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| [Monday, September 13, 2004 at 6:07 pm] |
| Subject: OOC |
Switching RPGs. |
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| [Sunday, August 29, 2004 at 6:44 pm] |
| Subject: First Post |
| Mood |
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 melancholy |
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Nimloth wakes again. She is still here, and she is still terrified.
There are Men everywhere; women, men and children going about their daily business and clamouring with loud voices as though they were the rulers of Arda. She even hears some curse the Valar, and wonders what place this is. No one tells her. No one notices, or perhaps no one cares enough for the woman with the stolen cloak that sits in the shadows of a rundown alleyway by day and walks the battlements at night to watch the moon follow the river down into the sea.
Four men pass her by, and even though the sun tells her it is still early in the day, they reek of alcohol. As one of them stumbles and falls to the ground in front of her, she whimpers and backs further away, wishing the wall of cragged stone (she thinks it was white once, or perhaps it still is, beneath the dirt) would open and take her in, and perhaps whisper her some secret way back through the earth into the tunnels of Menegroth, the Thousand Caves where she used to live and rule as queen.
No such thing happens and once again she begins to believe that no might and glory of the World Before have survived. Even the sunlight has dimmed, and Varda's stars are now far away, and there is no such thing left that the Edain of that age used to call elven magic. Certainly no such thing has survived in her - for the woman she is now is always carefully, anxiously keeping her hair in place to conceal her pointy ears, and sleeps in the dirt like the lowest beggar among Men. She eats what she can find or steal in an unguarded moment, but nonetheless her cheeks are hollow and there are dark circles beneath her eyes.
But as long as she is left in peace, she can bear the shame and the hardnesses. If there are others of her kind in this city with too few trees, she does not want to be found. She is grateful for small favours, for the drunk man getting up without noticing her, and for the crumb of bread that has fallen from one of his pockets. |
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