IC Story Thread: Ch.1,Ad.2 - The Far Reach

To Cirion, Túril says: Do not fear, young Sailor. The forest and its stewards are ancient enemies of the Shadow. We Free Peoples have nothing to fear from them. As a High Elf, Túril sees himself as righteous and pure. His arrogance inclines him to choose: Judgement, which he thinks he would easily pass.

We are enemies of the Shadow - and I believe we would be judged favorably by the spirit of the forest. However, I will accept the Ordeal if that is the consensus of the Company.

"Cirion, we are strangers here. Every land has its own people, its own ways, its own secrets. Since we have no idea what dangers may lie ahead, I feel it is less risky to face the Druedain's tests and have them as allies."

He listens to Túril and Éothain, and gives them an uncertain nod of the head.
"If we must... I will try my best to face this ordeal too..." his tone is not as confident as the others', though...

"Well said Éothain, and I too believe the ordeal is the better choice. Like Cirion I question the wisdom and need of doing this, it seems unnecessary, but it seems you others have set your hearts on it, so I will join you in it."

"That's settled then. Better be ready for the Ordeal. Who knows what they'll put us through." Duinhir says as the audience with the Elder comes to a close.

Cirion finds a quiet spot next to his companions and tries to, if not sleep, at least relax for the upcoming test.

His mind wanders in concern and anticipation of what this ordeal might entail. These are strange people, with strange customs...

Like say so do, Duinhir takes a rest.

Túril decides to meditate, hoping that his Elvish Dreams and Foreknowledge might give him an edge in his ordeal.

Éothain sits quietly, reflecting on past situations when he faced danger and uncertainty.

It was almost exactly what Duinhir had imagined. There was no dance ritual but a song and a strong drink. He felt prepared for this. He had to admit to himself that the song and the words as translated by Turil moved him more that it should. It was like an old forgotten memory returning, though he had never heard anything like it.

At the gesture to drink the tea, Duinhir resolutely picks it up and takes a good sip. He doesn't want to appear hesitant. Besides, they need to do this.

Cirion holds his breath, observing Duinhir drinking. Such bravery...

He feels the inner struggle between fear-induced caution, and the need to prove to his companions that he is just as brave as the Ranger.

But for now, he watches, to see Duinhir's reaction to the liquid...

Tea? Éothain expected a physical challenge -- climbing a tree, throwing a stone, diving into a sacred pond -- something that establishes his physical connection with nature. He clears those thoughts and allows himself to appreciate fully the ritual song and its unfamiliar style. The village will be thrilled to hear about this place and the Druedains' ways.

Approaching the tray, the warrior nods respectfully to the chanter, then takes a cupped handful of tea. I hope it tastes as good as it smells.

Kneeling beside Cirion, Túril takes the tea and prepares to drink. Seeing Cirion hesitate, he speaks in a quiet and melodious voice:
Gwaned i Valar, an arthad a nathron,
Ar hain ennim o luin, ar hain an gwarth.Túril drains his vessel and waits, somewhat wary of how the dreams and visions he’s accustomed to might be altered, but hoping that his words might have given the young Man some confidence.

Éothain closes his eyes. His body wants to focus on the sounds as he moves in rhythm with the chants. The music is felt more than heard.

The simple notes of a flute (an instrument he failed woefully to learn in his youth) grow increasingly louder, drowning out the now quieting chants. It's an ancient song. What is it called? Does it even have a name?

The flute stops and he warrior opens his eyes. The forest of the Druedain is gone, replaced by the familiar plains of Rohan. Is this Rohan? Those are the White Mountains. Where is Helm's Deep?

A white horse gallops pasts his right. Instinctively, Éothain follows it with a speed he didn't know he had. He realizes his armor and weapons are gone and he's wearing the tunic, breeches, and sandals of his farming brethren.

Yet Éothain keeps pace with the animal. The horse looks back, slows down, then speeds up. This happens again and again. Is the horse playing with me? They both slow down as they approach a small pond under a tree.

He stands silently as the horse drinks its fill. He resists the urge to mount the horse and continue their journey through the rolling plains. Instead, he pats the horse's neck. "Thank you for the run."

The drink was not as strong as Duinhir had expected. It didn't taste alcoholic. It was something different. Then he started feeling it. Like a tickling sensation on his skin. All of his skin. The rhythm made his head spin. He tried to fight it, to resist it. He couldn't let go then...

A banner. With seven white stars. The banner was set on top of a formidable tower on a hill. Without ever seeing it before, Duinhir knew this was Amon Sûl. Mighty of old.
Then the sky darkened and a shadow slowly crept over the tower that crumbled and fell into ruins.

The tower lay in ruin and all was dark when all the sudden the stars though faint and distant shimmered in sky with clear brightness. And Duinhir heard singing
A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath,
Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees
The starlight on the Western Seas.
The song and the stars gave him hope.

As the movements and the fire fades, suddenly…

Túril stands in the familiar halls of Imladris, though the light of the Last Homely House is dimmed, casting long shadows upon the stone walls. Before him, two figures emerge from the fading glow—his parents, Eilianneth and Brannamdir. Their faces are serene, but their eyes betray a deep sorrow, a sorrow Túril knows all too well.

Eilianneth’s voice drifts through the air like a gentle echo, soft as the wind through ancient trees. "Túril, our son," she whispers, her words both a comfort and a distant call. "You walk a path far from home, far from peace. The darkness seeks you… it knows your name."

Brannamdir steps forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword—the same broad-saber Túril now carries on his long journeys. Though his father’s form is ghostly, a shadow of his former self, his presence radiates strength. "You must remain vigilant," Brannamdir says, his voice grave and full of warning. "The Shadow grows. It will not relent."

Suddenly, the warmth of Imladris vanishes. A cold wind sweeps through the vision, and the shadows around him seem to stretch and writhe, consuming the light. His parents’ figures blur into the encroaching darkness. Túril calls out to them, but his voice is lost, swallowed by the creeping gloom.

A vast and formless shadow presses in, suffocating in its malice. Though it has no shape, Túril feels its weight, and with it, the gaze of an unseen eye. It does not yet reveal itself, but its presence is undeniable—watching, searching.

The vision shifts. In flashes, Túril sees distant lands: a fortress crumbles into ruin, armies of orcs and fouler things march under banners of despair. The scene changes again—a gleaming orb shimmers with dark intent. A hand reaches for it, and whispers stir from within, drawing Túril toward its power. He resists, pulling away from its pull.

In a final flash, Túril finds himself on a battlefield. Elves and men stand side by side, their faces etched with fear. Above them, a shadow moves—vast, unseen, devouring the sky. And then the eye finds him. Its gaze burns into his soul without word or sound, but the meaning is clear: You are already mine.

Túril’s heart quakes, but in that moment, his mother’s words return to him: Ú bain na-charned. Not all is pre-ordained.

Summoning his will, Túril resists. The darkness wavers, the vision cracks, splintering as the formless Shadow recoils.

In the fading light, he sees his parents once more—their faces silent but full of pride and love.

Then they, too, are gone.