Aragorn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elessar_telcontar) wrote2013-01-13 01:08 am
elessar_telcontar) wrote2013-01-13 01:08 am
Entry tags:
First Feather [Action/Voice]
[He could hear running water, but it was not the Anduin. The flow was too fast and the bed too shallow: a bubbling stream rather than the mighty river. It was like the laughter of a child, not the roar of the great Anduin. Aragorn slowly opened his eyes. Above were dark trees and a cold, bright sky, but the sun had shifted and the season seemed wrong. His body was aching and sore, though he didn't recall being struck. There had been orcs, he remembered. They were under attack and he'd heard Boromir's horn and run toward the solemn call. Boromir. The memory returned to him and stabbed at his heart like an icy blade. He had arrived at the clearing too late and found the Gondorian dying on the cold ground, his chest pierced by thick-shafted arrows; his bright lifes-blood mingling on the hard earth with the black ooze of his felled enemies. With his last breath the man had pledged himself to Aragorn and called him king.]
My brother.
[Aragorn's voice was hoarse, his throat dry like parchment.]
Forgive me, Boromir: I have failed you.
[He sat up slowly, wincing in pain. He didn't recall being struck, and if the orcs had attacked him while he knelt over his dead friend then why had they left him alive? And why had they... taken his clothes? The cool breeze pricked at the man's bare arms and chest and he realised with a start that his clothes and cloak were gone and he wore only a thin pair of white trousers. His weapons were also nowhere to be seen. Nor was Boromir, though his absence seemed more reasonable when Aragorn realised that he was no longer on Amon Hen. As orcs were not known for stripping their enemies, moving them and then leaving them alive, if injured, in woodland clearing, it was clear that someone else had done this, though to what end Aragorn had no idea.
Moving more stiffly than he would have liked, Aragorn searched the clearing quickly for his weapons, but there was no sign of sword or bow or knife, nor of his clothes. All that he could find was a book resting in the soft grass, bound in dark leather. There was no title on the cover, but Aragorn could clearly make out an image embossed in the soft leather: a bare tree crowned with seven stars. Whatever the book was, it was clearly meant for him. The book was lighter than it looked. Leafing through a few pages, Aragorn was shocked at the contents, for the images on the pages moved, as though under some enchantment. He had seen images in fire and smoke and water, but even in Elrond's library at Imladris he had never seen such a book, with images that moved as though alive. And it was not only the images that were a surprise: there seemed to be voices speaking to him from the pages, soft and whispering like voices carried on the wind.]
Would that you were here with me, Gandalf, to tell me the source of this magic.
[Aragorn closed the strange book quickly, but felt compelled to hold on to it and take it with him. Unwilling to venture out both naked and unarmed, the man picked up a sturdy-looking branch and swung it as if wielding a longsword, inhaling sharply as a shock of pain ran up his spine. Aragorn laid down his new sword and began to run calloused hands up his back, searching for a wound that might need urgent attention, but felt no blood. He was surprised the find something protruding from his back, but it was not the sword or axe or arrow he might have expected. It was something... feathery?]
What new strangeness is this?
[There was thankfully no sign of any orcs, but perhaps there was someone close who could tell him what was happening. Perhaps, wherever he was, Legolas and Gimli were also here. Drawn by the sound of rushing water, Aragorn made his way to the nearby stream and began to follow it east, hoping that he might find someone along the riverbank, or that it might lead to a settlement. After a short hike of around two leagues, Aragorn crested a small hill and saw below him a fairly large but unwalled town. There were houses and a large open square, several larger buildings, though none looked fortified or seemed obvious great halls. The town was a mile away still, but Aragorn could see people moving around the market square.]
Why do they all have wings?
[Well, the best way to find out what was going on was to ask someone - even if he wasn't dressed for company. Carrying his enchanted book and his makeshift wooden sword, Aragorn headed toward the town, hoping to find some answers, and with luck his friends. And some clothes.]
My brother.
[Aragorn's voice was hoarse, his throat dry like parchment.]
Forgive me, Boromir: I have failed you.
[He sat up slowly, wincing in pain. He didn't recall being struck, and if the orcs had attacked him while he knelt over his dead friend then why had they left him alive? And why had they... taken his clothes? The cool breeze pricked at the man's bare arms and chest and he realised with a start that his clothes and cloak were gone and he wore only a thin pair of white trousers. His weapons were also nowhere to be seen. Nor was Boromir, though his absence seemed more reasonable when Aragorn realised that he was no longer on Amon Hen. As orcs were not known for stripping their enemies, moving them and then leaving them alive, if injured, in woodland clearing, it was clear that someone else had done this, though to what end Aragorn had no idea.
Moving more stiffly than he would have liked, Aragorn searched the clearing quickly for his weapons, but there was no sign of sword or bow or knife, nor of his clothes. All that he could find was a book resting in the soft grass, bound in dark leather. There was no title on the cover, but Aragorn could clearly make out an image embossed in the soft leather: a bare tree crowned with seven stars. Whatever the book was, it was clearly meant for him. The book was lighter than it looked. Leafing through a few pages, Aragorn was shocked at the contents, for the images on the pages moved, as though under some enchantment. He had seen images in fire and smoke and water, but even in Elrond's library at Imladris he had never seen such a book, with images that moved as though alive. And it was not only the images that were a surprise: there seemed to be voices speaking to him from the pages, soft and whispering like voices carried on the wind.]
Would that you were here with me, Gandalf, to tell me the source of this magic.
[Aragorn closed the strange book quickly, but felt compelled to hold on to it and take it with him. Unwilling to venture out both naked and unarmed, the man picked up a sturdy-looking branch and swung it as if wielding a longsword, inhaling sharply as a shock of pain ran up his spine. Aragorn laid down his new sword and began to run calloused hands up his back, searching for a wound that might need urgent attention, but felt no blood. He was surprised the find something protruding from his back, but it was not the sword or axe or arrow he might have expected. It was something... feathery?]
What new strangeness is this?
[There was thankfully no sign of any orcs, but perhaps there was someone close who could tell him what was happening. Perhaps, wherever he was, Legolas and Gimli were also here. Drawn by the sound of rushing water, Aragorn made his way to the nearby stream and began to follow it east, hoping that he might find someone along the riverbank, or that it might lead to a settlement. After a short hike of around two leagues, Aragorn crested a small hill and saw below him a fairly large but unwalled town. There were houses and a large open square, several larger buildings, though none looked fortified or seemed obvious great halls. The town was a mile away still, but Aragorn could see people moving around the market square.]
Why do they all have wings?
[Well, the best way to find out what was going on was to ask someone - even if he wasn't dressed for company. Carrying his enchanted book and his makeshift wooden sword, Aragorn headed toward the town, hoping to find some answers, and with luck his friends. And some clothes.]
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[Aragorn was fast forming a low opinion of their captors]
These clothes... [Aragorn grabs a few items] These are mine. This is my coat, only as it was the day I acquired it - I have been patching and repairing it for a decade, but this one is like new. There are cuts in the back, though. And this shirt also: my beloved stitched this pattern upon it herself, but it was stained beyond cleaning. Now it too is like the day she gave it to me.
[Unabashed at dressing in front of the Vulcan, Aragorn pulls on dark wool leggings over his white trousers, the embroidered shirt and long green coat, his black wings fitting through the cuts in the shirt and coat. He also finds boots like his own but new and clean and pulls them onto his icy feet.]
I feel almost myself again. I am lacking a few items, though: I would be more content if armed.
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Your weapons and some specific belongings may be found in the other shops. [Spock gestures to the door.]
Shall we?
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There is one item that I would dearly like returned to me - more so even than my weapons: a small jewel, a gift from my lady. Do you suppose that I might find that somewhere here?
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There are two shops left, but only one where an item like that would show up. Conveniently enough, it is called the Items Shop. [Spock leads the way...]
What does it look like?
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It is a clear stone - a diamond with shining heart - held in silver and hanging from a fine silver chain. And what of my weapons? Will I find those?
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Hopefully he will find that necklace.]
Your necklace may be somewhere in here... [The Vulcan starts looking along the shelves and shelves of items.]
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Spock, I have found it!
[It feels like the weight of the world drops from his shoulders as the clasp closes and the jewel drops into its rightful place at his throat.]
I may be spirited away to another world, but at least I have one thing that is dear to me, to keep me safe until I return to its owner's side. And look, here, something less dear and yet probably of more use.
[Standing in the corner is his sword, still in its scabbard, and with the knife gifted to him by Celeborn still strapped to the belt. Aragorn buckles the heavy sword belt about his waist, the sword settling comfortingly against his hip.]
And now I am myself again. Whoever that may be.
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You are confused as to your identity? [That made Spock tilt his head in curiosity...]
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I know who I am. It is only that others wish me to be many things, so that it is sometimes hard to please them all and yet remember that I am myself.
[He draws the sword, careful not to seem threatening, and tests the edge. Newly whetted and sharp as an elf's sight.]
I often find myself longing for the simpler times passed, when it was enough to be just a man. Please, forgive me, I am not prone to such admissions. Though you are no elf, you have a stillness that reminds me of those few that I would confide in.
[He checks the elven knife on his belt and finds the blade just as keen as when gifted to him. A dark roll of cloth catches his eye, and he reaches down to lift up a tightly bound blanket and bedroll, tied in knots that look like is own.]
Now properly dressed and armed, and even with my bedroll, so that I can sleep in some small comfort tonight. There was a well appointed glade I saw in the wood by the river. I even have my tinderbox upon my belt, so will have a good fire.
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...and both in some sense, were forcibly taken from him. Until he agreed to be First Officer of the Enterprise with Jim.... he believed to be nobody.]
You wish to sleep outside? Illogical, the temperature is too low for human standards to find comfort. If you wish, you may stay at my place until you find one of your own. There are many available apartments and housing in Luceti... no one need to sleep outside. [Unless... you really wish to. No one is going to force you.
Spock though... he becoming fond of this man....He would very much dislike to know that he is sleeping outside.]
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[Spock was still much a stranger to him, but Aragorn likes to think himself a fair judge of character and thinks the Vulcan seems fair.]
[He is no elf, but in their absence he is much like them: he has a calm and wisdom to him which settles me, as Elrond does, or did in my youth, before... before the world changed.]
Well, now that I have my possessions again, what can you show me of this place?
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[Aragorn regards the Notanelf, trying to gauge his meaning]
The Elves of Gondolin forged swords the like of which have never been seen. That art was lost long ago, and none now have such skill in crafting steel - not even the Dwarves. Much knowledge was lost when that kingdom fell. More kingdoms have fallen since - great lands of Elves, Dwarves and Men. With each city's fall more arts were lost. I fear that now the Free People struggle through a darkness of lost knowledge. Imladris and Caras Galadhon are havens of light in a sea of darkness, but even there the craftsmen cannot match their predecessors.
[He draws the Elven knife from his belt, light as silk but bitingly sharp, and offers the hilt to Spock]
This blade is amongst the finest the Elves have the art to forge in this age.
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What you are describing to me is a universe similar to Earth's Castle Age... though yours is a culture of magic the mechanics are similar.
[Spock brings Aragorn away from the quaint houses and shops and towards a large advanced building.]
This is the Battle Dome. A place where many here gather to participate in training simulations and special activities.
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There is little left in the world of what some call magic, though some of those arts are still held by the Elven lords, and of course the Istari.
[Aragorn follows, though is not overly impressed by the building pointed out - it is no larger that the citadel of Minas Tirith, and appears less sturdily built - there is no stone to be seen in its construction.]
Training simulations? You mean weapons training? Surely the forest and open ground is more suited for that? Fighting indoors seems... dangerous.
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[Spock opened the door to Aragorn to reveal a large circular room with a high dome... and many many doors.]
Please, follow me.
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[Aragorn followed Spock in, looking all around and seeing the many doors leading out of the large room. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready should anything come through any door.]
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However, Aragorn would be exposed to it at some point, so perhaps it was fortuitous that Spock was the one to show him.... ]
There are more... casual wielders of magic here who require specific scenarios for training. There are other forms of technology that allow for hand-held, projectile weapons of various kinds. [Spock finished typing... and gestured to the door that was now opening.] You will be exposed to much you are unfamiliar with Mister Aragorn... Allow me to show you the some of it.
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[Aragorn drew his sword, the whisper of drawn steel a comfort to him in this strange place, and prepares himself for whatever might come through the door.]
Should you not be armed?
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Specific weapons for example....
Please... sheath your sword. You are in no danger.
[Spock was always armed....but Aragorn did not need to know that... yet.
The Vulcan walked into the room which now looked like a basic training scenario.... An outdoor firing range. There were tables full of various guns and hand held weapons.]
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I do not know the use of these other things, but the bow is nicely made. Should I shoot?
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[There were targets shaped like men laid out in the near distance - too close to be much of a challenge. Aragorn drew an arrow from the quiver he had belted to his back, nocked it and fired, all in one fluid motion. The arrow flew sure and fast and struck the intended target square in the centre of the head. A moment later there were matching shots to two more targets.]
I prefer sword to bow, but I also prefer my enemies to fall before they are close enough for the sword. Thus far you have shown me nothing that I could not do out in the wood, using trees for targets.
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Either way, the Vulcan regards Aragorn's precision... he is good, that much is certain.
Spock then turns around and picks up a phaser from the table, his own preferred weapon... and fires on all three targets.
Each in turn is swallowed by the phaser fire... then they disappear. Atoms burned and gone.]
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[Aragorn stares at the spot where a moment ago there had been a target, with his arrow well placed, but now there was only empty space.]
Even Gandalf had not such arts. To make an enemy simply... vanish. That small... [He cannot quite bring himself to call the strange little thing a weapon, though a weapon it must be]... device: it gives you some control over fire? Though I have never seen such fire, that flows and consumes so.
[Such power, in such a small thing. If Sauron had such a weapon he would stand unopposed, and all would fall under his power.]
Such power can only be a danger.
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