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The Lord of the Rings RP [IC]

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 4:39 am
by Limborg
The RP starts in the Third Age, in the year 3018, Mordor has gained strenght and has started the search of the One Ring. Gollum, the only creature who knows where the Ring is, has managed to buy some time. This is where we start.
Some quick Notes:
Gollum cannot be found by anyone, he will be captured by the forces of Mordor at some
point, wich will lead to the formation of the fellowship.
Nobody knows about the faith of Balin's expedition, but it won't be a mistery for long.



Dáin had watched over the Lonely Mountain for 77 years, and even longer he had ruled over the Iron Hills. Now shadows where growing in the east, Dáin concerned himself about it. He knew as nobody else what kind of trouble that could be. He had fought in many battles and it was sad that he would live the day of another one. Dáin needed to make time, something he was short on lately. He sended a raven to Glóin, who watched over the Iron Hills since the day that Dáin became king of Erebor. The raven carried an important message.
My dear friend,

The shadow is once again growing and i'm afraid that if we keep quiet we will lose all that this world has to offer. I'm 251 years old, far to old to go around playing the hero. I need you to gather some men who will travel for me.

On another note, We need to make sure our halls are protected in the best way possible, i will make sure that it happens in Erebor, you make sure it happens at The Iron Hills.


The Iron Hills
Glóin recieved the message. he watched out of the Mountan, and as he kept staring into the distance he could almost see the shadows moving. Glóin called on some good friends.
Moments later Nori, Dori, Gimli, Dwalin and Thorin enterd into the room.
Glóin sat down, "Darkness is growing fast; I'm afraid that we cannot turn a blind eye to this activity. I have a message from Dáin, we are going to war." he said. The five dwarves looked at eachother, they all knew what a battle and a war meant. "What do you need us for?" Dwalin asked.
"I need you to do the traveling when the time comes, you need to represent the Dwarves of Erebor and The Iron hills." Glóin answerd.
The five got the message and left the room. Now Glóin had to start his work on the defensive matters. Dwarven Halls where commonly the most protected places in the world, but apperantly Dáin thought that it would not be enough, wich was a scary though for Glóin.

Claiming: Region between Erebor and The Iron Hills
Fortress Upgrades: The Lonely Mountain: 4 Towers with archers & 2 towers with catapults
The Iron Halls: 4 towers with archers
(2 points left)

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 6:03 am
by G-Tech Corporation
The Black Gate, Mordor

Deep rolled the drums, echoing again and again in the ash hills and slag mounds of Dagorlad. The cold wall of blackest steel rose, a row of teeth hungry, lean. In the distance the fires of Orodruin were kindled, hot flows of molten death gracing with elegance the Dark Lord's dominion. As ponderous as the passage as time, as unstoppable as the ravages of her passing, the Black Gate opened. Driven by immense creatures, corrupted bastards of the creations of he who was not named, it swung on hinges the size of ten men, and behind it came the marching hosts. Glittering in black steel, harsh faces twisted by cruel thoughts and true evil, they came forth, a cloud of shadow, a finger of the hand that had once borne the One Ring. Sauron's purpose was implacable, his armies incalculable. Like the dust of the ash plains they marched, lines of Orc-men beneath the fumes scudding forth from the Mountain that Men named 'Doom'. Great trolls walked with them, fell strength in their arms and terror in their glance, armed and armored for war. His war was preparing, and these were the first shafts of those shots that would stop with ice the heart of the so-called Free Peoples. Two great legions, each numbering over twenty thousand souls, marched to war, and above them winged the fell Nazgul, harbingers of the doom of the West. And this was but a tithe of the strength the Barad-Dur held ready, a test for things to come.

Behind the gate, observing the panoply and splendor of the forces arrayed here, was the Mouth of Sauron. A servant from times ancient of the Great Eye, the most faithful of the Dark Lord's generals and his mouthpiece upon Arda. From the east he felt a heat fall upon him, and those Orcs and even the Black Uruks that stood with him quailed with the force of that gaze. As if with fire the air was kindled, the red of blood suffusing it, and the voice of his master spoke.

"They are weak, my servant, so weak. For years I have cut them down, slaying their best, pruning them until they are naught but a rotten oak, ready for the hammer-blow. Now it comes, it is prepared, and their doom is at hand. Strike them, and they shall shatter and be chaff before the wind of the ages. We have waited so long for this revenge, and now it is nigh. March north, and west, through the passages of the Emyn Muil. Establish the power of the Shadow in that land; make those who pass it quake with nameless dread ere their deaths find them. This I charge you with."

Mordor claims the Eastern Emyn Muil.
Mordor is marching a host of 13000 Snaga Orcs, 4000 Uruks, 6000 Morannon Orcs, 200 Warg Riders, and 10 Mountain Trolls to the Border of the Marshlands.

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 6:49 am
by Valentir
Ruins of Fornost, Eriador
The morning sun rose over the small camp perched on the side of the hill. Light filled the green felt tents of the Dunedain, and the rangers stirred from their slumber. Sylvanas stretched her long arms out and yawned, pulling a cloak over her bare body. She sat up and rolled her neck and then grabbed her toes. She was sore and stiff, for even after being a ranger all these years, sleeping on the hard ground was still a pain. Syl stood up and opened the flap of her tent. She was blinded by the bright rays of sun, and she turned her head away. As she turned her head the smell of meat and mulled wine filled the air. She took a seat by the campfire and began to talk to the other rangers. She was interrupted by a familiar face, old and weary, yet full of strength and willful, "Good Morning Sylvanas! How are you today?" Arveleg took a seat by her, a cup of wine in one hand, a sausage in the other.
"Sore, tired, and moody. Any news on Imrahil?"

Arveleg's smile lessened, his grey eyes no longer alive like before. A sense of sorrow filled his deep voice, "No, sadly not. It's been nearly a month since we last heard of him. I'm really worried." He looked at the ground, his face broken in sadness. It was rare for a man like Arveleg to show such sorrow, but Imrahil was like a son to old Paladin.

"I'm sure he'll turn up, after all this isn't the first time he has disappeared on us like that." The cook handed her a bowl of war stew and she began to eat. Arveleg looked up at her, she smiled at him. "He'll be fine, I assure. Now, we must begin to set off, we have a long journey ahead, and these are perilous times."

"Indeed. Rangers, begin to pack, we move in one hour!" Arveleg got up from his seat and he walked off towards the center of the camp. He began to bark orders, his voice filling the camp. He stood tall and proud, full of zeal and passion, even after many things have been taken from him. Syl finished her stew and went back to her tent. She took off her cloak and put on her small clothes. Before her lay here ranger's uniform, chainmail, blue leather, and silk. Beside that sat her bow, made of mallorn wood from Lorien, and her longsword, a light curved blade forged in Eregion. Instead of equipping her gear, she looked into a mirror she had beside her blankets. She looked into the mirror and saw herself. Flowing blonde hair, as golden as the sun, cascading down to her waist. Haunting blue eyes, smooth light skin, a curvaceous figure, firm breasts, and a tight tush. Sylvanas was young, beautiful, and haughty. She tied her golden hair into a ponytail, slid on her armour, equipped her weapons, and had her men pack her things. Before they set out however, Syl wanted to talk a walk of the Ruins of Fornost, the old capital of Arnor.

Fornost may have been in ruin, yet nature had reclaimed much of the former capital. Vines and trees grew all over, weeds covered the ground, and shrubbery claimed the ruined buildings. Birds chirped in the trees, deer roamed the old Market Square, and Earth was taking back this ancient city of men. As she strolled through the Military Quarter, she took a deep breath of air, it was fresh and clean. For all its ruin, Fornost still had a bit of its glory. The sun illuminated off the old marble buildings, the master stonework of the Numenoreans still enduring age and decay. How glorious they city must have been when it was once a center of trade and life. She could imagine it now, the bustle of the market, the sounds of children playing in the streets, the smell of freshly baked bread, all destroyed by the monster the Witch King of Angmar. The Great Kingdom of Arnor brought to its knees by a foul wight, a slave of Sauron. However even though Arnor was no more, their legacy still endured, bitter and tired, yet still it clung on. What a sight it would be of the little Dark Lord in his tower, if Arnor were to be rebuilt, the great kingdom restored to its former glory, the descendants of Numenor reclaiming their heritage. Syl pondered on the idea for awhile, and then she thought of Imrahil. Oh Imrahil, a friend since her childhood. She could still the days when they played in fountains of Rivendell, and ran in the woods. They would throw mud at each other and swim in the lake. They had been inseparable then, and only now did duty get in her way. It had been a month since she had last seen him, yet she still remembered his handsome face, his deep voice, and the way he would make her laugh and smile. She sat there, by one of the old fountains for what seemed like days thinking of him. Her thought was only broken by the yells of her men, searching for their Ranger General. She got up walked away towards her rangers. The camp was packed and Sylvanas, Arveleg, and their some 50 rangers set out for Rivendell. Their journey was just beginning.

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 7:19 am
by Maineiacs
Haldir and his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin moved silently along the banks of the River Nimrodel, its waters bubbling musically. The Lord and Lady had recently increased the patrols along the northern border of Lórien due to the threat from Dol Guldur, to their north. Indeed, the veil of shadow that ever hung on that land seemed deeper of late. They had received orders to monitor the border, but they were not to pass beyond the canopy of the Golden Wood. Haldir shaded his eyes with a long, slender hand and gazed northward. Elven eyes were keener than those of other races, able to see in detail from great distances but there was nothing to see so far.

"Where to now, brother?" asked Rúmil in the elven tongue.

"We need to move north and east about several leagues, to our patrol area. There is a talan there, amid the branches of the outermost Mellyrn. We are to set a watch there." he replied.

"When will Dol Guldur move, do you think?" asked Orophin.

"Soon, I think." he said. "Would that we were making the first move. I grow restless with this waiting game."

After some time, they came to their patrol post; a talan, or flet, set among the branches of a large tree with smooth silvery bark and golden leaves. The tree was a mallorn and they were found nowhere else on Middle-earth but Lórien. The three elves climbed the rope ladder up to the talan, and rolled it up behind them. Their post gave a view of a wide area from the tower of Dol Guldur to pass of Caradhras. Dol Guldur rose darkly to their right. The Lord and Lady knew that soon the dark power that ruled that land would ride forth with war to Lórien. Behind the patrol men lay another tower, of sorts: Caras Galadhon, home to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. The two fortresses ever faced one another, in an uneasy equilibrium since the days of the Watchful Peace. When the Dark Lord of Mordor came forth to make his war on the free peoples of Middle-earth the main battle fields would be further south, in the land of Gondor, but Sauron would not, could not leave the Lady Galadriel's power unchecked. Celeborn and especially Galadriel were mighty among the Eldar. Short of his obtaining the One, Galadriel would be able to meet Sauron on almost equal terms; at least if he did not have many more troops at his disposal than she.

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 9:26 am
by Liecthenbourg
The Black Gate, Mordor
The Lieutenant of Barad-Dur stood defiant amongst the cowering Uruks and Orcs around him. He clutched his staff, reminiscent of that of Saruman's and faced the Great Eye as his cloak fluttered in the warm breeze travelling North from Nurn and Harad. Ever humble, the helmed Numenorean bowed before the immenseness of his Lord, he whom had saved him long ago. No longer did he need a name, for his soul and service was to that of Sauron and the Lieutenant only wished to now serve the Servant of Melkor to the best of his ability. As the intense drumming and the sound of the Mordorian force died down behind the opening of the Black Gate, the Mouth moved his heavily decayed and dying mouth, bellowing the words of the voice of Sauron.

"My Master, whilst you know I would not even blink at the thought of denying the task upon which you have set me, I feel a calling in the Mountains of Rhun. The Gongs, brethren of the Orcs created in Ages past by the Mighty Melkor, who dwell there must be sought out and rallied to your cause. This may seem foolish upon your greatest and infallible wisdom, but as your Voice upon the plains of Arda I wish to do my duty and bring them under the true banner of the Free"

Vazturan chimed in, the tall figure having been present as well as he oversaw the marching out of the Black Gate. He too turned to the Eye, bowing in accordance to his respect for his master and he slowly stood, his helmed face staring straight back at the Eye atop Barad-Dur.

"I may lead the forces if you wish, Master, or I can do another task you deem sensible. My Voice, though not as great as that of the Lieutenant, and I are at your disposal to bring terror and justice amongst the peoples of Men, Elf, Dwarf or even Halfling"

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 11:13 am
by Elerian

A fierce battle was raging in the streets of Rivendell. A drop of sweat rolled down Imrahil’s brow, as he stepped back into a wall. He was cornered. Imrahil only had a few moments respite until his foes began to rain savage blows upon him. He deflected the blows effortlessly, making swordsmanship seem almost easy. Their blows were clumsy but savage nonetheless, after a few seconds of parrying attacks Imrahil disarmed one of his opponents, in the process one of his foes hit home. It was over for him, Imrahil let the blows rain down upon him. Imrahil gave a great laugh as the street boys pounced down upon him, hitting him with their wooden swords. Imrahil stood and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He gave a bow to the boys and to the small crowd that had formed to watch the spectacle.

Imrahil told the local boys to run along and then when they had left he gathered his own wooden sword and walked past the already dispersing crowd to his home. It would be time to depart soon. Imrahil looked to the setting sun and made his mind that he would leave at dawn. Several of the elves in the crowd said his defeat was a valiant one, and then life went on. But for Imrahil, his life was just beginning.

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 12:30 pm
by Of planets
Dunharrow was usually only occupied by a skeleton force, indeed, there have only been 13 musterings in the history of middle-earth that have filled the great cliffside gathering fortress. Dunharrow had only been filled 13 times before news of the Black gate's opening filled the Riddermark. King Theoden, first marshal and master of horse-masters didn't even need to send out messengers before the race of towering blond men flocked by the score to Dunharrow in the hopes of death and glory, 8000 men at the call of the king's own 500 guards. Seeing a rohirric muster is an impressive sight by any stretch, but this was no border skirmish or land grab. This mustering was to save the free peoples of the earth, every regular had answered the call and conscription would come soon...

Theoden sat with several marshals of Rohan, most of them had inherited these titles and didn't know a sword from a spear, beyond Theoden himself, members in his family and those attached to them, Theoden wouldn't do his people the disservice of trusting his marshals with much of any actual warring. By the time the day was out, it was settled that Theodred would take 2600 men to Helm's Deep, there he would oversee the construction effort and hopefully launch several punitive expeditions against the wildmen in Dunland. Eomer would take 2700 men to aid in the fight against mordor and Theoden would stay in Edoras, he would keep a reserve force in the case of one group needing aid.

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 1:02 pm
by New Educandi
To say that Boippi was fighting, or watching arms-- would be a TREMENDOUS lie. Instead, he was enjoying himself in his House under a small hill. He sat at his desk, eating Red Velvet Cake and drinking coffee. He would causly lend his thoughts to the far away places (far away for a Hobbit,) of Bree and maybe even Rivendel. Of coarse, his thoughts would not linger long. He would then go back to thinking of his small home, of his cake, how he needed to mend his chimney.

Although, his "fame" and "fortune" came from his writings of these "far away" places. He would write either fiction or non, about the political situations of what he heard of them, often attacking the prejudice Hobbits have against them. They sold widely popular in Bree and other nooks and crannies.
Of coarse, he did not have to practice what he preached: no-one in the Shire had a copy of his books, other than a small amount of the fiction.
So, instead of leaving, he just ate his caek and coffee.
What would happen if he left?

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 4:43 pm
by Black Marshes
Tower of Dark Sorcery, Minas Morgul
The greatest of the Nine gazed emptily at his Iron Crown, its thorns glistening in the luminous glow of Minas Morgul. He reminisced of the days when he led the armies of Angmar against the men of the North, utterly destroying the Kingdom of Arnor, but those days were over, and his seat at Carn Dum in ruins. Now he was lord of Minas Morgul, at the entrance to Mordor, and it was from here that he would lay waste to Gondor in the same way he did so with Arnor. He placed his Iron Crown atop his head and equipoed his old battle armour, before marching out of the throne room to where his fell beast awaited him.
The Witch King would lead the armies of Minas Morgul against the men of Gondor, and he was intent on watching Minas Tirith burn. He spoke with his master through telepathy;
"My master, the legions of the Dead City march towards the Kingdoms of Men, soon Osgiliath will fly the banners of Darkness. In assistance of my army I request that you send one of your armies to assist my conquest, from where we shall be able to destroy Gondor."

Gate of Darkness, Minas Morgul
The great armies of Minas Morgul had been amassed behind the gates of the Dead City. Over 6000 (or 10000) would march to the outskirts of the Morgul Vale to secure the land from Gondor, led by the Witch King himself. The remainder however were to fortify the Dead City itself, constructing new towers to defend the Gate and river.

The Witch King leads an army of 6000 (or 10000 if allowed) Orcs and 1000 Morgul Knights to the Outskirts of Minas Morgul (my contested region)
The construction of 2 ballista towers and 4 archer towers near Minas Morgul's gate begins (-5 fortress points)
Claiming North Ithilien

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 5:19 pm
by Great Empire of Gamilus
Rammas Echor, Gondor

Captain Auran Merlic of Gondor watched as the men ran drills and combat formations, his perch along the long wall of Rammas allowing him to oversee everything. he looked over at an 1,000 soldiers marching in a tight knit formation, their armoured heels impacting the ground in a unified clinking of steel, swords held high over the wall shields symbolic of Gondors infantry might, indeed he believed the only ones who could challenge that might properly would be Mordor and its foul hordes.

Speaking of which, Auran turned away from his men and looked out to the dark lands, the towering mountains of the highest peaks being visible if only just among the smoke clouds while sometimes strange shapes could be seen swooping about the clouds. and he had a good idea what those were.

hearing the clinking of armoured boots Auran turned to find a captain with a scroll of parchment waiting for him, offering each other a salute the captain held the scroll out while Auran took it from him and read, he raised an eyebrow in questioning.

"Capturing Harondor? you can confirm these orders?"

"Indeed sir! I was there when Lord Denethor wrote it, he wishes for you to march at first light tomorrow with a sizable force."

Nodding Auran grinned with glee.

"Bout bloody time, what of Captains Faramir and Boromir?"

"He has requested Boromir and several men for a special assignment while Captain Faramir is to continue on with his Rangers."

Auran hurried down the stairs two by two, he had an army to prepare...

PostPosted: Thu May 29, 2014 8:40 pm
by Emilio Aguinaldo
The war drums of the Haradrim echoed through the plains of Harad as the legion of men marched onwards toward Harondor. They have only one goal and it is the capture Harondor. The men that comprised this host is but 3/4 of the army of the Haradrim. They have set their petty disputes behind and rallied behind the great Mahud of the Haradrim to take out the Gondoreans from Harondor once and for all.

Whilst the main arm of the army marches toward Harondor, the other fourth had started to march towards the Havens(or is it heaven?) of Umbar. They will try to make them join the Haradrim's ambition by force or by diplomacy, which ever one works. At this army, is ten half-trolls, huge gargantuan men with enormous strength; one of these is enough to intimidate an entire army. Finally, a lone messenger rides ahead with him a letter to the Umbareans with an offer for them to join the Haradrim.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 4:55 am
by G-Tech Corporation
Border of the Marshlands

Through this border region Lagnash had marched, and he grumbled. Shod in black iron was strong in battle, but slow on the march, even with the armor slung behind him. Ahead the host had swept aside the few dozen men who had called this region; the Morannon Orc, his face twisted by a scar gotten in a forging accident when he was yet a fresh spawn, chewed contentedly on the haunch of a horse of one of the few Gondorian scouts the mighty host had encountered. Within the camps, fortified with stakes and set about with guards, there was talk of more hosts yet issuing forth from the Black Gate, of a great War beginning. War. It put fire in even the maggoty maggot's... erm... breast it was? Lagnash was no philosopher, nor word-smith. Those were the province of the accursed elves. But every one of the kin of the Orc saw that this was a way to glory, to loot, to savagery and a right good time. The trick was not to get killed doing it, which was no easy trick with the Men so tricksy. Oh, they thought they were clever, with their horses and ambushes, but stout lads could put them to flight. And Lagnash and his kin, many thousands strong, were stout lads indeed.

The Marshlands, the site of the ancient war, they avoided, traveling along the southern border. After a week and more there were no more men to fight in them. Sauron was victorious. South his forces continued their march, their legions endless, and behind more hosts hurried up.

The Black Gate

As the coming of thunder after the tempest of the storm the Dark Lord's presence rumbled over the two figures who stood defiant in the mass of beautifully broken creatures.

"So be it, my Mouth. The Gongs are a wretched race, but they are clever. There are other hands that may guide this enterprise of war, like you, Vazturan. Deep are the wells of this war, the hatred trammeled for years ready to burst forth as a flood. Ride as you will my Mouth, and may Vazturan lead this army to victory so he may rejoin you swiftly. Long have you both served my path for Arda, and now the unfolding is upon us."

The presence faded, moving east, away from the sunlit lands past the gate even as the endless marching stream of black continued.

The Barad-Dur

Two shadows passed over the land, flying north and west with speed, bearing the word of the Lord of the Earth. Each a beast fell and terrible, borne aloft by wings of dark magic or twisted nature, bats perhaps, snakes perhaps, abominations assuredly. Upon these steeds rode some of the most horrible of the servants of the Great Eye, the Nazgul, the Nine. One made its way for Rhun, one for Dol Guldur. Many were the strings of the war that was now in readiness, and as hot iron struck from many points will shatter, so too would the "Free Peoples" of Middle-Earth.


Upon the slopes of the mountain of shadow, where the One was forged, did the Eye rest. Ash waste upon ash waste, slag heap upon slag heap, the ruined bones of the earth towering upwards in to the firmament. It obeyed the Dark Lord's will, to an extent; the fuming shadows that covered most of the land east of the River Anduin were of its doing, and under their shadow the forces of Mordor marched to bring a darkness greater still upon the lands. But here upon the slopes of the pyroclastic titan itself most was quiet; the magmatic fury of the Mountain named Doom was directed inwards, in to the roiling smoke that covered the skies. Slaves and lesser Orcs labored, chipping out garrison posts. Long had this vulnerability, this chink in the Dark Lord's armor lain bare, but no longer. A figure of darkness watched over it all, indistinct, as a reflection in a pool.

His eyes were like the coals of a fire of immeasurable power, and his mouth dripped flame.

Mordor lays claim to Northern Ithilien

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 8:15 am
by Liecthenbourg
The Black Gate, Mordor
"I thank you master" was the only response from the Voice of the Abhorred Dead as he bowed graciously once more, his helmed head tilting forward and his cloaked left arm drooping across his chest. Vazturan too did bow, but in silence as was his custom, to only speak when he deemed it necessary. The Mouth then stood up proper once more and clicked his withered and bony fingers. Such an action caused his steed, a creature much like him in the sense that it was decaying but showed no signs of dying. The Lieutenant heaved his legs over the creature and sat upon its saddled back before he himself bid farewell to his accomplice and trotted forth, eventually disappearing amongst the immenseness of the Black Gate.

Vazturan grunted, moving forth amongst the Numenorean stables nearby the tower of Barad-Dur. Upon reaching his steed, his mood lifted and he mounted the creature. He drew forth his blade, an ancient forged piece of steel from the days of Numenor and beyond. Clutching the hilt he galloped forth out of the stables, moving alongside the force of endless black he was sent to command. He rode to the front, nearing several Uruk and Orc Captains and Officers before turning to face the advancing host of Sauron.
"Orcs and Uruks of Mordor!" he yelled as he raised his sword high. "Our victory is at hand! Lord Sauron has made sure that in a few weeks the old Enemy will be by your knees, begging for mercy! It is time, warriors or Mordor to claim what is rightfully Saurons, mine, yours. By this time next year, you all shall be praised warriors of the Final War upon Arda"
A great response followed, filled with roars, the shaking of weapons and the slamming of fists upon chestplated armies. Soon, there would be no dawn for men.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 8:44 am
by The cold ice
In the deep halls of the wood elves, the kings great feast was interrupted by a messenger most nervous, for the rage of King Thranduil was famous and rightly feared. But this message was of such importance that the King himself would have to be made aware immediately. So the messenger cleared his throat and called the party's attention. "The Black Gate is open!" he yelled, "And the armies of Mordor pour out of both there and through the Morgul vale." The elves present immediately began to blabber and yell from fear, save for the military men and the Kings own advisers. All knew what it meant: war would be coming. The Kings voice broke through: "And what of Dol Guldur?" The messenger seemed to shrink under the gaze of his King, and the crowd fell quiet. "No mention of it, your majesty. The message was only that, and one thing more: Gondor goes south." "If that is so," the King said, "then we have nothing to fear yet, and the feast will continue. My advisers will meet with me after." The King had spoken, and the feast went on, though the talk was greatly lessened.

"The Dark Lord of Mordor marches to war, and his servant in Dol Guldur is sure to follow." One of the generals were talking of the situation. "They will come here in time, especially once the goblins come down from the Misty Mountains, and pressure is relived off the Lorien front. We must be ready!" Thranduil frowned at the prospect of Gundabad orcs from the north and Dol Guldur's armies from the south coming upon his kingdom. He then inquired as to what the general would have him do. The answer was such: "We must prepare our fortress for siege,and move the borders of our realm in Mirkwood we control south, to the Narrows of the Forest. Only such will we be prepared to stop any armies moving north, and to militarily assist Lorien." To this bold plan the King had strong objections. "To move south would serve only to bring the war upon us without respite," he said, "I will not antagonize Dol Guldur needlessly. The war has not yet come. I will not begin it." One of the other advisers then said this: "All the force of the Enemy will be brought to bear. The Rhûn-host will march west, and it will come here, if it can pin down the defenders of Dale and Erebor under the mountain. we cannot go on a southern offensive while that threat lingers. We must remain in the north." "You raise strong points," Thranduil said, after thinking on the matter for a while, "and this makes the attack upon Dol Guldur even more unfeasible. We must prepare a strong defense, and be with Lorien in spirit only, for the time. If the Rhûn-host moves south we may reconsider. Muster the armies and prepare the walls! We must be ready!"

Fortress upgrades:Halls of Thranduil: 4 towers with archers & 2 towers with ballistae
(Three points left)

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 10:31 am
by Limborg

Dáin walked around in Erebor, a massive and buetiful art of the Dwarves, all cut out of solid rock. He was thinking alot lately, thinking about his actions that would bee needed soon... He had to talk with the elves, but he did not want to become "that desperate dwarf" in the eyes of them, he also had to delay the war for as long as possible. Dwarves where outnumberd on a large scale. The dwarves of Ered Luin probably did not care about the danger of the east, and the dwarves of the east, well, most of them would not dare to pick sides, they had strong ties with the kingdoms of Rhûn and would not pass that away. There had to be something Dáin could do.

The Iron Hills
Glóin stood at the gates, watching over the constructions of the defenses, Towers for archers where being carved out of the rock, high enough to make the sky grow dark when a rain of arrows would fly towards the enemies. Glóin, for the first time, was afraid, afraid of what was coming. Dáin was a wise dwarves, most likely as wise as most elves where. He knew what kind of evil came to the Mountains, he knew what kind of fate would rest upon the Dwarves. Glóin however, dispite his fear, he was ready for whatever came. He had no intentions of fleeing and no intentions of surrender, he would face the darkness like every other dwarf. However his first journy was about to begin. Glóin intendet to travel to his cousin Balin, who had set out to Khazad-Dûm some time ago. Balin was, just like Dáin, a very wise dwarf, Balin knew, saw and heard everything. If Glóin would need somebody, it would be Balin.
That same night Glóin left for Khazad-Dûm. He planned on taking the shortest route, through the Woodland Realm and Lothlórien, he planned not to discuss to much with the elves, but if the elves knew, he would be open for any talks.

Just outside of the Iron Hills, the companionship of Erebor had left on their first real misson.
Gimli, Thorin III Stonehelm, Nori, Dori and Dwalin had set out to Rhûn. For them it was unknown wether they would join up with the Darkness, but in any way, they where given the task of forming a non-agression pact with the men of the east. Dwarves where always men of their word, this was something Rhûn knew, and that's why Dáin expected it to succeed. The five dwarves also planned to travel to the far east, to the Red Mountains, home of four DwarvenClans of the east. They hoped to get support from the four Dwarvenrealms, and while this was uncertain for three of the Clans, and a likely no from one of the Clans, the companionship would try their best. They already showed great honer by sending some of the most high standing dwarfs to do the talks. This was unusual, and was only common for the most important meetings in the history.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 10:36 am
by Maineiacs
"The Black Gate opens. The Dark Lord moves. War is upon us." Galadriel glanced down at Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, Ring of Air, that she bore on her finger. No, Sauron could not sense her; not yet. There was still time to mobilize, but it must begin now. One of the Nine occupied Dol Guldur, and as soon as his Master bade him do so, he would march on the Golden Wood. Galadriel had the gift of foresight, and what she saw in her mind troubled her. Lothlórien must stand, but it could not stand alone. She needed to gather others to her aid. She spoke to her husband Celeborn, who had stood beside her these many years, and told him of her vision.

"I will send envoys to our neighbors." he said. He called for scouts to be brought to him. One was sent west to Rohan. Théoden would likely soon come west if Gondor called for aid, but if any tithe of their force could be spared, so much the better. He also ordered messages sent northward to Thranduil in Mirkwood. And lastly, another message north to the Beornings, whose land lay round about the Anduin, near the Carrock. It was uncertain how much they could send; Gundabad might very well move also, but better that all lands be ready to mobilize than to fall back to a defensive position without at least offering battle. One thing more Celeborn decided to do: he would improve the defenses of Caras Galadhon. The power of Nenya offered some protection to Lórien, but it was not impervious as had been the Girdle of Melian that had one protected his kinsman Thingol's realm of Doriath in ages past. They would not be able to simply close themselves off and hide.

Caras Galadhon adding 4 towers with archers, 6 points left.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 11:02 am
by Prusslandia
Calemvir sped through the trees, supported by a seemingly insubstantial web. Venom glistened upon his mouth parts, mixing with the blood and scraps of fur and flesh from his last kill. He was seeking the other spiders of Mirkwood, and felt he was close to the clans. Pheromones assaulted him, feeding him a constant stream of information. He was oh so close to his brethren, his mind racing at the thought. Soon, soon he would unite the Spiders of Mirkwood under him, and power would be his.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 12:40 pm
by Liecthenbourg
Eyes watched the Great Spider's movements, amongst the trees and from the undergrowth. His movements tracked, every place he landed on from his leaps was already being watched. Two of the larger spiders crawled forward, their limbs gracefully carrying them alongside their larger brethren, Calemvir. They followed him for some time, amidst the trees and darkness of the cool evening, in the distance towering above the trees and highlighted by the moonlight hitting against it the image of Dol Guldur had appeared, a sight oh so appreciated by the Spiders. Calemvir and his two brethren halted upon a great web, and faced eachother.
A pure white spider, the second largest of the three present clicked his fangs together and rubbed his forward legs before speaking the evil tongue of the Black Speech.
"Well met Brother" he started as his many eyes dashed about, scanning Calemvir. "What brings you to the humble abode of Mirkwood?"

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 2:53 pm
by Prusslandia
Liecthenbourg wrote:Mirkwood
Eyes watched the Great Spider's movements, amongst the trees and from the undergrowth. His movements tracked, every place he landed on from his leaps was already being watched. Two of the larger spiders crawled forward, their limbs gracefully carrying them alongside their larger brethren, Calemvir. They followed him for some time, amidst the trees and darkness of the cool evening, in the distance towering above the trees and highlighted by the moonlight hitting against it the image of Dol Guldur had appeared, a sight oh so appreciated by the Spiders. Calemvir and his two brethren halted upon a great web, and faced eachother.
A pure white spider, the second largest of the three present clicked his fangs together and rubbed his forward legs before speaking the evil tongue of the Black Speech.
"Well met Brother" he started as his many eyes dashed about, scanning Calemvir. "What brings you to the humble abode of Mirkwood?"

" I seek to unite our kind, to lead the spiders in glorious warfare. " Calemvir hissed, feeling the pheromones from the albino spider change from curios to aggressive, and tensed in preparation for a battle. Venom dripped from his fangs, the death liquids necrotic touch making the webs below him rot away.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 3:02 pm
by Yalos
The howling beast descended upon the Dark Stronghold of Amon Lanc, flapping its massive, leathery wings, its rider, one of the nine, landing deftly upon the stone battlements of the fortress walls. The beast screeched, tossing a war cry out upon the endless skies and the impenetrable fortress of Dol Guldur stood, unbreakable, its massive stone walls and jagged peaks casting their maleficent shadows upon the surrounding lands as a little red banner hung over the side, fluttering in the almost still and silent breeze. This was Amon Lanc, the Naked Hill, Sauron's distant fortress and far off bastion of power and reach. Far below, the Nazgul could witness the signs of the preparations for a great war; hundreds of Orcs marched up the great hill into the gates of the stronghold.

The Orcs on duty, a pair of small, hunch backed archers, fell back before the might of the great winged monster, dropping their bows in fear. Even they, servants of the Dark lord, feared is instruments of power, and took a few moments to compose themselves, brushing off their fur tunics with grimy, filthy grey little hands. Amon Lanc, the naked hill, had, as of late, suffered a slight loss of discipline as the reigning Rider had departed for some unknown cause. The Orcs had been left to govern themselves, instructed to raise themselves as an army before the great rider, second only to the Witch King of Agmar, returned.

The Orcs in the City Keep were busy distributing weapons and provisions to the hordes of nearly bred and arriving Orcs; nearly 30,000 strong, the warriors of Amon Lanc were preparing for war. Orcs and Goblins had been gathered, far and wide, to serve the great Eye. Spears, armor and swords were passed around in a hell pell sort of manner, without the discipline and structure that Sauron demanded of his minions. This eclectic arrangement of weapons made the army look like a rather large village towns guard; not a ruthless, savage army, and Khamul was going to be disappointed as he returned. Still, there was a certain grimness is the sheer size of the prepared force, and self appointed Orc commanders began to lead their self appointed commands in not so complex military maneuvers.

Khamul was down below, in the airless holds of the cellars of the fortress, navigating the endless tunnels and caves in search for a force that could change the tide of the war. He chased a rumor, a child's tale, and had to ascertain the truth. He had to know if this ancient, crumbling fortress had any thing more to offer his impatient master. Down below, he hoped to find the scattered remains of an ancient race. He searched in vain, but out of frustration, threw his torch to the ground. As far as he could tell, after his days of searching, they simply must not exist. He wearily began to make the journey back up.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 3:46 pm
by G-Tech Corporation
Najarba, Mountains of Rhun

Mahor kicked out the campfire, stamping it out with his weather-cracked black leather boots. The soot added just another layer of dirt on the Numenorean's attire, and he ran a strong swordsman's hand through the ashen black hair that he and his companions wore in such a close-cropped manner. Nodding to the grim man about him, the great warrior turned to his horse, Mandarb, and mounted with a swift movement, almost as if water coursed down a fall of rocks, inexorable and smooth. Born in the saddle was he, and those hard soldiers that he had gathered about himself were the same. A silent company took up implement and rode west, the jagged peaks of the western borders of Rhun on their right, the sun behind them. A soothsayer had the hardy scion of the line of Maj visited that night; she spoke of power locked away in the depths of an ancient elven fortress, beasts of fell strength and eldritch capabilities, now beneath the very feet of one of the servants of Sauron. Mahor had never journeyed past the borders of the Westlund, fighting only his lord's enemies, but here lurked those who stood against the true ruler of the world, Sauron. He smiled, teeth predatory and sharp. Glory would be won here indeed.

Amon Lanc, Southern Mirkwood

This great fortress had once been a true power, the abode of the Necromancer, as the sons of the Free Peoples had termed the Lord Sauron as he gathered his strength. Ah, they would rue their inactivity when their lands burned and their mighty men lay slain. He hissed, a voice like dead leaves in a forest that would never bloom.

"Send word to your master. The Great Eye bids him raise this fortress higher; the Elves plot, and the War comes quickly. They will break upon him like water on rock, shattering their feeble corpses ere their minds are laid bare before the Great Eye in the Houses of Lamentation. Stand ready."

A smile, almost diabolical, appeared to pass over the flying beast's face, and with a jerk of the black reins it stretched forth bat-wings once more. With a rush of air like a hurricane the Nazgul leapt upwards, winging away and south, almost towards the Vale of the Anduin.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 4:02 pm
by Liecthenbourg
Prusslandia wrote:
Liecthenbourg wrote:Mirkwood
Eyes watched the Great Spider's movements, amongst the trees and from the undergrowth. His movements tracked, every place he landed on from his leaps was already being watched. Two of the larger spiders crawled forward, their limbs gracefully carrying them alongside their larger brethren, Calemvir. They followed him for some time, amidst the trees and darkness of the cool evening, in the distance towering above the trees and highlighted by the moonlight hitting against it the image of Dol Guldur had appeared, a sight oh so appreciated by the Spiders. Calemvir and his two brethren halted upon a great web, and faced eachother.
A pure white spider, the second largest of the three present clicked his fangs together and rubbed his forward legs before speaking the evil tongue of the Black Speech.
"Well met Brother" he started as his many eyes dashed about, scanning Calemvir. "What brings you to the humble abode of Mirkwood?"

" I seek to unite our kind, to lead the spiders in glorious warfare. " Calemvir hissed, feeling the pheromones from the albino spider change from curios to aggressive, and tensed in preparation for a battle. Venom dripped from his fangs, the death liquids necrotic touch making the webs below him rot away.

The albino spider clicked its fangs together once more, slowly walking towards Calemvir as it did so. "And what if we were to refuse..?" he asked. From the trees themselves climbed down several other spiders, going onto the flanks of the Albino one. "Surely, you had a better idea than this?" the white one cackled as it lunged forward at Calemvir, its poisonous fangs baying for blood. His accomplices did as well, attempting to swipe Calemvir's mighty legs from beneath him with their own.
Calemvir roared, tackling the albino in mid-air. They wrestled for a moment, Calemvirs massive size smothering the smaller spider. Forcing the albino under him, he batted some of the smaller spiders away before preparing to kill the albino.
The web itself broke under the intense fighting of the two giants, and the loyal fighters of the White Spider fell to their doom unaware. A tangled battle was fought between Calemvir and his smaller counterpart, but Calemvir's size and strength would win the day. He broke free of his entangled prison and bit his fangs into the unprotected under belly of his opponent, before ripping him to pieces. The mighty Spider then climbed back up to the tattered web, were he met with his red companion.
"We shall submit to the leadership of Calemvir" Renktha responded, bowing respectfully, as did his fellow spiders. Today, was a new dawn for the spiders of Mirkwood Forest. (Collab post between me and Pruss, as to save posting space)

(I can't remember what your reward was for this mission, ask Dan)

The Mountains of Rhun
The Lieutenant's horse trotted peacefully within the mountain passes of the Mountains of Rhun, like a missionary in a strange land the Mouth sought his convertees amongst the area around him. These Gongs, a brethren race of the Orcs had long been forgotten, there numbers devastated ever since the War of the Last Alliance. The Mouth thought as his grip tightened around the Rhunic Leather of his horse's reins, he yanked at them and caused the beast to enter an abrupt stop. After a quick check of his person, the Lieutenant dismounted his steed and commanded it to stay in this exact location until he returned. He grabbed his staff and set off into the mountain passes on accessible by foot, using his staff as a support as he walked the stony and jagged paths.
Eventually, after much travel through an unfamiliar land, he emerged upon a Gong Encampment, something he dubbed "Gong Town". Rapidly, he got to work and instantly proclaimed to the Gongs.
"Greetings noble and solitary Gongs! I am the Mouth of Sauron, his diplomat upon Arda and I ask you, fellow Creatures of Melkor, to join his ranks as we return Middle Earth to the true Free Peoples! What say you?"

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 4:26 pm
by Prusslandia
With his new army in tow, Calemvir marched towards the land of his Master, Sauron
He marched towards Mordor. He sought his Mother, Shelob, oldest of the spiders. If he would have dominion over all Spiders of Arda, then he would have to gain the allegiance of the oldest. 50 Spiders followed him, ready to kill all for there new master. Not since the days of the last Alliance of Men and Elves had they been united, and they would stay united until the fall of Sauron himself.

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 4:27 pm
by Limborg

Somewhere in Mirkwood
Glóin had traveld for a quiet some time now, he had stopped only for food and sleep. His trip was leading him to his cousin Balin, who had settled in the old Kingdom of Khazad-Dûm. Glóins mission was to bring him back to Erebor.
Glóin couldn't tell night from day, it was a scary thought, especially in these Woods... However, this was the second time Glóin wanderd these paths, he remberd all to well what kind of hellish trip it was back in the day, the day that Smaug the Terrible still ruled over the Lonely Mountain. Days had change, but the same darkness was still present in this forrest. Therefor Glóin would not rest untill he reached the lands of the Beornlings, he wanted to get out of this as fast as he could.

Half a day walk from the borders of Rhûn
Gimli, Thorin III Stonehelm, Nori, Dori and Dwalin had almost arrived at their destination, Rhûn it was. It was said that there where some great Kingdoms amongst Men and Dwarves in these lands, unmatched to anything they had seen. Old stories told that there was a complete new world in the east, a world in wich nothing seemed familliar but yet everything you saw would have been seen before... The five where not going to hide, the men of Rhûn never had any trouble with Dwarves, and so they did not expect any trouble this time. All five rode on ponies, who had carried them all the way from The Iron Hills. Dwalin carried all the letters with him, they hoped to achieve their goals in these lands, as none of the five really felt comfortable in these empty lands..
As the sun stood at its highest point some riders where spotted on the horizon. "There they are" Thorin said. Thorin had heard about the border patrols in these lands, corruptable men he called them.
The dwarves walked on as the horsemen got closer...

PostPosted: Fri May 30, 2014 4:28 pm
by G-Tech Corporation
The Mountains of Rhun

The base creatures that the Mouth had come upon scattered here and there, some taking up bows, some short spears, all speaking with harsh words and some in a state of panic. How he had managed to slip past the sentries, the noble Gongs knew not! Oh great distress and terror! Assuredly a foreigner of different climes could not pass the most honorable and powerful and watchful guards of Gongton, as their encampment was named in their words. (In truth, their sentries were lazy, asleep, screwing, drunk, or all four at once. A puzzlement, really.) But even as cruel black-fletched shafts were pointed towards the man with the iron mask, on bows of uncommonly good worksmanship, an old and phenomenally muscular (for that was how one grew to be old amongst the Gongs) soldier approached the Mouth, his spear not pointed aggressively. He remembered a time, many years ago, when the name of Melkor had been held in respect, the greatest Lord of Middle-Earth and all Arda. They still worshipped the Avatar of the Night, the Last Shadow, here in Gongton. And this man spoke of such things, he too of Sauron, one time servant and the Forge-Lord of the pantheon of the Gongs.

With slow sonorous speech, which the Mouth could follow barely, being a dialect of the Black-Speech of antiquity, the aged Gong spoke, fingering his spear.

"Many years has it been since the name of Melkor the most wise and powerful has been spoken by those not of our kin, outlander, called the Mouth of the Lord of Craft by his own lips. Why do you speak it anew? Does night come, is light to be put away again? Long have we hungered for battle, and war, and man-flesh."

Nods went around the archers, and some bows were lowered. Blood, fire, combat, that they craved. Not the puny living they scraped off of raiding the men of Dorwinion and Dale to the north. Glory was not had in that, nor power.

The Gong raised his chin. "Prove to me your worth, if the Mouth of Sauron you be. We will hear your words in council, if you retrieve the Blades Black that were stolen from the Highest Gong years ago by the filthy stinking north-men. Mighty weapons they are, forged by the smiths of Ungband itself to slay elves, drink their pathetic lives, split their flowery skulls with the best steel. Return with the three, and we shall hear of this war on the Free Peoples."