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

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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A Black Interlude: Amidst the Thorns of Unease




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- Private with Ercassie, occuring during the current
missions and Henry's Prophecy (upcoming repost) -



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"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






"I encountered a wizard named Galen the Green on my eastward journey. He is a friend of Tavari-"

"I'll try to kill him sometime," mused Hatholdir aloud to himself, reading Astaro's letter. The brooding King of the Moles paused his reading. He took a swallow of miruvor, the Cordial of Imladris, to quench his thirst and renew his vigour. Traversing the rugged hills of Rhudaur for days, battling a multitude of Orcs and fouler things unaided to boot, exhausted his strength but the clear potent liquor of Elrond's valley revitalized and comforted him.

He scratched his beard idly. Elves could grow facial hair in their third cycle of life as did Lord Círdan. Others like Mahtan grew it in their second phase. Some did whose tramautic experiences wrought dramatic changes in physical appearance as the Mole King had. His charming Elven features ruggedly transformed recently. 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 Sheepdog. A deep-seated grief still buffeted his spirit. Ever since Melviriel...Fuin Elda...tormented his soul in the Unseen World at a Lindonese Masquerade a short while ago, Hatholdir had been on edge. During a rare visitation to Elrond's House prior to his voyage over the Hithaeglir, Hatholdir learned his erstwhile pawn had become a fell warrior, Minestor of Adab Nestad, and...a grandmaster smith. Until the Masquerade, he expected she perished in her attempt to asassinate Aigronding, slain by his friends or family to avenge his death, but somehow Fuin had not destroyed him. She survived the terrible clash at the Havens of Sirion which he engineered, having reported the whereabouts of Elwing along with the refugees of Doriath, Nargothrond, and Gondolin; she startlingly become a close friend of his archenemy. Even a Mole's best laid schemes occasionally went awry at times.

Hatholdir immediately fled Imladris when he discovered how dangerous a fighter Fuin was; he listened to soldiers boasting of her glory and viciousness in battle. Wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and Fuin, additionally requiring the safety of Mole warriors in droves, Hatholdir decided to reach Ítarant, his mine in the Grey Mountains. It was posed between the delvings Anne Snapdragon claimed for Benjamin Lanceleaf's forge in Combe Valley and quarries Aigronding established for Fuin's forge in Imladris, including his trade deals to Lindon and Mirkwood. His wife, Meluiwen, continued to be a welcome guest at the Forlindon manor of Nariel and Tharmáras. Since she was still upset with him regarding the scene he made at the Masquerade, he believed some time apart might do their relationship some good. In a few weeks he'd return to Lindon and collect her before venturing oversea to Tol Noldarë together; perhaps he would find her mellow, pining for him even. Hatholdir rubbed his beard and grinned. He imagined his queen enjoying the bristly touch of his beard when she kissed him again. Idril and Lúthien must have liked Tuor's. Airien was surely attracted to Beren's scruff. There was hope.

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

"Galen protected me a short while but we parted ways long before I reached the Old Ford," Astaro explained. "He often scours this range, searching for Goblin strongholds to warn the Wise and Dúnedain leaders of colony positions. So I left him to his mission 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. Their ferocity intimidates the Orcs and their Wolves in great terror that hardly one of them dare to pass through their realm. The larger kindred of Goblins of the Grey Mountains, many of them of the worst description, have been reckless and have joined their numbers to the lesser kind inhabiting the Misty Mountains. The bold Wood-men and their wives, neighbors of the Beornings, have been worried they will be assaulted next. I have narrowly escaped an invaded territory and have crossed the Old Ford with the aid of Julbeorn; he gave this letter to the custodians of Mar Têw. I now travel through Mirkwood's nightshade where spiders and other vile creatures have laid their snares. If I am blessed to survive the haunted corridors of that ghastly place, I will briefly rest in Dale before crossing the Carnen. I will look for aurichalcum, the rare golden-red ore you love, in the boundless lands of the East beyond the Red River; there I will investigate the rumor of its presence we discussed on Tol Noldarë years ago when Erfaron first visited. I will not return to 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


"Nessa's speed, Young Blood," mumured Hatholdir smilingly, folding the parchment.

- She is here -

A grim frown firmed Hatholdir's lips, hearing the Sword of Maeglin speak with a compelling voice eerily similar to its erstwhile master's. He imagined Fuin outside, having thwarted the Calaquendi wards of his camp here in the remote Mole Bog near Imladris. Ebony hair, dark as winter night, framed her sharp angular face before blown astir in the whistling wind. She gripped a dagger. Her cold blue eyes met his hateful gaze in the intermittent flashes of lightning....

Hatholdir - armored in the black gleaming tardur metal he devised, mimicking Eöl's supple galvorn - arose with Anguirel. The King of the Moles strode from his small hidden refuge, his pale skin glinting with red energy manifested from the smoking ire of his furnace heart. He expected to engage Fuin in a duel eons in the making but he was pleasantly surprised instead to see Ospiel standing within the ring of magical guttering flames. "Hello, friend!" exclaimed Hatholdir. "Like what I've done with the place?" With a lopsided grin, he swept a grandiose gesture indicating the circle of Goblin heads mounted on sharpened stakes arranged outside the boundary of fire. High Elves could affect the Seen World with their Calaquendi power; the scarlet chain of flames Hatholdir conjured to burn any foe approaching his tent, allowing only his people to pass the fiery fence. The Mole Bog was situated in a green scenic place replete with tall colorful flowers beyond a narrow ravine near the Bruinen's western fork. The glade of flame encircled by Orc skulls and was located amidst a wooden boardwalk; he once built this with Hrango and Astaro to cross the wetland on their prospecting travels into the Misty Mountains.


He walked toward Ospiel and held her forearm with the ease of ancient fellowship, his grin broadening. The first archer among the Moles, she had always been loyal to him and had become the commander of his island's encompassing wall. "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. She noticed his beard. He swept a thumb over one unshaven cheek. "Yes...I look different. My sojourn has been rather turbulent. I will tell you more about it over supper. I hope you will accompany me somewhere; I'll give you all the details. Where is Erfaron?"


GM UPDATE @Ercassie , you can return your Ospiel post here!

I will soon repost the Caselda update so Fuin can enters hers!
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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‘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. 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 surround 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 mouth and appetite both 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.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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