afraid of what I, and my craftsmen, have done, and I am even more afraid of what the one I know only as Annatar has done, and what he will do. O by the Valar, Maegisil! For the first time in my life, I do not know what to do.”

Maegisil felt very uncertain in the silence that followed; he was confused, as well as uneasy and afraid, though he did not even understand why he was at all at unrest, except for what he saw in the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes and what he heard in the tone of his voice.

“What should I do, my lord?” he asked, cautiously, breaking the silence.

“I do not…” he stopped in the middle of this thought, took a breath, collecting himself, and started again, his thoughts renewed, “Soon, the Three must go from here. They must be hidden; they cannot be kept here. Though Annatar is gone, and he has been gone for some time, they mustn’t be within his reach. There is no way to undo what has been done, but, though they seem a curse to me now, the Three will not leave the house of our people.”

~*~*~*~

c. 1600

Maegisil bowed before the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn next to an elf he did not know the name of and their dwarf companions. He and this elf had traveled through Moria at the direction of the dwarves to exit through the eastern gate and make their way to Lorien, where they had recently been welcomed and led to Caras Galadon. Maegisil had been told very little by Celebrimbor, and was given only the instructions to guard his elf companion, and not bring any attention to themselves or their movements. Following orders, Maegisil did not ask the elf his name, and spoke to him only to make suggestions as to what paths they should take to avoid different obstacles of the land. Now that they had reached their destination, Maegisil did not speak at all.

The strange elf rose from his bow as the Lady Galadriel came forward. He turned to give Maegisil a look that clearly meant to stay out of his business. So Maegisil backed away to stand some distance from the elf, gesturing that the dwarves following him. Of course Viss Stonecut and his companions did not like this at all, and they grumbled a bit before joining Maegisil. Viss was the first to move, and the rest followed his lead. At least two of the dwarves present were certainly related to him, and younger, and obviously they held some kind of respect for him. There were only four dwarves, but even four of that race was enough to be quite the crowd, and they looked odd standing in a clump in the domain and presence of so many elves. Maegisil remained removed from them and watched in wonder as Galadriel accepted a small wooden chest from the unnamed elf. The Lady’s face was marvelously frightening as it scanned the faces of those who surrounded her, meeting Maegisil’s eyes for a moment. She did not smile as she had when she greeted them.

Suddenly she spoke, and spoke to all present. It seemed she was not as keen to hiding the proceedings. “Remember that there will always be light in Lorien, as I will bear this Ring, Nenya. You will always be safe here.” And as she raised her hand aloft just slightly, all present realized she had opened the chest and already donned what it contained. The beauty of Nenya startled them all, and left them full of wonder. Soon, far away upon the western shores of Middle-earth, the Elven-kings Gil-galad and Cirdan would wear the Rings Narya and Vilya, and the Three Rings for the Elven-kings, and Queen, would remain as powers of good in Middle-earth until they passed over into the West.

-------

-- by Durelin

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar's post

Early Autumn/Lindon -- SA 1695

It was late in the second day of the council. The sense of urgency had not diminished, nor had the anger. ‘The King counseled the fools,’ murmured Ondomirë to himself, his head shaking at the news that Morgoth’s captain, Sauron, had at last revealed himself. ‘Annatar, he called himself. Lord of Gifts! Pah! Even now the name brings a taste of soured bile to my tongue. Were they so eager for his knowledge that they forgot the hard lessons Fëanor brought upon us?’

Many, many years had passed since the tall, fair-faced Annatar had come to Lindon, offering to teach his skills to the Elves dwelling in the High King’s lands. He’d been sent away then by Gil-galad; his offers to show how Endor, Middle-earth, might be made as fair and lasting as Valinor rejected. Since then, it was told, he had insinuated himself into one of the Elven guilds in Eregion. Teaching them his glamoured skills. And now, dread Wolf that he was, he had pounced on his prey as it contrived to oppose him. His retribution would be swift and overwhelming. Death, and worse, would come to the Elves of Eregion, to their cities, their lands. Sauron’s armies would sweep west over the King’s lands until he and his dark army stood at the borders of Lindon itself.

‘And what does he seek, I wonder?’ asked Ondomirë to himself. ‘He and his Lord always hated the Elves. But reports from Ost-in-Edhil and from Lorien imply there is more than just the wish to subdue the Elven peoples. What have the Mirdain done . . . what has the House of Fëanor done now?’

Ondomirë sat back in his chair, his eyes on Gil-galad at the head of the table as he spoke with various of his trusted captains. He could see the beard of Cirdan as the Elf stroked it, teasing hard answers from it, it seemed, with the thoughtful movements of his fingers. The bright golden hair of Glorfindel gleamed in light thrown from the jeweled lamps. His head moving in ‘yays’ or ‘nays’ as they spoke. And Elrond, his dark grey eyes thoughtful, bent over the map of Eriador, as he traced a route from The Havens to The Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains.

A frown creased Ondomirë’s brow as he watched Cirdan and Glorfindel deferring to what Elrond was saying. The King, too, nodded his head and clapped Elrond on his shoulder. Ondomirë looked up as the King stood, announcing to the room in general now that troops would be sent to aid Celebrimbor and his people in Ost-in-Edhil. And that Lord Elrond would lead them.

‘Now that is an interesting move,’ commented Ondomirë, loud enough for the Elf to his left to hear him. ‘The King has passed over Cirdan and Glorfindel, both more seasoned than Elrond, and chosen the younger Elf to lead his troops for this battle. Why is that I wonder?’ Brows raised, he glanced at the Elf who was now listening to his out-loud ponderings. In the meantime, the King had called for volunteers to lead the various divisions of Elves he would be sending.

His eyes narrowing as he wondered at Gil-galad’s choice, Ondomirë stood, saying he would gather and captain the archers if it were so wished. ‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

[piosenniel]

Orofaniel's post

‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

"Ondomirë, you know better, age and wisdom are not automatically connected," Geldion said under his breath, smiling at the elf, who had just gotten up from his seat to volunteer to lead the archers in the upcoming battle.

It was Geldion turn to get up. "My friend here Ondomire," Geldion started, looking back at the elf, "has just volunteered to lead one of the division," Geldion then said. "Aye, it will be the archers," Ondomirë confirmed. "It would be my honour, my King, if I could lead the division with the swordsmen," Geldion said.

The King looked at him. He didn't look surprised, but curious, or even - in wonder. Why would he volunteer for that, an elf who had not experience whatsoever with leading any force or sort of armies at all? "I know what The King must be thinking. I have not leaded any divisions before. I am merely a humble advisor. I am nevertheless, a warrior as well. I'm highly skilled with the sword, and therefore I would be honoured if the King would grant me the division of swordsmen,” Geldion finished. But just as the words and sentences had slipped from his tongue, he felt as though if he regretted it; this was no place for him. He was not able to lead soldiers into war. It didn’t suit him. He couldn’t do it; he was after all just an advisor. Tactics and strategies was his main field. He was however, a good warrior in combats. He admitted not to be as talented with the spears as with as swords though.

His thoughts circulated for a few seconds, before he opened his mouth again; “It is a task of great responsibility and it is perhaps too much for me to undertake at this point. Thus, I understand if the council wishes me to withdraw and come as a soldier only. Either way, I will do as you command, my King." He straightened his back, not looking the King in the eyes. He found himself trying to avoid the eyes of the elves present at the meeting.

The elves said naught for a couple of moments. All seemed to be in deep thought. Elrond had turned away from the map, and was now looking at Gil -Galad

"I think it only fair that you shall be the captain of the swordsmen," and elf said, but not clear or loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Indeed," another elf whispered. "You have served me well over the years," the King said. "You shall therefore lead the swordsman, but remember not only to use your skills when in battle, but also when preparing for it. You shall go not only as a Captain, but also as an advisor. Remember that," Gil-Galad said quietly. A feeling of great sensation of joy and relief reached Geldion's body and mind as the King spoke. Maybe he had been too critical towards his own abilities. Perhaps he was the right man for this task after all. The king, the man Geldion respected the most, showed confidence in him by giving him the swordsmen division, and thus Geldion promised himself not to fail or be defeated.

"Thank you, my King. I will not fail," he said and thanked the elves altogether, as he bowed. "Let us hope so," Ondomirë said, smiling at him as Geldion seated again.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Late in the year SA 1695

Maegisil rushed up several flights of stairs only to stop and cautiously enter a pair of gilded doors, his mind filled with memories, all that he recalled from a day over a century ago. It did not seem that long ago, and yet the thought that the day he recalled was only several days after he had asked for his Sairien’s hand in marriage was nearly unbelievable.

Entering the chamber behind the gilded double doors, Maegisil found, of course, exactly whom he was looking for, reclining on a long couch and examining a game board with many small, flat, rounded stone pieces on it in designated positions. It was some kind of strategy game that the elf-lord had once tried to teach to Maegisil, praising how consuming it was and how much it put the mind in a struggle, forcing it to think as quickly as it could under pressure. Just what a general needed, he had said. As Maegisil had no interest in becoming a general, and simply wished to remain in his place at Celebrimbor’s side in battle, he had quickly given up on the game.

“My lord,” he began cautiously, interrupting Celebrimbor’s thoughts so that the lord’s head snapped up from the game board with a perturbed look on his face. His face softened quickly, though, and he asked Maegisil what had brought him here.

“Well, sir, we have received word from the King Gil-galad that the servant of Morgoth, Sauron, has grown in power enough that his armies have begun to terrorize the eastern part of these lands.”

“Sauron…much have I heard that name of late.” The elf-lord rose, a troubled look on his face, and began to pace. “He has even been in my dreams,” he paused in his pacing, and in his words, to look Maegisil in the eye, urgency written upon his face.

“It was only a matter of time before he would attack and strike back at our people.”

“But we still are in possession of the Three, and they are safe.” Maegisil cut in, reminding the elf-lord that there was at least one possible advantage.

“I can only hope that they will be more a blessing than the curse that they seem to be,” Celebrimbor quickly said in response to Maegisil’s statement, still unsure of whether or not the safe existence of the Three was in fact a good thing.

“They are not a curse as long as they are safe in the hands of Kings and a Queen of our people," the younger elf assured his lord. “And Lord Elrond has been sent to our aid with a considerable force,” Maegisil said, hoping to bring some kind of relief to his lord, uncertain of what the elf was so afraid of, and quickly growing afraid himself.

“It will be some time before he will reach us here, and Sauron will be moving quickly. Not too quickly – he is too wise for that. But his armies will arrive in Eregion, and they will march upon the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, and he will call upon me. But he does not know where the Three are, nor of the oath I have sworn…”

“We will be prepared for Sauron’s attack, my lord," Maegisil said, again trying to give his lord confidence in the situation. “Sauron is very strong, and our strength here does not match that of Forlindon and Harlindon, but there are many in Eregion that will fight for you.”

Celebrimbor laughed slightly, leaving Maegisil confused. It was almost a bitter laugh, and was the kind of laugh you hear from someone who is distressed and yet finds something to be darkly laughable. “I know you will fight for me, Maegisil,” the elf-lord said, “but I ask it of you and others to fight for our people, for their families.”

Maegisil only nodded, standing grave and silent before his lord, and recalling the day over century ago when Celebrimbor had first told him of the Rings. He was again afraid as he had been on that day, and when he looked at Celebrimbor, tall, fair, and brooding, he knew that the lord felt that same: afraid and uncertain. The biggest difference to Maegisil this time was the more prominent presence of Sauron. Since around the year 1200 of that age, word had it Sauron had been establishing his fortress in Mordor, and now the threat of the Dark Lord was even more of a reality, and all were learning to tremble slightly at that name, most likely to the pleasure of its bearer.

Celebrimbor asked Maegisil if he would bring the King’s emissary to him, feeling it of course proper that he receive them and speak to them himself. The younger elf quickly obeyed and left the elf-lord alone, deep in thought. The master of the Elvensmiths had much on his mind, and few of his thoughts were pleasant.

As he had sworn, the Three Rings, the greatest creations he had ever crafted, which he had hoped would be a blessing to himself and to his people, would never fall out of the hands of the Eldar, as they were hidden safely. They had been for close to a century, as he had long awaited the time when Sauron the Deceiver, or ‘Annatar’ as he had known him for a time, would strike with the power of his Ring. But the other rings were all in Sauron’s possession. Celebrimbor kept coming back to this thought, the knowledge of just how far the Deceiver’s power extended. But, as the elf-lord kept telling himself, he would never have the greatest, the Three. They would be a powerful defense for his people. Or so, at least, he hoped the future of these rings would unfold. I beg of Ilúvatar, let not the Oath of Fëanor mar this.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer's post

Seated gracefully on the banks of the river, Ost-in-Edhil spread it’s elegant almost lotus-shaped leaves out over the River Glanduin. Bordered on one side by mountains and surrounded by rivers on all others – the Glanduin and smaller Siranon, glancing off the larger river, the tributaries of Nin-in-Eilph, and the majestic Mitheithel – it sat harmlessly in the South of Eregion. In the capital of the ‘holly region’, all was hustle and bustle as always: the year was drawing on yet above the heads of the elven inhabitants the holly leaves still swung gently in the winds, and the sound of the elvensmiths in their forges, always, always sang out among their evergreen leaves. From a birdseye view, little could the eagles that circled regally overhead have guessed what busy little bees had been working on inside those forges – and what evil their creations would bring from over the mountains of Mordor…

As Maegisil was rushing hastily down the stairs of Celebrimbor’s regal dwelling from his master’s rooms on his master’s errand, one of the Lord of Eregion’s other advisors was also working hard, but far away from the finery of Celebrimbor’s rooms, where her lordship played games of strategy. Hers was another type of work indeed: the work that Ost-in-Edhil’s Mirdain were famous for.

The clang of Nerisiel’s hammer rang out again and again on the anvil, the flat-ended instrument chiming out almost musically. The elf took careful aim each time before she clashed iron against steel, but the force with which she smashed down her tool seemed to convey anger more than anything else. Eventually, her pale face glinting in the firelight of the forge, the elvensmith set her hammer down, with a pair of tongs, lifted the object of her attentions from the anvil; and after close inspection, she nodded slightly, her delicate features satisfied, and took the item over to her workbench. Setting the article – a new sword blade – carefully down on the bench, Nerisiel seated herself beside it, her feet curling up around the chair leg in an almost lady like manner that was somewhat contradicted by the loose, dark workman’s trousers that they were clad in, overlaid with the shin-length leather apron common to working smiths. Not that any who came to see the Master Smith would have commented on it – or not out loud anyway. After all, in Ost-in-Edhil, female smiths were not entirely uncommon – but for one to reach her standard of craftsmanship: that was.

Humming softly to herself, the elf studied the blade she had made closely, holding it almost delicately in the tongs although it had now cooled sufficiently to be touched. It was a commissioned blade from one of her husband’s colleagues, a Captain in Eregion’s army, as a gift for his son, and would therefore be rather more ornamental before she had finished with it. After all, her own blade, which hung proudly over her forge as an example of her work, was testimony to the fact that simply because a weapon is a tool of violence, it cannot also be a thing of beauty – and having known the boy to whom the sword would be bestowed since be was a small child no more than about ten summers, she intended to make this article just such. Nothing less would do for Nerisiel, for she was after all a jewel smith above all else. A profession which had come back recently to haunt her… The elf pursed her lips grimly and turned back to the task in hand. Yes, the blade would have to take another heating before the engravings that she planned were carved on it, but not too much: she could begin them today, it was not too late in the day…

“Who is that for?”

The voice came from the entrance to the forge and was one so familiar to the smith that it did not make her jump but instead prompted a smile on her pretty features. She turned, smiling, to face the young elf who leant with his arms nonchalantly crossed against the door post of her workshop, the leaves of the holly that was trained around her doorway lightly brushing hair as dark as his own. Her finest work of art: her son.

“It is for a friend of yours actually, Artamir – Leneslath, Captain Rimborien’s son. A gift from his parents, a reward for his recent promotion?” Artamir nodded, coming slowly forward into the dim of the forge, the light glinting mischievously in his eyes, lighter than those of his mother, as he examined the blade from behind his mother’s shoulder. She turned to watch her son proudly: he would be fifty summers this year and had truly grown into a beautiful young man, a son who both she and her husband were proud of.

Artamir smiled at his mother, stepping back slightly, and then nodded towards the beginnings of a hilt that lay further down the bench. “For the same?” When his mother nodded, Artamir raised his eyebrows. “Silver? Will you be using rubies with it?”

She smiled and shook her head. Although he was bound to be a soldier, as his father was, she was glad that her son nonetheless did not dismiss his mother’s art and had come to appreciate her craft – even to the point of knowing some of her designs. “Emerald. His previous sword was made of the same, Rimborien informs me, and besides, they will suit his nature more: he is a far less fierce young man than yourself, Artamir!” she chided teasingly.

“And where did I get such a trait, I wonder, mother? Not from my father I think…” the younger elf grinned and raised a sardonic eyebrow at his mother. “Am I then to have rubies?”

Nerisiel kept a straight face as she replied, “What makes you think you shall receive such gems in your sword, my son? Why, I had intended simply a plain design for you – nay, in fact, your current training sword shall do just fine, I shall model my design on that!” she teased, referring to the sword that Artamir used for sword training, a plain, blockish instrument that the smith’s trained elf regarded critically as the bare essentials – that is, it had a blade, a hilt, and not much else. Her son’s eyes widened – he still had the innocence of youth enough to be surprised – then he put on a mock sad face. “As you wish, mother…”

Nerisiel laughed and embraced her son fondly before sending him on his way out of her workshop – he had come by on his way home from training with a few of his friends, and he proudly informed her that Rimborien’s son – a boy no few years older than himself – had complimented him on his style. Nerisiel smiled at the doorway that her son had just left. Style, they said? And style his gift would most certainly have, once his coming of age was reached next summer – as Sirithlonnior, his father, would certainly have been able to tell him, had Nerisiel not sworn him to secrecy, for a light came into her eyes whenever she spoke of the sword’s details. The blade she made as her son’s first sword would be one of her finest weaponry creations yet…

Her finest creations yet…

Nerisiel sighed heavily and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of one hand. The thought of those rings, those finest of all pieces ever created, and her part in their making had returned more and more often to her mind of late. Pushing away the sword blade she had been working on, the smith walked across her workshop and stepped out into the street outside to behold the view from the city walls. Although she had the privilege to work for and with Celebrimbor in the innermost forges, she had not wishes to give up her own workshop at the East side of the city, for the memories it had of her earliest days with her mentor, and for the view it held over the Sirannon and the mountains to the East. Maybe this siting was no longer such an advantage: every day, Nerisiel was reminded of the darkness that was growing in the East, over those mountains in Mordor…

Sighing, the elvensmith returned to her desk and, after a slight hesitation, she put aside the soft cloth that she had her hand on with a mind to wrapping it up. No: she had people to see but what use would it be to brood on the dark thoughts on her mind? After all, Leneslath’s blade would not get done itself… Picking up the tongs again and resuming her humming as she tried to lighten her heart, Nerisiel returned to her forge to heat the blade – the engraving would be next. As her humming continued, the elvensmith’s heart lifted as she turned once again to the business in hand – weaponry, rather than those three, beautiful pieces of jewellery…

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's post

Cainenyo’s hammer struck a glowing rod of iron, casting sparks across his forge. He was as happy as could be while working; there was little he loved more than to create something usable out of what previously wasn’t. Cainenyo turned the long rod of iron over with tongs, and struck it some more, creating a shower of sparks. He plunged the rod in a bucket of water, throwing steam up into the air. After heating the rod to a warm glow in the furnace, set into the wall and where he heated his iron to make it malleable, he resumed striking the iron on the anvil, gradually forming a distinguishable shape out of it.

Cainenyo’s forge was open to the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, separated by only a few arches and two steps downwards. People could come and go as they pleased, purchasing wares and asking for specific items to be made. The forge itself was focused around the anvil, like the centerpiece of a table set for a feast. Cainenyo’s wares were spread about his forge. They lay displayed on tables and hanging to the walls, examples of the blacksmith’s skill. Cainenyo made things to beautify or serve a purpose in the home: trellises, small slender tables, candelabras, braziers, and elegant grills to cap drainage pipes. But Cainenyo could also make knives, swords, armor, arrowheads, spearheads, and other less domestic goods. Cainenyo, as an expert in iron, was not limited to what he could make.

Cainenyo continued to beat his rod of iron, manipulating it with heavy black tongs and crafting it into a delicate shape, resembling a long blade of grass. He was creating a knife, one to be used in self-defense against an attacker. He plunged it into his bucket of water and held it firmly in his hand, swinging it about for a moment and testing it against an imaginary orc. Cainenyo found the knife to be suitable, and placed it in an old chest near the furnace. He would perform the finishing touches tomorrow. The sun was beginning to set and he decided to finish for the day and enter the house to see his wife, Alassante.

Cainenyo wiped his gloves on his leather apron. Removing the gloves, he noticed a tall figure standing in one of the archways. It was his son, Arenwino, who was apprenticed to a silver-smith across the city. Arenwino was not quite as tall as his father, but more slender, with the wavy dark hair of his mother. He wore the gloves and apron of a silversmilth, and hoped to work with the Mírdain when his apprenticeship was finished.

“You’re back. How did today go?” Cainenyo asked his son.

“It was fine. Today Celebdur taught me more about making molds and such. We made some rings for an engaged couple.” Arenwino said, descending the steps into the forge. He looked about the strewn instruments and noticed the flaming furnace and asked, “Were you making something?”

“Yes, a knife.” Cainenyo answered, “There have been a lot more requests for weaponry these days.” He continued after a short pause, “That reminds me. I have a gift for you.”

Arenwino waited in anticipation as Cainenyo moved to a table to the side of his anvil. There he delicately picked up a long sword. Arenwino stood closer, gazing at the long, curved blade. The flames of the furnace danced on its smooth surface. It was handed to Arenwino, who held it admiringly.

“Thank you, Father,” he spoke, “But what is the occasion? I don’t deserve a sword like this one.”

“Well, there is no occasion, as of now,” Cainenyo answered, “But there may be. I hear of orcs harassing the edges of Eregion, and I don’t want my son to be caught without defense if he happens to be traveling abroad and is ambushed. And besides, who knows how far the orcs might come. What if they attack the city?”

“But surely they won’t. We have soldiers aplenty, and why would they attack Ost-in-Edhil?”

Cainenyo picked up the bucket of water. “Well, I’ve heard that that Annatar, who helped Celebrimbor create those rings, has turned against him. He’s sending orcs against us, or so I’ve heard from the refugees entering the city each day.” He doused the flames of the furnace, sending steam everywhere.

“Will you be asked to fight?” Arenwino looked concerned. The sun was now setting.

“I doubt that. I’m more useful staying here and making weapons and armor than going off to battle. But don’t worry. If I am asked to fight I’ve already made armor for myself and I have a sword. It’s getting late; let’s go inside.”

Cainenyo hung his apron on a peg by the door that led into his home and put away what tools were left laying about. They entered the home’s courtyard through an arched doorway. The courtyard was a small space mostly taken up by a square pool for collecting rainwater and a few bushes of fragrant flowers. They were greeted by Alassante, Cainenyo’s wife and Arenwino’s mother. She was pregnant, and the new child was due in four more months. Alassante’s wavy brown hair fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the open doorway. She wore a light, simple dress, comfortable and loose. She kissed both her son and husband, and led them towards the entrance to the house.

Then Alassante noticed the sword in Arenwino’s hands. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Father gave it to me,” said Arenwino, “He told me that orcs were crawling all over the edges of Eregion, and that refugees are coming to the city. He said that the orcs might come here, too, and that I shouldn’t be unarmed. Isn’t that true, Father?”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Cainenyo said, and his wife frowned at him as they entered the house. Arenwino smiled, despite the future’s uncertainty.

[piosenniel]

Esgallhugwen's post

Fëaglin's hammer made a sharp tinging sound as it struck the silver, flattening it into a wide band. He then took a small pair of pliers and twisted the metal to his desired effect, plaiting it along with two other strands in an intricate fashion of spirals and curves, similar to the delicate knotwork of vines.

He laughed heartily as he finished his commisioned task, a spiraling necklace for a bride to be, and nine circlets for the maids in waiting. A fellow silver-smith across the street with a bright young apprentice had made two beautiful rings for the couple. Fëaglin had been close to the furnace all day, so it was no suprise that he thought he deserved a nip of fresh air along with a nip of some fine wine.

The lean Elf cleared his work area, and set the finished silver pieces along a long table made viewable through a window so that others may admire his work, and be inspired to commision or buy some of his pre-crafted vendibles. The sun was setting as he locked up his shop for the night, and made his way into his house, just spacious enough for himself and one other. He shook the stiffness from his fingers.

But there was no other, not yet at any rate and at times Fëaglin grew heart sick in the dark of his room playing with the silver trinkets he had fashioned in his spare time in his forge. One in particular was special to him, a device of curious beauty.

Many loops of silver were strung together with subtle gems interlaced in the finery, and when one would push the outer most ring the others were set into motion, revolving around one another in a dizzying harmony. And if the light of the setting sun were to hit the gems just right an efflorescence of watery colour would sweep across the vaulted ceiling.

He had not revealed this creation to anyone, this creation of his helped to sooth his troubled thoughts and helped to clear his mind. Fëaglin was not blind to the encroaching darkness nor was he insensitive to the greater weight it was now pushing onto his Kin, threatening their very way of life.

Rumours had come of orcs along the borders and of Eregion's impending doom, but also the rumoured hope that help would arrive before all came to naught. Fëaglin hoped with all his will that that were true.

His grey eyes gazed steadily at the sword and bow hanging from the far wall, a growing knowledge came to him that they would have to be used before the end. He stood and walked down into the cellar picking a glass and small bottle of home made wine.

He made his was into the well kept courtyard and uncorked the bottle with the intention to finish it before he crept into bed under the starry sky. His head would be clearer in the morning.

[piosenniel]

Nurumaiel's post

Erinlaer touched a few strings on her harp and the beginning of a haunting tune drifted to her ears. Her eyes brightened keenly, and then softened and gazed absently off into the distance. She kicked her feet very gently back and forth, but aside from that she was motionless. In every respect she seemed to be entirely in another world, one that held nothing but the music she played.

A tall, smiling Elf entered the room and looked fondly at her. She did not even notice him, so he sat down to watch her. Very softly she began to hum, and then she sprang lightly to her feet and began to dance about the room in a very sweet, childlike way. It was not until she tripped on his foot that she became aware of his presence. Her face lit up and she laughed rather shamefacedly.

"I didn't see you, Heledharm," she said simply.

"I came to tell you that your mother intends to visit us," he said. "Your father, too, but this evening. He wants to hear you play and sing."

"And I wish the same of him," she said. "We shall have to play and sing together." She ran her fingers lightly over the well-crafted wood of her harp and smiled gently. "I still have much to learn from him," she said gravely. "He can decide what tune he would like to play and then play it. I can merely play according to what is in my heart and mind. I should learn to govern my music better."

"No, no!" cried Heledharm. "Play as you always have."

A radiant smile swept over her features. "Very well!" she said. "If you wish it."

He could not explain to her how much her music touched him. The quietness or the swell of her emotions translating easily into melody was, he felt, a rare gift, and he would not want her to unlearn it. The light, merry tunes as she skipped happily here and there... the tears that were spilled in music... and the times when she would sit by his side, playing a melody of peace and contentment, that turned to a sweet unswaying love when her eyes fixed on him. He would not have her unlearn that.

"When is mother coming?" she asked, setting her harp down upon the table. "I should be sure that everything is neat and well-ordered before she arrives." She bent down and inspected severely a little stain on the floor. "I fear very much that I've neglected the house these past few days," she said with a sigh. "I hope you have not been bothered much by it." She looked regretfully into his face, and then began to dance from the room. "Never mind!" she said. "In a few minutes everything will be set proper. Mother shan't find fault when she arrives."

And not too long after there was not much fault to be found, for she had danced hither and thither and, though she had gazed several times longingly at her harp, she had set her face grimly and dutifully cleaned house. And once again she was sitting atop the table, singing light and merry.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's Post

Losrian passed her mentor's son as she left the workshops; she had given a swift smile in acknowledgment but although they were almost the same age (indeed Losrian was the elder by a few months), Artamir had the confidence of his rank that made her feel a lot younger, even though he always treated his mother's apprentice with the greatest courtesy.

She did not go directly back home, she had her bow with her and there was just enough light to go to the buttes for a while first. Nearly five years into her apprenticeship she was still a beginner as Elves rate such things, and with conflict threatening her skill, such as it was has been directed into the consumables of wars. However she was not downcast by her task - she knew that it would be long before she had the skill for sword smithing, and her interest in archery, and a knowledge of wood learnt from her father and brother meant that making arrowheads had a certain fascination. Her trip to the archery practice grounds was to test different designs.

She fitted an arrow and drew it back to anchor point, grey eyes focussed on the target though it was the flight of the arrow that interested her as she released the string.

"That bow is too short for you now, Lossie" said a familiar voice. Losrian did not need to turn in order to know her brother, Ferin, stood behind her. It would have been risking the next arrow through the throat for anyone else to address her thus...

"Indeed, but in current times, I doubt it will be the bowyer's priority to make a bow to fit the stature of a humble apprentice - and if you come to rebuke me, I will be home to scub floors or whatever in a few minutes". Their last private conversation had involved a thinly veiled "suggestion" that Losrian should shoulder more of the household duties to spare her pregnant sister-in-law, Laswen.

"That was not my purpose", he sighed, "I saw you by chance and thought we might walk home together- though we will all have to do more and make sacrifices unless things turn for the better unexpectedly. Those who dwell in the out lands will seek refuge in the city.... You should have stayed in Lindon, you would have been safer there".

"I do not regret my choice, for I have learned more in five years here than I would have learnt in fifty anywhere else - but here, fifty years would not be enough to learn all they might teach me ....."

"Enough, enough.... how anyone can prefer shaping metal to wood is beyond the understanding of a mere carpenter - and I do not want it explained! Let us get home and eat - and find you a floor to scrub since you seem to have your heart set on the task."

As it happened she was spared it, for once they had eaten, she had exchanged a task she hated for one she did not mind. While Laswen took over stitching the dress she was to wear at the feast to mark her fiftieth birthday shortly (her uncommon winter birthday was as much a reason for her name as her pale colouring), Losrian kneaded the bread, singing softly as she did so. She soon finished her task and offered half heartedly to take back the stitching since in Laswen's expert hands more progress had been made in an hour than had been made in many weeks, and it now looked like something that would in time become a dress rather than a random bundle of fabric, ..."unless, there is something else I can do while you sew ? " Losrian added hopefully.

"All is done for today, but I am happy to sew ..." said Laswen, and the pile of tiny garments already awaiting the birth of her child in the spring were a testament to this .."however it would give me joy if you were to fetch your lute and play while I did so since, I fear there will be little enough to sing about in the days to come.

Privately, Losrian agreed with her, and doubted that any would be in the mood for celebration when her birthday arrived. While she would be pleased by the result, hating as she did to be the focus of attention, the cause scared her as much as anyone, and so she did as she was bid and fetched her lute - a parting gift from her parents - and returned to play the simple songs she had learnt as a child, ignoring for that time the many that told of sorrow and war.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel's post

. . . The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day . . .

Supper, taken late as was the Stonecut custom, was done. The trenchers, already carried to the kitchen, clanked together in the soapy water as Unna washed and rinsed them, and piled them on the counter to her left to dry. Her back was to the oaken table across the length of the stone floor. And she smiled as she heard the off-key bass of her husband’s singing voice rise up to sing a verse of the song.

‘Fairer yet,’ she chuckled as she took up her dishtowel and dried the spoons, ‘if the notes in this part of Khazad-dûm were more harmonious!’

‘I heard that, woman!’ cried Riv, breaking off mid note. His scowl was short-lived as she laughed aloud, her voice ringing within the tall-ceilinged room.

‘Well, I think you have a nice voice, Papi,’ chirped Leifr, coming to sit on his father’s lap. He twirled his fingers round Riv’s braided beard, leaning against him with a contented sigh. ‘Grandma says you sing just like your father did.’

Riv’s chest puffed out at the compliment and was promptly deflated by Unna’s laughter as she recalled to him that the old woman had also said she was certain that Durin was called ‘the Deathless’ because her husband’s bellowed verses could raise the dead from their thick stone tombs.

An hour or so more of friendly, familiar banter, accompanied by the sound of Bror’s harp and interspersed with more singing, came finally to its end. Leifr was yawning by then, barely able to keep his eyes open. Riv picked up the boy where he lay half drowsing on a bear pelt near the fire and carried him off to the deeper caverns where Unna and the other Dwarven women with their children stayed.

The lamps were turned low along the hallways; the lamp swinging from Unna’s hand as she walked beside her husband cast odd moving shadows along the carven stone walls. Her face was wistful as they reached her apartments. Laying Leifr down gently on his little bed, Riv drew the quilts up over his son’s shoulders and brushed a stray hair back from his little face. ‘Mahal keep you!’ he whispered to the sleeping form. He stood then, and took his wife gently into his arms. ‘When this is over . . .’ he said softly, his cheek against the top of her head. She pulled back and laid her first two fingers against his lips. Her glittering eyes held hope and patience within their deep, dark pools. ‘We will wait,’ she promised him, ‘whether the time be short or long.’

She urged him gently toward the door. ‘You must go. Your brothers and Uncle await. There is news to be shared among you. Reports and rumors of goings on in the upper caverns come to us. We know a messenger has come from the Elven smiths. And that an escort is needed for the Elves who will come from the east, sent by the Lady of the Golden Wood. Since your father was often among the Lorinand, bringing them jewels and metals as they needed, I thought that surely you and your brothers would be the ones to fetch them from the Dimrill Stair and bring them through the East-gate.’

He nodded it was so. Smothering her with a last great hug, he turned reluctantly from her and made his way back to his dwelling. Skald and Bror were waiting at the table where he had left them. Their voices were low as they sipped at their mugs of ale, discussing, he was sure, the preparations for the thirty mile journey to the East-gate and the wait for the Elves of Lorien. Orin, their Uncle, had arrived, too, he saw.

‘Well, what have I missed?’ Riv said, fetching a mug for himself from the cupboard. He topped off theirs and filled his from the skin of ale that hung from the peg on the wall. ‘We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way up along the Celebrant and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

[piosenniel]

Boromir88's post

Orin was well aware of the rumor of the gathering of orcs, but he was not prepared on leaving, and had no intentions to. He sat fiddling with his double-bladed battleaxe wondering what this meeting was going to be about. Most of colony had heard the whispering of threats from orcs and other dark creatures. Perhaps it is just to confirm the situation, he thought.

While Orin was deep in thought he had not noticed that he cut his thumb on his axe. He smiled as he was pleased it was still sharp and if the rumors of orcs were true they aren't getting through Moria without a fight. Then it suddenly came to him, a poking pain in his thumb. It wasn't a serious cut, but it felt like one of those annoying papercuts; a sharp pain for days.

Orin cleaned up his cut, grimacing a bit while doing it, and decided he should be heading off. When he got there his two younger nephews, Skald and Bror, were already there, but he had not seen Riv yet. That is odd he mumbled. He greeted his two nephews with friendly hugs and went off to sit with some of the older dwarves. He wanted to see what they knew about the matter. Most of them knew just as much, or less than Orin, which wasn't much. He ran into an old friend, Fawrin, who was full of the latest rumors.

"They say a man named Annatar, who was once a friend of the elves, has turned against them." Fawrin began. "He is beginning to gathering a large force of orcs to launch an assault on Eregion."

Orin stood and pondered these "rumors," and wondered if there was any truth in them at all. "Who was, or is, this Annatar?" Orin asked.

"I don't know. All that's said is he was once a friend of the elves. Why he would all of a suddenly want to attack them is beyond me." Fawrin said.

"If he is attacking them, you mean." Orin chuckled. "Don't put faith in the whispering of the outside world. Especially if they are dealing with elves." Orin said elves in a sarcastic, demeaning way, for he did not like them very much. Except the elves of the lady of the Golden Wood. Her and her people had often had good relationships with the dwarves. Now that his mind was off elves, he still wondered where Riv was. "Have you seen Riv?" He asked Fawrin.

"No I haven't," he answered. "but I haven't gone looking for him either." They both laughed. "Well I better be off. Someone has to do the rumor spreading." Orin chuckled again as Fawrin left. He had always like Fawrin for his humor and ability to bring a smile to someone.

Orin sat down next to Bror and Skald and began to discuss the situation. Orin began to realize that the rumors weren't just rumors anymore; war was threatening and it would surely effect everyone.

"How have I been in the dark for so long?" Orin said to himself, but the others heard him.

"Because you're always locked up in your room working on who knows what." Laughed a familiar voice. Riv had finally come. He greeted everyone and took a seat, as well as getting a mug of ale, and got right into business.

‘Well, what have I missed? We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

"Yesssss." Orin shouted in a bellowsing voice that shook the hall. The mumblings of war and Riv's talk had inspired him.

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post

Bror sat silently, plucking with less heart at his harp as he watched Riv take his wife and son away. They passed from the room out of sight and he sighed and tilted his head a little towards the smooth wood of his instrument. He lifted a second hand and once again the chords sang sweetly, though somewhat sadly.

“I wish they didn’t have to go back there every night. We hardly see them anymore,” he said quietly. A hand clapped him on the back and he looked up over his shoulder at Skald, his older brother.

“Cheer up and put the harp away, we’ve got business to discuss.”

Bror got up from the table and took his harp away a few paces and set it on a chair, possibly to be picked up later. He returned and took his seat again as Skald rose and gathered mugs and a skin of ale to wet their throats while they talked.

He had just sat down again when their Uncle Orin entered. A smile came into Bror’s face and he got up again.

“Good evening, Uncle!” he said. “Take that chair, and I’ll get another...How are you?”

The general formalities were swiftly dealt with and for a minute, the three of them sat together in silence. Bror could not stand that for long. What they had to talk about had to do with orcs, and of all creatures, he thought he hated those the most.

“What do you know of this business, Uncle?” he asked, turning to Orin. “I don’t know how much you have heard.”


“I know no more than the little I have heard from gossip,” Orin replied.

“That’s probably not very much, since there is little known,” Bror said. “All that I’ve been told, and I hope that I hear more tonight,” he added casting a glance towards Skald, “is that a company of dwarves are needed at the East Gate to escort a number of elves through Kazad. War’s brewing, evidently, and though we’ve only heard whispers of it, they are getting louder and the rumors are taking shape into ravenous villains who need slaughtering. It’s rather serious, by all accounts.”

Orin lowered his head towards his mug and Bror and Skald both turned their ears towards him to catch the words he muttered to his ale.

“How have I been in the dark for so long?”

“Because you’re always locked up in your room working on who knows what!”

The three dwarves at the table turned quickly to see Riv walking towards them. He gave them a smile as he passed and got himself another mug from the cupboard and a second skin of ale. He came back to the table and pulled a chair up next to Orin, filled their mugs and then his own, held it between his two hands and looked at them seriously.

“Well, what have I missed?” he asked immediately. “We’re taking a full complement of weapons...yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.” A pause while he took a deep drink of his ale. “There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.” He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top almost violently and Bror started slightly. “Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures,” he said, giving his youngest brother a grim smile.

“Yesssss!” Orin exclaimed with evident excitement and obvious agreement. Bror shifted his eyes from his brother to his uncle.

“So, this is more serious than I imagined. I had no idea you all hated those orcs as much as I did. You were always the ones telling me to calm down and quit shouting that I’d kill a whole regiment.” He turned his dark eyes back to his oldest brother. “Is that what we’re going to do?”

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

Skald leaned forward in his chair, his chin planted firmly on his fist. The fingers of his right hand drummed quietly on the table top as the others spoke of war and killing. His dark eyes were troubled with news he’d heard earlier that day. Not wanting to frighten Unna and Leifr he’d waited to share what he had learned until they were safely away in their quarters.

Before Riv could answer Bror's question, Skald spoke up.

‘Want to know the interesting . . . no, make that disturbing . . . morsel I picked up from the King’s guard today? . . . And from Father, too.’ Riv and the others looked at him expectantly.

‘Father was speaking to the King. About some special delivery of stones . . . no, not now but way back . . . before we were twinkles in his eye I think. Anyway, they were for the head of the Jewelsmiths’ Guild, Celebrimbor . . . and a shipment of mithril, too . . . some very high grade stuff.’ He leaned even further across the table, his voice dropping low. ‘Apparently the Elves used them in some big secret project, according to one of the guards. He said Durin opened his locked iron chest and took out some small carven box. He and Father had their heads together whispering about the object in it. Whatever it was it gleamed brightly when the light caught it for a moment. Then the King locked it away . . .’

Before they could hiss ‘And . . .?’ at him. Skald went on.

‘Well, I asked Father about it. At first, all the old man would do was shake his head, his fists clenched. They were fools, he muttered, looking into the distance past me. Damned, silly fools! he said angrily. Father said there was someone whom the Jewelsmiths placed their trust in . . . someone who taught them some special skills in the art of smithing.’ Skald’s throat was dry from talking and he paused, taking a long pull at his mug.

‘And now the Elves, the King had told Father, had done something to displease this teacher of theirs. They have something that he wants badly and he’s bent on getting it. And what’s worse apparently he’s not the kindly, gracious fellow they thought him. He’s got the force to back up his words. That’s what the Orcs are doing all stirred up and starting to cause troubles.

‘When I asked Father who this fellow was, he grew red in the face and spat on the floor. Mahal take the deceiver! he growled. Calling himself Aulendil! . . . Why, he left Mahal’s service long ago . . . taking after that black-hearted Master . . .’

Skald took another sip, the alefoam glistened on the tips of his thick mustache. ‘The old man ranted and raved for a bit . . . you know how he can go on. I was trying desperately to piece together the dribs and drabbles of information I’d eked out from him. Finally, in desperation, I shouted “Hey!” at him as loudly as I could. Got his attention, it did. Quiet little Skald yelling!’

‘Look, I told him, Riv and Bror and Orin and me along with a few of others of us have been asked to escort some Elves from the Lady of the Wood, under the mountain and out to Ost-in-Edhil. Armed Elves. And there may be more coming through. Sounds like it’s more than just some polite visit from one land to another. What are we getting into? Who’s this person you keep cursing at?’

‘Well, I have to tell you what he said next nearly unbraided my beard!’ Skald rubbed his chin hard with his hand, a familiar nervous habit on his part.

‘The Dark Lord! Father whispered, not wanting to name him out loud.’

‘The Dark Lord! I squeaked . . . yes, I’m not ashamed, I squeaked . . . you all remember the horror stories of the great battles against him and his Orcs and worse . . . before Beleriand fell under the waves. Anyway, I managed to stutter out the question that was now burning in my mind. The Dark Lord had escaped from where The Great Ones put him and was back?’

‘Not him, Father said. . . . but just as foul . . . his bootlicking, black-hearted-as-his-Master, servant . . . Sauron . . .’

‘ “Sauron!” I managed to say in a mangled yelp. I remember dreadful stories about him’

‘Yes, Sauron. He’s got himself a dark place between the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, the King’s told me. And he’s stirring up the foul spawn his Master made. Orcs and who knows what other fearsome beasts. He’s coming for something the Elves have hidden away . . .’

Skald’s voice drifted off into the silence of the room. His hands were clasped tightly about his mug and he stared into it as if it held the secret to keeping his sense of dread at bay. He looked up at his brothers and uncle . . .

[piosenniel]

Seth Cotton's post

Vaele took up his bow, felt its weight. He nodded for himself and placed the fine longbow on his right side and let it lean against the wall as he took up the rest of his needed equipment. His quite weak breastplate was filled with memories, he sighed as he put it aside in the pile of “Necessary Things”. His longbow, arrows, breastplate, leather armour pads for both legs and arms and his hunting knife were all in the Pile of Necessary Things. As well his backpack with some bread and small, chopped pieces of fruit.

His sister came in, all dressed in white and golden hair. She walked in without a sound and kneeled down on the floor beside Vaele. She stroked him over the forehead and he turned his head slowly over to her and met her gaze. She looked sad, but Vaele knew that she was doing her best to hide it.

“I will come back sister.” He said and forced himself to smile.

“Be careful. I will not stand losing another brother cause of some meaningless fight.”

“I promise you I will return.” Vaele answered and rose up from the floor and began to strap on the armpads. As he came to the strapping on the breastplate around his back his sister helped him.

“Be brave Nilwèn, do not despair because of me. It will not help to griev.”

His sister rose up as well, her cheeks were red. “Do not play a hero!” She exclaimed, almost yelling at him with her lightest voice. He saw that she began to shiver, probably she cried but Vaele was not sure. Nilwèn ran out of the talan and Vaele stood in the middle of the room and looked with sad eyes after her. Vaele growled and took on his robe. He tried to ignore her and her emotional burst, instead focusing on what he had to do. He was not to let this interfere. His fingers nibbled on the robes silver clasp. Attempt after attempt he failed to fasten it.

After a cursing the clasp and a few more attempts without any luck, he managed to fasten it. He had never been good at practical things; doing things with his hands in general. He had never possessed that skill. He lifted up his backpack and took it on. He kept his bow hanging by his shoulder and his knife in the boot. He was all set to go. He left the talan, but stopped in the door opening and looked around in the talan for a moment. It had his been his talan for ages, his sanctuary, his oasis, and now he stood there knowing that he might never return to it again.

He stood for another moment, remembering all the times he had found peace in the quite small talan. He slowly closed the door and decided to bid farewell to his father. His father met him on the small lawn in front of the talan. They embraced as father and son, Vaeles father patted him in the back as he let go. He did not say anything, he didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. He was against it as well, he had complained about Vaeles decision from the day he mentioned that he had been thinking of signing up for it.

It surprised him, he thought his father would be more understanding than that.

“Farewell father.”

“Farewell my youngest son…” He stood quiet; closed his eyes and sighed. “Stay safe”

“I will.” Vaele said shortly and began to walk to the camp for the contingent which was stationed outside Caras Galadhon. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw his sister stand, beautiful and completely silent, looking after him as he walked. Her expression on her face was a memory he never forgot.

He walked lightly and swift, thinking he was already late. The darkness came closer over the talans and he wanted to get there as quick as possible. As he got closer he saw the banners and the many tents with preparations; archers checking their bows, captains giving orders. It was a constant alarm of noise.

“Archer, you are late.” Vaele heard a voice behind him, which sounded pretty annoyed. He turned to see who it was, and as he suspected it was the commander of their contingent.

“I beg your pardon, Commander…” Vaele said and half-bowed.

“Commander Eldegon” The tall, pale elf said with a remarkable superiority in his voice. He sighed and looked at Vaele, kind of examining his possible capabilities in combat. “Good at stealth? Scouting? We need a scout in the first rank. Someone swift and silent, a good hand with bows is appreciated, but by judging your equipment and yourself, you seem to be a pretty skilled archer.”

Vaele just nodded quite baffled. The elf talked clean and unusual quick. He must be in quite a stress, Vaele thought.

“Very well, get in the first rank and prepare yourself. We will march in the daybreak.”

Vaele walked over to where he was directed, the first rank in the lead. He was quite pleased with his given position, and being a scout fitted him well. He saw another elf from the first rank ahead. He wasn’t sure wether this was the first rank or not, so he walked over and asked the elf which appeared to be rather young. “Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Arestevana's post

Gilduin gazed at the sunlit trees of Laurelindórinan in silence, hearing little of the bustle that surrounded him. It had been many years since he had been so near Caras Galadhon, its protective walls extending in a gentle arc before him. Years ago they had welcomed him with the promise of safety, renewal, and fulfillment. Now they closed him out. Though he was not forbidden passage through the high green walls, he knew he could no more cross the white bridge of the Galadrim than he could return the golden leaves carpeting Lindórinan to their silver branches and reclaim the springtime of his youth.

Gilduin reluctantly withdrew from his revere as someone approached him. He took quick note of his surroundings. A stone’s throw to the north lay Caras Galadhon, its great mellyrn stretching sunward above them. Outside the city a great number of elves had gathered, many of them bearing weapons. He turned his attention to the elf who stood in front of him.
“Greetings, Gilduin Lindorion,” said the elf. “It has been many years since last I saw you. Where have been wandering?”
“In Greenwood the Great,” Gilduin replied slowly, adding belatedly, “Eldegon,” as he recalled the elf’s name. “Who calls the Galadrim to arms?”
“A messenger from the Ost-in-Edhil. We send a company to aid the Mírdain. Will you join us?”

Gilduin, caught off guard, felt himself pulling into a state of deep concentration. Though he had just returned to Lindórinan after years of roving, he needed nothing but what he had. He knew that Eldegon expected him to refuse. I do not want your pity. “I will join you,” Gilduin said at last. “Who commands the contingent?”
“I do.” Eldegon replied. If he was surprised at Gilduin’s decision, he did not show it. “What skill have you in combat?”
Gilduin thought a moment. “No sword-skill, if that’s what you mean. I have no close weapon, save my knife.” He showed Eldegon his dirk and longbow. “I’m a fair shot, and if needs be I can keep my head with a quarterstaff.”
Eldegon shook his head. “I have no need for archers. Three-score already are marching with us, and two-score swordsmen. Will you bear the standard?”
“I will.” Gilduin said, after a moment’s wondering at the request.

Eldegon nodded and led him a short ways south to a hill overlooking the wide clearing where the company was mustering. There he departed momentarily, leaving Gilduin to stare out over the many ranks of warriors. There were six ranks of archers, ten elves in each rank, and ahead of them four ranks of swordsmen. Behind the archers was a line of light wooden carts, laden with food and supplies for the march. The horses that would draw them were tethered a short ways away from the company.

Eldegon returned, carrying the standard of Lindórinan. “You said you could handle a quarterstaff. Can you keep formation while bearing a standard or polearm?” He asked, continuing when Gilduin nodded. “Good. You will march at the herald’s left, in the first rank with myself and my captains.” He handed the standard to Gilduin, who hefted it to feel its weight. The oaken shaft was straight and smooth, and the fabric of the banner, though light, was very strong.

“When do we march, commander?” Gilduin asked with a glance at the sun, which had long passed its zenith and was nearing the horizon.

“Not today,” Eldegon replied. “Tonight the captains meet with Lord Celeborn. Tomorrow we will march, or perhaps the day after.” With that, he nodded briskly to Gilduin and headed toward Caras Galadhon, pausing briefly to speak to another elf before continuing to the city’s gates.

Reluctantly, Gilduin hefted the standard in his hand and left his hilltop post, seeking out his place in the marching order. He reached the first rank and sought out the herald, introducing himself with as few words as possible and taking his place on the elf’s left. He glanced over his shoulder at the green-walled city as dusk crept over the restless company, a thin sliver of sun clinging desperately to the horizon on his right. One by one, lanterns appeared on the walls, until Caras Galadhon gleamed like a jewel, or perhaps a star which had wandered from its place in the darkening heavens. Beside him, the herald had lit a lantern, and by its light Gilduin noticed a green-garbed archer approaching the rank. He occupied himself with the standard and did his best to look busy, but the elf stopped directly in front of him.

Shying away from speech, as he so often did, Gilduin sought for the correct syllable by which to vocalize a noncommittal murmur. He wished to disappear, as did that final finger of golden sun in the face of inexorable night, as the elf addressed him.

“Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[Durelin]

Maegisil watched as a bird fluttered its way through the deep green leaves of the holly to perch on a branch. The tree grew just to the right of the small balcony on which the elf stood as he watched the eastern sky to his left grow pale as the sun inched its way up from behind the Misty Mountains. The bird remained all but perfectly still on its branch for some time, and Maegisil did the same, keeping his eyes on it. The sight of it as he perceived every slight movement brought to his mind thoughts of a time and a place where birds could speak to men and men could speak to birds. But soon he no longer really saw the creature, and his mind traveled to somewhere that he knew must be only a small distance away. There were Orcs to the east. The threat of Sauron weighed upon his mind and heart in the ghastly forms of fear and despair.

“Fly away, little bird,” Maegisil said softly, watching the bird’s beady little black eyes search the sky, “This you may do, and no one shall think any less of you for it. Not so is the case with me. I must show a face of bravery to the eyes of many, particularly those whom I love…”

“Whispering your worries to the birds again, my love?”

Maegisil was startled by the soft feminine voice from behind him, and abruptly spun around to see who it was that spoke, though he knew it to be his wife. His sudden movement startled the bird and caused it to fly quickly from its perch, seemingly taking the advice of the elf. Maegisil regretted its departure, and cursed himself for being so on edge. At any other time, had he not been so deep in thought and thus separated from most anything that went on around him he would have heard her approach. And such a familiar voice would never have surprised him had he meant for her to hear anything he said. By the look in her eyes, it seemed she had heard all.

“Why not whisper them to me? You do not have to be brave for me…”

“O my dove, but I do,” he cut her words short, his sharp and quick speech, full of frustration, contrasting and easily overcoming her soft, slow words, which she spoke in pure love and concern. “I cannot trouble you, nor anyone, with my cowardice. I must be strong for you, and not be so weak that you must hold me up.”

“Many a time have you held me up, my dear Maegisil,” she quickly responded, while still remaining unrushed with her words. “Will you so disgrace me as to not allow me to do the same for you in return?”

“There should be no need for you to do anything in return, Sairien.” He always felt as if he said her name to a song in his heart that resonated through his whole body when he thought the unspoken words ‘I love you’. Actually voicing these words was unnecessary, as they were clear in his eyes and his voice, and had been said so many times before.

“You know that my heart would want me to say the same to you, and yet you would not accept this if our roles were switched.” Sairien’s eyes searched his with a meaningful stare, piercing him and seeming to find exactly what they were looking for, and bringing this to his attention.

Maegisil sighed heavily. “Forgive me, my dove. I do need your help; I need it greatly. And I will ask you for it.”

Sairien stepped forward to place a hand to her husband’s cheek, softly saying, “Thank you,” and kissing him. They embraced for several moments, Maegisil sighing once more, but this time much more lightly and contently. Then, pulling his wife away from him to look into her eyes, he said, “We will speak more at length tonight, my dear. Now I’m afraid I must be away to attend to my lord.”

The elf woman sighed, looking away from her husband for a moment, sadness creeping into her eyes and her expression. “Yes…well, send the Lord Celembrimbor my greetings. And tell him that I miss happier times when I accompanied you to his house and we talked of lighter, more blessed things than war, death, and fear.”

“I shall,” Maegisil said. “Farewell, my love. I will return as soon as my lord does allow me.” After one final kiss he broke away from his wife’s tightening grip upon his arms, as she wanted to pull him back to her.

“I shall miss you,” Sairien said quietly, turning as he began to walk away. He stopped only to say, “And I shall miss you.”

Departing from his house, he entered the street with his mind even more full of worry than before when he was speaking only to the little bird. The weight of despair that the thought of Sauron brought upon his heart was made even heavier by the troubling concerns he had for his wife. Being a husband as well as a faithful servant to a lord was nearing impossible for him in these disquieted times.

But even in all the clutter in his mind, he resolved to do one thing. It had been some time since he had taken even a moment to truly show gratitude to his wife. He wished now to give to her a gift of materialistic beauty that might symbolize her own, which to him was beyond comparison. For several years now Maegisil had spent very little time at all in the forges, and though he dearly missed the beauties and the wonders of the art of crafting, he knew he did not have time to spend with tongs and a hammer in hand. But he recalled one craftsman – or really, craftswoman – in particular, and who he knew to have worked with his lord Celembrimbor. Knowing that she must be a true master jewelsmith to have done so, he thought her the perfect person to go to for such a commission as he had. Also, though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he assumed he could count on an elf woman knowing what he should give to the elf woman he loved.

The sun had now slipped two-thirds of the way from behind the Misty Mountains, but he still had time before his lord would begin to demand his presence. So Maegisil headed east across town to the jewelsmith’s forge, thanking the Valar that he had always in the past noted where most every notable craftsman or craftswoman had his or her own small forge and shop. The greatest elvensmiths did not have any real need for a simple ‘shop’, but could be commissioned, Maegisil knew. He only hoped that the mutual connection with Celembrimbor would help him in gaining the master craftswoman’s skill for the making of his wife’s gift.

Coming to his destination, Maegisil was thrilled to find that there was in fact some activity within. He read the small sign above the door. Narisiel Mirdain. Entering into the small forge, he found Narisiel with her back turned to him, working meticulously on a sword: a long, curved blade of astonishing magnificence. He silently watched her at work for a few moments, hating to disturb her when she was creating something so beautiful, and yet wishing to speak with her as soon as he could. At last he felt the strength and urgency enough to speak.

“Excuse me for my disturbance,” he began in a loud voice, though he nowhere neared shouting. When she looked up from her work and turned to him he made a small bow of respect before he continued. “I wish dearly to speak with you, if I may, to commission your skills, though I know you to be a master of your craft and thus perhaps above my concerns. But I have worked alongside the Lord Celembrimor as you have.”

Narisiel seemed to smirk at him, not unkindly, but appearing simply in some way amused. “And if you have worked beside the greatest of the Mírdain, why then do you need my skills?”

Maegisil was almost taken aback by the quickness of her response, as well as its sharpness. Hurriedly he collected his thoughts, responding with the truth. “Much to my sadness, I no longer spend my time with my lord in the forges. In these times, it is spent only in counsel and disparaging conversation with him.” He paused to briefly consider whether he should say more or not, deciding after a moment to add, his voice full of kind sincerity: “In all truth, I envy you.”

[piosenniel]

‘Sauron!’ Riv’s gruff whisper rasped out across the uneasy silence that followed in the wake of Skald’s words. ‘Mahal take him indeed!’ It was all he could do not to jump from his chair and run down the paths to the chambers where Unna and Leifr were quartered. His mind told him they were safe, hidden deeply in the lower caverns with many stout guards placed along the way to bar intruders. But his heart, beating fast now in anger mixed with dread against the Dark Lord, made him want to rush with his mattock and war hammer to defend the entrance to his wife and son’s chambers.

His wife’s face, her brows raised at him came to the fore of his mind. He could almost hear her, as she admonished him gently. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right!’ he said to her fading image. ‘You two are well protected. The King will close the doors tightly to Khazad-dum should any threaten us. And I should be getting on with my own task. Lend the use of my axe and hammer to bring the Elves from the Golden Wood to the City of the Smiths.’

‘Let him come!’ he growled deep in his chest. He brought his thick fist crashing down onto the table’s top. ‘Let him come, the overblown pup of the Dark Lord with his misbegotten Orcs and men. My hammer will make the river run red with their foul blood.’

Riv looked up from his cup, realizing he had been speaking aloud to himself, and gathered his wits about him. ‘Well this brings us a new vein to mine, doesn’t it?’ he said to his brothers and uncle. ‘We must be even more careful now we know the rotter behind things. There should be more Dwarves in our party, I think. Some to guard the eastern gates until we can bring the Elves into the caverns.’ He looked carefully at each of the others. ‘If there are Orcs that try to enter while we are fetching the Elves from the Dimrill Dale, the gates will have to be closed against them. We could be cut off for a while, before we can re-enter. What do you think? How many shall we bring? And full battle gear, I think, eh? Especially once we leave the safety of the mountains.’

[Folwren]

‘I think if we’re in danger of being cut off for a while, we should make sure we have plenty to eat,’ Bror said in answer. No one seemed to appreciate his small jest, so he continued after an awkward pause. ‘If you ask my opinion, which I wonder that you do at all, I think we should take quite a few other dwarves and several weapons. I didn’t think...’ He was about to say he didn’t think it was that serious, but no one had, until Skald had rambled off his lessons.

Sauron? He had heard very little of that name, but he had learned enough that it was one to tremble at. He took another drink of his ale as he studied his oldest brother through narrowed and considering eyes. He had always looked up to Riv and seeing him so affected by Skald’s tale caused him more alarm and fear than anything else yet said.

‘I don’t know,’ he finally said softly. He got up, leaving his mug on the table and went to his harp. He picked it up and carried it back to his place and sat silent running his fingers over the strings as though contemplating a song. ‘Well, Skald? Uncle Orin?’ he said, lifting his eyes to the two of them. ‘Something has to be decided on, and I don’t think it’s going to be me who decides it.’

[Envinyatar]

Late Autumn/Lindon – SA 1695

It was early afternoon, and the two friends were sitting in a small drinking establishment near the quay in Mithlond. The Belaying Pin or simply The Pin as it was more commonly called. There was a crackling blaze in the fireplace, and the welcome heat from it drove the increasing cold of the northern autumn from the room.

The man from Númenor stifled a smile as Ondomirë shifted again on the booth’s hard, oaken bench. Alcarfalon, as he was called, folded his thick woolen cape into the rude semblance of a thick cushion and passed it across the table to his friend. ‘Here,’ he said in a low voice, ‘try this.’

With a grateful nod, Ondomirë slid the padding between the unforgiving wood and his bruised hindquarters. A barely stifled gasp preceded his whispered, ‘Thanks!’ as he eased himself onto the makeshift buffer. He smoothed the grimace from his face and fixed a barely less than miserable smile on his face.

Alcarfalon could not hold back his laughter. It rang in the booth between the man and Elf, causing many to turn their way. ‘Why do you always think you need to manage everything yourself, my friend?’ he asked, pouring the pale honeyed wine into both their cups. The light from the small lamp above their table caught the golden liquid as it eddied against the metal sides, making it glint from within. ‘If I were you, I’d have me an assistant. You know . . . one who’d do the more dangerous work.’ He swallowed another grin. ‘Saving you the possibility of injury . . .’ He ducked, barely in time, as Ondomirë threw his leather riding gloves at him.

‘I acquiesce to your superior management skills, my friend,’ Ondomirë said, turning his cup in circles on the table. He took a drink, appreciating the light, sweet taste of the wine. It teased his tongue, relaxed him, and left the promise of ease for his aching joints if he drank a large enough dose. ‘But seriously, who knew the accursed beast would take such a dislike to me and throw me to the ground. He was certainly mild enough with you aback.’

Ondomirë took another drink and sighed, in a rather melodramatic fashion. ‘Of course, it has always been my lot to have those four-legged demons hate me. And the King, of course, is an excellent horseman as is the Elf he chose to lead this expedition. Elrond . . . do you know him?’ Alcarfalon shook his head ‘no’ to the question.’

‘Anyway, we are going east, overland, and in some haste once the troops are made ready and the snows have ended. By foot is out of the question . . . too slow, it was decided. So, I am cursed with having to ride those many miles on a creature who will surely detest my very presence.’ He leaned across the table and looked Alcarfalon in the eye. Tell me you didn’t pick the most ill-tempered of the herds just because I ordered them.’

‘It was Minastir who chose those horses for you,’ Alcarfalon protested. ‘The Queen’s nephew. He assured me they were the gentlest of beasts. He holds Gil-galad in high esteem, I assure you, and would do nothing to jeopardize whatever this expedition is he’s planned.’ Alcarfalon knew better than to inquire too deeply into Elvish plans. ‘I’ve brought you one hundred of our finest from the Mittalmar. With those you said you could muster here you should have plenty.’

‘Ah, you know I really am grateful!’ returned Ondomirë, grinning. He refilled the man’s cup and topped off his own. ‘I thank you for your haste in bringing them across the sea and Minastir for his generosity.’

The door to The Pin opened and a tall, slender figure stood outlined in the entryway, blinking as his eyes grew accustomed to the level of light in the room. Cries of ‘Close the door, Elf! You’re letting in the cold!’ greeted the newcomer.

‘Over here, Geldion!’ said Ondomirë, waving to the Elf. ‘Come and meet Alcarfalon. He captains the Lintaramë out of Numenor. An old friend of mine.’ With a grimace, Ondmirë scooted himself over in the booth. ‘He’s brought us the last of the . . . horses,’ he said in a lower voice.

All respect to the Vala Yavanna! he thought to himself as Geldion took off his cape and slipped into the booth. But what was she thinking when she fashioned those impious creatures?

‘Some wine?’ Ondomirë offered, pushing a cup toward Geldion

[Boromir88]

Orin was deep in thought, almost as if he was in a trance. He was so deep in thought he didn't even hear Riv's shouts. Sauron was a dark name and the news Skald gave was even darker. The thought of Sauron launching an assault against the elves was troubling. Orin was puzzled on what to do. It was not that he liked Sauron, in fact he hated him, and if he wanted to go through the mines it would be over his dead body. But, he figured this was Elven business, they did something to make him angry, and now they're pleading for help. What if we just close the doors, Sauron won't get in and therefor he won't bother us? He pondered. No, no, no, his might will grow and even the sturdy doors of the dwarves will not be able to keep him out. We must do something. I must do something.

"Well Skald? Uncle Orin?" Orin snapped out of his trance. He was oblivious to what had been discussed.

"What?" He asked kind of grumpily.

"What do you think we should do? Something has to be decided on and I don't think it's going to be me who decides it." Bror replied.

"Oh," Orin mumbled, he was ashamed for snapping at Bror, but didn't what to say.

Riv filled his uncle in, realizing that he was lost. It wasn't like Orin hadn't been paying attention, just when he thinks too hard he becomes completely unaware of what's being said around him. "Lots of Armor? What? You know how I hate armor. A good warrior does not need armor, it's only bulky and slows you down. Well, suit up in whatever way you like but I'm not taking heavy armor."

"It may slow you down uncle, but not us." Skald said and all three chuckled. Orin let out a bellowing laugh. He knew Skald had basically called him old, but he would feel a lot safer if he could wear the armor he was able to wear in the past.

[Arestevana]

“Is this the first rank?”
Gilduin barely registered the question; he was far too accustomed to avoiding conversation to fashion a reasonable reply. He tried to ignore the elf and withdraw into the safe, familiar realm of his own mind, but he could not escape the stranger’s gaze. He stared for a moment at the other elf, taking note of his appearance, which was becoming more difficult to discern in the growing darkness.

They were close in age, Gilduin noted. He guessed he was the elder of the two, but the stranger exuded such confidence and intelligence that Gilduin was unsure. In the glow of the herald’s lantern he saw the pride in the archer’s eyes, and a flicker of tolerance that suggested the stranger felt he had been slighted. As the object of the other’s stare, Gilduin realized that he was undoubtedly the source of the offense. He searched his mind, trying to remember what affront he had recently committed.

When he could not recollect doing anything conceivably offensive, Gilduin realized with chagrin that the elf must have spoken to him. He tried desperately to remember what had been said, mortified at the thought that he had been rudely staring at the elf for the past few minutes. The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable when at last he recalled the stranger’s question. He could think of only one reason for an archer to seek out the first rank, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the elf must be a captain. He wished to disappear, but forced himself to speak.
“No—I mean, yes, sir.” Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. “Yes, this is the first rank.” He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. “My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.”

[Alcarillo]

It was morning, and the rising sun was ascending the Hithaeglir, shedding light across Eregion. Cainenyo was still in his nightgown, and kneeling at the pool of his home’s courtyard. Surrounded by aromatic flowers, it was here that he washed his arms, legs, and face each morning before he got dressed. He usually spent this time thinking about the day’s work and making a list in his mind of the day’s chores.

I must finish that knife today, he thought, still sleepy. It would be for his wife Alassante, who was still asleep upstairs. The knife would be a gift just to prepare for the troubled times ahead. I might get some nice silver decoration on the hilt, something like vines, or flowers, he thought as his mind wandered over the image of the completed knife that Cainenyo had had in mind for months. I could get Arenwino to do it, or maybe Celebdur. I must stop by the silver-smithy district later today and shop around for the best quality and price possible. Cainenyo stood and stretched his limbs, and reentered the house, only to emerge moments later in his work clothes and holding a glass of blood-red wine, his usual breakfast.

He crossed the courtyard, where the shadows of the flowers were now somewhat shorter, and entered a cool arched passage, which led to his workshop. Cainenyo noticed a few people walking about the street, which would become busier as the day moved into the afternoon. He took a sip of his wine and set it on a table to put on his apron and gloves, which hung on pegs near the door. Kneeling, he removed a long key from an apron pocket, unlocked a large chest near the furnace and found the long knife he was working on yesterday. Cainenyo dropped it into one of his deep pockets.

Eager to begin his work, he hurried back into the house, where he found Alassante already awake and plucking some flowers from the courtyard. She held a blue vase under her arm, where she deposited the flowers. She looked up from her work at Cainenyo. “Hello, you’re starting today’s work?” she said smiling. It was still morning, but the sun had now risen to sit on the mountains.

“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be searching for a smith to work on the hilt of a knife. I want some floral decoration added to it. I’ll be back later, by noon.” He explained. Alassante frowned somewhat. She enjoyed her husband’s cheerful humming drifting through the house while he worked at the anvil, and she was slightly troubled by the weaponry Cainenyo seemed to be making more and more often these days. “If anybody comes and asks for me, please tell him that I’m away at the moment and he can come back later,” Cainenyo added. He brushed back his wife’s long brown hair and kissed her on her brow. She waved good-bye as he stepped through the doorway into his forge.

Cainenyo took another sip of the wine left on the table, and then set out into the city to find a suitable smith. Alassante always thought it silly that Cainenyo wore his apron and gloves into the city, but Cainenyo explained that it was a status symbol and that others would know his craft by his clothes. As he walked down the cobblestone street he decided to head to Celebdur, the silversmith to whom Cainenyo’s son was apprenticed. His shop was across town, near the other silversmiths, but Cainenyo welcomed the exercise and fresh air.

[Arry]

‘Look, Uncle,’ said Skald, his moment of good cheer fading. ‘In all seriousness . . . I . . . and I think we all . . . want to see you with enough protection to keep your head on your shoulders should the Orcs have at us with those nasty blades of theirs. I know I’ll be wearing my helmet and a sleeved shirt of light mail over a woolly vest. And I’ll tie my thick leather vest over it. My small shield . . . the one you made me covered in bronze; it’ll be with me. I’m putting leather protectors on my lower legs, too. They’re fierce beasties, the Orcs – they’ll cut you anywhere they can.’ He raised his thick brows at Orin. ‘You know if you don’t promise to wear something to our liking, we’ll stand round you in battle like two-legged pieces of armor!’

Skald grinned impishly at the threat, then tried another tack. ‘Can’t have you getting injured or worse yet killed! Whose gonna stand with me when I finally find and marry my heart’s delight?’

[piosenniel]

‘Marry? Heart’s delight?’ Riv chuckled. ‘Good one, brother!’ He looked toward Orin, gauging his uncle’s reaction. ‘Not quite sure you’ve sold him, though!’ He narrowed his eyes as if he were considering it more seriously. ‘However, since that may take a good number . . . no, make that a very great number . . . of years to accomplish, we just might have to make sure that our dear Uncle lives til his beard reaches the toes of his boots!’

Riv poured himself another cup of ale and offered the skin round again. ‘Little brother’s got a good idea. We should make sure we take a good supply of food with us. We’ll hit the supply room in the level below us. We can use one or two of their hand carts. Some we can carry out with us; some we can cache near the East-gate. There are any number of rocky outcroppings we can hunker down in for defense if need be.’

He looked at Skald and Bror. ‘What if we send the two of you ahead early tomorrow morning? We’re going to need more Dwarves to stand with us. No use in bringing food if we’re dead and can’t be eating it. Uncle Orin and I can bring your armor along with us; pile it on the food cart if need be – you can put it on just before we leave the East-gate. You’ll be able to go more quickly that way, raising call for more to go with us. Stop at your friends’ forges, ten or so more fighters would be good. Uncle Orin and I can raise the hue and cry here in the west halls.’

‘What say you?’

[Orofaniel]

It was something in the weather that told Geldion that it was indeed the end of autumn. The leaves that used to have the slightest scent of summer, were long gone, and not to be sensed for another year. And perhaps; never again. The gentle wind had slowly turned into some harsher and slightly bitter tones, and it washed away all the warmth that remained in the elf's body. The cool breeze in his face, made him feel slightly dizzy. This did not suit him. It did not suit him at all.

Entering the Pin the elf felt as though his spirits were lifted. The warmth of the room and the crackling fireplace greeted him and any other guest that would enter the room sooner or later. The light hit him quite suddenly, and his eyes had to get used to it and thus he stayed in the shadows for some moments. He then heard a familiar voice. It was, without much doubt, his good friend - and now also a fellow Captain - Ondomirë. The elf hurried over to the table, set for four, although at the present there were only three of them; Ondomirë, himself...and someone he did not recognize. There was however no need to think more about it, because Ondomirë introduced him quickly to the stranger that was smiling so gently towards him.

"This is Alcarfalon," Ondomirë said once again. "And this, Alcarfalon, is my friend Geldion," Ondomirë. The two elves that had been strangers to one another until now, greeted each other. Both of them seemed to enjoy the new acquaintance. "An old friend, you say?" Geldion then asked Ondomirë after having been offered some wine, which he gladly accepted. He seated as well, as he suddenly was aware of that he had been standing all along, while the other two had offered him a seat- in what seemed to be a comfortable cushion. He paused, and put down his cup of wine hoping for a refill later that afternoon.

"Indeed," Ondomirë replied quickly. "You are an elf full of surprises," Geldion sighed. "I would think that after all these years, I would be acquainted with most of your 'old friends'. Perhaps you came before me then?" Geldion then said, giving a short laughter,. The other two were quick to follow. "Well, I met Geldion a long time ago, during the establishment of our beautiful Lindon,” Ondomirë told Alcarfalon. “My ancestors fought with the elves a long time ago in Beleriand. Ondomirë is has been a friend of my relatives for many years, and he has always been welcome there…” Alcarfalon then informed Geldion. “Ah of course. My memory is worse than I thought. Ondomirë has mentioned you in several occasions. It’s a shame we haven’t had the chance to meet before,” Geldion then said.

Nothing more of those matters were said, because the company was slightly interrupted by another elf entering the Pin. It seemed to be the elf that had volunteered to lead the troops of elves with spears.

[Folwren]

Bror declined Riv’s offer of more ale and kept his eyes on his brother’s face as he suggested his plans.

‘What say you?’ Riv asked in conclusion. Bror considered it carefully for a minute. Then he put his head down and lightly plucked a simple tune on his strings before speaking.

‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so too much, I don’t think it’s a good idea to raise any hue and cry just now. If you spread the name of Sauron around there will be terror in the streets and nothing will be accomplished half as well as it should if it were only known by a few. If you meant something else than that when you say hue and cry, then please explain.

‘But about Skald and me going on to gather a few extra people, I’d be up for that. As you said, we’d be able to move more quickly without the extra armor and that’d give the fellows we gathered a little time in advance to make preparation to go. Are there any dwarves in particular that you want?

‘If you’re gathering the food,’ he went on with hardly a pause, ‘please bring something other than cram. I’d think that we’d have thought of something better than that when we have to go off and do something. Sure, I know, I’ve never been on a real mission before, but I’ve tasted the stuff that you all take with you and I can’t say it’s too appetizing!’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel looked up at Maegisil, surprised and half-smiling, as if expecting him to be grinning back. But when she saw the other elf’s solemn expression, the amusement faded from her own as she looked away, her fingers tracing the engravings she had started on Leneslath’s sword blade. “You…you shouldn’t,” she replied softly, her pale face looking suddenly more wearied even in the warm light cast from the forge. How can he know of what price she fear I may pay for my craft…how dangerous those rings could be in the wrong hands… But her melancholia only seemed to last a moment, for, closing her eyes, she sighed gently and then sniffed suddenly, blinking a few times, and glanced shrewdly back up at the king’s counsellor. “My apologies, Maegisil, it has been a long day – I have several commissions at the moment that have pressing deadlines…”

“Oh, well if you do not have time, do not worry about it–” Maegisil replied hurriedly, turning away, but the elvensmith shook her head hastily, reaching for his arm and interrupting, “No, I…I did not mean that – my commitments are not so that I could not fit another in, depending on its nature. Although I do warn you,” she added with a smile. “If you wish me to make yet another blade, I shall strongly resist the urge to scream.”

The older elf smiled back gladly, shaking his head. “Then do not fear! No, I intended to commission your skills for something which I believe is an area of your particular expertise, or so I gather from my Lord Celebrimbor.”

There is not a craftsman alive who does not appreciate sincere flattery from those who know what they are talking about: Narisiel smiled, blushing slightly, and cocked her head to one side questioningly. “Oh ho, really? And what would this be then, if not weaponry?”

“Jewellery.”

The simple word could not have startled the elvensmith more, and she actually visibly flinched at it, suddenly firing up with the anger that she had been noted for in her younger days. How could he know what she had been thinking of just moments before? Jewellery, yes, that had been her expertise – but why did Maegisil ask about it now? It seemed unusual to make such a frivolous commision, to be sure, when war seemed imminent – unless it was not as innocent as it seemed, for had the other not just mentioned his ‘jealously’ of Narisiel?! The thoughts swelled through the elf’s mind on a wave of paranoia and she gave Maegisil a very straight, fierce look. “Why do you say that?” she replied quietly.

The other seemed taken aback at Narisiel’s sudden fierceness and frowned, but stood his ground. “Because you were one of those who helped Lord Celebrimbor with the forging of the rings,” he replied levelly. “But also because I know, as any other in the city, that you are one of the foremost jewelsmiths in Ost-in-Edhil.” He looked coldly at her, then nodded stiffly. “Good day to you, Narisiel.”

“Wait. Please.” This time she did not reach out for his arm and as Maegisil turned back, he saw the smith wipe her eyes wearily with her fingers, smoothing them back across high cheekbones to rest on the sides of her face then rested them with the fingertips meeting in a steeple between her eyes, almost as if she was praying. Those dark, sharp eyes regarded Maegisil pensively, then she sighed and let her arms hang down by her sides, shaking her head and looking away once more. “I am sorry, again, Maegisil. I…well, I cannot pretend the rings have not been on my mind of late.” Looking up, her expression and voice softened to an almost motherly expression of concern. “How is Lord Celebrimbor?”

“Have you not seen him recently?”

Narisiel shook her head, turning away towards a tall, locked cupboard, fumbling on her belt for the right key. “There are certain worries on my mind that have prevented me from seeking out my Lord in recent times, although I know I must talk to him,” she replied, finding the correct key. Raising an eyebrow, she looked back over her shoulder at the other elf. “And I am not talking about commissions,” she added quietly. The latter nodded, understanding. “The rings.”

“The rings,” Narisiel repeated meaningfully. Twisting the key deftly in the lock, then in another two which were more surreptitiously and cleverly placed on the hinges, the craftswoman slowly pulled open the doors, then paused when barely a crack was visible. Smiling mischievously, she inclined her head, signalling that Maegisil should come forward, then her face became serious once more. “I cannot muse on those particular…objects…for too long, Maegisil, or I would be sure to go mad, to become obsessed with them – as any who had seen their power is at risk of doing. Please don’t ask me about them,” she continued hastily as the other seemed about to speak. “Please.” Then her smile resumed its place on her pretty features, both mischievous and strangely fond at the same time as she returned her gaze to the cupboard and began to open it slowly. “I would prefer to talk about this particular piece of jewellery you wished me to make. I presume it is a gift?”

“For my wife,” Maegisil replied, nodding. Narisiel nodded in turn, as if satisfied. “I thought it would be.”

“And why is that?” This time Maegisil seemed almost edgy. Narisiel glanced sharply at him, but did not reply, simply contenting herself with shaking her head, then swung open the cupboard doors. Maegisil could not contain a slight gasp and Narisiel smiled proudly, her eyes glittering as the other ran his eyes over the jewels that were displayed there. “Welcome to my little box of tricks.”

[Orofaniel]

The newly arraived elf was waved towards their table by Ondomirë. Now Geldion realized why they were all gathered here. The table, as Geldion had noticed when he arrived, was set for four.

“So, will you feed us while we’re here?” Hénsirë asked Ondomirë with a great smile on his face. He too had probably noticed the table that had been set. Hénsirë was a tall figure with broad shoulders. He was a warrior with great strength and fierceness. His face however, had very clean and bright features and seemed more gentle than the personality it represented. The elf in front of them was by all means, nice and decent, not to mention noble. At the same time however, he represented stubbornness and perhaps little self awareness. He was a bit ruthless, and quite arrogant at times. Nevertheless, he fought with the strength of ten men, or perhaps more. And thus many looked up to him; he would make a decent leader, Geldion thought, disregarding his personal faults.

“Indeed, if that is what the gentleman wants…” Ondomirë said and gestured the newly arrived elf to take a seat. “I think another cup of that excellent wine will do, for my part at least,” Geldion said politely. It was then Hénsirë noticed his presence ad greeted him as a friend. “Captain Geldion,” Hénsirë started, eyeing him. “I never got the chance to converse with you at the High King’s meeting. A real shame, as I’ve heard much about you and your skills with the sword,” Hénsirë then continued. Ondomirë took another sip from his cup. “You are too kind, Captain Hénsirë,” Geldion then forced, not knowing what else to say. “It is by far time you lead a small troop,” Hénsirë said before Geldion could finish his sentence. “I mean, after all those years, loyal advisor to the High King….”

“Well, I’m honoured that the Hight King would grant me such a position of great value. I am grateful for what He has given me,” Geldion replied. Hénsirë then smiled and turned to Ondomirë.

The moments of silence were interrupted by a few sips every now and then.

“So, when do you reckon’ will get the warriors and the supplies ready?” Hénsirë then asked.

It was a question that had dwelled in Geldion’s mind as well. “Hard to say,” Geldion said. “We ought to have some sort of control over the supplies we need, and the troops as soon as possible. The arranging of the troops will be the most difficult task I expect. There are many warriors and a lot to keep up with,” Ondomirë continued. “Not to mention the supplies that has to be arranged before we leave. Remember; there is a long journey in front of us, and getting short of supplies is the very last thing we need,” Geldion then finished. Hénsirë nodded and so did Ondomirë. It seemed that Alcarfalon was now sitting in his own thoughts, not minding the conversation going on between the three of them.

[Arry]

‘Have to agree with you on cram, Bror.’ Skald raised his mug to his brother and grinned. ‘Just as soon eat my boot soles than try to chew a piece of it, much less swallow it.’ He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m sure our dear mother most likely makes the finest, most serviceable cram beneath the Misty Mountains, but I’ll be a rock lizard’s uncle if even her stuff doesn’t suck the spit right out of your mouth at first bite.’ He took a long swig of his ale. ‘Let’s go heavy on the dried meats and fruits and bring just a small amount of the Dwarven bread, eh Riv?’

‘And don’t let this go to your head, little brother, but I’m going to weigh in with you on not spreading the word about Sauron being behind all this trouble. I got the idea from Father that while he felt alright sharing this bit of news with us, he didn’t want it going any further. I think perhaps the King means to take counsel with all us Dwarves is what he was getting at – allay any fears and put a stop to any panic at the news.’ Skald shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just thinking off the top of my head, really,’ he said. ‘Nothing firm on that.’

‘About tomorrow . . . I’ll leave my gear piled here in the kitchen, Riv, for you and Uncle to load up on the cart. And Bror, there are several stonemasons’ halls I’d like to call in at as we travel along. There are a number of Dwarves round my age who were apprenticed at the same time as I. I’m sure they’d be able to lend us a hand with fetching the Elves.’

He drank down the last of his ale and pushed the cup away from him, shaking his head ‘no’ when Riv held up the ale-skin. ‘I think I’ll say good-night. Get my gear in order for tomorrow.’

Skald stood up from the table and grinned at Bror. ‘Think you can make it out of bed for an early start?’ he asked.

[Folwren]

Bror choked suddenly on his last mouthful of ale. He swallowed desperately and fell to coughing, turning bright red in the effort to get the liquid out of his wind pipe. His brothers laughed and Skald bent towards him to slap him on the back. In another minute, Bror was recovered and he turned with furious indignation towards Skald.

‘Of course I’ll be up!’ he exclaimed, gasping for breath at the same time. ‘By heaven, I’ll warrant I’ll be up before you when morning comes!’ A quick and rather stern warning and check from both Riv and Orin halted the words that might have followed and Bror shut his mouth with a snap. Skald continued to laugh.

Bror got up, still scowling, and with his harp in one hand and his other on the back of his chair, he addressed Orin and Riv.

‘I had better go to bed, too, seeing as...someone-’ a quick, darting glance towards Skald ‘-doubts my ability to get up in the morning. I’ll leave what I need brought with his stuff. I don’t know if we’ll be off before seeing you in the morning or what. You, I won’t see, Uncle Orin, but Riv might be up. Goodnight, then!’ He turned to go, but half way to the door, he turned back around. ‘What time do you want to be off?’ he asked Skald.

[Boromir88]

Orin smiled at Skald's jest of marriage, but still refused to wear lots of armor. He'd probably dress in a mail hauberk crafted by himself, a wooden shield, a helmet (which sounded like a good idea), but nothing else. "I will take a suit of mail, a shield, and a helmet, but refuse to wear anything else. Nothing else is necessary. Even the best armor may be pierced by a sturdy strike." Orin said sharply. "You better not wait too long to get a dwarf lady." His expression had now changed to laughter.

If you are asking for my input, "I think you have all grown to be able to make your own decisions and there's nothing for me to add." They all nodded, Orin continued, "I'm sure Fawrin would like to join, as he seems to have more interest in this than myself, and I'm sure I can round up some other lads."

They continued to discuss the plans. Orin began to doze off when Bror suddenly began yelling at Skald. Orin snorted and quickly jerked up in his chair, hoping no one caught him napping. Orin was taken back by Bror's defensive reply. "Well, I'm sure you two know him better than me, but that certainly did not seem like the Bror I've grown to know." Orin shook his head puzzled by Bror's reaction, "He must be under a lot of stress, because of the news." Aren't we all he muttered under his breath.

[Seth Cotton]

For a second he got the feeling he was ignored by the Elf that quite obviously tried to focus on something else, appearing busy, but he didn't fool Vaele. Vaele snorted quietly and put his arms in the sides. He looked at the Elf, that still glanced up a little at him, sort of examining him. He raised an eyebrow at him.

The Elf seemed shy and that he would rather avoid Vaele by all means, but something pulled the Elf to answer. Was it that Vaele was maybe a bit older? At least Vaele guessed he was. And finally, when Vaele was to ask him if he was a mute he opened his mouth.

'No—I mean, yes, sir.' Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. 'Yes, this is the first rank.' He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. 'My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.'

'Ah, very well.' Vaele nodded and then forced a smile. He hurried to bow quickly, forgetting he should reply in good manners and introduce himself as well. 'Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the First Rank.'

He looked at the other Elf that fiddled a bit nervous with his banner. Was it the fear of going to war? Or perhaps something else. Vaele was pussled but didn't mention anything of what he was thinking even though he really wanted to ask all his questions.

'Maybe we get to march together then?' Vaele grinned and took his bow from the shoulder. He began to adjust the bow string and glanced from time to time upon Gilduin that stood looking at him.

[Durelin]

“I thought it would be.”

Surprised by this response, Maegisil asked, “And why is that?” sounding a little sharper than he meant to. The look Narisiel gave him matched the sharpness of his voice, and he no longer expected an answer. She only shook her head, and then opened the large cupboard to which she had turned. What Maegisil saw upon her pulling back the doors made him gasp. Upon the shelves were displayed countless jewels of varying sizes and colors, all cut seemingly to perfection, and, as even the untrained eye could see, most were very precious items. Recognizing the value of many of these jewels, and marveling at their beauty, Maegisil could only stare for a moment. When he once again remembered why he was there, he noticed Narisiel was again smiling at him with amusement in her eyes, as well as a certain amount of pride.

“It seems that what I heard of you was true, Narisiel Mirdain.”

“And what exactly would that be? That I am the mirdan of a thousand jewels?” she asked, light sarcasm clear in her voice. Maegisil smiled again, and quickly his mind traveled again to Sairien.

“Surely you would not waste such precious jewels on me and my request? A simple gift for my wife may be important to me, but it is of no matter to you, and I would not expect it to be.”

Narisiel shook her head again, giving Maegisil a rather flat look. He was confused again, as his endless formalities made it hard for him to understand what the elf woman meant by any of her looks and silent responses. Being married to Sairien had not helped him in reading people’s faces, as she knew her husband was too formal and straightforward for too many subtleties, and thus she was always equally as direct with him, though less proper and official. Over the years, she had weathered away his stony outward appearance towards her also, and she still worked on smoothing his features even more. No one would ever have noticed this if they had not seen he and his wife together, as he was a servant to the Lord Celebrimbor, a soldier, and a counselor as soon as he left their home. In earlier days, he had been a young swordsman and celebdan, but duty and the passage of years had changed this.

Glancing out a window of the shop that faced the east, Maegisil saw that the sun had now risen a little farther in the sky to hang as an orb seemingly held up by the mountaintops of the Hithaeglir. Soon his lord would be expecting him. But risking tardiness, he turned his mind and his eyes back to Narisiel. Most likely Celebrimbor would not mind Maegisil’s delay if he heard word concerning the elf woman. It seemed it had been some time since the two had spoken at all, and now was a good time for old alliances and friendships to be renewed.

[Arestevana]

“Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the first rank,” the archer corrected with a smile.
Gilduin murmured a vague ‘pleased to meet you’. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense for a scout to be marching in the first rank. Glancing around, he saw that most of the elves near them were dispersing for the night. The captains were returning to Caras Galadhon, presumably to meet with Celeborn. The other warriors were resting or wandering among the trees, conserving their strength for the march the next day.
“Maybe we get to march together then?” Vaele asked, after a moment.
Gilduin suppressed a rather hopeful ‘maybe not?’ and tried to change the subject, not wishing to explain that he found it difficult to communicate with people. “Are you prepared for the march?” he asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “You should rest until the commander returns. I do not know how early we will leave.” He gave a polite bow and turned away, seeking solitude among the star-crowned trees.
~
Gilduin wandered, half-dreaming, in the silent darkness of the Golden Wood. Though he stayed close to the city, his mind roamed far, finding strength in the power of Laurelindórinan. In the still, dark hours before dawn, a melodic horn call summoned the contingent together. Withdrawing from his nighttime reverie, Gilduin slowly joined the muster to find his place in the first rank. The noise of the contingent was muted, as if no one was willing to disturb the predawn stillness.

“Ah, Lindorion, there you are.” Eldegon addressed Gilduin quietly, looking harried. “Our lord Celeborn has decided to lead the contingent himself. There’s been a slight change in the marching order, but it shouldn’t affect you much. Make sure you are ready to march: we leave as soon as the contingent is assembled.”
Gilduin checked his weapons and the standard as the commander left. Finding nothing wrong, he waited while the ranks fell into place. Vaele Andarion, the scout he had met the previous evening, took up position on his left. Gilduin gave a mental sigh, but found he did not mind seeing the other as much as he had expected. To his surprise, he found it comforting to see a familiar face.

Slowly, the sky began to lighten. Celeborn, Eldegon and the captains walked up and down the ranks, speaking quietly to the elves. At last the full company was assembled, and the leaders took their places in the first rank. The herald played one long, sweet note on his silver horn. From the city many voices answered: the Galadrim sang to greet the dawn and farewell their warriors and their lord. From his position on Celeborn’s right, Eldegon gave the call to march, and the contingent moved forward, past the city, with the rising sun behind them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel fixed Maegisil with a flat look that verged on skeptical as he seemingly put down his own wish. But her gaze seemed to make him almost uncomfortable and, with a quick smile, he looked away hastily, staring out of the window. The smith did not speak for a moment, surprised, and finally answered, hoping her look had not been misinterpreted to cause offence. "Maegisil, you are absolutely correct when you say that it would be of no matter to me - but if it was not of great matter to you, I do not think you would have sought me out.”

Was that a faint blush on the other elf’s features? “It is just a gift–”

“I take pride in my work, Maegisil,” Narisiel interrupted firmly over Maegisil’s protestations. “Besides, you were right when you said I had a particular interest in crafting jewellery – no matter the other commissions I have, as I said earlier, if you had given me another weaponry job, I would have had to have you hounded out of my shop,” she added, deadpan. When Maegisil looked unsure, she cracked a grin, smiling sincerely at the other. “It would be a pleasure, Maegisil, a pleasure.”

The elf-lord’s counsellor smiled gratefully and turned his eyes back to the rich selection of jewels in front of him, the luscious items of Narisiel’s trade. But as he did so, Narisiel saw his eyes flicker over to the window once more, in the direction of Celebrimbor’s palace, an action that was not missed by the elf woman – and maybe it was not meant to be, she sceptically added to herself. “A meeting with your Lord, Maegisil?”

The other smiled knowingly, giving a small shrug, then looked back to the cupboard, running his fingers through a delicate filigree box of rubies, glittering like the teardrops of the setting sun. Turning back to business, she ignored this and began to question the other on what sort of gift he wished to present his wife with. “A necklace maybe? If it is a precious gift that can be easily worn and on show most of the time, maybe this would suit…or a more discreet pendant maybe, although those rubies would perhaps not be the best for such a piece – they are really more– ” she faltered slightly, then continued, “–more suitable for setting in a ring.”

Maegisil nodded thoughtfully, apparently unconcerned, but Narisiel was finally unable to resist asking the question that had been nagging at the corner of her mind: concerning Celebrimbor. She had not conversed with the elf-lord for long months now, and had not seen him on a more personal basis for even longer – it seemed she was only summoned for occasional, puny matters which barely related to her status as one of the master smiths – almost as if Celebrimbor was trying to skip over the fact that she was a smith at all. But although it was a distant relationship, Narisiel was nonetheless fond of the other, and when he had been almost an invisible figure for so long, she was concerned – not only for his wellbeing, but for the political climate that may have reduced him to silence. She was the lord’s advisor as much as Maegisil himself, after all. Hesitating, she voiced the question, her dark eyes serious and maybe even a little anxious. “How…how is Lord Celebrimbor, Maegisil?”

[Arry]

‘What time do you want to be off?’ Bror asked, turning back from the door.

‘Before First Light, I think,’ answered Skald, his brow wrinkling with calculations. ‘It’ll take us two and a half days to reach the East Gate . . . and that’s without stopping to pick up a few extra strong arms with axes to take along. And they’ll need to gather their gear and make their goodbyes . . . so, I’d say it will add at least another day to our travels.’ He drank his ale down and turned the cup upside down on the table.

‘What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ He grinned at Riv and Orin, ducking as he finished his statement. Riv’s hand was on his empty cup and Skald knew his brother had a quick arm when it came to chucking stones . . . an all too accurate arm, as he recalled from games of ‘Capture the Ledge’ they’d played as children.

He grinned again at Riv and waved a white dishtowel left on the table in surrender. In a more serious vein he straightened up, saying, ‘Shall I tell the others you’ll bring food for them, too, Riv? It’ll cut considerable time off their getting ready to go along?’

[Folwren]

Bror nodded as Skald made his answer and took the last few steps towards the door. Skald's last statement stopped him again-

'What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ The little brother lifted his head and looked around sharply, and then smiles broadly as Skald prepared himself to dodge the mug Riv seemed to threaten to throw. His older brother did not expect an answer and he left them to finish making plans. If anything new was brought up, Skald could tell him in the morning.

For now, he said to himself, I've got to make sure that I do get up in time. To bed, then, and to get myself up before Skald...we'll see what we can't devise for his morning's welcome.

Bror’s forehead furrowed in consideration. This wasn’t exactly the time to pull any pranks, but Skald was asking for it. After all, Bror had only missed rising time twice in the last month. He’d have to think it over, but even now he thought it would be a bad idea and wouldn’t be accepted well at all. Bror guessed that he would think even less of it in the morning.

'Until then, though,' he muttered aloud, and put away his harp.

[Envinyatar]

Mid-winter - the turn of the year/Lindon – SA 1695-1696

‘The seas are becoming too rough,’ said Alcarfalon, stamping his boots on the snowy quay. ‘Even for such a sea-worthy vessel as the Lintaramë. This will be the last voyage for my ship and crew until the Spring winds come.’

It was mid-winter; the northern lands cold with snow and ice. Alcarfalon’s ship had managed the passage from the northern reaches of Forlindon but barely. She had picked up the last of the Elven troops from a small port just across the northern sea from Himling. One hundred warriors – fifty spear wielders, twenty five bowmen, and twenty five with swords.

Many of them came from Elven families who had fought under the command of Maedhros before Beleriand was sunk beneath the waves. There was no love lost between them and Sauron. They had heard stories from their kin who had seen him and his foul creatures slay many of the Eldar to prepare the way for his Dark Master’s return. And now they knew he would do so again, but this time the Elven deaths would be for his benefit alone.

Elrond, himself, had come down to the dock to see these last troops disembark. He had thanked Alcarfalon for his help in getting them to Mithlond in a timely manner and had walked among them, greeting their captains as he went and once again expressing his appreciation for their coming. His aide had stayed behind once Elrond had gone and had taken the new captains and their troops to the snug wooden barracks that would be their winter quarters.

-------

It was Ondomirë who bought the first round for the table. The server had grown so used to seeing them there a number of days a week that he only nodded as the Elf raised his hand to call him over. He knew what it would be – a flagon of the deep red wine from Edhellond. Had the ship’s captain ordered, he would bring the golden ale; for the one named Hénsirë, the spear-captain, the ale dark as night. The server swallowed a laugh as he thought of the third Elf. Geldion, he recalled. He was the smart one of the bunch, in the server’s estimation. By the time the other three had ordered rounds for their fellows and all had partaken, their thirsts were slaked enough that Geldion need order no more.

‘First time I’ve seen Lord Elrond at the docks to meet the ship,’ said Hénsirë raising his glass to the others. He threw the comment casually out onto the table, his own feelings masked as he looked from man to Elves.

Alcarfalon shrugged it off for the most part. ‘Seemed a nice enough fellow,’ he offered. ‘I’m sure he must be quite busy and all . . . with the preparations for your . . . excursion.’ He took a sip of his wine and grinned at Ondomirë. ‘Good! For wine, that is.’

‘Yes, he’s busy, I suppose,’ said Hénsirë. ‘But I have to say we’re much busier than he right now,’ he went on, nodding toward Geldion and Ondomirë. ‘Wouldn’t you say so? What with organizing the troops under our command, their captains, the supplies they need, keeping their skills honed . . . it can be quite a large headache.’

‘Quite true,’ smiled Ondomirë in agreement. ‘It rivals, at time, the headache one gets from spending too much time at The Pin enjoying the fruits of the vine and the grain.’ He drained his glass and poured another. ‘I, for one, will be quite glad when the snows thaw and we set out for the eastern regions. How about you, my friend?’ he asked, topping off Geldion’s drink.

[piosenniel]

‘Tis alright, Uncle,’ Riv said, pointing at Skald and Bror as they traded remarks with one another before leaving for their quarters. ‘By virtue of your years, I think, you are afforded some measure of respect from the young one. Make no mistake, the two are fond of one another, but Bror must have someone to devil, and I am too staid in my old ways as husband and father. But Skald . . . he’s the one to take the heat or be the focus for our youngest brother’s little jokes and pranks.’

His eyes twinkled and he laughed softly, recalling a few. ‘And truth be told, I can’t think of a more deserving victim! Skald was a little terror when we were younger, and I was ever in trouble for defending myself from his antics.’ He winked at Orin. ‘Let him be paid back now in kind by his little brother!’

‘We should drink up our cups and head off, too, I think.’ He stood and hung up the much depleted ale skin and gave the cups a quick rinse, setting them on counter to dry. ‘I’ll see to my friends and their axes tonight before I sleep. Tomorrow, once you’re done talking to Fawrin and the others you know, let’s meet at the supply hold – the one a level down from here. Can you and your friends bring a few small hand-carts? We’ll load them up with food and mayhap some bandages and such. Mahal forbid we have need of the latter!’

[Folwren]

Bror turned over on his bed and opened one eye. It was dark in the room that he slept save for underneath the door where the light of one of the dim night lamps flowed under. The stillness of the place around him told him that it was still early and outside the mountain, morning was still dark, but it wouldn’t stay that way for more than an hour. He got up and half rolled out from under the blankets and walked silently to the door to open it a crack, allowing a little more light in. Making as little noise as possible, he dressed himself and then took up the few weapons and armor that he would need on the trip in his arms.

He bore everything to Riv’s kitchen, passing as silently as a shadow in the halls, for he had left his boots beside his own door. Skald had set his stuff on a chair the previous evening and Bror piled his armor and weapons with his cloak beside that. After casting a last glance over his things to make sure that was all he needed, he walked to the counter. The four mugs that had been used the previous evening for ale were still sitting on the counter top. He stopped and considered them carefully. After a moment, he gave a determined nod and stepped forward, took two of them and filled them both with water and then left the place as quietly as he had come.

Going as swiftly as he could with full mugs of water, Bror made his way to Skald’s room. He stopped outside the door and with bated breath, leaned his head towards it to listen for any movement from within. There was none, and he ventured to push the door open.

It swung in noiselessly and he entered. No light was lit and in the utter stillness, Bror could hear above the blood moving in his own ears, the sound of Skald’s breathing. He still slept. The young dwarf tiptoed to his bedside and putting both mugs into his right hand, he very gently moved the blanket down and cleared Skald’s chin of it.

Bror nodded with satisfaction. His left hand took back its own mug and then he extended both hands above Skald’s face, stepped back half a foot, and let both water contents fall in even, flowing streams straight onto the sleeping dwarf’s sleeping features.

Bror bounded backwards as light as a deer, still clutching the mug handles in his hands, as Skald sat up with a roar. The water streamed down his beard and neck, most of it being soaked up in his hair, but the rest wetting the bed clothes. Bror retreated to the lighted hall and then stuck his head back in to venture one comment.

‘I would have rigged something far more complicated and far more satisfying for the both of us, but there wasn’t any time, and there wouldn’t have been time to clean it up afterwards anyway.’