eachdraidh | FORWARD-dated to the evening of July 18

[The creaking of wooden wheels accompanies the sway of the wagon. The very air crackles with electric tension -- magic in the air and upon the shackled burden resting uncomfortably in the wagon. There is little to be seen: heavy chain wrapped around the viewer's body gives little slack and all that is in front of him is the wooden plank of the wagon. The wagon stops and the noise of the creaking wood gives way to business-like speech and heavy, booted footsteps.

The chains shift, pulling at feathers and fur alike but there is no movement, for the mage who cast this paralysis is talented. Aubri can only breathe and nothing else. When chains pinch, there cannot be reaction. He cannot recoil against the pulled feathers.

And he cannot do a damned thing when one wing is grabbed and forcibly extended over the low side of the wagon. The sound comes first: the metallic slide of shears snapping through feather; the pain follows on quick steps, for they are none too gentle with their clipping. The primaries are messily clipped, some yanked free, some twisted and bleeding by the time that wing is done -- and then it's left hanging awkwardly (painfully) over the edge of the wagon.

(Wait. Wait. Just wait. The spell will ease and there will be blood. If I meet my end here, then I will bring them all with me. It's the litany that runs through Aubri's mind and it grows ever harder with anger and humiliation and self-recrimination.)

The chains shift again, not gently, and Aubri's other wing is extended by force -- and it hurts this time, bending a little far back and straining the muscles. This time, Aubri makes a sound -- a soft huff -- and the wing twitches. The spell is wearing thin. Someone laughs, grabs a feather, twists, and yanks -- and then drops the mangled feather just in front of his beak. At the sound of the shears once again, Aubri closes his eyes and resolves to wait.]

[ooc;; this broadcasts only a short time after this thread so don't expect Aubri to be in the best of moods]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Ah. He has seen enough of birds to know what those feathers are for, and Maglor winces and calls softly ]

Master Aubri. Your memories betray you.

[ Celegorm was almost certainly wearing it - the Feanorian star that Maglor wears as a cloak pin ]

[He moves slowly, looking around first before a hazy gaze falls upon the locket. (He doesn't see the star yet. He barely sees the locket.) Shadows are long and his face cannot be clearly seen, but there's enough light to see that he's not in the best of shape.]

Do they?

[ a sharp hiss of sound as Maglor catches his breath - an old campaigner, he knows injuries when he sees them. ]

Aye. But you are wounded sore, and I did not think that our memories became reality

[Bitterly:] This is not that memory.

What happened, Master Aubri - those wounds... have the look of those inflicted.

[Aubri shifts uncomfortably. Obviously, he had not intended on speaking with anyone just yet. His gaze is still unfocused but there's a bitter anger sharpening it.] An army marches. I was the featherhead who went to look at it.

[ An army marches and Maglor's breath catches in another sharp hiss - there is only one army that marches right now, and Maglor knows who leads it. There is a long pause, and when he speaks next he sounds broken ]

I am sorry you were caught in my family's madness, Master Aubri.

[Aubri looks up sharply (and the brand above his left eye -- a simplified crest of the Unseelie -- is clearly outlined for one short moment) and holds Maglor's gaze as long as possible.

Now he sees the star.] Your brother?

[It's flat, if only because Aubri doesn't know what to think right now.]

[ At least Curufin's ghost observes darkly He was kind enough to use the Unseelie brand, rather than our own and Maglor's eyes slide shut in despair before he forces himself to meet Aubri's squarely ]

Yes. There is no apology I can make that will suffice, but even so, I am sorry.

[After a moment, Aubri turns away.]

It was not you. [It's not quite absolution, but it's not condemnation either.]

No. But it is also my cause. Celegorm marches for Father's jewels - we pursue the same end, albeit by different means.

[ hesitation ]

I will not trouble you again, Master Aubri. For the time when we could be as friends, I am grateful, and I wish you fair skies and fair winds to bear you wheresoe'er you fare. I hope ... I hope your wounds heal swiftly.

[ signing off, so he can weep in private ]

FORWARD-dated to the evening of July 18 - open to both courts; video

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