Chapter XXXV: The Council of Lynza
An hour later, Mordae and Celebdraug made their way through the secret passages that they had discovered or made over the last thousand years. Mordae had chosen to wear one of his favorite outfits – which he had not been able to wear for quite some time – consisting of a loose fitting black tunic, white pants, and a white cape.
Celebdraug again wore her signature red blouse, black pants, and black cape. She had bypassed the scarf around the forehead and the battle-ready hairstyle, seeing no need to pass off as ferocious. Mordae thought he noticed that, despite the consistency color-wise, there was a more, dare he say...lady-like...air about her, but would not dream of mentioning it. No matter how lady-like his cousin looked, she would not hesitate to cause extreme pain to any who even suggested it.
The two elves made their way to the famed Council of Elrond with extreme stealth, sliding through cracks in the walls, crawling hollowed out places behind closet doors, climbing hidden rope ladders, and darting across shadow hidden ceiling beams.
At the end of their journey, Celebdraug pulled herself from a narrow shaft by way of a rope, lifted a trapdoor, and wriggled out from under Elrond's seat in the Council, causing Lynza, who sat in the throne-like chair, to hiss with surprise and leap up the thin posts atop the seat's back.
Celebdraug stood, straightened and smoothed her blouse, then caught sight of Lynza. At the spectacle the vampire made, dressed in her menacing black and red streaked cloak and robes, yet clinging desperately to the top of the chair, the elf burst out laughing.
Mordae crawled out of the shaft moments later, looking confusedly at Celebdraug, then Draylen, who also sat laughing. Celebdraug pointed to Lynza, who hurriedly leaped from the back of the throne as the other elf turned to look at her. He smiled, not fully able to comprehend the scene, then sat in Gandalf's chair, two seats to Draylen's left.
"Oooh, you bad," Celebdraug chided her cousin, sliding into the seat to Draylen's right.
Mordae grinned mischievously. He glanced at the chair Celebdraug was sitting in, then raised his hand limply, bent at the wrist.
Celebdraug looked up in horror, then leaped from her seat and moved to the one to Draylen's other side.
The vampire cocked his head in confusion.
"Legolas," Celebdraug explained.
Draylen nodded sagely, edging slightly away from the adjacent chair.
"I see you know of him as well," Mordae commented.
"Oh, I know far too much of him," the vampire sighed.
The elf raised his eyebrows.
"Ugh! Not that much!" Draylen exclaimed.
Celebdraug snorted and patted Draylen on the shoulder. "It's okay. If that's what you chose to do, it's your decision."
The vampire huffed, burying his face in his hands with a cry of mock despair.
Zalok and a few more Tvhesta lieutenants entered a few moments later, wearing garments nearly identical to those of the other two vampires. They each saluted and took seats around the Council, creating some semblance of a circle.
Lynza, glad to have had the attention removed from her, tapped her chair lightly with her claws, calling the others to silence, which they somewhat regretfully fell into.
Clearing her throat, Lynza gestured to the elves. "As a few of you already know, we have acquired some allies. I will allow them to introduce themselves, if they wish."
Mordae and Celebdraug locked eyes, and Mordae shrugged; the elf had always been quite shy, despite his gregarious demeanor.
Celebdraug sighed and rose from her seat, her cousin following her lead. "I am Celebdraug Delunar, General of the Dunedain. We come from Lorien, sent by Aragorn, son of Arathorn, deposed king of Middle Earth."
Mordae cleared his throat, "Mordae Conanoren, General of the Dunedain."
"You are far from home, elves," one of the lieutenants hissed. "What brings you to this desolate region?"
"First of all," Celebdraug argued, "We are not far from home. We happened to have lived here for several hundred years."
"And our business is our own," Mordae continued, emboldened by Celebdraug's assertiveness. "We are not allowed to disclose any information at this time."
"Unfortunately," Lynza countered, "Keeping secrets is very much discouraged in the Tvhesta."
"Your point?" Celebdraug asked insolently.
"You tell us what we want to know, we tell you whatever you want to know. That is how things work around here."
The elves again made eye contact.
Mordae sat, then leaned forward in his chair. "As I am sure you are all aware of, Middle Earth is at war. Maneva Mornië and his army threaten to wipe all we stand for from the face of Ea. He is gathering the rings of power that Sauron forged to form a new ring, even more powerful than that of the former Dark Lord. Our task is to impede his progress. We have already secured the ring from Moria," the elf held up his wrist, on which the dwarf wring glittered, dangling from a chain wrapped tightly around his gauntlet. "We are making our way to Khazad, to secure the final dwarf ring; Mornië has already acquired the other five from dwarf caves in Lycha. That is our mission."
Celebdraug shot a quick, slightly venomous glance at her cousin, then at Lynza and the other vampires.
Seeing her moderate distress, Draylen leaned over and whispered in Celebdraug's ear. "I promise we won't kill you. At least, I won't. Yet."
"So reassuring," she muttered back.
Lynza nodded slowly. "Thank you, Mordae. Your quest is quite an honorable one, if I may say so."
The rest of the vampires murmured in agreement.
"Now, you tell me what I want to know," Mordae said pointedly. The vampires fell immediately silent, and Celebdraug sat up slightly, a tiny grin forming on her face. Mordae had played his cards well.
Lynza smiled as well, quite pleased at being defeated in her own battle of wits. "Ask away."
"Tell me about your group. This, 'Tvhesta'. Where did you come from?" Mordae inquired.
"And what is your mission?" Celebdraug added.
Lynza smiled and leaned back in her throne. "Prepare yourselves for story-time, friends."
Glorfindel raced southward, dressed in his lightest outfit, carrying his most lightweight sword. Directly to his right ran Niphredil, who had insisted on coming with him on his mission, despite his objections. She didn't seem to understand that Isen Meares was no longer Venyarohirrim territory; more than three-quarters of the region was overrun by Remnant troops, led by the general Turdú Morngûl.
Glorfindel had encountered Turdú once, when traveling with Mordae and Celebdraug. He had not been able to do battle with the General; the other two elves had run him off before he had a chance to fight. What worried Glorfindel was that he had heard Mordae make the comment that it had been one of the best fights he had ever been in.
He glanced over at Niphredil, who smiled broadly at him. She never had any problem outrunning him; she was a natural runner, able to race Mordae and Celebdraug, occasionally even beat them. What did worry him were her fighting abilities; Glorfindel was confident that she could be an excellent warrior if she wanted to, but Niphredil insisted on maintaining her pacifist views, even in the turmoil of the Age. If they were attacked, she would be helpless, he would have to defend them both, and his running sword would not be able to stand against an orc or Drow horde.
"What's the matter?" Niphredil asked worriedly, only slightly out of breath. She pushed a strand of her long silvery-blonde hair, the trademark of the Sylvan elves, behind her ear as she continued to maintain her gaze on Glorfindel.
He shrugged, then shook his head. "Nothing," he panted.
"Are you getting tired?"
Glorfindel shook his head.
Suddenly, Niphredil stopped, grabbing Glorfindel's arm. He too stopped, looking confusedly at Niphredil, who had cocked her head to the side.
"Do you hear that?" she whispered.
"It's probably either my heart or my lungs yelling at me," Glorfindel gasped.
Niphredil held up a finger to her lips. "Somebody is following us."
Dilotè slowed to a silent stop as the two Sylvans loomed closer. She quietly drew her glittering black blades, advancing slowly through the brush. Beside her, she heard the sound of a bow being tensed; she spun and put her hand on Serke'turr's bow.
"Thou would shoot an unarmed target in the back?" she asked disdainfully.
Serke'turr shrugged, lowering his bow and drawing his own silver blade.
Dilotè nodded in concurrence with his decision, and he smiled nervously. The Drow maiden rolled her eyes, then, without a sound, launched herself over the small bush she hid behind, blades raised toward the sky.
