The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s character – Dúnedain Captain

NAME: Hírvegil

AGE: 76

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Kransha’s carry-along character:

Mellonar - Counselor of Arvedui

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

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FIRST POST TO GAME

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His name, milord.”

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

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

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

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

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

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

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

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


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2ND POST TO GAME

Kransha’s post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair

Name: Mitharan

Age: 67

Race: Dunedain

Gender: Male

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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CaptainofDespair's post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

NAME: Belegorn

AGE: 54

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

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

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

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

APPEARANCE:

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

ATTIRE:

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

ACCESSORIES:

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

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

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

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

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

HISTORY:

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

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

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

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

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Saurreg's post:

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

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

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

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

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

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

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

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

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Woman – Lalwendë

NAME: Renedwen

AGE: 42

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Female

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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Lalwendë's post:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

NAME: Lissi

AGE: 39

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: female

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Nuranar's post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

Name Brander

Age 16

Gender Male

Race Men, Dunedain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Novnarwen's post

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Youth – Amanaduial the Archer

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

NAME: Faerim. (Fay-rim)

AGE: 17

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

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

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

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


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

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Amanaduial's post

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

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

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

The gates swung open.

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

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

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

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

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