#pleased pardon the hornblowing at the moment

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

An old Éothéod poem, half canted, half sung, he grew up with it resonating in the back of his mind: Það man hún fólkvíg, CerðiÞwyn hana hétu hvar, völu velspáa, seið hún hugleikin, æ var hún angan illrar brúðar -

CerðiÞwyn they called her, a sybil skilled in scrying, playing with the minds of men through seiðr, oh was she ever the joy of evil women -

There was more, of course. CerðiÞwyn was burnt three times, rose again three times, and three times made magical staves with which to turn the tide of war. One of Elm, one of Ash, and one of the tall grasses of Éomarc.

I do hope everyone pays attention to the weird folk lore Grima dredges up in his chapters because it’s relevant. 

The other little tricks he has: making fire, causing plants to grow at unnatural speed, well those aren’t seiðr, but they’re not galdorcræft, either. Tröllcræft, he supposes.

Also his particular skillset. 

Could he flee elsewhere? Laketown? Dale? Somewhere far north, out east — out to the sea of Rhûn, where his mother’s people are from. He supposes he could. His great aunt Ethelinda is out there. She’s mad, he’s heard, but as he also isn’t doing stellar on that front perhaps they could be mad together.

i’m just very pleased with the intertwining of things mostly. 

Aragorn sits back, resting palms on the edge of the broad benches that flank the hearth. He chews on his lip then says, ‘I saw a possession once.’

‘Oh?’

‘Out near the sea of Rhûn. Where everyone speaks Skoltse. There was a commune of women who tended to a sacred space outside the city of Dunoul. It was a spring, and was believed that an elemental or local spirit resided there. A landwight as the Rohirric would call them. The women took it upon themselves to take care of the place, provide offerings and the like. The usual things one would expect. Anyway, a number of them found themselves afflicted by some form of spellcraft.’

‘Was it like,’ Boromir vaguely motions towards the dais at the end of the main hall where sits the throne.

‘Not quite. There was one woman, Ethelinda, who spoke languages that were apparently unknown to her. She also prophesied in a voice that was not her own and sort of,’ Aragorn twists his wrist around, ‘contorted herself. At one point she was bent near in half and screamed in a language I didn’t know. As she did this her eyes rolled so far back you could only see the whites.’ He shakes his head, gaze hovering on the fire.

[...]

Boromir ... asks: ‘Do you know what possessed this poor Ethelinda?’

‘No, that was never determined. There was a local man who seemed up on his knowledge of such things and suspected it was an old god. But that’s a bit —’ Aragorn hums over his word choice. ‘Well, you know, old gods are a bit mythical.’

Boromir grins, hands back the pipe. ‘What is this? Aragorn son of Arathorn declaring something to be mythical. He’s not seen an old god?’ ‘

No,’ Aragorn replies, rolling his eyes. ‘Because no one has. If they ever were real they’ve disappeared. Taken themselves off somewhere else. Anyway, I feel that if she had been possessed by one it would be different than what I saw.’

‘What would you expect?’

Aragorn taps out the pipe and refills. He tilts his head from side to side then sighs, ‘I don’t know. I just refuse to believe that’s what it was. But what do I know? Maybe they’re still out there waiting quietly for their own time to come again.’

Dunoul is Loudun for those who were wondering. 

Aragorn’s like: hmmmm old gods, sounds fake. 

Grima: But you believed in Ents before you ever saw Fangorn? 

Aragorn: Yes. 

Grima: 

Grima: mk. 

.... he wants to play backgammon wonders what happened to his mother’s pretty board probably stolen probably taken away by light fingers with no appreciation for Skoltse craftsmanship there is an inscription on the inside from his mad great-aunt to his mother my C, may you always travel lightly, your dear aunt E ...