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Vanya Gondolin; Beginning during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, concluding through the Fall of Gondolin
Topic Started: Jul 22 2014, 01:40 AM (1,654 Views)
Melimwe

"Retreat! Retreat!" So yelled Turgon of Gondolin, brother to Fingon. But Fingon did not hear him. He was surrounded. Melimwe attempted to fight his way through the Yrch. He cried aloud, "Yucalwe! Yucalwe! Our King is..." But Yucalwe had joined Maedhros and then found himself cut-off when the Easterlings betrayed them.

On the far side of the battlefield, Yucalwe faced one strange-eyed Easterling, "Hast thou not heard of Umbar? Or Harad? Or the wastes of Khand or Rhun? Thou shalt! For they are my domain. My Master Melkor hath granted them to me, to Sauron's disdain. For thou hath known me!" Yucalwe slew him, but he did not die. He became his true-form, a deadly shadow none could see but himself.

"Guldrambor!" Yucalwe shouted. And he saw the shadow turn West, toward Fingon. Yucalwe shouted, "What......." The shadow moved in vast speed across the Yrch, and vanished, his fell voice lingering on the wicked air that smelt of death: My gift unto thou, the last of Amanuiron. I shalt torment thy High-King eternally!


Melimwe saw the shadow dart toward his position in horror and it vanished, and he attempted to see, but he could not, as seven things, black as clouds, had vanquished all light, as red and hideous flames bellowed, and the sound of ancient chanting seemed to dart within his mind across the pillars of ancient halls he did not know, their shadows stretching forth as if fell wings, and flames within their nostrils: the Balrogs of Morgoth, led by Gothmog, the largest and fiercest of them all. But one stood near at hand, the one to be one day known as Durin's Bane, his every step stomping upon the foundations of earthen stone, that would have made all among the seven fathers of the Dwarves cry out in terror, as his whip struck Fingon's golden shield, with the image of the golden eagle engraved upon its center, casting it away. Then his spear was cast away, and his Staff of Rule, a golden staff, attached to his back, fell on the wretched ground with a clang. Then his mighty helm of silver was surrounded by a flaming whip and his flowing raven hair was set aflame as the gold woven into his braids began to melt and his banner of blue and silver white fell on the cold earth, and all the Balrogs struck at once. "And his banner was trod in the mire of his blood." (The Silmarillion).

Guldrambor had cursed his spirit to be bound to the Staff, a curse only breakable through the banishment and ultimate defeat of Guldrambor himself. And no one knew about it, not until far later, in another Age.

Melimwe gazed at the sight in horror, but moved swiftly, for he knew his own Doom would come swiftly. He quickly found Saelbainor, who had come alone to find him, and who was unaware of the battle at hand. He had heard rumors of battle and of Elu Thingol's refusal to send aid. But his love for Melimwe as a near-brother was strong, and he resolved to go alone. He departed from Doriath and entered into the Falas, forsaking his ties with the forest realm, and he was no longer counted among them. And he found Melimwe and saw Fingon fall as they stood side by side, and he quickly pulled Melimwe backward as they ran to join with Turgon's forces, for he was the new High-King. They fought their way slowly south and then east, until finally, the forces of Morgoth gave way. Sorrowfully, they escaped, and passed through hidden ways into the ancient realm of Gondolin.

Melimwe's eyes were filled with shock and wonder as he beheld the snowy peaks of the mountains and the light of the sun reflecting on the spires and domes of the Hidden City of the Noldor, and he passed into its magnificent streets, and thought, Alcon would have loved to have seen this. When they reached the central square, King Turgon gave the fateful decree: No one would be permitted to leave Gondolin. Melimwe then realized that he was now, in effect, a prisoner, but as he gazed around him, he understood why. And Saelbainor's eyes gleamed as he embraced Melimwe, "Alcon never truly respected you, from what you have told me. But I do." Melimwe smiled, "We shall see. Alas for Findekano. Alas for the Union. It has all fallen away. But this city is beautiful, and I am glad to behold it. Come, let us find rest."
And they were granted a house on one of the higher streets in honor of their sacrifices in the war, for Melimwe was still a Feanorian Ambassador, and the Advisers to the High-King then sought his wisdom and knowledge, and Saelbainor was of assistance as well, for he was now freed from Lamaen's influence and that of his brother, diplomats of the Falas and Doriath that they were.

Time passed, and yet time seemed to be eternal. Forty years passed him, and it seemed to him that he was now reliving what he had longed to live in Aman, now with a brother, and in familiar streets: for Gondolin was a replica of Tirion. He and Saelbainor lived in the same house, and aided each other. Their House was of the same layout and location as that of the house in which Melimwe was raised in Aman so long ago. There were several Guards who seemed to resent his presence, and one in particular. For Melimwe appeared to be yet another wispy noble, and worse, for he wore a cloak of shining gold, and strutted throughout the streets. He was never born in Gondolin, and yet he became regarded with great respect by many of influence in the city. But he did not strike the more battle-inclined among them to be a warrior, though he was strong in battle when need would press him so. Melimwe did not know what year it was or if much time had passed when he found a courtyard where younger soldiers were in training. A familiar trainer with a sharp voice and stern orders was working especially hard with a tall trainee.

((Luingil / Cellindien- that's your cue; If anyone else in the kin was in Gondolin from the period of the Battle of Tears Unnumbered to the Fall of Gondolin, feel free to participate :) ))
Edited by Melimwe, Jul 23 2014, 09:12 PM.
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Luingil
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Luingil walked through the training yard, keeping a close eye on every movement of his students, noting the depth and balance of each stance and the positioning of each hand on the training blades. The education of the trainees of the Fountain was his responsibility and the source of what pride and hope he could scrape together since the tragedy that had befallen his house. Everything had been taken... no, not everything, but nearly. Even his honor had been taken from him. Not since he had come to Gondolin had the Swordmaster been able to take up his sword in defense of his lord, Ecthelion of the Fountain, and it was unlikely that he would return now to the Guard, when there were so many others to take his place.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth and a scowl settled on his face. A noble he remained in name, but for what purpose? To train the cosseted children of other nobles who could not be trusted to wield anything greater than a butter knife? Yes, it was for exactly that purpose. But he was not like those elves. He lessened the intensity of his gaze, allowing it to sweep over the courtyard as he stood back and took in the overall appearance of his charges. They were far from perfect, but they would do... a few lazy, a few motivated, but lacking talent. One, however, stood out.

A tall, slender elf was sparring a short distance away. The elf's height alone set him apart, but the queue of long silver hair that emerged from beneath the trainee's leather helmet served as another identifying mark. Finlos, the heir of the Swordmaster. Luingil approached the sparring pair and watched critically as the two exchanged blows, his arms crossed over his chest. The shorter of the pair faltered under the watch of his instructor and Finlos quickly stepped in with a series of quick, efficient movements to disarm his opponent. Luingil smiled. It was thin, but the expression betrayed his approval. The Swordmaster took pride in the young elf, though he hid it well. Finlos' training went far beyond that of the other elves. Luingil made sure of that. No child of his would ever disgrace his house, such as it was, by word or by deed. Honor through skill, he believed, was the key to maintaining their position in the nobility.

It was also the key to safety. As the Swordmaster stepped forward to acknowledge Finlos' victory, the fallen trainee suddenly lashed out, sweeping one leg out in an attempt to knock his opponent off of his feet. Finlos' eyes widened and one hand went flying out, instinctively reaching for something to catch hold of, and as Luingil saw the outstretched fingers, something stirred within him. The silver-haired elf went down hard, caught completely by surprise and barely managing to shift position enough to land the fall properly, but the swordmaster did not give Finlos time to recover.

"You fool! Have you forgotten everything I have taught you?" Luingil snarled, seizing the elf by his shoulders and hauling him on to his feet. "Never look away from your opponent! You put your life in his hands." Fear and anger mixed within the Swordmaster and he looked carefully into the young elf's face, gauging his eye response to check for serious injury. Seeing none, he withdrew, releasing the trainee. "You deserved the fall. Thandorn, well done. You are finished for the moment. Finlos... you will train with me until you learn vigilance. I will not be as forgiving of your mistakes as your young training partners."

Luingil was true to his word. Again and again they sparred, sometimes continuously, sometimes with short breaks where the Swordmaster would circle his student slowly, feigning disinterest. Then, when he detected a break in the young elf's concentration, he would attack once again. Each failed block resulted in a mark in the youth's leather armor from the dull edges of the training blades and Finlos began to flinch, anticipating the blows before they landed. This only seemed to drive the trainer to greater lengths and at last the trainee began to fight in earnest, but it was too late. His strength seemed to be nearing an end and as the Swordmaster angled his sword towards the elf's torso Finlos stumbled, falling to one knee. His sword dropped to the dust and he closed his eyes to await the blow.
Edited by Luingil, Jul 23 2014, 10:33 PM.
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Sararwa
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Sárarwa watched the training yard with trepidation. The sword master was domineering, intimidating, and even his own son suffered the abuse of his father's tongue at any mistake. Tomorrow was the day to begin his own training, to walk in the footsteps of his father Náryel and under the tutelage of Master Luingil. Would the sword master focus on him due to his father's skill? Unfortunately, his father was not there to give him the encouragement he needed now. His mother was still distraught at the loss of her husband in the recent war. She attached herself to Sárarwa as the new master of the house even though he had just barely reached beyond his majority. At that time he had longed to cling to her instead, to gain comfort at the loss of his father but she had been unable to offer any benefit and it was he who had to administer aid, to be the calm one. He had resented the need to be strong but with time he became irritated with himself for not thinking about his mother and her inability to adjust. Still she had not accustomed herself to the loss of Náryel and Sárarwa often heard her late at night crying in her loneliness. His own heart was simply numb, never having the ability to grieve as others had. He remembered his father well. His smiling face, always cheerful and with a good word for everyone. His lessons with a sword had been enjoyable and filled with his fathers encouraging words. Would he recall some of the movements after what equated to almost 40 coranar? Would he be held accountable for the skill his father once had?

His mother was very protective and who could blame her? He was her only child and, as she often told him, the image of his father. She did not want to lose him and encouraged him to other pursuits but he had his mind set on becoming a warrior like his father. Finally she relented and for his recent begetting day had given him a sword. It was his father's sword, brought back from the war and given her by King Turgon himself. She had kept it secret and it had stunned him showing a depth to his mother he did not know she had. He had heard the stories of the trials of the Helcaraxe and the hardships of the first years after the rising of the Sun and Moon but he did not see in her the hardness that side of life could bring her.

His hand moved to the sword he carried wrapped in the softened hide of a deer. Sárarwa had just picked it up from the smith after having it straightened and sharpened. Even the smith commented on this sword, companion to Náryel. He had shined it lovingly for Náryel had been his friend since boyhood. Set into the hilt was the word Aryoncallo, Legacy of the Hero. Once more the boy gazed out at the practice yard while his heart steeled itself for the day to come.
Edited by Sararwa, Jul 24 2014, 06:45 PM.
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Melimwe

Earlier that morning, Melimwe awoke. The walls were of marble, and there was a mirror to his right. His bed did not face the window, and light streamed inside on either side. He felt something: fingers stroking his golden hair. He turned to his left. There was Saelbainor, fingering it like a child. He smiled, "The sun arose quite some time ago."

Melimwe nodded, inviting Saelbainor closer.
Saelbainor felt it there on his side, his hand carefully touching the leathered-flesh, a stripe. "It has healed well." He leaned down and kissed it,
and Melimwe began to laugh, "My friend, your behavior is strange today...."
Saelbainor smirked, "Is it, my brother? I was soothing it for you."
Melimwe looked at him with curiosity, "And what strange custom is this?"
Saelbainor sighed, "It is something I learned in Doriath long ago. It is considered a grave sign of respect and care to kiss the wounds of a soldier."
Melimwe smiled, "Very strange customs, I have heard of the kiss of respect on the cheek, but only between those who truly know each other...."
Saelbainor smiled, "Is this a Noldorin custom?"
Melimwe nodded.
Saelbainor leaned over and kissed Melimwe's cheek, and he did so to him in turn.
They embraced each other, and Melimwe whispered, "I am glad that you are here, Saelbainor. But we should rise. There is a day afoot."
Saelbainor smiled, "Very well. What shall we do?"
Melimwe sighed, "I am going to walk alone...."
Saelbainor shook his head, "There is a parchment for you..... from Tinnuon of the Fountain."

Melimwe took the parchment and it read: "To Melimwe, Most Honorable Feanorian Ambassador and Envoy of the Realm, Most Revered Sage of Gondolin, and of His Grace Maglor, son of Feanor, Lord of the Gap of Maglor, and Protector of the Noldorin Realms..." Melimwe laughed, "Does he really need all the titles? It is not customary for us to use such lofty words, unless.... he is going to attempt to persuade me to perform an action I would find undesirable..." Melimwe continued to read, "There is an Elf of the Fount who was once higher in our affairs.... until his wife perished in child-birth along with one of his infant-sons.... but he has another named Finlos. Many others of my House have seen him performing training exercises rather harshly.... and we find his methods to be.... uncouth..... you are wise and are respected in the Court of the High-King, Turgon, our friend and fearless leader, who longs to protect this city as a father -should- long to protect his children...... Please, attempt to reason with him, if you can..... you know whom I am referring to..... Your friend, Tinnuon, Commander of the Fountain-Guard."

Melimwe sighed, and his eyes were marred with sorrow, "I know indeed, he detests me."
Saelbainor's eyes blazed in shock, "Tinnuon?"
Melimwe shook his head, "The one whom I am to speak to. He has detested me ever since I first announced myself in Court. I must go. Stay here, and bar the doors, do not allow anyone except me to enter. I do not trust certain others..."
Saelbainor embraced him, "The Mole will not strike us so easily."
Melimwe smiled, "I will return." He dressed himself in a velvet-blue robe with a silken-red lining and edges of fur, and donned the sash of an envoy. He armed himself with his sword, hiding it beneath his formal ambassadorial robes, and Saelbainor mounted his golden cloak on his shoulders with a smile on his face. He loved stroking the silky shining fabric, cold and smooth, with a pleasant odor, and its vastness. But then Melimwe stopped him, "No, take the cloak for yourself today. I must go in my robes alone." Saelbainor nodded, and Melimwe stepped outside the door, following the marble road, until he reached the training-courtyards.

He came behind Sárarwa as he saw Luingil preparing to strike Finlos with a terrifying look in his eyes. There was another Elf who stood nearby, who seemed younger than Sárarwa, yet also capable of wielding a blade. His hair was similar to that of Maedhros Nelyafinwe in its color and texture. He nodded at Melimwe, as if beckoning him to do something, as he entered into a shield-stance, and then Melimwe saw what he intended. He swiftly pressed hard on the Elf's shoulder, using him in order to thrust back his weight, allowing him to leap and sprint faster. Melimwe did so, quickly bringing his sword from hiding, and in seconds, the blade-thrust of Luingil was parried by Melimwe's blade, "Hir-Tinnuon has sent me with a message. Your mistreatment of your trainees is both observed and noted. Hir-Tinnuon desires to speak with you in the Court of the Fount. I realize that you do not take kindly to my presence here in Gondolin, and I know not what possessed Hir-Tinnuon to send me of all the Eldar, but pray, be not angered at the messenger. I am merely serving the wishes of the Fountain, the same as you."
Edited by Melimwe, Jul 27 2014, 03:51 PM.
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Luingil
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Darkness filled Luingil's heart. The sword in his hand cut through the air as if in slow motion. He saw Finlos drop to one knee, knew that the once-painful strike to the torso was now well on its way towards the youth's head... or neck. Now the strike was life-threatening. He could turn the blow, if he acted immediately. At the very least, deflect the slicing edge of the blade.

My beloved ones.... upon any who cause them harm... swift vengeance shall follow... swift vengeance. Vengeance.

The memory of the oath chilled Luingil, darkening his vision. He must have vengeance. He had sworn it. And yet he could not, he must not! With an effort he forced his muscles into action, twisting the blade in his hands so that the flat advanced, rather than the edge. Almost at the same time, there was a clash of metal striking metal, and the Swordmaster felt the impact as his weapon came up against something that did not yield. He turned then, and as his eyes met Melimwe's there was a moment where the black pain and chaos of the oath shone clearly through.

Then it was over. Beneath the crossed swords Finlos knelt, shoulders shaking as the youth struggled to regain his breath. If he knew of how close he had come to death, there was no sign save a sickly grey pallor on his face. The elf made no sound. Luingil straightened, withdrawing and sheathing his weapon in one smooth motion. His eyes swept over Melimwe, then glanced almost carelessly beyond him to the watching Sárarwa.

"Mistreatment is a strong word, Melimwe." Luingil's words were smooth, and deceptively calm. Anger raged through him at the interruption, and he refused to allow himself to think of what might have happened if the Feanorian had not intervened. "Tell me, are those the words of my lord? Or have you, in your famed wisdom, deigned to interpret them as you see fit? As to my methods, I believe the proof is in the result. My son is not at his best today. I will be the first to admit that. But another day, perhaps, you may test him yourself... or perhaps, Hir Tinnuon may do so, if he does not trust you. See if he does not exceed the standards of other swordmasters."

"Finlos," he addressed the youth directly, his voice quiet, but holding absolute command. "You are dismissed. Tend to your armor and see that the others do the same. Training is over for the day." The young elf rose and drew himself to his full height, though his eyes betrayed his pain. He bowed his head, giving his respect first to Luingil, then to Melimwe. Then he left them, crossing to the opposite side of the yard and rejoining his peers. Luingil turned to Sárarwa, his stern gaze losing some of its intensity. The other elf's eyes betrayed his youth, though he was to all appearances at full growth.

"And what have we here?" The Swordmaster deliberately behaved as if Melimwe was of little consequence, turning his body away and focusing his visible attention on Sárarwa. "A sword does little good if it is so wrapped. What brings you here? The training is over for today and I do not accept new students unless I have spoken with their fathers. I wish to avoid any... misunderstandings." He nodded over his shoulder in Melimwe's direction.
Edited by Luingil, Jul 26 2014, 05:43 PM.
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Sararwa
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Sárarwa breathed once again as he saw Finlos escape sure death by the instant actions of a stranger. He was already backing away when Sword-master Luingil's gaze rested upon him. It would be improper to run away so he advanced quietly while feeling the master's eyes full upon him. He switched hands carrying his sword and noticed his palm had made the hide damp. Standing dumb for longer than was required Sárarwa finally remembered to announce himself.

"I am Sárarwa, son of Náryel and Hinnellë. I greet you. My father was once of the House of the King, Captain of one of his guard battalions." Almost belatedly he bowed in the formal manner to both Elves who stood before him then taking a deep breath he held up the doeskin-wrapped sword. "This is my fathe... was once my father's sword. Just freshly worked by the swordsmith. The sheath did not come back from the war, only the sword." It was with much pride he offered it for examination but neither of the Elves moved to take it so he lowered his hand.

"It was my hope to become a warrior as my father was before me, yet I have no one to speak for me now." It was all he could do to keep from shuffling his feet at the silence. Oh why did his mother not tell him the requirements of training? Perhaps she did not know. If his father had been alive there would have been no need to become a student of another sword-master. He felt the lump in his throat that often appeared when he spoke about his father. "I will make formal application when I have found someone to speak for me."

Quietly Sárarwa stood awaiting dismissal, gazing into the unreadable eyes of both Elves.
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Melimwe

"Master Luingil, Hir-Ecthelion himself sent the order through Tinnuon, or so I have guessed. Perhaps I will test young Finlos soon."

He looked at Finlos, and recalled the previous night. He was resting in his silken beauty when he began to dream. He saw a great shadow. It was rising. It was not unlike that which he had seen at the Battle. And he saw a sight that frightened him. He saw Fingon. He appeared ghostly. His raiment seemed to shimmer as he stood against the shadow. There, huddled on the floor in an embrace, were two Elves: one male, and another female, the former with hair of a strange hue that appeared to be of a color similar to that of Maedhros, and the latter's hair was of silver. And as he gazed upon them, he noticed something. They were distraught. They were clutching each other closely. He looked at the garment in which the male Elf had wrapped them both together: it was silken, and it was gold. It was one of Auruiron's cloaks. And he looked at the face of the female, and he heard words whispering into his ear, as if a prophesy:

~A Staff shall found~
~In mountain peaks~
~A young, new House~
~One disinherited, he knows it not~
~One raised as male, she knows it thence~
~Their fates shall find great unity~
~Within the Staff~
~That he shalt find~

~An ancient evil~
~Shalt arise~
~That ye must fight~

And then he looked into her eyes. And he turned to Fingon, who stood and sighed. He longed to know how it was possible, that his spirit should linger, he wanted to know what the Staff was, he wanted to know, reaching desperately toward him. He heard no more, awakening with a startle. Then he slowly drifted back into his rest, to dream of Aman's shores. And he pondered the meaning of this riddle, to no avail. And his mind awoke to the present situation and he looked into Finlos' eyes, and then he knew that he had seen them. He remembered the eyes from the dream. Now he knew that he was she, and that she must not be slain, for reasons he admitted to himself he may never understand. The secret must remain hidden.

Then he looked at Sárarwa. He may have an important role to play in all of this, and I cannot say why.
"Master Luingil, I think that Sárarwa may have lost his father in the war. All of this reference to him in the past-tense. Since you are far too preoccupied with your d...." The word "daughter" was on his tongue. "With your demands on your son, I will take Sárarwa as my student, if he so wishes it. I have observed many trainings during my experiences in the eastern hills and Gap, and in certain fortresses. Finlos may accompany us as well, if only for one session, for now that you have mentioned it, I am curious to see what s..." The word "she" was on his tongue. "To see what shape he is in, in regard to form. We can hold our first practice session in a corner of the Court of the Fountain, while you enter the Citadel and visit with Tinnuon, and potentially, Hir-Ecthelion. I am simply a messenger, and perhaps I have misinterpreted their words, but do, pray, come, let us test that theory, shall we?"

There was a slight smirk on Melimwe's face. He had always loved it when Noldorin Elves became perturbed. He had loved it since Alcarin, Auruiron's father, had caught them in Alqualonde so long ago. But then he looked closely into Luingil's eyes, and knew he must be careful, for he detected something he had long feared to see: a darkening wrath, a wrath bound to an Oath, something not unlike what he had seen when he had briefly gazed from afar into the shadowed eyes of Feanor. Suddenly, the Elf who had lent his shoulder to Melimwe came forward, having observed the entire scene, "Be not harsh with Melimwe. I will break convention and give my name: I am Rostor, young and rash of heart, and my father is a master forger of blades that within this city."

((Let it here be noted that Saelbainor will no longer be appearing in this plot, (he appeared only in flash-backs anyway) and as such, I remain within only two characters, as Luingil does with Finlos; I have no intention of breaching proper role-play conventions- Rostor is replacing Saelbainor)).
Edited by Melimwe, Aug 4 2014, 08:15 PM.
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Luingil
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An angry retort was at the tip of Luingil's tongue as Melimwe drove his point home. Of course Sárarwa's father had not returned... one would have to be deaf and blind to miss the clues given by the youth's speech and demeanor. It rankled that he had nearly dismissed a young noble of such a bloodline, but it was that very mistake that gave Luingil no room for indulging in petty arguments. The situation was dangerous. A Feanorian... a young noble of the House of the King... Tinnuon, asking for him... it could go very wrong all too easily. And there was Finlos to consider. The Swordmaster allowed himself a quick glance at the far end of the courtyard. The silver-haired youth seemed to have recovered and was standing a bit aside from the other trainees as he removed his armor. His movements were weak, but not impaired. The fatigue would pass quickly.

"My apologies, Sárarwa," Luingil replied at last. "I was not aware of the situation." He had not made any move to take the elf's sword, but his voice was not unkind. A harsh hand would do more harm here than good, and he was no fool. He could ill afford to lose a youth of such a bloodline to another teacher... especially an inferior one.

"My training is not easy, but it is my goal that each and every student is well-equipped and prepared to serve our Lord to the best of their ability. It is for this reason that I prefer to speak with the fathers of my students... to determine if they are ready to pursue that responsibility. In your case the choice is in your hands... as is the choice of who you will take as your trainer... but I caution you not to make the decision too hastily." Luingil then turned his attention to Melimwe, surprised as he saw that the elf had been joined by another. He listened to Rostor's introduction, nodding slightly. Fury had given way to determination. Battle lines were being drawn. Melimwe had made his move. If he felt it necessary to challenge the Swordmaster, then the challenge would be met.

You will regret this, Melimwe. The Oath lingered in his mind. You threaten my honor. You threaten my House. You would take even my own child from me. Vengeance upon Finlos had been withheld. Vengeance upon Melimwe... that remained to be seen.

"Let the first session be tomorrow," Luingil declared, and there was a hint of dark amusement in the half smile that played upon his lips. "Unless you have need of more time to prepare, Melimwe? Finlos will spar with you in the location you have suggested, and I will speak with Hir-Tinnuon. This matter will be settled soon enough. As for you, Sárarwa, Rostor... you may find that it is in your interest to come as well - in armor, I should think."
Edited by Luingil, Jul 31 2014, 08:37 PM.
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Sararwa
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After watching the intervention and saving of Finlos, and the disillusionment of being told there was a need for a sponsor, Sárarwa rejoiced in the words of the sword-master. He would be taken as a student after all! Oh mother, I am finally headed in the footsteps of my father. Thank you! Sárarwa's face shone with youthful anticipation and emotion. He straightened to his full height, which was quite tall. His grey eyes looked to the sword-master and with a faultless bow he made his choice.

"I shall be ready and present myself tomorrow Sword-master Luingil." Sárarwa glanced over at the young Elf Rostor and Melimwe and smiled widely as he bowed once more. I will look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Right now I shall help Finlos with the armor before I go, it will give me a chance to see what is expected to be worn."

There was a certain lassitude in his step as he left the others and moved toward Finlos but the further he got from the sword-master the lighter his heart seemed to get. Yes, he had gotten what he wanted but at what cost? The sword-master was good, the best, but could he expect such treatment as had befallen Luingil's own son? Would his life be in danger from his instructor? He decided not to tell his mother, instead he would encourage her to help him search for some armor he could wear.

Sárarwa watched the students clean their armor and weapons. He nodded in approval. It was exactly as his father would have done. He wondered if some day in the future he would stand with these young men to defend his king. His father had told him that war was strange, none knew if they would be brave or cowardly until their first fight. That all newly made warriors feared for their lives but once past that hurdle all that mattered was to protect and defend those that were weak. To imagine his father afraid was unthinkable. He was determined to be brave no matter what and to endure what came his way as his father would have wanted him to.

There was Finlos doing as his father bade him. Sárarwa nodded in a friendly gesture before leaning his wrapped sword against a tree. He swept his blue cloak behind his elbows before grabbing a clean rough cloth. He picked up a helmet he found on a rack and began polishing it. He did not wish to speak to Finlos about the incident he had just witnessed. If it had been the other way around, Sárarwa knew he would be mad or embarrassed at anyone viewing it so he kept silent.
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Melimwe

Rostor appeared baffled, and longed to help Finlos as well. There was something in him that moved him so. He did not want to embarrass him in front of his father. He looked at Sárarwa, and thought of speaking to him. But the sun was beginning to set and the trainees were all returning home. Rostor and Melimwe did not wish to prolong an even more awkward scene, and so they left.

As they walked down the street in the fading light, Melimwe paused, "What did you say your name was? Forgive me, I do not wish to seem rude. I would like to call you by something."

Rostor smiled haphazardly, "I am called Rostor, you may accept this as my Mother-Name, but I feel a great respect for you. The House of the Harp and of the Mole do not trust you, and I do not know what I wish to think myself. But I am impressed at how you protected Finlos from the Sword-master."

Melimwe's attention became curious, "You are... of which House?"

Rostor's eyes gleamed, "The Harp, for my mother was a fair harpist in the West. But I do not understand why there is such... tension..."

Melimwe gazed into his gleaming eyes, his beaming face, "Neither do I. But I feel a great trust for you. You are young and brave. I will see you tomorrow."

A day passed after Rostor had returned home in wonder, not saying a word to Salgant or anyone else in the House. He knew the tension. Salgion wanted to know if he would journey to the caves with Maeglin, but Rostor told him that he had a training-session he must attend. He journeyed up the road to the Citadel and passed near Melimwe's House. Melimwe strode out of it, "Ah, Rostor... I have been giving you some additional thought. After discussion with my brother, we have determined that you shall be welcome in our House."

Rostor seemed perplexed, "Why... thank you, why such a great honor?"

Melimwe smiled, "You will see. Come with me, we are to meet them within the hour."

They journeyed further up the road, crossing the equivalent of the causeway into Tirion, and there was the Court of the Citadel before them. The Fountain Guards appeared to look forward to this as they watched them. Melimwe sighed sadly at the center of the courtyard where the White Tree had stood, for this was the replica of where Feanor had made his seven sons swear his terrible oath. I hope this city is not cursed due to the replica of that spot... the reason why I am trapped here...... There stood Luingil and Finlos and Sárarwa. They were all in their gear. Melimwe strode to the center of the empty courtyard, "And so here we are to practice in honor of the High-King. Ah, there is Tinnuon, and look! Wonderful, Hir-Ecthelion, I thank you for gracing us with your presence." They nodded and stood to the side, awaiting the scene.

Rostor matched himself with Finlos, and Melimwe walked over to Sárarwa, "I will show you many things. We will see who teaches the Sword with greater Art." Rostor smiled at Finlos, "Prepare yourself. I am not afraid."

((Cell and I agreed to the movement of the scene, but if anyone wishes for more time on the previous day, I can recall and save this somewhere else until it is time to move the scene. It's up to the both of you ;) ))

((It's fine with Sárarwa)) ~M
Edited by Macalaure, Aug 3 2014, 08:02 PM.
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Luingil
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Finlos looked up as Sararwa approached, meeting his eyes briefly before bowing his head in greeting. He seemed surprised when the newcomer began to help and opened his mouth as if to protest before shrugging and turning away. He showed no interest in conversation beyond simple introductions and when their chore was completed he bowed again, murmuring a polite thank you before excusing himself.

~~~

The next day dawned bright and the Swordmaster and his heir were early to the Court of the Fountain. Luingil was dressed in elegant silver and sky-blue robes... his son in full armor. They stood tall to the side of Ecthelion and Tinnuon, an eerie intensity in both sets of grey eyes. They smiled as Melimwe and Rostor approached, Finlos eying the younger elf briefly before focusing on Melimwe with an almost hungry expression. The youth raised his hand to the sword hilt at his side, curling his fingers around it in anticipation.

"Well met, Melimwe!" Luingil strode down to meet the other with a smile, grasping his wrist firmly in the manner of one soldier greeting another. He gave no sign of any ill will toward the Feanorian, but he seemed amused, as if indulging in some private joke.

"Tinnuon and I have spoken briefly, but we have agreed to meet privately after the first matches. I wish to observe the results, myself, after all. A pity that I cannot join you today, but it would hardly do to meet with our lord while sullied from training, would it?" He gestured for Sararwa and Finlos to come forward. There was no trace of the defeated trainee in Finlos' demeanor now... he was a competitor, eagerly awaiting a chance to be tested and proved. The Swordmaster saw it and smiled, giving Melimwe a knowing look. He rested a hand on his son's shoulder briefly and the silver-haired youth lifted his chin, pride and confidence shining in his eyes.

"I believe I shall enjoy these matches." With that Luingil retreated, leaving Melimwe to take charge of the session. But the first match was not as he nor Finlos had expected. The youth's brow furrowed in confusion and disappointment as Rostor approached him. He had expected to be tested by the Feanorian. Was that not why he had been brought here? It would have been a more straightforward match. Melimwe had the advantage, without a doubt. There would be no point in him disarming a trainee immediately, so Finlos had expected an exhibition match, with the Feanorian testing different aspects of his technique. Instead, he was to spar with a strange trainee. Melimwe's student, perhaps? Ah, so that was the way of it... a test of the trainers' workmanship. He bowed to Rostor, pushing down his feelings and focusing instead on the battle to come. This would be more difficult, but he was rested and well-prepared. The outcome would be fair.

"I am prepared." He returned the smile briefly, but his eyes had hardened. The conversation was over. He waited for his partner to signal that he was ready, then immediately attacked. The Swordmaster's work was evident in his student. Each move was efficient, with no energy wasted on extravagant movements or style. But his attacking blows were heavy, and it was clear that Finlos, like his father, had little concern about inflicting bruises. He fought fiercely, not hesitating to follow up on any hesitation or loss of balance.


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Sararwa
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Sárarwa felt resplendent in the light but strong armor given him to wear by Nécaner, the guard captain of King Turgon. At first he had been loath to ask if there was something in the guard armory that he might borrow but the warriors present in the hall laughed, somehow knowing his intentions. It was Nécaner himself who chose the armor that best fit Sárarwa's tall and angular body, he was even supplied an ornate sheath for his newly reconditioned sword. A few of the men gave him pointers and brushed him up on what his father had taught him and for that he was thankful.

By the time Sárarwa walked past the Gar Ainion that morning, with his mother's cheerful blessing ringing in his ear, he felt prepared to show what he knew. His helm was under one arm and the deep blue shield he carried had the emblem of a star, the moon and a red heart around the boss for the house of the king. His mother had insisted on braiding his thick black hair first then knotting it just as his father had worn his hair in battle.

Melimwe spoke to him politely as he drew near the group and he acknowledged him with a bow. Sárarwa had actually arrived before any others but stayed in the deep shadow of the tower to stretch out his arms and legs and adjust the straps of his armor once more. As he came forward he smiled at Finlos and bowed politely to Master Luingil.

Being unsure of himself Sárarwa did not know if he was to spar with Master Melimwe or not, surely not while Finlos sparred with Rostor. He did not place his helmet on his head, preferring to see the match better without the confines of the helm.

"I shall attempt to emulate my father and put into practice all that he was able to teach me."
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Melimwe

Rostor smiled as he approached her. He smirked, his head turning sideways, "The Harp is not as soft as you may think!" The onlookers laughed as he appeared to be playing with his cloak, swaying it to and fro, flapping it and twirling it once it was unclasped, the sun shining upon it in a dazzling display that appeared to confuse the observers. Suddenly, a sword came through as the fabric fell backwards, in the space of air in between the twirls, with a precision that shocked the audience.

Finlos quickly raised his sword and parried him, in a series of fast, hard strikes, attempting to knock Rostor off-balance as Rostor slowly moved backwards parrying, and as soon as he felt his left-foot begin to step on the cloak, he began to do the same in reverse, as they clashed again and again and again and again and again while he pushed himself forward and Finlos backward. They were dueling with blades without shields.

Rostor assumed a high-guard and came down repeatedly as Finlos parried, while Rostor swung to the left and to the right in rapid-succession, then resuming the high-guard yet again, his sword facing behind him. Finlos moved quickly but Rostor stepped backward and parried. He matched his footwork, taking care not to tangle his legs. As Finlos retreated temporarily, Luingil whispered something in his ear. Then he returned to the fray. Suddenly, Rostor arced his sword left and then right, but Finlos locked him, matching his skill-level with dexterity. Their blades were locked together as Finlos moved-in, tricking him, attempting to grab his sword by twisting his wrist. But Rostor saw it coming and grabbed his hand in turn, jumping backwards as he released him. "Clever."

Melimwe thought back to one of the sparring-matches he had observed in Himring. "Dagor i Aur!" Yucalwe had yelled, and then one of his Feanorian students performed a remarkable technique as a result of knowing precisely what those words signified.

As Rostor was standing back, Melimwe whispered something quickly in his ear. Then Rostor nodded and marched forward. Finlos came at him again, but Rostor arced his sword to the right while he grabbed Finlos' sword-arm, tripping him, twisting his wrist and grabbing his blade. If Rostor had finished his strange arc-maneuver, Finlos would have found himself impaled in the back. The sparring-match was over.

Melimwe applauded, "Well done. You shall prove a good student, Rostor... and you did well, Finlos." Rostor smirked, and helped Finlos to stand, whispering, "You nearly defeated me. Well done."

Melimwe smiled, "Since Sárarwa is new, there will be a training-emphasis in our sparring match. I may prove my capabilities to you, as well, Swordmaster."
Edited by Melimwe, Aug 5 2014, 11:19 PM.
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Luingil
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Luingil's eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed as Finlos fell to the ground, but he did not move from his place, keeping his displeasure to himself. The maneuver was a good one - one that the Swordmaster had not seen before. It was purely bad luck for Finlos that the young fool from the Harp had picked it up... even the best swordsman could be defeated by a new trick. But only once. He nodded thoughtfully, offering a rueful smile and shrug to Tinnuon and Ecthelion. Before them in the courtyard Finlos quickly got back on his feet, seeming not to notice his opponent's words or offered hand. Luingil's smile widened.

"A good trick. One of yours, Melimwe? From the Feanorians, no doubt... it seems the Harp is learning a new song at last, though with that cloak of his you may yet have your work cut out for you." Luingil chuckled. The results of the match were unexpected. It would have been better if Finlos had not been defeated, but it had been an even match. Both elves had performed well and there was no real disgrace to the defeat. But even so... it was not enough. More was yet required to remove any remaining doubt as to the quality of Luingil's work. Still, for the moment it seemed that they would be granted a short reprieve. Melimwe stepped forward, evidently preparing to spar with Sárarwa.

"I will observe the match with pleasure," Luingil replied, inclining his head slightly. "I should like to see what other tricks you may have up your sleeves." He took a step back to stand next to Finlos, who had removed his helm and was allowing the morning breeze to cool his head. The silver-haired elf glanced at him quickly, then looked away, relaxing as he realized that no scolding was forthcoming. Luingil took no notice of the reaction, turning instead to his potential student.

"Are you prepared and agreeable to the match, Sárarwa? I will only observe for this round... I should like to see where you stand."

Edited by Luingil, Aug 18 2014, 03:34 PM.
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Sararwa
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Sárarwa placed his helm on his head and secured it with a leather strap. He picked up his shield and drew his sword before moving up and taking the stance his father had taught him, Echuio (awakening). He found his nervousness left him the moment he moved in preparation. He hefted his sword, feeling the perfect balance, the hilt recently wrapped gave him grip. It was his father's sword and the feeling that went through him at that thought gave him a sense of awe that he would now wield it.

With a nod Sárarwa smiled at Melimwe, his eyes never leaving the Feanorian's mid-section. "I am ready Sword-master and agreeable to the match."

Melimwe smiled, "Shall we begin?"

"When you fight, observe every motion of your opponent, but with care! For he may desire for you to watch one movement at the expense of another. Again!"

"I await you."

"Macil va Aur!" [Blade of the Sun!] Melimwe thrust his blade high toward the sky, and then came crashing down. The newly risen sun shone off Melimwe's sword as it lowered. Sárarwa was momentarily blinded as he moved to the right and flattened his blade to catch Melimwe's heavier blade to push it to the side. He circled gracefully to place the sun behind his back. He did not wish to move to the attack, not yet, but having the sun to his back would help. He centered himself when suddenly Melimwe moved to the attack again.

"Dae va Calithil!" [Shadow of the Moonlight] Melimwe extended his sword, then thrust it back toward himself, then arced the blade before quickly thrusting it forward. Sárarwa was thrown off guard, thinking Melimwe's attack was done and just barely brought his shield up in time. The sword slid off the boss but the pressure of the blow knocked Sárarwa backwards. He barely caught himself before a fall that would have embarrassed him. He could hear some of the guards urging him on and stomping their feet.

"Elion va Uial!" [Son of the Twilight Star] Melimwe angled his blade, the sun reflecting on its shining surface, making it glow, in a maneuver that brought awe throughout the courtyard. Then he thrust it forward. This time the blow from Melimwe's sword on his shield did cause Sárarwa to slip and fall. He scraped his knuckles on the stone courtyard as he scrambled backwards. Anger built within him as he moved right again. Anger at his ineptitude caused him to grit his teeth while his shield sent Melimwe's sword away from him but Sárarwa found his sword almost acting on its own as he stepped under the extended arm of Melimwe and rapped him upon the vambrace. It was an awkward and foolish move that put him in danger. He backed away and once again took the stance of Echuio, resetting his grip on the shield.

The match was over. Melimwe once again stood with a smile on his face.

Sárarwa relaxed but stayed in the stance he had been taught. He did not trust Melimwe for he had seen some of the tricks of his pupil and was unsure a trick might happen to him. But no, there were cheers and good-natured comments from the crowd. Sárarwa lowered his blade and returned it to his sheath. His muscles felt good, warmed up and ready to do more but he doubted the day would be spent solely on sword use.
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Melimwe

Melimwe smiled, "Well done, Sárarwa. Be wary of your opponent in the future. If the sun glares on the blade, do not look at it so intently, be wary of a counter-attack. And when a hard strike comes toward your shield, it is more effective to duck aside and then counter-attack whilst your opponent has misspent energy. The way in which you countered my first attack was... perfect. Flawless. Brilliant. Well done! A well-deserved applause." Melimwe smirked, "Now, I will spar with Rostor, and then, Finlos."

The crowd applauded. Melimwe motioned to Rostor. The ground was cleared, and they stood face to face. Rostor drew his sword, and Melimwe smiled, "Let us see what you can do." Suddenly, Melimwe was on the ground with a cloak over his face. But Melimwe swiftly parried the blade that came when the cloak was swept aside, and quickly regained his footing, "A clever move, Rostor." A friend came behind Melimwe and quickly clasped his huge cloak, then stepped back into the spectators. Rostor smirked. Melimwe laughed, "Two can play at this game."

Melimwe gracefully twirled his cloak as he spun, the cloak billowing outward in shining plumes of flickering and dazzling light, sending the audience into an emotional flourish. Out came the sword, "Macil va Aur!" Rostor quickly stepped backward, arcing his body in such a way that the blow missed him and his sword parried it away, and then Rostor and Melimwe engaged in several clashes of their blades to and fro across the courtyard. Rostor tried to flip his cloak again, but he quickly whipped it back as Melimwe's blade nearly sawed through its threads. The blade did not touch the cloth. Melimwe smirked, "For certain, you do not wish to dirty such a fine garment on Yrch, whose blades would merely slice right through it."

Rostor came at him again in several clashes, attempting the disarm-maneuver, but Melimwe saw it coming and stepped backward. Rostor began to spin in many circles, his huge cloak billowing around him in red clouds, shining and blazing in the light of the sun, flapping and curling into huge balls of fabric around him, as Melimwe approached him cautiously with his weapon. Melimwe smirked, "If I was armed with arrows, you would have found yourself a pin-cushion." Then Rostor stopped, his arms spreading his cloak wide, its shiny plumes billowing beneath his arms in sparkling majesty, and as Melimwe moved to stab, Rostor suddenly whipped the cloak o'er Melimwe's eyes as his body moved with extreme haste past his sword, and then he was behind him. But Melimwe quickly flipped his sword, parrying Rostor's rear-blow.

Melimwe laughed, "I ought to saw my blade clean through that cloak. "Dae va Calithil!" The clasp of Rostor's cloak flew open as the cloak fell from his shoulders. He began to trip on it, but he grabbed it as Melimwe's sword charged clean at him. But Rostor then tripped Melimwe, grabbing his cloak from the rear, but Melimwe turned and twisted the golden fabric around Rostor's face as Melimwe nearly disarmed him, "Was -this- your new anti-Feanorian maneuver?"

Rostor fell to the ground, "It is not over yet!" He quickly grabbed his sword and clashed with Melimwe in several artistic blows. The match had turned serious again. He pushed at Melimwe, attempting to disarm him left and right, but Melimwe's foot-work was adept, or it was- until he stepped backward on his cloak and fell backward, all the while parrying Rostor's blows. He tripped Rostor and sprang off the ground, unclasping his cloak and sending it falling to the rear. But then Rostor grabbed it, "Ha! The advantage is mine!" Rostor then tossed the cloak at Melimwe as he followed it with his blade. But the blades did not penetrate the cloak. Not a single thread was rendered. The spectators looked with shock and awe. Melimwe smirked, "Such are Aman's treasures."

Rostor grew furious, parrying Melimwe's blade as the gold cloak fell to the ground between them. But his other hand grabbed a fold as it fell, and so did Melimwe. It was now a tug of war over the cloak while the two clashed and parried, struggling with one hand on each sword. But Melimwe yanked on the fabric, pulling Rostor in, forcing an arm-lock around Rostor's sword-arm. Rostor's sword fell to the ground with a clang. Melimwe smiled, "This match is over." Rostor frowned muttering to himself, but the crowd applauded them both equally, and they were moved by the spectacle of the cloaks. Melimwe bowed, and then motioned for his friend to take his cloak. Then, Melimwe motioned for Finlos to join him.
Edited by Melimwe, Aug 14 2014, 11:31 PM.
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Luingil
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Luingil observed the matches with a keen eye. The youth of the House of the King was at a skill level far beyond what he had expected. Someone, perhaps Sárarwa's own father, had trained him well, but the trainee fought with his heart... and that was foolish. He spotted the angry blow to the Feanorian's vambrace and smiled grimly, remembering the weakness to address another time. As for Rostor... the son of the Harp... Luingil felt little but disgust as he observed the match, if the event could in fact be called a match. A match in foolishness, perhaps. For what good was it to fight an orc with a scrap of cloth? The creatures of the Enemy would have no qualms about slicing through a shimmering barrier and into the unprotected neck hidden beneath it. But... let that be the concern of the Feanorian.

The match came to an end and once again it was Finlos' turn to fight. The Swordmaster nodded once, reaching out to rest his hand briefly on his son's shoulder before directing the youth firmly towards Melimwe. Finlos stepped forward, drawing his sword and approaching the Feanorian with a fiercely eager expression.

Melimwe drew his sword and faced him. His vast cloak flickered in the breeze. He smiled, "We will begin with the basics you are more familiar with, and move forward." He arced his blade to the left and then to the right, "Canya Silmacil!" [Bold Shining White Sword]. Finlos responded as he had been trained, parrying the simpler blows easily before transitioning to the attack. Melimwe smiled, and he parried his blows to and fro, the speed and dexterity of their combat rising. Melimwe was impressed with Finlos' skill. Then Melimwe laughed, "And now to bring a more interesting element to this duel." He grabbed an edge of his golden cloak with one hand, while maintaining his stance with his sword in the other. He swished the cloak to the left and charged his sword down the center. The sword passed harmlessly by as Finlos swiftly lunged forward and to the side, turning inwards in anticipation of the Feanorian's next move.

But instead of the blade, he found himself under an onslaught of golden light. Melimwe twirled the cloak to his right, distracting his opponent. It flickered with a bright, gold gleam, that was blinding to the eye. He twirled it with an art, a certain grace, as it spun in majestic plumes of beauty, flickering in its spin. And then his sword came out within arm's reach. Finlos was struggling, disoriented and scrambling to hold to his chosen stance. The strike would come, and as it did he seized the opportunity, reaching for Melimwe's sword arm. He had hoped for this. He had learned from the past matches. He stood as Rostor had stood, the stance and timing carefully arranged. Just as Rostor had disarmed him, he now turned on Melimwe... but with the stances mirrored. A trick, to catch the Feanorian by surprise. It was nearly perfect, and all could see it. Luingil smiled triumphantly. His student, his heir was no fool.

The triumph did not last long. Melimwe pulled back his sword-arm, while flipping his cloak over Finlos' head, as it flickered and billowed over his entire body, his whole form. Then Melimwe whipped it back, the cloak falling gracefully behind him. Finlos was disarmed. The trainee stood there in disbelief and shock at the trick played upon him. He slipped automatically into a defensive, unarmed stance, fuming and ready to fight as if for his life should Melimwe step forward, but the elf did not do so. Instead, Melimwe smiled, "You have done well this day."

"My lord." Finlos bowed shortly, waiting until Melimwe had dismissed him before retrieving his sword and stepping back to take his place beside the Swordmaster. Luingil was silent once again, his expression unreadable, but Ecthelion was clearer in his response. The elf lord smiled, joining in the appreciative chorus of applause for the trainees that rang out in the break between matches, as did Tinnuon. However, the Captain of the Fountain Guard did not smile. "I... believe we have seen enough, Luingil. It seems that there is much talent among the youth of the Gondolindrim..... but.... I would speak with you...."

Luingil bowed, withdrawing with Ecthelion and Tinnuon. Blades had been tested... now came the time for artful speech. Let Melimwe take control of his petty session. The Swordmaster had other business to attend to.


((The end of this post is flexible, depending on what folks think should be the next 'step' for the roleplay.))
Edited by Luingil, Aug 18 2014, 06:22 PM.
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Melimwe

"Do my lords require any further demonstration on my part?"

Tinnuon smiled, "You have done well. Your training methods are... unorthodox, perhaps, but I think I know what you are really up to... I hope that day will never come..." Tinnuon signaled that he knew: Melimwe was training Finlos and Rostor several tricks, in case another Silmaril should fall into Elvish hands, and in case they should find themselves on the opposite side of the Feanorians.

As Tinnuon, Ecthelion, and Luingil withdrew, Melimwe sighted another Elf strolling up the stairs of the causeway, his red and black silken cloak billowing behind him. It was unorthodox for an Elf to wear such colors, but Maeglin's past was such that it was understood. Maeglin halted, "A Feanorian demonstrating his art of prowess before the Court of the High King! I would speak with my King..."

Melimwe sighed, unclasping his cloak and handing it to Rostor, "I will return. Certain elements of diplomacy may prove necessary." He quickly followed after Maeglin, in the hopes of getting King Turgon's attention first.

Rostor sighed, muttering to himself: "He is a strange one. And here I met him yesterday. Why would he fear Maeglin? He is my brother, we fawn over each other..." Rostor shrugged his shoulders. He saw Sárarwa joining the other officers. It was now merely he and Finlos alone. He placed Melimwe's cloak upon his own shoulders, and the wind grew, blowing his hair wildly behind him in strands of long silk, and the cloaks billowed in the breeze, flowing as if waves lapping upon the shores of the sea at the rising of the Sun, flickering crimson and gold and bathed in light, glimmering and gleaming.

He majestically strode over to Finlos, "Forgive me for my trick during our duel. You are brave. You nearly bested Melimwe, a Feanorian esteemed in this city for his martial prowess.... I am amazed. Am I... making you feel uncomfortable? Forgive me... I know your father dislikes my House...... but shall we not place such things aside? I believe that I can help you reveal a marvelous display of martial combat during the Festival of the Gates of Summer, which is in several months. I can tell that you will want to please your father, as I will wish to please my father. I know it is not customary, but I find that names, as sacred as they are, remain important. You may call me Rostor. I was named for my hair. May I help you pack your armor?"
Edited by Melimwe, Aug 24 2014, 06:49 PM.
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Luingil
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Finlos sighed in disappointment as the session broke apart and removed his helmet once more, setting it down on a low stone wall at the edge of the courtyard. He had hoped for at least a few more matches, but perhaps it was better this way, since certain participants had been determined to turn the event into a public spectacle. He stood tall, arms crossed over his chest as he watched first Luingil, then Melimwe hurry off. Then Rostor approached him. He was rather verbose and Finlos soon found himself smiling despite himself.

"An apology is not necessary, Rostor. Your technique was a good one. But you go too far... Hir-Melimwe was in complete control. It was an exhibition, nothing more. Still..." A slight smile crossed the trainee's face as he recalled that brief moment of triumph. "I believe that it went well enough. Cloaks aside, of course."

Finlos looked over his shoulder to make sure that there was no sign of either of their trainers returning, then over at where Sárarwa was conversing with some soldiers who seemed to be friends of his. The youth from the House of the King was of considerable interest to him. His swordsmanship was promising, and Finlos would be a fool not to encourage any friendship that might grow between himself and the other young noble... within boundaries, of course. Rostor of the Harp was a different matter. His offer of help was too bold, but he could not be ignored.

"You may call me Finlos. It seems that we were both named for our hair... a lack of creativity, perhaps, on behalf of our sires. But Hir-Glorfindel has the same trait, so we are in good company, at least. As for your help...." How could he explain that situation? "It is a kind offer, but I have little free time, and I expect that any further sessions that we have together under Hir-Melimwe will come out of that meager store."

The silver-haired trainee sighed and sat down on the low stone wall beside his helmet, beginning the process of unbuckling as much of his armor as he could reach. He shifted to one side to allow Rostor access to some of the harder-to-reach buckles should he desire to assist. "If you would like to help, be my squire and I will be yours. But I'll leave the cape... ah... capes, to you."

The situation was awkward without the purpose that had been present during the matches and Finlos looked over his shoulder again, hoping to see Sárarwa returning. Rostor seemed to mean well, but there was something about him that made the trainee from the Fount strangely uneasy. He sighed and tried to brush off the feeling, blaming it on his lingering frustration and embarrassment at being the victim of Melimwe's strange tactics.
Edited by Luingil, Sep 14 2014, 07:11 PM.
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Melimwe

Rostor sat down next to Finlos, aiding in the unbuckling process, "I could be great, as your friend. Fear me not. For I have the respect of the greatest of princes. Ask for anything, and it shall be yours. You may have little free-time, lest Maeglin desire otherwise. For he has the ear of our High-King. I am among his closest confidants. When.... nay, I shall not speak of it. I will say that I gave him comfort when he did need it most. He was desperate... alone... my cloak once lined his own."

He finished unbuckling his armor. Rostor then stood, and fanned-out his cloak. It billowed around him in glimmering domes. "Our friendship is known among the stars. I can tell you are uneasy... your father may have biased you against our kind... but it is not wasteful to cheer in great mirth. We also train. We are prepared for times of war, if they should return. I can tell you why I believe Melimwe utilized such strange tactics....... you see, his lesson was not to demonstrate fighting against Yrch.......... I think he is afraid of he of whom he represents, as Feanorian Ambassador...... at least we do not have a Silmaril, or bar their access to one......... for you see, like your father, the Feanorians are traditional in combat..... I hope and pray to the Valar that such a day will never come or return..... but yes, they are traditional, and have certain expectations. The fluttering of a cloak would baffle the eyes of one such soldier, granting an opportunity of several moments time to disarm one's foe...... but come, let us not speak further of such dreadful things. We both know, as well as Melimwe, that cloaks would prove most ineffective against Yrch, who will slash at anything and everything."

He sat down beside him, "I want you to feel my cloak..... I desire for you to trust me....... we who regard our closest friends as brothers will oft do so....... we feel the truth of each others' trust as we embrace....... but that is further off. I want to be your friend, to earn your trust."

He stood, turned and faced him, and then he knelt before him, "I am yours to command, Finlos. Tell me how I may earn your trust, and I will do so."
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