The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[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

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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