The Nimrodelian Tale-Spinner

Cottage Of Pen And Play: An Eastern Song

Concept by: Nimrodellian, Doviel, The Lord and Lady of Aerwinion, and Animal House

ABC’s by: Nimrodellian

The members of the Cottage all clapped in amusement as Doviel finished up her tale.

“A wonderful story”, one of them laughed. “One wonders what else our horse-friends think when we are not around.”

“I would not wish to know”, another chimed in. “Not with how many cliffs I have taken mine off of.”

They all turned towards the Teller of Tales who was quietly sitting at his seat by the fire, slowly strumming a few notes on his lute and grinning.

“A fine tale it was”, he said from underneath his hood. “But now I think we shall delve into something a bit more ambitious.”

“What did you have in mind?” They all asked eagerly. The Teller of Tales simply smiled again and played a few short phrases on his lute to himself before finally speaking.

“A tale of a distant land unknown to most of you, far in the east where the people and customs are strange. But it is a tale too big for me alone I think, so I shall be asking for some of your help as we go along. I think as well that this tale demands music since music is tied so intimately with the tales they tell in the East. Let us see where this tale take us my friends as we begin this Eastern Song.”

(The Teller Of Tales begins to play and the image of a solitary traveler, floating down an unknown river to an uncertain shore is evoked in the minds of the listeners of the Cottage.)

Floating down the river, to what adventures might it take us?

*** The River Journey *** <—- Music Link

‘Hail friends of the lighted West, welcome to this Eastern Song.
Under the Shadow our journey lies, into lands no eagle flies

Traveling down the Celduin, we pass beyond Rhovanion
There to find the Sea of Rhun, under darkness, under moon.

What adventures wait us there, in the land of Easterling?
Do their minstrels also sing, of love and death and bravery?

But Lo! We’ve reached a city fair, its pennants bearing strange device.
The cry of merchants reaches us, our eyes meet with the wondrous

What is this city, who are its Lords, and can one rest his weary feet?
Our questions will be answered soon, as the next resumes our tune.

Who can tell us dust-stained travelers, the city we find ourselves in?’

(With that the Teller of Tales motions for another of the cottage’s residents and they join in the music and continue the tale.)

A merchant greets us as we pass the city gates and we see a bustling market town open up before us

*** Song of Dorwinion ***

Welcome friend to the city that never sleeps. Where all the goods of the East are found
If you have the coin to spend at least.

In Dorwinion!

Our wine is famous, care to take a sip? Just not too much or you’ll lose your wits,
And wake up with a girl wearing strange attire, which is not so bad I must admit.

I’m a merchant whose traveled all around, from the Inland Sea to the Red Mountains.
But my feet, no matter where they roam, seem to always find their way back home

To Dorwinion!

What ever you desire you can find right here, we have wares to satisfy or entice.
Be it food or drink or war or strife. You’ll be satisfied if you pay our price.

We have armor polished red and bright, good for turning the spear of a Gondorim
Weapons that are sharp and shields that are broad, care to take a look? That’s free of charge!

Pomegranates,
Fresh Melons,
Any food that you could want.

Entertainment,
Slave girls,
All you have to do is ask.

But what is this? The strangest sight, these eyes of mine have ever seen.
A wagon with a Lady fair, chained to pole, what could this mean?

I’d give good coin to know the truth, what crime has brought her to this fate?
Escorted by the General’s guard, a ring of death surrounds her star.

Fair Lady,
Who are you?
Doesn’t anybody know?

Speak up,
Come forward,
We are curious to hear.

(The Merchant player motions for another to join the stage and the duet becomes a trio as the next joins the music)

A market guard answers the merchant’s inquiries.

*** Annunel’s Song ***

Annunel the lady fair, stands veiled before you, on that bier.
Her hair shines like the setting sun, her eyes green like the woodland trees.
A kind and gentle mistress there, her city mourns her every tear.

Beyond the walls, she dances free, in palace gardens gracefully.
She sings of love unto the stars. Fair and lithe, a summer breeze.
But sadly it was not to be, for someone watched her lustily.

And in the night, the wind cries for the Lady Annunel,
Who can save her from this evil spell?

Long we wished, she would be wed, Annunel to noble lord.
They’d grace Dorwinion parapets, and rule from marbled minarets.
Far into the east instead, the General brought the sword.

He came with soldiers, iron bound, and camped outside the walls.
To war he marched against the West, but first he claimed our cities best.
And with him went to our regret, the fairest of us all.

And in the night, the wind cries for the Lady Annunel,
Who can save her from this evil spell?

It seems my friend, although she swore, to wed that man of war.
Her heart was given to another, For true hearts cannot be tethered.
And with wings they fly unerring, to that distant shore.

And in the night, the wind cries for the Lady Annunel
Who can save her from this evil spell?

(And who is her lover? The cottage members implore. Finally they convince the guard to continue the music)

The lovers meet by chance. If chance it be

*** Thalanir’s Song ***

He is Thalanir, a captain brave as any that I’ve ever known.
Bold and valiant as he rides through the city he calls home.

But though war is his profession, he longs most to retreat to his
family home and tend his vineyards. And it is there he met his lady true.

For Annunel, the lady fair was wont to disguise herself at times
and escape the palace, and for a little while, her future groom.

And under the morning sun she chased butterflies and felt the wind on her face
and forgot for a time her sorrows, and dreamed of better things.

So it came to pass that Thalanir, inspecting his land, spotted the hooded
Annunel from afar. Curious, he rode to her, startled she tried to flee.

As her drew near, he dismounted and with gentle words eased her fears.
The wind picked up, blew back her hood, and Annunel revealed her face.

It was there, in butterfly filled fields, that Thalanir met Annunel,
and love struck where once only gloom, had filled her heart with tears.

They agreed to meet again, when Annunel could escape the palace once more
But more about their love and the Ladies current plight who can say?

(From the audience a girl rises up and speaks. ‘I can tell you that!’. The servant girl rises up and tells her tale. As she speaks, the trio becomes a duet again as our lovers meet).

The sounds of music and merriment mask our lovers plans

*** A Plan At Night ***

And so, that fateful night, did soon arrive,
Our lovers planned.

Servants sent away, a sickness feigned,
At Lady’s bed.

As fireworks alighted up above the city sky.
Annunel slipped quietly from window up on high.

Carefully hidden, shadows danced in the torch light.
Skipped amongst the pillars to the spot he said was right.

There, against a wall, her heart did leap,
This was no dream.

A ladder fair and white, waited for her.
Her face did beam.

Much to her elation, on the other side she saw
Thalanir her lover, in his chariot so tall.

Practically leaping down the ladder to his arms.
Startled lover caught her and protected her from harm

They rode for most the night, quiet at first,
Danger was near.

Well outside the walls, where lights were dim,
They felt no fear.

Laughing and embracing, gentle whispers in the night.
Thalanir and Annunel discussed their current plight.

Dreams of life in Gondor or the distant Rohan Mark.
Little did they notice something creeping in the dark.

(‘What did they not notice?’ the audience asks in suspense. The servant girl continues as our watcher joins the music and the band grows to four)

A chase by night, will their secret be revealed?

*** The Wain Race ***

In the dark
Of the night,
Shadows creep
Out of sight.

The silence breaks, our lovers wake, to a most regretful fright.
A spy had come, following behind, hiding from the fire light.

But a branch
On the ground,
Alerted them
To the sound.

And Thalanir, with a mighty shout, set to put the man aground.
The spy reached his chariot first and they raced back to the town.

On the road
Chasing fate,
Riding hard
For the Gate.

Thalanir knew well if he failed Annunel, they would face the general’s hate.
So he rode to beat the spy’s retreat, but the hour proved him much too late.

On the path
Overgrown,
Wheel was struck
By a Stone.

Thalanir was tossed, and the race was lost, and his fate is still unknown.
Lady Annunel, worried and distraught, in the dark and all alone.

(‘What became of Annunel?’ The audience asks in anticipation. ‘I shall tell that myself!’ A member of the audience pronounces. They join the music and we find that it is none other than the Lady Annunel herself who tied to the wagon on the way to her doom, pleads to the crowd.)

A star now fallen, what shall she proclaim?

*** Annunel’s Plea ***

Dear friends!
Gather round, listen to my last tale.

All alone it seemed and wavering, awaiting lovers swift return
Sat worrying, as a ring of death converged.

I thought I heard the wind blow rustling, on an autumn breeze,
But I was dreaming, for the general’s men emerged.

Dorwinion!
Home to me, listen to my last cry.

Through the palace gates returned, where I once had danced,
I yearned, for my lover’s gentle hand.

In the General’s palace room, judgment swiftly passed in spite,
I swooned and felt the iron band.

Kind Sirs.
Hear me well, listen to my last plea.

To my hearts true love take these, My last earthly words
And please, don’t wait. I would save him from my fate.

That his Annunel is dead, do not to come in hopeless quest
Instead, Flee the General’s endless hate.

Thalanir
Wish you could, listen to my last breath.

Keep the time we spent and savoring, souls entwined as ours
Not worrying, for the future seemed so bright.

As I travel towards my final end, watch the executioner’s axe
Descend, I can see a distant light.

(‘How does the story end?’ a member of the audience asks in shock. A final sixth person rises from the audience and we see that it is Thalanir, finally returned to Dorwinion.)

The music finishes, where shall its final notes lead us?

*** The Story Ends ***

After my fall I knew with dread, I had not force alone,
To conquer that scourge on his iron throne.

So gathering those with loyal heart for their captain,
We came before the city walls in force.

With weary arms I pushed the Gate-Doors wide,
Returned to find my lover’s hand.

But found the city up in arms before us and heard
The news that shook me to the core.

That my Annunel was dead, I had come too late
My quest had failed. I gave into helpless rage.

And the town ignited like a fire, against that fiend
Who with his word, had taken Annunel.

Then sword unsheathed and arrow arced across the sky
The general quaked and fled as one pursued.

And battle raged on palace grounds, between the general
And the town. But in the end, he was thrown down.

The wise have said, the West was spared that mighty scourge,
For with his death, a terrible weapon of the Dark Lord fell.

But I still think of Annunel, and with her memory take sail
Up Celduin and take my tale into the rising sun.

(The last notes of the song are played. The curtain falls, the actors bow. The audience is glad today, to have heard the Eastern Song)

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The Cottage Of Pen And Play: My Little War-Steed Stories

Tale by Doviel

‘Although the tales of ancient Elves are wonderful things, and one cannot help but be enthralled by each glimmering glimpse of the world as it was long ago, with its sky of ever-shining stars, I would tell a tale I was told, which was from not quite so long ago.’

‘Nimrodelian, as he is known hither and yon, is older than he looks,’ and the speaker put down her pale purple hood and smiled wrily, ‘ but aren’t we all.’ Her autumn colored hair was gathered into a twist and her leaf-shaped ears were clearly seen. She was a wood-elf of pale complexion with a merry glint in her grey eyes. ‘He can speak of things from each Eldar age, and though his stories change with each telling, there is a thread of truth weaving through each long-spun tale.’

‘My modest account is not so noble. It does not speak of the distant past before the sun and the moon graced our skies. My tale comes from a stable-yard. From a horse, actually, or several, I should say, and though I learned this story from Oriel (Daughter of Sunlight), it is really a tale from Mithien (Daughter of Mist). Now I shall introduce Mithien, one of my noble steeds, to you by way of her story.’

Mithien felt her mistress, finally, light off her back and hug her around the neck. ‘I’ll be back for you soon, sweetie!’

‘Take your time!’ Mithien thought to herself as she watched her mistress, Doviel, walk into the Pony to waste another evening dancing and playing music. She’d probably be gone half the night or longer, leaving Mithien, once again, by herself in Bree. ‘Fatass elf!’ She whinnied to herself with a toss of her mane.

The stable-hand, who did not speak equine, brought the beautiful light grey filly fresh hay and refilled the common trough shared between several of the open stable stalls. The horses were tied, so they did not wander too far or run from being startled by some foolish musician blowing a pibgorn or squeezing sour notes out of bagpipes, but they were allowed a good measure of freedom and movement in their stable area.

Duststorm looked over the latest arrival and appraised the filly with a snort in her general direction. Not in season, he noticed glumly. An elf’s mare, he had observed and probably as prude as her mistress. All he knew about elves is that they did not seem to do anything except stand around being aloof. Duststorm noticed something else, too. Upon the mare’s parti-colored coup, dyed in green hues, there was an assortment of instruments which the stable-hand had not untied from her back yet.

‘Nice bagpipes!’ The bored stallion taunted the little mare. He was at least 2 hands higher than her, and as light war-steed was not ‘on the market,’ he saw no reason to hold his tongue.

She heard the other horses laughing at her in their quiet way as she stepped back shyly under the covered part of her stall and trod on the hard, compacted dirt floor for a few paces. But, there was no escaping it. She might be stabled here for a while, so she decided to face it down.

Mithien gathered her courage, stepped forward a few steps, and clomped a hoof on the cobblestones as she looked for which horse was teasing her this time. Her mistress always dressed her up in silly outfits and it was a daily torment to be left around new horses. She noticed a tall, white stallion looking her over. Great, she thought, another heavy war-steed. Another great hero! She rolled her eyes, and a bully of a stallion, to boot. Fabulous! She stared him down while the stable-hand finally got around to divesting her of her ‘outfit’ and brushed down her coat.

Suddenly, a gentle nicker drew her attention away as a dappled grey gelding called out to Mithien, ‘Mithy! Is that you? It’s me! Nutmeg!’

Mithien winced, Oh Nutmeg, not in public! I can’t let the other war-steeds know my best friend is a gelding, town horse! She felt she was already suffering enough embarrassment and did not need this, too.

Duststorm puffed up his oversized, barrel chest and snorted loudly with an aggressive shake of his head, and the little grey male shied back. Clearly, the alpha male status had just been established. Duststorm was the biggest and the toughest; there was no contest.

Mithien was not amused, so she called out brightly to Nutmeg, just to spite the pompous stallion, with a little whinny acknowledging him in a friendly way. Nutmeg stepped forward a little more in his stall. ‘Did you have any adventures with mistress, Doviel, Mithy? Did she take you somewhere far?!’ Nutmeg always wanted to hear about adventures.

Mithien shook her head, ‘Mithien, if you please, Nutmeg. You wouldn’t like it if I called you Nutty now, would you?’

Nutmeg pawed the ground with a hoof and exhaled loudly, if he were human, it would have been a chuckle. ‘Aw Mithy, you can call me anything you want, as long as you call me!’

Mithien glared at him. He did not have a snowball’s chance in Mordor with her and they both knew it, but Mithien never flaunted his gelding status in his face. He was her best friend, after all. So, Mithien’s glare softened and she nickered at him playfully. He tossed his mane in response and posed proudly, like a fine steed. Mithien delicately lifted an apple from a pile near her and rolled it towards Nutmeg with her nose, and it wobbly-rolled across the cobblestones towards Nutmeg. He picked it up with his teeth and munched happily.

Duststorm was a little put off. Didn’t that filly know that colt was fixed? He’d already seen him turn about and there wasn’t anything there that she’d need. Not when there was a fine war-steed like him around! *snort* Why was she paying attention to that, that, that town horse!

She heard the clomping of heavy, shod hooves on the cobblestones and heard the somewhat aggressive snort and looked back over at the heavy war-steed. She turned to look at him. ‘What?’ she asked.

Duststorm hesitated for a moment, unsure if he even had to explain his greatness to this gelding and the filly. But, his pride got the better of him and he tossed his mane haughtily and said, ‘That gelding,’ and he drew the word out rudely, ‘is unworthy of you. You should have a mighty companion.’

‘Like who?’ Mithien asked.

‘Like me.’ Duststorm responded boldly. ‘I am, clearly, bigger, faster, and stronger than that dappled grey will ever be.’ He tossed his head with a clear indication across the stableyard towards where Nutmeg was tied. Duststorm wondered how many days it would be before the filly was in season again. It was spring time, afterall, and it would be foolish not to establish a possible mating opportunity when the occasion presented itself. The filly would be stabled in Bree again, and so would he as all roads led to Bree. She should recognize a prime candidate when she saw one, he thought to himself.

Mithien neighed and this time there was some anger in her voice, ‘I am Mithien, sired by the noble Hithfaerion, and my dam claims proud lineage from the mare of Elfhild from the free fields of Rohan! I do not consort with common stock!’

Duststorm was deeply insulted, ‘I am not common stock! My lineage can be traced back ten generations in the annals of the horse-lords. You could not find a better sire!’ He bragged.

Mithien and Nutmeg both shared a look which said, can you believe this guy? before Mithien inclined her head towards the stallion respectfully and replied, ‘Well, it looks like you win.’ Nutmeg noted the sarcasm that escaped the heavy war-steed. As Duststorm proudly pranced a step or two, he was interrupted.

‘At losing!’ Nutmeg snickered.

Duststorm was immediately deflated and his ears turned back for a moment. Both grey horses began to dance in their stalls a little, nickering with amusement. It felt good to not be the butt of the stableyard jokes for once, and she was enjoying herself. But, it was at that time that Doviel came out of the inn and saw her two horses acting up.

‘Now, now, settle down. What are you two up to, hmmm?’ She did not understand equine fluently but as an wood-elf, who was accustomed to many of the languages of animals, she had a working knowledge and she knew Nutmeg and Mithien were amused about something. She walked up and patted Nutmeg on the neck. ‘Who is my pretty boy?’ She asked in her sing-song voice.

Nutmeg stood tall and proud at once as he quivered with excitement that his mistress was petting and praising him in front of all the other horses. It was all he could do to keep from nuzzling her hair with his nose, but he maintained his composure and snorted softly. Which, in equine meant, ‘I am!’

‘Yes, you are!’ Doviel smiled and gave him another friendly pat. ‘Do you want to go for a nice walk?’

Walk! he thought. I want to run! I want to run through the hills of Ered Luin and jump off the embankments or race through the pathways of Caras Galadhon! He loved his Elven mistress and how beautiful and green the Elven lands were. His memories of his grim days in Angmar were fading from his memory like a bad dream is shaken off after morning tea.

She spoke softly to him as she untied him from the stable stall, and with no bridle or saddle, as Elves did not ever really need either, she leapt lightly up onto his back. Nutmeg, with his head high and his tail up, pranced proudly through the streets of Bree as Doviel rode her favorite gelding back to Falathlorn.

Mithien was not amused. Not only was she left in the Bree stables, again, until her mistress rode back to the town of Men on rented post horses and came to pick her up, but, it meant she’d have to carry all of her own gear, all of her mistress’s instruments and clothes, and Nutmeg’s tack as well. She muttered to herself again while anticipating the heavy load, ‘fatass elf!’ She was bred for agile speed; she was no pack-mule and resented any burden that slowed her quick pace.

She heard Duststorm snort as he said to her, ‘that slight minstrel is no burden, you silly filly.’ He chewed through a carrot quickly and then continued, ‘try carrying a full grown man. A guardian in full, heavy armor and all of his weapons! And,’ he continued, ‘a master who stops every twenty meters to mine ore nodes. So, not only do I carry my master, his armor, and his assortment of weapons, I have to carry sacks full of rocks!’

Mithien contemplated her usual load of instruments, scholar papers, and clothing. Her mistress usually carried several outfits with her, neatly folded into saddlebags. And there were, of course, the fancy outfits she, herself, had to wear. Still, she was suddenly grateful. It may be embarrassing to be a minstrel’s fancy horse sometimes, but at least her mistress wasn’t a heavily armored human male burdening her with sacks of rocks plus his own gear. She nodded her head towards Duststorm and commiserated with him. Perhaps, she thought,

She chewed aimlessly on a bit of hay from the bin in her stall because what else could she do? She might as well eat well and rest while she waited for her mistress’ call. By this time, Duststorm and the other horses had left her alone. Most of them were used to the busy rotation of the Bree stables, as new horses came and went every several minutes, but it was not uncommon for horses to be left with the attendants for a day or two.

Then two new horses arrived at the stable.

One was a flea-bitten old horse, with a coat that might once have been a rich chestnut, but his mane was stringy and tangled and his tail was half lopped off. He looked like he had been ridden hard and put away wet on more than one occasion. His master, a growling southerner, grunted some orders to a stable-hand and wandered into the tavern for a yard of ale. No one asked the horse his name, and the other horses shied away from looking at him to spare him the indignity of their stares. They all knew that he could have been any one of them, under the auspices of an unkind master.

But, the other horse was a tall, black mare with a luxurious ebony hide, a long flowing tail, and a mane styled in flawless hunter’s braids. Duststorm perked up at once, as he caught her scent, raising his head, and standing proudly at his full height before he then inclined his head in a bow of acknowledgement towards the beautiful mare. Midnight Sky took one look at the showy war-stallion and tossed her head derisively. ‘Never going to happen!’ She whinnied and then settled down as the grooms began to brush her.

Mithien, the young filly, tapped a front hoof on the cobblestones in amusement and the other horses laughed in the way horses do.

The Cottage of Pen and Play : The Hunter

On an unknown piece of land, nestled far away from the rumors of war and strife, there is a cottage. There, where peace and tranquility are the norm instead of the exception, a group of storytellers gather from time to time to share their latest tales, songs and adventures. In fact, if one were to open the door and come in, being mindful of unnecessary noise and bother, you would see the storytellers in session this day.

You would find, once you walk through the entrance hall, a great round room, where the storytellers sit listening to the current speaker tell his latest creation. He wears a bright red cloak that half covers his face, sometimes so much that all that can be seen is a great wide grin. But if the teller of the tale wishes to keep his identity secret, his musical voice is a clear giveaway that there sits an elf. And though there are many musicians and adventurers here, he is the only one who can claim storytelling as his profession and it is indeed his house where they sit and share.

So find a seat (There are plenty available for one and all) and listen to a tale inside the Cottage of Pen and Play.

Once upon a time, when the world was young, the first elves walked the forests of the world. They looked in wonder at the bright stars overhead and marveled at the earth at their feet. The whole of creation was a feast and they danced on lawns of never fading green. Names were given to the animals of the forest and the places that they dwelled, and everything was as a living dream. But, it was not to last.

For it was that amongst the Powers the Dark Lord discovered the elves first and set about them with beasts and sorceries and for a time, they knew fear. But the Valar came from their palaces in the West and there was war in the North of which the elves heard only a rumor and felt in the ground as a great tremor, unabated. The elves grew afraid, but swiftly the Valar had the victory and came to the elves as friends and counselors.

It was decided that the Valar would take the elves to the Blessed Realm where they would be free from terror and the uncertainty of the world. Many of the elves took heed of the Valar’s summons, and a great host was assembled that set out, over time, for the Undying lands in the west. Great was their journey and they learned wisdom and knowledge from the Powers in the land under The Two Trees. Yet sorrow and terror they did not escape though that tale shall not be told here.

This tale is about those that remained behind, in lands that they had learned to love, in spite of their hardship. The world seemed such a wide and ever-splendid thing, and the elves that remained desired to savor it all at their leisure. Ever they searched out the lands and rivers for new discoveries and more beautiful wonders to enjoy, and they were content.
But even with the overthrow of the Dark Lord, not all evil had left the world . . .

Who can take full measure of the wrath of Morgoth, or imagine the breadth of his jealousy and malice for those things not made of his hands? Certainly not the Moriquendi elves, who thought that with the defeat of the Dark Lord, theirs would be a life of peace and plenty.

Because deep in the darkest places of the forest, a terror lurked unknown to them. Who knows what foul sorceries created it, or what manner of creature it had been before the evil one corrupted it. Perhaps a giant boar, misshapen and malformed until it became a horned shape of madness and dread. After its first assaults upon the unsuspecting elves it was named the Daeraug, the Shadow Demon. Snatching unaware elves away, he would take them to his lair, never to be seen by their friends again. The elves cried to the stars and the beauty of the world was dimmed by their lamentations.

After the initial shock, a hunting party was gathered to track down the beast. Armed with spears and knives, they went out towards where they thought the Daeraug dwelled. Unbeknownst to them, the Daeraug was waiting and attacked them while they rested at camp. Those that were not killed outright, by claw and horn, found the hide of the beast impervious to their primitive weapons. They fled terror-filled into the forest, heedless of direction and sense.

One of these, a young hunter by the name of Orno, ran until exhaustion overtook him. He laid himself down by a nearby tree and fell into blackness and dreams.

In his dream, the young hunter looked out into darkness, his back lay against a tree. He wondered why the gods had seemingly abandoned his people to the terrors of the Daeraug. Suddenly a voice came to him, “Think not dear Orno that evils like the Daeraug bring grief to you only, for does his evil not threaten us all?” To Orno’s ears it sounded like the voice came from the tree, and when he turned, he saw that it was so.

But, it was no ordinary tree that spoke to the hunter. It was impossibly large, so much so that its highest branches seemed to pierce the firmament, and it shone with a light that was all its own, blinding and beautiful. Orno covered his eyes as the tree spoke, “The world has not abandoned the wood elves and the forests that they hold dear. And it will love you, as you have loved it, and protect you.” The light from the tree increased and swallowed the young hunter up, and he awoke.

Orno rubbed his eyes and wondered at his dream. He looked around the forest but could see no sign of the giant tree. Then he saw, at the base of the tree he had fallen asleep at, a curious sight. A bow there was, of a strange wood he did not recognize, with patterns of leaf and twig intertwined around it. He took it as a sign from the Powers and joyously made his way back to the wood elves’ dwelling.

When Orno made it home, he was shocked to find his people preparing for a great journey. They were abandoning their land to the Daeraug they said, for whom could stand against his might and savagery? Orno showed them his bow and told them of his dream, but they did not heed him.

“The Valar have abandoned us for our kin in the West.” They said, “And no bow could harm the hide of the Daeraug if our spears availed us not, we are without hope.” But Orno would not believe that and told his people that he, at least would stay, and trust in the Great Tree’s promise. He watched his people go and he waited.

The Daeraug came, as Orno knew he would, intent to harass the wood elves in their exodus. The hunter stood alone, his bow taut as he drew it back to full. The beast’s head turned as he came into view and spotted the lone elf standing defiant. The elvish arrow sang as it was released and struck the Daeraug in the shoulder, piercing its previously impenetrable flesh. The servant of Morgoth roared, anger swelling with the pain it had never known, and charged. Orno drew and fired again; striking the neck of the great beast, it still came on with a murderous rage in his eyes. The Daeraug was closing fast and Orno knew he had but one shot left before the creature would be upon him. The Daeraug leapt into the air seeking to crush the elf beneath him. Orno whispered a plea to the Valar and fired his last shot.

The arrow went through the monster’s eye as he fell upon the hunter, and the Daeraug, scourge of the elves, minion of the Dark Lord, lay dead. But, alas for poor Orno, he would not celebrate his victory, for he was crushed under the fallen weight of the great beast. As he lay dying, he said a prayer of thanks to the Valar for his people were now safe, and he passed once more into a dream.

There he saw the Great Tree again, standing like a mountain, as bright stars wheeled overhead. And Yavanna, for who else could the Great Tree have been but the Queen of the Earth, extolled Orno’s bravery before the Powers. For his bravery and his faith in the Valar, he was taken up and placed amongst the stars as a sign that the Valar had a thought for all the people of Middle-earth.

So it was that as the wood elves in flight heard rumor of the Daeraug’s fall, they looked up, saw the newly made stars, and took them for a sign. To the Noldor the constellation is known as Telumehtar, or Menelmacar, The Swordsman in the Sky. But to the Silvan, at the beginning of time, it was known as The Hunter, and they told that he protected them from the terrors of the world and they were not afraid.

The Winter Witch, Part Seven(And Epilogue)

Briana aproached the exhausted warrior, preparing to deliver a fatal blow that would end his life and his usefullness to her. Mericc struggled to rise but Brianna smiled wickedly, spoke a few words and the now familiar pain pierced him at the back of the neck, sending him reeling. The Ice Witch walked confidently, slowly, relishing every moment of this, her final triumph. Soon this foolish man would be dead and Brianna could begin the long, exhilarating wait until the child was born and the sorceress’s true plans could begin to unfold. She watched Mericc attempt to rise again and she laughed, a cold merciless laugh that echoed throughout the cavern, and she mocked him in her cruelty and malice.

Mericc struggled against the pain, knew that he had to fight it, knew that he had to resist. He would not fall like this, helpless and alone, without even a sword in his hand or companions by his side. Anger began to well up inside him, anger at the prospect of dying like an animal at slaughter, powerless and impotent. And then suddenly, as if answering his pleas, something rose from inside the warriors heart.

From the center of his chest a hidden reserve, impenetrable and formidable, started to grow from a place stronger than steel. It came to him when he was in greatest danger and it would serve him well in years to come when the paths he walked would become perilous and dark. A look of intense determination crossed Mericc’s face as he ignored the agonizing pain at the back of his neck. He put his hands on the ground, lifted his head, and rose unarmed to face the Ice Witch.

Briana’s face, went from a look of triumph to a look of utter shock as the warrior stood up to face her and beyond all reasoning began to approach. Her lips curled in a sneer and she muttered a few words but this time nothing, the pain that she knew must be wracking the powerful soldier before her had no effect. She backed up, the dagger that moments ago she wielded with such malicious glee, hung limply by her side as Mericc approached threateningly. The warrior was unarmed but radiated such an imposing presence that his lack of armor or weapon didn’t seem to matter. Briana continued to back away, looking for something to return the advantage to her favor, but all of her twisted machinations and dark artifices seemed worthless now against a threat so grim and immediate. She looked past the warrior towards the entrance to her abode and saw something that returned her confidence and advantage. Mericc noticed the change in the sorceresses’s contenance and turned around to face an old adversary.

The ice grim blew into the cavern, finally returned to it’s mistress’s home after an unsuccessful hunt for living beings. Briana shouted a word of command and the grim, noticing the the faint amounts of heat still emanating from the strong warrior standing opposite the sorceress, attacked with a furious hunger and desire. Mericc did his best to fight off the grim and it’s ever-changing form, but unarmed and exhausted as he was, the warrior’s chances were slim.

Now it was Mericc backing away deeper into the witches’ cave and Briana and the grim who were advancing. The warrior looked around for something to help ward off the grim and from the corner of his eye, under some ragged blankets, he saw the hilt of a sword. Summoning up what strength he could, Mericc ran towards the niche, and recovered his blade. He was still unarmored but at least now he could die as a warrior should. The grim attacked and Mericc fought back with all of his skill and experience.

The fight went back and forth evenly for a while, the grims multitude of shifting forms and shapes matched by Mericc’s instinctive battle prowess. But eventually the trials of the past few days and the strain of the last few minutes began to take their toll on Mericc. He was losing ground and the grim’s attacks were starting to find their mark more and more through his ill-equiped defences. Briana cackled and instructed her servant to finish the job. The grim sensed it’s victory and it took on the form of a ravenous wolf, cold and unforgiving. Before it could deliver the fatal blow though, it’s color went from a bright white to a flaming red, it’s growl became a piercing scream and it vaporized in a maelstrom of bitter cold and sudden flame.

Mericc looked to the ground where the remains of his opponent lay and saw an elvish arrow, covered in the tell-tale marks of fire-oil. He looked up and saw his companion at the cave entrance, standing with his bow nocked with another of his deadly fire arrows, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

Aqualondo had tracked the grim through storm and crevice, using all of his skills as a woodsman and his peculiar gifts as one of the Eldar to stay out of the creature’s sight. He had figured on a fight and so had splashed a few of his arrows with a special fire-oil, a fitting weapon against a creature of ice and cold. Following the grim into the cave he saw the last minutes of the fight between the grim and his friend Mericc and decided that he wasn’t about to let the warrior have all the fun. And now they both turned and faced Briana Frost, the Ice Witch, standing alone without any more servants or evil devices to save her. Mericc approached the witch, backed by Aqualondo whose bow was aimed at the still dangerous sorceress.

Briana knew that she was out of options, all options but one. She moved quickly towards the rearmost recesses of her home, followed quickly by her pursuers, deflecting a flame arrow by quickly summoning a gust of biting wind to blow it off it’s path. She ran towards something that resembled a crystalline globe atop a rocky dais. It swirled and moved like a frost grim, and within it’s facets many different faces and forms appeared and then quickly disapeared only to be replaced by something else.

Before either Mericc or Aqualondo could stop her, Briana took the globe from it’s pedestal, lifted it up and smashed it at her feet. Her form became less solid and stable, and in a flash Briana Frost had transformed herself into a spirit of wind and snow, not unlike the grims whom she had as servants. She blew past the two adventurers, laughing as she made her way towards the entrance and into the mountains beyond. She knew this emergency form was temporary, her plans not fully realized, but soon she would find some new hiding place, and she could still feel, as she raced and blew across the peaks of the Misty Mountains, the heat of the child that would soon be hers.

Mericc stood, half propped on the elf’s shoulders due to his extreme fatigue and watched his adversary as she disapeared into general chaos of the storm. Later on they managed to find the warrior’s lost armor and equipment and packed a few of the more interesting and movable devices in Briana’s cave into their packs. A dread hung over Mericc that his companions jest’ and assurances couldn’t assuage. This was not over and the full damage that might be done couldn’t even be imagined by the deliberate and single minded guardian.

He rubbed his fingers over the back of his neck, feeling the scar that had been placed there by Briana. He took a drink out of a flask in his pack that was quickly taken up by Aqualondo along with a vow from the elf that he and his drink would never be parted again. Mericc was too tired to berate the elf, it would do no good. He looked out into a storm that never seemed to end and Mericc wondered if it would only get worse. The only thing that he did know was that when it blew it’s hardest, Mericc Angadraug would be there, fighting it to the bitter end.

Epilogue – 9 months later
———-

Dawn broke over the vale of Rivendell, Master Elrond looked up from his writing and watched with a smile the flowers change from their dull night-time browns to vivid reds and golds and blues. A knock on his door woke him from his thoughts and one of his servants approached the lore-master deferentially.

“You have a visitor that wishes to see you Master Elrond” The servant spoke. “He brings….very strange tidings. I tried to convince him to wait, I know that you are busy with your histories, but he is very insistent.”

Elrond surpressed a tinge of annoyance, he hated to be interupted during his work but ‘very strange tiding’ interested him.

“Do not worry yourself too much about it, in fact I was just finishing up. Let them come in and I’ll see about these strange tidings.”

Into his room walked a strange sight indeed. A man walked into Elrond’s personal chamber, clad in intricate armour, a sword sheathed at his side. He knew the man to be a capable warrior from Dale, and he had helped him months previously with some dreams that were troubling him and nursed him back to health after a terrible ordeal in the Misty Mountains. But it wasn’t what he was equiped with that was strange, it was what was in his hands. In one hand the warrior held a frozen blue tinted hand and cradled in the other was a small child, covered warmly in soft blankets.

The warrior spoke “It is done. After a long search I have found the Ice Witch of the Mountains and this is all that now remains of her evil”. He threw the hand on the floor at Elrond’s feet. The next words came slow and difficult, “Well that and…this” Mericc said as he brought the child closer to Elrond to see.

Elrond stared at the child with wonder. How it had survived such a trip was a miracle but then a thought and a fear came to him, maybe not so miraculous at all. He struggled with whether to voice his concern but decided against it. The master of Rivendell spoke, “You have done us a great service Mericc of Dale. Briana Frost has been a thorn in our side for some time, making passage over the mountains even more perilous than it already was. I thank you”. Elrond looked to the child wrapped snugly in Mericc’s arms. “I take it the child is yours?” A formality, Elrond already knew the answer.

Mericc nodded, his brow creased with worry. “She is, though…”, The guardian seemed to waver for a moment “I was hoping that I could entrust her to your care.”

Elrond’s eyebrows raised “The child is your responsibility, Rivendell is not a repository for unwanted offspring.”

Mericc seemed to stifle an angry retort but calmed himself and looked out the window. “It is not that I do not want the responsibility of the child, I do not fly from my obligations. But I have traveled perilous paths and will do so many times yet and have made some dangerous enemies. For them to know that Mericc Angadraug had a child would put both me in danger and more importantly her. I cannot have that. I will give whatever I need to make sure that she is taken care of and check in when I can.”

Elrond considered the offer carefully then made his decision. “I cannot do this at this time, I have many pressing matters”. He saw the warrior’s chest sink, “But, I do know someone in the town of Bree to whom I can send messages too. I will send them right away.” Elrond continued “But know this, neither you nor the girl will be able to avoid who you are. She is the daughter of a great warrior and I see a strength in her that mirrors that of her father’s. Her fate and yours may be forstalled, but not avoided.”

Mericc nodded, taking in what he had been told. “Does the child have a name yet?” Elrond asked.

“Aniwen” Mericc said “If any name is too be given.”

“Aniwen it is then” Elrond replied. “Safe journeys Mericc of Dale”, Elrond said with a slight bow.

Mericc bowed to the learned loremaster, gathered up little Aniwen and prepared to leave for the town of Bree. She reached out and grabbed one of his fingers and Mericc felt a surge of conflicting emotions well up inside him. He hoped that the person Elrond had mentioned would take good care of her and part of him wished that his obligations didn’t take him so far away. But he convinced himself that this was best, the life of a guardian is not an easy one and often-times brutally short. Aniwen would be better off with a quieter life, if such was still to be found in the world. He looked down at the girl and smiled, this is the kind of thing he had fought his whole life to protect, and every bruise and cut he experienced would be well worth it if she could have a better life because of it. The sun was shining outside, the wind, light and playful, the darkness pushed back for just a little while.

The End.

The Winter Witch, Part Six

A few hundred yards away, an ice grim whirled and twisted its way through the snow and rocks and crevasses of the mountainside, making its way towards its master’s cave. The grim was famished, its hunt across the wastes of the mountains had not proven successful but maybe its Mistress would help. Perhaps she would let it dine a little on the morsel that the grim had discovered for her and sate its neverending hunger for warmth and heat.

Unbeknownst to the grim, it was being followed from behind and observed by someone, someone who was very curious about the grim and of the cavern that it now wound its way towards. The hunter stayed as far away and out of sight as he could while remaining close enough to not lose the grim in the storm. It was a difficult thing to accomplish since the grim was almost indistinguishable from the whirling maelstrom surrounding it. Aqualondo didn’t know what he would do once he confronted the grim, but then plans and repercussions were never his strong suit and this was the only lead he had as to what might have happened to his friend.

Meanwhile, inside the cavern above, Briana continued her own explorations. She swam through waters of memory, dug tunnels into walls of instinct and discipline, and finally drifted silently through clouds of dream and longing. And there, amongst pools of desire and reget she found it, something she had never seen before nestled in spaces deep down and remote. Not a memory or a dream, but like a vision of places and people from a previous existance that had past long ago into nothing more than faint ripples in time. And something else, something that excited the sorceress like nothing she had found yet. A smile crossed Briana’s lips and she laid her hand upon the man’s head, spoke in a tongue course and yet powerful, and entered.

Mericc stares across a strange sea and an unfamiliar land. The platform that he stands upon juts out into the water, planks creak and groan as he shifts his weight and looks around, trying to find something familiar to tell him where he is, but nothing makes any sense. He is obviously standing on a dock in a harbor, but what is this city, and what is this sea. His eyes rise to the horizon and a look of shock crosses his face. No familiar constellations greet him, the stars paint a different picture, tell different tales in the sky. But that is not what shakes him.

Where the moon should be, perfect, circular and unchanging, there lay nothing but an unholy mess. It is as if some god took a hammer in his anger and smote the moon across its side, rending it into pieces. A sound behind him shakes him from the sight and he turns to see where it originates.

A woman in dark blue robes walks down a dusty unkempt street. Long black hair half covers tanned skin and an alluring smile. She carries a staff with a mystic rune across the top and walks towards the Guardian with an easy familiar gait. Mericc feels a sense of knowing recognition, but does not know why. It is as if he is meeting someone from another life, someone he knew very well…maybe even loved. But then she turns and disappears down an alleyway and he is left with that feeling of overwhelming uncertainty.

It is cold here, uncommonly cold, a sharp wind picks up and Mericc covers his arms. A sharp pain at the back of his neck flares up and he falls to the ground in pain. His hand quickly goes to the origin of the pain, runs his fingers over what feels like a scar in the shape of a strange rune, carved right into the flesh. He tries to get up, but he suddenly finds that he cannot. A wave of unbearable weariness courses through every bone and sinew in his body, weariness like he has never felt before in his life, and then she is there.

Arms fold in around him and Mericc is lifted up into the gaze of the woman he saw earlier. A feeling of deep familiarity washes over him as he stares into a face both beautiful and strong. With one arm around his shoulders and the other by his side she helps him to his feet and begins to take him up one of the dusty streets towards a low roofed house that also strikes a chord with the weary warrior.

Mericc looks at the woman as they walk, trying to understand why she seems so familiar to him and why feelings of longing and affection rise up within his heart with each troubled step. She opens the door and they enter, and Mericc is flooded with a sense of belonging and comfort as he observes rooms and objects both unknown and yet familiar. A painting on the wall draws his attention and he see’s himself and the woman, arm in arm, two people in perfect harmony with each other. The woman leads him over to a bed and lays him down upon it, tells him to rest himself while she finds some things to tend to him.

She returns a moment later, her movements that of someone confident and sure in their strengths and abilities but demurr and graceful as well. She sits down besides him and begins to wipe his head with a damp cloth, following it up with a warm salve that eases the cold and weariness that permeates Mericc’s whole being. He asks her who she is and she smiles, telling him that he knows exactly who she is and that the feelings of forgetfullness would fade with time.

Mericc looks around as she tends to him and once again that feeling of place and belonging comes, even stronger than before. This is where he belongs, this is where his heart lies. She begins to speak again, telling him of their adventures, their struggles and triumphs but always together. Something nags at the back of Mericc’s mind but it is so faint now in her presence that it goes unnoticed by him as she tells him of their eventual binding as husband and wife. And now he was back with her and everything would be wonderful again.

Mericc finds himself putting her hand in his and she lays down with him, placing her head upon his chest. He doesn’t fully understand why he does it but knows that it feels right and soon they are in a loving embrace and all of the pain and numbness and weariness is washed away as they fall into each other. Everything feels right when suddenly a pain such as Mericc has never felt pierces him. It is so intense he screams out, his face wracked and contorted with such agony as if someone had plunged a sharpened icicle into his belly and twisted it until every muscle and nerve was frozen solid. The dream is gone, the vision shattered and….*

The Ice Witch stood above the warrior, a look of triumph and horrid ecstasy etched across her face. She had finally broken him, had finally found the key, and now her evil designs were almost complete. There was one thing left to do and Briana smiled wickedly, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the curved dagger as Mericc raised himself for what Briana knew would be the last time. The warrior looked up with great effort, struggled to focus his overworked senses and tired bones. What he saw was not a beautiful maiden, strong female warrior or loving wife. What he saw was Briana Frost, the Ice Witch, gaunt sorceress of the mountains in all her terrible glory, saw the dagger in her hand and knew that it was meant for him.