The Summons RPG

[maikafanawen]

They mounted and rode quickly away from the battlefield leaving the orcs lost in their wake. The two horses that had been killed belonged to Aravir and Bramen. The latter had lost his life in the battle and the former rode now behind Durvagor until he could get a horse from the nearest village. Pernole was uninjured but cagey. His magnificent head constantly darted to and fro at the slightest movement.

“Here now,” chided Durvagor at one of the show horse’s skittish movements. “You’re going to have to stop that. You’re a ranger’s horse and I’m going to teach you to act like one if it kills me.” Then, kicking the horse in its side, he continued on until dawn when the orcs would be immobile.

“Okay,” said Islist a bit breathlessly as they cleared the last ridge. “We’ll stop for a bit to rest the horses, and ourselves,” he said, stretching his back as he hopped off his own steed. Durvagor removed Pernole’s tack to the discontent of some of the rangers.

“We might have to ride off quickly,” one reproached. Durvagor shrugged, “He‘s not used to constant travel yet.” The ranger looked unconvinced. “He needs a break,” Durvagor assured him curtly, “and he’s my horse.”

Fire wasn’t started right away for the morning was hot. Durvagor rolled his sleeves up and skewered three rabbits; they hadn’t eaten for a good twelve hours of fighting and riding. As proof to that though, he looked over to see the horses drinking and splashing in the nearby creek.

He was reluctant to stand over a fire to cook his catch but he was starving. Aravir offered to take turns turning the rabbit as it cooked. After a good half hour of cooking and eating, the rangers’ hunger was deferred.

[Burzdol]

Islsit was the last of his company to eat. When he got to Durvagor, he said, "Thank you. This should be good."

The two sat together and talked. Later they were joined by Elleraden. They then sat to tell stories about their ancestors, then to fantasies of the battles they would be in with Aragorn. Islist looked around at everyone, most of them had finished eating. The ones who didn't, were almost done.

Islist stood up and began, "We are now on the edge of Mirkwood and the Brown Lands. We must ride quickly through those plains. We are a large, open target. When we do ride, keep your guard up constantly. Wargs and riders will kill us quicker than any group of orcs will. We are going to leave soon. Pack up, and get ready."

The rangers rushed around, getting ready. Soon they were all ready and Islist yelled his order. They were off to help Aragorn.

[Burzdol]

As soon as the company was around two miles from Mirkwood, a group of wargs broke through th dense foilage. Uruk-hai ran behind them, swinging their barbaric swords. Islist quickly ordered a halt, "Everyone, split into two groups. One group will flank them, the other will take a head-on charge. I will lead the charge. Elleraden will divide you."

"Islist,"Elleraden started, "Which group will I be in?"

"Mine. I want the best, and most experienced in the charge. Oh, make sure Durvagor also takes the charge."

"Yes sir."

The two groups split ito the arranged groups, and then Islist charged. The others were suprised by the quick action, since none had even formed into a main group yet. The closest behind Islist were Elleraden and Durvagor. Their horses worked twice as hard to catch up with their leader's in his moment of insanity. The group could now hear the growls of the wargs only fifty feet away. The rangers started crying for Gondor, and then soon quit upon meeting the enemy.

Islist took down the first warg by double teaming it and it's master with Elleraden. The beast fell, but the ranger's victory was short lived. More wargs rushed in to meet the small ranger force. Their hope of winning was fadding since uruks now joined the fight.

Above the clashing of swords, snarling of wargs, and yells of pain, one word was heard, "GONDOR!"

The flanking party rushed in like a tidal wave on a bare beach. The enemy was now divided also. One force to face the frontal assault, and another to face the back. With the last Uruk dying by Durvagor's sword, the company was off.

Over the rushing wind Islist yelled, "There will be more of them. Let us ride quickly now."

[Nerindel]

Islist had quickly ordered a halt when they saw the enemy in persuit. "Everyone, split into two groups. One group will flank them, the other will take a head-on charge. I will lead the charge. Elleraden will divide you."

"I want the best and most experienced in the charge."

At these words Sorlas sat up on his horse and made ready to go with the charge, but his ego was deflated when he heard Ellerden address him, "You will lead the flank!" He stole a quick glance over his shoulder at the other group then nodded his head curtly.

He pulled on Telpetal's reigns and headed swiftly behind the dense foliage to flank their enemies. As he rode he looked to his left and right to make sure there was no ambush for them as he searched with his eyes he took note of those how rode with him.

To his left was Tarannon, reigns in his right hand and his short sword already in his left, his tall slender form sat squarely on his horse and his grey eyes shined with excitement and apprehension.

To his right sat Rinoas, his golden hair tussled by the wind and the gleam of battle in his eyes. Sorlas could hear another behind him and as he looked back he could see the emotionless face of Herevion, tight behind him, the shield on his left arm gleamed lightly in the afternoon sun.

At the top of a well hidden grassy knoll Sorlas raised his hand to stop them, he raised up to look down at their quarry. The orc were close but not yet apon them, Tarannon stirred impatiently, "Not yet!" he said sternly with out taking his eyes of the battle below, the other two riders seemed to know what he was waiting for and didn't stir.

The minute the Uruk's join the fight, Sorlas drew his sword and kicked off, the others following suit. "GONDOR!" the four riders shouted in unison as they charged down behind the startled orcs.

The Uruk's at the rear and a few of the wargs turned to face their charge, Sorlas swung his sword at the first Uruk slashing it across the chest, then he swung Telpetal about and kicked at a warg that had went for Telpetal's throat, hitting it hard in the face with his sole of his boot, it let out a yelp as it fell to the ground, but before it could get back up Tarannon had drove his short sword through it's matted, hairy side. Sorlas nodded to Tarannon and quickly turned back to the next oncoming orc.

Sorlas was breathing heavily as he saw Durvagor finish of the last Uruk, but they did not stop instead Islist rode them on, "There will be more of them. let us ride quickly now." he heard him cry over the rushing wind. And he did not doubt his leader for a minute.

They rode south then followed the course of the River Anduin. The desolate brownlands making way for the sharp ridges and deep valleys of the Emyn Muil.

They had come some hundred and fifty miles in little under ten hours, it was now dark, the horses were exhausted, infact Durvagor's horse looked near to collapsing under the weight of two riders and the moon afforded them little light.

"we must stop!" Sorlas cried "Our horses will be of little use to us if they die of exhaustion."

mutterings of agreement swept throughout the group, Islist calmly raised his arm in the air for silence then when the muttering ceased he went on "I share your concerns my friend, and we will be stopping shortly, just beyond this ridge is the Sarn Gebir rapids we will camp there." as Istlist pointed in the direction of the rapids, the company nodded and continued at a slow trot.

It was not long before they reached the rapids, Sorlas lead telpetal to a last fast flowing part of the river, there you go boy he said patting the horse affectionatly watching as Telpetal drink deeply.

As he watched he saw his own reflection in the river, but he bearly recognised it, caked with blood and mud. He wearily knelt beside the river and cupping his hands he scooped up a handful of the cold crisp water and threw it over his face, He shivered as some of it ran down the back of his neck.

Once washed he made his way back to the camp were Islist was organising the watch, "ah! there you are" Tarannon said grinning at him, we're to provide the evening meal, so what will it be fish or game he said looking from the river to the small wood that flanked it.

"I think game would prove easier" he laughed, taking his bow from his back. "the river is to fast and deep here" he continued as he headed in the direction of the small wooded area.

[ July 03, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[maikafanawen]

Durvagor, with the help of Aravir, washed down Pernole and gave him a good, scrubbing brush. The horse was exhausted and not used to the straining ride against the wargs they had endured that day. Aravir was kind enough not to say anything about his weaknesses. Instead he unloaded his own belongings and set them down by a tree stump as Durvagor finished with his horse.

With a coat of pearls and mane of snow
Non beauty can compare
His grace and splendor dashes all
Pernole was born with flair

“Well it’s not a good rhyme I know,” he said, patting Pernole’s nose. “But you deserve some praise. Here I’ll add a second verse.”

Bravery indeed was not his strength
Before this dawn occurred
Tho’ as soon as peril showed it’s face
His mind was not deterred

Durvagor shrugged and watched as Pernole, still a bit shaken, made his way to the rapids to drink in the coolness. The ranger then proceeded closer towards the blazing fire and set out to sharpen his sword and do his best to smooth out the few nicks it had received on the Uruk’s armor. Soon, Tarannon and Sorlas returned with food.

[Burzdol]

Islist started to cook the rabbits and other game Sorlas and Tarannon had brought back. Durvagor watched the horses as they drank from the river, and Elleraden seasoned the new;y cooked meat.

"Everyone eat up. We leave bright and early tomorrow. The Uruks don't have to stop like us, they'll be gaining on us evey minute. Get some sleep as soon as you eat. Good night."

[Himaran]

Elleraden sat, chewing a piece of cooked rabbit slowly. He was unusually quiet, which translated into frustration with himself. The ranger had seen much death over the span of his life; had watched dear friends be slain before his very eyes. But the company had already lost one member, and perhaps more to come; with a Uruk Hai force tracking them. How long could the small company go before they were destroyed?

The ranger looked out over the foreboding ridges of Emyn Muil. Elleraden wondered if their water supply would last the trip over the confusing maize of rock. They would certainly have to ration it, if nothing else.

[ July 04, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Nerindel]

Sorlas crawled around the ground feeling, for what! he thought, he could hardly see his eyes were blurry. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, Tears and blood obscured his vision, he looked at the blood on his hands then saw the carnage around him...it was a battlefield. All around him were his comrades dead or near death, some pleading with him to save them! He fumbled for his herb's but his belt was not there nor was his sword!! he searched wildly around blood again obscuring his vision suddenly he was chilled to the bone as a dark shadow bore over him laughing maniacally.

Sorlas sat bolt up right sweat dripping from his face, he was breathing heavily. A dream he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face. He quickly glanced around to make sure he hadn't woke anyone, it was still dark but as he looked at the stars he could tell that morning was not far off.

He quietly rolled up his bed gear and saddled up Telpetal. Their trek through the Emyn Muil would be a difficult one, the horses would need to be lead and then they would have to figure out away to cross the river, he thought on these things, trying to banish the vivid visions that still remained from his nightmare.

There was plenty of dried fruits and oats in his pack so he filled a bowl and eat the dried oats tasting like dried wood shavings with out any milk to soak them in but he was hungry so he eat quickly then went down to the river. he knelt down and cupped his hands plunging then into its icy depths, he took a long drink to easy his throat from the dry breakfast, then lifting another cupped handful he threw it over his face rubbing his hand through his hair and across his neck, once washed he retied his hair at the nape of his neck and made his way back to the camp.

It was dawn and the sun was only but rising a thin mist lay about the camp coming up from the river, as he drew closer to the camp he could see that the others were now rising and clearing up all traces of their camp, Sorlas helped them and little under two hours the were ready to set off again.

Sorlas had not been the only one awake before dawn, as they led their horses cautiously over the rocky ridges of the Emyn Muil Elleraden came up beside him "Restless night my friend?" he asked tentatively, Sorlas nodded grimly but said nothing, not wanting to look like some foolish child that was frightened by nightmares.

"How do you Think Gondor fares" he asked changing the subject, Elleraden's look show him that he to had been wondering the same thing.

[Himaran]

Elleraden thought over the question, much like the one he himself had been pondering. "How do you Think Gondor fares", Sorlas had asked. How can we know? We can only hope, and guess, and discuss the answer.

"Well, Sorlas, we have seen no horde of orcs heading northward, fresh from a victory in Gondor; and that is all we have to hope on. I for one believe that the White City stands, and that its defenders are standing strong against the darkness of Mordor, but who can tell, really."

[ July 05, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion just listened quietly, not saying anything or standing up. He still touched his scar every few minutes, as if remembering, and his eyes gleamed in the still-dark, but nothing else showed him to be awake at all, though he was sitting upright.

He wondered only what would happen if Aragorn... failed. Of course, he knew of Lord Aragorn's heritage, that he carried the Sword That Was Broken, and all the other legends and truths spun about him... but still. He was still a man. And as for what would happen to their own company if Aragorn himself failed... he didn't even need to wonder. They would all be dead. The thought was repulsive to Herevion. It was not dying. He could take pain, and he did not have anything in particular to live for. It was only... death. He remembered the feeling he had had when looking at the dead orcs, and knew that he never wanted anybody to look at his own cold, stiff body like that.

Herevion shook his head. What was he thinking about? There was yet more to come before anything like that, and these thoughts were dangerously close to feelings...

[ July 05, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[maikafanawen]

Morning came in a brilliant hue of red: storm weather. The rapids were swift and dark clouds were rolling in the distance, a foreboding sign of disaster. The wind hadn’t begun to roar when they were gathered at the edge of the Anduin trying to decide how to get the horses over.

“Well, we do have one boat. We could take ‘em over one at a time,” suggested one ranger. Islist shook his head.

“That would take too long. The storm will be upon us within the next hour or so.” Ideas were exchanged and shot down for a while before Dûrvagor knew what to do. Two years ago when he was visiting his parents’ at their ranch back in Gondor, there was a disastrous flood and the stables were washed away. They had to take the horses to their neighbor’s stables to keep them safe from hungry wargs. Dûrvagor now remembered how they did it successfully.

“I’ve got it,” he said coming up beside Islist and Elleraden. “We’re going to need lots of strong rope though and a few rangers willing to get a bit wet, but it should get us all across before the storm comes.”

“What’s your idea Dûrvagor?” asked Elleraden.

“We can tie ropes to connecting their bridals, putting them in a sort of line, then one person uses Frodo's boat to lead them across and a few others secure the ends of the lines that will come back around in a sort of circle pully, moving the horses across the river though still keeping their heads above water as they swim. I think it would work very nicely. I hope we have enough rope,” he said scratching his chin. “Then we take the boat back and forth bringing over the tack and other supplies as well as us rangers...unless we would like to swim the rapids…”

“No, no,” said Islist jovially, “we’ll use the boats. Well let’s get to work before the storm comes. We don’t want to be stuck in the river when it begins to thunder.” Dûrvagor told Sorlas and Herevion to collect all the rope they could from the rangers. They got plenty and began tying the lengths to the horses’ bridles.

Pernolë gave them a bit of trouble. The lead rope went on fine and the other end was connected to Islist’s horse in front of him, but the white stallion would simply not step into the deeper water.

“Come on you stupid animal,” shouted Dûrvagor as he tried to push him into the water. He stripped off his shirt and jerkin and waded in around to Pernolë’s front. “Come on boy, it’s just water see?” He dipped under water quickly and re-emerged shaking the water from his face. “Come on...” he swam backwards trying to get Pernolë to follow him.

“Apple?” Sorlas called from the shore. Dûrvagor looked and saw all the rangers lined up, watching his pitiful progress with his horse. He laughed in spite of it all.

“Why not!” he yelled. Sorlas tossed him the fruit and Dûrvagor held it in front of him, waving it before Pernolë. The horse’s ears pricked up and he moved forward slightly to take the fruit just as Dûrvagor moved backwards. “Ah...come on...that’s it...” Finally Pernolë was towards the center of the river, swimming on his own accord with Herevion‘s, Sorlas‘, and Rinoas’ horses behind him. The ranger swam back to the shore, pulling himself up on the ropes so as not to be swept over by the quickening rapids. He got to shore and dried up a bit before setting his things in the first boat to be taken over.

The sky was growing dark and only Elleraden’s horse had reached the other end and Tarannon’s horse, Morroch, hadn’t even been put on the ropes yet.

“We’ve got to hurry,” whispered Dûrvagor to Elleraden when he too emerged from the river after checking the ropes: they had begun to fray. He nodded and Tarannon’s horse was ushered into the rapids.

The first thunder crack sounded across the valley, ricocheting off the canyon walls up river. The rangers froze for a second and looked into the river. The horses were neighing frantically. Both Elleraden and Dûrvagor jumped into the water trying their best to steady them.

“Whoa boy! Whoa!” said Elleraden as he reached Tarannon’s first. “Keep their heads above water!” he yelled to Dûravgor. Aravir swam past on the opposite side to help Islist bring them in on the other shore.

It began to rain.

The rapids doubled in speed and the ropes were taut and scrapping along the tree where they were tied.

“Don’t let them snap!” shouted Dûrvagor to Rinoas and Tarannon on their side of the river. The two rangers held onto the ropes as Elleraden’s horse was pulled ashore soon followed by Pernolë. There were still four horses to go and the lightening continued to streak across the sky in angry bursts.

Disaster struck: the ropes between Tarannon’s and Rinoas’ horses snapped. Luckily, Morroch hadn’t gone far and was able to be pulled ashore. The rapids had become so fast that Rinoas was soon dragged down river towards the falls dragging Dûrvagor and Elleraden with them.

Aravir was on it immediately. He ran down the length of his shore, diving into the water just at the place where Rinoas’ horse caught and held fast to Dûrvagor’s wrist.

“Bring them on now!!” he shouted back to Islist through the roaring wind. Each horse was then guided to the bank and led into the trees where they were coaxed into calmness by the four who were on that side. Across the river, Tarannon, Sorlas and Herevion still stood with Tarannon’s horse.

“What should we do?” Dûrvagor asked Islist as they peered through the sheets of rain to the opposite bank.

“We have to wait until the storms over and try to get him across when it subsides. It’s not up for discussion,” he cut in, stopping Dûrvagor from arguing. “It’s the safest route.”

The rain came in torrential amounts well into the afternoon and the rapids swelled. The sun had begun its evening decent by the time the rain stopped enough for them to get Morroch and the three rangers across. To everyone’s astonishment and gratuity, Tarannon’s horse didn’t give them any trouble and was easily led across by his master.

Loading the two boats with supplies they ferried over the other rangers and all the gear. Once everyone was on the western shore it was very dark and it had begun to rain again. Taking shelter in an outcropping of rock, the rangers waited out the rest of the storm, thanking Eru their lives, as well as their horses‘, had been spared.

[ July 09, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

It was morning before the storm finally passed and a thin mist covered the ground about their feet. Islist and Elleraden walked amongst the company urging them up. They rode on for about an hour in silence before Islist raised his hand to halt them again. The mist is thicker here Sorlas thought as he dismounted Telpetal to take a look around but as he walked further forwards he could just make out the dank dark marsh that lay before him, he carefully stepped forwards he felt his boot sink in to the soft mud and quickly pulled it back. "It seems the storm still hampers us" he said aloud, many nodded their heads in agreement.

After some discussion Islist spoke "We shall go west, crossing the Entwash and making for the west road." Sorlas nodded his agreement with the others and remounted his horse. It was early afternoon when they reached the Entwash and Sorlas was relieved to see that it was not as deep or as fast flowing as the other they had crossed the previous day. Infact they had merely only to wade the horses across, once they were all across they stopped only long enough to fill their stomachs with the dried fruits and stale honey cakes that were left and to fill their near empty water skins with the clear crisp water of the Entwash.

Under less than an hour they were again mounted and heading west towards the road, once on the west road they followed it through the Fenmarch. Sorlas was sure that on more than one occasion he had heard the very distant rumble of many hoofs ahead, but still they went on. The weather had remained damp and dreary and the heavy showers did not help their mood, they were all wet and miserable by the time Islist stopped them again. In the drawing darkness Sorlas dismounted, threw back his dripping hood and had a look around.

"Firien wood...., we shall camp here tonight was all that he heard Islist tell the others. He was studying the ground, the rain had washed most of it away but he could still see signs that many horses had been here and as he inspected the camp further he found washed out foot prints Definitely men and a lot of them he thought to himself. "Look the beacons are lit!" Sorlas turned to see Durvagor pointing in the direction of the beacons, "Rohan!!" he suddenly exclaimed laughing that he had not realised it sooner. He soon became aware that the others were staring at him crouched in the mud under the eaves of the wood with puzzled expressions on their faces.

" Thought I heard the rumble of very distant hoofs ahead of us as we rode on the road, I had feared that the Uruk Hai's had found some way to cross the river before us and had over taken us as we waited out the storm, but I was wrong! I now believe it is the Rohirrim that ride afore us." he explained.

"How can you be so sure?" Tarannon asked sceptically. It was now Aravir's turn to laugh as he too saw the signs in the ground afore him "Horses, The uruks were not riding horses" he said turning back to Tarannon. "But they could have acquired some" Rinoas put in , "Not this many Islist grinned as he too crouched to the ground for a better look.

Fresh spirits had surfaced in the company as they prepared camp, Aravir and Durvagor volunteered to find food, Herevion and Rinoas took the first watch, Islist and Elleraden took the horses down to the stream to drink then sat under a great oak discussing possible battle strategies, which left Sorlas and Tarannon with the task of building the fire and cooking the meal. Tarannon had already confessed to Sorlas some time ago that he was not a very good cook, so when Sorlas had asked him if he would prepare the fire instead he eagerly accepted.

Sorlas took the two pans the company carried and headed down to the stream to fill them, when he returned he saw that Tarannon had the fire built and was just lighting it. It took a good deal of coaxing before the fire burned as some of the wood was still damp. Sorlas searched his pack and produced a small dark coloured pouch as he carefully opened it the pungent smell of the rich dark coffee grinds reached his nostrils, he smiled it did not get damp as he had feared he closed the pouch and put both pans over the fire to boil.

It wasn't long before Aravir and Durvagor came back with no less than four plump rabbits between them. Durvagor sat down next to Sorlas and helped to gut, skin and bone the conies, they then cut the meat into large chunks and put it into the now simmering water, Sorlas took some mint he had found earlier in their journey and added it to flavour the watery stew. "Now if we only had some vegetables this would be a fine meal" he laughed jovially to Durvagor. "Will carrots suffice" Durvagor grinned pulling two large carrots from his pack, Sorlas's face was one of total surprise as Durvagor continued " I was saving them for Penole, but I'm sure he won't mind" Sorlas could not help but laugh as he took the carrots from him. He diced them roughly and threw them into the pot with the minted rabbit.

Within an hour everyone was eating rabbit stew and drinking the last of the hot black coffee. Sorlas was careful to set aside two bowlfuls aside for Herevion and Rinoas. Once they had finished Elleradan and Tarannon had offered to wash up, So Sorlas got up and went to relieve the two silent watchers.

"Wait up! I shall take watch with you tonight my friend" Sorlas stopped and waited for Durvagor to catch up, the older man was grinning broadly and there was an unmistakable spring in his step as he approached. It took them some time to locate Herevion and Rinoas hidden among the dark oaks. "There is stew waiting for you back at camp" Sorlas told them as they relieved them from their watch , "And coffee if your quick" Durvagor added laughing jovially.

Sorlas and Durvagor decided to take their watch closer to the camp, they climbed one of the oaks so that they had a better view over the whole camp and began their watch, Sorlas was glad that his watch tonight was with Durvagor and not one of the quieter rangers, as he hoped Durvagor would distract his thoughts from the upcoming battle and the terrible dreams he had been having since they left mirkwood.

[Burzdol]

Islist woke by the hands of Elleraden. He then went back to cooking breakfast, while Islist woke the others. Murmuurs rose about when they were to leave, and more about when breakfast would be done, most said in mocking tones, "C'mon Elleraden, while were young."

"Yeah, yeah, it's coming. You guys are going to cook next time so I can hassle you. Anyway, if you keep complaining, you don't get anything," he said laughing.

Soon the rangers had packed and were on there way, now merry laughter and jokes.

[Himaran]

A cloud seemed to have been lifted from the company; with the river and Uruk Hai behind them. All were secretly pleased that the daunting task of passing through Emyn Muil was being avoided, and the group now walked with the air of certainty common of rangers soon to enter a dangerous battle.

But Elleraden still had his doubts about the journey. Even if they did reach Aragorn, how much help would a few rangers be in the long-term battle. Pushing the question from his mind, the ranger awoke from his deep thought too late to avoid walking into Herevion; who was marching in front of him. His action caused a chain reaction, and soon the entire company was triping and falling along the dusty path, and laughing the whole time.
__________________________________


After several days of travelling along the road through Anorien, the company was finally nearing their ultimate goal. After checking a map carefully, Islist declared that the company was within several hours' march of Minas Tirith. An air of excitement ran through the group, and the rangers quickened their pace.

Two hours later, the pinacle of the White Tower of Gondor could be seen peaking over the tips of the dark mountains...

[ July 11, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[maikafanawen]

It hadn’t been so long since Dûrvagor had been to Minas Tirith, but as they entered the city, they were all dismayed to find disaster. The city was yet barely untouched but the resonance of battle echoed up from the Pellenor fields.

Dûrvagor looked imperceptibly around at his fellow companions. To his mild surprise and great satisfaction they were not somber faced or disconsolate, but instead courageous and even optimistic. A few yet wore grins.

“I knew it,” said the oldest ranger back to Aravir who still rode behind him.

“Knew what,” he whispered back.

“Didn’t I tell you when danger was still far off? Did I not say that so help me Eru, I‘d show these men some joy that lingered underneath the Shadow? Look at them now Aravir. They all smile, faces alight with the promise of a brighter morning.” He paused as his gaze settled on Herevion before he added jovially, “I’d be willing to wager that there is only one thing that would make that one smile.” Aravir snorted.

“I think it’s a bit obvious don’t you?” The two chuckled silently as they breached the final hill before the fields.

The sight that was before them as they reached the battlefields was magnificent in Dûrvagor‘s mind. Here they were, all the men of Middle Earth who had a spark of hope that lingered still under the shadow’s threatening presence stood fast. Swords of ancient make were held triumphantly before the foe of darkness that oppressed them from the East. Not a coward stood among the ranks. Not a man unworthy of the honor to fight for Lord Aragorn took up his place with the brave.

With that the company rode hard, their horses’ hooves beating the ground like the firmament’s thunder cracks of angry gods. The wind whipped through the manes of the steeds and the capes of the Dúnedain that rode to aid their king. Through the unsettled breezes whispered their battle cry:

For Gondor and the Dúnedain we ride,
For honour and glory we will fight,
Till our foe is defeated
And the lands reunited.

In Aragorn, cheif of the Dúnedain, all hope lies.
When he calls the faithful will ride,
So to Gondor we ride, swift and sure.
To Aid Isildur's heir!

The rangers joined the battle in a blur of avid determination; each one set on a victory. Aravir gained possession of an unmanned horse early into the fighting and took up his own mount for the remainder of the fighting. It wasn’t long before Dûrvagor lost sight of his companions who had disappeared into the madness, fighting to acquire what should never have been taken.

[ July 14, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

March 14 ( The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

It was early-morning when they arrived, they found the great gates torn down and the first level of the city on fire, but the city was not taken. Sorlas grinned, hope and renewed courage swelled in him the white city still stood!.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as they breached the final hill, and with the sound of their battle cry whispering on the wind he drew his sword and charged valiantly into the fray, his sword thrusting and cutting as he went.

Sorlas managed to fight his way towards the rear of the Rohirrim and with the riders of Rohan he helped to vanquished the Hardrims forward army, it was during this frey that he was dismounted from his horse and he knew not of it's fate. He had just received a vicious cut across his left cheek from a heavy set Haradrim warrior, when the lord of the Nazgûl descended apon them scattering them, as Sorlas fought he heard a loud piercing screech, that chilled him to the bone, he was pressed by three Uruks and could not see what had made that deathly scream.

He dodged right avoiding the first Uruks thrust, and cutting the second across the stomach as he did, as the dying orcs guts spilled to the ground he ducked to avoid the blow of the third Uruk , but the first Uruk was again apon him as he rose, he had no time to avoid the thrusting spear, so he grabbed it by the black shaft and pulled it rolling away as he forced it into the third Uruk, the first orcs eyes widen as he realised what had happened but the orcs shock quickly changed from horror to rage, he discarded his spear and attacked with his crude black sword, pressing Sorlas back, but not for long Sorlas was not ready to die at the hands of a filthy Uruk, he dodged and parried the orcs every blow, then took the offensive as the Uruk tired. "Were is your king, eh Dunedain" the Uruk spat venomously, obviously trying to goad him into a mistake but the mistake was his at hearing those words from this filthy orc Sorlas in his rage thrust his sword hard into the filthy creatures chest piercing right through its dark armour, "He is here in every man that fights in his honour and he will see everyone of you vanquished before this day is done" he spat back at the surprised dying creature.

"You lose this" a voice cried to him, it was Tarannon and he held Telpetals reigns in his right hand, while he stabbed and kicked off the orcs and men that attacked him, Sorlas gratefully grabbed the reigns and quickly mounted kicking a charging orc hard in the face as he did. Sorlas pulled at the reigns so that Telpetal stood beside Tarannon facing the opposite direction, the pair fought side by side for some time before they where eventually separated.

By mid-morning, despite aid from the cavalry of Gondor,led by prince Imrahil of Dol Armoth, the Southward advance to which Sorlas was now a part and knew not if his company was among them, had been slowed, for the Oliphaunts of the Haradrim could not be conquered. His horse and those of the Rohirrim would out go near the mighty beasts, how ever hard Sorlas tried to turn Telpetal towards the Oliphaunts the horse blenched and swerved away leaving the great monsters unfought. The enemy had many more troops than them and by about noon they were surrounded, all but a mile north of the Harlond.

And to worsen their case a new strength came now streaming to the field out of Osgiliath, Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand, More Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls. Some now hastened up behind them, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with the besieged Rohirrim.

Sorlas's hope began to waver as the enemies fresh forces marched on them, his heart sank as he saw the black sails of the Corsairs ships heading fast towards the haven, but out of his despair he heard a resounding horn, he turned to see from whence it came, a mistake for their enemy were now heartened by the sight of the ships and had advanced again, Sorlas in his error gained a deep gash across his left leg, but he was quick to retaliate pulling hard on Telpetals reigns and swinging his sword he ran his attacker through.

He heard not the new king of Rohans words amongst the battle cries of his enemies, but as he ran another foe through he saw the foremost ship turn and a standard break forth, the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond, again hope, pride and fresh battle lust took him as he recognised the White Tree for Gondor and the Seven stars about it and the high crown above it for the house of Elendil. "Aragorn! Isildurs heir! has come!" he screamed as he charged anew on his foes, of whom some now stood bewildered at this change of fate.

[ July 14, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Himaran]

Elleraden yelled with the others as the fresh group of mounted warriors charged into the fray. Swinging low with his sword, the ranger clipped an orcs head from its
shoulders and hurled a knife at another. Suddenly, a Uruk Hai had appeared before
him, wielding a long spear. The beast lunged forward with the weapon, running
Elleraden's horse through.

Leaping off of his dying steed, the ranger roared and charged the Uruk. With its pike lodged in the horse, it pulled out a mace and a long knife. Hurling the latter at
Elleraden (who swiftly dodged it), the Uruk took a hard swing at him with the mace.
Ducking the clusy attack, the ranger sliced off its mace arm before slaying it with a
swift thrust.

Suddenly, Sorlas (who was standing near him) gave a loud shout. "Aragorn! Isidur's
heir has come!" Looking south toward the beach, Elleraden saw the magnificent ships glimmering in their splendur. From the helm of the formost, a bright light was shining. It was indeed Aragorn, the rightful King of Gondor.

Filled with new hope, Elleraden charged back into the fray. His sword swung up and
down constantly, weaving a path of death through the swarms of foes surrounding
him. And then his sword was gone, wrenched from his grasp by a powerful albino Uruk. But no sooner had the beast disarmed him then a mounted Rohanian ran it through with a spear.

Retrieving his weapon, Elleraden attacked once more. But then, looming above him
like a giant raincloud, stood a great troll. Bellowing, it brought its huge club crashing down. The ranger dove to the side, toppling into a small orc (who promptly
attacked him). Slaying it with a knife, Elleraden found himself being picked up by
the monstrous foe. Squirming from its grasp, the ranger crawled up onto its
shoulders and began hacking at it futily with his sword.

The blade turned, cracked and finally shattered under the furious beating against
the Troll's solid back. Hanging on for dear life, the ranger made an easy targer for any watchful sniper. And it was then that an orc archer spotted the ranger, and released a shaft with deadly aim. Elleraden suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back,
and the last thing he remembered before blacking out was the odd sensation of
falling... falling...

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion watched the battle a bit detachedly, reluctant to put himself into the fray, reluctant to feel his usual nausea at blood, reluctant to feel fear... feel... he stared forwards determinedly. He knew he had to go into the battle... he couldn't push himself out. He had duty. He had nothing else. He needed to go in- he pushed himself forward, though the effort would have seemed, to anybody watching, to have been physical, and showed itself on his face, usually so unused to any expression but his usual stony one that it seemed to creak into place as his muscles moved beneath it.

And he was in, fighting among the others, not watching, just working with his sword, mechanically, methodically. He could almost hope- just almost- that the disgust, the fear, would not come. He almost could. But the moment he thought about them, he looked up quickly, as though he expected them to sneak up on him from behind.

And it did, suddenly, as he watched another orc fall. But then it wasn't "another orc." It was another life, inferior though it seemed, and evil to the core though it may have been. Still another life. Herevion stabbed quicker now, the rhythm of his breath becoming irregular, the hits of his sword faster, more often inacurate. He dodged lower, keeping his eyes fixed on his boots until he had to raise them.

Suddenly, a leering face came towards his, knocking him backwards. As it came down towards him, he drove his sword up, pushing and twisting, and finally chopping the head clean off. It fell onto him, giving him a nasty rush of something he could not identify. He pushed himself up, or tried to, but now he was shaking, physically as well as inside. He could hardly hold his sword... he tried to hack, and must have suceeded well enough to keep the orcs away, though he did not know how. He blundered forward, something wet pouring from his eyes, not caring whether any man saw him... he reached forward, heard one of the men give a yell. Then he saw another fall. For a moment it was unreal, and then he heard the man hit the ground with a thud, blacking out, most likely.

Suddenly Herevion heard a scream, low pitched and throaty, from... somewhere. And then he realized it was he, himself, screaming, and that he was falling. He could not have gone farther from what he wanted to be than what he was now, and knew it, as he picked himself up, and crawled to the side, avoiding axes and maces in some miraculous way. He reached a bush and retched, sick till his stomach was empty. He moved to the side then, and lay down, under another bush, too exhausted too do anything, tired enough to sleep in the midst of a battle.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor

The plague of war had never been a frightening issue for the jovial ranger, but more a sorrowful task that could not be avoided. All the same Dûrvagor hadn’t ever enjoyed putting his sword to use against the foe though he had always done so without hesitation, knowing he did the right thing.

As he fought the enemy now upon the fields of Pellenor, his views on violence didn’t change. He met each scimitar with a firm parry and killed the enemy with his second move. How long the battle would last he couldn’t foresee. The adversary was numerous and strong. However, the addition of Lord Aragorn and his men was to the rangers’ great advantage.

Pernole faired well, constantly avoiding the occasional axe or spear of an Uruk. Dûrvagor hadn’t anticipated his horse surviving any more than ten minutes into the fight; the beautiful steed had now conquered fifteen minutes and trampled no less than twenty small Uruks.

The roar that followed the death of the first Troll shook the very ground upon which Dûrvagor’s mount stood. The ranger spared a glance to where the colossal foe had fallen and shivered. It would be the end of him and his horse if one of those were to challenge them.

Aravir

The giant black warhorse that he had acquired early on was extremely helpful. He seemed to know exactly how to move in order to keep his rider safe though give him the best vantage to a mounted attack. Uruks were an imposing enemy and to eradicate them meant dislodging their heads or sending an aerial weapon into their neck.

Aravir’s knives were spent successively and gathered up again routinely. His arrows had been spared and his sword wore the blood of thirty opponents.

“Aragorn! Isildur’s heir has come!” Aravir couldn’t identify the origin of the shout but looked nonetheless towards the shore where an armada of ships in their magnificent splendor came, a brilliant light shining from the bow of the foreword-most. It was indeed the heir and rightful king of Gondor.

Aravir fought on with formidable strength. It came to the point where an Uruk would blanch and turn at the sight of his blade. It was then that the berserker came. He raised his seventy-two inch scimitar above his head and snarled. The warhorse quickly retreated backwards, out of the Uruk’s range.

Aravir’s hands had gone instantly to his bow and letting an arrow loose towards the foe the moment it was notched. The berserker faltered as the arrow pierced the center left of his chest, but stood, scimitar ready to strike. The second arrow found its mark in the monster’s neck but didn’t throw off his swing. Beneath him, the warhorse stumbled and fell as its front legs were broken. In the next moment, the magnificent beast was slaughtered with a second swipe of the Uruk’s scimitar.

Aravir grasped the blade of one of his knives and hurled it at the monster who caught it cleanly in his throat. Spurting blood, the berserker fell to his knees before a nearby ranger severed his head.

Aravir was now horse-less, and the fighting wore on....

[maikafanawen]

FOR GaladrielOTO'S POST

[ July 19, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[maikafanawen]

Fire engulfed the sky as dusk, the memory of war, conquered the day. All around the fields of Pelennor and these westward most lands of Gondor lay in red darkness. The foes who had not been slain ran, the fear of men in their hearts. The Southron and Easterlings scattered and the victors stood there on the fields, counting their survived and collecting their dead heroes.

Among them was found Tarannon, his body pierced with an orcist javelin and Rinoas, hands clasped still on his sword, but lifeless eyes held no purpose of function. The two rangers come with Islist were given to be buried and their things discharged to their families. Dûrvagor had reunited with Aravir and Islist who were all three unscathed. Later they came upon Sorlas who still held the reins of his steed.

“Unbelievable,” said Aravir, stroking Telepetal’s neck. “Pernolë survived as well.” He stepped back so that Sorlas could see the white show horse, following his master as he searched for comrades with an elevated sort of pride. He smiled.

“Did you find anyone yet?” he asked. Islist nodded, his expression somber as he told of Tarannon and Rinoas’ death. Dûrvagor also offered words of the sincerest condolences. Sorlas didn’t meet their eyes and his look was unreadable.

“And Elleraden and Herevion?”

“Missing,” said Aravir gravely. “How can one find one’s comrades in this mess?” Islist gasped suddenly as he stumbled upon a live man. He wiped dirt and caked blood away from the face so that the man could drink of Islist’s canteen. Being on his stomach with a shaft in his back, he could not get up. As Islist’s hand continued to clean his face off mechanically, the familiar features became distinguishable.

“Elleraden,” he whispered. Together the four rangers heaved their friend upon Pernolë after removing the arrow that, miraculously, had not been poisoned. He was quickly taken into the House of the Healing to have his wound evaluated and if possible, mended. The rest searched an hour yet for Herevion to no avail. By midnight, their torches extinguished and they made their way to the encampments that surrounded the city, waiting for news on Elleraden.

Dûrvagor sat by his self, chewing on his pipe and gazing wearily into the flames that cracked and danced around the pot of bland stew Aravir had set on. Beside him, Islist hummed a mournful tune as he sharpened his sword; the whetstone singing at each graceful swipe of the ranger’s calloused and bleeding.

He was so young and to have endured this much, Dûrvagor esteemed him. By his twenty fifth year, he had fought and survived the bloody battle on the fields of Pelennor. What a ranger he will come to be.

Taking his gaze away from the fatigued face of his companion, he took up his own weapons to clean and re-sharpen. One of his knives he had to dispose of for it had become bent and useless. Of his original fifty arrows, only twenty-two remained. His sword was blemished by black blood and the tint of firelight made it eerie to look at. He soon put it away and resumed his pipe.

“Words fail me,” Dûrvagor turned as a distant voice entered his thoughts.

“I'm sorry?” he said, peering to see who had said that.

“Words fail to describe this eve,” repeated the man. His face entered the faint ring of light that flickered over the small tent circle. His eyes had each its own color and his hair was long and graying. A scar ran down the length of his face from his widow’s peak to the unnatural cleft of his chin, dividing his deranged face in two. Dûrvagor flinched when he spoke, a raspy surreal sound. “Alas! It has come upon us and we have yet one battle left to fight.” Dûrvagor shot the man a quizzical look though he did not answer it. “Get your rest ranger, your sword is yet needed.”

“Well I’m dashed,” whispered Dûrvagor as the stranger walked away, a limp plaguing his left leg.

“An old friend?” asked Aravir coming to take a seat beside him. Dûrvagor chuckled in spite of the melancholy.

“I wonder. A grave message he had for me though. ‘We have one battle left to fight my friend,’ said he. ‘Do not put up your sword.’ I wonder.” He stoked the fire with the toe of his boot, shifting the log so that it snapped in the heat and sent a shower of sparks into the air. “I wonder...”

Morning came in a dull hue of gray, and a mist fell upon the land as if to begin the purge of evil. The stranger’s message seemed a joke as the field was cleared of noble men who were buried in honor while the foe was burned a league away from the city.

It was also known that Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, had taken his life by fire and was no more. Faramir yet lived in the House of Healing and Lord Aragorn gave his assistance. The news that Isildur’s heir lived much heartened the rangers and Dúnedain who camped without the city. Though their mood was hardly lifted, they wandered about in ease, anxious for more news.

Going about his musings, it was he who came upon Herevion. The man was one night dead, his own noble sword pierced him through. The sight took Durvagor hard by the throat and he was sick. It pained him to see his friend thusly, without attention and left to rot under a gorsebush. He summoned Aravir who also took the scene hard. Together they carried him and buried him beside his companions on the ride southwest to Pelennor. So now they had lost three and one was fading...

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

March 16th

when they had taken Elleredan to the houses of healing one of the healers had bustled him away from the others, so that she could treat his wounds, Sorlas protested bitterly; "I am fine, I must see to my friend" he said in the end, but he did not look at the woman who was now leading him to another part of the hall, instead his gaze watched the others as Elleredan was carried into another room. Sorlas was right to be worried on their ride back to the halls Elleredans pallor had greyed and the wound looked to be infected, suddenly the healers soft calming voice reached his ears "He is in good hands Ranger, the healers of these halls are quite skilled." her words comforted him a little but still he could not help but worry, He had already lost three of his companion's and another was missing, he held little hope that they would find Herevion alive.

He winced as the healer washed out his wounds with salted water, "you are lucky, these wounds are not life threatening, but they will scar" she said sadly with pity in her soft blue eyes , At these words he looked down on her and taking her head in his hands he answered softly "Nay lady, do not pity me, save it for those who's loved ones shall not return and I prey thee do not pity the dead for they have set down their lives with valour and honour that we may be at last free from this evil." The healer turned her head away as he let her go, "I hear your words but I can not see how we can defeat this foe?." "with hope my lady, with hope, for that is all that we have" he replied gently.

The young healer now work silently as she saw to his wounds, she had to cut away the leg of his trousers to strap up his thigh, while she worked Sorlas watched her in awe of her talents, and if he survived this war he had thought to return and seek this young woman out and ask her to teach him her skills. After his leg was strapped up and his facial wound tended, the healer called for a young lad to bring fresh trousers for him. "That will not be necessary I will get my own spare from my pack when I return to my horse," he got up and started to limp for the door, when he felt the healer grasp his shoulder firmly, more firmly than he would have expected of her, and in even firmer tones she said "I am afraid not, the nature of your wounds requires that you remain here until we can be sure that no infection has set in, " "But.." he began "I will not hesitate to have a guard set apon you to make sure you remain" she broke in resolutely. Seeing that her mind was set, he slumped his shoulders and nodded his assent, "But I shall not sit here idly and wait to be discharged, while I am still able to help others, please my lady, I am but a novice healer but if I can help I will."

She smiled warmly at him and nodded, "Any aid that a Ranger can give will be of great help indeed." So it was that for the rest of the day Sorlas helped to treat the wounded, that where brought to the halls.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

March 17th

The next morning Sorlas was woken by the young healer who had tended his wounds, her face was grave, "What is it my Lady, what has happened" he asked earnestly. "It is your friend, his wound was worse that first thought, infection had set in and he is now asking to see his companions, The others are already with him. Sorlas jumped from his bed and quickly dressed and followed her to Elleredan's room, She stopped at the door but did not enter instead she opened the door and let him through then quietly she closed it behind him, Leaving the four companions alone with their dying friend.

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Himaran]

"Elleraden."

The man painfully opened one eyelid, half recognizing the voice. The image before him was blurry, but the face of Islist Scorn contained a permanant place in his memory. He smiled weakly, glad to see a friend. He coughed, and tried to speak; but his voice was raspy and sounded strange to his own ears. "I am glad you came, Islist. I was unsure if you survived the fight."

He rested a moment before continuing. "Did we win, Islist?"

The man leaned on the bed post, toying with a knife in nervous idleness. "Aye, we won alright. The armies of Mordor fled before us, what is left of them. But we suffered casulties as well, and will suffer more in the coming battle. Not everyone from our party survived."

Elleraden nodded. "Tis' to be expected. But don't say who, I wish to die without knowing who it was that suffered."

Islist looked hard at him for the first time. "Elleraden, don't be foolish. The doctors have said that you have a decent chance of survival. Keep up hope, the houses of healing are among the best wards of middle-earth."

The injured man chuckled, his lips once again forming a smile. "No, Islist, I am done for. Whatever they may say, it is only a matter of time. Today will be my last. But do not dwell on that, friend. Go, win your battle. I will not be there to see the world be freed of such a menace, but that is my fate, my destiny. Be victorious! Rid the world of Sauron's great army! And do so without thinking of me. You must move on, and I have no doubt that you will become one of the greatest men in Gondor. With that said, Islist, let me go to my rest in peace, without feeling the sorrow that shows in your face. I am but one of many, one of many."

Islist stayed by his friend's side throught the day, and that night, before the sun went down over the mountains of the west, the brave ranger died.

[Burzdol]

Islist cryed over his friend's body, as Durvagor entered, "How's Ellera......"

He too broke into tears. The two rangers recovered and carried the ranger's body to be buried outside of the White City. Each ranger paided their respects to the brave man that lost his life in the fight.

Aragorn passed by and stopped, he looked over to see the dirt cover the noble body, "Everyone else is ready,"he started, " Take as long as you need. That great of a loss is hard to bear."

Islist spoke for his men, "We are ready, sir. Just give us one minute,"he then turned to his men, "Most knew Elleraden, for those who didn't, you could have learned much. I am young and he taught me more than any man ever has and ever will. We have not lost him completely, he is in our hearts and souls. Now we must continue our route, dealing with this loss in silence. But as Elleraden followed and finished his destiny, we must do the same. Let us go!"

The party mounted and rode into formation with the rest of the force. But as each member passed , they took one last glance at the final resting place of their companion.

[Nerindel]

The four friends said their last farewells to their fallen friend and went back to camp to prepare to move out when the order came. They did not wait long for on that same evening a tall dark haired man came among them, "Halwain!" Sorlas cried recognising the Dunedain man, he turned and regarded Sorlas with surprise in his grey eyes, "Sorlas, how comes it, that you are here, my young friend." Sorlas quickly told the ranger of the message from Rivendell and their journey from Mirkwood to the fields." "I am sorry for your losses, we too have been dealt a sore blow with the loss of Halbarad, but we yet have a chance to avenge our fallen comrades, for on the morrow we are to ride to our enemies very gates." Halwain excused himself saying that he still had other to inform, and that the four of them should ride with the Dunedain as is their place.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

March 18th - March 25th

So it was that on the morning of the next day, to the ringing of trumpets the four friends rode in the company of their kin, surrounded by the seven thousand strong army of the west. Before noon they came to Osgiliath. There they watched as all workers and craftsmen that could be spared set about strengthening the ferries and boat-bridges that the enemy had made and in part destroyed when they fled; they also saw others gathering stores and booty; and on the eastern side across the river the saw that hasty works of defence had been thrown up. The vanguard to which they were part passed on through the ruins of old Gondor, and over the wide river, and on up the long straight road that in the high days had been made to run from the fair Tower of the Sun to the tall Tower of the Moon, which now was Minas Morgul in its accursed vale. Five miles beyond Osgiliath they halted, ending their first day's march.

Sorlas spoke little that night, he cleaned and sharpened his weapons for he had not the chance during his stay in the halls of healing, he listened as Islist, Durvagor and Aravir, recounted their journey south to their new company, and the four rangers listened in rapture as their kin told of their own journey south, and their passage though the paths of the dead they spoke of only briefly.


The next morning they rode on and before evening they came to the cross-roads and the great ring of trees, and all was silent. No sign of any enemy had they seen, no cry or call had been heard, no shaft had sped from rock or thicket by the way, yet as they rode ever forward they felt the watchfulness of the land increase. They watched as Aragorn set trumpeters at each of the four roads that ran into the ring of trees, They blew a great fanfare, and the heralds cried aloud: "The Lords of Gondor have returned and all this land that is theirs they take back."

Sorlas had been disgusted at the sight of a hideous orc head that sat on the carven figure of a king of old, he and his three companions helped to cast it down and break it to pieces, while others raised the old kings head and set it again in it place, still crowned with the white and gold flowers that had grown round it, men laboured to wash away the fowl scrawls that the orcs had put upon the stone.

As Sorlas looked to the darkness in the west, and a shiver ran down his spine as he wondered if they were to assail the dark city before continuing north, he knew not of the counselling of Gandalf and the words of Faramir, but he felt a great desire to continue north and not to enter the foul city. It was later told to them that Aragorn, with Gandalf and most of the vanguard had went to the entrance of Morgul Vale and looked on the evil city, and there they broke the evil bridge and set red flames in the noisome fields.

The next day, being the Third day since they set out from Minas Tirith, they began there northward march along the road. It was still some hundred miles by that way from the cross-roads to the Morannon, and what might befall them before they came so far none could tell. They went openly but heedfully, the four friends saw scouts before them on the road, and others on foot upon either side, especially on the eastward flank; for there lay dark thickets, and a tumbled land of rocky ghylls and crags, behind which the long grim slopes of the ephel Duath clambered up.

Every so often Sorlas and the other would hear the trumpets blow and the heralds proclaim the coming of King Elessar and the command to leave this land or yield up, but none answered the challenge. Although they marched in seeming peace Sorlas's heart was downcast, and with every mile that they went north foreboding of evil grew heavy on him and he could see too that the same was true with most of their company.

On the second day of their march from the Cross-roads, a strong force of Orcs and Easterlings attempted to take their leading companies in an ambush. But the captains of the west had been well warned by their scouts, Skilled men from Henneth Annûn; and so the ambush was itself trapped. Sorlas and the others accompanied the horsemen that went wide about westward and came up on the flank of their enemy and from behind they destroyed them and any that survived fled east into the hills.

The victory of this battle did little to enhearten the company, and as they rode on a deepening shadow seemed to loom out of sight and a feeling of dread that could not be shaken off fell upon them, Upon the fourth day from the Cross-roads they came at last to the end of the living lands, and began to pass into the desolation that lay before the gates of the pass of Cirith Gorgor; here Aragorn halted the company and bade the faint hearted not to go on but to go south west and retake Cair Andros and hold it till the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan.

It was now less than six thousand that slowly advanced, and Sorlas expected at every hour for some answer to their Kings challenge. At nightfall of the fifth day of the march from Morgul Vale they made their last camp, they set fires about it of such dead wood and heath as they could find. The four friends passed the hours of night in wakefulness and were awake of many things half-seen that walked and prowled all about them, they heard also the howling of wolves. The wind died and all the air seemed still. They could see little, for though it was cloudless and the waxing moon was but four nights old, there were smokes and fumes that rose out of the earth and the white crescent was shrouded in the mists of Mordor.

The next morning was cold and the wind now can from the north, and soon it freshened into a rising breeze, the noises of the night were gone, and the land about them seemed empty. But as they looked south they could see the great rampart of Cirith Gorgor, and the Black Gate amid most, and the two Towers of the Teeth tall and dark upon either side. The four Rangers now turned to each other and Islist imparted a few last words of wisdom, before they all resolved to see this journey to is bitter end, rejoined the host of the west and followed their King to the Black gates.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor reined Pernolë to a halt as the Black Gate was visible through the wall of morning mist. The ranger’s breath caught in his chest as he took in the spectacle. It was a wall of iron that ran, what seemed to be a quarter league, between the walls of the dark realm. It was as thick and impenetrable as the very rock it connected to.

“How does it open,” whispered Dûrvagor to Sorlas, his northerly accent tremouring with the slight fear he sheltered. The ranger narrowed his eyes and answered slowly.

“There is some sort of giant force, like a mechanical pulley on the other side. No living force could budge this open.” Dûrvagor nodded, satisfied with the explanation. Mounted on a horse whose rider had been taken in the previous battle, Aravir shifted uncomfortably.

“You are not nervous then, eh friend?” asked Dûrvagor, trying to resist the shadow that disheartened Aragorn’s militia. Aravir relaxed slightly, shaking his head.

“No because now that you’ve cut into my thoughts so abruptly, I cannot remember what it was I was nervous of.” He adjusted the reins and flipped his cloak from under his seat. Dûrvagor looked again towards the gate of Mordor.

He thought of what it would be like to be in the company of Ravenwyn instead of where he sat now. To have his feet propped up upon the railing of The Raven’s Nest as it coasted into Harlond, full of trade goods from the south. To sing and joke, listening to her pearly laughter, and enjoy her very presence. He yearned suddenly for the taste of the jasmine tea she favoured. He also wondered what Jem, her adopted son, would be doing. He’d be aloft, no doubt, Dûrvagor thought with a smile. That boy was always anxious to learn and please the Captain, his mother. The ranger had taken an instant liking to him and vise versa. They got along well and what ignorance Dûrvagor held towards the sea, Jem tried to teach. Exactly opposite then, the ranger taught the boy sword play and weather-sense, the latter of which Jem was constantly congratulated upon learning and was greatly useful on board.

A gust of wind then passed over the army, the flags beating and cloaks loosing themselves from where they were tucked under seats and saddles. Dûrvagor was brought back to the present and caught Aravir’s eye as they waited. Waited for whatever was to come from behind those looming gates into their midst. Fate, thought Dûrvagor somberly. Fate was going to unleashed; fate and all its terror and merciless. Though he hated to be there when it did, he stayed steadfast in his place, drawing his sword. The effect rippled through the crowd as ally weapons were drawn and the metal reflected the waning light.

From within the realm of the shadow came a low drumming sound that echoed inside. The sound, barely audible to the rangers’ ears, was dismal. The outcome was unknown to him at the time, but what was soon to begin was the final row between good and evil. Entering unknowingly into the circumference of where the battle was to take place, Dûrvagor waited for what was to come…

[Burzdol]

Islist strode to Aragorn's side, "We are Middle Earth's last hope,"he said, "Thank you for coming into this peral with me."

"It is an honor to fight along side you, more than you can imagine...." his sentenced drifted off as a squeal of iron against iron echoed the silence. The Black Gate started to open. Slowly, but as it went, it gained speed. Soon it had swung completely open and orcs poured out. A ghastly yell rang out, and the Uruks charged. All the enemies brandished their weapons as Aragorn called them to arms. They were only paces away, and the battle for good began...