Fall of the North RPG

[Nuranar]

Osse’s post

The introductions were over. The formalities had dissipated like smoke on the breeze, their true frailty clearly seen. Carthor could perceive a slight pause in the sturdy frame of his Captain, a great breath before the plunge.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

Carthor’s mind stood suddenly alert, like some sentry who had been caught slouching lazily against the wall of his post, dreaming of malt beer, by his tyrannical lieutenant.

“As you probably know,” Hírvegil said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

Carthor had expected as much from his Captain, and his reply had been hot on his tongue. As the first syllables prepared to roll out his lips, Carthor hesitated. He realised that what he had been about to say was perhaps not true, he realised he knew little of Faerim’s motivations. His hesitation must have been noted in the room as Hírvegil’s probing tendrils of speech wrapped themselves around the women, Renedwen, who promptly burst into speech in his son’s defence. Carthor half listened, as he mused upon the real reasons of his son’s blind faith in the Eldar…

Thankful for, and not a little perplexed at, the ferocity of Renedwen’s defence of his eldest son, Carthor threw himself into the breach to ease her suffering at the hands of the incredulous and penetrating Captain of men.

“My lord Captain,” Carthor began strongly, “I know nothing of the Elves’ plight and only little of why my son would be involved … and only that through my own deductions.”

Hírvegil donned an air of intense interest, his head almost craning forward on his neck like some great bird as he absorbed all the information that was sent bounding into the fences of his attention.

“Faerim is a young man, eager to exceed expectations, brave, even foolhardy to some extent, much like we all are at such an age. My son however, is driven by loyalty – I can only suppose that our esteemed Elven comrades must have acted in a way as to instil a sense of loyalty, or even fealty in my son. For this I can speak neither for nor against, as I have been travelling, much apart from my desires, aside from the Rearguard and cannot speak of his doings, or of whom he corresponds with during these times.” Hírvegil smiled softly at Carthor’s words, yet his air of interrogating interest remained.

“However,” Carthor plunged on, “I must insist that it was his chivalrous and loyal nature that propelled him into this plight – traits the soldiery of the Rearguard are renowned for my lord, surely such a deed is commendable rather than worthy of reprimand?”

Hírvegil was as quick as a whip crack, landing on Carthor’s statement with the ferocity of a falling hawk, talons extended for the kill.

“You speak the truth Carthor, son of Harathor, loyalty and commitment are commendable attributes… when instilled in their proper institution. Has Faerim thought of his loyalty to his regiment? What of his comrades in the Rearguard, left forsaken? Or more importantly, his loyalty to his family? Do you not feel deserted Carthor? Has not your eldest son forsaken his family? His sightless brother? His loving parents?”

Carthor felt the bite of those talons, their glossy black lengths piercing his heart, finding therein what had previously gone unseen. He could find no reply.


Nuranar's post

"How dare you." Lissi's voice, low and menacing, cleaved the charged atmosphere. Hírvegil stared at her, visibly startled. "Your duty is to protect those under your command. When you fail, you do nothing to rescue them. Instead you seek the ruin of others." She stood straight and still. Her eyes flamed in the twilight.

The captain reassumed his dignified bearing. "And what is there to ruin? A disobedient boy?"

Lissi clenched her teeth, fighting to control the fury. "My son has disobeyed no one. He fought bravely in the front lines" - a pause and a coldly significant eyebrow - "and yet was never mustered in, nor his service acknowledged. You have no authority to command him. He saved this lady at great risk to himself. Who are you to question his motives?"

Her words stung a dull flush into the man's cheeks. Hírvegil strove to control his expression. "He deserted this people. This people and his own family!"

"He did nothing of the kind." Lissi's lips curved into an insolent smile, but her eyes glinted hard like ice. "You call rescue desertion? These people were taken from under your nose. You above all people should know the vital imperative of action. But you dawdled. Who would be content to abandon his kin while authority debates? You should have known what the Elves would do. And my son has gone where you feared even to send others. He is aiding those whom your responsibility is to protect. He is sacrificing him- "

For the first time Lissi's voice caught. Gathering tears glimmered in the lamplight, then she turned swiftly to her other son. "Come, Brander." Hand on his arm, Lissi left the tent, chin held high and without a glance for the captain.

The tent flap slid back into place with a soft swish. Hírvegil stood motionless in the silence. Renedwen, after one pointed look at him, rose quietly and exited. Carthor looked expectantly at Hírvegil, who yet did not speak. He rose to attention carefully, said, "Captain," bowed slightly, and followed the others' example.

[Garen LiLorian]

It had been perhaps half an hour since they had split; Angóre and Gaeredhel to the north and Rôsgollo and Faerim to the south, and Angóre was starting to get worried again. Half an hour of slogging through this frigid water should have been more than any creature would bear, and yet neither he nor Gaeredhel had spotted so much as a print in the soggy riverbank. Gaeredhel was checking back with his brother with more frequency now, and Angóre could tell that he was bothered as well. But Gaeredhel spoke only to update Angóre on the south parties' progress and Angóre spoke not at all; all his attention focused on the muddy bank.

In the end, it was Gaeredhel who found it. He had been patrolling the western bank while Angóre took the eastern and the prints of a whole troupe of orcs could clearly be seen in the mud on that side, leaving the river and moving off to the woods before continuing northwards. He called to Angóre, who quickly joined him. "I have informed my brother, and they will be rejoining us shortly," he said as Angóre jumped down from his horse. He laughed. "See! The water has proved too cold for them after all! I was starting to get worried. And look, these tracks cannot be more than an hour or two old. We may catch them up during the night tonight, if our luck holds and we are set no more puzzles."

Angóre's face lightened as he examined the tracks. It certainly seemed as though Gaeredhel had the right of it. "Let us continue on then!" He said desicively, "The afternoon wears, and I would catch them before the light is gone entirely; I do not like the thought of tracking in the dark against so cunning a foe. Tell your brother to make haste!"

"Wait a moment!" Gaeredhel cried. "You have missed a piece to this puzzle. Look, some of these tracks are older than others. The captain must have sent scouts ahead of him, and I would know why before we charge ahead."

"What can it matter?" Angóre asked impatiently. "Do you fear an ambush ahead? If they were to set such a trap, we have passed several places to do so, certainly. I think they must be content with their river trick. Come, let us go!"

"I do not know what it is I fear," Gaeredhel responded slowly, "but something about this is not right. We shall continue, but be on your guard! I shall tell Rôsgollo to make haste."

The Elves moved off at a brisk trot, eyes scanning the clear tracks of the orcs as well as the trees ahead. Gaeredhel seemed ill at ease, and his eyes scanned ever the surrounding trees. After a while he spoke. "Rôsgollo has turned away from the river. He cannot be more than a few minutes behind us. Let us wait for him here! A threat is growing in my mind."

But Angóre was unmoved. "We are close now, and I grudge every moment that Lady Betheril and Erenor remain in captivity. Your brother shall find us soon enough, whether we wait or no."

Gaeredhel slowed his horse to a walk. His keen eyes scanned the trees. "Do you not feel it?" He cried "there is danger here! We are being watched by unfriendly eyes. Let us stay!"

Angóre checked his horse and turned, frowning. "I see nothing," he said, giving the trees around them a cursory glance. "I-"

He was interrupted by a black-feathered arrow that buried itself in his horse's shoulder, missing his knee by inches. The beast screamed and reared, throwing the lithe Elf to the ground and taking off through the woods. As though the arrow were a signal, harsh cries rent the still air and dark forms leapt out at them from the trees.

Angóre rolled to his feet, unharmed but dazed as the orcs closed with him...

[Arry]

The eastern bank. There are tracks. Gaeredhel’s message was brief, the tone guarded.

‘Make haste, Faerim.’ Rôsgollo turned his horse northward, urging it along the river’s bank. ‘They have found where the Orcs left the water.’ Unconcerned any longer that they might be seen, the two riders bent over their mounts’ necks, using their heels to drive them on to a gallop. The lengthening stride of the horses brought the man and Elf very near the area where Angóre and Gaeredhel had stopped.

There is danger here! Gaeredhel’s warning was loud in his brother’s mind. Faerim and Rôsgollo were yet to clear a small cluster of trees that hid the others from them. They are waiting! came the even more urgent message.

‘Your weapon!’ cried Rôsgollo as the two elves came in view. Angóre’s horse had been hit and was running off, leaving his rider to face the approaching Orcs on foot. Gaeredhel had nocked an arrow to his bow and was firing into the running Orcs. There were nine of the creatures – two with bows, the others with blades or clubs.

Rôsgollo drew his bow and hit one of the Orcs in the shoulder. The creature screamed, dropping his bow, and pulled out his own sword. At a dead run he charged the Elf. An arrow from Gaeredhel’s bow brought down the Orc, inches from his brother’s horse.

The mass of Orcs was close enough that Rôsgollo drew his own blade and charged in among the three nearest him, bringing one of them to his knees with slicing blow. He had just turned his horse, readying himself for another pass through when a cry from Garedhel brought him up short. The lone Orc bowman had let fly a cursed missile as his Gaeredhel raised his right arm to let fall a blow from his blade. The intended Orc target was battering at Gaeredhel’s mount with his club, causing the horse to rear and strike out with his forelegs. The arrow pierced the Elf’s unprotected armpit, driving itself through his chest muscle until the chainmail shirt stopped its exit.

Rôsgollo flew to his brother’s side as Gaeredhel fell from his horse . . .

[Saurreg]

Meanwhile back at the camp

Belegorn stared at the wide openness before him, taking into view the wide expanse of snow-covered plains and the endless sky. He was lingering by the perimeter of the camp where he saw off the small detachment of guardsmen sent to support the elves and the teenager – the bold and confident one he spoke to during the journey. The veteran soldier sighed softly to himself, turned his head towards the cluster of drab grey tents behind him before turning back to continuing gazing at the natural landscape.

He had just managed to accost the troop of riders before the set off for their mission and spoke hastily to their commanding officer – a young sergeant who was recently promoted for his conduct and valor during the exodus from Fornost. The advice and command Belegorn urgently gave whilst grabbing the young man’s wrist still resounded in his mind,

Keep a sharp lookout at all times. Be prudent in your judgement, do not simply charge at the enemy when the signal is given by the boy. Be your own judge; assess the strength of the target before taking action. Remain downwind when approaching orcs and always remember to remain mounted at all times. Should the strength of the enemy be too much to bear, turn head and fly like the wind. Care not for the elves or the boy then, they are the masters of their own fates. Scatter your men in different directions, each to make his way towards Ered Luin individually. In no way must you all ride back together towards the camp.

Good luck! And may Oromë keep you safe!

As the intrepid little band thundered off into the horizon, Belegorn felt a sickening thud in his gut, the feeling one acquired when ill-fortune foreboded. He instinctively felt that the brave young sergeant and his equally youthful subordinates were heading towards their own doom. Belegron felt that they were sent to their death by their beloved captain, discarded like worthless pawns on a chessboard.

Hírvegil had bypassed the chain of command by approaching the men directly and giving them their marching orders for the mission. Belegorn had known that Hírvegil had been won over by Mitharan’s “carefree” comments and was determine to aid the elves on their foolhardy and very suspicious “rescue” mission and he was not convinced by Hírvegil’s reasoning. But to do so behind his immediate subordinate’s back was surprising. Indeed Belegorn would have been kept in the dark had not one of the militia burst into the tent when he was questioning his assembled sergeants, to tell him that a group of mounted horsemen were making their way to the perimeter of their camp.

Hírvegil had changed both in body and mood since the day they left Fornost. He was colder and more isolated than before. It would seem that the captain had fermented distrust in his first lieutenant; for what reason Belegorn knew not. Had he not been faithful in carrying out his duties? Or was it due to his undying devotion to king and country? Belegorn remembered how Hírvegil’s countenance changed when the former reminded him of their duty to the king and his orders.

And what if the day came when Belegorn was made to choose between duty to King and friendship to Hírvegil? Which path would he take?

The first lieutenant searched the dark recesses of his mind and an answer surfaced, in the form of the first three lines of the soldier’s pledge he made when he entered the regiment of the king, decades ago.

We, soldiers of the Royal Arthedain Army
Do solemnly and sincerely pledge
Our true faith and allegiance to King and Country…

Belegorn’s mind was made up as he reentered the camp. If subversion of any sorts arises, he would suppress it. Or die trying.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim drew his horse back as North reared suddenly in fear, as Rôsgollo charged forward into the melee towards his brother. The boy took in the scene in a second: Gaeredhel lay fallen to one side, Rôsgollo leaping off his horse to his side, but nearby Angóre was kneeling on the ground, is horse nowhere to be found and with a stunned expression on his face although he was already readying himself. Although he knew the elf was probably far more capable than he at handling himself, Faerim doubted the javelins that Angóre carried would be as easy to use from the ground as opposed to on horseback; he also knew that with three skittish horses in tow, he was going to be about as useful as- well, as they would expect him to be. And he knew he could prove himself to be far more than they expected.

Killing two birds with one stone, Faerim drew his sword and chopped swiftly through the rope that held the first horse to North, then at the one that held this one to the one behind it - he had no time to do more than that, and the other two bolted almost immediately. Taking the first, Carthor's stallion, by the reins, he rode over to Angóre, yelling to the elf as he came towards him. "Angóre, quick!"

The elf looked up, surprised, but caught the reins as Faerim threw them at him. Not wasting a second, the elf mounted smoothly, while Faerim rode on, bringing North around in a semi-circle towards the orcs, building himself up to the conflict as he raised his sword, his knuckles white on the stallion's reins. As he galloped towards it, the orc who had been running at Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo froze and looked across at him. Giving a makeshift battle cry, Faerim drew himself up suddenly and swept his sword around in a arc of bright steel, and such was his momentum that the orc's expression of surprise remained on it's face as it's head flew from it's shoulders. Grimacing in distaste as the black blood smattered onto his sleeves and gloves, Faerim slowed slightly as he re-adjusted his grip, then made for a second orc, hoping simply to do the same thing.

What the boy did not have the experience to know was that in a small scale battle, simply hammering out the same tactic on different foes rarely works more than once. This time his intended victim was ready and, as Faerim swept his sword down towards it's head, the creature ducked smartly, raising it's own blade to clash against the stroke that would have decapitated it. The jarring connection caused Faerim to cry out in shock and pain and his fingers uncurled as a reflex - causing his sword to fall, embedded in the ground. Flexing his fingers painfully, Faerim regained his wits as North headed straight for the woods, ducking not a second too soon as a low-flying branch threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. Gaining control of his terrified steed once more, Faerim turned him with some difficulty and, his sharp mind working quickly, realised that he needed to play the same ace card as he had in the falling city of Fornost. Praying that it would work, he unslung his bow and quiver and nocked a bow quickly. He barely had time to think before he shot, as a charging orc rushed him, it's bloody, nail-endowed club held high as it yelled fiersomely: Faerim shot with a cry of surprise and, more out of fluke than anything else, the arrow connected with the orc's shoulder. It fell back with a snarl, turning protectively over it's wounded shoulder, then resumed it's course of action with a vengeance. But this time Faerim was ready, and had time to sight at his opponent: the orc fell, a bow in it's neck, less than four feet from North.

That was the fifth orc taken care off, but four still remained, and their constant battering was like an assault on the senses as well as a physical assault. Despite all his training, North was obviously terrified by the haphazard melee in which the elves and Faerim had been so outnumbered, and his eyes rolled crazily and his black coat flecked with spittle and shining with sweat, shifting his feet and tossing his head. As the orc's arm spasmed by North's hooves, the horse took off at a canter once more, understandably spooked. Gritting his teeth and holding on desperately with his knees, Faerim turned to sight at his next victim and loosed another arrow, then another, taking down a sixth orc. Three remained, and Angóre, now mounted on Carthor's stallion, saw to a seventh victim. Cutting their losses, the remaining pair turned tail and fled through the trees, almost vanishing in an instant. Faerim shot one arrow, then another, and another after their backs, but it was Angóre's javelin that rewarded them with a dying cry of anguish. His lip curling both in satisfaction with the kill and irritation for the last orc who had got away, Angóre urged his mount on and sped after the last one - presumably hoping to kill it before it got word back to the orc camp.

Faerim slowed the skittish North to a walk then, with difficulty, to a halt, trying to regain his breath and soothe his horse. Dismounting painfully, he tentatively brought his hands up to the horse's nose and, although he shied and whinnied at first, North eventually calmed down enough for Faerim to rest on hand on his nose, stroking it gently as he 'shh'-ed the horse like a small child after a nightmare. Hooking the stallion's reins over one hand, Faerim curled a lip in disgust at the orc's blood on his fingers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together curiously: the liquid was thick and sticky, like tar in texture and appearance. Glancing at the blood's previous owner, Faerim shuddered slightly and had to swallow down the violent urge to retch. Wiping his gloved hand on his longcoat to remove the blood, he tied North up to a tree and made for the spot where his sword lay, still shuddering slightly, embedded several inches into the ground. Pulling it out with as much strength as he could muster, Faerim bent and wiped it across the ground in a rough attempt to clean it, before he looked at the orc who had caused him to drop it. It lay face down, the steel-tipped javelin that had killed it rising from the small of its back, almost comical in it's absurdness. Curiousity about his brutal attackers once more overtaking Faerim, he reached out a foot and rolled the creature over, the javelin propping it onto its side. Looking at the orc's face, Faerim repressed the urge to physically recoil: the stubby, dirt blackened features were curled in an expression of anger, pain and, more disturbingly, fear, and despite their ugliness, they seemed almost human for an instant. Then the moment passed: Faerim had been told before than men sometimes felt remorse for their actions on a battlefield when confronted with the faces of the dead, wondering about the victim's background, family, life... But looking at the features of the dead orc, Faerim doubted it ever could have cared about any of those things.

Tearing his gaze from the orc, the boy turned and walked slowly away, heading for Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. As he reached them, he heard hooves and turned, half heartedly raising his sword, but it was Angóre, not one of the enemy, who dismounted. Giving the elf a quick smile, he turned back to the other two, concerned.

[Arry]

‘You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . with . . . me!’ Gaeredhel groaned out his declaration in short bits. Rôsgollo had stripped his brother of his bloodied tunic, leather vest and chainmail shirt. He forced the rest of the arrow’s head through Gaeredhel’s flesh, snapped it off, and then withdrew the remainder of the shaft. ‘It only pierced the skin and if it grazed the muscle, it did not tear enough that I cannot use it.’ He grimaced as his brother prodded at the wound. ‘It burns no more than the arrow you mistakenly placed in my leg when we were children, brother mine,’ he said forcing a smile in an effort to make light of it. ‘It does not burn in a way that makes me think it is poisoned.’

Rôsgollo dismissed his brother’s claims with a snort. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it is an Orc’s arrow and filthy from whatever they have hunted before.’ He took his water bottle and sluiced the wound as thoroughly as he might. ‘I have brought a small amount of herbs, thinking we might need them for the prisoners. We can spare some small amount for your wound.’ Rôsgollo fished in the pouch at his waist, bringing out several silver-grey leaves. Chewing them into a paste, he covered the exit and entrance wounds as best he could, then bound the shoulder with clean strips from his own tunic. Once done, he helped his brother put on his own shirt and other gear.

The four held a hasty conference on how to proceed. Rôsgollo held back his preference that they ride back to the Dunedain encampment for reinforcements. Gaeredhel had already read his thoughts on this and gainsaid them. You will have to tie me to my horse to have me go back now. Aloud, Gaeredhel urged them to go forward in the pursuit. ‘We are so close now. We cannot afford to let them hide themselves away from us again.’ He clasped his brother’s shoulder. ‘We have sworn to keep him safe. We must press on.’

‘Do not speak to me of our duty,’ Rôsgollo said quietly. ‘I know it all too well. But my heart speaks of my first duty, which is to you.’ He gazed shrewdly at his brother, gauging his response to his next proposal. ‘I will continue on with Angóre and Faerim to the Orc camp, if you will return to where we first found the Orcs had entered the river. Wait for the Dundedain that will be sent to aid us and direct them to us. We will leave an easy trail for them to follow.’ He paused for a moment, tensed against his brother’s answer.

Gaeredhel was silent, his thoughts guarded. He read the resolve in his brother’s eyes. ‘I will agree to this.’ Rôsgollo took in a sharp breath of relief.

Though I doubt any Men other than Faerim will rush to assist us . . .

-----

Rôsgollo watched as his brother mounted his horse and turned back south, down the river. Angóre, Faerim, and he resumed their progress northward keeping as low a profile as they might to avoid other Orcs left to watch the trail. In due time, they approached the Orc’s encampment, their own presence hidden by the thick stands of trees that grew along the edges of the eastern perimeter.

Dismounting before they drew too near, Rôsgollo stayed back to keep the horses quiet while Faerim and Angóre went quietly forward on foot to scout out the camp . . .

[Mithalwen]

The journey, had mercifully passed in a blur, but not enough of one to totally obliterate the jolting horror of being carried by an orc. To be in such close contact with the foul creatures, bitter enemies of the Firstborn was in itself torture. Yet one evident fact penetrated Erenor's returning consciousness as the orcs arrived at their campsite - the yrch had not harmed them. The orcs had provided them with food - repulsive maybe but seeming as good as they possessed and no harm had come to their persons, nor even their possessions.

The march over,the hostages had been dumped in a group. The others seemed fairly inert, but since Erenor was concealing her own awareness it was possible the others were doing likewise. A low groan from one of her stirring companions, corrected this idea. Erenor realised the truth. She had been given a smaller measure of the drug - her original and then feigned drowsiness from her headwound had made the orcs cautious with their dose. "Excellent", she thought, "they really do not want us dead".

Her train of thought was halted by a strange sensation; she felt watched. This was ridiculous; she had been watched with more or less attention, by orcs since her capture, but this was different. She looked around her surruptitiously. Their guards were still there but with thier captives bound and seemingly unconscious, they were engrossed in the universal activities of soldiers after a long march, preparing food and fire and easing sore feet. There were sentinels about the camp but they were looking out not in.

Besides the sensation was benevolent, she felt sure that elvish eyes or at least elvish minds were seeking her. She stole glances at her fellow emissaries on either side. Though they stirred she knew it was neither of them.

Erenor opened her mind, surely if their guards had survived the orc raid, they would have come after them? Or perhaps by some blessing her earlier attempts at seeking aid from her kindred afar had not been in vain. She fixed a picture in her mind of the camp, and then visualised the still concealed weapon, wondering if she could reach it without being discovered. Any elf near and so inclined woudl be able to read her thought: she trusted the orcs had not the skill. It was a risk but one she had to take. The presence seemed strong to Erenor but as she waited for some response, her hope faded in to fear that her feeling was some cruel side effect of the drug.