Thanks to Lotr Fan (Guest) for the imagining of Syn (pronounced 'Sign') and Liontalon for Hithon and Hithaerel!

Chapter One: A Journey Begins

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Braigwen was never one for sitting idly and watching things pass her by. Some would even say that it had been bred into her, passed down through a long line of Gondorian Rangers and strengthened by her hard years leading to and during the War of the Ring. Hers was a wild heart, never content to sit back and let the world change around her, and she was proud of it. She was proud of anything and everything in her life, in fact. Of her strangely short height (little taller than a dwarf), her wild mess of dark brown hair that hadn't seen a proper brush since she was a teen, her (somewhat limited) skill with daggers, and her life among her kin in the Wild. She was fiercely independent and hated to be hindered in any way...and she despised the very prospect of asking for 'help'.

Her small build had been to her advantage in the War, allowing her to bypass the swings of her taller opponents, and this only boosted her ego. In fact, many of her kin had laughed in the aftermath that she was the proudest Ranger of all of Arda. She was, of course, undeterred by these conversations, hearing them as compliments instead. She held tightly to the ways she had been raised in, but Middle Earth was changing. So, infuriated at how the old ways of the Rangers were fading, she packed her belongings one morning...and left.

The lands that the Rangers of Gondor lived in, now dubbed Ithilien, while not orc-infested, still held their dangers. Bandits, for one, and wild animals for another. Braigwen made it a point to never leave without her daggers, no matter what, because of these threats. Her pack, while not heavy or burdensome, was still almost an alarm as to her presence, if any were around to hear it. She had few belongings, all of them essential to survival, but they weren't necessarily silent. In fact, the shallow skillet hanging from the side of her pack was hitting against one of the metal buckles on it so frequently with her loping gait that it sounded like there was a bell following her - a cowbell.

Clang...clang...clang...cla- The sound cut off abruptly as Braigwen snarled silently and held the skillet still, looking around warily, as if an entire battalion of orcs would burst out of the thick, shaded undergrowth. That wasn't what happened, however, and the young Ranger blinked in shock at the voice that called out to her.

"Greetings! And what business brings so fair a maiden into Ithilien at this hour? And without a guard, no less! Pray tell, young one!" It was elven, no doubt about that. She narrowed her eyes. The elves had all left! How..?

Thud! a tall, lithe body fell neatly out of a tree not far to her left, landing easily on his feet. The elf smiled, a mischievous glint in his sky-blue eyes. Braigwen frowned. That look didn't bode well.

He looked like any other elf she'd seen in her forty-two years; silver-blond hair, pale complexion, tall, mostly clad in earthy colors, besides the gray cloak that hung over his shoulders. But he was missing one thing that had become all too common among his kind - the sea-longing. There was no longing to sail in his eyes. Instead, he looked like he was going to annoy the Ranger he'd stumbled across.

"Leave me alone." Braigwen turned on her heel and strode to the north, gritting her teeth as, not only did her skillet clang against her pack, but the elf loped after her, a broad, vibrant grin spread across his face. His footsteps were barely audible alongside the Ranger's.

"Come, now! Surely you have a reason to have ventured so far from your home? These woods are fraught with danger, you know. Giant, man-eating wolves, the foulest of orcs, malevolent spirits that would steal the life out of the likes of you! I daresay that you would need a g-"

"I know very well what the woods of Ithilien house, thank you very much, and there are none of the beasts you describe. And until recently, I believe, there were no elves. If you would excuse me..." She sped to a jog, hoping the elf would leave her alone. No such luck, however, and he rapidly caught up to her.

"I'm afraid that you aren't excused, my lady! I can hardly allow such a fragile, dainty thing as yourself to-"

He was cut off by a cold, unforgiving pressure on his throat. Braigwen scowled at him as she pressed his favored dagger against his windpipe. Her black-brown gaze had turned just as sharp and deadly as the thin-edged blade she held ready. "I would thank you kindly, elf, to not call me dainty or fragile!" The words were near-silent, a hiss that floated on the breeze, and she curled her lip at the elf she was currently in a position to...well...kill. He looked blatantly shocked, and a bit nervous as he lifted a hand in an attempt to push the knife away.

"I...I...sorry?"

Braigwen snarled, audibly this time, as she pressed the dagger into the soft flesh of his neck hard enough to draw blood. The thin line of red was sharp against his skin, and he paled considerably. "Sorry? I thought that elves were supposed to be gifted with words. Sorry does not even begin to cover how you should feel."

"Hithon? Hithon, I told you, this isn't Lothlorien! You can hardly go running off in any direction and expect to not fall into some sort of trouble! And you left your sword...Hithon, what in Valar's name did you do?!" Another elf, just as tall and fair as the first, only female, had seemingly materialized from the early morning fog. She wore an icy-blue dress, with her long, silvery hair braided exactly like the other elf's...Hithon, wasn't it? Her blue eyes were just a shade deeper than the other elf's, and a bit sharper, like she was used to being the one responsible for getting things done. Her reprimanding gaze wasn't on Braigwen, however - it was centered on Hithon with unnerving intensity. "Every week, now, Brother! Every Valar-forsaken week now you manage to find a new way to try and seal your fate as the most foolish elf to step foot in Arda! And upsetting a Ranger! Why couldn't you just stay in Lothlorien like I suggested? You would certainly live longer there."

"Hithaerel..." Hithon whispered, turning his head slightly away from Braigwen. The dagger dragged across his throat, lengthening the scratch. "Could you please help? I...I'm in a slight jam, as the Men say..."

Hithaerel rolled her eyes and glided closer to the two. An emotionless glance was spared in Braigwen's direction. "Don't be afraid to leave him with some scratches, Ranger. He needs to learn that he isn't invulnerable."

Braigwen let out a hissing breath, digging her dagger momentarily into Hithon's throat, and then withdrew it and sank it back into its sheath. Her steps were much louder as she stormed away, and her infuriated yell echoed though Ithilien as her skillet picked up its unending rhythm. The twins stared after her for a moment before Hithaerel jabbed her brother harshly in the side, scowling. "You are truly an idiot, Brother."

Hithon jabbed her back, but it was light and playful. "And you, sister mine, are such an inspiration to all us lesser beings." His shout shortly afterwards caused all the birds in the area to take flight in alarm.

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The armored Rohir attracted many gazes in the busy Gondorian market. He strode about with an air of authority, armed with a broad sword and a spear that he handled with practiced ease, and it was this intimidating look that caused the crowd to clear a path wherever the warrior went. He wore full battle armor, complete with a concealing helm with a plume of horse hair rising from it, and a small nosepiece in the shape of a horse's head. His armor was the most basic, run-of-the-mill thing that Ronan had to offer, but to the Gondorians, it was a grand vision from the land of the Horse-Lords. Years had passed since the shining gold and silver armor of a Rohir had been seen in the White City.

Syn didn't like the whispers. Every citizen in the marketplace was speaking of the warrior all at once: "He must be of high standing!" and "Do you think he might be a prince?" Of course, it was flattering to anyone when they were assumed to be royalty, but...really? Syn scowled at a young man from under the heavy helm as he shouted, "Good morning, sir!" Was it really that hard to tell?

"Excuse me, but if you would find it in yourself to move," an accented female voice piped up behind the Rohir. Boots scuffed the ground as Syn turned to face the Gondarian. It was a woman, barely into her twenties, dressed in dark, forest-green and mud-splattered trousers. Her hair was a mess, little more than a bush on top of her head, and she was short and thin, but she glared at the warrior with enough bravery to have been a seasoned fighter herself. She also looked annoyed enough to punch someone at any moment.

"My apologies," Syn muttered, stepping aside. The Ranger - what else could the woman be? - shoved angrily ahead. The Rohir had a half mind to try and catch up (it had been months since her last fight) but instead shrugged and turned away. Who was she to pick fights with a descendant of elves?

Yes, she. Syn, daughter of Dimyr, was female, a shieldmaiden of her homeland, and...a bit crude, to be honest. Fights were her forte, and biting insults her weapon of choice. The oldest of five and therefore the role model, she had learned to fight early on in life, courtesy of her father, and her younger siblings - Myr, Teg, Eothed, and Lyr - had followed suit. But trouble never left the Riddermark for long at all, and all manner of bandits had soon plagued the land. Just following the War of the Ring, Syn had left her home in the Wold and joined a small team of vigilantes called the Sceald, Rohirric for 'Shield'.

The Sceald had been scattered, however, when the bandits had attacked all at once one night, while the twenty-something warriors rested, which led to Syn, one of only a few survivors, traipsing about the market and looking for a job. However, her temper was rapidly flaring as her bulky armor and strong build made several people believe that she was indeed a he. She needed to find an employer, and fast, before she got herself kicked out for beating someone up.

She reached up and pulled off her helm, shaking her head as her thick black hair protested at being tied up for so long. The thin braids at either of her temples were pulled back as well, but not enough to cause pain. Her sharp, stormy eyes darted around the market as the Gondorians stopped almost all at once, some startled by her gender and others by the brutal scar than arced down the side of her face, courtesy of a bandit who had nearly taken her life. She stared levelly at each person until they slowly drifted off, glancing back at her repeatedly.

"What? Never seen a shieldmaiden before, ya lazy lumps? Get out more! You look pale enough." She smirked as more than a few glares were sent her way. She held her head high and walked off, keeping an eye out for anyone who might hire someone with a sword. She started whistling at some point, a harsh kind of amusement filtering into her gaze as the people around her tensed in annoyance. She let out an especially shrill whistle, and a few of them jumped or broke what they were holding...including the Ranger from before. The woman angrily snapped the sheaf of waybread she held and turned to glare at Syn. Two pairs of eyes, one brown and annoyed and one gray and amused, met before she rolled her eyes and turned back to the marketeer she had been speaking to, handing over the piece of silver needed for the broken sheaf.

Syn started to turn away, whistling turning to humming, as she strode to the gates - obviously, she wasn't going to get a job here - when an irritated voice stopped her. "I suppose you think that was terribly funny."

She smirked as she spun her spear across the back of her hand, not turning around. "Uh huh. Real funny." She couldn't keep the laugh out of her voice, and she didn't try to. The Ranger scowled.

"I wouldn't expect anything else from a flea-bitten Rohir mutt." Syn froze, her calloused fingers failing to grasp the shaft of her spear before it clattered to the ground. Her gaze had turned deadly as she faced the Ranger.

"And I wouldn't expect an ounce of decorum from a descendant of pointy-eared tree-huggers! Go and sing a song while you abandon all of us petty mortals by sailing away, will you? It'd be a lot less trouble for me."

"Trouble for you? Well, I don't believe that it was you that lost a silver piece because of broken waybread!" The two glared at each other.

"Elf-kid."

"Mongrel!"

"...elf-kid." Syn kicked herself. She had never lost an insult battle! Never! Was elf-kid really the best name she could come up with?

Well, it didn't matter now. The Ranger was walking away. But...she looked like she was going on a journey. She would need more protection than those little knives, after all...

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So how was it? I hope I portrayed Hithon, Hithaerel and Syn like they were imagined...and you can still submit an OC! There are two spots left for characters in Braigwen's 'Fellowship'. Please leave an OC! The angry Ranger will beat you up otherwise...