22-12-2003, 15:38
OOC: This is a first RP post thingy. However, the actual RP introduction of the Narákueni will come later. This is establishing a character and so forth.
~~Rasanitaure, the Rinorem~~
Let me in, Kavakho. Let me in!
Kavakho nóre Moranaro turned, regarding the leafless maples all around him.
As always, there was no sign of the Houseless spirit, not in the trees or the fallen leaves or the snow still remnant in the shadows.
"We have met many times before, Lómion," he replied, "And I have not yet yielded to you. I shall not today, nor ever."
I am cold, Kavakho. Cold for so long ... have pity upon me.
"Pity? Lómion, what you did - what you wanted to do - is abhorrent. I despise you."
And yet you still return to speak with me, Kavakho. Do you despise me so greatly, then?
"I am curious, Lómion. It is a bad habit. But it is not everybody who gets to speak to one so infamous as you ... Maekhrin nóre Eöl."
Kavakho's lips twitched in a slight smile as he spoke that other name, the name that Lómion was better known by.
The winter breeze was turning chill, fluttering Kavakho's heavy robes around him. He shivered, cold; but not so cold as the restless shade of Lómion.
If you shall not let me in, Kavakho, then I shall soon render you as cold as I, Lómion hissed, and the cold wind howled through the trees. If you are so curious, then you may spend eternity with me!
The icy wind brought with it a hint of snow, stinging Kavakho's cheeks, and he shivered, clutching his arms tightly about his body. He should leave here.
He turned, looking for the vague path worn from this clearing to the road through Rasanitaure. It had vanished. Beginning to panic, Kavakho plunged through the thick trees, hopefully towards the road.
Branches whipped at his arms and face, slashing red lines across his forehead, but the road was nowhere in sight.
You think I can't follow you, Kavakho? Lómion hissed in his mind. My bones lie far from here, under the waves. It matters not where you run, I can follow you.
Kavakho ran onwards. The forest would end eventually. He'd walked around it's edges before. It must end, on plain or lake or field. It must. But something slipped under his foot, a root perhaps, and he fell, landing heavily on the hard ground. Spots of snow starred his robes.
You are not so mighty now, Kavakho. Let me in.
"No," Kavakho spat, and the wind roared, splattering him with flurries of wet snow. Grimly, he got back to his feet, and stumbled onwards.
How long can you keep going in circles, Kavakho? Let me in, and it will all stop.
"No," he repeated, and the snow flurried thicker in return.
How long can you deny me, Kavakho? Those robes are ill made to stand up to this cold, I think.
He was cold, his booted feet painfully so, but he would be damned before he allowed one of the Houseless into his body. Lómion could not attack his soul if he were dead in these drifts, though the Houseless might torment him ever after in the spirit.
Kavakho stumbled again, and fell, feeling the cold snow underneath him. He'd get up in a moment, once he'd gathered his strength again. In a moment ...
It wasn't so bad in the snow, really; somewhat warmer than the cold wind. He'd heard that the Men of the distant North made houses of it, in the cold lands where summer never came. Perhaps some similar property was insulating him, making him feel so sleepy.
He realised, suddenly, that he was dying.
Winter's chill can be as sharp as any blade out of Gondolin, Kavakho, Lómion said. Are you so eager to be trapped forever in this cold? Let me in, and I can make it warm again. Let me in, Kavakho.
"Yes," Kavakho said finally, and hated himself for saying it; but he was no ancient, faded lord, to embrace death gladly. The Barasame ritual was fire, and not ice.
Immediately, Lómion insinuated himself into Kavakho's mind, and the snow ceased to fall.
I'm afraid this body isn't built for two, Kavakho, Lómion said, and his mental "voice" was thick with mocking triumph. Begone!
Kavakho felt himself forced out, and sank despairing into the snows. Lómion - Maeglin - smiled, and stood, brushing snow off Kavakho's - his - robes. It was good, after so long, to feel the unfamiliar weight of flesh and blood and bone once again. He breathed out, and felt the air pushed out of his lungs, saw it appear in a frosty cloud before him.
His fingers and toes were red with cold, turning an ugly blue-black in places; but his skills did not extend to healing. In Toruto, the city of the Narákueni, there were people with such skills; Kavakho had told him much, when they had first met.
"Maekhrin nóre Eöl," he mused, considering the name his father had given him, rendered in the Narákueni tongue. It was a harsh language, though not so harsh as Khudzul, the dwarven-tongue, which Maeglin also spoke.
He headed back to the road - he had known all along in which direction it lay - and heard the high-pitched whine of flyer drives heading along the wide highway. Kavakho had told him of these also, and he had thought it an impressive work of craft, to create such things in this age, when the arts of the First Age had long ago been largely lost.
Putting an appropriate look of confusion upon his face, Maeglin stumbled out upon the road, and collapsed a short way ahead of the speeding flyers.
The drive-whine reached a peak, and quietened as the flyers drew to a stop. Booted feet crunched in the thin covering of snow over the stone of the road, and appeared in his field of vision.
"Idiot, to be out in that dressed like this," the flyer-pilot said.
"Is he alive?" someone else asked; the second flyer-pilot.
"He's breathing. I don't think he's concious, though."
A sigh. "I suppose we'd better get him back to Toruto, then, else he shall freeze. I don't like the look of those hands."
Gloved hands lifted him, and carried him back to the flyers. Wrapped a blanket around him. There was little else they could do.
Before the flyers reached the shores of the Rinairin, the lake in which Toruto lay, Maeglin had fallen into true sleep, for the first time in many thousands of years. That, too, he welcomed.
OOC: Lómion is the name that Maeglin's mother gave him.
~~Rasanitaure, the Rinorem~~
Let me in, Kavakho. Let me in!
Kavakho nóre Moranaro turned, regarding the leafless maples all around him.
As always, there was no sign of the Houseless spirit, not in the trees or the fallen leaves or the snow still remnant in the shadows.
"We have met many times before, Lómion," he replied, "And I have not yet yielded to you. I shall not today, nor ever."
I am cold, Kavakho. Cold for so long ... have pity upon me.
"Pity? Lómion, what you did - what you wanted to do - is abhorrent. I despise you."
And yet you still return to speak with me, Kavakho. Do you despise me so greatly, then?
"I am curious, Lómion. It is a bad habit. But it is not everybody who gets to speak to one so infamous as you ... Maekhrin nóre Eöl."
Kavakho's lips twitched in a slight smile as he spoke that other name, the name that Lómion was better known by.
The winter breeze was turning chill, fluttering Kavakho's heavy robes around him. He shivered, cold; but not so cold as the restless shade of Lómion.
If you shall not let me in, Kavakho, then I shall soon render you as cold as I, Lómion hissed, and the cold wind howled through the trees. If you are so curious, then you may spend eternity with me!
The icy wind brought with it a hint of snow, stinging Kavakho's cheeks, and he shivered, clutching his arms tightly about his body. He should leave here.
He turned, looking for the vague path worn from this clearing to the road through Rasanitaure. It had vanished. Beginning to panic, Kavakho plunged through the thick trees, hopefully towards the road.
Branches whipped at his arms and face, slashing red lines across his forehead, but the road was nowhere in sight.
You think I can't follow you, Kavakho? Lómion hissed in his mind. My bones lie far from here, under the waves. It matters not where you run, I can follow you.
Kavakho ran onwards. The forest would end eventually. He'd walked around it's edges before. It must end, on plain or lake or field. It must. But something slipped under his foot, a root perhaps, and he fell, landing heavily on the hard ground. Spots of snow starred his robes.
You are not so mighty now, Kavakho. Let me in.
"No," Kavakho spat, and the wind roared, splattering him with flurries of wet snow. Grimly, he got back to his feet, and stumbled onwards.
How long can you keep going in circles, Kavakho? Let me in, and it will all stop.
"No," he repeated, and the snow flurried thicker in return.
How long can you deny me, Kavakho? Those robes are ill made to stand up to this cold, I think.
He was cold, his booted feet painfully so, but he would be damned before he allowed one of the Houseless into his body. Lómion could not attack his soul if he were dead in these drifts, though the Houseless might torment him ever after in the spirit.
Kavakho stumbled again, and fell, feeling the cold snow underneath him. He'd get up in a moment, once he'd gathered his strength again. In a moment ...
It wasn't so bad in the snow, really; somewhat warmer than the cold wind. He'd heard that the Men of the distant North made houses of it, in the cold lands where summer never came. Perhaps some similar property was insulating him, making him feel so sleepy.
He realised, suddenly, that he was dying.
Winter's chill can be as sharp as any blade out of Gondolin, Kavakho, Lómion said. Are you so eager to be trapped forever in this cold? Let me in, and I can make it warm again. Let me in, Kavakho.
"Yes," Kavakho said finally, and hated himself for saying it; but he was no ancient, faded lord, to embrace death gladly. The Barasame ritual was fire, and not ice.
Immediately, Lómion insinuated himself into Kavakho's mind, and the snow ceased to fall.
I'm afraid this body isn't built for two, Kavakho, Lómion said, and his mental "voice" was thick with mocking triumph. Begone!
Kavakho felt himself forced out, and sank despairing into the snows. Lómion - Maeglin - smiled, and stood, brushing snow off Kavakho's - his - robes. It was good, after so long, to feel the unfamiliar weight of flesh and blood and bone once again. He breathed out, and felt the air pushed out of his lungs, saw it appear in a frosty cloud before him.
His fingers and toes were red with cold, turning an ugly blue-black in places; but his skills did not extend to healing. In Toruto, the city of the Narákueni, there were people with such skills; Kavakho had told him much, when they had first met.
"Maekhrin nóre Eöl," he mused, considering the name his father had given him, rendered in the Narákueni tongue. It was a harsh language, though not so harsh as Khudzul, the dwarven-tongue, which Maeglin also spoke.
He headed back to the road - he had known all along in which direction it lay - and heard the high-pitched whine of flyer drives heading along the wide highway. Kavakho had told him of these also, and he had thought it an impressive work of craft, to create such things in this age, when the arts of the First Age had long ago been largely lost.
Putting an appropriate look of confusion upon his face, Maeglin stumbled out upon the road, and collapsed a short way ahead of the speeding flyers.
The drive-whine reached a peak, and quietened as the flyers drew to a stop. Booted feet crunched in the thin covering of snow over the stone of the road, and appeared in his field of vision.
"Idiot, to be out in that dressed like this," the flyer-pilot said.
"Is he alive?" someone else asked; the second flyer-pilot.
"He's breathing. I don't think he's concious, though."
A sigh. "I suppose we'd better get him back to Toruto, then, else he shall freeze. I don't like the look of those hands."
Gloved hands lifted him, and carried him back to the flyers. Wrapped a blanket around him. There was little else they could do.
Before the flyers reached the shores of the Rinairin, the lake in which Toruto lay, Maeglin had fallen into true sleep, for the first time in many thousands of years. That, too, he welcomed.
OOC: Lómion is the name that Maeglin's mother gave him.