The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

*** THE DISCUSSION SECTION FOR THE IN-PLAY RPG BEGINS AT POST #69 ***

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STARTING POST FOR THE PLANNING SECTION OF THE RPG


This planning thread is being opened for the purpose of completing an RPG proposal.

Only these writers may post to this thread at present (all other posts will be removed):

piosenniel
Child of the 7th Age


Kransha – Game proposer


alaklondewen
Amanaduial the archer
Arry
CaptainofDespair
Fordim Hedgethistle
Garen LiLorian
Lalwendë
Mithalwen
Nilpaurion Felagund
Novnarwen
Nuranar
Osse
Saurreg

[piosenniel]

Here is the proposal so far:

The Fall of the North

Historical Background:

TA 1974 (very late winter) – March of TA 1975

The mighty Witch-King of Angmar, Chief of the Nine Nazgûl, descended from his citadel at Carn Dûm to make war on the Kingdom of Arthedain. In the winter, he overran the land, and besieged the capital, Fornost, where the King of Arthedain, Arvedui, and his sons held out until the last. He soon overtook Fornost, and the sons of Arvedui fled to Círdan of the Grey Havens, seeking sanctuary with him, but Arvedui himself, and the last remnants of the Dúnedain of Fornost remained in the North Downs, still besieged by the great host of the Witch-King.

As the cold season drew onward, Arvedui realized that he had no choice but to abandon his kingdom. So, his people fled northwest, escaping the Witch-King’s legions by the speed of their horses alone, towards the northernmost fringe of the Ered Luin, or Blue Mountains. They took refuge in the abandoned Dwarf mines of the Blue Mountains. There, the refugees remained for as long as they could and explored the mines for food or some manner of sustenance, but they found none. Starved for food, they sought out the Lossoth, or Snowmen of Forochel, who had populated the shores of the Icebay of Forochel to the immediate east. The Lossoth took them in and gave them food, for they were intimidated by the weapons of the Dúnedain, and pitied their plight as well, but the refugees of Arthedain remained stranded in the northern region of Middle-Earth, since they had no means of transportation southward, and dared not journey through the realm now lorded over by the Witch-King.

At the behest of Arvedui’s son, Aranarth, Círdan sent a vessel north to locate Arvedui and his people, and bring them to the Grey Havens. The Elves aboard the ship caught site of Arvedui’s camp and the fire within from the Bay of Forochel, but could not reach the land because of the thick ice that lined the shore. The Lossoth, using their sleds, bore Arvedui’s folk across the ice, to a point that could be accessed by a boat from the ship. Though the Lossoth warned against it, Arvedui insisted that his people attempt the journey, and they were taken to the ship. But, the predictions of the Lossoth proved accurate, and a storm of the icy sea arose in the Bay of Forochel before the vessel bearing Arvedui had reached open water. The winds drove the ship back against the ice, its hull was destroyed, and it, carrying Arvedui, the Dúnedain of Fornost, and the Elves of Círdan, sunk into the bay, never to be seen again.

[piosenniel]

Basic Storyline:

In the wake of the Witch-King’s annihilation of Arthedain, the people of Arvedui who have not fled or been scattered to the wind must escape the wrath of Angmar. They head to the Blue Mountains, and avoid or conquer all that stands in their way in order to survive. They must reach the Ered Luin, evade the orcs and beasts that are now swarming over their once-fair lands, and seek aid from a mysterious people. Only then can they survive the fall of Arnor and live, even if they do not for long.

[piosenniel]

The purpose of the story is to:

Escape the North Downs, reach the Blue Mountains, meet with the Lossoth, and make a failed attempt to escape the Ice Bay of Forochel.

This means we will know the story is over when:

The refugees from Fornost perish in the Bay of Forochel.

[piosenniel]

Starting Location: Fornost

Likely destination: The Northern Blue Mountains

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Map: HERE (http://perso.wanadoo.fr/hugo1900/MAP-OF-MIDDLE-EARTH-VERSION-7.html)

[piosenniel]

This game takes place in the Third Age: from the late winter of the year 1974 to March of 1975 TA

The storyline itself or plot covers about 56 Days (8 weeks), from 16 January to 11 March - THIS IS THE MAIN PART OF THE ACTION.

Time commitment for play: 18 weeks, minimum

[piosenniel]

Note About First Posts:

All first posts should pertain to the battle that is going on. The setting at the beginning of the game will be in Fornost, while the Witch-King is attacking and has finally broken through into the city. First Posts should contain feelings about the battle, the circumstances, and some manner of action relating to it – For some, these posts should contain fighting against the hordes of Angmar, for others, they should contain preparations for evacuation, searching for family-members or friends, or attempts to escape the incurring orcs, who’ve breached the gates of Fornost; whatever seems most appropriate to the character.

Please see Kransha’s Prologue and 2nd Post for the game, also.

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s character – Dúnedain Captain


NAME: Hírvegil

AGE: 76

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Hírvegil bears several weapons, most of which were inherited family heirlooms. One is his sword, which was rusted, derelict, and broken when he inherited it, but Hírvegil had it restored. It is a medium-length sword, one handed, with a burnished hilt of silvery steel that bears a reflective sheen, with an oceanic blue gemstone nestled into the doubly tapered cross-guard. To defend himself, he carries a round shield, made of polished oaken wood and rimmed with a ring of tinted metal. Upon the shield is a crest, an image of a setting sun, engraved into the center of the circular buckler. In addition to this, he also carries a pair of twin knives, short, tapered, designed for non-combat, or extremely close-combat purposes. He is not particularly proficient with the knives when fighting, but is deadly with his sword and shield in hand. His style of battle is the same graceful, lithe technique used by many Elves, passed to all men of Númenórean descent.

APPEARANCE: Hírvegil has the look of a man older than he is, a trait that he has carried as somewhat of a burden with him for all of his life. He has brown hair, the color of an aged tree’s bark, though his shoulder length hair is flecked with early grey. His skin is rough and somewhat from years of work in the northern cold. He has, upon his face, a short but full beard, and his tired-seeming eyes are forest green in color, though also grayed by passing years. From the look of him, he is an aged, but proud man, even though, for a Dúnadan, he is not yet very old. His face and hands are creased with the first marks of age, but he is physically fit, not imposingly so, but enough to serve as a warrior. He most often wears simple garb, kept from his days in the lower ranks. He wears a green leather vest and tunic of supple chain mail over a simple forest-green surcoat, indistinct garb for an Arthedain soldier, but also heavier plate armor, a breastplate and pauldrons befitting a Captain of the Royal Rearguard. He wears long breeches on his legs and knee-high boots. A cloak of dark brown cloth, thick but light, is worn on his back, held up by a silver chain a small pendant around his neck, which bears a blue gem nestled into its center, similar to the stone inlaid in the guard of his sword. Also, Idruil has, on the middle finger of his right hand, a thin silver band, with a miniaturized version of his family crest etched into it.

PERSONALITY: Hírvegil is, in truth, a simple man, in most respects. He is loyal, but not as much to Arvedui as he is to the people he serves. He considers his service a sort of paternal duty to Arthedain, not to his King. In all honesty, his respect for Arvedui is not as great as his respect for Arvedui’s father, Araphant, was. He is merely disillusioned by the turmoil of the land, though, and not lacking in faith. He is firm and steadfast, though not necessarily dauntless. His courage is relative only, and serves to aid his position, not his own whims. He is not selfish, nor is he selfless, and tries to think of the common good as often as he can. He is mildly cynical nowadays, and his future outlook is grim, but he is not a man who cares for longevity. He is grounded easily in the present, and serves as diligently as he thinks he must. He is no master strategist, not as much as he once was, since he combat senses have been dulled by constant battle and flight, but he still retains a working knowledge of tactics and theories of war.

HISTORY: Hírvegil was born the son of an eminent military leader among the Dúnedain called Sildathar who served under King Araphant, father of Arvedui. Sildathar was a march-warden for Araphant, who defended the beleaguered borders of Arthedain from encroaching orc raiding parties. Hírvegil himself was a march-warden at first, and served Araphant in the days before Arvedui’s kingship. Hírvegil bore a close relationship with his father, and his company was often set under the command of Sildathar, making the father and son co-captains in a number of situations. Unfortunately, a raid of orcs from Angmar cost Hírvegil the life of his father in 1920, which, at first, sent Hirvegil into a lengthy period of depression, and he nearly quit his post as a march-warden, but Araphant, who was now beleaguered by the forces of Angmar, needed every able-bodied, intelligent officer in his ranks as he could muster, and beseeched Hírvegil to remain. Ever ready to serve, Hirvegil remained, and continued to defend the fringes of Arthedain from goblin raids from Angmar and the Misty Mountains, the numbers of which increased greatly over the next few decades.

Hírvegil’s mother died later on, as she was gaining in years and the corruption of the land plagued her. Without family, Hírvegil was steeled to the fate that lay before him, and studied the ways of his forefathers from the sunken land of Númenór, learning of tactics, strategies, and of the ways of war. In the year 1939 of the Third Age, Araphant granted Hírvegil the position of a captain of the rearguard of Fornost, elite Dúnedain troops who served Araphant himself. In 1944, the King of Gondor in the south, Ondoher, and his sons, perished in battle, and the throne of Gondor lay empty. Arvedui, son of Araphant, laid claim to Gondor as its rightful heir, and many of his lords and captains hastened to support him, but Hírvegil did not. Believing that Gondor did not belong to Arvedui, even after he had married the heiress of Ondoher, a maid called Fíriel, Hírvegil was content and satisfied when the crown was granted instead to Eärnil II. His view of politics, like his worldview, did not take into account political subtleties, and Hírvegil had never cared for Arvedui’s thirst for control of both the North and South Kingdoms.

Twenty years later, Araphant died, leaving Arvedui the throne. Hírvegil had an already rooted dislike of Arvedui and his policies, but did not question the new king. Arvedui may have resented Hírvegil as well, for not supporting, but, by the wishes of his deceased father, he kept Hírvegil on as a captain of his rearguard. Many of Arvedui’s close counselors also disliked Hírvegil, and bore him hatred, for his views did not comply with those of their King, but they could do nothing but hold resentment in their hearts. The captain, disregarding those who would wish him ill, served Arvedui ever since Araphant’s death, with complete loyalty, even if he was not always in complete agreement with the man whose orders he took.

~*~

Kransha’s carry-along character:

Mellonar - Counselor of Arvedui

Mellonar is a counselor of Arvedui, the King, and a provincial lord in his own right as well as the administrator of the wardens of Arthedain. He is a sickly, suspicious-looking man, with a weak body and very pale, smooth skin. He has a beardless face and long, greasy black hair, all dank of color but well-groomed. He clothes himself finely, in furs and thick, earth toned robes and cloaks, an assortment of various garments heaped one over the other to make him appear a little more stately and substantial than he is. He has the gait of a vulture, always hunched over and conspiratorial as he flits from place to place rather than walks. He is malicious, but not evil, simply malign because of his political circles, clandestine as they are. He is also suspicious of those around him, just as they are of his, but, surprisingly, he does not abuse his power. He is fiercely loyal to the king, though more in the way that a minion is to a master than a loyal hound to a man.

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Prologue ---------- (FIRST POST OF THE GAME - POST 50 ON DT)

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.


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Kransha’s post ---------- FOLLOWS PROLOGUE

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair

Name: Mitharan

Age: 67

Race: Dunedain

Gender: Male

Weapons: As a Dunedain Lord, Mitharan is entitled to both the finest of steels, and the heirlooms of his house. The greatest of these relics, in the blade Arancir, the Noble Cleaver. Besides his aged blade, he wields a small dagger, which he uses both to parry, and to deliver the final blow to the orcs who oppose him.

Appearance: Clad in earth tone clothing and cloaks, the Dunedain Lord looks as if he had just crawled forth from ages of wandering in the forests of the North. Beneath these often tattered raiments, is a glittering chainmail hauberk. His hair is dark, almost black, and his eyes match it with the deep darkness that pools in them. His face is weather beaten, and marked with high cheek bones, giving him an aged, lordly look. Only his hands show the signs of someone still youthful. The rest of him looks aged beyond his years, as he has seen many horrors, of which will never escape his mind.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: Like most Lords, he is proud, almost too proud. More often than not, he can be seen striding to meet a danger he is ill-equipped to handle. Yet, with his trademark tenacity, he manages to pull through in the end, and achieve his goal. His pride drove him to near death, as he fought in almost complete solitude, hopelessly trying to drive back the hordes of orcs as they rampaged on the outer battlements of Fornost, the greatest stronghold of Arthedain.

Yet, his pride, although remaining as his most glaring of weaknesses, is also his greatest strength. Throughout his life, he has been engaged in various conflicts. And though most would have been successful, without his pride, it is the driving force behind his personality. Without it, he may very well be just another Dunedain. But with it, he is totally unique from all those who surround him. From his pride, he derives his tenacity in battle, and life. He is not one to give up, or diminish, just because a few deciding battles have been lost.

History: Mitharan was born in 1907 of the Third Age. From birth, he was given almost immediate training in the ways of war, and of the lordship he would inherit. His early childhood was one marked by happiness, as peace was still lurking in the air. He grew up quickly, in mind, faster than most children. He was always considered a firebrand, and quite haughty for one so small. For some time, his life was easy, and he continued to be a carefree youth, often wandering for endless hours in the woods, marveling at the beasts.

This pattern continued with him, as he came of age. But, with age, comes wisdom, and he slowly fell into the Lordly ways of his father, Arátohîr. He began studying the world through scrolls and tomes, as well as continuing his ways of wandering, though to a lesser degree. His father often scolded him for following the ‘ranger’ ways of wilderness treks, for he himself was more inclined to follow the path the Gondorian nobles were carving. Eventually, his wandering ceased.
Many more years passed, and Mitharan was now well on his way to becoming the wise, aged Lord his father wanted. But, this would be disrupted, for civil war was breaking out, and Cardolan and Rhudaur were in upheaval. Though, even with these two factions of the former kingdom of Arnor bickering over the palantir of Amon Sul, a greater enemy lurked on the horizon. The Witch-King of Angmar had begun his attacks, though small they were at first. Within some years, both Cardolan and Rhudaur were beaten, and Angmar was becoming the true power of the North.

Within a few more years, Angmar was encroaching upon Arthedain, and was preparing to destroy its only remaining rival in the region. At this time, the Dunedain remnants mobilized, and prepared to march against the Angmarim power. But, it was in vain. The Witch-King’s forces were too numerous, and eventually, they made their way to Fornost, and laid siege to it....


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CaptainofDespair's post

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Lieutenant (to the captain) – Saurreg

NAME: Belegorn

AGE: 54

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

A 48in long sword, standard issue of the elite rearguard of fornost. The bright shiny steel blade measures 38in long and tapers narrowly towards the end. Blade is made of high quality tempered steel and is well polished and sharpened. Essentially a cut and thrust weapon. Intricate curvings can be found on the ricasso and along the length of the ridge, and the silver quillons of the crossguard are shaped like the outstretched wings of an eagle – the symbolic animal of the regiment. The brass pommel of the sword is curved in the shape of a jewel – the Elessar. The cast iron grip is well banded with black leather strips. Black leather scabbard with a polished steel collar, brass buckles and fittings.

A 17in dagger, also of standard military issue. Steel blade measures 11in long with a crossguard with hooked quillons. Wire wrapped grip and an acorn pommel. Sheath for dagger resembles a miniature version of the guard sword scabbard.

APPEARANCE:

6’2” tall. Broad shouldered with the built, strength and stamina of middle-aged Dúnedain who engages in frequent exercises. Shoulder length black hair with white tuffs showing at the sideburns. No facial hair except for black and grey stubble around the mouth and all the way to the neck. Grey sharp eyes, bushy black eyebrows and a thin tapering jawline that gives him the appearance of a raptor. Thin lips and a mouth not used to smiling (nature scowl).

ATTIRE:

Wears a linen shirt under a green quilted doublet, chain hauberk that extends to half the length of the tights, green woolen trews, and chainmail trousers (don’t laugh).

ACCESSORIES:

Chainmail coif, steel bascinet with a red plume, mail gauntlets with steel vambraces. A forest green surcoat depicting the heraldry of the regiment. Steel greaves and knee-high leather boots with metal soles and toes.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

Beregorn is courageous and devoted to duty and the law. He is extremely proud of his profession and tries his best to be well-mannered and carry himself in a dignified bearing befitting of his military station. He is a strict disciplinarian who has hung many a wrong-doers in his previous units for all sorts of offenses. While those that served under him can attest to his ability to command and grudgingly respect him, they can never love him because of his harshness. Belegorn devotes his entire life to soldiering and thus can be perceived as being aloof and unapproachable socially. His only weakness other than his rigidity is that he feels insecure and irritated in the company of those whom he perceive as being arrogant and haughty due to their higher social status and better education.

Inwardly, Belegorn is worried about the state of the remnants of the Royal Arthedain Army. Although proud to be a commissioned officer in one of the king’s own household regiments, he knows truthfully that whatever potency the army had had vanished and all the regiments with proud histories and traditions are but a shell of their former selves. Nevertheless he continues to serve to the best of his ability and hopes that he can only live up to the illustrious accomplishments and deeds of his predecessors.

Belegorn cares not who the King of Gondor is. He is a professional soldier of Arthedain and will not question orders from superiors.

HISTORY:

The youngest son of an improvished tanner, Belegorn was a product from the dredges of Dúnedain society where class and status dictated the fate of one’s life. Proverty and pressing events denied him the opportunity of a formal education and thus what Belegorn learned in his limited ability to read and write, he learned from a kindly old cleric who also dwelled in the lower part of Fornost. Belegorn is ashamed of this handicap of his and thus becomes insecure and uneasy around other much younger commissioned officers of the same rank who are better educated and of higher social status than him. It is a feeling of inferiority and regret that will never be cast aside easily.

In the year 1938 TA Belegorn joined one of the many yeoman militia regiments as a skirmisher. His courage and skill was soon noticed by his superiors and the teenager was drafted to one of the regular line regiments of the army as a man-at-arms as the war continued and manpower became scarce. For the next four decades Belegorn continued to hone his skills in feats of arms as well as in administration and battle tactics. He acquired a reputation for himself within the regiments which he was shuffled to and fro and his deeds were also noted by superior headquarters. But in the face of Arthedain meritocracy, his lowly background and lack of education denied him due recognition and above all a promotion through the ranks. Belegorn took all in stride however, and continued to serve. It was the state before one’s self.

In the year 1970 TA, Belegron participated in one of the many vain attempts by the Arthedain Army to turn the tide against Angmar by mounting her own offense campaign. The campaign was a disaster but for Belegorn, it was a bittersweet blessing in disguise. King Arvedui was there in person on the battlefield and chanced upon the veteran soldier. Highly impressed by the exploits of Belegorn, the King remarked aloud nonchalantly that Belegorn was the type of man Arthedain needed in such desperate times. Eager to please the king’s every single whim; his glittering entourage broke into action. Inquiries were made, messengers sent and notes scribbled. Before the King and his staff had even left the battlefield, Belegorn was notified that he was given a field promotion to the rank of first lieutenant and made the deputy commander of a regiment.

The captain of the regiment was killed during the chaotic retreat back to Fornost and Belegorn became the regiment’s acting commander for the rest of the withdrawal to the Arthedain capital. There he put all his years of learning and experiences to good use and conducted his regiment very well. In 1972 TA Captain Hírvegil of the King’s Rearguard heard of the Belegorn’s achievements and when the old soldier’s regiment was disbanded, he was invited to join the ranks of the elite.


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Saurreg's post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Woman – Lalwendë

NAME: Renedwen

AGE: 42

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: She has come into possession of her husband’s steel sword, which has a pommel set with black onyx and bands of blue enamel. This was awarded to him on reaching the rank of Lieutenant and as such was of great symbolic significance to him, something which Renedwen was keenly aware of. It is a wonderfully crafted weapon with a keen edge and the ability to be wielded lightly. Along with this, Renedwen also has his knife which he used in close combat.

APPEARANCE: As tall as any other Dunedain woman, Renedwen is average in her build, but she has a beauty which her husband was captivated by. Her hair is dark and smooth; it falls in a dark sheet across her shoulders, and often hides her brilliant blue eyes when she bows her head in greeting. This is an endearing sight to see as she appears vulnerable when she makes this movement, something which is not a trait normally associated with Renedwen’s cynical temperament. She normally wears finely made dresses while on her hands she wears golden rings, and about her neck is one golden chain bearing a blue sapphire, chosen by her husband to match her eyes. This is not an old item, but was given to her on the birth of their long-awaited child.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Renedwen is cynical by nature, and often troubled by a sense of foreboding; she worries a lot and can be quite scathing with her words. She is often suspicious and does have a temper. But in her heart, she does care; it is due to her upbringing that she has learned to hide her happier feelings. Her hidden strength lies in the fighting and riding skills which she was taught as a girl. As soon as she married, she had put these aside with a great sense of relief, but she is capable of handling herself if the need should ever arise, though she does not have the natural strength of a soldier. Her weakness is her son, who she is prepared to defend at any cost; and her realisation that for the first time, she is alone in the world with no protector, a feeling which leaves her vulnerable.


HISTORY: Renedwen was born to a highly respected Captain of the Dunedain, the fourth of five children, she had four brothers. Her father was from a long line of Captains and as befitted his high status, his house lay among those of the elite of Fornost. The household was not filled with joy; no parties were held in this home, for it was a sombre and strict household and the Captain did not approve of fripperies and childish nonsense. The Captain demanded respect from his children as much as he commanded it from his men. He was a man who maintained discipline in his home, seeing this as the best way he might express his love for his family, all of whom he loved deeply.

The Captain was not a man who felt he ought to hold back on the truth and none of the children were ever sent away from the table when he came home, full of troubled tales of the struggles he faced daily. He was a man troubled by a constant sense of dread which he could not help acting upon. He insisted that all his children, even his daughter, ought to learn skills which would stand them in readiness for whatever may come to pass, despite it being against the custom for girls to be included in such training. Renedwen was made to learn how to defend herself along with her brothers; their father took care to pass on his skills, leading them in fighting and riding lessons whenever he could. Renedwen, seeing other girls playing and having fun, hated this, and resisted her father’s teaching. She would be distracted by the sight of a bird and run to follow it, or fall to dancing when she should have been learning how to stop an attack from behind. But even when distracted, her father refused to indulge her whims and allow her to run home. Renedwen longed for the day when she could set up her own home and fill it with beautiful, frivolous things, and spend time whiling her days away in daydreams and elegance.

It was no surprise that Renedwen grew up with a cynical outlook and a hardened heart. She had spent years learning to stifle her need for fun, learning to accept the discipline of her father. She knew it was the only way to win his love and approval. She eventually inherited his sense of dread, and worries constantly troubled her mind. As she grew into a young woman her only solace was to pass through the silent halls of the King’s men in the early of the morning, a place where she could escape the troubles that plagued her by dreaming about being a fine lady. It was here that a young Dunedain officer came upon her one dawn.

He saw her dark hair coldly lit in the chill early light, and as she turned to see whose feet came near, her hair fell back from her fair face, revealing her brilliant blue eyes, and his heart leapt. In time, he was ever to be found at the Captain’s house; despite his fear of the great man‘s reputation, he was determined he should win his daughter. She eventually fell in love, but it was with his devotion, rather than his being. And her father, satisfied that this was no frivolous young man, that he would provide for and protect his child, eventually consented.

It was an easy marriage in that her husband allowed her free reign to do and say as she pleased. Only her guilt stayed her when she realised had gone too far in exploiting his weakness for her. They waited many years for a child, and her husband placated her by filling their house with the fine and elegant things she desired. He strove hard to improve his position, for her benefit, and eventually was made a Lieutenant; he was admired by his men, and though a quiet man, those above him often took notice of his efforts. They lived in the best part of the city, close to her father, who in time was retired from his active post, yet he remained an honorary Captain. She was happy, but did not outwardly display that happiness by any softening of her heart. She remained a cold and cynical woman, and grew to be proud. After twenty long years Renedwen was blessed with a son, and a change came about her. Her cold heart was thawed by the presence of the child, and though still very much a cynical woman, she carried him everywhere with her, spoiling him as much as it was possible, and if she thought of harm ever coming to him, her heart burned with anger.

__________________________________________________ _______________


Lalwendë's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier) – Nuranar

NAME: Lissi

AGE: 39

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: female

WEAPONS: For years Lissi has had a short knife. Though unremarkable in every way, it has made itself useful in scores of household tasks. Lissi sharpens it every so often, although she prefers for it not to be too sharp - she has at least one scar on her finger from it. Her husband Carthor's old stave, short and bladed, hangs on the wall in their home. Since the siege began Lissi has surreptitiously begun to practice wielding it. She knows nothing first-hand of combat, and hopes never to know, but any preparation may come in useful.

APPEARANCE: Lissi stands only a little shorter than her two tall sons, at 5'9". Her height and the delicacy of her bone structure give her form the illusion of fragility. In reality she is neither fragile, being well-muscled, nor delicate, having always delighted in outdoor exercise such as walking and riding. Her sons inherited her fine features and her fair skin, although Lissi has taken scrupulous care of her complexion and has no freckles. Nor did the boys inherit her eyes and hair. Her eyes are so light a grey they seem to glow; when she is excited, they burn like white stars. Lissi's hair, as black as soot, falls in heavy waves down her back. Charming tendrils curl around her face, softening features that would otherwise seem austere. But what transforms her face is her smile. Lissi's smile is sweet and spontaneous, and although her life has not been the easiest, her smile has never completely disappeared. Fine lines of care cross her brow, but their number are rivaled by the lines of laughter around her mouth. For the most part Lissi wears simple, dark-colored dresses and overgowns with full skirts. Since their finances began to go downhill, she spends rarely but always for quality. Even now her light woolen gowns are as warm and sturdy and well-fitting as ever.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Although a mother of two nearly-grown sons, Lissi knows and rejoices that she is still quite attractive. Furthermore she grew up privileged and has a taste for luxury and expense, which is nevertheless balanced by her practicality. She loves her sons dearly, but is no doting mother Lissi has a very intelligent, strong mind. Her devotion to duty, and the right thing to do, is stubborn and unyielding. Life has given her disappointment and sorrow, if not yet tragedy, and for the most part Lissi has weathered these storms and emerged stronger. She feels secret contempt for those too "weak-minded" to meet difficulties and she despises those who renege on their responsibilities. Despite all this, Lissi has learned to make her own happiness. Choosing to consider herself contented, she manages to enjoy her family and her duties. And her serene manner is the mellow calm of a mature woman, with even yet the merriness of girlhood breaking through.

HISTORY: Lissielle, always called Lissi, was born the youngest of three daughters. Her father was a wealthy man, and the family has been of the elite of Fornost for generations. Lissi's elder sisters were identical twins, a good five years older, and very close to each other. Lissi was often alone, but her active mind was never at a loss; she read voraciously and thought constantly, carrying on conversations in her head. She loved to be outside. She would walk and ride outside the city, even in the chill north winds, and even her studying she did in the garden. Determined not to be lonely, she made herself her own best companion. Only once did she give in to jealousy of her sisters, spending a miserable, sulky, envious week following them around. Then her common sense pulled her up sternly and she decided that although twinges of envy were uncomfortable, giving in to them was far worse than giving it rein.

This self-taught lesson was vital in later years. For if Lissi was fair, her sisters were dazzling; as the belles of society, they danced and coquetted and broke hearts left and right. Lissi herself entered society at age twenty, in her sisters' shadow. Naturally the little sister could not compete; from time to time this fretted Lissi, before she discovered that some men found her just as attractive. She found their admiration pleasant, but no one aroused her especial interest until she was introduced to Carthor, a soldier, at her sister's wedding. In his seventies, he was far older than the young men she knew. Although scarred and saturnine, his hair was yet dark and his blue eyes brilliant, and Lissi had never felt before the aura of strength he carried with him. And most intriguingly of all, he did not show the slightest interest in her.

Lissi had enough of the coquette in her blood to see his remoteness as a challenge. Drawing on all the stubbornness of her nature, she spent the ensuing months learning what she could about him and striving to excite his appreciation. Finally Carthor turned to her, not only giving his admiration but also seeking solace. By this time Lissi herself was smitten, enamored of both the brave soldier of the past and the bereaved man of the present. When he asked her to marry him, she agreed gladly. She had heard rumors that Carthor "drank," but the only drunkenness she knew was the jovial excesses of feast days; and what of it? He loved her, and he would change. Lissi's father was concerned - he knew of Carthor and saw clearer than his daughter - but balked at the trouble of a sharp conflict with her.

Faerim was born a year later, and Brander a year after that. Those two years taught Lissi many things. Carthor was always kind to her, and although unlearned, he was intelligent. He was a good companion for her life. But even before Faerim's birth she confessed to herself that she had never truly loved him; nor did he love her. She had talked herself into an infatuation with the romantic man of the stories. But Lissi would not let herself fall into self-disgust or grow bitter with disappointment. She had made her choice, and there was no turning back. Carthor needed her, even if she could not give him love. Their sons needed her, needed both of them, and she was not going to take out her disappointment on them.

As before her lesson in envy had sustained her, now her devotion to duty and care for her family stood her in good stead. His good resolutions had held for some time, but after Brander's birth Carthor slowly reverted to his drunken habits. Lissi saw it with anger at first, anger and guilt that she wasn't good enough. She berated her husband, reproaching and upbraiding, honing her scolding to a fine weapon to fence with Carthor's own sharp tongue. And once again, she made herself miserable as well as Carthor and the boys. From then on Lissi set her jaw and restrained herself. Even when he began gambling and she saw their livelihood - and her sons' inheritance - slipping away, she controlled her tongue and sought to influence instead of punish.

After her father-in-law died, Lissi saw with relief the reform that Carthor made. He gave up drinking and gambling eventually, and she thought entirely. But it seemed that Carthor had to have an obsession. When wine and gambling were abandoned, soldiering took over. Lissi grieved in secret over his withdrawal from the family, but as always she determined to stand true. Through the lonely years she strove to be the best mother possible and make their home a pleasant place, and she watched with pride as their sons grew.

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Nuranar's post

Lissi had been up since before dawn. The hideous clamor of battle reverberated through the air and penetrated every corner of the house. Tremors ran through the floor and walls as the city trembled with each projectile’s impact. Even the heavy storm shutters could not shut out the hellish glare of the fires. The red glow gave her bedroom such an alien appearance that Lissi buried her head in the blankets to shut the terrifying vision out. An instant later she jerked upright in shame and pride and slid out of bed. If she could not sleep, at least she would not cower in bed like a child afraid of shadows!

Lissi pattered across the room and defiantly flung open the shutters. Then she dressed with deliberate concentration in the weird light. Close-fitting underdress, deep red wool, laced on both sides, tight buttoned-up sleeves. Dark brown overdress, front-lacing, flared sleeves. Woolen hose and leather shoes. Small work knife, hanging from an old leather belt, around her waist. Heavy shawl around her shoulders, held together in the front by a brooch. Lissi laced every lace, buttoned every button, and arranged every fold of her raiment with scrupulous care. Moving to the polished metal mirror hanging on her wall, she arranged her hair. The white face she saw, framed by little natural curls, gazed back with calm approval as she braided her long black tresses into two braids and tied on her winter hood. Then for a moment Lissi’s busy fingers stopped, and she bowed her head.

A dull splintering thud rattled the furniture. The next instant Lissi found herself on the balcony in the next room, grey eyes straining to see the battle in the lurid light of the flames. Until the weak light of the winter sun illumined the heavy grey clouds, Lissi stayed on the balconey. She paced the whole time. At first she told herself she was keeping warm. But as she paced she thought, and as she thought her stride grew faster with nervous energy. If she only knew exactly what was happening! All she could do now was think – and think – and think.

For weeks Lissi had been thinking. It began with planning, then went to packing, but the thinking never stopped: thinking, always thinking – pondering the siege, imagining scenarios, devising a response to every one, preparing for every eventuality, desperately seeking a way to escape. Escape! What she wanted most in the world, and what she could not find. Despite all her intelligence, she could think of no escape. On the contrary, the merciless logic of her mind only built up the evidence of defeat. Of all helpless feelings this was the worst. The city was crumbling around her, her people were dying, the enemy was coming – and she could do nothing.

If she was fated to escape, escape would have to come to her, for she knew not where to find it. And if it came she would be ready. She had several packs ready to leave, and her husband’s stave was ever to hand. At the last she would leave the house, she and her blind son Brander. Lissi had scarcely seen her husband Carthor since the siege began, although she knew that if he had fallen word would have come. And her other son Faerim – he, too, was fighting, although he often came home to check on them.

But when the pale grey light of winter touched the cracked and scorched walls, she resolutely for herself from her perch. “Madam Lissielle, you will drive yourself mad if you continue in this way,” she scolded as she fled down the stairs. “You will go scrub that filthy kitchen floor until it shines, or until…” She broke off, then gave her head a little shake and hurried into the kitchen.

Ironically enough, Lissi found intense relief in her task. After laying aside her cloak – the exercise would keep her warm – and rolling up her sleeves, she threw herself into her work. She tended the fire, heated water, scrubbed the worn brick floor, and rinsed it clean with a zeal and absorption far from usual. Her anger and fear found release in attacking the mud and grease and soot that spotted the floor, and the harder she scrubbed the harder it was to hear the commotion outside. And nothing occurred to interrupt her. The house itself was almost eerily silent, Brander’s quiet movements upstairs almost unheard.

Lissi’s movements became more mechanical. She recalled her first sight of the hordes of Angmar: Rising from the eastern horizon, they spread like a black wave across the fields where she had been wont to ride, darkened the bare and lifeless land, and poured relentlessly on, lapping even at the Fornost walls. In that moment she had not felt terror. She had scarcely been afraid. But she knew. With the blood-knowledge and instinct of a hundred generations of warriors, she saw the remorseless inevitability of the coming defeat. She stood alone in that knowledge and looked into it without flinching. That evening Lissi had bade her dear husband farewell – for he was dear, if not beloved – with a smile, and watched him march to the defense of the walls. But she lay awake all night. The bitter import of defeat did not register until the darkest hour, just before dawn. And then she wept, in slow, anguished sobs, for the sheer heartbreak and tragedy of it all. But she had not shed a tear since. She only thought.

With a sigh Lissi rose to her feet, finished. As she tidied up the kitchen she felt the old gentle pride of a gentler time, the serene knowledge of a job well done. Smiling at herself, only half mockingly, she rolled down her sleeves and rearranged her clothes. Lissi was buttoning her sleeve when a crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by quick footsteps and then silence. Side door, she thought, even as she slipped out of the kitchen, heart throbbing painfully. She had just lifted down Carthor’s bladed stave when Faerim’s voice echoed through the house. “Brander? Brander!”

Lissi gasped in relief, clutching the reassuring weight of the stave. She dashed out to the hall just in time to see her elder son vanish up the stairs, still calling for his brother. “Son! Faerim! What is it?” she cried. He was still safe! And news – at last!

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Male Dúnedain Youth (child of the woman and soldier) – Novnarwen

Name Brander

Age 16

Gender Male

Race Men, Dunedain

Weapons: None. He has never had any use of weapons. When not being able to see the enemy (if there is any at all), what is the use of a sword, a knife or a bow? To him, a weapon would not serve as a protection; it would be quite the opposite.

Appearance : As his one year older brother, his skin is light (almost pale). Brander has a lot of freckles covering his nose and small parts of his chin; he has definitely more freckles than his brother, and it’s certainly noticeable. His face is formed far more oblong than his brother, giving him a much larger forehead (without it being so big that he’s not good looking). It makes him look rather strict and important, but his childish features and expressions will easily dominate most of the time. He has sharp features. Especially his high cheekbones and his straight nose are what people take notice to at first. Then there are his eyes; Brander hardly opens them, as it makes not difference to him. (He is blind, and has been from birth.) However, when he does open them, most people are amazed by the sparkling green colour which hides under his heavy lids. As he is a very happy and pleased person, he smiles almost constantly, revealing his white big teeth, which are all situated nicely like small pearls in his jaw. Brander has curly, half long hair, which is a mixture between blonde and light brown. He is slight and slim figure, but he is still muscular. He is taller than average people. He dresses normally in light colours, as that fits his personality the best; a light-hearted lad with few worries. Even though he has not seen himself, ever, he is quite confident that he is a handsome young man, having been told so by others.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: His broad smile and his sense of humour are two of his most recognisable characteristics. Brander appears to others to be a very happy person, who smiles and laughs often. He is witty, and is in many ways very charming. He is open-minded about most things, intelligent, but quick headed. He connects easily to people. In others words, he is a very social being, who tends to get restless when not being around people. Sometimes though, he might be slightly sceptic towards new relations, as it’s very difficult for him to distinguish between true friends and others whose only intentions are to take advantage of him.

Brander has of course many weaknesses due to the fact that he is blind. Naturally, he can’t do everything everyone else can. Being blind though, has made Brander aware and appreciate many things that others do not. He lives by hearing, touching and smelling; he does not take these things for granted as most people do. His senses are his only tools in the world, and he is grateful for what he has.

Brander is often reminded of his handicap. Hearing others speaking aloud about their doings - what they have seen - is particularly difficult. The feeling of being excluded isn't to be avoided. He is excluded, because there are many things he cannot do. Sometimes he feels lonely, even though he sits in a room with a dozen others. He feels that people’s lack of understanding towards the situation he finds himself in, is rather horrifying. He feels that instead of appreciating him as he is, people tend to pity him. They pity him because he is blind; they pity him for the wrong reasons! Brander is overly convinced that his blindness should not be a reason for feeling sorry for him. With a little help, he could, as he often says, manage very well on his own. People who treat as if he was a petty little creature who cannot do anything on his own, is the reason why he also feels so abandoned, or set aside in and by the society. No one approaches him like a normal person. They treat him as if he was a child, as if he was dumb. It is a mystery to him why people who can see, can't see that he is exactly like them...

History Brander was born in late winter time of the Third Age 1988. At that time, no one knew that the newly born boy was blind, and that after sixteen years he would still be. At the age of five or six, Brander still remember discovering that something was odd, something which affected him in more than one way. His mother was pointing at a horse and he could not see it. The reason why he did not know it before was that he was not aware of the senses he possessed, and the senses others (like his mother) possessed. He knew what a horse was; how it sounded, how it felt, but how it looked like, was an enigma. So, it was at that time his mother and father, and others, became aware of the boy's handicap. Due to this, Brander was not sent to school at first, as his parents thought it rather useless. Why waste money on a boy who could probably not learn anything at all? To Brander it did not seem such a big deal in the beginning. He hardly knew what school and education was. He learned form his own experiences and he learned from hearing others tell their tales; what more was there to learn? Through his early teens, he spent his days sitting outside in the sun, taking long walks with whoever was interested and so forth. Then, one day, his perspective on life changed drastically. It was early morning, and Brander had just eaten breakfast. As adventurous as he is, he had planned on going for a walk; this time, he planned on going alone. Telling no one of this, he made his way out of the house where the family lived, and found his way out on the street. He’d heard someone calling for him, on the other side. In mere enthusiasm that someone was calling for him, he ran, crossing the street. What he wasn’t aware of, as he was blind, was that a laden wagon dragged by two strong horses was coming his way in a terrible speed. Had it not been for an observant young man, (who had disappeared after the event,) Brander would have been run over and most likely dead. This, mainly, was the reason why he changed. He changed for the better; he became far more independent and determined. He decided that he could not, and would not, live his life doing nothing only because he could not see. It was not going to be an obstacle for living a normal life. Instead of sitting helplessly and without goals at home, he managed at last to convince his parents to send him to school. He could learn and he would. Even though he could not read, and was never going to, he learned much by just being present, hearing others read or do their lessons. This gave him great pleasure; he even found himself taking part in most of the activities; activities he never thought he would be able to take part in. At the age of fifteen, one year later than his brother, he left school, having learnt everything there was to learn, or so he thought...

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Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Youth – Amanaduial the Archer - SEE POST 47

DUNEDAIN YOUTH – son of the woman (Nuranar) and the soldier (Osse).

NAME: Faerim. (Fay-rim)

AGE: 17

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Although only just recruited to the army, Faerim has used a broadsword for some years, as he is quite strong enough to handle the long, heavy weapon generally used by older soldiers. Having worked as an apprenticed blacksmith since he was 15, he is also quite handy with a whole series of knives, and keeps one inside his left boot for jobs or for general safety purposes – carrying around a sword is basically asking for trouble for such a young man. Although the broadsword is the weapon that he works hardest at, he was also taught from the age of about twelve or thirteen to use a bow, although his father scoffed that it was a ‘sissy’ weapon: because his arms have been strengthened from using the broadsword, he has become very apt with this, and made a few adaptations to his own bow so that his shot is even more powerful.

APPEARANCE: Faerim is quite light, his skin pale and unlined, and lightly freckled, contrasting with the lean, sharp structure of his face. His hair, which falls straight and messily around his face and ears, is spattered light blonde-brown colour and his eyes are light blue. Such light colouring can sometimes seem to give him an almost childish look, but along with his slim, sharp face, it more often than not gives him a sort of elfin charm that he is quite aware of! Faerim is not vain, but is quite a charmer, and a romantic, but on his young face there can also be seen lines of hardness and anxiety, and when angry his entire face has a way of freezing up, his icy eyes frosting over completely. Faerim stands at about 5 ft 11, and although his shoulders are quite broad, he is quite slim, but well toned – he is stronger than he looks, and well able to wield a broad sword, without being held back by extra bulk. He wears high leather boots and dark trousers, usually worn with soft, loose white shirts, more often than not under a leather jerkin or shirt tunic, and a habitually worn long, rather battered black cloak, attached at the shoulders – at 17, Faerim is one year too young to be recruited to the army in peace time, but due to the desperation of the military in the recent attacks, he has been brought in early, but in the haste has not been fitted out with armour. He uses basically his father’s old armour when needs be.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Faerim is charismatic and charming, but not arrogant with it – generally. Arrogance does not come easily to him as he has seen what it can do: the youth resents the way his father has squandered much of the one-rich family’s money on drink and gambling. But it is from his father that Faerim has inherited his fierce temper, although it is less easily aroused than in his father, and his cutting tongue. Premature lines of worry and anxiety can be seen on his otherwise unflawed skin, for his father’s behaviour, and the pressure he has put on the young Faerim, have caused him to age a little before his time. But despite this, he is in general quite a happy go lucky young man, a charmer and a romantic, good with ladies but able to dodge out of trouble. His home life is too serious as far as he is concerned, and so he tends to ignore solemnity outside of it, almost to the point of audacity sometimes. But he respects the captains, especially the distant Hirvegil, whom he almost uses as a role model – not that he would ever admit this to his father. He is proud and ready to fight for what he believes in – but not always outright, but cleverly: if offended, he will remember, and can come across as quite cold because of this, until he is satisfied with some conclusion. Faerim wishes to join the military really because, well, it’s what his family have always done – and although it may be a family corroded by gambling and drink, it is still his heritage, and he intends to keep it up. His warm, charming nature draws friends, but family is at the heart of it all – even if he doesn’t exactly get on with most of it’s members.


HISTORY: Born in spring of TA 1987, Faerim is the eldest child of Carthor, and with this has come quite a burden: his father has always put pressure on him to become strong, to join the army and fight for Arthedain, as his forefathers always have. Because of this, his father taught him from when he was very young with one of his old swords: the child found it hard to wield because of it’s weight and because of this hard lessons were learnt by Faerim – and maybe this was the start of a somewhat formal, almost distant relationship between father and son, although as he grew older, Faerim’s attitude towards his father was tinged with respect for his father’s past. He went to school, as befitted the son of a ‘gentleman’, and learnt quite quickly, but was generally more interested in the social side of living, and developed a vibrant, warm but fierce personality that got into fights quite often. At fifteen, he left school and became apprenticed to a blacksmith, to earn his keep and learn some more practical skills, in his mother and father’s hopes that he would also grow up a little. It didn’t exactly happen that way – it generally just meant that Faerim now had a little more freedom to do what he wanted with, and he generally became a bit of a scallywag. But despite his somewhat rogue-ish nature, Faerim still kept firmly to his aspiration of joining the army when he came of age, and having repaired or forged enough weapons for other men, he himself forged his own first broadsword, with the help and guidance of Blacksmith Master Talston, a steadfast, gruff individual who, although he wouldn’t admit it, had become quite fond of his apprentice, who had become quite skilled, and had been hinting that maybe it would be better if Faerim stayed to take up the job as a profession – after all, he reasoned roughly, could either of them really see Faerim obeying any officer he didn’t want to?! But the youth laughed it off and kept practising his skills with broadsword and bow, living life in any way he pleased – until he got his military wish a year earlier than expected, when the fell army, led by the nightmarish Witch King, attacked Arthedain. Faerim became both archer and skirmisher, whatever was needed really, and began his early career in the army…

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Amanaduial's post ------- SEE POST 62

Faerim threw himself down against the remains of the wall he had posted himself behind, his hands covering his head, as the top of the wall exploded and the rubble rained down on his light hair and face. Scrabbling back onto his knees, the youth brushed the debris from his clothes hastily and peered forward through what had been an arrow slit in the wall. His light eyes scanned outwards across the lower level and beyond, and widened as his gaze followed the black masses further and further outwards. His skin paled further beneath the light spattering of freckles as the full extent of the black army, and how little they seemed affected by the desperate army of Fornost – or what was little of them. Beneath him, on the lower level where a few orcs had breached the walls, chaos reigned: houses burned and smoked, the fell flood surged over the rubble, and from above, Faerim could hear the screams of those who had fallen prey to the catapult shots and arrows of the enemy. And all the time came that irrepressable booming of the ram hitting the gates...

Wrenching his horrified gaze from the scene below and turning his back to the wall, the youth pulled open his quiver of arrows and counted those that remained – a laughable four, and one so cracked that he doubted it would fly. He swore under his breath and looked back through the arrow slit to the lower level. Loading his bow with arrow number one, he scanned the area and picked out one particularly despicable individual who, along with a second orc, was hacking at the door of a house with a pitted axe. The opposite of his younger brother, Faerim’s sight was excellent, so that some had sniped before that the seventeen year old had got the eyesight for the both of them: as a result of his eyesight, the youth could see every detail of the vile creature, down to fresh bloodstains around it’s hands. Feeling sick at the thought of whose blood that might be, the young man sighted briefly and fired.

The orc fell backwards with a satisfying yell, the axe falling from it’s stumpy digits as it clutched, unseeing, at the arrow now embedded deep in it’s chest. Beside it, orc number two gave a snarl of surprise and followed the line of the arrow upwards until it came eye to eye with Faerim. He could feel it’s eyes on him through the arrow slit, but it wouldn’t last for long: defiant until the last, the archer gave a quick wink and loosed his second precious arrow. Not waiting to see whether it found it’s mark, he looked about searched the lower area and prepared to let off one more of his arrows towards another orc. But as he did so, a deafening scream came from along the wall beside him and a soldier toppled off, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. The sound caused Faerim to jump at the last second almost wasting the shot. Twisting his mouth in irritation, the young man re-sighted, his muscles tensed to shoot-

The gates swung open.

With yells from the men and inhuma roars from the black hordes, the enemy poured into the city of Fornost. Faerim's arrow fly awry, lost in the masses, but the youth barely noticed, his horrified eyes fixed on ther scene below as beasts twice as tall as a man attacked the army of his city, battering them aside with brutal weapons. And his father was below...

Faerim took a deep breath and strung his bow with the fourth arrow – and then realised that it was indeed his last. Have to be careful when you’re out on a limb, that’s what Brander—

Brander. Dammit, his younger brother – where was he? He had been in the manor house, with their mother, but now…a fresh sluice of fear washed over Faerim. His father would be fighting in the frey below, a swordsman as he was, but at least he had some way of protecting himself - but a vivid image of the orcs, flowing from every side into the room around his blind brother, drove itself into his mind. Brander wouldn't stand a chance. Saving the last arrow, the Dunedain youth checked his sword and, in a strange crouched position, ran across to the shelter nearest to the wall where he had been crouched. Darting inside, he slipped quickly past the other soldiers there, taking on a busy air that meant none stopped him, the sprinted across the courtyard at the back towards the street of larger houses on the second level on the outer wall.

Of course, Faerim was under no impressions of his brother being helpless – for years, Brander had made it painfully clear, both to his older brother and to his parents, that he was determined to be as independent as possible. But, Faerim mused angrily, that independence – being able to look after himself in a domestic situation – was frankly worth nothing in this situation. What Faerim valued – his strength, agility, speed and skill with weapons – were nothing to Brander: a sword, or even a knife, would be more of a liability that an aid to the blind boy.

The white stone of a beautifully delicate, ancient spire, reaching so high it split the sky, suddenly shattered as a barrage of stones hit it. The debris pratically exploded and huge chunks of the base fell to the ground, coming so close to crushing Faerim that his cloak caught beneath it as he rolled agiley, coming to rest on one knee in the shadow of one of the houses. Breathlessly, without taking time to compose himself, he wrenched his cloak from beneath the shattered remains of the face of some ancient statue and kicked the side door of the house open. Half jogging in, he heard a noise from the landing above and fell to a crouch to slip one of his knives from the inside of his left boot. Satisfied that the noise had ceased, he took the stairs of the grand, sweeping staircase three at a time, cloak flying out behind him as he yelled for his brother – it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through, and surely one of the captains would have arranged something? Either way, he needed to find out and bearing in mind he hadn’t an idea where his father might be now, he needed to make sure Brander and his mother were safe. “Brander? Brander!”

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elf Emissary from Lindon – alaklondewen

NAME: Ereglin

AGE: 2066

RACE: Sindar

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ereglin carries a long, narrow-bladed sword. The wooden hilt is wrapped tightly in thick tanned leather that is worn from many years. Its crossguard is slightly curved toward the blade, and each end is marked with a decorative spiral engraved into the steel. This sword, he used in the final battle of the Second Age, but has had little need to do so since, except in exercise. Ereglin prefers to use his bow, however, for his eyes are keen, as they are for all his kin, and his aim is precise.

APPEARANCE: Ereglin is of average elven height, yet still tall compared to Men. His frame is small, but he is muscular enough to wield his sword if need be. Two small, golden braids frame his chiseled feature and square jaw. The remainder of his hair falls straight down to the small of his back. His dark grey eyes overlook his small straight nose. His ivory skin is smooth like that of a youth, but his eyes are cold, and his expression is hardened.

He normally wears lightweight trousers and a tunic in various shades of blues and greens with a grey flowing robe covering all. However, with battle raging, he is wearing a light-weight armor made by the smiths of Mithlond. He is still wrapped in his robe, with his scabbard beneath and his bow strapped to his back.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ereglin has always been an aspiring elf who knew what he wanted and was not afraid to do what was needed to get it. This confident, hard-working attitude landed him with a strong positive image in Mithlond. However, what might be seen as a wonderful strength is also his weakness. Ereglin’s wanting of power and high status caused him to overlook some of the more important things, and people, in his life. He can easily be seen as charming to those in his political circles, but he is quietly unhappy...his real emotions are hardened, but he can easily say what someone needs to hear and be believable.

HISTORY: Ereglin was sent to Fornost as an Ambassador of Cirdan when controversy arose concerning Arvedui’s claim to the throne of Gondor. The Emissary provided conservative council based on Cirdan’s wishes, ensuring the conflict did not blow out of proportion and the rightful heir be crowned. However, secretly, Ereglin wished for Arvedui to gain the kingship of all of Gondor as he hoped this would allow himself to rise to a more powerful position in both the Elven and Human realms. The elf was bitter when Arvedui was denied, but he did not voice his complaints, as he cherished his position and did not want to jeopardize his duty to Cirdan.

The conflict over the Gondorian crown was not the only controversy in Ereglin’s life at that time. When Cirdan offered the emissarial position to Ereglin, the elf immediately accepted only to find his wife, Ardae, was against their going. After many debates, the elf remained steadfast in his decision to go to Fornost and discord arose in his home. Ardae resented him for many years, missing her family and the ways of their people. As a result, he found himself becoming more and more consumed with the politics between Arnor and Lindon, escaping the tension at home.

As the force of Angmar grew, the violence against Arthedain become more frequent. The regions in the east were being conquered by the witch-king and Ereglin recognize a real threat against Fornost. Three years before the major assault began, Ereglin sent Ardae back to Mithlond to ensure her safety. He hated watching her ride away in the company of elven guards that accompanied her, and he some part of him wished he had not come to Fornost at all, but he was too proud to admit it or resign from his position. With his wife gone, Ereglin became cold, hardened by the sadness of his failure to make her happy and the looming danger that made him send her away.

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alaklondewen's post

Ereglin had spent the greater part of the day in anticipation of a call from the king for council. In the early morning, he had surveyed the enemy’s forces from top of the second wall. Wave after wave, the horrid black creatures climbed, scratched, and attacked the walls of the city. Even with the aid of the Elven guard and the halfling army, the forces would not be able to withstand the fury of the enemy for much longer. With this understanding, the Councilor had prepared himself to stand before the king, because surely Arvedui would wish to have Elven guidance with a decision of such importance as what the final move of the city should be. He had sent his guards to fight on the wall in the late morning, and he would await the kings guard to escort him to Arvedui’s towers.

~*~*~

The sun was waning, and the late afternoon light lit the Emissary’s hall with a warm orange glow. Ereglin stood silently in the shadows still waiting for his call to council. He knew it was too late, and he felt like a bitter fool because of it. Many winters had come and gone since Ereglin had come to that city, and he clenched his teeth as he thought of time and energy he spent on the alliance between Lindon and Arthedain and what he had let go so the job would be done...

Ereglin took a deep breath. The clamor in the city was becoming much closer, and the assaults against the wall shook the foundation of the Elf’s hall. Unconsciously his hand slid under his robe and gripped the leather hilt of his sword. A choice would have to be made soon, and if the king wished for one last stand, he would fight once again, alongside his guards. The idea was displeasing. He was a skilled bowman and spent several hours a week in exercise with his sword, so it was not that he did not have the ability. It was not that he was a coward, for he feared not death nor pain. However, his place was at a table with the intellectual, political minds, not in hand to hand combat with filthy beasts.

The Emissary sighed again, and a knock at his door demanded his attention. “Come in.” He called, and a slight hope rose in his chest that one of the king’s guards would enter, summoning him to council.

“Councilor Ereglin, I am pleased to find you here.” One of his young guards strode quickly before him with eyes flashing with adrenaline.

“I would not be elsewhere, Gaeredhel.” Ereglin spoke under his breath, and then he hoped the young guard did not catch the bitterness in his voice. Swallowing the virulence he felt, the Councilor spoke again, more smoothly than before. “What tidings do you bring?”

“The king, sir...he has called for a retreat to the north gate.”

“Very well.” For the third time, Ereglin took a deep breath before he followed Gaeredhel out of the hall and into the streets.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven guards of Lindon - Arry

1.) Name: Gaeredhel

Age: 675 years

Race: Elven – Sindar from Lindon

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard plainly bound with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft 3 in (1.6 meters); 180 lbs (82 kilos); wiry build; long dark hair, worn in a single braid down his back; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; Knee high, black leather boots, well worn

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A gregarious fellow, rather garrulous. Enjoys being in on the latest gossip; able warrior; follows orders well; can be an independent thinker should the need arise; is fond of the brews of different areas and races.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1299 T.A. His father, now gone to the West along with his wife, was in the service of Lord Círdan. At present he and his older brother, Rôsgollo, both serve their Lord as warriors, and of late, as guards to one of the emissaries from Lord Círdan to the struggling remains of the Northern Kingdom at Fornost. He is not unfamiliar with the region of Arnor and especially the realm of Arthedain in which Fornost lies. In 1409 T.A. he, his brother, and their father fought alongside the troops led by King Arveleg I when the Witch-king breached the region’s defenses and assaulted the tower at Amon Sûl. At that time, Arveleg was killed; the troops retreated to Fornost and successfully defended the city.

-------------------------------------------------

2.) Name: Rôsgollo

Age: 685 years

Race: Elven – Sindar

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard covered with lynx fur and bound in a criss-crossed pattern with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft (1.5 meters); 195 lbs (88 kilos); solid, compact, muscled build; shoulder length dark hair, parted in the middle and ineffectively tucked behind his ears; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; knee high, black leather boots, well worn; wears his father’s plain silver band ring set inlaid with mother-of-pearl on his left index finger.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A laconic man, candid in his opinions with a tendency toward curtness. Uses his brother’s ability to gather information and gossip as a tool for planning strategy; able warrior; follows orders well – but will revise them based on his own assessment of a situation’s needs; tends to be very protective of his brother, Gaeredhel – they are the last of their family. Rôsgollo is the one who offered both their services as guards on this expedition.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1289 T.A. His history is much like his brother’s; save for the fact that he was at one time wedded. His wife and infant son were killed when the Witch-king’s troops swept over the area around Amon Sûl in 1409. Rôsgollo along with a number of other Elven troops had been part of a small Elven garrison established in the Weather Hills. They were there to bring quick aid to the King, should need arise. A number of the Elves had brought their families, since this was to be a protracted stay. Rôsgollo had first insisted that his new wife should remain safe in Harlindon near her family; but, she made plain her own argument that it would not be so and joined him at the Weather Hill’s fastness.

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Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Soldier - Osse

Osse's character

NAME: Carthor

AGE: 98

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: From an early age, Carthor was poured into the harsh mould of the professional soldier – his father, a brash, overbearing man of little patience taught Carthor to fight with blade and stave from the age of eleven. The boy soon became deft and agile, yet strong and hardy and able to wield a heavy weapon with as much ease as many men of twice his age. From the outset, his weapon of choice was a short, bladed stave. This weapon, being light and long reaching felt right in the strong hands of Carthor in his youth; he could slash, parry and stab with the weapon, and had the range needed to safely avoid an opponent’s own blade.

In his old age, Carthor still possesses this weapon, but physical limitations have meant he no longer can fight with the same dexterity he used to and the weapon requires. Therefore he no longer carries his stave, but usually a stout short sword – a thrusting weapon that allows the ailing warrior to keep his guard enclosed. This sword, though old and well made contains no embellishment on either the guard or pommel, rather it is a simple, durable weapon with soft leather grip and steel fittings – the single-fullered, tapered blade is kept precipitously keen. This weapon is usually housed in a beautifully supple black leather scabbard which, though totally unadorned, sports simply beautiful workmanship – an item from a period where time could be spent on such matters other than bloodshed. Carthor also wears a simple breast plate, un-embossed, and perhaps the most treasured item of his armoury, a magnificently forged war helm with fitted cheek guards and a sloping profile. A beautiful crest of embossed brass almost melts down the centre of the helm, coming to a near teardrop shaped point half way down the helm’s long nasal. This helmet is the only family heirloom still in Carthor’s possession.

APPEARANCE: Carthor is now nearing old age, even for one of the Dunedain and at ninety-two, his body reflects this. A large chunk is missing from his nose and he is missing a finger on his left hand. His right knee plays havoc in the long northern winters, a souvenir from a scimitar wound inflicted early in his soldiering carreer. However, he is still fit and rather muscular – no matter what punishment it has taken, his body seems to naturally hold its fitness. Carthor’s shoulder length hair is starting to thin and is now a deep grey colour, flecked with white. He has startlingly light blue eyes set well back in his rather rounded face and a prominent nose, broken in at least five places. A strong, squared, perpetually stubble clad chin provides his face with an aura of strength. Carthor isn’t tall, yet his frame is muscular and wiry, with startlingly broad shoulders. His overall appearance reflects that a sturdy young man gone to seed with age. Carthor dresses plainly, usually in a shade of grey or brown – his clothes are old and worn, yet can be seen to be of high quality regardless of tears and scuffs. Perhaps his most defining piece of clothing is a large, well worn calf-leather cloak. The cloak is lined with what must have once have been a fine satin but has been torn and sewn out of recognition. The leather itself is scratched, soiled and torn, as if threatening to fall apart on the spot, yet never quite following through. Carthor’s other chief possession is a pair of short, soft leather boots. These boots are a relic from more prosperous times, both for the realm and for Carthor’s house, being made of the most high quality of leathers – wafer thin strips of stretched calf’s leather bound and sewn together to provide a durable, yet malleable material. These boots are over seventy years old and were made by Carthor’s grandsire, upper-Fornost’s premiere shoemaker, as a coming of age present. They are not merely moulded to Carthor’s feet, but rather an extension of them. The shoes, though old are well kept, the leather remains moist and waxed, and there seems to be no sign of it wearing through.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Though his body has bowed to age much earlier than most of his kindred, Carthor’s mind is still sharp, sharp due to the constant internal battles raging; battles against the memories of past horrors and emotional scars, and battles against the dependence Carthor once had upon drink to free him from these horrible memories. Carthor must be forever vigilant; both inwards and outwards to stop himself from falling back into the abyss he toiled so hard to raise himself out of. Carthor’s will is strong, on all matters and his principles are branded deeply in his thought. However, he is head strong and often comes across as being both harsh and arrogant – his tongue is almost as sharp if not as sharp as his mind. Carthor’s tongue and his keen mind are but opposite edges on the same dangerous sword. For as is with most swords, this one can be harmful to the wielder as well as the target.

HISTORY: Being of Fornost’s upper class, Carthor was formally educated from an early age; however, after numerous run-ins with various tutor-folk, he stopped his schooling at the age of eleven. From then on, Carthor’s only education was in the art of death, soldiering. The glory he had associated with this profession was quickly throttled, especially as the threat of Angmar increased. The constant skirmishes with the Witch King threw a young Carthor into the deathly typhoon. What he saw there has haunted his dreams since. Scars, both physical and unseen, too deep to heal were inflicted during the cold winters of the blood soaked north realm. At the relatively young age of thirty-one, Carthor met, and fell in love with, a young woman, immediately marrying her. After being married for two blissful years, Carthor’s wife fell pregnant. Carthor was elated. With this woman, the headstrong, somewhat brash young Dunedain was cheery and amiable, generous and vibrant. Tragically, the infant, a young boy, died soon after birth. Many days went by, and a fever was set in the skin and eyes of Carthor’s young wife. For four sleepless nights he sat by her bed in a silent, fretful vigil. Here he saw everything dear to him pass from his hands like smoke from a flame. The fire in the woman’s flesh could not be abated and she fell into eternity on the sixth day after the birth. The catalyst that had made Carthor’s life more then just a death-dance had been mercilessly taken away from his outstretched hands. He became little more then an apparition, sitting morose and despondent, eating little and sleeping even littler. In time, in years, Carthor became numb. He seemed to function. The drinking of wine consumed his days; he could not be at peace without a goblet in his hand and six more in his gut. His position in the army suffered – a drunken soldier was not fit for leadership. However, a kindly set of men had known of his tragic fortunes and not had him punished, but rather confined to work inside the citadel of Fornost. In his sixtieth year, Carthor’s father, now at the age of one-hundred and thirteen himself, urged Carthor to marry again, deeming enough time had passed since the tragic events of his first marriage. Carthor was loath to do so, but was drunk more often than sober and therefore had little dictation in the matter. A young woman from another prominent family, Lissi was chosen by his parents as she was both beautiful and delightfully intelligent. She took to Carthor, intrigued by his remoteness, attracted by his physicality, yet pitiful of his past. Carthor’s drunken stupor did not extend into the realms of love and his attentions did not fall on Lissi. If anything, during this period, his drinking increased – the time he spent sober was dwindling fast. He became tardy to his post, increasingly intoxicated on duty and careless with his arms. During this time, something softened within his drunken exterior and he opened himself up to Lissi, much to the delight of his aging parents. The pair was soon married and the first of their children Faerim was soon born. During this time, Carthor’s drinking declined somewhat. Another boy, Brander, was born the following year. Something changed in Carthor and he went back into his old ways, with new zeal. Gambling became a new part of his rant and he began to be careless with the family’s property – betting using family heirlooms and purchasing wine with family gold. Subsequently, the family soon became much worse off. This self destructive plummet was observed by his family, with growing concern and angst. Years past and Carthor’s father fell horrifically ill. Carthor’s silent vigil was once again taken up on his father’s bed-side. Before the last rise of his chest had ceased, Carthor’s father asked but one thing of his son – to purge himself of the cancerous habits he had attained, and restore the family’s honour. Over time, Carthor was able to pull himself from the pit of despair, yet he became even more elusive. He no longer applied himself to family life, instead putting the remainder of his spirit into his life as a soldier. And still the threat of Angmar increased…


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Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[piosenniel]

ALL 3 RIVENDELL CHARACTERS ARE HERE

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Dedicated Character - Elven Guard from Rivendell - Garen LiLorien

NAME: Maltóre (called Angóre)

BORN: 3rd Age 237

RACE: Grey Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS/EQUIPMENT: Angóre carries a sheaf of three 3ft javelins, each tipped with a steel spike extending 8 inches. He also carries an Elvish sword, 48 inches in length, wound about with spells and incantations for troll’s bane. The sword carries an inscription along the blade; “Torog dagnir,” (slayer of trolls) in Fëanorian runes. The guard is workmanlike in appearance, bearing neither stones nor especial shape, but is in the form of a straight, slightly tapered bar. The handle as well is more functional than beautiful, being wrapped in leather and the pommel is a simple circle of metal, unadorned. All of his weapons are well used and well cared for. He wears no armor or helm.

APPEARANCE: Angóre takes no delight in his appearance, and dresses however he must, often letting his garments be worn to tatters before replacing them. He wears dark colors, preferring grays and blacks. His hair is cropped close and dark, while his eyes are blue and icy. He is tall, though not thickly built, and is very slender. His skin is pale and translucent, blue veins standing out in his forehead and arms.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Angóre keeps to himself, speaking little. When his opinion is sought, he speaks bluntly and to the point, changing his speech not at all whether speaking to the humblest servant or the greatest lord of Elrond’s house. He is neither captain nor general, and gives no thought to strategy. He is not a soldier, and owes no allegiance to any lord. He is a knight-errant, and he is dangerous and fell, and gives all his delight to the hunting of Sauron’s creatures, particularly Trolls. He has a great sympathy for any under the threat of Sauron, feeling their losses keenly, as they resonate with his own.

HISTORY: A lesser scion of the house of Finarfin, all his family were born with the golden hair common to that bloodline, but Maltóre took after his mother, a Grey Elf, and so was named "golden heart," for his hair was dark.
His father was an ancient, and soon after Maltóre's birth departed for the Havens. His mother had no joy in Middle Earth after his departure but that which she found in the raising of her child. Maltóre was trained, at his mother's behest, in the traditions of the Elven minstrels, and showed a gift for that path. When he came of age and joined the court of Elrond, his mother lost her last link to Middle Earth and departed for the Havens. However, when she was waylaid and slain by trolls a mere two days from Rivendell, Maltóre lost all joy in singing and in tales, and, changing his name to Angóre, (Iron heart) became an errand rider and a warrior of Elrond, hunting trolls throughout Middle Earth.

With the forces of the Witch-King encroaching from the North, Angóre has been fighting more or less constantly for several years. During one of his periods of errantry, he came across a party of Elves bound for Fornost beset by a great Troll. He defeated the Troll, though the toll was heavy, and he was sorely wounded, and the guards killed. He was brought to Fornost at the behest of the Emissary, and recuperated there. The shadow of the Witch-king lay over the city, and Angóre, beholding the plight of the city, agreed to stay in its defense. He has taken over the protection of the Emissary and acts as a bodyguard and aide, for he is the only other Elf of Rivendell there but he longs ever to be on and perhaps beyond the walls, and takes ever more dangerous scouting missions whenever he can be spared.

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Garen LiLorien's post

”…we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

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Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Nilpaurion Felagund

Name: Bethiril

Age: 5488

Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: She has never touched a weapon, let alone owned one. She is disdainful of implements of war, never learning how to wield one even when she participated in the battle of Eriador in the Second Age. She has always deemed it her mission to make sure that they not be needed anymore.

Appearance: Being of pure Noldorin descent, Bethiril has black hair framing her unusually calm face with quiet grey eyes. She is scarcely less tall than most males of Elves and Men of the West, and is usually clad in garments little less luxurious than those worn by members of the kingly houses. On the ring finger of her left hand she wears a ring adorned with a gem of sapphire shaped like the flowers of Menelluin, the wheat of Yavanna, surrounded by six small yellow crystals, fashioned by Enerdhil for Idril’s handmaidens, which she now uses as a symbol of her service to Elrond, son of Eärendil, daughter of Idril.

Personality: Being an emissary, her speech is guarded and her emotions are bottled up at all times. Bethiril shows admirable command of her tongue, blending well-crafted words and deep passion in her speeches that stir all but the hardest hearts. Around fighting men she seems aloof and cold, perhaps thinking that she is higher than they are, not having stained her hand with the blood of any that live.

History: Bethiril was born a few months before the Fall of Gondolin, escaping from that dreadful plight when her mother’s sister, one of Idril’s handmaidens, led her mother to Tuor and his soldiers fleeing with Idril and her son from the wrack of the city. Of her father she had no news, though she knew in her heart that he fell to the Orcs when Maeglin betrayed the Way to Morgoth. Her mother was slain when the Sons of Fëanor assailed the havens of Sirion. She escaped with her mother’s sister to the isle of Balar. After the fall of Angband she took the ship to Eldamar, while Bethiril remained with the Elves of Lindon to serve Elrond, who she deemed Turgon’s heir, and therefore her lord.

She was with the host led by Elrond that Gil-galad sent to Celebrimbor’s aid, to act as an emissary between the two armies of the Eldar. They were, however, driven back to the Misty Mountains. There, they were besieged in newly founded Imladris until the Númenóreans came and destroyed the black host. After the Downfall of Númenor and Sauron’s assault on Gondor she was one of the emissaries that shuttled between Lindon, Imladris, and Lórien when the Last Alliance was formed.

Ever since the march of Elrond to Mordor she had never left Imladris. Until now.

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Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

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Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Mithalwen

Name: Erenor
Age: 3000
Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: Erenor has a long curved sword , product of the great skill of the Noldorin smiths as well as a shorter dagger. She also has a shirt of fine steel mail that like the dagger may be concealed.

Appearance: She has the typical Noldorin coloring of dark hair and grey eyes. Although she is fair of face she has a grave demeanour. Because of her serious role she wears serious clothes usually in grey and blue. Although they are not unfeminine they are less ornate than usual for female elves and she seldom wears much in the way of jewelry or adornment save a sapphire pendant. When travelling she dresses after the fashion of elf men deeming it more practical.

Personality: Stern and unsentimental, determined and a little arrogant, Erenor is sometimes a little more plain speaking than usual for an emissary. She does not suffer fools gladly. She is a pragmatist and regards warfare as a necessary evil and does not shy away from combat.

History: Born in Lindon late in the second age to a noble Noldorin house, Erenor is the descendent of Gondolin. Her father was a general of Gil-Galad and like him did not return from the War of the Last Alliance. Forbidden to go to war, she learned to fight with sword and bow in case at the last war came to her, and the womenfolk needed to mount a last ditch defense of Lindon. She went with many of her kin to Rivendell when their king did not return.

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Mithalwen's post ------- STILL NEEDED

[Arry]

Here are my characters - Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo - Elven guards from Lindon

BIOS POSTED TO PROPOSAL ~*~ Pio

1.) Name: Gaeredhel

Age: 675 years

Race: Elven – Sindar from Lindon

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard plainly bound with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft 3 in (1.9 meters); 180 lbs (82 kilos); wiry build; long dark hair, worn in a single braid down his back; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; Knee high, black leather boots, well worn

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A gregarious fellow, rather garrulous. Enjoys being in on the latest gossip; able warrior; follows orders well; can be an independent thinker should the need arise; is fond of the brews of different areas and races.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1299 T.A. His father, now gone to the West along with his wife, was in the service of Lord Círdan. At present he and his older brother, Rôsgollo, both serve their Lord as warriors, and of late, as guards to one of the emissaries from Lord Círdan to the struggling remains of the Northern Kingdom at Fornost. He is not unfamiliar with the region of Arnor and especially the realm of Arthedain in which Fornost lies. In 1409 T.A. he, his brother, and their father fought alongside the troops led by King Arveleg I when the Witch-king breached the region’s defenses and assaulted the tower at Amon Sûl. At that time, Arveleg was killed; the troops retreated to Fornost and successfully defended the city.

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2.) Name: Rôsgollo

Age: 685 years

Race: Elven – Sindar

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard covered with lynx fur and bound in a criss-crossed pattern with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft (1.8 meters); 195 lbs (88 kilos); solid, compact, muscled build; shoulder length dark hair, parted in the middle and ineffectively tucked behind his ears; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; knee high, black leather boots, well worn; wears his father’s plain silver band ring set inlaid with mother-of-pearl on his left index finger.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A laconic man, candid in his opinions with a tendency toward curtness. Uses his brother’s ability to gather information and gossip as a tool for planning strategy; able warrior; follows orders well – but will revise them based on his own assessment of a situation’s needs; tends to be very protective of his brother, Gaeredhel – they are the last of their family. Rôsgollo is the one who offered both their services as guards on this expedition.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1289 T.A. His history is much like his brother’s; save for the fact that he was at one time wedded. His wife and infant son were killed when the Witch-king’s troops swept over the area around Amon Sûl in 1409. Rôsgollo along with a number of other Elven troops had been part of a small Elven garrison established in the Weather Hills. They were there to bring quick aid to the King, should need arise. A number of the Elves had brought their families, since this was to be a protracted stay. Rôsgollo had first insisted that his new wife should remain safe in Harlindon near her family; but, she made plain her own argument that it would not be so and joined him at the Weather Hill’s fastness.

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First Post - IN PROGRESS



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alaklondewen

Looking forward to seeing what your Elven emissary is like. :)

-- Arry

[CaptainofDespair]

POSTED TO THE PROPOSAL ~*~ Pio

Name: Mitharan

Age: 67

Race: Dunedain

Gender: Male

Weapons: As a Dunedain Lord, Mitharan is entitled to both the finest of steels, and the heirlooms of his house. The greatest of these relics, in the blade Arancir, the Noble Cleaver. Besides his aged blade, he wields a small dagger, which he uses both to parry, and to deliver the final blow to the orcs who oppose him.

Appearance: Clad in earth tone clothing and cloaks, the Dunedain Lord looks as if he had just crawled forth from ages of wandering in the forests of the North. Beneath these often tattered raiments, is a glittering chainmail hauberk. His hair is dark, almost black, and his eyes match it with the deep darkness that pools in them. His face is weather beaten, and marked with high cheek bones, giving him an aged, lordly look. Only his hands show the signs of someone still youthful. The rest of him looks aged beyond his years, as he has seen many horrors, of which will never escape his mind.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: Like most Lords, he is proud, almost too proud. More often than not, he can be seen striding to meet a danger he is ill-equipped to handle. Yet, with his trademark tenacity, he manages to pull through in the end, and achieve his goal. His pride drove him to near death, as he fought in almost complete solitude, hopelessly trying to drive back the hordes of orcs as they rampaged on the outer battlements of Fornost, the greatest stronghold of Arthedain.

Yet, his pride, although remaining as his most glaring of weaknesses, is also his greatest strength. Throughout his life, he has been engaged in various conflicts. And though most would have been successful, without his pride, it is the driving force behind his personality. Without it, he may very well be just another Dunedain. But with it, he is totally unique from all those who surround him. From his pride, he derives his tenacity in battle, and life. He is not one to give up, or diminish, just because a few deciding battles have been lost.

History: Mitharan was born in 1907 of the Third Age. From birth, he was given almost immediate training in the ways of war, and of the lordship he would inherit. His early childhood was one marked by happiness, as peace was still lurking in the air. He grew up quickly, in mind, faster than most children. He was always considered a firebrand, and quite haughty for one so small. For some time, his life was easy, and he continued to be a carefree youth, often wandering for endless hours in the woods, marveling at the beasts.

This pattern continued with him, as he came of age. But, with age, comes wisdom, and he slowly fell into the Lordly ways of his father, Arátohîr. He began studying the world through scrolls and tomes, as well as continuing his ways of wandering, though to a lesser degree. His father often scolded him for following the ‘ranger’ ways of wilderness treks, for he himself was more inclined to follow the path the Gondorian nobles were carving. Eventually, his wandering ceased.
Many more years passed, and Mitharan was now well on his way to becoming the wise, aged Lord his father wanted. But, this would be disrupted, for civil war was breaking out, and Cardolan and Rhudaur were in upheaval. Though, even with these two factions of the former kingdom of Arnor bickering over the palantir of Amon Sul, a greater enemy lurked on the horizon. The Witch-King of Angmar had begun his attacks, though small they were at first. Within some years, both Cardolan and Rhudaur were beaten, and Angmar was becoming the true power of the North.

Within a few more years, Angmar was encroaching upon Arthedain, and was preparing to destroy its only remaining rival in the region. At this time, the Dunedain remnants mobilized, and prepared to march against the Angmarim power. But, it was in vain. The Witch-King’s forces were too numerous, and eventually, they made their way to Fornost, and laid siege to it....


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First Post -

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[Saurreg]

Kransha

I need the following confirmations and answers for my first post:

1) How many exits are there from the secondary battlements into the first sector of the city taken by the enemy? I know only of the main gate that is currently held by another elite regiment of the king.

2) Are the main forces of the besiegers concentrated at this main gate to the secondary walls?

3) What is the strength of the rearguard?

[alaklondewen]

Kransha, will anyone be carrying Arvedui? I'm sure the Emissary will have taken council with him? Also, how long have the Lindon elves been at Fornost? Do you have specific details here in mind, or may we have a bit of freedom with them (to a small extent)?

Okay, so this wasn't one inquiry, but several. Thanks in advance for you reply.

~Alak

[Kransha]

Hello all, and welcome to this new game. After a long while, I finally concocted it, by it is by no means mine. I enlisted the aid of as many of the Downs' finest writers that I could in a limited amount of time, and I consider this our game. I am merely a founder (concurrent with Bethberry's opinion of a proper title for Game Founders). Welcome all. I am happy to see that good things are already happening.

CaptainofDespair: Fantastic bio and post, really, and with so little to work from. Same to you, Arry, magnificent bio for the two Elves. I do not doubt that your post will be great as well. I will speak more of these at a later date. Gaeredhel, Rôsgollo, and Mitharan are all sure to be great contributions to this game, and I cannot wait to see them developed by such apt owners.

alak, Saurreg, I will feel your questions here, on the PT, considering that the answers might, and probably will benefit from them.

How many exits are there from the secondary battlements into the first sector of the city taken by the enemy? I know only of the main gate that is currently held by another elite regiment of the king.
Three, from the innermost sanctum. The main gate is the one most used, but there are two that are directed towards the east and west. The main gate faces south, towards the main entrance to the city, and there is a smaller entrance, accessed via passageway, that leads north, an escape route to the strongholds of the North Downs in the event of required evacuation. See my ~Note~ below for further information on this.

Are the main forces of the besiegers concentrated at this main gate to the secondary walls?
Yes, in short. The orcs of Angmar have just crowded into the second level of Fornost at the time of first posts, and are surging towards thr main gate to the inner sanctum, hindered by barricades and makeshift fences built in their way throughout the city by the fleeing defenders.

What is the strength of the rearguard?
If by strength you mean 'strength' in the military sense, then the rearguard is anywhere from 300-800 Dúnedain strong. It is less populated than a conventional unit because it is composed of more talented individuals, who are responsible for acting as the final defense of the city, covering retreats, and protecting the King himself. The Dúnedain in the rearguard are multi-skilled, some bowmen, swordsmen, spearmen, all expert riders, the elite of Fornost and of Arthedain.

Will anyone be carrying Arvedui? I'm sure the Emissary will have taken council with him?
Well, I'll be 'using' him, when appropriate, but he is a carry-along, really. He will not be present during much of the game, in the sense that he will not be involved with the cast of characters in it directly. He may be addressed at certain times. If you are referring to first posts, it would be more appropriate for your Elven Emissary not to be with the king. As addressed in my post, all the Elves are on the second level of Fornost, which has been breached. That is why the Dúnedain rearguard was dispatched into the city, to find them and keep them safe (bit of a slip-up on the part of Arvedui, not having the Elves take up residence in his court).

Also, how long have the Lindon elves been at Fornost? Do you have specific details here in mind, or may we have a bit of freedom with them (to a small extent)?
You have complete freedom on this. The Elves of Lindon have been conducting talks with Arvedui since his reign began and even before that, with his father Araphant. Your character can have newly come to Fornost, perhaps as a replacement for the last Emissary, or may have been there years, even decades, as an Elven couselor of the Arthedain King. Your choice.

~Note~ Of Fornost:

Fornost is a city highly reminiscent of Minas Tirith in Gondor. It is built on tiers, or levels, but three instead of seven. My post describes the three sanctums of Fornost. Each level is set above the next, the apex and highest point being the three towers of the King that spring from his halls. The key number of Fornost is 3, everything is in 3's: 3 gates to the inner sanctum, 3 walls, 3 towers, 3 tiers, etc. Use that fact to embelish. The city faces south, technically, and, the road leading into is straight, going right through each level as a ramp, unlike the winding road of Minas Tirith.

The architecture is Neo-Númenórean, built in the style of old Númenór, like the former capital of Arnor, Annúminas. It has been greatly damaged and parts of the city are derilict after battles and neglect, because of the War with Angmar. I want to leave as much as I can about Fornost up to you folks, though. Whatever area you're in, feel free to describe in detail. I don't want to seem stifling.

[Saurreg]

PLACEd ON PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

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Here is my character post. Do tell me if any changes are needed. Cheers.

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Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES/NO - Which one?

Roll Out the Barrows, Wilderness Weathertop & Wild Things

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?

None

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn – YES/NO
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For your character please include:

NAME: Belegorn

AGE: 54

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

A 48in long sword, standard issue of the elite rearguard of fornost. The bright shiny steel blade measures 38in long and tapers narrowly towards the end. Blade is made of high quality tempered steel and is well polished and sharpened. Essentially a cut and thrust weapon. Intricate curvings can be found on the ricasso and along the length of the ridge, and the silver quillons of the crossguard are shaped like the outstretched wings of an eagle – the symbolic animal of the regiment. The brass pommel of the sword is curved in the shape of a jewel – the Elessar. The cast iron grip is well banded with black leather strips. Black leather scabbard with a polished steel collar, brass buckles and fittings.

A 17in dagger, also of standard military issue. Steel blade measures 11in long with a crossguard with hooked quillons. Wire wrapped grip and an acorn pommel. Sheath for dagger resembles a miniature version of the guard sword scabbard.

APPEARANCE:

6’2” tall. Broad shouldered with the built, strength and stamina of middle-aged Dúnedain who engages in frequent exercises. Shoulder length black hair with white tuffs showing at the sideburns. No facial hair except for black and grey stubble around the mouth and all the way to the neck. Grey sharp eyes, bushy black eyebrows and a thin tapering jawline that gives him the appearance of a raptor. Thin lips and a mouth not used to smiling (nature scowl).

ATTIRE:

Wears a linen shirt under a green quilted doublet, chain hauberk that extends to half the length of the tights, green woolen trews, and chainmail trousers (don’t laugh).

ACCESSORIES:

Chainmail coif, steel bascinet with a red plume, mail gauntlets with steel vambraces. A forest green surcoat depicting the heraldry of the regiment. Steel greaves and knee-high leather boots with metal soles and toes.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

Beregorn is courageous and devoted to duty and the law. He is extremely proud of his profession and tries his best to be well-mannered and carry himself in a dignified bearing befitting of his military station. He is a strict disciplinarian who has hung many a wrong-doers in his previous units for all sorts of offenses. While those that served under him can attest to his ability to command and grudgingly respect him, they can never love him because of his harshness. Belegorn devotes his entire life to soldiering and thus can be perceived as being aloof and unapproachable socially. His only weakness other than his rigidity is that he feels insecure and irritated in the company of those whom he perceive as being arrogant and haughty due to their higher social status and better education.

Inwardly, Belegorn is worried about the state of the remnants of the Royal Arthedain Army. Although proud to be a commissioned officer in one of the king’s own household regiments, he knows truthfully that whatever potency the army had had vanished and all the regiments with proud histories and traditions are but a shell of their former selves. Nevertheless he continues to serve to the best of his ability and hopes that he can only live up to the illustrious accomplishments and deeds of his predecessors.

Belegorn cares not who the King of Gondor is. He is a professional soldier of Arthedain and will not question orders from superiors.

HISTORY:

The youngest son of an improvished tanner, Belegorn was a product from the dredges of Dúnedain society where class and status dictated the fate of one’s life. Proverty and pressing events denied him the opportunity of a formal education and thus what Belegorn learned in his limited ability to read and write, he learned from a kindly old cleric who also dwelled in the lower part of Fornost. Belegorn is ashamed of this handicap of his and thus becomes insecure and uneasy around other much younger commissioned officers of the same rank who are better educated and of higher social status than him. It is a feeling of inferiority and regret that will never be cast aside easily.

In the year 1938 TA Belegorn joined one of the many yeoman militia regiments as a skirmisher. His courage and skill was soon noticed by his superiors and the teenager was drafted to one of the regular line regiments of the army as a man-at-arms as the war continued and manpower became scarce. For the next four decades Belegorn continued to hone his skills in feats of arms as well as in administration and battle tactics. He acquired a reputation for himself within the regiments which he was shuffled to and fro and his deeds were also noted by superior headquarters. But in the face of Arthedain meritocracy, his lowly background and lack of education denied him due recognition and above all a promotion through the ranks. Belegorn took all in stride however, and continued to serve. It was the state before one’s self.

In the year 1970 TA, Belegron participated in one of the many vain attempts by the Arthedain Army to turn the tide against Angmar by mounting her own offense campaign. The campaign was a disaster but for Belegorn, it was a bittersweet blessing in disguise. King Arvedui was there in person on the battlefield and chanced upon the veteran soldier. Highly impressed by the exploits of Belegorn, the King remarked aloud nonchalantly that Belegorn was the type of man Arthedain needed in such desperate times. Eager to please the king’s every single whim; his glittering entourage broke into action. Inquiries were made, messengers sent and notes scribbled. Before the King and his staff had even left the battlefield, Belegorn was notified that he was given a field promotion to the rank of first lieutenant and made the deputy commander of a regiment.

The captain of the regiment was killed during the chaotic retreat back to Fornost and Belegorn became the regiment’s acting commander for the rest of the withdrawal to the Arthedain capital. There he put all his years of learning and experiences to good use and conducted his regiment very well. In 1972 TA Captain Hírvegil of the King’s Rearguard heard of the Belegorn’s achievements and when the old soldier’s regiment was disbanded, he was invited to join the ranks of the elite.


__________________________________


First post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[Saurreg]

There is a discontinuality between my post and Kransha's

Mine was written with the following in mind;

“Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.”

I need to know whether:

a)After Hírvegil gave his instructions to Belegorn, the latter goes on to make the arrangements as ordered and also analyse the situation to give his input. Everybody meets at the gates (west or not) and charges.

or

b)After Hírvegil gave his instructions to Belegorn, everybody immediately heads down to the gate and charges into the foray. Arrangments and no plans seem to be made.

kransha's post does appear to indcate b). If we are going along with B, then I will be making an alternative first post. However there are some issues that needs to be addressed:

1. Did everybody in the regiment hear Hírvegil's loud orders and subsequently joined in the immediate sortie? A line of over 800 men can stretch on for quite a distant.

2. Is every guardsman equiped with their field marching equipment and rations?

3. Does individual company COs and NCOs privy to Hírvegil's plans and understands what needs to be done?

4. What are the exact plans? Whom to be evacuated? How to comb the lower city with the overwhelming enemy presence?

5. How would Gaeredhel, Mitharan and Rôsgollo fit into the sortie if it was directed to the guardsmen around Hírvegil and Belegorn only?

[Kransha[/b] - I am now writing my alternative first post that correlates well with yours. Can you tell me what are my parameters or till which extent will my post cover? Thanks!

I love planning threads. it's good to sort things out before hand, no?

[Kransha]

Saurreg, that's quite a bio, and quite a post. I'm saure Belegorn will be a great addition to this game (as will Gaeradhel, Rosgollo, and Mitharan)! But, even though I did enjoy, and relish reading your post, I must be honest, and say I'm a bit glad that you have an alternate one. You've lost me a bit in the one you have, as it does not seem to correlate. I don't want to seem controlling, but I would like to clarify a few things, and answer your questions:

-The Dunedain of Fornost are not really strategizing at this time. I was thinking that all posts would contain, more or less, anarchy. The rearguard is battling orcs in the city, not really devising tactics. They have all spurted from the South gate of the secondary wall, and diffused through the immediate streets. The orcs are very disorganized (not even divided into Corps, really, just a big locust-reminiscent clump) and the fight is really chaotic. All Dunedain of the rearguard are presently searching for Elves and survivors. That is their only purpose at this time. After all First Posts have been submitted, in January, when the DT opens, I'll have devised a post explaining how the rearguard reorganizes at the North Gate passage to evacuate, with the Host of Angmar hot on their heels.

In short, the tactical situation is more in accord with the 'Plan B' you mentioned.

-The Elves are all in the city, and the Dunedain are searching for them, as I said. Mitharan is hanging about in the inner sanctum, and you may read of his other action in CoD's post. There is some semblance of planning, and possible get-togethers between commanders in the city, in the chaos of battle, but no running off to tents and surveying of the field. That time has past. When the Dunedain reach the North Downs, there will be strategizing again, in light of the new assault from the gaining hordes.

I hope that clears some things up.

Yes, Saurreg, it is good to get these things sorted out beforehand. ;)

P.S. As pio aptly put it, no need to rush, my friends, we still have a month...But that doesn't mean you should slow your pace, if you get my drift.

P.P.S. To those of you that have cameo roles, I will shortly be PMing you with the necessary info for your individual characters, but, in any event, no need to rush those, especially. Most of them do not feature immediately.

[Kransha]

Arry, CaptainofDespair, Novnarwen, please check your PMs.

pio, here is the brief description of Mellonar, the King's minister.

Mellonar is a counselor of Arvedui, the King, and a provincial lord in his own right as well as the administrator of the wardens of Arthedain. He is a sickly, suspicious-looking man, with a weak body and very pale, smooth skin. He has a beardless face and long, greasy black hair, all dank of color but well-groomed. He clothes himself finely, in furs and thick, earth toned robes and cloaks, an assortment of various garments heaped one over the other to make him appear a little more stately and substantial than he is. He has the gait of a vulture, always hunched over and conspiratorial as he flits from place to place rather than walks. He is malicious, but not evil, simply malign because of his political circles, clandestine as they are. He is also suspicious of those around him, just as they are of his, but, surprisingly, he does not abuse his power. He is fiercely loyal to the king, though more in the way that a minion is to a master than a loyal hound to a man.


P.S. Welcome, Osse, to this game. I hope you enjoy it. You've selected a pivotal role, and might want to consult with Novnarwen, Nuranar, or Aman, but that's up to you.

[Osse]

Hail Krashna.

Thank you for your welcome. My initial post is in the intricate smeltering works that are the runways of my brain this very moment! Look for the finish copy in the next few weeks. :D

I look forward to writing with you all!

Regards,

Ossë

[Kransha]

Likewise, Ossë

I've been wanting to clarify one or two things, but never really got around to saying anything. So, this seems like the ideal time.

I must impress upon you, my fellow writers, that this is a game that takes place in a somewhat archaic time. Many of you have played in Rohan (and are probably more well-versed than I in the ways of BD writing/gaming, so this seems condescending), but others have not. This game touches on a civilization that is not widely portrayed in either Tolkien or RPGs, Arnor. Arnor is a sister of Gondor, in a sense, but an ancient one, as this game takes place a good millenia before the events of The Lord of the Rings, which, in itself, is not modern. Thus, it seems that Arthedain would be like an offshoot, slightly modernized, of Numenor, as I mentioned in my little note about the structure of Fornost.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm saying this. Everyone seems to have grasped the concept, but, I'll just make the point. Like I've implied, time and time again, I am trying to avoid becoming manipulative, and want this game to be as open-ended as possible, considering that it has a definite ending. Luckily, we've been allowed quite a bit of liberty, but I'd like to stick to a genuine ideal. Had to get that off my chest, if it makes any sense.

Saurreg: In a desire to get your bio complete, I'll give you a little critique of what you have. Your bio, in itself, is great, and Belegorn is a very interesting character, but there are a few quirks in your first post. You don't have to change these things, but they are merely oddities - For one, your use of military terms (i.e. regiment) is spot-on, but I do not think all of them are appropriate. The rearguard is not a regiment, in the normal sense, but I suppose you may call it that if you so wish. One thing that does seem inaccurate is the use of the term "Royal" to describe everything. In truth, the rearguard is Royal, I guess, but the army is not, and Royal seems to be too specific an adjective to describe the rearguard, especially capitalized, because that implies that all these things are royal, something out of 1600's France, perhaps. Similarly, I find the use of 'drummer boys' in an archaic setting to be jarring, but hey, that's just me.

There I go again, with my controlliness. Well, change whatever you want, it's not a big deal. I'll just make my peace here, and establish what does not seem to fit.

Also, I would like to consider something. At the time of this game, there was a very recent political controversy, of national scale and depth, involving Arvedui.

On the death of Ondoher [King of Gondor at the time, slain by Wainriders] and his sons, Arvedui of the North-kingdom claimed the crown of Gondor, as the direct descendant of Isildur, and as the husband of Fíriel, only surviving child of Ondoher. The claim was rejected. In this Pelendur, the Steward of King Ondoher, played the chief part.
'The Council of Gondor answered: "The crown and royalty of Gondor belongs solely to the heirs of Meneldil, son of Anárion, to whom Isildur relinquished this realm. In Gondor this heritage is reckoned through the sons only; and we have not heard that the law is otherwise in Arnor."
'To this Arvedui replied: "Elendil had two sons, of whom Isildur was the elder and the heir of his father. We have heard that the name of Elendil stands to this day at the head of the line of the Kings of Gondor, since he was accounted the high king of all the lands of the Dúnedain. While Elendil still lived, the conjoint rule in the South was committed to his sons; but when Elendil fell, Isildur departed to take up the high kingship of his father, and committed the rule in the South in like manner to the son of his brother. He did not relinquish his royalty in Gondor, nor intend that the realm of Elendil should be divided for ever.
'"Moreover, in Númenor of old the sceptre descended to the eldest child of the king, whether man or woman. It is true that the law has not been observed in the lands of exile ever troubled by war; but such was the law of our people, to which we now refer, seeing that the sons of Ondoher died childless."
To this Gondor made no answer. The crown was claimed by Eárnil, the victorious captain; and it was granted to him with the approval of all the Dúnedain in Gondor, since he was of the royal house. He was the son of Siriondil, son of Calimmacil, son of Arciryas brother of Narmacil II. Arvedui did not press his claim; for he had neither the power nor the will to oppose the choice of the Dúnedain of Gondor; yet the claim was never forgotten by his descendants even when their kingship had passed away.
-Appendix A, The Return of the King

This caused a great upheaval, no doubt, when it occured, and many people were forced to take sides, although it didn't matter to the decision, which was made by Gondorian counselors. I suggest that, it would be an interesting character exercise to think about how your character[s] might have felt about this incident, when it occured. Did your character support Arvedui's claim, or were they against it? All characters, except maybe the two Dunedain children, were around at this time, and must've had a political stance on the matter.

This is not a requirement, just a suggestion.

P.S. pio, in light of recent developements, I have written a little prologue to the game. Should I, perhaps, PM it to you for pre-approval?

[Saurreg]

If a military outfit is raised in the services of a monarch, then it is a "royal" unit. These units also include forces commanded by a banneret in the services of a king or queen. The guard units like the rearguard and such that are raised by the mornarch himself or adopted, are household units. Historical units are the Praetorian Guards, the Guard Grenadiers, Maison du Roi etc etc.

But fine, I will remove the royal and rename the rearguard even if I don't know what type of unit it is now.

Fair enough, the drummer boys will go. Even though after the second crusade, european armies started to deploy kress, nakers and tabor drummers on the battlefield.

Anything else you want me to change?

[CaptainofDespair]

Yes, but Tolkien's Middle-Earth isn't second crusade in nature. It is more of a Dark Age setting. Thus, drummer boys would not appear. :D

[Kransha]

Saurreg, you need not change anything. Your historical acumen is quite something. I should've specified that, even though the rearguard was raised by the King, it's sole function is not to act as his personal guard, it is to cover the retreat of the armies of Arthedain in any situation. I think I mentioned something about the King's Guard in my original post (if I didn't, I should mention it), who are the ones that follow the king around, ala Praetorian Guards (thankfully, these are a little less power-grubbing than the Praetorian Guards, and don't look to kill the King every chance they get).

You don't have to remove 'royal' from the rearguard, just tacking it onto the whole army feels like overkill.

And CoD hit the nail on the head about the drummer boys. But, the main thing is, for the "Good Guys" of Middle-Earth, horns seem to be the signallers of tactical movements. Drums are, in Tolkien, used exclusively by orcs (Moria, Pelennor Fields [cinematic version], etc.). In the interest of canon, and fluidity, drummers are out of place in such a society.

But, in the interest of being non-manipulative, you may keep in there whatever you wish to keep. Whatever is edited in your next edit of that bio will be final, and postable to the section reserved for it above: the proposal.

Saurreg, I do apologize for all my profuse pickiness, but I have a very good reason, which I'm not sure I'm supposed to explain yet, but you'll find out soon enough. Thanks for all the editing and re-writing of your post, each different phase has been excellent in itself, and your level of tolerance for my shenanigans is more than admirable. Thanks again.

So, that's 3 down, 7 to go...and, we may be getting another player on board. ;)

[piosenniel]

Kransha

Can you just put it here on the Planning Thread? That will be fine.

Child and I have approved your game for play - now all that needs to be hammered out are the final details between you and the Dedicated Players.

~*~

About warfare for Middle-earth RPG's in the Shire:

Most of the games based around the War of the Ring times would have a medieval flavor to their warfare techniques. This game, which is much earlier, would be the late Dark Ages, as CaptainofDespair suggested.

For a look at basic medieval weapons and techniques you can look at the Shire's RPG resources thread.

[Lalwendë]

I've a few questions if that's OK? I thought I'd post them here as the answers may be of benefit to others.

They are of a narrative variety. In my first post you will see the Dunedain woman become a widow, and she will be warned of the danger she is in. This is really an 'exposition' post, where she will be presented to the reader - through narrative. This is the pivotal moment in setting up my character. Thinking about how this will further develop, I was going to write of her visiting with her father as battle rages about the city. What I wanted to know before I do this, is whether, at the end of our first posts, the aim is to have all characters ready for evacuation? If not, then I shall save this further narrative/exposition scene for a second post - if this happens at that point.

Sorry to be a bit technical there, by the way, old habits die hard!

[Kransha]

Lalwendë, in response to your question, yes, technically. The end of initial first posts should be when everyone has been rounded up and ready for evacuation from Fornost. The battle will still be going on (I have a second post to be placed up after all the First Posts which will show the end of the battle) at the end of all first posts. CoD's and Saurreg's posts have a good grasp of what is going on, so use that template as a rubric, but, civilians would not be in the same situations.

All first posts should include, at some point, rendez-vous and/or rescue by the rearguard, which is sweeping through the city to round up the Elves and survivors, as my First Post specified. The idea of your post sounds like it could fit, but the 'visit' with your character's father must be done keeping in mind that the city has been overtaken, even though the rearguard is holding off the Angmar-host.

pio, I have to spruce up that Prologue a bit, then I'll post it to here. Thanks for that informational point about the Arnorian military, by the way.

[Lalwendë]

Thanks for that!

I am thinking that my character would be urged to rescue her father by the words of her dying husaband; to this end I was going to write of her visiting the old boy (an elderly retired captain) who is being steadfast in refusing to give up and go. This will enable me to show the old man as he has influenced my character in a significant way, and also work in something of the panic that would be going on, the fear, and also the bravery of the Dunedain. Anyway, I'll enjoy doing a little more writing!

Can I ask one more question if it's not too cheeky? At what time of the day is the city finally overtaken by the enemy? This is just to ensure my timing is correct.

[Kransha]

Can I ask one more question if it's not too cheeky? At what time of the day is the city finally overtaken by the enemy? This is just to ensure my timing is correct.

I believe that the time of day would be just before the setting of the sun, later in the day. This is not very important, but, since no one has yet established a time of day in their posts, you may make the time of day whatever is most convenient, and the rest of us will use that as it applies. Just to clarify further, the seige has, in fact, been raging for weeks, and the Angmar host has been sweeping over Arthedain for a little over a month.

From what my sources tell me, I think I made a slight error in the proposal I submitted to you. Fornost was first attacked in the late, late winter of 1974, but it was evacuated in early 1975. The timeframe of the game is innacurate, since it would place the events of Arvedui's fall in the wrong year. The Appendices are a bit vague about this, but I think that 1975 is the year the game would take place, whereas 1974 was the year of the Witch-King's big ol' invasion.

[Lalwendë]

Many thanks for all the answers!

This is good, useful information! I am now thinking of people who will not only be quite hungry, due to the siege (which would no doubt have cut off supplies, forcing the populace to fall back on their stores somewhat), but also suffering the cold. These things are important to know - well to me, anyway. ;)

[piosenniel]

Late winter of 1974 T.A. is when Fornost falls to the forces of Angmar, in my understanding. This is the opening scene for the game.

From there Aranarth, the King’s son and heir, and a number of the Dunedain escape southwest, heading toward the Gulf of Lune; while Arvedui with a remnant of his guard holds out for a brief while on the North Downs. The King and his small group then flee swiftly north west to the Ice Bay on horse. They hide out for a while in the old Dwarf mines at the far end of the mountains but are eventually driven to seek the help of the Lossoth of Forochel. Here the King is forced to wait, his horses having perished, until the hoped for help comes.

The majority of the King’s escape takes place in the first 3 months of T.A. 1975, ending in March when Cirdan’s ship arrives in the still ice encrusted bay.

Everyone can familiarize themselves with this by taking a look at “Appendix A (iii)”, Return of the King – ‘The North-kingdom and the Dunedain’

-------

Kransha

Take a look back at the beginning of the proposal ‘Historical Background’:

I took the liberty of changing the times in this manner -

TA 1974 (very late winter) – March of TA 1975

You can still leave this in as the main part of storyline’s timeline:

The storyline itself or plot covers about 56 Days (8 weeks), from 16 January to 11 March

. . . or, you can amend it as you wish and let me know how you want it changed.

~*~ Pio

[Lalwendë]

PLACED ON PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

PLEASE ALERT ME BY PM IF YOU HAVE DECIDED TO EDIT THIS IN ANY WAY
__________________________________________________ _______________

NAME: Renedwen

AGE: 42

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: She has come into possession of her husband’s steel sword, which has a pommel set with black onyx and bands of blue enamel. This was awarded to him on reaching the rank of Lieutenant and as such was of great symbolic significance to him, something which Renedwen was keenly aware of. It is a wonderfully crafted weapon with a keen edge and the ability to be wielded lightly. Along with this, Renedwen also has his knife which he used in close combat.

APPEARANCE: As tall as any other Dunedain woman, Renedwen is average in her build, but she has a beauty which her husband was captivated by. Her hair is dark and smooth; it falls in a dark sheet across her shoulders, and often hides her brilliant blue eyes when she bows her head in greeting. This is an endearing sight to see as she appears vulnerable when she makes this movement, something which is not a trait normally associated with Renedwen’s cynical temperament. She normally wears finely made dresses while on her hands she wears golden rings, and about her neck is one golden chain bearing a blue sapphire, chosen by her husband to match her eyes. This is not an old item, but was given to her on the birth of their long-awaited child.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Renedwen is cynical by nature, and often troubled by a sense of foreboding; she worries a lot and can be quite scathing with her words. She is often suspicious and does have a temper. But in her heart, she does care; it is due to her upbringing that she has learned to hide her happier feelings. Her hidden strength lies in the fighting and riding skills which she was taught as a girl. As soon as she married, she had put these aside with a great sense of relief, but she is capable of handling herself if the need should ever arise, though she does not have the natural strength of a soldier. Her weakness is her son, who she is prepared to defend at any cost; and her realisation that for the first time, she is alone in the world with no protector, a feeling which leaves her vulnerable.


HISTORY: Renedwen was born to a highly respected Captain of the Dunedain, the fourth of five children, she had four brothers. Her father was from a long line of Captains and as befitted his high status, his house lay among those of the elite of Fornost. The household was not filled with joy; no parties were held in this home, for it was a sombre and strict household and the Captain did not approve of fripperies and childish nonsense. The Captain demanded respect from his children as much as he commanded it from his men. He was a man who maintained discipline in his home, seeing this as the best way he might express his love for his family, all of whom he loved deeply.

The Captain was not a man who felt he ought to hold back on the truth and none of the children were ever sent away from the table when he came home, full of troubled tales of the struggles he faced daily. He was a man troubled by a constant sense of dread which he could not help acting upon. He insisted that all his children, even his daughter, ought to learn skills which would stand them in readiness for whatever may come to pass, despite it being against the custom for girls to be included in such training. Renedwen was made to learn how to defend herself along with her brothers; their father took care to pass on his skills, leading them in fighting and riding lessons whenever he could. Renedwen, seeing other girls playing and having fun, hated this, and resisted her father’s teaching. She would be distracted by the sight of a bird and run to follow it, or fall to dancing when she should have been learning how to stop an attack from behind. But even when distracted, her father refused to indulge her whims and allow her to run home. Renedwen longed for the day when she could set up her own home and fill it with beautiful, frivolous things, and spend time whiling her days away in daydreams and elegance.

It was no surprise that Renedwen grew up with a cynical outlook and a hardened heart. She had spent years learning to stifle her need for fun, learning to accept the discipline of her father. She knew it was the only way to win his love and approval. She eventually inherited his sense of dread, and worries constantly troubled her mind. As she grew into a young woman her only solace was to pass through the silent halls of the King’s men in the early of the morning, a place where she could escape the troubles that plagued her by dreaming about being a fine lady. It was here that a young Dunedain officer came upon her one dawn.

He saw her dark hair coldly lit in the chill early light, and as she turned to see whose feet came near, her hair fell back from her fair face, revealing her brilliant blue eyes, and his heart leapt. In time, he was ever to be found at the Captain’s house; despite his fear of the great man‘s reputation, he was determined he should win his daughter. She eventually fell in love, but it was with his devotion, rather than his being. And her father, satisfied that this was no frivolous young man, that he would provide for and protect his child, eventually consented.

It was an easy marriage in that her husband allowed her free reign to do and say as she pleased. Only her guilt stayed her when she realised had gone too far in exploiting his weakness for her. They waited many years for a child, and her husband placated her by filling their house with the fine and elegant things she desired. He strove hard to improve his position, for her benefit, and eventually was made a Lieutenant; he was admired by his men, and though a quiet man, those above him often took notice of his efforts. They lived in the best part of the city, close to her father, who in time was retired from his active post, yet he remained an honorary Captain. She was happy, but did not outwardly display that happiness by any softening of her heart. She remained a cold and cynical woman, and grew to be proud. After twenty long years Renedwen was blessed with a son, and a change came about her. Her cold heart was thawed by the presence of the child, and though still very much a cynical woman, she carried him everywhere with her, spoiling him as much as it was possible, and if she thought of harm ever coming to him, her heart burned with anger.

__________________________________________________ _______________


Lalwende's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Kransha et al,

I am terribly sorry for my lateness - I've been busy with a sudden and very unwelcome amount of schoolwork and coursework etc, and between that and not being used to having two games going at once for a fair while, I... yes, my excuses are fairly poor when written like that. My apologies.

Now, I had constructed a sketch of a character already, but Osse today sent me a sketchy outline of his sort of character. I am therefore in the process of building this into my own as well as making several rather hefty changes to him: I will post as soon as I can.

Thank you,

- Aman

[Amanaduial the archer]

* * * PLEASE PM ME WHEN YOU HAVE FINALIZED YOUR CHARACTER DESCRIPTION AND THE FIRST POST IS DONE TO YOUR SATISFACTION ~*~ PIO * * *

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DUNEDAIN YOUTH – son of the woman (Nuranar) and the soldier (Osse).

NAME: Faerim. (Fay-rim)

AGE: 17

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Although only just recruited to the army, Faerim has used a broadsword for some years, as he is quite strong enough to handle the long, heavy weapon generally used by older soldiers. Having worked as an apprenticed blacksmith since he was 15, he is also quite handy with a whole series of knives, and keeps one inside his left boot for jobs or for general safety purposes – carrying around a sword is basically asking for trouble for such a young man. Although the broadsword is the weapon that he works hardest at, he was also taught from the age of about twelve or thirteen to use a bow, although his father scoffed that it was a ‘sissy’ weapon: because his arms have been strengthened from using the broadsword, he has become very apt with this, and made a few adaptations to his own bow so that his shot is even more powerful.

APPEARANCE: Faerim is quite light, his skin pale and unlined, and lightly freckled, contrasting with the lean, sharp structure of his face. His hair, which falls straight and messily around his face and ears, is spattered light blonde-brown colour and his eyes are light blue. Such light colouring can sometimes seem to give him an almost childish look, but along with his slim, sharp face, it more often than not gives him a sort of elfin charm that he is quite aware of! Faerim is not vain, but is quite a charmer, and a romantic, but on his young face there can also be seen lines of hardness and anxiety, and when angry his entire face has a way of freezing up, his icy eyes frosting over completely. Faerim stands at about 5 ft 11, and although his shoulders are quite broad, he is quite slim, but well toned – he is stronger than he looks, and well able to wield a broad sword, without being held back by extra bulk. He wears high leather boots and dark trousers, usually worn with soft, loose white shirts, more often than not under a leather jerkin or shirt tunic, and a habitually worn long, rather battered black cloak, attached at the shoulders – at 17, Faerim is one year too young to be recruited to the army in peace time, but due to the desperation of the military in the recent attacks, he has been brought in early, but in the haste has not been fitted out with armour. He uses basically his father’s old armour when needs be.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Faerim is charismatic and charming, but not arrogant with it – generally. Arrogance does not come easily to him as he has seen what it can do: the youth resents the way his father has squandered much of the one-rich family’s money on drink and gambling. But it is from his father that Faerim has inherited his fierce temper, although it is less easily aroused than in his father, and his cutting tongue. Premature lines of worry and anxiety can be seen on his otherwise unflawed skin, for his father’s behaviour, and the pressure he has put on the young Faerim, have caused him to age a little before his time. But despite this, he is in general quite a happy go lucky young man, a charmer and a romantic, good with ladies but able to dodge out of trouble. His home life is too serious as far as he is concerned, and so he tends to ignore solemnity outside of it, almost to the point of audacity sometimes. But he respects the captains, especially the distant Hirvegil, whom he almost uses as a role model – not that he would ever admit this to his father. He is proud and ready to fight for what he believes in – but not always outright, but cleverly: if offended, he will remember, and can come across as quite cold because of this, until he is satisfied with some conclusion. Faerim wishes to join the military really because, well, it’s what his family have always done – and although it may be a family corroded by gambling and drink, it is still his heritage, and he intends to keep it up. His warm, charming nature draws friends, but family is at the heart of it all – even if he doesn’t exactly get on with most of it’s members.


HISTORY: Born in spring of TA 1987, Faerim is the eldest child of Carthor, and with this has come quite a burden: his father has always put pressure on him to become strong, to join the army and fight for Arthedain, as his forefathers always have. Because of this, his father taught him from when he was very young with one of his old swords: the child found it hard to wield because of it’s weight and because of this hard lessons were learnt by Faerim – and maybe this was the start of a somewhat formal, almost distant relationship between father and son, although as he grew older, Faerim’s attitude towards his father was tinged with respect for his father’s past. He went to school, as befitted the son of a ‘gentleman’, and learnt quite quickly, but was generally more interested in the social side of living, and developed a vibrant, warm but fierce personality that got into fights quite often. At fifteen, he left school and became apprenticed to a blacksmith, to earn his keep and learn some more practical skills, in his mother and father’s hopes that he would also grow up a little. It didn’t exactly happen that way – it generally just meant that Faerim now had a little more freedom to do what he wanted with, and he generally became a bit of a scallywag. But despite his somewhat rogue-ish nature, Faerim still kept firmly to his aspiration of joining the army when he came of age, and having repaired or forged enough weapons for other men, he himself forged his own first broadsword, with the help and guidance of Blacksmith Master Talston, a steadfast, gruff individual who, although he wouldn’t admit it, had become quite fond of his apprentice, who had become quite skilled, and had been hinting that maybe it would be better if Faerim stayed to take up the job as a profession – after all, he reasoned roughly, could either of them really see Faerim obeying any officer he didn’t want to?! But the youth laughed it off and kept practising his skills with broadsword and bow, living life in any way he pleased – until he got his military wish a year earlier than expected, when the fell army, led by the nightmarish Witch King, attacked Arthedain. Faerim became both archer and skirmisher, whatever was needed really, and began his early career in the army…

~*~

I will, of course, make any changes necessary when Osse, Nuranar and Novnarwen put their characters up, or request me to do so to fit their characters. Thank you :)

- Aman

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NOTE I edited in Osse's character's name

[Arry]

POST PLACED ON PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

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Here is my First Post.

I hope you don't mind that I've brought in the bowmen of the Shire who answered the King's call for troops and were never heard from again. I have always been intrigued by that bit of Hobbit history.

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Alaklondewen

I've left it open for you to either meet up with Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo on the second level and go up to the third, or have them find you already on the top level . . . as you wish.

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First Post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[Kransha]

Huzzah again!

Lalwendë, wonderful post and bio, really. I have little to say, because there is nothing that needs changing. A new widow involved in the direct machinations of the cast at hand ought to be interesting, considering. Renedwen will be a great addition, and, since nothing needs be changed, you may consider yourself "done" at this preliminary stage with work that must be done before the game's beginning. If you want, you may begin work on a second post, which would be submitted immediately after the game opens, containing details of civilians being hustled to the escape passage that leads throught the North Gate and into the North Downs to be evacuated. But, this is unnecessary right now. Thanks, and good job.

Aman, don't worry about all those activities, I understand the hardships of young life, oh yes. Nevertheless, your bio is great. Even though it should have been obvious, I never even entertained the thought that one of the soldier's children would be in the military. Fraerim looks like a great character, and feel free to take your time with the first post for him. Being in the army should have an interesting impact on the other characters around him. Congrats.

Arry, your post brings up an interesting point. I was not initially sure that the Halfling troop, mentioned in canon, was in Fornost before its fall. I don't have my resources with me, but I thought they were dispatched to aid Earnur in destroying Angmar a year later. But, I don't know this for sure, and the last time I made an assumption about canon, I was wrong anyway. If pio says it is ok, the Halflings should definately stay. I think, looking back, that you probably now the tidbit better than I, if you're so intrigued. I assume that Willibold Brownlock is intended as a carry-along, yes? The post is great wholly, and needs no changing.

Nuranar, if you're out there, I would appreciate it if you checked in here, just to establish your...umm..presence. Your part is essential, and I want to make sure you're still on board since you and I have not made contact in over a week and a half.

pio, here's that Prologue, told from the point-of-view of Malbeth the Seer, a century ago, at the birth of Arvedui. I hope it meets with your approval. I'm not done hammering out details herein, but I'll post this rough draft here for your perusal, so you may tell me if it is somehow innapropriate.

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* * * PLEASE PM ME WHEN YOU HAVE FINISHED THE PROLOGUE TO YOUR SATISFACTION ~*~ PIO * * *

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PROLOGUE

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.

[Nuranar]

Kransha, I'm here all right. I've been keeping daily tabs on this thread. My apologies for not checking in before now - I thought of it, but alas, I hadn't any "in progress" report to add to the mere fact of my presence. Osse's PM, which I received this morning, has jump-started my thinking, though. And Aman's bio has helped as well.

I have a pretty hard test on Thursday afternoon. If I can justify taking the time away from studying, I will be working on my own bio. If not, I'm afraid it'll be a little later. Either way, however, I plan on having it up by/on the weekend. Will that be all right?

[Kransha]

No rush, Nuranar. Real life concerns are more important than your bio, certainly. At this time of year, I'm glad you've all been so prompt. I suggest you work on your RL things, and study. The bio can be written up when your time is not preoccupied. Thanks for checking in.

[Arry]

Kransha

No, there will be no carry-along character from the Hobbit bowmen. I just wanted to place them in the context of this storyline, since they were a part of the forces of Fornost.

Here is my understanding of the bowmen and the battle in which they fought:

According to the Prologue to the Fellowship of the Ring, the Hobbit bowmen answered the call of their King (who would be Arvedui at Fornost) to fight against the Witch-lord of Angmar – the battle being the one in which the North Kingdom ended.

Once the North Kingdom ended, and the authority of the king was gone, the Shire chose its own leaders and did not trouble itself with the affairs of the world beyond the Shire borders for many long years.

The battle fought later in 1975 TA was led by Eärnur, son of the King of the southern kingdom of Gondor to whom the Hobbits owed no allegiance.

[Osse]

Well done Aman, nice bio :D

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HAVE PUT THIS ON THE PROPOSAL. ~*~ Pio


Osse's character

NAME: Carthor

AGE: 92

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: From an early age, Carthor was poured into the harsh mould of the professional soldier – his father, a brash, overbearing man of little patience taught Carthor to fight with blade and stave from the age of eleven. The boy soon became deft and agile, yet strong and hardy and able to wield a heavy weapon with as much ease as many men of twice his age. From the outset, his weapon of choice was a short, bladed stave. This weapon, being light and long reaching felt right in the strong hands of Carthor in his youth; he could slash, parry and stab with the weapon, and had the range needed to safely avoid an opponent’s own blade.

In his old age, Carthor still possesses this weapon, but physical limitations have meant he no longer can fight with the same dexterity he used to and the weapon requires. Therefore he no longer carries his stave, but usually a stout short sword – a thrusting weapon that allows the ailing warrior to keep his guard enclosed. This sword, though old and well made contains no embellishment on either the guard or pommel, rather it is a simple, durable weapon with soft leather grip and steel fittings – the single-fullered, tapered blade is kept precipitously keen. This weapon is usually housed in a beautifully supple black leather scabbard which, though totally unadorned, sports simply beautiful workmanship – an item from a period where time could be spent on such matters other than bloodshed. Carthor also wears a simple breast plate, un-embossed, and perhaps the most treasured item of his armoury, a magnificently forged war helm with fitted cheek guards and a sloping profile. A beautiful crest of embossed brass almost melts down the centre of the helm, coming to a near teardrop shaped point half way down the helm’s long nasal. This helmet is the only family heirloom still in Carthor’s possession.

APPEARANCE: Carthor is now nearing old age, even for one of the Dunedain and at ninety-two, his body reflects this. A large chunk is missing from his nose and he is missing a finger on his left hand. His right knee plays havoc in the long northern winters, a souvenir from a scimitar wound inflicted early in his soldiering carreer. However, he is still fit and rather muscular – no matter what punishment it has taken, his body seems to naturally hold its fitness. Carthor’s shoulder length hair is starting to thin and is now a deep grey colour, flecked with white. He has startlingly light blue eyes set well back in his rather rounded face and a prominent nose, broken in at least five places. A strong, squared, perpetually stubble clad chin provides his face with an aura of strength. Carthor isn’t tall, yet his frame is muscular and wiry, with startlingly broad shoulders. His overall appearance reflects that a sturdy young man gone to seed with age. Carthor dresses plainly, usually in a shade of grey or brown – his clothes are old and worn, yet can be seen to be of high quality regardless of tears and scuffs. Perhaps his most defining piece of clothing is a large, well worn calf-leather cloak. The cloak is lined with what must have once have been a fine satin but has been torn and sewn out of recognition. The leather itself is scratched, soiled and torn, as if threatening to fall apart on the spot, yet never quite following through. Carthor’s other chief possession is a pair of short, soft leather boots. These boots are a relic from more prosperous times, both for the realm and for Carthor’s house, being made of the most high quality of leathers – wafer thin strips of stretched calf’s leather bound and sewn together to provide a durable, yet malleable material. These boots are over seventy years old and were made by Carthor’s grandsire, upper-Fornost’s premiere shoemaker, as a coming of age present. They are not merely moulded to Carthor’s feet, but rather an extension of them. The shoes, though old are well kept, the leather remains moist and waxed, and there seems to be no sign of it wearing through.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Though his body has bowed to age much earlier than most of his kindred, Carthor’s mind is still sharp, sharp due to the constant internal battles raging; battles against the memories of past horrors and emotional scars, and battles against the dependence Carthor once had upon drink to free him from these horrible memories. Carthor must be forever vigilant; both inwards and outwards to stop himself from falling back into the abyss he toiled so hard to raise himself out of. Carthor’s will is strong, on all matters and his principles are branded deeply in his thought. However, he is head strong and often comes across as being both harsh and arrogant – his tongue is almost as sharp if not as sharp as his mind. Carthor’s tongue and his keen mind are but opposite edges on the same dangerous sword. For as is with most swords, this one can be harmful to the wielder as well as the target.

HISTORY: Being of Fornost’s upper class, Carthor was formally educated from an early age; however, after numerous run-ins with various tutor-folk, he stopped his schooling at the age of eleven. From then on, Carthor’s only education was in the art of death, soldiering. The glory he had associated with this profession was quickly throttled, especially as the threat of Angmar increased. The constant skirmishes with the Witch King threw a young Carthor into the deathly typhoon. What he saw there has haunted his dreams since. Scars, both physical and unseen, too deep to heal were inflicted during the cold winters of the blood soaked north realm. At the relatively young age of thirty-one, Carthor met, and fell in love with, a young woman, immediately marrying her. After being married for two blissful years, Carthor’s wife fell pregnant. Carthor was elated. With this woman, the headstrong, somewhat brash young Dunedain was cheery and amiable, generous and vibrant. Tragically, the infant, a young boy, died soon after birth. Many days went by, and a fever was set in the skin and eyes of Carthor’s young wife. For four sleepless nights he sat by her bed in a silent, fretful vigil. Here he saw everything dear to him pass from his hands like smoke from a flame. The fire in the woman’s flesh could not be abated and she fell into eternity on the sixth day after the birth. The catalyst that had made Carthor’s life more then just a death-dance had been mercilessly taken away from his outstretched hands. He became little more then an apparition, sitting morose and despondent, eating little and sleeping even littler. In time, in years, Carthor became numb. He seemed to function. The drinking of wine consumed his days; he could not be at peace without a goblet in his hand and six more in his gut. His position in the army suffered – a drunken soldier was not fit for leadership. However, a kindly set of men had known of his tragic fortunes and not had him punished, but rather confined to work inside the citadel of Fornost. In his sixtieth year, Carthor’s father, now at the age of one-hundred and thirteen himself, urged Carthor to marry again, deeming enough time had passed since the tragic events of his first marriage. Carthor was loath to do so, but was drunk more often than sober and therefore had little dictation in the matter. A young woman from another prominent family, (Nuranar's’s character) was chosen by his parents as she was both beautiful and delightfully intelligent. She took to Carthor, intrigued by his remoteness, attracted by his physicality, yet pitiful of his past. Carthor’s drunken stupor did not extend into the realms of love and his attentions did not fall on (Nuranar's character). If anything, during this period, his drinking increased – the time he spent sober was dwindling fast. He became tardy to his post, increasingly intoxicated on duty and careless with his arms. During this time, something softened within his drunken exterior and he opened himself up to (Nuranar's character), much to the delight of his aging parents. The pair was soon married and the first of their children Faerim was soon born. During this time, Carthor’s drinking declined somewhat. Another boy, Brander, was born the following year. Something changed in Carthor and he went back into his old ways, with new zeal. Gambling became a new part of his rant and he began to be careless with the family’s property – betting using family heirlooms and purchasing wine with family gold. Subsequently, the family soon became much worse off. This self destructive plummet was observed by his family, with growing concern and angst. Years past and Carthor’s father fell horrifically ill. Carthor’s silent vigil was once again taken up on his father’s bed-side. Before the last rise of his chest had ceased, Carthor’s father asked but one thing of his son – to purge himself of the cancerous habits he had attained, and restore the family’s honour. Over time, Carthor was able to pull himself from the pit of despair, yet he became even more elusive. He no longer applied himself to family life, instead putting the remainder of his spirit into his life as a soldier. And still the threat of Angmar increased…

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Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[Kransha]

G'devening all,

I apologize for my lengthy absence, but it appears that I have not missed much. Computer problems have been allowing me to visit the Downs less lately, but that means nothing...except that my computer is dated. But, these technical difficulties come at a convenient time, since the holiday season has kept me busy as well. Christmahanukwanzaka; the all-purpose December holiday, is a cruel, but giving mistress.

Osse, fantastic bio. I eagerly await your first post. I am sure it will be a great pleasure to write/game/etc alongside you. Take your time with the First Post, as much as is necessary. The same goes for the rest of you; no need to rush.

I would like to bring the following info to the front of my proverbial billboard. Here is a rough outline of the first few things that will be happening. If any wish to begin writing second posts, this will be a fair rubric. If you complete a second post before the game begins, PM it to me, and I will see if it ought to be posted up when the game is opened, rather than after it opens, if you get my meaning. The outline is as follows (the first 3 points can be used in second posts, but the fourth and onward should not be [but, those points may still be used for future posts]):

The Witch-King's guard and the Witch King himself arrive in the second level
The forces of Fornost retreat, along with the rearguard, to the inner sanctum
The escapees flee through the passageway from the inner sanctum to the North Gate
The Witch-Kingt overtakes the inner sanctum and battle the rearguard at the North Gate
The rearguard take to their horses (as do the other castmembers) and flee - a lot
The group rides full-speed toward a refuge in the North Downs

[Saurreg]

:eek:

Gosh...

The rearguard battles the Witchking of Angmar himself?!!

I can hardly wait!

Must endure... until... January...

Losing control... anticipation overwhelming!

[Novnarwen]

Finally! I'm very sorry for being so late, and I'm sorry for just having a Bio ready. I have had loads of home/schoolwork, and now I have been running from one Christmas concert to another. Luckily, it is all drawing to an end now, so I'll probably have more time on my hands. Or so I hope.. :p

Anyway, here is my bio for Dunedain, son of [Nuranar's character] and Carthor

POSTED TO BIO PAGE ~*~ PIO

Name Brander

Age 16

Gender Male

Race Men, Dunedain

Weapons: None. He has never had any use of weapons. When not being able to see the enemy (if there is any at all), what is the use of a sword, a knife or a bow? To him, a weapon would not serve as a protection; it would be quite the opposite.

Appearance : As his one year older brother, his skin is light (almost pale). Brander has a lot of freckles covering his nose and small parts of his chin; he has definitely more freckles than his brother, and it’s certainly noticeable. His face is formed far more oblong than his brother, giving him a much larger forehead (without it being so big that he’s not good looking). It makes him look rather strict and important, but his childish features and expressions will easily dominate most of the time. He has sharp features. Especially his high cheekbones and his straight nose are what people take notice to at first. Then there are his eyes; Brander hardly opens them, as it makes not difference to him. (He is blind, and has been from birth.) However, when he does open them, most people are amazed by the sparkling green colour which hides under his heavy lids. As he is a very happy and pleased person, he smiles almost constantly, revealing his white big teeth, which are all situated nicely like small pearls in his jaw. Brander has curly, half long hair, which is a mixture between blonde and light brown. He is slight and slim figure, but he is still muscular. He is taller than average people. He dresses normally in light colours, as that fits his personality the best; a light-hearted lad with few worries. Even though he has not seen himself, ever, he is quite confident that he is a handsome young man, having been told so by others.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: His broad smile and his sense of humour are two of his most recognisable characteristics. Brander appears to others to be a very happy person, who smiles and laughs often. He is witty, and is in many ways very charming. He is open-minded about most things, intelligent, but quick headed. He connects easily to people. In others words, he is a very social being, who tends to get restless when not being around people. Sometimes though, he might be slightly sceptic towards new relations, as it’s very difficult for him to distinguish between true friends and others whose only intentions are to take advantage of him.

Brander has of course many weaknesses due to the fact that he is blind. Naturally, he can’t do everything everyone else can. Being blind though, has made Brander aware and appreciate many things that others do not. He lives by hearing, touching and smelling; he does not take these things for granted as most people do. His senses are his only tools in the world, and he is grateful for what he has.

Brander is often reminded of his handicap. Hearing others speaking aloud about their doings - what they have seen - is particularly difficult. The feeling of being excluded isn't to be avoided. He is excluded, because there are many things he cannot do. Sometimes he feels lonely, even though he sits in a room with a dozen others. He feels that people’s lack of understanding towards the situation he finds himself in, is rather horrifying. He feels that instead of appreciating him as he is, people tend to pity him. They pity him because he is blind; they pity him for the wrong reasons! Brander is overly convinced that his blindness should not be a reason for feeling sorry for him. With a little help, he could, as he often says, manage very well on his own. People who treat as if he was a petty little creature who cannot do anything on his own, is the reason why he also feels so abandoned, or set aside in and by the society. No one approaches him like a normal person. They treat him as if he was a child, as if he was dumb. It is a mystery to him why people who can see, can't see that he is exactly like them...

History Brander was born in late winter time of the Third Age 1988. At that time, no one knew that the newly born boy was blind, and that after sixteen years he would still be. At the age of five or six, Brander still remember discovering that something was odd, something which affected him in more than one way. His mother was pointing at a horse and he could not see it. The reason why he did not know it before was that he was not aware of the senses he possessed, and the senses others (like his mother) possessed. He knew what a horse was; how it sounded, how it felt, but how it looked like, was an enigma. So, it was at that time his mother and father, and others, became aware of the boy's handicap. Due to this, Brander was not sent to school at first, as his parents thought it rather useless. Why waste money on a boy who could probably not learn anything at all? To Brander it did not seem such a big deal in the beginning. He hardly knew what school and education was. He learned form his own experiences and he learned from hearing others tell their tales; what more was there to learn? Through his early teens, he spent his days sitting outside in the sun, taking long walks with whoever was interested and so forth. Then, one day, his perspective on life changed drastically. It was early morning, and Brander had just eaten breakfast. As adventurous as he is, he had planned on going for a walk; this time, he planned on going alone. Telling no one of this, he made his way out of the house where the family lived, and found his way out on the street. He’d heard someone calling for him, on the other side. In mere enthusiasm that someone was calling for him, he ran, crossing the street. What he wasn’t aware of, as he was blind, was that a laden wagon dragged by two strong horses was coming his way in a terrible speed. Had it not been for an observant young man, (who had disappeared after the event,) Brander would have been run over and most likely dead. This, mainly, was the reason why he changed. He changed for the better; he became far more independent and determined. He decided that he could not, and would not, live his life doing nothing only because he could not see. It was not going to be an obstacle for living a normal life. Instead of sitting helplessly and without goals at home, he managed at last to convince his parents to send him to school. He could learn and he would. Even though he could not read, and was never going to, he learned much by just being present, hearing others read or do their lessons. This gave him great pleasure; he even found himself taking part in most of the activities; activities he never thought he would be able to take part in. At the age of fifteen, one year later than his brother, he left school, having learnt everything there was to learn, or so he thought...

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Novnarwen's post

PLEASE PLACE IT HERE WHEN YOU'VE WRITTEN IT



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I hope that was alright. Kransha, if you want me to change anything, I will edit accordingly!

First post will, hopefully, come soon!

Cheers,
Nova :D

PS! I must say that, by the look of the bios and posts so far, I can't wait for this to start! This is going to be so much fun!

[Amanaduial the archer]

First post for Faerim.

POSTED TO PROPOSAL ~*~ Pio

~*~

Faerim threw himself down against the remains of the wall he had posted himself behind, his hands covering his head, as the top of the wall exploded and the rubble rained down on his light hair and face. Scrabbling back onto his knees, the youth brushed the debris from his clothes hastily and peered forward through what had been an arrow slit in the wall. His light eyes scanned outwards across the lower level and beyond, and widened as his gaze followed the black masses further and further outwards. His skin paled further beneath the light spattering of freckles as the full extent of the black army, and how little they seemed affected by the desperate army of Fornost – or what was little of them. Beneath him, on the lower level where a few orcs had breached the walls, chaos reigned: houses burned and smoked, the fell flood surged over the rubble, and from above, Faerim could hear the screams of those who had fallen prey to the catapult shots and arrows of the enemy. And all the time came that irrepressable booming of the ram hitting the gates...

Wrenching his horrified gaze from the scene below and turning his back to the wall, the youth pulled open his quiver of arrows and counted those that remained – a laughable four, and one so cracked that he doubted it would fly. He swore under his breath and looked back through the arrow slit to the lower level. Loading his bow with arrow number one, he scanned the area and picked out one particularly despicable individual who, along with a second orc, was hacking at the door of a house with a pitted axe. The opposite of his younger brother, Faerim’s sight was excellent, so that some had sniped before that the seventeen year old had got the eyesight for the both of them: as a result of his eyesight, the youth could see every detail of the vile creature, down to fresh bloodstains around it’s hands. Feeling sick at the thought of whose blood that might be, the young man sighted briefly and fired.

The orc fell backwards with a satisfying yell, the axe falling from it’s stumpy digits as it clutched, unseeing, at the arrow now embedded deep in it’s chest. Beside it, orc number two gave a snarl of surprise and followed the line of the arrow upwards until it came eye to eye with Faerim. He could feel it’s eyes on him through the arrow slit, but it wouldn’t last for long: defiant until the last, the archer gave a quick wink and loosed his second precious arrow. Not waiting to see whether it found it’s mark, he looked about searched the lower area and prepared to let off one more of his arrows towards another orc. But as he did so, a deafening scream came from along the wall beside him and a soldier toppled off, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. The sound caused Faerim to jump at the last second almost wasting the shot. Twisting his mouth in irritation, the young man re-sighted, his muscles tensed to shoot-

The gates swung open.

With yells from the men and inhuma roars from the black hordes, the enemy poured into the city of Fornost. Faerim's arrow fly awry, lost in the masses, but the youth barely noticed, his horrified eyes fixed on ther scene below as beasts twice as tall as a man attacked the army of his city, battering them aside with brutal weapons. And his father was below...

Faerim took a deep breath and strung his bow with the fourth arrow – and then realised that it was indeed his last. Have to be careful when you’re out on a limb, that’s what Brander—

Brander. Dammit, his younger brother – where was he? He had been in the manor house, with their mother, but now…a fresh sluice of fear washed over Faerim. His father would be fighting in the frey below, a swordsman as he was, but at least he had some way of protecting himself - but a vivid image of the orcs, flowing from every side into the room around his blind brother, drove itself into his mind. Brander wouldn't stand a chance. Saving the last arrow, the Dunedain youth checked his sword and, in a strange crouched position, ran across to the shelter nearest to the wall where he had been crouched. Darting inside, he slipped quickly past the other soldiers there, taking on a busy air that meant none stopped him, the sprinted across the courtyard at the back towards the street of larger houses on the second level on the outer wall.

Of course, Faerim was under no impressions of his brother being helpless – for years, Brander had made it painfully clear, both to his older brother and to his parents, that he was determined to be as independent as possible. But, Faerim mused angrily, that independence – being able to look after himself in a domestic situation – was frankly worth nothing in this situation. What Faerim valued – his strength, agility, speed and skill with weapons – were nothing to Brander: a sword, or even a knife, would be more of a liability that an aid to the blind boy.

The white stone of a beautifully delicate, ancient spire, reaching so high it split the sky, suddenly shattered as a barrage of stones hit it. The debris pratically exploded and huge chunks of the base fell to the ground, coming so close to crushing Faerim that his cloak caught beneath it as he rolled agiley, coming to rest on one knee in the shadow of one of the houses. Breathlessly, without taking time to compose himself, he wrenched his cloak from beneath the shattered remains of the face of some ancient statue and kicked the side door of the house open. Half jogging in, he heard a noise from the landing above and fell to a crouch to slip one of his knives from the inside of his left boot. Satisfied that the noise had ceased, he took the stairs of the grand, sweeping staircase three at a time, cloak flying out behind him as he yelled for his brother – it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through, and surely one of the captains would have arranged something? Either way, he needed to find out and bearing in mind he hadn’t an idea where his father might be now, he needed to make sure Brander and his mother were safe. “Brander? Brander!”

~*~

Hope this suits ok for Faerim's first post - excellent post by the way Osse, and Novnarwen - your bio for Brander...he's an intriguing character, I look forward to playing with him, and you :)

[piosenniel]

Please note:

Garen LiLorian, an oldtimer from the RPG's here at the Downs is going to play in this game.

He'll be posting his bio and First Post for his character soon - the Elf guard from Rivendell.

Welcome aboard, Garen L.!

~*~ Pio

[Nuranar]

At long last, I've written my bio. Apologies for the length. And as always, I will make any requested changes. :D

First post coming soon, probably tomorrow, unless I finish it today.

~*~ POSTED TO GAME PLAN --- Pio

Bio for Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier)

NAME: Lissi

AGE: 39

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: female

WEAPONS: For years Lissi has had a short knife. Though unremarkable in every way, it has made itself useful in scores of household tasks. Lissi sharpens it every so often, although she prefers for it not to be too sharp - she has at least one scar on her finger from it. Her husband Carthor's old stave, short and bladed, hangs on the wall in their home. Since the siege began Lissi has surreptitiously begun to practice wielding it. She knows nothing first-hand of combat, and hopes never to know, but any preparation may come in useful.

APPEARANCE: Lissi stands only a little shorter than her two tall sons, at 5'9". Her height and the delicacy of her bone structure give her form the illusion of fragility. In reality she is neither fragile, being well-muscled, nor delicate, having always delighted in outdoor exercise such as walking and riding. Her sons inherited her fine features and her fair skin, although Lissi has taken scrupulous care of her complexion and has no freckles. Nor did the boys inherit her eyes and hair. Her eyes are so light a grey they seem to glow; when she is excited, they burn like white stars. Lissi's hair, as black as soot, falls in heavy waves down her back. Charming tendrils curl around her face, softening features that would otherwise seem austere. But what transforms her face is her smile. Lissi's smile is sweet and spontaneous, and although her life has not been the easiest, her smile has never completely disappeared. Fine lines of care cross her brow, but their number are rivaled by the lines of laughter around her mouth. For the most part Lissi wears simple, dark-colored dresses and overgowns with full skirts. Since their finances began to go downhill, she spends rarely but always for quality. Even now her light woolen gowns are as warm and sturdy and well-fitting as ever.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Although a mother of two nearly-grown sons, Lissi knows and rejoices that she is still quite attractive. Furthermore she grew up privileged and has a taste for luxury and expense, which is nevertheless balanced by her practicality. She loves her sons dearly, but is no doting mother Lissi has a very intelligent, strong mind. Her devotion to duty, and the right thing to do, is stubborn and unyielding. Life has given her disappointment and sorrow, if not yet tragedy, and for the most part Lissi has weathered these storms and emerged stronger. She feels secret contempt for those too "weak-minded" to meet difficulties and she despises those who renege on their responsibilities. Despite all this, Lissi has learned to make her own happiness. Choosing to consider herself contented, she manages to enjoy her family and her duties. And her serene manner is the mellow calm of a mature woman, with even yet the merriness of girlhood breaking through.

HISTORY: Lissielle, always called Lissi, was born the youngest of three daughters. Her father was a wealthy man, and the family has been of the elite of Fornost for generations. Lissi's elder sisters were identical twins, a good five years older, and very close to each other. Lissi was often alone, but her active mind was never at a loss; she read voraciously and thought constantly, carrying on conversations in her head. She loved to be outside. She would walk and ride outside the city, even in the chill north winds, and even her studying she did in the garden. Determined not to be lonely, she made herself her own best companion. Only once did she give in to jealousy of her sisters, spending a miserable, sulky, envious week following them around. Then her common sense pulled her up sternly and she decided that although twinges of envy were uncomfortable, giving in to them was far worse than giving it rein.

This self-taught lesson was vital in later years. For if Lissi was fair, her sisters were dazzling; as the belles of society, they danced and coquetted and broke hearts left and right. Lissi herself entered society at age twenty, in her sisters' shadow. Naturally the little sister could not compete; from time to time this fretted Lissi, before she discovered that some men found her just as attractive. She found their admiration pleasant, but no one aroused her especial interest until she was introduced to Carthor, a soldier, at her sister's wedding. In his seventies, he was far older than the young men she knew. Although scarred and saturnine, his hair was yet dark and his blue eyes brilliant, and Lissi had never felt before the aura of strength he carried with him. And most intriguingly of all, he did not show the slightest interest in her.

Lissi had enough of the coquette in her blood to see his remoteness as a challenge. Drawing on all the stubbornness of her nature, she spent the ensuing months learning what she could about him and striving to excite his appreciation. Finally Carthor turned to her, not only giving his admiration but also seeking solace. By this time Lissi herself was smitten, enamored of both the brave soldier of the past and the bereaved man of the present. When he asked her to marry him, she agreed gladly. She had heard rumors that Carthor "drank," but the only drunkenness she knew was the jovial excesses of feast days; and what of it? He loved her, and he would change. Lissi's father was concerned - he knew of Carthor and saw clearer than his daughter - but balked at the trouble of a sharp conflict with her.

Faerim was born a year later, and Brander a year after that. Those two years taught Lissi many things. Carthor was always kind to her, and although unlearned, he was intelligent. He was a good companion for her life. But even before Faerim's birth she confessed to herself that she had never truly loved him; nor did he love her. She had talked herself into an infatuation with the romantic man of the stories. But Lissi would not let herself fall into self-disgust or grow bitter with disappointment. She had made her choice, and there was no turning back. Carthor needed her, even if she could not give him love. Their sons needed her, needed both of them, and she was not going to take out her disappointment on them.

As before her lesson in envy had sustained her, now her devotion to duty and care for her family stood her in good stead. His good resolutions had held for some time, but after Brander's birth Carthor slowly reverted to his drunken habits. Lissi saw it with anger at first, anger and guilt that she wasn't good enough. She berated her husband, reproaching and upbraiding, honing her scolding to a fine weapon to fence with Carthor's own sharp tongue. And once again, she made herself miserable as well as Carthor and the boys. From then on Lissi set her jaw and restrained herself. Even when he began gambling and she saw their livelihood - and her sons' inheritance - slipping away, she controlled her tongue and sought to influence instead of punish.

After her father-in-law died, Lissi saw with relief the reform that Carthor made. He gave up drinking and gambling eventually, and she thought entirely. But it seemed that Carthor had to have an obsession. When wine and gambling were abandoned, soldiering took over. Lissi grieved in secret over his withdrawal from the family, but as always she determined to stand true. Through the lonely years she strove to be the best mother possible and make their home a pleasant place, and she watched with pride as their sons grew.

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Nuranar's post

Lissi had been up since before dawn. The hideous clamor of battle reverberated through the air and penetrated every corner of the house. Tremors ran through the floor and walls as the city trembled with each projectile’s impact. Even the heavy storm shutters could not shut out the hellish glare of the fires. The red glow gave her bedroom such an alien appearance that Lissi buried her head in the blankets to shut the terrifying vision out. An instant later she jerked upright in shame and pride and slid out of bed. If she could not sleep, at least she would not cower in bed like a child afraid of shadows!

Lissi pattered across the room and defiantly flung open the shutters. Then she dressed with deliberate concentration in the weird light. Close-fitting underdress, deep red wool, laced on both sides, tight buttoned-up sleeves. Dark brown overdress, front-lacing, flared sleeves. Woolen hose and leather shoes. Small work knife, hanging from an old leather belt, around her waist. Heavy shawl around her shoulders, held together in the front by a brooch. Lissi laced every lace, buttoned every button, and arranged every fold of her raiment with scrupulous care. Moving to the polished metal mirror hanging on her wall, she arranged her hair. The white face she saw, framed by little natural curls, gazed back with calm approval as she braided her long black tresses into two braids and tied on her winter hood. Then for a moment Lissi’s busy fingers stopped, and she bowed her head.

A dull splintering thud rattled the furniture. The next instant Lissi found herself on the balcony in the next room, grey eyes straining to see the battle in the lurid light of the flames. Until the weak light of the winter sun illumined the heavy grey clouds, Lissi stayed on the balconey. She paced the whole time. At first she told herself she was keeping warm. But as she paced she thought, and as she thought her stride grew faster with nervous energy. If she only knew exactly what was happening! All she could do now was think – and think – and think.

For weeks Lissi had been thinking. It began with planning, then went to packing, but the thinking never stopped: thinking, always thinking – pondering the siege, imagining scenarios, devising a response to every one, preparing for every eventuality, desperately seeking a way to escape. Escape! What she wanted most in the world, and what she could not find. Despite all her intelligence, she could think of no escape. On the contrary, the merciless logic of her mind only built up the evidence of defeat. Of all helpless feelings this was the worst. The city was crumbling around her, her people were dying, the enemy was coming – and she could do nothing.

If she was fated to escape, escape would have to come to her, for she knew not where to find it. And if it came she would be ready. She had several packs ready to leave, and her husband’s stave was ever to hand. At the last she would leave the house, she and her blind son Brander. Lissi had scarcely seen her husband Carthor since the siege began, although she knew that if he had fallen word would have come. And her other son Faerim – he, too, was fighting, although he often came home to check on them.

But when the pale grey light of winter touched the cracked and scorched walls, she resolutely for herself from her perch. “Madam Lissielle, you will drive yourself mad if you continue in this way,” she scolded as she fled down the stairs. “You will go scrub that filthy kitchen floor until it shines, or until…” She broke off, then gave her head a little shake and hurried into the kitchen.

Ironically enough, Lissi found intense relief in her task. After laying aside her cloak – the exercise would keep her warm – and rolling up her sleeves, she threw herself into her work. She tended the fire, heated water, scrubbed the worn brick floor, and rinsed it clean with a zeal and absorption far from usual. Her anger and fear found release in attacking the mud and grease and soot that spotted the floor, and the harder she scrubbed the harder it was to hear the commotion outside. And nothing occurred to interrupt her. The house itself was almost eerily silent, Brander’s quiet movements upstairs almost unheard.

Lissi’s movements became more mechanical. She recalled her first sight of the hordes of Angmar: Rising from the eastern horizon, they spread like a black wave across the fields where she had been wont to ride, darkened the bare and lifeless land, and poured relentlessly on, lapping even at the Fornost walls. In that moment she had not felt terror. She had scarcely been afraid. But she knew. With the blood-knowledge and instinct of a hundred generations of warriors, she saw the remorseless inevitability of the coming defeat. She stood alone in that knowledge and looked into it without flinching. That evening Lissi had bade her dear husband farewell – for he was dear, if not beloved – with a smile, and watched him march to the defense of the walls. But she lay awake all night. The bitter import of defeat did not register until the darkest hour, just before dawn. And then she wept, in slow, anguished sobs, for the sheer heartbreak and tragedy of it all. But she had not shed a tear since. She only thought.

With a sigh Lissi rose to her feet, finished. As she tidied up the kitchen she felt the old gentle pride of a gentler time, the serene knowledge of a job well done. Smiling at herself, only half mockingly, she rolled down her sleeves and rearranged her clothes. Lissi was buttoning her sleeve when a crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by quick footsteps and then silence. Side door, she thought, even as she slipped out of the kitchen, heart throbbing painfully. She had just lifted down Carthor’s bladed stave when Faerim’s voice echoed through the house. “Brander? Brander!”

Lissi gasped in relief, clutching the reassuring weight of the stave. She dashed out to the hall just in time to see her elder son vanish up the stairs, still calling for his brother. “Son! Faerim! What is it?” she cried. He was still safe! And news – at last!

[Garen LiLorian]

Bio for the Elvish Guard from Rivendell POSTED TO GAME PLAN -- PIO



NAME: Maltóre (called Angóre)

BORN: 3rd Age 237

RACE: Grey Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS/EQUIPMENT: Angóre carries a sheaf of three 3ft javelins, each tipped with a steel spike extending 8 inches. He also carries an Elvish sword, 48 inches in length, wound about with spells and incantations for troll’s bane. The sword carries an inscription along the blade; “Torog dagnir,” (slayer of trolls) in Fëanorian runes. The guard is workmanlike in appearance, bearing neither stones nor especial shape, but is in the form of a straight, slightly tapered bar. The handle as well is more functional than beautiful, being wrapped in leather and the pommel is a simple circle of metal, unadorned. All of his weapons are well used and well cared for. He wears no armor or helm.

APPEARANCE: Angóre takes no delight in his appearance, and dresses however he must, often letting his garments be worn to tatters before replacing them. He wears dark colors, preferring grays and blacks. His hair is cropped close and dark, while his eyes are blue and icy. He is tall, though not thickly built, and is very slender. His skin is pale and translucent, blue veins standing out in his forehead and arms.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Angóre keeps to himself, speaking little. When his opinion is sought, he speaks bluntly and to the point, changing his speech not at all whether speaking to the humblest servant or the greatest lord of Elrond’s house. He is neither captain nor general, and gives no thought to strategy. He is not a soldier, and owes no allegiance to any lord. He is a knight-errant, and he is dangerous and fell, and gives all his delight to the hunting of Sauron’s creatures, particularly Trolls. He has a great sympathy for any under the threat of Sauron, feeling their losses keenly, as they resonate with his own.

HISTORY: A lesser scion of the house of Finarfin, all his family were born with the golden hair common to that bloodline, but Maltóre took after his mother, a Grey Elf, and so was named "golden heart," for his hair was dark.
His father was an ancient, and soon after Maltóre's birth departed for the Havens. His mother had no joy in Middle Earth after his departure but that which she found in the raising of her child. Maltóre was trained, at his mother's behest, in the traditions of the Elven minstrels, and showed a gift for that path. When he came of age and joined the court of Elrond, his mother lost her last link to Middle Earth and departed for the Havens. However, when she was waylaid and slain by trolls a mere two days from Rivendell, Maltóre lost all joy in singing and in tales, and, changing his name to Angóre, (Iron heart) became an errand rider and a warrior of Elrond, hunting trolls throughout Middle Earth.

With the forces of the Witch-King encroaching from the North, Angóre has been fighting more or less constantly for several years. During one of his periods of errantry, he came across a party of Elves bound for Fornost beset by a great Troll. He defeated the Troll, though the toll was heavy, and he was sorely wounded, and the guards killed. He was brought to Fornost at the behest of the Emissary, and recuperated there. The shadow of the Witch-king lay over the city, and Angóre, beholding the plight of the city, agreed to stay in its defense. He has taken over the protection of the Emissary and acts as a bodyguard and aide, for he is the only other Elf of Rivendell there but he longs ever to be on and perhaps beyond the walls, and takes ever more dangerous scouting missions whenever he can be spared.

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Garen LiLorien's post --- POSTED TO GAME PLAN --- PIO


”…we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

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(Note; rather obviously, I suppose, Angóre will be guarding Mithalwen's emissary. And, of course, let me know if I need to change anything.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Nuranar]

My first post is edited into the bio post, just above.

As always, comments and suggestions appreciated.

Novarwen, my character thinks Brander is upstairs in the house. However, I didn't write any interaction between them. If you have an idea for your first post that doesn't mesh with mine, just let me know. We can work it out. :)

[Kransha]

Happy Holidays all, and g'devening (or g'day, depending on your location).

I am happy to say that we are near the end of the beginning...er...the beginning of the end, perhaps. Welcome aboard Garen. As I professed to you earlier, it is always nice to be writing alongside veterans, and I see many have become involved in this game. I look forward to the start of this journey.

Nuranar and Garen: Both bios great. Lissi and Angóre will certainly develop, I'm sure, into wonderful characters which I cannot wait to have fleshed out. Nuranar, your First Post needs no alterations that I can see, but I'm going to review *all* First Posts before the game begins to work out any kinks. If it seems, then, like I'm being nitpicky, don't worry. I was born and, I fear, I shall die a perfectionist, so you'll all just have to suffer my wrath - or not. Garen, you need not feel rushed about your own First Post. Also, alak, perhaps you could give us/me a little snippit of bio or post so that I could get the gist of either? Once I know the direction of your character so far, it will be easier for me to overview it and then approve it officially once the bio and first post are done. But, I digress.

I may not be on much for a few days, but only a few. New Year's Eve calls me off for a series of festivities, so I won't really be able to do much on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday of this week[end]. I will be mostly active next week, and make a full-fledged return to the Downs in the second week of January. Then, I can answer PMs and whatnot, but I'm sure most things will be sorted out that need to be sorted out in my brief absence. Once again, have a very merry cornucopia of holidays, and a happy New Year!

[alaklondewen]

Kransha, please accept my apologies for not getting my bio/post up. I've been away for the holidays and just returned this morning. I have naught but free time for the next week or so, so Ereglin's character bio will be up as quickly as I can get it together.

Thanks for your patience.

~Alak

[Kransha]

piosenniel, et al

I must apologize for this urgent, late message, but my computer has been malfunctioning, severing my connection recently, and I've been unable to send PMs. But, I have info that I've been trying to communicate for 12 hours, and failed to do so.

I to have discovered another interested participant, Nilpaurion Felagund, who is interested in the part of the Emissary. Honestly, both PMs were sent to me within a few hours of each other, so I feel that it would be unfair to deny either the role. I could not PM Nilpaurion, because of the aforementioned technical difficulties. This may seem like a very bad time to ask, but would it be possible to create another Elven Emissary position for the game? I realize how inconvenient this is, but my inability to post or PM has left me with few options to consider in my rush. I believe that, if this can be arranged, both Mithalwen and Nilpaurion could participate smoothly, without any fracture of the game's movement or organization.

I hope this is satisfactory. I again apologize to you, and Nilpaurion, if you're reading this. I must sort out my computer problems, as well as attend a minor real life addition to my already packed schedule.

[Garen LiLorian]

Hmmm... Back to the old drawing board on post numero uno. Umm. Instead of two emissaries and one guard, perhaps there could be two guards? or a different character altogether? A spouse, or servant or child or... I dunno. Just suggestions. Mithalwen and Nilpaurion Felagund, let's do some PMing, see if we can't make this work. And, however it ends up, welcome aboard!

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

PLACED ON GAME PLAN ~*~ PIO

Name: Bethiril

Age: 5488

Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: She has never touched a weapon, let alone owned one. She is disdainful of implements of war, never learning how to wield one even when she participated in the battle of Eriador in the Second Age. She has always deemed it her mission to make sure that they not be needed anymore.

Appearance: Being of pure Noldorin descent, Bethiril has black hair framing her unusually calm face with quiet grey eyes. She is scarcely less tall than most males of Elves and Men of the West, and is usually clad in garments little less luxurious than those worn by members of the kingly houses. On the ring finger of her left hand she wears a ring adorned with a gem of sapphire shaped like the flowers of Menelluin, the wheat of Yavanna, surrounded by six small yellow crystals, fashioned by Enerdhil for Idril’s handmaidens, which she now uses as a symbol of her service to Elrond, son of Eärendil, daughter of Idril.

Personality: Being an emissary, her speech is guarded and her emotions are bottled up at all times. Bethiril shows admirable command of her tongue, blending well-crafted words and deep passion in her speeches that stir all but the hardest hearts. Around fighting men she seems aloof and cold, perhaps thinking that she is higher than they are, not having stained her hand with the blood of any that live.

History: Bethiril was born a few months before the Fall of Gondolin, escaping from that dreadful plight when her mother’s sister, one of Idril’s handmaidens, led her mother to Tuor and his soldiers fleeing with Idril and her son from the wrack of the city. Of her father she had no news, though she knew in her heart that he fell to the Orcs when Maeglin betrayed the Way to Morgoth. Her mother was slain when the Sons of Fëanor assailed the havens of Sirion. She escaped with her mother’s sister to the isle of Balar. After the fall of Angband she took the ship to Eldamar, while Bethiril remained with the Elves of Lindon to serve Elrond, who she deemed Turgon’s heir, and therefore her lord.

She was with the host led by Elrond that Gil-galad sent to Celebrimbor’s aid, to act as an emissary between the two armies of the Eldar. They were, however, driven back to the Misty Mountains. There, they were besieged in newly founded Imladris until the Númenóreans came and destroyed the black host. After the Downfall of Númenor and Sauron’s assault on Gondor she was one of the emissaries that shuttled between Lindon, Imladris, and Lórien when the Last Alliance was formed.

Ever since the march of Elrond to Mordor she had never left Imladris. Until now.


__________________________________


Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

__________________________________
*Author's note: The guard mentioned in my post may or may not be a/the character played by Garen. As I said in my suggestion to Kransha, my character is but a special (one-time) envoy. The regular embassy would merit the better security.

[Saurreg]

Osse's first post is one of the best I have ever read in the barrowdowns RPG forum. It's got the right mix of dread, excitment and the well-polished descriptive scene of bloody battle that only a good writer like him can deliver. His structuring and syntax is a good reference for a learner of the language like myself. I will try to be a worthier writer in order to complement his fine style.

Kransha, I feel that it is only right that Osse's first post preceed mine and the other writers' who chose to describe the scene of battle not only because it is a wonderful one, but he had gone to great lengths to write about the moments just before the gates opened. What say you?

[alaklondewen]

BIO PLACED ON GAME PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – YES - Which one?

Sailing Away, Corsairs and Corsets, A House Divided, Resettling the Lost Kingdom, A Land to Call Their Own, Land of Darkness

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? 2

List them, please: Friends of Nimrodel (Tapestry of Dreams) and Shadow of the West

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn – YES
_______________________________________

For your character please include:

NAME: Ereglin

AGE: 2066

RACE: Sindar

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ereglin carries a long, narrow-bladed sword. The wooden hilt is wrapped tightly in thick tanned leather that is worn from many years. Its crossguard is slightly curved toward the blade, and each end is marked with a decorative spiral engraved into the steel. This sword, he used in the final battle of the Second Age, but has had little need to do so since, except in exercise. Ereglin prefers to use his bow, however, for his eyes are keen, as they are for all his kin, and his aim is precise.

APPEARANCE: Ereglin is of average elven height, yet still tall compared to Men. His frame is small, but he is muscular enough to wield his sword if need be. Two small, golden braids frame his chiseled feature and square jaw. The remainder of his hair falls straight down to the small of his back. His dark grey eyes overlook his small straight nose. His ivory skin is smooth like that of a youth, but his eyes are cold, and his expression is hardened.

He normally wears lightweight trousers and a tunic in various shades of blues and greens with a grey flowing robe covering all. However, with battle raging, he is wearing a light-weight armor made by the smiths of Mithlond. He is still wrapped in his robe, with his scabbard beneath and his bow strapped to his back.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ereglin has always been an aspiring elf who knew what he wanted and was not afraid to do what was needed to get it. This confident, hard-working attitude landed him with a strong positive image in Mithlond. However, what might be seen as a wonderful strength is also his weakness. Ereglin’s wanting of power and high status caused him to overlook some of the more important things, and people, in his life. He can easily be seen as charming to those in his political circles, but he is quietly unhappy...his real emotions are hardened, but he can easily say what someone needs to hear and be believable.

HISTORY: Ereglin was sent to Fornost as an Ambassador of Cirdan when controversy arose concerning Arvedui’s claim to the throne of Gondor. The Emissary provided conservative council based on Cirdan’s wishes, ensuring the conflict did not blow out of proportion and the rightful heir be crowned. However, secretly, Ereglin wished for Arvedui to gain the kingship of all of Gondor as he hoped this would allow himself to rise to a more powerful position in both the Elven and Human realms. The elf was bitter when Arvedui was denied, but he did not voice his complaints, as he cherished his position and did not want to jeopardize his duty to Cirdan.

The conflict over the Gondorian crown was not the only controversy in Ereglin’s life at that time. When Cirdan offered the emissarial position to Ereglin, the elf immediately accepted only to find his wife, Ardae, was against their going. After many debates, the elf remained steadfast in his decision to go to Fornost and discord arose in his home. Ardae resented him for many years, missing her family and the ways of their people. As a result, he found himself becoming more and more consumed with the politics between Arnor and Lindon, escaping the tension at home.

As the force of Angmar grew, the violence against Arthedain become more frequent. The regions in the east were being conquered by the witch-king and Ereglin recognize a real threat against Fornost. Three years before the major assault began, Ereglin sent Ardae back to Mithlond to ensure her safety. He hated watching her ride away in the company of elven guards that accompanied her, and he some part of him wished he had not come to Fornost at all, but he was too proud to admit it or resign from his position. With his wife gone, Ereglin became cold, hardened by the sadness of his failure to make her happy and the looming danger that made him send her away.

~*~*~

I hope this is satisfactory...I will have the first post up as soon as possible.

~Alak

[Garen LiLorian]

First post up.

[Mithalwen]

BIO POSTED TO GAME PLAN ~*~ PIO

Name: Erenor
Age: 3000
Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: Erenor has a long curved sword , product of the great skill of the Noldorin smiths as wellas a shorter dagger. She also has a shirt of fine steel mail that like the dagger may be concealed.

Appearance: She has the typical Noldorin coloring of dark hair and grey eyes. Although she is fair of face she has a grave demeanour. Because of her serious role she wears serious clothes usually in grey and blue. Although they are not unfeminine they are less ornate than usual for female elves and she seldom wears much in the way of jewellery or adornment save a sapphire pendant. When travelling she dresses after the fashion of elf men deeming it more practical.

Personality: Stern and unsentimental, determined and a little arrogant, Erenor is sometimes a little more plain speaking than usual for an emmissary. She does not suffer fools gladly. She is a pragmatist and regards warfare as a necessary evil and does not shy away from combat.

History: Born in Lindon late in the second age to a noble noldorin house, Erenor is the desendent of Gondolin. Her father was a general of Gil-Galad and like him did not return from the War of the Last Alliance. Forbidden to go to war, she learned to fight with sword and bow in case at the last war came to her, and the womenfolk needed to mount a last ditch defence of Lindon. She went with many of her kin to Rivendell when their king did not return.

[piosenniel]

Here's where the players/characters stand so far:

CHARACTER/PLAYER LIST

Dúnedain of Arthedain

1) Dúnedain Captain – Kransha (Hírvegil)
2) Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair (Mitharan)
3) Dúnedain Lieutenant (to the captain) – Saurreg (Belegorn)
4) Dúnedain Soldier – Osse (Carthor)
5) Dúnedain Woman - Lalwendë (Renedwen)
6) Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier) - Nuranar (Lissi)
7) Male Dúnedain Youth (16 y/o child of the woman and soldier) – Novnarwen (Brander)
8) Male Dúnedain Youth (17 y/o sibling to Novnarwen's character – Amanaduial the Archer (Faerim)

~*~

Elves of Lindon

These will be from the Grey Havens, lorded over by Círdan the Shipwright. It is know that the Kings of Arthedain had good relations with Círdan, because of their military aid in the past.

1) Elf Emissary– male - alaklondewen (Ereglin) - ** FIRST POST NEEDED **
2) Elf Guards – Arry (Gaeredhel & Rôsgollo)

~*~

Elves of Rivendell

The Elves of Rivendell did not necessarily share a bond with the people of Arnor, but they did come to their aid once or twice, predominantly in the year immediately following the Fall of Arthedain, led by Glorfindel. It is likely that Imladris and Arthedain were conducting some kind of negotiations, since Arvedui was, before the Fall, sending out pleas for assistance on all fronts.

1)Elf Emissary – - Nilpaurion Felagund (Bethiril)
2)Elf Emissary - Mithalwen (Erenor) - ** FIRST POST NEEDED **
3)Elf Guard - Garen LiLorian (Maltóre <called Angóre>)

[Novnarwen]

I'm very sorry for being so late. I apologise! :(

PLACED ON GAME PLAN ~*~ PIO

Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.


****

Please let me know if it needs any edits. Osse - I hope I haven't put Carthor in a bad light. Please tell me if you want me to change anything and I'll edit accordingly. I think it can be interesting with some ‘family-intrigues’ though.. :D

It's great seeing all the profiles and the posts! This is going to be a really great game! That's for sure! Can't wait!

Cheers,
Nova :p

[alaklondewen]

*** THIS IS THE LAST POST OF THE PLANNING THREAD ***



Ereglin had spent the greater part of the day in anticipation of a call from the king for council. In the early morning, he had surveyed the enemy’s forces from top of the second wall. Wave after wave, the horrid black creatures climbed, scratched, and attacked the walls of the city. Even with the aid of the Elven guard and the halfling army, the forces would not be able to withstand the fury of the enemy for much longer. With this understanding, the Councilor had prepared himself to stand before the king, because surely Arvedui would wish to have Elven guidance with a decision of such importance as what the final move of the city should be. He had sent his guards to fight on the wall in the late morning, and he would await the kings guard to escort him to Arvedui’s towers.

~*~*~

The sun was waning, and the late afternoon light lit the Emissary’s hall with a warm orange glow. Ereglin stood silently in the shadows still waiting for his call to council. He knew it was too late, and he felt like a bitter fool because of it. Many winters had come and gone since Ereglin had come to that city, and he clenched his teeth as he thought of time and energy he spent on the alliance between Lindon and Arthedain and what he had let go so the job would be done...

Ereglin took a deep breath. The clamor in the city was becoming much closer, and the assaults against the wall shook the foundation of the Elf’s hall. Unconsciously his hand slid under his robe and gripped the leather hilt of his sword. A choice would have to be made soon, and if the king wished for one last stand, he would fight once again, alongside his guards. The idea was displeasing. He was a skilled bowman and spent several hours a week in exercise with his sword, so it was not that he did not have the ability. It was not that he was a coward, for he feared not death nor pain. However, his place was at a table with the intellectual, political minds, not in hand to hand combat with filthy beasts.

The Emissary sighed again, and a knock at his door demanded his attention. “Come in.” He called, and a slight hope rose in his chest that one of the king’s guards would enter, summoning him to council.

“Councilor Ereglin, I am pleased to find you here.” One of his young guards strode quickly before him with eyes flashing with adrenaline.

“I would not be elsewhere, Gaeredhel.” Ereglin spoke under his breath, and then he hoped the young guard did not catch the bitterness in his voice. Swallowing the virulence he felt, the Councilor spoke again, more smoothly than before. “What tidings do you bring?”

“The king, sir...he has called for a retreat to the north gate.”

“Very well.” For the third time, Ereglin took a deep breath before he followed Gaeredhel out of the hall and into the streets.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
Arry, I used Gaeredhel minimally here based on the hooks in your post. Please do let me know if you wish I'd used his brother instead or if something needs to be changed.

I'm looking forward to this starting. All the action is so exciting. :)

~Alak


*** THIS IS THE LAST POST OF THE PLANNING THREAD ***

[piosenniel]

THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE DISCUSSION SECTION OF THIS THREAD


The Fall of the North

Historical Background:

TA 1974 (very late winter) – March of TA 1975

The mighty Witch-King of Angmar, Chief of the Nine Nazgûl, descended from his citadel at Carn Dûm to make war on the Kingdom of Arthedain. In the winter, he overran the land, and besieged the capital, Fornost, where the King of Arthedain, Arvedui, and his sons held out until the last. He soon overtook Fornost, and the sons of Arvedui fled to Círdan of the Grey Havens, seeking sanctuary with him, but Arvedui himself, and the last remnants of the Dúnedain of Fornost remained in the North Downs, still besieged by the great host of the Witch-King.

As the cold season drew onward, Arvedui realized that he had no choice but to abandon his kingdom. So, his people fled northwest, escaping the Witch-King’s legions by the speed of their horses alone, towards the northernmost fringe of the Ered Luin, or Blue Mountains. They took refuge in the abandoned Dwarf mines of the Blue Mountains. There, the refugees remained for as long as they could and explored the mines for food or some manner of sustenance, but they found none. Starved for food, they sought out the Lossoth, or Snowmen of Forochel, who had populated the shores of the Icebay of Forochel to the immediate east. The Lossoth took them in and gave them food, for they were intimidated by the weapons of the Dúnedain, and pitied their plight as well, but the refugees of Arthedain remained stranded in the northern region of Middle-Earth, since they had no means of transportation southward, and dared not journey through the realm now lorded over by the Witch-King.

At the behest of Arvedui’s son, Aranarth, Círdan sent a vessel north to locate Arvedui and his people, and bring them to the Grey Havens. The Elves aboard the ship caught site of Arvedui’s camp and the fire within from the Bay of Forochel, but could not reach the land because of the thick ice that lined the shore. The Lossoth, using their sleds, bore Arvedui’s folk across the ice, to a point that could be accessed by a boat from the ship. Though the Lossoth warned against it, Arvedui insisted that his people attempt the journey, and they were taken to the ship. But, the predictions of the Lossoth proved accurate, and a storm of the icy sea arose in the Bay of Forochel before the vessel bearing Arvedui had reached open water. The winds drove the ship back against the ice, its hull was destroyed, and it, carrying Arvedui, the Dúnedain of Fornost, and the Elves of Círdan, sunk into the bay, never to be seen again.

[piosenniel]

Basic Storyline:

In the wake of the Witch-King’s annihilation of Arthedain, the people of Arvedui who have not fled or been scattered to the wind must escape the wrath of Angmar. They head to the Blue Mountains, and avoid or conquer all that stands in their way in order to survive. They must reach the Ered Luin, evade the orcs and beasts that are now swarming over their once-fair lands, and seek aid from a mysterious people. Only then can they survive the fall of Arnor and live, even if they do not for long.

[piosenniel]

The purpose of the story is to:

Escape the North Downs, reach the Blue Mountains, meet with the Lossoth, and make a failed attempt to escape the Ice Bay of Forochel.

This means we will know the story is over when:

The refugees from Fornost perish in the Bay of Forochel.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This game takes place in the Third Age: from the late winter of the year 1974 to March of 1975 TA

The storyline itself or plot covers about 56 Days (8 weeks), from 16 January TA to 11 March TA - THIS IS THE MAIN PART OF THE ACTION.

Time commitment for play: 18 weeks, minimum

[piosenniel]

Map:

HERE (http://perso.wanadoo.fr/hugo1900/MAP-OF-MIDDLE-EARTH-VERSION-7.html)

to cover to range of the storyline from Fornost to the Northern Blue Mountains

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s character – Dúnedain Captain

NAME: Hírvegil

AGE: 76

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Hírvegil bears several weapons, most of which were inherited family heirlooms. One is his sword, which was rusted, derelict, and broken when he inherited it, but Hírvegil had it restored. It is a medium-length sword, one handed, with a burnished hilt of silvery steel that bears a reflective sheen, with an oceanic blue gemstone nestled into the doubly tapered cross-guard. To defend himself, he carries a round shield, made of polished oaken wood and rimmed with a ring of tinted metal. Upon the shield is a crest, an image of a setting sun, engraved into the center of the circular buckler. In addition to this, he also carries a pair of twin knives, short, tapered, designed for non-combat, or extremely close-combat purposes. He is not particularly proficient with the knives when fighting, but is deadly with his sword and shield in hand. His style of battle is the same graceful, lithe technique used by many Elves, passed to all men of Númenórean descent.

APPEARANCE: Hírvegil has the look of a man older than he is, a trait that he has carried as somewhat of a burden with him for all of his life. He has brown hair, the color of an aged tree’s bark, though his shoulder length hair is flecked with early grey. His skin is rough and somewhat from years of work in the northern cold. He has, upon his face, a short but full beard, and his tired-seeming eyes are forest green in color, though also grayed by passing years. From the look of him, he is an aged, but proud man, even though, for a Dúnadan, he is not yet very old. His face and hands are creased with the first marks of age, but he is physically fit, not imposingly so, but enough to serve as a warrior. He most often wears simple garb, kept from his days in the lower ranks. He wears a green leather vest and tunic of supple chain mail over a simple forest-green surcoat, indistinct garb for an Arthedain soldier, but also heavier plate armor, a breastplate and pauldrons befitting a Captain of the Royal Rearguard. He wears long breeches on his legs and knee-high boots. A cloak of dark brown cloth, thick but light, is worn on his back, held up by a silver chain a small pendant around his neck, which bears a blue gem nestled into its center, similar to the stone inlaid in the guard of his sword. Also, Idruil has, on the middle finger of his right hand, a thin silver band, with a miniaturized version of his family crest etched into it.

PERSONALITY: Hírvegil is, in truth, a simple man, in most respects. He is loyal, but not as much to Arvedui as he is to the people he serves. He considers his service a sort of paternal duty to Arthedain, not to his King. In all honesty, his respect for Arvedui is not as great as his respect for Arvedui’s father, Araphant, was. He is merely disillusioned by the turmoil of the land, though, and not lacking in faith. He is firm and steadfast, though not necessarily dauntless. His courage is relative only, and serves to aid his position, not his own whims. He is not selfish, nor is he selfless, and tries to think of the common good as often as he can. He is mildly cynical nowadays, and his future outlook is grim, but he is not a man who cares for longevity. He is grounded easily in the present, and serves as diligently as he thinks he must. He is no master strategist, not as much as he once was, since he combat senses have been dulled by constant battle and flight, but he still retains a working knowledge of tactics and theories of war.

HISTORY: Hírvegil was born the son of an eminent military leader among the Dúnedain called Sildathar who served under King Araphant, father of Arvedui. Sildathar was a march-warden for Araphant, who defended the beleaguered borders of Arthedain from encroaching orc raiding parties. Hírvegil himself was a march-warden at first, and served Araphant in the days before Arvedui’s kingship. Hírvegil bore a close relationship with his father, and his company was often set under the command of Sildathar, making the father and son co-captains in a number of situations. Unfortunately, a raid of orcs from Angmar cost Hírvegil the life of his father in 1920, which, at first, sent Hirvegil into a lengthy period of depression, and he nearly quit his post as a march-warden, but Araphant, who was now beleaguered by the forces of Angmar, needed every able-bodied, intelligent officer in his ranks as he could muster, and beseeched Hírvegil to remain. Ever ready to serve, Hirvegil remained, and continued to defend the fringes of Arthedain from goblin raids from Angmar and the Misty Mountains, the numbers of which increased greatly over the next few decades.

Hírvegil’s mother died later on, as she was gaining in years and the corruption of the land plagued her. Without family, Hírvegil was steeled to the fate that lay before him, and studied the ways of his forefathers from the sunken land of Númenór, learning of tactics, strategies, and of the ways of war. In the year 1939 of the Third Age, Araphant granted Hírvegil the position of a captain of the rearguard of Fornost, elite Dúnedain troops who served Araphant himself. In 1944, the King of Gondor in the south, Ondoher, and his sons, perished in battle, and the throne of Gondor lay empty. Arvedui, son of Araphant, laid claim to Gondor as its rightful heir, and many of his lords and captains hastened to support him, but Hírvegil did not. Believing that Gondor did not belong to Arvedui, even after he had married the heiress of Ondoher, a maid called Fíriel, Hírvegil was content and satisfied when the crown was granted instead to Eärnil II. His view of politics, like his worldview, did not take into account political subtleties, and Hírvegil had never cared for Arvedui’s thirst for control of both the North and South Kingdoms.

Twenty years later, Araphant died, leaving Arvedui the throne. Hírvegil had an already rooted dislike of Arvedui and his policies, but did not question the new king. Arvedui may have resented Hírvegil as well, for not supporting, but, by the wishes of his deceased father, he kept Hírvegil on as a captain of his rearguard. Many of Arvedui’s close counselors also disliked Hírvegil, and bore him hatred, for his views did not comply with those of their King, but they could do nothing but hold resentment in their hearts. The captain, disregarding those who would wish him ill, served Arvedui ever since Araphant’s death, with complete loyalty, even if he was not always in complete agreement with the man whose orders he took.

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Kransha’s carry-along character:

Mellonar - Counselor of Arvedui

Mellonar is a counselor of Arvedui, the King, and a provincial lord in his own right as well as the administrator of the wardens of Arthedain. He is a sickly, suspicious-looking man, with a weak body and very pale, smooth skin. He has a beardless face and long, greasy black hair, all dank of color but well-groomed. He clothes himself finely, in furs and thick, earth toned robes and cloaks, an assortment of various garments heaped one over the other to make him appear a little more stately and substantial than he is. He has the gait of a vulture, always hunched over and conspiratorial as he flits from place to place rather than walks. He is malicious, but not evil, simply malign because of his political circles, clandestine as they are. He is also suspicious of those around him, just as they are of his, but, surprisingly, he does not abuse his power. He is fiercely loyal to the king, though more in the way that a minion is to a master than a loyal hound to a man.

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FIRST POST TO GAME

Prologue

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.


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2ND POST TO GAME

Kransha’s post

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair

Name: Mitharan

Age: 67

Race: Dunedain

Gender: Male

Weapons: As a Dunedain Lord, Mitharan is entitled to both the finest of steels, and the heirlooms of his house. The greatest of these relics, in the blade Arancir, the Noble Cleaver. Besides his aged blade, he wields a small dagger, which he uses both to parry, and to deliver the final blow to the orcs who oppose him.

Appearance: Clad in earth tone clothing and cloaks, the Dunedain Lord looks as if he had just crawled forth from ages of wandering in the forests of the North. Beneath these often tattered raiments, is a glittering chainmail hauberk. His hair is dark, almost black, and his eyes match it with the deep darkness that pools in them. His face is weather beaten, and marked with high cheek bones, giving him an aged, lordly look. Only his hands show the signs of someone still youthful. The rest of him looks aged beyond his years, as he has seen many horrors, of which will never escape his mind.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: Like most Lords, he is proud, almost too proud. More often than not, he can be seen striding to meet a danger he is ill-equipped to handle. Yet, with his trademark tenacity, he manages to pull through in the end, and achieve his goal. His pride drove him to near death, as he fought in almost complete solitude, hopelessly trying to drive back the hordes of orcs as they rampaged on the outer battlements of Fornost, the greatest stronghold of Arthedain.

Yet, his pride, although remaining as his most glaring of weaknesses, is also his greatest strength. Throughout his life, he has been engaged in various conflicts. And though most would have been successful, without his pride, it is the driving force behind his personality. Without it, he may very well be just another Dunedain. But with it, he is totally unique from all those who surround him. From his pride, he derives his tenacity in battle, and life. He is not one to give up, or diminish, just because a few deciding battles have been lost.

History: Mitharan was born in 1907 of the Third Age. From birth, he was given almost immediate training in the ways of war, and of the lordship he would inherit. His early childhood was one marked by happiness, as peace was still lurking in the air. He grew up quickly, in mind, faster than most children. He was always considered a firebrand, and quite haughty for one so small. For some time, his life was easy, and he continued to be a carefree youth, often wandering for endless hours in the woods, marveling at the beasts.

This pattern continued with him, as he came of age. But, with age, comes wisdom, and he slowly fell into the Lordly ways of his father, Arátohîr. He began studying the world through scrolls and tomes, as well as continuing his ways of wandering, though to a lesser degree. His father often scolded him for following the ‘ranger’ ways of wilderness treks, for he himself was more inclined to follow the path the Gondorian nobles were carving. Eventually, his wandering ceased.
Many more years passed, and Mitharan was now well on his way to becoming the wise, aged Lord his father wanted. But, this would be disrupted, for civil war was breaking out, and Cardolan and Rhudaur were in upheaval. Though, even with these two factions of the former kingdom of Arnor bickering over the palantir of Amon Sul, a greater enemy lurked on the horizon. The Witch-King of Angmar had begun his attacks, though small they were at first. Within some years, both Cardolan and Rhudaur were beaten, and Angmar was becoming the true power of the North.

Within a few more years, Angmar was encroaching upon Arthedain, and was preparing to destroy its only remaining rival in the region. At this time, the Dunedain remnants mobilized, and prepared to march against the Angmarim power. But, it was in vain. The Witch-King’s forces were too numerous, and eventually, they made their way to Fornost, and laid siege to it....


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CaptainofDespair's post

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Lieutenant (to the captain) – Saurreg

NAME: Belegorn

AGE: 54

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

A 48in long sword, standard issue of the elite rearguard of fornost. The bright shiny steel blade measures 38in long and tapers narrowly towards the end. Blade is made of high quality tempered steel and is well polished and sharpened. Essentially a cut and thrust weapon. Intricate curvings can be found on the ricasso and along the length of the ridge, and the silver quillons of the crossguard are shaped like the outstretched wings of an eagle – the symbolic animal of the regiment. The brass pommel of the sword is curved in the shape of a jewel – the Elessar. The cast iron grip is well banded with black leather strips. Black leather scabbard with a polished steel collar, brass buckles and fittings.

A 17in dagger, also of standard military issue. Steel blade measures 11in long with a crossguard with hooked quillons. Wire wrapped grip and an acorn pommel. Sheath for dagger resembles a miniature version of the guard sword scabbard.

APPEARANCE:

6’2” tall. Broad shouldered with the built, strength and stamina of middle-aged Dúnedain who engages in frequent exercises. Shoulder length black hair with white tuffs showing at the sideburns. No facial hair except for black and grey stubble around the mouth and all the way to the neck. Grey sharp eyes, bushy black eyebrows and a thin tapering jawline that gives him the appearance of a raptor. Thin lips and a mouth not used to smiling (nature scowl).

ATTIRE:

Wears a linen shirt under a green quilted doublet, chain hauberk that extends to half the length of the tights, green woolen trews, and chainmail trousers (don’t laugh).

ACCESSORIES:

Chainmail coif, steel bascinet with a red plume, mail gauntlets with steel vambraces. A forest green surcoat depicting the heraldry of the regiment. Steel greaves and knee-high leather boots with metal soles and toes.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

Beregorn is courageous and devoted to duty and the law. He is extremely proud of his profession and tries his best to be well-mannered and carry himself in a dignified bearing befitting of his military station. He is a strict disciplinarian who has hung many a wrong-doers in his previous units for all sorts of offenses. While those that served under him can attest to his ability to command and grudgingly respect him, they can never love him because of his harshness. Belegorn devotes his entire life to soldiering and thus can be perceived as being aloof and unapproachable socially. His only weakness other than his rigidity is that he feels insecure and irritated in the company of those whom he perceive as being arrogant and haughty due to their higher social status and better education.

Inwardly, Belegorn is worried about the state of the remnants of the Royal Arthedain Army. Although proud to be a commissioned officer in one of the king’s own household regiments, he knows truthfully that whatever potency the army had had vanished and all the regiments with proud histories and traditions are but a shell of their former selves. Nevertheless he continues to serve to the best of his ability and hopes that he can only live up to the illustrious accomplishments and deeds of his predecessors.

Belegorn cares not who the King of Gondor is. He is a professional soldier of Arthedain and will not question orders from superiors.

HISTORY:

The youngest son of an improvished tanner, Belegorn was a product from the dredges of Dúnedain society where class and status dictated the fate of one’s life. Proverty and pressing events denied him the opportunity of a formal education and thus what Belegorn learned in his limited ability to read and write, he learned from a kindly old cleric who also dwelled in the lower part of Fornost. Belegorn is ashamed of this handicap of his and thus becomes insecure and uneasy around other much younger commissioned officers of the same rank who are better educated and of higher social status than him. It is a feeling of inferiority and regret that will never be cast aside easily.

In the year 1938 TA Belegorn joined one of the many yeoman militia regiments as a skirmisher. His courage and skill was soon noticed by his superiors and the teenager was drafted to one of the regular line regiments of the army as a man-at-arms as the war continued and manpower became scarce. For the next four decades Belegorn continued to hone his skills in feats of arms as well as in administration and battle tactics. He acquired a reputation for himself within the regiments which he was shuffled to and fro and his deeds were also noted by superior headquarters. But in the face of Arthedain meritocracy, his lowly background and lack of education denied him due recognition and above all a promotion through the ranks. Belegorn took all in stride however, and continued to serve. It was the state before one’s self.

In the year 1970 TA, Belegron participated in one of the many vain attempts by the Arthedain Army to turn the tide against Angmar by mounting her own offense campaign. The campaign was a disaster but for Belegorn, it was a bittersweet blessing in disguise. King Arvedui was there in person on the battlefield and chanced upon the veteran soldier. Highly impressed by the exploits of Belegorn, the King remarked aloud nonchalantly that Belegorn was the type of man Arthedain needed in such desperate times. Eager to please the king’s every single whim; his glittering entourage broke into action. Inquiries were made, messengers sent and notes scribbled. Before the King and his staff had even left the battlefield, Belegorn was notified that he was given a field promotion to the rank of first lieutenant and made the deputy commander of a regiment.

The captain of the regiment was killed during the chaotic retreat back to Fornost and Belegorn became the regiment’s acting commander for the rest of the withdrawal to the Arthedain capital. There he put all his years of learning and experiences to good use and conducted his regiment very well. In 1972 TA Captain Hírvegil of the King’s Rearguard heard of the Belegorn’s achievements and when the old soldier’s regiment was disbanded, he was invited to join the ranks of the elite.

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Saurreg's post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Woman – Lalwendë

NAME: Renedwen

AGE: 42

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: She has come into possession of her husband’s steel sword, which has a pommel set with black onyx and bands of blue enamel. This was awarded to him on reaching the rank of Lieutenant and as such was of great symbolic significance to him, something which Renedwen was keenly aware of. It is a wonderfully crafted weapon with a keen edge and the ability to be wielded lightly. Along with this, Renedwen also has his knife which he used in close combat.

APPEARANCE: As tall as any other Dunedain woman, Renedwen is average in her build, but she has a beauty which her husband was captivated by. Her hair is dark and smooth; it falls in a dark sheet across her shoulders, and often hides her brilliant blue eyes when she bows her head in greeting. This is an endearing sight to see as she appears vulnerable when she makes this movement, something which is not a trait normally associated with Renedwen’s cynical temperament. She normally wears finely made dresses while on her hands she wears golden rings, and about her neck is one golden chain bearing a blue sapphire, chosen by her husband to match her eyes. This is not an old item, but was given to her on the birth of their long-awaited child.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Renedwen is cynical by nature, and often troubled by a sense of foreboding; she worries a lot and can be quite scathing with her words. She is often suspicious and does have a temper. But in her heart, she does care; it is due to her upbringing that she has learned to hide her happier feelings. Her hidden strength lies in the fighting and riding skills which she was taught as a girl. As soon as she married, she had put these aside with a great sense of relief, but she is capable of handling herself if the need should ever arise, though she does not have the natural strength of a soldier. Her weakness is her son, who she is prepared to defend at any cost; and her realisation that for the first time, she is alone in the world with no protector, a feeling which leaves her vulnerable.


HISTORY: Renedwen was born to a highly respected Captain of the Dunedain, the fourth of five children, she had four brothers. Her father was from a long line of Captains and as befitted his high status, his house lay among those of the elite of Fornost. The household was not filled with joy; no parties were held in this home, for it was a sombre and strict household and the Captain did not approve of fripperies and childish nonsense. The Captain demanded respect from his children as much as he commanded it from his men. He was a man who maintained discipline in his home, seeing this as the best way he might express his love for his family, all of whom he loved deeply.

The Captain was not a man who felt he ought to hold back on the truth and none of the children were ever sent away from the table when he came home, full of troubled tales of the struggles he faced daily. He was a man troubled by a constant sense of dread which he could not help acting upon. He insisted that all his children, even his daughter, ought to learn skills which would stand them in readiness for whatever may come to pass, despite it being against the custom for girls to be included in such training. Renedwen was made to learn how to defend herself along with her brothers; their father took care to pass on his skills, leading them in fighting and riding lessons whenever he could. Renedwen, seeing other girls playing and having fun, hated this, and resisted her father’s teaching. She would be distracted by the sight of a bird and run to follow it, or fall to dancing when she should have been learning how to stop an attack from behind. But even when distracted, her father refused to indulge her whims and allow her to run home. Renedwen longed for the day when she could set up her own home and fill it with beautiful, frivolous things, and spend time whiling her days away in daydreams and elegance.

It was no surprise that Renedwen grew up with a cynical outlook and a hardened heart. She had spent years learning to stifle her need for fun, learning to accept the discipline of her father. She knew it was the only way to win his love and approval. She eventually inherited his sense of dread, and worries constantly troubled her mind. As she grew into a young woman her only solace was to pass through the silent halls of the King’s men in the early of the morning, a place where she could escape the troubles that plagued her by dreaming about being a fine lady. It was here that a young Dunedain officer came upon her one dawn.

He saw her dark hair coldly lit in the chill early light, and as she turned to see whose feet came near, her hair fell back from her fair face, revealing her brilliant blue eyes, and his heart leapt. In time, he was ever to be found at the Captain’s house; despite his fear of the great man‘s reputation, he was determined he should win his daughter. She eventually fell in love, but it was with his devotion, rather than his being. And her father, satisfied that this was no frivolous young man, that he would provide for and protect his child, eventually consented.

It was an easy marriage in that her husband allowed her free reign to do and say as she pleased. Only her guilt stayed her when she realised had gone too far in exploiting his weakness for her. They waited many years for a child, and her husband placated her by filling their house with the fine and elegant things she desired. He strove hard to improve his position, for her benefit, and eventually was made a Lieutenant; he was admired by his men, and though a quiet man, those above him often took notice of his efforts. They lived in the best part of the city, close to her father, who in time was retired from his active post, yet he remained an honorary Captain. She was happy, but did not outwardly display that happiness by any softening of her heart. She remained a cold and cynical woman, and grew to be proud. After twenty long years Renedwen was blessed with a son, and a change came about her. Her cold heart was thawed by the presence of the child, and though still very much a cynical woman, she carried him everywhere with her, spoiling him as much as it was possible, and if she thought of harm ever coming to him, her heart burned with anger.

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Lalwendë's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier) – Nuranar

NAME: Lissi

AGE: 39

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: female

WEAPONS: For years Lissi has had a short knife. Though unremarkable in every way, it has made itself useful in scores of household tasks. Lissi sharpens it every so often, although she prefers for it not to be too sharp - she has at least one scar on her finger from it. Her husband Carthor's old stave, short and bladed, hangs on the wall in their home. Since the siege began Lissi has surreptitiously begun to practice wielding it. She knows nothing first-hand of combat, and hopes never to know, but any preparation may come in useful.

APPEARANCE: Lissi stands only a little shorter than her two tall sons, at 5'9". Her height and the delicacy of her bone structure give her form the illusion of fragility. In reality she is neither fragile, being well-muscled, nor delicate, having always delighted in outdoor exercise such as walking and riding. Her sons inherited her fine features and her fair skin, although Lissi has taken scrupulous care of her complexion and has no freckles. Nor did the boys inherit her eyes and hair. Her eyes are so light a grey they seem to glow; when she is excited, they burn like white stars. Lissi's hair, as black as soot, falls in heavy waves down her back. Charming tendrils curl around her face, softening features that would otherwise seem austere. But what transforms her face is her smile. Lissi's smile is sweet and spontaneous, and although her life has not been the easiest, her smile has never completely disappeared. Fine lines of care cross her brow, but their number are rivaled by the lines of laughter around her mouth. For the most part Lissi wears simple, dark-colored dresses and overgowns with full skirts. Since their finances began to go downhill, she spends rarely but always for quality. Even now her light woolen gowns are as warm and sturdy and well-fitting as ever.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Although a mother of two nearly-grown sons, Lissi knows and rejoices that she is still quite attractive. Furthermore she grew up privileged and has a taste for luxury and expense, which is nevertheless balanced by her practicality. She loves her sons dearly, but is no doting mother Lissi has a very intelligent, strong mind. Her devotion to duty, and the right thing to do, is stubborn and unyielding. Life has given her disappointment and sorrow, if not yet tragedy, and for the most part Lissi has weathered these storms and emerged stronger. She feels secret contempt for those too "weak-minded" to meet difficulties and she despises those who renege on their responsibilities. Despite all this, Lissi has learned to make her own happiness. Choosing to consider herself contented, she manages to enjoy her family and her duties. And her serene manner is the mellow calm of a mature woman, with even yet the merriness of girlhood breaking through.

HISTORY: Lissielle, always called Lissi, was born the youngest of three daughters. Her father was a wealthy man, and the family has been of the elite of Fornost for generations. Lissi's elder sisters were identical twins, a good five years older, and very close to each other. Lissi was often alone, but her active mind was never at a loss; she read voraciously and thought constantly, carrying on conversations in her head. She loved to be outside. She would walk and ride outside the city, even in the chill north winds, and even her studying she did in the garden. Determined not to be lonely, she made herself her own best companion. Only once did she give in to jealousy of her sisters, spending a miserable, sulky, envious week following them around. Then her common sense pulled her up sternly and she decided that although twinges of envy were uncomfortable, giving in to them was far worse than giving it rein.

This self-taught lesson was vital in later years. For if Lissi was fair, her sisters were dazzling; as the belles of society, they danced and coquetted and broke hearts left and right. Lissi herself entered society at age twenty, in her sisters' shadow. Naturally the little sister could not compete; from time to time this fretted Lissi, before she discovered that some men found her just as attractive. She found their admiration pleasant, but no one aroused her especial interest until she was introduced to Carthor, a soldier, at her sister's wedding. In his seventies, he was far older than the young men she knew. Although scarred and saturnine, his hair was yet dark and his blue eyes brilliant, and Lissi had never felt before the aura of strength he carried with him. And most intriguingly of all, he did not show the slightest interest in her.

Lissi had enough of the coquette in her blood to see his remoteness as a challenge. Drawing on all the stubbornness of her nature, she spent the ensuing months learning what she could about him and striving to excite his appreciation. Finally Carthor turned to her, not only giving his admiration but also seeking solace. By this time Lissi herself was smitten, enamored of both the brave soldier of the past and the bereaved man of the present. When he asked her to marry him, she agreed gladly. She had heard rumors that Carthor "drank," but the only drunkenness she knew was the jovial excesses of feast days; and what of it? He loved her, and he would change. Lissi's father was concerned - he knew of Carthor and saw clearer than his daughter - but balked at the trouble of a sharp conflict with her.

Faerim was born a year later, and Brander a year after that. Those two years taught Lissi many things. Carthor was always kind to her, and although unlearned, he was intelligent. He was a good companion for her life. But even before Faerim's birth she confessed to herself that she had never truly loved him; nor did he love her. She had talked herself into an infatuation with the romantic man of the stories. But Lissi would not let herself fall into self-disgust or grow bitter with disappointment. She had made her choice, and there was no turning back. Carthor needed her, even if she could not give him love. Their sons needed her, needed both of them, and she was not going to take out her disappointment on them.

As before her lesson in envy had sustained her, now her devotion to duty and care for her family stood her in good stead. His good resolutions had held for some time, but after Brander's birth Carthor slowly reverted to his drunken habits. Lissi saw it with anger at first, anger and guilt that she wasn't good enough. She berated her husband, reproaching and upbraiding, honing her scolding to a fine weapon to fence with Carthor's own sharp tongue. And once again, she made herself miserable as well as Carthor and the boys. From then on Lissi set her jaw and restrained herself. Even when he began gambling and she saw their livelihood - and her sons' inheritance - slipping away, she controlled her tongue and sought to influence instead of punish.

After her father-in-law died, Lissi saw with relief the reform that Carthor made. He gave up drinking and gambling eventually, and she thought entirely. But it seemed that Carthor had to have an obsession. When wine and gambling were abandoned, soldiering took over. Lissi grieved in secret over his withdrawal from the family, but as always she determined to stand true. Through the lonely years she strove to be the best mother possible and make their home a pleasant place, and she watched with pride as their sons grew.

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Nuranar's post

Lissi had been up since before dawn. The hideous clamor of battle reverberated through the air and penetrated every corner of the house. Tremors ran through the floor and walls as the city trembled with each projectile’s impact. Even the heavy storm shutters could not shut out the hellish glare of the fires. The red glow gave her bedroom such an alien appearance that Lissi buried her head in the blankets to shut the terrifying vision out. An instant later she jerked upright in shame and pride and slid out of bed. If she could not sleep, at least she would not cower in bed like a child afraid of shadows!

Lissi pattered across the room and defiantly flung open the shutters. Then she dressed with deliberate concentration in the weird light. Close-fitting underdress, deep red wool, laced on both sides, tight buttoned-up sleeves. Dark brown overdress, front-lacing, flared sleeves. Woolen hose and leather shoes. Small work knife, hanging from an old leather belt, around her waist. Heavy shawl around her shoulders, held together in the front by a brooch. Lissi laced every lace, buttoned every button, and arranged every fold of her raiment with scrupulous care. Moving to the polished metal mirror hanging on her wall, she arranged her hair. The white face she saw, framed by little natural curls, gazed back with calm approval as she braided her long black tresses into two braids and tied on her winter hood. Then for a moment Lissi’s busy fingers stopped, and she bowed her head.

A dull splintering thud rattled the furniture. The next instant Lissi found herself on the balcony in the next room, grey eyes straining to see the battle in the lurid light of the flames. Until the weak light of the winter sun illumined the heavy grey clouds, Lissi stayed on the balconey. She paced the whole time. At first she told herself she was keeping warm. But as she paced she thought, and as she thought her stride grew faster with nervous energy. If she only knew exactly what was happening! All she could do now was think – and think – and think.

For weeks Lissi had been thinking. It began with planning, then went to packing, but the thinking never stopped: thinking, always thinking – pondering the siege, imagining scenarios, devising a response to every one, preparing for every eventuality, desperately seeking a way to escape. Escape! What she wanted most in the world, and what she could not find. Despite all her intelligence, she could think of no escape. On the contrary, the merciless logic of her mind only built up the evidence of defeat. Of all helpless feelings this was the worst. The city was crumbling around her, her people were dying, the enemy was coming – and she could do nothing.

If she was fated to escape, escape would have to come to her, for she knew not where to find it. And if it came she would be ready. She had several packs ready to leave, and her husband’s stave was ever to hand. At the last she would leave the house, she and her blind son Brander. Lissi had scarcely seen her husband Carthor since the siege began, although she knew that if he had fallen word would have come. And her other son Faerim – he, too, was fighting, although he often came home to check on them.

But when the pale grey light of winter touched the cracked and scorched walls, she resolutely for herself from her perch. “Madam Lissielle, you will drive yourself mad if you continue in this way,” she scolded as she fled down the stairs. “You will go scrub that filthy kitchen floor until it shines, or until…” She broke off, then gave her head a little shake and hurried into the kitchen.

Ironically enough, Lissi found intense relief in her task. After laying aside her cloak – the exercise would keep her warm – and rolling up her sleeves, she threw herself into her work. She tended the fire, heated water, scrubbed the worn brick floor, and rinsed it clean with a zeal and absorption far from usual. Her anger and fear found release in attacking the mud and grease and soot that spotted the floor, and the harder she scrubbed the harder it was to hear the commotion outside. And nothing occurred to interrupt her. The house itself was almost eerily silent, Brander’s quiet movements upstairs almost unheard.

Lissi’s movements became more mechanical. She recalled her first sight of the hordes of Angmar: Rising from the eastern horizon, they spread like a black wave across the fields where she had been wont to ride, darkened the bare and lifeless land, and poured relentlessly on, lapping even at the Fornost walls. In that moment she had not felt terror. She had scarcely been afraid. But she knew. With the blood-knowledge and instinct of a hundred generations of warriors, she saw the remorseless inevitability of the coming defeat. She stood alone in that knowledge and looked into it without flinching. That evening Lissi had bade her dear husband farewell – for he was dear, if not beloved – with a smile, and watched him march to the defense of the walls. But she lay awake all night. The bitter import of defeat did not register until the darkest hour, just before dawn. And then she wept, in slow, anguished sobs, for the sheer heartbreak and tragedy of it all. But she had not shed a tear since. She only thought.

With a sigh Lissi rose to her feet, finished. As she tidied up the kitchen she felt the old gentle pride of a gentler time, the serene knowledge of a job well done. Smiling at herself, only half mockingly, she rolled down her sleeves and rearranged her clothes. Lissi was buttoning her sleeve when a crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by quick footsteps and then silence. Side door, she thought, even as she slipped out of the kitchen, heart throbbing painfully. She had just lifted down Carthor’s bladed stave when Faerim’s voice echoed through the house. “Brander? Brander!”

Lissi gasped in relief, clutching the reassuring weight of the stave. She dashed out to the hall just in time to see her elder son vanish up the stairs, still calling for his brother. “Son! Faerim! What is it?” she cried. He was still safe! And news – at last!

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Male Dúnedain Youth (child of the woman and soldier) – Novnarwen

Name Brander

Age 16

Gender Male

Race Men, Dunedain

Weapons: None. He has never had any use of weapons. When not being able to see the enemy (if there is any at all), what is the use of a sword, a knife or a bow? To him, a weapon would not serve as a protection; it would be quite the opposite.

Appearance : As his one year older brother, his skin is light (almost pale). Brander has a lot of freckles covering his nose and small parts of his chin; he has definitely more freckles than his brother, and it’s certainly noticeable. His face is formed far more oblong than his brother, giving him a much larger forehead (without it being so big that he’s not good looking). It makes him look rather strict and important, but his childish features and expressions will easily dominate most of the time. He has sharp features. Especially his high cheekbones and his straight nose are what people take notice to at first. Then there are his eyes; Brander hardly opens them, as it makes not difference to him. (He is blind, and has been from birth.) However, when he does open them, most people are amazed by the sparkling green colour which hides under his heavy lids. As he is a very happy and pleased person, he smiles almost constantly, revealing his white big teeth, which are all situated nicely like small pearls in his jaw. Brander has curly, half long hair, which is a mixture between blonde and light brown. He is slight and slim figure, but he is still muscular. He is taller than average people. He dresses normally in light colours, as that fits his personality the best; a light-hearted lad with few worries. Even though he has not seen himself, ever, he is quite confident that he is a handsome young man, having been told so by others.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: His broad smile and his sense of humour are two of his most recognisable characteristics. Brander appears to others to be a very happy person, who smiles and laughs often. He is witty, and is in many ways very charming. He is open-minded about most things, intelligent, but quick headed. He connects easily to people. In others words, he is a very social being, who tends to get restless when not being around people. Sometimes though, he might be slightly sceptic towards new relations, as it’s very difficult for him to distinguish between true friends and others whose only intentions are to take advantage of him.

Brander has of course many weaknesses due to the fact that he is blind. Naturally, he can’t do everything everyone else can. Being blind though, has made Brander aware and appreciate many things that others do not. He lives by hearing, touching and smelling; he does not take these things for granted as most people do. His senses are his only tools in the world, and he is grateful for what he has.

Brander is often reminded of his handicap. Hearing others speaking aloud about their doings - what they have seen - is particularly difficult. The feeling of being excluded isn't to be avoided. He is excluded, because there are many things he cannot do. Sometimes he feels lonely, even though he sits in a room with a dozen others. He feels that people’s lack of understanding towards the situation he finds himself in, is rather horrifying. He feels that instead of appreciating him as he is, people tend to pity him. They pity him because he is blind; they pity him for the wrong reasons! Brander is overly convinced that his blindness should not be a reason for feeling sorry for him. With a little help, he could, as he often says, manage very well on his own. People who treat as if he was a petty little creature who cannot do anything on his own, is the reason why he also feels so abandoned, or set aside in and by the society. No one approaches him like a normal person. They treat him as if he was a child, as if he was dumb. It is a mystery to him why people who can see, can't see that he is exactly like them...

History Brander was born in late winter time of the Third Age 1988. At that time, no one knew that the newly born boy was blind, and that after sixteen years he would still be. At the age of five or six, Brander still remember discovering that something was odd, something which affected him in more than one way. His mother was pointing at a horse and he could not see it. The reason why he did not know it before was that he was not aware of the senses he possessed, and the senses others (like his mother) possessed. He knew what a horse was; how it sounded, how it felt, but how it looked like, was an enigma. So, it was at that time his mother and father, and others, became aware of the boy's handicap. Due to this, Brander was not sent to school at first, as his parents thought it rather useless. Why waste money on a boy who could probably not learn anything at all? To Brander it did not seem such a big deal in the beginning. He hardly knew what school and education was. He learned form his own experiences and he learned from hearing others tell their tales; what more was there to learn? Through his early teens, he spent his days sitting outside in the sun, taking long walks with whoever was interested and so forth. Then, one day, his perspective on life changed drastically. It was early morning, and Brander had just eaten breakfast. As adventurous as he is, he had planned on going for a walk; this time, he planned on going alone. Telling no one of this, he made his way out of the house where the family lived, and found his way out on the street. He’d heard someone calling for him, on the other side. In mere enthusiasm that someone was calling for him, he ran, crossing the street. What he wasn’t aware of, as he was blind, was that a laden wagon dragged by two strong horses was coming his way in a terrible speed. Had it not been for an observant young man, (who had disappeared after the event,) Brander would have been run over and most likely dead. This, mainly, was the reason why he changed. He changed for the better; he became far more independent and determined. He decided that he could not, and would not, live his life doing nothing only because he could not see. It was not going to be an obstacle for living a normal life. Instead of sitting helplessly and without goals at home, he managed at last to convince his parents to send him to school. He could learn and he would. Even though he could not read, and was never going to, he learned much by just being present, hearing others read or do their lessons. This gave him great pleasure; he even found himself taking part in most of the activities; activities he never thought he would be able to take part in. At the age of fifteen, one year later than his brother, he left school, having learnt everything there was to learn, or so he thought...

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Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Youth – Amanaduial the Archer

DUNEDAIN YOUTH – son of the woman (Nuranar) and the soldier (Osse).

NAME: Faerim. (Fay-rim)

AGE: 17

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Although only just recruited to the army, Faerim has used a broadsword for some years, as he is quite strong enough to handle the long, heavy weapon generally used by older soldiers. Having worked as an apprenticed blacksmith since he was 15, he is also quite handy with a whole series of knives, and keeps one inside his left boot for jobs or for general safety purposes – carrying around a sword is basically asking for trouble for such a young man. Although the broadsword is the weapon that he works hardest at, he was also taught from the age of about twelve or thirteen to use a bow, although his father scoffed that it was a ‘sissy’ weapon: because his arms have been strengthened from using the broadsword, he has become very apt with this, and made a few adaptations to his own bow so that his shot is even more powerful.

APPEARANCE: Faerim is quite light, his skin pale and unlined, and lightly freckled, contrasting with the lean, sharp structure of his face. His hair, which falls straight and messily around his face and ears, is spattered light blonde-brown colour and his eyes are light blue. Such light colouring can sometimes seem to give him an almost childish look, but along with his slim, sharp face, it more often than not gives him a sort of elfin charm that he is quite aware of! Faerim is not vain, but is quite a charmer, and a romantic, but on his young face there can also be seen lines of hardness and anxiety, and when angry his entire face has a way of freezing up, his icy eyes frosting over completely. Faerim stands at about 5 ft 11, and although his shoulders are quite broad, he is quite slim, but well toned – he is stronger than he looks, and well able to wield a broad sword, without being held back by extra bulk. He wears high leather boots and dark trousers, usually worn with soft, loose white shirts, more often than not under a leather jerkin or shirt tunic, and a habitually worn long, rather battered black cloak, attached at the shoulders – at 17, Faerim is one year too young to be recruited to the army in peace time, but due to the desperation of the military in the recent attacks, he has been brought in early, but in the haste has not been fitted out with armour. He uses basically his father’s old armour when needs be.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Faerim is charismatic and charming, but not arrogant with it – generally. Arrogance does not come easily to him as he has seen what it can do: the youth resents the way his father has squandered much of the one-rich family’s money on drink and gambling. But it is from his father that Faerim has inherited his fierce temper, although it is less easily aroused than in his father, and his cutting tongue. Premature lines of worry and anxiety can be seen on his otherwise unflawed skin, for his father’s behaviour, and the pressure he has put on the young Faerim, have caused him to age a little before his time. But despite this, he is in general quite a happy go lucky young man, a charmer and a romantic, good with ladies but able to dodge out of trouble. His home life is too serious as far as he is concerned, and so he tends to ignore solemnity outside of it, almost to the point of audacity sometimes. But he respects the captains, especially the distant Hirvegil, whom he almost uses as a role model – not that he would ever admit this to his father. He is proud and ready to fight for what he believes in – but not always outright, but cleverly: if offended, he will remember, and can come across as quite cold because of this, until he is satisfied with some conclusion. Faerim wishes to join the military really because, well, it’s what his family have always done – and although it may be a family corroded by gambling and drink, it is still his heritage, and he intends to keep it up. His warm, charming nature draws friends, but family is at the heart of it all – even if he doesn’t exactly get on with most of it’s members.


HISTORY: Born in spring of TA 1987, Faerim is the eldest child of Carthor, and with this has come quite a burden: his father has always put pressure on him to become strong, to join the army and fight for Arthedain, as his forefathers always have. Because of this, his father taught him from when he was very young with one of his old swords: the child found it hard to wield because of it’s weight and because of this hard lessons were learnt by Faerim – and maybe this was the start of a somewhat formal, almost distant relationship between father and son, although as he grew older, Faerim’s attitude towards his father was tinged with respect for his father’s past. He went to school, as befitted the son of a ‘gentleman’, and learnt quite quickly, but was generally more interested in the social side of living, and developed a vibrant, warm but fierce personality that got into fights quite often. At fifteen, he left school and became apprenticed to a blacksmith, to earn his keep and learn some more practical skills, in his mother and father’s hopes that he would also grow up a little. It didn’t exactly happen that way – it generally just meant that Faerim now had a little more freedom to do what he wanted with, and he generally became a bit of a scallywag. But despite his somewhat rogue-ish nature, Faerim still kept firmly to his aspiration of joining the army when he came of age, and having repaired or forged enough weapons for other men, he himself forged his own first broadsword, with the help and guidance of Blacksmith Master Talston, a steadfast, gruff individual who, although he wouldn’t admit it, had become quite fond of his apprentice, who had become quite skilled, and had been hinting that maybe it would be better if Faerim stayed to take up the job as a profession – after all, he reasoned roughly, could either of them really see Faerim obeying any officer he didn’t want to?! But the youth laughed it off and kept practising his skills with broadsword and bow, living life in any way he pleased – until he got his military wish a year earlier than expected, when the fell army, led by the nightmarish Witch King, attacked Arthedain. Faerim became both archer and skirmisher, whatever was needed really, and began his early career in the army…

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Amanaduial's post

Faerim threw himself down against the remains of the wall he had posted himself behind, his hands covering his head, as the top of the wall exploded and the rubble rained down on his light hair and face. Scrabbling back onto his knees, the youth brushed the debris from his clothes hastily and peered forward through what had been an arrow slit in the wall. His light eyes scanned outwards across the lower level and beyond, and widened as his gaze followed the black masses further and further outwards. His skin paled further beneath the light spattering of freckles as the full extent of the black army, and how little they seemed affected by the desperate army of Fornost – or what was little of them. Beneath him, on the lower level where a few orcs had breached the walls, chaos reigned: houses burned and smoked, the fell flood surged over the rubble, and from above, Faerim could hear the screams of those who had fallen prey to the catapult shots and arrows of the enemy. And all the time came that irrepressable booming of the ram hitting the gates...

Wrenching his horrified gaze from the scene below and turning his back to the wall, the youth pulled open his quiver of arrows and counted those that remained – a laughable four, and one so cracked that he doubted it would fly. He swore under his breath and looked back through the arrow slit to the lower level. Loading his bow with arrow number one, he scanned the area and picked out one particularly despicable individual who, along with a second orc, was hacking at the door of a house with a pitted axe. The opposite of his younger brother, Faerim’s sight was excellent, so that some had sniped before that the seventeen year old had got the eyesight for the both of them: as a result of his eyesight, the youth could see every detail of the vile creature, down to fresh bloodstains around it’s hands. Feeling sick at the thought of whose blood that might be, the young man sighted briefly and fired.

The orc fell backwards with a satisfying yell, the axe falling from it’s stumpy digits as it clutched, unseeing, at the arrow now embedded deep in it’s chest. Beside it, orc number two gave a snarl of surprise and followed the line of the arrow upwards until it came eye to eye with Faerim. He could feel it’s eyes on him through the arrow slit, but it wouldn’t last for long: defiant until the last, the archer gave a quick wink and loosed his second precious arrow. Not waiting to see whether it found it’s mark, he looked about searched the lower area and prepared to let off one more of his arrows towards another orc. But as he did so, a deafening scream came from along the wall beside him and a soldier toppled off, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. The sound caused Faerim to jump at the last second almost wasting the shot. Twisting his mouth in irritation, the young man re-sighted, his muscles tensed to shoot-

The gates swung open.

With yells from the men and inhuma roars from the black hordes, the enemy poured into the city of Fornost. Faerim's arrow fly awry, lost in the masses, but the youth barely noticed, his horrified eyes fixed on ther scene below as beasts twice as tall as a man attacked the army of his city, battering them aside with brutal weapons. And his father was below...

Faerim took a deep breath and strung his bow with the fourth arrow – and then realised that it was indeed his last. Have to be careful when you’re out on a limb, that’s what Brander—

Brander. Dammit, his younger brother – where was he? He had been in the manor house, with their mother, but now…a fresh sluice of fear washed over Faerim. His father would be fighting in the frey below, a swordsman as he was, but at least he had some way of protecting himself - but a vivid image of the orcs, flowing from every side into the room around his blind brother, drove itself into his mind. Brander wouldn't stand a chance. Saving the last arrow, the Dunedain youth checked his sword and, in a strange crouched position, ran across to the shelter nearest to the wall where he had been crouched. Darting inside, he slipped quickly past the other soldiers there, taking on a busy air that meant none stopped him, the sprinted across the courtyard at the back towards the street of larger houses on the second level on the outer wall.

Of course, Faerim was under no impressions of his brother being helpless – for years, Brander had made it painfully clear, both to his older brother and to his parents, that he was determined to be as independent as possible. But, Faerim mused angrily, that independence – being able to look after himself in a domestic situation – was frankly worth nothing in this situation. What Faerim valued – his strength, agility, speed and skill with weapons – were nothing to Brander: a sword, or even a knife, would be more of a liability that an aid to the blind boy.

The white stone of a beautifully delicate, ancient spire, reaching so high it split the sky, suddenly shattered as a barrage of stones hit it. The debris pratically exploded and huge chunks of the base fell to the ground, coming so close to crushing Faerim that his cloak caught beneath it as he rolled agiley, coming to rest on one knee in the shadow of one of the houses. Breathlessly, without taking time to compose himself, he wrenched his cloak from beneath the shattered remains of the face of some ancient statue and kicked the side door of the house open. Half jogging in, he heard a noise from the landing above and fell to a crouch to slip one of his knives from the inside of his left boot. Satisfied that the noise had ceased, he took the stairs of the grand, sweeping staircase three at a time, cloak flying out behind him as he yelled for his brother – it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through, and surely one of the captains would have arranged something? Either way, he needed to find out and bearing in mind he hadn’t an idea where his father might be now, he needed to make sure Brander and his mother were safe. “Brander? Brander!”

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elf Emissary from Lindon – alaklondewen

NAME: Ereglin

AGE: 2066

RACE: Sindar

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ereglin carries a long, narrow-bladed sword. The wooden hilt is wrapped tightly in thick tanned leather that is worn from many years. Its crossguard is slightly curved toward the blade, and each end is marked with a decorative spiral engraved into the steel. This sword, he used in the final battle of the Second Age, but has had little need to do so since, except in exercise. Ereglin prefers to use his bow, however, for his eyes are keen, as they are for all his kin, and his aim is precise.

APPEARANCE: Ereglin is of average elven height, yet still tall compared to Men. His frame is small, but he is muscular enough to wield his sword if need be. Two small, golden braids frame his chiseled feature and square jaw. The remainder of his hair falls straight down to the small of his back. His dark grey eyes overlook his small straight nose. His ivory skin is smooth like that of a youth, but his eyes are cold, and his expression is hardened.

He normally wears lightweight trousers and a tunic in various shades of blues and greens with a grey flowing robe covering all. However, with battle raging, he is wearing a light-weight armor made by the smiths of Mithlond. He is still wrapped in his robe, with his scabbard beneath and his bow strapped to his back.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ereglin has always been an aspiring elf who knew what he wanted and was not afraid to do what was needed to get it. This confident, hard-working attitude landed him with a strong positive image in Mithlond. However, what might be seen as a wonderful strength is also his weakness. Ereglin’s wanting of power and high status caused him to overlook some of the more important things, and people, in his life. He can easily be seen as charming to those in his political circles, but he is quietly unhappy...his real emotions are hardened, but he can easily say what someone needs to hear and be believable.

HISTORY: Ereglin was sent to Fornost as an Ambassador of Cirdan when controversy arose concerning Arvedui’s claim to the throne of Gondor. The Emissary provided conservative council based on Cirdan’s wishes, ensuring the conflict did not blow out of proportion and the rightful heir be crowned. However, secretly, Ereglin wished for Arvedui to gain the kingship of all of Gondor as he hoped this would allow himself to rise to a more powerful position in both the Elven and Human realms. The elf was bitter when Arvedui was denied, but he did not voice his complaints, as he cherished his position and did not want to jeopardize his duty to Cirdan.

The conflict over the Gondorian crown was not the only controversy in Ereglin’s life at that time. When Cirdan offered the emissarial position to Ereglin, the elf immediately accepted only to find his wife, Ardae, was against their going. After many debates, the elf remained steadfast in his decision to go to Fornost and discord arose in his home. Ardae resented him for many years, missing her family and the ways of their people. As a result, he found himself becoming more and more consumed with the politics between Arnor and Lindon, escaping the tension at home.

As the force of Angmar grew, the violence against Arthedain become more frequent. The regions in the east were being conquered by the witch-king and Ereglin recognize a real threat against Fornost. Three years before the major assault began, Ereglin sent Ardae back to Mithlond to ensure her safety. He hated watching her ride away in the company of elven guards that accompanied her, and he some part of him wished he had not come to Fornost at all, but he was too proud to admit it or resign from his position. With his wife gone, Ereglin became cold, hardened by the sadness of his failure to make her happy and the looming danger that made him send her away.

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alaklondewen's post

Ereglin had spent the greater part of the day in anticipation of a call from the king for council. In the early morning, he had surveyed the enemy’s forces from top of the second wall. Wave after wave, the horrid black creatures climbed, scratched, and attacked the walls of the city. Even with the aid of the Elven guard and the halfling army, the forces would not be able to withstand the fury of the enemy for much longer. With this understanding, the Councilor had prepared himself to stand before the king, because surely Arvedui would wish to have Elven guidance with a decision of such importance as what the final move of the city should be. He had sent his guards to fight on the wall in the late morning, and he would await the kings guard to escort him to Arvedui’s towers.

~*~*~

The sun was waning, and the late afternoon light lit the Emissary’s hall with a warm orange glow. Ereglin stood silently in the shadows still waiting for his call to council. He knew it was too late, and he felt like a bitter fool because of it. Many winters had come and gone since Ereglin had come to that city, and he clenched his teeth as he thought of time and energy he spent on the alliance between Lindon and Arthedain and what he had let go so the job would be done...

Ereglin took a deep breath. The clamor in the city was becoming much closer, and the assaults against the wall shook the foundation of the Elf’s hall. Unconsciously his hand slid under his robe and gripped the leather hilt of his sword. A choice would have to be made soon, and if the king wished for one last stand, he would fight once again, alongside his guards. The idea was displeasing. He was a skilled bowman and spent several hours a week in exercise with his sword, so it was not that he did not have the ability. It was not that he was a coward, for he feared not death nor pain. However, his place was at a table with the intellectual, political minds, not in hand to hand combat with filthy beasts.

The Emissary sighed again, and a knock at his door demanded his attention. “Come in.” He called, and a slight hope rose in his chest that one of the king’s guards would enter, summoning him to council.

“Councilor Ereglin, I am pleased to find you here.” One of his young guards strode quickly before him with eyes flashing with adrenaline.

“I would not be elsewhere, Gaeredhel.” Ereglin spoke under his breath, and then he hoped the young guard did not catch the bitterness in his voice. Swallowing the virulence he felt, the Councilor spoke again, more smoothly than before. “What tidings do you bring?”

“The king, sir...he has called for a retreat to the north gate.”

“Very well.” For the third time, Ereglin took a deep breath before he followed Gaeredhel out of the hall and into the streets.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Characters - Elven guards of Lindon - Arry

1.) Name: Gaeredhel

Age: 675 years

Race: Elven – Sindar from Lindon

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard plainly bound with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft 3 in (1.6 meters); 180 lbs (82 kilos); wiry build; long dark hair, worn in a single braid down his back; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; Knee high, black leather boots, well worn

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A gregarious fellow, rather garrulous. Enjoys being in on the latest gossip; able warrior; follows orders well; can be an independent thinker should the need arise; is fond of the brews of different areas and races.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1299 T.A. His father, now gone to the West along with his wife, was in the service of Lord Círdan. At present he and his older brother, Rôsgollo, both serve their Lord as warriors, and of late, as guards to one of the emissaries from Lord Círdan to the struggling remains of the Northern Kingdom at Fornost. He is not unfamiliar with the region of Arnor and especially the realm of Arthedain in which Fornost lies. In 1409 T.A. he, his brother, and their father fought alongside the troops led by King Arveleg I when the Witch-king breached the region’s defenses and assaulted the tower at Amon Sûl. At that time, Arveleg was killed; the troops retreated to Fornost and successfully defended the city.

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2.) Name: Rôsgollo

Age: 685 years

Race: Elven – Sindar

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard covered with lynx fur and bound in a criss-crossed pattern with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft (1.5 meters); 195 lbs (88 kilos); solid, compact, muscled build; shoulder length dark hair, parted in the middle and ineffectively tucked behind his ears; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; knee high, black leather boots, well worn; wears his father’s plain silver band ring set inlaid with mother-of-pearl on his left index finger.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A laconic man, candid in his opinions with a tendency toward curtness. Uses his brother’s ability to gather information and gossip as a tool for planning strategy; able warrior; follows orders well – but will revise them based on his own assessment of a situation’s needs; tends to be very protective of his brother, Gaeredhel – they are the last of their family. Rôsgollo is the one who offered both their services as guards on this expedition.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1289 T.A. His history is much like his brother’s; save for the fact that he was at one time wedded. His wife and infant son were killed when the Witch-king’s troops swept over the area around Amon Sûl in 1409. Rôsgollo along with a number of other Elven troops had been part of a small Elven garrison established in the Weather Hills. They were there to bring quick aid to the King, should need arise. A number of the Elves had brought their families, since this was to be a protracted stay. Rôsgollo had first insisted that his new wife should remain safe in Harlindon near her family; but, she made plain her own argument that it would not be so and joined him at the Weather Hill’s fastness.

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Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Soldier - Osse

Osse's character

NAME: Carthor

AGE: 98

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: From an early age, Carthor was poured into the harsh mould of the professional soldier – his father, a brash, overbearing man of little patience taught Carthor to fight with blade and stave from the age of eleven. The boy soon became deft and agile, yet strong and hardy and able to wield a heavy weapon with as much ease as many men of twice his age. From the outset, his weapon of choice was a short, bladed stave. This weapon, being light and long reaching felt right in the strong hands of Carthor in his youth; he could slash, parry and stab with the weapon, and had the range needed to safely avoid an opponent’s own blade.

In his old age, Carthor still possesses this weapon, but physical limitations have meant he no longer can fight with the same dexterity he used to and the weapon requires. Therefore he no longer carries his stave, but usually a stout short sword – a thrusting weapon that allows the ailing warrior to keep his guard enclosed. This sword, though old and well made contains no embellishment on either the guard or pommel, rather it is a simple, durable weapon with soft leather grip and steel fittings – the single-fullered, tapered blade is kept precipitously keen. This weapon is usually housed in a beautifully supple black leather scabbard which, though totally unadorned, sports simply beautiful workmanship – an item from a period where time could be spent on such matters other than bloodshed. Carthor also wears a simple breast plate, un-embossed, and perhaps the most treasured item of his armoury, a magnificently forged war helm with fitted cheek guards and a sloping profile. A beautiful crest of embossed brass almost melts down the centre of the helm, coming to a near teardrop shaped point half way down the helm’s long nasal. This helmet is the only family heirloom still in Carthor’s possession.

APPEARANCE: Carthor is now nearing old age, even for one of the Dunedain and at ninety-two, his body reflects this. A large chunk is missing from his nose and he is missing a finger on his left hand. His right knee plays havoc in the long northern winters, a souvenir from a scimitar wound inflicted early in his soldiering carreer. However, he is still fit and rather muscular – no matter what punishment it has taken, his body seems to naturally hold its fitness. Carthor’s shoulder length hair is starting to thin and is now a deep grey colour, flecked with white. He has startlingly light blue eyes set well back in his rather rounded face and a prominent nose, broken in at least five places. A strong, squared, perpetually stubble clad chin provides his face with an aura of strength. Carthor isn’t tall, yet his frame is muscular and wiry, with startlingly broad shoulders. His overall appearance reflects that a sturdy young man gone to seed with age. Carthor dresses plainly, usually in a shade of grey or brown – his clothes are old and worn, yet can be seen to be of high quality regardless of tears and scuffs. Perhaps his most defining piece of clothing is a large, well worn calf-leather cloak. The cloak is lined with what must have once have been a fine satin but has been torn and sewn out of recognition. The leather itself is scratched, soiled and torn, as if threatening to fall apart on the spot, yet never quite following through. Carthor’s other chief possession is a pair of short, soft leather boots. These boots are a relic from more prosperous times, both for the realm and for Carthor’s house, being made of the most high quality of leathers – wafer thin strips of stretched calf’s leather bound and sewn together to provide a durable, yet malleable material. These boots are over seventy years old and were made by Carthor’s grandsire, upper-Fornost’s premiere shoemaker, as a coming of age present. They are not merely moulded to Carthor’s feet, but rather an extension of them. The shoes, though old are well kept, the leather remains moist and waxed, and there seems to be no sign of it wearing through.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Though his body has bowed to age much earlier than most of his kindred, Carthor’s mind is still sharp, sharp due to the constant internal battles raging; battles against the memories of past horrors and emotional scars, and battles against the dependence Carthor once had upon drink to free him from these horrible memories. Carthor must be forever vigilant; both inwards and outwards to stop himself from falling back into the abyss he toiled so hard to raise himself out of. Carthor’s will is strong, on all matters and his principles are branded deeply in his thought. However, he is head strong and often comes across as being both harsh and arrogant – his tongue is almost as sharp if not as sharp as his mind. Carthor’s tongue and his keen mind are but opposite edges on the same dangerous sword. For as is with most swords, this one can be harmful to the wielder as well as the target.

HISTORY: Being of Fornost’s upper class, Carthor was formally educated from an early age; however, after numerous run-ins with various tutor-folk, he stopped his schooling at the age of eleven. From then on, Carthor’s only education was in the art of death, soldiering. The glory he had associated with this profession was quickly throttled, especially as the threat of Angmar increased. The constant skirmishes with the Witch King threw a young Carthor into the deathly typhoon. What he saw there has haunted his dreams since. Scars, both physical and unseen, too deep to heal were inflicted during the cold winters of the blood soaked north realm. At the relatively young age of thirty-one, Carthor met, and fell in love with, a young woman, immediately marrying her. After being married for two blissful years, Carthor’s wife fell pregnant. Carthor was elated. With this woman, the headstrong, somewhat brash young Dunedain was cheery and amiable, generous and vibrant. Tragically, the infant, a young boy, died soon after birth. Many days went by, and a fever was set in the skin and eyes of Carthor’s young wife. For four sleepless nights he sat by her bed in a silent, fretful vigil. Here he saw everything dear to him pass from his hands like smoke from a flame. The fire in the woman’s flesh could not be abated and she fell into eternity on the sixth day after the birth. The catalyst that had made Carthor’s life more then just a death-dance had been mercilessly taken away from his outstretched hands. He became little more then an apparition, sitting morose and despondent, eating little and sleeping even littler. In time, in years, Carthor became numb. He seemed to function. The drinking of wine consumed his days; he could not be at peace without a goblet in his hand and six more in his gut. His position in the army suffered – a drunken soldier was not fit for leadership. However, a kindly set of men had known of his tragic fortunes and not had him punished, but rather confined to work inside the citadel of Fornost. In his sixtieth year, Carthor’s father, now at the age of one-hundred and thirteen himself, urged Carthor to marry again, deeming enough time had passed since the tragic events of his first marriage. Carthor was loath to do so, but was drunk more often than sober and therefore had little dictation in the matter. A young woman from another prominent family, Lissi was chosen by his parents as she was both beautiful and delightfully intelligent. She took to Carthor, intrigued by his remoteness, attracted by his physicality, yet pitiful of his past. Carthor’s drunken stupor did not extend into the realms of love and his attentions did not fall on Lissi. If anything, during this period, his drinking increased – the time he spent sober was dwindling fast. He became tardy to his post, increasingly intoxicated on duty and careless with his arms. During this time, something softened within his drunken exterior and he opened himself up to Lissi, much to the delight of his aging parents. The pair was soon married and the first of their children Faerim was soon born. During this time, Carthor’s drinking declined somewhat. Another boy, Brander, was born the following year. Something changed in Carthor and he went back into his old ways, with new zeal. Gambling became a new part of his rant and he began to be careless with the family’s property – betting using family heirlooms and purchasing wine with family gold. Subsequently, the family soon became much worse off. This self destructive plummet was observed by his family, with growing concern and angst. Years past and Carthor’s father fell horrifically ill. Carthor’s silent vigil was once again taken up on his father’s bed-side. Before the last rise of his chest had ceased, Carthor’s father asked but one thing of his son – to purge himself of the cancerous habits he had attained, and restore the family’s honour. Over time, Carthor was able to pull himself from the pit of despair, yet he became even more elusive. He no longer applied himself to family life, instead putting the remainder of his spirit into his life as a soldier. And still the threat of Angmar increased…


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Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Mithalwen

Name: Erenor
Age: 3000
Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: Erenor has a long curved sword , product of the great skill of the Noldorin smiths as well as a shorter dagger. She also has a shirt of fine steel mail that like the dagger may be concealed.

Appearance: She has the typical Noldorin coloring of dark hair and grey eyes. Although she is fair of face she has a grave demeanour. Because of her serious role she wears serious clothes usually in grey and blue. Although they are not unfeminine they are less ornate than usual for female elves and she seldom wears much in the way of jewelry or adornment save a sapphire pendant. When travelling she dresses after the fashion of elf men deeming it more practical.

Personality: Stern and unsentimental, determined and a little arrogant, Erenor is sometimes a little more plain speaking than usual for an emissary. She does not suffer fools gladly. She is a pragmatist and regards warfare as a necessary evil and does not shy away from combat.

History: Born in Lindon late in the second age to a noble Noldorin house, Erenor is the descendent of Gondolin. Her father was a general of Gil-Galad and like him did not return from the War of the Last Alliance. Forbidden to go to war, she learned to fight with sword and bow in case at the last war came to her, and the womenfolk needed to mount a last ditch defense of Lindon. She went with many of her kin to Rivendell when their king did not return.

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Mithalwen's post

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defense of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Nilpaurion Felagund

Name: Bethiril

Age: 5488

Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: She has never touched a weapon, let alone owned one. She is disdainful of implements of war, never learning how to wield one even when she participated in the battle of Eriador in the Second Age. She has always deemed it her mission to make sure that they not be needed anymore.

Appearance: Being of pure Noldorin descent, Bethiril has black hair framing her unusually calm face with quiet grey eyes. She is scarcely less tall than most males of Elves and Men of the West, and is usually clad in garments little less luxurious than those worn by members of the kingly houses. On the ring finger of her left hand she wears a ring adorned with a gem of sapphire shaped like the flowers of Menelluin, the wheat of Yavanna, surrounded by six small yellow crystals, fashioned by Enerdhil for Idril’s handmaidens, which she now uses as a symbol of her service to Elrond, son of Eärendil, daughter of Idril.

Personality: Being an emissary, her speech is guarded and her emotions are bottled up at all times. Bethiril shows admirable command of her tongue, blending well-crafted words and deep passion in her speeches that stir all but the hardest hearts. Around fighting men she seems aloof and cold, perhaps thinking that she is higher than they are, not having stained her hand with the blood of any that live.

History: Bethiril was born a few months before the Fall of Gondolin, escaping from that dreadful plight when her mother’s sister, one of Idril’s handmaidens, led her mother to Tuor and his soldiers fleeing with Idril and her son from the wrack of the city. Of her father she had no news, though she knew in her heart that he fell to the Orcs when Maeglin betrayed the Way to Morgoth. Her mother was slain when the Sons of Fëanor assailed the havens of Sirion. She escaped with her mother’s sister to the isle of Balar. After the fall of Angband she took the ship to Eldamar, while Bethiril remained with the Elves of Lindon to serve Elrond, who she deemed Turgon’s heir, and therefore her lord.

She was with the host led by Elrond that Gil-galad sent to Celebrimbor’s aid, to act as an emissary between the two armies of the Eldar. They were, however, driven back to the Misty Mountains. There, they were besieged in newly founded Imladris until the Númenóreans came and destroyed the black host. After the Downfall of Númenor and Sauron’s assault on Gondor she was one of the emissaries that shuttled between Lindon, Imladris, and Lórien when the Last Alliance was formed.

Ever since the march of Elrond to Mordor she had never left Imladris. Until now.

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Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Guard from Rivendell - Garen LiLorian

NAME: Maltóre (called Angóre)

BORN: 3rd Age 237

RACE: Grey Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS/EQUIPMENT: Angóre carries a sheaf of three 3ft javelins, each tipped with a steel spike extending 8 inches. He also carries an Elvish sword, 48 inches in length, wound about with spells and incantations for troll’s bane. The sword carries an inscription along the blade; “Torog dagnir,” (slayer of trolls) in Fëanorian runes. The guard is workmanlike in appearance, bearing neither stones nor especial shape, but is in the form of a straight, slightly tapered bar. The handle as well is more functional than beautiful, being wrapped in leather and the pommel is a simple circle of metal, unadorned. All of his weapons are well used and well cared for. He wears no armor or helm.

APPEARANCE: Angóre takes no delight in his appearance, and dresses however he must, often letting his garments be worn to tatters before replacing them. He wears dark colors, preferring grays and blacks. His hair is cropped close and dark, while his eyes are blue and icy. He is tall, though not thickly built, and is very slender. His skin is pale and translucent, blue veins standing out in his forehead and arms.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Angóre keeps to himself, speaking little. When his opinion is sought, he speaks bluntly and to the point, changing his speech not at all whether speaking to the humblest servant or the greatest lord of Elrond’s house. He is neither captain nor general, and gives no thought to strategy. He is not a soldier, and owes no allegiance to any lord. He is a knight-errant, and he is dangerous and fell, and gives all his delight to the hunting of Sauron’s creatures, particularly Trolls. He has a great sympathy for any under the threat of Sauron, feeling their losses keenly, as they resonate with his own.

HISTORY: A lesser scion of the house of Finarfin, all his family were born with the golden hair common to that bloodline, but Maltóre took after his mother, a Grey Elf, and so was named "golden heart," for his hair was dark.
His father was an ancient, and soon after Maltóre's birth departed for the Havens. His mother had no joy in Middle Earth after his departure but that which she found in the raising of her child. Maltóre was trained, at his mother's behest, in the traditions of the Elven minstrels, and showed a gift for that path. When he came of age and joined the court of Elrond, his mother lost her last link to Middle Earth and departed for the Havens. However, when she was waylaid and slain by trolls a mere two days from Rivendell, Maltóre lost all joy in singing and in tales, and, changing his name to Angóre, (Iron heart) became an errand rider and a warrior of Elrond, hunting trolls throughout Middle Earth.

With the forces of the Witch-King encroaching from the North, Angóre has been fighting more or less constantly for several years. During one of his periods of errantry, he came across a party of Elves bound for Fornost beset by a great Troll. He defeated the Troll, though the toll was heavy, and he was sorely wounded, and the guards killed. He was brought to Fornost at the behest of the Emissary, and recuperated there. The shadow of the Witch-king lay over the city, and Angóre, beholding the plight of the city, agreed to stay in its defense. He has taken over the protection of the Emissary and acts as a bodyguard and aide, for he is the only other Elf of Rivendell there but he longs ever to be on and perhaps beyond the walls, and takes ever more dangerous scouting missions whenever he can be spared.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Garen LiLorian's post

”…we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

[piosenniel]

Here's the complete list of players/characters:

CHARACTER/PLAYER LIST

Dúnedain of Arthedain

1) Dúnedain Captain – Kransha (Hírvegil)
2) Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair (Mitharan)
3) Dúnedain Lieutenant (to the captain) – Saurreg (Belegorn)
4) Dúnedain Soldier – Osse (Carthor)
5) Dúnedain Woman - Lalwendë (Renedwen)
6) Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier) - Nuranar (Lissi)
7) Male Dúnedain Youth (16 y/o child of the woman and soldier) – Novnarwen (Brander)
8) Male Dúnedain Youth (17 y/o sibling to Novnarwen's character – Amanaduial the Archer (Faerim)

~*~

Elves of Lindon

These will be from the Grey Havens, lorded over by Círdan the Shipwright. It is know that the Kings of Arthedain had good relations with Círdan, because of their military aid in the past.

1) Elf Emissary– alaklondewen (Ereglin)
2) Elf Guards – Arry (Gaeredhel & Rôsgollo)

~*~

Elves of Rivendell

The Elves of Rivendell did not necessarily share a bond with the people of Arnor, but they did come to their aid once or twice, predominantly in the year immediately following the Fall of Arthedain, led by Glorfindel. It is likely that Imladris and Arthedain were conducting some kind of negotiations, since Arvedui was, before the Fall, sending out pleas for assistance on all fronts.

1)Elf Emissary – - Nilpaurion Felagund (Bethiril)
2)Elf Emissary - Mithalwen (Erenor)
3)Elf Guard - Garen LiLorian (Maltóre <called Angóre>)

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post from the Planning thread:

I would like to bring the following info to the front of my proverbial billboard. Here is a rough outline of the first few things that will be happening. If any wish to begin writing second posts, this will be a fair rubric. If you complete a second post before the game begins, PM it to me, and I will see if it ought to be posted up when the game is opened, rather than after it opens, if you get my meaning. The outline is as follows (the first 3 points can be used in second posts, but the fourth and onward should not be [but, those points may still be used for future posts]):


The Witch-King's guard and the Witch King himself arrive in the second level


The forces of Fornost retreat, along with the rearguard, to the inner sanctum


The escapees flee through the passageway from the inner sanctum to the North Gate


The Witch-King overtakes the inner sanctum and battle the rearguard at the North Gate


The rearguard take to their horses (as do the other cast members) and flee - a lot


The group rides full-speed toward a refuge in the North Downs

[Mithalwen]

POSTED ABOVE W/BIO ~*~ PIO

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defence of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

Kransha

Character bios/First Posts are all in.

At your leisure, please go through the posts and put them in order by PLAYER name as to how you would like them on the opening to the game thread. You can put the list here on the Discussion Thread.

Once you are ready to go, then let me know and I'll open the game for you -- no hurry.

~*~ Pio

[Kransha]

I am in the process of sorting through first posts, but I will first, in the interests of organization, address some points so that they need not be re-stated when the game begins.

I do have a sort of "Game Plan" but I like to think of it as guidelines rather than rules. I would like to say, though, that I think there will be about 5-7 days alotted for Battle-In-Fornost Posts. I won't be moving the game along much, except at one or two points, and I am mostly going to let the battle rage, hands-off, for the week. The only things that must happen are: the Rearguard must be pushed back and the whole group of refugees unite at the inner sanctum and begin to flee. At that point, when all characters have reached the inner sanctum, I'll post another "moving post" and allow for reactions, and so on. From that point, I'll let others move the game along more freely.

Things must be done, of course. Carthor must be attended to, for he seems to be in a precarious situation, Lissi, Renedwen, Faerim, and Brander must somehow get through the battle, which has overtaken their level, and either get to the Rearguard or the Inner Sanctum. The Elven Emissaries must rendez-vous with Mellonar who is (by the way), the minister in charge of Foreign Relations, at the King's Hall. The soldiers have to retreat, and the politicians and VIPs (Mitharan, Ereglin, Bethiril, Erenor) must see to the evacuating people, and do what they can to keep the city from exploding in anarchy.

And, to make matters worse, a new and exponentially more evil combatant is about to enter the playing field.

Once I have the order of posts done, I'll also finish a post to go after all of those, which will be the first "real" post of the game, to be put up as soon as the game opens. Then, the game can begin, and the battle can end...over the course of a week.

P.S. I hafta say, I'm definately very hyped about this game, and I hope you all will enjoy it as much as I plan to, if not more.

[Amanaduial the archer]

More evil? Oh, I likies...;)

I'll work on a next post then, if it's all the same to you, for when we have the game quite ready to begin. Thanks for the run down of events :)

[Nuranar]

Aman, can you give me a hint about the direction your second is going to take? In the scene we've created, Faerim is the one with the initiative, so I'm at a bit of a loss what to do next.

Osse, forgive me for asking what may be an obvious question, but is Carthor to be part of the rearguard or otherwise take part in the retreat? Will he forget his family entirely, will he only think of them, will he try to rescue them? Just wondering what your plans are.

[Kransha]

Alright, here is the order of posts that will come after the prologue and my own, (I have tried to sort them into chronological order - luckily, most posts have included the status of the gate, and Osse's post has the gate's destruction, so I could use it as a dating point).

1. CaptainofDespair
2. Garen LiLorian
3. Lalwendë
4. Arry
5. Nilpaurion Felagund
6. Mithalwen
7. alaklondwen
8. Osse
9. Amanaduial the Archer
10. Nuranar
11. Novnarwen
12. Saurreg

I am ready for the game to open and am looking forward to its beginning. I hope everyone else is as well. pio, ready when you are. A little after the Game Thread opens, allowing for a few people to express thoughts, put up posts, etc, I will introduce the aforementioned evil.

[piosenniel]

Kransha

From your post above- #22

Once I have the order of posts done, I'll also finish a post to go after all of those, which will be the first "real" post of the game, to be put up as soon as the game opens. Then, the game can begin, and the battle can end...over the course of a week.


Shall people hold off posting until you've put this post on the game thread?

~*~ Pio

[Arry]

Just checking in - ready to play! :D

-- Arry

[Garen LiLorian]

Red five, standing by. :)

Er... That is, checking in, ready to play.

[Saurreg]

Saurreg ready.

[alaklondewen]

I'm ready as well, and looking forward to start.

Arry, I've already started my second post and as our characters are together I have a some amount of dialogue...I will pass this by you before I post it on the game thread. :)

~Alak

[Kransha]

Kransha

From your post above- #22

Shall people hold off posting until you've put this post on the game thread?

~*~ Pio

No, no holding off required. I'll have the post up relatively soon anyway. But still, feel free to post your lungs, hearts, and gall bladders out, ladies and gents.

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) Put all OOC (out of character) comments on the discussion thread, not on the game thread.

2.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

3.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

4.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

5.) Do remember to remove your signature from EVERY post to the game including SAVES.

[Lalwendë]

I'm just posting to say I'm ready to begin! Hopefully I'll have a second post ready this weekend. :) I'm intrigued by this "new and exponentially more evil combatant".

[CaptainofDespair]

I have put up a post. I have sent Mitharan and his guards out from the inner sanctum, into the tier below it. I hope I have everything correct. If not, I will gladly change it.

And this is already such a wonderful game. I look forward to continuing this story with you all. ;)

[Arry]

alaklondewen

Will await the PM of your post before I post for Gaeredhel.

I have posted for Rôsgollo, he should meet you and Gaeredhel at the King's Hall (the meeting place Kransha indicated for the Elves) where you and the other Elven emissaries will be meeting with Minister Mellonar.

-- Arry

[Mithalwen]

I'm am here - wha do I have to do now?

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Perhaps we two emissaries of Rivendell can meet in the North gate. And give each other the Elvish version of the cold shoulder. ;)

[Kransha]

Ah, the next stage is upon us!

The Witch-King himself is in the city, and his host is descending. The level of urgency for the citizens has gone up, and everyone not in the inner sanctum should hasten to get there. I'm not going to leave much time for organization, since this battle is supposed to fly by, but don't feel like you have to skimp on the drama or action when posting.
-The Vanguard is getting rounded up and the wounded are being recovered. Hopefully Carthor will be among those rescued.
-Belegorn is now in charge of the Rearguard temporarily. Hirvegil's rushed off to make sure that the troops can retreat, and make an appeal to Mellonar, who is waiting to de-brief the Elves.

Second posts are up - good. I'm glad everyone is enjoying this so far. Trust me though, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

2.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

3.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Saurreg]

Please forgive me if my second post is too technical and not dramatic enough. Alas! My skill in dramatic writing is still not so good... :o

[Amanaduial the archer]

I have made my next post: I apologise for not waiting, and hope this is alright. :)

Nuranar, Novnarwen and Lalwendë: I hope I have used your characters appropriately - does it suit you?

Going with the flow...;)

[Nuranar]

I've just posted, and Lissi and Brander have made it into the Inner Sanctum.

I'm afraid I've gotten dreadfully confused on the tactical situation. I muddled through it as best I could, but if there's any changes I can make, please let me know.

[Lalwendë]

...Finally! Yes, I have posted.

Aman and alaklondewen, those were good leads for me there, and of course it was OK to tie my character into the story like that. In fact, it was excellent! I hope I've 'twigged on' so to speak as to where you were hoping to lead, but do let me know if not!

There's plenty of great reading on here already, by the way! :)

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

2.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

3.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

[Novnarwen]

I've posted! :)

I've sent Lissi off to find Faerim. I hope that was alright.

Please let me know if my post needs edits! :)

Nova :D

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

To the owner of the characters mentioned in my post (most of the Elves, that is): If you feel that I have not used your characters properly, please inform me.

[Kransha]

Good job posting. I'm glad to see that the game is going well, but, housekeeping is housekeeping, and I have an ultimatum.

All people must be accounted for in the North Gate Passage by Tonight EST or, at the very latest, Tomorrow Morning. We've spent longer in Fornost then I intended, since I wanted to develope characters more at this beginning stage, but this means we have less time to spend with the North Downs, only 5 days. I would like to be out of Fornost by Saturday, and out of the North Downs by Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. After that, the schedule can be doctored to suit our needs, but I'd like these first few events to fit into the time alotted for them.

This means, Carthor must be found, or recover, and somehow either join the Rearguard or head on his own to the Inner Sanctum with the horde of escapees fleeing there. Other than him, everyone seems to be able to get to the Inner Sanctum relatively quickly, despite whatever danger they may be in. So, I think my ultimatum is at least a little fair.

I'll post today if I can. If not, I will certainly post tomorrow. That post will get us moving out of Fornost.

[Saurreg]

Kransha, I believe you want the rearguard to be the last unit at the north gate. Will you be covering that part or do you want me to?

If you want Belegorn to lead the rearguard to the north gate, do tell me when you want me to make that post and also want you want me to include.

[Kransha]

Saurreg, it would, in fact, be great if you could make that post. Hirvegil won't be able to rejoin the rearguard before the battle ends anyway. I encourage everyone to move the plot along, anf maybe poke it into motion a bit, as much as they like. Saurreg, the post doesn't really need guidelines, but I would like you to make sure that you mention that the Vanguard's wounded have been taken from the field with the Rearguard, unless Osse has posted before then. You can make the post anytime you like between now and tomorrow night.

P.S. And, yes, I would like the rearguard to be the last. They are, after all, covering the retreat.

[Saurreg]

Great Kransha, I will try my best to end this part of the RPG in Fornost, hopefully by tomorrow.

Everybody, if you've got any ideas or would let your characters to be incorporated into my last post for this phase of the RPG, do let me know via discussion thread or PM. Ditto if you want to make any more posts before mine.

[alaklondewen]

I'm developing how Ereglin feels and thinks about the Rivendell Emissaries. After combing the discussion and planning thread, I found one small comment that said Bethiril is a one time envoy at Fornost. May I ask how long, relatively, she has been at Fornost? I know she had some dealing with Lindon in the past, but I'm wondering how well Ereglin knows her. I have the same question about Erenor. If she has been there for many years (or is she just arrived), this will have weight on the extent to which our characters are familiar with one another.

I don't really need exact times that are to the day or anything, but it would be helpful if I knew if the other Emissaries had been there Years, months, weeks, or days. And if you are wondering, Ereglin has been there close to 30 years.

Also, I think it would be natural that all of the Elves have a certain connection that they did not have with mortals because of their kindred and the fact they are the only (mentioned, anway) Elves in a city of Men, but at the moment (and we're not too far into it yet), we are divided.


Please let me know how you feel about this, and whether you agree with closing the division or feel we should stay as separate groups.

~Alak

[Mithalwen]

I agree that this is likely and also that in extreme situations they would draw closer because of fundamentally similar worldview which would over-ride political decisions .. though I wouldn't expect major discord between Lindon and Rivendell anyway. I hadn't really thought about that aspect of Erenor's back history. Certainly she is junior to Berethil and I don't "feel" she is a long established resident - but temporary for an elf could be years ..... There is no significant event in the tale of years that is an "obvious" marker for her arrival... but as I have played her so far she hasn't shown much affinity for the people or place which you would expect from long residence so I am leaning towards months .. a year or so at most....

[Lalwendë]

Kransha/Saurreg - I wanted to pop another post on here before your final post about the battle. Now, my post is simply one tying up loose ends about what has happened in the mind of my character during the events of several posts, but it isn't 'new' action and will not affect what you would be writing in any way, so I have posted. Now, if I have been at all presumptious in that then do let me know as soon as possible and I'll be more than happy for it to be moved.

[Osse]

I have been away for the last week, and left kind of suddenly - in my haste I forgot to mention that I would be absent... I can only apologize for not informing you all and feel bad that it was at such a crucial point in the game - I've missed so much.

I will be working on posts to fill the gaps I have unfortunately created!

Regards and apologies,

Ossë

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril has been in Fornost for a month. She's just there to arrange the military alliance between Arnor and Rivendell (with aid from Mirkwood and Lórien, perhaps.)

Mithalwen, do you think Kransha will let us attempt to formally protest the king's decision?

[CaptainofDespair]

I am sorry for my lack of posting this week. College has bound me up, yet again, in essays. Hopefully, I will whip up a post sometime this weekend.

Also, I thoroughly enjoy reading all of your posts, and I am happy to be a part of this great game. :D

[piosenniel]

Hi! I see the RPG is beginning to collect SAVEs - so I'm bringing this forward from Page 1:

Please note:

1.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

2.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

3.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Kransha]

Speaking of saves, I must apologize for the fact that I have not filled mine. Certain RL complications have made it impossible to post before tomorrow morning EST. So far, everyone (but me) is doing well. Great job, everyone!

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Sorry, pio. It won't happen again.

[Arry]

If you don't mind, I've done a post that links into Saurreg's - leaving him a 'hook' for his his post where the Rear Guard protects the citizens and Elves as they exit from the city.

If it's not suitable, just tell me and I'll remove it.

Or I can move it if there are others who want to post before Saurreg places his post on the game.

-- Arry

[Saurreg]

I have posted in the RPG thread already.

[Kransha]

Alright, I have not yet had the time to ruminate on the game so far, but, I tend to get very boring when I ruminate, so I won't do so right now. I will, however, extend congrats to everyone for getting this far, as I realize this game is a bit fast-paced and, at times, will become confusing. Posts have been prompt and long and juicy, all good things, and characters are already developing well. Kudos to all!

I have gotten us to the North Downs. I hope this does not infringe upon posts that were going to be made, but, if any of you had a post worked up or in the works that should take place before arrival at the North Downs, I'll willingly move my post (unless pio wants to insert said post before mine, but I do not wish to impose). The King has said a few choice words to the people, and I definately expect some reaction posts. If anyone has questions about the circumstances, do not hesitate to ask.

I am extending the time that I had planned for us as a group to be in the North Downs to Sunday rather than Friday, as it was before. The Witch-King's hordes, despite obstacles, are on the way, and there will be a necessary seige before the refugees escape from the Downs. Appeals can still be made to the nobility about going to an Elven refuge, and so forth. Reuniting with family might be a priority, and exposition of what is going on, or simple recognition thereof.

Good luck with posts, all. You've done well so far (in my most humble opinion, at least). Once we clear the Downs, we're headed for the real adventure.

[Nuranar]

Just a quick question that occurred to me when I thought about reactions to the speech:

Does anyone know that the Dwarf mines are abandoned? Although the King didn't say that there were Dwarves there, he did say that food and supplies would be. Just hearing that, someone would assume there are Dwarves, too. Was the King deliberately disingenuous? If anyone knows that there are no Dwarves, who would that be?

I'm asking especially for Lissi, of course. She's not "in the know" intelligence-wise. However, she's certainly well-read; even if something's not common knowledge, she's more likely to know it than the ordinary citizens.

Thanks!
Nuranar

[Osse]

I've posted.

I also have deleted my SAVE as I worked around the King's address - felt it opened up for more diverse relationships with the PC's if Carthor had to piece together the day Fornost fell. Wanted to leave it short so that you could come up with a follow up post for Lissi, Nuranar - tried to give you time so it could go in your next one, the king's address - maybe when Carthor is still unconcious?

Looking good everyone, sorry I went awol. :D

Osse

[Garen LiLorian]

Have Arvedui's sons already escaped to the Grey Havens? If not, this might be a good time for them to do so.
Just some ideas, take them for what they're worth (not much:p)
but perhaps after the Emissarys are rebuffed with Arvedui, they might go to his sons to plead their case. I don't believe it says anywhere in Tolkien's writings why the princes of the north abandoned the king. It would be a fairly large bifurcation of the story, and I don't know if you want to do it, but perhaps some of us dissatisfied Elves and Men ought to head south with the princes, and get on the ship Cirdan will provide.
Again, feel free to slap me down if I'm out of place.

On another note, I deleted my save 'cause I want that post to go after Arvedui's reaction instead of before.

[Nuranar]

Osse, it's good to know you're still with us. :) Before I write my follow-up, I'd really like to know (1) what injuries Carthor has; (2) how he was rescued from the wreckage and who did the rescuing; and (3) how he was conveyed to the refuge. This may be/will be very important for framing Lissi's reaction.

Kransha, I see you've moved your save, but I'm still wondering about what I asked earlier:

Does anyone know that the Dwarf mines are abandoned? Although the King didn't say that there were Dwarves there, he did say that food and supplies would be. Just hearing that, someone would assume there are Dwarves, too. Was the King deliberately disingenuous? If anyone knows that there are no Dwarves, who would that be?
I'd really like to know your direction on this, because it also will be key for my Lissi-post.

[Kransha]

Nuranar, your question is up to you to answer. I guess that most would assume the Erede Luin were abandoned, but anyone might assume they were still there. Whether they are or are not fully abandoned is unknown, but Arnorians know that most of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains migrated to Moria (in the Second Age, I believe, or early Third [will have to check that]). So most would assume it was abandoned rather than vice versa.

Garen, I think I will have to 'slap you down' as you put it (though not in any physical regard). Having the Elves go south would divert the entire storyline. Anyway, I was under the impression that the Princes have already departed, before the end of the seige of Fornost, with word of their father's likely destination. The Elves are free to sue for their ideas, but they will be overruled. This is an ideal device for character tension, even if it does not serve to move or over-develope the plot. Also, going south is not in the best interests of the escapees, since the Witch-King is already enchroaching around the North Downs and the southern area between the North Downs and Elven lands are swarming with orcs and foul things. Technically, going to the Blue Mountains is a bad idea, but it is not meaningless. The Rearguard is to weak to face even a small orc party at this point (100 men remain only).

[Kransha]

Just so Nilpaurion, Garen, and Mithalwen know, my save regarding the Elves' advice has been filled. I will post for Hirvegil tomorrow.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

I shall fill in my save later in the day (Philippine Standard Time, +1300 EST).

EDIT: Or perhaps tomorrow morning (PST).

[piosenniel]

A reminder:

Please remove all signatures from the RPG thread --including SAVES

[Kransha]

Ok, everyone's doing very well so far, and I would like to issue due applause, but it is nearing the time, once again, to move on. I will post for Hirvegil tomorrow evenining (I am going away this evening and shall not return until then), and then, will put up a moving post that moves ahead the timeline 4 Days, summarizes what's happened in that time, and gets us moving out of the North Downs. From then on, we will have much more time to spend in each place. I apologize for the fact that my save cannot be filled in an appropriate amount of time, but it will be filled. Good luck everyone, see you in 48 hours.

[Saurreg]

Well, I was hoping for Belegron to meet Carthor - the living legend of recent Arthedain military history. That can wait.

Really? Only 100 men left in the Rearguard? Sheesh...

[piosenniel]

Please note - players can still post if they wish about what is happening at present in the RPG. Kransha can always move his SAVE forward at a later date.

~*~ Pio

[Kransha]

Well, I'm back, and a little surprised by the lack of posts. I think it's my fault, though. The Save I put up is not a "Moving Post" it's just a save for Hirvegil's reactions, I will put up the post that gets us out of the North Downs tonight or tomorrow. So everyone should definately post any remaining thoughts on the period in the North Downs soon. I realize that I should have clarified that my save was not important (I thought I did, but I was obviously not so clear). I'll fill the save with Hirvegil's reactions to the situation in a few hours.

Well, I was hoping for Belegron to meet Carthor - the living legend of recent Arthedain military history. That can wait.

Really? Only 100 men left in the Rearguard? Sheesh...

Saurreg, if you wish to pursue this course of action you will not have to wait long. I suppose now it is too late, since the timeline will be moving tomorrow, but there will be lots of chances to talk during the exit from the North Downs.

And, about the Rearguard, I realize how slim that number is, but the story doesn't work as well if the Dunedain have 500+ soldiers. Plot devices are hard to come by.

[Nuranar]

Sorry for the delay - it's been an usually heavy homework week. I'm writing my post right now. If you beat me to it, I'll post it here and someone - probably Osse, can edit it into his post.

Point of information: If there's only about 100 fighting men left, how many civilians are there? And how many of these are councillors/courtiers/something to do with government?

[Kransha]

Point of information: If there's only about 100 fighting men left, how many civilians are there? And how many of these are councillors/courtiers/something to do with government?

There are more civilians than soldiers, but not much. The exact number is up to you or anyone else who cares to throw a number about, as long as its not too many (remember, a lot of the poorer civilians lived in the outermost sanctum of Fornost, which was completely destroyed, and many in the second level were slain. All courtiers and ministers save a few survived, though. There are probably 50 people who have ties to the King (courtiers, etc), but that's not definitive.

[Nuranar]

And thanks for the answers, Kransha. So, there's around 100 military types, around 50 king-civilians, and, say, 75 plain civilians? I can work with that.

[Saurreg]

Kransha, are there enough able-bodied men in the 75 to fill up some of the ranks in the military? I'm thinking of having my character carry out selective drafting just to bring the company to strength. Also, I think it would be a good idea to convert the remnants of the rearguard from heavy infantry into a mounted heavy dragoon outfit - the prototype precursors to the Dúnedain Rangers. What say you?

[Kransha]

Kransha, are there enough able-bodied men in the 75 to fill up some of the ranks in the military? I'm thinking of having my character carry out selective drafting just to bring the company to strength. Also, I think it would be a good idea to convert the remnants of the rearguard from heavy infantry into a mounted heavy dragoon outfit - the prototype precursors to the Dúnedain Rangers. What say you?

This is certainly a good idea. Do you think you can post about it in the next few hours, since I will definately be moving us out tonight, and yanking the timeline ahead 4 days? If so, please do not hesitate to do so.

[alaklondewen]

I have filled in my SAVE, and interestingly enough...it seems that all of the elves will be sharing quarters for the next few days. :) Feel free to add Ereglin in with the osanwë. He will certainly be glad to search for aid.

~Alak

[Kransha]

The timeline has been moved forward. This does not mean that pre-movement saves cannot be filled AND (importantly) anyone who has a post that predates mine chronologically, I can arrange [I hope] for it to be placed in the appropriate place before mine. Saurreg, this can apply to you if that is how you want to date the post you mentioned earlier.

CoD, I have sort of set you up, if you don't mind. Read my post thoroughly (well, everyone should, because it's got a lot of important little tidbits) and you will see reference to an unfilled position, that of a representative of the King (a minister) in the party of Hirvegil. This has to be Mitharan, but his reasons for volunteering are totally up to you.

I suggest everyone get some initial conversation done fast, or at least begun. We are moving towards the river Baranduin (AKA Brandywine) and then to Annuminas. Refer to any maps for locations and distances. I will not move the timeline ahead for a bit, since all movement will take place in real time. Until a week from now, we have no deadline to hit so, post away. Since the party is actually relatively small (less than 100 people), characters can communicate with others never met before. Later on, though, most of the played characters will be explicably forced to meet...

[Nuranar]

They're using the women and child as a decoy?! And everyone knows this?! :eek: :eek:

Aman, Novnarwen, Osse, Lalwendë: Anyone want to post something nice and emotional? I think some "righteous anger" might fit the bill quite nicely at this point. ;)

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Mithalwen, I have space in my post for the actual transmission . . . errr . . . counsel thingy.

Since I have no idea what to actually talk about in the aforementioned counsel, perhaps it would be better if you did the scene. You could place your post here, and pio--if she will consent--, or I, could place it on the game thread.

[piosenniel]

If anyone wants a post placed - tell me the number of the post in which you want it placed and whether it is to go before or after the post already there on the game.

~*~ Pio

[Saurreg]

piosenniel, can you place this post in the RPG thread, any slot before the final council? thanks.

POST PLACED ----- PIO
==================

Belegorn was pleased that the address went well. Hírvegil was a natural born leader of men and like all who partook in this gift of genius, he had an irresistible charisma that few could deny. His inspirational speech, delivered by that crystal clear animated voice aroused the fiery spirit of his people within the hearts of the soldiers and filled them with newfound hope and courage. The first lieutenant found it especially gratifying to see that as his men filed out of the barracks, their grey eyes were sparkling and the corners of their mouths curled upwards. Belegorn had little doubt that if their beloved captain was to order them to head back to Fornost and retake the great city right at that moment; they would do so without the slightest hesitation.

Belegorn turned to his captain to congratulate him but was taken aback when he saw the eyes his intent. The very eyes which captivated his audience and held them spell bound during the speech were now dull and lifeless – devoid of the wild fire that spun its hypnotic dance in them a few moments ago. Those grey eyes were still beautiful and clear, but they were heavy, spiritless. It was as if a totally dissimilar Hírvegil was sharing the room with Belegorn; the inspirational captain whom men would gladly lay down their lives down for had disappeared amidst the ranks of exiting soldiers and replaced by the same man whom he accosted in the main hall. For a moment Belegorn felt incredibly depressed and an irrational urge arose to seize the man before him by the shoulders and shake violently just for a glimpse of that hope again. Hirvegil noticed that his lieutenant was staring at him intently,

“Lieutenant, you should get some rest too. You must be tired after your ordeal in the north passage,”

“Sir…” Belegorn begun, but the rest of the words died in his mouth and never came forth. He eluded the still penetrating glance of Hírvegil and stared at the aged stone paved floor like a child who had discovered a secret those around were trying to hide from him. A spider darted across the floor from a cot and disappeared beneath the cracks of a stone curved wall.

Hírvegil narrowed his eyes and spoke, this time a bit more sternly,

“You may speak your mind lieutenant, if there is something you wish to say,”

“Belegorn cleared throat mildly and started a new,

“Beg your pardon sir. I was going ask you if I could have your permission to round up some of the civilians as fillers for the ranks. Some of the men are too seriously wounded for duty and all are too tired. Replacements are needed sir.”

“Very good Belegron,” replied Hírvegil addressing his subordinate by his name, “you have my permission to carry out your drafting. And don’t confine your search to the commoners alone, you may also include the youths of higher society in this exercise. They too must play a part in this nation’s defense, no?”

Hírvegil gave Belegron a wane smile as he concluded. The latter knew that his captain understood his distain for the aristocracy and nobility and must have added the last punt in jest just to lighten the air, but the younger man did not reciprocate. Squaring his shoulders, Belegorn continued in sonorous voice,

“And also, I am in the opinion sir, that the role of the rearguard must change. We are too scant in numbers and capacity to operate under current doctrine. If you would permit sir, I would like to have every single guardsman mounted on chargers and thus fighting as mounted light infantry. Every one of the one hundred is a trained rider – a basic prerequisite for entry into the Rearguard, so there shouldn’t be much problems sir. As for the replacements, we’ll try to pick out accomplished riders and at least those with some experiences handling the noble beasts. At worst, there’s nothing a good crash course in mounted warfare couldn’t solve.”

Hírvegil nodded and replied,

“I am also for this idea. Very well, you may carry out this reorganization of the rearguard lieutenant. Except I feel that a hundred mounted infantrymen would be hard pressed by the enemy in a standard engagement, with or without the crash course. I’m thinking on the lines of reconnoitering and scouting. At this point of time, I will have to pay a higher premium on battles avoided over battles won.”

Belegorn nodded curtly. Taking a step backwards from Hírvegil, he snapped into a smart salute, turned and strode towards the exit into the main halls hoping to find a senior sergeant or two.

As the first lieutenant passed the rows of green painted oak wood cots, he debated whether to stop and speak his mind to Hírvegil but decided against it. After all, a vexing comment would do no good in such times…

Hírvegil son of Sildathar, you give hope to others. Why do you not keep any to yourself?


=======================

[CaptainofDespair]

Okey dokey, I will get a post up as soon as possible. I am sorry for my utter lack of posting at the moment. I will be attempting to start/finish my post tonight. Hopefully I can get one done before tomorrow. If not, I'll be putting my post up on Thursday.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Apologies for my absence, I've been quite ill for the last couple of days and am getting sorted now. I will make a post as soon as I can :)

[piosenniel]

Saurreg

Your post is placed ---- see post #53

-----------------------------------------------

Everyone

If you want a post placed, please go back and look at the RPG thread and tell me the # of the post space you want it put in AND whether you want it put before or after the post already in the space.

~*~ Pio

[Mithalwen]

POST PLACED ~*~ PIO

-------

Erenor looked up and a glimmer of a smile passed briefly over her face as she saw the emissary from the Havens. Although he was younger than she - he had been less than a couple of centuries out of childhood when she had removed to Imladris after Gil-galad was lost - she knew him to have risen to high office through great determination. Furthermore his experience of the court far exceeded that of Berethil or herself who were relative newcomers, sent as the severity of the situation had increased. Finally - and Erenor hated to think that this was a factor - there was the possibility that by virtue of his gender, Ereglin's view would be taken more seriously than those of the Noldorin ladies despite their seniority in years and perhaps also in power. It rankled still how the old courtier had spoken to her as if she were a wilful and ignorant child. Ereglin with his strong resolve and the authority of his long ambassadorship would be a powerful ally.

Erenor spoke, and when she did so her voice was dulcet enough to meet even the most demanding standards of diplomacy.


"My lord Ereglin, your arrival is as the answer to a prayer for I wish greatly to have you counsel and if you will it your aid" . She relayed the facts of their attempt to speak with the king in measured terms. "Every instinct tells me that the king's choice leads to doom - I would attempt to persuade him but I fear I will be denied access - I will attempt to reach the minds of our Lords in Rivendell - perhaps if you will you might try likewise to gain counsel from the havens. the distance is great but our need may aid the transmission if there are those whose minds are open to our thought. "

Erenor fell silent and sought with her mind for contact. Knowing that the sharing of thoughts was easier with kindred and close friends she focused her will on her kinsamn, a councillor of Elrond. She closed her mind to outside influences but it seemed that a great fog lay between the downs and her home sapping her power. She sighed...... " We cannot give up " she said.

[Kransha]

Well, I must say I'm very glad for this sudden burst of posts. Thanks, of course, are due to pio for her familiar acumen.

As of now, we have 9 days (roughly) to get to the Hills of Evendim (Real Time, that is). Good job everyone - this is really shaping up, and we haven't even hit the first real plot point yet; as I see it, the time spent in the Downs and Fornost was all an introduction, a lengthened prologue. Now we're really in the story.

[Garen LiLorian]

I'd appreciate it if us Elves could have a little "time" to work out which party we're planning to be in. I just posted on the subject (which may, at our fearless leader's discretion, need to be moved up a few posts) but...

[Kransha]

Woops, I have apparently made a mistake (sorry, Garen). The Elves already have their party chosen, they're in the second (wouldn't make much sense if they were in the first, since the first contains no other played characters and will not be participating in any of the harrowing adventures of the second). My post - the mover - was supposed to state the reason, but I forgot that. I will edit it in the morning to add that. Must've completely slipped my mind.

I realize that there are, seemingly, a lot of restrictions, but I think that having the characters all seperate does not bode well. There will be numerous points in the game where the characters split up, or are seperated by some distance, but this is not one. A trip with the King would prove an extraordinarily tedious one.

[Garen LiLorian]

Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose that makes a whole lot more sense. Gonna go edit my post now...

[Kransha]

My edit is made - Sorry about the confusion...again.

[Garen LiLorian]

Garen

Thanks for bringing that to my attention. Please note the problem has been corrected.

~*~ Pio

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

I came to fill it in yestre day, but the computer centre I was posting in lost its server. I can't wait for them to fix it, as my class had already begun.

Again, I'm sorry.

Ms. pio, could you please place this post after Kransha's post (#54)?
__________________

POSTED TO THE GAME --- PIO

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril headed for the council chamber. She hoped that the days had brought a renewal of minds to the King and his counsellors, and that in going alone, without Erenor and her fiery temper, they would reach peacefully a path that would avert the danger from Arnor.

She found the door shut. Inside, she heard voices. This is strange . . . The Noldo approached the guard standing beside the wooden doors. “What is happening behind these portals?”

“The ministers and the lords and the captains of Fornost are holding council.”

She glowered at the guard. “How can that be? Would they hold assembly without the Elven emissaries?” She essayed to gain entry into the chamber.

“Milady,” the guard said, barring the way of Bethiril. “You cannot enter.”

“Why?”

“I am but following orders, milady.”

“Whose orders?” Bethiril asked, though she already knew the answer. “The counsellor Mellonar?”

The guard swallowed. “Yes, milady. It was he.”

Bethiril stood still, staring at the doors, as if by some Elven-craft she could see through the wooden barriers. Once again, that contemptible Man had gotten in her way. Who knows what rede the King now pronounces, with the craven Mellonar controlling his every thought.

Once again, helplessness set in. Calmly, she turned away from the doors, and made her way back to their quarters.

[Nuranar]

I will be at a conference until Sunday afternoon. I hope to check the threads, but I can't make any promises. :(

[Saurreg]

Next week will be the week of Chinese Lunar New Year feastivities and as such I might not be around for the whole week, starting monday local time. I will be making checks tomorrow and on Sunday just to see if replies have been made to my post and try to end off that episode before I go a-feasting and merry-making.

Amanaduial the archer and Arry, the last part of my post was obviously directed to you two. Hope to get a response soon. ;)

And to the rest:

Have a happy lunar new year in the year of the Sky Chicken (no joke). Good health, happiness and prosperity. Gong Xi Fa Cai!

[Arry]

I've filled my save and answered Faerim's question . . . well, as much as those pesky Elves actually answer questions . . .

Aman

I'll leave it to Faerim and the portly lofficer to speak with Belegorn and will chime in if I see an opportunity . . .

-- Arry

[Kransha]

Ah, everything seems to be going well. I am aware that this is a bit of an off week, but I am held to my deadline, though. This Thursday Night (EST) I'll be moving us to the Hills of Evendim. Then, it will be a full 3 weeks (rather than the consistent 1 we've been having) before the timeline is drastically moved forward. Any conversations or things that cannot be wrapped up before Thursday can be incorporated into other posts or inserted in necessary places, so don't feel bad if you have to take your time.

[Lalwendë]

Arry, Aman and Saurreg - I've just written a post which mentions your characters, hope it's all OK. :) It just mentions them in passing, in a way, though Renedwen is hoping Faerim is not in trouble, as she is grateful to him, and curious about the child - this might open up future posts to do with Arry's character... I thought she must have some connection to Captain Belegorn through her father and husband being ranking officers, so I hope that's OK; at the least, she would know who he was.

[piosenniel]

Nilpaurion Felagund

Please clear out your PM's

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Arry]

My SAVE is filled in.

Lalwendë - Rôsgollo and his young charge have come over to see you.

[Kransha]

We're in the Hills of Evendim! *fanfare*

This does not, though, mean that the timeline has fully moved. If anyone was working on posts that took place before the transition or at any time during the journey, don't stop. Finish those and they'll be posted before my "moving post." So don't worry, all is well...or is it...

My post has us in the hills, on a non-personal level. My Save is just about Hirvegil, and the camp basically going out like a light. The train hasn't slept in days, and hasn't gotten real sleep in more than a week. So, it goes without saying that they're very very tired. Thus, everyone's asleep in the temporary camp, except, possibly, for the Elves, but I'm guessing they need to rest/meditate/relax as well.

Unfortunately, the group isn't as safe as they all think they are.

[Kransha]

My save, she is filled...

CoD, that's your cue.

[CaptainofDespair]

I have added my post for the orc kidnappers. If anything needs to be changed, do tell me. I may be 'refining' the post later, as this was written in a near-slumber. The details however, shouldn't be major, or concern much of anything. :D

[Arry]

Let me just clarify the recent scenario:

All of the Elves were successfully dragged off by Orcs? Without a fuss? Were the Elves drugged?

If it is all of the Elves - then I'd like to protest the use of my characters in such a way. You can certainly present an attack on the 2 Elves, but to think they'd be taken without a fight, and by Orcs, is simply not in character for them. They're seasoned warriors - it's unlikely that both of them would be asleep at once.

[CaptainofDespair]

Yes, it was all the Elves, I think.

And if you really must protest, I'll edit your elf out, and find some reason for the orcs to ignore your character.

[Garen LiLorian]

I've got to second Arry's feeling. Not that I mind being taken captive, it'll be fun and interesting, but it seems a little out of character that (in the cases of the guards, anyway) they were all taken without a fight or even so much as a struggle or noise. It doesn't work for me that the Elves wouldn't have a guard posted, or wouldn't simply sense the presence of the yrch.

Cap, I think this is something that can be taken care of with a simple edit. I certainly don't want to miss out on this adventure but...
I dunno. We're guards. If the Orcs captured the emissaries first it might make sense that we would surrender... but I trust your creativity and writing skills to make it plausible :)

[CaptainofDespair]

No, this really can't be done with a simple edit. In my mind, I must take them all. The Emissaries and guards wouldn't reside in different quarters totally. This provides me with a problem. I can't just take the emissaries, as some guards would be lingering around. And I can't just take guards, as that is entirely useless. I doubt the orcs would be able to tell the difference between an emissary, and a guard anyway, so they would take as many as possible.

But, I will remove the post, and replace it with a Save for now. I will spend tomorrow re-writing the post.

[Kransha]

Well, this brings us to an interesting question: How long can Elves go without sleep (and when they do, do they dream of electric sheep?...*rimshot*)

I will clarify that the guards, intently guarding the Elves for 3 weeks, would be really exhausted, and at least one would be asleep from each party, leaving two awake (this is an unavoidable fact, rather than a vague attempt at bunnying [see Rules for Shire Games]). I anticipated, in fact, that this scenario might be a bit of a jolt, but I would like everyone to accomodate it. The result of it is not up to me, it's nearly open-ended, but it has to be underway.

CoD, no need to do a major renovation. Anything that suits you is fine, as long as it is not wholly inconvenient to everyone else. I think assuming that all guards who are awake are ready for battle is a bit of a realistic stretch, so it would'nt be hard to overcome those not sleeping. Any simple method you like.

I apologize, of course, for this mild inconvenience to Arry, Garen, and CoD. This is one of the hazards that comes with trying to keep a game on a set course open and enjoyable.

[Garen LiLorian]

In the spirit of discussion,

As before Legolas was first afoot, if indeed he had ever slept and
he could sleep, if sleep it could be called by Men, resting his mind in the strange paths of elvish dreams, even as he walked open-eyed in the light of this world and
whenever they awoke they saw Legolas standing beside them, or walking to and fro, singing softly to himself in his own tongue
All from LotR, Bk3, Ch2, The Riders of Rohan

So no, I don't think Elves sleep. But I'm not going to be contrary and I'm sure that they are weary after such a long ride, so whatever is fine with me.:)

[CaptainofDespair]

Alright, I've reposted the orc expedition's foray into the camp. I have not taken all the Elves. The guards have been left, only with the emissaries being taken. Everything else remains untouched. I hope this fixes the objections to the previous version.

-CoD

[Kransha]

Thanks much, CoD, for doing this despite inconvenience. I'm glad a compromise was reached. And Garen, thanks for your literary input.

This does present an interesting situation, though, with the guards still in the camp without their charges.

[piosenniel]

Just for my own clarification:

The Orcs now have the 3 Elven emissaries and 1 Dúnedan woman with her child.

Correct?

And no hue and cry has been raised in the Dúnedain camp during the entire night, because no one has noticed this has occurred?

~*~ Pio, Game Moderator

[Saurreg]

I have posted my save. Sorry for the delay piosenniel, it won't happen again.

Amanaduial, I'm not sure whether you'll like your character to join the conscripts yet or have some more free time for himself, hence my character dismissed him. You may complete your save the way you want to and I will make the necessary changes in mine.

As for CoD's excellent post, it is unfortunate that the rearguard and militias proved inept... What poor security.

[Arry]

Garen

I've left an opening for Angore to make an appearance. Will edit as needed.

-- Arry

[Mithalwen]

Err ???? Excuse me? Berethil and Erenor are meant to have been carried off more or less without noticing? Let alone a fight.... :eek:

[Amanaduial the archer]

*sigh*

I know I always seem to be apologising and making promises to make up lost time now, but recently things have gotten a little hectic... It was either make RPG posts or miss a few deadlines in school, and bearing in mind the coursework is all catching up now...gah, yeah. I shall finish my post and make another new one tonight or tomorrow.

Thanks for your patience and I'm sorry again.

[Osse]

Just checking in. Got a few posts in the works...

[Nuranar]

I'm here, too. Just haven't posted... hope to remedy that shortly...

[alaklondewen]

I apologize...I had planned on filling in my SAVE before I go to class this morning, but my daughter woke up with a fever, so that's going to have to be on hold for just a bit. I should still be able to write the post today, but I will be unable to post it until this evening. Again, I apologize for any inconveniences.

~Alak

[Novnarwen]

I'm deeply sorry for my absence. I've had so much homework lately that my time spent by the computer has been limited. I hope that I'll manage to post soon, even though I have no idea what's going on in the game, as I haven't had the chance to read anything.... If someone could be kind enough to carry along Brander in the next couple of days and give me a short summary of the most important events, I should be able to post by the end of next week.

Again, deeply sorry.

Nova

[Kransha]

I must apologize, but I am unable to fill my save for another 24 hours. I am very busy with a RL issue at the moment, and inconviently timed computer problems are making it hard to get on the Downs. I should have everything solved by tomorrow. Don't be hesitant to post in my absence: disregard my save completely. I was thinking of deleting the save, but for some reason I cannot. I realize that this is the off season, and many things are occuring, so I won't be pesky about forcing posts out of people.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

I had deleted my save before Mithalwen's because I realised the stupidity of negotiating with Orcs for the release of one of us.

But it seems my fellow emissaries have contrived a scenario. I'll have a post up by Monday.

[Kransha]

First of all, I have posted.

Second, I would like to add a clarification. We've gotten to a point in the game where I no longer need to move the game along. Since the next course of action is obvious, anyone who wants to get us moving can and, since Hirvegil (despite his resilience) is basically going to do whatever Belegorn and Mitharan suggest, the plan-making is up to you (preferably Saurreg and CoD, but anyone can protest against those, speak out, whatever; it's a free game now, folks).

This is a time of great hardship for the Dunedain, and I'm sure everyone has an interesting opinion on the matter. Maybe, some people even have a few ideas...

[Arry]

Saurreg

Great post!

--

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, sir

Brought a smile!

Live long and prosper!

-- Arry, in Trekker mode

[piosenniel]

Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts.

If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[CaptainofDespair]

I have put up a post for Mitharan. If anything needs to be changed, do let me know. Also, I will be putting together another post for Nagbak and his orcs.

[Arry]

FYI for anyone interacting with Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel -- Rôsgollo is the one with Gilly, not Gaeredhel

So, Aman and Lalwendë, if you'll just change those references in your posts.

----------

Aman

Resistance, Faerim had learnt at a young age, was futile.

*chuckles

Resistance is futile.

Another generation of Star Trekker chimes in . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

*chuckles

Resistance is futile.

Another generation of Star Trekker chimes in . . .
[/quote] Lol, not even a fan particularly but, well, I try to please ;) I'll edit now - my apologies for that mistake, Arry.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

After a reporting mishap, the time I should have devoted to crafting a response was instead devoted to researching Official Natio . . .

Do we really need to know the specific reason.

Sorry. Late academic year crunch. But, will do post for Thursday. Really, Thursday.

[Arry]

A quick question about location.

Where exactly is the Dunedain camp? I know we are in the Hills of Evendim, but where in relation to say Lake Evendim?

And in which direction have the Orcs gone -- north? or . . . ?

[CaptainofDespair]

The orcs, initially, have gone to the southwest. However, once the elves reach the abandoned camp of the orcs, they will be presented with a new situation. ;)

As always, if it needs editing, do let me know. ;)

And bravo to all on the posting. Tis a great game we have going. :D

[Arry]

Garen and Aman

I've brought us to the abandoned Orc camp . . . which way we go will depend on what news Angore brings back to the group.

-- Arry

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Pio, could you place it after alak's post (#74)?

** POST PLACED 2/24 ** ~*~ PIO
__________________

Bethiril had been close to Orcs before. During Morgoth’s assault on Gondolin, when she was but a child, a band of them came upon their escaping band in Cirith Thoronath. One of the guards was cut down before her eyes by their curved blades, and the same doom would have befallen her and her mother had not Thorondor and his folk swooped down and sent the Glamhoth shrieking to their doom.

Now, their guard was nowhere to be seen, and no eagle came to their aid. Yet, to her surprise, they were still alive, and even treated fairly well. There was no torture, nor threats of it, and no despoiling was done: things she had heard Orcs do to their prisoners. She had obtained news from Ereglin, and she was astonished at the way this abduction was being used.

Politics.

This proves that she was right all along: even the Orcs, putative enemies of Middle-earth, tire of bloodshed. And this could be her chance to take that great step towards the cessation of all hostility. All she needed to do was take it.

She could start by not escaping. She turned to her companions, hoping neither of them was planning flight right now.

[Kransha]

I've placed up a Save, but I would like to clarify its contents in advance so that those involved can work on or place up posts afterward. It involves Hirvegil sending guards to summon to him Carthor, Renedwen, and, possibly, Lissi and Brander, because of their distant (and to some, unknown) relationship to the Elves. Of course, the guards who do the summoning won't be divulging anything about the reasons for said summoning. Technical difficulties are making it hard for me to navigate the vast spiderweb of the net, or the vast spidernet of the web, so I thought I'd make sure I got that on the table in case I can't fill my Save soon.

[Lalwendë]

Just checking in to say I've seen that Renedwen will be 'interrogated' soon as to her relationship with the elves - haven't been on much in the last 48 hours as I've been very ill :( . I'm hoping to see what manner her interrogation will take before posting again, but if I do post first, it will not cover the questioning, just events 'in between times'.

[Kransha]

Just in case no one's noticed, my save has been filled.

Though I do not wish to rush anything, I would like this whole scenario to be over eventually. People seem to be a little busy, and RL is rearing its pseudo-ugly head, as usual. This is fine and expected, and everything's pretty much on track, but I would like to see if people can respond in a timely fashion, which is what has been going on (much to my gratitude) and I hope it can stay that way.

[Nuranar]

Kransha, I did notice that you'd filled your save. I waited because I didn't know what Hírvegil wanted with them, and I thought perhaps you would add more.

As Mithalwen said, I still have no idea in what manner the 'interrogation' will take place. In the meantime, I've posted what I could and summoned our party to Hírvegil. But in the absence of more direction, and without hijacking the story, I do not think I can do more. I hope this is sufficient for now.

[Kransha]

Oh, feel free to hijack the plot a little if you like, Nuranar.

I will have a post containing said "interrogating" up later today.

[Kransha]

Ok, once again I am in straits that make me unable to post, but I don't want to impede the game. My post will be up within 24 hours of now, but I want people to know what the post will contain and posts their own additions after my Save (pending) before it is filled. My post will consist of mostly introductions, but here is the all-important question, directed at everyone. Here is a quote from my upcoming post that should aid Nuranar, Lalwende, Osse, and Novnarwen:

“As you probably know, the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

That should be helpful...

[Nuranar]

It seems to me that either Lalwendë or Osse should post a response - Lissi has nothing of her own knowledge to add, and she's not one to speak first without reason. Because of that, I sent Osse a PM yesterday, asking if he wanted to post or if I should handle Carthor's response as well as Lissi's. But he hasn't even read my message yet. So, Lalwendë, please go ahead and post. If I don't hear from Osse soon I'll take care of Carthor regardless - but to give him more time, please go ahead and post first if you can. Thanks!

[piosenniel]

Osse has not responded, either, to a PM from me sent recently.

He has not posted to the RPG, in fact, since 01-25-2005 (far longer than the allowed absence from a Shire game) -- please do feel free to carry his character as needed.


~*~ Pio, Game Moderator

[Arry]

Garen

Do you want me to post that the tracks have been found, and then get us all heading north?

Will do so . . . or you can. Just let me know.

-- Arry

[Lalwendë]

It seems to me that either Lalwendë or Osse should post a response - Lissi has nothing of her own knowledge to add, and she's not one to speak first without reason. Because of that, I sent Osse a PM yesterday, asking if he wanted to post or if I should handle Carthor's response as well as Lissi's. But he hasn't even read my message yet. So, Lalwendë, please go ahead and post. If I don't hear from Osse soon I'll take care of Carthor regardless - but to give him more time, please go ahead and post first if you can. Thanks!

Quick message for Nuranar, Pio & Kransha. I've just read your messages, and I should be able to come up with something today for this, so do not fear. :) Still off sick at home, but I'm coherent enough to write a post, and I've the time so...
I'm thinking Renedwen will respond with her negative thoughts about the future success of the whole escape, and may reveal inadvertently where the Elves have gone.

[Saurreg]

Hi, I'll be waiting for an opportunity. But for now I'll just sit back and read.

[CaptainofDespair]

I will try to have a post up for Mitharan, or the orcs, or both, by this weekend. The earliest I can do this however, is Saturday, as I will be going home for Spring Break on Friday. :(

[Garen LiLorian]

Arry;
Sorry about the delay, good ol' RL getting in the way. I'll try to have a post up this afternoon, but if I can't please feel free to find the tracks yourself.

[Kransha]

Forgive me for not posting here yesterday, when I should've but I couldn't just then. RL is busy for all, it seems, and may have drawn Osse away. Thank you, Nuranar, for taking over Carthor temporarily. If he doesn't return, I'll try to organize a permanent arrangement. Great posts, as usual, from everyone, though I would like it if the members of the "away team" (obligatory Star Trek reference) could post.

We have ETA 1 week from today to wrap up this scenario, officially. I've done some major tweaking of the timetable (pio, if you need this info presented clearly, i.e. the revised timeline, I can send it to you tomorrow). If it can be done sooner, that would be great, but it by no means has to. Technically, we're in a good place, but I'd like to stay consistent. Thanks, everyone, for your help.

[Garen LiLorian]

Hai, Hai. Lyokai, Kransha-sama. (That's a roger, yessir) Will move this scenario right along. Would have posted earlier today, but the net's been down since this morning.

Edit; There ya go, Arry. A little excitement for our daring rescuers.

[Arry]

There are nine Orcs attacking the 3 elves and Faerim. Two of the Orcs have bows; the rest have either blades or clubs.

One of the Orcs who wields a bow is dead; one of the others is probably dead or pretty much out of commission.

Gaeredhel has been wounded by an arrow, and has fallen to the ground. Rôsgollo has dismounted and gone to his brother’s side. Angóre is on foot. Faerim is the only one still on horse.

Aman

Do you want to take the fight from here?

-- Arry

[Nuranar]

I don't think I'll be able to post today. RL is getting out of control, and I have to study/work on a project absolutely every minute. If I need to I'll delete my save. :(

[piosenniel]

Nuranar

Can you fill your Save by Sunday night?

~*~ Pio

[Nuranar]

I think so. I'll definitely try my best. If I can't, I'll delete it then. Is that all right?

[Amanaduial the archer]

The fight has been continued - I hope my handling of it was alright?

Garen and Arry - I have corrected the names of your elves by putting on the little marky thingies over the 'o's in your respective names. I meant to do so after the post but what with one thing and another, I forgot. I apologise for that, and hope this is alright and that I have used your characters appropriately. :)

[Garen LiLorian]

No worries, Aman. I heartily approve of your handling.
And extra kudos for picking up that a javelin fighter such as Angóre would be at a distinct disadvantage on the ground!

[Osse]

I'm not going to make excuses, let's just say that life has been hectic, and my RPG commitment/s have been low on my to-do-list... for that I can only apologise. I won't be able to commit the time I would like to this game, or the time being a good writer in which denotes.

However, I have PM'ed Nuranar with plans on how we're going to get around this, for a week or two - I will try and keep Carthor more active, and at least tell you guys when i think i'll be AWOL, but then it wouldn't really be AWOL as you'd know where i'd be...

ANYWAYS.

I have a POST, that needs to be put either into Nuranar's save spot or inserted there under my name...

This is starting to sound strained, but i will TRY and be a good boy and post once a week, even if it means depriving myself of sleep...

Regards,

He-Who-Is-Now-Commited-Again (Osse)

[Amanaduial the archer]

My pleasure, Garen, I'm glad you liked it *bows* ;)

Arry - good plan, that sounds fine to me :) Thanks.

[Nuranar]

I have inserted Osse's posted and completed it with mine. The 'interrogation' is over, and Hírvegil is at leisure to determine his next move. In her current frame of mind, Lissi may relieve emotion by sharpening her sword. ;)

[piosenniel]

Please remember to remove your signatures from ALL posts to the RPG thread.

~*~ Pio

[Arry]

Aman, Garen

I've filled in my SAVE. We are now on the eastern perimeter of the Orc camp. Hidden by a fortunate stand of trees. :cool:

Rôsgollo will wait with the horses to keep them quiet and guard them while your 2 characters scout the camp.

Have fun!

--Arry

[Kransha]

I've posted - yet again.

My post does contain a plot point, but don't think of it as a major plot movement. Think of it, rather, as Hirvegil's feeble attempt to move the plot. He's a little too weary, and slightly ill, to really know what he's doing. And he may well be leading a fool's mission. His hopes are to ride fast enough to catch up with his own troops, the Elves, and overwhelm the orcs no matter the cost, just to finish up the matter before he loses control even more. This may prove unnecessary, since the Elves could accomplish their mission before he arrives (and could certainly do so) but he plans to attempt it anyway. It may not, though, be in the best interests of those around him...

Remember, we now only have 3-4 days to finish this up (i.e. crunch time for this segment).

[Nuranar]

So he's leaving the civilians who don't count completely unprotected? Brilliant! That could be fun... :p
Remember, we now only have 3-4 days to finish this up (i.e. crunch time for this segment).
Ah, rats.

I will be home from Friday the 11th to Sunday the 20th for Spring Break. I'll have computer access, but I'm not sure how much nor how often. I'll definitely be checking in and I will try to post at least twice, opportunity permitting, but I wanted to give a heads up.

[Saurreg]

piosenniel,

Permission to fill my save in 48hrs time? I've got a quiz on friday morning so that next 24 hrs are out.

[CaptainofDespair]

Ack...Sorry for my lack of posting. I came home Friday night to find that my internet is being uncooperative. I will defnitely try to get something up real soon for the orcs, hopefully within the next 36 hours.

[piosenniel]

48 hours is fine, Saurreg.

Good luck on your quiz.

~*~ Pio

[Amanaduial the archer]

Brilliant post, Kransha :) I'm about to rush out, but I shall post a follow up of sorts tomorrow evening after I get back from parents' evening. If I survive that is -erk!

Wonderful posts everyone - the interrogation interaction was first class, to use rather appropriate turn of phrase...

[Mithalwen]

Savce filled - any probs let me know..

[Arry]

If no one's put up a rescue post by the end of the day or a SAVE -- I'll go ahead and bring us along to that point.

-- Arry

[Garen LiLorian]

Sorry, I keep sitting down to write a post right as the next minor emergency in a seemingly undending chain emerges. Aman, I know I said I'd take the next post, but go ahead and write it, if you have the time. Otherwise, go right ahead Arry.

[Kransha]

Again, I've posted. To avoid copyright infringement, I'd like to point out that I owe the title of that post to Walt Whitman and Abraham Lincoln (in spirit).

Since this scenario is wrapping up nicely, I don't want to rush it. It can [convievably] continue until Sunday, but absolutely no later. I've cut down on tedious journey days (which I'd originally built in, but serve little purpose besides, as it has been put, "fluff"). By next Monday, we'll jump from the finale of this instance straight to the Ered Luin, some time later.

Hirvegil's charging at nothing, which could be costly for the Rearguard. At the fast rate they're going, it won't be to long before they catch up with the Dunedain riders, then Elves, possibly blowing their cover. I remind y'all, they don't have to take time because they now have three sets of tracks to follow (orcs, Elves, Dunedain), so their path is very obvious - just for clarification.

[Arry]

alaklondewen

Your post was great! I'll use it to effect the rescue of the prisoners in a long post tomorrow.

That is . . . unless Faerim or Angóre wants to take a crack at it. Let me know.

-- Arry

[Arry]

The Elves and the woman and child have now been rescued and are heading back to the Dunedain camp.

There is every opportunity for the Dunedain troops to meet up with them somewhere along the line and engage the pursuing Orcs.

-- Arry

[Kransha]

Thank you, Arry, for getting us this far.

Unfortunately, I do not think I will be able to post an encounter between the Dunedain, orcs, and Elves tonight. I would be very grateful if someone involved could do this, handled in whatever manner seems good (Arry, Saurreg, Aman, CoD, Garen, alak, Nilpaurion, Mith, whoever wants to). If not, I can concievably do it, but it would be very hard for me to do.

I will, though, post in the aftermath of the meeting/rescue/battle to get us to the Ered Luin.

[Kransha]

My last post can be, now, completely disregarded, since I have, in fact, posted (so...many...commas).

If anyone want to put up a "battle post", I HIGHLY recommend you put up a save, because the battle will be over tomorrow. It's not meant to be a long battle, or a very epic one. Just a disorganized, unprepared-for skirmish. Hirvegil tactical bungles will probably cost the Rearguard more men then it needs to lose because of the mad charge he initiated, which almost cost the Elves and Faerim their lives.

Tomorrow, arround afternoon EST, I'll be moving us straight from whatever is going on to the Ered Luin, and onto the next stage of our adventure.

[Saurreg]

Not one to blow my horn, but I thought the last two posts of the RPG complemented one another will didn't they? :D

Aside from my atrocious writing, I thought the fantastic post of Garen LiLorian's tied very well with mine. He wrote about the charge of the cavalry as seen through the eyes of the elves and I concluded with the end of the charge as seen through the eyes of my character. Perhaps now Kransha would tidy up some loose ends with his ever spectacular contributions! ;)

[Amanaduial the archer]

Kransha - I can't rate you again yet, but...oh, funniest post, really very amusing. The image of the intoxicated Johnny Depp on horseback is now irrevocably infused into Hirvegil in that post! ;)

I hope I have handled Erenor correctly for you, Mithalwen - I tried not to stray out of what you have said of her personality in her profile and previous posts, and she is now merrily (well, maybe not) attacking the orcs on her own horse. I hope I handled her correctly? :)

[Kransha]

I've posted - twice (oy).

First, I apologize for the awful amount of reading this requires everyone to do. My first post just gets us out of the battle and back to the camp, so no one has to read it, but the second post contains a lot of crucial information. Purely for the sake of verbal, mental, emotional, and philosophical clarification, I'll summarize: Belegorn must now lead a group, consisting only of the characters played by players (minus Hirvegil), deep into the caverns of the Ered Luin to look for food, supplies, or "other lifeforms." Its a hazardous job but, as they say about trendy fads today, everybody's doing it. The Dunedain will disperse through the caves in different directions.

There are miles to explore, underground levels that go deep into the earth, and things that lurk in the shadows - baaaad things (Beware!). No groups will be in close proximity to each other. Think of the situation presented to the Fellowship of the Ring as they explored the depths of Moria, the Black Pit. The Dwarven cities, Belegost and Nogrod, met similar fates; now long abandoned. They were once great cities which delved deep and...well, you know.

That is all. Hopefully that information provides suitable background to start off this new branch of the storyline. I am, of course, continually pleased by the greatness of everyone's posts. Great job, everyone!

P.S. Thanks much for the accolades, Aman. Now, unfortunately, I've been left with the mental image of Hirvegil saying "saavy" a little too often (Hey, don't look at me that way. My brother made me see it!).

P.P.S. My posts were, actually, so long that I had to clip out a section of long description of the immediate beginning of the caverns. I will fill it, pio in 24 hours. It is, by no means, essential, since I want the players to describe their surroundings rather than me...

P.P.P.S. I do hope I handled the character[s] I used adequately. Saurreg, since my posts contained a great deal of interaction between Hirvegil and Belegorn, don't hesitate to inform me if you think I misused him.

[Saurreg]

Kransha, you handled my character just fine. :)

I guess now would be a good time for the other players to post a breather while the battered rearguard takes a break. I'll post later this week.

Cheers!

[Arry]

Kransha

In view of my post, #118, you might want to emend this part of your post:


Hírvegil shifted unreadily. “How many?” he asked, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Fourteen dead, three gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The Elves are safe – and as caustic as ever – and the men have mostly recovered.”

The Elven prisoners are safe, but Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo are dead in the fight with the Orcs.

[alaklondewen]

Wow, Arry, this is an unpleasant surprise this morning. The death of any Elf is hard to take, but one that is personally known is more so. I must say that it's been a pleasure working with you, and I hope I adequately portray Ereglin's grief at loosing the two young soldiers.

Good luck to you.

~Alak