The Third Age: A Lord of the Rings RP (IC/Closed)

by **The Starlight** » Fri May 22, 2015 1:39 pm

G-Tech Corporation wrote:Limlight River, South Limlight Vale

Still across the ford streamed the host of Mordor, black figures clad in steel barely visible in the pre-dawn light. Several thousands had already gained the far shore, and were deployed in their companies and commands for battle. With them too came stomping Olog-Hai, towering above both pike and spear, their bodies near invisible in the heavy armor they wore like a mere tunic, their maces as large as horses. The crossing of the river had been uncontested, thankfully, and many of the archers heaved a barely audible sigh of relief. Upon the side nearest the Celebrant camp of the Elves more Orcs continued crossing in their wooden boats, while those already across marshaled to their captains. Above Warwarg's bolts of doom flew anon through the air, luminous fire descending upon the last few mallorns of the Celebrant, which had begun burning like merry torches. Amongst those trees the Orc captains were sure enemies were sheltering, and every one consumed by the pyre was another pointy-eared bastard that wouldn't need spitting on a spear later. Some of the catapults that had been set up to support the landing were unlimbered and turned west, Orcs straining to heave the devices across the dun gray fields of the Limlight.

Parth Celebrant Camp

The elves of Lorien stood silently in the dawn, watching the small Celebrant forest burn. The elves who had dwelt there were now in the small camp, and the expressions of the elves were dark and wrathful. But no fists were shaken, no dirge like songs sung. Vengeance would most likely never come, but they would fight, nevertheless. The reinforcements of Erebor, Dale and Tharbad could not have come at a better time, and yet, they were still outnumbered. But one should never bet against elves. The host of Celebrant, a few thousand in number, moved out of the camp now, taking the stakes with them. Word had been sent to Caras Galadhon, but only 200 Galadhrim Heavy Archers had been sent in response. Any scrambling of forces to any more reinforcements to their forces would alert the enemy, and perhaps cause yet another attack. They would make their stand here, on the fields of Celebrant. 22 Catapults and 2 Ballistas rolled behind them, and the forces had been deployed, with each race put into their own regiments, to fight alongside those they knew best. Having heard that the orcs were also crossing the Anduin from the West, along with the Limlight River. Aligning themselves so that they could not be flanked from the side, the small host made their ground, choosing the battle site. Planting stakes around, and stopping from the march to keep the army fresh, but still remaining in battle formation, the 25 Horse Archers were sent few miles north of the Limlight River, to scout out the enemy's position, and perhaps even slow them down further.

G-Tech Corporation wrote:Bridge of Khazad-Dum, Moria

Bestirred were the Goblins, and the pale Orcs. Ever since they had sworn their allegiance to the Great Eye, their numbers had only been mounting. Within the endless labyrinthine passageways of the Halls of Durin, between broken smithies and treasure holds now stripped bear, the denizens of the Black Pit had been preparing. Now, with the agitation of some of their war-chieftains and messages brought by dark birds, the swarming folk would come forth. In times past they had sallied to slay Dwarf, or Elf, taking the passes of Carathras for their own. In force the hordes came to war, their chittering a rising wave of sound. Across the Bridge they came scampering, nearly six thousands all told- a part of the strength of the Deep Realm. Though weak creatures and frail, they were swift and cunning, and poison was ever their favorite weapon. Beneath the moldering smoke of the Darkness and the pre-dawn darkness they came forth from the steaming gate. The Mirrormere lay before them, but some of the noses of the creatures scented nasty elves in the vicinity. With a clash of weapons and high war cries, the goblins searched for their foes.

Trees near the Mirrormere
Hearing the goblins, the elves snuck through the trees. And the clashes and high war cries of the goblins were answered by the hissing of arrows, almost seeming to come from the trees themselves. And as the elves fired, they continued to move, presenting barely visible targets in the trees. They were only 5 in number, but the elves now knew of this next stroke of the Enemy, and they would respond accordingly. The goblins were not well armored against elven arrows, or any arrows, for that matter, and as the elven quivers' began to dry up, the number of arrows decreased, the elves retreating one at a time, giving their remaining arrows to those that remained. And then, only one elf remained, with 10 arrows left. As he fired each shot, he retreated further and further, until, he was down to two arrows. Skillfully shooting two goblins with one arrow, he kept the one arrow, and slipped away, returning to Lothlorien to rejoin his brethren. Now having warning of this new stroke against the elves of Lorien, a small force was created, and marched towards the Mirrormere, to do battle with the goblins.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Fri May 22, 2015 2:58 pm

Rivendell, Planning Room

"Captain Rínor!" Elrond said, "Take a detachment of men. Try to see what can be done about reclaiming Eregion. Stay back from the Gates of Khazad-Dum, however. Who knows what could be there?

"Yes, Elrond," he replied. I will get to it at once!

(65 Horseback Riders, 5 medics, 97 spearmen, 250 archers, and 100 swordsmen to Eregion)

by **Asyir** » Fri May 22, 2015 2:58 pm

Dain II Ironfoot, Erebor:

The grim and stout dwarven king sat proudly upon his golden throne, with a contingent of powerful Axehand Guards at his side. The dwarf was none other than King Dain, King under the Mountain. He gathered his court advisors for business, especially after the reports of Sauron returning to Middle-Earth. Orcs slowly move across the land, and could be planning on assaulting Erebor. An outcome that Dain saw as a strong possibility.

Lorien had been assailed, that he knew, and the elves couldn't hold out for much longer. Dain knew he would have to muster a force capable of reinforcing Lorien, but that meant moving through Mirkwood. "Flint, bring me some lettering paper. We have a wee problem."

"Yes my lord," Flint said, bowing as he Ser about his task. Dain's son, Thorin, stood near his father. Thorin was a headstrong and reckless lad, but an excellent warrior and leader.

"Father," Throin asked,"what's wrong?"

"We need to assist our allies, especially in the Woodland realms. Raise up some soldiers Thorin."

"Yes father!" Thorin said, setting about his task.

by **Lunas Legion** » Fri May 22, 2015 3:59 pm

"Who calls himself a Servant of the Eye within my halls?" The Balrog replied coolly, drawing his sword with his right hand while his left let the whip loose, tip hitting the floor. "It seems his standards in servants have lowered ever since he disgraced himself while Morgoth was still in this world. I would deal with you now personally, but I have more important matters to deal with. Do not press me, and I shall let you remain alive, for the meantime."

He never liked Orcs. They were stupid, brash, cowardly if not kept in line through force, prone to infighting, and were only really useful for massive horde attacks which offended his sense of tactics. Both Melkor and Sauron had favoured them, primarily because Gothmog and the Balrogs had always been better field commanders than they, and this offended their egos; Melkor may have been a fine strategist, but his choice of troops was appalling, while Sauron was more of a backstabbing intriguer, using plots and knives to achieve his objectives and only resorting to force when no other option was present. He could use Orcs, but almost all alternatives were superior.

by **Esternial** » Fri May 22, 2015 4:19 pm

Imladris, Eriador

As the Elves rode from Rivendell to assist Gondor in its struggle for Minas Tirith, two eyes peered at the departing troops from a distance, covered by shade and concealed by darkness, the last remaining Ringwraith that remained in Eriador observed the goings-on in Rivendell with utmost diligence. Elrond seemed eager to act before his realm became the only free land left in Middle Earth, but hesitant to send out large forces. He was weak. The Lord of Rivendell was no longer the warrior he once was.

Quietly, the Ringwraith receded deeper into the shadows of the forest. Rivendell had the eyes of evil set upon it, watching its every move, relaying any possible sign of weakness to the Dark Lord.

Sauron now knew there were Elves travelling south. For what purpose, unknown.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Fri May 22, 2015 5:32 pm

Dor-en-enil
West of the river Gilrain
Gondor
Cirion Silverlight

“Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!
West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.
O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,
Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?”

“It’s beautiful, Belerand. A shame it feels so familiar now…”

Cirion threw another flat stone at the river Gilrain. It skipped five times before sinking to the bottom, carried to sea by the increasing current below. It was dark, so all he could hear was the sound of the stone hitting the water, but he did count five skips and a sixth sink. A record for that night. Belerand, like his commander suited with a set of heavy Gondorian armour, smiled, and picked up a flat stone from the river bed. He inspected it for a while, before looking at the dark, murky water in front of them.

“Thank you, milord.” He replied, making a few swinging motions with his arm. He was preparing his joints.

“I learned it from a ranger I met once, traveling just north of Ithilien. Was either looking for an old friend or a hated foe, as far as I could gather. He was outside our borders, so I didn’t care much. He did know how to sing, though. Strange individual.” Belerand ended by skipping his own stone across the black water of the river. Four skips and a sink, one under par. He let out a slight curse, before seeking out another stone. The full moon illuminated the riverbed like a lantern, although the river did nothing more than shimmer. Her dark abyss swallowed all light. The only other lights came from the campfire, a few metres behind them, and the red haze from Orodruin, across the Mountains of Shadow. The pale moonlight was the only thing that reminded of peace time, of home. Fire, shining armour, that was all wartime light. Moonlight, shimmering, that was constant. And it would remain, even if Gondor fell. Even if Gondor fell…

“Those rangers know their fair share of songs... They have a proud lineage. Descendants of Númenor, closest to the line of kings. The king…”

Cirion turned around, turning his back to the black water. He stared straight into the campfire, situated on the grassy plains just above the river’s level. His hands were holding each other behind his back as he played with his black gloves. The fire danced and played, and reflected of the armour of the men sitting around. Gadan, Háma, Cirdan, Belerond… All friends and allies, all brothers in arms. All survivors. Cirion fiddled, and continued.

“Belerand… Would a king have saved us? Would the return of the king be salvation?” His voice was hard, but not very. It tried, it tried so hard to be stern, but a certain air of uncertainty hung around it. A tremor, a missing tone of self-confidence. A sad tone overwhelmed. Belerand took up a position next to his commander, and stared into the fire with him.

“I don’t know, milord. I don’t think any of us know. I wish the line of kings would return, that is all I can tell. Would they save us? Perhaps not. But this is not what we vowed for.”

Belerand turned around, facing directly to the Shadow Mountains, so far away. The red haze diminished and increased, grew and shrank with time, as Orodruin held his breath to spew forth again. A distant thunder of red, silent clouds.

“Destruction is sown from Ithilien to Pellenor, from Pellenor to Linhir to the south. Rohan is plagued by mindless beasts of the White Wizard, wolves prowl in Old Arnor and no man, woman or child between the Ered Lithui and the port of Cirdan is safe.”

He took another step forward. His right hand rested on the hilt of his blade, while his left he put behind his back. Like a true knight of Gondor, he looked across the perilous waters, towards even more perilous lands.

“My lord Cirion… I have no problem dying. I am a soldier, sworn to protect Gondor. Sworn to protect the White City. I would throw myself into that siege like water on a rock, had I been fighting for the winged crown. Yet…”

“Yet, we seem not to be fighting for what Gondor truly is. Rather, and empty shell, upheld by her good name and our shining armour”

Cirion ended that sentence perfectly. It was exactly what Belerand was thinking. Cirion put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, gently touching the plate shoulder guard.

“You are not alone in our feeling, Belerand. Yet, we must press on. Even the empty shell requires our service, and we cannot suffer our people to die so easily at the hand of Sauron. I trust you will stand with me, no matter the cost.” Belerand answered with silence, but a meaningful silence. A nod from his friend told Cirion everything he needed, and he turned back to the camp. His helmet under his arm, Cirion marched to the encampment where the rest was seated. Belerand could hear Cirion say something about getting some sleep, and there were disapproving murmers from the men. Yet, within a few minutes, all of them (save those with guard duty) were back in their tents, taking some well-deserved and well-needed rest. Silence rained, reigned over the encampment, and all was quiet again. In the morning, the quiet would vanish. For now, the night was young, and full of surprises.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Fri May 22, 2015 5:55 pm

Somewhere in the hills of Rohan

"Alright, Rohirrim! Lets go! Our aid is needed by Erkenbrand, and we must ride 'till we arrive at the Hornburg. We may be a small Eored, but every little bit counts!" shouts Ingimundr.
The small Eored gallops towards the Hornburg, racing to aid Erkenbrand with what he needs done.

by **Arlye Austros** » Fri May 22, 2015 7:13 pm

Beornas Beornsson.
Carrokburg

For days the ranks of the Beornings had been bolstered. Axemen had been marching down the Valley, and fifty made it into Carrokburg. Him main concern had been the archers, and arrows were made all day long. The dock was again working, and ferries departed south as soon it was able to send out the vessels.

But his mind was otherwise set further from the borders.
“You think this is worthy?” they asked Beornas. He nodded.

“If Lorien falls…” He couldn´t end the sentence. The messenger arrived that morning. The elf was in a haste, and seemed to be tired, but departed in less than the rise of the sun through the morning. Troops had been spotted near the Golden Woods. If Lorien was taken by the orcs, then the Beornings would be alone, outflanked in the south. The forest was also importance. He met some elves in his days in Dale, and even knew a bit of Sindarin. He was moved to help them. But the chiefs weren´t.

“It could resist. We have been invaded up to our gates. If the enemy counterattacks, then we won´t retaliate.” One of the House of Leoth answered.

He had made his mind. But the thing was making them all understand. They walked through the outer border of the palisade. Aelfrich of the House of Leoth continued.
“My uncle and his family were slaughtered just at the turn of the River. These orcs fear nothing, at least not now. We need to teach them a lesson.”

He had to remember the elf´s expression when he told Beornas the situation in the Golden Woods. That night he communicated the call to the Chiefs.
“I will lead an expedition to the South. I will take only a few hundred troops. Many more will gather here and help you, Aelfrich, to hold this town. You will scout to the East and South and make space between the orcs and out people.”
“Is this wise?” Aelfrich questioned again.
“I don´t know. But doing otherwise is foolish. I will also require the Beast houses to call on their members. I wish to take our advantage there.”

Before midnight the troops boarded the ferries. Fifteen rafts fitted for river combat and twenty ferries, each able to carry twenty five soldiers, and some supplies or a couple more troops, left the town carrying six hundred and thirty troops down the river. The ferries were painted with thick mud of dark colour of the river bed, and had shields on the sides, forming an improvised board barrier. The darkened vessels flowed down. On the boats fifteen members of the Houses of Leoth, Fragram and Iorath, along with Beornas himself and three cousins, formed a unit he had called “The Black Wrath”, and promised them much honour and glory in the field.

Beornas´s Expedition:
-100 Anduin Spearmen.
-200 Anduin Warriors.
-100 Beroning Longbowmen
-15 Skinchangers
-190 Mountain Axemen
-25 Mountain Housecarls.

Bregareth Beornsson.
Quarry Camps, Southwestern Eaves of Mirkwood

“Who is that?” Bregareth asked Nodin, another fellow captive with whom he became friend. It had been a day since Fiorith fell ill, but Idana made her art, and Bregareth´s sister was already walking near the cage, staying close to Idana, helping her with the sick, but also under her close watch.

“They call him Garthrg… Gorthaug… Garthaug, I don´t know. These orcs all have similar names to me.”
It was just before dawn, and it was horribly cold. The slaves were already awake, and waited for the orcs to open the locks and send them to work in the mine. Bregareth laughed, but stopped it after looking down at his piece of bread. Some dark loaf of food that required a strong will to pass down the throat. “I hate this thing.” He mentioned before chewing it, without too much energy.

The orc speaking to Lorm rode a warg and seemed as if he would stab Lorm in the face after any word that kept coming out of his mouth. They exchanged some words and the mounted orc pointed at them. Lorm seemed hesitant, even annoyed, but humbled, and bowed, agreeing with the head. The warg turned and passed by the cage, but halted, and the leader spoke once more to Lorm, aloud and nearby the cage, so Bregareth heard the words.

"Oh, and Spider-Lover? Word has reached Dol Guldur that the Carrockburg has been reoccupied by the spineless bear-men. Take some lads, and go burn them out again. Can't let the infestation get too serious now."

Bregareth´s heart jumped in his chest. Lorm seemed to smile in relief, and walked away to give some orders to some orcs, pointing at the cages. Bregareth looked back at his sister, who tended to some man´s scratch, probably done by some rock. “Fiorith… He is going home!” He muttered. She looked at him, confused.

“What?”

“They commanded Lorm to go raid Carrokburg again. Seems father retook it. ” he couldn´t decide whether to laugh or weep. They would strike home. They had to warn them.

“Open the cages! Get those maggots in chains and ready to walk them to Amon Lanc!” Lorm returned, wielding his whip from side to side. “I want a piece of one or two, as a farewell.”

Some uruks opened the gate and started to push the slave outside. One pulled Bregareth out, just behind Fiorith and Idana. His sister seemed ready to cry, but contained the tears.

“I need to you be strong sister. Come on…” He whispered at her while they chained their wrists. She looked back.
“What are you doing?”
But he had made his mind.

“Hey, Lorm!” He called at his owner. But the orc was to busy looking for a certain slave who offended him the day before. Perhaps insults what the only thing this bastard could answer to. “SPIDER-FUCKER!” he yelled out. Half the camp turned, Lorm included.

“You said something, boy?” He pushed around other slaves in chains when getting to Bregareth, then grabbing him by the tunic and lifting the boy in the air. “You feeling bold, Heh!” The orc´s fist crushed on his jaw, and propelled Bregareth to the mud.

“Get up, you scum!” The chief seemed out of his mind, kicking him in the ground. <<Have I gone too far?>> He wondered. Bregareth crawled away, and to his relief, the orc seemed amused at the boy´s sudden fear. A smile crossed the creature´s face.
“They say you are going to the town… But they are taking us to Dol Guldur? To me it sounds you just lost your property.”

“Aye. You smart boy! Don´t you worry. I will get twice as much of you scums by the end of the week, and mehaps I´ll get a promotion. I will bring your king´s head in a pike.”

Bregareth faked the smile. “Yes, but I doubt you will get as many of us. You would be lucky to get over a half.” The beast seemed confused, so he continued, after finding a more comfortable position over the mud. “When you got us we were healthy, no war had touched us, and there were many of us, all together. But now you march on an already ravaged place. With little people and many of them starved, injured or ill. If you even manage to get as half as we are four in five will not survive the trip. You will lose, no matter how successful a warrior you are. “

“I can outsmart you folk.”
“Perhaps, but you can´t outsmart starvation and sickness.”
“And you can? You going to ask me taking you there? So you can see your home one more time?” The orc laughed.

“No.” he answered, and nodded at Idana. “But that woman can. She has been tending to the sick and wounded for a week and more, and you have lost few. That girl with her also makes her trick, knows the craft of healing, and knows the place. Take them both, and you may retain many slaves. Perhaps that Gorthaug will get himself a surprise after thinking he outsmarted you.”

The orc passed his gaze from Bregareth to Idana and Fiorith. He seemed to hesitate. “Why would you do this, man?”

He thought of a good answer. One that seemed believable to a man, but an orc could understand, and didn´t implied his sister. ”Because those you take may die in the road, or old at your service, I would rather have the second.”

He awaited Lorm´s answer, feeling his heart pounding on his chest.

by **World Anarchic Union** » Sat May 23, 2015 12:22 am

Mirkwood, Elven King's Halls
The scratching had stopped as it had started, silently and unexpectadly. The Spiders could not be heard inside the Halls . The people were amazed and wanted to exit the Halls and return to their homes. Thranduil, on the other hand, knew much more than what he could simply see with the naked eye.
''Yes, my Lord'' said one of his most trusted soldiers while bowing.
''Send an expedition force with you as its leader to determine how far back the Spiders have fallen. Stay out of sight and do not attempt to assault them. Every man and woman are needed so we cannot waste valuable soldiers on someone's whim. The expedition force which will scout the surrounding area is going to be 20 Elven soldiers. Continue up on the treetops until you see their shadow. Then return. Before you leave, I want you to send a letter to the Elven Kingdoms in the South and to Imlardis. Send letters to the Kingdoms of Men in the North as well. We need every help we can get.''
''Of course, my Lord. I will determine the members of the company after I have sent the letters.''

Thranduil looked ahead, thinking of future actions. All the Spiders must be dealt with. After them, we will unite our forces with the company of the Dwarves of Erebor who are now coming to our aid. While it will be an uneasy alliance, we will have both benefits he thought.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sat May 23, 2015 10:14 am

-Redacted-

by **Maineiacs** » Sat May 23, 2015 11:21 am

The Olog-Hai wrote:Rivendell, Planning Room

"Captain Rínor!" Elrond said, "Take a detachment of men. Try to see what can be done about reclaiming Eregion. Stay back from the Gates of Khazad-Dum, however. Who knows what could be there?

"Yes, Elrond," he replied. I will get to it at once!

(65 Horseback Riders, 5 medics, 97 spearmen, 250 archers, and 100 swordsmen to Eregion)

Glorfindel breathed deeply of the resin-scented forests in the hidden valley of Imladris. It was always pleasant to return to the Last Homely House. He felt unquiet in his heart, however. In the lands of Men there were increasing rumors of wars, and Glorfindel was foresighted enough to sense the the Dark Lord was gaining strength more quickly than the Wise had feared he would. He wanted to consult with Elrond as soon as may be to learn what news, if any, had been heard of the Enemy's movements. He spurred Asfaloth to a canter and crossed the Ford of Bruinen. He was greeted by one of the sentries on guard.

"Mae govannen." he said to the sentry. "I wish to speak with Lord Elrond, is he within?"

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sat May 23, 2015 11:37 am

North Lossarnach

As the volley of arrows fell, Baral thanked the Dark Gods. The weakling men were filled with fear as he charged towards them, first at the end of the wedge of the warriors of the Great Eye. Their formation shuffled, holes showing in the shield wall, men pushing each other backwards to escape his wrath and upraised immense war mace. He didn't notice their wings moving forward to attempt to embrace the onrushing Boar's Head, but the great Morannon Orc didn't really care for much longer. He was the first of the soldiers of Sauron to die as the lines crashed together, spitted by two spears even through his thick leather hauberk and black-stained steel mail. But his body was borne forwards by the weight of the charge, and the line of the men smashed asunder. Where the foe was gathered only a hundred men deep, the press of a thousand Orcs could not be resisted. As the men of the West moved their shield wall faltered, the iron discipline of overlapping defenses wavering as they simultaneously attempted to withdraw and move up on the flanks. Against this weakened formation the infantry wedge hammered like the blow of Grond, Lord Melkor's most powerful weapon, and the battle was hot with the sound of a thousand iron-mongers hammering as the two ranks came together. The first press of the charge had discomfited many foes, but those who had managed to set their short spears cut down warriors bearing the Lidless Eye in their turn. Superior armor and training did count for something. But the Orcs of the Morannon would not be denied, and into the middle of the enemy center they cut, the momentum of the charge carrying them within a few men of dividing the Gondorian formation entirely.

And then the roar of Orc voices came from either side of the beleagured men of Gondor. Where they had extended their lines to attack the sides of the onrushing wedge, now they found themselves in turn outflanked. On the western edge of their formation a disciplined charge of the thousand Morannon Orcs there smote the lines of the flankers from behind, throwing many men down in ruin as they were caught between the thickly packed main host of Mordor and the other force. On the eastern edge too did the men of Gondor find themselves with foes on either side, pressing the edge of their formation tight with swords and cruel spears. Only five hundreds of the Orcs attacked in the east, for the others had a different purpose.

Those five hundreds, their black banners flapping in the stiff north breeze, were at a near run towards the ship-borne sailors disembarking to join the fray. As men squelched up out of the shallow river bed and began to marshal by companies, the Orcs were upon them, hewing, with black words upon their lips. Into the serried mass of lightly armored sailors and marines the thousand arrows fell from the archers of the Orc-host, broadhead arrows opening terrible gashes. From the south too came five hundreds from the other hurrying Mordor host, eager for their own fill of blood. At their back the archers of the southern host fired upon the cavalry circling to their west, bodkin points hardened to pierce both plate and mail looking for death and destruction.

Dol Amroth, Lebennin

Down from the ships the Corsairs swarmed, the dead of night their staunchest ally. Dol Amroth, and the City of the Silver Swan, had defied Sauron and Umbar for many years. No longer. With the mighty men and captains of Gondor away to war in the East, and her fleet trammeled beyond the Pelargir, now was the hour of doom. Thirteen great ships there were, their sails black as the inky moonlessness around them, and at the harbors they unloaded their lethal cargo; Orcs, Morannon Orcs bearing the Red Eye, and swaggering pirates of the blood lost in the Kinstrife now debased by a hunger for gold and a hatred as old as the count of years. Through the sleeping city they swept- the alarm was scarce raised before men with cruel knives and deadly bows overran the few nightwatchmen, boys too young to go away to war and men too old to have strength in their arms. Their commander had been specific about their orders- no burning, no pillaging, but looting was quite alright. The harbor would soon serve the Barad-Dur, not the White Tower.

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Still the bombardment rained down on the besieged City of the Setting Sun, day and night, rain and shine. It seemed Mairon cared less about seizing the smithies, citizens, and stockpiles than he did ensuring his enemies would never trouble him again. Already, despite the best efforts of the defending forces, fires raged unchecked in parts of the First Level. Some of the trebuchets had taken to firing multiple times into a single part of the city, a fiendish measure which caught men who sought to extinguish the flames in the sorcerous inferno even as they rushed to combat the burning of their homes. Others unleashed their hated cargo upon the walls themselves- though the first Ring could not be harmed by shot or force for its workmanship, her defenders were not nearly as durable. Anon sickly green flames bathed battlement and rampart in death, turning defenders and watchmen to walking torches that shrieked in agony. And no help came, not from Rohan, not even from her own fiefs, as the black hosts outside the city only swelled.

Western Ford of the Limlight River

Three thousands of the kin of the Morannon still stood ready to cross, the Troll Guard of Irkagnthand in their train along with the great siege weapons that were to be brought to bear on the Elves, when scouts blew horns warning of the arrival of riders. In the murk and gloom of the rising day their numbers were hard to count, but at the bellows of captains and the lumbering roars of the Olog-Hai the forces of Mordor stood ready for battle. Riders. Those accursed Rohirrim were snooping about. Almost the rest of the entirety of the force had crossed the Ford, and was marshaling for battle formations with word of Elves, men, and... Dwarves to the north.

Parth Celebrant

Here the armies of Mordor had assembled from their boats without consequence, four thousands and spares ready for combat. The horizon was still lit by the garish flames of Warwarg that had consumed the mallorns of this land, but the Orcs took joy in that, not the anger and despair that were in the hand of their foe. Scouts reported their foe massing to the north and west, and the commanders waited for all to be in readiness before the attack could begin. Still the matter of the larger western host had yet to be resolve, so the battalions of Morannon Orcs merely marched at a sustainable pace north, and east, to flank to the east the Elven host reported.

Mirrormere, Dimrildale

Several goblins fell, struck by unseen arrows as they swarmed into the Dimrildale. Their night-eyes picked out the moving forms of some of the Elves though, and showers of arrows took two of the fair folk, sending them crashing down from their treetop positions in death. The paltry few slain by the Galadrim bothered the commanders of legions not at all; perceiving that Lorien had not the strength to hold the narrow passage of the Gate against any sortie, the rest of the host emerged in their marching companies and battalions. Goblins were expendable, easily replaced wretches that could be spent to assess an enemy's force. Now could come the main army, the one that would spell the death-knell of the Valley of Singing Gold. From the smoking archway they came, rank upon rank of pale Moria Orcs, cruel steel weapons belying the depravity in which the Black Pit lived. At their back were immense cave trolls, barely controlled beasts who would be loosed upon the enemy with abandon. Down the valley of the Silverlode came the hosts of Khazad-Dum; not Dwarves to aid the Elves, as would have been the case in ages past, but a ravening swarm bent on the destruction of the Golden Wood.

Quarry, South-Western Eaves of Mirkwood

The Spider-Fucker barked a harsh laugh. "Perhaps, man, you have sense. But if slaves die on the road, why, more food for my lads, eh?" Despite his words, Lorm appeared to not relish the prospect of losing slaves. They brought much prestige, for the Dark Lord paid his soldiers handsomely for every captive brought alive and able to work. The Orc snarled, and gestured at the Uruk behind the older. "This one, she knows much. I have seen it. You will come with us, wise woman, and we shall see what your wisdom is worth." He nodded, apparently satisfied with his low cunning. "And your, gar, your apprentice will go to Amon Lanc. She will be able to save plenty of lives there, if I know Harmak and his ilk. They went raiding in the south Dale, and should be there soon." Behind Bregareth an Orc hauled him to his fleet, and Lorm knocked him down again with another savage punch. "Now keep your mouth shut, boy. Your future masters may not be as kind and forgiving as I." Idana was pushed along to join the pack of slavering Orcs that were marching for the Carrock, while the other two went into the large rawhide hobbles that were the slaves marching for Amon Lanc. After a few more minutes whips sounded up and down the line, and the slaves started the long stumbling journey to servitude in the East.

Bree, Eriador

The lead guard scowled, and appeared to shake his head as if clearing flies. "Barliman gave you lodging?" He appeared conflicted for a moment. It was apparent the Orc was doing at least tolerable business. At Butterbur was a good judge of character. This Orc didn't look likely to kill everyone in their sleep, but you never knew.. With a harrumph he growled at the Orc. "Well, don't worry about it then. But we'll be watching you." The guards followed their captain away, and a gentle drizzle began to fall on the sleepy town of Bree. Some of the merchants began packing up their wares, for business would suffer in the downpour.

Old South Road

Men and chickens scattered as the company from Tharbad rode into the village, and hard eyes looked at the travelers. It seemed strangers were not exactly welcome in these dark times, or at least not trusted. Before a minute or more had passed an old somewhat rotund man waddled up to the Captain's horse, and bowed himself so low his long beard almost swept the dirt. "Greetings, travelers. I am Rurikad, proprietor of the inn the Staggering Swindler. Would mlord be looking for lodgings for the night, or food?" His voice was rich enough, and deep, though a wet cough spoke of consumption of the chest. He gestured towards the largest building in the town- it didn't look like it would have enough room for fifty men, but hot fires and fresh fare at least would be good for many.

Near the West Gate, Moria

The Orcs snarled. "You won't talk so pretty when your belly is full of knife-holes, maggot." Swinging crude swords and howling vile insults, the Moria denizens charged. Two took up dark horn bows and shot wicked shafts at the Balrog, though it was obvious they didn't know what he was.

Thranduil's Halls, Mirkwood

As the doors of the Hall were opened, a great chittering sound was heard. Even as the great oaken ramparts parted to allow the scouts to go look at the lay of the land, a force of Spiderlings swarmed through the gap, biting and snapping with their cruel jaws dripping with poison. Beyond the Elves had a brief glimpse of a forest hung in thick white webs before they were forced to fight for their lives.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Sat May 23, 2015 11:43 am

Maineiacs wrote:

Glorfindel breathed deeply of the resin-scented forests in the hidden valley of Imladris. It was always pleasant to return to the Last Homely House. He felt unquiet in his heart, however. In the lands of Men there were increasing rumors of wars, and Glorfindel was foresighted enough to sense the the Dark Lord was gaining strength more quickly than the Wise had feared he would. He wanted to consult with Elrond as soon as may be to learn what news, if any, had been heard of the Enemy's movements. He spurred Asfaloth to a canter and crossed the Ford of Bruinen. He was greeted by one of the sentries on guard.

"Mae govannen." he said to the sentry. "I wish to speak with Lord Elrond, is he within?"

Rivendell

"Enter, Glorfindel," the sentry replied. "Elrond has been waiting to speak with you. Many things are going on, and a second pair of eyes would assist greatly."

by **The Central Shadow Nation** » Sat May 23, 2015 1:31 pm

"What?!,"Varcatt,leader of the Misty Mountains orcs,responded to one of his orc scouts. "Sir,it shall not happen again! We had only gotten a glimpse of the dwarve adve-"
"So you didnt kill them!,"Varcatt shouted furiously at the other Orc. "Out of my sight now!Return with the head of a dwarve! We shall not let our outposts fall!" The orc sprinted off,as Varcatt sat back down on his worg-hide throne.
If an outpost of his was attacked,chances were that it would be sieged and destroyed.

by **The Flutterlands** » Sat May 23, 2015 5:11 pm

Bree, Eraidor
Blarg nodded happy that things went well between him and the guards. "Thank you, Sirs." the pale orc said politely, "I'll be on my best behavior, you can trust me on that." As he watched the guards leave he looked up at the sky as the gentle drizzle began fall on his face. The feeling of the cool water was refreshing to him.
After selling a another bow along with some arrows to a hobbit for another several barrels of ale, Blarg closed up shop for the time being, for it was his lunch time. He gathered his things and put them at the back of his stable before heading inside The Prancing Pony. Blarg sat down at a table in a corner and smiled as his waitress came to him. "Mutton with potatos please, Mam." he said, "I would like to have some beer to drink as well, please."

by **Lunas Legion** » Sat May 23, 2015 5:40 pm

"Oh, I was hoping you'd try something." The Balrog grinned slightly under his helm. Orcs were so easily provoked to violence. He could've ended this quickly by switching to his daemon form and smashed them all into pulp. But that wouldn't be quite as much fun for him, and he could always do so if he tired of the entertainment. "You Orcs are so easy to provoke."

Not even bothering to go on the defensive and confident in his own toughness, the Balrog roared in reply and charged towards the Orcs in response, lashing out with hs whip as he closed in. It had been too long since he'd had a decent fight up close.

by **World Anarchic Union** » Sat May 23, 2015 11:51 pm

Mirkwood, Elven King's Halls
The scouts had been ambushed by the Spiders. They quickly and swiftly got up in the trees and attacked the marauding spiders. One Elven fellow, unable to hold himself from a stick in the dark forest was devoured by one such Spider, its mouth dripping with poison. The Elves managed to reenter the Halls, shutong the gates behind them but, alas it was too late. Before the gates closed, archers fired at the spiders but one managed to enter the Halls. Ten Elvish soldiers, their hearts pounding for adventure and battle, attacked collectively the beast.
Archers continued to fire upon the spiders, through nearby trees, they couldn't access. 6 soldiers died, some devoured, others killed but the fellow Elves managing to recover their bodies before it would be too late.
All citizens were transported further into the Halls, for their protection. The Elves needed the assistance of the Dwarves now more than ever.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sun May 24, 2015 8:14 am

Imladris
Feet of the Misty Mountains
Eregion
Gandalf the Grey

Some things never, ever get old. As the magic of the world fades, with beauty becoming rarer and rarer, with grey shades and dark tones growing in Middle Earth, some sights retain their magnificent beauty. The ever-pouring waters of the Argonath, for instance, or the endless fields and meadows of Rohan. All retained their beauty, even when they lacked the magic to back them up. Among these sights, there was one more lovely and inspiring than all the others. Nothing beats an Imladris sunrise.

Gandalf closed his eyes as the rays of sunlight peaked over the Misty Mountains, shining between the peaks of those towering giants. Caradhras, Celebdil, Fanuidhol, Mount Gundabad, and Methedras, all shone with silver light, reflecting the golden rays of the sun. Of all creations of Eru Ilúvitar, the sun was one of Gandalf’s favourites. She cast a warm blanket over everything in her realm, and even in the darkest of hours, the sun was still only hiding. Even at night, it was never long until the sun returned to her original position. From the Great Halls of Moria to Meduseld, the sun brightened all, and not even Imladris was spared. Of course, Imladris was not spared any beauty the world had to offer. Slowly, the golden rays began drawing over the ancient Elven stronghold, showering her in all the colours she could muster.

Gandalf let out a small smile, a smirk no greater than a hair’s width. Yet, in that single smile was more power than in all the armies of Sauron combined. Hope was in that smile, the hope that, one day, the darkness of the world would fade to make way for something brilliant, as brilliant as that morning Rivendell sun. As he looked out, the forests and buildings of Imladris took their shape. Red, brown, green and silver danced in a pleasant morning breeze, the white towers shone with pride and the blue water of the Bruinen glimmered, like a river of sapphires flowing from the depths of the Earth. As if the gates of Erebor and Moria had opened to let all the riches in their bellies escape, escaping to the Elven stronghold. Gandalf patted the woodwork of the tower he was leaning against. Yes, he remembered. This was what he was fighting for. All the beauty of their world combined. It would, it could never be allowed to fall. Not for a second would he let the world succumb to the darkness of Morgoth and Annatar, not while he was still alive to draw breath. With that thought, he turned around, slowly striding down the stairs. In the grand hall of Elrond, Gandalf approached the first Elf he saw.

“My good lad” he began, in the warmest voice he could muster. The sun had kindled a warm, heartily fire in his veins, and it would take the Legions of Haradrim to take it from him.

“Please tell Lord Elrond that I have matter I would like to discuss. I will be waiting in my tower until he arrives.”

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun May 24, 2015 4:57 pm

Dorwinion, North of the Sea of Rhun.
Warhorns trumpeted mightily through the air. An orchestral symphony of noises was present in the large advancing lines of the Rhunic North Army; boots against the roads of Dorwinion, fluttering cloth in the winds, instruments being played by eager hands and eager mouths, the rolling of wheels and the trotting of horses were the instruments of this dreadful musical masterpiece. Yyvvek Khar kicked at the sides of his armoured steed, causing the beast to pick up a slightly faster speed as he increased the distance between himself and the approaching line of pikemen at his rear. His staff did the same and before long a nice gap between the two segments had formed again. Khar had been informed of the addition of several would-be mercenaries and had placed them in an honourable position, to the right flank of the first column of pikemen. Any man whom fought for Sauron was a worthy addition in his eyes. But now was not the time to dwell on men and their intentions, now it was the time to wage war.

Dol-Guldur, Mirkwood
Out marched the forces of the Khanate, banners and sigils raised high in the air as the columns left the dreaded fortress perched upon the hill. Half of the strength brought to Mirkwood was to be left behind, and the other half was on its route to meet up with their Mordorian counterparts in their assault of the settlements and Free People's defences in these lands. Compared to their Mordorian equals, men of Rhun were a powerful lot. Clad in mighty armour, with grand weaponry and discipline beyond the understanding of most the soldiers of the East were not the force to be trifled with. Her dreaded cavalry was of no use in the forest, but her infantrymen were feared all the same. And infantry had been brought aplenty, as had archers. Even at the lead of these dreaded force was perhaps the most frightening thing of all, Khamul atop his monstrous armour-covered steed.

The Hall of the Ancients, Umbar, Harad.
The Lieutenant of Barad-Dur bowed in return to the unusual crone of a person, eyeing the individual with great curiosity and bewilderment. The Mouth brought down his gigantic velvet black hood, one that was large enough to shelter his helm from the unlooking individuals. He tapped his obsidian staff against the yellow tiled floor of the Library, extending out his free hand in a great show of exaggeration.

"I come on behalf of Mordor, and the Great Lord Sauron." He exclaimed in a stern and serious manner, chattering his teeth together once finished and pulling a signature smile. "Word has reached our eyes of the extensive knowledge rumoured to lie beneath these floors."

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sun May 24, 2015 5:13 pm

Northward Road
North of Linhir
Dor-En-Ernil
Gondor

Is there any sight more demeaning, more down treading to the soul, more crushing to a flying spirit than the sight of a column of soldiers riding away from a fight? A slow, low-spirited march on horseback, with the back to the legions of Orcs behind. The banners were still being flown, every lance held a fluttering cloth with the White Tree of Minas Tirith. Yet, it was not the same. The heads of these soldiers were not held high in pride and glory, with the expectation of combat and battle. Their heads had sunken down, their eyes cast to the ground in shame. Their retreat was necessary, but that was all the solace they were going to get. Their shining armour no longer remembered of their true purpose, and the bands of iron and steel around their shoulders burned like a shameful memory. Yet, they had to press on. Alone, the knights of Silverlight were not going to prevail.

The sights beside the road did not bring the solace they would’ve given in times of peace. Many refugees from Minas Tirith had passed by this road. There grew no flower besides the old wayside. All grass was trampled, only the track of wagons and the hooves of animals had made lasting impressions. Farmsteads, normally worked all day, lay abandoned. Where amber waves of grain grew normally, only the brown, lifeless mass of dead plantlife remained, kept from sunlight by the dark sorcery of Sauron’s poisonous fumes. Fumes that foretold the marching legions of orc that would soon descend on this fertile plain. Some homesteads had even fallen victim to early signs of destruction. Burned-out buildings, still smelling of charcoal and fire, stood every league or so, and others still were broken open and robbed in their entirety. The only people that the knights came across were refugees, people fleeing from their homes from the coming onslaught. But if the White City fell, what hope was there for these people? What hope was there for the world?

Again, the column of riders passed an abandoned farm. This one was in an even rougher shape than the last. The barn still stood, yet the doors had been breached from their hinges, and it appeared entirely empty. The home of the farmer had equally lost all the woodwork, doors and windows had probably been used as firewood for passing refugee groups. Animals there were not, save for the occasional chicken that had been lucky enough to scavenge some grain from the dead fields. The rocky stone perimeter was being overgrown by moss and weeds, something that would’ve been taken care of by pigs or cows in days passed. Cirion gave it a faint look of dread and sorrow as they passed. Before them, the sun slowly set behind the Great Sea, signalling the end of day and the beginning of the knight. Light would not be with them for long, and darkness would grow upon them. With a heavy heart, Cirion raised his right hand as a signal to halt. Háma Broadsword did the same, as was normal for the second in command. Cirion didn’t even raise his voice like he normally would, he just spoke in a faint, whisper-like tone to Háma.

“Háma, we’ll camp here for the night. Find some food and water for the horses, we’ll use the barn and homestead for cover. Plant two lances in front of the farm gate, to mark this as a Gondorian garrison. I feel like… We have lost our pride a bit.”

Háma didn’t speak. He just nodded in acceptance. He too had been caught by the dread nature of their retreat, and like many others, he felt the shame burn on his soul. With a strong pull on the reigns, he drew his horse aside, relaying Cirion’s orders to the men. Before long, the farm was occupied by Gondorian soldiers. Some tents dotted the farm, a resting place for those who didn’t find room or comfort inside the abandoned farm. Some of Cirion’s riders had grown up on farms, and the idea that their homes looked the same gave them no rest. Many could still find refuge in one of the two buildings, either the barn or the home, and made use of the fact that they could sleep inside for the first time in weeks. Osgilliath hadn’t exactly been a city of guesthouses and taverns for the brief time they were there. And indeed, when night came, the knights didn’t stay perched around the campfire for long. Most didn’t feel like singing, dancing, eating, or talking. Most just wanted to sleep. The guards were posted alongside the perimeter, in pairs of two, while the rest of the men went to bed. Another long day done with. Tomorrow, one more awaited. Longer than expected, perhaps.

------

Of all the knights, it was Cirion who could not get to sleep. His armour he had put aside, and wearing his regular outfit (regular for him, not for a farmer) he sat perched beside the last campfire. He had taken up the central guard from two men who were dying to get some sleep, and because Cirion could catch any, he had vowed to take over their duties. While they were getting sleep, quietly snoring the night away, Cirion sat, gazing at the dark sky. Well, I say dark, it was a mixture. To the east, the dark fumes of the Great Eye had blocked out all stars. Not a single one shone through. All was kept in the dark, and the dark slowly rolled more to the west. To the west, on the other hand, stars still dotted the deep blue background. Menelvagor, the constellation of the red star Borgil, watched over whatever lands of Middle Earth still stood free. Not many lands they were, but enough, Cirion reckoned. Or did he? Did enough lands still stand against Sauron? With Arnor destroyed, Rohan under the sway of a mad king, Minas Tirith kingless and about to fall… What could any of them do?

Despair, the most treasonous of thoughts. Cirion would have none of it. Despair was not his mode of thought. Years in the past, when he was nothing but a wee lad, an old man had told him that valuable life’s lesson. Hope was a driving force. “There was always hope” the old man had said, cloaked in his grey cloak. His had was silly, Cirion remembered, but his face kindly and warm. Childlike, yet very, very old. Cirion still remembered his words, his kindly voice… He smiled. For the first time in days, he smiled. He looked to his right. His saddle bag he had taken with him from his horse, to lessen the burden on the fine beast. From it, he procured a piece of paper and a small piece of charcoal, hard and thin, and lengthy, like a pencil. With firm strokes, he applied the charcoal to the paper, firstly drawing the outlines of the cloak, the hat, before getting into more detail. Cirion had always liked drawing, and this memory was suddenly as clear as daylight. Under the light of the fire, he began to draw the old man, as good as he could remember.

Then, he heard something. A snapping of a branch, not more than a few yards from the fire. Only then did Cirion realise in what total darkness they were. The world around them was covered in a thick blanket, walls of dark surrounded him. Not a single light was lit in the dark void, not even Orodruin was visible. All was dark, all was abandoned. Noises, filtered out by his concentration, came back. The howl of wolves, the wind rustling the trees… Nature’s calls, and the distant drums of war. Within a second, Cirion had sprung up from his seated position, casting aside his charcoal and paper. With a single draw from his arm, he pulled his sword from its scabbard, holding it in the position of the eagle, heaved above his head. The blade glimmered in the light of the fire, looking as if it had caught ablaze.

“SHOW YOURSELF!” He yelled into the dark, scanning for any reaction. He didn’t wait long.

“I am sir Cirion Silverlight, knight of Gondor. I command you to show yourself! Or crawl back into the abyss from whence you came!”

Cirion was half expecting a black-feathered shaft to strike him from the shadow, a morgul arrow from some distant orc archer catching him while he was in full light of his own fire. Yet, such a shaft did not strike him down while he was unarmoured. Nor did wolf riders drive him down under the cover of darkness. From the dark, a man approached, slowly stepping into the light of the fire. He was unarmoured, unarmed even, clothed in nothing but rags and covered in the dirt of travel. He seemed scared, afraid, alone. There was no betrayal in his eyes, no malicious intent. Cirion lowered his blade, still holding it firmly in his hand in case of an unexpected dagger.

“What is your name and purpose?” he asked. His voice wasn’t as battle-hard as it had been mere seconds ago, but it was still firm. He was a soldier, and he had to assert a kind of dominance. Gondor was still strong. The peasant tremored, he seemed totally taken off-guard by the sword.

“My… My lord Ithildin, thank goodness you are here…” he stammered. Cirion was delighted but confused. This farmer knew his name. Not only did he know his name, but he also knew the Elven word for it, something that not many people were aware of. Because of this, Cirion retained his guarded stance. The farmer continued.

“I am Alagond, son of Alagan, my lord. I am a soldier of Gondor, like my father before me. At least… I was a soldier.”

Cirion noticed the increasing distress from the man in the blink of an eye. The change of voice, of tone, he had heard it many times before. Many soldiers succumbed to stress in times of battle, and dealing with that was one of the roles of a leader. Cirion gestured at a seat next to the fire, close to one of the sleeping soldiers. While doing so, he threw another thick branch on the fire. He had a feeling they would be there for a while.

“Tell me everything” Cirion said, sheathing his sword again. His voice had grown kinder, more brotherly. He needed news right now, all the news he could get. Hard reprimands would not get him far. The ragged soldier did sit down, like ordered, and began to tell his tale.

“My lord Silverlight… I’m sorry, I’ve been through a lot lately. I’m a soldier from Lamedon, to the North. Calembel, to be precise. I was part of the army of Lamedon, led by Lord Angbor. We marched eastwards to defend the White City from Sau… From the Dark Lord, whose name I will not utter under His fume. Yet, my company and I were caught by surprise while marching across Losarnach. We were set upon by orcs on wolves, hundreds of them. I truly believe they were beyond count. I had to cross, I had to get away. There was no way out. I threw off my armour, which has been in the family for generations, and I swam across the Anduin in terror. There was no winning that fight. I had to… They would’ve killed me if I…”

“If you had fought, like a real man of Gondor?” exclaimed a heavy voice from behind. Háma Broadsword had approached them unheard, and his red beard now shone even redder in the light of the fire. His voice let nothing be heard but his dismay. Háma was a true born soldier, one who would fight to the bitter end. He expected nothing less of his compatriots. Deserters, cowards, traitors… All could expect to meet with his sword, be it the flat end or the sharp sides. He walked past the fire to take position behind Cirion, towering above the conversation like some guard tower overlooking a road.

“Now, go on. Don’t leave us waiting. It’s a long march westward we’ll have to do tomorrow” Háma said, as cold as steel. He gestured at Alagond to continue, who did so, be it in a more disorderly and frightened manner. Háma had a way of scaring friend and foe alike.

“Right, right… So, I crossed Anduin the Great under a hail of arrows and rocks, I barely escaped with my life. Just barely, I’ll remind you. If I had been any slower, I’m sure one of those shafts would’ve gotten the better of me. But I escaped, found some peasant rags, and I am now on my way to Calembel to rearm myself. I have sworn a vow to lord Angbor, you see, and I am planning on keeping it.”

Cirion opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short, for the soldier from Calembel had not finished yet.

“… For Calembel, my lord Cirion, has quite an impressive armoury. Lord Angbor couldn’t muster enough men for his armoury, so many weapons still lay inside. Plenty for quite a few men to arm themselves, I daresay.”

Now, Cirion was intrigued. A spark was lit in his eyes, a flame that had not seen the light of day or night for quite some time. A flame last seen in time immemorial. An armoury, hidden away in the depths of a fortified city… Cirion turned to Háma, standing up to whisper something in his ear.

“Háma, wake the men as soon as the sun peaks above the Shadow Mountains. We will ride at the earliest opportunity, and we will ride at speed. The city of Calembel is our destination for now. Try to find a horse for Alagond here, he will be riding with us. If his words are far from the truth… Well, I know how you like deserters.”

Háma smiled, first at Cirion, before smirking at Alagond. The soldier was clearly upset by this, and his mood was not improved by the words of Cirion Silverlight, Knight of Gondor.

“Alright, master soldier. We will be riding for your city at first light. I hope you know how to ride horse?”

by **Aliasa** » Mon May 25, 2015 8:03 pm

The king, Nuli, was overlooking the expansion of his underground kingdom as he waited for his military advisor, who also happened to be his closest friend and his cousin, to arrive. He could occasionally be heard shouting words of encouragement to his working lads. The workers were working harder than usual in the presence of their king, as you would expect them to. Soon his cousin would arrive. He would pull his cousin off to a secluded corner and speak with me there.

"Ahh, Dreack, there you are! Feel like I've been waiting for hours, cousin he claps Dreack on the shoulder as he speaks. Dreack bows and says "Apologies, my king, I'm afraid I had some military matters to deal with." the king bids him rise "it fine, cousin, I didn't appoint you to the position for no reason did I!?""no, you didn't, my king." "no need to be do stiff necked, cousin! What news do you have? "There isn't much to say, the training is coming along well and there isn't much of a force nearby to be too worried about. Oh, and there was a sighting of a couple bands of orcs by out watch, but it's nothing to worry of Orcs? Well I'll want to make contact with them immediately!""My king?" "Think about it Dreack... Our ally has legions of these things under his control. I'm sure we could get away with A couple hundred, certainly." Dreack considers it for a moment "Well... I suppose it's worth a shot, aye?""Aye, that's the spirit, lad! Make ready for my departure. We leave at dawn."Yes, my king" Dreack departs to carry out his orders and the king leaves to rest for the coming expedition.

Red= King Nuli
Blue= Dreack

by **Lunas Legion** » Wed May 27, 2015 11:21 am

"This chicken is surprisingly good for orc cooking." The Balrog mused as he took another bite, glancing once again over the room. He sat in what had previously been their chief's chair, a crude thing of wood sat on a small stone dais, looking over two long tables littered with food surrounding a fire in the center. The room was rather smokey, but neither orcs or the Balrog were affected by smoke, the former due to stupidity, the latter due to his nature.

The tables below were now littered with bodies slumped over them, the great slashes that felled them covering the tables with blood. Arrows littered the floor mixed with ash where he had simply burned the orcs than bothering to dispatch them mundanely. He might as well have had a little fun while slaughtering them, it had been so long since he'd entered a battle on his terms rather than some group of mad Goblins attacking him in what had been the Dwarf King's throne room.

"Still terrible by elven standards, but tolerable." He stood, hurling the chicken into the fire where it caught alight. "For orcish cooking."

A scuffle behind him, in the doorway. He spun, kicking the chair against the wall where it shattered, revealing a small group of Goblins huddled in the doorway behind him, crude spears pointed at him.

"I do hope you don't intend to challenge me like those imbeciles did." The Balrog snorted, gesturing to the mass of dead orcs. "It won't end well."

One of the goblins shook his head furiously, before saying something in Orcish. "Dekva Tribe want help."

"Help." The Balrog snorted. "Why should I help you?"

"Dekva not follow Fire-Eye. Is far away. Armoured-Man-Thing is nearer. Dekva follow Armoured-Man-Thing if deal with Lake-Tenticles."

"How large is Dekva?" The Balrog asked, suddenly much more interested.

The Goblin looked at his hand and counted over his fingers, once, twice, three times, before saying "Many goblins. Smaller than Bekvk Tribe."

Based on his rather limited knowledge of goblin numerics and tribe sizes within Moria, that was around 100 goblins. That was almost nothing in comparison to the hosts that had marched under his command during the First Age, but it was something he could work with.

"Very well. I shall crush Lake-Tenticles. Out of my way." The Balrog moved forwards, the goblins scampering up the tunnel's walls to avoid being swept aside as the Balrog continued his journey to Moria's Western Gate. The only creature the goblins could be referring to was that... Thing in the lake. He didn't know how it got there, nor did he care. It would no doubt prove a worthy fight, or at least he hoped.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Wed May 27, 2015 4:33 pm

Rivendell
"Remember Gandalf, do not, at any cost let the One Ring fall into the hands of the enemy. Other than that, I do not have much else to say that you do not know. I am sending you with plenty of supplies for either route to Oroduin, but time is of the essence. When you are ready, I will send the Fellowship on their way."

by **Elerian** » Wed May 27, 2015 4:38 pm

Old South Road, Captain Helgrim

Helgrim nodded to the old man as he approached, and with the notion of a warm meal, and bed beneath him as he slept, Helgrim regarded the man with a pleasant, if distant smile. Helgrim's smile turned to a frown when the man bowed deeply. He was no lord, but he supposed that the man didn't know any better. However, when food was mentioned, the smile returned, and Helgrim nodded vigorously. "Well met Master Rurikad, My name is Helgrim, captain Helgrim. And aye, I'll be needing food for me and my men, and beds if you have them. Your establishment is a fine building, but it appears as though many of my men will be forces to sleep in the stables. Lead the way Master Rurikad."

Lond Daer, The Mouth of the Greyflood

They had only been in the ruinous city for several days, but the city already looked wildly different from when they had first arrived. A number of bonfires burned creeper vines and various other plants that lay all over the old walls and across many decrepit streets. However, the city was in an even worse state than they had anticipated. It would be a long process of restoring the city, but in the end it would be well worth it.

Dead Marshes, Varangi Gratis

The short muzzle of the beast lifted into the air and gave a short sniff. After a few moments, the Warg gave a howl and ran off in the direction of its prey. It was a sad creature compared to the well fed Wargs of Mordor and Isengard, though it was a fierce creature still. Varangi, with his bone armor clattering, ran through the marshes alongside a dozen other clansmen and half as many Wargs. Their prey, a plump merchantmen from the west. Varangi and his men had already had their way with him, and learned much more about the happenings in the west than they ever could have learned otherwise. The merchant had hoped to throw his lot in with the Dark Lord and offer his eyes and ears to Sauron, though that was something Varangi simply could not allow. Instead, Varangi had taken what little the Merchant had, and tortured what he did know out of the little man.

There was only one thing of consequence that the merchantman had said. Once he heard that Varangi and his people were of Clan Gratis, the Merchant told them he knew of men to the west who bore their family name. Varangi tortured the location of his kin from the little merchantman, and bid his men to prepare a party to find the truth of this rumor. Varangi then decided he would have mercy on the merchantman. He offered him one of two choices. He could fight one of the captured Orcs in the Blood Pits, or Varangi would cut him loose and hunt him. Varangi had said that if he managed to make it to the edge of the Marshes, or he was able to best the Orc, he could go free. The silly merchantman had picked to try and run. The man had better odds of killing an unarmed Orc with a club, than he did evading Varangi in his own Marsh. But, the choice had been made, and the Merchantman was now minutes away from his demise. A devilish grin crossed Varangi's face as he let out a howl, and the other Warg's joined him. The merchantman's life was nearly over.

by **Arlye Austros** » Wed May 27, 2015 5:04 pm

Quarry, South-Western Eaves of Mirkwood.
Two days on the march.

He just watched at his feet stepping one after the other. He had shoes, though they were worned out after those weeks of hard work. And no doubt this trip would be their end. But he didn´t really cared. He didn´t really thought of anything really. He could just feel the shame and the frustration in him, and ay thought he could raise was aimed to that moment.

Lorm´s final punch on Bregareth meant something more than a lost tooth. He had lost his attempt to have his sister released, to have her look for help at Fangkeep as the raiders walked there. Even worse. He had sent Idana to a certain death, and Fiorith was placed in a role that was not hers. He could see it in both their faces. Idana looked back, clearly horrorized at what had happened, but she seemed to understand him, and her look was that of forgiveness, but also of hopelessness. Fiorith, on the other hand, looked unbelieving. She screamed as they pushed the woman away, and for that she was struck. It was another beating he should have received instead of her. Idana would probably die in her trip back home, ironically. Bregareth tried to feed the idea she would do what Fiorith was supposed to in his plan. But it was a thought that starved easy. Fiorith, on the other hand, was no healer. True, she had aided Idana for some time in the cages, but all she would be able to do by her own was keeping down a simple fever and press a bleeding. She was now endangered. Fiorith barely turned back to look at him. She just walked, right in front of her brother, pulling him by the chains that tied her to the next slave ahead, a link in that chain of captives, with no other prospect of the future than walk and survive another day.
However his isolation was over as they halted so that the orcs could eat something. The slaves also received their share, a small cut of something that looked like rancid cram. She sat at some distance, biting the blackened meal without energy, nor freedom for her hands. He leaned closed.
“I… I am sorry, Fith…” He called her by the short name Beornas used to call her with. “I didn´t meant this to happen.”
Fiorith´s answer came as a blow in the stomach. “Shut up…” She muttered, only pausing her chewing to say it, then returning to her task. Not even a look he deserved.

“I really am. What can I do to mend it?”
“Stay away. I don´t want to speak to you again.” She looked ahead and after saying it turned to Bregareth. Her face had swelled in the place the orc had beaten her. It was turning purple, and the damage seemed to crawl up to her right eye.
“We need to make a plan. If we get to Guldur... we are never...”

“Don´t you get it, Bregareth?” She said aloud. Hearing his own name with such power made him cower in fear. Perhaps because the orcs knowing it could endanger him, perhaps it was something else. “No more… thinking. I won´t hear a thing from you. You are as good as dead to me!”
Some of the slaves around looked at the scene, and some orcs too. He took her hands, chained as his own, and tried to calm her down. Fiorith cried. “I need you. Sorry but I won´t let you go, sister. If I did I would never forgive myself, not even dead.”

“Enough of this shit… Get up. Come on!” An orc blasted his whip close to the twins, and the slaves, in a matter of seconds, had stood up and formed in a column to continue their march. As they walked Bregareth looked to his right. The valley opened, and small groups of forestry appeared in the west, dotting the Mountains. He saw smoke and fire, and a column of grey smoke rose from the Anduin.

The march continued for two more days. Bregareth grew hunger and weaker. And so did Fiorith, he noticed. Also, the barrier between them seemed get colder everytime they stopped. They entered the Mirkwood as the column left the smoke and fires behind, and turned east. It was an incredible sight, as the forest rose as a majestic line of stone columns, crowned with a cloud of grey and black, without shape. The bleak light of the sun filtered through the thick foliage, and a brown tone filled the environment. He could hear things walking above, and bregareth noticed Fiorith looked up, nervious. Other slaves did so, and the orcs laughed at this. She backed when some branches and leafs landed on her hair, making Bregareth stumble with her, and the slave ahead nearly fall back as the chain pulled him. He procured to hold her gently.
“Don´t worry, they won´t hurt us.”
She turned her head as far the chins allowed her.
“I am sorry… I didn´t meant to say that.”

Bregareth smiled, and pushed her slightly ahead, they needed to keep walking, or risk the whip. “Don´t worry. I know you didn´t, and I am still glad to hear it.”
She muttered. “How can we escape?”
“I think you need to think that out now. You know people better than I do. I thought I was doing great with Lorm… but... ” A warg rider passed by. He stopped speaking and waited till the orc passed beyond hearing. “But it all failed.”
“I am scared. I hate to admit it.” She answered. Bregareth thought for a second, he saw something in the floor, and picked it up, rising back before the chain could pull him forward. It was what he thought, a black rock, probably spat from a mountain of fire many Ages ago. It was sharp on one end, and he carefully placed it over Fiorith´s shoulder, where she held it away from Bregareth´s hands. He spoke very close to her. “You can now defend yourself.”

As he said that, a shadow appeared above the foliage. The brown-gloomy light faded, and the forest turned like stone, black and blue. The shadow that rose was solid as iron, and tall as a mountain. It stood over a hill, and as Bregareth and Fiorith climbed, they watched upon Dol Guldur. The screams that came from within were those of the orcs as they breed. However they heralded for Bregareth terrible days ahead.

Gladden Fields, western margin of the Anduin

The marshes near the confluence provided little cover form sight, and the small host had been ordered to make camp on the western side of the small hills a bit further north. Yet, he sent explorers to find a path as much south into the angle formed by the rivers as there could be, in case they needed to move into an easily defendable area. The soldiers, recruits of recent prospects of battle, or recruits in the terrible retreat of Rhosgobel, grouped around veterans, like flies to meat, perhaps looking for courage for the task to come. The small camps were allowed little fire, and the few flames that shared light and heat, were buried, so that their gift could not escape across the Anduin. The sun was setting down, and the night gathered, pushing back the light. The Hour of the Orc. Beornas ordered patrols around the Fields.

The son of Grimbeorn, however, did his own round out of the camp. He had heard of those fields. There was a time their ancestors, those who liked to ride, dwelled there, and after they moved north, some split, and passed by that passage between the River and the Mountain, aiding Gondor further south of Lorien, and then settling in the Green Province of the Riddermark, the one they called Rohan. Those who remained gained dominion over the Vales, until Erebor fell, and the Beornings could no longer stand the Goblins. Now, this was a barren field or roads scattered between hills and trees, with the marshes to the east and the hills climbing to the west. There was one story, however, that still sounded in Beornas´s mind. One that he felt was connected to him.

He reached a small gap between two hills and a small forest in between, the road but between the hill, like carved into the stone, and the forestry, and he saw many stones placed. Tombs.

Beornas walked not alone, but with one companion. His name is Arngrim, and grandson of his uncle, Anglis. Like Beornas, he could shift into a grey bear, rather big. But he was also of the blood of the Woodsmen, and spoke for them in many assemblies. He was born and raised in the borders of the Wood Realm and the Anduin by his mother´s family, but after his shift his father, Aldwulf, took him to Carrokburg, were they met. They had been friends ever since, and was the first to cry the loss of Grimbaras and Fralor. He was the best archer Beornas had heard of that was alive, and that was a lot to say, considering Beornas spent some time in Dale.

“They are old.” He commented. His eyes seemed naïve and happy, even at the sight of a tomb. That upsetted Beornas, but he was not his second in command because of his sight. He was cunning, and his look showed less of him than he really was. “Perhaps of the beginning of this age?”
Beornas had crouched to watch one of the stones. It´s inscriptions were in Adûniac, a language beornas knew nothing of. He smiled. “You know exactly what happened here and when. My grandfather told us about these fields when we were eleven.”
“Yet I like to hear the story.” The half-woodsman smiled.

“Here Isildur, son of Elendil, met his end. He was returning form the war to visit a distant relative in Eriador. This was the place he chose to cross the Anduin, but as he landed here and started moving the column was attacked. The Battle lasted days, it is said, or maybe it felt like days to those who survived. Isildur at first won the defense, against all odds. But it was a ruse. The orcs returned, with more strength, and those they had lost were mere goblins, easy to replace, easier to lose. The Numenoreans were marching again by then, and did not expected the battle to continue. Soon the orcs overwhelmed all flanks, except that were Isildur held against the greatest strike.” He pointed towards the river. “There, to the east. When his son, Elendur reached him, he was covered in blood, and in tears. He told Earendil he had seen Cyrion, his youngest brother out of Valandil, being overwhelmed and clawed to death by orcs, and that his middle brother, Aratan, was wounded trying to save him, sure to succumb to the orcs. Elendur accepted his fate and urged his father to flee. Isildur could not move, he didn´t wanted to leave his sons to die there without dignity, like pigs. Yet Elendur insisted. Isildur fled with a magic only he knew and Elendur knew of. However his crown was not concealed, and by the time Elendur was captured and executed he had seen his father killed by orcs arrows and float down the river.”

As he told the story, the bits he remembered from Beorn´s voice, he couldn´t help thinking of the fields in the North.
“I should have died there.” He muttered, still looking at the tomb. “I abandoned them and only slowed down my father. I should have turned and met my fate with my brothers.”

Arngrim said nothing, unsure of how to approach Beornas´s sudden grim mood. He felt different. Pinewatch offered him a slight relief from pain, a shine of pride that seemed childish to many, but failing to find his brothers in the ruins of the town reminded him how useless he was.
“We need to make sure the orcs don´t gain Lorien.”

“I promise you I won´t let that happen, Cousin.” Arngrim answered and looked around, trying to change the subject. “You think Aratan and Cyrion fell nearhere?”
Beornas stood up and looked around too. “No, this is a gap, easy to defend, by I think the orcs held it when the battle was on their side. Otherwise, they would have resisted much better than the story suggests. Though we will never be sure… The anduin…”
“What of it?” Arngrim looked at the river, holding his black yew bow, a gift from his father.
“It must be used for our side. I know the answer lies in the river. We need to move out early now.”
“The men are tired. Even a rive trip can get your strength.”
It was suitable. This was the northern border of Lorien. After that river anything could happen, and if they were ambushed they would need all the strength they could gather, not to end like Isildur.

Colbrand Beornsson.
Carrokburg.

Colbrand climbed up the wooden stairs and the stone ones. The Fortress was now able to use by the family, and Grimbeorn seemed to be in good health, still, he called the Moot to the Palace, an unprecedented order. He was late, and the news demanded urgency.

“Brother…” He said when he entered the chamber. Grimbeorn looked over a hundred, his hair having lost all colour and life, and his face seeming like stone, and cracked by the pass of ages. But his eyes had recovered his dull vitality. He smiled.
“You look better today.”
“Brother, come, you must listen to this.”
He was standing in front of a man, humbly dressed and seemingly tired, who sat on a wooden chair in front of the High Chief, and was surrounded by the other Chiefs, standing in circle and watching. Colbrand entered the group and watched. The blond man had a red trace in his hair over his ear. It seemed as if he had come out of a battle just now.

“Continue…” Grimbeorn ordered, and made a gesture to Coldbrand, who reached another chair and placed it in front of the man, but at a distance, closer to the Chiefs, and Grimbeorn took seat.
“Yes… my lord.”
“Not Lord. I am equal… Speak freely, and please tell us what you saw… Tell my slow-walking brother.”
Colbrand smiled, not caring, and man spoke. “Yes, Chief…” He seemed unused to those titles. “They came with the dawn. Some looked small, but I recognized the large ones. The same I recall from Rosghobel.”
Colbrand looked at his brother, who tried to conceal a crack in his expression. Grief.

“The orcs pillaged three houses before they reached mine. I sent my wife to the wild with my boy. I don´t know what was of them.”
“How many?” Aldfrid Leothsson asked.
“I can´t tell. I saw at least two or three dozens. I also saw a woman tied behind them.”
This called their eye. Grimbeorn looked at the man with renewed interest.
“A woman? One of your village perhaps? Or from the nearby ones?”
The man shrugged. “I never saw her in my life, and she was dressed with rags, as if little care she had been given to cover herself, or if she was the poorest of the poor. Yet she seemed fair, despite her age… I am sorry, these are pointless details.”

However Colbrand was also interested. The orcs seemed to be taking slaves. They knew they took many prisoners south, but they would not know if they would go to die by the hand of the orc there or if death would come from exhaustion, now they brought one with them. Why? Most importantly, she could know things. He stood forth.
Brother, these are no pointless words. Thanks to this man we now know orcs are returning. We don´t know the numbers, but they are more than a raiding party. They come with a rather large force, and maybe they come here. If this woman is indeed one taken from our folk and then returned to her land, she might know the state of our kind, and where have they been taken. More importantly, only for the worth of the war and not those involved, she may know the numbers of the orcs. She could open our eyes to the south, where we remain blind.”

Some of them seemed to agree. Alfrid was silent, and doubted. Grimbeorn was beyond reading.
“Colbrand is right.” Hareald Himling answered.
“We can´t spare more men. If we sent a force to face the orcs you might fall into a trap.” Aldrid replied. “Colbrand, please don´t go into a reckless action.”
Colbrand looked at his brother. “High Chief…”
Grimbeorn looked at the door. “Our people must be defended, nevertheless, Aldfrid. We have neglected everything to the east of the River. Not any more. Colbrand. Take a force and deal with the orcs. Make sure you take a prisoner, or save that woman if you can, and any man they bring with themselves. We shall know then how to fight them better.”

Colbrand now needed the strength. Several hours later he gathered a force among the ranks of the Northmen of the Vales. It was a sizeable force, far larger than Aldfrith ever expected.
“What is this, Colbrand?” he looked at the men gathered in the street outside the Council. I see at least four hundred.
“Eight… I will face them safe. I am marching to the front. They will have to pass through me to get here.”
“Here we stand a chance!” Aldfrid yelled. The men nearby looked at them.
“Here we will be starved to death while our kin suffers, is enslaved, works for the orcs and dies afterwards!” He replied. “You know I am right.” He finished a conversation with only that. Aldfrid buffed and walked away. Colbrand saw his force arming in the street.

“Freefolk!” they turned to him. “You have all taken arms. That makes us a free man form the moment my hand grasps the sword. Some of you are Free from the womb, although that´s sad. Some were swornlings, sons of your free fathers. Some came Free after he died. Some came subdued and sworn, either to father, grandfather, Chief, soldier, owner ir Burghman. Your become free now. Always remember, we face battle willingly. The orc doesn´t. The orc is born into a life without the prospect of freedom, of choice, of will. They serve and die in chains, either the chains forged in Barad Dur, or the chains forged in the mind and the torture of their existence.” He raised his sword and pointed east and south. “There lies our enemy! It came here before, and took out families, out brothers, wives, husbands, sons… They were either sentence to a cruel death, and those lucky or not, they were chained and brought south, to lower them to the same level they habe been born into.”
Some of the freefolk protested. The women among the ranks yelled in rage and anguish. “Has anyone before commited a most hideous crime? From the Flame to the Flame, no darkness like this has ever risen. And let all the West know that here we stand, free, and willingly.”

A rousing speech indeed. Colbrand always praised himself for that skill he had. Aldfrid buffed again and walked out of the street. He didn´t cred. The lines of the Beornings marched out, joined by some more Colbrand had secretly sneaked out of the palisade and formed, mainly the remaining woodsmen, eager to fight back for their land and kin. He led to meet the orcs. Colbrand didn´t knew the bastard who took his nephews was ahead.

[spoiler=Colbrand´s Expedition]
Anduin Spearmen= 130
Anduin Warriors = 270
Anduin Housecarls= 40
Mountain Axemen= 130
Woodsmen Warriors= 136
Woodsmen Sworn Shields= 17
Northern Archers= 150
Beorning Longbowmen= 40
Skinchangers= 10 (plus Colbrand himself)
[/spoiler]

The Third Age: A Lord of the Rings RP (IC/Closed)

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