Seven Stars

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Mirimaran
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Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

It was a cold and bitter night, the wind sweeping across the low hills of the Lone-lands to scream against the bare walls of the lonely tavern that stood on the ancient East road. Few were the travellers who chose to stay here; with a bow backed roof which missed shingles like an old man missed teeth, and windows that once knew glass now paneled with thin plates of horn, even the road-weary would chose to ride on if they could and make for Bree, some thirty miles distant. The only thing about the Inn that was remarkable was the great oak door that held fast against the onslaught of the wailing wind. Bound in black iron wrought by the Longbeards and stained with years of smoke and ale, it was more of a monument to the days when the Inn knew great prosperity, when Men and Dwarves used the Road for trade and commerce, and would use the Inn to gather and share news and rumours. In those days all the beds were full, the great common room was crowded with customers, and songs and tales rang from sundown to sunrise. Now, in the dark days, the Inn served as no more than an ale-house for the few farmers and vagabonds that eeked out a living in the lonely places of the world, as forsaken as the Inn itself.

The innkeeper was a short stout man, balding with a ring of thick brown hair that was graying at the temples. His leather apron was worn thin, stained and patched here and there, and he washed mugs with a dirty rag for no other reason than he had nothing else to do. There were few to serve, and less with money, yet it was his Inn and while he lived, there would be ale. His daughters, treasures that they were, moved in a slow dance around the room, mostly to clean up from the drunks that hung over the rough tables and spilled ale on the worn wooden floor. A fire burned in the great fireplace at the back of the room, and it's light glittered on the ale like pools of gold. Candles carried light to the dark corners, but they fought a losing battle, for the night was seeping in through the cracks in the walls, the windows, and the oak door.

It flung wide, and the innkeep and his daughters gasped as it banged against the wall, the wind blowing in like an uninvited guest. The innkeep peered into the maw of night that was the doorway and was about to close the door when a group of rough men entered, their speech that of the South, their Common tongue etched with an accent not heard much in the North.

Their cloth was poor and ragged, loose black linen shirts over with they wore studded leather vests, their black hair wild and tied back roughly. Beards they all had, forked and plaited curiously, and their faces scarred and red from the sun and wind. About their waists all wore belts of war, with big iron buckles and plated with bronze, from which hung swords or cruel long knives. Their boots were wide and black as well, and some did not match, as if they all once had many different owners. Their cloaks were fur or poor wool, stained by oak or old iron, buckled and tied to one side. Of the men one stood out from the rest, for he was taller and his face was more cruel, if that was possible. His eyes, like dark pieces of ice, glittered from their sockets like lost jewels, his nose crooked and sharp, and his smile like death on a wedding day. Of all the men, his garb was the most elegant, and across his chest he wore a baldric of seven silver stars.

"Ho, old fool!", he cried, as he stepped in and one of his men slammed the door shut, "my men are thirsty for your foul beer and bitter ales! Make haste to serve them, and be quick about it, for they have no patience this night!"

With trembling hands the innkeeper began to draw pitchers of beer from the great barrels behind him, and his daughters took them in turn with mugs to the tables where the ruffians pushed half drunk farmers aside and gathered like a murder of crows. They leered at the girls with eyes that knew no pity, and their grins were those of hungry dogs. The girls moved as quick as they could, filling mugs and trying to move away but the men grabbed and pawed and laughed as the girls swatted and looked to their father for help, but he only lowered his eyes and tended the empty bar.

Their leader sat a little apart from his men, his only companion a small man who resembled him in the way that one rat may know another. His eyes were small and button like, and darted across the room. His words were whispers in the night as his hand would grab the bigger man's wrist and curt words fell among them. Finally the bigger man spoke aloud, and he said harshly,

"No more talk of this here! Long has the Road been for us, from the South to the North and back again! Now you speak of fear!"

"But brother", said the smaller man, for in truth they were kin, "farmers and lone merchants have no will for battle, what was done", his voice dropped low, "in the North, that will attract attention."

"Bah!", said the big man, kicking back in his chair, "are you afraid of fat wall watchers in Bree? There are none to stop us here! Have I not led us well, made us richer, found sheep to feed my pack of wolves?" At this his men cheered and spilled ale on the table and the girls, who pulled themselves away and ran for the safety of the bar.

"I wager that this North land is ripe for us, brother, for Men of our breed to come and take what we wish. I have heard talk of a rich land to the West, where only the Little Folk live. What say you men, anyone hungry for coney?"

They laughed at his joke, and then they began to chant his name as he stood on the table and downed his jack of ale.

"Alric Alric Alric", they cried, "Alric of the Seven Stars!"

His brother smiled weakly and tugged nervously at his ale, his rat eyes scanning the room. By now the farmers and tinkers had moved to the other side of the common room, none wanting to be the sport for Alric's pack of wolves, but beside the fireplace, almost one with the shadows, sat a man. He was hooded and cloaked in worn and weathered grey, his long legs crossed before him, his tall boots muddy and patched. The brigand could not make out much more except the man's fingers were moving deftly, dancing back and forth in front of him. It took the brigand a moment to see what the man in shadow was doing, and when he realized his face broke into a crooked grin and he tugged at his brother's sleeve.

"Look, in the corner", he said into his brother's ear, "that man...he is sewing!" Then he broke into laughter, and Alric followed, and so did all of his men, for when Alric laughed, everyone laughed.

Still chuckling, Alric stood and carried his mug over to the small table where the man sat, intend on his sewing. In front of him were patches of wool, some dark, some green, some light. He stitched one to the other with a silver needle and strong linen thread, and did not acknowledge Alric as he sat beside him.

"I'm sorry to be rude", said Alric, slamming his mug on the table, causing the one candle there to shake, "but I had to see if someone's grandmother needed to be walked home!" He laughed and laughter followed as he drank deep and cried for more ale. One of the girls walked over nervously, and poured, trying not to look at him.

"Bah, you don't like to laugh old man?" asked Alric, "you don't like to talk with the girls here?"

The old man lifted his eyes from his work for a moment and said,

"They are too old for their years already, my talk would bore them. Let her be."

Alric pushed the girl away and spat,

"You dare tell me what to do, old man! Idiot, sewing in the dark, for what?"

"It is something to do, to pass the time", said the man, "for sometimes waiting takes patience."

"Waiting for what?"

The old man picked up another piece of wool and began sewing again and asked

"You came from the South, you said?"

"I did, my men and I, to ride wide across the North and you dumb farmers!"

"A mighty name you try to make for yourself?" asked the old man, sewing again.

"I try at nothing. I take and slay and rob and none stand in my way! I am Alric, Alric of the Seven Stars, and my pack of wolves have come to stay!"

"My, a mouthful", said the old man, "you have no fear. I can see that. And the stars", his eyes fell on the baldric, where seven stars of silver were pinned, each seemed newly cast and polished, "freshly fallen, no doubt."

Alric fingered one.

"Pretty, are they not?"

"Not on you." The man began his sewing anew.

"What are you doing?" asked Alric's brother, counting the stack of patches.

"Oh, I am making a bag, a purse if you will", replied the old man, "for coin."

At the mention of coin all the robbers ears perked up and nimble fingers reached for daggers.

"You have much coin?" asked Alric.

"Only seven copper pennies", replied the old man. It was then that Alric's brother counted the wool patches. Seven. He began to get nervous.

"Alric, we should leave", he said, pulling at his brother's arm.

"Leave? Bah, we just arrived and it seems we are about to get a little richer. Sew quickly, old man, for I want to see that purse filled!"

The old man gave a hollow laugh and looked up at Alric with eyes that were devoid of fear.

"In due time, Alric of the Seven Stars, in due time. Would you like to hear a story?" Alric laughed and gathered his men around the old man, each at his knee like children at bedtime, or dogs waiting for bones.

"Oh, of course! It must be years since a story was told in this dump other than about sheep and pumpkins! Go on, sewer of purses and teller of tales, what would you have us hear?"

The old man slowed his sewing, his stack growing lower.

"It is a tale of lost Arnor, of it's children scattered in the wilderness, of those who walk the lonely and empty lands, of it's last defenders. Woe that the children of Arnor now are called to defend it, that even in these days sons and daughters must go out cloaked in green and grey and their names lost, only remembered by a few." He stopped and looked down at his sewing. "A tale of seven, brave and young and reckless, who did not heed the warnings of an old man, who heard rumors of wolves at the borders of their lands, brave sons and daughters who took up the mantle of Ranger and bound themselves together by blood and kinship. They took up the weapons of their fathers and mothers, and went out in search of the wolves."

By now Alric's brother began to see that something was wrong, very wrong, and he began to step back, but Alric's hand shot out and grabbed him.

"You stay. I want to hear about the wolves. Did they find them?"

"Oh yes", said the old man, "rather, the wolves found them first. Around the fire they slept, wrapped in blankets and cloaks that became their funeral shrouds. So safe they felt, so close to home, by the time the wolves had found them, it was too late." The old man stopped, his hand on the last piece. Alric and his men were silent, and all their eyes looked to his baldric of seven stars.

"So, they were found", spat Alric, "what of it? What wolves do they do because they are wolves, it is a part of their nature."

"Found they were", said the old man, starting his sewing anew, "found by he who had cared for them above all the world, who had failed them in the end. It was he who found the bodies, stripped and defiled and bloodied, left with naught but their cloaks to cover them in the grave", he snapped the end of his thread with a short tug, his voice now low and rough, "and he buried them, those lost sons and daughters, it was he who had to tell grieving mothers that their children now slept in the earth, gone to find the halls of their fathers. It was he who hung his head low as their names were called under the moon, and none were there to answer. It was he who took from them a piece of cloak for each one lost, and it was I who found that pack of wolves, this very night, and the stars which you took so bitterly!"

The old man then shoved coins into the bag he had made, and then threw it so hard at Alric's brother that it bloodied his nose. He stood, kicking the chair out of the way and put his back to the wall. Alric and his men pulled blades from scabbards, and the farmers ran and the innkeeper and his daughters dove for cover.

"Take the coins, and the purse made from the cloaks of the Rangers you slew! It will pay for a poor funeral for the likes of you wolves! A fine price to pay for seven stars!"

The old man reached behind him and drew out a longsword that he had covered in black cloth. It's blade glinted in the dim light, and as the men of Alric of the Seven Stars fell on him he cried,

"Such is the wrath of the Dunedain! Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

He swung, and slew, and sang, and called the names of the seven young Rangers that he have loved as children, and his words were like tears as his sword cut through the pack of reavers, and finally he screamed as his blade sliced deep into Alric, and cut him in twain. Around him lay dead seven men, Alric dropping to the floor in a bloodied heap. His brother stood unscathed, trembling, clutching the bag. The Ranger reached down and tore away the baldric from Alric's body, and held it close to his face, his tears running down the silver stars.

"See to your brother, may he know the justice of the Valar", said the Ranger, pushing past him. The innkeep and his daughters, white with fear, looked on as the Ranger pulled his cloak around him, his own star worn and pitted.

"Go back to your watered ale and tend to your daughters", said the Ranger, "I have no more business here." With that, he pulled the great oak door open and became one with the night, and all that could be seen of him as the innkeep and his daughter stared after him was the faint glint of the seven stars, and then nothing more...
---------------
Daffodil wiped her eyes and closed her book. Mirimaran put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her close, slowing rocking the young hobbit as she sobbed.

"Yes, Daffodil, I have slain many men", he said...
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Peter Remling
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Peter Remling »

Seven out of seven stars, Excellent Tale !!!
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Ranger of Arthedain
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Ranger of Arthedain »

Shivers ran up my spine, as always, excellent work Ranger! :)
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Winter is almost upon us, it will be long and hard, but the North remembers and the wolves will come again.
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Ernildir
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Ernildir »

Superb!
And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.
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Greg
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Greg »

Stop doing that.
Now the sword shall come from under the cloak.
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Mirimaran
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

Greg wrote:Stop doing that.
Stop doing what?
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Eric C
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Eric C »

Fine work! It illustrates a point that keeps coming to mind. In the end, it will come back to you. Seven very expensive stars.
Ichthean Forge (pronounced Ick thee an). Maker of knives, and primitive camping gear.
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Mirimaran
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

No truer words spoken, Eric, for this story plays a part later...

Ken
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Greg
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Greg »

Mirimaran wrote:
Greg wrote:Stop doing that.
Stop doing what?
Being awesome. Share the wealth...give the rest of us a chance!
Now the sword shall come from under the cloak.
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Mirimaran
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

Oh lol and here I thought it was because Daffodil cried! It's not that awesome, but I'd love to read some stories from you, and Kaelin needs to write a new one and we have many other folks out there who can tell a tale or two! So, let's have it!

Ken

P.S. Thanks!
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
kaelln

Re: Seven Stars

Post by kaelln »

Just got to it, and totally cool, Dude! Great job!
Alderic
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Alderic »

Wonderful story. I've read it several times and it's still reads as good as the first.
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Mirimaran
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

Many thanks again, friends! Alderic, this story is related to 'A rainy night at the Pony'. so if you haven't read that one, you might like it as well. All of these stories are part of a larger tale, it seems, as it is growing in the telling LOL but I am glad you all do like them! Again, let's have some stories from other folks too!

Ken
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Eric C
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Eric C »

If I can get the chance this afternoon, I may have to do some translation from Ruinferil's journeys with her father.
Also, Angarth pulled some shenanigans on some orcs that may be of interest to you. I'll have to get to work on that one too.
Ichthean Forge (pronounced Ick thee an). Maker of knives, and primitive camping gear.
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Mirimaran
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Re: Seven Stars

Post by Mirimaran »

Translating is hard (and thirsty) work! Looking forward to it, Eric!

Ken
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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