"Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."
Eru Ilúvatar. The Creator. The Father of all within Eä. It was he who began it, the shaping of the universe and its inhabitants. He bore knowledge in all things; knowledge of things that w...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
March 12th, 2933 TA. West. Eriador. The White Towers. Emyn Beraid. ﴾Arthedain﴿ West of The Shire. South-East of the Grey Havens.
YAAAAOW...
That sound. That horrifying, shrill, unearthly scream. It violently tore him out of deep torpor. He bolted upright from whence he lay, eyes wide and peering into the darkness. His calm shattered, fragmenting like glass upon stone. He shuddered, drawing in a sharp breath and holding it, in response to the suffering sonance that assaulted his ears.
YAAAAOW...
YAAAAOW...
YAAAAOW...
Thrice over it came. Each repetition bit at his heart, filling him with cold fear that tore at every nerve ending. Never before had his ears heard such a harsh, murderous howl. A wave of lightheadedness and nausea overcame him. He swallowed thickly, his mouth acidic and musty.
He had yet to fully wake. He was disoriented, a mild headache throbbed, slowly growing until it malleated maliciously behind his eyes. His vision blurred; albeit he gathered that he should be seeing things singularly, that was not the case. He was seeing double. He strained to focus, a taxing endeavor as the space surrounding him was both dank and dark.
'Where am I?' he thought to himself, as he allowed his distorted gaze to slowly sweep over his surroundings. Beneath him was a taut cloth, affixed at each intersection to a single solid piece of pine. The cloth was soiled. He gathered as much not by sight yet smell. A pungent stench struck his nose; ammonia - something coppery and metallic - albeit more. The scent was foul, putrid.
He swallowed thickly. His sharp ears strained, in an effort to ascertain his current surroundings, or how he came to be in such a place. Off yonder the horrifying howl continued. Moreover, the crashing of waves. The wail of a forceful wind. Yet loudest of all was the hammering of his own heartbeat, his shallow gasping breath - and the slow, persistent plink of what he could only pray was mere water.
He was scarcely aware, for the fear he felt drove his fingers deep into the gnarled wood of the makeshift bed. He tore his hands free, straining to straighten his cramping fingers, bringing them to feel his own form, assessing himself for injury or illness. Pain. It pierced his right side as his fingers brushed against the place between his hip and ribs, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. The flesh below his fingers burned.
He stopped, recalling exactly how such deathly injury came to befall him. "Orcs," he whispered roughly to himself, as the terror of the day came flooding back. 'The incursion... Eldrithèm... Esola... Sariël!' His head spun with confusion, grief, and raw panic. Dear Eru - what had become of his kin? His kingdom? What would become of him? He breathed painfully, raggedly - stilling when he heeded a soft sound nearby, the echo of scuffing upon the sedimentary ground.
