101g-IC Orcs in the Mountains
In reply to The Loremaster (msg # 2):
**The Past**
Harthion sat on the bench in the center of Imladris, Rivendell, the Last Homely Home with his eyes closed, listening to the wind. The wind spoke in the voices of the leaves - rustling and soft on the ground - and the chirps of birds. He was focusing on them, letting his mind walk along with the dancing streams of air. Then - brightly - a sparrow call. The voice seemed to draw his attention, for a voice it was. Mellondil, his little friend. He brought news of the direction that his assailant would be coming.
He swung his sword out, arcing back behind him to catch the other elven blade that came down, turning around and twisting, the blade scraping back to flip the blade up. From there, he leveled the blade at the other elf, the both of them smiling. The sparring always served to start their mornings. They both moved in fluid motions, their blades singing and joining with the concert that was swirling around them. After a time, it died down and the two sat side by side in one of the many gardens belonging to Lord Elrond. Harthion and Beruthiel, side by side.
“He wishes to speak to you,” Beruthiel said, speaking in the flowing sounds of the Elvish tongue. “He would once again question your decision to take to the field.”
“I know. He has lost hope in them, Beruthiel. He would deny it, but you know it to be true. He lost hope long ago when Isildur failed.”
“Do you blame him? How would you have reacted?”
“They are young; all of them. All of the people who remain free of the Shadow are young and like the young they must learn. I do not belittle them as some of our kind do. I know the heart that burns within them. But a wildfire will be snuffed out by rain or spread to consume a forest unless it is banked up and directed. That is what I will do; what I must do.”
“You’ll need to be more skillful in your sword-work if you wish to lead any but a small-folk pipe gathering, dear Harthion,” Beruthiel added with a smirk.
“That is what I will always return to you for aid with,” Harthion added, returning the smile.
**The Present**
Once again, Harthion’s eyes opened as in those years before, but this time it was relatively silent. His fire still crackled, keeping the soft falling snow at bay with some pleasing warmth. He looked around. The pass of the Misty Mountains was a necessary evil, a path that needed to be walked, and prior to then had been relatively uneventful. A fell odor reached his nostrils and Mellondil’s chirping was not merely protesting the cold. Something was nearby. In a fluid motion Harthion kicked the fire into vanishment and he ducked into the trees.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Thu 24 Feb 2022.