"I have heard your name. In my homeland of Rohan, that name haunts the dreams of our children. They tell your story when warning children of the consequences of their actions. I was told the story, myself, when I was just the height of a young sapling."
"You wish to make up your mistakes, don't you?"
"You wish to make up your mistakes, don't you?"
"Heh heh, Sir, you flatter me. Tell me, of which perversion of the tale do they tell? That I prey on the unruly youngsters in their sleep? That I haunt the moors, hungry for the suffering of travelers? Or perhaps that I roam the fields of battles past, claiming the souls of men whom fled from combat? That one has always been a true favorite of mine.... And I seek only that which I was promised, I care not for my mistakes."
The last part was a flat out lie, but with his hollow voice and lack of a face, no man would ever tell differently. The usual fear of the living was what he'd come to expect by now, but there was a resolve here which impressed him. Hands were on hilts, but not a single sign of true fear. Not one shuddered or trembled, let alone fled in sheer panic like most he'd encountered. Though some things always remain the same. Their words were as cold as ever, though Valinor was nothing if not thick skinned from the centuries. That was until the elven maiden spoke....
âI know of who you are. A walking curse, the trees shudder when you are in their midst.â
Her words, above all, tore through Valinor like arrows piercing flesh. To feel such a sting from one who shared such a similar reputation as an evil or malevolent being. No, it was more than that. Why exactly had her words burned so deeply? All the Shade could do was stare at her with a semblance of disappointment.
"A Walking Curse...... I expected different from you, to not side with the mortals in their foolish mindset. Do the peasants and merchants not tell the same exaggerated and fearful tales of you, oh Witch of the Black Forest? Or is this simply the Pot calling the Kettle black?"
Though it seamed not all would be content with simply throwing out a few accusations, as Valinor's attention was quickly returned to the Gondorian whom he addressed earlier. This one was not a simple man of words it would seem, with his hand beginning to draw his weapon. Valinor had begun to unsheathe his in defense, when that damned bird got in the way of things. A great, white wing shot between the two, breaking up the conflict. The Eagle spoke out against their actions as if he were some great mediator of peace.
"We shall have none of this! You are comrades!"
"He challenged my people and my honor! Even when he has none himself!"
"You fly the banner of the elves more so then the White Tree and claim I have no honor? And I made no challenge of your honor, but of your intelligence, of which you are still failing!"
"I do not care... You have had your say, and you are surely a wrong choice to bear this rings."
While he was displeased with the eagle sticking his beak where it was not welcomed, the swift strike to the ego of this man of Gondor left a smirk on Valinor's face. That smirk was fleeting, soon replaced by sheer bewilderment. The source of this was the Hobbit, who simply fiddled with the ring with no fear, caution, or concern. The dark aura of the rings almost seamed to screech at his touch, calling out for a different bearer. The hobbit's aura was as clean as fresh fallen snow, with only fleeting specks of gluttonous hunger and slothful laziness. Nothing, absolutely nothing for the rings to take hold of and twist. No promise of power would tempt one that bore no interest in it. While the creature was small and rather pathetic looking in it's simplistic ways, Valinor could not dispute that this one should bear one of the rings.
The one he believed was called Ver.... Ver.... Ver-something-or-other. Of Bree. Anyways, this one spoke with a voice of one who believed he could command. He was wrong entirely. Valinor could scarcely see why any of these beings would heed the words of some bumpkin Lord of a backwater village. Nevertheless, he suggested giving one of the rings to the giant of a man. This one, a quiet and imposing figure. His spirit emitted many shades of light and darkness, though the dark being more of a haunting memory than any wicked deed. But that wasn't what made him interesting. Through those eyes of his, Valinor could almost see a sort of primal shimmer to him. He tried peering deeper into the barbarian's soul, only to have what appeared to be an enormous beast slash at him with it's powerful claws. Taken aback by this, Valinor tried to understand what he was seeing. Standing there, in the place of this giant was no longer the spirit of a man but the spirit of a....... bear?
By Isildur, what are you?
Then came upon them the discussion of who would bear the last ring, until the shortest of fellows stood up for the task. A Man was easily corrupted, but this one..... this one was different. His aura was light, blotted in darkness. This was a tearing, nagging shadow. One that haunted his every thought. One that he feared would never leave him. One that Valinor knew quite well himself. This was guilt. This man sought redemption with a fire and drive not seen in most mortal men. He would willingly sacrifice his very being to take on such a hefty burden, and Valinor knew that this kind of guilt would insure that Slanu would be torn to pieces in agony before he ever succumbed to the rings taint. Power was not what this one desired, and that which he did long for was something the ring could not promise. Valinor's finger stretched out, pointing to Slanu.
"You there.... Rohirrim. You carry my vote. But know that I care not for your permission. Should you or any others begin to turn, you have my word that I shall strike you down."