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#13394318 Aug 13, 2017 at 09:27 PM
49 Posts
The Wargs growled amongst themselves. What did she mean, this Golug? They couldn’t understand her, and she couldn’t understand them. Only one of them knew the tongue of Goblins. Goblins were merely sport to them and they looked down on their tamed kin. Confusion began to set in. All they knew was that they had to stop the little party.
Hackles bristling they began to pace back and forth, to growl and to snap. They were restless. Would the Golug kill her prisoner? They could see no reason why not. Why was she threatening them with it? Was it important to Ulf Mutter somehow?
Evil recognized evil; it was drawn together like loadstone and iron. These western Scara had never seen Ulf Mutter, but they had recognized a kin in the small grey wolves that had spread her message to them. And they recognized her power on the air. Seemingly as one they sniffed the wind. Ulf Mutter was coming. Together they raised their voices and howled out their frustration, “What do we do mother? They threaten us with one that is already dead.”
By stages the message was carried back until Ulf Mutter heard it. Screaming in fear she flew ahead. Quick as thought the spirit covered the vast, barren land of Angmar. In an instant she was there, looking down on her chosen clay. It should have died by now, but something gave it vigor of spirit, the Elf liquor. Cursing and blessing the Elf who held a knife to her throat Ulf Mutter hovered quietly over the tense scene.
If she entered her body and the elf slit her throat that was it, she was finished, her work uncompleted. If the elf killed her before she entered, again, that was it, she was finished. But if they got it to a safe place Ulf Mutter could certainly not enter her body without it being killed.
A rage began to build within her. A man and a Golug had destroyed her last time as well. Her memory of it was hazy, a fierce burning within her belly that even an entire river could not quench. A hunting party of Golugs and men, finally they had killed her but not before she promised vengeance against them. As her soul broke that day the larger part of it went out, past the door of night. Only this small part of her had remained. And it had wreaked its vengeance through the ages. Now was her chance to grow again. She was tired and angry from being static for so long, angry at the races of Illuvitar that had hunted her children, slaughtering them without mercy or thought.
Finally, she could stand it no longer, if she were to die, she would die in glorious agony, an orgy of death and destruction. And she would take these Golug bitches with her. Screaming so loud that her voice rent the fabric between light and shadow she dove into her mortal frame…
Ulfban had been watching; she knew what would happen. Ramield would never kill her; she would have to make that happen on her own. Ulf Mutter, that vast, dark spirit hovering over her would violate her again but this time she must be ready for it. Drawing the gathering dew of her courage, all her remaining willpower, Ulfban hid deep within herself. She knew that she could not overcome Ulf Mutter again. Not while she was bent on gaining control. Sighing sadly she retreated as the sprit dove into her...
With a sudden and fierce scream Ulfban opened her eyes, shoving the blade at her throat and fiercely pulling away from Ramield…
#13437338 Sep 13, 2017 at 04:00 AM
High Nine of...
53 Posts
Well over a millennium of life, of time to come to terms, of knowledge that some things were necessary, were best…no, not the best outcome, but maybe the only one. And she had known it might come to this.
The threats she dealt with in her duties were mostly orcs that ventured down from the mountains, wargs of the plains to the south, and the spiders that inhabited the darkened Mirkwood; all met an elven arrow and the justice it deserved. But, on occasion, and most of those on her travels from her home, there might be one whose nature was unlike those she dispatched without a thought. How easily men could be tempted…
Those were different. They would face the justice of their people, if she could help it, dragging them to the gates of whatever authority would see to the matter rightly before melting away into the shadows. It was for men to decide the fate of man. Only in the utmost of circumstances, when to do so would prevent a greater evil from occurring, when there was no other path in sight, would she herself enact that justice with an arrow.
Now, however, it was not justice that propelled her hand, as the blade of her knife twisted and twirled, passed in an arc by deft fingers. No, this would be to preserve what lives she could, if it were possible. For if Ulf Mutter arose now, death would be the manifestation’s first and only thought: death for her companions and herself.
One arm wrapped around the waist of the woman before her, a girl really, softly as if in an embrace, a final comfort. Her thoughts all occurred in the instant it took to flick her wrist, turn her fingers about the hilt of her blade as it descended toward the child’s back as she held her close. As emaciated as she was, it was easy to count and aim between Ulfban’s ribs.
Never would anything about taking human life be easy.
#13437380 Sep 13, 2017 at 04:54 AM
25 Posts
Allabeth's spear spins in an instant to point at the girl in the dark haired elf woman's arms with intention of driving it through her. She wasn't as quick as the other elven woman, whose blade swung down in an arc into her chest. She respected that, she had done what was needed.
Bringing her spear back, she turned it back on the wargs, keeping them at bay with the long, ancient weapon.
#13438882 Sep 14, 2017 at 04:18 AM
49 Posts
Tense, frightened, sad, exhausted; Ulfban felt many things in the moment it took for Ulf Mutter to enter her, for her the moment stretched out, a lifetime of feelings and memories surging around and through her.
As the vast shadow of Ulf Mutter descended and melded with her own spirit only a tiny spark, brilliantly white in the vast emptiness of Angmar, was all that remained. Yet it was so small, so tiny and insignificant; so small Ulf Mutter didn’t notice, so small Ramield, who held her tenderly, couldn’t feel it, and so small the strange elf next to her couldn’t sense it. Yet that tiny spark, inherited from her Dunedain father, was hard as iron. A terrible will that was out of place in the frail woman. It had always been there, tempered over and over again by the powerful emotions that only the short lived race of man truly knew, their passion for everything running deep and swift as the great river. In her eighty years Ulfban had known joy and sorrow in equal measures, had laughed and danced, cried and wailed. But nothing, nothing, had prepared her for this.
It ran against all instincts to surrender oneself to death. For the Eldar, who could choose their time and who knew, for a surety, that they would return in joy and peace, it was merely a decision. A hard decision sometimes, but nothing so terrifying as the unknown fate of man. Ulfban knew better, she knew death was a gift from Illuvatar, but it still frightened her, the unknown.
It was a simple thing but it took all her willpower to do it. Ulf Mutter was fast, fast and strong. More so than the elf who held her mortal form. When she awoke, thrusting away the knife at her throat, she should have been off the horse and among her children in the blink of an eye, but something slowed her.
Ulfban, full well knowing that Ramield did not make idle threats, did it anyway. As Ulf Mutter’s power surged through her, terrible strength and ferocious intent, she simply relaxed, slumping sweetly into the arms of her friend. And that was all it took. Just a moment too long, just a breath too slow and she felt it. The knife blade was strangely cold, she could trace it’s path, millimeter by millimeter, as it slowly sped towards her heart. A lung pierced, blood flowing where it ought not. She was finally dying, she could feel it happening. A terrible rending pain flashed through her and she jerked, gasping for breath. Her very soul was rent in two as Ulf Mutter screeched and fled, but it was too late. She was conquered, vanquished, defeated. By taking a mortal form she had made herself vulnerable to mortal weapons. No Nazgul was she, it didn’t take a special knife to kill her, but still the blade was ruined as though the steel itself had been poisoned.
The Scara went berserk, power unknown to them released all in a deafening thunderclap. They attacked anything they could see, including each other. They seemed to grow almost, as though with her dying wish Ulf Mutter had granted them strength beyond their ken. It was a bloodbath, and the Elves were trapped in the middle of it…
#13485874 Oct 17, 2017 at 02:58 AM · Edited 1 month ago
High Nine of...
53 Posts
With a painful cry, Ramield pulled her hand violently from the blade as though having touched hot coals. Ulfban’s body slumped without a will to guide it, draping over Gwaenor’s neck and slipping slowly toward falling from the saddle. Ramield reached out and grabbed her shoulder to stop her, on instinct to tell her to remain put until they could rest. The words halted themselves, though, fruitless as they would be.

However, she had no time to think as a wolf leapt for the riders, meeting the point of a blade. Arohir grunted and yelled through his teeth as he pushed back against the beast’s force, tumbling with it back the way it came and affording Ramield time to slip down the other side, her grip restraining what would have been an unchecked fall for the body in her arms. All was chaos about her, but rather than try to take in the whole battle, she would have to leave her comrades to their own defense to focus on a brawling trio of wolves. There were no sides in that fight, just bloodlust and hunger. It seemed the only thing keeping them from changing their targets were their proximity to each other such that they could continually swipe and gouge each other without pause; however, that position was ever moving.
With memorized ease, Ramield took her bow from over her shoulder, firing three arrows in rapid succession toward the neck of one of the wolf’s, at the epicenter of the brawl. Each met flesh, though only one found its target as the wolves seemed to swirl together in their unfocused rage. One stumbled, having moved into the path of the remaining two arrows, and with a snapping growl, the other two wolves spared no time in tearing at its flesh. Yet, as quick as they were on it, they turned on each other, the smaller leaping on the larger only to be tossed quickly off. As it skidded toward her, Ramield used the definite path to plan a shot that pierced the downed wolf’s eye, dealing the killing blow.
There was a cry somewhere behind her and the third wolf focused on her in the blink of an eye. Though a stalker by nature, the battle frenzy had caused it and its kind to abandon the caution of its species. As Ramield stood over Ulfban’s body, taunt bow stretched between her hands, the monster bounded toward her, barking ferociously, mouth foaming. Upon its third stride, Ramield released her arrow which flew into the jaws of the creature. The great grey wolf crashed to the ground, sliding in a cloud of dust. She could hear it clawing at its throat, a choked gurgling through thick blood as it drowned.
#13486225 Oct 17, 2017 at 09:23 AM
25 Posts
Allabeth winced at the screech of Ulfmutter’s death throes, the sound painful even for an elf. She was glad, a fell power had been removed from this world for the small price of one mortal life. She watched for a split second as the dead mortal went limp in her companion’s arms before she realised their peril. The beasts around them were going berserk, tearing at one another and ripping hide from flesh and flesh from bone.

She sprung from her steed, armed with Draugritha her spear, and her circular shield, she fell upon the wargs in a deadly dance. She moved lithely, every step graceful and well placed as though she had practiced this battle for many moons in advance. She thrust her spear into the throat of the first Warg she saw, and it collapsed, writhing in the mud as it gasped for air. She took a step to one side and raised her shield to the onslaught of another crazed beast. The warg was missing an eye, blood gushing from the fresh wound it had received from one of its cousins. A power paw swiped at her, and glanced off her shield, she responded with a jab to its hind paw, injuring it so that it was struggling to stand.

As the beat howled in anger and pain, Allabeth spun away from it, to face a beast to her rear. Before it could attack she drove her shield into its face with a ferocious battle cry. The stunned beast was soon felled by her spear being rammed down its throat. Allabeth danced away lightly, avoiding the thrashing beast as it fell to the ground and tried to enact its revenge before the light faded from its eyes. She returned to the warg she had injured as it limped towards her, snarling. Even in its frenzied state it was cautious, now wanting only to kill the she elf that had damaged his leg. He waited a moment, and pounced for her. She ducked under the monstrous wolf, coming up behind it to stab at its other hind paw. The beast fell, and couldn’t pick itself up. Allabeth glided around the warg, looking down at it in disgust before finishing it off, driving her spear through it’s one good eye and into its brain.
#13512498 Nov 04, 2017 at 06:52 PM
49 Posts
As the wargs stormed and raged about her Ulfa found herself strangely at peace. Though pierced with a blade she could still feel Ramield holding her tenderly. Her very soul, rent and tattered, was now bereft of Ulf Mutter. How long had it been since she welcomed the darkness? It must only have been a short while, hours perhaps, but to her it had felt like a lifetime. She had been drowning in memories the whole while, not all of them her own.
In her state, precariously balanced between life and death she could hear them. Instinctively she knew what they were, but intellectually she couldn’t fathom it: a strange rushing in her ears, worms beneath the horse’s hooves, a high keening eagle far, far, up in the sky, the slow dance of mountains and, just at the edge of her ears, a faint tinkling, a sound like one might imagine stars make. All that and so much more, they made a song, a strange and wonderful song and they were singing about her.
As she focused on the music Ulfa found herself realizing that there was a thread missing, once in a while there was a slight pause, as though the choir was awaiting a fellow to insert a note or two, awaiting direction as it were. After every pause the music reset, beginning anew. After a few repetitions she noticed the tiniest note, an off key, discordant with the rest of the celestial chorus. She wasn’t certain where it came from but slowly, very slowly; it began to change the music, as the other singers adapted their song to it. Before long the song was jangling and angry and Ulfa didn’t like it anymore, she could quit the music, she knew. Instinctively she began to understand that the pause, which was still occurring, was for her to fill in. But it had already been filled, filled with the discordant note. Is that what happened when men ignored their heritage? Darkness crept in? Or was it just in her song that this happened?
Tentatively, timorously; at the next pause she added one single note. Instantly the music changed. The discordant author did not like her adding her own note to her own song, it swelled and fought with the rest of the music, seeking to stifle the song and crush it out completely. But still, the pause came again, and every time it came Ulfa added a note. She was no musician, for so long the note was a simple thing, just one, off key, wavering note. But slowly her courage grew and as it did so did her voice. If you can’t sing well, sing loud, her father used to tell her. And before too long she was screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Life!” was the word she crammed into the short space she had. “Live!” Again and again she screamed and screamed and screamed until finally, with a great tearing shriek, the discordant note left her and she awoke, into the middle of violence…

The Wargs were berserk. Nothing but death could stop them and even then, with the failing power of Ulf Mutter lighting their eyes and burning in their souls death did not come easy. Every one of their vision was awash in red, they had blacked out and all they could do was rage. Neither recognizing friend nor foe they attacked everything and anything that caught their attention. If it moved, it was a target. Wargs, fellow pack members even, the man and two elves, their mounts, all were valid game and they fought with an unnatural ferocity until they were all dead, every single one. Sword, spear, bow, hoof, claw and fang, even rocks and blood made mud became weapons by the end. Limbs snapped, teeth broke, eyes gouged. One small Warg who had taken both a paw and an arrow to either eye continued blindly savaging the body of a dead comrade long after it’s death until the strange elf pierced it’s heart, pinning it to the ground while it thrashed and howled in rage until it too, passed...

Ulfa looked up at her friend and did not recognize her. “Help me.” She whispered, “please.”