Post by Dolen on Feb 9, 2009 1:31:59 GMT -5
(( Ahoy! I think this would be the appropriate spot to post this. Can't say I'm much of a friend of y'all, since I've only really ever met Mae. Couple others, but no real IC interaction. Anyway, as far as introductions go, I'm rather new to LOTRO, but have been pleasantly surprised so far. Been roleplaying the better part of my life, never in person. And a bunch of other stuff, but eh! Who cares! Little tale here about Dolen wandering back to Bree from Rivendell. I have a lot of downtime at work lately and need something to keep occupied, so I'm doing my best to jot some stuff down in my notepad. I figured I'd work my way through the entire trip back, but it'll end up being a novel, so here's the first little installment. More to come, so long as my attention doesn't drift. ))
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Dolen set the tall pewter mug down on the elegant short stone wall. The man-made object looked odd here, like a painter's careless brush stroke upon an otherwise flawless piece of art. Resting one boot beside the mug atop the wall, the scruffy woodsman spit into the small grassy patch before the edge of the cliff. His gaze drifted between the white waters of the river Bruinen, as he had learned it was called, and the twisting trail leading south and away from the majestic Elvish city. It would be a long walk.
A sudden laughter took him, drawing sideways, inquisitive looks from a pair of passing elves. The tricksome brat, certainly these "runes" she had told him of provided them quick travel to the city of Rivendell, but she had vanished soon after their arrival along with that Elvish friend of hers and the other individual he had not made acquaintance with. Alone, far from any place he'd ever called home, surrounded by Elves. The thought was almost enough to make him laugh again. She'd seemed so proud of her victory, laughing hard enough to forsake her polite facade and, quite literally, roll on the ground in the middle of a trail at the hilarity.
Still grinning, at both his situation and the mad girl, Dolen flipped open a pocket on the side of his large traveling pack and removed a folded map. There were many other folded scraps of parchment within, maps of every land that he had traveled through and even some he hadn't. Unfolding the large piece of parchment, he realized this was the best he had on this region. Rivendell had been an interest of his to visit, of course, be he hadn't planned on making the trip for some time yet and as such this was the best he could do. He frowned down at the vague aerial depiction of the lands from the Misty Mountains to the Blue Mountains, stretching far enough South to encompass Tharbad and the Glanduin and North to include a good sketch of the North Downs and even a rough outline of the Ettenmoors and the Realm of Angmar. Not an accurate map by far, though he used it often in planning his trips into the wild. Shaking his head in disdain at the sharp angles and dashed lines that gave a general notion of "mountains" and "forests", he realized exactly why he kept detailed maps of each specific region.
Laying the map out over his raised knee, the woodsman plotted his path through the forest of dashed vertical lines West of the Ford of Bruinen to the break in the sinuous line that was the Hoarwell - The Last Bridge. About thirty miles, by this measure. Trailing a finger along the dotted line indicating the East-West road, he estimated that the majority of the distance from Rivendell to Bree would be covering the long stretch of barren lands west of the Last Bridge, but he had heard tales of the Trollshaws and if the truth was the tenth part of the rumors, the trek through such hazardous, uneven terrain would be time consuming at best. A new grin spread across his face and he began folding the map. No wild was 'easy' to survive in, but in the Chetwood he had precious little worry of trolls, orcs or whatever other type of monstrosity might be dwelling so near the realm of Angmar.
Checking through his gear one last time, he could not keep his gaze from the West. It was an odd sort of wanderlust that took him at times like these. Not a desire for adventure, or a need for the exhilaration of chancing death at every turn - in fact, he was quite frightened of death or any type of crippling injury. Nor did he love nature the way that he'd heard other woodsman or rangers talk of it, as if they worshiped the creeping insects that kept them up all night, or the stagnant, soiled waters they must drink and risk painful illness so they need not risk death. No, he pondered as he pulled the heavy pack onto his back, the wild was the only place that felt comfortable; no arbitrary rights or wrongs, no laws, no war, simply survival. A man's worth, life and death was all determined by his own strength of will.
Wedging one end of the tall bow stave against his foot, the man put all of his weight into bending the thick wood down into it's usual arch to slip the bow string into place. He held the bow up and pulled the taut string back a bit, testing the familiar tension. Smiling at the low 'thwang' upon release, he set the strung bow down and hefted the well worn pack onto his back. After one last eager look to the west, he set out down the winding path that would lead him to the gates and eventually into the Trollshaws. He only wondered how the girl would react when he made it back to civilization. He wondered to himself, in a sarcastic tone, whether he should expect a knife thrust or another long hike. He left the Elves in the manner of a mad man, chuckling occasionally and for apparently no reason.
-------
Dolen set the tall pewter mug down on the elegant short stone wall. The man-made object looked odd here, like a painter's careless brush stroke upon an otherwise flawless piece of art. Resting one boot beside the mug atop the wall, the scruffy woodsman spit into the small grassy patch before the edge of the cliff. His gaze drifted between the white waters of the river Bruinen, as he had learned it was called, and the twisting trail leading south and away from the majestic Elvish city. It would be a long walk.
A sudden laughter took him, drawing sideways, inquisitive looks from a pair of passing elves. The tricksome brat, certainly these "runes" she had told him of provided them quick travel to the city of Rivendell, but she had vanished soon after their arrival along with that Elvish friend of hers and the other individual he had not made acquaintance with. Alone, far from any place he'd ever called home, surrounded by Elves. The thought was almost enough to make him laugh again. She'd seemed so proud of her victory, laughing hard enough to forsake her polite facade and, quite literally, roll on the ground in the middle of a trail at the hilarity.
Still grinning, at both his situation and the mad girl, Dolen flipped open a pocket on the side of his large traveling pack and removed a folded map. There were many other folded scraps of parchment within, maps of every land that he had traveled through and even some he hadn't. Unfolding the large piece of parchment, he realized this was the best he had on this region. Rivendell had been an interest of his to visit, of course, be he hadn't planned on making the trip for some time yet and as such this was the best he could do. He frowned down at the vague aerial depiction of the lands from the Misty Mountains to the Blue Mountains, stretching far enough South to encompass Tharbad and the Glanduin and North to include a good sketch of the North Downs and even a rough outline of the Ettenmoors and the Realm of Angmar. Not an accurate map by far, though he used it often in planning his trips into the wild. Shaking his head in disdain at the sharp angles and dashed lines that gave a general notion of "mountains" and "forests", he realized exactly why he kept detailed maps of each specific region.
Laying the map out over his raised knee, the woodsman plotted his path through the forest of dashed vertical lines West of the Ford of Bruinen to the break in the sinuous line that was the Hoarwell - The Last Bridge. About thirty miles, by this measure. Trailing a finger along the dotted line indicating the East-West road, he estimated that the majority of the distance from Rivendell to Bree would be covering the long stretch of barren lands west of the Last Bridge, but he had heard tales of the Trollshaws and if the truth was the tenth part of the rumors, the trek through such hazardous, uneven terrain would be time consuming at best. A new grin spread across his face and he began folding the map. No wild was 'easy' to survive in, but in the Chetwood he had precious little worry of trolls, orcs or whatever other type of monstrosity might be dwelling so near the realm of Angmar.
Checking through his gear one last time, he could not keep his gaze from the West. It was an odd sort of wanderlust that took him at times like these. Not a desire for adventure, or a need for the exhilaration of chancing death at every turn - in fact, he was quite frightened of death or any type of crippling injury. Nor did he love nature the way that he'd heard other woodsman or rangers talk of it, as if they worshiped the creeping insects that kept them up all night, or the stagnant, soiled waters they must drink and risk painful illness so they need not risk death. No, he pondered as he pulled the heavy pack onto his back, the wild was the only place that felt comfortable; no arbitrary rights or wrongs, no laws, no war, simply survival. A man's worth, life and death was all determined by his own strength of will.
Wedging one end of the tall bow stave against his foot, the man put all of his weight into bending the thick wood down into it's usual arch to slip the bow string into place. He held the bow up and pulled the taut string back a bit, testing the familiar tension. Smiling at the low 'thwang' upon release, he set the strung bow down and hefted the well worn pack onto his back. After one last eager look to the west, he set out down the winding path that would lead him to the gates and eventually into the Trollshaws. He only wondered how the girl would react when he made it back to civilization. He wondered to himself, in a sarcastic tone, whether he should expect a knife thrust or another long hike. He left the Elves in the manner of a mad man, chuckling occasionally and for apparently no reason.