Part III of the Black Oak Fort Chronicle
Smoke still curled into the sky behind them as the battered warband departed from back to the Queen’s haven. Wounds had been tended, spirits had been lifted, and the Queen herself—moved by their victory—offered not just thanks, but purpose. A vision had reached her, and Gandalf had replied in his own cryptic way. What followed was not rest, but a new path—this time across the sea.
🛶 Into the West
Their vessel, the Sea-Wing, rocked gently in Laundor’s harbor—small, swift, and seaworthy. Eager, a grizzled mariner with memories of strange lands and stranger dreams, awaited them. He had seen the Isle of the Mother, a place whispered of in prophecy and memory, in visions of blackened blades and ruined towers. And he was willing to return.
Eryndor , Orothal , and the hobbit Falmir joined him. Though still bearing the weight of wounds and war, they felt the pull of something beyond duty: of destiny.
Before they departed, they were provisioned—rope, sunstones, lanterns, and healing balm. As they pushed off from the shore, the Queen sent a final blessing, her words laced with both worry and hope.
🌬️ The Sea Beckons
The journey began under clear skies. At first, there was peace. Eryndor cleaned his armor and sharpened his blade. Orothal repaired arrows and scanned the horizon. Falmir prepared food, shared stories, and stoked laughter where fear still lingered.
But the sea is never still for long.
⚠️ Tides of Peril
One morning, the wind turned wicked. The Sea-Wing rocked violently, and Falmir, caught unawares, stumbled toward the edge. With a cry, he vanished into the grey water. Eryndorr leapt after him without hesitation, dragging him back to the deck with soaked arms and a heaving chest.
The rescue succeeded, but both were chilled and wearied. Eryndor’s fatigue deepened, his body bearing now the weight of sea as well as shadow.
🐋 A Joyful Sight
As dusk fell that day, the sea calmed. And from beneath the ship, a shape emerged—vast, ancient, and glorious. A great whale breached the waves, its back shimmering silver under moonlight. The sight stirred something in them all—a memory of stories told in Rivendell and the Grey Havens, of creatures made in the Music of the Ainur.
Their spirits lifted, and even Eryndor’s weariness eased.
🌑 Dreams Upon the Deep
But peace is not the same as comfort.
That night, and for many nights after, each of them dreamed—not of the sea, nor their destination, but of someone once loved:
- Falmir saw the face of an unrequited love, asking why he had ever left.
- Orothal saw her parents, faded in memory but vivid in dream, wondering why their daughter wandered so far.
- Eryndor saw the face of a fallen comrade, a ranger cut down by orcs long ago—his ghost asking if vengeance was worth exile.
Eagr, too, confessed to dreams of his long-lost daughter, her voice accusing, questioning.
Each dream ended the same: the loved one’s face fading… becoming a haggard old woman cloaked in shadows. Her words chilled their bones:
“What will become of you?
Where does thy road end,
Except in death and sorrow?”
💀 The Shadow Creeps
These dreams were not without consequence. Each bore a mark of Shadow upon waking—an invisible weight, like frost on the soul. Eryndor, already cursed by vengeance, felt it most. The toll of each decision, each departure from home, was becoming harder to bear.
And still, the ship pressed on.
🌫️ Through Fair Winds and Still Waters
The wind returned, but coordination was lost. Eager shouted orders; the sails misaligned. Tempers flared. Even in fair weather, fatigue crept in again. Provisions grew sparse. The horizon never changed. And still the dreams came, each darker than the last.Then came the calm. The Sea-Wing stood still beneath a sunless sky. Not a wave stirred. It was as if time itself held its breath.
They huddled close, trying to keep despair at bay. Eryndor’s words gave them strength—recounting tales of the North, of victories hard-won
🧓 The Crone in the Dream
At last, the dreams turned. The faces were no longer familiar.
Only one figure remained—the old woman.
She sat among ruins on a lonely isle, her hair long and matted, her face creased with centuries of sorrow. Her hands reached out, and her voice echoed in all their minds:
“This is the road you have chosen.
Will you go on,
Though your reward may be only shadow?”
Each woke trembling. Each bore now a shadow point in their heart.
🌁 Toward the Isle of the Mother
Their ship rounded the final cape. Ahead, obscured by mist and legend, lay the distant Isle of the Mother—the place from Algin’s vision, where ruin awaited and fate would unfold.
They were fewer than a company.
But they were chosen.
And they were ready.
To Be Continued…
In Part IV: The Shores of the Forgotten Isle
Lunch time solo 