#ringwrath

Drawtober 2021 - “streak” - a streak of darkness crept through fatty bolger’s garden

“I will not suffer you to trespass in this land, Mordo,” Efailwen draws her sword and points it at the dreaded wraith crowned with Morgul steel. “Thou art not welcome here or anywhere,”

The very presence of the Witch King of Angmar upon the soil of Eregion brings forth a terrible rage from within the Noldo, an ancient fury that overpowers any fear she might have felt. It is the same boiling, seething tempest she felt upon the slope of Orodruin, when Sauron came forth and she envisioned herself cleaving his head from his shoulders. It burns in her eyes, the same colour as her fathers before her, the same untamed spirit. 

not even the air is spared from the winter he brings with him.     it smells foreign and feels foreign,  of a different magic than his own;   but few things remain unaffected by the terrible chill in the space around him   —   unforgiving and quick does it freeze all it touches;  blackening all under his gaunt, bone-white palm and draining it of warmth.    but his hands touch nothing,  remaining gloved and adorned by light armor of what glitters as silver but is harder than it.    the same metal is found in the mask concealing his face.

aye,  and he reveals that too   —   or at least what he presents for a face   —   as his hands reach up to remove the heavy hood of his white cloak,  and he lets the unfamiliar warm light of early spring reflect off its flawless surface.

the mask is expressionless and frozen in a mildly pleasant expression.    it hides a face given to him by his beloved master;  one dead and rotten and wreathed in the pallor of something that should have died long ago.     white and silver upon his form are but a mockery of good and light,  hiding the evil stirring   [ silent,  patient,  ever-present ]   beneath bright robes and glittering metal.

“   i cannot show you my likeness even if i wished to,   ”           the voice behind the mask speaks;   deceptively pleasant in tone yet still bearing a hint of the haunting roughness he carries with him.     he pointedly ignores the first question.           “   as it is not my own magic that made me appear the way i do   —   it is a curse that cannot be lifted by my hands,  or anyone else’s …    perhaps not even by he who cast it.   ”           [ there is a truth in those lies,  though he does not know it. ]       even despite his own cold,  his master’s fire burns in a part of his black heart forever.            “   you have my gratitude for no longer aiming your arrow at me,   for i carry no weapon of my own.   ”

and indeed;   does he truly need one?

the  spring  coalesces  around  them,       a  whirlwind  of  earth  at  its  purest  iteration.       it  tosses  about  the  grasses  and  carries  away  pollen  like  a  dusted  hearth,       but  the  cries  of  those  the  bloodstone  queen  would  rule  reach  the  ears  of  the  successor         (  each  blade,       a  voice  its  own,       whispers  of  more  than  this  silver-gilded  stranger’s  intrusion;       of  broken  silence  and  corruption  like  rot  and  carrion  on  the  wind.       and  the  trees  too  have  spoken  in  their  turns,       reaching  the  ears  of  the  huntress  though  the  creaking  in  their  roots,       and  she  knows  them  to  be  stifled  by  a  great  fear,       the  age  old  sentinels  of  the  spring  court,       twisted  wood  to  which  all  passing  things  owe  reverence.  )     she  scents  ash  upon  the  wind,         this  too,       a  flavor  that  burns  together  with  the  sweetness  of  flowers.     yet  despite  the  hastening  devastation  of  the  other’s  presence,       the  springmaid  is  yet  intrigued  by  what  must  come  of  two  antithetical  forces  meeting  together:       one  young  as  a  sapling,       the  other  perhaps  older  than  the  ice  that  sinks  deeper  in  the  ground  with  each  season,       with  the  hunger  that  comes  for  all  in  the  end.  

must  one  always  inevitably  take  their  fall,       to  discover  what  exists  to  oppose  them  ?

eyes  of  loam  green  witness  the  shroud  fall  away,       pale  and  pure  as  diaphanous  cloth  the  mortals  used  to  bury  their  most  sacred  dead.       strange  to  adorn  oneself  as  though  mortality  were  elegant  in  its  own  way  ———  but  in  her  recollection  dances  living  brides  that  wear  the  same  or  similar  garb,       the  habit  of  adorning  themselves  with  flowers  of  soft  snow  and  veils  like  mist.      what  symbolism  does  the  stranger  carry  with  them,       rife  and  palpable  ?      demise,       the  wilting  of  all  things  slowly  over  time.       the  blackening  of  the  earth,      an  unfathomable  trail  of  carnage.

‘    in  another  kingdom  exists  a  throne  and  a  crown  that  is  mine  by  right.    ’

↬  @ringwrath​​  !

A  STRANGE  ONE,         THIS  STRANGER         :         cloaked  from  the  view  of  eyes  mortal  and  immortal  alike,         but  for  those  seers  of  a  great  and  terrible  darkness.         you  have  seen  things,         a  voice  whispers,         weaving  between  vines  and  ribs.         things  that  do  not  belong  in  the  spring,         in  a  forest  where  the  living  are  renewed  and  flourish  in  a  conflagration  of  verdant  greens,         sweetpea  blossoms  and  fruit-yielding  trees.         yet  there  are  places  beyond  the  tattered  veil  of  the  veil,         in  distant  courts  with  unspoken  names,         where  dimensions  exist  without  the  comforting  constraints  of  predictable  seasons.         lands  incarnate  of         the  ways  of  death  and  the  un-life         that  occupy  the  spaces         in  between  other  and  elysium.  

a  trembling  assessment  is  made  as  her  bow  is  lowered  by  hesitant  arms,         a  huntress  that  knows  when  it  is  she  that  could  easily  become         the  prey  of  another.         her  eyes  trace  the  uninhabited  reaches  of  the  other’s  garb,         the  blankness  of      a  face  that  is  not  a  face,         but  some  form  of  armor  that  threatens  even  as  it  conceals         the  unknown  from  the  knowing.  

but  what  are  you  she  might  ask,          though  it  is  nothing  more  than  an  echo  on  the  wind  of  a  voice  that  is  not  hers.         the  fluttering  wings  of  her  confidence  have  flown  away,         carrying  something  of  the  soul  and  its  fortitude  with  them.         instead  there  are  seconds  of  indecision  left  to  the  devouring  of  time  and  its  endlessly  open  maw.         her  head  tilts  upon  lithe  shoulders,         spilling  a  waterfall  of  hair  in  the  hue  of  a  budding  rhododendron.         ❛    what  sort  of  king  are  you,         that  you  have  found  yourself  in  a  realm  like  mine  ?    ❜         the  smell  of  sage  bonfires  and  birch-wood  are  typical  presences,         but  in         the  hidden  face         of  this  being         something  of  a  darker  flame         mingles  with  the  air.         sinister,         giving  pause  to  the  breath  of  spring.

Drawtober 2021 - “scratch” - ada, it’s fine!

'TIS FIRE AND BLOOD WHEN DRAGON-RIDERS TAKE TO THE SKIES, AND UPON THEIR WINGS FLY DOOM. SO SAYETH THE USURPERS OF ELENDIL'S HOUSE! MAY THE MEN OF ARNOR BURN. the targaryens denounce their ilk, they who defied the true lord of the world. it was he who gave them their greatest gift — and to him, their descendants are thus eternally sworn. their house ascended in sauron's name, crowned in steel and wreathed in his flames. so had he followed in ancient tradition and hastened to eriador at the bidding of angmar's king. to serve mordor's captain was the promise of renown, and the prince sought nothing less. i will prove myself to them all. (YOU ARE A DRAGON, AND YOU YEARN TO SHARPEN YOUR TEETH.)

vhagar's nearby rumble reverberated into the ground and against the soles of his boots as the one, gratified eye gazed out upon the wreckage wrought amongst smoldering grass. lips parted slightly as the stench of smoke wafted. one word of mine and i turned them into ash. when the king spoke, the eye glanced keenly over to him. chin canted a tad higher, hands clasped at his back as fingers clenched within leather gloves. " i am a targaryen — we are not men, your majesty. " the low words are regardful despite, and mouth presses into a tight-lipped smile. common men are fodder, if they will not bow. as much as he detested to be counted in the ranks those who had ended up in vhagar's belly (and who would on the morrow be naught else but shit), he would will it if he could that this great king see him not of the lesser, but as a power. look on me. " men don't ride dragons. they are burned by them. " (IN YOU IS THE MARK OF OLD NÚMENOR, CHARRED BY BLACK HANDS.)

face turning away amidst wind-swept silver-strands, heather-colored sight met that of vhagar's stooping, spiked head, eyepatch putting the king out of his view. vhagar's ill-tempered growl as her neck curved elicited a momentary flicker of mirth across his countenance. " sagon gīda, vhagar. aderī. " the dragon grumbled with a rush of breath from her nostrils as he then switched with well-practiced ease to the common speech, " we are most grateful, your majesty. vhagar still ... hungers. " as to his state — well, weary or no, rest did not oft find him as simply as that, even as the soreness of his legs climbed into his back. how could he now, when his blood still sang with a dragon's roars? it makes taut every string inside him. (SHALL THE MINSTRELS SING THAT AEMOND ONE-EYE MADE THE KINGDOM OF THE NORTH INTO EMBERS?) surely there is more.

maroon eyes lift from a nightmare of runes and characters set upon the scroll at a furious pace.   the barely dry ink has stained the margins of the page,  while entire sections appear to have been written with a much more sinister liquid,  the color of rusted blood.  whether human or animal is too difficult to tell  —  according to the nature of his inclinations,  it could be either.  what once was carsaib deals only in the blackest,  most foul forms of magic and those oft require disagreeable steps,  the sort of preparation that sensible sorcerers   (   even the most ambitious ones   )   would scorn.

he appears to the other nazgûl with no mask to hide the undergoing changes morphing his features,  twisting them from human to monstrous.  the scroll is seized between pale fingers,  almost all bone,  but instead of fretfully hiding it from view the sorcerer lifts it towards the wraith-lord in a rare display of collaboration.

''  it is far from finished,  ''   he warns,  his black speech not yet mastered in full.   ''  but upon completion it will allow me to break the will of sentient creatures.  to bind even dragons in unshakable chains.  ''

the effort has sequestered him in this room for days on end,  both the passing of time and the presence of others ignored.  and it is the surrounding furniture that has lost against the onslaught of his temper:  a table,  broken in two and flung against the wall;  his own sword lodged in the wall;  torn pages scattered upon the floor.