Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

The heavy thudding of footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous hall. At the far end stood a menacing door, with images of craven beasts and other wicked things carved into its massive frame. A figure shrouded in darkness, wrapped in the wreath of wickedness, approached the gateway slowly, pausing here and there to seemingly admire the arches and carvings notched out of the walls and ceiling. The footfalls continued to ring throughout the hall, as the figure neared the door, billowing dark brown robes swirling about their legs, trailing after them.

Two Orc guards, who were supposed to be standing watch at the doorway but had dozed off, were awakened by the deep voice of the figure. “The Dark Lord needed better servants than you foul Orcs.” Quickly snapping into action, they grunted, and slapped their pikes in front of the newcomer, and demanded he tell them why he had come to the sanctuary of Sauron. “Stand aside, or your heads will be on those pikes you carry,” came the response from the hooded warrior. Looking at each other with a slight glint of fear, the guards stepped aside, allowing the figure to make his entrance into the chamber.

The chamber was dark, lit only by an eerie light surrounding the rim of a circular platform in the center, and few torches at the edges of the great hall. From the darkness came a voice, terrible and menacing, that made the guards beyond the now sealed door shudder in utter terror. “So, you have come at last, to serve the Dark Lord. As I knew you would.” The figure waited in stillness, lit by the platform he now stood upon. “You know nothing, Sauron. You deceive yourself in thinking that. Your mantle of Dark Lord is stolen; it does not belong to you.” Silence now enveloped the room. Sauron’s anger flooded every niche of the hall, dripping from the ceiling, gurgling forth from the walls and floor, but only for a moment. Regaining his composure, he replied to the brave, or foolish, figure. “I did not summon you here to reignite our war. I have a mission for you, one you might be interested in.” A cloaked arm shot out from underneath the heavy brown robes, and made a cut through the stale atmosphere of the crypt-like room. “I am not one of your pathetic servants!” From the Dark Lord, a dire response was issued. “You will serve me, as you did my master, or you will find nothing but sorrow.”

Many silent moments passed, as the figure brooded and debated his new situation. He shook his head, as he thought to himself, obviously pondering something that was not wholly satisfactory. Folding his arms beneath his cloak, he uttered his own response to Sauron’s command. “You are not my master. I am only a servant to the true Dark Lord. But, I will serve you, for now.” A deep laugh, terrible and wicked, came from the throne of Sauron. “Excellent.” Gorthaur paused, and then continued, giving the cloaked figure his orders. “I am tasking you with bringing the Elven land of Eregion to its knees. An army will be prepared for you, and you will set out with it at once.” The figure nodded, and turned to depart the presence of the Dark Lord. As he was dismissing himself, the Lord of Barad-dur mentioned something else to him. “The descendant of an Oath-taker resides in Eregion. He should be the target of your malice.” A slight rippling of the deep, brown hood signaled a compliant nod.

The robed man turned once more, and strode out of the cavern, the taste of decay lingering on his lips. As he passed the guards at the gate to the chamber, he smirked. “I had better not receive such pathetic whelps for my army.” Once again, the heavy thudding of footsteps echoed through the arched hallway, slowly dissipating into the distant muffle of Mordor’s heavy, clouded atmosphere.

[Encaitare]

In the camp remained around one hundred orcs and a captain. Glûtkask had not gone to the battle, having entrusted Lushurd to carry out his instructions. He knew that Lushurd was scarcely cleverer than a pile of dung, but the lieutenant could follow orders. In his tent, he gnawed on a bit of dried meat and squinted at the rough map. When his lads got back, they would take a little rest and then start moving again. They would have to cross the mountains; there was supposed to be a pass through which they could travel. Glûtkask grumbled to himself at the thought of traveling through the mountains in this damnable cold. Not only would it be unpleasant for him, but all of the soldiers would find it unpleasant as well, and they were sure to gripe about it all the way to the other side.

Finishing the meat and rummaging in a hairy rucksack for more, he wondered when they'd be getting back. There were only a few of the Elvish scum coming to the valley, so ideally, Lushurd would be bringing the company victoriously back to camp soon, and they'd be off again with a nice high morale. Maybe they'd be in a good enough mood from having bashed the brains out of the enemy that they wouldn't mind the weather so much.

As this more optimistic thought crossed his mind, a panting scout burst into the tent.

"Captain!" he managed, through his uneven breath.

"What? Have you got news from the valley?" By Sauron's hairy toes, it'd better be good, Glûtkask thought.

"Yar. They..."

"Speak up, scout!"

The scout swallowed, and talked quickly. "I was waitin' halfway between the valley an' here, in case there was news. An' then someone came rushin' up to me, told me to take a message back to you. He said things was going fine until out of a door in the mountain came a bunch of Dwarves an' trapped ours between them an' the Elves."

Glûtkask growled. "And our lads can't take care of a few Dwarves?"

"He said it was somethin' near a score of them. Too many for them to take. They're goin' to retreat." The orc scout looked very much like it wanted to leave the tent as quickly as he could.

"Retreat?!" he shouted.

The scout cowered. "Probably better to save what lads they could..." He stopped speaking at a fearsome glance from the captain, and then scurried outside.

Last time I trust that half-wit lieutenant to do a job for me -- assuming he's still alive, that is. Glûtkask planned to give Lushurd a piece of his mind; he figured the wretch could use it.

[Firefoot]

Life since the passage of the Misty Mountains had not been going well for Grimkul and Ulwakh. In fact, this was the worst life had ever been since their enslavement to Mordor several years back. Ulwakh regretted it every day that he had not taken Grimkul up on his suggestions of fleeing; even Grimkul understood that there was no chance of that now. Kharn made sure of it.

Kharn made sure of a lot of things. He made sure that if an example needed to be made, the example was either Grimkul or Ulwakh (usually Grimkul). He made sure that they were always strapped with the worst of the camp duties when there were duties to be done. He made sure that the frustrated Grimkul never got his way with any Orc who, knowing that Kharn would indirectly protect him, took advantage of either of them. And if Grimkul did put a foot out of line… there was always the whip. He wouldn’t actually kill either of them – Grimkul in particular was useful on the front lines, and besides, Kharn enjoyed the bit of sport. And if the Captain asked… well, Kharn could always say that they had been causing trouble. Such was not unheard of from Grimkul. Not that he regretted his past actions; he mostly just wanted to add Kharn to his list of conquests.

Only occasionally were Grimkul and Ulwakh able to temporarily escape Kharn’s notice in the bustle and confusion of camp, and these times were a blessed relief.

Kharn had not forgiven Grimkul the embarrassment of being put into such a vulnerable position in front of the rest of the troops, and he wasn’t going to let Grimkul forget it. So almost daily, Grimkul’s infuriation and humiliation grew, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The instant he had the chance, he would put a knife in Kharn’s back… except he never seemed to have the chance. Not a good one, anyway; Ulwakh had always dissuaded him for if he were to kill the second-in-command, Grimkul would be killed, too. So Grimkul was stuck biding his time until he got an opportunity in which he could pass off the killing as either as an accident or “someone else did it.”

And Ulwakh needed Grimkul as much as, if not more than, ever. His leg had never really healed, and he still walked with a slight limp. The wound might seem to be finally healed, only to open up again after a hard day’s march. More often than not, the open wound became infected. This repeated process had left his calf little more than a dark mass of tough, scabby skin. And once more, Kharn was no help: during the marches, Kharn became quite free with the whip when Grimkul and Ulwakh were stuck near the back, and by the frequency with which the whip hit his leg, Ulwakh figured he aimed for it.

Life was a misery, and the only respites had been village raids, when all Orkish cruelty was turned towards the Elvish settlements of Eregion. Each village was raided, pillaged, and plundered, and any inhabitants they found were cruelly killed. Then the villages were burned to the ground, nothing left but ashes. Grimkul took a moment to reminisce over the last such village, two days previous. They had been fortunate; the Elves living there had not already fled as in some other villages. He smiled maliciously recalling the terrified screams of the children and the horror and helplessness etched out in their Elvish faces. The villages had all been too small to give real fight, and Orkish casualties were minimal.

He knew that this last village was one of the last that they would destroy; even he was not so dull-witted as to not realize that the company was hastening south with increasing speed, and Ulwakh had gathered that they were going to meet a much larger army, one to quash the great Elvish city. Small raids weren’t the objective any more; the Dark Lord wanted greater conquests. So while Grimkul hoped there would be at least one more raid, Ulwakh doubted there would be.

Grimkul was startled out of his pleasant memories by Ulwakh’s hiss, “He’s coming!” This was one of those nights where the two of them had managed to steal away from Kharn’s attention, and whether he was just wandering this way or if he was looking for them, neither wanted to find out. They quickly picked up and moved in the other direction, into the heart of the camp. They settled in, inconspicuous among the other Orcs. Grimkul’s murderous gaze never left the second-in-command, though. Ulwakh might be content to play hide-and-seek, but as for Grimkul… One of these days, he promised himself. One of these days, Kharn would wish that he had left Ulwakh and him alone.

[CaptainofDespair]

A bedraggled horse slowly passed by the lines of soldiers, and they stood in silence, alert and fearful. It had been a hard ride for Angoroth, but it was necessary. Everything was necessary now. Another horse, though slightly smaller, trotted up beside the Dark Lord’s servant. The Easterling captain charged with bringing the army to Eregion, was ever fearful, more so than any of his men, for a great burden was rested upon his shoulders.

“Milord, the army is assembled, and prepared to march to the City.”

“I can see that, Captain,” was the monotonous, and yet angered response from the Commander of Mordor’s Armies. “You are also late, Captain. You were to have arrived here three days ago.”

“I know, milord. But, we were del…” His response was cut off by a simple gesture from the black armored Commander. “I do not want excuses. You were given a relatively simple task. You failed. And failure is rewarded in only one way, Captain.” Another gesture from the Maiar summoned up a squad of horsemen, who escorted the ex-commander from the presence of his lord. Turning to one of the other horsemen, who remained behind to receive further orders for the execution of the captain, Angoroth spoke. “You, lieutenant, are the new captain. Do not fail me.”

*~*

The army had marched only a few more miles into Eregion, and had now set up a large, bustling camp only a two day march from Ost-in-Edhil. Reinforcements arrived daily, they were reserves intended to depart with the army, but could not be mustered in time. Scouts were also being dispatched, to locate Elven resistance forces outside the city, and to locate forward expeditions; orcs and men sent months ahead of the main force to cause havoc and pave the way for the main battle group.

Word now reached Angoroth that a sizeable force of orcs was just arriving in the camp, one that had been out raiding and pillaging in recent weeks. His new captain now reported this to him, with great angst, for he knew the mind of his commander, and his thoughts on Orcs. “Milord, a large contingent of orcs has arrived in the camp. They are seeking accommodations, and they wish to join our battle force.” Angoroth rose up from his chair, from which he had spent many hours in quiet contemplation, and addressed his underling. “It’s as if we didn’t have enough of that rabble.” Sighing, he finished his thought, “Very well, send them to the western palisade with all the other orcs.” The captain nodded eagerly, bowed, and casually left the presence of his commander, careful to not show too much fear.

The hustle and bustle of the large camp was a welcome sight to most of the arriving orcs, who much desired rest and food. The orc leadership, save for a few who were needed to sort their troops, was escorted to meet with their new commander. The Easterling captain, whom Angoroth did not yet know the name of, presented them in proper fashion to his master. “Milord,” piped up the captain, “these are the orcs who have led much of the havoc of the past few weeks in Eregion.” He paused, allowing his lord to scan the motley group. “They are, in order of rank, Glûtkask and Kharn, both of whom led the forces against the Witch’s Elves, milord.” Angoroth, with his barbute helm obscuring his face, only nodded and uttered a short message. “Thank you, captain. You may return to your duties.” The captain bowed, and retreated at his dismissal.

With the departure of his captain, Angoroth was left alone with the new orcs. Masking his disgust for the creatures, he began a sort of dialogue with them. “I am Angoroth, the Hand of Sauron, tasked with the destruction of Eregion. Whatever your orders were prior to this, they are to be forgotten. Only mine are to be followed.” The orcs muttered and nodded grimly. “Excellent. Now, rest yourselves, for war comes soon.”

[Envinyatar]

Through the great forests to Tharbad and turning northward to Ost-in-edhil - Spring 1697 S.A.

‘The trees seem fewer here than I remember,’ Ondomirë said, shifting in his saddle to look about the forest. ‘Were they not thick as a lamb’s wool in the winter? At least, that is how I remember them. But then that was long ago, before the seas rose and swallowed fair Beleriand.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked through the well spaced trees. ‘What has happened here, I wonder?’

One of his bowmen, one with as many years as himself, rode up beside him. ‘Men!’ he spat out. ‘Men are what has happened here. How Lord Elrond’s brother can have chosen them is beyond me.’ Ondomirë looked at him curiously. ‘How so?’ he asked, wondering at the vehemence in the Elf’s voice.

‘There were once small enclaves of men who lived near these forests. The forest met their needs. Animals for food; wood for shelter and for warmth. And they in turn respected the gifts, taking only what was needed and with thanks.’ The Elf paused, shaking his head at his thoughts. ‘Now those men whom the Valar have favored with Elenna have traveled in their great ships back to these shores. Their navy is great; they are hungry for wood. And their little island cannot supply such grand trees as these and in such number to satisfy their needs.’ The Elf’s chin lifted slightly, his eyes shifting to some backlit shadow that moved in the distance. ‘Look there, sir,’ he murmured.

It was tall, very tall, Ondomirë thought. Moving with an easy grace, the shadow moved close to one of the trees. It’s head, seeming crowned with leaves and branches, bent near the tree’s own crown, and sinewy arms with long slender fingers touched something on the bark. For a moment the two were still, the tree and creature, then crown and head dew apart from each other. Turning sideways in a measured movement, the tall creature pulled back, disappearing in a few long strides beneath the further canopy of trees.

‘Was that what I think it was,’ he asked, his eyes lit with a deeper wonder. ‘I had heard of them but only in vague tales and those from some of our woodland kin.’ He looked quickly at the Elf beside him. ‘Not to offend by the use of that term . . . woodland. It is only that they have such an interesting and varied set of stories they tell about the places where they dwell. Much of which I have had no experience of.’

‘No offense taken, my captain,’ the other Elf said, his brows raised at the quick apology by Ondomirë. ‘We are fond of stories . . . we woodland kin,’ he went on, a grin crinkling his eyes. ‘And yes, that is what you think it is. One of the Onodrim, shepherding his trees, caring for them as he might.’ He looked upward to where the taller trees fingered the morning sky. ‘There is still a great peace and harmony here among them. Yet on the edges of their thoughts it seems a sort of fear has grown. Fear and some brewing hatred. Though not against us, I think. There is still some recognition of the Eldar. But suspicion hovers in the shadows and they are not as welcoming as they might be.’

The leafy branches of a nearby tree brushed his shoulder as they rode by. Ondomirë repressed a small gasp as some ancient awareness flitted at the corners of his mind. ‘Pardon my intrusion,’ he said, nodding at the branch he had ridden into. The other Elf laughed, watching as his captain nodded courteously toward the tree. ‘Why, sir, you would make a most capable woodland Elf . . . what with your courteous ways and your quick mind!’

For a space of time, the two companions rode together, Ondomirë picking the other’s mind as they went along. The forest took on a life of its own with the words of the other Elf. And Ondomirë wondered at it as he looked upon the trees and their lands with fresh eyes.

A number of weeks passed as the large company continued its eastward trek, nearing the River Gwathló. There was a crossing there, at one of the mannish towns, Tharbad. They would skirt the town and cross further south at a deeper ford, then head north toward the Mirdain city. Three weeks, Ondomirë thought, and probably a bit longer. Lord Elrond would want to spend a few days resting his troops and consulting with his captains. Scouts would have to be sent out; the approach to the city looked at. The enemy’s movements taken into account . . .

[Durelin]

On their way to the palace, Maegisil tried to inform Narisiel of the most recent events, speaking more hurriedly than he usually did, as well as more casually, being on much more familiar terms with the elf woman than in the past. Over the past year and a half or so, he had come to regard her as a friend. He had no idea if she shared this feeling of friendship, but they spent some time together. He had been worried that Sairien would take his associating himself with another woman the wrong way, but she had yet to say anything of that sort. Narisiel and Sairien had met before, and his wife seemed to get along with her quite well.

You’ve never asked, though, have you?

He quickly disregarded this thought, knowing it was for another time, but knowing also in the back of his mind that he had been putting off so many things, particularly surrounding his wife. But no one could have known from his voice that so many things troubled him.

“Lord Celebrimbor has been completely silent the past few days, and this news has only made him worse. I’ve asked him what he wanted done, but he didn’t say more than three words to me until today. And still, he talks very little. But that is why I hurried so to get to you. He’s finally called for council, and if we slow down at all…” Maegisil trailed off, having too many words to choose from.

“He might change his mind…” Narisiel said, finishing his thought.

“And he might not ask for any help again,” he added gravely, “which he needs.”

Narisiel nodded, and Maegisil went back to watching his feet moving quickly below him. He picked up the pace a little bit, his feeling of urgency increasing as he recalled events before he departed from the palace, picturing the fear he had observed in the faces of all those present. The Lord Celebrimbor had tried to hide his fear, and perhaps to those who did not know him so well, such as the scouts and Commander Elgedon, he appeared quite calm. But Maegisil had seen immense distress on his lord’s face, though the elf-lord’s whole demeanor had been tainted with sadness and stress for many years now. The counselor recalled a different Celebrimbor from long ago.

“I’ve almost forgotten how Celebrimbor used to smile and laugh with my wife and I at dinner, when I would never have dreamed of being called a ‘counselor,’” Maegisil said after they had walked in silence for a few moments. He spoke more slowly and cautiously, unsure of himself and of confiding in Narisiel; not because she was not a friend to him, but because he often got needlessly embarrassed about sharing anything at all personal. He had always been that way, even with his wife, which he knew frustrated her to no end. Sairien had always gotten him to open up in the end, though. At least, she had in the past.

Narisiel looked at Maegisil, and, catching his eye for a moment, said, “So have I. Almost.”

She smiled slightly, and her companion could not help but smile back. But the two fell into silence again, each with a head crowded with thoughts, walking as quickly as they could without making fools of themselves in the city streets. No one spoke until they reached the palace, and they merely exchanged surprised glances when Taurnil met them in the entrance hall and said he was to lead them to Celebrimbor’s chambers. Maegisil had expected that the lord would hold a council in the great Hall, inviting all of his various counselors and courtiers to inform them of the situation. But it seemed that councils, courtrooms, banquets, and performances were things completely of the past in Ost-in-Edhil. The Hall of the palace had not seen more than about five people for many years. The forges were the only things that had not gone silent.

The two found the Lord of Eregion sitting in a large, ornate wooden chair, looking gloomy, pensive, and worried, and yet still quite regal. Maegisil paused in front of the door, tucking away the image of his lord in his mind. He was not sure why he did so, but suddenly he felt that he could almost cry. But then the moment passed, and he stepped forward into the room, looking around him. Commander Elgedon had returned, and one of the scouts from earlier was standing behind and slightly to the right of where he sat on one of the couches, but other than that…

“Yes, Maegisil, this is the ‘council’ I have called,” Celebrimbor said in a weary voice; he had read the look on his friend’s face. The counselor felt a twinge of pain and sadness, hurt slightly by his lord’s tone. Narisiel did not seem happy with the elf-lord’s attitude, either. Maegisil noticed her glare at him, even if he didn’t.

“Well, if this is who you wish to aid you in a time of war, then so be it,” Maegisil said simply, meaning every word of it. Celebrimbor seemingly ignored him, turning to Narisiel. “So he dragged you into this, as well?”

“I thought that was your wish,” Maegisil cut in, sounding a little indignant, but the lord silenced him with a gesture and continued.

“I am sorry that what we did has come to this. To think that a few rings could have brought Eregion to an end…my glory to an end… It has brought me to an end.”

His words and the tone in which he spoke frightened his two friends, and Elgedon eyed the elf-lord with great concern. Celebrimbor had done what Maegisil had been afraid he would do for the past two years: he had given in. And for a moment, the counselor wondered if his lord had not given in to Sauron over a century ago.

[Arry]

Khazad-Dum . . . Spring 1697 S.A.

Patrols went out more often now, and no longer just into the area beyond the East Gate. Now the Orcs and other dark creatures were roaming in the land beyond the West Gate, too. Guards had been set to keep watch ere Sauron’s minions came too close to the gates. And Durin’s Tower now was kept fortified against any intrusions from that direction.

With the lengthening of the shadow from the east, Skald had returned to those early skills taught him by his father. The forging of iron tips for arrows, the barbed tips for oaken lances – these filled his days now. His skills for engraving on stone were put aside; the chisels wrapped in soft leather, the hammers all hung neatly from their hooks. There was armor, too, to be made. Thick helms lined with leather were to be proof against the cudgels and swords of the Orcs. Chainmail, greaves, and vambraces. Metal coverings for the small wooden shields that would hang on the stout arms of the Dwarven warriors.

Swords and long-knives were an altogether different set of skills. One which Skald had not sought to learn. At the Steeledge forge where he was bound this morning with a load of fine iron bars from the Stonecut smelter, he knew he would find Oren manning the bellows for his brothers as they plunged the cold iron into the red coals and brought it out again to be laid on the long anvil and beaten thin, and reheated, and folded and beaten again under the stern eye of their father, Nori. Sharp, serviceable blades would emerge at last, fastened to sturdy grips. Double edged and hefty enough to slice through the neck of a filthy Orc with one swipe.

He’d declined Oren’s offer to make him a sword, saying that it was still the axe that fit best in his hand. ‘A sword will only make me more likely to get cut down,’ he told his friend. ‘Even a sword a finely made as those by your family, still it would take some sort of magic for it to be of any use to me.’ He clenched his fist as if closing it about the thick wooden handle of his axe. ‘A mattock or my pole-axe and I’ll hew down Orcs as easily as a sharp knife cuts butter.’

Skald made his good-byes and headed back toward his family’s workplace. ‘Remember,’ he called back to the Steeledge men, ‘tomorrow evening, there’s to be a gathering in our Hall. My father is tapping the kegs of ale he’s been brewing this last month. Riv and Bror brought in two deer that we’ll be roasting; Unna’s baking bread . . . you can bring what’s needed to fill in the corners of your appetite.’ He grinned at Oren’s father. ‘Your wife’s dried apple pie would be a most welcome addition to my trencher!’ With a last wave, he turned down the hall and headed homeward at a quick pace.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel noticed with surprise the way Celebrimbor silenced Maegisil, but it was not only that that caused her own indignation and almost disappointment in Celebrimbor. To see him so hunched in his chair now, to see him shoot down an old friend, to treat her like an afterthought merely 'dragged in' by some whim of Maegisil...what Lord acted in so petty and almost melodramatic a manner when on his borders lay...well, what?

Catching the Commander, Elgedon's, eye, she saw in his eyes the same sort of emotion - but along with it was such a look of defeat that the fear began to swell inside Narisiel's darkest worries. Turning to Celebrimbor, she raised her chin defiantly and spoke firmly, as if to an unruly child. "My Lord Celebrimbor, please, speak plainly to me: what has happened, exactly?"

"Maegisil did not tell you?" Celebrimbor looked up, surprised, but did not direct his at the male counsellor as well, and Narisiel once more wondered about the distance and formality that seemed to be growing between them. Was she doomed to such cold treatment as well, after the closeness that had grown up between them. But Celebrimbor gave her a soft, sad smile, the fondness in his eyes soothing her worry, before she caught herself in realising how petty it was. But he did not answer her question immediately, instead turning sharply away and staring intently out of the window. Bewildered, Narisiel turned instead to Elgedon. The Commander glanced at Celebrimbor as if for permission, but when the elf-lord made no move, he cleared his throat uneasily and stood stiffly. "We...we have sighted the dark army."

Something about the coining of such an ominour phrase made Narisiel question. "'Dark' army? Do you mean to say-"

"There are not only orcs," Elgedon finished shortly. He glanced at the scout in the side of the room, standing mutely with his eyes on his hands. Not only orcs... Although Elgedon seemed unsure of whether to continue or not, the sense of panic was speeding through Narisiel's mind as the sands of time seemed to be slipping from beneath her feet and the very foundations of her city. It was not the done thing, but as etiquette seemed to be of little matter now, she addressed the scout directly. "How many? What did you see?" she asked, not quite managing to keep her voice steadily.

The young scout looked up, startled, and glanced at Elgedon as if for permission to speak, a strange symmetry drawing itself between Elgedon's silent request to speak from the mute Celebrimbor. It seemed that no matter what their level, every individual was feeling the uncertainty of their world as it slipped towards the maw of war. When the scout spoke, his grey eyes were shining with the memory of what he had seen, widening as if he once more saw some fearsome sight even in the quiet, still rooms of the palace. "There...there were not only orcs, my Lady," he replied, his voice almost a croak. He glanced once more at Elgedon, then continued, blurting the words out. "Orcs...Uruk-hai, even some kind of goblin; and men, men by the thousands - Easterlings, Southrons, we could not get close enough to see clearly, but what we saw..."

"How many?"

The scout swallowed, licking dry lips as his eyes faltered away from the smith's, before he looked back and replied. And this time all the military training of the worlds best commanders could not hide the shake that was in his voice. "Tens of thousands, my Lady. At least twenty thousand - and that was merely what we could see straight away."

Narisiel closed her eyes and felt herself sway slightly, as if a gentle breeze shook her. This couldn't be happening, and yet had they not ll foreseen it, the entire city, building and building for over a century, had they not prepared for it? The armouries were stocked, military training ever fiercer, yet more elven men turning to the army, women preparing their families and their houses; and yet, after all of their hard work, the climax of the preparation of the busy bees was to have their hive totally smashed.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and turned slowly to Celebrimbor, still seated gloomily, gazing intently out of the window as if willing the enemy away with his very eyes; but as she looked more closely, the smith was sure that she could see tears in his eyes. Shocked, she looked away, ridiculously embarassed, and looked back to Maegisil. The other elf's expression was rigid, but his eyes gave it away: unashamedly despairing. Yet within the fear, she noted, there was no shock. And neither was there in her eyes, she supposed, however terrible the news was. She had known. They all had known.

Following Celebrimbor's eyes, Narisiel breathed deeply, forcing her calm exterior to remain firm and still, oil over turbulent waters. But strong though she was, she could feel the panic and upset inside her that was purely female, a fear not so much for herself as for her way of life - and for her family, soldiers both...

"When will you tell the city?"

The question was a statement as much as a query, and Narisiel knew it: the time for waiting and whispering had passed. The busy little bees were to know as soon as possible, before that unruly child was to stomp on their hive - although little good it may do them now...

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh had thought life would be easier once their company joined the rest of the host. He had figured that the pair of them could descend into blessed anonymity and escape the ever watchful eyes of Kharn. And he had hoped that the whole affair could be forgotten and blown over.

Ulwakh had been wrong.

Almost as soon as their company joined the rest of the force, they had been given an assignment that removed them from the camp. Apparently, there had been some unease over the Dwarven stronghold to the east and some fear that the Elves might send for aid. Their company had been sent to monitor and hinder any communications between the Elves and Dwarves. The company had been split up into smaller groups so as to cover more ground; no messengers were to get through, and if there were to be a messenger, the preferable option would be that the Dwarves did not know of him at all. Preferably.

At first, little seemed to happen, but finally, when Grimkul and Ulwakh and their fellows were patrolling closer to the mountains than was usual, perhaps a league or so from the Dwarven gate, a scout brought word of an Elf coming their way. Eager for more fighting, the Orcs set up for ambush. The Elf proved a hardier warrior than any of them had expected, though he was on the verge of being overcome when a fierce band of Dwarves rushed in out of nowhere.

Grimkul whirled about to face this new foe on their flanks, wielding his scimitar mightily. Little love did he bear the Dwarves, in particular those select few that had so handily eluded his killing stroke in the last backfired ambush. In the back of his mind, he was disappointed to see that none of those now fighting were they, but he fought fiercely nonetheless, cleaning slicing through the neck of one Dwarf before they had retreated back behind their gates.

The members of the small band scowled and spat as the losses were tallied up: two Dwarves and the Elf messenger, compared to seven Orcs. But mostly, they counted it as a victory: the Elf had not gotten through, and the Dwarves’ attack had been turned to retreat almost immediately. Grinning maliciously, the Orcs set up their victory sign.

The three bodies of their foes were quickly despoiled and hacked apart, then left to rot or be consumed by scavengers. The heads were removed and speared on three stakes. The features of each face were horribly mangled but not beyond clear recognition. Then they were left to be found by their comrades and families as the Orcs headed off to report the skirmish to the Captain.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo and Arenwino were now leaving Celebrimbor's palace, with his announcement still lingering in their ears. As the crowds were going their separate ways, a new sense of dread now filled Cainenyo's heart. An army of twenty thousand? Cainenyo imagined the slaughter for a brief moment and the city burning. Now he was genuinely afraid. He wondered if the dwarves would come to the city's aid, or perhaps Gil-Galad was on his way with a dazzling army of spearmen, or if there was no hope at all and all friends had abandoned the city. And where would he go? Where should his family hide? How soon would Ost-in-Edhil become a memory? But Caineneyo's thoughts were interrupted.

"I want to fight," Arenwino said. He looked dead serious.

"What?" Cainenyo said, "No, no, no, my son. You will go with your mother and sister. I will fight." He was surprised that his son would say such a thing, but as he listened he realized more and more that his son was a man now.

"Father, there's nothing else for me! I cannot become a celebdan without Celebdur, and he was killed by orcs! Let me avenge him, father, and let me protect my city!" His hands moved through the air in wild gestures. "There is no possible way for me to start my own business. Becoming a warrior is the only option available!"

"But my son, you cannot throw away your life like that," Cainenyo kept his voice calm, "I will fight. You have the rest of your life ahead of you. You will get married and have children of your own. None of that will happen if you are killed in battle."

"But I must, I want to," Arenwino's voice wavered for a moment, "I don't want to be the only one of my friends to not fight, to never have killed an orc! And what if you are killed in battle, father?"

"Then I will still have a son as my heir, and to take care of my widowed wife in her grief." Cainenyo's voice took on an angrier tone, "And your death would be worse than mine. I have lived a successful life, with my own wife and children. You still have time to wed, and to raise your own family." Arenwino opened his mouth to interject. "End of discussion!" was Cainenyo's rapid response.

They walked the rest of the way in cold silence.