30-07-2003, 09:39
To Pluck A Star From The Heavens
Vinyatirion, ageless city of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar. Buildings glow with the soft warmth of the dawn; light creeps over the beautiful copses and lawns of the green city, elegant spires and minarets reaching up to the heavens.
Snow. Wind. Water. Stark, ancient buildings in a city governed by silence, a city almost devoid of life. Ice sheened over all of them, save one, white untouched marble. Light shone out of the Royal Palace, refracting into the snow-choked streets and frozen river, a swirling dimmed glow.
Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor, Elentári, High Queen of the nation proclaimed as most powerful in or outside the world, woke slowly with the coming of the sun. She rose, went to the window, looked out over the shining city for a good while; this was her custom, for a Vinyatirion dawn seemed to have the ability to, however briefly, give one the impression that all was right with the world. Next to the closet, where she selected attire for the day… a blood-red robe in her usual style, with embroidery of spun gold. A little formal, perhaps, but she had a formal occasion today – the awarding of a medal to the Mornahossë commander who had led the stunning penetration of Whispering Voices’ most heavily-defended research facility.
(OOC: I don’t care what anybody says – NOBODY outside me or WV has any idea about that. -Menelmacar)
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A huge, echoing dark cavern. Twisted pillars in the likeness of weeping willow trees grew up from the rocky floor, arching overhead into a vault of darkness. A small pool of radiance emanates from the centre of the chamber known as the “Grave”. A ring of candles, flickering yellow crowns upon white wax, give out a light that is rapidly consumed as it flees the many figures chanting within. Simple black robes, clear voices chanting in Latin, the words reverbrating outwards. Within the ring of chanters kneel thirty-two plain-dressed figures, singing in counterpoint to an ancient male elf. His white hair is long, eyes glassy, arms spread wide to encompass all.
“Attolma i menelessie, nai airitainiéva esselya. Nai ardalya tuluva. Nai írelya tyarniéva mardesse ve menelesse. Anta men síre ilyaurea mastalma. Ar avanta men raikalmar ve avantalme raikatyarolmain. Ar nai útukuvalye me mailenna ná fainu me ulkallo. Amen.” The chanters followed his words closely, the elegant sounds of Quenya mixing into the soul-catching hymns.
Rúmil, once Door-ward of Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva, led the chant. He could feel the ancient power of this place, familiar-yet-strange, doing his bidding as he in turn followed the bidding of another. Outside the circle of light in which he stood, he could feel the malevolent murmuring voices, hungry for the power being used ... then, with the Amen, it was done.
The air rippled, as if an impossible heat were rising from the cold floor, bending the light into waves, obscuring the people kneeling in the centre, blanketing them, fading them away.
Silence descended over the hall, crushing the last memories of human and elven voices alike.
A warm, bright hall. Pillars carved in the shapes of rowan-trees rise up, supporting the roof. The under-levels of the Conclave of Equals in Vinyatirion are serene and beautiful, an undisturbed bright reflection of a dark cavern far to the north.
A tiny disturbance grew into existence, background bending and growing as thirty-two kneeling figures faded into view. As one they stood and then all save two moved into action with an economy of movement achieved only by past teamwork. The Conclave was similar to the Grave in layout if not in atmosphere, and the strategic points were rapidly secured, its emptiness confirmed. Left behind, a man – dressed in plain white shirt, plain white trousers – put his arm around the other figure who had not moved out. She was an elven woman, pretty and toned with lustrous dark, red hair. Despite her athleticism, her green eyes showed a slight sign of glazing, a lack of focus, and she stumbled over the flags on the floor as they moved towards the exit.
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Jalythrien woke with the dawn and the birdcalls to the pleasant scent and feel of his beloved Fenarüwe beside him. He couldn’t help but reach out and stroke his finger along her cheekbone, admiring her beauty. She gave a murmur at his touch. Her eyes flicked open, she rolled onto her side to face him, and she smiled as he looked her up and down with a grin.
“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?” He murmured. She didn’t respond, but reached over and brushed the point of his ear with a fingertip suggestively.
“Well…” he stretched, showing off a little. “Will my new fiancee be coming to this awards ceremony to see her brave one guarding the Elentári?”
Her voice was sweet and soft – she was still young, for an elf. “Of course I will. Couldn’t stop me if you tried…” She leaned in, kissed him, and moved closer.
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Simon Aylesbury watched the “Hand of God” priestess, Sister Margaritte, as intently as she was studying the scanner she held.
She’s eager. The desire of these fanatics to die for the work of God is always terrifying. I’d die for Rhys, but that’s loyalty. That’s duty. And he’s here, tangible, provable. And to avenge Eddry, of course. Bastard elven Mornahossë assassins. But that’s a blood debt. How can you be willing to throw yourself away for faith? he thought.
The woman’s reddish eyes were dilated slightly, an endorphin release initiated by religious fervour. She gently moved the wheel on the side of the device, flipping between electrical sensor arrays to spot circuitry, and airflow monitors to check for simple mechanical traps, and sound detectors to detect guards or sonar systems. The device showed nothing. There had been a few monitoring devices, mainly infra-red. But Simon and the other Royal Guard could perceive that, and ultra-violet, a legacy of their genetic restructuring. A red diode flashed from the sound detector.
Someone’s coming. Guard or staff? They’re close, getting closer.
Simon pressed himself up against the wall, gently pushing Margaritte behind him with his left hand, gun in his right. He could hear the sounds now – two pairs of feet, walking fast.
Guards, if paired and purposeful.
He slowed his breath, stilled his thoughts. The woman was quiet, still as a mouse. A pair of elves, garbed not in MOCEBA suits but simple BDU’s, turned the corner. Surprise widened their eyes, but only briefly. Two tiny hisses of air escaping from the chamber of a pistol, and they fell to the floor, a small dart lodged in each cheek. Simon listened for more, a second patrol, but there was nothing. He moved forwards to check them even as Margaritte, eyes almost glowing, turned to bring up the others. In fine tradition, he stripped the uniforms from the guards, bound them, and hid them in a closet. He opened the casings of the powerpacks for their radio headsets, and attached a tiny device that all but bled them dry. They would fail half way though the next radio check up, indicating simple battery failure – less likely to draw an alarm than simply rendering them inactive.
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Idhrindiel nos Losloriel lay awake, auburn hair blazoned across her pillow, enjoying the sounds of the Vinyatirion morning as the sunlight slipped in through slits in the blinds of her bedroom. Then the klaxon of her alarm clock cut across her thoughts. With a contented sigh she reached out and turned it off, and then slipped out from under the bedcovers. The window looked south across the length of the Menelmacari capital, a glorious sight with the shining straits splitting the stretches of verdant green in twain. She spent a moment or two looking at it, appreciating, and then stretched down to touch her toes. She was not on duty today, but one did not reach the rank of Caun in the Mornahossë by skipping exercise.
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Sister Margaritte looked around her with wide eyes as she moved with her designated team out of the Conclave of Equals and into Vinyatirion proper, leaving two of the “Hand of God” to guard the portal and warn of the compromise of the escape route.
So beautiful, just like the stories. Everyone looks so happy! And so good. I wonder how it can be that a people as fair as these can turn from the true faith, and idolise false gods? It doesn’t make any sense.
Her group easily lost themselves amid the crowds of a city of fifty million. People went about their business: shopping, working, or just enjoying the warmth of the tropical day, seemingly worlds away from the weather that the infiltrators in their midst were used to. Occasionally people stopped to watch the news-screens overlooking many of the walking paths, to check stock listings or the weather report, or to see a report from a journalist embedded in one MIDF unit or another.
It seems that as many people as not don't seem to have anywhere really important to be. Makes sense, I suppose… there’s a lot of money in this country. Immortality and compound interest must make an impressive tag team… I’ll bet those that work, do so largely because they want to. It’s almost like a Paradise on Earth… not that there are any cathedrals, or that anyone here will get to Heaven.
The entire city was well taken care of, carefully laid out and landscaped; the walkways and public squares were paved with all manner of fine cut stone in many colours and laid out in beautiful patterns, and the great towers that pierced the sky were placed and angled with care to allow the maximum possible sunlight to reach the ground level. Peace was ensured – not only by the legality of carrying concealed arms, but by police officers in downgraded versions of military armour watching the streets.
As the group walked, small numbers split off. Sister Margaritte, responsible for them, counted them off as they went, making sure everything went to plan.
Francis and Sarah to place the scuba gear, down by the bridge. Those five from the Eldon chapel, gone south of the Straits to hire gravcars. David and Matthew, Mary and Jared, Joanna and Michael, the Royal Guard snipers gone to take positions on flat rooftops. She looked back, counting those remaining with her. Everyone I ought to have. Two for the PA hacking, four to set out the STARS in the park. Thank goodness, nothing’s gone wrong yet. I hope the groups sent to hire gravcars on this side of the Straits have been equally as lucky. And the Prince, of course. Not that he needs luck… Smiling warmly at a handsome elf who returned it with interest, the pretty young fanatic led her followers towards the park designated for the award ceremony.
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Uniform. Uniform. Uniform, uniform, armour, uniform… ahh, dress uniform. That will do nicely.
Idhrindiel searched through her wardrobe. The award ceremony was due to start within the hour, and she didn’t want to be late. Not when she was being awarded the Fëanor Medal of Valor by the Elentári herself, certainly. She dressed carefully, knowing the eyes of Vinyatirion – and many of Menelmacar’s allies – could be on her, even for a short time, via the media. The presentation wouldn’t be the highest medal she possessed, but it was nevertheless an important one.
She looked at her clothes critically in the mirror in the wardrobe door.
Epaulette a bit off kilter… there. Crinkles… smoothed. I think that’s about as smart as I get.
She smiled, closed the wardrobe door, and headed downstairs, to make her way to the park.
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Simon paused briefly to look back over his shoulder the verdant cityscape. The group had climbed quite high, now, up the steep mountainside. Painstaking research had gone into uncovering every aspect of Idhrindiel’s life since the incident, and her address had been amongst the easiest things to find. It seemed not even Mornahossë terrorists on state-sponsored missions took efforts to cover their tracks. He breathed deeply, but it was not from exertion.
Must not show anything. I know Rhys is watching me. Must not show weakness. So unfair – to come face to face with my brother’s murderer, and to be able to do nothing to her. Not even scar her. Still, with any luck she’ll be arrested and tortured. I don’t know how Noldor conduct their investigations.
The other three Royal Guard were arrayed behind him in a small knot, talking, dressed in civilian clothes, cameras in hand. Rhys, head low and an arm around the elven woman as if he was talking to her, walked behind the group. The group rounded a corner, and Simon stifled a curse before it reached his mouth. The elf bitch was leaving her house, locking the door behind her. Unfortunate. Outside operational control, now. But not parameters – Rhys was a meticulous planner.
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Idhindriel stopped at her front door, turned to look down the street, saw a group of five – no, six, two seeming to be embracing – people heading to her house. Warily, she let her hand drift towards her sidearm. They were dressed casually – smart casuals. She noticed a faint red tinge in the eyes of the one in front, a friendly-looking man. He grinned at her, a vaguely inane expression.
“Independent Press of Knootoss, ma’am. Wondered if we could get some pics?” he said as he displayed a camera proudly. His Quenya was clipped, strong Dutch accent. Perfected by studying replay after replay of tape from both human and elven Knootian interviews.
Knootoss, Knootoss… ah. They’d had a “We love the Elven Queen” day at some point… relaxed nation. Very permissive – ah-hah. Too much marijuana for this one, I think. Flattering, but little time to spare.
“I suppose so,” she said. “Make it quick though, please, I'm already behind schedule.”
“Certainly. Do you happen to have any statues of Sirithil you could pose next to or pictures?” He was smiling, fiddling with a dial on the camera. “As you may be aware, she's on a bit of a popularity rise at the moment in Knootoss!”
Persistent. But it’s not every day I get a chance to be front cover news…
“Right,” she says. “Um… there's one just up the block, I think. Would that do?”
One of the other photographers drew out a Polaroid, focused it on her. Click-Snap. A picture came out, blurry as Polaroids tend to be.
The speaker turned to look at him: “Too light?”
The photographer nodded, and the speaker turned back to her, smiling eagerly. “Well - anything more personal? Like in your house or garden or something? We heard you revere her here? Maybe a shrine? or past medal ceremony photo?”
Idhindriel couldn’t help but laugh. “She is revered here but not worshipped. So, there are no shrines to the Lady. I'm sure I could find a past picture, though. Perhaps if you came back this afternoon? I really must be going.”
The man darted a glance behind him, quick, as if gauging the mood of the others. “Please miss? We fly out this afternoon after the ceremony. Won't take a moment, promise.” His voice was very eager, slightly desperate.
Ah, what the hell. It can’t hurt – I’ve still got an hour to get there. Don’t want them to think that Mornahossë are too easy to get around, though.
She stared imperiously at him. “All right. But I reserve the right to kill you if I'm late.” She gave a bit of a smirk, making it decidedly unclear if she's joking. Then she turned round, and unlocked her front door to go inside and find them said picture.
His voice floated in after her. “Next to a display cabinet would make a lovely pic. And light in there would prevent redeye, better 'n out here.”
As if he can talk about redeye! Well, he’s right. No point in wasting my looks on a bad shot.
As she headed into the living room, she called back to them. "Oh, you want another picture? Come in, then, I suppose.” They troop in, obediently, looking around with curiosity. "I'd get you folks a drink, but I'm already in a hurry, as I said."
He smiled, looking a little relieved. “That's fine ma'am. Don't wanna intrude.” They troop in. The last one in politely shut the door behind him.
Idhindriel flipped through an album and pulled out a hologram. “Here, this should do for the past picture you asked for. This was the day I got the Imperial Medal of Honor, for leading the action against Freebodnik Station Freedom-Progress, to dislodge a Nazi regime that had set up shop there… and would this display cabinet be satisfactory?”
It is my nicest cabinet after all. And contains all my medals. And co-ordinates with my dress uniform.
She posed next to a display cabinet containing the Imperial Medal of Honor and the other medals, subconsciously smoothing down the front of her dress uniform.
Good effect, he looks pretty pleased. Not every day that…
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“Thanks! Wonderful!” Simon said as he grinned at her. He wasn’t imagining her on the front page of a Knootian newspaper though. He was imagining her dead, in a pool of her own gore. “Beautiful smile you have, miss!”
The one with the Polaroid who had already taken her picture clicked his camera first. The flash briefly blinded her. Before the light had time to fade from her eyes, the three glass lenses of the other cameras flicked aside, and darts flew into her cheeks.
“What the…” She didn’t even have time to look surprised as the venom worked its will. “Oooh… sleepy. Must… not… miss… ceremony…” She took a couple steps towards the door, and then teetered over and crashed down onto the couch, snoozing peacefully.
That was smooth. And I don’t see any CCTV in here. We may just have pulled this part off. It’s going to suck when you wake up. Bitch.
There were clicking sounds, as the fake cameras were reset to look real once more, put into holders and in pockets. Two of the men picked the elf up, holding her by feet and legs. The group moved upstairs.
Idhrindiel seemed to already be having pleasant dreams. “…thank you,milady… such an honor… donuts! huge donuts!… I wanna ride the roller coaster, mama…”
Pathetic. My brother died to this. Damn these elves and their techno-crutches. Damn Rhys for being here. Can’t even try and get them to drop her down the stairs.
Simon gently pushed open doors when he reached the top of the stairs. Bathroom, closet… bedroom. Just what he was looking for. He moved in, drew the blinds.
The unconscious elf was thrown down onto the bed, and not gently. One of the men who had been carrying her hastily began to strip her, the other guard holding her body up so it was possible. A few words from Rhys, the man at the back, and the elven woman with him undressed. Simon looked between Idhindriel on the bed and the Idhindriel clone.
Fantastic workmanship. Everything – wholly accurate. Luckily, no tattoos on the real one. Dammit. Rhys watching – can’t even take a photograph for blackmail and distribution.
The auburn-haired clone was helped into the dress uniform by the guards. Perfect fit, a perfect match. Idhindriel_1 smiled hopefully at Rhys, and he smiled back, warm and approving.
Meanwhile, Simon tied up the real elf. Gagged her, although not quite tight enough for her to choke. Wrists and ankles behind her back. Not together, he wanted to leave the possibility of her guilt open. She was then unceremoniously left on the bed.
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Fenarüwe strained to stay upright balanced on the ball of her left foot, the long dance finally taking its toll, every muscle in her body aching. She didn’t fall, but she trembled, her muscles exhausted from the night before. Finally the pain became too great, and she was forced to step down, back onto two feet. The ballet choreographer frowned at her.
What time is it? Oh… almost time for the ceremony. I have a good excuse to leave at least.
The elven dancer began to perform cool-down stretches as the ballet leader approached.
“Problem, Fen?” The voice was cool, but not cold. She was a fair woman, the ballet mistress.
“Jaly’s guarding the Elentári at a presentation ceremony, madame. Might I attend? I have not yet seen him in his armour.”
A smile. She’ll let me go, thank goodness. Not that I would have stopped here. Not the day after getting engaged.
With a sympathetic hug from the woman, Fenarüwe left the dancing hall, headed to the dressing rooms.
Not quite enough time to go home and get changed… still, I think I have my gown from the last festival somewhere in the locker… ah. Here. A bit crumpled – but better than what I came here in. Shower, dress, ceremony. Just about enough time.
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Sister Margaritte listened to the voices as she mingled with the crowds, a small bag of plastic gas-grenades concealed within a voluminous handbag. No-one was really paying attention – Sirithil was mingling with the people, as she liked to do. And they were clamouring for her attention, Menelmacari and tourists, elves and humans alike.
The scuba gear is hanging from a buoy to the east of the north-most bridge tower. Fire team one in position. All of the Eldon chapel group now in untraceable gravcars. All gravcars fitted with mirror-capacitors.
I’m moving to position the last of the STARS devices now. No indication from the Mornahossë that they can sense them; the plastic construction and lack of circuits seems to be working. I’ve seen four cloaked Mornahossë so far – two by a stand of rowan, two by the park entrance. Of course, there are three more constantly around Sirithil, but they’re not cloaked. STARS units set to go off in seven minutes forty-two seconds from now.
North disruption teams one, two, three all in gravcars at required positions. Mirror-capacitors fitted. Sound device patched at the small fountain with the lion sculpture – the main system was guarded.
All was going to plan. Margaritte smiled warmly at the visored helmet of an elven warrior. No response, but she wasn’t expecting any. Someone jostled into her. She turned around in surprise – normally Menelmacari were considerate of other people’s space. A young elf, not much more than a girl, looked back at her with a slight flush of embarrassment. She was very pretty, and looking for someone amongst the Mornahossë it seemed.
“Sorry!” And she was gone. Margaritte shrugged.
Bridge team in position. Gravimetric fluctuators activated. Road team one, fluctuator activated…
On mighty Daeriant, the bridge over the straits, five hover-cars suddenly slowed down, fell a few feet onto the road surface with a grind. Behind them and on the other side of the bridge, other vehicles fell too as their gravimetric fields were interrupted and collapsed. Sparks flew where they impacted with the road surface. The drivers of the five cars got out, started swearing at each other, and then at the shocked drivers of the other vehicles who got out. Pushes led to punches, and soon a brawl was underway in earnest. Then, the distant sound of police sirens became audible. The five drivers stopped their fights, ran to the side of the bridge, and, shocking those who weren’t too busy defending themselves to watch, dived gracefully over the side, over a hundred and fifty feet to the sea below, where scuba gear had been hung from a buoy, ready for their underwater swim back to the rendezvous point.
On roads throughout northern Vinyatirion, arterial roads in its radial grid underground transport system, other cars were stopping, gravimetrics failing around them. The drivers locked the car doors and armed the alarms, and slipped out, heading back towards the Conclave.
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Jalythrien was on a high. The data-streams from his MOCEBA armour’s HUD flashed across his vision, constantly analysing. Every weapon carried by the crowd was noted, registered, recorded. Every face he’d seen digi-mapped for matches against known criminal or terrorist threats. Radio waves were monitored constantly; body language analysed of any who stepped near to Sirithil. He himself was just behind the queen, slightly to her right, ready for anything.
Ah, Idhrendiel. Eru send that one day I shall have as many decorations as her. She’s moving a little oddly. Nervousness, I suppose. Oh – Fenarüwe. She came. Wish I could say hi, but need to act professional.
Nevertheless, the young warrior did straighten up, as much subconsciously as consciously.
Wonder if she’s told her parents yet? I can’t think they’d be upset. Not as if I’m a bad choice. Not that that’d stop her father forming some ill-judged opinion of me.
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Simon watched the elves mingle and fawn like sheep over their idolatrous leader. He felt calm, detached, his training crushing his nerves to serenity. His thoughts were still, no voices. Physical and spiritual predators silent.
He watched Sirithil embrace Idhrendiel_1, watched them exchange a few words. The elven queen then mounted the dais, moved over to the podium, and began to speak. Her words were caught and amplified to carry over to the crowd; her voice was beautifully toned and moderated.
“Occasionally,” she began, “we get a chance to recognize a truly exceptional soldier. A soldier who exemplifies the values we Menelmacari hold dear… Such a soldier is Caun Idhrindiel nos Losloriel, to whom I have the distinct honor this fine morning of awarding the Fëanor Medal of Valor, for bravery and honor above and beyond the call of duty…”
Makes me sick. Whore. Murderer.
Simon’s face was amongst the most awed of the crowd, as he stared up at the legendary queen.
All in position. Physical communications disruption complete.
Time. STARS release in only a couple of seconds.
Simon smiled, as Idhendriel_1 mounted the platform to receive her reward.
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Fenarüwe cheered as the pretty red-headed elf walked up to the beautiful Elentári, joining in with the crowd.
Jaly looks gorgeous … he needs to be promoted to Caun before our wedding. That style of dress uniform will really suit.
She suddenly felt slightly dizzy, a little faint.
Oh, no. Don’t want to be ill now … must breathe deeper. That’s not … that’s not right. That Mornahossë – he’s pointing a gun at me … oh Eru, I’m going to die.
The dancer collapsed to the floor, panting, stinking of fear. The first collapse amongst the populace was the signal. On the PA Sirithil was using to speak, a harsh electronic chord takes over, and instead of the Queen’s words, a human voice booms out in a language very different from the elegant Quenyan.
“Eins. Hier kommt die Sonne”
The three Mornahossë closest to Sirithil collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Blood spattered the ground and the trees behind them.
“Zwei. Hier kommt die Sonne”
Purple, thick smoke rose from in the midst of the crowd just as three reporters, humans, raised cameras and clicked. EMP bursts shot out, elven armor circuits shorting, warriors swearing.
“Drei. Sie ist der hellste Stern von allen.”
The unprepared crowd cowered away from the unexpected sounds, the language so different from Quenyan, so harsh. Chemically-induced nightmares and fears took over their perceptions.
“Vier. Hier kommt die Sonne.”
As the music started, Idhendriel flicked her arm towards the Queen, and three darts shot into Sirithil’s flesh, dropping her like a light.
“Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen.”
A group of Mornahossë rushed towards their lady, seeking to protect her, but collapsed in agony. Somewhere in the thick purple crowd, Rhys played his flute. A single resonant note, accompanied by a 7Hz subsonic that threatens to rupture the elven eyes.
“Kann verbrennen, kann euch blenden.”
Blinded but knowing her duty, Idhendriel_1 grabbed up the fallen
Elentári, in agony but following the sound of the flute that she could hear.
“Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht
legt sich heiss auf das Gesicht
sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergehen
und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn”
Unseen in the smoke, and throughout the city, the human team returned to the Conclave of Equals, and thence to where they came. With them went Elentári Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor, plucked from Vinyatirion like a star from amongst the Heavens.
OOC Notes:
The Quenyan at the start is the Lord’s Prayer.
The song is “Sonne” by Rammstein. The lyrics that played are:
One
Here comes the sun
Two
Here comes the sun
Three
It is the brightest star of them all
Four
Here comes the sun
The sun is shining out of my hands
it can burn, it can blind you all
when it breaks out of the fists
it lays down hotly on the face
it will not set tonight
and the world counts loudly to ten.
Vinyatirion, ageless city of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar. Buildings glow with the soft warmth of the dawn; light creeps over the beautiful copses and lawns of the green city, elegant spires and minarets reaching up to the heavens.
Snow. Wind. Water. Stark, ancient buildings in a city governed by silence, a city almost devoid of life. Ice sheened over all of them, save one, white untouched marble. Light shone out of the Royal Palace, refracting into the snow-choked streets and frozen river, a swirling dimmed glow.
Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor, Elentári, High Queen of the nation proclaimed as most powerful in or outside the world, woke slowly with the coming of the sun. She rose, went to the window, looked out over the shining city for a good while; this was her custom, for a Vinyatirion dawn seemed to have the ability to, however briefly, give one the impression that all was right with the world. Next to the closet, where she selected attire for the day… a blood-red robe in her usual style, with embroidery of spun gold. A little formal, perhaps, but she had a formal occasion today – the awarding of a medal to the Mornahossë commander who had led the stunning penetration of Whispering Voices’ most heavily-defended research facility.
(OOC: I don’t care what anybody says – NOBODY outside me or WV has any idea about that. -Menelmacar)
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A huge, echoing dark cavern. Twisted pillars in the likeness of weeping willow trees grew up from the rocky floor, arching overhead into a vault of darkness. A small pool of radiance emanates from the centre of the chamber known as the “Grave”. A ring of candles, flickering yellow crowns upon white wax, give out a light that is rapidly consumed as it flees the many figures chanting within. Simple black robes, clear voices chanting in Latin, the words reverbrating outwards. Within the ring of chanters kneel thirty-two plain-dressed figures, singing in counterpoint to an ancient male elf. His white hair is long, eyes glassy, arms spread wide to encompass all.
“Attolma i menelessie, nai airitainiéva esselya. Nai ardalya tuluva. Nai írelya tyarniéva mardesse ve menelesse. Anta men síre ilyaurea mastalma. Ar avanta men raikalmar ve avantalme raikatyarolmain. Ar nai útukuvalye me mailenna ná fainu me ulkallo. Amen.” The chanters followed his words closely, the elegant sounds of Quenya mixing into the soul-catching hymns.
Rúmil, once Door-ward of Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva, led the chant. He could feel the ancient power of this place, familiar-yet-strange, doing his bidding as he in turn followed the bidding of another. Outside the circle of light in which he stood, he could feel the malevolent murmuring voices, hungry for the power being used ... then, with the Amen, it was done.
The air rippled, as if an impossible heat were rising from the cold floor, bending the light into waves, obscuring the people kneeling in the centre, blanketing them, fading them away.
Silence descended over the hall, crushing the last memories of human and elven voices alike.
A warm, bright hall. Pillars carved in the shapes of rowan-trees rise up, supporting the roof. The under-levels of the Conclave of Equals in Vinyatirion are serene and beautiful, an undisturbed bright reflection of a dark cavern far to the north.
A tiny disturbance grew into existence, background bending and growing as thirty-two kneeling figures faded into view. As one they stood and then all save two moved into action with an economy of movement achieved only by past teamwork. The Conclave was similar to the Grave in layout if not in atmosphere, and the strategic points were rapidly secured, its emptiness confirmed. Left behind, a man – dressed in plain white shirt, plain white trousers – put his arm around the other figure who had not moved out. She was an elven woman, pretty and toned with lustrous dark, red hair. Despite her athleticism, her green eyes showed a slight sign of glazing, a lack of focus, and she stumbled over the flags on the floor as they moved towards the exit.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Jalythrien woke with the dawn and the birdcalls to the pleasant scent and feel of his beloved Fenarüwe beside him. He couldn’t help but reach out and stroke his finger along her cheekbone, admiring her beauty. She gave a murmur at his touch. Her eyes flicked open, she rolled onto her side to face him, and she smiled as he looked her up and down with a grin.
“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?” He murmured. She didn’t respond, but reached over and brushed the point of his ear with a fingertip suggestively.
“Well…” he stretched, showing off a little. “Will my new fiancee be coming to this awards ceremony to see her brave one guarding the Elentári?”
Her voice was sweet and soft – she was still young, for an elf. “Of course I will. Couldn’t stop me if you tried…” She leaned in, kissed him, and moved closer.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Simon Aylesbury watched the “Hand of God” priestess, Sister Margaritte, as intently as she was studying the scanner she held.
She’s eager. The desire of these fanatics to die for the work of God is always terrifying. I’d die for Rhys, but that’s loyalty. That’s duty. And he’s here, tangible, provable. And to avenge Eddry, of course. Bastard elven Mornahossë assassins. But that’s a blood debt. How can you be willing to throw yourself away for faith? he thought.
The woman’s reddish eyes were dilated slightly, an endorphin release initiated by religious fervour. She gently moved the wheel on the side of the device, flipping between electrical sensor arrays to spot circuitry, and airflow monitors to check for simple mechanical traps, and sound detectors to detect guards or sonar systems. The device showed nothing. There had been a few monitoring devices, mainly infra-red. But Simon and the other Royal Guard could perceive that, and ultra-violet, a legacy of their genetic restructuring. A red diode flashed from the sound detector.
Someone’s coming. Guard or staff? They’re close, getting closer.
Simon pressed himself up against the wall, gently pushing Margaritte behind him with his left hand, gun in his right. He could hear the sounds now – two pairs of feet, walking fast.
Guards, if paired and purposeful.
He slowed his breath, stilled his thoughts. The woman was quiet, still as a mouse. A pair of elves, garbed not in MOCEBA suits but simple BDU’s, turned the corner. Surprise widened their eyes, but only briefly. Two tiny hisses of air escaping from the chamber of a pistol, and they fell to the floor, a small dart lodged in each cheek. Simon listened for more, a second patrol, but there was nothing. He moved forwards to check them even as Margaritte, eyes almost glowing, turned to bring up the others. In fine tradition, he stripped the uniforms from the guards, bound them, and hid them in a closet. He opened the casings of the powerpacks for their radio headsets, and attached a tiny device that all but bled them dry. They would fail half way though the next radio check up, indicating simple battery failure – less likely to draw an alarm than simply rendering them inactive.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Idhrindiel nos Losloriel lay awake, auburn hair blazoned across her pillow, enjoying the sounds of the Vinyatirion morning as the sunlight slipped in through slits in the blinds of her bedroom. Then the klaxon of her alarm clock cut across her thoughts. With a contented sigh she reached out and turned it off, and then slipped out from under the bedcovers. The window looked south across the length of the Menelmacari capital, a glorious sight with the shining straits splitting the stretches of verdant green in twain. She spent a moment or two looking at it, appreciating, and then stretched down to touch her toes. She was not on duty today, but one did not reach the rank of Caun in the Mornahossë by skipping exercise.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Sister Margaritte looked around her with wide eyes as she moved with her designated team out of the Conclave of Equals and into Vinyatirion proper, leaving two of the “Hand of God” to guard the portal and warn of the compromise of the escape route.
So beautiful, just like the stories. Everyone looks so happy! And so good. I wonder how it can be that a people as fair as these can turn from the true faith, and idolise false gods? It doesn’t make any sense.
Her group easily lost themselves amid the crowds of a city of fifty million. People went about their business: shopping, working, or just enjoying the warmth of the tropical day, seemingly worlds away from the weather that the infiltrators in their midst were used to. Occasionally people stopped to watch the news-screens overlooking many of the walking paths, to check stock listings or the weather report, or to see a report from a journalist embedded in one MIDF unit or another.
It seems that as many people as not don't seem to have anywhere really important to be. Makes sense, I suppose… there’s a lot of money in this country. Immortality and compound interest must make an impressive tag team… I’ll bet those that work, do so largely because they want to. It’s almost like a Paradise on Earth… not that there are any cathedrals, or that anyone here will get to Heaven.
The entire city was well taken care of, carefully laid out and landscaped; the walkways and public squares were paved with all manner of fine cut stone in many colours and laid out in beautiful patterns, and the great towers that pierced the sky were placed and angled with care to allow the maximum possible sunlight to reach the ground level. Peace was ensured – not only by the legality of carrying concealed arms, but by police officers in downgraded versions of military armour watching the streets.
As the group walked, small numbers split off. Sister Margaritte, responsible for them, counted them off as they went, making sure everything went to plan.
Francis and Sarah to place the scuba gear, down by the bridge. Those five from the Eldon chapel, gone south of the Straits to hire gravcars. David and Matthew, Mary and Jared, Joanna and Michael, the Royal Guard snipers gone to take positions on flat rooftops. She looked back, counting those remaining with her. Everyone I ought to have. Two for the PA hacking, four to set out the STARS in the park. Thank goodness, nothing’s gone wrong yet. I hope the groups sent to hire gravcars on this side of the Straits have been equally as lucky. And the Prince, of course. Not that he needs luck… Smiling warmly at a handsome elf who returned it with interest, the pretty young fanatic led her followers towards the park designated for the award ceremony.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Uniform. Uniform. Uniform, uniform, armour, uniform… ahh, dress uniform. That will do nicely.
Idhrindiel searched through her wardrobe. The award ceremony was due to start within the hour, and she didn’t want to be late. Not when she was being awarded the Fëanor Medal of Valor by the Elentári herself, certainly. She dressed carefully, knowing the eyes of Vinyatirion – and many of Menelmacar’s allies – could be on her, even for a short time, via the media. The presentation wouldn’t be the highest medal she possessed, but it was nevertheless an important one.
She looked at her clothes critically in the mirror in the wardrobe door.
Epaulette a bit off kilter… there. Crinkles… smoothed. I think that’s about as smart as I get.
She smiled, closed the wardrobe door, and headed downstairs, to make her way to the park.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Simon paused briefly to look back over his shoulder the verdant cityscape. The group had climbed quite high, now, up the steep mountainside. Painstaking research had gone into uncovering every aspect of Idhrindiel’s life since the incident, and her address had been amongst the easiest things to find. It seemed not even Mornahossë terrorists on state-sponsored missions took efforts to cover their tracks. He breathed deeply, but it was not from exertion.
Must not show anything. I know Rhys is watching me. Must not show weakness. So unfair – to come face to face with my brother’s murderer, and to be able to do nothing to her. Not even scar her. Still, with any luck she’ll be arrested and tortured. I don’t know how Noldor conduct their investigations.
The other three Royal Guard were arrayed behind him in a small knot, talking, dressed in civilian clothes, cameras in hand. Rhys, head low and an arm around the elven woman as if he was talking to her, walked behind the group. The group rounded a corner, and Simon stifled a curse before it reached his mouth. The elf bitch was leaving her house, locking the door behind her. Unfortunate. Outside operational control, now. But not parameters – Rhys was a meticulous planner.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Idhindriel stopped at her front door, turned to look down the street, saw a group of five – no, six, two seeming to be embracing – people heading to her house. Warily, she let her hand drift towards her sidearm. They were dressed casually – smart casuals. She noticed a faint red tinge in the eyes of the one in front, a friendly-looking man. He grinned at her, a vaguely inane expression.
“Independent Press of Knootoss, ma’am. Wondered if we could get some pics?” he said as he displayed a camera proudly. His Quenya was clipped, strong Dutch accent. Perfected by studying replay after replay of tape from both human and elven Knootian interviews.
Knootoss, Knootoss… ah. They’d had a “We love the Elven Queen” day at some point… relaxed nation. Very permissive – ah-hah. Too much marijuana for this one, I think. Flattering, but little time to spare.
“I suppose so,” she said. “Make it quick though, please, I'm already behind schedule.”
“Certainly. Do you happen to have any statues of Sirithil you could pose next to or pictures?” He was smiling, fiddling with a dial on the camera. “As you may be aware, she's on a bit of a popularity rise at the moment in Knootoss!”
Persistent. But it’s not every day I get a chance to be front cover news…
“Right,” she says. “Um… there's one just up the block, I think. Would that do?”
One of the other photographers drew out a Polaroid, focused it on her. Click-Snap. A picture came out, blurry as Polaroids tend to be.
The speaker turned to look at him: “Too light?”
The photographer nodded, and the speaker turned back to her, smiling eagerly. “Well - anything more personal? Like in your house or garden or something? We heard you revere her here? Maybe a shrine? or past medal ceremony photo?”
Idhindriel couldn’t help but laugh. “She is revered here but not worshipped. So, there are no shrines to the Lady. I'm sure I could find a past picture, though. Perhaps if you came back this afternoon? I really must be going.”
The man darted a glance behind him, quick, as if gauging the mood of the others. “Please miss? We fly out this afternoon after the ceremony. Won't take a moment, promise.” His voice was very eager, slightly desperate.
Ah, what the hell. It can’t hurt – I’ve still got an hour to get there. Don’t want them to think that Mornahossë are too easy to get around, though.
She stared imperiously at him. “All right. But I reserve the right to kill you if I'm late.” She gave a bit of a smirk, making it decidedly unclear if she's joking. Then she turned round, and unlocked her front door to go inside and find them said picture.
His voice floated in after her. “Next to a display cabinet would make a lovely pic. And light in there would prevent redeye, better 'n out here.”
As if he can talk about redeye! Well, he’s right. No point in wasting my looks on a bad shot.
As she headed into the living room, she called back to them. "Oh, you want another picture? Come in, then, I suppose.” They troop in, obediently, looking around with curiosity. "I'd get you folks a drink, but I'm already in a hurry, as I said."
He smiled, looking a little relieved. “That's fine ma'am. Don't wanna intrude.” They troop in. The last one in politely shut the door behind him.
Idhindriel flipped through an album and pulled out a hologram. “Here, this should do for the past picture you asked for. This was the day I got the Imperial Medal of Honor, for leading the action against Freebodnik Station Freedom-Progress, to dislodge a Nazi regime that had set up shop there… and would this display cabinet be satisfactory?”
It is my nicest cabinet after all. And contains all my medals. And co-ordinates with my dress uniform.
She posed next to a display cabinet containing the Imperial Medal of Honor and the other medals, subconsciously smoothing down the front of her dress uniform.
Good effect, he looks pretty pleased. Not every day that…
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
“Thanks! Wonderful!” Simon said as he grinned at her. He wasn’t imagining her on the front page of a Knootian newspaper though. He was imagining her dead, in a pool of her own gore. “Beautiful smile you have, miss!”
The one with the Polaroid who had already taken her picture clicked his camera first. The flash briefly blinded her. Before the light had time to fade from her eyes, the three glass lenses of the other cameras flicked aside, and darts flew into her cheeks.
“What the…” She didn’t even have time to look surprised as the venom worked its will. “Oooh… sleepy. Must… not… miss… ceremony…” She took a couple steps towards the door, and then teetered over and crashed down onto the couch, snoozing peacefully.
That was smooth. And I don’t see any CCTV in here. We may just have pulled this part off. It’s going to suck when you wake up. Bitch.
There were clicking sounds, as the fake cameras were reset to look real once more, put into holders and in pockets. Two of the men picked the elf up, holding her by feet and legs. The group moved upstairs.
Idhrindiel seemed to already be having pleasant dreams. “…thank you,milady… such an honor… donuts! huge donuts!… I wanna ride the roller coaster, mama…”
Pathetic. My brother died to this. Damn these elves and their techno-crutches. Damn Rhys for being here. Can’t even try and get them to drop her down the stairs.
Simon gently pushed open doors when he reached the top of the stairs. Bathroom, closet… bedroom. Just what he was looking for. He moved in, drew the blinds.
The unconscious elf was thrown down onto the bed, and not gently. One of the men who had been carrying her hastily began to strip her, the other guard holding her body up so it was possible. A few words from Rhys, the man at the back, and the elven woman with him undressed. Simon looked between Idhindriel on the bed and the Idhindriel clone.
Fantastic workmanship. Everything – wholly accurate. Luckily, no tattoos on the real one. Dammit. Rhys watching – can’t even take a photograph for blackmail and distribution.
The auburn-haired clone was helped into the dress uniform by the guards. Perfect fit, a perfect match. Idhindriel_1 smiled hopefully at Rhys, and he smiled back, warm and approving.
Meanwhile, Simon tied up the real elf. Gagged her, although not quite tight enough for her to choke. Wrists and ankles behind her back. Not together, he wanted to leave the possibility of her guilt open. She was then unceremoniously left on the bed.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Fenarüwe strained to stay upright balanced on the ball of her left foot, the long dance finally taking its toll, every muscle in her body aching. She didn’t fall, but she trembled, her muscles exhausted from the night before. Finally the pain became too great, and she was forced to step down, back onto two feet. The ballet choreographer frowned at her.
What time is it? Oh… almost time for the ceremony. I have a good excuse to leave at least.
The elven dancer began to perform cool-down stretches as the ballet leader approached.
“Problem, Fen?” The voice was cool, but not cold. She was a fair woman, the ballet mistress.
“Jaly’s guarding the Elentári at a presentation ceremony, madame. Might I attend? I have not yet seen him in his armour.”
A smile. She’ll let me go, thank goodness. Not that I would have stopped here. Not the day after getting engaged.
With a sympathetic hug from the woman, Fenarüwe left the dancing hall, headed to the dressing rooms.
Not quite enough time to go home and get changed… still, I think I have my gown from the last festival somewhere in the locker… ah. Here. A bit crumpled – but better than what I came here in. Shower, dress, ceremony. Just about enough time.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Sister Margaritte listened to the voices as she mingled with the crowds, a small bag of plastic gas-grenades concealed within a voluminous handbag. No-one was really paying attention – Sirithil was mingling with the people, as she liked to do. And they were clamouring for her attention, Menelmacari and tourists, elves and humans alike.
The scuba gear is hanging from a buoy to the east of the north-most bridge tower. Fire team one in position. All of the Eldon chapel group now in untraceable gravcars. All gravcars fitted with mirror-capacitors.
I’m moving to position the last of the STARS devices now. No indication from the Mornahossë that they can sense them; the plastic construction and lack of circuits seems to be working. I’ve seen four cloaked Mornahossë so far – two by a stand of rowan, two by the park entrance. Of course, there are three more constantly around Sirithil, but they’re not cloaked. STARS units set to go off in seven minutes forty-two seconds from now.
North disruption teams one, two, three all in gravcars at required positions. Mirror-capacitors fitted. Sound device patched at the small fountain with the lion sculpture – the main system was guarded.
All was going to plan. Margaritte smiled warmly at the visored helmet of an elven warrior. No response, but she wasn’t expecting any. Someone jostled into her. She turned around in surprise – normally Menelmacari were considerate of other people’s space. A young elf, not much more than a girl, looked back at her with a slight flush of embarrassment. She was very pretty, and looking for someone amongst the Mornahossë it seemed.
“Sorry!” And she was gone. Margaritte shrugged.
Bridge team in position. Gravimetric fluctuators activated. Road team one, fluctuator activated…
On mighty Daeriant, the bridge over the straits, five hover-cars suddenly slowed down, fell a few feet onto the road surface with a grind. Behind them and on the other side of the bridge, other vehicles fell too as their gravimetric fields were interrupted and collapsed. Sparks flew where they impacted with the road surface. The drivers of the five cars got out, started swearing at each other, and then at the shocked drivers of the other vehicles who got out. Pushes led to punches, and soon a brawl was underway in earnest. Then, the distant sound of police sirens became audible. The five drivers stopped their fights, ran to the side of the bridge, and, shocking those who weren’t too busy defending themselves to watch, dived gracefully over the side, over a hundred and fifty feet to the sea below, where scuba gear had been hung from a buoy, ready for their underwater swim back to the rendezvous point.
On roads throughout northern Vinyatirion, arterial roads in its radial grid underground transport system, other cars were stopping, gravimetrics failing around them. The drivers locked the car doors and armed the alarms, and slipped out, heading back towards the Conclave.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Jalythrien was on a high. The data-streams from his MOCEBA armour’s HUD flashed across his vision, constantly analysing. Every weapon carried by the crowd was noted, registered, recorded. Every face he’d seen digi-mapped for matches against known criminal or terrorist threats. Radio waves were monitored constantly; body language analysed of any who stepped near to Sirithil. He himself was just behind the queen, slightly to her right, ready for anything.
Ah, Idhrendiel. Eru send that one day I shall have as many decorations as her. She’s moving a little oddly. Nervousness, I suppose. Oh – Fenarüwe. She came. Wish I could say hi, but need to act professional.
Nevertheless, the young warrior did straighten up, as much subconsciously as consciously.
Wonder if she’s told her parents yet? I can’t think they’d be upset. Not as if I’m a bad choice. Not that that’d stop her father forming some ill-judged opinion of me.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Simon watched the elves mingle and fawn like sheep over their idolatrous leader. He felt calm, detached, his training crushing his nerves to serenity. His thoughts were still, no voices. Physical and spiritual predators silent.
He watched Sirithil embrace Idhrendiel_1, watched them exchange a few words. The elven queen then mounted the dais, moved over to the podium, and began to speak. Her words were caught and amplified to carry over to the crowd; her voice was beautifully toned and moderated.
“Occasionally,” she began, “we get a chance to recognize a truly exceptional soldier. A soldier who exemplifies the values we Menelmacari hold dear… Such a soldier is Caun Idhrindiel nos Losloriel, to whom I have the distinct honor this fine morning of awarding the Fëanor Medal of Valor, for bravery and honor above and beyond the call of duty…”
Makes me sick. Whore. Murderer.
Simon’s face was amongst the most awed of the crowd, as he stared up at the legendary queen.
All in position. Physical communications disruption complete.
Time. STARS release in only a couple of seconds.
Simon smiled, as Idhendriel_1 mounted the platform to receive her reward.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Fenarüwe cheered as the pretty red-headed elf walked up to the beautiful Elentári, joining in with the crowd.
Jaly looks gorgeous … he needs to be promoted to Caun before our wedding. That style of dress uniform will really suit.
She suddenly felt slightly dizzy, a little faint.
Oh, no. Don’t want to be ill now … must breathe deeper. That’s not … that’s not right. That Mornahossë – he’s pointing a gun at me … oh Eru, I’m going to die.
The dancer collapsed to the floor, panting, stinking of fear. The first collapse amongst the populace was the signal. On the PA Sirithil was using to speak, a harsh electronic chord takes over, and instead of the Queen’s words, a human voice booms out in a language very different from the elegant Quenyan.
“Eins. Hier kommt die Sonne”
The three Mornahossë closest to Sirithil collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Blood spattered the ground and the trees behind them.
“Zwei. Hier kommt die Sonne”
Purple, thick smoke rose from in the midst of the crowd just as three reporters, humans, raised cameras and clicked. EMP bursts shot out, elven armor circuits shorting, warriors swearing.
“Drei. Sie ist der hellste Stern von allen.”
The unprepared crowd cowered away from the unexpected sounds, the language so different from Quenyan, so harsh. Chemically-induced nightmares and fears took over their perceptions.
“Vier. Hier kommt die Sonne.”
As the music started, Idhendriel flicked her arm towards the Queen, and three darts shot into Sirithil’s flesh, dropping her like a light.
“Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen.”
A group of Mornahossë rushed towards their lady, seeking to protect her, but collapsed in agony. Somewhere in the thick purple crowd, Rhys played his flute. A single resonant note, accompanied by a 7Hz subsonic that threatens to rupture the elven eyes.
“Kann verbrennen, kann euch blenden.”
Blinded but knowing her duty, Idhendriel_1 grabbed up the fallen
Elentári, in agony but following the sound of the flute that she could hear.
“Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht
legt sich heiss auf das Gesicht
sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergehen
und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn”
Unseen in the smoke, and throughout the city, the human team returned to the Conclave of Equals, and thence to where they came. With them went Elentári Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor, plucked from Vinyatirion like a star from amongst the Heavens.
OOC Notes:
The Quenyan at the start is the Lord’s Prayer.
The song is “Sonne” by Rammstein. The lyrics that played are:
One
Here comes the sun
Two
Here comes the sun
Three
It is the brightest star of them all
Four
Here comes the sun
The sun is shining out of my hands
it can burn, it can blind you all
when it breaks out of the fists
it lays down hotly on the face
it will not set tonight
and the world counts loudly to ten.