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faderift2017-11-15 12:48 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2017-11-15 12:48 am
FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL
WHO: New rifters & their rescuers
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff, as usual.
WHEN: Firstfall/November 14
WHERE: Somewhere a ways off the Imperial Highway between Cumberland and Nevarra City
NOTES: This arrival log is open to all. Solas was able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people can pick them up. Rifters can then either continue on with the main Inquisition caravan to Nevarra City or be escorted back to Kirkwall.
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff, as usual.
WHEN: Firstfall/November 14
WHERE: Somewhere a ways off the Imperial Highway between Cumberland and Nevarra City
NOTES: This arrival log is open to all. Solas was able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people can pick them up. Rifters can then either continue on with the main Inquisition caravan to Nevarra City or be escorted back to Kirkwall.
You were asleep--deeply or fitfully, for the last time or just resting your eyes for a moment-- and then you were not. And wherever you were was not, anymore, replaced by nothing but the sensation of falling, tumbling into endless, bottomless nothing. If this were still a dream, you would wake before you hit the ground. You can't die in a dream, they say. In some worlds.
In this world, when the afterimage left by a flare of too-bright, greenish light fades, you will find yourself landing with a wet smack. There is no avoiding the mud: this rift has opened up in the center of some unfortunate farmer's field, and all his hard work plowing and manuring has now been ruined, first by the rain that has churned it into a thick and especially fragrant muck and then by the arrival the rift itself, splitting the air mid-field and making it impossible to safely plant. And now, of course, there's you as well, tumbling out of the Fade and into the shin-deep mud.
The cluster of demons emerging from the rift seem at odds with the setting, strange stark shapes in this empty space, standing out against the grey sky. Some are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who seem like they should tumble down the hill in a tangle of limbs but instead sink into the snow to anchor themselves and use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, others mere wisps of greenish light that float over the icy ground. None look friendly or familiar. Also unfamiliar is the narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions.
All around is more fields, except for an abandoned farmhouse a ways off, beside a windbreak of spindly trees topping a low ridge before the next stretch of pasture. As you find your feet, you may catch sight of a handful of figures in the distance, exiting the farmhouse and hurrying away over the hill. If anyone ventures to the farmhouse, they will find the remains of a camp, and may be able to locate a dropped notebook or what looks like pieces of some unknown scientific instrument, apparently broken in the rush to leave.
In this world, when the afterimage left by a flare of too-bright, greenish light fades, you will find yourself landing with a wet smack. There is no avoiding the mud: this rift has opened up in the center of some unfortunate farmer's field, and all his hard work plowing and manuring has now been ruined, first by the rain that has churned it into a thick and especially fragrant muck and then by the arrival the rift itself, splitting the air mid-field and making it impossible to safely plant. And now, of course, there's you as well, tumbling out of the Fade and into the shin-deep mud.
The cluster of demons emerging from the rift seem at odds with the setting, strange stark shapes in this empty space, standing out against the grey sky. Some are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who seem like they should tumble down the hill in a tangle of limbs but instead sink into the snow to anchor themselves and use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, others mere wisps of greenish light that float over the icy ground. None look friendly or familiar. Also unfamiliar is the narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions.
All around is more fields, except for an abandoned farmhouse a ways off, beside a windbreak of spindly trees topping a low ridge before the next stretch of pasture. As you find your feet, you may catch sight of a handful of figures in the distance, exiting the farmhouse and hurrying away over the hill. If anyone ventures to the farmhouse, they will find the remains of a camp, and may be able to locate a dropped notebook or what looks like pieces of some unknown scientific instrument, apparently broken in the rush to leave.
adalia | oc | ota
ii. i don't know where i'm going ( caravan )
ooc.
1
[ Elros blinks at the sparks, one hand (the left, since it's hurting too much to risk his usual style) open in a conciliatory fashion, the other carefully keeping his blade in view, point down ]
Easy, milady! No need to throw sparks at me!
[ And then curiously ] How do you do that? I don't see tinder and flint on you.
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ii b.
Garahel, stop fidgeting. This will only take a moment, if you allow it.
[Glancing over, she raises a finger in a 'just a moment' gesture, then finishes her work before Garahel can be distracted further. Straightening, she reaches for her staff.]
I am Warden Inessa Serra, leader for the Rifts and the Veil project of the Inquisition. Are you partial to tea? I was about to pour some for myself anyway and certainly don't mind sharing.
[Garahel closes in, sniffing at Adalia and looking up at her hopefully as his tail wags. Friend?]
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ii a.
Lady, the size of it...is that what I think it is?
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ii b
[ That’s a terribly easy first question. Alistair answers it before even turning his attention away from the horse he’s fussing with, picking brambles out of one of its legs, but a moment later he lets the leg loose and smiles at her. He saw her meditating before. Talking to herself. Not the weirdest thing a rifter has done, that. In the grand scheme of foreign weirdos with strange habits, it’s honestly more endearing than freaky. He talks to himself all the time. ]
Who are you? —and before you answer, [ he adds, holding up a stalling hand, ] remember that I’ll have no choice but to believe whatever you tell me. Sort of. As much as I believe any of this, at least. If you’re nobody from nowhere, here’s your chance to be somebody from somewhere. Dazzle me.
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steals memes shamelessly
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ii a.
Is that a dragon's egg?
[ Dany may have had to shed her overcoat for the time being to allow it to dry after having the mud scrubbed from it, but she still wears her three-headed dragon pinned to her borrowed cloak. There is no malice on her face, only curiosity. ]
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II b
Well, first things first. I'm Prompto. Rifter, not a native. You just came through the rift just earlier, right?
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ii b
All this to say that, when Adalia suddenly pokes her head into his peripheral vision while he sits alone near the periphery of the camp taking the blade of his dagger to a whetstone, he does indeed look surprised to see her. It's short-lived, however, once he spots the green glow in her palm. Then he only smiles wryly.
"The Traitor Teyrn," he replies, tone almost mild, as he turns his attention back to the dagger. "Among other names. I prefer to go by Loghain." Nodding to the half-wolf, half-mabari hound warming herself near the fire, he remarks, "That's Primrose. Who are you?"
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brónach | skyrim | ota
[Curled in the shadow of a dragon's ribs, skins stretched over then between to block the worst of the snows when dark had started to fall. Her bow in her hand clutched tight; Skyrim is lawless, you never know what might come creep into the tent in the dark.
She's slept in worse places. High ledges, tucked into what looked like a warm dry place that gave beneath her in the night or when something appeared and she had to turn from it, or high in branches not so suited to it as those in Valenwood. Falling hard in the night, swearing to the moons hanging in the--]
Y'ffre's green-knotted bones-- [not daedra, not draugr, but enough to get the bow up when she bares her teeth at them. The snarl catches in her throat, turns to a rattling feral hissing as she takes aim.
(Her hand is glowing. It isn't a priority. Survival is a priority.)
Squinting past the glow, the ache, into too many eyes, limbs stretched out she fires. Thinks of flames like cold fire that lit the forest, of flesh that burns from the inside out and the dragon's belly she'd been sleeping in. The arrow punches clean through one of the eyes of the spindly creatures that puts her in mind of a spriggan gone horribly wrong as it lurches her direction.]
ii
[After and Brónach breathes.
Sets the bow back. Salvages arrows. Seems relatively unconcerned with the mud covering her person as she sets about conducting a thorough inspection of herself for injuries then through her possessions. The greater part of it wasn't strapped to her so that's-- that's somewhere else.
Not here. Another hissing curse. Easy enough to interrupt any of this as she moves quietly and quickly, an eye for anyone watching her once she starts to investigate the left hand with intent.
After that it's the turn of the remains, a wicked blade flipped into her palm to open up the few remaining parts (whatever happened, they're gone; her mouth pulls in a question) with a critical eye. Weighing them. Sniffing. Prodding with the blade.
The questions come in order of importance to someone used to chasing down game and not always having a map.] Where am I, how did I get this thing in my hand, how do I get back?
[Not your name, not the offer of hers. Skyrim made her stop caring about that one a long time ago.]
ii
You're in Thedas, you got that shard the moment you were pulled in from the Land of Dreams, and you can't get back. No one knows how to return you, I'm sorry.
[She lifts her shard hand with a wry-smile.]
Some of us natives got struck, too. I hear it has several uses if you train for it, but sealings rifts is the constant. And I know it stings like shite at first, but that'll go away.
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i
--and that is when Loghain's shield bash connects solidly with the side of its skull, his sword following with an upward slash across its throat. Ectoplasm spurts in hot gouts, but it's in its death throes now. (A death that is helped along by the sudden appearance of a wild-looking wolf dog that goes for its throat.)
Loghain stops to look at Brónach just long enough to assess her state in a glance. "Are you injured?" he asks, already searching the field for the appearance of more demons.
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Elros | Tolkien | OTA
[ He is falling - this is not unusual. Ever since they learnt of their father's fate, both Elrond and Elros dream of flying, of the deck of a ship they only remember because other people have described it for them, as it soars across the sky. Ever since the War, when they watched Earendil kill Ancalagon the Great, Elros has dreamt of that ship falling, and himself falling with it.
He laughs - he has never feared death.
He twists and puts an arrow to the string and fires, up into the gleaming eye above him, and smirks as the light in it goes out.
He is Elros Earendillion, and like his father, he is a Dragonslayer.
And then he lands in mud.
That's new. (also, rather painful) ]
What?
[ He pulls himself to his knees and blinks at his surrounds, yelling in surprise as a demon lunges at him ]
Morgoth's BALLS!
[ He draws the sword without thinking, takes off its head, and rolls to his feet in one smooth move with a smile that has too many teeth to be friendly, blade between him and the rest of the demon pack. His myriad of aches and pains he dismisses, although he worriedly notes that his left hand is much more painful than he prefers - he must have landed on it. Oh well. He can use the blade right-handed, although he prefers his left. ]
Not my usual way of waking up, but come then, let us see how you fare against me!
Anyone home
[ He's young still, by the count of the Eldar, but old, as Men consider it. Still a little caught between the two worlds. But not even Maedhros at his best could fight without rest indefinitely, and Elros is not his utterly crazy foster father. There's no way he's facing Elrond at the End of Days and explaining that he died because he let himself get surrounded instead of sensibly retreating.
So he retreats, as little as he enjoys doing so, pulling back to the farmhouse. A part of him feels guiltily that he should probably find the owner and apologise for the utter ruin that he's made of the field. Then again, it wasn't entirely his fault. He ducks into one of the buildings and bolts the door behind him ]
Hello? Anyone there? Sorry to intrude...
Wake Up
A few minutes, some very dead demons, and a couple irritating wisps later, he moves in the direction the earlier shout came from. And- yes, a youth with a demon pack of his own to deal with, how wonderful.
He calls out in Sindarin before he joins, as the new rifter's situations doesn't yet seem dire:]
Hail, stranger! Would you mind if I cut in?
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ii
Oh--The owners are long gone, don't worry. Some of us are just using this as a place to take a break.
[ She gives him a sheepish smile, then glances at the door with a frown. ]
Are those demons still out there?
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Wake up
He hisses in worry and lunges, leaping over and slicing heads and limbs off of any in his way to protect his fosterling. The ache of hand is ignored, nothing new except it's his left hand instead of just his right. Nothing matters but getting to Elros' side.
They're soon fighting side-by-side, or back-to-back, but he spares a second to caste a chastising look at the half-elf.]
That one is not someone to call upon.
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Wake up~
Good luck. Once he hears the curse, he wheels the horse around the pounds towards Elros. Nothing can stop him from reaching him, though he wishes very much he had a helm to hide his face.)
Give me your hand!
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Daenerys Targaryen | Game of Thrones [open]
She had fallen asleep in her room on Dragonstone. She dreamed of the day before, facing Cersei Lannister for the first time, her greatest enemy. Then the dream changed, and she was flying on Drogon's back, but she fell, green light sweeping up to envelop her like wildfire-
-and then she was laying in mud. Eyebrows furrowed she pushes herself up, hands slipping in the muck. She didn't bother sneering in revulsion at the grime covering her fine clothes now. She had been forged on the Red Waste, Khaleesi of the Great Khal. She was used to dirt. It was only a dream, though an odd one. She managed to stagger to her feet, boots sticking in the mud, coming up nearly to her knees.
It was once she was on her feet she really saw the chaos around her. Others, some standing with weapons drawn, others still in the mud. She inhaled sharply when she saw the demons, looking around her for some kind of cover. There was nothing, they were in the middle of a field. A lesser woman might quail and try to hide behind the nearest person with a sword. Daenerys Targaryen has the blood of the dragon, and she stands her ground. Instead she seizes an abandoned pitchfork on the ground, holding it out in front of her. She is entirely unskilled in battle, but she will not be attacked by demons in her own dreams.
"You will leave this place!" she yells at the green and spindly creature advancing upon her, her voice steel.
ii.
After the danger has passed, it's more obvious that this is not a dream. Dany isn't always the most flexible person. She can adapt to her situations, but once she gets set into something, she isn't happy when things suddenly deviate. The look on her face is one of sheer unhappiness as she steps into the abandoned farmhouse, looking to escape the rain for a moment.
"Where are we?" she doesn't expect a response she'll understand, but it would help to know. Is she still in Westeros, is this some magic that Cersei Lannister employed? The warlocks of Quarth cross her mind, for the first time in a long time. They had never come at her again after the markets of Yunkai, could they have been gathering their resources to create this? The possibilities swirl in her mind as she examines the room before her.
1
Elros is just as mud-spattered, and his clothes, like her, bespeak a noble background.
"Can you use a bow? I would lend you a knife rather than that cumbersome thing, but I fear the sword is too long for you."
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ii
"We're somewhere in between Kirkwall and Nevarra." Given her state of (now ruined) dress, the cross look, the lack of weapons, and the fact that he hasn't seen her around indicates she's a newcomer. "More broadly, we're in Thedas. That rift you came through sucked you out of your world and into this one." If only he could tell her how, and more importantly, how to make it work the other way around.
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He must have dozed off at his desk back at the headquarters. The aftermath of the fight with Veneno and then Curious had incurred a mountain of paperwork over the last few days and Klaus had vowed to tackle the brunt of it to spare Steven another... well, they just referred to it as an Incident now. But even Klaus was not immune to exhaustion, and the comfort of his office chair and the warmth of Gilbert's tea had lulled his eyes shut. He dreamed his dreams, the chaos of Jerusalem's Lot merging strangely with places from his youth. And then he felt a strange tug as though he'd forgotten about a stair, and suddenly he was tumbling through thin air.
Landing face-first in mud which smelled distinctly like one of the phosphorus rich fertilizers he used in his greenhouse woke him right up.
Dazed, confused and hastily trying to scrub the muck from his spectacles with a clean section of his sleeve, Klaus almost didn't see the spindly, gangling monstrosity speeding towards him.
Almost.
He caught the blur of movement out the corner of his eye, and with skill and reflexes born of years of training, he he slammed his fist directly in the center of the demon's face.
The creature was sent flying several feet into the air from the force of impact where it arced as gracefully as a ballerina, before landing face down in the mud, skidded for a few yards and finally came to a rest in a tangle of limbs at the feet of its brethren.
b: Aftermath
His spectacles seemed to be a lost cause until he got to some clean, fresh water so he'd tucked them neatly into his breast pocket. And his mobile phone seemed to be gone - either sitting at his desk in the office or lost to the mud of the field. He approached one of the reasonably friendly seeming blobs of colour.
This wasn't the first time he'd been in one place and woken up in another without the aid of a considerable amount of alcohol - Jerusalem's Lot had all manner of strange quirks and the city changed itself on a whim.
But even then, he knew something was Wrong. Jerusalem's Lot didn't have sprawling farmland - maybe further along in upper New York state - which would mean that the strangeness of the city would have spread beyond the fog. He also hadn't missed the peculiar attire of those he'd fought beside, but he hadn't yet given it too much thought. The outfits looked like something out of a well-researched fantasy film - plausible for the technology, but historically inaccurate to actual clothing worn in analogous eras. But he'd also taken into account that Renaissance Fairs were a thing.
He'd never had guessed the participants were such skilled combatants.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft, his tone polite and a broad hand raised in greeting. "Can you perhaps tell me where I am and what's going on here? I need to get back to Jerusalem's Lot right away."
c: Journey
i.
He'd done his best with the clean(ish) water from a nearby stream, but it looked like his dress shirt and tie were done for. At least one of the members of the inquisition had seen fit to provide him with an ill-fitted, albeit clean and dry, tunic and some boots that were a bit more suited to trekking down the muddy road than his brogues. It hadn't been out of a sense altruism but rather the more pragmatic notion that bringing new Rifters to Nevarra caked in mud and smelling like manure probably wouldn't do much for diplomacy or dispelling rumours they were savage demons.
He wasn't a stranger to long treks or living rough, and when night fell he volunteered to help keep watch. He kept his back to the fire, watching the treeline for... anything really.
ii.
It had taken a little while for the news to sink in. Fortunately, Klaus could generally operate on automatic, but in a sort of distant way. What was going on back at headquarters, he wondered. Steven and the others must be worried. He kept largely to himself as he processed this new situation, but sometimes he stopped being anxious long enough to ask a question, or help with some heavy lifting. He had certainly been handy when he'd single-handedly pushed a heavy supply cart out of a ditch with all the apparent effort of someone pushing along an empty wheel barrow.
a
...And finds out he doesn't need to. His feet slow to a stop as he watches the demon skid and slide, and man...man, he's always impressed to see when someone's got everyone else outclassed to hell and back. "Do you even need rescuing? Jesus."
Re: a
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b
Re: b
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b
Re: b
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c, i
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Maglor | Tolkien | OPEN
[After so long of not allowing himself to sleep, to find himself dreaming of the Two Trees still alive and giving their light strikes Maglor as odd. But it lightens his heart to the point of a joyful laugh as he runs towards that sacred mound.
Only to trip over nothing and fall. And fall farther than any normal height warrants. He lands face first with a squelch in mud that has no business of being in Valinor to such a degree!
Pain in his left hand drags him to consciousness and he pushes himself up and into a sudden roll as all his senses scream danger! and the warrior in the elf sends him into immediate action. His sword is pulled from the sheath at his back and he makes quick work with it, half-dancing even through the mud and manure of the field he distantly realizes he's landed in (though he knows not why or how!) and slices blade through flesh and bone.
A feral gleam enters grey eyes and a hard, almost mad smile spreads on the pale face.]
Come, foul ones! Come at me!
After the battle
[He has a few scratches, a number of bruises, and is a fair amount of blood spattered on him along with the general state of mud all over his emaciated form by the time his bloodlust for the ending of any and every demon that had come after him abated enough for him to leave the field.
He might be humming as he walks, flicking his sword absently as if he can clean it of blood that easily when it's so caked. He'll have to do a proper clean later. His pack hasn't left his side, the comforting weight at his back tells the awareness he has left.
Maglor notes figures approaching, but senses no immediate danger from them so ignores them unless they hail him.]
Some wake up call!
Kano! (His heart sings and grieves. How will he face his brother? How will he atone - ? But that must come later.) Come to me!
But it called his defender so it's all good!
His defender would've come anyway.
Best big bro ;.;
He tries ;n;
<3
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After the battle
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after the battle;
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Fingon
[It's his first time looking at a Rift that wasn't busy trying to drown him, so Fingon takes a few moments to study it and the monsters that emerge from it. Absent is the strange, sickening red light, which is a pleasant change. He'll take the mud any day over that, thank you very much.
As the monsters begin to move he meets them, raising his blade against their attacks. For all the strangeness of the enemies, the dance of combat is soothing, familiar, even pleasant. He'll take joy in the fight, no matter how long it lasts.]
II. A Complicated Reunion (Closed to Maedhros, Maglor, Elros, and Fern)
We need to talk, if you're feeling up to it.
[Fingon begins that evening, sitting with Maedhros and their newly arrived kinsmen. Their corner of the caravan isn't as private as he would like, but there are affairs which need to be handled without delay. Issues concerning Rifters, and Thedas' elves... and the small matter of those of Arda who proceeded them here.]
Russandol and I were caught off guard by a few matters when we arrived, and I'd rather not have you start off on the same foot.
II
When you say that, I somehow imagine we aren't talking about something as simple as the monsters.
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Galadriel | Tolkien | OTA
Galadriel opened her eyes and then, without pause, felt she had opened them again. The world, once clad in ancient stone and the high, whipping mountain cold, was replaced by a new, dimmer version of itself. What was memory faded and what was real came into hard focus--the light drizzle of rain tumbled from a dreary grey sky, the hard packed frost was replaced with thick, cloying mud, and the relative ease of life in Skyhold was dispelled by the sharp splinter of pain up her arm. Disoriented and weak, Galadriel lifted her hand toward the rift on reflex--she drew on the power of the ring, but the power of the ring was no longer with her.
The ring--
Galadriel's vision drifted still, yet she couldn't bring herself to focus on the rift. She twisted her hand in the air and stared, in horror, at the space between her fingers. Her skin was alight, glimmering as brightly as it ever had, a beacon against the dark sky, but there was no ring upon her finger. Apart from the mark that marred it, her hand was bare, and her horror mounted as she stared. The world was lost to her as shock and panic siezed her heart and, in her negligence, she failed to notice the demons that fell from the rift and rose around her.
It was bare moments before she was torn from her reverie; a terror's claws came down, raking across her back and gouging deep into her side. She drew a sharp breath, or tried, as the air was knocked from her and, all at once Galadriel was cast to the ground. Haloed against the rift, two terrors and a slew of shades drew close and set upon her.
[OOC: You can do this option with just Galadriel or with both Galadriel and Haldir! If you want the Galadriel+Haldir option please tag into Haldir's thread below!]
2. Much That Once Was Is Lost
The combat was done and the haze of it, the energy of panic and fear, of violence and pain, had all but faded. Now, only the pain remained. Galadriel gripped her mid-section as she leaned against the wall of the farmhouse. Her gown gaped at her hip and below her breast, torn to shreds where the demon had raked its claws through the fabric and her flesh. The white silk was stained a deep, disconcerting red, from neckline to where the hem was wet with muck. Only one of her sleeves remained brilliant white, but the way it shone now was macabre and ghastly. She was pale, but her radiance had not dimmed, she was lit from within with the warm glow of dawn and the cold glitter of the stars, the blood across her flesh was like spots of shadow.
"How has this come to pass?" Galadriel wondered aloud, her voice slow and groggy, distant with pain and bloodloss. In her hand she holds a silver brooch--an eagle clutching an emerald of appreciable size and clarity. Green light spilled around and from the piece of jewelry, but it was not the strange light of the fade, nor did it seem to illuminate much of anything beyond the haze of cold that hovered in the air. She peered at it and her expression was ready to crumble, either to tears or rage it was hard to say.
3. Caravan
Nevarra was unknown to her, but she was given little choice. She lacked the resources to locate Nenya by foot and now she lacked the strength to use her power to search it out. She required assistance and the only assistance she knew of would be found with the Inquisition.
She traveled slowly, often with Haldir at her side, and while her wounds were closed she was far weaker than she could ever recall being. Of the Quendi in Thedas she looked most restored, her light burned as brightly as it had ere the Trees rose above Valinor, but she lacked the power of Nenya to bolster her and the toll of using the Elessar fell heavily on her.
Her dress was in tatters, she certainly hoped there was some acceptable level of fashion in the land they traveled to, she would have to find a new one in short order.
1 Haldir OTA
He sheathed his sword quickly as he reached out to Galadriel, but could only watch as she crumpled to the ground. The cuts were deep, mortal even. His eyes fixated on the red blood cascading out of the wounds. Despair strangled him with a lover’s touch as he fought back tears. A cry ahead of them brought him back to the battle, and he moved into position in front of her. Anything that wanted to get to her would have to get through him. He would prevent her death as long as he could.
He slung his bow out from behind him, quickly nocking an arrow and drew it back. With a release of his breath, he let arrow fly, and taking pleasure in the satisfying sound it made as it found it’s mark in the head of one of the monsters slithering towards them. His left hand shook as pulses of pain rippled from his arm throughout his body. With another growl, he tried to push that to the back of his mind. His aim must stay true.
Another arrow nocked as a horde of ghouls charge toward them.
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Oh goodness I hope this isn't too old now.
now it is my turn to hope
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Haldir | Tolkien | OTA
His heart tightened, and he felt his hands tingle as he tried to regain control over himself. He’d failed her. Watched her fall, watched her body lay torn and broken before him. His fists clenched, and he bit back a cry as that cursed mark radiated pain throughout his body. That pain, coupled with the near constant ache in his muscles and the rumbling pain in his stomach every fifteen minutes was making this whole journey rather irksome. His whole body complained and rebelled against him lately. He rubbed his palm lazily with is other hand, and scanned the horizon again.
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To leave his fine homeland and dwell near our fair shore,
And if he dared journey to the land 'cross the Sea
We would hold him in honour, we'd serve him forevermore.
For this land's pointed stones tore at skin and cracked bone;
Each ship whose bow broke left our young wives alone.
He'd keep us from danger, watching o'er ocean and stream,
And beneath mighty Manwe, we'd hold him supreme."
Elros' voice is still elven-fair, and he had good teachers. But the subject is rather more mundane, the sailor's choruses of the Falas and Lindon spilling cheerily from his lips.
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his ego is just puffing up oh dear
Re: his ego is just puffing up oh dear
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