Blood Moon [Fourth Age Year 121?] [Tika Adhikari]
Jan 29, 2019 17:51:49 GMT -5
Post by TAERETHOR on Jan 29, 2019 17:51:49 GMT -5
In Harithilien, Fourth Age Year 121?
South Ithilien, East of the Crossings of Poros near the roots of the Ephel Duath.
South Ithilien, East of the Crossings of Poros near the roots of the Ephel Duath.
“’Tis a blood moon, an ill omen,” Ianhil whispered, as the two rangers peered out through the scraggled treeline, watching the red full moon rise over the mountains of Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow, which encircled the cursed volcanic realm.
Taerethor’s boots stepped soft upon the land, his breath coming in a mist of vapor before his eyes as he clasped gloved hands together beneath his cloak to warm them. An icy wind gusted down the dark cliffs of Ephel Duath as the clouds were parted enough to see the celestial figure high above, burning in the night with cold light. He stared upon the moon, remaining silent as he stepped forth to see it, though feet not bypassing the dark shadow cast upon the night earth. A rotten apple crushed beneath his foot, and his nose curled as he looked down to swipe his boot against the dried grass and brush it off. The stars where brighter while the light of the moon was dimmed.
Wolves yipped and howled in the distance, and Taerethor listened, closing his mind to the sounds alone as he picked the individual sounds of their voices from the fray. Ianhil was watching him, and after a pause of minutes, whispered, “How many?”
“Six voices,” Taerethor answered, his eyes back on the moon, and then he tilted his chin to the direction of the wolves. Six, though he knew not if they were wolves of the this land. Six wolves off the rolling hills of Harondor would be no struggle to two rangers who were upwind of them. If they were wolves which had crossed the ragged passes of the dark lands, however, they would need take care. His bow taken up in one hand.
The Haradrim had been pouring through the crossings of Poros off to the west of where the rangers patrolled, month after month, more attempted the Harad road as these people sought the Morgul Vale and the lands beyond.
The people of Harad had always feared the forests of Harithilien. The land here bore the remnants of ages past when the Nandor had dwelled; once having been among the most fertile basin in Arda for the gifts given by those who could commune with the spirits of the forest. The land was almost it’s own being; still cleaving to the ancient magic, and self healing. After all the battles and blights of men through the ages, the shrubs had grown up, and the forest grew wild in protection of their own. Considered haunted, they were loathe to walk upon the ground, though not only for the way the forests were able to self heal, but for the lurking danger. The Rangers of Ithilien sought the heavy price of blood for intruders. The Harad road had been washed in blood that morning as a small force scouting north had been trapped on both sides. One hostage had been taken back to Bar Húrin for questioning. One man had escaped to these eastern woods. The rest had been slain.
Ianhil and Taerethor had been sent to scout the border of the land along the river Poros, while several others sought deeper in the woods. The sound of the wolves let all within hearing know that the scent of quarry had been picked up. Taerethor doubted the remnant would survive the night; if he was not caught up by the rangers, he would be devoured by beasts.
Bows at the ready, the men stalked east, quiet beneath the shadows of the trees as the moon hung red above. While it was surely raining mist to the west of the Harad road, here where the winds gusted down from the mountains came fine ice crystals which stung and then melted upon the skin, glinting from the moonlight above.