The Wake of The Alagos (September 3010) - [Fíriel]
Apr 11, 2018 11:22:51 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2018 11:22:51 GMT -5
The alagos that had pounded and roared upon the shore of Belfalas for the past few days had finally moved beyond the land, carving its way northward toward Anfalas. A hurricane the humans called them; the clouds had howled. Many a tree had been ripped from the ground, many a leaf had been cast from their branch. From her perch atop the white towers overlooking the grey-hued bay, Tirniel could still see the wall of dark cloud and feel the strange gusts of wind, uneven and furious as they sailed in from the waters.
Alone, she stood surveying the skeleton of Edhellond’s lost city. It had been so long since the last ship sailed away, it was almost hard to recall that this place had once been full of the Eldar. There was nothing lost to the fury of the alagos. Nothing that had not been lost already long ago. In that, Tirniel was thankful. Her task was not yet done.
The earth needed her to watch, as she had done for an age.
Lithe in step, she descended the winding white-stone stairs, the thunder of crashing, white-capped waves lapping against the stone rising to meet her as she came. The world felt calm, despite the dark-skied fury that had beat upon the shore those days.
Those of her kin who kept to the caves had weathered the storm as they always had. For all these long years they had endured, and they would continue to do so until it was time for them, too, to heed the call to the West. Yet, this land, and the people who now dwelt in it—the surely did not weather such storms as easily.
So it was she turned her attention to the forest around Edhellond, the shores that stretched along the edges. Overhead, a golden eagle flew in circles, a noble call carrying down to her. Tirniel’s eyes lifted, and for a moment a light like summer sun glowed upon her expression.
“Glassen na chen cenin, mellon,”[*] she greeted, offering a small bow of her head to the bird as it soundlessly glided upon the blowing breeze. “I am glad to see the storm did not trouble you. Do you bring news?”
Once more the bird carried a call, pausing in its circles to begin a backpedal, adjusting course for the shore. Tirniel’s gaze turned grave.
“A ship you say?” Her voice dropped in concern, and her elegant brow furrowed. “Show me.”
The eagle took to flight, Tirniel, fleet of foot, behind. She ducked and weaved through the trees, passing under the lofty, barren limbs. The world would heal. She and her kin would see to it. If the ship had survivors, though, perhaps they would not retain their breath of life without the same care. Even if they were small in number, the elves of Edhellond were gifted in the healing arts.
Another call from golden beak.
There, upon the shore. Black sails were ripped, the ship careened upon her side. Tirniel swept forward, and the eagle settled upon the branches at the edge of the shore, eyes trained and watching with interest. There seemed to be figures standing about, their garb and gait pegging them as one of the adan.
Tirniel herself seemed as if she fit amongst the forest that grew strong and rooted behind. Her tunic was long, green, hanging down to her ankles in panels like petals, tied at the waist in a brown cincher of leather. An outfit much like her kin in the forest, one that made her look bred of the forest itself.
“Well met,” she greeted in Westron, the common tongue of man. Her voice was ringed in music as she spoke, and her long reddish-brown locks catching in the wind that swept from the water. There was a noble carry of her chin she did not need force, a softness on her face that did not come from smile, though seemed to rest naturally upon her. “I heard of your troubles. It seems you weathered the storm better than some who would have been caught upon the water. Are you well?”
[*] "It is my joy to see you."
Alone, she stood surveying the skeleton of Edhellond’s lost city. It had been so long since the last ship sailed away, it was almost hard to recall that this place had once been full of the Eldar. There was nothing lost to the fury of the alagos. Nothing that had not been lost already long ago. In that, Tirniel was thankful. Her task was not yet done.
The earth needed her to watch, as she had done for an age.
Lithe in step, she descended the winding white-stone stairs, the thunder of crashing, white-capped waves lapping against the stone rising to meet her as she came. The world felt calm, despite the dark-skied fury that had beat upon the shore those days.
Those of her kin who kept to the caves had weathered the storm as they always had. For all these long years they had endured, and they would continue to do so until it was time for them, too, to heed the call to the West. Yet, this land, and the people who now dwelt in it—the surely did not weather such storms as easily.
So it was she turned her attention to the forest around Edhellond, the shores that stretched along the edges. Overhead, a golden eagle flew in circles, a noble call carrying down to her. Tirniel’s eyes lifted, and for a moment a light like summer sun glowed upon her expression.
“Glassen na chen cenin, mellon,”[*] she greeted, offering a small bow of her head to the bird as it soundlessly glided upon the blowing breeze. “I am glad to see the storm did not trouble you. Do you bring news?”
Once more the bird carried a call, pausing in its circles to begin a backpedal, adjusting course for the shore. Tirniel’s gaze turned grave.
“A ship you say?” Her voice dropped in concern, and her elegant brow furrowed. “Show me.”
The eagle took to flight, Tirniel, fleet of foot, behind. She ducked and weaved through the trees, passing under the lofty, barren limbs. The world would heal. She and her kin would see to it. If the ship had survivors, though, perhaps they would not retain their breath of life without the same care. Even if they were small in number, the elves of Edhellond were gifted in the healing arts.
Another call from golden beak.
There, upon the shore. Black sails were ripped, the ship careened upon her side. Tirniel swept forward, and the eagle settled upon the branches at the edge of the shore, eyes trained and watching with interest. There seemed to be figures standing about, their garb and gait pegging them as one of the adan.
Tirniel herself seemed as if she fit amongst the forest that grew strong and rooted behind. Her tunic was long, green, hanging down to her ankles in panels like petals, tied at the waist in a brown cincher of leather. An outfit much like her kin in the forest, one that made her look bred of the forest itself.
“Well met,” she greeted in Westron, the common tongue of man. Her voice was ringed in music as she spoke, and her long reddish-brown locks catching in the wind that swept from the water. There was a noble carry of her chin she did not need force, a softness on her face that did not come from smile, though seemed to rest naturally upon her. “I heard of your troubles. It seems you weathered the storm better than some who would have been caught upon the water. Are you well?”
[*] "It is my joy to see you."