Ages of Arda IV: Mantle of Darkness - Historical RPG

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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Angrod
Dorthonion

Light chased shadow, dancing across the hills and illumninating the walls of the fallen fortress. The night sky glowed an unnatural and angry hue, reflecting the violent conflagration which led the dark forces' assault on Dorthonion. Smoke mingled with cloud, and Angrod choked on ash as their forces fled, seeking the aid of Men, toward Ladros.

The son of Finarfin paused before following his brother into the northeastern highlands. He stood, starkly silhouetted against the reds and oranges licking the trees and hillsides, to look back upon the northern hills. A dissonant chorus of misery and death rose to meet his ears, and for the briefest of moments, he succumbed - if only for a moment - to the onslaught on his senses and quailed at the odds now stacked so high against them. They had not seen anything of this scale in the past. Morgoth's fury, long restrained, had been loosed upon them, and to disastrous effect.

He turned to retreat after Aegnor but was held back once more by a cry accompanied by a trembling of the earth and an eruption of flame. An accusation of crimes stirred the elf-lord's pride; his hands curled into fists, he gritted his teeth in fury - but he would not fall prey to this provocation. Retreat they must if they were to survive, pride or no.

“Crimes? No. To live and to love a land meant to flourish under our care is no crime,” he whispered. His utterance dissolved and rose into the night sky with the smoke, unheard by Morgoth's lieutenant, and Angrod followed his brother in flight from their burning home.
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Apologies and Preparations
Belaith Gwareig, FA 455

"If we get out of this, Uncle, I'll make you an entire sword."

Celebrimbor followed his father along the wall and watched clouds of orange smoke rose above the plains to fade into the sky in deceptive silence. He found that he did not dare to look any higher. He did not want to see the stars, or a lack of them. How quickly we grow used to things, he thought. Out loud we spoke of preparedness and strength against Morgoth, but who here did not tread the dream paths each night and think 'surely, tomorrow at least we will still have peace,'? He supposed it would be petty to barter now with the unpitying Valar over one more day day in the face of four hundred or so years.

They reached the staircase just above Belaith Gwareig's largest forge where Celebrimbor would start organizing the distribution of and preparation of arms. He took one step down and hesitated. "Adar," he murmured, facing away. What are you doing? he laughed silently at himself. The mocking voice in his head always shared a resemblance to his grandfather that somehow still caught him off guard. You are just like her, the girl kissing Celegorm in the trees--prideful and full of rage until danger threatens and then so quick to be the one to gutter like a candle in the wind. Still, he turned slowly on the hard sole of his boot and looked up into Curufin's harsh face.

There are always so many things he wants to say to his father. The words gather like smoke in his lungs, grey and dizzying and familiar--

How would you set the stones on that sapphire bracelet?
Do you really enjoy traipsing around in the dirt with Uncle's dogs?
Do you still have that awful steel cuff I made you that was supposed to look like a tree?
There is always blood in my dreams.
I am so tired of forging sharp edges.
You are not the only one who misses grandfather.


Instead, he says, "Adar, I am sorry about the ring."


***

The smithies were already bursting with activity and deafening with the clanging of metal and hurrying bodies. The welcoming rush of heat in the face of deep winter soon had him sweating profusely in his deep red cloak. Celebrimbor didn't bother trying to shout over the din. He moved, rather, from station to station, touching shoulders and speaking into the ears of the masters and foremen. He was younger than many of them, but here his words carried the weight of his own merit and leadership did not sit so awkwardly upon his shoulders.

Steel barrels full of scrap tin and lead were heaved into carts by two people at a time to be taken to and melted on the walls where they would be flung by catapults or simply poured over the heads of Morgoth's scum. Coal and wood that could be spared from the forge stores went with them, hauled by the armful by human boys and elven younglings who bore swords that had never shed blood.

On the other side of the long building the quickest hands sharpened the last heads of spears and arrows and weighty ballista bolts as big as his hands. A dry laugh threatened to bubble out of his throat as he remembered his earlier ire. They might be grateful for even his meager, resentful contribution before a few days were gone.

As he took final stock of the bustle and made to leave, Celebrimbor spotted the bold apprentice who had had the gall to question him not so many hours earlier. He stood next to another lad who had the same deep brown hair and sharp, narrow nose. They were brothers, probably.

"You two, with me," he said, abruptly stepping out of the shadows and gesturing to them to follow him outside. The boy--he had more than a century, probably, but stars still a boy--he had snapped at stared at him in a mix of awe and trepidation. "I may need runners who have some clue as to what they're talking about," he explained curtly. "Do you have mounts?"

He headed to his own stallion without waiting for an answer. They needed to get to the forges further down the canyon. To their credit, the younglings caught up with him before he made the first gate. Caught between their nervousness and the flames below, Celebrimbor softened slightly.

"What are you called, young one?

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Curufin
Belaith Gwarieg, FA 455

"Keep me out of it," Curufin grunted, neither amused by his brother's vicious ire nor interested in the topic of the disagreement with Ellindalë. How long would their thoughts linger on new life when they were confronted with the press of death awaiting them outside? Four cloaked figures departed Celegorm's chambers, bound for the wintry night and a better view of the terrors to come.

"This fire better better be worth venturing into the icy night to investigate, boy," Celegorm warned. Curufin said nothing. He took his son at his word - not least because the boy had seen fit to burst into his father's rooms uninvited and flushed with panic - yet he chose not to open his mouth in Celebrimbor's defense. Instead, as they passed into the night and rode out to the citadel, the muscles of his jaw worked in silent angst when he saw the greys and whites of snow-dusted rocky cliffs tinged orange and scattered with the dancing shadow of flame. In place of the wisps of cloud which hung low overhead as a matter of course at these heights, black smoke rose billowing into the sky.

Celegorm turned to him and gave voice to Curufin's thoughts. "Kurvo, the worst is yet to come, I fear." Curufin nodded - and yet, with his brother's next words, he found himself in a rare state of disagreement. To have taken up the cause of the High King at the council would have betrayed their father's legacy; there had been no other choice but to refuse. But even if they had agreed to his designs, they would have been futile.

"We could not have stopped this, Turko. Who knows what hidden depths in the north he has emptied against us? We could not have scoured them all. Not you, nor I, nor Ñolofinwë could have stopped this."

He leapt from his horse to stand beside his brother, falling quiet as Celegorm barked commands, Huan the hound at his side. Curufin nodded his understanding of his task and had just begun to run to meet his lieutenants when he heard the word, softly spoken.

"Adar."

He stopped and turned to face his son, watching impatiently as Celebrimbor pivoted to face him.

"I'm sorry about the ring."

There was a pause. "Best prepare those arrows of yours," Curufin replied. He stepped slowly toward his son, then rested a hand bracingly on Celebrimbor's shoulder. Curufin sighed deeply. "It seems that task was well-timed. Perhaps those forge-hot arrowheads will tip the scales in the fight to come." He lifted his free hand to his son's other shoulder so that he stood squarely before the youngest member of the House of Fëanor. While he could not erase his son's weaknesses in the space of a moment, he could leave him with productive words and less wrath between them than in the preceding hours.

"Go well. Remember what your blood requires of you, should I fall."

With that, he turned to rush into the courtyard like a cold wind through the gorge.


* * *

He found men and elves alike frozen with anticipation before the withering flames of the north. Our time to melt and run like precious metal in the forge may have come, he mused. How strange that the element he - and his father before him and his son alongside him - had harnessed and bent to his purposes was now threatening this kingdom with ruin. He sought out three trusted commanders and drew them into a tight circle in a far corner of the courtyard.

"There is no reason to delude ourselves," he began. "This is no feint. This is no fight we can win in a night, or a day, or a week. We must brace for the worst."

He looked into each of their faces and saw all at once fear and resolve and shock. "We will prepare for a siege. We need provisions," he said, turning to the commander at his left hand. "Enough to hold us through months."

To the man at his right, he gave command of weapons. "Spare nothing," he ordered. "We will throw everything we have at them until we stand at the last, prying stones from the cliffs to cast down upon them."

He faced the last of his chosen lieutenants. "We need fuel. Oil. Scalding water. Coal and tar. Whatever has been melted or can be melted down. We will trade fire for fire. They will know what it is to be engulfed by scalding death" - and here, his expression darkened as the encroaching flames cast deep shadows across his face - "even as we learn it ourselves."
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Thorondor
FA 455


"Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his 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

The Lord of the Eagles landed in his eyrie, folded his wings and, with a great flumph, let fall from his mouth the body of a goat. It lay there beside two of its fellows, glassy eyes staring. Being an envoy of Manwë did not preclude Thorondor from indulging in such positively decadent morsels, particularly not at a gathering of great birds.

He nodded to the hawk, Sermoquessë, and to his slightly less majestic fellow eagle, Vanifantári, in indication that the feast could begin. Thorondor's cruel, hooked beak sliced cleanly into his goat's stomach; steam rose from the entrails and curled into the frigid mountain air. He ate in silence for several minutes.

From the eyries of the eagles high in the Crissaegrim, the view of the lands stretched unobstructed in all directions. The mighty birds were watchful, and their keen eyes saw in sharp relief every man and elf and creature - mere specks from this height to any but the eagles - who passed near the River Sirion. Tonight, though, as Thorondor swallowed the last of his goat, his gaze flew to a sight none could miss. The north of Beleriand was burning. Countless hordes of orcs and balrogs and drakes crept like a foul tide toward the kingdoms of elves and men.

A loud cack! broke the stillness in the eyrie as the Lord of Eagles choked on goat. He coughed several times, each one echoing amongst the cliffs upon which they perched, before gasping, "Morgoth. Beleriand burns." He looked at his two companions. "Sermoquessë," Thorondor commanded, regaining control of his breathing and speech in his urgency, "I shall have need of your swiftness. Alert the east. Amrod and Amras, removed as they are, must know of these attacks at once." Here, he hesitated a moment. "Vanifantári," he continued, masking his reluctance, "you must make the journey west. Bring word to Manwë on Taniquetil. The Great Enemy moves against the peoples of Beleriand. I myself shall bring word to Turgon, hidden as he is, though doubtless he has seen the conflagration."

He coughed once more, ruffled his feathers, and spread his wings, looking north to Gondolin. "May your journeys be safe and swift."
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Vanafantári

She shook her feathers briskly and clacked her beak in anticipation. Beak! Goat! What a beautiful meeting. The Eagle blinked her eyes rapidly as Thorondor considered; it was his privilege to begin, as he was the hunter, but her talons flexed impatiently as he continued his majestic contemplation, staring dramatically out into the glorious sky.

Finally, the Lord of Eagles struck. Steam emerged from the goat’s innards, juicy and delicious. Politely, Vanafantári waited for Thorondor’s nodded permission before she dove in. Beak first. She hid her golden eyes from the smoke curling up in the distance and gulped down some more entrails. Entrails never disappointed.

Not like her instructions. She tipped her great head back and clacked her beak uncertainly. “North,” she muttered. “I mean, West. It’s a long way.” She shifted a little. Of course she remembered the way. “May the wings under your wind carry you where the... moon sails and the sun walks.” That was right, wasn’t it?

She had some more goat.
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In Dorthonion
The Broken Ouroboros

So, he was running. Mairon smiled and bellowed a laugh. Angrod was a coward, but he was no fool. This fortress was no longer defensible, the Maia’s forces had surrounded and overwhelmed the defenses in a matter of hours. He held dominion here on land and in the air. Only a paltry force remained to guard the citadel, elves and men meant to throw their lives away to grant Angrod and his followers a chance to escape. Mairon watched from his position on the upheaved earthen pillar as a force of a dozen or so brightly armored elves burst from the gate. For a moment, the desperate ferocity of their attack drove his forces back. They formed a wedge and pushed into the orcs, cutting through them like a scythe through wheat. The air was then filled with musical voices, high and clear. The elves were singing, even within the castle there came a sound of instruments and melody such as he had not heard since the days before the world was formed. The sound dismayed his forces. The orcs stumbled before the wedge as it gained more and more ground. But then it stopped. The orcs fell back, running, skittering, fleeing. All except one. Mairon peered through his visor at the lone figure, armored in scarlet and midnight. The figure was slighter than most orcs, wiry and sinewy. Two hook swords were in his hands. There was a tense moment, a pregnant pause before the figure whirled forward, the twin blades spinning like a whirlwind. Mairon watched as he dodged the elven spears, darting inside their reach and slicing away at his opponents. A shield wall was attempted but the orc, or whatever it was, simply bounded up and over the wall, landing behind them. Mairon couldn’t see everything the thick haze of smoke and ash, but he heard the lyrical singing voices turn to horrified screams. One by one, the defenders fell. The figure moved so quickly and with such dexterity that no spear or sword was able to get close to him. His hooked blades turned opponents aside then ripped through armor and flesh like parchment. There was very little beauty in the works of the Elder King, but this thing, whoever it was, was a thing of beauty. Mairon had seen such swordsmanship from only a handful of individuals.

The tide of the battle turned once more. The defenders were caught outside the gate and slaughtered, the scarlet armored warrior leading the charge. The orcs surged forward again, moving like an angry tide. Carníheniel chittered gleefully at his side, rubbing her gore smeared legs together in anticipation. She clambered down from her perch on his shoulder and re-entered the fray. He soon lost sight of her but could hear her victims’ screams. She had learned how to make her victims suffer and how to feed on the energy of that suffering. She would someday surpass her sire, Mairon knew, in terms of size, cruelty, and power. He could follow her path into the fortress by the sounds of ripping and tearing flesh, bones being pulled apart rather than broken, skulls being crunched by eight powerful legs, brains to turned soup by her wasting poison. The way she killed was a work of art. One elf lay completely untouched save for a mass of webbing so thick around his face that he suffocated.

High above him, he heard the screeching of the Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms. Four-winged Pazuzu wheeled about overhead, careening toward one of the castle’s despondent towers. The demon hurled himself bodily into the tower; it exploded with a sound like a great iron gong. Pazuzu’s shrieking cry rose above the tumult.

Mairon finally moved forward, his legs carrying him swiftly over the killing fields, bodies packed so tightly together in a killing press that he could use them as a walkway. The gates were shattered, wood and iron twisted and bent until they no longer resembled anything like a gate. The great Maia sorcerer strode through and entered the forsaken domain of his quarry, Angrod. The screams and the sounds of battle were growing dimmer and dimmer as few and few of the defenders were left to stand.

Out of the gloom, strode the figure from before, the one armored in scarlet and carrying two hook swords. He was covered head to toe in blood and gore, his twin blades shone like hungry stars. His grin was wide and savage. “The castle is ours, Your Grace.” His voice was not the rough, guttural sound of the orcs but rather a sophisticated vibrato. His eyes gleamed angry and red.

“Who are you, soldier? You are no orc, that is clear.”

The solider dropped to a knee and held his blades outstretched on the scorched earth. “I am called Fleeg. I am no orc. I am a goblin. The goblin, Your Grace.”

Mairon lifted his helmet from his face, his blood red hair spilling down his shoulders like cascade of blood. He smiled. “Rise, Fleeg. You have done well today. You turned the tide, I think.”

The goblin stood, but kept his head bowed. “All it takes to stop a raging bull is a thick enough wall. I was that wall today.”

“You are one of Swiltang’s, aren’t you?”

The goblin looked up again, red eyes gleaming. “I am. He is a masterful teacher.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” replied the goblin.

Mairon considered the creature for a moment. He had heard about this being’s creature but had never seen him in action until now. Melkor commissioned some of his magician-torturers to create a new breed of soldier, something smaller and more compact. They tried a hundred times to create something satisfactory and failed until they created Fleeg. Rumors abounded at his creation and the “proprietary blend” of elf, boldog, orc, and nameless thing that made him. And rumors were all there was ever going to be. Fleeg had killed his creators, torn them apart so that nothing like him could be made again. But that was only the half of it. Eleven others had been made alongside Fleeg, none as powerful or as strong. He took the weakest amongst the goblins and experimented on him, tearing him apart bit by bit to see what made him tick. From the knowledge he gained, he built an entire force of goblins, all looking to him as their lord and master. “Carry on then. I’ll leave you in charge of the destruction of this place. I want every stone and tree uprooted here. Nothing that the starspawn created and grew here is to be left standing. If we are to build, we must build anew.”

“What of the elves?” the goblin asked.

“You will have need of rations,” the Maia said matter-of-factly.

The goblin nodded and scurried away, barking orders to the soldiers that had begun to mill about, shouting curses at them to get moving. Mairon nodded his approval.

Master, may I stay? The voice inside his head was silky smooth and filled with glee.

Yes, my child. Stay and feast, spin your webs and drink your fill.

It was good that Carníheniel wanted to stay. He would be moving at great pace with his army and she was not yet large enough to keep up as she needed to. She would be of much more use here, tearing out the rotting infestation of the elves and rebuilding and remolding this place into the images they so craved.

Thank you, I shall not disappoint you.

Mairon strode through the remains of the fortress, inspecting the destruction. Chains were being wrapped around towers and pulled down, trees were being uprooted and thrown in the fires, fueling the ash that blotted out the chariot of Arien. Pazuzu descended from the sky, folding his upper pair of wings over his eyes as he made obeisance. Mairon stood and regarded him. The Prince of Lower Arial Kingdoms was a fickle creature, once a spirit of the air, now a dæmonical claimant over the dominion of the skies. He would ally sometimes with Thuringwethil but often he would serve his own end rather than anyone else’s. He drew back his wings and sheathed his twisted greatsword, the Evershriek. “My spies tell me that Angrod is moving off toward Ladros. He is looking to meet with his sibling, I think.” The demon spoke with an odd clicking sound. His face was almost that of an Eldar’s save his mouth which formed a monstrous vulture like beak. His eyes were black pits. His body was well proportioned with his limbs ending in prodigious talons.

Mairon nodded. He had guessed as much but the wind lord’s confirmation meant he needed to make all haste. “Gather your forces then, we march to Ladros then. I want to catch the princeling before he and his brother are able to join their forces. Go!”

The massive creature’s wings unfolded again, and he ascended into the heavens. His shriek sent a shockwave through the castle. The skies then burst into answering calls. A gale of wings ripped through sky then vanished, leaving the world strangely quiet for a half moment. Mairon put his helmet back on and called with his Voice, mimicking the sound of a great celestial trumpet, calling his forces to move. He had an appointment in Ladros he meant to keep.
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Ospiel Iuliel and Erfaron Silugnir

Guard Duty - Before the Bragollach
outside the Council of Lords, 455 FA
High King Fingolfin’s Palace, Hithlum



Though they were denied the best seats in the house, still the pair of sentries were treated to an enviable glimpse of the astounding carnival. Each King, each Lord, each Leader who had been invited to the Council had wend toward the meeting hall, flanked by his personal pride and opinion. Most had journeyed extensive distances for the honour of openly regretting it soon after. They were a long procession of impatience and begrudging of their time. What discussion had so far commenced was enough to ward off most hopes for that still to come ! For the din of their exalted collision stewed ever louder with each new entrant into the chamber, and never with more potency than after Celegorm lived up to his Amilessë.

From her guardpoint, the fluid fog of Ospiel’s grey eyes provoked her cohort, standing at the door adjacent, and mirrored his disdainful amusement at their sovereign’s ‘hallowed guests’. This was the first time that Ospiel had observed Feanoriens up close, and the Sinda was already beginning to wonder how she had not heard them already, all the way from Himlad. There were times a humble soldier might wish to experience one day in the life of their honoured King. This was not one of those times. The want to close the doors upon the rude and bickering Eldar was almost intolerable. The notion of even attempting to quiet certain persons, without striking them down, seemed almost impossible.

He’s shut up now, but you can throw him out anyway !” Amrod* gave out as a suggestion to the two guards, and was dutifully ignored. Erfaron even rolled his eyes behind the wall that divided them. He had had his fill of implacable Feanoriens, even before he had absconded from their train, and was tempted to remind the young Noldorin King that they stood in the halls of Hithlum here, not in the Eastern realms where Atyarussa’s urgings were obeyed. To spare him, however, the mistland’s own Crown Prince Fingon arrived with the High King Fingolfin himself, and all were (for better or worse) closeted within their meet. With their host’s courageous charge into the discordant reunion, the duo of Elves flanking the door were free to exhale. It was only the later arrival of Mablung and Beleg which called them briefly back to straighten up like a set of spears in place.

Ospiel then broke out of her private plotting (she ‘would’ see Celegorm stumble to his knees upon his exit) so that she could stare for a time after the Sindar elves of Doriath. So, Greycloak’s folk are come, her expression marvelled, though a crinkled brow soon chased off this instinctive joy, as the Hithlum scout troubled over her own allegiance. Her people were scattered, it was true, and their own High King so estranged that she never had laid eyes on him or his woodland kingdom in her life. But the north was her birthplace and, as the Falathrim seemed devout to cling to their shores, so too did she count the mountains her homeland. It was fortunate that the Noldor who’d settled in her backyard were so amiable really. She had no real want to flee to the protection of Doriath.

A fractured sigh failed to shroud her partner’s disappointment either, not that the outspoken King Thingol had failed to attend in person, but that another ‘expected’ guest had not took up the invite either. There were no further late arrivals. Not the High King’s other son, Turgon, nor any representatives of that particular missing Prince, were here to shed any light about his peoples’ fate. To be fair, it was unclear where they might have even sent the invitation to summon him.

Neither guard thus satisfied by the insight they could boast, all in all it had scarcely been worth the two curious soldiers volunteering for this job. But even privy as they were not to the Council’s disheartening content, there would be far worse disappointments to contend with soon.


*Amrod's injection into this post is quoted directly from the post of the writer RPing as Amrod in the council.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Oct 19, 2021 7:57 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Lug - Orc Captain
Assaulting Himring

Those around him had called him Snake for as long as he could remember. Though he couldn’t remember why, he enjoyed it enough to start modelling his behaviour after the reptile. He traded sloth and gluttony favoured by other Orcs for discipline and action, until he was thinner and lighter on his feet than his peers. He took pride in the fact that his skin was cracked and scaled due to his early years working Angband’s kitchen fires, a place in which he had manoeuvred many an accident or scheme that removed his rivals and saw his position elevated to ever warmer climates. Orcs were, for the most part, simple creatures and would gladly swap favours for food.

It had to have been these skills that finally caught the attention of those within Morgoth’s inner circle as no sooner had he seized the most covetous role of Warden of the Larder than he was summoned to a meeting of the War Chiefs and reassigned to the army. He was too surprised to be disappointed. And after pivoting easily from trading food to weapons, he quickly rose through those ranks as well.

Word came from one of Filrain’s animalistic minions (not the snake Leuca, he noted) that the Commander had orders, and he hastened to obey. Female commanders were few and far between, not just in Morgoth’s employ. The fact that Morgoth had seen something in the dryad to justify her elevation was reason enough to jump when she “asked”. Besides, he had not yet found a way to find a way to see her deposed and himself in her place. He was ambitious, but not stupid.

Soon after entering the tent, it was apparent Orcobal had not learned that lesson.

Lug’s tongue flicked out in excitement at his orders. “It shall be done,” he hissed. The fortress of that one-handed fiend would be a great prize for the cause and perhaps the position of its new master would be his prize for taking it.

After his dismissal, he returned to his own battalion and summoned his lieutenants. “We march on Himring and the forces of Maedhros immediately,” he ordered. “Each hill we encounter will be assailed but our goal is that Elf’s head on a pike by sunrise. I will personally use his hair to plume my helmet so that the first thing any of our enemies see will be the portent of their defeat.

~~~

Within the hour, his battalion was on the move. Lug rode at the front on the back of a mighty wolf that towered head and shoulders above the Wargs on either side, a gift from the Lord of Werewolves in exchange for a favour a few years back. The Wolf had first pick of the carcasses on any battlefield and a fresh body twice a week. Many an Orc had inadvertently provoked the Snake and found themselves dispatched on a mission to the Wolf’s tent at feeding time.

The signs of previous victories were all about them, recorded in flames in a way that would outlast books or songs. Lug marched onwards, swinging West and South, wrecking havoc as they went. Women and children were placed in irons, men and the elderly were executed or fed to the wolves. Everything else was burned.

They were nearing Tol Himring when Lug’s bright eyes spied two figures in the distance. By the shape of them, either Elves or Men. No sooner had he spotted them than they did the same of him, turned tail and fled.

With a single cry, he summoned his company of fastest wolves. “After them!” he ordered. “Tear them limb from limb! And return with their tongues that they may not wag before our foe ere we are ready for him. Go!
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
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Balrog
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Thargelion, FA 455
Stellarvore

Finnbarr had been swept up in the music and the dancing, the lights, the sounds, the atmosphere. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Then it all stopped. The world caught its breath and began to cough. Out a window, he could see a bright, orange gout of flame. Then more, and more. Thangorodrim was erupting. Fear seized his heart for a moment, a fist squeezed him. But he brushed aside the feeling. It was unworthy of him. Fear was not a thing he would experience again. He had lived through too many horrors and tragedies for fear to ever take a hold on him again. He looked to the King, who had mastered himself after the shock. He began marshalling orders, barking commands, and readying himself. Finnbarr felt the last vestige of fear melt away from him, replaced by an energetic fury. He ground his teeth. The Falmari followed Tavari to the armory and began to dole out weapons and armor to every able-bodied fighter. The work was long and mind numbing. But the rumbling never stopped. Though there were no windows facing north from the armory, Finnbarr felt as though he could see the monstrous glow of the volcano belching its molten entrails down through once green valleys and fields. Ash and smoke choked the light from the sky, pyroclastic flows ripping through earth and flesh. Something else would be arriving in Thargelion soon. Something much, much worse. Orcs innumerable, trolls, foul creations of Morgoth, and worst of all: the dragon. Finnbarr had only heard stories of the great beast, a creature larger and stronger than the balrogs, fiercely intelligent and savage beyond compare. He was a force of pure annihilation, a creature created and nurtured to do one thing: kill. And he was in command of this frothing rage of orcs. Finnbarr’s brow was slick with nervous, cold sweat. He followed the Lioness’ command to follow her and reached the roof of the manse. There he looked out on a scene from the blackest horror story. They were not far off now. A writhing, seething mass of creatures of all shapes and sizes. Monstrosities born of nightmares. Scenes from the bleakest fireside tales. Finnbarr’s breath caught. This thing was coming for them. There were no edges of the horde, no ending no beginning, the world around them was set ablaze and this thing was at the center of it, feeding on the darkness, the terror, and the ravening madness. They were still far off enough that even the sharp ears of the elves could not discern individual voices yet but there was a dull roar, a buzzing that shook everything on a spiritual and physical level. Finnbarr Galedeep was about to experience war in its truest, most chaotic form. In his heart at least, he believed himself ready. At the head of the army, the Falmari could see the dragon, the great lizard and for a moment his heart sank. Even far away, this creature was beyond immense. His existence pulled and tugged at Finnbarr’s mind as he tried to reject it. But he couldn’t. The dragon was there, and it was coming.

We will do what we can to protect those who cannot fight. We will defend this mountain and our people, with our lives if we have to.Tavari’s voice brought him back from the edge of the abyss. “I have only dared to reach out to Oromë a few times since leaving Aman. I don’t know if he’s listening, or if he forgives me, but I ask for his strength anyway.

Let me be brave,” she took his hand and brought him back to the world of the living “Let us be brave. Let us do what we must without hesitation. Let us be brave, wherever this day may lead. Gird yourself for war, Finnbarr Galedeep. Then come to the council chamber, Carnistir will be there.

While Tavari did not have the wit and poetry of the High King of the Ñoldor, or the King of Doriath, she had a presence about her, a hard chitinous shell that she put on when battle came about. Finnbarr had seen it before, but never so strong. Her words pulled him back from the brink of despair and unreality. She was gone before he had a chance to respond. He followed her after a last look at the nightmare that awaited them and then ran to his chambers. There he donned his armor, the same armor that he and Davos had made centuries ago. He looked over the breastplate and sighed. He wished his adopted father was here right now. While Finnbarr was not afraid of the rapacious horde, he wanted his friend. The breastplate was perfectly fitted to him and at the center of the chest bore sixteen black pearls, “The Mothers of Midnight”, precious gems that he had found on the deepest of his dives off the coast of Aman. He put it on and exhaled. It fit like a second skin; it was light but hard, forged in the great smithies of the Teleri, forged of platinum, gold, and silver. By his bed, mounted on the wall, were his twin boarding axes. Not nearly as great as the axes of the dwarves or of the Edain, but they were quick, light, and sharp and etched with Teleri runes of power, the blades themselves were forged to imitate the curves of waves a blue dye had been used in the forging, giving the axes the illusion of movement even when they were still. Before he strapped them to his side, he sat and ran a whetstone over them. They were already sharp, but the sharpening ritual helped focus him, and he needed all the focus he had for the trial ahead. He slipped them into his belt and donned his helmet, made here in Thargelion to match his amor, it bore the visage of the leviathan, the greatest of sea serpents.

He made his way as quickly as he could through the halls of the manse until he arrived at King Carnistir’s council chambers. Finnbarr bowed before the King and nodded to Herugon. They were just beginning to discuss the evacuation and defense of the mountain with Tavari arrived, arrayed as though she were a scion of Arien. Half a hundred thoughts entered Finnbarr’s mind but he brushed them aside. He was to fight alongside Herugon. If the situation had not been deadly serious, he would have thought the King was jesting. Instead he nodded, words or coherent thoughts beyond fight and survive failing him.

He was away, moving as fast as he could along the corridors and hallways. They were empty, haunting, and vast. Silence hung over the inside of Thargelion, a deep, black silence.

“Fight, survive,” he said to himself.

They ran and ran, Finnbarr kept pace with Herugon but even though it felt like they were moving too slow. The silence exploded and died.

The ballroom. They were just crossing the grand entrance when something within it exploded. Orcs like ants crawled out of the opening, skittering and chittering and howling with unearthly voices.

Hergon!” Finnbarr called. “Go get some help! They’re breaking through! Fight! Survive!”

Without waiting for a response, the Falmari unhooked his axes and ran into the ballroom. There were three dozen men, all armed and armored to the teeth. Their leader was a tall one, at least seven inches taller than Finnbarr himself. His hair was wile and unbound, it shimmered black and cinnamon in the torchlight. His skin was lilght brown and his eyes shone like wild stars. He bore a shield in one and a four-pronged sword whip in the other, anchored to an armguard so the blades moved like an extension of his arm. He was fast, lightning fast. Finnbarr stood in awe for a moment before rushing into the battle beside him. He was surrounded by a dozen orcs but his shield and urumi kept them from getting too close. Seizing the opportunity, Finnbarr howled wordless and crashed into the nearest orc, his axe burying itself in the creature’s clavicle. He pulled the orc closer, screaming with rage, then used his second axe to severe the orcs jugular. Gouts of black blood fountained out of him as he fell, lifeless. The mystery elf slammed his shield into the next orc, sending him flying heedlessly into Finnbarr, who twisted around and unloaded like a spring, burying both axes in the thing’s chest. There was a moment’s respite as the three dozen men all surged forward, creating a shield wall against the sickening tide.

Finnbarr Galedeep!” the man’s voice was a clear baritone. “I never thought I would have the opportunity to draw blades with you.”

In the haze of battle, Finnbarr forgot himself and laughed. “Me? There’s nothing special about me”

“Nonsense,” the man said with a smile that looked utterly out of place here. “I am Verco.”

“Well, Verco, it’s good to meet you, and I hope we can have a good long drink after this.”

Verco laughed and charged forward, the ribbon like blades in his right hand swirling and shimmering. Finnbarr was not far behind. The entire regiment surged forward, pushing the horde of orcs back. Wave upon wave of them battered against the shield wall. The ground became slick with blood.

Finnbarr, taking a running start, leapt full over his companions, crushing two more orcs as he landed. “I thought I heard the Old Man say: ‘Leave her, Johnny, leave her,’” he began to sing as he swung, his axes burying themselves in orc flesh, the ripping through bone and muscle. “Tomorrow you will get your pay, and it's time for us to leave her.” He threw one the axes at the exposed skull of an opponent, then dove at the corpse to push it back into his fellows, giving Finnbarr more room to maneuver. “Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her.” He sang in a clear, strong voice. The rhythm of the sea shanty aiding his movements. He dodged a rough spear thrust, grabbed the haft, and swung the creature on the other end in the opposite direction. The orc let go of the spear and tumbled back. Gaining momentum, Finnbarr pivoted, turned the spear around and threw the spear back into the seething mass. “Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high. Leave her, Johnny, leave her! She shipped it green and none went by, and it's time for us to leave her.” He was losing ground. No matter how many orcs lay gutted and dying at his feet, three more sprang from the darkness to take up the fight. Finnbarr’s helmet had saved him several times, the finely crafted helm turning aside the brutal, savage weapons of the orcs. Verco had also moved into the fray in front of the shield wall, his urumi flying wild and untamed. Orcs fell by the dozen, their limbs and torso sliced and removed from them as they tried to surround him.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her.Verco’s rich baritone voice joined with Finnbarr as they tried to push forward. The press of the orcs, though, was still greater and the shield wall was pushed back, slowly, step by step. They had nearly been at the doors but they’d fallen back to the middle of the ballroom. The floor was covered in limbs and broken bodies, heads, and bloody viscera. “Push!” Verco’s voice rose over the tumult, ringing like the afternoon bells. The orcs howls and screeched but still, none of them could get near him. “I hate to sail on this rotten tub. Leave her, Johnny, leave her! No grog allowed and rotten grub, and it's time for us to leave her.” four members of the shield wall had fallen, their bodies cut down and hacked to bits before any of their comrades were able to stop the writhing masses. Soon their bodies were lost in the press, bodies piled upon bodies. Finnbarr decapitated one orc, slicing through the thing’s neck then slamming his fist so hard into the creature’s skull that the head verily flew off. He laughed, high and clear. The orcs began to draw back. He and Verco began to push forward. The mass of bodies made it difficult to move but still they moved forward, regaining the ground they lost. One orc, feigning death, managed to slip behind Verco’s ribbon blades. His own jagged sword dripping with blood and guts. He was quiet, crouching until the last moment. Finnbarr, only catching the last movement out of the corner of his eye, turned and, seeing the orc about to strike, leapt forward, his helmeted head pointed like a spear. He made contact with the wall of muscle that was the orc and pushed him back. His helm nearly ripped itself off as the orc went down, stunned. Rather than breaking his neck, Finnbarr unfastened the helmet and let it fall. The orc was up again, going low to catch Finnbarr off guard. The elf managed to sidestep the blow but stumbled as his boot snagged on a dead orc’s sword. He tripped and fell. He managed to twist himself around just as he hit the floor. The orc was on him, its foul breath and stink pervading Finnbarr’s entire olfactory sense. He wanted to vomit. The gory sword was raised to strike. The axes came together to deflect the blow, locking the sword between their curved blades. The orc pressed his weight down, exerting all his force to bear down on Finnbarr. Then, a ribbon, shiny and ethereal, wrapped around the orc’s neck and ripped the head away. A gout of blood escaped the orc’s neck then the body shuddered and fell limp.

“I owe you one!” Verco shouted, his smile still bright despite the elf being covered in gore.

“You owe me? I think you have that twisted around,” Finnbarr hoisted himself back to his feet. “I owe you a double helping of whatever liquor you can handle.”

The orcs had fled, fallen back for the moment. Finnbarr retrieved his helmet and redonned it. He surveyed the carnage with a gut churning sigh. Half of them had fallen now, their bodies packed together with those of their foes. Finnbarr drew a deep breath and released a shout of rage. Tears streamed down his face, tears of frustration, exhaustion, and bewilderment.

Then, the orcs came again. They were ceaseless, innumerable, and avaricious. They turned the corner into the ballroom again and charged. Finnbarr only had time to nod to Verco who seemed to understand. They fell back and rejoined the shield wall, diminished as it was. The orcs hit the wall and broke. Spears splintered, and blood filled the air. “What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? Early in the morning!Finnbarr began to sing again, his heart heavy with rage and spite. The rest of the shield wall joined in their voices clear and magical, flutes piping against the crumbling of stone. “Way hay and up she rises, way hay and up she rises, way hay and up she rises, early in the morning![/i]” His heart felt less heavy, the fear that continually clawed at him, that threatened to overwhelm and devour him, was pushed back again, denied and starved. They pushed forward. Step by slow step. The orcs fell back, the number of the dead acting like a blockade against them. “Shave his belly with a rusty razor, shave his belly with a rusty razor, shave his belly with a rusty razor, early in the morning!” The shield wall was nearly at the doors again, pushing the seething horde of madness to the brink. They broke again. The orcs fled and ran, shrieking curses in their own language that sounded akin to vomiting in Finnbarr’s ears.

The shield wall had been decimated again though. The price for those precious feet had been high. Of the three dozen that had started the defense, only seven remained, Finnbarr and Verco included. They were all tired, all exhausted, all pushed passed what they thought had been their limits.

“The bodies,” wheezed Finnbarr. “barricade the door with the bodies. Quickly now, before they try again.”

They moved as quickly as they could, piling the corpses of the orcs and high and as deep as they could. The doors were completely blocked up. The floors, once beautiful ceramic tiles and marble was now cracked and broken, amass in blood and death. One of the great pillars had fallen in the melee and the floor itself seemed to bow with the weight. They shoved the bodies aside, throwing them against the walls to leave the center of the ballroom open.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The orcish reinforcements had arrived.

“I think we’ve bought ourselves some time,” Verco said. His smile had faded. The silver armor he wore was no longer silver, his shield, which once had shone like a diamond, was dirty and chipped.

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM.

“Not much,” Finnbarr said, cleaning the thick gore off his axe blades.

“That blockade is fifteen bodies high and three times as deep. It would take the dragon himself to get through.” Verco said, but his words lack confidence.

BOOM.

“I don’t know what’s on the other side of that corpse wall.”

BOOM.

“But if we don’t stop it, hundreds of people could die as a result.”

BOOOOOOOM

The corpse wall shuddered. The entire building shuddered. Stones from the ceiling fell and shattered on the ground.

Finnbarr gulped hard.

There was a sound on the other side of the wall. It was deep, so deep that Finnbarr was not sure he heard it so much as he felt it. He could feel the sound move through his chest. He clutched his heart as his muscles seized. The sound was rhythmic and melodic, like chanting, but in a sound so deep the very earth was repulsed and moved. The sound grew louder and louder. The vibrations from the corpse wall became more and more pronounced. More stones fell, another pillar toppled over. There words in that maelstrom of horrid sound, the sound of a volcano spewing lava unchecked. The bodies bubbled and sizzled.

“Shield wall!” Finnbarr shouted, forcing himself to move.

The seven of them formed a wedge just as the bodies burst asunder.

A massive black shape appeared in the door, fully thirteen feet tall, muscles like a tower. A troll, but this was no ordinary troll. He was armored head to foot in black, shining armor and bore a sword at least twelve feet long. He was one of the legendary bodyguards of Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs. Finnbarr’s heart sank, and fear nearly overwhelmed him. He looked to Verco and saw the same fear threatening him. He put a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “For Thargelion,” he said quiet. “For Thargelion,” agreed the elf. “FOR THARGELION! FOR THARGELION! FOR CARNISTIR! FOR CARNISTIR!” he shouted and they all shouted with him, matching the horrible spells of the troll and driving back the stream of black filth that he brought with him. Bodies crunched and snapped and broke as they moved forward, wild, ecstatic rage filling their hearts and routing fear. Finnbarr and Verco leapt forward, drawing the troll away from the wedge. The troll’s armor was so thick and heavy that Finnbarr could find no weak points, nothing at the joints revealed itself. Instead of trying to break through the armor, he slammed his small but muscular form into the troll, knocking him off balance long enough for Verco’s urumi to wrap around his arm and yank him forward. The troll, however, managed to grab the blades and used Verco’s force against him. He threw the elf a dozen paces back. His shield was split in two as he fell. Orcs were on him almost immediately. Finnbarr didn’t have time to go to his friend. The troll wheel about and kicked the Falmari full in the chest. If the breastplate he wore had not been blessed under the waves and the stars, it would have crumpled on impact. All the air was forced from his lungs and he felt something sharp stabbing into his side. He tried to breathe but he coughed instead. The troll was on him again, blade high in the air. Finnbarr closed his eyes and saw the image of his parents the way they had been the night before he lost them. They were smiling, beckoning him to throw his line in the water. He opened his eyes again, determined to face his death with full awareness. The blade was turned aside though, one of the last elves of the shield wall, one that Finnbarr had never gotten the name of, had broken from the group and thrown himself between Finnbarr and the troll. The effort was valiant, but it sealed his fate. The monster dropped his sword and grabbed the elf so quickly the poor man didn’t have a chance to react. The troll gripped by both arms and ripped him apart. There was a scream that died so quickly Finnbarr wasn’t even sure he had truly heard it. He stood up and charged the troll again, who tossed the broken body of the elf away just in time to see Finnbarr leap and slam an axe in between the visor slit. He howled in pain and stumbled back. His voice was so loud the ballroom shuddered again. Finnbarr ripped his axe free and tried to go for another attack but the troll slammed a heavy metal fist into him that sent him flying into a pillar. The pillar broke and tumbled down on him. Finnbarr was half buried. He watched as the rest of the shield wall was set upon. He watched as the troll, blade in hand, decapitated two of them in a single swing. Orcs, like beetles, scurried over the bodies and began hacking and cutting. He roared, throwing off the stones that had fallen on him and charged again. Orcs turned and rushed him, placing themselves between the Falmari and the troll. Finnbarr cut through all of them, not feeling or seeing any of them as they fell before him. The troll laughed. Finnbarr was within three paces of the beast when he finally turned to face him. He kicked savagely, but Finnbarr was too quick, dropping and rolling within the reach of his sword. Verco, still alive, attacked from behind, throwing his considerable bulk into the troll’s knee so he buckled. Finnbarr slashed across the visor again, gaining another roar of pain and a gout of thick, black blood. Greedily, he went for another strike, but before he could, he felt the iron grasp of the troll’s hand wrapping around his midsection. He watched as the troll raised up the sword and was about to bring it down when Verco’s whip blades wrapped around his arm again and pulled in the opposite direction. There was a short battle of wills as they both pulled at the other, just enough time for Finnbarr to thrust his axe up and under the troll’s helmet. The beast fell to the ground, stunned for the moment. Orcs though, that never ending sludgy tide of filth, rushed them though, forcing the duo back. Finnbarr looked about, trying to look for the others to reform wedge but all he saw was death, carnage, and blood. The floor cracked, the immense weight of the nigh one thousand bodies in the ballroom breaking the foundations underneath. He nearly lost his balance in the upheaval but Verco caught him.

“We have to get out of here. We have to fall back.”

“NO!” Finnbarr’s eyes were filled with tears, so many that he was nearly blind. He instinctively slashed as an orc rushed to meet them and was welcomed with a skull split perfectly down the center. “We have to hold! If we don’t hold, the people are Thargelion are lost.”

“If we die here, then the people of Thargelion will lose their hope.” Verco whipped his arm around, slicing an oncoming orc into three pieces, and ran to one of the pillars. He pushed as hard as he could, shouting. The pillar shifted then tumbled down, slamming into the troll as he was standing back up. Verco dodged an arrow, another bouncing off his breastplate, then darted back to Finnbarr.

“The ballroom is lost.”


NPF edit: FOR THARGELION!!!
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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F.A. 455
assaulting the hills of Ladros in Dorthonion


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- Slaughtering of Innocents -

“Coward?!!” hollered The Butcher, grinding his cuspate teeth into jagged nibs. Dark veins protruded from the thick meat of his neck and the knotted muscles of his arms. Raw adulterated fury roiling into a maelstrom. Emeldir had wounded his pride. First, by slaying two of his best accomplices. Secondly, by calling him out on blatant cowardice. She would not do so again.

Gorgol yanked a weeping Whitehorn child that desperately clung to its shackled mother. He caressed the boy’s head roughly with one hand and tightened the grip on his cleaver with the other. “His will be the first skull I claim!” he shouted, throwing the lad onto the grass. Gorgol aimlessly drove his ax-weapon down repeatedly, as spouts of blood lept onto his armored chest and red sprays drizzled his wretched face.

“Kill the prisoners! Kill them all!” he bellowed, looking to the other Orcs. Promptly his pack of murderers began to slaughter the iron-bound members of the Whitehorn family - young and old alike. However, inspired by the vehement courage of Emeldir, the Orcs found their work much more difficult to accomplish this time. Using their own chains and discarded weapons at their disposal, the Whitehorn family lead a directionless assault upon their captors. They worked together in a final attempt to stave off their own annihilation. “Fight for Emeldir! Fight for your lives!” cried Brina, their leader, as she throttled an Orc with the iron links that limited her now one hand’s mobility.

Gorgol turned to the wife of Barahir, cleaver dripping beside him. “Their deaths will be on your hands now! I shall wear your flesh as a tunic and mount your peeled head on the Great Gates of Angband myself!” he barked, charging at the warrior. His armored feet sunk deep impressions in the charred greensward and the earth closing in between them trembled.

With a quick motion of his available hand, The Butcher let the numerous tails of his black whip fly forward. They cracked at Emeldir from various directions. “Dance! Dance for me!” laughed the Orc captain, lashing the barbed tails at her thrice more. He attempted to coil her sword arm with the intention of pulling the limb from its socket. When this failed, Gorgol aimed for the fire in her eyes. If he could sink a single thorn, the iron spike could pluck them with a jerk of his mail-protected wrist. Nevertheless, every effort from The Butcher was made in vain.

Gorgol then regathered the hide tails and roared, throwing the weight of his armored mass in a series of diagonal cleaver swings. He broke splinters from her shield as their fight lead them both into the burning longhouse of the Whitehorn family. Flames engulfed the arched structure and clouds of twirling black smoke enveloped them. “Death! Death to all the Houses of Men!” exclaimed The Butcher, as blazing beams broke apart from the extensive walls and high ceiling. As a plank incinerated beside them, the hulking Orc seized a fistful of ignited ashes and hurled them at Emeldir in a last effort to blind her.
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 3:47 am, edited 1 time in total.

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FA 455
Anghabar, Gondolin

The Lightning Before the Thunder

But Maeglin prospered and grew
great among the Gondolindrim, praised by all,
and high in the favour of Turgon; for if he would learn eagerly and swiftly all
that he might, he had much also to teach. And he gathered about him all
such as had the most bent to smithcraft and mining; and he sought in the
Echoriath (which are the Encircling Mountains), and found rich lodes of
ore of divers metals. Most he prized the hard iron of the mine of Anghabar
in the north of the Echoriath, and thence he got a wealth of forged metal
and of steel, so that the arms of the Gondolindrim were made ever stronger
and more keen; and that stood them in good stead in the days to come.
Wise in counsel was Maeglin and wary, and yet hardy and valiant at need.
Maeglin... mighty among the princes of the Noldor.

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin

Fit the box, fit the mold
Have a seat in the foyer, take a number
I was lightning before the thunder

- Imagine Dragons, Thunder


Walking toward the Anghabar north of the city, Hatholdir drew his arm over Maeglin's shoulders. "You put the fear of Morgoth into Mordagnir, Angharyon ("The Iron Prince)," Hatholdir congratulated Maeglin with his customary honorific for the young Prince. They laughed together. Yesterday, Aigronding accosted Hatholdir following a sparring match between the Elf-lord and King Turgon's nephew, catching sight of the pair leaving the palace. Hatholdir was the only Elf who Maeglin allowed to teach him combat, knowing that Hatholdir - the most badhearted Mole in the Prince's house - wouldn't go easy on him. Aigronding was charged with the protection of Turgon and Idril but Maeglin spurned him. He held a long-standing grudge against the son of Erindan for helping Fareglín kill his father Eöl years ago. He refused instruction from Aigronding and forbade him to accompany the Prince on his prospecting journeys; his denial of Aigronding not only was forged in Aigronding's execution of Eol but also oringinated from Maeglin's assumption that he was spying on him for Idril; this further soured their relations behind closed doors and in the public square.

When Maeglin saw a bleeding cut on Hatholdir's cheek and that Maeglin's black eye, Aigronding condemned what he considered to be Hatholdir's reckless means of tutelage but Maeglin interjected. The Prince reprimanded Aigronding in the street for meddling once again in his personal affairs; it was his right to surround himself with whomever he pleased including guards from his own House, not those from the King's. The tense scene had been gossiped around the city by now. Hatholdir had waited a long time for Mordagnir to get his comeuppance. Yet he yearned still to revenge himself against others even if he could only accomplish his retribution through Maeglin's influence which was often the case.

During the time of Aredhel's disappearance, Turgon punished Hatholdir after he disrespected Rog too many times. He decided to strip Hatholdir's nobility Finwë, his grandfather, had given him in Aman and to give his mines to Rog until he became an obedient citizen. The decision was ratified by the sitting chieftains of the Open Court that fateful day: Penlod, Salgant, Galdor, Rog, and Erindan - Aigronding's father - sitting in for Egalmoth who was away with Aredhel. They unanimously supported the King. Hatholdir had lost his wealth and his status. His betrothed, Linda Liantë a celebrated musician of the Harp, ended their engagement because of his losses and unpopularity. Hatholdir built a smithy in the Echoriath with a small group of Rog's smiths who boldly foreswore their loyalty to follow the Houseless rebel. They laboured for years making meager profits off what alloys they could combine with metals they discovered which weren't as valuable as the ores Rog had stolen from Hatholdir. Jewels they found and precious rock but the gems and natural stone they excavated didn't match the worth of finer lodes, formerly owned by Hatholdir, which Rog possessed.

They eked out a humbled existence in the community until their fortunes raised with the coming of Maeglin. The Prince sought out Hatholdir and his fellowship to devise his own house. Hatholdir helped Maeglin solidify the power of the Moles, drawing his staunch albeit reluctant supporters from Rog's house which greatly reduced the number of Hammers in Gondolin in favor of the Prince. The cruellest smiths and warriors of Rog, many of them kinslayers and escaped Angband thralls, now belonged to Maeglin. The Prince encouraged Turgon to ennoble Hatholdir for his efforts in the genesis of Mole House, his mines were wrested from Rog, and his relationship with Linda was renewed though Hatholdir loved her not. He became an esteemed member of Angarindë - the Iron Circle, the Prince's small council of advisors: Hatholdir for metallurgy and warfare; Hrango, for weaponcraft and civic metalwork; Idrasaith for jewel delving; Herontortha for tunnelling and mine protocol; and Sigildîn, the father of Galudess, for quarrying matters.

"Vása should not be rising at this hour," mentioned fastidious Herontortha who towered above them all even the mighty Hrango.

When the starry heavens gradually clouded with dense tendrils of coalescing smoke, conjoined by variegated vapors billowing from the lands below, Maeglin and Hatholdir shared a grave look. They hurried the Moles forward, eventually coming toward an observation turret outside of Anghabar. They rushed into the lone tower and ascended the stairway. The Moles emerged from the roof which afforded them a panoramic view of the North.

Hatholdir stood rigidly terror-stricken, mouth agape. Rivers of flame gushed out of Thangorodrim, devouring the verdant plain of Ard-galen. Balls of fires shot from the the gargantuan spires of Ered Engrin, withering patches of unspoilt earth. Hatholdir grasped the black sleeve of Maeglin's cloak with his left hand and traced the movement of the blazing streams with his right from east to west. "Fëanor, Finarfin, and Fingolfin..." Hatholdir murmured in horrifed marvel, pointing at the March of Maedhros, Dorthonion, and Hithlum all engulfed in the tremendous inferno. "Morgoth means to destroy all Elfinesse."

The Moles observed the frightening spectacle in grim silence but Hatholdir smiled like a demon who was dreaming now. He drew his arm around Maeglin and steered the Prince away from the others, retreating toward the shadowy doorway of the small solitary tower. "We are safe, Your Highness," Hatholdir assured Maeglin.

"That's a rather bombastic declaration to make, considering half the country is being roasted in an sea of flame," Herontortha remarked, his prim voice dripping with sarcasm. The wiry Mole with the short, slicked blonde hair folded his long sinewy arms when Hatholdir motioned for him to step back.

"They are not safe but we are," Hatholdir replied with a smug callous grin. "This is a private conversation between the Prince of Gondolin and his Minister of War." Hatholdir, irritated, made a dismissive motion but Herontortha - Mole House's oak of righteousness - stood firmly planted in place, arching a flaxen brow. He seemed like a gilded, leaner version of Nariel's stern uncle. "Consider this nightmare to be a wonderful opportunity for Prince Maeglin to show his quality," proposed Hatholdir in his best charming tone. "The fire is confined only to the regions above the passes of Sirion and Gelion," mused Hatholdir. "Morgoth will undoubtedly unleash his hordes southward and encompass Doriath to complete what the flames started...the annihilation of Elvendom. When the minions march forth, Gondolin must be secured. We should patrol the hills bordering the Echoriath, those surrounding the riverine pine lands of Rivil's Well."

"If you send out the Moles, we must be cautious to not attract attention to ourselves," Herontortha spoke, surprising Hatholdir. Usually, the skeptical tunnel overseer was a difficult Elf to sway when it came to extreme measures; in fact, he had been the last Hammer to resign from Rog's house to serve Maeglin. He was a man of law and order. Watching Beleriand be put to the torch must have shaken him. "If we leave the city, we'll need the King's permission."

"He won't bestow it at least not so readily," said Hatholdir, glancing at Maeglin, knowing he would think of something clever or that the Prince would speak convincingly to his uncle to release the Moles; Maeglin had a silver tongue, a voice of power which could move those that heard him and to overthrow those that withstood him. "We need to act quickly. There's no time for us to wait for Turgon to discuss this in committee."

Hrango, the large brawny mute, gravitated toward them since Herontortha had not been excused. The armorer listened with rapt attention but shook his bald head vigorously, gesturing at Maeglin. Hatholdir informed the Prince that Hrango thought the Maeglin was safer in the city.

Hatholdir held him by his shoulders with a paternal affection "Wish he had been born my son," Hatholdir brooded in despair though his pride of Maeglin registered on his strong face. He would never have a child. Linda wanted no children; Hatholdir did but not from her. "You have trained well, my Prince, but you are not prepared to battle the Orcs. I can't jeopardize your life in this perilous venture , Angharyon."
GM UPDATE @Ercassie:

Describe Maeglin's morning (perhaps even the events referring to
yesterday's drama as well), including especialy his reaction to the flames.
Calm the Moles then discuss the situation with Hatholdir,
Herontortha, and Hrango . Give orders...you know what we've plotted...
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

High Lord of Imladris
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Emeldir
Ladros, Dorthonion
FA 455
She didn't turn away from the boys death, no he did not deserve that dishonour. Instead she watched unable to rescue him and when he was dead she shut her eyes for a moment, a blessing running through her head. "Coward indeed. So brave of you to kill an unarmed child. Is that how the warriors of Morgoth cut their teeth? killing warg puppies while their mothers are shackled and unable to bite you back for the deed? You'll not find me so easy to skin." She called goading the orc further when she heard theshouts of Brina's for them to fight for her for their lives, indeed this would be a fight for their lives, and she could not guarantee if any would survive, but for every orc they wounded or killed it would be one less to continue the fight after here. She raised her sword in a salute to them "FOR WHITEHORN!" She cried out urging the captives on further, even as the orc promised her that their deaths would be on her.

No. They would have been dead or worse even without her, their HONOR was on themselves now as they fought. "For our children!" She shouted stepping back as the multi-tongued whip snapped at her trying to take down her sword arm. Instead the barbed tails only found purchase on her shield. coming close to her flesh but never biting into her. The captives were fighting brutally now, urged on by the lady who stood fast and moved forwards throwing her shield up into first few angry blows of the enraged orc leader. She swung her sword back at him and the two danced the deadly waltz of death. They moved into the long house burning hot the air was suffocating even as the orc shouted for the death of men she answered his shouts with her own.

"Fight on Whitehorn, from fire we forge ourselves stronger" She shouted spinning her shield into the way of the burning embers thrown at her. "Dirty tricks from a coward." She called with a laugh stepping forwards towards Gorgol not fearing the creatures far shorter reach than her own her sword cutting for his legs to bring him down she made sure to keep herself between him and the exit of the long house, no he would not leave this house, he would find that fire could cleanse as well as forge, his hand would now be hurting from those embers. She banged her shield into the ember burnt hand hoping to add broken bones to the burns.

Outside indeed the inhabitants of the longhouse were proving their worth and grit in a way they had not before their spirits and ire were bolstered by both lady Emeldir and Gorgul with his cruelty to the boy.



Melviriel and Morcundir - Nandor
The Refugee camp, River Mindeb


Melviriels fingers and arm hurt from using the new bow, but she was starting to be able shoot the thing consistantly though now it was getting harder again as her arm grew tired. Morcundir nodded and agreed that she couldn't keep shooting safely anymore, the weight of this bow was less than double the weight of her other but it was the lightest draw that he had been able to find in the camp, and was consistent with the weight that some of the newest wardens used. It was still light compared to even his draw weight, but would server her well once she was use to it.

"You'll have to hunt with your normal bow still I think." He said knowing full well that sending her out with a tired arm and a bow with a draw that she was not use to yet could end in tragedy for her. Melviriel nodded, she didn't think she'd be able to hit smaller creatures properly or cleanly take down another dear with the new bow, her arm would be far too tired to guarantee that sort of a shot.

"I will be staying away from the boar trails I'm sure some of the men that Beleg or whoever picks out the men for the hunting party." She said calmly, "There are lots of trails well away from the boar ones so I can avoid any wayward arrows from hunters as well." Morcundir smirked at his daughter and shook his head.

"I am certain you'll be safe, otherwise I would not be letting Beleg send you out." He crossed his arms and looked at her closely. "The issue is the more you learn and do, the more likely you will be brought up as a warden, and that bothers me. It would bother your mother even more I'm afraid, after all you are our child and we came to Doriath to make sure that you were safe and protected from the ills filling the world thanks to Morgoth." Melviriel for her part bowed her head slightly.

"I know, but with how the world is going I think me helping in the fight may be wiser than trying to run from it, for there is only so far one can run." She said calmly and her father took a deep breath. She was making sense. He did not like that she was making sense. The problem would be her mother.

"Indeed for now though you will be in charge of the hunting party for the refugees, your mother will allow that without either of us getting into any trouble." At that she nodded and decided to see if the men that were to make up the hunting party had been found so that she could show them where each of them would be able to successfully bring food back for everyone, and Melviriel smirked that if some of the boars, which were massive and numerous in the woods were brought down by the hunters, it would be a good bit safer for her even after the refugees moved on.

Balrog
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Ghosts of Perdition
Near the Sacred Cedar Forest in Rhûn, FA 460


Tell me sweet ones, what would you say
If you were going to die today?
A meaningless death for others than me
The gods have spat on your destiny
— Isengard, “Storm of Evil”


Strange angel
Why do you come here
How art thou fallen from heaven
To the uttermost parts of the abyss
— Akercocke, “Son of the Morning”


You have tasted suffering that dove of life has died
Paralyzed and terrorized by the fear you feel inside
Caught within the floods of blood, evil, departed sea
Immortal but now it's like to forever bleed
— Dissection, “Son of the Mourning”

Ulfang began surveying the field. The fighting had been long, vicious, and bloody. The fighting had been bloody for as long as he could remember, this battle, in the wide scope of his war against the orcs, was nothing special. The sun was nearly blotted from the sky, carrion birds, a celestial cacophony of raucous hunger, rose and seethed like a living cloud. One of them, larger and bolder than the rest, landed and perched itself on Ulfang’s shoulder. He didn’t bother shooing it away. Its beak was red and slick with gore, orc entrails, still steaming, hung from his wings. As far as he could see, over the hills and beyond, great columns of smoke rose into the sky. The air was thick with ash, death, and fire. If Ulfang were not so used to the sight and smell he would have had to fight the urge to vomit. As it was, his heart rejoiced in the sight: the killing fields. His forces, led by his three sons, had surrounded and ambushed these orcs, pressing them into an ever-shrinking crush until their dead could not fall to the earth. They pressed and pressed, until the orcs could no longer move, panic set in amongst his foes, yet still they pressed them inward. Many orcs in the center died without ever being able to draw their weapon, verily, without even being able to draw breath. They had been pressed and crushed together so much that their bodies simple crunched and snapped and broke, like an apple squeezed until it bursts.

Cruelty was all these orcs understood, cruelty, malice, and hatred. Ulfang, long a veteran of these wars, had finally learned that the only way to push these demons out of the ancestral lands of his forefathers was to match their cruelty. It had been a slow turn at first, he and his men were unwilling to sink to the depths of depravity that the orcs engaged in, but slowly and surely, they became crueler, harder, meaner, and more desperate. Ulfang, at first, had detested the idea of hewing corpses and displaying them as a means of intimidation, yet now, twenty years on, it seemed the least of the things he had done. The display of bodies was now a perfunctory performance by the victors of a battle, a warning to the losing side that they will receive no mercy, even in death.

One cold winter morning, but a few years ago now, Ulfang had gotten the idea to build a forest around an enemy encampment, a forest of impaled prisoners that stretched for miles all around. It had been one of his cruelest, most inhuman acts, but it had been one of his best. Before this willingness to stoop to the levels of the orcs, Ulfang and his confederation of tribes and clans had been pushed nearly to the uttermost east. Some claimed that if they scaled the mountains and looked out, they could see where the sun rose, roiling out of the sea of infinity blackness. With his back to the wall and the lives and culture of his people at stake, Ulfang made a choice. A choice he did not regret. Since that time, Ulfang and his warrior sons had triumphed in pushing back, driving the orcs screaming in fear from their faces. Some of his sons had taken to sewing together dead skin masks of their enemies and wearing them into battle in lieu of helmets. Eventually, the orcs became more savage, so Ulfang and his armies did as well. The orcs feasted on the flesh of his fallen kinsfolk, keeping them alive as long as possible as they striped and flayed them, forcing them to watch as they were eaten, and so Ulfang did the same, flaying the flesh off bone and eating it raw. There was no move the orcs could do that he would not counter, no measure he would not take to ensure the survival of his confederation. He had worked all his life building alliances, brokering marriage pacts, intimidating and even killing rivals when he needed, orcs and their kind were not going to take that away from him.

There were still a few orcs alive in the aftermath of this battle, his lieutenants had told him, so he waded through veritable rives of blood and guts to interrogate them. The craban on his shoulder cawed hungrily, flapping his great wings of deepest black in agitation. The prisoners were tied up under the skeleton of a great cedar tree, one they had scorched and killed earlier this month, a desecration of the sacred forests of Ulfang’s ancestors. He would not let that insult stand. The orcs were tied with their hands behind their backs, bound so tightly that their shoulders were ripped out of their ball and socket joints, and forced into a kneeling position. The ancient Easterling warrior approached the first one, an orc with half his face ripped off. “Where is the rest of your army?” the Easterling’s voice was deep and sonorous, dripping with malice and contempt. The orc spat a wad of green sputum mixed with black blood landed at Ulfang’s feet. A heavy, iron tipped boot slammed into the orc’s sternum, doubling him over and yanking his bounds even tighter. He howled in pain. Ulfang smiled. “I will ask you once more, demon. Where is the rest of your army? Answer and I will grant you mercy, do not, and I will ask the next one here after you’ve been hanged.”

The orc growled something unintelligible in his guttural, putrid tongue. Shrugging, Ulfang produced a noose, wrapped it around the orc’s struggling neck, then threw the other end of the rope over one of the high branches of the dead cedar tree. A man on the other side grabbed it and began pulling, forcing the orc to his feet. Ulfang unfurled his nadziak, a wicked looking war pick designed after capturing a hoard of orcish weapons. He smashed the point into one of the knees of the orc who grunted and fell. He began to strangle and choke. The creature tried to stand up, to stop the slow strangulation, but Ulfang only smashed his other knee, forcing him back down. The Easterling nodded to his man on the opposite end of the rope and it was pulled higher and higher, until the orc was twisting freely in the wind, gurgling and gasping for air. Ulfang snapped his fingers and one of his men produced a dirty piece of cloth. He threw the cloth over the face of the orc and snapped his finger again. This time he was given a jug of water. He poured the water over the cloth. The orc began shuddering and shrieking. Again, without word or comment, Ulfang poured more water over the cloth. Eventually, the shuddering, strangling, sobbing sounds stopped, and the body hung limp. With a practiced nonchalance, Ulfang ripped off the cloth off, revealing the horrific dead face of the orc, frozen in a panicked scream. The craban leapt from the Easterling’s shoulder and began pecking at the eyes, first nibbling on one that had burst from the socket.

Ulfang gave a nod of approval then looked down at the next orc, a green skinned monstrosity with a large tumor covering half his face. “Well? Will you tell me what I want to know?” The orc shivered and remained silent. “Do you not crave the gift of Easterling mercy?” he asked, almost sounding as though he was wounded by the idea. The orc opened his mouth and hissed. His defiance was met with a boot to the face. Most of his teeth were torn out with the blow. The Easterling picked them up off the earth, along with a handful of dirt and shoved them back down the orc’s throat. He choked and coughed, trying to spit out the earth and bone, but Ulfang closed his mouth with his power, brawny jaws and the orc was forced to swallow. “Again.” He snapped his fingers and another noose was bought to him. He repeated the motions of tying the noose about the orc’s neck, flung the rope over a tree branch where it was yanked up so the orc could strangle to death.

The final orc, wide eyed with fear, began babbling. “The rest of our forces are ten leagues from here, they’re marching westward to attack one of your settlements, one of the ones around your great ziggurats.” His words were rapid and uneven as he tried to breathe through his restraints. “How many?” Ulfang asked, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “Thousands, thousands strong. Now, let me go!”

The Easterling’s laugh was sinister and malignant. “I never said I’d free you. I said I’d give you mercy in accordance Easterling tradition.”

“No! No!” the orc began to struggle, falling useless and limb to the ground. “No! You can’t! You can’t!”

Five men appeared from behind Ulfang, all strong dark-skinned men of renowned, and carried the orc some ways away from the hanging tree. A hole had been dug and a long, twenty-foot, wooden pole lay on the ground next to it. The orc screamed until his voice went hoarse and he began coughing blood. He struggled uselessly as Ulfang walked behind his men. The orc was tossed to the ground where he landed with crunching of bones and tearing of muscle. He wiggled on the ground like a sightless worm. He was seized again and forced onto his knees then his back was pressed into the bloody mud. Ulfang watched him with the slow beginnings of a wicked smile. The pole was then jammed up between his legs. The orc began screaming again, begging and pleading through his shredded vocal cords. “No! No, please! Not this! Not this! Please! No! No! I’ll tell you anything you want. Anything! Please! I’ll serve you; I’ll do whatever you want. Please! Please! His voice began to dissolve into blubbering. He struggled but the men held him fast. He was carried, with the pole being jammed further up his innards, to the hole where he was hoisted up. He screamed again, so loud that all the carrion birds in the area spooked and took flight. He did not scream for long though. Ulfang and his men watched for nearly half an hour as the sharpened pole worked its way through the orcs body then sprouted out of his chest. This was Easterling mercy.

“My lord!” A man, dressed in deep brown robes, rushed up to the scene then bend to his knee before his lord. “My lord. I bring tidings.”

Ulfang nodded and touched the man on the shoulder so that he stood again. This was Adam, his greatest warrior, an assassin of terrible renown and skill. His face was half hidden in his ceremonial robes, the garb of his office as chief priest of the gods of war. “Tell me, what do you bring?”

“Word has been sent to us, a messenger from the West. An emissary of the enemy. He wishes to discuss terms.”

“One of the Melechesh?” Ulfang growled, his eyes narrowing on the western horizon. Melechesh was their name for the fiery demons that sometimes fought with the orcs and trolls, commanders wreathed in black flames.

“No,” Adam said, his eyes glimmering deep within his hood. “Something else.”

“Lead the way then, Adam.” Ulfang extended his hand and followed his assassin back to his tents.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sat Feb 05, 2022 6:24 am, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

New Soul
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Posts: 769
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FA 316
Nan Dungortheb --> Himlad
Himlad --> Nan Elmoth
The Restless Lady

"Very fair she seemed to him, and he desired her;
and he set his enchantments about her..."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin


Aredhel jabbed at the spider attacking the palfrey's neck with its rending pincers. The bronze spearhead found its purchase within the beast's gaping maw. Aredhel wrenched the weapon out of the dying creature and turned her frightened mount, hastening toward Glorfindel. Aredhel, grunting, skewered the spider climbing his back with a deft stab of her spear.

With Glorfindel aiding her, the Princess hacked at the vicious swarm of vile things with a desperate intensity. She shouted Ecthelion's name in the murk and dismembered another monster, ignoring the pain of her minor wounds. She heard him call out, claiming his wounded horse stumbled. Aredhel disembowled another of the vermin, pouring out its foul black innards, and thrust her spear into the behemoth again to silent its ear-splitting shrieks. Aredhel steeled herself to save at least one of her friends in this carnage. She burst recklessly from Glorfidel's side and vanished into the pungent smoke despite his stern warning to keep near.

The horrible clicking noises of giant claws and the shrill crescendo of triumphant screeches drowned Ecthelion's cries. She yelled Egalmoth's name when an arrow pierced the hide of one spider vaulting at her palfrey, razor jaws clacking in a frenzy. Aredhel, her smooth ivory skin slicked with the exertion, thrust the bronze tip fiercely through its leathery bulk. Sable blood splattered her white and silver dress. Aredhel hollered again above the raucous cacophony of the hungry devils. There was no answer from the Rainbow Chief.

Aredhel, fearless and hardy of heart, as were all the children of Finwë, she continued searching for her companions in vain. When she finally accepted the odds of surviving were stacked against her favor, Aredhel committed herself to flee in anguish. She loathed herself for feeling an exhilarating liberty when she galloped the palfrey towards the promise of safety, hurrying to the effulgent light of Vása flaring brightly at the end of this nebulous tunnel.



GM UPDATE: @The Elf Imperishable , you can still have Ecthelion and Glorfindel
escape the spiders with Egalmoth. Ecthelion's horse is going to die because of the
spider wound but he can ride on Glorfindel's to Gondolin.
Arrive at Turgon's palace in the evening time days from now.
Have him awoken and tell the King what happened.
*
"The people of Celegorm welcomed her and
bad her stay among them with honour until their lord's return."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin

Glintha Calardan, the wife of Feredir the kennelmaster, ordered the lamps of the castle garden to be lit. Ellindalë's lady-in-waiting, a warm-hearted woman in a chill land, orchestrated the functions of the castle staff for months and graciously welcomed any visitor. The order of the estate belonged go Glintha since her mistress, Celegorm's lover, cooperated with Prince Celebrimbor in the management of the country. The blonde High Elf in the yellow damask dress and black cloak waited to see the lamplighters fulfilling her request before returning inside, assured the Kings would find a splendid array of candles leading them home.

A sheen of crystal gleamed in the gloaming, drawing Glintha's attention down the stone pathway of the Two Crowns Road. In moments the bearer of the gem revealed herself...a High Elf with piercingly bright eyes and a diamond circlet. Her pale sublime beauty seemed at jarring odds with gore-smeared remnants of her tattered silver cotehardie and ragged pieces of her white cape.

Aredhel Ar-Feiniel. Írissë to her Noldorin friends.

Glintha let out a gasp of surprise and rushed down the lane, flaxen braids flying free of her fur hood. She issued orders at the stunned guards to fetch a healer and to summon an ostler for Aredhel's morose palfrey which the walking Princess led by bridle. Drawing closer, Glintha held out her slender arms.

"I will ruin your gown," Aredhel stubbornly refused but Glintha could tell she was wavering, tears already rolling over her flushed high cheekbones. "Just look at me," she added in hysterical stridency, throwing up her beringed hands.

"I do not care, onórë, do not be mulish now," Gwintha softly insisted, her limbs sill outspread. Aredhel loosened the taut grip on her pride. The Princess sobbed, staggering into her friend's tight embrace. Aredhel wept bitterly, convulsing. She clung to Gwintha, howling in misery despite the rolling palms moving soothingly over the back of her soiled dress.

*


Aredhel neglected the rap on her chamber door again, enjoying her pleasurable warm soak in the porcelain tub. She rode longer in the cool Himlad forests than she should have again but now reveled in the comforting bathwater the servants had drawn for her. She tarried in Himlad for five months now, finding bliss in the pathless woods. The household of Celegorm and Curufin had been more hospitable than the vulgar rustic Elves of Doriath and treated her with honour. Gwintha fervidly bid her to stay until the return of the Fëanorian kings and Aredhel was most willing.

When she was ready to choose her raiment for this evening's feast, Aredhel was delighted to see a new set of clothes arranged in her lacquered armoire. Gwintha knew her elegant style and preference of color. The luxurious crushed velvet gowns with tippet sleeves were white as snow and the low rounded necklines were trimmed in double rows of silver thread. She opened the two jewelry boxes at her white gilded vanity table. "Gwintha has spared no expense," mused Aredhel, applying the diamond chandelier earrings her friend had given her, while she vainly admired her own lovely reflection in the mirror of silver leaf.

This time she answered the knock on her door and gave flustered Gwintha a diabolical smirk. "I was luxuriating then I was dressing," explained Aredhel with an innocent tone, oblivious of her friend's gimlet stare. "Now I'm accessorizing."

"That will not take you an hour!" Gwintha remarked scathingly, losing some of her warmth.

"Why are you so demanding lately?" Aredhel wondered airily, looking at the glittering collection of ornate collars in a drawer.

"I give you many gifts. You owe me something."

Aredhel chose a pearl and grey agate choker with tremulous fingers. "I owe you something as in what exactly?"

"Answers such as where you've been hiding a couple centuries," came Gwintha's sharp response. "The Kingdom of Nevrast vanishes off the face of Arda and the whole of Elvendom wonders how, wonders why. Two hundred years later you show up on my doorstep, bleeding and covered in spider filth. You were travelling through Nan Dungortheb....from where?"

Aredhel said nothing.

"There are Noldor and Sindar of Himlad who have family wherever your folk have been secreted," Gwintha pressed doggedly. "You have an obligation to let them know."

"I have a greater obligation to my brother and people," Aredhel was swift to reply. "I must honor a binding promise. I swore a vow, one I cannot break. No one must ever share the name of our refuge nor its many names. The survival of Elfinesse depends on this."

Aredhel's seriousness and unusual disregard of her own selfishness rendered Gwintha speechless.

"We will not discuss this again," the arrogant Princess commanded her hostess. Aredhel pinned the choker around her swan neck and rose regally from the upholstered wingback chair of silver. "Be happy that I'm giving you something graciously in recompense," she beseeched, opening the carven door of her chamber. The torchlit passageway without was decorated with antlers, trophies of Celegorm and Curufin. "You can have the seed-cakes this time!" The dinner bell chimed and the ellyth went to supper.

*

"In the waning of the year that Aredhel came to the south of Himlad,
and passed over Celon; and before she was aware she was enmeshed in Nan Elmoth."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin

"You are daft and obstinate," lamented Gwintha with a rueful shake of her head and the barest glimpse of a fond smile. She observed Aredhel preparing her palfrey in the royal stables for another ride in the cold weather. "It's freezing out there, Ar-Feiniel."

"It's always freezing on the plain! Do not worry. I dress for the weather." Aredhel drew the hood of her ivory fur cloak over her thick onyx hair, allowing a grey sliver of her beaded ruched gown underneath to show.

"You ride every day!" groaned Gwintha, whirling her arms in utter exasperation. "You are tired, melda. Refresh yourself."

"Where I have dwelled," said Aredhel, sitting on the cushioned seat of her silverworked saddle, "there's hardly any space for travelling so I must make the most of my time here. Celegorm has not returned from Thargelion yet, alas, so I must drag myself home sometime in the new year, by way of Aelin Uial, lest Turukáno sends out an army searching for little sister." A wan beam of sunlight broke loose of the dark wintry clouds, struggling free to kindle a mandorla of dim golden light about the Princess. She laid hand over heart and inclined her head. "Namárië, meldë ninya. You will see me in three days." She guided her palfrey away, including the packhorse bearing her camping supplies,

Gwintha seared what would be the last moments she saw of her adventurous friend alive indelibly into her consciousness. Aredhel, a fair alabaster gleam on the gloomy horizon, faded from view.

*


There for a while in Himlad, Aredhel had been content. She had great joy in wandering free in the woodlands; but as the year lengthened and Celegorm remained absent from his country with Curufin, Aredhel became restless again. She took to riding alone even further abroad without Gwintha or other court ladies despite their protests; she liked to be independent and would not be ruled nor advised. Today, the Princess sought new paths and untrodden glades never visited before. The margin of the world widened the longer she rode hither so she endured the ever increasing strain on her body and chanced over the waters of Celon's slender stream. Aredhel marvelled at the grandeur of the primordiral forest stretched before her, enrobed in deep shadow. Glintha had told her here in Nan Elmoth stood the tallest trees in all Beleriand. Nightshade eternal, Vása's fiery light never came. It was the richly sweet voices of lómelindë which prompted her investigation. Aredhel looked hesitantly behind her. The Daystar glowed with lambent ruddy luster through the leaden clouds, softly gilding swaths of desolate grassland. The flitting nightingales in the umbral paradise beyond lured her into their dusky cage, gushing a euphonious superlative melody which outcaroled the lark and the wren. The intrepid Elf-lady abandoned the Sun, meandering aimlessly amongst the immense trees.

She journeyed the trackless wilderness with the blue flame of a Fëanorian lamp. No longer mesmermized by the featureless crepuscular atmosphere, Aredhel turned back and gasped. To her fearful astonishment, the sunset light had been extinguished or perhaps she had wandered too deeply through the vast Cimmerian aisles of Nan Elmoth. She plunged her whinneying palfrey and the braying mule through the murk. Aredhel sought the boundless fields of East Beleriand in anxious longing but could not find her way out. The beautiful wayfarer, weary of roaming, was surprised to discover plumes of smoke wafting from a smithy. She suddenly happened upon the workshop near dim candlelit halls. The doors opened, revealing a stooped yet tall Elf, noble yet grim of face....


GM UPDATE: Moriel, have keen-sighted Eol spot Aredhel at the fringe of Nan Elmoth. Thingol's kinsman is enamoured immediately, awestruck by her ethereal beauty. Desiring her for himself, set his Elven enchantments about her. Imprisoned in Eol's shadowy abode, magically summon her to his dwelling in the heart of the woods. Have Eol greet her and invite Aredhel inside his home, playing the role of a chivalrous host; turn on the charm. You are sinister but appearing gentlemanly and romantic...for now. You may use his servants who are silent and secretive as he....
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

New Soul
Points:
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Y.T. 1497
in the armory of the Falathrim forces in Eglarest
preparing to counter the host of Morgoth in the First Battle of Beleriand


“At this time therefore the Sindar were well-armed…”

“... only about Menegroth in the midst of the land, and along the Falas in the country of the mariners, were there numerous peoples.”

“But the Orcs came down upon either side of the Menegroth, and from camps in the east between Celon and Gelion, and west in the plains between Sirion and Narog, they plundered far and wide; and Thingol was cut off from Círdan at Eglarest.”

“And when Thingol came again to Menegroth he learned that the Orc-host in the west was victorious, and had driven Círdan to the rim of the sea.”

~ Tolkien, Chapter X: Of the Sindar, The Silmarillion


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~ Stand By You ~

My love, the drums are calling
A red sky
A warning

Unwë had seen many battles before, but never a war.

When the tall, silver-haired financier and committee coordinator was not managing the expansion of housing along the shores of Lord Círdan’s realm, it was in the northern regions of Beleriand and in the southern forests that Unwë fought against the wolves and other fell creatures that threatened the well-being of King Thingol’s people. But the shadowy shapes had only receded for a brief time, and a black endless sea of Orcs now pillaged and burned the fair fields in West Beleriand, threatening to destroy the peace the Sindar had long fought for and drag them all down into Darkness.


No sense in hiding from the front lines
They have been here the whole time

He pushed his way across a crowded hall, as members of the Falathrim host hurried to don their armor and retrieve their weapons from numerous locked chests and sealed wardrobes. Unwë struggled to breathe in the close air, the flames of the armory torches and warmth radiating from the numerous bodies making the hall unbearably hot. He was pressed between the backplates of two knights, and Unwë felt his lungs being crushed in the space of his chest. As the warriors began to funnel out from the front and rear entrance of the armory, trapped Unwë was freed at last. He caught his breath and moved swiftly to where his armor could be found.

Unwë wrapped his hands around the pearlescent knobs of his wardrobe and looked upon the full plate armor that rested upright and hollow inside. He exhaled, steeling his mind for the fight to come. Once the last piece of his armor was strapped to his physique, the leader of the Housing Committee would cease to be. There would only be Captain Unwë from that moment on.

As Unwë reached for the hem of his tunic, his heart grew heavy. He had sat in the earlier war council of Lord Círdan and had come to understand all too well - that he and many others, would not be returning home. The face of his only daughter swam up to his mind’s eye and Unwë quickly shifted his thoughts to the present. He had to be strong. He needed to be strong. Strong for his Elf-lord and for all of Eglarest.

“I will need to borrow one of your swords dear,” said a female voice calmly from behind, and Unwë sighed in disappointment. “You are not coming,” he said coldly, raising the tunic above the muscles of his abdomen. “I am fighting,” said the voice again, tranquil and yet more sternly this time. “I said no, Annúlinde,” snapped Unwë, releasing his grip on the hem of this tunic and allowing it to fall silently back to his hips, “and that is final.” His brown eyes shone with heightened emotion, as he turned to the Elf-woman in a draping, sheer gown.

Annúlinde was pale as starlight, and her hair was the color of molten silver. It descended in soft waves to the small of her back, like the rippling tide of a heavenly sea. Her gray eyes looked at her husband with endearment, despite his icy front. She came up to him closely and raised his sword hand to her blushing lips. Annúlinde then planted a tender peck on his warm-colored fingers before casting her white arms around him and crashing her lips against his own. Annúlinde caressed his head gently as they shared an intense open-mouthed kiss. When she withdrew from the embrace, Unwë looked into her eyes dumbfounded. She had left him breathless and delirious.

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“Unwë of Eglarest, did I not promise to always stand by your side?” whispered Annúlinde lovingly, as tears began to fall from Unwë’s eyes. Her husband had always concealed his anxiety and fears behind a mask of harshness, and Annúlinde knew the thought of never seeing her or their daughter again wounded him so. “If we fight against the Orc-host together, you need not worry about returning home,” she continued, but Unwë hung his head low. “And what if we both should fall?” he asked. Annúlinde wiped his cheeks with a smooth motion of her hands. “I would rather die with Unwë on the battlefield than live as his widow,” she declared with a saddened smile, “But I swear to you my love, we will come back as victors, and we will see our little minnow again.”

Unwë hugged his wife tightly, his heart gladdened by her certainty and devotion. He kissed her head and showed her the various weapons that resided in his personal chest in the armory.


This is a call to arms
Will you embrace me
Before it is too late?

Annúnfalas slept soundly in her bed. Dreaming without care. Unwë and Annúlinde opened the door to her room carefully, their silhouettes outlined by the light of a single, burning candle positioned on the stand next to where their daughter lay. Unwë and Annúlinde stood on either side of her bed, bending down to their child. “Little minnow, little minnow. Open your eyes, little minnow,” whispered Annúlinde, brushing a strand of silver hair behind one of Annúnfalas’s pointed ears. Unwë jostled her gently and soon Annúnfalas turned beneath her sheets and rubbed her eyes with small hands. She blinked at them with some awareness and took notice of their polished armament.

“Why are you dressed like that?” asked Annúnfalas, her gray eyes half-shut. “Your father and mother will be leaving shortly,” disclosed Unwë. “Why?” asked young Annúnfalas. “Because, little minnow, there are some in this world who would see our home destroyed and our lands raized. Atar and emel must do all that they can to protect you,” explained Annúlinde in a hushed murmur. “We will not be gone long,” concluded Unwë, tousling his daughter’s hair softly, “Now, you must promise to be a good little girl until we are reunited again. And be of valiant heart. Always.” Annúnfalas smiled, sleep overcoming her juvenile senses. “I promise,” she replied, turning in her bed to sleep again.

Unwë and Annúlinde kissed their daughter’s forehead. They clasped hands as they left their daughter’s bedroom, closing the door quietly behind them.

“Always.”

My love, the drums are calling
A red sky
A warning

~ lyrics of “A Call to Arms” by Laura Jansen ~

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“Lord Círdan is not one to bring a random orphan into his house and raise it as his own. The sacrifice of Unwë and his wife Annúlinde must have moved his heart deeply.”
~ Galdor of the Havens to a courtier in the Hall of the Great Sea, 3014 T.A.


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F.A. 455
in the College of Arithmetic, at the University of Eglarest
on the eve of winter, before the Dagor Bragollach


Silver light
She turned her face up to the starlit sky
And on this night began to wonder why

~ lyrics by Adriana Figueroa


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~ The Valedictorian ~

All I want is nothing more than to hear you knocking at my door

Dean Urdusin rose to the podium upon the dais. His robes were the color of a black sea, trimmed with silver thread. An obsidian circlet rested across his brow and was set with a smooth and shimmering onyx jewel stone. A sash of gold hung from over his right shoulder, joining together diagonally with its other half on his lower left side. He opened a scroll in his hands and read it aloud to the first-ever graduates of the College of Arithmetic at the University of Eglarest.

For if I could see your face once more, I could die a happy girl, I am sure

“Students of mathematic dealings, on this evening we celebrate not only the completion of your studies but your honored place as the first class of the Eglarest advanced school of arithmetic. While the branch of numerical calculations is still new to the educated population of the Edhil throughout Beleriand. We, at the esteemed University of Eglarest, are proud to send the bright Teleri minds we have cultivated into the world to advance new ground in the application of algebraic, geometric, trigonometric, and measurable principles. Always remember this: a mason may choose a stone, a shipwright may nail a plank, and a merchant may peddle his or her wares, but without your numbers, a mason is stuck with a pile of rocks, a shipwright will sink its vessel, and a merchant will go broke!”

When you said your last goodbye I died a little bit inside

A wave of gay laughter emanated from the rows of gilded seats lined before the dais, where a hundred graduates garbed in robes and gowns of sky blue and sea green, sat restlessly. “And now,” concluded the Dean, “your professors and I are proud to present the head of your class, the student with the highest achievement marks, a mathematician with the greatest potential we have yet seen, and the newest member of the Housing Committee of the Falas - Annúnfalas.”

And I lay in tears in bed all night, alone, without you by my side

“Annúnfalas! Hurray for Annúnfalas!” the graduates clapped and whistled, as an elleth crowned with cerulean roses and adorned with a sash of silver, ascended the steps of the dais and embraced the Dean. He moved back to allow her to stand before her colleagues and her voice rang out clear and prettily, like a stream of spring water. Annúnfalas smiled widely, her gray eyes sparkling with mirth. She raised her sun-kissed hands, calling for a moment of silence.

But if you loved me why did you leave me?

“Thank you, Dean Urdusin,” she began, resting her hands on the podium, “My former governess, Eärmana, always said I was too simple for higher learning. Of course, she also said the Noldor would never return to Beleriand, and we all know how that turned out do we not?” Laughter rippled across the room once again. Annúnfalas chuckled, addressing her fellow graduates. “I would like to thank the Dean of course, for helping me find my place in the College of Arithmetic, but I would also like to thank all of my professors for taking me under their wing, Lord Círdan and my friend and fellow shipwright Tharmáras, wherever he may be at this moment, for encouraging my academic ambitions, and I would like to thank my parents Unwë and Annúlinde… for… for….”

For you brought out the best of me, a part of me I had never seen

Silence fell on the graduates and staff of the College of Arithmetic, while many Falathrim had lost a father or mother in the First Battle against the forces of Morgoth, few could say that they had both parents torn from them. Annúnfalas swallowed hard. She had practiced her speech countless times, for days before today without any problems, but now, on the very date of her graduation, she found herself unable to express her gratitude for the influence her parents had on her while they were alive. For all the love and care they had shown her, that drove her to be the best version of herself she could be. Dean Urdusin put a hand on one of her shoulders and Annúnfalas flashed him a forced smile. She turned quickly to the graduates one last time and thanked them for listening.

You took my soul and made it clean, you taught me how to love and in myself, believe

Roaring applause echoed throughout the room, and with the speech of the valedictorian at an end, the celebrations could begin. Annúnfalas abandoned the podium and shook hands with the Dean and the professors of the College of Arithmetic. Musicians the university had hired struck up a maritime jig and long tables were set with a succulent seafood banquet. Annúnfalas dismissed her earlier sorrow and joined in the party. A space in the heart of the dance floor was made for the valedictorian and Annúnfalas danced gracefully and joyfully for the students that would now call themselves alumni. When the graduates had eaten, drank, and danced their fill, the doors of the room were swung wide open and the families of the graduates poured in to congratulate them personally.

But if you loved me why did you leave me?


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Annúnfalas lowered her gaze to the ground. She slipped off her sash and removed her crown of roses, placing them in the seat of a nearby chair. She made her way out of the room, stepped out onto the adjacent balcony, and leaned against the stone railing. Annúnfalas sighed. There would be no family bearing affection and gifts for her tonight. Lord Círdan had been unable to attend and understandably so, Eärmana would not go near an event such as this, Girion had been banned from the college grounds for “violations of propriety” or so she was told, and she had not heard a word of the whereabouts of Tharmáras for some time now. I truly am alone, thought Annúnfalas, playing with the silver chain of a locket she kept on her person at all times. She opened it and looked at the portraits of Unwë and Annúlinde within, a knot welling in her throat and a hot pain searing in her chest. “Always”, she said silently to herself, and when the tears came, Annúnfalas did not fight them.

All I want is and all I need is, to find somebody, could I ever find somebody, like you?
~ based on the lyrics of “All I Want” by Kodaline ~
Last edited by Farewell on Wed Feb 17, 2021 12:39 am, edited 1 time in total.

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
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Iorthon, Thargelion. FA 455.
Don't Look Back.


Snow blanketed the land known as Thargelion, deep and soft. Winters were cold and heavy in the land of pines, but its people were well used to the weather. Nandor and Sindar alike had dwelt among the trees for years uncounted, their villages, towns, and lonely dwellings sprouting up from the forest floors and mountainsides like moss and fungus: belonging and forever. Iorthon was an ancient village, not too far from what had grown up to be the capitol city of Thargelion since Caranthir’s coming. It was there that Capalimo had been born at the height of summer, thirty-five years ago. He was a gangling youth, not yet full grown, with ashy brown hair, pale-brown eyes, a quick wit, and the lean strength of a young person who spent much of his time scaling tall trees. His parents were Breigon the blacksmith and Selchenebeth, who had come with Caranthir’s people to Thargelion, wandered deep into the forest, and never left Iorthon after finding it. She was Nandorin herself, but had fallen in with Caranthir’s folk many years ago, and she had slipped back into the woodland way of life as though she had never left. It had been no time at all before the poet and the blacksmith were betrothed, and the first time Caranthir had come to Iorthon had been to attend their wedding. He had offered them his new-finished hall for the purpose, but at their polite refusal, instead descended on the village with gifts and all of his people who had come to love Selchenebeth over her years among them, to celebrate with her where she was, and recognize the first union between the two peoples. And when at last her first child had been born, Selchenebeth had given him a Quenyan name, for the love of the beautiful tongue she had learned, and in honor of the king who still clove to it. Capalimo, bounding, leaping; a name which had come to her in a rush of foresight as she held him in her arms for the first time.

But now it was time for another child to enter the world. Capalimo hurried home through the snowdrifts outside the village until he reached its packed trails and was able to run the rest of the way at speed, bursting at last through his front door in a whirl of snow and chill air. Quickly he turned and shut the door, shuffling his boots on the mat inside the door to shed their snow, before skipping across the room to present his father with his bounty: a cluster of juniper berries, to make tea for his mother. “Good lad!” Breigon smiled and ruffled Capalimo’s hair as he took the berries, before turning to drop them into the already-boiling kettle suspended over the fire. Reclining in a deep chair beside the fire, her feet propped up on a low stool, Selchenebeth too smiled, and stretched her arms out to her son. Capalimo clambered up into the chair beside her, squidging his small frame into the space next to her, and letting his arm lace over her chest and shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him and cuddled him close. “That’s my good boy,” she said, stroking his damp hair, “Soon you’ll be too big for this, and too busy to fetch tea for your mother.” Capalimo shook his head fiercely. “Never!” he asserted, but followed it with a sigh. “I wish we were at the ball tonight.”

In the preceding weeks, the messengers and scouts that made regular loops through the lands of Thargelion from the city had told the inhabitants of Iorthon -and everywhere else- of the fête the king was planning, and that all were welcome. Capalimo had been wild with excitement, but with Selchenebeth heavily pregnant and Breigon not about to leave her behind, his hopes had been dashed. Like any youth so disappointed, Capalimo had done his share of pouting and moping over it already, and so Breigon raised his eyebrows and began sternly, “Now son-” but Selchenebeth cut him off with a gentle shake of her head. “It’s all right,” she continued her stroking of Capalimo’s hair with one hand, and patted her distended belly with the other. “Next time, my love. Caranthir’s house is known for its winter revels, and don’t you want to go when we can all go together?” She stretched out her hand to receive a cup of tea from Breigon, and Capalimo squirmed. “Yes,” he huffed, “but still.” Breigon laughed, shaking his head, and strode to the opposite wall, where a small round drum hung on peg. He took it down and with a quick jerking motion, sent it winging through the air. Capalimo sat bolt upright and caught it, staring. “Well, come on then!” his father cajoled, “give us a song, and maybe next time the king will ask you to play at his ball!” It was as effective a distraction as any could be, and amidst Selchenebeth’s stifled laughter, Capalimo took the tipper from its slot on the brace, and tucked the bódhran under his arm eagerly as he wriggled up to perch on the arm of the chair. With the toes of one foot dangling over the edge twitching in time, he began to beat out a rapid tune, and his voice, strident and older than his years, rang out,

“O-ro the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o,
O-ro the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o!
Now in that bog there was a tree, a rare tree, a rattlin’ tree
And the tree in the bog and the bog down in the valley-o!
O-ro the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o,
O-ro the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o!
Now on that tree there was limb, a rare limb, a rattlin limb,
With the limb on the tree, and the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o!”


It was an old repeat-after-me song, and became faster and faster with the addition of each successive item to the tree. Selchenebeth only lasted a few verses before she was unable to keep up and she gave in with a laugh, and clapped along in time as Breigon and Capalimo carried on, faster and faster, until at last Breigon too was forced to throw up his hands as he ran out of breath part of the way though the last verse, leaving Capalimo to triumphantly race through ”with flea on the feather and the feather on the bird and the bird in the egg and the egg in the nest and the nest on the twig and the twig on the branch and the branch on the limb and the limb on the tree and the tree in the bog and the bog down in the valley-o!” on his own. They all joined in for the final chorus, and his parent applauded as Capalimo leapt from the chair in elation, and immediately struck up another beat, dancing around the fire. The little family sang and made merry until night drew close around them. A long time later, Breigon and Capalimo sat together on a low settee before the fire, their voices whispering the harmonies of an ancient Nandorin song, and ode to the forests that sustained them.

As the song died away, Breigon turned to his son with his fingers to his lips, and nodded in the direction of his wife. Selchenebeth had fallen asleep in her chair, a smile on her face. He arose and went to her side. His profession had endowed him with a powerful musculature, but it was with the utmost gentleness that Breigon slipped one arm under her knees, and the other around her back, and lifted Selchenebeth and carried her to the next room to settle her in their bed. When he returned, it was to see Capalimo curled up under a blanket on the settee, already fast asleep. The Silvan blacksmith smiled, and made his way across the room in the dim firelight to the door, which he quietly opened, and slipped out into the night. With a sigh, he folded his arms across his chest, and leaned against the door, gazing up at the moon overhead. The cold nipped at his nose and ears, but Breigon paid it no mind. He had a warm home to return to, a wise and beautiful wife, a son of whom he could be proud, and another child on the way. What more could he want? What more could anyone want in life? His breath misted around him in smoky swirls of silent winter- until the silence was broken by the sound of rapidly approaching feet.

When Capalimo awoke, it was to darkness and confusion. In the fire’s umber glow he could see the outline of his mother as she shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Chi! We have to go!” He sat up, rubbing his eyes dazedly. “What? What’s going on?” His father hurried by then, slinging a satchel onto his back, and Capalimo became aware of raised voices outside, and an orange light that didn’t match either night or sunrise. “No time for questions! Get up son, and put on your boots!” Spurred by the urgency in Breigon’s voice he did as he was told, stumbling over the footstool before sinking down onto it to pull on his boots. As he laced them up, he watched his father helping his mother wrap up in a thick cloak. Her face was contorted- not just in anxiousness, but pain, and she clutched at her abdomen. “Breigon!” she gasped, and he grasped her by the shoulders. “You can do this! We will get through this!” He turned to take his belt down from its peg by the door, and the dirk in its sheath upon it. As he was buckling it on, Capalimo darted to the door and began to take down his bódhran, but Breigon seized the drum and pulled it from his hands. “Leave it!” he said sharply, and the boy jumped back, wild-eyed. Taking a deep breath, Breigon knelt and took his son by the hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Capalimo, but we can’t take anything. There is a vast army of evil coming this way and we must run. Now.” Capalimo’s hands began to tremble seeing the fear in Breigon’s eyes and hearing his mother’s muted cries.

“Yes, father,” he whispered.

“Good lad!” Breigon clapped his son on the shoulder and arose. They left the house, and entered a world of chaos. Elves were running hither than thither, inhabitants of Iorthon and messengers from the court alike, who had come to help with the evacuation. But there was no sense of order, and they were nearly run down by a heavy cart as they stepped onto the main path. Selchenebeth looked up at Breigon, and her voice was tight with fear and pain. “We must try and get to Rerir! Surely Caranthir’s hall will stand against whatever is coming.” Breigon nodded, and the trio set out from the village, other small groups headed in the same direction scattered about them When the packed trails ran out they trudged through snowdrifts, Breigon breaking trail while Capalimo supported his mother in his wake. Rather than fading as they drew further and further away from the village, the cries of confusion and terror increased in frequency and volume, as though they were headed towards more chaos. And distantly, there began to carry faintly on winter morning air to come faint sounds the young elf had never heard before; hoots and howls and the insistent clash of steel. He had trained in the martial arts with blades of his father’s making, but never had Capalimo heard noises like this.

His mother’s scream broke his horrified trance. Capalimo was at the head of the group, having insisted on taking a turn to break trail, and turned to see Selchenebeth fall to the ground, supported by his father’s arms. Breigon knelt at her side as Capalimo sprinted back to join them. “What is it? What is it?” he cried nonsensically; there was only one thing it could be. “I can’t- I can’t-“ Selchenebeth panted, her frantic gaze fixed on her husband’s, “It’s coming! Breigon-“ The blacksmith seized her hand and gripped it tight. “Breathe, my love,” he ordered softly, then looked up at Capalimo. “Chi, sit behind your mother.” Too frightened to argue, he jumped back up the hill upon which they had come to a halt and fell to his knees behind Selchenebeth, pushing her up by the shoulders until they rested against his chest. She put her free hand up over her shoulder, and he took it. If either of his parents spoke words as Selchenebeth labored in the snow, Capalimo did not hear them: it was as if his entire being was concentrated on the few square inches of skin that were his hand and his mother’s, and how hers tightened, relaxed, contracted, and squeezed so hard he thought his fingers might break. Elven births were normally fairly peaceful, but Selchenebeth’s cries of pain and fear echoed through the trees, until at last a thin wail joined then.

Once again, Capalimo was brought back to reality, and he looked over his mother’s shoulder to see his father, holding a bloody infant, a tiny thing cradled tenderly in his arms, and his face was alight with pure joy as he looked up at his wife. “A girl!” he laughed, and Selchenebeth’s weary laughed joined him, as she squeezed Capalimo’s had gently. “A sister for you, Chi!” But this moment was all they were to be allowed, as all three became aware of the increased volume of the noises of violence and gibbering cries of the unknown enemy. “Chi,” Breigon’s voice was urgent now, “trade places with me.” The blacksmith shuffled his way back up to his wife’s head and gently transferred the baby into her arms, as he took off his cloak and rolled it into a ball, placing this behind her head as Capalimo moved out from behind his mother. Selchenebeth clung to the infant and whispered to her as Braigon unbuckled his belt. “Come here, son, and take this.” He fastened the belt and its dirk around Capalimo’s waist, winding it about him twice, he was so slim. “Father,” the boy began, but Breigon shook his head. “I need you to be brave for all of us now.” Silent tears were running down Selchenebeth’s cheeks as she stroked the baby’s cheek with one fingertip, knowing what must come.

Breigon stripped off his shirt and lay it across his wife’s chest. His hand cupped both hers and the baby’s back as he gazed down at them, and Capalimo in the background, what might be his first and last look at his whole family. Then he lifted the baby from Selchenebeth’s hands and set her in the middle of the shirt. Swiftly he swaddled the babe, and handed her to his son. “You must take the baby and run.” He said as he took the loose arms of the shirt and used them to bind the infant to Capalimo’s chest. “You are swift and strong and know these woods! Take the baby and run- don’t look back. Don’t look back, no matter what.” Capalimo stumbled forward at the pull of his father’s hand, and fell to his knees next to his mother. Selchenebeth raised one trembling hand to cup his face. “Take care of your sister. Her name is Glîniel, and she’s counting on you. We all are.” With an enormous effort, she sat upright, and Breigon threw his arm about her shoulders. Selchenebeth folded her son in her arms and held him tight, the lump that was the baby tied to his chest warm and alive between them. “I love you, Capalimo,” she whispered fiercely into his ear, and held her children for another long moment before pulling back. “Never forget that we love you,” Breigon echoed his wife, giving Capalimo’s shoulder a final squeeze, even as the first orc crested a distant rise above them. “Now go! Go, and don’t look back!” Selchenebeth released her hold on his hands. “Go, my love! Go, and don’t look back!”

Capalimo fled, slipping in the bloody snow below them as he took to his heels, his arms clasped about the precious bundle tied to his chest. He ran, and he did not look back, focusing only on the snowy forest ahead, and not on the noises from behind. He ran through drifts and slid down hills; he grasped tree limbs to propel himself around corners, he ran and ran until it seemed he could run no more, and somehow he kept running. His boots were ripped away by deep and sticky snow, and still he ran. He became aware of the sounds of battle again, and he ran towards them, for there might be someone who could help, or tell him what to do. He ran, until he reached what he knew to be the southern slopes of Rerir, the greatest of the mountains of Thargelion, where Caranthir the king had built his house and his city. There were elves fleeing down the slope all around him among the trees, and here and there he saw what he was sure must be orcs, in battle with elves, and he staggered to a halt at last, his legs threatening to collapse. Then there before him hove into view an elf he recognized: her face was dirty and spattered with black orc-blood and contorted with battle-rage, but he knew her nevertheless. He had seen her when he was very young and first roaming out on his own in the woods, running through the trees with a number of others, amongst the herds of deer that roamed the mountainside. He had stared openly and received a cheery wave in return from the nís with the long golden hair. Several more times he had seen her after that, until one time when she had come into Iorthon when he was at home, dressed much more finely, and visited his mother! He had hidden shyly until she left, but watched the respect with which all the villagers treated her, and the fondness with which she had given his mother a basket of treats and things for the baby to come. He had asked his mother later, if that was the queen. His mother had laughed and said, queen in all but name. Name… name, what was her name?! At last it came to Capalimo as he stood paralyzed on the hillside amidst the cacophony, clutching the baby, and he screamed,

“Tavari!”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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“Growing up in the court of Lord Círdan was absolutely delightful, being under the care of Eärmana however… was quite lonely.”
~ Annúnfalas the Valiant to Istíldë the Merry One, 3014 T.A.


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F.A. 455
rowing up the River Sirion and arriving at the Pass


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~ When the Bough Breaks ~

The Darkness in the North had come again.

News of the spreading calamity and despair had reached the Beleriand coastland overnight. Annúnfalas had been the first in her unit to see the distant, blackened clouds from her post atop the summit of Barad Nimras. Her elven sight had caught the repeated flashing of far-off volts, the dark billowing tendrils glowing aflame and stretching out toward every corner of the continent like a malignant hand. By the time Annúnfalas had sailed to Eglarest and stepped a single, armored foot on the stone pier, however, Eärmana of the Nelyar, also known as Eärmana the Invulnerable for her unparalleled triumphs in the wars before the Siege of Angband, had already readied the battalion under her command to ride north-east toward Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain.

They had crossed the forested land as fast as clipper sails backed by the wind, bartered for passage when they came to the River Teiglin and boarded a Teleri fleet stationed on the northern borders of Brethil. The long, slender hulls of the white Falathrim galleys cut through the cold waters of the Sirion effortlessly, despite the fact that they were traveling against the current; a testament to the unmatched craftsmanship of the shipwrights at the Havens.

Aergwaew, the Sea Storm, carried the captains of the Falathrim companies Eärmana was charged with. Her standard, a vertical whale with a sword piercing through its open mouth and exiting out of its finned tail in a pool of blood, was caught in the river breeze; the emblem of the host of Lord Círdan displayed on the mainsail from edge to edge. Shields of the high-ranking officers mounted along either side of the Aergwaew and emblazoned with the sigil of their houses, glinted in the dimming light like stars in the twilight.


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“Row! Row! Row!” called out the boatswain, standing tall and straight as a stone pillar with his gauntlets joined behind his back and his sabatons planted hips-width apart on the forward deck. Annúnfalas pulled the cedar oar on her lap in a sliding and stroking motion, with all the strength the lean muscles in her arms and legs could muster, and in tandem with the other rowing officers. She looked behind her toward the rear deck, seeing Eärmana speaking to the chief navigator before the short whip of the hard-boiled boatswain cracked against her gloved hands.

Annúnfalas clenched her teeth, the flogging of the lash still burning her fair skin long after its strike. “Best to keep those dazzling eyes on your oar, elleth,” said the officer behind her. “It is the boatswain of the Aergwaew, in the service of Eärmana the Terror, what did you expect?” chuckled another, directly across the deck from where Annúnfalas sat. “Aye,” added the helmsman casually, joining in the conversation, “she does attract the most frigid of our kind to her side, does she not?”

Shhhh,” hissed another officer, “or it will be whippings and demotions for all of you.”

“She is right,” someone said, “Tharmáras Isilherven is waiting for us at the Pass and we will not get there any faster with idle chatter.”

“Along with that viper of his,” snorted an officer.

“I heard he cast that sea urchin aside like a broken treenail,” laughed a swordswoman.

“... and took a third of her forces with him,” snickered another.

“Well my cousin in Ossiriand told me it was half of all the warriors with her in Ard-galen,” stated an officer seated just behind the bowsprit.

“It would take more than that to pry off that wretched barnacle. Leave her, Tharmáras! Leave her I say!” cried the helmsman in amusement, with a spirited turn of the wheel.

The officers propelling the Sea Storm galley burst into a fit of laughter before singing, much to the bewilderment of mannerly Annúnfalas -


Oh, I thought I heard the helmsman say:
‘Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!’
For tomorrow you will get your pay,
And it is time for you to leave her

Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow
And it is time for you to leave her

Her heart is foul like the seas run high
Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
Her charm is like that of a whaling crew
Rancid and crass and will not do
Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!

No mariner enjoys sailing a rotten old tub
Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
The mariners loathe her, and the shipwrights too
Leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
This company all would, and so should you

Oh, leave her, Tharmáras, leave her!
For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow
And it's time for you to leave her


~ based on the lyrics of “Leave Her, Johnny” by Dave Webber, Johnny Collins, and Pete Watkinson ~

Shut uuuuupppppp!!!” screeched the commander, bursting from the doors of the cabin, “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up - all of you!”

Eärmana charged across the deck with the fur-trimmed cape of her sterling armor unfurling weightily behind her. “I will not have this upheaval aboard the Aergwaew,” she barked, “Do any of you know what they call us in the lands of the Noldor? Well, do you? They call us raft-makers, fishwives, shell-collectors! Bloody coast singers!” She balled the layered plates of her gauntlets into metallic fists and shook them in the wintry air violently, a bright crimson shade coloring her chalk-white face. “By the Valar, I will not have it! I will not have it!” roared Eärmana, stealing the boatswain’s whip and cracking it against the officers on either side of the galley. “Now, row! Row! Row, row, row! -

ROW!”

Silver horns resonated widely like the crashing of stormy waves upon rocks, as the Falathrim warships filed into the Pass with drifting speed. Eärmana stood upon the bowsprit of the Aergwaew with an armored leg bent forward, halos of white light glinting in her gray eyes as she fixed her stern gaze in the direction of the watch-tower and fortress upon Tol Sirion ahead. Annúnfalas came up beside her beholding the grandiose structure that was Minas Tirith with both wonder and dread, for a clear atmosphere had begun to fade to an ominous reddening sky and the icy northern air of the season had become frighteningly warm and smelling of ash. Ulmo preserve us, she thought to herself, as a blazing line of fire approached swiftly from the smoldering north.

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Shytha. A Harpy.
Thangorodrim, FA 455
Dagor Bragollach – Fanning the Flames



The three-headed rise of Thangorodrim had long brooded in silence, but for all that it resembled an almighty barrow, that which festered far beneath its monolithic mound was not dead. Like a single, colossal beast, the host of Melkor had but hibernated, biding time, building up the confidence of those who walked the upside and began to dare believe that they were safe. Still in the deep, the roots of fell malevolence ran swift like arteries, unseen, pulsing with purpose. So that when the hour came, it was the worst fear realised of those above and the culmination of a great work forged by those below.

It was that time.

The wait itself had been a battle for some. She had not, after all, been carven out of molten rock or darkness but had once rent bellowing though unimpeded skies. The furrows of the subterranean fortress, the encompassing skin of the stone halls, all had gnawed away at the good will she had lacked in the first place. Shytha swarmed about the labyrinths of Angband as a wasp trapped in a honey pot. Years of treading careful had shook her into a state of enraging fury and she yearned to break free upon the world, to declare her wrath ! No doubt the method of her Master, to over-wind her like a toy, to poke and prod that hornet’s nest all in anticipation of the anarchy to come as consequence. The Valar help the peoples of Beleriand when came that time ..

Well they might try ..

The hour of that consequence now stood at hand. All had been summoned. Which meant that even he would stir. Which meant that she must fan the flames of her old ally’s fanfare. For she was Shytha. She was not fair, not even in the manner of Melkor’s acolytes who toyed at their whim with disarming countenances. Her eyes, roiling like fluid ink blots, were overlarge in proportion to hawkish features hurled with distemper against an ashen canvas. Slick and cold as is an eel to the touch, her skin was pinched as though it would not quite stretch to mask the cathedral of jutting bones beneath. A wide band of crimson scored across the high reach of her brow, as though there flesh had been seared sure away and fresh blood beaded like sweat, receding like an oil slick into a tide of dark dry hair that fled the length of her back down into shadow.

Every needle-like tooth was a serrated incisor, the grotto of her jaw contorted forever ajar. Hisses emanated from that hole, whispers, streams of malice spilling like a slurry of guts out of an opened wound. Coriaceous sails hung like broken limbs framing the darkness which engulfed her form. She clove through passage after passage, raised just so far off the scabbed ground that her talons, each a hooked scythe of an anchor, dragged along the ground. Turning pebbles, trailing through the droppings which betrayed her frequent pilgrimage, she slowly approached where she knew he would be.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Oct 19, 2021 8:12 am, edited 2 times in total.
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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Shytha. A Harpy. And Konrauko. A Balrog (One of ‘no more than ..’ Seven)
Thangorodrim, FA 455
Dagor Bragollach – Fanning the Flames/Seven Devils



He was, it seemed, dormant. As much as was a volcano that erupts so rarely, entire lifetimes can come and go without ever observing the showpiece firsthand. A little went a long way, where it came to Balrogs. As much as any blaze that quiets, awaiting but fuel to fan it’s flames abruptly back unto an inferno. Melkor’s want was that fuel. Yet there was no telling fire. There was no delusion of control which did not result in chaos. The Valaraukar were not overseen. They were unleashed. And ‘he who arises in might’ was the sole force in all the world willing to commit such a heinous deed. For that, they clamoured, fanatic for his malevolent person. Those demons of all-consuming devastation, rallying to his spiteful insurrections, like moths ironic to a flame.

For all this, the lambent nest of torches idled still, in an .. almost .. state of slumber. The assembly in the Nethermost Hall was more concerned with words for now and he would wait for the impending wrath. Best not show up the supreme lord by suppressing yawns throughout the necessary speeches. Time would come. In time … She … was come. Slowly shadows slithered, fire flickered, the lair recoiled to accommodate his shifting shape, suffocating in the smoke that swept the ground from sight. Either resigned to his hunger or else of a wont to see the Harpy quail, the Balrog rose; a wall of searing, impassable fury which cauterised the rocky canopy above and rolled out like lava to rain al around.

I. Am. Summoned …

The words thundered between what passed for Shytha’s ears, crackled in their own echoing aftermath. She did not so much see the mighty jaw move, as she felt the shuddering syllables hurtled down her arid throat, threatening to choke her. His words were as much a question as he was amused at the audacity of any assuming ‘orders’.

You are in danger of being noted absent,” the harpy flitted, as elusive as is smoke, winging away the worst of his fumes. “The Dark Lord shall not stand for your being belated ..

I. Am. The. End.” Laughter chugged from an impossible bellows. The demon’s legend had bred boastful arrogance. “At. My. Coming. All. Depart. The. One. Way. Or. The. Other. I. Am. The. Sting. In. His. Tail. The. Last. Word. To. Be. Heard.

Amusement rasped about the grand acoustics of the underground, fists shook flurried promises of death, and echoes carried the conceited mirth further than she knew was wise. He cared not. She would see that altered.

Our place is of course, to stand .. behind .. him,” she sidled, smiting the smog about her with the slap of vein-streaked wings. And aware that he would seek to have, if not be, the last word, Shytha departed the smog of his lair. As she expected, he followed, unable to allow her escape him without rebuke. She was too swift for him, too agile. And each footfall that the Balrog dropped mustered Orcs and more Orcs to squall and squeal with delight at his artless advent. Their shadows fell into his mighty shadow, losing their shape, further enhancing him. By the time he filled the titanic entrance to Melkor’s court, it appeared he’d rounded up all vagrant loiterers and ushered them at his feet to their doom.

Tear, rip, and defile everything thou com'st across! Burn every village! Spoil every water! Destroy everything in thy way!

Melkor was just getting to the good part. Perfect ! Heedless of any smaller, lesser things that he saw squashed now underfoot, Konrauko blustered upon instinct towards the largest of his ravaging ilk, the head of their pack; Gothmog. All the better to impress their bulk and brilliance. All the brighter for the peril they presented to be known, to be feared. The legend of their ageless arrogance knew no bounds. The demon’s bulk was lit with fissures of exposed glare as he gave glance with pity toward the dragon. The beast with an inferno enslaved in armoured form. Valaraukar, were both formless and formidable in all their flaming reach. They would never be so contained. And neither in this hour would any of the flames of Angband. The Great Lord whipped such streams of delightful death as had never been seen before, scurrying forth from his mere thought of conception, to engulf the world.

The wet sea waits behind the western mountains,

Shytha. Detailing her directions, as ever. Konrauko snorted, a steaming wheeze of contempt for the water. For all water. She should know better than to think they would scare him off. He had been to Lammoth before now ...
She knew well enough. She knew why and what was done there ..

A great puddle gathers all the rainfall in the eastern hills” she furthered, casting eye toward him only at the last.
He uncoiled, the cloak of impenetrable swelling shadow unfurling like wings, embodied all of embers bright enough to mock the stars.

There are trees in Dorthonion,” the Harpy finally hissed, unveiling her preference .. for him to take. “The vast forest, Doriath, cowering behind, where the treacherous songstress believes she protects her codlings. Craven elfs there and ingenuous menfolks cavort in vain hope the land of Spiderspawn shall daunt all from trespassing south unto their fair green lands. It is small wonder that Mairon takes that path … no doubt to gather yet more of his .. over-legged vermin. The children of Ungoliant …

The blaze of his assuming want for vengeance licked fast near her feet. It was a boon that she was capable of lifting off the ground, yet still the Balrog was bulged with indignant fury. Shytha sidled away, her work here accomplished, to find Eris and leave Konrauko to converse with his brethren. The Balrog Commander, Gothmog was already boasting of his wish to slay Fingon. These Balrogs; so easy to stir toward a target, so consumed by vengeance .. The Prince of Hithlum had, after all, stolen Melkor’s elftoy from torment on Thangorodrim. Such defiance, in the face of a God, could not be bourne. And Gothmog had been driven now for decades. But Konrauko’s flame still burned to melt the gluttonous arachnid. Rumour of her end had not swayed his unwavering ambition, to see the end of all and any that dared even resemble or else resurrect a thought of her.

We. Shall. Be. Beheld. In. All. The. Places. They. Think. Safe.” he vowed before Gothmog. The twin bonfires bent in to bring what might have been brows together, in a lingering respect. “All. Shall. Despair. Before. The. End.

From where she had settled to compare tools with her winged sister, Shytha cast a knowing glance after the booming drumfeet of the huge, departing demon. If she had been capable of smiling, she might have. For a Harpy had her motives, as much as any Balrog. And the fact of using others to turn upon one another, that was as glorious a goal as her dark heart could conceive. In all the years that heir fell collective had been sequestered underground, a girl had to find amusement wherever so she could, after all.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Oct 19, 2021 8:07 am, edited 2 times in total.
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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Thargelion. FA 455.
The Ballad of Breigon.

He watched Capalimo go, a chill wind circling his naked back with drifting snowflakes and causing gooseflesh to spring up all over his torso. But Breigon did not feel the cold. He felt only the warm, trembling body of his wife in his arms, and the stinging behind his eyes. He wanted to weep, to rage, to howl with despair and agony, the beat his fists against the earth and the injustice that was the rending of his family. But there was no time for any of that. Tearing his eyes from the trail his son had left behind, Breigon turned on his knees to face Selchenebeth and pulled her to his chest, locking his arms about her in a fierce embrace, one hand cradling the back of her head. “Forgive me,” he choked into her hair, scarcely able to form the words, “Forgive me, my love,” Breigon pulled back just enough to set his forehead to hers, his entire being focused on those few square inches of flesh as they pressed together, “Forgive me for what I must do.” He laid Selchenebeth back onto the snow and turned away. With all four limbs he dug into the side of the deep snowbank beside them on the hillside, excavating a small cavern, then leapt back to her other side. Ignoring her cries, he thrust his hands beneath her and rolled her bodily into the hole, then smashed the cornice above the opening, burying his wife from sight.

Breigon turned to face up the hillside, in the direction from which they had come. His heart was lead, but his jaw was set, and his eyes were hard and blazing. He lifted his fallen satchel from the ground. There was little in it, mostly what few items of food he had been able to throw inside, but one thing more. This was the bag he used to travel to other villages and dwellings to perform his work, and he had neglected to remove from it after his last journey an item of specialty equipment. From the satchel Breigon pulled the hammer. It was no great heavy iron-shaping thing, but a smaller ball-peen hammer, for shaping more delicate metals, and finishing work. Breigon’s hands, like the rest of him, were large and burly, and the hammer seemed pitifully small, but it was all he had. The orcs could see him now as they descended from above and set up a wild gibber; he cast the satchel aside and set himself, the hammer raised above his shoulder, and his other arm stretched out before him. Though he was not a warrior by trade, he had trained in many of the weapons his forge produced, as well as general martial skills- but above all, Breigon was a blacksmith, and the strength of his hammer-blows was a thing to behold.

The first orc reached him. It came at him with a wild overhand stroke of its blade which Breigon deflected arm to arm and returned the blow in kind. The flat end of the hammer smashed the orc’s skull, sending black blood and bone and brain scattering about the snow even as with a twist of his body the blacksmith flung its corpse aside. He met the next with a wordless roar, his fury at last released in a massive uppercut of the hammer that ripped the beast’s jaw from its head, and as he spun to fling it away down the hillside, he pulled the crude sword from its hand. Breigon ducked under the attack of the next orc and delivered it a stunning back kick that sent it tumbling off the cliff with a howl even as he thrust the sword into the orc that followed immediately behind it. More were coming now, thick and fast, and Breigon dealt out blows with right and left hands, forcing the orcs to come at him one or two at a time on the narrow trail as the bodies of their fellows piled up all around him. Innumerable wounds split the flesh of his chest and back, his arms ran with rivulets of blood from the many cuts that had glanced off him in their quest for his life, his trews were tattered and his footprints were bloody, and still Breigon fought. His throat was raw with the sounds that tore from it and still he bellowed his rage, the last song of the Silvan smith.

An arrow pierced him. It struck his left shoulder, burying its barbed point deep in the joint, and Breigon’s arm fell useless, the orc-sword tumbling to the ground. The howls of the orcs turned triumphant, and they surged. Pivoting on his heel, Breigon backed up the side of the hill, off the trail, above the hidden snow cave, laying about with his hammer, knocking back orcs with shattered skulls and broken limbs and they followed, reaching out for him. From his useless left side, a sword pierced his leg. He reached to batter its owner, and even as his hammer landed, another blade pierced his right side above the hip. Breigon spun, crushing its owner’s wrist with a wild sweep of the hammer, and another struck him from behind. It was thrust into his back with furious force, punching through the ribs and out the front of his chest, its edge embedded in his heart. Breigon’s body arched involuntarily even as with his last vestige of control he wrenched back around and caught the orc in the side of its head with the ball of the hammer, bursting its eye and shattering its orbit. He did not feel the next dozen points that pierced him. The arch of his body had thrown his head back, and he gazed up at Thargelion’s canopy as the edges of his vision began to cloud, not with darkness as he thought it would, but brightest white. The grey dawn sky broke above him as a shaft of golden sunlight lanced through the clouds, lighting up the heads of the pines with splendor, a riot of deep-forest light among the dark green boughs, crowned with crystals of ice.

How beautiful.

Like a felled oak, Breigon the blacksmith toppled. He seemed to hang for a moment in midair as his body tipped backward, then fell with an awful finality, thudding onto the ground below. His body draped over the hidden cavern, and his shoulders, head, and arms, sprawled into the path he had defended, now strewn with the blood and bodies of his enemy. The orcs screamed their triumph and raced past, down and across the mountain, heading towards Rerir with no thought of what their foe might have been defending. They flooded away from the scene, madly intent on rejoining the larger battle, and slowly the sounds of their passage faded. The hillside quieted, the blood upon its snows growing rapidly cold. Breigon’s eyes, now sightless, stared glassily at his outstretched hand in the snow, its fingers still curled around the shaft of the hammer.



To be continued in The Song of Selchenebeth
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Thargelion, FA 455
Stellarvore

Finnbarr’s breath was ragged and uneven. More broken of spirit that exhausted, he leaned against a tapestried wall and closed his eyes. He knew, somehow, that this would be the last time he would ever see these halls; knew that there was no coming back from what was happening. He choked back an angry sob and slammed a mailed fist into the stone. It reverberated ominously. Down the corridor, far behind he and Verco, there was a chittering cry, a shriek of daemonical glee, a roar so deep he could feel it in his bones. They were still coming. A relentless tide of death and dismay. No matter how many barriers the two elves were able to erect, from broken columns to a wall of bodies to furniture packed from floor to ceiling. Nothing was stopping them. Finnbarr and Verco could slow them down, but the sheer inevitability of the enemy would soon swallow up the remainder of their hope.

Finnbarr, we have to keep moving. We can’t stop.” Verco’s demeanor had changed. The glee and ferocity had been extinguished. His face looked haggard and worn, long lines on his face, creases in his brow. He looked almost like a human. His eyes, eyes that had gazed upon the light of the Two Trees, were glassy and tired, there was a far away look in them as Finnbarr finally managed to look at his companion.

“Just a moment,” was all that Finnbarr could say. While never a verbose or witty speaker, Finnbarr could usually find something to break the tension, but his soul was too weary. He wanted to scream, but he had no energy.

Verco grabbed him under the arm and yanked him off the wall. “Finnbarr! We have to keep moving! We have to find survivors. Thargelion is lost. We have to—”

Finnbarr wrenched his arm. “No! No!” Finnbarr shouted with surprising vehemence. He knew that Thargelion was lost, but he would not admit that truth to himself. He could not. Thargelion had become his safe haven, his home, his place of solitude and serenity. He was not about lose it. He would fight until he had nothing left in him to fight with, until his spirit fled his body and escaped westward. He would not admit another home had been taken from him. He would die before he did.

Finnbarr,” Verco’s voice softened as he put a hand on the younger Falmari’s shoulder. “There are too many. Even for you. We have to get out of here, get everyone else out of here before that… that thing comes through our barricades.”

A rancid chill ran through Finnbarr’s body. The troll. It was more like a piece of Thangorodrim broken off and given arms and legs. The creature had cut through them like parchment, had barely been slowed even when all of them had attacked, had ruptured the very foundations of the ballroom with his foul presence.

He swallowed his anger visibly exhaled slowly. He looked Verco in the eye, his own desperation, horror, and melancholy mirrored in the eyes of his companion. He softened. He was right.

“Where?”

“The Library,” Verco answered. “That’s where I’d run if I panicked.”

Finnbarr nodded. “Good a place as any I suppose.”

They broke into a dash, running as fast as they could through the corridors. Every once in a while there was a distant THRUMM BOOM that rattled the floors, walls, and ceilings. Motes of dust filtered down from the great vaulted ceilings. Screams could be heard. Screams of ravening madness and screams of the dying. Finnbarr’s heart went cold.

There was a clatter ahead of them, near an ‘X’ intersection. Vercon was in the lead, he slowed to a halt and put his left hand up, stopping Finnbarr. His right hand twisted around, the three sword whip blades ready to strike. There were harsh voices ahead, screeching and scraping voices that tore at the very air. Finnbarr couldn’t make out what they were saying, their language so filled with harsh, guttural sounds it was hardly different from a rabid animal. He pulled the axes from their holsters and gripped them so tight his knuckles went white. With a quick forward motion from Verco, they charged around the corner and attacked as soon as the orcs came into view. Sword whip and boarding axe rose and fell, slicing through a half dozen surprised orcs that shrieked and died. But there were more than a half dozen orcs here. Far more. The corridor looked packed, wall to wall, with seething cockroaches. Hisses and shrieks met the pair of elves as they tore through the orcs. The orcs had been surprised at first, but regrouped and surged back to meet them. Rage and fire were the only things propelling Finnbarr forward. He cut the throat of an orc, received a spray of hot, black blood across his face. He spat and grabbed the dead orc by the breastplate, using the corpse as a shield and battering ram. He rushed through the orcs, screaming and shouting wordlessly as he pushed further and further into the press of bodies. He lost track of Verco, but he didn’t care. Not right now. Right now all he wanted to do was kill. Vengeance, vengeance for those slain next to him in the ballroom, for his friends, colleagues, and fellows. All dead and tore apart by a living conflagration of tenebrous filth. The field of his vision narrowed with each step he took, but that would not stop him. He lost his corpse shield when a poleax came out of nowhere and split the body asunder. He hooked the poleax and pulled its wielder forward. They fought in a tug of war, Finnbarr having to cut through orcs as they came closer and closer. Wide sweeps of his boarding axes would only keep them so far back. He spared a glance, finally, for Verco, the wild one was nowhere to be seen. Nothing but orcs. Finnbarr was surrounded. They came closer and closer until Finnbarr was nearly crushed in the press. He choked and coughed, the air itself becoming foul. He couldn’t move. He was trapped. He saw the blade that would end his life, a rusted, jagged thing wielded by a faceless creature behind a beetle shaped helmet. The blade moved as if in slow motion, Finnbarr noticed every knick and notch, saw every imperfection in the metal as it surged forward, slicing the air as it made for his chest. Finnbarr knew this was the end. He was trapped. He couldn’t move. He was stuck. Then the blade stopped, barely three inches from him. The orc was too far! His reach wasn’t long enough! The Falmari could have double over laughing. Finnbarr inhaled and pushed as hard as he could against the relentless tide of orcs, but they pushed back and his strength was beginning to wane. He couldn’t keep this up. His limbs were beginning to go numb. Panic, though, kept him from failing altogether. He managed to rip the poleax free with a shove and a twist. He dropped the boarding axe he held in his right hand and began to swing wildly about, haphazardly slicing and cutting at the orcs that swarmed him. But there was no end to them. He cut them down and more came up and swarmed. For every step he made forward, he was forced back two. He was losing ground. Where was Verco? Had he fallen? Despair and desperation seeped into Finnbarr’s heart. He was going to die here and that was that, just another nameless, faceless, bloodless corpse to be ground up and swallowed by the maw of darkness that was coming. His vision began to go blurry. The once sharp figures of the orcs began to fuzz around the edges. The light was beginning to fade, giving way to the inexorable darkness that followed these orcs and their masters.

Just as the darkness was about to close in around him and swallow him up, a bright burst of light appeared at the edge of his vision, like a sunburst at midnight. He squinted. The sunburst flew through the orcs, slashing through two at a time, moving so fast that the orcs couldn’t keep up. They tried to shield themselves from the light, and lost their limbs as consequence. Finnbarr slumped, breathing heavily. His limbs were so sore that he could only watch. His vision nearly faded entirely until he realized… that was Verco! Whatever spell had been cast on Finnbarr’s eyes fell. His vision cleared and strength, such as it was, returned to his limbs. He shouted, throwing the pole ax at an oncoming orc. The spear moved so quickly and with such force that the orc’s head was split in two at the nose, even though the oncoming force had been wearing a thick, weighty helmet.

O the summer time has come, and the trees are sweetly bloomin’” song finally filled Finnbar’s voice. He was exhausted beyond measure, but there was still life in his body, still blood in his veins. He’d been cut here and there and his armor would need serious repair, but he was still alive! He rushed forward, diving feet first along the floor and sliding to his dropped axe, he grabbed it and, in a single fluid motion, cut up, into, and through a nearby orc’s perineum. The orc screamed, dropped its weapons, and tried to stem to flow of blood as his innards began to fall out between his legs. Finnbarr howled with insane laughter. “The wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go, lassie, go?

There came an answering verse ahead of him. Verco, still bright as a sunburst as he ripped through squamous flesh, called back, his voice a strong tenor that pierced the suffocating air. “And we’ll all go together, to pull wild mountain thyme, all around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go, lassie, go?

Strength returned to Finnbarr in that moment. Hope flooded his body and filled him with warm and air. He could breath! He cut his way through a wall of orcish flesh until he stood back to back with Verco once more.

“Fancy seeing you here,” his companion said with a grunt as he slashed across an orc’s chest, sending the creature flying back.

“Couldn’t let you die on me now. Who would sing the high parts?”

Verco, the Wild One, laughed with ecstatic, joyous, madness and howled as he bashed his shield into an orc’s face, the hollow sound of crunching bones filling the air. The sound of his laughter lingered in the air. The orcs were thinning. No, the orcs were fleeing! Finnbarr joined in the laughter and together they chase the orcs until they disappeared down a flight of stairs too narrow to fight in.

The sounds of distant battle did not dissipate, the walls shook and shivered. Roars reverberated along the walls, cracking the foundations with their unnatural strength.

“We have to get out of here. We have to get to the library.” Finnbarr wiped the black gore off his axes. Verco was silent but nodded, his gaze looking worriedly toward the stairs.

Verco! We have to go, that troll is not going to be kept for long, and I have no intention of trying to fight him while on the back foot.” He pulled the elf up by his shoulder and slapped him on the back.

They continued running, darting across rubble and fallen masonry as fast as they could. The entire palace was collapsing around them. They each had to dodge out of the way as the rafters began to fall, crumbling as more and more orcs poured in from every crack and crevice. The library was nearly, finally. After winding through a maze of corridors strewn with the remnants of beautiful tapestries and crumbled marble statues, the great carven doors stood before them. The doors looked as though nothing had happened, as though it rejected the reality of the world around it and decided that it alone would continue as it had been.

They pushed on the doors. But they did not budge. The things were built of iron, wood, and stone, all carved and decorated to depict the glory of Thargelion. They pushed again, but were met wit the same results.

“I don’t remember these doors being that hard to open,” remarked Verco as he took a step back to examine the doors.

“They’ve barricaded themselves in,” offered Finnbarr. “It’s what I would have suggested.”

“Hello in there!” Finnbarr shouted as Verco slammed on the doors. “We’re evacuating! We have to leave! Now!” They both slammed on the doors and pushed with all their might for several minutes, though their apprehension lengthened the time.

Finally, barely audible. Like a mouse sneaking into the larder, there came a squeak on the other side of the door.

“Who’s out there?” The voice was frail and scared.

Finnbarr and Verco, we don’t have time for formal introductions. We need to get you out of there!”

The door creaked open a sliver. A young elf appeared, her hair, once done up in elaborate braids and curls for the ball, was disheveled. Her eyes were full of trepidation, but she opened the door wider. Finnbarr recognized her, one of the many he’d danced with that evening, in a world and time so far gone it seemed like a dream.

Delynna?” Finnbarr stepped forward, easing himself into the door. “What are you still doing here? Why haven’t you left?”

Verco pushed passed them both, into the foyer of the library.

“I… When I heard the bells to flee, I… I had to check on old master Elark. He falls asleep in here sometimes. I had to make sure he made it out. But by the time I found him and a few others still here, it was too late. A horde of… of those things, flooded the hallway. We barricaded ourselves in as best we could. We… we thought you were more of them.” She looked relieved, but not much. Her eyes were still wide with panic. “What happening Finnbarr? What’s going on? What happened? Where’s the King?”

“We’re under attack,” Finnbarr said plainly, his face neutral but his eyes filled with worry. “More orcs than I’ve ever seen; hundreds, thousands, enough to rupture the foundations of the palace. Trolls too. And the dragon.” He would not speak the foul thing’s name, not in these sacred halls.

“How many are here?” Verco asked.

Delynna swallowed, counted in her head. “I’m not sure, a dozen, a score, perhaps more. Counting people wasn’t really a priority when we closed the doors.”

“You did good,” Finnbarr said, trying to sound reassuring.

“Did I though? We’re trapped in here.”

“No yet,” Verco said, his tired grin beaming like a lantern. “Finnbarr’s ugly face drove them off. We have a few minutes to escape.”

Delynna cracked a giggle then tried to cover her mouth in embarrassment. “I…”

“No time for you two to make lovely eyes at each other,” Verco broke in with another smile. “We have to get everyone out of here. There’s… something in the halls and I would rather not have to face it with a score or more civilians to have to protect at the same time.”

Delynna and Finnbarr both coughed nervously. “Of course,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “This way, let me get the rest of us.”

She hurried, passing Finnbarr, pointedly without looking, and disappeared into the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books. A new horror came over Finnbarr as he looked at his surroundings. All these works were about to be lost. There was no way any of them could be taken. He had to stop himself from trying to pull down a half dozen books and scrolls and shoved them into his armor. The histories of Thargelion would be no more, surviving only in the memory of her people.

“We’ll save as many as we can,” Verco said as if reading his mind. “We’ll lose a lot of ink and parchment, but we won’t lose the stories and tales. I promise you that.”

Finnbarr sighed, looked back down the corridor and the dozens and dozens of bodies that littered it, then stalked to a window overlooking the Helevorn. His heart sank. “No…” his voice was barely above a whisper. He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. The lake was wreathed in twisted orange flames. The surface was thick and oily, like something had been poured into it. Something broke in Finnbarr in that moment. Thargelion had been his home, his dwelling, where he could make a life for himself, but the lake had been his place of refuge, the place where he could be alone with his thoughts, his own personal kingdom. Tears welled up in his eyes. Not just for himself, but for all the life within Helevorn. Fish, mollusks, and turtles that only lived here within the confines of the lake. All gone. The Helevorn pike, creatures he’d run afoul of when he first arrived (then became fast friends), wiped out. “I’m so sorry little ones,” he whispered.

“Bright stars!” Verco stood next to him and looked out the devastation.

A roar ripped through the halls. A piece of masonry weighing at least three hundred pounds collapsed, followed by dozens of pieces of furniture from several floors above.

“No!” shouted Verco as if he could simply deny the creature purchase in his reality. He ran to the doors, sword whip and shield at the ready.

A shadow, black as pitch entered the hall. A deep, bellowing laughter followed the shadow. The troll appeared around the corner. Dozen more orcs, hundreds, skittered, crawled, and ran into view.

With a curse, Finnbarr reached the doors and they both slammed it shut and began piling as much furniture, shelves, and books as they could in front of the door.

“Trapped.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Anforth
F.A. 455 - Hithlum - Barad Eithel


A deep dreamless sleep had enveloped Anforth, a young lad of about eighteen summers, and he snored rather loudly in his peaceful sleep, cuddled up under his blanket. However, suddenly there what seemed to him an ear-splitting noise, and for a while he did not react, unsure of whether it was a dream, or was it a reality he was waking up to. The sound of rising soldiers and hurrying feet told him that this was in fact an alarm.

With an unhappy groan, Anforth kicked off the blanket and hastily got dressed. At least that much had been drilled into him that things were to be placed in specific places in specific order so that everything can be found right away. Still half asleep, he buckled on his sword, snatched up the helmet, and holding it in his hand wandered towards the door.

As if the constant alarm bells and rushing people were not enough trouble, the young man walked straight into the door door-post, hitting his forehead against it none too gently. Perhaps he should have put the helmet on before going anywhere. At any rate, he did so now, and tried to keep up with the others hurrying for the muster.

"What? Fire? Dragons? Crumbling mountains?" he muttered, trying to piece together the overheard pieces of information. The whole bit just did not make sense, but then again, he had just woken up and was trying to get his bearings.
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Black Númenórean
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Thargelion. FA 455.
Lost.

He had run with Finnbarr from the council chamber at Caranthir’s command, leading the way to the exit that would take them closest to their destination, the highest observation platform from which the mustered pikes would launch their attack. But as they crossed the threshold of the ballroom on their way, a mass of orcs exploded into it in a cacophony of shattered glass and gibbering howls. Herugon slew one even as he drew the heavy short sword from his hip, and took in the sight of three dozen elves, led by Verco who lingered within the ballroom. Finnbarr shouted for him to get help, and sped off into the ballroom. Herugon split another orc from groin to gizzard and surged forward along the same path he had been pursuing. Free of the ballroom’s entanglements, he lunged at the wall and depressed the stone which opened before him one of the manse’s many hidden stairs, and threw himself inside. Herugon sealed the door behind himself and destroyed the locking mechanism with two crushing blows of his sword hilt, before turning and pounding off up the stairs. What seemed only a moment later, they disgorged him beneath the eaves of the house’s highest end, rising up onto the slop of the mountain. He leapt into the hand tram that was stationed there and bent all his strength upon the rope, pulling himself across the gap between house and trees with blistering speed. Once in the trees, he gained the footpaths of Thargelion, the bridges that criss-crossed from here to there, a swift road for those that knew them, and Herugon knew them all. As he ran towards his goal, he saw the last stragglers evacuating, those fighters who had remained behind to help them now turning their faces upwards the the mountain, and he saw too the many orcs below, swarming their way upwards. There was no help to send back to Finnbarr. Herugon increased his speed.

When he gained the observation platform, Þando was already there, as expected. What was not expected was the heat with which the fighting was already underway, and Herugon listened raptly to the strategist’s precise, clipped report, delivered as if the sounds of the approaching army were nothing more than gnats, and the persistent rumbles of the oncoming dragon’s footfalls mere uncanny tremors. Like Caranthir, Herugon trusted Þando’s judgement without question, and his estimation of their chances was grave indeed. The burly nér looked at the strategist grimly.

“But there is a chance?” Þando hesitated.

“Yes,” he said, with care, “There is a chance. And there is a greater chance still that if we do not stay and fight, there will have been no point in evacuating those who cannot.” Herugon stared. Of course, allowing the citizens of Thargelion, the city and the countryside, to escape was of paramount importance. Of course, his duty of care extended far beyond the martial. But this was the first time he had ever been in a battle where he had been baldly told that the point might not be to win, but to buy time.

“I see,” was all he said, before turning away to address the massed pike-elves, gathered on the far side of the platform. Each had drawn their weapons, and Herugon set about organizing them, rapping out commands and deploying them to the lower platforms he felt would be most strategic, based on the dragon’s trajectory, and Þando’s advice. They were to harry the monster’s underbelly, its eyes if they got the chance, any softer part of the beast that might be damaged or at least cause it to slow down. Their reach was less than arrows, but their points larger and more fierce, and if by their positions in the trees they could reach Glaurung, they might do him harm. It was not the winning pre-battle talk of let us route the enemy and send them home wailing or dead that he was rather wont to give, but Herugon’s pikes understood the situation from his word, and departed to their posts with a grim determination. And perhaps, he thought, help might come. Perhaps Maedhros would send his legions, and fall on the dragon’s horde from behind. Before taking up his own pike, Herugon turned and strode back to the rail at the front of the platform, and looked out over the mountainside below.

Glaurung was coming. The great, golden fire-drake whom he had fought at Ard-galen two centuries before. The dragon had then been in his youth, and still the most terrifying thing Herugon had ever seen. Massive and deadly even then, capable of destruction on a level as yet unseen by a single being, he had laid waste to the plain until Fingolfin’s forces had arrived. The young dragon had suffered from both inexperience and an incompleteness in its armor. Now, as Herugon watched the approaching monster, he could tell that Glaurung had no such weaknesses. His scales shone thick and gold, his body bulked even more massively than it had then, and even at this distance, the Champion of Thargelion could see the matchless menace burning in his enemy’s eyes. Caranthir arrived then, and they exchanged brief words about Finnbarr, but these thoughts were cut off as Glaurung inhaled, and then scorched a broad swath of the mountainside to flaming pillars of trees with his exhalation of fire. The heatwave buffeted Herugon, and he watched his king’s face. Caranthir was afraid, and so was he. There was no shame in fear of this thing. “I told you,” Herugon said quietly, “I told you it was the worst thing I had ever seen. Of all the things we’ve seen, that thing is the worst. We turned it back once, but nothing can stop it.”

Caranthir’s reply was much like Þando’s, that they could try, and that they could delay what might be the inevitable. Not for the first time, Herugon was glad his friend was king and not he. He felt his bravado returning, and his barking laugh rang out as they embraced and parted. Herugon ran after his soldier, pausing only to catch up a bundle of pikes to carry with him, and race off across the rope bridges that led away from the observation platform. He distributed spare pikes where needed, barking orders and encouragement in equal measure at each platform. Frequently he paused to join the action of the pike-elves at a given platform for a time, but and when his bundle had dwindled down to one, Herugon took hold of his own pike and took up a position at a platform midway down the mountainside. They fought downwards against the orcs of Glaurung’s army attempting to climb the trees, spearing and peeling and pushing them off into space.

Archers began to harass them, forcing the pikes to hug back against the trunk of the tree and duck out to take their chances against the hail of arrows. Elves began to fall along with the orcs, and fire arrows to speed upwards. Herugon narrowly missed one by throwing himself flat, and it impaled itself in the pine boughs above him. Leaping to his feet he snatched it from the branches and threw it off the edge of the platform with a curse. As he looked up, he saw, across the path the Glaurung had burned through the trees, Caranthir at a platform full of pike-elves, slightly further down the slope than he was. They were all joined together in thrusting up at the flesh behind the joint of one of the dragon’s front legs. Glaurung retaliated: he raised one foot and brought it down upon the platform in a rending of wood and bone and screams.

“Carnistir!!” Herugon bellowed, the pit dropping out of his stomach even as he dodged another fire arrow. Glaurung shifted, and to his utmost relief, he saw Caranthir edging around the far side of the tree to escape the platform. Herugon punched the air, but his celebration was short lived. Glaurung came for them next, intent on destroying the irritating spikes that thrust up at him from below. “Run!” Herugon barked, thrusting his arm towards the bridge that led back up the mountainside towards the next platform, even as the fiery sky was blocked out by the shadow of the dragon’s claws. His pikes ran, sprinting out onto the bridge, and Herugon followed at their rear. They only just made it before the claws came down, ripping the platform from the tree; but not only did they tear the platform away, they caught and sheared through the ropes that had bound the bridge to it. Abruptly the footing dropped away from beneath the elves on the bridge, and their yells of shock and fear rang out. Herugon threw out his arms as he fell, dropping his pike and managing to take hold of the rope railings with both hands, winding his arms about them. Some of the yells turned to despairing screams as two of his company plummeted by on their way to the ground. In what seemed that same instant, a great crunching WHUMPF announced their arrival at the next tree over as the bridge slammed into it. Another wail, another body flew by, as the owner of the voice was dislodged. Herugon looked up, and saw that three others had managed to grab hold and stay there. “Keep moving!” he shouted, “We’re no use to anyone here!”

Painfully they began to climb, hauling their bruised bodies up the ropes and slats of the wrecked bridge, onto the platform of this tree. No one was there to greet them, but the charred and twisted corpse of an elf, surrounded by the bodies of five orcs. They all paused. All of them had seen death before, but this felt like an omen. The body was ruined beyond recognition, and might have been anyone they knew- might have been any of them, had they been in in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I must speak with Þando,” Herugon growled, “Let us make our way back up! Those who can fight, find places along the way! Those who cannot, come with me.” They set off again, a weaponless but determined group. All but one fell off as they traveled, falling in with other groups that had space and arms to spare. A single nér traveled with Herugon all the way, cradling a badly broken arm. The bones had been pulverized when they crashed into the far tree, his arm extended at the wrong time, and several ends jutted up through the skin, blood scattering about him with every step. At the edge of the final bridge that would take them back to the observation platform he staggered, halting, leaning against the tree. Herugon turned back to him. “Come on! We’re almost there!”

“I can’t,” the nér gasped, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, as if his voice were stuck, “But I can’t, I can’t…” Herugon looked at him, taking in his trembling legs, his shaking body, his wide-stretched eyes, his gasping breaths, and knew there was nothing else to be done.

“I’m sorry,” he echoed, “but this is going to hurt.”

Herugon seized the nér’s undamaged arm and wrenched it away from the broken one, ignoring his screams of pain. He bent down, threaded his free arm between the nér’s legs, and with a mighty heave hoisted him bodily onto his back. His burden secure, Herugon charged out onto the bridge, narrowly avoiding several arrows as he ran, until at last his feet found the deck of the observation platform. It was a mass of rushing bodies running hither and thither, but a pair of healers managed to shoulder their way through to him. Herugon shrugged his way from underneath the nér, setting his feet to the ground, and transferring his arms to the healers, who whisked him away.

“Þando!” Herugon yelled, spotting the strategist, almost where he had left him, at the center of the platform. “What’s going on here?” Þando’s face was tight and grim as he turned.

“I’m evacuating the platform and everyone else I can reach. It’s over, Herugon. There’s nothing more we can do.” Herugon stared at him, flabbergasted, then his face flushed and he started forward angrily.

“What do you mean, nothing more we can do?”

“I said what I meant!” Þando bellowed, stopping Herugon in his tracks. The strategist, a pillar of efficiency and cool analytical reason, never raised his voice, not in the heat of battle or the most vociferous of council meetings. “There is no more we can do. We must get everyone out of here, now, or we will all die. Thargelion is lost, and all her people will be too if we don’t leave now!” All around them elves were streaming off the platform, until only Herugon and Þando remained at the front of it. “Put away your pride, Herugon, and-“ before Þando could finish his sentence, three barbed arrows whizzed up from below and struck him, burying themselves deep in the strategists chest and belly. He jerked and crumpled, and Herugon dashed forward to catch him as he fell. The Champion of Thargelion sank to his knees, gaping down at Þando’s contorted face.

“I’m sorry,” Þando gasped, and his eyes were rolling as his body convulsed in Herugon’s arms, “My son- tell my son- tell him- tell him-“

“I’ll tell him,” Herugon croaked, tightening his grip on Þando, “I’ll tell him, Þando. I’ll tell him.” With a final lurch, the strategist’s body went still, slumping across Herugon’s knees, his eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-choked sky overhead. Herugon could scarcely breathe. How would he tell his friend’s son? Cándo, son of Þando, who also was Herugon’s friend, who had been captain of Ost-bellas and taught the burly nér all he knew of pike fighting. How would he tell him? Was Cándo even alive, after the explosion from Thangorodrim? Would he himself live to fulfil his promise? Automatically, Herugon raised his hand to close Þando’s staring eyes. Someone was calling his name, it seemed from far away. Then there was a pull upon his arm, and one word broke through his daze: retreat.

Þando’s body thudded to the ground as Herugon surged to his feet, following the pull on his arm, and ripped himself free of Caranthir’s grasp even as he turned to face his king. “No!” he roared, “No! We have to stay and fight! We have to stay! You don’t understand, we have to stay-“ he didn’t even register the pain of the blow as Caranthir’s fist collided with his face. But it staggered him and cut off his voice, and then Caranthir was there, gripping him by the shoulders and repeating Þando’s words. Thargelion is lost. Much as he hadn’t felt the pain of the blow, he was scarcely aware of the tears carving tracks through the filth on his face. The only sensation he felt was that in his chest, a pain more deep than any physical hurt, the howling void and wrenching agony that was the loss of Thargelion. The only place that had ever really felt like home, the only people he had ever really loved, the happiness he thought he had found, the freedom of this life beyond the Gelion. All lost.

“You are Champion of Thargelion. No matter what happens, you will always be Champion of Thargelion. Now go and do your duty to her, and get my people out of here. I will follow.”

Caranthir’s words broke through Herugon’s stupor, and he looked up to meet the eyes of his friend, who never lied. He could see his same pain reflected there, but also determination and duty above all. Duty to those over whom he ruled, who lived under his protection, and who were now forced to flee for their lives Duty to this ravaged land that would never be the same again. I will follow. Was this the first lie Herugon had ever heard Caranthir tell? Why would he not come now? What could he do against Glaurung alone? But Herugon had never doubted Caranthir before. He began to feel his breath again, and the world came back into focus, and the noise all around returned to his ears, as he raised his hand to grasp Caranthir’s wrist.

“Yes, my King,” he rasped. Then he strode away without looking back. He stepped into the basket at the edge of the platform and allowed it to take him to the ground. Sword in hand he stepped out onto the mountain forest floor. The orcs had not yet breached this section, but it would not be long, and with every second the dragon himself drew nearer. Herugon inflated his lungs and began delivering orders in his trademark bawl; but these were orders of retreat, fall back, fly to the southern slope, get everyone out, orders such as he had never given before. Those who remained rallied to his cries and did as they were bidden, until none remained but he. Again, Herugon did not look back, but followed in their wake. Halfway back to the manse, rather than diverting to the south, he took to the trees, following the path he had taken away from the house on his way to the battle. He scoured the paths and homes along it, but found no stragglers. Again he diverted, circling around to come to the northern slope that plummeted suddenly below the face of the manse above Helevorn, where a great bank of windows from the library overlooked the lake.

Herugon came to a halt there on the edge of the cliff, taking in what might be his last sight of that view, corrupted though it was. Then, a movement attracted his attention: someone had moved inside those windows- someone was still in the library! He squinted, a cloud shifted, and he was able to make out two distinctive figures behind the glass: Finnbarr and Verco. Elation was immediately followed by exasperation and consternation as Herugon’s mind raced. He stood across a corner of space from the windows, unable to leap the distance, or have confidence of breaking the glass even if he could have. But about his torso were looped two coils of strong rope Herugon had acquired in his search on the way here, and just there, on edge of the roof above the windows, was a jutting piece of stone carved in the figure of an auroch, some stonemason’s fancy hidden on this corner of the house. Cursing and blessing the mason in equal measure, Herugon unlimbered one of the coils from about himself and freed its end, fashioning a loop in the rope. He whirled the loop in his hand until it fairly hummed, and then cast it with the confidence of both practice and desperation. The loop sailed through the air and, miracle of miracles, settled about the neck of the auroch on the first try.

Herugon pulled the free end of the rope to cinch it tight behind the bulging jowls and horns of the stone auroch, then took a firm hold of it in both his hands. They were red and raw from their earlier encounter with the bridge that had nearly killed him, but it didn’t seem to matter. Taking a deep breath. Herugon backed up a few paces. Digging his feet into the ground, he sprinted forward, legs pistoning with all the strength they possessed, until he reached the edge of the cliff and hurled himself into space. For a moment the rope was slack, and then his weight taughtened it, sending him whipping through the air, directly for the bank of windows. Herugon yelled as he swung, and at the last second scrunched his body up as tight as it would go, shoulders hunched, knees to chest, face tucked down. With an enormous SMASH his body shattered the glass of the library windows behind Finnbarr and Verco, and he hit the ground in a bloody roll, unable to escape all the shards. Herugon came to a halt with a crash against a bookcase and at once hauled himself to his knees, flinging his head up and shaking the bits of glass from his black hair, his face scattered with small cuts and ruddy with aggravation.

“Galedeep!” he bellowed, “I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!”

It was at that moment that Herugon noticed the crowd of civlians gathered among the stacks.

“Oh, f-“

Roars from beyond the barricaded door drowned out his voice.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Ospiel Iuliel and Erfaron Silugnir
Scouting. Ered Wethrin, Hithlum. 455 FA - Winter
Dagor Bragollach - No Smoke without Fire



The snowflakes settled like bouquets of frozen cherry blossoms on the barren limbs of slick, black trees; winter making it’s frigid charade of spring. Few were privy to such sights, alas, for high above the timberline, the sweeping stretch of the highest mountain peaks alone broke slowly through the eddying vaporous swirls; an archipelago amidst the clouds. Here the snow would never settle to smother the realm. It was swallowed by the mist, swelling that miasma to a moist, colossal girth. A titan of ever shifting form, the haze conquered all the horizon, warding off the pale sun, and spewing a cold shadow that froze all the earth beneath it unto ice.

Come this time of year, many of the Noldor, now abiding within Hithlum, renounced the cold sheen of Lake Mithrim’s looking-glass. Retreating to huddle indoors as well as they might from memories of the fell Grinding Ice and all that it had cost them. Ospiel, by contrast, leapt at any chance to patrol the Râdelenath, the Starwalk, as Sindar of that region had long named it; long before the Noldor ever returned to these parts. It’s passage staked out all along the long eastern extensions of Ered Wethrin, which stood so high that it was said that you could steal the stars out of the sky. If you could find them. Visibility was veiled here, indeed, the nebulous nets of cloud cast by the Valar to protect their skyjewels; again, so locals did say.

Once about her trek, the Sinda was swiftly immersed amongst the mountain. Coated in such a miscellany of dull greys, off whites, and smudged black hues of intentioned garb, her comrade struggled to hold his sight of her. The clear laughter which accompanied stark blasts of wind were Erfaron’s best hope at detecting her camouflage. His own raiment was all that matched her, for his hair shone as colourless as her’s was a wealth of darkest shade. Raised within the cradle of the Two Trees, far across the Sea, his advantages in sight and strength were levelled by her own insight and speed; the confidence and intimacy of her homeland. She knew every stone and stream, the surest passes and the safest shelter.

He had been slow to acclimatise amongst Fingolfin’s soldiers, though they had, like he, come here as strangers, they begrudged his swifter passage on the stolen ships. It was the Halberdier, Captain Eärcolanté himself, who had reasoned the two socially inept young Elves ought work together, for he had trained both beneath his command since the Dagor Aglareb, and it did work. For perhaps no better reason than they both could stand nobody else, any more than they tolerated each other. And in time, their skillsets synchronised to compliment each other, understanding and supporting to out-perform their fellows in a very specific environment. People of Hithlum who witnessed the two together, would call them the best of friends, but never to their faces. And the pair of them paid little heed to what folks said behind their back.


The inclement weather suited their disdain for crowds and company. The blizzard was not a thing to deter their trek. If anything it coated their intention and better still maintained their secret watch. Yet, as the Sinda turned to find her partner, dark hair spilled into her mouth, fed by the relentless storm. What mirth of laughter might she else have managed was torn from all thought, not only by the buffeting gale. For the swarm of frostbitten confetti which generally swarmed them, that familiar wet kiss of the storm, was altered from it’s melting diamond form. The silken flecks of sky which ought to have melded onto the white might of the mountain were no snow that she had ever known before. That was a lie.

There had been the once before when Ospiel had known dry ash to catch in her hair, and incite her eyelashes to blink fast away with tears. She had forgotten. Had she ? Was this now all some cruel memory she walked in, her mind having retreated from new senses out of some exhaustion, or could it be … again … ? Casting an accusatory glance for her lost friend, she found Erfaron beside her. No memory then, for he had not been there .. not then. Here, now, the papery cinder-fall threatened to subdue his silver hair entirely, and the sight of their world slowly drowning beneath a tide of darkness struck Ospiel as swift as though she had in fact been struck hard, and knocked off balance.

She could not see her feet where they stood, generally had no need to, for they daily ran a path of instinct, veering left and right arbitrarily with arms extended like wings in some play for balance, as though the Mountain was some rearing beast bucking below. They skated over the waxy gloss of the peaks, skimming down and propelling themselves by the impetus of the glide there was no way to control. Now though, running water, … she could feel it swamping her soft shoes. The heat that was ever more readily thinning the air, was also melting the ice. That would mean surer footing but, strange, water streaming. It was not that the Elves of Hithlum were not used to the wet, the rain here was year round, save for when it froze, and even then it wept in slow giant tears. The season was not nearly enough spent to explain so early a thaw. Only one thing could. Smog rolling in like a baleful tide, and somewhere, far beyond where even Elvish eyes could see, even from this height, there rose a shuddering detonation. A single solitary crash. Though it might as well have been a single fissure rent through the entire world. The two Elves met in silent agreement, and they headed for the closest landmark they might make good use of. For their duty was not only to ride the back of the mountain, but to see it shaped as a defence for the exposed land that pooled at it’s feet. And all those who sheltered there, Elf and Man alike.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Oct 19, 2021 8:00 am, edited 4 times in total.
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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Casworan Raxelilta
in service to Lord Hador, at Barad Eithel, Hithlum
FA 455 – Dagor Bragollach
@Pele Alarion



He did not find sleep came upon him easily, whilst billeted at Barad Eithel. Still the Man was swifter here to rise from the modest bed, which was absent the charms of his beloved wife. He was slower to return from dreams where sweet Denela lay within his grasp, and indeed, the hour was premature enough to see him groan in recognition. Had the cruel, relentless alarm call not chased folk out unto action, as was it’s design, the Man might well have turned over and renewed his quest for comfort and contentment.

Casworan stretched his limbs the length of his berth, swallowing a yawn and disappointment as he embraced only emptiness and cold sheets. Unfulfilled, he hauled himself from the covers and fell into his clothes. A bracing dash of cold water from the basin forced his heavy eyes to rise up in abrupt dismay, and once he was garbed in all of the wear he needed, to be counted ready, rest seemed like a hundred days ago, rather than just minutes. So stirred, the shouts of ‘fire ! FIRE !!’ helped to see him explore further still. He bumped elbows with young Anforth as they each found a sense of urgency, and a crowd already pressing along the halls toward the War Room.

The last time that Cas had been granted a chance to admire the astounding chamber, the echoes of a verbal ‘war’ had still shunted all about, in the wake of the High King’s Great Council. That had been the cause to dredge the soldier, and his like, all the way here from Dor-Lomin, as Lord Hador tried to console Fingolfin’s otherwise lack of support. The formidable monarch had met little more than contention after all, when he’d proposed that they ought take their abhorrent Enemy by surprise. Now the tables had been altogether turned. Never had ‘I told you so’ sat so grim upon a fair face, as Fingolfin took counsel with his Mortal vassal.

"The cavalry... almost all dead... or missing. Flames... I am sorry."

As the Captain, Eärcolanté, gave up his scorched condition AS the message, rather than just deliver one, Casworan dropped his eyes to his boots. Partly for the news of what had befallen the scouts out on Ard-Galen. Partly also for the fact that Eärcolanté’s trappings had been all but seared away, still more undeniable evidence of their predicament.

Fire? Dragons? Crumbling mountains ..” mumbled his fellow soldier, even as they two milled about, seeking for some sense to tumble from somebody’s lips. Anybody’s really. There were so many outlandish and conflicting theories spilling over their collective, as to what was happening, that Casworan was none the wiser than he had been, back in his bed.

Try all of those, and more, I would imagine,” he offered his fellow soldier. Their Lord and the High King were waiting, no doubt, on the arrival of Prince Fingon, and his inseparable aide, Verusya. But others were gradually filling the great hall, and Cas caught sight of a small trio he recognised. Ospiel and Erfaron. With fellow mountain scout, Annael. The latter’s partner was not amongst them and this alone was surprising, for always the scouts travelled in pairs.

You heard ?Casworan patted Anforth’s arm and moved to meet the scouts at the back of the room. The Elves halted their hard words at his joining them, but still none surrendered their want to speed their trainer, their most respected officer, to where he ought be tended.

We saw,Ospiel answered, without turning her face toward the man. If he did not know her better, he might have imagined that he saw tears, or some remnant of them staining her sallow cheeks. They were well-smudged, the three of them stood further evidence of what they had survived. So peril was afflicting both the low plains and the high peaks ! What then could they do ? What even could accomplish both things both at once ?

And who of them ought bear Eärcolanté safe to the infirmary ? For sure the need to tend their own was as paramount as rallying against the foe which had threatened them.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Oct 19, 2021 7:59 am, edited 4 times in total.
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.

Balrog
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Thargelion, FA 455
Stellarvore: Blood in the River

A dozen things, a hundred things, passed through Finnbarr’s mind in the tiny amount of time between the moment they realized they were truly trapped and the window crashing in behind them. He cursed his lack of foresight. Of course, they would find a way to come in through the windows. A brief heartbeat of panic, Finnbarr’s breath caught but he tightened the grip on the boarding axes, heavy with blood and gore. A battle cry burst from his throat then fell to a stuttering silence, choked before he could take half a dozen steps. “Herugon?” he muttered in disbelief. The figure stood and gave an exaggerated and dramatic flip of the hair.

Galedeep, I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!

The nér was covered in blood, his appearance, Finnbarr realized, likely mirrored his. He had not had a chance to stop by a mirror and make sure he looked presentable as he fought his way through half a thousand orcs. He wiped his brow and incongruously began to laugh in a fit of desperation. He believed the Champion of Thargelion would very much like to make his threat a promise. But… but what sort of fool makes a promise to kill a man when they’re both about to be swarmed and stomped into the ground? Finnbarr doubled over, the laughter refusing to abate. Nothing in the world made sense anymore. He’d been dancing and flirting and drinking mere hours before. He’d been dressed in red and gold finery and debuted his otter jacket. Now he was covered in orc guts, had seen the brutal, senseless slaughter and mutilation of three dozen of his fellows, and was trapped in a library hanging off the edge of the mountain. He flashed back to the little boy in the boat, there had been blood, fire, and death that night too. Perhaps he was supposed to have died that night and the universe was balancing things out, correcting a mistake.

A slap from Delynna brought him out of his fit of mad laughter. “Galedeep!” She screamed. “Get it together!” Verco was standing behind her, his face streaked with grime, sweat, and blood. Everyone was staring at him. Old, young, civilian and fighter. They all looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Perhaps he had. He still felt the fae giddiness in his heart. He was a dead man just waiting to die. Perhaps though, he took a deep breath and nodded to Delynna. “My apologies, I lost myself there for a bit.”

He looked at Herugon and shook his head. “I promise you, Champion of Thargelion, if you and I survive this night, I will give the chance to kill me.” For the first time in, how long had he been in Thargelion, Finnbarr gave the honorific without a shred of the passive aggressive sarcasm he normally laced his interactions with Herugon with. “But, please, please, help me get these people out of here first. Verco and I found them trapped in here and before we were able to find a passage out of here we were trapped in here has well.” As if to emphasis his point, the doors at the opposite end of the room shook. All the chairs, tables, and shelves they put in front of them would make no difference soon enough. “We have to get out.” He said flatly, looked the black haired, blood soaked nér in the eyes. “We have to. You know that. You know that. I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care if you have to make bloody daisy chains. Get. Them. Out!”

He did not wait for Herugon’s reply. If the elf ever gave one, Finnbarr never heard it. At that same moment, the doors exploded.

Whether by sheer force of numbers or some hellish sorcery unleashed from the Hell of Irons, Finnbarr couldn’t have guessed. They began streaming in. The damn had burst and now the rotting, fetid waters were spreading into the green fields. Finnbarr rushed ahead, axes in hand. The fae giddiness overwhelmed him again. But now he did not laugh. His voice and the songs had been stolen away from him. The only thing left to him was an incoherent scream of rage and frustration. The orcs that streamed in did not stand a chance against him. None of their armor, cobbled together bits of iron and leather and ring mail, could withstand the furry of his blows. The axes fell with speed and ferocity. But the orcs didn’t need to stand against him. That was never their strategy. It had not been in the ballroom, it had not been in the hallway. They simply had to overwhelm him. They had the numbers, incalculable and unmeasured. He was just one elf. No stone, no matter large, could withstand the onslaught of a raging river for long. An orc managed to grab his arm and pull him off balance. Soon he was swarmed, a half dozen of the scuttling monstrosities grabbed onto him, pulling at his arms and neck. He was sure he was done for. He tried to look back, tried to see if Herugon was making good on Finnbarr’s last request. But he couldn’t. There were too many of them. Too many of them. He closed his eyes. As violent and heedless as he was, he knew he was done. A half dozen became two. They were climbing all over him now, like maddened ants over a grasshopper. This was the end. Mother…. Father, I am coming home. Your little boy is finally coming home.

But the darkness never came. His burden suddenly became less. The darkness gave way to the light. He heard someone shouting, but the sound was muted, as if he were hearing it from under the water. His fëa was still with him. Those were not the shouts of his mother and father in the Blessed Realm.

There's a place where the summer will be, as a legend long gone set free.” It was Verco’s voice, clear as a silver bell. Finnbarr felt something get ripped of his back and heard it shriek before the gurgling was lost in the tumult around him. “And this warms me beautifully, where the sun cast shadows at night.Finnbarr felt the energy of the song surge into him once more. It was not his time. Not yet. Not yet. His father and mother were watching him. They saw their boy and he was going to make them proud. Their boy was going to show the Shadow exactly who he was and who had raised him!

Where the day and evenings are bright, the place where I belong. Up north!Finnbarr knew the song. It was a new one, it had just started to make the rounds with bards but it was, as the younger generation of elves might call it, a real banger. The Falmar could feel the rage in his blood, a reserve of energy he hadn’t had before. The consequences of running himself ragged would be paid later; but he was happy to pay that price. He split an orc’s face in two with a downward sweep and kicked the corpse back savagely. “Where the pine trees meet the sea, where the stormy sky will sing for me.” His voice matched Verco’s the kinetic energy of the song spurring both sword whip and boarding axe. How much would be enough though? They were only two men. The damn had broken. They could not hope to steam the tide. The orcs were too many, too many. And the troll still lurked just out of view.

The place I wanna be. Up north!

Finnbarr froze. That was not Verco’s voice. The voice was female, beautiful and melodic. He turned, moving out of the way just in time as books began to fly past him, hitting their targets with deadly force and accuracy. Delynna! She was standing next to a bookshelf, with a store of ammunition that seemed endless. She threw book after book, each sacred page sacrificed to bring them more time, to give he and Verco more time, more space. What was happening? Finnbarr smiled, despite everything. It was sheer madness, but he would have it no other way right now.

Fall, my favorite season. Death and rain and rain and rain.” Once again Verco’s voice broke through the tumult and his clear voice pushed back the cacophony of screams and shrieks. He and Finnbarr surged ahead, aided by Delynna’s books. They cut a wide swath through their foes. The light of battle was in their eyes, the light of certain death. They would not stop until there was a mountain of dead at their feet. Their deaths deserved no less a sacrifice. Twice Finnbarr nearly lost his grip on the axes, swinging wildly at the orcs at they tried to push through him. But he had the advantage. He outweighed everyone in this library with the exception of the Champion of Thargelion. It took more than a few thousand orcs to push him aside!

Falling leaves and fallen stars, as fallen men go back to start.” His voice was more desperate than Verco’s, but the wild frenzy of his movement kept up the tune. He was unstoppable. Rage, fury, blind madness. He used everything he had in him to fuel his surge. He was nearly at the door now. The orcs lay dead about him in droves. They were hills of slaughter. His slaughter. Something hit in the head. A lucky strike from a club form an orc that slipped passed him. He swung wildly, missing his target, only managing to swing at the open air. It was all the opening the orcs needed. He was pushed back again. He lost sight of Verco. No books were being thrown his way. He was cut off. He lost one of the axes. He buried it in an orc’s bicep, and it was wrenched free from his tired hand. He found that suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The loss of his axe brought him crashing back to reality. There were so many orcs. So many foes. Thargelion was lost. His home was lost once more. He looked about him. Bodies. So many bodies. But there were still more alive than dead. They outnumbered the grains of sand on the seashore. They were an endless tide of death, faceless and voiceless. With a free hand, he snapped an orc’s neck, grabbed the body by the collar and threw it back at his foes. He staggered, unbalanced and bleeding form at least three wounds he hadn’t noticed before.

Death as life we hail alone, but not alone we sail!Verco’s shade appeared in his vision, appearing like a bolt of lightning on a clear night. He had leapt off a bookshelf and tackled a dozen orcs to the ground with his momentum. They were not done yet! Finnbarr spared a glance behind them. Delynna was still by the bookshelf and books were still flying with deadly precision. He could see tears glistening in her eyes. This library had been her life and now she was having to sacrifice it, the works of centuries, to stay alive. His heart hurt. It hurt for Delynna having to give up her life’s work, it hurt for Verco, it hurt for all the librarians, it hurt for the unnamed soldiers he had fought with in the ballroom, it hurt for Rerir, it hurt for the Helevorn, it hurt for Carnister, for Tavari, for all the citizens of his home. That hurt pushed him. He punched an orc in the face, teeth flew in all directions, an axe head punched next and the head went flying. Finnbarr looked next to him. Verco looked like Eönwë in all the stories he’d heard of the Herald of Valar. He was here, then he bounded into a fray, bodies exploding around him, then leapt into another cluster, his sword whips flying, slicing the very air itself. Herugon, please, please get these people to safety.

Death give life and lead the way, all energy remain.Finnbarr’s voice faltered. A shadow fell across the doorway. Black, huge, and terrible. The troll.

His skin prickled. This was no ordinary troll, as he’d seen before. This thing was a monster, a beast, a thing born to kill, destroy, and desecrate. It was taller than any other troll Finnbarr had ever seen. It stood more than twice his own height. It roared. The very sound pushed Finnbarr back. He lost his balance and was flung backward as if caught in a blasting gale. He fell into a bookshelf before he came to a stop. Everything hurt. His knew he’d broken something in that fall. But he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. His vision blurred then doubled. The world lost balance and he tripped and fell as he tried to charge again.

“There’s nothing we can do now.” Verco pulled him up and shook him. “We have to get out of here. Go!” He pushed the Falmar toward the window where it seemed that the civilians had been evacuated from. “I’m right behind you, I promise.” They’d only know each other for an hour’s time, but Finnbarr already knew when he was lying.

“Don’t lie to me Ñoldo! You can’t fight that thing.”

“Neither can you, Finnbarr!”

“No, no but that’s not the point.”

Verco coughed, it sounded wet. “No, no it’s not. We’re not drawing lots Finnbarr Galedeep.”

“I agree,” Finnbarr wheezed, the pain starting to make itself known. “Don’t make me pull rank.”

Verco barked a laugh. “Rank? You? You’re cracked Galedeep.”

Finnbarr clapped the nér on the back. “All the more reason to let me be the one to stay behind.”

“Didn’t Herugon promise to kill you after this?” Verco’s voice was full of grim humor.

“Aye, he did. Well that’s just a promise that’s going to have to break. GO!” He pushed the Ñoldo aside and began running toward the troll.

The world slowed down as he ran. Whatever senses he had left were sharpened. Delynna was gone, Verco would follow. He was alone. It was just him and the troll. He smiled. This was going to be worth a song or two in a thousand years. The Last Stand of Finnbarr Galedeep. He just wished he’d get to see it. The ground beneath him shook. The library’s foundations were cracking under the extreme weight, just as the ballroom had. He stumbled, just slightly. The great hammer of the troll swung out of nowhere. Finnbarr never saw it coming, so focused he’d been on the troll himself that he failed to notice anything around him. It hit him the shoulder. Finnbarr felt something crack. Still, the pain seemed muted and far away. He roared in pain, stumbled again but barreled into the troll’s midsection. It was like trying push over a 500-year-old oak. The troll grunted and laughed, the only indication that he even knew Finnbarr was there.

He felt himself lifted bodily as if he were rag doll. The library shuddered again. Finnbarr brought his lone axe down on the troll’s hand, slicing off a finger. The beast roared and threw Finnbarr into a bookshelf. Finnbarr had swam through ocean currents that would have tossed lesser swimmers aside, he’d braved the strongest gales Ossë threw out him in their contests of will, he’d swam to the deepest, blackest pits of night the ocean could device. Yet he flew like a stone. The bookshelf exploded in a shower of pages and splinters. The bookshelf gave way to the weighty Falmar, tipping over and slamming into the shelf behind it. There was a cascading cacophony of falling books. The sound of wood splintering was the sound of his heart breaking, not the mention a few of his bones. He didn’t even have time comprehend what had happened to him. The troll moved impossibly fast. It was more that fifteen feet tall, yet it moved with horrid grace of a tiger. It grabbed him around the middle and began to squeeze. Finnbarr’s armor, crafted by smiths in Alqualondë, began to bend and snap. He was going to be crushed inside it. He stabbed and slashed and railed against the troll’s impossible strength. He didn’t have a chance against something so vast. The troll opened its mouth. Finnbarr watched as the Void stretched before him, foul and putrescent. He gagged at the horrid smell. The odor of rot and decay steamed forth from the mouth of the troll. Finnbarr could feel himself beginning to black out. “Not… not like this… not… no…” In a last-ditch effort, he buried the axe in the troll’s mouth, slicing through jagged teeth and rotten gum.

The creature howled in rage and pain. Its eyes rolled back like a shark’s. Finnbarr held back his urge to vomit. But he was dropped. The troll swatted at him like a fly. By the luck of the Valar, Finnbarr was able to roll just out of the way. He looked about him. Orcs. Orcs, orcs, and more orcs. Bodies of the dead and dying. The library was in shambles. Not a single bookshelf was left intact. There were bodies of elves that hadn’t manage to escape. He searched the bodies for signs of anyone he knew. No Herugon, no Verco, no Delynna. His heart was lighter, but not much. There was still too many dead here. Again, he dodged the troll’s hammer. He saw it coming this time, a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He barely escaped. The hammer left a rent in the floor. A crack split in the floor, splintering out from the hole. The entire room shuddered. Finnbarr barely kept upright. The troll stumbled though. The Falmar on him, hacking at any piece of exposed flesh he could find. The thing’s hide was thick, tougher than any armor Finnbarr had encountered. No matter how hard or how many strikes he was able to land, barely any of them produced blood. The troll laughed; he kicked Finnbarr square in the chest and the elf went flying. He stood. He wasn’t sure how. Nothing in his body should be working right now. How many slashed did he have? How many broken bones? How many internal injuries? He coughed. There was no blood. Not yet. What sort of madness had spared him this long thus far? He was tired. So tired. His vision bounced back and forth between blurred and double. He closed one eye, didn’t help. He charged again anyway. The hammer came down again, Finnbarr slid on the floor, going under the legs of the trolls. He sliced at the thing’s Achilles tendon. It staggered. The blade was true. There was a squirt of black blood. The Falmar laughed. It was the first sound he’d made since he’d pushed Verco away. It felt strange, out of place. Yet it felt right at the same time. This was his home and he would laugh in these halls all he damn well pleased.

“Hey!” he shouted; his voice fully returned. “Your black filth has no place in the beauty of Thargelion.”

The troll stopped and stared at him. They stared at one another. Troll and elf. For a strange moment, there was no sound, no movement, nothing.

FOR THARGELION!!” Finnbarr charged, running as fast as he could toward the troll. The troll began moving slower but picked up speed. The hammer was raised, ready to squash him like a fallen star. Finnbarr, channeling all the nimbleness of his noble race, dodged, managing to leap off the hammer as it slammed into the ground again, creating a third great rend in the floor of the library. He leapt off the hammer and, grabbing his axe with both hands, hit the troll full in the face. The damage was minimal, given the troll’s thick hide, but the force was enough to finally make him move. He stumbled back, lost his grip on the hammer and stumbled back as he crashed over fallen bookshelves.

FOR THARGELION!!” Finnbarr pressed the advantage, recklessly attacking the troll’s expose midsection. He was screaming incoherently, spittle flying form his lips as each blow landed.

FOR THARGELION!!” The world shifted beneath both of them. A sound like thunder shivered the room from floor to ceiling. It took him a moment to realize what was about happen. He was looked to the window, the same that Herugon had burst through. It was too far. Too far away. The floor gave way.

Everything happened slowly. The library cracked in half then crumbled. Everything fell down. The orcs, the troll, and Finnbarr all disappeared in a cloud of stone and wood. He could feel himself falling, but didn’t understand what why he was not flying. He’d been weightless before, soaring through the waters of the great Sea, in Lake Helevorn. Why was he not flying now? He was sinking. Sinking so fast. His body slammed against side of the mountain. He felt himself thrown against what was left of the ceiling. He watched the troll bounce against the mountain as well, Mount Rerir rising to defend herself. He was disoriented, could hardly move, but he managed to stand, despite everything falling around him. He moved from stone tile to stone tile, moving closer to the crashing behemoth. Finally, he reached the troll. He buried the ax in the beast’s knee. It sank deep. The creature roared in pain, arms swinging wildly. Finnbarr climbed up the troll’s hairy body, slamming his axe into the hide as hard as he could each time, and each time great spurts of black blood shot out, staining his armor and the sides of the mountain. Finally, he reached the troll’s head. With a single slash across the creature’s neck, he nearly severed the head.

He would have pressed the advantage again, but the mountain decided that that was enough. He bounced off a stone and went careening sideways. His vision went black. Everything began to hurt. He felt the ground finally stop beneath him. Then he felt the library itself bury him.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Thargelion. FA 455.
No More.

Delynna did what Herugon wanted to do and he barked a laugh himself. He knew there was a reason he’d always liked that girl. Granted, his slap might’ve been backhanded, but at least he and the librarian were on the same page. He listened to Finnbarr’s story, underscored by the pounding upon the doors, and the gibbering of orcs and the roars of something larger from without them. Herugon nodded curtly. He would have done the same, and didn’t have to be told what needed to be done now. Before he could reply, the barricade gave way, and the doors burst inward with all the destruction that the glass had moments before, and was followed by greater chaos. Without pausing to look at what had come, only to register that Finnbarr and Verco had turned back towards the incursion, Herugon turned back towards the window, herding the civilians towards it with his arms outstretched. Quickly he took the other coil of rope from about his body and, hauling the end of the first back up through the window, joined the two ends together with a strong overhand knot to make one long line.

Bloody daisy chains, is it?

Herugon leaned out of the shattered window to look down at the destination he had envisioned, and saw it within their grasp: many meters below the library there jutted out a piece of stone from the mountain’s wall, and the rope was now plenty long enough to reach it. It did not coil onto the stone, however, but hung about a foot in front of it, and a jump would be required to pass from rope to the relative safety of the ledge. From there, one could scramble up the rocks a short distance to the trees next to the manse and escape. Herugon could feel the massed bodies behind him, and their fear buffeted him in palpable waves. This needed to be accomplished quickly. He turned round sharply, prepared to bark orders, and came face to face with a trembling lad, a young nér scarcely out of childhood, still clad in the finery of what had doubtless been his first ball, stained with the sweat of terror. But there was a light of determination in his young eyes, and Herugon paused.

“Show ‘em how it’s done, eh?” he said quietly, and held the rope out to the young one. The lad took it, and stepped to the window with a will. Herugon rapidly explained the plan, and with a final gulp, the lad stepped out into the air, wrapped his feet around the rope, and began to slither down it. When he reached the ledge, he stopped, then with a contortion of his body, swung on the rope and released it, landing on the ledge with a puff of dust. He turned and waved back at the group in the window, a grin of relief on his face. “Alright, let’s go!” Herugon’s voice was gruff and commanding again, and he began directing the remaining elves down the rope two at a time. He was unsure how much weight that stone auroch would hold, but this was no time for caution. Herugon kept one ear on the fighting behind them, glancing now and then over his shoulder but keeping most of his attention on the task at hand. At one point the noise behind him swelled, coming so near that he thought at any moment hands would seize him and tear him away, or a blade would pierce him, but then it receded again. And then, he heard it: someone had begun to sing amidst the chaos of the fighting. First Verco’s voice, then joined by Finnbarr’s, and finally Delynna’s. “Bloody poets,” Herugon growled to himself, but whatever they were doing was working, and he took advantage of it to continue chivvying the civilians out the window and down the rope.

A monstrous sound came from the doorway: nothing like the dragon’s roars, but deep and huge and terrible nonetheless. Herugon turned fully this time, and saw the black outline and shadow of the troll. “Go, go, go!” He shouted, turning back to his charges. Only a few remained, and as they slid out of sight, Herugon called back over his shoulder. “Come on! Get out!” at those still fighting. Delynna came running, her body exhausted with her efforts. Her arms shook from the throwing of many heavy tomes, and her chest heaved with exertion.

“I don’t think I can do it, Herugon,” she said, staring at the rope. He shook his head, and bent at the knees, so she could reach his neck, and put one arm around her waist.

“Hold on to me.” Delynna did as she was bidden, looping her arms about his neck, and her legs about his waist, locking wrists and ankles together behind the burly nér as he straightened, then stepped to the opening and took the rope in his free hand. “Ready?” he asked, and felt her nod against his neck. He released his arm from her waist, and put both his hands on the rope. Stepping back out into air, he wound his feet around the rope and slid down rapidly, bumping over the knot, until they reached the ledge below. “Hang on!” he gritted through his teeth, crunching his body to make the rope swing, and releasing at the peak of the swing. They had not far to go, but still he landed with a stagger due to his burden, and Delynna gave a small scream. “We made it,” he said, nonsensically- but reassurance and sense didn’t always collide. She peeled herself away from him and dropped to the ground, and when Herugon looked up it was to see the young nér who had first descended the rope, reaching out to point Delynna up the rocks. He had been shepherding all those who came what way to go, and Herugon clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad! Now get up there yourself.” A thump came from behind, and he turned to see Verco, having landed on the ledge.

“Where’s Finnbarr?” he asked, echoing Caranthir’s question from many hours before. Verco shook his head, much like he himself had done.

“He stayed behind to hold the troll.” Herugon looked up at the library, and both heard and saw it shake and tremble, creaking under the massive weight of the enemy horde. And from within, heard the first stentorian cry.

“FOR THARGELION!!”

Herugon turned sharply back to Verco, “Get out of here. See these people to safety.”

“But-”

“Don’t wait for us,” Herugon cut him off, “See these people to safety, Verco. Drive hard and get out of here,” he commanded. With a short nod, Verco put out his arm to clasp Herugon’s and was gone, scrambling swiftly up the rocks to where the others were gathered above, sheltering in the lee of the house. Herugon turned back and reached out for the rope, looking up to the ruined manse. Not one more person he loved was going to die on his watch, not one more, not one! For much as their every interaction was laced with venom and their every conversation a duel of wits or insults depending on the mood, Finnbarr was one of them. He was one of them, and Herugon would not leave him behind. Again he grasped the rope with both hands and wound his feet about it, but this time he began to arduous journey back up its length. Hand over hand, hauling himself up a few feet at a time as he repositioned his feet to thrust himself upwards, until at last he reached the window again. Finnbarr’s shouts had continued from within as Herugon climbed. With another great swing of his legs, the Champion of Thargelion managed to gain the floor of the library again through the remnants of the window, even as they trembled around him. Swiftly pulling in some slack from the rope, he wound it about his waist and hips, through his legs and back up in a manner that would make it cinch if he fell. But even as he looked up, he caught sight of Finnabrr, looking back.

Then the room disintegrated, in a massive cacophony of splintering wood and cracking stone. The floor disappeared from beneath Herugon’s feet and he was blown back out the window with the force of the shockwave of air from the departing library. But the stone roof to which the rope was attached was undamaged; the rope did its job, cinching tightly about him as he fell and struck the end of the slack, arresting his fall. He winced, simultaneously heaping silent praise on the stonemason who had carved the auroch. Herugon looked down and saw, on the ruins of the library below, on the side of the mountain, Finnbarr mounting the wreckage to lay waste to the troll. But his triumph was not to last: the wreckage gave way and the Falmar plummeted, crashing into a stone, his body’s descent swiftly followed by the rest of the library.

“FINNBARR!!” Herugon bellowed, his voice hoarse against the avalanche of wreckage. “Finnbarr!!” Reaching as high above himself as he could, Herugon hoisted himself up enough to released the tension on the rope around his body, and by separating and manipulating his legs, freed himself of the rope’s rescuing grip. His shoulders afire, the burly nér slid down the rope as fast as he could, past the ledge the others had departed onto, right to the end of the double-length’s reach. There was another ledge nearby, which required a greater swing: without any thought but getting to the bottom of the mountain as quickly as possible, Herugon crunched his abdomen and swung his legs, backward and forward until his arc was large enough. His release was slightly early, and her careened through the air on just barely enough on an arc to gain the ledge. He teetered on its edge, then by dint of throwing himself flat upon the ground, gained its safety. Herugon pushed himself to his feet and stepped back to plant his back against the side of the mountain, slumping slightly into the arms of Rerir. He stared at the sky, all burnt orange and red, tainted by smoke and terror. The distinctive smell of burning pine was on the air, and he could not bear to look at Helevorn below, its waters aflame by some foul means. Briefly he closed his eyes, and imagined the lake as it had been, sparkling beneath a high summer sun, filled with laughter and his people at play. Shining beneath the moonlight, flickering in the flames of bonfires on her shores as the elves of Thargelion danced beneath the stars. Rerir breathed her strength into Herugon, and he opened his eyes.

The journey down the rest of the mountain face was not easy, but Herugon knew it like the back of his hand. He scrambled and downclimbed until he reached the edge of the rocks, then ran with such recklessness that frequently he fell through open air on his stride, until he reached the flat place amongst sparse trees where what had once been the library had come to a halt. Zeroing in on where he thought he had seen Finnbarr fall, Herugon climbed the wreckage. Troll blood was everywhere, and the carcass of the beast was there too, half buried. He ignored it, ripping apart tangled webs of wood, throwing aside rocks and books, and calling out for Finnbarr, until at last he saw: a gleam off the gaudy pearls that adorned the Falmar’s armor. Internally apologizing for every time he had insulted the things, Herugon pulled aside the shattered remnants of a bookcase that had remained atop his quarry. Seizing Finnabrr under the arms, he backed up, staggering and stumbling on the wreckage, dragging him out until they were clear of the worst, then laying him down upon the ground. Herugon fell to his knees beside Finnbarr and turned him over onto his back. The creaking and unnatural movement that had come from his limbs indicated grievous injury, but when Herugon held the back of his wrist to Finnbarr’s mouth, there came a faint heat and breath.

Alive.

Herugon collapsed in on himself, slumping until his arms and his forehead both rested on Finnbarr’s chest. His breathing was ragged and stertorous, and suddenly all the physical pain of the battle and the rescue flooded into him. He had felt greater acute pain, but this was a soul-crushing universal ache that, combined with the existential despair he now fought to suppress, Herugon knew would make what he must do next all the more difficult. Abruptly he sat back on his heels and gave vent to an explosive exhalation, hands on his hips as he contemplated this new task. He was no healer, and even if he was, he had no tools or medicines at his disposal. He could only hope that Finnbarr would remain unconscious long enough to get to someone who could actually help him before he expired. Not one more. Resigning himself to what he now viewed as the inevitable, Herugon shuffled into position beside Finnbarr and seized one of his arms by the wrist, pulling it up over his own shoulder as he thrust out one leg into a lunge and leaned his torso down. In the same maneuver he had used to lift the nér with the broken arm what seemed like an eternity ago, he hoisted Finnabrr onto his back with a grunt of exertion. The Falmar, while not tall, was nearly as solid as Herugon himself, and considerably heavier than his earlier burden. The pearls of his armor dug painfully into Herugon’s shoulder and the back of his neck, but he knew not what injury might lie beneath them. Steadying the Falmar on his shoulders with both hands, Herugon thrust himself to his feet.

“Still going to kill you, Galedeep,” he muttered.

The Champion of Thargelion surveyed his surroundings one last time, before beginning the long, lonely trek around the base of the mountain, the enemy at all sides, and his precious burden on his back.

Not one more.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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I’m a Delight
Thargelion, FA 455

(Private)

The hrovaquendi rolled her eyes. Balls and masquerades were stupid anyway. Why had she thought she'd be allowed in? She'd managed to peak in and saw that even the poorest dressed fop was dressed in finer clothing that she'd ever managed to stitch together. Illuya eyed the fussily dressed porter, his eyes half hidden behind rose-colored pince-nez. His nostrils were flared as if he smelt something rotten. She knew it wasn’t her, she’d made sure to bathe before attempting the party, she even used the fancy oils and soaps these Ñoldor brought back with them. Personally, she found them to highly overfragrant and irritating and made her eyes water. “Ma’am…” he said as though he expected her to know what to do. His lips twisted in bewildered annoyance. It wasn’t her fault she had no idea what the protocols were. The festivals and blóts the Nandor celebrated were nothing on this level. The extravagance made her both envious and nauseous. The music was better though. Even from without the hall, she could tell the musicians were of the high-class variety, playing songs she’d never heard of on instruments she’d never seen.

“What?” she finally said, mirroring his look of annoyance and befuddlement.

“Ma’am…” he started again and paused, peering over the rim of the glasses. He looked constipated. “I’m afraid that without an invitation you cannot be allowed to participate in the night’s festivities. And you…” he paused and looked again at her outfit, a dyed leather jerkin with a crisp white tunic, and woolen trousers, “are not dressed properly for such an auspicious event.” With that, he went about as if she was not standing five feet away from him and they were not the only two people in the hallway.

It was odd that she’d managed to make it into the palace of Thargelion at all, now that she thought of it. She was not a citizen, she was not a guest, yet here she was. She shrugged, made a dramatic sigh of agitation, and turned to go. She’d come in hopes for an audience with the king. While most of her people had collectively decided fighting in these wars was an ill-conceived venture, she had not. The contrarian outlook had, among other things, made her an outcast. She was often at odds with members of her family and the community at large. No matter how often she had tried to be persuasive in the arguments for allying with the Sindar and the Ñoldor against the powers of Morgoth she was rebuffed and branded a hrovaquendi: wild elf. She was a woman of impetuous mood and fiery temper. Effectively, Illuya had been exiled. She sought out distant kin in Doriath, Himlad, and Ossirand but all the responses had been the same. She was too wild, too volatile. It hadn’t help that often after being told this and denied sanctuary she would fly in a rage and break things. She earned the nickname “Barbarian” for that. She was running out of places to go. Thargelion was one of the last places any of her kind lived in any quantifiable number, and by the look of things, that opportunity was slipping like sand through fingers.

She felt angry, she felt desperate. She wanted to break something. She wanted to break a lot of things, maybe even a few someones. The shrimpy little dandy could easily suffice. Her fingers itched. Best not said her oft ignored inner voice. Being hunted is the next rung down, do you really want to take it? Did she? At least then she’d be noticed. She cracked her knuckles, considering. No. No, it was not what she needed now. She had a long, long journey back over the Ered Luin and into the ancient forests beyond.

“When do you think the next audience will be?” She asked, stalling for time for reasons beyond her.

“What?” the little toad had forgotten about her! She was standing right there! What was…

“The. Next. Audience.” She said with deliberately slow, forceful tone. “When?”

“I don’t know what you mean… ma’am. King Caranthir isn’t having an audience at the ball.”

“I can bloody tell, you addle brained sycophant. And do not call me ma’am again, or I will rip out your tongue.”

Well that did it. Or at least it was going to. The doorman went pale, his ugly face turned even uglier as he rang a bell. Three guards in full armor appeared out of thin air. “This… this woman has no invitation. She must be removed from the confines of the palace before his majesty hears about gatecrashers.”

The guards moved toward her; she took a step back. Then everyone froze. Panic started in the ballroom. Something was happening. Something bad. She took the momentary reprieve to run back in the direction she came. The guards were distracted, and they were slower. Whatever was going on out there was not her concern. Royal dramatics were of no interest to her. She darted down the halls, becoming lost and frustrated. Then things began to get worse, as if they could. Warning bells and horns began to sound through the complex. Whatever was going on was not royal dramatics, unless royal dramatics had included an assassination. But the air was different, there was panic in the wind, not rage. Something very bad was happening. Several people rushed by her as she stopped to catch her breath, barely heeding her existence. They weren’t just rushing; they were running for their lives. What in the black stars was going on? She looked north and saw it. Fire. More fire than Illuya had ever seen, moving as if it was sentient, as if it had a mind and a purpose. A chill ran through her veins. It could only mean one thing. It was not something that was coming, it was a someone. She gulped but found it hard to swallow, her mouth was dry and her throat went numb. This was very bad.

Instinctively, she went for her weapon, a great war hammer with a handle as tall as she was. It was not there. She cursed. She had been forced to surrender it when she arrived. But she was lost in a maze of screaming, panicked people. She barely had any sense of direction. If it had not been for the fires, moving impossibly fast, she would have no idea where anything was. There was a window in front of her though. She looked out and down at a courtyard maybe thirty feet below.

“Well, at least I’m not gonna fall down the mountain,” she mused. She took a few steps back, judged the distance, then leapt. She crashed through the glass like a bolt of lightning. The sound though, barely made a wave against the sounds of terrified people, bells, and the call to arms.

Perhaps she could join in the fighting, show off her skills for the king firsthand, distinguish herself, and be offered sanctuary. For a brief moment, she thought it was a brilliant idea. Then the sounds of the enemy reached her ears. They were still a long way off and nothing was clear. Except one thing. This place was no longer going to be a sanctuary. Not for her, not for anyone. The flames roared like something was in them. Something was in them, she realized. What sort of hellish monster had Morgoth unleashed on Thargelion? Illuya didn’t want to wait and find out. That knowledge meant death, and she very much preferred to stay alive.

She brushed the bits of broken glass out of her flaming red hair and sped on out of the courtyard, looking for a way out of this doomed city. Within the space of a few minutes the place had gone from cacophonous to utterly silent. She was running through a graveyard; the only sound was her breathing.

Then the fighting started.

The hrovaquendi could hear the sounds of screams, of fire, of death all around her. She was so focused on the sounds that her attention drifted for half a heartbeat. In that heartbeat, someone rounded the corner, wielding a sad looking dirk. She crashed into him so hard he dropped the blade and wailed as his head bounced off the pavement.

“You!” he screamed.

Indeed, it was her. But who was… oh. It was the pince-nez wearing doorman. He was no longer wearing them. He was still dressed in ballroom finery, but he had armed himself with a dirk, though clearly whatever training he had with it didn’t include how to hold onto it after encounter anyone.

“You!” he screamed again.

Yes, it was still her. “Raging billferny man, yes, it’s me. What does that have to do…”

“You’re a spy. You’re a foul creature of…”

She pulled him up off the ground, yanking his bodily into the air like flailing baby bird, then slapped him as hard as she could. Her hand stung and came away with blood. “Be quiet you moron!”

“You, you were sent to kill the king. I knew it! I…”

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by the sound of something crashing and breaking. Orcs. It would have be orcs. What else could it be? They came in like a flood, a singular seething mass of bodies. The air turned foul as soon as they rounded a corner. They began hacking and slashing and burning everything they saw. Without thinking Illuya grabbed the dirk the man had dropped and charged into the fray. She was not as good with a dirk as she was with her war hammer (it was hard to knock heads off with a dirk) but she was fast enough and strong enough that hopefully she could cause some damage, get them to flee. Orcs were cowards, they would run from anything they saw was too strong for them. She tore through the first orc with a jab through his middle that came out his back, his momentum carried him through her, her arm ripping through his guts until she held his heart skewered on the other side. She tossed the blade in the air, twisted around to pull her arm free, the grabbed the dirk with her free hand, switching the grip so she held it ready to stab upward. She brought the dirk through the skull of an orc screaming some obscenity in her face, she shrank back as the smell of brain and bad breath filled the air. A dozen more crowded her, but she was too fast for them, her ferocity overwhelming her sense of self-preservation.

She cut through them like butter, a half dozen steps later and she was covered head to foot in blood. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered if the man had managed to get his scrawny ass to safety, but that was far in the back of her mind. All that mattered right now was killing. Blades bounced off her, turned just right so that she was able to dodge the worst of the blow, deflect, or make them miss altogether. Whatever reprieve she was given by their hesitance was met with mad, blood boiling rage. She was not called barbarian and hrovaquendi just for show. She threw herself at the orcs. She’d lost her grip on the dirk, buried in the chest of some sad creature. She tore off the arm of another and beat a third with it until his head caved in. She wrenched a crude club from one of them and shattered the spine with a single blow. The club cracked and splintered though. The next orc she met was greeted with a splintered piece of wood through his face. He fell and had his head stomped to mushy pink and red pulp. The orcs did not flee though. Their numbers were vast. Her rage, though, was equally vast. She snapped an orc’s neck and used his body as shield, barreling headlong into the throng, bowling them out of the way, knocking them flat and stamping them as she went as if she were a mighty stallion. Finally, she ripped off the orc’s head and threw it, knocking another off balance long enough for her to grab his sword and stab him through the chest with it. How long had she been fighting? She had no idea, it didn’t matter.

There were still more orcs. So many orcs. How many of these vile monsters had come to Thargelion? How many had Morgoth held in reserve? The sheer number must have been staggering. Where else were they? Had they attacked all at once? Was Thargelion alone to hold the ire of the black enemy? Why was it so hot? The fires had reached the mountain. Those half living flames that sought to devour and consume. There was a great roaring above her, worse than any crack of thunder she’d ever heard before. She dropped and covered her ears; instantly brought back to that time she was a child and terrified of the storms that swept through the forests. It was only a second, but the swarm of orcs fell on her. How many? Surely, she was going to be crushed by the sheer weight of the monsters. No. She was not going to be defeated like this. She was not going to die in some nameless doomed courtyard amidst a thousand orc corpses. She found her second wind and pushed off. Her legs burned like the fires all around her. She grabbed a fallen bit of masonry and smashed an orc’s skull, kicked him forward, and bought herself some room. She threw the rubble at the next orc that approached her. They were still coming. An endless horde of filth and villainy. All the buildings around her were aflame now, tongues of fire licking the dry wood. She ran. She hated it, but she knew she had to do it. She ran and ducked behind a flaming building, a haberdashery or what remained of one. The building was tall, but the fires had gutted it. They were still coming. They were never going to end. She had only one choice. She turned to face to building and groaned. This was not how she had thought this night would go. She pushed. She pushed with all the strength she had in her. All the rage, all the fire, all hatred and frustration and anger she had kept stockpiled inside burst forth. She pushed. The building creaked and groaned. But slowly, inch by inch, it began to give. The fire had destroyed so much of the building it was like pushing over the skeleton of a giant. Finally, gravity took over for her and the building careening sideways, exploding as it crashed to the ground. It had fallen the way she’d hoped, just so that fire blocked the path of the orcs. She looked down the alleyway, the idiot doorman was still there! She howled and ran to him, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him hard enough to nearly rip the arm of out of the socket.

“Come with me if you want to live.”

He followed her wordlessly, both of them running as fast as they could through smoke choked alleyways. The stars had been blotted out by the darkness sent forth from Angband. Illuya was not one to fear often, but tonight, she was very, very afraid. Soon it became clear that she was still lost, still a rat in a maze.

“Where are we? How do we get out of here?” she pulled him forward and slammed him against a wall.

“I… I… you, and then the… the fires… but you, I,” he babbled between huge gasps of air. He looked like a fish. Clearly he was going to be no help.

She slapped him. “Focus! If you don’t tell me how to get out of here, we’re both going to die. I need my hammer. Where do they keep the weapons they steal from guests?”

“Steal? I, I, I, we do not…” she slapped him again. He wailed. “This way,” he said, finally cowed.

They ran on for several more blocks, hiding in abandoned buildings as orcs continued to swarm inside. Her lungs were on fire, she had to fight for every breath and every breath felt like she was inhaling the fires of Angband. Her eyes stung. She’d been wounded in a dozen different places; a leather jerkin was no substitute for armor. She would worry about that later.

“You’re wounded,” the man said, stating the obvious.

“Yes,” Illuya responded flatly, “but we’re alive thanks to me.”

Maludor,” he said, almost sheepishly.

“What?” she squinted at him, wanting to kick him.

“My name. It’s Maludor. What’s yours?”

“Too busy not dying to give you name. C’mon, the cost is clear. Where is my hammer?”

They continued. The shrieks of the orcs were all around them now, there must have been thousands here, every crack and crevice bursting with the monsters. The gateway loomed large then, a great piece of stonework and craftmanship. It was now barely more than a hulking ruin; the gates had been ripped off the hinges and the stones torn down. Somehow, though, the majority of the towers stood. She recognized the place. She’d entered here, had left the weapon she cared for like a child here. She could almost hear the hammer calling her. She swung up on the door to the guardroom. The door crumbled. She shrugged and moved inside. Maludor behind her, crowding her.

“You know, earlier you thought I was a spy sent to kill the king. Now you won’t let me breath without feeling me up. What’s your bloody deal?” She didn’t look at him, her eyes scanning the rubble.

“I’m sorry, I panicked. I, I thought you were a…”

“I’m a hrovaquendi, not a bloody traitor,” she spat. “Aha!” she found it. Buried under a desk and the remains of a fresh faced young ellon marred with blood and a look of everlasting horror. She closed his eyes and took the hammer.

“What now?” the doorman asked?

“Now, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Can, can I come with you?”

She turned and looked askance at him. “Excuse me, what? You want to come with me now?”

“Well, you did say… to come with you if I wanted to live.”

She growled and pushed him aside. “I meant the courtyard, you pudding headed lump.”

“Still…”

Again, his words were drowned up by the screaming of orcs. They’d been found. Illuya could feel the ache in her muscles, in her bones, but she had her hammer. She rushed through the gateway and was met by half a dozen orcs, all well armed and armored, but she had her hammer. The first orc met the hammer in chest and was knocked back into the wall on the other side of the gatehouse that he nearly exploded, cracking the façade. The next orc faired a little better, he managed to sidestep her first strike, but the weight of the massive hammer carried her forward and through to another swing that caught him in the shoulder. He screamed and stabbed at her. The blade nicked her shoulder, nearly skewering it. She roared in his face, swung up then down again and the orc’s head disappeared, moshed into his chest. The body fell limp. The rest of them faired no better, the next was decapitated by a wild swing, the next managed to get in a slice across her chest but paid for it by getting thrown against the wall by the hammer’s head. The rest fled, shrieking into the city. Illuya had half a mind to follow them and finish them off. But something stopped her. She felt her ribs and found a bone sticking out. She screamed in pain as she pushed the bone back inside.

“You’re a madwoman!” the doorman, Maludor, said, his mouth agape.

She gave him an insincere smile. “No, I’m delightful.”

Then the bolt of lighting struck her and the world went blank.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Warden of Tower
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Anforth
F.A. 455 - Hithlum - Barad Eithel


If anything, the young soldier was even more confused than he was before arriving at the hall: too many news, too many interpretations, it all tumbled down on his still sleepy and inexperienced mind and he had found no means to counter it. And if things were this bad - what could they even do against it all?

Casworan seemed to be the only one to provide some sense of stability to Anforth, so he made the only reasonable decision to keep near him at all times until some other order was given. So it was that he found himself staring at the scouts, and the some consequences of the said awful circumstances manifested in Eärcolanté, though he paid little attention to their words.

"What can we even do?" he asked again, this time speaking the words quietly, mostly for Casworan's ears. Surely they could not bring the sea to quench the fires... For a fleeting moment a thought came into Anforth's mind that perhaps he should run away and save his skin. He quickly rejected the thought though - after all he had come here to fight and save the others.

@Ercassie
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Melviriel and the Hunting Parties - Nandor
The Refugee camp, River Mindeb

Many elves with strong arms and swift arrows were gathered, their eyes were filled with question at a girl with a light bow less than half the draw of theirs being put in charge of them. She swallowed back her nerves she had never needed to command anyone before nor had she ever had any task other than to fill the belly of her own family.

"I-"

"Beleg has us under the command of a little girl" Came the bark of one of the men and Melviriel shut her mouth and stepped back her lips pressing together and she glanced down.

"Yes." She said trying to keep the shake out of her voice. "I know the woods and the paths you are going to be hunting. Perhaps better than Beleg himself." This brought a snort from several of the parties, she glanced around, she didn't want to call on Beleg or her father in order to get these men to respect her. She had a feeling that was going to be a losing battle.

"And why should we believe that?"

"Because the deer your family is eating right now while we get more food for them was brought in by me and my bow from Brethil." She snapped. "I have hunted these woods since my father became a warden under Beleg. I have learned to shoot with a elf that fights beside Beleg - and he's the one that ordered you to follow me. So you are questioning his judge of character because what? I do not hunt with a heavy draw bow? Go back and tell your women and children that their meals are coming from a little girl because your have too much pride, enjoy the venison I brought for you I'm sure they want less. It is probably for the best the lot of you are as loud as orcs." With that she turned and started to head for the forest angry that they would question her and dismiss her so thoroughly.

She had made it perhaps twenty strides when she turned and glared at the men that were now following her. Several had gone away including the ellons that had questioned and laughed at her. There were three left and she looked at them and felt like she was failing Beleg and her father that she couldn't get them all to follow her. She let out a sigh.

"Right one of you will come with me the other two I will set on a boar trail - my bow can not bring them down it is not strong enough so they are plentiful they are the only thing that I cannot bring down." This brought a nod from them and with that they kept going "Have either of you gone after boar before?" She asked they shook their heads no. She had to admit that she had expected that nobody hunted boar unless they had to or there was some feast that they wanted a show piece whole roasted pig for.

"Aim for their chest and sides not their head, their skulls are too thick your arrows won't penetrate. If you miss make sure you can get up a tree and a big one as big as your torso at least for a trunk. Smaller and the bigger boars will root them out and you'll go crashing down and become boar food." Another nod as the small group reached the forest paths.

"When are we splitting up?"

"When I find a boar trail for you to go down that isn't made by one of the great boars or sows. I'd rather have you dealing with two or three small ones than one of those." With that she slipped into the woods and the three ellons followed for the time being trying to follow her as quietly as they could realizing that she was moving so quietly in the woods no wonder she had called them all orcs. Compared to her they were as loud as the fouled creatures.

"Are you a green elf?" The one asked and Melviriel glanced back at them.

"I was born in the Green elf lands, but I have been raised in Doriath for almost as long as I can remember but I prefer the woods compared to the caverns." She said softly and motioned for them to be quiet the more noise they made the harder it would be fore her to find more deer or birds or rabbits.

Steward of Gondor
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"But after a time the Elf-kings, seeing that it was not good for Elves and Men to dwell mingled together without order, and that Men needed lords of their own kind, set regions apart where Men could live their own lives, and appointed chieftains to hold these lands freely. They were the allies of the Eldar in war, but marched under their own leaders. Yet many of the Edain had delight in the friendship of the Elves, and dwelt among them for so long as they had leave" - Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Coming of Men into the West



Glamion
Captain in the Order of the Beryl*
(a company of Men in alliance with the Nargothrond Elves)

Talath Dirnen
It was troubling times for all, it would seem. Danger, and war, seemed to be coming, and there was no use in trying to hide from it. Thus Glamion had told his wife after hearing King Finrod's stirring speech, inspiring many to want to ride with the elves to the Fens of Serech. Though he hated to see Claurel looking so troubled, he knew not how long this place would be safe. Talath Dirnen had been home for his family for many generations. He had loved it here, growing up. His children loved it here also, but now, Glamion deemed that it may not be the safest place for them, and so had requested that they temporarily move into Nargothrond. Little Gwaeneth was only nine years old, his little baby girl, and he would not have any harm come to her. Nor to his sons, who were not quite old enough for fighting, though Glamrenion tried to insist that fourteen was plenty old enough to go with his father to the fighting.

He'd charged his eldest son with a far more important task; safeguarding his mother and little siblings, and that seemed to satisfy him at least a little. Glamrenion was old enough now that he wasn't fooled; he knew his mother could guard the two younger children just as well as he, but Glamion insisted that he would be more use staying behind with them. It was not exactly the most pleasant task to be setting out, at the head of his troop, to ride to war. But the war affected not only the elves, after all, and if Men did nothing to help, what would become of this land?

Glamion had spent the last moments before departing with his family, kissing his wife, hugging his children, and giving his sons instructions for while he was away. Anytime a man went to war, there was always a chance he may not come back, though Glamion had all intentions of returning. Afterward, riding at the front of his company, the man's thoughts lingered with his family for as long as possible, hoping they made it safely into the shelter of Nargothrond, hoping Glamrenion followed his instructions, and many other concerns which he couldn't help worrying about. Most of all, hoping he would return to them.

Fens of Serech
In the midst of battle

Orcs were everywhere. They had looked like an ocean of orcs, upon first sight of them. And at that sight, many of Glamion's men had paled, and some had even looked ready to flee, but he rallied them together with words of encouragement, trying to re-inspire the courage they'd felt when they set out before seeing what they were up against. Glamion made good use of his bow while he could; he was no comparison with elven archers, but he could certainly hold his own and take out as many of the enemy from a distance as possible, until he had run out of arrows. Still the tide of orcs seemed unchanged, despite how many Glamion knew he had slain. He had positioned a row of men in front of the group of archers, with shields held up to block the enemy arrows from reaching them. The shields, with a beryl set within a sun-like device of red-gold, deflected many orcish arrows, thus allowing the Men of the Beryl to keep up their work until all arrows had been spent. It was time for swords now, and Glamion was pleased that, thus far, he had lost none of his men. That could soon change, of course, as they drew their swords and prepared to meet the enemy in close melee.



In moments, Glamion had no time to think about anything but fighting; all he could do was dispatch the orcs, while trying his best to keep an eye out for his men as they pressed toward their allies. His sword glinted in what little light there was, blocking and clanging against the orc's weapons. He caught an overhead attack on his own blade, spinning in place in a move that allowed him to then slash his blade across the orc's midsection. Acting swiftly, he then pivoted and swung the blade back the other way, upward, catching the other orc by surprise. It might have proved fatal, but the orc managed to block his attack, sneering as he drove Glamion back with a series of vicious attacks. Moments later, the orc was joined by another, making it even tougher for Glamion to find an opening to do anything but defend. He struggled to keep calm, knowing that if he panicked or became frantic, he might make mistakes which could be deadly.

And then, at last, he got the opportunity he was waiting on. Leaping backward a step to avoid a stab, Glamion saw another stab attempt coming immediately after, and swiftly sidestepped with a blocking move, his sword knocking the opponent's to one side. It then swung around in an arc to slash the orc across the back of his leg, then Glamion turned to confront another orc as it rushed at him. He thrust his dagger into the orc's throat before turning back to the other. He felt a sense of relief to see that his attack was successful, and now he was back down to only one foe. But this one was quite fierce as well, despite having a deep cut on the calf of his leg. As the orc advanced on him, Glamion nearly stumbled over a fallen body lying behind his feet. He took a slash from the orc's sword on his right arm before hastily knocking the blade away from himself, preventing it from being too deep of a cut. As the orc recovered and made to lunge forward, Glamion used his dagger hand to knock the orc's sword to the side, and leveled his sword at its middle so that the orc's own forward motion caused it to be impaled.

He then swiftly ducked as another foe swung at him, and was quite pleased when the blow meant for his neck caught an orc behind him, just as it lunged forward. Acting rapidly, Glamion swung his blade around while the orc was busy trying to extract his sword from the body of his fellow, but another orc blocked the attack. Glamion was sure that it wasn't for the purpose of rescuing his fellow, but rather attacking a common enemy; himself. He was glad, at least, that he hadn't taken the blow. There were orcs on every side, it seemed like, and he would take all the help from them that he could get in eliminating them. His sword clashed and rang against the enemy's weapons as he defended himself frantically, grateful for all of the sword training in his youth.

As they drove him backward, Glamion soon found himself surrounded, parrying and countering against three orcs at once, until at last he managed a thrust which impaled one of his opponents. Turning to another nearby, Glamion saw an overhead attack swinging down at his head. He brought his sword up to strike the other away, then swifter than the orc could dodge, swung it back forward, beheading the vile being. He spun around swiftly, searching for another, but he had slain all in the immediate vicinity. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he ran back toward where the others were fighting. Two more orcs appeared in front of him. Glamion swiftly blocked a strike to the abs, catching the orc's arm and pinning it to his side, then swung it around to meet the attack of the other. The bladed mace had been aimed for Glamion's head; instead, it only grazed his forehead as he jerked his head back to avoid it, then crashed into the neck of the orc Glamion had trapped. He shoved the dead orc at the live one, thus freeing his sword hand again, and backtracked swiftly as the mace orc came at him ferociously.

A savage kick to the chest drove him hard backward, so hard he slammed into an orc that had come up behind him. It jarred him a little, but apparently surprised the second orc as well, so much that it didn't immediately slay him. Glamion swiftly ducked as the orc swung the mace toward his head. The blades on the weapon struck the orc behind him, and Glamion took advantage of the opportunity to impale his foe, then slipped out from between the two orcs and glanced back, relieved to see they were both dead now. The man took a few seconds to recover his breath and get his bearings again before plunging back into battle.



(*Order of the Beryl was plotted with @Tharmáras, established by his elf Arasoron, an elven emissary to the mortals in Nargothrond and Talath Dirnen)
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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