The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[Amanaduial the archer]

Saurreg - a reminder of what I said earlier: I will be away from the 31st (tomorrow) until the 7th August. Sorry....

[piosenniel]

Please remember to remove signatures from ALL posts to the game thread.

Also, don't place icons, smileys, or 'reasons for editing' on the game thread. Save all those for the Discussion Thread

Thanks!

~*~ Pio, game mod

[Arry]

Once the company moves away from the encampment, the wolves will start following and begin to pick off the strays . . .

-- Arry

[piosenniel]

17. Please note: A game which hasn't been posted on in 2 weeks signifies a lack of interest in the game, and the Moderator may choose to close the game and remove it. -- Shire Rules: The Red Book of Westmarch

It's been two weeks since anyone has posted to the game thread. And nearly three since there's been a post to the Discussion Thread.

Would someone like to do a wrap-up post, brief or long, to more-or-less bring the game to a close?

If so, let me know.

~*~ Pio, game moderator

[Mithalwen]

Oh dear well I will if noone else cares.... if anyone wants to PM me with how they want their chars to end up .. that would be great ............

[Amanaduial the archer]

Dammit dammit dammit... I'm going away for a week tomorrow, but I would really like to have some input in this...

Has everyone lost interest? If so, I would quite like to do a finishing post - if no one else would mind waiting - or Mithalwen can, as she has volunteered; I would like to add a bit of my own on the end though. If no one wants to continue, we could just leave the story on a sort of edge - a sort of looking forward to the future for what they have, bleak though it (undeniably) is...

[Mithalwen]

Originally Posted by Amanaduial the archer

Dammit dammit dammit... I'm going away for a week tomorrow, but I would really like to have some input in this...

Has everyone lost interest? If so, I would quite like to do a finishing post - if no one else would mind waiting - or Mithalwen can, as she has volunteered; I would like to add a bit of my own on the end though. If no one wants to continue, we could just leave the story on a sort of edge - a sort of looking forward to the future for what they have, bleak though it (undeniably) is...

That is fine by me.... I am sorry this has ahppened but I suppose there is a limit to how often we can attempt to revive it and now Pio has given a DNR...... I just want to give it some dignity.... it lost momentum but there was some fine (if sporadic) posting

[CaptainofDespair]

Well, if you'll be doing a wrap-up post, I suppose I'd like my character to die. It doesn't matter how, just take away his dignity.

T'is very lamentable that the game lost its luster. Resurrection can occur only so many times before the necromancer is left frail and weak...

[piosenniel]

Today is August 20th -- whoever is going to write the wrap-up post, please get it onto the Discussion Thread by September 4th. That's 2 weeks from today. I'll transfer it to the RPG Thread.

I'll be sending the game to Elvenhome at that time.

~*~ Pio, Game Moderator

[Osse]

I always planned to post one more time before the end of the game, as an eye witness aboard the King's ship as it's lost in the ice sea. It'd be a longer post, sort of summarising from Carthor's eyes the choice to board the ship and the Ice Men's warnings etc.

I think it'd be a nice wrap up post, and I am happy to write it.

Regards,

Osse

[Mithalwen]

In that case how about if Aman and I confer to get our party to Mithlond and Osse tidies up at the other end?

[Garen LiLorian]

I fear I may have single-handedly brought this game to a premature end... It looks as though the next post ought to be mine, and there's still so many people who seem to still want to play.

As for my two week + absence... I can only apologize profusely. I've moved twice, changed schools, and witnessed the passing of not one, but two grandparents. So I've been minorly busy. However, with school starting monday (And out of grandparents...) I am firmly ensconced in my small apartment and cannot forsee any more emergencies. (Of course, if you could forsee them, they wouldn't be emergencies.)

Anyway, I'm sorry to see this game go... and doubly sorry that it was my oft-delayed post that delivered the death blow. Aman and Mith -and Osse as well- are more then capable of finishing matters, and so, if we cannot resurrect this game once more, I'm happy to hand Angore over to them.

Many apologies again.

[Mithalwen]

Not your fault.... anyone else could have posted... infact I was expecting wolves to attack...... I shouldn't have ended my post thus.. but don't blame yourself please - the circumstances would have excused anything regardless if there was anything to excuse.. which I don't think there was.

Clearly you have had a difficult time and I send my condolences for your bereavement.

[Nuranar]

Now I'm really mad. This is the second time - and on this game, no less - that my subscription notification hasn't worked. I've been checking my control panel regularly, although I've been in the same crazy boat as Garen (minus actually losing grandparents. ) And apparently somewhere along the line something unsubscribed me from this thread... Grr!

I'd love it for Mith and Aman to take care of our group. Lissi is at your disposal - just if she dies, let her go down fighting, 'k? She's made of stuff too stern to die of grief or pine away.

So sorry, all, for my lack of commitment. It's pretty tough all around when the game owner leaves!

[Mithalwen]

Well my own vague thoughts were to let the die-hards who have kept up most of the way, (Erenor, Angore,Bethiril, Faerim, Belegorn, Lissi, Renedwen & children) to make it through to Mithlond even as sole survivors..... I was not anticipating a big group to make it other wise it would be too much of a digression from the history. But even in carnage a few people can slip through the net. Bethiril I think intended to go on the ill-fated rescue ship so perhaps Osse can pick that up in his final post. If anyone else in the Mithlond party wants a watery death say the word. Otherwise I imagine the remaining Dunedain would end up eventually as part of the original Rangers of the North. I hope it wouldn't be too cheesy to have a slightly upbeat ending for a few alongside the bleak one for the others.

Of course if anyone would rather die then just let me know. But I wasn't going to leave Erenor in the caves for ever and I don't want to leave her in a snowfield either (even in a tent with Angore! )

[Arry]

The wolves did not attack because no one has moved the group going to Mithlond out of the little encampment they are in. The wolf pack was just going to pick off a few stragglers.

Now that last posts are called for, why don't I just remove those wolf posts (they will now be extraneous, since we are not playing that scenario out).

I'll do that now.

-- Arry

[piosenniel]

Originally Posted by Mithalwen

In that case how about if Aman and I confer to get our party to Mithlond and Osse tidies up at the other end?

That sounds like an excellent plan.

Please get your posts on board to this thread by Midnight, September 4th, U.S. Pacific Time. I'll place them on the Game thread and then transfer the game to Elvenhome.

Arry - I've removed your 'wolf' posts as requested.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Mithalwen]

I have some time off later this week, so I should have time to get a fitting send off arranged in time for Aman to add to at the weekend and mesh in with Osse's part at the end..

[Lalwendë]

Just as I'd started again and got some ideas... There have been some fantastic pieces of writing in this RPG (the high standard set was quite scary). Still, I can't honestly say that I'd been fully committed during the early part of the summer and must have contributed to the downfall...

Mithalwen - I'm happy for you to write what you like with my characters if you are making the effort to do this work. I'm presuming just a few will survive and pass on the tale for the future - maybe that sword my character was carrying will end up in some strange place somewhere down the line, and my character will learn to live as ordinary people do. If you want me to do anything on her to help out, then let me know Or else I'll not interfere.

[Mithalwen]

No - suggestions would be good.... Garen and I have sorted out the fate of Angore and Erenor and as I said Renedwen and the children are on my survival list.. the sword thing has possibilities I am sure. The more ideas the better because I am prepared to do a long post and it will mean I can do more with E&A if I can balance it with the others stories.

[piosenniel]

Just a reminder - The RPG is going to Elvenhome in 1 week.

[Mithalwen]

Originally Posted by piosenniel

Just a reminder - The RPG is going to Elvenhome in 1 week.

I am working on the valedictory post even now......

[piosenniel]

Osse

Please check your PM's.

~*~ Pio

[Osse]

Thanks Pio... exams are over and I am busy writing the post. I will have it on here ASAP.


Regards,

Osse

[Mithalwen]

Sorry this is so late but RL and the shenanigans of lockout and Troll conspired. There is a little more to come tomorrow - really have to go now - but I will finish tomorrow I promise ( Soppy bit of Erenor and Angore and then a scene of the Rescue ship being sent off with survivors watching. Then a little epilogue of the survivor's futures) and maybe in the circs Pio will give us a day or so of grace so that Aman and Osse can add their bits and anyone to object about their handling! Sorry it is so much from Erenor's viewpoint but it is the one I know best..!

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Mithalwen's post


Angore thought and gave a characteristically laconic response. "Yes but not a good one. We have less than two weeks rations remaining and short rations at that - and I would expect the journey to take mortals at least that time on foot in fair weather". And and everyone is already hungry thought Erenor, and tired and so cold.

Nevertheless the party trudged on day after day. They were grateful for the light of the sun each morning even though it gave no light. The pitiful remnant of the proud citizenry of Fornost cooperated with each other but spoke little, even though their situation eqaulised all, regardless of race or rank. They huddled in to as few a number of tents as would house them at night to save exertion both of carrying them and setting them up.

Erenor had often found snow beautiful when seen from her window at Rivendell - it was far less appealing now although there were moments when a shaft of light created such sparkling loveliness that she could forget their plight for a moment.

The ice had more sinister creations. They found the body of the missing councillor Mitharan caught like a bird in a thicket at the base of a steep slope. He was like a twisted star glittering with ice - a strange mockery of a jewel. Though they did their best to dispose his body in a more seemly fashion it bore little relation to a decent funeral.

Erenor saw little of her previous companions. The tension had eased with Angore, there was a tacit understanding to concentrate on getting to safety. He was still her guard but as the strongest and most experienced in the ways of the wild among them, his skills learnt through the long centuries of errantry were vital to all. He and the hardened soldier, Belegorn, were in close counsel with the prince Aranarth as to their path and actions, but at other times he served as the rearguard of the group and though his mind was yet closed to her she was aware of his gaze resting on her as her scanned the horizons and it comforted her.

Bethiril spoke seldom. She was absorbed in her own thoughts and whatever strange destiny she had fortold for herself. Erenor had never enjoyed the best relationship with her - she had not disliked her but she had failed to understand her. Now her viewpoint had shifted but it seemed too late. Bethiril had taken on her remoteness as Erenor had developed Bethiril's abhorrance of violence.

Faerim... Faerim her faithful hound, her kindred spirit and whose devotion had inspired so much amusement was also preoccupied. His youth gave him strength and he was of the few that had the energy to hunt for wood or food. Other time he spent mainly with his mother. Lissi had reserves of spirit few could equal but death had claimed one son and in the time of that bereavement she had been forsaken by her husband in the name of duty. At least in Faerim she had a son to be proud of. Although when the opportunity for adventure arose, he had been eager to take it, Erenor knew his first priority had ever been his family.

Then there was that other protege of Rosgollo - the child Gilly. Despite the conditions the child seemed cheerful and remarkably healthy. Perhaps his name had won him the protection of the lady Elbereth. Now they were largely horseless - the poor beasts perished gradually through starvation and accident in the ice and snow - Erenor took it upon herself to carry the child when his short but sturdy legs could not cope with the snow. Renedwen was already burdened with her own infant son, Derendur. She had seemed suspicious at first of the elf lady, who for so long had seemed to place herself above such mundane domestic concerns as the care of small children, thinking perhaps Erenor sought to reclaim the child rescued by her own kind. It had not helped that Erenor had soon asked if she would keep the child when they reached safety. Renedwen who was at least in terms of the Dunedain as noble as Erenor was in those of the Noldor could be just as haughty if she chose, had responded that her son had lost a father and she would not separate him from the brother he had found. Misunderstandings resolved, and understanding if not yet friendship developed between the two ladies who carried swords as well as children.

Nevertheless it was Gilly the blessed and beloved who was Erenor's bane. Little used to children of any kind she did not watch him as constantly as mother does by instinct, and the little boy toddled unheeded to the brink of a icy stream deep from meltwater that flowed down from the mountains this far south. Alerted the elf had leapt and while she was able to save the child from the fall she had taken it herself. Although uninjured she was soaked in the stream's frigid water.

Over two weeks into their journey, they had come almost to the end of their supplies, eked out by cutting quantities and supplemented with what little they could scavenge (enough for a lone traveller but not a party of their size), but more deadly to the elf now than starvation was the cold.

Angore had rushed to his mistress's side cursing himself that again she had come to harm when he had been away ignoring the fact that there was little he could have done. He wrapped his cloak about them both and held her tight as if by so doing he could hold warmth and life in her frozen body. Only now as she was dying did he have the same realisation that she had undergone weeks before. "Don't leave me, my lady" he murmured, her hair damp against his face. She had not the strength to speak bud rested her head against his chest. His reserve was broken at last and for the first time he opened his mind to her hoping to keep her attention, and awake.

Erenor was aware of little the wind blowing outside the tent and the comforting sound of Angore's heartbeat. She was beyond cold now and lying safe in her beloved's arms it would be so easy to drift into sleep. She would just close her eyes a little while, just rest til the storm abate and they could go on... her mind filled with images Angore, trolls, a woman like enough to be his close kindred. Then the tent opened and she saw Gaeredhel - or was it Rosgollo enter? I must be dead she thought as she yielded to sleep....


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Mithalwen's post


White, everything was white. This was not how she had imagined Mandos. White but not cold. So she had not returned to the snow. She raised her head slightly, it was a ceiling. And she was lying in a bed. Then an elvish voice. "Ah Lady Erenor, you are back with us!" . The voice belonged to a grey clad elf-woman.

"Where am I ? " -
"In the Houses of Healing at Mithlond of course, do you not remember?"

Gradually memory came back. If had not been one of the slain guards of course who had entered the tent but an elf ranger of Mithlond in the same uniform. Cirdan alerted by Arvedui's hawks had sent out search parties. The fire they had risked in an attept to save Erenor had speeded rescue for all. The rangers had carried phials of precious miruvor which had the power to restore even those on the point of death, and this had bought her time . The rangers had horses and had rushed her to the Havens. Erenor blushed at the memory - she who had thought herself among the strongest had been the weakest at the end.

The healer wrapped a mantle about Erenor's shoulders pressed a cup of broth into her hands and made her drink it before she would answer more questions. "The others? Are they safe? Are they here?"

"They are safe, but not all are here yet - the last should arrive later today. You have been asleep for two nights and a day since you were brought in. Your man- at- arms arrived in the middle of last night and wanted to see you there and then, if you please! Dressed in his filthy rags .. of course I would not hear of it. Told him to come back this morning and be clean!"

"Angore, was here and you sent him away?!". Erenor quelled her ire, the woman did not know and losing her temper would make more delay - "Please send for him..." She needed no messenger however since when she sought his mind with hers, she was answered. Nevertheless the minutes seemes like hours until the door burst open. Angore was dressed in new clothes, his habitual grey and black relieved by a shirt of blue that matched his eyes, but his face had the same anxious look it had worn when he had entrusted Erenor to the Mithlond elves. He knelt by her bed and took both hands in his . "My lady?" he asked. "Always, my lord".

A little later when reality had intruded on their bliss, Erenor said "Perhaps I shall have to continue being an emissary - I will not be allowed a guard as a healer or gardener..."
"That won't be necessary I hope - though would you mind choosing gardening over healing? Healers seem rather bossy" he said looking in the direction the elf woman had departed when she realised that her presence was surplus to requirements.

"And I am not?" asked Erenor incredulous.

Angore answered by raising his eyebrows " I must be a soldier a little longer by necessity, but when we are safe back in Imladris, I too would take another path - or rather resume it".

Erenor cast back in her memory for some clue and failed " What path?".

"I realise I can honour my mother by fulfilling her wish as well as avenging her death. Before she died, I was training as a minstrel".

"A minstrel? You?". Erenor was amazed that one who had wasted so little breath on speech during the time she had known him could be a master of song.

"I was considered very talented actually" ... Angore replied affecting an injured expression.

Erenor could not but laugh "You had better find a lute or harp prove it to me then!"



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Mithalwen's post


A grey ship was sailing from the havens. Sent by Cirdan to the aid of the king at the behest of Aranarth. The prince had been discouraged from joining it - "Your people need you here", Cirdan had said but if he had some foresight he did not share it.

Bethiril had insisted on going despite Erenor's attempt to dissuade her. "You have found your fate and I wish you joy, but this is mine and I will follow it - Deliver the ring to Lord Elrond when you may".

There was nothing Erenor could say to change her mind and she was filled with regret and forboding. "I am sorry I never understood you" .

Bethiril had merely smiled that serene smile. "Namarie, Erenor...I thought you a woman unsentimental, but much has changed - perhaps when you too have taken ship we will meet, and in that realm of light and peace there will be no misunderstanding. But until then I think this is farewell. You will remain in Middle Earth till the time of our people here ends forever - but I am weary of it and even if this ship bears me back, I will take another." They had embraced, and Elrond's Emissary boarded to seek for the king.

Once the ship had cast off, she had left the quay to join other survivors on the sea wall. Bethiril's ring clinked slightly against her own silver betrothal band as she turned it in her hand. She stood next to Angore and he clasped her hand in his. Although stern of face as they watched the ship enter the firth and head for the sea it was clear to all the sorrows of many centuries had been lifted from them. Renedwen was there with the boys, as was Faerim with Lissi. Erenor could hardly bear to look at them; the contrast between their hope and her fear was so strong. And yet it was not only those who sought passage north, with winter barely starting to fade, who were in danger. Mithlond was safe and perhaps Imladris was still safe but little in between was safe from the shadow of the witch-king.


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-o-o-o- Epilogue -o-o-o-

Mithalwen's post

Months ago Angore had predicted that Faerim would "escape this foolish venture's doom" . This small group, all of whom had been touched in some way by the lad's kindness and courage would share his good fortune. These who survived the Witch-King's triumph at Fornost would survive his defeat.

Some weeks later, a ship was seen emerging from the dawn mist in the gulf of Lhun. First hopes were that it was the rescue ship returned, but it was a ship of Gondor and the first of many. So many that they filled the Harlond and Forlond and were a joy and wonder to the Elves and the remaining people of Arnor, those scattered groups who had one way or another evaded the servants of evil and found sanctuary at the Havens.

Earnur, heir of Gondor had brought a mighty army - both footsoldiers and horsemen tall and fair with fine horses form the vales of Anduin. Cirdan joined his forces to Earnur's and the host of the west marched to meet their foe, the Witch King who dwellt now in the Palace of Arvedui at Fornost.

The Host of the West descended upon him and had the mastery and though the fell lord fled towards his own realm at Angmar he was caught between the cavalry of Earnur and the force of Glorfindel from Rivendell. His forces but not the Witch-King himself were utterly destroyed.

Belegorn, Angore and Faerim fought in that battle and if Lissi's anguish was doubled as she waited for news of both husband and son, Erenor could at least understand it. They occupied themselves with care of the injured and waited for the return of those they loved. When all was done they found their way back to Imladris and there Angore and Erenor were wedded.

Belegorn, who had won renown in the victory to add to the courage and duty he had shown in the retreat from Fornost, became senior among the Rangers of the North as Aranarth established the new community of his people. Lissi bore the loss of her husband when the fate of the ship long supected was confirmed, with charactersitic courage. Faerim, her remaining son became a warrior with all the skill of his father but none of his flaws and managed to combine duty to his king with duty to his kindred.

If Renedwen had had no personal connection with the defeat of the witch-king she would have one with his ultimate downfall. Her line did not fail and in later generations those of her birth son Derendur and her adopted son Gilly would unite. The fine sword set with onyx which had been made for her husband became an heirloom of her house. Of such craftsmanship was it that it was a weapon to be reckoned with over a thousand years later when it was borne by one of her descendents at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. And when its owner, a member of the Grey Company who had ridden out of the north to the aid of Aragorn returned to tell his tale in the Hall of Fire, he found two elves who could tell him how his foremother had carried it from the destruction of the North Kingdom.


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FINIS

[piosenniel]

It's now just before midnight, September 2nd.

Midnight, September 5th, Monday (Pacific Time, U.S.) (3 days from now) will be the last day to get posts onto the Discussion Thread.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

nb: PM notification sent to Osse, Amanduial the archer, Mithalwen

[Osse]

I can only apologise for the length of this insane post... but i wanted to do Carthor justice before i knocked him off. Sadly, it only references things from his view... and Arvedui's demise is only pointed at... maybe someone needs a wrap up, black and white, "everyone is here, and everyone else is there" post to wrap up and close the game... Pio?


Regards,
Osse

Okay, here goes, you guys might need to do it in a couple of sittings!

__________________________________________________ ________________________

1


Osse's post - Carthor


The old man reached a brown hand out from the rippled folds of fur. King Arvedui poured the contents of a ragged cloth pouch onto the man’s wrinkled palm. The old man’s round face peered at the glossy surface of the sapphire as he held it up to the light. Muttering something to the man standing by his side in his own tongue, he looked back at the men in front of him. He sniffed at the great stone, before thrusting it roughly back into the still outstretched hand of the king. He shook his tightly cloaked head.

“Ice men no want cold stone.” His deep, guttural voice was surprising in such a wizened frame.
“Ice men cannot eat cold stone.”

“And Dunedain cannot eat ice! Cannot you spare even a morsel, o’ Chief?” Replied Arvedui.

The journey had almost broken the king, and he could not keep the desperation from filling his eyes and his voice.

“If you cannot aid us Chief, if we cannot find sanctuary with the Men of the Snow, then we are lost. We shall go out into the ice to perish. I only pray the wind freezes our breath before starvation does.”

The king made to turn and depart, but with a single deft movement, the old ice-chief was standing, his broad brown hand spread gently over the ragged fabric of the king’s cloaked shoulder.

The old man’s glance darted from the king’s desperate grey eyes to his cold hand as it lay on his sword hilt.

He looked up.

“Tall men stay.” His voice, once as cold as the winds of his home, had warmed.
“We give you what little we can.”

The king stepped forward, with his hand outstretched in sign of the agreement. The Ice-chief hesitated, his black eyes examining the Dunedain’s poised hand for a brief moment, before reaching out and clasping it firmly. Carthor, standing behind the king, could see his whole body relax as a wave of relief rushed through it.

The chief’s warriors, all clad in their thick fur wrappings, of what animal Carthor could not guess in the ruddy fire light of the ice-house, stepped forward. Each bore a thick brown blanket, and draping them tightly over the white-cold frames of the Dunedain, they ushered them all into a warm alcove. Carthor sipped gratefully at the hot fish-broth one of them provided for him in a shallow wooden bowl. The steaming liquid coursed through his stomach, extinguishing the hollow pain that his weeks of hunger had brought him.

Carthor looked grimly around the alcove, his blue eyes landing heavily on the faces of his companions. Seven times he paused; seven times he looked into lost and wearied eyes. The seven men around him were all that remained of the king’s guard that had ridden out from the mountains.

DONE
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2

Osse's post - Carthor


For ten days they had headed northward, following the crisp bite of the wind. The snow had deepened under the hooves of their mounts with every stride they had taken. Their food bags began to empty, despite their best efforts to ensure their stores lasted. At nightfall on the tenth day, the first of the horses had perished. Slipping on a patch of unseen ice, the stout bay mare had lost her footing and come crashing down in a whirl of limbs. Her rider had fallen under her, his cold brown eyes staring up into Carthor’s own as he kneeled beside him. There had been no time to properly bury the young man. Instead, they had laid him out proudly by a deep snow drift, the tattered banner on his ash spear still bearing the device of the king fluttering in the bitter wind.

Carthor had shuddered to feel the weight of the horsemeat in his cloth bag. It was a poor way to repay such a fine beast for years of faithful service, a beast whose only mistake had been to blindly trust in the guidance of her master’s hand. Better to live with the guilt than to die without it. Death, even then, would have been a sweet relief to Carthor, son of Harathor. Honour drove him; as long as his king drew breath, so would he.

Within a week of the first, all twelve horses had fallen, their frozen corpses lying as grim reminders of the group’s passage. The Dunedain had continued on foot, trudging through the snow, which often rose deeper than the knees of their tallest man, sharing the lead in shifts. Two men walked in front and behind of Arvedui, their eyes guarding their lord’s back, guarding it from the despair they all felt. On the third day, the last of the horsemeat was eaten.

For six more days, the Men of the North trudged on through the thick snows, the snows that seemed to be forever clinging, like dead, cold hands at every limb and every cloak. The men were all soaked as the snow tunnelled in through their clothing; no cloak could halt its wandering fingers. Slowly, but surely, the men would fall to the back of the column, unable to hold onto the slow, plodding pace. Their footfalls would become clumsy and their strides shorter, as if invisible hands held them by the shoulders, slowly pulling them back. One by one, they fell down into the snow, unseen and unheeded by their comrades. For those who turned to give aid were soon consumed by the same deadly foe, the only aid they would give would be company with which to enjoy Eru’s Gift.

Then, on the ninth day since the last of the horses had perished, the seven survivors of the group of fifteen reached the cold, grey expanse of the icy sea. Great towers of white rose out of the water, their great bastions and towers mirrored below them. The men stood dumbfounded at the edge of the great water, watching the ice towers collide on the glassy surface, listening to the call of cracking ice, feeling the whip of the icy wind in their lank hair.

As they stood, the Forochel’s white splendour lying eerily around them, the Lossoth espied them, and walking on the surface of the ice on basket-shoes, they had led them to their camp.

DONE
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3

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor’s musings were broken suddenly. The men around him were standing, being led out into the snow by their hosts. Slowly, Carthor stood and wrapping his fur blanket more tightly around his broad shoulders, he followed the backs of the men in front of him up the short ramp out of the low-slung ice-house. The hide door-flap slapped loudly against the roof, moved by the fierce wind, as he walked away. He followed the men in front of him through the small camp, shivering despite the weight of his warm shroud. The group halted outside another, slightly smaller, ice-house.

It was low and square, with piles of snow heaped up against its square walls in mounds. From outside, the house gave as little purchase possible for the grasping claws of the north wind to latch onto. The structure seemed more sharply shaped than the others he had noticed, as if it had been built but recently. As he stood by the entrance, two Lossoth emerged from the enclosed entrance; both bore flat, broad shovels carved of bone. One ushered the seven Dunedain, including King Arvedui, through the entrance. The square structure was covered in many animal furs and blankets, and a cheerful fire glinted from its centre, the smoke from which wound its way lazily out of a hidden chimney in the roof above. Several immense fish were hanging on a smoking rack from the roof above.

Curling up in a nook by the fire, Carthor fell into the abyss of the deepest of sleeps, only waking briefly to eat some smoked fish and wrap himself more tightly in the fronds of his fur shroud.

DONE
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4 (Posted with #3)

Osse's post - Carthor


Lissi turned slowly, the light, black fabric of her mantle sweeping across the dark flagstones of the floor, sending gusts of fine grey ash into the eddying breeze. She paced slowly across the cold stone of the floor, toward a long, polished oak table. Other figures stood solemnly around the great table, their faces shrouded by heavy hoods. Each of the tall silent figures wore a red or green tabard, embroidered with the devices of Arnor. Cold blue light streamed softy in through the blackened remains of the rafters above the group’s bowed heads. The entire room was filled with the light’s coldness, all the room except the length of the great oaken table, which was cast in thick shadow.

Slowly, Lissi’s erect frame strode toward the table, her veiled features smitten heavily by shadow. Her pale hand reached from under the folds of black fabric and tugged gently at the grey covering draped over the form lying on the table. Slowly, her hand revealed a shining silver helm, covering the grey, wavy locks of the old soldier. Piercing blue eyes stared out from under the carved brow of the helm, their black centres reflecting the cold light from above.

The grey shroud was pulled away, sliding silently off the table, pooling like spent blood in folds and waves. The stout man’s hands were folded over the hilt of a shining broadsword, the blade of which was notched and scarred. Broad stains of dried blood littered his scarlet tabard, like grisly continents on a sea of blood. Stepping back, Lissi’s proud head bowed in a signalling nod.

As one man, the tall onlookers stepped forward, each bearing a long piece of wood in his hand. The wood piled in rows, like soldiers in rank, around the edge of the great table. With another nod, the men’s forms receded to their original positions, their faces still shrouded.

Lissi stepped to the side of the table, a great earthen flask carried in the crook of her right arm. Starting at the old soldier’s head, she poured the oily contents of the flask over his spread form. Then, reverently, she laid herself by his left side, upending the flask over her black gown. She folded her slender fingers across her lap and closed her eyes.

The tall men took a single uniform step forward, the orange flames of lit torches illuminating their cold hands with a dancing, flickering light. Each thrust his torch into the piled wood. Immediately the flame’s blades rang out from their scabbards and thrusting through the oils, bit into the wood. Boots snapped against the cold floor as the hooded men stepped backwards.

A single figure remained within reach of the flames. In a smooth motion, his nimble fingers reached up and slowly pulled down the black of his hood. The dancing gold light of the pyre lit Brander’s face as he stared, unmistakeably, down at his parents’ forms as they were devoured, his green eyes shining.

DONE
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5

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor woke with a start. Sweat soaked his tunic, turning the course fabric cold and sodden. The fire, in its small stone grate in the middle of the ice-house, had burned down to coals, which shone gently in the warm air. Around him, Carthor could make out the forms of his companions, still enwrapped in the warmth of sleep, or if the warmth had turned to cold, as it had for Carthor, then in the shrine of open-eyed rest. Carthor stood, and dragging his coverings behind him, moved to the fire. Sitting on a small, round, cured hide chair, Carthor piled more of the carefully stacked wood onto the coals. The fire was soon loud and raucous in the small space. Breaking his fast on more of the smoked pink fish, which was as soft and subtle, like moonlight given flavour, Carthor sat watching the flickering, dancing flames until the light shining through the ice walls turned a lighter shade of grey. His comrades started to rise, adding their own stirrings to the growing noise of the shelter.

His clothes now dry from the fire’s welcome warmth, Carthor rose and slipped on his old calf-hide boots, ignoring the near jet blackness of three of his toes. They had stopped hurting, so Carthor didn’t mind if they decided to stay attached to the rest of his foot or not. The wool linings that he had asked Lissi to sew in at the beginning of the winter were ragged and worn, yet they still held some warmth. He’d have to ask get her to sew in some new ones next year.

Carthor swore under his breath, to vent the true emotions he felt when thinking of what he had left trudging through the icy forests and frozen stone of the Blue Mountains: Grief. There was no real escape though; Grief’s sinuous frame stalked him night and day, waiting for his wearied guard to drop.

DONE
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6

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor hunched into something nearing a crawl as he walked up the slanting entrance and peeled open the hide door of the snow-house. Outside, he was greeted by a clear blue sapphire sky, the eastern tinges of which still glowing with the soft pink haze of dawn. Around him, the Lossoth camp was ablaze with activity. Smoke rose from the chimney holes of every ice-house, men carried long wooden poles, and others carried racks of the large, broad silver fish, the same fish Carthor’s belly was full of. The sound of yelled orders and padding feet turned Carthor’s head. Over the rise of an ice drift, appeared the oddest cart. It was wheel-less, and glided across the surface of the white ground on long wooden skids. Its great length was piled entirely with baskets of fish and seaweed.

Draped triumphantly across the front was the great carcase of a male Elk, its great pronged head lolling with the rhythms of the cart. It was not the cart itself that amazed and startled the old Dunedain however, rather it was the way by which it was propelled. Attached in great leather harness, were what appeared to be five grey wolves. Carthor was amazed, for the only men he had known to ally themselves with wolves were under the Witch King’s banner. As the great sled skidded through the centre of the camp however and came to a halt some way from where Carthor stood, he saw that they were in fact not wolves, but mighty dogs, with thick grey and white coats and shining eyes. Their masters, who had ridden on the back of the cart, dismounted, and after congratulating their unlikely steeds on a job well done, began unloading the cart.

“An amazing, if rustic, folk.” Said a quiet voice beside Carthor’s ear.

Inside, Carthor jumped in surprise, as he thought himself alone outside the ice-house, his exterior however, stayed composed in its relaxed stance.

Carthor looked into the speaker’s face. “Aye my lord, amazing they are. One would scarcely believe tales of a folk who dwell in houses made of ice and ride on carts without wheels pulled by wolf-dogs.”

King Arvedui chuckled. “Your words are true Captain, these are strange times indeed that have caused us to seek shelter from such folk.”

Carthor merely nodded. They were indeed strange times. The two men stood silently for a while, each loath to break the gentle silence of the morning.

“Lord Carthor, your deeds and council have been ever hardy these past weeks, as has your loyalty. But my friend, I would have you complete one final task for me, as the Captain of my Guard.” King Arvedui paused, but as Carthor didn’t speak or interrupt, he pressed on.

“Our numbers have halved my friend, I know this. But our sanctuary here must only be short-lived, and though I don’t agree with the Ice-Chief in his superstitions, I see that the Witch King’s arm is indeed long. I do not doubt that he can reach us, even here.”

“Our entire journey north was to find the Lossoth and gain their aid, and this we have done. But these people cannot harbour us from the grasping fingers of the Witch King. We must look to the sea Carthor, for in the sea lies our only hope; if Cirdan has had news of our plight, as I trust he has, he will soon send grey ships northward in search of us.

We must look to the sea Carthor, but we must ensure that the sea can look to us! Make a beacon fire Carthor, and have your men tend it night and day, never letting it be extinguished. We must ensure our own rescue.”

Without waiting for a response, the King turned on his heel and disappeared back inside the ice-hut with the slap of hide hitting ice.

DONE
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7

Osse's post - Carthor


For five nights, the six Guardsmen rotated, sitting in hide tents beside the wind-whipped fire, feeding its hungry jaws with all the dry wood they could find. Their icy fingers ached from their labours, and many of their noses bore black or red patches, as if the skin had been seared by a red-hot brand.

On the dawn of the seventh day, a broad white shape was seen coursing through the white towers of floating ice in the broad bay. The sleek grey timber of the elven ship shone in the light of the new morning, its swan-shaped prow gliding majestically through the crisp air. The Dunedain stood aligned, their faces alight in relief and awe for the grace of the grey vessel. The Lossoth fled in fear of the greatness of the ship, and only the Chief and his warriors remained by the King’s side.

An eagerness the light of which Carthor had never witnessed danced in the Arvedui’s grey eyes. The wolf-dogs were made ready, and the Dunedain nestled themselves atop two of the great wheel-less carts. The carts sped across the glassy surface of the ice at a startling pace. The swan prow grey larger and larger, framed against the clear blue of the western sky. Boats, in stark likeness to the larger ship, were seen to be floated, their grey oars speeding them lightly toward the edge of the ice.

Dismounting from the sled, Carthor peered out at the grey wooden shapes as they drew near the shore.

Arvedui gave the instruction, and the Dunedain stepped tentatively toward the edge of the ice. The Chief of the Lossoth laid his hand gently on the arm of the king, who turned to face him.

“Ice-men smell danger on the wind, Tall King.” He said, his deep voice full of fear and concern.

“Do not mount this sea-monster! If they have them, let the seamen bring us food and other things we need, and you may stay here till the Witch-king goes home. For in summer his power wanes; but now his breath is deadly, and his cold arm is long.”

As if in answer to the Chief’s words, a biting wind arose out of the north. To Carthor’s old eyes, the sky there was darker than the rest, as if a scribe had drawn a deft ink-line across the horizon. The wind seemed unnaturally cold and malicious. Carthor found himself agreeing with the old chief’s words. However, he remained silent.

Arvedui, taken with eagerness to depart from the dead and cold world of ice, heeded little the words of the old Lossoth, despite the latter’s desperate pleading.

“Chief, I thank you and your people for kindling life where there was none, and for the aid you have given us, saving us from joining our friends in the icy wastes of your home. We shall leave, and fear not, for the ships of Cirdan cannot falter!”

In token of thanks, Arvedui pulled the great ring from his right hand, and placed it in the hand of the chief. “This is a thing of worth beyond your reckoning. For its ancientry alone. It has no power, save the esteem in which those hold it who love my house. It will not help you, but if ever you are in need, my king will ransom it with great store of all that you desire.”

Arvedui kissed the old man on the forehead, before turning and climbing into the first of the awaiting boats, which was held fast against the ice with much effort by her elvish oarsmen. Carthor stepped carefully down into the boat beside the king. The six other men slid onto the finely carved benches behind and beside the king, and in the other boat. The last two bore a heavy, iron-clad oak casket.

The Lossoth stood watching the boats row slowly away from the ice, their grey wood’s sheen radiant in the strong light. Their Chief stood watching the sea long after the boats had been lost to view, the Ring of Barahir enclosed warmly in his palm.

DONE
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8

Osse's post - Carthor


With typical elvish efficiency, the two small boats had reached the deeper, less constricted waters and had been drawn up onto the great grey ship’s deck. Carthor joined his fellows in embracing Cirdan’s sailors. Relief at their timely appearance flooded through his heart and he found himself crying out for sheer joy.

Carthor was ushered below deck, and found himself sitting alone in a sweet smelling, cushioned corner, with the soft sunlight coursing in through the innate windows above his head. Carthor’s head lolled against his armoured breast, and the weariness he had fought for weeks finally found its moment to attack. His breathing soon became deep and regular. Sleep’s soft, maternal arms embraced him.

DONE
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9

Osse's post - Carthor


The screech of wood wrenched Carthor violently from sleep. The white light that had spilled through the windows was gone, replaced by a quelling grey darkness. Carthor stood, and peered out of the window above his grey-clad head. The sun outside was hidden behind angry masses of black cloud. Riding down on the howling north wind came swords of sleeting rain. The ship lurched sideways, as if Ossë himself had thrust it away. Carthor was thrown bodily across the deck, sliding against the grey wall of the cabin. Great waves beat against the glass windows, like savage hounds bashing at the door of cot, their braying voices rising in tumult.

The elven ship was dashed time and again by the great waves, bounding like a wayward pup from one iron embrace to another. The north wind screamed, whistling through the ship’s ragged rigging like a wraith. Suddenly, from the north, came a wave, greater and more towering than any other. The grey ship was sucked up its towering side, and lingered at its point for what seemed an eternity. The great wave surged forward, carrying the elven ship like an autumn leaf. White ice rose to greet the wave, and the water beat upon the grey ship. As Aulë’s hammer smites his great anvil, Cirdan’s ship smote against the hard surface of the ice tower.

Icy water rushed into Carthor’s screaming mouth, running in torrents into his bellowing lungs. Darkness engulfed him as he somersaulted through the watery void. He could feel wood falling around him, sweeping down in lazy arcs. His mouth opened, gasping for breath. Salt water rolled, like thundering horses, down his throat. His mind was burning with a soft light as images of faces and people mingled with the darkness. Carthor tumbled through the icy water, like the disjointed thoughts tumbling through his starved mind. Carthor could see it himself: a great candle, burning, giving off a soft yellow light. The wick hovered above the pools of hot wax below, dancing, loitering. Carthor stared at the candle, watching, waiting for the moment, waiting for the wick to finally reach its end: it had been burning low for a long time.

The flame flickered, before burning brighter, as if in defiance. Carthor stared. The wick licked the pool of wax, its flame teetering. Time seemed to slow, the flame stood still and erect. It hissed, sighing, released at last. And was gone.

DONE

[piosenniel]

Well done, Osse!!!!!! Excellent wrap-up for Carthor. Great dream scene!

I'm going to break this into 9 consecutive posts for easier reading.

Thanks for wrapping up this part of the storyline so well.

~*~ Pio

[Mithalwen]

Well I have added the epilogue & corrected as many faults of spelling, grammar and syntax as I can find after 5 hours at the screen!

I have found it hard to say goodbye and it seems inadequate (osse is a hard act to follow) but at least it is tidied after a fashion.

This was my first RPG here and I have to say that it has been a great learning experience. I am in awe of you guys and I hope to put what I have learnt into practice in my continuing game. Thank you all very much. And of course thanks to Pio the saintly expert on Troll slaying.

[piosenniel]

The RPG has been brought to a wonderful end by Mithalwen and Osse.

It was a delight to read along as all of you played the game.

~*~ Pio

[Osse]

Well done Mith.

It's nice to get closure on this game... and for all its 'stop and go' I enjoyed writing with you all. Despite the rough patches, this game contains lots of fantastic writing. Well done guys, it was a pleasure writing with you all!

Regards,

Osse

[Amanaduial the archer]

Nicely ended, Mithalwen, Osse. It would have been nice to be able to play the planned end out fully, but as that was becoming more difficult, I can't think of a nicer way for it to end. Thanks for those posts - and thanks to everyone for the excellent writing standard and interaction in this game. I greatly enjoyed it

[Nuranar]

Wow. Mith and Osse, you've really stepped up the plate to finish this out. Thanks so everyone who's written on this one. This quality of writing has been superb and challenging, and I've really enjoyed trying to meet that challenge. And thanks for your patience in waiting for me and giving me a chance to continue the story somewhat. I only regret I didn't write more often when I did have the time. Aman, I especially enjoyed our characters' interaction, as I did on The Ambassador's Son. Let's make it a habit, shall we?

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~