Post by snowhawk on Oct 15, 2008 9:02:26 GMT -5
Here is something I have kinda been working on. Just was thinking about a chronicle of the kinship if you will. I included the first people I came in contact with in the kinship and made a story of them in my own mind. I know it’s probably nowhere close to how you see your characters. But I like to have a little imagination in that area. I will be including each member in different chapters to fill the storyline. If you don’t like the way I portray your character please let me know, I don’t want anyone to be offended by it. I look at this more of a short story or in book form.
The night sky grew silent once again, the chilled winds of the Misty Mountains penetrating the darkness as the few creatures that skittered about sought their own refuge. Drawing his cloak tighter about his shivering frame, Snowhawk took solace in the flames that danced before him, the small fire crackling and leaping toward the cloudless night sky. Only a month before had his surroundings been different, desolate and broken. Angmar. The very name would send fragile men fleeing to their homes, seeking comfort from the terror that only myths and legends are born of. Looking down, his eyes begin to grow weary, his once proud midnight black beard, now a very dull grey, almost white as the snow that is now falling about him. His tired mind drifts back to Gath Forthnir, a small cave hidden in Himbar. Home to the free peoples of Middle-earth, defenders of what some would call a lost cause, whose sole purpose is to keep those locked away in the keeps of Urugarth and Carn Dum, from advancing any further than the passes of Rhunenam and Nan Gurth. A fool’s errand? Once you had been there, you would know otherwise, for their hearts are as those of champions of old, defenders of the true faith. The evil of Angmar will not prevail in Middle-earth.
Snowhawk’s heartbeat begins to pound faster in his chest, his breathing becomes shallow as his mind races back to that night. The air was crisp, yet the stench of far off Barad Gulard overwhelms the senses. Looking up into the night sky, seeking even one star through the haze of desolation, for surely this land has not seen the sun in many thousands of years. Evidence of it is apparent in the landscape, broken, torn, dead. Here the sun never shines, for it is the bane of all those of Angmar. Orc, goblins, trolls. All wretched creations of Mordor. Blood as black as pitch, and as foul as any witches heart. Almost lost in thought and dream, Snowhawk hears his companion’s voices, seemingly undaunted by the despair around them. Laughter, music even, must have made the wargs howl in agony off in the distance. Looking back at the flames lapping eagerly at the rotted wood, scarce as it is, Snowhawk hears the familiar voice of Thornspine, a hunter of renown, born of the race of elves, yet even I hear tell the mighty archers of elf kind find his abilities, unnatural. Always does his arrow find it’s mark, the bow and him are one. As though he were fashioned from the same black ash in his mother’s womb. As Snowhawk’s eye marvel at the delicate craftsmanship of the bow, he hears Thornspine calling to him. His voice quick, yet even in tone, “Come friend Snow, join us here at the fire, Ithaca was about to regale us with a cheerful song to break the spell of despair in this hostile place.” Moving slowly toward the fire, he looks about at the small fellowship, companions in deed and valour. The glint of a mighty shield catches Snowhawk’s eye, heavy it is, dented with many blows, whether from Orc, trolls or men, he was not sure. He knew he would have a hard time wielding such a shield, but Dregun the dwarf seem to have little trouble. Trained in the art battle, although compassion would seem to be his true ally. Snowhawk had seen many times over, Dregun’s ability to take blow after blow, with out breaking stride of step or sword. His shield was like a part of him, flowing with his every move. His yell would cower the mightiest hearts of Mordor ilk. The dwarves were of sturdy stock. Like pieces of the mountain they call home. Never has he seen this dwarf cower in the midst of certain doom and destruction.
As we three sat listening to Ithaca ease their moods with lyrics of the past, a scream breaks the night air. Not your normal scream of terror or dread, but a yell that shatters the strongest willed Uruk, a yell so daunting, so filled with rage, that those around it stand dazed and unable to move, no matter how much they would desire to run. Lightning breaks the sky; the smell of burnt flesh fills the air, Orc flesh. The crack of the three glowing bolts causes all of us to cover our eyes and ears. Another ground shattering yell echo’s all about us, being rebounding to the high walls below, if one could look that far, they would see the very doors of Barad Gulard shutter and flex. We look toward the west, wondering what would meet us coming up the path. Each of us readies our weapons. Dregun’s shield held high, his dexterity uncanny for someone in such heavy armour, but years of training have yielded both strength and endurance, instinctively he steps in front of Thornspine, Ithaca and I. In a blink of an eye, Thornspine’s bow is at the ready, slim black ash shaft nocked, it’s point coated with refined oil, which causes great pain to its intended target. As we wait, poised for whatever horror may appear over the small rise, we are greeted by, of all things, a smile. Dregun let out a hearty dwarven laugh as he lowers his shield. Nimlaeth stands tall, slender frame girded in the fine elven armour, sword resting in her right hand, battered shield in her left, the fresh black ichor of orcs blood dripping from the finely honed blade. Tilting her dark mane slightly, she stares intently at Dregun with a small smirk on her face, “And just what do you find so amusing?” Dregun’s laugh increases, as he feigns a mock bow, and returns to the warmth of the fire. Thornspine and Snowhawk stand a little perplexed, and Thornspine is the first to speak, “You just couldn’t leave them be could you, always you have to taunt Blogmal’s to rage.” “Of course” she says with a faint, mischievous smile, “ But I didn’t start this one, you will have to ask Lodinn about this little adventure.” Pointing over the rise, Lodinn comes over the bluff, carrying a quite interesting trophy. Lifting the head of the Orc for all of us to see, displaying it like child’s doll. Nimlaeth shakes her head, the midnight tassels of her blood-smeared hair waving in the Himbar wind as she makes her way to the campsite. Her armour covered in the blood of the orcs, as she rest her sword and great shield against a boulder, stomping her armoured foot intently upon the dusty earth. “Now see, it’s going to take me weeks to get this filth off my armour, and I just spent the last few days polishing it up to a nice sheen.”
Nimlaeth, proud Guardian of elves and all free people of middle-earth. Eyes sharp, calculating, and cunning in her tactics. Many a dark creation of Mordor has fallen to her deadly sword. She had worked her way through the ranks of the elven regiments. Taunted at times for being a female in a position normally reserved for men, or those of royal cast. Her family pleading with her to follow the family tradition of healing and herb-lore. Nimlaeth knew she could not, would not. She the warrior’s heart, her mother knew Nimlaeth had been blessed or cursed, with the Guardians Spirit. Known for her bravery in battle, and resolve in the face of death, she inspires those around her. Strong, never wavering, she lifts her shield high for all the free peoples of Middle-earth. Always vigilant and true to the code, her training continues through the tutelage of Dregun, whose lifespan of skills in the art of the Shield Guardian passes on to her. Theirs is an odd tandem, dwarf, elf. Laughing quietly to himself, Snowhawk’s gaze falls upon the mystical Lodinn.
Though no one is quite sure of Lodinn’s origination, his command of the elements and ability to commune with nature has placed him as one to be respected for his wisdom by his those whom he calls friends, and feared by his enemies. It still astounds Snowhawk how Lodinn is able to call forth friends of nature out of virtual nothingness. Though not ordinary beast, these beasts obey his every command, fighting at his side with a fierce resolve. Lodinn throws the severed Orc head over the side of the ragged cliff, the sounds of it’s decent can be heard as it rebounds off the walls, shattering the burnt skull as it finds it’s finally resting place. No sooner had the head hit the blackened earth below, the sounds of feasting can be heard, as dark creatures devour the pro offered meal. The company all make their way to where Nimlaeth is already sitting, scrubbing furiously against the now tarnished armour. Whispering to herself, “ Aye many an Orc will pay for this, mark my words Sauron.” Even mentioning the name of the Dark lord causes a tiny shutter to run up Snowhawk’s back. Looking behind him, Snowhawk notices Lodinn, communing once again with what appears to be a lynx. But not of normal size mind you, this creature of the mist is as big as any Warg he has seen, and twice as devastating. His mind drifts back to an occasion when he saw the full fury of Lodinn unleashed. Closing his eyes, he recounts the battle that almost ended not only his life, but those his companions…
Chronicles of Iluvatar's Helm
The night sky grew silent once again, the chilled winds of the Misty Mountains penetrating the darkness as the few creatures that skittered about sought their own refuge. Drawing his cloak tighter about his shivering frame, Snowhawk took solace in the flames that danced before him, the small fire crackling and leaping toward the cloudless night sky. Only a month before had his surroundings been different, desolate and broken. Angmar. The very name would send fragile men fleeing to their homes, seeking comfort from the terror that only myths and legends are born of. Looking down, his eyes begin to grow weary, his once proud midnight black beard, now a very dull grey, almost white as the snow that is now falling about him. His tired mind drifts back to Gath Forthnir, a small cave hidden in Himbar. Home to the free peoples of Middle-earth, defenders of what some would call a lost cause, whose sole purpose is to keep those locked away in the keeps of Urugarth and Carn Dum, from advancing any further than the passes of Rhunenam and Nan Gurth. A fool’s errand? Once you had been there, you would know otherwise, for their hearts are as those of champions of old, defenders of the true faith. The evil of Angmar will not prevail in Middle-earth.
Snowhawk’s heartbeat begins to pound faster in his chest, his breathing becomes shallow as his mind races back to that night. The air was crisp, yet the stench of far off Barad Gulard overwhelms the senses. Looking up into the night sky, seeking even one star through the haze of desolation, for surely this land has not seen the sun in many thousands of years. Evidence of it is apparent in the landscape, broken, torn, dead. Here the sun never shines, for it is the bane of all those of Angmar. Orc, goblins, trolls. All wretched creations of Mordor. Blood as black as pitch, and as foul as any witches heart. Almost lost in thought and dream, Snowhawk hears his companion’s voices, seemingly undaunted by the despair around them. Laughter, music even, must have made the wargs howl in agony off in the distance. Looking back at the flames lapping eagerly at the rotted wood, scarce as it is, Snowhawk hears the familiar voice of Thornspine, a hunter of renown, born of the race of elves, yet even I hear tell the mighty archers of elf kind find his abilities, unnatural. Always does his arrow find it’s mark, the bow and him are one. As though he were fashioned from the same black ash in his mother’s womb. As Snowhawk’s eye marvel at the delicate craftsmanship of the bow, he hears Thornspine calling to him. His voice quick, yet even in tone, “Come friend Snow, join us here at the fire, Ithaca was about to regale us with a cheerful song to break the spell of despair in this hostile place.” Moving slowly toward the fire, he looks about at the small fellowship, companions in deed and valour. The glint of a mighty shield catches Snowhawk’s eye, heavy it is, dented with many blows, whether from Orc, trolls or men, he was not sure. He knew he would have a hard time wielding such a shield, but Dregun the dwarf seem to have little trouble. Trained in the art battle, although compassion would seem to be his true ally. Snowhawk had seen many times over, Dregun’s ability to take blow after blow, with out breaking stride of step or sword. His shield was like a part of him, flowing with his every move. His yell would cower the mightiest hearts of Mordor ilk. The dwarves were of sturdy stock. Like pieces of the mountain they call home. Never has he seen this dwarf cower in the midst of certain doom and destruction.
As we three sat listening to Ithaca ease their moods with lyrics of the past, a scream breaks the night air. Not your normal scream of terror or dread, but a yell that shatters the strongest willed Uruk, a yell so daunting, so filled with rage, that those around it stand dazed and unable to move, no matter how much they would desire to run. Lightning breaks the sky; the smell of burnt flesh fills the air, Orc flesh. The crack of the three glowing bolts causes all of us to cover our eyes and ears. Another ground shattering yell echo’s all about us, being rebounding to the high walls below, if one could look that far, they would see the very doors of Barad Gulard shutter and flex. We look toward the west, wondering what would meet us coming up the path. Each of us readies our weapons. Dregun’s shield held high, his dexterity uncanny for someone in such heavy armour, but years of training have yielded both strength and endurance, instinctively he steps in front of Thornspine, Ithaca and I. In a blink of an eye, Thornspine’s bow is at the ready, slim black ash shaft nocked, it’s point coated with refined oil, which causes great pain to its intended target. As we wait, poised for whatever horror may appear over the small rise, we are greeted by, of all things, a smile. Dregun let out a hearty dwarven laugh as he lowers his shield. Nimlaeth stands tall, slender frame girded in the fine elven armour, sword resting in her right hand, battered shield in her left, the fresh black ichor of orcs blood dripping from the finely honed blade. Tilting her dark mane slightly, she stares intently at Dregun with a small smirk on her face, “And just what do you find so amusing?” Dregun’s laugh increases, as he feigns a mock bow, and returns to the warmth of the fire. Thornspine and Snowhawk stand a little perplexed, and Thornspine is the first to speak, “You just couldn’t leave them be could you, always you have to taunt Blogmal’s to rage.” “Of course” she says with a faint, mischievous smile, “ But I didn’t start this one, you will have to ask Lodinn about this little adventure.” Pointing over the rise, Lodinn comes over the bluff, carrying a quite interesting trophy. Lifting the head of the Orc for all of us to see, displaying it like child’s doll. Nimlaeth shakes her head, the midnight tassels of her blood-smeared hair waving in the Himbar wind as she makes her way to the campsite. Her armour covered in the blood of the orcs, as she rest her sword and great shield against a boulder, stomping her armoured foot intently upon the dusty earth. “Now see, it’s going to take me weeks to get this filth off my armour, and I just spent the last few days polishing it up to a nice sheen.”
Nimlaeth, proud Guardian of elves and all free people of middle-earth. Eyes sharp, calculating, and cunning in her tactics. Many a dark creation of Mordor has fallen to her deadly sword. She had worked her way through the ranks of the elven regiments. Taunted at times for being a female in a position normally reserved for men, or those of royal cast. Her family pleading with her to follow the family tradition of healing and herb-lore. Nimlaeth knew she could not, would not. She the warrior’s heart, her mother knew Nimlaeth had been blessed or cursed, with the Guardians Spirit. Known for her bravery in battle, and resolve in the face of death, she inspires those around her. Strong, never wavering, she lifts her shield high for all the free peoples of Middle-earth. Always vigilant and true to the code, her training continues through the tutelage of Dregun, whose lifespan of skills in the art of the Shield Guardian passes on to her. Theirs is an odd tandem, dwarf, elf. Laughing quietly to himself, Snowhawk’s gaze falls upon the mystical Lodinn.
Though no one is quite sure of Lodinn’s origination, his command of the elements and ability to commune with nature has placed him as one to be respected for his wisdom by his those whom he calls friends, and feared by his enemies. It still astounds Snowhawk how Lodinn is able to call forth friends of nature out of virtual nothingness. Though not ordinary beast, these beasts obey his every command, fighting at his side with a fierce resolve. Lodinn throws the severed Orc head over the side of the ragged cliff, the sounds of it’s decent can be heard as it rebounds off the walls, shattering the burnt skull as it finds it’s finally resting place. No sooner had the head hit the blackened earth below, the sounds of feasting can be heard, as dark creatures devour the pro offered meal. The company all make their way to where Nimlaeth is already sitting, scrubbing furiously against the now tarnished armour. Whispering to herself, “ Aye many an Orc will pay for this, mark my words Sauron.” Even mentioning the name of the Dark lord causes a tiny shutter to run up Snowhawk’s back. Looking behind him, Snowhawk notices Lodinn, communing once again with what appears to be a lynx. But not of normal size mind you, this creature of the mist is as big as any Warg he has seen, and twice as devastating. His mind drifts back to an occasion when he saw the full fury of Lodinn unleashed. Closing his eyes, he recounts the battle that almost ended not only his life, but those his companions…