#daervunn

[poetry-draws]

"He's done it! With eight seconds left on the clock, Amdir has put the Greys up by one in the third period!"

last recorded goal by Amdir before getting traded to the Carn Dum Cargul. he was never the same

[thehelplessmortals]

Ranger doods 2

(Ranger doods 1) (+ lonely ranger dood)

[find-the-path]

Month-long fic challenge using these LOTRO Rangers + Situations prompts collected by a-lonely-dunedain. Minimum of 100 words, no particular adherence to timelines or canon.

21: Halbarad & injured carrying more injured

It’s perhaps counterintuitive to sling Daervunn over the shoulder that is actively bleeding, but at least that job doesn’t require quick response time. Halbarad holds his sword at guard and ready in his uninjured left hand, its blade already bloodied from four goblins that tried to stay their retreat.

Nan Amlug East is a sparsely wooded area. Small lakes, grass, and gorse exposes the rest of it to surveying eyes, and Halbarad’s back itches with the knowledge that he and Daervunn are visible for miles. They’re miles away from Esteldín, the distance compounded because Halbarad doesn’t dare to aim straight for it.

They’re sitting ducks, leaking blood into the water.

[incorrectlotroquotes]

Daervunn: Look, I’m glad everyone’s on the same page. Daervunn: But it’s the last page in a book titled “we’re all going to die”. Radanir: That’s not even clever.

[hallothere]

1 foooor… well, Radanir hasn’t been in the plinko for an entire minute-

1. Greatest fear/Phobias/Nightmares dang why didn't i see this before the other one

It wasn't drowning. It wasn't the dark. It wasn't wolves, bears, or any creature with a name. His dreams did not put him in a coffin or a sinking boat or even with a terrible wound. They didn't place him at the brink of death.

There were monsters in his dreams often enough. Orcs, wargs, trolls, brigands with cold eyes and sharp swords. Those were the challenges of his days, they might as well be the fight of his nights.

But one terror gripped him above the others.

Radanir stood in an open field. He could hear the wind, if not feel it. He could feel the tears pouring down his closed eyes. He didn't want to open them.

Open them.

It wasn't his voice. Not here. It was more an impulse, an internal order he could fight but never refuse. Not here.

He opened his eyes.

Before him stretched a bright field of pale grass. It was almost yellow, almost like shafts of wheat in a farmer's field. Somehow it managed to stand still despite the wind. The grass poked up like millions of spears, immovable against something so gentle as a breeze.

The wind moved other things in spite. It fluttered cloaks. Hair. Swords. Ties and tassels. The adornments of hundreds.

Some he could see up close. Even though none here could move, he could feel them even out of his line of sight. He stared straight ahead in his dream. His eyes took in parts and never the whole. Open fingers, gleaming hilts, open eyes, tarnished stars.

The cloaks were the greatest mercy. Even in dreams, they covered much.

Past the point of all endurance he awoke. Radanir bolted upright into darkness. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of the dream here again in the waking world. So many cloaks of green and grey, strewn haphazard across the ground like--

A hand seized the back of his tunic and startled him before he could scream. More still, it yanked hard until it flattened him. Then, with a deftness that surprised him, flipped to grab across his middle and pull him over. Sweating with fear, Radanir didn't have time to comprehend how one of the many corpses had taken him prisoner.

"Oh no you don't." Daervunn growled next to him. "Not tonight. You sleepwalk when we're back in the city again, not here. You're going to scare the wrong sentry to death, I swear--"

Radanir nearly dissolved with relief. Every muscle in his body softened and he collapsed like dough under the stern fist. To his surprise, Daervunn's grip slackened and he patted Radanir's stomach as if he was a cat finding favor with an exasperated master. He almost laughed. Chance happened to bring his bedroll next to the lightest, most irritable sleeper of the Company.

He dragged his own pillow a little closer, as Daervunn was not trusting enough to simply let him go. He sighed and settled back down. It was no field of the dead, only a sleeping camp. With one last adjustment to his pillow, he joined his kinsmen in easy breathing and peaceful slumber.

[a-lonely-dunadan]

Has anyone sent in Daervunn or Mundol yet?

Mr. "purple is a stealthy color" my beloved! he has a Look and he is DEDICATED to it! his quest in the Isendale are delightful! I mean, it's Awful to see another ranger captured after Everything Else, but it has a happy ending and overall he seems like, only slightly annoyed by the Situation which is hilarious. this man is a delight

oh yeah! Mundol! he's uh. totally not still writhing in a pool of his own blood in the mustering cave bc the devs forgot to put him out of his misery. that'd be fricked up! glad that's not what happened hahahhahahahahha!

he's alive and well and chilling at Saeradan's don't worry about it <3

[fash1onable-late-for-lotr]

So-

I did a thing- (yes they’re my favorite rangers i don’t take criticism)

[rhosinthorn]

WIP Week 1: The Pivot Point

She caught her balance just in time, saving herself from face planting into the dirt. For a long moment, she held steady, accustoming herself to the rush of magic that flooded her body, setting her nerves tingling. A tear slipped down her cheek, though it was impossible to tell whether it was from the sensation or the return to a magic-rich environment.

Softly, a familiar whistle rang through the air, and she instinctively answered it, moving towards the sound. It was a Ranger-call, one she knew by heart, ordering the listeners to report to the signaller. Answering calls came from all around her, and she wondered how many Rangers were in the woods.

To her surprise, the first person she found wasn’t a Ranger, but Glorfindel, his hood pulled up over his hair in a way he usually only bothered with for serious expeditions in enemy territory. He was perched on a low-hanging tree branch, legs swinging idly as he grinned at her, teeth flashing in the low light. “Mae govannen...what name are you using at the moment?”

She grinned at him in return. “I’ve been Bronach for over half my life, that’s who I think I’ll be now.”

A slight rustle in the brush, and two more familiar forms stepped out, forestalling her question as to why he was here, if he’d sailed decades ago. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the familiar faces of Halbarad and Daervunn under their hoods and cowls.

“How?” she whispered, stilling. And then bits and pieces filtered back to her, of dreaming, walking in what could only be the Gardens of Lorien with Irmo as he asked her if she had ever thought about going back to fix everything that had gone wrong in her life. She’d answered honestly, certain that such a thing could never happen, but there were two dead men and an elf lord who’d sailed for Valinor standing in front of her.

“My lords Irmo and Namo asked a favor that I was only too happy to agree to,” Glorfindel said, glancing to his left at something likely only he could hear. “I was told that there would be another four or so arriving, though I know not when. But I would not linger here; there is a foulness in the air that I do not like.”

“Where are we?” Halbarad asked, glancing about. “Namo came to us, telling us that we would return to you at the pivot.”

“It’s not just where,” Bronach whispered, options flitting through her mind like butterflies. “It’s also when.”

She pushed through the undergrowth, quiet from practice but not as silent as she could be if she paid attention. Still, unless someone observant was in the woods, what noise she made would be mistaken for an animal moving through the undergrowth. Behind her, she could just hear the others following her, but she didn’t stop until she came to the edge of the wooded area.

The others joined her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the decaying house perched atop the hill in the distance.

“You know this place,” Glorfindel stated from behind her, and when she finally looked away, his face was grim.

“It’s where everything began, the second time,” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly before turning to the graveyard below them. “It has already begun.”

“What do we do?” Daervunn asked, coming to stand beside her. “We’re here to help you.”

“We need to get to the graveyard.” Her lips felt numb as she spoke, plans pushing through the fog in her brain. She’d never quite forgotten the night of the Third Task, and the memory had lost little of its potency. “A boy...a boy is already dead.”

Now that she was paying attention, she could feel the fetid taint of necromancy rising from the graveyard below. Down there, Cedric was dead and her younger self was tied to the headstone of Tom Riddle Senior, watching as Voldemort rose from the cauldron to terrorize the wizarding world.

Suddenly, she was furious.

“The pivot,” she said flatly, remembering Halbarad’s words. “Halbarad, Daervunn, when we get down there, you’ll find a girl, young, nearly fifteen, tied to a stone. Get as close to her as possible, be ready to free her and get her out of there on my signal. Once it starts, follow me, and no killing unless absolutely necessary.”

She started off down the hill, resolute and ready, fingers flexing where they would have grasped her staff. Why it was not with her, she could only hazard a guess, but it didn’t matter. Not right now. Not when she was brimming with magic in a way she hadn’t been in centuries.

As an afterthought, she threw a universal translation charm at each of her companions. The dunedain, at least, would need to be able to communicate their intent to help her younger self.

Glorfindel kept pace with her as Halbarad and Daervunn peeled off, clearly approaching the graveyard from the far side. From her vague memories, Bronach thought they would be positioned well to free her younger self from the gravestone, but she narrowed her focus as she hopped the low wall dividing the graveyard from the strand of trees behind it.

“So, what will we be doing?” the elf lord asked as they slunk between the graves, towards the faint blue glow growing stronger as they approached.

“I’m going to raise the dead,” she hissed, already seeing the dark form of Cedric’s body, the cup lying just beyond it. “And you’re going to watch my back as I do it.”

A brief pause, and then Glorfindel said lightly: “Are you certain that’s wise?”

“Cedric Diggory did not have to die this night.” The ground heaved slightly under her feet, but Bronach ignored it, falling to her knees next to Cedric’s body, eyes staring up at the stars blankly. Gently, she closed them, straightening his limbs and wrapping his cooling hands in hers, resting them on his heart.

“Doomsman, I want a word,” she hissed.

The Pivot Point begins during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament but mostly takes place during Order of the Phoenix. It’s most assuredly an excuse to bring a bunch of favorites from Arda to the Harry Potter universe- eventual Glorfindel/fem!Harry, but the dimension-hopping crew from Middle Earth will grow to include four others.

Stay tuned for tomorrow! Let me know through likes, reblogs, messages, comments on FFN or AO3, or any other way you can if this is something you’d like to see as the first fic after Steady is the Hand is completed. It’s slated for eventual posting, but I don’t have a set order planned out yet.