Xanderian rode slowly, cautiously through the remains of Morannon, the hoof beats of her mount echoing through the bleak terrain like hammer blows. The broken gate itself and its towers, smashed as if by the hand of an angry god, still jutted out of the salty earth like shattered shards of ebony bone, steaming in the reddish morning light.
The Huntress shook her head sadly at the waste as she rode through columns of Gondorian soldiers slogging wearily in both directions through Cirith Gorgor, Heartbreaker across her back keening in low, almost dirge-like tones. Xan’s thoughts traveled melancholy paths as she surveyed the blighted landscape, littered with the discarded arms and armor of both sides. “Can this country ever be cleansed? I think not, it has steeped and stewed in unspeakable horror and despair for far too long. What can ever be done against such pervasive evil? Have not my own people labored with blood and steel to destroy it over long centuries yet still it oozes forth anew again and again. The King would do well to give up, to wall this cancer of Mordor away, let it fester alone in sepulchral silence, until the coming of the new Age wipes all away, blessings and sins alike. Elbereth how I wish I were done with this and back with Cyndwin, far from such a place and past.”
As she rode she locked eyes with a Gondorian soldier, little more than a boy, making his way out of Mordor with his Company. His armor was besmirched and battered, sword hanging dull and bent in his weary hand….yet his eyes were bright with hope, with the knowledge that his pains would lead to a better day for his people and his Kingdom. She could see the longing for hearth and home in his heart, for the hot meal and missives from a pretty sweetheart that awaited him back at camp, as well as the courage and faith in the King that kept him fighting on.
For a moment her cheeks burned with shame over her pessimism in the face of such innocent optimism, and she shook her head to dispel such defeatist thoughts. She knew very well a good part of her mood was caused by the sullen dread she felt of the meeting she rode to. Dread, and yet a certain anticipation as well…with such moments it was impossible to predict what would happen. Fire and ice, water and lava…when such forces come together who can know what will result save for steam?
Finally she rode forth from the cramped shadows of Cirith Gorgor and beheld the ramshackle collection of pavilions and bivouacs that was called the Udun Foothold, the first staging point for all campaigns into the depths of Mordor. This was not her first visit to Udun, but the first in which she was anticipated. At first glance it seemed as if the Foothold may slide off the mountainside it was perched on and into the endless fires at any moment, but still, the Huntress thought, it was certainly better than some campaign camps she had known. Pausing she let out a long breath, knowing very well she was overdue. She felt her sister waiting in the camp ahead before she heard her, and she heard her already, long before she could see her. Such was the nature of the Banshee.
As Xan road slowly past the first sentries, she was hailed by a familiar face. Barathron of Gondor nodded to her, and when he spoke his voice had the soft lilt of the Gondorian farmlands, gentle breezes and open country, far from the cares of Princes and Kings. Hearing him made her miss her library in Belfalas all the more and long, lazy mornings reading aloud to Cyndwin, then riding along the beach together through the afternoon. The Gondorian’s words brought her back to her current reality. “Hail Monk, your sister said you would be along soon. ‘Tis good to see you again, Nightwind.”
Xanderian flinched imperceptibly at the name as she slid off her horse and drew off the saddlebag. Since they had joined forces with the Rangers for the final assault many of those Gondorians she had campaigned with had taken to calling her by the name the Dunedain had given her…hearing it brought back a tangle of memories, not all of them pleasant.
Barathron was continuing, none the wiser as Xanderian was not prone to letting any but her nearest read such emotions on her. “The Banshee arrived at sundown last, riding like a bat out of Orodruin as is her way, wearing the blood red cloak of a dispelled Cargil and laughing like a demon. Didn’t she nearly cause poor Mulnir there to faint dead away from fright.”
With a snort Barathron’s partner shook his head violently, his voice rich with the burr of hard-working Pelargir. “Tis not so I say, not so, she simple took me aback is all, took me aback. She has no respect does SilverWand’s Slut, no respect at all. Don’t she know those horrors were once men, may they know rest one day. Not right she makes sport about ‘em like that, not right in the least way, tis it Miss Monk?.”
Xanderian nodded slowly. “I understand your disturbance, brave Son of Numenor. Please accept my apologies for the behavior of my sister, but be assured she meant no serious offence by it, nor intended disrespect on those poor souls bound by the Enemy in a Cargil’s guise. She would never intend such a base thing.”
The two men glanced at one another and smiled in unison at her strange turn of phrase. They had fought beside one or both of the two Elleth sisters through many campaigns and knew their unique quirks well. Xanderian the Monk, so formal and stiffly dramatic and Xandilif the Banshee, crude and rough as a Dwarf lord. So very different and yet so similar.
Mulnir shook his head. “Oh I know it Miss Monk. Don’t think it ain’t a comfort to have her in camp along with her thrice-cursed blade, a comfort and a relief. The same is true for you in fact, always good to see ya riding in, always good. Any number of fine sorts I know owe one or both of ya their scalps, their very scalps I tell you, and that is not for denyin’. However the Banshee can just be a bit much for an honest fellow, a bit much, if ya know what I mean.”
“I know very well what you mean friend Mulnir of Pelargir. She can be a bit much for anyone, honest or dishonest alike...myself most assuredly amongst them.”. Xanderian nodded gravely as the two men waved her past, walking slowly through the Foothold, the saddlebag over your arm until she found the source of the raucous laughter that echoed through the camp. Sitting by a fire with a dozen Gondorian regulars, passing around an earthen flask of Orc grog, sat Xandilif, heavy army gleaming dully in the firelight. Her eyes were bright from both drink and pleasure, hair as dark as her sister’s but cut brutally short, clearly with a knife by some campfire much like this one.
The Banshee raised her voice easily above the roar of the camp. “And so this worm of an Uruk captain picks up his arm off the ground and says “You’ll be sorry when me troll gets here”. So I roll the troll’s head at him and said “Who do ya think I gutted before getting to you, eh?” Kobold sucking bastard is likely still running…” As the soldiers howled with laughter the Champion stood, slinging SilverWand over her back and holding her hands out. “Beg pardon fellows, but my ball and chain just arrived.”
Xandilif turned and looked coldly at her sister…”I hope by Elbereth’s knickers ya brought breakfast in that satchel cause all I’ve had is grog for the better part of a week. About time you crawl to where the action is, ya cowardly bitch…
(OOC - Comments and feedback and RP ideas are more than welcome, feel free to drop me a mail here on LA)
