These are woods. They're a scion of the Old Forest. This is where the Old Forest meets the Barrow-downs. Few ever venture here. Even fewer have been reputed to return.

Lantern in hand, a lone daredevil makes his way out into the woods'...questionable security. He's an Arnorian peasant. Morgan is his name; Morgan son of Moran. Many of his ancestors, too, were Arnorian peasants. A rare few of them became esquires of Arnor. Morgan can't relate. He's more of a nomad than a warrior. Long, may he be that way.

In this part of the Old Forest, there are just as many tombstones as there are trees. Again, these lands are just as much the Barrow-downs as they are the Old Forest. A long time ago, the men of these lands fought a great war with the dark lord Morgoth. Many died, of course. When the war ended, their sons and younger brothers dug and built burrows all throughout these downs. Into them, they left their dead.

Since then, though, the dead have not stayed there. They've been reborn...as barrow-wights. A wight, if you might ask, is an undead sentient spirit. For many centuries now, these downs have been crawling with them. They're semi-immortal. Their bodies, if they have any, are literally untouchable. They induce fear. Many have feral minds. They neither eat, drink, nor breathe. Many are necromancers. They've got total recall...and this would include memories they've not witnessed. Many can take the form of a human with transparent tissues; only their bones remain opaque. Many others can take the form of a revenant; a corpse which rises and goes on a vindictive rampage.

Barrow-wights, as a race, more than most other things, have a reputation for wrath. Again, their memory is inhuman; but the memories that influence them the most are the memories of their previously living selves reluctantly tolerating unnecessary judgment from either their neighbors, or clueless persecutors with foresight so rare. Thankfully, though, most of the people who would've lived when these wights did are currently dead. Alas, they've had descendants since; and some wights need to be reminded that a person's descendant and that person are two different people with two different pasts.

Morgan wouldn't call himself a wight-hunter. Alas, he's been neighbors with men who have been...and/or still are. He hasn't even had that many neighbors; living in a stateless society, after all, has its gimmicks.

He's mainly here, though, to investigate a few tombs. Plus, he has an ancestor who was once buried here. In short, he's curious. Plus, he might actually be willing to risk life and limb, just to learn if all of these stories about the barrow-wights are true. He wouldn't tell most, but he's always found them fascinating. He might or might not still think that, if he knew what the worst of them have done.

Atop one of these tombstones, a sculpture stands. It's of a cross-bearing angel. Or rather, it was. Since the sculpture's erection, someone's de-winged it. Now he might not be a fallen angel...but there sure seems to be someone out there who wants him to be. They might very well levitate, and wear a black robe... Or, they might just be filthy and have pale skin...

Between two trees, a line's been strung. From it, hides hang. They're small and covered in black fur. These pelts once belonged to church grims. Not no more... Back in the day, Arnor would pass laws against hunting church grims. Whoever slaughtered these poor creatures clearly couldn't be happier that Arnor is in ruins. Either that, or they just hate church grims. Either that, or they just love their pelts...or all of them at once, one would suppose.

Among the grassy weeds, moths fly. Very few of them are what they look like. They flutter around, pollenating the weeds' flowers. Only half of the moths out here, though, drink nectar...although they do get their food via a similar appendage of theirs.

Atop a tall stem, a mothfellow lands. She's a mothwoman. She's like a lilliputian...with great moth's wings. It seems like those wings would be of higher maintenance... But then, she is a mothwoman; her race is not nearly as notorious for its beauty standards as actual butterflies.

While perched, the mothwoman watches Morgan, as he lumbers past her. To her, he's a giant. To her, there's something about him... Something, even, to be revered, perhaps...

Alas, Morgan's a human. This mothwoman couldn't possibly have too much to learn from him. So, she beats her wings, and flies off. Good thing an owl doesn't find her before she finds what she's looking for...whatever that might be, if not a flame to do a Walpurgisnacht around...

Nearby, a warg pup lies dead. Unclear, as to what or who killed him. A dúnadan is the most likely suspect. In life, he was destined to become a fast and fierce servant of Sauron. Now, courtesy of a dúnadan ranger's arrow, his destiny will never be reached...if this arrow in his eye socket wasn't his destiny...

The mothwoman flies, rises, and lands atop the poor warg pup's midriff. From her mouth, she produces a very long hose-like appendage. She plunges its tip into one of the late pup's veins. And, she has a drink. All around her, she's soon joined by fellow vampiric mothwomen...as well as a few gay mothmen.

This is a creek. Its waters are excess, surely, from the nearby Brandywine and Withywindle Rivers. They're not nearly as swamp-like as some waters in this wood. There are also fewer wallows beneath the shallows, from whence revenants and vamps sometimes rise. Nelapsis, too, have been known to rise from such muddy wombs...

On some of the creek banks, rocks have been piled up. They've been long-eroded by both the creek's floods and the weather's rain. Some of them are rather large...despite the age and the erosion.

Nearby, Morgan is about to pass such a rock. Every now and then, the nourishing visions that the creek inspires him with distract him. But of course, many humans, of Arnor and otherwise, have been inspired by water features. But then, a lot of them also owe water features for their own survival.

Up from the shallows, a toad leaps. It lands on the rock, and perches. As soon as she's landed, she blows her little gular sac (which, of course, becomes a big gular sac, when she inflates it), and croaks.

Morgan stops and surveys the creature. There's something strange about her; she's wrapped up in many thin pieces of white cloth; like a woven cocoon of it. Some of them, too, seem expandable; the ones that bind her throat are flexible enough to remain intact no matter how big she blows her gular sac. This toadwoman, it seems, has been mummified.

Morgan's been told that there are nations of toadfolk in Middle-earth who are ruled by monarchs whom they call pharaohs. Which means that this toadwoman, here, is either some sort of joke, or an actual remnant of such a pharaohdom. Morgan's never known what to believe. He'd be lying, though, if he said that part of him didn't want to believe in the toadfellow pharahodoms...

Nonetheless, onward, Morgan wanders. Behind him, the toadwoman remains. In his absence, she blows her gular skin even more often...and croaks as much, too. One would hate to think she's trying to attract a mate. First, she seems past that. Second, Morgan would hate to think that these woods are stocked with toadmen who'd want to get abed with her...or whatever it is that toadfolk do to mate.

Up some trees, centipedes crawl. They're not what they seem. They're the offspring of a terrible giant; one, perhaps, that would've competed, or otherwise served in the same army ranks as, the dragons and balrogs of the First Age... For the time being, though, these little buggers don't seem to pose a major threat... Or at least not by day...

This is a clearing. Unclear, as to what made it...or why trees don't grow here. But then, there are probably a lot of rocks beneath the soil here. These are the Barrow-downs within the Old Forest, after all...

From a high branch in a tree, a rope hangs. It's of leather. Unclear, as to who tanned it...or how close to the Barrow-downs their family lives...if their family is even of the honorable type. It's been harnessed up there.

At its other end, something else has been harnessed. It swings like a pendulum, occasionally, as it thrashes and bleats in distress. He's surely hungry by now. Unclear, as to whether he's defecated. He'd surely want to, though, out his bladder, if he knew who did this to him, and what they'd want with him...

This is a lamb. He's been sheared. Unclear, as to why he's here. It's evident, though, that whoever set this up doesn't have good intent for the lamb. Or rather, their intent is, in the very least, antiheroic. He might not kill it...but he might not guarantee its welfare, either.

Out from the wood, Morgan arrives. He sees the lamb. He draws a knife, and approaches the poor creature...

Alas, he slows. He has an idea. Slowly, he rotates, and looks around, at the wood that surrounds the clearing...

It's gotten very quiet. Not a wind chime tinkles. Not a line bearing church grim pelts creaks. The wind barely blows.

For the time being, Morgan holsters his knife. Allowing the lamb to remain in his nearby predicament, he paces in circles around the poor creature, with his back to it, and starts speaking in a normal-pitched voice.

"I think you can hear me," he says. "And I think you know what I am. You might even know my resume better than I do."

Around him, nothing but silence surrounds the clearing. Nothing but silence, aside from the occasional animal noise, emerges from the wood.

"I don't know why you hide from me," Morgan continues. "But I think I know why you hide from humanity. They judge you. They think you kill everyone you meet. They even think that nothing good can come from you. I'm not like them. I don't want to think that you're all-bad. I want to think that your feral minds could only be a part-time asset. I want to think that you're capable of thinking before acting. I want to think you have staying power."

Silence follows. Nothing stirs. The silence is just as heavy as before...if not getting heavier. At least the day isn't getting darker. Barrow-wights are many things; weather-controllers is not among them. Some of them can... Morgan would hate to think they live in the wooded part of the Barrow-downs...

"Where I come from, there's an old saying. 'Where there's a temper, there's patience.' I believe that you fellows can be patient. And I'm sure of this. Because the story of your grudges? The story of how you can become so angry at someone from the world of the living, that you think you can only deal with it by doing unthinkable horrors to them while torturing them, right before duping them into manslaughtering themselves? Well...that's my story, too. I'm a chapter ahead of you. And I believe that if I can get that far in my own story, you can to. All you've got to do is let me talk to you."

Again, silence follows. Morgan's starting to like these guys; they're taciturn. He is, too. What few neighbors he's ever had have given him crap about it. Hence, in moments like these...and in general moments in general...he's happy to be taciturn.

"I know you're not at peace out here. Where I come from, there's another old saying. 'A barracks is war, but a home is peace.' Well...you might all consider this wood and these downs your home...but it's not. A home is where a soul can be Zen. I don't believe that any of you are Zen...but I do believe you can get there. I can't promise that I can show you the way. But I can give you a clue or two, as to where to look for it."

Once again, more silence. It seems hopeless. But then, it seems the wights have a lot of experience there...better for revenge though they are than for grieving. It's a shame, really...considering how many humans, during the First Age, grieved at their tombstones before returning to their everyday lives, having to have their meals at a table with one vacant chair. All of these wights owe those humans that...whether those humans are still alive or not. Morgan also finds it hard to believe that none of them have living descendants.

"I repeat, I just want to talk. So... Who's up for a holiday from being taciturn? Hmm? I promise it doesn't have to last any longer than anyone wants it to." He pauses. "I don't want it to last long either, and I'm the one petitioning for it. So, anyone? Anyone at all? Any humanity left in those shadow-like spirits of yours, hmm?"

Again, silence. A comedian could do a routine about this...if one hasn't already. The Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, Morgan's been told, sometimes has open-stage nights... He wouldn't know, though. He's never been the "Prancing Pony" type, after all...

He sighs. "I know I can't make you come out and talk." He draws his knife again, turns, and approaches the sheep. "Where I come from, there's also an old tale. It has to do with a slaughtered lamb. Any of you care to recite it for me, so that I don't have to? Hmm?"

Again, silence. It's sad; Morgan was almost sure they'd break their silence this time.

"Very well; tell it, I shall. It says that every time an innocent lamb is slaughtered, half of you pass on to the afterlife. Now...I know that a lot of you probably don't enjoy being wights. I'm pretty sure, though, that there are still a lot of people out there who you still want to kill and torture, before that happens. If I do this to you, I can't guarantee that any of you will stick around. But the point is, if you make it to the afterlife, there's no going back. You'll be stuck there. You'll never torture or kill anyone ever again. Is that what any of you want? Hmm?"

Again, silence. These wights are the perfect torture victims; they never crack under pressure. Back in the day, the Arnorian knight brotherhoods could've used a few privateers such as them. But of course, if human knights were good at privateering wights, more would've heard of such a thing.

From the hanging leather line, the lamb still swings. Once again, the poor lamb bleats. He wishes this would end; and he's stopped caring as to whether the end means him getting killed or him being let go.

"Very well," Morgan offers. "I don't want to do this...but do this, I shall. Common sense is clearly not the lingua franca of where you live...if you even have one of those." He scoffs. "I'm even half-willing to wager most of you don't even know what a lingua franca is!" He sighs. "O well. I guess some things just demand these things."

Morgan leans close to the lamb's muzzle and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Bear with me, little guy. If this works out the way I expect it to, you might not have to die at all...or at least not by any cutlery of mine." With that, he rubs the lamb behind the ears, and kisses him on the cheek; a "Judas kiss," if one will.

And now, Morgan performs an "Abraham and Isaac" ritual, to draw out the wights. (Morgan literally has no idea who those two men were, or why this trick is named after them...) Standing near the lamb's midriff, he draws the knife. He aims to run it into the lamb's midriff in a way that would kill it, if he hits his mark right.

Once again, the lamb hangs helplessly, awaiting its fate. Morgan still doesn't know if he should pity the judgment of whoever put the poor lamb in this awful situation...if that wasn't the wights themselves.

Now, Morgan is ready. He rears back and raises the knife towards the lamb's midriff. There is literally nothing, not even the lamb's harness, stopping the blade from drawing the lamb's blood, and doing worse. This lamb will be lucky, in fact, if his intestines are still intact by the time Morgan's done with...

As the blade is nths away from ending the lamb's life once and for all, Morgan stops, as he feels a really cold grip, embracing his wrist, keeping him from going through with the ritual. At that, Morgan's eyes open. Half-smiling, he looks down, at what could've possibly kept him from completing this little ritual...

The hand, to his delight, belongs to a wight. He's clad in a black robe...and levitating just beneath his hand. And by the looks of it, he's in good company...although it's unclear, based on how the company is assembled, as to whether they'd currently see themselves as that.

Behind the wight, a train has inadvertently been made...of other wights. They're all hugging the bulk of one another's robe. The train appears to dead-end within a thick shadow in the woods...although Morgan's pretty sure this is just a portal.

For a prolonged moment, the train of wights hangs in place, all clinging to one another's robes. The one at the "locomotive" of the train still grips Morgan's wrist...clearly hoping that Morgan doesn't slaughter the lamb.

Morgan smiles and arches his brows. "So you guys can hear," he speaks. "I almost doubted you."

The chain disintegrates, and most of the wights retire back into the wood. Only six remain behind. They gather in a levitating rank, and face Morgan. Morgan sheaths his dagger and faces them.

Behind Morgan, the lamb still hangs. He need not worry, though; his predicament won't last much longer. He can't say he's got a flock to get back to. But then, there might be some hobbit farmers in Buckland who could use another lamb in their own flocks...

"You are a human," one of the wights speaks.

Morgan chuckles. "Do you really doubt it? Or are you still not believing what's just now happened...for whatever reason? No intent of judging you, BTW."

Against that, the wights supply no immediate reply. Morgan can see they're all going to get along just fine...even if there might be some confusion before there's any comprehension.

"State your business," the same wight speaks. "Take your time to elaborate, if you must. Just don't think we'd take the same time for ourselves."

A prolonged moment of silence follows. Morgan doesn't actually know his business...off the top of his head. But then, this is the part where his will takes apparent nothing and turns it into something impressive...for most people, he'd be sure, if not these wights. But then, it's not like these wights didn't used to be human.

"I know someone who needs killing," Morgan finally responds. "As you might know, Eriador hasn't had a state to rule it in quite sometime. And the dúnedain are never around when you need them; they're too busy hiding in holes and dodging the Great Eye."

The wights continue to stare at him...all while levitating in midair. Their cloaks stream beneath them as they do, of course.

"I know you guys aren't exactly a 'death first' operation... And personally, I don't care how you get rid of him. I just want him gone. Hell, you could probably acquire one of those Morgul blades, and use it to turn him into a wight, like yourselves. And BTW, you guys can torture him as much as you'd like. The welfare of many, I care for; but Middle-earth would be better off if his was overlooked...constantly, in fact."

Still, the wights stare. Or rather, Morgan thinks they're staring. They never lower their hoods, and they never vanish the clouds of extradimensional shadow that they seem to delight in surrounding themselves with. Good god, Morgan certainly hopes that energy isn't coming from Morgoth's extradimensional prison, the Void...

"He's had more than three decades' worth of opportunities," Morgan continues, "to change for the better. Hell, by now, he's probably had five. I wouldn't know. He's never told me his age. But then, it's also not like we're drinking buddies."

Still, they stare. One crosses his arms.

"We wouldn't be, anyway," Morgan continues. "I'm not exactly a teetotaler, but... I like the idea of drinking, but... Call me a virgin if you must, but...I still haven't gotten past that part of the drunk's psychology where all liquor tastes bad."

Still, they stare.

"I know you guys like to be left alone. And I promise if you do this thing for me, I'll never ask for your help again. You can just go back into your holes, and torture whomever you hate, and... I'd also ask that you'd give my family a free pass, every time you consider them, but... I kind of don't have one of those. My parents moved on a long time ago, and... Well, they were kind of stooges, anyway, so..."

Still, they stare.

"You...do like torturing people, don't you? I mean, what's the fun in killing someone, when you don't get to remind them what they did wrong? I mean...it's not like they're going to remember just because they can. They never do. In fact, sometimes, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that everyone in Middle-earth had dementia except me."

At last, one of them speaks. "I think...that perhaps...a visit with one of our seers is in order."

At this, four of the wight's companions float away slightly, turn their entire bodies, and give him strange, and confused, looks.

The wight who speaks looks around, and shrugs. "He seems like one we can trust," he tells them. "I also have a hunch...and I know we have a lot of those...that our seers would think the same thing...if they met this one."

Morgan shrugs nervously. "Great. One of your seers..." He looks around. "Are...they anything like a king?"

"If they were like our king...we'd have their heads on a platter in a matter of weeks."

Morgan gapes. "So...not your kings."

"We trust them. And that's as high-tech as that gets." He hesitates. "It's...also unclear, to most of us, as to...what exactly is so 'technological' about relationships..."

Again, Morgan shrugs nervously. "They all take more than just being yourself all the time. I'm sure we all know that from experience...whether as living folk or as undead folk." He studies them. "You guys are undead, aren't you? I once met a dúnadan who told me that you're neither one nor the other. Living nor dead, I mean."

"Yes...we are undead." He acknowledges his mates...or whoever they actually are to him. "Follow us...and have more of your questions answered."

Morgan both smiles and shrugs nervously. "Lead the way, stoors!"

"None of us are stoors."

"Figured not. That's...just an expression, where I come from." He hesitates. "I don't know its origin story any better than you probably don't, BTW."

"Yes; we know the origin story. We know more than we've seen."

"Right; inhuman memory, and all of that. Forgot. No wait, what I meant by that is..." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Never mind. Show me to your seer."

They nod. Three of them lead the way. Morgan falls in-step behind them. Behind him, the other three straggle.

As they penetrate the wood, one of them stops, and looks behind him. The lamb still hangs from the leather tether. The wight sighs and turns into an ungulate which has a long scythe blade-ended tail. He rears back and slices the spot against a nearby tree that the leather tether is attached to.

From the branch, the lamb falls. He hits the ground, and runs away into the forest, bleating... He's clearly very relieved to have gotten down from that tight spot. Ashamedly, by next morning, he will surely have forgotten this ever happened.

The wight hesitates, while watching the lamb leave. He seems...to be having a moment of deliberation...and inquisition, it seems... Alas, he finally shakes his head, and levitates off, after the fleeting company.


This is the Withywindle River. It empties into the Brandywine...but not before amassing many swamps. Many swamp marigolds, these swamps yield. For a moment, as one beheld them, one wouldn't believe that this part of the Old Forest is infested with wights, revenants, and ladies-in-white.

Among the swamp lilies, eels swim. Unclear, as to where they lay their eggs; the Brandywine River doesn't empty into any sea. But then, there's a small chance these eels don't ever have fry at all. Either that, or they lay their eggs in some sort of pocket world...one that might or might not be the same extradimensional prison that Morgoth's been locked in for the past age...

At deeper depths among the lilies, salamander larvae swim. Some become rather long. Black, many also become. Many never grow up. A few, even, have been known to pirate toys from hobbit children living in Buckland and the Shire's Eastfarthing. Many of these toys are valuable, for they've been forged by the firebeard and broadbeam dwarf whitesmiths of Ered Luin.

Burbots, too, live down there. They look like a catfish and an eel had a fry. In the grand scheme of things, though, they're akin to cod. All of their kin live in the seas. Burbots, only, live in swamps such as these. They're not the mangrove type, either...much though they'd surely fit in among other mangrove creeps.

Lampreys swim about, seeking out big fish to suckle blood from. These swamps tend to have no shortage of them. Giant catfish are a favorite of theirs; they can stay alive longer, while being suckled.

This great tree, whose trunk looks like a cyclops's head, is Old Man Willow. In these parts, and to the barrow-wights, Old Man Willow is a god...of sorts. Much wrath, OMW harbors. He's no ent. He's no sycamore, either. He's a huorn. Huorns are sentient trees that ents have a soft spot in their hearts for. In short, huorns are sheep, where ents are their shepherds. There are more huorns in Fangorn, farther South. The Old Forest, in fact, was once part of Fangorn; OMW is one of the last remaining memories of this fact.

The six wights arrive...surrounding and escorting Morgan, as they go along. From here, they can see the huorn's "face." His face seldom ever moves. But then, it seldom ever has to. It's hard to believe that he's a beast of rage...as is common for all huorns, of Fangorn and otherwise.

One of the wights levitates forth. He raises the bottom of his cloak, and makes himself available to the sentient willow... In a way, the bottom of his cloak is like an opening flower. That...flower might be loaded with a few pistils...

The huorn responds, by generating animated roots. The roots reach into the groin of the wight's robes, and start moving in weird ways... As this happens, the wight rears his head back, and takes what the huorn gives him.

Morgan looks on, confused. "That seems lewd," he mutters.

"Lillith," one of the wights reveals, "is a lesbian. She has no natural use for her...reproductive parts. Hence, in undeath, she is compelled to turn them into a multi-tool...of sorts."

Morgan arches his brows, while taking this eccentric info in. "Well... Good thing no one else sees this, hmm?"

Soon, OMW's mouth gets wider. If Morgan didn't know any better, he'd say the huorn was opening it... Not to worry, though; this isn't a sequel to the gay eroticism from before. OMW's mouth soon becomes the opening to a cave. On one hand, Morgan hates caves that open this way. On the other, he's still anticipating getting to meet these wights' seer.

"Keep close," the wights command Morgan. "Do not get too close to the sights. They neither long for nor invite companionship."

"I know what that's like. I'll keep my hands in my own pockets."

Into the cave, the seven of them venture. Behind them, Old Man Willow will soon close his mouth. For now, though, he waits. He certainly wouldn't want a passer-by to catch him like this. But then, on a good day, he seldom has anything to worry about. No one ever ventures so deeply into these woods; or rather, no one who'd judge him for being what he is...or wonder why there are no ents around to herd him.

And now, the sights begin. Down the tunnel's path, the tunnel forks, and leads to certain rooms underground. Unclear, as to why the ceilings don't leak, for these tunnels, allegedly, are beneath a swamp. There are stalactites, though; these might have something to do with the swamp's moisture.

In one room, a great human head levitates within a tank of water. The head has tentacles for hair. He has multiple eyes, like an argus. Unclear, as to what he's doing down here. It's also unclear as to whether he needs to be in that tank of water...or if this beholder might actually be an amphibian.

In another room, an infant, who looks like he's made of wood, crawls around on the cave floor. Wooden limbs radiate from several parts of his body. His mouth has been pacified...in a way that gags him.

In another room, a golden jackal, with peacock wings, sits atop a big stone. His head has been black-bagged. Across the great stone he's perched atop, a great rug has been spread. The rug is the color of a sunset...and patterned after the same. Great bell-like tassels, it also has. Good thing the rug doesn't fly away with the simurgh still perched atop it. But then, the simurgh can probably fly too...

In another room, a lady-in-purple sleeps atop a prism-shaped stone. As she does, material objects levitate around her. She's a night witch. Alas, Morgan can't tell if she's one of the Istari...or just someone who pays protection money to the barrow-wights. Unclear, as to why she'd have to; Morgan certainly hopes her powers are better for more than just sedating people...or causing them to have sleep paralysis.

In another room, what looks like a corpse lies. It's been wrapped...bound, perhaps, even, in many strands of long white cloth. Morgan almost wouldn't believe that the man these strips of cloth bind and conceal was once a king of Arnor.

In another room, the coils of a great worm take up a lot of space. Every now and then, the great worm attempts to throat-sing...like certain nomadic horsemen who live in the North.

In another room, a multi-headed beast lingers. His many necks are long. Reptilian, his many heads are. Decapitated heads, of his own species, litter the cave floor beneath his many heads. This guy, it seems, really likes to think. Either that, or he just doesn't want to go crazy.

In another room, a coven of ghost-like creatures meet. They levitate and wear saffron-colored sheets over themselves. Most of them, it seems, have baby bumps. This...might not actually be a symptom of pregnancy...or at least not for the most part. They chant, too, as they levitate. In their midst, a dharma wheel levitates, moving like a gyroscope while doing so.

In another room, great beings of clay have a meeting. Many are headless. Many have Stars of David etched into their chests...whatever those are. They've lit candles; several candles set inside some sort of unique candelabra. Morgan's...not so sure what's so wrong with all of the candelabras in Arnor, or even elf-made candelabras, that these golems couldn't just use those instead...

In one last room, there's a boy in chains. He seems undead. He seems, too, to have murder in his eyes; they glow red. He's a revenant. He was once a boy of Arnor...or rather, a remnant of the same. Now his remnants are about to get exploited...by barrow-wights on a rampage.

"His name is Dante," one of the wights dares tell Morgan. "We have recently begun a sort of mercenary program. He would be our first student. At present, he is also our only student."

Morgan arches his brows. "He seems capable." A brief pause ensues. "Hope he doesn't torture my future wife...if I'm destined to have one."

"He has had a sweetheart, as well," one of the wights admits. "Her name was Beatrice. He wants us to resurrect her for him...in exchange for the revenant upgrade."

Morgan trades looks between his escorts. "And...will you."

For a long moment, they say nothing. "We are not at liberty to make any promises...to him, or anyone."

Morgan shyly smiles. "Right. I suppose the tides of hate have a way of keeping one blind to what the future holds."

"The future is invisible. He who does not know what that's like is no more a human than we are alive."

Morgan shrugs. "Well... I certainly can't argue with that."

Onward, the wights take him down the tunnels. By now, three of them have armed themselves with halberds. As long as the halberds' poles are, it's a good thing they don't get stuck in the tunnels while moving through them. But then, if they're wights, and if they're anything like ghosts, then perhaps they can shift the halberds' density to where they can pass right through the tunnel walls without getting stuck...


This is the seer's grand chamber. It's had much time to be developed; at least since the First Age, back when this chamber was likely a war room. Unclear, though, as to whether this war room would've been one of Morgoth's camps, or one of the good ones' camps...

This frightening sight, sitting in the stag-skin chair, is the wights' seer. Or rather, he's one of them. He takes the form of a human with transparent tissues; only his skeleton is opaque. He sits with a long halberd in his arms. He's not a grim reaper, then; grim reapers prefer scythes.

His stag-skin chair sits atop a stepped cave floor. At the base of the steps, a bearskin rug lies. Unclear, as to where it came from. It might've very well belonged to a skin-changing human of the Anduin... And yet, one would think that if that was the case, the human's corpse would've shapeshifted back into that of a human's, rather than remain a bear's... But then, the wights might know a few necromancy spells that could reverse that.

Near the stag-skin chair, a werecat sits. As a cat, he bears the likeness of such a specimen in the genus Prionailurus. Unlike most cats, such cats aren't afraid to get wet. As a matter of fact, swamps and lakes are their life.

In a great glass case nearby, a pair of angel wings flap around, looking for a way out. There is none; the master of this chamber has ensured that. It's apparent that this seer among wights once dueled with the ex-owner of those wings and won. Morgan would hate to think where those wings' owner is now...if he's even still alive...if "he" wasn't really a woman...or a child...

In a nearby grate, a cauldron bubbles. Beneath it, coals glow. What's in it is likely some sort of necromancy potion... Either that, or it's some sort of ghost food that's too macabre for humans to eat...

Along with a robe, the seer among wights also wears a peculiar sporran from the front of his waist. It's made of a strange fur; that of a church grim, specifically. Legend has it that hunting church grims is a popular pastime among barrow-wights. Skinning them, too, seems to be a hobby of theirs... One can't help but wonder if they use Morgul blades as dressing knives...

At last, the six wights arrive, still escorting Morgan. They leave him in the seer's presence, and levitate away, back towards their duties...whatever those might currently be.

Morgan takes knees atop the bearskin rug. To him, the fur is soft. But then, its late owner likely thought so, too. Morgan would hate to think who killed this bear. He'd also hate to think that this bear was really a skin-changing human killed by mistake...if his slayer was making a mistake...

A blonde hobbit girl arrives and presents Morgan with food. Confused, Morgan watches her leave. These...seem to be unlikely chambers, after all, to find a hobbit girl of such apparent innocence...or even a human girl with such attributes, for that matter...

In the bowl of stew Morgan's been presented with, maggot-like creatures writhe. Morgan has some experience with this. So, he takes up the wooden spoon that came with the stew, takes up such a creature in it, slides it into his mouth, chews it, and swallows. Hmm; it's a bit like a dumpling...only slightly mobile... Either way, he thinks he can get used to this. His mother, alas, might not want him to. The poor hag, in fact, would probably have a heart attack if she knew where her son was right now...if she hasn't become one of these wights...

Before Morgan, still in the stag-skin chair, the seer speaks. The features of his transparent face can barely be seen moving. His jawbone moves, though, as he does.

"Morgan," he addresses his guest, "son of Moran. Your interest in our kind, it seems, leads you to deep dark places at your own peril."

He shrugs, while eating. "I'm merely curious. Is that such a foreign memory, from your own time as one of me?"

"No, not at all. Either way, girls like that hobbit one, who hath presented you with that stew... They're often just as curious. And this is the sort of life they arrive at, just by putting the bad boy on the pedestal...if you know what I speculate."

"You kidnapped her? Does her family know she's here?"

"Yes and no...and, yes and no. We have been fair to her, since she got here. She...did not come here, though, in a way she would've expected. She was shaken, at first, but...she's past that now. Her parents are aware she's missing...but they think she is dead. They know not who to blame for her vanishing. They might as well blame the entire forest. This forest, as you must know, has a rather horrid reputation."

"Believe me; I've heard."

As Morgan eats, the werecat humbles himself, and slithers between Morgan's knees and the portable wooden table atop which the bowl of stew sits. Purring, he takes up refuge in the space between. He lies down, and closes his eyes.

"Hmm," the seer acknowledges, "my cat seems to take a liking to you... Very rarely, does he think so fondly of living humans..."

"That lamb I found in the woods," Morgan continues. "Was that your doing?"

"Was that a barrow-wight's doing, you mean? No; we never owe any lambs any judgment. We rather can't. Some kingdoms of men have olive branches; we barrow-wights have lambs. If someone strung up that lamb, they were no ally of ours."

"I could probably go after them for you... But then, I'm sure you all know that's what the dúnedain are for."

He breathes heavily, the seer. "The dúnedain are often our bane. Either way, some of them have become some of us by now. Long-lived, they are...alas, unlike the elves, they do die sometime."

"And what atrocities, of late, have they committed against you?"

He scoffs. "Can you think of nothing?"

"Good point. So... I take it that what I said to your boys, about the lamb's slaughtering taking out half of you... Is that really true?"

"First, they are not 'my boys.' Second, only the most wicked of us perish, each time a lamb is slaughtered. And that is seldom a drove of us."

"Well then, why did that one wight try to stop me?"

"That was Lazarus. He has a gay crush on one of the worst of us. He was trying to protect him. Otherwise, that chain of us who tried to stop him would've been shorter."

At this, Morgan scoffs. "Stopped by a gay wight. And I thought men who listened to their wives were too soft."

"Regulate better your mockery, Morgan son of Moran. One day, their misfortune could very well become your anti-same."

Morgan scoffs again. "I'd believe it if I ever saw it."

The werecat purrs, once more, while lying at Morgan's knees.

"My cat's affinity for you," the seer remarks, "is an apparent omen of sorts."

"Cats don't know everything."

"They think they're gods. I don't believe in such things any more than you'd rather. But I do know that fifteen of them created Middle-earth..."

"Yes," Morgan interrupts, "and one of them went bad and became Morgoth; I know the story very well. I don't always want to, but I nonetheless do."

In the glass case, the angel's wings still flap fervently. Some foes, it seems, just don't know when to tell they've been beaten...

Morgan nods in their direction. "So... Off which back of which perfect idiot's of a god's did you once pull that pair of life's finer things off of?"

"He said he was a messenger. He gave me bad news. And then...he gave me more bad news. We fought. I bound him, and then tortured him. And then I duped him into killing himself. With a Morgul blade, I cut off his wings and imprisoned them in that glass case. For now, they are my trophy." He acknowledges them. "But maybe one day yet...those wings might have yet to see the heyday of their service."

At this, the wings hesitate...and cross themselves, as if they were human arms...

"But he was, in fact," the seer continues, "a perfect idiot. The heavens are better off without him. They may never know it... But that does not make that any less true."

"I believe you. So... Is there anything I should be worried about?"

"Perhaps. There is stirring, up near the ruins of the old royal city. If matters get as bad as we all dread...we may have to intervene."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"For now...no. Either way, after having met you...I think there would be pluses, to having an envoy in the world of the living."

"I'd hate to disappoint you, but I'm no envoy material. I'm a lot better at continuing disputes than I am at ending them."

"I can see that you underestimate your own diplomatic talents."

"No. I can't. I shouldn't."

The seer sighs. "If you do not do this for us...and if you truly are committed to 'continuing disputes,' as you put it...then I might as well summon my forward guard back into here, and have them slit your throat."

Morgan sighs. "Very well. I do not know what I'm capable of...but I promise, and an committed, to being your envoy in the world of the living."

"Very good. Now, if I were you, I'd steer very clear of the ruins of the city the humans of Arnor once called Tharbad. Near it, there's an estate. I dread that an ancient power will soon rise from its grounds, and reclaim everything it once laid waste to, back in the wee years of the First Age. The power might or might not be something of our creation."

"One more question," Morgan adds. "Have any of you ever been in league with Morgoth of Sauron?"

He sighs. "I am not ready to tell you that. Most of us, I do not think, are. Either way, for the time being, you can count us as your allies. Yours...if not all of Arnor's remnants'."

"Very well. It's a deal. I'll steer clear of Tharbad...whenever I can help it. So..." He finishes his stew. "Who were you...back when you were...fully alive?"

He takes a deep breath. "In the beginning, sometime in the First Age...there was this jackass, and there was this hag. They got in bed together, and then..."

"Why don't you skip ahead to the part where I might or might not have heard of you?"

"Of course." He starts over. For this, he rests his halberd at his own feet. "In the midst of the great wars that happened during the First Age, balrogs infested the bowels of the Misty Mountains. I was a human...and I belonged to an alliance of Elves and Men who were responsible for keeping corks in their caves."

As Morgan listens, he crosses his legs over the bearskin rug. By now, that blond hobbit has already taken away his eating utensils. She still looks way too young to be down here... Come to think of it, she seems too innocent to be down here...

Behind the seer's throne, a suit of armor stands. Its helm is rather admirable. The armor once belonged to a great knight of Arnor. By the looks of it, he was a white knight, too; most of the metal in it is forged of tin-steel. He was surely, alas, among the first of Arnor's last garrisons to fall, when Angmar infamously attacked, and destroyed, the strongest part of Arnor's state; what remained of it, anyhow. There is also, even, a hole in the armor's midriff, where it surely took one of Angmar's Morgul halberd blades. But then, it's late owner might now be one of these wights.


Over these lands, a fog has risen. The city ruins of Tharbad are near; about a day's journey. The stench of the swamps of Greyflood, too, are near. And to think that royal roads lead through here... But at least the local dúnedain have had decades, and perhaps centuries, worth of opportunities to become accustomed to the land's unpleasantries.

This is an estate. Inside, Cardolanian nobles still live. They're a remnant of the kingdom of Arnor...whether they mean to be or not. Their ancestors were once in communion, if one will, with Argeleb I, the last king of Cardolan, himself a descendant of Isildur...whether they wanted to be or not.

Upstairs, the master bed is full. Black and dark purple bedding conceal much of its mass. Domestics surround him. They stand in a rank near his bedside. Many bow their heads and cross their hands before them. One of them habitually pulls a kerchief out of her raiment and wipes her face; she is grieving for her boss's soon-to-be-passing.

The master ails. One wouldn't believe that he's a son of Elendil and Isildur; such men seldom ever get sick. Alas, the dúnedain have been going through a trough ever since the sacking of their Northern kingdom. Gondor certainly doesn't seem to have any cures with importing...and neither do the elves or Istari.

Downstairs, there are kegs of ale. They're all arranged in a very long row, lying on their side. Their taps face the dining hall. Once, great parties and feasts happened here. They may yet again...once the new order retakes everything. When that happens, alas, there might not be enough ale to go around. There's even talk of enslaving the ale-brewing hobbits of the Shire, just to ensure the ale supply.

Gradually, a man lowers a beer mug beneath where a tap lets out. He presses the lever with a finger. Out from the tap, ale flows. Soon, the mug is topped off. The top is foamy, too. Alas, who is here to marvel at the novelty's magnificence...but the man who makes this concoction possible?

One sip at a time, Myzym, a castle staffer, takes in that bitter brew. As he drinks, it poisons his soul. He's a man up to no good...as are all of his fellow reactionaries. They're mounting an assault. By the end of the night, they plot to have the castle's ex-master's head in a bag.

Between long tables, a black bear lumbers. Atop the long tables, the stools have been turned, by much of the other staff, upside down. This bear, feral though he often still is, has just about mastered the right amount of balance he must maintain, if he hopes to pass both tables without tipping them...or getting knocked out by a falling stool.

Before long, the bear stands behind his master. Eyes closed, the bear licks the backs of his master's heels...as if he thought that honey had been poured all over them...or, better yet, fine mead.

"Settlement, I beseech from thee," Myzym speaks, stroking behind the bear's ears. "Tonight's reaction impends, as anticipated."

In a hallway, a sculpture of an ex-lady-in-waiting of this estate stands. She didn't stay a lady-in-waiting, though; she soon become a full-fledged lady, as her master married her. This sculpture consecrates her memory...too much honor, though this sculpture's breasts do her. She's also portrayed toting an iron-forged shield...whatever that's about.

Down the corridors, steps descend into a shadowy hallway. The lady-in-waiting who lives at the end of it is very close to the master. Soon, alas, he will have abandoned her. It might take more than his ghost...or even his wight...to protect her from the reaction that will soon follow.

This is the door to her chambers. In a way, it's akin to a door to another world... Alas, it isn't the portal through which Morgoth was banished, all of those ages ago. In moments like these, though, it's better off not that way...for a villain is about to travel through it.

A hand, rising from a black mantle, presses gently against the door. The door creaks, a bit, as it opens. It takes its time, swinging open. But then, Myzym is in no hurry. Nor is he unsure that his forces will win the ensuing reaction. No threat, after all, is present to hinder their progress...or regress, as it more so is.

In spots around the room, translucent drapes hang. They hang, too, around the four-poster bed that stands in the midst of all of these wares. This is a lady's chambers...for the time being. The plotting reaction, alas, plots, perhaps, to convert it into a mill; one where scythe blades, halberd blades, and harquebus barrels are forged.

Across the bed, Zelene, the lady-in-waiting, lies. A brassiere, she's clad in. Long and flowing, her hair is. A dream, she emulates...whether that be by her will, or nay.

Zelene should sleep, it seems, with more security sewn up. Alas, up until now, she's had no need of it. And to think that Angmar has already attacked Arnor. But then, as youthful as she is, she might not remember that war. Or even worse, she was living in a bunker, or a structure of sorts, when Angmar came and reduced all of Arnor's royal cities to rubble.

Still cloak-clad, Myzym skulks about. There's something a bit too outrageous, about his behavior... But then, hopefully, by the time this interaction ends, Zelene will still be ignorant of his visitation...

"Many heartbeats of our master," Myzym mutters, "we've been compelled to stand for. Long, have the guardians of Arnor blessed him. Long, have the kings preferred him. Long, have the spirits favored him. Long, have the beasts fallen to his steel...be that his own, or of his staff.

"You're an aesthetic sight for a dim gaze, it's plain to see. Even now, the ale semi-blinds me, and I confess my lingering reverence for your beauty. Alas, any further confession of mine can only herald the terror that follows. I am just as much a child of the ancient, I lament to admit, as the many staffers I, even now, share this lofty space with."

From a wall nearby, a scythe hangs. Unclear, as to why it's here; this is seemingly a lady's chambers. But then, it might be here for self-defense. Funny; it seems like this household would've traded it for a harquebus by now.

Down from the wall, Myzym removes it. With velvet-like hands, he caresses its rough edges. With these wares assembled, he resembles the Grim Reaper. Alas, if only he could teleport to the afterlife like the same. He sure wouldn't mind leaving Lady Zelene in the afterlife, if he did have the grim reaper's powers...

"Many cares, we ancients take up, to protect the methods of tradition. Fleet, they often do...and yet, still, we commit. It can be exasperating at times. At others, it can even shame us." He holds the scythe up high. "The charms of the new are not too hard to understand. There's just one simple piece of logic that prevails, despite the victory of the fire over the phoenix; if a thing rises fast...then it can fall, just as fast."

Across the bed, on her back, Zelene still lies. Her breasts, brassiere-clad, are like hilltops atop her chest... They're a tempting MacGuffin for any man or lesbian. But then, her family once knew that...back when better specimens still lived.

Across the bedding, someone crawls towards her. They're in black. Naturally, she wasn't here when she went abed. What's even worse, she knew he wasn't here when she went abed. She certainly didn't go abed drunk...much though beer makes her boobs swell.

Myzym looks down upon her, and sighs. "Such beauty... It's hard to believe that the fleeting is its destiny. Alas, you are not a child of the ancient. The runes of old do not know you. The dawn of man never knew you. And the scythe and the sabaton are both too much for your delicate skin."

Her eyes bug open. Zelene sits up in bed and acknowledges the man who has dared trespass her berth's translucent concealments.

"A mother, you could've been to us," Myzym continues his monologue, "in another reality. Many ourea, you surely could've birthed... Alas, you are not the world-building type...nor will you ever be. And so, into the West, we would have you go...more elven, if only you were."

In the blink of an eye, Myzym vanishes. Silence fills the room, once more. And for a brief moment, relief does, too.

Confused, Zelene looks around. And then, she laughs.

Alas, her laughter is short-lived. The man in her bed was merely an astral projection. His physical self, alas, still stands across the room, still bearing the scythe.

"Regrettable, it is," Myzym continues his monologue, "to bump off something so seemingly pure. A more stable part of me wishes against this. Alas, I must be what I must be. I stand for a greater cause; greater than time itself. I am timeless. My cause will have its boons. No bulwark will stand against us. No protest, either, will sway us."

With a gauntlet-clad hand, Myzym casts a spell. Asleep, once more, Zelene soon falls...

"A few magi, I am aware, your matriline has yielded. At least one, I do believe, was once among the Istari. That maternal offal, I now hijack. In the blood of your foremothers, it made monsters. In yours...I will soon now make a mouse."

In her sleep, Zelene chants. As she does, vapors spew from her mouth. As the vapors amass, they take eerie shapes within the translucent confines of her four-poster...

"Capital circumspect, I advise to thee," Myzym wraps up his monologue. "Your stable arrangement in this lofty abode will not likely last. While you may remain intact, the walls already crumble all around you. The Ancient of Days is upon thee...and it will spare no future memory of the new world he shalt tear down to rebuild the old one."

With that, Myzym takes his scythe, and takes his leave. He has a reaction to attend to...as do many of the other castle's staffers. You'd think an employer would do a better job of screening his employees before hiring them...

Many more vapors, Zelene still chants. Amass, still they do. This entire space now becomes more translucent. Soon, it'll be opaque. And hence, soon, it'll be hard to breathe. Good thing she's this room's only occupant. Soon, it'll have a new set of occupants. And it will have been de-smoked, of course.

Upstairs, the master breathes his last breath. In doing so, he inadvertently fires the first shot of a mounting reaction. Once, the gods expelled the titans; now, the titans have come to reclaim what they've lost.

Out from the estate's doors, windows, and embrasures, smoke pours. From within, light glows. It seems, too, to get brighter, throughout the night. The reaction is gaining ground. And they haven't even found the back door yet...if they'll even need it by the time they're done...if they ever finish at all.

By morning, and old age will have resumed. Arnor will be lucky if Morgoth doesn't take this chance to be reborn. But then, by that instance, all of Middle-earth would be lucky. Arnor need not worry, though; Morgoth will not return tonight. Alas, some of his old servants might. They, too, after all, would have cause to join this castle's reaction...if they didn't plan to eat their teammates at the victory ball.

Out in the night, the barrow-wights still writhe. They might come to the rescue...or they might not. But at least they've a new human envoy...for whatever that might one day become worth.