Lord of the Rings: The 4th Age IC

[Dentali]

Lord of the Rings: The 4th Age IC

Welcome to Lord of the Rings: The 4th Age. This will be an RP set in the fourth age of middle earth and will develop at a rate of 1 IRL week to 1 in RP month. Players will create important people in Middle Earth, rulers and influential people

OOC Link: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=524375&p=39986737#p39986737

Set in the year FA: 220 after the peaceful death of Eladarion, King of the Reunited Kingdom and the son of Elessar and Arwen. He has twin children who rule the Kingdoms or Arnor and Gondor respectively (Not named in case someone applies for them). The Dark Lord Sauron is defeated but can evil ever truly die? New Shadows are seen rising across Middle Earth and in the hearts of Men, will you join this new shadow or stand against it?

Setting an RP in the 4th age of Middle Earth provides us with a land full of rich lore, peoples, and history, but gives us a great deal of flexibility. With that said we do know a number of things which are firmly set. For instance the fact that most of the Elves leave for Valinor and the rest begin to diminish, that the Rings lose their power as well as most of the world’s magic. I am prepared however to play a bit loose with canon in the name of player fun. For example if you want to play the king of a group of Elves who choose to stay in Middle Earth then go for it, but be advised your population will not be very large, and those elves who have been born more recently have diminished in terms of ability and lifespan. Want to have one of the lost Rings of Power? Okay, but it is only a fraction of its former strength. Want to play a Wizard? Sure but you're not as powerful as Grandalf or Saruman. Any questions ask away!

When applying for this RP, I would like everyone to apply as a ruler of an area to begin with like the lord of a region of Gondor, the King of Dale, an orc warchief etc. These characters are going to be able to set in motion events in a far more organic fashion than some random ranger might (no matter how cool the character may be). I would prefer events to be driven by players and develop organically, however I will give a nudge should it be necessary.

Given the MANY properties associated with LOTR, assume that Tolkein work comes first but any games or other properties which exist in the world of LOTR can be used as source material provided they do not contradict Tolkein's work.

[Dentali]

reserved

[Ovstylap]

Yerlan Sóltüng Omost, Ered Lithui/the Mountains of Ash

Black blood spurted from the neck of the thin orc, as the spearhead punched through flesh, bone, and sinew, before grating against the dark rock underneath the orc. It limbs jerked for a couple of seconds, before settling on the ground. A grim mixture of blood and saliva ran from the corners of the orcs mouth, and one eye was closed. Yerlan drew back his spear, satisfied at finishing off his enemy. Around him, other men walked along, finishing off the wounded orcs. One orc, having feigned death was kicked by a man, and grunted. He immediately jumped onto its chest, before slashing its throat, before grimacing as he was sprayed from the gaping wound. Yerlan continued to look around. The peaks of the Ered Lithui were around in many directions. The main cluster of orc dead was in this bit of the valley, though a few bodies were dotted around the surrounding slopes, where they had tried to climb away as their camp was attacked. Weapons and armour, as well as any items of use were being gathered by Yerlan's men, accompanied by a number of orcs who had distinguishing off-white or gray cloths wrapped around their heads and torsos to distinguish them from the wild orcs they had slaughtered.

"We killed around eighty, and have a dozen prisoners whose wounds are survivable. Another dozen prisoners we don't think we can bring back to the pass." Yerlan's friend Dalbid spoke with a matter-of-fact tone. "The usual?" he asked, a slight hint of excitement creeping into his inflections.
Yerlan nodded. "The usual." He spoke quietly, observing as clouds arrayed themselves before the sun, casting a shadow over the valley. Dalbid nodded, and turned away, before shouting an order. "The second group are for our orcs!" An Uruk, with an off-white cloth grunted at his comrades, and the orc prisoners were brutally despatched over the next several seconds, and the friendly orcs set about butchering them. The first group of prisoners, those with no, or only minor wounds, shuffled about, constrained in their ropes and by the prodding spearpoints of the men around them, panicking. The men tried to look away from the butchery behind them, focusing on the prisoners instead.

Yerlan allowed a sigh of relief. Now would come the bad news. Dalbid returned from speaking with another warrior, before bowing his head to Yerlan. "Seven of our own dead, eight wounded- of those six should survive, with three of them fighting again. Of our orc 'allies' fifteen dead, six wounded." He delivered the news with more emotion than his initial summary of the party's achievements. He had snarled the word 'allies' and now looked to Yerlan.
"Do what you can to make the return of our wounded comfortable. Are our friends feasting on their own?" The sound of an excited burst of speech from the direction of the butchered prisoners confirmed this, as their own dead were brought over and eaten as well. The men had moved the other prisoners away from the scene, wanting to both keep them calm, and distance themselves from the disgusting scenes. Dalbid nodded. "We had best get back home."

As he spoke, the clouds seemed to have darkened, and a thin rain began to fall. The men hunched into their cloaks, and pulled hoods over their heads. Many of these men were from Khand, they were not at all used to the cold rain of Northern Mordor, despite having lived in the region for so long. In their thirties and forties, even a handful in their fifties, they were amongst the last remnants of the Variags who could remember living in Khand before their migration north with the Host. Exiles, outcasts, adventurers. The Variags who could not live in their own society, who sought something more than the constant threat of persecution or murder, or to live a new way of life. Now they were some of the most experienced soldiers Körthar Ostîc Amrost could call upon, Yerlan considered in reflection.
"Let's find some shelter." He had a feeling that the rain was going to intensify, and that they may have to shelter overnight. Dalbid's eyes lit up.
"Yerlan?" The questioned man raised his eyebrows. "We could shelter in those caves we passed three miles back to the west, but no way are we going to sleep with those orc prisoners all night- the men should be able to rest, and our allies would just as surely kill or release the prisoners in the night." He left his words open.
"Very well. Kill the others." Yerlan spoke with a sigh. So much blood. All the pathetic orcs had to do was pay the tribute and they would have a right to live in these parts, and continue their raids against the Gondor-aligned settlers of Gorgoroth.

The orders were carried out, and the men departed westwards through the mountains. They were a mixture of men, Easterlings primarily, raised in the foothills north of Mordor, or older Variags. Some of the men, amongst the scouts, had features inherited from Haradrim ancestry. They were hardened, effective men. Their orc allies feasted and followed on some time later, carrying the loot. In a cave complex they would all sleep that night, with sentries posted in case wild orcs came investigating. Tomorrow they would return to Shrelug Ishi Zagh Burzum (The Three Towers in the Pass of Darkness), and Yerlan would report to his master, the Great Warlord Körthar.

Word would spread among the remaining independent orc clans and raiding parties. They either paid tribute to Körthar's Host, and thus be permitted to live in the Ered Lithui and continue their rampages into Gorgoroth, or they would have to leave. Unless instead they wanted to be called by a Killing Party such as Yerlan's.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Shar Tharkand, Eastern Marches, Mordor

The man nodded to the watcher on the walls, straightening his spine wearily in the saddle. Barked commands led to clanking noises from high in the gatehouse, and the sound of men swearing stealthily. With too much grating - they should have oiled the gears more regularly, the dullards - the gate slowly swung open and let in the streaming light of morning.

It was a good feeling, the brilliant warmth of the dawn and the East, after the shade and chill of the inner portions of the keep. Simple pleasures such as this still filled the man's day with wonder, even as the more loathsome measures of his responsibilities conspired to strangle that joyous newborn.

"Forward, at the walk!"

His master of arms spurred the small contingent into motion, their thickly-muscled Eastron steeds bearing the men in their heavy plate with ease through the gate and thence down the brick causeway. It was, Ilmaleth reflected, a profoundly uninspiring sight. The ash of Orodruin's ancient furies had left this land baked and parched, and what rain rolled down from the highlands had little power to cut through the dead dirt and bring forth the new life it should have fostered. Some sages had opined many winters ago that one of the reasons the Variags suffered as they did was because the slopes of the Mountains of Guard trapped the storms, robbing them of their water before they passed over into the Gorgoroth Plain proper and beyond.

Ar-Adûnakhôr had little knowledge of if there was truth in those statements, or if they were simply more fire-worshipping superstition. Any man with eyes in his head could see that Lithlad was a parched and desolate land, her people few and desperate. And yet the Children of the Sun still had to maintain strong garrisons here, garrisons who devoured food and water with a speed unmatched by their counterparts elsewhere, for the legacy of Tar-Mairon still laid in the stones of the Hills of Watch.

That legacy, of course, being the Yrch.

His horse's hooves clattered off of the causeway, and the first kindles of pride sparked in the Maker-King's heart as he gazed upon the reason for his visit to these despised beleaguers. With a cry in unison, wordless but martial, the first company beat their spears on their shields thrice, before thrusting them skyward. In glittering golden armor, the gilt steel of the Emperor's Own, rank after rank of sworn swords stood at the ready, their commanders before them, faces ebullient with awe at being this close to their lord.

For on either side of the road south waited serried companies, and Ar-Adûnakhôr rode with their master and his guards, reviewing the host that had been marshalled for this campaign. His horse moved under him with little direction, and the miles passed swiftly, each company of fearsome warriors saluting their overlord in turn by cry and spear. It was a vision of military prowess good to behold, and in some ways it calmed the misgivings that had filled the Iron-Hand's heart about this enterprise.

It was a simple thing, really. Vassals had petitioned his father, and his father's father, and then him in turn about the ongoing depredations of the Yrch who occupied the southern border-forts of the Hills of Watch. They were fleabites upon the kine of Rhun, barely more than irritations, but still a repugnant toll of homesteads burnt, husbands slaughtered, horses stolen, and lands despoiled. The marcher lords of the Lithlad did what they could to suppress the depredations, but fundamentally an orc-band was a difficult thing to track through the hills and mountains, ere it emerged onto the plains of Khand to loot and burn. And the people here, though stern and hardy, lacked the numbers or weapons to assault the fortresses which the Lord of Gifts had raised to watch his eastern roads.

So it was necessary for a greater hand to reach forth and grasp the sword of war. For generations his kinsmen had held the northern string of bastions and strongholds, of which Shar Tharkand was only one. With the conquest of the southern, garrisons could be placed to harry and destroy any further attempts at brigandry and pillaging, and the pointless and futile fury and hatred of the Yrch spent upon rock and steel instead of bower and cot.

Eventually the party came to the end of the line of glittering warriors, and Ar-Adûnakhôr turned his mount about, raising a hand for silence. He cast his gaze toward the hooded and cloaked visage of one of the Star-Sages, who nodded fractionally and gestured strange languid motions in the air.

"My children!"

His voice echoed and boomed back along the road, some part of that the work of the blood of Westernesse that pumped in his veins, some part the work of the enchanter at his back. The soldiers stood to attention, clinging to every syllable.

"You are all proven, able, deadly. Stalwart and true of heart. I ask for no better. Today I send you forth on the most ancient of tasks of the Urêadûnaim, the charge of Mahal himself - to steward, to guard, to subdue the earth. Disorder has flourished beyond the reach of our arms. It shall flourish no longer!"

Shouts and cheering began, and the Maker-King did not dispel it.

"Go forth, and return these old fastnesses to the sigil of the Great Diadem. My will goes with you!"

Now the shouting was redoubled, and gradually became a chant, led by the company captains.

"The Sun! The Sun! The Sword of the Sun!"

The man rode slowly back north to the bastion as the lines of warriors turned and marched away, in the direction of war and bloodshed.

[Sonakion]

DurAfarDâ
Writings lay heaped among the room, scattered on the floor, squeezed between shelves and decked upon the few tables in the room. A few Elvish manuscripts were lying here and there for the most part devoid of any actual writing. Instead most notes were greasy old paper or more often crude animal skin with scribbles and writing upon writing within them. The more important looking notes like the Elvish ones contained great plans, strategies, delicate information on Orc and human affairs but most notes were far more mundane. Supply lines illustrated by coiled dark lines, angry messages to lazy officers lower down the line, notes detailing biographies of miniscule detail about the lowest personal servants and most prized generals. Reminders of meetings with other war Chiefs and of the required tribute or sweet talk or betrayal this time round.

Âdul sat in the centre of this mess labouring over each. By pale weak candlight he worked his important works left aside in favour of the every day. Suddenly he'd lean forward and gargle spasming mucus lathering his desk.

The old wooden door to his room opened and the bodyguard outside entered. Not an Uruk but a large Orc nevertheless easily dwarfing Âdul. His dark brown hide and ugly squashed features were a start contrast to Âdul's light grey skin and neat pointed face. The bodyguard would stare with round black eyes at his superior. Âdul scowled. This was his third new bodyguard a month it seemed yet another had fallen victim to inter-orc rivalry and ambition. As suspected the old bodyguard had slipped into the bog at least according to the bodyguard. Soon he was shooed away reassured his watch was alright. Âdul sniffed before rummaging through his notes looking for the bio on his new bodyguard. Adjustments were needed.

[Meretica]

2 Yule, Year 1641 by the Shire Reckoning: Nightfall
"Queen Lilómëien," began her Steward, "do you think it wise to test the palantíri again so soon?" Barahir was the son of Elboron, the son of Faramir. He was an old man, having served as Gondor's Steward for some sixty years. He was wrinklier than his own stockings, though anyone could tell that he had been a strong, tall man of Númenor in his youth; indeed, the blood of that ancient race flowed through his veins, just as it flowed through the veins of many in Gondor and Arnor. "You tested it the day that your father, the King, died--"

"And his death made me Queen," Lilómëien replied. "I know that many in this household fear that I seek to do this for evil, but I do not. I fear that the things that came to pass in the lifetimes of our ancestors will come to pass again. The Two Kingdoms were divided, and they fell. They must not fall again, lest we all turn to ruin."

"Then you should not test the palantíri," Barahir insisted. "It could bring about that which you are trying to avoid."

"Not while our enemies lurk around like snakes waiting to strike," she said. "When you see a snake, do you not do what is in your power to kill it? We must reunite."

There was a brief silence. Barahir answered, "“If I saw a venomous snake crawling in the road, any man would say I might seize the nearest stick and kill it; but if I found that snake in bed with my children, that would be another question. I might hurt the children more than the snake, and it might bite them… But if there was a bed newly made up, to which the children were to be taken, and it was proposed to take a hatch of young snakes and put them there with them, I take it no man would say there was any question how I ought to decide… The new situation is the newly made bed to which we are to go, and it lies with the you to say whether we shall have snakes mixed up with them or not. Carefully consider this, my Lady."

"It seems that I do not have to take the precautions you suggest," she said. "I know what I have to do." She turned to her right and removed the cloth covering the palantíri. The moment she reached to hold her hand over it, her eyes went wide. This is what she saw:

Dark blue circles encircled the world. Then in the middle, in a circular blot of red: a single yellow star of a new dawn. Then in the lower right, the scars of old in Arnor were healing, only to darken and fall. And likewise, the walls of Minas Anor crumbled in her vision, until all faded to black. As she continued to see this, her strength waned, and then there was nothing but the burning hands of Lord Denethor in her sight. Lilómëien removed her hand and grasped it close to her chest and closed her eyes.

"I am correct, Barahir--"

"Do not rely solely on the Seeing Stones, ma'am. Remember that it shows many things, and not all have yet come to pass. Some never come to be, unless those that behold the visions turn aside from their path to prevent them. The Stone is dangerous as a guide of deeds."

"But it is one nonetheless. And my kingdom need help. I can trust no man to give me the warning of impending danger that I am receiving. I will take heed of you, Barahir, insofar that I shall be wary."

They both turned back to the door and prepared to leave the tower, descending the stairs side by side. They stopped momentarily to gaze upon the Pelennor Fields before turning to the stars above. A crisp wind was on the air. Mordor stood dormant to the east; in the city below, some were ending the busy days while others scurried about like ants as they prepared to take their posts.

"They'll stay safe if you don't do anything," Barahir said.

"They'll be safer if I do." With that, Lilómëien, High-Queen of Gondor, eldest child of King Eldarion, son of Elessar, Head of the House of Telcontar, christened with the name Caledhelien at birth, returned to her inner household and slept the rest of the night.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Cair Andros, The Kingdom of Gondor

Iron-shod hooves clacked as they beat against the smooth pavingstones, at places drawing glances from the merchants and lesser travelers who made their way across the wide bridge which spanned the Great River from the lonely isle. Their gaze did not perturb the leader of the procession, who considered such men far beneath him - he would no more care for their thoughts than he did for those of the beasts of the field who had observed his party as they had ridden south from Gelebrin and the garth of Tirith Nindor.

Tall men with long spears stepped out from the watchposts at the end of the pale white bridge, barring the path of the mounted company, though the company had the advantage of numbers. The captain of the company turned a wintry smile on the men, but did not speak. His escort, a broad man of military excellence but poor breeding, nudged his horse forward and addressed the warriors.

"Does Gondor now bar the passages of the Anduin to emissaries and ambassadors, guardsmen?"

The soldiers gave no answer, but shifted uneasily, the grip on their spears less tight than it might have been. Some muttered words were exchanged, and before long one of their number set off at a trot toward the high tower which marked the prow of the Ship of Long Foam.

Brimrar waited patiently, taking the time to inspect the fastness before him. He had never ridden so far west under his lord's colors, the great sable and crimson banner edged in gold, though he had borne missives of the Sun and Stars to many powers and principalities before in his years of service to the Golden Tower. These western men put much stock in the power of rock and stone, even after the fashion of the Five Fathers, and he espied but few men upon these defenses of such a strategic crossing of the Anduin, which was to be expected. After all, it had been nearly two hundred years since the last War of Alliance, and no foe had marched out of the east save ravening bands of Yrch in long lives of lesser men.

Anon the soldier returned, and a few other of his ilk, common footmen, marched swiftly at his back. In their center was the man the ambassador had expected would need to be addressed before their errand could progress further; a captain or noble of some sort, a man with the clear blood of Westernesse in his veins and a head of midnight black hair rimmed in the beginnings of a crown of gray. The silvered helm the Gondoraim sat upon his brow, though slightly askew, lightly bespeaking a hurried donning.

The man stepped forward through the line of guards and inclined his head - nothing at all like the bow the Master of Havannion would have demanded of his own subjects, but of course the men here knew neither his lineage nor owed him their fealty. He did not draw a weapon, but instead spoke in the sonorous western tongue, so much like Adunaic but yet sundered. It took a nasty bludgeoning of the mind to wade through his thick treacle-like patois after only hearing it seldom.

"You are welcome, messengers from the East. I would have prepared you better reception, but we have not had word of your coming. I take it then that you ride in haste?"

Brimrar spoke now, the breeding of the other man clear to see, and so better to ensure no mistakes were made. The eyes of the soldiers shifted to him, apparently confused that their counterparts did not have a consistent communicator. But they could hardly be expected to understand the niceties of protocol.

"Not so much haste, captain, as to avoid the spring rains. We bear a message from my lord, the Sun and Stars, who would that the lady of Minas Anor receive it before our passage is barred by snowmelt and mire."

The captain nodded, a wrinkle in his brow perhaps trying to decide if the 'lady of Minas Anor' was really a proper term of address for the High Queen. But after a moment he gestured to the soldiers and they parted with apologetic smiles. Brimrar urged his horse into a walk once more, and his guards and the rest of the detachment likewise put their steeds in motion. It was many long miles still to the Tower of Echtelion.

[Chinniwana]

The Deep Caverns of Torech Ungol...

In near darkness, in a web covered cave, several creatures were struggling in webbed cocoons. Many were struggling to escape their binding; many more had given up or suffocated in their silken tombs. Wails of sorrow, cries of pain, and yells of desperation echoed through out the cave, but all would be for naught. Soon, a louder noise echoed through the cave; a sort of high pitched shriek that bordered on a roar. The shriek signaled it to come towards them; a Spider. Quick but calculated, the spider feels the cocoons, and eventually begins to drag one. The creature in the cocoon attempts to fight but it's all in vein as it can not escape either the Spider's grip or the silk it's trapped in. Through a labyrinth of tunnels which feel like an eternity to the cocooned creature, the Spider eventually drops the creature in a different webbed cavern, and in front of what it feared most. Before the creature and the Spider, is a gigantic black spider; resting upon its shoulder is a spider roughly the same size as the Spider that dragged it here. The creature begins screaming and struggling in terror, but the giant Spider slams its foot on the creature. Releasing a vicious screech, the massive spider bites into the creature, releasing a potent acid that drains the life out of the creature, and nourishes the massive beast...

---

... Naezera, Weaver of Shadows and Master of the Mountains of Shadow, finishes consuming her meal. As she kicks away the corpse of her meal, the lowly Spider servant who brought it for her 'bows' before her. In their native tongue, the Spider asks "My Master, has this satisfied your hunger?"

Naezera thinks for a moment. The mere fact that she has to think about it is troubling to her; before it certainly would, but as the years have gone by she has felt a growing hunger within her. In her anger, she lashes out at the Minion. "I am not! Acquire me another!"

The Spider servant, frightened, quickly begins to scurry back to the food chamber. The small spider on Naezera's shoulder begins to speak. "Mother," the little spider says, "do you believe it is wise to treat your servants in such a manner?"

Naezera grunts. "Azaia," she says gently, "you must be stern with the underlings. You can not show weakness to them, or they will take advantage of you."

"Mother," Azaia whispers, "clearly something troubles you."

Naezera sighs, turning around to look at the silken walls. On these walls are clusters of Spider Eggs; her future brood. "You are right my little one. It is my hunger," she says as she caresses a cluster of eggs. "Before it would be satiated, but as I, and my brood, grow older, we grow more and more hungry. And there is less and less creatures to consume in my domain..."

"Perhaps," Azaia says, trying to be cunning, "we must begin consuming our own..."

"Azaia, I will hear nothing of it! I was almost the victim of my mother's hunger! I will not do the same to my brood! My time in Mirkwood showed that Spiders are stronger together!"

"But if what you say is true, mother, then sooner or later our kin will begin turning on each other."

Naezera sighs again. "You speak the truth, Azaia. We cannot allow that to happen... Perhaps, it is time."

As Naezera moves to another part of the cave, she begins to speak again as she looks over more of her eggs. "For too long has my web been dormant; remaining within the Mountains, relying on pray falling into my clutches, rarely risking the hunt into the realm of Humans. But now, my hunger grows, and my hand is forced. Soon my shadow will be upon Middle Earth, and my web shall ensnare the Children of Iluvatar. And then I shall be hungry no more..."

As she says this, the Spider Servant returns, with another cocoon in tow. "M-My master, I return with another meal." The cocoon isn't moving much; the creature within is either asphyxiating or has given up on life.

Naezera shrieks "You may leave now!" The Servant cowardly bows then scurries out.

Naezera slowly crawls to this cocoon, hoping that this will be enough to satisfy her hunger for now. Soon, though, her and her brood will begin to weave new their new Webs of Shadow...

[Yaruqo]

Pelargir, Lebennin, the Kingdom of Gondor

The rains over Pelargir pattered gently over the Court of the Ship-Kings, the heart of the Prince of Lebennin's court. While his young children giggled as they splashed around outside, much to the chagrin of their nurses, Prince Duinhir allowed himself a small smile as he watched them from his palace. The centuries of peace had been fruitful for the Realms of Men, and of course, for Pelargir and its great port. With the threat of the Umbar corsairs pacified, and the Reunified Kingdom pushing south to nullify the remnants of the Sauron's Haradrim, Pelargir was able to more effectively pursue trade, and they became richer for it. The great walls had been refortified, new sea chains had been built so as to keep out hostile pirates who sought to reave and burn, and under Prince Sirhon, Duinhir's father, Pelargir shone brightly as a beacon of what the Realms of Men could achieve in peace, marked by the commissioning of a sparkling new university, open to all noble sons and daughters of the Faithful realms.

When Duinhir succeeded his father, he took that dream a step further. For all his subjects, he opened up new schools so that all who called Lebennin home might be able to learn to read and write, as well as to take up new trades. All had been fine, until news came that the great kingdom founded by Elessar was sundered with the death of the beloved King Eladarion. It had been 3,000 years since the two kingdoms had last been divided, and more than two centuries since the fabled King Aragorn had reunited them. Duinhir looked over to the sea as it churned beneath the storm clouds. Chaos. Violence. Death. He feared what could become of his home, of his family's vision, with just one man's death. "The Realms of Men are stronger together," he murmured to himself. An untested High Queen, made to share her inheritance with her twin brother...he could only imagine how Lilómëien felt. He wondered what this granddaughter of Elessar might do, what her royal brother might do. Perhaps the two would continue their ancestor's peace. Or would they...

No, Duinhir shook his head. It will not come to that, he swore. If the Valar gave him the fortitude, then he would do whatever he could to maintain peace between Gondor and Arnor, between sister and brother. The Fourth Age would not end with tragedy, this he swore.

[Meretica]

3 Yule, Year 1641 by the Shire Reckoning: Early Morning
Barahir reserved his doubts as the High-Queen had asked him to do, but he was struggling. For decades, he had served as a loyal protector of the Crown and Prince of Ithilien, descendant of Faramir the Great and Éowyn the Shield-Maiden. Queen Caledhelien-- for that is what he still called her in his mind; after all, it was her given name-- ought to let things fall as they would fall. For 2,159 years, Gondor and Arnor were separated and given two distinct chances to reunite... only after the Line of Gondor failed and the Line of Arnor went into near-extinction. 220 years had passed since the land had been reunified; 100 had passed since the reign of King Elessar. Now, the land was divided again. It was all Barahir could do to hope that the terrible deeds done in the days of his far ancestors would never happen again.

Barahir crossed his chambers he was in and stepped onto the balcony, viewing the city below from left to right before gazing upon the fields and distant Rohan to the North. Turning Westward, it would be some 415 leagues to Isengard, to Orthanc, a place that Barahir much desired to go; but it would, perhaps, be folly. The Seeing Stone of Orthanc was unmarred and unchanged; it was untouched in many ways. Perhaps he would be able to see something in it that the High-Queen would not be able to see in her own...

---

"I will permit this, Barahir, though I do not understand it fully," Lilómëien said. "You are-- forgive me-- old and weary. A journey to Orthanc to review its state in person could be ruinous to your health."

"Though not more ruinous staying here to catch disease come winter."

"There is some truth in that... when should I expect you back?"

"Around 21 days to Orthanc... maybe a week there... and then the journey back. 49 days, all told. But the household shall be in great hands: my son, Cunnion, shall take up my mantle. He may be young in years, but he's sharper than a mithril blade, I'll warrant. Very much a statesman. But you've met him, you know that."

"When do you intend to leave."

"As soon as I can, My Lady."

"Then go, Barahir, and come back as soon as you can. Gondor without its Steward can be a dangerous place..."

[Nimethel]

Afteryule 3, Year 220 of the Fourth Age in the reckoning of the Elves. Late Afternoon

in The High Elven Capital of Mithlond

King Ciryaher Eldacar

---

King Ciryaher Eldacar is drafting a letter to his eastern Neighbor, the Queen of Gondor, to inquire about the possibility of an alliance between the Kingdom of Lindon and the Kingdom of Gondor

---

Your Majesty, Queen Lilómëien of Gondor,

I am King Ciryaher Eldacar, of the High Elven Realm of Lindon. I am writing to inquire about the possibility of an alliance in trade and force of arms between our two kingdoms. If this is a possibility, do let me know, so that I can make preparations for the trip to Minas Anor as soon as possible.

Yours in coorispondance,

King Ciryaher Eldacar of Lindon

[G-Tech Corporation]

Tarin Barzul, Eastern Lithlad

Arrows, black-fletched and crudely barbed, skipped off of the stones on either side of Hamilcar. Others, evinced by the thuds and reverberations coming from the wicker shield which the men held aloft, buried themselves in the defensive work protecting his own precious flesh from the cruel intentions of the Yrch that denied the passage of the Morannon Road to the servants of the Sun.

Sweat was heavy on his brow, even his arming cap unable to prevent the salt from stinging his eyes as it dripped down intermittently. Despite the dubious shade of the mantlet it was damnably hot, and the gasping dust which choked the air with every footfall of the men about him did very little to ease his suffering. He cursed the twisted creatures that made his inconvenience necessary. Soldiering for the Sun and Stars had been a cushy job, crushing the odd raider band, putting down peasant uprisings, but this whole business of assaulting fortresses was too much like work for his liking.

Shade suddenly filled the mantlet, and Hamilcar immediately grasped the implication - they were beneath the shadow of the fortress. He hoped the Yrch had their heads down, that the archers were preventing them from working too much mischief on the assault. The cleverly woven work of reeds which the artisans had fashioned stopped shaft well enough, but if any of those brigands on the walls had had the presence of mind to prepare oil or sand... well, this could get a mite more than uncomfortable very rapidly.

But no such misfortune befell the warriors of the Khan of Khans. Ahead the wrecked of the gatehouse unfolded, the siege ram having already forced open the once great timbers of the black fastness. Men in the gold and scarlet of the Great Diadem gestured them forward, though the smith's son noted carefully that they were fastidious about keeping their burnished shields above their heads. Not all the defense here was beaten down, at least.

With a cry his squad leader leapt forward, apparently not having bothered with that calculus. The sergeant had more bravery in his stomach than ten lesser men, perhaps a truth belied in what he claimed was his Westron ancestry. It would be shaming not to follow him, and so the other warriors of his command and Hamilcar followed him at speed, prayers to Mahal and savage proclamations on their lips as they brandished shortspears and hook-swords.

Not all the fighting in the interior square was completed. Men struggled against a tight knot of tall Uruks near the entrance to the main citadel, and arrows still fell from the black figures who stood atop the crenelations there. Several bowmen in the sable leathers of the Kuzirim sheltered just inside the gatehouse's shadow, taking time to sight their enemies before loosing answering shafts against the orcish defenders. Gratifyingly it seemed every one of their carefully aimed arrows provoked a harsh cry of pain.

But Hamilcar had but a moment to observe that and vainly consider whether he should take up the bow when the press of the men behind him and his squad-mates to either side swept him toward the foe. A snarling Black Uruk, almost man-high in its bestial ferocity, swung an overhand blow at him with a long curved scimitar. Hastily the soldier turned the blow off of his buckler, and reflexively stabbed into the creature's belly.

The sword skittered, thick black plate turning the blow, then suddenly found purchase and sank deep. More fortune from the Lady of the Trees. He would have to sacrifice in her honor if he pulled free of this day. Once the defenses of the servant of Tar-Mairon would have been impregnable, but without the enfolding will of the Tower of the Eye the ramshackle creatures had neglected the keeping of their armor, and a patch of rust yielded all too easily to the wind-forged blades of the Golden Legion.

The beast's lips parted in a wild howl of pain, and hot black blood pumped about Hamilcar's hand. He cleared his blade, allowing the beast to stagger back in pain, and then clumsily planted a quick slash to the side of the orc's head. Not a clean kill, but it was over, and as he pulled his sword free of the brigand he perceived the scrum in the courtyard was over.

Men had pushed through the door before it could be sealed, and the last sounds of violence still came from the tower of the border-fort, braver soldiers working to overcome the final resistance of the Yrch. No doubt the black-hearted swine were working to claim as many lives as they could before they were extinguished and sent to the eternal reward of their kind. For Hamilcar, at least, the battle was over.

He squatted down and began wiping his blade clean on the filthy tabard the Uruk had worn over its armor. Once a lurid red eye might have burned there, but now it was just the color of old blood and faded mud.

[Ralnis]

Nomadic Capital, Vengar

The large tent city of thousands were on the footsteps of the Grey Mountains. They were always set down their city to get the warmth of spring for their grazing herds. It also had the Orc Hunters looking to begin their night hunts on the local cave-settlements for slaves and bodies to eat. Many warriors of Vengar to prove their worth in the eyes of their king and patron spirit. But this was different, very much so.

The chiefs of the great tribes came from across the eastern Forodwaith. Their banners waving mightily against the icey breeze. All of them in the heart of the city and were dwarfed by the largest tent in the city. One that could be a longhouse if it was actually solid and not made of dozens of mammoth skins.

The inside was the home of a town chief. The inside of the tent was insulated with furs and a large fire was before the totem of their demonic spirit, the Wagnak. Next to it was the large Dwarven thrown that was stolen by the orcs who had it. Like all dwarven thrones and chairs, it was too large for the stunty beings but fit the massive weight of the King of Excess. It was one of many that had the various chiefs that sat on looted thrones around an ornate stone table. All of them a symbol of excess and want.

On top of the table was a map of the Grey Mountains with various legends and symbols that marked Uruk caves and raiding spots on one part. Another part were arrows that show warg and reindeer herding and breeding territories for each tribe. Each one was marked by the seasons and how those would be different for the grazing near the Grey Mountains. Of course, most of it was just hunting beasts and orc bands by going into the Mountains proper, at least in some parts.

Which leads to the third part of the map. There were arrows with each of the tribe's symbols that go further deep into the Grey Mountains, each one was also tied to the seasons and had branching paths of known raiding spots. Then there was a spot around the northern border with a big "?" that had an arrow connected with the leading tribe's symbol, the symbol of the Wagnak.

"As you can see here my King." One of the overly large chieftains pointed a meaty finger to the lines of his tribe," the Uruks managed to further underground and away of our usual hunting grounds."

"What about the usual hunting grounds around Gundabad?" The King asked through his deer skull.

"Been having increased resistance due to the rumors of the dwarves gearing for an invasion of that damn mountain. Though, don't know if the rumors are true, but Uruks are always scared without the Dark Lord to command them."

There was a round of low chuckles before the King raised his troll-like hand to silence them.

"We should not worry about it then. Our people must enter the Greys during this time. Uruks will be held up in their holes and we are good at snuffing them out from their holes."

The chieftains looked at the map again with some contemplation. The 2nd half of winter was the setting in and the snow wasn't coming down as hard as it would during the interlude of fall and winter as blizzards would be harsh and block most of the known passes in the Grey Mountains. Thank the Wagnak that the Vengard were able learn and survive the Northrern Wastes during those harsh times.

"I think we should send our sons to try and get us a foothold within the mountains before summer rolls around. Then we can send in a larger wave. They need to get some true favor with the Wagnak and some proof that their tribe has not considered them a waste."

It was then decided about the more finer details but the needs of sending out a token scouting party through their descent paths and the usual Uruk holdouts to see if there's anything worth looting or even occupying. This was more than the usual raiding and hunting of the Uruk scum. They will be turned into their herds, their cattle that will be used for fighting and eating as they expand beyond their wasteland homes.

This is an Age of Men, but it will also be the Age of Vengard.

[Culway]

Hobbiton, The Democratic Shires Kingdom
King Arthur, having a fine day strolling through the hobbit holes, big folk buildings, and elvish building, was contemplating what he would do if the forces of evil were to attack the kingdom, he muttered to himself, “Will we have to break neutrality for our protection and raise the milita?”

Suddenly his most trusted friend and advisor, Norfan, said, “Arthur, the Shires will do what it’s people need, as it is, the Shires are a Democratic Kingdom, the people choose the leader and say what they want, or need, let the people choose.”

“So be it, for Not all that is gold does not glitter, and not all who wander are lost, as Gandalf once said, well according to the oral history.” said Arthur.

[Sonakion]

Lowlands beneath Ephel Dúath
The land here was like a sea of grey which only grew worse the further one's eyes drew along it, pale gritty soil lay between numerous harsh jagged rocks whilst tuffs of grass and heather grew from whatever land could feed them. The closer one went to the mountains of shadow seen in the near horizon the more the land became one of stone rather than soil.

A dark shape drudged along this desperate landmass marching slowly onward. Closer inspection showed lines and columns. Torn flags and weak light reflecting of metal, great wagons rolling on old wheels carrying food, slaves, tools and other tribute. One might initially be reminded of one of the old supply lines of Mordor when the Eye still looked down upon Middle-Earth but upon closer inspection you'd realise your mistake, for dirty rags on long Rotton poles and swords and pikes red from rust rather than blood were not common during Saurons reign. Orcs that once marched with purpose and fear now gave judging glances around them and wandered thoughts that were not their concern whilst mud and grit dug between clefts and grooves and upon their skin. At the rear of this caravan Adul's wagon grunted along a mass of brutal hide and metal and wood pulled by an old Warg.

Soon the caravan began to reach its destination. A low long wall stretched before them made of broken stone commonly found in these parts desperately piled up together. In the centre of this wall stood a sturdy gate of wood clearly often repaired as shown by the piled planks on its front but still rigged with small holes. The garrison of this defence raised its head a sturdy orc which half-eyed the incoming group before waving them on bellowing a command and rested heaving low long laughs at the arrivals. Within the wall was not much of a better sight either. Walls of mud and faeces with half-thatched roofs were the typical make-up of the huts and various orcs peered between gaps or stopped their current work to look or jeer at the caravan. Still the caravan went on with the only thing impressive being how much of these shabby huts there were seemingly 10's upon 10's of them cramped into the walls. Finally, the caravan reached its destination. A much greater hut, long and low stretched before them perhaps considered a longhouse though it would be unlikely the inhabitants knew of such a term. Adul and a few of his guard would break from the caravan and enter the hall.

Inside was just as foul. Hordes of orcs were cramped into the hall guffawing and yelling or squaring up brandishing huge axes and swords, baring their short, hooked fangs, eating from animal skin mats stuffing their faces and slobbering noisily over themselves. At the end of the hall on a large mound of mats, food, and trophies sat the master of the hall the Chief. He smiled as Adul entered calling Adul over.

"It seems as each winter goes you grow smaller Adul I just hope the same doesn't begin to happen with the tribute", upon saying this the Chief would laugh hardily slapping his massive thigh and looking around to make sure his company was doing the same.
"Luckily for you Oh Lord of the lowlands, ruler of all that the Ephel Dúath cast in shadow the less I eat the more spare tribute I have to give to you" Adul replied but it seemed the chief this time round was not in the mood for flattery nor conversation instead continuing to indulge in the pleasures of his hall shamelessly while waving Adul on to get to the point.
"Outside in the hall rest all that you could ever want or need, this side of the mountain" Adul continued and then with his company stood aside till the Chief decided in his interest to inspect the tribute. He was not disappointed and then gave Adul the pleasure of staying and resting in his hall till it was time for him to return to the marshes.

Indeed the chief even offered for Adul to accompany him on a hunt in the nearby mountains of shadow an offer Adul dare not refuse.

[Araznan]

Anuminas, Kingdom of Arnor.

King Falkor was planning a meeting with the High-Queen of Gondor to discuss the current problems with Gondor's act of restoration
of both of the lands. The King had decided to move to more important matters (such as the Orcs and Dwarfs)

''Arnor does not wish to get into a war with Gondor, with the orcs moving to big settlements in the Misty Mountains, and the threat of them retaking Morodor'' said King Falkor.

The King decided to send a messenger to invite the Queen to a meeting in the walls of the great Arnorian castle in the city of Anuminas.

[Nimethel]

Afteryule 4, Year 220 of the Fourth Age in the reckoning of the Elves. Late Afternoon

in The High Elven Capital of Mithlond

King Ciryaher Eldacar

---

King Ciryaher Eldacar is drafting a letter to his eastern Neighbor, the King of Arnor, to inquire about the possibility of an alliance between the Kingdom of Lindon and the Kingdom of Arnor

---

Your Majesty, King Falkor of Arnor,

I am King Ciryaher Eldacar, of the High Elven Realm of Lindon. I am writing to inquire about the possibility of an alliance in trade and force of arms between our two kingdoms. If this is a possibility, do let me know, so that I can make preparations for the trip to Annúminas as soon as possible, that we may discuss the finer terms of an alliance and hammer one out properly.

Yours in coorispondance,

King Ciryaher Eldacar of Lindon

---

"Send this letter, as well as my one to the Queen of Gondor, immediately please, I would like to have these alliances in place as soon as is feasible..." He says, handing off the letters to one of his attendants. "Also, before you go, dispatch a few emissaries to the men of Rhun, send them by ship obviously, I would simply like to see about an alliance with them too. That will be all, Hanugalad." He finishes, dismissing the attendant with a wave of his hand.

[Chinniwana]

The Morgul Vale...

The Swamps of Morgul Vale were bustling with activity, but not very pleasant activity. Spiders wandered and conversed through the leg-high muck and water; many were constructing webs to try to keep their legs out of the muck, and some were consuming the few little animals that remained in Ephel Duath. Many other Spiders were crawling over the mountain sides, some even on the stairs to Cirith Ungol, both straight and winding, doing the same thing. This was the life of the Spiders of the Mountains; mostly peaceful. However, they were getting restless as many were starting to feel a greater hunger then they had known before. With very little remaining fauna in the area, and Humans and Orcs having avoided the region for many years, it seemed like their hunger would lead to chaos.

However, on this fateful day, word was spreading through the Vale; the Master was planning on expanding her domain. Though this was at first thought to just be a rumor, the rumors were quelled when one of Naezera's champions, Li'izzin 'the Entomber', emerged from Torech Ungol, treading through the stairs. Larger then most spiders, though shorter then Naezera herself, Li'izzin was feared for her size and prowess, but respected for her strength in combat and her many successful hunts into the Land of Iluvatar. If she was emerging from her mother's den, then it meant a new hunt was oncoming.

Carefully she started climbing off the Stairs, crawling down the mountain to reach the Swamp, and many of the regular brood followed her. Eventually she reached the Swamp, and finding a high spot, surrounded by the noxious white flowers of the vale (her favorite flower), she began to speak.

"Brood of Naezera," she called out, "the time has come! Our hunger is becoming too much to bear! Even the Master is succumbing to the hunger! It is clear that if we do not begin a new hunt our way of life shall collapse!" The Spiders began to hiss and raise their front limbs in celebration, but with a wave of one of Li'izzin's appendage, silence quickly fell. "But this shall not be a normal hunt! We must begin to expand our people through out the land; far past the Mountains we call our home! The Master's Web of Shadow shall begin to spread over the Children of Iluvatar! Ensnaring them under us! For us to consume! And through the blessings of Ungoliant, we shall succeed!"

With that, the Spiders hissed, roared, and raised their front limbs in celebration. It had been many moons since the last hunt, and with the promise of more food to eat, more land to tread, and victory over Men, Elves and the others, they couldn't be happier.

"We must begin training immediately!" Li'izzin continued through the cheers. "We shall not fail our Master! Her Web of Shadow shall consume all!"

With that, the spiders began to follow Li'izzin, who would know how to prepare the Spiders for serious raids against their targets...

[Sonakion]

Mountains of Shadow
Often times the Great Chief of the lowlands and those who came before him would gather a company of orc vassals and warriors and set out to hunt on the sides of Ephel Dúath, unlike men they'd hunt on foot but unlike when elves did it who'd nearly travel faster by foot this was a slow and tiresome game of watching, creeping and then striking and throwing with spears and stones.
All manner of things would be hunted on these stone stairs from small fowl and raptors to moles and elk. Nearly anything that the mountains harboured on their sides was fair game to the children of her roots.

Adul and his small company ship had already split off from the main hunting party in the hopes of spearing a stag that Adul let get away. Already they regretted their decision. The mountains were always home to many dangers, but these were of a mundane kind, of tripping and falling off a steep edge or getting caught in a surprise downpour of rock and soil, even during the time of Sauron the mountains were safer for so sure was the dark Lord in the defensive ability of the Outer Fence that garrisons were rare to find upon it except in a few key locations which could be easily avoided. There was once another primeval fear lurking in the mountain that of Shelob the monstrous spider but she kept to her tunnels and passageways in Cirith Ungol and so was easily avoided so long as you did not go near her snare. It was near Cirith Ungol that Adul and his company now walked, and it was the reason for their fear.

For dark things had started to occur once more on the mountains of shadow particularly in its higher clefts, among its caves and around Cirith Ungol, disappearances, orcs who took a wander and never returned, hunting parties missing scouts, strange sights of skittering things coming up and down the mountain and the glow of many eyes in the dark. So far these events were uncommon enough that the orcs life on the mountains were not interrupted but they were more frightful and wary and tried to not go too high or go too deep in the mountain, nor labour too long on the mountainsides after dark.

So far, the stag's tracks went ever higher while the sun dipped ever lower. 4 Orcs Adul had with him 3 of his and one the guide belonging to the Great Chief. It was this orc who was urging Adul to turn back now and Adul's own men were beginning to scare too. However, Adul was desperate to catch the stag now that they were so close, so he forced his party on up the mountain, into the night.

[Ovstylap]

Tarin Barzul, Eastern Lithlad

-Snip-

Briktînd Yórguç Gaddün, Tarin Barzul, Eastern Lithlad

Trails of smoke rose from the campfires of the Golden Legion who were encamped around the recently captured fortress in Eastern Lithlad. Briktînd sat upon a horse the colour of rich soil, and stretched his neck as he nudged it forwards down the embankment of a slightly inclining hill. A couple of other riders accompanied him, whilst the remainder of the lads set about establishing a camp. Briktînd had told them they were not to enter the camp around the fortress until he gave them permission lest they get themselves into trouble, or end up being given tasks and ultimately being caught up with the army of the Sun. As he approached the encampment, he noticed a couple of riders in golden scale armour approaching at a canter. Increasing his own pace to a canter from a trot, he closed within a hundred meteres before slowing gradually to a walk. The riders drew their horses to a swift, and disciplined. Their steeds where likewise armoured in gold. They were Lôke-Rim, some of the finest troops Rhûn could field. Briktînd opened his hands and bowed in the saddle, swiftly coming back up as his horse bent down to have a go at a tuft of dry grass.

The golden riders regarded him cooly, and expectantly. His own two escorts stayed back respectfully. The riders had an air of authority, yet allowed Briktînd the initiative in introducing himself. "Greetings to you both, I am Briktînd Yórguç Gaddün, lieutenant and servant of the Great Warlord Körthar Ostîc Amrost, a loyal vassal to the Maker-King. I am commanding a trading party from the Ered Lithui." The riders looked at each other, unimpressed. "My men are camped a few hundred metres to the west of your own main camp, just beyond that minor ridgeline." The riders nodded slightly. "We have come south-east from Ered Lithui, we have fought a good number of Yrch, and then traded their loot with the scattered human settlements in these border regions. We are ultimately making our way to Khand, to gather those who wish to shed, or already have shed their bonds, from their clans, and bring them to serve the Iron-Handed at the frontiers of his realm, trading along the way." One of the riders held up his hand.

"That is all well. How many are your number, and what purpose do you have at this moment?" He spoke with a calm and assuming sense of ownership over the situation, whilst his counterpart was completely ignoring Briktînd's escort. Briktînd nodded, before replying.
"I have eighty-three men under arms, with another thirty in attendance. A third of us are mounted. We have travelled through parts of Lithland, and could be of service in providing information, and my Chieftain has instructed me to pay homage to any senior vassals of the Maker-King we might encounter. Perhaps you would grant us entry to the camp, where we might speak with an officer or noble there. Is the Maker-King himself there? Perhaps we might even lay eyes upon him?" Briktînd spoke in a flattering, and almost excited tone.

The golden riders looked at one another as they considered their reply...

[G-Tech Corporation]

Tarin Barzul, Eastern Lithlad

"The encampment is one in a state of war - my master has bid me know your purpose here, for we almost took you for supporters of the Yrch, and he has already had to lay low many who once might have been good men who have thrown in their lot with them. This I now know. But as sworn-sword of the Realm, there is ought more which my master would speak to you, I have no doubt."

The Lôke-Rim turned his horse, a single perfunctory gesture indicating that he wished Briktînd to follow him. Heavy thuds of the footfalls of the steeds of the armored riders filled the air as they set off at a loping trot back toward the walls of the looming fortress and the scarlet and black tents which had sprouted about the base of the citadel like toadstools.

Not to follow, it was apparent, was not an option, despite the polite phrasing of the soldier of the Khan of Khans.

Through the encampment the party of mounted men passed, a tumult of men marching, arming, and taking provisions, and thence up the causeway and winding road to the gates of the main fastness. A smoldering heap of black corpses burned sullenly off to one side of the route, a gully filled with the slain Yrch which some men in cloth masks were busy about, casting shovels of white sand into the charnel pit. It was apparent that the gate had recently been broken, for several artisans and laborers were busy about the entrance to the border-fort, and a double handful of soldiers clad in the flexible gold scale-plate of the Legion parted to allow Briktînd and his comrades to pass.

It was in the main hall of the fortress that they were brought before an old man, still hale and black haired, but whose eyes were lined with weariness. His garb was a scarlet robe edged in gold, and near him on a chair sat an ornate breastplate of cunning wrought steel, gilt in flowering roses. He waited patiently while the Lôke-Rim introduced the sword-sword of Great Warlord, and nodded slowly.

"Good master trader, I thank you for coming. I am Lord-Commander Avilar, First Sword of the Stalwart Second. It is well that you came south now, rather than a few days earlier. Then you might not have had the luxury of peace, for my men were scouring the hinterland for fleeing Yrch and their mannish accomplices, and steel might have been exchanged hastily ere fault was realized. But!"

He clapped his hands together, and made a curious sign of the tracing of his thumb and forefinger in a circle.

"We shall not speak more of ill chance which did not come to pass. It is well that you have passed me and mine. As sworn servants of the Sun and Stars, my master has bid me give you a gift - a gift which comes with an understanding."

From beneath the table where he sat, where a small chest was placed, the Lord-Commander drew forth a small velvet pouch which clinked and seemed heavy in his hand. He set it on the table in front of Briktînd, and held up a single finger to pause the other man from taking it.

"This is the Emperor's coin. I give it to you in trust of his will; you travel to the land of the Variags, and for this reason you receive it. It is the will of his Imperial Majesty that stout men and true be summoned from the lands of our kinsmen, to be given the stewardship of the marches about the fortresses such as this, to hold and defend it against the return of men of disorder and the Yrch. If you recruit such men, you are to give them three thalers and two nobles in weregild from this pouch for their hardship in coming west."

A slow smile crossed Avilar's face.

"But the Maker-King would not only expect this for the good of your oaths. For every man so recruited who enters the rolls of the faithful and is reported to Armenalith at the eave of the tithe, those who induced their migration shall receive a stout reward of their own, ten thalers or a brace of good horse, as is their will."

The Lord-Commander pushed forward now the purse.

"Of course, I do not force this upon you. The Maker-King seeks men for this purpose, but your purposes are your own; if your errand is so pressing that to speak of his offer to the men of Khand would be an imposition, this need not delay your travel. Will you take up this charge, Briktînd, lieutenant of Körthar?"

---

The Gates of Minas Anor, Gondor

They were impressive. Fah. He would give them that.

Brimrar had, at last, arrived at the city of the Ship-Kings, Minas Anor. It was a fine sight to see indeed, and finer still for the beautifully wrought gates of mithril - mithril! - which barred the entrance to the city. They were thrown back to allow the daily traffic of men and women out to the fields of the Pelennor, aye, but a wonder of the waking world still to be sure.

Again he reviewed the scroll in his hand. There had been much news from the eyes and ears who lived in this place. A steward departed, and the Queen alone. Perhaps Mahal looked on their errand with favor. The scion of the blood prayed it was so. This Lilómëien might be more amenable to his words than others of the old kings.

He lightly kicked his steed up into a walk from the tarrying of the company, and his second hailed the guards as he approached, swinging down out of the saddle. It was well known that only the riders of the kings could pass into the city horsed, and his men dismounted likewise.

"Men of Gondor, this is Brimrar Havannion, Duke of the Marches of Aveleg. He bears a missive from the Maker-King of the Urêadûnaim, Ar-Adûnakhôr, for your queen, for her ears alone. May my company and mine have passage into your fair city?"

---

Irith Gebed, South Undeep

Tamruben glanced at the waters of the Anduin again, and sighed inwardly. Truly, she hated elves. Well, that wouldn't be fair. She didn't hate elves - but she was beginning to despise these elves.

The ship-master had assured her that even the sailors of the Noldor could scarcely know exactly how the storms would pass, or the winds turn upon the Beleaguer. It was normal that their arrival could be early or late, as the skeins of fate unfolded. So it was that Rademacher in his infinite wisdom had dispatched them two weeks early to the point where the elves were likely to disembark, and they now enjoyed the great privilege of waiting at this powerforsaken outpost with scarcely a shred of luxury for as long as it would take for the emissaries to appear.

It wouldn't be so bad if her escorts weren't so invincibly provincial. Nine in ten were military men, and they were dreadfully coarse, but the worst were the border guards. No war had threatened the Realm of the Sun out of the west for many lifetimes of men, and so the dregs which warded the passages of the Undeeps against an imagined foe surging out of the Riddermark were only fourth sons and wastrels who the Maker-King could not find any better use for. The rejects of the rejects, and they weren't afraid to let their bitterness show.

Maybe the next time that oaf Iversand took a swim in the river he would drown. Just so long as it was at least a good while before the emissaries from Lindon chose to show up; it would be an ill omen to overshadow the negotiations with death, even a death so mean and base as his.

[Meretica]

The Gates of Minas Anor, Gondor

They were impressive. Fah. He would give them that.

Brimrar had, at last, arrived at the city of the Ship-Kings, Minas Anor. It was a fine sight to see indeed, and finer still for the beautifully wrought gates of mithril - mithril! - which barred the entrance to the city. They were thrown back to allow the daily traffic of men and women out to the fields of the Pelennor, aye, but a wonder of the waking world still to be sure.

Again he reviewed the scroll in his hand. There had been much news from the eyes and ears who lived in this place. A steward departed, and the Queen alone. Perhaps Mahal looked on their errand with favor. The scion of the blood prayed it was so. This Lilómëien might be more amenable to his words than others of the old kings.

He lightly kicked his steed up into a walk from the tarrying of the company, and his second hailed the guards as he approached, swinging down out of the saddle. It was well known that only the riders of the kings could pass into the city horsed, and his men dismounted likewise.

"Men of Gondor, this is Brimrar Havannion, Duke of the Marches of Aveleg. He bears a missive from the Maker-King of the Urêadûnaim, Ar-Adûnakhôr, for your queen, for her ears alone. May my company and mine have passage into your fair city?"

At that moment, a servant of Cunnion-- the Steward's son-- called down from the ramparts:

"Hear me, O Men of Rhûn, sons of the Easterlings!
I bid thee enter the Gates of Minas Anor as children of the One True Queen;
Prithee, wayward soldiers, I pray ye enter and be warned:
The White Tower welcomes ye as long as thy tidings are not of war!"

There was a mighty shout, and then the gates of Minas Tirith began to open. A battalion stood at a short distance behind them, armed and ready should the strangers bring either ill tidings or troubles. At their helm stood a man that had withstood at least five dozen winters: strong and tall, he was, of the stature of the Númenóreans of ancient yore. This was the Steward's son, and he carried himself as such.

"Welcome," said he. "I am Cunnion, son of Barahir, son of Elboron, son of Faramir of the line of Húrin of Emyn Arnen. I serve in my father's stead, for he is away. Tell me, what business have you with the High-Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms, Lilómëien, daughter of Eldarion, son of Aragorn Elessar?"

[Meretica]

Afteryule 3, Year 220 of the Fourth Age in the reckoning of the Elves. Late Afternoon

in The High Elven Capital of Mithlond

King Ciryaher Eldacar

---

King Ciryaher Eldacar is drafting a letter to his eastern Neighbor, the Queen of Gondor, to inquire about the possibility of an alliance between the Kingdom of Lindon and the Kingdom of Gondor

---

Your Majesty, Queen Caledhelien of Gondor,

I am King Ciryaher Eldacar, of the High Elven Realm of Lindon. I am writing to inquire about the possibility of an alliance in trade and force of arms between our two kingdoms. If this is a possibility, do let me know, so that I can make preparations for the trip to Minas Anor as soon as possible.

Yours in coorispondance,

King Ciryaher Eldacar of Lindon

• • • A Message to the King of Lindon • • • The White Tower of Minas Anor • Minas Tirith, Gondor To His Majesty, Ciryaher Eldacar, King of Lindon, I bid Good Greetings! The Household of Her Majesty, Lilómëien, High-Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms, is curious for information as to what an alliance with lindon would entail, particularly regarding potential military aid. It is no rare fact that the younger brother of our dear High-Queen is attempting to divide the Reunited Kingdoms once more; it is the opinion of all in this household that this must not happen given the events following the last division of the Kingdoms. We hope that it will not come to that, however, and would seek all peaceful solutions first. Barahir of the House of Húrin The Steward of Gondor in Service to the Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms Author of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen Father of Cunnion and Grandson of Faramir the Just

Format belongs to Janpia

[Nimethel]

South Undeep of the River Anduin

The elven ship Mithalqua, bearing the three emissaries of King Ciryaher of Lindon, treads up the river Anduin, disembarking in the south undeep.

---

The Emissaries of King Ciryaher

"Ah, at last, finally, we have arrived. That ship voyage was uncomfortable at best."

[Ovstylap]

-snip-
"Of course, I do not force this upon you. The Maker-King seeks men for this purpose, but your purposes are your own; if your errand is so pressing that to speak of his offer to the men of Khand would be an imposition, this need not delay your travel. Will you take up this charge, Briktînd, lieutenant of Körthar?"

Briktînd Yórguç Gaddün, Tarin Barzul, Eastern Lithlad

Briktînd raised his eyebrows at the suggestion of the Lôke-Rim that his party might have been mistaken for wild men supporting the orcs (the Yrch), perhaps the mixture of wagons amongst the small column which was comprised of both mounted and dismounted men could well be mistaken for unaffiliated bandits on the move. Perhaps the white-gold serpent of Körthar on its black background was not particularly well-known amongst many Easterlings, after all they counted in the thousands of thousands. He listened to the man, and when he turned his horse, he realised the implication that he should follow. They trotted along the almost dried out ground as they entered into the camp around the fortress. In some parts the camp was more organised, these parts were belonging to the Golden Legion, though other areas were organised haphazardly where a variety of tribal levies had answered the call to arms and sought to establish the best spots.

The familiar site of piles of smouldering black bodies. Men in masks casting ashes and white sand into the ditch. As they entered through the gate, passed through ranks of golden scale-plated soldiers, and past men repairing the gate, Briktînd was impressed by the sheer scale of the forces involved, and knew that this was but a fraction of what the Easterlings could gather. Dismounting and handing his reigns to his escort, he followed the Lôke-Rim into the main hall and watched as a dead Yrch was dragged pass him after having been taken out from the cellars. He was taken to an older man, who despite his wise eyes, slightly weathered skin, and the blend of both long-term fatigue and dedication to duty, still had black hair. Briktînd waited, looking at the breastplate belonging to the man, whilst he was introduced by the Lôke-Rim.

He was introduced as a sworn-sword of Great Warlord Körthar, whilst the man appraised him, before speaking:
"Good master trader, I thank you for coming. I am Lord-Commander Avilar, First Sword of the Stalwart Second. It is well that you came south now, rather than a few days earlier. Then you might not have had the luxury of peace, for my men were scouring the hinterland for fleeing Yrch and their mannish accomplices, and steel might have been exchanged hastily ere fault was realized. But!"
Briktînd nodded as heard those words, timing is indeed everything. Still, he reckoned they would have been able to stay the attack by virtue of their common tongue. The man made a gesture that Briktînd would usually associate with coin and so he listened closely.
"We shall not speak more of ill chance which did not come to pass. It is well that you have passed me and mine. As sworn servants of the Sun and Stars, my master has bid me give you a gift - a gift which comes with an understanding." He considered this, and expected at first some sort of token from the Maker-King, perhaps a sword, or a steed, something to ingratiate his vassal with. Instead, a chest was produced, and a clinking pouch was drawn from it, which he then placed on the table with a 'thunk.' Instinctively, he reached forward, before being stayed by the man's finger.

"This is the Emperor's coin. I give it to you in trust of his will; you travel to the land of the Variags, and for this reason you receive it. It is the will of his Imperial Majesty that stout men and true be summoned from the lands of our kinsmen, to be given the stewardship of the marches about the fortresses such as this, to hold and defend it against the return of men of disorder and the Yrch. If you recruit such men, you are to give them three thalers and two nobles in weregild from this pouch for their hardship in coming west." He paused briefly, smiling.
"But the Maker-King would not only expect this for the good of your oaths. For every man so recruited who enters the rolls of the faithful and is reported to Armenalith at the eave of the tithe, those who induced their migration shall receive a stout reward of their own, ten thalers or a brace of good horse, as is their will."" He then pushed forward the purse.
"Of course, I do not force this upon you. The Maker-King seeks men for this purpose, but your purposes are your own; if your errand is so pressing that to speak of his offer to the men of Khand would be an imposition, this need not delay your travel. Will you take up this charge, Briktînd, lieutenant of Körthar?"

Briktînd took a deep breath, and puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. He nodded a few times in thought, and then tilted his head to the right and down. He let out a 'Harumph' of breath. He had been tasked by his own Warlord, to whom he was sworn, to gather men from the Variags for his own purposes, convincing them practically on word and opportunity alone. Here instead was a chance to convince Variags, including those of good standing, to come and serve a wider purpose for the Realm. Ultimately, if the Marches were settled with men of the Sun and Stars, then the area would become more secure, and trade would grow, as the various isolated human settlements could grow more, and perhaps those descendants of the slaves of Sauron would themselves become aligned to the Maker-King. A wider purpose. A greater purpose. The opportunity to for coin. A lot of it as well.

Briktînd nodded again, looking at Lord Commander Avilar. He bowed deeply. "I, Briktînd Yórguç Gaddün, on behalf of my master the Great Warlord Körthar, accept this charge. I only humbly request to see if the army of the Maker-King gathered here might be willing to supply us some fresh mounts, so that more of our men might ride as would befit a party representing our Maker-King, and that our own wounded mounts and more severely wounded men might be given into the care of this force- the horses to be kept, the men to stay here until our return?" He inclined his head in humility and then looked up to await his response.

If men of Khand followed him, then perhaps even a handful might be befriended and persuaded to come to Zagh Burzum, but the wider serving of the Maker-King's wishes himself, should hopefully ingratiate his own liege with his ultimate ruler, and the embellishment of the party with real coin would still be appreciated. Yes, Körthar should be reasonable enough, and understand Briktînd taking up this duty.