Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Folwren]

Bror turned over reluctantly on his side. Nights of sleeping outside on the hard ground was settling into his very bones, and he was tired of it. He soon found that more sleep would be impossible to get, especially with the sun shining right into his face. He pressed his eyes shut against the blinding glare and turned over once again. With a sigh, he sat up.

Skald was already standing up, apparently entirely prepared to continue, with even his axe at his belt and his cloak fastened

‘I say, Skald,’ Bror said, propping his elbows on his knees and looking up at his brother. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I guess I shouldn’t have done it. Are things. . .are things really quite as black as you made them out to be?’

Skald looked at him quietly and then lifted his eyes and turned his gaze towards the north. Bror looked, too, and then stood up to see better. A feeling full of woe and dread rose in him. It was a long way away, but he could see a dark cloud hovering over the earth and knew it at once to be smoke.

‘The city,’ he said faintly. ‘It’s burning? Then we’re. . .we’re too late to even help.’ The wave of hopelessness that assailed him was overwhelming and he turned away. He tried to grasp at the thoughts that seemed to flee from his mind - the reasons he had chosen to stay yesterday, why he had wanted so much for the Dwarves to promise to help the elves, but now - as he thought that everything was lost and the enemy already won, or if not, almost won - he could hardly remember.

No! No, it can’t be as bad as all that, he told himself. Surely it is not all lost. Perhaps they have. . .perhaps only a little bit of the city is on fire, but the elves will soon have it under control. Surely. . .it must be. He tried to straighten it out in his mind convincingly, but found that he couldn’t. He turned to Skald for help, but his older brother had gone out among the other Dwarves and was busy waking those who weren’t up yet.

‘We’re probably going soon,’ he muttered, ‘I’ve got to get ready. Mahal watch us. . .’ He turned and went to work re-packing his bed roll, and preparing himself for the day’s march. Surely they would be starting off soon.

[Kath]

Throwing off the carcass of the dead Elf that he had just killed, Ugburz turned and spat at it. He'd been gald to get into battle at last, especially with the dangerous atmosphere inside the orc camp at the moment. There had been some kind of argument between Kharn and that brute Grimkul, though the stories about what had caused it had grown so wild that Ugburz didn't know the real reason, and wasn't about to ask anyone that did as he felt quite attached to his life.

Ducking to avoid a blow Ugburz quickly brought his attention back to the battle. The sword coming at him glanced off his leg and he howled as it hit his wound. He was fortunate in that the cut had healed, unlike the wounds of other orcs, as an injured soldier is of little use in battle and those who would not be able to fight so well had been used almost as bait to ensure the more capable fighters had a chance to get into the battle. Still, the blow hurt, and the pain fuelled the anger and hatred Ugburz felt towards these creatures. He drove his sword up through his enemy and watched with satisfaction as blood gushed from it's mouth. Yanking his weapon back his kicked the body as it fell and looked around to find another victim.

It was impossible to tell from his position who was winning, He could see the bodies of both Elves and orcs, as well as men, but there seemed equal numbers of all. Also, he was still outside the city, fighting those who were vainly trying to stem the onslaught of enemy forces, so he couldn't tell how the battle was going inside the walls. This was maddening, to be in the midst of the action and yet so far from anything important. But no matter how he tried he could not get to the gates. He was blocked at every turn, and never mind how many he killed there always seemed to be more Elves.

Persevering he pushed forward again, dodging wild swings from both friend and foe as fights raged on around him, and he kept alert. The Elves moved so quietly even in their armour that he had to keep a sharp eye out for them, as they had caught him unawares several times already, and only luck and quick reactions had saved him from a fate he wasn't ready to meet quite yet. Disposing of another Elf he kept moving, trying not to be drawn into fights that would push him backwards, steadily going toward the city.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo fell down the other side of the wall. His arms and legs ached from fighting as he stood. He was in another alley, running to the left and to the right, but this one was not filled with the usual crates and clotheslines. It was empty and kept clear, for this alleyway was used by the servants of the rich. And their great houses stood on each side, empty and bare. Their owners had abandoned them long before. Cainenyo wandered from the sounds of battle, just wanting to not see anymore orcs. He walked down the alley, to the left, where a small iron gate stood. Cainenyo limped; his ankle was twisted climbing the wall, and with each step came a dull pain. The sounds of war became quieter, but it still buzzed and roared in the background as a constant reminder that the city was no longer safe.

There were also wounds in his shoulder, where a knife had dug into his mail and now hung there caught in the rings, and a long red scratch on his cheek. He came to the iron gate and found it unlocked. The homeowners and servants had forgotten to lock the doors in their rush to escape the destruction. And so it was that Cainenyo walked into a spacious courtyard, with tall poplar trees at each corner and a square pool of clear water in the center. High white walls surrounded the courtyard, and a mansion stood on the side opposite the gate. This place seemed safe as any. Cainenyo slumped down upon the white tiles by the pool, and dipped his cupped hands into cool water. He splashed the water against his face and stretched his limbs. Although his hurt ankle would be a hindrance, he was most worried about the cut on his cheek and on the back of his shoulder, where a knife had pierced his mail. It still remained there, not in his flesh but caught in the rings of his mail, where it uncomfortingly pressed against his body. Carefully reaching, his hand felt the knife's handle and tugged it out of his armor. It was a devilish blade, sinisterly curved. Cainenyo threw it against the wall of the house in contempt and anger.

He now stood, and heard the sounds of battle growing in the distance. It sounded as though the fighting was pushing further into the city, and Cainenyo realized he needed to leave Ost-in-Edhil if he wanted to survive. He made his way around the pool and to the backdoor of the mansion, which swung open lazily, revealing an opulently decorated hallway. Tapestries hung on the red walls and pleasantly carved columns held up the ceiling. But Cainenyo had no time to admire any of this fine workmanship. He found the front door along a high-ceilinged hallway, and pushed open the great oak doors, carved with images of dragons and warriors. He flew down the stone steps into the street, and ran towards the West, away from the dim sunrise and Celebrimbor's palace and the orcs, and towards his family and survival.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul had guessed that Kharn would be commanding troops in the thick of battle and so had headed into the midst of the fighting. There was, of course, the slight matter of the Elves holding their ground between where he was and the places where Kharn might be, but he didn’t go after them unless they attacked him first. Then he killed mercilessly and swiftly, not to be deterred from his goal.

Ulwakh was forgotten in this quest, though whether he had merely been separated from Grimkul by the tides of battle or actually parted Grimkul’s company, not desiring to return to the mass murdering of battle, was unknown to Grimkul, or at least it would be if Grimkul had not forgotten about him.

Still heading towards the sounds of battle, Grimkul rounded a corner and was abruptly confronted by the first bit of organized fighting he had seen since leaving the battle at the gate. A fairly large force of Orcs was regrouping under the rain of white feathered Elvish arrows. Grimkul scanned the scene, searching for the hated burlish commander. He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He swung to face it and caught sight of Kharn, removed enough from the scene to be “safe.” With single-minded determination, Grimkul headed towards him as he raised his scimitar for battle.

"Nar! You! The knife-work's that way, you yellow-bellied slug!" Kharn shouted. "I said, get back there!" Grimkul paid the repeated order no heed. Now was his chance, his long awaited chance. He would see Kharn’s blood run in the street.

As he drew nearer, Kharn raised his own sword in preparation for a fight with an unexpected adversary. But Kharn’s weapon only served to infuriate Grimkul all the more, and he was suddenly aware of the half-healed wounds on his legs and arms, and how much his body seemed to ache – all at Kharn’s hands. Yet the pain felt good. It drove him, infuriated him, empowered him.

Grimkul’s charge gave momentum to his initial blow. It took all Kharn’s strength just to hold the blade at bay, and even so he was forced back a couple steps. “I’m not going anywhere,” snarled Grimkul, as their blades met again. “Not until you’ve died a slow-" Clash “-painful-" Clash “-death." With that, he swung his sword low, aiming for Kharn’s unprotected shins. Kharn deftly parried the blow. They went on in such a way, neither seeming to have the advantage, but it was Grimkul who gave the first wound, a deep cut on Kharn’s left shoulder. In fury and pain, now, Kharn redoubled his attack, sending Grimkul back on the defensive.

For a few blows, Grimkul was hard pressed, and Kharn scored a couple small cuts on Grimkul’s arms, reopening the scabbed over whip-marks. Suddenly, Grimkul saw an opportunity. Ducking and lunging as Kharn began to swing, he rammed his body into Kharn’s, knocking both of them to the ground with Grimkul on top. Grimkul heard Kharn’s sword clatter to the ground, but his opportunity was lost as his momentum kept him tumbling forward. Though he still held his own scimitar, it was all but forgotten as Grimkul lunged again, this time to keep Kharn from getting his sword back. All of a sudden, their sword fight had descended into a wrestling match with blades…

[Mithalwen]

Sirithlonnior had dismissed Losrian from service when he found her beside her brother's body. She had protested but his order was not to be disobeyed. "He has a wife and a child... you should go to them, try and get them away". And so, pausing only to take Ferin's personal effects, she had gone. Sirithlonnior had wished he could order his own child away from immediate danger but Artamir was a regular soldier not a volunteer.

Losrian passed ghostlike through the beleaguered city. She came first to her brother's workshop... either the invaders had not reached that part of the city or the workshop was not of primary interest - why raid a woodshop when the silversmiths quarter of Rather Celebdain was so near? Her pack was where she had hidden it and the terrified animals were still within. She wondered why her kindred had not taken the tiny pack pony for surely they must have fled the city. She wondered whether it would be a help or a hindrance to her alone. Swiftly she harnessed it with panniers and filled them with extra supplies from the store, keeping that which was most essential in her own pack. She had shut down her emotions and operated with a cold efficiency If needs must she would have to let the beast go. She released the other animals - they would have to take their chances.

When she drew near the house, fear increased in her heart the area was filled with smoke and there was a indescribable stench. What she saw would stay in her memory for ever. The building in the lee of the city wall was scorched and mostly destroyed by one of the enemies missiles. She found the maimed bodies, of Laswen and her parents, trapped by debris dead from injuries or the noxious poison of the fire blast she knew not. Her sister in law's body lay a little apart from those of her parents lying by the staircase the strongest part of the
house. Where was her child, had the fire destroyed his tiny body. Her eyes turned to the stairs, built under them was a small cuboard used as a cold store. It might just be big enough for a child.

She tried the door, fearing what she might find, could anyone have survived in that house? Instinctively she closed her eyes fearing she would open them to another death. Galmir was there. His body perfect but motionless, wrapped in a cloak with his drinking cup beside him. Losrian felt as if she had been holding her breath since her brother died, her chest constricted ... they were all gone. A sob rose to her throat..... if she had come her first.. would it have been in time to save the little boy from suffocating at least? She reached for his tiny body. It was still warm.

"Ferin, I am sorry" she moaned. The little bundle stirred in her arms. Losrian was so shocked she nearly dropped him. But the unexpected fact of another life dependent on her stifled her sobs and forced her to act with dispassion again. To leave the dead untended was hard but she knew teh best thing she could do for them was to try to get their beloved boy away from the city's destruction and every moment might count. She shielded Galmir's face with her cloak. He should not see this. He started to wail and Losrian, who had always passed the child back to his mother when he had grizzled, did not know how to comfort him him... "Come on Gally, we are going to the woods but you have to be very quiet"

"Ada there? Naneth?" he sniffed.

Unable to tell the truth, Losriansaid "Hush now Gally we have to go - no time for that now..." and bore him from the ruins. Pacifying him with a wafer of lembas she slipped back into the building and removed the pendant from Laswen's neck. It had been her wedding gift and Losrian would not leave that for the invaders.. if
they survived, Galmir should have something of his parents. She could not spend any longer looking for treasures. Bowing her head as the only mark of respect she could offer the dead, she left for the last time. Scooping up the baby who was blessedly silent, but still grateful for the masking sound of battle she started to seek for a way out of the city. The pony'[s hooves seemed deafening in the empty streets and for the first time she thought of abandoning him. But the beast had survived so far and was pluckily finding its way through the rubble so she thought again. Most of the fighting seemed to be concentrated in the heart of the city so she went the other way. For so long they had hoped that the walls would hold. Now she must hope for a breach.

She glanced up at the battlements, shrouded in smoke or mist, she knew not which, and thought suddenly of Artamir and his parents. Had they survived the destruction? She did not dare hope - either for herself or others.

[Folwren]

Skald's blow felled the orc that Bror had been bent on killing. It wasn't too dissapointing that his brother had gotten him - more likely to be relieving. He stepped over the fallen body to meet the onslaught of yet another orc. He battle axe swung and brought down the gruesome being in one blow. He pulled the broad blade from the thing's skull and stepped back half a pace to meet the next enemy. Blood and sweat ran down his face, and he had neither time nor an extra hand to wipe it away.

Battle. The word, combined with death, was bitter and hateful in his mind. The stench of the dead and dying rose up about him and his companions, almost materializing into a vapor, thick enough to encircle them and choke the breath in their throats. Another orc charged, his scimitar upraised. Bror caught the blow with his axe, easily turned the blade away and drove the spike of his weapon deep into the beast’s side.

A movement on his left caused him to duck another oncoming blow and turn. His attacker swung again and Bror lifted his axe once more to defend. The orc’s blade glanced off the shaft and slipped down harmlessly.

On and on the enemy came, beating upon the ranks of elves and dwarves like the waves of an ocean. Constantly they came and though they were flung back and broke upon the blades and axes, they slowly pushed them back - water eating out the rock.

Bror fought, his arms swinging or blocking in turn, beginning to ache and burn with the constant use, but entirely unable to stop and rest longer than a few seconds at a time. As he hewed the head off a charging man and let his axe droop momentarily towards the ground, he wondered how long they could possibly last before being entirely over run and killed.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul fell to the ground, stunned, but not dead as Ulwakh had supposed. Darkness loomed at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him – completely and permanently. The sounds of battle sounded dim in his ears, hardly noticeable. He could see little more than the ground, stained with blood both black and red. That the black blood should be his did not occur to him. He felt for his sword and found he was no longer holding it. His arm felt heavy, so heavy. He moved his head, tried to push himself up so that he could find it. There… some three feet away. It felt like three miles. Slowly, he pulled himself towards it. His vision swam with every jolting movement.

Finally, his groping hand found the sword. Both blade and hilt were still slick with blood, and still hungry for more. Grimkul wanted more. For the first time since his fall, he looked up from the ground. There, far in the distance, he beheld the cold mountains. Cold, dark, familiar…

He lurched to his feet and started a lurching, stumbling run towards the mountains. Free. He was free. But why did the ground tilt so? It rose up to meet him; he pushed it away, continued to run. From behind him, he heard dimly a shout. A fierce pain pierced his back, and he fell again. Wetness – dark sticky wetness. He could feel it. He couldn’t move his arm now, couldn’t get up. He felt a wiggling beneath him, near his face. He brought his other hand up; it grasped upon something warm and furry. A rodent, trapped beneath him when he had fallen. Grimkul tired to squeeze it, make it squeal, make it die, but found there was no strength left in his fingers for such a task. “Pushdug rodent,” he rasped. “Filthy Elves, cursed Dwarves.” The rodent scrambled against his grip, tiny nails digging into the skin. Blackness threatened. Looking up once more he saw the tall, impregnable mountains. Kharn’sdeadI’mfreeI’mleaving. The blackness was almost overpowering now, and with his fading consciousness he felt the warm fuzziness leaving his hand. And darkness was all.

[piosenniel]

Maegisil is found and brought in . . .

My Lord Celeborn! We have discovered a small group of survivors. A short way to the west of us. Their scouts came near and we followed them back to where the Mirdain were gathered.

There was a pause before the Lorien scout went on.

It is Maegisil, Lord. There are sixteen others with him. And ‘no’ . . . Celebrimbor is not among them . . .

~*~

Maegisil and his small party were escorted to the encampment of Dwarves and Elves of Lindon and Lorien by the three Lorien scouts who had found them. Celeborn stood at the edge of the camp, his keen grey eyes fixed on their approach. He looked over the small group as it drew near him, his features giving no evidence of the dismay at the absence of his friend, Celebrimbor. Surely he would have been at the side of his counselor . . .

‘We are glad,’ he spoke aloud, ‘that you have been found safe, Counselor. Come, bring your people to our healers.’ He gestured toward the center of the camp, where tents for the wounded had been set up and food was being cooked. ‘Then you and I should speak with Elrond whom Gil-galad has sent.’

Celeborn fell silent as they made their way to the camp center. ‘Gladder still would we have been,’ he thought to himself, ‘if Celebrimbor had been found . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Elrond turned Losrian’s reasons over in his mind for a moment. ‘That more or less confirms what my advisors have offered. And moreso for the fact that you can add the weight of your kin possibly being already in that area. North it is, then. But not until tomorrow. We should have the injured taken care of by then and ready for travel.’ Elrond nodded to Losrian, then turned his attention to Ondomirë.

‘Come to my tent once you’ve set the first watch. We will need to make plans on where to station the troops as our group advances. I don’t know what foe may come against us or in what number.’

Ondomirë watched for a few moments as Elrond passed on to another captain. During his service under Elrond’s command a growing respect and appreciation for the Elf had begun, despite Elrond’s younger years. And Ondomirë had come to see why Gil-galad had sent him as his representative. ‘He will be a great lord among the Elven kindred,’ Ondomirë mused. And in a moment of perceptive clarity he understood that about this Elf would swirl and eddy many of the currents that ran from past to future.

He turned his attention back to Losrian as Elrond passed further on and out of his sight. ‘Well spoken, m’lady,’ he said, nodding in the general direction where Elrond had gone. He leaned back, looking at her speculatively. ‘The first watch will be some of the bowmen and the Dwarves. Shall I put you forward to stand watch? Or will you take your rest? We’ve enough bodies to fill the spots needed, without you.’ He wondered if she might want to spend time with the child that had come in with her, but did not ask. ‘I’ll leave it to you to decide.’ He pointed to where his own tent had been hastily set up. ‘Many of my men have come back from their searches. There will be food to eat, as you wish; and a bedroll can be gotten from the supply wagons so you can stake out your own resting area. First watch will begin just before sunset.

Ondomirë hailed Hensirë, the captain of the spears, as he passed nearby. ‘I’ve got to meet with the other captains for a while. I’ll be back in time to set the watch. See you then . . . yes?’ He gave Losrian a quick smile and hurried away to catch up to Hensirë.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had made it back to the palace, and, coming to a halt at the foot of the huge stairway after crossing the courtyard, wished he had not ran so quickly. The pain in his stomach immediately caught up with him, and dizziness set in, and for a moment her swayed when he picked up his foot to take the first step. Suddenly he realized that he could not remember there being guards at the gates to the palace, and he turned to look. He did not trust himself; not only had the last few hours been a daze, but he had not been to certain of his sanity for some time now. Indeed he saw the gates flung open and no guards in sight, and as if that was not unwelcome enough, he saw a familiar form stalking toward him.

It was Angoroth, Sauron’s wretched emissary, emanating arrogance from upon his horrid mount. Maegisil was too dazed to move, or to even sneer at the approaching man as he wished to, though he tightened his grip on his sword. The creature of course had his guards with him, but the elf would not go down without a fight, and he hoped, even in his exhaustion, to take down a few of the wretched soldiers before falling himself. Much good it would do, though, to be valiant. He thought of his wife. She was alone. Fear pierced him in his heart, and tore through his stomach, making him want to empty its contents all over again. He had to get to Sairien. But if he ran, Angoroth would surely cut him down. What chance did he have, but to endure the creature’s presence?

The city was taken, there was no arguing that, there was no one to call for to aid him in killing the man right on the spot, and even though there were supposed to be reinforcements somewhere out there from Lindon, Maegisil doubted he would see them, or at least not alive. Killing the army’s leader was pointless, now. It would be a waste of time and a waste of his life. Ost-in-edhil already appeared to be ruins long destroyed, and repeatedly ransacked by those who lacked respect for the dead, though they too would one day join them. Thinking of the dead, and of his own death, he stared blankly at the approaching man, and did not change his expression even after the man addressed him.

“Ah, such a party has come to greet me, the dark one!” the creature said. Maegisil still could not find enough care to show Angoroth just what he thought of him. If the ghastly man wished to think that the elf was defeated, he could. Any elf would know better, excepting of course the might lord whom Maegisil guiltily wished was dead.

“You honor me well, with such invitations to your lands. I come to return the favor, dear elf! Now, kindly lead me to the Lord of the City. I have business with him.” Maegisil scowled. So Celebrimbor was not dead…yet. If he were, Angoroth would surely have known.

“Ha! A guest you are! And I treat my guests to the blade!” Maegisil found sickly humour in both Angoroth and his own words, and laughed. The disgust he felt, and the pain, the fear, and the way his mind had shut down to escape from it all was clear in his laughter.

“Do not make me slay you, elf. You are beneath my mission, and I only come to complete the circle, and bring the Oath to fruition.” The creature paused again, but Maegisil simply let his anger boil within him. He was not too sick with himself for it to be at all easy for him to speak. But the dark one soon continued.

“The ring, which I gave to you freely at the gates, is your salvation. It is the symbol of my protection. Do not throw it away.”

Maegisil’s rage exploded, his Elven pride taking over. No one, and certainly no servant of the Dark was his ‘protection,’ and he would treat no possession of a creature of Sauron with care, it was his to throw away as he willed, as was the creature’s life. “Nothing will save the city, and my people, but your death!” he practically wailed. He felt nothing in those words, they were empty cries of a disgruntled child, as that was what he had been reduced to, and his pride would not let him remain silent and endure the end with dignity.

The dark creature dismounted from his lofty position, though it made no difference to Maegisil if the man looked down upon him or not. But if the thing came at all close to spitting on the elf and what he stood for, he would be at his throat in a flash. Angoroth seemed to know this, and appeared to simply be amused by it. He stepped closer to the elf, who remained unflinching. “Abandon your duty to the city, for slaying me will do you no good. The orcs will consume your lord, your city, you…and your precious wife. Take my signet ring, and go with these soldiers of mine. They will escort you and your wife beyond the city, and into the woods. You may then do as you wish, but I advise you not to waste my freely given gift. The Creator will forgive you, for this destruction is not your doing.”

The Creator will forgive you… What did this monster know of forgiveness, much less of the almighty Ilúvatar? He could not speak as if he were one of the Children. He was a lowly man, and a servant to the servant of Morgoth. Though, for a moment, Maegisil wondered. Was he truly only a man? There was something in those eyes, in that demeanor, in his voice… The elf almost felt as if the man before him had weathered more years than even he. But no matter what Angoroth was, he had no respect from Maegisil.

The anger flared, and the elf’s knuckles turned white wrapped around his sword. But the pain flooded in, as a heavy rain after the lightening storm, and he found his knees weaken beneath his weight. He carried much upon his shoulders, and he was only now realizing how much. The city, his people… The orcs will consume your lord, your city… They already had. He had seen the destruction, and it was torment, that he had not the time or the peace to weep for it. Your precious wife… He talked of her as some thing. Maegisil snarled.

Sairien… He had to get back to her. He had promised. She was still alive. She had to be. She was safe... Suddenly he found himself on his knees. There were tears in his eyes. Was he truly kneeling to the man before him? No, it was simple exhaustion. O, but Angoroth seemed pleased by this. Maegisil wished he had the guts to rise up, and bring his sword up with him to slash the black-gutted man into pieces. But he did not. Fear had overcome him some time ago. He had disposed of the fear for his own life with the slow rising of the sun, but now he found any strength he had gleaned from the light of a new day ripped away by simple desires. His love for his wife, and his hatred for his lord. He finally had chosen between the two, after wasted years of devotion to a lord rather than the elf-woman he loved.

“I pray that Ilúvatar will forever curse me, as one of the House of Fëanor, for I make a pact with you, that I shall do as you say. This pact is as evil and cursed as the Oath that led this city to its destruction, but I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.”

He also prayed that he would be the last elf to kneel before any servant of Morgoth.

~*~*~

Maegisil abhorred the company of Angoroth’s guards, and he was made sick simply by being in his own skin. As he led the way to his house, the guards keeping apace with him, he looked over his shoulder with every other step, and his eyes darted around. Paranoia was creeping up on him. He now feared not only for his wife’s life, but also for how she would take what he had done. He wished she would hate him for it, but he hoped and prayed she would follow him out of the city. Even if she never spoke to him again, and left him as wretched as Celebrimbor, he wanted her alive. He needed her alive. He would never forgive himself if she did not make it out of the city, even after his cruel covenant.

It seemed the orcs had rushed to get to the palace and secure the entire city before completely ransacking every building. His home looked untouched, and he felt guilty for it. And he thought it a miracle when he found his wife safe, and for a moment he forgot his woes and smiled at her, embracing her. But she was stiff in his arms. She had seen Angoroth’s soldiers. Her rushed to explain, stuttering and stammering as he spoke, choking on his words and holding back tears. She looked at him blankly. Could her gaze have ever been so cruel as when she did not show what she was feeling? He did not feel as if he had explained anything before she put her hand to his mouth and silenced him.

“Lead on, my love.”

He almost smiled again, at hearing her voice, hearing her call him her love. Was any feeling only feigned in those words? He was afraid to find out. “We will gather the remaining survivors. Some have survived. Some must have escaped…” He was growing frantic in his voice. Again, his wife silenced him with her calming touch.

“Let us escape first, love, or we shall be no help to any others.”

[CaptainofDespair]

In short time, he reached the stairs of Celebrimbor’s palace, and slowly and methodically ascended them, as a king ascends to his coronation. He found a motley assortment of guards remaining, men who imagined they would serve their lord faithfully, and to the last. But, Angoroth would have none of this. “Scatter faithful soldiers of Eregion! Your doom will be the same as your lord if you do not stand aside!” Few challenged this. Some defended the doors to the inner sanctum of Celebrimbor’s palace staunchly. They died where they stood. The rest fled in haste. With the guards dispensed, either with word or sword, he pursued his final goal.

Casting aside the heavy doors of the chamber, he thrust himself into the Lord of the City’s sanctum, where he had cloistered himself to the end. The Lord looked up from his seated position, and already knowing what had come for him. “Ah, so here lies the last of the great Feanor’s seed! I would have thought one of such proud heritage would stand up to his enemy. Indeed, the sons are weaker than the father!” Inaudible murmuring emanated from Celebrimbor’s lips, but he did not speak to his accuser. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” Angoroth, having fully thought out his actions for this moment, made use of his plans. He sliced open the stomach of the elf-lord, while he yet lived, and he laughed as he took in the stench and sight of disemboweled innards and gore, as well as the agonized screams of Celebrimbor, as he gave in to his temptation to fulfill his murderer’s desires. Those screams echoed throughout the city…

~*~

Angoroth, he who had destroyed the people of Eregion, was never seen again in the West. He fled the city, in short time after his slaying of Celebrimbor, and deserted his bond to Mordor. Whispers of his wicked deeds followed him ever northwards, where traveled by both steed and foot, at last reaching the wastes of the North.

Haggard and worn by the icy winds that whipped around him, his armor discarded long ago, traded for hides in those sparse villages he entered during those last beleaguered steps of his quest; he marched to a location deep in the desolation, nearest the long departed citadel of Utumno. Without even a single slab of timber, not even a measly scrap of bark stripped from a waterlogged, dead tree, he burned the hides which kept his shivering body even remotely close to warm. The fire, which burned dimly in the cold, starry, night sky, burnt off little heat, and the lonesome Maiar knew this. The time had come, he thought.

And so, he drew forth his sword, still tainted with the frozen blood of Celebrimbor. Sliding the blade through decayed flame, as it flickered pathetically amongst the hide-embers, grasping painfully for the cold steel. The Maiar watched gleefully, as he muttered prayers to his master, the fallen Valar Melkor.

I commit my body to the ice,
And my soul to the dark light.
I go now,
To join with my Master beyond the Night.

Slowly withdrawing the blade from the dying fire, Angoroth methodically twisted the ancient sword in his palms, pointing the blade to his stomach. It crept forward, like a spider ready to pounce, drawing ever closer to him. As the tip of the metal penetrated into his body, the skin gave way, engulfing the blade as it sliced into him. His face remained emotionless, as he merged with the steel. He lurched forward onto it, hoping for an end to himself. Blood rose up within him now, and gurgled in his mouth, spilling over his cracked lips, staining the ice and snow with his crimson taint as it splashed across the frozen earth. With his vision growing bleak, and his blood draining from his withering body, he collapsed over himself. Still kneeling, cast forward, hanging limp from his waist, he gave into death. With his final prayers, he committed his soul beyond the world, leaving it forevermore, as the pale light of his eyes faded, flickered, and finally vanished with the dead flames of the hide-fire…

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar's post

‘There’s been word back from our scouts near the city. We must make all haste.’ Ondomirë drew his mount along by the reins as he approached the gathered Dwarven warriors. It was still night, many hours until the sun would rise. Still, the Dwarves had known to rise early, perhaps their keen ears hearing the sounds of the rousing camp. In such a short time they had gotten their packs on their backs; helmets and what armor they wore securely fastened on; axes and pikestaffs in hand. The expressions on their faces were difficult to read in the dim moon's light. But to his mind, unused to Dwarves and their ways, they seemed unwelcoming.

Never mind what you think he admonished himself. Lord Elrond’s commanded it and you’re to see it done.

‘Yes, well then,’ he went on, wondering what was going on behind those bearded faces. Their dark eyes glittered as they followed his every move. He elected to keep his own gaze on their hands. Were they to twitch even for an instant toward their weapons then he would flee from them and take their answer as a ‘no’.

You are such a coward! They’re seasoned warriors. Surely they’ll see the need for this.

Ondomirë motioned for the Elves he’d brought with him to take their positions. The tall, grey-eyed riders moved forward slowly round the Dwarves. ‘The city is sore besieged,’ he went on. ‘And, well . . . there’s nothing for it but that you must ride with us. Even were you to sprout wings on your feet, you cannot hope to keep pace with our horses.’

There were angry grumblings as he finished speaking. But he gave no room for protest. With a nod of his head, the Elves moved in and plucked up a Dwarven rider each to sit behind them. Without another word, they turned north, the long muscled legs of their horses picking up speed . . .

-^-^-^-

It was late in the afternoon when the Lindon troops and their allies reached the narrow plain leading down to the river where the city stood. The Dwarves dismounted and reassembled into their own fighting unit. The Elves for their part, took their places as their captains commanded and began the advance on the city. Lancers and swordsmen to the fore; the bowmen behind, giving a cover of arcing missiles as needed.

And it was needed, sooner than hoped.

The city was burning, many of the beautiful structures already half-razed and smoking. Less than a league from the river and the foul creatures who had done the terrible deeds were swarming out from the dying city’s perimeter; a dark and noisome tide - their filthy weapons seeking more blood to shed.


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Child of the 7th Age's post

Half battle mad, mired in gore and stench, Ulrung stood triumphant on the streets of the city. His chariot was heavy with the booty he had snatched from the homes and palaces of the Elven lords. These were beautiful and amazing items crafted of gold and fine jewels: helms and brooches and glittering flagons such as Ulrung had never seen the likes before. Nor was he alone in his actions. Even in the midst of fighting, the Easterlings had taken time to gather up the spoils of war as they rushed wildly from one house to the next, slaughtering all who were unfortunate enough to come before their path. Their battle chariots, once so swift and light, now lumbered awkwardly through the streets, slowed by the heavy burdens that they now carried.

Ulrung and his officers remained oblivious to the threat that gathered now a short distance away. Why should they pay attention to anything else? The city was falling. There were prizes to be won. Victory was surely theirs. Ulrung saw little reason to keep a tight rein on those who slashed their way through the streets. With Angoroth gone, Ulrung no longer feared the wrath of the great commander. He could do whatever pleased him. As a result, Orcs and Easterlings burned and raided with glee: all semblance of discipline or order had vanished. Only a remnent of the Dark Lord's army remained together inside the broad plaza near the front gate where a few Elves had gathered and valliantly battled.

In the midst of this chaos, a horseman rode in through the rubble and stones. As quickly as he could, the messenger made his way to the Easterling commander. Ulrung had taken a break from fighting to sift through the treasures that were piled high in his chariot. He looked away from his task for a moment and greeted the man on horseback with the barest hint of a nod.

"Sire, sire, Lord Ulrung." The voice came hurried and frantic. "You must listen. They come! They come! A great host of Elves and dwarves, and they move with the speed of lightning. They head soon to the city. You and your men will be trapped if you do not gather your forces now."

"How can this be?" growled Ulrung. He was not pleased to be interrupted in his task of arranging his treasures.

The messenger's response was swift. "Elves from Lindon come and with them King Durin and all his Dwarves. These are not disheartened and beaten soldiers but well organized with the heat of battle in their eyes. They have not yet reached the gate but in a short time they will."

"You are sure?" Ulrung spat on the ground in disgust. His assurance of rapid victory seemed to be vanishing in smoke. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially with his troops scattered this way and that, gathering booty and kills in the back alleys of the city.

The messenger nodded. Ulrung had only to look in the man's eyes, shadowed with fear and doubt, to see the truth of the message he brought. Suddenly glimpsing the very real danger they faced, Ulrung bellowed out to his seneschal, "Sound the horn. The alarm for Orcs and Men to gather in the plaza. We have no choice but to turn and fight these miscreants." Then Ulrung turned again to his own chariot and with considerable reluctance pushed out most of the booty he had gathered. They would need speed and a chariot laded with gold treasures would be at a definite disadvantage. Perhaps he would come back later and retrieve his goods.

The Great Horn sounded in every corner of the city. Some heard it and stopped their plundering to come immediately to the square. Many more heard it and stopped up their ears, pretending that there had been no alarm. Even among those who remounted their horses and battle chariots to join in the plaza, many of these were heavily laden with treasure. Ulrung bellowed out an order for all to lay aside their bulky sacks and chests, saying that they could return for them later. But here too, many cursed and stopped up their ears, vowiwng not to lose what was rightfully theirs.

Oblivous to what was happening, Ulrung snapped out his orders: "We will deal quickly with this contingent of Elves who await us outside the gates. We will take Elrond's head on a platter, and then go against any others who make their way to the city. After that we may gather what is rightfully ours."

His men were still raggedly assembled, and the Orcs who followed were much fewer in number. But still the troops of Sauron gave a great bellowing cry and followed their leader Ulrung out through the gates and onto the plain as they hurtled forward to meet the threat.