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(Archive) ERED NIMRAIS: Isilrim

Tags: Sirion,  gorm,  Lominzil,  Menelglir,  Silmir,  Fencrist,  sul

Short Summary: Menelglir heals the wounded Gondorian Party. Sirion III Isilrim arrives as well.
Date (real-life): 2014-01-27
Scene Location: Ered Nimrais, Gondor
Western foothills -- Southern Ered Nimrais
Standing between the the mountain range of Ered Nimrais to the north, and Morthond Vale to the south, you look to see the long, chill, River Morthond that flows southwards, across the Morthond Vale, or Blackroot, as it is known, until it finally flows into the sea. With no way to ford the swiftly flowing river, westerly travel is virtually impossible, and looking north, you fail to see any feasable routes through the mountain range, but you can progress southeast, along the foothills of the mountains, and the south is open as well, leading deeper into Blackroot.

Obvious exits:
East and South

The star-studded drape of night hangs above the stand of tall, snowy peaks, at the feet of which this village is built. And being rebuilt: mounds of earth dot the road where spiked pits once yawned; broken windows betray light through their nailed boards; the defiled walls have been scraped and doused. Perhaps tomorrow, snow will come and cover all -- but today is bloodstained.

At the gate, a heap smoulders under supervision of a man leaning on his spear.

Fencrist wanders slowly among the fresh mounds outside the village.

Footsteps crunch deliberately across the evening landscape, coming toward the gate man at a steady pace, from inside the village.

"They will not return," Lominzil says over his shoulder, padded and bandaged.

Closer, hands and charred feet are distinguishable in the burning rubble, adorned with rings and armor yet. They would not be Gondorian.
"Armsman, do not wander," he calls; pale-lipped, though voice is hale.

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir sits in front of one of the burning fires, the light casting a sharp light on the new scars on his face. He stares into the flames. Some of the mirth and mischief that usually marks his face has been dimmed by his first taste of fighting.

Fencrist barely looks up as Lominzil's voice carries through the serene field of battle. Bending over, the man-at-arms scoops up a handful of blood-stained dirt and then watches the grains slip away to be lost against the dark ground.

"It is Menelglir and I've come to see how you are faring. And if your wounds have been tended at the least," says the knight, approaching still.
Sitting on his saddlebags, Lominzil shakes his head. "There hasn't been the time," he answers. "I am watching; he is grieving. Is the town safe?"

In the night, a child's shriek can be heard and then sobbing as a young voice calls out, "Adar, I don't want to stay here!"

A door closes and the conversation is suddenly cut off.

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir turns his head as he hears the child shriek, his brows gathering a bit. He shifts to kneel, then stand, walking amongst the graves and fires until he is near where Lominzil and Menelglir is. He sits again, wincing and holding first his right side, then his left shoulder. "Safe is a relative term, I think. Their dreams will not be safe for some time."

Fencrist takes a long look at the field and then joins the others closer to the village. By firelight, is is clear the young man is has great thoughts in his mind. "I was looking for where ... Fuinlos fell."

"Safe...yes," Menelglir says, grimacing in agreement with Silmir's assessment and the distant sounds of an argument. "Were these the lands of my kin, I would burn this town and let its fields go untilled. But that is not my decision to make. As for safe otherwise...you saw the manner of the orcs we fought...or perhaps they were men, warped into orcs. I do not know." 

Fencrist's words gain the knight's attention. "I did not see him fall--I am sure someone did and they will guide you to that place, but this is not the time for it. Did I not tell you to rest lest you risk the wounds turning foul and your not regaining your strength? I have this for Lominizil, but you....and Silmir as well, may share it between you." Menelglir holds out a flask. "It is a brew of herbs that Calenloth has devised, and it will slow bleeding."
"Calenloth," utters Lominzil, and patiently sips from the flask he is given; thoughts wander, straying back to the road.

"She worries."

HEALING: Menelglir attempts to treat your wounds...

[Silmir(#24455)] "By the gate, I think. The arrows took him. I saw it before Lord Nimothan told me to hide at the wall. I can show you when you have regained some of your strength." Silmir thanks Menelglir and takes a sip from the offered flask. He passes it over to Fencrist when he is done, silently running his fingers over the fresh marks crossing his face.

Menelglir tends to the injuries on Silmir.

Fencrist grips the offered flask and takes a generous sip. After wiping his mouth and passing the flask on, he nods in appreciation for Silmir's offer. "Fuinlos was a good comrade. I feel like I let him down. He'd still be alive if I had not wanted to come along the party."

Menelglir tends to the injuries on Fencrist.

"She worries, aye, but women are always so," Menelglir says, answering Lominzil. 

"And you," he continues to Fencrist, "came because it was your duty--however you originally saw this. You served Gondor honorably, and Fuinlos did as well." 

Menelglir turns to leave, but stops, looking back. "Return the flask to me when ou are done with it. I have more herbs to prepare."

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir shakes his head. "It is impossible to know how things would have turned out. He might have come without you. Without you, Lominzil and I could be dead from that giant monstrosity." The fisherman traces the wound down under his cheekbone to jaw, then across his nose and brow to the right side of his forehead, then back down again.
"You are fortunate," answers Lominzil. With some effort, his arm lifts, draws back, and tosses the flask back to the Knight.

To Fencrist: "What does that speak of Fuinlos, the Hostman, the friend?"

"And what does it say about you?"

Fencrist shakes his head, either unable to see or unwilling to accept the truth. "Fuinlos met his fate without fear. I should live by his example."

Sirion has arrived.

[Silmir(#24455)] "And he would have met it if you had come or not. Do not torment yourself too much." Silmir straightens his body from how he had turned to talk to Fencrist, wincing at the twinge of pain from his side. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but doing what you must in spite of it. I can tell you without shame that I was terrified. But I was not going to let you all fight alone."

Out along the road, the men of Lamedon have gathered wood for a bonfire. As the flames lick the wood and spring up, pipes are played, their music soft and sad as the rustic melodies of mourning are heard for their lost comrade.

"He met his death quickly," adds a voice in the darkness.

"Pray your fate be so swift."

The voice is not long, for it stirs like a man and leaves soon afterwards.

From south a man approaches.

He lingers near the bounds of the fire's light, watching from mottled shadows.

Fencrist grows silent now as his thoughts drift.

"One prays to meet it unabashed," says Lominzil to the shadow's other side.

Sedate and bleeding, he pulls himself upright, gaze fixed unerringly upon the road. "Who comes?"

As the pipes play, a deep voice rises up.

"Ithilkhor Strongbow, a finer man I've never known. Never will he walk again beside the waters of his home, hooooome... A lass so fair he leaves behind, as fair as any man could want. Tears will flow when his kin learns the son of Lamedon has fallen... Ooooo-oh."

"I am come."

The man steps forward, his features revealed.

Neither youthful nor aged is he, for the blood of old Numenor courses strong and true through his veins. He wears the dark blue tabard emblazoned with the white falling star of House Isilrim. Upon his head, an ancient winged helm. Upon his hip, a blade older still--a blade like no other forged by the hands of man. He offers no introduction; he believes his face should be known to those gathered.

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir glances up at the approaching shadow, moving to his feet as well. He presses at the wound at his side with a grimace. He does not know the man's face, but he knows the helm and blade could not be worn lightly.

The pipes die down and the voice ends its song as the men of Lamedon, freeholders liegemen alike, recognize the devices and arms of the newly come Man.

Fencrist pulls himself from his morbid thoughts long enough salute smartly the man who comes.

"Isilrim," -- the singular, for such is the house, and the name of this lord.

A chance encounter in the wild North, perhaps, is drawn to memory, and finds that unlike the first of the twain found there, this man is yet the same. Lominzil Girithlin inclines his head, his words steady, though low.

"You come to a troubled place; do you come in peace?"

The Helm of Solitar is swept from the head of Sirion III Isilrim. The full weight of his gaze falls upon the Girithlin, and there remains for a long moment. "The songs of Lamedon drew me hither," he says at long last. His voice is grim, his brow glistens with sweat.

A sweeping glance about the campsite is all that is needed to confirm the Girithlin's words. "Tell me:" he says, drawing closer the name. "Child of Lond Duilin, what trouble have you met here?"

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir bows his head, not meeting the eyes of the Isilrim lord. As Lominzil is addressed, he moves over toward where Fencrist had wandered. "Mourn if you will. But do not let this destruction change you for the worse. They will have won, then. As surely as if you had fallen."

Fencrist nods at Silmir, though he does not seem convinced. "... slain ... ... ... only ... I know. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...."

"Then these are not new tidings," answers the Girithlin, ashen in the flame.

"Gondorian blood was spilt here," he continues, leaning on the stave at his arm. "With rumor of plague, we were led north. The townsfolk," here is anger, exhausted, "were imprisoned in a pit. And the aggressors."

With the spear, he points to the fire that burns before him, fueled with carcasses and weapons. And on the point of the weapon: the face of an orc.

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir shrugs a little, wincing at the movement of his shoulder. He moves over toward the gate, where the first arrows came through to hit the Hosts. "It was here, by the way. But I would not linger. It does not do well to dwell on death." He heads back to where Lominzil and Sirion are, rubbing the wound on his shoulder as he walks.

A shadow passes across the face of Sirion the Kindler.

"How came these to be here in the heart of Gondor?" he wonders.

"Not of their own designs," he muses. "Deception is not their way."

Here Fencrist takes Silmir's advice, giving the indicated ground only a glance before turning away. "So, you still desire to join the Hosts of Gondor?

Lominzil carefully measures his reply, looking to Silmir.

"A Man -- we nursed his illness and delirium. After he led us to Ethring, we learned of his deception. Tavor is his name, a merchant who sold tainted grain."

"Could such an association be?"

[Silmir(#24455)] "I do. The fish will still be waiting when I have done my duty." Silmir turns to Lominzil, nodding grimly. "He had the map that led us here, to these giant abominations. Coincidence is unlikely, the world is rarely so clumsy. He fled not long before we left, and was likely caught by one of the men surrounding the town. Were it not for the torment the people here received, I would suggest his description be given to some, to see if they know him."

"Verily," Sirion says with a shake of his head. "He was led astray by whatever vice brought the shadow into his heart." He looks around once more, his head shaking again. This, more to himself than to any other: "But why here?"

"Unnecessary. He was duped by another." This said to Silmir. "The master of whom was..." here his gaze shifts to the east.

His eyes return to the men at hand. "We must be vigilant. Never is there but one trap."

As the others discuss the plot that brought Fuinlos from Pelargir to his doom outside this village, Fencrist slips away, intent on heeding the advice of Menalglir and giving his wounds time to heal.

"We are vigilant," affirms the Girithlin, "though our wounds are not small. Your presence would be welcome - your riders here are in mourning."

"I shall remain for a time," Sirion asserts ere wandering off to make inspections of the rest of the camp.

[Silmir(#24455)] "We may not be able to deal with that," Silmir glances east, "but I believe we may deal with whatever mortal caused this strife. A puppet, perhaps, but one less pawn would be welcome." He bows as Sirion moves off, leaving him with Lominzil. "You should be resting too, should you not?"

"It is well," answers the Girithlin, waving away. "Go, enjoy the respite."

[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir shrugs, wincing once again as he tweeks the wounded shoulder. "Do not push yourself too far." He heads off in search of his rest and perhaps a healer, rubbing his shoulder.
The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

Date added: 2014-02-26 01:53:08    Hits: 42
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