A Reluctant Alliance

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Belanos and Lihan Taifun

The emptiness in his belly nudges the Balrog to action.  He flies inland, putting some distance between him and that ocean which unsettles his mind.  There are a few settlements scattered here, and he is tempted to just grab a fat cow or pig, but in his own mind he has not yet stooped to simple thieving.  Either destroy the whole town, or hunt his own food -- that is the noble way to do it.  So he flies on, inland toward the Blue Mountains.

Súraumo had been flying for most of the morning.  Wary of prying eyes, he kept just below the spine of the Blue Mountains so he would not readily silhouette against the sky from the land below.  He had been journeying south for some time now, stopping to hunt and rest as the need arose, but the further south he flew the more he noted distant settlements dotting the landscape below him.  Now in the near distance he could see the sunlight glinting off the waters of the Great Sea.  This he knew meant that his time of daylight flight was at an end for it was along the coast of this mighty waterway that men and elves more commonly made their homes.

Súraumo knew that from now on it would be prudent for him to journey at night, for he knew he would be but a fleeting shadow to any who may look to the starry skies.   With this thought in mind, he lightly adjusted the tilt of his wings, flapping only occasionally as he glided lower and lower in search of somewhere to rest until nightfall.  Spying an open glade such as he sought, he flared his wings to swiftly lose airspeed, the delicate membranes taut against the resistance of the air.  In a flurry of dust and grass seeds at last he landed, taking care to protect his maimed forepaw from the impact.

Something large, shadowed against the mountains, catches the Balrog's attention,  something flying purposefully, much too large to be an eagle.  Curious, the Balrog makes a note of where the other flier settles. 

Pressing onward, flapping somewhat faster than comfortable, the Balrog reaches the mountains, and circles slowly until he locates what he had seen -- a large dragon.  A dragon!  His mind considers the implications, while he moves slowly down to get a closer view.  Remembering his experiences with dragons ages ago, in the Dark Master's armies, he keeps to the dragon's front, within it's view, to avoid startling it.  A reflexive twitch of a dragon tail can be quite unpleasant to anyone nearby.

Súraumo looks around warily after landing, the muscles of his long neck rippling as it snaked from side to side, his one good eye sharp and bright as he checked for danger before at last moving forward to the edge of a nearby stream.  Lowering his muzzle he gulped great draughts of the sparkling water, his eye never ceasing to dart warily around him and his ears twitched back and forth as he listened for warning of an impending threat.  He had not lived to the great age he was by being careless in strange lands. Caution was second nature to him.  A rustling in the undergrowth nearby caused him to raise his snout, still streaming water as he turned to investigate.  A quick snuffle of the air informed him of the badger scurrying deeper into the forest.

Súraumo crinkled his nose in disgust.  Badgers were more effort than their meagre meat was worth and no threat to him at all.  He would hunt later, he decided, when the sun was low and the creatures of the forests were seeking their shelter for the night.  For now though, he would rest.  Lowering himself to the ground in another puff of dust he heaved a sigh of relief.  It was good to rest.  As he lowered his head upon his forepaws he tried not to think of the days when he could fly from dawn til dusk without thought.

The Balrog quickly notes that, although the dragon is huge, it bears numerous scars.  The skin indents between gaunt ribs, indicating this one has not been eating well.  The geas once more tickles the back of the Balrog's mind, stirring the beginnings of a plan.

"Hail, oh most noble of beasts," the Balrog booms, hovering a cautious distance from the dragon's scrawny snout.

Súraumo's eyes snap open, and his head flicks up with a start.  He had not even realised he had begun to doze as he rested at the edge of the glade.  Impatient with this weakness and irked beyond measure that any creature had managed to approach him, his eye glinted with malice as he sought the speaker.  With a start the dragon recognised a balrog hovering just out of snapping distance.  A balrog!  Súraumo had not seen one of those foul creatures since he'd fled the battlefields of the War of Wrath in crippled and shamed defeat.  Now he tilted his head so he could eye the creature warily.  He snorted a great cloud of cinders and smoke as he rumbled, "Noble, am I?  You presume, Most Foul One who dares disturb my rest."

The Balrog flexes a wing irritably, as he tries to get his mind into the right frame for coddling a dragon.  "Nay, magnificent one.  I was merely admiring your excellent self.  How could I avoid stopping to greet an old comrade?  Surely you must be a fellow veteran of the great wars?"

Súraumo's scales rise in reflex at the Balrog's words.  Magnificent he knew he was not.  He crinkled his muzzle and showed his teeth as he rasped his reply, "Aye, I was at the Great Wars, but I call none comrade from that time.  Especially do I not call comrade a Balrog who speaks with sweet words.  What is it you seek, Foul Beast, for I know for you to speak so, you seek something of me."  He snakes his head forward and glares malevolently at the Balrog before continuing, "And make sure you speak truth, mind or it will not go well for ye."

The Balrog's eyes narrow to a scorn-filled glare at this insolent lizard.  Fortunate for this one that he does indeed seek something from it.  He tries to relax his habitual scowl.  The result is more like a grimace.  "Most perceptive of you, oh, dragon.  A venture has occurred to me, which would be profitable to the both of us.  A city of fat elves, with plenty of livestock …"

Súraumo fixes the balrog with a baleful glare as he considered his words.  In truth his mouth watered at the thought of the easy pickings of domestic stock.  Hunting had not been easy on his long journey south, and his stomach had not known a full meal for some time.  Experience, however,  had taught him to avoid cities, especially elven cities. Still, his curiosity was raised, for it was seldom a Balrog ever needed assistance in anything. "Elven cities are notoriously well-defended.  Why should I risk doing such a foolish thing?  Do you think me some gullible young hatchling that only knows the demands of its stomach?"

The Balrog does not need to feign his sneer.  "I thought you to be powerful enough that you did not fear a few elves.  Surely arrows mean no more to you than a few stinging flies. But if you are past your city-smashing days, then stay here and hunt rabbits!  I have no doubt I can find a younger dragon who will join me,  one who still has a taste for hunting elves."

Stung beyond endurance by the balrog's taunts, Súraumo leaps to his feet, "I fear nothing!"  His reply is an angry roar that echos around the glade.  Cinders and sparks fly from his mouth with his words and his teeth snap together angrily as he speaks, "What I would like to know is why a Balrog considers sharing plunder at all!  What is it you need from me that you would do such a thing?"

The Balrog does not flinch, neither from the dragon's roar, nor from the sparks.  "Now we are getting down to business," he says with grim satisfaction.  "This city, where I have 'business', is on an island.  A dragon's speed in flying would be useful to me."  That is a substantial understatement, but technically it is truth.  Some dragons are surprisingly touchy about hearing the truth.  "We fly to this island.  I look for the king and 'take care of my business.'  You make whatever sport you like -- smash towers, grab screaming elves, burn what you will.  It will be easy pickings."

Súraumo's single eye glares belligerently at the Balrog as he ponders the creature's words.  So now we are at the truth of it, he thinks to himself, for he is well aware of how difficult it would be for a Balrog to get to an island, for water is one of the few things Balrogs fear.  It was risky, that much was certain, both in trusting the word of a Balrog and the suggested course of action and yet.. and yet there was still something in Súraumo of the impetuous youngling he used to be. For too long he'd live a life of caution and safety.  How many more seasons were left to him, he wondered, before the winter snows coated his bones?  He had been living the life of an old dragon when the heart of a young one beat within.  Thoughtfully now he eyed the Balrog again, and his voice rumbled menacingly as he spoke, "I will do this thing that you ask of me. But know this, balrog. If there is one hint of treachery from you, then you shall find yourself dumped into the Great Sea without hesitation."  He snorted a spurt of flame to make sure his intent was understood before asking, "Now where are we to find this city of fat elves?"

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Steam

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Lihan Taifun

The demon squats irritably on a rocky hilltop, safely above the splashing of the waves of the sea.  For the eons of his existence in this world, he has revelled in his power.  Few beings of the puny created races have ever stood up to one of his kind, and none lived to tell of the encounter.  Yet now he finds himself doubly frustrated, under the command of a creature who should by rights have no power over him at all, and stymied to fulfill what should be a simple assignment.  Petulent sparks jump from his flanks and fall to the ground, where they fizzle impotently against the rock.

One puzzle was how that tiny created being had managed to summon and bind him. The Dark Master had given him his secret name of power, long ago, at the beginning of the world, when he had left another life and another name to serve the Mighty One.  If the one who had bound him knew that name that only the Dark One knew, that suggests that the Dark One might somehow be involved.  Could this be true, after his meddling brethren had banished him from this earth ages ago?  Those thought have chased their tails through his mind, ever since he had been summoned, and he is no closer to unravelling the truth of the matter.

That leaves him with the practical problem, equally galling.  The puny little worshiper of His Dark Majesty HAD managed to summon him, and place a geas on him.  Try as he might to ignore the spell, he has found the compulsion relentlessly nagging at his mind, giving him no peace, constantly undermining his concentration on other matters.  "Spread chaos, pain and destruction across the lands, starting in Alqualondë. Then seek out that which is called the Undying Lands."  Chaos, pain and destruction he enjoys.  He would be pleased with the damage he had already caused, if the geas would allow him. But no, his recent visit to the islands and coastlands was tainted by the incessant reminder that he had not yet fulfilled his orders.

The problem is that this Alqualondë is an island, and far out to sea.  Hovering above a battlefield is one thing; flying to a distant island is -- here on this remote hilltop, alone, he dares to admit to himself -- flying that many leagues is quite beyond the abilities of this body, however strong and impervious it might be in battle, and however intimidating it might look.  As long as he is facing unpleasant truths -- and a being of his superior intellect  would be a fool to ignore truth -- he should admit that he is uncomfortable with that much ocean.  As a demon of fire, he has no use for water.  The thought of leagues and leagues of water make his stony skin crawl.  And all that water is the province of a particularly unsavory Vala brother of his Dark Master.  Yet across that water was where the geas is inexorably urging him to go.

He picks up a stone, holding it in his hand until it is red-hot, and then lobs it out into the waves below, where it causes an explosion of steam.  But he is no closer to resolving his dilemma.

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Old Bones

Belanos

High upon a mountainside the creature slept.  Around it, the world was stirring.  Birds were chittering and fluffing their feathers in preparation for the day's activities.  Already a falconet circled high in a sky cloudless and the palest of blues.  The beast below seemed oblivious to it all, lost in slumber.  There seemed nothing to indicate it was even alive except the regular rustle of its scales against the rock as mighty lungs drew breath. 

Yet alive it very much was and fully intended to remain for this beast had lived through many Ages already and although aged and wearied by life, was not yet ready to surrender its grip on this world.   For the beast was Súraumo, once one of the mighty dragons of Morgoth, who fought in the War of Wrath. 

Now as the dawning sun warmed his scales, the dragon's mind rose from the depths of sleep although still it did not stir.  Quietly it lay unmoving, extending its senses around it in search of danger before finally sliding a scaled eyelid open and lifting its head.  He was forced to turn his neck more than usual to survey the scene before it, for one eye was blinded, the eyelid drooping and the flesh above and below it rent with a jagged scar.   Súraumo snorted in annoyance at the forced movement for always it reminded him of the humiliation of the encounter that led to that scar.  Fighting a younger male dragon over the rights to a female had led to a bitter defeat for the old dragon.  Never before had he lost to a youngling, but this made him face the reality of his advancing age.  Now as he surveyed the valleys below him he still struggled to accept he had come so far from those days of glory in Morgoth's forces.

His muzzle curled into a silent snarl as he thought of those days.  Young, proud and more than half wild, like many of his kind he was eager for battle, eager for glory.   Too young to realise he had not yet reached his full strength. Too young to realise he and many others of his age were sent into that bloody battle far too early for any dragon to fight effectively, let alone survive.  Yet Morgoth had been desperate for victory and had thrown everything he had into the battle regardless of the consequences- even unready younglings.  Arrogant and lustful for glory the younglings had gone eagerly to do his bidding.  In the end, few survived.  Even the mightiest of them all, Ancalagon the Black was slain.  What hope had mere younglings to succeed when the mightiest of them all fell? 

Now as he thought on those days Súraumo subconsciously flexed his left forepaw, easing the ache in it that was his constant companion after all these years, for the paw was half gone, the rest savagely sliced from him in battle.  The dragon lowered his head and licked at it tenderly with his rasping forked tongue in a habitual gesture of comfort.  Even now, centuries later he still felt the loss the wound had inflicted.  He had long learned to walk again, although always there was a limp and the ache, the constant ache.

The ache was a reminder to him of the selfish and thoughtless way he had been used.  No thought was put into his safety or survival during that battle.  What cared Morgoth for the lives or fate of his dragons?  To him they were mere tools to meet his own ends.  After the War Súraumo had escaped into the Northen Waste, there to heal and eke out an existence as best he could.  The rare times he had encountered those who lived in towns or cities had been unpleasant.  Always they sought to destroy him if he were seen.  Always, when unseen he listened in on their words: they reeked of a lust for power, wealth and glory.  There was nothing in them to trust. Nothing in them to draw him. 

And so, as the Ages passed, Súraumo had remained hidden in the wild lands, fighting no battles other than those for his own needs and growing in strength and size as each Age passed.  Now, his scales warmed and his blood stirring, he rose to his feet and the full glory of his size became apparent.  Lazily he shook himself, his whole body shuddering from head to the very tip of his long muscled tail, his scales clattering together loudly.  Alas his size was truly his only glory for Súraumo was not a beautiful dragon.  His colour was the murky brown of swamp water, ideal for hiding in forests and swamplands but hardly pleasing to the eye.  Nor had others of his kind thought him handsome, for he was too long of snout and narrow in the chest to appeal to the females of his kind.  Any pleasures he'd had with them he'd had to take by force rather than by favour. Now with advancing age and the injuries he'd sustained over time even his ability to force another dragon had become depleted as the new scar above his eye bore witness. 

Súraumo snorted again in annoyance before opening his jaws and indulging in a mighty yawn.  The pleasure of the yawn was cut short however as the movement brought to life again the stabbing pain that was his constant companion.  The yawn had revealed teeth broken and blackened, the result of a long life and some foolish choices of opponents.  One huge canine had been ripped out 900 years ago as the other dragon had torn free from his bite.  Yet another tooth lay crooked in its socket, exposed to the air even when the dragon's jaw was closed.  Yet others were missing entirely but it was the blackened ones that caused the pain.  Now Súraumo shook his head as though to shake himself free of the annoying pain.  It was nothing great really, for one of his size and strength, but its constancy was wearing on his temper.   He pawed at his mouth a little but it did not ease it. 

With his mood black the dragon stretched his wings and took a mighty leap into the air to resume his journey, for Súraumo was making his way south along the spine of the Blue Mountains.  Autumn had brought a chill to the airs of the wild northern lands, and the chill brought an ache to his old bones.  So south he must go, seeking warmth and comfort, following the fat herds of migrating deer.  Hunting too had become harder since his blinding, and now he needed to stay close to a plentiful food supply for his hunts succeeded less and less often.   This time Súraumo did not suppress his snarl at the thought of how much he was failing of late.  The snarl became a full-throated roar of rage and frustration as his mood became blacker still.

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"My Concern is for Nienna"

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Shawn Daysleeper and AelKennyr Rhiano

Ulmo

Swift as the currents of the ocean, so swam Ulmo, staff in his hand, a baleful look in his eyes.  His face clouded in darkness as the mind of the mighty Vala considered the urgency in the Lord of Dreams, the disquised Irmo.

Arien's vessel had slipped over the lip of the horizon, and Tilion's ship rode the night skies. But as the Lord of Waters heaved himself out of the ocean, a spray of water chasing complacent sleeping swans, the moon was cloaked in dark clouds, and the skies bathed the Swanhaven in  heavy rain. "The skies weep," thought Ulmo, and then realized how strange he should have found such a thought. His blue eyes sweep the docks for his brother and found him in his disguise as Estelin the Teleri musician. "Hail," greeted Ulmo, his voice low.  He would not wake the Children slumbering.

The Disguised Lord of Dreams

Estelin looks around as the Lord of the Seas disturbs the waters of the harbour, making sure that only the swan's slumber was disturbed. "My Brother, I am glad you received my message. I was beginning to fear my telepathic abilities were failing." The rain fell, but the Lord of Dreams paid it no head. "The skies weep, and so may I out of frustration for finding my sister."

Ulmo looks up into the face that peers down, that of a simple musician, one of the Children. But as Ulmo raises himself out of the waters of the world to bob and float upon the air as easily as he does upon the waters of the world, he sees the worry upon the face before him is the worry of the Lord of Dreams.  The words betray the ache that Ulmo can feel emanating from Irmo. "Nienna?" asks Ulmo, and reminds himself to keep his voice the barest of whispers. Up in the palace, Olwe of Alqualonde murmurs in his sleep and turns over. It would not due to wake the Teleri Lord up.

"Nienna," Irmo says concernedly, in a softer tone. He has an idea now of the threshold of voice that would awaken a sleeping elf. He hopes Ulmo does the same by his example. "Thrice now I have tried to contact her since she left Alqualonde to speak to Manwe about the Dragon Dometis' arrival. It is as if, she is ignoring me." He speaks, somewhat hurt.

Ulmo's narrow at the mention of "dragon." He remembers the dragons, creatures shaped by Melkor's twisted desires. "A dragon?" He forgets, and his voice rises, the sound like a roiling of the sea, crashing against rocks. The thunder and lightning disguised the sound, though Ulmo could feel Olwe's mind start to struggle out of sleep. "The Teleri Lord is more attuned to us now, " he whispers softly, lowering his voice, averting his eyes so that Irmo cannot see his embarrassment. "Dragon here in Alqualonde? How is it the Children survived? Did you intervene?  And Nienna? She has always been mindful of her duties."

 "There was no fight with the dragon." He raises his voice a little to clarify the recent events to his brother. "It just... crashed into the sea just offshore, and it was wounded. Remember, my brother, I am not to use my true powers while in this form in these lands. I did not learn where or why it sustained its injuries, but Olwe took it in and nursed it to health. Despite the dragon landing, that is not the foremost of my worries, nor why I desired to speak to you." He speaks more softly. "My concern is Nienna."

Ulmo gives a nod. "Speak on, then, Irmo. How is it that she is not here? What pulled her from her duties here?" He regards the now drenched disguised Lord of Visions. "Is that uncomfortable, being wet in all that ...fabric?"

Estelin's thoughts shift for a moment from Nienna to his clothes. He looks down from Ulmo's face to his robes. "I do not think I am uncomfortable, but now that you mention it..." He trails off as he he wipes down his clothes, half expecting them to dry out. When nothing of the sort happens, he continues. "My sister went to inform Manwe of the dragon's arrival in Alqualonde. She said she would only be a few days and asked me to cover her absence, saying she would only be gone a few days at most. This was some time ago, many days. She sent me word once, saying she had some task to see to in Aman and would be late. Her absence is being noticed by some here, including Olwe. I am concerned for her condition and of our mission here in Alqualonde."

Ulmo reaches out an overlarge hand and places it upon Irmo's chest. As Lord of the Waters, moisture is an element he manipulates easiest, and with the briefest of concentration, he pulls the water out of the fabric and in to his own husk of a body.  Ulmo's eyes meet Irmo's as the Lord of Dreams speak, his own expression heavy and measuring. "Manwe would not keep her overlong from here, " muses Ulmo, "Not even in the depths of his current sadness would he overlook the significance should your sister be absent for too long a time." He pulls back his hand, too large for the body and flexes the fingers as he speaks. "Yet, we both worry as though she is one of the Children in sooth, and what could befall a Vala?"

"Indeed." The Teleri musician wipes his hands thoughtfully over his now dry robes. "What could have befallen a Vala?" he says aloud. "She is my sister, the Vala of Compassion. She would not shut out her brother, especially when she knows of our duty here. Olwe is healed for now, but her presence is reassuring to him. I admit, I am concerned for her, but I dare not leave Alqualonde." He says firmly,"Olwe needs us."

Ulmo gives a firm nod, dropping the hand to his side. "Yes, he does. He needs the presence of the Vala more than ever, and he needs the encouragement to take up the mantle of responsibility laid upon his shoulders." He looks up as the rain slacks and then back at his brother Vala. "You cannot leave Alqualonde, but I can go to Aman and learn of Nienna."

"My brother, I thank you for doing this on my behalf." He does not hide his relief at Ulmo's offer. "Perhaps now, I can turn my attention to bodily functions. I think there are some Teleri that consider me as... unusual." He smiles slightly. "Brother, please seek her out. As I said she was to report to Manwe. I do not know what else she was going to do before returning."

"I shall do so, to relieve the unease you feel," assures the Lord of the Waters. "I will to Manwe's Hall speed myself and see what can be learned, for a wayward Vala would be most troublesome a thought. It is not enough that some Maiar, now, appear to behave most oddly. No less than the Herald himself seems to be in  a dark and trouble affliction whereby he imagines Aule to act other than a faithful servant of Blessed Eru." He then strokes his chin with an illformed hand. "Bodily functions?" he muses. "You must be sure and  not arouse suspicions, Irmo. The Children can be very curious in nature."

Estelin nods to Ulmo's last statement. "Perhaps you have some advice for me before you depart?"

Ulmo taps his chin, and cocks his head. "Why do they find you odd?"

Estelin thinks for a moment. There are so many ways he has been pointed out as odd. But one comes to mind. "My cooking has been deemed unacceptable. I am no longer allowed in the kitchen."

Ulmo takes in a deep breath, tapping his chin as his chest swells with the air. He thinks for several moments, forgetting the mortal need for exhalation until his eyes brighten, and he lets out the air in a whoosh. "Do you change your raiment often? Do you douse your body in water periodic and scrub the skin? The Children do not smell as we do, my brother. Perhaps if you smelled more like them, they would trust you more with the cooking. For mortal bodies, as you are learning, do have but dull senses and appreciation of the world. And I would make sure that upon occasion, your breath smells like food you have ingested the day before. Perhaps the teeth not so white on each day."

Estelin nods and considers all the words his brother spoke. "Yes, that is something I should work on." He notices the hour, and some time had passed during their meeting. "I believe soon the Children will awaken, as they often do with the rising of Arien. I should tend to my duties as one of the Children."

For answer, Ulmo looks out across the sea, shining dark in the night. "And I should go to Aman and to the Lord of the West." He looks back at the disguised Lord of Dreams. "All will be well, Irmo. Do not let your heart be troubled. I shall share with you what I learn. " He starts to return to the water, and looks back at the Teleri musician once more before returning to the ocean and speeding his way  to Aman.

A Brother's Distress

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AelKennyr Rhiano

On the bottom of Vai, in his palace called Ulmonan, sat Ulmo, Lord of Waters. The waters of the world were calm, and at the foot of his mighty throne, in a chair fashioned from pearl and sand pressed and ground so that it was the purest of glass, sat the Lady of the Sea, Uinen. Her hair stretched out around her, covering the floor of the palace and beyond. Quietly she sat attendence upon her Lord, her luminous eyes wide and watching the Vala of the Waters of the World. To her would beseech the Mariners of Númenor, for aid in calming her husband,Ossë, for her protection. But that was long ago, before the people of Númenor hardened their hearts against the Valar. Overweening pride led to their destruction. A slight frown wrinkles her brow and causes her lips to purse.

But the Teleri, the largest group of the Firstborn...ah, they were different. Her brow  smooths, and her lips curve in a gentle smile. Her shining hair bobs and floats with the currents of the ocean. For the Maia, the years of the centuries seem to roll back upon themselves, like foam upon the high tide waters, and once more Unien and Ossë were at the banks of the Sirion, talking with a shy and young Olwe, his blue eyes wide, his manner respectful and nervous, not yet a king, not yet a leader.

She cast another quick glance at her Lord, Ulmo. He, too, loves the Eldar and Edain. As the currents of the world's oceans caress the skin she wears, she watches his broad face assume a thoughtful expression, his lips parting as though to speak. She leans forward in her chair, watchful, waiting.  One hand curls around the card end of the throne arm, and the Lord of the Sea nods once, before affixing her with a steady gaze. "Unien," he speaks, his voice deep as the sea bottom, constant as the flow of the water around her.

"Yes, my Lord," she answers, rising gracefully from her chair.

"I shall go to Alqualonde," Ulmo says, rising from the throne and taking on the size and shape he desired above all.. a giant wave in glittering green armor. "Irmo desires speech with me."

A troubled look cross the face of the Maia, and Unien asks softly, "Is all well with the Teleri king and those in Alqualonde?"

Already moving toward the great doorway leading out of his hall, Ulmo answered, distractedly. "Olwe?" He pauses in midstride and nods. "Yes, he and his are well." He reaches for his horns, the Ulumúri. "But Irmo is not."

Unien hastened to Ulmo's side. "Lord Irmo?" she repeats.

Ulmo nods curtly. "It involves Nienna." Then at a glance from him, the doors to his audience chamber opens and he swims through.

Unien stares after him for long moments."Nienna," she repeats.  "What could be wrong with Nienna.?"

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Nienna Interrupted

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Lihan Taifun

Nienna sprawls on a softly upholstered bench, in the deep chamber which was once a prison.  "Day" and "night" have no meaning here, far even from the filtered lights of the Undying Lands, farther yet from the cycles of Middle Earth.  A cup of wine sits at her elbow.  She has learned to drink the wine slowly, savoring the scent and taste.  No longer does it overwhelm her, as it did at her first meal here.  It is one of many thing she has learned from Aule.

As Aule teaches her about life in physical bodies, she continues the work that brought her here: listening to his tale, understanding his frustrations, calming his troubled spirit.

She understands the Children so much better now.  How blind the Valar have been living isolated here in the Blessed Lands: Manwe viewing the world from the heights of his mountain;  Este sleeping by the pools of her garden, and brother Irmo never questioning this; she and brother Mandos spending all their time with the dead; Varda with her stars. The Valar dabbled perhaps in the physical world -- a feast for a day, a stroll in Vana's meadows.  Orome with his hunts, and Yavanna with her orchards. 

Yes, while the Valar drift in lives of ease, in the spirit world and a perfectly controlled model of the world. Meanwhile, the Children, living in the hard-edged physical world, battle, and love, and develop passions unknown to sheltered spirit-beings.  But Nienna understands their world and their passions now.

Their burning desire for justice, not as a cold theoretical following of a distant plan of a distant Eru,but the urgent personal need to redress personal wrongs. She now feels,in her own inner being, Aule's pain at the injustices and indignities he had suffered -- from Eonwe, from Yavanna, from Manwe himself.  If the Valar cannot treat one of their own number well, how can they hope to govern a world?

Their fierce love of a homeland, as she now loves this quiet and safe room.  This is a tiny "home" perhaps, but belonging only to her and her kind, gentle, thoughtful Aule.

A mental disturbance intrudes on her thoughts -- her brother Irmo, still in the mortal lands. Among the many pleasures she has learned in this place, solitude is one that appeals to both her Ainu spirit nature and her physical body.  To be free of the clamor of demands on her attention. Surely her work with Aule is of greater importance than anything that could be happening to the mortals.  Irritated, she brushes the mental touch away.  Again she feels Irmo's attempt at mental contact, and closes her mind firmly, lest he continue to pester her.  Angrily she mutters to the room around her, "I am busy.  I have important matters to attend.  Did I not already tell him so?"

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In Silence, Manwë's Hall

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AelKennyr Rhiano

 

The heel of his boots struck the marbled floor of the corridor, the sound sharp and jarring to the ears of this physical body, causing Eonwe to grit his teeth. He stopped for a moment, simply to allow the sound to die away before continuing on.

The coolness of the forever twilight was in the walls. As Eonwe strode forward, he reached out a hand and trailed it along the nearest wall, feeling the smooth firmness of the stone.  His brothers and sisters, ages past, brought this building into being, not through song or thought but with the work of physical hands and tools designed by none other than Aule. It is only now, the longer that Eonwe remains in physical form, that he can appreciate the labor and time which went into the construction. As he walks on, a frown crosses his lips, and his brow furrows. Why did he not notice then? Unknowingly he chews upon his bottom lip in thought. Ah, but in those days, Manwë moved across the breadth of Aman,  with Eonwe ever at his side, at his beck and call. 

It was there, from the very beginning of his existence, the desire, the need to serve the Lord of the West, as it was in Ilmare to be handmaiden unto Varda Elentári. But Ilmare became more and more interested in the movement of the stars, while he, Eonwe, desired nothing more nor less than to ever be faithful and steadfast in his duties.  The centuries flowed into one long, unending seeking to be ever near the Breath of Arda, to be in all wise, the true and steadfast Herald.

Even when Eärendil reached the shores of Aman and appealed to Manwë, and thus was Eonwe sent to Middle-earth to fight the War of Wrath, leading the Vanyar...even then only physical distance separated the Mightiest in Arms from his Lord, for his will was the Will of the Lord of the West.  Even the Lady Varda remarked to Eonwe once, "So close you are to your Lord, you are as a son to him, were we like unto the Children of Illuvatar and begat offspring unto ourselves." 

Eonwe had flushed with pleasure at the remark, treasured it, and even now, a small smile steals across his face.  Until he remembers why he treads the hallway to the throne room at an hour when it is most untended and unoccupied.

He paused at then point where the corridor opens into the great hall of Manwë, at the threshold, where one more step would carry you into the splendor of the throne room. Ahead the eye can see the curved room, the fine interplay of smooth, marble trimmed with gold and the creamy white carved marble, the winged lions proud and majestic as they looked at each other across an elegant vase. At the entrance, the flame burned bright on the tall column. Without hesitation, Eonwe reached out with his mind and doused the flame, casting the entrance in shadows. His throat squeezed close and his hands tightened into fists, but with a deep breath, he stepped inside, into this room he has known through the long centuries: The throne room of Manwë.

Reverently, Eonwe stepped up upon the first raised circular platform, his eyes scanning the room as though to see it for the first time. And, in truth, he was, for mortal eyes, though limited in perception, revealed to him much more than he had seen before. The embedded golden fire bowl still contained the same fire as first burned with the hall was new, but now as he watched the dancing orange, red, and yellow flames, heard the popping and roar of the fire, he felt its warmth and could discern the myriad tongues of fire, all competing for air to fuel itself. Lifting his eyes up to the ceiling, he recognized how cunningly the marble was chosen for its resemblance to a cloud filled sky in middle earth, and through the open center, he could see the cleverly wrought lights which provided a back light and which highlighted the second ceiling, also the blue of the sky such as the Children see when Arien's vessel lights up the sky.

Lowering his gaze, he allowed his eyes to travel over the 8 formless statues, seated in plain, high backed thrones.  Eight statues for the 8 remaining Arator. Where once Melkor's statue sat is an empty throne, directly behind the majestic throne of the Lord of the West. Eonwe remembered the day the Breath  of Arda ordered the statue removed. "Do you wish it destroyed?" his herald had asked. With eyes that held such grief, such loss, such pain that Eonwe's own eyes felt heavy, the Lord of the West shook his head. And when he ordered his own throne placed where it stands even now, Eonwe ventured to ask the why of it, and his Lord explained. His Lord always explained.

Manwë's Throne Room, with statues of the Aratar

But now, there was only one question in the Maiar's heart, and he could not bear to ask it of  his Lord. He could not bear the thought of not being heard. He could not bear the thought of not being answered. 

Why? Why do you not believe me?

Trembling, but not with cold nor fear, the Maia who was once herald walked up to the foot of the steps leading to Manwë's seat.

The Throne of Manwë

How many times had he followed his Lord up there, stood next to the throne, ready to assist of obey. Now, at this hour, the throne was as empty as his heart felt. Bowing his head, he dropped to a knee, murmuring  what all Maiar said when in the presence of the Lord of the West, "May the Will of the Valar be done."  But his legs were leaden, his heart heavy as iron, and he could not rise.


"Blessed Eru," whispered Eonwe, his voice containing none of the elegance, the smooth timbre or  masterful tone the Maia displayed when Herald of the Lord of the West. Instead, his voice is mournful, pained, full of tears his eyes refuse to shed.  "Blessed Eru, I am lost. My heart, "he pauses, feeling the physical organ tighten and squeeze. "This heart hurts. It hurts, and I cannot find rest, nor ease for it or this body." A shudder runs though his frame as he runs a tongue over cracked lips. "I care nothing for this body's welfare. Yet to be without it, to be as I am when not sheathed in flesh, would be more than I can stand."  He swallows.

"Ilmare thinks I should go to my Lord, to...." he pauses and finds that name of the Breath of Arda sticks in his mouth, like a sweet taste to be savored for its flavor is all too short-lived. "To Manwë, " he finishes.  Now that he had spoken the name of his beloved Lord, the rest of the words poured out, like water freed of a dam:

"My soul is a desert,
Yet I have no thirst.
Parched but not for water,
My feet drag forward,
And I search.

Where shall I find
the elixir I seek?
Where shall I hear
My much loved Lord speak
if not to me?

My heart is a wasteland,
Yet still it beats.
Empty of everything
Yet still I continue
and I bleed.

Speak to me, My Lord.
Call me again to Serve.
Speak to me, My Lord,
Words from your mouth like water
And I shall answer thee.

And I shall answer thee,
And leave thee ... nevermore."

Startled by his own words, falling from his lips like rain, Eonwe's head drops lower. "Please, Blessed Eru, know I well I am but Maia and beneath the mighty Vala, but I reported to my Lord but what I witnessed. Please, please, I am but a wisp of spirit in thy image. I beseech, bring unto Manwë, Lord of the West, that which he needs to see I spoke but the truth."

Eonwë

He took a painful breath and slowly rose gracefully to his feet. "So that if he believes not this lowly Maia, he may yet believe another."  He raised his gaze to take in the empty throne of the Lord of the West. His throat worked, and his jaw clenched. There were no more words. Only the sound of the flames.  Just the sound of the flames, and footsteps leading the Mightiest in Arms from the Hall of Manwë.

> Next    

Estelin Isolated

<  Previous Estelin     < Previous Nienna    

Shawn Daysleeper

Breathing some relief as the Lord of the Teleri departed from his home, Estelin thought about the dragon. Its behaviour seemed to suggest it was fleeing from something, but apparently Dometis never told Olwe anything of the kind. This information would surely interest his sister. He decides to contact his sister again, hoping he would reach her this time.

He goes to his door. He could see Nole some distance off, seeing to the rigging on one of the swanships in the harbour. Olwe was slowly receding into the distant palace. The disguised Vala did not see Elenwe or any other inhabitant of Alqualonde close at hand. Closing the door to his home and retreating to a dark corner of his home, he blocks out the mortal world.

Tapping into the interethereal medium used to propagate telepathic waves, the Lord of Dreams sends the signal to his sister, trying to find her mind amidst the chaos of emotions and vibes of Creation, seeking out the one he desires. Emotions, feelings and ethereal spirits flash by as shapeless forms of smoke before he finally finds her.

But even as he conveys his greeting, he finds himself blocked. Just as before. No response and no reply. He could sense her telepathic mind, but she refuses to interact with him. He waits for some time hoping she would see her brother there.

A honking noise shook him back to reality. Rushing around the corner to the source of the noise, he saw a large swan on the back terrace of his home. It was undoubtedly Maisy, whom Nole had introduced to him once before.

The empty sea stretched just beyond the terrace. He is alone, with uncertain times ahead. He dared not leave Alqualonde to avoid further suspicion. He needs someone he could talk to. Of course! The sea reminded him of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. He sends a mental message of urgency, and the desire to speak with him, the one who taught the Lord of Dreams about bodily functions and blending in long ago, along with his sister.

> Next Estelin     > Nienna's Response    

Comforts of Home

< Previous Elwing     < Previous Aztryd    

Cinnamon Raymaker and Lihan Taifun

Aztryd climbs the stairs from the kitchen to Lady Elwing's sickroom, carefully balancing a tray with a bowl of broth, and clean towels.  Hiking from one end of the palace to the other doesn't bother her, but the steps were built for longer legs, which slows her more than she likes to admit.

Likewise, the door handle is uncomfortably high, and she has a tense moment, balancing the tray on one hand while reaching up to shoulder level to work the knob with the other.  As she enters, she whispers, "Elwing? Sister?  Are you awake?"

Elwing whimpers and rolls across the bed, seeing again the terrifying visions from her journey.

Her patient looks much the same as before, still tossing restlessly, and murmuring incomprehensibly.  Aztryd is no stranger to tending the sick and injured, though she has seldom had to do the work alone.  She sets down her tray at the bedside table, glancing around the floor to locate baby Nizl.  Yes, there she is, gnawing quietly on her toes behind the headboard.  At home, there would be clan-sisters to look after the baby, and more than one sister to take turns watching the patient.  But what must be done, must be done, even if she has to do it all herself today.

She notices a wet cloth, fallen onto the blankets, picks it up, and places it back onto the table.  How did that get there?  No matter.   She places a hand gently on Elwing's arm.  "Sister?  I brought you broth.  Do you think you can eat?"

Through the mists surrounding her consciousness, Elwing feels the gentle touch of a small, roughened hand. A gruff voice is asking her something - she can't quite understand the words as the voice sounds somewhat strange to her ears. Elwing smells the aroma of something very pleasant wafting through the room, something which sets her stomach growling and a sharp pang of hunger spasms through her stomach. Groggily she tries to open her eyes to see who it is trying to rouse her from this state in which she finds herself.

"That's right," Aztryd coaxes gently.  "Wake up.  I've brought you broth."

Elwing rises further through the layers of consciousness, blinking her eyes at the brightness of the light in the room, even though the light is rather dim.

"Don't you fret.  You are back safe in Alqualonde.  In your uncle's palace.  You gave everyone a fright, collapsing like that.  But you are alright now.  Now just you sit up and try a sip of this broth.  It will bring your strength back." 

Elwing smiles weakly at the mention of Alqulaonde and her Uncle. So she had made it back after all! As she struggles to sit up and lean against the bed head, propped up by the comfortable pillows, she recalls the reason for her flight from which she had so recently returned.  "Aztryd! Now I remember! Thank you for your kindness!" she croaks.

Aztryd and Elwing

Aztryd smiles in satisfaction, that Elwing is capable of sitting up and talking, after all.

Elwing takes a sip from the spoon Aztryd is holding for her. "Mmmmmmm."

"That's good, dear.  One spoonful at a time.  Did you fall?  Where does it hurt?"

 Elwing swallows more of the delicious broth, feeling the warmth and nourishment spreading through her body, allowing her to feel life returning to her limbs, which had previously felt numb.

"Well, Aztryd, I remember reaching the balcony, and then I was so tired I just slumped over after I landed.  I didn't hurt anything, I was just so very tired!"

Aztryd relaxes a little at that news.  No broken bones, it seems, thank the Maker!  She had never set a broken bone on her own, and wouldn't really want to be practicing on this dear lady.  "That's good, that's good," she clucks, in her best imitation of her Gammy.  "It could have been much worse.  'Tired' is easy to cure.  And I must say I am glad to see you back again.  But you could have flown a little easier.  We weren't in that much of a rush."

Elwing smiles at Aztryd, thinking there was something she needed to remember, then reaches for the message tucked inside her shirt. "I think you must be waiting for news, Aztryd. Here's a message I needed to deliver to you!" she remarks, offering the rolled parchment to the dwarf mother with a smile.
"Aztryd. Do you know where my Uncle is to be found, by any chance?"

Aztryd reaches out eagerly to take the parchment.  Before she can open it, Elwing's suddenly serious question pulls her mind back from news of home.  "The King?  He is around somewhere, I'm sure.  If not in the palace, then in the town.  Do you want me to look for him?"

Elwing ponders Aztryd's remark for a moment and decides the news can wait a little longer. "No matter, Aztryd. It can wait a little longer. I need to be somewhat stronger when I bring this news to him," she adds.

Aztryd frowns at that ominous comment, then quickly remembers to put on a cheerful face for the patient.  "Then the sooner you get your strength back, the better!"

 Elwing looks across to Aztryd, "I think I can manage the bowl of broth now Aztryd. Thank you for your kindness," she smiles, reaching over to take the bowl from the dwarf mother.

Freed of the bowl, Aztryd looks again at the parchment.  "Come here, magpie," she says to Nizl, sweeping the baby into her free hand.  "Let's see what news we have from home."  She clambers awkwardly onto the too-high stool by the bedside, smiling in anticipation.

Elwing smiles at the mother and child - remembering the predicament in which they had found themselves and noting how well they had come through due to Aztryd's strength. She carefully fills the spoon with more of the warming broth and savours each sip, reminding herself that she must mention the delicious vegetable stew Aztryd's gammy had made for her at Gamilfûn. Elwing carefully empties the bowl and places it on the table beside her bed then snuggles back between the sheets to rest and replenish her strength. Watching the mother and child, with a smile on her face, Elwing drifts back to sleep.

Breaking the seal, Aztryd skims down the page.  She smiles grimly at the account of her husband's discomfiture.  'Former husband' -- better and better.  Indeed the news is all good.  She whispers softly to Nizl, "No worries, magpie, Gammy has sorted them all out.  And we will be home right soon enough." 

Looking up, Aztryd notices that Lady Elwing has fallen asleep again.  "Rest well, sister," she says gently.

> Next   

Ilmarë Speaks to Manwë Again

< Previous Manwë     < Previous Ilmarë    

Shawn Daysleeper, Rajani Milton, and Ilianor Illios

Resting in his throne with Ainome at his side, Manwe, Lord of the West, contemplates the happenings of late. Beside him sat the Wind, Ainome. He asks his wind, "Please, would you play for me, Ainome?"

Ainome answers him. "I will sit near to you, my Lord,  I'm glad we are together." Bending her head over her harp, the Wind begins to sing:

"Hlasta!
Quetis Ilfirimain:
Corma turien te
Corma tuvien
Corma tultien te
Huines se nutien.
Tercáno Nuruva.
Tuvien Corma tultien te
Huinesse nutien
Corma turien te Corma."

Manwe turns to the gentle Wind. "Thank you. Your song relaxes me."

"My Beloved Lord," Ainome says. "This song tells about prophecy. See you something that is to happen?"

"My sight is difficult to understand, and my mind is clouded. But as you sing, things are becoming clearer," answers Manwe.

Looking up, Ainome sees the Maia Ilmare.  Turning to the Breath of Arda, the Wind says to herself, "Here is the handmaid of Varda." In a louder voice, she announces as prompted by the Maia, "My Lord,  Ilmarë Starkeeper -- no, Ilmarë, sister of Eonwë."  She bows.

Manwe looks up, sees Ilmare and motions her to rise. "You have returned. Please rise and come foreward."

Ainome says as she strums her harp, "I'm glad to sing and play music that Iluvatar has created. This is the music that  have inpires me." Beautiful harp music fills Manwe's Hall. "Please, let Illuvatar touch our hearts, but speak with Lord Manwe. Has something happened?"

Ilmare says to Ainome, "I remember the Song...but I was never one for songs here. Your music is beautiful, and eases cares."

Manwe listens calmly to the music. "Your music inspires me."

"The Ainulindale music is our soul, the voice of creation," the Wind answers.

Ilmare sighs and enjoys the music. Manwe listens for a time, Ilmare's arrival reminded him of Eonwe, who was not here to enjoy Ainome's music this night.

 Ainome's voices fills the hall:

"From darkness I understand the night:
Dreams flow, a star shines
Ah! I desire Evenstar.
Look! A star rises out of the darkness
The song of the star enchants my heart.
Ah! I desire..."

Ilmare finds that the music brings to mind the way the Ainur sung and spoke together in ages past, before so many troubles happened. She, too, thinks of her brother. After a time, Manwe asks, "Please, Ilmare,  have you managed to carry out my request? Did you see your brother?"

"I love the song of Lúthien Tinúviel. Want to listen it?" the Wind asks.  As her fingers play across the harp, she wonders how the Maia will answer Manwe.

Manwe smiles to his Wind and nods. "Yes, Ainome, I would like to hear it." Then the Lord of the West turns his gaze upon the Maia and waits patiently for her answer.

Ilmare responds. "Yes, my lord, I have seen my brother."  As she listens to the song, the story of Lúthien Tinúviel and thinks of her friend Melian and wonders what it would be like to love an Elf, as Melian and Tilion have done.

Ainome finshes the song, looking in the eyes Ilamare. "I don't have the same sweet voice of Tinùviel,  but I hope you have enjoyed the song."

Ilmare stirs from thought. "Your music calms the heart." To which, Manwe himself adds, "I need comfort.

The Lord of the West then turned to Ilmare. "How is Eonwe?" he asks.

Ilmarë looks at the Lord of the West on his throne. "Lord, I am distressed for my brother Eonwë. He is -- he is not well."

Manwe nods: this was hardly news to him. "What do you think could be wrong with him?"

Ilmarë smiles wryly. "His heart is broken, lord. He thinks that you have cast him off forever, yet he loves you and would serve you. I did not know how to comfort him." She frowns, thinking also of the strange light in her brother's eyes as he spoke of Lord Aulë.

"I... I have not cast him off forever," Manwe says, trying to convince himself. He confides to her Ulmo's words to him. "Has he done anything to try to relieve himself of this madness?"

"He is naturally distressed that--" Ilmarë looks at Ainomë, unsure whether she should speak of Lord Aulë's treachery in front of another Maia. " -- he ponders the events in Mandos, but I do not think he knows what to do about them." Since you have refused to listen to him, she thinks. "He would defend you, defend everyone, as he has always done. So, he practices with the sword." She frowns again. "And this is right, but my lord, I would that he were not so angered and troubled."

Manwe frowns. "His anger has taken control of him. He let it take control. I wish he was here at my side, but he is troubled as you say, and cannot act as Herald. I desire to learn the truth behind his actions. Thank you for going to see him. It must be hard for you to see him in this state."

"He is my brother in the mind of Ilúvatar, lord. We have known each other's thoughts from the beginning. It pains me to see him clouded this way." Ilmarë bites her lip, then says more quietly. "Lord, have you spoken yourself to the Maker? I know I am not your adviser, but there seemed some truth in my brother's report. Should it not be known whether his anger has created the story from nothing, or whether in truth there is trouble in Mandos?"

Manwe thinks about Ilmare's words. He had planned to summon the Maker into his presence, but thought differently about it. He trusts Aule, but he also trusts Eonwe. Eonwe that was. The world of certainty is becoming clouded and chaotic. He needed someone to trust. "I have not spoken myself to the Maker. He was to be carrying out my request in Mandos."

Ilmarë considers her words. She sees why Eonwë is frustrated with his lord. "If Eonwë is to be believed, the Maker is not--quite--carrying out your orders, lord. And I did not find deceit in my brother's thoughts. Has your herald's word no weight at all now?"

Manwe thinks long on Ilmare's words "There may be truth in Eonwe's report. But I do not know the difference. I will contact the Maker and ask for his explanation as to what he is doing in Mandos and if he indeed defies my request."

Ainome speaks in the silence that descend. "I have a song. The words have been whispered in my ear by the Creative Voice.  I sing it now to inspire the mind of my Beloved Lord:

"You are not bound to loss and silence.
For you are not bound to the circles of this world.
All things must pass away,
All life is doomed to fade..."

The Wind's voice drops to a whisper as she softly sings.

Ilmare bows. "The king of the West is wise, as always. I hope that things are not so dire as my brother believes." She sighs. Her brother believes things very dire indeed. "I shall visit my brother as I can; it has been too long since we spoke as we used to."

The Lord of the West hopes he, too, can talk to Eonwe like before. He has been gone for far too long. "I hope things are not as dire as he reports, but I should consider his side of the report when speaking to Aule."

Ilmare nods. "I think that is all he would ask. At least, it is all I ask today."

> Next Manwë     > Next Ilmarë     

Night Breeze

< Previous  Olwë    < Previous Elwing    

AelKennyr Rhiano

The cool breeze lifted his hair, settled silver strands across his face. The Lord of Alqualonde raised a hand, and long, tapered fingers collected the errant strand and hooked them behind his ears.  As he neared the foot of the mountain range, the lapping sound of the incoming tide mingling with the steady rise and fall of the dragon's breathing.  Olwe paused at the bottom of the ridge and considered crossing over to where he heard the dragon, asleep, it appears, but shook his head and instead turned toward the empty marketplace, glowing softly in the moonlight. The ground trembled under his feet, and the sounds of a great mass shifting and settling carried upon the cool night breeze.  The dragon was turning in his sleep.  Olwe started again, stepping onto the pearl tiled market.

Deep shadows fell across empty shops.  As Olwe neared one stall where sat a potter's wheel, he paused and lightly ran his fingertips over the unsanded top. A thin layer of dust covered the top, and he rubbed his fingers together when he lifted his hand.  Lifting eyes the color of the blue sea, Olwe continued his trek to the palace. 

There was a smell in Alqualonde now, that never was when it was in Aman, and as Olwe takes in a deep breath, that scent was upon the breeze: the changing of the seasons had its scent. And tonight he caught it in the coolness of the breezes, a little crisper, saltier smell.

As he entered the palaces, his boots strike the marbled floor, the sound echoing back in the vast throne room.  For a moment, his eyes linger upon the empty throne, and his mind travels back to the elves who lovingly crafted it for him.  Between the two swans was a jeweled orb, and as he gazed upon it, his mind flashed upon the image of a much younger Comet, her honey gold hair framing her young, delicate features, the soft lips shaping an "O" of delight, the eyes dancing with laughter. How fared his Cousin, the Queen of Sylvhara, he wondered, for he had received no news in all these many days.

Turning on his heel, he left behind the throne but not the memory of his golden hair kinswoman and made his way up winding staircases, past empty rooms, shadow laden alcoves, until he neared the door of the Bedchamber in which rested Elwing the White. He stopped before the door and listened to hear if there is any sound of movement. Then he reached out his hand and grasped the door knob, turning it slowly and pushing against the door to open it. On silent hinges, the door swung open, and quietly the King of the Teleri entered the room.

Upon the bed in the center of the room Elwing tossed and turned restlessly. A fire  was popping and hissing in the fireplace against one wall.  Over against the far wall was a table on which rested a lamp and two chairs pulled away from the table.  Someone had been in the room and sat at that table. As Olwe continued his survey of the room, his eyes rested upon a low cushioned stool pulled close to the bed. The cushion still bore the impression of the person who last sat there, Olwe noticed. 

A whimper brought his attention to his niece upon the bed.  He raised a hand and felt her forehead.  Very hot to the touch. Turning to the washstand, he poured some water into the basin there and then dropped the cloth in to wet it. Wringing it out, he folded it and draped it across Elwing's forehead. 

Settling down on the cushioned stool, he watched Elwing.  What happened to you? He thinks the question to himself.  What happened? He kept watch as night surrendered to rosy dawn, and as Arien's vessel peeked over the horizon, unremarked by anyone, a lone, blue dragon chose that morning to awkwardly launch himself into the sky and resume his quest to find his mate.

> Next Olwë     > Next Elwing     

Fireside Chat -- Walking the Walk and Talking the Talk

Present:

AelKennyr Rhiano 

Belenos                     (belenosstormchaser.magic)

Rhûn Darkmoon     (zu.dragoone)

Lihan Taifun            

Zakar Zamin            

Summary:

The idea, of course, is to react the way your character would react, not the way “you” would. This creates a 3-dimensional character. How do you do that? “It is about finding the way that character would express himself that is unique to him or her.” Does your character have any personal habits, mannerisms or preferences? Think specifically about “what side of my character's personality do I want to bring out in this scene?”

Your character's personality may grow or change over time, but it should be consistent, and the changes should happen for a reason.

Ael's pet peeve: roleplayers whose response to any situation is “smile”, even when smiling makes no sense in the context. Education and setting a good example can help.

This is sometimes a symptom of roleplay moving too fast for the slow typers, who become desperate to get any response in before the action moves on. In this case, the solution is to ask everyone to slow down and give everyone time to type their responses.

Where is the line between “roleplaying” and “creative writing”? What is too much writing of descriptions, or too much of a character's introspection? This varies, depending on the group and it's style. Fourth Age tends toward encouraging creative writing, and writing for the benefit of the wider audience who reads the finished notecards. In groups where the roleplay is primarily for the benefit of the people present at the time, the style could be substantially different. Find a group whose style you enjoy.

Solo notecards are often more introspective than roleplay in a large group. You certainly need to give other players physical cues to respond to, because they can't – and shouldn't – read your character's mind. (a good example of players responding only to what they can know about the other) Descriptive writing becomes excessive when it takes so long to type that it slows down the roleplay (however the local standards define “slows down”). But even a small amount of body language can do a lot to enliven the RP.

{immediately follows a roleplay session of Ilmarë, Manwë, and Ainomë}

AelKennyr Rhiano:  So...to enter the discussion of "walking the walk and talking the talk," we have examples right before us. :)
Rajani Milton:           :D
Belenos hugs Shawn close.. that was awesome Shawn
AelKennyr Rhiano:  It was! I am sorry if we disturbed the flow of the rp.
Belenos:                      I always love how you play Manwe.... I love the depth and thought you give him.. *smiles*
AelKennyr Rhiano nods. I do, too
Rajani Milton:           :D
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And, if I may, may I point out some things that you do so well, Shawn?
Shawn Daysleeper:  thank you. I didn't think it went well but ok
AelKennyr Rhiano:  What did not go well, in your opinion?
Ilianor Illios:             wow lihan you are a very sexy dwarf :)
AelKennyr Rhiano grins
Rhûn Darkmoon smiles, 'She is, isn't she?'
Rajani Milton:           very cute
Lihan Taifun laughs
Ilianor Illios:              yes very nice avatar:)
Rajani Milton:           I love the boots, and the beard!
AelKennyr Rhiano:  I think we caused you to struggle a little bit, did we, Shawn?
{Discuss some plot details of the roleplaying session just completed.}

AelKennyr Rhiano:  talking the talk and walking the walk... I think, we got a good example of what happens when a rper gets thrown off track... poor Shawn.
Belenos nods
Lihan Taifun:             once you get off balance, it is hard to recover
AelKennyr Rhiano:  He is very immersive in his portrayal of Manwe. He "becomes" Manwe.
Rhûn Darkmoon nods, 'He does!'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  But for Shawn, he already has in his head where he needs to go, and what to do.
Belenos:                      and he likes to know where the RP is heading too... so throwing him what looks like a curve ball in it derails him a bit
Lihan Taifun:             I can relate to that
AelKennyr Rhiano:  and he speaks English so well, we forget his first language is French. so it can be a double whammy.
Belenos:                      yes
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Even after all this time, he is still uncertain if he portrays Manwe well. And he has said Manwe is hard to rp. He makes it look easier that it is. But, if I may ask, what does he do that when he is Manwe...well, he's Manwe? :P How does he bring Manwe to life?
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'He gets into his head, I think. Really puts himself in his position.'
Belenos:                      yes.. he responds as manwe would... not as shawn would..
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And how do we know he does that? What are the tangible things we witness?
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'He speaks with power and depth, as Manwe would. He doesn't chatter. He doesn't see things or speak from a modern viewpoint. He seems to really respond as though he did have all that responsiblity of Manwe upon his shoulders.'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  YES! AelKennyr Rhiano smiles
Rhûn Darkmoon blushes and smiles
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Nole smiles alot. He is a mild mannered person, kind and a little shy. He adores his king and follows him blindly.
Belenos:                      yes.. nole is a very different character to manwe
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Shawn plays Nole that way, and Nole, is very close to Shawn's own personality.
Rhûn Darkmoon nods, 'yes, that is what I'd thought about Nole'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Manwe is nothing like Nole or Shawn. At least the Shawn we see. :) And Manwe speaks more powerfully.

{We move back to the regular meeting hall, because the roleplay venue had automated security. Zakar joins us.}
AelKennyr Rhiano:  We had observed a rp, and was commenting on one of the rpers as part of our discussion. Talking the talk is more than just emoting well. It is emoting the character. using eaching rp to flesh him or her out.
Belenos:                      yes.. that's the thing, isn't it... fleshing a character out so they come to life, and are more than 2D
AelKennyr Rhiano:  It is about finding the way that character would express himself that is unique to him or her. yes, Belenos. To rp with a person who brings their character to life is so much more enjoyable.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'I certainly think that is what Shawn does with Manwe, and what you do too, with Eonwe.' He is different than Olwe or myself.
Lihan Taifun:             definitely different
Belenos nods.... yes...
AelKennyr Rhiano:  His manner of speech is different. His world view is different. His life experiences are different. And before each rp, I ask myself, "What can I do to show a new side of Eonwe?" so...to make this a discussion, please each of you share what you do to bring your character to life.
Rhûn Darkmoon thinks
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Belenos, what about you?
Belenos:                      hmmm.... well with yavanna, I've tried to give her personal mannerisms...
AelKennyr Rhiano:  oh, neat...like?
Belenos:                      like the tucking the hair behind her ear... and how 'she' likes to read her correspondance with her meals.. personal habits, how she dislikes being inside rather than out with her creations
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Wonderful, and she loves her husband, that is so very clear.
Belenos:                      oh yes... of course we all know they are married.. but in preparation for the upcoming storyline i've highlighted that a little more than I normally might.... I had to think what angle i wanted her character to take.. was she a cold, dedicated worker.... or warm and caring.... or hot headed
AelKennyr Rhiano nods
Belenos:                      They are all things I thought I had to think on.. and be prepared for her to be consistant in this .. maybe let some of it fluctuate as she grows... but she has to be who she is
AelKennyr Rhiano:  YES!
Belenos:                      she can't be cold one week and warm and caring the next.. not without good reason
AelKennyr Rhiano:  "She has to who she is."
Belenos:                      yes... how she responds is not dependant on my mood on a particular day.. it's who she is and what is happening in her world that she should respond to
AelKennyr Rhiano:  May I share a personal "dislike" with regards to rp? AelKennyr Rhiano blushes.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'Please?'
Belenos:                      yes.. do
AelKennyr Rhiano:  A person who response, no matter what the situation is, is , "She smiles."
          "Who are you?" she smiles.
          The body fell, lifeless at her feet. She draws back, horrified. She smiles
Belenos:                      omg
Zakar Zamin grins
AelKennyr Rhiano:  I know you all have encountered rpers who do that.
Rhûn Darkmoon nods
Belenos:                      inappropriate habitual emoting
AelKennyr Rhiano:  They "smile" a question. They "smile" a response. Yes! Drives me batty
Lihan Taifun:             oh no, now we will be selfconscious about smiling *giggles*
Belenos giggles at the thought of a batty ael
AelKennyr Rhiano:  lol
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'But there are so many ways one can smile without it being an automatically typed thing' 'And it shows one has put thought into the response and its appropriateness.'
Belenos:                      yes... exactly
Zakar Zamin:             A thought, If I may.
Belenos:                      of course Zaker
Zakar Zamin:             Some people do not have a great vocabulary, which may or may not be evident.
Belenos:                      well that is true... but staying with the smile example... try this

Belenos smiles softly

Belenos smiles gently

a soft smile curves her lips

her lips curve in a knowing smile

her lips twitch as she tries to hide a smile

Zakar Zamin:             And while a "wry grin" may be more appropriate, "smile" is all they think about.It's not an excuse and SL's text enviroment is a great place to learn and grow. Just wish to give pause for understanding and compassion.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'I think what Ael was trying to draw out, was not even how they smiled, but that they smiled in ANY situation, when it was not always appropriate to do so.'
Zakar Zamin:             And that would be annoying.
Belenos:                      oh.. there is understanding about it Zaker and compassion too... but none of my examples required a large vocabulary.. but as Rhun said, I think Ael's point was that it was inappropriate emoting... she's terrified and she smiles?
Belenos:                      maybe grins nervously.. but not a smile..
Rhûn Darkmoon nods, 'Yes, I think that is what he was meaning. For example, if I may Belenos?' 'When you type in general chat, you use a lot of ... to break your thoughts and comments. This is your habitual typing pattern. Yet when you role play, you do not use that. You use appropriate text and emotes.'
Belenos:                      yes.. you're right... *giggles now every time she goes ....'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  reads up...exactly
Belenos:                      so it's not that we seek a large or even creative vocabulary... but appropriate emoting
Zakar Zamin:             So how do we educate such folks?
Belenos:                      and btw.. welcome back Ael.. :)
AelKennyr Rhiano:  The standard answer is "classes like these!" But in reality, the best way is by example. And if you know the person, you can talk to them in im.
Rhûn Darkmoon nods
Zakar Zamin:             How often do you have classes here?
AelKennyr Rhiano:  weekly
AelKennyr Rhiano:  "Gee, Rhun, you are supposed to be on my side and you smiled when I died?" :PPPPP "I want a new side!"
Rhûn Darkmoon grins, 'That's because I know I'm in your will?'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  lol!
Zakar Zamin chuckles
Belenos:                      LOL you are sooo bad
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Also, Zakar, if I see a rper doing a lot of "pat, non-descriptive" responses like that, I will say something in local, OOC, asking that the rp be slowed down enough to allow everyone to respond. A lot of times, people are doing that because the rp is rushed or they are used to the rp being rushed
Rhûn Darkmoon nods, 'I have encountered that before. Where one is not given enough time for one's response.' 'If a response is not posted fast enough others feel the need to respond over you and 'keep things moving' so it breeds bad habits.'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And it makes for poor rp.
Belenos:                      yes... that is something we were always trying to teach the dragons.. allow time for others to respond... don't 'drive the role play'
Zakar Zamin:             I've seen fast RP and it does tend to override slow typers
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Now, I will tell you honestly that some rpers would prefer to have bad rp that is fast like that than slow rp that is good.

Zakar Zamin: It winds up being a phrase at a time

AelKennyr Rhiano:  And all one line dialogue.

Zakar Zamin: Or half line

Belenos:                      but what is the quality like?... it's different of course if it's a conversation happening, perhaps
AelKennyr Rhiano nods

Zakar Zamin: because they need to get

Belenos:                      but action, thoughts, emotions?

Zakar Zamin: their thought out

Lihan Taifun:             with Phoenix viewer, you can tell when people around you are typing, but it doesn't work on all viewers, and it doesn't work if someone is starting a post with /me

Zakar Zamin: as fast as they can

Zakar Zamin:             for example
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'But why is there that need?'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And really, what you are teaching them, Zakar, is bad rp manners.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      "When the Lady Lihan and I RP for example, if there is more to follow a simple (more to come) after a post lets the others know to wait.'
Zakar Zamin:             That's a good idea
AelKennyr Rhiano:  It is
Lihan Taifun:             that really helps, too
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And it also creates garbled rp because a person is so hurried to post they do not watch what they are typing at all or make any attempt at grammar or punctuation. There is also no way to convey WHO your character is. What are their thoughts? Feelings? Why are they important? Who are they?
Belenos:                      and consider this too....

Eonwe: 'Do you defy the Lord of the West, Smith?' Aule: 'How dare you imply I am disloyal!'....... to.... Eonwe's eyes burn with outrage as he breathes, 'Do you defy the Lord of the West, Smith?'.... Aule's eyes narrow dangerously as he snaps, 'How dare you imply I am disloyal!'

time given for a longer response gives much more flavour
Lihan Taifun:             yes, and those examples didn't require very much more typing
Belenos:                      and when one is posting snippets, how do the others know when you are done with your posting?
Zakar Zamin:             That brings to mind something I would like your opinion on - something that bothers me: over emoting (for lack of a proper term)
AelKennyr Rhiano listens
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'How do you define over-emoting?'
Zakar Zamin:             In other words: emoting your deepest thoughts and feelings

Zakar Zamin looks around the room nervously, wondering of the groups thinks he is weird or just silly.

for example
AelKennyr Rhiano:  and you call that "over-emoting?"
Zakar Zamin:             It seems that, while you may all see me looking nervously about, there is no way you can know 'why'. and that may be a bad term
Belenos:                      Like: Eonwe had never felt secure in his role as Herald. He always felt everyone thought him nothing more than Manwe's errand boy. Hell, even all the female maiar treated him like he was just a messenger boy. He had no status with them. No wonder he never scored. So now all this anger and frustration boiled to the surface as he faced Aule, 'Do you defy the Lord of the West, Smith?'
Belenos grins
AelKennyr Rhiano glares at Belenos, his hand curling over the arm of the chair.
Zakar Zamin:             It makes for a great read, but RP?
AelKennyr Rhiano:  no, no, it is not a bad term.
Belenos:                      that is why one finds the middle ground... :)
AelKennyr Rhiano:  If all the character does is that...then they add nothing to the rp.
Belenos:                      sometimes something long like that might be appropriate as an introduction to a first scene...
Zakar Zamin:             So is there a distinction between creative writing and RP?
AelKennyr Rhiano:  now, in solo rps, those tend to lend themselves to self -reflection.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'I think Belenos has the gist of it. Somewhere in the middle ground, so we get creative role play.'.. smiles
Zakar Zamin:             I agree, solo rps are naturally different
Lihan Taifun:             on the other hand, Belanos, that IS a great read, and we don't want to cut that off entirely
Belenos:                      yes.. but it would not be appropriate to have something like that before EVERY response in conversation
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Rp is creative writing. It is an expression of it. I would submit.
Zakar Zamin:             well, yes
Belenos:                      yes.... it is... most definitely
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'I know my RP is different when I am working with another in a scene to when I do a solo notecard. Again I think it falls back on appropriateness and quality.'
Zakar Zamin:             I'm trying to remember the different categories: 1st person, 3rd person, limited omnicience. School was a long time ago
Belenos:                      limited omniscience??
AelKennyr Rhiano:  lol
Lihan Taifun:             and probably better ways to include that information about a character
AelKennyr Rhiano:  limited?
Omniscience
objective
narrative
Zakar Zamin:             As I remember, limited omniscience is the style an author uses in which only the thoughts of the main character are revealed. full omniscience is where everyone's thoughts are known
AelKennyr Rhiano:  yes, correct
Belenos:                      ahhh. thank you for explaining.. for some of us school was a very long time ago indeed
Zakar Zamin:             but I encounter a lot of people who's emots include information no one else in the group should know about.
AelKennyr Rhiano:  And it can. But a good rper will not responde to reflective statements.

His boots strike the floor with a sharp, flinty sound as Eonwë crosses the expanse of the room and replaces a sword newly sharpened. Time has stretched into a breatheless, endless moment of painful ache, deep loss, and, for the Maiar, a waiting. He turns and surveys the home that he has never asked for, but which the Lord of the West provided. He has kept to himself for endless moons, hiding even from the sight of Tilion's vessel, having at last found the endless running tiresome and unproductive. Out in the night, an owl called to the Moon, and the shrill answer of a bat was the reply. With a sigh, he turns toward the door leading to a bedroom and a bed he does not use.

The example above...that is, in your opinion, over-emoting?
Zakar Zamin:             no, maybe overly descriptive. Zakar Zamin grins
Belenos:                      really?... my thought is that it set the scene really well in the mind's eye
Lihan Taifun:             you say "no one else in the group should know about" - There is also the issue of whether the readers should know
Zakar Zamin:             Lihan, maybe that is where I err. Is RP for the moment or for people to read later? Or both?
Lihan Taifun:             that may depend on what group you are playing with
Zakar Zamin:             If we intend it for a 3rd party, then including our thoughts, which the other characters can't know, could be appropriate.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'Ahh, there is a difference, is there not between a story with a purpose and just day to day 24/7 role play on a sim?'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  Well, the idea behind posting rps is to inform 3rd parties. Otherwise, why post the rps?
Lihan Taifun:             and, as Zakar is pointing out, the fact that we post the RPs is shaping our style of writing
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'I think it is a good shaping. While not all role plays are the same, or even for the same purpose. I like the style we use.'
Belenos:                      yes.. the role play you were talking about earlier.. the style of snapping out fast posts.. is that reposted to a group?
AelKennyr Rhiano:  but if I may post a few more exchanges, I believe this is a good example of how rpers handle knowledge revealed about the character fleshes out the character but does not lend itself to godmodding.
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'Yes please, Ael.'
Belenos:                      I'd like that
AelKennyr Rhiano: 

Eonwe stops short at the sound of the knock, blue eyes widening. He turns toward the sound, and hesitates for a moment. Deliberately he does not probe to see who may be waiting without. Does he answer or no? A look of indecision cross his face, and for a second, the Maiar feels this physical body respond as the heart beats faster. Then he straightens his back, and with the carriage of the Herald he has always but lately been, he crosses to the heavy double doors, carved in the likeness of a tree, and through them to the outer foyer and the doors beyond which waited his guest.

Ilmarë hears a firm tread cross the floor, and then the door is flung open. A tall form stands there, unmistakably her brother, but tense and stormy of countenance as she has never seen him before. She remembers even in the last wars with the Fallen One that Eonwë was bright and proud and eager for battle. Never...worried. "Eonwë?" she ventures.

There she is; skin the color of midnight sky littered with a thousand stars. Dark tresses that obeyed no rules but to lie as they will about a face both wise and innocent. Her eyes look into his, and for a moment he cannot tear his gaze away. Ilmare. Ilmare his counterpart among the Maiar, the handmaiden of Varda. Ilmare the sister of his spirit in so many ways. The dark etheral beauty, who knew him better than any other, save the Breath of Arda himself. "Ilmare, " he whispers softly. Then he recovers himself and stands to one side to allow her entrance. "You have returned. I did not," he pauses. "I did not know."

YOU know each side of the character. They are responding only to each other.
Belenos:                      and what would that be without the descriptive in it?... four, maybe five lines of banal words of greeting that carries nothing of what is really going on...Rhûn Darkmoon nods, 'Exactly. This conveys so much more.'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  and so other rpers, those who play other Valar and Ainur, they see that exchanges and it helps them flesh out how their character interacts with these two.  I think good rp is good creative writing at its highest.
Belenos:                      yes.. *smiles*
Lihan Taifun:             I have also seen, when you have a character being deceitful, you almost have to be able to read the contrast between that characters words and thoughts
AelKennyr Rhiano:  yes...very true. But there are many , many ways to rp. My preference may not be yours. And that is ok :)
Zakar Zamin:             Ah... if it was ok, we wouldn't be complaining about someone smiling over a body. „ã° But I get your drift
AelKennyr Rhiano:  You can over -emote, but usually over-emoting is in reference to emoting to the point of godmodding other players. Not allowing them the opportunity to react to your action.
Belenos:                      lol.. well i suppose that depends on the disposition of your characters too.. a drow probably would smile about a body.... lol
Zakar Zamin:             And I thank you for the perspective.
AelKennyr Rhiano:  no problem.
Lihan Taifun laughs. I think drow have no friends
Rhûn Darkmoon:      'Spiders maybe?'
AelKennyr Rhiano:  As I did say, it was my personal bug. We all have them.
Zakar Zamin:             Yes, though your comments may help keep mine under control
AelKennyr Rhiano:  But that is a case of apples and oranges. It is hardly a rp style to "smile" at everything.
Belenos:                      you didn't say Zaker.. your role play.. is it posted later?.... or role play for the moment?
Zakar Zamin:             Usually for the moment.
AelKennyr Rhiano:  so it is never posted? Is it a 24/7 environment?
Zakar Zamin:             I'm usually in Sylvhara... a lot gets posted. And I have been involved in some story arcs. ... which were posted.
AelKennyr Rhiano nods. Sylahara tends toward posting edited rp chat logs. That is a different approach, and yes, more of the moment. I know some 24/7 rp sims never post the rp as they are living it, and there are no story arcs.
Zakar Zamin:             It also doesn't lend itself to long paragraphs
AelKennyr Rhiano:  oh, not at all.
Zakar Zamin:             A month or so back, we had a visitor who tried to paragraph RP with us and it didn't go over well. And with that, I need to leave. But I did find something you may find useful or, at least, interesting.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third-person_omniscient_narrative
AelKennyr Rhiano:  I have rped in Sylvahara several times without any problem. BTW, I teach English in rl :)
Zakar Zamin:             ah, my worst and best class
AelKennyr Rhiano nods
Lihan Taifun:             I have RPed a couple of times in Sylvhara
Zakar Zamin:             Ael, you probably didn't complain about the rapid pace of the posts
AelKennyr Rhiano:  It is impolite to complain on another's rp sim. I did, however, when someone started rping over us all, asked for everyone to slow down as some people were not getting the chance to post.
Belenos:                      I'm afraid I've never found their storylines of enough interest to try to... *blushes* but then I'm tolkien to the core... :)
AelKennyr Rhiano:  You are?....pokes to see.
Belenos yelps and grins.. you gotta poke harder than that to get to the core.. :P
AelKennyr Rhiano pokes harder.
Zakar Zamin:             OK, I've got to go.