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aurore-parle-de-ses-idees · 2 years

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5: thunder

(or: two wizards yelling at each other on a mountain, why est shouldn’t be given a boss fight immediately after troubled dreams, or storm on methedras)

The path up the mountain is long and hard and cold, the longer and harder for your avoidance of what passes for the road. Saeradan is at your side and Amlan guards Delwin behind. The mountain climbs and snow crunches beneath even your feet. You do not speak. Saeradan and Amlan you know well enough by now you do not need it, and if the silence unsettles Delwin she does not show it.

For hours you ascend the slopes of Methedras. Once, you creep to the edge of a steep drop and look on the Gravenwood far, far below. There rise the bony, bare branches of the Tree of Tribute, and there to the north must be the road that leads back to Tûr Morva and tucked against the foot of the mountain the camp where most of your friends must wait and prepare to move on.

Saeradan calls softly for you and you return to him.

You have been left in peace as you climbed, but this does not reassure you at all. You saw too clearly what the Old Woman of the Mountain was capable of in the Gravenwood, heard the stories Andreg and Amlan and Saeradan told you of their journey to her cottage in Enedwaith. She must be waiting.

In some ways, it’s a relief when you see the first of the elhudan, flickering like firefly lanterns in the snow. You avoid them, careful not to draw their attention lest you shine a beacon on your location for all to see. There are fewer of the cuthraul or the great horned druggavar, but they are not absent. Those you cannot avoid you banish with bow and blade, you with your borrowed dagger rather than anything else. You would like nothing more than to let loose with all the power of the storm you can hold, but not yet. You turn once, a joke for Andreg on your lips, but it dies unsaid. Amlan looks at you in question, but you only shake your head and return to the deer path you are following.

There is thunder on the mountain when the ambush comes. There are far too many for you to be any use with Elenagil- but if you are to be honest, the thought doesn’t even cross your mind until hours later. You lash out with your runestones and the force of it dazes even the more potent spirits long enough to banish them more permanently.

Saeradan’s hand falls on your shoulder as you stand there, breathing heavily, waiting for the powdery snow driven into the air to settle around your feet.

“Are you alright, Esterín?” he asks quietly. Amlan is saying something to Delwin, who is eyeing you with something like unease. You give Saeradan a smile full of teeth.

“As well as any of us.” (If you look just past the next ridge, you will be able to see Orthanc. Is Lothrandir still there? Is he-)

Gwyllion has summoned all manner of spirits to her and hid them in the trees, in the stones, in bodies like dogs that Amlan eyes with distaste and says remind him too much of the Barrow-downs. She has even managed to draw regmyl to her, if lesser ones.

You come to the small hut at the peak of Methedras, and there Gwyllion waits. There is talk, but you ignore both Saeradan’s words and the Old Woman’s, straining for the last scraps of your self-control. Gwyllion calls down a great drake and you seize Saeradan’s shoulder and shove him back to where Amlan stands guard over Delwin and her drum.

“Stay back,” you say, low. Saeradan opens his mouth to protest, but whatever he sees in your face stops him.

You open your mouth and words spill out. Wind and snow rise in a flurry and you pull lightning about yourself, and when the drake comes near enough you scream and lightning races from your hands to the sky, pulled not from the air but from this storm of your own making.

You have tried so hard not to let all of it get the best of you- the betrayal in Tûr Morva, the losses, Isengard, the Fords- but it has been so much in so short a time and you find now that you cannot. You remember Andreg, dying in your arms, and you don’t even know if it was truly necessary, if you could have saved him and didn’t. If you could have brought Lothrandir with you and didn’t. Ball lightning dances around you and you hurl it gracelessly at the drake, at Gwyllion. You don’t know what she throws back at you, and by now you are beyond caring. Spirits come to her call, and once something reaches for you through the storm, but a distant drumbeat breaks through the thunder in your ears and it is turned aside.

Echdrud falls, crushing Gwyllion’s home beneath him, and the Old Woman of the Mountain shrieks, alight with rage to match yours. You hope your friends are standing very far back.

When it is done, the earth around has been blasted free of snow and dotted with small craters from your power and hers. Dark streaks that feel like burns cross your face and your arms through your tattered sleeves. It smells like ash and smoke. Gwyllion lies before you and you collapse beside her, arms and legs numb and useless as you finally release the storm. Saeradan and Amlan crunch through the snow to your side.

“Don’t-” you try to say, but all of you is numb and tingling like static and all that comes is a vague and distressed noise that does not at all soothe their alarm. The air pops when Saeradan tries to touch you and he jerks back with a sharp cry, shaking his hand. You can still feel the charge in the air, slow to dissipate after the fury of the fight. Saeradan waits, watching you attentively while Amlan checks Gwyllion, but you already know he will find no life in her now.

“I am not sure what you needed me for,” Delwin says, shattering the crackling stillness atop the mountain. “You seem to have things quite under control.” It draws a laugh from Amlan and a strained smile from Saeradan, but you are as numb inside as out, hollow and tingling and hardly able to string one thought to the next. Under control. If only. You blink once, slow, and when you open your eyes again you are on your side in the dirt. Ah. It will be a long walk back down the mountain, you think.

---

There was thunder on the mountain, the rest of the Company says later, when you wake properly and shake out the tingling that lingers in your fingertips. A great storm that echoed off Methedras and rumbled among the roots of the Gravenwood.

“We worried for you,” Halbarad says. You duck your head while Amlan and Saeradan insist that all was well, mostly, that the shadow-burns already fading from your skin were the only true injuries and that Gwyllion will trouble neither Dunland nor Rohan. You are glad they stood back. You did not strike with precision; you do not want to think what would have happened had they not been wary enough of you to keep away. You catch them giving you odd looks the next few days, and when you ask Saeradan hesitates before describing the sparks that leapt from your eyes when you ordered him back.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“You didn’t hurt us,” Saeradan replies, offering a hand you do not take.

“I would have.” Saeradan frowns, but when you still do not move from your spot near the fire, he sighs and leaves you with a gentle touch on your shoulder. You stare into the fire, and wonder if any of this will pass or if you will be this near to cracking for the rest of your days.

#lotro #my stories #est #oh i guess i should. maybe at least mention i'm putting most of this on ao3 lol #anyway. est can have fun lightning eyes but only if she gets to have a crisis about it too #au for her for so many reasons #among them that this would theoretically be her stopping back in w the grey company after troubled dreams #which she is not allowed to do bc then she would simply not leave again #ominous and/or magic dreams be damned #saeradan maybe: hey est we're gonna go fight gwyllion. do u want to come #est (has been two steps from losing it since waking up if not before): sure :)#saeradan (later): hm.#saeradan #amlan #gwyllion

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thertrockshow · 4 years

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Italy metal band Old Rogers Revenge release their new single “The Sea Lane” off their current album Vengeance Of Black Beard. If you like thrash metal you will like this band. Written by Roberto Puissa (80%) and Andrea Marchetti (20%) (% instrumental) Lyrics by Roberto Puissa Vocals recorded by Roberto Puissa Guitars recorded by Andrea Marchetti Bassguitar recorded Roberto Puissa Drums recorded by Christian Leale at Track Terminal Studio (Trieste – Italy) Drums Engineer Francesco Bardaro Mix and Mastering By Lorenzo Gavinelli at Zero Point Energy Recording Productions (Brooklyn – NY ) Band Bio In the middle of a sea change, people got betrayed by their own nation after years of toil. They lost their works, their homes, and their future. But a group of men didn't bend and chose to take back what was theirs, sailing under the flag of Old Roger's Revenge. Old Roger's Revenge is an Italian sludge metal band that blends stoner, hardcore and doom, sailing through topics against an oppressive system.The allegorical marine image which flows through the lyrics and the pirate spirit represents the path of life you must choose to achieve your freedom through fighting. The sound is thick like a sky in a storm, sharp as the wind. A big wave will rise before it going to drown you.  Founded in Trieste – Italy in 2014, by Roberto Puissa, Andrea Marchetti and Christian Leale. After a few months, they started to play live around Italy and Slovenia, in a lot of festivals with bands like Vintage Caravan, Methedras, Bad Blood, Glitter Wizard, Necrodeath and many others. In 2015 They released their first self produced Ep "The Sealane" contains the songs "The Sealane", "Lighthouse of Death" and "The Workaholic". They've continuosly played live shows, changing sometimes members through the years, and wining sometimes awards as the best band of the festival. Continuing to perform on stages, during 2018 they started to record their first full-length album "Vengeance of Blackbeard" which will be completed in 2019. https://www.instagram.com/p/CB8RzESDBes/?igshid=5qexnuukmfzu

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