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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FA 455
Himlad

The flames danced before him, speaking of warmth and forging and his father's spirit. A spirit and skill and name he'd inherited with pride. Seated in a hulking carved chair, Curufin rested his elbows on his thighs and buried his face in his hands.

It was becoming clearer with each passing year that his son had not inherited these gifts of Fëanor in plenty or with eagerness - save, perhaps, in his smithing. Celebrimbor could forge weapons and jewelry of surpassing fineness, already beginning to outstrip even Curufin's own skill, but could he uphold the honor of their house? No. He could not.

Curufin lifted his head and gazed once more into the flames. It had irked him to see Celebrimbor standing side by side with Fingon's son. It had enraged him to hear his son speak at council of abandoning his right to rule. These indignities piled up and had come to a head this day with the melting of a precious ring. Unusually gifted though he might be, Celebrimbor still had the haste of youth about him. It showed in his workspace, his inability to keep his stories and his loyalties straight.

"Get out of my sight." Curufin had uttered these words upon discovering the puddle of gold, all that remained of a fine ring and hours of labor. Perennially disappointing. Forging arrows - menial work - would serve as a reminder of Celebrimbor's place. Curufin had not bothered to watch his son hurry away, up into the heights of Aglon. Instead, he'd turned toward his chambers, to sit and wait for he knew not what. A second son was not coming.


* * *

Rapid footsteps echoed through the hall, drawing nearer. With no announcement, Celebrimbor burst into the room, hair flying and eyes wild. "Atar! Father! There are great flames afar in Lothlann! I fear evil comes upon the plains. Father!"

Curufin rose. He considered his son’s words and his warning. This was what the High King had feared. But nothing in Fingolfin's designs would have stemmed this flow, he thought. The son of Fëanor was adamant in both this and in his confidence in their defenses. "The flames and forces of Morgoth will not pass through Aglon. Still, we must sound the alarm and bring news to your uncle. We are not unprepared."

He moved across the room and retrieved his sword, then threw a cloak over his shoulders and fastened it with a great brooch. He turned back at the door. "Come." He would have to make do with the son he had - to fight beside him and command their forces and take up leadership in Himlad, should he himself fall. Without another word, Curufin swept down the hall to Celegorm's chambers. With a fist, he pounded on the door.

"Brother!" he called, "My son brings news - fire in Lothlann." Without awaiting a response, he pushed into the room. Two figures, Celegorm and Ellindalë, stood apart, faces blazing, caught mid-argument. "Oh, I do apologize," Curufin said with a sardonic smile. "Have we interrupted something? It's just that our forces require command."
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Sauron, before leaving for Dorthonion

The route to her chambers was a familiar one. Even though he had not traversed them in many, many year, the memory was ever present. He had already gathered his forces, his werewolves, orcs, and even the Balrog Gothmog had placed under his command (how the great brute had managed that was something that baffled even the conniving mind of Mairon). It was time to visit an old friend. They had not spoken, not truly spoken in a way that only beings of their power could, in an age. He would not admit it, even to himself in the darkest, most private parts of his mind, but he missed her company. The dragon had found it’s way into her heart where he had once held illimitable dominion. They had both helped raise the fiery beast when it was young, she had taken to it much more than he, but upon his first, unsuccessful, excursion, Mairon had washed his hands of the affair. She, however, did not. Thus the rift formed. For the last hundred years they had played a deadly game of move and counter move. She would undermine his influence with Melkor here, he would send her vampires on a doomed mission there, and on and on. It had been unbefitting of them. Chaos and destruction were useful tools against the enemy, the elves and their mayfly allies, men, but when used against one another, it was foolish. There was no real reason why Mairon had begun to think this way. During the long years of their enmity he had reveled in causing her angst and misfortune.

The bats grew more and more present the further up the dank tunnels he went. Once, he enjoying their cries of wicked glee, now, it felt more like the screeching of whining dogs. He was glad, for the moment, that he had left Carníheniel behind. She would have tried to eat several of the bats and that would create another cascade of events he was not willing to commit to. He shut the sound out. Thuringwethil had chosen one of the high caverns for her domain, a wide expanse of unhewed caverns where her bats and vampiric slaves multiplied and fed. The Lady of Secret Shadows herself took the highest cavern as her court.

Finally, he came to her chambers. The doors were massive, carved and decorated by her most diligent artists. They were every bit a reflection of her personality. The doors were inscribed with detailed scenes from her life, her exploits and triumphs. He noted, with no small degree of annoyance, that he was utterly absent from them, even before the appearance of her great lizard pet. Glaurung was center stage, special rubies had been carved and added to the door just to accentuate his dæmonical grandeur. While Mairon abhorred the creature, he could not deny the raw potential and his glorious appearance upon the doors. Where Thuringwethil herself appeared, she was represented by the blackest, purest obsidian glass that could have been created. Her image drank in all the light and fed upon it. Other figure were gilded in bronze and rose gold. The doors themselves were of Brobdingnagian size, fitting over the wide, yawning gulf of the cavern mouth. Even with his impressive height, Marion had too look up to see the top of the doors nearly three rods above him and was at least half again as wide. It was a strange work of art that was utterly out of place with everything else in Angband now, a lone spot of depraved beauty in a swamp of filth and offal.

Without moving, he caused the air around him to shift, coalesce into something more or less solid and knocked on the doors. The sound was hollow and resounding. At first there was nothing. Utter silence fell in the tunnel. He was about to knock again until suddenly, soundlessly the magnificent doors swung open. The maia stepped through, and looked to the highest point in the cavern.

He wove a spell about his voice, projecting it through the entire cavern system. “Thuringwethil. I have need to speak with you before the battle commences. Will you come down from your heights and converse? I believe it is time we set aside the petty problems of the past and look forward. It does not behoove the great lords of the shadow behave in such the manner of elves. Will you come down, Lady of Secret Shadow?”
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Thangorodrim. FA 455.
He knows thy thought.

The bats swirled with excitement, up and down the corridors that led to her chambers, and within the rooms themselves. They were of constant company to the Lady of Vampires, and reflected her every mood, which meant that they were currently in a frenzy of anticipation. Thuringwethil had instructed the chiefest of her vampiric lieutenants to rouse their entire horde form the caverns in which they made their homes, and the dark mountainsides and forests to which they ventured. Lord Melkor would spare none of his forces in this greatest of efforts, and her people were with him. Glaurung would begin his conflagrant journey at the head of his earth-bound host and, swift upon their wings, the vampires would follow as soon as they were mustered. Thangorodrim trembled with the gouting of its flames, and Thuringwethil’s heart trembled with it as she stood at the edge of a cave overlooking the plains below, glowing with her Master’s hellfire, and her black eyes gleamed with delight. The bat-fell overtook her, her fair elfin form suffusing not with light, but darkness as the color drained from her pale skin. The hair receded into her skull, arms sprouting upwards from the elbow at an extreme angle, legs and spine lengthening, monstrous iron claws sprouting from feet and hands until the great, black, she-bat stood, mouth slightly again, fangs dripping, as with the keen hearing of her kind she listened to the screams and cries from below.

Then, something else stirred her senses. Someone was approaching her chambers, and it was the work of a moment for Thuringwethil to determine who. She snarled, scraping shallow lines into the stone beneath her clawed hand at the edge of the cave. How long had it been since he had dared set foot within her domain? Abruptly the she-bat turned and stalked back through this external passage to her chambers proper. “By the pricking of my thumbs,” she spoke as she walked, the small bats shrieking her displeasure, her voice a rasping, grating mockery of its former sibilance, “something wicked this way comes!” When she reached the massive cavern that was her reception chamber, she unfurled her huge, leathery wings, and thrust herself into the air with a furious cry. Powerful beats of those wings took her away, up into the darkness, where she settled onto a shadowy perch of rock, crouched beyond sight, even as the presence came to a halt outside her doors. Thuringwethil’s eyes narrowed, watching them. The reverberations of his knock echoed in the chamber, and her throat was harsh with laughter at his polite pretense. “Open, locks, whoever knocks,” she hissed, and the doors swung open to admit him.

Mairon stepped through the entryway, as she had known he would. His eyes searched for her in the high, dark places, and Thuringwethil could not deny that he knew her well still. His voice sent shivers up her chiropterian spine as he spoke, and the tingles of power within it were palpable. Oh yes, there was the charm that had won her, spirit to spirit, in the ancient days… Thuringwethil shook off these thoughts with a shriek, and dove from her perch. Such was her speed that she seemed sure to face a dreadful impact on the stone floor below, but at the last possible instant her great wings flared, and the huge she-bat alighted, iron claws clattering on the ground. As she paced slowly towards Sauron, the bat-fell receded little by little, until she stood before him a vision of dark loveliness. Not close enough yet to touch- but close enough to feel his radiance.

“I have ever admired the shape of elves, if not their manners, my Lord,” Thuringwethil examined the nails of one hand, as the last vestiges of iron slipped away, “Their conversations always seem to be so laden with deception and half truth. You say you have come to converse? That you have need of me?” She took one step closer, raising her eyes to his as the air between the taughtened. “So speak, Mairon.”
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Sauron
Thangorodrim’s Heights, before the Dagor Bragollach
Upon Coriaceous Wings


Mairon watched as a great shadow detached itself from the walls of the upper chamber and speed with frightful speed. The barest hint of a smile played on his lips before he killed it, remaining placid and neutral. When she landed, her great wings flaring out in a wonderful display of power and control, Mairon watched as her form shifted back from her great bat to her more recognizable form. She was terrible and beautiful in both forms, he had never decided which of the forms he had liked best. His own vampiric form, crafted and perfected in imitation of hers, may have looked more frightening, but her form was preceded by an aeon’s worth of terrifying tales and folklore. She was the monster that bloated out the moon and drank from entire legions. A black heart can only find beauty in darkness. Mairon’s heart was black as the depths of the earth and she was the darkness given iron form.

She was close to him, close enough to touch, yet out of reach. Her power was evident in every breath, every flap of the wings of the cloud of bats wheeling and diving above. Every stone here carried her mark. Her voice was the echo of a million distant memories, repressed terrors, and undreamed nightmares.

“It has been very too long since I have walked your caverns, My Lady,” he said slowly, still wrapping his words the power of his voice, “I regret much that has happened between us. I cannot say what future we might have, should the Elder King succeed in his aims of utter annihilation, but I do not wish to face that future without you. We were once the Fire and the Void, but those days have long passed into dusted memory.” He took a step forward, letting the aura of her power wash over him as he pressed his own into her. He reached for her, a thumb across her sharp cheekbones. There was electricity in that touch, a spark he had not felt for so long.

“What should become of us, Lady of Secrets? What should become of once the King of the World achieves his aims, the final defeat of the Starspawn? Where are we to fit in his schemes? I fear for your bats as I fear for my wolves.”

Unwillingly, he drew his gaze away from Thuringwethil and toward the ashy grey sky. “I would have us on better terms,” he said at last as the glow of Thangorodrim’s fires reached their fingers of molten orange and red across the walls. “We are about to embark on something we cannot anticipate. We must be vigilant. Verily, I tell you, My Lady Thuringwethil. We stand upon a precipice in more ways than one. Will you stand with me, one last time?”

He took a final step, standing barely inches from her now. He could feel the furious heat of her form. He reached to her waist and took her hand, even bereft of the iron claw, it was fierce and beautiful.

“What say you, Lady of Shadow?” he whispered as his own wings, leathery and vast, emerged and enfolded them.
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Mablung, Captain of Thingol's guards in Menegroth
F.A. 455 (before the Bragollach)

The chief of Thingol's guards in Menegroth had not really thought through the implications of disappearing for several weeks when he had volunteered himself to accompany Beleg on this little jaunt into politics and diplomatic relations. Consequently, he had actually had very little sleep, and had spent most of the evening ensuring that everything would run smoothly in Menegroth in his absence. It was a good thing indeed that the Quendi did not require as much rest as the Aftercomers.

The sun had very nearly risen by the time he had found sufficient supplies for the journey, packed, and then made his way to the clearing outside Menegroth. There he found Beleg, seemingly lost in thought. "Tardy I may be, but I have not overslept - at least, I certainly hope not, for you are still here after all!" A swift smile accompanied the words.

He mounted, and the two companions quickly fell into a rhythm as they travelled. Mablung's thoughts wandered to the journey ahead, and he finally began to allow himself to relax and take in the surrounding forest. He would be ever watchful, but they were safe enough within the girdle of Melian. There would be time enough for hyper-vigilance once they neared the borders.

They spent some time riding in silence, and indeed Mablung began to wonder what troubled his friend's thoughts. The silence was finally broken, and his suspicions were confirmed - it seemed Beleg, too, was not entirely at ease with Thingol's decision. Perhaps it was better he had not brought a troop of guards to accompany them - this would have been an awkward conversation to have had in front of their subordinates.

"I do not think such thoughts shame you. I, too, would gladly risk my life to take up arms alongside the Noldor against our common enemy - we are warriors, you and I, and that is what we know best. Yet Thingol has the entire realm to think of, not merely the desires of an adventurous few. I am glad indeed I do not bear the burden of making such choices for an entire realm." He lapsed into silence for a moment. "I understand his reasoning. And it may be that we will see action enough defending Doriath, without needed to march on Angband." Mablung scanned his friend's face. "But yes, to speak plainly, I do not think it is so wrong to regret our absence from the field. It would be unfortunate if Morgoth were to fall and we were to play no part in it."

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Mithrim, Hithlum

It was a mighty gathering assembled in Mithrim, and they were none too early in arriving. Mablung, like Beleg, noted the absence of Turgon or anyone from the Hidden Kingdom. It seemed that Turgon had come to the same conclusion as their lord.

As Beleg spoke, he stood quietly to one side, only speaking up once his friend had finished. "In addition, Thingol says this: to any of the Sindar, any who do not wish to be caught up in this war, he offers sanctuary in Doriath. This choice is open to any Sinda who would seek refuge, and also to those of Thingol's kin - Angnor, Aegnor, and Felagund - if you desire shelter from this conflict, the refuge of Doriath is open to you."
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A Special Privilege

Upon Captain Mablung's statement from King Thingol, Finrod felt eyes drawn towards him from all over the room. "Alright, yes, thank you. Tell him, King Thingol, my dear kin, that his offer is kept in mind, as always." He hoped some irritated looks would turn away with his acknowledgment of the offer, but it was less than he expected, so he carried on with the first thing that came to mind. "How is our treasured Galadriel fairing?"

Feeling irked by where the conversation was heading, Maedhros slammed his fist down. "Enough! This is Fingolfin's besought war council not Thingol's disregarded tea party. Who else has opinions of our King's proposition?" His arms recrossed, with his gaze lingering on Fingon. "What are your thoughts, cousin? I trust you have a mind of your own." Finrod gave Maedhros a quizzical look wondering if he had been mockingly excluded from the 'our' he emphasized, but was glad of the attention to be drawn away from himself and took some relief in it.
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Mairon
In Dorthonion
Broken Ouroboros

The lone fortress stood stark against the backdrop of flames, smoke, and the darkness of the sky, the last refuge of a dying hope. Mairon was pleased. The flames had done much of his work for him. The countryside, once green and gold and fair, was wreathed in twisted lines of ravenous fire. Where foxes played and birds once made sweet songs, the sonorous, dæmonical howls of wolves now sung the songs of slaughter and violence; they echoed through the dying hills, disrupting the very memory of light and hope. The cries and hooting of the orcs was a dissonant counterpoint to the wolves, their melodies harsh, guttural, and filled with glee. Once, great trees had made their home here, towering monuments to Yavanna’s power now crowned with the all consuming fires of the Elder King. Waters had been befouled and twisted, marring the crystal clear mirror with blood, ash, and poison. Smoke filled the air, choking the skies with rough dirty clouds, reaching so high that the heavens themselves seemed torn asunder. The scent of the dead and the dying were all about him now, clinging to him like sweat at the forge. It was sickly sweet, acrid stench with a coppery aftertaste. Fear, too, was heavy in the air, swirling like a maelstrom. Songs broke out here and there, the raucous pleasure of the orcs manifesting in a mockery of the elves’ greatest strength.

In the cacophony, Mairon could hear the rhythmic beating of marching feet. Elves were pouring out now, scores upon scores of them. The starspawn arrows flew like feathered serpents. Many finding purchase in the hides of the legions of orc Mairon had brought with him. It was a futile effort though, the orcs were more numerous that sand on the seashore.

Mairon himself, arrayed in his armor, sallied forth. To his right was Narúcima, howling with frenzied rage. Blood and gore were already dripping down her muzzle, there was a horrible glint in her eyes. Mairon looked on her with pride, he had bred her well.

Cariheniel sprung from her perch on his shoulder and landed on the face of the elf leading the squadron forth. Before he even had a chance to react to the giant spider, she pried his mouth open and began shoving herself inside his mouth. He tried to swing a fist, tried to push her aside but her bulk was already ripping the skin of his face apart. Blood exploded for the elf’s face as she squeezed the last of her bulk inside his mouth and down his throat. He collapsed, blood pouring out of his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. His throat bulged, purple veins burst and sprayed on the ground as he convulsed. A moment later, the red spider burst out of his chest, ripping past the ornately carved armor. She dripped with gore. She leapt again, her powerful legs carrying her vast distances. Again she found purchase. This time, instead of forcing herself down his gullet, she jammed her stinger through his eye and, gripping the folds of his skin with each of her eight legs, ripping his face off.

Mairon smiled with pleasure as he watched his little pet do her work. So many had doubted her, so many had offered to kill her or steal her from him. He had known she what she was capable of the moment he laid eyes on her. He saw the potential for violence and power and how he could use it to his advantage.

Draugluin would be somewhere in the fray too, his age had not mired his great ferocity and penchant for blood. Mairon could hear his howls above the din of battle, separate from all the rest. Ziltang was somewhere in the midst of the smoke and ash, his own cadre of orcs singing their strange, alien battle cries.

He raised his own weapon, a mace forged in imitation of Grond, who sat still unused by the throne of Melkor. With each swing brought low a dozen warriors. With his free hand, he grabbed an elf, one trying to slip by the great warlock, and pulled him to eye level, keeping him at arm’s length. The maia smiled behind the savage wolf helm as twisted black flames became to appear on the scales of his arm and licked forward until they found a hold on the pitiful elf. He screamed, a high pitched wail that shredded his own vocal chords. Mairon dropped the smoldering husk. He howled, signaling his werewolves to rally to him and begin pushing the elves back. His forces were pushing through the elves like the threshing of wheat but he wanted more. He saw an elf, taller than the rest with a great helm begin rallying his own forces.

Power began weaving around Mairon as he readied his voice. He shouted a challenge to the elf, who called back his own, beating his sword against his shield. Mairon smiled wickedly. It was too easy. He began in a high falsetto, his voice reaching the absolute zenith of sound before hurtling back down and ending it a sharp growl. The power knocked the elf off his feet. Mairon was on in a flash. He began to hum, vibrating the very earth around them, separating stone from stone until a great pit opened up around them. He slammed his mace into the side of the elf’s face, shattering steel and bone. His opponent’s face was a ruin, half caved in from the single blow. He began another tune, shriller and angrier. The power shimmered around the elf and began to crush him. He continued the tune, pressing the power close and close, squeezing the elf until he heard bones snap and muscles tear. The elf screamed in agony, trying to push again the forces bearing down on him but it was useless now. With a loud POP the helm and skull shattered together and the lifeless husk fell limp to the ground.

The battle was over, even if the Elves in their fortress didn’t know it yet.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 2:04 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Thangorodrim -> Lothlann. FA 455.
Burnination

The heat was nothing to Glaurung. He was, after the volcano itself, the greatest source of flame and fire-radiance in all the land, and Thangorodrim had been his nursery. The great, heavy drake made his ponderous way through the magma chamber at the heart of the mountain, unaffected by spitting gobs of molten rock as the splattered against his scales. His armies of orc and other denizens of darkness were mustering outside of Angband by more conventional ways, but Glaurung had chosen this avenue to his departure. With a great coiling and bunching of the corded muscle beneath his scales, Glaurung gathered himself and leapt. With a resounding crash, his behemoth form collided with the side of the conduit tunnel that led from the heart of the volcano to the breathing word above. His claws dug deep, deep into the stone and he climbed. Magma, ash, hot and poisonous gasses, all surged past the dragon as he climbed, coating him, curling about his head and neck, sticking to each of the massive feet as they lifted up and pounded down, propelling Glaurung towards the crater above. He breathed deeply of the noxious fumes, and the basso rumble that rattled the sides of the mountain from his chest was clearly discernible as a baleful laugh.

With a final energetic surge, Glaurung breached to top of Thangorodrim and clambered out upon the crater’s edge with a splash of bright lava, and his screeching roar rang across the plains. The answering cries of his armies of orcs in the darkness were met with a great gout of flame, as Glaurung added his own sudden flame to that of the mountain. Ponderously, he dragged his form over the edge of the highest slope and began to run down the mountain. Each stride of the dragon covered such a distance that it was mere moments before he had attained the plain. Ard-galen was already in ruins from his Master’s work on Thangorodrim, and Glaurung at the head of his army turned to the south and west, for Lothlann. The orcs raced to keep pace with their reptilian general, and some of them would perish beneath both his feet and those of their fellows. An acceptable sacrifice.

From out the side of the mountain issued what seemed to be a great stream of bats- but not just bats, though those swirled in great clouds: vampires in huge bat-form, shrieking and spiraling into the ashen sky and greatest of them all, in her black and iron-clawed glory, Thuringwethil. Her cries were the highest, harshest, and most full of laughter as she gathered her flock of beating wings and dripping fangs. It had been far, far too long since they had tasted elf-blood. Other things, the Lady of Vampires had tasted much more recently.

”What should become of us, Lady of Secrets?” he had asked, stretching out across the space between them, and Thuringwethil had been unable to suppress a shiver as his thumb caressed her face. His words were clothed in power, but they had known each other too long and too well for him to hide the truth beneath them from her. He had drawn closer, and Sauron’s hand went about her waist, as hers to his chest. “What say you, Lady of Shadows?” His husky whisper sang in her mind as his wings had unfurled, his glorious vampiric form overtaking the body he so usually moved in. “Yes,” she had breathed, her lips ghosting against his as he closed the final distance, “Let us go forth together, Lord of Deception.” His wings covered them from the prying eyes of her bats.

In this assault they were separated, but Thuringwethil’s mind still rang with the energy of her meeting with Sauron, and the passion of their parting. Her ribald nature was infectious, and the rest of the vampires crowed and cackled with furious, delighted cries, their wings beating powerfully against the sky, buffeting it into the earth to provide propulsion, following their Lady to catch the monstrous dragon ahead, leading his horde across the plains. A wordless screech ripped from Thuringwethils throat as she swooped over the dragon at the head of her flock, diving and circling to alert him to their present.


MIIIIIISTREEEEEEESSSSSS.Glaurung rumbled, looking up in his steady charge to see Thuringwethil, bringing her host to join. Though he was the leader of this force, the Lady of Vampires had raised the fire-drake and he was not quick to forget loyalties. “SOOOON WE WILL FEEEEEEASSSST.” The answering scream spurred Glaurung on to greater speeds. It seemed no time at all before they were crossing the plain of Lothlann, and the first lines of elves came to greet them on horseback. Before his army could come within reach of their arrows, Glaurung spewed flame, sinuously moving his neck to direct the jet, incinerating elf and horse alike, no time for those who died to scream, allowing his forces to advance under cover of fire and smoke and death. The vampires began their assault, diving with the precision of raptos to snatch elves from the backs of their horses with iron claws, either ripping them apart midair or tossing them back to earth from the heights. The orcs surged to meet their forces, Glaurung advanced, roaring and breathing fire, and beyond the plains, Maglor’s citadel lay waiting to welcome the fire-drake.
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Morwen
A Child in the Trees

Left, right, left, right - the girl's hands reached from branch to branch as she hoisted herself ever higher into the tree. Her feet followed, stepping lightly from limb to limb as she went. When she came to a branch just slightly out of reach, she paused for a split second before jumping gracefully, grabbing hold tightly, letting the tree's sticky sap help her maintain her grip. She did not think twice about this somewhat risky endeavor; it was a daily routine. She knew this tree like she knew the inside of her own home.

The morning summer sun burned bright overhead, and a bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. Face full of determination, Morwen climbed on. The sunlight flashed between prickly branches as she went. Nearing her goal, she breathed deeply and inhaled the invigorating scent of the pine.

Morwen's favorite, gnarled branch was straight ahead, just over halfway up the tree. Over the years, for reasons she could not know, this branch had twisted and bent gently upward, so that a person could sit on the branch before it curved and hold onto the upward section for support, or lean their back against it comfortably. Once she reached it, she sat down, brushing her sticky hands against her skirt, and pushed her hair - now damp with sweat - from her eyes.

From this vantage point, she could observe much of what went on in Ladros. To the North, the hulking heights of Thangorodrim loomed, a constant threat of darkness. But the children of the House of Bëor rarely spared a glance in that direction. Today, Morwen spied her grandfather, Bregolas, standing with her father and uncle (Baragund and Belegund) in a great stone courtyard, probably discussing some order of business for the day. Morwen did not know what went into ruling Ladros, and she had never had cause to ask. Playing in the peace of the trees was her joy, away from ringing forges and the clatter of swords of men in training. She watched as figures moved here and there below her, going about their morning routines and calling greetings to one another as they passed.

Morwen plucked a few pine cones from a nearby bough and waited. A boy who'd once pulled her hair while at play wandered past, carrying a bucket on his way to complete a chore. This was her chance for revenge. She threw a pine cone at him, hard - but it missed and he moved on, none the wiser. She scowled at this lost opportunity, but her expression brightened when her father strolled under the tree. Down flew a pinecone, and this time with better aim. She shrieked with laughter when Baragund feigned mortal wounds from the unexpected attack, then tilted his head up to accuse his hidden foe.

"Come and get me, if you can!" she teased, standing to scurry higher into the tree with glee in her eyes.


FA 455
Morwen
Fires in the Night

The winter wind blew chill through small cracks in the walls, well-made as the fortress was. Morwen curled up tight beneath thick blankets, willing the flames in the hearth to do more in their battle with the cold.

Minutes passed and still drowsiness eluded her. Winter nights were never easy, but she did not usually have to fight so hard for sleep. She sat up and draped a blanket cloak-like over her shoulders.

She stood and padded across the room to sit in a chair closer to the fire. Perhaps its heat and the gentle crackling of the logs would lull her. She drew her knees to her chest, perching her feet on the seat of her chair, and wrapped herself still more tightly in the blanket. She let her chin fall onto her knees and closed her eyes. Much better. As sleep began washing over her, her head fell to the side. She started awake. This process repeated itself several times before she sank into true sleep.

She dreamed of joyful summer days, of trees and the smell of pine in Ladros, and the sunlight sparkling on Lake Aeluin. She saw her father, her mother, her uncle, dancing as if in great celebration, but for what reason, she did not know. Then her father turned to her and asked her to make a fire. "Me, start a fire?" she questioned him, unsure. "But it's summer, and daytime."

But her father insisted. "Fire. Fire."

"Fire! Fire in the North!" Her father's voice was blending with other, familiar tones now. "Ard-galen burns!"

Her eyes opened and her blanket fell away. "Fire! Fire in the North!" The familiar voice of Rhomgurth, her friend Guruthosiel's father, broke the silence of the night and echoed in the courtyard.

Without a thought for her cloak, Morwen threw on thick boots and ran from her room and through the halls. Hurried footsteps ahead of and behind her told a similar story of panic. She burst into the chilly night and ran to join a crowd gathered at the crest of a hill, looking down on the northern plains below. Great strips of fire snaked their way across Ard-galen, reaching like long, grasping fingertips toward Dorthonion.

Eyes wide with horror, Morwen turned to her cousin Beren, who had appeared nearby. The distant fires were so great they cast flickering shadows across the gathered faces. "What is this?" she whispered. But it was clear. The Dark Lord, Morgoth, was reaching out to seize them all.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Loremaster of Gondor
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FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum
The Council of Lords
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Halmir saw Hador across the hall. Apparently both of them had the same idea of staying off to the side. Other elven lords entered the hall to attend this council. Based on who he could see, it was all kings or lords or masters of territories. A whole lot of important people. And for Fingolfin to summon them all, something important must have happened.

Eventually, the High King entered and began to speak. He seemed to eye certain lords the most during his speech. Halmir listened to the words, not completely in agreement. Yes, the dark lord needed to be dealt with, but other than random bands of orcs that caused problem, he hadn’t caused problems in a very long time, far longer than he’d been alive at any rate. But to charge at the dark lord’s fortress was suicide.

He watched as lord after lord within the elven kings turned him down. Halmir had to agree.

He saw a moment in some of the anger being thrown around. But before he could speak, Hador spoke first. Based on what he knew of his fellow man, not to mention it was about twenty years prior their children were married, he felt he knew Hador fairly well.

“I’m sorry my Lord Fingolfin. To be honest, I’m still unsure as to why myself and others of the race of men were summoned to this council. Yes, we’ve had our share of troubles with Morgoth. And yes, I can see it in some of your faces that we men with our short lives know nothing of the troubles of Morgoth, but you would be wrong. It is because our lives are short, we have even more to fear and worry about the dark lord. But I cannot advocate sending my people to Angband to fight him. But that is not to be taken to mean that If something were to happen, and Morgoth were to send out forces from his halls under the mountains, myself, and the men who live in your territories,” he looked at each of the elven lords, “any of your territories, would not fight along side you. My brethren Halmir there, I’m sure was going to say something very similar to what I’m saying. If war comes to us, we will fight. But taking the fight to the enemy, at this point in time, I do not see the wisdom in this. I’m sorry.” Hador sat back down and studied the room.

Halmir nodded. He mouthed “Thank you.” to Hador who simply nodded back.


BATTLE OF SUDDEN FLAME
F.A 455
Barad Eithel

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Despite turning down the offer of the assault on Angbad, Hador, after the council had spoken more personally to Fingolfin, apologizing for the declination. He did offer to have men come from Dor-lómin to help protect the rear guard of the King’s forces defending Hithlum from Morgoth.

And so it was, one night he was awoken by loud tintinnabulation of the warning bells. Rising from his bed, he looked out the window to be greeted by bright lights in the distance. It appeared the plains of Ard-galen were on fire. And the flames were approaching quickly.

He quickly gathered himself and dressed and ran to the war room. On his way, he told his son Gundor to gather the men and await orders, likely to prepare water to douse flames in the fortress and to fight orcs .

He entered the war room, where he met others who were present. “My Lord Fingolfin. I’m sure you’ve already heard the news of the approaching flames. What orders do you have for the preparation of the oncoming assault? I’ve got my men awaiting orders.” Internally, he couldn’t help but think, Fingolfin was right. We should have listened to him about attacking first. This is going to get ugly.”
Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy- Stonewall Jackson
Hubris guarantees disaster.- T C

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Gorgol
Edge of Ladros, Dorthonion
A Butcher At Work.

The first flecks of ash had begun to settle high in the hills of Dorthonion as the frothing vanguard of the iron tide trampling through the desolate plain came to clash against the unready defenses mustered against the might of Angband, unleashed on the heels of the Worm’s Fire. Where their songs would have sung of gleaming armour and shining helms, riders and mounts erupted in bright flame, the scent of their charring flesh further spurring the hordes of hell on their devastating surge to claim a world that was ripe for the taking.

His orcs had been born in the primeval soup that constituted the lower bowels of the Iron Fortress, growing around the fires of the kilns and the striking irons of the forges of hell. They had been raised into the servitude of the Elder King and the Lieutenants of Angband and, witnessing their power first hand within the Nethermost Hall their might was reinforced upon them daily, and the pitiful wrecks brought in by scavenging raids did naught but reinforce the justness of Angband’s claim upon the whole breadth of the world. Upon these wretches he and no few of his generation had descended as enthusiastic youths, to seek out ways of outdoing each other on the length and intensity of their prey’s screams. Their bloodlust and cruelty too Angband had tempered, for akin to the iron blades being readied on the anvils, so too were the minds of Melkor the Mighty’s army being sharpened for one sole purpose: an enthusiastic commitment to the destruction of the free world.

The world they were to prey on had indeed looked to the hordes of hellspawn much as their ancestral halls as they emerged from the bowels of the earth and poured forth into the burning plain, the hammer through which the watch on their power would be shattered. Fire below, darkness above. And all around, the symphony of death grew in intensity .

Roaring with unfettered joy they threw themselves at the feeble lines assembled to attempt to stem the tide, with Gorgol and his band among the first wave. Even as the enemy volleys sprayed their front lines with holes, their battle rage grew. As the distance closed, and the smells of fiery death filled his senses, Gorgol locked eyes on the bravely assembled line sallied forth to meet them and picked his entry point. With a thunderous battle cry, the monstrous orc, a towering mass of muscle, fat and thick iron plated armour, bounded the last few steps and leapt onto the waiting enemy line and crashed through between shields shoulder first. His mass and momentum, closer to that of an ox than a man or regular orc, broke through the enemy line staggering elves to either side ere they fell to his men’s eager blades as they poured in through the gap he opened. Gorgol merely pressed forward, a line breaker among many that day, until he had cleaved sufficiently into the enemy lines, lost momentum and stood faced by firmly footed pointed ear upstarts.

Spears came at him like hunters seeking to pin down a boar, and yet the whip and cleaver moved ever closer. Finally, opening his flank in a seeming careless turn, one of the elves took the bait and lunged forward, sensing an opportunity to claim his head and avenge the trail of ruin this beast had created in his path. In this intent he had not spotted the spinning blade moving his way until much to late. Flat end or not, the force of the impact was such that the side of the man’s neck disintegrated into a ruined, torn pulp, Gorgol’s strike impelling his precariously balanced form down onto the ground. Transferring the final energy of his spin onto his arm, the Butcher’s whip shot forward, found prey and bladed thorns bit into mail, finding perfect purchase to yank its owner off his feet before Gorgol’s own boot connected with the soldier’s prone head on the ground. Blood and brain ichor seeped freely onto the soil beneath the trashed dented metal.

Seeing that he had a lull in the battle immediately ahead of him as the enemy regrouped whatever ranks they had left and his men swarmed and cut off pockets of those too slow to keep pace with their fleeing kin, Gorgol broke into a wicked smile. Lays would have said their struggle was valiant, but of this stand none should sing for none lived to tell the tale. Time to raise a toast to victory, he thought as he knelt in the trampled ground, blood and gore mixing with the falling ash to create a dark mud beside a man whose countenance stood fair still where he lay dead… It was the work of two moments to cleave the head off those inert shoulders and hold it by the long filth-matted hair, held aloft in triumph above man and orc heads in the battlefield surrounding The Butcher.

“Rise and wake my Butcher boys!
Our foe is weak, their meat is tender
Hack a path to their lands, ours to destroy
Let their heads roll before our thunder!"


His voice, booming over the momentary lull around him, drew attention enough from both sides as more and more orcs poured through, and his bands’ ranks swelled up seemingly interminably around him. With wicked satisfaction he tossed the once-noble warrior's head at the reforming line in front of him.

Moments later the earth shook and Gorgol and his band, a solid wave of death set loose from their pens in Angband and warmed up to the ongoing massacre, truly set to work, as the first pines of the Dorthonion forests burst into flames to light the ever darkening sky.
-

May darkness, everlasting, old drown Manwë, Varda and the shining sun

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FA 316
Bard Faradrim, Himlad
The Hasty Ones

"...the land of Himlad...where Celegorm and Curufin dwelt in those days,
before the breaking of the Siege of Angband. At that time they were from home,
riding with Caranthir east in Thargelion...as the year lengthened...Celegorm did
not return."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin

"Who rides to-day? Ye have not heard
That Celegorm and Curufin
have loosed their dogs? With merry din
they mounted ere the sun arose,
and took their spears and took their bows."

- Tolkien, from The Lay of Leithian: Canto VIII



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"Now the chief of wolfhounds that followed Celegorm was named Huan.
He was not born in Middle-earth, but came from the Blessed Realm; for Oromë had given
him to Celegorm long ago in Valinor; and there he had followed the horn of his
master, before evil came. Huan followed Celegorm into exile, and was faithful;
and thus he, too, came under the doom of woe set upon the Noldor,
and it was decreed that he should meet death,
but not until he encountered the mightiest wolf that would ever walk the world."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien



Huan restrained a low growl, observing the black feline minion at the fringe of the forest. The grey shaggy dog with the white underbelly arose, snarling. He smelled the scent of evil in this creature. The huge wolfhound, Chief of his master's dogs, moved stealthily through the dappled shade of the pines. His long tail swept the odorous woodland air in excitement. If the cat prowled the grounds of his master's castle undeterred, the small loathsome beast would return to Angband and doom would come to Himlad. The butterfly had met an unfortunate ending but he would not let the same befall his dear master. Huan crept delicately toward the cat from the behind.

The great hound of Aman foiled his own brilliant scheme. His giant paw crushed a fragile twig.

The loud snap! sounded incredibly loud in the stillness.

Huan abandoned the secrecy of his mighty presence, bolting out of the shadows with the swiftness of an arrow shot from a bow of yew. His baying cry was loud as the blaring trumpets of Oromë and and as fearsome as the vengeance of the Valar. The infernal cat moved too quickly even for the strong, agile wolfhound. Huan bellowed in frustration. He would have grasped the rushing sable menace deathly between his jaws but he heard the horn of his Master. Huan surrendered his pursuit. His fleet paws halted in the immaculate sward of the sprawling stone house.

Huan miserably watched the cat dashing north toward the vast canyon between Dorthonion and Himring. Huan bowed his head in defeat, hating to lose a battle. Huan whined when his Master and brother appeared. They rebuked him for wasting his strength, chasing after what they erroneously believed was a mere cat. Huan heaved a despondent groan, taking a seat near the paved road leading to the gates and laid a forepaw over his grey nose in utter dejection.

He endured all the scathing remarks and vociferous insults with which they besieged his pride. Huan knew what they said. He could understand the tongues of both Elf and Man. Huan wished he could speak, he wished to tell them that the cat was dangerous and must be put to death. Ruim, a servant of Mandos, told him long ago in the Blissful Realm that he would speak only three times in his life. Huan could not forget that fateful day. He wandered the fair aisles of Oromë's garden, joyfully rambling through the rich groves of the Forester's vast domain, the majesty of which has no compare on Earth. Deer and kine and unbridled horses revelled amid the smooth unfading grass.

Huan rested beneath a willow tree, watching amethyst fireflies flickering in the starry night, but was startled to all fours when an angel's deep disembodied voice bade him to hearken. The strange silver-skinned Maia robed in black raiment materialized from the ether in a swirling variegated mist. He gazed sorrowfully at the wolfhound with luminous glacial blue eyes. He pulled the runéd cowl off his glistening mercury hair, its shining silver wisps blown astir in the gentle breeze. Ruim told Huan he was immortal but there would come a time when the fiercest of wolves would challenge him to death. Huan whimpered in distress and laid down, covering his radiant eyes with a forepaw but allowed the aged tenebrous Maia to stroke his fur. No wolfhound could speak but the Valar, Ruim murmured with ceaseless tender caresses, would permit him to talk three times before Huan's dire contest. The solemn entity vanished in a glowing nimbus of turquoise smoke and Huan was silent, waving his tail morosely through the verdant grass that would outlive him.

His Master strode into the lofty stone house. The wolfhound loosed a mournful wail, lamenting his brief service to the King. They would not be together forever but he could not tell him. If his Master knew, perhaps Huan would have been treated more kindly.




"Many strange spirits came from Mandos, aged spirits that journeyed from Ilúvatar
with him who are older than the world and very gloomy and secret..."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Chaining of Melko



*



"All the Elves of Beleriand from the mariners of Cirdan to the wandering huntsmen
of the Blue Mountains took him for lord. And they are called,
therefore, the Sindar, the Grey Elves..."

- Tolkien, from The War of the Jewels: The Grey Annals


"I'll cast her over the battlements!" Celegorm shouted at Curufin, storming down the corridor with the zeal of an advancing bear. The brothers were ready to depart their castle, Barad Faradrim, but first Celegorm intended to confront his lover, Ellindalë. He intercepted all her messages - and bullied all her couriers - when he was home, trying to ascertain how faithful she was to him. Their relationship had been troubled for centuries. These feuds were due largely in part to their own willful natures and the frequency of these quarrels had escalated in recent years. Celegorm was sure there was another Elf. This morning he seized hold of Ellindalë's rider and frightened him into submission to confiscate the envelope she had trusted him with. It was addressed to Mindon Nandaro, the keep of Cormenfásë which was Maglor's citadel in the Gap.

"I heard Telkelion rides for our brother now!" Celegorm informed Curufin, running upstairs. He violently brushed a Mortal servant, sending him toppling down the stairway with a tray of food and wine but the king maintained his sprint, not caring in the slightest. "Telkelion was one of my finest soldiers, my greatest champion. The fool was enamoured of my woman and left our army because he couldn't be with her. Do you know what happened to him, Curufin? I'll tell you. Rumor has it that traitor dwells with the hunters of Ered Luin! The Noldorin warrior abandoned me to live with DARK ELVES!" Celegorm snorted a contemptuous laugh. "She has professed missing Telkelion. You must understand it's insulting for me to bear! Surely she is reaching out to him, planning assignations here in OUR woods!" Celegorm curled his lip in disgust and kicked open a carved wooden door, scaring a young Elven laundress who screamed and dropped her basket of linen in surprise.

The halls of Celegorm and Curufin were airy as the wide palace of Oromë in Valmar. The brothers had modeled their home to reflect the rustic grandeur of the Vala King of the Hunt. Skins and fells of great richness and value were strewn across the stone floors. Spears and bows and knives adorned the soaring walls and a hundred antlers were used in their interior decorating. In the midst of each room and corridor a living tree grew and supported the roof, and its trunk hung with glorious trophies. Every household retainer was clad in brown and all the hunters of the castle wore green, reflecting the colors worn by Oromë's folk in the Undying Lands. The noise of boisterous courtier laughter was often heard in Barad Faradrim just as lusty cheer echoed in the halls of Tauron beyond the Western Sea.

"I will demand she tell me the truth, onoro," Celegorm decided, marching to their chamber. He banged on the ironbound wooden door, demanding entry. He recieved silence. He pulled the handle but it was locked. "No door can keep me out!" he declared to Ellindalë in a ringing voice, opening it with a master key, and gave Curufin a smug grin. "I didn't want to do this, Ellie," said Celegorm with a dramatic wounded air, "but you did not answer my knock!" He added, in an aside to Curufin, that this was also his room so he had every right to open it. Once they were inside, he slammed the door shut behind them.

He was somewhat disappointed that she was still packing and didn't look the least bit scared, more like annoyed actually as was usual. He was hoping to feel a gush of triumphant joy, finding Ellindalë cowering in a corner and sobbing as she pleaded on her knees for Celegorm to forgive her trespass. Only in his wildest delusions. She had always been a strong beautiful woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of a Thangorodrim spire. "You have tested my patience for the last time," Celegorm gravely spoke. He tossed the captured envelope on one of her mother's stylish gowns she laid on the canopy bed. "Read it aloud," Celegorm demanded,stressing the last word. He folded his toned muscled arms and stood near Curufin, blocking the doorway Curufin.

When Ellindalë read the letter she wrote, Celegorm felt a radiating exultation of self. He was correct. Ellindalë had inquired of Maglor how Telkelion was faring. It did not matter she had used the term her friend ; there was a sincere interest of his well-being! Intolerable. He must be destroyed. "Send it," Celegorm uttered with an indifferent shrug of one shoulder. "Yes, really. Do send it. Reestablish ties with your friend but know this..." He pulled her softly against him, his tenderness seeming at odds with the brighter glow of his narrowing emerald eyes and sharpness of voice. "If I hinder the passage of your letters again and discover that you've been unfaithful then I will find your lover, scourge him, and make you suffer torment as you never have before."

He released her, his chest heaving with the exertion of controlling his flaming wrath. They had many disagreements and their mutual need for dominance instigated many of their disputes but this was different. To Celegorm, Ellindalë was crossing a line. She was close to the High Elf who desired her and though she had chosen the King, he was worried she'd change her mind at any moment, especiallly considering how often Celegorm contended with her. If she thought she'd be happier with Telkelion...

Celegorm tore his gaze from Ellindalë, drifting toward her curtained window so she wouldn't see the hurt in his eyes. "I think we need some time apart. Perhaps distance will make our hearts grow fonder for each other's company." His voice was devoid of bitterness, bright and hopeful. He wanted to leave her feeling optimistic instead of loathing him. "I will leave within the week and Curufin will go with me and I don't know when we'll return," he resolved, glancing at Curufin who agreed to this beforehand. They both needed an extended break from their duties as kings and warriors. "We will be with Caranthir in Thargelion. We leave the military and kingdom affairs to Celebrimbor...and you." Celegorm then turned, gloved hands laced behind his back. "That is correct. You will share joint rulership with my nephew. If Curufin falls afield then Celebrimbor must be ready to govern in his father's stead." He strayed closer toward her. This time his voice was as soft as his embrace and the lasting touch of his kiss was passionate, not rough for once. "If you want to be a queen someday, you should prepare for it, no?" he uttered, his fingers skimming over her flaxen curls and down the back of her dress.




GM UPDATE:

@Aerlinn , make sure the cat gets away.... Respond as you like regarding
Celegorm's audacity and charging Ellindalë with the care of his kingdom.
We don't need to see too much of this but this will portend her role in
the Bragollach and Aredhel will find her
ruling for Celegorm when she is welcomed to Himlad soon in this timeline.

@Tarawen , react to Celegorm's anger and his boldness with Ellie.
Then inform Celebrimbor that greatness is being thrust upon his shoulders...
Dad is going away for an indefinite amount of time and he needs his son to lead,
foreshadowing Celebrimbor's later lordship of Eregion and mastery of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.
We don't have to see this play out fully but at least the conversation is there
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Melkor
Melkor
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BATTLE OF SUDDEN FLAME
BURNING
F.A 455


Eärcolanté
Cavalry General
Fleeing from the Ard-Galen



Eärcolanté's horse was ablaze. The elf thankfully was not, for it took much to light an aged one like himself on fire, but even so he only had a little time before the flames consumed even him. The situation was not on Eärcolanté side, however.

Even in the din he heard the panicked neighing, sounds akin to rusty metal being ripped by the tendril. The hoofs began moving erratically, and the elf, still with his eyes wide, found himself struggling to remain on top of the now slightly bucking horse.

But within a second, Eärcolanté, with two decisive movements, clutched the burning mane of his horse with both his red hands, like claws grasping sand, as if he himself desired control of the horse's body. His eyes, gleaming with light from a far-off land, narrowed and transfixed to the back of the steed's head. Yet he did not bare his teeth, nor even frown. Instead Eärcolanté had the wherewithal to command, in a voice echoing from a time before the stars, before the kings, before even Quenyan and Sindarin itself, yet clear and loud enough for his horse to hear,

"To Barad Eithel. Now."

And with that the horse, though on fire, suddenly stopped bucking, and as if beholden to the command of its rider, blazed a trail through the charring remains of the Ard-galen. Eärcolanté bent his body until his very face was inches away from the crackling flames. Yet it was as if the will of his eyes overcame the light of the heat, so that for a moment even his clothing appeared unscathed as all burned around him. Barad Eithel now loomed ever closer.

But the rivers of flame also crept ever closer, the sounds of lightning still crackling, more and more of the earth combusting. Thus, eventually Eärcolanté himself became wrapped completely in flames that were once his clothing. His sweat dropped like water from melting snow, hissing as it collided with the flames, forming into a wisp. Smoke began slowly appearing from his dark brown hair, though the upward slopes that led to the gates of Barad Eithel drew ever closer.

Eärcolanté's vision quickly began shifting however. The darkness in the sky remained, but surrounding him were not flames, but ice all around. He felt the same burns on his skin as he crossed the Helcaraxë centuries ago. In his sight, however, were two young raven-haired elves, and his breath hitched. One a male, and the other female. Suddenly, with a crackle akin to rusty metal being ripped by the tendril, the ice split and the female elf plopped straight into the water. The young male shouted something, and dived in after her. Eärcolanté's pupils widened, his eyelids stretched, and he found himself moving ever closer until finally he dived into where the two elves were submerged.

The burning earth instead of the freezing waters greeted Eärcolanté as his horse collapsed one foot onto the upward slope, being unable to move. The steed laid on its side and passed. But the elf did not look back, somersaulting from the leap. The wrapping covering the now-revealed spear bound to his back had burned away, and the sound of metal collided with the ground as his spear accidentally grazed his soldier. Ignoring the additional wound, still wreathed in flame, his long hair on fire, the elf ran through the open gate into Barad Eithel. Lightning struck a flag on top of the gates of Barad Eithel just as he entered. Whatever cries of the other soldiers, whether to ask him what was going on or bidding him to stop so that they could douse the flames were ignored as Eärcolanté streaked as fast as he could towards the war room.

~~~

Barad Eithel
War Room


Rapidly approaching footsteps could be heard, as a clothless Eärcolanté with only his weapon attached on his back rushed into the war room. His hair was much shorter, singed, as thankfully some of the soldiers had managed to douse his flames. Red burns and scorch marks marred his skin until it covered almost all his body and face. If he had been cognizant, he would have noticed the other figures in the room, such as Hador and the High King Fingolfin. As there was no time for courtesy, Eärcolanté merely stopped a few steps in the war room, and said,

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

And with that Eärcolanté collapsed face-first into the ground.



~~~

"Their fëar were tenacious therefore of life 'in the raiment of Arda', and far excelled the spirits of Men in power over that 'raiment' [...] protecting their bodies from many ills and assaults" - "Laws and Customs of the Eldar," in Morgoth's Ring.

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FA 375 Northward from the Stockade
A Demanding Demand

The night had only just begun and it was cool and calm. The moon was waxing near full hidden behind a dust of cloud, merely enough to blot out the stars. There would be no rain tonight. A young man slipped through a temporary gap made in their stockade wall which was quickly covered up behind him after passing through. "Good luck, Darman." whispered his fellow Haladin. A pit grew in Darman's stomach knowing how alone he was and how desperate his people were to send someone on this life or death quest for their survival. Only with the assistance of the Lord Caranthir could the Haladin endure. A few orcs patrolled, keeping their distance from the stockade. He had stripped himself of all armor and heavy clothing and kept only light weight dark colored clothes, a dagger and a water skin. Even his boots he had left behind so as to not weigh him down. Darman was taller than many of his brethren, giving him longer limbs, thus a greater leap and stride. He was their swiftest hope in a messenger to Caranthir. Low and silent he stalked to the closest tree. The mud of the beaten earth nearest the stockade slipped between his toes. Bodies of men and orcs lay scattered about as far as his view could reach. Out on that reach, Darman could see the glow of fires and the sounds of what could be imagined as orcs having a celebration. From trunk to trunk, he slipped into the long cast shadows from the fires, keeping his eyes spinning in every direction for any bit of orc movement around him. He stuck close to the river Gelion, staying as far from the sources of light as he was able.

Reaching the other side of the orcs' party Darman felt it was finally safe to break into a run. Eyes fixed on the glow, he turned quickly and sprinted North... a few paces. He collided with something solid, something that wasn't there a moment ago. "Hrmmm... wot is dis?" the familiar racking voice of an orc spoke into the dark. Without a thought, the young man thrust his only weapon, the dagger, into the orc's throat and let it go, falling away back into his disadvantaged position on the ground. His heart pounded as the orc plucked the dagger from his throat, seen with the far off glow behind him. Had he failed already? The orc took a step forward and Darman backed himself into the tree trunk he was hiding against only seconds before. The orc's steps were quick as he came down upon him. A sharp pain entered his thigh before the full weight of the orc fell on him. He bit down on his lip to fend of a cry. Desperately, he pushed against the orc repeatedly, trying to free himself, but the orc would not budge. It did not even move... Taking a moment, Darman breathed a sigh of relief as the orc was found to be dead.

With a great heave, he rolled the orc off of him and gave a wince, recognizing the pain in his leg to be his own dagger. Removing the dagger, he found his situation to be more dire than he expected. Blood flowed from the wound as he covered it up. "No. No." He pressed hard into his thigh, releasing again, only to see it flow just as before, and feel the warmth soaking into his pant leg. Quickly he took the strap of his water skin and looped it twice around his leg, pulled high up near his groin. He used the water skin itself as a handle to twist it tight, and tearing the sleeve from his shirt, he used it to cover the wound. Once more, he started his run, holding the water skin in place beside his leg. He took one last look behind to the glow of the orc gathering before focusing on his destination. His pace was not what he wished it to be and he knew that he could not even keep this up for long before a break was needed to give some blood flow to his injured leg. He would need multiple breaks, even then... would he make it to Caranthir?


*~Morning~*

With the Sun rising, Darman gave in to the fact that this would not be a quick journey. The numbness in his leg made it impossible to run after only a short amount of time. He drank half his water during his rest later in the night, while he temporarily returned the blood flow to his leg. He did not remember to slow his pulse before though so he imagined he lost more blood than he needed to. Nonetheless he pushed forward in a kind of canter until now for another break. Slumping beside a tree again rather forcefully, he groaned in exhaustion, giving his leg a look over. He still held his water skin firmly beside his leg, keeping the circulation cut off. Most of his pant leg was a dark red with his blood mixing with the dark fabric. He was aware that he was quite dirty so he dared not change his poor excuse for a bandage as of yet. Looking around, he was utterly alone, but for the birds greeting the morning light. He drew in and out deep slow breaths to slow his heart rate. Dying here would be dismal, but still peaceful, he supposed. But no, he could do no such thing. His people were more than counting on him. Their existence was on his shoulders and thus also in the aid that Caranthir could bring. Would the Noldorin lord refuse? Such a question should not exist.

Darman slowly began to release his grip on the water skin, grimacing the pain away as the strap began to give way for life into his leg once more. He pressed the wound, massaging it before holding his hand lightly over it, pressing occasionally. With his other hand, he drank the remainder of his water. He watched as his pant leg and bandage grew wet once more. He let the blood flow until the numbness went away for he did not know for how long it was necessary, only that it was. Losing a leg would be quite disappointing. How that old fellow he once knew as a boy lived like that for so long was beyond him. Once more he wrapped the water skin strap twice high around his leg and tightened it with the container before getting to his feet. The world spun for but a moment as he expected but a short pause brought it all back into place before he marched on. Sleep entered his mind but he could not delay anymore than was needed.


*~Dusk~*

He took two breaks during the day. It took him three tries to stand in the afternoon. Each time his head spun to the near point of passing out. He feared another break was not possible, but his whole body felt heavy. By the time the Sun was setting, his pace had slowed so much so that he was barely making progress. Before him though finally laid the lake of Helevorn. He forced a laugh, and looked up to the mountain named Rerir. He stood up straight on the southern banks of the lake unsure of whether he should go east or west around it. He had never been this far north. It was a very pretty lake, he thought, especially with the moon reflecting its fullness upon it. His blue eyes looked up then to the great ball of silver in the sky, and he released the water skin to wave up at it. "Good evening sir. I heard your name is Tilion." He bowed magnificently and stood straight once again before falling completely backwards into the sand. Out cold, blood gradually began to force its way towards his leg without his hold on the water skin keeping it tight.
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Galadriel
Menegroth and the Forest of Neldoreth


Galadriel woke in the dead of night with the words of Yavanna Kementári still echoing in her mind. The fire on the hearth in her underground chambers had burned low, leaving the room suffused in a dull, ruddy light. It was strange to sleep below the earth, away from the wind and water and sky. She thought it might never stop being strange.

Sitting up, Galadriel gathered in the last fragments of the dream that had haunted her sleep. Or memory, more precisely. It was Yavanna who had been dearest to her among the Valar, and at whose feet Galadriel had been schooled. Once, when she had confessed the secret desire of her inmost heart—to set foot on the far shores of the world, and found realms and kingdoms of her own, Yavanna’s eyes had clouded over.

“I do not doubt you will lay hold of all you desire,” the mistress of growing things had said. “And I ask this of you—keep watch over my children when you reach the far shore. The things I planted to slumber until some unknown dawn wakes them. The shepherds who tend the trees. Set a place for them in your heart, Artanis, and care for them when you can. There are few among either the First or Lastborn who love green things as I would, but I know the love of them lies in you.”

Set a place for them in your heart.

The words haunted Galadriel now, as did the reports she’d heard of consuming fire spewing forth from Angband and devouring all in its path. Singollo had made it abundantly clear that his intention was to trust in Melian’s encompassing power, and that those who wished to find refuge in Doriath might seek it there.

But what of those who could not stir themselves? What of the olvar, who could not flee? Would they be consigned to flame as a result of this brewing war, which they had no part in making and no knowledge of? And what things of beauty might pass out of the world entirely because they had been overlooked? Blossoms, shoots and saplings, and trees who had stood from the foundation of the earth.

Care for them when you can.

Galadriel knew it would serve no purpose to speak to Singollo. He was proud, and set in his pride, and naught swayed him when he had chosen a path. Though she tarried at Menegroth to learn who she would become—to temper herself into a fit and wise ruler—she stayed too, to watch Greycloak and to learn who she would not be from him. That truth she never spoke—the courtesy and welcome she had received demanded respect—yet it was there, lodged in her spirit. She thought Singollo a fool, and worse than a fool, a butcher. For she had heard of his actions towards the petty dwarves who were being slain by his people--how he had laughed and named them witless, and animals. Only when their intelligence became indisputable did he end that butchery, yet still held the petty dwarves lesser, and gave them their name.

How much less would this king care for the olvar?

Slipping from her bed, Galadriel hastened to dress herself in the simplest of traveling garments. A green rough-spun kirtle. A hooded cloak to hide her fabled hair. Soft leather boots that rose nearly to the knee. Clad thus, she drifted through the corridors of Menegroth and to the cavernous storerooms, where she provisioned herself as she saw fit. None sought to stop her—to all, she seemed just another common wanderer, bent on seeking the solitude of Doriath’s trackless woods.


********************


Wars might come and lands be shaken, but Galadriel always found peace beneath trees. On the far side of the Esgalduin, she wandered Neldoreth, a simple elf-maid enamored of the forest. She went slowly, stopping often to sing to the listening beeches in her low, clear voice, or to pass a day in slow regard of a single woodland bloom.

At last, when the final traces of Menegroth had fallen from her like scales and she felt herself free and glad and unfettered, a vast presence pricked at the edges of her awareness. Something old, and wise, and unknowable.

Smiling, Galadriel stepped out into the center of a clearing, where dappled sun warmed the air and the grass grew green and lush, lit with banks of niphredil like small stars. She’d left her boots behind in yet another clearing, and her bag and cloak, and stood barefoot and bareheaded.

Shepherd?Galadriel said, a welcome in the word. “Do our paths cross again?”
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Beleg - Captain of the Marchwardens of Doriath
Western borders of Neldoreth, 455 FA


It may have seemed unprofessional, but Beleg couldn’t help but continue his target practice as he listened to Mallosel’s predictably uneventful report. Everything had been quiet around the borders of Doriath since returning from Fingolfin’s council – where he and Mablung had likely made no new friends – but somehow it felt like the calm before the storm. Any extra practice could only be beneficial.

One of his lower ranked soldiers retrieved the arrows and returned them to him. He checked them over quickly. One had suffered a broken shaft from being struck by a subsequent arrow but the rest were good for another shot. Dailir, as usual, showed no damage and he slipped it and the others into the quiver over his back. He was about to dismiss Mallosel to return to her company when Sillandhras came crashing through the trees with far more noise than was customary.

Sindar camped near the Mindeb. That, in itself, would not have been cause for concern. What made Beleg’s blood run cold was the sight of his normally imperturbable marchwarden so distressed.

Beleg signalled for his horse Sadron to be brought to him and quickly mounted. “Lead us there at once.

Sure enough, Sillandhras lead them to the banks of the Mindeb and Beleg’s keen eyes could easily see the tattered banners bearing the seal of their King. For the first time in many years, the Strongbow’s façade slipped and upon it, dismay was as plain to see as the clouds above them – clouds that he now realised looked suspiciously like smoke.

Sillandhras suggested action that Beleg should have voiced himself, but he had been struck silent at the sight of such devastation. Countless bodies beneath what scraps of cloth as could be found, soldiers bearing wounds that would surely warrant death for the Aftercomers, and haunted looks of pure horror on the faces of far too many more.

What a storm it must have been, he thought.

They picked their way through the carnage towards an Elf Sillandhras knew, though Beleg recognised only by reputation, and dismounted. At the sight of Celeg’s hesitation, Beleg finally found his voice again. “Bearing grim tiding proves ever heavy burden,” he reassured. “Give report, and let the weight of your experience be shared by your brethren.

The Rabbit spoke of rivers of flame, transforming Ard-galen into a graveyard of bones and ash, the loss of Angrod and Aegnor, and the scattering of their forces. “Our King has spoken already of granting refuge to displaced kin such as yourself,” he said. “I will travel to his halls at once to relay your tales and seek his permission for your entry into our lands. For now, stay among your company. Mallosel, seek out our nearby wardens. Give orders that watches around the Northern borders must be doubled in light of Morgoth’s aggression, and gather what supplies can be spared to help these wretches. Sillandhras, deliver orders to your companies about doubled guard around the Western borders, then take stock of these Elves with Celeg so supplies may be appropriately distributed upon Mallosel’s return. I am for Menegroth, and words with our King towards the salvation of these and subsequent Sindar.

With that, Beleg leapt onto Sadron's back and rode through the trees, his pale hair streaming out behind him like the tail of a falling star.


Throne Room, Menegroth


It took most of the day to reach Menegroth, and both horse and rider were exhausted upon journey’s end. Barely glancing at the Elf who came forward to take care of Sadron, Beleg headed straight for the throne room. King Thingol would no doubt be holding court, hearing the concerns of his subjects. As he strode into the throne room, he was relieved to see Mablung, as ever, by the King’s side. No doubt if Beleg failed to find the right words, Mablung would succeed.

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, unmindful of his rudeness, and rushed through a bow that could be considered borderline disrespectful. “Aran nín, Bereth nín,” he addressed Thingol and Melian, “I beg your forgiveness for such rudeness, but my tidings must be heard at once. The Siege is broken.” There were gasps from the crowd, but he forged on. “Morgoth has unleashed devilry he has spent his imprisonment perfecting in advance of any assault by Fingolfin or his allies. Ard-galen is aflame and countless Elven lives have already been lost, including your kin Angrod and Aegnor.

But there is hope. Even now, a company of Sindarin survivors have set camp along the banks of the Mindeb, below the Pass of Anach. My King, you have proved blessed with foresight. Not so long ago, you spoke of Doriath as a refuge in the event of such a disaster. I beg that you permit these Elves sanctuary within your borders, so that the marchwardens may lead them through the Girdle and they may share in our peace, protected by yourself and Queen Melian.
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
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Rilyanis and Calindo
Minas Tirith
FA 60 - Before Dagor Aglareb
Sneaking Beneath the Stars

(A story with Alma and Quill)

"Shhhhh," Rilyanis hushed her brother. Calindo had been stepping noisily down stone halls, amused by the echoes of his heavy footfalls. He still delighted in this kind of self-indulgent play. "Walk softly for once. We don't want anyone to notice we're down here."

Calindo slowed and began to tiptoe exaggeratedly in her wake. He scowled as Rilyanis turned away, lantern in hand, and snuck behind her to tug on her hair.

"You!" she growled, turning on him. "I'm only asking you to walk quietly because I would like for us not to be caught."

Rilyanis was not certain that excursions from Tol Sirion by moonlight were forbidden. But as she and her brother so rarely went boating alone, she preferred not to risk their parents - or anyone, for that matter - finding out. Having heard the tales of Oromë the hunter, Rilyanis wanted to experience a hunt beneath the stars. She only regretted that they would not be able to go on horseback, given the need to row off the island. She carried a bow and arrows across her back, a slender sword at her side. Her hands were gloved in leather that matched her boots.


Calindo, meanwhile, was just along for the adventure. Not yet grown to full stature, he was happy to tag along with his older sister, making messes and inciting silly arguments with her when his temper flared. On those occasions when he'd been disinvited from an outing with her after a fight, he sulked alone and snapped at anyone who spoke to him. Tonight, he had knives at his belt and mischief in his eyes.

The siblings reached a heavy wooden door: a side entrance to the fortress that opened near a small boathouse. When Rilyanis lifted her deep grey hood over her dark curls, Calindo mimed her to shield himself from the midnight chill. Both stole silently toward the boats until they came to the beach, where their footsteps crunched lightly on the stones that littered the shore. Calindo raced ahead and had already readied a swift, light canoe when Rilyanis caught up.

Rilyanis stepped into the boat first, sitting and placing her lantern on the floor; her brother followed. "You row first," she commanded, leaning back to watch the stars reflected in the water sliding beneath them. "I'll row on the way back."



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FA 316
Barad Faradrim, Himlad

"I'll cast her over the battlements!" Celegorm stormed. Curufin rolled his eyes. "Really, brother," he began - but got no further in his protest as Celegorm's temper raged on.

Curufin kept pace with him as they traversed stairs and halls. As they neared their destination, he found his words. "You do yourself no favors when you allow yourself to be provoked by this pettiness." He spoke thus as Celegorm burst through the door and confronted Ellindalë. Curufin sighed. He would not hold out hope that his words were heeded.

Curufin hesitated at the threshold of the room. He ushered a servant on his way as the man paused at the sound of shouting. He had no desire to get any closer to this fight than he already was; his ire was better reserved for those who truly deserved it. Before Celegorm had finished ranting at Ellindalë, Curufin peeled away to see his son. Celebrimbor would need some instruction before the sons of Fëanor left Himlad.


* * *

"Your voice should echo the voice of Fëanor, just as your hammer echoes his, ringing in the forge. You are a son of a great house, a higher house than the pretenders scattered across these lands. Hold yourself as such. Give orders from that position. Use the power you have inherited by blood to your advantage. In my absence I expect you to speak with my voice, and with that of my father's. Do not fail me."

He had spoken these words with a fatherly hand on Celebrimbor's shoulder and with all hope that his son would heed them. When Curufin looked back on this moment and its wasted potential in the months and years to come, he felt nothing but displeasure.
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Víðarr's Shadowy Work
Thargelion, FA 375

Finnbarr floated near the bottom of the lake. Down here, nearly a hundred feet from the surface, so many of his problems seemed far away. The light barely filtered through here, motes of purple suffused with iridescence. Nothing moved down here, or did so slowly it didn’t matter. This place reminded him of that void he had gone to that fateful day, the day Fëanor arrived in Alqualondë. There was no sound here, just the sound of his own beating heart in his ears. Down here, Finnbarr Galedeep felt alive, more alive than he did going to balls, council meetings, in the training yard, or in the stables. Down here, the oath he’d sworn seemed so very far away. Davos had warned him against making the oath, the ancient elf had told him of the perils that would lie before him but Finnbarr would not listen, he was hot with the fire of rage. Down here, his rage was cooled. He could not feel himself down here, so far from everything. He floated free of himself down here, drifting amongst his thoughts the way he used to swim through the kelp forests of his youth.

But unlike his void of ancient days, Finnbarr could not stay here, down at the bottom of Lake Helevorn. Reluctantly, the elf began drifting back up to the surface. As the light filled the waters around him, so to did the weighty sense of duty. His oath was never far behind him, like a stalking wolf.

“I swear by the black stars of the bottomless seas, by the greatest of depths, by the war of the leviathan and the kraken, I will find my parents’ slayers and all who seek to hide them and upon those I will reek such a terrible vengeance that the oceans will quake.”

The words still rang in his ears two centuries later. When he was above the surface of the water, they sat on his chest, a hundredweight wrapped around his neck.

He swam to the shoreline, to his horse, a chestnut skewbald gelding he called Húrovangwë (the Storm-Blown). There he washed off the last vestiges of the lake, and don once more the semblance he had worn for nearly a decade now. The smiling, thoughtful, if somewhat moody courtier, a confidante of the king, willing to speak his mind should the occasion call for it.

He had learned quickly. His first encounter in Thargelion had been an explosive one. He had been too bold, too rash, too angry. He entered the hall, demanding to speak to Caranthir, the king. He had narrowed his search for his parents’ killers to his kingdom, and he boldly called them all killers and accomplices. Herugon had been the only one to speak after that. Finnbarr remembered how his voice echoed in the stunned Hall, reaching the spires of the mountain behind them. His voice was the only one that could match the ferocity of Finnbarr. He matched Finnbarr, insult for insult. He called Finnbarr incompetent, a child playing knight while Finnbarr called him no better than Caranthir’s loyal baggins, ready at any time to be service. That had gotten him thrown in Thargelion’s cells for nearly a week.

He had only been released because he had inadvertently impressed Caranthir, who had not borne witness to the flyting. The King of Thargelion had come down to see the impressive youth, so full of salt and rage. He had come dressed as a normal courtier, not the finery befitting a king. Finnbarr, having never seen this son of Fëanor in the flesh, did not see through the disguise and spat his poisoned words. He said that a king who hides criminals behind beautiful silks and jewels is no king at all, but a brigand lord who sleeps on the skins of his victims. Caranthir, to his credit, did not immediately have Finnbarr executed. He released him upon Finnbarr’s word that he would not seek to stir up trouble but also would not seek to blunt his advice. It was upon that the Caranthir’s rouse was unmasked.

Finnbarr was released and given his own rooms. He was made a courtier, an advisor to the king. Often though, he would spar with Herugon who always sought to bring the Teler low. While their arguments were never of the same violent ferocity as that initial match, they fenced time and time again, each giving as good as the other.

So it had been for ten years now. Caranthir trusted Finnbarr, and for his part, Finnbarr trusted Caranthir. He went about his work, finding and rooting out the killers of his parents whilst playing the part of a frivolous nobleman. He played the part well, too well for his own liking but there was nothing for it.

He re-entered the city and made his way to Caranthir’s manse flying through the various hallways until he came upon the chamber of the king. Tavari was there, as was the ever present pustule Herugon. It was a light conversation, that he paid little heed to. He took up his customary position at the window, gazing wistfully into the open sky, wondering if the heights of the clouds were anything at all akin to the depths of the seas.

Finnbarr, save me from these miscreants!”

The king’s words shook him out of his reverie. He glanced about him and saw the three of them engaged in a good natured struggle over grapes, tossing them back and forth at each other. Finnbarr smiled, the light did not quite reach his eyes, but they were all to absorbed in their merriment to notice. He stood up from his window perch and snatched one of the grapes before it could be wasted as a projectile, dodging the one Tavari threw his way with a sway of his hips.

Before he could retort though, the commotion outside took his focus. Something was wrong, his stomach knotted momentarily and his muscles tightened.

“What now?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 2:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Emeldir
Ladros, Dorthonion
FA 455

Never one to sleep soundly, Emeldir came awake the moment the alarm bells began to ring. Before the first sonorous reverberation had fully sung out across the palisade walls, she was up and half-dressed. No rough-spun kirtle for her, but breeches and shirt; tall boots and leather armor. Hair bound back, a sword at her waist, shield at her back, and all before the alarm had tolled thrice. Barahir, when he was home, would tease her for the haste in which she met each day.

Do the bells sound an attack, wife? he would ask, with laughter in his voice, for they had not rung out in a lifetime.

It was strange to hear them now, worse still that they tolled while Barahir was away, though Emeldir knew herself to be strong and capable, and her husband’s brother, Bregolas, no less so. Her son, Beren, and Bregolas’s sons, Baragund and Belegund, were men now too, skilled in weaponcraft and fit for battle. But there was an ease between Emeldir and Barahir that she felt with no one else. They were of the same mind in all things—like the sweet silver note of two swords being drawn in unison.

Tamping down her discomfort over her husband's absence, Emeldir left her chamber only to find two guards already waiting outside the door.

“With me,” she said tersely, and they fell in behind her as she swept out into the palisade grounds. On and on the bell tolled—already the first few sleepers were spilling from their homes, the first panicked murmurs coming from their lips. Guards stood here and there on the wooden stands which had been raised behind the palisade wall, but by contrast, they were utterly silent.

Arriving at the wall, Emeldir hurried up the steps to the first stand she reached, grasping a proffered hand extended to help her along. Without speaking, she took her place and looked out at the rocky highlands of Ladros.

Only to behold a world in flames.

Fire had engulfed the distant plain of Ard-galen, and rivers of it already lapped at the foothills. The wind shifted, and brought with it an overpowering cloud of smoke, laced with the scents of sulfur and brimstone.

A deep foreboding woke within Emeldir. It was as if she looked out upon the world’s ending. And if not the end of all the world, at least the end of hers. Of her life, as she had known it.

By the time Emeldir had mastered her dread and turned back to the palisade yard, Bregolas was at the center of it, barking orders to the guards as they mustered. Descending from the palisade stand, she went to his side.

“There will be worse to come today than fire, brother,” she cautioned. “This is the first evil of many, or I am sorely mistaken.”

Bregolas nodded, his weathered face nearly as familiar to her as Barahir’s own. “We will take guards out and survey the woods, to determine what ill might come upon our people next. You, myself and Baragund will go. Beren and Belegund we leave behind, to keep watch over our people. Are you prepared?”

Emeldir spread her hands wide. “I am as you see me.”

In answer, Bregolas smiled grimly. “Prepared and more, then. Would that half my guardsmen were as swift to action as my brother’s wife.”

Within minutes they were through the gates and moving through the woods, sure-footed as deer, swift and silent as shadows. What communication passed between them was a matter of gesture, or mimicked birdsong, and even the forest creatures took no notice of their passing. Smoke hung thick among the pines, and the valiant guards of Beor’s house drifted through it like wraiths.

To Emeldir, all seemed turned to ash and memory already. And the voices rising from beyond the smoke—the shouts and screams, the clamor of war—surely they must be the very dead speaking.

But no. For something sang through the air beside her and she heard a dull impact, only to turn and find Bregolas pale and glassy-eyed at her side. He looked wordlessly at her, and she saw the wicked, black-hilted knife embedded in his throat, blood spilling in rivulets over the wound it had opened there. Before Emeldir could say anything, Bregolas fell to the ground, trembled for an instant, and grew still.

She did not watch as her lord and kinsman died. That was a grief to be felt and a loss to be mourned later. Emeldir’s keen eyes were on the trees, instead, and the dark, evil shapes which moved among them.

The enemy had come to Ladros, and the voices she’d heard were not the dead. They were the voices of those about to die.

With the battle-rush spreading warmth and fury through her veins, Emeldir stepped over Bregolas’s lifeless body. Shield up, sword at the ready.

Just as her father had taught her. Just as she, in turn, had taught her son.
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Fangorn
455 FA
The Forest of Neldoreth


"To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.

Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!" -Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers




The sighing of leaves was something Fangorn cherished about Neldoreth. But though the beech leaves turned gold and red, many of them remained on the trees, fading to a tan. Another aspect regarding this clearing was that Fangorn would witness the being known as Lúthien dancing, causing flowers to sprout as if they were in the midst of summer. This reminded him of Fimbrethil, and often during the summertime in Ossiriand, where light and music played by its seven rivers, Fangorn would go and tell her of such things.

Recently, the ent had spent a week merely breathing in the air in Neldoreth. The elf who styled himself as King Thingol had known of Fangorn's yearly visit and stay in Neldoreth during the autumn, and thus he was able to pass the very strange girdle-like thing that even prevented even himself from entering the realm known as Doriath. At this, Fangorn spent much time pondering, still not completely understanding the specific aspects of this strange protection. There was much he did not understand of Thingol. The trees themselves were content to be left alone, however, and the ent heard them speak of the burárum who were fought by the elves east of the forests. This he knew from asking the elm-woods of Ossiriand, of a great battle that killed many elves. But now no orc traveled within the Girdle, and peace had long reigned in the land. So long as he could pass and wander the woods of Neldoreth and Region as a whole, the ent was content in not knowing everything about such elven matters.

Normally at this point in time, he would have already been in Dorthonion, climbing the highlands, wondering at the whiteness and black branches of winter among the pine trees. But this time, Fangorn tarried. For he wanted to see for himself how long the leaves would stay rooted on the beech branches in Neldoreth and Region. And whether or not they lasted longer in the presence of one such as Lúthien.

But more recently, the ent could not help but sense something strange happening, perhaps up north. But this was not enough yet to cause Fangorn to investigate. For he was not hasty, and required more information.


So it was that he heard a familiar voice sing in the distance, and soon enough, the elf known as Galadriel had inquired of his presence.

"Hrum hoom," murmured Fangorn, as he slowly moved towards Galadriel, "I... recognize your voice from afar, young Galadriel! Well met again... room tum, and so our paths cross again. I do not normally reside here in the winter, but the beeches here fascinate me so. They tell me some of the most interesting stories of the animals and other folk living and passing by. I just spent a week merely breathing in the wintry air, and listening to the forests. Neldoreth and Region are truly wonderful places here, and I am glad the elves care for the trees.

Hmm hroom, but I sense you have reason for coming here, do you not? Feel free to take your time speaking of it, for as you know we ents are not a hasty folk."

Forester of Lothlorien
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Doriath
FA 455
In the home of Gladhron and Linnadis

The gentleness of the morning breeze stirred the silver tendrils upon Linnadis' head as she watched her beloved at target practice in their backyard. She sat upon the wooden stair, her arms wrapped about her silver-grey-robed legs, and her chin rested upon her knees. There was a quiet admiration in her blue gaze, and Gladhron preened under its attention. Showing off to his wife never grew old. She was susceptible and thought much of him. But he was also aware that her silence appeared a little absent-minded; as though her thoughts were elsewhere and not completely there with him. Gladhron took aim and fired one last arrow into the bark of the birch tree that held his target, and then whirled about gracefully to join his wife.

Linnadis was a bit startled as he flung himself flat on his back at her silver-slippered feet, slipped his arms behind his head, and gazed up at her with his deep brown eyes. "You are far away, my love," he pouted. "I am not sure I like that very much. Perhaps I ought to take my practice back with all the other marchwardens."

The elleth's eyes brightened and she laughed, her voice like silver bells ringing through the wooded forest. "It is not I who has asked you to train in our backyard, Gladhron."

"Oh?" came the mock hurt reply, and said elf made to get up and hasten away. "Perhaps I should make myself scarce then so that my lady might think in peace!"

"Oh, hush, Gladhron! You and I both know you'll come running back!" and she laughed again, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Gladhron's lips curved into an almost-smile, and his eyes responded to the twinkle in hers. His heart soared. It always amazed him how Linnadis' smile could just light him up from the inside. There was a time, he remembered, when she had been too afraid to do so, and perhaps too sorrowful. But that was so many years ago, it did not matter. However, he did wonder at what had caused her silence that morning. She usually chattered away at him while he went through his training motions, or she sang to him. He went back into his fallen position at her feet. "Tell me, my lady! What has held your tongue this morning?"

The twinkle in the lady's eyes faded into pensiveness, and there was a hint of worry that lurked behind that gaze. "I was glad when King Thingol decided that we would remain uninvolved in the lives of the Noldor. Glad, but mostly relieved. The thought of seeing those creatures again...of your having to face them; of naneth... I was glad, Gladhron." She fidgeted with the belt at her waist, running it through her fingers and pinching at it as she spoke, not quite meeting her husband's eyes. "But then, naneth spoke of it, and she was annoyed, restless. She seems to think this war against Morgorth is our war as well." Her eyes finally sought Gladhron's as she whispered, "Do you think so too?"

As Linnadis had spoken, the weight of the matter being discussed settled upon his brow. He had watched his elleth carefully, noticing her fidgeting hands, her confusion, her reluctance and hesitance. Now, he pondered her question, removing his gaze from hers and looking into the verdant canopy above them. Did he think so too? Gladhron was a warrior and took pride in guarding the borders of their realm. But he was not one to go willingly looking for a fight. He sometimes wondered if he might have faired better as a diplomat or ambassador for Doriath. But the Sindar of the Girdle had withdrawn further and further from Beleriand as the Noldor had begun to make everything personal, turning it to their own advantage, and caring not who they 'killed' in the process.

Gladhron sighed. "I don't know, Linnadis. Would we have been fighting this war if it were not for our cousins from across the seas? Who knows? Must we fight now? Why fight when we can be safe? Our king has opened up the safety of Doriath to those of our kind who seek it. Would that be possible if we went to war?" He turned his head to look at his wife. She was looking at him in all earnestness. "It is difficult, my heart. But I am content to follow the orders that are given to me for now. So you have no need to worry. Not on my behalf...and not on your mother's." Then he trailed his gaze from her eyes down to her belly, "Worrying cannot be good for our little one."

Linnadis flushed ever so slightly, and the brightness came into her eyes again. She began to respond when the still air about them was interrupted with a cry.

"Gladhron! Linnadis! Gladhron!"

The elleth's eyes widened, "Gladhanar?"

Gladhron leapt to his feet, responding to the urgency in the voice of his younger brother who was just making his way around to the back of their cozy little cottage. Gladhanar's hair was of a light gold, just like his brother's, and his dark eyes were only a shade lighter than Gladhron's. Those eyes were now filled with a sense of urgency, reflected in his crisp movements, but as Gladharan drew near the pair, Gladhron recognised the deep-seated light in his brother's eyes -- the one that he got when he felt challenged. That put Gladhron on guard, more than anything else about his brother's appearance.

"What news, gwador nin?" asked Linndis with concern.

"Refugees. From Ard-galen. Morgoth has struck. The whole plain is in flame. Nothing has survived."

A faintness swept through Linnadis, and her husband caught her before she sank to the ground. Gladharan stepped forward hastily. "Ah! Gwethil! I am sorry. I didn't mean to...at least, I wasn't thinking, I didn't think..." he stammered.

But Gladhron held up a hand from his position on the ground, holding his wife upright. "She is fine. But this news is dire indeed! No doubt the king knows...?"

Linnadis listened in a daze.

"Beleg is reporting in." Gladharan looked at his brother a little uncertainly. "I thought you might like to come and help where you might." His glance fell on his sister-in-law, "Linnadis' skill will also be needed."

Strengthened by the fact that she could indeed help, Linnadis sat up straigher and spoke quietly, "I will come."

"You nearly fainted!" Gladhron frowned.

"It is nothing, my love. Only the shock. But I will not be a poor creature. I will come."

She slipped in to gather her healing supplies while Gladhron hastened to get all else ready. "Where are they?"

"Near the Mindeb," responded Galadharan, following his elder about and helping where he could. "That makes it about half a day's ride from here."

Gladhron nodded, as Linnadis joined them in deer boots and more serviceable clothing. "We leave now."

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FA 455
Mindo Manheren, Dorthonion
The Unlucky Tower Part One

"I will answer to Urinraumo but more readily
to
Edan. A mortal named Nathaniel Galerida
has given me that name."

- Edan Amrun to Aigronding Mordagnir
when he reunited with Erindan's
youngest son in the Havens of Sirion
following the Ruin of Doriath
and the Fall of Gondolin, c. FA 508


"Lysander of Thargelion was the father of two,
a girl and a boy and the lad's name was Tristan.
Tristan the father of Gareth of Dorthonion,
Gareth the father of Gaheris,
Gaheris the father of Gawain,
Gawain the father of Beledar slayer of Giants,
Beledar Giantsbane the father of Beledor
who was the friend of Nathaniel Galerida."

- from the Elf-friend Geneaologies of scholar Saira Nólënendë,
mother of Roina Mordagnir


"Ah, one of my ancestors. Lord Aranroval. They called him
Barasāthoron, the Burned Eagle.
He was scarred by a Balrog in the Dagor Bragollach. He survived and became a leader
of Men. He was one of the surviving warriors of the War of the Jewels.
He helped train the scions of the Edain Houses in hiding for their eventual War of Wrath
along side the Host of Eönwë against Angband and the Easterling masters of Hithlum.
Well, that's what family legend says."

- Lord Halion to Lady Isys, at Rosstirin in Belfalas, admiring the painting of his forebear, c. TA 3014.


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"So you're leaving then?" Beledor remarked with a cold edge to his voice, pretending to be upset. The jocular young man - tall, dark, and handsome - leaned in the doorway of the quarters he shared with the twins and Nathaniel Galerida to whom he was joking with. He was a shorter cleanshaven man who also shared both First and Third House ancestry. Nathaniel and Beledor had grown up together in Woodmere, a Dorthonion village near Rivil's Well and both men answered the call to arms years ago. It was at Mindo Manheren, the Lucky Tower of Lord Rincion, where they met the twins - Margh and "Mads" Madern Elforion. Their camaderie and daring exploits were legendary as was the heorism of Aranroval Sandsastan, the virtuous lord of Woodmere who commanded Elves and Mortals of Dorthonion in Ard-galen.

Nathaniel rolled his blue eyes as he finished packing his knapsack. "Get out of here with that buncombe, you pettifogging idiot." If it wasn't Beledor cracking jokes, it was Margh and Mads. He couldn't help chuckling though. Nathaniel had been among the few number of soldiers being permitted leave by Rincion. Nathaniel could see his beloved Gwendolyn again and their children, Courtenay and Michael, in Woodmere again. He hadn't seen his wife and teenagers in four months. Since the twins returned to Dorthonion - vying for the affection of Ebrel Anariel - and had left with Beledor who needed to be with Malenbess and Eressil and Gostor the last time, Nathaniel was now the one who would be with his family a little season.

"C'mon, take a look North, brother!" Beledor continued, managing a grip on his angry facade rather well, and pointed his finger toward the clouded intimdating spires of Thangorodrim which they could see even from Dorthonion's forested slopes . "Don't turn your back on us, mate!" Beledor shouted with melodramatic ire he utilized well on the Woodmere stage. "You know what's about to happen, what we're up against!!"

"What a winged dragon?" supposed Nathaniel and barked out a humorless laugh. They hadn't seen one yet but he wouldn't be surprised if Morgoth surprised them all. "What's the crisis of the month going to be this time?" said Nathaniel wryly, tying his brown hair.

"RIVERS OF FLAME!!" Beledor shrieked, his pointing finger now trembling.

Nathaniel was rather impressed with how pale he looked. Beledor actually seemed frightened. "That's a good one, mate!" Nathaniel slapped Beledor's arm comradely. "I bet not even Mads could think up a whopper like that even if he was drunk -"

"TRAILS OF FIRE, COMING RIGHT FOR US, BY THE HOLY MOUNTAIN!!!!"

Beledor slapped Nathaniel, jerking his head to the side.

Nathaniel, falling to the floor, caught a brief glimpse of swift coruscating streams of a blazing inferno tearing across the vast snowy plain of Ard-galen. Flowing from Angband, the rivers of flame gushed towards the forested hills of Dorthonion where there were many fortresses like Mindo Manheren.

Beledor and Nathaniel, hastily rising, shot out of the door, when they heard the twins on nightwatch ringing the alarum bells. They navigated the sea of bewildered and yelling dismayed warriors, pushing their way through the masses of cursing awakened soldiers until they reached the carillon of Mindo Manheren. Mads and Murgh were posted there as sentries this ill-fated evening. Beledor and Nathaniel burst into the carillon. The twins were still ringing the iron bells most ardently until Nathaniel and Beledor pulled them away.

"Everyone knows something's wrong by now, let's get out of here!" Nathaniel, taking charge as usual, told the siblings in their flight out of the tower. By the moment they reached the last step of the winding stairway, great swaths of flame poured over the curtain wall of Mindo Manheren and licked insatiably over the roof of the flanking tower. Nathaniel turned back to gaze at the fiery ruin of the carillon above in wide-eyed terror when suddenly Beledor yanked his arm, getting him to spring ahead with Murgh and Mads.

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They encountered Lord Aranroval in their flight out of the building. The muscular and broad-shouldered blonde noble with the manly chiseled square jaw and icy-blue eyes was armored in his shining mail. No, he didn't look cheerful as he normally did but niether did he appear terrified. He was collected and exuded a glacial calm. His cape of blue and gold, emblazoned with his sigil of a golden eagle with its wings displayed, swirled about him in the hot winter breeze. "Go back inside," he ordered them.

"Are you daft?" Nathaniel demanded then cleared his throat, adding, "Milord," when Beledor punched his arm.

"Lord Rincion is still inside," Aranroval explained, looking grimly at the burning edifice where they had long had served. "The Light Elf, he's still inside. That's for certain."

Nathaniel shared a knowing with Beledor and the twins. More than often, Rincion gambled afield, risking himself in mad bravery in war. They believed that he wanted to die, that Rincion had a deathwish. He was too proud to commit suicide but perhaps he hid his fervent desire to die, to be spared the terrible sorrow of his daughter's passing, beneath a facade of courageous madness. Maybe this time he didn't have to fight hard, he could just let the flames take him. That was no way for the Boar of Aman to perish.

"Get him," commanded Aranroval, "Then meet me outside the sally port." He raised his gauntlet to a small exit in the rear side of the curtain wall which had not been seared yet in the rivers of fire engulfing the bailey and tower and the northern fringe of woods facing Angband. "Our troops are amassing in the field and we've rescued many horses from the stables. You'll have your mounts for the ride to Himring, gathering Elves and Men escaping this disaster along the way."

"We're returning to our families, sir," Nathaniel stated, resolute.

"Through that hellfire, son?" Aranroval asked, raising one flaxen brow and nodded his cleft chin at the fires raging in the forests for miles west toward home.

"Once the flames are gone, we'll look for our loved ones," Beledor assured Nathaniel, clasping his shoulder and glanced at the twins to see if they were in agreement.

"If King Maedhros doesn't require our aid, yes," Aranroval acknowledged with a stiff nod. "I doubt it's only fire which Morgoth means to assail us with. Perhaps High King Fingolfin was right when he sought to storm Angband with us and his kin." Aranroval shook his head ruefully, reminded them of their orders, and strode through thick drifting smoke toward the sally port.

Nathaniel and Beledor wasted no time, hurrying into the stricken tower with Mads and Murgh. They came to the carved walnut door of the Lord Captain but Rincion had locked it...confining himself to a phoenix demise. "We need your expertise, mate," Nathaniel informed Beledor. "Be quick about it."

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With a fleeting smirk at the twins, Beledor removed a lockpick out of his cloak. Back in Woodmere he'd been a poor actor but who was a better thief. The town's judge, the father of Malenbess, gave him one last chance to redeem himself - become a soldier or live his life one-handed. "Old habits die hard, mellyn nin," Beledor commented to Murgh and Mads with a twinkle in his azure eyes following each successful raid of Rincion's larder. Beledor put his villainous skillset to use, filching sweetbreads and the finest meats for their little quartet for when they went on errantry.

Beledor deftly manipulated the Calaquendi's lock with expert ease of the pick then shoved the door open, grinning smugly. He waltzed inside like one of his swaggering heroic characters. Beledor was about to grandly proclaim how his thieving prowess delivered Rincion from a fiery demise when suddenly the stone roof of Rincion's quarters collapsed in a terrific fall of flaming stone atop the High Elf glowering at the four men. The effulgent glow of his piercingly bright brown eyes glowing in the dark were lost in mere seconds as he tumbled beneath the heavy burning debris which the Mortals raced to.

"The heights of Dorthonion and Ered Wethrin held back the fiery torrents,
but their woods upon the slopes that looked towards Angband were all kindled,
and the smoke wrought confusion among the defenders.
Many of the most valiant that remained, both of the people of Dorthonion
and of the east marches, ralled to Maedhros..."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin


GM UPDATE:

Cassie, respond as you'd like as the twins - before Nathaniel and Beledor
arrived and what followed after.
Have Konrauko leave Angband in the wake of the rivers of flame
and bring a company of Orcs with him.
Have the twins help rescuing a complaining injured Rincion
from the flaming rubble and reunite with Aranroval
and the Manheren forces outside the sally port tunnel.
Konrauko can attack the riders as they start venturing west.
Once Aranroval is scarred by your Balrog's whip,
the fighting will inevitably lead to Konrauko and the Orcs
retreating overhill and west...to Woodmere...
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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FA 455
Mindeb, Doriath
Western Border of Doriath
A Call to Arms



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Nimorn saw two golden-haired Elven men bearing a strong resemblance to each other (Gladhron and Galadharan) drawing closer to his side of the encampment. He assumed they were Nandor since there was a white-haired woman (Linnadis) with them and being guided by Loboth. Nimorn likewise had silver hair but the Elf was youner than those Elves. He summoned them over with frantic waves of his hands and glanced at his mother, Nathronel, grimly. His mother's mercury hair was dripping wet and the pale nightgown she had fled their Dorthonion castle with was soaked and clinging to her pale lithe body. She had tried drowning herself in the waters of Mindeb and would have succeeded if her son and several Sindar refugees hadn't pulled her from the unfeeling currents of the stream.

"Nimorn, these are brothers Gladhron and Galadharan," Celeg Loboth introduced the Elves to Nimorn. "Linnadis is Gladhron's wife, a healer. They are looking to help. Perhaps they can be of some use to the quest you wish to undertake." Celeg turned to the family and gave them a wan smile as he clasped each of their forearms comradely with a fleeting touch of his gloved hand. "Beleg has given me orders and I might see to them while I wait for word about my permission to live here in Doriath and become one of Mablung's warriors. I hope we will all reunite again soon." Celeg departed swiftly, leaving Nimorn with Galadhron and Galadharan and Linnadis.

"A star shines on the hour of our meeting," Nimorn spoke warmly to them, lifting his gaze briefly to the bright sun glowing in the azure sky on this day of doom. "I am the noble son of Parfheron, a Noldorin Elf-lord of Dorthonion. This is my Grey-elven mother, Nathronel." He gestured at her. His parent continued staring at the reflective waters of the Mindeb, saying nothing. The rivers of flame incinerated our castle, killed many of our people," Nimorn divulged, brushing hot tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his grey velvet cloak. "Mother and I escaped the burning. We're worried about my father and my twin brother, Celefion," he explained in an animated but steady voice. "He was on errantry with my father and our contingent in Ard-galen, about to return home until the spring. They could have rode to Himring to be safe from the inferno. I've promised to look for them there so my mother can be at peace." He regarded her quietly then turned his fair, somber face toward Gladhron, Galadharan, and Linnadis. "I need company to Himring because the road is perilous. Spiderspawn and shifting shadows haunt the land between Doriath and Nan Dungortheb." His voice dropped low enough for the Elves to hear. "I expect that fields of fire are the last of our concern. Morgoth may launch a full-scale attack with his minions to destroy the weakened territories of Elves and Men. The Sindar among the Noldor in Himring will need soldiers and healers. Many of our people are fleeing to Himring from Dorthonion. Will you go with me to Himring?"
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Forester of Lothlorien
Points: 220 
Posts: 111
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Doriath
FA 455
Mindeb, Western Border of Doriath
A Call to Arms

(Gladhron and Linnadis, and Gladhanar)


The small family of elves had been travelling swiftly through the woods, keeping good time, when they came upon an elf who introduced himself as Celeg Loboth. A few hurried exchanges, and they were on their way towards the western borders of the land. Like grey shadows they moved midst the trees. Linnadis lay low over her moonlight-coloured mare, Ithilglan, and revelled in the wind playing with her silver tresses, and lulling her mind into a calm state of existence. She had felt nothing when Celeg had briefed them in on the rag-tag group of refugees that had fled the Ard-galen. The elf woman could not even begin to imagine what that sort of horror could have been. What did it mean that there were 'flames of fire' pouring out of Angmar? But it was not a thought she dwelt on for more than a fleeting second as they followed Celeg out onto the bank of Mindeb.

It was there, when the sight of so many forlorn figures came upon them, Linnadis stopped short, reigning in Ithilglan. A look of horror and pit filled her blue eyes. She knew this look. Had she not been one such herself centuries ago? But there was more. She swallowed, and quickly moved to catch up with Gladhron who had turned his mare about to consider her halt with some trepidation. Linnadis shook her head and smiled albeit sadly. "We are fine, love."

Together they moved forward to join Gladhanar as Celeg introduced them to Nimorn. Gladhron clasped hands with Celeg, and nodded solemnly, saying nothing. Then he turned his gaze upon the younger elf and responded, "Indeed it shines. There is always hope." Linnadis bow her head ever so slightly, and attempted an encouraging smile, but once her attention had been drawn to Nathornel, the young elf's mother, she could not help but let it fall. Her heart went out to the broken elf. She did not take her gaze off her as she listened to the tale of Nimorn and Nathornel's escape. But at mention of the foul plans of Morgoth, Linnadis tore her eyes aways and gazed at the silver elf man with terror. Gladhron caught her hand in a tight clasp. "It is true then," she whispered. "I had hoped we would not have to have anything to do with this war... but it's true then," she whispered.

The brothers exchanged quick glances, and then Gladhron walked Linnadis a bit away from the small group. "You do not have to come, Linnadis."

"And you do not have to go!" she shot back, a spark of white fire entering the blue of her eyes.

"How can I not go, Linn, when our kin are suffering and have asked us to help?"

"But King Thingol said..."

"I know what he said."

"You agreed with him!"

"No. I only said that for now it seemed a wise course to follow. But I feel, perhaps, that we would be wrong to ignore the call for help with fellow Sindar are in trouble," said Gladhron firmly but kindly.

Linnadis looked at him in despair. Gladhron came up behind her and gently turned her towards the sight of elves mourning the loss of loved ones. "Look, Linnadis. Look. You know this. You have seen this before. You were once one of them."

Tears spilt down her cheeks, "I am afraid to be one of them again." Her gaze turned to Nimorn's mother then. And she regarded her downcast mien. She dried her cheeks with the back of her hand, and aware that Gladhron was simply waiting for her to make a decision, she turned in his arms and hugged him. "I am sorry, my dear husband. You must be so ashamed of me. I will come, and I will help as best as I can."

A look of concern clouded Gladhron's eyes. "I am not ashamed of you, Linn. I understand your fear. I will not think the worse of you if you do not come."

She shook her head. "I will think the worse of me, and that I could not bear. I will come with you." She smiled a watery smile that went slightly crooked as she said, "I'll need to bring out my trusty bow now!"

Gladhron's brown eyes warmed, "Yes. All those times I've told you to practice! But you've just never been able to take your eyes off me!"

Linnadis laughed softly, "I needed to know where those arrows were going. Of course I couldn't take my eyes off you!"

Gladhron choked back a little laugh, and then said when he was in control of himself once more, "Come now, let us return to the others and inform them of our decision."

Hand in hand the walked toward the little group, and Gladhron said, "You have our bow and our healing skills such as they are, Nimorn. We will help you find the rest of your family. No doubt there will be forces mustered from Doriath, for Celeg's hurried words now make sense. When do you intend leaving? It will help us understand how much time we have to prepare."

Linnadis had made her way softly toward Nathornel, and had gently put an arm about the other elf woman. "We will help you all we can."

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FA 316
Neldoreth --> Nan Dungortheb
The Fateful Ride of Ar-Feiniel
"Then Aredhel turned back and sought the dangerous road between the haunted valleys
of Ered Gorgoroth and the north fences of Doriath; and as they drew near to the evil region
of Nan Dungortheb the riders became enmeshed in shadows, and Aredhel strayed from her
companions and was lost. They sought long for her in vain, fearing that she had been ensared,
or had drunk from the poisoned streams of that land; but the fell creatures of Ungoliant
that dwelt in the ravines were aroused and pursued them, and they hardly escaped with their lives.
/ But Aredhel, having sought in vain for her companions, rode on, for she was
fearless and hardy of heart, as were all the children of Finwe; and she held on her way..."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin


Sillandhas shrank back, noticeably chagrined, when Beleg ordered him and Mallosel to end their mischievous tirade. "If he only appeared half a minute hence!" he complained to Mallosel, Celair, and Niphred in a whispering voice. "You know I prefer aggressive negotiations, Cuthalion," Sillandhas remarked in a louder voice, returning the arrow to his quiver and and slinging the bow over his shoulder. "You are the diplomatic one, I suppose that's why you're captain, sir." He leaned against the opposite side of Niphred's tree and heaved a dramatic sigh.

Aredhel's radiant grey eyes blazed like silver stars of the firmament when Mallosel declared her to be a little princess. The tall noblewoman gracefully removed herself from the saddle of her palfrey, Thalawen, then strode to the offensive marchwarden. She stood brazen close to Mallosel so that the difference of their height was clearly apparent. "Remember your insignificant place, you tiny baseborn Elf," warned Aredhel, looking down at the elleth with the golden-brown hair, "or I will educate you how to behave in the presence of your sovereign betters. Insult me again in your barbarian tongue and I will send you scrambling up the nearest tree to rejoin your little kin, peccuvowendë! ("Squirrelwoman," Quenya)!"

Aredhel sneered when Beleg insulted Ecthelion, saying he spoke foolishly. "The minions of the Dark Lord are being destroyed in the North and you have the Light Elves to thank," Aredhel replied cooly, expressing the last couple of words in fiery vehemence, suggesting that the Sindar repay the Deep Elves for their bravery. Her independence was being stifled again and she wanted to lash out. "It is the swords of the Noldor which protect the Telerin cowards hiding in their woods and playing flutes by the ocean in blissful ignorance while my kin sacrifice their lives on the behalf of rustic Dark Elves!" Aredhel lied, trembling in her tempestuous rage, as she swept one lissome limb over the assembly of forest guards. She was full aware of the Sindar contribution in the Siege of Angband but she so affronted by the refusal she recieved here that Aredhel felt compelled to exert a facade of dominance.

Egalmoth gently pressured Aredhel to accept the offer of journeying southward which Beleg resonably offered but Aredhel was obstinately opposed to this. "I will not venture beneath the woods of this accursed kingdom and find myself impeded by more cruel wardens of your ungrateful kindred," she replied loftily with a patrician lifting of her smooth chin.

"Írissë, it is the safer route," Egalmoth insisted but Aredhel commanded silence from him. He shared a somber knowing look with Ecthelion and Glorfindel. She had no concern for their own preservation and her selfish nature would be their bane, that was clearer now than ever. "We will return home Beleg's way once my time abroad has concluded," Aredhel assured the Rainbow's chieftain.

"Home, where is that?" Sillandhas asked in his bold curiousness, sharing a glance with Niphred.

"A city fairer than the halls of Menegroth and immaculate, untainted by Dwarven hands," declared Aredhel with a scornful look, avoiding Egalmoth's irate countenance.

"Perhaps you would allow me to fill your wineskin, milady." A pale and blue-eyed, young and silver-haired Telerin woman dressed in a white velvet gown came toward her, carrying a silver platter of refreshments. Steaming bejewelled goblets of mulled wine and long-stemmed glassware filled with Esgalduin water were arranged on the tray.

"How unfortunate Doriath is bereft of more kinder hearts such as yours." Aredhel declined out of pride. "What is your name, girl?"

"Gwenneth Gilfael, King Thingol'ss cupbearer. "You must not drink from the streams of Nan Dungortheb, milady!" pleaded Gwenneth.

Aredhel disregarded Gwenneth's counsel with a disdainful wave of her hand. She knew the rills of that dreadful valley of death were poisonous. Fareglín, one of Turgon's finest Royal Guards, drank of those waters long ago and madness still filled his mind to this day. Haughty as she was and trusting in her own hardy abilities, Aredhel decided she could survive the treacherous passage with the remainder of the wineskin's contents until she reached the Ford of Aros. "I am not your lady," Aredhel replied under her breath, eager to be gone.

*


"Once we reach Himlad, we will have your five hundred bouts and you will be the sore loser for every match, Fountain Lord," Aredhel boasted to Ecthelion. They were three hours into travelling the dark wilderness that was the no-land of Nan Dungortheb. The sorcery of Sauron and the bewildering shadows of Melian's mazes of power entwined here. Aredhel and the chieftains endeavored to stay close together through their trek in the thick meandering sable mists. So far they remain untroubled by the giant ghastly spiders which were, no doubt, stalking the desolate fields. "We should see how well your fabled sword fares against my spear!" She asked Egalmoth if he would like another archery competition once they visited the castle of Celegorm and Curufin but he didn't answer, perhaps still upset that Aredhel treated him so poorly since leaving Gondolin.

Aredhel considered making smalltalk would distract her from worrying about the dregs of water she had left and the distant menace of Ered Gorgoroth's jagged pinnacles dimly seen in this place where light & death were strangled. "I have royal blood, Glorfindel, and, yes, I do believe that warrants a few perks. I'm not so humble as you." Glorfindel had been a noble of Aman, an Elf-lord of a house of princes, even before Turgon raised him to chieftainship of the Golden Flower in Nevrast, but he didn't flaunt his title as Aredhel infamously did.

"Why are you lagging, Aikaldamor?" Aredhel demanded of Egalmoth, speaking his Quenya name. His silence was frightening her.

"What is that?" came Egalmoth's cry in the drifting shadows.

Aredhel hollered his name, overtaken by a surge of adrenaline. The huntress took her long grey riding gloves from her palfrey's reins to grasp her fire-hardened spear. She guided her quick intrepid white mare towards the sound of Egalmoth's grunts and mild oaths, leaving the company of Ecthelion and Glorfindel.

"My destrier, his hooves are stuck!" he replied, yelling over his black horse's trumpeting distress.

Aredhel knew why even before she felt the dense and rubbery clinging gossamer of a spiderweb which she tried thrusting the bronze spike through.

"Be careful!" Egalmoth screamed, alarmed by her blind stabs in the dark fog.

"Hush or you will get us all killed! Calm your horse, man!" Aredhel continued lunging her spear at the intricate tenacious net attached to the hooves of Egalmoth's steed. She gasped moments later when she heard the drawing of Egalmoth's scimitar. "Just what do you think you're doing??"

"I'm helping, Your Highness!"

"You're going to behead me, you imbecile!" Aredhel objected with unbridled fierceness.

Rivulets of sweat streamed down her sculpted face, slicking her alabaster skin, and her heart beated rapidly in trepidation. The frantic shouts of Glorfindel and Ecthelion she abandoned out of haste to their friend's defense deepened her worry. If Ungoliant's spawn were near, they would be lured by the Elven voices. "Stay where you are and be quiet!" Aredhel bade Ecthelion and Glorfindel.

"They have to know where we are!" Egalmoth protested. "You're the one who left their side-"

"To save you!" Aredhel shot back, freeing the Rainbow Lord with one final pierce of her spear. Egalmoth's horse veered away, loosing a bellow of defiance. Suddenly, huge clusters of chambered red-shining eyes flamed in the gloom of Dungortheb. Rushing toward the Elves were monstrous and horned, spider-like creatures. Their vast bodies were bloated and grown fat but Ungoliant's children moved with terrible speed in their insatiable hunger, vomiting darkness....


GM UPDATE:



It's time, @Dwarrow Elf ! Have Echthelion and Glorfindel lose
sight of Aredhel in the shadows of Dungortheb and begin fighting the spiders.
I'll have Egalmoth separated from Aredhel soon and succour both chieftains.

@Moriel and @Frostbite , have the spiders attack
the Elves but they must survive, of course. After a couple of posts from all involved,
I'll have the Gondolin lords retreat west toward Gondolin and get Aredhel riding to Himlad.


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"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Mallosel Ehtyanar, Marchwarden
Doriath, waving off the Obstinacy of Aredhel. FA. 316



Mallosel held her tongue as the Captain made fair use of his, for there was no shame in any word that he shared with their ‘guests’. She had even raised her chin with pride as Beleg spoke of their own distinguished royalty. For Aredhel was as a bird, heedlessly thrashing against glass here, with no true conception of the power that roved in these woods. The Marchwarden did scoff openly however at bold claims that the Noldor (!) were the saviours of all Elvendom. She had heard such lies afore now, and they were not made true by the recitation. That very notion of the Exiles vanquishing all threats in the north should never have seen their pompous assembly even try to exploit the safer passage through Doriath, for a start ! What nonsense they did spout ! The Princess had said herself that they ‘could not’ pass through Nan Dungortheb … So very almighty that they were not.. hah ! But Mallosel certainly wasn’t about to discourage Aredhel from the apparent suicidal mission. Mallosel was practically counting on it.

A city all the fairer still, that secret home must be,” she muttered, not as covert as she ought, to support Sillandhas, “now that this Noldorin harridan is from it’s streets.

Somewhat astoundingly, Gwenneth offered up the balm of refreshment, so harsh words would not steal all the spittle of their acerbic intruder. Mallosel cared not for what words passed between they two. Her mind was already about the thought of tracking this small party’s venture back from whence it had come .. for she doubted they would make any return journey. But there, to what point ? Were she to stand at face with her estranged brother, he would not be swayed from his doom. From his own Noldorin harridan. It was not like the Sinda had not flung all good sense and reason at him afore now. He had taken all the way to the hidden city to hear no more contention.

The Marchwarden had, as it turned out, not even remotely begun to insult the only Noldo witch in reach this day, not in so far of what she might have yet … if there had come no intervention. But it was well that Mallosel had been restrained by her Captain’s arrival. White teeth gnawed about her lower lip to restrain the want for a parting shot .. anything, that might somehow cause the incendiary wench to loiter yet a moment more where she was most unwelcome.

My thanks, Captain” she owed Beleg a not demure, but genuine gratitude, as the Exiles at last went on their way. “They would have us all Kinslayers,” she admitted, the temptation tangible, and forboding of the future to be fell.



**************************
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Mallosel Ehtyanar, Marchwarden
Outskirts of Neldoreth >>>>> Mindeb Refugee Camp
FA 455, Dagor-Bragollach



The tedium was cast out from her lips as eagerly as she might spill it, as though she were ashamed of the very peace that she was meant to ensure. She had volunteered for duty in the northern reaches, ever hopeful of receiving foul news of Aredhel’s fate. Still naught had come her way, naught of note had come her way. For a great length of time. Mallosel could not blame the Captain for distracting his focus as she delivered her mundane tidings, though it was somewhat tempting to flavour the report with some more ‘thrilling’ elements, to test if she still held Cuthalion’s attention. Thankfully, she had no need to resort to such, for Sillandhas accomplished this with his urgent and agitated entry.

Sindar, some hundred, encroaching on their homeland in the West … the news did not immediately invite dread. Not immediately. If it had been Noldor, perhaps. Yrch .. assuredly. But visions toyed with the Marchwarden’s emotions, conjuring up dreams of a vast host of her people, one as would make the Noldor, the Enemy, all the world entire, stare. For the length of time it took them to meet with the rumoured cluster, Mallosel threw bewildered glances toward the back of her friend’s head; willing him to explain what words could not rightly do justice. It required the seeing of the thing. The dishevelled, tattered remnant of their people blanketing all the horizon, for her to find comprehension.


Hazel eyes regarded this unprecedented congregation, and for perhaps the first time in all her life, the bold Sinda felt dwarfed by things she had little understood. She had nursed a wrath and fury at the news of Telerin slaughter. She had sculpted it unto an anger and a righteous standard she might bear as banner into battle of all those she held to blame. But it might as well have been a story to colour her infancy in morals, and in lessons, learned from words not from the world in which she dwelt. The count of grief, the loss, the flagrant exhibition of such blight … it punched through her now, rendering the She-elf atypically mute. Not so the infamous ‘Rabbit’ of Dorthonion. He had plenty to say for himself, and as soon as he had started, she yearned for him to stop.

Four words reigned supreme over all else that assaulted her hearing. There is nothing left. Nothing … Mallosel frowned as she tried to resolve the hard truth with her heart. There were no words she might birth to console Sillandhas, not in the wake of such. The sheer affront of the desolation that sat here upon their doorstep might as well have been a conversation conducted in foreign tongues for all that she could know what to do with it. She stared, unconscious of the way grief thrashed amongst them, like relentless rain. They stood, drenching in the inescapable fact of worst fears realised.

It was the Captain who resuscitated purpose; translating the terror into action to be took. Granting the authority which Celeg had only presumed, Beleg gifted the astounded Sinda tasks and, swallowing, she set to them. Give word to strengthen the northern watches and gather what supplies can be found to bring here for the refugees. She could do that. She could do that much.

She did not envy Cuthalion the news that he bore to Menegroth, doubtful that Thingol’s being proved right would be any balm to soothe this wound.
Last edited by Ercassie on Tue Sep 01, 2020 2:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Now Melian had much foresight, after the manner of the Maiar; and when the second age of the captivity of Melkor had passed, she counselled Thingol that the Peace of Arda would not last for ever. He took thought therefore how he should make for himself a kingly dwelling, and a place that should be strong, if evil were to awake again in Middle-earth;

(‘The Silmarillion’: Of the Sindar)



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Elu Thingol, King of Doriath
at Menegroth. Another address. On the receipt of bad news.
FA 455 – Dagor Bragollach



As had Sillandhas stumbled in great woe with news for Beleg, so now did Cuthalion simulate a similar, atypical, arrival. And Menegroth fell still, the hands come close to clapping caught instead by unseen grasp of dread, the smiles and the laughter withered as though aged in moments, dying on the fair faces now wracked by such bearings of ruin. Songbirds all begrudged their song, the minstrels fell from making with their merry music. The ill tidings arrived from the fence were allowed their entire delivery, absent of interruption, save for the haphazard sputterings of shock and the exclaims of grief that afflicted those attending the court.

Their King stood not among those lending voice to mass lament. But he stood. He took leave of his seat and rose up to his unrivalled height, in unspoken recognition of the losses named. A single shuddering breath carried through his chest and his eyes of celestial liquid marbled over in a haze that summoned all lamentation unto order.

Dismay and disorder are the weapons of our foe,” he declared, in the time it had taken to bind his own fractured heart, behind a basting of requirement. “Neither one holds place here and each serves no cause I would see entertained. We knew this day would come.

Fingolfin may have been hampered in his initial want to launch a brash assault on the North, but still his decision to invite all the known and strongest of all the foes of Morgoth, at once, in one place ,… had been a decision tantamount to war. Thingol was only surprised that the Enemy had not struck them all down there and then. And he was certainly convinced to lay the blame of this calamity at the feet of it’s instigators. But this was not the time.

Time .. it seemed to waiver, hearkening the Sindar King to behold, sure as day, his brother’s grandson; Angrod, bitter and repentant both at once, as he was to be held Teleri and Noldo all the same. An unstable blend, ever fated to contend with it’s own fealty in days such as they were .. What words had been spoke in this very hall, upon that torrid occasion ..


'Yet the shadow of Mandos lies on you also,' had said Melian.
And Thingol was long silent ere he spoke. 'Go now!' he said. 'For my heart is hot within me. Later you may return, if you will; for I will not shut my doors for ever against you, my kindred, that were ensnared in an evil that you did not aid ..
” **


They had not returned since the passionate outcry of that day, not Angrod and not Aegnor. Felagund upon occasion, paid calls to Galadriel, cloistered as their sister came to be in private confidences with the Queen. But the dual Lords of Dorthonion had abided in their North. And now there would come no day for they and he to be reunited in this world. Greycloak might have named their Noldorin tenacity the cause for the estrangement, but he had neither sought them for his own part. His mind ever upon his own affairs, as no doubt had they been but about theirs. They alone had shared the thought of Fingolfin, t’was said, to take the battle to their detested foe in Angband, at a time of their own choosing. It was not in their blood to retreat, regardless of the generous offer the SindaKing had extended. They were both Noldor and Teleri, twice too proud to turn from the path they had chosen.


Thingol sanctioned now their memory to raise the cogency of his next address; almost as though Melian herself had brought her hand to intertwine with his, without any movement that would see it so. “The Enemy is not alone in structuring resources,” the King reminded his assembly. “Our word was not given without the full weight of what it would mean. All and any Sindar are welcome to find sanctuary in Doriath. We have been training new healers, new marchwardens for months. Our food supplies are groaning with the quantity we have amassed for just this want. Medicinal remedies have been stockpiled, a wide cache of beds assigned and agreed to accommodate a migrancy of just such an almighty number. We are not unready. We shall satisfy all promises made.

Aranrúth, the ire of the king, came under Greycloak’s hand and such a gesture inspired that his very thought go to his blade, long reduced to ornament about his person, that he had no need to lead it the long throaty drag out of the mighty scabbard. Not within this hall. But there, he would not be remaining in his hall. Not this time. Neither would he be departing his kingdom. Any more than he would see it ravaged by the rumoured flames, nor aught that might pursue that.

Our Galadriel must hear of her brothers’ misfortune from no other than yourself, whom she counts above all other,” The King came to his Queen, and knelt before her at one knee, unashamedly. “And the grace of our much beloved Girdle ..” he rose thoughtfully, grave in the private disclosing of concerns. Behind his turned back, the room had erupted unto reactions anew. “Should Morgoth himself march south .. my wife, my world, must not be defiled. Daughter, lend your will toward our Queen,” he beseeched of Luthien, “You are the beating heart of all Doriath,” he bid them, a hand laid to the cheek of each, brief but sincere, for there was small time for aught else. “Daeron shall impart your needs to make safe, to make ready whatever needs to be accomplished from the citadel” he suggested.

Mablung,” The Sinda King then beckoned his great Guard. “See Beleg to fresh steed, and ensure there stands company enough to bear us three all to the border. Our people are in need and I shall not shy from anything who threatens our lands with foe or with fire. We have an extensive outlay of rivers and a grand host of the mightiest warriors. Every Elf capable be put to task. We ride for Mindeb on the hour.



** Flashback content paraphrased from excerpt of The Silmarillion ; Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin
Last edited by Ercassie on Sun Aug 16, 2020 10:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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FA 455
Eastern Foothills
of Dorthonion, Above Himring
A World Aflame
"Countless became the host of his beasts and his demons, and the race of the Orcs."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: The Flight of the Noldor


"He got together his army of spies: sons of the Orcs were there with eyes of yellow and green like cats
that could pierce all glooms and see through mist or fog or night; snakes that could go everywhither
and search all crannies or the deepest pits or the highest peaks, listen to every whisper that ran
in the grass or echoed in the hills; wolves there were and ravening dogs and great weasels full
of the thirst of blood whose nostrils could take scent moons old through running water, or
whose eyes find among shingle footsteps that had passed a lifetime since; owls came and falcons
whose keen glance might descry by day or night the fluttering of small birds in
all the woods of the world and the movement of
every mouse or vole or rat that crept or dwelt throughout the Earth."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin

"Morgoth had many servants, the oldest and most potent of whom were immortal,
belonging indeed in their beginning to the Maiar; and these evil spirits like
their Master could take on visible forms. Those whose business it was to direct the Orcs
often took Orkish shapes. Thus it was that histories speak of Great Orcs or Orc-captains
who were not slain, and who reappeared in battle through years far longer
than the span of the lives of Men. Boldog: The Orc-formed Maiar, only less formidable than the Balrogs."

- Tolkien, from War of the Jewels: Myths transformed

"Orcs bred and multiplied rapidly. Men could under the domination of Morgoth or his agents
in a few generations be reduced almost to the Orc-level of mind and habits;
and then they would or could be made to mate with Orcs,
producing new breeds, often larger, and more cunning."

- Tolkien, from War of the Jewels: Myths Transformed

"Tuor slew Othrod a lord of the Orcs cleaving his helm, and Balcmeg he hewed asunder,
and Lug he smote with his axe that his limbs were cut from beneath him at the knee,
but Ecthelion shore through two captains of the goblins at a sweep
and cleft the head of Orcobal their chieftest champion to his teeth..."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin


Weasel hurried into Filrain's large tent covered with skins and felt with a loud chirp of distress. Rabê, the red she-wolf, had chased him inside with Guruthos and trotted away with a snarl of contempt; when the golden-haired demon glared at her, she sat in irate silence. Guruthos, a spotted hyena, giggled maniacally with exuberant sweeps of his tail, hoping Weasel would be foolish to finally attack him. Filegsarma, Filrain's small tawny saw-whet owl flew skyward to alight on a high perch when frightened by the slithering arrival of Leuca, the quick pit viper of black and olive scales.

Since all her beast scouts were present, having completed their reconnaissance for days leading to the very hour they reunited with Filrain here, she awaited the coming of the Orcs. She took up her iron handmirror. Eris was not the only vain demon of Angband. Filrain heaved a deep sigh. She would miss the rich cascades of blonde hair spilling beyond her shapely waist. Kratos strongly advised her to imitate his own monstrous Boldog form like many demon commanders who took the guise of Great Orcs. "You won't look as menacing as Konrauko - neither do I, I'll admit - but we can't expect miracles, dear."

- IF YOU LOOK TERRIFYING, YOU WILL BE RESPECTED - Gothmog encouraged her, expressing his echoing agreement in a blaring voice accentuated by his adamantine helmet.

Gazing into the mirror, Filrain the fallen Dryad of Aman transformed. Her flaxen locks turned ashen and her ivory skin darkened, remaining smooth but dark as fire-blackened ivory. Her doll-like face narrowed and her emerald eyes changed color, glimmering with an icy whiteness. Her svelte body broadened and strengthened. The small demon grew four meters tall. Her red woolen dress trimmed in the pale fur of a Dor Daedeloth tundra hare vanished in a black vaporous breeze, replaced by a suit of engraved steel plate armor. She stared at her new appearance, a giant Orc woman, in the enchanted mirror imbued with her unholy power. Yes, there were females among Orc-kind but they remained largely unseen on the battlefield. What few memories Elves and Men had of them were chilling recollections of Filrain and her evil sisters assuming incarnate raiment in the facade of powerful Orcs.

"Weasel, report," commanded Filrain, her melodic voice now cold as Dor Daedeloth's snow-mantled peaks. The oversized bloodthirsty rodent spoke to Filrain with in high-pitched squeaks. Understanding the sounds of all living creatures, the Dryad imagined vivid details of the March of Maedhros. Vast plains dominated and fortified by mighty fortresses, sleepless stone sentinels guarding Himring's towering hills. Many of these now blazed like torches, entrapped in Morgoth's streams of flame.

"Rabê, report," ordered Filrain. Through the she-wolf's growls and barks, Filrain saw a region of rolling earth - the hilly domain of Himring itself - peopled by Elves and Men. Wooden stations, smaller than the forts burning on the plains, were built atop countless ridges and herdsfolk dwelt in cottages along gentle hillsides. The realm of King Maedhros extended west toward the steep walls of a gorge twenty thirty-two kilometers in length. That canyon was named Aglon through which a bitter wind blew and had been assaulted by Shytha once many years ago, Filrain knew.

"Guruthos," report," directed Filrain with ceaseless strokes of the hyena's luxuriant mane. The massive brutal dog answered his mistress with a series of chattering laughs, grunts, and groans enabling the demon to envision a deep cleft between Himring and Gorgoroth. A wide gated ravine bastioned by citadels, each stronghold augmented by Elven and Mortal soldiers from the cold forested plain of Himlad bounded by rivers to the west and east.

"Leuca, report," Filrain instructed, touching the head of the serpent who flicked her forked tongue, knowing snakes had no vocal cords. Scenes flashed through her mind of the nearest edge of Dorthonion. Gorgol butchered mortals in the flaming wooded highlands of Ladros. Human warriors were fleeing toward Himring with Sindarin troops. Gorgol couldn't wipe them out entirely so she would need to prevent them from finding refuge in the hills of Maedhros or cavern hideouts here in the eastern precipices of Dorthonion.

"Filegsarma, report," Filrain compelled her feathered friend, caressing her rust-colored belly. The owl's tooting whistles, twittering calls, guttural chucks, and incessant sounds of a sharpening saw conjured images of the tremendous territory of East Beleriand comprising snowswept grasslands and pristine evergreen trees. Mortals and Elves - hunters and farmers - lived here in bucolic contentment. A far-stretching chain of hills - Amdram - rambled across its lower region and terminated at a broad, shallow-sided hill called Amon Ereb where King Denethor met his gruesome end before the Noldor's Return. Between Celon and Sirion was a tangled gloomy forest, Taur-im-Duinath, where Teleri wandered.

Filrain acknowledged Lug and Othrod, Balcmeg and Orcobal when they entered her tent with a nod of recognition. The Snake and the Mighty Stronghold, the Heart of Evil and the Exalted Orc. Four of Morgoth's deadliest servants. "Elves and Men have made a grievous error, failing to storm Angband itself, so the time for our greatest attack has come." She beckoned the Orcs to the stone table before here where laid a map of northern Beleriand beneath Filrain's greatsword. "I will split my division," Filrain explained to her commanders, "to better spell the destruction of the Fëanorians and their Mortal allies."

"What is thy bidding, Mistress?" spoke Othrod in his deep, drawling voice. The Orc-lord of fearsome stature wore a suit of dark steel armor elaborated with many flutings. His strong, bestial face was hidden inside a visored helm shaped like a demonic bear.

She touched the wide empty space north of their camp's position. "Orcobal will remain at camp." She flicked her gaze at the Orc champion clad in iron armor and leaning on his great spear. Through his helmet she saw his cat-like green eyes smoldering with excitement. He was one of the strongest Orcs in the hosts of Morgoth's minions and had slain hundreds of Elves & Men this century. His name was celebrated in Dor Daedeloth and the children he sired were many.

"I will not tarry here in the jackal-ridden wilderness, resting unburnished!" Orcobal defied Filrain, pointing his spear at her while she regarded him stonily. "I will shine in use. I will fight my foes and scatter them before me and hear the lamentation of their maidens!"

Filrain made a squeezing gesture. Dramatic Orcabal dropped his weapon and gasped for breath, feeling himself choked now in mid-air.

"You will obey me and complete tasks I charge you," Filrain replied to him with an icy tone. She released her grasp and Orcobal collapsed on the ground, wheezing. "Linger here for the time being and stem the tide washing over us. Smash the horde of refugees escaping to Himring from Dorthonion. You are the stone wall which our enemies will die upon, affording Lug the chance to slay Maedhros."

Filrain looked at him next. Lug was swift, lethal, and tricksy as a snake. "You have the finest privilege," she divulged. "Assault Himring. Every hill should be taken but the tallest one - a mountain of a mound and flat-topped, wide-shouldered and bare of crown - is the one we must possess, the chief citadel of Maedhros who is king of Himlad and leader of Fëanor's children. He is wise and a charasmatic tactician. Tonight the Eldest must fall and when he is no more his younger brothers will meet their end. Wreak havoc, Lug, but have your warriors take some prisoners; we need more Elves and Men, slaves for our mines and thralls to breed more Orcs."

She turned her attention to Balcmeg. He was a hulking Orc with sallow skin and a hideous thick mouth that stretched across his ghastly face. Balcmeg wore leather and lamellar armor beneath a black furred cloak. Yellow feline eyes burned in the large sockets of his lacquered lupine warmask. He had keen night vision and could see through dense clouds of fog.

"You will besiege Aglon -"

"Days."

Filrain nodded at her quiet lieutenant. He had a gift for foresight and spoke little. "Yes, it's impressively garrisoned and the warriors stationed there are among the toughest of Beleriand. When you have the kings - Celegorm and Curufin - and their military routed, wrest control of Himlad and assemble captives."

"Women."

Filrain nodded, meeting his intense gaze. Her revulsion of the Orc never slackened. Balcmeg had an insatiable desire for humans, especially ones pale and golden-haired. He captured the maidens which resembled her since Balcmeg could not possess Filrain for himself.

"The ravaging of Thargelion has been entrusted to the Orcs with Glaurung and Thuringwethil, Othrod," said Filrain. "They will raze down the fortress of Mount Rerir and kill King Caranthir once Lothlann and the Gap are ablaze. King Maglor will fall in the northern wastes or in the Dragon's inferno. You and I will march unopposed into the forests of the Twin Kings - Amrod and Amras - before we will strike Taur-im-Duinath and the wilds to the south, Othrod." Filrain's finger traced over the map, moving from one region of the Eastern Theater to the next as she ended explaining her strategy. "While Lug and Balcmeg keep Maedhros, Celegorm, and Curufin occupied, we will cross the Gelion. The timberlands and fertile fields will be burnt. There will be scarce anything to hunt or grow." She was suprised to have keep her voice even, loathing herself for despoiling her precious woodlands and its noble creatures. She once served Yavanna and helped bring flora and fauna into fair existence.

"Will we be attacked by the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains?" asked the Orc-lord, touching the crossed axes symbol above Belegrod and Nogrod.

"Possibly, they are allies of both the Noldor and Sindar. The Dwarves would rather die than be enslaved and have fought the servants of Angband before. These Dwarves are unlike their eastern cousins which have been easier to sway to Melkor's allegiance."

She commanded her captains to leave, preparing their advance on the kingdoms of the Free Peoples. Filrain opened her mind to Konrauko's. She braced herself against the incorporeal darkness of his spirit. Filrain was sensitive to the Balrog's corrupt and heinous nature when they were connected by such cosmic union, having once been a being of inherent goodness. That intrinsic quality of hers remained despite her reluctant fealty to Melkor. The Dryad managed to keep a part of herself hidden from him and other demons. A piece of her angelic light was smothered by the acceptance of evil; it was not wholly destroyed though and locked away, safely concealed, beneath a shroud of shadows. If Melkor remained a liar and had no intention of honoring her with the gifts she requested, there may come a day she returned to the holy substance of her true ethereal origin, by the grace of Yavanna and Eru.

- You have your marching orders but you must know of the refugees regrouping en masse to Himring. They must be crushed or Maedhros will not be defeated. Orcobal will obliterate this peril unless you actually succeed in slaughtering them first - Filrain smiled, masking her pleasure from this intimate contact with Konrauko's raw feelings which mostly laid her intentions bare. Orcobal did not have the numbers to stop all of them but Konrauko could decimate a larger porition and if Shytha was correct, Konrauko will be enboldened to stop the champion from achieving this victory for himself totally... And the moron thought she wasn't cunning!

GM UPDATE:

@Krumhûr Send your Wolves and Orcs of Lug beyond the burning castles of the March of Maedhros. Begin destroying a herding community of Mortals on a broad ridge, hoping to draw Maedhros from his citadel on the tallest hill of Himring.

@Celebrin , you can be in council with your right-hand advisor,
@Lantaelen when you both see the rivers of flame spreading
from Ard-galen. Fearing an attack can't be far behind, marshal your citadel forces
by the advice of Lantaelen. Tarawen will soon return as her Captain Brona, sounding her horn
to alert the huge coming.

@Ercassie , have Konrauko recieve Filrain's message so
he can attack the escaping refugees from Dorthonion heading
to Himring before he moves west to assault Woodmere.
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Last edited by Eriol on Tue Dec 01, 2020 9:17 pm, edited 3 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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FA 375 Around Lake Helevorn
A Demanding Demand

The night was bright thanks to the still shining side of Tilion's vessel visually in it's full glory high above, but it did not stop the crickets' stridulating nor the croaks of amphibians from taking over the ambiance of the lake. Niphredin, half Sindar, half Noldor, found himself drawn down to the basin of Helevorn on nights such as these. The silver orb in it's brightest showings called to him, disallowing his slumber. And so often he sought to the water's surface for self reflection and inner guidance uninterrupted by the goings on within the terraces of Rerir. Garbed in darkness as he was for as long as he could remember by his mother, Olorea, he walked the lake's edge like a spirit of shadow, though he was given away by his pale complexion with the help of the moon's glow. Any time he wore colour or white, she gave him a look of dismay or worry. At first he dared not question her feelings about his attire and instead came to the understanding with his elvish mind that he looked much like his father who also fashioned himself in shadow, and so he remained complacent for her sake. Having reached the full stature of an elf, Niphredin arrived at the conclusion that his mother was still holding onto his father through himself, whom he learned, not from his mother, was named Niphred. Knowing this now, he felt betrayed and that his very identity was threatened. Was he her son or her marionette? A doll whom she dressed as the one she loved and not loved himself. What had pulled them apart? All he learned was his father abruptly left alone as if taken by madness. Did he even yet live? Niphredin looked west, nearing the southern edge of Helevorn, seeing only the glow upon the canopy across the lake and the darkness beneath. Where did he go? Niphredin attained that he was Sindarin, but not of where he originated, being Fathathrim or Dorathian or any other part of Beleriand. He did not know. However, he knew his mother accompanied Lord Finrod's assemblage across the grinding ice before traveling to the far east to Caranthir's domain for unknown reasons with his father. He could not ask her about these things. She seemed reluctant, though he never tried, he was not one for confrontations.

The corner of his vision turned his focus to the unmoving form of what seemed to be a man. Niphredin quickened his pace around the water's edge and looked down upon him. The man looked to be from the House of Marach, being taller and golden haired. Niphredin knew well of the Haladin that lived the most north, communing with them; exchanging language. This man was not one he had seen before. He thought though if this man was an elf, they would appear the same age. He knelt down in the sand and patted he man's cheek in the effort to wake him but to no avail. He felt his neck for a pulse and found it very faint. Niphredin stood then feeling a dampness around his knee and wondered how he did not notice sooner the make-shift tourniquet. His heart started to race as he attempted the best way to save the man. Turning the water skin, which appeared to be the tourniquet's handle, he tightened it and slapped the man more violently then before with his free hand. "Wake up if you are able, sir!"

Darman jolted upright and looked Niphredin directly in the eyes. Recognizing him as an elf, Darman spoke in as clear Sindarin as he could, "Lord Caranthir, the Haladin need his help where Gelion meets Ascar! I cannot..." before presenting a beaten rolled parchment, and passing out again. The man looked to have come from hell. Niphredin knew there was no time to waste for the man's life or his request from the urgency in his voice. He knew him now to be of the Haladin from his accent and because he came here on their behalf. "I will take on your burdens, sir. Fear not any failure." Niphredin stuck the disheveled parchment into his belt, and lifted the man. Holding him in front, he knew he had to keep his legs elevated and hold the tourniquet, which made it quite awkward, but manageable as he started into a run back towards the mountain to the infirmary.


~*~

After reaching the infirmary and assuring himself that the man was cared for and would pull through, he rushed away to the Caranthir's manse further up the mountain. Expecting his king to be in the room of many windows, a common place for passing time within the manse. Niphredin skidded in an attempt to stop at the door but instead collided with it. Falling through the double doors, he caught himself with his hands, pushing forward with his momentum and come before the king with a quick kneel before standing up respectfully. He looked to Caranthir with a quick glance at the other usual company in the room before looking back to his king and presenting the rumpled message from his belt. "Pardon my intrusion, King Caranthir, but earlier this night I came across an unconscious young man of the Haladin. Upon waking him, he urgently demanded your assistance where Gelion meets Ascar before handing me this parchment. I have not taken the time to read it." After taking a couple heavy breaths, he spoke again as the message was opened. "The man is in our infirmary at this moment. Also, if you go to their aid, I would like to accompany you. There are some Haladin that, though I did not know them well, I would still consider friends."
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Dannagîl (q. Lantaelen),
Lieutenant of Himring
Himring, Gatehouse, East Beleriand
FA 455

Nightfall. Cloaked heavily, his mail clad boots rung out as he climbed the stone steps to the top of the gatehouse fortifications, circling around the flanking battlements either side until he reached the height of the northernmost tower. Smooth, indomitable stone surrounded him, protecting perhaps the weakest part of that entire fortress; the gate. Only here could any force, friendly or not, seek to enter the bastion of power ruled by the eldest of the sons of Curufinwë. And it was entrusted by Lord Nelyafinwë to Lantaelen to defend and govern the day to day affairs of his soldiers, his servants, and all required to maintain such a fortress in the event of war.

There was a foreboding in his heart even before he reached the summit of the tower that such a time had finally come to pass. He reached the apex and climbed the short ladder from the height of the stairs to the roof, the trapdoor opened for him by one of the watchers and soon he was back in the cold night air of Himring. For the sake of the common soldiery, elf and man both, Lantaelen had to change his mode of thinking and speech to the common language of Beleriand, switching from the mother-tongue he had used for most of his life up to that point.

”Report.” He demanded briskly of the trio of sentries present there.

”Here, Lord,” one beckoned, laying his spear on the stonework, the tip pointed towards the issue at hand. Though Lantaelen could very well see it with his own elf eyes, he still crouched behind the spear, his sight following the shaft to the point, directed at the matter. A glow. A very bright, reddish, orange glow. That was indeed strange. The dawn? No, that was still far off, some hours away. And he had lived in Himring long enough to know when and where the Sun would arise, at any given point in the year. And where that glow was located was not one of those points. One eye shut, he gazed at the glow with the other, his sight sharpening as he focused on the scene the tip of the spear was directed at.

He then realized, though it appeared to be very minute to any naked eye, that the glow was spreading all along the horizon. Either side. Opening his other eye and straightening out, a quick calculation of distance and lay of the land meant that whatever it was…was coming from around the Gap of Maglor or close to Thargelion. Indeed, the glow seemed to be spreading more quickly towards Thargelion than westwards towards the Pass of Aglon.

The one mannish sentinel with them could see none of this however and just looked at the elves with a puzzled expression. To him, the horizon was dark and lifeless, as it was, every night before. But the elves saw.

”I thought it prudent to report this to you, Sir.” Reported one of the other elven soldiers, one who had been with them since before Alqualondë. ”Though I am not sure of its cause. It might be a watch beacon or a signal fire perhaps. Or even-“

”It is neither of those.” Lantaelen answered briskly. Those weren’t where the messenger beacons were located. And there would be a lot more glows on the horizon if such a system was activated. His eyes narrowed and he had to think for a moment. Was it some sort of false alarm? Mismanagement of fuel or lumber? Perhaps just sabotage? Putting his hands on the battlement, he leaned as far out as he could and just began to…sniff. Great inhales through his nose. There was certainly smoke in the air. And he was no stranger to fire himself, remembering the curling whips of the Balrogs during that fateful ambush-

Yes, the premonitions he had been having did make sense. Something very, very terrible was afoot. Surely there would have been more warning?

”Scout, run to the nightwatch bulger. He is to sound general assembly. Go, now.” Lantaelen ordered and the nearest elf nodded, rushing to the hatch and practically jumping down the short descent to the staircase, rather than using the ladder. ”Watchman, I want every watch fire doubled up. There might be enemy activity nearby. Any families or foragers outside the walls are to return immediately.”

”But how would they have gotten through the Siege lines-“ the other started to say but Lantaelen was having none of it.

”Move!” His commanding voice boomed out, even startling the watchers on the southern tower across the gatehouse. The second elf snapped off a brisk salute and fled through the hatch as well. Seconds later came the warning blasts of the bugler, summoning the entire garrison, awake or otherwise, to the parade grounds between the keep and gate. Another drill? Lantaelen could hear their grumbling now. There was a lot of younger elves and newly come manfolk who had yet to encounter the consequences of the long reach of the Dark Lord. They had not seen the impenetrable gate of Angband, even in peace. Well, they are about to be due a lesson in such awareness.

He moved swiftly down the battlements and onto the hilltop within the walls, content at seeing the warriors of Himring moving to take up positions or form into rank and companies. A few of the company captains were approaching him, their expressions sleepy but laden with questions and queries. There was no time for that! Lantaelen however hoped he was dearly wrong about what was coming. He would be willing to accept their scorn and mockery, even to his face, for such a needless drill if it was not. That was so much preferable to what the opposite might invoke.

Some of these faces, whom he had drilled and recruited himself, he might never see again.

”I want two companies of spearmen on alert near the gate. Mounted scouts are to deploy in pairs, with horns, to alert in sight of any enemy. They are not to engage in any case. You hear me? Move.” Lantaelen ordered briskly, ignoring the questioning looks, but content when they repeated the orders to their own units. The gate began to open and horses neighed as they were stirred from rest and ridden out.

”Send for Lord Maedhros.” He said to another messenger. ”He’ll want to hear and see this.” Lantaelen ordered another, who saluted and rushed off to the keep. No doubt his friend and liege would have heard the bustle and commotion by now. Until he arrived however, Lantaelen was still in charge, and stood before the open gate as scouts went out, and companies formed. Eru above, let me be wrong about this he prayed silently, something he hadn’t done since he departed from Aman.

Surely there would be some messenger by now, from Lord Maglor or Lord Caranthir, if that possibility was true. Could they have truly been overcome that quickly without warning? Lantaelen did not like the thought of that. He loosened his sword in his sheath, gripping the handle firmly, trying to find courage in the motion. But the cold winds that swept the hill clean only continued to bite at his flesh and bones through his gear.
Berio i refn-en-alph len

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FA 455
Himlad ----> Aglon
They Shall Not Pass


"For the war had gone ill with the sons of Fëanor, and well nigh all the
east marches were taken by assault. The Pass of Aglon was forced,
though with great cost to the hosts of Morgoth."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin

"For all the Eldar, being aware of it in themselves, spoke of the passing of much strength,
both of mind and of body, into their children, in bearing and begetting. Therefore they hold
that the
fëa, though unbegotten, draws nourishment from the parents before the
birth of the child: directly from the
fëa of the mother while she bears and nourishes
the
hrondo, and mediately but equally from the father, whose fëa is bound
in uinon with the mother's and supports it. It was for this reason that all parents desired
to dwell together during the year of bearing, and regarded separation at that time as
a grief and injury, depriving the child of some part of its father."

- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring - The Later Quenta Silmarillion
(II) - Of Re-birth and Other Dooms of those that go to Mandos.

"Tyelkormo
'hasty-riser.' Quenya tyelka 'hasty.' Possibly in reference to his quick temper,
and his habit of leaping up when suddenly angered."

- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth: The Shibboleth of Fëanor


"Stop insisting I do not want a child!" Celegorm, livid now, warned Ellindalë through clenched teeth. He arose hastily, knocking back his carved wooden chair, and stood apart from her. He was shaking, enraged again. Celegorm's strong fists were balled up and his cheeks were ruddy as Caranthir's. "I love you, Ellie, but we can't be married yet." Celegorm struck one of Ellindalë's expensive celadon vases off its pedastle when his lover declared that he did not. He drew slowly, someone would say threateningly close like a sleek graceful panther. "I know we have been a couple for centuries but this is not time for a wedding. Peace and mirth? I know nothing of either, I am a warrior king." His piercingly radiant eyes narrowed. "No, I don't have a fear of committment!" he shouted more louder than intended and shook his fist violently too near her face. Again he felt the urge to impel Curufin on a extended holiday to hunt with Caranthir in Thargelion as he had aforetime in the year of Aredhel's disappearance.

He grew exhausted of these feuds with Ellindalë. She cared nothing about his feelings even when he expressed sincere concern about hers. What they wanted in life...seldom seemed alligned these days. They were both proud and willful people, consumed with their own selfish desires or their ethics were never in harmony. He heaved a gusty sigh then carressed one of her flaxen braids, hoping to end hostilities. "I wish we could go back to our lives beneath the stars," Celegorm lamented in a quiet voice slightly audible for Ellindalë to hear, pulling her to him by the elleth's lissome arms, "and be with the sweet winsome girl I met at the halls of Oromë in Valmar of the Many Bells." He still remembered hearing the golden chime, heralding a new hour, when he first heard her behind him, praising the craftsmanship of the knives Celegorm decorated the seraph's walls with. They were both different then and their relationship had been healthier before they became Exiles of the Blessed Realm.

"We can't be irresponsible," Celegorm repeated. "You know our laws, our traditions. I want to have a baby with you but making one as the Siege of Angband lasts would harm our child and would grieve us both, Ellie. You know how critically I'm needed at Aglon or at the front lines. Sometimes I'm gone for months at a time in Ard-galen. Do you want me separated from you and our baby that long? What if I was killed? Have you thought how my death would affect you and our newborn's spirit? I think not."

Suddenly, Curufin barged into the room with Celebrimbor saying there was fire in Lothlann.

"We were discussing the folly of having a child in a time of war," Celegorm told his brother and shot Ellindalë a scathing glare, throwing open the glass-paned wooden doors of his wardrobe. He told Curufin everything, even private things in the presence of his lover; there were no secrets kept from his sibling and best friend. "You just arrived as I began loathing the subject of conversation, Curufin, fancy that!" Celegorm snatched a royal blue ermine cloak lined with gold satin to wear. "Shall the King's Consort remain sulking in her bedchamber or will she see to the security of the Kingdom with His Majesty?" Celegorm asked Ellindalë with a wounded air and smiled a smug grin of triumph when she followed them out, knowing he had won their argument or had at least postponed it.

"This fire better better be worth venturing into the icy night to investigate, boy," Celegorm lectured Celebrimbor in his stride to the stable-sized kennel of the bailey. He unlocked it to loose the wolfhounds which followed him and Curufin from the Undying Lands. "You owe me a skinning knife if this fire is nothing to worry about," Celegorm warned Celebrimbor, pointing the finger of his leather glove at the skilled smith. He resented his nephew for never giving him gifts as he had for Gil-galad and strangers to whom he sold his wondrous jewelry and exquisite weapons. The trio endured the bitter wind blowing from the north as they drewer nearer to the gorge. It was long and wide, heavily garrisoned with Elves and Men. The brothers and Ellindalë rode their steeds up the granite path leading to a citadel Belaith Gwarieg - the Mighty Watchman - where they habitually stationed themselves in the gorge.

The lofty edifice stood on the flat summit of a massive cliff looming above Aglon canyon. An open-air courtyard gave a panoramic view of Dorthonion's lower eastern foothills and the hills of Himring. It overlooked the minor strongholds lining each side of the pass and its series of twelve soaring portalled gates of iron replete with turrets and manned by a sleepless watch of archers. Towers had been built on each of the courtyard’s corners of Belaith Gwareig, and the keep rose high from the center. Large clusters of cloaked armored sentinels filled the wooded and fountained, statued square. Some people spoke in whispers, others were weeping. Celegorm never failed to be awestruck by the magnificent view of the grassy plains bastioned by the fortresses of the March of Maedhros adorned by snow in the wintertime but tonight was different. The moonless heavens were clouded with smoke, either plumes rising from the fiery destruction of the forts or variegated vapors descending on the flaming fields....

"You still owe me a skinning knife, Telperinquar," Celegorm said in a gruff voice to Celebrimbor, staring through the amassing fog at the inferno devouring Himring's marches. "Kurvo, the worst is yet to come, I fear," Celegorm grimly confided in his brother, calling him by his more familiar name by family. "We were wrong," he admitted, maintaining the stoic countenance of an embarrassed victor. "Perhaps Ñolofinwë was right...and we should have mounted a full-scale attack on Angband to avoid what happens next. Orcs and vile things will strike us in unimaginable ferocity to finish off who survives." Celegorm barked out a laugh with a rueful shake of his head. "Perhaps it's the sportsman in me but I'm afraid Morgoth is the kind of hunter we are, relentless. He has more than one trap to kill us. We need to be prepared. How great the multitudes arrayed against us I know not but I hope we think we can hold the line for a month, maybe two but I doubt we'll last until spring."

He dismounted and rubbed the neck of stalwart Huan who made a mournful sound. Even the big bold dog had misgivings. "I won't loose our hounds - the ones we brought with us or those Feredir commands here - yet until Annonmein, the First Gateway, falls. Have Elves and Mortals, Ellindalë and Celebrimbor prepare the engines of war, Kurvo. We will need the catapaults and trebuchets, ballistae and magonels. Find suitable ground in the neighboring hills to position those we don't use in the canyon yards below to sling our projectiles: Chunks of stone and containers of molten metal, firepots and boiling water, quicklime, cauldrons of burning tar and coals. If they mean for us to die by fire, so, too shall they. There must be archers ready with flaming arrows so get sulfur and oil-soaked materials to them on the walls. I want every larder of each fortress double supplied, full to bursting... We may be here defending the pass for longer than a fortnight but they shall not pass!"

Celegorm gave his elleth a tender gaze, looking deeply into Ellindalë's brilliant eyes. He softly asked her to dismount and drew her away so he could speak to her alone. He brought her to a circle of fragrant pines in the courtyard. These were decorated with silver floral ornaments resembling niphredil and Celebrimbor's star-glass beads glimmering labently of celestial light along the snowy branches. Celegorm curved an arm around her slim waist. "Do you see what I mean, ninya laurëa harma (
"My golden treasure," Quenya)?" he asked with gentleness, gesturing at the streams of flame pouring over the plain to engulf the fortresses of the March of Maedhros. "This country, this world is too dangerous to raise our child in. Hush-" He covered her mouth with the palm but not unkindly, a delicate press with the hand he had raised to her not an hour ago. "Banish the thought of it, ninya moina ("My dear," Quenya). I need you to be with me, right here and now. We have a war to win. When Morgoth is destroyed then there will be talk of marriage." He embraced her, kissing Ellindalë's brow with a sustained touch of his lips. He didn't want to let go, terrified he'd lose Ellindalë just as easily as he had lost his grandfather. "If Kurvo and I believe Aglon will fall to the Orcs, you and Telperinquar should leave the pass before the siege has ended so you both may evacuate Himlad. I need to speak about this with him since Telperinquar is his son but it would make sense, he is the heir...and I do plan to wed you in peacetime, ninya mel ("My love," Quenya), and you will be queen of whatever land we rule." He held Ellindalë's face, studying her with a fervent intensity. "Promise me you will go when I ask." His loving attention was diverted, hearing many soldiers hoarsely coughing in the clouded gorge....

GM UPDATE:

@Tarawen and @Aerlinn, make your preparations for war in Aglon
as you see fit with Curufin and Celebrimbor and Ellindalë. Balcmeg the Orc commander
will be here soon with his army and the fighting in the pass
will be among the fiercest battles of the Bragollach War.


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"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Black Númenórean
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Nun Dungortheb. FA 316.
Fresh meat.

Ungoliant’s daughters stalked Nan Dungortheb in eternal hunger, their mother’s children in every hard, sharp, venomous, vicious, glittering, arachnid inch. On many silent legs they traveled, spinning thick webs in the mists: between the trees, over the bushes, across the uneven ground; wherever web could cling, they spun, and the valley provided. Unwary insects, birds, and ground dwelling creatures were all ensnared and devoured. And sometimes… larger prey. It had been a long time since the spiders of Nan Dunortheb had tasted elf-flesh, and the presence of elves in their domain had all of them askitter, pincers dripping with saliva, venom, and anticipation. On silent paws they stalked the group of elves, deeper and deeper into their domain, following the smells and the sounds; horse-hooves and careless elven voices. So reckless, so arrogant, to think that they could speak without drawing the ire and hunger of Nan Dungortheb’s native spawn. Some darted ahead, laying yet more webs in the path of the advancing group, ensuring that none should pass the narrowing valley into which they rode. The mists came down, thick and fast, in aid of the spiders’ feast. Then, at long last, the elf-voices began to cry out; stuck, stuck stuck! Separated! Fear was hot upon the air, its taste inflaming the spiders’ ravenous need, and finally they struck. In a massive surge, the clutter of spiders came at the elves from all sides, their red eyes emerging from the gloom mere feet away from the interlopers: leaping down from trees, up from the ground, swarming the legs of horses, and making hissing, clicking, gluttonous noises of victory. One particularly large specimen launched itself at Aredhel’s horse, wrapping its legs around the horse’s chest, and striking at its neck with gaping pincers. Another, from the cover of a tree, dropped onto the haunches of the horse behind Glorfindel, and wrapped its foremost legs over the elf-lord’s shoulders, making to climb his back.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Nun Dungortheb, FA 316
“In the Company of Ruin”


They spoke to each other in clicks and hisses, the speech of the two legged ones still beyond their capabilities. Something was coming this way, something was near. The largest of the spiders, the grey hulking squishing thing called Lithlhingril in the tongue of the two legged, began to move forward out of her crevice. The scent of elf was in the air, her pedipalps twittered with excitement. Her half dozen large black eyes began swaying back and forth. The sounds without the gorge were faint and far away, but the scent came from the same direction. A chittering sound issued from her hideous maw. “Come, we feast sister” the sound said. The air was still for a moment, the pestilent wind died as another spider began squeezing her bulk through the tiny, grey cracks in the mountains façade. She was sleep and black where her sister was grey. On her back she bore a single red slash, in the darkness of the Nan Dungortheb, it glowed with a sinister light. Morimo emerged, her carapace shiny and mesmerizing. Her hooked pedipalps rose high in the air, tasting and smelling the hints of their prey that hung in the air. She lifted herself up off her front two legs to raise higher. She inflated her size as she caught the scent. Elves indeed. The hairs on her crooked, spiny legs quivered as the images began to form in the arachnid monstrosity’s mind. She could hear them too. A low hiss issued from her. A viscous white substance dripped from her obsidian maw and pooled on the ground beneath her. She was hungry.

They always hunted together, these two. Ever since they had hatched from the belly of the thing that had been their father. They took after their mother more, the mountain that walked, the spider goddess, the queen of the unlight: Ungoliant. As they grew in size and strength, they took on the raiment they wore now. They alone survived that nest, devouring the rest and gaining an eldritch taste for death. Lithlhingril preferred the shape of a hunter, a stalker; while Morimo took the shape of a lurker, a haunter in the dark. Together, they never went hungry. They devoured everything they came across. They would be a plague upon this unfortunate earth.

Lithlhingril moved with rapacious haste, scuttling along the dark grey stones. Within a few moments she was gone, blending perfectly with the ash colors around her. She moved in utter silence, the hooks in her feet moving with utter precision. The winds began to pick up again, she could smell them closer now. As she moved, the milky white pool of venom dripped from her fangs. Behind her, Morimo travelled along the rough, even ground. The closer they moved, the more she could smell her prey. The air was pungent with the smell of elf. She wondered why such a creature would enter this loathsome domain, but she was too hungry now. The bestial ecstasy of the hunt was on her and she cared little reasons.

Morimo was scurrying behind her, her constant shadow companion. There were faint traces of web, silky and gossamer, trailing behind her, a whispering cloak of gloom. Lithlhingril’s arachnid senses picked up traces of them first. A low, rumbling hiss issued from deep with her belly. Siblings from another nest were near. Morimo must have smelled them too, a similar hiss of rage issued from her, followed by a guttural chittering and the clacking of her pedipalps. They would feast well this day. First the elves and their horses, then their mongrel siblings.

The mists were thickening, a vestige of their mother's presence here. It would hide them until it was too late for the elves to notice them. A vile gurgle built up from somewhere in her abdomen: Her breathed forth a fetid, putrid cloud of gas, the smell of a thousand opened graves. She heard the sound of whinnying horses, smelled the foul stench of fear, felt the tremble of the ground beneath her.

Lithlhingril was the first of the siblings to leap into action, she leapt on the back of a horse, forcing the creature to scream in panic. One of the other spiders was already there, wrapping itself around the legs of the equine beast; she used the distraction to latch onto the horse’s hindquarters and bring her iron jaws down. The flesh was wild and sweet, the nectar of her venom flowed through her and into the horse, it screamed again and the legs buckled. Lithlhingril sprang away as the creature stumbled.

Morimo moved with lightning speed, her pedipalps clacking together in rhythmic glee. She was like a shadow, moving through the heavy fog with barely the whisper of a presence. She chittered here, then then, moving from one side to the other. She darted between the legs of the horse still up then, with abominable grace, leapt full on the armored chest of the elf in the lead. Her jaws, black as midnight, opened and her fangs glistened in anticipation of the meat within.
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FA 455
Talath Dirnen, Nargothrond
Rásornouitha, the Gryphon's Nest
A Fateful Call
"Finrod held the Pass of Sirion, and upon the isle of Tol Sirion in the midst of the river
he built a mighty watch-tower, Minas Tirith;
but after Nargothrond was made he committed that
fortress mostly to the keeping of Orodreth his brother."

- Tolkien, The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and its Realms


"Through the mist and rains that lay upon those hills he saw Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain,
stretching between Sirion and Narog; and beyond he descried afar the highlands
of Taur-en-Faroth that rose above Nargothrond. Upon all that plain the Elves of Nargothrond
kept unceasing watch; and every hill upon its borders was crowned with hidden towers,
and through all its woods and fields archers ranged secretly and with great craft.
Their arrows were sure and deadly, and nothing crept there against their will."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien


"At last they (the Haladin) crossed over the Brithiach, and many bitterly repented of their journey;
but there was now no returning. Therefore in new lands they went back to their old life
as best they could; and they dwelt in free homesteads in the
woods of Talath Dirnen beyond Teiglin, and some wandered far into the realm of Nargothrond."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Coming of Men into the West


"Your mother's ancestors belonged to the Haladin, the Second House of Men and the people of Haleth.
Some of her forefathers rode with Arasoron Mordagnir, the Tar-Taidron's older brother, for a time."

- Dramhir Navarphen to his daughter, Lothrína Navarphen c. TA 3000


His wardens wore green but Arasoron Mordagnir wore black and red. There was a time when Erindan's dark, brooding son attempted a change of wardrobe but Indilë, his wife, made it...unmistakenly clear that blue was not his color, nor was any other save the ones she always saw him garbed in. The grave, cool-tempered army commander stood in the highest chamber of an observation tower hidden on a wooded hill in Talath Dirnen. High ground was plentiful here as were the fortresses crowning every summit but this turret belonged to Arasoron and Indilë. It was carved of the black stone forming the boulders of Narog and was named Rásornouitha, the Gryphon's Nest. The tower was situated near the short and foaming stream Ringwil which tumbled headlong into the rushing river from the High Faroth. In the predawn hours or twilit evenings like the one Arasoron knelt by the shore of the rill asking Indilë to marry him, that a rare glimmering white moonbow appeared amidst the spray.

Arasoron looked through one of the narrow glassless windows and gazed at the drifting vapors winding through the snowy forested slopes of his hill. It was another misty night in Talath Dirnen. It was often quiet but Arasoron was ready for any danger. Not just Orcs but his defeated nemesis, Costaro, his wife's erstwhile lover. He was beaten in a duel with Arasoron years ago and left Minas Tirith, never to be seen by them again. He did not know what had befallen him but if he appeared to take Indilë from him asudden, Arasoron would not be merciful as he was before... "Never start a fight," the father of Arasoron and Tavari had advised his twins and their brother, Aigronding, "but always finish it..."

A messenger mourning dove flying from the North glided through the foggy environs of the wooded hill-top and alighted upon Arasoron's gloved hands. Its soft coo-oo seemed at odds with the alarming tiny black case embossed with the gold and white sigil of House Finarfin the gentle bird carried. Orodreth, an elven high prince and one of Finrod's younger brothers, often guarded Minas Tirith when Arasoron had moved with Indilë to Nargothrond following their marriage but there were times when Tharmáras Isilherven substituted as the tower's keeper. Tharmáras assured Arasoron that if Pass of Sirion was threatened, either he or Orodreth would send him a message in a black case like this.

Only the arrival of Indilë could bring a smile ghosting across his lips. She led point, leading scout members of her warrior band into the turret's small courtyard having completed their routine reconnaissance mission. He rushed down the winding stairs to meet her outside. Pale clouds coiled about the couple, forming a wall of mists around husband and wife solely, as Arasoron pulled her softly against him. "Ninya galyanárë (
"My bright flaming light," Quenya)," he uttered, strong hands finding ardent purchase in his elleth's luxuriant mane of fiery tresses. Not knowing what the future might bring, his warm kiss was slow and fervent. What seemed an eternity later, he seized Indilë's hand and pressed the black case against her palm. They locked gazes. She knew what it meant. "We go to the throne together, tári oninya indo ("Queen of my heart," Quenya)," he urged her in a low compelling voice, caressing her high cheekbones with a tender sweep of one thumb. "If I must go to battle, I want you riding with me, Rávayaulë ("Wildcat," Quenya)."

The Mordagnirs took a swift journey to Nargothrond's sheer terraces and dim gigantic palaces therein. When the gates were thrown open to admit the pair of famed guardians, Arasoron and Indilë strode through the lambent light of grandiose lanterns which illuminated carved passageways of the cavern underground. Eventually they came to the court where their friend and king Finrod Felagund of silver crown sat enthroned. "Your Majesty, I come bearing ill news unfortunately." Arasoron gave Finrod the small black message case that had been attached to the dove of Minas Tirith. "I received this message from Prince Orodreth. A black case symbolizes a clear and present danger to the Pass of Sirion, Your Highness." Despite the lateness of the hour, many courtiers were still thronging the lavish chandeliered hall. From the great assembly walked Princes Gelmir and Gwindor, mighty in war; with them was Gildor, a High Elf scout and son of Inglor, who knew Beleriand like the back of his hand. They joined the Mordagnirs at the throne of Finrod as whispers rippled among the sea of terrified Elves behind them.


Findaráto,
Morgoth has unleashed rivers of flame and poisonous fumes upon the North to destroy the realms of Elf and Man. Our leaguer is broken, brother. Ard-galen is no more and thousands have perished in the burning fields. I can see the inferno blazing in Dorthonion, your fiefdom where Angaráto and Aikanáro keep watch on Thangorodrim. I fear for their lives. Lord Tharmáras Isilherven of Lindon has escaped the slaughter to succour me here with his Sindarin refugees and the Mortals of the Ered Wethrin's southern dales. We will hold the line so, I hope you understand, I cannot aid our brothers in Dorthonion. Minas Tirith calls for aid...Dorthonion needs their king. Hasten here, Findaráto. I am afraid we have yet to fully realize the fullness of Morgoth's power nor the extent of his devilry...we should have listened to Ñolofinwë.

Artaresto,
Warden of Minas Tirith
and Lord of Tol Sirion


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"The sons of Finarfin bore most heavily the brunt of the assault, and Angrod and Aegnor were slain;
beside them fell Bregolas lord of the house of Bëor, and a great part of the warriors of that people.
But Barahir the brother of Bregolas was in the fighting further westward, near to the Pass of Sirion.
There King Finrod Felagund, hastening from the south,
was cut off from his people and surrounded with small company in the Fen of Serech..."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin


GM UPDATE:
@Celebrin , describe your thoughts and emotions when he reads Orodreth's letter.
Marshal your Nargothrond force (both Elven and Mortal), keeping the Mordagnirs and the
sons of Guilin and Gildor close to the king as he leads them in a hasty ride toward the Pass of Sirion.
Find the place embattled and your company divided. Consumed with worry
for Angrod and Aegnor, Finrod tries to reach Dorthonion through
the Pass of Sirion but gets ambushed by Orcs along side Celebrin and Curancal's force.
Begin fighting desperately, outnumbered by the enemy.
I'll have Barahir arrive with his troop once @Moriel and
@Dwarrow Elf get in their combat posts. We'll have Gelmir
captured eventually.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Beleg - Captain of the Marchwardens of Doriath


The reactions to his intervention were varied. While his Marchwardens fell back obediently, the Noldorin harpy seemed determined to refuse all offers of assistance, however firmly they may have been delivered. He struggled to suppress the sneer that threatened to crack his calm countenance. But as Aredhel directly insulted Mallosel and even rejected Gwenneth’s hospitality, his fingers couldn’t help but tighten about the shaft of Dailir. But still he made no comment. Both Mallosel and Gwenneth were wardens of great skill and pride, and had no need for Beleg to defend them against such petty spite. But inwardly, he seethed.

Next time, Sillandhras and Mallosel can have their fun, he thought. Diplomacy be damned.

It was only after the Noldorin party turned their steeds and disappeared back into the trees did the expression on Beleg’s face change to one of absolute fury. A cold fire danced in his eyes, quite dissimilar to the light in the faces of the Caliquendi but no less fearsome.

Nay, you are not our lady,” he hissed. “Your white raiment leaves you as pale spectre when compared to The Nightingale, and your voice is as harsh upon ear as her singing is sweet.

He turned back to his company of marchwardens, with Mallosel expressing her gratitude. “None required, mellon nín, ” he replied with a smile. “My responsibility, after these borders, are those who defend it against all but only a select few. For far too many among the Noldor have proved that though hallowed light may be in their face, only darkness lies in their hearts.

He addressed the group as a whole. “It may be prudent to increase our watches along the border with Nun Dungortheb lest the spiders that dwell therein, emboldened by likely encounter with the Noldorin party, make attempt upon Doriath. For who among us really believes she will head South?
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
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FA 455
Minas Tirith, Tol Sirion
The Great Flame

The night still thrived but for a distant orange glow to the north east as many of the elves of the tower stared with confusion out the windows. The cause of the glow was still yet unknown and many elves now headed south through the Pass of Sirion, though not under any Noldorin banners. Displayed below were lines of marching elves following the banners of Sindarin kingdoms. The lines channeled far into the distance. Curiosity overwhelmed Celebrin's mind. Why would the Sindar leave the Noldorin kingdoms? Was there a dispute? There could not have been another kinslaying. Celebrin and Curancal took their posts under Lord Finrod's kingdom after all. If this was an attack from Morgoth, then where were the Noldor? And why were the Sindar retreating? This made no sense.

Caranfindel exclaimed then suddenly to the room. Failed? Failed?! Celebrin looked from Caranfindel to the window once more, and whispered to Curancal, his dear friend and long time fellow soldier upon Tol Sirion. "How could it fail? Nothing has happened yet. Has it? Caranfindel is obviously exaggerating." Curancal turned his head slightly toward Celebrin, keeping his attention on his commander.

"Perhaps Dorthonion and Ladros were swept over too suddenly. I cannot see it happening but Caranfindel would not lie, and how could you explain all the elves heading south?" Curancal also looked to the window again, seeing the elves streaming from the north. As Caranfindel continued, what really happened was revealed, and the two Sindarin elves were called forward. Sometimes it was a pain being so reliable. A few more elves came forward at the invitation to go with them.

"Let us be off then. There may be a storm coming that Minas Tirith may not be able to stand through." Curancal spoke to Celebrin and the other volunteers with one last look to Caranfindel. Celebrin gave a nod to his friend and after assuring they were all equipped, the squad headed to the fens.



~*~


Outside they passed alongside the southward flowing course of elves. Celebrin came to realize that many and most of these elves were not soldiers. As a banner bearer of the Falas marched past, Celebrin stopped him for interrogation. The elf handed off his banner to another elf to not hold up the procession. "What is the meaning of this retreat?" Celebrin upon the elf with concern and frustration, but the elf replied with kind.

"Dorthonion... Ladros... Ard-Galen..." the elf choked with grief, "Call it Anfauglith now. The whole of that area has been swept with flame, and a powerful darkness swarms Dorthonion. There is no returning there."

"But... how?" Celebrin grasped the elf's shirt and immediately let go. "How could this happen? And what of the Noldor? Are they all lost fighting until the end?"

"Most went east to the March of Maedhros. Though I fear all is lost from what my eyes have seen, and I would not see any more if I can help it. We of the Sindar have our southern kingdoms to return to. I do not welcome the fates of the Noldor, but I wish them luck, and our fellow Sindar who wish to stay and hold this wave." The elf shook his head. "Brace yourself for a hurricane of fire and death." The elf then left in a hurry to catch up to the head of his line.

The squad of elves looked to each other, one of which was from Doriath. "I wish you all luck. If all shall be lost I will spend my time with my family rather than die here needlessly." The fellow soldier of Minas Tirith then turned and ran off to follow a bannerman of Doriath.

"Hold! You..." Celebrin shouted but Curancal stopped him abruptly.

"We must reach the fens before this storm." Curancal reasoned, before the small company, subtract one, jogged off against the current of refugees.
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Afarfin - Noldor
Minas Tirith/Fens of Serech


Afarfin had been standing by the window of the barracks he could see refugees coming in and that there were Sindarin and Nandor among them. He knew Melviriel would not be among them though, he had only ever been able to see her once after their first meeting but she was in Doriath, safe, not among the Marchwardens that would be out with the Marchwardens or in this group of refugees. She was in Doriath, safe. And that heartened him greatly, if perhaps he would be able to make it through this horror then he would be able to see her once more.

He turned away from it when Caranfindel came in and called his name, he was still worried about Melviriels father Morcundir, a member of the Marchwarden for Thingol and he knew a loss of him would be devastating to her. His dark blue eyes set on the commander of his battalion, he stood at the read but the news of the failure of the seige was not something that he was read for in the least. It was like a strike to the gut leaving him breathless and afraid. He managed only barely to keep himself from crying out at the news like many of his fellow soldiers did. He bit the inside of his lip making his lips thin as he worked hard to keep his emotions in check as the threat of a horde of orcs and whatever other dark forces that Morgoth has mustered and bred and created during the long rest that he had.

At the request for scouts for the Fen of Serech he stepped forward along side Celebrin and Curancal he was sharp eyed Melviriel had taught him to look for things that he had never thought to look for though she was not warden or soldier her sharp hunters eyes had proven useful and her lesson on what to look for had stuck with him. Once it was confirmed he quickly gathered up his gear, including a horn to sound a warning in case they needed it.

As they left Minas Tirith they lost one of their host, and if Melviriel were in the tower or even near by he would likely abandon this mission as well to spend it with her, even if she was a fickle as the north wind itself both stubborn and proud. Her fathers daughter she would scorn him for abandoning his post. Instead though he felt that his best chance to defend her was to reach the Fens and keep the orcs from easily crossing if he could at all. They traveled in the darkness to the Fens and moved as swiftly as they could with the banners of the survivors of Ard-galen constantly streaming past them they would need to be careful and watch for orcs that might be trying to flank them from the Fens.


Melviriel - Nandor
Forest of Brethil/the Southern edge of the refugee Camps near Mindeb


The Marchwardens were aware of something she knew that because her father Morcundir had helped her leave the girdle and told her to hunt, why she had not known he said to bring down as many wood hens and deer as she could so and then to bring them further north. To be wary and careful as there would be many people about.

She went out in her hunting garb with extra several bags and herbs that her father had given her. She also took her knife so that she could clean the catch and perhaps find roots and herbs for those that may be hungry while running swiftly south. It took her a good several hours to shoot enough hens that she didn't feel bad about bringing them in, it would not be a lot of food but it would be fresh and good. She also gathered several small sacks of fresh herbs and several tubers from katniss plants and dandelion leaves for salad as well as edible flowers. On her way north she came across a small doe and took it down as well. She bled it and quickly marched herself north, it over her shoulders. It was a heavy load and it took her a bit longer than she would have liked and the Marchwardens were shocked to see her apparently her father had debated on coming to see where she was just as she had arrived. The deer and hens and food were quickly taken from her and her father gave her a proud nod. Not many elleths would march with an extra hundred pounds of dead weight across their back for those they did not know. He was proud of his daughter. "Good work, I will let Beleg know that you have made it with food for refugees while we wait to see if they can enter the Girdle."

Morcundir - Nandor
Guarding the Refugee Camp of Mindeb


There were so many of them and many had fled swiftly and they no longer had enough food to feed themselves. Sadly the Marchwardens could not defend them from spiders and wolves and feed them. He had sent his daughter hunting, indeed it would be a pitance compared to the number of refugees in the camp but he knew she would not let him down. He heard an elf speaking of what had happened and how elves had been fleeing and those that did not were likely no more. The archer for his part grew concerned, as much as his daughter Melviriel would never admit it but there was a Noldor in the north that she would undoubtedly worry about. He himself realizing the time began to worry for her, there were plenty of spawnlings of Ungoliant about and if she was heavily laden with food for these refugees she would be an easy target for them, he was about to get permission to go and seek her out when she arrived. He breathed a sigh of relief.

With the information he had heard though, he was certain that soon his daughter, no matter the protests of her mother and his wife would soon be counted among the Marchwardens, if only because they would need all the skills and warriors that they could get if Morgoth was truly about to unleash all of the bowels of Angband upon them. For her part Melviriel asked if she should go out hunting more as she looked over the masses that were gathered keenly aware that even with the doe there would not be much food for all those gathered.

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Beleg - Captain of the Marchwardens of Doriath
Menegroth Throne Room, 455 FA


The silence that followed his declaration could only be described as deafening. The court fell silent and the ever-present sound of running was suddenly oppressive. Then a few Elves began to voice their dismay. Others joined and the noise would have risen into clamour had not the King risen to his feet.

Whatever grief Thingol felt at the news of the death of his kin, he hid well behind regal calm. Beleg’s heart swelled with pride at the litany of available provisions to maintain the Kingdom of Doriath. Healers, warriors, farmers, all had been working tirelessly to ensure Doriath in times of War would be as prosperous as in times of peace.

But Thingol's next words caused Beleg’s face to pale to the same shade as his hair. In his haste to deliver the news to the court, he had forgotten that Angrod and Aegnor were kin not only to the King, but also to the Lady Galadriel. Indeed, she had integrated so seamlessly into life among the Sindar that it was easy to forget she was Noldor. His careless announcement of their passing would have caused her great pain and he was relieved to hear she was not present. After Thingol entrusted Melian with delivering the news to her dear friend, the Queen's eyes shifted to meet Beleg's and he could see the reproach within them. He winced. He would have to apologise to both her and Galadriel for his thoughtlessness.

And it seemed time for that apology would be sooner than he anticipated as Thingol declared that he would ride to the refugee camp within the hour.

Once Thingol had bid his family farewell and set foot towards their departure, Beleg approached the thrones and bowed low before the Ladies of Doriath. “Bereth nín,” he addressed Melian, “I beg your forgiveness for my abrupt words earlier. So intent was I on delivering these evil tidings at earliest opportunity that I thought not of how they would affect anyone save the King. I should have thought to first send private word to Lady Galadriel about her brothers’ passing before making their fates known to the whole court. I have no wish to cause her grief, yet have done so nonetheless. Please convey my apologies to her when you speak with her, for it appears I will not have chance to deliver my apology in person.

Bowing again, Beleg backed away, nodding farewell to Daeron. He liked the minstrel, and knew he would move mountains to ensure Lúthien had whatever she needed to fulfil her father’s orders.

Sadron was rested enough to bear him back to the Mindeb, though not at as breakneck a speed as earlier. With Mablung riding on one side of Thingol and himself on the other, they headed back into the forest, retracing the journey Beleg had made but few hours earlier.

Refugee Camp, River Mindeb


The small company rode through the night and Arien was just rising again as they returned to the stretches of land where the defeated Sindar had made camp. Cries of ‘The King! Make way for the King!’ spread before them, drawing a crowd that thronged a safe distance from their horses.

Once reaching the centre of the camp, Beleg dismounted and passed Sadron’s reins to an Elf who leapt forward to assist. “Find Celeg and have him bring his report straight to King Thingol,” he requested of another nearby Elf. He then turned to Thingol. “My King, if you would permit me, I would leave to check in with my Wardens, to whom I have already given orders regarding these Elves.” A nod was all he needed before Beleg headed into the camp in search of Sillandhras and Mallosel.

He had not walked far when he spotted a small troupe of Elves, all laden with game including a doe. A much needed smile graced his face when he recognised Morcundir and his daughter Melviriel. Tell-tale spots of blood marked the shoulders of Melviriel’s clothing, proving that not only had her arrows felled the doe, she had also carried it back herself. He walked up to them. “A bow so keen, few in Doriath could call themselves your equal,” he declared fondly, approaching and clasping Melviriel’s shoulder in greeting. “The whole camp would give you their thanks. Do you think you can command a company of hunters to fan out around us and provide a steady supply of meat? These soldiers must eat as well as can be arranged to give them their best chance of surviving and healing from the hurts they have seen.
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Morcundir and Melviriel - Nandor
The Refugee camp, River Mindeb


Her father was about to nod his accent to her request to go back out hunting after all there were many mouths to feed, when Beleg showed up and clapped a hand on her shoulder. Morcundir nodded at his praise of his daughter, indeed she was a keen shot he had taught her himself. He did not expect the mirth on her face though as she gave a small laugh.

"High praise Cuthalion, with me standing between yourself and my father who both far surpass me in skill, and I am afraid far more deadly than me and my small hickery bow!" She said with a smile and a nod. "I am pleased with your thanks perhaps one day soon your words will convince Adda that I should be allowed to join the Wardens, until then I will do what I can with any men that can be spared to hunt for I can only carry so much and there are many mouths to feed and many that need healing from their wounds." She said softly her smile fading as she looking over those that were gathered here, some in need of more aid then others.

"I am fine with you joining the Wardens I am not fine with the price I will have to pay when your mother finds out." Morcundir grumbled to Beleg, his wife was quite opinionated and he did like the idea of sleeping in a soft bed occasionally and she told him more than once he'd be outside in a tree until they sailed to Valinor if he let their daughter join the Wardens. "Until we bring her around I am sure you will do well leading the men that can hunting. You know ever deer and rabbit trail of Brethil."

"Indeed, I can even put some with stronger bows to the boar trails, for my bow will do naught but get me killed hunting them it does not have the strength to pierce their tough hides, so I know them but avoid them at all costs." She was still looking at the refugees. "Do you know if any of these men have bows with them? It might do them well to do something to help their fellows if they are not wounded and can hunt."

Morcundir nodded grimly, he was going to have to get her a stronger bow, he had never let her move beyond the bow he'd given her as a child though she had often asked for one. He'd even scolded her for trying to use his bow many years ago now, more because he was afraid she would tear all the muscles in her arm and chest with the attempt it was easily five times the draw of her current bow, and he was no where near Beleg's strength. Her mother again had refused to allow it, and hearing her words of boars he was loath to let her continue with the small light weight bow and if her mother heard her speaking of boars and her weapons not being strong enough then she would kill him herself for not making sure their daughter was well equipped. He was going to be sleeping in that tree either way he figured.

"I think, perhaps before you go back to the woods we find you a new bow, and get you started training with it. I would like to keep my life." Morcundir looked at Beleg "Not a word about the boars to my wife, or the new bow, or I'm afraid you'll be short one warden and you'll have a foe inside the Girdle to contend with. I shall tell her when the time is right."

"He means never if he can get away with it." Melviriel said giving her father a hug happy to finally have a new bow to her name even if she knew she'd continue to use her hickory bow until she was comfortable completely with the new bow.

"You're sworn to silence too or I swear I will let your mother put you in a dress and make you a hand maiden to Melian." He said narrowing his eyes at her and hugging her back.

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FA 455
Throne Room, Nargothrond
Dark Tidings

A shadow hung over his mind from the time that Arien slipped her vessel over the edge of the world. It pestered his thoughts no matter how much he paced or tried to rest. Into the late night and early hours much before dawn, he found himself upon his majestically bejeweled throne of marble in silent contemplation. The silver circlet of Felegund sat idly to his left upon a stand of similarly crafted marble. In its place his forehead pressed into his open palms whilst his fingers clutched at golden tresses. The elven king was hunched; elbows pressed to knees. And though the chamber was lit with gold and silver and cheerful light, the lord seemed out of place as he stared wide eyed at the polished gemstone floor and marble stair up to the throne. All those who questioned his emotional state, he waved away with an assuringly bright smile. The king fell to the back of his throne in exasperation, causing his blond mane to shake with the force and he brushed the wrinkles in his fine green robes that had formed at his knees. Taking the headdress in his hand he placed it upon his head haphazardly though through practice the band was placed quite well regardless. A harp stayed to his right on yet another marble table. Silver and emerald and gold it stood proudly there. He reached over and plucked a string. The note sang to him and he felt the need to release. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He took the small harp to his lap. The chords reverberated through the enclosure as he searched for the right ones for his song. As he began, he closed his eyes.

"Now you all know
The bards and their songs
When hours have gone by
I'll close my eyes
In a world far away
We may meet again
But now hear my song
About the dawn of the night
Let's sing the bards' song

Tomorrow will take us away
Far from home
No one will ever know our names
But the bards' songs will remain
Tomorrow will take it away
The fear of today
It will be gone
Due to our magic songs"
- The Bard's Song, Blind Guardian

The cavern grew dim as the light was softly stolen from it. Finrod Felegund opened his eyes to a small overly attentive audience. He closed his eyes again briefly in apology, and the light returned. "Pardon my taste in this late evening everyone. Please contin..." As if on queue, Arasoron and Indilë entered the hall looking less than content and the king sat still. Finally. Finally he would know what happened this night. His heart sank upon viewing the case in Arasoron's hand. It would seem the ill news was not a local issue. He quickly began to regret his burst of song. Taking the case, he broke the seal and read the message in silence, but not silently enough. Concern struck over his face even before finishing the first sentence. Blasted with disbelief from the second. Confusion from the third. Desperation. Compassion. Assurance. Determination... and annoyance. He lifted his gaze to Arasoron, annoyance intact, and out to the audience he had accumulated before shouting. "Ready my horse and armor! And find my war crown!" The elven king stood a marvel to his court after setting the harp in his seat. "Morgoth has struck in the north! My brothers call for our aid to beat him back into his hole! And we will not leave them wanting nor to take all glory for themselves! Gather what force we can muster! We ride before dawn!" He strode past Arasoron towards his dressing room but pressed the message to his friend's chest as he went by, issuing the command, "Burn this." in a muffled whisper.

Talath Dirnen
Departure

Finrod paced his mare openly before a gathered host of riders. Torches and lanterns scattered a large area before him as the night held. A strong crown of silver, bold emeralds and golden flowers had been placed upon his head of gold. His chest, shoulders, arms and legs were dressed in polished silver exquisitely bedecked with emeralds and rubies. A long sword set with emerald was sheathed at his side. A green tabard sported his crest and matching cape draped over his mare's back. Finding Arasoron, the king asked his friend, "I trust the message has been disposed of? And how many riders have we?" After an update from Arasoron, Finrod removed sword from sheath and held it high. Despite the dark, the sword shone brightly as the lord's voice filled the clearing.

"Long have we waited,
and perhaps our siege has abated!
I do not know what waits for us,
nor do I know what fate's for us,
but we will face it!
Morgoth's assault? We will erase it!
My dearest of friends,
I ask that you contend
with the forces of darkness
and ride with me this night that is starless!
Swiftly to the crossings of Teiglin,
and on to Tol Sirion, let us believe in
our hearts and our dreams
no matter how difficult this seems!
Press on! With me!
To Dorthonion and victory!"

Crossings of Teiglin
A Sight Unexpected

As the River Teiglin and the outer reaches of Brethil came into their immediate vision, something else could be seen heading their way over the crossings. A great many elves unbannered and some bearing banners of the Falas realms. These were nearly all Sindar who felt no obligation to war having fled from the northern realms of the Noldor. The King of Nargothrond learned more here from them of the fall of Dorthonion and Ladros. Swallowed by fire. The fate of his brothers Aegnor and Angrod was still yet unconfirmed, though most deemed them lost. Many spoke of the remaining Noldor migrating to Maedhros but none expected Aegnor nor Angrod to be among them. The king now felt more pressed than before. A burning desperation seethed in his heart. What kind of might and power could possibly diminish the supremacy of his brothers' kingdoms? How could such an overwhelming dominance occur? "Those without a home are welcome in Nargothrond, however, make way! Clear the bridge! My company requires haste!" The Sindar scurried away to allow the host of riders to pass, yet gave little to none of any cheers or wishes of good fortune. Hope was gone from their eyes. Even as they passed by the road to the Brithiach crossings, elves continued to stream south, taking that road as well to Doriath. The tail end of the refugees spoke of great massive legions of orcs that would soon fall upon Minas Tirith if having not already as Finrod's force neared the Pass of Sirion.

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Fens of Serech
A Sudden Storm

The night still hung over the land as the small troupe finally past the last of the refugees heading south. Many of the refugees looked upon them with confusion while others nodded their respect and gave well wishes with heavy hearts. It was only now that the sound of pursuit was heard coming from the north. The marching of the escapees muffled the sound of it before. The scouting party quickly ascended the slope before them only to gaze upon a frighteningly large wave of darkness coming their way. Orcs as far as the eye could see. Celebrin looked to Curancal and found his expression of disbelief matched but quickly came back to reality. "Sound the horns!" The night erupted in vibration from the blare of the horns as some of the smaller and faster orcs fell upon them. Celebrin drew his scimitar and swung down upon the little orc's clavicle as it leaped towards him, knocking the defiled being dead on the ground before him. Memories flashed over him as his heart raced and the dark blood spattered his hand. He bowed his head. His long auburn hair dangled before him. His hands shook as he looked at them and the grip on his sword slacked. He heard a woosh past his ear as Curancal's spear thrust caught another orc in the throat as it leaped at him. A strong hand clasped Celebrin's shoulder as he lifted his head. "Stay with me, my friend." Curancal spoke to him, espying his shaking hands. "I know your past and reason for being here. Keep your head." Curancal removed his spear from the orc and looked about. "Climb to the higher ground! We'll hold a spot on the mountain side on the other side of that cleft. The boulders will give us cover and the cleft along with the shear wall of rock will force an attack to come from only two sides. Climb!" The troupe climbed the steep slope to their right fending off the smaller orcs that kept coming as they proceeded to settle their defensive position.

Here they watched and fought for their lives as the great sea of orcs washed it's way into the Pass of Sirion. Arrows flew at them from every direction ricocheting from boulders and shields. Orcs funneled at them from the front and their rear flank. As their bodies piled, Curancal noticed the loss of their advantage as the orcs climbed over their fellow warriors taking the high ground for themselves. "Keep close to and high in your slain! Stay above the incoming foes!" A flash then took the night for a split second and the small party in dire straits sighted King Finrod amongst the black ocean. "The king! The king is near!" exclaimed Celebrin yet what hope it gave him was taken as there was little to no army that fought with him. "Push this boulder! To the king!" The group quickly gathered and pushed the great stone together into the cleft allowing them to leap across the ravine. "Shields high and close! Push hard!" Curancal shouted before they entered the dark waves.

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Tol Sirion to the Fens of Serech
Unstoppable

The host thundered behind him. Those who stayed close were Arasoron, Indilë, Gildor, Gelmir and Gwindor. When reaching the isle they found Minas Tirith under siege yet it stood proud and unyielding with many elves working together. "Leaguer broken indeed..." Finrod muttered with audacity. A smirk spread his lips as he looked on to the northern horizon drawing his shining sword once more to lead the way. "Orodreth is holding the pass! Let us press on! To Dorthonion!" The king and his white mare were the first to enter the fray and push into the sea of orcs. Felagund pressed his mare on. The black ocean was inflexible. Axes and spears came at him and his mare over and over but their pace allowed for easy deflection with the occasional head splitting. These were no longer elves in any way. All beauty and grace were ripped from them. Finrod spared no pity for these creatures. On and on he pushed until he found moving forward was becoming much too difficult. "Push!" The king looked back for the first time since passing Minas Tirith and found a company of few in number. The majority of his host was waylaid and regrouped back at Minas Tirith. "Damn this darkness!" Finrod raised his sword.
"Spare a light in this dark
if it be only a spark."

A white light flashed causing the orcs around them to stagger and the shine of his sword faded. "It would seem my blind faith in our strength has netted us in some trouble my friends! We will have to fight our way out of this as our steeds have lost their stamina! And these fens are doing them no favors! Hold close and we will push on slowly towards Dorthonion!" All about him the horses staggered and stubbled in the mires. With no momentum the beasts lost their will and fell prey to the spears of Morgoth's army. Finrod's mare then sank and was quickly taken with many spears. And the king was speechless; he had no console for his noble steed. He could not save her, nor could he end her suffering and it was his fault alone. He looked away as the death blow was swung and cringed at the sound. A shiver flew up his spine from the agony and he shook his head in self disgrace. Taking in a deep breath, Finrod flipped his disgrace into fury and his blood stained sword fell upon the orcs that surrounded him and his mare. What little company he had left formed in around him with shields, now all without steed covered in mud and blood. Then tearing the muddied cape from his back, Finrod took a stance of power and only then did he notice the small band of Minas Tirith scouts coming to join him. As the scouts plowed their way in to join parties, Finrod Felagund voiced another verse of perseverance.

"Behold ye of blackened soul,
here you hold no control.
Waylaid and beaten we may seem,
but harken to this glory scene.
The darkness will not encompass the light;
it is a knife that cuts through this night.
Witness now the laudable!
We are unstoppable!"
The shine returned to his sword as the elven lord charged through his shield wall into the dark swarm, hacking, kicking and punching his way eastward. "To Dorthonion!"
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FA 455
Lothlann
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But they [the Orcs] overwhelmed the riders of the people of Feanor upon Lothlann,
for Glaurung came thither, and passed through Maglor's Gap,
and destroyed all the land between the arms of Gelion.

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Fall of Fingolfin and the Ruin of Beleriand
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Ielya Varanda crossed her arms, watching Yulmanilda gulp down the refilled contents of her wineskin.

"Want some?" asked the Silvan elleth, offering the blonde swordswoman the container made of goat leather.

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"She's judging you as am I," said Mauya Nairëdess, Hatholdir's niece, with a subtle air of amusement as she decided whether to construct more arrows or polish her knives. She was the first Elf who had been welcomed into the Eldakan's inner circle of Ganaran, The King's Own. It was the first mounted regiment in the army of Maglor and the son of Fëanor often rode with them in his adventures away from the citadel, Cormenfásë. Maglor was with the warriors this moonless starry morning, rousing them by reveille with his harpers and pipers. "Next time, you better have milk or water in that thing."

"Why must you all be so stern?" She was the youngest woman in Maglor's army.

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"We're adults, someday you'll understand what that means!" Elfaron Axota, Ielya's twin and Minestor of Maglor's healers, assured her with an annoying sunny smile. He resumed taking inventory of his herbal medicine and surgical supplies. The physician blinked when Yulmanilda's snowball burst against the back of his fur cloak. The High Elf rushed at the Nandorin girl. She leaped from her bedroll, cursing and giggling, and ran across the snowy encampment with Elfaron in pursuit.

"Some Elves are merry as children," remarked Earenolwë Noldorseron, margrave of the Gap. The Nelya commander of Ganaran and Maglor's chief advisor, was summoned from his tent hearing the laughter of Ielya and Mauya.

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"The military is no place for them," Teithon Geliahaered said. The Telerin Elf shook his head in disapproval although the cartographer was solving a Dwarven mechanical puzzle instead of drawing a new map of their present terrain. He sighed moodily and started work on a fresh parchment, provoked by Earenolwë's stony stare.

The margrave turned away, hiding his smirk. "All that's missing is Herugon," he thought, a little sadly. He looked to the high peak of Mount Rerir in the distant east encompassed by the lofty mountains of Ered Luin. No warriors of Thargelion were at field this morning. Earenolwë wished he was with his friend or engaged in a lively elvish reel with Elenillor Nielluin at one of Caranthir's dances. It had been over a century since they attended a festive ball beneath the redolent pines of Talath Rhúnen.

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"Varanda."

Earenolwë's reverie of Caranthir's scenic woods vanished in a moment, hearing the smoky voice of Hatholdir's sister who undoubtedly wanted another argument. Earenolwë gave the Elf-lady smith a reluctant look over his shoulder. His old flame, Elenillor, seemed very much awake. She held a steaming cup of tea which he hoped wasn't brewed soely to hurl at his face. She was a shapely raven-haired dame with captivating teal eyes and wore a blue ermine cloak over her gleaming mail. Elenillor once excavated precious ores in the Blissful Realm, most notably silver. During the Unrest of the Noldor she directed her forges to produce weapons and armor instead of things of beauty. Earenolwë could have executed her in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, his beloved kingdom by the sea, but instead he saved her life, having been deeply in love with Elenillor. Devastated by the loss of Paradise, scarred by her father's attempted murder of her, and wracked by the grief of Maedhros' capture Elenillor abandoned the Exiles and Earenolwë.

She wandered Beleriand for one hundred and twenty years before being discovered by Earenolwë and and Girion and Erfaron in the tangled gloom of Taur-im-Duinath. She missed the Nelya and elven society. Elenillor returned with Earenolwë and settled in the Gap. They became lovers but he vanished in the three hundreds on a hunt with Celegorm and Maglor. Elenillor believed him to be dead when the kings revealed they had lost him in the greenwoods of Amrod and Amras but she later discovered...when Earenolwë appeared in the Gap a couple years later....that he wandered into an Ossiriand valley and encountered Tyelpelfindis, his Aenillindë, with whom he had Awakened near. Earenolwë confessed "nothing happened" but she despised him ever since and the couple was still estranged hence.

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"Ielya, what about her?" Earenolwë asked with shameless innocence which, he could tell, aggravated Elenillor. He gave his closest friends nicknames and they cherished them as treasured possesions.

"The surname, the Sublime. Why did you give her that epessë?" she demanded.

"Her beauty, surely you understand," Earenolwë answered. He couldn't lose her. She left him when he apologized.

"You never called me Sublime!" shouted Elenillor, giving him a push. "Is she the next woman?"

"No but Ielya would be easier to be with," Earenolwë supposed, speaking rashly, quickly losing his patience. He grunted a beat later when Elenillor shoved him. He stumbled back, missing a campfire ever so slightly which had probably been Elenillor's intent.

"We should go scouting," Ielya decided, blushing a vivid pink, and swatted Mauya's shoulder.

"Scouting is a fabulous idea," agreed Mauya and drew the red velvet hood of her cloak atop her brown curls. She was suggesting they'd collect Yulma, hurrying to her roan horse's hitching post.

"Just how long will this last?" he pressed her, speaking through his gritted teeth as he stood.

"Hating you? Forever." She walked away with a haughty lift of her chin.

"I told you how sorry I felt and begged your forgiveness!" Earenolwë hollered at her, seething. He pulled her to him, not caring about the hot tea sloshing over the brim of the glazed Star of Fëanor tankard.

"That doesn't mean you'll receive it!" she yelled back, causing a whispering stir amongst the troops. She struck the Nelya with a vicious slap. Her eyes glowed a vibrant-blue green, watching the rivulet of blood trickling over his chiseled jawline.

"I came back to you, for Nienna's sake!" shouted Earenolwë who was formerly the calmest Elf in Middle-earth.

"Only because Tyelpelfindis spurned you!" Elenillor lashed back. "You already had a woman here, fool! I will not be chosen because you consider me second best." She forced his hands away when he tried to caress her. "Do not touch me!" she ordered with fiery vehemence, giving his chest another jarring blow. "You forfeited that right when you desired someone else." Elenillor stalked off and the crowd dispersed, muttering about the wearying drama between the pair.

"You certainly have a way with women, Eldakan," Teithon mused dryly, referring to him by the military title - the Ruler - Elfaron had given him and which Macil jealously prized. "You should give me relationship advice sometime-"

Earenolwë silenced him with a sharp wave of his gauntlet, disturbed by the bizarre rosy glow of daybreak. It shone in the west shining through scudding stormclouds. "How close is the citadel from our current position?" Earenolwë asked Teithon with a tone of urgency as a long-buried pervasive fear radiated through his body. It eroded the tormented bitter sorrow of Elenillor's rejection him. The vast inferno grew coruscating in brilliance beneath the shrieking winter skies, setting off alarum bells deep within his soul.

"Thirty miles..." Teithon, serious now, rose up and gazed with trepidation at the approaching storm and the misplaced Daystar. "Eldakan, the Sun hasn't been this side of the horizon in almost five hundred years..."

"That's not the flame of the Sun, boy!" Earenolwë snapped, tearing the silver bugle from his belt. "It's the flame of a Dragon!" Never one to value pride over the lives of his regiment, the Nelya sounded the call of retreat.


*

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"It's getting warmer assuden," Ielya complained, brushing damp flaxen wisps off her slicked brow. The camp was a distant shine behind them. To the west the desolate plains of Lothlann and Ard-galen were blanketed with snow.

"Here comes Macil, Varda's Stars!" Grimacing, Yulma pointed out the effulgent glare in the west, believing Earenolwë's nemesis arrived to give them all another tense morning.

"There's only two dozen people in Cenilwe," Mauya reminded her. "His unit isn't large as ours. Maybe Edan Amrun has come from Himring to aid us again."

The women's horses began snorting in alarm. They tried to quiet them but the animals tossed their heads with shrill wails of distress. "Do you hear that?" Ielya asked. A High Elf, her hearing was keener than Yulma's or Mauya's. Rumbling thunder sounded with a bestial growl, low and resonant.

Yulma and Mauya affirmed that they heard the noise dreadful moments later as the the earth beneath them shook, causing their mounts to scream in dismay. Snow melted ahead of them and the grass withered in spreading sheets of flame. A cacophony of bat-like screeches tortured their pointed ears. It was the bellowing roar of an unseen gigantic creature which impelled the women toward the citadel against Yulma's ardent protests, wanting to ride back to camp to be with the Eldakan who she called father.

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"He'll find us at Cormenfásë!" Ielya insisted harshly, not slowing down. "Don't make me stop this horse and get off just to smack you."

"Macil won't let him in!" worried Yulma

"He's a fiend but he's not a fool!" Mauya concurred with Ielya. "The King is with our troops and Macil knows that! He will not let Maglor fall to this new devilry!"

To Ielya's horried astonishment the new devilry was, in truth, the same as the old but larger and more powerful. Running with the frightening agility of a Gelion crocodile was a gigantic firebreathing lizard. Steam rose from Lothlann's dying earth, clouding the dark predawn air where monstrous winged beasts cackled madly in clangorous glee and somewhere behind them came the raucous battlecries of the Orc. The women were stricken to agonized silence. Hundreds of Elven warriors of Maglor's regiment surged toward the returning triumphant beast but were incinerated in swaths of ruinous golden flame. The vampires descended, tearing rider and horse apart with their razor jaws and iron talons. Yulma shouted Earenolwë's name but Ielya and Mauya stubbornly kept her galloping ahead. Ielya took the kine cowhorn of her father, a hunter on the Great Journey, embellished with King Finrod's mithril off her saddle. Continuing to steer her frantic steed with her opposite glove, the lady-knight blew the instrument and sent the wild echoes flying. Ielya repeated the frantic blasts, hoping she was right about Macil....

*
Earenolwë spurred his brave brown mare, Calloréna, across the scorched killing ground. He weaved her between pillars of flame, sabering down the legions of Thuringwethil with desperate high slashes of Eregvana. He ultimately found King Maglor astride his white armored destrier. Several vampires laid in pieces and bit and trampled about him, slain by his father's sword and the aggression of his hardy stallion.

Four vampires bolted down from the smoking heavens to capture the Son of Fëanor. Earenolwë drove Calloréna toward him. The margrave's neighing horse leaped over an undulating ribbon of flame, carrying her Nelya master close to his sovereign's side. Earenolwë grunted, pained by a glancing blow of an iron claw which grazed his cheek, but swung his longsword's blade to hacked off his offender's creeching head in a mighty backlash.

"How are we doing, Your Highness?"

Maglor sliced through the vulnerable membrane of a vampire's leathery wing. When it careened to the ground, Maglor ended its mewling clamor with a brutal lash of the fell sword Fëanor forged for him. "Same as always, Noldorseron." The warrior bard spun, seizing a vampire's wiry limb one-handed, simultaneously shoving his blade through its hairy torso.

Together they braced themselves against an onslaught of warg-riders. They attacked the one furthest at point together. The chanfron of Calloréna protected the horse the lunge of the massive wolf's fangs. He reared and kicked the mounted Orc off the saddle, leaving him to the killing thrust of Maglor's sword. Earenolwë pierced the snarling wolf's neck with a chop of Eregvana as it vaulted in mid-air toward him. They fought for four minutes, blocking cuts of scimitars and evaded strikes of rushing jaws. When the Glamhoth and their wargs were dispatched, the High Elves took a moment to breathe from their frenzied defense and to rest their lathered horses.

"We should have agreed with Ñolofinwë," admitted Maglor with labored breath, taking off the red-plumed helm his father made for him to rid the perspiration from his brow with his cloak's sleeve. "We're going to get to the citadel and evacuate Cormenfásë. Then we'll retreat to Himring to succour my brother. They will fight Maitimo hard, that is for certain. Let's get this regiment home...what remains of the regiment, that is." Maglor gave Earenolwë a wan smile. "You look white as Oiolossë, friend. Afraid of Thuringwethil's kiss?" Maglor joked, trying to keep the Nelya's spirits up.

"I need to find Elenillor."

Maglor studied him coldly until his features softened. "You are fortunate that I am not my father nor three of my brothers." He put on his plumed helmet and helped Earenolwe in his reckless search for his erstwhile lover, ploughing through warg-riders and ravenous vampires. They saw her standing over the eviscerated corpse of her half-eaten horse, fighting off a horde of demonic bats. She bled from several light wounds but struck her foes undeterred. She cursed at Earenolwë when the Nelya and the King joined the fray.

"You need a horse," Earenolwë commented once he severed the brawny leg of one vampire reaching to lift Elenillor.

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"I'm not riding with you," Hatholdir's sister declared in icy resolve. She parried the swipe of the fallen vampire's claw with the dagger of her left hand then cruelly hewed it apart with her sword. "I will ride with the king," she said, panting as she yanked her swordblade out of its gruesome sheath.

"You will ride with Earenolwë," Maglor refused, his eyes a brighter sheen. "This feud is at its end."

Earenolwë could tell by the hardening of Elenillor's gaze that it was not. She accepted the hand he offered to pull her up once she returned her sword to its silver and mithril scabbard. Once he felt the slender arms of the lissome elleth fastened around his waist, they were underway with Maglor. The trio hastened through the smog and dodged perilous yards of raging dragonflame. They rode ahead of the tormented vestiges of Garanaran until they reached the vanguard of the tattered regiment. Earenolwë - famed for his confidence - almost succumbed to a debilitating sense of overwhelming defeat. His soldiers...what counted more like a cohort than a regiment now...continued to be harried by inviolate Glaurung, Thuringwethil's airborne devils, and a vast army of Orcs. He found a glimmer of hope noticing Elfaron was still alive and hoisted the Star of Fëanor standard. The impregnable walled citadel of the King stood proudly before them. Survivors cheered in defiance of the minions when they caught sight of the bastion's fastness.

"Macil is gatekeeper tonight," Elenillor spoke, her raspy voice devoid of anger.

"Balcheth and Valgond might be with him," Earenolwë replied, speaking of his rival's underling and Elenillor's competitor who was Herugon's uncle. "I have a terrible feeling about this."

"We can trust Dalvar and Telkelion." Elenillor surprised him, kissing his neck. "For good luck. Manheren."

Earenolwe experienced a soaring elation, an emboldening of his spirit. Her voice firmed again but the Nelya was sure everything was going to be just fine.

Do you feel the same when I'm away from you?
Do you know the line that I'd walk for you?
We could turn around, or we could give it up
But we'll take what comes
Oh, the storm is raging against us now
But we took the step, and we took the leap
And we'll take what comes, take what comes
We're walking the wire, love
And there's tears we'll cry, but those tears will fade
It's the price we pay when it comes to love
And we'll take what comes, take what comes
Oh, I'll take your hand when thunder roars
And I'll hold you close, I'll stay the course

- Imagine Dragons, Wire

GM UPDATE: @Someone else and @Dwarrow Elf ,
you can write the drama between your characters involving the Gate's raising
as you see the horror taking place in the fields beyond the citadel.

@skekSil , have Glaurung bypass the citadel to destroy the
great river valley of Maglor's Gap; meanwhile have Thuringwethril attack the
citadel with her vampires and Orcs to distract the Elven and Mortal defenders
from helping civilians farming the arabale land between the tributaries of Gelion....
most of them, Elf and Man, will be trapped in the Dragon's inferno.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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F.A 455
at “The Rose and The Gryphon” tavern in Gondolin


“Elves here, and Elves there! Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children.”
~ Samwise, Book II: Chapter I: Many Meetings, The Fellowship of the Ring

Come on Tánna
Fight fight fight!
Swing that sword
With all your might!

~ skipping-rope rhyme of the children of Gondolin ~


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- Of Flirtations and Miscommunications -

“Catch me if you can!” shouted Tánna, as a group of Elf-children gave chase. She had spent well over an hour playing with the little girls and boys and had now grown tired of their company. Tánna often did this when she was assigned to fulfill what she considered to be mundane tasks that day. She was a knight of the House of the Fountain, and without a doubt, the most child-like.

Tánna sprinted across the pavement, leaping suddenly to her right and squatting below a small arched bridge next to a geyser-fountain. She smiled to herself as she heard the children lose track of her and groan in disappointment from up above. Once they had slowly retreated back to where they had first begun to chase after Tánna, she emerged from under the bridge and proceeded to walk casually along the street with no particular direction in mind.

I’ll make it up to them tomorrow, she said in thought.

Now the sun had begun to set behind the Encircling Mountains, and a gradient evening sky had cast forth its deep-orange glow upon the hidden city of Gondolin. Lamps hanging from corners of various edifices were being lit to welcome the coming night.

Tánna had strayed further from home this time as a result of the children, but she knew exactly where she could get a hearty dinner in her belly before snoozing off at the base of the nearest topiary bush. At one of the finest establishments ever established for finest, The Rose and The Gryphon. Of course, Tánna said this of almost every tavern she came across.

Swatting at hovering fireflies, Tánna groped in the shadows beneath an extension of the roof for a rope ladder she had left there. One of several hundred she had attached all around Gondolin’s buildings, that, as annoying as they were to the businesses, would prove useful for Tánna... one fateful day.

Then Tánna was happy, for not only did she find the rolled-up ladder exactly where she had installed it, but there was little doubt in her mind that Valion, the proprietor of The Rose and The Gryphon had allowed her to keep it there by not tearing it off - as other tavern-owners had done to theirs.

She unfurled the hand-made rope ladder and climbed it to the roof. Tánna tip-toed quietly to where the chimney was located. Now fortunately, the fireplace below had not been lit just yet and the knight was able to dive right in and down into The Rose.

As much as Tánna was welcome to use the front door, it simply was not the way she liked to do things. Straightforward that is. She also considered it to be bad luck to use the main entrance of any structure.

Blackened ash fell from the chimney above the fireplace, and customers in the tavern watched with curiosity and drinks in hand, as Tánna landed on the logs and rolled onto the hearth.

“Hello!” she cried in greeting to all who were present, smiling wide.

Tánna rose to her armored feet and wiped clear the soot that had attached itself to her shiny breastplate. As if there had been nothing unusual about the manner in which she had entered, she took a seat at a nearby table and tapped the shoulder of a dark-haired server.

“Biscuits and hot broth if you please,” she said, placing her order.

“Right away miss lovely knight,” he replied huskily, “and please call me, Rhangyl.”

“Sure, alright,” said Tánna dully, swinging her legs below the table, oblivious to the flirtatious grin from her server as he went into the kitchen.

Rhangyl arrived a few minutes after with Tánna’s supper, and she wasted no time digging in.

She raised the wooden bowl of flavored liquid with both hands and slurped it loudly until it was all gone. Tánna reached for the small plate with her biscuits and shoved the entirety of one in her small mouth. Not surprisingly, she found the baked good difficult to chew in this manner and her cheeks were expanded and round for several moments. This was when he approached again.

“I don’t know if you realize this, but you are quite literally the most beautiful woman here in the Hidden City,” said Rhangyl, no longer wearing his apron and taking a seat beside her.

“‘Ou ‘eally ‘ink so” mumbled Tánna wonderingly, with a mouth full of biscuit.

“But of course I do, anyone can see just how gorgeous you are” he said, lowering the volume of his voice to a seduceful whisper and edging a tall pint of ale her way.

Tánna drank, passing the lodged biscuit down her slender throat at last. “And you are… just alright, I guess,” she replied, “Honestly, I’ve seen much better.”

“Thank you,” Rhangyl responded honey-tongued, purposefully dismissing Tánna’s clear disinterest in him, “Now you must see the undeniable connection there is between us.”

But… we just met, Tánna thought to herself, shrugging.

He leaned in closer, brushing a wavy strand of her bright red hair behind one of her leaf-shaped ears. “Ah! That tickles!” giggled Tánna, pulling a cluster of his dark hair in-front of his gray eyes and pinching his nose in return.

Rhangyl wiped the hair from his face and his gaze fell on Tánna’s coral lips. Then, without warning, he moved in to steal a kiss.

“What are you-” began Tánna, before another Elf in The Rose charged up to them, her green eyes ignited with rage.

It was Alëesía the barmaid, and she was ready to bite the knight’s head clean off.

“You!” she shouted, storming up to the table where Tánna sat. “Don’t you dare make an advance on my lover! He is off limits to you and all the other floozy knights in this city.”

Rhangyl got up swiftly from his seat, sending his chair falling back onto the floor. “Oh Alëesía my dear, I tried to tell her, honest. But she just couldn’t keep her hands off me!”

What.

“I believe you love,” said the barmaid, kissing her beau with possessive aggression.

“My work here is done for the day, so I’ll be leaving. Now!” announced guilty Rhangyl, fleeing the premises with unstoppable haste. Leaving poor Tánna to deal with fuming Alëesía on her own.

“You’re the third one this week to attempt to steal Rhangyl from me, and by the Valar, I will not put up with it any longer!” shouted ballistic Alëesía, pointing a finger directly in front of the knight’s pale face.

“Whatever you say then,” remarked Tánna neutrally, raising another biscuit to her mouth.

Alëesía slapped it from her hand, sending all its fluffy buttery goodness flying away. “Don’t you dare pretend you did nothing wrong! Now fight me!” shouted the barmaid, tearing the apron from her clothes.

“Hey! I paid for that,” laughed Tánna, frowning slightly at the loss of her biscuit.

“I said, fight me!” repeated Alëesía, raising her fists threateningly.

“But I don’t want to fight you,” said Tánna, becoming more concerned with the direction this particular situation was going. “Besides,” she added, “even if I wanted to, just for the fun of it, Lord Ecthelion would find out, and I can’t afford another demerit.”

Tánna had been on probation since last spring, after mooning the archers of the House of the Swallow as they marched down the streets of Gondolin one morning. The “feather-heads” as she liked to call them, for they wore a fan of feathers upon their helms. “‘Twas a mere prank my King,” Tánna had sworn up and down, when brought before Turgon, “An initiation into The Secret Order of The White Lilies.”

“It’s not a secret anymore,” another Elf had said.

Her excuse had been a half-truth really, as Tánna had in fact been asked by the leader of this underground society to perform a mischievous public act as a requirement for membership. However, dropping her trousers and playing her rump like a drum for the entire Gondolin populace that day had been entirely of Tánna’s own design.

“I don’t care!” yelled Alëesía, slamming her fists on Tánna’s table.

Still the knight was unyielding, and the barmaid huffed. Alëesía cleared a neighboring table with an angry sweep of her arms and stood on it, raising a crystal mug of cider.

“Dear patrons of The Rose and The Gryphon,” she said mockingly, projecting her voice loud enough for every ear in the tavern to hear, “let us raise a toast to our dear friend Tánna here - bimbo of the House of the Fountain!”

Tánna spat her ale and coughed. A wave of low murmurs rose and fell in the establishment, and Alëesía glared daggers at the knight.

“Oy now,” said Tánna, wiping ale from her chin, “I didn’t call you any names, and believe me chicken neck, there’s plenty to be said.”

Patrons gasped in amusement and chuckled, and then the full height Alëesía’s rage came pouring out in flames. “You little-!”

The barmaid pitched the mug in Tánna’s direction, and the knight ducked for cover beneath her table. Just in the nick of time.

Tánna upended the table next, shielding herself from the alcoholic onslaught. “Help! We’re being attacked!” she laughed, grinning now, although one could argue that the present situation was not at all funny.

Glass shattered upon the decorated wall from beyond Tánna, and the red-haired knight watched as cider dripped in long lines down the wallpaper and ran in thin streams across the floor of the tavern. Wine followed next, breaking in dark-colored splatters. Then ale, blotching the surface of Tánna’s table-shield with thick foam.

“I have to get out here!” she cried, crawling on her hands and knees toward the exit.

Alëesía came up running, the brown braid of her hair whipping wildly behind her. She swung her right leg from up under Tánna’s torso and sent all the air in the knight’s lungs shooting out of her mouth.

The barmaid dug her nails into Tánna’s white scalp and raised her to the level of her eyes. Dazed for a bit but not nearly long enough for Alëesía, Tánna’s fiery-colored brows knitted together and she blocked an incoming punch from the barmaid.

Tánna sent Alëesía stumbling back with a nose bleed, and both Elf-women boxed for the next several moments.

The patrons of The Rose and The Gryphon, now roused from their seats and arm chairs by the fire, crowded around the pair, placing bets with one another and cheering for their preferred contender.

In the end, with an uppercut to Alëesía’s stomach and backhanded slap from Tánna, the barmaid met the floor of The Rose and went limp on impact. Now that her opponent was out cold, the victor of the brawl she never intended to participate in, limped toward the proprietor with a bruised face.

“Ow. Ow.” said Tánna, expressing the pain in her right leg as she limped toward Valion.

Pulling at the drawstrings of her coin purse, the knight deposited several gold coins into his hand. “For the mess,” she said, turning to leave before pivoting back and giving him the entire pouch.

“It’s best if the Lord of the Fountain hears nothing of this, I trust this will ensure your silence?”

Not waiting for his response, Tánna hobbled out of the tavern and into the street. She would soak her body in a warm bath that night and reward herself with a slice of chocolate cake from her larder.
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 3:00 am, edited 1 time in total.

High Lord of Imladris
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Afarfin
the Fens of Serech


The horns blew, their vibrations filling the air and they prepared for battle, fleeing the ground they had making for higher ground that they could easier defend in their small numbers, Afarfin for his part helped stop the gap at their rear flank climbing ever steadily up the piled bodies of orcs and pushing those that fell out of the way if he could with his shield, once bright and fair now covered in the stain of orc blood hacked and partially hewn from the vast numbers pressing in on them and spiked now with a many terrible orcish arrow that it had kept from sinking into either his or an allies flesh.

Keeping a foot the slippery masses of orc bodies was as hard a fight as killing the orcs their numbers were so many when Celebrin cried out that the King had come, and indeed there a flash on the field was King Finrod, and if his eyes espied right his friend Arasoron as there with him. "Bloody Mordagnir, never could watch his own back." He muttered as Curancal called for them to shove a bolder, Afarfin kept the orcs from them as that happened his blade flashing though dulled now with the thick layer of blood from enemies slain before they lept across the ravine using the bolder freshly tumbled. The group cut through the dark forces like an arrow aimed straight for its target, felling foes on their way Afarfins shield getting pushed and battered, the orc arrows breaking off as he slammed them into the side of an orc knocking it down before cutting it's throat as they passed. One less to deal with as they made their way into the tight formation of Finrod and his men, and in good time too.

Afarfin heard the verse and threw his shield up over his friends head blocking a heavy downward swing from his friends blind side. "You Mordganirs, need better vision on the back of your heads, or there won't be a one of you left after this war, Aigronding is just as bad as you are I swear." Afarfin said with a laugh even as the group pushed further east.

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~ artwork by Matěj Čadil ~

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F.A 454
in the sparring fields of Barad Eithel
Over a year before the events of the Dagor Bragollach


“But Fingolfin was held overlord of all the Noldor, and Fingon after him, though their own realm was but the northern land of Hithlum; yet their people were the most hardy and valiant, most feared by the Orcs and most hated by Morgoth.”
~ Tolkien, Chapter 14: Of Beleriand and Its Realms, The Silmarillion


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~ A Contest of Strength ~

Little was known as to how exactly the tournament was conceived as an idea, and to what specific purpose it was designed to achieve. While some said that High King Fingolfin simply wished to test the strength of his best warriors against those of the sons of Fëanor, others said it had begun with a conversation that took place between the Prince of the Noldor, Fingon, and Amrod the youngest son of the Silmarils’ creator who alongside his brother Amras controlled the lands of Beleriand that lay east of the River Sirion and west of the Gelion.

When the subject of Fingon’s own petite bodyguard and renowned warrior - Verusyä Nariel, had become the topic of their discussion it was rumored that Amrod had retorted the Prince’s claims of Verusyä’s great prowess in battle with a claim of his own, that she could be bested in combat by his childhood friend and shieldmaiden Nínathiel, known as the Golden Flower of East Beleriand.

Apparently, the debate between both nobles had become so boastful that it was decided the issue at hand could only be settled in a contest of strength.

While this competition had simply been hosted to pit Verusyä and Nínathiel against one another and settle the matter between Fingon and Amrod once and for all, news of the planned event spread like a wildfire throughout the continent, beckoning a number of groups to make the journey up the River and across the plain of Ard-galen with the intention of representing their own lords and realms as well.

Pavilions had been constructed expeditiously by the carpenters of Hithlum and lined like a crescent moon along south-west fields extending from Eithel Sirion; and it appeared as if a range of pale hills had grown forth from the earth overnight along the River. In these rapidly-built structures, summertime decorations had been placed for the contentment of the healers that would mend the wounds of the injured and the dining tables that would be situated within for the merriment and relaxation of those waiting for their turn to compete.

Tents also rose along the north of the sparring fields in neat rows, pinned at the top with the pennant flags of numerous Beleriand fighters and adorned with the sigils of their houses. Banners with the emblem of the different realms unfurled from atop long poles and had also been driven into the ground as a boundary mark for each team. Eärmana of the Nelyar, also known as Eärmana the Invulnerable for her deeds in Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, whose standard was that of a vertical whale with a sword piercing through its open mouth and exiting out of its finned tail in a pool of blood, had also arrived to represent the Falas along with a few others from the sea-havens Brithombar and Eglarest.

She had kicked the scribe in charge of recording a written roll call on all the tournament’s participants out of her tent and sent him tumbling out from the flaps. Eärmana had also insisted on feeding and watering her own horse, lest some conniving Noldo make them sick with poisoned oats and murky drink. It was a well-known fact throughout Beleriand that the silver-haired behemoth hated the Exiled when the truth as to the manner in which the hosts of both Fingolfin and Fëanor returned was revealed to all, and she would harm them in any and every way if and when the opportunities presented themselves. This may have well been the actual reason for her entering The Tournament in the first place, however, only those few closest to her would ever know the truth.

Now the guidelines for the competition were like so: In the shadow of the Tower of the Well, competitors would engage in a different challenge over the course of three days. On the first, participants would engage in armed combat, earning points based on how well they performed over the course of a match, which each, in turn, was made up of three individual rounds. On the second, competitors would loose arrows in an archery range and earn further points based on the quality of their marksmanship. Lastly, on the third and final day of The Tournament of Barad Eithel, those who had volunteered to travel so long a way for the honor of their lords and places of residence would take part in a joust, on horseback and armed with lances. Whosoever had earned the highest number of points in the final tally would return from whence they came the victor and laden with a substantial prize.

It was not at all by the means of the Lords of Beleriand that an award had been created for the winner of The Tournament, but rather a devised accumulation of donated coins, jewels, property deeds, and precious tokens that the participants themselves had compiled into a single pot. Like card-players letting go willingly of their chips so that the mound on the center of the table could increase along with the potential risks for monetary loss. Even bitter Eärmana and her companions had tossed in a large sum of luminous dark-cream pearls. Honor was admirable without a doubt, but a substantial amount of wealth offered its possessor unlimited financial possibilities. No taste was sweeter than having your cake and eating it too.


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“Aaahhh!” yelled the Dorthonion captain, as Eärmana raised him with her large hands and hurled him across the fenced field. A rather excessive and unnecessary display of force, as she had already been declared the winner of the match. He flew up and across the twenty-meter location in which the First Day competition was underway and landed with a thunderous crash of his armor amidst the spectators beyond. Yet another crippled commander would be sent back to Elf-lords Angrod and Aegnor thanks to the hostile Falathrim fighter.

Turning down a bucket of cold water over her head brought to her by a runner on the armed combat field, Eärmana whipped her drenched silver hair behind her with a jerk of her head and returned to the corner of the ring where her steel helmet had fallen in the recent scuffle. She narrowed her beaming gray eyes on the Noldorin woman nestled between the other Hithlum would-be champions.

“You are next, little Noldo,” she barked, pushing her way out and through the crowd so that she could return to her tent in the northern collection.

“Hills and mist, what are they feeding these ship-builders down in the Falas?!” expressed Verusyä, addressing her sponsor for the tournament and her lord, Prince Fingon, “Bull’s meat? Lion’s flesh? Magic-infused elixirs gifted to them by Tulkas himself?”

If I fight her, I know that I shall surely die, Verusyä thought falteringly to herself, gulping nervously before she steeled her courage for the match to come.

“I meant every word of what I said about the prize money good Prince,” she said to Fingon with a smile in her voice, lowering the visor of her own helmet, “If I win, I will gift the young Gil-galad an entire chamber full of magical toys, and of real dwarf-make too.”

Verusyä climbed down into the fighters’ ring, with her blue-steel teardrop shield emblazoned with her sigil, a beaver with its tail raised and claws and teeth outstretched, in addition to an arming sword gifted to her by Fingon himself upon becoming his personal protector.

At the opposite end of the field, Nínathiel strapped her own helmet on her golden-haired head and a reddened heater shield to her left arm. Reinforced with bands of steel along the edges and displaying the symbol of her own family - a yellow daffodil in full bloom set in a ring of green vines. “Thank you,” she whispered to Amrod, her lord and secret lover, receiving her double-ended spear bound with red leather along the shaft from him. “Remember,” she said to him a little higher this time, and with a tinge of mischief in her fair voice, “a bubbly hot tub large enough for a hundred if I win, but only for me, you, and your brother to enjoy back home.”

She smiled with a flash of her pearlescent teeth to her dear Amrod as she prepared to go down into the fenced ring as well, Nínathiel then quickly unsheathed a twin pair of glinting Elven-forged sais from her belt. Their gold handles had been set with rubies that seemed to come alive with an otherworldly flame when bared. As she handed them to Amrod so that he might watch over them as she fought in her match, they consumed the light of the summer Sun as it shone upon them and absorbed its warm beams within the very essence of their dark-steel prongs.

“I do not want to find myself tempted to use these, and permanently injure my opponent if you understand my meaning,” she chuckled, turning her back to him and running to face this legendary bodyguard of the Prince of the Noldor.

As both Elf-women took to the heart of the field, the referee of the armed combat contest raised a small white flag to them. He wore a surcoat over a long mail shirt with a sash of red silk belted across his midsection to indicate his role as the umpire. Verusyä and Nínathiel bowed to one another in earnest, and the shieldmaiden almost grinned at the sight of her diminutive opponent. The Noldor prided themselves in their tall, imposing statures, so how was one of their own born so small?

Trilling from the umpire’s silver whistle rang out and Verusyä wasted no time darting towards Nínathiel. At once, the shieldmaiden blocked the bodyguard’s strike with a swing of her shield, attempting to send the little Elf-woman reeling to the side. However, Verusyä, using her size to her advantage ducked beneath the horizontal inclination of Nínathiel’s red shield and sliced at the shieldmaiden’s armored legs. Nínathiel stumbled back, regaining her footing with a stab of her spear to the ground and leaning forward. Then Verusyä jumped high, leaping in the direction of the golden-haired elleth, stabbing down with her sword. Nínathiel turned in the nick of time, swiping the bodyguard’s blade away with her shield.

“Tie!” called the umpire, raising a yellow flag at them and ending the first round.

As the second round began, Nínathiel decided that she would no longer underestimate this Hithlum warrior and her wheaten brows frowned slightly as the level of her concentration increased. Then the silver whistle trilled again and Nínathiel took a step back tilting her spear and then thrusting it forward with focused calculation until it met with the blue of Verusyä’s shield. Verusyä caught the forward end of the spear in the gut of the beaver that decorated her shield, pulling it off and throwing it to the ground beside her. She rushed Nínathiel with swift speed and clashed the face of her blade against the perennial on the shieldmaiden’s protective steel-barrier. Such was the force in this forward arching swing, that Verusyä’s hand lost its grip on the pommel and her sword slipped away from her and was lost.

“Tie again!” shouted the umpire, raising an orange flag at them and ending the second round.

Now the tension on the field thickened, and the mood of both Verusyä and Nínathiel soured to a sharp point. This state of equality in their match meant that both Elf-women would need to score perfect points for the remainder of their matches in the armed contest if they hoped to be the victors of The Tournament of Barad Eithel by end of the Third Day, and the realization of this turned girlish Verusyä angry and affectionate Nínathiel haughty.

When the silver whistle rang out again, both Verusyä and Nínathiel charged forward and bashed one shield against the other. A white flash emitted on impact and blinded the spectators all around beyond the ring. Both contenders had been sent reeling back from the blunt force and fell on opposite ends of the enclosed circle, rising steadily to their feet a moment later. Nínathiel was the first to recuperate and ran to retrieve her spear as Verusyä acquired her arming sword again and dashed in her direction.

Then it occurred to Nínathiel to propel one steel-pointed end of her spear into the soil behind her and as Verusyä approached, she gripped the shaft of the spear with both hands and swung an armored leg sideways in a circular motion, kicking the bodyguard on her side with the greave of her protected shin. Verusyä fell on the earth with a yelp and rolled onto her breastplate, her knees shaking as she attempted to get up once more. It was then that panting Nínathiel jogged over to her and offered her a hand.

“Surprised?” inquired Nínathiel with a tender laugh. A small warrior of Hithlum had almost beaten her and the awareness of this amused the shieldmaiden.

Verusyä raised her slender face to Nínathiel with a wrathful grimace. Her helmet had been disconnected from its buckles beneath her small chin and had been sent rolling away with the shieldmaiden’s turning kick. She had never forgiven those responsible for abandoning her and the others in Fingolfin’s host hundreds of years before, forcing them to cross the Helcaraxë, the perilous icy wastes where Verusyä lost her entire family. “Why should I be surprised?” she replied with heat in her voice, “Followers of the sons of Fëanor always cheat.”

It was true, Nínathiel had won the round but not the match, not by conventional means anyway. Rules of armed combat in such contests were strict about winning by means of weapons and even shields but not unarmed movements. Nínathiel had smitten Verusyä with a steel greave against her side but using a part of the armor attached to your body as a weapon was not very legitimate. Then again, Nínathiel had raised her armored body off of the ground by gripping the shaft of her double-ended spear - a weapon.

“How dare you!” exclaimed Nínathiel as she returned her hand to her side, entirely antagonized now by Verusyä, “Is this how the famous warriors of Hithlum concede in an armed contest? Hurling insults like a low-born dog? Should your Prince fall it will not be because of the strength of his enemies, but rather due to your own poor skills as a bodyguard little woman.”

Verusyä sprang up to her armored feet at these cutting words and shoved the shieldmaiden with brute force, and for Nínathiel, this was the last straw. The shieldmaiden curled the fingers of her right gauntlet into a firm metallic fist and punched Verusyä directly and strongly in the face. Blood trickled from her thin nose and as Verusyä felt its warm fluidity rush down to her rosy lips, her face turned a deep shade of red in her rage and she charged at Nínathiel, yelling wildly and ramming into her torso head first.

Nínathiel and Verusyä collided on the ground of the armed combat field and wrestled bitterly upon the soil. Trilling sounded from the umpire’s silver whistle loud and incessantly and he hurled red ribbons of unsportsmanlike conduct at the grappling pair. Spectators and other participants of The Tournament of Barad Eithel made their way down and over the fence of the ring to try and pry the violent Elf-women apart from one another, a task that proved almost impossible to achieve. Needless to say, both the bodyguard and the shieldmaiden were disqualified, and in the very contest that had been held for them.
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 3:04 am, edited 1 time in total.

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F.A. 455
in the Chambers of the Sword-master in Angband
and riding across the Ard-galen


“He had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame…”

“Some of these thoughts he now wove into his music, and straightaway discord arose about him and many that sang night grew despondent… but some began to attune their music to his rather than to the thought which they had at first.”

~ Tolkien, The Music of the Ainur, Ainulindalë

“But he was not alone. For of the Maiar many were drawn to his splendour in the days of his greatness, and remained in that allegiance down into his darkness…”
~ Tolkien, Of the Enemies, Valaquenta


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“... and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and they were afraid. And indeed the most ancient songs of the Elves, of which echoes are remembered still in the West, tell of the shadow-shapes that walked in the hills above Cuiviénen, or would pass suddenly over the stars; and of the dark Rider upon his wild horse that pursued those that wandered to take them and devour them.”
~ Tolkien, Chapter 3: Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor, The Silmarillion


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~ The Sword-master and The Nightmare ~

Once, she had walked alongside the Holy Ones.

In a realm beyond the confines of the Void and beyond the bounds of time.

Xiva had dwelt in blissful harmony with those who in the mind of Eru had been her brothers and sisters - the offspring of his thought, and when their voices rose to a Great Music, she had sung much into being alongside her divine siblings. However, when a new melody was brought forth from the mind of Melkor, Xiva who had long admired his sublime gifts and vast knowledge altered her harplike tune to his and in doing so declared her allegiance to Him.

She had seen Melkor adventure alone into empty and dark places, seeking the Imperishable Flame that their maker had kindled within them and she had very much desired to play a part in helping Him achieve his great ambitions. When a willing number of the Ainur descended into the Void, it was her sister, Zeboim, and Ókganît who had joined her. For the Maia had long desired to have Xiva for himself.

“What have I told you about using that treasonous form in my presence?” she said coldly, frowning at the being before her. His crystalline eyes were the color of blue ice. Both striking and fearsome to behold. The dark color of his hair followed behind him like a shadow and his sleek attire hugged every chiseled aspect of his physique with an immaculate jet brilliance.

Ókganît stood at the entrance of her chambers in his fairer silhouette with a black cape swirling about him.

“Forgive me Sword-master, I will return to the shape you have commanded of me since the beginning of Time momentarily. I have only come to fetch you, as we have orders to raze the lands beyond His,” he said in a voice smooth as silk and tone free of emotion save for the saddened gaze with which he looked upon Xiva. He had desired her for a length of years unaccounted for, yet she would not turn her heart to his. Not in the manner that he wished. His hopeless love for her had driven him from the confines of the dominion of Eru and Xiva had been his cause to enter Melkor’s service and remain so.

“Yes yes, I know,” she replied, as her shimmering onyx raiment was transformed into a suit of blackened steel armor.

Even as she armed herself for bloody disarray, a sigh of admiration escaped Ókganît. Xiva had at times since their descent into Eä robed herself in a form rather brute and terrorizing, but the image of her original glory had never left him and he looked upon the changed demoness with longing. “Perhaps this will be the hour of His ultimate triumph, and you and I will finally be joined,” whispered Ókganît wishfully, daring to approach her more closely.

Xiva scoffed. “Do not start this petition for my hand again,” she replied in exasperation, crowing her head with a circlet of black iron spikes, “I have told you already, we will be wed when the continent and all of its residents have fallen under His command and not a moment before. You would be wise to hold your tongue on the matter until then or I may be tempted to rescind my promise. Now, let us make for gates.”

They transported themselves to the entrance of Thangorodrim and Xiva looked towards Ókganît with impatience. Receiving her wordless command, his torso inclined forward, becoming deep and barrel-chested. His limbs became muscular ending in weighted oval-shaped hooves. His long, black hair receded to a shortened mane of black wisps. His eyes shrinking into windows of red flame as his face elongated. Veins of otherworldly fire ran across his armored body from the dock of his tail to the muzzle of his face.

Xiva looked upon his colossal steed form with contentment and approval, sitting upon the armored saddle that had materialized on his back. Ókganît, feeling whole now with her astride of him, raised himself on his hind legs, bucking his forward hooves in midair. His sharp cry rang like the dismayed shouts of myriad horse souls in torment, echoing from the base of the fortress to the pinnacle of its volcanic summits. Ókganît then charged ahead, leaping over the gates with pristine grace.

They abandoned Angband like a flickering shadow; flashing about every which way as they vanished and reappeared at will. Blazing rivers ran before them as the once lush and fair plain of Ard-galen became an ignited chasm of fell embers. Destruction rained from the sky all around them and rapturous delight welled within Xiva. Screams of the damned followed their wake as the Sword-master bared Bûghárz, the serrated greatsword forged from meteoric iron. Xiva swung the blade from side to side, severing the heads of Elven soldiers as they attempted to flee the coming carnage. With one armored hand, she freed their skulls from their miserable necks, and with another she collected them, latching them upon the corners of Ókganît’s saddle.

Bloodened eyes parted with astonished fear; their last expression imprinted on the faces that adorned her steed.


*

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F.A. 455
in the Scullery of the Flesh-eater in Angband


“Manwë and Melkor were brethren in the thought of Ilúvatar.”
~ Tolkien, Of the Valar, Valaquenta

“Now it came to pass that while the Valar rested from their labours, and watched the growth and unfolding of the things that they had devised and begun, Manwë ordained a great feast… And Melkor knew of all that was done, for even then he had secret friends and spies among the Maiar whom he had converted to his cause…”
~ Tolkien, Chapter 1: Of the Beginning of Days, The Silmarillion


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~ Feast of Flesh ~

The precise moment when Zeboim had chosen enter the service of Melkor remained unknown, for in the singing of the Great Music, the golden Maia joined in his rivaling hymn - however, the Flesh-eater had not stood at his side during the war between Him and the Valar. Zeboim had actually chosen instead to ally herself with Manwë and his initially in service to Vairë the Weaver. Nevertheless, it was in Almaren just before the marring of the Spring of Arda that her treachery became evident to the Valar for it had been discovered by Manwë that Zeboim had been spying on them for the benefit of Melkor.

While the exact cause of Zeboim’s betrayal eluded them, it was firmly believed by the Valar that Melkor had not seduced her to his side with lies and treacherous gifts as he had others. She had very much chosen to follow him by her own accord. Not even Xiva, her sister in the mind of Ilúvatar could be certain. It became soon evident, however, that Zeboim had always intended to do as she pleased, not always as she was commanded.

The upraised cries of Ókganît resonated within the pillared cookery of Zeboim and a knowing smile danced across the face of the haggard demon. Xiva had not waited for her sister to join her, but this was not surprising to the Flesh-eater. They had not spoken to one another since the Siege of Angband had begun and when they would exchange words again remained unknown, for Zeboim had made it abundantly clear to the Sword-master that her true loyalties lay with the commander of Thangorodrim and most powerful of them all.

“It is I who should have your loyalty, not he!” Xiva had shouted before threatening to cut her relation down where she stood.

“Your sister I may be, but submit to your will I shall not Sword-master,” Zeboim had returned, “ I will not grovel at your feet as Ókganît does, existing only to please you. How you torture him so with your empty promise of future unity. Even as I amuse myself at his foolish commitment to you, which will no doubt go unrewarded in the end, I take careful note never to follow in his footsteps.”

Leaving her sister to steam, Zeboim had enclosed herself within her own space beneath the shadow of the volcanic peaks. Scarcely having left its wide and industrious expanse in all the years of the Siege, save for when her stocks of fresh supplies ran low and she had needed to replenish them with the labored bodies of Angband’s thralls.

Zeboim had been careful never to sate her hunger entirely, for fear the restriction that had confined them all to their dark places of residence would never end. She deprived her belly as often as she could withstand until her starvation demanded a meal. Elves she had found to fill her stomach more weightily and stave her hunger for the longest time, but it was the Secondborn whom she had come to love in taste. They aged far more rapidly for their lives were brief, and Zeboim had found their ripened flesh to be succulent and invigorating in every which way.

She gazed upon the poor wretch before her. His pale lips had been sewn shut with thick black thread. “Shhhhh,” Zeboim hissed comfortingly, stroking his unclad body as it writhed on the stone slab before her. She tightened his iron bonds by the power of her will and a flash of silver rose above the chained thrall.

Knife flickering high, Zeboim’s gaze widened with lust and hunger as she peered into him and her foul mind was filled with the beating sound of the blood that ebbed and flowed within him. The hot coursing of his bodily fluid rose to a pulsating climax and the Flesh-eater stuck down, driving the blade deep within him. She sawed horizontally across as the life within struggled to survive, the sharpened utensil then fell from Zeboim’s creased hand and met the cold of the cavernous floor.

Zeboim tore into the thrall, ripping tissue from bone with her cuneate teeth. She pulled the liver and heart from where they were nestled within him and devoured them greedily. This had been her first meal in almost a century and she would leave nothing for others to steal. As the Flesh-eater forced the last of the wizened Elf in her mouth, her eyes become cloudy with the scarlet color of his blood and Zeboim raised bloodied palms to where the sky could not be seen.

“Look upon me Creator, and see how I have ended your Child!” she laughed, dribblets spilling from her moist pale chin.

Now revitalized for the task ahead, Zeboim pivoted in the direction of the gates.
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 3:41 am, edited 1 time in total.

New Soul
Points:
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F.A. 455
bounding across the plain of Ard-galen
and arriving at the eastern foothills of Dorthonion above Himring


Of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Everybody wants to rule the world

~ lyrics by Lorde


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~ The Lady and The Tiger ~

Ard-galen was ablaze and a monstrous tiger with long, curving teeth bounded across the raging inferno. It made its way through the once heavenly terrain and sprinted in the general direction of the eastern foothills of Dorthonion.

It was a massive creature, with the build of an elephantine bear. Canine teeth protruded from its mouth even when closed and dripped with the blood of Noldor it devoured along the way. Flames licked its dotted and striped coat but caused it no harm. Its giant paws sunk deep into the burning earth with arched claws bared to the darkening sky.

It pounced upon a large boulder that inclined up to a sharp point, bristling its coat in newfound excitement. The trees before it shook and swayed as the saber-toothed tiger rattled its mane, letting out a cacophonous roar of monumental power.

When it caught sight of a Great Orc in engraved plate armor, it ran to her with swift speed and glided to the side of a transformed Filrain. “Well well well, I must say I am impressed,” growled Zeboim with ratification, “You look far better like this than in your usual guise if I do say so.” Appreciation for the image of terror and might before her weighed heavily in her raspy voice as she brought her head low to the ground. “I ask to join you, Defiler of Flora and Mistress of Fauna,” she requested in earnest, “Surely you can use one of my capabilities in the desolation of the doomed kingdoms of the Sons of Fëanor. As you take the life of those in your path, I only ask that you kindly leave the carcasses to me.”

Zeboim glided her forked tongue across her drenched muzzle as her belly grew hungry once again.


*

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


The Moon, she hangs like a cruel portrait
Soft winds whisper the bidding of trees
As this tragedy starts with a shattered glass heart
And the Midnightmare trampling of dreams

~ lyrics to Her Ghost in the Fog by Cradle of Filth


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- Burning of the Hills -

“Somebody please, help us!”

Gorgol spat at the woman who had been forced on her knees. She had been the leader of the small settlement that now burned brightly behind her. The chestnut color of her hair was wrapped in a band of white linen and her shortsword had been cut from her along with the hand which had grasped it. She clasped her remaining hand around the bloodied stub, shouting for aid.

The longhouse in which she had dwelt with her large family had been put to the torch by The Butcher and his horde. Sheets of warm tears coated the beige color of her high cheekbones as she looked upon the chains that now bound her loved ones in a single file.

“I am Brina, Protector of the Whitehorn family, as my father was and his mother before him, as my son shall be and his daughter after him. I ask you servant of the Dark Lord, destroyer of my home and all that I held dear, to please take me to do with as you please but I beg you to release my kin, that they may live to see another day.”

Gorgol crossed his brawny arms, no one had said such a thing to him. They usually begged for their own lives or screamed their last. He held his cleaver in his right iron gauntlet and his multi-tailed whip rested on his hip. “To do with as I please?” he said in insolent mockery, using her own words against her. The Butcher looked her up and down appraisingly, her heart was strong and to him, she seemed capable of working in the forges of Angband for many long years.

He raised a closed fist at his underlings, bidding them pause as they shackled together the members of the Whitehorn family. The bodies of their warriors lay strewn upon the burning grass but Gorgol and his grunts had managed to salvage a good number of sturdy residents. “Well, I had planned on stringing you up along with your dead fighters from those trees over there,” he continued, pointing to the forested lines bordering the little village, “But now instead, I will take you along with the rest of your putrid family, and believe me you will be put to many good uses.”

An Orc clapped an armored hand over Brina’s mouth and dragged her away. Her muffled screams cried out and she kicked and struggled against her kidnapper in defiance of the Orc commander’s cruel purposes for her. “She will toil obediently or die,” declared The Butcher to his forces. “I know of one She-Demon who would love to have her head and another who would not hesitate to take all the rest,” he added with uproarious laughter from his fellow Orcs.

As the Whitehorn family lamented the loss of their home and the suffering that awaited them, an Orc that stood at Gorgol’s side gave a snort of alarm. He unsheathed a dagger from his belt and threw it with precision into the shadows of the nearby trees. It found its mark and claimed the life of a man (Bregolas) who accompanied another in leather armor and hair bound back. The Butcher sneered, turning to the woods.

Emeldir emerged from the shadows interlaced with the trunks with a sword and shield ready. Gorgol pushed two of his lackeys forward. “Kill her!” he yelled raising his cleaver in her direction, “And bring me the body of the other as well. I wish to add another pair of skulls atop my pauldrons!”
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 3:46 am, edited 1 time in total.

Black Númenórean
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Lothlann -> Thargelion. FA 455.
All Things Devours.

Dragonfire roared, a deafening mockery of the hearths it destroyed, as villages disappeared beneath black, acrid smoke. Glaurung’s own basso roars made the earth tremble, and the arrows and swords and spears of elves clattered useless off his hide as their bearers died valiantly and uselessly within his flames, beneath his feet, and at the blades and clubs and hammers of his army. The orcs hooted and jeered as they fought, screaming their triumph. Where one fell, ten took its place. Now and again Glaurung lowered his head not to spew fire, but to sweep his head with jaws agape through the ranks of elves, scooping them into his mouth, then tossing hack his head with a snapping of jaws, to swallow them whole. Elf-flesh was a delicious as he remembered from the days of his callow youth, when first he has issued forth from Angband. But now Glaurung the Golden was strong and full grown, towering over the balrogs with their lashing scourges, to reign supreme over his army of destruction. The plains of Lothlann were swiftly devoured beneath their surge, and the citadel of Maglor grew nearer. Now the second part of the plan came into effect. With a mighty bellow, Glaurung signaled the predetermined host of orcs to follow him, peeling away to the south and easy, while the remaining army of orcs and vampires and other fell creatures charged towards the citadel, led by Thuringwethil.

“MIIIIIISTREEEEESSSSS.” Glaurung’s rumbling call penetrated the sky, alerting the Lady of Vampires to his intentions. She screamed her reply, and the great fire-drake broke from his ponderous lumber back into the ground-eating crocodilian sprint. The Gap of Maglor lay ahead, its defenders routed by the tidal wave from Angband, the gateway to East Beleriand thrown open before them. The lush lands of the river valley beyond the Gap were virtually unprotected, so sudden had been the flame rushing forth from Thangorodrim. Glaurung inhaled deeply as he ran at the head of his army, great nostrils flaring and they sucked in air to stoke the fire in his belly until at last he paused, rearing back near to the River Gelion. His golden scales glowed with the heat within, and as his forefeet slammed into the ground with was to the accompaniment of a profundo bellow, and a torrent of fire gouting from his triumphant throat. Grasses, elves, and men alike died before it, and the Gelion sizzled and hissed as it boiled in an explosion of perishing fish and fowl. The river’s roar was nearly as loud as that of the dragon as it evaporated, laying bare its bed until the following rush of flowing water refilled it.

Orcs and balrogs surged alongside the great drake as they caught him up, howling with the triumph of their slaughter. Many had been slain as they crossed the plains, but their loss made scarcely a dent in Glaurung’s army. This was the eastern end of the Greater Gelion, and, dominant upon the horizon line, lay Mount Rerir, the bulwark of Thargelion, and home of Caranthir’s capitol. If a dragon could grin, such was the expression alight in the eyes of Glaurung as he resumed his charge with jaws apart. The river was as nothing for him to cross, and neither were the scrubby pine trees that began to appear in his path, marking the horde’s passage into Thargelion. The Land of Pines: a tinderbox, awaiting Glaurung’s flame. Obligingly, he sprayed fire across them. There was no need for the pretense of stealth. Caranthir would know he was coming, and Glaurung only hoped he might taste the flesh of elf-prince before long. The tres became taller and denser, but the army was relentless, and younger trunks snapped like twigs against the dragon’s hide, showering his orcs with fragrant needles amidst the stench of smoke. In response to his sonorous orders, the army began to split and scatter, some few circling to the north, a great number to the south, towards Lake Helevorn, and others remaining with Glaurung for his frontal assault on the mountain. The fact that no host of elves had yet come to meet them meant that Caranthir’s people were either fleeing, preparing their defenses, or both. Either way, Glaurung was ready to meet them. Rerir shook as his massive clawed feet made their first tread upon it, and the dragon tilted back his head, unleashing a column of flame up the side of the mountain, before beginning his ascent.



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Maglor's Gap. FA 455.
A Rock and a Hard Place.

Back upon the plains of Lothlann, Thuringwethil screeched her acknowledgement of Glaurung’s departure, then turned her attention to the direction of the forces he had left under her command. Waves of orcs slammed into elves as the battered host of Maglor reeled in the wake of the dragon’s assault and sudden departure, occupying them so that none could chase after. Her vampires renewed their assault from above, chasing the harried elves back towards the citadel of their bard-king. As they retreated they fought, and valiantly, Thuringwethil would give them that; but they were nothing compared to the might of the Elder King’s armies. Her face split into a hideous smile as she swooped and dived, bloody fangs dripping and glistening in the light of the burning plains. The taste of elf and man alike lingered upon her tongue in coppery bliss as with a calculated dive and flare of her wings, she ripped the throat from an elf with her iron claws, evading his spear in a neat spiral, the force of her blow throwing him from the back of his horse and onto the charred ground. Ahead and drawing ever nearer was the citadel of Maglor, a walled fortress against the foot of the mountains. The elves below had begun to cheer, thinking those walls offered them safety. One, close to the gates (Elfaron), raised up the standard of Fëanor upon a pike to wave encouragement to his fellows, the star device fluttering brightly against the backdrop of stone. With a screech to her vampires, Thuringwethil wheeled and folded her wings and plummeted.

At the last possible moment, she extended her wings and as they flared, her iron-clawed feet reached out and snatched the standard, tearing it from its pole with a rending of fabric and hope, and as she sped away, Thuringwethils raucous laughter rang out above the noise of battle, the flag of her enemies’ greatest king clutched in her talons. The Lady of Vampires circled high above the heads of the massed elves below as her army or orcs struck them from behind, and her vampires rained down upon them from above. Within the fortress, more scrambled to prepare their defenses, and archers fired into the sky. Thuringwethil alighted upon the highest point of the fortress: a dome surmounting the keep, with a spire stretching into the sky. The iron claws that gripped it faded into flesh, and the huge, bat-fell body receded into gossamer grey sateen; the face faded from bestial to pale loveliness, and the great wealth of black hair grew where fur had been, as Thuringwethil resumed her elfin form. Her bare feet found purchase upon the surface of the dome, and as one hand held to the spire, the other raised the tattered standard of Fëanor above her head. Her face still spattered with the blood of elf and man, she raised her black eyes and her voice together, unnaturally loud above the fray. “Come, my children! Come, and feast!” Howls of berserk pleasure and rage arose from the host of orcs as they surged against the survivor’s of Maglor’s host below, and wild cackles from the vampires above as they abandoned the elves outside the fortress and took to the air above it, beginning their assault upon its interior and those who would seek to defend it.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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Emeldir
Ladros, Dorthonion
FA 455

The proud woman stood shield high enough to guard against anymore daggers coming from the coiling tendrils of smoke that lingered in the now foreboding pines. Her heart was in her throat she could hear it each thumping beat if it remind her that she was alive as a massive orc pointed a cleaver at her and commanded her death. Her grip on her sword tightened then relaxed, too strong a grip was no good. She needed to survive this. She needed to teach this Orc commander a lesson on the heart that beat in her chest and the honor that flowed in the veins of her house.

She let her feet slide slightly wider apart as one of the two orcs sent to kill her swung at her, mistaking her perhaps for some woman that had simply picked up a shield and sword in desperation. The pounding of her heart fell to silence; not of death but of the ringing of steel as her sword caught the orcs blade and pushed it away just enough that her own sword could sweep down and sever the arm that bore the weapon leaving the orc shrieking in pain clutching at the stump of his arm before swinging her shield up and out to block the sword of the second. These orcs had not faced a proper warrior yet. Emeldir supposed as she brought her sword across, the black blood that already graced it splattering as she swung with enough force to lop the head off of the other orc.

She stood breathing heavy, rage filling her eyes that this orc commander would think he could be rid of her with two soldiers that she was certain her son could have fell them when he was far younger with how ill trained they were. The issue was, there were so many of them that their skill barely mattered, there were so many of them that surviving this battle would be a feat in itself. She needed to make the orcs think twice about following her. She needed to drive fear into their hearts so that she might escape so that her people might have a chance at escaping. She spun round her sword now well coated in the black blood of the enemy catching the weakened orcs throat causing their eyes to go wide and a rivulet of blood, for much had already been lost to seep from its throat before it collapsed.

Emeldir looked then at Gorgol, and reset her stance, as she had taught her sons, her shield up her sword ready, both now christened fully in the blood of the enemy. "Shall you send more lackies for me to kill coward?" She called out knowing that her best chance, would be to strike at the head of this snake, take away the lackies commander and there could be time enough in the confusion of that power vacuum that she might escape with her life. She needed to have the massive and far more dangerous orc attack sooner rather than later when her arms and legs and lungs were still fresh, when her rage and sorrow at the loss of her husbands brother still fueled her and made her mind and her actions sharper, quicker.

"If you want my and my kinsmans skulls for your armor come and claim them yourself."

Healer of Imladris
Points: 1 048 
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Ellindalë
to Belaith Gwareig, FA 455

Pale green pieces of porcelain skittered across the floor and for one wild moment Ellindalë thought that she was one of them, small and broken and trying to run away; but when she came back to herself she was standing rigid and straight before Celegorm, and she knew that she had not flinched.

"There will always be some reason to wait, Turko!" she wanted to shout back at him, but it came out more quietly and bitterly than she had intended. "There were reasons beneath the stars in Oromë's halls and there were reasons in Formenos. What good are the traditions of our people in this place? They were made under the conditions of an unmarred world and now we are here."

Celegorm was holding her, his hands caressing her hair, his voice honey sweet. Candlelight flickered across his features and she wondered at all the faces it revealed as the shadows changed. The sharp humor and untamed joy of the elf she had first courted, the jealous lover, the wrathful warrior, the sneering arrogance of Celegorm the King, the mournful, cloying gentleness of a lover that came and went like the flipping of a coin. You used to be one person, she thought.


***

Ellindalë rode slightly apart from the others as they cantered up to the pass. With her heavy white cloak and hood pulled close about her lithe form she might have been just another snow drift, blowing oddly in the wind. She hated the ellons' juvenile banter, the barbs, the posturing--or perhaps she hated that Celegorm could speak to his brother and nephew in a voice that wasn't yelling or coaxing or ragged with emotion. She thought of the intricately wrought lamps and priceless, coruscating jewels back in her rooms. What exactly, she wondered, was the value of an easy conversation with a Fëanorian prince?

They came upon Belaith Gwareig and she heard a muffled sob come from a hunched youth who held a shortsword in a hand that was already shaking. Far below were the licking flames that had been heralded by the hazy, blood-tinged sky. The gelid wind and stunned hush of the fortress seemed unreal as a dream floating above the plains. The snow will melt, she thought absently as Celegorm began to issue orders. So, Morgoth can do even that. He can take away the winter.

She let Celegorm lead her across the courtyard, and in the contrast of torchlight reflecting of the snow and the burnt orange glow rising into the heavens, she saw yet another face of his. The stern commander and adamant son of kings who would fight impossible battles in this impossible war until his sword fell notched and bloody from his hands. For the first time in what might have been moons she reached her fingers up to his temple and delicately traced the line of his cheekbone and the curve of his jaw. She wondered if her own slate blue eyes were reflecting the tongues of orange fire like his were. What was one impossible child amidst such a storm of impossible things?

"Yes, you fool," she promised, "I will go."

Balrog
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Mairon
In Dorthonion
“You Ain’t Coming Back”

A sense of joy and elation flooded him as he stood on the battlefield, fires and smoke billowing high enough to bloat out the stars. Red was everywhere. The sky was red, the fields were red, the waters were red. Glorious. Simply glorious. The air was filled with screams of dying, screams of ecstatic rage, screams of bestial fury. It was all music to his ears. This land was in the midst of a violent rebirth, an ascension to a higher form of existence. The violence was necessary, the rot was deep. He and his forces were a cleansing fire, meant to retake this land and to reshape it. This was the essence of rule, of control.

Mairon took in a deep breath, filling the lungs he’d crafted for this form. He gathered the power of his Voice about him, the stones shook with the power he held within him. His eyes fixed on the fortress ahead of him. The entire world dripped away for a moment. It was just him and the structure. He felt intimately close to it, and yet at the same time there was a fathomless, yawning gap between them. He could feel the stones, smell the dust, taste the fear, yet it was only a pin prick of light, a tiny sputtering candle.

Angrod! Angrod! Come out of your hovel and stand before me!” the power of his Voice was undeniable. The ground within a dozen paces was blasted clean and grey with the force of it.

Angrod! You stand on ground that is not yours to claim! Answer this charge, Angrod. Angrod!” His Voice was so loud that everything, even the beings without the gift of hearing could not help but give audience to his power.

Angrod! I demand you come forth! Come forth and be damned for your crimes!” He, Mairon, chiefest and greatest of the servants of the Elder King, the King of the World, slammed his mace upon the ground and it split, giving into his command. The world upon up to him, wretched and insincere. The chasm reached from where he stood, heaving him up on a pillar of stone and earth, to the fortress. Fires erupted from beneath, a great orange glow covered everything as the heat rose.

“Come forth, ye Eldar, and stand!”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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