war

The night was ink-dark, and only the breath of stars shimmered faintly above the towering forests of the Aldburg Wood. Deorla rode in silence, the hooves of her mount—the Harbinger—striking the mossy floor like low drums of war. The creature was bone-armored and wreathed in withered leaves, a beast born of shadow and decay. 

The golden light of early morning filtered softly through the latticed shutters of Deorla’s hidden house. The air held a rare stillness — not the kind that comes before a storm, but the quiet pause before history begins to turn again. Outside, birds stirred in the brush, and smoke curled gently from the stone chimney. Inside, Deorla stood before a shape half-concealed beneath the floorboards — a white chest, pale and cold like ice, as if winter itself had been shaped into wood and steel.

The sun was beginning to set behind the white peaks of the Starkhorn as Deorla stepped into the small fenced paddock behind her secluded home. Firebryn stood there already, brushing down one of the four horses that had belonged to Deorla—now well-groomed, well-fed, and visibly pleased to have their mistress home again.

“You kept them in fine shape,” Deorla murmured, trailing her hand over the flank of a dark bay mare.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

(This RP is done via DM friend of mine and lots of dices rolls)



Night fell like a wolf’s shadow upon the Gap of Rohan.

The stars were swallowed by storm clouds, and the wind ran cold through the hills. On that narrow pass between the White Mountains and Isengard’s ruined scars, a war born of whispers began.

So I rode on, my heart weary with heaviness.  Boromir was dead, slain by some elfish plot, and yet I was no nearer to uncovering the truth of his strange dream.  My head ached with thoughts and worries, ached even as though it were so that I’d had many a drink the previous eve, even though I hadn’t, as I set forth once more on my epic journey.

-Preamble-

The Dwarrowdelf was founded by Durin 'the Deathless' in the far distant past, long before the creation of the Sun and Moon. Durin had awoken at Mount Gundabad not long after the Elves first awoke, and as eldest amongst the Fathers of the Dwarves was acknowledged as preeminent amongst them, a status subsequently inherited by his descendants, the Kings of the Longbeards.