The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - Castle Maladil

Gandalf_theGrey · 04-12-2003, 11:51 PM

"On your mark, … get set, …go!"

They were off in a flash of hoof and a gleam of mane, Midnight racing Mornen and Alearindu, and all of them racing against the passage of time that could see Orc reinforcements return against a Castle undermanned and now unhaunted. For the last of the ghosts had all gone with the sun's rising, Tiroedrath and Guilin and Halblung vanishing into the dewy morning mist with a final flourishing bow to the company as two dropped swords and a halberd clattered to rest. Daerohil had scampered off his usual cheerful self with a hope, a skip and a jump after Gandalf had promised to find the lad someday in a new and merrier hiding place in Valinor.

After a final glance at the rival horse, Midnight neighed, pawed the ground, flicked his haunches to adjust and readjust his gilt saddle with its message-scroll entrusted to him with an encouraging pat on his haunches by the grey man. At the shout of "go!" Midnight scrabbled into full gallop towards the Northeast. Mornen with a shake of the mane stared ahead as though the goal were already in sight as Alearindu offered final words of heart and coaching. The ranger and Mornen took to the Northwest, Mornen springing into speed like an arrow singing into a bulls-eye. They'd see who'd make it first to the Rangers' Cabin just Southwest of Sarn Ford. Winning horse would get first class accommodations inside the stables of the Trade Inn, losing horse would rough it outside the Rangers' Cabin.

Gandalf was very pleased that those in the company who chose treasure had done so wisely. Aislan's gold-inlaid currycomb from the stables and Poppy's, Menelduliniel's, and Estelarion's gold coins from the sack Maladil had dropped in the doorway of the front entrance, Nardol's harp inherited from Kenelm, meant that there'd been no traps to contend with. Searching for and disarming any traps set inside Laurëondo would be the wizard's task this day, with Anna as his guide.

************************************************** ***************

One day passed, then another.

It was eleven o'clock at night by Shire reckoning. Calenoreien had just passed the Trade Inn. She'd follow the road South for a short ways until her eyes could discern by moonlight the faint markings to the West indicating the Rangers' Cabin. Calen had a friend she wanted to wish farewell, before making her discreet way across Shire land towards the Grey Havens. The Elf could envision the waiting ship rising and falling on gentle swells of coastal water even now. Taking one hand off the reins of Celebrama, she reached down into the middle pouch around her waist. Yes, there it was. The wood carving of a gull, smoothly curving against her palm. Not quite complete. Neither was the feeling. Yet some feeling had drawn her to this path this night.

Mat Rushlight looked up, blinked at a soft-glimmering figure in his path, knuckled his sword tighter, stopped in his tracks, drew in his breath, let it out in a rasping exhale. Elvish, but substantial, not a ghost, not a threat. Mat took to trudging again. Bree was not far. But the Bree he knew would never be found. His life as a chandler had been dimmed, as a beekeeper made less sweet, now that his wife Linea and daughter Edwina were no more, no more themselves.

Calenoreien paled aghast at the Man scuffling before her going North, his head down, arm bent half to the ground with upraised sword, hair wild and eyes faraway and staring at ills unseen. "Hello, fellow traveler by night. I see you have neither food pouch nor water skin. Stop awhile and find refreshment under a friendly light of moon and stars."

As the idea of a prolonged halt hit him, Mat's knees buckled, try as he might to use his sword for a walking stick. Dropping down into a sitting position, he waited like a child at the edge of a fading dream whose mother bustled about the kitchen getting together bacon and eggs while his father beat out a steady rhythm chopping extra wood. He was handed a bite of lembas and a decanter of water, and eagerly downed both. "How may I thank you?"

"Tell me how you came to this path this night."

Mat launched into his jumbled rambling tale of a wagon beset by Orcs, the capture of himself along with his kith and kin, their being carried off to the dungeon at the cursed Castle Maladil, the death … and worse, of all the rest, the door to his cell incredibly swinging open, his run to freedom.

After procuring a room for Mat Rushlight at the Trade Inn, Calenoreien strode back to the stables to reclaim her silvery-grey horse Celebrama. There she caught sight of a Ranger she recognized, struggling to coax a black war steed inside the stables. "Aw come on Midnight, Mornen would be inside this stable instead of you, if only you could have come just five minutes later! Rules are rules, and you won! Be a good winner now." But the war steed bedecked with golden saddle backed away from the lantern-lit stables to melt against night's inky darkness, put its head down, and plucked at the greensward, heedless of any protestations.

[ April 23, 2003: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]

04-12-2003, 11:51 PM	#406
Gandalf_theGrey Visionary Spirit Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 633	"On your mark, … get set, …go!" They were off in a flash of hoof and a gleam of mane, Midnight racing Mornen and Alearindu, and all of them racing against the passage of time that could see Orc reinforcements return against a Castle undermanned and now unhaunted. For the last of the ghosts had all gone with the sun's rising, Tiroedrath and Guilin and Halblung vanishing into the dewy morning mist with a final flourishing bow to the company as two dropped swords and a halberd clattered to rest. Daerohil had scampered off his usual cheerful self with a hope, a skip and a jump after Gandalf had promised to find the lad someday in a new and merrier hiding place in Valinor. After a final glance at the rival horse, Midnight neighed, pawed the ground, flicked his haunches to adjust and readjust his gilt saddle with its message-scroll entrusted to him with an encouraging pat on his haunches by the grey man. At the shout of "go!" Midnight scrabbled into full gallop towards the Northeast. Mornen with a shake of the mane stared ahead as though the goal were already in sight as Alearindu offered final words of heart and coaching. The ranger and Mornen took to the Northwest, Mornen springing into speed like an arrow singing into a bulls-eye. They'd see who'd make it first to the Rangers' Cabin just Southwest of Sarn Ford. Winning horse would get first class accommodations inside the stables of the Trade Inn, losing horse would rough it outside the Rangers' Cabin. Gandalf was very pleased that those in the company who chose treasure had done so wisely. Aislan's gold-inlaid currycomb from the stables and Poppy's, Menelduliniel's, and Estelarion's gold coins from the sack Maladil had dropped in the doorway of the front entrance, Nardol's harp inherited from Kenelm, meant that there'd been no traps to contend with. Searching for and disarming any traps set inside Laurëondo would be the wizard's task this day, with Anna as his guide. ************************************************ ************* One day passed, then another. It was eleven o'clock at night by Shire reckoning. Calenoreien had just passed the Trade Inn. She'd follow the road South for a short ways until her eyes could discern by moonlight the faint markings to the West indicating the Rangers' Cabin. Calen had a friend she wanted to wish farewell, before making her discreet way across Shire land towards the Grey Havens. The Elf could envision the waiting ship rising and falling on gentle swells of coastal water even now. Taking one hand off the reins of Celebrama, she reached down into the middle pouch around her waist. Yes, there it was. The wood carving of a gull, smoothly curving against her palm. Not quite complete. Neither was the feeling. Yet some feeling had drawn her to this path this night. Mat Rushlight looked up, blinked at a soft-glimmering figure in his path, knuckled his sword tighter, stopped in his tracks, drew in his breath, let it out in a rasping exhale. Elvish, but substantial, not a ghost, not a threat. Mat took to trudging again. Bree was not far. But the Bree he knew would never be found. His life as a chandler had been dimmed, as a beekeeper made less sweet, now that his wife Linea and daughter Edwina were no more, no more themselves. Calenoreien paled aghast at the Man scuffling before her going North, his head down, arm bent half to the ground with upraised sword, hair wild and eyes faraway and staring at ills unseen. "Hello, fellow traveler by night. I see you have neither food pouch nor water skin. Stop awhile and find refreshment under a friendly light of moon and stars." As the idea of a prolonged halt hit him, Mat's knees buckled, try as he might to use his sword for a walking stick. Dropping down into a sitting position, he waited like a child at the edge of a fading dream whose mother bustled about the kitchen getting together bacon and eggs while his father beat out a steady rhythm chopping extra wood. He was handed a bite of lembas and a decanter of water, and eagerly downed both. "How may I thank you?" "Tell me how you came to this path this night." Mat launched into his jumbled rambling tale of a wagon beset by Orcs, the capture of himself along with his kith and kin, their being carried off to the dungeon at the cursed Castle Maladil, the death … and worse, of all the rest, the door to his cell incredibly swinging open, his run to freedom. After procuring a room for Mat Rushlight at the Trade Inn, Calenoreien strode back to the stables to reclaim her silvery-grey horse Celebrama. There she caught sight of a Ranger she recognized, struggling to coax a black war steed inside the stables. "Aw come on Midnight, Mornen would be inside this stable instead of you, if only you could have come just five minutes later! Rules are rules, and you won! Be a good winner now." But the war steed bedecked with golden saddle backed away from the lantern-lit stables to melt against night's inky darkness, put its head down, and plucked at the greensward, heedless of any protestations. [ April 23, 2003: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]