#galwechil

beep beep how’s my portrayal ? | ACCEPTING

    The past few days have been rough, and that’s stating it lightly. Milo had been between towns, with his eyes set on the horizon, and it seemed as though this leg of his travels would be a simple one. From point A to point B. Then he heard horses, and off he was chased. Milo’s ram was fast, but not fast enough to out run or out last the robbers, and they were caught. Everything was taken, save what Milo had hidden away in Sadoc’s saddle bags. They even took the damn cart! And worse yet, Milo had no idea where they were. He had no map, nothing calling to him from any direction, and no knowledge of this area. With a heavy sigh and frustrated mind, Milo picked a direction, and off they went. 

Armed with only a simple basket, Alwen had made her way outside the walls of Minas Tirith. It was a rare journey for her, content as she was to stay within the protective tiers of the city, but the need for herbs was great, and she had little else to do save fret over the fates of the soldiers and rangers under her care.

While some healing plants she could grow in her own little garden, others were only found in the wild, and so she picked her way across Pelennor fields bending down to examine some of the plants as she saw them. Half were wilted, limp and dying from being trampled or denied the light of the sun from the shadow that had stretched over Gondor from the east.

The sun was shining now, the cold of winter gone, the claminess of terror all but forgotten, and she knelt beside a small, half-withered patch of what she hoped was kingsfoil--she had only seen it in passing, in the hands of the king.

“Let us hope,” she sighed to herself, “that you are enough.”

She felt, in the back of her mind, a small warning that she was being watched, but she pushed it aside, taking the small knife from her belt and cutting at the stems of the plant.

       Boots grazed over the smooth surface of the Elven halls as the Dwarf wandered among them, lost in thought and curiosity. Where the others had went was only little of his concern. He would make sure to wash his hair some other time. For now, Thorin found himself rather preoccupied with other things -- bigger things. 

                           how vulnerable the elven heart can be, how fragile as delicate it is, the idea of the ‘soul’  perpetually haunting them, drawing them to the distant land. how DIFFERENT from dracula’s own ICY prison it is, a place that entailed no light, no beauty, and no  MERCY.     his  bulbous  neck, pink and grey skin, tips down toward the bottom of the castle. the BEAST eyes the light that shorn in its most……VULGAR appearance. how DARE  elrond come. how dare he set FOOT in his PALACE.  and like the whipping pattern of a wind mill’s blades, his own wings bat the thick, cold air. he swings his MIGHTY shoulders to lunge from a height, landing NEATLY before the elf.

     Elves, the first to underestimate another and just as much the last to aid them. Thorin returned a scoff and crossed his arms over his chest as he paced around in thought, but only briefly. He knew exactly what he could say in return to Lord Elrond’s words -- words which had been spoken with the assumption that he believed for the Dwarves to perhaps be unable to complete their quest, and only make things worse that way.