(Blasted storm affecting the internet... took forever to get around to get this posted)

This is basically a simple adventure RP, since my last ‘Maihele’ one sort of died out without an interesting plot to keep it going strong. It happens a while after the Ring, and the location is Gondor, Minas Tirith to be exact. According to Maihele’s bio (as you shall hopefully read...) Firbrar has decided to visit the city to ‘amuse himself’. As you know (from the bio) he is a rather blood thirsty sorcerer, who likes to challenge Maihele to stop him from completing his murderous raids, though she sometimes fails to intercept, and thus the crime is often pinned on her, so basically she is chased by the officials as well, and since Firbrar is well traveled, and Maihele follows the trail of slayings, trackers and officers of many lands are known to follow in pursuit. This shall happen in Minas Tirith, and I will have later ones hopefully if this one turns out well, that will occur in other locations.

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The rules:

1. (Most likely the most important) No drastic powers, such as healing,
conjuring elements, and teleporting. I want this to be as natural as
possible. You can have skills, such as good fighting abilities, and you
can be skilled at tending wounds and such, but nothing drastic.

2. No powerplaying without permission, since this may come off as rude to some people, and thus create an awkward RP. Powerplaying or GodModding is when you create actions and reactions for your fellow RP'ers and you post them as your post without permission from them personally. Basically GodModding is also when you try to take over the RP and make it focus on you and your situation without permission from the creator of the RP.

3. If you join this RP late, please read the whole thread before posting.
It will cut down on confusion.

4. I would much prefer to see experienced RP’ers join, who have the ability to post lengthy posts and not one-liners. In other words, keep your one-liners to an extreme minimum! And also, please be generous with the information on your character, and post it in, or close, to the likeness of mine below. There are characters available if you would like, and they shall be listed below.

5. Last, but not least, give everyone a fair chance to participate. I know
things get out of hand and we all have a hard time with considering
everyone, but we can at least try. (So that I know you have read these rules carefully, post the word “Aerana” at the end of your character post when you first join) So be good, and have fun! I look forward to RPing with you.

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My Character (please read through, even if you have before. I made drastic changes):

Name: Maihele Ali'Bealathavain

Gender: Female

Translation: Death-Tears, Shadow Guardian of [the] Spirit

Race: Dark-Elf

Title: Death's Guard/Death's Hand/Death Hunter

Age: Unknown

Appearance: Pale complexion, nearly white, with slender features and a porceline doll-like facial appearance, though mature and fair. Raven black hair, layered and shoulder length, a lot of the times drifting over half her face, greatly contrasting her near white skin. Eyes of a deep color, glimmering like black pearls, though the iris at times flickers with an amethyst glow when caught by a certain light. She is not as tall as most elves, since she was malnourished when she was young, and her stature remained average, more so a mortal height, petite in a way, but with uncanny strength.

Personality: Quiet mostly, and cold, seeming without feeling, harsh in words at many times and vicious, without emotion. Sly in actions, like a cat, and cautious and complex in her wording, in attempt to instill confusion and intimidation.

Attire: Black tunic and pants, slim to her figure, with nearly knee high black boots, all in a matte finish, for concealment. Wears a large, well covering, black cloak, able to blend with shadows. Occasionally wears gloves, since her hands are so pale.

Weapons: An elegant black bow, with grey shafted, black fletched arrows. Two sais, their hilts black in color, with a silver glint in the edges of the bindings, the blades of a silver color, but with black runes deeply engraved on the surface of the deadly metal.

Other: A marking running down the full length of her right arm, that of entwined vines, twined around two black sais, point towards eachother, lengthways down her arm, along with runes of an ancient and lost tongue.

History: Maihele knew not where she was born, nor had she known her age, all that dwelt in her memory was being raised by a dark-elf sorcerer, and trained in the deadly dark arts he was devoted to. She had always refused to treat him as a father, for deep within was the feeling she had not belonged, and thus she knew him only as Firbrar.

The name meant Dark Crafter, and the sorcerer held little to none emotion within him and it was his claim that he held a realm of his own with black colors as his banner though his tale was that it had fallen into ruin and existed far beyond the Northern regions. Firbrar described these lands to her as desolate forests and abandoned fields, a land where many a sorcerer was born to. He had called himself Death, and took joy in slaying the innocent in cruel ways, as though it were the sight of blood he survived on.

Maihele at first refused to be taught by him, but soon learned it would prove painful to go against his word and orders. She had been a malnurished girl, pale to look upon, with a face striken by sadness, but she grew in strength and grace despite the beatings and starving, for Firbrar's training was ruthless and uncaring.

As Maihele aged in years, Firbrar discovered a cold way about her, and built upon it with his own influence, but Maihele was not fully turned by his dark ways. She had weakness of emotion still, and fell in love with a man who began to show care toward her, even when he heard what sort of being she was under apprenticeship of. It was by his convincing that she made the decision to leave. She escaped Firbrar when chance was given, married the mortal, and began to raise a family.

Firbrar, however, was furious at her decision and went in search of her, the betrayal proving fatal for Maihele’s husband, and even her two children. Maihele was furious, and she herself faced Firbrar, but was severely wounded in the battle that ensued. However, the dark sorcerer needed and wanted her, and returned her to health, but kept her under his influence, her existence becoming a life of pain and confusion, until she learned how to hide emotion.

Maihele rebelled against Firbrar once again, and sought to keep death from many who would surely be welcomed by their earthen graves by the cruel being who played the part of the reaper for his own amusement. Firbrar hunted her, and ran from her at the same time, a rule being whoever came between her and the dark sorcerer would die by his hand. It became a lonely life, and she grew more bitter and cold as the years wore on, a cold beauty dwelling as her presence. She remained on her path of chasing Firbrar, taking the title of “Death Hunter” intercepting Firbrar whenever he attempted to reach his hand out to grasp a soul undeserving of death, but never once was she able to catch the sorcerer himself.

Firbrar enjoyed the games of cat and mouse, and would even tell her, by way of written notes, who his next victim would be and where she would find them, just to enjoy seeing her attempt at saving those he went after. Several times Maihele found herself accused and sought after for the deaths she failed to prevent, for she was seen shortly after it happened, and the rumors spoken of her were cruel and heartless, but she had a task, and she continued it, even if she could not gain trust.

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Characters available/needed:

Firbrar: (I can handle him easily, but if someone wants to, and I am comfortable with the experience and capability of that someone, I shall hand over the controls)

Soldiers/officials/captains of Gondor (or other lands considering Firbrar and Maihele were well traveled):
(4) Available || (0) Taken:

Independent trackers/bounty hunters:
(2) Available || (0) Taken:

Elves:
(2) Available || (0) Taken:

Others (Humans preferably of Gondor. Sorry ahead of time if I make you a subject for Firbrar’s intentions...):
(4) Available || (0) Taken:


Total:
(12) Available || (0) Taken:

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The start of it all
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A darkly cloaked figure, slender and swift, obviously that of a woman, ran down the dark streets of Minas Tirith, the yell of alarmed Gondorians sounding out behind and soldiers were roused. Darting into a smaller street, shielded by the black of night, she tremblingly sank down to sit upon the stone, silent sobs racking her body while she stared dully towards the crimson covering her ashen hands. Again she had failed, and again he still ran free, and again, it was thought to be her who was responsible for the brutal senseless murder of an entire family. The image drilled into her mind, flashing before her vision, as she desperately attempted to remove the blood from her hands, wiping it furiously against her cloak.

Knowing none would believe her, and knowing many were on her trail, she stood and half stumbled farther into the shadows, seeking to find silence away from the yells and cries, the sobbing heard from the one who had come upon the gruesome scene. Hate for him dwelled strong within Maihele, her fists clenched in anger as she took off again at a dead run down the back ally ways, knowing he would bring chaos again the next night, then the next, until his want for amusement was satisfied, then he would move on, always leaving hints and clues to keep her following. Yet she now had to conceal herself from those who were in angered pursuit of a pallid elf cloaked in darkness. Already the news of the slaughter was taken to the soldiers and officers of Gondor...

Dawn had already started to light the sky in a calm twilight glow, as Maihele slowed, lacking breath to keep her going, trembling still. Nearly stumbling upon a basket left outside a door, she noticed a worn and grey cloak crumbled amid the other clothes that were obviously made ready to take and wash. Quick to mind, Maihele grasped the cloak and slipped into the shadows of the side streets again, removing her black cloak and clasping in its place the grey cloak, though still her attire beneath was black. Folding her own cloak, the silver edging shimmering, she placed it in her leathern satchel, knowing her best chance to remain vaguely unnoticed, was to conceal herself in a lighter, more drab color, keeping the hood raised to conceal her elven features and raven black hair.

Hearing again the deep voice and conversation of soldiers, Maihele walked farther down the side street until she came to a more main rode, where early risers were already making ready what business they were master of. Secretively “burrowing” a twisted-wood staff that had been leaned against a wall, Maihele feigned a limp, using the staff for support, her gaze ever wary upon her surroundings.

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

(Time for a post with Firbrar...)

Firbrar chuckled darkly as he watched from the shadows that night, while he nonchalantly wiped the blood from his hands and dagger, having succeeded in yet again outwitting the she-elf. He observed with a smirk as she arrived, then shortly after, a young woman came, who saw the massacre left there, and also saw her and the blood on her hands, and thus the guards were roused, so it was she who was pursued and not himself. Victorious was the sly smile upon his face as he turned and slipped away into the shadows. “And now to find the next one for the next night of my reign...”

As morning came, while she still hid in disguise from the soldiers, Firbrar had chosen his next prey, a soldier, though he took no notice to what rank he belonged, as long as it was an obvious one, and as long as she was there to have the blame laid on her, he would be free to do as he wished. He tracked the soldier secretly, followed his every move, though remaining casual about the way he did so, pausing ever so often to purchase a fruit or other goods along the way. He was enjoying this game, then he saw her, and a scowl marked his features as she in turn began to follow him, but a scene would not be wise at the moment, so he merely slipped into a crowded path, and grinned to himself as she lost his trail. Firbrar again sought out the soldier and continued his quiet and cautious observance.

(Hopefully someone will join and actually be that soldier, or someone tracking Maihele... 22 views, yet still no posts... rather sad *sigh*)

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

I would join, but rather a bit too big for me, sorry.

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<center>


~Thank you to Estë Undómë for the Beeeautiful Banners & Avvie <3 ~

(Then that's ok... lol, if someone thinks it's too big, then they probably wouldn't be able to keep to the rules too well considering the "no short posts" thing... thanks anyway)

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

Hmm...thinking about it Silm...eh...I mean Dhod:D Might have to make a new character though...I'm working on it!

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Eomira, Lady of Ithilien<br>
<img src="http://i26.photobucket.com/albums/c116/Eomira/faramir_alone.jpg" border="0" alt="Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket">

(Alrighty sounds good! ^^)

_________________


I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

(*blinks* Hmm... t'would be nice if someone were to post or join...)

Maihele was halted by a guard only once, and she muffled her voice beneath her dark scarf, while leaning against the burrowed staff, feigning having been injured in a fire and being reluctant to reveal her "marred features" and thus the guard allowed her to pass, though still casting a suspicious glance toward her. Such lies as she spoke were often what kept her alive, and her emotionless ways were what kept her sane.

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

[Nice setup. *frowns* This RPG is worth a lot more than to suffer a poor existance on page two *determinedly drags thread up*
This is gonna be great, I can't believe it isn't already crowded with enthusiastic people from near and far. Now come join!]

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>>Be the change you wish to see in the world<<



Banner credit: Shadowcat & Nurrantiel Mashiara

(*grins* Thank you. Yes, I have a whole big plot set up, but people these days here seem to be more interested in the quick romance and over-used magic... -_- heh...)

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

[*shakes head* Yeah, see what the world's coming to... But I'm sure the right people will show up. It looks too good to be left ignored. Good luck! ]

_________________
>>Be the change you wish to see in the world<<



Banner credit: Shadowcat & Nurrantiel Mashiara

[as promised, you got your soldier my friend *smiles* Awaiting your clearence]

The character:

Full Name: Dagonet, son of Damrod
Race: Human
Nationality: Gondorian
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Born: 11.(Forth Age) - Blackroot Vale (Gondor)
Occupation: Leader of the 5th Archery division of Minas Tirith
Hair: moderate length, light brown. Clean shaven.
Eyes: green
Height: 6'3"

Clothing: Basic military clothing of the gondorian soldiers consisting of a black tunic with a high collar, full length mail-shirt, black pants with approptiate boots, dark-green vambraces and a same colored belt. Also wears light torso armor when on the field

Belongings: A black cape with a silver outline, a shorter sword with an appropriate scabbard, a long-range Blackroot bow, a quiver with 25 white feathered arrows and two throwing daggers.

Expertise: Highly experienced and lethal archer. Many times he was compared with the skill of the elven kind even. Good at swordplay skills.

Personality: Very kind hearted and has a rather cheerful personality but he can be somewhat enclosed into himself with his feelings. Has good leadership qualities, but he feels more comfortable in the position of a follower then of a leader. He proved to be wise in the lore of the old and many times he can be seen enjoying rather a book then the usual activities in spare time. Still, the love for the lore does not make him a weaker person in body, on the contrary, he proved to be sure in his decisions and rarely was it seen that his spirit crumbled or his hand shook under a burden.

History: Dagonet was born in a one of the villages in Blackroot Vale some ten years after the end of the War of the Ring. His father, Damrod, was a highly skilled craftsman and mostly he was praised as one of the best bow makers in the southern parts of Gondor. Damrod also served the gondorian forces for many long years but after being heavily wounded on the battlefront he had to retire. The retirement was against his will for he enjoyed his time with the comrades he had but since any further injuries to him might be lethal, he was persuaded by the superiors. Dagonet's mother was Amariel, a noble daughter from the coastal regions of Anfalas and a very crafty lady alike. Dagonet had one older sister whose name is unknown and an older brother named Brandir who also serves the armies of Gondor but under a different battalion.

Dagonet's passion for archery was most likely handed down from generation to generation for the entire line of his ancestors was devoted to the noble warfare art. It became a costum for the men (and women sometimes, but more for leisure) that they become one with the bow and arrow and thus Blackroot Vale provided Gondor with the best archers for many lives of men and always had been highly praised.

At the age of 21 years, after developing his combat skills with the help of his older brother, Dagonet joined the 14th Archery division. High quality he proved in the later years while moving over to serve under the 4th Infantry battalion. Days continued to flow but soon he was put to a pressure that laid most burden on him. It was early spring and he ventured along with a few of his comrades towards the Northern parts of Ithilien. Their task was to patrol the outskirts for any travelers that might enter the land and guide them safely at least to the Great River or the island of Cair Andros. Indeed those days were peaceful and rare travelers ventured to and from the land. As a bright day slowly fell and the night was creeping in, Dagonet and his comrades set preparations for the evening meal. They had plenty of cram with them, the gondorian way bread, and dried fruits, however since it was their last day on patrol they desired for a more plentiful dinner. A stag was on the menu and Dagonet, being the best archer in the company set out to hunt the rightful prize for the men. Darkness fell for a good part and the stars were in the clear sky shinning like silver drops. He didn't have to venture far into the deep wood for the forests were rich with animals and soon he found his target. With a careful step and a knocked arrow he approached closer to the young stag that lingered close to the bushes grazing. Unfortunately just as he placed his pre-last step a dry twig snapped under his weight. Swiftly the stag feeling the danger close by bolted off deeper into the wood.

Meanwhile, back at the camp the rest of the men prepared the fire and set a stew ready. The night was peaceful and they raised their voices into a slow humming of a song they loved to sing in their spare time. However the singing stopped at once. A burdensome cry came from the night and a younger woman came rushing towards them hearing their voices and seeing the light of the fire. Her face was pale, her clothes stained and she was in panic. She lost her daughter in the early morning hours as they ventured through the forest gathering mushrooms and couldn't find her the whole day. The men somehow managed to calm her down for a bit and they promised they will help her seek. The woman thanked them deeply and soon they have spread out through the night.

Dagonet reluctant to leave the prey free abroad followed the stag. The night was dark and the only light that was given under the thick leaves of the forest was from the moon. Not a while longer, he found the stag once again slowly walking away into the thick bushes. He had no time to waste and he knocked the arrow ready. Dagonet had good sight in the dark but this time he had to rely mostly on the sound. Swiftly the bow sung and the thick arrow flew across the air and found its target. However the stag was a rather big example and the first arrow did not slay him but only wounded it heavily. The animal staggered and jumped around and suddenly a shrill cry went out as the stag dropped onto a bush. The cries did not stop and they filled the air freezing it along with Dagonet's heart. He dropped the bow and rushed towards the place where the cries were heard. His eyes widened and his face was in shock what he saw. The pierced stag crashed into a young girl who was hiding in the bushes. The beast fell then on the girl with the arrow and drove the same one into the girl's belly ripping it as the stag gave off the few final kicks. Dagonet with all his strength managed to pull down the dead stag off the girl who was bleeding heavily. He fell in awe and while lifting the small girl with one hand he held his other clasped on the little child's bleeding belly as he rushed back to the camp. Swiftly his comrades rushed to him for they heard the cries and they were also in shock. The mother at the sight of her wounded child fell unconscious and would have hit the ground heavy if one of the men didn't grab her in time. They fought for the life of the young girl but to no avail. Her soft bones were broken and deeply buried into her own flesh severing most of the vital organs. The little child passed away on Dagonet's arms as he still held the now blood soaked hand against her torso. He wept for the first time in his life then, wept for the life of a young child that was in his eyes slain by his hand.

In the following days, weeks, months and years even, Dagonet was grim in mind and body. He could not forgive himself for the act done. The incident was classified as an accident and even the mother of the child did not hold scorn against the man for she saw Dagonet's face many times later on. Slowly he begun to recover from the accident and strength and security was in his hand once again after a long time. His determination and security in his deeds brought him certain rewards in the end. At the time Dagonet is the second commander of the 4th battalion of Minas Tirith and the chief archery leader of the Royal Guard of the King himself. Not long ago he took command over the 5th archery division and leads a group of 15 most lethal archers of Gondor. Their skill was known throughout the free lands.

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I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the Warrior for his glory. I love the homeland which they defend.

(Thank you, Ea

Approved, Aemornion! *grins* Again, an awesomely developed bio, my friend!)

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

May join but I dunno if i could make such a detailed history of someone...

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"Rock N' Roll is the only relgion that never lets you down!" ~ Lemmy Kilmister

[!*#_:]

[*smiles slightly* Far from awsome, but I thank you deeply for the kind comment and the aproval!]

Slowly the day went by as the sun was setting to the west beyond the White Mountains. Dagonet was on a single patrol throughout the fair city of Minas Tirith and freely ventured from the sixth level all the way down to the Lampwright's street on the first one and back again. His face was peaceful for a certain extent but also worry was on it chisled deep but well hidden. He heard the news of a slayer among the walls of the beloved city and the folk were scared.

His hand rested idly on the bow shaft as he walked through the streets. His gaze and the green eyes wandered to every street corner and court in his path. His awareness was high even if he may give some other impression.

However he could not hide also a feeling that certain eyes watch him throughout the day. It might be some sort of fear deep within him or a lack of rest, but he was certain that even the gaze was there or non existent it had an ill weight.

After a brief halt Dagonet climbed up the level wall and walked along it for from here he got a better glimpse of the streets and the situation among them.

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I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the Warrior for his glory. I love the homeland which they defend.

(No need for too detailed a history, Malrid. I'd love ta have ya join!)

Firbrar observed from a distance as the Gondorian stood on watch, his eyes calm, his expression neutral, as he blended to act as all those around him. His gaze caught sight, however, of a grey cloaked womanly figure leaned upon a staff, and he knew that instant who it was. He glowered toward Maihele, agitated that she had again come upon his trail.

Suddenly he smirked and leaned toward a guard standing near him, turning his manner to a worried fashion. "See that woman over there? She seems strange... I spoke with her earlier and she seemed to know something... who was it the city is looking for on the subject of the slaying that has been spoken of as of late? What is the description?"

The guard became alert, his gaze straining toward where Maihele was standing, silently watching though she seemed to be resting calmly leaned against a dwelling. "An individual with dark and short cut hair, wearing mostly black while the skin is unnaturally pale and pace swift. A lady, actually, is what they seek... at least that is what was heard from the woman who saw the perpetrator."

"Oh, I see. Then be cautious, Milord, she might be in disguise. Such people are sly and crafty. I shall keep my eye out for such an individual..." Firbrar smirked to himself as he turned away, knowing he had instilled curiosity within the young soldier, and that was all he needed.

The guard cautiously stepped toward Maihele, though her gaze was turned aside. "Milady, may I ask if there is something you seek? What is your name for I have not seen you in these parts?"

Maihele turned her head sharply, though her face remained hidden beneath the tattered grey cloak, only a shadowed image of her pale face seen. "No, I do not seek anything but a place to pause for a rest," She leaned against her staff more, as though to reinforce her words.

"And your name?" He pressed further, his vision straining to catch a glimpse of her face, but to no avail, though he had, however, noticed a strange mark trailing down her bared arm, the sleeve having slipping from its place, revealing pale skin. He suddenly became more on guard, glancing around as though in search of assistance if it were to be needed.

"My name is Mai..." she murmured vaguely in response, a glimmer seen in her eyes, whether it was of anger or fear, one could not tell. "Why do you ask? Is it improper to take a moment to rest...?" She questioned cautiously, suddenly noticing his glance straying to the marking upon her arm. Subconsciously she pulled the sleeve lower.

"No, Milady, but we must be cautious these days. Could you please remove your hood? I apologize if it is a strange request to you, but I must request it none the less."

"No!" She replied a little too sharply, causing the soldier to jump back slightly at the harsh tone. Her hand seemed to tremble upon the staff, her grip upon it tightening. "You... would not... like what you would see..." she murmured near a whisper.

The young guard narrowed his eyes slightly, his suspicion growing. He took a step forward as though to peer into the shadows of the hood, but she stepped back, though misjudging the direction she was headed, and she collided against a man who then politely steadied her.

However, she pried herself away from the assisting grip as her hood slipped back, a desperate expression coming to her face as she turned sharply and sprinted down a side street, though the damage had been done, and her pallid complexion and raven black hair had been observed, features rarely seen within Gondor.

"Aye! It is her!" the young soldier called out loudly, turning to address a few of his fellow comrades nearby, motioning in the direction which the woman had gone, heading after her himself with the other men on his heels, commotion being stirred within the streets.

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I am a pro-cycling fan! Congrats to the Young rider of the Tour de France!
~Cyclist in Training~

With an even pace Dagonet walked towards the stairs and prepared to descend the wall encircling the level and move on to the next lower one. Suddenly he heard commotion in the streets near by followed with a few shouts and yells from the men.

With an agility of a wolf, Dagonet rushed down the steps and glanced around searching for someone that might flee. He percieved a few women and children frozen stiff on the streets. "Get of the streets and lock your doors until it will be safe to walk abroad!" he commanded to the folk close by him as he rushed past them by to assist his comrades.

The folk listened to Dagonet and heeded his words. Swiftly the streets were mostly emptied and only soldiers remained on them. Word went fast out and the two gates were sealed that guard the upper and the lower level. Hopefully in time.

While running towards the lower sealed gate through the narrow streets Dagonet did catch a glimpse of a figure in black running swiftly among them. He had no clear naution where the person was heading to but he suspected that most likely the convict would try to flee from the level.

With all his speed he bolted off through the narrow streets and house courts taking as many shortcuts as he could. Dagonet knew the city very well but on this level he spent most of his time.

After a fast sprint he came out into the street that led the only way towards the main gate. There he ordered three soldiers to stand guard on every exit from the smaller streets. He himself took one street that he thought would be the most like route for the convict to come from as he recalled the last street corner where he managed to catch the last glimpse of the killer.

Dagonet knocked a black shafted arrow ready and pulled it almost to his cheeks. Sweat was on his brows from the sudden run and the cause of events. He waited prepared for the figure with an unwavering hand.

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I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the Warrior for his glory. I love the homeland which they defend.