The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[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]

Originally Posted by Lalwendë

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 * * *

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

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

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

NOTE I edited in Osse's character's name

[Arry]

POST PLACED ON PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

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


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.

-----

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.

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

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.

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

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

---

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.

[Nuranar]

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

(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

[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.