Ost-Halatir: Elven Guards & Rangers RPG (Lindon & Rivendell, Mirkwood & Lórien)

[Moriel]

"The Claw in the North"


Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir

The archers were making swift work of the orcs as they appeared on the scene, trimming the fat from the edges of the party assaulting the elven contingent, and those battling with blades in the center of the fray gave better than they received. Gellam’s lochaber parted limbs and heads from the orcs to whom they belonged, and when he looked to Númenyraumion, he saw the aphador holding his own, and Tavari flitting about him, leaving a trail of carnage in her wake. It was the humming that distracted Gellam for an instant[/b]; not because of the noise, but because of the faint tingle that caused him to feel, rather than hear, the sound coming from Númenyraumion. He knew what that was, and had never felt it from anyone but himself before. That brief snap of inattention was enough, but fortunately the Fool felt the incoming whoosh before its origin reached him, and he ducked under the massive warhammer that had just been swung at his head, levering the lochaber around his body to swing in return at the lower legs of the orc that had tried to brain him. It jumped with an agility that belied its hefty frame and reversed the swing of its hammer as it landed, to strike at an angle from below. Gellam jammed the sharp butt-cap of his lochaber into the ground and uprighted the shaft, reinforcing it with both hands to block the blow. Even as the hammer came into contact with the lochaber, Gellam surged forward, pulling the spike from the ground and whipping the wicked axe-head from above his head down towards the ground, forcing the orc’s hammer and arm both down with it. Simultaneously, he used this motion to counterbalance the raising of one leg, and delivered a side kick of stunning force to the orc’s midsection. It staggered back, and as he brought his lochaber back to guard, Gellam noted the sigil on its helmet: the profile of a dragon.

Tavari had been assisting in the building of the fire when the orcs appeared, and at once kicked out the small tongues of flame that had just begun to lick at the base of the logs, turning to seek Ñaltanáro. The thudding of hooves announced his arrival at her side unbidden, and she ripped her sword from its scabbard at his shoulder, then with a touch and a quiet command sent him away, to see to the other horses. Blade in hand, she turned and at a glance surveyed the scene: orcs, pouring over the top of the rocky outcrop on the other side of the clearing; large, some of them much larger than one would expect here, howling and wielding a variety of blades and clubs. They were in varying degrees armored, rag-tag in all but the helmets that all seemed to wear. Legolas and Fuin went to work picking them off with arrows, and Tavari confirmed her choice to remain afoot and with sword. All this in an instant, and then she met her first orc with an upward cut that deflected its sword and then became a thrust, punching through its throat, and withdrawing without pausing to wait for the death-gurgle that followed. Tavari moved with a placid determination: the warlike nís was about her work, and engaged each orc with cold efficiency, her movements economical and precise, as if she knew exactly what was going to happen next.

When one orc, bigger and stronger than the rest she had dispatched, managed to evade her thrust and force her sword down, Glamor came into play: drawn with the left hand and flipped to a forward grip even as Tavari thrust her arm forward to drive its needle-keen point through her adversary’s eye. Her own eyes narrowed at the sigil upon the helmet. But then a song rang out on the air near her, and the voice was not Gellam’s, but Númenyramion’s, the aphador on whom she had been keeping a close eye during this conflict so far- and acquitting himself better than his initial hesitation in Halatir might have predicted. Tavari laughed aloud at the words, recognizing the raucous tune. “That’s the spirit, aphador!” she called to him flashing Númenyraumion a vicious grin as she split another orc from belly to throat with a a two-handed uppercut of her sword. She slipped into Númenyraumion’s shadow as he fought, taking advantage of his movements to provide cover for herself while keeping out of his way, and using that position to launch her own offensives, a deadly darting wheaten flame in the dusky light.

Gellam rolled on the ground, narrowly avoiding the impact of the warhammer where his head had been a moment before. The orc he had been battling had been driven away more than once, others taking its place, smaller and more easily dispatched, but now this one had returned again, with a rabid fury. It had managed to catch a blow to Gellam’s ribs that knocked him down, but the Fool was quick to recover, and the orc crazed with the drawn out fight. Even as he rolled, grunting at the impact on his brusied ribcage, Gellam rose into a half-sit, thrusting the lochaber forward, and burying its butt in the ground. The charging orc, hammer upraised, could not stop in time and impaled itself on the curving point of the axe-head. It slid down until it met the hook on the other side of the lochaber’s pole, and the hammer fell from its hand, thudding to the ground at Gellam’s side. He twisted his body and rolled again, dumping the orc’s body to the other side, and arose, yanking the lochaber from its corpse. All around, his company were either putting final ends to the last of the orcs, or looking up to gather themselves and survey the group, all the enemy dead upon the ground.

“All accounted for?” Gellam called, and received calls of affirmation in return. Leaning his lochaber against the rocky outcrop, he leaned down and puled the helmet from the head of the orc he had just slain, examining the sigil more closely. Tavari came up beside him, and wordlessly held out another helm, marked the same. “Hobgoblins,” Gellam muttered, taking in the tusked face of the orc below him, and feeling the effects of its size and strength. Tavari nodded. “Yes. Not all of them, but this leader clearly, and a couple of others. We’d best get on.” It was Gellam’s turn to nod, and he turned to address the group. “Regroup, take a short rest and feed, and we’ll be off again. No sense sitting here waiting for more of them to find us when someone clearly knows we’re here. We’ll press on to Echad Gwedeir as soon as everyone is ready.”

GM UPDATE:
Apologies all for the extended pause in this mission! Let's get this show on the road- finish up the battle as you see fit and get ready to head out. I understand that it's been quite a while and not everyone may be around or able/wanting to continue with this mission anymore- that's ok! Please either post in the mission, or in the Imladris OOC stating your intent to continue (nor to not continue), in the next week. If after a week I haven't heard from you either OOC or IC, I'll assume you won't be participating anymore. My next post will move us to the fort Echad Gwedeir once the week has passed, so if you'd rather wait until then to post IC, that's fine- just let me know in the OOC!

@Prometherion @Fuin Elda @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @The Elf Imperishable @Almarëa Mordollwen @Nen @Nolewen @Legolas @Ercassie

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.

[Raisins]

The Claw of the North
Fuin Raveara - Taidril
Camp/Getting Ready to Travel

The numbers of their foes dwindled and the last of them were shot down from the cliffs before they could flee back into the wilds where they could have more reinforcements. Fuin's chest heaved, it had been a long time since she had been in more organized combat with other members of the Ost Halatir. Normally she fought alone using cunning methods since the force they'd just faced would have overwhelmed her if she'd faced them alone.

"Good shooting Prince." She said with a smile and a nod to Legolas. She knew him well enough of course, though she doubted he knew her even if she was over double his age. She rarely travelled to Mirkwood or more specifically to the Woodland Kings Realm. She did not like being locked into caverns even if she was there as a friend. Too many bad memories from Doriath itself. She looked over her bow making sure the weapon that was as old as she was had no damage and put it on her back and went to see what arrows of hers had survived the impacts with the foul creatures. She saw Gellam and Tavari looking at one of the fallen foes and joined them. "Hobgoblins?" Her eyebrows raised as she looked to the two of them and nodded at the order to get ready to move she had to agree with them that they should be moving and soon rather than camping. She caught the sigil on the helmet but did not recognize it and clambered up the cliff finding that two of her arrows had survived. The others had not their shafts breaking from the shear force of striking the creatures in question. She pulled them free none the less stripping them of their fletchings and their arrow heads putting them in a pouch at her waist. She could at least reuse those parts of them before scrambling back down the cliff and getting to her horse.

She saw the pack on her saddle that was sitting on the ground waiting for her to make up her bit of camp around it and saw her healing bag.
"Does anyone need wounds tended before we move?" She asked, she didn't see any wounds in particular, but she didn't know if there were nicks or small cuts from close calls that weren't bleeding enough but could easily be infected since hobgoblins and their ilk tended to have filthy weapons.

[Baphởmet]

Aphador

The Claw of the North

It took several moments for him to catch his breath. Previously, in a life that seemed rather distant all of the sudden, he would have run from the orcs. Standing and fighting were not things he would have considered. Yet there he was. He looked at the naked steel in his hand. It was covered with redish black ichor. He had done that. He’d actually fought. And not only had he fought; he’d done shockingly well. How had he managed that? He wiped his brow. He was sweating rather heavily. “Beginner’s luck,” he chuckled to himself. That had to be the reason. That or these orcs were even more poorly equipped that they had been three thousand years ago. Not that he was complaining. He bent to the ground and wiped the blade on the grass. It left an ugly smear of black. He frowned and felt his gorge rise. It was then that he noticed the smell. Orcs were foul in more ways than one. Even in their deaths they found ways to ruin the world around them. He spat the bile that peaked at the back of his throat and looked at his reflection in the mirrored surface of the blade. He was becoming someone he didn’t recognize. Was that a good thing? He’d been stuck in the guise of the traveler so long he wasn’t sure if that was a guise or, in fact, his actual being. It was difficult to say, and it would take far more thought than a single afternoon in a skirmish with some orcs.

He looked about him, remembering that he was not the only person in the camp. A quick panic rose in his gut, sending out small electrical charges into his arms and legs. He felt heavy all of the sudden. His vision narrowed and blurred. But the sensation only lasted a second. More than likely, he was the most inexperienced person in the camp. Everyone else would have acquitted themselves well. He chuckled. He was the liability. Another part of himself that he was realizing existed. He didn’t like that part. He’d done decently, but he’d frozen at inopportune times and had had to find a work around for him to function. Something like that couldn’t happen again. Miraculously, he managed to go through the whole affair without getting so much as a scratch. Luck of the damned. The nimir bit the inside of his cheek, pulling out of the shame spiral he could feel himself getting drawn into. He’d survived. He’d survived beyond all reason. He’d get better as time went on. He looked from Gellam to Tavari, both already moving onto the next task. He watched them search the bodies. He would have come over and looked as well but not only did they seem to have it well in hand in such a way he’d only be in the way, but he was also rapidly feeling detached from the whole scene. He was exhausted but felt a surge of energy he’d never felt before. He wanted to rest and recover, but he also wanted to move. He felt a sort of agitation, a frenetic, frantic energy that almost made him feel like he was about to burst. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was hungry, that he needed to eat something if just for the sake of filling his belly, but his foremost thoughts were so chaotic that the thought of food was utterly lost.

Finally, he forced himself to sit down. He more or less fell like a sack of potatoes next to his mount. The horse stirred, looked at him, snorted, then went back to whatever it was that horses do. He laughed. The sound felt healing, nurturing. The absurdity of a horse not giving a flying shire put things into a perspective Númenyraumion needed in that moment. No, he was not turning into a stone-cold assassin, he was not turning into a warrior. The things he’d seen Tavari do, the way she carved through the orcs as if they were made of clay. That was a warrior. The cool, collected, almost automaton way she removed limbs and heads, that was something he’d never manage to do. Not without losing so much of himself and replacing it. Tavari and Gellam were fighters, and they were good at it. He was, well he was more a stabbity stabby kind of fighter, the kind that seemed so touched by luck that no matter what dumb action he took he managed to stay alive and made sure his opponents didn’t. He patted the horse’s leg. The beast was more bothered by him doing that simple action than by the previous battle. “Just when I think I understand what you’re about; you’re more confusing than Hobbits.” He realized he was about to tell a story to the horse, a horse that did not care a whit, and closed his mouth.

The energy that kept him moving vanished and suddenly he felt very, very tired. His hunger roared up as his stomach turned in a knot and gurgled like an angry stream. He fished around in his pack for something to eat. Dried salmon and hardtack. Not exactly a feast but it would do. The food helped. It cleared his mind. They would be moving out soon. Echad Gwedeir was still a bit away and they needed to get there soon. He packed his things back up, taking a final look at the naked sword before sheathing it once more, and hopped up on his mount. The horse did not protest.

[Tharmáras]

A Black Interlude: Amidst the Thorns of Unease

"For those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds,
and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power."
- Gandalf, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - Many Meetings

The folk of Meglin were drawn up in the same place, and sable was their harness, and they
bore no sign or emblem, but their round caps of steel were covered with moleskin, and
they fought with axes two-headed like mattocks. There Meglin prince of Gondobar gathered
many warriors of dark countenance and lowering gaze about him, and
a ruddy glow shone upon their faces and
gleamed about the polished surfaces of their accoutrements.
- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin

The Wargs and Goblins do not usually venture very far from
their mountains, unless they are driven out
and are looking for new homes, or are marching to war.
But in those days they sometimes used to go on raids,
especially to get food or slaves to work for them.
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

In spite of the dangers of this far land, bold men had of late been making their way back
into it from the South, cutting down trees, and building themselves valleys and along the river-shores.
There were many of them, and they were brave and well-armed, and even the Wargs
dared not attack them if there were many together, or in the bright day.
/ This was dreadful talk to listen to, not only because of the
brave woodmen and their wives and children, but also because
of the danger which now threatened Gandalf and his friends.
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire



"Beorn indeed became a great chief afterwards in those regions
and ruled a wide land between the mountains and the wood; and it is said that
for many generations the men of his line had the power of taking bear's shape,
and some were grim men and bad, but most were in heart like Beorn, if less in size and strength."
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: The Last Stage

Frodo learned that Grimbeorn the Old, son of Beorn, was now the lord of many
sturdy men, and to their land between the Mountains and Mirkwood neither Orc
nor Wolf dared to go. "Indeed," said Glóin, "if it were not for the Beornings,
the passage from Dale to Rivendell would long ago have become impossible.
They are valiant men and keep open the High Pass and the Ford of Carrock.
But their tolls are high," he added with a shake of his head,
"and like Beorn of old they are not over fond of Dwarves. Still, they are trusty, and that is much in these days."
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - Many Meetings

Of this Order the number is unknown; but of those that came to the North of Middle-earth,
where there was most hope (because of the remnant of the Dúnedain and of the Eldar that abode there),
the chiefs were five.
- Tolkien, from Unfinished Tales: The Istari

There were dark ravines that one could neither jump not climb into.
There were bogs, some of them
green pleasant places to look at, with flowers growing bright and tall;
but a pony that walked there with a pack on its back would never have come out again.
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: A Short Rest

In my passage eastward, I encountered a wizard named Galen the Green who is one of Tavari's friends-

"I'll try to kill him sometime," cheerfully mused Hatholdir. The King of the Moles paused in his reading to take one swallow of miruvor, the Cordial of Imladris, to quench his thirst and renew his vigour. Fleeing a mad dog, battling bandits, killing Orc raiders, and escaping trolls alone exhausted his stamina and strength. A night's rest in Elrond's valley and infrequent sips of the potent liquor of Imladris revitalized and comforted him. He scratched his beard idly. Elves could grow facial hair in their third cycle of life as had Lord Círdan but others like Mahtan grew it in their second phase; there were Elves whose tramautic experiences wrought dramatic changes in physical appearance as well. Hatholdir's charming features became ruggedly transformed. His sculpted jaw was covered with stiff hairs he groomed well with Vincent Snapdragon's help in Bree following his expulsion from Silosse's house and his desperate evasion of Caesar the Hound yet a deep-seated grief still buffeted his spirit.

Ever since Melviriel...Fuin Elda...tormented his soul in the Unseen World at a Lindonese Masquerade, Hatholdir had been on edge. During a rare visitation to the Last Homely House before his journey to the Mole Bog, Hatholdir learned his erstwhile pawn had matured into a fell warrior captain, a high-ranking healer, and...a grandmaster smith. Until the Masquerade, Hatholdir expected she perished in her attempt to take Aigronding's life, slain by his friends or family to avenge his death, but somehow Fuin had not destroyed Aigronding and survived the terrible clash at the Havens of Sirion; she had even become a close friend of his archenemy. Even a Mole's best laid schemes occasionally went awry sometimes. Hatholdir immediately left Imladris when he discovered how dangerous a fighter Fuin was, overhearing Halcyon Guards who boasted of her glory.

Wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and Fuin, additionally requiring the safety of Mole soldiers in the droves, Hatholdir decided to reach his mine in the Grey Mountains named Thurin Maelig. It was juxtaposed between the delvings of the Mithrin Dwarves and the tunnels Anne Snapdragon claimed for Benjamin Lanceleaf's forge in the Bree-land; beside those were the quarries Aigronding established for Fuin's forge in Imladris, including his trade deals to Lindon and Mirkwood.

Hatholdir's wife, Meluiwen, continued to be a welcomed guest at the Forlindon manor of Nariel and Tharmaras. Since she was still upset with him regarding the scene he made at the Masquerade, Hatholdir believed some time apart might do their relationship some good. In a few weeks he'd return to Cordof Malen and collect her before venturing oversea to Tol Noldarë together; perhaps he would find Meluiwen mellow and pining for him. Hatholdir rubbed his beard and grinned, imagining his queen enjoying the bristly touch of his beard when she kissed him again. Idril and Lúthien must have liked Tuor's and Beren's scruff. Airien was attracted to Camlost's stubble, of course.

Hatholdir resumed reading Astaro's letter which a Beorning had taken for him to deliver at Mar Têw.

Galen protected me for a short while but we parted ways long before I reached the Old Ford, Astaro had written. "Galen traverses the Misty Mountains by Gandalf's order, seeking Goblin strongholds to warn Aigronding, Tavari, and Dúnedain leaders of colony positions. I left Galen to his reconnaissance and have entered the Vales of Anduin at great peril. There have been audacious Hobgoblin attacks on Beorning villages recently; Grimbeorn's family and their courageous people defend this land between the Mountains and the Forest with their mighty strength. Beorning aggression terrifies the Orcs and their Wolves that hardly one of them dare to pass through their realm but the larger kindred of Goblins, many of them of the worst description of the Grey Mountains, have been reckless this spring.

"The bold Wood-men and their wives, neighbors of the Beornings, have been worried they will be assaulted next. I have narrowly escaped one invaded territory and have crossed the Old Ford with the aid of Julbeorn who gave the keeping of this letter to the custodians of Mar Têw. I must travel the nightshade of Mirkwood where spiders and other vile creatures have laid their snares with a group of Wood-men for company until I reach the Mole Mine in the mountains. If I am fortunate to survive the haunted corridors of this ghastly place, I will rest briefly in Dale before crossing the Carnen with my Mole host to look for aurichalcum, the goldenred ore you love, in the boundless lands of Rhûn. You will not see me again on Mole Island without the precious metal. Tell my mother I've made it this far and give my love to the Queen. Tell Ospiel and Erfaron I have a new hat..."

Always faithful,
Astaro Gweinsereg

"Fare thee well and Nessa's speed to you, Young Blood," mumured Hatholdir smilingly, feeling his spirits lifting higher, until suddenly the Sword of Maeglin spoke in the strong voice of its second master.

- She. Is. Here -

Hatholdir grimly frowned, trembling in his hithlain tent. He imagined Fuin outside, having thwarted the Calaquendi wards of his camp here in the remote Mole Bog near Imladris. Hair like darkest night framed her sharp angular face. She gripped a dagger. Her cold blue eyes met his hateful gaze in the blaze of intermittent flashes of lightning in the whistling wind....

Hatholdir arose with Anguirel. He was armored in the black tardur metal of his own creation, mimicking Eöl's supple galvorn . Hatholdir's Eldarin magic imbued it with the light of glowing embers. The King of the Moles strode from his small hidden refuge to engage Fuin in a titanic clash eons in the making, his pale skin glinting with a red energy manifested from from the intense ire of his furnace heart. He was pleasantly surprised to see Ospiel standing within the bloodshine ring of guttering flames instead.

"Hello, friend!" exclaimed Hatholdir. "Like what I've done with the place?" With a lopsided grin he gestured at the circle of Goblin heads mounted on sharpened wood poles. These were arranged inside the boundary of fire resistant to the drizzling rain presently falling. High Elves could affect the Seen World with their Calaquendi power; the scarlet chain of flames he conjured to burn any foe which stalked toward his tent, allowing only Mole-friends to pass the fiery fence. This Mole Bog was situated in a picturesque verdant place with tall colorful flowers beyond a narrow shady ravine by the western fork of the Bruinen. Near the glade of flames and Orc skulls Hatholdir had pitched his camouflage tent was a boardwalk of lebethron he once built with Hrango, Erfaron, and Astaro to cross the wetland on prospecting travels into the Misty Mountains. Erfaron must have given Ospiel directions.

He walked toward Ospiel and gripped her forearm with the ease of ancient fellowship, his grin broadening. The first archer among the Moles, she had always been loyal to him. "Come inside," he insisted, gesturing at the enclosure which blended with the hues of their environment and the evening shadows. "I have Imladris sweetbread Apsatari baked for me, fresh fruit, and roast mutton. I have water and miruvor." Hatholdir's smile faltered. "Yes...I look different. My sojourn has been troubled since I fled Lindon. I will tell you more about it over supper and where you should follow me. Where is Erfaron?"

GM UPDATE @Ercassie :

Have Ospiel meeting Hatholdir and accompanying him inside the tent to talk
over dinner before they rest. In the morning, they will begin their trek over
the Mountains and begin their journey through the Vale of Anduin toward Thurin Maelig...
where there will be trouble which ties into War of the White Gem storyline here in
Ost-Halatir soon once the missions of Gellam and Calselda have concluded.

@Annúnfalas and @Fuin Elda your update for
The Colony is up next and being presently written! For the moment,
I hope you're both entertained knowing that the dreadful memories of Fuin and Caesar's attacks still makes Hatholdir anxious...

[Ercassie]

‘The Thorns of Unease’
Ospiel Iuliel encountering Hatholdir Narroval
Boglands

The haphazard walkway did not tremble at her subtle tread, though her path was thick with a rabble of insects. Their whir and drone pursued her incessantly along the ancient planks, their vast numbers drowning a crowd into a single hypnotic hum. The Sinda flattened her ashen cowl warily against her jaw, and narrowed flint grey eyes against the heavy sky. Whether it were dawn or dusk here would be hard to tell, for the air was thick with insects. Time was marked by the spasmodic eruptions of a frog’s deep throat, the whipping thrash of an elusive water snake breaking the congested surface. All manner of bugs bloated the atmosphere of the bog, and still no number of predators that reared up could break their dominance.

Except perhaps for one unlikely pioneer.

The macabre blend of flaming brands and severed goblin heads served as a surprisingly effective diversion for all of the thriving parasites. Their swarm was bidden toward the slick tar of blood and congealing flesh, then singed and scorched by the tongues of fire. Effective indeed. Although it exacerbated the stench, if such a thing were possible. What tall necked flora Ospiel had woven through to get this far unleashed a pungent taste rather than smell. The Sinda was accustomed to the screen of sea mist and the mountain’s billowy shrouds but this here threatened to smother her senses. When Hatholdir threw back the folds of his concealed haunt, he, if naught else, was clear to behold. Still, for all the keen sight of the archer, she came close to drawing a startled intake of breath.

This was not the Elf she knew, and it was unclear whether he had kitted himself out to suit the scene, or sought out a scene to match his dishevelled state. Nonetheless, it was enough for her to pause, drawing out the need to uncover her face, since it was safe to now. As the Mole King welcomed his Captain with warm words and a welcome grasp, she fought the want to recoil. And it was not from the smell. Hours in this about had horrified her into adapting to that.

“I was rather going to ask what you have done to your face ?” she confessed, as he hunted her opinion of his camp. “It is such a good disguise, I can not tell if you are meaning to be taken for a Dwarf or a Beorning. There is little traffic in these parts though, so I doubt you shall get to test it.” She declined to point out that he looked like he was in hiding. Their kind were not big on manners, but the absence of an easy insult was often evidence enough of great, if unspoken, respect.

“I heard you were in the Valley,” Ospiel chased Hatholdir to the promise of comfort, for her stomach at least, accepting both meat and fresh water as she found a sheltered seat. “Figured you could not help but check in on your interests in the area. Are you set for Thurin Maelig ?” The Sinda put her fingers to use filling her appetite unashamedly, as dark brown hair crowned her brow with a wide splay of dampened tentacles, slathered fast around the shape of her long oval face. Wiping the last damage of drizzled rain from the tip of her nose, with the back of one sleeve, she settled down to hear her Lord’s tale. But before he would give answers, the Noldo wielded his own questions.

“I followed him as far as the fort, Ost-Halatir,” she admitted, when Hatholdir enquired after Erfaron. “He did not linger long within,” she sought to console the Mole, “before departing, with a group. They headed south.” She hid her expression behind a deep sup of her drink.

[Legolas]

The Claw of the North
Legolas Thranduilion

'It is a pity these hideous creatures were not thrown into the void with Morgoth!', thought Thranduilion's son as he stepped over the dead bodies of the orcs and picked up his fired arrows.

Also, he took a glimpse over at Gellam and Tavari, who inspected the sigil on the orcish helmets and Legolas did the same. "Hobgoblins" and even after this surprise attack, there was something in the air, despite the stench of the fallen; An unsettling feeling that haunted the elvish prince since his departure from Mirkwood up until now. The sky in the distance carried heavy clouds and also the light breezes that changed every hour to increasingly harsh winds uncomforted his mind.

“Regroup, take a short rest and feed, and we’ll be off again. No sense sitting here waiting for more of them to find us when someone clearly knows we’re here. We’ll press on to Echad Gwedeir as soon as everyone is ready.”, Gellam announced.

Thranduil's son was glad that there were no casulties and most importantly, that Gellam and Tavari were doing well. Legolas tended to his horse again and looked after it, while the prince spoke calming words to it in Sindarian. However, quite near the prince there was an elf, who made an interesting impression on him (Númenyraumion). The battle was over, yet he seemed quite troubled. Regardless of his almost unusual and over-emotional behavior for an elf, Legolas couldn't estimate how old he was, nore where he was from and didn't dare to make any assumptions. After the prince got back on his horse, he slowly rode over to the elf who seemed to have brought himself back into a more stable state.

"Are you alright...?", Legolas asked him carefully in Sindarian. "Only if you want, you can tell me what troubles your mind and your troubles might find a way out and fly away through your words."

[Ercassie]

“The Claw of the North” mission
Erfaron Sílûgnir, Authon

They had forsaken Ost-Halatir in the end and, with it, apparently all delusion that their jaunt bred cause for good humour. Personally, Erfaron’s mood had much improved since the others’ had sobered, though there was little discernible evidence either way. Lirien had voiced her confidence to him, back at the outset, that Gellam might somehow unite their group’s diverging personalities. It might very well prove though, he supposed, that their mutual Enemy could do just as well a job; for the Mole had never heard of an Orc who cared to stop and differentiate between Elfkind, whatever those Eldar may think of one another.

Counting himself a realist, it was best not to become too attached. Inevitably there would be losses and difficult decisions to make, and he did not envy the Fool such responsibilities. As though to evade further attempts at friendly conversation, he had reverted to his first instinct and tailed the rear of their company. If anything should, stars forbid, come upon the group then there would still be some means of providing aide after, or surviving to warn others of what had occurred. That it might be avenged, or amended. There was no sense in his mind to have all eggs sitting in one basket.

Silugnir kept just close enough to hear the group, and to catch a glimpse at need, that he would not lose them. As a shepherd minding his herd, or perhaps the wolf that stalks them .. Nonetheless, he circled their camp, granting it a wide berth whenever they settled for the night, and forewent all thoughts of warming himself by the communal fire. He had known too many ventures where a fire could get you killed, quickly. Let comfort be the bait, and vigilance keep him alive. That had been the way of it thus far in life. The others might have spied him on occasion, stirring those whose turn it was to take a watch, toward a suddenly startled attention. What foe they might have expected, they found only his thin smile and a curt nod, before he was gone again. It might be that on several occasions they assumed he had abandoned their company entirely, or perhaps that would be merely wishful thinking.


On this, the latest instance of their party making camp, the pale Elf had fallen to habit and ventured forth and a little far out, to chase the sound of water and refill his drinking skin. Though he had caught sense of some fell thing in the vicinity, snatches of song played heedlessly over a vibration on the unseen air. An exaggerated rolling of eyes was the immediate response, rather than any great concern. Honestly he assumed that some inevitable singing from the group around the campfire had called foes now down upon them, and he had his own shadow to shake off.

Suspicion painted his stalker as Faeleithel, survivor of the House of the Fountain. Their paths had met before. And for as much as he had put eyes about him on the trek, he had felt eyes also. As far as he could tell, the best time to confront the expected elleth would be while their companions were distracted. If something should go awry then, also, a perfect alibi presented of what befell her. Not that this outcome would be his intention, but he had learnt the hard way life does not always care for even the best intentions. And as for whether the enemy apparent would properly endanger the rest of the group, while he tarried, well, they had all been so convinced of their mighty Arphen. The best way to tell if a bird could fly was to throw it from the nest, not sit there, and coddle it as it proclaims to be an aviator.


By the time he returned, composed and apparently unconcerned, to the remains of the campsite, there were remains all about of what must have occurred there. Restraining himself from congratulating Gellam on picking such a stellar location to rest in, the Mole had to admit, that apparently even a Fool had not succumbed to the assault. Perhaps all that confounded singing had seen the unimpressed audience to depart with more haste than any martial prowess. Maybe next time he would be around to see so for himself.

[Baphởmet]

Aphador

The Claw of the North

The horse only moved a few steps before it stopped. Númenyraumion, though was too deep in thought to actually noticed that he’d stopped moving. The nimir’s mind was on anything and everything except the present. He hadn’t even noticed when someone came up beside him and asked if he was alright. He heard the voice, even recognized it, but the sound felt like it was coming from beneath a lake. He stared forward for a moment, not sure if the prince of the Woodland Realm was truly speaking to him. For three thousand years he’d been piecing together what he thought the world was like. He knew it was unkind, dangerous, and full of things lurking in the shadow, but he’d managed to compartmentalize those memories and experiences. The run-ins with the forces of the Shadow had been easily dismissed as “wrong place, wrong time” but these last few minutes were forcing him to rethink.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a short time, turning his head and nodding deferentially to the prince. “I’m, I’m alright. It’s just been about three thousand years since I’ve actually had to use this sword. It comes with a lot of memories,” he paused and chewed his lip trying to come up with the right words while his bicolored eyes scanned the trees and underbrush, “memories I thought I had dealt with, or at least buried.” He looked down at the sword, now scabbarded. He didn’t want to keep looking at it, but the ancient Númenórean blade had a way of drawing and keeping his attention

He tried to laugh, tried to push the awkward, uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades out of his mind. “Truly. I forgot what it feels like to be in the midst of a skirmish. Thank you though, Legolas Thranduilion. I appreciate the kind words.” A breeze blew in through the trees just then, bringing with it a freshness that began to wash away the stink of the battle. Numey inhaled and felt the itch in that impossible to reach spot lessen. It didn’t go away completely, it would take more than a single spring breeze for that, but his heart did feel lighter. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Care for a wager, my lord? The next time we run into a swarm of these creatures, whoever kills the most gets a barrel of Old Dorwinion at the end of the mission?”

[Raisins]

Claw of the North
Fuin - Taidril

They'd clearly been lucky nobody had been injured enough to need healing. and Fuin went back to Lune and lifted up the saddle that she had set on the ground to put it back on the horses back. She had no wish to sit here and eat food or take a nap surrounded by the corpses of enemies. They stank and would not start smelling any better the longer they stayed. Lune seemed to be of the same mind as he headed for her and stopped waiting for his saddle knowing full well that it meant that they would be on the move again as he stood ears pinned back as he stared at the pile of hobgoblins and orcs.

"We're going soon." She said softly to him as she quickly tacked him up. There were others that would need more time to get ready to move, as she had not even bothered to think of doing more than unsaddling her horse before they'd been attacked as well as the call for a short rest and a bite of food. She glanced around at how much of camp the others had made and noticed that Silugnir had rejoined them at the camp and looked the pale elf over and gave a small shake of her head and a smirk before she turned her attention back to her saddle.


She tightened the cinch and got a nicker from her horse "It's not that tight you're holding your breath." She muttered and grabbed the bridle and looked at the large war horse for a moment before he dipped his head so she could put the bit in his mouth before she went and retightened the cinch. "If you really thought I wouldn't properly tighten that you're a right fool" She said and gave his whither a pat. Instead she stood soothing Lune this was one of his first battles that involved other soldiers and horses with him where she had not been on his back she'd eat once they were on their way even if it was against orders she knew how to eat and move well enough

[Tharmáras]

The Colony: Chapter 4 - The Descent

A Note to the Constant Reader:
The description of Shar'kyor, my Goblin City,
is loosely based on the Drow realm of
Menzoberranzan from Forgotten Realms.

Ciryatur Telkelion Hender
Vayatiriwë Elmarya Anaronnen
Tirn Calselda
Máheri/Daermagor Nenmallen
Tirn Lhaindir
Aphador Aewrusca, Healer
Aphador Dineth, Healer
King Czul'lah Choka
The Masked Dwarf
Chieftain Barababosh
Chieftain's Son, Wystanbeorn


For @Sur Vanar Utírieste and @Fuin Elda


*

They were capable of acting on their own, doing evil deeds unbidden
for their own sport; or if Morgoth
and his agents were far away, they might neglect his commands.
They hated one another and often
fought among themselves, to the detriment of Morgoth's plans.
Moreover, the Orcs continued to live
and breed and to carry on their business of ravaging and
plundering after Morgoth was overthrown.
They needed food and drink, and rest, though many
were by training as tough as Dwarves in enduring hardship. /
Morgoth had many servants, the oldest and most potent of whom were
immortal, belonging indeed
in their beginning to the Maiar, and these evil spirits like their
Master could take on visible forms.
Those whose business it was to diret the Orcs often took
Orkish shapes, though they were
greater and more terrible. Thus it was that the hstories
speak of Great Orcs or Orc-captains
who were not slain, and who reappeared
in battle through years far longer
than the span of the lives of Men. Boldog...
the Orc-formed Miaar, only less formidable than the Balrogs.
- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: Myths Transformed - Orcs

"Now Goblins make no beautiful things, but they make many clever ones. They can tunnel and
mine as well as any but the most skilled Dwarves, when they take the grouble, though they are
usually untidy and dirty. Hammers, axes, swords, daggers, pickaxes, tongs, and also instruments
of torture, they make very well, or get other people to make to their design, prisoners and slaves
that have to work till they die for want of air and light. They did not hate Dwarves especially,
no more than they hated everybody and everything, and particularly the orderly and prosperous;
in some parts wicked Dwarves had even made alliances with them."
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill

Frodo often met strange dwarves of far countries, seeking refuge in the West.
They were troubed, and some spoke in whispers of the Enemy and of the Land of Mordor.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Shadow of the Past

"For they (the Edain) had met some (Dwarves) far to the East who were of evil mind. /
Alas, it seems probable that (as Men did later) the Dwarves of the far eastern mansions
(and some of the nearer ones?) came under the Shadow of Morgoth and turned to evil. /
The other two places (where Dwarves awakened) were eastward, at distances as great or
greater than that between the Blue Mountains and Gundabad;
the arising of the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, and that of the Blacklocks and Stonefoots."
- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth: Of Dwarves and Men

The Wise in the Elder Days taught always that the Orcs
were not 'made' by Melkor, and
therefore were not in their origin evil. They might have become irredeemable
(at least by Elves and Men), but they remained within the Law. That is, that though of necessity,
being the fingers of the hand of Morgoth, they m ust be fought with the utmost severity,
they must not be dealt with in their own terms of cruelty and treachery. Captives must
not be tormented, not even to discover information for the defense of the homes of Elves and Men.
If any Orcs surrendered and asked for mercy, they must be granted it,
even at a cost. This was the teaching of the Wise, though in the
horror of the War it was not always heeded.
Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: Myths Transformed - Orcs

Thorin I his son removed and went into the far North to the Grey Mountains, where most of Durin's folk
were now gathering; for those mountains were rich and little explored. But there were dragons in
the wastes beyond; and after many years they became strong again and multiplied,
and they made war on the Dwarves, and plundered their works. At last Dáin I, together with Frór
his second son, was slain at the doors of his hall by a great cold-drake.
Not long after most of Durin's Folk abandoned the Grey Mountains.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - III Durin's Folk

"Before you could get round Mirkwood in the North you would be right
among the slopes of the Grey Mountains, and they are simply stiff with goblins,
hobgoblins, and orcs of the worst description."
- Beorn, from The Hobbit: Queer Lodgings

*

The Tunnel near Acharn's Cairn

By the arts of Felagund their own forms and faces
were changed into the likeness of Orcs...
Then Sauron stripped from them their disguise...
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien

"The Longbeards had spread southward down the Vales of Anduin and...
they regarded the Iron Hills, the Ered Mithrin, and the east dales of the Misty Mountains
as their own land.
But they were under attack from the Orks of Morgoth."
- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth: Of Dwarves and Men

"He is all yours Vayatiriwë." [/i]A vicious swipe of Elmarya's falcata beheaded the Orc graciously tossed toward her. "Behind you, Poldórëa!" yelled Elmarya at Annúnfalas. A small dark-skinned Orc crept behind her with two serrated daggers, taking advantage of the Valiant's unexpected fall. Telkelion swept the snuffler's leg with a violent thrust of his boot. He swung his longsword low, silencing the wailing Orc with a swift lash along the throat.

The Lindon prince whirled, meeting the thrust of a Hobgoblin's spear in desperate parry. The Light Elf jabbed the monstrous Orc with his armored fist, shattering its nose in a terrific spray of ebony blood. It grunted, stumbling backwards into the slashing arc of a scimitar belonging to one of the two Orcs left standing. Not too surprising; Orc tribes usually warred with others; no doubt this one held a grudge of some kind. What did astonish Telkelion was the bewildering transformation of the Orc into Elven form.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Telkelion grasped Caranfindel's forearm in brotherly fellowship. He asked where his mission partner was. Caranfindel blanched, shaking his head, admitting he didn't know, that he lost her below. "You have a lot of explaining to do," said Telkelion, gently helping Annúnfalas to her feet.

*

The Tunnel Near the Mountain's Opposite Side

"Don't pull a foolish stuntl ike that again!" Caselda snapped at her sister, striking Goblins down with Arasoron's longsword, Rútheasercë.

The younger Mordagnir fired another arrow from Fuin's bow, piercing the eye of one screaming Orc slamming his cudgel on Lhaindir's shield. Edan's squire and Nenmallen, trading bow for blade in the melee, attacked the vulnerable enemy at once and dismembered him together with short sword and mattock.

"You heard the singing Orc! He wanted to hurt Aunt Tavari!" Aewrusca preparing another shot with smooth Elven grace. "I've been trained to defend myself in dire straits and Afarfin is protecting me."

"Try something that reckless again you're going to get him killed and others, too," retorted Calselda.

"What is this new devilry?" asked Lhaindir, panting, as he approached Afarfin. A tide of Orcs, greater than the two dozen assaulting the mixed Elven force of guards streamed into the firelit cavern...and slaughtered the enemies raging against Calselda's team. The new party laid down their arms and raised their limbs.

She reluctantly commanded the Elves to cease hostilities, glancing at Nenmallen for approval. Aigronding ordered Caselda in her trainee days to be merciful to surrendering Orcs. Clemency was not often bestowed by Elven soldiers - even her uncle Arasoron's torture of Orcs for information was infamous; he eventually executed those begging for pardon - but Caelda emulated her righteous father's equitable nature and obeyed his mandates. Not just Orcs he had forgiven but Elves as well like Erfaron, a family friend and a Mole warrior of Prince Maeglin.

Fortunately, the stern direction of paladin Calselda saved many Firstborn from being murdered. The Orcs who rescued her group appeared in Elven forms wearing the uniforms of the Lindon Guard. "You owe me plenty of favors, Mordagnir," said grinning Elmarya who embraced Calselda, her best friend.

"There just happened to be Calaquendi in this cave, a chance meeting as they say in Middle-earth!" explained Telkelion in proud boast, beginning to greet his friends among Caselda's company along side Caranfindel. The Lindon Guard commander froze in midstride, gawking at Afarfin with his one eye. He shared a glance with Caranfindel who looked as though he had seen a ghost. They came toward him. "Golden hair and grey eyes, a strong calm face," uttered Telkelion. "You resemble Afarfin, Arasoron Mordagnir's confindant, whom we knew long ago. Forgive our boldness but...are you he?" Telkelion had met Afarfin at the Havens of Sirion, introduced by Aigronding, shortly before the Third Kinslaying. Caranfindel served with Afarfin at Minas Tirith before the Werewolf onslaught and Orodreth's retreat to Nargothrond. Together, the High Elves expanded their awareness of Afarfin in the Unseen World. They saw what Roina had seen in her vision of him at the Masquerade of ...tall and crowned, poised between towering doors. He wore a purple robe and the light of his effulgent staff illumined the vast distance between him and them, banishing the murk wreathing the shadowy threshold. A soul released from dim silver-lit halls, eager to roam the Seen World he left behind....

"Welcome back to the Land of the Living," congratulated Telkelion, bowing hand over heart. Caranfindel did likewise, telling Afarfin it was a pleasure to walk this earth with him once more.

"I hate to interrupt this merry reunion," confessed Nenmallen to Telkelion and Caranfindel in earnesty, "but we should know how you both came here with the Lindon Guard."

"I'll make the long story short," said Caranfindel with a rueful shake of his head. "Before I lost my mission partner we encountered Acharn, a dead Ranger of Osdolen, in our scouting. I read his journal. He discovered the location of a new Orc stronghold here in the Misty Mountains while searching for a woman named Elvanwa who vanished hiking in the territory. We entered this cave to gather intelligence and perhaps find Elvanwa."

"Annunfalas and I were leading the Lindon Guard in the area, discovering new safe routes for travellers," explained Telkelion. "We were invited to Grickley the Giant's house in the valley below. They noticed the Ranger and Elvanwa about a Ranger in the vicinity before we had come here."

"We've seen plenty of mortals in the city, captured Beornings and Wood-men and traders from afar," said Caranfindel. "We haven't found Elvanwa but perhaps she became one of the thralls the Orcs have enslaved."

"There is a city underground?" asked Calselda, dumbfounded.

"I have in the Archives of Lord Círdan there are innumerable Orc colonies in the Misty Mountains," mentioned Annúnfalas. "Ever since 2009 of the Third Age these mountains and all lands east have become increasingly dangerous. The Orcs have multiplied in the old strongholds and have foritify new ones, rebuilding their ancient power broken in the Battle of Five Armies. Songs have sung that three parts of the Goblin warriors of the North perished in that conflict, and the mountains had peace for many a year until recently. Evil is rising." She pursed her full lips. "I am afraid as more Elves venture oversea, finding the Straight Road to Aman, and the Dúnedain Rangers remain few then one day the Orcs will threaten Eriador. Unless the King returns and restores the strength of Arnor."

"Disguised as Orcs, we observed the Colony. Its name in the Black Speech is Shar'kyor, the Waiting City."

"Waiting for what?" said Caselda, feeling a chill creeping up her spine.

"To strike," speculated Nenmallen in disquietude.

"The city's cavern is several miles long and its ceiling at least three hundred meters high," Caranfindel continued to debrief them. "Bridges arching over subterranean streams and gates, all guarded, lead into myriads of corridors surrounding the city. Passages like this serve as exits to the outside world, others are tunnels where the Goblin mines are and slaves are forced to labor in the quarries."

"We should leave now and take this information to the Tar-Taidron," decided Calselda.

"Not just yet," advised Caranfindel carefully. "We came across the Moles of Tol Noldarë in the Unseen World during our reconnaissance in Shar'kyor. They were encamped in one of the valleys a kilometer way, Orc-hunting, and found the colony. The Mole Prince-"

"I'm going to stop you right there," interrupted Calselda with acerbic vehemence. "Which prince?"

"Mordion Narraval."

Hatholdir's youngest son, wicked and tricksy.

"You are my uncle's friend and I respect you but I'm done hearing what you have to say." Calselda's lover, Callon, was an honorable Mole. He had his mother Meluiwen's kind disposition whereas his brother Mordion mirrored Hatholdir's vengeful personality.

"Let him finish or you won't return to your father with the news he needs to hear," Lhaindir gently counselled Caselda. He always tried to make peace with Aewrusca's sister.

Calselda reluctantly agreed, rigidly poised as she allowed Caranfindel to complete his statement.

"I enchanted Mordion and his Moles to infiltrate the gates and bridges as spies," Caranfindel admitted with some hesitation; he knew how Moles were still regarded amongst the Gondolindrim survivors and their descendants. "They've recently lost Moles here in the Misty Mountains and tracked down their assailants to this colony where I met and disguised them. The Moles have learned that Czul'lah Choka, the Goblin King of this stronghold, is meeting with a Hobgoblin chieftain of the Grey Mountains where some of Middle-earth's most powerful Orcs thrive; also, a wicked Dwarf-lord is rumored to appear. I expect an alliance is being forged. It's critical we know what they are planning."

"Lothlórien is poised between both aggressors from the east and the north," acknowledged Nenmallen, Galadriel's herald.

"Lindon has suffered attacks from the Shadow Dwarves recently," mentioned Telkelion and looked at Annúnfalas who nodded in agreement. "We are uncovering their hiding places in Ered Luin and helping the Three Beard Army determine which Dwarven leaders in the Court of Dis are actually disloyal ones," said Annunfalas. "If we can learn more secrets here it would be beneficial to us." The serene elleth's pale cheeks darkened. "Czul'lah Choka is a Boldog, a huge demon who's taken horrific Orkish form. He's been defeated many times by me and others, including your uncle Arasoron, but has reappeared in many battles throughout millennia. Czul'lah Choka is dangerous. I will try to kill him...again."

"Your father, an Elf-lord of the White Council, must be aware of plots against Elvendom, Raulira," Nenmallen advised Calselda, calling Aigronding's daughter by her father-name which meant Lionsong. She must have considered Calselda brave enough to risk her life in this gamble.

"We will accompany you," decided Calselda, feeling emboldened by her father's friends. She gave orders for her soldiers outside to be escorted from their ledge to the entrance of the cave Telkelion's group passed through; she didn't want her entire force surrounded by Orcs below. Once they gained the necessary intelligence, they would ascend the the enemy tunnels and vacate the mountain by way of the valley where the dead Ranger was entombed.

Caranfindel and Telkelion assembled all the Elves together and outstretched their hands. Silvery-gold light beamed in radiant sinuous tendrils, reshaping their cohorts into the ghastly semblance of Orcs.

"Take a whiff of that," Aewrusca told Afarfin as she looked in Caselda's direction and waved a hand before her nose in utter repugnance.

"She smells worse than I do!" retorted Caselda, pushing her sister who enjoyed snickering in a low demonic laugh.

"You've never looked more beautiful," Telkelion complimented Annúnfalas with a broad flash of jagged yellow teeth.

"I'm blushing Hender, can't you tell?" she joked wryly, her skin darker than coal.

"Afarfin," croaked Caranfindel, "I give you the honor of alerting the Moles to our presence." Caranfindel gave Afarfin a small lamp which resembled a Fëanorian lantern. He raised its hood, revealing a wondrous emerald flame. It blazed from synthetic green crystals mimicking beryl Elfstones suspended in a delicate net within. "The Moles will open one of the Gates for us when they see the green fire," exlained Caranfindel. "Await my order to shine the signal."

[Tharmáras]

Ciryatur Telkelion Hender
Vayatiriwë Elmarya Anaronnen
Tirn Calselda
Máheri/Daermagor Nenmallen
Tirn Lhaindir
Aphador Aewrusca, Healer
Aphador Dineth, Healer
King Czul'lah Choka
The Masked Dwarf
Chieftain Barababosh
Chieftain's Son, Wystanbeorn

*

They were capable of acting on their own, doing evil deeds unbidden
for their own sport; or if Morgoth
and his agents were far away, they might neglect his commands.
They hated one another and often
fought among themselves, to the detriment of Morgoth's plans.
Moreover, the Orcs continued to live
and breed and to carry on their business of ravaging and
plundering after Morgoth was overthrown.
They needed food and drink, and rest, though many
were by training as tough as Dwarves in enduring hardship. /
Morgoth had many servants, the oldest and most potent of whom were
immortal, belonging indeed
in their beginning to the Maiar, and these evil spirits like their
Master could take on visible forms.
Those whose business it was to diret the Orcs often took
Orkish shapes, though they were
greater and more terrible. Thus it was that the hstories
speak of Great Orcs or Orc-captains
who were not slain, and who reappeared
in battle through years far longer
than the span of the lives of Men. Boldog...
the Orc-formed Miaar, only less formidable than the Balrogs.
- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: Myths Transformed - Orcs

Now Goblins make no beautiful things, but they make many clever ones. They can tunnel and
mine as well as any but the most skilled Dwarves, when they take the grouble, though they are
usually untidy and dirty. Hammers, axes, swords, daggers, pickaxes, tongs, and also instruments
of torture, they make very well, or get other people to make to their design, prisoners and slaves
that have to work till they die for want of air and light. They did not hate Dwarves especially,
no more than they hated everybody and everything, and particularly the orderly and prosperous;
in some parts wicked Dwarves had even made alliances with them.
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill



Frodo often met strange dwarves of far countries, seeking refuge in the West.
They were troubed, and some spoke in whispers of the Enemy and of the Land of Mordor.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Shadow of the Past



For they (the Edain) had met some (Dwarves) far to the East who were of evil mind. /
Alas, it seems probable that (as Men did later) the Dwarves of the far eastern mansions
(and some of the nearer ones?) came under the Shadow of Morgoth and turned to evil. /
The other two places (where Dwarves awakened) were eastward, at distances as great or
greater than that between the Blue Mountains and Gundabad;
the arising of the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, and that of the Blacklocks and Stonefoots.
- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth: Of Dwarves and Men



The Wise in the Elder Days taught always that the Orcs
were not 'made' by Melkor, and
therefore were not in their origin evil. They might have become irredeemable
(at least by Elves and Men), but they remained within the Law. That is, that though of necessity,
being the fingers of the hand of Morgoth, they m ust be fought with the utmost severity,
they must not be dealt with in their own terms of cruelty and treachery. Captives must
not be tormented, not even to discover information for the defense of the homes of Elves and Men.
If any Orcs surrendered and asked for mercy, they must be granted it,
even at a cost. This was the teaching of the Wise, though in the
horror of the War it was not always heeded.
Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: Myths Transformed - Orcs




Thorin I his son removed and went into the far North to the Grey Mountains, where most of Durin's folk
were now gathering; for those mountains were rich and little explored. But there were dragons in
the wastes beyond; and after many years they became strong again and multiplied,
and they made war on the Dwarves, and plundered their works. At last Dáin I, together with Frór
his second son, was slain at the doors of his hall by a great cold-drake.
Not long after most of Durin's Folk abandoned the Grey Mountains.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - III Durin's Folk


Before you could get round Mirkwood in the North you would be right
among the slopes of the Grey Mountains, and they are simply stiff with goblins,
hobgoblins, and orcs of the worst description.
- Beorn, from The Hobbit: Queer Lodgings

*

By the arts of Felagund their own forms and faces
were changed into the likeness of Orcs...
Then Sauron stripped from them their disguise...
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien



The Longbeards had spread southward down the Vales of Anduin and...
they regarded the Iron Hills, the Ered Mithrin, and the east dales of the Misty Mountains
as their own land.
But they were under attack from the Orks of Morgoth.
- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth: Of Dwarves and Men

*

They journeyed far beneath the towers of mists, wandering the ruddy gloom of the torchlit Goblin tunnels. A disturbing silence gave way to the echoing drip of chilled water then ultimately to the shrill cries of prisoners and the cruel laughter of the Glamhoth. They roamed mines where humans and Elves quarried for their Goblin overseers. They walked the glowing meandering corridors which connected caverns, small and large, with ceilings low and tall.

The Elves masquerading as Orcs rounded one of the countless bends which delivered them into a colossal chamber. It stretched kilometers wide, its canopy unfathomably high. Thousands of Orcs travelled bridges leading to stony islands between deep subterranean pools. In the city of Shar'kyor, huge Goblin citadels were interspersed in the midst of glistening gigantic stalactites and stalagmites of marvelous intricate shapes. A lofty pillar loomed on an island belonging solely to the gargantuan spire, glimmering with a slowly dissipating blood-shine luster. Caranfindel told them that the Sanguine Tower was magicked by captured Elves and reckoned time for the underground Orc colony. When the brilliance of the pinnacle diminished the absence of light symbolized a new day in Shar'kyor; the base of the sharp peak would renew its glinting heat and it redoubled in splendor as the day proceeded on. Presently the column's zenith remained efullgently lit, alluding to the waning hours of night.

Hastening along one bridge, they encountered droves of Goblin slaves. Woodmen and Elven thralls were goaded and abused in the streets, prompting Aewrusca several times to reach for Fuin's bow which now resembled an Orc's. "Don't be stupid," Caselda would hiss at her, saving the company from immediate disaster.

"We will return," Nenmallen would assure the young Mordagnir, "with greater reinforcements to liberate the enslaved."

Calselda's mouth tightened into a grim line, wondering if the Elves and Dúnedain and the Dwarves of Lindon had the numbers to launch a bold invasion of this impregnable stronghold.

Mortals and Elves were not the only ones punished. On a wooden platform of prominent height a kneeling snaga was tied to rough-hewn poles. A larger Orc warrior cackled, striking the sallow flesh of the shrieking offender. Each bloody blow of the flail lacerated strips of skin with metal spikes. Below the scourging stage Orcs sang, marching out of the city to battle Woodmen and Beornings of Anduin Vale.

Where there's a whip, there's a way.
Where there's a whip, there's a way.

We don't wanna go to war today
But the Lord of the Lash says: "nay, nay, nay!"
We're gonna march all day, all day, all day!
Where there's a whip there's a way!

Where there's a whip, there's a way!
Where there's a whip, there's a way!
Where there's a whip, there's a way!
Left, right, left, right, left
Where there's a whip, there's a way!

The crack on the back says we're gonna fight
We're gonna march all day and night and more
For we are the slaves of the Dark Lord's war.
Left, right, left, right, left, right

Where there's a whip, there's a way!
Where there's a whip, there's a way.

We don't wanna go to war today!
But the Lord of the Lash says: "nay, nay, nay!"
We're gonna march all day, all day, all day!
Where there's a whip there's a way!
Left, right, left right!

(from When There's a Whip,
There's a way
from The Return of the King animated cartoon)

Calselda rolled her blue eyes, watching Lhaindir and Aewrusca join the chorus of marching Orc singers too enthusiastically.

"It's catchy, not going to lie," Elmarya teased Calselda.

"We are approaching the castle of Czul'lah Choka," warned Caranfindel. They had followed a stream of soldiers to one isolated rocky island far removed from the others, its bridge lined with fiery braziers of bronze and black mable. They entered a vast courtyard of an immense fortress draped in banners of red and black fashioned by Goblin slaves. The menacing edifice stood before a great opened Gate of iron defended by soaring bastions of insuperable stone; the Moles had taken possession of both, Caranfindel told Afarfin. Leading from the Gate was a northern route leading upwards into a wide cleft, a passage to the outside world and the small valley of the Ranger's cairn...their only means of escape.

"You didn't mention a Dragon," Calselda murmured. A dreadful horror threatening to smother her confidence. Sprawled comfortably along the stony ground was a sleek bluish-purple dragon. Her family and their older friends had told Caselda frightening stories of dragon sizes but this one seemed rather young and lightly-built. It was nine meters long, not small enough to be a Wrymling - a Dragon newborn - but not great as an adult or ancient Dragon. The adolescent Wrym idly swung a slim tail in its sleep, startlingly reminiscent of a drowsy cat's leisurely swinging movements, which prompted a dozen bleating Orcs to scatter fearfully. Curving horns protruded from its slender albeit proportionally large skull and puffs of smoke issued from its long nose, clouding the air. The scent of petrichor emanated from its indigo body.

"The Dragon must have entered the Goblin caverns sometime when I reached the higher tunnels today," assumed Caranfindel, likewise affected by the Dragon's aura of nigh overwhelming fear. "There are many paths in Shar'kyor and whichever one the Dragon took I was fortunate not to travel."

"Dragons have enhanced senses," said Annúnfalas, mastering the terror chipping away at her serene composure. She fought Dragons in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears in the Host of the Falas and heard tales of them from Dwarven refugees of the east in Lindon. "This Dragon could reveal our true nature..."

Calselda had the chance to call off the mission but decided they would stay the course. Once they attained the knowledge they came looking for, the Elves would retreat.

Near the somnolent Dragon was a broad flat stone; it was similar to the seat of the Goblin King whom Bilbo told Calselda about in Rivendell. Around it stood Dwarves wearing grey and black and dark blue cloaks over their burnished armor; surprisingly, they didn't seem to mind sharing space with many kinds of Orcs of the worst description. The disguised Elves joined their company, listening to four persons of some nefarious importance standing on the carved serpentine dais.

One of the Four spoke, a Dwarf with bushy black hair. His horned blued steel mask, one shaped like the scaly face of a sea-dragon, protected his identity. "We left our great Dwarf-cities of Rhûn to do evil in Eriador. We have posed as Dwarven refugees fleeing the dominion of Sauron to find peace beyond the Carnen. Elrond's Herald discovered our machinations in Ered Luin and struck the first blow; now the Lindon Guard is hunting us in Dís' court and our lairs in the mountains. The Dwarves of the Shadow seek more shelters in the Westlands. Our enemies, the Elves and the Dúnedain, are your enemies. That makes us allies. Dwarves, even the servants of the Dark Lord, are fast in friendship and fierce in war. You will have need the Orocarni Stiffbeards and Blacklocks and Stonefoots in your battles against the Elves and the Rangers. We have come to you, King Czul'lah Choka, asking for your permission to re-settle the Dwarf-lands near your kingdom; the eastdales once belonged to the Longbeards who are now gone and we desire to claim them again as well as wresting control of what Dwarf holdings there are still are in the Grey Mountains."

"Not without payment." The eerie voice of the Boldog was disturbing in its sibilance. The hissing Orc-formed Maia stood four meters tall, easily the most prominent and physically imposing entity enthroned on the dais. He wore a armor of blackened steel. A lurid yellow luminescence engulfed the eyeslits of the spiked helm concealing his face. He accepted a purse of glittering stones from the Masked Dwarf and allowed his following to take the eastdales for themselves. "And your business, Barababosh?" demanded King Czul'lah Choka.

The smaller yet broader Orc with deep-set jade eyes, a bearded green Hobgoblin of formidable strength, stirred when spoken to. The hulking monster's strong face was striped in white warpaint and large tusks thrust out from his wide mouth. "I have unleashed my tribe's warriors along side yours on Eriador and-" He touched a beaded necklace carved in strange runes hanging from a black leather cord around his neck " - my Ost-Halatir spy has informed me Quasillaurë departed the citadel, walking unwittingly into my trap I have plotted with the Morgul Witch of the Scorpion Order. We must lure Mordagnir, the Tar-Taidron, into the Vale of Anduin. We will destroy him and his warriors. We will infest their homes and their waste-lands undeterred."

"What do you propose?" encouraged King Czul'lah Choka.

"Sapphirus, the Great Cold-drake, and his mate Dimmtþruma are mounting a siege of King Thranduil's halls to usurp his hoard. Meanwhile the Hobgoblins and your Orcs will redouble their attacks on the mortals in the Vale of Anduin. If we don't kill Mordagnir and his host, the Dragons will."

"We will march uncontested, Wystanbeorn ?" Czul'lah Choka asked the traitorous Beorning. A flicker of guilt registered in the twinkling of an eye when the large grave man suddenly grimaced in disgust but he answered with a resolute nod. The sturdy shapeshifter stroked the luxuriant beard of his angular face, deciding how best to reply.

"I am leading a rebellious faction against my father Grimbeorn," he stated in a deep resonant voice, idly touching a gold chain around his neck, Elvish jewelry given as toll money; passage through Beorning lands was costly. "For too long we have fought alone against you." He sneered in contempt, looking toward The Goblin King and the Hobgoblin Lord. "The Elves are passing away and the warriors who remain don't lift a finger to help while my people lose their lives protecting theirs. They guard their own kin but I will save mine-"

"By joining us," interrupted Barababosh, observing him with a gimlet stare, "But know this, if your father Grimbeorn doesn't kill you I will if your confederation betrays the tribes I rule. The Goblins of the Grey Mountains will overwhelm the realm of the Beornings with fire and sword."

"Enough!" shouted Czul'lah Choka. "I have your alliegiance and now Wystan's fealty belongs to me."

"Together, we will besiege the Elf nations for the Shadow's glory!" declared the Masked Dwarf in melodramatic triumph.

"We are leaving now," Calselda told Caranfindel with a steely determination, emphasis on her last word. She turned about but froze an instant later. Calselda's legs trembled, hearing a low snorting exhalation louder than any horse. Calselda heard it once more, soft as a sigh, a beat later. Calselda took a cautious look near the dais with a wildly palpitating heart and saw that the bluish-purple Dragon rising.

"What has awakened Uthzertath?" queried the Dragon in a sonorous voice. Calselda tried to resist a convulsive shudder, unable to wrest her gaze from the flaring mad glacial eyes. "Too much talking perhaps or was it the pungent odor?" Uthzertath's mouth twisted into a vile snarl. He crept closer with an almost catlike grace toward the Orcs and Shadow Dwarves cursing and quaking. The minions retreated, left and right, to evade the Dragon's approach toward Caselda's group.

Uthzertath paused before the Mordagnirs and Afarfin, Telkelion and Elmarya, Annúnfalas and Caranfindel. He sniffed them with the wide nostrils of his long snout, caressing the black and sallow flesh of the "Orcs" in fascinated interest.

"Don't!" Calselda wanted to warn Aewrusca whose armored hand shivered on Fuin's bow, undoubtedly eager to shoot the beast, but her lips were glued shut in utter trepidation. She knew the mission was a failure when the Dragon cackled.

"These ones look like Orcs but smell like Elves!" proclaimed Uthzertath, knocking down or unsteadying several Goblins with a windy unfolding of its bat-like wings.

The Boldog leapt with frightening agility from the dais. Czul'lah CHoka outstretched his gauntlet. A garish golden light emitted from the metal glove, shedding the Orc guises from the Elves the Calaquendi enchanted.

A bloodbath then erupted as Shadow Dwarves and Orcs brought their axes, swords, and spears to bear against the Elven intruders.

"Warn the Moles, flash the signal!" Caselda told Afarfin, parrying a slash of a Dwarvish blade. A swift return stroke lashed the hairy attacker's lantern jaw.

"I am with you, otorno."

Calselda was startled by the unfamilar Elven voice, one that was cool and commanding. She looked at Afarfin, believing he had another friend here who knew him well. Otorno, Quenya for sworn brother.

"Stand firm, Raulíra."

She didn't know whose voice it was counselling her but she was grateful for its empowering encouragement. She gave the order to retreat, yelling above the din of battle, and hoped they could trust the Moles....

GM UPDATE:

@Sur Vanar Utírieste and @Fuin Elda , react how you would like before the Dragon and the Goblin King revealed the identities of the Elves. Then begin fighting your way out of the coutyard. Fuin, have Afarfin emerge from combat to use the signal lamp to alert the Moles stationed inside the gatetower that Elves are in danger by the end of your post.

Sur, thank you for giving me permission to use Annúnfalas until you can write her when you can; she could be fighting presently or when we get outside. Please no one engage Czul'lah Choka, the Masked Dwarf, Wystanbeorn, or Uthzertath; now is not the time but there will be soon, especially with Czul'lah Choka who will become aggressive towards my group in my next tragic post; he will be seen in forthcoming host RPs and will be featured in all RPs of AoA but will suffer his final end in the Fourth Age. Fuin Elda will RP Grimbeorn in this thread very soon when I give her direction.


Please title your posts... The Colony: Chapter 5 - The Ascent.

[Tharmáras]

Henry's Prophecy

A Note to Any Readers:
This is a private two parter, told from vantage point of nearby Rangers,
foreshadowing a calamitous event in my next update for The Colony
which will occur following Fuin's next post and
will feature the POV of this scene from one of my NPCs.

The Bree-folk called them Rangers... They roamed at will southwards, and eastwards
even as far as the Misty Mountains; but they were now few and rarely seen.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

...the arts of healing and medicine, of which much was still known
in Gondor, preserved from the wisdom of Númenor.
- Tolkien, from Unfinished Tales: II Cirion and Eorl: The Northmen and the Wainriders

Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his (Manwë's) halls;
and their eyes could see to the depths of the seas, and
pierce the hidden caverns beneath the world.
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Beginning of Days

Now those drakes and worms are the evillest creatures that Melko has made, and the most uncouth,
yet of all are they the most powerful, save it be the Balrogs only. A great cunning and wisdom have
they, so that it has been long said amongst Men that whosoever might taste the heart of a dragon
would know all tongues of Gods or Men, of birds or beasts, and his ears would catch whispers of
the Valar or of Melko such as never have he heard before. Few have there been that ever achieved
a deed of such prowess as the slaying of a drake, nor might any even of such doughty ones
taste their blood and live, for it is as a poison of fires that slays all save the most godlike in strength.
- Tolkien, from the Book of Lost Tales II: Turambar and the Foalókë

Etthiras, the Spyhorn

Mary Galerida exhaled a shuddering breath, reading her husband's letter. She would do her somber part to further circulate amongst the wanderers and villagers of the Dúnedain disturbing reports out of Osdolen. Worse, Mary would endure the sorrow of being the bearer of bad tidings to Rangers she commanded but tonight Mary needed some measure of solace. Khallador's wife applied essential oil of Lebinnin mallos to her wrists, behind ears, and the nape of her neck. Beren Camlost, her spouse's adventurous kinsman and a skillful Gondorian healer frequenting Eriador, had not erred when he assured her the golden flower would ease her anxiety. The rosemary wine she now poured into an Imladris flute he also recommended and this often assauged her grief as well.

A sudden ear-splitting shriek of a giant bird disturbed the stillness of her room and Mary gasped in terrorized astonishment. She cried out few moments later again, startled by the cacophony of what could only be trees falling all at once. The frightening clamor inevitably ceased, replaced by sounds of weeping and hollering Rangers of the North. Mary was so terribly shaken, she couldn't move until the arrival of brave and reliable Beren Camlost. The mighty hero didn't seem his usual cheerful self as he had when she visited him on watch earlier. He looked grave and somber.

"What in Mordor was that?" Mary demanded, sill panic-stricken and trembling.

"A Great Hawk has tumbled from the air," replied Beren in grim explanation, "and destroyed a portion of the woods below."

Mary pursed her lips. Henry Cambell, the son of Khallador's kinswoman Imelda, had a vision of this before she departed Ergoth. She still remembered the lad trembling in a cold sweat, his dark eyes white-shining. "I saw a bird and a lion falling out of the clouds," the boy, a seer like Glirhuin of Brethil and Malbeth of Arthedain, mysteriously proclamed with no interpretation. This was how the reserved clairvoyant's omens normally played out, that Mary or others would listen to Henry's cryptic ramblings in wonder then later realize the meaning of the strange portents when unfolding events matched the symbolism of the child's warnings.

Mary raked curls of her long thick brown hair with her fingertips in exasperation, feeling a raging anxiety suffocating her. It was hard for her to breathe; Mary's heartbeat quickened alarmingly fast and she was afraid it would burst any second. The weight of responsibility was arduous to bear for the young Dúnadan-Breelander woman. "Hawks and Eagles don't fall out of the sky so easily."

"No, they don't," Beren remarked in gloomy agreement, already striding toward one of Mary's curtained windows. Gazing at her with an ominous countenance, Beren pulled aside the drapes in one swift stroke. Mary rushed forward with a fearful gasp, gawking at the frightening spectacle before her. Toppled pines were strewn beneath misty heavens kindled aglow this night, licked by writhing tongues of purple flame.

"Dragonfire, the like of which I've seen only once in my time," murmured brooding Beren and crossed strong arms across his broad chest. The burly Gondorian had experience hunting dragons. Beren had been with Aigronding and Hatholdir and Annabelle Snapdragon in the Grey Mountains in their prospecting venture of TA 3001. The great cold-drake Sapphirus, slayer of Dáin I, attacked their party but they had their revenge when they stormed the wrym's den in the Withered Heath. Having heard legendary tales of courageous supernal heroes who drank the blood of dragons and gained supernatural powers, Beren tasted the blood of a wrymling he killed. He miraculously lived which few mortals in dragonslaying lore had done who swallowed poison of wryms and acquired abilities of the ancient myths. More than often in recenty years his understanding of animal languages surprised Dúnedain who did not expect such mastery from Khallador's southern kinsman; the Dúnedain of Gondor had waned and their blood became much mingled with that of other men, especially the Northmen of Rhovanion from whom Beren was descended from maternal ancestors. "The offspring in the brood of Sapphirus are capable of breathing flame this color save for Korit'al Xukuth - Iceheart, the albino. The wryms inherited the gift of fiery breath from their mother Dimmtþrumabut, a purple fire-drake."

"You think a dragon injured the Hawk?"

"I don't think, I know," Beren answered with firm surety. "I hear the words of Manwë and he stands near Varda," uttered Beren, his hazel eyes glazed in awestruck reverence.

Mary glanced at him awkwardly, unsure if she believed her husband's relative or not. The legends of dragondrinkers spoke of valiant warriors who could hear the Valian whispers of the Valar and Morgoth. She knew from their Elven allies that the Elder King could see further than all other eyes when he ascended his throne with his wife, the Star Queen.

"You don't believe me do you," demanded Beren, loosely taking her arm, "after all you've seen me do? You'll believe the strange stories of your father's people but none I tell?"

"Hearing the Valar and Bauglir, that's a bit much, Bear," Mary admitted doubtfully.

Beren stared at her in disappointment until he finally strode toward the door of her quarters and wrenched it open. "I'm going to investigate the scene of the Hawk's fall and will be taking some Rangers with me."

Mary flinched, knowing he was upset, at the sound of Beren's brusque timbre. "Hang on a minute," insisted Mary, throwing on her grey-green shawl. "I'm coming with you." She relaxed when she saw Beren's glimmer of a smile and ventured outside with him.

Ethirras, the Spyhorn, was a Dúnedain scouting station on a high mountain in the Hithaeglir. Roina Mordagnir's masonry guild built a dozen stone buildings for the Rangers on the pine-clad slopes for the Rangers to inhabit on duty, share reconnaissance details, and form bands to purge evil in the territory. They observed movements of many fell creatures from this height; the Rangers espied Goblins, wargs, trolls, and bandits from their lofty position. They reported their findings and battles to the Halcyon Guard of Imladris and Lord Elrond; usually Aigronding's Elves joined their searches and conflicts against the vile things. Lately Mary and her brethren were unsettled by the influx of Orcs traversing the region. They feared that a Goblin stronghold was located somewhere nearby and worried that Elvanwa, one of their scouts whose lover was Acharn of Osdolen, had been taking captive by the enemy.

Mary and Beren collected a group of Rangers and descended the gentle forested decline before entering the vast area of shattered trees. They found the majestic Hawk at first sight, walking solemly amongst the splintered trucks. The Hawk had gruesome injuries to its feathered smoking body; it was bitten, clawed, and scorched in many places.

"A woman!" cried Helchon, a scruffy dark-haired Ranger younger than Mary. He pointed toward a girl who laid in the midst of broekn pine boughs beneath a tree she must have dropped through. From this distance they could not ascertain her identity however, bright flaxen hair flowed from under her opal helm.

"An Elf-lady!" assumed Mary, running with Beren and Helchon and the Ranger scouts toward the female soldier. She wore the uniform of a Halcyon Guard of Imladris. The golden embroidery of her red surcoat immediately distinguished her as a Tirn and noble dame in Rivendell's host.

Mary frowned, watching Beren walk woodenly toward the fallen she-elf. "Is she dead?" Mary asked Beren, approaching him hesitantly. Mary knew Beren was distant family to an Elf clan in Elrond's valley and he was a friend of many Elves, both Light and Dark.

Beren didn't answer her. He just stood over the Elf-girl in morose silence, shaken.

"Can you identify the body?" Mary pressed in a delicate, compassionate voice.

Beren said nothing. He fell to his knees and wept.

Mary would have held his shoulders but Beren whirled on her from where he knelt. He scared her with a glacial stare and bestial snarl. She knew he was a skin-changer, could shift into fearsome bear form, so Mary took a step back and stumbled into Helchon's hands.

Beren turned his aggrieved ruggedly stubbled face toward the fallen Elvish knight again and cradled her, sobbing as he rocked the elleth in muscled arms holding her tenderly.

When Mary had a glimpse of who it was Beren cared about, her own blue eyes widened and she seized her palpitating heart. "Oh, Varda!" exclaimed Mary, feeling an outpouring of sympathy for Beren and a respected Elven dynasty of Imladris.

"Give him a moment, for Nienna's sake!" urged Helchon when Mary tried consolingly to reach for Beren again.

Suddenly, what everyone presumed to be a corpse suddenly caressed Beren's rough bearded cheek limply.

"She's alive!" Beren informed the others hoarsely and new tears sprang to his eyes again, a joyful stream spilling down his unshaven face.

Even still, to Mary Galerida Middle-earth seemed a more dangerous place by far.

[Raisins]

The Colony: Chapter 5 - The Ascent
Magor Afarfin

Afarfin had every thought of having words with Rusca, however they were quickly forgotten when he was ordered to not slaughter orcs - orcs did not surrender and this was a trick he was certain of it only to find that indeed it was a trick but not one played by orcs but by elves.

And then he realized there were faces that he knew from ages long past "Telkelion, Caranfindel you devils" He said with a smile clasping arm and feeling strangely at home despite being in an orc tunnel. "You're lucky Caselda ordered a stop - I've too many memories of orcish tricks of surrender - I'd have run you through without second thought." He said with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

He was less than pleased at becoming an orc illusion himself but agreed he was after all only a Magor and had to follow the command the fact they were trusting Moles though... He had ill feelings on this and made this known to Carafindel who told him where the Moles were positioned and what would happen at the signal.

The shear number of orcs in the tunnels and the word that it was a boldog that lead them made him nervous. They had not the numbers to fight their way out of this - many would die if they were discovered, if not all of them and he wanted very much to tell Caselda that they had more than enough to tell her father that they should leave but she wanted to press forward. What further information could they possibly gather? He pressed his lips together and marched. When they came upon a dragon though he knew they were doomed and looked at Caselda surely she understood the danger to this? Annúnfalas even cautioned against it surely she would listen to her only to say they were going to press on and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He would have words with her for being an idiot later - she had yelled at her sister for starting a fight with orcs where they held a pinch point and could have held out in a fight for many hours. Here they would be overwhelmed swiftly. They were at every disadvantage and he glared daggers at her that had looks been able to kill she'd have been in the Halls of Mandos before her body hit the floor.

It took every fiber of his will to not keep his hand on his sword hilt but to stand at ease as they stood before the Boldog, his oaths to the Kings of old burned and he had every wish to cut this beast down but that would kill everyone, they needed to get out, he glanced at the lamp on his hip hidden with rags and filth thanks to the illusion he felt the worm before he saw it, his worst fears realized. They were discovered and the Boldog cast aside the enchantment. In a flash his sword was out cutting down the orc closest to him running the silvery blade through it's throats spilling black blood upon it and his bright plate.

Was any of the information worth their deaths if none of them made it out? Would any of them make it out? Caselda yelled at him to use the signal and his eyes flashed at her disappointment and rage in them that she would risk them all for this when she was warned by those far more experienced than her. Once this was over he was going to tell her off, if it was in front of her father about her reckless stupidity or Mandos himself though he hoped very much that that was not going to be the case. He managed to put himself between Rusca and another orc before it harmer her leaving his back open and he felt an axe blow hit sending him staggering but the masterfully crafted plate that Fuin had made turned the blow from doing more than staggering him forward a foot as he spun and cut the dwarf down as well. "Keep Rusca safe Caselda!" He shouted and pressed forwards his silver plate now splashed with black and red blood of orc and dwarf that fought to keep him pressed in with the small group that was being very swiftly overwhelmed.

Would any of them make it? The question filled his mind again as he ripped the lantern from his waist and flared it to life the green light shining putting all their trust in Moles.

He stood firm keeping most attacks back from him with his sword and bracing hard as the plate absorbed several more blows that he couldn't turn aside as he kept the lantern up. "Melkor pin them to a mountain if they don't answer." He said through gritted teeth. another blow hitting him on his back before he turned cutting down another dwarf looking at his kinsmen pressed on all sides Caselda had led them to their death with her want for more when it had not been needed.