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Avicienna
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Joined: 23 Feb 2013
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re: Andaler and the Moon, or the etymology of Orelle.

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"Born in storm,
Clad in Gold,
Brought us mourn,
Made us fold.

The sound of the Bell,
We hid in our shell,
The call of Orelle!
The mighty, but fell."

Ever yet, the stories of Nezduk are told to our children in every corner of Arda. Though every tribe, every family, and every Kin tells the story with their own choice of spice, the purpose has always been the same: To keep the gifted children away from the dark corners of magic.

Of course, both you and I have been told some version of this story, and probably both of us came to the conclusion that it is nothing but a mere fairy tell before we had reached the end of puberty, no? But let me tell you this, though likely different from what you have heard, it is based on a very true event. Not many alive knows this, not even Lord Elrond would admit to know this, but it is, and it is this:

Hidden beneath the forgotten years of the second-age, there was a dreadful week of shadow, now forgotten by us, but memorized forever in the veins of the arcane.

The first day of shadow was calm. It was not the first time, the moon hid the sun, and all of the higher-learned, commonly called "the Higher", were certain that this would not be the last.

The second day brought small worries, what was this omen? Or was it even one? The larva's had now infested the stomach's of the Higher. But abidance were chosen.

At the third day, the larva's had hatched, and patience had come to an end. The people were at unease, and so were the Higher. Fear had awoken, fear whom turned to rage. And some, even of the Higher, chose to turn to hate. With patience now gone, only haste managed to last. And when men of power turn to hate and haste, things were destined to even worse, become.

The third day was the peak. The landmark for some, while this tale was still retold in its truth. For that was the day that Andaler, the mage of the High, took the first step in the Quest for the Books of Dark.

Andaler was strong of will, but never strong of faith. This set of traits was what gave him his might, and also took him his mind.

When Andaler told the other of the Higher that he was to set out on a quest for the Books, no smiles were made, but at the moment being, they all knew of the need. For the sun was the source of life, and if darkness was needed for light, so be it.

The fourth day was the day of journey. Andaler, who had wished for a silent escape, was greeted by twelve brave men at the gates of his city (the name of which is now lost in the minds of the dead). Twelve brave, but common, men who knew the graveness of his quest, and wished to aid him their support. Withing these men there were brawlers, healers, tinkers, and even a philosopher, there to keep him sane.

He thanked them all, one by one, but told them this was a quest for him alone. His last word was followed by a flash, and then there was thirty seconds of daze.

Andaler's steed was quick. Quicker than most, and in fact, the only of its kind (this is the only part of this story which is still known today, though only by lords of Rohan, who to this day tell the tales of Joker the Jester) and by the fifth day he had made a journey most horses would take weeks to do. He had come to his destination now: the ruins of Angband.

As the mage of the Higher, Andaler knew that in the forgotten corners of the ruins, there still existed a path hidden by fell magic and which tangled down to the old library of Melkor, who of course we all know as Morgoth.

Andaler was freed of dread, his spells and powers were at such a high level that there was no need of such feelings (or so he thought), but an ooze of melancholy entered his body as he perused the stairs.

The way down were long and dark, and no spell even of Andaler's might could enlighten it. But his will would not fall, and at last he had reached his destiny. Now, the sight he saw, would bring tears to most, and it did Andaler, but for him, it was tears not of fear, not of sorrow, and not of death, but of delight. For the sight before his eyes, the thousands of books in the light of the green candles, were one of his dreams.

Through a crack in the floor, a strong light of flame were glowing. The flame itself was of great origin, and one glance of it would be worthy ships of gold and books of magic for any lore-master with the slightest love of his work. For it was a pice of the Flame of Ilúvatar, the one we all descend from.

Enlightened by this flame was a pillar. On top of this pillar was a book. A small book. Surrounded by no shield, no guard, nothing. For it was meant for destruction, and by the hands of whom did not matter. But Andaler were sure he could wield it, and use its powers to set the sky back in motion, and shed light on Arda once more.

The fifth night was of reading.
_______________________________________________________________

The moment the case of the book was closed, and all of its spells mastered, Andaler was no more. No body of man were to be seen. No steed quick and fair were now alive. Left was a creature, with a glow of green and an essence of black. Left was Nezduk. Who, by sacrificing his trusted companion, now not only had powers created for terror, but legs quicker than his bolts of flame.

At the sixth day, there were lightnings. Clouds were formed and rain flooded entire kingdoms, left were only relics and weaponry.
If you would have lived that day, and had looked upon the sky, you would see that all of the storm pointed to one direction, a spot were fell beasts were dragged to, and the creatures of nature still pure fled from in haste. A deep sound of bells could be herd from there, a toll that echoed away to the far ends of the world. A toll, that originated from one single bell, mounted at the pinnacle of a tower, built at the crest of the highest mountain. And under that bell, stood Nezduk, channeling his powers and aiming for the sky.

Though, now corrupted, Nezduk had a new goal. To not only set the sky in motion, but also to set it under his command. For he needed it as a device, as a latter, to reach the Halls of Illúvatar. But as his stream of power grew yet stronger, his bound with the essence of life grow ever the more thicker, and soon, fragments of his minds had been spilled into the clouds which his spell conjured, and soon his plans were spread through the rain.

In the sixth day, some could hear the sounds of forty-eight hoofs, galloping on their way to the tower with the bell.

At the seventh day there was wind.

And through the wind you could here a cry, a corrupt cry of pain and dread, a cry to dark for our ears to perceive the true meaning of, and all we could here was "Orelle!".


_______________________________________________________________
Epiloge:
Then, at last, the eight day brought light. The tower was no more, and not even a crate were left as a reminder. But were it had once stood, there were now twelve bodies (and twelve dead horses). Eleven of them were of men, great and brave, and the last one in the middle was of Nezduk, week of mind and now forever gone and dead. And surrounding this field of batter, there were a rune, of 'S', and the traces of quick hoofs.

And thus, Sinador had once again descended.
Draugtithen
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re: Andaler and the Moon, or the etymology of Orelle.

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So if this is the tale of a Loremaster turned evil, what is the tale of Sinador going to be?! wink


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JaqanHgar
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re: Andaler and the Moon, or the etymology of Orelle.

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Now that I can type here Sin I just want to say once again... well done, and you have too much time on your hands :P


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