death

OOC - Author's Note:

Arzal Ravencloak had never been a man of idle talk. His boots seldom lingered long in one place but on one dusky evening, as the hearths crackled and shadows danced across the walls of The Prancing Pony, a grim-faced knave whispered something that gave even Arzal pause. It was one of the spies he employed.

“Trouble stirs in the east,” the man muttered, eyes darting toward a darkened corner of the inn. “The dead don’t stay buried in the Lone-lands.”

There stood the White City before us, painted the colours of the myriad flowers placed in celebration for The King’s wedding. After all those years, I was finally back, and my words failed me.

“So… Here it is”, was all I could manage to muster.

“Aye. Different than you remember, I suspect”, noted Guri. Indeed, it was. We made our way in, gazing in awe at the glory of the Capital City of Gondor.

Whispers reminisced of a rumored night in the years past. This one was both like and unlike other nights. The air was cool and the sky was clear of clouds. The trees coalesced around a camp of men, not as large as it stood in its full glory, but substantial in size regardless. A cry came out in the night, as it often did, and though normally caused by stains of red, this time it came organically through only frustration.

So I set out on my epic journey, wandering hither and thither in search of Boromir, and the Last Ring, avoiding the wicked agents of the High Steward Denethor and the fell servants of King Sauron the Dark Lord.  It was without hope or chance of success that I set out on this desperate mission, yet set out I did, for is it not said that, ‘the wicked reap when the good man sleeps’?¹  And what gooder man is there than I?