The War for Middle-Earth [IC | Closed]

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jul 15, 2020 6:49 am

Feet of the Starkhorn

It was not long after Eomer had passed into the shadow of the mountain itself that the sound of fell voices came to his ears - and not long ere that sound disappeared again. The coming of the eored was ill-able to be concealed, the tramp of a hundred horses and the jingle of their mail enough for even crude Orcish notions of watch and guard to pick out. As they passed deeper into the dell, pursuing the direction of the voices, suddenly arrows sprang from a thicket off to the right of a crude path that the riders had been following.

Orc-horns winded, and howling figures boiled out of the underbrush. They were few in number, a couple dozen, but they were mixed company - low snarling goblins and taller Orcs with broad shields and hooked swords that hurried now toward the riders. One man, two, fell from the saddle, sprouting black-fletched, arrows, and then it was begun! The more hot-headed of riders spurred their steads into the oncoming rush, the force of their charge casting down fell creatures here and there, and others rallied back to Eomer, forming a quick knot of cold-glinting spears about their lord.

Whitemane, The Westfold

The first settlement that the Dunlendings came upon was undefended, most of the kindred of that land already fleeing south and east away from the rumors of the ravening host of wild-men. Whitemane was its name, not more than half a day's march from the Fords, barely worth being put on a map. It burnt merrily beneath the moon as the host passed through it, pillagers taking grain, horses, ironmongery, slaves, and whatever else of worth could be plundered from the humble agricultural settlement. From rough questioning of some of the captured peasants, it soon became clear that there were two other settlements of note that would be lightly defended in the Westfold, Grimburg and Meadowshall, and then things would become more difficult indeed for the ravening host...

Near the Rhunic Border, Dorwinion

It was a few breaths later, to Tigeke's chagrin, that the three Dark Elves spoke - their voices in unison, a fact that made the hair stand up stiff on the back of her neck.

"Trade with Rhun we do not cease, child of the East. Trade we seek also with our vanished kindred of the west, and those who would seek prosperity elsewhere, the men of the Long Lake and Dale."

The blind seer stepped forward a half foot, gesturing expansively toward the host at the captainess' back.

"Flourishing comes to all who are willing to embrace peace, instead of war. Why do you march here armed in array for battle, and speak of our long love together? The Land of the Vine is not your enemy. Nor, as you know, do the men of Dale trouble your halls. They offer fine raiment, gold, and precious gems for ought which we send north up the River Running. This is but a part of the prosperity we share with you, when the trade comes south. In this manner all prosper."

Far behind the three emissaries a flicker moved at the edge of Tigeke's sight and she perceived for a moment a tall figure clad in pale silver armor with black hair standing alone on the road to the City of Goblets - and then, just as soon as she turned her eyes to focus on it, it was gone again.

by **Tysklandia** » Wed Jul 15, 2020 3:23 pm

The lands of Rhovanion, Near the Grey mountains
The Host of Gloin, Son of Groin

A Steady beat of thousands of armored feet ground to a halt as as Gloin saw the Grey mountains loom on the horizon. His Dwarven host bore the marks of Erebor and the Iron Hills amongst their shields and armor. Their mail, plate and axe were all made in the forges of Erebor and they were the envy of many mortal men. Near to Three thousand armored boots stood ready to continue the march, all strudy dwarven folk readied to spill the blood of any who had sullied their ancient homes.

Glancing upon the fields and hills in front of him, Gloin could but gaze at the vast Grey mountains in the distance. Once the home of many glorious dwarven holds and of as many of Durin's Folk.

But that was a long time ago, foul creatures lingered there now, sullying their ancient halls and desecrating their most valued of heirlooms. His task was but the first of a campaign of vengeance upon their vile enemy.

Gloin looked back upon his host and raised his warhammer to the sky for all his men to see. And with a single motion, swung it towards the mountain, signalling his men to continue the march. And once again, near to three thousand boots approached the Grey Mountains.

And yet still, a hundred of his riders continued to ride along the far flanks of his column, in front and in rear, carrying great horns to warn the meandering dwarven host upon it's approach to Arashnathur.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jul 16, 2020 7:32 am

Vale of the Anar-Malibul, Gates of Arashnathur

It wasn't long after the thirty-second day of their march that the outriders returned, reporting an opening in the sheer wall of the Ered Mithrin where a great cleft ran away northwards into the heart of the mountains. Their report was tinged with caution - Orc tracks had been sighted in the soft soil near a river that emerged from the valley, fresh spoor. The map the wanderer had provided the host with indicated that Arashnathur lay some distance up the valley, and that way was narrow and easily marked.

The Great Gate of Minas Tirith

The roads up from the southlands were filled with marching companies, singing men in bright mail and tall striding sons of Numenor in green and gray cloaks in their hundreds. It was rare that Denethor would call in the many lords who owed fealty to the White Tower, to muster for war, but they had sent many of their soldiers to such a call - all that could be spared unless a great campaign were to be begun. They filled the empty barracks of Minas Tirith, and the stables were soon heaving with extra horses and remounts of those who had come up the Sea Road.

1400 Soldiers and 200 Knights have come from the fiefs to reinforce Minas Tirith

The Wine-Dark Chamber, The Barad-Dur, Mordor

It was a strange figure that greeted the emissary of Rhun after he had passed through the countless gates, chambers, archways, checkpoints, and hallways of the Black Tower - a pallid Numenorean, skin weathered and rough but now nearly white as parchment with long years away from the sun. He was seated at the end of one long table of midnight wood when Kargi entered, escorted by two Haradrim clad in black cloaks, and rose swiftly as they exited.

His voice was sibilant-smooth, the type of reasonable tones that made a man want to agree with what he said, though this was belied by the corpse-like appearance of his face. Jewels glittered in the torchlight on many facets of his thin black steel armor and deep crimson robes as he stood and strode over to offer the representative of Khamul a goblet.

"Your arrival is most welcome, Kargi of the Scions of Thakar. The Great Eye has expressed to me his personal pleasure at your coming, and at the words you bear. Please, drink - your journey through the wastes must have been long, and the vintages of my master are rich indeed, soothing to throat and soul."

The figure drank himself from one of the goblets sat nearby on the table, a deep purple wine that left a light stain on his pale lips which was promptly licked away by a flicker of a blood-red tongue.

"I am the Warden of the Tower. I was bid to greet your tidings with acceptance of my master - great store of arms, weapons, machines, and mechanisms is to be made available to your kindred, in exchange for the foodstuffs and ores which shall ensure that the hosts of the Great Eye shall not go unfed or unshod. Gold, also, he offers to you in vast quantities. There is little use for it here, though the Ash Mountains teem with veins of the stuff, and it would be better in the hands of your master for profit in trade than languishing in the vaults of Barad-Dur and Durthang."

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Thu Jul 16, 2020 4:12 pm

Harrowdale
The Folde, Rohan

The crude trap was sprung, the black arrows loosed, the Orc-vermin rallied from their holes!

Éomer looked from left to right, Firefoot snorting and whipping his mane eagerly. A few callow riders plunged forth into the fray, scattering the enemy like rabbits, but the yeared and skillful men of his éored cleaved to their marshal as lodestones. Here and there a man dropped from his saddle with the thorny haft of an Orcish arrow embedded in his flesh, but on the great part the reeds bounced off shield and hauberk like pebbles upon a boulder, or else fell short of their marks. Éomer was surprised, however, to find that the fiends were not in large number. Indeed, the Orcs could not have far outnumbered his own éored. Thus it was that the great horn halfway to his lips fell back against his mailed chest.

Could it be that the Orcs, perhaps commanded by some fell captain, were concealing their numbers? Or was the terrible horde which Éomer had been sent to destroy merely a fabrication spun by old shepherd-wives? It must surely be so, Éomer thought, for Orcs were bestial creatures, unfit for ambush more sophisticated than that which they had just sprung. The horn leapt back to his mouth, and he blew hard and strong, the bellow echoing across the valley and in the distant peaks of the Ered Nimrais. With that, he took up his sword and charged forth, giving up a war-cry, his éored right behind him.

The air was full of Orc-blood and the meeting of metal. Behind them, the full mounted host of Edoras which Éomer had rallied now came rushing into the dale to trample the foe underfoot.

Helm's Deep
The Westfold, Rohan

The fortress of Helm Hammerhand bustled. Spear-points were sharpened and sword-edges whetted, shields polished and horses barded, gambesons fitted and armor donned. The cry of captains and the tramp of footsteps resounded in the long halls and high-ceilinged chambers of the Hornburg as the men of the Westmark prepared for war.
Yet the lord's hall was almost still.

Théodred, watched by his lieutenants of the Westfold, Erkenbrand and Gamling, paced back and forth across the room. He still had not received answer from Éomer. It was possible that his brother was still mustering the men of the East, or that he had been waylaid by Wormtongue. But every day that Théodred waited was another farm that could be burnt, another family that could be broken. The oaken doors burst open, and Théodred looked up from his wondering.

"My lord, there is a rider from—"

"Not another!" yelled Théodred, with such force that the herald recoiled. "Not another rider. Not another stead taken. Not another life lost. Not another drop of blood spilt!" He looked from one of his lieutenants to the other. "We shall wait no longer. I care not if the savages of Dunland outnumber us twofold, threefold, tenfold. We shall ride unto the enemy, and we shall drive them from our land!" He strode past the messenger and through the doors, Erkenbrand and Gamling at his heels.

"My lord!" the man tried, but the Prince of the Mark overruled him.

"Assemble the men. We ride at once," he commanded, coming out onto the battlements of the stronghold. The sun rose above the eastern mountain peaks and threw its radiant light over him like a waterfall.

"My lord," the herald shouted, and Théodred finally harkened to him, "the rider was not from the Westmark. It was from Edoras. Éomer has marshaled a thousand riders to his banner to defeat a host of Orcs which appeared near the Starkhorn. But he rides for Helm's Deep as soon as the beasts are dispatched."

At once, the morning seemed all the more glorious.

"Then we shall wait for Éomer," Théodred said. "But we shall be ready. As soon as his horn is heard in the air, we shall ride for the Westmarch."

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jul 16, 2020 8:13 pm

Feet of the Starkhorn

Wild and fierce came the cries of the eored as they sprang to the attack, the rumble of hooves filling the dale as the thundering of some great sea. Orcs fled or fell before them, the few who had stood to fight the first sally of the riders suddenly overthrown by the onrush that accompanied Eomer's horn. A few made a stand about a tall Orc-chieftain, nearly man-high in his dread aspect, who had placed himself atop a small rise where thickets made it impossible for the mounted warriors to come at him directly. Harsh bellows and taunts came from thence for several minutes, as well as black-fletched shafts that decorated shields and cut down the unfortunate few, ere the last of that kindred were routed out by a several brave men of the Rohirrim who dismounted to make the assault.

After less than a half of an hour, there were no more Orcs in the vale - none living, at any rate. The casualties to the eored had been light, a hundred Orcs and a score felled for only two dozen of their own, most shot and a few dragged from the saddle and hewn where they lay. After a short time, sure now that no more enemies lurked in the thickets, the men of Rohan began mounding the dead and cutting fire to burn the foul corpses.

This brought an unhappy realization. Exploration further into the valley of the west side of the Starkhorn revealed the spoor of a much larger host of Orcs, at least five hundred strong, on the march. Their tracks were old, having passed assuredly at least that morning, if not the night before, and led up into the winding tracks of the mountains and high paths. These few score that were slain must have been a raiding band, or a rearguard, or merely outriders set to watch the entrance to the coomb. Their destruction was well, but hardly the end of the Orc menace.

Passes of the Dead Marches

A scar in the landscape, of rough earth and brown-red soil, grew upon the solitary fens and cool stagnant pools of the Marshes. Crudely hewn stone made barricades and walls, immense timbers from some distant forest driven down into the stinking soil to hold in place the rubble and dirt cast into the boggy mires. Whips cracked and work-songs in foul tongues broke the stillness incessantly, teeming lines of Orc laborers bent to the demands of their masters that drove them forward.

Twenty leagues and more they had covered from the edge of that misty region, a wide causeway driven across loamy hillocks of sickly green grass and scum-filmed ponds, beaten and working at a breakneck speed underneath the gaze of the watchful Eye. Here and there small watchtowers of fitted rock and mortar rose above the fogs that often blanketed the region, braziers of red flame marking their apex, keen-eyed men out of the East and cruel Orcs from the Gorgoroth plains manning these small battlements that watched over the Mordor-road.

And still the labor moved onward, cutting with each day deeper into the ancient battle-plain and driving aside the unquiet spirits of the dead. Not even the shades of the departed could stand against the fell purpose of the Dark Tower and her Lord.

The Heights of Emyn Arnen

Barren now stood the heights of the once-green hills of eastern Gondor, denuded under the noon glare - or what should have been full sun, if the intermittent scudding darkness of Orodruin's fumes had not blocked out the light into a pale watery half-dawn. They looked like nothing so much as a hill of the unquiet dead now, empty frowning mansions skeletons of their former glory, ancient and venerable groves hewn to their stumps for wood-fires and to fuel ashen biers that supplied the artisans with mortar. Always creatures teemed between the old towers and along the sunken roads, hurrying multitudes of Orcish laborers and warriors in ceaseless patrol.

Some of the approaches to the hills now had been stopped up with crude but solid ramparts, and others had low frowning walls erected upon their heights. From many pits emerged smoke and other foul clouds, delved into the soil of the hallowed hills and thence into the rock below, from where baskets of broken stone and heavy rubble came at times on bent backs to reinforce the ramparts above. Keen eyes occasionally glimpsed great Olog-Hai striding beneath the sun, wicked faces far too clever by half for the trolls that they were claimed to be.

It was a pleasing sight for the commander of the armies of Minas Morgul. Gothmog rarely dismounted from his steed, for each step on his own legs pained him, but the ruination of what had once been a fair holding of the hated Westron men was a sweet thing to behold.

The Black Stair, Morgul Vale

A body tumbled and bounced down the cliffside with a shriek, and several laborers looked up for a moment, then returned to their work. Those who had labored there for more than a few hours didn't even bother to move their heads and observe the disturbance. Most were held to the cliff face by little more than half-rotten strips of rope and leather fastenings, and others worked without even that comfort, expendable Snaga clinging by claws and determination alone to the rock where they intermittently hacked with crude tools.

The Straight Stair had long been a dangerous passage for any amount of warriors, technically passable, but foolishness to move a strength across that was more than a patrol in size, and even those patrols suffered casualty rates that even the servants of the Dark Tower, who cared little for the lives of their underlings, found wasteful. But a truth remained - Minas Morgul was isolated from Mordor, accessible in strength only from Harondor, or the long march from Cirith Gorgor. If an army were to win the passages of Anorien in truth, and the Crossroads, those forces of might assembled in Minas Morgul would be difficult to reinforce, or even supply.

None now remembered who had hewn the narrow way over the pass of Cirith Ungol. Some Uruks boasted that it had been their kindreds which had opened the secret passage, the way by which the fell folk of Mordor had assailed Minas Ithil by sudden storm and so seized the city. Others, wiser, such as the few men (mostly Black Numenoreans of Umbar and Far Harad) who lived within Minas Morgul, said that the pathway was older still, and just forgotten for a time, likely having been hewn by their forebearers to assail Sauron in the Second Age, or to keep guard at Cirith Ungol in the days of the Watchful Peace.

It mattered little to the Orcish laborers who hacked and hammered at the black stone of the peaks of the Morgul Vale. Back and forth the new track wound, less steep and deadly than the old stairway, wide enough for ten to walk abreast, and shallow enough that a fall would not spell untimely death. Great elevators and contraptions of pulleys and heavy iron cable drew new loads of snaga-workers up the cliffs with each passing sunrise and sunset, and the work continued even during the hours of inky midnight when the difference between the rock face and the black abyss was all but impossible to tell. The fell master of Morgul, the sibilant sorcerer, cared little for those who fell from the heights. There were always more Orcs.

The Southern Brownlands

It was hot, hot even to the creatures of the Black Land accustomed to volcanic wastes and air filled with ash. The merciless sun beat down on the Orcs as they marched, and they shaded their eyes against the accursed yellow face, muttering oaths against the heavenly body and the masters that drove them forward in such weather in equal measure - though perhaps the latter were said more carefully, and after a swift glance around for the tall Uruks and eastern men.

The Brownlands. Long ago, as a ward against the armies of the Last Alliance, the master of Barad-Dur had devastated them with alchemical fire, in an act that had astounded even the Wise in such an age. Gil-Galad and his allies had thought to support their march off of the bounty of the gardens of the Entwives, but the servants of the Great Enemy had so thoroughly scorched and destroyed even the grass of the region in their assault that other plans had had to be made, and the assault delayed for some time.

Now, long lives of men past, and the Brown Lands were still a waste to look upon - hardly grass even grew upon the rolling hills of sand and cracked mud and ash. But if there was a creature that could live even where others would perish, it was the Morannon Orc. Fitful crops that grew in the wastes of Nurn would take to the soil here, eventually, and cunning scouts could find good bones of the outcroppings of the Ash Mountains here to raise citadels.

After days of marching, for what seemed to be to the Orcs no reason, the order was eventually given to halt. Wagons of timber were brought forward from the year, and gangs of laborers formed after a brief halt to begin the task of hammering a crude palisade into the earth. The languid creatures of the host from the Black Land ill-appreciated their role in securing another route to Rhun against the men of the West, but that did not trouble their masters. Orcs were made to serve, not to think.

by **Ralnis** » Thu Jul 16, 2020 9:52 pm

Inside the Throne Room,
Wazmakaghul

The whole of the hold was ablaze with new recruits and news that had been happening across the mountains. The news of Dwarven expeditions and the diplomacy of the orcs in the Misty Mountains. The Scholar-Drake been sending his forces west to scour for the sorcerer and ancient dark knowledge. Still, the throne room had his impromptu court of warchiefs, heralds, and anyone worth of note to discuss the current events that befallen his need to become a powerful dragon lord and his need for majesty.

"Your Majesty." One of the Orcs said to the dragon, who was sitting on his haunches and looking very attentive," we believe that the Dwarves are coming near the Labyrinth but are going to places that are near the major holds in the former maps."

"Naturally, the little pest would return." Skaldii said with a hint of annoyance," they come at just the moment as well with the home forces away looking for that lost treasure and the Orcs of Gundabad looking to settle rivalries. This kingdom is not omnipotent and the resources thin as it already is."

"Naturally milord," another warchief spoke up," but we can't ignore the Stubbies. They will eventually find their way here and without an ally to help us and secure our nation before they found us."

"Which is why we are going to do our part in these diplomatic talks with Gundabad when they march on Grimfang! It is only right that our lord show up to this duel and make true talks with the Orcs. They only respect strength and they don't know the majesty of our lord. With the insults that those fools were throwing out in the mockery of our king. They yet to know the power that they mock." A Herald speak.

"Of course they don't know their betters until they see them in their glory. " The dragon chuckled," however, we must be vigilant about the Dwarves and their location towards that hold but we uphold Gundabad's call to arms. If only to get the respect needed for an alliance with the Misty Orcs so then we have a strong force that can deal with the Dwarves. It is a shame that we have to hold back such need for that dark magician, but I will not let an opportunity like this sweep by my claws!"

"What about the new goblins?" Another Herald spoke.

"Sent to the building of our defenses. After the next month then we must start with the recruiting of more orcs. But we need those defenses up and running. If anything, we must be patient and bide time. To march on them is not the best option until we have secured our alliance. We march on Grimfang!"

They all said in the variation of "yes my lord" as they talked about other important topics like the mining and expansion of the hold itself. Many were drawing up plans but most of the dragon's eye was set towards the east of the numerous expeditions to find the whispers of dark magics and the sorcerer that could be the need to further their master's goals. Of course the Scholar-Drake was always interested in the mysteries of dark magic. The boon of Velkor that made the dragons, for they were only second to the Balrogs and even a lesser one such as he was a match for an army.

However, his greed was tempered and directed to increasing his majesty by securing further support by the Misty Orcs. Those lesser beings were numerous and could cause problems if he had to go against them. Even one such as he could not stand against a numerous horde, even when they lost 3/4th of their power at the Battle of the Five Armies. Yet he has to do whatever it took to increase his kingdom's power. If it meant to personally show up and turn the Orcs to his side then why shouldn't he?

He was the king of his hold! The mighty Scholar-Drake whose dragon-spell is powerful among his kind, his thirst for glory, knowledge, and riches is without compare! He will show these orcs that Skadlii pays his respects and his power is for all to respect and awe!

[spoiler=Actions!]
1000 orcs and 500 goblins are lead by Skaldii to lead his host towards Grimfang to help Durgash take the hold.
500 goblins are still building the palisade
240 Goblins recruited( months 1 and 2 combined 120 gobbos) [/spoiler]

by **Tysklandia** » Fri Jul 17, 2020 6:39 am

G-Tech Corporation wrote:
Vale of the Anar-Malibul, Gates of Arashnathur

It wasn't long after the thirty-second day of their march that the outriders returned, reporting an opening in the sheer wall of the Ered Mithrin where a great cleft ran away northwards into the heart of the mountains. Their report was tinged with caution - Orc tracks had been sighted in the soft soil near a river that emerged from the valley, fresh spoor. The map the wanderer had provided the host with indicated that Arashnathur lay some distance up the valley, and that way was narrow and easily marked.

Vale of the Anar-Malibul, Gates of Arashnathur
The War host of Gloin, Son of Groin

The war-host approached the Vale cautiously, slowing their march to ensure they arrived when the sun had but barely creeped over the horizon. Surveying the narrow, dangerous road, Gloin took time to evaluate his options. A dwarf could easily fight in such narrow passageways, such was their nature. But if such a situation arose, they could not bring their force to bear properly. And if Orcs lay in ambush, it could easily turn to disaster. Ordering his army to raise a war-camp, he once again took half his riders to scour the nearby lands and the Vale for more evidence of Orcish tribes or hunting parties and to ensure the way forward lay clear. The Other half, he sent up the mountain, to find a more secure route to Arashnathur. Once again, Gloin favored a cautious approach, wishing to avoid ambush at any cost.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Fri Jul 17, 2020 3:06 pm

Near the Rhûnic Border,
Dorwinion

"Reports had reached Zarâbâd of activity within the lands of the River Running and beyond relating to the Men of Dale," Tîgeke replied, still speaking in the tongue of the East. She was partly disturbed by the way the Dark Elves before her spoke in unison, but considered it to be some form of intimidation: their diplomacy shrouded in mystery. Behind her, her horse neighed and stomped in boredom. It snorted out loud in apparent discomfort, with the woman atop it resting her hand on its head to calm the beast.

"See, even my steed is repulsed by the term." The Khatun offered a smile, at least to indicate it was a joke.

"You may not believe there is bad blood between us, but there is. Long since before even the time of destruction of the Kingdom of Rhovanion have our peoples been foes."

She did not let the Elves formulate a reply to that statement; at least not yet, and continued. "The men of Rhûn march with me here, into this part of Dorwinion, to search this threat. Indeed, we have scouts and outriders, but to march into Dorwinion without a force in the midst of these reports would be suicidal. My husband, dear Avari, was caught off guard on campaign and was felled. I do not intend to make that mistake myself."

Her eyes scanned the woodland behind the trio, keeping an intense watch for where the figure was. "You have to understand, Avari, we are here because the Men of Dale and you should not be friends. What you do with your kin in Mirkwood or beyond is no concern of mine. But the Men of the Lake grow fat off of your riches, our riches through you, and we have no intention to let that happen. Nor do we want you to be coerced into trading with them."

As she spoke she grew more assertive, more impatient, perhaps more determined turning from the one she could not tell, to the man to the blind woman. "I ask of you to cease your trade and to become part of Rhûn's larger trade networks, much like your people in the further East. More integration; with protection from Zarâbâd and the ability to work, trade and travel from here the River Running all the way to the Orocarni in the East; with markets as north as Erebor and as a South as Harad. Let Zarâbâd and the City of Goblets come together as one; for world is a nefarious place and in these times, whilst the Westernesse muster and squabble, true friends must be found. " She extended her gauntlet clad hand out in a fist.

"I have disarmed myself in good faith, to show I mean seriousness to the friends of my people. I carry no sword with me. My army is in the open, for all to see. But I have seen with my eyes, my human eyes, the man who lurks in your woods." She held her palms in the open now, the fist a hand to shake.

Behind her her force was silent and unmoving. Banners of purple fluttered in the sky, betwixt pikes and halberds of shining yellow'd steel and iron. It was lines upon lines of well disciplined men, whose armour reflected the rays of the sun back to the heaven. Their ornate gear of purples, reds and yellows was a sight to behold: especially as they lit up a land of pleasant greens. Her commanders spoke amongst themselves half a hundred paces back, but none dared approach the Elves three.

The Wine-Dark Chamber, The Barad-Dur,
Mordor

Kargî had never seen a Numenorean before. He was astounded. Confused. Yet much of Mordor had confused him. The ashen black land that gave away to soot covered industrial towns and forges, that themselves were fed by streams of clean grasslands to the south. Or so he was told. Pilgrims and travellers he found aplenty, as he had seen men from Khand, Harad and even further in the East here. He was sure, too, that he had seen men from his home here too.

Yet Kargî was not deterred by his Numenorean; this black pallid figure of the similar steel armour he wore to Erasmus. He introduced himself as the Warden of the Tower and presented to Kargî a goblet filled with a burgundy wine. The men of the East knew their wines, but this one smelt strongly yet fruity and sweet. He swallowed the liquid with as much as gusto as he could, but retained his etiquette, for he was in the home of Mairon the Fair.

"I, Kargî, am pleased to be here Warden of the Tower. I am sure my master, the Khatun, will be pleased to hear the reports of the hospitality you and our master has shown us. Let us drink, again, in health and friendship. As it was before; it shall be again. The forges of Mordor will be fed by the wealth of the East, and her legions will march under the banners of Melkor. Yet, I must say, discretion is necessary in trade and in discourse. For the Khatun has plans and for now, we are aiming to court the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills."

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Sat Jul 18, 2020 2:11 pm

Helm's Deep
The Westfold, Rohan

Great was the host that rode from the Hornburg, verdant their banners and bristling their spears! Théodred was their captain, riding abreast his éored as a wolf among hounds. Their mounts were unwearying as they flew down the dirt paths to Grimburg, whither the feral horde of Dunland went also, by account of the harrowed survivors scattered east in the wild men's advance. Some distance behind tramped the infantry, both raggedly mailed levies of the Westmark and gleaming huscarls of Erkenbrand's house. Scouts rode ahead, light eyes watchful for any sign of a Dunlendish warband. If they did not dare to show themselves upon the field of battle, then the Rohirrim would marshal at Grimburg and root them out. Théodred wanted to trample the wild men's bones into the earth of Rohan by the morning. Against twenty hundreds of mighty riders, what chance had the foe?

by **Remnants of Exilvania** » Sat Jul 18, 2020 3:08 pm

Ered Angmar
Carn Dum
At the head of an Army

The towers and spires of the old fortress, Carn Dum as it was called, rose high into the night sky as the goblin hordes crawled down from the peaks surrounding the fortress. Their numbers were legion, hundreds and hundreds of them coming from hidden passes or long forgotten tunnels, the paths their kind used when traversing the Misty Mountains. It was a lesson they had learned well ever since the Eagles of the North had renewed their efforts to keep the passes of the mountains free and reported their movements to the Free People of Middle Earth.

There were no lights inside the decrepit fortress they approached. A stark contrast to how Durgash used to remember it from back before the Witch Realm fell. Fires would be lit upon those towers and a light within every window as unfriendly eyes peered out over the lands around it. A thousand torches and campfires would shine around and below it from the vast system of caves, tunnels and caverns, hewn by goblin hands and hosting the vast forces of the old head Screamer. Now it was little more than an empty, abandoned ruin, burned out by the fires laid by the men of Gondor in ages past, only the solid stonework still standing. But that was all he needed.

Sitting on an old, scarred Warg of impressive size, Durgash personally overlooked his goblins making their way towards the fortress, finding the entrances to the caverns below it and making it up to the gate which lay broken and rotten on the floor. Within mere minutes he saw light within the windows of the old fortress, making it look like a many-eyed monstrosity within short time. His good eyesight even allowed him to watch as goblins crawled on top of the towers of the fortress, hoisting the banners of Mount Gundabad. Three white peaks on a black flag, fluttering in the cold, harsh wind of the north.

Soon, all of northern Middle Earth would cower in chains under this flag.

The sound of claws quickly hitting stone behind him distracted Durgash from the glorious sight before him, forcing him to turn around and face who was coming. It was another orc, perched high atop another, although smaller, Warg. The Warg skidded to a halt just before the orc chieftain, Durgash's Warg angrily snapping at the smaller beast which yowled and quickly got itself out of range again before being forced to order by the leash of the orc upon it.

"What is it you maggot? Can't you see that I am busy?"

The orc shrank back in fear before his chieftain before squeaking:

"I bring urgent news from Chief Durburz! Strange goblin folk from the east have come to our halls, requesting parlor and friendship. They said they serve-they serve a dragon!"

These news were indeed odd to Durgash, who had served under and alongside dragons during the old wars under his former master Morgoth. He had also heard his fair share of stories of encounters in the Withered Heath. Those creatures were arrogant and solitary and rarely did they let orcs like them near their lairs. A dragon, even if it was merely a tiny, fire-spewing Drake or one of the larger Cold-Drakes of the north, was still a mighty foe and if it had recruited other foul folk in the north into its service, it could very well become a threat to his own rule, much like this Khagra sitting in Moria. He had to deal with this at once.

Durgash turned his Warg around, starting back down the way the messenger had come to him. With a slight gesture of his hand he commanded the creature to ride by his side. Once there, he asked him:

"So, what did Durburz tell these messengers? I hope he didn't have their heads on a pike..."

The orc was quick to reply, attempting to please his chief:

"No, no, he's sent them back with an offer to have their scaly master meet you at Mount Grimfang and deliver this filthy traitor Kash onto you."

"Kash? By Morgoth's black hands why didn't you say that sooner? Quickly we must ride to Gundabad and prepare our forces for this meeting. If this Drake can be of use, we shall use him to secure our dominion of the Grey Mountains...if he is not...we will kill him right there and do the same with the traitors of Mount Grimfang."

North Downs
Fornost Erain
Ruins

Goblins ran rampant in the sewers of the late capital of the Kingdom of Arthedain, making these wet and dirty and partially destroyed tunnel systems below the city their new home. Graffiti in vile orcish runes and glyphs was smeared onto the walls and ceilings and any and all memory to the Dunedain of old was defaced and destroyed, ridiculed and looted by this foul kin.

They had little else to do, other than making themselves homely within this new abode of theirs. Finding every nook and cranny within the old city where they could hide and wait in the shadows, scurry around and complete great works of war and terror. Already they had set up crude machines deep within the underbelly of the ruined city, below great arches and spires and protected by mighty, now moss covered walls of old, machines with which to extend the sewer systems, machines with which to create more devices of war and destruction.

Chieftain Tharzog knew the importance of the task given to him by Durgash from Gundabad. If he claimed the old city for the orcs, then the north would soon fall to them. Already had those pesky rangers not shown themselves on their way, having wisely selected to not waste their arrows and lives on a host as mighty as this. And now, holed up behind Fornost's broken yet still standing walls, Tharzog was confident that there would be no further disturbances. It would take an army to unseat him and his forces from this place and there was nobody in these lands who could muster one. Eriador was ripe for the taking once he had made this city his.

Oh and how Tharzog desired to have Eriador...finally...finally he would take revenge for the death of his cousin Golfimbul, slain and ridiculed by the halflings which were said to live around this area. He would chop off their tiny little heads create a whole new game with them...Whack-a-halfling.

The Anduin Vale
Framsburg
Ruins of the Eotheod

Once these had been beautiful, green pastures between the rivers Greylin and the young Anduin, with the ruins of the houses of Framsburg sticking out of a seen of green like the open jaws of giants sunk into the ground and gasping for air...but that had been before the coming of the orcs. Now the grass had been trampled, burned , buried under mounds of dirt and rubble. The goblin chieftain Durburz was no goblin of half measures and whipped his foul creatures ever onward, digging within the ruined homes for basements, creating ramshackle wooden huts or building on top of what had been barely recognisable buildings from ages past. Unlike the Numenoreans, the Eotheod's buildings had not been made to last the ages and so there was very little left for Durburz to base his efforts on.

Still, he persevered.

Screaming and shouting himself hoarse he forced his troops ever onward, gathering foodstuffs and materials, wether it was new stones and ores from the Misty Mountains, more wood from the small forests growing at the mountain's feet or just plain water.

Canals were built so the water of the Anduin could be used to feed great wheels and evil machines, aid the orcs in churning out ever more vile things as watchtowers and buildings arose in the plains between the Misty Mountains and the Grey Mountains.

by **Arlye Austros** » Sat Jul 18, 2020 8:24 pm

Imladris
The halls of Rivendell.

The light foot of elves kept trotting through the flats, slowly descending through the gentle slopes, not fast enough for the haste that swelled in the mind of their captain.
“Osp!” A voice claimed between the clear racketing of their armour. Indeed. Elrond could also smell it, but they had also seen it from afar now. It was a sweet scent, and he recalled the spice market in Ost-in-Edhil that was restocked every month by merchants from Minhiriath. He also now sniffed the other scent, the one that had startled the host as it advanced: flesh.
At an order the scouts advanced, sprinting in lighter armour; hardened wool. They quickly vanished from sight between the bushes and trees. The hundreds that he himself led under the authority of Ereinion Gil-Galad continued to advance at their hasted but moderate speed.
Then he saw them. The Walls of Eregion. Even from the distance they shone under the sun, and they also revealed their wounds. The city had been breached, and thick smoke poured off the opening.
The scouts returned. No orcs between them and the vicinity of the wall, but they had been spotted, as banners rose on their side of the wall now, as in defiance. However there was still hope. They reported that some survivors seemed to resist in and around the Gwaith-i-Mírdian, as the shine of their swords could pierce even through the smoke, and the chaos of battle seemed to be intense there.
Maybe they could save some, maybe Celebrimbor was still alive. Maybe not everything was lost.
Again they sprinted and breached into the forests. Soon they would reach the walls. Somebody shot an arrow, and the faint sound of a dying wolf reached his ears. No matter, the Ñoldo host continued its advance, forming a line that slowly bent on the edge facing the Sirannon.
The sun cleared, and the elves emerged from the tree-line at once, a solid line of high-quality steel and Lindon light armour. Horns of the Heavens announcing the power and wrath of the High King himself, the truth that the great fortress was saved.
But no chants replied the call, only laughter and mockery from the Orcs who held the walls. Then Elrond sound the retreat.

Sometimes he hated that place. The Last Homely House was, although he seldom indulged himself to see it, a reminder of the shame that befell him that day. Lord Elrond, perhaps the youngest survivor of the First Age on that part of the sea, walked into the room that held the treasures that he was meant to save, the lesser ones. Whenever he remembered how and why he came the mirage appeared right in front of his eyes, a torment that seemed to haunt him over and over. The bodies his kin, Celebrimbor, his wife, his daughter and son, displayed in a horrible sight for the incoming relief. Elrond didn’t flinch that day, but noticed how one of the lesser figures that made that madness moved, perhaps for the last time. They had been late, maybe days late. He could only save what he could, and try not to blame his scouts. The orcs, or their Master for that matter, had fooled them, and used the swords of the fallen to mirror a lasting defence. Had they attacked that day nobody would have survived.

Yet those treasures in the room haunted him still. He stood by a pedestal holding a silver jug, with masterful terminations and elegant curves. It was invaluable at the eyes of Elves and Men, yet to him something he would dispose of, that had to be recovered by his people like thieves, sneaking into the ruins and salvaging what they could. If only one Celebrimbor’s family had been hiding there. He allowed that hope to fester in himself for years, always looking for some miracle.

“If we had known…” he muttered before turning to the rest of that vault.
<<We were all fooled. And you were younger then. Unlike Him, a Master of lies.”>>
The voice wasn’t quite in his head. She spoke, and the Ring seemed to weight more. “I know, but that doesn’t keep the sound of the massacre off my memory. Is this what finally takes over me?”
<<Not this, not yet.>>

His eyes rested on the spear of the High King. It was held pointing towards the sky on a wooden frame. <<We are still to be watchful, things stir in the South, and I fear the will of Men is still not mature. Aid them as you can, and let your mind rest from what you can’t mend.>>
The spell broke. The Lord of Rivendell closed his eyes and found those memories distorted, as if the veil of time guarded him from that pain. At least for a while.

“Any news?” He asked his son as he found him on one of the hallways. Elrohir still reeked of horse, but it was a scent sweeter than the one he recalled from earlier. “You came back sooner than I expected.”

“I got to see Tharbad from a distance but couldn’t get closer. The swamp was impassable. The river is peaceful.” He said, and Elrond smiled. “Yet, I heard news from the South. Dunland is not at ease. They have a new king, a young one willing to prove his worth. So now he has marched on the Horselords of Rohan.”
Distance was on their side, but those weren’t entirely good news. If this new King emerged victorious it could threaten Eriador as well.
“We must keep an eye then. In the meantime I need you to overlook our warriors, see that they are ready. We might have to act sooner than later, I fear.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“I can’t say with certainty, until then, I will be silent.” He said before the son bowed his head with respect and turned around.

The Angle, South of Rhudaur

The host had been camping for a while, and secured their position. The Dúnedain were mostly happy, he thought, of being in the wild, not that the Eldar were uncomfortable either. Estel -as he would still fondly call their Chieftain for many years, no doubt- had urged this colonization to take place without delay. It became apparent after a few days the camp was set why that was the case. Rumours told of orcs occupying the northern edges of Eriador. To Elladan, son of Elrond Half-elven, these rumours weren’t a novelty, but there was fear, as the Dúnedain that reached out to the nearby hamlets and farms brought back the same story. Therefore, Elladan dispacted scouts.
The scout was called Astare, and he lef two more north, leaving the second day since their arrival. Hopefully they would bring news of whatever was happening north of Bree.
He also sent messages to Rivendell. And this was the occasion for the ongoing good mood. Their force had been reinforced a small group of settlers.

by **Elerian** » Sun Jul 19, 2020 3:47 pm

Ithilien

The small village had been abandoned for years, and no one really knew what had happened. It was almost as if its residents had disappeared without a trace, an event that was not all too unusual in the bleak lands of Ithilien. When Gondorian Rangers had discovered it using local maps, the place had seemed very eerie, an abandoned ghost town of sorts. Orcs and bandits had already taken everything of use, but the military command would have other uses for Balhalph. Situated on the very edge of Gondor’s influence, the former village posed as an ideal location for an outpost. It would serve both as a headquarters and supply base for troops in the area, monitoring Mordor’s activity and posing a thorn in the Uruk operation in Emyn Arnen. Though it would not be long before its existence would be discovered, and thus would be a temporary outpost for the Rangers.

Ordered by Denethor, and overseen by Faramir, a company of rangers were stationed in Balhalph. Significant renovations and repairs were made to a number of buildings as the company descended on Balhalph. It would need more camouflage and defenses if it would be useful to the Rangers, and remain away from Sauron’s watchful eye.

The hastily assembled group looked almost comical as they gathered on the outskirts of Balhalph. They were supposedly battle-hardened soldiers, men who had fended off countless bandit and orcish attacks. Yet they looked anything but, with their ragged, dirty clothes and assortment of weaponry. The group of 200 soldiers were part of the newly-constituted Balhalph Company, which would serve to hinder Mordor’s operations in the area. Its job was to scout out potential threats and report them to command, who would then assess the situation and decide whether or not to send further troops to secure the area. What reports began to flood in were particularly worrisome. Rarely did they ever encounter a strong force this far West.

"Attention!" The commander shouted. Almost immediately, the noise died down as heads turned to face him. "It is we, assembled here today, who are the first line of defense for fair Gondor. Routine as this may be for some of you, such a strong force from the Morgul vale may never bode well." The commander beckoned towards one of his subordinates, who presented a crudely drawn map of the area. Dots, X's, arrows, and various other symbols were scattered across the map in a seemingly nonsensical manner. He began to explain it, much to the consternation of the increasingly restless crowd.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jul 23, 2020 3:36 pm

Mount Grimfang, The Grey Mountains

Swift had marched the host of the Labyrinthe, and now they approached the abode of Durgash, unbeknownst to them, nearly a week before their allies. Skaldii swooped and wheeled overhead, and below he espied many hurrying figures in the great valley leading towards Mount Grimfang - scouts and outriders, no doubt, bringing word of the approach of his host. Several black-fletched arrows leapt up into the sky as he stooped toward the figure, some rattling off of his armor, some embedding themselves in the cracks between his scales irritatingly. It would take more than that to kill a drake of the North, but there was wisdom now in not engaging alone aside from his forces...

The South Road, Ithilien

The marching host was passing near the borders of the greenwood when several arrows sped out of the trees, cutting down Orcs where they marched and men where they sat commanding the wains. It had been thus for several days, ambushes being set against the hosts marching to and fro from the Morgul Vale. This, now, was a part of the Dark Lord's response. Haradrim brought up from the south deployed swiftly from the rear of the column, lancers riding armored steeds swiftly into the treeline, and men in black cloaks and Uruks followed in their turn, marching hastily. The green-cloaked Rangers were better in the forest than the servants of the Dark Tower, but they were less numerous, spread far around Ithilien to ambush the many patrols and servants of Minas Morgul than invested this land. The Dark Tower's strategy was simple - what could be routed out could be beaten down, and where there were no ambushes many hundreds of Orcs had been put to work in a hellish task of burning, hacking, and firing the whole of the green country which had previously resided here. Ithilien's copses were not numberless, and in time, the Rangers of Gondor would have no cover from which to wage their war of ambush and retreat.

The War for Middle-Earth [IC | Closed]

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