The Lord of the Rings RP [IC]

[The Overlord of Spree]

Somewhere in Rhudaur...

Kel'Thuzad headed the column of his marching group. Fifteen cultists, armed with spears, and ten barrow-wight possessed bodies, armed with axes, followed their master eagerly. They had two carts with them, one full of food and other supplies, and the other full of Kel'Thuzad's wealth and precious alchemy guild, among other dark things. The trudged along on the forest road, marching at a slow pace. It made no difference how fast they marched to Kel, for the Lich enjoyed long slow walks, especially in the moonlight. Despite being dead, the Lich still had some of his old romantic self. It was nice this time of day. The sun was bright and the tree blew gracefully in the wind.

The party continued to march, and they marched, and marched, and marched. It was nearly four hours before they reached the end of the Trollshaws. While his cultists sighed about not stopping, the Lich carried on. In the distance he saw a marching column. Elves wearing leather and cloaks of blue, except for one man, who wore plate and chain. Rangers? thought Kel. No, they cannot be rangers, the elves don't range like the Dunedain. His curiosity was peeked, what were these elves and one man doing out here, marching along the road? Kel'Thuzad was determined to investigate. He began to hover over to the small group. He approached the elven woman at the head of the column and introduced himself, "Greetings, Elf, what brings you to the forests of Rhudaur on this fine spring day?"

[Limborg]

Mirkwood
Glóin looked suprised when he was told that he had been walking in the wrong direction, "That's what you get when you don't build roads" he snirked, not wanting to admit that he simply forgot the way. He then slowly changed his atittude back to friendly, "This isn't the first time indeed, A long time ago i wanderd these paths, on a mission wich would still scare people all over Middle-Earth. Your father knows all about it. I'm Glóin, son of Gróin, son of Farin, son of Borin, son of King Náin II, son of King Óin, son of King... guess who.... Glóin" he said laughing. "I could continue if you wish but looking at your age you probably haven't heard of them." he quickly added. "I need a guide to Lothlórien, I need to get to my cousin as quickly as possible." he then said on a more serious tone.

The Kindom of Erebor and The Iron Hills
The military commanders of the great halls had laid down their plans. they had made those with the permission of Dáin, who had gone on a mission to whipe out the last Dragons.
First of all there where the defenseworks, now with Dor Daidelos falling under their territory they had to make sure it was fortified. Besides that they also felt Erebor had use for extra protection against any forces. And so orders where given and workers started to carve out more towers.
On another matter, troops where being placed, carefully selected to each fortress, this ended up as followed:
The Lonely Mountain
300 Erebor Champions
7,000 Infantry
3,000 Archers

The Iron Halls
700 Iron Guards
4,000 Infantry
2,000 Archers

Dor Daidelos
4,000 Infantry

---

Upgrading The Lonely Mountain with 2 ballista Towers
Upgrading Dor Daidelos with 4 Archer Towers
Claiming the region east of Ered Mithrin

[Liecthenbourg]

The Bandit's Cave, Mirkwood
Durnazag held the torch tightly, for it provided illumination upon the Bandit's Cave that would otherwise be black, black as the hearts of the Elves who had killed his people long ago. He could imagine it now, just outside could have been the location of the death of Chieftain Gornoc as he led the Gong assault into the Elven ranks, through bravery and loyalty he did so and he paid for the victory with his life. It was dreadfully tragic and even an Evil creature like Durnazag held respect for his long dead Chieftain, someone he had never even met.
Following the paths carved by the Bandits, alongside signs written in horrendous Westron, Durnazag advanced throughout the inner caverns of the Cave, torch in hand and Blade Black in the other. Silence, it too filled this cave - only the crackling of the fire on the torch and the sound of Durnazag's footsteps upon the cobbled path created any noise. Thankfully, for Durnazag would have gone mad walking in utter silence, ever the feel of multiple eyes upon his person. Suddenly, as he crossed a shallow stream he heard voices, barked commands in the tongues of men emitting from furthern within the cavern. He cursed inwardly and thought of removing the light from his torch, but his night vision, hand in hand with vision in the dark (He assumed), was no good. Doing all that he could, he placed the torch into a small crack in the cave wall, it fitting in nicely as he drew his composite bow. His breathing slowed and he dabbed several arrows with potent poison, before fitting one on his bow and pulling back the sinew bowstring. Turning the bow to one side, holding it at a slight angle, he waited for the man to walk into his field of vision. He did. Off went the arrow, it whizzing through the air and inserting itself into the leg of the bandit.
"Damn!" the Bandit cursed. "I'm going to have to be a guard now!"
Durnazag did not falter however and he pulled back the bowstring once more. For my people, he thought as the arrow left the bow. Blood poured from the forehead wound that had formed on the Bandit and Durnazag merely spat upon the corpse, one less obstacle in his quest. He placed the bow upon his back, atop his quiver and picked up the crude torch once more. He continued his journey throughout the cave, walking through the area the (now deceased) bandit had come from.
Minutes seemed like hours, now the silence being broken by odd dripping off water, alongside the fire and footsteps. A symphony of elements, quite a beautiful thing to behold. Durnazag had no time for that however, for his quest was too important for him to be distracted by common pleasantries. Now he came upon a well carved out room, with several torches illuminating it, causing him to cast his aside for he did not need it to see the bandits within their own "home". He did not wish to use his bow now, for his anger raged inside him like the fires of Mordor. So he did what an Orc did best - he drew the Blade Black and charged, lopping the head off of an unaware bandit. For our Freedom. He turned, slamming the mighty weapon into the stomach of another, causing the Bandit to drop his weapon and fall limp to the floor. For Sauron. The last Bandit drew forth a bow and fired an arrow that impacted upon Durnazag's shoulder. The Gong roared monstrously and looked at his blade and, not thinking, instinctively threw it at his assailant, pinning him to the wall as he slowly bled out. Durnazag bit into the arrow, his mighty teeth pulling it out of him before he too pulled out his blade from the bandit archer. For the Gongs.
After tying a piece of cloth he had ripped off of one of the bandits tunics around his shoulder, Durnazag began to search for the bow that he was sure was stashed here. Chests opened, crates torn to shreds, but only small plunder and gold could be found - which he collected obviously. As he was going to give up hope, believing his gut instinct to be false, he saw a unique chest. Protected by a lock it was, that is, until he slammed foot into it and caused the rusty piece of smithery to snap off. Carefully, for a creature of Evil, he lifted the oak lid of the chest. His eyes opened wide, if he was a man he would have had tears, for the weapon of his ancestors was there. He picked up the ancient but beautiful composite bow and placed it too upon his back. For our Pride

[G-Tech Corporation]

Depths of Amon Lanc

A sound echoed to and fro in the deep caverns, and Mahor gripped his sword tightly. Like dry scales rasping on rock, it came from just ahead of him, low to the ground. With a slow movement he pulled a bitumen-soaked torch from a holster on his back, and struck it in to flame. A toss, the light spinning through the gloomy stale air, and then he saw them. Low hunched figures clutching crude spears before him, each as black as midnight, twisted and grotesque, yet strangely beautiful, as if essays in a craft not yet finished. But a master must have molded them indeed, a master studying his art. Each cowered back from the harsh red light of the torch, and behind him the Rhunic soldier heard arrows being notched. The curious taunt twang of drawing bows reverberated loud in his ears, twining with the muffled thump of blood. Then a voice, strange and different to the ears of Mahor, came to him from beyond the creatures. Like the rustling of sheets in a silken bed it was, not at all the sound he expected from these twisted creatures.

"Halt, strangers, or perish."

Mahor grinned, ready for battle, the lust for blood under his blades rising in his breast. It was Black Speech though, which gave him pause. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a patrol of the master of this fortress, and it would do ill to offend one's host so. Still, these looked little like any Orcs he had ever seen; where the spawn of Melkor were wretches, deformed, terrible, these were more tragically beautiful. All sharp angles and cruel hooked features, but ordered, not like the scar-bound melted clay of the Yrch had been upon the potter's wheel. He lowered his sword not, but his voice rang loud in the chamber.

"Who are you to bar my path, voice in the shadows? I am Mahor, son of Maj, of the lineage of the True Men. Show yourself."

A hushed rustle passed through the beings facing the Rhun-men, and if anything their spears were gripped tighter. Quiet anger showed in their midnight irises, but a low laugh came from over their heads. Marginally the creatures relaxed.

"Who indeed. I am Celduy, Moonspeaker of the Mewlips, and these are my halls. By that right alone you are the trespasser, Mahor, son of Maj, not I."

Mahor's hand grew tight about his sword at the refined voice. An Elf-witch, perhaps, seeking to bewitch him. The moment stretched.

"Tell me, Mahor, son of Maj. Do you serve the true power of Arda?"

He gritted his teeth.

"I serve no man save myself, though the Lord Sauron is the master of my master."

Another chuckle greeted his words.

"Ah, a mortal, how curious. Know that before your Sauron was a Lord, Melkor the great and terrible was his master still. Melkor we serve. Melkor molded us, formed us, gave us breath and life. But you shall be spared, for he is the Drowned God now only, and the Fire-Bearer is his voice upon Middle-Earth."

Before the Rhun-men the spear bearing creatures lowered their spears, and a figure like the glistening blossom of twilight stepped between them. She- for a she it was- was tall and graceful, like an elf almost in form. Smooth and ebony her skin seemed, and yet it drank in all the light around her, throwing it back in a cold light of pure white as the moon reflects the sun. Mahor felt very suddenly as an oaf and a buffoon, blundering about upon this lady's dominion like a yearling child at play, his hands unrefined blocks of clay done by an earnest but entirely blockheaded sculptor. Her eyes though, the eyes of Celduy, their irises were the deepest scarlet, the color of fresh blood. A cool smile bathed over him.

"Tell me, child of Maj, why do you walk the ancient passages, where we have lived for a time and a half? None have trod here for a century and more, though we hear the rumor of war above."

Her eyes almost seemed to know the answer already, and Mahor could scarcely believe this strange vision of splendor and might was of the kin of the Orc.

"I... I was sent here, by a wise woman. She said here was where my path led me. And I trust the gods, they guide my steps."

A thin eyebrow, almost effervescent in the gloom, quirked upwards.

"Fate, then, perhaps, weaves our tapestry. My people are tired, man of the East, of these dank halls, these still passages. New works they crave, new wonders. The world turns, and what was once may come again. It was told to me in a dream that a man, of a blood burned, a people slain, might come to lead forth my Mewlips, my Underfolk, to a new dawn. I wonder if the Speaker sent you to me, or if fate alone is the spinner."

Mahor found himself nodding, and then in a moment he heard another man speaking. Btharm, his scout, was talking to the vision of a land south, with broken crags, many ores, and cool vales. The East-Man considered. Yes. That must be his destiny. The cool scarlet eyes embraced him, and at dawn the host of the Underfolk set out, emerging from a long-forgotten gate to the dungeons of Amon Lanc. South they journeyed, as Orcs and men looked on in wonderment. To the Emyn Muil, the lost folk journeyed, under the watchful eyes of Mahor and his men.

Cameth Brin, Rhuduar

Arpharazon turned, sword whirling like a glittering beam of light in the morning air, and with a harsh clash his blade met that of Haromnar, his sparring companion. Both were youths, dark of skin and jolly of disposition, but Arpharazon's light gold hair was radiant in the dawn, while his friend's glinted the darkest of night skies. Through the pattern-dance they wove, the exercises every swordsman worth their salt walked to keep their muscles and responses keen, one blade rising, one falling, a ceaseless rhythm. Like a twining snake they were, and some admirers the two gathered; pretty girls from the nearby town in the ruins of the ancient capital, one or two merchants' guards from the south. Even the aged and scarred men had to nod at the skill indolent in both fencers; without mutual restraint and a parity of ability, either would have been cut to ribbons in an eyeblink, so fast did each fight, a sword in every hand. Disengaging, turning blades, feinting, slicing, razor-sharp lunges and light-footed pirouettes away from sharp pointy objects. By the time the sun had risen above the horizon entirely both youths were covered in sweat, and at long last the hour-man rang out the time, and each stayed their blows. Muscles pleasantly warm from the exercise, each grinned fiercely at the other.

"You'll never get the best of me with that off balance butcher's knife, Haromnar."

"And your only hope of taking me is if the sun dazzles me coming off your pretty locks, Arpharazon."

Each good-naturally trotted off towards the mead hall, to get some morning meat. The hunting trip last week had gone well, and there was ample roast boar for even growing lads.

Shargaleb, Rhun-Variag Borderlands

Har-Garshom nodded to the once-King, but frowned.

"My liege, I would follow you. My sword and those of my kin are yours, as you know; when you saved my ancestor, Har-Taldan, from the swords of the Straw-Heads in the Battle of Jevard, you earned my house's alliegance until time itself shall end. But there are many who are not convinced marching west is not in our best interests, who have chosen new chiefs, who no longer honor our ancient oaths. The clans are fickle; they crave blood, power, and will follow only those who prove their martial might. I recall your prowess only too well, but many here have forgotten."

The swarthy chief rubbed his nose, contemplating the quandary.

"There may, however, be a solution." spoke the man slowly.

"The Bow-Time approaches soon. If your majesty were to triumph, defeating all comers, or even most, I am certain I could rally the chiefs. We would march in a force not see since the day of old, and even the Khuzah, the Elder Bow that you could not win before your ascent to the throne, would answer to your power. With it in hand all would acknowledge your rule, and we could sweep the Westerners before us, as is proper."

Skirts of the South Greenwood

In to the deep pile of small rocks and cement the burgeoning mountain troll slammed the great stone slab, and Karnath grinned, displaying crooked yellow teeth. North still the forces of the Dark Lord marched, paving the Blackway towards Amon Lanc, so the forces of darkness may be joined, a tide of night to engulf those who would embrace rather the despicable heat of day. The few woodsmen and their families that had once lived here had been slain or enslaved, and those men of a more reasonable disposition promised security as small outkeeps rose near their villages. The marching hosts of Mordor had convinced them of the truth of this statement. Ahead the Orc overseer could make out the outline of the great dark forest, and he grinned again; the prize was almost at hand, and he was happy to serve the Great Eye.

[Palonitr and Howland]

Erebor
Durindon and Hwin gathered 500 pieces of gold and 50 dwarves for their company. Many dwarves gathered to see them off . Hwin had worn his old armour from year back while Durimdon wore his famous blacked steel armour made with fires fuelled by burning orcs.The rest of the 50 dwarves all wore iron and leather armours. Durin counted that he had 5 archers while the rest carried axes or swords. Hwin carried a greatsword and he himself carried his warhammer. They were to go to Lothlórien were they would find the elven lady Galadriel whom would give them information on how to find Gandalf the Grey. He looked around and started his speech.

" People of Erebor, we the Company of Black Steel, shall go and assist our friend Balin and will secure Khazad Dum for us. We shall retrieve back our ancient halls from Durin's Bane. One way or another we will defeat that beast," Durindon climbed up his pony," We shall attempt to catch up with our friend Gloin in Mirkwood, we ride now. FOR KHAZAD DUM!!!" They road out to Mirkwood on full speed

[The corporate states of Astavar]

Diplomacy:
Entering the Vast Capital city of Rhun with spires and towers reaching far into the sky the Palace was overall the largest building Made from Dark Obsidian it was massive A true sight to behold

The dwarfs were brought before king Abbadon the Tyrant Abbadon was wearing a half-plate that covered his face and body he had his advisor talk for him

Advisor "what is it you wanted dwarfs?"

Leader dwarf "well we came on the request of king dain and to visit our brothers in the Red mountains we are here to Negotiate a Non-aggression pact with Rhun here"

Advisor "whisper whisper ah yes good my king very good my king has two conditions if these are met you will be able to travel our kingdom but not without 1escort me... second is the non-aggression pact Abbadon accepts if you fulfill his condition."

leader dwarf "and what would that be?"

Advisor "you 5 will fight 15 slave orcs for the Entertainment of king Abbadon for the Non-aggression pact Second for the Free passage you will forge a Dwarves made armor of Highest quality for Abbadon"

Dwarf leader "we agree but let's make it a fair fight 30 orcs no less no more and yes we will forge you a Great suit of Finest Dwarves armor"

Expansion

The armies of Rhun were 3/4 of the way to mordor they have been instructed to march on the Emyn Muil and wait there for further instructions

20 thousand soldiers have now secured the regions between mordor and Rhun and thousands of Slaves have begun to construct a Road leading from the capital of Rhun To the road leading from mordor and dol guldor it is expected to be done in 2 months (on page 5)

OOC stuff: I have annexed the regions above the Ash mountains if the one handling the maps could ad that that would be great

[Black Marshes]

Outskirts of the Morgul Vale
The second great host of the Dead City had marched to the edges of the Morgul Vale, the valley echoing with their thundering march. They quickly reached their destination, and were brought to a halt, leaving an almost eerie silence in the air, before they began deploying an encampment with rusted shieldwalls and crude stakes in a similar manner of that of the Witch King's force. This would be the forward defence of Minas Morgul, and stood sentinel to the Morgul Vale.

Ithilien
The Witch King's army had treaded carefully through the thickets of Ithilien, watching cautiously for the Rangers and any signs of their camps. But they could not hide for long, for the Orc host had already begun their own war of attrition, fouling the waters of the land and collecting branches- the Rangers had no hope of seeing their coming doom.
The Witch King spoke with his master. "Dark Lord, it is I, your greatest servant, I desire the black powder of Numenor, with all its might, to lay waste to the lands of the Rangers. I ask of you that you send several barrels of the dust to the Dead City, so that I way prepare the scouring!"

Shargaleb, Rhun-Variag Borderlands
"The fools shall see the might of the Black One, and will learn to never defy my rule again. Lead me to these so-called 'leaders'- they shall all be dealt with, and the might of the East shall shadow the West!" Adunaphel was ready to reclaim his land, and would follow the chief. He spoke with his master.
"Lord Sauron, it is I, the Black One. It would seem the Khandish chiefs have forgotten their place- I shall correct this."

[Limborg]

Rhûn
The five Dwarves where led into the arena where the fight would take place, they wanted the fight before the smithing. If they died, at least then they didn't have forged an armor for a possible enemy in the future.
As they enterd a large crowd had gatherd, including the King of Rhûn.
At the front of the five there stood Dwalin with a warhammer, behin him there where Gimli and Thorin, both with axes, and thorin ofcourse with a helm made out of stone. After that there stood Dori and Nori. Dori held a large sword, and Nori two smaller ones. They stoood in a triangle formation. Then the bell rang, the gates opend on the other side and Orcs started to draw in. Dwaling swung around his great hammer, killing three of them instantly. Gimli and Thorin smahsed both two of them to the ground with their axes. Dori splitted one in half and Nori stabbed one to deat.
Not even 5 seconds had passed and already 9 of the 30 orcs lied dead on the ground. At this point, while fighting, the dwarves made a circel. Slowly they started to rotate it, each on turn they slayed a orc. This way with the turning, the Orcs had no chance of killing one of the dwarves. It took them only 4 minutes before the last Orc was decapitated by Dori.
The five dwarves walked out of the arena while being cheered to by the crowd.
For the rest of the day they rested.
The next day however they went to work, smithing an armour for the King of Rhûn. With Black steel and Red stones they worked. A helmet, dark as the night, with a mask in front of the face was made, it had dwarvish words spelled on it. The breastplate, just as dark, with red gems worked into it. Here they carved Dwarvensymbols in. In the end, three days it took to make the armour, but it had become great. Even Sauron would become jalous of this work. However, becouse the Dwarves knew that Rhûn could become an enemy in the future, they had made one small weakspot, one that could not be noticed. It lied in the chesplate, the place where the biggest red gem was set. There they used crappy Iron. It wasn't much, and without a doubt nobody would ever notice. but if the dwarves where about the face this King on the battlefield, they would know where to hit him.

[Valentir]

Forests of Rhudaur, Eriador
The creature spoke with an eerie voice, yet it was soothing, old, and full of wisdom. Sylvanas stared at the creature for a little while, pondering as to what it could be. It was obviously undead, for it had no flesh, no eyes, and no heart. It hovered humbly, patiently waiting for her to respond. It's tattered robes fluttered in the small breeze and it carried a small book in it's bony fingers. Sylvanas wanted to kill it, and take it's things, but that would be discourteous. Sylvanas bowed and spoke, "Greetings, um, thing. My group and I are marching to Cameth Brin to see an old friend. And what are you and your...companions doing on this fine day?" Sylvanas eyed the thing and waited for his response.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

An onion made a splashing sound as it hit the thick, yellow-brown surface of a stew, seemingly magnified by both the ruins surrounding it as the empty bellies it was meant for. Following the onion were pieces of garlic and kingsfoil. Cirion's riders, all thirty of them, were huddled together in the ruins of Osgilliath, eagerly awaiting the works of Brandon Pot, the rider with the most knowledge of cooking. While brandon mixed ingredient after ingredient, the men were getting more restless by the minute, culminating in some harsh remarks towards him and his art, as he called it.

'Kingsfoil? They feed that to pigs in Dale! It's a weed! I will have none of it!'

'Rabbit? Peasants food, that is! Not worthy of knights!'

'Your cooking is a greater threat to us than a fellbeast, you know.'

Each and every time, Pot answered the grievances in the same way. 'Quality above speed, gentlemen, knights of Gondor must understand this.'

Even after hearing this argument ten times over, there was no-one who could counter it, leaving thirty men disgruntled and angry over their stomachs. They could have eaten a horse right there, had it fallen cooked from the sky. Even Cirion, known for his patience and strong nerve in battle, was getting uneasy.

'Brandon, with all respect for your art, timing is as important as quality in battle, if not more so. Give me fifty Halflings and good timing, and I will do more damage than I could ever do with you, gentlemen, and bad timing'

Twenty-eight heads nodded in agreement, and turned to Brandon, who was still sitting there, on the remnants of a long-collapsed staircase. His spoon kept turning, and his gazed was fixed on his cauldron, as if he had reached a place far from the battlefields there had reached here.

'Yes, master Silverlight, I am sure you would. Then again, when talking about taste, the later is often the better. And, what could you do with good timing and quality combined? The Black Gates themselves would form no obstacle.'

Cirion raised his finger in response, but he was rudely interrupted by a spearman, who peaked around the corner of a ruined doorway to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. This spearman, clasping his pole-arm with two hands, closed his eyes to take up the smell now abundant in the open ruins of this home. He immediately recognized the bunch, and their cook, who had become fabled among cooks in other regiments. 'Hey, you are Brandon Pot! Our own Matthew talks about you as if you were Elendil himself, you know. Say, if you have anything left, could I...'

Before he could finish that sentence, a strong armoured hand had clasped his even stronger armoured shoulder. Dolmor Broadsword, nicknamed after his favorite weapon, towered over this lonely spearman, looking even more intimidating in his knightly armour than he did without. It was not without reason that he was Cirion's sergeant. His stature made warriors out of peasant recruits and merchant's children in no less than a week, more out of fear than anything else. It was said that only the fear of this one-eyed man drove the Silverlight Detachment into the enemy ranks, because they feared Dolmor more than any number of Orcs. It was apparent to the knights that this lone foot soldier knew about Dolmor, because he turned whiter than Minas Tirith when he saw his one eye piercing his soul. Before he could apologize, Dolmor started his tirade, which he normally held to new recruits of low quality.

'ORDACITY! BY THE GODS, HOW DARE YOU DISTURB THE RIDERS OF CIRION SILVERLIGHT! YEAH, PRETTY STUPID, ISN'T IT, SONNY? YOU BARGE IN HERE, INSULTING OUR COMRADE AND OUR CAPTAIN, AND YOU DARE BEG US FOR FOOD? NO, DON'T RUN AWAY, I'M NOT DONE YET! HAD WE BEEN FOUL HARADRIM HOARDS, WE WOULD HAVE COOKED YOU ALONG WITH THE RABBITS! BUT DO WE LOOK LIKE HARAD TO YOU? I. DID. NOT. THINK. SO. EITHER! NOW, HURRY BACK TO YOUR WARM INFANTRY BOSOM, BEFORE I PLACE YOU IN THE HIGHEST WATCH TOWER! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THE NAZGÛL AIM FOR FIRST, DON'T YOU?'

What followed was a rather silent 'yes, milord' followed by the fastest run these men had ever seen an armoured man make. They heard his plates cling together for another ten seconds before it fully disappeared. When the sound had fully died, Dolmor sat back down again, red with fury. He was applauded by his peers, who loved to see the anger of their sergeant aimed towards someone who was not them. The stew was done anyway, so they all formed a large circle in which they dined together. They shared the most wild stories, like they did every evening under dinner. This time, it was Halgast of Rohan, a former Rohirrim who had joined Gondorian ranks to fight orcs, who told the story. He told a tale of Fangorn Forest, where trees were looked over by walking creatures the size of buildings. Like every story, the soldiers loved hearing about it, but they knew deep down that is wasn't true. The thought of walking trees was too much for even these men, and soldiers were not known for their disbelief in certain tales. All this eating, all this laughing, hid the fact that they knew war was upon them. The Morgul Vale had been taken by forces of Evil, and it would not take long for them to reach Gondor proper. Wherever they attacked, Cirion knew that he would have to fight. The greatest battle of their time was upon them.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Ciroth Ungol, Mordor

Through the high pass through the secret tunnels marched the column sent from the Barad-Dur, at the request of the lieutenant of Sauron, the Witch-King of Angmar. Blasting fire, eldritch sorceries, they bore with them, between many great trolls. No flame came near, for disaster then would be their lot, but in the train was the power to level fortresses, crush kings, and lay low nations. A world built on stone and steel could be consumed by fire and dark magic, as was only fitting for the Great Eye. Not told of the power they bore were the Orcs guarding the shipment. They knew merely that the black iron spheres were a new weapon for the war, one that would shatter the men of the West as a hammer-blow shatters brittle pottery, and they were content in that knowledge. Now the weapon arrived at the lurid gates of the Tower of Sorcery, and soon all would be in readiness.

Orodruin, Mordor

With a flit of wind and the gust as of the air of a burning forge the shadow drew through the construction rising on a spur of the black obsidian stone of Mount Doom, candles guttering and fires flaring at its presence. Some of the smiths muttered as they worked, but only to the dark crucible passed the fell figure, the form of ash and darkness. There, in the indent in the floor, the volcanic stream of Orodruin was channeled. Heat as of a blast furnace, but hotter almost as unto the fires of Aule, the ancient master of the shadow, poured forth like a wave from the torrent of molten rock. No Orc or man who labored here could come near it; theirs was a more mundane task, turning the ores refined from the molten slag of the mountain in to cunning weapons of steel and iron to arm the forces of the Great Eye. No, all about the great obsidian crucible was bare, as if polished by a scouring inferno, and the shadow slowly hovered above the channel to the riven heart of the underworld. Upon a pedestal nearby stood two great gloves, forged by methods known only to their creator to withstand the utmost heat of Orodruin. In the light of the flame they seemed almost to be twin stars, casting heat aside as one throws off an old robe. Slowly the shadow coalesced about them, and they moved.

In the heart of the shadow deeper pools of midnight watched as the gloves moved, forging, refining.

There was much work to be done.

[Prusslandia]

Calemvir silently followed the column of orcs, unnoticed yet noticing. He had just mated with Shelob, and was currently on his way to greet Sauron the Glorious, and attempt to become allies with the Dark Lord. Stopping for a moment, Calemvir noticed a smaller goblin get left behind. Rubbing his chilicarae together, he silently sucked out the goblins internal organs and soft muscles in a semi liquid broth, before continuing on his way.

[Black Marshes]

Ithilien
The forests of Ithilien were ready for the Scourge- all that was needed was the finishing touch, the fine Numenorean powder with its explosive capabilities. The Witch King quickly steered his fell beast back towards the Dead City, where his barrels awaited him and their destiny with the Rangers.
Meanwhile, the Orc host continued its collection and dispersion of branches, leaves and the like in the more open areas of the forests, keeping one eye on the trees and the other on the ground as they held their shields ready, expecting an attack from any direction at any moment.

Minas Morgul, the Dead City
The Witch King's barrels had arrived safely in the Dead City, and were cautiously watched by Orcs with fear. The slaves of Minas Morgul had heard tales of the power of the dust, but were uncertain to their validity and truth, but nevertheless they kept their distance from the powder. The barrels were now ready for their new master, and would be used to glorious effect on the Rangers of Ithilien.

[Great Empire of Gamilus]

Ithilien, various locations

the Rangers silently watched the Orcs scutter about the forests, their own traps being laid down and dug while also quickly disposing of the leaves and other fauna being scattered to prevent a forest fire when the orcs left while more Rangers from Osgiliath were pouring in to hold different area's of the land.

alongside these traps several siege weapons, Trebuchets were also bought out to be used against the enemy, the jaggard ammunition for these weapons close at hand.

the Rangers would defend these lands for as long as needed, Osgiliath had been warned, now was time to stall.

(OOC:

)

..................

Harondor proper

Captain Auran's men had rested soundly during the night, the men well rested marched into the lands of Harondor, their armour polshed and banners held high as they passed a small settlement, establishing camp several leagues away as well as basic fortifications and large pits for the Mumakil to fall into. the soldiers of gondor lay claim to Harondor, and challenged the Southrons to come claim it.

(OOC: since I have launched the assault I can now bring in the reward for doing such?)
................

Osgiliath

Ganthos of Dol Amer, son of Boltern shoulder barged against the rubble, pushing it over the edge to land on the shore line of the river. this was being repeated on both sides of the river to block all access to the shoreline.

meanwhile over the city an additional one thousand infantry had arrived and helped in the construction of fortifications and siege engines (Trebuchets and catapults) as well as planning the defence.

..........

Gondor:

Minas Tirith upgrades its defences to the 10 point mark, cair ardous to 3 and Osgiliath to 3.

but considering the fact that Gondor has a ton of places for siege weapons they just build extra trebuchets to place on the wall.

[Palonitr and Howland]

Outside Mirkwood

Durindon and his company were nearing the dark woods of Mirkwood. He had heard from a few travelling dwarves on the road that they had encountered a dwarf they had described as Gloin. He had headed into Mirkwood on foot. As they rode their ponies, Durin thought of Moria and Balin. 'How have they faired there.' He thought

The ponies stopped at the edge of the forest. "It's as forboding as the last time I went through here. Leave the ponies, they shan't follow us. They will go back to Erebor themselves. Now we go on foot." Durin told his men. " Keep on yer toes, you can get lost as easily. Keep together as a group. And be careful, there are giant spiders here." Durin had a far away look in his eyes, "Among other things." Durin whispered quietly to himself.

[The Miaphysite Church of Coptic Archism]

Southern Eriador, Bandit Camp
The bandit leader, Gruth, a gnarl-faced half Orc, rolled the orb around in his hands, glaring at Wormtongue and his guards. Grima had been surprised by the ease he had had in finding leads, in fact he had found his way to the Palantir in virtually no time at all considering the circumstances. The only issue was how to acquire it from a 1,500 strong horde of Half-Orc Bandits and a scattering of wild-faced halflings. Gruth began to speak in a guttural tone. "So, you come from a great Wizard do you? Immense power, immeasurable potential?" Grima simply nodded as he knelt. Gruth grunted, staring at the orb in his hand. "And he wants my prize, does he?" Grima nodded once again.

Gruth put the Orb into a pouch on his person and glared at Grima. "My men are to raid a few villages soon, we will take the gold, kill the men and enjoy the women. You and your... entourage, will be joining us. You can show us your master's great powers there." Gruth paused, and Grima took in the words carefully. "If this Saruman is the great Wizard you claim, I will march my men down to this great tower and hand over the Orb myself." Grima nodded, it was all he could hope for. "If you are lying, we will kill you, we will take your valuables and we will dump your bodies in an unpleasant place of burial." Grima's already pale face whitened further. Gruth nodded as if showing approval of his own decision.

Grima rose from his kneeling position and spoke quickly, "You will not be disappointed with my master's power, great warlord." Gruth grunted and walked away, towards the loose group of cutthroats, ruffians, criminals and worse. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "It's time to have some fun boys! Grab your swords and let's go pillaging!" Grima looked into the sky, hopefully. He saw a single crow flying off into the distance. His very life depended on whether his lord, Saruman, would pull through with some magic from afar.

A small village, south Eriador
Grima and his Dunlandings snuck with the bandits towards the village. Gruth, who was sneaking near to where they were muttered "We'd better see some of that damned magic of your master's." Grima wholeheartedly agreed. Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, dark clouds seemed to gather in the sky. Grima could just faintly hear booming incantations, magical words which carried for leagues and brought power with them. Grima felt most relieved, it seemed his master was about to put on quite the show. The sky turned dark and rain began to fall, at first gentle but within a minute it was beating down in large globs and drenching everyone. CRACK. A sudden flash of light and a loud crackly bang rang out.

Then another, and another. Lightning fell from the sky like daggers, setting buildings alight, damaging the village's palisade and potentially killing some of the townspeople by the screams. Gruth's eye's widened. This was not natural. He raised his sword and shouted in the few words of black speech he had picked up simply by his race, his men doing the same. They charged the Palisade, simply a wall of logs set up to hold out wolves. The lightning had blown several holes in the wall and the bandits, and Grima, poured in. The lightning kept ringing out, smacking down on groups of the few organized defenders of the village. The fight was an absolute slaughter. Grima kept well away from the action, the Dunlandings dropping any locals who got too close for comfort.

The fight did not last long. Within an hour, the village women were being hauled into the buildings still standing by large men, accompanied by the laughter of others egging them on. Any adult men they found were put to the sword, what loot could be found was hauled off, and the tavern was ransacked for it's drinks. Gruth, half-drunk and with womanly desires satiated, laughed and patted Grima on the back, with a force that nearly toppled him over. "It looks like your Master is powerful after all!" Grima smiled and nodded. "Now, two more villages to get through before we march south for... what was it?" Grima quickly answered Gruth's question with "Isengard."

On the path to Isengard
Grima Womtongue marched solemnly alongside Gruth and his veritable army of bandits. It would not be long now until they reached Isengard. Saruman would surely be most pleased with the job Grima had done. He had found the Palantir, and was bringing it back along with a private army, and all in quite a short space of time. Grima knew not what Saruman wanted the Palantir for in the first place, but it was not his place to question his master's wishes. A crow's caw above shook him from his thoughts as he continued trudging down the path.

[The cold ice]

Some spot in Mirkwood
Legolas signaled for his men to go on without him, then turned to speak again with the dwarf. "Well, I heard of that adventure. You came to retake the mountain from Smaug, the terrible. A tale of many heroes.It would be an honor to escort one of that company out of the woods, perhaps beyond." Then, with a smirk, he added: "Even if only for hearing the tale, from someone who was there. There is a path some two hundred paces that way, and a clearing some long ways along it. We could make camp there by nightfall, or continue on at once. You can set our pace, and i can handle the direction.

Some other spot in Mirkwood
Rhûn was moving south. Thranduil could not believe it. What immense luck. Rhûn was moving south. The time had come to confer with King Bard and Dale, as the threat from the east was diminished, if nothing else. They needed to plan their moves, preferably in conjunction with Dain. Dol Guldur was his foe now, and perhaps the men of Dale could lend some much needed numbers. If the Rhûn-host moved back north, Thranduil could send some of his own elves to bolster Dales defences. Together with some of Dain's dwarves the city should hold easily. He sent a messenger to the dragon-slayer with a request to meet at the shores of Longlake, where they had met for the first time those several years ago.

[Black Marshes]

Minas Morgul, the Dead City
The Witch King's fell beast came to a crushing landing, allowing him to quickly dismount. It roared as he strode to where the powder had been stored, and inspected the mighty dust of Numenor. He grasped a mound of the powder with his armoured hand, allowing it to seep between his metal fingers.
"The dust of Numenor- so fine yet so deadly. Such a small, simply substance, ash that burns, with a force matching that of the Istari."
The Witch King was then interrupted by the arrival of his lieutenant- the Orc Gothmog.
"Gothmog, Captain of Morgul, ride out into the Vale of Morgul to where our forces lie in wait. Do this, and march on the wastes of Ithilien as they burn with the fires of Sauron himself!"
This was the Witch King's command, and he promptly left the chamber to find that several of the barrels were already waiting for his departure. He mounted his steed, and prompted it to take off, grasping the net that contained the barrels of powder.
The Rangers shall burn!

Ithilien
The Orcs had terminated their dispersion of the kindling and had built several hundred large piles of wood in the shape of bonfires. The Knights of Morgul had already left the forests, returning to the Vale, and the Orcs had just begun their march in the same manner, with tight-knit shieldwalls on either side of the column.

Orc Encampment, Entrance to Morgul Vale
The army stationed at the mouth of the Vale had begun the construction of several siege weapons and emplacements, from ballistae to catapults, preparing for the invasion of Gondor and the Purge of Ithilien.

[Of planets]

Dead Marshes
Eomer had a platoon of bowmen with him, 20 men who were steadily navigating the marshes with precision one would expect from the military. Eventually, a light came into view, it was a torch that shone red hot, nothing like their own torches. Eomer had the group put out their own torches and dive to the ground, one man fell into a bog and yet he did not scream out of duty to his unit. Fortunately, the marshes' smell was putrid enough to confuse that keen orcen sense of smell. Eomer had the men slowly get onto one knee, nook and draw an arrow and aim true. Eomer raised his arm and brought it down while yelling "Fire!" as the first volley of arrows shot into the darkness and several of the squat figures fell down and others snarled with their wide mouths. Eomer drew his sword with a clean rasp as it left the scabbard, he yelled "Men of Rohan, Fire at will and those with a blade form up on me!" In his authoritative voice knowing another group of men, mostly swordsmen, was nearby and would follow his voice. Eomer raised his own blade and began speedily making his way to the group of orcs with a dozen other men following in loose formations.

Edoras
Theoden was outraged, a survivor from an attack on his realm had just reached his gates and told him her story. Just under 2000 foes, lightning all but decimating their garrison and wholesale slaughter of competent troops who supposedly had become affected with tactical madness. Who could affect the minds of men so easily? Who could alter the fabric of reality to bring all the rage of Tulkas down from the sky? Theoden needed answers and decided upon getting them from the greatest wizard in Middle Earth; Theoden would take Saruman's counsel. Theoden and his guard of 500 Kings guard set out from Edoras travelling to Orthanc, home of the Istari. Theoden would have his answers

OOC: It hasn't been known as dagorland since before the destruction of sauron

[Liecthenbourg]

The Plains of Gorgoroth, Mordor
"And finally, I killed the last bandit with a throw of my Blade Black, before retrieving my Ancestral Bow!" This was the ending to the tale of the Gong's Pride and how Durnazag told his Orc and Uruk kin of his adventures. A mighty cheer came from the gathered Mordorians, each one lifting their rations of meat and bread into the air triumphantly.
Durnazag did the best smile a Gong could do and sat by the "table" once more, his teeth sinking into the flesh of the beef he was eating, produced from Rhun or somewhere. He couldn't care frankly, he just knew it tasted good. As he had finished eating, a helmed figure in a similar style to that of the Lieutenant of Barad-dur approached him and pursed his lips, before splitting them and beginning to speak the words of the Voice.
"Mighty Gong" he began, his cloaked arms trailing extravagantly into the air, as to add emphasis. "The Mouth of Sauron, wishes to speak with thee." The helmed figures head tilted to one side and his mouth formed into a mighty smile as he clasped his hands together. Durnazag nodded and the Numenorean showed him the way to the Lieutenants abode.

The Abode of the Mouth of Sauron, The Barad-dur
The Mouth of Sauron was rather content indeed, news had travelled of Durnazag's success and anything that lifted the spirits of the Gongs was good in his book and that of his Masters. Long ago, during the fall of Numenor the Mouth had been a proud Numenorean himself. A Governor of a Numenorean Coastal Settlement upon Arda, and he had been devastated by the sinking of Numenor. This was when Sauron came to him and informed him of the treachery of the Valar and that this is what he and his master Melkor had been attempting to stop - the ruthlessness of the "Gods". The Mouth could only agree as he aligned himself with Sauron the Great, ever wanting the vengeance of his people.
The Lieutenant held the knife and fork gracefully, separating a joint of meat from its bone with precision. His table was grand indeed, for he and the Black Numenoreans ate like the Kings of Gondor here. Piercing the meat with his fork, he began to eat the succulent pork. "His" vision trailed, looking at what else was upon the table in their shadowy form. (For you see, the Mouth saw like the Nine, sacrificing his vision and entrusting it upon Sauron); delicious melons, appetizing seafood and rich wines from Rhun, bread from the grains of the fertile areas of Haradwaith and meat, meat galore from Khand's vast grazing area. After his mighty feast, though he himself did not eat much anymore, he grabbed a hold of the greatest thing to come from Rhun, tobacco. He inserted the leaves into his ivory pipe, a fine construct heavily detailed with the tale of Numenor and lit it with a match, sucking in the addictive smoke before breathing it out again.

Durnazag walked through the beautifully detailed architecture of the Dark Stone in this part of the Barad-dur. He approached two large obsidian doors, which he opened hesitantly. He was greeted by a warm "Welcome, sit" from the Lieutenant in-between his smoking.

"My Lord" Durnazag began "You wish to see me?"

"Yes, I have a task for you" the Mouth stood up, staring off into the distance through a window. "Several more Gong tribes have become known to our Master, Sauron the Great. He instructed me to inform you to visit these tribes, to the East Gongtown, as to unite them under the Eye of Mordor"

Durnazag stared at the Mouth - was this a joke? More of his people? Surely, wonderful news indeed. "I shall depart at once" was his only response, leaving the Mouth to his own company.

The Marsh Borderlands
As the first Orcs fell, a mighty horn was sounded. The Horn of Mordor. Even Orcs weren't dumb enough to not notice where arrows were flying upon and so, with crude swords and axes at their disposal forged in the fires of Mordor, the remaining 97 Snagae Orcs charged towards the advancing Rohirrim making cackles most foul. Their captain too remarked on how he'd enjoy feasting upon Rohirrim flesh. From across the swamps and marshes, trudging through the boggy terrain, charged 200 Snagae Orcs from both flanks of the Rohirrim Forces, snarling mouths and lust for blood and battle overtaking their senses. 20 Archers from both armies halted, unsheathing their crude bows and firing into the mist ahead of their own forces. The battle for the Marsh Borderlands had begun.

[Limborg]

Mirkwood
"Very well then, lets move" Glóin said. As they walked through the dense Woods and small paths Glóin started to tell the story, "It all started 248 years ago, Smaug the terrible had attacked Erebor, for the gold and gems it was. Balin told me the stories he had heard. Balin was only 7 years old at the time. It was a dark day for Dale and Erebor, Death could be smelled from miles when the Dragon had pillaged the Mountain...." Glóin said. He continued to talk about he early days and even a big part of his own youth in the Blue Mountains, Dunland and the Iron Hills. That same night, at the camp, he finally arrived at the more important matters... "For many years my kin fought the orcs of the Misty Mountains, so long it started to take a toll on all of us. Eventually, after a council between all of the Dwarven Kingdoms we desided to march on Khazad-Dûm ourselves. We had support from all Kingdoms and therefor we had many men, I was 16 then, i was there as one of the youngest dwarves. Upon arrival, we had no idea what we would face. We had no idea we would be outnumberd 10, 20 or even 30 to one. Anyhow, we had gatherd just outside Lothlórien, the elves who where not very happy with our desision. but in the end they had no choice but to let us proceed. The battle was hell brought to earth, i can't discribe the horrors we have seen at that battle. Many strong men died there. King Thráin II's son, Frerin got killed in the battle. The father of Balin and Dwalin, Fundin, also died in the battle. Then there was King Náin, father of Dáin. Náin took up the fight with Azog, a white orc who led the enemies. In that fight he go killed. At that moment there was young Dáin, who finally killed the White Orc and with that the enemy routed, crawled back into the depts.
King Thráin II wanted to continue the fight in Moria, but we had enough, we lost many men and there where no Dwarves who had the energy or spirit to continue. We knew what creature was lurking in Khazad-Dûm, and we where with to few to handle a demon of old. King Thráin II, who started the war, eventually, after many years, departed us on a quest to the Lonely Mountain. Balin, Dwalin and some others went with him. But somewhere, here in these forests, he went missing, captured by the Darkness... Balin can tell you all about it if you are willing to travel with me to Khazad-Dûm" He told. Eventually it took roughly three days for Glóin to tell his story, it eventuall ended right where they where. He even told how he met Legolas, while Legolas was probably still the only one who actually listend to the story. He told about everything, from the death of Smaug, to the death of Thorin II Oakenshield, Fili and Kili, even the funerals where told. No detail was left out. One thing in the end was sure, there was nothing wrong with Glóin's memory.

[Of planets]

Dead Marshes

As the superior orc force charged in, a flight of arrows was loosed on the front of the horde, dropping another knot or two of the devils. Eomer threw his spear as the melee began, striking a hobgoblin in the chest and incapacitating him. Eomer then quickly gripped his sword with both hands and lashed out at the nearest orc with surprising speed considering his armour and catching him in the stomach, killing him. Another orc slashed at Eomer viciously, Eomer parried and resisted the shock going down his arm before he again struck and lopped off the orc's head. The rohirrm behind him had formed a backing-up line and drew their spears, fending off the larger group of orcs. Eomer retrieved his spear and hacked his way towards the rank of his men. Eomer and the group began tearing open orc guts as they were steadily forced back in their close file.

Just as all was looking bleak for Eomer's group, and the horn of retreat was about to be called, another flight of arrows struck the ever-encroaching flank of the orc forces, some 50 more archers stepped into view, now capable of supporting the rohirrm as the 15 or so archers from Eomer's original group exchanged volleys with the orcen archers. Eomer decided that, despite the fight's going quite well, it would have to be ended soon. Eomer fought his way to the position of the orc leader and delivered an exploratory jab to it's abdomen with his spear in his right hand and his Rohirric sword as a backup in his left and a shield on his back.

[Liecthenbourg]

The Marsh Borderlands
The Orc Captain chuckled heavily, his heavy shield taking the initial hit, driving Eomer back with a counter spear thrust, before he too pulled back, his position filled by several more expendable Snaga.
The Horns of Mordor sounded once more with their tone being two fold, not the traditional long drawn out warn horn heard everywhere from the Sea of Nurn, to Angmar in the days of old. Runners had arrived from behind the original force, sent forth by Vazturan as a way to communicate rapidly. The command was clear and the Snaga Orcs began their organised - yet rapid - retreat back along the path and some even trudging through the swamps and marshes to their flank.
The Battle was a game of chess it would seem, but Vazturan had an advantage, for Eomer had cast aside some of his pieces.

Initially: 500 Snaga Orcs
Dead: 43
Wounded: 11

Remainder: 446

[G-Tech Corporation]

Borders of the Marshes

High above the smoking fens and warm air of the marshes, the Fell Beast swooped. Massive pinions the size of men drove leathery wings to bear the creature aloft, and atop it a hooded and cloaked figure watched the ground with eyes that were not eyes, only darkness. It was he who had warned the army below of the approach of the golden-haired sons of Eorl, and now the jaws of the trap were closed firmly about the reckless Rohirrim. Down he came, sword glinting in hand, and a shriek that froze blood filled the air. Not towards the tumult of battle farther east did he fall, but towards a far more useful target.

Below, on the ground, moving four abreast by a hidden path, Sharkar sniffed the breeze. Above he could hear the shriek of the Nazgul, and his heart quailed, but it was the signal he had been waiting for. Just ahead was the prize, and with a harsh cry the column thudded forward. Deep pools were to either flank, but ahead was the border of the marshy ground, where the servant of Sauron had spotted the horses that gave the Horse-Lords their strength. With that shout the mass of snapping wolf-beasts plunged ahead, legs strong and carrying them surefooted along the path. Then the mist cleared, and there they were; chestnut mares, great strong geldings, stallions of note. All barely guarded by the view men of Rohan that had been set to take care of the animals. Some of the blonde-hairs he saw, crying out a warning, but then his beast was in the melee, jaws of a predator closing around necks, his sword slashing and gutting the poor animals. Without their riders they were barely better than dumb beasts, and though he had to dodge a hoof from a rearing gelding, the carnage was thick about him. Wolves they were, wolves among sheep, and though some his fellows had to turn off to deal with the guards, the scant handful here remaining were no match for their adversaries. The mere dread of the servant of Sauron had caused several to cast away all weapons and flee mindlessly west, seeking for any respite from the cloying fear.

A crash came nearby him, and he turned to see two animals borne aloft in the talons of the Nazgul's mount. Fierce did his heart run at that sight, the scent of offal and the iron tang of spilt blood in his nostrils as the slaughter unfolded. It was several miles to the place where his brothers fought the army that had been sent in to swamps, foolishly believing themselves to be somehow in control of this land. Marching columns of Orcs too were coming up behind along the paths, many hundreds strong, and now Rohan would learn their lesson in meddling in the affairs of their betters.

1 Nazgul (mounted on Fellbeast)
200 Wargriders

[The Overlord of Spree]

Forests of Rhudaur, Eriador
The creature spoke with an eerie voice, yet it was soothing, old, and full of wisdom. Sylvanas stared at the creature for a little while, pondering as to what it could be. It was obviously undead, for it had no flesh, no eyes, and no heart. It hovered humbly, patiently waiting for her to respond. It's tattered robes fluttered in the small breeze and it carried a small book in it's bony fingers. Sylvanas wanted to kill it, and take it's things, but that would be discourteous. Sylvanas bowed and spoke, "Greetings, um, thing. My group and I are marching to Cameth Brin to see an old friend. And what are you and your...companions doing on this fine day?" Sylvanas eyed the thing and waited for his response.

"Ah, Cameth Brin, a nice little hamlet, quiet and serene. I used to talk long walks in the evening towards Cameth Brin, but sadly those days of walking are in the past. Now let me introduce myself, I am Kel'Thuzad, the Lord Lich, and Baron of Rhudaur." Kel'Thuzad swirled around and bowed, taking his free bony hand and taking the elf's hand, and laying a small dry kiss on her delicate skin.