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CHARACTERS: Galadriel, Fili, Jaye, Legolas, Eric, Tauriel, Luthien, Godric, Ori, Robb, Arya, and potentially more!
LOCATION: The hallways and bowels of the ship
WARNINGS: Potential signs of psychological and physical violence
SUMMARY: Thranduil has been taken. A group has assembled itself to get him back. But with no idea where Morgoth has stolen him off to or how to get to, they are left stumbling in the dark, searching for any clues that might lead them on the right trail.
NOTES: There will be three threads where those who have signed up for the match will be grouped together. But anyone who would like is more than welcome to create their own threads to do their own searching/talking about the happenings of this plot! (Also I am tired and I cannot think of anything better for cut text so if anyone wants to plurk me with something let me know in the meantime this is what we are stuck with I am sorry sob.)

Those that are participating will be interacting with their group mates and conducting their own searches on smaller scales, since one large thread is not exactly feasible. Groups will be given the opportunity to come across clues as to what's happening to him and his whereabouts although unless previously arranged they will not be finding Thranduil and Morgoth themselves.

Shortly after Thranduil had been taken, Nuada had sent a simple message out to all of the elves, and eventually the word spread around to all those who considered themselves Thranduil's people: Thranduil has been taken. Morgoth.

They had gathered then in the gardens, to collect their thoughts and try and wrap their minds around it. And a decision was made, to search. There were those of course with their reservations against the idea - Elrond in particular. But when it came down to a choice between sitting and waiting for Thranduil to be returned in whatever state he might be, or heading off to see if they could find him themselves, there was no question which route Thranduil's people would take.

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With the child in tow, these four were set to follow the oldest trail; it had been clear early on that Melkor's path doubled upon itself very often, and none knew what to expect. Godric, and Nimeria's nose do most of the work, and for a long while, there is nothing but following.

Until the wolf leads them through the closed door of an old lavatory, revealing the result of brutality.

Some of the stalls have almost been flattened against each other, and the floor is covered in glass shards, most smeared with a little blood; and the frames that used to hold the mirrors bent and bowed in a manner that suggested they had been warped by a full-body impact.

What Fili sees troubles him greatly; hands grip tighter at his weapon, jaw setting as he works the muscles there. There is guilt; some of this is his fault--while he had not been of right mind, there was still a weapon provided to Morgoth that had done damage to one of his greatest friends.

"Is there any way to track the blood?" He hated to say such a thing, but blood meant tracking--it was not something that his dull dwarf senses could do--but surely a vampire and a wolf could.

Ori knows a little of how Fili is doing, though he's perceptive enough to pick up those little tell-tale signs of guilt and regret. The heavy stench of blood makes him shiver slightly and he touches Fili's arm, just beneath the elbow. Reminding him that he's here.

He's come to help, but there isn't a lot he can do right now other than just keep Fili company and make sure he doesn't blame himself too much. He takes a deep breath, trying to block out the smell, and rubs Fili's arm lightly before letting his hand drop.

"Nymeria could."

Arya hangs back from the rest. She strokes the back of her wolf's neck with slow, even movements. Neither attempts to penetrate further into the room than they have. Arya would not risk Nymeria's paws on a glass-covered floor and it's better too to maintain some distance. The scent of blood and a monster, the dismal feeling that remains in the air, they put the animal on edge.

The girl has her long brown hair tied back in a leather cord. There is nothing to hide her pallor, yet she appears composed. Even the tone with which she speaks is smooth as summer silk. She studies the consequences to the room with queer detachment. She does not try to mask her emotions; she doesn't feel anything. Not now, even though she knows she should. Fear, perhaps, urgency. Instead, her fingers card numbly through Nymeria's long fur.

"As can I," Godric offers, nodding respectfully at Arya and her wolf. "Which will be helpful if the trail splits. We can take both paths at once."

Godric knows Arya, or knows another version of her who was on the ship earlier. This Arya does not know him, but it hardly matters. A young human girl she may be, but her tenacity and spirit is nothing to be underestimated. What she lacks in physical strength, Godric and the dwarves can more than make up for, should they find their quarry.

"I'll travel in front with you and your wolf, in case we should be attacked from the front," he says to Arya, then turns his attention to Fili and Ori. "You two travel behind and keep watch at our backs."

It isn't really a suggestion, but nor is it phrased as an order. He looks to his companions for their approval.

Fili normally would question the other man; he did not know him well, but knew enough of him to be distrustful. But still, this was for Thranduil, and they did not have time for debate. Godric and Arya had the skills of tracking, which Fili and Ori did not. So he instead gave a curt nod, looking over at Ori to ensure that he was fine with this, as well. He was happy to have his cousin with him, even if this was not the best circumstance.

"Morgoth has a weapon--something of dwarven make. I would take heed to listen carefully, especially if the smell of blood gets strong." He did not want them stepping into a trap.

The path was relatively easy to follow with sharp elven eyes and a wolf's keen nose: for it had been bloody. Thin smears of blood on the walls, or more often, the floor.

But not all of it was elf-blood. Once, they happened upon a hand-sized shard of glass, sharp; the edge and tip coated thinly in the darker, thicker, and hard-dried blood of Morgoth. It led them over a winding path that often doubled in on itself, and at length, into a small, well-lit storage room. The door had been left ajar.

The floor was scattered in the bloodied tatters of Thranduil's clothing, rent to shreds as if by teeth, and the floor her is smeared with bloody fingerprints and, near the door, a black, wetly tacky bit of.. something else. Inspection reveals the congealed parts of an eye.

The room is mostly empty, the few bins and other things in it cast about, though clearly not from whatever struggle happened within.

Thranduil had said he would find Nuada. Therefore, when Nuada's message came through, Tauriel knew he spoke no lie. Ever since she'd spoken to Morgoth she had feared that he would come for Thranduil. She had told her king as much, but she could not have imagined that it would happen so soon.

Tracking is nothing new to her. In Mirkwood her work involves rooting out the agents of darkness. She's used to tracking blackened, Orcish blood, or the webs of spiders, or the movements of monstrous things among the trees. This is different. This time she's following the blood of her king himself. Legolas must be struggling so deeply with this. She is careful to keep emotion off her face, wary of making it harder for him.

When they found the room, however, it was hard to keep from reacting. She crouched, lifting a length of cloth that she recognised from the King's own robes. She hesitated, examining the ripped edges.

"No blade made a tear like this," she murmured, looking up at her companions. "It was pulled apart, not cut."

They had taken the most difficult path to follow, relying on all the best heightened senses among their party, following the acrid aftertaste of deep fear in the air. Their path led them through the darkest part of the ship, where even lights they had brought with them seemed dim, choked out, and the shadows seemed to coil thickly in the wake they left.

In great part, it had been like walking into the maw of despair. There was sometimes blood, smeared on the walls- but it was black, mixed with ichor, sometimes with little drips. It was Galadriel who at last discovered that it was as if a brow or cheek had been leaned against the wall, and the smears were almost always taller than Thranduil had stood...

Scent and these telltale signs lead them on until Eric, forging always a little ahead, spies a gleam of gold on the floor. A lock, a few strands of Thranduil's hair clumped together in the hallway, scattered somewhat as if by feet. Cut jaggedly short.

There's a closed door, nearby; and more hair, just a small, frayed golden fringe of it peeking out from where the door meets the floor.

Eric knows blood, and he knows Thranduil's blood, enough to know that the smears on the walls are not his, at least. What that means he cannot say, although the fact that it does not belong to Thranduil means that it had worked. Somewhat at least. He would be fool to think that he had bought him complete safety, however, and so he keeps himself on the alert as their group forges on.

His eyes are sharp in the dark, a vampire's eyes, a predator's eyes. And that is when he sees it. A lock of hair, pale and soft, and he knows when he rushes forward and bends to pick it up that it is Thranduil's. Straightening, he tightens his hand around it, and that is when he spots more of it, by the door. Like some horrible crumb trail left behind. He bends to gather it and voice is tight as they approach. He had felt the distress of this moment, but he had not understood why. It would not have hurt to sheer off hair, but he could guess at the significance behind it.

"It would seem that he is no longer content with the simple beating of his captive," he says, through gritted teeth, as he holds out a lock of hair towards the others, not quite able to bring his gaze up to meet their eyes just yet.

Not only is it not Thranduil's blood, it's clearly not Elven, something she had remarked upon when they first spotted it. It was not to be truly encouraging- not enough to have really weakened their opponent. But at least it was a sign that Thranduil had gotten a few blows in.

That lock of hair, however... Her eyes narrow when she sees it and she glances back to Lúthien, knowing that she will understand the significance as instinctively as she does. It's not just the same meaning that a lock of hair from a human would have- though that's certainly a part of it. It would be impossible for her to fully explain to the others- a cultural value, a feeling that she knew Thranduil would share.

Her eyes flick past Eric to the hair remaining in the doorway.

"This may well be intended to incense us." she begins slowly. "To see that we rush blindly into whatever lies past that door. Do not."

She speaks now with a composure beyond that which she feels; she stands tall and straight, her fear pushed to the back of her mind and covered by an unyielding determination. It is easy to see now, for any who know to look, the blood of Finwë running through her veins. The same blood that ran through Fingolfin, who died dealing Morgoth a blow. But she is also tempered by a caution that comes from surviving what many had not.

"We well may walk into a trap; we have little choice. But we must not do so brashly. Keep your wits about you."

She moves quietly, remaining near Galadriel much of the time. The blood on the walls made her heart race when first she saw it and she'd moved closer to her companions for a time. Now, though still cautious, she does not stay so close and when Eric finds the hair, she lifts her gaze to meet Galadriel's and Lúthien's expression mirrors hers.

She doesn't speak but does nod. It seems almost too innocent, too safe for them to expect anything less than a trap. Even so sheltered as she has always been, Lúthien knows it. So she instead gathers her own power about her, reminds herself of what enchantments might help if they have need. Perhaps she's not as strong or brave as her companions but she's at least as determined.

The halls are no more welcoming now than they are any other time, but Jaye has ignored her fear of them. There's no time for it, not with Thranduil missing -- taken captive -- and likely hurt, and besides, she isn't alone. She is bonded to Eric and Galadriel has been kind. The third is almost a stranger, save for glimpses in the garden, but they trust her and therefore Jaye will for now. Howly is with her too, the hellhound invisible to those who aren't dead or deities (or angels or demons, but that's close enough) and eager to press on, claws clicking against the floor. This is what he was bred to do -- to hunt, to chase, to seek out those who don't want to be found. If it were up to her, if she hadn't seen the way Morgoth's presence in the garden had unsettled her hound, she would let him loose: he would hunt and find his prey and finish it.

But this is a stronger enemy, and Jaye fears for her dog like she fears for her missing father figure. The blood is noted with a slight smirk, grim amusement at the fact that the king has struck back. The hair, though, makes her shudder; she may not understand the cultural significance, but she remembers all too well the ship trapping her, her own golden locks falling out when she was able to take her human form again. But it isn't the ship, not this time. This is something that she can see, and Jaye growls, nails sharpening into claws though she doesn't transform further.

"Heel," she half-snarls, hand held out until the hellhound's head is under her palm. He's eager to continue the hunt but Galadriel is right; it may very well be a trap. "Could be any number of things. Only one way to find out."

Eric, being dead and all, has no trouble seeing Howly trotting along beside them. They make quite the group, two elves, a shapeshifter, a hellhound, and a vampire. At least Eric does have a bond with Jaye, from the time when he helped her heal from her time outside of the jump. He appreciates her keeping the hound back, however. If they do happen on Thranduil, the last thing he needs is an invisible hellbeast coming at him when they do.

Part of him agrees with the two elves. Who knows what lies behind that door? On the other hand, Jaye is speaking to his innermost thoughts at the moment. "We do not have a choice. We either open that door or we walk away." He glances between the three of them, before he moves to stand, subtly tucking the locks of hair he has in hand into a pocket of his clothes. "And I for one am not walking away. Not if there is even the slightest chance that we have found something here." He moves forward towards the door.

"I would be the last to suggest abandoning our task." Caution, that's all she asks. Caution. A point which she amply illustrates by drawing her sword and holding it up in front of her in a defensive position.

"Behind me, Lúthien, and keep close." She spares a glance back at her old friend; it wasn't that she doubted her abilities. Far from it. Galadriel knows that, one day, Lúthien will face Morgoth and triumph. But she hasn't yet. She's still young and untested and it makes her nervous.

She's nervous about all of them, actually, and already wondering about the odds of everyone coming out of this alive. But she's given Lúthien her word that she will protect her, so she feels obligated to look after her first and foremost.

She glances to Jaye, to the shadowy shape of a hound beside her and Lúthien knows that she's right. There is only one way to find out. And if there is anything in there that will help them find Thranduil, they need to see.

"Let us not waste time, then."

Lúthien almost wants to glare at Galadriel but doesn't. Everyone in their group is better equipped to handle whatever might be behind that door than she is. And she knows it, no matter how much she cares to object. So she does as she's told without complaint, stepping behind her.

Something could come from behind. The door could suddenly close behind one of them, splitting them up into easier pickings. There are plenty of things that could go wrong here, that could turn this rescue mission into a massacre. Jaye does not intend to let them happen.

She has weapons on her but keeps them tucked away, for now. Howly is stronger than those weapons and her ability to shapeshift is less likely to be used against her (though she certainly hopes no one has taught Morgoth how to use a handgun in his time on the ship). Her nails and teeth elongate further, sharpening and hardening into the claws of a grizzly bear, hair turning darker, though she still does not finish the shift. Instead she growls, signalling that she, too, is ready to move through the door. Howly stays by her side.

The door, when it opens, flows over the cut hair, revealing that they are indeed shorn, and not attached to an unmoving body. It is scattered, ground a little against the floor as if by hurried feet, or a scuffle of some kind...

And it is by no means all of Thranduil's hair.

The small space is lined with dull mirrors, however, and even as the individuals step inside, they seem to twist and bend strangely, the shadows they reflect... too dark. Flickering, as if moving all of their own accord. And on the floor a single sharp bit of glass, cracked in the middle as if neatly stepped upon.

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ARYA, GODRIC, ORI, & FILI

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LEGOLAS, TAURIEL, & ROBB

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LUTHIEN, GALADRIEL, ERIC, & JAYE

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