01-05-2018, 12:17 AM
The shield maiden of Rohan stood tall and proud amidst the Riders as the Rohirrim arrayed themselves to break the siege that threatened the towers of the white city. Théoden of Rohan would lead the charge, and even now was rallying the men, hardening their hearts for the hour of steel that was nearly upon them. For her part, Dernhelm was as one fay, for she sought glory, and death, were it to follow upon glory’s heels would be accepted without lament.
As Snowmane bore the king of Rohan nearer, Dernhelm bent her brow, turning her face from her liege. Though her nature was concealed to all save the halfling by the helm of her secrecy, she could not meet her uncle’s eyes. Théoden rode past, voice clear and fell with the foresight of one who rides to their death. This was an hour for shriven shields, a last ride for honor and renown, before the end of all things. Dernhelm’s head rose once again, And the pride of Riddermark was in her glance, an echo of dreams long since relegated to the dust.
The blade of Théoden rose, glinting with the light of the newborn dawn. Along the lines, the horns of the Riddermark were lifted, a thunderous timbre that was rivaled only by the clamor of warriors on the verge of battle. Dernhelm’s own cry joined the chorus, as did Merriadoc’s, though in the tumult their voices were accorded little pause. Then as one great tide, the Riders of Rohan built speed, a force of power, a hammer of the west, all purpose bent on the ruin of the forces of Mordor.
Dernhelm rode with a fervor, and Windfola pulled ever nearer to the front as the Rohirrim’s charge drew neigh of their foe. Her Ashen spear was held at ready, and the barrow-blade of Merry was unsheathed as well. The Emerald wave struck hard and fast, and the forces of Sauron were dismayed. Their ranks fell to ruin and many orcs were felled or trampled underfoot.
Yet amidst the very triumph of Rohan, a black shadow swept over the battlefield, and Théoden king was assailed by a dark shape astride a terrible beast. Snowmane faltered, and the king of Rohan was struck from his saddle, trapped beneath his slain steed, as the Lord of Nazgul drew nearer. Dernhelm’s sight was clouded, and it seemed to her as though she had slipped sideways in her saddle, and fallen into a pool of darkness. A half-remembered dream assailed her senses and when clarity returned at last she found herself in a cloaking pitch as black as the most forbidden pits in Angband. Then the warrior’s spirit quailed, and a desperation took root upon her heart.
Then like the spark of flint on steel she perceived a pale figure, its white light a focus in the choking blackness. The being spoke, strange words of power of which Dernhelm could grasp but little. When the darkness was lifted from her eyes, the slaughter of Pelennor was vanished, leaving only a pale white expanse, upon which small specks of color and darkness could only intrude.
For some time Dernhelm remained seated by the pool, its depths eluding the all-encompassing light. At last, a new vigor shook her into motion, and she rose, arrayed in mail and emerald cloak. No sword bore she, nor shield, nor ashen spear, but without recourse, friendless and alone, she craved a full account above all.
“The halls of the house of Eorl are not set amidst a marble field.” She spoke at length, and the timbre of her voice went forth into the expanse.
“Be this fell magic of the Enemy or some fevered dream of horrors yet foretold, I shall have the telling, of this I swear.” And so resolved she set forth at once, and without burden of choice, for each direction seemed as hollow and empty as the other.
As Snowmane bore the king of Rohan nearer, Dernhelm bent her brow, turning her face from her liege. Though her nature was concealed to all save the halfling by the helm of her secrecy, she could not meet her uncle’s eyes. Théoden rode past, voice clear and fell with the foresight of one who rides to their death. This was an hour for shriven shields, a last ride for honor and renown, before the end of all things. Dernhelm’s head rose once again, And the pride of Riddermark was in her glance, an echo of dreams long since relegated to the dust.
The blade of Théoden rose, glinting with the light of the newborn dawn. Along the lines, the horns of the Riddermark were lifted, a thunderous timbre that was rivaled only by the clamor of warriors on the verge of battle. Dernhelm’s own cry joined the chorus, as did Merriadoc’s, though in the tumult their voices were accorded little pause. Then as one great tide, the Riders of Rohan built speed, a force of power, a hammer of the west, all purpose bent on the ruin of the forces of Mordor.
Dernhelm rode with a fervor, and Windfola pulled ever nearer to the front as the Rohirrim’s charge drew neigh of their foe. Her Ashen spear was held at ready, and the barrow-blade of Merry was unsheathed as well. The Emerald wave struck hard and fast, and the forces of Sauron were dismayed. Their ranks fell to ruin and many orcs were felled or trampled underfoot.
Yet amidst the very triumph of Rohan, a black shadow swept over the battlefield, and Théoden king was assailed by a dark shape astride a terrible beast. Snowmane faltered, and the king of Rohan was struck from his saddle, trapped beneath his slain steed, as the Lord of Nazgul drew nearer. Dernhelm’s sight was clouded, and it seemed to her as though she had slipped sideways in her saddle, and fallen into a pool of darkness. A half-remembered dream assailed her senses and when clarity returned at last she found herself in a cloaking pitch as black as the most forbidden pits in Angband. Then the warrior’s spirit quailed, and a desperation took root upon her heart.
Then like the spark of flint on steel she perceived a pale figure, its white light a focus in the choking blackness. The being spoke, strange words of power of which Dernhelm could grasp but little. When the darkness was lifted from her eyes, the slaughter of Pelennor was vanished, leaving only a pale white expanse, upon which small specks of color and darkness could only intrude.
For some time Dernhelm remained seated by the pool, its depths eluding the all-encompassing light. At last, a new vigor shook her into motion, and she rose, arrayed in mail and emerald cloak. No sword bore she, nor shield, nor ashen spear, but without recourse, friendless and alone, she craved a full account above all.
“The halls of the house of Eorl are not set amidst a marble field.” She spoke at length, and the timbre of her voice went forth into the expanse.
“Be this fell magic of the Enemy or some fevered dream of horrors yet foretold, I shall have the telling, of this I swear.” And so resolved she set forth at once, and without burden of choice, for each direction seemed as hollow and empty as the other.