Trolls of Eriador: Beware the Superior Trolls

by Kazakh Doom

An Arnorian peasant, Maury, worries for the welfare of the trolls of Eriador. The vision of a certain Arnorian noblewoman in distress, Lady Yvette, might be just what he needs to feel better about matters.

These are hills. They call these the North Downs. These hills were once a province of a great kingdom of men; one of the greatest, in fact, if one doesn't count Gondor. Arnorian peasants lived in these hills, at the time. Now, alas, only ruins remain. A few people still live here...but their fields and flocks don't get as big as they would've back when Arnor still had a king...and neither do their families.

These are footprints. Something very large made them. This is not mumakil territory; nor do the ents frequent these hills. The entwives might be here... Alas, the first sighting of them remains to be made. It might help, of course, if the rest of Arnor was aware that the entwives were missing...

A strange new species of antilocaprine has taken refuge in these downs. Just to be clear, he's new because he's an immigrant to these parts. As far as the history of his species goes, though, he's rather ancient. In fact, Morgoth and his fiends would hunt them for sport...whenever they weren't attacking Numenorians, of course.

Again, a few Arnorian peasants still live here, despite the lack of the old army's protection. The old armies, of course, split and ran as soon as Angmar won. And by then, a lot of them weren't crystal-clear as to which of Arnor's new kings was their specific commander-in-chief. Armies tend to be more efficient, after all, when only ONE person gets to be their commander-in-chief. Alas, if only Sauron's spirit didn't put so much stock into this idea. The White Wizard, too, could afford to cut back on how much he invests in it.

Armed with archery, such a peasant tracks an antilocaprine through the Downs. Every now and then, his chase takes him across the plains of Eriador that surround the Downs. These creatures sure love their greens. But then, no one expects them not to.

This antilocaprine is fast. But then, it's in his pedigree. His descendants, one day, will be fast too...if he has them. Alas, if only more antilocaprine does were looking for commitmentophobic mates... And if only fewer of them were looking for a buck to be a sire to their future fawns...

His nose is short, and very flexible; like a short mumakil's trunk. He has no tusks...but he does have two pronged horns growing from the top of his head. Forever, they grow. Never, they're shed. He's no white stag. But then, why does one think they're hunted? Sadly for this species, no one ever gets bad luck by opening fire on his arse.

Across the Downs, he bleats. On one hand, he should be avoiding hunters. On the other, he'll never get a mate if he never talks. Or rather, that's what they say in Bree. But of course, this beast never drinks at the Prancing Pony...because if he ever tried to, he'd surely end up with his head mounted on the wall by the end of the night...or even within the first five minutes.

Every now and then, this antilocaprine is joined by five others. Most of them are male. One is a lesbian doe. They're all fawnlings; or bucklings, rather. They still don't know how to get hunted...or even how to get the doe. And yet, here they are, with all four limbs intact...and with both of their horns to signify they've been through puberty...however that works for an antilocaprine, considering that they're born physically mature.

The wind changes. New scents take them by storm; this includes a lot of less savory ones.

Hence, this bachelor group gets to bucking; bucking bucks. They scurry away, leaving behind only their scent and the mown grass where they've eaten...and chewed their cud, as well. Before too soon, they're across the horizon; or rather, they've topped and descended the other slope of the next hill.

Their trail, Maury still follows. He's still got his archery with him. He carries his bow across his back...along with his quiver. At times, he's mistaken for an elf. Alas, he's not even one of the dúnedain. He'd know; the dúnedain are semi-mythical. And he, he knows very well, is very real. All of the dúnedain will outlive him...just as the elves will outlive everyone except the ents.

This is a heap of antilocaprine scat. They leave it here and there. But then, they kind of have to. Evolved though antilocaprines are, they still haven't mastered the cesspit. But then, they also haven't mastered the fire, wheel, or drum set yet. What's even worse, they leave a trace each time they leave their scat out here. The wargs would know...as would the local weredogs.

Maury finds the scat, of course. With gloves, he feels parts of it around in his hands. The scat is fresh...and it still generates steam as its' disintegrated. And based on how much so, he can tell how far ahead they've gotten.

Onward, he continues to track them. By day, the sun is his compass. Too bad, alas, he's not awake during the daylight often enough to take advantage of this. But then, at least he'd still have the stars. And he does; naturally, he learned them as a lad. In ways, he's still a lad.

High aloft, the great eagles sometimes fly. Their wingspan is broad. Mighty, is their king. These days, more of them guard the portal that was once used to banish Morgoth into the void. Another wake of them lives in the Southeast, where they keep an eye on Barad-dur. Neither of those two places are anywhere nearby. Either way, eagles can fly. Maury also has a hunch that they don't have that much control over where they get to roost every night. But he's certain that they do, in fact, roost every night. They're diurnal; only when they must, do they fly at night. With the Istari's aid and part-time alliance, they often never have to.

Maury reaches the top of a hill. Here, he rests. He's come a long way, from his peasant home way too far from here. Sometimes he wonders why he ever does this. Sometimes he wonders why he must sometimes prefer this type of life over a fluffy bed. If not for the destroyed state, he'd surely be in that bed more often than his wife would want him to be...if he was married. He's often glad he isn't...sex, though he loves just as much as the next man. He wouldn't know about this, though; few, if any, women have ever been with him. He's certainly never been with an elven maiden.

All around him, he sees nothing but greens, and the hills they top. More often, rabbits, hares, pikas, and other such creatures come out here to graze on the grass. Alas, they're often more tempted to in humanity's absence. These vermin seem to avoid Maury...solitary though he is. They'd have a bigger right to fear him if he had an army behind him.

From far away, Maury hears whinnying. He assumes a low position and hopes that whatever passes pays him no heed...or comes right at him. If there was a stampede, he's very sure he wouldn't outrun it. He might, even, requite the aid of the great eagles to get out of such a sticky mess.

Here and there, among nearby grass blades, a moth does a little dance. He's surely pollenating the very small flowers among this grass...or the grasses' inflorescences, just as likely. Maury can't tell if that moth is a messenger for the great eagles... But for his own sake, he'd better be.

It...also occurs the Maury that the great eagles often need warning in advance, before they can come to bail someone out. So, promptly, he takes the moth in his hands, and whispers a subtle cry for help all over it. Once he's sure the moth has gotten the message, he lets the moth go. Again; the moth probably doesn't serve the great eagles. Either way, if the stampede comes Maury's way, he'll be readier for it than he'd be if the eagles remained ignorant of the pickle he's now potentially in.

In the long term, though, he's had no need to contact the eagles. These horses aren't headed his way. They miss him by an entire slope. Either way, Maury stays low, and observes them. As close as he now is to the ground, he can feel the tremors that the many horses' hooves make, as they run across the land.

These horses are from Rohan...as are their riders. These days, Rohan is still a simple province of Gondor. Even now, though, the Rohirrim is one of the most respected mounted forces in Middle-earth. Far to the south, Rohanese peasants often breed and raise foals, colts, and fillies alongside their own human children. It's normal, even, for such a family to have more foals than children.

Among the thundering horses, a pony, too, keeps a very steady course. Its rider is a stoor hobbit; a hobbit of plains, wetlands, and rivers. He's been knighted, it seems, either by the king of Gondor himself or by one of Rohan's few nobles...with the latter being more likely. Like most of his fellow knights of Rohan, he's a blond...although it's hard to tell when his head is clad in a helm of the Rohirrim. Maury's heard a rumor that this stoor is of the Brandybuck family of stoors, of the banks of the Brandywine River... But it's hard to tell.

Maury grins, while watching this little stoor. At the same time, though, he also scoffs. "Hobbits," he mutters.

Maury keeps a low profile, as the riders ride past. He'd hate to think that the Rohirrim owes him judgment... Either way, he's in no mood to blow a false alarm. He's learned, after all, that most militias hate that. Nobody is less popular, after all, than the Boy Who Cried Wolf...or Weredog, even.

With the threat past, Maury continues his chase. Alas, it slowly dawns on him that now that the Rohirrim has been close by, they've surely spooked his quarry. By now, they'd be too far away to track.

It's just as well, though. Maury longs for refreshment, as things are. He thinks he might know where he can get it...although he's still not sure how he feels about being there alone...alone, though he often prefers to be.

---

This is a valley. Short surround most of it. Ivies cover it. Here and there, a primrose blooms. Here and there, the remnants of a deadwood tree remain. At least the place often smells nice. It even does when a skunk is compelled to spray a threat.

Atop some of the trees and within some of the cliffs, some of the great eagles roost. They might not be here alone. They might, even, fear what else lives here. And if something can spook a great eagle, that's no joke.

Maury arrives. He's still got his archery slung to his back; quiver and all. He might need it here; again, creeps have been known to be born in this vale...rare though it is for them to attack anyone here. But then, they probably only don't attack anyone because few ever come here.

From the trees and cliffs, some of the eagles turn their heads, and survey the human visitor, as he fords the ivies...mindlessly blazing a furrowed trail as he does. They pay him heed...but, for the time being, take no action. At present, he's broken no law of theirs. But then, it's just as well that they don't enforce any of their own laws; at present, none of them are in their race's jurisdiction. In fact, it's never clear as to whose jurisdiction this place is. For that reason, alas, a lot of Sauron's servants have been known to be born here...if this isn't where they get their diploma in killing and marauding.

Inland, the vale becomes more forested. These trees are nothing of marvels; alas, a few dying beeches are among them. Sycamores, too, seem to be common. Some of the deadwood trees here resemble giant deer antlers.

From atop a nearby tree, a werecat watches Maury, with glowing yellow eyes. He has a shadowy disposition about himself, too. At present, though, he's not a threat unless he challenges Maury. At present, though, he's just curious...if only minimally so. Maury shouldn't worry, though; most werecats prefer prey smaller than themselves...rather like some bears that sometimes come here.

This is a space between trees. It's rather wide. It's also been colonized. Not to worry; no one's home. This is also clearly merely a two-person setup.

There is someone home here, rather; but they're not an adult specimen of their species. It's a clutch of six eggs. Two are of opal; two more are of citrine, an orange gem; and the last two are of blue topaz. These are clearly not the eggs of a great eagle. Nor are they any deposit of any of Jormungand's many mates. But then, they wouldn't be; it seems more likely, after all, that any mate of Jormungand's would rather lay their eggs in his own pocket world, safe from the pirates of Middle-earth...or in general. As for such pirates, though, a lot of them would kill for these eggs. In fact, a lot of them have. Alas, too bad they're not likely to get away with it before their wrathful mother comes to avenge their taking.

As Maury prowls around, he passes this nest. He stops, to acknowledge its greatness...and not to mention the bigger greatness of the clutch it semi-defends. Maury, even, must question the mother's judgment, for leaving them alone for as long as she has. Anyone could make a killing, if they found them here, all alone...but, alas, would surely be killed themselves, by the mother, just as soon as she acknowledged her childlessness of late.

Either way, Maury has a bad feeling about those eggs. Much though he enjoys staring at them, he'd hate to still be around, and doing what he's doing, by the time their mother returns. So, onward he continues. He's here for a purpose, after all; those eggs are far from it...much though part of him wishes they were.

Ahead, there's a small enclave that's surrounded by short cliffs. Among them, six sculptures stand. They're...not actual sculptures. Once, they were local trolls. Alas, they had the misfortune of being outside of their hoards one sunrise. These trolls were clearly of the paleo-variety; otherwise, it seems less likely that they'd be imprisoned within these stony forms.

It's only half-likely, though, that they became stone by their own error. It's just as likely that they were forced to become stone. Maury, at present, has a hard time imagining how this'd be possible... In fact, he can't say he knows as much about trolls as he'd like to. His neighbors...what few he now has...keep telling him that he's better off giving trolls a wide berth, if he does see them. That doesn't change the fact, alas, that Maury's always had a special passion for trolls; one, alas, that seems to be doomed to never be sated. He'll soon learn, though, that he'd better be careful about what he mopes about.

This is a spring. It's fed by a small waterfall. Here, the cliffs are much higher...and a bit more intimate. But then, the spring's probably had more than two ages to erode things to where they're as deep and hollow as they are now.

THIS is what Maury's come to do. Here, he strips. Here, he sits, on his knees, in the spring's shallows. Here, he washes his face. Here, he bends his back over behind him, and meditates. Good thing his arms don't go to sleep.

In the shallows around his legs and submerged midriff, characin fish swim. They're sometimes joined by shiners. By night, these fish glow. They soon will, too, just as soon as...

It happens. The sun sets. Now, only shadow covers this ivy vale. Now, it's as vulnerable as ever. And yet, it seems like the only time evil ever truly goes home is when he owes a relative judgment. But then, in moments like these, Maury is never more thankful to be childless...and not to mention without influence of any kind...unless the meat he eats, of course, ever tries to avenge itself...or the mothers of the grains he eats a bit more often. (Grains are cheaper than meat, after all.)

The ivy is a place that the local nightjars like to call home. Surrounded by concealment, they lie here. They're always prepared to flee, of course, if a mumakil comes barreling in. Lucky for them, though, the nearest mumakil is way too far Southeast of here to concern oneself with. Alas, that's also not to say that there are no local giants who could turn these nightjars' basking grounds into a living nightmare.

A few more werecats, too, frequent this vale at night. But then, they've probably got cached burrows nearby where they spend the days. Either way, there are plenty of vermin among the ivy for them to hunt for. The sycamore woods, too, often have presents for them to chase. All they've got to do is be patient. Proudly, they're legendarily a lot better at that than most dogs; weredogs, wargs, and normal wolves included.

A black bear, too, comes to forage. He comes for the berries; along with ivy and primroses, this vale yields a lot of those, too. He'd best steer clear of that nest with the giant jewel eggs in them. As for the rest of this vale, Maury included, they'd best steer clear of him. He might look like a human skin-changer from the Anduin... First of all, though, he might not be. Second, even if he was, he might not be friendly to any other human he meets...or at least not when he's a bear. The bear, after all, is a lot more feral than the human skin-changer. But then, rumor has it that the werebeasts, too, have the same tale to tell about their own feral halves. Case in point, this bear is armed and ready to fight if it has to...even if he is just here for the berries and moths. Good thing none of the moths, then, are the nearby great eagles' messengers. Alas, even if they were, the bear wouldn't get punished for eating them right away...for their eagle contacts would surely be asleep at this hour.

At long last, Maury feels he's gotten what he wants from the spring. He collects his raiment, and re-dresses himself.

In this part of the wood, there are trees whose trunks are surrounded by nets of ivy. These nets, it seems, take the shape of rope ladders. A gift from elf visitors, they might be... Either that, or they're purely here by chance. If so, they wouldn't be the first thing that came to this vale that not even the elves or Istari could explain. The ents never attend to flocks in which the "sheep" are often sick. Hence, sycamores seldom ever become ents. Or rather, when they do, they likely become wicked ents...hard to imagine though that might be.

Nonetheless, Maury could use some cover for the night. It's not that he minds the tops of the cliffs; it's more like these trees are closer...and not to mention less slippery. They're farther from the spring than the nearest cliff whose side hasn't been whitewashed by the spring's foam.

At the base of such a trunk, he stops. He takes some of the ivy in his hands, and prepares to make his nocturnal ascent...

Alas, he hears whinnies from far away. He turns and looks around. He soon sees he's no longer the only person in this vale.

His way, a company of six mysterious riders in black come. They ride aback great black horses. They wear gauntlets of mail armor. They whisper to one another, creepily, as they move along.

They're all clad in heavy black robes. This isn't hard to understand; it's the midst of autumn; the weather often demands such extremes in attire. Alas, Maury has met creatures such as them before...in the Barrow Downs, where many humans, elves, and occasional hobbits are buried.

Quickly, before they get too close, Maury ascends the tree he's about to. He climbs as high as he dares to. Once up there, he parks himself atop a branch. From up here, he looks down upon what happens next.

Near-simultaneously, the six of them dismount. They make windy thunder, as they hit the ground. Their mail jingles, too. Their black steeds abandon them and look for greens to eat. They won't have to go far; not only is this ivy edible, but it's promptly regenerative.

The six men in black are soon joined by a smaller specimen of their kind. This one arrives aback a black pony. He, too, is clad in a thick robe. He, too, wears mail gauntlets. He, too, has a creepy, possibly undead air about him... He soon dismounts and joins his bigger six brothers. Behind him, his pony scurries off after the horses.

Together, now, they stand. In a semicircle, they now stand. Something creepy, and potentially very scary, is about to happen; Maury can sense this.

Nearby, the bear probably can, too. He lumbers off in a hurry. But then, he can probably tell he's outmatched. Maury is less convinced before, though, than he was before, that the bear is a skin-changing human of the Anduin. Such humans, in his mind, are less likely to avoid danger...unless it's a bunch of Gundabad orcs with slaves' chains to spare.

With an unbroken, suspenseful stare, Maury watches, from atop the tree he's in, dreading what follows. These people, whoever they are, have "Minas Morgul" written all over them; he can feel it. He just...isn't entirely sure why they've brought a miniature version of them along with them... It's more like such people, after all, to eat children, than to shanghai them...

An anticlimax, alas, soon comes to pass, as all seven of them retire the hoods of their robes just behind their necks. These people, it seems, are not of the race Maury thought they were. And of that, Maury is relieved...although he also can't say he likes his situation much more as a result.

These people are neither barrow-wights nor wraiths. They're local dúnedain rangers of Eriador. They're akin to the last kings of Arnor. Ever since the fall of Arnor, they've been living in the shadows. Many of their number were wiped out during Angmar's great war with Arnor. These men either escaped or are descendants of the dúnedain who escaped. Maury would consider himself lucky to witness a gathering of so many...if only he himself was more of a monarchist.

The dwarven version of them, who travels with them, is a fallohide hobbit. Like the company he keeps, his sense of fashion seems Gothic; his hair is black, and he wears steel jewelry and black face paint where dayfolk would not. Most of his human companions, too, are as raven-headed as he; two of them are blond...but keep their hair shorter than their raven-headed companions do theirs. Five of these dúnedain are male; the sixth is a lesbian.

The fallohide is of the Bracegirdle family, of Hardbottle, a town in the Shire. He looks like he might even wear a bracegirdle, underneath all of that ranger's attire... As a ranger, he's quite gifted at pickpocketing silverware. But then, that's probably more of a fallohide talent, than a ranger's. Either way, it helped him become a ranger...a dúnadan, though, he is not...although one of his parents might've been...unclear, though it is, as to why his human parent would've gotten in bed with a hobbit.

Two of them wander away; the fallohide follows them. They approach a green that's mostly infested with kingsfoil, a local weed.

Here, they crouch. From their person, they draw daggers. Now, they saw away at the crowns of the kingsfoil weeds, attempting to collect some for their sporrans.

From atop the tree he's in, Maury scoffs. "These pseudo-kings," he mutters, "have got to be kidding."

As one of the dúnedain collects the kingsfoil, he stops, as he acknowledges a heap of nearby hog scat. He takes some in his gauntlet, surveys it, grins, and shakes his head. He moves his own carpals around, gradually disintegrating the long-aged scat.

Wild hogs, it seems, like to eat kingsfoil. It's also a very common hog feed, on the human and hobbit farms where hogs' sties are a staple. In such settlements, people have a very small opinion of the weed. If only they knew herbalism like the dúnedain do. They wouldn't believe that "kingsfoil" has the potential to poison a barrow-wight to death...or to cure a wound inflicted upon a human child...or a hobbit, even...by such a wight.

In their comrades' absence, the other four dúnedain mutter among themselves. Maurey, alas, can hear what they say from where he hides.

"I don't think Sauron," one says, "knows where we all are."

"Maybe not," another says. "But they can always get lucky. His orcs and wights maintain their mobility, where he alone is limited to the bedsteads of Barad-dur."

"He cannot move himself...but he maintains services that can. Dol Guldur, it seems, has been a hotspot of his servants' activity for quite some time. He might be planning to have himself transported there."

"I'd not recommend that. That fortress has been abandoned for ages. Its armories are long-dry."

"Alas, they can be re-stocked...and surely will be, as soon as word gets out, in the underworlds, that Sauron has traded his main headquarters for one that's closer to the free world of men and elves. I say we have a meeting and discuss sending a patrol there."

"Every time we meet, we put our race in danger. Every time we meet, Arnor becomes that much less likely to erect a new king."

"Gondor still stands."

"Alas, the kings of Gondor do not maintain popularity as they once did back when Anárion still held the title. They've also made more foolish decisions of late. A lot of our kin would know; many of them secretly serve in the ranks of Gondor's armies as ordinary knights. It's plain to see; the patriline of the kings of Gondor falters. It's only a matter of time before the enemy becomes more aware of this than he's better off being."

"Either way, Gondor is too far away. I say we set our sights on somewhere within our shorter range. Dunland, for example; I've heard rumors that the crebain are back, and that they're infesting the barn rafters and the corn fields like nothing the local Dunlanders have ever seen. What's even worse, I've also been told that a lot of the wild men who live there have been feeding them...on purpose."

"Since when did we become crow-exterminators...or even scarecrows?"

One of them surveys his own black attire. "Well...it's not like we aren't dressed for the job, now, is it?"

There's a long pause. Up in the tree, Maury shrugs, semi-agreeably.

"Very well. Those in favor of becoming part-time scarecrows?"

One scoffs. "Scarecrows who should be wearing crowns, you mean."

"O please. Who doesn't love the story of the peasant who became king?"

"No one, but... The humiliation of the story's first phase is something I'd rather not tolerate, if there's a more comfortable bed to be had."

"I've been told that most of the bedsteads in Dunland are a rather hard mattress...for the mattresses there are often made of stone. I imagine that the armies of Gondor, these days, are spread so thin that it should be less of a secret why there's less security in Dunland. Rumor has it that if Rohan was its own kingdom, rather than a mere province of Gondor, that the Rohirrim could better keep the Dunlanders and the crebain accountable in a way that makes the kings of Gondor look like little boys playing with puppets...if that's not exactly how their princes pass the hours these days."

"When Rohan is finally ready for that, maybe. But for now, Dunland needs more security. And who are we, if not protectors of the people? Would we not also do that job, if Arnor still stood, and we still had thrones to sit on?" He hesitates. "Thrones that aren't cesspits, that is to say?"

The seven of them heave sighs. "Very well; scarecrows it is...for better or for worse...with more gold being deposited into the 'worse' hat, of course. Wouldn't have it that way, if I was sure of better chances. Now, we ride South!"

With that, they summon their mounts. They return, with ivy hanging from their muzzles. A few of them express dizziness; apparently, they ate too many of the local blue violets.

Nonetheless, the six dúnedain are soon re-mounted. With staggering horses, they find their way out of the valley. Their lucky that their horses don't step into rabbit holes cached beneath the ivy. They're just as likely that their hooves don't get tangled in the ivy; "no hoof, no horse," after all, as the old saying goes. The Rohanese, in fact, probably teach nursery rhymes about it in day care for the children.

They haven't picked up Maury's scent at all. Maury's almost disappointed; he'd think that men who are worthy to sit on the old thrones of Arnor would have superhuman senses worthy enough to pick up the scent of an eavesdropper. Maury might not be a dúnadan...but he's semi-honored that he must smell like one, assuming none of those dúnedain know their own scent from fresh air. In many ways, humans judge themselves more harshly than others judge them. Too bad, then, that some of them can't smell themselves nearly as much as they could smell a skunk if one sprayed something near them...or even them themselves.

Either way, Maury has a sleep deficit to sate. So, he sprawls out over the tree branch he's on...like a panther...or even a werecat. Across a few nearby branches, after all, some of his werecat neighbors have already taken that stance. In moments like these, he couldn't be more honored to join them.

So, he does. Around all of them, the night takes its good, sweet time passing. The moon will soon set. Maury doesn't anticipate the dawn at all. But then, at least he'll likely sleep through it; he always means to. In such moments, though, he often wishes that he'd remember to eat some of those blue violets himself...if only to knock himself out where those black horses merely became dizzy.

He still doesn't understand what a bunch of royalty-descended men would want with such heaps of kingsfoil, of all things... But then, there might very well be a reason why they call it kingsfoil that Maury isn't old enough to remember...unlikely though this seems. But then, no one's ever accused the local library of his childhood of being adequately stocked...even less so now, than when he was younger...and getting worse, it seems, by the decade.

Within that enclave from before, the six troll "statues" still stand. Naturally, they haven't eavesdropped on a word that the vale's dúnedain visitors of late have said. Or...have they?

---

The next day, noon passes. Before long, Maury's resumed his hunt for the antilocaprines. There's not a Rohanese steed in sight...nor are there any dúnedain steeds. Good; maybe the antilocaprines won't get spooked. But then, with that in mind, Maury shouldn't be so harsh on the dúnedain; ever since the fall of Arnor, after all, "stealth" has been their figurative middle name. Maury just hopes that he doesn't one day accidentally cross arrows with one of them as they try to shoot the same antilocaprine.

Archery slung across his back once more, Maury continues his chase after the antilocaprine bachelor group. They travel rather quickly... But then, they are bachelors. Plus, again, antilocaprines are built for speed; and their descendants are destined to become even more so.

A demonic beast from the ivy-laden vales has become aware of the Arnorian peasant's quest. Hence, he's fallen in-step behind his new master. A hyaena, he resembles. Normally, a hyaena is a creature that lives in Harad, among mumakil. They're like wild dogs...and they eat like vultures. And where that is, they feast upon much more dead than a vulture would...let alone a wake of the same. For that reason, there are many in Harad...and within the land's few neighbors...who fear the hyaena more than they fear wights...or even Sauron himself. Lucky for Maury, though, this demonic beast seems to have no quarrel with the Arnorian peasant. He's here out of curiosity and boredom...and would happily abandon this little side-trip if it soon became apparent he had better business elsewhere. For the time being, though, he starves for antilocaprine meat. He's always starving; but at least unlike some of his kin, he doesn't always have to use this as an excuse to fall in line behind Sauron...or anyone else almost as bad.

Together, both man and demonic beast chase the bachelor group of antilocaprines. Far, they travel. Maury would have surely lost his way through the North Downs, by now...if the sun wasn't setting in the West, at present.

From nearby, the thunder of a stampede approaches. At first, Maury laments. He thinks that the Rohirrim is back. He thinks they're about to spook his game, once more...

Alas, Maury listens again; those aren't horses' whinnies he's hearing, scattered among the stampede's thunder. It's antilocaprines' bleats! And they're not just coming from the bucks and lesbian does; they're coming from an entire herd's worth.

Among hills within the North Downs, the antilocaprine herd runs. They seem rather frightened. Many of them look like they've seen a ghost...if they haven't. A barrow-wight might be trying to play a prank... Either that, or there's a wildfire approaching. This doesn't seem likely, though; usually, there are huge clouds of smoke in skies from whence a wildfire soon emerges. Maury sees no smoke. His new friend the demonic beast doesn't seem wary of such an ominous, sulfur-smelling cloud, either.

Resting assured that the stampede isn't coming right at them, the demonic beast sits, takes his back leg, and gets to scratching his own furry throat. It's a mystery, to Maury, as to how he doesn't rip his entire throat out, scratching it with that much force...

The cabooses of the stampede are soon past. It'll soon become clear that they're wise to be. What chases them, after all, won't likely be far behind...slower though it is.

Maury gets the first hint of their chaser's presence, when he hears a strange noise coming from where they just came. It moves slower...but is otherwise louder and scarier.

Soon, he sees it. It's a band of trolls. They're helmeted. Some, even, are barded. They all bear tall wooden poles, which they hold vertically. From atop these poles, deep buckets hang. From below, the trolls move these poles back and forth, causing the tops of the poles, within the buckets, to make a very loud and scary sound. They do this at a slow rhythm, and slightly in-sync...although half of them seem to be shaking their staves in opposite ways each time. Most of them seem right-handed...although it's hard to tell.

While proceeding through the Downs, some of them chant. They sound scary, as they do. Maury can't tell if this is a hunting chant, or just something they do to make themselves feel stronger. Maury can't imagine why this is necessary; trolls, by nature, are hardly dwarves. They're not dwarves at all; ever since the deaths of the many dragons and balrogs that once served under Morgoth in the First Age, trolls have been among Sauron's biggest and strongest servants.

Maury keeps his distance...but stays close. He's not inclined to walk away from this, of course. Whatever their intent, they're chasing his game. Maury also has a bad hunch that it might be their intent to extinguish the entire herd at once. Maury's not even sure if they plan to eat what they kill. And if they were going to eat them... First of all, big though they are, they wouldn't likely eat the entire herd...or even a fraction of it. Second, if there's one thing that most of the dúnedain are annoyed more by than a crebain that won't stop cawing...it's a troll trying to cook and eat any food they steal. Many trolls are lousy cooks, and they seldom savor what they eat as they're eating it. But then, being able to eat literally anything has its advantages.

Onward and past Maury, these trolls lumber. As they go, they cast long and spooky shadows against the many, green-covered hills they pass. Onward, they shake their poles, make those scary noises, and continue to chase the antilocaprine herd through the Downs. Based on where they're going, it's apparent they intend to chase the herd all the way to the Ettenmoors; swamps in the Northeast of Eriador that the local trolls seem to be fond of.

Keeping a low profile, Maury goes after the trolls' cabooses. Behind him, the demonic beast stays in-step. Maury's half-shocked he doesn't take the lead... But then, Maury does know a few things about the hyaenas of Harad; with the main one being that their clans are matriarchal setups; i.e. the females lead, and the males follow. Hence, if this demonic beast is a male, and he seems to be, then he's either an omega having an issue, or an exile from his clan. Maury can't say that he can relate...although he does know what it's like to live alone. At least he and this demonic beast seem to adapt to such circumstances like champs. Maury only wishes he could describe the very few neighbors he's ever had in a similar fashion...or any fashion at all, for that matter.

The trolls aren't going very fast...and yet, Maury's got a hunch that he's going to lose them anyway. This hunt, it seems, is just as destined to end in an empty bag as yesterday's became as soon as the Rohirrim spooked his chances all the way to Dunland...if the bachelor group of antilocaprines didn't actually go there. They were here in the North Downs, though, earlier today; Maury's already found evidence of this.

Alas, Maury begins to sense that there's a problem; he's outgunned. Even if the hunt were still on, it's clear he doesn't stand a chance against what the trolls are doing...if they don't plan to drown the antilocaprine herd in the Ettenmoors. It's just as likely that they've made a deal with some of the cyclopses there, to have the herds slaughtered. If it be that, now Maury knows he needs help. Ugh; were are the Istari when one needs some?

Again, the local library of Maury's youth was hilariously under-stocked. Alas, he knows of a library that might have a bigger selection. Alas, it's currently located among municipal ruins; one that was once a great city of Arnor in its heyday. In its slightly bigger heyday, it was the capital of one of the many splinter kingdoms that became of Arnor...right before the wraiths of Angmar swooped down and destroyed everything Arnor ever used to protect or serve anyone.

The wraiths of Angmar, though, didn't set fire to the library in the ruins of Fornost, though. Hence, as long as it's apparent that the Istari don't always come when they're needed, it seems that Maury has a need to visit those old city ruins. Hence, he takes a side-trip. Behind him, the demonic beast falls in-step. It's a bit off-the-path against chasing those awful trolls, Maury knows this. Alas, he stands no chance at all against them without some sort of knowledge that'll enhance his chances.

---

These ruins were once the great Arnorian city of Fornost. Once, Fornost was the only city in the North Downs. Deadmen's Dike, its ruins are now called. This city was once the capital of the Arnorian province of Arthedain. For a short time after King Eärendur's death, his eldest son, Amlaith, got to be the newly-independent kingdom of Arthedain's new, first, and only king. He was still king when Angmar attacked this city and turned him and many of his children into corpses.

Night has fallen. The ruins have been known to become rather spooky at night. Not that most would know; most people are never here at night. They're wise not to. The wraiths of Angmar might be long-gone...but many barrow-wights, rumor has it, have colonized the ruins ever since the last Angmarian garrison left.

All across the city streets and grounds, ashes of city fires still remain. Much fire burned, of course, when Angmar turned this city into a beacon. It was almost hard to believe that one of Morgoth's many dragons hadn't conjured them. The enemy had no shortage of orcs, though; they did most of the damage to this city. Few, they left alive. They wouldn't have, of course, if they'd given them half a chance.

This was once a royal palace. King Amlaith was its only resident. It was still brand-new, when Angmar's forces attacked it. Much fire, they set to it. One almost wouldn't believe they were targeting its residents. Many of them died, including Amlaith. A few of them escaped...and their descendants now ride alongside the dúnedain. Far to the East, Sauron still doesn't know. He suspects...and he's always sending servants over here to finish the line of Isildur off once and for all... But for the most part, he might as well be shooting in the dark. But then, it's also not like he doesn't have experience with that; the Great Eye, after all, pierces many things; shadow has always been one of them.

In a small ring-shaped garden before the fallen palace's facade, the remains of a white tree remain...but only barely so. The tree is mostly deadwood, by now; its branches have long become stubs. Once, the tree had at least two twins; one in Annúminas, and another in Minas Tirith. This...tree might very well have been that tree that once grew before the palace facade in Annúminas...considering that Annúminas, the old capital of Arnor, didn't get paid much almage during the kingdom's final years. Maury would also have a hard time believing that any of the last kings of Arnor would've wanted the tree for themselves; none of them were very patriotic, in life. Alas, none of them had the wrath to chop it down, either. Maury still finds it hard to believe, though, that Angmar himself didn't chop it down... But of course, wraiths aren't known for their need for firewood...although they have been known to use fire to execute victims...as if a wraith's scream wasn't already loud enough to split an innocent person's head in two...or blow it to bits, just as capably.

As one might expect, this tree hasn't bloomed in an eternity. By the time Angmar attacked this city, the last blossom had long fallen off. The season wasn't even autumn, when Angmar attacked...many November Men, though, Angmar must've sent to this city, when he destroyed it.

This is the city's front gate. Or rather, these days, it isn't so much as a gate as it is a gateway. Battering rams of the enemy have long since splintered the gate.

Slowly and subtly, Maury makes his way through the city's front gate. No one sees him. No one's near to see him. It's just as well; he's not here to flag anyone down...not unless one of the Istari happens to be doing research at this city's very library on this very night... But then, one might as well bet on a comet and a full moon happening during such a night.

Aloft, a lone comet streaks past the full moon.

This is the entrance to the city library. Naturally, the door is now in shambles; it was one of many pieces of wood that didn't remain intact due to Angmar's fires. Most of the books are likely still there, though; evil is not known to revere intelligence...let alone know its worth. It's more likely, though, that if the Istari ever kept any of their spellbooks in this library, then evil would've raided it.

In the streets, a spare halberd lies. Its last owner, no doubt, was once a citadel guard of the city, who fell defending it. By now, thankfully, his corpse is long-gone...as is the corpse of whoever he would've been protecting prior to his demise. Years later, his weapons still lies in the street. Unclear, as to why it hasn't been claimed by any of the city's few post-apocalyptical visitors.

Through the city streets, Maury creeps. He doesn't expect anyone to be here. But then, no one else does, either. Nonetheless, villains would still want to take up refuge here. Maury would expect them to. Last time he was here, at least, it was daytime; hence, he liked his chances better of getting in and out without getting attacked...shadowy though the old library's interior was, even with the light of day shining all around its exterior. Nonetheless, he's compelled to do this...much more though he risks this time around. He doubts that many of Arnor's human remnants would miss him much if he died here tonight.

Behind him, the demonic beast hasn't lost him. He still sticks behind his new master, surely prepared to protect him, if the need arises. Even in Middle-earth, such a bond between a human and a hyaena creature is a rare sight. A lot of Haradrim men, in fact, have been trying to bond with the normal hyaenas in their lands for centuries. And yet, for the most part, most of them can only dream of having with most of them what Maury has so easily cultivated with this ex-omega male.

Maury finds the halberd. He takes it up. Surprisingly, it's still got its blade attached to the end of its pole. Maury would've half-expected the blade to have been pirated by now...either that, or for the entire halberd to have already been claimed altogether. He certainly knows of a few armies in Harad who'd pay a pretty price for such a weapon...a mumakil calf, though it isn't.

It doesn't take Maury long to find this place. He's been here before. But of course, it was daytime, the one other time he's been here. This time around, of course, seems spookier than the first. But at least if there's anyone else in town, he can't tell. But then, he also has a spooky feeling that he wouldn't be able to, if they were here to do harm...or if they were just here to hide.

Bravely, and with the halberd in hand, Maury enters the library. Outside, the demonic beast stands watch. Either that, or he's too scared to follow Maury. But then, it'd be a shame to think that this demonic beast is the host of a pocket hell...and yet, is just as afraid of hell as most probably think Dante should've been.

Maury stops to acknowledge a series of runes that've been left on the walls of the entrance hall. Maury recognizes them; they're Istari runes. At this, he smiles, and taps some of them with his new halberd. Now he can enter while resting assured that not a single book in the library has been looted. The Istari, it seems, have bewitched the place with their own anti-theft runes. They glow blue, while allowing Maury to pass, once they see that his intent is not that of a thief's...and that his heart is as pure as a thief's wouldn't be.

Behind the main block, the library grounds lie. Once, many lovely shrubs and flowers grew; azaleas and cherry trees, especially. Grass grew on the lawns, as well. Water features generated waterfalls. Butterflies flew; and every warm spring, a few hummingbirds, too, came for a brief visit. There were gazebos, too, where visitors would read some of the books in the main block.

Alas, the grounds look different now. The trees, while still here, produce not one green leaf. The grass is scarcer and has only been brown since Angmar's infamous attack. Parts of the gazebos' stonework have crumbled. The water features flow no more...as don't their waterfalls or artesian wells. Only purslanes and evening primroses grow here, now...along with a few clumps of kingsfoil. Moths now, and not butterflies, live here. The hummingbirds haven't been by since before Angmar's attack. And the flowers have bloomed just as often as the white tree near the palace hasn't.

Atop stepped land on the grounds, a large anvil-shaped rock sits. Impregnated into its flat top, the hilt and hilt-ward half of a sword's blade have been wedged into the stone. That sword isn't likely one of Gondolin... It seems highly unlikely that the high-elves of Gondolin would've loved Arnor so much, that they would've left one of their fine blades wedged into some random stone within the city's bounds, if only to leave a protective enchantment to keep things from going bad to worse after Angmar attacked the city. Alas, it's hard to tell; not ideal, though the sword's placement seems...the sword's artistic designs are, in fact, some of those that match many of the other blades that Gondolin's blacksmiths once forged.

These grounds have not been without visitors. It seems that one of the back windows of the main block has been defaced; totaled, even. Whoever did it was very big; more importantly, though, they left a really deep footprint in the long-fallow flower bed just outside of it. There might, even, be more behind it... Or would be, rather, if it rained here more often. Maury can't imagine why it doesn't; if Angmar put a spell on these city ruins, it seems like he'd want the skies to be grey more often than not.

Inside the library, Maury begins his search. A local firefly, it seems, has become aware of his mission. He hovers before him, showing him the way among the library's many shelves of books.

Across a floor, a bearskin rug lies. The bear's fangs, it seems, are still bared. Maury mindlessly treads across this bear pelt, while following the firefly to what he hopes will be his quarry.

Aloft, the firefly casts a spell, conjuring a lantern. The lantern lights itself. Via a hoop-shaped handle, the lantern hangs itself from the blade of Maury's halberd. Maury smiles, and totes the lantern here and there, while conducting his search.

High in the library vaults, other such fireflies light themselves. Soon, the ceiling resembles a starry night outside. It sure as hell doesn't resemble the skies just outside. Maury's surprised they're still doing this for him; seems like they would've gotten bored, after decades of zero visitors. At least none of them seem overweight. Maury would be better able to tell, he's sure, if he himself were one of these fireflies.

At last, Maury finds a book that looks like it might prove to be of some use. Its title is Travels with Trolls. Its author, according to the binding, once called himself Gilderoy son of Lockhart. Hmm; Maury would hate to think that a bloke with a name like that was born in Arnor...

Nonetheless, the book, he pulls off the shelf. Keeping the halberd's pole under his arm, he stands, opens the book, and flips through the first several pages, to get a sense of whether or not it'd guide him through the dangerous process of taking on a band of trolls who seem to revel, more than they should, in poaching and taunting poor innocent little antilocaprine herds...

Alas, he finds the narrative dizzying. Whoever wrote this clearly had a fond opinion of himself. Either that, or he had a gay crush on an actual hero who did all of these great deeds... For all Maury can tell, sometime after these two men's adventures were over, the one who wrote this book cast a memory spell on the actual hero, to make him forget what he had to do with this...great adventure. That sounds outlandish; Maury knows. But if it were so, Maury wouldn't be able to say that that'd be the most bizarre thing he's ever heard of.

In a book cart nearby, another book lies face-up. Its cover features a bewitched photograph...of the author in a strait jacket, muttering something repeatedly. The book's title is Who Am I? The author has the same name as the bloke who wrote the very book Maury now flips through. His face, according to the moving photo, bears the likeness of Kenneth Branagh.

Deeper into the book, Maury soon delves. This might not actually be his intent; it's just as likely that he's gotten lost-in-thought. OTOH, he wasn't bluffing to himself, earlier, when he admitted to himself, internally, that whoever wrote this book had more respect for himself than for what he was doing...if these fights between himself and trolls even happened the way he's saying they did...

Behind and above Maury, a very large hand appears. It extends its pointer finger...and taps Maury on the shoulder.

In shock, Maury whirls. While doing so, he inadvertently lets his halberd fall over. The lantern, still hanging from its blade, hits the library floor. It shatters, and its light goes out.

To aid Maury's sight, the troll allows himself to glow. Maury nearly has a heart attack, while acknowledging the giant's great form. He holds his arms up and gets down on his knees.

"Take what you want," Maury tells him. "Kill me if you must. And...if you meet a demonic beast while leaving, I beg you to please not kill him."

"Take it easy, man of Arnor," the troll says. "I come with no blade for your back. Nor do I come with a cauldron for your smaller form. I only desire to talk."

Maury looks around. They're both surrounded by shelves of books; the troll's glow makes that clear.

"Would you," Maury asks, "prefer to sit?"

He shakes his head. "I know of a place we can do it. How do you feel about swamps?"

Nervously, Maury shrugs. "Is the eel stew there really as good as some say?"

---

Over a roaring fire, a cauldron bubbles. It's full of eel stew. The stew also has pike, burbot, duck, cottonmouth snake, and crayfish in it...among others.

These are the Ettenmoors. They're some of the greatest swamps in Eriador...greater, even, than the Midgewater Marshes just east of Bree. These are the troll-fells. Highlands surround them; Maury has to pop his ears a lot, just by being this high over the flatter lands of Eriador.

These highlands are a scion of the Misty Mountains, to the East...as well as the Coldfells to the South. Farther south than the Coldfells, the city of Imladris sits; a glamorous haven of the deep-elves. Mt. Gram stands nearby. Many beasts live here; some malevolent, some benign. Most, though, get bad press. But then, so does, often, the stench of swamp gas.

At long last, the stew finishes simmering. The troll takes up a great wooden ladle and serves his guest first. He then serves himself with a much bigger bowl. He shrivels himself, a bit, before chowing down.

"You come bearing peaceful gestures," Maury begins. He tries the stew. "You also seem to cook a lot better than what I've been told."

Maury observes, as the troll, Khumvar, takes in a mouthful of stew, raises his head, and keeps his eyes closed for a bit, before smiling, swallowing it, and sighing happily.

"You also seem to savor your food," Maury adds, "a lot better than what I've been told. From what atrocity's phoenix fire, might I ask, have these unexpected convictions been born?"

Nearby, the demonic beast feasts upon the flesh of a giant Wels catfish. He's not savoring his food nearly as much as Khumvar is... But then, first, he's a hyaena. Second, back when he likely lived in Harad, most of his neighbors were surely Haradrim men whose manners surely weren't much better than those of the orcs of Mordor. Besides, it looks like that catfish's hides aren't going to run out of flesh anytime soon...not even with the demonic beast eating it the way he is...

"I am not like my ancestors," Khumvar admits. "And as for my peers... A lot of them are more reactionary than I am. I do not condone their vision...for I am more familiar with it than I'd rather be."

"And...you come here to get away from it? I thought these fells were swarming with trolls."

"Swarming' is an extreme way of putting it. It is not normal, after all, for so many of us to prefer one another's company."

"If that be the case, then why were so many of you, earlier today, chasing a herd of antilocaprines across Eriador? And why were they trying to chase them here, to the Ettenmoors?"

Khumvar eats more of his stew. "Those beasts are not what you'd think. They come from an ancient world of forgotten habits that're better off left forgotten."

"What are you talking about?"

"You are aware of the more expected habits of my kin. Hence, I'm sure you've noticed their hyper-traditional nature. But do you really think their urge to commit to those habits is truly rooted in themselves?"

Maury shrugs. "A lot of religions seem to think so. Are you trying to tell me that someone's forcing them to be that bad?"

"Not just bad; ancient-methoded. There's a reason why so many of them side with Morgoth and Sauron each time there's a war. More than once, both Morgoth and Sauron have promised us...that is, my interested kin...an ancient-fashioned system where so many things would go back to the way they once were back when there were fewer humans, elves, and dwarves to keep us accountable. Most times, though, of course, Morgoth and Sauron would only say these things just to recruit us. In the end, though, I'm very sure that it was always their intent to betray us, if they ever got everything they wanted. They never have, of course; but that's not to say that there'll never be a first time."

"Okay; so your kin are old-fashioned."

Khumvar scoffs. "I don't know if I'd call it old-fashioned...because that would imply that my kin have too much respect for art. And you already clearly know that they can't even respect their own cooking...let alone each other's cooking."

Maury nods. "Well yours isn't bad, just to be clear."

He shrugs. "I wasn't trying to make it good. But then, I've always believed that sometimes the key to making something perfect...is just simply trying to make something that's normal."

Maury hesitates...and nods. "That makes sense. I think I've heard of a few things, in fact, that owe their origin story to exactly that."

"There's...something else about me that I should probably make clear. You've already seen part of it... But even now, you're probably wondering the full extent of it." With that, Khumvar shrivels himself even more...and shapeshifts into a lady of Arnor in her bath attire.

Now, Maury stares. "She" wanders up to the same stone he sits on, and sits very closely, next to him.

"Wow," Maury muses. "You're a skin-changer. I didn't know trolls could do that."

With a mirror and lipstick, and maintaining the shape of the lady of Arnor, Khumvar beautifies himself. Retaining his same androgynic voice, though, he speaks. "Technically, we all can. I just do so more so than my average relative. Again; most of them are anti-revolution."

"So...wouldn't they just skin-change into more ancient...forms? Balrogs, and such?"

"Most of them wish it were that easy. But for a lot of them, it's not enough to be normally-powered while doing so." "She" hesitates putting on her lipstick, and studies Maury. "They'd empower themselves. Many, even, would become superior trolls."

A long stare, from Maury, ensues. Nearby, the demonic beast has stopped eating. Confused, he whimpers.

"Do I even want to know," Maury asks, "what that's like?"

"That depends." "She" hesitates, while thinking... "How much do you know about...the great battles of the First Age...between Morgoth and the forces of good?"

Maury shrugs. "I know enough to know that in the case of most of them, Middle-earth would be best off if literally nothing like them ever happened again."

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint you...and believe me, I take absolutely no pleasure in doing so...but if some of my kin become superior trolls...then in the war that'll surely ensue as a result...a lot of those battles will repeat themselves...and this time around, they'll be over ten times worse...if not more. And you can bet whatever gold you might have on that last thing...because by the time they're all done...if they ever finish...it, and all of the good left in Middle-earth...won't likely last much longer.

Maury hasn't touched his stew, since this part of the conversation began. Nearby, the demonic beast hasn't eaten a sliver of catfish, either. He doesn't dare laugh...and not just because he thinks it isn't funny, either.

---

This is an estate. It is one of few who has survived the wrath of Arnor's sacking. Either way, most of its residents are Men of Arnor. Here, Gondor is still respected...if not revered...as are Elendil and Isildur...much, though Isildur probably doesn't deserve reverence, because of the One Ring thing. Lucky for him, though, most people who live in this estate have forgotten about the One Ring thing, as well as the One Ring...if they've ever even learned about it.

From a keystone piece, a garment hangs. Unclear, as to how it got all the way up there... Either that, or this estate has a poltergeist. Just because Angmar couldn't take his own cheap shot at this estate, it seems, doesn't mean that none of his servants still stand a chance...

Below, a woman, Lady Yvette, comes into view. She's dressed almost as nicely as this estate. But then, she's surely been trained to since birth. Arnor's sacking hasn't made a clear difference, where that is. In this home, one would be surprised if anyone knew of Arnor's sacking.

She looks up into the vaults...and sees the garment, where it hangs. She mopes, shakes her head, and paces in circles. As one might guess, that garment is hers. Either someone is trying to prank her, or someone requires more household etiquette than average...or both, even.

Soon, a ladder leans against the wall. Yvette needed some of the estate's domestics to move it for her...and fetch it. On a good day, they'd probably also climb it for her. Alas, today, they have to do a jester's act for one of the master's brothers, and hence, they need to guarantee that their own limbs would be in pristine shape, if they're to pull it off perfectly for the master's brother. Hence, where the climb is, Lady Yvette is on her own. She's not ready for this... And yet, what choice does she have...besides wait for the domestics to finish their jesters' act, as a gay man would probably do? (A straight man, of course, would probably do what Lady Yvette is so desperately about to do...)

One rung at a time, she ascends. It's a fragile climb; this, she heeds. But she really wants her garment back. To some women, their clothes are like their children...if they'll ever have any. Hence, they'd do anything for them...including risk life and limb...and not to mention the mockery...and the possible wrath...of a dead troll's head.

On a ledge, she now stands. Her stance is rather precarious. She's no elf. But then, there are some who live in this estate who still seem to think that the elves are myth.

Far before her feet, her garment still hangs. The keystone piece is designed to look like a troll's head. But then, it's just as likely an actual troll's head. Good thing, then, that this troll was petrified before the Arnorian masons made intricate work of its remains.

Through a side entrance, a black knight of Arnor makes his entrance. His helmet and plume, he removes. His weaponry, he leaves at the door. His sabatons, too, he leaves at the door.

Up the hall and above, she now stands directly over the troll's head. This troll's head is as good as taxidermy. If only it were harder to hang a garment over it, where it's pretty little owner couldn't reach it...

Below, the black knight wanders past. She doesn't see. She's more obsessed with her garment.

Below, the knight slows, turns, and looks up at her. He smirks...and greets her.

She hears him. She screams, spreads her legs out, and inadvertently experiences a short drop, a sudden stop, and a lot of groin pain. For a prolonged moment after that, her mouth is very open, as she gapes. As a maiden, she bears no scrotum...but that doesn't mean she can't get hurt this way.

She has, more or less, mounted the troll's neck. Or rather, she would be mounted that way, if this troll still drew breath...and if its head hadn't been detached from its now-stony body...whatever became of it, once the masons beheaded the troll's sun-petrified carcass.

"Ahoy, milady," Sir Flutterghast calls up to her. "Might I pose to lend a halberd?"

Still gaping...and also breathtaken by the black knight's manly appearance, she nods fervently. "Yes," she semi-squeaks, "yes, thy may. And call me a daft dingo, of sorts...for not having conceived that...very brilliant vision...for myself!"

He smiles. He's snickering on the inside; it's plain to see. "I shalt return, milady. Do not wandereth off." With that, he takes his leave.

She looks around, at her situation. She has no idea how she's going to dismount this troll's head...or even how she's going to get back on the floor. She...seems to be too scared to use the ladder to get back down.

---

This is a garden of trolls. Alas, the trolls have all been turned to stone. To the master of this estate, as one might guess, this is a trophy room. The troll-lord, some sometimes call him. And he's in good company; he has four brothers and a lesbian sister, all of whom are also troll hunters.

Among these terrifying sculptures, Sir Flutterghast and she take a walk. They've met before...but they barely got to know one another then. As a knight, it seems like his duties are always musting him away more frequently than humanity would have him around...as a friend, if not as a protector. Yvette also thinks she might've known him, briefly, when they were both kids... Although he's also insisted, in the past, that he's over a decade her senior. He could be bluffing about that, though... As will soon become apparent, the bluff is something this black knight has mastered more than rather well; maybe even, perhaps, better than the joust.

Among some shrubberies, the black knight's black horse chows down on the local greenery. Good thing he doesn't choke on the ornamental greens...or worse yet, those specimen plants that the elven envoys sometimes bring, each time they come to visit.

One of these trolls, it seems, is covered in a net of ivy. It's unclear as to whether this is a natural occurrence, or if the gardener deliberately did this on purpose as a means of codepending the master's anti-troll wrath...

Up high, within a tower, there's a window. From inside, its drapes are peeled back. The top half of one of the castle pages soon becomes apparent... He's attending his duties. On any other day, this'd be among his favorite parts of his duties...if not his most favorite...

The page looks down, upon the grounds. He sees the lady and the black knight wandering in circles, trading tales. They seem very involved; her more so than him. But then, it makes sense why she'd be so obsessed with him; he's got the marks of old battles all over him. And women always have sex dreams about the bad boy long before they ever consider the pluses of the good boy...if they ever do.

The page only scoffs, shakes his head, lowers the drapes, vanishes, and presumably resumes his duties. He's not very old...but he's clearly heard of things like this happening before. Unclear, as to whether he'd see himself as a fan of the outcome.

A bear sculpture, too, stands among these trolls. It's hard to believe that this one came from the same place as all of these other sculptures... Some would certainly hope this doesn't mean that Beornings, skin-changing men of the Anduin, become petrified in day's light... But then, it seems more likely that if this is what happened, the Beorning would've at least changed back into a man, while being petrified...

Downhill, the trees grow taller. The shadows grow larger. Waterfalls, too, become more common. The ivies, too, become more abundant...as do the willows. These grounds could use a groundskeeper...if the host isn't leaving the land like this on purpose. Unclear, as to why he'd want to. Ruins like this, after all, often become cradles for evil.

This is an archway. One cannot tell superficially, but this is a semi-concealed exit from the castle grounds. The master, it seems, has let down his guard around this exit in recent years. Either that, or his staff has...for whatever reason.

These are hills. There are many of them, just outside the castle walls. Grass cloaks many of them. Alas, rocks rise from many of them, just the same. Downs are near...although they might not be the North ones. Eriador, after all, has no shortage of downs.

These are castle ruins. Yvette's ancestors once lived here. Alas, for them, times changed rather quickly. Funny; for most of Yvette's relatives, times change too quickly. Either way, one generation of Yvette's ancestors decided that modernizing the estate would be wise...as a means of keeping up with their fellow noblefolk, if nothing else. So, her family evacuated this castle, and relocated into the one where Yvette was during her recent reunion with Sir Flutterghast; the one with the ugly interior troll art, which Yvette still doesn't know how she feels about. And now, this castle is little more than a garden of ruins...and a series of bunkers for wights, ghosts, werecats, and Jormungandr serpents.

Very large boulders surround this castle's towers. Some of them aren't what they seem. For the passing duo, though, for now, they maintain their monotonous nature. It's just as well; their other nature might actually be too hideous for most, anyhow...which, of course, is often what most humans think of boulders in general.

By the resting will of a tired mind, Sir Flutterghast has led her into these ruins. She's yet to figure out where she is. If she knew she was so far from the master's castle, she'd surely panic. If one didn't know better, they'd think this black knight had her under some spell...

Among these ruins, grackles often land. They're often joined by blackbirds, meadowlarks, cowbirds, orioles, caciques, oropendolas, and/or marshbirds. The blackbirds tend to leave the biggest messes, when they come...for they often summon the greatest numbers. These ruins are clearly a greater stranger to noise than they probably should be.

The doorways to many shadowy rooms, the knight and lady soon pass. Some of them lead into the ruins' old armories...which, by now, of course, would be vacant...or, seemingly vacant, anyhow...

As the duo passes a room, she slows. She stops and looks into the room's shadows...its bowels, in fact, they seem to be... Alas, if the walls are lined with human skulls, she can't tell. But then, at least if there are no human skulls, wights and ghosts are less likely to frequent such quarters.

It's very dark in here. Unclear, as to what her ancestors would've used this facility for. They probably used it to store food. It would've been unwise, it seems, for them to use it to store ammo; it's too close to the front gateway for that. Anyone, of course, could've snuck past the front gate and taken some ammo for themselves. And, as the old saying goes, "one's greatest strength, in the hands of their enemy, is a weapon against them."

Sir Flutterghast returns and takes her by the hand. She screams, as this happens. He calms her, alas, with her shadowy charm, and continues to lead her on. With her, he's on a roll. He shouldn't be; but he is.

These, aloft, are the castle ruins' tower tops. For many, it'd be a fragile climb up here...although the dwarves, rumor has it, have bred more than a few goats that could make the climb, tumble-free.

Up flights of stairs, within these towers, the duo ascends. The lady, despite her receptivities, still has not noticed the overly foreign nature of her circumstances...

Via ropes from the vaults, a petrified troll's arm hangs. Strange, as to how the ropes still do their job, so long after the castle's abandonment... Whoever lived here clearly hated trolls as much as the master, at the inhabited castle downhill, did...

Up many other stairways, the duo ascends. She steps on a very weak stone.

She screams, as she nearly falls off a terrace. Her escort catches her just in time. He grabs her by the flailing arm, and pulls her back towards him...

She soon finds herself in his arms, looking up into his face. She gapes. Her heart thunders. He seems rather calm and collected...if he's even having fun at all. If Yvette didn't know any better, she's say she isn't the first damsel he's saved this way.

Either way, she breaks away, and stands erectly, once more. She gapes, as she looks down into the abyss she's just mindlessly scaled. For once, she seems more aware of her circumstances than she'd rather be...

Once more, alas, the black knight calms her, takes her by a hand, and leads her the rest of the way upstairs... Again, he must be bewitching her; there's no way she would've accompanied him this far if she was in her right mind. Women often have to be, after all, in the presence of the wrong men.

This is the top of the tallest tower. Very strongly, the winds blow up here. The castle's old owner would've been a fool to not have a windmill up here... But then, he probably didn't hire his servants for their innovative talents. If he wanted to fly, he probably could've messaged Gwaihir.

Within a stepped well, the remnants of an eagle's nest remain. The eagle, it seems, that built this nest was much larger than a common eagle. She was surely, then, an eagle of Manwë; one of the great eagles.

Up here, the rooftop is flat. Each of the sides would drop off...if not for the rows of embrasures that fortified them. Via these embrasures, any knights who came up here would defend the castle against invaders, by shooting arrows through them. If one bends over and looks through the embrasures, and if they have good vision, they can still see where a lot of the arrows landed during the volleys...or during the attacks in general. Strange; if they were still good arrows, it seems like someone would've claimed them by now.

She has no memory of how she got up here. She's a lot more secure in the black knight's company than she probably should be. She'd hate to think this hunking gentleman had plans to maroon her up here...

A short wall of embrasures, they approach. Where it drops off, they stop, at last... For her, the vertigo kicks in, as she stands here. She'd hate to think her companion feels the same way; otherwise, she'd be even less secure than she is now. But of course, the guy rides a flying horse; surely, he's had to tolerate higher heights than this...

Before them, there is a splendid view. Many dark green trees grow below. Beyond, there's a lake, too.

Walls have been built to dam parts of the lake. Towers of waterworks, too, have been built within the lake's waters. Some would hate to think that enslaved troll labor made them possible.

Mindlessly, they hold hands. Gently, the black knight pries his grasp away from hers. He releases her hand and brushes his off.

He tells a story of Jormungand...a serpent that dwells in a pocket world who's been known to find its way into Middle-earth and terrorizing entire nations. He's also bad at chasing his own tail; like a colossal dog. Morgoth exploited him a lot, back when he was a threat. He would've also shared kills with the dragons; as culinary spoils of war, that is to say.

She yawns. So many conversations with her elders, about the differences between the right and wrong men... And yet, she's still falling for the wrong ones... It could be worse, though; this black knight could very well be one of the Nazgûl.

Aloft, a horse whinnies. The black knight looks up, and raises his arm, to shield his face from what little sunlight that remains of the oncoming dusk...

Lo and behold, a winged black horse approaches. Sir Flutterghast's steed, he is. Someone has, even, re-barded him. He...seems like he's in a hurry... He moves rather quickly...against the wind. He and the crebain of Dudland probably have beers, whenever Sir Flutterghast's back is turned...if Sir Flutterghast is even ignorant of this...

Near, the horse lands. He keeps his wings spread. He stomps his hooves, and keeps whinnying... Something's clearly got him vexed... He's trying to summon his rider. A great battle, far from here, demands the use of his ebony blade. Either that, or there's a damsel stranded on the top story of a burning tower, and she requires a knight aback a flying horse to relieve her of her peril.

While barely acknowledging her, Sir Flutterghast re-mounts his horse, whirls, charges across the rooftop, and has his mount flap his wings. Like an albatross, they take off. But then, rumor has it that most humans have to, just to stand a chance of flying like a bird. Yvette wouldn't know; she never has. And she's never met Gwaihir.

They leap off the threshold, and gain lift. Soon, Sir Flutterghast will be long-gone, aback his airborne mount... A great wingspan, it has. Yvette almost believes that orcs bred that big black stallion. Akin to the fell beasts of Mordor, it seems...

Far below, the fair maiden gets smaller, as she gets lower. She seems confused; like a doe in a ghost light. It also becomes more apparent, from this angle, how hard it will be to get down from where the black knight has deviously led her...

Up high, the black knight draws his ebony blade, and makes a war cry. His mount, in turn, spreads its wings, whinnies louder than ever, and rises even higher into the ethereal than he already is...

Far below, she gradually becomes aware of her situation. She's on a rooftop; there's no way down; no easy way, at least. There are no stairs, and there's no ladder. She'd hate to think that Flutterghast did this to her on purpose... But with some men she likes, she can sometimes never tell...

So, for the first five minutes, she does the first thing that makes sense. She cups her hands around her mouth, and shouts for help. Many repetitions of this, she commits. Alas, the great eagles must be having a cesspit break. Moments pass, and not even Gwaihir, their captain, shows himself.

She sighs and looks around. Looks like she's stuck up here. Damn her obsession with men; with black knights, specifically. Her elders keep trying to warn her that most boys who dress in black don't do so because of their taste in fashion...and that most boys have no taste in fashion, and that's exactly why they're so likely to get excited when the knights come around looking for proteges...and yet, as knights, they would wear fancy clothing to ceremonies...if they lived long enough to attend one.

It's gotten darker. A cooler wind blows... It chills, even... Below, wights are surely creeping around across the old castle's grounds. They might be in good company...or, cooperative company, in the very least. That doesn't mean, of course, they wouldn't compete for the same treasures, if they both found them, and wanted them. (Scoff), evil has no sense of fashion, and yet, it'd kill for treasure.

Far away, within the lake's confines, a water wheel, attached to the side of one of the waterworks towers, begins spinning. Troughs of water, within its rim, it levitates. Near the wheel's top, these troughs, one at a time, empty themselves into a culvert that's built into the side of the tower. Unclear, as to what power this lends... Just as unclear, as to who'd gain the most from this power's hoarding...

Nearby, a pile of bags lies. Unclear, as to what the burlap contains... Also unclear, as to why it'd be here. The best theory is that whoever once fought up here, back when this castle was last inhabited, would stuff these bags with some sort of arrow-proof substance, and then stuff them between the embrasures, to give the defenders up here a little more protection from the pending offensive... They surely only would've done this, though, if the offensive had them out-armed. It's also likely that because such an attack went that way, that this castle is now in ruins. That wouldn't explain, though, why the victorious party doesn't now live here. But then, if they were evil, they probably didn't want to become its new housekeepers.

From one, something winged flutters. It's grey-brown. Its wings are large. It might even, in fact, be...

She sees it. With too much hope, she leaps forth, and takes the creature in her hands...

She screams, and tosses it, when she sees that it's a very macabre weevil. Terrified, the weevil skips across the rooftop, flies through one of the embrasures, and vanishes. Yvette sure hopes he can fly... But then, it probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if it died from the fall. But then, this might not be possible; Yvette, to her great disgust, has heard of rats who can survive a fall from a five-story building.

Once again, she heaves a sigh. "Men," she mutters. "Why ever can I not merely settle for a tomcat or a bird cock, as Mother would have preferred?"

Not too far away, an eagle shrieks. Or rather, it sounds like an eagle. Alas, he does not sound like a great eagle. He might or might not be one of Gwaihir's. And if he is, he might as well be an FX recruit...because he's no eagle.

Hope rekindled, she rushes across the rooftop, and shouts for help once more. She shouts for help...but even now, she has no way of knowing who'd come...or even if who'd come would be friend to her.

Down from behind her, a great figure descends. He's got the talons of an eagle, it's plain to see... Alas, he...also seems to have...the fur of a panther, too...

Yvette screams, as her upper arms are grabbed, by great talons, from behind. She barely gets a chance to faint, before her new transport takes off.

His wings, it seems, are very eagle-like. They're large. In certain lights, they glisten like gold. Black streaks, too, some of them seem to have... They grant him much lift, as he flies. His wings, he seems, are even bigger than Gwaihir's. His passenger, of course, wouldn't know; to her, all such birds are too big for her. Big enough, though they are, to lift her off the ground, and carry her between continents... But then, that's exactly why they're too big for her.

Again, he has a furry belly. His midriff, and many other parts near it, resemble those of a cat; a very large cat, in fact; a werepanther, perhaps. Other parts, too, resemble an eagle's. He's clearly some sort of chimaera... He certainly has the atmosphere...and not to mention the stench of shisha and coffee plants...that is reminiscent of certain men from the steppes...

Farther into the night, he flies. Every now and then, he shrieks like the part-eagle he is. At least his shrieks aren't as noisy as those of a wraith... But then, it's also clear that if this beast wanted Yvette dead, he would've killed her by now. Most of Sauron's servants likely would've...assuming Sauron had no personal need for her, that is.

From his talons, the damsel hangs. Yvette might need a bath when she lands...and not to mention some heart-relievers... Good thing, then, that her captor is a bit of an herbalist. Nothing too bald-spotting; just a few tricks he's picked up from the Istari. In the land where he's native to, after all, very few plants grow. And the cactusfolk there hate being picked from.

They leave both castles far behind. Some of the inhabited castle's male residents will likely retire tonight without some of their preferred feminine wiles... Sir Flutterghast might or might not be one of them...much though he doesn't seem to deserve her wiles...

Within the castle vaults, the troll's head still hangs; just as stony as ever. If only he'd reel his tongue back into his mouth... But then, it's probably better that he was making that face when he died...as a sign of protest, aimed at those who killed him...