Gladden Fields
From whence comes that strange wind? But it matters little. Nearby is the call
of the Gladden, ever sonorous in her gentle song. The fields before you are
plain enough, covered with marsh and grasses, and yet there is a sense here of
great deeds, long ago. This land is fey, and never quite calm.
The starlight settles upon the reeds. Something about the evening air makes the
dry and warm earth seem almost alive beneath your feet. All around, dense
thorny shrubs sprawl over the land.
Though the sky directly overhead has lingered in summer Blue since the morning,
it lies not undisturbed upon the West, and the tips of the Hithaeglir's teeth.
There has storm sat, brooding and purposeful in growing swirls of deep gray and
black: a wall raised to shut out the fall of the sun now that dusk has arrived.
In long shadow and early gloom, there is the party of Galadhrim, thoughts of
the night's camp coming to the fore as Anor is cloaked and hidden.
"There is more than storm upon the air," are the only words that leave the
Counsel Galindrion's mouth, as quicker steps bring him from rear to the middle
of the passing group. He sighs deeply, turning about with hand rested in tight
fist wrapped about his sword. He shakes his head.
And the rumbles of thunder begin to pour, thick rumbling waves; sharp cracks of
electricty tearing through the air in explosive and radiant tendrils: and yet
does the swirl of midnight brought early grow more powerful.
As Galindrion nears him, Lothdaimoth's head turns slightly and dark eyes mark
the other counsel's passage nearer the head of the line. A brief nod and he
returns to scanning the rough marshy ground. Tall grasses and reeds ripple in
the evening wind, tangled thickets of brush scraping and groaning among
themselves; and his hand tightens on his bow.
Caelwen, ever near to Lothdaimoth, lifts her head of a sudden when Galindrion's
voice sounds near. Slim fingers tighten on her walking-stick, she lifts the end
from the ground, and the dirty length of wood turns into a stave. Her face then
turns to the storm to mirror lightening in her eyes; she half-smiles. A deep
breath is taken before she glances to her counsel-cousin and whispers, "What
think you he meant by that?"
Here upon the Northern Gladden fields, upon the path chosen northwestward, the
fens and swamp lessen, as fuller grasses and the scattered bramble and brush
grows slightly more plentiful. It is still no land of beauty, no land of safety
- and the foul scent that lies heavy upon the breeze is indomitable. Yet step
by step have they passed; so shall they continue lest the storm should spring
with fury.
Twould seem the summer has been dangerously dry, as even Galindrion's feet find
not silent passage - the smallest crackle of the desolate and thirsty land
crisp each time step lands upon the ground. Again lightning flashes in the
west, thrice and each more potent than the next. The Counsel shivers, and lifts
his hood - silent now and watchful.
Struggling to keep up with the others, the rather small figure of a lady
Counsel trails behind. A garment of green covering her, the hood is pulled up
about her head, causing the Arnpand's identity hard to make out. Strapped upon
her back, an elvish longbow is found, though doesn't seem to weigh her down.
A gust of wind hits her and blows her hood off, causing curls of gold to toss
about in the air. Quickly pulling it back around her face, Merilwen stops in
her tracks. Eyes, those of green, fall upon Galindrion ahead of her and she
begins once more, though this time at a much faster pace to catch up.
"Herald," calls Galindrion then, unslinging bow from its rest on his shoulder,
"I return to the rear." Breezing past the line, a hand brushes Merilwen's
shoulder with comfort, but how may it be found? Purposeful strides carved in
leaps and bounds take him quickly southward as their tracks press forward.
Something else lies in wait; or else his senses lie.
And now the wind does more than lash at brambles and grass and riffle through
elven cloak and hair. Whistling through the plains that edge the marshland
north and east, it brings them a keening wail.
Two howls. Now three. Another. And another. Closing in from north, south and
east.
Looking to the cousin tagging at his heels as she has done since barely able to
walk, Lothdaimoth's eyebrows pinch together. His own voice barely more than a
murmur, he says, "Do you not feel it? The land knows what manner of beasts
crawl over its surface..." A wailing howl becomes a chorus of such and he stops
speaking abruptly and half raises his bow.
Caelwen stops breathing at the cries raised to the storm, step hastening
through the dry plants to bring her beside Lothdaimoth instead of behind him.
Both hands now clutch the stave. Air comes back to her lungs, and she finally
replies, "I thought this is how the outside world is supposed to feel." She
shivers, and scans the surrounding land again and again.
Finally making it up with the others, as a hand brushes by her shoulder
Merilwen's ease is quickly vanished by the cries. Not but a few paces away from
Caelwen, the Counsel glances over towards her; though her eyes do not stay in
one place. Darting all about the area; she shudders.
Her little hands are shoved deeply into her cloak pockets, making it appear as
though her arms are inside the cloak itself. And not lingering too far from the
little group, her longbow bounces slightly about her back.
A brief shake of his dark head. "No." Lothdaimoth's arrow is fitted to the
string, ready to be aimed and loosed in vengeful fury; but there is no target.
"Not all of it is thus. You will see." The wind brings chill more than just
physical, and an involuntary shudder ripples through his soft grey shirt.
As a vengeful fist opening with ragged claws, so does the storm now reach with
anger from its roost, pouring in all directions with deep and rowdy intent.
Echo after echo of thunder rent from the sky by the blasts of lightning signals
doom, 'Boom boom boom' and down the mountain - black trumpets bellowing bass to
give root beneath the wails of the oncoming wolves.
These too grow in chorus, a wicked harmony cast by Melkor and bred within the
bones of all his creatures. Too familiar to Firstborn; too close now for much
hope. As yet they remain unseen, crouched in the grasslands in all directions.
Intelligence is clear; the danger each moment moreso.
Merilwen's glance is returned by Caelwen, and each boom of thunder is marked by
a flinch from the Cennan's shoulders. From the corners of her eyes she watches
everywhere and hope only finds her with occasional glimpses at the skies above.
Her chin ducks down protectively over her throat, but no answer does she give
Lothdaimoth now.
Mere moments, and the last howl rises then fades, and naught but rumbling
thunder speaks once more.
It is truly dark tonight, with little light from moon or star making way
through the clouds fraught with rain. Yet no eyes are needed to sense the other
gathered darkness pressing slowly around this group of elves.
Speed, stealth, and silence: the marks of a hunting pack. Shadows dart through
the brambles with the wind.
Thrice now illuminated by the silver fire in the sky, a dark silhouette lies
etched in the fading memories of blinding light within the eye, familiar in
form despite the unsettling view. Far ahead of the travelling Galadhrim, the
Lady's Herald crouches with one knee upon the earth, fell Anseregurth held with
naked tip to the ground in subtle challenge. No shield is bourne upon his arm,
laid carefully aside for some unspoken purpose. Yet perhaps most striking of
all, the young Aracarach's cowl hangs limp behind him, long brown tresses
flowing rampant and careless in the wind.
At last he stands, wordless and defiant of the evil which lurks unseen, sword
bared and ready to wreak what havoc it may. Indeed, he seems unfazed by the
storm which rages overhead, as if not one who is beholden to the mighty
tempest, but perhaps a part of it...
"Stay behind me." Lothdaimoth's voice is harsh, still little louder than a
whisper. Furtive shapes now tease at the corners of his vision, but still
little to aim at. Jagged purple-silver streaks claw at the roiling pitchy sky,
framing the landscape in lurid colors before all is plunged into blackness
again. In that brief moment, the counsel raises his bow swiftly to his cheek
and fires; the arrow mostly unaimed.
Caelwen stops walking, allowing her cousin to draw before her, though she
neither looks nor speaks to him. A half-step aside, and she follows directly
behind him, face tracking the arrow's flight. She pauses, widening the distance
between Cennan and Counsel once more though she is still closer to him than any
other. Each breath half-choking, both hands steady on the staff, she continues.
"Wolves!" calls Galindrion, fleeing again northward to rejoin the group, "Wargs
no less and plenty! We have no choice but flight!" A panic hangs upon him, eyes
wide with shocked emerald, lips full and open with heavy breath as he too turns
and nocks an arrow - the sound of the endless howling the only aim. "Curse the
shortsighted men of Gondor, their queried beasts were NOT destroyed," he yells,
firing a second then from longbow, his legs solid and shoulder width apart - a
fury fell and deeply locked upon his brow.
The storm makes no sign of lessening; it pauses ominously for a minute, but no
more; and promptly drenches the party - arrows increasingly worthless in the
drenching fury, the blinding wind, and the target as yet unseen.
A second arrow is drawn and fired, almost at random, before Lothdaimoth whirls
to look for Caelwen. Dark eyes go beyond her to another slim figure in white
and he waves his free arm at his sister. The howling wind mingles with the
wails of the wargs, and he shouts to be heard. "Tiina! Stay near! We must not
be seperated!"
And here, where no power holds the fury in check, the storm rages savagely,
indeed. A howl cuts off to a whimper and a whine at the first of Lothdaimoth's
darts -- quickly submerged beneath the sounds of pelting rain.
From the north, a single figure looms abruptly in the darkness: the
unmistakable silhouette of a wolf. Still, the danger to the Galadhrim is not
only from behind; for as some halt, the beasts move west for a loose circle.
"Men," Caelwen spits soon after Galindiron's shouting. Peridot eyes narrow.
"Ah.." a sigh falls from between her parted lips at the rain's pelting, and she
stalls when Lothdaimoth whirls, though no glance is given from her to Tiinwaia
behind. Feet planted wide and solid for the nonce, she watches arrows slice
through wind, then simply faces forward, a wolf coming into view ahead. She
stares at the beast, and a hand leaves her stave long enough to fly to her
throat then quickly return, raindrops caught beneath her palm now. A swallow
she takes.
And a blast of lightning cracking, breaking and exploding all too near to the
Galadhrim. Ever seeking the highest point, it finds a small huddle of scraggly
and barely-there Fir trees; fire breaks out immediately from its branches. The
small ring is quickly engulfed in wreathes of orange, gold and haunting red;
lines of fire sweep out from its direction across the grassland, each dried
bramble and brush succumbing to its thirst. Woe upon the rain for its brevity,
this night groes worse.
Patient despite beastly hunger, practiced beyond the simplicity of beasts, the
se approaching Wargs are now prepared in near-circle, their master defiant as
he approaches one slow pace after the other. Its blood drools from its mouth,
an arrow lodged in its throat and the beast only sharper.
"Flee, flee north and follow the path the Herald has tread," calls Galindrion,
hood lowered in the same motion that brings right hand to quiver, returning
with an arrow readied to the string. Drawing breath, holding it and swallowing
the lump in his throat, the Counsel is upon the rear of the group, walking
backwards now quickly as walls of fire leap every which way.
The master of the Wargs stands before him, pausing; it paws the dirt beneath
its feet, poised upon small hill-top upon the other side of the main blaze. Two
more join it, one at each shoulder in triangular formation. Raising its head it
bellows a final call, long and twisting with the writhing desire of bloodlust.
It waits no more: leaping across the expanse with its mates at the tale.
Another arrow is drawn and nocked to string in one swift movement; and with
only time enough to aim, it too is sent hissing towards the warg nearest
Lothdaimoth and his closest companions. Immediately, another is at the ready.
"Run!" he shouts frantically. Tiina's pale face turns in horror from wolf to
fire and she begins to flee - the only way currently open.
Still silent and serene as the night sinks deeper into chaos, Erinstar strides
forth to meet the first and foremost of the craven beasts, walking as if
between the raindrops. Slowly does Anseregurth rise in warning, angled sharply
away with reluctant patience for the servant of the enemy to strike first,
dripping ominously from the brief outpour.
Still yet no enemy for Caelwen to strike-- the wargs are not close enough, and
what good is a stave to fire?-- she does run, and swiftly, after a white-clad
form and westward. Flashing heels kick at the mantle, her fiery braid jounces,
and the staff beats at dried brambles.
Even as the first wolf leaps into the fray with destiny and fury hanging upon
ragged maw, the wall of fire that had lain between it and its query grows
greater. Uncontainable, unrelenting it spreads arms northward. One blocks
westward retreat; the other shoots across the grass between Lothdaimoth and the
rest.
The Wargs oblige, pressing in upon south and east, fearless of flames. Ten or
twenty, in the darkling shadows cast by beast silhouetted in flame, lo are
their numbers intermingled and uncounted.
Save those before one's face, as the beast before Galindrion, its two mates
turning for blood upon the Herald. The furious pace of the first brings it
before the Counsel; it leaps towards neck as he unprepared can only deflect
beast with his bow. The blow lands solidly enough to protect his throat, but
not left shoulder: claws dragging raggedly past, beast then landing and turning
about for another pass.
Flashes of movement draw Lothdaimoth's head around and his eyes widen. Sister
and cousin are fleeing, as ordered - but not north towards Erinstar. And now
the greedy flames lick at the grass behind him, making a return to the east
impossible. A glance behind shows Galindrion attacked, and the vintner's last
arrow is sent in aid of his friend; snarling even through the orange inferno
down at the flank of the great creature. Turning then, he leaps after Caelwen.
Ahead of her, the thin white figure of his sister has nearly disappeared.
"Caelwen! Turn north!" A harried look over his shoulder at fire and wolves and
he mutters, "If you can.."
The others bare their fangs at the herald, and yet they hesitate -- seemingly
entranced by the single drop of water that slowly sparkles downwards from the
blade. So it is that one holds its ground, though the other tries to dart past,
flashing in a single timed strike: charging for the hamstring from the side.
But only these three wargs remain engaged in combat with the twain; ever
cowardly, more strike where they sense weakness and fear: rushing for the edhil
who flee.
At the first pass of the beast, the Counsel Galindrion's fury came to the
front, bow slung hurriedly to back as right hand unleashed the whisper of
Umdoldagnir. Turning about with blade poised he sees the first blessing of fate
amidst the chaos comes, and just in time. Lothdaimoth's arrow flies into the
pack's leader, burying within his chest mid-flight towards Galindrion's torso.
With a wretch and a howl, his jump twists and misses, paws landing awkwardly
and near to Galindrion.
In rending slice through the air, the Counsel's blade dives towards the Wolf.
"A Gilthoniel," he screams as he takes hilt by second hand, thrusting it deep
into the beast in plunging stab. An explosion makes angled stain across bright
face, matting his hair as he stands full-height again, clutching the wounded
shoulder as he calls once more, "Fly and make haste, north, north and from the
flame!" Turning in swathe of soaking gray travel cloak, he raises blade once
more and turns upon one of the Herald's attackers.
Without thought, Caelwen turns north with the very next footfall after
Lothdaimoth's call. Flame raises like a tinted, flapping veil through which she
can see the figure of Tiinwaia but may not follow. "I cannot!" she cries, voice
high and wavering with panic. On her heel she whirls, a scream thrown to the
beasts and a frightened glance given to Lothdaimoth. Her hand slides to the end
of the stave and a wild swipe is made at the wargs. Still swinging, she turns
again westward and flees.
Even as he runs, Lothdaimoth is fitting another arrow to his bow. A turn,
half-halting, and he shoots at the nearest of the wargs; then leaps ahead,
closing the distance between himself and his cousin. The wild wind howls about
them, whipping his long black hair through the air. "Nevermind," he says,
between huge gasps for breath. "Just run." A quick glance is taken behind, the
wargs have not yet closed on them; and he redoubles his speed. "Run!"
Divided by the flames as well, the pressing attack of the Wargs becomes
scattered. Flame upon the east. Flame upon the south. And flame scrambling its
most intense search for fuel through the middle of the fray. Lightning and
storm threatens all about to return; whether the wind and rain would be
blessing to end the fire, or curse to darken the evening uncertain.
With all due certainty upon new target, the second beast toying with Aracarach
smells a feast and runs with fury towards Galindrion's approach. Instead of
leaping, it bucks to hind legs within reach of his flesh - fore-claws ragged
and tearing in quick strike after strike at the Counsel.
With almost casual ease, the Herald steps aside from the warg's expected lunge,
the cold steel of his sword lowering at last to meet the charge in the space
where his body last stood. Even so, the disdain which burns in stormy eyes is
not met upon the wolf which now attacks, for the Aracarach deigns not even to
spare a glance the wretched creature as he arcs his blade forth to end it.
With a yelp, body twisting to the side Galindrion takes the first blow from the
wolf's claws - a glancing of claws across right thigh. Instinct and the moment
lights a fire within his eyes, locking lips tight as he parries madly with
longsword to keep the beast's claws from finding further mark. He steps back,
but the beast presses. He leaps back, and the beast leaps forward. Spinning
then around, at the side and narrowly missing its leap, he strikes.
And finds flesh to mark upon the hindquarters of the beast. It howls, turning
again to face him - defiance matched to its leader, bloodlust ignorant that now
its brethren scatter alike to the despearte elves.
One leap, one chance, one strike: all is lost as this warg spins around,
arrested by the herald's flashing blade. It slumps, and sere ground drinks anew
of what pools about -- a liquid far darker than rain.
And its fellows fare no better. The westward pursuit is thinned out and slowed
by another of Lothdaimoth's deadly darts; three fall away as they surrender to
that most basic of instincts: survival. It seems even these edhil are not quite
so easy prey.
Only one, brief glance is braved over Caelwen's shoulder, an impression of
Lothdaimoth behind her and wolves behind Lothdaimoth. It is enough to spur her
onward. She leans over, tucks her staff beneath her arm, and runs as fleet as a
doe, mantle flying behind her and wide eyes to the fore.
And now, with pristine finality comes the rain: drenching once more in blast
after blast of water. Hissing, belching and otherwise clinging to its life, the
raging brush-fire loses the battle, and goes out. There lie scattered about
four wolf-carcasses, and only nine of the party of eleven remaining within
sight.
Wordless, indignant rage encircling him, Galindrion remains locked upon one of
the last beasts. It takes three paces backward, sneering and growling through
teeth locked shut; then with final might it leaps again, dropping jaw and
declaring its intent with mottled teeth endless.
The Counsel stands proud before it, waving blade with anticipation side to
side, and as it nears he sides-steps, a backhanded lunge from blade following
through and slicing into the beast's flesh. With a final howl it scampers, wary
of its death and tasting its time drawn nigh; to the south from whence it came
it flees, leaving Galindrion to stand, and shake from all limbs, and finally
draw breath enough to say, "Cousin, I count not our party in entirety. Curses
that I should have pressed for this trip." With a swallow clear of marred
conscience, his head lolls forward as he drops to a knee.
The ground is rising, becoming rockier. And the rocks lurk in the grass for the
unwary foot. Still, neither cousin has fallen prey to this lesser foe. Yet. One
larger rises up just before them and Lothdaimoth jumps for it, turning as he
leaps to land facing the wolves that follow. And there he stands for a brief
moment, arrows sent howling down at the slavering beasts as quickly as he can
draw and fire. His chest is heaving as he breathes, the wolves draw nearer;
still each shot is given its due of careful aim. Without waiting to see the
results of all his arrows, he whirls and with a running jump, is off again.
Behind them, the others of his party grow small in the distance and once more,
he calls to Caelwen. "Turn! We are getting too far away..."
In the distance southward, the howls of Wargs regrouped and ready for return
echo back amidst the driving howl and soaking rain. Farther away than when the
first calls were heard, but still near enough. Then, a silence ominous and
undistrurbed save by the wind falls. Northward must all paths lead and soon,
for the signs of a second attack linger, and the scent of blood is fresh for
their nostrils. The signs of battle lie scattered about, and soon enough shall
Orc Patrol find them.
Rainfall drenches fire, beasts, plants, and elves. Caelwen's hair and clothes
drink thirstily of the water, cloak cloying at her calves and tresses outlining
her skull. Her erratic path takes her darting around stones, over them, and she
whirls at Lothdaimoth's call. She hestitates; she is further away than her
cousin and the main party seems dishearteningly far. "But we will have to go
past the beasts!" Her quick steps back are almost like a stumble. Her breath
gasps from her.
The skies are rent, the fires fading, and the brief but intense skirmish all
but ended. Finally raising his voice to speak, the Herald whispers soft to
Galindrion nearby, "Take our kinsmen and retreat to the north. Seek shelter,
and repair from injury and grief... And I shall drink from the cup of
vengeance. You are in command." No more does he offer then, but slips off into
the dark of night with grim intent, blade dripping of blood and fresh rain as
the Aracarach fades to shadow.
"Go... North..." Lothdaimoth pants as he runs. "Maybe we... can get... past
them." The sudden drenching rainfall brings a worried look to the sky and then
to his bow. Too much water and his arrows will not fly as true. Just then the
treacherous rocks, turned slippery by the rain, slide underfoot and he
stumbles, nearly falling. One hand skids across the ground. And recovering
himself, he flees after Caelwen.
"Make it not the last you shall be seen!" calls the Counsel with desperation,
jaw hanging open for a moment, before closing as the eyes above that seek
hiding from the fell night. Still upon his knee, down and humbled to the ground
he lingers; and finally rises. "To lands of Grimbeorn we go," he adds, "and
over the Gladden Pass beyond. Find them, cousin, find them! Their deaths
shall lead me out of Arda and to the west!" A single tear rifles down his cheek
as he lifts hood once more.
And turns then to the remaining of the party, lifting his head, wiping blade
across cloak, and resheathing his sword as he says, "Across the river we hurry,
before worse shall fall."
Wind drives another sheet of rain upon the counsel, and the heavy drops mingle
with his tears.