Kinship => General Discussion => Topic started by: Turwe on October 31, 2011, 07:04:12 PM

Title: Turwe Faldirion
Post by: Turwe on October 31, 2011, 07:04:12 PM
Mae govannen.  I am Turwe, son of Faldir.

I was the only child of Eledriel, begotten in a remote elven village, located on the northeastern tip of Eryn Galen.  As told by my sire, long ago, it was a cold, winter night that my mother brought me into this world.  The fourteenth day of Rhîw, the Second Age, 2839.

My mother was killed, weeks after my birth, in a surprise orch raid on our village.  My father, a grim sire, never stopped mourning the brutal death of his beloved wife, and constantly carried a burden of bitternes and sadness, never showing me any outward emotion, ever after.  I always felt, inside, that my father cared deeply for me, but that my mother's death had scarred my father so much, that he was left emotionally bereft.  There was always a pervading sense of sorrow in the household from then on.

I was literally bathed in this sorrow, constantly, during my childhood.  'Twas all I knew.  As I grew, my father taught me practical things.  How to survive in the forest, with naught by own two hands.  Trapping.  Hunting.  But most of all he stressed honour.  Honour.  Always, honour.  

Years passed, and when the call for archers came from the King himself, as the stench of the Necromancer had polluted Eryn Galen, my father, still bitter with grief, was a quick volunteer.  He could not, and would not turn down the call from Oropher.  Honour demanded it, as honour was of the utmost importance to him.  I, barely an adult, will never forget that day.  Never forget seeing my father for the last time as he quietly left the village for the trip south, to what would be, his eventual death in the assault against Amon Lanc.

When news of the assault on the Necromancer's lair travelled north, and my father's death reached me, my world collapsed. My grief crushed me.  Yes, I was an adult now, but to lose both parents in such cruel and sudden fashions, I could not accept this. Something within my mind, at this point, changed.  For many years after this, I continued to be a trader, like my father, dealing with the Northmen in the area of Laketown.  But mostly, my life was spent as a hermit.  Hunting animals for food within Eryn Lasgalen, secluding myself completely within the forest, taking some animals for pets even.  I also, at this point began ruthlessly hunting down orch.  Hunting them down, toying with them, and then savagely kiling them & disemboweling them, hanging their entrails from the trees for the creatures of the forest to feast off of them.  It was then that my inner rage began to grow as rot would on a piece of wood.  Revenge would need to be fed.  Revenge for the loss of my parents.  Someone would need to pay.

For decades this continued, social contact with my own kind was a rarity.  In fact, about the only contact would be with the Northmen I would trade with when I would make the trip East, with a load of furs.  By this time, I had established an almost brotherly rapport with these boisterous firen.  They often welcomed me as “the grim elf” or "the quiet one", each time my entrance was made into their lands for trade with them.

When the passage of time began to mean nothing to me, and only the progression of the seasons within Eryn Lasgalen would mark my life, I would often think back of life with my father, Faldir.  I would recall the bitterness, the constant grief and sadness.  It was all I had grown up with.  Yes, father had taught me the practical ways of living in the forest, but I had never known the happiness seen on the faces of many the Northmen and their kin.  Only sadness ... grief ... Where was my happiness ?

I soon left my seclusion and began to wander Eryn Lasgalen for many, many years, through the forests, enjoying the animals, the trees, the birds.  They made me happy.  They filled my days.  My nights.  But the rage still simmered underneath like a mighty river.  It was still there.  Still, the overbearing weight of his sadness was felt, ever minute of every day.  So, I took to wandering south, in search of something.  What it was, I did not know.  A salve on a shattered soul, something to quench the the rage that still burned inside me.  I did not know.

                                                                            - - -

“Your bow, it is different”, stated the warden, with a quiet turn of his head.

“Yes. My father … he showed me how to make …. such …. bows”, shyly replied Turwe, as he stared at the burning campfire.

Turwe, son of Faldir had been travelling with the warden who hailed from the Lorien wood, for what seemed to be about a few months now. This was among the first words they spoke together. Mirdanthir, had been sent, by the Lady of the Golden Wood, to scout out the edges of the southern Eryn Lasgalen for possible yrch forces, and was to report back his findings. He met up with Turwe one evening during an yrch ambush. Turwe had been set upon by four of the foul creatures, and if not for the spear and javelin of Mirdanthir, might not have survived.

The two made their way south, closer to Rhosgobel, Turwe mumbled, “I cannot go farther south, mellon nin. I simply … cannot.” He stopped in his tracks, quite obviously agitated.

Mirdanthir, stopped also, looked at him curiously, “Why is this, silent one ?”

Turwe stared up at the trees nervously. “My father. He died at Amon Lanc, not too from ... here. I do not wish to go any farther south but to feel the pain from his passing.”

The warden looked down at the tip of one of his spears, the glint of the sun reminding of him of the Lady's gardens, somehow, “Yes, mellon nin, I understand ... as you wish. But before we go our own paths, I would like to tell you of a company of Eldar that you may wish to be a part of, a storied company that may well give honour to your father's memory. and help you with your sadness that I have felt at every turn in our journey together.”

Turwe looked up at the warden and cocked his head back in slight surprise.

“What …. what do … do you speak of ?”

The tall warden stepped closer and replied, “They wear the famous badge of eight green leaves, mellon nin. They report ultimately to Lord Cirdan himself and are led by a great commander, Ornendir, who, long ago, fought with Beleg Cúthalion. They are the Tirn en Taur.”

The two elves stood for a moment not saying anything, just gazing at one another.

“Where, do I find, this company … this Tirn en … Taur ?”, hesitantly asked Turwe.

The warden placed a hand on one shoulder and and softly said, “Go west, mellon nin, go west.”

                                                                            - - -

Since my days in the Tirn en Taur, serving as an Oathsworn under the great captain Ornendir, I continued my path of anger, and bitterness across Eriador.  All in the name of vanquishing the Shadow, and revenge for my parents' deaths.  Lonely, bitter, sad, angry, millenia had passed, and nothing had changed.  

But then, while on the shores of Evendim, in bitter combat against tomb-robbers, I was given aid by a travelling Eldar minstrel.  This very minstrel would turn out to be somebody that would change my life.  Rhawien Stormvoice.  A free-spirit, unfettered, unbound - a true child of the forest.  Hair the colour of honey - she was a beauty that captured my heart, immediately, on the ancient shores of Nenuial.  I saw within her soul a beauty so deep, and so incredible, that I was truly spellbound.  I never forgot the elf-maiden, and would run into her from time to time in the firen town of Bree, and then, often, in the Trollshaws.  Soon, a friendship developed, and slowly, I would trust her enough to begin to open up and talk to her.  

Over time, we ran together, fought together, talked together.  Shared the hurts of our own pasts, together.  Soon, I started to feel something I had never felt in my long life, up until that point.  Love for a woman.  Sitting for long hours in the glade by my home, I eventually came to a decision.  "I must make Rhawien my betrothed, for Eru himself surely has placed her in my path, has he not ?"  The betrothal gift, a hand-crafted, silver ring, was forged in Rivendell by a fellow Oathsworn kinsman of the Tirn en Taur.

Meanwhile, I was changing.  The anger, so deeply set in my soul, had gone.  The loneliness was replaced with a much different feeling.  The sadness, although still there, about my parents, had changed quite a bit.  All because of the long talks with my dear meleth, Rhawien.  To this day, the memory of where the betrothal took place, still is burned in my memory.

"Rhawien.  Le melon, always.  Always.  I give you this ring as a sign of our betrothal.  Do you accept ?"  

Rhawien broke down in tears, shakily accepted the ring in her small hand, replying, "Yes ... meleth.  Yes."  

I still remember where we were betrothed.  Truly, it was the oddest of places, the harshest of places.  For it was in the vast northern wastes of Forochel.  Rhawien was often helping the Lossoth peoples, and had found a deep kinship with them.  After the joyous event.  We parted.  I truly was the happiest I have ever been in my life.  I received a few letters from her, after that.  And then ... the letters stopped.  I never saw her again.  I searched for her, but never found her.  Searched all over Eriador, in desperation, for my dear meleth ... but no Rhawien did I find.

For many months, I grieved, sitting in my glade.  Listening to the insects, and the birds, imagining that they were Rhawien, talking to me.  It was at this point I journeyed into the Black Pit.  That foul place the dwarves call Khazad-Dum or Moria.  My grief, for my dear meleth, I then took out in rage against the foul creatures, within the dark places there.  When I finally came out to behold Mirrormere, and then the grand beauty of Lothlorien, a transformation had taken over me.  Rhawien was a memory.  The dearest of fond memories to me.  My subsequent walks through the Golden Wood, reminded me with the love that we had, for I felt her spirit walk by my side, as I strode beneath the great mallorns.

From then on, I simply ... remembered our dear times, together.  I am forever grateful for the light she brought into my life.

To this day, I greet each sunrise in her name, and each memory I have of her, I honour with a smile.


Motivations: Once, it was it was about retribution and revenge for Turwe.  No more.  Friendships are what motivates Turwe, now.  The one-time seething, inner anger is gone.

Disposition: Once shy, awkward, and almost anti-social, Turwe has changed.  In social situations, he is engaging, but he can be oversensitve, sharp-tongued, and arrogant.  Ironically, he has no use for prideful figures, especially if they are male, he loathes them in fact. In some social situations, an extreme sarcastic streak has been known to emerge from within Turwe, usually if the figures involved are not to his liking.

Outlook: He has a somewhat cynical view on the world.

Philosophy: Surviving.

Likes: Turwe sometimes finds himself enthralled and drawn to elven women, who *he* perceives as outwardly virtuous and pure in countenance. This could be some psychological connection regarding the loss of his mother so soon after his birth.

Dislikes: Public displays of intoxication, braggarts. Displays of arrogance or power over others.  Dwarves.

Positive Personality Traits: Loyalty and honour are paramount.

Negative Personality Traits: His racial hangups towards dwarves, are chronic. He is convinced that all dwarves are “uncouth, dirt-shovellers”.  He can be quite arrogant in social situations, and his tongue, quite cutting and sharp.


Hobbies: Tending to his trees in his front yard (when he is home), whittling, running to keep himself in shape (this he has done since a boy in Eryn Galen), practicing with the bow

Favourite Foods & Drinks: Roast boar is Turwe's favourite food. Turwe does not consume alcohol and drinks only water.

Favourite Colors: Turwe tends to wear a lot of greens and browns in his clothing and very much disdains bright colours in clothing such as reds, purples, blues, finding them a most disgusting display of pride.

Title: Re: Turwe Faldirion
Post by: Digger on November 01, 2011, 08:13:48 PM
Thank you for this fascinating history.  What a journey you have made.  Welcome, kinsman.