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Author Topic: Don't I Know You?  (Read 2199 times)


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Don't I Know You?
« on: January 18, 2015, 06:04:00 PM »
The raven's call had been both a cause for joy and apprehension in the Iron Hills. The Worm might have been dead, but Féren himself could see that the dragon's corpse was to be the first of many if it was true that the Mirkwood Elves and the Laketown Men wished to lay claim on the treasures of Dwarfkind. It was a driving force for them all, the promise of the mountain, and the gold beneath it. It had driven Dáin to amiably reply to Thorin's aid for help, and driven the armies to walk on that very night they were given the call. In the morning, however, Féren discovered just when they were about to set again to the Mountain, that it had also called fools and youngsters to thinking of recklessly throwing their lives for the sake of old tales.

Remli led his general to the center of the clearing. The rest of the soldiers in his battle unit had dispersed and left their lieutenant and Féren to deal with four messily clad young Dwarves, in old or improperly made armor, whose arms were now clapped in irons behind their backs, and were at the mercy of two or three other soldiers that had caught them. Féren walked before them, a little more for show than out of indecision--Remli knew that himself, he was even raising an eyebrow at his old friend. Eventually, he decided to leave the theatrics, and addressed the four troublemakers in the clearing.

“Listen up,” he called out to the four young Dwarves. They were all looking either chastised or enraged at the general before them. “You caught the attention of the general, congratulations for you. Now,” and he stayed before them, “you know why there’s an age limit for entering Lord Dáin’s army. don’t you?” Féren approached the youngest of the lot with the beginnings of a smile teasing at the edge of his lips. “To keep young, untrained idealists like you four out of danger, and keep others from the danger that you bring, by showing up at a battle without the ability to defend yourself properly.” A fistfight had broken out in the squadron behind them, so Remli left the three lesser-ranked soldiers with the stowaways and Féren, and began barking out commands in Khûzdul for the Dwarves to stand fast.

“Therefore, your weapons will be taken away. Several times we’ve met young ‘uns like you who’ve been left behind while the rest of the army went on, and then wait the right amount of time so we cannot see you.” The four troublemakers protested, but Féren was adamant. “In the case you continue pursuing us, there will be punishment waiting back in the Hills. You all know what can be done to criminals to make them known to the public.” Féren could balance looking back into the past and not stay there, to the day when he was 59 and saw both his brothers whipped in the square for their misdeeds--an ordeal not many faced, but it was necessary so that they not be forgotten for what they did and the next time they brought trouble, be captured quicker than before. And yet he looked as optimistic as the moment he was told by Lord Dáin that Thorin Oakenshield had taken the Lonely Mountain.

“Such a punishment...would be damaging to your future, wouldn’t it?” He then spoke roughly to the guards in Khûzdul to release them. “Now, begone. I wish to see you alive by the time our armies return victorious from this scuffle with Elves. You might even thank me for it.” And they were let loose into the wild of Rhovanion they had been walking for a day yet, without weapons, fighting each other over whose idea it was and whose fault it was that they were caught.

Remli returned from the disorder that had broken out in that particular unit, and dismissed it. “It was merely some fight between the younger, lesser ranked and the elder. It won’t happen again, General Féren.” Féren accepted this explanation and nodded. So Remli was set to have the troops continue walking, while Féren dismissed the guards before him, but not before speaking his mind. “You’ve done us a service, soldiers,” said Féren. “I hope you keep your eyes open in the future for any such trouble.” His eyes fell on one of the soldiers, with curly black hair and scars all over him--“Nusin, wasn’t it?”

[ooc: I hope this is OK for you! If you need anything edited, you tell me, Pip!]

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Don't I Know You?
« Reply #1 on: July 08, 2015, 09:38:00 PM »
Nusin had trained for this day – a day when a war would break out and all hell would break loose, so why, oh why, did he find the idea of a war so terribly droll. He'd held his hammer over his shoulder, walking with very little care, his two companions trailing a little behind, yammering on about how excited they were – but, he had zoned out hours ago. All he had to go on was walking and following the persons before him with an occasional heavy sigh. What was taking them so long to get there? What was with all those that were lagging behind and why all of a sudden were they stopping. Rolling his eyes, he paused, using his hammer as a stand.

It wasn't too long until a scrap had happened in the absence of the General, and Nusin simply sighed, shaking his head, and tidying up his weapon. He knew, even now, that weaponry needed to be taken care of if you were going to walk into battle with it and fight – especially if you wanted it to protect you at the same time. ”Hey knock it off!” He grumbled loudly, standing up and digging his hammer into the ground, Tyr and Orvar's attentions suddenly being brought back to their leader, in the hopes he might involve himself in the scrap, but no such thing was needed as they were quickly broken up. ”Yer want to waste yer energy on scrapping, or yer want to fight a war?” Those words were heard by all, though, it had not been his intention, and soon, everything died down – and that was that. As soon as the General came back, Nusin stood to attention, having watched the brawl break up, and letting Feren speak his mind. It was then that he asked him his name, and that was when he fully had his attention.

”Yes, Sir.” He spoke boldly, and without stutter – he knew who it was he had to respect, but all the same, they had to earn the respect from him. Everything he'd heard of Feren, didn't really do anything to earn his respect, but his wife, well, she had earned enough respect for the pair of them. Sela had already collared Nusin before they'd even left for this war, warning him that she was 'on to him' and that she would tear him apart on his return. What did that crazy woman even mean by that? Hell, he'd love to see her try – nothing wrong with a strong woman. ”How many are we expecting, General? A few hundred? Thousand? I just need to self-strategise.”He growled, in his usual, deep level. There was a grumble from Tyr and Orvar behind him, muttering away to themselves about how Nusin was seemingly 'sucking up'. He turned around and glared, to the pair, hissing before turning attentions back to Feren. ”Though, I imagine a few in the group might be ignoring any order – they seem to think they're better than the strategy you laid out.”
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Re: Don't I Know You?
« Reply #2 on: July 18, 2016, 10:27:17 PM »
Nusin did not look much beyond the usual low ranking soldier that was prone to excessive force when unsupervised, but his recent display almost proved Féren wrong. “Yes, Sir,” said Nusin. Féren was about to leave the soldier to his devices until Féren was addressed again. “How many are we expecting, General? A few hundred? Thousand? I just need to self-strategise.”[/b] Behind the Dwarf, a couple of other soldiers grumbled away at Nusin. Nusin himself turned to give them a poisonous glare. “Though, I imagine a few in the group might be ignoring any order – they seem to think they're better than the strategy you laid out.” Nevermind his earlier doubt, then. Wherever Nusin had been posted before this battle, he would not be sorely missed if he didn’t return.

“There’ll be at least a thousand,” replied Féren. That was the short of it - the raven had been lengthy in its description of the Elven army forces - over a thousand, not including a good score of Laketown men that had still survived. Dwarves had not directly fought Elves since the Second Age, and Féren was not eager to start again. They were outnumbered two to one - not a problem for skilled fighters, but it was not just the cost of this particular battle. Séla always looked ahead, and her eyes were on the prize to be won. But making enemies out of the Men, and the Elves, surrounding Erebor made Féren uneasy. Even if they won, who would they trade with, the Easterlings? Séla looked too far ahead; refused to see how easy it was to break the balance of the prosperity they’d achieved so far.

“Take that as a challenge, take that to self-strategize.” These Dwarves had not offered themselves for the more dangerous lines without some bloodthirst. Féren turned, ready to continue the march to Erebor. The place was a tomb Féren would rather leave alone - blood or no blood of his. Mourning only stunted him, made it harder for him to concentrate in the present. (At night, some part of him brought up how undwarf-like he was, refusing to mourn, refusing to look back to Erebor, to his mother and brothers and son. He tried to think it was all from the beard being cut off, from the taunting he had received, but all that had done was bring hidden truth to light.)

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