Jun 25 2014, 11:19pm
Post #1 of 1
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. For this post summarizes, sadly, previous posts from the Hobbit Board, which lo! detail the rising tension of a situation where Thranduil, the elegant, ancient, wondrous King of the Greenwood, arrived at the lands surrounding Erebor, only to be dismayed to find the battlefield cluttered with hordes of moribund Thralls of the House of Durin, from whose haunted glazed eyes so many tears had been shed the land was eroding from the streams of silver......
Prologue to "Thrall Wars" - the synopsis from other threads
...And tho Smaug was occupied with helpfully providing the Laketowners with an additional source of energy-efficient home heating, the danger to the Heirs of Durin Thralls is great, as is known. As Thranduil approached Dale on his noble and deadly battle elk, his lip curled, but in a moment of impatient compassion attempted to release the Thorin Thralls from their deathly still, glassy-eyed state.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... Thranduil, zombie thrall wrangler? ... ohkaaay...
" Verily. Look upon the devastation this grubby mountain king has wrought. Not only are lands that were once fair blasted by dragon breath, but now studded with these enspell'd "Thorin Thralls", maddened and immobilized by the searing vision of roiling dark locks and fierce Caribbean-blue eyes. Fi! For their frozen drooling forms doth clutter the battleground, making it impossible for my moose to get up to speed. Even staring deep into the palantÝr of old hath not the effect of Thorin's hair."
"But lo! 'Tis but a simple matter to free them, and so I shall, for tho they may be much blinded with silver tears, in their madness for this ill-clad and rude son of Durin (who did not even deign to thank me for the hospitality of my halls, even after arriving uninvited) - in their madness, they will fight these orcs like a convention of gleeful exterminators attacking incoming cockroaches. None shall stand 'gainst them and their dangerous household implement weaponry and chemicals."
And with elegant grace, the Elvenking raised his fine-boned long-fingered hand. A simple wave of it transpelt the throngs of "Thorin Thralls". Still in their deathly still, glassy-eyed state, for there was naught even one as mighty as the Elvenking can do to restore their health and vigour for stage Z zombiethralls, the thralls shuffled themselves into ranks behind the glorious Woodland King. With his great mind and quick thought, he immediately redeployed his host, and arrayed with the thralls in the front to clear the way, he prepared for a smooth advance.
But wait... a small number of the thralls were behaving oddly. To his keen icy-grey eyes, they were losing their deathly stillness, their eyes gaining a gleam that sent a shudder down his spine.
A frown passed over his fair fair face as sudden realisation dawned.
There could only be one reason: Hybrid thralls, whose opportunistic and diversified thralling had suppressed their appreciation of himself. Now that he has released that Dwarf's hold on them, their thralldom for him quickened again.
And yet, the ageless King of the Forest knew well the nature of evil, and that its iron-hard fingers could reach as deeply as the black chasms of ancient Khazad-dűm. Well did the this leader of the wild understand, as his young captain of the guard, and even his own son, did not, that these empty-eyed Thorin Thralls stood upon the edge of a knife. In their madness and grief they cared not if the coming storm swept them hence, for they would rather spend their lives at the dirty boots of their Mountain King, than spend all the ages of the earth without this grubby dwarf and his inky tangled mane.
In Lothlorien, forced to drink the sweet waters of forgetfulness, perhaps there would have been a slim hope for a few among them. But in this time and place, only the power, will, and fathomless magics of Thranduil had sparked a hint of life in the haunted eyes, which even now ever turned with hopeless longing to the shattered walls of the ancient house of Durin's sons.
Even under the watchful starlit gaze of the Elven King, as twilight crept, a tattered message reached the Mountain King (who in the convenient absence of the airborne lizard had reclaimed the halls of his fathers). As the rest of his Company were quickly crafting interesting defense mechanisms which involved modified siege engines and salt acids, Thorin (surrounded by lo! the golden glow of MAJESTY) reluctantly left off counting his treasure to read a tear-soaked plea from a desperate Thrall.
"By Durin's Beard!" swore the King Under the Mountain. "Again, mine enemy seeks that which is not rightfully his, for my Thralls have pledged both hearts and loyalty to me, in this life and for the ages. Though their hearts I holdeth, well do I know how the magic of the forest can enter the mind, and lead one astray. Yet by the Valar, I am the Heir of Durin, and I have weapons that no ELF, no matter how puissant (or how nice and silky their hair is [huh]), will prevail 'gainst. Kili, I mean Fili, find your brother and let us reclaim what is rightfully ours! To the walls (what's left of them) of Erebor!"
On the walls of Erebor (what's left of them) a few minutes later:
Even the stalwart young dwarf princes recoiled from the banshee cries of joy that howled from the gloaming below, as blood flushed the cheeks of the pallid Thorin Thralls and the weight of leaden despair shattered among the ruins of Dale. "Always make sure of the wind direction, that's the key, otherwise it spoils the epic effect..." began Thorin. "But uncle!" protested
Kili Fili, "We have not been bless'd with your genetics, you are the only one in Middle Earth whose hair has its own fan sites!"
"Huh," intoned the Majestic King Under the Mountain. "There is still time, already
Kili Fili begins to rival the golden locks the Rivendell elves pitifully take pride in. But when dealing with elven Thrall corruption, especially from this especially troublesome enemy, one does not simply strike a blow, and move on. Nay, you must strike hard, and repeatedly, lest our Thralls be overcome by elvish magical influence beyond their strength. And so, when dealing with a slightly worthy opponent as Thranduil, you must match his vogue profile with an epic moment of your own - and make sure the light hits you on your GOOD side."
"And now for the coup de grÔce that will swim into the dreams of our Thralls, a bulwark 'gainst the powerful magics of the Elven King - the Heirs of Durin, with FIERCE eyes, clad in LEATHER, backlit by flame and halo'd by a mysterious Sir Peter Jackson glow! Come, let this be the hour we stand with smouldering eyes together!"
The young Captain of the Elven guard watched in horror as the gleam of madness flashed from the eyes of the previously moribund Heirs of Durin Thralls, who heedlessly tossed weaponry and cutlery into the air. The gloaming rang with cries of "Du Bekar!" and "That which is dead will never die!"
Torn between wanting to gaze at the dwarven prince Kili who stood so proudly on the walls, and wanting to ninja-leap her way to him, and her concern for the Thralls of the Dwarves, she turned in despair to her King. "With every victory, this dwarf Thralldom will grow," she pleaded. "All will die!"
The Elven King gazed coldly at his underling. "Other kings' Thralls are not my concern," he purred. "The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but at least these - euuw - drooling dwarven Thralls are up on their feet, and whether they stand with me, or their goat-smelly dwarf (whose smell is still lingering in the cells, I've had to order an entire case of disinfectants), at least my beloved moose will finally have some room to move about without tripping."
Tauriel could only stare, swallow, and bow to the implacable will of the Woodland King. But when she had gone, struggling to order her confused and whirling thoughts, even then, the elegant Thranduil could sense her, sense his elves, as well as the madness and fury of the newly-impassioned dwarven Thralls that ran like fire in the dark, and the oncoming night itself.
He smiled slightly. For tho Thranduil had spent but little strength on the prostrate Dwarven Thralls, one is not touched by a being such as the Woodland King and remain unchanged. And in his ancient wisdom, the Elven King knew full well, at times the only way to battle a fire is to let it burn. He was patient. He could wait.
And - *Ahem* it surprised not the majestic Elvenking the desire of the contentious Dwarf to reclaim the thralldom of the hapless Dwarf thralls, after having neglected them like a menagerie of out-of-vogue curios in ways only a chronic hoarder could understand, for his Dwarven heart burned with obsession for the Arkenstone he sought with the fervour of a dragon for gold, choking his mind and soul. His desire to beholden the beholdened ones once again sprouted through the fumes of his obsession, dwarving perhaps for a while his Arkenstone-lust, fueled by the mastery of the Woodland King's elegant effortless control, yea, even unto the terminal state of zombiethrallification.
Already the thralls were clambering up the Mountain, and the worst of the lot were nigh grovelling at the muddy booted feet of Thorin, so swift their climb and so overbrimmed with appreciation their eyes. By night-fall, most of the thralls had reached the Dwarven camp. Those that were too far to even see him turned their attention to the other Dwarves, much to the chagrin of those so accosted, wishing rightly the thrallsome troubles of their King was not visited on them so. For the thralls were slobbering messes, and caked with mud and debris, depreciating their appeal unto the bottom of Moria's deepest pits.
The King under the Mountain himself was exhausted from the effort of keeping his thralls enthralled, desperately trying to use the last of the failing light and the dying breeze.
Watching astride his beloved war-elk, as the starlight turned his golden hair pale and a rising breeze caressed his flowing locks, the amused Elvenking tipped his head in grudging acknowledgement of Thorin's effort. Yet this comedy of tragedy was not meant to and could not last.
The magnificent King of Elves saw through the conceit and glaring flaws in Thorin's thrall-control plan immediately. Daylight, for by moonlight dwarven skin was painted a pallid pall most unflattering, the Dwarf need to avail unto himself to light his coarse profile and bring attention away from his inadequate beard came and went with the sun's ride across the sky; light that was also fast fading along with the colours of Autumn. Already the thralls seemed distracted in the dark of oncoming night. The wind that lift and playfully twirl unruly curly strands in a manner across and around Dwarven facial features both teasing and pleasing to the enthralled would not be so kind nor so gentle for long, for its breezy voice was growing rough as it tested its vocal capacity for howling shrieks as the northern chill swept down upon the lands.
Sleeting rain began to lash the mountain, as the thralls wandered away from the Dwarves, and huddled under the meagre shelter of Thror's statues, moaning and grasping at anything that moved. Only the most enthralled yet pestered Thorin; if he hoped for rest or succour this night, he was hoping hopelessly.
Therein lied the greater flaw in Dwarven thrall control. In Erebor may lie treasures to feed the world thrice thrice thrice over, but while the thralls may satiate their thrall-hunger as long as the vagaries of nature aided the theatrics of Dwarven thrall control, there was nothing the Dwarves possess that could sustain the thralls' bodies for long. As a bow overstrung with too short a string, their bodies would break ere long. When the light failed and the winds truly shrieked, Thorin's thrall control would fail as well, for not even with the mightiest of combs could he hope to order his unruly mop for long against the waking gales nor keep his grubby face lit correctly constantly without the increasingly reclusive sun.
And in his belligerence, Thorin has surely misread his own nephew's look as one of obedient concentration. The dark-haired one may hide his adolescent mooning with what passed for dwarven focus, yet an expression even the stones could read if they chose: "I hope she-who-is-far-away doesn't see this, or by Aule, I'll need to stab myself with that Morgul shard just to be able to see her again!"
Troubling trouble clear to the icy-grey keenness of his beautiful eyes, yet hidden from the troubled and troublesome Dwarf king who fueled his energy upon misguided racial pride and anger, poisoned by his avarice. Thranduil, ever-wise, was aware Thorin would not listen even were his advice proffered purely for the good of the thralls' upkeep. For truly, Thorin was just like his grandfather. Stubborn and deaf to advice, even if he were to be buried in snow and required help.
Yet it mattered not to the Elvenking the re-enthrallment of the Dwarven thralls, for they were merely an unlooked for tactical advantage he had improvised upon while clearing the way for his beloved war-elk. The King, wise in his vast experience reaching back ages, merely readjusted his plans. If passage could not be clear for his mighty war-elk, Thranduil trust his well-trained elk to must make his way through the droolsome landscape safely.
The stage was now set; come what may, he would advance upon the Mountain with the Lake-men, having wielded the reinvigorated goodwill from his aid and exacted favourable trade terms for the next two centuries. Not against the combined hosts could thirteen Dwarves hope to hold the Mountain long, once the thralls wasted away from lack of brainfood.
"Dwarves!" He uttered in a low deep velvet purr, as he poured himself another glass of Dorwinion and listened to the storm raging on the Mountain.
The faerie fire may be doused in the enthralled, yet dying embers were not dead until they truly died. For the now, the Dwarf was King over his thralls and Erebor, to which he could not even close the overlarge front doors blasted and splintered by Smaug's rude exit.
Things would yet change again. The Elvenking pondered on what would take place on the morrow. It the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a dark and stormy night indeed.