Thread: Pumyra's RP Prompts -- Updated Every Wednesday!

Just a quick little scribble... I really should make an effort to stop rushing in with these last minute. :P

~~~

Pain.
Destruction.
Blows delivered with an unforgiving finality.
Death.
It always ended like that. Bandits would attack, and the only choice would be to strike back. They were relentless, and had to be pushed back in kind. They would not respond to any other way. And Celonivren despised it.
Words were not meant to cut, to wound, to destroy. They were meant to heal, to edify, to build. Yet here he was, twisting their craft into a sheer blaze of carnage. He adored his profession, he loved the intricacies, but this - this was the one facet he wished he did not have as deep a knowledge as he now did.
It came at a high price.
"Are you all right, my friend?"
Roendir's lilting tone came to him as if across a lonely sea, but at least they fell upon open ears. Celonivren glanced over his shoulder to see the minstrel piercing him with an expression of concern. The others might not have grasped it quite so readily, but Roendir knew - Celonivren always felt deeply, though he hardly ever let it show on the surface.
"No words, Roendir. I have had enough of them tonight."
The minstrel nodded in understanding, and simply brought out his harp, a question in his expression.
Celonivren returned the nod with one of his own, and Roendir played.
There was his solace. He did not understand it, nowhere near as well as Roendir, but he had come to understand that the music he played was a language all its own, an unspoken speech poured out from one to another through the instrument's sounds.
He had no words for what he always felt after the end of a skirmish, the yawning sorrow that always gripped him.
Yet, with the minstrel's aid, he had learned that words were not necessary. Sometimes all that was needed to give them voice was to resort to the music - the wordless tongue.
Somehow, tonight, it was enough.

(( And now for something completely different Tried to keep it PG-13, hopefully the readers' imagination will fill in the details [one of the reasons to write, right ] - one could say this is another part (or two) of Ratling's vices series ))

What brings your character comfort after time afield?

============================== ============================== ====

Ratling walked into the room, not really sure what to expect nor what he would experience inside. He had heard stories of such places, but always assumed they were for lords and kings, not men such as himself. And yet, here he was entering the place.

He walked into the room, and noticed immediately the two, beautiful women inside. One pointed to his weapons, then to the corner of the room, not speaking, yet Rat understood completely. He walked over to the corner and placed his spears and shield against the wall, as the woman walked behind him and started to unbuckle his armour. He could hear the other start to pour water into a basin situated in the center of the room, Rat' smelling the sweet warm steam coming off of the water.

After his gear was removed, Ratling moved over to the basin, and slowly slid into the warm bath. He breathed deeply as he settled back against the tub, letting the warmth work into his sore muscles. One girl grabbed a sponge, and slowly began to clean his chest as the second slid behind him, starting to massage the knots out of his tired shoulders. Ratling closed his eyes, sinking deeper into a relaxed state...

The snap of a twig made Ratling jump instinctively, rolling over his shield and spears next to his bedroll and ending kneeled, a spear ready to throw. He peered into the dark, the fire by his bedding almost out, listening to the scratches in the dark. He waited, seemingly forever, before he could make out the outline of a boar slowly walking into view. The animal ignored Rat', more interested in looking for food than the man who had set-up camp in his dining area. Ratling just watched as the beast shuffled through, then disappeared once again into the darkness.

Finally, Ratling relaxed his pose, placing his gear carefully down again next to his bed roll, and laid back down. He stared at the stars for a few minutes, before shutting his eyes again, muttering half-asleep, “at least I still have my dreams...”

Revisit a memory that your character would most want to forget...

She stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as she shifted from foot to foot. The room within was lined with books and a fire crackled in the fireplace. A woven rug from the Lossoth adorned the hardwood floor of golden oak, resting beneath the lion's feet legs of the plush burgundy armchairs. The air was redolent with the smell of Southfarthing pipeweed that clung to the books and upholstry long after pipes were long extinguished. A chandelier twinkled overhead, tiny dangling stars casting bright reflections of the firelight, as if some small part of the night sky itself had been trapped and brought indoors. A tall water clock dominated the far right end of the room, the droplets adding a steady metronome of sound to the quiet.

The doorjamb crumbled beneath her shoulder and she was immediately brought back to reality. The jamb and the support beams of the tidy little house were naught but a frail skeleton, stark against the bright sky of morning. In the center, the blackened stone of the fireplace lay like a tombstone for everything that had perished here. The chairs, the clock, the rug were all gone, disintigrated into ash. It stank of burned wood and plaster, of wet ash from having sat in seasons of rain.

She was here for a purpose, however. She turned and went back to where her horse stood placidly aside, fetching down a wreath of primroses woven with ribbons of white. This she took back to the blackened husk of the home, crossing the broken threshold to the sooty fireplace within. Dead leaves and tattered ribbon lay there upon the stones in silent testament to this annual ritual, but she merely swept the remants aside with a careful hand, replacing the old gift with the new.

"I miss you, Gran and Gramps. I-I hope you're proud of me. Mum and Papa are doing pretty good, recovering like the rest of us."

For a long while, she knelt there, relating all the stories and adventures she'd heard and had on her journey as a minstrel. She spoke of triumphs and of tragedies; monsters and knights. She detailed all the people she'd met, all the things she'd seen, everything that had changed since her visit last year. Morning waned into afternoon, and afternoon into evening; as the light of day began to die, the minstrel rose to her feet with a wearied sigh.

"I'll... I'll come again next year, all right?" She said, smiling hesitantly in the growing twilight. "I-I love you."

Returning to her horse, she mounted quickly and turned her horse's head away from the skeletal remains of the house. Like so many things and so many people, it was a painful reminder of all that had been lost when the Blackwolds sacked Archet. A memory she wanted most to forget, but refused to allow to die.

He smiled as the kiss ended then drew his hand from the nape of her neck to her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. “Ni-zêri ki, Eirien,” he said quietly. His other hand brushed over the silver armband he had given her the day before in honor of her birthing day.

“I love you, too,” Eirien replied, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.

He leaned in to kiss her again only to stop as her eyes widened and fear flashed into her mind. “Eirien?”

Eirien stared at him, her face paling as she whispered, “Help me…”

“Eirien, what…?” He lowered his hand to try to catch her as she suddenly began to fall away from him, reaching out, even as her body faded. His gaze lowered to his hands, covered in her blood. He gasped and stepped back, shaking his head in denial.

He closed his eyes, willing the image away. When he reopened them, he was standing in the lane a short distance from the small apartment they had shared. He looked around, confused, and then spotted a shadowy figure entering the building nearby. He moved to follow, his steps quickening when he heard Eirien’s voice.

“No! Help me!”

As he reached for the door he hesitated, as if fearing what he would find inside. Another cry forced him to shove the door open, his eyes narrowing sharply at the man standing behind his wife, one hand resting against her throat, the other wrapped firmly around her waist.

“She’s mine,” the other man sneered. “You stole her from me but she’s mine once more.”

“She was never yours,” he replied, his hand moving for his sword. “Release her. Now!”

Her captor shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. The Dark Lord demands her death and since you couldn’t carry that order out, yourself, it falls to me.” He lowered his head to brush his cheek against hers, even as she turned hers away in disgust and fear. His gaze remained fixed on the other man, however, as he spoke again. “But, even in death, she’ll be mine.”

His gaze dropped only briefly to the silver armband Eirien wore but it was enough for the other man to notice.

“You think this trinket will save her?” her captor asked, lowering his hand from her throat to the band. He shook his head then looked back up to her husband. “What will you give for her life?”

“Anything…everything,” he replied.

“/Your/ life?” asked the other man.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“Your /soul/?”

Again, the answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

Her captor chuckled as he shook his head, his hand moving back to her throat. “You offer what’s not yours to give any longer, as both already belong to the Dark Lord.” He paused, his expression slipping into another sneer. “Or do you mean to break your oath… Numenorean?”

He started to reply that he would, only to be stopped by a force stronger than his own will to do so. He closed his eyes, trying to fight it as the will to obey grew within him. When he reopened them, a mixture of regret and firm resolve crossed his face. He looked to Eirien, meeting her gaze only a moment before whispering quietly, “Eru, ánin apsene.”

Ignoring the defiant flash of pain that came with his whispered words, he then stepped forward, crying out as he drove his sword through them both. He quickly pulled it free, shoving her captor’s body away and dropping the sword to catch Eirien as she fell…

…………….


He woke with a start, heart pounding and an ache spreading across his chest. He looked around, confused for a moment until he remembered where, and when, he was. He sat up, reaching to cover his face with his hands, not surprised to find moisture there. He frowned at the memory, his gaze lowering to the small gold band resting upon the smallest finger of his left hand.

It had been nearly eight years and still he recalled every detail. Would a day come when the memory would fade? Did he truly want it to?

Originally Posted by RP4Ever

He smiled as the kiss ended then drew his hand from the nape of her neck to her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. “Ni-zêri ki, Eirien,” he said quietly. His other hand brushed over the silver armband he had given her the day before in honor of her birthing day.

“I love you, too,” Eirien replied, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.

He leaned in to kiss her again only to stop as her eyes widened and fear flashed into her mind. “Eirien?”

Eirien stared at him, her face paling as she whispered, “Help me…”

“Eirien, what…?” He lowered his hand to try to catch her as she suddenly began to fall away from him, reaching out, even as her body faded. His gaze lowered to his hands, covered in her blood. He gasped and stepped back, shaking his head in denial.

He closed his eyes, willing the image away. When he reopened them, he was standing in the lane a short distance from the small apartment they had shared. He looked around, confused, and then spotted a shadowy figure entering the building nearby. He moved to follow, his steps quickening when he heard Eirien’s voice.

“No! Help me!”

As he reached for the door he hesitated, as if fearing what he would find inside. Another cry forced him to shove the door open, his eyes narrowing sharply at the man standing behind his wife, one hand resting against her throat, the other wrapped firmly around her waist.

“She’s mine,” the other man sneered. “You stole her from me but she’s mine once more.”

“She was never yours,” he replied, his hand moving for his sword. “Release her. Now!”

Her captor shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. The Dark Lord demands her death and since you couldn’t carry that order out, yourself, it falls to me.” He lowered his head to brush his cheek against hers, even as she turned hers away in disgust and fear. His gaze remained fixed on the other man, however, as he spoke again. “But, even in death, she’ll be mine.”

His gaze dropped only briefly to the silver armband Eirien wore but it was enough for the other man to notice.

“You think this trinket will save her?” her captor asked, lowering his hand from her throat to the band. He shook his head then looked back up to her husband. “What will you give for her life?”

“Anything…everything,” he replied.

“/Your/ life?” asked the other man.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“Your /soul/?”

Again, the answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

Her captor chuckled as he shook his head, his hand moving back to her throat. “You offer what’s not yours to give any longer, as both already belong to the Dark Lord.” He paused, his expression slipping into another sneer. “Or do you mean to break your oath… Numenorean?”

He started to reply that he would, only to be stopped by a force stronger than his own will to do so. He closed his eyes, trying to fight it as the will to obey grew within him. When he reopened them, a mixture of regret and firm resolve crossed his face. He looked to Eirien, meeting her gaze only a moment before whispering quietly, “Eru, ánin apsene.”

Ignoring the defiant flash of pain that came with his whispered words, he then stepped forward, crying out as he drove his sword through them both. He quickly pulled it free, shoving her captor’s body away and dropping the sword to catch Eirien as she fell…

…………….


He woke with a start, heart pounding and an ache spreading across his chest. He looked around, confused for a moment until he remembered where, and when, he was. He sat up, reaching to cover his face with his hands, not surprised to find moisture there. He frowned at the memory, his gaze lowering to the small gold band resting upon the smallest finger of his left hand.

It had been nearly eight years and still he recalled every detail. Would a day come when the memory would fade? Did he truly want it to?

That was a wonderful story
+rep

Pumyra's RP Prompts 09/21/11 - "Fading Memory"
Revisit a memory that your character would most want to forget...

(( forget would not be the right word... moving on may be better...
Some things are easier to write; this was not one of them... ))

============================== =============================

“Enthelm has fallen...”

The words always rattled in the back of Winewulf's head, always invaded his dreams, and flowed forward at every possibility of battle. He closed his eyes for just a second, and was there again...

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

He remembered the ride out like it was yesterday. Only Gambling, Winewulf's sergeant, and the rider under his son Enthelm who brought the news back rode, and the four rode hard. The horses were pushed to their limits, but nothing was going to slow a father's ride to his son.

As they road up Winewulf assessed the area. Enthelm's sergeant, was still directing riders into the treeline, looking for any stray Dunlendings from the ambush. It was then that Winewulf noticed four riders guarding something, shields at the ready, surrounding something or someone. Winewulf dismounted with the three others who rode up with him, and ran up to the four guards. He recognized most of them as they lowered their heads, whispering their apologies and condolences, though Winewulf heard little.

As Winewulf entered the space between the guards, Enthelm's body came into view. The body laid on it's back, obviously carefully rested after being dismounted. Two arrows still rested in Enthelm's skull, one piercing the eye socket, the other into his helmetless cheekbone.

Winewulf fell to his knees by his son, doing everything in his power to hold back the tears. Winewulf caressed his son's hair, then grabbed the based of one of the arrows, but it seemed like all his strength was lost. He did not know how long he kneeled there, hand around the shaft of the arrow, before Gambling reached down and wrapped his hands around Winewulf's and looked towards his friend Winewulf. At this point, Winewulf could not hold back, and the tears started to roll down his cheeks as he nodded to Gambling and the two together pulled the arrows out.

Winewulf remembered mumbling to Gambling as they stood back up. “It was I who taught him, the helm was not needed in such situations; visibility was more important.” Winewulf looked over to the treeline, “The chance of an arrow hitting from that distance, let alone two kill shots...” Gambling just put his hands on Winewulf's shoulders, slowly speaking, “Let's get your son back home.”

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

Winewulf opened his eyes again, tears once again welting in his eyes. “You OK ?” asked the blacksmith, not sure what the man before him had been doing, or thinking. Winewulf shook his head yes, then wiped his eyes with his hand, “Just remembering something, I toncie thee.”. Winewulf then handed the breastplate over to the blacksmith, “Do you think you can dye this back, to a green, similar colour of my cloak ?”. The blacksmith rubbed his chin, “Lets see what we can do for you.”

Winewulf smiled back, “I toncie... I thank you. I think it is time.”

Revisit a memory your character would most want to forget.


The memory came upon him as he glanced at the sun, and back down upon the pastel green of the Middle-lands. He heard laughter, like a ghost in his ear, and suddenly he was caught up helplessly. Deomarth, for a moment, was Doldaegr again.

His body was younger, his stance shorter. Shadows did not plague him, and the sun seems as bright, reflecting off the grass at the lake shore to fine the same, fine pastels.

His legs strained as he raced across the dells, his laughter ringing carefree. A moving shadow hastily leaped ahead, it's giggling deeper to Doldaegr's ears. But he was faster, and the shade held no chance. He jumped upon his brother, falling into a wrestle that sent them both into hysterics.

Finally, Doldaegon pushed him off, his slight teeth glinting beneath his matching, greyest grey eyes as he shook in chuckles. "You can't beat me, honeg."

Doldaegr cocked his head, confused. "What's honeg?"

Doldaegon grinned. "Little brother, naturally!" He leaped to swat at Doldaegr, but he flopped aside, laughing at his elder boyishly.

"Where'd ya learn that?"

"The Dunedain," Doldaegon said proudly, no trace of Doldaegr's still-present Bree-accent. "Remember, that Ranger Amlan stopped here heading up north, and I followed him. His others welcomed me with conditions, and are teaching me. Bet I shall always be better than you, honeg!"

That sent them into another hysterical wrestle, as Doldaegr leaped forward and rammed his head like a bull into his older brother, laughing...

Comments are appreciated from everyone on everything I write, by the way

Wrenching his halberd from the fallen Orc, Tarthamir's breathing was heavy and filled with an intense blood-lust he rarely ever felt in combat. Looking down he spit on his fallen foe. Orcs...

Just a few months ago he had finished his term of conscription with the Gondorian Army, and was on his way back home. Back to his family's farm, back to his betrothed. Eager to return to the fields and his father's side, he hurried home. As the estates came into view, smoke was rising up from the field. Sure his eyes were playing a trick on him, he nevertheless doubled his pace.

Fire. The house was on fire. Sprinting inside, he found his mother and betrothed bleeding from various wounds and torture. He felt for a pulse on both. None. Rushing outside he looked for some sign of his brother and father.

A weak cough came from behind, by the small orchard. Heading that way he stopped and fell to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye a small band or Orcs dashed off, but that is not what held him; the remainder of his kin had been hung from the apple trees. Realizing they were still alive, he quickly cut them down and attempted to treat their wounds- but to no avail. As his brother slowly fell to the dark his eyes were filled with hate.

"You.. You..."

He reached out and closed with brother's eyes. Gone. He turned to his father and attempted to give some comfort to him in his final moments. Coughing up blood he tried vainly to let out a few final words.

"I.. I'm.. So proud... You.."

He gives a weak cough and closes his eyes. Holding his father in his arms, Tarthamir sat silent for hours. Finally he found the will to bury his family, and give them proper Gondorian honors. Then he rode off to distant lands, leaving the burnt out grounds and four small graves behind him. A flame arose in his heart, accompanied by a sick mixture of regret and failure. His brother and father's words haunted him. He had let them down.

The memory still burning brightly in his heart after all these months, the shame and guilt devouring his mind and soul, he readied his weapon for the next Orc. He didn't know what he hoped to accomplish.

But he'd be damned if he didn't take a few minions of the Enemy down with him.

*bows humbly*

My apologies to all for missing the past few weeks. I recently sustained what my doctors believe may be a muscle tear injury to my right shoulder that makes it difficult to be at a computer for very long, especially when it comes to my writing and my art (because of the angle I have to position my shoulder). Needless to say, the outpour of concern from the Landroval community has been overwhelming and an eternal reminder that we truly are part of something here.

I'll try to get even one-line Prompts up in the future. I know some of you can't write without them! (j/k)

Love to All,

~Pumyra

Take a glimpse forward, if your character were to ever have a child (or children) of their own...

(( Originally written for one of my RP characters in World of Warcraft... ))

"Again."

The tiny Tauren hefted the thick oaken club and lashed out at the training dummy; the weapon struck a glancing blow before sending the Tauren-child clumsily to his rump. His ears flattened against his head and he threw down his club with a bellow of rage.

"Liberanauk, you will pick up your weapon and try again."

The little Tauren jerked his head up, glaring sullenly at his mother. "No more!" He kicked the club rebelliously with a sturdy hoof, sending it flying to the edge of the practice ring. The shaman could only cross the dry sand to pick up the discarded weapon.

A warm chuckle broke the Spiritwalker's thoughts. "Far from the tree does the apple not fall."

Matahira flicked an ear, looking back over her shoulder at her Uncle. She shook the dirt off the club before walking over to him, her eyes, however, followed the movements of her son as he romped through the tall grass chasing a butterfly.

"Why can he not be more like Atuye'ana? She applies herself readily to her training. He refuses. Willful, that one."

"Hm," Liberanos mused. "Of someone does my great-nephew remind me; equally hot-headed and willful was she."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Time must you give him, his own path must he find. Well do you know the feeling of being forced upon an unwelcome path."

Liberanauk ran up to them, throwing his tiny, chubby arms around his great-uncle for a long moment. Only then did he look up at his mother, ears drooping somewhat in contrition.

"I'm sorry, Mother, I didn't mean to disappoint you..." He said, scuffing the ground with his hoof.

Matahira's ears waggled pleasantly as she nodded in acknowledgement.

"Good is it to show such remorse, young Liberanauk, proud you undoubtedly make your mother." Liberanos said encouragingly.

Matahira's ears waggled as she gave Liberanauk a shove toward the house nearby. "Go wash up for dinner."

Liberanos and Matahira watched as the next generation of their family ran off with glee, both their hearts filled with hope.

"If he picks up your way of speaking, you're training him." Matahira said, pointing a finger at her Uncle.

( Hillgar the Hobbit sat on the edge of the pond in The Delvin Fields. He had just left the Bounders Mushroom Festival at Farmer Maggots, he had run far more than ever and simply could not make it back to Little Delving with out stopping for elvenses. Hillgar plunked his napsack down on the grass sighing pleasantly, the weight relieved, he quickly unfastened his fishing pole cast it into the water and secured it in the grass, then finally sat down and began pulling food from the sack for his meal. It was at that moment he noticed a rather perculiar Elf was staring at him. )

"Hullo Mister. er um Misses elf, er not meanin'n to be rude, just aint never seen many of your kind here"

The Elf stood silently for a moment, emotionless and stone cold, then as if a match had been struck the elf lit up and said:

"Edwinkle, a sir! Nice to meet you Halfling."

"Edwinkle?!" Replied the hobbit, "That doesn't sound much like an Elf name to me now, maybe a hobbit fr'sure but no elf."

With that the Elf raised his nose to the Hobbit indignantly and walked away.

"Well there it is" said Hillgar, "Another reason to never leave."

Take a glimpse forward, if your character were to ever have a child (or children) of their own...


Tarthamir rose from the fields, taking a few moments to check on the sun's position in the sky; looked to be just before dusk, and if he hurried he could get the rest of this barley planted before dark. As he bent down to return to work however, he heard the call of soft voices coming from the house. Turning around, he saw the two small figures running gaily towards him. Chuckling softly, he wiped the soil from his hands and rose to meet a chorus of hello's.

"Daddy, daddy!"

"Look what we found!"

"It was underneath your bed!"

"We were playing hide n' seekers.."

"But he cheated! We said no goin' in daddy's room.."

"Nuh uhhhh, did not!"

The two children, twins a boy and a girl, fell into bickering and poking the other, completely forgetting why they had come outside. A large smile developed on Tarth's exhausted face, until noticing the wrapped bundle the boy had in his arms, and his expression become stern.

"What have I told you two about taking things that aren't yours? Especially if you don't know what its is.."

The guilty looks and puppy eyes on both their faces were enough to melt the hearts of even the stoutest Dwarf, and chuckling once more he scooped both of them up in his arms.

"That is your father's old sword he was issued when he was in the army. Rusty and old it is now, though it could still give you a nasty cut if you weren't careful."

The twins looked at each other wide eyed, and a million questions left their lips.
"You played warrior too daddy?"
"Why don't you ever be the knight when you play with us then?"
"Yeah, you must get sick of playin' the yucky shrew all the time.."

Noticing the feminine figure now standing outside the door, arms crossed though a smile on her face, he began to carry them inside.
"I'll share a story or two with you later.. For now, we should settle with a warm dinner so your mother is not cross with me for having you out so late again."

Glancing at the sunset, he laughed and shook his head. The barley could wait another day.

Narrow your character down to a single word that defines who they are. Take that word and use it as the theme for a story.


"Courageous"


A minstrel's songs were often the turning point of any battle, their uplifting and inspiring melodies emboldening the hearts of their comrades and pushing morale to its peak. Or so they like to tell themselves, so the stories and songs say. In the heat of battle, it feels like they're just in the way, some caterwauling nincompoop being protected by the shield wall and the armsmen around her.


Until a foe-beast breaks through the line.


The orc charged for Talaesyn, swinging its axe in a bloodthirsty arc. The minstrel let go of her lute, the strap letting it swing down to her hip out of the way. In a dance-like motion, she freed her sword from its sheath to block the orc's first lunge, her free hand swinging around her back to free the shield at her back. By the time the orc recovered to attack again, she brought the shield to bear to absorb the blow as it came. The weight of the blow drove the minstrel to her knees, but she held on.


A bellow from behind the orc came as one of the soldiers realized there was a break in the line. He harried the orc away from the minstrel, before dispatching it with a sharp jab from his javelin. Talaesyn could only look up at him with a grateful nod. The soldier smiled.


"You're a brave girl for a songster," he said. "Brave, but stupid."


Talaesyn could only stare at him in open-mouthed indignation as he turned his attention back to the fray.

Originally Posted by Pumyra

Narrow your character down to a single word that defines who they are. Take that word and use it as the theme for a story.


"Courageous"


A minstrel's songs were often the turning point of any battle, their uplifting and inspiring melodies emboldening the hearts of their comrades and pushing morale to its peak. Or so they like to tell themselves, so the stories and songs say. In the heat of battle, it feels like they're just in the way, some caterwauling nincompoop being protected by the shield wall and the armsmen around her.


Until a foe-beast breaks through the line.


The orc charged for Talaesyn, swinging its axe in a bloodthirsty arc. The minstrel let go of her lute, the strap letting it swing down to her hip out of the way. In a dance-like motion, she freed her sword from its sheath to block the orc's first lunge, her free hand swinging around her back to free the shield at her back. By the time the orc recovered to attack again, she brought the shield to bear to absorb the blow as it came. The weight of the blow drove the minstrel to her knees, but she held on.


A bellow from behind the orc came as one of the soldiers realized there was a break in the line. He harried the orc away from the minstrel, before dispatching it with a sharp jab from his javelin. Talaesyn could only look up at him with a grateful nod. The soldier smiled.


"You're a brave girl for a songster," he said. "Brave, but stupid."


Talaesyn could only stare at him in open-mouthed indignation as he turned his attention back to the fray.

Good to see you!

For some reason when reading this entry, I envisioned it almost entirely in slow motion until the end.. very good, very visual,..!
cheers! I shall be back!

Narrow your character down to a single word that defines who they are. Take that word and use it as the theme for a story.

"Proud"

Tarthamir strode across the front of the battle line, overlooking his companions. Two Elves armed with bows, one of the noble Rangers of the North, a stout Dwarf armed with a gleaming Ax and shield, and even one of the Little Folk fidgeting about in the shadows.. Good, hearty folk, though nothing like the battalions of his homeland. He stood before them all, weary but still proud.

"Good folk of the Free Lands, hear me now! An entire legion of Orcs is marching towards us, even as we speak. They seek to use this passage to gain access to Bree-land, and then the rest of these lands, your very homes!"

Unfurling his banner, he planted it defiantly in the ground facing the oncoming darkness.

"We are all that stands in between innocent folk and certain ruin; take heart and steel yourselves! We must hold this path, no matter the cost!"

Arrows began whizzing by, the Orcs getting closer. Brandishing his sword, he stood blatantly in the open as if to taunt the foe. The first Orcs began to crash unto the line, their own captain wielding a foul broadsword of his own, eager for blood. With an echoing battle cry, Tarthamir charged straight for the Orc warrior, attempting to bring the entire enemy force upon himself.

"FOR GONDOR!"

indolent

I spent the next day locating my pants and other belongings scattered around Ost Galadh, and found that the Malledhrim had gathered them up and thoughtfully placed them into an oaken chest for safekeeping. At the very bottom of the chest lay my white-mail hauberk with its blue tunic, its scales shimmering in the sunlight like the wings of a dragonfly, but the eight-leaved pin upon its shoulder was grimed with tarnish. I polished it with a cloth until it gleamed bright again, and slipped the hauberk on, and it was just as heavy and constricting as I recalled, and jingled most awfully when I walked. It was as though I was clapped in irons, so I took it off again and laid it aside. Then the pin seemed to glare at me, or perhaps it was a trick of the light, but nevertheless, I felt a twinge of guilt and was reminded of my Oath, and I realized that I had been negligent in my road-patrolling duties.

But it could not be helped, what with the bad weather, and then having to take the message to Thangúlhad, and being near skewered by a maniac, and the misunderstanding with the borrowing of Morlanthir, and everything else that happened to me, that I really could not be blamed for any of it. I told the pin that I could not patrol roads blockaded by the Enemy, when a voice at my elbow said that the West Road was now open, and it was safer than it had been in a long while. I turned around and saw the guard that had been assigned to wait on me, whom I had forgotten about as he was as silent as a shadow, up until now.

I fear I was rather severe with him, for I was cross at being startled, and I said the roads were likely just as dangerous from all the rain, and I did not want Morlanthir to slip and break a leg. Again, the idiot guard spoke, and said that it had not rained in several weeks and the roads were dry as a bone. Then, I replied, in that case, I would be leaving in the evening, if it were not raining. The sunshine was horridly bright and hot on my skin, and was making my eyes ache, so seeking shade I went into the craft-hall, and I did shut the door on the guard’s foot as he followed, but he was not too hurt by it.

Gentle

She removed her helm and let it fall to the grass. Stretching her neck to the left then the right, her attention was drawn to a commotion at the edge of the camp. A stallion was rearing and kicking as four men tried to bring him under control. Standing off to the side was a hobbit in the apron of a farrier, looking as if he was facing an Urik-hai alone.

Faythe walked briskly over and inquired to the hobbit what was wrong?

“Oh Miss, I’m afraid we’ll have to put him down. He has but a cut…the thing of it is that there be orc poison in the knives and iff’n I don’t get to it soon, there’ll be no help for it.” The Farrier watched the men struggle with sad eyes. “He’s a fine right beast too, such a shame”

The red haired warrioress followed the hobbits gaze to the horses owner, must be, who stopped to wipe his eyes before notching an arrow. If a horse was to be put down, then it was the owners duty to do so and it was one of the very few things that would bring tears to a man of Rohan’s eyes.
“Gehabban!” she cried “Hold!”
Oddly enough, the horse stopped his rearing yet still pranced against his bindings and pawed the ground.
She bowed to the owner “I would try to calm him, if you truly wish he be saved.”
The man, close up he cheeks were damp, lowered his bow. “It may already be too late”
Faythe nodded “Aye, but he deserves to go in peace. Not in fear. If it be truly his time”
Blue eyes met Green eyes for a short moment. “My father was aferian” She said quietly “I would try”
Then her voice lowered as she approached the steed “gehabban, gehabban, “she murmured “líðe, líðe my lufian” as she moved closer. She reached out to the beasts head with her fingers stretched forward, repeating softly. Some words were understandable to those who knew the language but their intent was obvious in the way she said them.

“Gebhabbon, lioe my lufian, Hold, gently my love, I mean you no harm.”

Her fingertips touched the animals face and she began to run soft circles beside his head as she continued to whisper in his ear.

The horse settled as if in a trance and the owner nodded at the hobbit who very carefully went to the leg where the wound showed as an angry red score in the brown fur.
After a time Faythe was interrupted by a small tug at her sleeve. She glanced down at the hobbit who was still somber but looked a great deal less frightened.

“I’m done with him Miss; I think I got it all. He needs rest now and we’ll see to him in the morn.”
For herself, Faythe turned the care of the horse over to his hopeful master with hands that had wielded both an orc cleaving axe and calmed a frightened horse.

"Stubborn"

The Dwarf slammed his heavy fist down upon the table "That dinnae make it true!" He yelled, attracting the eyes of many other patrons.

"Oh please! I've been to Rivendell and seen their craftsmanship for myself." said the man smugly. "It's the best upon Middle-Earth!"
The Dwarf's face was now red with anger as he looked up at the man. "Those piddly wee knives they use as weapons?" The Dwraf slammed his own weapon, a heavy battle-axe upon the table." Now that's a weapon! Dwarf craftsmanship is always best!" said the obstinate little Dwarf. "I'd like to see one o' those pathetic little Elves holding this! Why they'd just crumple under it's weight!"
Suddenly, the man pulled his own sword from his belt, a long, graceful Elven knife, glinting as it hit the light. " 'Piddle wee knives' Eh? Face it Dwarf." The man spun the wonderfully light sword gracefully around. "When it comes to weapons Elves can't be beat!"

The Dwarf pulled his axe down off the table, reddining this time with embarasment rather than anger. He grumbled to himself for a few seconds but then said, barely audibly "Dwarf weapons are still better."

The man laughed at the old Dwarf, standing up and wandering away to indulge in some more fruitful conversation.

Take an emotion, any one you please, now put it at its extreme end. Put your character in a situation that would provoke this emotion to this heightened level.


"I'll kill you!" Talaesyn screamed, straining against the chains that pinned her to the cave wall. "You Blackwold scum, I'll kill you all!"


She should have been weeping, she knew. There should be sorrow and mourning, but later. Not now. She would make these Blackwold's pay with their lives first. She would drown them in their own black-hearted morality until they were utterly spent, ending their lives upon their own blades rather than face the truth of their wretched existences. Her face contorted with rage, her green eyes flaring with hate. Her wrists were red and raw from how much and how often she strained against her bonds.


"You'll beg for death when I'm done with you," she spat.


The two Blackwold guards nearby looked at one another in askance. The minstrel was little more than a mere slip of a girl, a songster and a poet. The blade they'd confiscated from her showed some wear, but not as if she were a great warrior. Yet, the strength of her words, the sheer vitriol with which she spat them, seemed to frighten them. One of them rose, pacing the room nervously.


"I don't want to be here anymore," he said to his fellow.


"Nor I," the second guard replied, "But what're we gonna do? We gotta watch the girl."


"Can't we just leave her? She's not getting out of those chains."


"I guess so. Ain't nobody here to tell us different anyway."


"Oh no," Talaesyn growled from behind them. They jumped as if they'd forgotten she was there. "You aren't getting away from me. I'll see to it that you pay. PAY IN BLOOD!"


The two of them yelped and ran out of the small cave prison, leaving the minstrel hanging there alone. She continued to strain against her bonds until she was utterly spent, hanging limp and desolate in the semi-darkness. Yet, in spite of her exhaustion, hatred and fury still burned within her. The Blackwolds had destroyed Archet, leaving nothing but flame, ash and tears in their wake. For years the prowled Breeland, victimizing any who crossed through their territories. She had tried to be forgiving. Desperate men driven to desperate measures. Now she saw them for what they were: bloodthirsty brigands who wanted nothing more than to take from those weaker than they.


She contorted her left hand, making it as small and slender as possible. She tried to jerk it through the loop of the cuff holding her to the chains. The metal bit into her skin, drawing blood. She jerked again. More blood. Time and again she repeated until her wrists were left a torn, frayed and bloodied mess. Eventually, though, she was able to free one hand.


There would be no mercy for the Blackwolds this time. They had burned her village, they had ravaged the countryside, harried her neighbors and friends. This time they had gone one step too far.


This time they killed her parents.


She jerked her other wrist free.


There would be retribution.


And it would be bloody.

Take an emotion, any one you please, now put it at its extreme end. Put your character in a situation that would provoke this emotion to this heightened level.

"Excitement/Curiosity"

"What is this stuff?! Its amazing, I've never seen anything like it!"

The two Dwarves merely looked at each other and shook their heads. The nearby Man had been dancing around in the town square for the past hour since it began snowing, and he didn't seem to be showing any signs of stopping.

"Aye, laddie.. That theres snow. Frozen water ye' could say, it happens all the time here.."

Tarthamir looked over at the two with a sort of wonder. "How did it become frozen? Why is it falling now? This happens all the time, why isn't everyone out here then?" The shorter Dwarf pointed to the nearby mountains. "Well ye' see, ye' could say we're used ta' it.. Sides', we have work ta' be doin'. And don't you?" He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the Man to calm down, which didn't happen. Tarthamir's gaze wandered to the mountain, eyes full of awe. "Those are beautiful! Can I climb those? I bet I'd have a great view of the 'snow' there!" He bounded off towards the snow-covered peaks before the Dwarves could object. With a grudging sigh, they both made to follow him.

"If'n he falls off the mountain side.. I won't carry 'is sorry corpse back here." The shorter one chuckled, pulling his cloak tighter about him. "Amazing what the sight of snow does to some ah' these folk, ta' be certain."

Attach a memory to a particular scent.


A sharp wind blustered out of the north, bringing with it the stinging promise of a bitter winter to come. The minstrel's cheeks were already reddened from travelling through the wind, so she paid it little mind. She lifted a hand, adjusting the scarf that protected her nose and mouth, listening to the wind claw at the edges of her hood, ruffling the sturdy leather. Her eyes swept the bleak horizon, finding nothing but desolate flatlands until her horse topped a rise. In the distance, like a beacon against the stormclouds massing in the distance, were the lights of an inn. She heaved a sigh of relief and urged her steed forward at a trot.


She left Swift with the stablemaster, pressing a few coins into the man's hand, before she made her way inside. She shoved the door open, shouldering her way inside, the wind howling in with her as she struggled to shut the door. From behind the bar, a stout dwarf trundled over, shoving it closed easily with but a single hand.


"Ain't a day fit fer man nor beast, yet yer a mere slip of a girl way out 'ere in no man's land," the dwarf drawled as he returned to his station.


Talaesyn pushed back her cowl before unwinding the scarf from around her face. She rubbed at the cloth-warmed skin. "Not everyone has the good fortune of work that lets them remain stationary."


"I'd say yer in the wrong line o' work then, lass!" The dwarf guffawed.


She gifted him with a charming, crooked smile. "You think so?" She moved to a nearby set of trestle tables and benches, tossing her cloak down over one of the latter. She pulled off her cloak, revealing the lute case slung tightly against her back. "I suppose I won't need this then."


The dwarf stared at the instrument case for a long moment, then took in the confident air with which the girl moved. His bushy brows knit together like two caterpillars in a wrestling match. "Yer a songster then?"


Her face assumed a look of innocence as she unbuckled the strap holding the lute case in place. She swung it down from her shoulder, undoing the hasps holding the case closed. She glanced up at the dwarf through a fringe of dark lashes, almost shyly, were it not for the impudent smile that curved her mouth. "I might be."


"S'been a long time since we've 'ad a songster in these parts," the dwarf mused aloud as he took a pipe from his breast pocket and perching it in his mouth. His teeth clacked against the wood.


"I know," Talaesyn replied, removing her beloved Dallandra from the case before perching on the end of a trestle table. She settled Dallandra against her thighs, nestling the lute up against her stomach as she focused on the task of getting the sweet little instrument in tune. "A song is as good as gold to those that crave for one."


"Mayhap," the dwarf agreed in a grudging grunt. He reached into his breast pocket again, drawing forth a small satchel. Pulling the drawstring open on it, he reached in and pulled out a pinch of brown and green mottled leaves, which he tamped down into the barrel of his pipe.


"I don't suppose a song is worth a meal around these parts?" Talasyn asked, her eyes and hands never leaving her work.


She could feel the dwarf's gaze land on her like a physical object. He assessed her for a long moment, turning to a small pot-bellied stove that stood nearby. He opened the grate on the front with his bare hands, reaching in to pluck a tiny bit of wooden kindling from the coals. He stuffed it into the pipe, puffing on it a few times to light the leaves. After a moment, cheerful rings of smoke wreathed his head.


"Ah suppose it might, if'n ye know some good dwarf-songs," he said.


Talaesyn glanced up at him, Dallandra tuned at last. She did not profess whether or not she knew any, which made the dwarf grunt in dismissal as he returned to his station behind the bar. However, as he took out a rag and started polishing the hardwood, the minstrel's lute broke the air with a lilting Dwarvish jig. The dwarf smiled, bobbing his head slightly with the melody. Still the minstrel played on until the dour dwarf came from behind the bar, clapping and jouncing in an impromptu dance.


As the dwarf frolicked in front of her, plumes of smoke wafted from him in waves. Yet, rather that sputter coughing at the scent, the minstrel looked up and drew a deep breath. Longbottom Leaf.


She crept up to the doorway of her father's den, the amber glow of the fireplace casting long shadows over the simple wooden furniture. Her father sat near the fire's light, circles of smoke puffing up from his pipe as he whittled something, stark white little shavings falling to the floor. Hesitation filled her, she took a step backward in retreat, unwilling to break her father's peace.

"You might as well come in, Tala, and stop lurking in the doorway like a gargoyle," he said without turning.

Feet shuffled forward, almost unwillingly, the girl's green eyes going to her father's face. He turned in his chair and smiled at her.

"Well, there you are. Shouldn't you be abed?"

"I was, Papa, but... I need to talk to you," she said, kneeling beside his hair.

His hands stopped their whittling and he turned his torso toward her, reaching out with his near hand to touch her raven dark hair. His green eyes, so like her own, were suddenly filled with concern.

"What is it?"

"Papa, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Leaving? Is it market day already?"

She reached out and took his hand, shaking her head. "No, Papa. I'm leaving home. I'm going to see the world. I'm going to go make some money to send home to you and Mum."

"Tala, we talked about this..." He protested, "There's no reason for you to..."

"Hush, Papa. I'm already decided."

Seeing his daughter so adamant, the reluctant father could only relent to her wishes. He leaned forward, kissing the crown of her dark hair, then he embraced his daughter for a long moment. She did not depart, once they broke away from one another. Instead, she stayed kneeling by his chair, her head tilted to rest against his bicep. He smiled and allowed her to remain, picking up his whittling once again. The smell of chipped pine and Longbottom Leaf filled the girl; these were the scents of peace.

The scents of home.


"Ye spin a righ' good song; that'll earn ye dinner plus a small ale, if'n ye like or a nice cider," the dwarf approved as the song came to its end. "Reminds me o' home, it does."


"Cider," Talaeysn agreed, her fingers stilling against the lute strings. She drew another breath of the leaf-scented air, turning to place Dallandra in her case. "It seems we've both been given reminders of home."

Attach a memory to a particular scent.

Slipping his shield off his arm for a moment, Tarthamir bent down on one knee and gazed around to the surrounding woods. "This is as good a spot as any, I suppose.." He thought to himself. They had received word of brigands led by a fearsome half-orc through the area, more than likely to attack the small outpost the rest of his group were resting at that night, and he wasn't about to let that happen. Bidding the rest of his fellows good night, he trudged up to a nearby hill and posted up as watchman for the night. It had already been an hour, no sign of trouble yet.. Maybe they weren't coming?

Time slowly passed, and sleep began to slowly fall upon him. Rubbing his eyes, he pulled a small parcel from his pack- A snack of one of his favorite foods, scrambled eggs and a few dried strips of ham. Even though it was cold, it still had a faint aroma to it still, and he happily began to munch on it.

He had awoke that morning with a long, loud yawn, and was scared out of his wits to find someone standing over his bed. He quickly scrambled out of bed trying to locate his sword, when he heard a sweet soft laugh. "I'm sorry if I startled you.. I just came to check on you after last night. How is your leg?"

He had to take a few deep breathes to calm himself, before looking up to the smiling face nearby. "Its, er.. Better, thanks. I just wasn't expecting company so early, that's all.." He sat down on the edge of the bed rubbing his temples, though relieved to see he wasn't being robbed or had a knife to his throat again.

The figure nearby moved closer, revealing long brown hair flowing unto her pale shirt, a plate of warm food in her hands. "I made you some breakfast, here.. Eat up, its your favorite!"

Accepting the plate eagerly, he took in a large whiff before scarfing it all down. Oh how he loved eggs and all other things breakfast, the king of all meals he would say over and over again. He gazed up to her with a smile of his own, feeling a sort of peace come over his heart..


As his thoughts returned back to the present, he couldn't help but grin as he returned what was left of his snack to his bag, a new vigor and watchfulness in his demeanor. No brigands would pass through these lands tonight. At least for this one night, she, and everyone else, would sleep safe from harm or worry.

Otgir looked down at the ash covered ground and grimaced, the quickly falling show whipping against his face. He brushed some snow from his beard and secured his axe. Some may still be here. He scanned the ruins for any survivors but he coould barely see his hand in front of his face in this snow-storm. and in this smoke. The smoke, he sniffed it in deeply. It reminded him of a day. A day long ago, when he was only a lad. He had returned to The Lonely Mountain to see his mother.

It was a windy springs day and Otgir Hammerfall returend home at last. As he finished his climb up the rocky and treacherous mountain slope he peered up, expecting to see his parent's might hall standing strong against the wind to welcome him. What he saw instead, was rubble. The Dourhands had come all the way to Erebor to get their revenge on him gor killing Osnir Dourhand. Otgir grew red with anger and then pale with fear...mother. He rushed over the rubble and heaved rock after rock over to try and find his Mother. But he could not. The dourhands had taken her. They had not even let her have the burial that any honourable Dwarf ought. he roared at the sky in rage and the ravens above scattered. His fists clenched with anger as the smoke of the fires taht had killed his mother drifted up, mocking him...mocking her memory.

Even twenty six yeard later it still boiled Otgir's blood to think of it. He grabbed a rock from the ruins and hurled it at the fires, trying to block out the scent that chilled his blood. The scent of death. The scent of home.

Coming this Wednesday...

The RP Prompt Returns!

Originally Posted by Pumyra

Coming this Wednesday...

The RP Prompt Returns!

*cheers*

I'll be ready with a tale in hand!

06/13/2012: Your character is doing something for the first time.

The ram bleated, hooves prancing as it trotted around the girl sprawled in the dirt. If she didn’t know any better, she would swear that the infernal beast was laughing at her. Talaesyn pushed herself onto her knees, tilting her head up to glare at the prancing sheep. Every part of her ached, but no part as much as her backside.

“C’mon, lass, ye canna give up already. ‘E’s ‘ardly winded ‘e is.” Rhalrik, her dwarvish friend, admonished as she got to her feet.

Rhalrik walked up to the trouble-making ram, tugging on the lunge lead until he could grasp the cheek strap of the ram’s bridle. He gave the ram’s nose a brief pat, chuckling as he led the ram back over to where the young Woman was still struggling to regain her feet. He offered his free hand down to her, hauling her to her feet once her small hand settled into his.

“Ugh, you’re lucky that I need to learn to manage one of these shaggy brutes to get through Moria,” she said, rubbing both hands across her rump as she stood beside the dwarf. She still eyed the ram rather disapprovingly. “I wish I could just ride Swift.”

“Bah, ye ‘umans and yer attachment t’horses,” Rhalrik snorted. “Wretched beasts canna find proper footin’ on the paths in Moria. Ye’d sooner break a neck or leg ridin’ a horse through th’halls. I tell ye nae, lass. This’un’s an ornery critter, but a ram’s the best thing t’get ye through.”

Talaesyn sighed and took the reins of the ram again, stepping forward to place her foot in the stirrup to mount. The ram stood stock still as she threw her leg over the saddle and settled in. However, no sooner than she got settled in the saddle, the ram started twitching and tossing his head. With a frown, the minstrel finally reached the limit of her patience. She balled her right hand into a fist and brought it smashing down on the top of the ram’s head, just between his horns.

“Settle down and behave!” She roared.

To her surprise, the ram stopped his twitching and began started around the practice ring in a sedate walk. She blinked, looking to Rhalrik. The dwarf was doing his best not to laugh aloud, but she could see the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Mayhaps there’s some dwarf in ye, lass,” Rhalrik observed, his voice tight as he attempted to not break into gales of laughter.

She could not help but smirk at the dwarf's admiration, but even she had to admit that her new approach had gotten her ungulate friend to cooperate. She' had already been training with the unruly animal for two weeks now and had gotten thrown more than she had ridden. She already had to delay her trip through Moria that much because they had told her that it was not possible to ride horses through the mountain. They had insisted she ride one of their riding rams. It had proven more of a challenge than she had expected.

As the ram made its way calmly around the ring, she felt a spark of hope that she would now be able to get underway with the rest of her journey. She longed to see the woods of Lorien, as she so often heard other bards sing and speak of them. She just had to get through Moria, but first things first, she had to learn to ride a ram.

She reached down and pat the ram's neck. "I'm glad we understand each other now."

Originally Posted by Pumyra

06/13/2012: Your character is doing something for the first time.

Three hundred years before the formation of the fellowship of the ring...

Eukwen carried the heavy box up the long winding flight of stairs that led to her family's home in Caras Galadhon. A tall handsome blond elf winked at her as he came down the stairs in the opposite direction. Blushing Eukwen continued up the stairs until she came to the platform that her family's home occupied. As she pushed her way through the door her mother's musical voice carried in from across the house, "Eukwen, put that box in the attic next to your father's old armour."

Smiling, Eukwen replied, "Yes, mother!" She made her way up another narrow staircase and squeezed the box through the tight opening into the attic. At first glance she had no place to set the box. With a sigh she began the long process of sorting and stacking boxes in the attic until she was able to get enough room to set the box down in an orderly manner. It was during this organization that she discovered an old lute lying forgotten in the corner. There was something about the old lute that called out to Eukwen.

Taking the instrument into her hands she brushed her fingers over the strings. The instrument was badly out of tune and covered in dust, but as she wiped at it with her sleeve, she saw the beauty of the instrument come through. Smiling at her discovery she pulled the instrument out of the attic and went off in search of her mother to ask about it.

"Oh Eukwen, you found my old lute." Her mother said, looking not too happy. Taking the freshly cleaned instrument into her hands she plucked the strings and then adjusted the tuning pegs until it sang out in perfect tune. Her mother frowned and then played a short song that caused Eukwen to smile broadly.

"Mother! That was wonderful, I had no idea you could play." Eukwen was giddy as she sat and listened.

Her mother frowned and then set the lute down. "Eukwen, it wasn't in the attic by mistake." She sighed and then continued, "I would like it if you were to return it to the attic. No, wait... Please take it to the market and sell it. I would rather not have it here in our home any more."

Eukwen looked shocked and started to ask her mother why when her mother simply held up her hand and walked away. Eukwen looked at the instrument again and then started to head off to the market. She plucked the strings as she walked. She only made it halfway down the stairs when the handsome blond elf nearly crashed into her on the stairs. "Careful," he said, "I wouldn't want to break that lute or cause injury to that pretty face." He smiled at her again.

Blushing Eukwen said simply, "I'm sorry. My mother sent me to market to sell it. I, find myself wishing I could keep it."

He laughed and then said, "Oh? And how much did she want for it?"

Eukwen shrugged in reply.

"I'll give you 100 silver for it, would that be fair?" He gave her another wink.

Blushing she nodded yes and handed him the instrument as he handed her a handful of coins. She frowned and started back up the stairs only to stop dead in her tracks as he loudly cleared his throat and said, "Hold on a minute. You forgot something." Turning she looked at him questioningly. "You forgot your lute."

"I don't understand..." Eukwen stared blankly.

"What's to understand? I don't play the lute. You on the other hand have need of a lute, and I own one that I find I have no need for so here you are." He smiled at her as he handed her the lute.

She smiled broadly and took the lute timidly, "You mean it? I can have it?" He nodded. She took the instrument and hugged it to herself and smiled at him and then said, "Thank you! Thank you so much... Um..?"

"Amras, Amras Dewion." He bowed to her slightly.

"Thank you, Amras Dewion." She blushed brightly.

He grinned in return and then said, "I only ask that you play me a song as payment."

"I don't know any yet though...." She stammered.

"Well then, shall we meet back here in two weeks? That should be time enough to learn one song should it not?" He smiled at her and winked.

"I uh... Ok." She said her heart beating fast.

"It's a date then." He bowed again and left.

Eukwen exhaled loudly and then tried to calm herself. A date? A lute? Leaning how to play a song? Well, there was a first time for everything she thought to herself. She just wished she hadn't of combined so many at once.

The book on fishing said that one must have light spirits to catch a fish, for if they are heavier than the fisherman’s rod, then his creel will remain empty. I think this is complete rubbish, for my spirits were never lighter yesterday, but I did not catch a single fish.

In the morning I set out, and after finding a green limb of ash, I trimmed it with my knife and stripped the bark off, and swished it through the air, and thought it to be very pliable, yet firm and sturdy, and that it would suit my purposes quite well. I tied my line to my fish-hook, then I rode Morlanthir to the river, where I refreshed myself with a draught from the metal flask. The liquor in the flask is unfamiliar to me, but it has a warmth going down the throat which is most pleasant, especially on a cold day, and the wind was whipping over the water mighty powerfully.

I cast my line into the water, and waited, and after a good while, I had not caught anything. I thought back to the fishing guide and tried to recall what else was written, but all I could remember was it telling a story of an ancient spirit that haunted a stream night and day, and that the stream was ruined because of it, and if there were no fish to be found, then this was the likely reason. I did not see any wandering spirits about, yet I could not get any fish to bite my hook.

Then I thought harder, and finally recalled that I needed something to attract the fish, as they would not just throw themselves on my hook without an invitation. So I dug around in the mud of the riverbank, and found a particularly juicy worm, which I speared on the steel hook, and cast my line out, and waited again. I waited a very long time, and still did not feel anything on my line, and the waters were clear, and I still did not see any fish. I thought this would be a very good time for a drink from the flask, and holding my fishing rod between my knees, took another draught. Then I waited some more, and listened to the birdsong tweeting over the rushing water, and when I looked back at the sky, I saw the weak winter sun had moved far overhead. By this time, my stomach was growing very impatient for my fish dinner, and thinking it would help if I fished in deeper water, I went back to the riverbank, pulled off my bear hide cloak and took a long draught from the flask, to prepare myself for the next task.

I laid the flask on my cloak, next to my rune-sack, and waded out in the icy river until it was up to my waist, where I cast out my line again. Before too long, I saw the line twitch, and I realized something was snapping at my hook, but when I pulled back on it, the worm was gone. And so I headed back to the shore, and since it was convenient, I had another draught from my little flask before finding another worm, and this was much harder to do than the first time, because this worm kept wriggling about, and I near skewered my thumb with the hook, and then I dropped the worm and it did almost escape. But I hooked the tricky worm at last, and waded out again to where I had felt the fish bite. And in no time at all, I saw my line twitch, and then my fishing rod was almost jerked from my hands, but I held on tight, and pulling back with a mighty tug, saw the most tremendous striped bass thrashing in the water!

I began to back up to the shore, when something suddenly came up against me, and I was knocked hard into the water, so that I dropped my fishing pole and went under, and I had a time of it regaining my footing. When I surfaced, I saw my pole floating away, and I had to swim as fast as I could to get it, and it was not easy, for my limbs had gone numb. Yet I was able to retrieve it, and clenching it between my teeth, swam back to shore, and saw that proud Morlanthir had gotten loose, and he was standing in the river watching me. He tossed his head with a loud neigh and snorted.

And I think if ever a horse could laugh, he was laughing then! I could not be cross, for I was feeling mightily sluggish in my limbs and in my wits and there was an odd humming in my head. I wanted nothing but to lie down and sleep, so I collected my things and headed back to shelter with that condemnable horse.

Originally Posted by Parnard

The book on fishing said...

You have given out too much Reputation in the last 24 hours, try again later.

Hehe, well done and +rep coming soon! *grins*

Ledrick Coldbrook's supply of patience was depleting very quickly.

The room was full of shadows, illuminated only by the fickle firelight of the hearth in front of him. The walls danced with all sorts of species of ghastly shapes. He could hear the irregular fusion of the breathing patterns of the ranks of scholars below the floor-boards. He had once been appreciative of these things, entertaining the idea of them being calming, along with the seductive smell of the wood burning. But that was when the night was younger, instead of the old maid it was now.

Now, Ledrick was still sitting in the place he had been since later afternoon. One calloused hand propped his head up, while the other rubbed each squiggle of ink like it was something as mystifying as an ancient Dwarf-spell. What forsaken fool came up with the brilliant idea of writing? We seemed quite fine without it, keeping things orally.

He stretched, before returning to his slumped position over the parchment. "Five boars... no, bears... walled down... the hull. Five bears walled down the hull."

He frowned deeply at the page, raising a brow in challenge. "That doesn't make any sense!" he spits out in a whisper. "Wait... Five bears. Yes, that one is correct. Five bears... walked! down the... hill. Five bears walked down the hill. Now we're getting somewhere."

Ledrick seemed quite pleased with himself for a moment, looking at the rows of solemn scrolls and books that arrayed the walls like he expected them to applaud the victory. He confronted the next line of dots and curves with a little more enthusiasm, but after a moment his smile slipped off. The hearth crackled with amusement.

He flicked the page away from him, sighed, and stood stiffly. He headed down the stairs, making as much noise as possible to wake the scholars, these keepers of this new enemy called "letters". And so Ledrick Coldbrook strode out into the cool night.

Originally Posted by Pumyra

06/13/2012: Your character is doing something for the first time.

Welcome Back, Pumyra! Good to see the return of the Thread! I have grown rusty, let's get some of that dust off! Plenty of good reads here already!


============================== ====================



"Surely, this is unbecomming of my station, Lord Fallonmensh"


The banner stood at least three times the height of the young Bendacil, future Captain of the White Citadel's honored guard. Lord Fallonmensh grinned and studied the boy, obviously indignant of the trainning his family saw fit for him. He marched past the other students and howled his orders to the young trainee.


"Back strait, eyes front, firm steps, Soldier! Your first day of training will determine your fate!"


"I thought I was to be training to be a Captain, m'lord, not a simple BannerGuard!"


"Be silent, petulant one, lest I replace your Banner with a broom. Do you not know the Standards you hold aloft or it's meaning? How many men of Gondor gave their lives so that you may even have such an ambition?!"


Lord Fallonmensh looked over his students with disdain. Few have come to class as of late and the ones that did seemed more interested in blades and bloodshed than discipline.

" Elbows tucked and locked! Level to the ground! Let not one thread of that Standard touch the soil, Soldier! Think ye this station below you? A Captain who does not respect his Bannerguard will soon find himself without cause. For the standard IS your cause, little one, the standard IS your people, their love, their hope. This you must learn,.all of you lot! "



Lord Fallonmensh stepped to within inches of the little Bendacil, his shadow cast upon him like a tree before the sun," Never has a Captain of Gondor gone without his BannerGuard and served well the Steward."

Bendacil's fingers clenched the wooden pole as if to splinter it between his fingers. In one mighty, defiant gesture, the Standard was on the ground. A glint of sunlight and Welborn cast his sword into the light high above his head, eyes fixed on his Trainer.

"Then let this be a first for our People. Steal their hope and love for those in need instead. Waste not their fears upon me. The enemies of Gondor will not be waylaid by cloth but by steel!"


The courtyard went still and there seemed only Teacher and Pupil.
The courtyard grew cold and there remained regret and resolve.

"I fear for you, young Bendacil. I fear for those whom you will one day lead."

Lord Fallonmensh gave a glance to the line of trainees to his side, future soldiers, future Bannerguards. He sighed, knowing full well, and under orders, that no student can fail. There are too few men to fight and it left him with little choice.


" Your vigor is unmatched, young Bendacil. It would do you well to brandish a real sword though. Your wooden training sword does not quite hit it's mark."




-end

older Bendcil entries

Glad to see the return of this thread as well, along with so many great entries already!



"Again, recruit. And swing the blade like you're in a real fight- Real Orcs won't just turn their backs to you because you asked nicely!"

Tarthamir glared at the training dummy in front of him, and swung another sloppy volley of blows at it. Wielding weaponry, he found, was not all that different from plowing the fields at harvest time- Though turning it into a work of art and skill that the army of Gondor was known for, however, was an entirely different matter. He was one of a large handful of new recruits taken from the surrounding farms and fishing villages of Lebennin, all young lads with bright faces who were eager to serve and fight for their homeland. Obtaining the skill necessary to do so, however...

"That's enough!" The sergeant bellowed loudly to signal the end of that particular training session, and called the recruits to form a circle around him. Their breathes were ragged, and their hands calloused from the brief but intense work the first day had brought them.

"If you lot aren't the sloppiest bunch of recruits I've ever seen yet," the older soldier scoffed as he shook his head, rubbing the salt-and-pepper beard on his chin, "But it will have to do. Gondor needs all the warriors she can muster in these times, and I am intent on making you worthy of the title. Each of you make your way to the barracks, and they'll look into giving you your equipment." A proud grin at the mention crept onto the faces of a few of the recruits, Tarthamir's included, to which their instructor quickly shot down with another scowl.

"Before you get to thinking otherwise, you are by no means a trained warrior yet! The lad over here," he pointed directly at Tarthamir, whom was now turning a deep shade of crimson at the attention, "He swings the blade like a limp fish! I thought I asked for men to train, not women and children?! Now go, all of you, and get back out here on the double! You'll be swinging those blades all night if that's what it takes!"

The young recruits hurried off without another word at the barked order, none of them intent on drawing anymore of his ire. Though feeling quite ashamed, the incident had only served to strengthen Tarthamir's resolve. He would make himself worthy to be called a soldier of Gondor, if it was the last thing he did.

06/20/2012: A catch-phrase that your character uses often.

Talaesyn sat on the wall near the Prancing Pony, re-stringing Dallandra for tonight's performance. Lute strings dangled from her mouth like the whiskers on a catfish, making passers-by glance at the minstrel and laugh. She paid them little heed though, merely flashing them a stringy smile as their giggles reached her ears. It didn't take her long to get the strings in place, though, she'd been at this a long time, so the doing was more habit than thought anymore.

She sat on the wall, strumming her fingers down the strings and then re-tuning the lute after each chord. Dallandra would need to sing like a lark tonight to earn her the rest of the money for her trip through Moria. She's already spent a sizable bit on getting trained to ride that accursed goat -- sheep -- ram, whatever it was. She'd need funds for supplies and the rest of it now. She'd need food enough to survive the journey through the caverns, food for the blasted ram, some sturdy rope, a source of light...

Twang!

Talaesyn frowned. "By Lorien's long ears," she muttered crossly, reaching for another string in her satchel.

As she removed the broken string, she winced slightly at the blasphemous nature of her oath. She glanced skyward at the glittering stars.

"Sorry, Lorien," she said. "Being the Master of Dreams and Desires and all, I'm sure you can understand why this is so important though."

Her guilt somewhat assuaged, the minstrel turned her attention back to the strings. There were songs to sing and coins to earn, she wouldn't be able to do that sitting here in the wall. She only hoped that the Valar weren't vengeful creatures, otherwise it'd be a hard road through Moria that much was certain.

"You know, I don't even know if he has long ears..." She mused as she made her way to the Pony.

"Sogadan," pleaded Parnard, "remember the old saying, Give drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts."

Sogadan pulled the wine bottle closer and wrapped his arm protectively around it. "You have not yet settled your account," he said, frowning.

"Why Sogadan, who will help me sail down the rosy river if not you –"

Sogadan made an impatient gesture. "Enough of your foolish chattering. You will not get another drop until you pay your bill," he told him, and lapsed back into his moody silence from which he had been unwillingly roused.

"I have never met a more impossible, obstinate, gloomy, tight-fisted elf in all my life," observed Parnard, his voice rising in pitch. Seeing that these words produced little effect on Sogadan, Parnard sighed and returned to his transcription. It was here in the Hall of Fire that Parnard had set himself to work, translating the many volumes given to him by Lord Elrond into Sindarin. Conveniently, his place was close beside the elbow of Sogadan the Vintner. Here Parnard toiled for many days, and if he had applied himself with half as much enthusiasm to the books as he did to the wine bottle, he would have been finished with his task long ago. As it was, he had not finished a single volume, and he had driven Sogadan half-mad with his presence.

“‘The chicken naturally gave a series of kicks and flourishes, and invariably coughed up a great mass of the parasitic worms, and then went on its way, rejoicing exceedingly,’” read Parnard. “Well! That is a mightily curious and interesting tale indeed,” he exclaimed, looking up from the moldy book. Sogadan was ignoring him again. “How very much like my life that chicken is,” mused Parnard, giving the vinter a hard look. “Only,” he added darkly, “I shall not rejoice and go merrily on my way. No, no. I will stay here with these dull books, and with you, friend Sogadan, working myself to weariness, but I shall never sail the rosy river again, methinks,” he said, raising his eyes mournfully to the spangled draperies, and giving them a solemn shake of his head, breathed out the word, “impossible.”

Sogadan stared straight ahead and said nothing in reply. Thus, the assistant to the assistant scribe of Rivendell sat and wrote, and hummed off-key, and wrote ever slower, and hummed even louder and more off-key, pausing every so often to make tiny jabbing motions in the air with his quill in Sogadan’s direction, until he suddenly put his pen down and declared that he had the wonderful notion of fetching his lute to the Hall for practice.

Sogadan groaned, and pushing the wine bottle towards him, said that he would rather see Parnard sail down the rosy river instead, free of charge, if the boat were a swift one and would carry him far away.

“Well, well!” cried Parnard, smiling, his good humor restored, “A sail down the rosy river is always sweet, though it oft proves barren of adventure, ha ha ha!” And still laughing, he tucked the bottle under his arm and left.

07/04/12: Take your character and put them in a different pair of shoes. Change their race, class, or professions -- something significant about them that really takes them out of their element.

CLANG!

Clangclangclang!

"Grow a backbone, girl, or you'll not survive a day beyond Archet's palisade. Get up and try again."

Talaesyn peered over the top rim of the shield, reaching down to pick up the sword she'd dropped when Salamander had driven her to ground. She frowned as her fingers closed over the hilt, the long-sword making her hand ache from its weight. Part of her longed to drop the blade to the ground and give up this fruitless endeavor. Guardian of Archet, indeed! She snorted inwardly to herself. Regardless of how she felt, though, she tightened her grip on the leather-bound hilt and set her shield as Salamander had taught her. She barely had her feet planted before the swordsman charged her again.

Clang-clang! Clang-clang!

Like a blacksmith at his forge, Salamander beat the face of her shield like an anvil, driving her backward a step with every blow. So fast was his assault that she could not even begin to counter, just make a paltry attempt to keep herself protected. When he drove her to her knees again, Salamander threw his blade off to one side in frustration, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Come ON, Tala, you can do better than that!" He bellowed, rounding on her and pointing with an accusatory finger. "You're not even trying, are you?"

"I AM trying!" Talaesyn argued. "Why can't you explain what I'm supposed to do instead of just trying to beat the lesson into me. I can't learn unless you tell me what's going on!"

"Don't you talk to me like that, you whelp!" Salamander advanced on her, rearing his hand back as if he would slap some courtesy into her if she continued.

She threw down her shield; it sent clods of dirt flying as the thick metal bit into the earth. Talaesyn glowered at Salamander from beneath a fringe of dark bangs, her green eyes bright with the afternoon sunlight and her fury.

"I'm finished with this," she said. "I'm not going to be some brainless training dummy." With no more than that, she turned to quit the practice ground.

Salamander grabbed her right arm by the bicep, using it to wrench her around to face him. Like a coiled snake, Talaesyn anticipated the move, rolling her shoulder back as she grabbed his wrist with her left hand. Dragging his arm up to the crux of her neck and shoulder, she leaned forward with all of her weight, dragging Salamander up and over her body until she threw him across the other side. Her mentor landed on his back in the dirt with a dull thud and he stared up at her, dazed.

"I said I'm finished with this," Talaesyn said, glaring down at him.

"Tala...wait...!" Salamander managed to gasp from his place on the ground.

"What?" She said. "Whatever you've got to say, you'd best say it quickly."

Salamander staggered to his feet, still slightly winded. He regarded her with earnest, "Look, I'm sorry for beating you down like a bad set of pells. I've been a poor teacher. Let's try it again?"

Talaesyn's jawline tightened. "Do you really think I have what it takes to be a guardian?"

Her mentor rubbed at his backside with both hands. "I think you have it in you to be whatever you wish to be, Tala. You've a spirit and a determination to fight for what you believe in."

She quirked a grin, reaching down to pick up her shield once more. "Sure you're up for another bout?"

Salamander crossed over to retrieve his sword. "I suppose we'll see in a moment... on your guard!"

This time, the clangor that rang across the practice grounds were equally hers and his as they chased one another around the dirt ring. Salamander stayed true to his word and explained both tactics and teachings and Talaesyn stayed true to her own, giving him a run for his money whenever their blades met.

Minstrel or guardian made no difference in the girl from Archet. She had the same will and determination to learn and grow and experience things as they came.

07/04/12: Take your character and put them in a different pair of shoes. Change their race, class, or professions -- something significant about them that really takes them out of their element.

The rain spat down at Ledrick Coldbrook, and the wind scraped across his already-numb knuckles. He shivered, but kept his eyes on the task at hand. He did not as much as glance up at the globe-like eyes on the other side of the pile of what would be fire-wood.

Ledrick brought the ax up, and slammed it down. The block of soggy timber split open, sending Rosaline scampering back from it. She eventually crawled back, and resumed watching him on the other side of the wood. He looked up at her, and saw the tight bun of her wheat hair had come loose, and spilled wetly around her face. The way her lips were set, it looked like she was growing increasingly reproachful.

The man shook his head to clear his thoughts, and smashed the ax into another block. This time, though, it splintered, and a single thorn pricked up into his arm. He did not curse. He merely gritted his teeth, picking up the ax he dropped, and went back to work.

Some time later, Ledrick heard Rosaline's voice, "It's nigh foredawn, Mister Coldbrook." Was it just his imagination, or did she sound a tad sympathetic? Then she continued, whispering, "There is someone coming from the house-- what are you doing?!"

He had recoiled from the ax, and scrambled up, his mouth pulled in a tight snarl. His eyes were wide. "There's a spider, on the handle!"

Instead of the fearful reaction he expected, she looked down at the fallen ax and the creature, seeming perplexed. She turned back to him. "So?"

He tugged his hood down further over his face as he felt a blush creep onto it. He grumbled below his breath, "I must finish this absurd quest. My father and grandfather made a living off of wood-cutting! Maybe they were utterly mad, but I can't disappoint them. Even with spiders and splinters and all manner of evil things!"

He stopped suddenly when he heard footsteps in the reeds behind.

The sound of hammers and clanging metal could be heard ringing about in the crafting hall, men busy at work at anvils and forges. Here, they were hard at work creating beautiful pieces of jewelery, sturdy arms and armor from iron, and all manners of tools in between.

Well, all but one of them, anyways..

Tarthamir continued to swing at the lump of bronze in front of him, desperate to make it look like anything at this point- The masterful works around him were beyond brilliant, as well as beyond his understanding and skill, and after another hour of hammering away he only had a wrecked piece of metal to show for his work. Frustrated, he took a step back to take a breather, and perhaps have an epiphany as to /what/ exactly he needed to change in his efforts.

"Shoulda' just stuck with farming, Tarthamir... Better to have a green one than a red one, as father would say.." He murmured as he looked down to his cut and calloused fingers, no doubt from the many times he accidentally struck himself with the hammer.

Some of the men working nearby had begun to dim their forges for the night, and return home to their families with tales of another fine day at work, and how ridiculous the young Gondorian in there must have looked as he attempted in vain to work one of the simplest of metals into something of substance. A sympathetic look must have crossed his way, because an older smith stopped briefly to offer a pat on the shoulder, and advice of encouragement. "Come on there, lad.. You're working the corners all wrong. Hit the metal from the side here.. See? That will make it easier to move around."

Tarthamir was taken by surprise at the man's support, but found it was as a breath of fresh air in his desperate attempts that day. With a grateful nod, he picked the hammer back up with renewed determination, and began working away at the metal again. He was determined to make /something/ useful by the end of the day, even if it was nothing more than a battered paperweight.