Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

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]

Garen LiLorian's post

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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]

Arry's post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

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

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

And now this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defense of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

alaklondewen's post

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

~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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