Saturday, October 14, 2006

   Writing Sample
This is probably the one piece of role-play writing that I'm quite happy to brandish at the world in all it's half-one-shot glory.

In fact, I could always alter my new fan-fic so that this can be incorporated! Sure, I'd have to re-do the plot but it means Eomer can be the love object! Squee!

-goes off to have a rabid fangirl moment in a corner-


~~~~~



If the Riders of Rohan were exhausted by the long ride, what hope is there for the Prince of Dol Amroth & his escort. Not forgetting his youngest child & only daughter, the Lady Lothiriel. Dusk was painting the sky crimsons, oranges & purples - a great masterpiece was unfolding as the Sun lay down to sleep. Unfortunately for Lothiriel, rest for her didn't appear to be on the agenda. At least, not as soon as she could wish it.
The tales of her own white city, Dol Amroth, whispered that her family had Elvish blood. Her own father, Prince Imrahil, could be idly mistaken for one of the Fair Folk. Lothiriel had been told that at times, it was the same with her. She was tall & pale; too thin about the body & features, willowy - as if the next breath of wind would snap her clean in half. Her eyes were not overly large: the colour of greying sea-haze at dawn.
She missed the sea; the comforting blue had always been there; at times she almost felt that she could just fall into the great blue & stay, united with it forever. The silver chain about her neck bore a delicate vial filled with the pure white sand: a gift from her older brothers.
The call to water the horses was announced by King Eomer - barely audible above the mournfully howling wind. The plains weren't wholly intolerable - criss-crossed by rivers & streams that lead inexorably to the Bay of Belfalas.
When she was younger, sometimes she'd leave her room at night & just sit, staring, at the dark angry waters. Often it was Imrahil himself who retrieved his little daughter: the slight form stiff with sleepiness & carrying the tang of salt air after her.

Lothiriel dismounted in a whirling flurry of skirts once she'd reached the top of the embankment. Her horse, Aearion was sweating & champing at the bit - scenting fresh water, no doubt. Lothiriel noted that his legs were caked with mud & stray bits of grass. Idly, she glanced down & was unsurprised to notice that the hem of her cloak & dress were both similarly caked. The iron-grey velvet was well stitched; ivy had been traced about the round neck & trailing sleeves. The cloak, well, she'd never favoured it - deep midnight-blue with an ornate silver swan as a clasp. Yes, she could quite happily disregard the outfit entirely.

Whether Imrahil & Eomer would was another matter altogether. Lothiriel sighed quietly, smiling at her down at the mahogany head & polished armour. They were close - everyone knew it. He'd even gone so far as to not have her betrothed yet. At twenty, she should have been thinking more & more about her husband & his House. Imrahil had gathered what time he could for them to continue as father & daughter.
However, from what Lothiriel had heard whispered by the ladies & her father's councillors, her freedom was coming to an end. Cocking her head almost inperceptiably to one side, she regarded King Eomer of Rohan with a thoughtful glance; her lips twitching into an almost-smile, half-happy & half-calculating.
It wouldn't be wholly unwelcome, Lothiriel supposed. Though she fully intended to let Imrahil think she was adverse to the idea. His futile attempts at persuading his stubborn child were never anything less than amusing.

~ xxSuha
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