OPEN--and the accordions played

[fengel]

It was always windy on the steppes. Always. But the young boy was used to it. It was spring and he had to take the sheep to bigger grasslands than just the ones outside their house. Despite his Rohirrim heritage, the young boy was on feet. He never used their family horse for his job – mostly because his father used it for bigger cattle – even though they had way more sheep than cows. He planted his feet firm and solid on the freshly wet steppes – the small drops from the morning fog fell on his brown leather shoes and he tugged his heavy woollen cape closer around his body as he walked down the steppes towards the red sunrise behind the mountains. It was early in the morning – the rooster had not even crowed yet. It usually did at the break of dawn, but it was way too early for that. Fengel was up before the rooster – that was something new.

At his walk he had put his town behind him and had pulled the backpack more firmly up his bag. The staff he was holding was more than just a walking stick. It was beautifully carved – something he had done during wintertime when there was nothing much to do. It was filled with different symbols and shapes of wolves and sheep and mountains. The staff he held helped him walking more stabile on the steppes despite his usual clumsiness. He was wearing simple and practical clothes. The warm cape, a small vest and on top of that a jacket – then a shirt. Some comfortable pants and finally some old but very practical and almost waterproof shoes. The boy was of course wearing his usual red scarf which was his trademark at all times.

His blue eyes glanced at the sheep that were walking lazily in front of him and he saw how his dog ran out now and them to guide one that had broken out back to the group again. The sun now peeked out from behind the mountain and sent its first shine down their snowy tops. The fog rose up to his knees and the wind was not strong enough to push it away. It even seemed like it had faded a bit after the sun had finally showed itself. The shine reached the steppes at last and he had to cover his eyes with one hand as he walked – making a grimace at the light that hit his eyes. He turned his head to one side just to prevent himself from going blind and continued his walk down the flat landscape – and even managed to trip over a stone because he was not watching where he was going.

Fengel could hear the familiar chuckle of the river in the distance and he stopped. Making sure that the dog would not guide the sheep across it just yet. He had decided to stay here for the day and then cross the river Entwash in the evening where the water is a bit warmer. The boy found a big rock to take a seat on and took off his bag. He sat down for a few minutes, resting his back before standing up and walking over to the oldest sheep to see how they were doing. He checked their legs for any damages and to his luck all of them were fine besides one. The oldest had become halt on the right side. He led the big ewe to the rock and let her lie down near him as he wrapped some cloth around the damaged leg. The poor girl would probably not last the whole summer out.

[alicecrysis]

RUN, RUN AWAY, OR REMAIN WITH THE ONES
WITH NOWHERE TO GO, AS THE SKY FALLS TO THE EARTH

Saruman would know what to do.

As the head of the White Council, Saruman was entrusted with an incredible amount of power. First and foremost, the Maiar was responsible for leading and instructing his fellow Wizards against Sauron. This included, but was not limited to; gaining intelligence on the enemy, devising tactics and attacks, dispatching the Wizards where they need be to stem the tide of evil, etc. Though there may only be five Maiar of this particular kind, their actions were no less fateful to all of Middle Earth. Of course, his job description was much more diverse than this. Saruman the White was also responsible for watching over Isengard, once a bastion for Gondor. Its position near the narrowest point of the opening to the Gap of Rohan made its defense a very important matter to all those in Erebor, Arnor, and similar regions, where the spread of evil had never really been felt before. And lastly, he was given many dangerous and powerful magical artifacts in good faith that they'd be protected and never used. Safeguarded from the hands of Sauron and all his forms.

Alatar had come to confirm a terrible truth of late. The Men of Rhun were in fact evil, willingly serving under the rule of Sauron. Whether they'd been bought, coerced, or simply joined of their own chaotic nature was very much unclear, and more or less irrelevant. Alatar also learned that their intent was war, and nothing short of it. Something had to be done of it, but the options were far too many for Alatar to make such a fateful decision alone. For starters, Alatar generally always felt that war was the answer to such a problem as this. That is, make open war with the thread before it makes you the defender in one. The Maiar wished very much to appeal to Thranduil, Celeborn, Imrahil, Denethor, and anyone else who may posses the man power to spare to tear this threat down before it could join the mass of orcs hiding behind the mountains of Shadow. But she knew that her way was not always the correct way. And she knew that if she so rashly went out and did any of such things, Saruman would throw a fit. She didn't particularly care - Alatar didn't care for Saruman or his rule at all. He sat behind his cradle of power and ordered others about without getting his hands dirty at all. His lust for power was clearly evident, as were the ensuing damages to his mind. And yet, Alatar was in no position to refute the appointed head by the Valar themselves. And so she bit her tongue every time she received a verbal lashing from him. She was prepared to endure it once more. It was safe to say however, the Alatar did not anticipate the welcome wagon waiting for her as she neared the great stone tower.

Orcs.

Not more than two days away from Isengard, Alatar smelled the vile beings only moments before they were upon her. She had barely the time leap from the back of Shadowmere and slap her thigh, sending her flying into the forest and away from harm before they darted from the trees around her. Alatar swiftly arose to her feet, her sword already drawn into her right hand, and her staff in her left. A few orcs wouldn't bother her in the slightest at any other time. But this wasn't a ramble of mindless orcs - these were organized, and heavily numbered. They were up to something. Given that the only remarkable landmark near was Orthanc, Alatar had to assume that was their destination.

[/size]

"A Wizard! Whadda we do!?"[/size] snarled a smaller orc, clearly eying Alatar's staff and evaluating the great personal injury he could receive from it.[/size] "We kill her! Saruman's orders!"[/size] shouted another, large orc, who wasted no time in running forward with a larger axe. Alatar caught herself making sure she heard that right. Sarumans' orders? How was this possible? Alatar made no motion as the creature sped forward, until at the very last moment she lunged forward with her blade, sending its tip straight through its neck. The bold creature groaned, blinked rather dumbly, and stumbled backwards, all the while blood spurting down its leather covered chest. Alatar pulled her blade to her side once more and awaited the next challenger. Without much warning, a pair of arrows sounded from the trees. One of which met its target of her chest, the other was a direct strike to her right shoulder. A low gasp of pain was all the satisfaction Alatar gave back to her shooter. Luckily, her Mithral armor kept her chest more than protected (the arrow hadn't done more than cause a small laceration in her skin), but with the other, she was not so lucky. Warm, sticky blood was already dropping down her arm to the hilt of her blade. Things only seemed to get worse as the entire game changed with a shriek from the forest. One that was echoed eight more times.

Nazgul.

Cerulean eyes opened wide in fear. Shivers rippled down her spine. This was the real deal. The nine had come so far from their masters power. Something was very much amiss at Isengard tonight. Even the orcs fled pretty quickly, obviously recognizing that whatever battle was about to ensue was way beyond their capabilities to handle. Alatar knew her only hope was not far off, she could make it out if only barely. The river Entwash was not far from her back; the depths of which were one place the Wraiths did not tread lightly. Alatar flipped about and made a dash for the river. The sound of heavy hooves behind her grew more and more in her ears. She was fast, faster than your average Man by far. But she could not out run a horse. Especially not one with given unnatural speed from fear. Luckily for her, she did manage to reach the cliff towering above the river with enough time to round once more. Ancient words began to flow from her lips with the utmost concentration, and her eyes closed. The first of the nine emerged from the woods atop a beastly black horse, a long sword in its armored hand. When her eyes opened, a bolt of deadly electricity shot forward from the tip of her dark staff. It punctured right through the robes of the wraith, causing it to drop its blade, fall from its horse and flail about as its robes caught fire, shrieking all the way. Alatar peered over her shoulder at the thirty foot drop below her - her safety net, so to speak, should it come to that.

Alatar took the moments that she had before the next of the nine emerged from the trees to enchant herself with her favorite spell. It emboldened her appearance, making her seem both glorious and terrible at the same time. She appeared to radiate with light, her blade catch flame, and her robes melt into glamored blue armor. Orcs commonly dropped their weapons and ran before her when she cast this, but she had no idea how Ringwraiths would react. As the incantation finished, Alatar felt herself slapped by a wall of fatigue. Expending too much magical energy in a short period of time was incredibly draining. Ironic, that the only method of defense she had could possibly kill her if over used. Five more Wraiths appeared from the darkness, each sporting a sword. This time however, their horses reared and refused to go nearer. Alatar had completely forgotten she could spook the horses as well. This bolstered her confidence a little, but not much.

"You cannot win, Wizard..." whispered one of the Nazgul. Alatar offered no response, instead still muttering incantations to herself. This time, Alatar blessed herself with an inability to feel both mental and physical pains. Three more Nazgul joined the scene, each now abandoning their horses who were clearly terrified. Alatar kept on muttering, now relaxing completely despite the dire situation. As fluid as possible she sheathed her sword away, its weight too much for her injured shoulder to sustain, and took a two-handed approach to her staff in hopes of magnifying her channeling. She was going to need it. "We will break you..." came the same, cryptic voice as prior. Each of the Wraiths were advancing in unison, their blades held upwards in front of their face, as was the custom before joining a fight.

They weren't far from from Alatar when her staff erupted with what sounded like an explosion. Many forks of lightning sprang forward, drawn to the gauntlets, greeves and weaponry of each figure. Shrieks of pain and confusion barely made themselves audible over the crackling roar of lightning. The entire night seemed illuminated by magical energy. And as quickly as everything had grown so much brighter, Alatar could feel herself falling, somehow. And everything went black. Completely unconscious from a combination of her wound and over exertion, Alatar merely crumpled under her own weight and fell backwards down the cliff, into the running water below. Miraculously, the Maiar's grip upon her staff did not relent, not even as she drifted down river and away from her thoroughly angered foes.

Almost a day later, Alatar had still not recovered from her coma like state. Floating upon her back with her staff wedged beneath her back, she floated carelessly down the river as it grew narrower and narrower, shallow and shallower. Her hood and fallen off her head during the tumble, exposing her face and semi-long hair for once. The rest of the cloak, completely drenched from being submerged for almost a day, clung to her body, revealing the shapely nature of her body.

For the first time since her fall, Alatar came to a halt. The water had grown so shallow it could not carry her any further down stream. Stuck among reeds and other small water plants, Alatar's body lay seemingly lifeless in the water, a pair of arrows protruding upwards through her cloak. [/blockquote][/justify][/size]

[fengel]

No one would have known that a beautiful morning like this one would bring such a change to Rohan, and least of them all the young shepherd, Fengel Folcwine. He was not a fighter, nor was he a hero of some sort. It was not his destiny to be that, and he had fully accepted his simple and rather normal life. He liked being the nobody he was and let his brother take the honour for everything. Fengel did not need any war, or drama for that matter, in his humble life, nor was he looking for adventure the same way his older brother had done, when he was twenty years old. Fengel loved his sheep, and he enjoyed working at the farm and helping his parents. Perhaps one day he would fall in love with a girl who had just as simple life as himself, and they would build their own farm somewhere. No, the boy had no intention to leave Rohan. His life was here and nowhere else.

The young shepherd found an apple in his backpack and a small pocket knife which he used to cut the fruit in half. He took a big bite of one of the halves and gave the other to the young ewe that was lying next to him. The sheep ate it gratefully before starting to move towards the others that were standing a bit further away and enjoying the freshly wet grass. Fengel’s boots were also quite wet, and he felt a bit cold right now. Even though spring had finally arrived to Rohan, it was still very cold in the mornings. It usually was at the steppes, and he therefore decided to light a fire. After all, he would cross Entwash when it got a bit warmer, so for now he could just relax in front of a campfire for a couple of hours while the sun rose on the sky.

He stood up and walked around to collect some firewood. There was not much around, but luckily there were a few trees and bushes that grew alongside the river, and he found some branches there. He also picked some dry cow and horse droppings, since it burned pretty well too. Once he had put it all in a small pyramid next to the place, where he wanted the fire to be, he found his ignition steel and with a few quick rubs with pocket knife the sparks hit the little ball of wool he had collected from the sheep and flames came up. Fengel gently blew on the small fire he had created before covering it with light twigs. It did not take long for a trained hand to make such a fire and soon it was warming his face, and his cold wet hands that had felt lifeless the last few minutes.

It was only because he needed some more firewood that he walked back to the river. He had been so busy before that he had barely noticed anything floating by. Entwash usually came with wood and it had a lot of sharp rocks sticking out – so at first he had not noticed the body lying in the water. Only when his blue eyes once again fell upon it, he realised what it was. With a scared gasp the young boy did not think twice before walking out into the river and pull the person to the shore. At this time of year, Entwash was very wild because of the melting water that came from the mountains, however with all his strength, the boy managed to get back to the shore. His dog ran around him and nervously barked – probably confused about what it should do.

With a racing heart Fengel looked at the face of the person he had pulled out of the water and felt how his throat became dry. It was a woman. Panic came like a wave over him, and he felt lost in what he should do. He was not a hero. He had never saved a person’s life before. His brother Gárulf was more like that and he would probably know what to do. The boy shook his head and focused. He breathed heavily though his mouth, as he checked to see if she had a pulse. Then he placed a shaking long fingered hand on the woman’s cheek and took a deep breath. “H-h-hello?” The words escaped his mouth. Well that was stupid. Why was he sitting and talking to a person who clearly needed to get over to the fire so he could take care of her? His eyes moved from the smoke that rose near the big rock he had been sitting on and then back to the woman before he finally lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the campfire. He placed her on the ground and quickly found a small kettle which he ran down to fill with water from Entwash. When he returned he placed the kettle over the fire and fell on his knees in front of his backpack. He looked through the supplies of herbs he had with him – he always carried around with medical herbs if he or his sheep would need some first aid. He decided to go with mint and camomile. He dropped the herbs into the kettle with the heated water and crawled over to have a look at the woman again.

((there is a bit of godmodding. Tell me if you want anything changed,))

[alicecrysis]

RUN, RUN AWAY, OR REMAIN WITH THE ONES
WITH NOWHERE TO GO, AS THE SKY FALLS TO THE EARTH

Life returned to the unmoving body of Alatar very slowly. It began with the gentle fluttering of eye-lashes. Flickering weakly, trying to remove large drops of water from eyes and lashes. When they had finally managed to remain open for more than a fraction of a second, all that filled them was light. Painful, searing light. Her eyelids were reduced to nothing more than a squint, and even that was still harrowing. Suddenly, a violent eruption of water and blood shot from Alatar's lips. In that moment Alatar's mind finally turned itself on, realizing that she was in fact alive. Instinct tried to take over her flesh at this point. Coughing, Alatar pushed her body to sit up. With an incredible amount of strain and physical hardship she managed to go vertical. The entire world felt as though it were spinning wildly. Wrinkled hands lifted upwards to caress her head, though her right arm sunk quickly to the earth as pain consumed the limb. Alatar opened her eyes a little more, gazing at her arm, and noticed the arrows still embedded in her shoulder. Fantastic. Carefully she tried to move her fingers, and that's when she noticed something a whole lot more disturbing than the arrows in her flesh.

Her staff was not in her hand.

Panic consumed the Maiar. So many things could happen with her staff missing. It could fall into the wrong hands; becoming a weapon for evil. If she never reclaimed it again, much of her powers were forsaken. And if it had broke during the fall... Alatar swung her head about wildly, searching frantically for her staff. Immediately, she was interrupted by the face of a fair boy. He didn't appear evil, and that's about all she cared about that point in time concerning him.

[/size] "My... Staff... Where..." she coughed out, unable to continue speaking as more water and blood flew from her lips. She needed that staff. Her left hand braced against the ground to support her weight as she tried to stand, but couldn't. She managed to get herself upon her knees and one arm, but could push her body no further. Everything felt broken. Everything. "Nazgul. Nine. Upriver. Staff!" Alatar pleaded, this time her words coming out with a little less strain. The Maiar fell back to a sitting position, hoping that the boy could find it on his own as she was otherwise unable to move. That didn't bode well for an ambush. In that moment, Alatar recalled a spell that would make the situation a whole lot easier. She began to mutter ancient words. There was no way she'd get much of a reaction from her powers given her state, but she didn't care at this point. When the chant was done, she placed her left thumb upon her neck, and instantly things got a lot better.

Pain seemed to just melt away into nothing. The discomfort within her chest eased, and breathing took its normal course. Without even thinking, her right arm - now usable - reached up to the arrow hanging from her chest and ripped it from the fabric holding it in place. Cerulean eyes scanned the serrated arrow tip for signs of blood, and just as she thought, there wasn't any. Alatar tossed the arrow aside and went for the other one, ripping it from its significantly deeper wound. Blood began to pour forth from the wound again. Alatar remained unphased, scoffing at the arrow and tossing it away too. Immediately after, Alatar shifted about to remove her long cloak which needed to dry, and tossed it gently beside her. Being without it brought a strange sense of nakedness she wasn't used to. Beneath the cloak, she wore only elegant silks and velvets of purple and black, beneath which was a layer of mithral. It made her feel very simple, very unimportant to be viewed in such clothing, as it did little more than show off a feminine physique. Still, Alatar didn't have much a choice at the moment. Recognizing the need for recuperation, particularly because the enchantment she cast on herself wouldn't last long, Alatar resumed her position upon the ground, awaiting the return of wracking pain, and hopefully, the boy with her staff.


[/blockquote][/justify][/size]

[fengel]

Right that moment she started to slowly move and Fengel held his breath as he watched how the “sleeping beauty” slowly came to life. He bit his bottom lip however that did not prevent him from gasping when she lifted her hand. “Are you alright?” he asked her carefully. He could hear how the tea was boiling behind him, but he did not take any notice of that, he just watched her and wondered what he could do to help her. “You are probably in much pain right now…” Fengel said and crawled back to the campfire and found a small wooden cup in which he poured the tea of mixed herbs. Of course, being as clumsy as he was, he had to spill a bit of the hot water on his hand and he tried to suppress a grimace as he worked as fast as he could. He stirred a bit in the kettle and moved it a bit away from the fire, so the boiling would stop.

“Here, drink this…” he said as he held the cup of tea under her lips, though he did not manage to move any closer to make her drink the tea because her eyes suddenly opened and she looked around for something before they fell on him. He had to pull a bit backwards in surprise and stared back at her with a small and rather innocent smile. She was asking for her staff, Fengel thought and the smile grew broader on his face. Of course, to him it had seemed like a normal, though perhaps rather fancy, walking stick and he had left it by the riverbank as he had pulled her up from the water. “Oh, I will get it. Don’t worry. I think I know where I left it.” He said, completely forgetting the exact place.

He jumped up on his feet, however stopped to look back at her as she tried to stand up. “Don’t worry. I will get it. Relax. Lay down.” He almost commanded which was very unlike Fengel. The dark haired boy kneeled in front of the woman and placed a long fingered hand on her shoulder. “Drink some tea, will you?” he jumped up again and ran down to the river with the dog barking after him, completely confused by the rushing movement of the shepherd. A few sheep turned their heads to look at him as they lazily chewed on their grass, but neither of them took notice of the hurry the boy was in. He walked down the shore as his blue eyes scanned the ground before he finally saw it. He picked up the staff and brought it back to the woman.

Once again he kneeled in front of her, and this time handing her the thing she had been asking for. “You are badly wounded my lady. Let me…” he ripped some long pieces of cloth off his inner shirt and moved over to her, wanting to wrap it against her wounds. While doing that, the boy opened and closed his mouth – not knowing how to ask about something he had heard her saying before. He had of course thought that she was just mumbling some random words because of the pain she must have felt, however there was a name that kept on returning to his head. “You said something about Nazgul?” Fengel mumbled the question and moved his eyes up to look at her.

((Blah, I am a bit tipsy haha))