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"Thrall Wars" part four - in which the Lord of Ravenhill has an entertaining evening

Avandel
Valinor

Jul 16 2014, 6:02am

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"Thrall Wars" part four - in which the Lord of Ravenhill has an entertaining evening Can't Post

High on an icy jagged outcrop of Erebor, from the hollows formed by sharply edged crags, two pools of shadow seemed to come alive, silently flowing back towards the mountain face. They moved downward to merge with the deeper darkness of a small doorway that led to one of the mountain stronghold’s many plunging carved staircases, barely lit from below with the dimmest of glows. One of the shadows stopped and pulled aside the dark cloth that had covered its face, which was stained with dull dark-blue and black angular runes. Eyes gleamed from within a dusky hood as its chill breath was snatched by the swirling winds. The figure grinned, and in the faint light it could be seen that even its teeth and lips had been inked with oily soot.

“I can’t believe it!” hissed the figure’s companion shadow, pushing back its own hood to reveal a human female with a greasy mane of hair closely bound with dark string and leather, her face also marked with secretive Khuzdul runes. Words tumbled from her in a rapid-fire whisper as her eyes sheened with tears of utter rage. “How could you have known? How can these sisters (mostly) whine about their stomachs, when there is so much finely age’d dwarf bread in the cellars, enough to feed three armies for a year! And ELVEN Thralls! THRANDUIL Thralls, here, in this SACRED place! And how could anyone even glance at that snooty “Elven King” and his skinny minions, except to ask if they could pet the moose or cop some booze! How can our own sisters in Thralldom moan about the lack of attention, where did they think they were going, a day spa? By the fires of Mahal, why did you stop me from rolling those rocks down…” the enraged Thorin Thrall swayed and put her head down, grinding her teeth in an attempt to choke back the nausea of fury.

“Easy”, frowned the hood’d Dwaven Thrall. “Center your qi. Feel the Force. Embrace mana. Breathe deeply. And by Durin’s beard, please don’t throw up on my boots, they cost a fortune even at Dain’s Discount Iron Mountain Gear – these bloody dwarves make a hard bargain, even with their own kind. Least I scored them on clearance.”

The other Thrall glared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “We’re NOT their own kind, remember? We’re people-kind!” She sobbed quietly. “And I don’t understand how you can be so calm about it, this is a knife in the back of our Glorious Lord! An ELVEN knife in the back! We have to do something!”

“Oh, we shall, little sister,” the hooded Thrall grinned again. A blackened tongue ran across her darkened teeth (a sight that would have caused horror movie buffs to sigh in appreciation). She put an arm around her furious companion and squeezed her shoulders. “Now harken – ‘tis a foul thing to accept, ‘tis true, especially after beholding the miracle of the Heirs of Durin.” Both Thralls closed their eyes in a brief moment of silent ecstatic bliss at the memories of gently waved thick silken hair, dark and golden, eyes as blue and brilliant as water and sky, or the deepest smoky quartz, voices as rich as the fires of autumn, heavily muscled strong arms and shoulders that could so tirelessly wield iron weaponry, and a fierce courage as they had never known before. And most recently, an unbearable, eye-searing vision of Thorin Oakenshield, and his princely nephews and heirs, clad in dwarven mail. And chocolate leather.



“But with this many Thralls crowded about, as you say, they are (mostly) people-kind.” went on the hooded Thrall after she recovered from the happy reverie. “Men. And men are weak. As can be women, especially those that are SO fastidious, their secret fantasy is to have all of their pores hermetically sealed and live at a mall. Preferably at one of those stores that sells those French skin creams.”

“So naturally there will be those, in a group this large, who are seduced by the vision of beings whose “perfection” is so “perfect” (huh) it evokes, interestingly, the same feelings of inferiority that this traitor’s ‘zine produces and markets. Which makes them pitifully easy to spot – they’re the ones who are trying to buff their skin with the tasty dwarf bread, for one thing, instead of enjoying the crunchy goodness of ages-old ripened grit.”

“And then, there are the POSERS trying to be pathetically furtive and sneak off to steal a peek at the camp of the Elven King. Only those on guard duty, or up to no good, would consciously seek to leave the company of our beloved dwarves. But we shall speak to Dwalin, and Balin, and ensure that these traitorous phonies ARE given the opportunity to meet their desire, up close and personal. At the forefront of the battle line, for preference.”

The other Thrall smiled appreciatively. “And they can’t wriggle out of it, no dwarf would DREAM of not wanting to be at the front of the charge. Or they’ll just wimp out and hightail it to the Elven King’s camp some night, so we will be rid of them anyway. More mouths for Thranduil to feed – seeing as winter’s coming on, hope they enjoy the dried rabbit food!”

The hooded Thrall nodded. “No, it’s Bilbo we need to watch carefully. I know he loves Thorin, and Thorin loves him. But.” the Thrall frowned. “I am troubled that this Hobbit, overhearing what he has from these sad Elven groupies, did not instantly run to warn our King. I would have stopped him and explained our plan, but he did not bother to try, nor did he seemeth anything but idly curious over these traitors in our midst.”

The companion Thrall looked uneasy, as Bilbo Baggin’s appeal was not lost on the most dedicated Thralls, both for his hobbit handsomeness, wonderful smile, and lively conversation. Plus, knowing he had risked his own life for the King Under the Mountain had forever won their hearts (even though the very faintest twinge of jealousy occasionally raised a pale vaporous head o’er Thorin-hugs.) Except for the most starv’d Thralls, who had not been able to look at any living being without thinking of rotisserie chicken (tho after consuming twenty-one barrels of fossilized dwarf bread were still swearing they would never eat again, ever), the Dwarven Thralls tended to treat Bilbo with affection, and surreptitiously protect him.

In some cases, it was SO MUCH affection, that the enthusiastic Thrall had been taken aside and lectured by her more conservative sister Thralls, who emphatically pointed out that Bilbo Baggins was not, in fact, a teddy bear, and that being engulfed by a bust clad in laced shiny black leather was giving poor Bilbo confused nightmares about orcs and cows. Only Thorin had the right to hug the Hobbit. “I cannot believe Bilbo would ever, ever, do anything that would harm Thorin, or any of the dwarves”, she whispered, hugging herself in distress. “How often has he risked himself to save them?”

The hooded Thrall nodded grimly. “Aye, and you have accused me of being too suspicious, or jealous, madden’d by my thralldom for the Lord of Silver Fountains.

“But most of us here, ARE, insane.” the companion Thrall interjected loyally. “I’m not seeing a downside to that, as long as you choose your targets more carefully. Seems pretty properly DWARVISH to me!”

The hooded Thrall nodded again. “Too true. And I thank you for pointing out I oft foam at the mouth, tho that’s partly the teeth-whitening OINment that was so kindly provided by the wise and knowledgeable dwarf. It’s a lot less painful than chewing dwarf bread for teeth-polishing (tho it burns so much, it’s like gargling cayenne pepper juice.) I could make a fortune on this stuff in the ‘States, and it’s completely organic!

Her companion wrinkled her brow, perplexed. “Why dost thou attempt to whiten thy teeth, only to horribly stain them for shadow-dwarf guard duty?” she asked, as the ever-alert hooded Thrall checked their surroundings again.

“In honor of Thorin, of course,” whispered the hooded Thrall. “For His Majesty’s spectacular visage and courage and greatness and *sigh* amazing darkling hair are rightly celebrated in this land and others. But, as well, how oft has it been remarked that his teeth are as the finest pearls ever brought from the waters of our Asian lands?”

“So about Bilbo,” went on the hooded Thrall very quietly, after looking about again. “Of late he seemeth troubl’d, and I mislike this ability he seems to have (maybe all Hobbits have it) to disappear in a twinkling, and move so quietly. Nor is he dwarf, with unquestioning loyalty, nor enThrall’d, as we are, who would give a year’s salary to spend five minutes with the magnificent Sons of Durin *sigh*. He’s close to Mr. No-Show Gandalf the Grey. And too, ‘tis odd with so many obsessed Thralls milling about, there is still no sign of the Arkenstone, that they say shines like the lights of the Harbin Ice Festival.”

She shrugged. “Ah, well, perhaps ‘tis just missing bakery goods. Or whatever it is that Hobbits eat, after all, Bilbo IS a long way from home. Still, I think we should keep a good eye on him – what do you think, maybe we should just try talking to him?’

The other Thrall opened her mouth to respond, but was forced to brace herself against the dark door frame as the mountain began to shake under their feet. Both swaying Thralls fought to stay upright, and shielded their eyes and gaped, as a spectacular array of rainbow colors and sparking fire belched skyward…

…”By the Valar,” complained Lord Roäc as the rumbling mountain palace quieted , coughing dust and flapping gleaming blue-black wings as his claws tightened on Thorin Oakenshield’s chain-maill’d shoulder. The great chief of the mystical ravens of neighboring Ravenhill cocked a gleaming jet eye at the Mountain King. Particles of grit continued to sift downward, and the large conspiracy of surrounding ravens irritably fluttered wings and slipped about on rivulets of coins that continued to cascade in flowing piles through the halls of Erebor. “Was that for our benefit? Truly, ‘twas not necessary, a simple warm heartfelt welcome would have done. (And maybe some of those ‘wee “cocktail sausages in can-jars” from these groupies, er Thralls of yours). It already looks like the War of Wrath was fought in here!”

“And what’s with the bling décor anyway? Or is the gold floor in the Gallery of the Kings to rub salt in the wound, seeing as the other dwarf kingdoms couldn’t be bothered? Can’t say I blame you there, these humans say revenge is better served up cold. Or cold and eye-wateringly tacky in this case.”

The King Under the Mountain shrugged his broad, battle-hardened shoulders, and tossed back thick silken wind-tangled tresses, which were still gently woven with melting ice crystals from the storm winds that danced about the mountain outside. Lord Roäc blinked as his eye was whipped by a coiling wet strand of hair, and momentarily forgetting himself, gave his royal host a quick peck. (Unfortunately his beak forcefully met Thorin’s dwarven ear clip, adding to the mighty raven’s exasperation.)

Immediately before the unexpected multicolored blast from the lower halls, Lord Roäc and his fellow ravens had been royally welcomed (as custom dictated), in the great throne room and adjoining chambers of the fortress city of Erebor. But with the Desolation of Smaug, only a skeleton of the once grand rooms remained. Enormous broken pillars were strewn about, rivulets of icy water trickled from overturned fountains, walls were scored and blacken’d from both fire and claw. And as all good pet owners (and farmers know), keeping animals in enclosures necessitates regular and thorough cleaning of the designated enclosures. But the great dragon Smaug had seen no reason to unduly disturb himself from his hoard. If not for the constant draughts of mountain air that bored through the innumerable cracks in the walls, the once fair air of Erebor would have been akin to that of the notoriously fetid Dead Marshes that lay far to the south.

But layered, scattered, piled, everywhere were great hills of treasure: innumerable coins, chains, pictures, dishes, armour, jewelry, goblets. Thus in spite of the devastation, the great Halls of Erebor were still magnificent, the horrific damage soften’d by an undulating sea of gold and sparkling gems. And the sturdy dwarves, unlike man-kind, are well accustomed to walking on the treacherous and shifting rock of their mountain homes. So the Lord of Silver Fountains strode easily though the chaos of his halls, and had claimed a makeshift receiving throne of sorts. There Thorin Oakenshield had received his honorable feathered allies of old, surrounded by the extravagant riches heaped together by Smaug.

(The easy strides of the dwarves on shifting ground, however, sadly had not yet been mastered by many of the Dwarven Thralls. Nor was movement anywhere near the vicinity of King of Carven Stone made any easier by the limp bodies of unconscious Thralls scattered about, who had been struck down by the other-worldly magnificence of their Mountain King newly-clad in cocoa-hued leather and dwarven chain mail. Thorin’s casual hair toss and azure clear-eyed gaze once again resulted in any number of Thralls sagging to their knees, coming to gently rest in shifting piles of coins. Or landing in other unfortunate substances left by Smaug, including pools of corrosive dragon drool, which resulted in an immediate balding in a few of the Thralls - to their great distress, when they regained consciousness).

As well, dwarves are accustomed to the violence of mining and forging, where (except for the worst of incidences such as *cough* the arrival of, say, a dragon) explosions, loud noises, and fire are regarded as mere background noise. So the glorious Heir of Durin and members of his Company were able to calmly regard the frantic Thrall hopelessly struggling towards His Majesty over shifting mountains of gold, flapping ravens, and prostrate sister (mostly) Thralls. The Thrall tripped onto her face and dug into the slithering metal heaps for purchase, mistakenly grabbing at an irritated raven. The irate bird swore at her, fluttered up, and promptly perched on her back and began to peck at her hair. She looked desperately up at the noble visage of the Mountain King, and would have simply froze with her mouth hanging open (especially over the exquisite glimpse of sweat-sheened skin at his neck where errant strands of lustrous espresso hair clung) had not the large perched bird given her an impatient beak to the back of the head.



“Your Majesty,” the Thrall gasped after forcing herself to swallow hard, but froze again at the vision of the luminous summer sky eyes of her King, fine fair skin faintly stained with sunset color, swathed about with softly waved eventide hair which seemed studded with tiny diamond cabochons from the melt of the ice crystals. The raven gave her another meaningful peck.

“My Lord, please forgive us! We meant no harm…”

Balin, standing close to Thorin (boots firmly stanced for purchase in the shifting gilt sea), sighed. “This is what comes from having untrained men-children mucking about in the forges. But, be easy, child,” Balin said kindly (tho the also-nearby Dwalin was frowning at the thought of what probably was the loss of so much triple-proof “mountain brandy.”) “You ladies (mostly) would not be the first in the forges to sneak some Old Toby, nor the first to deal with the often loud, and er, ILLUMINATING consequences. And the place could use some airing out from the new, and no doubt rather large, skylight. Happily we have more than one forge than the one you were converting into this “still” of yours…”



The eyes of the Thrall filled with tears. “No, I mean nay, My Lord Balin, we swears, we were not smoking! We would NEVER go against the word of Thorin Oakenshield, we are bound to him, forever, bodies, minds, hearts, and souls!” The King of Carven Stone smiled a rare smile of gentle approval at this passionate expression of loyalty, revealing the dentistry so exquisitely straight and fair, that entire sonnets celebrating the teeth of Thorin Oakenshield filled volumes in libraries throughout Middle Earth. Thorin majestically ignored the raven on his shoulder, which was shaking with avian laughter and making remarkably human sounding gagging noises, punctuated by the sniggers of the other ravens.

Words tumbled from the tearful Thrall. “But some of us, we come from many lands, and we got to talking about different foods, and Bombur was in the forges cooking something with these LEGS in this big soup pot, and we asked him about dwarf bread and how it seemed so similar to our own “fruitcake”, that it lasts hundreds of years and just sort of gets passed around, all over the world and how dwarf bread and fruitcake are such lovely “hands across the waters” tho few ever actually CONSUME the stuff (seeing as it’s like eating cement) and could we use the forges like big stoves?”

“And then we started talking about how you can make stuff from other stuff, like those purple seventeen-legged things we were fishing out of the fountains here, and they looked a lot like our own hometown crawdads, and there’s this woman here from Louisiana, and she started talking about gumbo, and someone else started about burgoo and haggis, and someone else about clambakes and chowder, and luaus, and then it was Mulligan stew.”

“And Bombur got all excited when we taught him the words “repurpose” and “crock pot” and said since all the gold in the forges had been melted out for the new floor, said we could REPURPOSE a forge into a GIANT crock pot and just sort of dump his soup and barrels of dwarf bread and our power bars and milk powder into it, and Nori had this fresh meat. We tried to stop Nori because we weren’t sure if the meat was rats or what, but he just winked at us! And then some of the Thralls were tossing in stuff that they’d fished out of fountains, weird-looking fish and these things that looked like shrimp except they were flat.”

“And then Oin came up, but we think he was confused about what we were doing, because he said we had to add all these acids and stuff to draw off the impurities, and Bombur tried to stop him but tripped and rolled into one of the trenches in the floor and got stuck, so we were all crowded around trying to get him out and Oin and Gloin had dumped all these chemicals in, and all of a sudden the forge started shooting sparks and big chunks of flaming dwarf bread and fishy things were shooting into the air, and the whole floor was shaking. The Tennessee and Kentucky Thralls were screaming at us and trying to flood their forge, I mean the still, with water. Then all of a sudden there was this big WHOOSH like the forge has sucked all of the air out of place, and Gloin shouted we needed to take cover RIGHT NOW.”



“And the forge went off. It looked just like this giant green and purple gummy candy cannon ball, I mean catapult boulder, except it was sizzling and gross-looking and shot right through several floors and then the roof and, and then, it just exploded like the biggest fireworks you ever saw. Oin says it’s the special secret spices in the aged ripe dwarf bread that made all the sparks and pretty colors,” the overcome Thrall sank into a pile of gold and hid her face in her hands, sobbing hysterically.

It has been said of the fiery Heir of Durin, that this great-minded warrior king did not suffer fools gladly, but lo! the pure nobility and strength of his lion’s heart, and years of remembered training at countless mind-numbingly boring Middle Earth official dinners served the King Under the Mountain well at this moment. The mighty Thorin Oakenshield, fearful that the faintest misword would fan the fires of tearful Thrall hysteria into a conflagration, had maintained a visage of gentle interest through the litany of woe, which had numbed even the cheeky ravens into silence. The Mountain King gestured at two Thralls that were propped upright to their knees in the ocean of treasure, who promptly waded through the gold sucking at their legs to comfort their fellow Thrall. “Perhaps a small cup of this “’shine” your sisters hath made, would be of some help?” Thorin suggested gently in a voice like the richest salted dark chocolate caramels ever crafted by a master confectioner.

The dutiful Thralls nodded mutely, glassy-eyed, and clinked away towing their shaken, tearful sister and her clinging raven, who had firmly rebuffed any attempts at being dislodged from its perch. “You know, this is beginning to look like a reboot of The Birds…”, hissed the Thrall who was dragging her fellow distressed Thrall with one arm and simultaneously sucking the blood from a wounded hand. “Oh, plz, enough of the goth stuff already,” snapped the other assisting Thrall. “It’s adorable, talking birds, it’s just like a Disney classic…I luv it here! Maybe they have dancing roaches?”

Thorin Oakenshield waited until the Thralls had waded and tripped through a doorway before breathing out a great breath that, as always, was as of the music of the finest burgundy wine. “Doth any present possess the knowledge to translate those words, or must I *choke* once again avail myself of the arcane knowledges of the *choke* elves of Rivendell?” Balin, and Dwalin (who as usual was at Thorin’s side) glowered at the thought.

The raven clutching the Mountain King’s chain maille had recovered enough to be overcome with a great fit of avian laughter, and had would have slipped from Thorin’s shoulder had not the luxurious mane of shimmering soft darkling hair provided additional anchorage for the great bird. “Ah me,” chuckled Lord Roäc, “Verily, how I wish my beloved father Carc were here to witness the longed-for return of the dwarves to Erebor!”

*Cough* “Er, forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Lord Roäc hastily as the stiffening of Thorin’s shoulders under the leather and maille gave notice that the Mountain King’s patience was rapidly thinning. “My joy at your return overfloweth after these aeons of boredom. I believe the wench was merely trying to say, that has oft happened in the past, aged dwarven loaves were overheated, and reached their combustion point. Evidently in their lands, it is more typical for bak’d goods to simply burn when o’erheated, not explode. Not through the roof, in any event.”

“Except a lot of stuff I’ve microwaved, and that time I tried to pressure-cook a turkey…took three crews of firemen…” muttered a nearby Thrall sotto voce, trying to extricate her foot from an embossed gold vase.

“Durin ku bin-amrad!” swore the King Under the Mountain. He gathered himself and sighed, addressing the gleaming bird. “Lord Roäc, you must know you and your kin, our cherished allies of old, are a most welcome sight, and hath lifted the hearts of my Company who hath suffered much, with little succor, in a long and dangerous journey to reclaim our ancient home and birthright. So oft have we been beset by enemies, and were even abandoned by Gandalf the Grey at our hour of need! My company has barely taken a breath of the lizard-foul’d airs of my home, and now well do I know the mountain is beset by both the desires of elves and men, who seek to despoil the wealth of my people. Cunningly and without mercy do they begin to round us all about, seeking our submission. To threaten dwarves in their own rightful kingdom!”

“But hope remains, while the Company is true, and a mighty ally and true friend are ever the ravens of Ravenhill. We dwarves do not forget, and our house is yours.” The ravens dipped their heads in acknowledgement.

“Come! We have much to discuss, and so I much regret the plain fare I must needs offer by way of dinner after your difficult flight through the coming storm. A siege does not lend itself to the preparation of rich foodstuffs, but warmth, food and drink we have to share with you. Including these interesting “camping foods” of mine Thralls – these “s’mores” are especially tasty…”

Lord Roäc bowed again, if a great bird could be said to bow, for ever the hearts of the birds of Ravenhill had been entwin’d with the dwarves of Erebor, tho the beginning of this deep accord was lost to the mists of time. The great raven cocked a brilliant eye at the majestic King. “’Tis naught of concern. We sought only to eagerly welcome home the dwarves of Erebor, the sons of Durin, the Heir to the Throne. Sad and soulless have the long years been throughout these lands, without the laughter and golden lights of the mountain dwarves!”

Then the Lord Roäc grinned rakishly, if a bird can appear to grin. “And truly, not only do my people feast on unheard-of delights, such as these spic’d gelatinous meats from these metal “can” vessels, but ne’er before have I known of ravens to be cuddled close by so many warm and buxom females (tho some of them *cough* I am unsure are female). How oft have man-kind heaved stones and threatened my people, accusing us of stealing their pitiful wormy corn, and yet these Thralls of yours clasp my people to them, chanting “ur-so-cute” and “ur-so-pretty”, beg us for fallen feathers to tie to their hair and person, and make magical images of us with these sparkling “flash fones””.

“But tell me, of what meaning is this sign of the waving of the hands, and the chant “he-is-sooo-hawt?” Why do they act as though they were fanning at empty air, and shriek “Omigawd, now I can die happy?” For many miles I have travl’d to far places, on the wings of the winds, and ne’er before known these strange chants, nor these peculiar changes and volume of voice except from creatures of the southern jungles. Is this a battle cry of their lands, or do these Thralls all practice some strange sorcery?”

The Lord of Silver Fountains was majestically gathering himself to stand, whilst Balin furrowed his brow and began to try to explain in his rich voice. “We believe so. At least with these (mostly we think) females of these humans from far lands. It seems to be akin to dwarven battle cries. Er. Except it seems to be a sort of battle song or chant. Er, cried BEFORE the battle. They call to those they favor and are most loyal to. It seems to be akin to war drums or beating on your shield with a spear.”

“But, even tho the volume and pitch of these chants can be annoying on thine ears, ‘tis better when they are professing their loyalty. Because when they quit shrieking and start fighting, well, let’s just say ‘tis better that these Thralls are on OUR side. Because anything goes. We had a ‘wee dust-up over whether Fili or Kili was more favored between two of these Thralls, and it took Dwalin, Bofur, Bifur, and Nori to get them apart. Oin’s still trying to come to terms with what the Thralls called a “cat fight”, him being so innocent and mostly used to the ministrations of his mother and Dori…”

Thorin had paused as Balin spoke, to let Lord Roäc settle more comfortably on his shoulder (while the Thralls that were still vertical sighed with envy, at the thought of being able to snuggle so close to the swirling soft lush waves that tangled about the Mountain King’s face and shoulders, like living smoke touched by the swift light of falling stars. Gold clinked and tumbled as a few more Thralls fainted at the sight).

But Balin’s musings on the strange behaviors and customs of the madden’d Thralls were interrupted by the excited arrival of Fili and Kili surrounded by more arm’d females (mostly), along with Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bombur, Gloin and Oin. (These last were still flecked with bits of charr’d gelatinous slime and dwarf bread grit). Thorin’s gem-blue eyes darken’d as he took in the slim figure with bound hands flanked by Fili and Kili, and iron hissed against leather as Dwalin pulled a knife and axe from their scabbards. Ravens took flight and circled the great halls ominously.

“By Aulë!” breathed Lord Roäc. His black eyes glittered. “What’s this? A Ranger caught off his guard? I say again, Your Majesty, n’er a dull moment at Erebor since your Company hath arrived!”

“Verily, one could expect little else than a TYPICAL lack of SUBTLETY from DWARVES,” snapped the dark, shaggy-haired stranger. “I’m surprised there isn’t a disco ball.” Keen grey eyes flashed at the enormous piles of treasure littering the chamber, the flapping ravens, and increasingly outlandish leather and metal clothing of the Dwarven Thralls. Thorin’s brows drew together in a scowl at this slight to his people, and Dwalin shifted his grip on his weapons as the Thralls began to mutter and close protectively about their king.

Kili Fili spoke up “Uncle, Fili Kili and I saw this man from our walls as he slipped toward our fortress, he seemeth to be tracking or hunting, oft laying with his ear pressed to the ground. But long have we served as scouts and hunters for you, so by these skills were able to conceal ourselves, and thus put a blade to the throat of this SPY on the home of our fathers!”

Fili Kili, privately irritated that the approaching figure had not, in fact, been a certain russet-haired female dwarf, but a dirty human in tattered greasy rainment, added with uncharacteristic churlishness, “He claims to be no spy, but perhaps he is a madman. For this man claims to be tracking some foul demon or orc, that he hath followed from beneath the Misty Mountains, a pale gangling creature with large eyes, and an ill-favored look. Though he refuses to explain why ‘tis so important that he would risk privation, storm, and death in a determined search for some small froglike croaking goblin.”

At this, Bombur, and a number of the trailing Thralls, began to studiously examine the piles of treasure, the cracked walls, the broken pillars, and their own boots. All too well did they recall the interesting creatures that had been added to the “forge-pot”, before the cataclysmic failure of the ad hoc cooking experiment. Bombur stifled a burp and carefully avoided looking at Thorin, thinking hard about the peculiar GANGLING form of the last contribution to his soup cauldron – the contents of which had been enthusiastically dumped added to the “forge-pot”. But the secretive dwarves and the Thralls that had participated in the cook-off held their silence. After all, the silver fountains of Erebor belonged to the King Under the Mountain, so from their perspective anything swimming in Erebor waters was fair game. What happens in the forges, stays in the forges. And anyway, Bifur couldn’t be blamed for being an enthusiastic hunter.

“I am no spy!” The man defiantly tossed back his head, grey eyes flashing with anger. “Elendil!” he cried. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!”

It needs not be told here, as the High King of Erebor himself was unpleasantly aware, that o’erbearing pride oft goeth before a fall. Particularly when that pride is voiced to the face of a King in his own fortress palace, surrounded by fanatically loyal family and enThrall’d followers. Particularly when that expression of pride is delivered from a race other than that of the King. And ESPECIALLY when the Majesty in question has come through much privation and near-death from a giant flying crocodile, and is once again beset by enemies.

And oh, when the King also happens to be suffering from bouts of creeping, insidious, dragon-sickness. The mania of, which, unfortunately, was beginning to shroud the King of Carven Stone with its faint flush of fever. The luminous fine skin of Thorin sheened with light dew, and the topaz-blue eyes seemed backlit by flame. He stared down hard at his uninvited guest from his makeshift golden throne, and strong leather-clad hands tightened on a great dwarven blade.



But one of the more madden’d Thralls stepped angrily forward. “Don’t know who this “Elendil” is or if you just said something nasty, but you hold your tongue! You do not know to whom you speak. This is THORIN, Son of Thrain, Son of Thrór! The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone! The King Beneath the Mountain, hath come into his own…”

“You claim lovely titles, to be sure.” The ragged stranger flinched back and wrinkled his nose, as another furious (and hairy) Thrall jingled closer to the strange man and glared. “But YOU must needs know, in THIS time and place, OUR Majestic King is “he that we long to hear epic speeches from”. For this Son of Durin hath a voice of the storm and sea, which commandeth both great armies, AND our hearts and souls. Plus he sings most beautifully. When Thorin Oakenshield asks for a spoon, it is as though the Valar are amongst us! ”

“AND he hath the BEST hair in all the ages of Middle Earth,” added a Thrall (which provoked so many heartfelt sighs of approval that the resulting wind gust caused the airborne ravens to frantically flap their wings, battling not to be blown against a wall).

*Uh-oh, here we go again with the drooling Thorin rapture-fest* thought Lord Roäc, though he held his peace for the moment.

A leather-clad Thrall knelt into the shifting gold. “At your command, your Majesty, we will show this insulting and disrespectful spy a cliff of his choosing, that he may tumble over in a suitably dramatic matter! Possibly the cliffs above the river, which will carry him away, so that elves and men know that Erebor is not undefended as he passes hence!”

“NO! PLEASE, Thorin, you cannot let harm fall to one of the Dúnedain, a Ranger of the North, they are friends of Gandalf and Rivendell, they are Shire-friends!” The Thralls parted to let Bilbo pass as he tumbled into the room accompanied by the scattering of ringing coins, with Bofur hurrying anxiously in his wake. “Please, please, stay these (mostly) women in their madness! The Men of Westernesse are honorable, they live off the land, he has no need for any treasure of Erebor!” Bilbo struggled to climb towards Thorin as gold and gems rolled beneath his furry feet.

The fires in the wonderful ice-blue eyes of the High King of Erebor softened as he descended easily from the shimmering piles of gold, sturdy boots finding familiar purchase from memory through the piles of shining cascading metal, the raven chieftain gripped to his shoulder like a living sculpture of polished onyx. The dirty thin stranger was momentarily dismissed from Thorin’s attention as he swept his Hobbit into a tremendous, rib-cracking hug. The eyes of the Dwarven Thralls filled became misty-eyed at the heartwarming sight.



“Ah, Master Baggins, I have been seeking you! You must not go, hur hur, burglaring about, for Erebor is vast, and that curs’d beast hath damaged much. Light-footed you may be, but ‘tis a long way down should you fall from the walkways of Erebor!” Thorin relaxed his strong hold and stepped back to warmly regard his Hobbit.

Though Bilbo had a deep mutual affection for his unlikely friend, this fiery, glorious, majestic warrior king, he lacked the sturdy physique and strength of dwarves. So Bilbo was greatly relieved when Thorin opened his hold and presented him to Lord Roäc and his ravens. The ever-polite Bilbo managed a proper hobbit-bow to the bright-eyed and curious birds, in spite of still wheezing from the bone-shifting embrace. The dirty stranger also regarded the Hobbit with keen interest.

Poor Bilbo’s head was oft strained these days with chaotic thoughts, but with true Hobbit fortitude he tried to collect his manners as Thorin and Balin smiled fondly at him. “Lord Roäc, truly, I am honored to meet the chieftain of Ravenhill! I hope we will smoke a pipe together – oh, sorry, it would seem you cannot smoke…” Lord Roäc cocked a gleaming ebony eye at the Hobbit in amusement. “Forgive me…”

“Here, laddy, take a breath, before you fall into a faint! I fear the floors here are much harder than those of Bag End!” smiled Balin kindly. Bilbo took a deep breath and looked anxiously at Thorin. “PLEASE. The dwarves wander far, you must all know of the Dúnedain, they travel alone, and they are true to their word! Gandalf would say the same, to bring no harm to the Men of Westernesse, for they have oft protected the weak, and ask for nothing in return.”

The dwarves all exchanged angry but uncertain looks, for they all knew of the Dúnedain, and it was not unknown for dwarves to have a little trade with these men of the West, from time to time. But with Erebor beset by enemies, they were loath to trust or welcome any strange man in this land, especially one who named himself “Elfstone.”

Dwalin growled, “I don’t care what he calls himself. And we have only his word that he is of the Dúnedain. More likely he is a filthy spy of the Laketowners, in league with those prancing elves!”

Though he carried wounds and burdens beyond what any should have borne, the weight of a people, a shattered home, and tendrils of a poisonous illness were blossoming like evil flowers in the mind the Mountain King, Thorin’s fury was tempered as he looked into the pleading dark blue-gray eyes of his Hobbit, eyes that had so oft reminded the Mountain King of the gently rounded river rocks of Erebor’s mountain streams. And he remembered the books and maps of this Hobbit’s home, and the quiet talks they had had.




So Thorin well knew, that sheltered this Hobbit may have been by dwarven standards, but Bilbo had a great store of his own knowledge. And just looking at Bilbo soothed Thorin, for in looking into Bilbo’s eyes, memories of the peaceful and homey Bag End pushed away the clinging mind-poisons and painful memories. Bilbo’s home had smelled of apple-wood smoke, and spices…



Thorin raised his eyes from Bilbo and stared grimly at the dirty thin stranger. Fiery cerulean eyes met the hard grey eyes of the captive. The Thralls held their breath and hands tightened around the weapons. Bilbo twisted his hands anxiously.

“So, this is the Heir of Gondor, or so you claim. Man-child, you are a long way from home. And there is already a king here,” Thorin Oakenshield said quietly, dangerously. “And one who gives way better speeches,” sniggered a Thrall beneath her breath. “Seems like all the kings around here do – look at Thranduil, with that butter-cream voice of his, not to mention HIS hair is like when you see rays of sunlight through the clouds after a storm, and then there’s a rainbow…” the Thrall rapidly trailed off at a nasty glare from a fellow Thrall, one who was rumored to have been banned from U.S. theaters after strongly objecting to a conversation held by other audience members during a key scene in a film. “I’ll see to it you get some lovely new parasites if you don’t shut it,” hissed this sister Thrall, eyes disturbingly bloodshot.

“Or, as Master Baggins insists, you are truly one of the Dúnedain,” Thorin continued. “For only a madman or the Dúnedain would come to Erebor, so roughly clad, in the midst of a storm, and openly declare to be an Elf-friend.” The man opened his mouth to speak, but Kili Fili gripped him warningly as Thorin gestured him to be silent. “I have no time for this, nor time to tend to an uninvited guest. But neither do you seem to be mine enemy. Not yet.” Thorin’s magnificent eyes glittered like the hottest of blu’d forge-flames. The Thralls began fanning themselves and whispers of “so intense!”, “I could just melt when Thorin looks like that”, and “it’s like a lion getting ready to attack – Gawd he’s incredible…” floated around the chambers.

The shimmering ebony bird on Thorin’s shoulder coughed. “If I may, Your Majesty. True enough, you are ringed ‘bout with foes, and we have much to discuss. There is no time to deal with this “prince of Gondor”, or Dúnadan, or madman. But your burglar asks to spare him, and I agree, t’would be ignoble to deliver him to these Thralls, who hath given new meaning to the term “fanatic”, and so fiercely resent any other than Your Majesty to deliver epic speeches. What harm can it do, to release this man to his claim’d little orc-hunt? Mine own people shall watch from the sky, and observe that he not attempt to reach the fires of the elves, or Laketown men. With no horse, nor many weapons or provisions, little can he do but hunt his ‘wee orc with stones, or return to southern lands. By the long way ‘round, of course.”

“And if he is a “prince of Gondor”, he is honor-bound to hold to his word, to not seek the aid of elves or men until he clears your land. And this he will do, by your grace, else feel the wrath of my peoples’ beak and claw, and our own allies, all scaled, furred, and feather’d. T’would be most unpleasant (and evil-smelling) should this man-child b’foul your kindness.

Dwalin glared furiously and the surrounding Thralls began to protest, but His Majesty smiled, though the smile was not in his eyes. “Enough! Quiet, all of you!” Thorin gazed majestically at the stranger claiming the name Elessar, who gazed back steadily, but was wise enough to keep silent. (For even now there were crazed women glaring at him from red-rimmed eyes while feathers and beads tied into matted hair rattled in the drafts. As women of the Drúadan Forest they seemed to him, but far more dangerous.)

“Well, thurkhûn, what say you? We thank you for the warning, that some filthy goblin may have slim’d my halls, but ‘twill provide much amusement for mine Thralls, to go-ahunting through Erebor . So now choose, either travel towards the Grey Mountains and thence to the Anduin, where there are trees to craft a vessel to carry you south. Or our deepest mining pit. For the sake of our Hobbit, I would have you choose well.”

The man’s face tightened and he looked at Bilbo, who stared back worriedly as the tension in the room thickened. But after a long moment, the man bowed his head, for other duties called, among them rumors, stories, of a gathering poisonous darkness. The Dúnadan could not afford to be held in a fortress under siege, and the quarry he pursued was far too facile in the dark places of mountains. If the creature had reached Erebor, then he could spend an age here searching.

“A wise choice, thurkhûn. Fili, Kili, Nori, escort this “heir of Gondor” to the west side, make sure of his safe descent. Give him small arms, provisions – dwarf bread will do - enough to see him safe from our lands. Our great friends will watch him from the air, to make sure he seeketh not men nor elves.”

Bilbo breathed a huge sigh of relief. The stranger bowed deeply to Bilbo, and would have spoken, but Thorin stepped forward meaningfully, his strong hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. The High King of Erebor was very protective of his Hobbit, and the strange thin man was pulled firmly away by the Erebor princes, and led from the chambers…

Nori, Fili, and Kili watched from the broken walls of Erebor as the man hiked northwards, moving strongly but carefully through the rock-strewn terrain, as he was burdened with a great heavy load of antique dwarf bread, that had been oh-so-carefully selected by some mischievous Thralls. A sturdy cloak had been provided to the man, which the winds whipped about, while over him soared graceful shadows more black than the night sky. As the man moved so far he could no longer be seen in the darkness, Kili Fili sighed and turned to his brother. “Fili, Kili…Kili?” Fili looked about the cliffs and jagged edges of boulders around them. “Kili, where are you? KILI?!!”



Sharp-eyed Nori, who had lived hard off the land for many years, and whose eyes were well-trained to the smallest movements in the dark, sucked in his breath and gripped Fili’s vambrace. He pointed to a dark-haired, quickly moving figure, which was moving like a hunter towards the south, taking advantage of the cover of rock and shadow. But the figure was moving towards Dale. And towards an encampment of the most dangerous elves in Middle-Earth. “Oh, no,” breathed Fili. “What is he thinking. Nori, we have to go after him…”

…and to the south, rimmed by ruin and savage flames, under the masses of sogged floating debris, the turbid waters of Long Lake finally began to quiet as its deep, dark waters closed over a great, wing’d creature of legend that had fallen into its chilled embrace. Thick drifting silt coated over once glittering scales. At the bottom of Long Lake, all was murky, very cold, and still.

Except for the very faintest twitch of a huge claw.



Balin had once explained to Bilbo, only a black arrow, fired from a windlance, could pierce a dragon’s hide. And presumably, kill the dragon.

Er, provided it was a DWARF-MADE iron-forged black arrow. What Balin could not know, and Lord Girion of Dale had not given thought to, is that metal-working is an art, long associated with its own secret mysteries. Many dwarf leaders work metals (it’s a point of pride with them, and part of dwarf culture). Elves, as well, are known for magnificent metal craft. Even the soldiers of men know to take care over the make of their armour, and blades.

But, over the years, as the Lord of Dale trained his men with the windlance, and black arrows soared into the trees or streams or rocks, Lord Girion had delegated his rather corpulent sergeant to procure replacements. And a lot of the time it had just been easier to get the local blacksmith to replace them, rather than hike all the way up to Erebor. Especially when it was winter and the walk was unpleasant.

So the black arrow that had been passed from the Lord of Dale, father to son, and finally to his descendent Bard, was, in fact, a black arrow. It just wasn’t THE black arrow. Not the kind of black arrow that could kill a mighty dragon like Smaug. And, as Thorin Oakenshield had so succinctly remarked, Smaug had grown older since the destruction of Dale, and Erebor. Bigger. Tougher. And fatter.

But for now, the cooling waters settled over the body of the great beast. For now, the only movement on the lake surface was that of the sad, still-smouldering boards from the burnt buildings and wharves of Laketown.


Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor


Jul 16 2014, 11:23am

Post #2 of 15 (803 views)
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What's this? A volley under the radar? [In reply to] Can't Post

(I was coming into the forum to do edits on part 3 and finds this ... *checks post time-stamp* Can't believe this is up already... did you post this at like 2am or something?)

Magnificently epic!!!


Quote
The fires in the wonderful ice-blue eyes of the High King of Erebor softened as he descended easily from the shimmering piles of gold, sturdy boots finding familiar purchase from memory through the piles of shining cascading metal, the raven chieftain gripped to his shoulder like a living sculpture of polished onyx. The dirty thin stranger was momentarily dismissed from Thorin’s attention as he swept his Hobbit into a tremendous, rib-cracking hug. The eyes of the Dwarven Thralls filled became misty-eyed at the heartwarming sight.



“Ah, Master Baggins, I have been seeking you! You must not go, hur hur, burglaring about, for Erebor is vast, and that curs’d beast hath damaged much. Light-footed you may be, but ‘tis a long way down should you fall from the walkways of Erebor!” Thorin relaxed his strong hold and stepped back to warmly regard his Hobbit.

Though Bilbo had a deep mutual affection for his unlikely friend, this fiery, glorious, majestic warrior king, he lacked the sturdy physique and strength of dwarves. So Bilbo was greatly relieved when Thorin opened his hold and presented him to Lord Roäc and his ravens. The ever-polite Bilbo managed a proper hobbit-bow to the bright-eyed and curious birds, in spite of still wheezing from the bone-shifting embrace. The dirty stranger also regarded the Hobbit with keen interest.

Wahahaha! Poor poor Mr Baggins. Roac must be having a ball spectatoring the antics of all these flightless creatures. Sly Though... yon Thralls defy the zombie physiology requirement of being obligate brain-eaters? ... hmm...




Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.


Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)


Laugh 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


"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 16 2014, 4:57pm

Post #3 of 15 (796 views)
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Caffeine and technology *grins* [In reply to] Can't Post

This dwarven Thrall does not imbibe ale. But dearly loves a certain bottled iced tea, and it had been hot and steamy all day. Soooooo - I kept thinking, what's one more bottle. Funny how it was 1, 2, 3 in the morning, and I wasn't tired at all.Unsure

Of course today I can barely force my bleary eyes open...guess I need some more iced teaEvil.


Kim
Valinor


Jul 16 2014, 9:15pm

Post #4 of 15 (794 views)
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Wow, Avandel, you've outdone yourself! [In reply to] Can't Post

That was magnificent! And the story took twists and turns I was not expecting, so will be interesting to see what happens next! Smile



"Jagatud rõõm on topelt rõõm - a shared joy is a double joy". ~Estonian saying


“As such, you will address His Majesty as His Majesty, the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, the King Beneath the Mountain, the Lion of Erebor, the High King of the Dwarves, the True Treasure of Erebor, the Face that Launched 10,000 Sighs, or Thorin the Majestic..."


http://newboards.theonering.net/...forum_view_collapsed


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 16 2014, 10:09pm

Post #5 of 15 (801 views)
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Thank you Kim *bows* [In reply to] Can't Post

I hope anyone reading Lurker and I's? my? *sigh* little story is enjoying themselves (we are - or anyway I know I am, seeing as it gives me ample excuse to look up Thorin imagery. And too, having to look at a map of Middle Earth and some other stuff has been a good learning exercise. )

Well, I don't know what will happen next, but I think it is fair to say, Lurker is an Elven Thrall, and elves can be so deadly with their weapons.Evil

In the meantime, there's always room for another picture of Thorin. And that mighty mane....shown here looking over the "still" of the Dwarven Thralls. His Majesty is shocked by Thrall creativity.



Elarie
Gondor

Jul 16 2014, 10:39pm

Post #6 of 15 (793 views)
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Chain mail and chocolate leather [In reply to] Can't Post

Who can blame those poor thralls for all that fainting? Sigh. Blush


And once again the world has not arranged itself just for me.


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 17 2014, 12:44am

Post #7 of 15 (783 views)
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Personally I can't imagine in IMAX [In reply to] Can't Post

OMG - hadn't thought about that...HeartHeartHeart


Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor


Jul 17 2014, 12:24pm

Post #8 of 15 (768 views)
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*prepares intravenous Iced-tea drip* // [In reply to] Can't Post

 


Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.


Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)


Laugh 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! posted 16 Jul


"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor


Jul 17 2014, 12:28pm

Post #9 of 15 (784 views)
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Well, that's a steamy chocolatey pic fershure [In reply to] Can't Post


Quote
Well, I don't know what will happen next, but I think it is fair to say, Lurker is an Elven Thrall, and elves can be so deadly with their weapons.Evil

of course what happens is we shift focusTongue but before that methinks a hibernation is in order CrazyPirateShockedEvil *damn Dwarves and their devil forges... starts muttering and sharpening blade*




Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.


Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)


Laugh 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! posted 16 Jul


"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 17 2014, 3:15pm

Post #10 of 15 (779 views)
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Teatime? [In reply to] Can't Post


Quote
CrazyPirateShockedEvil *damn Dwarves and their devil forges... starts muttering and sharpening blade*


Being a U.S.er who has always been charmed the British afternoon tea, and how during WW 2, tea was held on the battlefield anyway.

When the Dwarven thralls see the Elven thralls having tea, they are charmed as well, and slink over with a parley flag (a dried orc head on a stick) and offer some "mountain brandy" from their forge. So the elves offer their own elderberry wine in a barrel. Pretty soon the barrel is empty, so the dwarven thralls introduce everyone to the idea of a "Hairy Buffalo".

At that point tea time extends well into the the night, everyone singing "Men in Tights" and dancing the macarena.

Thorin finally leaves off his gold counting and Thranduil repotting his orchids to come out and see what all the noise is. To their mutual disgust they view the Thralls, elves, and dwarves partying arm and arm across the battlefield, singing "Why Can't We Be Friends" at the top of their lungs.

Thorin and Thranduil's eyes meet in shared resignation, so they just give up, have some late night mushrooms on toast with champagne, and work out a mutual agreement where Thranduil gets his gems back and Thorin gets free health care for himself and his Company. The end.Wink




Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor


Jul 18 2014, 3:08pm

Post #11 of 15 (757 views)
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*unaware & deep in the makeshift hibernation chamber* [In reply to] Can't Post

bundled with the cram and lembas so prepared with the sharpened Elven blade, the Elf who went into induced hibernation finally emerged some time later to a desolate sight of the worst after-party aftermath and no one in sight, not Elves, Dwarves, nor Men.

Groaning from the headache of oversleep, the Elf turned back and burrowing deeper, went back into fitful slumber, hoping never to wake until the aftermath cleaned itself up.


Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.


Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)


Laugh 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! posted 16 Jul


"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 18 2014, 4:25pm

Post #12 of 15 (809 views)
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but the thoughtful moose [In reply to] Can't Post

a king and herd leader in his own right, was aware of the deeply hibernating elf, and by careful sniffing of the grasses was able to make out a trail through the appalling party debris, which even orcs would shy from.

Unable to rouse the slumbering elf with many moist tongue-licks, the great elk sighed, and lay down to protectively snuggle next to the elf. A passing fox found its eyes filling with tears at the touching sight, to its surprise.Cool


Lurker in the Mirk
Valinor


Jul 20 2014, 6:59am

Post #13 of 15 (782 views)
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smothered the Elf awake [In reply to] Can't Post

... with his own great body-heat, aided by the unusually brutal heat of the summer swelter. Thus, quickening the wilfully snoozing Elf to estivation. Finally, unable to continue any pretense of slumber, she opened her eyes to the moose gently nosing her hair with unusual interest. Flopping and dragging herself, she finally climbed onto the moose's mighty back, slumped as she fell back into a daze of waking sleep. It seemed to take forever but finally the moose reached the Forest, and with her still on his back, disappeared into the mirk.


Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.


Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)


Laugh 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! posted 16 Jul


"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

=======
Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


Avandel
Valinor

Jul 21 2014, 1:37am

Post #14 of 15 (763 views)
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the moose picked its way carefully through the undergrowth [In reply to] Can't Post

...carefully mindful of its exhausted, heat groggy passenger, that lay slumped across its back, flushed cheek pressed to its strong neck. But the heavy steamy haze and overwhelming smell of ripe vegetation wore at the moose, so it altered its course and trod ancient paths where it knew it would find solace.

The moose flared its nostrils as it neared its goal, and with strong strides easily plunged deep into the icy mountain stream waters. Alas, the shock of frigid fluid pouring into its boots so startled the slumbering elf, that it forsook its usually lighting fast reflexes and tumbled sideways into the freezing glacier-cooled water.

Another elf and dwarf (now BFFs after the amazing party) who were sharing some Old Toby and a bottle of salvaged wine streamside thought this was the funniest thing since a dwarf had got stuck in a wine barrel the night before.Cool


Kerewyn
Rohan


Aug 4 2014, 10:21pm

Post #15 of 15 (854 views)
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Weighing in late but... [In reply to] Can't Post

.. this has also given me a most entertaining evening! LaughLaughLaugh


Quote
The fires in the wonderful ice-blue eyes of the High King of Erebor softened as he descended easily from the shimmering piles of gold, sturdy boots finding familiar purchase from memory through the piles of shining cascading metal, the raven chieftain gripped to his shoulder like a living sculpture of polished onyx. The dirty thin stranger was momentarily dismissed from Thorin’s attention as he swept his Hobbit into a tremendous, rib-cracking hug. The eyes of the Dwarven Thralls filled became misty-eyed at the heartwarming sight.


I LOVE a good hobbit hug moment. *wipes away tears of joy* And that picture which illustrates this bit is just precious. Cool

Love so many parts of this Heart... and wow, what a cliff hanger...

'People don't know where I begin and latex ends, which has always been an ambition for me.' (Martin Freeman)

 
 

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