WEEK 4

[strangerpeople]

WEEK 4


[It is late in the afternoon when the Titled finally wake up from their long, vivid sleep. What day is it? Maybe it doesn't matter.

They weren't awake when it happened, but the final set of doors have opened. The Intercessor hasn't emerged from their room. There is no sign of the grumpy old man. And, the Titled may notice that nothing has been cleaned up - including the remains of those who prompted the Investigation - since they went into the Debate Hall. No new food has been supplied in the Kitchen, either.

The only replenishing food supply is in the Conservatex - who knows when those'll get ripped out from the ground out of spite, though. Their captors certainly showed themselves to not be above petty revenge, unfortunately.

So many questions now swirl. Is the old man hiding? Is the Intercessor ok? What the hell happened with the dragon? What about that other group which the Titled have come to realize exist? What did their captors have planned? And...really, what the hell else is going to happen now?

Whatever it is, it's not going to be good.

So get ready, Titled.

There are nine (but perhaps only eight?...) strangers in this place.]

Comments

[bythewaves]

Conservatrex

[ Maglor wakes retching, and he flees to the Waterfall as soon as he's awake, curling weeping beside it and trying to drown the memory in the sound of water.

My Master bids me tell you that he will return to you your brother, alive, and ... mostly unspoiled, if you but lay down your arms and stand aside

The voice is still so clear, the moment of breathless silence before the storm erupts, his brothers raging, furious, the weight of the crown heavy on his head, the knowledge that tangles in his soul, the brother-bond stretched thin but still intact as he stares at the hunk of hair, as red as fire, still with blood at the roots, and the tip of his brother's ear. The aching, soul-deep knowledge that brings his voice ringing into the crowd, all the power of his birthright brought to bear to silence the opposition.

My brother is dead.

He silences the uproar.

My brother is dead! Your master speaks lies and and we will never yield. Go back and tell him that we will see ourselves avenged threefold now, for grandfather, father and brother.

But Maedhros had been alive. They had all known it. The bond between brothers had held, and held, and held, and Maglor had woken every night knowing his brother was hurting and been unable to do anything, had spent his days fighting to keep his younger brothers safe and not riding out to save their eldest.

And now he curls and weeps, for he cannot do anything here, either.

To evil ends will all things turn his brothers' ghosts whisper. You knew it would end this way. It always does.

Eventually he'll move. He has to bury Harley. Maybe plant a flowerbed on her grave. ]

Workshop

[ He stumbles back here eventually, to busy his hands with weaponry so he does not have to think. He sings, the aching, terrible tale of the Noldolante, the fall of his people to glory and death and madness, as he works.

Hopefully no one who comes in while he's doing it minds tales of kinslaying. ]