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

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu May 21, 2015 7:46 am

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Our tale takes us to Middle-Earth, dear listeners. A land of beauty and wonder not seen in our realm of existence. Kingdoms of Men most noble exist in these lands, chivalrous Gondorians and the Rohirrim Horse Lords; mighty bastions of good. Within their halls of stone and under mountains old dwell the Dwarves, a proud people with whom the world watches enviously, for their mounds of wealth are plenty and theirs. In forests yonder with music, art and song have the age-old Elves made a home, a race of peace and tranquillity that will do all to defend what it has. Finally, the Hobbits most fair reside in their small dwelling; the Shire. They are a peaceful folk, not willing to get involved within the diplomacy and tidings of the other peoples of Arda.

All is not well upon Middle-Earth however, for after an eon of waiting, the Dark Lord Sauron; Servant of Morgoth, has returned. He brings with him fire and malice to conquer the lands of Men, Dwarf, Elf and Hobbit and will do all in his unquestionable power to seize the territories that he believes are rightfully his, to bring forth an order of excellence and efficiency, to succeed where his master could not. To his South reside the Haradrim, or Southrons in our Western-Tongue, tribal confederations aplenty united in their hatred for the Men of the West. To his North we find the powerful and militaristic Easterlings, Men of Rhun who have themselves brought Gondor onto her knees innumerable times. Saurons numerous legions are filled with Orcs, creatures that themselves are testimony to the defiance against Eru Ilúvatar and Sauron will unleash them upon Arda when he is ready.

Long ago, Sauron forged a mighty tool: The One Ring. He lost this weapon long ago - at the final battle of the War of the Last Alliance. Now he yearns for its return and will stop at nothing to get it to assist him in his quest for unification and conquest of Arda and funnily enough, it has ended up in the hands of a young Hobbit. Now, now is when the time is to strike for both parties, to end the stand off once and for all.

In the East Mordor and her countless evil men allies march, the Last War readied. Since the Dark Lord sent forth his hosts in TA 2998, much of the lands of the Free Peoples have been lost. After a bold counter-attack and desperate defense Osgiliath is fallen, and the hosts of the Great Eye have forced the Crossings of the Anduin at the Tower of the Stars, Cair Andros, Pelargir. The forces of the evil have bridged the river at Tol Brandir and the Mouths, with rock and stone, and raised a mighty fortress men name Ungband to bar the passages. Down have been cast the Argonnath, their stone used to pave the Black Road that winds from Mordor even to the borders of Lorien and through the Wold. All Mirkwood is invested, save the stronghold of Thranduil, by the giant spiders of the spawn of Ungoliant, and much of the southern wood feeds the fires of Dol Guldur, for Sauron's forces have taken it and the eastern half of the vale of the Anduin for their own. Gondor's southern fiefs are under threat by forces from the Pelargir, and siegeworks have been raised against Minas Tirith. In Rohan Dunlendings raid and pillage, though they have been thrown back many times, and always a smoke is rising from Isengard. Though the Elves of Lorien have tried to guard their realm and push back the shadow, many fair folk were killed in battle upon the eastern shores of the Anduin before the Tower of the Eyes. Dain's folk hold still the passages of Erebor, and have dispatched a great expedition to retake Moria from the fell folk that slew Balin- but they still face evil creatures without number in the depths, no easy task even for the stout soldiers. Rhun marches, and even the Iron Hills are threatened, and the Corsairs and Haradrim raid up and down Gondor's southern fiefs. It is a fell time for men, but there is some hope- the Ring, though pursued by wargs even to the steps of the Last Homely House, has been found. If it can be unmade, the dominion of Sauron can be undone. But if it cannot be destroyed, much may go ill with Middle-Earth, for the shadow only grows.

Pelennor Fields, Gondor

Ringed the great city was, in steel and flame. The marching hosts of the Enemy filled the passages of the Rammas Echor, and already banners of the Red Eye waved from many of the Causeway Forts that had held since time immemorial against the darkness. Fire burned in pits about the city, immense trenches dug to confound any attempt at a sally. And the siege engines of Mordor went to work. Terrible and fell they were, many and strange to the Men of the West. With some dark magics they fired their shot wondrously high, higher even than men looked for, over the first unbreakable wall of Numenorean stonework to crash down into the city beyond. There as the stones landed they burst by some devilry in to flame, a flame which stuck and burned whatever it touched. Even without his siege weapons, though, the forces of Mordor had brought two other devices that had laid many great citadels and mighty men low; dread, and hunger. The siege of Minas Tirith was begun.

Northern Lossarnach, Crossings of the River Erui

South marched the warriors of the Great Eye, to join with their kin at Linhir. Spies of the Black Land had brought word of an army marching north to reinforce the beleagured White City, vassals and raw recruits from the southern fiefs of hated Gondor. Four thousand Orcs bearing the sickle moon of the Morgul Vale, and a thousand Uruks of the Barad-Dur, heavy-handed folk and battle-hardened. In their number marched Sadaauk the Bleeder and his lads, and from the front of the column came the blare of large warhorns. The wretched Westrons had been sighted, hurrying up the road to aid their desperate fellows. Nearly three times the number of their foe did the force sent out by Gothmog, Lieutenant of Minas Morgul, have- and in contrast to the new soldiers of Gondor, all shiny and freshly minted, each one was a fighter by nature as well as experience. Harsh cries came from the lips of the Orcs as they rushed to bar the road, cruel hooks and scimitars glittering in the little light the scudding Darkness from Mordor allowed to pass it. Another surprise too was preparing for the foe, a thrust unlooked for and lethal to the bone.

Gaur-na-Elath, Tolfalas

A stiff east breeze cracked in the sails of the Corsair ships as they made from the protected harbor of Tolfalas, their canvas full and creaking before the wind. It was a good omen- the Lord of Night had sent a boon to his warriors, to carry them upon their errand. High and proud the prows of the men of the Free City rose from the waves even as they broke them like knives, and the open ocean beckoned. Ballista gleamed in their sockets, and men sat about the deck happy for their opportunity to raid anew. Pirates would always be pirates, regardless of what banner they sailed under, but they were under strict instructions as to how they should treat the people of Gondor. Before long she would be restored to the rightful heirs of Castamir instead of the usurper Eldacar and his treacherous steward. Once that lineage was broken, glory could again be restored to the houses of Men.

Mouths of the Entwash, Rohan

From the south they came, iron-shod feet treading upon the rolling meadows and gentle streams of the land of water and quiet. Few trees rose here, save scattered groves of hunched over maples. Their leaves were an inferno of rich scarlet and deepest orange, but they were only some hundreds in number. Prevailing winds from the East meant they leaned west as a single man, a curious inclination of the land to the eyes of those accustomed to more upward-standing arboreal denizens. No men or beasts even roamed these lands, save wild dear and some shepherd's lost charges. But it was fertile land, and fed well by the Ondlo with all the irrigation a farmer could wish. The Orcs were uncomfortable here, for there was nothing to kill, or fight; they were warriors first, not artisans, though some among their number had the skill. Their role was the most important of the folk that had come north from the Firien Wood- upon the farthest bank of the Great River, where the tumult ran sluggish between marsh and delta, other servants of Lugburz were at work. A causeway had their raised through the fens of the Nindalf, shod in cobble and with now spans of wrought stone reaching out into the current. Supply lines here were still tenuous, but the foresight of some military planner was in evidence- a barge had been launched from the Wetwang's shallow pools, bearing stone for the workers to use to work on their own spur of the Black Road. Soon the Anduin would be bridged anew, and the passage of arms to the still restive West be a matter of little concern to the hosts of Mordor.

Limlight River, South Limlight Vale

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

The Jagged Fastness, Northern Vale of Mirkwood

To the west the Orc archer on duty noticed some press of warriors, men strangely, men who spoke with the tongues of Dale and another accent no soldier amongst them had heard. Fangs were bared and curses snarled. In time the men would pay for their elf-loving predelictions. At least now it would be a fight. Some of the sons of the Morannon had been moping about, dispirited at being able to only slay a few dozen foes- such was the work of Snaga, of infants, not of soldiers of steel and the Black Land. But now there would be a proper scrap, and beyond that, manflesh. Ah, yes, sweetest and most succulent manflesh. It was still a bit before dawn, but the red light in the southern skies told the commanders of legions that the attack their went forward apace. Soon all would be in readiness here too. Down to near the river companies were marshaled- with no command to speak of amongst their foes, three armies working together, it would be child's play to sweep the vermin aside and plunge the dagger deep into the unprotected flank of Lorien.

Bridge of Khazad-Dum, Moria

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

Ungband, Tol Brandir

Along the span of obsidian that bridged the Falls of Rauros the tramp of marching feet came, and the iron gates of Ungband the Terrible opened. A host of Morannon Orcs, ten thousands strong, came forth. Their burning brands lit the tableau in garish red and black, glinting steel weapons and snarling faces upturned under the murk of Mordor. Long prepared to hold the passages of the river, now Mairon perceived that his foes had been beaten down, the valor of men spent and the time of the elves ending. Word came from Lugburz to send forth all legions, and like a sea of barbed corn tossed by a summer storm the roiling army of the Barad-Dur marched west.

by **Aliasa** » Thu May 21, 2015 10:05 am

Northern Lossarnach, Crossings of the River Erui

"Hurry up you maggots! Get in line!" Sadaauk the Bleeder shouted out commands to his company as they prepared for the battle. "Be ready, boys! After the battle we shall taste manflesh!" This elicits roars of approval from his troop as they ready their weapons for the coming fight. Sadaauk himself is standing at the front of his group of men with an arrow knocked to his bow and his sword at his hip, he is also wearing his armor. (which for reference is what he's wearing in the ref pic) He's a good shot with a bow actually though it's a wonder how considering he is missing an eye. Guess he's just had a lot of practice with one eye.

OOC: (( if you have any issues with what I do tell me and I will correct it.

by **Landenburg** » Thu May 21, 2015 10:29 am

Laeron awoke to the sounds of screaming, the ground shaking, the smell of fire in the air. Getting up quickly, he donned his gear. Running outside, he saw what he was afraid of happening. Minas Tirith was being attacked. Near him he could see a few guards scream as fire covered them, Laeron sadly looking at good men he had known. "Men! Take the women and children to safety! Pass the order along to every man you can see! Do not grab anything from your homes aside from food! Pass this along!" Laeron shouted, running towards to the battlements of Minas Tirith.

After some quick running, he was overlooking Pelennor Fields. On those fateful fields sat the enemy of man, the great host of the Enemy himself. Laeron had heard rumors of his return but he dismissed it as common folk's superstition..now it was clear that they were not rumors. A defense was to be mounted and it was Laeron's duty to do it. After calling for a messenger, one quickly arrived. "Send word, we are under siege. Ensure the women and children are safe and order all capable men of Minas Tirith to be up on these battlements or awaiting the host below should they break through. Send a raven out to Rohan and the elves. Gondor is under siege by the enemy. Tell them that he is back. Those are my orders, now go."

by **Esternial** » Thu May 21, 2015 11:25 am

The Nine were divided. With only a shallow stream in its way, the Witch King could not resist the temptation of seizing the One Rings from a single Elf and a perishing Half-ling. Unlike the others, he did not fear the elvish waters, and dared to cross, joined by two others that were drawn to the lure of the Ring, only to be swept away by the enchanted waters of the river Bruinen.

Their horses, drowned. Their black robes, worn to give shape to their nothingness, torn asunder. With no physical tether to the realm of the living, the Witch King returned to the realm of the Dark Lord and reconstituted its form, fearsome and terrible, to once again deal with the living. It was there, in the depths of Minas Morgul, where the Witch King of Angmar received his armour from the Dark Lord, and orders to join the siege on Minas Tirith.

Those remaining near the river Bruinen scatted, avoiding the Elves. Stabbed with a Morgul blade, the hobbit's chances were slim, but another may step up to claim the One Ring and abandon the safety of the elven fortress at Imladris. The Elves feared Its power, but would not contain it there indefinitely. Sauron knew this. His Servants knew this.

One would stay to survey the Elven stronghold. Five would ride to Isengard, home to the White Wizard, traitor and servant to Sauron. Though he now served the Dark Lord, Saruman had his own ambitions and was a prideful man. He was not to be trusted. Thus, the Nazgul rode for the tower of Orthanc to see their Lord's Will be done, to observe the treacherous White Wizard and to aid him in his efforts to spread Sauron's grasps on Middle-Earth.

Two would remain there. Three would ride onwards, to Dol Guldur. The Dark Lord required their presence, and the Ringwraiths would do well to keep their eye on the great river Anduin, a central artery than would lead any ship and beyond the grasps of the Hosts of Dol Guldur or Isengard and into the realm of Rohan, still controlled by Men. From Dol Guldur, the Ringwraiths could also set their eyes upon the High Pass.

As soon as the Ring set foot out of Imladris, the Dark Lord would know. Six Ringwraiths would set their eyes upon routes leading away from the Elven stronghold. Three would serve the efforts of their Dark Lord elsewhere.

Pelennor Fields, Gondor

From far away their cries could be heard, ear-shattering wails still distant, but drawing ever closer to the White City, carried by Fell Beasts, creatures bred by Sauron to resist the terror his servants inspired in mortal creatures. Like birds, but greater, featherless and with a vast hide between its horned fingers, these creatures alone would inspire fear into the hearts of Man, but with Nazgul riding it into battle it truly inspired the most terrifying kind of terror into all that bore witness and heard the shrill scream of its rider.

by **The Flutterlands** » Thu May 21, 2015 11:37 am

Bree

Blarg, not worrying at all about the war in the east of the misty mountains, was on his horse pulling a carriage of goods, and travelling towards the nearby town of Bree, a place that he's been to only once before in his career as a trader and adventurer. The pale orc smiled broadly as he stopped his horse and parked it in Bree's stables. After paying for a room at the Prancing Pony, Blarg went back outside into the town's market place with his carriage of goods. He sighed as gazed at the many passerbyers, some of them giving him unwelcomed looks, before crying out. "Get your hunting supplies: bows and arrows for a good price! Perfect for hunting deer and other animals for meat."

by **Nuridia** » Thu May 21, 2015 12:57 pm

Silmariel
"Sil, do you have those reports from the front that the patrol sent?! We don't have all day, war is upon us I feel it." Erestor shouted from his desk in the councillor's office. A tired looking red headed elleth strode into the room carrying a stack of papers, hairpins and mithril framed glasses askew under the pile. Tired lyrics she dropped them on her superior's desk, sharpening her knife. She had taken to doing that recently, with Sauron's forces stirring in the west,.probably all of Rivendell would be called to fight.

"Boss, ya think we'll be asked to be in the fighting?" Silmariel asked, taking a seat at her desk and going over the numbers that had been left that day. The dark elf shook his head.
"I know not, piarussë (little russet). Most likely. But trust that if we do, I'll protect you." Sil smiled a little and stuck her tongue out at him. "I don't need protection, morcorch (black crow).

by **Lunas Legion** » Thu May 21, 2015 1:42 pm

The Balrog, Moria

The Balrog stared at the pile of goblin corpses, barely illuminated by his fire. Light did not reach this far into the depths of Moria; his realm. The goblins knew better than to venture this deep into Moria, for then they were simple prey and would be dispatched accordingly. After the first few tries, and a large number of dead cave trolls and goblins, they had stopped, each leaving the other be except for the occasional band of excessively brave or stupid goblins determined that they would be the ones to kill 'Deep-Fire-Beast', as they called him in their excessively crude tongue.

These goblins were different. It was not their armour, which was the same scraps of metal, or their weapons, which were the same. Rather it was a simple black banner, with a red eye emblazoned proudly on it. The Balrog recognised the sign. The Eye of Sauron, Morgoth's chief lieutenant. He had known Sauron since the war against the Valar and Elves in the First Age; he had not liked him. He always considered himself better than the Balrogs, equal solely to the likes of Gothmog or Glamdrug and only outranked by Morgoth himself. He had considered him simply an equal; they were both Maia, and thus equal. But the banishment of Melkor beyond the Door of Night, the death of both Gothmog and Glaurung and the aftermath of the War of Wrath meant he considered no one his better, especally not Sauron.

And now Sauron had dared to violate his realm. He could not let that stand. But Sauron had been awake for far longer than he had, and had mustered many creatures to his banners. As mighty as he was, he would simply be drowned under a tide of corpses if he attempted to take them on now. No, he needed to act rationally. His sole advantage was that he was not considered a threat by anyone while he remained in Moria; and they would not ever have to know that he left. So long as no one attempted to invade his home in strength whilst he was abroad, all would be well, and he would be free to gauge his next move.

The Balrog shifted, the flames dying and plunging the hall into darkness. He took the form of a large man clad in scratched and blackened helm and armour, as if it was forged poorly, covered in red streaks of rust. A sword rested in a scabbard on his right hand while his left grasped a long whip, wound up. Satisfied he could now walk the roads of Middle Earth as Sauron once had, he strode from the room heading by the quickest path to Moria's western gate.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Thu May 21, 2015 4:21 pm

The Mouth of Sauron
The Mouth's steed came to a slow trot amongst the ancient city of Umbar's streets - a mash of alleys and roads of labyrinthine proportions. The Black Numenorean swayed slightly from left to right from atop his horse, paying no mind to the stares he was receiving from commoner, merchant and city-guardsmen. It was not common at all that the Representative of Mordor himself would delve so down into Harad, his intentions shrouded in a mystery like his face behind his helm. He clutched the reins tighter and brought the horse to a steady gallop amongst the less crowded streets; the sound of the hooves impacting against the yellow cobbled roads accompanied by the yells and bartering in the local markets and bazaars for produce and trinket. The Mouth manoeuvred his beast of burden across the streets and alleys with grace and finesse, dodging past pedestrian, crate and wagon with ease. It even went as far as jumping over a market stall when he released he had taken a wrong turn. Before long, he had arrived at the grand steps that led towards the Library of Umbar - an imposing structure, towering above the homes and other buildings beside it. Clambering of the steed, the Mouth impacted upon the ground with light feet and little more than a lifting of some tiny granules of sand. The Black Lieutenant began to climb the stairs, his robes trailing down beneath him and his head held high towards the large oaken doors ahead of him, flanked on either side by the prideful statutes of two Lionesses and a good score of lightly armoured pikemen holding their weapons at attention. The doors swung upon and the Mouth stepped inside the library, where knowledge awaited.

Logath, The Khanate of Rhun
An assortment of banners fluttered in the wind, a grand spectacle of colour and image standing proudly. Men stood at attention in their battalions, clutching their pikes with their shields and helms reflecting the sunlight, creating a huge mirror-esque shine from the ranks and columns of the Rhunic armies. General Yyvvek Kher, Supreme Commander of the Northern Rhunic forces wiped his brow with a damp white cloth, pulling down his helmet onto his head and face. He strapped his breatplate, pulled on his cape and clambered atop his force, trotting towards the front of his battle lines.

"Men!" he called in a heavily thick accent, taking note of the variety of the banners - including the imposing Red Eye on the Black Field of Mordor. Other such banners caught his eye - the stomping Mamuk, the spread wings of the Rhunic Falcon, a flaming rose on a field of purple; all were well known to the commander. It was a mighty force he had here - pikemen, spearmen, archers, cataphracts and even dreaded horse archers filled his ranks. "Tonight we march on the West!" his scimitar raised into the air and this gesture was responded to by the mighty cheers and slamming of weapons upon shields. The forces of the East had awoken, with the fury of hooves to back their ambition.

by **Conglomerate of Iron** » Thu May 21, 2015 4:56 pm

Minas Tirith

Denethor gazed at his two sons, all three of the kindred dressed in war gear, shining and glimmering with the Silver Tree. Faramir and Boromir were both bowed down upon the chamber floor, heads low in recognition to their lord and father.

"Tell me, my boys, do you still have hope?"

Faramir and Boromir answered simultaneously, with not an ounce of hesitation, "Yes father. As long as the line of Stewards and Men of Gondor defend this city, the Enemy shall never take it."

Denethor nodded slowly, processing this. "My sons, I had almost lost faith. I have seen many things, far and wide, many terrible, dark things. I had almost fallen into the abyss of despair. Yet looking at you both, so determined, so strong, you have rekindled my hope. Even if we are to struggle desperately, we shall not die in vain. We shall slaughter them, and rend their pathetic bodies. We are the descendants of Numenor, and we shall not be so easily undone."

Faramir and Boromir felt a great hope stir inside them. They had worried about their father, but as long as both his sons were beside him, his fortitude would be great.

"Go now my sons. Rally our men. I shall follow."

With that conclusion, Boromir and Faramir rushed out of the chamber, sprinting to the defenses. Before going down to the outer walls, Boromir blew upon his horn from high, and its sound rang like a ray of sunlight, and the courage of the men of the Citadel was lifted, and with shouts they ran to the battlements, knowing their two great captains still fought beside them.

Faramir led the archers and rangers of Ithilien to the battlements, and thousands of arrows began to rain down upon the hordes, and the enchanted gates and walls were glittering and strong. The projectiles from the siege engines bounced harmlessly off of the mighty walls and gates, but those that went over set great fires inside the city, and many men were deployed to combat the fires. A citizen's militia was raised, made up of 533 men they helped to combat the fires, and were armed in case of the enemy breaching the gates.

The cavalry's horses were sent to be safe in the main citadel, while the rest of the men set about combating fires and, if bows were available, shooting out from the battlements. Boromir and Faramir were common sights, rallying the hope of the men wherever they went, advising, commanding, leading. Their presence was like a glimmer of hope, and the men kept up their resistance, for with their two captains, and the Nazgul still far away, the suns in their hearts banished their fear. Their arrows fell upon the hosts of Mordor with abandon, and cheers from the city could be heard as resistance continued.

Northern Lossarnach

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth gazed at the orc horde in their way. They had blocked the bridge and were now waving their crude weapons about and shouting orc chants and jeers. Disgusting.

The High Man with Elvish blood rode back to his main force, his posture erect and his eyes blazing. In his hand a long lance was held, and his armies cheered as he returned with his scouting party. Before him were 1200 well armed men from Dol Amroth, and 300 archers from the wilderness, skilled in bowmanship. And his personal vanguard of 400 cavalry glimmered upon their armored steeds. A mighty force.

Orders were given for a shield wall to be made, and for the cavalry to be placed upon the flanks. Archers took their places behind the footmen, and made ready their bows. The army did not move once their positions were taken. The banner of Dol Amroth was unfurled, and the Silver Swan glared bright.

Prince Imrahil called down in a strong and clear voice, one that pained the orcs to hear it, "Come you foul maggots and bottom feeders. Fight us! You shall not see another nightfall in your stinking tunnel homes again!" And his men all began jeering, shouting insults and calls at the orc hordes.

"Spineless weasels! Mangy dogs! Cowardly curs!" It went on, and the morale of the men was preserved.

And down the river could be seen, just barely now, sails.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu May 21, 2015 5:36 pm

Logath, Khanate of Rhun

Mahor's band entered the camp at the fall of night, just as the sun was going down in flame in the west. Here was mustered the might of all the East, men and kinsmen to his own soldiers and riders, banners without count or countenance rallied to the Great Eye. Upon the borders of Dorwinion was the camp, the land of the bells and vines, and it did not take a wizard's mind to divine the reason for which the Black Lord Khamul had amassed his soldiers so. Dorwinion would bow to the Golden Banners, or be put to the sword. Through this beehive of nighttime activity and feasting, of sentries and warcamps, Mahor guided his weary steed. He had ridden hard, but not brutally, to pass the marches of the Morannon and come swiftly from the south to this mustering. His old friend, Barthal, had sent word that he wished the company to ride with him for the conquest of Dorwinion and Dale, and would pay a pretty price. In the days of his youth the two men had ridden together in countless battles and skirmishes with lesser lords, but now there was true glory to be won in war with men not of clan or tribe, but of the enemies of the Lord Melkor.

Northern Lossarnach, Near the River Erui

Teeth were bared as the men of Gondor held their ground, planning to fight. Forward the host of Mordor marched, their lines rippling waves of black, crimson, and glinting steel. Upon both flanks their lines stretched, nearly three times the numbers of their foes, wicked pikes and cruel spears. War horns bellowed, and the Orcs crashed shield on spear as they advanced. Za dashu snaku Zigur, Durbgu nazgshu, Durbgu dashshu! The cry came from five thousand throats, a deep rumbling roar that caused hair to stand on end and the very sky to seem to darken with Black Speech. From the shallow river they marched, and with a whistle of wind arrows fell from the few archers the men of Gondor possessed. Against thick and broad wooden shields they fell and shattered, thrumming as lethal power was spent. Some of the dark twisted folk dropped, or snarled and clawed at wounds. The injured were left where they fell, for such was the Orcish way. After the battle, perhaps, they would receive crude medicine, but for now war was at hand. And there was killing that needed doing. At a barked order and the crash of spear against shield, the thousand archers with the Orcs nocked their own arrows, and responded with a volley of ashen shafts. Many carried debilitating poison and wicked barbs, but more were of the broadheaded type designed to pierce the good plate armor that the men of the West favored. A cloud, a steel cloud raining death, fell on the foe. Forward the Orcs advanced, lines somewhat ragged at the rear, but shield wall solid and bristling with steel points at the fore and spread nearly two times as wide as the enemy's furthest extent, and deeper still.

And from the south war horns called as well- soldiers marching up from the south, informed by bird of the descent of the host from the Pelennor. Marching swiftly with the wind they came, nearly two thousands of the ill-favored Orcs of the Morannon, banners red and livid with the Great Eye. Marshalled from the Pelargir and Linhir in southern Lossarnach, here they would crush the hopes of the men of Gondor between hammer and anvil. One of the Orc captains noted the sails to the east in the distance, but snorted and turned away to pay attention to the battle. Even if they were foes, which seemed unlikely to him, the Erui was a shallow mess of sandbars and eddies. To use aught but a barge here was madness of the highest order.

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Orcs jeered and laughed as the men of Gondor wasted their shot, hundreds of arrows falling far short of the hosts, who sat beyond even the range of the mighty siege trebuchets. Every shaft sped against phantoms and smoke was one that would not strike an Orc when the assault came, and one more soldier of Gondor that understood more fully the futility of their resistance to the will of Sauron, Lord of the Earth. Still the great engines worked, casting devilish shot into the city where they would, caring not for bows who could not find their range. Even now fires raged here and there in the city, and as the men of Gondor struggled with the ensorcelled flames anew projectiles crashed to earth to kindle house and bower, man and child. The smoke of the burning rose high to heaven, and ever and anon the cries of the fell spirits of the air drifted down to free blood and chill marrow.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Thu May 21, 2015 5:47 pm

The Elves of Imladris prepared the defenses against the foul goblins. They begin building a barracks for more troops, and send out runners for aid against the goblin threat. They supply the Fellowship with foods, and, with many warnings, send them on their way.

by **Elerian** » Thu May 21, 2015 5:51 pm

Tharbad, King Logain

The world of man was on the precipice of annihilation, and with them, the fates of the remaining Elves and Dwarves were they tied. Orcs frolicked freely on the Plains of Pelennor, and farther south, the once grand city of Pelagir had fallen. Gondor would be the catalyst of their destruction. First them, then Lorien, then on and on until all were either slain or served the ever watchful Eye. The odds were against the Free People, but with blood, sweat, and steel, they could still pull through and destroy Sauron.

Logain walked the walls of Tharbad. He had given the order to repair the walls to their former grandeur, and given time they would be just as mighty as they had once been. From his perch atop the walls, Logain could see that the river held traffic, even if only a few small river boats. Beyond that the banks of the Greyflood now held irrigation ditches, leading to small fields that held testament to the revival of this once grand city, it would flourish like it once had. Maybe not in Logain's time, but the winds of change were fast approaching, whether the changes would be for good or ill were yet to be seen.

Turning to face the city itself, Logain could see men going quickly about their business, with only their belted swords revealing that they were in fact soldiers. His gaze shifted to the numerous abandoned areas of the city, for many houses remained cold and decrepit. He had brought many people to Tharbad, and many more had fled the conflicts to the East, yet much of the city still lay uninhabited, and Logain feared they would remain that way for sometime. Logain took his eyes away from the city and continued his survey of the repairs.

Old South Road, Captain Helgrim

Helgrim sighed, the road ahead had no end in sight. It stretched as far as the eye could see, and all that he could see were the forests to either side of the road, and the mossy cobble road beneath his feet. The King had sent him with fifty men to investigate rumors of a hoard of Orc treasure in the Ered Nimrais, he had said it would help their cause, yet Helgrim still misliked the whole affair. Though, it wasn't Helgrim's place to argue with a King, so he had begrudgingly obliged, and here they were, walking with as many pack horses as they would ever need. It would be a long journey, and none knew what they would find, yet for the sake of their cause, every man silently prayed that they found something worthwhile.

by **Conglomerate of Iron** » Thu May 21, 2015 6:10 pm

Minas Tirith

The men, seeing that such barrages as arrows were futile, the only launchers capable of hitting the enemy at this distance being siege weapons, rapidly began to put out fires under the command of their captains. Otherwise they waited, and waited. Morale sank quite a bit, and many began to feel the biting blade of despair. Evil was haunting them now, and fear began to spread.

The beacons of Gondor had been lit from the beginning of these affairs, and help was desperately needed. If only reinforcements in large amounts could arrive, then an advance could be made. If only Rohan could arrive. If only Prince Imrahil were here. If only the Elves, or the Dwarves, or any army could be sent. Gondor now stands alone.

North Lossarnach

The ships were now within range, dodging the more shallow regions, and had begun firing their ballistas upon the Southern force of orcs. Large iron bolts, covered in flaming pitch, rained down upon the foul, rank enemy, cleansing their filth from the fields of Lossarnach. The remnants of the Gondorian navy would strike them as hard as they could.

Prince Imrahil started on his horse, and like a whip cracked with the speed of a lightning bolt, he began to ride South. "Now! Kill them all!" He shouted as his cavalry rode South, planning to hit the Morannon lines and create an escape route. The Silver Swan shone as his forces rode upon the fields like a gust of wind, barreling towards the Southern orcs.

Meanwhile, the shield wall facing North took some casualties from the arrows, but few could penetrate the heavy, expertly crafted Gondorian shields, and the poisoned barbs found few to slay, although the broadheads killed several men.

Archers: 210 (90 dead)
Men At Arms: 1160 (40 dead)
Cavalry: 395 (5 dead)

by **Nuridia** » Thu May 21, 2015 6:13 pm

Sil finished her work and looked out of the window, almost expecting to see armies at their door by now. Aragorn had gone with the Nine to save Arda, hopefully they'd stand a chance against Sauron's dark forces. Suddenly somebody burst into the room talking about goblins on the front lines. Sil and Erestor went their separate ways, the elleth hurriedly put on her mail shirt as she was sure her boss was. Apparently war would come to them after all, Sil went to go find the guard. If they made it here, she'd have to do what she could to help protect the fortress.

by **The Olog-Hai** » Thu May 21, 2015 6:16 pm

Conglomerate of Iron wrote:Minas Tirith

The men, seeing that such barrages as arrows were futile, the only launchers capable of hitting the enemy at this distance being siege weapons, rapidly began to put out fires under the command of their captains. Otherwise they waited, and waited. Morale sank quite a bit, and many began to feel the biting blade of despair. Evil was haunting them now, and fear began to spread.

The beacons of Gondor had been lit from the beginning of these affairs, and help was desperately needed. If only reinforcements in large amounts could arrive, then an advance could be made. If only Rohan could arrive. If only Prince Imrahil were here. If only the Elves, or the Dwarves, or any army could be sent. Gondor now stands alone.

The elves of Rivendell dispatch Elladan and his 100 Elven Horse Archers to aid Gondor. Better shots from horseback than even the Rohirrim, nothing should be able to stop them!

Movement of troops: 100 Horse Archers towards Gondor. Will pass Isengard and through Rohan.

by **Esternial** » Thu May 21, 2015 7:36 pm

Minas Tirith, Gondor

For what seemed like just a moment, the roaring and belching of warrior orc and shouting of man faded to the background. A brief moment of near silence, the calm before the storm.

A high piercing wail came down the wind, from high up in the heavens, heart-quelling, cruel and chilling to even the most hot-blooded warrior. The terrifying sound rose, ringing throughout the city of Minas Tirith and stabbing into the ears of mortal Men, rendering even the orcish host momentarily silent as they descended from the dark tapestry above. Atop the Fell Beasts they approached, two of Sauron's most terrible servants led by His second-in-command.

The were the advent of despair. The Nazgul had joined the siege.

Like vultures the Fell Beasts circled above the city, their presence alone casting a shroud of terror onto the city. The Nazgul looked up at their Lord, the Witch King, whose eyes gazed down at the city underneath his iron crown.

"Lay waste to what little hope remains in the hearts of Men." The Witch King of Angmar howled with booming authority. The two Ringwraiths shrieked in response as they descended down towards the city, the claws of their Fell Beast bearing down upon its people, capable of tearing through steel, flesh and bone with ease. The Witch King had no ambition to destroy the city, but thinning out the host within should inspire enough terror to break their morale, waste their spirits and poison what little courage remains.

by **Conglomerate of Iron** » Thu May 21, 2015 7:44 pm

Esternial wrote:Minas Tirith, Gondor

For what seemed like just a moment, the roaring and belching of warrior orc and shouting of man faded to the background. A brief moment of near silence, the calm before the storm.

A high piercing wail came down the wind, from high up in the heavens, heart-quelling, cruel and chilling to even the most hot-blooded warrior. The terrifying sound rose, ringing throughout the city of Minas Tirith and stabbing into the ears of mortal Men, rendering even the orcish host momentarily silent as they descended from the dark tapestry above. Atop the Fell Beasts they approached, two of Sauron's most terrible servants led by His second-in-command.

The were the advent of despair. The Nazgul had joined the siege.

Like vultures the Fell Beasts circled above the city, their presence alone casting a shroud of terror onto the city. The Nazgul looked up at their Lord, the Witch King, whose eyes gazed down at the city underneath his iron crown.

"Lay waste to what little hope remains in the hearts of Men." The Witch King of Angmar howled with booming authority. The two Ringwraiths shrieked in response as they descended down towards the city, the claws of their Fell Beast bearing down upon its people, capable of tearing through steel, flesh and bone with ease. The Witch King had no ambition to destroy the city, but thinning out the host within should inspire enough terror to break their morale, waste their spirits and poison what little courage remains.

Minas Tirith

"Fire your arrows at the beasts! Make them lose their steeds!" Cried the captain Faramir, as his Rangers loosed barrage after barrage at the Fell Beasts. Although most men may fear the Nazgul, the blood of Numenor ran hot enough in the veins of the rangers and some other brave archers that they could stand against the Nazgul, if only for a moment, although without the brave captains Faramir and Boromir beside them. Other men now cowered, many footmen and militia, who simply could not resist such foul terror. But the lionhearted took aim, and many arrows fell upon the Fell Beasts.

(Note: in the books the fell beasts always stay out of bowshot.)

by **Arlye Austros** » Thu May 21, 2015 8:08 pm

The dark figure had grown from a side of his sight, and by the time he turned, the Prince realized Fralor was about to die. The huge monster, as large as a horse, slowly carved its way inside Fralor´s guts, and his brother cried out for mercy, between pain and blood. Beornas felt his head banged by constant footsteps. They grey, as if a hallway within himself was overwhelmed by a large figure, walking, fast but steady, towards Beornas himself. He closed his eyes, just after seeing his elder brother, Grimbaras, changing his face, his eyes turning white and his muscles tensing. It was coming.

He felt little afterwards, only a sudden pain. He bent forward to resist it, but truth is he didn´t wanted to fight it. The pain soon became an escape, a chance, a hope. His sight was blurred, but Beornas was still able to see his hands changing, swelling and being covered in fur. The bestial instinct took over his mind, but in his nineteenths, Beornas was already able to direct those instincts.

<<Kill them. Kill them all. >> He ordered the beast within when he felt the scent of the enemy. The poison of the spiders mixed with the blood of his brother, and the reek of the orc, fighting in the battle ahead, and breaching through the Northman lines. Beornas turned his animal form and jumped on the black spider devouring Fralor´s chest. His brother´s face was covered in blood and hair, his transformation halted by his own decease. His eyes were twisted in an odd way, but looked above, to the twilight. The spider had its frontal legs removed before its face was eaten.
The great black bear struggled between the retinue and the spiders. The men were unhorsed and killed by the fiends, while Grimbeorn, his father, seemed out of his mind, bashing the insect-like demons as they came close. Beornas and Grimbaras joined their strength and charged against a group of spiders that was to overwhelm their father. The retinue was almost done, and only the three beasts could provide any salvation for themselves. Beornas never remembered the instinct and the rush of power so mighty in his self. But it was all cut down to a bite. A spider managed to knock him down when he was ready to ultimate a bigger one by stomping it with his frontal legs, and now Beornas struggled against the spider above, and others already congregated for the coming feast. The fangs of the insect stabbed he side of his ribs, and Beornas roared, and screamed, and cried out, as the poison invaded his self. Grimbeorn showed up, all black, all furious, as a shadow in the falling night, and the rising moon reflected on his back, where blood and poison soaked his fur. He made a gesture, something the third interpreted as a “Let´s go!“. Beornas rolled.

His brother roared for help. Grimbaras had tried to get to his father, but a mass of black and maroon legs entangled him, and slowly devoured his back paws. Another roar, more desperate, but Grimbeorn´s hand, his human hand, laid on his son´s fur when he was about to reach for his brother. Beornas turned and saw his father, pale and on his skin, nodding. “Nothing can we do. We must go, son!” He said with a muttering. The spiders were amassing on his dying brother, and Beornas looked on to him. His father was wounded, and he had no chances of saving Grimbaras.

A minute later he turned back, and tripped. “Get up, son!” His father helped Beornas up. The entire place was swampy, and Beornas was cold, nearly frozen. “We need to go!” His father pulled up again, and both continued their escape in the night.

Behind, the body of Fralor was taken by the orcs, who killed a gluttonous spider feasting on his heart, and saw upon Grimbaras. The bear was near death, and the creatures laughed at him while they stripped Fralor from his armour, in front of a hapless Grimbaras, and torched it, and after some time they tied the weakened bear, and skinned it alive. The Powers wanted, by some curse or some blessing, that Beornas turned once more his sight, and saw the furs of his brothers eclipsing the fires of his other brother, and all this while the laughs and mockery of the orcs reached them from the night, and the Beornings were slaughtered as they tried to make their way for safety, just as the Chief and his Heir.

Beornas Beornsson. Carrokburg, Carrock

The nightmare still sounded in his mind when Beornas walked up the palisade. Over there, in the east and the south, the battle had raged some weeks before, and they had lost too much. The dream continued, and the nightmare grew as he remembered, awake, the following events. His father had led him to Carrokburg, but collapsed just on the sight of the city. The howls of the wolves could already be heard, and after two days of rout, they were almost done, and almost at the reach of the blades. People would later say his father was saved by the Prince, but truth is Beornas would have charged against the spiders once, twice, and many more times through those days, no doubt being killed. And had he done so, he wasn´t sure his father would have kept on and survived. He didn´t bothered in correcting them. Truth was he needed that lie, at least then.

A day later Carrokburg itself was attacked. Grimbeorn was already showing signs of his weakness, and the routed forces were too unorganized to defend the city. The ford was crossed after they burnt down the bridge, and the palisades were destroyed beyond. But Beornas escaped, along with a weak Grimbeorn, and his beloved, Eargfar, and his newborn brother, Remurgel, his mother, Ragreth, his sister Frideswith, and his two brothers, Bealdric and Beorthmund. Fiorith and Bregareth never made it out. The exiles guided what was left of the town to the west, and they made their seat in Firepine Keep. Beornas made his name there, by keeping the raiders off their area, and managing to reunite the scattered forces of the Vales. Only five days ago, the guided them over the Anduin and through the Burg. It was lightly defended, and not too many were lost in the fight. Since then, he had been shifting from nightmares to the living hell that was searching through the ruins, ashes and corpses for any clue on his brother´s fate.

“How many today?” he asked a watcher. The man, almost a man, as the boy was clearly younger than Beornas, bowed his neck, and then answered proudly. Everyone seemed proud after that victory. He wanted to be proud, but the things that happened in Rhosgobel had humbled him beyond recognition. “We buried nearly two hundred. Fourty warriors entered through the gate, they say, and the scouts say the orcs are nowhere to be seen.”

He nodded and said nothing. There was nothing to be said, but after a few steps he gave away, he turned. They all needed some recognition, they all did.
“Thank you. Keep watch.”

“Yes, Chief.” The boy answered happily. Beornas protested in his mind. “I should never have been called that.”
Grimbeorn arrived the next day. Weak and pale. His father seemed more alive, but also more depressed, and unwilling to make calls on what needs to be done.
“He is barely eating, it is as if he was over a hundred, and acts like a grumpy old man.” His mother told him after he embraced her. Ragreth was still fair, and somehow her black hair imposed an authority Beornas knew golden hairs did in Southern courts.

“I will speak to him.” He said before departing and walking to his father, who just sat, assisted, in the wooden chair that served as Throne in the Gemótstow, the assembly of Freemen. The Fortress of Fangmont-Under-The-Wing was burnt, and while the stone walls were preserved and the wooden structures could be easily repaired, it was fit for no Chief, and Beornas had decided to leave it for troops and supplies.

“Father… Are you…?” he started. His father looked on to him.
“Fine… I am right… I…” He drifted and looked to a wall. Beornas looked there and saw nothing, then back to his father. “I need you, father. Mother says you don´t eat.”
The man seemed old, much older than he truly was. Grimbeorn didn´t answered.
“Please, father… come back. I need you.” Beornas begged. But nothing. Nothing would come from Grimbeorn that day. Beornas stood up.

“I have commanded the men to reorganize. We are almost done searching the bur…. We are almost done clearing the streets from rubble and ruin. I will command an expedition soon and strike the orcs, father. We can´t stay out of this war. I thought you should know.” He walked away.

“Fiorith…” He mumbled. Beornas turned back. “Bregareth…. Where are they?” he looked around, confused. Beornas noticed some noblemen of the House of Leoth entered. He made a gesture to them for their quick leave, and then crouched to his father. “They are… They are alright, Father. I sent them away, as they were scared.”
“That’s… not Bregareth…” He mumbled. A tear rolled out of his eye.

“You are right. Bregareth…” He embraced his father and thought of something… Could he continue giving lies out of mercy? “He wanted to fight, I couldn´t convince him, so I told him to go away with his sister, to protect her… He is a good boy, he will do so.”
“Call them back… Please…”

“I will father… Damn, I will.” He left his father behind and went on to meet the men of House Leoth. They had news of the burning of an entire branch of the family, but Beornas had other things in mind. He needed to know what happened to them both, and quick.

Bregareth Beornsson. Southwestern edge of the Mirkwood.

Night was falling and soon those damned orcs would call the prisoners out. Although Bregareth suspected they wouldn´t really mind having them work in the quarry for the entire day and night, until they dropped death. Maybe they were short on men, and slaves suddenly became valuable.

“Sister?” He turned his sight from the stone he was cutting down with the pickaxe. Fiorith walked between the ponds of that recent rain. “Are you alright?”
She suddenly collapsed on the ground and over a pond. The girls was on rags and given the cold of the day and the damp night ahead, was probably falling ill.
“That scar of yours looks better.” He touched Bregareth´s cheek. The wound was still sensitive, and it caused a slight sting.

“Oh Sister… you need to get to cover.”
He placed her arm over his back and helped her up. Fiorith Spring-Herald was weakened. In ten days the orcs had reduced her body to a pitiful sack of bones, and if they were not careful, they would see no need to feed a useless mouth. “I am taking you to Idana.”
They walked through the muddy quarry, avoiding the sight of the slave masters, and reached the cages that had been improvised in a depleted cliff of the quarry. The door was opened in the final hours of the day, as slaves were driven back to their cages from the lumber mills and the mine, and the twins were lucky the orcs divided tasks and rest areas by the place the prisoners were captured, all of them who were captured in Carrokburg, near the southern tip, belonged to that damned Spider-Lover. Just as they arrived to the cage, fit for thirty or more slaves, two of them spoke about their master.

“They say that orc likes to jump on spiders, and even keeps one as his personal companion.”
The other one laughed. “I am sure the other orcs love him for that.”
“Shut up you both. You know what happened to Cincung?” Idana, a woman in her thirties, of black hair and stout face, called them to silence from behind. Her story was that she was captured in the Burg and then her family was executed in her stead. In order to walk over her grief and dread she used her healing knowledge to help her fellow slaves in her free time. After a few days Lorm, their master, saw in her some benefit on keeping the slaves alive from the common disease and allowed her to work in the cages, taking care of the sick. It was her who recognized the children of the High Chief and kept their identity hidden, and moved her strings to spare them from the executions. Bregareth never knew how she did it.

“I know, Idana…” They answered, and watched at the twins walking towards the cage. The one who laughed spoke again. “I will think about Cincung and the poor sod´s skin…”
“You should…” Idana answered while she tended to a wounded man inside the cage. “And don´t forget his skin now serves as Lorm´s banner.”
“Yeah… I leave you to your new patients…” The man walked and allowed Bregareth and Fiorith in. Idana looked on them and stood up quick to help Fiorith to lay down.

“What happened?” She asked Bregareth. “Was she attacked?”
“I think she is sick. It´s cold and all…” Bregareth guessed.
“I will see to her, Breg… Beswic.” She corrected to Bregareth´s fake name. She said it meant <<fraud>>, and it seemed suitable. “Go back to the mine before you get yourself caught.”
“It´s alright. The day is almost over.”

He stayed in the cage for about an hour till the other slaves started to swarm in. Many complained about the pain, the weariness of captivity, their grief, or the fallen friends in that place. Bregareth leaned close to Fiorith, who shook off her dream.
“Sister… you alright?” He asked.
“Breg? What…?”

Idana passed by Fiorith´s mattress. “Seems the fever is down.” She looked at Bregareth. “You were right. It´s a mere cold. Hadn´t you brought her she would have died of a silly cold.” Idana kept walking and left the twins alone.

“A cold? I didn´t feel ill long before reaching you tonight.”
He held her words and pushed her back to lay, but she kept talking. “I had the nightmare again…” She muttered. An orc walked by the cage and locked the door.
“Live through the night, maggots!” The filth happily announced while he walked away and laughed.

“Again?” Bregareth asked. He also had similar nightmares since they arrived, but had somehow forgotten them. Fiorith, however, refused to do so. She described her dream, and it was not too different from his own nightmares. As they were dragged away from the River in chains, they had passed by the burning house. He could still hear the screams of the man tied to the pole as they passed by, and the screams of the family inside… He didn´t wanted to think of that. “Try to get rid of that, sister. It won´t do you any good.”
Bregareth kissed her in the head and smiled. “Get some sleep. You could use it.”

As Fiorith fell asleep, Bregareth spoke to the healer. “What will become of us, Idana?”
The woman, who touched the forehead of another slave lying in the floor, looked at him, filled with worries. “Nobody can really tell, boy. These creatures are not so different form men, the worse of us. But they also hold different thoughts, it’s a pit so dark that the terrors held there we cannot imagine. Look at Lorm, for instance. He does things that… well, are not natural, not even for the other orcs. In extreme situations men crush, elves twist, and if orcs are no different, they become… well… worse than orcs.”

“But what of ourselves?”
She sighed. “To them we are tools, means. We mean nothing. And we need to remember this. I see it in every man or woman that has to lay on this floor under my watch. They allow me to save them because it spares them the need to get more people for their work. It´s proably the most bitter part of this… Everyone I save, is another of my countrymen that will get slaughtered when captured by the orc…”

Bregaleth trembled. The screams returned to his mind. Idana looked at him and smiled. “You don´t need to trouble with my thoughts, son. It´s only me. You just worry for yourself and your sister, that´s already too much for a boy of your age. Sleep. I will take care of her.”
He tried to sleep. But the peace of night dodged Bregareth. He remembered the fist of the orc falling on his face, just after he demanded the creature to stay away from his sister. The rusty blade touched his neck then, and only Lorm´s laughter saved his life then. He needed to get out, and Fiorith with him.

Beornas. Carrokburg.
The following day.

His father was nowhere to be seen, and he had been authorized to give out the orders. Thirteen clans, represented by the eldest of their members, of those who could make the trip, were gathered in the Gemótstow. They needed to act now, and this was discussed thoroughly until Beornas made the call.

”Freemen… I am sick!” He smashed the table, trying to express his grief in his voice, but also his resolve. “My father is sick.” He smashed the table again with his fist. “This town.” Again. “This people!” Once more, and the echo was louder. “You all are!” This time the smash seemed to hit them all. “The entire fucking Vales.” This time he didn´t smashed it, and looked at their faces. Some seemed astonished of seeing a man, almost a boy, saying such things and implying his own authority. <<I am not the High Chief>> he remembered. <<But one day I will. The spiders made damn sure of that.>> “I am tired and done with searching bodies. I am hating every moment I have to watch on my countrymen´s face, see the marks the tears left in their ash-covered faces. The cries of families, the news of rape, pillage, stealing. The words of hopelessness… I am done with it!”

There was a map displayed on the wooden table. He had been looking at it for a long time. The Mirkwood was marked, and the mountains to the west, and in the border Imladris and the region they called Eregion. To the south the island of Cair Andros hovered over the edge of the map, where he suspected Orcs would be crossing. He remembered a war Mót from his childhood. His grandfather had done some thing that seemed shocking at that time.
He grabbed the dagger laying on the table and stabbed the map over Dol Guldur.

“I am sick of this, Freemen. I want this fortress destroyed. And to do so we need to sob off our tears, clear out our dust from our faces and get done with comforting each other to start arming ourselves and pushing the people to fight. Strategy may come later, but in no time I need our forces done. Send messages out. Call the Freemen, the Hamfoaulk, the Áþsweord, the Búrleod… call every able man and woman to fight. Remember, as free men. This is what makes us different to those beasts, they fight under the chains of the Shadow. Let them all make the choice, and let us have more spears and swords to fight.”

“How can we do this?” One asked. “People is scared. They lost everything, many are in grief, and those who didn´t fear to lose it all.”
“Can you write?”
“Yes. Chief.”
“Then write.”

Later that day a message was taken away through the streets. The people saw it´s copies nailed to inn doors and communal buildings. Children who were paid to deliver it crossed the bridge and started shouting it aloud, or giving it out to people who could read, and behind them the riders left the city in all directions, across the Anduin and far north, and as south as any would dare venture. One child read it just crossing the Eastern Bridge, precariously rebuilt.

“The following is sent by the son of High Chief Grimbeorn the Old, called Beornas, protector of Carrokburg!” People gathered and listened.

“[/i]We Northmen descend from a long and almost forgotten line of warriors. Many of us were told the legends of the Eotheod and the Rohirrim who left this Valley to the Southern Call, but few know, outside our borders, of those who remained behind. Dalesmen, Valesmen and Woodsmen. Men of the Mountain and of the River. We all united to drive off the Enemy, and today we are united once more. We must grief no longer. Our sons had enough tears, our wives enough love. It is time to avenge them, to save ourselves and those who remain. Not only this people, our people, need so, but all of Middle Earth. Nobody will be left behind in this war.

To do so, I, Beornas, son of Grimbeorn Beornsson, decree, under my father´s authority, that all Swornmen are hereby released of their oath, and called on to fight. This decree cannot order their draft, but it commands you to look into your heart and see the future you want. It commands the Freemen, those who take the choice to join us, to aid, in whatever they can, to those who cannot join our ranks but wish to do so. It commands the Landowners, Estateholders and Chiefs to facilitate the freemen´s choice, not to bind them to the past, but to hope.

My family will finance the arming and supply of a new army, and within the next weeks, it will march on to retake our lands and free our people, whom we know, still resists beyond the blades of the enemy. All men who serve will receive equipment, should they need them, make oaths, should they wish to do them, will get food, clothes, and after each week, a payment they can negotiate on draft, as it is their right.[/i]”

As this happened, the city was revolted, and some rushed to write their names and take their weapons, but others doubted, and hoarded articles they would need. Also, groups of riders, three each, armed with a blade and carrying food, left the city to the borders in the north. They sent messages to Thranduil´s Halls, to Dale, to Erebor, and if they could cross, to Imladris and Erebor. Three boats left south as well, carrying two riders each, and they left for Lorien and Rohan, if the river, or the road if needed, allowed them to reach there. They sent words of the Beorningas, who now assembled to join the fight against the Darkness.

by **World Anarchic Union** » Fri May 22, 2015 3:21 am

Mirkwood, Elven King's Halls
The shadow grew thicker as time went on. The Dark Lord had returned from his doom, marking a new era of war for all races across Middle-Earth. Armies made from blood and death were marching to the cities of Men, Dwarves and Elves respectively.
Mirkwood Forest had, for many moons, fallen to that same shadow. Mirkwood Spiders, once a rare occurrence to witness one, only if you were very ill-prepared and unfortunate, had returned in numbers marking a new era of occupation of the once great now hollow forest. The last sanctuary for the Elves of Mirkwood was the Elven King's Halls. There were thousands of Elves barricaded inside, male and female, young and old, trembling to the notion of the Spiders capturing their Forest and transforming it into a fortress in the North of the Dark King and his minions.
Thranduil could hear the spiders, preparing, scratching the walls, thinking of ways to enter the stronghold of the Elves. He could sense their hatred, their pride, their hunger. They were numerous and coming from every direction.
Thranduil had been informed of the fate of the Twelve he had sent to secure and protect a key area in the north of the Forest. Prey for the dark creatures, satisfying their immense hunger with their long dead corpses.
They were 1400 Elven sodliers inside his Halls, all prepared to die for their people's future and prosperity. Thranduil was as well. And for his son. He knew should Mirkwood fall, then a new wave of shadow would attempt, and most likely, succeed in invading the rest of the Civilised People of Middle-Earth. He had ordered his son to leave at the guise of the light, and travel to Imlardis as a representative of his father and the rest of the Woodland Elves. He knew he had arrived safely and departed with a company of nine people to destroy the One Ring to Mordor.
Many had volunteered to join the guard. To protect the Forest. Their aid was needed in these times of darkness. Should the time come, should the invasion begin, he would fight.
The Elven sodliers as they were mostly archers with proficiency in close combat, would be situated in lines of twenty, preparing their bows and opening fire upon the filthy creatures. Then the next line would continue, while the others would prepare their bows again and enter behind the last line. The walls had proven very effective in the archers being able to fire arrows upon the Spiders, with unknown success. Some had died, however,some too heroic to live, some who had left the safety of the Halls to make a surprise attack upon the Spiders. But their ignorance and arrogance proved to be their downfall as they attempted to attack at night. They did not know the Spiders ' high efficiency during the night and they proved to be another meal. But the real fight was yet to come.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri May 22, 2015 9:23 am

Northern Lossarnach, Crossings of the River Erui

One of the captains swore as fiery bolts fell near the reinforcements marching up from the south. Behind him he gazed back at what he had thought was a shallow and treacherous river, and his fanged face worked in amazement at what he saw. In the little pools and eddies a ship of war, meant for coastal battles with the Corsairs, had stood to and was firing its ballistae at the lads from the Pelargir. Captain Jalakut had seen many odd things in his days, but this one might almost have been the oddest. He thanked the Darkness that more of the ships couldn't fit up the narrow river without risking a wreck, for the quantity of shot they bore was formidable. Even in that vein he was glad they had not targeted his own soldiers- though a few of the barbs seemed to have made it to the fellows, far far more fell short or wide at such a great distance. A stiff breeze from the north was blowing, and the slavering Morannon Orc nodded as the ship's sailors struggled with the sails to keep the mighty vessel from the shallows on either side of the river. Then he turned his head back to the battle once more, and began what would be the butcher's work.

At the bellowing of Orc voices and the crash of shield in staccato pattern, the northern part of the Orcish force began to distend, center pushed forward, sides rushing in behind them. In a matter of a minute as they marched to get to grips with their foe the Orcs had assembled in a formation called by the veterans the Boar's Head. At the point went in the largest, most heavily armored, and strongest warriors, and behind them came more spearmen and swordsmen, each man reinforcing the ones in front of him with the weight of his forward march and shield braced against the back of the former. As the formation spread back each man had two soldiers pushing him forward, a mighty wedge to split and tear asunder a shield wall. The shield wall's strength lay in its front- if the flanks could be turned, or broken, it would falter. Forward in the wedge the Morannon Orcs marched, their tempo of march increasing to an almost frenzied charge, and the roar of their voices was like the foaming of the sea. Upon either side of the main wedge, two thousands strong, one thousand Morannon Orcs also swung both west and east, marching in solid rectangular blocks at the beat of spear on shield. Gaps they left between their lines and those of the attacking wedge, but now to either flank of the smaller Gondorian shield wall they stood, and their harsh cries beat the air as they threatened the shield wall with encirclement.

To the south angry yells greeted the onrushing cavalry. From their position the Gondorians could see that the center of the enemy force had halted, lowering spears and pikes, while on either flank the warriors bearing the banners of the Great Eye had crowded back, presenting a prickly front gleaming with steel and iron to the foe. And above all another volley of black-fletched arrows flew, this time of broadheads exclusively, plowing into the Gondorian shield wall scarce a minute before the meeting of charging infantry wedge and the defenders of the White Tower and the Tower of Foam.

Quarry Camp, South-Western Eaves of Mirkwood

Garthaug, one of the commanders of Dol Guldur, was out to inspect the holdings in the part of the woods he was charged with the defense of. A large, broad-shouldered, and cruel Uruk, his face was a mask of boredom as the lesser Orc, Lorm, bowed and scraped before him. It was the privilege of rank, but also Garthaug had visited many such camps, and the mind grew dull when spoken to of the same mundane matters many times. Eventually, when the Spider-Lovers account of affairs began to wind down, the immense Uruk nodded down from his warg. The beast snapped and sniffed the air, but the Butcher ignored it and intoned in a voice of command. "The Eye would have you march, Lorm. This quarry has served well, but her stone is all but exhausted, and these pathetic rabble-" his wave encompassed the fetid slave-pens "- are needed back at Amon Lanc. Some great construction is underway, and the Faceless is having us bring in all laborers that can be found." Lorm bowed, brain searching for some way to preserve his independent command. Back at Amon Lanc he would be just another Orc captain amongst hundreds, whereas out here he had basically his own little fief. He settled on none though. It was a fairly unequivocal order. "It will be as you say, Lord Garthaug." The Uruk warlord nodded- he had expected no less. As he nudged his warg into motion once more, he cast a parting remark to Lorm. "Oh, and Spider-Lover? Word has reached Dol Guldur that the Carrockburg has been reoccupied by the spineless bear-men. Take some lads, and go burn them out again. Can't let the infestation get too serious now." A fierce light kindled in Lorm's eyes; his status had gone up much in the esteem of the other warriors of the Great Eye when he had supplied them with slaves, and his soldiers were always happier after a good round of looting and arson. That would make them happy after moving the slaves to Dol Guldur.

Dor-en-Ernil, Belfalas, South Gondor

From Linhir the darkness spread. Women and children and old men hid from the hosts of black and scarlet in their biers, and those who shot at them with bows were quickly hunted down. Many of the men had marched away to war in the train of the Prince of Dol Amroth, but where was he now that his own lands and people were threatened? Marching companies of Morannon Orcs spread throughout the land, fell folk quick to use sword or spear. Upon every village they descended, cowing elders and proclaiming the dominion of the Dark Lord. It seemed now, though, that perhaps Sauron was not bent on the utter destruction of the lineage of Numenor. Not yet, but perhaps soon. The peasants lived to see another sunrise, but the growing gloom and reek spewed forth from Orodruin meant they saw not the dawn, only the flat grayness of stormclouds when they awoke anew.

NPCs and Quests - Forthcoming

Bree, Eriador

As the Orc hawked his wares for a few hours several Halflings inquired after his bows, and even a man or two. One bought one of the smaller shortbows for a fairly expensive price after failing to haggle to any reasonable extent- the pale Orc got in return several barrels of good quality ale, since these humble folk knew little of the uses of currency. Others though merely cast him harsh looks- they knew what Orcs were, and what the foul folk brought with them. Eventually one of the Gate guards walked over to him, two merchant guards at his back, and rumbled ominously. "We don't have much use for Orc spies here in Bree, giving you good den. Best if you move along before my lads get agitated."

North-South Road, West of Dunland

With the dying of the day the riders from Tharbad happened upon a small collection of homes set back west of the road, nearby to Dunland. It would be a good spot to stop for the night, though the paltry dozen dwellings could hardly even be called a village. With luck one of the people here had heard of the quarry which the band of Captain Helgrim was seeking. The light was waning and the road looking more treacherous as the men of Tharbad considered their options.

Mirkwood, Elvenking's Halls

Eventually the scratching at the walls of the Keep lessened as the spiders appeared to have realized they couldn't gain entrance to the citadel. Quiet, eventually, reigned anew within the gates of Thranduil.

Hall of the Ancients, Umbar

As the Mouth of Sauron, hooded and cloaked, entered the great doors of the library, a wizened figure of a crone came hurrying towards him. It bowed, gender indeterminate with great age, and spoke in a voice like rustling paper. "Welcome, traveler, to the Hall of the Ancients. May I ask what brings you to our humble abode?" About the Mouth stretched shelves and repositories from floor to ceiling, spanning up into a great sunlit vaulted roof, and to either side for a large distance. Few men walked in the dusty and quiet halls, most of which wore the pale gray cloaks that the figure before him was endowed with. Here and there his keen eyes could pick out a man of Harad, swarthy and dark of hair, or a Rhun-man walking between the stacks. But for the most part the Hall was echoing and abandoned.

Near the Western Gates, Moria

The Balrog passed through the halls almost unremarked- something had drawn away the attention of the Fell Folk that lived in the Black Pit towards the east. Eventually, however, he came upon a band of some twenty Orcs feasting and drinking near the outer gate. At seeing his strange form, they jumped up, grabbing weapons close to hand. "Halt, stranger! Who walks in the halls of Grishnak, servant of the Great Eye?"

by **Conglomerate of Iron** » Fri May 22, 2015 10:22 am

North Lossarnach

"BOAR'S SNOUT!!!" The sergeants of the force recognized the tactic immediately.

"Center fall back! Men, reinforce the flanks!" The lines shifted to accommodate the enemy, with more soldiers going to the sides and the center falling back as fast as they could. they soon formed a horseshoe like formation, attempting to surround the enemy, despite their greater numbers. The Gondorian men relied heavily upon their long pikes and hard shields and armor when fighting the orcs, allowing the cruel and ill made blades to bounce harmlessly off their sturdy metal. However, the sheer number of orcs took a toll on their men, and when another barrage of arrows hit them, their morale wavered, but they knew what was at stake. Their very homes and families relied on their victory, and so they fought all the harder.

The archers, although greatly reduced from the arrow storms due to their weaker armor, was still in fighting condition, and they ran backwards, planning to hit the Southern orcs, as any firing of arrows at the Northern forces would lead to them hitting their own men. They took up a hasty stance and fired upon the Southern forces, raining broadheaded arrows upon the ill armored orcs.

The cavalry, seeing the enemy so well defended at the front, and the ships to the left, veered right, planning to take up a position direcly West of the orcs, for they saw what the ships behind were doing, and so knew the plan.

For the ships that could not advance past into firing distance began to unload their crews, who carried what weapons they could, pikes and short swords frequent, and marched onto the banks of Erui. Already, eight ships unloaded their men, while the rest were preparing to do so. The men massed at the East of the Southern force, which was now surrounded by cavalry and shipsmen.The ship at the front continued to fire, making sure that the ballista shot did not hit its own lines, but prepared to end its volleys the moment allied troops came into range.

Forces:

Shield wall: 1030 (170 dead or wounded)
Archers: 170 (130 dead or wounded)
Cavalry 395 (5 dead)
Shipsmen: (I figure 75 men a ship) 600

by **The Flutterlands** » Fri May 22, 2015 11:03 am

G-Tech Corporation wrote:Bree, Eriador

As the Orc hawked his wares for a few hours several Halflings inquired after his bows, and even a man or two. One bought one of the smaller shortbows for a fairly expensive price after failing to haggle to any reasonable extent- the pale Orc got in return several barrels of good quality ale, since these humble folk knew little of the uses of currency. Others though merely cast him harsh looks- they knew what Orcs were, and what the foul folk brought with them. Eventually one of the Gate guards walked over to him, two merchant guards at his back, and rumbled ominously. "We don't have much use for Orc spies here in Bree, giving you good den. Best if you move along before my lads get agitated."

Blarg was looking through the barrels of ale he got in return for the bows and arrows he sold. Ine barrel he planned to keep for himself. The rest he will sell in cities for a more... proper currency.
Blarg looked up at the guard and frowned slightly, beford nodding contently. "Very well, Sir." he said politely, "However, while I am indeed an orc, I'm no spy nor any kind of minion of..." Blarg shuddered a bit. "Him, and care little for the war in the east. I'm merely an honest explorer and salesman trying to make a living. Nonetheless, since you are an authority here, I shall leave if command it so. Just let me gather my things, get a refund for my room at The Prancing Pony, and I shall be off."

by **Esternial** » Fri May 22, 2015 11:42 am

Conglomerate of Iron wrote:
Esternial wrote:Minas Tirith, Gondor

For what seemed like just a moment, the roaring and belching of warrior orc and shouting of man faded to the background. A brief moment of near silence, the calm before the storm.

A high piercing wail came down the wind, from high up in the heavens, heart-quelling, cruel and chilling to even the most hot-blooded warrior. The terrifying sound rose, ringing throughout the city of Minas Tirith and stabbing into the ears of mortal Men, rendering even the orcish host momentarily silent as they descended from the dark tapestry above. Atop the Fell Beasts they approached, two of Sauron's most terrible servants led by His second-in-command.

The were the advent of despair. The Nazgul had joined the siege.

Like vultures the Fell Beasts circled above the city, their presence alone casting a shroud of terror onto the city. The Nazgul looked up at their Lord, the Witch King, whose eyes gazed down at the city underneath his iron crown.

"Lay waste to what little hope remains in the hearts of Men." The Witch King of Angmar howled with booming authority. The two Ringwraiths shrieked in response as they descended down towards the city, the claws of their Fell Beast bearing down upon its people, capable of tearing through steel, flesh and bone with ease. The Witch King had no ambition to destroy the city, but thinning out the host within should inspire enough terror to break their morale, waste their spirits and poison what little courage remains.

Minas Tirith

"Fire your arrows at the beasts! Make them lose their steeds!" Cried the captain Faramir, as his Rangers loosed barrage after barrage at the Fell Beasts. Although most men may fear the Nazgul, the blood of Numenor ran hot enough in the veins of the rangers and some other brave archers that they could stand against the Nazgul, if only for a moment, although without the brave captains Faramir and Boromir beside them. Other men now cowered, many footmen and militia, who simply could not resist such foul terror. But the lionhearted took aim, and many arrows fell upon the Fell Beasts.

(Note: in the books the fell beasts always stay out of bowshot.)

The putrid creatures wailed and with them, the Nazgul screeched furiously. Their thick skin could endure many arrows, but the constant punishment of arrowheads piercing their flesh was enough to make them more cautious, and it didn't take long for the Nazgul to climb higher, away from the arrows' reach. Their attacks became more sporadic, less reckless, avoiding the packs of archers that still rose their bows in defiance.

Isengard, Gondor

Five black horses entered the grounds of Isengard, mounted by five robed figures. The men and orcs under Saruman's servitude looked up, but averted their gaze as the riders passed them by, unopposed as they rode for the tower of Orthanc.

"Saruman" One of them hissed, the sound of his voice carrying further than seemed possible. Along with another, the Black Rider dismounted, while the other three turned around and rode onward, their course set for Dol Guldur.

by **Elerian** » Fri May 22, 2015 12:50 pm

Old South Road, Captain Helgrim

Helgrim could hardly believe his eyes. A small cluster of buildings sat snugly just off the road several hundred paces ahead. They had been on the march for nearly a week, and each night they had slept in the cold, out under the stars and ate little else besides hard bread, cheese, and dried meat. This could very well mean many of the men would have the chance to sleep under a firm roof, and have a hot meal in their bellies. A low chatter erupted among the column, all of the men were talking with glee about the chance to sleep well, and eat well too. Helgrim stopped grumbling for once and handed the reins to a nearby soldier. He selected a half dozen men to accompany him to ensure this wasn't a ruse. He bid the rest of his men to stay alert.

A minute later he was entering the hamlet, and walked slowly and cautiously to ensure they weren't ambushed.

Banks of the Greyflood, South of Tharbad

A train of men made their way south, with them a number of wagons full of people and equipment, made their way slowly south. Their goal was to reach Daer Lond and begin repairs of the city. It was farther gone than Tharbad, but with some dedication it could be great again. Logain wanted to repopulate the barren lands of Enedwaith and Miniraith, and one of the first targets was Lond Daer. While Tharbad had been the primary port for Arnor of old, Lond Daer held that title long before that. Lond Daer would make a fine addition, and with it another barracks would be built to help facilitate a central authority within the town. Once the repairs and barracks were both underway, a chain would be built to prevent any unwanted visitors from entering the Greyflood.

Rhû Gorth Nór, Varangi Gratis

A cacophony of screams and shouts shortly followed the orgy of blood in the muddy pits below the Throne of Skulls. Varangi sat atop the bones of his tribe's enemies, more than a few of which were deformed skulls of powerful Orcs the Chieftains of Gratis had bested in personal combat. Varangi suddenly stood from his seat and whooped loudly as the arm of a captured Orc was torn off by one of his Clan Wargs. Soon after, the bloodbath was done, and the Orcs were dead or dying as the Warg tore them apart to munch on them. Varangi jumped down from his throne and strode over to the remaining captives. They cringed as he drew near, his skull masked face was dyed deeply red, and his bone armor clinked together eerily as he approached. Inspecting the stock he walked between each one before he was satisfied with his catch, in the pit below the loud munching of the Warg made the Orcs twitch.

As Varangi walked back to his throne he flicked his wrist and a handful of sneering clansmen cut loose two of the Orc's binds. As Varangi seated himself, the two sniveling Orcs were tossed into the pit as the Warg was taken from it. With the bodies of their comrades all around them, a short club and a small wooden stake were thrown into the pit after them. One of the Orcs, a stout Morgul breed, realized first what they were to do. He scrambled for the nearest weapon, the wooden stake. The other Orc, a bigger breed, was slower to realize what was happening. He arrived to grab the club, a second after the Morgul Orc had grabbed the stake, and after staggering through the mud after one another, the two Orcs locked in a fierce combat. Much to the enjoyment of the crowd, the blood shortly began to flow. The bigger of the two Orcs was able to score a blow on the Morgul Orc before stumbling in the mud and receiving a gash to the forehead. Black blood began to seep down his face and into his eyes, and it wasn't long before he was swinging wildly while the other Orc danced around him.

A smile crossed Varangi's face as the smaller Orc managed to get in close, a quick jab of the stake to the bigger Orc's gut, and it seemed the fight was all but over. The bigger Orc lashed out one last time and with a stroke of luck the club collided with the Morgul Orc's temple. The smaller Orc flew backwards and sprawled out in the mud. The larger of the two stood back up after a moment and wiped away some of the blood. The large Orc stood over the smaller Orc, a grin of victory on his face, and with his club in hand he proceeded to beat the Morgul Orc to death. The gathered crowd screamed in delight as the Orc's life slipped away.

Varangi jumped to his feet and tore off his cloak and furs. His breath steamed in the cold damp air as he crossed the distance to the pit and motioned for the men to lower a rope ladder. The Orc tossed aside the club, wiped more blood off his brow and lifted himself out of the muddy hell. The crowd had grown silent in anticipation of what Varangi was going to do, and once the Orc reached the top he noticed the eerie silence. Varangi strode forward and motioned for his men to grab the Orc. With a frightened look the Orc resisted until a backhanded blow sent the Orc limp for a few moments. The Orc was dragged to a sizable black basalt rock. Upon the rock the Orc was tied. He struggled feebly against the restraints before Varangi drew a shiny black obsidian blade from his belt. With a look of crazed delight, Varangi plunged the blade into the Orc's chest, and began sawing its heart from its body. Varangi pulled the still beating heart from the chest cavity, and with blood oozing from it he held it out for all to see. Varangi tore off his mask and with a shrill screech and sank his teeth into the heart, tearing out a sizable chunk and ate it. The crowd before him answered his screech with their own, and the Marsh was filled with the sounds of wild men.

by **Mesrane** » Fri May 22, 2015 1:24 pm

Edoras, Rohan

The guard squinted, trying to make out the sudden pinprick of orange brightness that had so rudely thrust itself into his vision. As it flared up and grew slightly higher, he realized it was a fire. His gaze swept down the peaks of the White Mountains. Indeed, there was a further, smaller fire to the nearer one's south. With a start, he realized just what was going on. Flinging down his spear, he took the stairs from the tower down to the courtyard three at a time. "The beacons are lit!" he cried. "The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!"

Plains of the Eastemnet, two days later

The plains of the Eastemnet began to shudder and shake, as if the ground itself was buckling under the weight of a great many-legged beast.

In truth, that was exactly what was happening. Théodred spurred his mount forward, and his éored followed seamlessly, a hundred and twenty Rohirrim twisting and turning with such precision that they may well have been a single beast. There was no real need to have his men turn in formation on the wide open plains of the Eastemnet, but Théodred insisted on keeping his éored well drilled throughout any period of peace, and so Rohan's prince made a moving practice of it until his éored reached the rock, the destination of their journey from Edoras.

The rock in and of itself was fairly nondescript, and would have been simply a large boulder anywhere else but on the plains of Rohan, where it stuck up like a dagger plunging through flesh and out the other side. Since Theoden's health had deteriorated to the point where he could no longer effectively rule, Théodred had made use of it as a meeting place for his captains, who in these days of uncertainty were constantly circulating around the realm, patrolling a section of Rohan for a time before moving on.

The Prince knew just who he was to meet with today, and he watched with growing apprehension as a golden-haired, finely armored éored closed the distance with his own, thundering out of the northwest.

As the Rohirrim drew closer, Théodred could make out individual faces. He was pleased to note a particularly tall and stocky rider who rode with authority at the very front.

The two parties slowed to a canter and rode to meet each other, each rider exchanging greetings and stories with one from the opposite éored.

Two men in particular were happy to see one another. Théodred and Éomer gave one another cheerful embraces. They were cousins, and had spent most of their childhoods making mischief together. Éomer was second in line to the throne of Rohan after Théodred, and served the realm as Second Marshal of the Mark.

"Cousin, it's good to see you are unhurt."

Eomer grinned savagely. His finely carved breastplate was splattered with blood, but otherwise he was unmarked. "Forty Dunlendings aren't going to kill me," he growled. He reached into his saddle bag and withdrew the severed head of a Dunlending chief, all pasty with dried blood. He tossed it to the ground in front of Theodred. "But they are a threat no longer." He paused, adjusting the straps on his helm. "For what reason do you summon me here today?"

Theodred's expression darkened. "Gondor's doom may well be at hand. Minas Tirith is under siege and orcs run rampant in several other provinces of the realm. Gondor is the linchpin of the West's defense, and if it falls . ." Theodred left the rest unsaid.

"Gondor will fall, if no help is sent," finished Eomer. "All of Wilderland is under attack as well, but the situation there is not yet desperate."

"Indeed." Theodred's face drew into a grimace. "Already we have tarried too long within our own borders. We must fulfill Eorl's Oath once more. We must ride, to ruin or victory, ignominy or glory. But we will ride. Eomer, as Second Marshal of the Mark, I entrust to you the task of mustering the Rohirrim; all twelve thousand of them. I would consult my father, but as you know his sickness is such that he is nearly beyond words. Grima of course would advise against it."

Eomer bowed in the saddle. "This I will do, Theodred. It will take perhaps eight days to gather the full host of the Mark, but I will do it."

Theodred looked relieved. "Thank you, cousin. I would not bestow such a task lightly. Now, I must return to Edoras; I do not feel comfortable leaving Grima to his machinations, even for two days. Additionally, I will take steps to ensure that the people of Rohan are as safe as possible with most of the Mark's forces away. I may well send most of Edoras away to Helm's Deep. A few dozen riders will be deployed to Isengard to keep watch on Saruman, and I will reinforce the Fords of Isen."

Eomer bowed again. "I wish you luck cousin."

"And you as well. Let the Rohirrim shake the very earth once more." With that, Theodred had turned and galloped off, his éored following close behind. Eomer was already breaking up his own éored and sending men off to the various regions of Rohan, thus beginning the muster of the Mark.

Limlight River, ford

The scout ducked back down behind the crest of the hill as orcs thundered across the river. He risked another look; there were at least two thousand of them, all streaming north in black armor.

The man slid down his side of the hill and sprinted up the next one, now desperate to avoid detection. These lands were hilly, though largely lacking trees, and he was afraid that the orcs might catch a whiff of him at any moment. But as he reached the bottom of the next hill, he surmised that he hadn't been caught, and so was able to proceed a further half-mile to where Garrick and his two hundred riders were waiting in quiet apprehension. They had been sent out from Edoras as a routine border patrol, but as they reached the northern edge of the Wold, orc activity had become increasingly apparent and so their pace had slowed, and many of the men became tightened up with the knowledge that orcs could be anywhere around them, possibly watching them.

"Cap'n!" he cried. "There's some two thousand of the dark orcs moving north across the Limlight. My guess is they're moving to strike Lorien soon."

Garrick climbed into his saddle, and many of his men followed him as they stamped out the thin flames of their cookfires. "We don't have time to consult Eomer or any higher authority. This is an opportunity to at least put a dent in their number before they attack Wilderland proper. We'll follow them to the river and move along the southern bank slowly, to get a better idea of what is happening on the north bank.

The company was soon off, riding north at a cautious canter.

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

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

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