Ah, the Sea of Rhûn... Tis a vast inland sea. She's ever fed by the mouths of the Running and the Redwater. Both are ever fed by dual fatherlands of the dwarves.
These are its shores. They're rather grey. But then, so is much that lives near them. Throughout the First Age, many silver-scaled dragons dwelt in holes out here, among the local Easterlings, dwarves, and Kine of Araw. Since then, thankfully, the Istari hath slain most of them, and long-late dwarf armies hath slain the rest. Easterlings slew a few...but they were never great in number. One, legend hath it, later became ancestor to Lord Girion of Dale.
Ashore, a herd of coastal deer wander about. They're grey, too. Their stags, alas, have been known to produce fifty-point antlers. In this herd, alas, the highest point count is a twenty-one-point. Alas, it looks like he could shed his antlers any day now. Behind him, a lot of the other harts have.
Not to steal a rival author's line, but...winter is coming.
Smaller herds of the light grey Kine of Araw wander among them. Both are native to these shores. The Kine offer the deer protection, and for that, they seem grateful. In the very least, the bucks among them are not territorial.
One of the harts is red. He's the only one who is. Unclear, as to why the greyer deer let him linger so near... If the deer were fallow of the Greenwood, this would surely happen less.
Offshore, the waters grow deep. Much darkness has been borne from this sea. Few ever wonder. The Ered Lithui, the borders of Mordor, are not far South.
Across the sea, the eiders have grown to great proportions. Their quack hath been known to crack an Easterling child's skull.
Out here, such an eider treads water. He's a sea duck. This is his home. Hence, tis only fair that he pass out here.
Through the sky, a throwing ax flies. It wedges itself into the great eider's back. In distress, the eider bellows one last ear-splitting quack. It rises, does multiple flips while airborne, and splashes down into the very waters in which, many years ago, it would've dabbled and dived around as its long-lost dam taught him how to scavenge.
From a nearby fog, a longship approaches. Tis forged of teak. And its stem, improvised from a great timber, hath been carved into the head of a greater and more dream-worthy eider. Glimmering jewels, mined from stony hills, sit where an actual eider's eyes would be.
Tis from the weather decks of this very vessel the ax of the first eider's bane took flight. This vessel is crewed by some of the surest-footed dwarves of Rhûn. Many are stonefoots; one of the seven realms of the dwarves of Middle-earth. One of their most ancient kings, of the First Age, once wore one of the Seven Crowns. One of his descendants, another stonefoot king of the Second Age, wore one of the Seven Rings that Sauron the Deceiver once offered him and his six peers. Nowadays, alas, that ring has passed from both knowledge and concern. It's just as well; the stonefoot king who once bore the ring only became greedier for more gold and sculpture.
Stonefoots pride themselves in wearing stylish custom-made spats. No need for gaiters; as the stonefoot's name implies, their feet are very durable. They're often made from goat, boar, or pony leather. Someday soon, these particular stonefoots might very well begin wearing spats forged of stag leather...
Six of these dwarves are sons of Robert Downbeard, a great stonefoot dwarf and eider hunter of ages past. From scratch, he forged a great enterprise. They call it Eider Chieftain. His son, three grandsons, and great-grandson remain and maintain the business's buoyancy. And where that is, there is always much labor to undertake. If not for the fragility of the wood of some ships, the stonefoots would make better mariners.
Most dwarves pride themselves in their braided locks. Robertsfolk, specifically, braid their locks with duck fletching. An individual Robertsfellow, or duck-hunting dwarf in general, has been known to specializes in the fletching of one sort of duck...although most dwarves care not which duck.
Jafet, one of the nephews, throws a net, and summons the fallen eider. He and his brother Jens haul it aboard, via a derrick. The derrick is dwarven-made, as is everything else aboard.
Below, the eider's neck is tied to a line. The line is hung from twin bulkheads, on either side. The number of eiders already on the line is quite extravagant. But then, what does one think dwarfkind is made of?
A lone dwarf rises to topside. He's armed...with an iron-forged crossbow. The crossbow is loaded...with a harpoon-barbed bolt.
Meet Jan-Lúkas...son of Ville, son of Philip, son of Robert Downbeard. He's part of a new generation of duck-hunting dwarves of Rhûn. He's hardly six decades old...and yet, he's out here hunting ducks as if he was twice that age.
Jan-Lúkas, like most dwarves, braids his locks. Where duck fletching is concerned, he braids his locks with feathers from the redhead, a diving duck. On his face, he wears much copper-tainted mascara.
One sure stone-foot at a time, Jan-Lúkas rises up the ship's main mast. He posts himself in the crow's nest. It often amazes him how well the crow's nest can take the weight of his very heavy feet. It's a good thing they can, though. He'd hate for the collapse of this crow's nest to ruin this hunt.
Up one of the masts, a long, tall horn spirals. Its bell lets out near the top of the mast. This craft is of Robertsfolk's making...and also among the main purpose of Eider Chieftain. That's right. Some dwarf guilds are whitesmiths. Some are tinkerers. Many are blacksmiths. Eider Chieftain forges horns of the hunt; especially duck hunts. They've also been known to forge ear trumpets. But then, to many, that makes sense. They've had to forge these as a result of having lost legal disputes with families who claim that the noise pollution of a lot of their hunt horns hath rendered some, or all, of their elderly deaf.
Nonetheless, Jens lumbers up to the horn's mouthpiece once more. With a great breath of air, he blows.
The noise is heard, no doubt, throughout the fog. With luck, they're far enough away from where children swim that they won't go deaf because of the horn's power.
In the land of Mordor, in the castle of Barad-dur, the weakened ex-lord Sauron rests under a cloak. He's too weak to do anything...and has been ever since his legendary attempt to kill the late King Elindil backfired.
Through an open window, volcanic ash often blows. Today, something else does; something so unpleasant, that not even the great Sauron can absorb it. It's Eider Chieftain's duck horn. It can be heard all the way from the Sea of Rhûn. Not even the Ered Lithui, it seems, can block out the noise pollution from those horns.
With a severed hand, the fallen former lord rings a bell. Narsil's sting still hurts, despite how long ago it's been since Isildur left him with it...and not to mention only one finger intact that his One Ring would still go on...if only it weren't buried in a mystery pile of gravel at the bottom of the Anduin River.
Summoned, a black uruk enters the ex-lord's chamber. He sets his ebony blade down, lifts the cloak, and stuffs mufflers into Sauron's ears. He then takes back up his ebony blade and takes his leave.
From the top of the longship's main mast, the colors of the stonefoot clan fly. As you might expect, they're mostly gray. Some are black, too. It's just as likely that basalt inspired that as it is that the stonefoots' longtime neighbors, the blacklocks, did.
Just beneath the colors, another banner flies. It's got dwarven runes on it. The runes roughly translate to the phrase, "stoned, stoned, stoned." This phrase has, more or less, become Eider Chieftain's trademark.
All around, the skies yield clouds. They yield even more clouds in the South. Such clouds are often rather sable. One wouldn't believe that Mt. Doom's been dormant for centuries.
From the north, a bird cries. The brave little dwarf turns slowly, pointing his armament towards the approaching sound...
It's a red auk. Great beasts, they are. Hollow and great, are their bills. Greater, they are, than their wings. Hence, they glide more often than fly. Hence, one can't help but wonder how they get high enough to glide from that far up.
Nonetheless, the young dwarf has found his trophy. He takes aim, and prepares to release the bolt...
The auk's noise is soon joined by a chorus of the same. It approaches from the North...from the Iron Hills. Hesitantly, the young dwarf takes aim...
From the fog, the red auk's flock appears. It's very vast. If the lone auk was a nuisance, his flock is pollution.
Inadvertently, they storm the upper main mast. Jan-Lúkas swears, as he struggles to take aim... He soon falls from the crow's nest, and slides down one of the ship's grey sails. With an iron-forged dagger, he stabs one of the lower yards, and hangs from it.
Topside, the rest of the ship's crew comes outside to behold what stirs. A few curse in Kazad, each time a passing auk leaves its whitewash on the decks.
All around the ship, the red auks splash down, surface, and tread water. By the looks of it, there's a shad run below that they just can't miss. Either that, or they can't glide any farther.
The crew takes advantage of the bonanza, of course. With throwing axes, they get to work. With throwing spears, they get to work. With nets, they harvest what they slaughter.
Jan-Lúkas regathers his crossbow. He crawls to one of the gunwales, and leans over it.
The auks are all around. One can barely see the sea surface. More keep coming. Soon, they won't have any room to splash down in. And if they surface, they might risk doing so up their brother's arse.
With his crossbow, Jan-Lúkas takes aim. He's got several in his sights. At this rate, he could surely pull the trigger, and expect...
From out of nowhere, a rival spear flies. It's no dwarven spear.
Simeon, the oldest crewman, shields his eyes, and looks around, confused. When he sees who threw the spears, his eyes narrow...
Soon, his four nephew see them, too. Their eyes narrow, too. They make a big difference as they do. Many stonefoots revel in wearing grey metal-tainted mascara as they work.
It's another longship. The ship's stem is grey and is sculpted to resemble the head of a silver-scaled dragon. From scuppers port and starboard, long wooden sweeps run. From its main mast, the ship flies the colors of Rhûn.
"Easterlings," Ville, the eldest of the four stonefoot brothers, whispers.
That's right; the rival longship is crewed by Men of the East; Easterlings, if you will. Aboard, they're accompanied by a few night-elves, a few yellow men of Khand, and a sole olog-hai troll. Most of the night-elves wear cloaks.
With spears and crossbow bolts, the Men of the East partake in the slaughtering of the surrounding red auks. A lot of them shout ugly words in Easterling, Khand, or black speech as they do so.
"FIRE AT WILL," Ville shouts. Aside from being the eldest of the four brothers, he's also the stonefoots' ship's skipper.
Now, the throwing axes fly...as do the spears and crossbow bolts. A few arrows do, too. Most such arrows are turtledove-fletched.
A few of the Easterlings use longbows. Many of the night-elves do, too. The night-elves are noticeably better archers. They've had a few Easterling proteges, as well as many others of their own race.
Aloft, among the black ship's rigging, a wraith hovers. He's clad in a dark grey robe. Once, he was an Easterling lad. For much of his life, he was an officer aboard this ship. That might explain what he's doing up there. He's been known to dwell below just as often. If only he'd stop frightening the ship's recruits.
It's war. Both races are at war, to attain the most auk kills. One would certainly fill the dining room of an Eastfold horseman family's shack on Solstice Day. Such a family in Osgiliath might not think so, though. No dwarf would. Even so, they fill a dwarf's stomach better than any plant these stonefeet have known. Especially not kingsfoil; although there are several hogs back in Hrogn Mynni-árinnar, southwest of here, that might not think that. They eat all the kingsfoil they get, without wondering where their dwarf masters get it from. If they were dwarves, of course, they'd spit it out if they knew. (Chuckle), they'd spit it out regardless.
Jan-Lúkas does what he can to slay as many auks as he can. Alas, it's mostly in vain. There are too many. And in these circumstances, he senses that just because he kills one doesn't mean he gets to claim it.
Jan-Lúkas has a very amorous reason for needing to be responsible for any kills made out here today. He's met someone. She's a dwarf maiden of the blacklock clan. The blacklocks are among the four dwarf clans that inhabit the hills of Rhûn. They and the stonefeet are long-time neighbors. Historically, their old kingdoms have been in personal union once or twice...like Arnor and Gondor in the world of men.
At present, the Solstice approaches. And as usual, many stonefoot families...including the sons of Robert...will have a great feast. Much will be cooked. And the dwarven wives of Robertsfolk have broken records with their cooking.
This year, Jan-Lúkas's new love will be making her debut as a cook within Robertsfolk quarters. This year, she will impress the wives of Robertsfolk... Or rather, she'll try. Either way, she'll depend much upon her new love. Both, Jan-Lúkas is sure, will feel much better if the game she cooks was, in fact, that whose blood is on Jan-Lúkas's hands...and not an Easterling's, a night-elf's, or even those of one of his two duck-hunting uncles, his granduncle, or his father.
By and by, alas, the hunt ends. Soon, the auk flock has moved on. Both crews collect what's left in the water to do so.
The Easterlings don't hesitate, after they've pillaged their fill. They turn their stern towards the dwarves and make way. The homesteads of Rhûn call them. Funny; most people would think that as seldom as Easterlings have been known to rest, they'd be home so seldom that someone would surely steal their home in their over-prolonged absence. Most Easterling kings have probably had trouble finding a majordomo who'd sit his home indefinitely.
The stonefeet have know way of knowing how many of the auks the Easterlings slaughtered. Even so, they're underwhelmed by how many auks they've reeled in. They all now hang from lines below deck. Numerous though they are, the stonefeet still want more.
And Jan-Lúkas, of course, wants to know if he can trust that any of them have been killed by him, specifically. He's not secure enough to take down one of these auks, offer it to his new blacklock love, and say, "I killed this; now go make a spicy gravy for it, that'll have my Robertsfolk aunts, grand-aunts, and mother eating all of the bread in Rhûn for hours."
As poor Jan-Lúkas laments, his father creeps up behind him. He smiles, and pats his son on the upper arm.
"Always remember, my son," he says. "It's never about whether you slay anything. It's about whether we slay anything." He pats him again. "Stoned, stoned, stoned; right?"
Jan-Lúkas smiles slightly, and punches his father's fist, as he offers. "Stoned, stoned, stoned," he repeats. "To the last eider's fall, forge the damn duck call."
"Hey!" Ville points a gloved finger in his son's face. "Don't forget that I'M still foreman of this enterprise!"
Once again, the duck horn sounds. The longship makes way, and heads back to the stony hills whence this ship makes berth. No surprise, many stonefoots live in the Ash Mountains, the northern border of Mordor. Many aboard, though, are thankful for two things. The first is that Robertsfolk don't live anywhere near Ered Lithui, and surely never will. The second is that the shores of the Sea of Rhûn aren't that far South.
Away from the helm, a grey raven takes flight. He flies to the sea cliffs of Hrogn Mynni-árinnar, to send a message to the rest of Robertsfolk...that their men are finally homeward bound.
Aloft, the stonefoot colors still fly. And in dwarven runes, the phrase "stoned, stoned, stoned," rings out loud and clear...to the very few who'll see it from here to the docks near Hrogn Mynni-árinnar.
Ah, the Wilderland of Rhovanion... Tis not but a vast expanse of wild, covering much space and consuming much time. These lands are breathtaking...if not forlorn.
Out here, vast herds of reindeer wander. Unlike the grey coastal deer farther East, their bucks hath not shed their antlers...and won't likely for quite some time. Some of these herds hail from the Eastfold of Rohan. Some also hail from Ithilien.
At this time of year, many of the does are pregnant. Some have already calved out. For a reindeer, being a mother is low-maintenance in one way: your babies know how to cry, talk, walk, blink, and run temperature from birth. Thankfully, though, most of them are not born while running a temperature...
Hence, the herds travel with a ring of bucks fortifying the does. Whenever they stop, the bucks turn their hinds to the does; not to fart at, ignore, or abandon them, or anything like that, but so their antlers will be at the ready of anyone or anything were to attack them. And out here, there is much that would. Men from Ithilien, the Eastfold, and Rhûn have been known to hunt them. Dwarves from all four of the clans of Rhûn have, too. The black uruks of Mordor especially come to slaughter them. And they don't always do so for food; sometimes they just need fuel for the war furnaces.
Lately, there've been certain skin-changers afoot; men who can shift shape into beasts. Some such men change into wolves. Many such men, since, have formed packs. Compared to real wolves, their hunts are notorious for having a much higher, and not to mention much more noticeable, success rate. Hence, what the average reindeer buck wouldn't give to have their skeletons, and not to mention their antlers, hybrided with some sort of indestructible metal about now...
For now, though, it's just as well that they don't. Not too long ago, after all, a young buck just got expelled from the herds just for having a red nose that glows.
Night has fallen over the plains of Gorgoroth, the lands of Mordor. Even with Sauron too weak to do anything, this can still be a dangerous place for outsiders. (Chuckle), it's still a dangerous place to a lot of locals, in fact.
Grass has returned to much of Gorgoroth. Mt. Doom hasn't erupted since the end of the Second Age. But of course, Sauron's weaker. His geokinesis isn't as good as it was back when Morgoth was still giving him orders, during the First Age.
The black uruks are now less than half as strong as they would've been half an age ago. Even so, they still scavenge, and hunger for innocent flesh. But then, they'd eat each other's corpses, if they thought they were up-for-grabs.
Across Gorgoroth, there are vales. Bare basalt surrounds many of them. Magpies have been known to nest on them. Crebain do too, at times.
Within one, a lone reindeer buck rests. He hasn't shed his antlers yet. Even so, he wish he had. Not only has he not shed them...but for some reason, it seems they've been getting bigger and branchier since his herd ran him off...
Like a red-lit beacon, it soon becomes apparent why. His nose glows...with very bright red light. Once, he tried to hide it. But now, most of his herd won't look at him. There's a lone doe who still will...and who probably loves him all the more because of his nose...if that's even possible... But for now, poor Rudolf Rednose must lay low wherever he can stay, and scrounge a living off rocks...whatever he can, whenever he can. He hath no friends to help him now. And his father Donner can no longer protect him.
It's bound to happen...and it does. The uruks find him. They surround him. They close in. Many have blades drawn.
Rudolf can hear them. He can smell them. They stink. They come for him, with monstrous appetites and sharpened teeth. Rudolf would hate to think what they use for whet rocks, where that is...if they don't eat actual rocks...
In a crowd, they surround him. As it often does, Rudolf's treacherous nose is a harmful beacon, that's drawn them to his presence. If Rudolf were a golden-haired bimbo child of Osgiliath, he'd been in a tight spot right now.
But in Middle-earth, as you might expect...being Rudolf Rednose has its advantages.
As Rudolf stands, rears, and bellows, the light from his nose increases its wattage. Like a bright light, it shines all over Gorgoroth. And it leaves a LOT more than hurt eyes in its wake.
The uruks have caught fire. They're now lumps of black coal, spewing ruby-red flames, like a diaper that's discovered the limit of its retainment. They run, leap, and roll around on the ground, while on fire. Some fall into pits of sulfur, and leap onto compost piles...and make their situation worse.
They retreat, of course. While doing so, most pray against prayer that the Great Eye doesn't learn of this... He might set them on fire again.
Impressive though this all was, it's not over yet. Rudolf trembles, as the steps of a great beast approach...
It's an olog-hai troll. He's a giant among his kin. All trolls are giants, of course; but this one looked like he could've cleaned house on the battlefields...if only he wasn't younger than the end of the Second Age.
He's clad in black metal armor. Part of it's got a dent in it. Apparently he and the hobbit Bullroarer Took had a bad encounter, somewhere far to the Northwest. He should've aimed for the head...if he didn't.
This beastly olog also wears a kilt. It's made from leather that once belonged to Bullroarer's latest mount. Not to worry; the brave little hobbit made it out alive. Even so, he owes some horseman of the Eastfold a new zebra dun.
This olog's brought a mace of his own. Its shaft is long and thick. Its end is broad, and spiked. Soon, Rudolf's carcass will be impaled on several of its spikes...
The olog chambers his mace, high over his own head. Rudolf closes his eyes and waits for the end...
It doesn't come. From out of nowhere, a pair of bolas flies. Both ends go around the olog's head once, resembling a scarf. Two crossbow bolts, fired simultaneously, fly from nowhere, and hit both ends of the bolas, grounding them just behind the olog.
Now, the olog is tethered. What's even better, he holds his own head in a way in which his throat is exposed.
From the shadows, a wood-elf of the Greenwood falls, and lands on her feet before Rudolf. From a back quiver she draws an arrow. She takes aim at the olog's exposed throat and releases the fletching.
That's all it takes. And because the olog can't lean forward, no thanks to the she-elf's perfect improvisation, he falls over backwards, and dies momentarily.
Victorious, she ascends to the top of the olog's chest. From her utility belt, she fetches a scary-looking tool. She once duped a longbeard dwarf of Erebor into forging it for her. He still hates her because she never paid him.
One by one, she pulls each of the olog's great teeth. She casts spells to clean them. Once they are, she deposits them into a sporran she wears; a sporran made from the pelt of a beech marten she once slew back in the Greenwood.
Meet Herberta. She's hardly the pride of the Greenwood...but only because the Greenwood's armies don't take kindly to she-warriors stealing the he-warriors' spotlights.
Once, she was a beech carpenter; a lot of wood-elves are. A lot of lesbian she-elves she's known have become beech coopers. Once, a dwarf tried to take her on as a toymaking apprentice. Alas, she didn't like to make toys. (And quite frankly, I wouldn't, either.) Now, she's struck out on her own. Most of her kin value their immortality too much to risk war. But as far as Herberta's concerned, if she can't fit in, she might as well make it easier for her kin to bear whatever memories of her they still have...as much as they'd surely rather forget her.
She pulls every tooth the dead olog's got. Once she has, she returns to Rudolf's side. No one else is going to attack Rudolf tonight. The olog's colony is far from here...and not to mention much smaller, because Sauron's too weak to enlarge it. And Mt. Doom's too weak to armor and arm it.
She retires her archery and sits near Rudolf's side. She pulls an apple from her sporran and feeds it to him.
"Hi boy," she says kindly. "I would've helped you earlier, except you looked like you didn't need it." With her elf eyes, she looks around...and gawks. "Hmm; I can see some of your nose's flames at the Black Gate. Some of them are getting shot." She shrugs. "Mistaken for demons, I suppose." She giggles. "But then," she strokes his back, "since when do the local orcs know a demon from a red Denethor ball?"
All around them, silence falls. It seems they're safe now...despite being on the plain of Gorgoroth. Gorgoroth has had its more blissful moments... But they've never lasted, and few have been around to witness them. Even fewer have lived long enough to tell anyone about it.
Around his neck, Rudolf wears a harness. A medallion hangs from it. Herberta collects it into one of her fingerless gloved hands, and learns Rudolf's name that way.
She giggles. "Rednose," she mutters. "You certainly live up to that label. Very well, Rudolf. I'll attend to you. I won't mind your red nose as long as you don't mind my gruesome habit of pulling the teeth out of every olog I kill." She giggles. "You know, it's funny. I once presented this idea to Bullroarer Took the hobbit. He told me I needed a hobby."
Rudolf snickers.
She lies down next to him. "Sweet dreams, Rudolf. Wake me if you see a herd of mumakil go by. I once promised some halfling that I'd get a hair off one's tail...if I couldn't get one of its tusks."
With that, she rests. Rudolf hesitates...but by and by, he's asleep, too. He might as well. The life of a misfit, they stay, never stays in park.
And so, tonight, in a very unlikely place, and not to mention a hopeless one, a duo's been made...as has a pact. Meanwhile, the Solstice approaches. Sauron will ignore it, of course. He might not be a Scrooge or a Grinch...but he hates it in a way that makes both of them look lame.