NationStates Jolt Archive

In the name of the Tumnórëan People I greet thee warmly.

We, Tumnórë, have long been willing to remain within the walls an a whispered silence, between the isolation from the world and the protection of our peers, the Iluvauromeni.

Yet at last do we raise Our eyes to the world without rather than the world within, and we declare that we are mispleased at the course of events that transpires daily without our borders.

To Morgoth Bauglir we issue warning: the misplaced attempts at peace by our children the Nenyans will now cease. The Iluvauromeni Commonality of Everlasting Light is henceforth forbidden from entering into any peaceful arrangement with Dor Daedoloth or the allies an said; for the enemy of my friend is my enemy still - and the enemy of Our friend is Morgoth Bauglir.

Yea, hear thee all: the day an Our awakening hath come unto the Sun, and the world will whisper Our name and wonder at our coming; for ancient are We beyond the measure of Men, and Our knowledge surpass that even of our Nenya Kin - who have oft gained an our castoffs, and hath put them to divers uses.

Therefore do we warn the Iluvauromeni Nenya: not to matter the wherefore, say I, that thee hath taken the dark path prior - yet that which matters much is thine destiny. Thou can surely see that wert thy path had been pure and just, thine own protection wouldst surely be fair and strong.

Yet long hath Iluvauromen depended upon us; and long now hath we suffered this. No longer! The debt is called; We require succour from our Kin, and it shall be given freely: so doth the High King of the Tumnórëan People decree.

To Menelmacar now do We turn Our words; for dark of deed in days gone by (and days to come do I forsee) hath thou been: whispers of a secret alliance with the Dark Enemy hath come to Our ear - and sorely angered am I that my own kin would betray us thus, if this is so; for sore would be my heart indeed were these filthy rumours based in fact.

Now Sirithil nos Feanor is a false leader to the Noldor; I call her claim insufferable, for she names herself by the name given only to Varda (most glorious in kindness to the Eldar of all the Blessed Valar), and would she come to Tumnore, I might stay mine words in favour of sweet discussion.

To the world at large now do Our words turn; for thou art not known to us beyond rumour and heresay and whispered suggestions. What there might be Without We know not to the extent We desire; thus do We invite all who might come to return to Us with their words their thoughts and feelings regarding Our return from the Long Silence.

Five hundred decades have We been silent; now We are silent no longer.

~ Speech by High King Gil-Romen et Tumnórë, aired by INN Solar, all INN channels, all INN affiliated networks

[OOC: 'an' here is an old English form similar to 'of'.

A NOTE OR TEN:

By the way, hi, I'm ICEL, this is my puppet. Or should I say, ICEL is the puppet of this nation. Fear not. This nation has no real resources of its own: it depends entirely on ICEL, and thus the combination of Tumnore and ICEL is actually exactly the same as ICEL alone. This nation, Tumnore (I'm too lazy to do the whole ASCII keystroke thing for an OOC part of a post, sorry), has been in the 'background' - that is, off-camera - for quite a while, now.

Now it's not.

Other than that, nothing's changed. Much. Except Tumnore has gravitic warships. Or will do. Once they're built and paid for. Currently, the correct term is probably 'warship'.]

"He certainly is a pompous fellow," Túrelio commented, making a statement that, as Prefect of State, he would certainly never repeat anywhere it would actually be heard by anyone who wasn't Sirithil.

"Yes," replied the Elentári. "Yes, he is. Evidently a bit of a traditionalist, too, and one who holds considerable sway among our Nenyan neighbors."

"You noticed that too, milady? Strong words he used," Túrelio noted. " 'We call the debt.' 'Our Nenyan children are forbidden'. Still, he is Noldorin, and lacking evidence or even knowledge of any egregiously Bad Things he's done, we'd be remiss in not making nice."

"Agreed... and, it should be noted, it's encouraging he had harsher words for Morgoth - or, at least for those who would treat with Morgoth - than he did for us. I should probably go personally," Sirithil nodded. "The invitation was extended to me personally. Have Gilthoniel prepared, and send a message confirming I will make a visit to Tumnorë. At the very least, it will be interesting to see what these colonials-" she used the word without malice, simply as a statement of fact. "-have accomplished in fifty centuries."

"The Commonality will bow before the Will of the Great Kingdom of Tumnórë, to whom we owe an uncountable debt of gratitude.

"We henceforth will cease all efforts to attempt to draw closer to Dor Daedoloth, and, should it please Tumnórë, we shall draw closer to our Noldor kin in Menelmacar, as we once were.

"Ask, Highness, and so long as it harms not the People, it shall be granted."

~ Empress the Supreme Commander Rialla ux-Rihad II

* * *

Rialla stared at the flexisheet containing the text version of her response. She stared at it again, and shook her head slowly. "I still think it's too..."

"Pathetic?" suggested Ax-randiri Rihad softly, seated at the oak table just across from High Lord Ambassador Dejure.

Dejure shook his head slowly. "No, it is required of us. The High King of Tumnórë is, by default, High King of all Nenyans. And the Nenyans still rule the Commonality, whether we wrap it in blissful lies or whether we wish it or not; thus, Tumnórë rules the Commonality."

The three gathered nodded slowly. "It is so," Rialla sighed softly. "So long as the Crown is hereditory, we will be forced into this position. Yet I grieve at this power; for I deem that all it will gain us is endless blame for the tears that have yet to be shed."

The landscape en route to Nenya, as Sirithil has seen before, is barren as one passes over the still-rugged Ax-turathian lands, giving way to the green splendour of the northern territories of Ax-turath - with a glimpse of the vibrant green of the Forest of Nenya away to the West, over all but flat, gently rolling countryside.

No ICEL escort was accorded to the Gilthoniel, however; instead, needle-like gravitic aircraft met her at the ICEL border, apparently automated drones from Tumnórë itself - or so they announce in soft singsong voices. They maintain a long respectful distance, forming into a delta formation - an honour guard more than a true escort. The AG drives, judging by sensor readings, appear to be very similar to those found on Menelmacari craft; perhaps a single generation behind, based on energy efficiency.

Yet the forboding Tumnórëan mountains arrive all too soon, tall and snowcapped, ferociously cold and imposing; but the king of that mountain range, Mt. Tumnórë itself, rising greatly above all others surround, is green-walled and beautiful in living splendour. Just visible on the eastern side of the moutain is the grey of the Mt. Tumnórë CSF Shipyard Facility - built by the Commonality at the sufferance of the Kingdom not too long ago.

Valleys surround the mountain itself, and the maps mark all of this land inside the Tumnórëan range as Tumnórë: but no settlements are marked, except at the very peak of the moutain.

So staggered is that plateau that there is easily room enough for dozens of ships the size of the Gilthoniel to land; but there are none, and the only buildings in the area are wooden hovels capped with thatch.

Yet the Gilthoniel is guided by words to follow a laser beacon, which flashes seemingly from between blades of dew-dropped grass below; that illusion ripples and gives way, and a gaping maw becomes apparent, leading unto a giant hangar bay.

The hangar itself is unnocupied as yet, either given over entirely to the Menelmacari vessel or due to a lack of ships to house therein - but the needle-like fighters peel away, and do not land here.

"Interesting," Sirithil mused, gazing out the window of her palatial stateroom aboard Gilthoniel. "Very green on that mountaintop, yet it's almost as tall as Taniquetil back home. Weather control of some type?"

"Likely magic, mother," Maglor replied. "I've yet to see a working technological solution to the unpredictable wiles of the skies."

The great destroyer approached the mountain, descending now along the guiding light of the beacon.

"Indeed, I hope they turn out to be friendly," Sirithil thought aloud. "They have evidently either continued on our path of advancement, or profited from Nenyans doing the same, though there is at least some of the former mixed in with the latter. If those escort craft are gravitic then they have been busy in the labs learning things that have thus far escaped their children."

Gilthoniel lowered into the hangar now, her vast bulk seemingly no deterrent to the ability of her helmsquendë to set the ship down with the lightest feather touch.

Once the ship is settled, something familiar to the eyes of those who know the Commonality outside this land occurs: a segment of wall dissolves partially as a group of individuals pass through it upon a floating craft, even more oblivious to the potential weirdness rating accorded to such activities in the outside world.

They are assuredly not Noldor. They have the right hue of hair, the same basic set of features, but their eyes are definitively amber - although they are not as tall as some of the Nenyans. This group are all around the six feet five area, excepting one who stands nearer seven feet. There are no guards, no soldiers, no warriors to guard this group; and they carry no weapons.

At the lead on board this floating craft stands the one who spoke his message to the world through INN Solar. He had not sent a vidimage of himself, however, and so his voice alone is known; but the circlet, simple but elegant, that is set upon his elegant head is proof enough that he is the High King of Tumnórë.

The craft makes haste across the hangar towards the Gilthonial in preperation for the arrival of the guests unto Tumnórëan soil.

“And hath put them to divers uses,” the youngish necrontyr woman named Elash, Adjutant of the Emperor, Mistress of the Office of the Emperor and Archiveist of the Lex Imperialis - though she actually despised that bit of latin, it had crept in somewhere – hummed quietly, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “how very pretentious. Ah, ancient beyond the ken of men they are. You know, when your ancestors were colonising their home system in the Cambrian period, that kind of thing really seems… lacking.”

“You know, it could be a translation error,” replied Princeps Senatus – this one a well recognised and ancient title, borne by the Emperor himself in the past – Laudrina Frost, suppressing a snigger at Elash’s last comment “lingual confusion and all.”

“Well perhaps, but the intent is low enough,” Elash said, inbuilt necrontyr distrust of those who would abuse their friends and compatriots coming to the fore for a moment, “but it’s probably a ploy to get Menelmacar talking.”

“Yes,” agreed the other, “I imagine so.”

“I especially like the claim that Sirithil is somehow a ‘heretic’ for using a title of one of the Valar. Practically human in its religiousness.”

“I resent that,” said the other.

“No offence intended,” she added, leaning against the brass rail nestled against the armour-glass window of one of the Imperial Palace’s multitudinous lounges.

“None taken,” replied the other, “you’re right of course. Elentári is after all, a title given by the Quendi. They can give it to whomsoever they wish as far as I care,” she said, “and I imagine ‘Varda’ wouldn’t much care either. Not like those characters are meant to be stunningly attached to worship. If I recall correctly, the myths hold that ‘Eru’ despises worship and that it’s an invention of Morgy…”

The irreverence was something one became accustomed to after several years. Elash nodded, “Well, we should send someone anyway. In theory.”

“Quite. Find some emissary with nothing better to do.”

Askan Selmar sat up in bed gazing out of the window that showed the broken and rocky terrain of the Lopra Minor province, home to some exhilarating weather to be sure, and pulled the bedclothes about him. Sleet and hail hammered down on the window, and zigzagging tongues of lightning lashed their way across the sky, illuminating the darkened room. Nearby, under the eaves of the restrained and dignified country house, birds sheltered from the storm, huddled together as he and his still sleeping wife were, though with more feathers involved. On the desk nearby, a device chirped in a muted tone, and he ignored it. Eventually he’d answer it, but for now, he simply continued to watch the storm, oddly relaxed, enjoying the smug feeling of being warm and safe from harm inside, watching the weather howl outside, and listening to the gentle but rapid tap of rain on a thin wooden roof.

Somehow, by means not knew any, time seemed to become sluggish, like wading through water.

This occurence seemed to follow Sirithil wherever her feet might fall; some would later say it was the weight of her cuteness, dragging the universe to a slower velocity of vibration - yet other attributed it to sheer ego, gnawing on the fact that time seemed to slow even further when two of such ego were present.

Of which it is this tale does not tell, however...

[OOC: Err, I mean, bump.]

[OOC: *taps the screen* Hello? Yes, this is the operator? Well, there seems to be a fault on the thread. Yes. Yes. Okay. Ah. So they just buggered off, then? Oh, I see..]