mute

   Eclad moves to the stables, his head pounding and his eyes beyond sore. He curls up in the piles of dry dusty hay and rests his arm over his eyes. A few tears ran down along his freckled cheeks as he did his best to take deep breaths, willing the headache to leave and go back to whatever pit it came from. Each sound around him was a new needle pressed into his scalp, each flicker of a lamp caused his eyes to scream. He was not a drunkard nor injured, no this was just how life was. The days of pain came and went.

The whet stone rasped against the cold steel as Arenborn ran it along the length of his sword. He tested the edge, and pushed the stone along it a few more times. It was important for him to keep his sword clean and sharp, for his life was tied to it.

The long ride took Arenborn north along the Anduin, following the mighty river to the capitol city of Minas Tirith. He stayed a few days, mostly residing in the taverns. He avoided the Knights of the city. They were everything he had ever wanted to be. They looked so tall and proud, Arenborn just couldn’t handle being near them.

On a fine, late autumn morning, Inayat woke to find the other side of the bed empty, Arenborn already awake and out of bed. However, beside the bed, is a flash of colour. 

Aren had been struggling with communicating in the last year of his life, on account of his newly acquired lack of voice. Once he had been a very talkative young man, happy to chat about anything with anyone. But when that was taken away, he became a much different person. He started off writing messages to people, using the little book he carried tucked into his belt. It was an adequate tool, unless the other person couldn’t read. Then there were other problems with it.

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OOC: This piece will be split up into parts, as I, as the author, believe that keeping such a set of information to take in and IC knowledge to learn about certain characters and events should be arrayed across different parts, in order to retain an easier form of reading, and hopefully interest.

The Finding Of Fhlynn

By a True Father

Chapter Two - A memory best kept silent

The Finding of Fhlynn

By A true father.

Chapter One - Death and a true family?

Chapter Five: The Flames of Memory

It had been many years, since Garmorn had felt like this - So shocked, so powerless in the face of events. His younger brother, with emphasis on "younger", had the strength and willpower to offend him, so deeply that he might wonder if this had been some form of curse from Mahal, or a dream - A memory of the past, of his previous pain, and of the dark torture that took place nigh thirteen years ago, relative to the time that this tale is noting.

Chapter Four: On Graves

Laughter, is indeed a strangeness in itself, and oddity we can not truly contemplate. At times, laughter is a sign of happiness, and joy, at others - It is to respond, precipitate, to a joke, a crudeness of sorts, then at other times it is a thing that appears when once is strongly influenced by his mug at a tavern.