OKTŌNTĂRŌ

Hello there! This is an independent, selective RP blog for SARTE, AN ORIGINAL CUIVIENEN ELF CHARACTER from Tolkien’s Legendarium. Sarte has gone through a great deal of iterations and at this point, whilst I’m fairly confident she is entirely canonically friendly, I have crafted quite a few narratives from sparse areas of canon to develop her. It’s possible these may clash with other interpretations so let me know! I will also not be doing crossovers or modern AU’s for now, but it’s possible that will change in time.

I go by ERRAN and they/them pronouns. I am 26 and I live in the UK so GMT time. Sarte relies somewhat heavily on a LaCE compliant view of at least Calaquendi society, (as in LaCE as a list of societal rules and expectations, not biological fact). So, specifically, Sarte’s canon will view Valinorean society as homophobic and resistant to multiple partners. This includes the Valar in Sarte’s canon, which is perhaps important to consider when interacting with her. But in general it’s always good to ask questions if you have them! Sarte has 11,000ish years of history which is far too much to just put into a bio.

Prompts from The Banner Saga 1 - part 3 || accepting for all muses

Like a towering creaking oak, the old creature turns and bends to let her good eye find the dutiful soldier at her side, his accent in quenya sitting surprisingly easily in her ear despite him being Sirion-born. In the same motion, and without breaking their held gaze, she places both the dagger and the wrapped strips of uncured leather on the counter in front of this man of Hordern before them both. The fellow is clearly daunted, not just by Sarte's unfathomable size but by the presence of elves in his home at all, yet he takes the offered trade and gives a stiff, if polite, nod.

"Well, s'pose you can take the room for a couple nights, so long as I don't find you snooping about the place and no other sinister business besides.." He rumbles in the trade tongue, and Sarte finally breaks her focus on Arondir to pay attention to her new host, "I am not garrisoned in Tir Harad, nor am I numbered amongst the Watchwardens. I will remain only as long as is needed for mending and resupply before I go east once more."

He could not remember the last time he’d sensed he was being spoken to with such bare honesty, and it was almost more unsettling than anything else about her. He’d been in a strange mood since leaving the city, feeling like pieces of him were breaking away one by one, bringing what was left underneath it all – an intricate rage, a hot and balled up thing, tightly squeezed into the center of his chest – far too close for comfort. Yet there was blooming now within his brain a wide and open feeling, its impetus Sarte’s manner, words, commitment. He no longer feared the need to rely on a guide; in fact, he wondered at the callowness of ever thinking he could have done without.

And what a guide she would be! All of this passed through his mind as she made her reply, as he let the gravity of who she was and the perspective she offered, the aid she pledged him, sink in a bit further. He winced a bit when she spoke of shame, wondering if she could read the shame in his own heart, though he did not drop his eyes. 

“The worth of your service cannot be overestimated I deem. Time allow I be worthy of it.” With a deferent nod, he turned away, needing the familiarity of walking quite dearly in that moment and feeling as if he was taking a gasp of a breath at finally being able to drop her gaze. He made his steps slow, hoping she would easily overtake his pace and lead the still uncertain way.

Denethor might have only heard a laugh from behind him. Not a loud or unkind one, a tiger chuff from between her teeth that still shivered the air about them. But if Razmaur had anything to say about her ‘service that could not be overestimated’ she kept it to herself. A moment later came the sounds of first a duffel bag and then a sword being slung over wide shoulders and the slow measured tramp of long feet. She did overtake him, eventually, letting him walk a little before she sloped passed him with a gate that made her feel more like a passing wild thing. 

She quickly ‘waded’ into the water, reaching the boat and casting first her bag and then her sword over and onto the deck. And then, as though it was the most rational thing, she bent down and offered one of her wide and gnarled hands, like a step, to Denethor. And indeed, there was no easy way back up other than a scramble, by jumping for the rail or wading to the other side for the short ladder. Perhaps that was how she persuaded her still rapidly processing charge to put one of his feet into her offered hand, put his weight onto it, so that she might then easily and casually hike him up above the guard rail. An encouraging bob of her head and calm grin probably helped in the persuasion too. 

Once Denethor had caught the railing and hopped over, Razmaur quickly untied the mooring rope and then, with a similarly casual air, put her shoulder to the stern of the ship and pushed. It came free from the river silt smoothely with seemingly little effort and soon Razmaur herself had cleanly jumped and vaulted onto the deck from the beach. Ducking under the boom was a little more dramatic for her but she seemed accustomed to the bend and pointed Denethor up to the tiller as they passed into the faster flow of the river. 

The pillar’s height suddenly becomes not all that impressive with Rehkya leaning against it. Indeed, the youth, considered tall among her tribe, feels downright dwarfed by mere proximity. Though the casualness is inviting and so she mirrors it; posture loosens some of its rigidity though arms remain partially crossed at her front.

Simply hearing praise for her guardian, Vezruk Magriag, again tugs a half smile on Vezely’s face. While she would not go as far as to openly call him “father,” she is not compelled to correct Rehkya just yet. It is a flattering familial assumption and the youth does bear his half-name as his other children do, but all that is slightly contrived under Pultic law. She will not carry on his line, only his family’s honor. Too much had to be decided by council after she was no longer another’s property — her own unbreakable oath of sorts, if she might consider it further.

❝ An unbreakable oath? ❞ Comprehension in the next advice falters, and head cants to the side and brows crinkle at their center ( where the dried red smudge still clings ) to prove it. All Pultic children are taught to heed their elders, but Vezely learned as she became older to question them as well. ❝ Men break oaths all the time, ❞ she considers out loud; the concept really wasn’t given much thought. ❝ Their honor and possibly their life is at stake, but who would call that fate rather than strategy or stupidity? How can an oath be unbreakable to begin with unless it is made to a god? ❞

Sarte grinned again, still with a wolf-like air, obviously and unabashedly pleased by the answer. As well as the slowly lessening tension in her young companion. “It cannot be,” she replies with rueful relish, “unless it is sworn on one particular god.” 

Not a word she would have chosen, nor one she uses except when prompted. And yet in the eastern languages perhaps it suits the topic of conversation better than ‘powers’ or ‘valar’ or even ‘iluvatar’ ever have. They know these creatures as cruel, overbearing, fearful and powerful. A more accurate view of all the lords of the west than most elves can claim. 

And once again Sarte wonders what the word means to Vezely, with her little blood blessing and curious questions. Does her dark god bring her comfort? Surety? Would she be angry if her god was questioned? More questions that are too personal for their mere moments of acquaintance but Sarte lets her curiosity burn her, lets herself sigh through it. Perhaps there will come a time when she can ask. In any case, she has more wisdom to impart, as ever. Her most annoying trait, she’s been told.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭, 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐠 𝐢𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬.    And such would be the only reason behind his languid motions.    Masses of gold slithered and slithered seemingly without an end to the shrill noise they produced, how wonderfully silent Erebor had been by this day.    No longer.    A stretched hum rumbled in his chest, albeit it resembled a quiet growl more, so deep it sent vibrations unto solid stone all around.

Even so when, at last, he heaved his horn-crowned head from the sea of treasure and made it rain coins that had gathered betwixt red scales.    The insolent stranger had to behold his enormity.    Shudder and cower they should afore him !    Broad wings surfaced with a jerking suddenness for claws like spears to stabilize his now towering form — gold sang anew, loud and echoing, Smaug’s wealth unmissable.

“  You ~  “,  drawled the serpent, fiery gaze flashing dangerously ere he lowered his massive head, long neck granting him the liberty of gliding beside the elf with said head sans moving from his spot.    Sarte would, unless shying away, see one curious eye hover closely beside her and one half of that terrible grin the dragon cracked.    His breath smelled of burnt flesh and old ash, his armor radiating enough heat to provide warmth to the entirety of a city.    The slit for a pupil widened a tad, scanning her form from up close.    “  … claim to have met another like me, THIEF. For what purpose ?  “

She did neither reek of dwarf nor man, possessed manners and still lacked them on some ends, said those words sans quivering touch to her voice.    Strange.    This one confused him already and still, anyone brave enough to come here must be after his riches.    Even if Sarte struck him as rather creative ….  ah, he could not help it !    Utmost curiosity reigned the dragon and so he shall listen to whatever more she would have to say about his kind, let her humor him for a bit while ever keeping an eye on the gold.

The echoing music of a million coins of gold ricocheting across the halls and playing upon the polished granite floor reminded Sarte very suddenly of other choruses. The acoustics of Erebor were even more sonorous now that there was only one body to fill it, but she had preferred dwarven voices raised in song to this, as beautiful and magnificent as the display was. His wings stirred the air with their sheer size and warm gusts tugged at Sarte’s clothes and played with the rope of hair behind her.  

The melancholic note resettled her away from Smaug’s mesmerising beauty, though she still held wondrously still as his roiling molten eye closed in on her. Ah, yes, the heat was familiar too, she knew from experience that to touch this creature would scald her mercilessly and yet she doubted anyone could help wishing too. Her appreciation of his beauty was obvious, she hid none of it, and allowed his heady examination of her without a flinch. The questions meant success, at least for this first hurdle. If he bothered to speak then curiosity had won out and she had time. 

Pointed ears almost twitch also under their tight linen wrapping while witnessing the others move so freely. The youth cannot remember the last time they felt the breeze or heeded the sun’s rays. But that’s a lament never to be grieved when that part of oneself is preferred forgotten and always hidden. Still, widened gaze observes in its unbidden curiosity, finding in the other answers to questions she dare not ask. Suspicion falls on herself.

❝ Many years must have passed for that to be. ❞ Ages even. Mouth is left open in thought. Though sorrow for these truths, she knows not how to show it. Her own immortal self is unfathomable as it is unseen except in the relative slowness of her physical development. ❝ But the Pultai want not from the elves to consider them much at all. ❞ It is greener fields they seek when theirs are plagued with drought. Forests are only good for burning.

❝ Vezruk is not a man of caution. No, ❞ she confirms with a chuckle, but thoughts wonder again of Rehkya’s age if her Lord is consider not of her time. ❝ The Pultai Confederation was not built on caution, he would say. ❞ So assure she is of her guardian’s words and thoughts as they are often her own. It says something of herself, for even having this conversation is throwing caution to the wind. ❝ So, what brought you under this Lord’s service? ❞

Many years indeed. Sarte has always found it fascinating to watch as others came to terms with what her age might mean to them. Elves, in general, have similar reactions to it, predictable. But Vezely is unique in many respects. She is thinking, a fact which Sarte finds very gratifying. Though such wonderings as she has, she keeps to herself and appears to tamp down soon enough. No matter, Sarte was happy to see it still. 

And she is happy to hear another chuckle as well, her interest peaking as to the nature of Vezely’s relationship with her father. Not a man of caution perhaps, but a kind man to his daughters? She hopes so, she hopes the pride and bearing the sharp girl holds herself with is because someone told her she should be proud. Sarte gentles her stance and leans a shoulder against the carved wooden pillar at her side, tilting her head with a curious lupine air. No, she cannot yet ask such questions. She has not yet earned that right, no matter how it burns. 

“Caution is not a builder... I should like your father I think.” She rasps in a thoughtful tone, more to herself than to Vezely’s words, and she quickly moves to answer her question, her tone still happy and even encouraged by such query. “Well that has both a simple and complex answer, as many questions do. An oath binds me to serve and obey his line. I made it to a forefather of his when I was young and he was younger. But lines become muddied with time and so oaths can be... interpreted, so let us say I chose his service over other descendants I would have liked much less.”

Sarte has had a very long time to craft and refine her view of the world and her place in it. She has quite a lot of unique perspectives and positions of understanding when it comes to such questions, not just for her yawningly long life but even for how that life began. Loss and struggle were very early introductions and, even before Morgoth’s intervention, Sarte lived a life that was in no way magnificent or mighty. She was the oldest daughter of a small community that were learning to exist as they went and had to put effort into simple questions like what to eat, how to eat it and how to stay warm.

But most importantly Sarte’s life gave her questions that elves raised in Valinor could not answer. And whilst other elves were born and raised into a race that felt the pull of the sea and a burden of grief that they had no tools to surmount, Sarte had context for those struggles and a belonging so fierce that she refused to believe Middle Earth could not be her home any longer. 

Initially, she feared the affection she felt growing for many of the mortal creatures she met and grew to know. She had lost much already and was shy to that sting in a bitten and teeth baring way. But after Beleriand’s destruction she spent time in Khazad-Dum during the influx of refugees from Belegost and there she met Svava. And Svava, a merchant head and the adoptive mother of five orphans from the wars, taught Sarte more about life than any wisdom the Valar had ever offered her. Sarte learned about change and community and the memory of earth and the immortality of mortal love and she learned about living. And Svava left her with such a fevered desire to know more that she has spent the rest of her life since trying too. And this learning has allowed her to manage and heal from the griefs and hurts that Arda offered her in a way few other elves can.

For a long time now, Sarte has believed that mortal races know more about life and living than she or any other elf ever will. She believes they were all robbed of vital tools by the Valar’s tempting of the elves across the sea. The Atani lost the help of a people who should have been their fellows and neighbours, but they still managed to struggle and claw their way through survival anyway. Sarte considers the elves far more broken by the loss. The elven race is as morose and somber and lifeless as it is because they did not live amongst the impermanent, nor learn to understand a society of duality. Most elves are now so beholden to an uncomplicated paradise that they can no longer even live in the lands of their birth.

Life/Death/Life. A person who represents the mysteries and inner workings of the world's forces; a person who has destiny at their back, a person wielding their understanding like a weapon. A person who cycles through rebirths and deaths, growing ever more clever. 

Denethor heard her question, but did not move his eyes from the sword at first: it was one of the most incredible weapons he had ever seen. He tried to imbue the pause with the spirit of a wise and studied consideration, still feeling too shocked for his own comfort. A question, a pressing question, any pressing questions for an elf… he could think of hundreds. He was filled with a sudden and earnest wish they should have time for them all. But to begin…he drew his eyes up to hers, schooling himself to calm and asked:

“Why have you agreed to guide me?” Almost at once he second-guessed the query—perhaps it sounded too mistrustful? But he did not move his eyes from hers. He had a knack for reading others, especially when they were confronted with a pointed question, even more especially when that pointed question had been his own. Wishing to soften it a bit, though, he added, “And there is no need to call me lord. I mean…that is not a question but, rather something that I thought, well, that you should know.” He pressed his lips together to stop speaking, cursing the knot growing in his stomach.

She again allowed him a little time. It was not a dull silence, to watch his mind move was thoroughly enjoyable and a privilege besides. She suspected that he would not remain readable for long, if his predecessors were any indication. Then again, Sarte had not come to know a Steward of Gondor since Herion’s reign, her predictions could not be trusted. Which was, intriguingly, a part of his question. Her manner sobered to hear it, though only with something akin to pain, not offence. He was well within his rights to mistrust her, after all. Her smile was sad as she answered him. 

The proud Magriag might shrink in the shadow of the one she initially called strange. As kohl-lined gaze lifts in increments along with her chin, the significantly shorter can feel her shoulders shift back and spine straighten as if to feign more height. A height she would stake as at least impressive among most Pultic women and and soon to outpace many Pultic men. Booted feet remain grounded on the dusty sandstone and covered ears are open to what information is spared, but it takes time to process. Widened stare seems stuck on the tall elf’s a moment too long before trailing off. It is as a cracked door first being opened, revelations of hearsay none in her company could ever fully verify.

Impressionable mind maps these generalities but without known reason. She does not like her own interest. And of the witch, the terrors of the forests told to frighten Pultic children, the threat is pocketed should she ever find herself on strange journeys in those lands. Raids through Rhovanion continue and there is talk of a greater invasion; those woods shall be remembered as off limits. 

But a crack in her grim demeanor comes, a huff of a laugh brought forth after the other’s self-deprecation. ❝ I am glad I do not have those, ❞ she blithely remarks; the other’s ears far outpointing her own. Rhekya’s tall body is strangely cut, shoulders broader than her hips, muscular arms built for cleaving. All in contrast to her own svelte figure; hardly warrior-like, spindly, and seemingly malnourished ( for most of her life she has been ). At least she is tall, and strong too despite the look of her. The constant washing of clothes aided that.

❝ I know not your enemies, but an army of many you seems formidable enough. ❞ The sword left near her chair is noted with a dip of her gaze. ❝ And so your kin are not the ones west. Under that lord beyond the Misty Mountains? ❞ Recalls she of the prior mentions of loyalty.

Oh but Sarte did shamelessly like to make her enemies laugh, not that she truly uses that label for any but Sauron these days, but she had slain the united folk of the east on other darker days. She could not help her answering wide canine grin, a very open and genuine expression, so honest that a fool might think her foolish. But perhaps, to a sharp and cautious child, such openness speaks of too much confidence to be underestimated. The ears in question twitched with some indecipherable feeling as she unbent her back and crossed her tree-branch arms over her chest to listen.

“It has been a long time since there were armies of me,” she answered, also enjoying to see and indulge curiosity in the young. One might say this was all she sought or strived for, to see curiosity and laughter under the enemy’s thumb. “And now, no, there are no kin of mine left west or east of any mountain, my tongue is not spoken and my ways are not remembered. The Pultai need not fear coming upon a great force of elves like me.” She masterfully passes by any mention of her enemies, Vezely was not her enemy now and she hoped that would remain true.