NationStates

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Our tale takes us to Middle-Earth, dear listeners. A land of beauty and wonder not seen in our realm of existence. Kingdoms of Men most noble exist in these lands, chivalrous Gondorians and the Rohirrim Horse Lords; mighty bastions of good. Within their halls of stone and under mountains old dwell the Dwarves, a proud people with whom the world watches enviously, for their mounds of wealth are plenty and theirs. In forests yonder with music, art and song have the age-old Elves made a home, a race of peace and tranquillity that will do all to defend what it has. Finally, the Hobbits most fair reside in their small dwelling; the Shire. They are a peaceful folk, not willing to get involved within the diplomacy and tidings of the other peoples of Arda.

All is not well upon Middle-Earth however, for after an eon of waiting, the Dark Lord Sauron; Servant of Morgoth, has returned. He brings with him fire and malice to conquer the lands of Men, Dwarf, Elf and Hobbit and will do all in his unquestionable power to seize the territories that he believes are rightfully his, to bring forth an order of excellence and efficiency, to succeed where his master could not. To his South reside the Haradrim, or Southrons in our Western-Tongue, tribal confederations aplenty united in their hatred for the Men of the West. To his North we find the powerful and militaristic Easterlings, Men of Rhun who have themselves brought Gondor onto her knees innumerable times. Saurons numerous legions are filled with Orcs, creatures that themselves are testimony to the defiance against Eru Ilúvatar and Sauron will unleash them upon Arda when he is ready.

Long ago, Sauron forged a mighty tool: The One Ring. He lost this weapon long ago - at the final battle of the War of the Last Alliance. Now he yearns for its return and will stop at nothing to get it to assist him in his quest for unification and conquest of Arda and funnily enough, it has ended up in the hands of a young Hobbit. Now, now is when the time is to strike for both parties, to end the stand off once and for all.

Table of Strengths
The plywood one is clearly superior...
Anyway, generally, we need something to go on to provide bases of strengths for races; to see how powerful your Hobbit Battalions truly are:

Goblin: 1
Lesser Spiders: 1.25
Hobbit: 1.5
Orc: 1.75
Morannon Orc: 2
Lesser Men: 3
Uruk: 3.5
Higher Men: 3.75
Dwarves: 5
Great Spiders: 5.25
Half-Trolls: 6
Elves: 6.75
Trolls: 90
Mumakil: 300

Ships and Siege
Ships: If you've got a coast, go crazy and build boats. 40 Strength.
Catapults: Y'know what irks me? Walls. 20 Strength.
Ballistae: If you ever feel like making a quick shish kebab... 10 Strength
Ram: More expensive than a goat, that's for sure. 10 Strength.
Ladders: Warning, keep away from snakes. 5 Strength.

Some General Batshit; AKA "Rules"
My Word is Law, only Morgoth's may break it.
Be reasonable, friendly.
If you're making a claim to being able to do something, please, quote a LotR Source that is Canon, or argue why you believe that a source that is based on assumptions could work.
Respect eachother or I'll whack your face in with Grond.
Be realistic.
And above all: don't take it out of the frying pan and into the fire. That spoils my roast mutton.

Sign up; here
Oh look! A Map

My following IC post will be rather short, due to me having to leave soon.

Rhunagaroth, Khanate of Rhun
The sun rose over the horizon, beyond the untamed lands of Rhun as Khamul stared out from the balcony of his citadel, a tall and proud stone structure from which he could carefully calculate his schemes and watch for those who'd threaten him and his people. True, he held little sentiment for his people nowadays, not like in the days of old when he was their proud Khan. Now, he was a shadow of his former self in that sense, but a God in comparison when it came to power. He turned, his heavy black robes turning with him as a slight wind picked up behind him before he pushed aside the velvet curtains to his chamber and stepped within the large, ornate room.
He held his gauntlets tight before firmly clutching a quill from his nearby desk, beginning to write out orders for recruitment of the realm to bolster the ranks of the already mighty Easterling Army. When war would come, Rhun would be ready for the great battles it would face, so true, for the men of Rhun were the most formidable men on Arda and they would make Gondor kneel or cut off her legs to make her kneel.

Arathil turned to the East as he sensed a shift in the balance of things. The Dunedain had lived quietly, going about their business without attracting the attention of the much stronger factions. Arathil watched the new generation grow, the trainees following the Grey Company out for hunting, and become Rangers themselves.

However, it is time to act. Summoning Anaheim, one of his trusted Captains, Arathil ordered him south towards Edoras, and then Rohan, to check on the state of things. Cavalrahdm is ordered towards the Shire, where Halbarad watches over the hobbits, to inform him and a fellow Ranger by the name of 'Strider', of the recent proceedings.

Théodred looked over the smoking ruins of the village. Another raid by the Dunlendings. Nothing was spared; the warehouse in which the villagers had kept their winter stores looked to have been emptied before the Dunlendings burned it to the ground along with everything else. A few dozen bodies lay scattered about, mostly Rohirrim, sadly; only a few of the dead looked to have been Dunlendish. Just as bad to Théodred's eye were the bodies of several dead horses. The raids were becoming more common of late. Nowhere in the Westfold seemed to be safe, save the well-nigh impregnable Helm's Deep itself. Something would need to be done or there would be no Westfold left. He looked out across the ford on the river Isen which marked the border with Dunland.

"Erkenbrand, assemble your éored. We ride for vengance at once. Send word to Grimbold at the Deep, and have him find more riders and men at arms and to begin strengthen or defences at the Keep, and send word to my father informing him."

"Yes, my Lord." said Erkenbrand.

recruitment: 100 Riders, 3 ballistae.

Westward in Lindon, at the port of the Grey Havens, Cirdan the Shipwright also felt the shift.
"A shadow grows in the East," he mumbled ominously, "and the tides turn again." Shifting his sea-blue robes, he arose from his seat and gestured to two elven guardsmen standing nearby.

"Go, find two messengers. Send one to at all speed to Rivendell with this paper." He quickly bent over a low table and scribbled a short note in neat, flowing script. The parchment crackled as he handed it to one of the elves. "The other, bid him ride eastwards and find Arathil of the Grey Company, the Dunedain. To him, command the messenger to say only this: 'I fear ill times are come upon us.' Now, go!"

Faramir looked at the map on the table. He knew the growing threat of Mordor would soon unleash itself once again on Gondor, like it did thousands of years ago. He was never favored by his father, Denethor, for he had always loved Boromir more, but Faramir never really knew why. Faramir wanted to prove himself that he would do well for Gondor and its peoples to fend off the growing shadow in that dark and evil wasteland. He began writing a note with a quill to prepare to recruit troops to defend Gondor.


Recruitment: 50 Soldiers of Gondor

Archegnum wrote:Westward in Lindon, at the port of the Grey Havens, Cirdan the Shipwright also felt the shift.
"A shadow grows in the East," he mumbled ominously, "and the tides turn again." Shifting his sea-blue robes, he arose from his seat and gestured to two elven guardsmen standing nearby.

"Go, find two messengers. Send one to at all speed to Rivendell with this paper." He quickly bent over a low table and scribbled a short note in neat, flowing script. The parchment crackled as he handed it to one of the elves. "The other, bid him ride eastwards and find Arathil of the Grey Company, the Dunedain. To him, command the messenger to say only this: 'I fear ill times are come upon us.' Now, go!"

Arathil saw the rider come with the grim message. Confirming his suspicions, he ordered the Grey Company, short of their two Captains, towards the Dark Place, Dol Guldur, for scouting and disruption duties. The dense forests will do them good, and supplies can be obtained from Lothlorien.

The Grey Company thus departed with 9 Rangers and 3 Fighters. Although well trained, the Fighters are not full-fledged Rangers. Thus most would remain behind to protect the camp, while the three go forth to fulfil their duty.

Recruitment : 5 Dunedain Fighters, 1 Dunedain Ranger
Total :
GC - 9 Rangers, 3 Fighters
Camp - 31 Rangers, 48 Fighters

Saruman sat in the once Steward of Gondor's throne as he contemplated the state of Middle Earth. The world was changing and Saruman could feel the Dark Powers rising as darkness clouded the sky's in the East and the corruption in the world grew. Through his constant searching for the One Ring and his own research into the lore of ring crafting Saruman had forged a ring of power of his own which had heightened his power and allowed him to use the Palantir of Orthanc with liberty. Or so he had thought. In reality Sauron had allowed Saruman to use the Palantir with seemingly unhindered and was watching his progress hoping to find the One Ring through Saruman. Saruman unaware continued his search as he was slowly corrupted by Sauron and the Palantir's influence. "He had been sent by the Valar Saruman thought to himself. The other races on Middle Earth could not compare to the mighty race of the Ainu and under his rule an Ainu of Aule they would prosper and be happy." That's how he had thought at first before coming to his conclusion. "That these weak and unhappy races should be completely ruled over by Saruman because he would give their lives meaning and from that meaning would come happiness in the name of progress in the name of industry... in the name of Sauron?" As Saruman drifted further into his own corruption he used the Palantir and feeling himself to be the mightiest of the Maiar contacted Sauron. He was not prepared for what followed. All his will all his desire was stripped away and looked through by the all seeing eye and he became the servant of Sauron solely and completely. He had been given 500 orcs and 100 Wargs to breed into an army that would destroy the West. However because of how of Saruman's will he had managed to break the bonds of his enslavement but Sauron had remained oblivious of the fact and with his experiments he had created a new race of Orc. The Urak-Hai. He now had to assemble an army to conquer Rohan and he would do so by starting the fires of industry and spreading it across the lands. He began ordering his new Orc servants to cut down the surrounding forests and trees within and around Isengard along with breeding more Wargs and Urak-Hai. Once he had fueled the fires of industry and built an army that could destroy the world of men he would march on Rohan and then the rest of Middle Earth as he eliminated the last bastions of defense in the West before marching on Gondor and finally Mordor itself. Saruman smiled to himself. Yes the Dark Powers were rising but only one would reign supreme over Middle Earth.

Results: Recruited 250 Urak-Hai 250 Orcs and 100 Wargriders.

Zarak the Destroyer sat on his make-shift throne, his Warg companion laying down nearby, chewing on a Human arm. Looking around the ruined room, the room itself was in near pitch darkness, his eyes seeing perfectly in the dark. He waited for an hour before the Goblin chieftains arrived, he motioned for them to take their seats on the chairs nearby, the torches around the room only providing the most minimal of light.

"Now that you all have come, we can begin with advancing the Great Goal. You each shall gather your tribes, we will need to reaffirm the Eye's faith in us, for just a brief amount of time." He spoke in Black Speech, patting his grey Warg on its head. One of the chieftains responded, speaking in Black Speech. "If we alert the Eye of what we have done, then the Pig-Orcs of Mordor will arrive, they will take away what we have done here. If we-" Before the Orc finishes its sentence, Zarak tears the dismembered arm from his Warg, throwing it at the offending Orc. The Warg leaping on the Orc and tearing into it, "You will not question me, none of you will. We will contact the Eye, and we will ensure that it does not see us as its enemies. You will get his tribe." he points at a nearby Orc, as the corpse of the offending Orc is torn apart.

"In the mean time, I want more of the Trolls taken from the caves. Send a few to Gundabad, and Goblin Town. Travel through the caves, travel at night. I want more Goblins armed, and sent throughout the mountains. I want the High Pass to be fortified as well, no one goes through the Mountains without us knowing. Have the Gundabad Orcs repair their fortress, send a few Goblins down to build some catapults for them. The lazy filth they are." The other chieftains quickly depart, and Goblin scouts are sent to deliver orders.





The remaining ten Goblins are sent heading for Mordor, to relay the fact they are still "loyal" to the Great Eye.

Erebor, The Lonely Mountain
Dáin II Ironfoot stood at the front gate looking over the vast lands of Dale. He had recieved disturbing news from the far east and south. Shadows where growing, streching into middle-Earth. While Dáin was concerned about it, he was not going to act on it as of yet. He desided that it was time for a council, a council of the great Dwarvenclans, all seven of them. Dáin had some important matters to discuss.
He had great plans, plans that went further then his imagination. Dáin wanted to restore the Dwarven might that once existed. Balin had set out to Khazad-Dûm, wich had made the start, now Dáin felt that it was time to act on Gundabad. For far to long that orcish scum had held the holy place of Gundabad. It was time to restore it under Dwarvish rule once more.
Dáin knew that if he would send out his armies he had to be well protected, and so he decided to put his builders to work. Erebor was already considerd a fotress that could not be taken, but Dáin wanted to make sure that would be true.
After he explained his ideas to the builders he met up with a few of his best friends who all got a special task from Dáin.
Dwalin was send to his brother Balin at Khazad-Dûm.
Thorin III Stonehelm, Dáins son, was send to the far east, to the remaining four Dwarvenclans. They all got a raven with them to speed up the talks.
Dáin on his turn prepared to travel to the Iron Hills, there the defenses needed an upgrade aswell.

---

The Black Gate of the Morannon, Mordor

With the beat of drums and the thunder of marching feet the great gate, more wall than passageway, opened. Creaking upon hinges the size of men, propelled by beasts of fell strength indeed, the ancient fortress of the Dark Lord of the Black Land was now closed no longer. With harsh cries and the urgings of Orc captains the hosts marched forth, great streams of ruined creatures and soldiers resplendent in the iron of the Great Eye. Banners emblazoned in the black and crimson and scarlet of Sauron, their master, fluttered in a stiff reeking breeze off the Dagorlad, and both north and south the hosts marched in numbers beyond reckoning. Behind the walls still more Orcs and Uruks were massing, fresh recruits from the pits, being clad in steel and armed by snarling Snaga workers. The immense mineral wealth of Mordor was her power, and her sheer walls of night, though food still had to be brought up from the south.

Minas Morgul, Morgul Vale

From the dead city, the land of men in the past, the tower that looked towards the moon, legions of Orcs marched forth. Their stature was greater than the ruined goblins of the west, and at their head rode a Nazgul, the leathery wings of the terrible flying beast that held him aloft beating the air like a drum. In the ears of the companies and lines of travelling Orcs the thud of the air was heavy, but then a cry, fell and terrible, shuddered through the night and scudding clouds. Orodruin was active indeed these days, responding to the Great Eye's will, and thick roiling plumes of ash and fumes covered the skies overhead. Orcs quailed at the cry from the Fellbeast, but they knew it was their master's terror, and hurried on as if they were being whipped. With the legions came weapons of war, weapons of siege, and the lumbering mountains of immense trolls ready for war, armed and armored.

Amon Lanc, Dol Guldur

Here, upon the hill of the ancient elven fortress, had the Dark Lord once made his throne. The Necromancer they had called him, foolishly thinking that the shadow over Mirkwood was the work of a mere evil man, never see the ruin that stood before them. Sauron's purpose in the north had been foiled with the downfall of Smaug, but it was of little consequence; here he had rebuilt his power even as the Nine rearmed and rebuilt Mordor. The Barad-Dur had been raised anew, and the armies of the Black Land strengthened with numbers great and immense. When at last the White Council had moved against him, Sauron had almost chuckled, pretending to flee before them, before setting himself up again in Mordor. A false sense of security, yes, that was excellent for the Elves and the Istari to have. And the night grew closer about their doors, hammering even at the latch, as Gondor, the last bulwark of the West, slowly crumbled in to ruin. His mighty men and kings had Sauron laid low, and their like was not in the world yet today. Now his plans long laid were coming to fruition, but still there was a danger. His foes were scattered, divided, and their doom was at hand, but the outlying vestiges of the power of the Darkness could be assailed, could be frayed.

The walls of Amon Lanc rose higher, Orcs working like the slaves they were, quarrying great quantities of stone from the veins to the south of the citadel. Power still lay in Lothlorien and Mirkwood, and in time that would be snuffed out. Orcs felled and logged the forests about the redoubt, fuel for the fires that forged the metal for the arming of the armies of the Great Eye.

The Barad-Dur, Gorgoroth Plain, Mordor

Upon the throne of black steel and spikes a lidless malice sat, a form of shadow without substance, but full of the aspect of terror. From what might have been a face two pinpricks of fire looked forth upon the war chamber of the Dark Tower. Here were gathered the greatest generals of the Black Land, towering Black Uruks with minds cunning and fell, corrupted Numenoreans now sworn to the Great Eye who pursued the destruction of their vile brethren, men of the East and South deemed worthy by the shadow, proven in battle, unmatched in cruelty and strength. But all of them, even the most hardened and respected by their men, were in a state of terror within the walls of this chamber. Though many were legends, scourges of the foes of Mordor, there was only one Sauron would entrust with this task.

"My Mouth."

The deep tones of the shadow shook even to the foundation of the Black Tower, all the way from the fire of the eye to the deepest dungeons.

Minas Tirith, The White City

Denethor had stood at the very top of the city, looking below at the city. A broken, miserable place that would fall apart soon enough. Then, he looked ahead at the dark clouds above Mordor. Denethor knew Mordor and its allies would fall upon Gondor swiftly and devastatingly. He knew his armies were no match for the armies of Sauron, and with Sauron's allies to soon aid him...

Gondor needed allies. Without people to aid Gondor, the kingdom would fall into ruin. But Denethors hopes would already be lost, knowing that Gondor, even with allies, could not win this war. "I must put trust into my eldest son, Boromir, to fend off this threat..." Denethor called Boromir to him, and ordered him to prepare an army, to recapture East Osgiliath, and hold off Mordor from unleashing its full force for atleast some months atleast.

Boromir prepared an army of 5,000 Soldiers of Gondor, 400 Cavalry of Gondor, 1,000 Archers of Gondor, and 50 Rangers of Ithilien to unify Osgiliath once more, and stop Mordors possible advancement into Gondor for a little while, just a little while. Meanwhile, Denethor decided to send Faramir and 30 Rangers with him to Edoras to talk with Rohan about the threat of both Mordor, and possibly Isengard. Denethor had also recruited more soldiers.

A Long Expected Party

“I am underhill
And under the hill
And over the hill
My path has led

Through the air,
I am he who walks,
Unseen

I am luck wearer,
Riddle maker
Barrel rider
…”

An old, cloaked man, singing the Song under the Mountain, drove his cart through the forests of the Shire. His hat and cloak were grey as ash, and made him look like an old wanderer, a vagabond of sorts. His beard reached long, long down his body, and was as grey and dirty as the rest of his attire. There were only two things that set him apart from any traveller that came across the lands of the Hobbits. First was his walking stick, a large branch which reached to his shoulders when he stood upright, and had a glistening gemstone in the top, which was shaped like the roots of an ancient tree. The second, and foremost difference, was his sword. Although somewhat hidden beneath his cloak, bound in leather and brown furs, there was undoubtedly a sword hanging from his hip. The blue eyes of the man looked joyfully around him, observing the forest as if it had been his first visit to the Shire. As if it had been his first visit to any forest, really. Every time he saw a squirrel dance around on the many branches of the tree collection, he still chuckled, like a child witnessing the same event. He sang and rode on, to visit an old friend. A very old friend indeed.

“You’re late!”

A familiar voice, a kind, infantile voice, sounded from a tree on the side of the road. Gandalf knew what this meant, who belonged to that voice. There were little in the world with such warm-hearted voices of trust and virtue, save perhaps Bombadil. Bombadil, another old friend that needed visiting soon, Gandalf thought to himself. There, next to the tree, was a creature known as a Hobbit, a Halfling. The size of a big child, with bare hairy feet and lively eyes. Blue eyes, this Hobbit had, and they seemed to pierce his soul like the Palantir itself. Frodo Baggins, the nephew of Bilbo Baggins, the old friend he was there to visit. There was indeed a fiery spirit inside Frodo, which was not common in Hobbits. It, however, seemed common among the Baggins. After all, their ancestor had once decapitated a Goblin King, sending his head flying through the air, right into a rabbit hole. Winning the battle, and inventing the game of golf. At least, that was what he had told Bilbo before taking him in a quest to defeat Smaug. Oh, well, as long as Bilbo believed it to be true, the actual validity did not matter. Baggins folk were adventurous, that much was certain. And now, Frodo was calling him out on his lateness. This required wit. In all seriousness, using all the authority he could muster, the Grey Pilgrim spoke in his deep, demanding voice.

“A wizard is never late. Nor is he early. He arrives exactly when he means to!”

The stare between the two continued for a few more seconds. Frodo using his defiant heroism also found in his uncle, Gandalf using the authority of his Istari nature to try and submit the Hobbit. Eventually, neither could hold his own anymore, and they both descended into a laughing fit. Frodo leaped out from his tree and jumped into Gandalf’s arms, stating how good it was to see him again. Gandalf replied positively, and agreed, before driving his cart further down the road, towards Hobbiton. The two shared many stories, about the time they had been separated. Gandalf had always admired these simple creatures. Mortal, without the evil that corrupted so many men. At least, they hid it better, what Gandalf always saw as something positive. These people were content with their farms, their cattle, and they never looked further than the Shire for all that. Oh, if only men were like that. If only the Valar had been like that.

----

Like seventy years before, Gandalf walked the path leading to the door of Bag End, Bilbo’s home. It had changed little. Even if you looked at the door, when observing very closely, you could see the mark Gandalf left behind all those years ago. Oh, how different things had been back then. Easier. Enemies had been less united, less powerful. Sauron still hiding in Dol Guldur, Erebor deemed lost, Moria occupied by Gondor. Now, so much had altered, but he was happy to be in Hobbiton again. The peace of this place helped him relax, like a good smoke of Old Toby. A place where the rest of the world did not exist. No outside force could touch it, and it had no influence beyond the rivers. Using his staff, Gandalf knocked on the door three times. The response was swift, and relentless. Bilbo’s cracked, old voice, a shadow of what it had once been, answered.

“No, thank you! We don’t want any more visitors, well-wishes or distant relations!”

Gandalf smirked. Exactly the Bilbo he once knew, not changed one bit.

“And what about very old friends?” he replied, kind and fiery.

After that sentence, everything went speedily and smoothly. Bilbo threw the door wide open, threw himself into Gandalf’s arms, with the same hug that Frodo had given him just an hour ago. Had Frodo been there, he would have laughed a bit at the scene of two old friends meeting. Luckily, he had stopped at Hobbiton itself, to help prepare some last things for the long expected party. Bilbo invited him in for tea. Or perhaps something stronger? No, just tea, thank you. After a flash, they sat down at Bilbo’s table, a table he had shared with thirteen dwarves seventy years ago. He could still see the marks the forks and knives had made. Dwarves were quite the enthusiastic eaters, we might say. The conversation went on and on, about distant relatives, about the Shire, about Frodo. Frodo, the only reason for Bilbo to stay in the Shire. They would both be sad and heart-broken when Bilbo left for Rivendel, a plan he had been sitting on for quite some while now. There, the conversation turned from any old small talk to the most important conversation in the history of the third age so far.

“Gandalf, my old friend… I have been meaning to tell you something. No, don’t interrupt, I want to finish this. My bones have grown old. 111 years old, unnatural for a Hobbit, don’t you think? Far too old for a Hobbit who has fought Orcs and walked across half Middle Earth. I have been meaning to tell you this for seventy years now, ever since we walked out of Goblin town…”

His hand shot down his pocket, where his finger fiddled. They fiddled and played with something, Gandalf could see it, but what? It had to do with his age, Gandalf guessed. He could feel something dark, something other. Something that did not belong in the peaceful shire.

“What is it, Bilbo? You can tell me. I have guarded this place for two thousand years now, keeping secrets from me is futile and rash. What is it?”

Bilbo hesitated, that was obvious. Something was pulling him back, it was visible in his eyes. They stood darker than normally. There was something about him that did not fit.

“Bilbo, tell me. What is it?”

Then, Bilbo, the strong wilful Hobbit he was, drew something from his pocket, and slammed it on the table. So hard, in fact, that something cracked and flew through the room, probably a piece of wood. Then, Bilbo’s hand slipped away, and he held it with his other hand, as if to stop himself from picking the object up again. On the table, a bit smashed inside the table now, was a golden ring. Perfectly Hobbit-sized, Bilbo-sized, and void of any special features. It was solid, smooth, perfectly round. Just any old ring. Yet, it was so fascinating. It lay there, calling to Gandalf. It was a feeling. Could he pick it up? Could he touch it? He wanted to feel it, hold it, put it on… Slip it on his finger, just one time. His finger moved across the table, towards the simple ring. He nearly touched it. It yelled for him. One more inch…

Then this http://puckerclust.files.wordpress.com/ ... sauron.jpg

Just before touching the ring, Gandalf pulled back his hand, and jumped from his chair. He stared at the ring in front of him, that simple golden thing. What was it? Why did it draw? Who made it? What was its purpose? A ring that had seemed so simple, so complex? He needed counsel. He needed help. Immediately, he turned his head and walked away. Bilbo was surprised.

“Gandalf, where are you running off to?”

“To an old friend and a kind of colleague of mine. Don’t worry, I will be in time for your party. Just… Keep the ring safe. Keep it secret. No-one can see it, not Frodo, not anyone. Do you understand?”

But he was out the door before Bilbo could answer. Baffled, the Hobbit took back the ring, and put it in its trusted pocket. He felt a surge of relief, but also some fear. What on Arda could scare a wizard so deeply? He decided to store the memory until Gandalf returned. There was no use letting it boil. He went about his business, like any Hobbit would do.

Saruman got up from his throne before coming to look out from the balcony of Orthanc and overseeing the progress of his minions. Saruman smiled as he saw the Orc minions Souron had sent him clearing away the trees from the land within Isengard. The trees that were being felled were large in stature and would make good fuel for the fires of industry and flames of war. As the trees were fed to the great fires that were now springing up around Isengard the strange brews and magical concoctions were mixed with the fiery debris and mulch of the dying trees. As the chemicals mixed and began to take shape orcs hurried over to it and began to form it into what would make up the bulk of Saruman's army. Stronger and smarter then normal orcs the Urak-Hai would crush all that got in it's path. Great pits were being dug and many machines that exerted great strength and pressure on the ground and fires around them began to speed up the process of both Urak-Hai and weapon production. Great pikes 10 feet long and the large and heavy swords that were each 5 feet long were being produced from the hard black steel found around the edge of the misty mountains along with the large black armor that would encase the Urak's in a nearly impenetrable shield. The orcs toiled away clearing the last of the trees of Isengard and beginning and underground tunnel network all across Isengard one that would be continually expanded as the great forges and Urak and Warg pits grew. The training of the Urak's had commenced and the large specially bred orcs began to march in front of them practicing with their pikes and swords while the smaller ones practiced aiming with long bows strong enough to pierce the hide of a troll. The long bows were Saruman's own design made from the thick and supple material of Fangorn wood they would be the most powerful long ranged weapon in existence. Saruman smiled to himself as the Urak's trained, the underground tunnels of Isengard were expanded and the damn that would block the Isen River had been started. All he needed to do now was find the One Ring and bend it to his will and then nothing would be able to stop him from gaining dominion over Middle Earth. Pleased with what he had accomplished he decided to contact Souron on the Palantir to inform him of his progress.

Result: Cleared away the trees surrounding Isengard. Fortified the defenses. Begun damming the Isen and building an underground tunnel system for the forges and breeding pits.

Umbar, Harad
The Chief sat quietly, the fires of his hall roaring and burning bright. It was dark and the night was full of terrors. He took a sip of some Umbarean wine and played with his crown. He had been chief for seven years so far, taking the place of High Chief by conquering the other tribes. He was very tall and muscular, with brown hair, green eyes, and a powerful voice. He was very handsome and he was the most powerful man in Harad at just 24. Things were changing however. Mordor was stirring and war was brewing. Chaos would engulf all of Middle-Earth, and Harad had to be prepared. Harad would profit from this war and emerge a new power. He got up from his throne and walked to his office. There was much work to be done.

The Dead Marshes

Here, at the center of the winding paths of the Dagorlad, many thousands of Orcs worked under the watchful eyes of the men and Uruks. A great Black Uruk, Nargazal, stood over it all, nodding his head occasionally from the overseeing platform he and the Numenorean engineers had constructed to survey the area. Only a few paths, narrow and easily defensible, led from the west and east to this large hillock in the center of the swamp. It had not much land, but there was great potential here. The groves had been chopped down to build a small stockade for supplies and some crude barracks for what would soon form the garrison of this commanding fortress; the height of the land allowed sentries to see miles upon miles, even unto the southern borders of the swamps, on a good day. And even when the marsh-reek rose to smother the land, they could still have advance warning of any enemies approaching along the tracks.

More Orcs worked with loads of wood brought by patient beasts of burden up from the east, laying crude boards and pilings along the largest path from the direction of the Black Gate to the south and east; a rough clapboard road would eventually take shape there, as men cracked whips and rations were distributed in shifts, to allow more construction material to be brought in from the great quarries and mines of the Black Land. But that was not the main purpose of this host; south and north marched the main body of Orcs, moving along paths carefully picked out through the treacherous bogs by skilled scouts. Their prizes were not in the swamps, no indeed.

As the host in the south marched along to the borders of the Marsh, they encountered some Orcs, the shorter and more lanky variety that lived in the passes of Moria and the Misty Mountains. After some conversation the Uruk captain leading the army determined they bore a message for Sauron, and let them continue on their way, replenishing their traveling provisions with some good dried mutton.

Isengard

The Palantir kindled to life in the hands of Saruman, the deep swirling black of the seeing stone kindling to a great Eye of red flame as the powerful wizard sought to speak with the Dark Lord.

"Saruman." A single word, with tones of weight, echoed forth from the mystical orb.

Emyn Arnen, South-East of Osgiliath

From the ruined towers and estates of the ancient House of Hurin the massed hosts of Mordor that had marched from the Morgul Vale looked down upon the city to the north. A vast field of rubble and half-fallen buildings, it was still several leagues distant. From atop one of the old broken-down pinnacles of manmade stone the Fellbeasts shook its head, as if to dislodge an irritating fly. The Ringwraith upon its back merely contemplated the city placidly. It was destroyed, no longer the fortress it once was. The great walls were cast down at myriad points, the effects of the many wars that had been waged over the centuries, and many years of disuse and ill-repair. It would fall swiftly to the forces marshalled against it indeed. A cry came from the creature, and it pushed itself aloft upon mighty pinions of iron-hard muscle. Below the Orcs roused from their camps, sentries reporting some men of Gondor entering the city, and the host began to march down from the hills towards the foes to the north. A small force was left behind, to collect stones from the ruined buildings and refortify one of the more prominent fortress-keeps.

G-Tech Corporation wrote:The Dead Marshes

Here, at the center of the winding paths of the Dagorlad, many thousands of Orcs worked under the watchful eyes of the men and Uruks. A great Black Uruk, Nargazal, stood over it all, nodding his head occasionally from the overseeing platform he and the Numenorean engineers had constructed to survey the area. Only a few paths, narrow and easily defensible, led from the west and east to this large hillock in the center of the swamp. It had not much land, but there was great potential here. The groves had been chopped down to build a small stockade for supplies and some crude barracks for what would soon form the garrison of this commanding fortress; the height of the land allowed sentries to see miles upon miles, even unto the southern borders of the swamps, on a good day. And even when the marsh-reek rose to smother the land, they could still have advance warning of any enemies approaching along the tracks.

More Orcs worked with loads of wood brought by patient beasts of burden up from the east, laying crude boards and pilings along the largest path from the direction of the Black Gate to the south and east; a rough clapboard road would eventually take shape there, as men cracked whips and rations were distributed in shifts, to allow more construction material to be brought in from the great quarries and mines of the Black Land. But that was not the main purpose of this host; south and north marched the main body of Orcs, moving along paths carefully picked out through the treacherous bogs by skilled scouts. Their prizes were not in the swamps, no indeed.

As the host in the south marched along to the borders of the Marsh, they encountered some Orcs, the shorter and more lanky variety that lived in the passes of Moria and the Misty Mountains. After some conversation the Uruk captain leading the army determined they bore a message for Sauron, and let them continue on their way, replenishing their traveling provisions with some good dried mutton.

Isengard

The Palantir kindled to life in the hands of Saruman, the deep swirling black of the seeing stone kindling to a great Eye of red flame as the powerful wizard sought to speak with the Dark Lord.

"Saruman." A single word, with tones of weight, echoed forth from the mystical orb.

Emyn Arnen, South-East of Osgiliath

From the ruined towers and estates of the ancient House of Hurin the massed hosts of Mordor that had marched from the Morgul Vale looked down upon the city to the north. A vast field of rubble and half-fallen buildings, it was still several leagues distant. From atop one of the old broken-down pinnacles of manmade stone the Fellbeasts shook its head, as if to dislodge an irritating fly. The Ringwraith upon its back merely contemplated the city placidly. It was destroyed, no longer the fortress it once was. The great walls were cast down at myriad points, the effects of the many wars that had been waged over the centuries, and many years of disuse and ill-repair. It would fall swiftly to the forces marshalled against it indeed. A cry came from the creature, and it pushed itself aloft upon mighty pinions of iron-hard muscle. Below the Orcs roused from their camps, sentries reporting some men of Gondor entering the city, and the host began to march down from the hills towards the foes to the north. A small force was left behind, to collect stones from the ruined buildings and refortify one of the more prominent fortress-keeps.

Saruman bowed his head and said "My lord." Before pausing for a moment and continuing "I have put the Orcs you have given me to good use. All the trees have been cleared away and are now fueling the fires of industry as armor and weapons are being made along with more Urak-Hai and Orcs. Soon I will have mustered a force great enough to assault the so called Horse Lords or Rohan." Saruman said dismissively "To hasten the assault on Rohan I ask that more Orcs be sent along with a Nazgul to spread destruction and chaos across Rohan to distract our enemies while I build up our forces to assault Edolas and Helm's Deep." Saruman said bowing his head yet again hoping that Sauron would agree to send a Nazgul.

West Osgiliath, North of Emyn Arnen

Boromir was looking ahead at West Osgiliath. Thousands of orcs were in that ruined place, and it would be a challenge taking it. He looked at the army of Gondors finest men, ready to slaughter hundreds of orcs. Then, a group of rangers had ran to Boromir, to inform him of something dangerous. "Boromir!"
"Yes, what is it."
"Sir, orcs from the south are marching towards us!"
"...."
"Sir?"
"We will have to postpone the attack... We have to fend off this army."
"Sir, are you sure? your father-"
"Yes, I know, he will be disappointed, but if we are to retake this city, we have to fend them off at all costs."
"Yes sir."
The rangers went into positions, and Boromir began preparing East Osgiliath for an assault. Archers began going into position, Everything began to armor up as soldiers ran all across the city, trying to get into positions, get more arrows, or speak to the captains. Boromir however, knew that Mordors army in East Osgiliath would march as well, but he began to hope that it wouldn't happen.

He hoped.

Isengard

The presence in the Istari's mind seemed to recede for a moment, as if in thought, and then it spoke anew.

"My servant, of the Nine, shall wing west. An Orc-host marches now for the Fords of Rauros; they shall be with you within a fortnight. Then the world of men shall fall."

"Yes my lord. Your victory is at hand." Saruman said once again bowing before covering the Palantir and turning to an Orc servant who had entered the tower. Apparently his crows had reported that Gandalf that accursed wizard was travelling to Isengard at this very moment." Saruman cursed to himself before ordering the orcs and newly formed Urak's in the yard to hide themselves and the machines deep within the pits. Saruman waved his hands and cast an illusion over the numerous pits that would fool the unwary into thinking that there was nothing there but smooth earth. Saruman prepared himself as he sat in his throne and awaited the arrival of Gandalf the Grey.

Lindon

Cirdan rose from his throne and cast his gaze eastward, where the mountains of Lhun stood resolute against the sky. He wondered whether the messenger had reached Rivendell yet, though he was glad that Arathil had, at least, received his own message.

Sighing with indecision, he strode towards the door, snatching up some parchment and quills as he went.
"Come." he snapped to his guards, and made off quickly down the stairway to the ground floor. The plush carpet was comfortable to his bare feet, but it was outside that his business took him. He slipped on some shoes, gesturing to a servant to send for the chief groom.
"My lord, he said as he arrived. "What would you have me do?"
"Bring three horses from the stables, let them all be swift of foot. I ride for Rivendell, and perhaps hereafter Lothlorien." The groom bowed low as he left, quickly returning with the animals. "Thank you. Now go, and bring the Lord Elgin from yonder mansion." Cidan ordered.

"Lord Cidan, where are you going?" cried Elgin as he appeared. "Eriador is much to dangerous these days - we cannot risk your passage through those lands, what with the Grey Company departing southwards. I pray thee, return at once to your chambers."
"To dangerous?" he growled deeply, perhaps enjoying the slight pinch of fear at the corners of Elgin's mouth, "You dare suggest that a mere journey through the Wild is to dangerous for an Elven Lord, one that once bore the Ring of Fire? Let it be known, I will not be restricted by danger, at any time."
"Now, you are to stay here and watch over Lindon while I am gone." he continued. "I ride south with but three companions, but you much prepare the troops for battle. Mount as many as you can, and make ready some two or three thousand to sail southwards to the mouths of the Anduin. They must reach Lothlorien if war breaks out. Have them depart at the word of my messenger which shall send once I have news of movement in the south."
Mounting his horse, he spoke one final time to Elgin; "Be always watchful, and wary of the power in the North. Beware of Angmar...". And with that, he rode swiftly away down the wide paved road to the passes through Lhun.

Passing through woodland, plains and hills, the Goblin messengers make it to the Black Gate, the Goblins having managed to only head out at night, they look up at the massive gate, the soot and smoke filled air entering their lungs. For a moment, they could have mistaken it for the smell of Khazad-Dum, but this air was tainted with the evil of Sauron. The Goblins slowly make their way to the gate, their scimitars safely placed in their weathered scabbards. The Goblins were only just able to make it to the gate, were it not for the Great Eye's army finding them, they may have had to resort to cannibalism.

With their food supplies out, the leader of the group slowly walks to the gate, hunched over the Orc yells up to the Orcs on the gate in Black Speech, though it is doubtful they could even hear him. "We wish to speak with the Eye! We are here to serve Mordor, we are here to serve the Great Eye!" The Orc could only hope that they heard him, lest he and his party are trapped outside, or worse yet, slain by the vicious Orcs of Mordor. Still, returning to the land that spawned the first Orcs to head to Moria, and the Misty Mountains was a breathtaking experience. Though it was Angmar that spawned the Orcs of Gundabad, it is here in Mordor that most Orcs can trace their ancestry to.

Meanwhile, at Gundabad, the Orcs work long and hard, managing to erect of all things, a Palisade. Steel spears are stuck in the ground, with most of the Palisade being made of wood, or of old stone beams. Hundreds of Gundabad Orcs manage to erect a wooden platform, which would if time allowed, soon turn into a tower with which to mount their catapult. The Gundabad Orcs were larger, and stronger than their Moria ilk, being of the same stuff as the Orcs of Angmar, and their kind being led by heroes such as Bolg. Soon, they would repair Gundabad, and make it into a fortress of darkness. The industry of warfare rages inside of the old fortress, Goblin slaves toiling to make scimitars, spears and armour for their masters.

The forces of Gundabad, and of the Misty Mountains will soon march on the races of Men and Elves, their taint spreading across the Mountains. As a final act of spite towards their Dwarven enemies, the statues of any Dwarf-King they can find are defiled, turned into rubble or used as resources to rebuild the fortress.

At the High Pass, hundreds of Goblins toil to make palisades and camps, their orders to prevent anyone from entering the Pass. Though they are without the strong Orcs of Gundabad, they will take longer to complete the Palisades, and even then, without any assistance from Gundabad or from Trolls used to carry resources, they will likely never finish the fortress in time.

In the darkness of Moria, thousands of Goblins begin work on weapons of siege warfare, whipped and tortured in the foul pit, Goblin slaves are forced to mine the Mithril and other minerals of Moria. Though they know not what to do with the Mithril, they stockpile it anyway, perhaps the Forces of the Eye would know what it is for, if the messengers even made it there in the first place. Moria would soon serve as the backbone of the Orcs of Misty Mountain, providing minerals and other supplies. The influence of the Great One would spread, the Orcs preparing themselves for a war that will determine the fate of all of Middle Earth.

Rivendell

The mounted messanger approached, looked beaten and tired, flanked by two fighters from Rivendell on each side. He was spotted by a orc slaying party, but the the orcs had reached the messenger before the elves of Rivendell did. The messenger survived by his own skill and speed combined with the killing efficiency of the elvish orc-hunters.

The newly formed party approached Imladris, the messenger held a paper, one filled with the message from Cirdan the Shipwright. Elrond met the group at the entrance of the grand city.

"Welcome outsider. I bid thee welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea. I have expected you. Sent by Cirdan, yes?"

The messenger bowed and presented the Elf Lord the message. He read it to himself quietly.

"Stand. There is no time for formalities. Tell your lord that ill times are indeed upon us. I have seen them. Middle-earth is in great danger. Doom may be imminent. Perhaps the White Council should meet again. It has been long since our last gathering. Anyway, I thank you. I shall have only the best escourt you. No need to fear any more orcs, nor goblins."

Elrond returned to his home, and began to ponder...

Some time later...

Days later Cirdan of Lindon himself arrived at Rivendell's gates. He was welcomed and led to Elrond. The council began. Perhaps a final alliance could be born. Unity was, afterall, the only hope for the free peoples remaining.

Théodred led two éoreds totaling 240 riders across the River Isen into Dunland. As the Dunlendings had surprised the villagers of the Mark, so too did the sons of Éorl surprise the Dunlendings. In their brashness, the Dunlendings were in the midst of a celebration of their successful raid and were unwary, as if they assumed that their enemies would not dare to seek revenge. Foolish of them. The Dunlendings had no fortified positions nor places of strength to which they could fall back in defense, nor could they hope to withstand on foot the swift horses of Théodred's men. Most of the villagers fled at the sight of them, though some of the Dunlendish men attempted to fight. It was not much of a fight. The 50 or so Dunlendish men who chose to fight were quickly ridden down by Théodred's Riders. In the end, the Dunlanders took 45 casualties before the others fled. Théodred's men took no casualties at all.

"Should we pursue the survivors, my Lord?" asked Erkenbrand.

"No," said Théodred. "let the others and the women and children live for now. We will not chastize them further until they give us reason to. Take back the horses they stole from us, and we will return to Helm's Deep." Then he turned and in a loud voice called out "Your lives have been spared this day, but do not test my patience further! If any more raids upon our people take place, I shall not be merciful! I, Théodred, son of Théoden have spoken!"

As they made ready to leave, one of the Riders called out "My Lord! Look!" Théodred looked in the direction the man was pointing. A canopy of smoke rose along the northern horizon.

"Whence comes that, do you think?" asked Erkenbrand.

"From the Wizard's Vale." replied Théodred.

"The Wizard's Vale?" asked Erkenbrand. "Surely the Dunlendings were not so foolish as to attack Saruman?"

"Nay," said Théodred. "I guess that Saruman himself caused that smoke."

"Is he brewing some magic to aid us or scare the Dunlendings, so you think?" asked Erkenbrand.

"I do not know," said Théodred. "it is best not to question why a wizard plies his dwimmercraft. Nonetheless, I think a message should be sent to my father. Mayhap an envoy should be sent to Isengard."

The Iron Halls, The Iron Hills
Dáin had arrived and he had been thinking a long time on how to prepare this fortress.
The Iron halls, from the outside, was nothing more then a black gate way up in the mounains, wich could only be reached by a long and steep stairway. Two days it took Dáin to figure out what he wanted, but in the end he got it. He gave the orders to the builders and quickly returned to Erebor to await the incoming messages.

Mirkwood
Dwalin had walked around for quiet a while, having rememberd the way was a blessing considerd to him. He wanted to get to his brother as quickly as possible. He didn't want to waste time. It was long ago since any dwarf had heard from Balin, wich wasn't unusuall.

Borders of Rhûn
Thorin, walking on his pony, had a long way to go, he had just passed into the Rhûnish lands, but yet he could not see a building on the horizon. This for him was typically Rhûn, it had only a handfull of cities on this side of the sea, nothing more. Thorin knew he had to hurry to his destination.

---

In the center of the great forest of Mirkwood, not a single bird was to be found. Silence reigned over the trees, with spiderwebs strung thickly between them. A crooked spire of rock protruded above the web. At the base, a gaping tunnel led down into darkness.
In the great cavern of Othronn Ungol, the vast spider Gonurl reviewed his troops. They had reached a number large enough that he now dared to reveal himself to the outer world. He would not attack his enemies yet, but his armies could at least defend Othronn Ungol against most enemies. He drew up the terms of an alliance with Mordor, as they would be the strongest force currently able to help him. He handed the terms to a nearby spiderling, instructing the creature to take the message to Sauron.

Gonurl then gave the order to recruit more of the lesser spiders. Once his army had grown a bit more, he would seize all of Mirkwood from the Elves and at last have a secure base from which to expand further.