The Lord of the Rings: The New Age [IC|Closed]

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The Lord of the Rings: The New Age



Out of Character Thread

Of the march of the host of the Valar to the north of Middle-earth little is said in any tale; for among them went none of those Elves who had dwelt and suffered in the Hither Lands, and who made the histories of those days that still are known; and tidings of these things they only learned long afterwards from their kinsfolk in Aman. But at the last the might of Valinor came up out of the West, and the challenge of the trumpets of Eonwe filled the sky; and Beleriand was ablaze with the glory of their arms, for the host of the Valar were arrayed in forms young and fair and terrible, and the mountains rang beneath their feet.

The meeting of the hosts of the West and of the North is named the Great Battle, and the War of Wrath. There was marshalled the whole power of the Throne of Morgoth, and it had become great beyond count, so that Anfauglith could not contain it; and all the North was aflame with war.

Before the rising of the sun Earendil slew Ancalagon the Black, the mightiest of the dragon-host, and cast him from the sky; and he fell upon the towers of Thangorodrim, and they were broken in his ruin. Then the sun rose, and the host of the Valar prevailed, and well-nigh all the dragons were destroyed; and all the pits of Morgoth were broken and unroofed, and the might of the Valar descended into the deeps of the earth. There Morgoth stood at last at bay, and yet unvaliant. He fled into the deepest of his mines, and sued for peace and pardon; but his feet were hewn from under him, and he was hurled upon his face. Then he was bound with the chain Angainor which he had worn aforetime, and his iron crown they beat into a collar for his neck, and his head was bowed upon his knees. And the two Silmarils which remained to Morgoth were taken from his crown, and they shone unsullied beneath the sky; and Eonwe took them, and guarded them.

Thus an end was made of the power of Angband in the North, and' the evil realm was brought to naught; and out of the deep prisons a multitude of slaves came forth beyond all hope into the light of day, and they looked upon a world that was changed. For so great was the fury of those adversaries that the northern regions of the western world were rent asunder, and the sea roared in through many chasms, and there was confusion and great noise; and rivers perished or found new paths, and the valleys were upheaved and the hills trod down; and Sirion was no more.

Morgoth himself the Valar thrust through the Door of Night beyond the Walls of the World, into the Timeless Void; and a guard is set for ever on those walls, and Earendil keeps watch upon the ramparts of the sky. Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest days. Here ends the SILMARILLION. If it has passed from the high and the beautiful to darkness and ruin, that was of old the fate of Arda Marred; and if any change shall come and the Marring be amended, Manwe and Varda may know; but they have not revealed it, and it is not declared in the dooms of Mandos.

Beleriand is no more. Vanished forever is Doriath, and fair Gondolin, and the homes of the Dwarf-fathers in the Blue Mountains, the Marches of Maehdros, even Angband and all her delvings. In to the Utter West have returned the kindred of the Elves that would return to Aman, the Blessed Realm, and for their suffering in the war with the Great Enemy the Edain have been granted solace of a sort, the gift of the Isle of the Star that is Numenor, a place where they may forget a part of the pain of the circles of Arda.

But this is not their tale. Beleriand is no more, but Middle-Earth was always far greater than just the vale between the Sundering Seas and the Blue Mountains. Of the stories of the men who came after the War of Wrath this tale now speaks, of the sons of Uldor, of the Avari, of the Good Men who did not take the ships to Numenor, and the Eldar unwilling to go in to the West and abandon the lands their forefathers died for. There is still beauty in Middle-Earth, beauty and in places evil. The servants of Morgoth are scattered, true, but they are not gone, and the malice of his spirit lives on.

Tolkien told us of few things of the Second Age, of the centuries following the War of Wrath, of the heroes and battles and the rebuilding of a world devastated by a literal war between physical gods. The lineage of Numenor was unfailing for a thousand years ere Sauron raised the Barad-Dur and made Mordor the land of dust and ash that it was, before the coming of the wars for dominion of Middle-Earth, and the making of the Rings of Power, before the Downfall.

This is the story of those blank spaces of the histories, of the times forgotten but not unmarked by those who lived them. The First Age is over; welcome to the New Age.

---

Brachas hefted his pack upon his shoulder, casting one last look about the humble wooden dwelling that had been his to call home for the past winter months. Nothing of value remained, the habitation having been efficiently swept clean by the efforts of his kinsmen and more specifically his darling wife. Though her hair was dark, and her lineage of those sons of Beor that remained, their families had not begrudged the match. Many such marriages had been made now that the war was over, and families could live free and without fear of the night, or the Enemy. Already Haditha had begun the walk to the boats, and with a shrug of the beefy shoulders that had borne armor and a pack for decades Brachas departed his home, opening the cloth doorway to step out in to the brilliant light of the new year.

By the reckoning of the scholars it was now eight decades since the fall of Thangorodrim and the casting of the Great Enemy out in to the Darkness beyond the Walls of Arda. Brachas would have wondered at his youthful vigor in years past, but now he had come to accept the gift that the Valar had bestowed upon the Edain, to live longer spans of years than their forefathers, and his heart sang for the vitality of many years still to be spent under the beautiful skies of a Middle-Earth washed clean of darkness and death. Ahead of the soldier the footpath descended over sandy dunes and gravelways to where the last of the white ships waited, where he could see the bobbing dark bundle of his wife's braided hair hurrying towards the longboats. Brachas looked about, seeing that all the dwellings were now still and cold, and joined the line of other families and men streaming down towards the beach.

The sound of the sea was a thunderous cacophony, one a man accustomed to the quiet plains of inner Beleirand, now vanished beneath the waves forever, was put ill at ease by. It seemed at times madness that men would willingly trust their lives to flimsy things of hewn wood and cloth to carry them over such a vast violent expanse, but thither all his kinsmen had gone, to Westernesse, the Isle of the Star that was called Numenor. There the Valar had promised men could live at peace, free from the cares of the world they had fought so long for. And Brachas wished nothing more than peace, a place to raise a family, no more listening for the call of war horns or sleeping with his spear at his bedside in preparation for an orc raid.

Through the shallows Brachas and his wife splashed, handing bundles to waiting rowers, some of whom were of the stocky kin of men, others of which had the fey aspect of the Teleri that the lords of Aman had entrusted to bear the Edain away from the shores of Middle-Earth. With swift strokes of elegant oars the white boats pulled away from sandy berths, scraping for moments before gliding free over waves that stank of salt and through brilliant foam. In some ways, Brachas reflected, the ocean was like unto the vast plains he had ridden as a sworn sword before the War of Wrath, endless and seemingly without border, flowing at the touch of the wind as it wished with no regard to man.

But he left that world behind, for it had been lost to the depths of the seas when the Valar broke the Great Enemy, and no more ties did he owe to what remained than the ties of kinship, ties which now traveled with him to Numenor. And so it was that the last Edain departed Middle-Earth, leaving it to its uncertain fate, the Second Age dawning in truth.

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
Mountains of Rhûn; Western edge of the eastern lands

Far into the mountains, in a deep and dark cave lied the camp of Nargûn and his companions. His Dwarven friends were out scouting the area for new ways to travel, hunting for food and keeping eyes open for any movement, friend or foe. Nargûn sat on a rock, he was writing, updating his navigation that had to laid down the lands he had travelled. Together with him were the three Mountain Trolls, who could not leave the cave during the day as they feared the sun greatly.

For nearly two months they had occupied these mountains. They searched for other Dwarves, who could not be found; They searched for riches, which could not be found either. Now they searched for new ways to travel, new caves in which they could take shelter during the day. The Dwarves had already discovered the large mountain range just to the south, but Nargûn wanted to avoid those. Even though his name literally translated as “black”, he feared the type of darkness that shadowed those mountains. It wasn’t a shade or night-like darkness, it was an evil type of darkness, one best to be avoided at all costs.

Just as Nargûn finished his writings one of the Dwarves returned, ”Nargûn, we may have found something” The Dwarf said as he walked into the cave.
Nargûn stood up and walked over, ”What is it?” he asked as he wondered what the discovery was.
”We have found mountains and shelters to the north, some 15 days from here”.
”Mountains? What are we waiting for, let’s take it”. It was the news he had been waiting for. Finally new lands had been seen and the journey could continue.
”Gathol, get your friends ready, we’ll be leaving at sundown” Nargûn told the Mountain Troll who sat across him. Gathol, literally translated as “fortress” in Khuzdul, was not only the leader of the Trolls, but he was also significant larger than the other two. He was the only one who was given a name by the Dwarves.
Gathol nodded and kicked one of the sleeping Trolls next to him, telling him to get up and start packing. It didn’t take long before the camp had been broken down completely and shortly after the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

As the Darkness of the night fell over them they started to move. Nargûn knew they had to move quick as the distance between them and the first shelter was great enough to offer them little time to spare if they wanted to make it there.
Through the night they travelled, the only lights guiding them being those from the stars and moon. It was a long night of marching, marching and more marching, up till they reached their destination, a small cave, yet large enough to keep the three Trolls safe from the sun.
It was the first time that the Dwarves set up camp visible for the peoples of the western lands. Guards were set though, as they did not expected, nor appreciated, any uninvited guests these days.

[Krugmar]

Ídhnann

Mithîr Oldhin

In the lofty heights of Glórenost lay a dreamer, one who dwelt deep in the domain of silence. The morning rays filtered into room, basking it in a warm glow. Slowly his body began to rouse, before his eyes suddenly shot open. In a flash he was up and marching towards his nearby desk. Outside the people of his community began to rouse also, as the Tower of Shining Light lived up to its name. A small breeze fluttered through the town, making its way inside the room of the dreamer.

The silver-haired man had begun to furiously jot down what had come to his mind in his nightly absence from the waking world. In a trance he put forth the ink to paper, letting his hand do the work even though he had little understanding of what he was writing, or why. His dreams were empty, void of all light and energy, yet always he awoke with strange thoughts, crazy ideas and startling discoveries.

His hand had stopped.



Today it had been a poem, but not one like the epics he spent years crafting and perfecting. No, this was a mere shell of a verse, and one he couldn't quite understand the meaning of. It was a most unusual verse, and it stirred unease within him. How long had he slumbered in this prison? He had only felt the touch of the breeze when it was welcomed in through the windows, only been blessed by the warmth of the sun when gazing from his balcony, only studied the stars and moon when atop the roof of the twisting spire.

Cleaning himself slowly with a bowl of warmed water, he reminisced on his younger days. The horrors of Morgoth had scarred many of his kin, who dared not delve into their memories, but not him. The horrors had been a most terrible price for the wonders he had seen, the mysteries that this land enabled him to ponder, and the artefacts he had forged with craftsmen far more skilled than he. If Morgoth had been content to share, to serve, to work, perhaps all could have turned out differently.

He pulled on a faint blue robe, the silver embroidering having almost faded after decades of use, and little repair. The slow and steady trickling in of Elves to his settlement had almost stopped. Rumours must have been spreading of his absence, rumours which could spread to dark and vile creatures and men out there in the wilderness.

A glittering caught his eye. Silver armour shining in the sunlight, gloriously gilded together with great care. It had been gifted to him by his master on Valinor, to protect him in the coming struggles, and that it had. He ran his hand down the arm, and marvelled at how well it had kept over the centuries. All around him was covered in dust, yet it was clean and free, as fresh as it had been the day it was unveiled to him. He had slumbered for far too long.

[Holy Lykos]

King Aefulwine
Eotheod-stadt, Land of the Eotheod, Near Rhun

The sun rose over the wide plains of Rhun, and upon the settlements of the newly settled Eotheod peoples. The clans had established their roaming lands, and the King kept the peace between them all. Disputes were handled from Eotheod-stadt, in the grand building of the KingsHall. Outside of that, the new town was taking on its own distinct shape, one based off the architecture of the old North, made of wood and bits of stone.While still rough and tumble, the longhouses and huts of the Eotheod were taking shape as their craftsmen carved and shaped them into things beautiful intheir own ways.

Without their old holy places, the Eotheod had to make due in making new ones. Stone circles were dotting places where the horselords felt the powers of Arda were the strongest, including one in the center of Eotheod-stadt. It was there the Eotheod would ask for aid from the distant spirits and guidance from their ancestors. Unlike the Western men, they didn't know much of the Valar and ainur, not enough to have more of a concept of them other than of their strength. After the display 80 years ago especially, their worship was a priority to the Eotheod. They had even started forming a class of priests to try and connect to them closer, and read the signs of Arda.

Past the stockades of Eotheod-stadt, the log houses turned to less permanent housing. Tents, huts, shacks, anything small and short-lived, which constantly changed shape as families visited the city only to leave a week later with their herds. Past that only the smallest of villages had formed where the land the most fertile to make farms of mixed grains for the animals and consumption of man. But beyond even those temporary camps dominated their lands such the seats of most of the Eotans, the clan leaders of the Eotheod. The shepards and pastures were never fully abandoned either, livestock and herds taming the formerly wild steppe plains.

The horsemen of the Eotheod had found a new home. All through the realm, the thundering sound of hooves was never far off, the clans policing their lands with their own brand of justice. But something was off. The Bloodhoof clan had found evidence of some sort of incursion on their lands, the fear being the Westerlings of the south were trying to reach their lands to push them away from their new homes. They hadn't ever met the Westerlings to the south. Fear they would bring the wrath of the cataclysm down on them again was common among the horselords.

But during the King's discussion with Eotan Vacill, it seemed... something else was present in their lands. Something short of stature, followed by longstriding tall creatures. The King and his warband feared some sort of invasion of the corrupted. Those men who had been twisted by the Great Enemy to be short of stature and fearful of the great Sun. Such creatures had to be purged, so the Corrupted couldn't breed like locusts and slaughter with impunity.

So, calling the Bloodhoof clan to arms, Aefulwine had Vacill lead him to where they found the trampled grasses and tracks. They were heading north, towards the hills along the River Running as it fed into the South Sea. Possibly even further, to Eotheod-stadt or the Iron Hills beyond. If the Corruped were let to get past their lands and breed, it would be a terrible scourge again even within a few generations. It wouldn't take long catch up, if they only traveled at night like the legends said.

The thundering of hundreds hooves could be terrible and awesome thing to hear, growing larger by the moment. The steppes of Rhun made sounds carry far, their coming would be heralded long before their arrival.

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
North of the Mountains of Rhûn; Western edge of the eastern lands

Nargûn was in a deep sleep when the sound of a horn reached his ears. For a moment he felt like he was back at home, but in a split second he realized he wasn’t in the east. He jumped up from his patch of grass and looked around him, his eyes still mostly closed and his brain still asleep. From the distance one of the guards came running up, ”Men! Horsemen! They’re approaching!” he shouted as loud as he could before he blew his horn once more.
Nargûn once more looked around, some Dwarves seemed to be in the same state as him while others had already started to gear up for battle. For a brief moment Nargûn stood there, but the reality hit him quick and just like the others he quickly started to put on his armour.
Dressed up for battle Nargûn went into the cave. The three Trolls had woken up from all the noise as well. Nargûn explained the situation to them and told them to stay in the cave, as if they had much of another choice.

As Nargûn felt the sunlight again he noticed that the other Dwarves had already taken positions. Half a circle was formed, with the ends right at the rocks. A shield wall it was, with pointy spears sticking out. The Dwarves with axes and swords stood right behind and the center was occupied with the archers. Only in the center there was a narrow passage, just enough for one person to pass through. And so Nargûn walked through the passage, stopping slightly passed the shield wall but not past the reach of the spears, for he did not wish to expose himself too much to these unknown forces. The trampling sounds of the horses could now be heard at the camp itself and the longer they waited, the louder it got.

[Ism]

Chief Uftrod
The fortress Kalmabva, along the banks of the Greyflood River

In the last years of the First Age, the might of Morgoth waned, and his armies were crushed. Wicked and twisted wretches all, the light of the Valar burned their filth away. But Morgoth's foul legacy was not lost in totality, many of his servants, great and small, escaped his defeat, surviving into the Second Age, scattered and weakened, but alive, the weeds in the garden of Middle-earth. Many fled further and deeper, into the dark places of the world, fearful and aimless, but some resisted. A band of orcs traveled about Eriador, raiding and pillaging the peoples they came across. Yet, this band would soon move south, far from their origins in Angband, to southern reaches of Eriador, to settle there at the Greyflood's ford. There, a fortified dwelling, grand for its time, was made, by the hands of bound men was Kalmabva built. From this fortress would the orkish Nation of the Greyflood's Ford expand outwards, to dominate and subjugate, to rape and raid and ravage the menfolk of "their" lands. In time, they would demand tribute of these tribes, for the privilege of Kalmabva's protection, taking gold and jewels, slaves and much else. But now, there is a growing discontent among the orcs of Kalmabva, for too long had they stagnated, too long had there been peace, or what passes for it among the orrkish folk. If nothing was done, the orcish nation would fall into civil war, so do the works of Morgoth, in their desire for destruction, destroy even his works and legacy in time.

Such were the thoughts on the mind of Chief Uftrod on this evening, for it was his task to keep this rabble together, to him it fell to force a loose band of bloodthirsty beasts together. He pushed a loose bit of hair from his face, the wind having brought it there, so he might see the sky unobstructed. To many, it would hold much beauty and wonder, but for Uftrod, for his folk, they saw it only as a reprieve from the stinging light of the sun. He had felt it himself far too often, as could be seen by his ashen flesh. His hand moved to his left cheek, to a scar there from a lifetime ago, thinking how in the harsh sunlight he could almost feel the pain of the elvish blade ripping at his flesh. Of course that was a happy memory, as he had put his spear through the elf's neck, but still the scar had left a bitter mark on it. He was brought back to the world by a creaking sound, soft but audible, from behind him. He moved without thinking, drawing a dagger from its sheath and turning to face the interloper, and there was his son Gorlug the Lesser, standing with a grin on his face. The stupid boy had always liked putting others off with his sneaking. 'Course it had made him a skilled scout, which was no doubt why he was here now.

"Foolish child, I could've put my knife in yer belly! Whaddya think yer doing creeping about like a rat?" The old orc spat, snarling at his son for good measure. Gorlug, for his part, took it in stride, not even flinching at his father's aggression as he stepped out onto the balcony.
"Aye you could've stabbed me with yer little knife, an' I could have put my spear in yer back, since I been standing here fer 'while now, before I leaned on that loose bit o' wall. But I didn' come back 'ere to kill ya. Not today anyway, nah I'm here to to bring you the good news. My party, out beyond the eastern marshes, we found something." With that, Gorlug tossed his father an amulet, golden with a ruby setting. It was a beautiful piece, well crafted, beyond anything seen in Uftrod's domain.
"Hmm, not mannish is it? Nah, too nice. Elvish?"

Gorlug grinned before responding, "No, not elvish, dwarven made that is. We raided a small group o' traders out there, stole off with a lot of that stuff, an dinner for a week. Ha, one of them though, too scrawny, but I think he'll make a good worker. He squealed though he did, said that there's a big kingdom of dwarves, starting to trade a lot with the other folks. I'm thinkin' we could do well to set a couple of camps up out there, start taxin' traders. Eh?"
Uftrod pondered this for a moment, leaning back on the balcony's railing. "Dwarves ain't like the men here, they're not soft and weak. But, could be worth the hassle, if the loot is good. You and I, we'll get some boys together, take a closer look. Now come with me boy, we're gonna drink, to fortunes to come!"

[Holy Lykos]

King Aefulwine
Land of the Eotheod, Near Rhun

The thundering continued, growing and growing to a crescendo before trailing off. The clearing in front of the cave was thick with horsemen, in various levels of armor and arms, from simple to properly made, and forged. The properly armed were often the properly armored as well, even their horses being armored. But all handled their mounts with an expertise seeming they must have almost been born in the saddle, unlike anything in the Eastern lands the Dwarves may have previously encountered. They were also much more pale, of both complexion and hair.

One of the riders tugged on the reigns of his horse, leading it forward towards the taller one he spotted, potentially a leader. Another came after, a dark haired rider with an equally dark look on his face. Both came to a stop a few horselengths before the spears. The golden haired one stood up in his stirrups, tugging his helm off.

After speaking a few words in a strange language, harsh sounding but not full of malice such as the twisted Black Speech, the obvious noble frowned, before trying something else. He spoke a few words of Khuzdul, realizing they most likely spoke the language of their race rather the language of his.

"Who are you? Why are you here, dwarves? There are no Dwarfholds to the south, nor to the East. Are you Outcasts? Or simply lost?"

The accent was horrendous, and the grammar all over the place, but the basic meaning was conveyed. Hopefully these dwarves would be amiable. If not he could starve them out with enough time. He didn't question them hiding in a cave though, to the King, Dwarves were creatures of the underground, so it simply made sense.

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
North of the Mountains of Rhûn; Western edge of the eastern lands

As the horde of horsemen drew close the horn was sounded once more; ”Khazad! Khazad!” Nargûn shouted, preparing himself for a battle. It was not until the horsemen slowed down that he realized it was not going to be a battle, or at least not yet. The archers in the back still held their arrows ready and the front line remained in position, ready to charge out at any moment.
These horsemen were indeed the Men of the west. Their skin colour was pale and their armour more rusty. While it seemed like a group of unorganized raiding folk at first sight, Nargûn wasn’t in the mood to test their skills on the battlefield, if only for the reason that the horsemen outnumbered them.

As the horsemen had gathered up two figures with less than friendly faces approached Nargûn. They spoke a strange language, one known as the common tongue in the west. Nargûn had heard of the language before, yet he could not understand any of it.
To his surprise though the men changed to, what seemed to be a form of Khuzdul. Nargûn had to puzzle the words together in order to make it understandable but in the end he received the message they were carrying.

Nargûn did a few steps forward, stopping right at the end of the spear’s reach, ”I applaud your attempts of speaking our language young man, but I cannot say the same on your knowledge. We are Dwarves from the far east, many months of travel past the great sea. There are four kinds of us there, four Houses of the Dwarves. My name is Nargûn, son of Ana and Fráin. We are from House Ironfist and are only passing through on our way to the west. We seek neither battle nor feast, as we still have to journey many more days under the light of the moon”.
For now it was better to keep the western men in the belief that the Dwarves were part of a Dwarven hold, if only for the reason that it would make them think twice before making any aggressive move on them.

[Holy Lykos]

King Aefulwine
Land of the Eotheod, Near Rhun

Aefulwine listened carefully, trying to process what he could hear of the dwarf's speech. It was different dialect from what he had learned from the dwarves that wandered. But similar enough he could get the jist of everything. Khuzdul was not easy to speak, when few dwarves were willing to share its speech with other races. It was only a slight annoyance, speaking in this tongue.

"Rhun Dwarves? Strange. My people new here though. Understandable lack in knowledge." He sat himself back down into the saddle, twisting his spear to shove the pointy end into the ground to make sure to convey his lack of desire for combat. Vacill seemed annoyed at this though. "But tresspassing you are. Bloodhoof clan needs assurance dwarves will not kill our flocks or attack our people."

It was curious they were traveling by night though. Some Rhun dwarvish custom? Precaution to avoid any of the races that moved by day? Either way it didn't bode very well for their intentions. Having an observer with them as they traveled might be called for.

"If the Dwarflord would allow, Eotheod wish to have someone follow and make sure Dwarves travel in the most... fastest way through lands. A group of ten, fifteen to lead Dwarves through bredth of Eotheod lands." If this was acceptable, they could part on amicable terms. Having some horsemen ride with them would mean they get through these lands faster too. The sooner the dwarves were through their territory, the better.

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
North of the Mountains of Rhûn; Western edge of the eastern lands

When the rider shoved his spear into the ground Nargûn raised his hand, signaling the archers to lower their bows. The shield wall remained in place firmly though, as Nargûn could not trust these peoples enough to let down his guard.

The situation soon changed though as the horsemen made a demand. They wished to escort the Dwarves out of their lands. Normally this would not have been a problem, but considering that these were strange lands to Nargûn he realized all too well it could lead to an ambush, not to speak of the possible reaction of the men towards the Trolls. Nargûn took a moment of silence to consider before he responded. ”Your men are welcome to follow us north, but we will choose our own path and we demand the assurance of safety for our Dwarves and others. We demand a hostage as an insurance, one of you two to be precise”.
Nargûn knew that his demands were bold and might be taken as an insult, but for him there wasn’t any other choice to guarantee the safety of both the Dwarves as the Trolls. It was either this agreement or war.
The other Dwarves had all listened in carefully and tightened their grips around their weapons as they awaited the answer of the horsemen.

[Maineiacs]

Durin's Way, Kazad-dûm--

"There is nothing to report, sire." said Porin Woodenskin, Captain of the King's Guard. "Scouts at Azanûlbizar report no activity of orcs or other creatures."

"Very well," said Garvin Forkbeard. "And at Barazinbar?"

"Also clear, sire." said Porin. "A passing eagle near Zirak-zigil the day before last, but that is all."

"Praise Mahar." said Garvin. "How goes the excavation at the southern water works?"

"All going according to plans, my Lord. The new sluices are all on schedule." said Porin.

"Good. Any word form my son yet?" asked Garvin.

"Not yet." said Porin.

"When the Prince arrives, send him to me immediately." said Garvin.

"As you command, my liege." said Porin.

Garvin got up from his throne and surveyed the treasures about the hall. The wealth of millennia lay about; here and at various storehouses all about the expansive northern end of his kingdom. But there was always more to discover and mine. The south of Khazad-dûm was still little explored, and Garvin felt great anticipation at what lie hidden beneath the roots of the mountains. Yet he felt his years weighing on him. Any mining in earnest would likely have to be under the direction of his sun.

His son! Garvin had been amazed when the auguries had revealed that his infant son was really the Deathless himself, returned to Middle-Earth once again. Fearless, committed, undaunted by any adversity; Durin would be a great leader when his time came. But Garvin was determined to leave to his heir a store of wealth such that the minds of Elves and Men could scarcely imagine. A hoard worthy of the line of Durin. The honor of the Longbeards demanded it. That was why the mission he had sent his son on was so vital. He feared that Gundabad had fallen to orcs fleeing the Great War, but if there was a chance that the ancestral home of all Dwarves was unguarded, its secrets must be secured by his people. If his fears proved true, however, he would need to double and treble his kingdom's defenses because sooner or later the orcs would be of sufficient numbers to make a move. Garvin would much prefer to meet such a threat on his own ground and at a time of his choosing. Yet Durin had been gone long, and Garvin was beginning to become concerned.

[Holy Lykos]

King Aefulwine
Land of the Eotheod, Near Rhun

After a bit of time to think, Aefulwine nodded. It was a fair trade. It would also satisfy the King's curiosity about these strange intruders. By ensuring the safety of his homeland, he could learn more of this group too. The king nodded, leaving his spear in the ground as he dismounted. A brief conversation with the man beside him and the Eotan grunted in disapproval but left anyway, going up the hill again to rejoin his clan and head off.

"I shall go with then, Dwarf. It is a deal." Aefulwine knew his realm would run itself. It did not rely much on him and this should not take more than a week of his time. Vacill had been ordered to lead in his stead for the time he was busy, a sort of Regent. Vacill was a loyal Eotan, and wouldn't try to usurp him.

"You have my word as King of the Eotheod that you will not be molested in your trip across our lands, you or your allies. We keep our word, and shall not break them."

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
North of the Mountains of Rhûn; Western edge of the eastern lands

Nargûn nodded, ”Very well then. You better get some rest now, we’ll leave once the sun has set”.
Nargûn appointed some guards to watch the western man and to guard the cave, as Nargûn did not wish for the man to see what was hiding inside just yet. Several others were told to keep an eye out for the other men, just to make sure they weren’t plotting something after all.
Nargûn then wandered back to his patch of grass to get some rest himself.

As the evening drew close a guard woke up Nargûn, ”It’s almost time” he said. Nargûn got up, still tired as he didn’t get the rest he needed. Soon the moment of truth would be reached at which he had to introduce the man to the Trolls. Firstly though, Nargûn had to make sure that the Trolls would behave as they weren’t too fond of men.
”Gathol, we need to share a few words!” Nargûn shouted as he approached the cave. Upon arriving at the Troll he continued, ”Tonight we have a guest amongst us, a man, leader of some horsemen clan in this region. He is our assurance for a safe passage through his lands and so he may not be harmed by anybody, that includes you and your friends. I want to be sure you won’t harm him in any way.”
Gathol scratched his head, ”Why man travel with us? Man tried to kill us!?”
Nargûn sighted, once more the lack of brains became all too obvious, ”These are different men, men from the west. The man we have with us is their leader, so men will not harm us; And should they try we will make them pay for it with their lives, I can guarantee you that. But for now you, along with your friends, may not harm this man, understood?
For a brief moment Gathol remained silence, while it seemed like he was considering something, he was in fact just trying to understand it. ”Gathol understands, i think, man must be safe for us to be safe?”
”Exactly”.
”We will keep man safe then, you can count on Gathol and friends”.

With that settled the only thing left was for the sun to set behind the horizon, and once it did Nargûn walked over to the western man, ”Before we travel on, I have to introduce you to our three other companions. Now here’s the issue; They have been hunted down by men for most of their lives and are not smart enough to make a difference between one man and another. I made them clear not to harm you, but I have to be clear to you as well to not provoke them, for they can squash you without any effort”.
Before the man could reply Nargûn turned around towards the cave, ”Gathol, the sun has set, time to move!”.
A growling like noise emerged from the cave and large, loud footsteps could be heard from within. Slowly the Mountain Trolls emerged from the cave and felt the slight breeze of the night on their thick skin again. Gathol stretched out as the cave had not been a very comfortable one, before wandering towards Nargûn and the man. ”Safety man?” he asked as he pointed his finger at the man. ”Yes Gathol, this is the man that will keep us safe”, Nargûn replied.

[The Knights of Azorea]

The Cairdain

Three days sail north from Cair Andros

The oars cut through the water, the rhythmic splash of dark pine against the gentle flow of the great river flickering gently against the ears of the men and women upon the long river barge. Six of Coenwulf's sons pulled at the oars, with a further four of his cousins, while he himself, as captain, rested at the rudder, guiding the vessel with exquisitely practiced precision. It was a heart-warming sight to watch his own family enough to crew his own vessel, all in unison, so used to their stations as to chatter between themselves, the sight of his remaining sons, along with the sound of the bustling work of his daughters made his years of work seem worthwhile. He could wear the callouses on his hands with pride, and the streaks of grey in his hair and beard did nothing to assuage the warmth of his success. He knew his time had to come, but in these last of his years he felt no need to rush.

His eyes were still as keen as they had ever been, points of black in seas of green sweeping across the darkness of the river water that had been his brother, his father and his mother all at once, catching sight of the smallest ripple in the water and beginning to whistle to himself in silent comfort, the warmth of the day like a cool drink to a parched man, washing over and through him, warming him down to his bones. It had always been tradition among the Cairdain to sing and to whistle, their greatest natural art being that of music, though their long, working hands rarely took up instruments asides from drums among untrained oarsmen, and the whistled tunes were shared between the generations like a silent legacy. Coenwulf had heard his grandfather at this tune as a babe in his mother's arms, his father at it after his mother was taken to her cairn, and now he himself, as an old man, could take solace in the story of the song.

Those among his sons who had grown tired of chatter began to hum along in their own way, tapping their fingers and boots against the deck, and soon the song flowed along with the river, as it always had, the wordless hymn accompanied by the yet sweeter music of Coenwulf's daughters and nieces at work fishing, weaving nets, or counting up the stocks of mutton, cider and the rich rye bread much prized among the Cairdain, weaved into the shape of a ribbon while it was baked. The barge traded in cider more than anything else, the prized drink of the Cairdain, in black, ring bound barrels of fine pine-wood. Apples from the trees of the old forest, bought at the trade fairs held at the Old Ford, mixed with spices while they brewed, bought from the wandering elves and land bound traders along the Great Old Forest Road. This cider could be sold to anyone, a lesson Coenwulf had learned young. Every folk of man alike sought to see the world in the warm haze of a good drink, and it was said of Coenwulf's cider that it had even been taken up among the men of the deep woods, and even, according to one tongue, among elves and dwarves. Even though Coenwulf hardly trusted the rumours, it was good business, and it added a certain warmth to the smell of cider and spice, heated by the sun and the river in barrels in the cabins of the barge.

His sons would take his trade after him, at least two or three of those of them who stayed with him. He had built up such a wealth of wrought metals, cauldrons, tripods and sheep's fleeces in his cairn chamber at Cair Andros that he could have bought a new ship for his second son to take, and still paid a fine dowry for his daughters. He had been a poor man, barely with a hammock and a seax when he had been their age, his father ruined by poor trade after the great war swelled the Anduin, and now two of his sons were among the temple guard on the Sacred Isle, with his legacy secure before him. All that remained was to enjoy what he had wrought.

The Anduin was a kind mistress for those she favoured, and it seemed that the Cairdain were among her favourite children. Only time would tell whether these good years would hold, but the keen eyed and skillful Cairdain could stand tall the next time hardship stalked upon their river.

[Liecthenbourg]

The Six Tribes of the Avari
The Elf Miston, 'Wanderer', First of the Avari
Amidst the Tower of Silence, within the City of Ras Arphain, upon the Mounts of Rhun

The tomes of the Tower of Silence provided a company that no elf could replicate. Not anymore. Books provided knowledge and comfort in this world. People were abstract and odd. A cool wind pushed through the room, a window having flung open and a bird of carrion sat perched upon the windowsill, its heavy black wings hung from frame to frame as it squawked a shrill of a squawk.

The First of the Avari, Miston, clad within his ornate silken red robes - confined to reading books and talking to birds.

What an existence this was. His people had grown and multiplied, their settlements too. An expanse. A beauty. But he had not. Despite the smiles and facade put on of joy, it was his hair, now grey, that gave his innards away. An apathetic. Bitter. Elf. The Four remaining tribes of the Avari that he oversaw had grown accustomed to their lives as stationary beings of people of settlement and civilisation.

He had not. Long had he yearned to climb aboard a horse and gallop forth through the fields of the Dorwinion, or better, gallop into the endless expanse of fertile plans amidst the Sea of Rhun, or even better still, the vast expanse of land of desert and plain and forest that comprised Rhun. Back to his home, where he had arisen.

The irony was that there was no home.

His home was movement.

The carrion bird squawked, beat its wings and took off - circling the tower. A sigh of exasperation emitted from the chaffed lips of the elder-elf and he leaned back upon his chair. He ran a hand over his jaw - once strong and powerful, now slightly frail and rough to the touch. The last time he had enjoyed himself, from what he could recall, was when the Edain arrived.

He had pulled up his lyre back in those days, gathered those men amidst a great procession by the fires, and played for them the tunes of music. His wife had sung, and so had he, and they had taught these Edain the statecraft of civilisation. Those were the days. Whereupon that lyre lay now, little did he know. Probably cast aside, collecting dust on its once-beautiful strings. Her sheen of gold was probably now a sheet of grey and black and brown, caked in mud and dust and dirt.

He moved over to the basin of warm water that he constantly cleaned and refilled and washed his face upon it, before letting the water drown his hair clean. He cared not for combing it anymore, yet he rung it dry with a white towel that had once seen better days.

He had seen better days, too. It seemed the last remnants of his strength had vanished the day He appeared in these lands. That Malice-Lord. That liar. That fool. The evil-one. Yet there was a beauty about him too. And he spoke many truths. And many of the Avari seemed convinced. He had been. And forth they marched for a cause they knew not. What became of them he could not recall, but in victory were the Avari promised glory and riches and pride and power. And in defeat, they were ignored. None knew of this grave guilt. Perhaps because He had changed his Avari. But he did not know.

And no longer did he care. He was gone.

Save for the loud shouts of the bustling Elven metropolis below, Miston would have thought he was gone too.

[Walrusvylon]

A huge bear with jet-black fur walked beneath the trees of the Greenwood, searching for prey. Only, this was no ordinary bear— it was a man in the form of a bear: a Skin-changer. Its powerful muscles rippled as it stalked the forest, claws like daggers easily digging into the soft earth.

The bear paused to sniff the air for the scent of another animal, burying its nose in the dirt. But instead, its nose picked up the smell of something it had never encountered before. It was a pleasant aroma: a smell of pine needles, of plants and herbs, of nectar and honey, of flowers, of fresh fruit, of baked bread, and crisp wine.

The bear's ears picked up soft footsteps​, slowly getting closer and closer. The beast spun around in circles, trying to determine the source of the noise, but failed to pinpoint it. Whatever creature was watching him must have been extremely stealthy. The hunter had become the hunted...

[Pantorrum]

A huge bear with jet-black fur walked beneath the trees of the Greenwood, searching for prey. Only, this was no ordinary bear— it was a man in the form of a bear: a Skin-changer. Its powerful muscles rippled as it stalked the forest, claws like daggers easily digging into the soft earth.

The bear paused to sniff the air for the scent of another animal, burying its nose in the dirt. But instead, its nose picked up the smell of something it had never encountered before. It was a pleasant aroma: a smell of pine needles, of plants and herbs, of nectar and honey, of flowers, of fresh fruit, of baked bread, and crisp wine.

The bear's ears picked up soft footsteps​, slowly getting closer and closer. The beast spun around in circles, trying to determine the source of the noise, but failed to pinpoint it. Whatever creature was watching him must have been extremely stealthy. The hunter had become the hunted...

Greenwood the Great
Elven Territory

The elves had been tracking the massive creature the entire time it had been in the forest. Their keen abilities and stealthy nature aided them as they leaped from tree to tree, and rapidly paced the forest floor. Archers above, foot soldiers below, all keeping pace and surrounding the odd creature before he could ever even realize. By the time the bear heard the noise of elves, it was to late. He had already been surrounded, the wood elves creeping up from all around. Then, with not a moments hesitation, the elves would reveal themselves.

The archers jumped out into visible branches, the sunlight behind them to blind the bear. All around him, the creature would hear the drawing back of a dozen bows and the sound of an arrow being steadied for flight. On the ground, 20 elf warriors would surge in from all side, swords drawn and at the ready. At the head of the elf battalion stood a man of an apparently different caliber, a Captain of the Guard.

"Foul skin changer, how dare you pace within these woods?! This is the realm of Tarandul, King of the Wood Elves! You have violated our borders, and trespassed on our home. Now either you will come quietly, or your hide will be brought before the King." He drew his sword, the handles gleaming in the sunlight as the gems of its guard twinkled. "Now what will it be, beast?"

It was apparent the elves, much like their king, had little regard for any other life form other than those native to this realm, and wood elves themselves, of course. Tarandul least of all. But, the Captain knew it was best to not kill the skin changer. They shared a border with these peoples, and Tarandul would be furious if a war was sparked and the secrecy of his kingdom revealed.

[Walrusvylon]

A huge bear with jet-black fur walked beneath the trees of the Greenwood, searching for prey. Only, this was no ordinary bear— it was a man in the form of a bear: a Skin-changer. Its powerful muscles rippled as it stalked the forest, claws like daggers easily digging into the soft earth.

The bear paused to sniff the air for the scent of another animal, burying its nose in the dirt. But instead, its nose picked up the smell of something it had never encountered before. It was a pleasant aroma: a smell of pine needles, of plants and herbs, of nectar and honey, of flowers, of fresh fruit, of baked bread, and crisp wine.

The bear's ears picked up soft footsteps​, slowly getting closer and closer. The beast spun around in circles, trying to determine the source of the noise, but failed to pinpoint it. Whatever creature was watching him must have been extremely stealthy. The hunter had become the hunted...

Greenwood the Great
Elven Territory

The elves had been tracking the massive creature the entire time it had been in the forest. Their keen abilities and stealthy nature aided them as they leaped from tree to tree, and rapidly paced the forest floor. Archers above, foot soldiers below, all keeping pace and surrounding the odd creature before he could ever even realize. By the time the bear heard the noise of elves, it was to late. He had already been surrounded, the wood elves creeping up from all around. Then, with not a moments hesitation, the elves would reveal themselves.

The archers jumped out into visible branches, the sunlight behind them to blind the bear. All around him, the creature would hear the drawing back of a dozen bows and the sound of an arrow being steadied for flight. On the ground, 20 elf warriors would surge in from all side, swords drawn and at the ready. At the head of the elf battalion stood a man of an apparently different caliber, a Captain of the Guard.

"Foul skin changer, how dare you pace within these woods?! This is the realm of Tarandul, King of the Wood Elves! You have violated our borders, and trespassed on our home. Now either you will come quietly, or your hide will be brought before the King." He drew his sword, the handles gleaming in the sunlight as the gems of its guard twinkled. "Now what will it be, beast?"

It was apparent the elves, much like their king, had little regard for any other life form other than those native to this realm, and wood elves themselves, of course. Tarandul least of all. But, the Captain knew it was best to not kill the skin changer. They shared a border with these peoples, and Tarandul would be furious if a war was sparked and the secrecy of his kingdom revealed.

Resisting the urge to attack the elves, the bear showed no signs of aggression. Standing up on its hind legs, it began to undergo a transformation. The creature's massive frame shrank to the size of human, most of its jet-black fur disappearing into its skin. The bear's paws morphed into hands and feet, its snout retracting back into a human face.

Before the elves stood a muscular young man, completely unclad. His curly dark-brown hair reached down to his shoulders, also covering much of his body and face. His eyes were like emeralds set in his face, which appeared as if it had been chiseled from stone.

"Björnvald, at your service," he politely greeted the elves with a bow. "As you already know, I am a Skin-changer, the chieftain of my people. I ventured into the Greenwood out of curiosity, for I have heard tales of the elves before, and wished to meet you. I wish you no ill, I promise you."

[Rodez]

Prince Frerin
The Vale of Azanûlbizar

Languid and faint, the light of the sun filtered through the clouds of the Misty Mountains like some dismembered snake, falling dully on a party of dwarves as they strode up the lower slopes towards a pair of towering doors cut into the mountainside. They marched in tight, military formation, their boots striking the ground with a disciplined rhythm acquired only by veteran soldiers.

The company that followed Frerin Firebeard up to the gates of Khazad-dûm numbered eighty strong. Prince Frerin of Gundabad knew not what kind of welcome, if any, he would find from King Garvin and his people. He knew, though, that his efforts to reclaim Gundabad from his uncle would receive a serious boost if Garvin decided to back him. Otherwise, Frerin would have to carry on alone. For if his fellow dwarves, in the greatest city of their people, would not aid him, who would?

It took the company a few minutes to ascend the narrow pathway to the Great Gates, which stood silent and barred shut. Frerin glanced back down the mountain to Azanûlbizar, the green vale in which the banners and tents of his small army stood by the edge of the Mirrormere. Numbering three hundred dwarves strong, Frerin had made no attempt whatsoever to conceal himself or his band from eyes within Khazad-dûm that were no doubt watching. He needed Garvin's help; so he would arrive as a friend, hiding nothing.

Frerin lifted his great axe and struck the gates three times with the steel butt. A loud ring echoed off the mountainside. He cleared his throat, and a great bellow issued forth from him: "I am Prince Frerin Firebeard of Gundabad, come to seek an audience with King Garvin. Ill has befallen the halls of Durin's awakening, and I would seek the king's counsel. I come in friendship, and wish no harm upon your great city."

[Maineiacs]

Prince Frerin
The Vale of Azanûlbizar

Languid and faint, the light of the sun filtered through the clouds of the Misty Mountains like some dismembered snake, falling dully on a party of dwarves as they strode up the lower slopes towards a pair of towering doors cut into the mountainside. They marched in tight, military formation, their boots striking the ground with a disciplined rhythm acquired only by veteran soldiers.

The company that followed Frerin Firebeard up to the gates of Khazad-dûm numbered eighty strong. Prince Frerin of Gundabad knew not what kind of welcome, if any, he would find from King Garvin and his people. He knew, though, that his efforts to reclaim Gundabad from his uncle would receive a serious boost if Garvin decided to back him. Otherwise, Frerin would have to carry on alone. For if his fellow dwarves, in the greatest city of their people, would not aid him, who would?

It took the company a few minutes to ascend the narrow pathway to the Great Gates, which stood silent and barred shut. Frerin glanced back down the mountain to Azanûlbizar, the green vale in which the banners and tents of his small army stood by the edge of the Mirrormere. Numbering three hundred dwarves strong, Frerin had made no attempt whatsoever to conceal himself or his band from eyes within Khazad-dûm that were no doubt watching. He needed Garvin's help; so he would arrive as a friend, hiding nothing.

Frerin lifted his great axe and struck the gates three times with the steel butt. A loud ring echoed off the mountainside. He cleared his throat, and a great bellow issued forth from him: "I am Prince Frerin Firebeard of Gundabad, come to seek an audience with King Garvin. Ill has befallen the halls of Durin's awakening, and I would seek the king's counsel. I come in friendship, and wish no harm upon your great city."

"Sire, the is a company of Dwarves approaching Kheled-zâram; they have the look of Firebeards. Their leader claims to be one Frerin of Gundabad." said Porin Woodenskin.

Garvin Forkbeard got up with a start "What is it they want?" he asked .

"They wish an audience with you, my Lord." said Porin.

"Are they many?" asked Garvin.

"Some hundreds," said Porin. "They claim to be in some dire straits and crave your Majesty's counsel."

"Assemble a guard and bring him here with a small party of his choosing. Tell him that the rest his men will have to stay where they are for now, and have a full company observe them closely. Well, it would seem we have the answer I sent my son to discover." said Garvin.

"At once, my Lord." said Porin.

Ettenmoors--

Durin's company crested a ridge and looked eastward. Ahead lay the bleak dales that slowly rose up the the Misty Mountains. Their going was slow, even for Dwarves, as this region was little known to Dwarvenkind, yet Durin had deemed the delay worth it to avoid the eyes of Men and Elves on the western side of the mountains, in the Vale of Anduin. His men were the hardiest of folk, yet they had marched far, through difficult land.

"We will set up camp here." Durin said to his lieutenant.

"Aye, my Lord." he replied.

As dusk deepened to evening, and the fires were being set up, they heard a harsh, guttural cry not far off to their left. Durin's eyes hardened.

"Troll." he said. "Assemble the company. Let us teach this foul creature what happens when one tangles with Dwarves."

more when I have the time.

[Pantorrum]

Greenwood the Great
Elven Territory

The elves had been tracking the massive creature the entire time it had been in the forest. Their keen abilities and stealthy nature aided them as they leaped from tree to tree, and rapidly paced the forest floor. Archers above, foot soldiers below, all keeping pace and surrounding the odd creature before he could ever even realize. By the time the bear heard the noise of elves, it was to late. He had already been surrounded, the wood elves creeping up from all around. Then, with not a moments hesitation, the elves would reveal themselves.

The archers jumped out into visible branches, the sunlight behind them to blind the bear. All around him, the creature would hear the drawing back of a dozen bows and the sound of an arrow being steadied for flight. On the ground, 20 elf warriors would surge in from all side, swords drawn and at the ready. At the head of the elf battalion stood a man of an apparently different caliber, a Captain of the Guard.

"Foul skin changer, how dare you pace within these woods?! This is the realm of Tarandul, King of the Wood Elves! You have violated our borders, and trespassed on our home. Now either you will come quietly, or your hide will be brought before the King." He drew his sword, the handles gleaming in the sunlight as the gems of its guard twinkled. "Now what will it be, beast?"

It was apparent the elves, much like their king, had little regard for any other life form other than those native to this realm, and wood elves themselves, of course. Tarandul least of all. But, the Captain knew it was best to not kill the skin changer. They shared a border with these peoples, and Tarandul would be furious if a war was sparked and the secrecy of his kingdom revealed.

Resisting the urge to attack the elves, the bear showed no signs of aggression. Standing up on its hind legs, it began to undergo a transformation. The creature's massive frame shrank to the size of human, most of its jet-black fur disappearing into its skin. The bear's paws morphed into hands and feet, its snout retracting back into a human face.

Before the elves stood a muscular young man, completely unclad. His curly dark-brown hair reached down to his shoulders, also covering much of his body and face. His eyes were like emeralds set in his face, which appeared as if it had been chiseled from stone.

"Björnvald, at your service," he politely greeted the elves with a bow. "As you already know, I am a Skin-changer, the chieftain of my people. I ventured into the Greenwood out of curiosity, for I have heard tales of the elves before, and wished to meet you. I wish you no ill, I promise you."

The elven guard looked on in distaste. They were well aware of the nature of skin changers, and found it some what repulsing. And aside from that, the wood elves had never trusted outsiders. This...thing...was no different. Even if his intentions were of good nature and honest at heart, they were foolish. Considering no one had entered these woods for hundreds of years and then left alive, this skin changer seemed less than surprised to find the elven host.

"Never the less, you're wasting your time explaining yourself to us. It is to the king to whom you must ask for understanding. Frankly, do not be surprised if you end up like the rest of those lost souls who have dared to try and enter. You may not have heard every story, if you were brave enough to venture in these woods. For King Tarandul has had a whole collection of individuals trespass before, and not one has left alive. You'd best count your fortunes that you are a skin changer, and not a human or an orc. Otherwise, we would have been inclined to kill you already." The elf smirked as he turned around. The archers in the tree's drew back their bows and placed their arrows back. The guards sheathed their swords, and simply ushered the skin changer along. "Follow me."

[Walrusvylon]

Resisting the urge to attack the elves, the bear showed no signs of aggression. Standing up on its hind legs, it began to undergo a transformation. The creature's massive frame shrank to the size of human, most of its jet-black fur disappearing into its skin. The bear's paws morphed into hands and feet, its snout retracting back into a human face.

Before the elves stood a muscular young man, completely unclad. His curly dark-brown hair reached down to his shoulders, also covering much of his body and face. His eyes were like emeralds set in his face, which appeared as if it had been chiseled from stone.

"Björnvald, at your service," he politely greeted the elves with a bow. "As you already know, I am a Skin-changer, the chieftain of my people. I ventured into the Greenwood out of curiosity, for I have heard tales of the elves before, and wished to meet you. I wish you no ill, I promise you."

The elven guard looked on in distaste. They were well aware of the nature of skin changers, and found it some what repulsing. And aside from that, the wood elves had never trusted outsiders. This...thing...was no different. Even if his intentions were of good nature and honest at heart, they were foolish. Considering no one had entered these woods for hundreds of years and then left alive, this skin changer seemed less than surprised to find the elven host.

"Never the less, you're wasting your time explaining yourself to us. It is to the king to whom you must ask for understanding. Frankly, do not be surprised if you end up like the rest of those lost souls who have dared to try and enter. You may not have heard every story, if you were brave enough to venture in these woods. For King Tarandul has had a whole collection of individuals trespass before, and not one has left alive. You'd best count your fortunes that you are a skin changer, and not a human or an orc. Otherwise, we would have been inclined to kill you already." The elf smirked as he turned around. The archers in the tree's drew back their bows and placed their arrows back. The guards sheathed their swords, and simply ushered the skin changer along. "Follow me."

Björnvald had heard from rumors that elves were kind, merry creatures, so he had expected anything but this. So much for a warm welcome, he thought to himself. He followed silently, realizing that talking more would only make the situation worse. Perhaps the King would be more understanding. He, however, knew that the elves would not dare harm or imprison him, for if any ill befell him, they would have a war on their hands.

[Holy Lykos]

King Æfulwine
Land of the Eotheod, Near Rhun

The king spent most of the afternoon resting in a sitting position near his horse, outside of the cave. The sun warmed him and eventually lulled him to sleep along with the twenty of his own guards who had stayed while the rest of the warband had returned to their homes. It was a good place to rest. Their horses were watered and fed from a nearby stream and clearing as darkness fell, and Æfulwine was stretching out his limbs when he was approached by the half-dwarf leader.

When Nargûn approached him though, Æfulwine felt something might be wrong. He kept his spear hooked to the horse too though, and sword sheathed. No reason to provoke anyone to violence. He simply gave a nod in return to the request to not provoke some of his companions, who apparently were not dwarves? The king wasn't left guessing for long though. The footsteps, guttural noises, and overall size left little to doubt about just what these things were.

Some kind of Troll. These dwarves had made common cause with creations of the Enemy. He didn't even know such a thing to be possible, but here it was. "...Yes, I have promised safe passage for you all. I shall not break my word, even though I did not know all who you had then.

"I am Æfulwine. King of the Eotheod. We should move quickly though. Many of the elder among my people have poor memories of the broods of the Enemy. I never have myself faced them, but know the stories. How have Dwarves made common Cause with Trolls?" He wished to know that basic thing before they left at least. Such an important fact could not be ignored.

"But I shall be a proper host for all creatures, if they stay civil. It is... interesting to make acquaintance of a Troll such as yourself, Gathol. I may be the first man to speak with your kind."

[New Minahasa]

Barath-dûm

King Kragnar
The Red Hold

Kragnar Redfist, first of his name, ruled over his kingdom from the Red Hold, the fortress his kin had made over in the White Mountains. Barath-dûm, the 'Bloody Kingdom' as it was known for the outsiders, was a kingdom comprised of dwarves and remnants of orcs that once served under the Dark Lord. When he fell, his forces were scattered, and the Blood-folk managed to rally a few under their banner. The orcs, serving under their new dwarven masters, were highly trained and disciplined under them. The frequent raids and ambushes were always organized, each raid being led by at least one dwarf as leader of the raiding party, and the orcs executed them very nicely. Every survivor of the raids were always captured, instead of being savagely killed or eaten by the orcs, and brought into the Red Hold to be labelled as slaves.

The dwarves and orcs of the Red Hold were known as slavers, and their trade was focused entirely upon slavery, albeit their skills in metallurgy were used extensively as well. The Red Hold, being located in the middle of the White Mountains itself was very strategic, defensively and economically. Evil men and orcs alike from the west and the east would come to the Red Hold and trade for the finest slaves. The Red Hold, being a dwarven product, was highly defensible with its tall walls and towers, added by the snowy landscapes blanketing the fortress neatly. Few had dared to attack the Red Hold, and none had succeeded.

Not a single day wouldn't the Red Hold be filled with fresh slaves, either to be used as reproduction means for the orcs or sold to Middle Earth's slave market. King Kragnar watched from the balcony of the Ebony Keep, the largest and tallest building within the Red Hold, as well as the king's residence. His eyes gazed upon the activity within the Red Hold, the usual day with his orc subjects manning the walls, and slave trading bustling within the courtyard. Moments later, his eyes fell into the distance, his mind pondering. Then, a thought crossed his mind. Elves had always been sold for a high price within the slave market due to their rarity as slaves. What if raiding parties were sent deep into elven territory for the sole purpose to raid and capture every elves they could possibly find?

And so his scheme was executed. Under his orders, a large raiding party, almost the size of a warband, led by one of his many orcish lieutenants, began to make their journey to reach the forest of Mirkwood. The raiding party was split into smaller parties in order to avoid any attention, as the plan was to surprise the unsuspecting elves of Mirkwood by performing swift raids, and then quickly getting out with their captives.

[Dwalin]

-Nargûn-
Lands of the Éothéod

”If there’s anything we Dwarves are good at, it’s at keeping secrets” Nargûn said with a smirk on his face when he noticed the pale, shocked and yet somewhat interested look on the man’s face.
”It is indeed time to move out. I will tell you the tale along the way. Oh, and where are my manners, I am Nargûn, son of Ana and Fráin, Half-Dwarf, and the Commander of these Dwarves and Trolls” He followed while he inclined his head before looking around to see if everybody was ready.
In the meantime the man began to speak to Gathol, who could not understand the language. Gathol didn’t really bother himself about it up till the point his name was said by the man, ”Nargûn! Man said Gathol’s name!” the Troll shouted out in somewhat of a panic, not knowing if any aggressive words had been spoken about him. Nargûn turned around and laughed a bit, ”The man greets Gathol, no need to be upset”.
Gathol stood still for a second, thinking if it made sense or not. But it did and Gathol stretched out a finger to the man, knowing it was large enough to “shake hands” with the man, ”Gathol greets safety man”.

As the nightly march had started Nargûn joined Æfulwine at the very core of the column, ”So, we met these creatures south of the great eastern sea, a few weeks east of the Mountains from which we came yesterday. We had seen many creatures at our homes, but these we had not met up till that point. They were scared, protective at first as the tribes and villages of the area were trying to hunt them down. We found out that they escaped the War of the Gods, the war that changed our world as we knew it. You see, they aren’t the smartest creatures out there, and their lack in knowledge in combination with their intimidating appearance seems to cause most of the trouble they’re getting into. These three here took the cattle from the tribes and villages in the east as they are too slow in both mind as body to hunt for themselves. All they really wanted was food and all they got was trouble. We offered these creatures a home, food and safety in return for their allegiance. It’s needless to say that they accepted our offer.”