Aegraum and the Witch-King

This RP happened during the return of a party of Galadhrim from the Gladden Fields.

Although day is powerfully held above, in a sky painted a radiant blue, the thin rays of the mid-afternoon sun stretched upon it like a crimson carpet against a canvas like the sea, there is a coldness to the immobile air. A chilliness that nips firmly against the flesh, frigid and unmerciful, like the icy sting of a snowy tempest. Indeed, frost cakes all things during this month of January, a virgin blanket of white gleaming fresh and new from the recent storms that have raged across the jagged Misty's peaks, and the ground itself feels tough and denuded of all nutrients -- like stone and mortar forged by an ungentle Earth. It is amidst the peace of the hour, however, that the a sound is suddenly heard far and distant from the Elven camp. Like thunder is seems, hard to the ear, and triumphant in its beating. A steady rhythm uninterrupted: the mallet pounding taut against the soil. Then, through the mists of this frozen day there appears a steed like midnight's pitch, and rider upon it black and fell. Cowl draped low over its stark mantel, its figure stooped and shunning what is the day, it nevertheless guides forth its beast upon these most dangerous and rocky roads towards the looming spires of hills within the west -- the abode of the place known only now as Moria.

The elves around the fire are, as one, motionless as the nearly palatable air. Of a sudden, however, one rises from the ring of travellers. Tall and fair he is, with glittering golden hair atop an impossibly thin circlet of silver. An oddly adorned helm, glinting dully in the winter light, is held under an arm as he sweeps from the cirle, heavy gray cloak flapping with agitation. He alone of that folk senses the presence of one of the nameless before the hoofs of its dread mount is heard. A molten fire begins to blaze deep within the pale blue of his eyes as he stands silently, waiting now for that which cannot be averted. His gauntletted right hand rests heavily upon the great blade at his side, long silent.

The keen sight of the horse and indeed the senses of the wraithly figure that now approaches the fringes of the hidden elven camp do not falter in their detection of the standing elven prince, and although the gloved hands of the black rider guide with unfaltering steps the mount beneath it, swift as it is, unlike most beast's ever seen upon this bright Earth -- a frigid wind that in itself cools even the winter's air -- there is a hesitation as this hooded man brings the equine into a cautious trot. No move does it take to withdraw blade or dagger, no action does it make to reveal its cloaked visage, nay, instead it comes but league away from the small party and there it stops abruptly, the deafening sound of the steed's frontal hooves echoing off the stony surface of the frozen ground. Set against a background of white, which makes its robes look ever more the bleak and dark, like obsidian's hue or the absence of reality, rent from the world, it stays there, eerily silent, a morbid sense of terror gloating throughout the area. Then, as suddenly as its momentum had ceased, a raspy voice, shrill and menacing, calls out in the fair tongue of the Highfolk, ancient in its accent, and some how warped and sinister in its tambour when spoken by this tongue, "<Quenya> A parry do I request with a leader of your camp....mellon."

The hooded heads of the quendi about the fire turn in unison as the hideous voice rings out against the rocky footlands about them. Rage swells within them that one such as this should so utterly foul their very souls with the use of their ancient tongue - indeed a few of the woodland folk among them do not even understand the language, though they surely can tell it is of the making of the Firstborn. They huddle about the small fire then, all turning to face the harbinger of blackness, except for the princeling in their van. Strangely calm he is, and at the call from the black rider, he strides grimly forward until he is within hailing distance. He pauses for a final moment, simply gazing upon the wraith, before calling in reply with a clear, painfully musical voice, "<Quenya> Lothe I am to parry with one such as you, dark lord. Long years has it been since I have met paths with one of your ilk, pitiful dregs of your consuming master, and many more would I have wished for had I the choice." He peers toward the small knot of elven folk then, whether in indecision or otherwise is not clear, but finally looks back and continues, "<Quenya> However, for the sake of those for whom I may not make fell judgement, I shall grant your request. What would you have, dark one?"

There is a long pause as the black rider sits precariously upon its mount, light itself lost within the inky hue of its shade: its saddle, steed, and the macabre robes themselves all swallowing whole what sunlight does befall them. Behind it, blows a cold and frigid air, which stirs suddenly, as if brewed by seething wrath. Even there, in the distance, the ichor of storm-clouds can be seen, and yet, like a host abiding the wills of its dark master, they do not march forward to shroud the affects of day. Whinnying sharply, horse stomping its right-most hoof upon the pebbled ground with a violent spark, agitation burning like ignited coal within its own fearsome eyes, a voice comes to finally ring back at the elven prince whom has thus far approached this malevolent apparition of the Necromancer -- once a proud and noble Lord of the Numenoreans, where the firstborn's tongue was learned. "<Quenya> There has been an Orcish host, firstborn." the Black Captain replies, "<Quenya> ...within these parts. Thou is no doubt tracking them. From the mines of Moria they come, speak now of where they've gone and I will depart thy camp." There is an arrogance in the Witch-king's words, a shrill and terrifying tambour, whose own vista seems to tear at the heart with a wicked purpose.

As if in response to the foul rancor that rises at the behest of the wraith, an angry wind kicks up about the tall Noldo, loosing the leather catch at the back of his neck and stirring the long golden hair about his head and shoulders like some long-forgotten visage of Aman. The piercing eyes do not stir, however, and in measured tones the great-grandson of Finarfin makes his fateful reply to the sorcerous being before him, "<Quenya> Do not think to sway me with tricks of devilry, dark one. You know well that there are still those in these middle lands who can see to your core." The waning light of Anar throws ever greater shadow upon the huddled travellers, but about Aegraum, there seems to be a veil of soft light, an almost blurry radiance. "<Quenya> But as to your most graciously made request, I shall indeed tell you what I know, for I deem it will aid you little. East of here we were afore our return, and many were the markings of the seething filth of Moria, but not one black hide have we seen on our sojourn. Now," he concludes, "<Quenya> I have given you that which you asked, and so you shall do as you offered. Leave this camp, and take your terrorous image elsewhere!"

>>From amidst the scattered trees in the ever darkening shadows of the twilight, the form of a cloaked maiden seems to melt into being before the elven campsight. Too late, she realizes.....or begins to, at the very least, what her innocent wandering has brought her into and she freezes just to the side of the taller Noldo. From beneath her hood, emerald eyes widen perceptably, catching and reflecting what light is to be had from the fires of her companions, and a barely audible gasp tumbles carelessly from her lips.

If the eyes of the Black Captain were visible, those cruel and merciless eyes that burn brightly into the very soul of every being, every living thing, jealous of the light in which it holds, they would clearly been seen to narrow -- wrath building in their vision, like the coming of a storm upon the sea, a hurricane of malice folded into every swell. But, still, no sword is drawn, no mace produced, no blade revealed. Nay, and with a tug of the reigns, the steed beneath the wraith is turned to the left, so that that side faces the elven camp with an inky tinge -- unholy and black, a great void in the surface of the sun's otherwise beautiful rays. A thin, nearly piercing, chuckle does come from this rider's sagging cowl, a final farewell in its own malevolent manner, cold and horrible, like the caw of a ghostly raven come to collect the dead. Then, with a spurring of the beast's sides, the horse is off, a trot commencing as the Ulari departs from the perimeter of the firstborn's hidden encampment. Fading back to the princeling, born upon a breeze nary hot nor soothing, but frozen like the touch of the shadowed Halls of Mandos, there comes the words, "<Quenya> Your cooperation, mellon -- is thanked." Scornful like the snickering of animal, and accompanied by the booming of thunder in the cloody distance.

Warily does the Noldorin princeling begin to back away from the path of the dark one. He catches the startled maiden with a guantletted hand and pulls her along with him, still facing the wraith, as he retreats toward the encampment.

It is a good length of time before the Healer exhales her breath in a long, soft sigh, her slender frame trembling...as much from the chill of the voice in the shadows as the actual chill in the air, features pale and wary as she is pulled away rather suddenly. "Mellon, never again will I criticize your speech." her voice is whisper soft, as if afraid to disturb whatever may yet be lurking in the darkness.

Amidst the small crowd of elves near the fire, tightly grouped and glowering, rises one, golden haired and blue eyed, like the nobles of ages past. She is still as stone though the firelight casts eerie shadows that cause her to appear almost ghostly and wavering. With the departing of the wraith, the cold wind extinguishes the fire almost immediately and Talia steps forward to stand at the side of the Noldor lord.

Aegraum wheels then, as the last vestiges of the wraith's shadowy entrail dissolve upon the evening mists, and hurries the healer back toward the others. To Talia, he nods, "Little choice had I but to parlay with the dark rider, Protector. It is likely that we are but nuisances to his errand for his black master, but who can guess at the mind of one such as him? It is well that you have arrived, however."

For once, Elayne has no witty repartee or comment to make. In fact, her demeanor would suggest an almost painful embarassment and as the Noldo turns his attentions to the Knight-Protector she is all too eager to slide back to the outer reaches of the fire, as if the shadows there might offer some solace...or better yet, a hiding place.

"I think we should return to the Wood now," says Talia to whoever is close enough to hear. "I do not fear one demon on horseback, but an entire army is something that we do not want to be in the path of." The Protector paces the length of the area where the soldiers are bunched, stopping at times to turn her elven sight towards the horizon.

Nodding his agreement, Aegraum remains in motion - passing through the encampment to offer encouragement to those more shaken by the unlooked-for interlude. He finally pauses in front of the healer, and ducks his head, trying to gain eye contact. "Elena," he urges gently, "are you well, mellon?"

Turning her countenance upwards to meet the gaze of the Noldo, the healer's eyes lack their usual mirth, but she seems otherwise, at least visibly, unshaken by the encounter. A soft sigh escapes her lips and she nods, "I am fine, mellon. If my pride is the worst that is damaged in an encounter with that...." she waves a hand off into the darkness, "being whose name I can only conjecture from legend, then I will consider myself lucky."

"There is no pride to be lost in an encounter with one such as that, lady," responds the craftmaster, pale eyes leaping forward to hold the gaze of the other as he exhales heavily at the apparent well being of the young healer. "Be happy that we were an unexpected intruder upon his path, for likely he thought little of harming us, being always driven harshly by his master's will." He chuckles softly then, and adds, "Perhaps you will not tarry so far from the encampment in the future, though, mellon - for truely I say that upon these granite slopes, one can but guess at the wonders, and terrors, that lurk around the next turn of the path."

A weak smile, and the healer inclines her head again, averting her gaze from the Noldo off the darkening forms of the moutains. "Aye, of course." her voice is soft, yet. "I would we return soon, that i may again know the familiar paths."

Witch-king
Within the world of the shadows, where darkness is ever present and light seems but a distant memory, a surreal imprint upon the ever imposing blackness, can be seen the true and unmistakable image of this fell servant for the Necromancer. Stately and noble featured, the flesh of this man is smooth and youthful, yet stern and immobile. Cold it appears, pale, nearly translucent, as if the ghostly hue of ice. Hair like pewter, gray with whitened highlights, that flows down to his neck, a regal steely crown rests high upon his brow, beneath it a silver helm whose radiance and craftsmanship seems but to mock the skill of all other smiths. Harsh is his countenance, his eyes two bleak, bottomless pools, like coals plucked from a long abandoned hearth. There is a will if iron within them, a powerful mind, and a bitter resentment. Ashen robes remain visible beneath his midnight mantle, while the faint glimmering of his hauberk shines underneath. Boots, sturdy and firm, are tightly kept upon his feet, while his frame itself is tall, ominous, his shoulders broad. He is a man of wisdom as well as malice, filled with experience and bitter jealousy. All which he focuses intently upon the world lost to him, the realm of the living, the realm of light.

Before this man there is the ever stringent presence of ancient death. A stale, frozen, terror that seethes outward like an icy mist from the frozen shores of some vast Neolithic lake. It is the sensation of something horrible, left brewing for eons within a pool of unchecked hatred, and like a wake or ripple from some smooth stone tossed into a pond it flows outward to share its malevolence with all who are present. As if a shadow it spreads evenly to heart, mind, and soul. Dousing their flame like the frigid breath of a winter's wind against a candle. There is something unnatural, mysterious, and equally fearsome about this individual. Woven together into his persona by invisible threads.

Just beneath the regal robes he wears, where the veil of their hue is saturated the most, mimicking that of some starless and moonless eve, glints just barely the steely existence of a long sword's sheath. Near it, for it too can be seen by the careful onlooker, is but a smaller sheath for a smaller blade. Both, as if forged by some great craft and skill ages ago, bare the runes of a forgotten tongue lost to mortal men, sorceric letters curved and warped to spell in wicked blessings the nature of these weapons. There is something surreal, however, about the alloys that hold them, or indeed perhaps it is a feature of the two instruments they contain, for there surrounds them a pale, blue, flame, harsh and cruel it seems, as if ignited by some unholy hand.

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