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Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor
Jul 16 2014, 3:01pm
Post #1 of 11
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Please replace the entire contents of this post on the Fan art forum with the contents after this sentence, thanks!
[What has transpired so far: Prologue. Part Two.]
(Writer's note: Edits has been done, please scroll to the end for a summary checklist of changes.)
In utter contrast to the impending weather-induced misery and starvation of Thralls and Dwarves alike, far below the broken front doors (still looking overlarge and unwieldy) of deserted Erebor, upon the eastern bank of the River Running, the Elven host was already encamped: comfortable, warm, dry, and most important of all, satiated.
Of course, the Elven encamped made merry: strains of elven-harp and elf-song warmed the night chill, borne on winds scented with the warm welcoming fragrance of woodland spring blossoms, warm welcome to the Lake-men still straggling in to receive succour in the Elven tents, chieftest of which was an austere tent of golden shimmer.
Within that tent, Thranduil the Greatest Elvenking of the Forest Realm sat at a work desk, the candlelit shadows caressing the carven planes of his face flawless fair as he perused the despatches from the Halls, with a fine vintage decanting in a crystal decanter; alas not Dorwinion fine this round for tis not the time for indulgence upon an expedition, not when the Dwarves proved themselves longer-lived than the Dragon, drawing out what had been the perfect plan of a simple treasure haul, and necessitating rationing on the Dorwinion stock if it was to last this expedition.
Truly, strange was the Dwarven stiff-necked hoarder pride: Thorin's insistence to gather once again unto himself the zombie thralls, whom he cannot hope to succour properly, and whom he had put aside in his need for the Arkenstone showed how abjectly devoid of feck he was. It cannot be true affection for those hollow shells of feminine (mostly) semblance in parody of some strange Man-race, given the utter lack of Dwarven feminine guiles (whatever those may be, apart from being bearded like Dwarf-men) of these females (mostly). And yet though the King was aware though he had more knowledge of Dwarves than most in these parts, who could say what passed for the Dwarven sense of aesthetics or logic in truth?
At this time, the rain had rained itself out, and more's the pity. The whole lot of Dwarves and thralls could use a thorough wash from what the delicate senses of the King of Elves had perceived. The winds at least had favoured his chosen campsite, and carried the ponderously odourous mix of mud, unwashed lusty Dwarf and Thrall scents in the other direction. For a brief moment, the Elvenking felt empathy with any caught downwind of that odious assault.
The wine's bouquet, thankfully, lessened the unpleasant memories of his encounter in the fields earlier that day. Yet he rued again the Dwarves' fortune for its impact on his nightcap routine as the wine that passed through his lips.
How Thranduil looked forward to the extra shipment from the first vintage to be delivered in the new year that Bard, a leader rare among Men and a worthy ally for he was among the ones with fortitude who did not lose a part of themselves merely upon sighting the Elvenking's fair visage, pledged in gracious trove of the new alliance between the Woodland Realm and Dale and Lake-town. A refreshing change from the grovelling Masters of recent past. Thranduil smiled at the thought, and the candle flame leapt the higher, sinuous and fey.
His pleasure was disrupted by noisome shrieks carried upon the winds to his perfectly-shaped ears gifted with perfect hearing. Some Dwarven theatrics stirring some thralls still stirring with some vestige of life or hunger (which it was none but the thralls themselves can say for sure) outside those tastelessly overlarge gates of Erebor (which makes no strategic sense) no doubt.
"My King," said a melodious Elf voice from without the tent, "Your presence is requested." A frown passed over Thranduil's fair face. Mildly blood-curdling the screams may be, yet the noise alone would not worry any in his well-trained army.
Moonlight broke through sullen clouds to greet the tall Elvenking as he stepped forth in lissom grace from his tent, but for a moment for even the Moon was quickly overcome by his beauty.
There he stood in darkness, halo'd by the faintest of starlight, a glow accenting an utterly hauntingly beautiful flawless face, a face that has driven both men and women mad just to look upon, as a shimmer like morning dew before the break of dawn glistened in his eyes more beautiful than the finest of pure white-gems ever mined, tinged with icy-blue that hold the memories and sorrows of the ages, yet flush with living moonlight flame, framed by a lustrous waterfall of silken hair the color of palest fine sand encircling an oasis of pure waters, like unto the Cuiviénen itself.
It was well the tent was positioned to face the Mountain and away from Bard's army for the Men needed their full faculties to be of use in the coming conflict, the sentry thought, he who had called his majestic King forth. As Thranduil turned his fair face toward him in question, he bowed with the greatest reverence and gestured wordlessly towards the Mountain.
Ahead Legolas, who had entered the camp mere hours ago, stood alone encloaked, gazing at the Mountain. With disdain and not a little phobia at the mushy ground reminiscent of watery swamps far in the south, and far back in his memories, thankfully he faced not the South, the great King of Elves took off his voluminous over-robe and handed it to the sentry. Then with effortless grace, he strode over the soft water-logged earth that would have squelched most embarrassingly at every step if Men attempted the same, leaving barely any imprint upon the muddy mushy, reaching his son's side as a gentle breeze danced about his raiment, flaring it in comely compliment to his tall broad-shouldered physique, sighing at the rhythmic poetry of his stride, long and purposeful.
Legolas stood entranced, and yet Thranduil ever-wise and ever-aware, had no need to ask what held his attention, for the quick-witted King noted already the fascinating display of starlight-like flashes blooming upon the Dwarven gates Erebor, intensifying in time with the intensity of the noisome shrieking.
Much like starlight they were, and yet not of stars or starlike gems. Thranduil felt a flare within himself much like the flashes. A mockery or something of that ilk by that feckless Dwarf surely! Feckfully, the magnificent King turned to his son, towering over this child of his loins, pleased to note the undignified nosebleed Legolas suffered in valiant pursuit of the accursed orcs.
Legolas' eyes did not leave the Mountain. "A shadow, yet not a threat, has been growing in my mind, Father," said he shuddering with an unknown chill, "The stars are veiled." Thranduil said nothing as he noted the twinkling stars wheeling overhead, the same ones that halo'd his beautiful self so becomingly.
"Something stirs in the ... " Legolas floundered, trying to get his bearings but he soon gave up. "Well, anyway, something doth draws near," he intoned, "I can feel it. Those lights, I have seen them before in dark dreams I have had of late. Dreams where I am surrounded by grasping hands, the accursed lights going off in my face with strange clicking noises, blinding me so I cannot move as shriekers like those upon the Mountain drool upon my raiment (which they doth try to rip off), forcing hugs on me. It never stops, a sleepless malice I cannot escape." He stopped himself before he could mention the strange fuming Dwarf who always seemed to be glowering outside the encircling thralls in his dreams. An omen he could scarce fathom.
A chill ran chillingly down the straight supple spine of Thranduil the Elvenking as he turned, his heart chilling as he stood alarmed at the distress in Legolas, who smiled at his magnificent father despite the chill in his own innards, and instead said in gratitude through his chilling breath, "Save when you appear, Father and draw away as if by magic the thralls, screaming strange things about fidelity and fevers, crying that I was hot beyond belief, but that you were hotter still and they were sorry." He paused and pondered, "Truly, for what I could not guess. No allegiance did I ever discern with these... thralls, certainly I felt no hotness, but a leaden coldness in the pit of my stomach, weighing me down like cold lead. This only I was ever sure of in these dreams: I am always glad when you save me thus. Which you always do when I thought I can bear no more." Thranduil frowned and the stars seemed to faint. In a small voice Legolas said: "Forgive me, Father! I know it is wrong of me to be glad to have you draw upon yourself they who trouble my dreams but it eases my troubled dreams so. I always hope the hotter fever that they claimed troubled you did not trouble you as much as they did."
The wise King Thranduil shook his head. "I know what it is it you see, my son," whispered the King, as the stars themselves seem to draw closer to hear the stirring music of his voice, "for it is in my mind also." The wise King chose, wisely, not to reveal the likeness of his son's nightmares to his own. Nor had he the heart to tell Legolas his own wise suspicions what the thralls' fascination with fevers meant, nor his seeming ability to draw them away. Some things were wisely left unsaid. "Such is the nature of thralldom," the incomparable Elvenking said wisely instead, "Out there in the vast psychosis of the world, it festers and spreads, a shadow that grows in the drool. A sleepless malice as rabid as the oncoming wall of night. So it ever was, so will it always be. In time, all thrall things come forth."
Yet another burst of those strange unstarlight starlights bloomed with more shrieking. The King felt suddenly chiller than cold. In the wisdom of his quickly chilling heart, he also made a mental note to remind Galion to triple-check the entrances and exits when he returned to the Halls anon. The stray thralls that appeared at will, and increasing numbers, within the walls of his own fortress troubled the very integrity of the Elvenking's repose. And no one would again enter his kingdom or leave it but he hears of it, hopefully before one gets too far within the walls, or worse enlightened Legolas as to the unknown heat enamating from Legolas and himself the thralls seemed so drawn to.
The sentry, who had stood at rapt attention at his King's commanding presence, also shuddered, for while out on patrol he himself had encountered a stray thrall who accosted him most unbecomingly, all the while raving about beggars and choosers.
Suddenly he remembered why he had requested his mighty King's presence outside his golden tent.
"My Lord, Legolas. The Elk was seen moving toward the Mountain, grazing," said he with concern. "And look, the Dwarves seemed to be gathering upon some ledge with a clear view of him!"
Thranduil's lips curved in a faint smile, brightening the sentry's night for rare it was to be bestowed with such a wonderous sight. To the King's beautiful elf-eyes of grey the antics of Thorin was clear as he stood upon the lip of a cliff before Erebor, other Dwarves crowding him and numerous thralls taking precarious positions and causing more of those unstarlight starlight flashes. "Do you believe my mighty war-elk so easy a prey for an aging Dwarf's failing sight?" said the King of Elves, the breeze weaving a chorus line to his words. "Nay, not for these Dwarves who managed to kill the one black squirrel in Mirkwood between them, who spending all their quivers, failed to even put a mark upon a white hind within the Wood. Look, already the Dwarf gives up the foolish notion."
Very confident though he was in the Dwarves' capability to miss, still the King of Elves could not help but feel a flitting worry for the safety of his beloved Elk. It would not be a pleasant walk in the squishy earth, yet Thranduil desired to be with his Elk. Too he perceived Legolas' need for some distraction from his funk. "Come, Legolas, let us go find my mighty war-elk, and perchance have a closer look at that unstarlight starlight glimmering."
So saying, the tall Elvenking strode forth with confident grace. For a moment Legolas hesitated for going toward the source of the flashy lights of his dreams was not what he wanted for himself at the moment. Yet he would not defy his King and father, even in so simple a thing.
So it was that natural Elven athletic prowess saw the Elvenking and his son meeting the war-elk as he had just melted into darkness, from Thorin's view, without even straining a muscle in their lithe lean bodies. The elk bugled a greeting to his master surpassing fair, who with one smooth motion that would have saturated Thorin's envious heart with envy-overflow stretched forth his fair long-fingered hand, and powered by a well-defined, long-limbed arm, reached across the sternum to grasp the nape of the mighty beast and in so doing, leapt lightly across the front of the Elk and thence onto the back of the beast on the other side. Legolas his son, stood marvelling at the effortless grace so nonchalantly displayed, made a mental note for a move so stylish must have occasion to be exhibited again for the world's admiration.
So majestic the Elvenking was astride his beloved Elf, his son bowed his respect. Then wordlessly, Legolas stepped forth as they swept the Mountain with their perfect elven sight. But all was quiet upon the edge. Legolas, not without a little relief, looked to Thranduil who gave an elegant nod. Cutting a milieu of perfect grace, Mirkwood's most beautiful elven father and son pair turned and returned to camp, with none but the bashful moon and the wind, save for two pairs of squinting Dwarven eyes high up on Erebor's escarpment, no doubt on guard duty, a pair of which belonged to Gloin who had sudden pangs of paternalistic pangs, and the other to the glowering Dwalin, bearing witness to their elegant retreat.
Upon the Mountain, as the rain rained itself out at the last, the Thralls convulsed in collective shivers. With no native frog or indeed toad cacophony to replace the mighty winds that had left in disgust after going the Mountain a few rounds too many, the growls of their empty stomachs kept all awake through the timid breezes left whispering softly in the dark, even the Dwarves, who could sleep like the dead while composing their nightly Crescendo in Snores.
Life-skills aplenty the Dwarven thralldom collective may boast, to the misplaced pride of the throneless King Under the Mountain, yet what use are skills of life or indeed death when there was no object to bear the brunt of those skills? When Thorin lowered his bow and the great war-elk of Thranduil melted into the night, an undercurrent of dismay had quavered through the stale air (they did not dare raise their voices in protests while Thorin held both arrow and bow). Right then, some of the more learned Thralls have exchanged looks and come to an accord on an important conclusion: When the zombie pangs struck, mushrooms, even though brain-shaped ones, were a poor substitute for REAL brains... and even King-Under-The-Mountain-Thorin's-His-Name hugs. Grousing under their halitosis, some thralls, some of the more learned ones among them, were feeling truly peckishly disgruntled, especially when Thorin set off rummaging for his Hobbit while they hungered, in more than ways than one.
Said Hobbit of course was fingering his Ring which he was wearing on his favourite finger, sitting quite apart from Thralls and Dwarves. Poor Bilbo's head was aching from the confusion in his feels. Thorin blew hot and cold, bear-hugging him in choke-holds (with no consideration for the mess the transference of his Thrall slobber made upon Bilbo's coat) and blaming the world's hurts on him in turn. The Hobbit could scarce make sense of the temperamental Dwarf's cocktail of gruff affection and moody raves. And that messy head of tangled hair and tangled beard (and where hair end and beard begin how can anyone at all tell?) drove him a little mad with its dire need of combing, of which there was copiously copious dearth, whether Dwarven or Thrallen.
Thralls! Truth be told, the sudden appearance of the Thralls did not help his situation of course. Most of them couldn't even be arsed to give him time of day, but there were a few who were almost Thorin-like in their need to hug him. The rest... the rest looked at him as if something, in the vicinity of his head, was good for eating, lip-smackingly, finger-lickingly. Speaking of which, he was feeling the rumblies in his tummy too. He'd much rather be at home, curled up with a good book and a fresh-baked seedcake or three than fending off Thralls and Thorin. All in all, the adventure was turning out to be a let-down, except for the time he spent wandering the Elvenking's Halls. Oh what delights he found in the pantries of the Elves. And he giggled at the memory of that time he found himself in what could only be the fabulous dressing room of the ElvenKing, he with the captivatingly beautiful face even among the unspeakably beautiful (albeit marred by their untrusting and absolutely suspicious nature... a little) Elves, an unwitting witness to the King's coldly efficient self-defence against an Elven-thrall who had surprised him by posing as one of his beloved tall orchid vases.
His tummy rumbled again, and Bilbo resolved to file an official complaint against Gandalf for gross misrepresentation at the Good Business Bureau once he got back to the Shire. Really, Hobbits ought to be safe from the adventures the wizard peddled.
He was mentally composing his letter of complaint when he heard conversation, low and coarse. He crept closer for a listen and of course he didn't understand a word of it, but if he could, this is what he would have heard:
"What is it, Gloin?" Dwalin boomed. "Since the Elves pranced off, you have been in a mood."
"I... I don't know," Gloin grated.
Dwalin coughed. The best way to get a proper Dwarven conversation going was to share a true piece of thought. "Well," he looked around and lowered his low voice even lower, "don't tell Thorin now, but I have to admit, even without his pointy little crown, Thranduil commanded kingly attention like a king. And the way he got onto the Elk's back looked so stylish (what I can see through my presbyopia)."
Gloin looked sharply at Dwalin, who had the grace to look away. Gloin nodded carefully. "And that beautiful pale gold of his long straight hair like a serene waterfall... imagine what beauty could be wrought with but a strand, jsut one strand..." Only Dwalin's increasing concerned look woke Gloin from his reverie. He himself had the grace to look away. Coughing he said, "truly, it's that elven spawn of Thranduil's (who also has a nice head of golden hair now that I think about it). I just feel a bad omen about him."
Quickly latching onto the only thing he understood in Gloin's words, Dwalin snorted. "Which wafting Elf isn't? Though he's good with that bow of his, too much poncing flourishing, but he did save us," he grudged.
Gloin shrugged, "Well, yeah." In his head, he quickly did a balance of the accounts, "Almost, not quite mind, but almost enough to write off all the insults he gave us..." Pensively he turned the thoughts in his head, "Well, all he needed is a small discount and we'd be square... By Mahal's stubbed toes, what am I thinking! Why am I giving an Elf concessions?"
Dwalin coughed, and Gloin quickly closed his inner account book before he started drawing hearts on the Elf page. Still, what he really wanted right then was to hug Gimli tight and teach him all about the treachery of Elves. He sighed, "I don't know, cousin. Seeing the pair of them, I wish I was home you know? Gimli should have learned to belch respectably by now. At this rate, I might not even see him until he's no longer quite so wee. What about his vocational training? Who's going to take him on without me there to butt heads in on his behalf?"
"Oh is that it?" Dwalin asked gruffly, his low voice making his words even more gruff. "Cousin, I give you mine word here and now." He stood and thumped his deep broad chest that while truly an impressive specimen of Dwarven masculinity, made him look much shorter than he was, accounted tall for a Dwarf though he was. "Gimli shall be my apprentice in belligerence and antagonism. I'll even give him a pre-apprenticeship primer on how to menace Elves," Dwalin promised.
"Promise?" Gloin asked.
"Promise, " Dwalin promised.
They spat on it and butted heads and chests, and that was that.
Bilbo, unnoticed did not realise he had privy to a sacred ritual, undocumented by any not of Dwarven blood, among Dwarves. Of course he didn't know it would have to repeated once the cousins got back to civilisation, with proper beer mugs to be clashed and the contents downed and belched properly to officially seal it. Actually, dispensation under the circumstance would have allowed for belches of things other than beer, but so short on commons was the Company that there was simply no belching to be had. The Hobbit merely shrugged and went back to his mental letter writing.
But of course he was disrupted yet again. Secretively, a few thralls secreted their way past him, and the strange thing was, they seemed gruntled. Bilbo's interest was piqued if only to see how a pocket of gruntlement could sustain itself in the utterly disgruntled thralldom of Thorin, in this place with its utter poverty of food, which brooked no gruntlement.
Bilbo found a stone outcrop where he could look down upon what the gruntled grubby group was so grubbily gruntled about.
"Oh my!," was his first thought as he looked down.
The gruntled thralls were reverentially turning the pages of the obviously precious magazine as one of them, a member of the more learned ilk by the looks of her bazooka-like telescope, adjusted the monster seeing eye and trained it somewhere to the south. Bilbo, provincial as both a Hobbit and a genteel of that ilk, had enough thrall experience by now to not be surprised by thralling antics, and had a fair idea what the eye was locked on.
"Just look at them!" the vacant-eyed thrall holding the magazine squealed softly. "If I hadn't seen them with my eyes, I swear no one can convince me they aren't photoshopped. You know," she rolled her jaundiced eyes, "like the manframe upgrades the Dwarves got!" The one next to her, obviously a bit further gone than the rest made small noises that no one seemed to understand. In frustration she whipped out her phone and typed: "But this is a fanzine, isn't it? The Elvenking of Mirkwood, he who walk in starlight with starlight in his hair, doesn't grant interviews. He doesn't even keep thralls." A tear dropped and magnified the last as the vacant-eyed thrall read her phone aloud to the others. (Unremarked by the others was the mumbly thrall's devastation at her own seeming assertion, which was no more empty lament for she was further gone because she had been wandering the Wilds for longer, and was one of the thralls who had wandered into the Halls and been disarmed and expelled even before she could profess her thralldom to Thranduil.)
"Well, exactly. Why do you think I bought the 'zine?" the telescope owner asked. "Tis vicarious thralling, even if it's all made up. I need an outlet for my thralldom dammit, and be careful there. I'll rip your tongues out if you lick the pages. No drooling either! Gah!" She snatched back the 'zine before it was tainted further. "And why do you think I'm in with you lot and not lounging in that golden tent there? Because it's the only way to even catch a glimpse of him without suffering head and shoulder detachment. I may be zombiefied, but I still like my head attached to my shoulders, thank you." She stood mesmerised, drinking in the glorious Elven beauty on the 'zine cover. "Just look. Fanart putting even the most dishy of bishies to shame," she whispered, "But still, it ain't nothing compared to the real deal." She sighed lustily, the effect of which was spoiled rather by the strange whinging growl from her stomach. "Ahem... so I know why Mumbles here's here. But why're you all here? You're REAL Dwarven thralls, yonder stomps thy ill-tempered liege, messily hirsute and as unwashed as us all."
The vacant-eyed one looked furtive. "Well, it's night time and there's no wind." One of the telescope owner's eyebrows arched, the effect evident even through the flaking eyebrow pencil remnants. "Oh, don't get me wrong. Thorin and Kili, or was it Fili, and Fili, or was it Kili, they all got that perfect-lighting-in-the-face-wind-appropriately-lifting-each-facial-and-head-follicle gig down, right, thralls? But personally, there's only so much chest-thumping Dwarven magnificence, and you got to admit they are magnificent, right?" She stared at the telescope owner until she grunted with grudging gruntlement. "See? Thank you!"
"Yeah, yeah. You're going OT here, Dwarf-lover. Why you here perusing MY Elf 'zine?"
"Oh!" The vacant-eyed thrall squinted involuntarily. "Where was I?" She muttered. "Oh, right! Weeeell, as I was saying, there's only so much chest-thumping Dwarven magnificence I can take before I need a break you know?" There were murmurs of assent. "Besides, Thorin just keeps going back to his Hobbit." Louder murmurs of assent, finally with hints of disgruntlement.
Bilbo thought he heard enough and quietly retreated, only to turn and see Bofur staring vacantly. He looked like he needed comforting. Bilbo sighed and reluctantly removed his ring. Sauntering over, he greeted Bofur as carelessly as he could.
"Hello Bofur!"
"Bilbo! Where have you been? Thorin's been looking for you!"
"Yeah," Bilbo made a face, "I mean yeah? Before I go to him, tell me are you all right?"
"Ye-- No. I'm not," Bofur said dejectedly.
"All right. Care to tell me?"
Bofur stared at him, words ready to spill but not yet spilling. Bilbo waited, trying to encourage him with only a smile, which was so inadequate and could not never have worked on a Hobbit since there was no seedcake, or anything to eat really lying around.
Bofur scratched his beard, and fingered his weed pouch. Bilbo threw up his hands and sat down next to him. Finally Bofur spoke: "Well, you know those flashing little things the Thralls all seem to have?"
"Yes. Amazing, aren't they. I can't understand what they're about 'zapping', 'posting', 'logging'. Quite... fascinating."
"You don't know the half of it."
Bilbo made a non-commital sound and sort of nodded, sort of. Bofur looked around, "Promise not to tell anyone else?"
"Shire honour," assured Bilbo.
"Well," Bofur sniffed, "I guess that'll have to do for a non-Dwarf." Clearing his throat, Bofur ignored the indignant frown forming on Bilbo's brow and motioned him nearer. In a conspiratorial tone, the Dwarf waggled through his beard: "One of them came up to me and went on and went about something called fannard excitedly. Kept saying that's why she was my thrall cos the fannard was so good. And I, er, I thought it was some innard you know, good for eatin' and such. So I said sure, show me."
"And?" Bilbo encouraged, fascinated by the thought of food. But Bofur's face turned a putrid green, and Bilbo prudently backed himself out of range. "I... I never imagined such evil could exist!"
Instinctively Bilbo reached into his pocket. "What?" he asked, his voice trembling despite himself.
Managing to keep his feelings down, Bofur tasted the bile and made a face. He sighed. The Hobbit was an innocent after all. "Never mind. You go to Thorin now, before he starts stomping through the treasure and messing up our count again."
Away in the south beyond the feet of the Mountain, something strange was happening too in the camp of Elves and Men.
In his austere tent of gold, Thranduil was ready to settle down with the last of the decanted non-Dorwinion. Alas, repose was not yet to be for the unfairly fair King of Elves.
The sentry called again his beautiful King to emerge from his tent. The tall Elf-lord stepped forth in arresting grace, arresting the breath of the strange Elf by Bard's side, and to a lesser extend Bard himself as he squelched through the still mushy ground for the King was truly surpassingly fair, as the pair approached the golden tent together.
"King Thranduil," Bard hailed. Ever he looked grim, Thranduil noted. Together they stood facing the newcomer. "This Elf claims he has a message and can only speak in your presence."
The strange Elf cleared his throat, and he seemed star-struck, though no stars were visible. Stiffly he bowed, careful not to gawk at Thranduil, as a queer feeling rushed like hot blood through his veins. He shook his head to clear it, and then and drew himself up. "Greetings," he said softly and a bit uncertainly. When Thranduil nodded in response, he seemed to draw strength from the Elvenking's approval. "I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell." Thranduil frowned for this was clearly a Wood-Elf of Lothlorien. The strange Elf hurried with his preamble, "An... an alliance once existed between Elves and men. Long ago we fought and died together..."
Sternly Thranduil held up a hand, confusing the strange Elf (who marvelled at the comely fingers on the fair hand of the Elvenking). "Surely you jest. Wood-Elf of Lothlorien. The Alliance was no fickle matter for you to be bandied about like a cheap badge of some small adventure." The strange Elf felt a lance through his heart at the grimness of the the Elvenking, though he noted through the pain constricting his heart even frowns could not mar the fair countenance of the King. "Nor were you present for none would I forget! Why are you here, truly? And for what purpose? Speak quickly!"
The stunned Lothlorien Elf blinked. Finally with a moment to think through the strange feelings that had drowned his own thoughts, while his heart wrenched into itself as he tried to make sense of it all, he was feeling dismay: this was not how it was suppose to transpire. The Elvenking was to welcome him and invite him into the royal tent. "My lord, I... I am a guard of the Golden Wood, Haldir is my name," he stammered, wondering why he felt hurt, a feeling much as he felt when he was spurned by his beloved when they disagreed. His love who surely was worried at his sudden desertion of his own flet.
While he tried to make sense of his feelings and thoughts, Thranduil sighed, and turning to the sentry said, "Send for Galion. Master Haldir here needs provisioning for his journey home." Turning back to Haldir, the wise King asked, "You are not yourself, guard of the Golden Wood. Tell me how came you to be here, so far north of your home?"
The question seemed to clear (a little) the veil over his mind and heart. Suddenly feeling like the Rauros had been emptied upon his head at once, Haldir groaned. "I do not know, my lord. I was on border patrol with my brother. One moment I was singing campfire songs with Rumil and the next, I... I was swooshed to the entrance of the encampment, and there were these words I felt compelled to say and I do not know how, yet I knew it was my destiny, strange as it may sound (even to my own ears), to speak with you and... and... " his face turned green at the words he did not utter.
Just in time, Galion appeared and quickly helped him away, and out of the sight of Thranduil, who was feeling a little relief at not having the rest of Haldir's words uttered, especially with Bard present.
Turning to the Man, who had been watching the exchange with his usual grim-faced seriousness, Thranduil gestured to his tent, "Perhaps we should talk since it seems there will be no rest for me this night."
Once inside, Bard made himself comfortable, while marvelling at how the tall Elf, robed magnificently tastefully (after met the Elvenking, he suspected strongly the Master's questionable taste in increasingly lengthened robes was patterned after the wardrobe of this ruler of Elves, in all his gracious glory, hoping hopelessly to be bestowed some of the Elven grace King Thranduil exudes with such effortless grace), still seemed none the worse for wear despite the events of the day.
Extending a glass to Bard, who accepted it with great appreciation in his eyes, Thranduil seated himself.
Toasting the Elf, he took a quick sip from the glass as the Elf sat, nay, arrayed himself in the chair facing him. Straight to the chase he cut as Thranduil too took an elegant sip. "It seemed to me you have met these strange Elves before, King Thranduil." Bard said shrewdly.
Thranduil looked long at the Man and sighed. "No. Indeed there have been Elves from other places, males, females, even... other races, who appear suddenly where I am, professing some great yet absurd need to stay and aid me when it is clear I have no use for them. I will not say it is evil for some things are not yet clear to me. But some strange magic is at work, driving those afflicted to run, walk, or however they manage it, as if the very whips of their masters were behind them, compelling them to seek me out, expecting... strange things of me. Things that could never be."
Bard noted with interest the very slightly green cast upon the Elvenking's fair face, while complementing his flawless complexion, resembled the hue that had come upon Haldir's face at the end. He shuddered in spite of himself at what could cause the pale fairness of the cold Elvenking composure to change. "So, should other strangers claim urgent need to have your audience again, I should despatch them directly to Galion?" asked Bard.
"If you will," Thranduil smiled appreciatively.
"Consider it done," said Bard with a smile in return. And draining his glass, he took his leave.
Once again alone with his thoughts, Thranduil pondered upon the dying night. Bard had left the flap of his tent open, and in the distance the Mountain frowned darkly.
Suddenly the sky lit up with fireworks over the peak of the Mountain.
Bemused, and yet unsurprised at this new development, Thranduil smiled in spite of his darkening mood at the empty decanter. Whatever was happening at Erebor's gates, it was no longer a dark and stormy night, merely a dark night, though a long one.
(Happy 4th of July all you statesiders)
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Writer's note: Edits done are
- Minor edits to paragraphs, and sentence corrections.
- Expansion on Bilbo's encounters with his camp-mates.
- Expansion on Haldir's cameo in the camp of the combined host.
Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.
 Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)
 Thrall Wars!: What business do Elves, Dwarves or Men(?) have with drooling thralls, yea, with smartphones in tow, unto the slopes of Erebor? ... oh, yes, the Hobbit's lingering in some shadows, ever ready to swoop to the hairy rescue. Take cover if you dare!
Teh partsies: Prologue (aka the 'tater-mash of whatever came before), Two, Three, Four new
"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
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 Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk
(This post was edited by Lurker in the Mirk on Jul 16 2014, 3:03pm)
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dernwyn
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Jul 16 2014, 3:33pm
Post #2 of 11
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As any worthy thrall of Thranduil should! 
Hm, this may take a few minutes to do, but shouldn't be a problem.
Are you sure you wouldn't like me to replace some of those pics? I've recently come across some nice ones of Gollum... 
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"I desired dragons with a profound desire"
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Magpie
Immortal
Jul 16 2014, 3:54pm
Post #3 of 11
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that many of those pictures are oversized.
It's possible they are all under 45 KB (the largest one is). But there is a pixel dimension limit as well. It's easier for me to reference the limit in my tutorial than to dig it out from the TOS so, unless the TOS have changed the restrictions are:
Should be no larger than
670 pixels wide
210,000 pixels squared (width x height). For example, An image 670 pixels wide can be no higher than 313 pixels tall.
45 KB for each image and 225 KB total for all images within one post
The one I checked was 960 x 538 which is a total of 516,480 pixels squared. By eyeballing it, I suspect a few others would be either wider than 670 or have a squared pixel total larger than 210,000.
This is me just overly familiar with the restrictions due to preparing the tutorial. :-)
and my apologies if the TOS have changed since I did my tutorial.
LOTR soundtrack website ~ magpie avatar gallery
TORn History Mathom-house ~ Torn Image Posting Guide
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dernwyn
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Jul 16 2014, 4:16pm
Post #4 of 11
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I'm terrible at trying to eyeball picture size.
I'm at work now, but later I should be able to go back and re-edit to "shrink" some of the sizes.
Thanks, Magpie!
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"I desired dragons with a profound desire"
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dernwyn
Forum Admin
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Jul 17 2014, 2:46am
Post #6 of 11
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Could you resize two of the pics?
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Can't Post
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I tried doing some re-coding, but was unable to re-size the Thranduil and Legolas pic, and the Thranduil pic just below that, to fit the picture-posting guidelines (width no greater than 670, and width x height < 210,000).
Would you be able to re-size those, then send me the links, and I can replace them in the text?
Thanks! 
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"I desired dragons with a profound desire"
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Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor
Jul 17 2014, 2:55am
Post #7 of 11
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Sure! Here they are. Hope the embedding works
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Thanks, denwyn! Here you go!
And re your generous offer to replace gorgeous Thranduil with Gollum ---- eh, aside from the pure "heresy!" of it, I so don't need to give more exposure to the smug schizie inner musie so let's keep the true writer facades under wraps shall we *ahem*
PS: btw, I guess as a guideline-abiding TORn poster, I should alert you to the TA thread being over 200 posts now 
Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.
Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)
Thrall Wars!: What business do Elves, Dwarves or Men(?) have with drooling thralls, yea, with smartphones in tow, unto the slopes of Erebor? ... oh, yes, the Hobbit's lingering in some shadows, ever ready to swoop to the hairy rescue. Take cover if you dare!
Teh partsies: Prologue (aka the 'tater-mash of whatever came before), Two, Three, Four new
"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk
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Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor
Jul 17 2014, 2:57am
Post #8 of 11
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Thanks for catching that, Magpie
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I'm not so great with the eye-balling part, and I confess, I had thought as long as the file size was ok, the image size wasn't a problem. I know better now.
Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.
Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)
Thrall Wars!: What business do Elves, Dwarves or Men(?) have with drooling thralls, yea, with smartphones in tow, unto the slopes of Erebor? ... oh, yes, the Hobbit's lingering in some shadows, ever ready to swoop to the hairy rescue. Take cover if you dare!
Teh partsies: Prologue (aka the 'tater-mash of whatever came before), Two, Three, Four new
"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk
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dernwyn
Forum Admin
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Jul 17 2014, 3:31am
Post #9 of 11
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Hmm, TA VII is over 200? Yep, I'd better go take care of that!
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"I desired dragons with a profound desire"
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Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor
Jul 17 2014, 4:10am
Post #10 of 11
(187 views)
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And to avoid clutter, this thread can be deleted as well.
Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.
Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)
Thrall Wars!: What business do Elves, Dwarves or Men(?) have with drooling thralls, yea, with smartphones in tow, unto the slopes of Erebor? ... oh, yes, the Hobbit's lingering in some shadows, ever ready to swoop to the hairy rescue. Take cover if you dare!
Teh partsies: Prologue (aka the 'tater-mash of whatever came before), Two, Three, Four new
"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk
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dernwyn
Forum Admin
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Jul 17 2014, 10:15am
Post #11 of 11
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No, this thread is okay, where it is.
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After all, that's what the Feedback board is for!
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"I desired dragons with a profound desire"
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