The War for Middle-Earth [IC | Closed]

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Jul 03, 2020 8:19 am

| The War for Middle-Earth |

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.

Out of Character

Faction Archives

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 tranquility 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. Sauron's 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. Long ago it was lost, and has passed into shadow, but as the ages of the world turn what is forgotten may once more be remembered...

Now it is up to you, listener of this tale; what side do you fight for?

The soldiers squatted in the shade of a copse of fir trees, peering out between the thick green branches at the tumbled stone and cracked walls of the white city beyond. One chewed contemplatively on a hunk of gristle he had found between his teeth - a hunk of a breakfast now departed, no doubt - while the other was making intermittent marks on a black piece of rock with a piece of white chalk. The Southrons shifted from time to time, swarthy faces dappled gray-brown in the mottled shadows, keeping limbs lithe, the hours ticking by.

Eventually night's cloak descended upon the land, and the smaller man kicked his slumbering companion awake.

"Oiv got the count, let's leg it."

His cant was rough Nirnen, the tongue spoken by the amalgamation of Black Numenoreans, slaves, and other Dark Men that lived in the south of Mordor. Beyond their copse he had been studiously keeping track of the number of guards that patrolled the derelict defenses of what had once been the capitol of Gondor, a count his superiors had demanded of the scouts that fought a ceaseless war with the Ithilien Rangers here upon the far banks of the Anduin. It was exciting work, work which had set the swarthy man's veins to humming with barely suppressed energy.

Counting meant someone wanted to know how many defenders the city had. And even his uneducated brain took that conclusion to one logical place - someone wanted to know how many defenders the city had, because someone meant to decide how many soldiers would be necessary to take the city. Finally, an opportunity for some proper war, instead of this hiding and skulking.

Under the cover of darkness the two men, hooded and cloaked in daubed gray and black, slipped back towards the Mountains of Shadow.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Jul 03, 2020 8:19 am

Quests

Gondor
Bulwark of the Pelennor: In the days of Denethor's youth, the Pelennor was warded by great citadels, mighty towers, and unbreachable gates. Fallen into disrepair as the dark times have come upon Gondor, to raise up these ancient stoneworks would be a wise move, a stand against the gathering storm...
Objective: Raise the Fortification Level of the Rammas to Rampart within the next Year
Reward: ???

Isengard
Feed the Fires: Industry requires fuel, and the mind of Saruman turns to Fangorn Forest, which lays upon the doorstep of his domain. To forge, arm, and armor the armies he wishes to raise, exploiting this bountiful resource will be necessary...
Objective: Establish three Outposts within Fangorn Forest's boundaries
Reward: ???

Imladris
Not All Who Wander: The Dunedain of the North have long been guests of Elrond, allies and staunch friends in dark times. Their numbers, however, have been swelling within the confines of the Last Homely House, and their chieftain now comes to the Half-Elven with a request...
Objective: Establish a Settlement for the Dunedain within the Angle
Reward: ???

Rohan
Walda's Legacy: Ancient was the Mark when the Orcs were driven south by the Dwarf and Goblin Wars, only the faintest echo of which ever came to Rohan. But the ramifications of this war were long - it led to open battle upon the plains of the Mark for many years, and eventually the slaying of a King of the Mark by treacherous Orcs in Dunharrow. It has long been thought that all their kindred were routed from the White Mountains, but now a report comes of an Orc-host marching east along the line of the Ered Nimrais out of the west towards Rohan. It may be best if they are defeated...
Objective: Orcs have been seen on the move near the feet of Starkhorn. Destroy them.
Reward: ???

Erebor
The Lost Halls: Many are the halls of Durin's folk of legend that have been lost, or been overrun. Foul orcs have claimed many, and darker things others, but oftentimes these fell folk do not appreciate the value of what is hidden beneath their feet. Rumors have reached the Lonely Mountain of the discovery of a route into an ancient hall in the Grey Mountains, Arashnathur, where of old Durin tarried for a time. An expedition to reclaim these halls may yield much knowledge and wealth, not to mention glory...
Objective: Discover and reconquer Arashnathur in the Ered Mithrin
Reward: ???

Rhun
The Dark Elves: The Avari of Dorwinion have long been trade partners and maintained cordial relations with the Easterlings, but of late the growing power of Dale and the Bardings has made them overbold. They trade heedlessly with those who oppose Khamul and his ambitions, and should be reminded who they are dealing with...
Objective: Conquer the passage north of the River Running, and establish a stranglehold over Dorwinion's trade
Reward: ???

Bree
The Great Road: Trade east and west along the Road, of Dwarven ores, wood from the Beornings, foodstuffs from the Shire, and more is of great importance to Bree. Recently, however, goblin tribes have been seen squatting in the Weather Hills, preying on travelers and disappearing caravans. Their removal would secure greater prosperity for the Breeland...
Objective: Destroy the tribe of Goblins who have set up camp in the Weather Hills
Reward: ???

The Misty Mountains
Bolg's Legacy: The great son of Azog, departed too soon, is a model for all goblin-kind. The line of Durin he nearly ended, and all the foul folk of the Grey Mountains remember his legacy. His son, Kash, however, is proving to be a thorn in Durgash's side, boasting loudly of how he soon shall rule in Gundabad. Silencing this would-be usurper may prove wise...
Objective: Assassinate, cow, or otherwise put an end to the ambitions of Kash, the chief of Mount Grimfang in the Grey Mountains
Reward: ???

Moria
Fell Might: Ruling a mass of any evil creature is a difficult task, even for the most strong-willed of chieftains. Sheer brutal strength, demonstrated, can be an effective aid in this regard. The most powerful creatures in the Misty Mountains, Cave Trolls, could amplify the hold of Moria over the lesser nearby caverns where goblins teem...
Objective: Recruit 10 Cave Trolls
Reward: ???

Dunland
Proving Strength: A tribal confederation formed is not an easy thing to hold together. Though they march to his banner now, some chieftains have been heard whispering that greater glory and spoils might be won raiding by themselves against the Forgoil, and this threatens the unity of Dunland as a realm. Show them all that there is no greater foe of the robbers of the north than Gwynric the Red...
Objective: Raid or raze two Settlements belonging to Rohan
Reward: ???

The Solitude of Labyrinths
Whispers of Blackness: The Withered Heath, the ancient home and breeding place of the Dragons of the North, was once the site of many Dwarven cities and strongholds, and even the dwellings of Northmen and Dark Men of the ages past. Your goblin-emissaries have heard word of a foul sorcerer who has taken residence in one of these ruined cities, who might be bent to your will, or who may hold secrets worth knowing...
Objective: Search six Ruined Settlements in the Withered Heath
Reward: ???

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Fri Jul 03, 2020 10:31 am

Black Rhodri’s Hall, By The Fords of Isen

“Twas there at Isen ford
The traitors blow was struck
And all of Freca’s house did fall
‘neath that blooded brook”

The squat hall thronged with sword-thanes and their chiefs, wreathed in fur and feather, roaring as the fires roared in the twin hearths. Thirty six tribes of Dunland had their numbers there, and four of the Enedhwaith’s hillmen. Ruddy brown and black manes mingled with soot and the dark timbers of the hall that had been Rhodris, as boys and womenfolk brought barley beer, rich salo and dark rye bread.

Axes raced in the hands of daring old warriors, testing their quickness of finger and eye, while at the foot of the table young men and boys wrestled among the dozing hounds of the hunt. The men of Dunland feasted, as in all things, just the same in these shaded elder days as they had in the misted years when the world was a young bride to take as their own.

Though they drank and ate as they had then, none was the same in heart or in purpose. The bloody shadows of east and west had come on them, and each man of Dunland felt the stain of it. As a mother bear who smells wolves amidst her den, each of them felt a keening for the lands no longer theirs. As it was said the elves of Mithlond longed for Ulmo’s sweet sea, or the Dwarves for their halls awash with gold, they longed for homes long buried, for the lost bones of distant kin.

A dozen kings had lead them and their cousins in these years of their waning. Had tried to lay hands upon what was rightly theirs. All had been denied, and all slain under the blows of a foreign foe. Wulf, the last, had come mightily close - had sat upon the throne of lost Calenardhon, before by treachery he too had fallen dead. Near three centuries had passed since that blighted day.

To the sons and daughters of the Noldor this was nothing but a moment, and in this the men of Dunland followed them - it was to them as if a blow newly struck, a wound raw and un-healed. Not until the Westfold was theirs again could it be staunched, and not till a king of Dunland sat in Meduseld and drank from the skulls of the Eotheod would it ever be healed. The forgoil hated the Dunlendings, aye, but what did such men know of hate who had known it only for a span of centuries?

That was what had united these 40 tribes around Rhodri’s hall, as much as had Red Gwynric’s axe. Still, the latter had served to quiet those who would not submit for the former, and only a few days prior had it won the newly triumphant king a skull from which to take his drink. Rhodri had been a grizzled, stubborn old fool - one who’d thought Orthanc and its master out of Westernesse offered Dunland it’s path to resurgence. Worse, he had taken no ring of Gwynric’s, and came not to bow at his knee, and had lost his head and hall for it.

Still, the sturdy little village, now brimming over with tents and warriors, made as fine a staging ground as could be hoped for. Only two days march to the Isen and on into the Westfold. Rohan, decrepit and ruled over by the dotard Theoden, could offer resistance only in it’s princes, Theodred and Eomer. The Isen’s fords had seen enough blood for the Dunlendings to know it foolish to assume Rohan lamed, though, and the young princes had caught enough raiders short for them men of Dunland to know their skill. Gwynric’s host, as vast as any levied in Dunland, had much opportunity before it in lost Calenardhon’s green pastures, but much risk too in its spears, however dulled.

The Fords of Isen

The Dunlendings, though, were not a risk averse people. When their blood ran hot, that of their foes ran in the mud - Gwynric and his chiefs were in accord on that point, if on precious little else. With Rhodri's death Dunland was securely in hand, but it couldn't be held if the new king didn't prove himself worth of it, and fast. Like half a dozen kings before him, he came inevitably to the conclusion that his future lay beyond the Isen in the Westfold. After days of feasting, singing, wrestling and raising of general ire, the army would have marched to the nearest Eotheod garrison whether he'd ordered it or not, and he simply couldn't afford to turn back and wait until he went the way of Black Rhodri or King Codwy.

So, camp had been broken, and the order to advance sounded on the great war-horns. The men of Dunland sharpened their fierce axes, whetted their bright spears and pulled their mail and furs close. The march to the riverside was a quick one, and remarkably orderly for so traditionally barbarous a people. If the Dunlendings had any logistical skill, after all, it was for raiding the pastures of the Rohirrim. Many a mound lay on the well-worn path to the ford, and many bones lay bleached in the bracken. Fathers, grandfathers, foe-men and friends, all churned in a muddle of weathered bone and rusted blade. A lone wanderer might've found the sight a sombre one, but to three and a half thousand frothing Dunlending warriors it only heightened the fire of their wrath.

Gwynric's dun pony trotted gently across the ford, the sturdy beast keeping the kings great cloak dry, and he cast his eye out across an overcast sky and the flat, green expanse of the Westmark. Many among the locals were cousins to his men - the blood of his blood, who'd dwelt here in Freca's day, and would soon be returned to them. Wrath was for the interlopers, the Eotheod, and the first golden-haired carls found themselves slain in their stolen farmsteads as the war-path began its march west. 'Woe unto the forgoil' went the cry, and bright were the axes beneath silver-grey clouds.

by **Arlye Austros** » Sat Jul 04, 2020 3:48 pm

The Gardens of Rivendell.
It rests on the northern side of Elrond’s home, somewhat protected the mountains that cast a perpetual -yet refreshing- shadow on the statue. Her face, however, pale as the Moon herself, are bathed with the rays of the Sun as it sets upon the west, and the waterfalls that restlessly drop on the southern edge of Imladris reflect sparks of light from both the mid-day and midnight and stars. Soon, any gardener and experienced tender of trees would imagine, it could be claimed by nature, but for now, the statue watches to the West, perhaps hoping beyond the death of her Muse. For now it’s clean and tended.

The tall figure of the elf had been still, watching the horizon to the west. The figure of the woman at his side. He had been alone for only a few moments, yet it was no surprise to him when the identical elf came to him and spoke.
“He has left. Riding to the west and then south. Our Lord sent him on some other errand.”
Elladan didn’t reply. He had much in his mind. The words in Quenya continued.
“He runs from it. But I have come to understand what Father suspects. Whether he will succeed, that is an entirely different thing.”
The other turned to his brother. Elladan cracked a smile, somehow filled with doubt.
“It is the Gift that was given to his kind. The Fate of Men is cloudy, and perhaps not even there. So they can fail, they can choose beyond the Design that was revealed to the Just.” His brother didn’t seem to understand beyond the further doubts those words would cast, Elrohir looked aside, worried, and Elladan laid a hand on his shoulder. “That means they can surprise us, even themselves. Even if he runs from what he is meant to be, the moment he decides to chase it back it will be great.”
“Did you spoke of how to do what he suggested?” Elrohir replied now. Elladan nodded.
“No… We spoke of our mother. Of how she left. He was in grief, so I offered some words of comfort.” Elladan remembered when the twins found the woman in the caves of the mountains. If she had been of the Race of Men that place would have become her tomb. A spark of light reflected from the waterfall. Dawn. “We must work now, brother. Are you still fond of riding?”

First Month

Lord Elrond has sensed the stirring in the Mountains, yet his eyes set westwards. His son, Elladan, prepared a force of elven warriors to secure The Angle, upon the request of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Meanwhile, Elrohir rides across the East Road over the Mitheithel, and then through the wild northern shore towards Tharbad. Captain Elladan leads his own company and a handful of Arnorian warriors through the East Road a few days later.

by **Remnants of Exilvania** » Sat Jul 04, 2020 4:05 pm

Mount Gundabad
Deep Halls
The Black Chieftain's Hall

The hall that Gurdash, and many chiefs of Gundabad before him, had always used as their own abode, the center of their realm and the beating black heart of Gundabad, was the deepest dwarven hall within the entire mountain. Some even say it was the place within which Durin the Deathless awoke so many eons ago, the most holy of all places of dwarvenkind. Now filled with the squatting, black hearted creatures that were the orcs and Goblins, with the most foul and cruel among them residing within this very hall, made of the dwarves sturdiest and once upon a time most beautiful stonework, now defaced after decades of orcish rule.

A monument to Durin had once dominated the center of this hall but the orcs had destroyed it long ago, till little more than the flat, solid ground remained.

A ground now covered by a mess of stitched together leather...by the looks of it made from human skin. Ink, dirt and blood covered it, illustrating the shapes of Middle Earth's geography, the great settlements, everything in its glory. Oh, and the dirty footsteps of orcs.

Durgash was walking up and down the Misty Mountains on the map, using a spear to point out points of interest. Points a small goblin walking after him, with a bucket full of blood, eagerly marked with a brush. And if he did not, Durgash would just whack him with the spear, drawing out pained yelps from the wretched creature. Around the leather map the chiefs, captains and couriers of the goblins of Mount Gundabad were gathered, watching their chieftain's markings and listening to his words in fearful silence.

The spear landed on Mount Gram before drawing a connection to the North Downs, cutting deep into the map.

"Get Tharzog to gather some of his lads. I want that musclehead to head out westward. The Westlands are fat and rich...and weak. Protected by them manlings in the woods they've grown soft. If he sets up a base in the old ruins, we'll get a perfect spot to strike at 'em."

Another orc left the room, running as quickly as he could to relay Durgash's orders. Meanwhile Durgash was about to continue when an orc, one of his chiefs, suddenly spoke up:

"Is that a good idea chieftain? If ya send out yer supporters like that, those boys in cahoots over with those in Mount Grimfang might get-"

The orc chief did not get to continue, the spear Durgash had held in his hand before suddenly having found itself in his throat. The orc gargled a little on the spear and blood welling up before his failing body could no longer support himself, falling over onto the map and spilling blood all over it, the pool of it quickly spreading over the Grey Mountains and the Mountains of Angmar. Durgash only grunted in annoyance before planting his spear in the Mountains of Angmar, guessing the rough location of Carn Dum.

"Then there's the old ruins of the Eye's captain. Up in the mountains over there. We still have some of the old tunnels which should allow us to move in there. I'll head there myself together with a good group of trusty lads. And then we'll have the old ruins back where they belong. In orc hands."

Another orc piped up, asking:

"That's all great plans chief but like, they're all going westwards. Can we like, do anything in the east too? The humans there've become real brave. Maybe some slave raids and stuff?"

"Getting to that Groblag, getting to that. Ya see, there's the old riders' town up here between the rivers. Just a jump away. If we'd get that, we'd for one know if the damned elves or humans decide to make a move on us earlier. And we'd get a bit closer to them humans. Would serve them well to know fear again. Get Durburz to come over here, grab some boys and then head out towards the southeast to go there.

How's that sound?"

Roars and laughter branded up at that. Scimitars were branded and waved through the air in anticipation as the orcs stamped their feet and chanted, chanted the name of their chieftain, their chieftain and his great plans. He certainly knew how to motivate them, how to return the ideas of northern domination to them again that Bolg had planted within their minds and which had left no goblin or orc of the mountains ever since. The north would be theirs and theirs alone soon enough. And Durgash would see to it that it would happen sooner rather than later.

OOC Summary:
-Chieftain Durgash of the North takes a host of 5.000 Goblins and proceeds to march them through the Mountains of Angmar towards Carn Dum.
-Chieftain Tharzog of Mount Gram has received orders to assemble 3.000 Goblins, 200 Orcs, 300 Wargs and 6 Cave Trolls and lead them towards the North Downs and Fornost.
-Chieftain Durburz of Mount Ugular has received orders to travel with 1.000 Goblins to Mount Gundabad and pick up another 2.000 Goblins, 1.000 Orcs, 250 Wargs and 3 Cave Trolls to move towards the ruins of Framsburg.

EDIT: Recruitment:
-240 Goblins in Mount Gundabad
-30 Goblins in Mount Gram
-20 Goblins in Mount Ugular.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sun Jul 05, 2020 11:39 am

Gardens of Isengard

It was some distant clamour that had called Saruman, Chiefest of the Istar, out to wander in the gardens of Isengard. Once it had been a habit of his, whenever he felt his mood dour in the black halls of Orthanc. He vaguely remembered how the rustle of the leaves in the wind brought him comfort and put his mind at ease, and how the solid bark of Isen-oaks instilled in him a respect for the works of nature, a trust in the resillience of Arda.

Those days were passed and almost forgotten. Saruman wrapped his cloak, made of fabric that was ever-shifting in colour, closer around him as cold winds swept down from the mountain. It was a vague memory of a younger self, a memory that felt both naive and distant. Saruman could now only half-remember how he felt, and only when described in factual, descriptive language. No longer did he feel as he felt then. In the Isen-oaks, he saw wood to harvested. Precious wood, which would be sawn and cut, used to build the water-wheels and spear shafts, to construct carts and to fuel the forge-fires roaring below the surface.

Saruman felt a grin grow around his mouth as he was reminded of the endless tunnels that burrowed beneath his feet. He had conquered the Earth itself, and made himself its master. Treasure of iron was raided from Arda’s vaults, and wrought into Isengard steel by a Numanorean method, long lost but rediscovered by Saruman. The Isen-oaks would stand, for now. Their use as camouflage for his operation outweighed the power and material that could be harvested from them. For the time being, at least. Secrecy was of the essence for as long as the Free People still regarded him as a friend and ally, or until Sauron opened the War. Saruman knew his predicament.

His mind wandered from his garden back to his grand designs, from which even the flowers and trees of Isengard could not shield him. He could not have a moment’s rest if Sauron was to be defeated. A decision, delayed by seconds, could cost him ten spears. Ten spears meant the difference between a succesful sally and a failed one. One sally could make the difference in a siege. One siege decided the control of vast resources and production, and that decided the outcome of the war. Every moment of rest deminished his chances of victory. He could never run from the fact that only through supreme optimisation could he defeat the Great Foe, the Enemy of the Valar. The wizard’s mind raced and burned, churning, plotting, never stopping, forging, turning, hacking, breeding and strategizing. A mind of metal and wheels.

“What is your next move, brother?” Saruman thought, as he climbed the ring wall. From this vantage he could see just above the edges of the Wizard’s Vale, towards Rohan. Grassy fields, filled with hamlets with miles and miles between them. Insufferable inefficiency, if Theoden and his horse-lords would ever want to defeat the Dark Lord. His fields would have to produce feed for vast armies and beasts for slaughter. Wargs could be fed off prisoners, horses were inferior and unsuited for the war that was to come. The rocky crests of the Mark would have to be excavated for their iron. More iron, more steel, more armour, more spears...

He knew Sauron was thinking the same, peering west from Barad-Dûr. Saruman and Sauron had been brothers once, long ago, during the Years of the Lamps. Saruman hardly rememberedthose days, his flesh rendering his thoughts suspectible to the same failures that gripped mortals. Forgetfulness, alteration, domination by desires. Once, he and Sauron had served Aulë together, before Sauron had chosen the evil of Morgoth. This treason had been unforgivable, but Saruman recognised the power that Morgoth had given to Sauron, which he had eventually used to create the One Ring. Saruman, like no other, understood the potency of having power over the mind, for it was a power he possessed as well. Like no-one except Sauron, he understood the One Ring, and like no-one except Sauron, he desired it.

Saruman followed the ring wall and descended at the gates of Isengard, facing southwards on both sides of the river Isen. Or, at least, the now almost dried-out bed of the Isen. Saruman walked past the dry banks, where halms of drying grass were straining to keep the cracked earth together. Saruman was disgusted by the inadequacy of the river for his designs. He walked until he met up with a party of orcs, being bossed around by the Uruk-Hai Uglúk. The Black Orc was startled when he noticed the wizard’s aproach, and quickly jogged to intercept his master.

“I’m sorry, boss, these maggots, they...” the Uruk chieftain tried, but a single gesture from Saruman shut him up, either by fear of by fell magic.

“Spare me your excuses” the wizard said, walking straight past the orc, who had to turn on a dime to keep up with the wizard. “Why has the work stopped?”

The other orcs, some 20-odd strong and far smaller than Uglúk in stature, took a few steps back as Saruman came near, though they knew that even being within his sight was a dangerous proposition. Their shovels and pickaxes lay discarded on the empty river bed.

“The river lacks enough water to fuel more water-wheels, boss. It is finished”
Uglúk said, pointing towards the measely stream that could not even reliably carry a paper boat, let alone turn the gears of digging machines.

Saruman clenched his black staff with both hands. The river Isen had failed him far too soon. He silently cursed his reliance on the works of nature, a mistake he would not make again. Saruman straightened his back, and with a commanding voice that all his captains in Isengard could hear, he issued the orders.

“We require expansion of our operation. Prepare a foraging party. You will march day and night, you will know no rest, and you will march under no banner. Fangorn is our domain”

As Isengard’s forces began to array and assemble, Saruman climbed the steps of Orthanc, from which summit he could inspect as far as the edges of the great forest. With the ents destroyed by Sauron during the Second Age, the Huorns would pose no threat to the axes and saws of the orcs. Yavanna’s creatures were weak, which is why she feebly tried to protect them from the children of Aulë. Now, her domain would be conquered, with fire and steel.

Action:
3,000 orcs, 300 Uruks and 300 wargs (1000 elves’ worth) march north-east to the eve of Fangorn to colonise the region. They march without banners and pretend, as much as possible, to come down from the Misty Mountains.

Recruitment
78 Uruk-Hai under Isengard

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sun Jul 05, 2020 2:15 pm

The Morgul Vale

It was late in the afternoon when the Snaga-host emerged from the gates of black and pale green, the bellows of their overseers echoing in the canyon of pale shadowed glass and withered brown grass. Drums rumbled, and the tramp of iron-shod feet reverberated in the lifeless landscape, harsh cries filling the air. Their banners were numberless, pallid black marked with lurid red, the Great Eye, tattered standards that blew in no wind. In their vanguard mighty beasts of flesh and sorcery tramped, immense Stone Trolls and Olog-Hai clad in thick coats of black steel, and at the rear came their commander: Gothmog, Servant of the Tower of Sorcery.

His face was twisted by scars, his body similarly broken, memories of nearly a century of servitude to Lugburz. By black arts had he been healed, recalled from the very edge of death, and his existence was one of constant gnawing pain that filled his cruel mind with fury and hatred which would make a man recoil if they knew but the half of it. The snarling warg under his feet snapped at the guard of Uruks that marched about him, tall and broad with armor from the great forges beneath the Black Tower, but it paused at a twitch of his legs.

The commander of the host savored the moment, drinking in the sound of thousands of warriors on the march. Black shadows, hooded, and cloaked, passed him by, appraising him with unseen eyes. Ice crawled through his ruined body then, and he urged his beast forward with a harsh blow. This was a great day for Orc-kind, yes, but the Great Eye was upon him. Failure would be rewarded with death.

Hurrying, drums and whips thundering at their backs, the host came hurrying to the Crossroads, and thence turned south, a black line wending into the heart of Ithilien past the broken statue of the vanished king.

8000 Orcs, 2000 Morannon Orcs, 400 Uruks, 4 Mountain Trolls, and 6 Olog-Hai pass south from the Morgul Vale towards Emyn Arnen

The Dead Marshes

The sorcerer's face was pale as he watched the crawling figures of black cast stone and earth into the fetid pools. Sweat, cold and clammy, beaded his brow, a striving against unseen powers. Not for nothing did even foul creatures march around the Dead Marshes for miles and miles. There was a malice here in the very earth, a fell enchantment that did not sleep. Even such creatures as Nan-Imil, the Shade-Caller, educated at the feet of the Dark Lord himself, felt fear in these dark places.

But the fear that drove him and the toiling multitudes forward was greater still than that which was in the places where the shades of men and elves and orcs dwelt. The Great Eye, lidless and wreathed in flame, came often when he threw himself down into fitful sleep, causing him to wake again in a cold sweat and drive the laborers onward with beatings and scourging and shouted oaths. Long the Barad-Dur had been content to let this wicked region lie, a shield against any host out of the west, a trackless mire and sundering bog. Now, however, it stood in the path of the Dark Lord's ambitions.

Bog-lights fled before harsh guttering torches, mists and shadows before the belched flame and raucous marching-songs of hateful voices. Let the dead keep the dead. Into sunken pools and burial pits the rubble of hills and smithies was cast, great carts leading back to the Morannon bearing the tailings and castoff of mining-pits and forges coming in their numbers ever to the growing roadway. Parties of Orcs disappeared intermittently into the swamps and fens, never to be seen again, but there always more of them besides, and as the days drew on the still enchantment and creeping menace departed from the land so cruelly disturbed.

A causeway, paved in bodies and rubble and black earth, began to creep its languid way across the Dead Marshes, at the insistence of the captains from the Towers of the Teeth. A road to war.

6000 Orcs and 2000 Morannon Orcs have marched forth from the Black Gate into the trackless mires of the Dead Marshes

The Vale of the River Running

Menace crossed the lands where the shadow of the distant Lonely Mountain lay. Beast and bird ill-perceived whence it came, but they hid still in burrows, in nests, stilling song and leaving the land empty and quiet. These marches between Dorwinion and the Great Bight of Mirkwood had been empty for generations, only traveling companies passing their beleaguer; Wainriders and Balchoth, heading west to ravage into Rohan and Anorien, and the odd tinker's cart.

But that did not mean they were forgotten.

A mounted company, some hundred strong, made their way north through these lands by both day and night. They were hooded and cloaked, and mounted upon great black destriers as alike as brothers and sisters, shadows that passed in the gloom. Here and there starlight and moonlight caught the glint of armor and weapons beneath their cloaks, dark raiment covered with cunning scrawlings, runes of ruin and decay decorating the hilts of swords and hideous strength chasing the collars of breastplates.

The company did not pause in this empty land though, and with every passing day their hooves ate up the distance. Their objective was north, beyond the River Running which wound in the distance, at the great hall of Erebor.

by **Elerian** » Sun Jul 05, 2020 9:29 pm

In Years Past

Raindrops had chased Faramir away from the ramparts of the Citadel on the seventh level of Minas Tirith where he had been reading his latest acquisition from the Citadel’s library. It had just started to sprinkle, but he did not want the pages of the book to get wet because it would have given his father yet another reason to become cross with him. So many things made him cross these days and try as the little boy might he could never seem to escape his father’s displeasure. So Faramir decided to seek a drier place in which to lose himself within the pages of the book. He preferred the world of books to the real world. In books, all problems were solved and people lived happily at the end of the story. Real life wasn’t like that. His mother had died almost three years ago and it seemed that she had taken all the happiness with her. He had been so sad and cried so much after she had gone away, but never in public, after his Father had berated him for doing so. He said that those from the house of Mardil did not cry. They were strong and never allow their emotions to show. If that were true then, his father was a paragon of the House of Mardil. He never cried. In fact Faramir had begun to wonder if the man had any emotions at all any more. He said as much to Boromir when his brother had found him trying not to cry and hiding in his window seat in his bedchamber a couple months previous. Faramir had been ashamed of his tears because he never saw Denethor shed any. Boromir had hugged him and soothed away his tears saying it was all right to cry because that way we knew that we remembered Mama. Soon, he explained, we would remember her in different ways but it was all right to cry for now. Faramir noticed that the fact that Denethor never seemed to cry did not seem to bother his brother overly much but it had concerned him greatly. If you cried to remember, then did that mean that Denethor did not remember their mother, the little boy mused. That did not seem right to Faramir, but Boromir would not lie to him so Faramir continue to worry about their father.

Over the last couple of years his father had become more distant. Before his mother went away Faramir had memories of his father laughing and playing with him, but this didn’t seem to happen anymore. Now more often than not Denethor seemed to look straight through his youngest son almost as if Faramir were not there, or if he did notice him it was only to find fault. Other times he caught his father looking at him with a feeling that Faramir did not quite understand but left him feeling unhappy all the same. Faramir had become convinced that when his mother died she had taken all the happiness with her. Nothing he’d seen since had shown him otherwise.

As he turned the corner to go to his favourite secret reading place, where he kept the things that meant the most to him he heard a sound that he could not at first place, but that he belatedly recognized as someone crying. This concerned him and he began to follow the sound of the distress and to his surprise, it lead him straight to the unused little storage room that was his secret hide away. He gently pushed the open door further to see who was inside. At first, he stood stock-still. He saw but could not believe his eyes. It was his father sitting on the floor sobbing away over the blue mantle with stars that had belong to Finduilas. Faramir kept it up here because it was soft and warm and reminded him of his mother. A flash went through Faramir and he felt much better. His father was crying, that meant that he must remember Mama, just like Boromir said. He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and said, “It’s all right to cry, Papa! That only means that we remember Mama. So it’s all right.”

His father stiffened upon hearing the young voice behind him, and whirled around to see his second son looking at him with compassion in his eyes. He was so like his mother. The same slight features and reddish-blond hair. The same perceptive intelligence in gentle blue eyes, the same kindness, but whereas he had loved these qualities in Finduilas, they unnerved him in her son. Looking the boy up and down, he turned eyes of blazing anger and shame upon the child.

“How dare you sneak up on me like that!” he hissed. Faramir took a step back looking as if he’d just been slapped.

“I’m sorry, papa. I-I meant you no harm! I was only trying to make you feel better. You’ve seemed so sad of late! And I thought I could help.” Faramir’s eyes grew bigger by the second and his lower lip started to tremble as he stumbled through his apology.

Denethor stood up quickly to tower over the boy and keeping hold of Finduilas’ mantle saying, “You have no right to steal your dear mother’s cloak, you little thief.”

“I didn’t steal it!” Faramir cried as he paled, tears streaming down his face and backing away from his father’s anger.

“Sneaking and stealing, your mother would be ashamed of you right now!” Denethor charged angrily, raising his hand to strike the boy for his insolence.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” the little boy cried, ducking to avoid the blow. With one snuffling last look at his father, he ran away crying down the hall.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 1:15 pm

The Fords of the Isen

Great is the host of Dunlendings that approaches Rohan, following the paths their fathers and forefathers have trod in blood into the earth. The vast rushing river slows and widens as they come marching toward the Ford, and ahead of the hurrying host they hear horns winding in the distance - their approach is marked. Long have the Rohirrim, the cursed strawheads, held great strength here at the eyot of the Ford to prevent the passage of their enemies. The Ford will, no doubt, not be taken without a fight...

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 1:33 pm

The Battle of the Fords of the Isen

At the sound of Forgoil horns, a thunderous roar arose from the host out of Dunland. Brown and green eyes flew wild, and axes clashed hard with shields. The foe, at last! The great and constant enemy of the Dunlendings, and a chance to bloody them. Even Gwynric upon his squat pony could not help but grin with a warrior's zeal at the clash to come. To live and slaughter the Forgoil thieves, or die and be returned to the halls of the ancestors having done them honour - today would be a good day whatever the cost. Still, the young king had much to do, and he had no intent of dying lightly, or of letting his men face the same. Battles over the ford had been fought many times, and many a young chief had dashed himself on the Forgoil's eyot.

A plan had been in place for a contested crossing, and the chiefs of Dunland set about their tasks at the blast of the king's great horn. The host formed into a sturdy wall of shield and spear at the river's edge - it suited them well to keep the forgoil and their horses in the water. At the centre the line was thinner, with axe-men moved to the back line of either flank, keeping them fresh and their numbers in part hidden. Gwynric's plan was a simple one; bait the forgoil riders, their great advantage, into charging his centre, which would then slowly move backward, bristling with spears, only to swing in the reserve troops shifted to the flanks to surround the riders. Without the space to move their fine horses would avail them little, and the axes of the reserve would make bloody slaughter of them, while the body of the flanks could focus on repulsing the Rohirric infantry from the river-bank.

The great risk was in the slow retreat, and so Gwynric set himself in the middle of his line, along with the most loyal of his chieftains and the most faithful of his men. If they could bait the charge, and then withstand it long enough to keep a cohesive retreat, then the riders could be utterly destroyed. It was a daring plan - if it failed the young king would be first amongst the dead, but if it succeeded the Forgoil would be mightily hobbled by the loss of their riders - leaving the Dunlendings free to raid their steads.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 3:08 pm

The Battle of the Fords of the Isen

As the Dunlendings approached the western waters of the Ford, arrows flitted out of the dirt embankments and low scrub of the eyot to smite men where they stood. Most clattered harmlessly off of broad shields or stuck in leather jerkins, but some found their mark and sent men sprawling or snarling to the rear in pain. The Forgoil must not be in great force here, or have preferred to make a stand with sword and shield and spear instead of bow - only a few dozen of the encroaching raiders felt their shields impacted by shot, and less than half a handful fell wounded.

But that did not mean the crossing would be easy.

As Gwynric's shield-wall formed on the far side of the Isen, it soon became apparent that the men of Rohan had no intent of sending a headlong cavalry charge across the waters against such a host as Dunland had vomited forward to the assault. Even the hot-blooded sons of Eorl would fear to send riders against such numbers, for the force of the charge lay in scattering a foe and in the thunderclap of the sudden assault, to throw an enemy into dismay and smite his lines into ruin.

No, soon it became clear that the Rohirrim would answer force with force. Shields of green, gold, and pale birch-wood could be seen forming up in a very similar shield wall upon the island itself, several hundred strong. Their colors were more uniform than those which the Dunlendings bore, but not greatly different, spears to cut a man who exposed himself beyond his defense, sturdy helms to hold back blows above the wall itself. With deliberate haste checked by obvious strength of command, the Eorlingas planted their shield-wall but a few dozen paces back from the shore of the eyot, almost as if daring the enemy to cross.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 3:26 pm

The Battle of the Fords of the Isen

With the trap un-sprung, the men of Dunland grinned broader - the bloody push of spear and shield would be theirs to take and revel in. Though Noldor and Teleri might sit at peace in their homes, and the men out of the west might simper and sing of the love of peace, the hearts of the Dunlendings had come to love war - to hold it as a joyful revel, an escape into tale and story. To die washed in the blood of Eorl was to die rightly, and only to live with his skull upon your table was finer.

Gwynric's captains re-formed their lines flush with the riverside. If the Rohirrim wished for a clean battle, they would have it. One captain, though, would be turned away, with a hundred men at his back. Gwyd of the Hill, of the blood of the Enedhwaith and a dweller by the rivers and streams of that empty land, was kept at the back of the right flank, his hill-men hunched and stout behind the shields of the Dunlendings. When the first horn blew, the slingers loosed a volley across at the shields of the forgoil, and at once the line surged forth into the shallows of the ford, shields angled up towards the petty shortbows of the cowering huntsmen and cowherds opposite them.

Only Gwyd of the Hill and his stout hillmen differed - as the charge surged forth with roaring battle cry and the hammering of axe on shield, and as the horns of dozens rang out to fill the air with their shout, his men pulled back, and turned aside, darting off into the trees aside the ford and moving up-stream. As the battle raged at the eyot, they would move up-river and out of sight, hoping to cross by aid of their wooden shields and skill in swimming. Once on the other side, Gwyd of the Hill and his folk were to charge down and reach the ford on the side of the Forgoil, and to make as much clamour and noise as possible, as if they were a thousand rather than a hundred. Then, whether the Forgoil broke or stood, the hillmen would be upon their backs, as the Dunlendings hacked with abandon at their fronts.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 4:33 pm

The Tower of Silence,
Zarâbâd, The City of Gold
Upon the Shores of the Sea of Rhûn

The tower crept up into the sky, piercing the heavens. Its redden stone, basked in the sun, was brilliant in its colour. And the sheets of white marble plates that arched up the tower gave the tower its own sheen of gold, as bright yellow light bounced off. The waters around the tower, that which separated the island from the city itself, sometimes too reflected this bright yellow sheen. It made the water dance in an array of colours that shifted throughout the day; reds, oranges and yellows in the day and blues greens and purples at night. The fishermen and dockworkers, and those who lived by the sea, could see the dance throughout their days near the water.

Standing at the foot of the tower made her shiver. Its mere sight had always made her second guess her lot in life. She sometimes wondered why this had befallen her; if the grace of the living spirit of this ancient one was a gift she had wanted. Her heart and mind wandered back to her husband. She wondered if the price of his life had come from this thing in the tower.

The tower confused her. It was so ornate and beautiful, with battlements galore. It looked like a palace built for war. There were crenellations and merlons, towers and gatehouses, gardens and rooms aplenty, but... no soliders. And no people. The silent man who had ferried her here countless times had never remarked on this. Frankly, he remarked on entirely little. She had only ever heard him breathe, wheeze, or exert himself as he steered their boat towards the island. But he did not speak. His skin was hidden in his garbs, but sometimes faint jaundice flesh could be seen from behind his hood or as he arched his back to wheeze.

Tîgeke had come armed with her husband's sword and loose fitting robes. They were comfortable, indeed, but beneath she wore the scale mail of her mother. They were interlocking golden discs of metallurgic beauty. They often spoke of how there was no love of craft or beauty in the east; but these were hasty generalisations and remarks from the Westernesse. There was pride and appreciation in the works of art, in all their forms, and this art was imbued into the craft of war. The sword was not a comfortable thing to carry. Not here. It weighed down on her, even as it was at her belt. Yet Tîgeke was a fighter and a thinker, and in her heart she held her faith in the Dark Lord and to Melkor. They would steel her nerves and resolve, even as she faced one of their own.

Ascending up the tower was by no easy a feat. It was dark in most places, with sconces holding torches she herself had to light as she made her way up circling staircases and winding corridors. She could hear whispers as she rose, as she had each time, and the voices were garbled and nonsensical. But they were not coming from her ears, no, they were not being 'heard'. It seemed as if the sound came from her mind and when she stopped to think on this, that... ever loud silence was all she could hear.

There were old statues around the tower, of men she knew not of. They were tall and potent, as those in the legends from the Wainrider raids into Gondor. Others seemed dark and foreboding, with jagged crowned helms and armour adorned in shadow. One stood tall, taller than all the others, as if it was flesh made of steel, with a large mace in its right hand. Its pose depicted it in mid swing, crushing an imaginary foe before it.

Before long she found herself at his chambers. They could hardly be called that. There were no furnishings. There was no joy or material need in this place. There was no food, no drink, no song. Merely him. He was sat in a chair, unmoving, as he always was. The faint breeze that picked up from this height shifted his robes, but even they seemed stiff and stagnant. She knew who this was, of course. He had made that clear when he had taken her husband's will for his own. Before her, in his undeath, sat Khamûl, the Black Easterling. In eons past, in the Second Age, Khamûl had led her people to war alongside the Lieutenant of Melkor as he had succumbed to the maliciousness of the Dark Lord's Ring of Power. When she had seen this place the first time, after the death of her husband, she understood that he had returned. And the domination her husband Yumruk had had over the Easterlings in this area came not from his martial strength or cunning, but because this being willed it.

Despite his frail looking stature, as the robes clung to naught but air, the presence he had in the room was imposing. Potent. Powerful. He commanded such respect from this throne, from individuals who knew not he was here, that it fed his presence. The circling black shadows around him gave away to some sheen and shine, likely older trinkets and armours from beneath, now fused onto his form.

He did not stand. Nor seem to make any note of her presence other than a shift from where the darkness behind the hood looked.

Even with no eyes, at least none she could see, his gaze penetrated to her soul. As if content with what they found, thank Melkor, it almost 'softened.'

Tîgeke braced herself for what she knew would come next. Her tanned hands grabbed so tightly onto the hilt of her sword that they strained themselves to a shade of white. A grit of her teeth parted her lips, and her brown eyes squinted before him. The breeze picked up now and her brown hair became an uncomfortable mess beneath her headdress. Her robes, too, fluttered in this breeze, but picked up no further than a few spaces off of the ground.

"Khatun," the voice of the Wraith began. It was slow and steady, but with a sharpness to it not unlike a violent breeze. Not unlike the violent breeze about her. "You continue to serve me well, and the ruin of the West will be ever better for it. It has been seen and commanded. Divined and ordained." She continued to listen in silent subservience, but held onto the blade still. It was often the fact it spoke in riddles and prophetic tongue, but when it came to orders they were as clear as the waters of River Running.

"Let the ruse continue ever onwards; not for the faithful here in the lands of our Fathers, but for the rest. Let them see a nation of weak willed fools, self-doubting heretics and those that wish to make amends for their past. Let them believe that the missions of the Blue Wizards succeeded to some extent; but that was so long I doubt all but the Three remember them, their names and their mission." He spoke and she expected him to get angrier, as he spoke of the Westernesse, but he did not. She wondered if he had the capability for maliciousness left in him.

"Your husband was an exemplary servant of Him. Let yourself emulate that. Take your skill with the other weapons of your people, and take them to the lands of those we call the Arvari. North, here, along the lands from which the Running flows, take your men and encamp there. Conquer for the east in ways of order and civilisation. Let it be known that those there are under our protection. Remind the Avari of their fealty to the East, for it is whence they came. Go forth and Conquer. So let it be said, so let it be written."

She expected him to remain silent from then out on, yet it almost looked as if he was in contemplation. Philosophising. Perhaps remembering. Her own perception of him was cast aside as he spoke again. "And take from your court emissaries, and scribes, and write to the world on matters of trade. To the South, send an emissary to entreat with our Lord, and to remind the forges of the wealth that flows. To the north entreat the Ones of Seven with gifts of gold, entice their avarice, and let them trade with us as well."

Standing in silence again, she awaited for more commands. More requests. Often times, he had barely spoke more than singular commands. This time was different. Serious. Expansive. Any plan was clearly set in motion.

"Khatun..." he inhaled, or she thought he did. "You may go."

And she did so, back down the tower to return to Zarâbâd. The men were to be mustered and order was to be restored.

Nearing Mordor, Kharan
Southern Rhûn

His spurs dug into the sides of his horse and it neighed as it picked up the pace. Before them, visible even here from Kharan, where he had spent the previous night, he could see the monstrous mountains. Towering peaks of black, with a red overcast sky. Yet he was not afraid. His Khatun had entrusted him with a mission, to discuss with the Dark Lord's representatives, of their desire to resume their trade. Trade that both had benefited off before. Trade that had been suspended due to the nature of their mission; their dark plan. But the wealth from the east would find itself into Mordor once again, if all went well.

The horse continued its gallop over the old road. The sun was hot and sweltering, causing Kargî to reach to his side for a waterskin. He drank and drank, held some out for the horse, and watered his own brow slightly. At his side he held numerous lockboxes and small chests: trinkets to many, indeed, but homages and relics for the Dark Lord or his minions to appreciate and understand.

Kargî had never stepped foot in Mordor before. Not many had. But in his heart he held the truth of the world and feared not the stories that might frighten the weaker men of the Westernesse. Here he would see truth that none others would see.

He rode his horse in gladness. He rode his horse with pride. For the connections between Master and Servant would be resumed.

Nearing the Iron Hills, Izeh
Northern Rhûn

Whereas to Mordor rode a lone rider, the Dwarves to be entreated with much more pleasantries. A caravan of emissaries, merchants, armourers and horsemen. Great silks and cloths were packed tightly and neatly. Carriages laden with preserved fruits, vegetables and meats would also be taken. Wines and beers and ales and meads would also accompany. And, in no attempt to mock the Dwarves, armour and arms would come -- as it was in the spirit of the East to present their martial prowess were they could.

The head emissary, an elderly Easterling by the name of Bor, was chosen for his tact and silver tongue. Much of his life he had spent as a merchant. He had the experience in dealing with foreigners of all sorts. The adrenaline and rush from the haggle and the barter, the exchanging of coins and wares, came so naturally to Bor that he had travelled much of Rhûn. Whilst many might have regarded him as simple; his tongue was well versed in terms and trade. He had seen the workings of countless people, including the Dwarves of the Red Mountains.

And he hoped these would come to his help when he sought to barter with the masters of stone and iron.

by **Ralnis** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 6:49 pm

The Labyrinth of Solitude

Skaladii wakes up from his morning nap from the sound of his name being called in the variety of tongues being smacked across cheeks and accents that he knows through the servants of the weak servants that guard his kingdom. His eyes open with the mark of acknowledgement as his head was still on his claw and his hoard. The eye looked directly at the group of goblins and orcs of the female variety, they wore looted noble and scholarly clothes with hoods and staves with a crude dragon on the top.

One bowed to him," Y...Your Majesty. Please forgive me and your Heralds but we have great news that could satisfy your quest for knowledge." She continued as the Cold-Drake motioned his claw to continue," our scouts have gotten word of a sorcerer who could be of use to your quest of knowledge and building your majesty."

This raises the dragon's head ever so slightly and he speaks with deep, smooth voice," Where is this sorcerer?" The goblin doesn't say anything and he directs his head and moves closer," well?"

"I-in the Weathered Hearth my lord."

With a sigh in his voice and smoke coming from his nostrils he gets up from his resting position and sits on his haunches. Coins and books fell from the pile as he moved around his hoard so he could sit properly and put his tail around him." Nothing, nothing ever is easy for me. A magic user could be more than a great deal of knowledge for my kingdom."

"Bu..but if you were to investigate the sacred breeding grounds of your kind, we may face retribution from rival Drakes!' Another of the heralds made themselves known to their ruler.

"Of course we may trespass in their territory. Even trespassing with an army of lesser beings such as yourselves would be considered an affront to the glory of that valley. However, that mage has settled in those ruins and I will be damned by Melkor himself if I let any other drake sniff out the lesser creature and consume him in their lust for plunder and home.

Heralds! Call my Warchiefs and assemble the bath for my rituals! This meeting will be a long one."

[spoiler=Important shit!]
500 goblins build a palisade around Wazmakaghul
500 goblins and 1000 orcs are sent to Weathered Hearth to explore 3 ruined settlements for the Quest Whispers of Dark
An envoy of goblins are sent to Gundabad and Goblin Town [/spoiler]

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Jul 07, 2020 6:30 am

The Battle of the Fords of the Isen

Forward the fell men of Dunland surged, the shield wall entering the rushing waters of the ford, boots scrabbling on stones and sand as Gwynric's men began the crossing as had so many hosts before them. Their battle-horns and war-chants were answered by grim oaths from their enemies, and soon battle was joined - the Forgoil advancing to the water's edge in their stiff-shield wall, the numbers of the Dunlendings hammering against their foes as knots of kinsmen struggled to reform their own lines in the water. Spears smoked with blood beneath the bright day, and axes and swords rose and fell with the great baying of war as battle was joined.

Away to the south, the men of the Enedwaith made their crossing. The din of battle was upon their one hand - and some of their crossing was marked, for here and there arrows skipped off of shields or took men as they swam. Some struggled against the current and were swept down toward the main fray, or cast prematurely upon the eyot and slain. Not for naught were the Fords regarded as the only place the Isen could be crossed by many. But many dozens came upon the far back but few minutes after the main affray was joined, and swiftly they formed up under their chieftain, hastening toward the rear of the ford.

Upon the eyot, the sheer weight of the Dunlendings told more than anything. Though many fell, bodies given to the Isen as payment for the crossing, fighting an enemy on firm footing while they themselves battle stream and mud, more still came on, and soon the shield-wall of the Rohirrim had been bent backwards under the mass of the raiders and pillagers. Gwynric himself wielded his mighty axe, and his bodyguard was about him as they scrambled up onto the sandy soil of the eyot, and no blade seemed to bite upon him.

It could not last forever - and it did not. Before the sun sank much toward the horizon, the shield-wall of the Rohirrim finally broke, and the Eorlingas fled east across the river, their pursuers hot on their heels. The Enedwaitharim cut down many in their flight, but had not the numbers to prevent their flight full told, for many took to horse in their haste, and resisting the armored wedges of the house-guard of lords of Rohan was not what they were made to do.

The Fords of Isen were theirs, and woe now to those beyond.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jul 08, 2020 7:49 am

The Gates of Angfalch, The Border-Forts

The road from the north was not empty, the emissary riding from Rhun a man amongst many. Pilgrims and marching companies of lesser lords of the East intermittently filled the roads, and here and there Kargi passed patrols of warg-riders and mounted gold-armored cavalry in jingling array who passed him by with obvious knowledge of his origin. It was hard to mistake an emissary of the East for anything save what he was, and so his passage to the squat fortifications that overlooking the Gasping Dust on the shallow sunrise-side of Mordor was swift despite the traffic.

Ere long the gates of Angfalch, the northernmost of the Border-Forts, frowned down upon the emissary. More an immense rampart than a fortress, it spanned the distance between two lines of hills, a glowering battlement-wall which was pierced by a passage large enough for even the great Mumakil of Harad and Khand to pass through without pause. The gate stood open, a churning mass of men and Orcs marching through it in slow but disciplined speed, inspected by a tall man in black robes with a mask of gleaming steel, accompanied a few Uruk-guards.

As Kargi approached, circumventing the line, the man held up a hand and spoke, his voice emotionless and dry, like the sound of dead autumn leaves rubbed together by a winter breeze.

"Halt, traveler from the East. I am Erasmus, the Gate-Warden. What message do you bear to the halls of Mairon the Great, Lord of the Earth?"

The Heights of Emyn Arnen

The fair and once-happy lands of the Hills of the Anduin echoed with harsh voices and the hewing of axes as the Morgul host descended upon the green rolling countryside. Having made the short march south from the Crossroads, Gothmog and his Orcish legions swiftly began their work, felling trees for great bonfires with glee, toppling ancient abandoned towers of Westron make, and ransacking old mansions and decaying homes. To their west the waters of the Anduin glinted red in the setting sun, and before nightfall the delving had been begun.

There was much work to do. The Emyn Arnen guarded the Harad-Road up from the southlands, and would ward the supplies and hosts that traveled along that route to Mordor against any thrusts from Osgiliath. The wooded country of Ithilien was a battleground between outriders of Minas Morgul and the Rangers of Gondor, and it was the will of the Dark Tower that dominion be exerted over this hinterland, to limit the agency the Rangers possessed against the legions of the Haradrim, his allies.

Old stones were builded into ramshackle ramparts, felled trees driven into the ground for makeshift palisades, and the warriors bearing the Great Eye slept in shifts under the barked orders and foul oaths of their overseers. This was not safe country, not yet - but the fingers of the Black Hand were many.

by **Tysklandia** » Thu Jul 09, 2020 2:45 pm

The Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills
The Mountain Hold of Erebor

The area around the Lonely mountain had changed much since the battle of the five armies. Farmsteads and merchantmen, beholden to either Durin's Folk or the city of Dale populated the slopes and nearby lands in peace. As the wealth stored in the great holds of the lonely mountain had brought untold prosperity to Dwarf and Man in untold quantity. Together with the restoration of the lands outside of the Lonely mountain, the hold and its formidable defenses have been restored to former glory. The vast mithril gates and layers upon layers of ramparts loom over anyone walking along the sole approach to the seat of King Dain. It is for no small reason that none, but a true dragon has ever breached its walls.

In all moments of day, the dull thunder of the forges of Erebor could be felt echoing through the vast Dwarven hold, producing goods and tools of all kinds. With the wealth and industry recovered in Erebor, Dain has not sat idle. The defenses of the lonely mountain and its Industry lies re-forged, the Iron Hills lie as a stronghold in the East, and a host of warriors stand ready to march to reclaim all the lost holds of Durin's folk.

Accompanied by the blaring of horns and the deafening noise of Dwarven war drums and horns, did the gates of Erebor open, to the loud acclaim of many of Erebor's citizens, who watched from the Ramparts above. In a long line, four men wide, the Host of Gloin marched forth from the gates of Erebor. Ordered north to the Grey Mountains, to test their mettle and reclaim ancient holds of old. In specifically, to exploit and investigate the rumors of the discovery of tunnels leading to the fabled hold of Arashnathur.

Many had hoped and believed the time had finally come to march to the ancient hold of Khazad-Dum, but Dain had denied all such requests. He deemed it yet too soon. But still he spoke with clear voice to all who dwelled in Erebor, that the time for all heirs of Durin to show their strength and Glory had finally come. Those trespassers who dwelled in their ancient holds would tremble in fear and would be cut down without mercy by dwarven Bolt and Axe. He declared clearly and for all to hear that their goal was Khazad-Dum and all the lost holds of Dwarven Folk. But such a lofty goal would require time, patience, and resources. As such, Khazad-Dum would be the crown Jewel on a long campaign they would wage upon their foes that dwell in the mountains.

With that, he had ordered Gloin, one of the hallowed heroes of the battle of the five armies to take a host of men to the north and reclaim a rumored hold in which Durin had once dwelled. And the prospect of relics of Durin himself, if not to reconquer more dwarven lands lost since ancient times, was far more than what was required to bring the dwarves to motion...

The Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills
The Dwarven Hold of Hammerstead

To the visitors of the far east, the gates of Hammerstead loomed in the distance, the area around them barren, lest for farmers and shepherds. But with each step closer to the gates of the Dwarven hold, did the symbols of Dwarven habitation show themselves. Vast, enormous statues of Dwarven warrior-kings carved into sides of hills and the noticeable plethora of long abandoned mining pits and entrances that were legion in the entire region.

As the foreigners of Rhun were held at the gates, they could see the presence of a hundreds of men at work to expand the once formidable, but neglected, defensive works of the Dwarven hold that had once acted as the seat of Dain, who now sat as the King under the mountain, in Erebor. Soon enough, they were allowed entry and their intent did indeed bear fruit as many dwarves flocked to see the wares and goods of the east, with many a merchant dwarf more than willing to haggle for exotic eastern goods.

But for Bor, the task would be more difficult as he was brought to the Throne room of the Keep in Hammerstead, delved deep into the side of the steep hills and mountains that engulfed, all but one, flank of the settlement. He was brought to meet the Dwarven lord who ruled over Hammerstead, being none less than Thorin III, Son of Dain as he had been named warden of the Iron Hills as his father sat as King in Erebor. Surrounded by dwarven nobles and warriors, Bor was brought before the Heir of Erebor and the Iron Hills to speak his intent.

by **Remnants of Exilvania** » Fri Jul 10, 2020 2:15 am

Mount Gundabad
The Great Road
The East Gate of Gundabad

The three snow covered peaks of Mount Gundabad rose high into the moonlit sky before the delegation that was trudging along the old, great dwarven road that led to its entrance, towering before them like great, three fingered claw, ready to fall upon them. The snow reflected the moonlight, making the great mountain clearly visible for any who wished to travel there.

Watchtowers, both of crude orcish make as well as old, refined dwarven engineering dotted the peaks alongside the road and the stench of fire and and machinery blew down the valley, coming from the gates of the orcish capital.

Horns had heralded their approach as soon as the delegation had gotten in sight of the watchtowers. They had not even managed to make their way up half the valley up to Mount Gundabad when the howling of wolves would make their ears perk up.

It did not take long for silhouttes to appear in the night. Great, black silhouttes, with piercing yellow eyes jumping across the rocks and rubble around them, growling and panting as they did so. They were surrounded by a band of Wargs and by the looks of it, the Wargs bore Goblins on their backs, small, vile buggers with nasty hooked spears and scimitars as well as shortbows with poisoned arrows.

Eventually an especcially large Warg, bearing an especcially large orc came before them, the orc pulling hard on the reigns to control the beast and keep its snapping jaws just a hand's width away from the envoys.

"Who are you to come to Mount Gundabad and on what business are you here?"

, the orc grunted, still trying to keep his aggressive warg under control.

The delegation consisted of three goblin envoys, females travelling with carved jewelry and occult tattoos that bore the look of a dragon's eye, their own staves having a head that crudely resembled one. They dressed in the finest furs that were raided from nobles in the name of their terrifying leader and supreme ruler of their homes.

"We three women come from Wazmakarghul. Servants and messengers from the great Scholar-Drake, Skaldii the Pale! We have came in his majestic name to parley with the Great Chieftain of Gundabad and of the Misty Mountains. To delay us in our mission would bare ill transgression upon you for his majesty is one of patience but not for delays on the missions given to his Heralds!"

The orc looked the envoys over, his bloodshot eyes betraying that he did not find this group of strange goblins to be anything but outlandish. No orc would wear this much jewelry or such fine clothes or atleast they would not care much about how it was put together or for it to stay clean. Not to mention that these were clearly females. The orc could both see and smell it, despite their robes. And of course he could hear it in their voice.

"Tough luck for you then. Skaldii the Pale will have to punish you for failing in your task for the Great Chieftain is not in Mount Gundabad. He has marched to the west, to the old fortress of the head Screamer from Lugburz only days ago."

Suddenly horns sounded from Mount Gundabad in the distance, the signal being picked up by all the horns along the valley, blowing through the valley and echoing from each side of it, going back and forth and increasing in volume as their went, making communication briefly impossible between the two parties. Once the noise died down, the slightly hunched over orc looked behind him to Mount Gundabad, from which they all cloud plainly see a dark mass issuing forth, torches being carried within it.

"Now clear the road! Chieftain Durburz is about to march. Pray to your drake's smarts that the Chieftain of Mount Ugular deems you worth his time."

And so they left for the Chieftain of Mount Ugular, each giving looks to the orc but paid him little mind. Such was the way that the Heralds marched. They were bound by their king to parley with whoever would hear their message. They left the road and continued heading towards Mount Gundabad to see and speak with this chieftain Durburz.

As the envoys walked alongside the road, they soon heard the stomping of a great many feet as the black snake dotted with many torches came ever closer. Raucuos songs and screeches could be heard soon enough and in short time they came upon the reason why they had had to vacate the road. Goblins and rocs, thousands of them, marched down the road in a seemingly endless column, issuing forth from the gate of Mount Gundabad. A host had been assembled and it was now spilling forth into the upper Anduin Vale.

When they approached the gates, they hailed one of the guards," We come to speak to the Chieftain of Mount Ugular in the name of the great Scholar-Drake, Skaldii the Pale! In his name and glory we seek to parley with any of the Chieftains of the Misty Mountains who bare to hear the word of his Heralds!"

The guard they had hailed was an imposing, green-skinned goblin, tall among his kin and measuring up to the sizes of normal orcs even. Under his armour, the goblin seemed to burst from thick muscles. Under his helmet he wore a brutal face with imposing fangs in his strong jaw. His armour too was made all from metal and seemingly of greater quality than that of the endless rows of goblins that kept marching out of Mount Gundabad's gate.

He turned to them when they addressed him, a brutal glint in his yellow eyes as he looked down upon them.

"What does your pale scaly want from the Misty Mountains? If he wants treasure, he'll have to come and get them himself, we'd love to skewer ourselves some dragon.

Speak quickly! My patience is thin as silk and I have to march with the army soon."

The head messenger got angry as the mere thought that they could slay a dragon. One such as even Skaldii could tear them apart and use their minds as playthings for his newest experiments to increase his knowledge. However this was not their mission and they would be punished if they were to threaten the very Orcs that could help them in their Majesty's schemes.

"We come to speak about the Orcs of Grimfang! Those who rival you or seek to rival your grand chieftain. His Majesty has found him wanting and a mockery to those who live under Kash's rule! In the name of the Labyrinth and it's King, I have come to discuss terms of partnership and an alliance to deal with the fowl Orc!"

The goblin squinted his eyes at the messengers, staring them down as he sniffed the air with his nose. A predatory smile showing off his fangs spread on his face as he leaned down a little to come level with the envoys' eyes, saying:

"Is that anger I smell there, little snaga? Good, looks like you aren't completely without a spine."

The goblin seemed to think a little, it being a quite apparently arduous process for him, someone who clear was more brawns than brains. Still, it seemed to come to a conclusion rather quickly, the predatory smile returning as it said.

"Durgash was gonna take them out and humiliate him sooner or later anyways. He's one of the old guard and I tell you, they are no joke.

So...how about this...you and your scaly majesty will ensure that good ol' Kash is brought out of his damn dirtmount to go and back up his dumb big talk before Durgash. Scimitar against Scimitar. Till one of them lies gutted on the ground. My gold's on Durgash but who knows what might happen.

Oh...."

The goblin's hand grabbed the hilt of the scimitar at his side as he sneered at the envoys before him.

"...I'd also advise your drake to get out of whatever cave he's ruling from to proclaim his intentions and goodwill. Should he not, I am sure we'll be seeing each other again soon enough. With the severed head of your lizard mounted on our pikes."

"Of course fool! My master will come and you will bask in the majesty that is the Scholar-Drake!"

With that they left back to the mountains and through the caves and the jagged mountains beyond the Misties and into the Greys.

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Fri Jul 10, 2020 2:57 pm

Edoras
The Folde, Rohan

Three riders sailed across the green seas washing Edoras, their steed-ships borne on waves of clover. Heaven's candle was high and bright in the sky, and the Golden Hall of Meduseld gleamed like a second sun above the city. The wind whispered respite from the heat as the three rode through the gates of Edoras and up its winding roads toward the storied seat of the king. Cresting the green terrace upon which Meduseld rested, the foremost horseman swung down from his great mount. He was tall and sturdy, and a golden mane flowed from his helm as water down rock.

"Well met, Prince Théodred!" cried Háma, the doorward. But the big man, captain of the royal guard, did not step aside. "I bid you lay aside your arms here."

"I would do no harm to my own sire," Théodred said, even as he loosed the scabbard from his belt. His lieutenants, Grimbold and Elfhelm, dismounted and shed their own battle-thorns.

"It is Théoden's will," the doorkeeper said in answer, taking their blades and moving away from the great doors of the Golden Hall. The prince's light eyes narrowed as the guards pushed the doors inward, and the three entered.

On this day of days, Meduseld should have rung with harp-song; yet it was strangely silent. A curious gloom dwelt there, casting shadow over the long, wide hall and allowing only a few, frail sunbeams to fall from the windows under the eaves. The floor was flagged with many-colored stones, each inscribed with forking runes, while the walls were covered in faded tapestries, across which all history of the Eorlingas rode upon woven horses. Théodred crossed the hall, past the burning hearth in its middle and to the foot of a dais, upon which was a gilded throne. There sat Théoden King, shrunken by age or ailment, his white, braided hair falling upon his shoulders like snow, his hoary beard flowing to his lap. He wore a golden circlet, whose ornament, a pale, astral diamond, shone upon his brow. His eyes, once blue as the land of stars, were clouded as they beheld his heir.

"Father, I bring ill tidings from the West," Théodred hailed, feeling terrible pity at the state of the once-great king. Théoden gave no answer, nor did he even acknowledge the presence of his son. But before the prince could go on, a figure stepped forth from the dark shadows behind the throne.

"Ill tidings are ill guests," the pale man said, his voice soft and sibilant, like the slithering of a snake through grass. He moved to the side of the king's chair, so that a shaft of light fell across his face, illuminating pockmarked flesh and a greasy tangle of dark hair. Théodred looked upon him with disgust.

"I speak to the king, not to thee, Wormtongue," the prince spat, and Wormtongue bowed his head in deference, though his black eyes glared back at Théodred under their heavy lids. "Dunland has disgorged a horde of its vengeful sons across the Isen. They were met at the fords by Dúnhere and what men he could gather, and swords quarreled. The banks were washed in blood, and we were driven from them. All the Westfold now lies open to attack by this Dunlendish drove."

Wormtongue was quick to reply. "The Dunlendings must possess mighty numbers to dare a crossing of the Isen, my lord," he hissed into Théoden's ear. "Numbers we would be ill-counseled to resist."

"Any counsel which warns against the defense of Rohan is ill indeed," growled Théodred, his eyes again scourging Wormtongue.

"We must abandon the Westfold!" insisted Wormtongue. "A sally against the men of Dunland when they have already crossed the Isen is a fool's errand. We would do much better, my lord, to withdraw into our keeps at the Hornburg and Dunharrow. The Dunlendings are a simple folk. Once they have had their fill of pillage and plunder, they will retreat to their hills and leave us in peace."

"So thou wouldst have us sit back and watch as our fields are burned and our steads are razed, Wormtongue?" bade Théodred, unable to keep the rage from his tenor.

"Fields can be resown, steads rebuilt," the stunted man answered with a simper.

"And what of the Rohirric blood which is spilt? Can it be renewed?" For this, Wormtongue had no answer. Théodred looked to his father, a note of desperation in his voice. "My king, I beseech thee. Thou must act, and with haste, to stopper this leak before viler foes spurt from it. If thou callest the realm to muster, we shall surely marshal enough riders to trample the Dunlendings into the mud before they can harm our settlements."

"A muster?" cackled Wormtongue incredulously. "There is no cause for such rash action, my lord."

Théodred ground his teeth, but kept his eyes fixed on his father as he said, "I await answer from my king alone."

Théoden seemed at last to stir. He first looked wordlessly unto his counsellor, Gríma, but then turned the misted moons of his face upon his son, and they were filled with a warmth of years long past. A grim smile that had seen strife and struggle broke through his frosted beard as the sun over the three peaks of the Thrihyrne, and his voice came, hoarse with disuse but strong in purpose.

"My son has the spirit of Eorl in his heart!" he cried as the evil leer on Wormtongue's sickly visage faded. "Call the men of the Westmark to muster, my son, and lead them against this Dunlending rabble." There was a spluttering hiss from beside the king, but Théoden held up his hand and silenced Wormtongue. "Were the strength of Fram still brimful in my body as in my heart, I would join thee, Théodred... Alas, those days are naught but memory." And the mist resettled upon Théoden's blue brow-stones.

"A fine judgement, my lord," cut in Wormtongue, stooping almost to his knees to be nearer the king's ear. "Prince Théodred will deal with the Dunlendings. But, if he were to fail, we would be in a most unfortunate position. We must strengthen the defenses of Edoras..."

His orders issued, Théodred bowed to his liege and swept from the hall, the whispers of Wormtongue echoing behind him. When his sword was once more strapped to his belt and he was sat on his steed, he turned to his lieutenants.

"Grimbold, ride at once for the Hornburg and tell its governor, Erkenbrand, to call the Westfold to muster." Without question, Grimbold turned his mount and rode to the gates at a gallop. Théodred followed him at a trot, his remaining companion at his side. "Elfhelm, gather what men of Edoras are still loyal to Rohan above Wormtongue, and send them to the Hornburg. Then dispatch a trusted rider to Éomer at Aldburg, telling him of our state. We will need every spear at the coming battle." At once, Elfhelm slipped away into the city.

Now alone, the Prince of the Mark urged his horse onward down Edoras' sloping roads, through its wooden gates, and into the clover-sea beyond. The Dunlendings were not the only threat to his kingdom, nor were they easily discounted. Wormtongue's words held some vague truth; it was not in thin ranks that the wild men would venture over the Isen. Even now their hordes would be streaming across open vales into the Westfold, their dark eyes roaming it for houses that could be torched and Eorlingas who could be slaughtered. Yet it was not the Dunlendings whom Théodred most dreaded; it was the Orcish bands who would surely follow.

But as the prince surged onward, borne on the back of a weariless mearh, the house of valor in his chest rose. He was a man of courage and his blade was true. The riders of Rohan were many and brave, and whatever evils loomed in distant lands, their shadows here were faint and few. The wild men of Dunland had made many a sally across the Isen, and every time they had been thrown back. Now would be no different.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sat Jul 11, 2020 7:42 am

The Wild Horn Blowing

They come by night, by day, in riding companies and singly also. Dusty men with golden hair and hard-ridden horses, bearing shields pulled from armories and spears new-sharpened glinting in the sun. The Westfold is beset, with raiding parties of the Dunlendic folk venturing here and there across the plains, and so it would be that, all told, the Muster of the Rohirrim was much diminished. But still some hundreds had come within the first week since Theodred dispatched the summons, and, despite all else, the Vale of the Hornburg was a rich country with many men under the command of Grim Erkenbrand, who would fight in defense of hearth and home.

700 Rohirrim have mustered to Helm's Deep, and 200 footmen. Erkenbrand commands the defense of 600 of his house guard.

The Dark Wold

Ash fills the sky of the Withered Heath, and fell noises move through the air, and rumble in the mountains as the host dispatched from the Labyrinth of Solitude hurries along forgotten roads to devastated holds. Their numbers are many, but their hearts less than stout, goblin-kin and Orc-soldier glancing dubiously at the blasted soil upon which they walk, and the unnerved when the nights are silent. The Great Dragons that once bred here are much reduced, it is true, but their numbers are not wholly spent - and one Drake with murder in its heart could easily overthrow even this gathered host.

The first hold they picked over was dead and cold, no signs of life or treasure to be had within. More civilized folk might have marveled at the strength of the ancient Dwarven pillars, or wondered at how long the great architecture had endured, but these were no such folk. They daubed crude markings where it pleased them, before departing, driven onward by the urgency of the errand of their master.

The second empty hall was much the same.

In the third danger lurked in the shadows - a few goblins disappearing as they searched, before the wandering companies came upon half-starved Stone Trolls who had apparently made a meal of the searchers. There was no reasoning with them, and they had to be slain, the goblin-losses not inconsiderable against such stalwart foes. But onward the host continued, seeking still for that which their master mandated they find.

210 Goblins slain by 5 Stone Trolls

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sun Jul 12, 2020 4:53 pm

The Gates of Angfalch, The Border-Forts
The Border of Mordor and Rhûn

Kargî pulled upon the reins of his black horse as he was entreated by the tall figure in black robes, whose face was concealed behind a mask of steel. He took notice of the Uruks, too, and to a lesser man his resolve would have faltered. But like the mask on the face of his entreating figure, his resolve was made of steel.

The still image was one of perfection, as if a painting in a great hall. A lone rider, well ahead of an ever-approaching line of pilgrims and travellers, mirrored by a dignitary in mystery and malice. And behind him still, an array of blackened mountains, overcast red skies, and blackstone fortresses. This was the land of Melkor and Kargî felt safe.

He bowed a deep bow, a nod in reverence to the lands of Mordor as much to the man before him. A fist came to his chest in a thump, accompanied by bringing forth a signet ring and sigil of the Khans of Rhûn.

"I come to the lands of Mordor in the name of Tîgeke, Khatun of Rhûn, Lady of Zarâbâd and wife of the late Khan Yumruk. I am to deliver a message to the halls of Mairon the Great, Lord of the Earth, to resume the long friendship between Mordor and Rhûn."

At this, Kargî dismounted his horse and took a knee in the shadow of the mountains. He held his right hand in an enclosed fist by his chest.

"Our distance, I am to tell Mairon or those who would entreat with me, is a ruse. A trick. A way to keep the Westernesse guessing. Our allegiance is to continue, and to show our reverence and determination, to rebirth the old trade lanes that would wander this very road. The riches of the East to fuel the war machine of the forges of Mairon. The food of the East to feed her armies. The men of the East to march under his banner."

At this, Erasmus seemed content but said not a word further. He turned on the spot, his grunt Uruks following him, as the Gates of Angfalch opened in twain. The Easterling, this stranger in a strange, but welcome, land, mounted his horse once more. With a quick digging of his spurs into the side of his steed, it trotted through the mountain pass and into the lands of Mordor proper.

And at this, Kargî felt elated. He felt joy. For he was here, in the lands of Mairon the Fair. Their devastation was a harsh necessity of the reality of war. The mountains a constant reminder of the need to be protected. But for all he felt joy to be in the lands of Melkor and Mairon, he felt sadness. For he missed his home of rolling plains and endless bounty, of beautiful forests and towering cities of marble and jade. He missed the song that made man smile; and wondered if the Orcs and Uruks and Olog-hai knew song. He wondered, if but for a moment, that if in his attempt to save the world, Mairon had forgotten the joys of it.

The ash and soot caked his cowl and cloth and his horse snorted up some of the dust. The need for industry. The need for war. His doubt grew ever more as his beast wheezed in its trot.

But yet did his heart harden; for he knew that in the end, the sacrifice of Mordor would be worth it.

The Hold of Hammerstead,
The Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills

The gates of the Hold of Hammerstead had made a great impression on the men of the East. There was beauty in Eastern architecture, its strangeness was often regarded as exoticism. Arches and domes, curves instead of corners, with a favour for bright vibrant colours. But the mastery of Dwarven architecture was something in and all of itself. An architect in most of the world was a skilled labourer. A Dwarven architect, the gates of Hammerstead showed, was an artist. Every fine detail etched into the metal, depicting scenes from Dwarven stories and history that the men of the East did not knew, but could appreciate it. And this magnificent gate was flanked on either of its sides by statues of towering Dwarven-kings, which also marked the landscape. The Dwarves were, quite literally, far larger in death than they were in light.

When the men of Rhûn were allowed their entry, the true festivities began. Bor had pleaded his case for the Dwarves, who he could assume were suspicious of his intent. But he swore on his honesty as a man of the changes of his home. How the roads to the south were empty. How Zarâbâd decided its own fate with the death of Yumruk. And they had been allowed entry. Bor, for his part, moved to continue with his mission, but the caravan entreated the Dwarves.

As these wagons came to a halt, out brought the wares to be traded. As the merchants began to set up their stalls and wares, a troop of Easterlings brought out an array of instruments. They were strange devices: long necked tars, dutars and setars and short-necked, lute-like, ouds. Out came strange brass and silver horns, that curved around and around, and pan-flutes and horse-mounted drums. The musical scene was quick and 'eastern', with proud lyrics in a tongue none here could likely comprehend. But the music was cheery and pleasant, to fit the mood all the while these dealings were on-going.

Some of the stalls displayed fermented vegetables in a pickle of spices, others dried vegetables served with sugar and honey. Even still, dried jerkies and rations were shown. The meat was flavourful, if chewy, with a fantastic citrus and spicy heat to them. The Easterlings also peddled an item they swore by; a fermented fish sauce for "enhancing the flavour of all cuisine!". And then came their honeyed wines from the Sea of Rhûn, their rice wines, their melon-liquers and sweet beers. They hoped the Dwarves would enjoy.

With food and drink being shared, on came the pride of Rhûn. Magnificent steeds and thoroughbred stallions and prized mares for breeding. Magnificent in the equestrian art. Arms and armour were shown, as well, but always in negative light to the Dwarves. Treating their hosts to the respect they deserved was custom. And all the while, as these festivities and trade took place, the men of the East spun yarn on tales and stories from east of the Sea of Rhûn -- of the Dwarves of the Orocarni and how trade could resume.

Bor could hear the faint music as he was led on. He was armoured, indeed, but had removed his helmet. Adorned in fine robes and with a great cape, he was more than capable of keeping up with his Dwarven hosts. He was led through fantastic corridors and halls, across bridges that spanned chasms the like of which Bor had never seen. He dove down into the mountain heart, were it was cool, but the ever-present distant sound of chiselling and mining echoed off of every edifice.

He bowed before Thorin III, who he knew to be the Son of Dain. He could see the eyes upon him from the Dwarven nobles and warriors. Bor took a solemn knee before the warden of the Iron Hills. He reached for a box held by several of his attendants, but decided to allow them to hold it for him.

"Warden of the Iron Hills, Thorin III, Son of Dain, of the Line of Durin's Folk, I come to you in the name of Khatun Tîgeke of Rhûn. We are aware of the shaky history between the East and the West, but with the veil of Morgoth waning due to efforts of the Blue Wizards, some of us -- here in the near East, have seen light." He held the box up further. "To you, Thorin, I bring you a gift. It is but a token of thanks for listening to us, for letting us into your walls here at the Hammerstead."

Within the box, were it to be opened, was a curved composite bow. Hewn of wood and bone, and refined and etched in fine detail, it was indeed a fine hunting bow -- at least for human craftsmanship. "As you know, our people are proud of their archery: we may not be as skilled as the elves, nor as swift as the men of Rohan, but our skills with a bow upon the back of a beast are quite superb. I gift this bow to you, as a gesture of good will."

"Let our people be friends through trade and goods. I come to you to ask to permit trade, to open the roads and the trade-lanes, for the goods of Rhûn to meet the goods of Erebor and the Iron Hills."

Near the Rhûnic Border,
Dorwinion

The silence was deafening. Before her, stalwart, stood an Avari. Their complexion was fair, if darker than how she imagined Elves. Their eyes were shining amethysts, with long braided hair that reached down to its lower back. The Khatun could not tell if this person before her was a man or a woman. Behind her, her army stood in awkwardness. A host of 10,000, spears held to the sky, stood, stopped by a single person.

The cavalry were the first to spot them. The scouts had informed the vanguard and in turn they had informed Tîgeke. "Harm not a hair on their head", she had ordered. "I want to talk before we resort to violence. The Avari and the men of the East have had good relations for centuries; I wish to know what has happened now. Why the trade has stopped. Do they seek to distance themselves from us, assert themselves, or do the roots of Mirkwood grow fat on the water of the Sea?"

And so she had been brought forward. Tîgeke had dismounted her sand-coloured steed, held her helmet in the crook of her arm, and approached with a hand outstretched to the figure. They had not paid in kind. As she stood there in the absurdity of the situation, she was not the first to notice two more figures approached. One, with grey hair and distinctively "male" features, was adorned in almost noble looking robes. They were cut short at the arms and legs, however, and looked more like an overgrown tunic. He whispered in the ear of the person before her. The other held onto a wooden staff as if it were an Istari and had a bandage around their eyes.

She spoke, first, in the tongues of the East, harsh and guttural. "Can you take me to your leaders, I wish to entreat with them?"

There was silence in their reply. "I am Tîgeke, Khan of the East. I am here to discuss the relationship between our people. The Avari and the Easterlings are friends and kindred spirits. We owe to you music and song and magic, and you to us protection, wealth and defence. Why now do you trade with the Men of the Lake, our enemies of a hundred generations? Have we slighted you? Do you require things we cannot provide?"

The tree convened again and Tîgeke found herself... confused. Conflicted.

But the will of Khamûl was to be done; one way or one other.

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Mon Jul 13, 2020 2:12 am

Harrowdale
The Folde, Rohan

The River Snowbourn wended an idle path across the valley of Harrowdale, its water as clear as glass, its gurgle drowned by the stamp of hoof upon stony earth. Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, rode alongside it upon the great mearh Firefoot, who shone silver in the midday sun. Not few were the riders who accompanied him. The garlanded stables of Edoras had been emptied of their steeds, and the houses of the great and meek alike of their sons, for the summons of a Marshal of the Mark were not to be ignored. Nor did it take great convincing to drive the men of the Folde to their spear-racks, for, despite the wiles Wormtongue and his confederates employed to befuddle the Eorlingas, word spread swiftly of the real happenings in the Westfold; of the worsting of Dúnhere at the Isen-ford, and the flood of wild men into the Gap of Rohan, and now, perhaps blackest of all, the sudden resurgence of a long-dead enemy.

It was sung for many years that Freca the Hunter, thirteenth King of Rohan, had avenged his father Walda by destroying utterly the Orcs of the Ered Nimrais. Whether it were the design of the dark shadow rising in the East or whether Freca had not truly wrought an end to the vermin, no one could say. But a horde of the foul foes had been sighted upon the feet of the Starkhorn, and not even Wormtongue could allay Théoden King's reaction, which was to send his riders to war under Éomer. Weapon was whetted, gauntlet girded, shield shined, and all with great haste. Now Éomer went with his éored, the hundred riders of his house, and a thousand armed Eorlingas close behind, ever nearer to the source of the Snowbourn.

The Starkhorn shot arrow-like into heaven's halls, sovereign of the Ered Nimrais, with a snowy peak its crown and the valley its kingdom. Its majesty had enthralled many men before, but none now. The eyes of the horse-host, eyes like jade and sapphire, emerald and aquamarine, peridot and tanzanite— all those blue and green gemstones, in short, that the Dwarves would have treasured— roamed the hills for the slightest stirring of foot, the briefest flash of spearpoint, or the smallest shine of sunbeam on shield that would betray an Orcish ambush. But they saw nothing as they rode farther into the valley, and it gave them unease. At last, Éomer bade his men stop at a right-turning crook of the stream, and with a great rolling of hooves the many riders halted, for no number of years away from war could erode their mastery of horsemanship.

"If the Orcs lie in wait, then it must surely be in the hollow ahead," said Éomer to his lieutenants, "for we nearly come to the hills of the Starkhorn itself." He cast wary eyes upon the land ahead, shrouded in scrub and stone. "I shall ride ahead with my éored and spring the trap, or else pass unharmed. When you hear the blast of my horn, Gárulf, lead the charge into the valley and wipe away these scum." The men honored to hear these words looked upon Éomer, partly impressed by his bravery and partly protesting that their captain should risk himself. But before he could be stopped, the prince rode Firefoot across the stream and into the deep dale, his éored following.

The signal passed quietly up and down the ranks of riders, and silence descended quickly upon them, so that all that could be heard was the snorting of horses, the sharpening of steel, and the distant sound of Éomer and his men approaching the Starkhorn.

by **Empire of Techkotal** » Mon Jul 13, 2020 1:03 pm

Deep in the Breemountain lies the small treasury of Bree. As the riches of Bree grew, the previous Mayor paid the dwarves of the Blue Mountains to build the treasury. Iron bars prevent outsiders from sneaking into the treasury. Not that it would be of any use if someone reached it. The only access to the treasury is in the town hall behind the mayor's desk in his office and he has the only key to it.

Here Bree hoarded it's gold. Dwarven caravans to and from Erebor brought wealth to Bree and the trade with the Shire filled the empty treasury.

Dim light shines through a window in Bree on a rainy evening. Lonely shadows hurry through the streets of Bree towards the Inn. A cold beer and warm food await them in there.

Graeme would like to join them, but he has to finish his work here first. His clerk counts the coins and fills them into a sack if there are enough. After this he puts the remaining coins into a casket. Graeme counts the sacks. The total revenue from the tariffs and taxes of this year are two meager sacks of copper coins. Otwar his old clerk looks into his eyes and says:

"In all the years that I counted the coins and overlooked the trade, this year has been the worst. I have seen a lot in my time but this is just too bad for us."

Graeme takes a good breath from his pipe and forms a small ring of smoke with his mouth.

"Yes it was the worst year since I'm the the mayor of this town, but I don't understand why"

,says Graeme.

Otwar opens the book of Bree's finances and writes the newest amount into it. His eyes glide over the previous years and their revenues and he says:

"Whatever caused this it hit us hard. We've only made 5% of the revenue from last year. Taking our expenditures into account we might have to take money from the treasury."

"Thats unacceptable! I would rather cut our spending."

,says Graeme.

"But mayor our only expenditure is the town's guard and our small force. If we cut our small force we can't guarantee the safety of the roads and if we downsize the town's guard we cant secure Bree and the villages."

,says Otwar.

"So you mean we can't cut our expenditures."

,says Graeme.

"Yes mayor, I think the best way would be to find out why traffic has ceased on the east-west road."

,says Otwar.

"Put the finaces back where they belong Otwar. There's only one place in this town where we might get answers...in the Prancing Pony and while we are there we could make us a fine evening with some good old beer."

,says Graeme.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Tue Jul 14, 2020 9:54 am

Dunlendings, The Westmark

The fallen forgoil had fought sturdily, by the aid of the water, and so it was fit that their bodies should find its embrace. The slain were stripped of their finer weapons, a few skulls were taken up, and then they were cast into the quick-flowing Isen, to wash up and show death all along its course. The Dunlendings were grim upon the field, and set their own dead in mounds to be burnt. Men mourned their fallen friends and toasted their death-touched rivals, but they could not be afforded time for burial in the land of their home.

As the ashes rose behind them to be carried on the wind, the column of Dunland’s warriors set out, on past the line their blood had won them. In hills and woodland copses, their ancient haunts, the Dunlendings marched their way. Gwynric’s host kept tight together, and kept its wits and axes ready while at forage. The horse-men could strike faster and more broadly than could the men of Dunland, whatever their fury. Still, the forgoil were far off and unready, or so it seemed, and so the work of the time could be undertaken.

It was an insult to them, even then, to raid and burn like mountain orcs, who they despised at least so much as the thieves of the west. Though low in the eyes of Westernesse, they were men still, and born of the houses just as all others had been. Though the world might look on the brown-headed men of Dunland and think them barbarous and savage it would never be so. What in the Eotheod was called courage was called in them barbarity, what the men of Gondor called sense was in them cunning.

In the eyes of the slain Rohirric farmers, Gwynric saw an accusation - but had not the world stolen from them first? His ancient forebears had been robbed at the point of a spear and slain like wolves in their own sheepfolds, and yet the forgoil had the gall to look upon him as their lesser? Let them look, he thought, and let them think of the host as savage beyond measure, for so has the fury of their spite and their theft made us.

The host, eager with rage and battle-grief, went in search of a town upon the Westmark, a gathering of Eotheod houses and stables. Brands burnt hot in their hands, and axes longed to shed the blood of thieves. The bones of their ancestors called out from the stolen soil, and the men of Dunland went to war.

by **Tysklandia** » Tue Jul 14, 2020 10:35 am

Liecthenbourg wrote:The Hold of Hammerstead,
The Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills

The gates of the Hold of Hammerstead had made a great impression on the men of the East. There was beauty in Eastern architecture, its strangeness was often regarded as exoticism. Arches and domes, curves instead of corners, with a favour for bright vibrant colours. But the mastery of Dwarven architecture was something in and all of itself. An architect in most of the world was a skilled labourer. A Dwarven architect, the gates of Hammerstead showed, was an artist. Every fine detail etched into the metal, depicting scenes from Dwarven stories and history that the men of the East did not knew, but could appreciate it. And this magnificent gate was flanked on either of its sides by statues of towering Dwarven-kings, which also marked the landscape. The Dwarves were, quite literally, far larger in death than they were in light.

When the men of Rhûn were allowed their entry, the true festivities began. Bor had pleaded his case for the Dwarves, who he could assume were suspicious of his intent. But he swore on his honesty as a man of the changes of his home. How the roads to the south were empty. How Zarâbâd decided its own fate with the death of Yumruk. And they had been allowed entry. Bor, for his part, moved to continue with his mission, but the caravan entreated the Dwarves.

As these wagons came to a halt, out brought the wares to be traded. As the merchants began to set up their stalls and wares, a troop of Easterlings brought out an array of instruments. They were strange devices: long necked tars, dutars and setars and short-necked, lute-like, ouds. Out came strange brass and silver horns, that curved around and around, and pan-flutes and horse-mounted drums. The musical scene was quick and 'eastern', with proud lyrics in a tongue none here could likely comprehend. But the music was cheery and pleasant, to fit the mood all the while these dealings were on-going.

Some of the stalls displayed fermented vegetables in a pickle of spices, others dried vegetables served with sugar and honey. Even still, dried jerkies and rations were shown. The meat was flavourful, if chewy, with a fantastic citrus and spicy heat to them. The Easterlings also peddled an item they swore by; a fermented fish sauce for "enhancing the flavour of all cuisine!". And then came their honeyed wines from the Sea of Rhûn, their rice wines, their melon-liquers and sweet beers. They hoped the Dwarves would enjoy.

With food and drink being shared, on came the pride of Rhûn. Magnificent steeds and thoroughbred stallions and prized mares for breeding. Magnificent in the equestrian art. Arms and armour were shown, as well, but always in negative light to the Dwarves. Treating their hosts to the respect they deserved was custom. And all the while, as these festivities and trade took place, the men of the East spun yarn on tales and stories from east of the Sea of Rhûn -- of the Dwarves of the Orocarni and how trade could resume.

Bor could hear the faint music as he was led on. He was armoured, indeed, but had removed his helmet. Adorned in fine robes and with a great cape, he was more than capable of keeping up with his Dwarven hosts. He was led through fantastic corridors and halls, across bridges that spanned chasms the like of which Bor had never seen. He dove down into the mountain heart, were it was cool, but the ever-present distant sound of chiselling and mining echoed off of every edifice.

He bowed before Thorin III, who he knew to be the Son of Dain. He could see the eyes upon him from the Dwarven nobles and warriors. Bor took a solemn knee before the warden of the Iron Hills. He reached for a box held by several of his attendants, but decided to allow them to hold it for him.

"Warden of the Iron Hills, Thorin III, Son of Dain, of the Line of Durin's Folk, I come to you in the name of Khatun Tyreek of Rhûn. We are aware of the shaky history between the East and the West, but with the veil of Magrath waning due to efforts of the Blue Wizards, some of us -- here in the near East, have seen light." He held the box up further. "To you, Thorin, I bring you a gift. It is but a token of thanks for listening to us, for letting us into your walls here at the Hammerstead."

Within the box, were it to be opened, was a curved composite bow. Hewn of wood and bone, and refined and etched in fine detail, it was indeed a fine hunting bow -- at least for human craftsmanship. "As you know, our people are proud of their archery: we may not be as skilled as the elves, nor as swift as the men of Rohan, but our skills with a bow upon the back of a beast are quite superb. I gift this bow to you, as a gesture of good will."

"Let our people be friends through trade and goods. I come to you to ask to permit trade, to open the roads and the trade-lanes, for the goods of Ryun to meet the goods of Erebor and the Iron Hills."

The Hold of Hammerstead, Throne Room of Thorin III, Son of Dain.
The Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills

Thorin sat on his throne, gazing at the eastern dignitary as he stood in the splendor of the throne room. With torch light and illuminating gemstones casting light and shadow along engraved walls and columns in the splendor common to dwarven craftsmanship.

The heir of the kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills was young in dwarven terms, although he knew he had more summers in him than this eastern man ever would achieve in his lifetime. But Thorin had walked and spoke with the men of the Dale many a time and he knew that they could possess great wisdom and guile at a young age. He nodded to one of his guards, who approached the Easterling and accepted his gift with a respectful bow.

"I accept your gift in the name of the King under the mountain, Easterling." Was the prince his reply, short and careful.

It was clear to the Easterling that Thorin was engulfed in thought and doubt as the dwarf was clearly in the process of judging the man in front of him. The Longbeards never had much issue with the men of Rhun, but such could not be said for the men of the Dale, who could be said to be the heirs of the Kingdom of Rhovanion, with whom the dwarves shared all but formal alliances.

When he was younger, before the days that Erebor was retaken, he would have given no stock in the redemption of any race of men. But yet, the men of the Dale had played a part in the recovery of Erebor and the death of Smaug, the Bane of many a dwarf. As such, many a dwarf in the Kingdom of Erebor and the Iron Hills saw the race of man in a favorable light. But could the same be said for the men of the East as could be said for the Men of the Dale? It was to his own admission that Thorin knew little of the Easterlings, but their history of service under he should not be named.

After a silence that could be said to be mildly uncomfortable, Thorin spoke once more, giving his answer to his visitor.

"Then let it be so, Easterling. We shall open the roads to Rhûn, so that man and dwarf may travel them in peace. Your merchants shall be safe on our land, as long as ours will be safe in yours."

The War for Middle-Earth [IC | Closed]

The War for Middle-Earth [IC | Closed]

Who is online