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Farineld

Sindar of the first age, he has a bow that never misses it's mark.

0 · 289 views · located in Middle-Earth

a character in “Blood of the Third Age”, as played by Words of Oz

Description

Name: Farineld the Grey

Age: A little over six-thousand years old

Race: Elf

Sub-race: Sindar

Starting Nation: Was loyal to Lindon, but am currently in Murkwood

Physical Description: Elf with long gray hair that comes down similar to Legolas's (Farineld looks up to him) and a short beard. He wears Elven boiled leather and carries a quiver that never empties, a relic from the age he was born, and dual-wields Elven long-dirks. Seemingly young, but he has a scar that runs from top cheek to chin on his left side, he required it during the first age as a refugee child.

Personality Description: He is a soft spoken fellow. He keeps to himself most of the time, and patrols Murkwood for signs of things to release his aggression on. He's full of hate and short tempered because of the genocide of his people in the first age. He hates dwarves and most likely kill any on sight, and he also hates Noldor, but to a lesser extent. He loves dunedain and will follow any into battle loyally.

Reasons for Doing: His entire family was wiped out when the dwarves came down from Ered-Luin and sacked the kingdom of Doriath, but his life took a point beyond repair when his godparents and he were attacked by the sons of Feanor killed them too. Now he has spent the last six-thousand years with only the objective of watching the dwarf world burn.

So begins...

Farineld's Story

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Farineld sat up on a branch of the strong tree, lounging back half asleep. He was a Sindarin elf, having the gray colored hair of his people, it was long and had a single braid running past one ear, and a beard that was well kept and close to his face. Also on his face, was a deep scar that started from upper left cheek and ran down all the way to his chin, a sign of his youth. On his back was a green quiver that was laced with gold, it never ran out of arrows for it being a relic of his birth age, and a longbow that never missed its mark; he wore only light chain armor with a boiled leather vest. The color of his attire were the traditional of his people, gray and blue, and the rest was beautiful and intricate.
The days were growing long for Farineld, but that tends to happen when you're over six-thousand years old. Farineld was born at the end of the First Age, when a kingdom of only Sindarin ruled, a kingdom named Doriath, and life was good for he was part of one of the strongest houses. But then the Dwarven half-swine came down from their mountains and laid waste to the beautiful country while he was only a babe, and his godparent and he had to flee as refugees. However, not long after that, the sons of Feanor attacked our camp and became kin-slayers, but the Edain held them off so we could live another day. He swore to destroy the Ered-Luin dwarves.
Farineld heard the rustling of metal, and he could tell it was moving on the Forest Road. Farineld, without making a sound, got up and hopped from tree to tree swiftly. He came to a stop over a lone dwarf. He wore plate under fancy diplomat clothes, probably because of the dangers in Murkwood, and judging by the colors he was from the lonely mountain. His face was rough and soot covered and had a beard on it that ran well past his bloated gut, but it was well kept and braided to show nobility. Farineld slowly got the longbow off his back and a arrow from his quiver, he notched the arrow and pulled it back with a purr of bending wood. The dwarf suddenly became aware of Farineld's presence, but it was too late and the arrow flew. It sunk into the half-swine's neck and a fountain of red liquid sprayed everywhere, and he coughed blood before his limp body hit the ground. He gurgled for a few seconds before dying.

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Farineld searched the body of the dead half-swine and found some gold, a good amount of spices, and some documents; all of which was annoying to find for the dwarf was fat and an inch thick pool of blood covered the ground. He scanned the tops of the trees, looking for anything spider-like that may have followed him, and then a smile crossed his face. "Let the fell eight-leggers take you, you deserve no burial," he chuckled as he strolled casually away. He fumbled through the documents and thankfully they were all in common-tongue, six-thousand years of life and he still refuses to learn Dwarvish, and when one was a urgent message by the heading of "Dwarves at Loss by the Hundreds" he threw it out with the insurance that Dwarves would die.
However, when he came upon a certain document he halted and nearly tripped off the road, and in shock he jumped swiftly upon a tree and scattered swiftly towards the house of his king. Farineld could hardly hold his excitement as he burst into Thranduil's Hall, the beautiful craftmenship of the elves shimmering in every corner. After rushing up the stairs to the throne, he was disapointed to find Legolas standing next to the great seat instead of Thranduil in it, so he called out in a out-of-breath voice, "Legolas, I must obtain the knowledge of your fathers location." Legolas was a good and old friend for they were both Sindar in a Silvan wood knew there was trouble and asked for an explanation. "This document," began Farineld, "gives confirmed information from the half-swine of Erebor that the mines of Ered Luin have run dry, and a massive caravan of the dwarves moves east. They will be weak on these roads, and an ideal time to avenge Doriath."
Legolas looked confused for a moment but quickly regained understanding, and he spoke in a calm voice, "Do you not hear yourself, brother? The dwarves are already suffering enough to move to the aid of their rivals; it seems the Valar have already avenged your birth-land." However soothing this was to anyone else, Farineld was not convinced and stated his stance on telling Thranduil, but Legolas stressed that it would not be wise. Legolas told bad jokes in a bad attempt to laugh off the high stake situation, and then in a lighter tone Legolas stated, "Lord Elrond has called me forth to Rivendell for a secret council, and seeing how you are an old noble of Doriath, you must come." Farineld accepted, but told them to travel ahead, he must do something first.

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Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Deranan
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Farineld sat in the same tree from where he shot the messenger dwarf, and he marveled over where fate happened to put him. Thank the Vallar for that, however his kin had left him to find a way to punish the Dwarves himself. With all that in mind, Farineld set out to pave his own path to vengeance his own way, and fate would also give him the chance for that again. After he calmed down from storming out, Farineld happened to come by a group of orcs moving south and thought to pick them off to blow off steam; he felt a weird sensation as he picked off one by one yet continued to send arrows into their defiled bodies. After counting seven eye shots, he thought it was safe to loot, but then several dozen more orcs tore through the dense brush. Startled, Farineld hid in the tree, his face against the coarse bark; the smell of the orcs that littered the eerie forest was beyond foul. Yet no smell could match that of the Black Numenoruean riding one of the giant spiders that infest Murkwood, and a sensation like a heavy blanket numbed Farineld's senses as he approached.
Silently but surely, Farineld pulled his bow and aimed it at the fell sentient's skull when genius struck my mind, and even this foul meeting had light to it. In the black speech of Mordor Farineld cried out, "Listen or die old fiend!" Farineld saw his face grow paler than it already was as his eyes moved upward to meet the elf's, and with that the orcs drew their bows. But fate would have that the Numenoruean signaled his monsters to hold fire, so Farineld rushed the words, "I have information that could lead to the destruction to the Ered-luin dwarves."

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Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Deranan
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#, as written by claw
The journey south and slightly to the east had gone far quicker now that at least one of the party was mounted, though the Orcs would have complained if there were not running as if the very Wargs of Gundabad were behind them. On Deranans part he was in a small way enjoying the trip now that he would not have to listen to Orcish banter, and for a few days all had been going well. Though they had come across the tracks of another group of Orcs and were now following them instead.

It was the strangled screams of one of these Orcs that gave the group pause, hearing it at a distance away they had more than enough time to slow down and try to figure out a plan. The one Deranan came up with was simple and effective, half the Orcs were to go charging through the undergrowth ahead of the Numenor so if there was danger they would die first, with that out of the way the party picked up the pace and came across the dead bodies of Orcs a short way along the path.

With his eyes searching the tree line he ordered his Orcs to spread out and see if there were any survivors. Aranack moved a little further into the clearing and stepped this way and that in trepidation. A noise from high up in the tree caused them all to turn. He heard in the Black Tongue. "listen or die old fiend!" It took him a moment to catch sight of the speaker, a single Elf, though one that talked before killing was rare enough for him to bother listening too, he heard around him the creaking of Orcish bows and raised his spare hand in a motion to tell them to not loose, but to also not put their weapons down. It took him a moment to understand the rushed words spoken by the Elf, and to remember where were, though he didn't let that show on his impassive face, he replied in the refined version of one who spoke the Black Tongue frequently. "I had thought the animosity between Dwarf and Elf had ended, though I care little for your wars. Come down from your perch and tell me what you know." Aranack rose a little bit taller, even though he didn't understand the language he wanted to look as large as possible.

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Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Deranan
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"I like my perch thank you," Farineld quipped. He lowered his bow just enough to get the scroll out of his pocket, "I shall never forgive what the Dwarves, and I trust you do care for our wars seeing as you are an orcish commander. You must want the chance to put the head of your ancient enemies to the blade, for I know of a group of paticular malelovance that is weak. The Ered-Luin Dwarves have no more mines and their mountains ran dry, so they move east in their broken state for Erebor. You could hit them in their travels."

Farineld threw down the scroll which in fact was a pathetic excuse for a call-to-arms and ran, hopping so quicly from tree to tree that he knew no orc, or spider, could folow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Akash Character Portrait: Leif and Twig Character Portrait: Marick Character Portrait: Celebrian Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Gorthak the Piercer Character Portrait: Deranan Character Portrait: Kyouki Mari Character Portrait: Ian karkov
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(Let's get this shit revived, people :3 I tagged all of you so you would know my intention. We must get this ball rolling again!)
It is a beautiful, clear-skied day. The sun shines bright on a field of pure blue, illuminating the flowing green and gold fields of Eastemnet, much to the chagrin of Gorthak the Piercer, one of the leaders of Saruman's Fighting Uruk-hai. He looks over his shoulder at his legion, shielding his eyes from the annoyance that is the sun and growling at the competence of his troops. He prides himself on having one of the best-trained troops in Isengard's force, though the accuracy of that is disputed by some. Today, though, he simply needs to kill something. He hasn't seen battle in a long while, and executing incompetent Orc Snagas had gone from fun to grating. If he didn't get to feast on some man-flesh prior to getting to Helm's Deep, he just might go mad(er).

As luck would have it, heading in their direction was a large detachment of Rohirrim Forces, lead by an equally ill-tempered Rohan Captain named Mordren whose weary men had just had a run in with White Hand warg riders. They had defeated the riders with few casualties, but the experience of chasing down and killing riderless wargs was one that could make any man or horse tired and annoyed, and his men had the same general feeling. Currently he just wanted to run into some small band of Uruk-hai or Orc scouts to make short work with an raise the morale of his men.

Neither were close enough to spot each other just yet, but their meeting is inevitable, and wherever the Horse Lords and the White Hand meet, there's sure to be blood, black or red...

(Also...ignore the "Ian" character I tagged. He'd been rejected already. Not sure how he got on there.)