Fall of the North RPG

[Nuranar]

The world was grey and cold, swimming and vague in the pale light. Lissi fell to her knees and wept out her sorrow, her sobs low and anguished. Something had broken within her, and her heart was desolate.

When she finally raised her head, her features were once again still and calm. But there was something stoic in that calmness that had never been there before. She gazed motionlessly across the moonlit land.

Carthor was gone. This was truly the end. Their fragile new regard, stricken by Brander's death, had withered when Carthor informed her he was joining the king. Perhaps he saw it as his duty, Lissi thought apathetically. She had disagreed - Family before country! she had cried out - but anger had fled with her tears. Now it was time to mourn. A time to mourn for their love, for their son, for what might have been.

Lissi sighed, a tiny sigh, and gazed up at the moon. She saw the path set before her with little liking; it was narrow and hard, and she could not see where it lead. But it was there, and she would follow it with patience and endurance to the end.

Stiff and chilled, Lissi rose carefully to her feet and stretched her cramped muscles. The sight of a dark, motionless figure, standing but a few yards distant, shocked her senses into alertness. Dumb in her grief, she had heard no one approach. "Who is there?" she demanded in a low, steady voice. Beneath her cloak, her hand grasped Faerim's sword.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim watched Erenor go, and as the snowfall thickened, her figure faded after a few metres. He watched the space where she had gone until his vision seemed confused and befuddled by staring into the swirling eddy of flakes. The cold, the twisting whirlpools of snow around him, the distant, detached feeling that the snow and his recent encounter with Erenor had brought about...the landscape could have easily have been underwater. The depths of the ocean, beyond any help or worry...

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the cold air sharp in his respiratory passages, the prickling sensation in his throat reminding him that he was alive. Alive. Maybe others had died, but he was alive... Shaking his head, dog-like, to remove the flakes that had settled on his hair, Faerim rose in a swift movement, brushing them off his shirt and shivering, suddenly feeling the cold through the thin material: apparently Erenor had not felt it as keenly, and her presence had distracted him. A touch of his old humour made Faerim grin to himself – if he died of pneumonia, he’d be having serious words with that elf. Swinging his coat loosely over his shoulders, the boy began to walk slowly to the tent that his parents had been staying in, but the path was a slow one, for, like a child, he tried to walk as quietly as possible, trying to imitate Erenor’s silent step over the snow. So absorbed was he in this childish game that he remained oblivious of the fanged danger that lurked not far off in the snow-quilted landscape – and it was only at the last moment that he saw a immediate and, in a way, worse danger, and the reason he had taken so long to get to the tent: a hunched form, highlighted dimly by the light of the tent behind her, kneeling as if in silent homage to the moon, but shaking, ever so slightly. His mother, weeping.

Faerim did not move for a moment, simply standing motionless some distance from the woman. This was why he had been in no hurry to reach his tent, why the young soldier had sat in the snow watching an ancient elf’s figure receding into the snow until his eyes hurt rather than come back – what was there to come back to? His brother was dead, his father a man who had been distant for most of his life, and his mother… The boy hesitated, not sure whether to approach, wanting to avert his eyes but somehow unable to, embarrassed by his mother’s sorrow: he had not seen her cry before, he realised. Lissi had been a strong figure throughout her sons’ lives, strengthening them with her stubborn refusal to allow the harshness of her life to weaken her in front of them. So to see her so broken down…

Before he could look away, Lissi seemed to gather herself, taking a deep shuddering breath and, after a moment, stiffly rising to her feet like a woman under a great weight – and turned to see her son standing nearby. Her tear-stained face was lit in profile by the soft lamplight from in the tent, and Faerim saw shock and fear quickly blanketed by defiance as she groped to her belt – the strong woman he knew emerging. But the fact that he now knew that it was little more than a mask, however well maintained… Faerim fought the lump in his throat as he stepped forward towards her. “It’s me, Mother,” he replied quietly.

Lissi frowned slightly, her mouth beginning to form a word that Faerim recognised and which bit into his heart more harshly than the cold: Brander. Then, as Faerim came closer, realisation struck and her face softened. She looked away, hastily trying to surreptitiously wipe her face. “F-Faerim…I didn’t see you there, you…you surprised…” she trailed away as Faerim didn’t move, standing silently in front of her, and finally raised her eyes to her son’s face. “Oh Faerim…Faerim, he’s gone.”

Faerim’s voice seemed oddly croaky when he replied. “I…I know, Mother. But Mother, I was there with him and it was a quick death, he would barely have felt it for long-” Lissi was shaking her head, her long dark hair straggling from the wetness of the snow. A sense of dread stole over her son. “What?”

“Your father, Faerim.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Carthor is...gone.” She drew herself up once more, her face pinched as she tried to keep her composure strong. “He went with the king, Faerim. He…he isn’t coming back.”

Faerim stared at her in uncomprehending silence for a moment, then, not trusting himself to speak, he opened his arms; her mask breaking, Lissi’s face crumpled and she fell into her son’s arms. As the snow fell around them, the youth rested his chin on his mother’s head and gently rubbed her back comfortingly as he closed his eyes and allowed a single tear down his cheek and onto Lissi’s dark hair.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen's cracked hands dug at the snow and the cold caused a wave of pain to surge down her fingers and up her arms, but she was not going to stop. She knew there must be some kind of edible root buried here. The boy Gilly seemed to have a knack for finding the hiding places of the few edible plants in this frozen place; he would poke a stick into the snow a few times and then tell her where to dig. Each time she had found something to eat, enough to share with the few others who had survived so far. Boiled, these roots provided reasonable food, but they were usually eaten raw as people had now begun to get desperate to eat.

When she had first started to dig in the earth with her bare hands she had despised herself for such uncouth, low behaviour. It was something an Orc might do, but not a Dunedain woman. But then she had seen some of the peculiar things others in the group had found to eat and what she was reduced to having to do did not seem quite so bad.

Anything now, she found, was better than dying. She had lost her wish to follow her husband; as the struggles she had endured passed by, each one made her a little more determined. It was as though it would have been a waste to struggle only to throw it all away just by giving up. And, she had reflected to herself, if her husaband and father and brothers could make their contribution by fighting the enemy, she too could fight, by not giving up.

The child Gilly now rarely spoke. He took comfort in finding the roots that they ate, as though being busy was pleasure to him. But he did smile when he saw the baby, who was as healthy and placid as ever, so Renedwen took care that Gilly was always able to sleep right beside them each night; he found comfort from the baby, and she found comfort from having him near. She found it slightly odd that ever since she had taken him on, they had been very lucky many times. Did the child bring luck with him, like a talisman? She had almost convinced herself that this was true, and in any case, she did not like him to stray too far from her side.

[Garen LiLorian]

His expression passed through a number of emotions quickly, the most prevalent being surprise but followed closely by confusion. Whatever seemed so clear to Erenor remained clouded to her armsman, but he was sure of one thing; It was he that had caused her this distress. He reached out a hand uncertainly, holding it over her curtain of hair, wanting and fearing to offer words of comfort, uncertain. He clenched his hand and withdrew it again, dropping instead to one knee.

"My lady..." He stopped, then continued. "And you are my lady, whatever post you might hold, my heart... it has been locked away even from me for many lives of Men. What you speak of..." He shook his head. "The answers may indeed rest there, but I know not of them. I do not even understand the questions." He considered how to continue. "But... that you are hurt hurts me, and that the source of that pain is myself wounds me again." He peered at her, trying to discern her eyes under the curtain of hair. "And I would know what I might do to relieve you of this pain, my lady." The honorific had a strange catch in it.

He clenched his hands by his sides again. "I.. will leave you if you wish it, Erenor. I will not be the source of your pain." But he made no motion to move. "But... I would rather stay." This time he did touch her, taking one of her hands into his own callused palms. His eyes were confused but resolute as he looked up at her.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's first instinct was to pull away from the contact that broke through her attempts to rebuild the wall around herself that had broken down so comprehensively in the past few days, but then the import of Angore's words sank in. She left her hand quietly in his as she turned back so that she knelt before him. Then pushed her hair back from her face with her free hand before placing it gently over those that clasped its pair.

She looked up at him with a smile like the first sunlight after a storm, her voice tentative but tinged with hope " Truly, you will not leave me? I was so scared you would.... when I was being crushed by the troll, the last thing I remember seeing was you, and I was glad; it gave a glimmer of hope before the darkness came. I realised how much I have depended on you ... but since then you seemed to avoid me - and I did not know why - then Bethiril spoke and I feared you might have to go with her and when ... .just now out there..... I realised how much distress I caused you, I felt certain you would go too, and I could not bear it. " She bit her lower lip and lowered her gaze again.

"Do not be troubled on my account, for if you will stay with me you will be the balm not the source of sorrow. Yet I think I cause you pain again - you do not look comfortable, please, sit "

Although they released hands they did not move further apart. Erenor noticed Angore flinch as he moved his injured knee, though he made light of her concern. She did not press the point. She had been overwhelmed by the realisation of Angore's importance to her; clearly he had not had the same experience. But she had reason to hope he might eventually let his sequestered heart realise what feeling another's pain as your own might signify. She would not rush him to find answers now. If they survived there would be time, if they did not... and her mind replayed his words and the memory of his touch.

"Do we have a chance to reach Mithlond, Angore?" she asked, and for once the "we" did not mean the elves alone, whose lightfootedness and endurance gave them an advantage.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: journey toward Mithlond


Angore thought and gave a characteristically laconic response. "Yes but not a good one. We have less than two weeks rations remaining and short rations at that - and I would expect the journey to take mortals at least that time on foot in fair weather". And and everyone is already hungry thought Erenor, and tired and so cold.

Nevertheless the party trudged on day after day. They were grateful for the light of the sun each morning even though it gave no light. The pitiful remnant of the proud citizenry of Fornost cooperated with each other but spoke little, even though their situation equalized all, regardless of race or rank. They huddled in to as few a number of tents as would house them at night to save exertion both of carrying them and setting them up.

Erenor had often found snow beautiful when seen from her window at Rivendell - it was far less appealing now although there were moments when a shaft of light created such sparkling loveliness that she could forget their plight for a moment.

The ice had more sinister creations. They found the body of the missing councillor Mitharan caught like a bird in a thicket at the base of a steep slope. He was like a twisted star glittering with ice - a strange mockery of a jewel. Though they did their best to dispose his body in a more seemly fashion it bore little relation to a decent funeral.

Erenor saw little of her previous companions. The tension had eased with Angore, there was a tacit understanding to concentrate on getting to safety. He was still her guard but as the strongest and most experienced in the ways of the wild among them, his skills learnt through the long centuries of errantry were vital to all. He and the hardened soldier, Belegorn, were in close counsel with the prince Aranarth as to their path and actions, but at other times he served as the rearguard of the group and though his mind was yet closed to her she was aware of his gaze resting on her as her scanned the horizons and it comforted her.

Bethiril spoke seldom. She was absorbed in her own thoughts and whatever strange destiny she had fortold for herself. Erenor had never enjoyed the best relationship with her - she had not disliked her but she had failed to understand her. Now her viewpoint had shifted but it seemed too late. Bethiril had taken on her remoteness as Erenor had developed Bethiril's abhorrance of violence.

Faerim... Faerim her faithful hound, her kindred spirit and whose devotion had inspired so much amusement was also preoccupied. His youth gave him strength and he was of the few that had the energy to hunt for wood or food. Other time he spent mainly with his mother. Lissi had reserves of spirit few could equal but death had claimed one son and in the time of that bereavement she had been forsaken by her husband in the name of duty. At least in Faerim she had a son to be proud of. Although when the opportunity for adventure arose, he had been eager to take it, Erenor knew his first priority had ever been his family.

Then there was that other protege of Rosgollo - the child Gilly. Despite the conditions the child seemed cheerful and remarkably healthy. Perhaps his name had won him the protection of the lady Elbereth. Now they were largely horseless - the poor beasts perished gradually through starvation and accident in the ice and snow - Erenor took it upon herself to carry the child when his short but sturdy legs could not cope with the snow. Renedwen was already burdened with her own infant son, Derendur. She had seemed suspicious at first of the elf lady, who for so long had seemed to place herself above such mundane domestic concerns as the care of small children, thinking perhaps Erenor sought to reclaim the child rescued by her own kind. It had not helped that Erenor had soon asked if she would keep the child when they reached safety. Renedwen who was at least in terms of the Dunedain as noble as Erenor was in those of the Noldor could be just as haughty if she chose, had responded that her son had lost a father and she would not separate him from the brother he had found. Misunderstandings resolved, and understanding if not yet friendship developed between the two ladies who carried swords as well as children.

Nevertheless it was Gilly the blessed and beloved who was Erenor's bane. Little used to children of any kind she did not watch him as constantly as mother does by instinct, and the little boy toddled unheeded to the brink of a icy stream deep from meltwater that flowed down from the mountains this far south. Alerted the elf had leapt and while she was able to save the child from the fall she had taken it herself. Although uninjured she was soaked in the stream’s frigid water.

Over two weeks into their journey, they had come almost to the end of their supplies, eked out by cutting quantities and supplemented with what little they could scavenge (enough for a lone traveller but not a party of their size), but more deadly to the elf now than starvation was the cold.

Angore had rushed to his mistress's side cursing himself that again she had come to harm when he had been away ignoring the fact that there was little he could have done. He wrapped his cloak about them both and held her tight as if by so doing he could hold warmth and life in her frozen body. Only now as she was dying did he have the same realisation that she had undergone weeks before. "Don't leave me, my lady” he murmured, her hair damp against his face. She had not the strength to speak bud rested her head against his chest. His reserve was broken at last and for the first time he opened his mind to her hoping to keep her attention, and awake.

Erenor was aware of little the wind blowing outside the tent and the comforting sound of Angore's heartbeat. She was beyond cold now and lying safe in her beloved's arms it would be so easy to drift into sleep. She would just close her eyes a little while, just rest til the storm abate and they could go on... her mind filled with images Angore, trolls, a woman like enough to be his close kindred. Then the tent opened and she saw Gaeredhel - or was it Rosgollo enter? I must be dead she thought as she yielded to sleep....

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: taken in by the Lossoth


The old man reached a brown hand out from the rippled folds of fur. King Arvedui poured the contents of a ragged cloth pouch onto the man’s wrinkled palm. The old man’s round face peered at the glossy surface of the sapphire as he held it up to the light. Muttering something to the man standing by his side in his own tongue, he looked back at the men in front of him. He sniffed at the great stone, before thrusting it roughly back into the still outstretched hand of the king. He shook his tightly cloaked head.

“Ice men no want cold stone.” His deep, guttural voice was surprising in such a wizened frame.
“Ice men cannot eat cold stone.”

“And Dunedain cannot eat ice! Cannot you spare even a morsel, o’ Chief?” Replied Arvedui.

The journey had almost broken the king, and he could not keep the desperation from filling his eyes and his voice.

“If you cannot aid us Chief, if we cannot find sanctuary with the Men of the Snow, then we are lost. We shall go out into the ice to perish. I only pray the wind freezes our breath before starvation does.”

The king made to turn and depart, but with a single deft movement, the old ice-chief was standing, his broad brown hand spread gently over the ragged fabric of the king’s cloaked shoulder.

The old man’s glance darted from the king’s desperate grey eyes to his cold hand as it lay on his sword hilt.

He looked up.

“Tall men stay.” His voice, once as cold as the winds of his home, had warmed.
“We give you what little we can.”

The king stepped forward, with his hand outstretched in sign of the agreement. The Ice-chief hesitated, his black eyes examining the Dunedain’s poised hand for a brief moment, before reaching out and clasping it firmly. Carthor, standing behind the king, could see his whole body relax as a wave of relief rushed through it.

The chief’s warriors, all clad in their thick fur wrappings, of what animal Carthor could not guess in the ruddy fire light of the ice-house, stepped forward. Each bore a thick brown blanket, and draping them tightly over the white-cold frames of the Dunedain, they ushered them all into a warm alcove. Carthor sipped gratefully at the hot fish-broth one of them provided for him in a shallow wooden bowl. The steaming liquid coursed through his stomach, extinguishing the hollow pain that his weeks of hunger had brought him.

Carthor looked grimly around the alcove, his blue eyes landing heavily on the faces of his companions. Seven times he paused; seven times he looked into lost and wearied eyes. The seven men around him were all that remained of the king’s guard that had ridden out from the mountains.