elessar_telcontar | First Feather [Action/Voice]

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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.]

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[Spock tilts his head in confusion...]

I apologise, I do not understand the language you are utilizing.

The ranger frowned in confusion at the elf's unexpected response.

You do not speak Sindarin? Forgive me, I thought you to be a Sinda. You are of the Avari, then? It matters not: I am pleased to meet any elf.

Aragorn extended his arm in gesture of comraderie.

I am Aragorn Arathornion, of Imladris. I find myself alone and unarmed - and unclothed - in a place that is not familiar to me, though I have trod most every road and path in Middle-earth in my time.

[Spock had to refrain from sighing...]

I am not an elf, I am Vulcan.

It is well to make your acquaintance Mister Aragorn, I am Spock. [Spock observes the arm for a moment... but does not move to take it.

It'll take more than one meeting for Spock to be willing to touch you....]

This is Luceti, a world outside of every world. Individuals are taken from their world and are placed here for an indefinite amount of time... only to be returned home with no memory of this place.

[Spock pointedly looks at the journal in Aragorn's hands...] All pertinent information can be found in there.

I am amenable to showing you where you can locate proper garments.

Forgive me - you look very much like an elf.

[Aragorn glanced again at the other's pointed, elven ears and dropped his arm when it was not clasped in greeting.]

Another world? In truth? If such a thing can be, then I think that this is not so strange as I thought.

[He held up the leather bound book]

The pictures in the book move. And it speaks. It is a very strange enchantment. I'm not sure that I can trust it. For that matter, I'm not sure that I should trust you, know that I know you are no elf.

[Aragorn paused, uncertain for a moment]

But I suppose I have little choice, and you seem fair enough in this light. Any aid you can give would receive my gratitude.

Indeed... there are aspects of the journal that you should not trust...

As for trusting me... to borrow a human phrase, 'only time will tell'... Please, follow me. The low ambient temperature is not well for a human who is dressed so inadequately.

[Spock leads him into the city proper...]

[Aragorn followed the pointy eared man in silence, taking in the sights as they walked into the town and pondering the not-elf's assertion that the book in his hands should not be wholly trusted.]

[Spock looks over his shoulder...]

If you have questions, please feel free to voice them...

I have many questions, but I will try to put them into some sort of order.

[Aragorn looked at the other man's back, and then looked over his shoulder at his own.]

Why do we have wings?

Mainly for communication purposes. There are so many species represented here, and thus many dialects... The Malnosso, our captors, utilize the wings as a means to regulate a single language.

With concentration however, other dialects can be used...

[Spock hesitates for a moment..]
The wings are also a means for locating us at any given time. I advise you not to try and rid yourself of them, as damage will cause you great pain, and possibly death.
In Luceti, if you die, you return in a weeks time but with a penalty. Usually something that hinders you, or vital taken away for a period of time.

Impermanent death? Would that we had such gifts in my land.

[Aragorn had not died, and yet something most vital had been taken from him]

And how many are there here? How many fighters, and how many women and children?

[Spock regards the man for a moment...]

Numbers are constantly in flux at Luceti, for people are constantly disappearing and being returned to their own universe.

There are approximately three hundred individuals here.... I am uncertain how many of those are specifically fighters... though there are fewer 'children'.

What is the name of your place of origin?

I was at a place that was called Amon Hen before it was abandoned. If you mean my home... I have many, and none. I was raised in Imladris, at the house of Lord Elrond, but I left there many years ago. I suppose my home is in the wildlands of Arnor, though I claim no roof and no hearth there, only the open skies. And the taverns, when I feel the call of roof and hearth.

[It seemed so long ago that Aragorn had slept warm and comfortable in a soft bed. Even in Caras Galadhon the party slept in the open beneath the mighty Mellryn. A part of him longed for a warm hearth and a cup of beer, and the comfort of Arwen by his side. Any comfort seemed a distant memory. There was only grief and danger and... strangeness.]

And what place do you call home, Spock?

[Spock gives his full attention to Aragorn...

Most curious...]

I am from the planet Vulcan.... though since it no longer exists, my home is on my ship, the Enterprise.

No longer exists? Your world was destroyed, then?

[Aragorn cannot hide his dismay at this admission from the NotanElf.

Though perhaps destruction is better than the fall into darkness that faces Middle-earth, if Frodo fails. Better to be gone than enslaved to Sauron.]

I am sorry for the loss of your world, my friend. I choose to wander and claim no home, but your home was taken from you. We both dwell beneath starlit skies - we have that much in common.

[Spock regards Aragorn again...]

Indeed.... you are a very intriguing individual Mister Aragorn. [Spock looks ahead and gestures to the village proper where most of the shops are located...

A Fountain decorates the middle of the square.]

The clothing shop is just ahead. Your own clothes may have been transported here when you were.

You too are... intriguing, Mister Spock. Come, show me this clothing shop, before I freeze to death. I hope they don't want any coin - I seem to have lost my purse.

[Aragorn puts a hand of friendship on the Vulcan's shoulder as he turns to make his way toward the shops.]

[Spock lifts an eyebrow at the well mannered man as they near the clothing shop.... He opens the door for Aragorn.]

There is no currency in Luceti. Everything you need to live is free. There may be a bartering system for some resident run facilities... And special items may be purchased through credits you get from the Malnosso by undergoing specific Missions for them.

A rather interesting set up for certain.

No currency? This place has one thing to recommend it, then. I have never had need of coin with the Elves, for they do not value it, but in the lands of the other free peoples I have always needed a little silver in my purse. A small coin for a pouch of pipeweed, another for a cup of ale.

[Raised in Imladris, where there was no need for money, Aragorn had needed time to adjust when thrust into the world of Men, where very little was free. It was a surprise to hear that this strange place was more like the house of Elrond than Bree or or any of the cities in the south.]

You spoke of missions: our captors expect us to do their bidding for payment?

Missions for payment are on a volunteer basis only... however, there have been times when there are those who are selected for a draft.... no choice is given and neither is payment. [Spock mentally shivers at the last draft he was sent on... a most gruesome sight and so much death.]

Does any of the clothing here look familiar to you?

I am slave to no one, and do no one's bidding against my will.

[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.

Luceti is unpredictable in many ways. [That was Spock's answer to the state of Aragorn's clothes...]

Your weapons and some specific belongings may be found in the other shops. [Spock gestures to the door.]

Shall we?

[Aragorn touches his throat, absently reaching for the jewel which should be there.]

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?

Perhaps.... though there is no guarantee.

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?

[Aragorn willingly followed his guide, glad to be clothed at last but hoping that his other belongings might also be found.]

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?

As I said, there is not guarantee... [Spock opens the door for Aragorn, and ushers him into the items shop....

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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