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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"News came to Hithlum that Dorthonion was lost and the sons
of Fingolfin overthrown, and that the sons of Fëanor
were driven from their lands. Then Fingolfin beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin
of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses."

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

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"Neither rock, nor steel, nor the fires of Morgoth, nor all the powers of the Elf-kings,
shall keep from me the treasure that I desire. For Lúthien your
daughter is the fairest of all the Children of the World."

- Beren Camlost, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien


*

Fëanor and Fingolfin rebelled against the Valar. They led a great exodus of Noldor with their kin to Endor
which is Middle-earth and the true homeland of the Elves. Kin murdered kin and Lord betrayed Lord:
Following the murder at Alqualondë where Deep Elves killed the Sea Elves, Fëanor abandoned
Fingolfin's greater faction to the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë then ventured over tumultuous sea
to Beleriand. There, his bold following fought the minions of Morgoth in the country's second war,
the Battle Under Stars. Despite victory, Fëanor was tragically slain. Fingolfin's folk overcame the
misery of the arctic wastes, knocked on the doors of Angband at the first rising of the Sun, and came
to the lake of Mithrim opposite the shore of the Fëanor host. There would have been strife
between both parties but Prince Fingon rescued Prince Maedhros which brought healing for the moment.

Few centuries later the Noldor are united and have established their realms amongst the
Sindar of King Thingol. Together along side the Edain - mortals, the Secondborn - and Dwarves
of Ered Luin, the Children of Endor have encompassed Angband in a mighty siege. It is a time
of bliss while the leaguer forbids Morgoth and his servants further entry into Beleriand's fair lands.
Nargothrond, the underground kingdom of Finrod Felagund, lies hidden. Gondolin, the
White City of Turgon the Wise, remains unknowingly flourishing within the verdant valley
of Tumhalad though lamentation has come upon it with the passing of Princess Aredhel.
Haleth, Amazon and Chieftess of the Haladin, has led an exodus of her people through
terrible danger to the Forest of Brethil.

In Eriador, kin of the Edain remain, choosing
not to cross the Ered Luin; others related to the Haladin have claimed Dunland
and the White Mountains for their own where some Druedain dwelling
amongst them. Far in the east, the human renegades who did
not join the Edain (eventually becoming the people of Rhovanion, the Dalemen, and the
Rohirrim of the late Third Age) are battling for their very lives against the Dark Men
(Rhûnians, Variags of Khand, and the Haradwaith), pawns and worshippers of Morgoth.

The peace of Beleriand does not last forever. In the mid-winter of FA 455, Morgoth
unleashes a brutal strike, belches poisonous fumes from Ered Engrin, and creates
a blazing inferno which devastates Beleriand. The power of Elvendom is shattered
and the might of Mankind is weakened.
As Orcs, wolves, Balrogs, and a stronger Glaurung terrorize the earth, a ray of
hope glimmers in the unfailing love of the greatest couple of legend....


Rules:

Your GMs are @Aigronding Mordagnir , @Ercassie , and @Moriel l with @Dwarrow Elf giving minion updates.


Please visit the OOC thread for out of character comments: viewtopic.php?f=10&t=256


Please visit the Rivendell Archives for any icons you need and to look at information relevant to this RPG such as location descriptions, what canon characters people have claimed, and which historical characters are open. Please be patient while information is submitted.
viewtopic.php?f=10&t=192
Last edited by Eriol on Mon Jun 15, 2020 4:11 pm, edited 3 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

New Soul
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PART ONE:
THE CHOICES OF TWO WOMEN

"And since she could not be dissuaded they turned south as she commanded, and sought
admittance into Doriath. But the march-wardens denied them; for Thingol
would suffer none of the Noldor to pass the Girdle, save his kinsfolk of the
house of Finarfin, and least of all those that were friends of the sons of Fëanor."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Maeglin


"And Turgon appointed three lords of his household...Glorfindel, Egalmoth, and Ecthelion."

- Tolkien, from The Histories of Middle-earth:
The War of the Jewels - III, Maeglin

FA 316
Near Neldoreth, Doriath


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"If we lose Ar-Feiniel, King Turgon might have us thrown from the Crissaegrim,"
mused Lord Egalmoth in morose thought to chiefs Glorfindel and Ecthelion. They rode through the bewildering shadows of Melian's Girdle encompassing Doriath or what the master of Heaven's Arch assumed was the nearest forest of the territory; he couldn't see the beeches of the woodland through the murk.

"Írissë!" Egalmoth called out Aredhel's Quenya name which he referred to her with back home in the Undying Lands. He urged his brindle mount through the drifting fog ahead of his friends. He slowed his snorting steed when he heard her delighted laughter. Moments later he saw long ebony hair blown astir like a black silken banner, a shimmering silver dress, and a glistening white cape emblazoned with the Moon & Sun of the King's House.


"We can avoid the march-wardens unseen if we hurry and remain quiet so stop yelling, mellon,"
Aredhel snapped, still rushing through the dense mists surrounding them.

"They will hear you galloping anyway!"
Egalmoth hollered. "Stop. Now. We can't lose sight of you! This route is dangerous with the spawn of Ungoliant near!"

Aredhel heaved sigh of irritation and brought her mare to a sudden halt. "I've taken leave and will go where I want," Aredhel declared, wheeling her horse to face him and the two other lords as they appeared, flanking the Rainbow Lord's charger. Their unified stance only deepened Aredhel's anger. "I'm going to see Celegorm and Curufin. I won't change my mind. They're my friends and I don't care if you don't like them."

"Acknowledged,"
Egalmoth replied icily, "but you won't get to Himlad in a day."

"Don't underestimate me," the tall woman, pale as snow and strong as iron, narrowed her luminous grey eyes as she lifted her proud chin in defiance. Aredhel was a seasoned hunter and an avid rider.

Egalmoth took a deep breath and released it forcefully, glancing at Ecthelion and Glorfindel to side with him somehow, but he stood straighter in his saddle when an arrow shot past his flower-crested amloth helm.

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"Ah, Noldor royalty," said a drawling voice in the Grey-elven tongue drawing of a male drawing closer to them. A silver-haired Telerin Elf walked through the shadows of Melian 's fabled mazes with a new arrow on his bowstring. His trousers, belted tunic, and cloak were all green. He was grinning at an elleth with golden-brown hair and hazel eyes. "First catch of the day, Mallosel..."

"I am Aredhel," said the princess, tossing back her sable hair.

"And I am Sillandhas, March-warden of Doriath," he introduced himself with a mocking extravagant bow. "Ah, King Turgon's sister, a huntress of Nevrast..." He looked at Mallosel for a second. "You are known to us. Tell me, where have the people of Nevrast been all these years?"

"That isn't your business," Egalmoth interjected with a vicious tone.

"Mind the sharpness of your tongue and take your hand off that bent sword," warned Sillandhas, aiming his arrowhead at Egalmoth's face. The Chieftain of the Rainbow had his gauntlet resting on the hilt of his scimitar, a weapon which was bejewelled with blue stones flaming in the wan sunlight gleaming through the mists. "You will go no further," Sillandhas commanded the Elves. His arrowhead moved to the left then the right in the direction of Glorfindel and Ecthelion. "Turn around," he said boldly. The lords outnumbered the Sindar....until several other march-wardens materialized by Sillandhas and Mallosel, axes and bows in hand.

"No,"
Aredhel replied with acerbic resonance. "I seek the Kingdom of Himlad. These are my guards. We can't travel through Nan Dungortheb where the spawn of Ungoliant creep. We must pass through Doriath."

Sillandhas sneered. "I never ask twice, Princess." He let Mallosel speak....


GM UPDATE:

@Dwarrow Elf , have Glorfindel and Ecthelion frustrated with Aredhel and openly admitting so,
thinking they are being disrespected and that this excursion is a bad idea. Have them
respond to Sillandhas and Mallosel as you wish; you can wait for Ercassie to post.

@Ercassie , have Mallosel react as she will to the tense situation but stand
your ground as history demands. Ultimately end your post with the march-warden
quote Tolkien uses for this moment in the Of Maeglin chapter of The Silmarillion.
*

FA 375
Thargelion, the Stockade



The Haladin remained in Thargelion and were content. But Morgoth, seeing that by lies and deceits he could not yet
wholly estrange Elves and Men, was filled wrath, and endeavored to do Men what hurt he could.
Therefore he sent an Orc-raid, and passing east it escaped the leaguer, and came in stealthy
back over Ered Lindon by the passes of the Dwarf-road, and
fell upon the Haladin in the southern woods of the land of Caranthir."
- Tolkien,
from The Silmarillion: Of the Coming of Men into the West

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Source: http://tolkiengateway.net/w/images/thum ... aleth.jpeg

"One of the strange practices spoken of was that many of their (Haladin) warriors were women,
though few of these went abraod to fight in the great battles. This custom was evidently ancient;
for their chieftainess Haleth was a renowned Amazon with a picked bodyguard of women."
- Tolkien, from Unfinished Tales: The Drúedain


"They were not many, a few hundreds maybe, living apart in families or small tribes, but in friendship,
as members of the same community. The Folk of Haleth called them by the name drug, that being a word
of their own language. To the eyes of Elves and other Men they were unlovely in looks: they were stumpy
(some four feet high) but very broad, with heavy buttocks and short thick legs; their wide faces
had deep-set eyes with heavy brows, and flat noses, and gew no hair below their eyebrows.
They could be relentless enemies, and when once aroused their red wrath was slow to cool,
though it showed no sign save the light in their eyes; for they fought in silence and did not
exult in victory, not even over Orcs, the only creatures for whome their hatred was implacable.
The Eldar called them Druedain. In their early days they had been of great service
to those among whom they dwelt, and they were much sought after. They had marvellous skill as trackers."
[/i]
- Tolkien, from Unfinished Tales: The Drúedain

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[i]]"We need to talk, my lass," [/i]said Haldad in his deep voice to his daughter Haleth, entering the sentry tower of the Stockade with a Drug and wiped sweat from his brow. The large and fearless, masterful man had taken leadership of all tribes of the Haladin during the present crisis; they respected the veteran hunter, a killer of big game like bears and wargs and cougars. A great company of Orcs had fallen upon the the forest dwellers in King Caranthir's southern woods here in Thargelion. Haldar had spent a day gathering all the brave men he could muster and they built a stockade in the wedge of land between the rivers Ascar and Gelion. "I've had Haldar's wife - Halier - and her maiden friends bring food supplies," Haldad informed his daughter, sweping a big meaty hand over the bushy beard of his broad leathery face. "Should last us a few days, Haleth," he assumed, nodding his head decidedly. "Your brother is rallying all the women and children he can from the villages. The Orcs are stalking him." Haldad took the wine and gestured at the squat Drug, a stocky fellow with white flowing hair and dark skin and smoldering red eyes. "Vad'buri'zakos here is one of our best scouts." Haldad smiled widely, clapping the Drug on his muscular back. "Keen-eyed as a hound and can smell an Orc before Men can see them."

Vad'zakos firmly clasped Haleth's toned arm comradely and showed her his big brown teeth. "You follow Vad'buri'zakos!" he insisted and let go of Haleth to smite his opposite fist. "Crush Orc! Then we feast!"

"Get your women ready, those tough girls of yours,"
Haldad told Haleth, caressing her cheek. He had taught his daughter to how to hunt a beast and how to fight a man - with weapons and her body efficiently - and she taught these skills to her closest female friends. Her mother had died in childbirth. Haldad raised her like a man. He relished their sparring sessions. His proudest moment as a father was when Haleth was skilled enough to knock to land a blow on his jaw, one that sorely hurt. He still fondly remembered even now having embraced her with a lopsided grin after their duel and murmured, "That's my girl," and kissed her forehead. He squeezed her hand. "Help your brother if he needs it. He should be collecting Clan Brock. That's twelve miles away. Vad'bur'zakos will alert you if he smells the vermin."


GM UPDATE: @Dwarrow Elf , have Morgoth outraged that Elves and Men
are still bound in friendship and destroying your forces in the Siege of Angband. You decide to send an
Orc-raid into Thargelion, hoping that the attack on the Haladin will turn the mortals against
King Caranthir who hasn't intracted with them as spiritedly as other elven rulers have.

@Moriel, listen to Haldad and organize your Amazon warriors. Your all-woman contingent will
go to the tribal land of the Brock Clan which has been slow to follow Haldar's command to
retreat to the Stockade. Help Haldar fight off an ambush of Orcs. After a few posts,
I'll ask you both to return to the Stockade and I'll have Dwarrow Elf besiege the wooden fort with renewed vigor....

@Turin Ringhûn, have Halier bringing food to the Stockade and assuring people everything is going to be alright.
Rally the Brock clan as Haldar, integrating the people into your band of refugees. We have to get the women and children to the Stockade. You get
ambushed by Orcs and have to team up with your sister, Haleth, and her Amazons to fight the Orcs off.

Everyone playing Haladin, you're either with Haldar or Haleth, about to battle Orcs
or you're with Haldad, keeping guard at the Stockade or building the palidades stronger. It's almost sunset.
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Source: http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/File:Cat ... Haleth.jpg[/color][/center]
Last edited by Eriol on Sun Jun 14, 2020 5:37 am, edited 11 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Melkor
Melkor
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:40 am
PART II: ONSLAUGHT




Northern Beleriand
F.A 455
On a Quiet Winter Sunset



Sparkling snow covered much of North Beleriand this winter, as the orange sun set upon the north. The Ard-Galen, in particular, was not spared the white sheets, though one could still see blooming flowers particularly among areas frequented by Elves. Wildlife still thrived in the north, as hares, foxes, squirrels and birds ranged far up beneath even the Iron Mountains. Scattered tweets interrupted the calm ambience, as much of the birds had already migrated. Still, some remained. A mourning dove, in particular, found himself resting on what seemed to be a foot of a mountain. He was two years old, yet tarried, for the mountains was where he first jumped down and flew. Fond memories of a caring mother and father, along with the companionship of various siblings, all of whom moved on to wherever new place they went. Perhaps one day, the dove would mate with another and start a new family of his own on the mountain’s foot. The bird sang, either joyfully or gauging whether there were any signs of food or fellow doves to migrate south. Its wings opened, then shut, his head turning this way and that, surveying all before him.

But this was no mere mountain the bird rested on; in place of one, there were three. Appearing as raised lumped scars on the earth was the unnatural edifice known as Thangorodrim. High in the air the three peaks imposed themselves amongst the landscape. From miles away one could see them, looming and piercing through the clouds so that few could see their peaks. Somewhere on the feet of Thangorodrim lay the gates to Angband, where proof lay on the gate itself that the elves indeed were watching, and keeping siege on whatever lay within.

Yet the mountains themselves appeared as white as much of the Ard-galen. Though the tops were coal black, no smoke appeared from its chimneys. Grass had invaded into the fertile volcanic soil, giving splotches of green to the mountain’s bottom. Ivy had begun surrounding the outside of Angband’s walls, so long had they not been opened. The gate itself was quiet, as if within lay nothing but forgotten specters.

The Sun would set to an evening with a lightless moon; the Ard-Galen dim underneath the cold stars, just like quite a few other wintry nights.



~~~

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Angband
Nethermost Hall
F.A 455
Melkor- The Elder King and Master of the Fates of Arda


One league under Thangorodrim, within the winding halls and stairways under Angband lay Nethermost Hall. Tall was its height, half a league at most. The hall was the longest of its kind, stretching one league. It would take quite some time to walk from one end of the hall to the other, which was built on purpose. Light failed to penetrate down such distances, and its only main sources were within the giant chasms on each side. For the chasms released the orange and red fires of Angband’s forges and machinations. But if one looked straight ahead in the center, one could see three distant star-like gleams.

These gems needed no external light and shone brilliantly on their own accord. There existed no other in the world, outside the Sun and Moon itself, for the Silmarils would never be replicated, nor surpassed, in its perfection and brilliance. Not until the End of Days. They were not stored in a closed container, nor hidden in a trap wall, but etched to the crown of Melkor, the self-professed Elder King and Master of the Fates of Arda. This being dwarfed the height of the tallest trolls, and he sat upon a cast-iron throne, laying still. His eyes were closed, and if one looked closely, hints of red scarred his forehead, for the crown burned, just as his hatred burned throughout Arda, poisoning all lands and waters east of the Undying Lands. Above his throne was a giant column, two trolls-thick. Permanently scarred on the wide and tall column were etched the aghast faces of his enemies: elves, men, dwarves, ents, orcs, trolls, and even maia. These faces protruded from the column, their eyes blank, wide with terror, with mouths stretched beyond even the most flexible of jaws. Stress lines marred their features as if their façade was folded and unfolded multiple times. Beneath the column sat Melkor on his throne, who appeared to be resting.

His eyes were closed, but his crown was not heavy. His arms relaxed along the throne’s side, but his posture was not slouched. His feet lay still, but his legs were ready to pounce. He seemed asleep, but his mood could arouse anytime. Thus, when his eyes opened, the Silmarils blazed and pierced all the way across a league to the end of the hallway, illuminating Nethermost Hall with light rarely seen.

“Doom is nigh,” Melkor spoke aloud, scowling as his glaring eyes boring the end of the hall, “The time hath come.”

He blinked and tensed his arms. As if in response, the forges within the side chasms burned even more. Soon enough, minion upon minion, small and big, began gathering within the hall.

All of Angband was summoned for one purpose: the elimination of his enemies.



~~~


Pre-Battle Council


Once everyone gathered in Nethermost Hall, Melkor issued his orders.

Mairon,” he commanded, “I want the offspring of the cowardly fool Finarfin all exterminated! But bringeth the Daughter to me, alive. I have use for her. Destroy all the elves and their allies in Dorthonion, breach the Fen of Serech, and allow that Finarfin weep’st til his corpse decays even in the Undying Lands! Strategize carefully!

Gothmog, thou are to drive Fingolfin and his ilk from my lands! They are at our flanks, and poseth the greatest threat to my plan. Drive them unto the Ered Wethrin, and there let those maggots starve in despair as the rest of Beleriand falls under my feet!

Glaurung, thou art to emerge from the rivers of flame to lay waste to all the Sons of Fëanor in the east. Defile everything thou comest across, and reunite those peons with their father in fire and ash!”

The self-professed Elder King then placed his gaze on the rest of his army, as the Silmarils coldly burned.

“Demons, be those balrogs or others, trolls, wolves, orcs, and all others else; I care not who thou dost join on my campaign, be it Mairon, Gothmog, or Glaurung. But know this, shouldst thou fail, be not captured by the foe. For I shall grant thee a swift death, but the elves shall torture thee beyond all thought in Arda. They seeketh thy complete and utter destruction until thy very essence is disintegrated beyond recognition even in the Void. Giveth no mercy unto others, for thou shall taketh none! Tear, rip, and defile everything thou com'st across! Burn every village! Spoil every water! Destroy everything in thy way!”

Melkor paused, his eyes narrowing in a glare, “Leavest ye now and make ready my visions. At which hour rivers of flame cleanse Beleriand of all its curs, thou shalt rise and killeth the rest!”



~~~


Breaking Earth and Summoning Flames


Save for the crackling of Melkor’s furnaces and forges, all was silent in Nethermost Hall. Every being had left and was ready for the oncoming onslaught. All except for the Elder King himself, still seated on his iron throne and eyes closed in concentration. He appeared as a statue forever fused on, and the Silmarils dimmed, its light becoming colder as each second passed by.

Suddenly, his eyes opened ablaze with a cold flame, his teeth bared, and veins revealing themselves on his forehead. His arm and leg muscles revealed all the hidden pathways where the Valar’s blood flowed, and Nethermost Hall itself shook, tendrils of dust falling and clattering to the ground as Melkor stood from his throne, one step at a time. Beads of sweat began appearing on his forehead, dissolving to nothing as they dropped from his brow.

He gradually raised his left arm, as if carrying the entire landmass of Beleriand on the palm of his hand. The veins bulged, and with a great yell, Melkor closed his palm, and at once the sounds of thunder and the cracking of the earth reverberated throughout Nethermost Hall.

He gradually raised his right arm, as if lifting the Sun on the palm of his hand. The veins bulged, bringing forth an illumination. With another great yell, Melkor closed his palm, and at once the furnaces and forges increased their flames tenfold, and the fires danced on the edges of the pits as a great rush of sound, like a tornado repeatedly pounding against a mountain, enveloped the hall. Gases of many poisonous hues swirled, spreading throughout, almost obscuring the dim light of the Silmarils and the Elder King’s eyes.

Then with one final yell, his sweat dissipating to the air, Melkor lowered both of his arms to his side. Growing roars like 500 bellows turned the entire Hall into white as flames rose from the depths of his furnaces and forges, carrying all the noxious gases straight up through the openings that would lead to the three chimneys of Thangorodrim. Through the white blaze there stood Melkor, his black armor absorbing all light, the three Silmarils dimly shining, camouflaged against the flames. And so he stood until all of Angband’s flames and fires were released, leaving naught but the light of the Silmarils and his own blazing eyes in the dark void that now was Nethermost Hall.


~~~

Sudden Flame


The dove lost his balance, falling down against the mountainside as tremors suddenly appeared. It shrilly cried in alarm, his eyes turning this way and that in panic. Soon the tremors became violent, and to the dove’s ears it was as if the earth itself was cracking into bits. Spreading his wings, the dove leaped to the air, flapping to stay afloat, and quickly fled the mountain, flying as quickly as his little wings could carry him.

Yet the ripping grew even louder, and the subsequent multiple explosions deafened and ruptured the dove’s ears. He screamed in pain as the temperature rose to an impossible degree. The poisons choked and eroded the pupils of his eyes. Still he flapped more desperately, even as his wings incinerated, the cacophony drowning out the dove’s flaming body spiraling and smashing into the rivers of flame. He twitched even as his corpse burned, the fires drowning the bird’s cries until all remained were the rapidly blackening and dissolving bones of his carcass.

The rivers of flames rushed forward from the mountains, faster than the speeding Balrogs coming to the aid of Melkor in his plight against Ungoliant, being driven like fell fiery beasts whipped and steered by Melkor himself. Soon it would reach the Ard-Galen, branching out throughout the plain, and the land would be no more…



“There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon; and the wide plain of Ard-galen stretched dim beneath the cold stars, from the hill-forts of the Noldor to the feet of Thangorodrim. The watch-fires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps of the horsemen of Hithlum. Then suddenly Morgoth sent forth great rivers of flame that ran down swifter than Balrogs from Thangorodrim, and poured over all the plain; and the Mountains of Iron belched forth fires of many poisonous hues, and the fume of them stank upon the air, and was deadly. Thus Ard-galen perished, and fire devoured its grasses; and it became a burned and desolate waste, full of a choking dust, barren and lifeless. Thereafter its name was changed, and it was called Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust.” –The Silmarillion Chapter 18, Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin.


~~~


The Gates of Angband


It was sometime later that the rivers of flame receded from the Gates of Angband. Before the night, the Gate was marked as proof that elven eyes ever remained on the Great Enemy. But now a bright yellow hue coated the foot of Thangorodrim, its gate like freshly shaped molten iron. When time passed and the gate cooled, not a scratch could be found upon it. Whatever markings, whatever mockery by Melkor’s enemies was on it, the flames scattered all of it into distant memory.

For the Siege of Angband was over, and thus began the Ruin of Beleriand.

Melkor
Melkor
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:40 am
FA 316
Near Neldoreth, Doriath
Glorfindel and Ecthelion
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"... this time not testing out our rock climbing attire," muttered Ecthelion in response to Egalmoth's muse.

"I already have someone in mind to run the farms and manage the food distribution system should the unfortunate happen," quipped Glorfindel.

Both Ecthelion of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower each volunteered to be part of Aredhel's escort, though both had their own specialties. Glorfindel had the societal connections and the logistical knowledge on how to leave and enter Gondolin at specific times to avoid crowd commotion in order to prevent a potential riot of angry elves demanding that they too desired to leave Gondolin to take a vacation somewhere in Arda. He did not even don the attire he was known for, an embroidered gold mantle diapered in celandine like a field of spring. Nor did he wear his vambraces damascened with cunning gold. Instead, over his chainmail he wore dark green attire as if he were taking a walk in the forest.

Meanwhile, the memory of Nan Dungortheb still lay fresh in Ecthelion's mind. He was arguably the best sword in all of Gondolin and a perfect bodyguard for Aredhel. Ecthelion's sword, Orcrist, lay at the ready by his side, just a quick reach away from slashing at whatever enemies came upon them. He was clad all in silver, and upon his helm was a steel spike pointed with a diamond. It was said that his shield shimmered like drops of rain, for a thousand studs of crystal bedewed its presence. Ecthelion was dressed for battle, for war, and if necessary, to forefully subdue Aredhel should she have contrary ideas.

Egalmoth then tried to prevent Aredhel from running off, the ensuing conversation leading to Glorfindel smiling with cold eyes, while Ecthelion rolled his.

"I still do not understand why you are not fascinated by subterranean agriculture, logistics, and supply-chain management. Are you such a brute as to trade your spade for a hunting spear? When all of our people cannot even visit their own families outside of our wall? Do you think that being related to the king grants you more privilege than even the king has?" Glorfindel asked pointedly.

"Are you mad, Elleth?" Ecthelion added, raising his voice to Aredhel, "What is wrong with you? If you desire battle, I will give you 500 bouts. You have not experienced the horror that is Nan Dungortheb, where even light dare not tread! I lost my-"

Suddenly the group was set upon by the locals of Doriath.

"How flattering that my reputation exceeds me," Glorfindel responded to Sillhandas as he grinned with mirth, putting his hands up in the air, "and here I thought I would be unrecogniza- oh." Then he frowned, as if realizing that they were discussing Aredhel.

"Perhaps you should know that my friend Egalmoth here is quite rich and will reward you all beyond your dreams if you let us through," stated Glorfindel as he turned around, "and that Ecthelion here can grab arrows mid-flight and needs no sight. I heard he killed 400 of Ungoliant's spawn relatively recently here with only sword and shield."

"500, and speak not of it again," Ecthelion muttered, and he closed his eyes, focusing his hearing on the footsteps around him. His knees became slightly bent and his brow furrowed in concentration. Though his hands were not near Orcrist, his gait and posture needed only a millisecond for both sword and shield to appear.

Loremaster of Gondor
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Halier was rushing about the homestead. Her father-in-law had requested that food be brought periodically to the stockade. As much as she loved the job, there just was not that much food. Not to mention, the trips to the stockade were getting more and more difficult from the fear of all the orcs about. She’d gathered her two baskets of bread and dried meat. “Sylvan, how much were you able to get?” she asked another lady of the clan.

“About the same as you my lady.” came the reply. She got similar replies from the other ladies. All in all, it seemed as though there appeared to be enough food to keep the warriors at the front lines barely satiated, but not enough to keep them full. She shook her head. The rest of the ladies, and children looked to her for guidance with Haldad, Haldar, and Haleth away. After all, she was the wife of who was likely going to be the next leader of the group.

She smiled. “This will be enough. We’ll get through the enemy. You’ll see. Our warriors have held them off this long, and we’re still here. Not to mention, there is also Lord Caranthir here. We’ve all heard the elves have been fighting against the dark lord for centuries. We’ll get through this.” She didn’t know if the rest of the wives agreed, but the tension in the air did dissipate some.

She looked forward to when they could spread back out and spread back out and farm again. But with the assaults of the orcs, they had to gather in close together and couldn’t do nearly as much as in the past. And then with the orc raids coming more frequently, hunting for food was getting less frequent too.

Halier had all the baskets of food gathered together into the wagon cart and nodded. “When we get back, we need to make sure we get someone to check the game traps. In the mean time, start getting our food ready.” With that, she and a couple woman warriors mounted the cart and had the mule start the journey to the stockade.

***
It had been about half an hour’s journey, but she arrived safe and sound. She could hear her husband saying she was reckless making the journey alone, but he was not there at the moment. He was off trying to finally convince the Brock clan the wisdom in joining the rest of them at the stockade. She hoped he would be successful as every man available was needed to stay this madness.

“Ah, Halier, you’re earlier than I thought you’d be.” someone said as she approached the rear of the encampment.

“We were already in the process of gathering when the message arrived to bring food.” she lied as she dismounted the wagon. She couldn’t admit that there just wasn’t that much to gather together. Leading the guard to the rear of the cart she continued, “There should be enough here for a few days if rationed properly.”

The guard called a few others over to unload the food. “Thank you. And be sure to let all the others know as well how much this is appreciated.”

“Of course.” Halier replied.


*****
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Haldar had requested a meeting with Brock. He was the head of the clan that had been the last holdout from his father’s summoning. Most of the other clans had understood the need and at least sent warriors to aid in the defense of the land. Why the Brock clan didn’t, he didn’t know.

He waited outside the cabin for what seemed like hours before he was brought in. “Welcome Haldar.” Came a voice as he entered. “How goes the defense?”

“We’re holding strong. But we can still use your able people. Not to mention, with this clan being so far away, aid would be very difficult to send to you. I strongly recommend moving closer to the stockade.”

Brock shook his head. “What you’re asking is not possible. We have many sick and children. You’re asking for the death of them.”

“No. I’m asking for their safety. If by some chance the stockade were to not hold, then there is nothing that would prevent the enemy to swarm over the people here.”

“Our safety comes from the fact we are so separated. If we were all together, it is far easier to wipe out a group.”

Haldar could feel his temper rising. He couldn’t remember the last time he fought with someone so much. Then again, he and his sister argued about things too. Who had the better tactics, and such. But this was different. This person, yes had some points, but was adamant about staying away. He couldn't see any victory in continuing the argument, so he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Is there no way I could convince you to rally with us at the stockade?” he asked as calmly as he could.

Brock was silent for several seconds. “Best my best warrior in single combat. No weapons, just strength against strength alone. Then I may consider moving.”

“If I win, only then would you consider it?” Haldar exclaimed. “How is that any better than the situation we’re in now?”

“Well right now, there is no way we’ll go. If you win, then, I’ll at least agree the Valar approve with the move. But unless you go through with this, there is no convincing me to have my people come join your father.”

Haldar sighed. “Fine. I’ll face your champion.” he said as he stormed out. He walked up to his fifteen companions.

“How’d it go?”

“The fool says I have to beat his champion, then, he’ll consider the move.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Haldar took a sip of water from his water skin. “Very annoying this trip has turned out to be, and it only got started. He removed his sword and hand axe and handed them over and walked to the center of the settlement followed by his men.

Brock was arriving with several people, including a large athletic looking man. “Here is our champion. Derum.” He said patting him on the back. “And when he beats you, don’t come back.”

Haldar chuckled. “When I win, I look forward to you guys joining us at the stockade. We’ll drive the enemy back and then you can return here to do whatever you guys want.”

Brock shook his head. He leaned over and whispered, “Crush him.”

The contest began with Derum charging forward, looking for a clothesline. Haldar sidestepped to his right a touch, grabbed the outstretched arm and threw him onto his face. He slowly walked over, only to be mule-kicked at. Derum, somersaulted forward and got back to his feet. They traded punches and a couple kicks. Derum charged forward again at Haldar’s mid section. This time, Haldar didn’t dodge. He accepted the attack, and wrapped an arm around his opponent’s neck, bracing it with his other arm, and then lightly jumped up and wrapped his legs around Derum’s torso and squeezed. Derum collapsed onto Haldar and fought to get free.

“Give up, and I’ll let you go. Then we can be on our way.” Haldar said through gritted teeth.

Several moments passed before Derum went still. Haldar immediately released the hold and rolled his opponent off of him. He took several deep breaths as he checked on his passed out opponent. After a moment, Derum came too and looked around trying to figure out what happened.

Brock, seeing the results sighed. “Very well. We’ll join you.” He turned away and told one of his advisors to gather everyone together and let them know of the change in plans.

Half an hour passed and the clan was gathered together. Haldar and Brock had all the fighting men in front, the sick, women, and children in the middle, and the fighting women in the back. Haldar’s group took up the flanks. Along with the women and children, the had gathered up what food they could, at most, a few days worth.

Haldar wanted to get back to the stockade before sunset, which looked to be a couple hours away. “Alright everyone. Let’s move out." he called out.

***
An hour had passed. They were on the way to the stockade when growls could be heard in the distance. They were from not only somewhat ahead of them, but also seemingly behind them.

“Dammit.” Haldar mumbled under his breath. “Why now? Why couldn’t an orc raid come after we’d got back to the stockade?”

Brock rushed to the front to confront Haldar. “This is why I wanted to stay out of this.”

Haldar simply grabbed Brock by the collar. “If you listen, you damn fool, you’ll hear orcs coming from where we just came from. You still would have had to confront them.” He released him and called out. “Be on guard. Looks like we have company.”
Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy- Stonewall Jackson
Hubris guarantees disaster.- T C

Melkor
Melkor
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FA 375
Thargelion
Besieging the Stockade


So it was that an infuriated Melkor sent an orc raid to punish the Haladin for their naivety for believing the elves. They began attacking the men en masse, but they were halted by a stockade. So it was that the orcs began besieging the stockade, led by one Raphszhac the Club

"Ya know yer orders, fella orcs!" Raphszhac the Club yelled loudly from the distance as his orcs continued their assault against the stockade, "ya don't want da Elder King (Melkor) to kill us all right? You saw how angry he was? Ready to replace us orcs with dhose wolves, balrogs, and dat dragon! Can ya imagine us orcs being led by a not-orc? By a troll even? Them Hala-whatever still won't join us, so we make 'em hurt! Those idiots! Believin' those elvish lies. Well they get to pay for it alright? With blood! And guts!"

The orc commander placed one of his hands near his face in order to increase his yelling so that even the Haladin could hear, "Hey! Give up already, wills ya? The Elder King is angry at yas! Ya had your chance, and ya didn't take it. You thinks that Caran (Caranthir) will save ya? He's left ya all alone! He'll probably eat yo copses afterwards; ya know they don't get sick like ya right? Ya know they eat raw meat, don't ya?! But we'll lets ya live if ya just surrender, aright? Just give up already! Give up! Come on, give up!"

Raphszhac the Club then slightly lowered his yelling to spur on his forces, commanding a volley of arrows to rain on the stockade, "Come on, then! Keep it up now! They don't give up? We'll let 'em starve! As da Elder King says, they no elves! They can't last days without food!"

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Southward lay the guarded woods of Doriath, abode of Thingol the Hidden King, into whose realm none passed save by his will.

- Of the Realms of Beleriand, The Silmarillion




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Mallosel Ehtyanar, Marchwarden of Doriath
with Silandhas and the ‘Noldorin Royalty’. Near Neldoreth, 316 FA
‘The Obstinacy of Aredhel’ Storyline




She stepped out of the shadows, a single lance of movement come from nowhere. Long honeyed hair descended in two twirled cords of bullion that swamped her shoulders as she stalked the rearguard of the Noldorin intruders. Silandhas had halted the party’s advance and in that moment of her pause, that moment before the expectant pounce, the Sinda’s heart rustled soundlessly beneath her second skin, the fall of convoluted, moss-green garb.

But as her friend engaged the foremost two trespassers, she paced, slowly and purposeful behind Glorfindel and Ecthelion.That they should have to turn in their seats to properly find her. The doubting glimpse of a shark’s fin. The swish of an angered cat’s tail. She was there, a slender ashen spear in hand. Braided corkscrews of what looked like aureate vine meandered down each of the She-Elf’s supple arms, and gathered about each wrist as might a writhe of snakes, denouncing any need for conventional bracers. She was Mallosel.

She had entered with a grin, the sort of expression which betrayed familiarity. This game, they played it often. And it tended that their ‘guests’ were soon keen to depart. It started to go wrong however when the Noldo interrupted. Rather than to cow or humble herself before powerful hosts, the pompous ‘Princess’, Aredhel, announced herself, her name, as though that ought stall all life and death alike to pay her notice. Her tone told a tale of entitled impatience. The Sinda could care less beyond the arrogance apparent, and in fact had never recognised the sister of King Turgon, usurper of Nevrast .. until Silandhas accused her.

‘Huntress’ was right, the Marchwarden silently seethed. For had the Noldor not swept up their Sindarin hosts in great lies and deceit ? Had they not assumed the role of vanquishing saviours ? Only to be revealed as the very opposite ! The Noldor had committed murder and theft, and then sought to justify it in the name of vengeance against counts of murder and of theft done against them ! Where now were the native people of Nevrast indeed ? The thin strain of hope with which the Noldor might have purchased kindness, Egalmoth hurled back contemptuously at the Sindar sentries with a look of soured milk about his porcelain complexion.


Then Glorfindel waded in with boastful accounts of his comrade’s coffers. “The sole reward we would have of you, is to leave us be and take your petty wars and squabbles with you !Mallosel warned the Lord of the Golden Flower.

Or how fares your pretty friend against a spear ?” she thenafter spat at the ground between herself and Ecthelion, musing as he was over exaggerated conquests. “By all means, do try your ill-begotten fortune against the arachnids,” she urged him, ignorant to the Elf’s tragic past. “For I deem you project far beyond your reach and we would gladly revel in news of your slow, painful demise.”.


History would recall the sedate instruction of a far more tempered Sinda, the Captain of the Marchwardens no less, when this encounter was put to record. But Mallosel was quite taken by the throes of all the imagined slights against her beloved people, and failed to note the calm approach of one whose silvered tongue exceeded her. By far.

This land is our business, ‘little Princess’” the Sinda maiden bade Aredhel, at least to hear her, before such ire was stilled. “And none of yours. If you think that you may steal about our paths as you stole the ships of Alqualonde, you shall swift learn your folly. You are most unwelcome. What you must do is depart, and swiftly. Be gone thus and take in your most vile train these craven eunichs and the path that veers the long and perilous distance, all the long way around. Or I swear, the offspring of Ungoliant shall seem as fairest jewels to light the heavens compared to what muss I render your flat face.
Last edited by Ercassie on Fri Jun 19, 2020 6:26 pm, edited 1 time in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Warrior of Imladris
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Beleg - Captain of the Marchwardens of Doriath
With Sillandhras, Mallosel and the 'Noldorin Royalty'
‘The Obstinacy of Aredhel’ Storyline, 316 FA


Enough.

The form of Beleg detached itself from the shadows of the trees, unseen until now by even the keenest eye. Clad in his camouflage of grey and green that melted seamlessly with his surroundings, he had seen no reason to distinguish himself until now. Many times he had watched his Marchwardens dissuade travellers from venturing too far into the realm of Doriath, content that they were more than capable without his assistance. Indeed, he rather enjoyed the game into which the more effective among them, Sillandhas and Mallosel, had turned such encounters.

He would have been happy to let them wound the pride of Aredhel and her escort, but it seemed they had all underestimated her obstinacy and the last thing he wanted was for himself or any of his company to join the ranks of the Kinslayers.

Sillandhas and Mallosel were more effective, yes, though not more diplomatic.

Now the Captain of the Marchwardens came forth, his great black bow Belthronding in one hand and Dailir in the other. The hood of his green cloak slipped from his silver hair, that seemed to shine in the dappled sunlight that drifted through the canopy above them.

He looked sternly equally at both the Noldorin and Telerin Elves about him. “Have we not enemies aplenty already? No wish have I to spill Elven blood this day, and I urge those of like mind to draw their hand back from such pursuits.

It may have sounded like a request. It was not.

Trusting that Sillandhas and Mallosel would fall back as directed, Beleg turned to the Noldor. “Foolish are you to seek to speak thus. We have no need for your riches while the greatest jewels in Arda reside in Doriath as our Queen and her daughter. And though the Caliquendi may be possessed of knowledge gleaned from the Valar themselves, it is the Moriquendi who have toiled against the uncounted spawn of the Dark Lord while you dwelt in paradise. Whatever your boasts of prowess, you will not find the Marchwardens an easy opponent.

He took a deep breath. He could not allow himself to fall to anger as the others had done. “But enough of threats. Though she speaks harshly, the Warden Mallosel speaks true: you are not welcome. I say this not with spite but as a statement of fact. You know our laws but more than that, you know the power of our Queen. Even were we to let you pass, you would not reach your destination. The Girdle would disorientate you and turn your path back on itself, for you have not the blessing of Thingol for safe passage. You must seek another path. We block your passage for your own good.

He turned to Aredhel who, for better or worse, seemed to be the head of the party.


To the land of Celegorm for which you seek, Lady, you may by no means pass through the realm of King Thingol; you must ride beyond the Girdle of Melian, to the south or to the north. The speediest way is by the paths that lead east from the Brithiach through Dimbar and along the north-march of this kingdom, until you pass the Bridge of Esgalduin and the Fords of Aros, and come to the lands that lie behind the Hill of Himring. There dwell, as we believe, Celegorm and Curufin, and it may be that you will find them; but the road is perilous.

The safer road lies South, following the River Mindeb until it meets with the Sirion, and continuing on until you reach the Aelin-uial. Keep to the banks of the River Aros, where it runs East along the southern borders of our realm, until you reach the Fords. From there, your path may continue as if you had traversed via the North. Far longer is this road, but far more likely is the possibility you will join your kin unharmed.

He refused to let his hands tighten about his bow and Dailir. Such an action would have undone all his pacifying words and there was no way the keen eyes of the Caliquendi would miss the motion. He had little intention of using it, though if he did, even Ecthelion would be hard pressed to catch the ever-faithful arrow ere it found its target.
Last edited by Laintaen on Tue Jun 23, 2020 12:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
she / her

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Niphred and Celair
FA 316
NPCs Northern Doriath Watch
Obstinacy of Aredhel



The pair observed the small company long before they had come to the northern border of Doriath. It was often enough that a group of Noldorin elves would traverse the road heading east or west. With a larger party the Ungoliant spawn tended to avoid them. However this band was few in number. Niphred knew all too well the power of those spiders having nearly lost his life to one. If not for Celair's lucky passing by of his situation, he would be a dried husk by now somewhere in the darkness to the north. The marchwardens, he sensed, were gathering swiftly within the forest for a confrontation. Who was this company that neared their woods? Niphred and Celair watched in silence as like they were trained to as the riders came to be confronted by the marchwardens. When numerous marchwardens came forth after the initial interjection from Sillandhas, Niphred also revealed himself some number of trees away from the dispute and leaned his shoulder into the northern side of a tree trunk. Though his skin was pale, his entity was blacker than night. When the ones named Glorfindel and Ecthelion claimed the defeat of hundreds of arachnids only recently, Niphred couldn't resist letting out a small snort in disbelief. If such a thing were capable of an elf, lord or not, then the clutters that they all feared would be of no discord and all would walk freely along that road. Niphred looked to Celair and they both shared a similar expression consisting of a raised eyebrow and an uneasy smile before both shaking their heads and looking back to the quarrel. Niphred shared in Mallosel's contempt for the Noldor, though he had grown to bite his tongue in most situations, becoming less vocal but no less sinister in character. If given an excuse, he would run them all through, despite a panicking Celair no doubt attempting to cease his aggression. All in all, this was a big deal for this party to come to Doriath, for this was Aredhel, daughter of Turgon, whom no one knew where to be at this time. Perhaps they could gain passage still if they revealed Turgon's location.
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FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum

The Council of Lords, Revisited

Now Fingolfin, King of the North, and High King of the Noldor, seeing that his people were become numerous and strong, and that the Men allied to them were many and valiant, pondered once more an assault upon Angband; for he knew that they lived in danger while the circle of the siege was incomplete, and Morgoth was free to labour in his deep mines, devising what evils none could foretell ere he should reveal them.

This counsel was wise according to the measure of his knowledge; for the Noldor did not yet comprehend the fullness of the power of Morgoth, nor understand that their unaided war upon him was without final hope, whether they hasted or delayed. But because the land was fair and their kingdoms wide, most of the Noldor were content with things as they were, trusting them to last, and slow to begin an assault in which many must surely perish were it in victory or in defeat.

Therefore they were little disposed to hearken to Fingolfin, and the sons of Fëanor at that time least of all. Among the chieftains of the Noldor Angrod and Aegnor alone were of like mind with the King; for they dwelt in regions whence Thangorodrim could be descried, and the threat of Morgoth was present to their thought. Thus the designs of Fingolfin came to naught...."


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



GM Update: Everyone playing the sovereigns of the Elf Kingfoms assemble at the council hall of Fingolfin's castle at Lake Mithrim. Interact with each other. Listen to Fingolfin speak, saying he believes NOW is the time to assault Angband directly, when @Nurbor posts. Then disagree except Angrod and Aegnor
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"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Melkor
Melkor
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BATTLE OF SUDDEN FLAME
A Quiet Wintry Night on the Plains of Ard-Galen
F.A 455
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"The watch-fires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps of the horsemen of Hithlum." The Silmarillion, Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin





Ossaren- Guard Sentry Duty

The young elf's eyes appeared distant for minutes at a time. Yet, occasionally, he would blink rapidly every once in a while, his breath appearing as a small tuft in front of him. Hours before, he had finished the daily training regimen of Cavalry General Eärcolanté. A few hours doing morning cavalry drills, a few doing horseback spear fighting drills, then horse archery drills, and finally infantry combat to end the day. The general commanded thousands of troops, giving autonomy regarding matters such as sentry duties to various officers. Ossaren himself was a relatively new recruit, still being used to the daily routines of serving on the Ard-Galen. Therefore, he was assigned this tiring hour to keep watch. His watch post was closest to Thangorodrim, and in front of his eyes were the large imposing mountains, though now covered with snow. A low-burning watch-fire was next to him to both keep him warm in the winter air, as well as give him a bit of light to view the iron mountains ahead of him. While Thangorodrim was quite a sight the first time he saw it, he became used to the relatively quiet and boring set of mountains ahead of him. It was strange to think that the great enemy, Morgoth was somewhere within. Was he always this quiet?

Before Ossaren's call to duty, he had been an avid player of the viol. He had childhood friends that played other instruments, and perhaps in a time of permanent peace, they would form a minstrel party traveling around Beleriand to share their music. But alas, they were always reminded that they were mere leagues from the greatest threat Beleriand ever seen.

Not that the young elf ever witnessed orcs themselves. For his birth was in the Long Peace, and that was what he knew. He was tall, taller than the watch-fire next to him, and was deemed a good potential soldier and defender of Hithlum. His experience was relatively green but still he knew that it was important for him to keep watch, for Fingolfin's forces kept the Great Enemy at bay.

Unfortunately, fatigue burdened his muscles and bones, as his eyes once again lost focus and blankly gazed in the distance.

Then the tremors came.


~~~

Eärcolanté
Cavalry General
Middle of the Camp


He sat upon a boat in the middle of the water, but instead of carrying a fishing rod, he used a spear where as bait a small live lizard was attached to its red embroidery. It was a bright day, where the Moon appeared in full burning brilliance in the sky, its holes black as tar, illuminating all. That strangeness did not seem to bother the spearman, however, as he concentrated his eyes to see any hint of a fish-like a specter in the waters.

What eventually emerged from the sea-folds was a large clam, at least a foot long, clearing the surface as a crest of white foam gently collided with the boat. As if on instinct, the spearman's hand clenched the spear, raised it next to his ear, and launched it like a javelin to the clam. The clam opened its mouth at the same time, and the spear went straight through, piercing the meat, and blood began pooling on the surface near its body. The animal shuddered, but gave a very familiar ear-piercing scream that belonged to a certain elleth.

What happened next was quite sudden. The moon suddenly exploded, an ear-splitting sonic boom echoing through the elf's ears, pieces crashing down, engulfing the ocean with its pieces and turning it red. Flames soon appeared dancing on top of the ocean's surface, forming little bodies writhing and twisting in unadulterated pain. Eärcolanté's boat cracked, splitting in two, sending the spearman into the fiery chasm, as suddenly the mouth of the Angulóke that haunted him for almost 200 years drew ever closer. Its mouth quickly closing on the elf's body, the rushing sound growing exponentially higher to overwhelm everything-


A sharp breath exited his mouth as Eärcolanté's eyes rapidly blinked. He rapidly exhaled a few more times, rising from his bed, and stood up. His eyes strayed towards a wrapped, long, cylindrical bundle, and his breath became slightly longer. He inhaled, then exhaled, closing his eyes, lifting his head up, and opening it to see what would be the roof of his tent. But for some reason, the roof was slightly moving side to side, rather unnaturally.

Then the tremors came.


~~~

Ossaren- Guard Sentry Duty


His eyes widened, as the tremors caused his body to lurch straight into the watch-fire before he realized exactly what was happening. In a brief millisecond, his body warned his head to move back, his eyes to close, or to at least brace himself for the rapid burning sensation that would greet him.

Alas, Ossaren's eyes saw naught but white, heard nothing but the roaring of flames, as well as felt soot crackling and entering his orifices. He gripped the watch-fire as he were holding a washing basin, but instead of a watery cleansing, there was only pain.

A sharp scream escaped his lips, as he released his face from the flames, his hands clutching at his rapidly reddening face, losing balance again and falling backwards. He rolled instinctively onto his front, muffling his screams into the soft ground below, but this pain obscured the noises of the increasing crackling of the earth, and eventually deafening roars that would've alerted Ossaren that something foul was afoot at Thangorodrim.



~~~

Eärcolanté
Cavalry General
Middle of the Camp


The general donned no armor, stumbling out of the tent wearing naught but green and yellow garments as his sight turned towards the shaking mountains that were Thangorodrim. Though the ground was gradually quickening its tremors, his eyes narrowed in focus as he looked in particular toward where a certain watch-fire would be, giving a possible hint as to what was happening. But what was more of a sign, was the rapid movement of the remaining winter birds, as small dots headed straight south from the mountains.

He dove back inside the tent, grabbing his halberd first, then paused. Even as the shaking intensified he stared at the wrapped cylindrical bundle for a second or two. He then quickly attached it onto his back, and exited the tent again.

Eärcolanté heard his horse neigh, seeing it fidget here-and-there with his hooves as if trying to adjust to the shifting ground. The elf returned his gaze at the mountains, but something stuck out.

The horizon above was now redder than he had ever seen in the morning, and quick flashes of lightning appeared and disappeared as the red became darker and darker in hue. An unnatural grey and black cloud began forming around where he thought the peaks were.

His mouth was open, his eyes widened in fear, and he climbed atop the horse.

"AWAKE, AWAKE!" he shouted, steering his horse straight to the front of the camp, "FLEE! FLEE! TO BARAD EITHEL! AWAKE, AWAKE! FLEE TO BARAD EITHEL!"



~~~

Ingwil
Soldier
Asleep at the front of the Camp


Ingwil's prone body lay atop the cloth bundles that represented his bed. Before his time as a soldier he loved weaving baskets together, finding the intricacies to be fascinating. His tent trembled with the tremors. In response, he shifted his body to the side, yawning and scratching an itch on his back. It was a tiring day yesterday and he was glad he was not part of the cavalry drill this morning, which apparently galloped really close to the front of the camp as they were causing the earth itself to tremble.


~~~


Oroméva and Aratauco
Tents Across
Middle of the Camp


"Did you hear what the general is yelling about?" Oroméva asked, her tent flap open as she conversed with Aratauco, whose tent was also open.

"Something about fleeing to Barad Eithel, but why exactly... perhaps the earthquakes for a possible orc invasion? But why not stand and fight? Defend our territory?" Aratauco pondered in response.

Oroméva's eyes moved towards the Iron Mountains, a red and black cloud rapidly forming on top and beginning to obscure the entire mountain, "what is this devilry?" she asked incredulously, "this looks similar to how the Valar described their battles with Morgoth."

"Probably that giant lizard on top of the mountains blowing fire in the air. We riddled his body with arrows and Morgoth probably is only using it now as a giant signal beacon. Those gases are probably the lizard's bowel movements! I am just glad that I can finally put my bow to actual use again, my friend," responded Aratauco, "don your armor! It is time to save Beleriand once again."

"We should leave. Now," began Oroméva


~~~

Ossaren- Guard Sentry Duty
Rivers of Flame


Ossaren blindly grasped for a vessel of water, which was near each watch-fire to douse it, each swipe taking away precious seconds of time. FInally, he was able to wash the soot from his eyes, his vision splotchier and many-colored, but still better than seconds before. He gingerly rubbed the water in his eyes, wincing each time the water restored more and more of his sight.

It felt like forever, but he finally returned his gaze to Thangorodrim just in time for his eyes to widen, jaw stretched, and his voice issuing out a scream that he heard not.

For the rivers of flame swept over the young elf and the watch-fire. Ossaren was among the first to fall.


~~~

Eärcolanté
Fleeing to Barad Eithel

"WHAT ARE YOU FOOLS DOING?" Eärcolanté shouted, as his horse galloped from the front to rear of the camp, "WAKE UP AND FLEE! THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. FLEE OR DIE! TO BARAD EITHEL!"

Most of the camp were either not fleeing to Barad Eithel, just getting out of their tents and on their horses, running about, or donning armor in their tent. Thankfully, some soldiers were hurrying about and recently left. Soldiers like Martorost, Rúmilo, Témara, Poafanga, Líruima , Yualë had mounted or were quickly mounting their steeds fleeing back to the Ered Wethrin.

"TO BARAD EITHEL! FLEE TO BARAD EITHEL!" the general would shout, galloping to the western edge of the camp. This time, he spurred his horse on, halberd at hand, armored in nothing but garments, racing to the elven fortress. His long black hair lagged behind him like a flag, whipping to and fro, as he left his remaining soldiers to their fate.


~~~

Ingwil
Soldier
Awake at the front of the Camp



Ingwil had quickly put on most of his armor, using the intricacies of his organizational skills with wicker baskets to good use. Now, all he needed to don was his helmet.

Then suddenly all around him were flames, the ground itself on fire, and smoke of an eerie hue entered the flaming flaps of what remained of his tent. Ingwil gasped for air, clutching at his throat, trying not breathe in the smoke, but too much had entered his lungs, and he collapsed on the fiery ground unconscious. Soon the flames would sweep over his body, and so he was among those slain in the initial stages of the Dagor Bragollach.


~~~


Oroméva and Aratauco
Tents Across
Burning Alive in the Middle of the Camp


"AAAARGH" screamed Aratauco within the fiery enclosure that was his tent, "Curse you Morgoth! May you feel the...the..."

Thus fell Aratauco, veteran of the wars against Morgoth. There would be no body sent to his mother and children.

Oroméva barely made it to the rear of the camps in her haste to leave, but her horse's hair suddenly combusted, and in surprise she fell off the steed, slamming and rolling on what was once the plains of the Ard-Galen. Now the grasses were alight, and Oroméva yelled, trying to get on her feet and run. But the distance was too long, the rivers of flame too fast, overcoming her at last.

So fell Oroméva of Hithlum. She dreamed of one day leading the cavalry in victory against Morgoth's forces. But that dream would never happen, burning away into the ashes of history right before her eyes as the flames swept her corpse forth.


~~~


"Many charred bones had there their roofless grave; for many of the Noldor perished in that burning, who were caught by the running flame and could not fly to the hills." The Silmarillion, Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin
Last edited by Rivvy Elf on Sun Jul 05, 2020 5:49 am, edited 1 time in total.

New Soul
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FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum
The Council of Lords

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High King Fingolfin had summoned them all, all the high lords of Beleriand's dominions. Though he himself felt joy to see the faces of all those who he has seen little of over the past number of years, he could not help but notice much contempt among some other leaders. Particularly the sons of Fëanor seemed unwilling to be here. Perhaps only for having to travel the furthest to the council's meeting place but it felt to be more than that. Finrod wore no armor to this meeting, perhaps grown too comfortable in his caves. A deep red robe covered him completely but for his golden head, which held a circlet of gold and emeralds. He espied Cirdan and felt relief, for Cirdan always kept his head on straight.

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Cirdan felt unnerved by the request of a meeting among the lords. Though he would always do his part as he was bidden, his people came first, and the Noldor seemed numerous enough to handle anything from Morgoth on their own. He would, of course, handle any invasion from the sea. Barad Nimras was a welcomed gift from Finrod Felagund who seemed now to catch his eye. Cirdan gestured an invitation for his friend to join him. Cirdan wore a robe of silver cloth having an insignificant shimmer about it and an intricate swirling circlet of silver held his silver hair from his face, brandishing a single pearl upon his forehead.

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Maedhros paced impatiently back and forth along the wall just within the entrance to the council hall. Most of his brothers remained near conversing or impatiently waiting as he was. He wished this event done and be back upon his hill at Himring. Unless Fingolfin had some new information, there was no assailing Angband. Was Morgoth even perhaps gone? Nay. He would never believe it. Mayhap his uncle was growing impatient waiting for Morgoth to strike again and wanted action. Maedhros would seek it as well but for the waste of effort. The gates were impregnable. Maedhros wore his full armor with a tabard and cape of a red amber color and a long sword hung at his waist. The palm of his left hand often rubbed to stub of his nonexistent right hand. A habit he seemed unable to break in idle situations.
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Cavalry
Middle of the Camp

The cold was like a living thing. A strange and ancient creature that burned his throat and reached into his lungs. He fought it with his breaths, each a dagger that soon dulled itself on the ice, and with his eyes, that pierced like spears into the endless grey and white of the beast.

He saw her fall.

Between them lay a field of jagged teeth and crevasses and the grinding edges of great glaciers and floes. He ran and leapt across the expanse but knew already at first step that there was not enough time. Others converged on the spot, yelling for assistance and for rope. It was not enough. He came to his knees at the edge of the churning sea-stream and reached into the waters past his shoulders, then his chest. Shards of broken ice cut into his arms like glass and he would have thrown himself after her into the maw of this cursed place.

Something tugged at him, screaming. A child's voice and small hands pulling at his sodden cloak and pinching his sides. Eälindë! He wrenched himself out of the water and grabbed for his daughter but her face was frozen and unseeing and where he touched her she crumbled away to ash.


~~~

Nemir awoke, and he was alone. His hand shook as he stood and made to pour a cup of water, but the liquid in the pitcher already trembled. He went still, in sudden foreboding, and the next breath he took felt like the gasp before a plunge he could not see. Then the earth gave a great jar beneath him and he stumbled against his small cot.

"TO BARAD EITHEL! FLEE TO BARAD EITHEL!"

The meaning of the general's words did not register, but Nemir grabbed his blade at the slice of fear in his shouts and ran to his horse. He looked north, in search of a foe, and saw only red.

"FLEE!"

Chaos was growing the in the camp. Dawning horror and confusion riddlled Fingolfin's calvalry as surely as arrows. Nemir stood caught between it, and the flames rising at Thangorodrim. Just one, he thought, and in a rush he threw open the flap of the tent nearest to him and reached for the figure inside.

"Valindo! Valindo!" he cried. "Tarry not! Even swords can be re-made! Now, with me! Fire is come."

There was not enough time.

Together they vaulted onto their horses and rode for the rear of the camp, but elves and mounts milled around them and tent ropes threatened as trip wires in the gloom. Nemir glanced back to see the horizon darkening to scarlet, then black. "RUN! he roared, but his cry was less than dust in the wind and a moment later his friend's horse faltered beside him. Then he was on open ground, and uncommanded Súre came to her full stride beneath him and they fled to Barad Eithel before a sheet of flame.

Pitched from his panicked horse, Valindo landed hard on his hands and knees. The snow is melted, he thought dazedly as he struggled to his feet. He was standing when the fire reached him.
Last edited by Yávië on Sat Jun 27, 2020 3:36 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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[Aredhel] spoke to Turgon and asked leave to depart. Turgon was loath to grant this, and long denied her; but at the last he yielded, saying: 'Go then, if you will though it is against my wisdom, and I forebode that ill will come of it both to you and to me. But you shall go only to seek Fingon, our brother; and those that I send with you shall return hither to Gondolin as swiftly as they may.'

But Aredhel said: 'I am your sister and not your servant, and beyond your bounds I will go as seems good to me. And if you begrudge me an escort, then I will go alone.' …. Then Aredhel departed from Gondolin, and Turgon's heart was heavy at her going.


- Of Maeglin, The Silmarillion


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Lord Rog, of the House of Hammers, of Wrath
Royal Palace, Gondolin, 316 FA
(Occurring at the same time as ‘Aredhel’s Obstinate Adventure’ storyline)

The city was as fair as though a dream indeed had wrought it of the earth, and leant such aide unto the hands which fashioned it that Tirion-upon-Tuna was mirrored in Endor. And so the hearts of the Gondolindrim ought to be contented. Yet the departure of their Princess set the tongues and thoughts of all to mind of their own kin whom they yearned to behold again. Such was their trust in King Turgon that there was no anarchy raised upon Aredhel’s leave. But, for all that, the monarch had begrudged his sister this vacation and he was not alone in unease at her whim. It was more than concern for the Noldorin Princess's safety, although that featured heavily in more than just her brother's heart. The safety of all Gondolin went with the Lady Aredhel after all, and should she fall afoul of the Enemy, then they might all be undone. The obstinacy of Lady Ar-Feiniel leant some comfort of course. For any who knew aught of her were all too well aware, it would take more skill than even Melkor possessed to turn that particularly stubborn mind. Rog knew that better than most, as well he knew the very real worst case scenario which might befall their headstrong Princess.

He had laid eyes toward their king, and laid all the might also which he might evoke unto compelling his will, his want, to guard Aredhel on her 'adventure'. Still Turgon had elected other officials to that office and there was naught Rog might have done to change his sovereign's mind. The children of Fingolfin were equally matched in stubborn mood after all. And it had been made very clear that Turgon valued the Smith's presence to remain at his side. The House of the Hammers of Wrath had indeed not been named lightly, and their reputation was as intimidating as it was awe-inspiring amongst the general populace. When his King bade their Lord to name a single other Elf who might keep command of them, if Rog were abroad, only silence and frustration had presented themselves in response. In the end, he was forced to concede that his duty was first to those he had sworn it. His folk.

The absence of three so mighty Lords as had gone in the end was a thing as keenly felt by their respective folks. Egalmoth, Glorfindel and Ecthelion were no less loved by their countrymen, and their duty to the Princess had robbed their collective houses of a figurehead each. So there had been talk after the Lords were first appointed, as to who and how their responsibilities should be allotted in the meantime. Early notions of the Lords who remained in the city to share management of the House of the Fountain, and the Rainbow, and of the Golden Flower .. were shelved. To see the attention of those Lords who remained, compromised, was a less effective strategy than to explore new potential. And so the King had asked of the Lady’s guards that they each make nomination of one to stand in their place. The designated offices had been filled thus by persons who were trusted to take up the mantle, with the least amount of disruption throughout. To date, all seemed well, and so that point also sat at rest.

Today though the King would hold Open Court for all and any in the city to find audience with his ear to their requests, their requirements and hopefully not too many remonstrations. Any Elf, be he or she, or small, poor, rich or tall, noble, modest or otherwise known, would be heard with the same due regard. Rog was not openly concerned of what the day might spring upon them, though the options seemed extensive, and one in particular quite likely. There was an especial reason which had convinced the noble smith to retain his position in the city. And that was the incessant endeavours of a certain metallurgist, keen to see him from his post, indeed his very life, if such a thing might be achieved. It was not like Hatholdir had not tried to have the Lord of Wrathful Hammers removed of this world before now. No less likely was it that he would not try to usurp the strongest Unit in Gondolin for himself .. again.


GM-approved PROMPT FOR GONDOLIN ;
The city is officially open for business ! All and any who wish it are welcome to Free RP here, establish your characters, interact with other Gondolindrim characters. Daily life. Flashback. Whatsoever you wish.

Feel free to remark upon King Turgon’s decision to allow his sister to visit abroad, while he simultaneously seeks to keep his city’s location shrouded in secrecy. Also/alternatively, rumours do abound that there is a wedding soon occurring of a local noble family, which you may be excited about attending, or gatecrashing ..

Those who have been named Chief of a military House may approach the Palace of the King and present reports and ideas at will. All/any Elves though are welcome to seek an audience at the palace for a/any reason of your choosing.
Last edited by Ercassie on Sat Nov 14, 2020 7:52 pm, edited 4 times in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Loremaster of Gondor
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FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Falas
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Inthil had heard that his lord Cirdan had left for the meeting of the elven lords. "Why was I not invited to go along? I mean, I've been at his side since before these Noldor came to these shores." he thought to himself. He spoke to others around the port of Eglarist to see if any knew who was in charge with their lord gone.

"Galdor!?" He exclaimed at the news. "That's an interesting choice. But we must trust he knows best, for he is a wise lord."


FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum
The Council of Lords
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Halmir wasn't exactly sure what he was doing there. He was surrounded by all these Elven Lords, many he didn't have the slightest idea who they were. He had received the invite to the meeting from Fingolfin, and living in his land - in Brethil, he felt obligated to go. He wondered what the discussion was going to be if so many great people were in attendance.

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Hador was off to the side of the room watching as Elven Lords came into the hall. He'd been a part of the household of Fingolfin in his youth, and through the loved of the King, he'd been given the lordship of Dor-lómin. So when he'd received the summons, he immediately went. He wondered what his lord could be trying to decide to call so many together, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the dark lord who had caused so many problems in the past. At his side was the dragon helm he had been gifted when he was given his lordship.
Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy- Stonewall Jackson
Hubris guarantees disaster.- T C

Balrog
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Sauron

Before the Dagor Bragollach


He stood for a long time in the darkened chambers alone. Motes of dust thrummed and danced in the air, reverberating with the sounds of iron-shod marching above him. The rhythmic pounding stilled his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world for a single moment longer. He was floating, his limbs and body gone. He drifted through a vast emptiness, there was no sound, no light, to smell. He was utterly alone.

The sensation was abruptly halted by the sound of a hard fist against the great stone doors. The doors swung open on twist of his wrist and a half dozen orcs came into the room carrying his armor. Behind them came Carníheniel on her tiny legs. The smell of the dragon which he had been able to block out, no came through stronger than ever. If he were anything less than the Lieutenant of Angband, he would not have been able to bear it. His lips curled in a snarl.

The orcs stood by, waiting for his signal. He finally regarded them, casting sinister black eyes in their direction. They cowered for a moment before the leader, the one carrying his great helm came forward.

“Are you ready, your excellence?”

Again, he nodded, stretching his arms out. Carníheniel skittered up his leg and came to rest on his shoulder. He smiled. Piece by piece, the orcs put on his armor, armor he had crafted for himself. He had long since left his service, choosing a more direct approach to creation and rule, but he once been a servitor of Aulë. The armor was a piece of master workmanship, black as onyx, absorbing light like a hungry shadow, resistant to the fires of the balrogs and the drakes, and woven with spells of blackest night. He had worked long on this armor. Even as his master was bound in the west, he hammered at the bellows, shaping the metal, beating out the impurities, and hardening it with his black song. Now it was complete, and finally ready to be put to use.

Last of all came the great helm, shaped like a wild predatory wolf, honoring his title as Lord of Werewolves. His old friend Draugluin had acted as the model and given his hungry approval.

Once garbed, he moved through the pits and chamber and halls of Angband, places he had known as intimately as Manwë knew the mountains in the west. This had been his once, he had had dominion over all he could see, and feared and loved him.

Carníheniel chittered at his shoulder, riding in the pauldron. He smiled and fed her a piece of meat. She grabbed it greedily and devoured it. She was large, but not nearly as large as she could become, given that her progenitor was Ungoliant herself. He had found her while out on one of the many errands Morgoth had sent him, she was devouring the headless corpse of he assumed had been her father. He took her in and with Draugluin had helped her grow strong and vicious. The halls of Angband were littered with her webs. She would accompany him in the battle soon to come. She would be at his side with his werewolves after the fires had down their work.

As he moved, the smell of the dragon became greater and greater. He had not see the beast in years, declaring him a failed experiment. Thuringwethil, however, gave the thing her loyalty, severing the close relationship that they had had. She looked at the dragon as her pet, he saw it as a pest. Perhaps though, in the days to come, when the flames had been loosed and the Elves slaughtered, they could reach that bond again.

Finally, he came to the lowest chamber, the place where once he held court. He came now as mere servant. The feeling rankled him. Narúcima was already there, waiting for him. She was the newest of the werewolves, a monstrous spirit captured by Draugluin in one of his spells and forced into the unwitting body. She was enormous, her fangs, like those of her sire, dripped with venom. He snapped his fingers and she followed him inside.

Morgoth was already inside, pacing back and forth, his ceremonial armor plain and bare in contrast to his own. He strode through the hall, determination in his every step. Gothmog was there, black flames curling over his form, as was Thuringwethil, the Mistress of Vampires. She did not even spare him a look. The dragon was there too. He towered over everything there. His thick muscled bulk barely fit in the hall. Narúcima bristled, but he stayed her with a harsh “No!”

They listened then, listened to the Elder King and Master of the Fates of Arda. Orders were issued and the council dispersed. He was the first to leave, Narúcima in tow. He had his orders, now he must find Draugluin and have him ready the wolves. They were to destroy Dorthonion, and poison it. Morgoth used over flowery words for it, demanding him to make Finarfin, still in the West, weep over the feä of his children.

“Come child,” his voice was soft and melodious, echoing against the wild clamour around them. “We must find your sire. We shall have much work in the days ahead and I will have need of you throughout. Steel yourself, Narúcima. Songs shall be sung of what is to come.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Thargelion, The Stockade. FA 375.
Retrieval.

Among Haladin many and fiercest of their warriors had always been women, and Haleth was no exception. She stood at the top of the watch-tower of the hastily constructed stockade her father had corralled into being, gazing out over the woods beyond its walls. The air which normally smelt of pine and bark, wood and water, was now tinged with acrid smoke, and the scent of orc. Her nostrils curled, eyes narrowing, as she searched the trees. They were out there now, in a lull between assaults on the stockade, the great company of foul orcs that were hunting the Haladin, seemingly bent on their extermination. They were out there, lurking, watching, waiting. They had the advantage, and they knew it. Haleth slammed her hand onto the wall, cursing the orcs, even as her father Haldad emerged onto the tower. He, and the Drug, Vad’buri’zakos. Haleth’s lips pursed slightly. The Drug could be helpful, but she preferred the company of her own. Still, she put out her arm in greeting as her father explained the situation, and Vad’buri’zakos expressed his enthusiasm for the idea.

Haleth glanced towards the sun as Haldad tasked her with seeking out Haldar at the Brock settlement, and nodded. “If we leave now, we may make it back before nightfall, presuming Haldar has them on the move. If not, we will reinforce their guard and return in the morning.” She turned again to face her father, returning the squeeze of his hand. “I will not return without them, father. Whether Haldar has managed to persuade Brock or not.” With a brief nod, Haleth set off down the staircase, Vad’buri’zakos trailing in her wake. The short heavy sword that was her favored weapon swung at her hip, and even as she trotted down the stairs, Haleth removed the belt that suspended it and began to adjust the buckles and straps. They would be running, and it would only get in the way. By the time she emerged from the base of the tower, the belt now encircled her torso diagonally, a baldric bearing the sword across her back, its pommel peeping over her shoulder, hilt at the correct height for an easy draw. She set two fingers into her mouth and emitted a shrill whistle, first a higher tone, then a lower.

Even as she strode across the compound, the women of Haleth’s hand-picked guard began to fall in about her, summoned by the signal. Each was armed with her chosen tools and ready for travel, and when Haleth reached the rear gate of the stockade and turned to face them the full score were there. “Well,” she beganm settling her fists on her hips, “as you might expect, we’re to go after my brother and see whether he hasn’t managed to get the Brock moving. If he’s failed, we convince them. If he’s succeeded, we help them the rest of the way back here. I need hardly tell you to be prepared for orc. We’re going to slip out the back, but they doubtless have patrols crawling all over the woods. Ready aye?” A resounding affirmative chorus answered her and with a firm nod, Haleth led her women out of the stockade.

Their pace was swift, and the warriors of Haleth were tireless. Vad’buri’zakos managed to stay with the rear of the group, and at length a hiss came from the Drug, whose powers of smell were greater than the Haladin. Haleth held up a fist, bringing the company to a halt. They all became motionless, each listening hard, and the sound of growling orc-voices, mingled with the voices of men, came faintly to them. Haleth glanced to the Drug, who pointed, and without a further word she set off again, drawing the sword from its scabbard on her back. Behind her, and all around as the guard began to spread out, assuming an attack formation, she heard the faint sounds of each woman readying her own arms. On silent feet they ran, drawing closer and closer to the voices, and in the fading light they began to make out the shapes of orcs and men, the orcs closing in on the men, and the men readying themselves to do battle. Almost at the same time as the orcs burst through the trees onto the men of the Brock clan and Haldar’s companions, Haleth’s guard fell upon the orcs from behind, and battle joined on both fronts. The voices of men rose harshly as they struck, the voices of orcs squealed as they attacked and were attacked, and the voices of the women rang out as they ripped into the orcs in a devastating flurry of violence. caught sight of Haldar and fought her way quickly to his side, disemboweling an orc and shoving it from her in one brutal movement.

“Brother! It won’t do us much good to have these stragglers if you let them all get killed!”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
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Narúcima, before the Dagor Bragollach, with Sauron


The Nethermost Hall is a long, cold hall. Narúcima's fur bristled, her thick undercoat fluffing out against the chill that seeped into her very bones as she padded over the stone. Her nails clicked on the marmoreal floor with every step, but the sound was swallowed in the depths of the endless, shadowy stretch before her, like the thump of her mortal heart.

A mortal heart for a mortal body... but what a body! Each werewolf is sired by another werewolf, an unquiet spirit guided into it to give it that power of shape-shifting that Mairon himself was so famously skilled in. Draugluin's blood lent her fur an uncanny blue tint, like new-forged star-steel, and it crackled with static in the cold air. Her hot breath huffed out before her as she took up position to wait for her Master, still as a carven statue but for the lambent flicker in her eyes and the mist of her exhalations.

Narúcima felt him before she saw him drawing near, a shadow in her mind as well as her eye. Her ears pricked forward. The Master was here.

There is something comforting about being owned, even to a Werewolf.

But the Master is unhappy. She scents it on him, notes the curt gestures, his tight jaw, a secret resentment; she is not the only one called to heel today.

Obediently she rose from her haunches and followed him silently. On all four paws, she was almost man-high, and would be higher on her hind legs. The spider riding his shoulder chittered at her. Narúcima ignored her, spitefully. Carníheniel was but a child. The Master might pet her and favour her for now, but he would soon realise Narúcima had far greater uses, and could walk by herself besides.

Drawing nearer to Melkor, the air feels closer, as though a steady pressure is building in your head. The force of his presence is almost irresistible; it takes a being of great strength of will even to stand before him and not fall to the ground. Narúcima was grinding her teeth almost unconsciously (this noise only added to the oppressive atmosphere). The Master stalked on as though he felt nothing at all. His Wolf-helm jutted proudly from his brow.

The noisome stink of the Dragon unwinding through the Hall had been in Narúcima's nostrils since she had arrived, but great ever more pervasive. It is a lizard scent, harsh and powerful. It makes Narúcima itch. Strangely, the smoking shadow that follows Lord Gothmog dispelled it somewhat. Still, her hackles rose almost not of her volition - barely used to this body as yet, with all its tremendous senses and power - and a thin growl began to rumble in her throat, with the sound of grinding stone.

"No," her Master silenced her. Narúcima flared her nostrils but bent her head in obedience to listen. Shame upon her, for not controlling her flesh better. There was learning yet to be done. At least Thuringwethil was there, a fellow shape-shifter; perhaps she would have some guidance for the Werewolf, although in truth Narúcima would prefer to be lessoned directly by her Master, the Lord of all Werewolves. Why he did not constantly live in his most magnificent form was beyond her comprehension.

A savage delight rose up in Narúcima at the Elder King's words. To slay and to destroy were her greatest joys, and a runnel of venomous saliva dripped from her slavering jaws to etch the floor.

Discreetly, she put a paw over it.

The council was ending. It seemed her Master would have need of her and Draugluin.

"Songs there shall be, my Master," she growled in answer. "The sweetest song: that of war!"

Narúcima threw back her head amidst all the clamour, and howled, loud and long.
cave anserem
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Thargelion, The Stockade. FA 375.
Escorting Brock clan to stockade


Sure enough, it was as Haldar had feared. There were orcs about, and they had come attacking. He wasn't sure of the number of them, but his people and the people of Brock's clan should be able to hold them off. But to do so, their journey to the stockade had essentially come to a halt. And that was no good. With nightfall coming quickly, this was only going to go from bad, to very very bad.

He slew one orc and was about to shout some encouragement, when he noticed something other than orcs charging into the fray as well. "Brother! It won't do us much good to have these stragglers if you let them all get killed!" came a very familiar voice.

"Ah, dear sister. Always have to show me up don't you?" He said partially grinning. "Come on guys. Show these foul creatures what we're made of." He shouted, hoping to inspire as he slew another orc. Though he didn't want to admit it, he was grateful Haleth showed up when she did. Her and her fellow warriors. She was quite terrifying if it came to it. Many time he'd tried challenging her, and he only remembered winning maybe a handful of times, but they always followed with a resounding defeat.

With Haleth and her warriors, they were sure to get Brock's clan to the stockade with minimal losses. He just wished deep down, he didn't have to be rescued to complete the task their father had sent him on.
Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy- Stonewall Jackson
Hubris guarantees disaster.- T C

Healer of Imladris
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Outisde the palace at Lake Mithrim

Celebrimbor leaned the long, wrapped bundle he was carrying against a towering maple tree and tilted his head upwards. "You are not quite as well hidden as you might think, little cousin," he said.

There was an indignant squawk from above and then a blue and silver clad bundle dropped lightly to the ground. "Telperinquar!" it cried. "I did not you think you would come."

"And miss what is sure to be an earth-shaking family squabble? I have hopes that my father will shout himself out for the season." For a moment, the pair bore matching wry grins, but then Gil-galad's face fell and he turned away.

"At least you are welcome at the council," he muttered, trying very hard to sound matter of fact instead of sulky.

Celebrimbor reached out and straightened the slim circlet that had fallen awry on the youth's head. "I do have, ah, at least a few years advantage on you, Artanáro," he said gently, but the stubborn set of Gil-galad's shoulders as he stared out over Lake Mithrim was not lost on him.

"He would protect me. He would have me happy, he would give me a childhood. Grandfather too. But I am not blind or deaf! I know there is great grief, and that our people still ride forth with armor and sword, and that many are lost whom I would have loved, too. It is only words, inside there. I do not need protection from such knowledge."

"You are overly optimistic," Celebrimbor said drily. "I will be disappointed if there is not at least one bloodied nose today." But his eyes were grave as he studied the profile of Fingon's son. They did not know each other as well as they might have, in other lands, but perhaps they understood each other better. "The weight of what could have been is no small thing," he said finally, "but put it down now and then, if you can, little cousin. To know grief sooner than we did is to understand joy sooner, too."

Gil-galad did not answer, but mismatched in red and blue, with Celebrimbor still a head taller than the youngest Noldorin prince, they stood together and watched the reflections playing across the water.
Last edited by Yávië on Fri Jul 10, 2020 2:56 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Warning: Dramatic death
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Ard-galen
FA 455
The Sudden Flame



Naurlhir gripped his reins tightly and pulled his horse to a stop. He was the strong silent type and feared nothing. From here he could easily see the gates of Angband and to see the peaks of Thangorodrim he had to strain his neck. Nothing was happening as usual. Even the smoke that occasionally came from the mountains' peaks was absent. He stared; daring something to happen. Among the Noldor, Naurlhir remained one of the more adamant to effectuate the justice upon Melkor. The cursed demon deserved all the wrath upon him that he had wrought and more. Suddenly the earth quaked for but a moment. Naurlhir froze in anticipation. Dismounting, he felt the rumblings still churning deep in the earth through the soles of his boots. He stooped plunging his bare hand into the snow to feel the hard frozen turf beneath. The vibrations were strong. His gaze flicked towards the great gates and a grin spread across his face. It was very rare for this event of emotional satisfaction to flow over him. Battle brought it out of him. "Come forth and feel the bite of the Noldor." He muttered as if in prayer to himself. His eyes glared forward with dazzling light as he slowly stood and the vibrations escalated below him. "C'MON!" He cried as loud as he could, clenching his fists. Abruptly, it all stopped, and his fists loosened...

Once more the earth quaked violently knocking him to his backside. Following was an explosion but not from the gates. It came from Thangorodrim's peaks. Gazing upward, his jaw slacked and the grin fell from his euphoric expression. Fire. Fire. Fire. It was not stopping. It was as if Thangorodrim had swallowed the whole of the world and was vomiting it back with unending heaves. Naurlhir could not comprehend his situation. Fire now rained around him as he slowly got back to his feet. He kept glancing to Angband's gates and back to the peaks but they remained unmoved and the peaks kept shooting and shooting. He took his shield from his back raised it over head. Many different sized rocks of flame smote upon it and around him. The snow evaporated about them and the grass below ignited. But this was not the worst. Thandorodrim's slopes were aglow! The lava flowed like a river. Panic finally took him and he turned to his horse. The stallion had long since galloped off toward Dorthonion. With one last look at the lava and to the gates, he took a deep breath, and exhaled.

Determination spurred him as he started into a run, shield still over him. It was likely he was doomed but he would not give up so easily. His feet swept and skipped over the plain like the wind, avoiding the stones and flame scattered all over. After a few seconds, a particularly large stone, perhaps even a boulder struck the left side of his shield sending him into a violent somersault dive forcing him to drop his shield and ramming his left shoulder into one of the smaller fallen balls of fire. Quickly back on his feet, not losing any momentum, he clasped his left elbow with his right hand into his abdomen and continued flying toward Dorthonion. He felt the warmth rising around him and the snow appeared to melt without reason. His footfalls splashed as he entered a sprint. Fire continued to rain, and the wet earth sizzled after the thuds of red hot stones. He let his left arm free, needing it for balance. The elf winced each time he swung it forward. His teeth clenched with conviction and his brow furrowed tightly. He would make it. Without warning his right foot caught the end of the sheath of his sword as it swayed behind him and he flew forward unable to catch himself. Sliding through the mud, his head struck one of the burning rocks, and he heard his hair ignite. He quickly rolled away from it onto another that melted into the back of his leather breastplate. He got to his feet once more and knocked the stone in his back free with his right hand, searing his finger tips. The same hand swung back around him and clutched the hilt of his sword and cast it away as he launched himself forward again. He covered his head, smothering the flame that ate away at his mane as blood trickled down to his right eye. Mist now rose all around him. The air grew humid, and he could feel the overwhelming heat behind him. A stone smashed into his right calf and his pace took on a limp. The air was so thick now it was difficult to see or breath. A large boulder appeared just to his left and as he stopped to climb it a violent cough took over his breathing. At the top, he heaved and gasped on his back, coughing up blood. Laying on his side, he watched as the magma and slag rolled by. Dropping to his back once more, his breathing became shallow. He looked to the sky one last time before the end. He could not find the stars. His left eye blinked and a single tear of frustration, sadness and confusion slid down his temple into his auburn gold hair. He felt himself being slowly roasted but that was not what worried him. He gasped repeatedly but the air would not come to him. He heaved, and heaved. They became more shallow and spaced until he finally lay motionless gaping upwards.
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"Melkor bred many other monsters of divers shapes and kinds that long troubled the world;
and his realm spread now ever southward over Middle-earth."

-Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor

"Long they dwelt in their first home by the water under stars, and they walked the Earth in wonder;
and they began to make speech and to give names to all things that they preceived.
Themseslves they named the Quendi, signifying those that speak with voices;
for as yet they had met no other living theys that spoke or sang,"

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor



"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 t
o take them and devour them. Now Melkor greatly hated and feared the riding of Orome,
and either he sent indeed his dark servants as riders, or he set lying whispers abroad,
for the purose that the Quendi should shun Orome if ever they should meet."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor



Cuiviénen, Nyarro Aranië
Years of the Trees, 1080
THE CAVE



"Did you find
carnësarn!" shouted Vanessë, hearing Morgath's cry of joy. She was asking about the shining red earth-gems which the the Edain and the Middle Men would call rubies in ages to come. Her unseen brother disobeyed Nenmeldo and Lairadess again. He vanished from their sight inside the cave, running down a tunnel they hadn't explored before. The rocky walls of this passage glimmered with a lustrous grey sheen like Nenmeldo's pale hair. Young Vanessë revered the ore and its mystic nature, naming it ilsa and Morgath called it tyelpë. These words were shared among the other Quendi who, having discovered this metal in other caverns of Cuiviénen's hills, adopted it into them into language; they gave it other words as well like telep and telpë. In latter days, the Teleri had their own names for it like celebrin; Mortals would refer to it as 'silver.

Morgath gave her no answer and Vanessë sighed angrily. She pleaded with her mother for the Nelya to take them back home for the umpteenth time.


"Be patient,
ninya moina ("My darling," Quenya)], and don't be selfish!"Lairadess scolded her daughter and stroked the Elf-girl's shoulder-length sable hair. She was a graceful Elven woman of the Tatyar with deep blue eyes and long raven hair falling beyond her hips. "We haven't been to this cavern in months and have entered it a short while now. Let your brother be happy."


"You love him more than me!"
Vanessë accused her mother with acerbic stridency. She disappeared from the luminous shelter of Nenmeldo's torchlight.

"Catch her!" Lairadess demanded, seizing Nenmeldo's muscled arm. She was afraid the Shadow Walkers or the Smoke Riders would be lurking here in the cavern or waiting to abduct them in the hills. Lairadess wanted Nenmeldo to protect them on their journey which her Tatyar husband Ezelondo forbade. He discerned Nenmeldo was correct that their lakeside quarantine was vital to their survival. Many straying Elves had gone missing since reports of the vaporous beings mounted. Nenmeldo tried to keep his friends safe but Morgath was growing rebellious, rude, violent as his freedom continued to be restrained since Ezelondo restricted the travels of his wife and children. Lairadess came to Nenmeldo in tears. She begged him to escort her and the little ones to Nyarro Aranië, the Kingdom of Bats, which is what her son called this cavern where the winged rodent-like creatures roosted.


"I'll find her but you find your boy!"
promised Nenmeldo and pursued Vanessë, illuminating the way they came with his guttering torchlight. Lairadess plunged through the darkness before her, making a left turn in the gloom where she saw her son venture through moments ago when he fled the light of Nenmeldo. Lairadess heard the incessant squeaks and high-pitched shrieks of the great bats her son loved before she saw the flaming torch of Morgath or the fánacarnë - pink tourmalines - crusting the soaring walls of the immense chamber. The tall boy with the long dark hair and royal blue eyes slowly turned to face his mother with an impassive expression which sent a cold chill climbing her spine. Hundreds of huge bats chattered and screamed, flapping their broad leathery clawed wings as they spiraled around the Elf-boy. Morgath stared at his mother in distressing silence until she heard echoes of Nenmeldo's voice warning her of danger outside.....

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"Molefolk...these were the grimmest and least goodhearted of
folk that Meglin might get in that city."

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


"The folk of Meglin...sable was their harness...
many warriors of dark countenance and lowering gaze...
a ruddy glow shone about their faces."

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

"Now the streets of Gondolin were paved with stone and wide, kerbed with marble,
and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers were set about the ways."

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



FA 316
House of Ezelondo, Gondolin
(Occurring simultaneously with
The Obstinancy of Aredhel)
ROCK BOTTOM [Part I]

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Ezelondo Mólrénë
, a minor Elf-lord of the House of the Hammer, heard the tread of many boots marching up the steps of his marble home. By the sound of it, he knew the valorous Knights of Turgon were approaching through his garden of orange roses. He maintained a calm facade, leaving his study. Despite his outward persona of a reserved, somber father he relished the the giddy euphoria sweeping through him. The Light Elf came to his columned porch and gazed at his astonished son, Morgath, now called Hatholdir Nârroval. He observed the advance of the House of the King troop with mingled revulsion and surprise or perhaps it was Aigronding Mordagnir, his nemesis, leading the company which produced the look of shock and utter loathing.


"Did you send them for them?"
Hatholdir snapped, clutching the white wrought iron of the railing. He had grown fairer and taller than Ezelondo but a ruddy glow often shone in his face when he was irate even now. His dark hair was cut shorter than most Elves favored in rebellion of societal customs and he was clad entirely in black, a color which his faction in the House of the Hammer started to array themselves in to seperate themselves from the Rog loyalists. They both had their followings.

"I could have tossed you out but I respect my chieftain than to copy him in action," came Ezelondo 's sardonic reply, lacing hands behind his back. A week ago, Rog had literally thrown Hatholdir out of the Tower of the Hammer when Ezelondo's son proclaimed himself a better smith and was finer suited to be master of the House. Hatholdir's red and gold mantlet was not the only thing he'd torn in the fall. Erindan Mordagnir and Panion Sámo had encouraged a boycott of the gifted matallurgist's work; now he was losing money at market. Only the Hammers wearing black, the grimmest and most dark of heart, would buy his wares.

Aigronding raised a gauntlet, causing the palace soldiers - a dozen of them - to pause behind him on the starway of the veranda. He was a noble and mighty Exile younger than Hatholdir. He wore gilded mail, a red cape embroidered in gold, and a white tabard emblazoned with the Sun and Moon of Turgon's royal guards.

"Have you to challenge me, Maltahtar?" Hatholdir questioned him boldly by use of his father-name, one hand resting on the grip of his axe of his belt.


"Only if you're unwise to attack me, Morgath,"
aptly replied Aigronding, also addressing him by his father-name. He motioned for the Elves and Ellyth behind him to put away their weapons which they had displayed when Hatholdir touched his axe. Aigronding, Tavari, and Arasoron had always been cautioned by their father, Erindan to: "Never start a fight but always end one." Mordagnirs didn't attack unless provoked. Usually. "I'm answering a summons from your father and mandated by order of our King." Aigronding gave Hatholdir a scroll which he snatched out of Mordagnir's hand, glaring coldly at his father. He blanched, reading the decree, then tore it with a flinty look toward Ezelondo before balling the shreds and casting them at Mordagnir's feet.

"You've destroyed the parchment however, the decision of Turgon stands," stubborn Aigronding insisted in a controlled mature voice at odds with Hatholdir's blatant childish display of temper. "If you refuse to comply, we will forcibly remove you ourselves."


"I won't let you arrest me,"
shot Hatholdir, seething, his white cheeks glowing an eerie red in his wrathful mood. That did not seem to deter Aigronding nor did the crowd of whispering Gondolindrim surrounding the estate from the broad cobblestone street of Mallengoloth Avenue. Yes, the gossip of Aigronding's arrival and Hatholdir's ignorance would surely reach every household of Gondolin by tomorrow. The feud between Hatholdir and Aigronding had infamously carried from Aman to the Hidden City.


"I am not here to arrest you, Morgath,"
Aigronding informed him icily. "I am here to make certain that you leave Ezelondo's home. You are no longer welcome here. Ezelondo has asked King Turgon to formally support him since you won't vacate the premises as your father requested."

"I am his son and heir," Hatholdir announced proudly with an arrogant lift of his chin. "It is my bloodright to abide in this manor, Maltahtar."


"I have no son or heir,"
Ezelondo proclaimed, loud enough for everyone - both knight and subject - to hear which engendered quite a few gasps from the crowd. Already several people were hurrying off, eager to share the news of Ezelondo disowning Morgath. There was no doubt it would be the talk of Fëapoldië's supper table this evening.

Hatholdir's sapphire eyes widened in outraged as he whirled on Ezelondo, nostrils flaring as he fisted his hands in rage.

"My son died at Cuiviénen," Ezelondo stiffly acknowledged in public, hearing the murmurs of astoundment from Elves. A few more bolted off, having heard enough to circulate the story. Gondolin was a small city and the King's edict reigned; no one besides Princess Aredhel could leave. Rumors traveled fast in the realm and they were discussed for a long time. "There is a stranger in my house and I want him gone!"

A lengthy silence. Broken by Aigronding who now looked mournfully at Hatholdir. "Pack your belongings. Arrange your affairs. I'll give you a week, Morgath, and will inform the King of this development."

"I want him gone this very hour," Ezelondo disagreed.

"He has a week, Nienna's mercy!" Aigronding, losing his tactful demeanor, lashed back, drawing so threateningly close that Ezelondo stumbled and pressed his back against a pillar to keep himself from falling. Aigronding gave Ezelondo a withering stare then glanced at Hatholdir who nodded awkwardly, actually muttering his thanks with a brooding countenance. "Talk to Hrango or your friends in the Hammmer-"


"I don't need your advice, Maltahtar, or your false caring!"
Hatholdir interjected with fiery vehemence, dismissing Aigronding with a wave of his hand as he would at a pesky fly. "I'll figure a way out of this sordid mess."

"Sinwa," responded Aigronding, a Quenya word meaning known and certain and ascertained. He shook his head ruefully and led the royal guards of the King's House back to Turgon's palace. When they left, the crowd dispersed. Meanwhile, Ezelondo heaved a heavy sigh then smiled a grin of absolute triumph, looking like a heroric warrior who just received a medal. "The murder of Lairadess has been avenged. I can end your life without taking it with my spear." He turned and walked away but halted when Hatholdir spoke.


"No. It was Morgoth who killed your wife, my mother."


Sneering, Ezelondo turned again and drew closer, like a wounded by very dangerous panther.

"I slew a monster bred to birth monsters. You saw the agony in her face and the pain in her eyes in that Orc-fort we stormed in Ard-galen." Hatholdir choked back a sob, tears streaming down his square jaw as he tried to sustain his composure although his hatred of Ezelondo and the longing for his mother registered on his chiseled face. "I took the ghastly head of that leering Orc captain then I slid my dagger into her belly once I finished stabbing the wee grey devil I ripped from her breast. She thanked me in earnest gratitude and I know you heard it." He gave his quietly crying father a smug grin. "It was me who she loved more in her final moments while you wept bitterly in denial of what she had become, old man." He grabbed Ezelondo and slammed him against the pillar. "I saved her miserable soul," Hatholdir said in a rough, husky voice as he struck the back of Ezelondo's head against the column once, "while you neglected to make that hard choice and in the end you still failed your oath to protect her," he railed on, spittle flying from his mouth. "So who's the better man, father?" He chuckled darkly when Ezelondo shoved him away and spat in his face.

Ezelondo walked woodenly in defeat to the door and wrenched it open. He gave a final look at Hatholdir who was sweating. He trembled in exultation and resentment, a rictus of mad glee contorting his mouth. Ezelondo brushed the stinging tears from his face and slammed the door shut.



"But of those unhappy ones who were ensared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the
living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor?
Yet this is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into hands of Melkor,
ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved;
and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they
were afterwards the bitterest foes. For the Orcs had life and multiplied after the Children of Ilúvatar;
and naught that had life of its own, nor the semblance of life, could ever Melkor make since his rebellion
in the Ainulindalë before the Beginning: so say the wise. And deep in their hearts the Orcs
loathed the Master whom they served in fear, the maker only of their misery. This it may
be was the vilest deed of Melkor, and the most hateful to Ilúvatar."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion:
Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor
Last edited by Eriol on Thu Jun 25, 2020 1:46 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Therefore [Thingol] withdrew all his people that his summons could reach within the fastness of Neldoreth and Region, and Melian put forth her power and fenced all that dominion round about with an unseen wail of shadow and bewilderment: the Girdle of Melian, that none thereafter could pass against her will or the will of King Thingol, unless one should come with a power greater than that of Melian the Maia. And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath, the guarded kingdom, Land of the Girdle. Within it there was yet a watchful peace; but without there was peril and great fear, and the servants of Morgoth roamed at will, save in the walled havens of the Falas.

- Of the Sindar, The Silmarillion


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Elu Thingol, King of Doriath
Menegroth, Doriath, 455 FA (before the Bragollach)



The chamber was an utter world. It breathed, the shadows crowding in only to shrink away, beneath a constellation of glittering, golden lanterns. He stood thrall to the wonder, drinking of the kingdom’s simple, convoluted strength. Oft the Sinda King found himself here, alone amidst the assembly of a thousand hearts. A hundred thousand thoughts. The carven beasts each reminiscent of those skilled hands who had wrought them unto almost life. The birdsong which fell from the perfectly gnarled boughs aloft, ever always, and never the same song more than once. For what had been once would never be again. This much he knew, this much he grieved. And doused in the delight of all that was about him, Elu Thingol strove against his better judgement. Alone and not so very much at all. His entire world rubbed at his alabaster temple. His entire hope and faith hung from the vainest thread of his most stubborn heartstring.

A single sheet of parchment had been crumpled, balled, and smoothed out by his trembling fingers a thousand times in the last hour. Now he laid it as a shroud upon the laughing fountain and observed the way that spurts of water punched and buffeted the words away to naught. Would that a true resolution might equally present some solution to his trying, tiresome debate.

They knew by now. Eyes were forever watchful. Ears keen. Minds swift. The entire kingdom was waiting since news of a summons, from Fingolfin, the High King of the hubristic Noldor. It would require some answer, and the possibilities clove at him all at once to be selected. Forget that to be ‘summoned’ at all, was an assault against his own immodest character. He was held for all those he had sworn to safeguard, and a single voice, his voice, must herd their needs and wants toward some coalition.

It was not by want that any ruled, but will. And the weight of the utter world dependent. Doriath, Beleriand for that, expected of him. And he could not disappoint. He would not compromise. He must not falter.




The Sindar King's address
Throne Room, Menegroth



Elu Thingol found his throne already flanked by the seats of his lofty Queen and their exalted daughter. He found the eyes of all who looked to him to make decision. There was no doubt amidst any who had known him long that he would sure refuse the invitation. So he took his place betwixt the two empresses of his heart, strengthened by their presence. Inspired by his love for them, for all the children who abided within his realm. Prepared to be parent to his people. They had followed him thus long, thus far.

The Noldor Princes wish to tempt their fates by baiting the abhorred foe of us all.Greycloak began with the honest demeanour his people had come to know of him. No easing in, no gentle elegance, but sheer truth of the matter. “They do not speak for all, oft as they may forget this simple truth. Their bold words and wrathful pledges will visit a consequence upon all in equal kind however.” The notion that a gathering at all, of so many prestigious Eldar was unlikely to be managed without note by Melkor, was at the back of his mind.


I hold no need to journey out to Hithlum in order to understand the intent of the Noldor. It has ever been made plain by the banners of conflict which they wield, the promise of glory and of justice they pronounce. Endless is their arrogance, and naïve is their ambition. I shall not be a party to the foolishness of overprivileged princes. My heart is for the people of this land, all this true land, by which I count all Sindar in all Beleriand, those who yet wander free, as much as those who are come here. And I would not have a single one pressed into a conflict not of their making, nor against their will.

The lore of Thingol’s own past was no secret, all here gathered knew that their King had once led Elves to war against the Enemy. They had been counted then victorious, but the cost of such had been that he would not recklessly look now to repeat. And what purpose had the sacrifice afforded in the long run ? The Lord of Shadows still retained his unholy presence as skulking neighbour, irrespective of all those Immortal lives wasted, lost. If Denethor of the Nandor stood here now in the halls of Menegroth, what might he speak to any who would count his death a worthwhile waste ?


It is not in our nature to behave as those which we condemn,Thingol wavered not, though his mind’s eye now conceived of his old friend sat in the front row of his assembly. How many more friends, how many more lives .. ? None, was the only resounding argument of sense.

The monsters, the demons, the nefarious wraiths of the world. They live to kill. But I say to you that our thought ought be of life. Of glad preservation in the face of cruel annihilation. Let survival be our standard, and existence be our sword. For by living our lives do we the most harm to our foe. I will hurl no light of Elvendom at the wall of Thangorodrim. I will see no fair thing diminish. For here we can abide in endless incandescense. The Valar have forsaken the Noldor, yes, for their senseless delusions of grandeur, and yet we are blessed, by the same powers which they fail to recognise. Our Queen,” It was beyond the Calaquendi, the only Sindarin Calaquendi, to not seek out the eyes of his goddess, as lips shaped her name upon this earth. “My esteemed Melian, has shown us the true way,” he awarded his love due credit. For she was truly all that he drew hope of. And their daughter the want to provide that fair example, for the future. For her future.


So. We shall not fall to the demands of our neighbours. This said,” the King of Doriath raised high a single hand to thwart any upheaval in the assembly before him. “Pleas have been expressed on the behalf of our Kin. For the folk of Lord Cirdan who abide yet about the coastland, and those as roam in the free woods and hills of our homeland. For those also of our royal blood; Angrod, and Aegnor, and Felagund.

The King sought here for the unique shimmer of Galadriel, unsure whether the sister of those named, his kinswoman herself, had chose at this time to be privy to his Wife’s majestic company, or that of her brother’s halls out at Nargothrond. “I would have it known to them,” he chased his final proclamation toward a conclusion, “and to all of the Sindar that they shall be granted sanctuary. Here. Where the shadow reaches not. The folk of Dorthonion shall be made welcome, alike to those, all who are of Sindar and would seek salvation. Let those who we might save be saved. That the very want for battle be needless.


The notion was not alien, that if the real concerns, the vulnerability of Angrod and Aegnor’s had not found the ear, the mind, of Fingolfin, then that ‘High King’ might never had put thought to calling his Council of Lords at this time.

One of you shall convey this sincerest promise,Thingol put his faith in those whom heard him. Well aware of his own duties to Doriath, he would not tarry as had the Noldor far from their forts and from their responsibilities. “Tell those gathered unto the Noldorin Council that the Guarded Realm shall provide a resolution without riot. For the glory of the Valar be clear in the works of our Queen. In the cloisters of our kingdom which no threat of darkness may ever diminish. Let any who should seek to tear me from my lady’s side, for e’en a council of small minds, know. I have heard the baying cries of the Noldor Princes. And Thingol is unmoved. Save for his folk. Those with Sinda blood are hereby afforded choice. All else be damned regardless.


GM APPROVED PROMPT :
For Mablung and/or Beleg, and any other who wishes to accompany them to attend the Council of Lords .. (they may indeed require some Marchwarden’s swords at their back, in order to deliver this bold message to Hithlum !)

The word of the Sinda King is that any of the Grey Elves/Sindar who so wish, need not be pressed into war with Morgoth. Not by any presumed threat to their lives if they do not act. They are welcome to find peace in Doriath as an alternative.

That the Noldorin Kings of Dorthonion (Angrod, Aegnor, and Finrod Felagund) who share their blood with Thingol, and who have spent time within his realm and spoken honestly of their murderous cohorts, are also welcome to find sanctuary in the protected wood. Rather than dare to meet Morgoth in blood-soaked battle that shall see them all corrupted.

For Thingol trusts that the Girdle of Melian shall protect all those who hold true still to the faith of the almighty Valar. And that all those Kinslayers and oathswearers who have turned from that strength are already doomed. As are any fool enough to follow them !
Last edited by Ercassie on Thu Aug 13, 2020 9:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Thangorodrim, the Nethermost Hall. FA 455.
For a charm of pow'rful trouble.


Glaurung’s black eyes were closed as he lay curled near the foot of Melkor’s iron throne, jaw resting along his forelegs and forefeet, past the wickedly curved claws, until his snout came to rest on the cold stone of the floor. His tail, from the thick base tapering to a snub point, curved around his hindlimbs as a fox sheltering from the cold. But Glaurung was no fox, and needed no furry brush to find comfort in the Nethermost Hall. The thousands of fires reflected their inconstant light in the gleam-gold of his scales, reflections of the flames a shifting mirror in the great dragon’s skin, causing he himself to seem inconstant, blurred, as if he might at any moment vanish, or burst into flame. Perched atop the elbow of Glaurung’s folded foreleg, crooning towards his ear and stroking his golden scales, was Thuringwethil, wrapped as ever in gossamer grey sateen. The Lady of Vampires snuggled closer to the drake’s side as she felt Sauron’s gaze upon her, allowing her dark eyes to flick over him dismissively. The little cloud of bats that swirled about her everywhere drew closer and hissed as Thuringwethil’s tempter flared. “Don’t worry, my darlings,” she hissed to them, “We shall find a way for you to taste that spiderling.” The breath of her pet, the fire-drake, vibrated beneath her in a stentorian purr. Removing her thoughts from Sauron and his insect, she laid her eyes upon Melkor.

Nearer to the entrance of the hall stood Ziltang, behind Sauron, fully head and shoulders taller than Melkor’s lieutenant, in the form of a massive orc. His eyes were red and glittering, his body hugely muscled, and if he had as a maia a name before being clothed in orcish flesh, it was lost. He was the chiefest of boldogs, and his past before Melkor had led him to this destiny was of no concern. Before Ziltang could greet Sauron, the Elder King began to speak, and it was more than any being’s life was worth to interrupt or be seen to speak at the same time. The orders were what he had long anticipated: at last, the command to lay waste to the houses of the Noldor and all who allied themselves with them; to raze, ravage, raid, and destroy. Ziltang’s innards churned with fiendish delight, and an involuntary growl of pleasure escaped him. And in the aftermath of this destruction, no doubt, there would be new subjects for the experiments with which he had been tasked... Melkor had always allowed him to choose the she-elves from amongst those they had conquered.

Nearer still to the entrance of the hall, hidden in the shadow of a craggen jut of wall, all along had sat Draugluin. Huge, hulking, and utterly silent as he listened, his coarse fur so blue as to be almost black. He had sat, listening, concealed and all-seeing. The petty politics between the other servants of Melkor were of little consequence to Draugluin: his purpose was to serve, to kill, and to propogate new servants for the Dark Lord. He watched his child at the heel of Sauron, impassive as he rebuked her. She would learn, one way or another, either to do what he wished, to become greater than he, or perish in the attempt. Draugluin cared little which. As quietly as he had watched he arose, padding on huge silent feet toward the pair. His hearing was keen, and Sauron’s musical voice came to him easily over the throng, professing a need to find the Father of all Werewolves. Draugluin did not need his keen hearing to discern Narúcima’s howl. He intruded himself upon their presence, bulking large between the she-were and Sauron as he rasped to the pup, “Silence.” There was no need for Draugluin to raise his voice: the rumble that issued from his chest and formed itself in words was awe enough for most. He turned his head to Sauron, eyes nearly on a level with those of the Lieutenant of Angband. “Speak your plans, Mairon.”

Among the rest, Glaurung rose to his feet, the impact of each limb striking the ground causing the floor of the Nethermost Hall to tremble. Thuringwethil had slid from his leg, allowing the bat-fell to creep over her so that he lovely elfin face sharpened and haggared, her limbs lengthened, the end of each fingers sprouting the wicked iron claws that had eviscerated so many elves, and the great black leathery wings to erupt from her back. Thrusting herself into the air by the power of these, she swooped around Glaurung’s face. “I shall rouse my vampires, my love, and we will with you to the east! Let us show these fools what you now may do!” With a screeching cry, Thuringwethil sped aloft from the hall, echoed by her swirl of bats. Glaurung’s voice, deeper than the deepest bark of balrog or boldog, an earth-rending, world-creation sound that shook the very foundations of Thangorodrim with its unearthly basso resonance, sounded but once. “MIIIIIISTREEEEESSSS.” Ponderously, he turned his bulk to maneuver from the hall. The tunnels beneath this fortress were no place for such a beast as he, and he yearned to feel the sting of daylight upon his eyes, taste the flesh of elves, and hear their soothing screams.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
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Daeron, Throne Room, Menegroth; the King's Address

Daeron was seated near the throne, as ever - near enough to reach out and touch it. Upon the deep carven steps was a small cushioned seat reserved for the King's Minstrel; ever-present throughout even the deepest councils, for matters of import require a recorder. And though it might be thought strange, all musicians know how, and when, best to be silent.

His King was thinking.

Though resolve was firm in Thingol's face, Daeron had watched him oft enough to know how his Lord had struggled with his thoughts before his speech. Something close to sympathy twisted his lips, wryly. Though Elves might covet Greycloak's glory, his kingdom - his Queen - Daeron's eyes slid to the other thrones, and lingered - he understood full well Kingship was a weight full well as a wonder.

It was not a decision Daeron would have liked to make. Hidden, safe, privileged within their jewelled halls, encircled by the enchanted Girdle, Thingol's folk would never have to face the harsh realities of War. Their younglings would practise the blade without ever having to wield against a true foe. The beauties of the Realm would be preserved, whilst outside - outside, their distant kindred would fight and die and scream their defiance against the One Enemy.

And yet, there were enemies amongst those Elves too. The glitter in Elwe's eyes told the truth. He had not forgotten the Kinslaying, nor would he. Daeron himself, in the bitterness of the news that had filtered, whisper by whisper, into Doriath, had immortalised it a song not-oft sung. Thingol needed no poetry to remember that deed. Perilous enemies indeed, and their memories, too, were long.

War often gives birth to song. In the clashing of blades is the seed of ballads. When the battle is done, and the last sighs have slipped from the lips of the fallen, the minstrels come, with the birds, to pick over their flesh; to categorise who died where, and who fought whom; what glories claimed and wounds sustained; and with this dead clay they fashion, with the art immortal, the tapestry for their listeners. Remember.

But Daeron nonetheless did not long for war. He was an Elf who dreamed of love; his hands suited to strings, not swords;

but like anyone else in that Hall, though his King in his wisdom did not yet bid it,
he would have died for Doriath.
cave anserem
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FA 316
(Occurring with
The Obstinancy of Aredhel)
The King's Palace
FOUNTAIN GIRLS

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"I thought you were supposed to guard the fountains,
not swim in them, ninya moina...."

"You should see the other girl" -
- Aimira Mordagnir and Aerlinn,
from Discord Messaging between
@Aerlinn and Aigronding



I get a little bit bigger but then I'll admit
I'm just the same as I was
Now don't you understand
I'm never changing who I am

- Imagine Dragons, It's Time


The greatest edifice of Gondolin was the palace of King Turgon. Its tower, tall and strong, was the loftiest in the hidden city and the shining fountains that played before the doors burst twenty-seven fathoms - one hundred and sixty feet - and fell returning to their deep basins in crystalline music; in the wide great bowls did the sun glitter splendidly by day and the moon shimmering magically by night.


(
Paraphrased from Tolkien's Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin)

Ilmalaurië Vaina, Hrango's leggy golden-haired sister, was sworn to Chieftain Ecthelion's house and was a guard of the palace fountains. She reported for duty to relieve Aerlinn - the ward of Erindan Mordagnir, a fellow flutist, and Ilmalaurië's friend. She was armored in silver mail and a white cape emblazoned with droplets of water in the image of a fountain. Her sword - Niscaelen, long and bright and pale - was held within a silver scabbard bejeweled with clear diamonds. A silver and blue diamond circlet adorned her brow. She was dressed for business but she only had play on her mind.

She was a grown adult but merry as a child. Filling a pail of water from the fountain with a crooked grin, she watched Aerlinn playing a sweet Maglorian theme of summer on her glass flute with her back unfortunately turned. Ilmalaurië, restraining wicked laughter, snuck up on her friend with the grace of the Eldar, brown luminous eyes glowing brighter with the thrill of mischief. She was aware of spectators on their way to court but giving pause when they noticed her creeping towards Aerlinn. She pressed a finger to her lips, silencing the giggling Elf-children and their chuckling parents . "IT SURE IS A WARM DAY, LINNY!" With unbridled laughter, she showered Aerlinn with the water sloshing out of the pail she upended over her friend's ebony hair. As the crowd cheered her antics and encouraged Aerlinn to retaliate, Ilmalaurië blew a kiss at her brother and Hatholdir who were both grinning at her while they drew closer to the palace.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Eilinel the White

FA 452, Spring
A Homestead, somewhere in Dorthinion

The first rays of dawn where just peeking into the house as Eilinel stirred to wakefulness. Smiling, she stretched, and her fingertips brushed against Gorlim's sleeping form. She rolled onto her side, eyes softly caressing the expanse of his forehead, the length of his nose, the peaceful curl of his lips.

How have I been so blessed? she wondered, heart nearly aching with its fullness. She could happily lie there till the sun was high in the sky and Gorlim finally stirred with wakefulness, but instead she rolled out of the bed and pulled on a robe, bending over to press kiss to Gorlim's forehead.

Some mornings, she was learning, he easily awoke, snagging her wrist and pulling her back into bed with a teasing growl as he kissed down her neck, then back up to her mouth. But many mornings, like this one, he didn't even stir. That was probably for the best. Otherwise, there would be far too many days when the chickens didn't get let out and the cow didn't get milked.

Once she'd dressed, washed her face, and brushed and braided her hair, she quietly slipped out the door. On the stoop, she took moment to breath in the frosty, pine-scented air that settled in from the mountains each morning. It looked like it would be a clear, sunny day.

Winter was loosing its hold on the valley. They would need to plant the garden soon, and start clearing out the last of their winter stores.

Humming a little ditty, Eilinel retrieved the milking pail that had been scrubbed clean the night before, and skipped her way down to the livestock pens. There was a cow to milk and eggs to gather for breakfast.
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Westmark Éored

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FA 316
(Occurring with
The Obstinancy of Aredhel)
The King's Palace
ROCK BOTTOM (Part II)


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"You're welcome to join their fun," Hatholdir allowed Hrango, noticing the wistful look he gave his sister and Aerlinn. They were walking through the courts of the king where the exquisite silver and golden effigies of Belthil and Glingal gleamed in splendor where they stood in the glory of the sun. Hrango - a tall Vanya-Noldo Elf with a shaved head (he claimed it was a nuisance in his line of work) and a powerful, hard-bodied physique - had been his best friend and protector since childhood.

They journeyed from Cuiviénen to the Falas through much hardship. He was an honorable High Elf sworn to the House of the Hammer of Wrath, an escaped slave of Angband who led many thralls out of hell back to Nevrast during the Siege.
He was a frightening warrior, a talented smith, and one of Rog's greatest miners. Hrango was mute and not by choice. His tongue (and his teeth) had been taken from him in Angband prior to his flight; many Orcs perished in their attempt to subdue and harness him to execute the torture. He spoke with his hands; most of the signs he formed were derived from igleshmêk, hand signals of the Dwarves, but another mode he also used to communicate mólanoldorin, the language of Elves whom Morgoth enslaved. Although he had not been captured in his tenure as a soldier, Hatholdir could understand everything Hrango said with his slave hand-talk because his friend had taught him it well for centuries.

The last time Hatholdir heard Hrango speak was at Echaddam, Camp Hammer, in Ard-galen on the eve he would lead an attack against an Orc stronghold with Rog which ultimately cost many lives. "Nyëmel le*," Hrango had spoken with his deep voice, gripping Hatholdir by his shoulders, and kissed him. "Ninya háno va eces ammë.*" To this day, Hatholdir still wish he hadn't remained behind to supervise the Hammer base; he believed that if Rog had only agreed to pass command to Herontortha instead then Hatholdir would have been able to save Hrango from his captors or at least could have suffered torment with him in Angband. He still blamed Rog for Hrango's mutilation.

- Then who would keep you out of trouble ? - asked Hrango with a expansive waving motion over the horizon indicating passersby, a kneading pressure of his hands, and a shrug of his broad shoulders. Hrango tried his best to be Hatholdir's moral compass but that became more difficult as his friend's morality continued its passage of decay.

Hatholdir and Hrango walked along the white stairs leading to the doors of the tower and saw two knights of the House of the King. Aigronding who would perhaps cooly begrudge him admittance was not there nor was Fareglín the Mad, his unstable but deadly friend who would have given these two Hammers a hard time.


Hatholdir smiled and opened his mouth to warmly say hello but the knights brandished their swords in an instant.

"Varda's stars!" exclaimed Hatholdir in startlement and great indignation. "Is this how the House of the King treats every guest to the throne?" he demanded. "I tried to be nice," he assured himself silently.

"Just traitors!" The left Elf spoke, giving the air between himself and Hatholdir a jab.

"We're no traitors!" Hatholdir shot back. "You point those blades someplace else," Hatholdir warned with narrowed gaze of his sapphire eyes, his face lighting redly in his anger. "It's no crime to speak one's mind." He folded his brawny arms. "I've defended our people and built this city. My friend, Hrango, here -" he nodded at the huge glowering Elf "- sacrificed pieces of himself to save his comrades and risked his life in the tunnels of Echoriath so you could stand here today in your shiny uniforms at this pretty tower. So show us some respect. We've earned it."


A tense silence. The guards' stony expession dwindled suddenly, looking beyond the offended Hammers. Hatholdir, irritated, turned around. A slow grin broadened his lips, knowing his rescuer arrived. Her golden hair was soaked but looking winsome anyhow and fairer than the sun, came Ilmalaurië to the doors in her wet glistening silver mail.


"Is there a problem, soldiers?"
she asked with no air of hostility, radiating joy with her beautiful smile and coruscating eyes.

"They can't be here," answered the Elf on the right when he could find his voice, dazzled by her loveliness.

"Oh," replied Ilmalaurië, jerking her head back in mock astonishment. She tilted it thoughtfully a second later and cocked one flaxen brow. "Did the King tell you that?"


The sentries looked at each other awkwardly before stuttering no.

Ilmalaurië gasped. "Is there a punishment for doing what you want?"

The blushing guards said nothing, mouths moving speechlessly.


"The King is holding Open Court for all and any in the city to find audience with his ear to their requests and their requirements," addressed Ilmalaurië now reading from a sodden scroll which had been dry when it was delivered to Rúsëa's house earlier of course. "Any Elf, be he or she, or small, poor, rich or tall, noble, modest or otherwise known, would be heard with the same due regard." She showed them the fading runes proclaiming this message of Turgon's to the populace. "Since neither of you have been told not to let my brother and his friend into the king's tower, you'll have to permit them entry." Ilmalaurië heaved a heavy sigh. "It would be be a shame if a little bird told the king you weren't performing your duty. A far greater shame if i was to somehow forget the dances I'm saving you two at the Rose Tavern..."


The knights returned their swords to scabbards and opened the doors of the tower.

"Don't say I don't do anything for you!" said Ilmalaurië to Hatholdir and Hrango. She grinned wryly at them and kissed their cheeks. She told them to behave and dashed back to her post.


*([i]"Nyëmel le. Ninya háno va eces ammë," [/i]Quenya - "I love you. My brother from another mother.")
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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FA 455
The Nethermost Hall, Angband
The Abjurers

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"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; and others
he corrupted afterwards to his service with lies and treacherous gifts.
Dreadful among these spirits were the Valaraukar, the scourges of fire
that in Middle-earth were called the Balrogs, demons of terror."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Valaquenta

"Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, high-captain of Angband, was come..."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Fifth Battle - Nirnaeth Arnoediad

"For 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,
though they were grater and more terrible. Thus it was that the histories
speak of Great Orcs or Orc-captains who were not slain, and who
reappared in battle through years far longer than the
span of the lives of Men....
the Orc-formed Maiar, only less formidable than the Balrogs."

- Tolkien, The War of the Jewels: Myths Transformed


"Wolves there were and ravening dogs and great weasels full of
the thirst for blood whose nostrils could take scent moons old
through running water, or whose eyes find among shingle
footsteps that have passed a lifetime since...."

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


Far in the North underneath the stony hills of vast and barren Dor Daedeloth, an icy wind moaned through the sunless black caverns with a moaning sound. The travelling black vapor spiralled into the fire-lit nethermost hall and slowly coalesced into the svelte form of a darkly beautiful, voluptuous woman wearing a snug black gown despite the arctic cold. Eris, she was. A fallen Maia of Manwë's sylph-like manír spirits.

In her wake followed a hulking Orc twice the size of a mortal being, a vorpal spear of broad length clutched in his huge gauntlet. He was armored in ebony steel and his red eyes were flaming orange. He seized Eris in a violent grip and stooped to kiss her soundly but she blasted him down with a terrible gust of power which drove him down. The Orckish demon materialized in iridescent motes of light into a trim, black-clad bearded man of divine handsomeness. He chuckled wickedly, gazing at her from the floor where she put him on his back. Eris hated it when her husband kissed her in monstrous raiment. Kratos was he, a Maia hunter once in the company of Oromë. He was seduced to the allegiance of Melkor and became a demon before the Battle of the Powers as had Eris .

Down the labyrinthine stairs slowly walked a slender and melancholy woman of ethereal beauty, holding a black rose. She cast back the velvet and fur cowling of her green hooded dress, freeing cascades of golden curls. Her name was Filrain, a traitorous dryad who was once a Maia acolyte of Yavanna whom she betrayed in the days of Almaren's fall. Melkor drew her to his side with promises of giving her the dominion of the earth, its verdant pastures and emerald forests. She would have the rulership of every beast and every bird and everything that creeped and slithered and swam. He vowed to her that she would usurp Yavanna and make Aulë her own consort. His lies were convincing. She aided Melkor and accepted him as her king. She gave all her might, withering green things and making rivers slimy. Flowers rotted or became poisonous and fens became haunts of flies. Bright forests darkened at her command and innocent animals were transformed into hideous creatures of fell malevolence. And still she had not been given what Melkor swore but she held onto the glimmering shred of hope he had given her. She sullied what he wanted and she killed whoever his enemy was.

Next came the Great Weasel, bounding dare the carven steps of hell with a gleeful merriment and nuzzled Filrain's leg, wagging his long tail in excitement. He was one of many but the best of all them. A huge bloodthirsty weasel of Angband possessing keen sight and could smell old scents yea even through water. Thuringwethil had used Weasel in the last war and again he would serve any demon for sweet meats.

The best was saved for last. The Nethermost Hall was bathed with the fearsome radiance of a titanic inferno as two raging flames bound in a cyclone of shadow appeared from the ether: Valaraukar, the Balrogs. One was taller and mightier than the other. He was armored in golden-red steel plate enrobed with fiery tendrils endlessly snaking around him in sinuous shifting movements. Bearing a gigantic black axe in one mailed hand and a smoldering thong of fire in his other, Gothmog - Lord of Balrogs and the High Captain of Angband - strode to the throne of Melkor, causing the ground to tremble with the heavy tread of his feet.

"Gothmog, thou are to drive Fingolfin and his ilk from my lands!" Melkor ordered as Gothmog advanced, his eyes burning like living rubies through his glowing adamantine helmet which fully concealed his grotesque obsidian face. "They are at our flanks, and poseth the greatest threat to my plan," Melkor divulged. "Drive them unto the Ered Wethrin, and there let those maggots starve in despair as the rest of Beleriand falls under my feet!

- I WILL KILL FINGOLFIN AND RAZE DOWN HIS MOUNTAIN FORTS, YOUR MAJESTY - Gothmog affirmed richly in a rumbling baritone voice resonating from his helmet, making the vaulted ceiling and cavern walls shake. - BUT HE WILL BE EASY PREY! IT IS THE PRINCE I WANT! IT IS THE PALADIN I AM LONGING TO CHALLENGE - Gothmog swung his gargantuan frame, turning to face his lieutenants. - WHERE. IS. FINNGONNN -He demanded with a blaring timbre, striking the floor of hell with a lash of his flaming whip, scaring Weasel into terrorized squeaks. Thuringwethil had spoke of Fingon's prowess. For years, Gothmog had waited for his epic duel with the Valiant.

"Hithlum, milord, most notably the Wethrin Mountains where Melkor is dispatching you," Eris assured him. "Shytha - my dear sister - and I will go there with you."

"I will assume my Boldog guise and help you lead the assault on the House of Fingolfin,"
Kratos volunteered.

- I ACCEPT YOUR LOYALTY, SUBALTERNS! LEAVE FINGON TO ME -[/size] His blazing stare met Filrain's earnest gaze as she took a bold step toward him, offering her leadership. The behemoth that was Gothmog observed her but not quietly, his breathing heavy and mechanical and steaming smoky bands of fog through which his bloodshine pupiless eyes penetrated. Could he trust her? - GO WITH THE DRAGON TO LOTHLANN AND THE GAP -" he roared, flinging his massive arm toward Glaurung. - I WILL UNLEASH THE FULL MIGHT OF THE ORC IN THIS CAMPAIGN - he warned her in this vibrant voice ringing like an iron alarum bell. - MULTITUDES OF WHICH THE NOLDOR HAVE NEVER SEEN AND YOU WILL GIVE YOUR DIVISION FIREBRANDS TO SCORCH EAST BELERIAND BEYOND THE GELION -

Filrain held his gaze steadily, nodding in silence. Committed to ruining what she held dear again.

Gothmog sheathed his weapons and reached Glaurung in haste. He cradled his leathery snout fondly. - OUR BLAZING PET - he crooned, his stentorian voice dropping low like the softness of summer thunder, stroking the dragon's rough hide. - THE DRYAD WILL MARCH WITH YOU. WIPE OUT THE RIDERS OF THE WIDE AND EMPTY THEN BREACH THE GAP OF THE HARPER WHERE YOU WILL RAVAGE HIS SMELLY PURPLE FIELDS - said Gothmog, expounding on Melkor's edict. He lowered his evil hands and the High Captain regarded Sauron, his co-equal next. - TAKE THE PHANTASMS AND HORRIFY THE MEN OF DORTHONION AS YOU DARKEN ITS HALLS AND SLAY THE DEFENDERS. I WILL LOOSE THE BALROGS ON ELFINESSE AND GIVE YOU THE FINEST ONE WE HAVE -

Gothmog walked with a sorrowful yet noble carriage to stand before Konrauko who had always been like a brother to him. He felt a heavy sadness in his cauldron heart as they gazed intimately at each other. - I WILL MISS YOU - Gothmog confided in an august sonorous tone, grasping Konrauko's bulky limb in comradeship. WILL YOU MISS ME - He asked, in a soul-stirring basso profondo which accentuated the largeness of his compelling request and the welling of profound emotions he was experiencing.

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Last edited by Eriol on Fri Jun 26, 2020 3:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Galadriel
Menegroth, Doriath, 455 FA
The Sindar King's address,Throne Room, Menegroth


The dooms of Artanis, called Galadriel, were twofold, and as she stood in the great throne room of Menegroth, they weighed heavy on her.

Second and latest had come the Doom of Mandos, that chained her to the shadowed and troubled lands of Middle Earth which she had so desired. It was pride, perhaps, which had brought her to that doom. When kin had slain kin at Alqualondë, Galadriel at first held back, loath to take up arms against any of her people. But it had been with the Teleri that she fought at last. It had seemed right to her, to stand in defense of their bright boats and their kingdom by the sea, where she had often walked barefooted as a maid and sung to the surf until Ossë himself came up to listen.

The wrongs done there festered like a thorn in Galadriel’s heart, and the world would be made new before she forgave the sons of Fëanor for their treatment of her mother’s kin. Yet when the Noldor pressed on she had not left their ranks, not even as her own father, Finarfin, turned aside. She stayed the course for love of her brothers—of Finrod, first and foremost—and for love of her people, who remained mired in the lies told them both by Morgoth and by flame-hearted Fëanor. She went too, in hopes of sating her longing for shadowed lands unseen; for wide ranges of mountains ungoverned; for sleeping things prepared in the dark ages of the world by Yavanna, which had yet to grow into their fullness and which no eye had beheld. So for the sake of love and desire, Galadriel of the Noldor chose Mandos’ doom and exiled herself from the Blessed Lands, perhaps forever.

But before this doom there had been another, and that not laid on her by injunction of the Valar, but by her own nature. Of many peoples was Galadriel, Finarfin’s daughter—of the Vanyar and the Teleri and the Noldor, and in her were many natures blended. It was her fate to see clearly as a result, and she had marked how the poison of pride and haste spread through the Noldor in Valinor, a wicked spark fanned into flame by Morgoth’s treacherous words. She was not indifferent to pride herself, but could see it in her own heart as she saw it in others, and so work to vanquish it. Galadriel knew well, as Fëanor had not, that there could be no mastery of evil without, unless one first had the mastery of it within.

It was to this end that Galadriel had chosen the halls of King Elu Thingol and Melian his wife for her dwelling. Though her brothers and her kin were quick to establish kingdoms of their own, and though the desire for a land to order and rule and make fair still rested within Galadriel, she would not make haste. Bitterness and pride and anger still rested within her, and until she had the mastery of them, she would wait. As a queen goes, so goes her people, and Galadriel would bide her time until she was leeched of these faults. Until she shone nigh as powerful and bright as Melian the Maiar herself, with whom she often spoke of the Blessed Lands, and took great comfort from.

So Galadriel, fairest of the Noldor, stood and listened as Thingol refused to lend his wisdom or strength of arms to the coming war. Rather he chose to hide behind his wife’s artful wards until Morgoth the Destroyer laid waste to the world yet again and spilled the blood of Galadriel’s kin. And though in her heart, Galadriel the Golden longed to go forth and join her brothers, and to add her voice to the counsel of her noble kin, yet she chose peace, too. She would not set herself against darkness until she had the mastery of herself, and was filled with imperishable light. That battle, Galadriel feared, would still be long years in the waging.

Yet she fought on from the rising to the setting of the sun each day, and contented herself with the hope that when, at last, she rose to take her place and her power, she would be all the stronger and the brighter for having sought to govern herself before any other.



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First fires of the Dagor Bragollach
from the fortresses of Aglon

The final hammerstroke fell near the edge of the arrowhead just as steel faded from red to grey, and Celebrimbor felt the rightness of it in his bones. It did nothing to uplift his mood.

In the valley below a circlet of braided silver was abandoned beside uncut stones of emerald and sapphire. A half-wrought lantern waited on the right side of his workbench. The setting of a ring that he had tapped and tinkered a hundred times sat, still in a mold, not quite right. And in the same place, his father, as proud and cold as deep winter.

"I am not your servant."

"Ah, sir?"

Celebrimbor spun and pinned the forge's remaining apprentice with eyes of burning steel. "Get out! he snapped, and the eager youngling fled to join his fellows, who had been less brave. Curufin's son slammed the cooling tongs onto a table and stared into the lowering fires, suddenly loathe at being left alone. Every facet of his skill, every strike of his craft had been taught to him by his father and grandfather--but one was lost forever and the other now looked on him only in judgement, or command. He wished he was still the height of Curufin's waist, that he could gaze up at the towering figure of his father in unabashed awe and adoration. He made such magical things with his hands, and in his face, he thought, had been joy.

The flames began to gutter, flickering palely against the growing darkness. Celebrimbor cast a disgusted look at the pile of arrowheads waiting at the grinding wheel and stalked out into the night. The forge fires died.

~~~

Outside, the Pass of Aglon was chill and silent. Starlight reflected off the snow with a shine, perhaps, to be caught inside a jewel. Celebrimbor scaled one of the narrow trails that had been carved into the mountain and his breath turned to ghosts before him.


Far away, something glinted red.

Celebrimbor thought of angry words, and old places, and of hands over his, guiding the fall of small hammer on iron.

The red grew, spreading eastward, then tinting angry scarlet and black against the blanket of snow covering the plains.

He was running before he fully understood why. He flew down the path and through the walls of the highest fortress to the stables, only stopping a moment to cry out to the guard on the ramparts. "Awake! Awake! The north glows red! Fell fire in Lothlann! Awake!"

Then he vaulted onto his horse, and they passed through the canyon like wind and down into the river valley of Himlad. He left the great stallion in the castle courtyard and came upon his father's rooms with heaving chest and wide eyes.

"Atar! Father! There are great flames afar in Lothlann! I fear evil comes upon the plains. Father!"
Last edited by Yávië on Tue Jul 07, 2020 3:01 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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FA 455
Attending Thingol's speech


Niphred leaned on one of the many pillars within the large throne room, as he tends to lean on things. His left shoulder pressed into while his right leg stood straight, supporting his weight, and his left foot lazily hooked around his right. His arms were crossed and his head tilted against the pillar as well. King Thingol had gained Niphred's respect, however Niphred still saw the need for violence to solve issues. Though Doriath appeared safe under Queen Melian's magic, to him, no where was safe, not while there were Noldor, and not while Morgoth remained. It had been many long years since the last battle, and there had become an itch that he could not scratch for years now. Though not as long as you would think. The peace has been decent to him. After leaving Olorea, whom he mentioned to no one, and meeting Celair, he began to feel stable again like in his youth though now more mature. He was rash and unyielding. Now he stalked with purpose and spoke mindfully, if at all. When Thingol's voice suddenly filled the chamber Niphred's head stood to attention.

Niphred agreed with the first half. This was the Noldor's war after all, but many Sindar had been caught up in it. If his king wished to assemble any kind of army, he would volunteer. Though this was not the case. The King had no intentions of assisting or even attending the council. He would remain separate from this war as much as he could, which was understandable. Innumerable Eldar had lost their lives defending against the swarms of Morgoth's armies. If Melian's magic would keep them all safe then his decision is commendable and in the end he offers the choice for any Sindar to fight as they wish, though Niphred had expected this to be obvious. Thingol had called for a volunteer to relay his message to the council but Niphred felt it was not his place and turned from the audience, looking for Celair.

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FA 455
Attending Thingol's Speech


Celair, standing casually, watched Niphred from behind, a small distance away. The elf that fell across her path those many years ago. She believed in fate, meaning this elf would accomplish some kind of greatness, and she would ever be there to aid and protect him. Though doubt lingered in her mind as the years carried on, the Eldar had limitless potential, and as long as time carried on so would his capacity for grandeur. She wore black leather armour to match her unspoken hero, keeping her armour light, as he does, so as to not fall behind in his endeavors. She kept a bandolier of throwing daggers across her chest, over her right shoulder, in case he ever did manage to get out of reach of her assistance. As her King Thingol spoke, her blue-grey eyes remained on Niphred, wondering what his thoughts would be. Since becoming Niphred's companion, she had started to lose confidence in her King and Queen, as Niphred seemed indifferent to all that they said and did. However, he still remained in Doriath, and she could not discern why, other than perhaps he was waiting for something. He was difficult to perceive as he grew more and more reserved and muted. She knew still how much pain there was in his soul, and she knew that these things would not disappear, only hidden beneath his dark disposition. When he turned and found her, their eyes met for only a moment. As Niphred strode past her without a second glance, she turned and immediately followed him from the room.
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FA 455
Ard-galen ----> Barad Eithel
THE UNICORN AND THE RAVEN
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"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. Thus began the fourth of the great battles, Dagor Bragollach,
the Battle of Sudden Flame. In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons,
in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs
in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the
fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wharever they
found them the Noldor and their allies, Grey-elves and Men. Many of the stoutest
of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered
and dispersed, and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand."

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

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

- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: Myths Transformed - Orcs


"Magor [The Sword] son of Aradan and the greater number of his people
passed down Sirion into Beleriand and dwelt in the vales
of the southern slopes of Ered Wethrin."

- Tolkien, from War of the Jewels: The Later Quenta Silmarillion


"Just what do you think you're doing?" Crabanel demanded of her lover, stirring within her bedroll, and rubbed sleep out of her tired blue eyes.

"Can't sleep," answered Tharmáras, even-keeled, and fastened the golden Unicorn clasps of his white fur coat. "Patrolling camp." His sentences to her were usually terse these days.

"I need my rest!" Crabanel insisted, fitting on her coat of black bear hide. "We have a long ride ahead of us to my father's castle in Ered Wethrin."

"Then remain here and rest for the journey to Sirion's Pass," Tharmáras objected, sitting astride the saddle of his white courser, Sûlbrassen. "I wish to be alone with my thoughts."

"I won't let you vanish," Crabanel refused through her gritted teeth, swinging a leg over the side of her black stallion, Mrynroch. When she heard him utter Mauya's name in his sleep days ago, she had been more insufferable than usual.Crabanel was certain he would sneak off east across Ard-galen, the March of Maedhros, and Lothlann to reunite with his old flame. "You will stop avoiding me," Crabanel commanded, following Tharmáras beyond the Raven contingent of their unified host. "If we're not seen together and happily, people will start wondering if there's something wrong between us."


"I would graciously affirm these suspicions," Tharmáras assured her with a smile on his lips and a gaze just as cool as her own, no longer able to endure her abuse of him in silence.


"Is this about the poison again?"
came Crabanel's acerbic retort quickly. She went against traditional Elven rules of war. Crabanel poisoned her enemies in battle and tortured them for information as well. When Tharmáras discovered this, Crabanel swore she would stop. Ultimately she proved dishonest.

"This is about lying to me again,"
Tharmáras snapped back.

"The Orcs are monsters, melindo!"
Crabanel declared in vociferous reply, balling up her gloved hand.

Tharmáras grimaced, hearing her endearment, knowing what he did. "You practice the same evil as those Orcs and I'm done pretending that you don't." He ignored the halting of her steed and the gimlet glare she was giving him. "If you use venomed weapons, you bring a curse on yourself," Tharmáras dared to talk over her and didn't care who was watching. He tolerated her mistreatment and wicked ways long enough. "We cannot torment our foes or subject them to cruel punishment. When they surrendur, mercy be granted to them. We have a code-"

"No," Crabanel interjected, sneering at him as she thrust her finger against his broad chest. "You have a code; I don't."

"That's the issue," Tharmáras acknowledged gravely. He could be crying but he was exhausted of feeling miserable. He wished this conversation happened elsewhere in private and not while they were on duty "You and I are two different people and neither of us want to change ," he stated, holding strong to his convictions. "You aren't the woman I fell in love with, the woman you pretended to be. Your mother told me the truth and I don't have to ask you if she lied because it's evidently clear to me by your actions what you wanted all along, to succour you here."

She said nothing to refute this brazen claim or rebuke him. Crabanel only snorted with contempt and drew the dark cowling of her coat warmly over her brown hair. "Get away from me," she snarled. Her eyes glistened but Tharmáras doubted she felt any true sorrow for his rejection. She had lost her left hand; now she had lost her right. And she was most likely unhappy that she was losing her grip in the field. "I don't need a virtuous man."

The words could have stung but he felt a thrilling elation sweeping through him. He was free. "You are going my way. I will take my company ahead of yours at daybreak."


"Good riddance,"
She said with a blithe manner only marred by the subtle crack in her voice. Crabanel wheeled her horse and returned to the field of her troop.

Tharmáras continued his solitary journey toward the windblown flags of the Unicorn calvary. The standards were emblazoned with the courant horned steed of Aman running beneath the spangled sky signifying the Years of the Trees whereas Crabanel's depicted a volant black raven with its wings outspread.

Tharmáras Isilherven felt his depression deepening the longer he served in the Siege of Angband. No one knew of his malancholia since he presented a calm and valorous facade to strengthen morale...and to have kept his now erstwhile lover from arguing with him. Hoping to notice returning scouts - hardy Edain riders from the Vales of Magor captained by Jaime Dara, one of the most courageous men at the front -Tharmáras wandered amid the lambent watchfires burning low this dark moonless night. A few Elven cavalry soldiers, many whom he had known since his childhood, were just waking. He alerted them they would be returning to the Falas, not Langorchel Hyandor's fortress, with the risen sun. Word travelled quickly and Tharmáras ascertained that many warriors were glad to be gone, having overstayed their tour of duty for months longer than they anticipated because of the will of Crabanel and Tharmáras' former desire to please his lady.

No one was more relieved than Tharmáras. This was not his place. His heart was with rolling waves, the peace of sandy beaches, and the laughter of the dolphins in Brilthon Bay. He yearned for the solace of the verdant pastures and lofty hills of the Falas, the embrace of his mother and shaking dice with Davos at an Eglarest tavern. Sûlbrassen trotted to a halt when Tharmáras lost control of the reins, immersed in blissful reverie. He was no longer here on the snowy killing ground of Ard-galen but the stone pier of Cardhon Bundsîdh where sat his blue chair, old and wooden. Weathered by tempests and briny coastal breezes, swaying to and fro with the gentle ease of a zephyr out of the West.*

Tharmáras was exhausted, burnt out by the ceaseless fighting he'd spent decades participating. They said he was one of the stoutest contenders but a soldier's life wasn't for him, he knew for certain. Tharmáras had the soul of a mariner and a quiet life of down by the sea is what he truly needed. Riding along burnished coastal ridges of Brithombar at daybreak with his wife or dancing with her slowly among the rocky spires of his castle's headland beneath starry skies. All Crabanel wanted was a mean fight, whether it was with the Orcs or Tharmáras. A sweet girl, that's what everyone in the Falas knew the most elegible bachelor of Brithombar wanted and Crabanel had been her for a while to cement his unflagging devotion. Her mother, Angrennis, tried to warn him before they left the Mithrim manor of Morrhafn, speaking in private. It was all a lie from the very beginning and she respected Tharmáras too much to still keep silent. Crabanel had been jealous of Mauya, her lowborn chief of guards, and believed his reputation would advance her own rising star in social circles of the Hithlum nobility. Even if Angrennis had not told him the truth, Tharmáras still wanted this relationship ended.

Over time Crabanel had revealed her true nature. Their personalities were at far opposing ends of the spectrum; he was a man of honor but she liked to hurt people, Elf as well as Minion. He wanted to go home and start a family; she wanted to stay, for blood and glory. These days when he shared his idyllic dreams, she tore them down. He spent more time thinking about Mauya, aching for her passion; she pretended to be something she hadn't, a noble, so they could be together but never once did Mauya feign her interest in him nor her love but....yes, she lied to him just as Crabanel had. He was sick of it...getting played like a puppet.

Sometimes, in his uttermost despair, and loneliness Tharmáras would imagine the beautiful woman his mother envisioned at the time of his birth, the elleth with soft blue-grey eyes and hair flaming Phoenix red. She would be waiting for him on the marble quay betwen his blue chair and her own, ginger tresses and the satiny hem of her coral gown catching the thalassic wind. She playfully admonished him for taking so long while his strong arms circled her waist as her pale slender limbs came around his neck. Alatariel didn't know her name but in his dreams he always called her Russëaini, the Red Angel. As a wave of misery rippled through him, Tharmáras found solace in one of the sea songs he enjoyed making. "I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide-*" he sang, unexpectedly interrupted by one of his dear friends, one out of few with whom he alone shared his writing.


"Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.*"
Girion Coruben finished for Tharmáras in his smooth mellow tone. He gave him a broad toothy grin rivalling the charm of Edan Amrun's. When he was younger, the prince had rescued the Grey Elf from a Noldorin soldier named Nenloico - the younger brother of Rincion - who tried to kill him in an argument over the Kinslaying. They had been best friends ever since. Girion was a mariner, a veteran soldier, and a...roguish student of Davos. He was such a plucky gambler that no one could beat him in a card game except for his teacher and Tharmáras. In fact, it was losing a hand of Heronauth, Warmaster, to the prince which made Girion re-enlist.

"And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying / And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying,*" Prestiniel mellifluiously chimed in. The Sindarin woman with the shoulder-length brown curls, heart-shaped face, and deep brown eyes was Girion's older sister who served as a messenger when she visited the Siege grounds. She was fond of the ocean and her sea-legs but, in truth, her delight was with the limits of the land and pathless woods and valleys aplenty.

"Heard you finally cast the scurvy bilge rat off your ship, mellon!" Girion addressed with excitement, gripping forearms with Tharmáras. Gossip travelled around camp quicker than the feet of a sandpiper, apparently.


"If you do not have a partner you'll live happier as I do,"
Prestiniel haughtily advised Tharmáras. She harnessed the red lacquered wood scabbard of her sword to her belt and threw on her auburn foxfur cloak. She purchased the weapon from Hrango Andamunda, the brother of her missing friend Ilmalaurië Vaina when Turgon's people still dwelled in Nevrast. Melimacrist was a beautiful weapon which why the Calaquendi smith named it "Fairblade" in the High Speech of Aman and the Grey-elven tongue; he decided naming it in both their languages was in token of his Noldorin skill and Prestiniel's ownership of what he crafted. The blade was engraved with the sign of the Oliphaunt which was Hrango's emblem and forged of Tarasian steel, distinguished by the now lost talent of banding and mottling patterns to resemble flowing water. It was reputed to be resilient, shatter-resistant, and sharp-edged. The stones of the reddish-gold aurichalcum hilt flamed with opalescent brilliance under sunlight and the blade glimmered blue when Orcs were near.


"Can we not discuss my romantic life, please?"
requested Tharmáras but the siblings railed on.


"He's bound to go looking for that redhead though or maybe host extravagant parties in his castle by the sea, hoping she'll come to him,"
mused Girion, stroking his chin thoughtfully.


"Enough,"
said Tharmáras with an awkward chuckle.


"He'll desert us and find Mauya,"
Prestiniel commented, semi-serious.

"Enough," repeated Tharmáras, hardening his voice.

"I liked Mauya, onóre," admitted Girion. "She had her faults but a sadistic pyschopath she was not-"


"Enough!"
pressed Tharmáras vehemently. "Look," he said, hoping to change the subject of conversation, "the mortals have arrived."

The mounted troops appeared from the northeast, commanded by Jaime Dara of the Third House. He was a large and handsome brawny man with thick red hair, piercing blue eyes, and a chiseled unshaven face. His heart was reputed to be noble as his blood; his own dalefolk called him Aranedain, the King of Men. Many of the warriors in his cavalry were storied fighters like Aengus, Ruppert, and Mortimer. His Uncle Dugald - clan head of the Daras, ruling at home in the Vales of Magor - was another stout defender and served as war chief. Once after he gave his report, revealing nothing out of the ordinary, Tharmáras told Jaime they were returning come first light and that the Dalemen could see their homes again beneath Ered Wethrin. The men of Magor's Vales fought for Tharmáras in his joint host with Crabanel allied to Fingolfin's banner.


"About time we had some good news, mate!"
said Jaime with a severe expression as his men gave a wild cheer. "The wife has drank all my whisky by now, methinks." He smirked, looking all about him as his men sniggered. Their laughter slowly died. A sudden belching of clouds, many of them in disturbing bright hues drifted their way from the gargantuan towers of Thangorodrim to the north.


"What is this new devilry?"
Jaime asked Tharmáras. His men and the Elves were both fearfully muttering amongst themselves. They fought the Orcs, monsters, and demons of Morgoth but this...was different, a surprise none of them expected. Well, no one but Girion and his sister. They were already packing.

"We are leaving now, Dara, and you're welcome to join us as planned but an early venture," Tharmáras resolved. He remembered what Mauya said happened to her parents and the Noldorin mother of her friend Herugon the last time Morgoth drove poisonous vapors into Hithlum. He felt compelled to to tell Jaime, hoping to spare as many lives as he could. He agreed to take his Daleman through the Pass. They both issued orders to strike the tents, assemble their gear, and mount up.

"You're leaving, you coward!"
Crabanel arrived at his side of the encampment in a loping stride of her black horse. "Cravens, all of you!" Crabanel yelled, addressing the Mortals and Elves preparing to leave.


"Inwrhŷn*,"
cursed Girion. He moved to strike her quick as a Brethil adder but Tharmáras blocked him with a defensive blow of his forearm just as Crabanel was drawing her longsword.


"Ought to hold me back, too, mate,"
Jaime suggested, one gloved hand on the basket hilt of his broadsword. "I might chop her arse down if she doesn't shut her offensive mouth. Eärcolanté is a better commander. Your lover's a disgrace, Isilherven."


"She's not my woman anymore, mellon,"
Tharmáras declared and had the boldness of ire to welcome Crabanel's own troops to join his. And many of them did take his offer despite Crabanel's shrill raving and hysterical threats of vengeance...which many of them would remember in afterdays.

"You're scared of a little smog??" screamed Crabanel, whirling her swordblade in outrage, impelling Elves and Mortals to leap out of harm's way of her negligent sweeps.

"From Angband, yes," answered Prestiniel, emerging from the crowd.


"What about the smokes of Lake Mithrim, milady?"
spoke a loyal albeit timid guard of Crabanel's whom she barked at to shut up, backhanding him across his face so viciously he fell backwards. The vast vapors blown from the reeking spires of Ered Engrin, Morgoth's Iron Mountains, had killed many Sindar and Noldor in the beginning of the Age. No Elf had forgotten that.


"The last time gases were sent to Hithlum from the Enemy, the fog was noxious and many Elves lost their lives," Prestiniel informed the confused, wary Men. "Crabanel knows that but she's too prideful to muster a retreat."


"Seems like Morgoth has agents from the inside trying to kill us all," remarked cynical Mortimer and spat on the snow before the hooves of Crabanel's horse. The lanky man with flinty eyes and a long grizzled beard covering his lantern jaw joked but many would recall his boast with the dawning of spring.

The mists thickened, lowering from the dark skies to the earth. These wafted closer to the camp in a slow yet inexorable pace, causing
Crabanel to lash out, slashing her weapon at Tharmáras' face. There was cries of startlement and anger as he stumbled into Jaime's arms. Both Elves and Men surged forward to protect him from her wrath. His injury wasn't bad, only a glancing blow which drew blood from his cheek, but all of them had learned by now how fell and wild Crabanel was.

"STOP!" Tharmáras bellowed when Aengus and Ruppet aimed their arrows of their drawn bows at Crabanel.

"We're supposed to be fighting minions, not each other!" Prestiniel hollered at the Dalemen and Crabanel.

"Flee, traitors!" Crabanel shrieked, pointing to the Fen of Serech in the south. Beyond the swamp was a narrow valley, its sheer walls were clad with pines; but the passage itself was green for the great river of Sirion flowed through it. Finrod once held the vale but committed its mighty tower, Minas Tirith, to the keeping of Prince Orodreth, his brother, when Felagund based himself at Nargothrond. "I hope your faintheartedness is well received by Orodreth, Finrod, and Círdan," she said through a snide mocking chuckle. Crabanel locked rancorous gazes with Tharmáras as he and Jaime led the Men of Magor's Vales and the Elves of the Falas away toward the marshes at the confluence of Sirion and its stream, Rivil. At last, when the force vanished from her sight, she awaited the dreadful coming of the clouds.


*


Crabanel hardly maintained her dignified composure as the dense variegated vapors enshrouded the Raven Camp. Within minutes Elves were falling and writhed spasmodically, clasping their throats as they heaved strident coughs. In half an hour, thirty laid dead on the cold snow. A chartreuse tendril of pungent smoke coiled around Crabanel. She started convulsing with wracking coughs in the stinking fog. "Cover your mouths and your noses!" She directed, raising her voice above the cacophony of anguished moans and hoarse coughing. Crabanel tore a strip of linen fabric from the sleeve of her undershirt; she tied it tautly around her mouth and against her nose. More Elves continued to rest still in the rigid pose of death, their grimacing discolored faces stiffened in a horrifying rictus which would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life along with the ghastly sight of horses collapsed in blaring wails of pain. Crabanel wavered on her saddle as her destrier wailed. She realized that Tharmáras had been right and...she finally loathed herself.

"Retreat!" Crabanel shouted over the cries of lamentation in a voice so embittered and envenomed, she nearly choked on it. She didn't need to ask twice. Her survivors, fifty elven riders, galloped with her into the west. They fled from the killing clouds which were seen meandering east to Dorthonion. Crabanel was just about to call a halt when they saw the bright blaze of morning strangely coming fron the North. Only breaking dawn could be as brilliant but no...it was not morning light but a raging inferno. Tearing across the breadth of Ard-galen were swift rivers of flame. The wide fiery streaks burned the lush green earth beneath the melting snow and barrelled a path toward Crabanel . She gave the frantic call to run harder, faster to Barad Eithel.




"Can you make it, muinroch*?"
Crabanel demanded in a dry, strained voice as she tightened her grip on his reins. The powerful horse grunted when she applied her spurs and put on an swifter burst of speed, flying sure-footed across the virgin snow. Crabanel risked a glance behind her, hearing the emphatic sobs from the rear of her company. Innumberable Elves and horses were lit aflame, strewn across the scorched earth and howling as they perished in the inferno. A gigantic shroud of smoke mantled the horizon, shielding the grisly sight from her crying eyes, and in moments the leaping flames of a fiery river renewed its narrow relentless course. Time dragged on as Crabanel rushed toward the familiar foothills of Ered Wethrin and the gleam of citadel torches reflected in the springs of Sirion where the impregnable white fortress of Barad Eithel mightily stood. Ahead of her were two riders with a small group of horsemen. Crabanel croaked the names of Eärcolanté and Erfaron. Hot tears scalding tears stung the backs of her eyes, a trail of blazing charred bones in her wake. She once had a cavalry company of hundred elves. Twenty warriors abandoned her for Tharmáras. Only ten now rode with her to the gates of the fortress, the others slain by the poisonous fumes and insatiable flames.


*


Spellbound in horror and abject grief, Jaime Dara peered into fulgid wall of fire. It stretched from the east bank of the Sirion to the eastern slopes of Dorthonion where the tributary of Rivil streamed into the pinewoods towards its well and Woodmere Village. Half of his men would not be marching home, devoured in the conflagration before they could make it to the Fen of Serech with the Elves. Before his feet laid the charred corpse of Aengus whom he had grown up with. Nothing was left of him except this cracked and blackened mess, his tartan clothes burned away as was the remains of his gray horse. Choking on the dust of Ard-galen, Jaime knelt and he wept. He looked at Tharmáras who kneeled beside him, clutching his shoulder in silence. When Jaime looked at him he saw that the prince's eyes were raw and and his face somber, illuminated by the furnace glow of the fiery dam. Even though they were warmed by the heat of Morgoth's fire, streams of sweat sluicing over their skin, both men felt the cold of the mind-destroying despair which threatened to engulf them both.

"Have you seen Mortimer?" Jaime asked Tharmáras when the incessant sobs subsided, his voice hardening as he tried to reassert control of his feelings, and wiped a smear of tears off his stubbled jaw.

"No," Tharmáras gently answered, raising his chin toward the billing mountain of smoke clouding the dark vault of the evening sky. It wasn't just the wildfire separating warriors but the confusion which the smoke had wrought. "I hoped he made it."

Jaime nodded with a shaky breath. When he was just a boy, Uncle Mortimer had sworn charge of him because his widowed mother (whom Mortimer had deeply loved) passed away, leaving Jaime an orphan. Dugald trained the lad for battle eventually but he couldn't be bother to raise the child.

Jaime took the tartan shoulder cape off his person. He wrapped the sleeve dagger which had fallen from Aengus when his flesh and cloak were no more. Then he followed Tharmáras back to the Fen of Serech where they heard the Elves and Men weeping, mourning the love of family and friends. "What happens now?"

"There's no telling how many rivers of flame will reach the realms of Elfinesse but one thing is for sure," said Tharmáras. "that with Elves and Men in disarray, Morgoth will probably unleash the Orcs...and other surprises. I must take my people to Minas Tirith and bolster Orodreth before I take my company to the Falas. I'll send Prestiniel to Círdan so he can strengthen the borders for the onslaught to come and I'll have Girion notify Doriath. Maybe Círdan can send a rider to Nargothrond so Finrod can aid his brothers."


"You have need of me a while longer, methinks, no?"
said Jaime and looked at Tharmáras who studied the man unblinking.

"I do. Can your wife and whisky wait?"

"Of course." Jaime gave Tharmáras a grim smile. "Dinna fash.*"


"Here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more."

- Edgar Alan Poe, from The Raven


(Paraphrasing the Old Blue Chair song of Kenny Chesney's)

(Tharmáras' song is quoted from John Masefield's Sea Fever)

("Inwrhŷn," is "Female hound" in Sindarin)

("Muinroch" Sindarin for "Dear horse")

("Dinna fash." A Scots phrase meaning "don't worry.")


GM UPDATE:


Dwarrow Elf and Ercassie you can notice Crabanel on your dire charge to Barad Eithel.
Fingon and Fingolfin will be in the war council chamber. Reports can be given of the
crisis which we need to decide how to handle. Gothmog and
his horde are coming soon behind the rivers of flame.
Last edited by Eriol on Thu Jul 02, 2020 4:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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


Among the closest to the dais, upon which three thrones sat occupied, stood the Strongbow. Years uncounted he had spent schooling his features to betray nothing of what he felt and this talent served him well this day, as he felt wholly ill at ease.

He felt oddly empty without his namesake in hand, and had clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. He found it distasteful to carry a weapon before not only the Queen, against whom no blade would serve purpose, but also Lúthien, who could disarm any soldier of more than their weapon with little more than her song. No, it was better to attend court unarmed.

Beleg only left the Northern watches of the forest when summoned, and today heralded matters of great import. But whatever grand plans the self-declared “High King” planned for the enemy in the North, it appeared his King did not intend to take part. Beleg’s heart sank.

His mind cast back – was it really almost 150 years ago? – to when his company of Marchwardens had encountered Aredhel and her escort on the borders of the forest. The veiled insults they had traded about Turgon’s vanishing act, and his refusal to help with the minor skirmishes that escaped the Siege. There were many similarities between Doriath and Gondolin but surely the Hidden King would emerge for something this pivotal, yet the Greycloak would stand aside?

He glanced around to the faces of those about him, seeing how they took the news of Doriath’s lack of involvement. Many were as adept at affecting calm as he was, but there were far more who were swayed by the reasoning of the King and nodded their agreement. And Beleg had to admit, Thingol’s reasons were just. He did not envy the burden of running a kingdom and shouldering responsibility for so many lives.

As he was wont to do, his gaze sought Melian’s face. Her face, effused with light, gave no indication of displeasure at her husband’s words. She was the epitome of loving calm. The Queen’s wisdom was without equal, and there was little chance Thingol had come to his decision without seeking her counsel.

It embarrassed him that the sight of Melian’s apparent acceptance of Thingol’s decision did more to convince him than any of the King’s arguments.

And yet the Strongbow was yet compelled to do something. When Thingol spoke to sending word that any Sindar who sought safety would find it within the realm of Doriath, Beleg stepped forward. “Aran nín, your wisdom is matched only by your mercy. By your will, I shall deliver your message to the foolhardy Noldor that Doriath will not sacrifice its subjects to Noldor pride. And to any of our kin so compelled, that Doriath stands as sanctuary.

He turned to the court. “If any among you are inclined to join me, be ready to depart for Hithlum upon the next rise of morning sun.

With a final bow, Beleg left the court.
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
she / her

New Soul
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"Most of the Noldor were content with things as they were, trusting that to last, and
slow to begin an assault in which many must surely perish were it in victory or defeat.
Therefore they were little disposed to hearken to Fingolfin, and the sons of Fëanor
at that time least of all. Among the chieftains of the Noldor, Angrod and Aegnor
alone were of like mind with the King; for they dwelt in regions whene
Thangorodrim could be descried, and the threat of Morgoth was
present to their thought. Thus the designs of Fingolfin came to naught."

- Tolkien, from
The Silmarillion: Of the Ruin of Beleriand
and the Fall of Fingolfin
FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum
The Council of Lords, Revisited


"We travelled a week to get here for Nolofinwë's council now it's hurry up and wait," moody and handsome, swift and strong Celegorm the Fair, seething furiously, confided in his brother, Curufin, who happened to be his constant companion. The Kings of Himlad were expected to attend the emergency meeting in High King Fingolfin's palace by Lake Mithrim. It wasn't just them; many other kings and lords of the Noldor, including high nobles and leaders among the Edain & the Teleri, were invited either since they were integral participants in the Siege or had some beneficial importance to the leaguer. Celegorm was armored in gilded chainmail and wore a golden-red surcoat emblazoned with Two Crowns, depicting the joint-rulership he shared with Curufin. A rose-gold circlet Hatholdir Nârroval built for him in the early days of the newborn Age adorned his brow, its red diamond glinting brightly in the spring sunlight streaming through the airy hall's curtained windows.

"We could be hunting a bear," Celegorm supposed, "or destroying another Orc camp in Ard-galen, Curufin. Something exciting. One thing is for certain though...if there's any merit coming here, it's that I get away from my nagging lover, Ellindalë." He snorted a laugh. "Should have let Telkelion have her. Ellie could have driven him mad instead of me. Wish I was lucky as you to find a worthy elleth." Desperately trying to find something to yell at or amuse himself with, Celegorm was delighted to notice his nephew, Celebrimbor, speaking with his cousin, Gil-galad, at the Lake. He gave Curufin a lopsided grin, knowing his brother wouldn't mind him exerting his Evil Uncle persona and motioned him out with a brief movement of his head. He took a glass of dry white wine from a retainer serving drinks, ignored High Councillor Erestor who griped about Celegorm's impatience, and rushed down the smooth marble stairs leading to the wooded shores of the Lake.

"You can waste time with the Usurper's son later, Telperinquar," Celegorm curtly lectured Celebrimbor who was gazing at the reflective water with Fingon's son. He took a deep drink of wine while giving his nephew a measured look then shook his head ruefully. "Findekáno and Airesarë can raise a boyish weakling but Fëanor's grandson should be grown wise and strong. If I were you -" he glanced at Curufin "- I'd tell him to sit at Council and learn how to be a king like his great father." Celegorm maintained his contemptuous, lordly mien as he strode away and smiled another crooked grin with his back turned to Celebrimbor. When he re-entered the hall, Celegorm had his glass refilled and gripped forearms with Amrod, calling him Pityo, a shortened form of Pityafinwë which was his father name.

Amrod grimaced. "I prefer Ambarto, please, onoro," he insisted for the umpteenth time and hated how sulky he sounded whenever asked. He was the youngest son of Fëanor. "And not Atyarussa either," Amrod added more forcefully, shoving a finger against Curufin's chest with a ghost of a smile flickering across his mouth. He didn't like being reminded that Amras, who remained ruling the greenwoods of East Beleriand while his brother went to Hithlum, was the eldest twin. He was dressed in a velvet belted tunic of green, wearing tooled leather boots and a tan mink cloak. An emerald circlet of adamantine crowned his dark red hair. Amrod had his mother's temperament as did Maglor and Maedhros. Unlike them though, Amrod and Amras hardly fought in the Siege of Angband, prefering the quiet hunting paths of their forests and governing the pasotral lands of the Fëanorian faction in East Beleriand. "You both know I'm more hunter than I am warrior," Amrod reminded Curufin and Celegorm, looking warily at the white carven door of the Councilroom, "but since I'm the one who does more battling than Amras in Ard-galen and Lothlann, I'm hoping my voice carries some weight here. I want to honor our father."

Celegorm held Amrod's shoulders and spoke in all honesty, dropping the brotherly condescending act for a moment. "Not every heel can be in the North. You lead well, whether it's on the battleground or in the rural countryside. Our people need you, in war and in peace, Pityo."

"Call me Ambarto," Amrod muttered, unable to keep merry laughter out of his voice.

"I'm not calling you the Exalted One, onoro!" shot Celegorm, barking out a laugh. "Well, finally," he said in a haughty voice loud enough to be heard in Dor-lómin when Prince Fingon opened the door of the Councilroom, swinging it wide for his father, the High King, to pass through first. "How Valiant of him," he joked with deadpan mockery of the Prince's nickname as he took a seat between Curufin and Amrod when Fingolfin's son implored everyone to be seated at the long table.

Lingering outside, Maglor who had more of his mother's gentle spirit than any of his brothers, softly bade Celebrimbor to tarry just a little and kept his strong voice low. His skill as a harper and singer was renowned in both Aman and Beleriand but it was his compassion and soft heart which mattered most. He wore a golden hooded cloak and a white-gold circlet sparkling with opals. "I would not see you reject your father but I hope there are Elves of your family that you will revere and imitate," he advised his nephew, believing he didn't inherit the vicious nature of Curufin. "Maedhros is a an Elf of surpassing valour and behold Finrod who would help any friend or stranger in need," counselled Maglor. "Bold, gambling Fingon," uttered Maglor in a deferential tone. "His indomitable spirit is like a fire yet steadfast as stony hills. Truth and justice he cherishes and bears good will to everyone, both Elves and Men, hating Morgoth solely; he is selfless, seeking nothing for himself, neither power nor glory, yet these are his rewards. I must not forget the Edain as well. Hador is mightiest of the Mortal chieftains and his courage is unparalled." He clasped his nephew's shoulder tenderly with a fond smile and left Celebrimbor to join the meeting.

"Finrod, good to see you," lied Celegorm to Felagund, aware that he was now in the presence of Grey Elves and needed to speak in Sindarin instead of Quenya. He smiled tightly. "How's the empire?" he blurted, unable to control a jab at the son of Finarfin, his glowing eyes shining brighter with amusement. Finrod had taken much land in West Beleriand east of the Falas, owned the island of Tol Galen where his citadel was commanded by his brother, and claimed Dorthonion for his own which was ruled in his stead by his sibling vassals. "I guess you don't rightly know," Celegorm said with a small shrug, "since you have other people running it for you. By the way, heard about your tower in the Falas. Brilliant idea, Nóm , because, you know, Morgoth makes war by sea all the time." Celegorm gave Finrod a snide grin, restraining a burst of laughter at his own foul sarcasm. "Maybe one day Orcs will learn to build ships and Barad Nimras might actually prove useful."

He knew he should stop but he was too upset about being here surrounded by people he didn't get along with. Celegorm took another sip of wine and looked at Beleg from Doriath. "Ah, Strongbow. Tell me, Beleg, is it well with you, travelling miles away from your marches to remind everyone that Thingol the Dark Elf depises the Noldor and won't support us? I just can't help but wonder if it's Thingol who's the coward or his soldiers...." Celegorm ignored the sharp demand of Amrod to stop insulting their allies. He smiled charmingly at Fingon who gazed at him with a countenance of utter loathing. "We never talked about your father, Fingolfin, relocating you to Mithrim. How does it feel, getting relieved of Dor-lómin so a Mortal can take your place? Say, does he love Hador more?"

Fingon, the mighty paladin in the shining silver mail beneath an azure tabard, said nothing threatening to Celegorm though his cold luminous gaze spoke volumes.

"The last time I was at council, I walked away with a bloody nose," mused Angrod, Lord of Dorthonion.

"Perhaps, it's Celegorm's turn," Aegnor, his fiery brother, proposed, giving him a baleful glare.

"You would do well to be civil, Celegorm, unless you want the High King to wrest your own kingship from you for your gross lack of respect," warned even-keeled and honorable Maglor sitting beside Maedhros and Finrod, hoping to quell hostilities.

"Who gets to share Himlad with Curufin then, Emperor Finrod?" Celegorm finished his wine, relaxed against his tall chair, and sat in silence with a cool wicked smile.

"He's shut up now but you can throw him out anyway!" Amrod shouted at Erfaron, the guard in the hall.

"We are gathered here today to discuss the future regarding our Siege of Angband," Fingon announced and humbly bowed his head in Fingolfin's direction.


GM UPDATE:

Everyone playing Lords and Kings and lieutenants et cetera,
you can take your seats and interact with each other.
Nurbor will speak as Fingolfin soon.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Council of the lords
Fingolfin

The High King had called in his bannermen to discuss their strategy, and he himself felt it over time to make a move before Melkor could grow any stronger. Meanwhile his own people had settled the lands, made homes, and life was good. Allowing those with swords to become placated into peaceful lives wasn't good when their enemy still sat upon their borders waiting and brooding, looking for the best time to lash out with violence next. They had tried to besiege Angband but the circle was not complete, and Fingolfin needed to martial their forces now to try and ensure the enemy could not escape as they tightened the net upon Angband. So far the Noldor had some success against the foes in the north, and there was little to give them pause to think otherwise about continued pursuit of action against the enemy. While even the sons of Feanor had come, he knew that there was little love amongst them for his cause or crown, but with their common enemy strife amongst themselves would only allow victory to the foe.

He had hoped this meeting would go well, for there were many strong personalities come to discuss the events of their day, and though he was the High King not everyone followed his banner. So the day would be filled with discussions and persuading others into what he felt was the best course of action, so that all the eldar may yet live free and prosper amongst their new lands. He had ensured benches were set in the high hall where the war council would be held, there were also refreshments laid out for those who might need it, as some guests were still arriving even today to attend the council. As the bell tolled thrice he knew soon those who had come to discuss these great matters would begin to arrive and followed his son Fingon into the hall as the nobles gathered.

"Today we speak of the siege and bringing an end to our shared foe. We have taken lands and made homes here, putting down roots and foundations for generations to come, but all of this can be destroyed in an instant by our foeman to the north. We each have a part in this burden to win the war, and now is the time we seize the opportunity to claim victory. I fear if we dally any longer, untold horrors shall spill forth from Angband, and the power of the enemy might sweep us all off the map and into the seas." he said looking first to the sons of Feanor since they held the least allegiance to him or his ideas, and guarded some of the hardest parts of the northern passes,"When we lay waste to Angband, no one need suffer the cold mountain keeps we have had to build to keep watch, and I would gladly ensure that your services go not unrewarded within our lands. For good service demands reward, and the lands here need as many hands as we can to cultivate them and make it strong. However we must march as one force, and I know you lot must be over due ready to exact vengeance for your father but if you attack before we've gathered the armies, Angband will tear us apart one by one in weakness. And so I ask, are you ready to march upon the foe and exact revenge?"
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. - Gandalf

Melkor
Melkor
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Emmelin
Gondolin
FA 316
At Home


A stream of indecipherable papers were scattered haphazardly on the second floor of Emmelin's home. Some were crumpled, some torn in many pieces. Others contained crossed out passages strewn in barely decipherable calligraphy. On the paper plateau growing next to her desk lay quills, many of them worn out and broken. On the other side of the desk was a half-empty bottle of Gondolin gin. So it was that sitting on a chair with dust on its back was Emmelin, the Yellow Hammer of Gondolin. Both her hands harshly traced circles on her forehead as if she was trying to forcefully clear her thoughts. Her golden hair shone with the sun, with follicles scattered throughout the room, dully reflecting the light.

Earlier in the morning on her walk, Emmelin overheard news of Aredhel leaving, which ruined her day in more than one way. For one, she dropped a pastry to the ground in shock. Further, she immediately punched a nearby building, causing her to curse both in pain and anger that someone, even if that person was royalty, was allowed to leave the city. Her left knuckles became bandaged, with hints of red appearing on the white linen. Sadly, the building that Emmelin struck naturally did not even show a hint of the slightest hairline fracture.

Now she was at home, finding out she received an invitation to some noble's wedding. This was an invitation that Emmelin initially wanted to tear in half, but reconsidered. The food was sure to be good, and the pay was more than decent in exchange for the singing in the wedding. The name she did not really care for, as at least it was not.... him:


FLASHBACK




Emmelin
Gondolin
FA 145
At The Golden Turtle Pub



Italicized- FA 144 Memory, Not Shared with Audience
Non-Italicized- FA 145






Manila-white fingers lifted a silver goblet filled with Gondolin Gin to the audience, as if proposing a silent toast. Swirling it once, causing some of the liquid to drip on stage, the cup was eagerly greeted by pink-red lips. Emmelin gulped down the bitter drink until it was 2/3rds full. She then brusquely slammed it on the table next to her on stage. Drops of gin flew out, a few droplets landing on her "Laurelin-Gold" hair and almond-shaped face. This was the signal to the rather nervous lyrist performer behind her on stage, as well as the audience, that Emmelin was ready.

After her "polite resignation" from her last tavern, it wasn't long until she was able to obtain new employment. Apparently, other bar owners saw her potential... or rather, the business potential of her hair; to her annoyance. The pub owner even changed the tavern's name from "The Wineshell" to "The Golden Turtle", just so elves could better remember where they saw the rumored lowborn elf whose hair reflected Laurelin's golden rays. Emmelin did not know what she was more angered at: at yet again being compared to the dead tree she never even remembered; or being associated with a stupid, ugly, scaly, turtle.

Gondolin's Yellow Hammer stood, with a cold expression on her features, as her eyelashes fluttered at the audience members she recognized. Already she had a small following. The smith drinking a large flagon of ale in the middle, the pair of elven children dressed in blue her left, the forlorn raven-haired elf sitting by himself in the back; all of them she saw before, whenever she sang. This flattered her a little, and her eyes softened when she looked at each of them. However, she knew not their names; Emmelin never conversed with them, to keep up the illusion that they were here for her music, rather than her golden locks. Now she welcomed their support, for the song she was about to sing required her utmost concentration and focus. The rhythm was complex, and changed throughout the piece.

She turned her head, giving an icy glare at the lyrist behind her, the knife-glint in her eyes warning the musician to play without mistake, lest the lyrist suffer a goblet-shaped bruise.

After the lyrist finished re-tuning, Emmelin turned to the crowd again, as one by one, each candle of the tavern dimmed until the only light emanating from the tavern was her own. The stage was hers now, and the audience greeted her with silence. She carried a distant expression, her eyes closed as her muscles tightened. Her radiance pulsated once, then twice. Then lo! The third time, it seemed her light radiated with such a flash that the entire room became illuminated.

Then amidst the brilliance, an airy soprano voice sang, though the thoughts of Emmelin were at a different time in a different place, hidden from the audience:

_____


"When wine flows through our cup,
As mead drowns our eve delight,
I will sing while we sup
To all who listen tonight.
I sing a tale of justice:
On The Noble and Baker."

~~~

The bread was both fragrant and delicious, and to think the shop just opened! Recently, a bakery appeared in between her house and The Golden Turtle, where she worked as a bard. Often, Emmelin would buy an assortment of food from there: from the ordinary dinner rolls and scones that she regularly ate, to the sweet layered honey cakes that she absolutely adored. Whenever The Baker saw Emmelin, he would smile. Sometimes he would sneak an extra roll when the elleth was not looking. At first he did not have many customers, as The Baker himself seemed to be humble and did not advertise his bread. But soon, things would change.

~~~

"There lived one of great wealth,
Who’s generosity was ever greater.
He often hid in stealth
To walk amongst those who were lesser.
On the streets the noble heard
Of a ranc’d avar’cious baker."

~~~

The rumors of good bread began to spread, as more elves visited the bakery. The bread was not only tasty, but it's price was affordable for all elves of every class and caste. Still, The Baker greeted everyone with a smile, asked them how their days commenced; regardless if they were noble or lowborn. Emmelin chose then to visit at times where there were few, if any, customers. For Emmelin did not want to share her love of the bakery with anybody else, and she hoped for an extra loaf or slice.

~~~

"They cursed the bread-maker,
Who charged quarter as much as others.
He bankrupted neighbors,
Whose bread businesses became withered.
The Baker’s bread smelled afoul,
His sneer wreaked the stench of worms."

~~~

Then on one fateful day when Emmelin visited, three elves came. They came while she was inspecting one of the rye wheat loaves on the far corner. One of the three appeared in a lavish heavily embroidered yellow dress with a red cloak. At his sides were two taller, stiff, armed elves, as if they were guarding the red-cloaked one. The Baker, at the time sweeping the floor, smiled at all three.

~~~

"The noble rushed in stealth,
He dressed in stained tunic,
Garments hiding great wealth.
Striding with common folk,
He soon found the bakery,
Which sold infested bread."

~~~

"I am famished, baker. Fair tidings to you," the red-cloaked elf greeted in a friendly tone. Emmelin had been eavesdropping, and wondered why he had two armed elves with him. One of the armed elves kept their eye on Emmelin. The elleth's mouth tightened in nervousness, even though she glared defiantly at the armed one.


~~~

“'Fair tidings, oh baker. I’m famished,'
Spoke the hidden noble with parched voice.
Oh, the baker’s greedy eyes relished
seeing another victim swindled."

~~~

"Welcome friends! We have an assortment of breads, carefully baked," The Baker responded, nonplussed, as he continued sweeping the floor, whistling a tune that Emmelin could not recognize but felt familiar towards.

~~~

“'Come come, we have bread from all lands fair,'
He said; the grin bore a crooked smile.
Rubbing grimy hands, he spoke his wiles,
'my grain is best, handled with great care.'”

~~~

"Aah, so I have heard," the red-cloaked elf responded, and Emmelin could see a frown appear on his face. He then asked, "May I have a taste of the bread?"

The Baker nodded, then began whistling again. The red-cloaked elf took a slice of wheat bread, and chewed it,

"I cannot believe it... This bread," he said, as he stuffed the rest of slice in his mouth, "This bread is delicious! Simply a delicacy I have not tasted in quite some time!"


~~~

"The noble took a slice.
He tast’d it, and he spat.
'I’d not give this to mice!'
He cried; the baker shocked."

~~~

"I thank you for the praise!" The Baker said. Emmelin could just imagine the smile on his face. He added, "I try to bake every single loaf with love and care. I am glad you like it, friend."

~~~

"'Yet,' the baker calmed, with a large smirk,
'You eat, you drink, you pay; such is life.
Now pay, forever great was my work
In baking this here bread that you took.'”

~~~

"Love and care, I see," the red-cloaked elf responded, smiling. Emmelin found it contrasting the sullen look of his two armed companions.

"If only I had you as my private baker. Though to be honest, that is exactly what I'm here for," he continued, then gave a bow, "as I am a noble of Gondolin. Well met."

Emmelin listened in surprise. Though it made sense because of the elf's clothing. She could only imagine the look on The Baker's face at the proposition, but what would happen to her favorite bakery?

~~~

"The noble became tired of hiding.
Forsaking his parched tone, he spoke clear:
'You have gone too far, for I am siding
With the people you tricked, you cad cur!'"

~~~

"Your talents are wasted here, serving these lowborn folk when you could serve me," The Noble continued, moving closer and grasping The Baker's hands, the mop dropping to the floor with a clang, "I will buy out your bakery if necessary. You would be rich, and you would continue using your talents in my kitchen, feeding the finest elves of all Gondolin. Or you can stay in this dingy, dusty, filthy, and utterly disgusting corner, selling your priceless grains for nearly nothing. Being my baker is the best of both worlds, is it not?"

~~~

“'I’m a noble, and I cannot bear
To see this gruff gnarly bakery
Remain to torment people I care!
Your bakery is mine; I’ll buy it.'”

~~~

The elleth was shocked. Emmelin walked at an angle to see The Baker's face more clearly. She did not want her favorite bakery to close! But The Baker's words and expression calmed her,

The Baker released The Noble's hands and calmly walked backwards. The former gave an apologetic smile, and said,

"I have to decline, I am sorry, my lord. It was my dream to open a bakery and share my love of bread to everyone."

The Baker then moved closer, and he put his hands on The Noble's shoulders.

"I cannot fulfill that dream serving as a private baker for you," he concluded with a tone of finality.

The Noble then suddenly stepped back from The Baker, shaking his head.

"You should have accepted," he said sorrowfully, sighing with his eyes gazing upwards, closing them, "Guards, seize his possessions."


~~~

“'Pay for it in blood! You fool me not!'
Retort’d the baker, hand to cleaver.
'You will not take my bakery, you sod!'
The baker charged, blade at hand to slash."

~~~

The Baker sputtered out in disbelief, and Emmelin could only witness in shock as the guards quickly went inside The Baker's private quarters, hauling out furniture, pottery, chests, and other things.

"Y-you cannot do this!" The Baker cried, looking with pleading eyes at the noble, "This is a foul deed! It is against the law!"

The Noble sighed again, shaking his head, while his guards continued ransacking the area, giving an aggrieved look at The Baker, "you committed battery on me when you touched my shoulders. It is my responsibility as a noble to make sure you do not have further ill intentions to the people of Gondolin."

"What? It was a friendly gesture!" The Baker retorted, "What is the meaning of this?"

The Noble shook his head again, and Emmelin felt great temptation to punch him, regardless of legal consequences, "You could have crushed my shoulders with your great grip, my baker friend. People like you would never understand; but I shall explain. You, my friend, ruined the businesses of my nobler friends who also have your dream. I came here to shelter you from their clutches and yet-"

One of the guards appeared from the private space, carrying a stack of 4 objects surrounded by mallorn leaves. He interrupted, "My lord, we found this."

The Noble grabbed the objects and opened one of them, "lembas?" he spoke in surprise. He shook his head again, and gave an inquisitive stare at The Baker, "are you an elf-queen in disguise? It is against our sacred customs, and therefore taboo, for you to keep or distribute lembas. Explain."

While the lembas was surprising enough, what happened next left Emmelin speechless.

"I-I" The Baker stuttered, then he collapsed on his knees, "yes. I have in my possession, lembas wafers. They're the only things left from my wife. She was one of the
Yavannildi, the makers of Lembas bread in Valinor.

When I went forth from Valinor to fulfill my dream, she could not come with. Her dream already came true: to serve Yavanna and make the grain of queens. I couldn't dare ask her to depart. But she found me before I could leave, and gave me in secret, the wafers. 'The road is long,' she whispered, and she feared my journey would not be easy. Before I could refuse, she kissed me goodbye, and gave me the wafers for my survival."

Emmelin's heart softened. She looked into The Noble's eyes, and saw a look of understanding, as The Noble listened intently to the tale.

The Baker continued, "but I dared not eat it. Even as the ice and cold threatened to freeze my blood, I dared not. For it was the last thing I had to remember her by. We are Exiles; we cannot leave Gondolin, and we cannot return to Valinor even if we could. Everything else I sold to help fund this bakery. For everything else combined does not equal a hundredth of what my wife risked for me.

So please, I beg you. I beg you. Please! Don't tell anyone about this!" The Baker cried, tears falling from his eyes, tugging the hems of The Noble's cloak. The guards immediately pulled The Baker back.

"I beg you! Please, please my lord. Have mercy!" The Baker again cried, trying to crawl to The Noble, "I'll do anything."

Emmelin's mouth opened, but she could not speak. Her eyes beseeched The Noble, even though he did not once acknowledge her existence.

The Noble's eyes softened to the point where his eyes sparkled from the tears threatening to escape. He spoke in a soft tone, "I understand now... Thank you for telling me this my friend.

I commend your wife; and I commend you, as well, for your bravery. Your tale is very touching, and it warms my heart, for I too suffered the Grinding Ice."

The Noble looked into The Baker's eyes, and earnestly said, "I will do as you say."

The lembas bread was then thrown to the ground, and The Noble stomped on the wafers.


~~~

"But in one bout, the noble struck quick;
he smote the baker with one fist.
The baker thudded on hard brick.
So ends his hold in Gondolin."

~~~

The Noble stumbled back from the blow.

"I..." The Noble slowly spoke, holding his split lip, gritting each syllable in a crescendo, "I gave you mercy. I offered you employment. I ensured nobody would ever know your lembas exists, and this is how you repay me? Striking me? STRIKING A NOBLE?"

The response was an unearthly wail from The Baker, with tears streaming down his face, flailing, clawing, biting, kicking, and struggling against the pair of armed guards dragging him away from his bakery.

"Accept your punishment and rot in jail!" The Noble shouted, as the wails slowly faded in the distance. Then the cry rose again, as suddenly The Baker, with desperate eyes, escaped the grasp of his persecutors, slamming the door open. But then he was dragged again by the pair of elves, and his wails again faded in the distance.

Noticing a crowd had started to form outside the bakery, The Noble moved as if to calm the populace down, until he finally noticed Emmelin.

The Yellow Hammer's nostrils flared, her fists clenched taut, a fire in her eyes, with teeth bared like a feral hound. The Noble appeared startled at first, then exhaled, walking back further into the bakery. He sat down on the ground, as if he were at home, and motioned Emmelin to sit across from him.

"Let us talk," The Noble said, his voice oddly calm.

Emmelin glared.


~~~

"The noble manages the city’s grain;
The people rejoice on the marble streets.
Now Gondolin will finally attain,
The bread every elf should rightfully eat."

___


Following her performance, she quickly downed the rest of her gin and exited through the backdoor. Receiving the large bag of gold, she went home.

The rain hid the tears.

A few weeks later, Emmelin heard quiet songs of mourning from some of the people on the streets. She guessed that The Baker died of grief in prison, his dreams shattered, much like the ghost crumbs of lembas in The Noble's Bakery. Perhaps it was the only way for him to meet his wife in the Undying Lands again? Emmelin knew not for sure his fate, as such news escaping into the populace would be disastrous for the people of Gondolin.

Was leaking despair of one elf worth the potential cost of an entire city?

Emmelin hated asking herself that question, and the pile of gold in her house did not ease her mind.

Black Númenórean
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FA 455, Before the Bragollach
Mithrim, Hithlum


"We could be doing any number of things," Curufin agreed, musing on the rough cut gems that sat unfinished but not forgotten in his smithy in Himlad. "Any number of more worthy things." He scowled as they approached Fingolfin's dwelling, irked by everything from the High King's summons (no less his very existence) to the way the lake glinted merrily at them as they arrived. He steeled himself for the many unpleasant meetings ahead.

As they drew nearer to the lake, Curufin saw the silhouette of his son together with the latest in a line of interlopers in their family's inheritance. He was not surprised; his son was, despite his best efforts, soft and pliable and prone to sympathize with the various factions of Finwë's house. He'd long considered it base betrayal, but it was disappointingly predictable.

Celegorm knew how Curufin felt; with a smirk, his brother split away to accost the young lordlings near the water. Curufin followed lazily in his wake and caught Celegorm's latest words floating toward him - "I'd tell him to sit at Council and learn how to be a king like his great father."

"Celebrimbor will inherit his grandfather's strength when he learns to recognize the folly of lesser lines," he replied coolly, eyeing Gil-Galad as he spoke. With his left hand, he idly spun a golden ring studded with rubies on his right forefinger. "He will join the Council, and will learn how not to lead when Fingolfin opens his mouth." He trusted these words would be enough to shame his son into submission and turned to follow his brother into the hall without a backwards glance.

Lifting a cup of wine from a proferred tray, Curufin observed his brother accosting members of the various factions present. Where Celegorm preferred to pronounce his scorn, Curufin was quieter about it, if no less vicious when he spoke. He took his seat without deigning to greet the lords of various lands, smirking silently as Celegorm pretended to meet Finrod in gladness.

It was not long before the lesser lords Angrod, Aegnor, and Amrod began to snipe back at Celegorm. Curufin straightened in his seat before speaking. "And what makes you think I'd need one of these pretenders at my side if you were ousted, Celegorm? If my son would learn what is due from him as a son of the great House of Fëanor, we could rule together and without challenge."

He let these words linger on the air for his son's benefit, then lowered his eyes and sipped his wine as first Fingon, then Fingolfin spoke. The High King's words rang hollow against the firm reality of their prospering lands, and the wine soured in his mouth as his mood turned dark.

Curufin found he could not contain himself when Fingolfin suggested they had yet to make their lands strong. "What of cultivating and strengthening our kingdoms?" he sneered. "It already is so. Himlad flourishes under the strength of our force at Aglon, where the ringing of our forges and the north wind mingle in song. We have gone unchallenged save by roving bands of orc, which are more easily disposed of than your troublesome house." He glanced at Celegorm before continuing, "We will not send forth our strength for your cause."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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FA 375
The Stockade, Thargelion
The Last Night
"Haldad had twin children: Haleth his daughter, and Haldar his son:
and both were valiant in the defence, for Haleth was a woman of great heart and strength.
But at last Haldad was slain in a sortie against the Orcs; and Haldar, who rushed out to
save his father's body from their butchery, was hewn down beside him.
Then Haleth held the people together, through they were without hope;
and some cast themselves in the rivers and were drowned.
But seven days later, as the Orcs made their last assault and
had already broken through the stockade, there came
suddenly a music of trumpets, and Caranthir with his
host came down from the north and drove the Orcs into the rivers...."

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


"If some power passes from you to a thing that you have made,
then you must take a share in its harm."

- Aghan, from Tolkien's Unfinished Tales: The Faithful Stone


"Our forefathers had a dream," Haldad told Haleth and Haldar, smiling wanly at his children then he turned his glistening gaze to the west. His weary bearded face glowed in the splendor of the lowering sun. From the watch-tower, the family saw the sinking Daystar bathing the cirrus sky in dramatically vivid hues of gold and red and purple. "They were renegades, resisting evil. They followed a Light here and hoped the Edain would no longer be hunted like animals. They would be safe and sound. Here the Mortals could raise their families in peace. Their descendants would never see the servants of Darkness again and they would be pursued no more." Haldad's smile faltered. "But the chieftains were told that the Enemy which they fled from was here in the promised land... The Houses would fight for their liberty." The weather was growing cold now. Haldad fastened his cloak of bear fur then embraced his son and daughter.

"I must depart," he revealed sorrowfully, wishing he didn't need to leave either Haleth or Haldar in their most desperate hour. "There are still clans hiding in the wild we haven't gathered yet." He raised his big calloused hands, knowing he would hear objection from Haleth and Haldar. "I know, I know," he said roughly, not mad at his children but frustrated with the dire situation they were confronted with; to stay here until Caranthir decided they needed help or die without his intervention. He didn't know what the King was like; he heard rumors that Caranthir allowed them to determine their own fate out of respect, others that he didn't care what happened to them. Haldad liked to believe the former but perhaps the Haladin had cherished their autonomy too long. "The woods are stiff with Orcs but we can't let our kin be stalked to death by those monsters. If we're to die, then we will together...not alone. Also, we need more rations to last us another week; our supplies will dwindle shortly. If there's any food left in homesteads the Orcs haven't burned, we'll need what can be scavenged."

He gripped Haldar's hand then Haleth's, telling them they had command of the Stockade in his absence. "I know you both have heard the gossip about us." He barked out a laugh, shaking his head ruefully. "The Haladin want me to be their first Chieftain," he divulged through a fit of laughter. He sobered in moments. "If I decide to accept the title, leadership of the Second House belong to you and your sister," he told Haldar. "I want you both to promise me this," he confided in Haleth, his stare riveted back on the sun, fading now into a pinprick of flame over the forests of Amrod and Amras. "If I die, I want the Haladin to cross over like our ancestors did. Find a place beyond the greenwoods of the Twins, an emerald quiet place far removed from the corners of war." His gaze drifted back to his children. He pleaded with them to swear this vow, his leathery features taut until he could relax when they gave him their oath.

Haldad , left the Stockade with a mixed company of brave men and tough Drûgs. The sickle moon shone brightly when the sun vanished under the towering trees across the water. The twilight was cool and the redolent smells of the loamy earth, beautiful wildflowers, and long blown grass were pleasant. Nightjars and black-crowned herons sang, filling the fragrant air of Caranthir's land with croaks and churring noises. Haldad jolted in his saddle, disturbed out of his blissful enjoyment of the serenity when Vad’buri’Zakos spoke his name in a deep guttural voice. "Orcstink," rasped the stunted, troll-like being and his eyes. Raising a poisoned dart-blower to his fat lips, the Drûg's eyes shone redly in his intense loathing. Haldad eased the hatchet off his belt with a flinty countenance, signalling his men with his opposite hand to ready their weapons. There was a lengthy silence broken only by the loud kwok! sounds of the herons calling to each other until everyone heard a twig snap.

Vad’buri’Zakos gave a terrific heave of his blowpipe, firing a poisoned projectile into the shadowy dense thicket of tangled hardwoods. Something gave a shrill cry and that something - an Orc archer - teetered from its concealment behind an oak to fall dead thereafter. In the space of a single heartbeat, two dozen Orcs charged from the wilderness, piercing the night with their shrieking cries of bloodlust. The Orcs clashed with Haldad and his hollering defiant guards. Five Drûg hidden in the trees rained hell on the Glamhoth, shooting darts poisoned with the venomnous secretions of lowland Thargelion frogs/ One of them fell without a whimper when a wounded Orc flung his knife and Vad’buri’Zakos collapsed near Haldad who tore an Orc's throat open with a vicious blow of his axe.

"No vermin touched you!" Haldad exclaimed, risking a moment to inspect his friend. The squat, heavy Drûg's side was bleeding. "Watch-stones, all of them!" Vad’buri’Zakos explained through gritted teeth. "I can feel their pain, brother. Look out!"

Haldad turned with a fluid movement which belayed his large frame and ducked his head beneath a whirling slice of an Orc's sword. He growled as he shot up swinging his axe in a mighty arc. He cut off the Orc's swordhand at his wrist and, with a deft chop, embedded the axe blade in the Orc's forehead. Haldad took the ram horn off his belt and blew it, hoping his children and the Stockade sentries would hear the music of danger and heed his warning. Haldad cast the instrument away and spun, parrying an attack and eviscerated an Orc with a surgical ripping strike. His men fell one by one to the fierceness of their enemies but he fought on with smoldering hatred. He thrust and cut and hacked but couldn't dodge a flung javelin. The light spear found its mark, Haldad's broad chest. He gasped through the searing pain and fell to his knees. Behind him was the jangling of iron bells and Haldar's strident cursing which his father could hear even from this terrible distance between the woods and the Stockade. Wheezing, blood spilling from his mouth, he saw a huge Orc striding toward him out of the gloomy twisted maze of trees. Grey-skinned and wiry, carrying a huge studded mace. His cat-like eyes glinted like a tourmaline. He killed the Drûg who leaped at him with a serrated dagger, crushing his abdomen with a mighty sweep of the club. The Orc came closer to Haldad, snarling.

"The Second House of Men," hissed the Orc, "will be the First to fall." He lunged at the mortal's face, grunting. Haldad's corpse fell, once the cruel buffet was delivered. He summoned the chortling Orc survivors to mutilate Haldad's body and took the head they severed. Leaving them to their revels, the Orc moved closer to the Stockade with his gory prize and proclaimed his presence. He lifted the ghastly ruined face of Haldad for all the Haladin to see on the walls. "If you want his remains, come and claim them!" challenged the cackling Orc destroyer.



GM UPDATE: @Moriel and @Turin Ringhûn you can flash forward
to this night after the Orc vanguard has been defeated and the Brock Tribe guided into the Stockade.
A new wave of Orcs have come. You both see Haldad get murdered in the sortie he leads alone
against the Orc troop. Haleth remains behind at first - either because the stockade needs her
leadership or from utter shock? - but Haldar rushes out to recover their father's body from the
Orcs are desecrated and murdered. Haleth wipes most of them out with her amazons in
vengeance; a few escape but she does not pursue them, knowing the hope of the Stockade
depends on her presence there. Moriel, flash forward seven days later. The Orcs keep
making sting attacks and the food is running out. Though there are Haladin drowning
themselves rather than risk being killed, you inspire the people with your fearlessness
and proud words. The Orcs renew their hostilities for the last time and you fight
hard when suddenly the sound of trumpets are heard blaring over the din of battle....
Bring Caranthir to the Stockade, driving the Orcs into Gelion and Ascar.
You can pause here and I'll let you know what to do in your next post after this, Moriel!
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Golgor / Lug
FA 455, Ere the firedam bursts
Angband



Long had the hammers punctuated the roars of the bellows with their strikes, ringing out across the deep halls of Angband. As ever greater caves were opened to feed upon the iron ore they held, the underbelly of hell grew larger. And still, there could not have been room enough. With wry amusement, the monstruously large Orc captain spotted the moment a nearby slave’s last strength waned a short distance away from him, as he toured the works ahead of deployment. For the fires of industry and all their cruel gifts of death, pain, and misery were fed by the thronging mass of the Elder King’s foes, now descended to the deepest pits of servitude and wretched torment. The man would soon drop to his knees, as had legion before him, as would legion to follow. The skill, mused the Butcher, was to know when a slave had performed as effectively as he would, before being assigned to the task their long-suffering limbs would bear to perform. The variation was endless, the permutations infinite. Yet the end remained the same. The end was now.
Heavy gauntled hands each found the shoulder of the nearest pair of soldiers. Pulling them to him, two gargantuan sized hands shifted to grab two smaller orc heads by the back of the neck, he directed their gaze to the task at hand. Without missing a beat more than that required to unstiffen their neck muscles after being released from their captain’s iron grip, the pair proceeded to take their place. The worm grew hungrier as he grew large, and the werewolves were an ever present strain on the wares of Angband. For flesh, sinew and bone fed the machine of hell in comparable scale to the ore flowing from kilns around him in the dancing orange glowering perpetual gloom of the forgeries.

“Enough, my good man!” bellowed Golgor, his deep voice traveling amid the symphony of war preparations in the large cavern. The man, hair grown filthy grey and unkempt beard seemingly one with the fetid rags which had long lost any semblance of their former incarnation, looked around startled at the summon from the Orc captain, who towered above his shrunk form, and missed the next cyclical pull on the bellows. Then again, he would have anyway, fatigue in the pink skins was predictable provided a sufficient number of them had been observed over successive generations. And this one would not have been long in breaking the cadence of forge and anvil he so appreciated to have ring uninterrupted. With a deft motion of his tree trunk arm, his barbed whip found the hapless slave’s leg and tore into it. His soldiers stood ready to keep the bellows going, and thus perpetuate their captain’s little cacophony of doom. Dragging the slave across the ground to him, Golgor pondered just how he would end this runt, when a familiar growl behind him alerted his fun had ended.

“There you are, Butcher. The Sorcerer beckons us. The time is come, our orders await, follow me.”

Standing a head taller than the big build of Golgor, Lug the Orc-Lord stood tallest in the seething crowd of slave and overseers. Though he was hideous to gaze upon, with great slitted eyes like those of a starved serpent seeing prey for the first time in weeks, and brutish features and knotted muscle rippling under the coarse, spotted, near-bone-white skin of his forearms, the Orc-Lord’s stance and presence cowed even sadistic giant orcs like Golgor. Something about him, though none could say it for certain among the orc battalions he commanded and lived among, seemed to resonate with power. Rumour was orc was not all he was, that he merely chose to appear unto them as such. The question was left unuttered in Lug’s presence, lest he decide to prove any curious subordinate right. Ambiguity on that regard served his legions sanity well enough. “Bring that. Some of the beasts have not yet been fed. Waste not your time when it could be put to good use.”

Careful not to let his dejection show, the Butcher put an end to the pitiful, rasped begging coming from the end of his whip with one sluggish stomp on the man’s chest, the crack of ribs just perceptible under the commotion in the room. The slave slumped, and Golgor turned and left the cave.

They came upon the Lieutenant of Angband, flanked by his werewolves, as they navigated the arterial circulation corridors of the Iron Caves away from the Forge, and awaited by the main stairs that led further down into the Elder King’s Hall below. As the Sorcerer came within calling shot, Orc-Lord and Orc captain straightened up, fists slamming on shoulder plates, Lug and Golgor having made themselves ready to march as soon as they knew where to.

Lord Sauron.” Lug’s voice, neutral and flat in contrast to the bullish grunts of the Butcher, continued after the unison greeting. “We stand ready. What is the Iron Crown’s command?”
-

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

Melkor
Melkor
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BATTLE OF SUDDEN FLAME
FLAME, POISON, AND LIGHTNING
F.A 455

"Many charred bones had there their roofless grave; for many of the Noldor perished in that burning, who were caught by the running flame and could not fly to the hills." The Silmarillion, Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin.


Eärcolanté
Cavalry General
Fleeing from the Ard-Galen


The cacophony deafened the frenzied gallop from his horse; Eärcolanté urged the steed to charge through to the fortress known as Barad Eithel. A white steam suddenly began manifesting as the snow on the ground melted and turned to gas so swiftly it appeared to skip the liquid stage altogether. There appeared to be no mud, as the snow dried so quickly that water itself could not stick to the ground, so that Eärcolanté's steed actually quickened its pace. Though the increase in speed appeared small in his mind, every second counted.

But the mist itself that appeared due to the melting snow was a blessing, for even now, in the hell that was quickly consuming the Ard-Galen, it appeared that Ulmo was still foiling Melkor's plans and helping the elves flee in whatever small ways the Vala could do. Up ahead, the elf squinted to his sides and up ahead, seeing the figures of Martorost, Rúmilo, Témara, Poafanga, Líruima , and Yualë galloping forward as well. If the mist held up for just a bit longer, perhaps they could all reach Barad Eithel in time. But alas, the mist seemed to dissipate second by second, until all remained were mere wisps.

And that was when Eärcolanté felt something strange in the air, as the rapidly blackening sky itself seemed to briefly shine brighter than even the sun.

Widening his eyes, the general cried, "LIGHTNING! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"


~~~

Líruima
Cavalry Captain
Armored and Fleeing the Ard-Galen



She was charging through the Ard-Galen in full armor, for that morning awoke still in her armor, as Líruima was planning on coordinating the morning drills for the cavalry soldiers and wanted to set the standard for the them. But when the general sounded the alarm and ordered the retreat, Líruima knew that something was afoot, gathering what few elves she could to rapidly flee the area.

The mist was a blessing, though they only had a few seconds to savor it. Now up in the distance she could see the fortress of Barad Eithel grow ever closer. If only they had more time...

"LIGHTNING! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Eärcolanté cried
.

"SPREAD OUT!" Líruima yelled, adding to the order. While galloping, she dropped her heavy polearm to the ground as it rapidly disappeared behind her. Then with one hand she began the process of removing her steel helm, when suddenly her hair began to float upwards.

"No," she breathed, "CURSE YOU MOR-!"

The lightning bolt shot down, piercing both through her and her horse. So fell Líruima, a rising captain in the ranks of the Noldor. She bore no progeny, as she did not want to see her children awaken to a world without their mother. The notes she had on flanking movements, cavalry maneuvers, and other tactics, would be lost forever.


~~~

Rúmilo
Cavalry Recruit
Fleeing the Ard-Galen



This was not at all what Rúmilo, the young recruit, wanted when he signed up for the cavalry. He thought there would be glory, processions as thousands of horses and elves armored to the teeth would all gallop through Morgoth's hosts with the Sun behind their backs and blinding their enemies on the fields of Ard-Galen. Now it seemed the Sun deserted them, the earth itself breaking apart as flames literally were climbing behind them. The air itself filled with poison. Why had Manwë, Aulë, and Elbereth deserted them? Why could they not show mercy and save them?

Rúmilo sobbed into his horse's mane, a horse whom he did not know the name of in his haste to flee. Now Captain Líruima was gone, struck down by Morgoth himself apparently. What would happen next? Giant lizards breathing fire suddenly appearing? Fire-demons and other abominations following to kill everything? If only they did not come to Beleriand and had stayed in Valinor. If only...

Rúmilo suddenly heard a deafening crack as the lightning struck the barding on his horse. Even as his twitching body was flung off, his eyes still darted around in horror at the world he saw before him.

A sky as grey and black as the void from above, and rivers of flame rapidly approaching his body. Lightning bolt after lightning bolt hitting horses and riders. Rúmilo found his tears to be all dried, as he could not even open his mouth to greet the death that consumed him swiftly. He left behind his youth swimming in Lake Mithrim, enjoying the relative peace with his family. But there would be no body to return to the waters.


~~~

Eärcolanté
Cavalry General
Fleeing from the Ard-Galen



He quickly dropped his halberd to the ground. Luckily, his horse had no barding, and the only metallic item Eärcolanté bore was wrapped completely in cloth. There was no time however to check if the bounded string was tight, and he gritted his teeth, closing his eyes, shrugging off the metaphorical stabs of pain in his chest as he heard the screams from his soldiers. Captain Líruima fell, not with her enemies slain all around her, but slain through a bolt in the sky. Rúmilo was gone as well, probably being struck too. Though he was a young recruit, if trained, who knows what his potential could have been. He knew not where Martorost, Témara, Poafanga, and Yualë were. Where was Nemir? Were they alive? Dead? Missing? Soldiers he had known for hundreds of years, honed and trained, most of the time by his own hand and instruction, all were dying around him to lightning, flame, and poison. Wave after wave of pure cold began peppering his heart, like a winter frost upon an emerging spring.

This was no time for grief, however, as he kicked the sides of his horse urging even more haste. Then he noticed a tendril of gas appearing from his steed. Eärcolanté quickly turned his hands over, revealing palms redder than rusted iron. His eyes widened, and within only a few seconds the mane, from the poll to the withers, the tail, and even the short hoof feathers, combusted.

Eärcolanté's horse was on fire.

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Mablung, Captain of Thingol's guards in Menegroth
The Throne Room, Menegroth
F.A. 455 (before the Bragollach)

Mablung had been troubled by the summons - for it could not be called anything else - from Hithlum. When they had first arrived in Beleriand, it had seemed that the Noldor would be great allies against the rising darkness, but it had quickly become apparent that the newcomers had brought much darkness of their own.

He could not shake the looming worry that the divisions between the Quendi made none of them stronger, and only played into the hands of their greatest enemy. If they were to take the fight to Morgoth, he suspected it would take all of them, with no such divisions standing their way, to succeed.

He listened to Thingol's announcement with a mixture of worry and relief, though he did his best to keep any of it from showing on his face. He did not envy his King this decision, and he would not speak against it; although Mablung himself would gladly stake his own life on a chance to rid the lands of Morgoth, Thingol would need to think of their people's safety first. And they had had peace - relatively speaking, at least - for many long years now; that was no small thing to risk.

He also had good personal reason to be relieved as well by the decision - one of the primary duties of his company was to ensure Thingol's safety, and that was much easier to do when Thingol was in Menegroth, protected by the wisdom and power of Melian, than if the King had decided to go gallivanting about in the wilds to attend the Council. Far better to send a messenger in his place, and far better not to gather all the lords of the Eldar in one place so close to Angband.

As Beleg left the hall, he stepped forward. The leagues between here and Mithrim were long and treacherous, and it was not a mission that one alone could expect to make unscathed. "By your leave, aran nín, I will accompany Beleg to the council in Hithlum, with some of my men. We will see that your message is delivered to the lords of the Noldor, and to any of our people who follow them."

He would meet Beleg before sunrise - but between now and then, they had some logistics to sort out, and his mind immediately turned to the details of personnel, supplies, and equipment. It was a long journey to Mithrim ...
She/her. Almarëa - Rivendell / Jaena - Lone Lands (T.A.) and Gondor (F.A.) / Layna - Mordor

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FA 375
The Stockade, Thargelion


Haldar and his men, with the help of his sister Haleth and her warriors managed to fend off the raid of orcs. Even better, with minimal casualties. There were some injuries, but from what he could tell, none were fatal. “She certainly is a beast.” He thought to himself eyeing his sister’s profile as they continued on back to the stockade. They made it back as the sun was disappearing over the horizon. There were many cheers from those at the stockade for the return of the warriors, and cheers for the arrival of Brock’s clan. The additional men would boost their survival rate. Haldar pointed out where the women and children were staying, and the elderly and sick were being housed as well.

A week before Caranthir’s rescue


The days passed. Eventually his dad called him and his sister over. “Our forefathers had a dream.” his father started. Haldar vaguely remembered hearing his dad tell this story when he was very young. He wanted to interrupt, saying he’d heard the tale before, but something told him to resist that temptation. After the story, Haldad told them he was being nominated to be the head of the second house. It was true, he’d heard some rumors in that vein, but he’d dismissed them as being silly. The second house was a scattered people. They weren’t like those under Bëor, or those under Marach. But then he brought up death. And if he were to die, the second house was to move west. “But this is our home.” He thought to himself. But he could tell, his dad wouldn’t stop until he promised. Finally he nodded. “I swear it. But none of this foolish talk of dying.”

Then his dad said he had to leave. “What do you mean you’re leaving? After all the work we put in to getting everyone here.” He screamed internally. “But father. It’s getting more and more dangerous to leave the stockade.” He said, the argument essentially falling on deaf ears. “Though part of me feels I could have done it alone, it was with her help I was able to get Brock’s clan here. It’s too dangerous.” Haldad left anyway with a mixed company of brave men and tough drûgs. All the while, Haldar kept complaining about how foolish it was to leave the stockade. Yes, they needed the food, but it was too dangerous. The sun vanished under the trees and the sky grew darker. It seemed only minutes later when cries and the sounds of battle echoed back.

“If you want his remains, come and claim them!” challenged the cackling Orc destroyer who approached the stockade. In his hand he carried something. As the orc walked, light from the moon managed to slip through the trees just enough to reveal the victim.

“FATHER!!! NO!” Haldar shouted. His heart felt as though it had been shattered. He couldn’t breathe. Rage filled his vision. Other orcs were filing through the trees approaching the stockade too. There was laughing and jeering.

“They will not defile him!” his mind screamed. Drawing his sword he charged forward. If anyone called out to him to stop, he couldn’t hear it. All he saw was rage filled hatred at those who killed his father and had already desecrated him by cutting off his head. No more would they do this. He would kill them all. He would drive them back to the dark lord’s door. Heck. With how he felt right now, he’d take on the dark lord for even creating the orcs.

He now understood why his dad brought up the dream again. Their ancestors wanted a peaceful place to live. With the orcs around, that would not become a reality. They needed to be exterminated. “And they will be!” he shouted as he swung his sword. But it was easily deflected with the huge mace the orc carried in his other hand. “Is that the best you have?” the orc chided.

Haldar growled and charged again, but was swatted aside. “This second house is weak.” The orc said shaking his head looking down at him.

Haldar’s arm wouldn’t move. He looked down at it, and learned why. It was bent in awkward angles. He coughed and stood again. He took up his sword in his other hand. “Die!” he said stepping forward, but was again swatted aside.

There were faint steps. Orcs were approaching dragging a body. Haldar could barely see, but he recognized it. It was his father. “Father. I’m sorry.” He knew no more. He finally succumbed to the pain from the clubbing. The orcs dragging the body laughed eagerly. They had a new toy to play with. Haldar was stabbed repeatedly and was no more. His spirit had left to the halls of Mandös.
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"My father is not an usurper! Fëanorian tra--"

Celebrimbor clapped his hand over the younger elf's mouth as they spun around to face Celegorm and Curufin.

"I am lucky that Beleriand seems to have a great many kings from which to learn wisdom and strength, and folly, as it may be," he said, very calmly, over Gil-galad's spluttering. "I'm sure this Council will provide enlightening examples of each." He did not move from his stance at his cousin's side until his uncle and father had turned back to the hall.

"Into the fire, then," he muttered finally. "Try a leafier tree, Artanáro, and don't be so furious. If the folly of lesser lines is valiance and fidelity, you could do much worse."

~~~

He was hailed again at the entrance to the palace, but Maglor, at least, he was glad to see. He liked to imagine a shared kinship, beyond blood, with the harper. That though their crafts were far apart, they, together, were artists first and kings and lords of people long after. That they were willing to make, without caveat.

"Sing me their deeds, Uncle! if you would soften the hearts of Himlad," Celebrimbor laughed. "Fingon, at least, I do not forget, nor shall I. If my father will only resent him for the return of Maedhros then all gratitude must come from me, and I give it freely. But it will be of little use today, I fear. I do not share the high king's, er, confidence."

He followed Maglor inside and his mocking smile twitched and fell as he bowed to Fingon and Fingolfin and murmured a quiet greeting to Amrod and Maedhros. How many of the great lords here assembled looked at him and thought his name? No, he was Curufin's son and scion of Fëanor, hardly Celebrimbor at all.

He took the seat beside his father and stared determinedly at the gap between Angrod and Aegnor's heads when Curufin spoke of him. "Leave me to the forges, father," he said quietly. He hated to be drawn into the these brandishings of power between families. "Surely that is due enough, for Fëanor's house."

It was a relief when the council began in earnest.


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"I'll show you lesser lines!" Gil-galad swore in outrage at the backs of the departing Fëanorians, but they were already long out of earshot. What did they know of his father, anyways? How did they dare speak so when they were here as guests? And why did Celebrimbor bear their barbs and unabashed scorn without yelling back?

He watched his cousin stop to talk to Maglor--would he sing, later?--and his eyes were drawn to the bundle Celebrimbor still carried. It was long, taller even than Celegorm and Curufin, and Gil-galad wondered at it. Surely it was from the forges of Himlad, and the skill of Curufin and his smiths was acknowledged even here.

Then Maglor and Celebrimbor disappeared inside and the prince suddenly felt very cut off and very young. The gap between him and the rest of his family seemed as wide as the ice his father had crossed, and he thought it might not matter if he was ten or a hundred or a thousand years old. He returned to the tree Celebrimbor had found him in and scuffed his boots against the trunk. "But I am one of you," he whispered to the backs of all the heads he could see through the line of long windows to the council chamber. "Or at least, I don't belong anywhere else."

With that, Gil-galad leaped into the lowest branches for a second time and began to scamper upwards. He would not remain forever outside, left ignorant of the doings of his kin. He climbed higher than he had been, until he was even with the tops of the palace windows. The upper panes were open to let in fresh air and he sidled out onto the branches that reached towards the palace. He could just make a familiar voice.

"When we lay waste to Angband, no one need suffer the cold mountain keeps..."
Last edited by Yávië on Sun Jul 12, 2020 4:16 am, edited 1 time in total.

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A Friendly Exchange

Finrod gladly took a seat next to Cirdan, as a beaming smile took over his face. "You are looking well, my friend. How fairs the Falas? Those cities of yours are full of resplendence so very different from my caverns."

Cirdan gave him an affable nod. "They are wonders, that is true but they take a lot to govern, and there is much trade with the men. You are looking well yourself, Lord Finrod. However, speaking of resplendent things," Cirdan leaned in lowering his voice. "I have yet to look upon this Nauglamír with all my business. I do not even feel comfortable leaving the cities in the hands of my retainers. I have so little free time. How does it compare to the Silmarils that this whole mess is about? The necklace does not produce light of the same caliber I suspect, though I cannot have a conversation with a dwarf without it being mentioned." Cirdan flicked his gaze down to Finrod's tied up high collar expectantly, giving his head a slight twist in the hopes of getting a peek if he was wearing it.

Finrod rolled his eyes as Cirdan called him "Lord". He had suspected they were closer though perhaps Cirdan could not help being formal. At the mention of the Nauglamír, Finrod moved closer and patted the air in front of him to keep the dialogue silent. A smirk flattened his lips from Cirdan's expectancy, and his eyes darted around the room to assure no one looked their way before raising his hands to his collar. Cirdan's eyes widened as he also looked around with only his eyes leaving his head unmoved for the most part before looking from Finrod to his collar over and over in anticipation. Loosening the knot, Finrod leaned on the table to turn himself to face more towards the wall as unsuspectingly as possible. Finrod watched Cirdan's expression with an evil grin as he slowly pulled open his collar and turning his head toward the rest of the room with an indifferent emotional mask.

Cirdan's eyes widened further still, his attention now focused on his collar. With one last glance to the room, Cirdan peered down Finrod's open collar and froze in awe. His jaw slacked, separating his lips. What he saw... well, what first came to mind was the sea dancing on a bright cloudless windy day yet, it was every colour at once, not simply blue and green. Even within the shadow of Finrod's garment, the jewels danced and sparkled. Never, he thought, would he witness something more enamoring. Suddenly Finrod closed off his collar and tied it quickly, and Cirdan blinked back into reality still holding the image in his mind.

Finrod eyed Celegorm's approach, responding to his greeting with a slight nod and an open upward palm hand gesture granting a wordless 'and to you as well'. Finrod opened his mouth to respond to his following question but instead narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in annoyance as Celegorm carried on insolently. Abruptly Cirdan stood tall, a rage seemingly growing within him, "We cannot know what Morgoth is capable of! Imaginably, he has a mind to corrupt our dear Ossë again and Uinen has..." Finrod was taken aback but stood and clasped a hand on his shoulder sporting a ring of emerald eyed serpents, and Cirdan turned to face him, blinking again, Cirdan wondered what had come over himself. "It would seem I have placed you under an enchantment mellon. You know that's just Celegorm." Finrod dropped to a whisper, "My apologies, perhaps I should have shown you in a place of greater privacy." They both sat back down. Cirdan issued an assuring nod, as he regained control of his heart and mind.

Finrod looked then to Angrod and Aegnor. "Now brothers, we can take it outside after this uh mandatory discussion. We'll get this out of the way and consider fisticuffs afterwards." Finrod leaned forward so he could clearly see Maedhros and Maglor at the same time and gave them both and childish smile with closed eyes. He then listened to Uncle Fingolfin's proposal, Finrod found himself in agreement with Curufin. "I do not see the point to this, unless there is some unknown knowledge you hold that you do not share. Who is to say Morgoth will ever attack again?" An itch in the back of his mind begged him to reconsider, but he could not. "Our people are glad and thrive. Let them thrive." Cirdan nodded his agreement fervently.

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Taking a Seat

Maedhros took a seat, arms crossed, ignoring most of what was happening around him. One could not hold a council of Noldor lords without all this bickering. He hoped Fingolfin was aware of what he was staging. Unless things got utterly out of hand, he would sit through this disaster in silence. Maedhros then raised an eyebrow at Celebrimbor's greeting, glancing at Curufin and back to the younger elf before giving him an expression of 'whatever', and looking away. Finrod received a similar look of indifference, though maybe slightly more disapproving. Finally hearing Fingolfin's idea, Maedhros remained unmoved. Yes, he would have Melkor's head in an instant, but it was not worth the lives of Noldor to take it. Curufin and Finrod were correct in their statements. This peace was lasting so long that though his need for the recovery of the Silmarils and justice upon Melkor was still strong, it was in the most coolest state it had ever been in. He was impartial. Let the council decide.
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Thargelion, The Stockade. FA 375.
Retrieval, Return, and Loss.

Between the two parties of Haladin, it had been but the work of moments to dispatch the orcs, and with Haldar, Haleth returned to the stockade with the remnants of the Brock clan. It was not long after their return that Haldad had called the siblings to the watchtower to tell them of his plans. "If I die, he had said, I want the Haladin to cross over like our ancestors did.” Haleth’s grip tightened on the hilt of the sword at her hip. “I promise, father,” she vowed, glancing sideways at her brother. Hours later, she watched her father leave the stockade with misgivings churning in her gut. Should she have volunteered to go in his place? Haldad was no longer young, great though he had been. But Haleth knew he would have refused: no true chieftain of Drúedain would have asked any of his people to do what he would not himself do. From her position in the tower she watched as Haldad and his party disappeared into the gathering dark.

And it seemed no sooner had they gone than the shrieking, gabbling battle cried of orcs began, followed swiftly by Haldad’s horn. Haleth gripped the top of the battlement until her fingers were white, straining her eyes against the light from torch and moon, trying to discern the shadowy shapes, and listening to the sounds. The horn was cut off with an awful finality, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. The cries of battle turned into fiendish laughter, and an orc strode into the light, holding up a mangled, bloody head. “No!!” Haleth screamed, but her scream was not directed at the loss of her father, but at Haldar. Her brother was charging out of the stockade, the gate flapping open behind him, others following on his heels. “Haldar, no! They are too many!!” But he was beyond hearing. Tearing her eyes away from the scene below, Haleth sprinted along the battlements. “Archers! Archers to the wall!” Haladin with their small, compact bows raced to follow her command.

Haleth leapt down from the wall onto one of the slip ladders propped against it and slid down with hands and feet on either side, until her feet hit the packed earth of the courtyard below. “My women!” she bellowed, “With me!” her guard appeared from all sides, arms already drawn, and followed their leader out the open gates. Orcs were emerging all around from the shadows, and the archers above sent shafts ripping into them, driving them back from the open gates. Haleth emerged from the stockade, sword in hand, in time to see the orc who had lifted her father’s head in mockery swing his mace in a crushing blow to her brother’s chest. A wordless scream of fury burst from Haleth as Haldar fell and was engulfed by orcs, and though her vision remained clear, hot tears dampened her cheeks. She swung her sword and disemboweled an orc that had charged ahead of its fellow. Sound seemed to have receded from the world as though frozen in time, and yet Haleth’s mind moved. She was all that was left to defend her people.

“Close the gates!” she shouted, gesturing to her guard, several others of whom had engaged over-eager orcs, “Back inside! We must close the gates!” The archers above had heard, and concentrated their fire on defending the group below. The women of Haleth seized the heavy gates and dragged them shut, bolting and barring from the inside with stout timbers. The Chieftainess, for so she was now, slumped against the inside of the gates, sword dangling at her side. Her chest heaved and her brain spun: what now? A touch on her arm brought her back to reality, and she looked up to see one of her guard, the youngest, a gifted girl called Hellan, biting her lip. “Haleth?” she asked, tremulously, “What now?” Haleth straightened, sheathing her sword and pulling back her shoulders. “Now we fight. We hold out, as long as we can. We swallow our pride, sisters. We send our fastest runner to King Caranthir and demand his aid.” She reached out, and grasped Hellan’s shoulder.

“Now, we survive.”




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Thargelion. FA 375.
Good Fences.

“Herugon, we’ve been over this dozens of times. There is absolutely no need to star up a captive deer husbandry operation,” Caranthir said, exasperated, the color rising in his cheeks, “the wild stock provide us with plenty. Besides which, I know what will happen if you decide to start building paddocks and fences for them.”
“Yes, someone else will get stuck with all the work,” the light, silver voice came from a lean wheaten-haired nís, stretched out languidly on a chaise, one leg hooked over its back. Tavari popped a grape into her mouth and arched her brows at Herugon. “We all know how you feel about manual labor.” She threw a grape at him, striking him on the side of the head. Caranthir rolled his eyes and turned his annoyance on her. “You, are not helping.” His dark, dour champion turned, incensed at the fruit that had bounced off his cheek, but it was only to see another grape whizzing toward him, and he caught it in his mouth instead. Herugon chewed, juice dribbling out the corner of his mouth as he leveled a finger at Tavari. “Just you wait, deer-woman, one day when my venison is sold to the finest patrons in the land-“ “Are you saying our deer aren’t already being consumed by the finest patrons in the land?!”

Caranthir threw up his hands. “Finnbarr, save me from these miscreants!” he called to the burly Teler near the window. The room in which the group had gathered was a sort of large sun-room in the middle of the manse carved into the side of Mount Rerir, with a great expanse of windows, overlooking Lake Helevorn. It was a common gathering place for the residents of both the manse and the city of Thargelion- long practice had taught them that all were welcome in the house of their king. “You may not know them as well as I do, but perhaps that will play to your advantage.” Caranthir strode over to Tavari and pulled the bowl of grapes from her hands, but not before she had snatched a small bunch of them away. Finnbarr had only recently come to Thargelion, but had quickly proved himself a valuable asset, and a worthy foil to some of the strongest personalities of Elvenkind. “Yes Finnbarr, save him!” Tavari laughed, launching a grape at the Teler, and chortling as she dropped one into her own mouth. “Behave yourself,” Caranthir chided the nís, bending low over her, still holding the bowl out of reach, “or I’ll throw you out to live with the Haladin.”

“The Haladin!” Herugon guffawed, “She’d fit right in! I heard they have a whole tribe of women warriors.” Tavari, whose face had disappeared behind the dark curtain of Caranthir’s hair as he bent over her, jerked up right from her slouch, narrowing her eyes at Herugon. “What of it, putsiseldo (little boy, Q) ? You know I’ll fight you any day you want to debate the superiority of male warriors?” But before the discussion could deteriorate any further, a commotion from the corridor outside caught the attention of all, and voices and hurried footsteps coming nearer. Caranthir’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at each of his friends in turn.

“Are we expecting visitors?”
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Beleg - Captain of the Marchwardens of Doriath, 455 FA


As the night sky slowly paled before Arien's glory on the morning of his departure for Mithrim, Beleg stood as tall and still as the ageless trees about him, drawing what peace he could to calm his still-troubled mind. He longed to be on his way; he needed to be doing something, even if it was travelling to deliver the message that he would, in fact, do nothing. But he had announced that he would wait until sunrise for any companions. So far, none had been forthcoming.

He glanced behind him to where the mountain that housed The Thousand Caves rose in splendour, a fortress that would prove troublesome for any army, supposing they made it past the Girdle. The Sindar, including himself, had faith in its strength and its secrecy, and in its rulers. But it did not quiet the rumblings in his mind. Beleg had spent all his life training to defend Doriath and its inhabitants from enemies and he knew he was good at it. His bow would prove boon to any engagement.

The knowledge that such a mighty battle would occur in which he would take no part was a bitter draught to swallow.

But this path has the Queen's blessing, he reminded himself.

As the warmth of morning rays finally filtered their way through the trees, Beleg mounted his horse, accepting that he would journey alone. Only then did he notice the figure of Mablung nearby, also garbed for travel and looking at him expectantly. Beleg's face split into a rare smile.

"How long have you stood silent so, mellon nín?" he teased. "Have you found enjoyment, watching me fret at the thought of so long a journey absent friends? Or have you overslept and only just now arrived?" He laughed and spurred his horse into motion. "But I can forgive such cruelty or laziness, and am glad of your company."

They fell into step beside each other, and headed through the forest. However, Beleg quickly found his mood darkening again. He longed to know the lay of Mablung's thoughts. They had been friends for years uncounted and were often of like mind, though Beleg had chosen to patrol the Girdle while Mablung lent his sword in defence of the King. How did he feel about keeping Doriath's armies out of this battle. Would his friend think ill of him for wishing Thingol had come to a different decision?

"I know as a Captains of Doriath, our loyalties lies foremost with with our rulers, yours with the King and mine with the Queen," he began after some time had passed. "But as two friends making conversation, I beg your leave to speak freely.

"No doubt, mellon nín, you have noticed that my thoughts are as heavy as your hand. May Nienna weep for me, but my heart weeps at the thought that my bow will not be used in assault against Morgoth. I do not begrudge our King's decision, nor would I set foot against his will, but still my selfish desires remain. Such wounded pride should Morgoth be defeated when I took no part would shame even the prideful Noldor." He was ashamed of his thoughts, and thought back to the calm face of Melian as she sat and listened to her husband's decree. It did work to calm him.

"May I hear your thoughts on the matter?"

~~~

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At long last, the two Sindar arrived at the palace of the self-declared High-King. Despite his reservations about the Noldor in general, Beleg could not help but feel awed by the might arrayed before them. Many he recognised, though some he had not seen again since Mereth Aderthad. He was somewhat surprised to see none of Turgon's company among them, though that was probably for the best. Their last entanglement had not gone too smoothly.

"The fact that the Hidden King has likewise refused this summons casts our King's decision in new light," he whispered to Mablung.

He was gladdened to see Cirdan, but kept his distance while his kin spoke to Finrod, the only Noldor among them Beleg would have wished to greet. But there was no time now. They had arrived late, just in time to hear Fingolfin's speech and the first responses to it. He was moved by the power and earnestness in Fingolfin's manner, as much as he bristled at the sneering responses of some of the Fëanorions. It was galling to hear that the peerless forces of Doriath would be numbered noncombatant alongside the Elves that followed the brats Celegorm and Curufin. Those two were daily reminder that a fair face or a skilled hand was no substitute for sound mind.

But more voices spoke up, denying Fingolfin their armies, and it was time for Beleg to add his. As usual, he strove to avoid giving offence without appearing weak. Thingol's powerful words echoed in his head, but he could use few of them. "Neither will King Thingol send his Sindarin forces to smash uselessly against the walls of Angband in aid of a Noldorin war." Even now, the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "The borders of Doriath have stood impregnable since long before you returned to our shores, and its people will not be used as pawns by those who erroneously claim superiority over them.
I can resist everything except temptation. - Oscar Wilde
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FA 455
Minas Tirith, The Pass of Sirion
The Sindar Are Coming
"He {Curufin} leaned and whispered low
that Orodreth was a dullard slow."

- Tolkien, from The Lays of Beleriand:
The Lay of Leithian - Canto VIII

"Thus ended the Siege of Angband, and the foes of Morgoth were scattered and sundered
one from another. The most part of the Grey-Elves fled south and forsook the northern war;
many were received into Doriath, and the kingdom and strength of Thingol grew greater
in that time, for the power of Melian the queen was woven about the borders
and evil could not yet enter that hidden realm.
Others took refuge in the fortresses by the sea, and in Nargothrond..."

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


"We should have listened to Fingolfin," Orodreth uttered quietly to himself, forgetting Tharmáras Isilherven and Jaime Dara were present, where he stood on his throneroom's balcony in Minas Tirith. He saw a blaze of hell-fire burning across the plains north Serech before the arrival of these captains and their somber companies. They expected him to make decisions but he would rather fight than lead; it had always been that way. Finrod believed he would a natural leader but when it came to tactics and exerting his charisma, Orodreth usually relied on Gelmir or Gwindor. Armored Dwarvish mail he was ready for a challenge but how to win one, well, that would depend on his captains.

"Hell has come now to our doorstep but you will still turn away from it, coward!" came Jaime's scathing reply.

Orodreth slowly turned to face him, his piercingly bright eyes flaming like stones of his throneroom braziers.

"That's enough," Tharmáras warned gently, the Grey Elf daunted by the Calaquendi sovereign's hardened stare.

"Only your brothers, Angrod and Aegnor, have the verve for war!" Jaime dared to declare.

"That's enough!" Tharmáras insisted. He tried grabbing the sleeve of Jaime's coat but the mortal batted the Elf's hand away.

"Many would surely have perished!" Orodreth objected furiously and strode toward the human with frightening swiftness.

"Would you like to know how many hundreds died tonight beause of your ineptitude?" Jaime lashed back, unshaken, his cheeks flushed red.

"I said that's enough!" Tharmáras hollered in outrage, pitting himself between Orodreth who touched the hilt of his longsword and Jaime who had reached for his own weapon. "You need to decide what happens now!" Tharmáras pressured Orodreth. Finrod's regent opened the glass-paned door of the balcony, muttering he didn't know what to do. Orodreth collapsed on the gold and silver chair which Finrod once sat in the throneroom of the tower.

"He's a disgrace," Jaime told Tharmáras with a rueful shake of his head. "When he has his wits together, come find me. I'll see to the fragile morale of my troops."

When he was gone, Tharmáras passed a hand over his face and drew a deep breath then looked at Finrod's castellan. Orodreth held his gold diamond crown in sullenness. "Soon there will be a stream of refugees flooding this region," Tharmaras said softly, giving the vulnerable warden a look of melancholy sympathy. "Behind them," stated Tharmaras grimly, "will most likely be a host of minions, marching through the land the flames have burned..."

Orodreth blanched in horror. He frowned, overwhelmed by the growing realization that the weight of West Beleriand rested on his shoulders. "I would welcome your counsel, mellon nin," he invited Tharmáras in a hoarse half-whisper.
*
Caranfindel, a red-haired Elf bearing the white & gold surcoat of House Finarfin emblazoned with the mountain sigil of Orodreth, entered the citadel barracks of Minas Tirith. He called out the names of soldiers belonging to his battalion. When they were drawn away from the windows to stand in formation, murmuring about the refugees crowding the tower's fair green isle, they listened to Caranfindel speak.


"The Siege of Angband has failed,"
he announced without preamble just as Arasoron Mordagnir, the tower's previous captain, would have done. He demanded silence when the Elves, both Noldor and Sindar, burst into cries of denial and anger. "Tharmáras Isilherven, a knight of the Falas, has spoken to Lord Orodreth. He has told the Warden that rivers of flame have destroyed Ard-galen. Many, we expect, have either died or been separated from their camps. There is a strong possibility Morgoth will unleash his hordes to destroy the survivors and weaken the kingdoms which have not been suitably prepared for a large-scale assault. To prepare for the invasion, Lord Orodreth is readying the tower to battle any minions which might beisege the rivershore and enter the Pass of Sirion. We've veen ordered to guard the western and eastern flanks of Sirion to prevent our enemy's crossing. I need scouts in the Fen of Serech to watch for impending danger. Celebrin and Curancal, present yourselves." Caranfindel grinned when they approached either side of him. He knew they were capable soldiers. "Who will go with them?"



GM UPDATE: @Celebrin , you cand Curancal notice a great tide of Sindarin troops bearing the battleflags of Thingol rushing into the Pass of Sirion and can see the blaze of fires behind them; it's apparent that they are Sindar since they have standards bearing Thingol's emblem as well as standards of the Falas and other realms where Grey Elves dwell. You can narrate your character emotions and conversation before accepting Caranfindel's need for scout captains in the fens. Go to the marshes of Serech and...wait, observe. There will be action for them once Finrod arrives. After Barahir saves Finrod and your scout group for trouble, I'll have you cover Finrod's retreat back through the Pass of Sirion; Celebrin and Curancal will then help Gelmir and Caranfindel defend the valley from the Orc menace. Note, the sun has not yet risen



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Outskirts of Neldoreth

Sillandhas burst into the wooden outpost where Mallosel was ironically telling Captains Beleg Strongbow and Mablung that nothing happened out of the ordinary had happened in the last few hours. "There's a hundred Sindar encamped near River Mindeb!" He told his Marchwarden partner and the captains with labored breath, sweat running down his face. He was shaking. Sillandhas, normally confident, had not been this worried since the First Battle of Beleriand.

Sillandhas led Mallosel, Beleg, and Mablung to the the high springs of Mindeb. Sitting on his horse tensely, ready to fight off any Great Spiders of Nan Dungortheb or Ered Gorgoroth, Sillandhas waved his green leather glove expansively south of the hard dangerous road of the Pass of Anach. Below the Doriathans, they heard the lamentations of Sindarin armies. Hundreds of their sad companies clouded the desolate green earth between the fringes of Neldoreth and the empty region of Dimbar all the way to the oakwoods of Nivrim.

"Sindar for sure," Sillandhas mentioned, looking through his spyglass at the unfurled starry banners of Thingol which waved in the cool air along side the white, blue, and gold standards of House Finarfin. "The power of Queen Melian wouldn't have permitted them venture otherwise," added Sillandhas. "I suggest we speak with one of our warriors serving Thingol's kinsmen in Dorthonion." Sillandhas rode with Malllosel and their captains to the closest encampment where the flag of Thingol stirred in the cold winter breeze. "There's Celeg Loboth, the father of Gwenneth who's Thingol's cupbearer." Sillandhas led them to a Sindar captain who wore gleaming Dwarven mail and a fur cloak. The axeman had melancholy blue eyes and long silvery-blonde hair. Surrounding him were Grey Elves of Dorthonion singing a funeral dirge, circled amid a dozen bodies covered with blankets.

Sillandhas introduced himself and Mallosel. "Pleased to meet the Rabbit of Dorthonion," Sillandhas said warmly, trying to lighten the morbid mood of the meeting. "Your name is known to the Marchwardens." Celeg had the reputation among the Sindar warriors of leading small guerilla attacks against Orcs in the Siege of Angband; they "hit and ran", ambushing minions then vanishing just as swiftly as they appeared.

"I hardly escaped trouble this time," Celeg admitted, wearily shaking his head.

"What's happened?" Sillandhas asked, becoming serious and losing his smile.

Celeg glanced at Beleg and Mablung in shame and looked away, knowing they were high-ranking members of Thingol's armed forces. He mastered his emotions before he spoke. "Last night rivers of flame swept through Ard-galen," he divulged, drawing a shocked gasp from Sillandhas. "There is nothing left," Celeg told Beleg and Mablung, meeting their gaze stoically. "The grass is gone, there's nothing bust dust and charred bones. Many of our people were destroyed and many others-" - he gestured at the sea of fugitives amassed for miles "- were separated by the vast smokes and fled for their lives through the Pass of Sirion.

"Multitudes of Grey Elves have abandoned the war. I've heard the Sindar gossip. Most are bound for Doriath like us; droves are heading back to the Falas or Nargothrond, unable to reach Hithlum or Dorthonion. Some have given up the fight forever, others have just wanted to escape anywhere from the inferno. There are Grey-elves forsaking Beleriand, heading over the Ered Luin into Eriador and the far East of Middle-earth. I'd like to still be of some use, whether it's service with the King's rangers or his soldiers; Angrod and Aegnor are said to have fallen so there is no highborn lord for me to follow presently. Can the King grant the evacuees entry into Doriath? We have retreated here but if he rather us be directed elsewhere to other Grey-elven lands, we'll go, but I hope our presence can strengthen His Majesty's power."

Sillandhas, aghast, lifted his face towards the sun shining brightly in the clouded azure sky of the morning. "How could a day this evil be so lovely to look upon?" he said to Mallosel, bowed his head, and wept for their people.


GM UPDATE:

@Laintaen and @Almarëa Mordollwen , you can roleplay your
characters visiting a Marchwarden station under the eaves of Neldoreth's western border to
receive a report from @Ercassie's NPC Mallosel. Describe your
reactions to Sillandhas' dire news; go with him and Mallosel to the Mindeb river where
there are a great number of Sindar refugees and listen to Celeg speak. Decide together
that King Thingol must be informed and flash-forward to Menegroth where you will both
will speak to him. Make a good case for accepting the Sindar refugees into the Kingdom
and advise Thingol that the soldiers of Doriath need to secure the border in
case Orcs mount an invasion now that the Siege of Angband is more.
Note, the sun has risen.
Last edited by Eriol on Sat Sep 19, 2020 5:17 am, edited 6 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Melkor
Melkor
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Raphszhac the Club
Thargelion
Early Celebration




"Ga ha ha!" Raphszhac the Club cackled, as the remains of what was Old Halsomething (Haldad), and Young Halotherthing (Haldar) were dumped before him, as the messenger orc deposited the amalgamate pile of flesh and bones right at the orc commander's feet. The messenger then left the ragged tent where Raphszhac the Club resided. The latter bravely commanded from the rear, as he made the tough executive decision of not risking his life on the front lines. After all, if he died, who would be there to command the orcs? He was fully confident that his soldiers would handle everything accordingly. Instead, he slept during the day to avoid the uncomfortable rays from the Burning Sky Menace, and ate as well as drank throughout the night, occasionally leaving his battle tent to yell out orders at his orcs. He also took the responsibility of guarding the victory alcohol along with the vittles. Most of the alcohol was supposed to be used as incendiary devices to hasten the siege. But why burn them on the inside when they could just slaughter them in glorious battle?

"These humans are more squishier than I thawt! Wait until the Dark Lord hears of my great leadership. Who did we kill again? The Hala-something. It doesn't matter what their names are!

These are their leaders, right? Haha, look at them now... Nothin' more than body parts and skulls for the Dark Lord's collection."

The flies ignored Raphszhac's commentary, merely buzzing in response as they flew to and fro as they digested the remaining corpse.

"Well, bettah send this up North to Angband afore I fuhget," Raphszhac muttered. He then left the battle tent, shouting, "Hey, will somebody get these two corpses in my tent to Angband? I can't leave this siege, after all!"

~~~

The Victory Siege- Night 1, An Hour after Haleth Closes the Gates

"Ya know... I have an absolutely smashin' idea," the Orc commander yelled as he held aloft a goblet of alcohol, "how about we takes a break as we siege, eh? Let's have a... a whatevuh ya call it, you know the thing where we all eat and drink together. A celebration for all our hard work serving the Dark Lord! Let's make as much noise to remind those people (Haleth and the remaining Haladin) inside that fortified thing (the Stockade) of what they're missin'!"

With that, Raphszhac, holding sausage chain-links around his neck, rolled out the rotting barrels containing the alcohol.

"What say we have a little bakkhus, as a reward for our efforts?" Raphszhac the Club asked loudly. In response, many of the orcs roared.

The night was young for the orcs, as the raucous yells of celebration rang in the air. There were enough orcs left standing by the daytime to still properly siege the Stockade, but not enough to cover every nook and cranny as well as escape route for say, one person to flee the stockade and perhaps get reinforcements.

Healer of Imladris
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Himlad, F.A. 316
A Servant of Morgoth (probably)

The residents of Himlad echoed the qualities of their lords--fierce and skillful, unforgiving and wild, fair but quick-tempered. One of them, unknowning and unknown, was curled into a very small ball at the base of a pine tree that marked the end of the cleared ground around a great castle. Sunlight filtered through the forest eaves to dapple its black coat, and it came lazily awake with a twitch of its tail and a flick of its ear. It lifted its head a fraction to sniff at the air, and when no immediate threat made itself known, stretched luxuriously across the pine needles that blanketed the ground. "Mreooooooooow!"

If someone had watched it stand and rub its whiskers against the bark of the tree, they might have thought it looked rather smug.

It crouched down in the shadows, all fours paws tucked neatly under itself, and watched the goings on of the valley. Big People disappeared in and out of gates and trotted up and down the roads north and east. Cheery little warblers flitted amongst the upper branches, a hawk circled once on its flight over the mountains, an overworked raccoon made its way home from a small stream. But they were too high up or too risky a venture to warrant a reaction. Then there was a whisper of movement on grass against stone. Shining yellow eyes swung to the castle wall and alighted on thin blue wings. They fluttered.

A dark blur of sprang from the trees! The butterfly took note at the last and circled skyward but one needle-point claw batted it out of the air and pinned it to the ground. Ha! A tale to tell the Master...

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