Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

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!”

[piosenniel]

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]

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]

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.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing no reply, Faerim swore under his breath and leapt towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. Why was Brander not replying? And where was his mother? The orcs had not yet reached their level, but... hearing footsteps, the youth spun around, his sword out and pointing in the direction of the noise as he paused mid-step.

"Son! Faerim! What is it?" Lissi's anxious face looked up at him from beneath him. Faerim sagged visibly with relief, grinning widely at his mother. "Mother...Brander, where is he?"

"I'm here." Brander's soft, reassuring voice came from the top of the stairs as the blind boy walked down them assuredly, but with his hand gripping the banister carefully. "You aren't hurt, Faerim?"

Faerim grinned, laughing breathlessly as he took his brother's hand to stop him, and clasping it in his own. "Me, brother? The orcs were running scared away from me!"


Brander smiled, his hand coming up to Faerim's face as if he was checking him over. But there wasn't a second to spare. "Your father, Faerim - did you see him?" Lissi sounded anxious, coming to the bottom of the stairs. Her eldest son turned to face her, coming down the stairs quickly as he shook his head, pushing his long, fine blonde hair out of his face as he did so, his expression impassive, still breathless. "He was on the ground level, mother; I was above, with the archers. I...I did not see Carthor when the orcs took the ground level."

Lissi's eyes opened wide and she raised a hand to her mouth. "They have already taken over the ground level."

Faerim clenched his jaw tightly as he nodded. He was about to speak when he heard a scream, very suddenly, from far closer than he would have expected, and his head snapped to the side, his fist clenching over the sword that he still held. Vaulting the banister, the youth landed hard on the wooden floor but took no notice of the jarring in his ankles as he ran to the window and looked through the slit between the shutters down the street. There, coming down the street, were at least half a dozen of the vile orcs: he could see them so closely, barely twenty feet away, their foul laughter echoing down the street as they battered their way into the houses. The screams of women came from the houses all around, the men being away fighting, and the orcs simply raised their heads and laughed. Faerim felt sick. How had they managed to get to this level? And the orcs were like a breaking dam: where there was a trickle, there would soon be a crushing torrent.

He couldn't help gasping quietly in horror, and his mother picked up on it, coming to his side. "What? What is the matter, Faerim?"

Faerim pushed his mother gently back, trying to keep her away so that she wouldn't see the vile creatures, shaking his head silently, but Lissi pushed past him, looking through the slit. As soon as she saw the orcs, she opened her mouth, making to speak, but Faerim put his finger to her lips, shaking his head urgently. "We need to get out as quietly as possible, mother - they cannot know we are here," he murmured softly. Lissi, her eyes wide and bright, nodded mutely. "Go, please, get a cloak for yourself and Brander - I will get the horses ready." With that, he was gone, sprinting out of the door quickly as Lissi, pausing only for a second, flew up the stairs in a whirlwind of skirts to prepare herself and Brander. Faerim was glad for his mother's sensibility: he needed it now, when he was required, for once in his life, to be responsible. It was something he had otherwise managed to pretty well avoid...

The family, unlike most, had their own stables in use, at the side of the house, joining through the cellar: you went down the stairs to the cellar and up those which led to the servant's quarters, almost seperate from the main house: by going up these steps, you entered the side of the stables. Not, of course, that they were particularly vibrant: there was space for a dozen horses in the high ceilinged, spacious stalls, but what use had they for a dozen horses? There was only an old widow next door with no interest in equine activities of any sort, and Carthor had gambled away much of the family's money - they had no excess for more than was needed. But despite their slowly dwindling fortune, Carthor had always held firm to one principle: that his horse was never to be sold, and that his sons were always going to be able to hold their heads high and ride their own horses. It was an ironic twist, then, when Carthor discovered that one of his sons would never be able to ride independantly, but his wife had persuaded him to keep the horse, being herself a keen horseman. Grudgingly, Carthor had agreed, doing simply what would please his delicate young wife and avoid hassle for himself. Faerim found himself especially thankful for this as he ascended the few steps quickly and tried to push open the door. It wouldn't move: locked, and the key probably knocked out by the thuds that shook the city and the houses. Rather than wasting time on looking in the dingy, unlit room, Faerim simply took a step backwards and kicked the door open with all his might. It splintered loudly and he winced at the noise, then entered the stables and quickly ran down to where the horses were kept.

Faerim's own horse, simply named North, had been a gift out of practicality when the boy was thirteen and had outgrown the docile, delicate steed that he had learnt to ride on as a boy. Both father and son had been determined that Faerim would join the military and so, as a sort of coming of age gift, the newly broken in, powerful black stallion had been given to him: and since then, with Faerim now seventeen and North the same, both steed and master had fleshed out nicely, the latter growing into the war horse that he had always been intended to be. North whinnied quietly as his master approached and stamped uneasily hay-strewn floor, tossing his great black head, nervous of the thumps and sudden flashes that could be seen dully through the dirty, high windows of the stables. Faerim laid a hand gently on his horse's muzzle, stroking his fingers down the long white stripe that ran down the horse's nose, making a soft, soothing 'shushing sound as he unbolted the stall door, and saddled and bridled North deftly. Coming out again, the boy now faced a hard decision.

His mother's wish to keep a horse of her own would serve them well now. The creature was a delicate looking mare, tailored to fit a growing boy and to teach him to ride well on a challenging steed. Brander had never used the horse independantly though, but the mare was perfect for Lissi: dappled grey, it's intelligent eyes dark and quiet, a good natured beast. But those eyes were now wide, the whites showing brightly as the horse neighed, terrified of the noises outside. In the stall beside this was another horse: Carthor's. To look at this horse, one could never be in doubt of it's purpose as a war-horse: as scarred and ancient as it's owner, the creature was as powerful a beast as ever walked Middle Earth, it's broad shoulders and wide, muscled girth having seen Carthor through very many long winters and expeditions. The horse barely fidgeted in it's stall, instead looking at Faerim with a deep, trusting understanding of the noises outside, quiet and calm.

The Dunedain youth hesitated, looking from his mother's mare to his father's war-horse. The latter would be more practical - a war horse would be more enduring, and there was less chance of it frighting as they rode through the streets. And what if Carthor returned? He would need his horse. But to ask Lissi to leave behind her mare... Faerim shook his head and unbolted the mare's door, taking only as brief a second as was possible to try to calm the horse before he began to saddle her up. He would have to take all three.

Having saddled up and bridled all three horses, Faerim tied together the bridles of North and Carthor's horse with a long piece of twine rope: long enough and strong so they would be able to ride together, but not so strong that one horse would not be able to break free of the other if one was injured or killed. Angry at the time he had wasted in deliberating which horse to choose, Faerim moved quickly, quickly packing up some horsefeed and lashing it to North's saddle. Then he stopped once more, as he reached the door, catching sight of what sat beside it...

"Mother, Brander!" Faerim immediately regretted shouting and clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he looked around alertly at the street at the back of the house. No sign of any orcs yet...

The door swung open and Lissiel and Brander ran out, Lissi guiding her son with a light hand. She held in her hand a sack, which looked alarmingly heavy and unwieldy to Faerim. "Mother, we can't take-"

Lissi shushed Faerim with a wave of her hand. "We'll take these, Faerim, it isn't much. Here-" She slipped a very full quiver of arrows of her back and handed it to her son. "I thought you might need these - you haven't any left there."

Faerim blushed at his foolishly, the red vivid against his pale skin, and counted his blessings for his mother's observant and practical nature, whilst simultaneously feeling ridiculous for not organising himself. His mother had also equipped herself with one of his father's weapons: a bladed staff. But Faerim nonetheless felt it his duty to give her what he had brought as well. He took a sheathed short sword from where he had hung it on North's saddle, and handed it to her. "Here: this would be more useful when riding. What on earth have you got in that sack? And can you use that staff well?" he added, eyeing the other weapon. Lissi simply smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows before she turned to the grey mare and mounted smoothly. Faerim raised one of his own and grinned at her, despite their desperate situation, then turned to Brander, taking the other item he had picked up from the stables. "Brander - something for you to defend yourself..."

The younger boy took the weapon, his expression confused: they both knew that a blade would hardly help him in a desperate situation. But as he felt over the object, his face brightened in understanding, and Brander smiled at Faerim hesitantly. "A staff..."

"More like a club really: it can't hurt you but you're strong enough to fairly do some damage with it." Although Brander couldn't see it, Faerim's smile was audible in his voice, and Faerim saw his brother almost glowing with pride at the responsibility. Nodding, satisfied that they were ready and without a second to lose, Faerim helped his brother up into the saddle then mounted quickly in front of him. Settling them both, Brander's hands around his waist lightly, the quiver of arrows slung awkardly across his back with the bow, and his sword in the saddle-sheath, Faerim took a deep breath. He had been working on auto-mode so far: he was just waiting to fall apart. Looking across at his mother, Faerim noted the bright grey light that seemed to shine out of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. Seeing him looking, Lissi turned to her son and smiled nervously, her calm nature reassuring without saying a word. Faerim took another deep breath, squeezed his brother's hand lightly, and, with that, the family began their exodus, making their way along the street from which they would head to the Inner Sanctum. Surely the orcs couldn't get there as well...

[CaptainofDespair]

Hot, and acrid air swirled about the doomed city, a mixture of the fires consuming unnumbered corpses, the reek of the recently slain, and the sweat and tears of the populace. The ghastly smell was only matched by the equally sickening screams and howls of those who were left to the menace of the orcs. The sounds were distant, but for the young Mitharan, they were all too near and dear. Standing at the gateway of the final tier of the city’s defenses, he watched in horror, unable to save those who were now marked by death.

Turning to one of his guardsmen, who muttered a few choice words. “It is for the better, that they die now. At least they will not live to see the next dawn...” He struggled to force out the last words. “...which shall usher in the fall of our once mighty people.” A minute tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he brushed it away as quickly as it had formed. His guardsmen stared forward, unmoving and seemingly unfeeling, bearing countenances similar to that of statues.

Suddenly, another projectile came hurtling towards their position, but it was stopped by the sanctum’s walls, which shuddered under the shock of the hit. A few archers from the regular army had remained behind on the wall, rather than to push out to halt the progress of the orcs, with their comrades. They had been where the projectile had smashed into the ramparts, but they stood there no longer. Muffled screams had been heard, but they were soon pushed out of memory, to prepare for the new array of senses which bombarded all of those who were still alive.

With cloaks fluttering in the rancid breeze, Mitharan and his entourage strode out into the war-torn, and ruined tier which lay before them. As they went forth, the counselor offered a few bits of encouragement to his personal guard. “Prepare your hearts and minds, my brave allies. We go forth, to meet horrors unknown. But take heart, for there are many enemies to slay before we are to be stricken down, or recalled to evacuate.” His men gave a “Hurrah!”, and hardened their hearts for battle.

They quickly passed the rearguard stationed at the gateway of the inner sanctum. Giving a nod to the posted soldiers, the small party issued forth, entering the lower parts of the city, on the wings of caution. The dead were strewn everywhere, slumped against crates and buildings, and scattered throughout the streets. The smell as almost enough to unnerve the group, and drive them back into the sanctum. But, they carried on, wandering through the emptiness that had engulfed the alleys and side passageways. Soldier, orc, and civilian were all at the mercy of death, left to fend for themselves in the chaos of war. While they wandered, a muffled screaming could be heard emanating from a small home. Inside, orcs searched, and pursued the occupants, who had hoped to hide from the disfigured, hideous orcs. Though urgency dictated that he should move up to help those fighters on the main battle line, morality urged him to enter the home, and execute the orcs for their crimes.

Mitharan, flanked by his guard, burst in through the door, to find an orc holding a whimpering young girl by the hair, preparing to slit her throat. But, with innate agility, the counselor beat out the orc, hurling a small knife into its own throat, leaving it gasping for breath, as it fell to the floor in a pool of its own black blood. Mitharan, kneeling, spoke to the girl, in a whisper, after scanning her over for any pressing wounds. “Where is your mother, child?” The girl, still in shock, pointed to the back of the house. “Good girl...Now wait here with these men, while I go get your mother.” Cautiously, the young statesmen moved to the rear of the house, listening for any sounds, while two of his guards brought up the rear. Sweeping quickly into the next room, the two guards fanned out, slaying two orcs who were caught in the midst of their vicious reveling. Mitharan himself jumped a piece of broken furniture, thrusting his sword into the gut of a third orc, ending its life with a slash delivered to the frontal section of its vile skull, spilling brain matter onto the floor, as the creature’s body crashed through a rectangular table. The girl’s mother was quickly found, huddled underneath another miscellaneous piece of furniture. She had a few wounds, each oozing fresh blood, but none were life threatening, for the moment. Now, an escape was needed. He quickly gave an order to a few of his guardsmen. “Take these two back to the sanctum. Rejoin us when you have done this.” They nodded, in acknowledgment, and quickly gathered the girl and her mother, and whisked them out into the streets, back towards the only remaining safe ground in the city.

Mitharan, and his remaining handful of guards, were equally as quick in getting back out into the street. They went in great haste, for dire circumstance would befall them if they did not locate the main body of the remaining defenders within the tier. Rushing through the stricken city, they forced their way past collapsed buildings, overturned carts, and the countless bodies of the dead. At last, after following the sounds of battle, they burst out from an alley, into an empty street. “There’s no one here, milord,” muttered one the soldiers. “I can see that. I was sure they were here. From the walls I saw this spot, and I saw the carnage of battle...” The counselor sulked, demoralized. Then, the earth shuddered, and began to quake. The sounds of feet, ironshod feet, those of orcs, came rumbling forth, and encircled them. “We’re trapped, milord.” The soldier caught the glare of his lord. “Yes, I can see that quite well.”

Grunting and hissing, the orcs issued forth from the shadows, as if they were a great, impenetrable wall, one which no man could enter. The ravenous lust for battle, bloodshed, and death, drove these orcs to the point where any number of foes, no matter how small, would be hunted down and massacred, without quarter. Ever so slowly, they pressed in, forming a wall of bodies that could only be broken by strength of arms. There were not many, but it was more than enough to outnumber Mitharan and his guard. Then, they came. In small groups they rushed out from their line, to give an attempt at slaying their foes. They were all quickly dispatched, with helms splintered, innards disemboweled, and heads cleaved clean off. The soldiers fought valiantly alongside their lord, but it was not enough. The orcs now attacked en masse, and a free for all melee ensued, tossing organization to the wind. But slowly, each man was hemmed in, cut off from his brothers, and left to fend for himself. But, without warning, a horn blew from the street leading back to the sanctum.

The few guardsmen that had been sent off to escort the woman and child, had returned, with aid. Mitharan’s father, learning of his son’s mind, gathered his own loyal guards, and went out to bring him back. This twist of events emboldened Mitharan and his entrapped guard. They now fought harder, and with allies pressing in from the outside, the orcs were in dire straits. And then, the orcs broke rank, and fled back from whence they came. But the young counselor would not let them escape so easily. He hunted down the few stragglers, and brought swift death to them, hacking off their heads, which spewed charred blood into the streets. His father however, bearing a sounder mind, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and attempted to instill some form of reason into his mind. “My son, you cannot save the city. However valiant you may be, you cannot prevail with such small numbers. Please, gather your senses, and return back to the sanctum. We are to begin preparing for evacuation.” Mitharan, seeing the reason his father preached, sighed, and turned to flee back to the well protected sanctum. Then, he pointed to a few guards. “Take the bodies of our fallen comrades. We shall not leave them to the orcs, for they derive strength from feasting on the corpses.”

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

Rôsgollo’s search for Lord Ereglin bore no fruit, save for increasing understanding that he must get to the top level if her were to survive to see his Lord and brother to safety. Gaeredhel, where are you? he called as he ran. But heat from the fires spreading from the parapet and the swell of battle as the Orcs breached the gates pressed in upon him and he could spare no time to look for an answering call. He retreated in haste to the western passageway slipping in just as the gates were closed and barred against the enemy. Breathing hard, he stood for a moment with his back against the stonework.

My brother, I am here with Lord Ereglin. He is safe. Come! Gaeredhel’s urgent call lifted a corner of the pervading shadow that cast a pall over sight and senses.

The enemy was already bearing down on the entryway to the third level as Rôsgollo climbed the steps up from the now closed gates. He paused at the top, making way as reinforcements of the city’s forces hurried to fortify their positions. Before heading to where his brother and Lord Ereglin were, Rôsgollo made his way up to the parapet that looked down on the second level. A dark river swelled into the streets below, leaving eddies of red and the sounds of screams and cut off cries as it surged against any who stood in its way. In some small places, there were brighter swords raised and the singing of arrows as they rushed in vain hope toward their targets. But the small points of light were borne under by the unrelenting current of the dark river. In vain, he looked for the Periannath, but could not find them below, nor did he see them along the parapet on this tier. With a grim face, he headed toward the hall where Lord Ereglin had been housed. From there he would make for the North Gate, intending to find his brother as he escorted Lord Ereglin to the escape way.

He paused to ask a question of one of the King’s men set as guard at the quarters where the Elves were staying. The man was just preparing to leave to join the other troops when Rôsgollo ran up. ‘They’ve all gone, the Elves have,’ the man told him. ‘They’ll be gathering in the King’s Hall with Minister Mellonar before they head to the North Gate.’ Rôsgollo thanked the man and ran on toward the Hall. An image and a thought niggled at the back of his mind as he sped on.

A thin, pale man, hunched beneath his robes . . . a vulture, waiting to feed on the dead . . . Rôsgollo narrowed his eyes at the image. . . . Any dead . . . Vultures are not picky when it comes to feeding, he thought. He must warn his brother . . . the man may bear watching . . .