[piosenniel]

Elora's character - Vanwe

NAME: Vanwe

AGE: 120 (at the commencement of the 4th Age)

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS:

Vanwe possess a belt knife only, but will make do with whatever is to hand as she needs to. That includes anything or sometimes nothing, all depending on where she finds herself. Her limited wealth and propensity to leave in haste wherever she may be makes it difficult to accrue and keep any possessions, weapons included. Uneasy with weaponry, she prefers to avoid it if possible.

She has no armour apart from her wit and survival instinct.

APPEARANCE:
Vanwe is in many ways her mother’s daughter. She possesses the delicate beauty that is the hallmark of Finarfin’s descendants. Her hair is spun gold that falls long to her waist. Her face is evocative of her mother also. She has ivory skin, delicate facial bone structure, high cheekbones and high brow. Her eyes are a deep blue, sapphire, courtesy of her father. She is tall and lithe.

Vanwe’s clothing reflects her childhood in the Haradwaith. It is simple, worn and somewhat sparse by Elven sensibilities and custom. Her stature in the Haradwaith was low, and so she wears no gold or any jewelry. Vanwe wears a simple periwinkle blue cotton dress, acquired on the road when her southern clothing was in imminent danger of unraveling and brought much suspicion upon her whilst traveling. Gondor was still skirmishing and fighting with the Harondor in the opening years of the 4th Age. She also has heavy cloak, cotton, the colour of which is now indistinguishable. This is also acquired, at the time of her flight from the Haradwaith, and is her only protection from the weather. It shows signs of hard use and wear, much like her dress, and once was a deep indigo blue in kinder times. It has a deep hood in which Vanwe shelters from the elements and unwanted inspection and dwarfs her slender frame.

Vanwe wears worn boots on small feet of brown leather. They are light, for the heat of the Haradwaith and not well equipped for the cooler north. She has a belt of brown leather with a sturdy and distinctly mannish design. From it hangs a pouch and her belt knife, whatever else she has stowed there.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:
Vanwe is an unusual character for an Elf, attributable to both her parentage and how she was raised.

She is decidedly wary of strangers, a product of her upbringing. She has a keen intellect and a thoughtful demeanour. She can be withdrawn and shy, but once she warms to a person she is generally of good cheer. Vanwe is a little unsure of herself and has learnt that meekness can work to her advantage.

She is slow to trust, tends to underestimate herself and expects cruelty from other which she blames upon herself.

However, if nothing else Vanwe has the remarkable ability to survive most things. She is tenacious and when she believes she is cornered she is fierce. She has a natural affinity for music, inherited from her father. Like her mother, Vanwe is able to sense what cannot be seen. In her, this emerges as an ability to heal. She can sense injury and illness as “wrongness” and can manipulate it back to the way it seems it should be. This sensitivity is something she has inherited from her mother and her distant relative, Galadriel.

Vanwe often carves wood as an outlet for her anxiety and distress, finding the shapes she senses within them and setting them free, another example of her abilities. She has a love of beauty and peace. Vanwe is a skilled observer, quiet and fleet footed. Nimble and flexible, Vanwe can earn a living in a number of ways as she is quick to learn.

She is not criminally inclined in a general, but survival sometimes necessitates petty theft that plagues her with guilt even if it does fill her stomach. She can make a good living on the docks and streets with thievery, but this is a risky lifestyle for a lone young Elven woman and so she will exhaust other options first before resorting to theft. She has an aversion to authority that is hard to shake and very much prefers to slip into and out of places unnoticed as a general rule.

HISTORY:

Vanwe is the daughter of the infamous Naiore Dannan. Her mother was of extraordinary beauty and ability, related by birth to the mighty Elvenwise Queen Galadriel. Yet, Naiore chose instead a path of darkness that shamed and horrified her people and terrorized those she came to prey upon. Vanwe is the result of a nefarious union between her mother and the bard she had been betrothed to prior to her betrayal of her people. Menecin had never accepted Naiore’s choice in his heart and had pursued her through the years both in an effort to curtail Naiore’s activities and prove to himself that the woman he loved was not malevolent and twisted.
What came of that is not known to Vanwe, only that Naiore fell pregnant with Menecin’s child.

The Terror of Mordor for reasons known only to herself decided to bear the child and so Vanwe was born. Wanted in Gondor, Rohan, Mirkwood, Lothlorien, Rivendell, Hollin and the Shire, Naiore fled south into the heartlands of her chosen Master. In Harad where she had preyed unstoppable upon the people, Naiore delivered Vanwe in a small and isolated village, remote from the North and also Mordor. She remained long enough to instill such terror in the villagers so as not to dispose of her daughter and then vanished. Vanwe was abandoned without explanation once her mother was certain Vanwe would not arise in the future to trouble her. Her mother saw her as a potential threat and she never considered her daughter as a possible ally.

Vanwe was not welcomed by the villagers. Elven and the daughter of such a feared creature, she was treated with suspicion and resentment. The villagers saw he as some kind of demon spawn. She represented everything they feared and loathed of the north, of murdering Elves and of Mordor. Vanwe's differences from the children of the village were marked.

This only reinforced the chasm between her the people around her. Yet the possibility of Naiore returning to wreak her vengeance upon them was more terrifying than the quiet and sweet natured Elven child. In her early years, before she understood just how cruel people could be to that which they did not understand, Vanwe was given to laughter. This soon faded as she grew older.

Vanwe was cared for, in a fashion, collectively by the village. It was far from a happy childhood. At best she was isolated, alienated and feared. At worst, she was hated as the scion of evil and was the village’s scape goat for any and every disaster that beset them. Lest she exploit their weakness, Vanwe was treated with harsh discipline.

Being strong and clever, Vanwe soon proved of some use to the village. She readily took to the work given her, eager to earn some regard or reprieve. She was trusted so far as to tend to the animals. Life in Harad under the yoke of Mordor is harsh. Outsiders, especially possibly malevolent ones, were a threat no village wished no matter how beautiful the child. When visitors came, she was hidden away. Vanwe was excluded from celebrations and all meals. She ate alone, worked alone, with the exception of those instances where she had somehow come to the attention of the villagers through misfortune or misadventure.

She was seen as a possible bad luck omen by the superstitious villagers. Illness or untimely death in the village was also her doing. Her emerging abilities only further alienated her and inspired further mistrust. Mordor had been instilling in the people of Harad myth and lies about the people of the North, particularly Elves, for generations. Naiore had been the principle agent of that fear campaign, and her daughter paid a costly price. Yet it was the only home she knew, and so Vanwe remained.

As the years rolled past, Vanwe found the fragmented yet vivid memories from early childhood that were empty and devoid of a mother or father did not fade. Like all Elves, she lived them when she slept. An innate curiosity about her own roots grew within her. For a long while, Vanwe spoke to no one of her desire to know more about her origins. When at last she ventured a question, she was hurried into an emergency Village Council and stood before the Village Elders. It was then that she learnt of the terrible woman that was her mother. To the villagers, Naiore was akin to a demon and they saw her reaching for her terrible doom.

Vanwe emerged from that grueling night with their stories, fantastic and seemingly improbable, spinning in her mind, torn and bruised. The Villagers, concerned that Vanwe’s approach to maturity over 100 years would bring her mother back, prompted the fearful re-telling of tales about her mother, some were accurate and some had accrued embroidering of details.

For Vanwe, the shame was an intense pain that haunted her every step. No one could tell of her father, and her questions only grew in number. She grew steadily more determined to get to the bottom of it all, and come to know the truth of both her mother and her father.

When the spring celebration of a good season came to the Village, Vanwe slipped free amidst the bustle as the Villager’s got on with their annual celebrations. It was the year 3021 T.A. Young by elven standards and poorly experienced, Vanwe’s first months of freedom were both terrifying and dangerous. She emerged from the perils of innocence and a hard road in one piece mainly by the grace of providence and her sharp wits. She always learnt her lesson quickly.

By chance or design, Vanwe gravitated towards to coast. By sheer good fortune and determination, she survived the waste of Harad and came to Umbar, where she picked up the trail of her mother. She found employment, shelter and food by whatever means necessary. It was a precarious existence, but it was free of the village. She resolved never to return that hell again.

Vanwe was becoming adept at mastering her environment to varying levels of control. On the coast and particularly in the docks of Harondor, Vanwe excelled in survival. She slowly made her way north, earning passage on a ship to Dol Amroth. Quite unaware she was in the original homeland of both her parents, whom hailed from the Bay of Belfalas, Vanwe set about searching out any little thing she could of them. It was not long before she realized that it was not only the villagers that loathed and feared her mother’s name. Vanwe spent some time in custody, suspected of being Naiore. It left an indelible impression upon her, her new freedom replaced by dank cells and bars.

Across Gondor she drifted and then through Rohan, a land that had particularly cruel experiences with Naiore Dannan. Vanwe learnt to be more circumspect and cautious with her inquiries. However, she asked a wrong question of the wrong person and it brought her to the attention of the Riddermark. The experience taught Vanwe that she may as well be her mother by the time she wiggled free of the mess. Her appearance only worked against her. With a now strong aversion to soldiers, warriors, lords, bailiffs and any other possible authority figure including the Village Elder, Vanwe continued to drift north on the scant trail left by her mother.

She slowly gathered information on Naiore and Menecin. Rumors conflict, suggesting that one or both are dead and simultaneously alive and in hiding. Where and from what depended on who she spoke to. It is a frustrating puzzle, and Vanwe is not helped by the fact that she feels it necessary to mostly avoid the lands her mother is still wanted and hunted in. In those lands, particularly those of Lothlorien and Rivendell, a young Elven maiden cast adrift in the wide world could learn much. It is precisely those places that Vanwe assiduously avoids.

The recognises the latent threat in Rangers as she moves further north, another peril to navigate. She also fears that the village are hunting her. Out of place in the world of Men, strangely odd to her own kindred and treated as most Elves are by most Dwarves, she moves on the ebb and flow of the current of the mortal lands.

She strives ever to learn but it is the haphazard and unpredictable manner of her circumstances, tossed hither and thither, that is perhaps her undoing. She is terrified of the very people that could aid her and show her the place that is hers in the world.

_____________________________________________

SEE REWORKED POST FOR VANWE - PAGE 2

Elora's post for Vanwe

… The water dripped in a regular ceaseless rhythm throughout the day, the night and the day. It was broken up by the scratching of rats in the straw, perhaps a wet and hacking cough nearby or a croaked song that had taken possession of a man’s voice and raised it like a tattered flag of insanity against the reality of the bars. Torchlight flickered fittfully against slick and dark stones as through the flames resented their presence, free as they were from the bars but locked in damp darkness. They would come by regularly, sometimes relighting torches that had rebelled and gone out. Some brought a hard bread that was passed through the bars. That marked the beginning of another day. Sometimes it was water. That marked the night. It was race to claim bread or water before the rats did.

In that bleakness, a spider spun a silken web in the far corner of her cell. The strands caught the intermittent torch light, tiny gems caught in the web to dazzle unwary observers. It would float in the icy blast of wind that raced down the passage every time the outer main door would open. Then the sound of boots would start, counter tempo to the dripping water. There had been a lot of boots on the stone one morning after the bred had been pushed through the bars. The tiny jewels in the spider’s web became fiery with torch light that they had brought with them. She remembered that. It was beautiful, even if everything else was not and she had smiled faintly in that grimness to behold it.

The men had golden hair, like hers in many respects and yet not. It fell thickly around their shoulders, sometimes braided. Her own was a more delicate shade, lighter in weight and smoother in texture. Some clutched helms under their arms. Their torches glinted off mail. It was not as fair as the spider’s web. She remembered a saying as she took in their grim presence. Silk was stronger than steel. She looked into their faces and wondered about that.

One of them had produced a large iron circle. Many keys jangled discordantly from it. He fitted one to the lock at her bars. The others stepped back, hands tightening around sword hilts that jutted from their belt encircled hips. She looked back up at the spider’s web as the door creaked in protest at its opening. Two men stepped through.

“On your feet,” one roughly ordered in Westron. He glowered at her. She did as she was told.
“We need more light,” the other one spat over his shoulder. Men slowly stepped closer to the bars. They held their torches out, relucant to cast light on those within. She was struck by the realisation that they did not really want to see what they thought they were going to.

“Move but a muscle and you die,” intoned the man who had first spoke. She believed him. The other renewed his grip on his hilt, swallowed hard and stepped forward. He tipped her chin up, his fingers hard and rough against her skin. She stared blankly ahead, not daring to breathe. She heard movement, the sound of paper being folded.

“She is reported as claiming her name to be Vanwe,” he said. Doubt was in his voice, tempered also by suspicion and a dangerous anger that could flare brighter than any torch at any moment. Vanwe could smell it. She knew its scent well.
“Perhaps it is so, Farald. Look at her,” urged the man who held her chin so tightly.

“I’ve seen that face often enough,” the other replied heavily. She heard the paper bunch in his fist.
“Then by what sorcery did she achieve this?”

She saw two faces crowd her vision. They peered at her in silence. One shook his head as the other released her chin. She sagged back at the sudden change in balance, recovering quickly. A curse hissed in the silence, and somewhere else someone laughed blindly to fill the hole that insanity left in his mind.

“Silence,” roared one of the men in her cell. He cast her another glance. She lowered her eyes and mentally withdrew. If the anger came now, it was best she was not here. She knew what that glance meant. It was best if she was far away when it started. It was easier.

“It is not her Farald,” the other said.
“You had best hope that it is not,” Farald spat. He turned on his boot heel and stalked from her cell.

“What about her,” a man called after him.
“She can go. If I find her again, she’ll not fare so well. Rohan has had more than it’s share of the wider world and it’s Elves.” His voice floated back down behind him. There was a blast of air as the main door was opened. The men followed him, boot steps filling the prison's sagging emptiness once more. One remained by the open door to her cell.

“I would be swift, were I you. This is no place to dawdle with the doom of Rohan on your head,” he said. He walked away, a slow and measured tread. She watched him open the main door and pull his helm on. he had reports to make. Naiore Dannan was not in custody as they had thought. Those who already readied the gallows would have to wait a little longer. After 12 years and centuries of suffering, a little longer was both an instant and an eternity.

Vanwe ran then, the wind at her heels. She ran running fast, past grass and trees and village. Faster and faster, away from Rohan who nearly hanged her in mistake. Away from Umbar and the slave galleys where soldiers had nearly sold her when their error in her identity was known. North, where her mother had gone it was said and perhaps where her father was buried. Mirkwood, loomed ahead of her. It would be an arduous task to avoid those within it…


“Come Vanwe, the horses are missing you and will not take their breakfast!”

She groggily pushed herself up and out of her bed and dreams. Morning light shone through the open hay doors in a warm puddle. Pulling her dress over her head, Vanwe climbed down the ladder from the stable loft as the Deruvin chuckled good naturedly outside in a giddying contrast to her recently left dreams and rememberances. She pushed open the stable doors, stretching as she did so, and turned back to see to the horses. Some whickered at her as if the innkeeper had spoken truly. Vanwe smiled quietly and soon had the stable’s guests on their way to the day pasture.

She returned to an empty stable, collected rake, shovel, buckets and broom and began the morning’s work. Soon, the spider that sat in one of the many webs in the stable’s rafters had her song to keep her company. Vanwe hummed it, a lilting southern melody as she worked. It was odd, to have fled Rohan only to finish here, tending horses of all creatures. In the sunlight the cold memory faded a little and her song picked up strength. The spider caught the early morning rays in its web to lure and bewilder wandering breakfasts, lunches and suppers as the Elf worked below.

Her thoughts wandered. What would the day bring? Would she be any closer to what she sought? That was an interesting question. What did she seek? Sometimes she thought it was peace and freedom, but then there would be neither without knowing of her parents. She had accepted that fate long ago now. As she swept and raked, her song shifted to a more merry melody.

Would the Ranger return today? He had said he would return and wished to speak with her. She was unwise to seek his company, for Rangers had proved as perilious as the soldiers of Gondor and the Riddermark of Rohan. Still he had spoken gently and did lay upon her shoulders the crimes of her mother. He did looked at her and did not see only her mother's face. He had given her the name of a star.

Vanwe's song was ended by a call from the Inn.

"Vanwe, hurry! Cook's wanting to know why you haven't had breakfast and she'll accept no explanation from anyone else!"

She quickly stowed the broom, rake, shovel and now empty wheelbarrow and raced from the stables towards the inn with a contrite expression on her face. Cook was determined to have her resembling a hobbit in girth. Her golden hair streamed behind her as she crossed the intervening distance on long legs, rubbing her hands on whatever skirt material came to hand hastily.

Vanwe pushed open the door to the inn, spied Cook waiting with stern expression in place and entered. The inn door closed on her words. "I was just seeing to the horses!"

"Those horses eat better than you do, missy! I expect an Elf to have more sense than a herd of shaggy ponies and mismatched horses."

[ September 03, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]