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[disfavour]

Humans! [ Good, now that he has your attention. ] There is a sickness aboard this vessel, a Dark Beast that harbours rot and the ruin of any that approach it. I, myself, suffered injuries that have now healed. It is a skilled foe that walks in shadow, a warrior of the forsaken. It does not bleed when wounded or hesitate to give harm and it will kill you, should you be fool enough to challenge it. Unless, of course, it decides to keep you alive for sport — those mortals who deliberately put themselves at risk do so at their own peril. If you believe you are strong, I am here to tell you that you are not. Keep your corpses to a minimum. 

Specifically: it carries a great chain that burns like embers, knows your mind and moves at incredible speed. Thranduil is aware of this demon, as are all those of Elvenkind aboard. 

[ Nuada, who brings the network this message from the corridors where he is patrolling, peers into the camera with wolflike gold eyes. You may have seen them around recently, instead belonging to one massive six-foot hound. ]

To those who are not human, I say this; stay with your brothers and sisters, send word over a secure line if any of you are attacked. All manner of Aes Sidhe, from my world or not, are my concern.

[ What else? His manner eases ever so slightly, as it is wont to do between comrades. ]

Loki — we must speak concerning the forging of your weapon. It is time to take up arms worthy of your skill, my friend.

Comments

[elvenking]

[Thranduil's eyes go from Galadriel to Nuada. His face is impassive. He trusts Galadriel, but the question is whether or not Nuada wants someone poking around in his brain.]

[disfavour]

[ It's not something he jumps at the chance to offer up, but neither does he shrink from his duty; he's the only one who directly met with the creature and if it is something from their world, this is their best chance of recognising it.

He inclines his head in a nod after a moment's pause, feeling the weight of Thranduil's stare on his peripheral vision. ]

Do what you must, Lady Galadriel. I wish to help.

[inafadingcrown]

It is appreciated, Prince Nuada. I know well the enormity of what I ask; I give you my word that I will intrude no more than is necessary.

[She nods solemnly before beginning- a little warning that she is about to start- and then her gaze changes. Her eyes harden somehow and become more distant, as if she's looking through Nuada, rather than at him.

Her touch on his mind is gentle, not at all like the beast he had encountered in the halls. It is never a comfortable thing, having another being inside one's head and the sheer amount of power that Galadriel possesses can be frightening enough. She is dangerous. But she is also profoundly good. And, true to her word, her interest is only in that one important memory.]

[disfavour]

[ One final nod of consent and he waits for the moment when she touches his mind. It's not wholly unlike the sensation of having Nuala shift through his emotions albeit far, far more direct; he can bear it and has loose preparation in tow, so his tolerance for the mental acrobatics merely makes his lashes flutter a little at first.

The memory is enshrouded in darkness and frost. Blood is on the floor, the stench of death and decay gives him pause and reason enough to silently unhitch his retracted lance. A tall figure approaches with a double-band of chain wrapped around its body, scarred and self-satisfied as it speaks. Its surprise is a fascinated undercurrent as it beholds Nuada who parries its words with an introduction, refuting responsibility of the death of whatever lies in a pool of blood between them.

And then the creature approaches, ensnaring Nuada's mind like a sickness. The prince jolts into a defensive attack that inflicts a new wound across a long nose but the figure binds Nuada's weapon along with his arm and batters him into a wall, slamming him to the ground with the lance pinning cloth as easily as batting aside a baby bird. Nuada snaps the blade (which regrows) and uses it to shield the sword that sings forth and does little to harm his foe, bellowing in anger as Nuada's blade slices through cloth and skin at a shoulder. The chain, when it snatches up Nuada's neck, is infinitely worse a fate to suffer than when it touched his arm. The lance is smacked and sends shudders up through the marrow of his bone and the hallway, already dark, flickers in and out of view. Elven steel clatters to the floor as his sword falls, and his lance is stolen with the sole intent of traveling up his prone body. Nuada is flung against a wall that cracks in veins upon impact.

The moment the spear slices through flesh to pin him far more thoroughly like a live specimen is one that burns white-hot; any shadows that Nuada has tried to call to his aid vanish. His mind screams and he recalls a similar agony right through his heart as he turned to stone (Not again, not again, not again) only this time he has no sister to die alongside him, terrified, and he passes out as the recollection spirals fear into the core of a panic attack.

There is silence, an echoing wake. The sludgy recollection of yanking the spear out and dropping heavily, crumpling in a slick pool of his own blood. He is as scared as an elfling of what the Beast saw, how it knew where to hurt him to greatest effect. There is shame and fury warring for dominance, but it is his loyalty to Thranduil and all the other elves aboard that helps him find his feet, setting off down the corridor as his mind and body blister with pain.

Wincing by the end of it, he has no idea when his grip secured on the sword set at his side. Noticing, Nuada stiffly releases the hilt. ]

[inafadingcrown]

[By the end of the memory, Galadriel is shaking. It's slight- just a tremor in her hands that she can't quite control- but it's there. She drops her gaze abruptly, leaving Nuada's mind once again solely his own. Leaving herself pale with wide eyes.

It's a few moments before she's able to gather herself enough to speak and when she does, her voice is kept at that carefully controlled calm; it's an effort to keep the fear from her tone and she doesn't entirely succeed.]

Morgoth. [She could have said more. Put her thoughts into sentences. But that name says all.]

[elvenking]

[The hot air around him grows suddenly cold. The color drains from his face. His eyes flicker to Galadriel, waiting for further words, hoping for some explanation that softens the worst thing that could possibly happen.]

[disfavour]

[ Regaining his sensibilities, he glances between the other elves and considers offering Galadriel an arm to steady herself, resisting out of respect when she collects her balance albeit not those faintly trembling hands. Thranduil looks ... rigid. Nuada still has no idea what is going on, so he's forced to cautiously open his mouth and ask, feeling the gravity of the name upon his tongue. ]

Who is Morgoth?

[inafadingcrown]

He is the greatest foe our world has known- one I thought we need not face again. [They should not have to. He should remain in the Void.] Once, before his fall, he was a Vala- one of the Powers of Arda.

[elvenking]

The greatest power of Arda. The most powerful being in our world, and its chiefest calamity. The Great Enemy he is named, and he was nearly our end. Galadriel, it cannot be him. He is chained in the Void.

[inafadingcrown]

[She casts Thranduil an irritated glance] Thranduil, do you think I could mistake him? It should not be, I know. Yet it is.

[disfavour]

[ Both are terrified, there's certainly no need for them to get annoyed at one another. Nuada weighs in. ]

The only thing that truly matters is stopping him.

[elvenking]

[It wasn't doubt in Galadriel, really, just denial. Thranduil glances away from her, slightly shamefaced.]

It took all the Valar last time, and all their armies in a war that ruined Beleriand. But that was when he had armies of his own, balrogs and dragons in legions. Here, he will not have his full strength.

[inafadingcrown]

[And she knows that, really, when she thinks about it. But she's afraid, which is something that sh is decidedly uncomfortable with- so, she may be just the slightest bit on edge as it is.]

And that may be our salvation.