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hallothere · 10 months

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46 for gwindeth?👀

"This is all my fault."

The voice was soft, barely a whisper above the sound of the falls. The frogs did not add their voices, and the snakes made no passage and no sound. She could not help him now, not the way he needed.

"My fault..." It was a small, despondent repetition. Gwindeth stepped around the bodies of the others, some still in hurt or slumber, some shifting in pain or confusion. She found him and crouched down. This one she knew from the city. This one watched over the places of his ancestors and his living kin alike. This one was good.

He couldn't see her with his face creased like that. Contorted in pain and guilt. She didn't like being seen, not always, but this one was lost. He did not need to suffer so. Gwindeth ran a hand just over his forehead. Water ran freely off his face and moved his hair from his eyes. It fell into the grass from the cloak and shoulder-guard pressing so heavily on his neck.

One of the others would come around soon. Not many in her halls were in grave danger. A few. She would see to them before it became worse. But this one needed her, if only for another moment. His despair was heavier than the water draining back into her ponds. Water could do so much good and so much harm to Men. Heal or hurt.

"I should have... now we're all..."

He was still in the throes. Guilt or pain or guilt and pain. The losses could have been heavier. He did not know. A frog croaked. Gwindeth turned and saw the largest Man roll onto his stomach. His cloak ran with water and with blood, but still he tried to get to his knees. He would stumble in another moment. Untended, he would die in another minute.

"No," she finally said. Softly, for his ears alone. "It is not yours. It is mine, and not wholly mine. Will I guard Elendil's tomb but not his children?"

She stood, noting that he had dried enough to be comfortable. Hopefully, the others had as well. The large Man dropped to the grass, spent. She would save him. She would save the rest of them. Not one of Elendil's kin would be taken from her halls. Not after all else she had lost.

#lotro #ask games #gwindeth #;v;#also #orchalwe #daerdan #:>#:3c #fic tag

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poetry-draws · 2 years

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hello! i love your lotro art so much!! especially lothrandir, he looks so huggable! have you ever drawn captain-general daerdan of annúminas? seems like he'd be a cool dude :D

he's very cool! gives great hugs. nicest guy around, until you hurt one of his kinsmen

#lotro #captain general daerdan of annuminas #daerdan #i love him your honor

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a-lonely-dunedain · 2 years

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the size of this lad......

#lotro #blorbo from your shows #the lord of the rings online #Daerdan #he's two whole hobbits tall!!#what a guy #easily one of the dudes ever #lotro rangers

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aurore-parle-de-ses-idees · 9 months

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36 for an oc of your choice? >:)

(it was Going to be isena & isedd, but isena only ever wants to respond Fuck This and begin stabbing, so. the scene was like two lines long. lendrain does I.9.5: Amarthiel's Hope instead):

“We must know what Amarthiel is planning,” Calenglad says. “A large party of Angmarim was sighted near the docks; you should start there. Tadan, are you prepared?”

“We’re ready,” Tadan says. “Lendrain?”

“I’ll be right there,” Lendrain calls, tightening his shield across his back. Calenglad watches him go, hopping into the small rowboat with the others and pushing off for Annúminas.

“Watch over them,” Calenglad murmurs to the lake. "They will need it." The clouds gather over Tinnudir.

---

“They were ready for us,” Hallas growls, throwing himself behind a pile of rubble beside Lendrain. “She is here, but at this rate we'll never reach her.” Lendrain curses, weighing another javelin in his hand.

“I have an idea,” he says reluctantly, and wishes Hallas’s look was more skeptical than hopeful. “When the way is clear, find Amarthiel.” His old friend frowns.

“Lendrain-” But he is already away, hurling his javelin straight for the Angmarim captain on the slope above them. Crossbows snap over the man's cry of pain, but Lendrain is already gone, throwing himself into a roll beneath the hail of bolts.

“Is that all the better your aim is?” Lendrain shouts as the crossbowmen throw aside their heavy weapons in favor of spears and swords. “It’s no wonder Múra was nearly unguarded- you must have put half your bolts in each other instead of the targets!”

“You!” Many of them turn on him, then, and ah, they really are still sore about that one. He hadn’t thought one sorceress was so much more beloved than any other, but they seem to have taken her death even more personally than that of the False King. Or whatever passes for death for one such as him, anyway.

Lendrain runs into the city and the Angmarim pursue him. He wanted to think he knew the broken streets well enough to lead them away, but fifteen years have come and gone since he last set foot in Annúminas himself, and it was not half so deadly, then. He can only hope enough of them pursue him that Hallas and Tadan and the others can find Amarthiel.

He bursts into an open court, the arches overgrown with ivy and stagnant water in the fountain. Another party of Angmarim turn at his entrance and he skids to a stop, but the others are hot on his heels and loud with rage and soon he is surrounded entirely. He hefts his axe, and slips his shield onto his arm, and prepares to stand until he can’t.

The ones he had led away from the docks are plenty eager to fall on him, and if he has forgotten the streets of the city he has never forgotten how to fight. He swings and swings and swings, and hopes this will be enough for- for everything. For the others to find what they need, for those he abandoned, for the peace of those he hasn’t saved since he came back to this.

He makes a fair accounting of himself, all things considered. Better than he has any right to, certainly, but eventually his foot lands on a stiff, lifeless arm and he falls, and his shield is torn from him and a heavy boot stomps hard on his axe-hand and he screams.

And then arrows fall among them and his enemies fall back, ducking for cover until they realize there are only two bowmen among the Rangers. Even when they realize how greatly they outnumber the five Dúnedain who rush into the courtyard, though, they keep their distance, watching the ruins about them as if they still spawn more Rangers at a moment's notice. Lendrain gasps for breath on the ground amid the bodies he made, every bruise and small scrape crying out at once as the rush of battle leaves him.

“Lendrain?” Hallas calls, voice tight and worried. Lendrain waves a weak acknowledgement but doesn’t rise. Distantly, he wonders how many other Rangers survive within the walls of the sunken city. There hasn’t been word from Daerdan or any of his people in days.

“Have you found-” he wheezes from his back, and chokes back the rest of the question when she arrives.

Amarthiel enters the courtyard in a rush of red, grabbing Hallas by the front of his armor as she passes and dragging him behind her. The others cry out, but she is attended by new lieutenants Lendrain has not seen before, their armor unlike that of the Angmarim champions- unlike any Lendrain has seen in his travels.

The Champion of Angmar seems less terrible by daylight, if only just. Her silver mask gleams in the sunlight and the red of her dress is nearer the color of roses than of blood. Lendrain feels again the touch of her hand on his face, the single point of incandescent heat like she wore a burning ring or else held a coal to his cheek.

“You have come a long way to see me again, Lendrain,” she says, ignoring Hallas as he grasps at her wrist. “I am glad to see you returned to Gath Forthnír alive.” His blood runs cold, and every word she says only worsens his dread. “It was useful while it lasted, but all things end one day. But you should rejoice! You and all your kin here, for I have brought a palantír to Annúminas once more, and with it I shall look out over my lands as the kings of old.” Hallas draws a dagger from his belt and strikes at her, but Amarthiel catches his wrist and looks at him with disdain, and in panic Lendrain struggles upright, making it no farther than his knees.

“Let him go!” he cries, raising empty hands. “Please-”

“Let him go?” Amarthiel laughs. “As he holds a blade to my chest? You are a bold one. What would you offer in exchange, if I were to grant such a request? You had best make it good.”

Anything, he wants to say, even with Hallas glaring at him upside-down in Amarthiel’s grasp. Anything. Just let him go. Because this is what he always feared, what he knew even as a child he couldn’t face. This is why he ran, and why he hardly dared return, even to see his dearest kin again. He thinks of Helegdir, holding back the raids from the north with the people of Aughaire, and of the nightmares of the Halls of Night, and he says nothing, only watching Hallas desperately, but Amarthiel smiles as she looks upon him, finding something in his face to her liking. She laughs, and throws Hallas aside, and strides away, her new entourage falling in behind her and the Angmarim in the court bowing as she passes.

“Morguldur,” she says over her shoulder, “deal with them.”

“Yes, Mistress,” one of the men says, stepping out of line. Fire dances around his hands, but Tadan’s bow-hand is true, and Morguldur is dead on the ground almost before his allies are out of sight.

“Lendrain,” Hallas says into the terrible, deathly quiet that follows, “what did you do? What did you offer her?”

Nothing, he wants to say, and wants it to be true, but her touch had burned and there is a blankness his memory will not fill and he doesn’t know why she turned away here. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”

#lotro #ask games #my stories #lendrain #local blue warden: i've got an idea :) [screaming]#is lendrain having a good time? no absolutely not <3 #this is somewhere in his nebulous solo au #where he Doesn't get dragged into ost dunhoth things with silear #thanks friend :D #i. should put some of these on ao3. both for reasons of it's not a perfect overlap between ppl who read things there and here #and for reasons of it's good to have copies of things in multiple places #amarthiel #vibing in evendim tag

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downspiral-dreamer · 4 years

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today is the beginning of a series of posts where i introduce my characters to you, complete with picrews i’ve made of them as best as i could, since it’s hard to find faceclaims sometimes!

and for tonight’s entry, i’m going to have you meet KEALLAN MOROGH, one of the three main protagonists of A PATH TO DAWN!

~ * ~

Meet KEALLAN MOROGH, the son of a tailor who grew to become a farmer-turned-thief. He was a simple boy in his youth, playfighting his fellow villager boys, helping his family with their chores and work, and often dreaming of a future full of valour, at least until age crumbled those dreams and a realisation of a life full of labour under the thumbs of greedy men took hold.

But fortune favours those who embrace their lives with zeal and love, and She brought adventure to Keallan for him.

Lost one winter as he traveled along a trade route to buy supplies in the city, Keallan wandered far off-road in the midst of a vicious blizzard, eventually becoming so numb that all he could do was sink into the snow and wait for the White Folk - harbingers of death - to come for him.

Someone did discover him and bring him into a world of newness - but it was not the White Folk. Instead, an Elvish Huntress from the nearby kingdom of Daerdan, hidden deep within the forest mere miles away, stumbled upon him and used her magick to protect them both in an invisible cave; see-through but full of warmth and light, as the snow beat uselessly upon the top of this mystical dome.

Keallan awoke, nursed back to health by this Elf, and they traveled to the city together. Along the way, love grew. And against her parents’ wishes, and the wishes of all in Daerdan, Aranda the Elf left the home she had always known to start a life with a human tailor’s son.

-*-*-*-

In the current day, where A PATH TO DAWN begins, a famine has fallen across the eastern side of the country. Unable to grow a single thing at the farm he shares with his beloved, Keallan is forced to leave and travel far from home in search of any way he can provide for his wife and their young daughter, Fay. He leaves them behind, swearing that as he travels and works jobs wherever he finds them, he will send home coin so that they will live comfortably until his return.

He never gets the chance. In the village of Tormark, he crosses paths with a young orphan boy who dared to throw stones at the passing cavalcade belonging to Lord Rarrick, a warlord with a passionate bloodlust. In his efforts to save the boy, Keallan is captured and taken to Bloodwell Keep, where he remains until some of our other characters stumble across him... and he soon realises his adventures have only begun.

-*-*-*-

STATS:

Full Name: Keallan Morogh. He took no middle name. Age: 35, though hardships have caused him to look older. Gender: Cis male. Race: Human, or the Race of Men. Eyes: An icy blue unable to be depicted by picrew. Hair: Golden brown, shoulder-length, often messy. When gathered in a more formal style, he often uses braiding taught to him by his Elven beloved. Occupation(s): Tailor’s apprentice, farmer, thief. Likes: His family, wildwood berries, horses, naps, genuine laughter over good drink, hard work, splashing about in cold rivers during the summer. Dislikes: The tyranny and violence is a given, pastries (having never been able to afford them, they’re too sickeningly sweet for him now), writing and reading (he didn’t get much chance to learn growing up), the colour orange, droughts, hot weather, barkbeetles, gluttony and greed, prejudice. Other: He’s covered in scars from the torture he endured at Bloodwell Keep, where Rarrick’s men dragged him after he dared protect the stone-throwing orphan. And, growing up poor, he learnt very few skills considered “educated”, but learnt plenty of practical ones: tailoring, sewing, swordplay, tracking and hunting, gardening and foraging, and many others that have served him far more than reading or writing ever would have.

#wip: a path to dawn #oc: keallan morogh #characters: a path to dawn #i love my boy and he was originally the side character in my first draft!#originally it was about four treefolk (they live in treehouses in a forest) going to try and beseech the king #for a remedy that would cure the disease spreading through their village and they happened to find and free Keallan #and a while after finishing the first draft i realised i was FAR more invested in Keallan and his story #than i was in the villager boys #and so the second draft was born but never written #and now we're on the third or fourth draft as i finally begin to write again

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