Treachery of Men Discussion/Planning Thread

[Celuien]

I was going to have the description tonight, but it's going to take a little longer...it will be finished as soon as possible though. Definitely by the weekend.

[Folwren]

My description is not coming on as quickly as I hoped either. Hopefully, it will be done this weekend, too.

[piosenniel]

Character/Player list moved to next page

~*~ Pio

[Anguirel]

Right. I thought there'd be a bit of annoyance at lack of female swashbuckling. I didn't put it very well.

When the men march off, the women can probably follow them to the camp in East Beleriand before bidding them farewell. (Thuringwethil maybe among the said women!) After that, we cut to the epilogue, where there'll be plenty to describe - how they coped if their husbands were killed, their grim new life in the confines of Hithlum where Morgoth resettled them, who and if they married if they started single, all up to you.

I honestly think playing a female Ulfing is going to be more rewarding than it looks. It's like I said, War and Peace, War and Peace. Natasha didn't wield a sword! Neither did Anna Karenina or Elizabeth Bennet or Becky Sharp. But does it make them less great characters?

If you're still uncertain, perhaps you'd like to play a male and a female Ulfing, as pio is doing.

EDIT: pio, yes, do put Kath on the thread as another of the Borrim. We can always take her off if she has second thoughts.

[Kath]

Uh, thanks pio, and yes I would like to join, I just wanted to get an idea of what the Borrim were first.

Ang, one last question (well for now, there will probably be more). The Borrim march to war even knowing, or at least suspecting, about this plot?

EDIT: Thought of another one already. Do the Borrim have families with them? Or are they still living in the north?

[Anguirel]

Yep, the Borrim suspect something, but aren't believed.

About their families...most of you Borrim are just hunters coming down from the north because the hunting is more plentiful in the south. Child of the 7th Age and Lalaith though have decided to play an envoy from Bor to Ulfang and the envoy's wife, settling matters between the two tribes.

So, in short, usually Borrim characters should be on their own without families but I have allowed an exception for Child and Lalaith.

Again leaving apart that exception, I'd rather Borrim characters were male.

[Kath]

That's fine, just wondered.

But even if they aren't believed why would they march? Just because no one else will take their word for it wouldn't mean they distrust themselves.

[Anguirel]

Well, their attitude isn't "The Ulfings are probably going to be treacherous, therefore we're going to lose the battle, therefore we're all going to die, therefore we should stay away."

Instead, they heroically think

"The Ulfings are probably going to be treacherous, so our lords Maedhros and Maglor are in trouble, so we've got to be there to protect them."

Sam distrusts Gollum, but he still goes with him to protect Frodo. It's that kind of idea.

[Kath]

Ahhh! Yes that makes sense, cheers Ang.

[Dimturiel]

I 'm sorry not to have posted earlier, I've had quite a busy week. Anyway here is my character:

Linked ~*~ Pio

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Dimturiel's character

NAME:Tora

AGE:19

RACE:man

GENDER:female

WEAPONS: She carries a knife, for none knows what may happen in these hard times, but she has never used it so far.

APPEARANCE: She is short and rather stoutly built. Her long dark hair is brown and tangled. She usually wears it loose, although she sometimes ties it in a plait. Usually she wears a brown woolen dress, but she also has a more elegant blue one for special occasions. She seldom smiles and has a rather preocupied expresion.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: She has a very realistic view of her people's situation. She knows life is hard, and she does not waste her time dreaming about how it would be, were it to improve. She knows there is little hope in that. She is hard working,and quite intelligent. She is always ready to help those that need her. She tends to be harsh sometimes.

HISTORY: She is the middle child of a family of four others and the only daughter. She has an older brother, aged 22, who has now a family of his own, and two younger ones, one of 12 years of age, the other of five. Her father owns a small farm. Her family is not too wealthy, but has enough to survive. Her father thinks of marrying her to the son of a more prosperous farmer, but she is not too happy about this. There had been a young man of her age whom she had liked, but he was killed two years before by a wild beast.


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Dimturiel's post

The morning dawned clear and cold. it was a typical spring morning as many others had been before it. Tora was walking through the village. She did not have much to do that morning, so she had decided to go for a walk. She loved being out in the cool spring air, alone with her thoughts. There was little time for thinking when she had two younger brothers to take care of, not to mention her elder brother, who required her help with his small child. She usually spent the time working. yet she did not complain. She usually prefered to have something to keep her busy.

Tora found a spot that was warmed by the morning sun, and sat down on the grass. She looked around thoughtfully. Memories linked her to that place, memories of feelings that she had found hard to understand then. Yet they had ended, as abruptly as they had started. But what could she do about it? It had not been her fault, nor his. If anyone was to blame, it was fate. How convenient, she thought, that the notion of a power greater than themselves existed. It was so easy to blame their troubles on it, and to think that things could not be better, simply because that power did not want them to be. It made people feel better, comforted even, in a strangve sort of way.

So her lover had been dead for over two years now, and her father was now planning to give her to someone else, someone she had never spoken to before. What was the use of complaining about that? It would not have changed the situation. It would not have turned back time. And she was sure she was not the only person in the world to whom such things had happened. That had been plenty of others that had lived the same tale that she had. Yet the world had not ciesed moving because of them. Life and time had gone on, ignoring such happenings, that seemed of little concern to those who were not involved in them.

Tora got up abruptly. She had better return home, she thought. Her mother might need her. And so, she turned her back to her past, and retraced her steps to the village.





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[Valier]

I'm sorry to have to say this, but I must take myself off the list. I just don't think I have time to commit fully to this RPG. Sorry about that. I will however read as the story progresses along. Good luck to all.

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EDIT

Have taken you off the list, Valier.

~*~ Pio

[Anguirel]

I'm afraid Naria's also pulled out. We're in something of an Ulfing crisis...

[Volo]

Umm... What is that POST NEEDED thing. Does it mean that I have to write something before the game can start?

[Child of the 7th Age]

Volo -

Before the official game opens, we will all have to submit a first post for our characters.

However, before we can do that, Ang will need to complete a first post for Lachrandir, which hasn't been done yet. Also, normally the founder makes suggestions what the general subject of your first post should be. You can think about possible approaches for your first post now, but nothing will be nailed or written down until later.

Pio's has a list of who still needs profiles and posts so everything will be crystal clear, but the first post isn't due immediately. (It better not be. I'm still working on my profile! ) This is still a planning rather than a discussion thread.


__________________

Ang -

Volo's question is a good one. Have you thought any on how the game will open up and what are first posts are likely to focus on?

P.S. Pio and I cross posted!

[piosenniel]

Yes, Volo - all the players will be writing first posts for the game. Anguirel will then read through all of them and arrange them in the order he wants for the game.

You'll need to put your First Post in the same box as your Character Description. I'm going through players' character bio post boxes now and editing in where you will put your first post for your character.

You can wait until Anguirel posts his First Post for the game, and perhaps he will give some direction about what the Ulfings might start with for their first posts.

~*~ Pio

[Mithalwen]

I should be able to post my bio soon - ie at the weekend. I can see him "as through a glass darkly" but he is getting clearer - I just need to mug up a few things for his history and find him a suitable name.

[Anguirel]

My first post should be done by Saturday.

The first posts for Ulfings should probably centre around routine life in their settlement being a bit interrupted by the news of the Envoy's arrival; the Borrim could be, say, returning from a hunt, or likewise milling around.

The cameos don't need first posts.

Thuringwethil's should be subtly terrifying and I'm sure the brothers can offer some brilliant evil monologues.

pio, I have decided to play, in addition to Lachrandir, a female Ulfing.

Finally, I'll just note that Caranthir appears only at the end of the RP and so we don't necessarily have to find a player for him for a long time. (I remember Child was recruited very successfully towards the end of Sirannon.)

[piosenniel]

OK - Ang I've put you on the Ulfing list.

Thanks for the First Post directions.

~*~ Pio

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

My character's dog is big and reddish-gold in colour. Her name is Laylah. More to follow.

[Durelin]

Okay, here's my version of Thuringwethil...I am completely open to any suggestions for changes, and I do hope everything sounds plausible (and the is correct). Also, I apologize it's rather long...particularly sorry about the appearance dragging on like that...

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Have you posted in The Golden Perch Inn, The Green Dragon Inn, The White Horse Inn, or The Eorling Mead Hall in Rohan? – YES

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Durelin's character


Name: Thuringwethil, or Jord as she is known to the Ulfings who must know her
Age: NA
Race: Maia
Gender: Female (typical form/association)

Weapons: Her cunning, her persuasiveness, the being whom she answers to, and more primitive ones when need be: a slender, straight bladed dagger, easily concealed; and poison.

Appearance: Always bent on her purpose – whatever it may be, as ordered by Sauron or now, Morgoth himself – and seeing it as an opportunity to start anew, Thuringwethil was glad to take on a new form with the help of her master. He shaped it for her with the beauty of Luthien in mind, most likely in an attempt to painfully remind her of the failure Sauron met at Tol-in-Gaurhoth. She was gifted with smooth skin of creamy colour, with a hint of soft brown; dark brown hair, naturally in soft, neat curls; and deep olive eyes – also almost brown, but with enough of a hint of green to keep one from describing it as simply brown. Standing at about five feet, four inches, she is short and slightly willowy, with long legs, particularly for her height. She has prominent yet soft feminine curves that she never intends to hide or try to disguise in the least, long eyelashes, thin but not short eyebrows, a small, pretty and well-proportioned but slightly pointed nose, full lips normally in a tight smirk, high but not rigid cheekbones, and a well-defined but not large chin. Overall, her face is an ageless one, which looks young at first glance, much older at second, and sometime unknown at third. Her hair hangs almost to her elbows. She normally wears long dresses of sober colours: dark greens, reds, blues, and blacks, and made of thin, clinging materials, with a small train. She will sometimes wear a black shawl of semi-transparent material.

Personality: With innumerable years of experience and wisdom, and an ability to exist separate of the body she has taken the form of, the Woman of the Secret Shadow is a million things at once. She is unpredictable in her behavior, and a master at wearing as many masks as she pleases. When she wishes to maintain a certain type of appearance, she will do so with nearest perfection. At times she can be careless because of a natural arrogance, something servants of Melkor struggle with possibly even more so than any simple mortal ruler. She is the ultimate manipulator, in touch with the desire of men down to their darkest, most basic and animalistic selves, but also full of thousands of years of insight into the mind of beings of Middle-earth, having an idea of what each of their creators’ minds are like. Thuringwethil enjoys her work, and takes pleasure in tormenting minds even more than tormenting bodies. With her newest form, she has found a new way to do so, using the shell as one fully aware of how beings mortal and immortal alike find it attractive. She can work with the patience that only a Maiar or Valar or an Ent could ever hope to have, but can also find herself rushing with anticipation and eagerness. Rarely does she cease to be meticulous in her work, though. Everything she does has layers upon layers of motives, and she greatly dislikes feeling that she has wasted even a moment of her time.

Her love of manipulation and duplicity made her a fine servant to Sauron the Deceiver, and she has perfected her treacherous ways thanks to him, and she was and still is fiercely loyal to him. Her loyalty to Sauron always made her fairly closely connected to Melkor, as her master’s master is her master, but now she is even more attached to the Dark Lord. She will do anything for her masters, and their goal is her goal. Thuringwethil is especially glad to perform her current duties, as she can enjoy her work, relishing in playing multiple personalities, and is exuberant that she has been given another chance. She finds her human body to be amusing, and so experiments with using it to her advantage. Her dresses, though they seem to be of similar cut, all hang differently, accentuating different parts of her body. At the same time, she both loves and hates the body: she is overjoyed that Melkor has enabled her to regain a physical form and thus a real presence in the world, but she despises its resemblance to the Elven beauties that both Elves and Men swoon over and write poetry about. As with most with power, and really most beings in general, she desires to be known. She prefers to be a much greater presence than any normal being would even be able to fathom, and this also tends to contribute to the ferocity with which she performs and indulges in her duties.

History: Formed among many of the spirit of Ilúvatar, Thuringwethil is a Maia, a lesser power, though still powerful, that chose to dwell in Arda, normally taking on the appearance of either a woman, a bat, or some mix of the two. She was one of those tempted by Melkor’s dreams of personal power, and wanted a share for herself. They were powerful things, mortal Men even mistaking them for ‘gods.’ Why shouldn’t they have power? Even among the Maiar, the Woman of the Secret Shadow is lesser, and so became a servant to a more powerful Maia, Sauron, who is considered the most powerful of Melkor’s servants. At first she was unhappy to find herself under the command of another Maia, but she quickly came to respect her master where others came to fear him. Morgoth quickly became an extremely powerful force in Middle-earth, and he and his servants were constantly on the move. But when Sauron’s fortress of Tol-in-Gaurhoth was destroyed, and Thuringwethil herself by mischance became the source of Luthien’s disguise, she was devastated, and all but destroyed along with the tower. She lost her physical form, and lost the ability for a time to take on a form. But Melkor found both her and her master, and though they feared the Vala’s wrath, they were both glad that he did not abandon his loyal servants. Morgoth formed Thuringwethil a new body in which she could do his bidding, and he began other plans with Sauron, which she does not know of and would never think of inquiring about. With most of her strength regained, she is able to take multiple forms again, though it is a little more difficult and she may not be as fickle about her choices as she once was.

Sent to the East to sow further seeds of darkness, from which new allegiances would grow, and sent also for a treacherous purpose which would insure the destruction of one of the dark powers’ greatest enemies: the Children of Ilúvatar, Elves as they were known in Middle-earth. Men were weaker in some respects, and Morgoth knew that the peoples of the East would be quite susceptible to his persuasion, considering their greed, and the arrogance with which the Elves tended to approach them. He knew that there was already plenty of unrest that could be used to his advantage, particularly among the Ulfang tribe, though already certain of his plans and that he had already all but received the Easterlings’ allegiance, Thuringwethil was sent to execute his plans, and work from among the Ulfings to bring his treachery to fruition. Luckily for she and her master, they had only an old king to deal with, and a son with a heart near black enough to fit Melkor himself to help them.

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Durelin's post

Passing in front of a mirror in her temporary bedchamber, which the King Ulfang had so “graciously” presented to her for her services (services he had never received but which his son had, who might as well be seated in the old man’s throne), Thuringwethil, Women of the Secret Shadow, shuddered, she herself a mirror to her soul as a ripple of disgust passed through it. What was this horrible body?

Her bones themselves dripped with a deep hatred for the creatures called ‘Men,’ but even more so for the Children of Ilúvatar: silly children who could not even play nicely with their friends, which had made it all too easy for Morgoth to bring the little Ulfing king to his knees. Thankfully the dark powers which she served would use these beings and then dispose of them. Thuringwethil felt she might just have to hang around long enough to see that disposal, but not if it meant remaining in this body for any longer than was necessary. To think that now she, Woman of the Secret Shadow and faithful servant to Sauron, acting often as his voice itself, was now something Men low and base could admire with hungry eyes that say prey within read. She had not been the one to fail! O, but her poor master…

She had to endure one man in particular, though his simple ways could sometimes amuse her. Uldor really though he had power, that he was manipulating, that he was triumphing and would show everyone, even the Dark Lord himself, what he was made of. But Thuringwethil already knew, which her master knew even better – he was but flesh and bone and warm, thin blood. As soon as that blood went cold, he would pass into the dirt, and men to come would leave their bold footprints in him, forgetting that they too would join him sooner rather than later. For beings like her, these lives were blinked away, if they could be called ‘lives.’

War was coming, and she shook with excitement because of it. She would be the one to secure the victory, and Morgoth would not be able to forget it. When Sauron rose again she would undoubtedly be allowed to join her Lord again, and she would have the strength to be rid of this body forever. Then she could take on forms that were more pleasing to her master as well as to her. Maybe she would be rid of this mocking body that locked her in a fleshy prison before the battle began, and she would finally be able to feel the blood of those Elves – those pitiful fools who mourned the loss of that harlot, Luthien, who would bind herself to a being of an even lower race – on a skin she chose.

But alas, she knew her work would not be done until well into the bloodshed, for the treachery ran deep, and the Woman of the Secret Shadow would not dream of abandoning her work. Once the lies had seeped in, and as long as the boy who played with being puppet master danced to her tune, the Dark One’s victory was secure. Doubtless Uldor would see it her way without too much trouble: planting ideas in a mind so malleable in tainted hands was too simple.

Who Thuringwethil had to step more lightly around, though, were the men not mired in a sickness of the mind like their leaders were, and that was many of the Ulfing people, so clueless and innocent. If they ever did catch some sort of clue, they could be a risk. Such things as war and alliances were beyond those simple folk, left for the hearts of lords and kings, predisposed to disease and corruption. Rumours, even whispers, spreading fear and doubt were pleasing to her as long as they did not involve her. Remaining in the shadows was the way it had to be done, and it was the way in which she was accustomed to working.

She knew how the minds of men worked – deceit was not something done in the light of day: it was done in the dark when the eyes could not see what the hands were doing. That was the beauty of it, and what made it the sweetest perfection of a business for Thuringwethil to use to her liking. There was no way she could fail: the treachery of men was on her side.

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A note on her alias - I was going to go with Tyra, but I might change it because Dimturiel's 'Tora' is a bit too close... Not that it matters, I suppose, but I wasn't completely sold on Tyra anyway...


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EDIT

Linked your post to the Character/Player list ~*~ Pio

Edit by Durelin: I changed her alias to "Jord." (Means "Daughter of Night," supposedly...so seems fitting.)

[Anguirel]

Durelin, I'm in love aready. Luckily my character is more oblivious to such charms than I...

Noinkling wishes to play an Ulfing woman in her late forties.

[piosenniel]

Noinkling

You're on the list to post to this thread.

~*~ Pio

[Noinkling]

Here’s my character. Hope she's satisfactory.

I’ve upped her age so that she can be contemporary with piosenniel’s character’s (Kata’s) mother. Piosenniel has kindly agreed my character can be attached to her family group.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Noinkling's character

NAME: Dulaan

AGE: 58

RACE: Ulfanger

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: None, really. Does have a larch heartwood walking stick with an iron tip on one end and a fist sized ball of petrified wood from the mountains round her birth area; iron shears she uses for taking the wool from her sheep; several pairs of pine wood knitting needles. She always has a pair of these along with a ball of yarn tucked in the thick cloth pouch she has always at hand.

APPEARANCE: In a nutshell: crone-like.

In her prime she was most likely about 5 ft tall. Now shrunken with age and a bit bent over she’s about 4 ft 9 inches. Thin, with the sort of loose skin typical of an elderly female who’s lost muscle mass and body fat. What was once dark hair is now turned quite grey and worn in a thin plait to her waist. Wizened round face, prominent chin as she’s lost many of her teeth and her mouth tends to fall in against her gums. Dark eyes, a bit cloudy, rheumy from age. Ears are sharp enough, but she likes to pretend she is slightly hard of hearing. Wears mid thigh wool dresses in dark colors – usually blue. Scuffed up, softened by age, leather boots. Woolen leg wrappings. Has a thick, dark blue with dark red borders cloak she usually wears.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: She has seen a lot of good and bad times in her long life and has learned to let events roll off her as does water from a duck’s back. Basically happy person, laughs easily, smiles readily Does tend to have certain ideas about how ‘things’ should be done and will voice her opinion as she sees fit. Likes to stay close to the home-fire and keep her old bones warm.

HISTORY: She is a cousin of Kata’s mother. (Kata is piosenniel’s main character’s wife)

Dulaan’s immediate family are all dead. Husband and two sons killed in skirmishes long ago in the far Eastern lands. She had no daughters and considers herself a sort of second-mother to Kata. She has been taken in by Grimr and Kata as a part of their family. And is called Granny Dulaan by their children. Her tiny little flock of sheep and two goats run with theirs.


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Noinkling's post


‘Kata! Kata, are you there?’ Dulaan stood blinking in the dimmer light of Kata’s house. She stepped further in, letting thick wool blankets which covered the entry way to fall back into place behind her. The old women thumped her walking stick a few times on the rug covered floor of the dwelling, a muffled sound at best. ‘I let the goats and sheep out into the side pasture. Is there something hot to drink, something to warm an old woman’s bones?’

The room was coming more into view as her rheumy eyes adjusted to the small light of the fire and the shadows which it threw about the homey interior. She tapped her stick lightly against one of the carved wood benches and smiled down at the child who sat there.

‘Slide over, won’t you sweeting? Let Granny rest a bit by the fire.’



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[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian has asked to join the game.

Garen - your name is on the list to post to this thread. Come say hello and put your Character Bio on when you get it ready.

~*~ Pio

[Garen LiLorian]

Hello everybody. Here's a rough character sketch, that may or may not work very well. It may be a bit modern. *shrug* Oh well. It was fun to think about. Please let me know if and how it needs to be changed.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Garen LiLorian's character


NAME: Adbrandr

AGE: 22

RACE: Ulfing

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Adbrandr's weapon is usually rhetoric, but he has the strength of his beliefs and so occasionally wields a dagger or a torch as becomes neccessary. In a real fight, he would use the same short spears and shield as the other Easterling warriors, though he is not trained with them beyond a basic proficiency.

APPEARANCE: Adbrandr is taller then average for an Easterling, (say 5'5" or so) straight limbed and beautiful. His eyes (which are blue) are fiery and passionate. His skin is fair (for an Easterling) and his hair is long, black, and tied in a ponytail. For an Easterling, he is slender and not very strong. He wears typical peasant clothes, though his family can afford better, to show his devotion to the working man.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Adbrantr is a political activist. Though a man in the prime of life for an Easterling, he is not married, continues to live with his parents and doesn't work or own property. Instead, he devotes his entire attention to his political agenda. He is a student (insofar as it is possible) who has decided that the Ulfings would be much better off allied with the Enemy. He is happy giving incendiary speeches against the Eldar, whom he sees as frightening, condescending aristocratic overlords and comfortable arranging mysterious fires or administering dark alley beatings to those he sees as collaborators with the hated Elves. He is extremely zealous and has a charisma about him, a strength of belief that sustains him much more then food or friends. He is strong but brittle, overly passionate but close-minded, intelligent but foolish.

HISTORY: Minor house carls in Ulfang's "court," Adbrandr's parents enjoy some status and wealth above most of the other subsistance farmers, and thus Adbrandr's life was less hard then most of his peers. He was only a small child during the relocation of the tribes, and carries only a small child's romantic vision of the "motherland" that the tribe relocated from. His knowlege of Elves is just as scarce, his only real experience being a vague memory of them as bright and terrible as they, according to him, commanded that the tribe settle in the area where they are now, an area pitifully too small for the growing number of Men, in his estimation. His youth, while less hard then most, was not easy by any stretch, and he blames this as well on the Elves. Hearing of the "Enemy" that dared to challenge the Eldar's claims of superiority with nothing but a few brave men and other creatures hated by the bigoted Elves, Adbrandr spent most of his teenage years trying to learn from the old men of the tribe about Elvish history and oppressions. Armed with a patchy knowlege of third-degree history, he had declared his contempt for the Elvish collaborationist views expressed by Ulfang and his two younger sons, and holds up the oldest as a misunderstood folkhero, worthy of praise.


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Garen LiLorian's post

"And that is why!" the crockery rattled from the thump as he be brought his fist down, staring feverishly around the dinner table at his companions. "Don't you see? What have they ever done for us? How have they helped us? By giving us what is already ours?! No! And no again!" His head traversed from side to side in an emphatic shake, but his too bright eyes remained fixed on his audience. On the table, his fist trembled with restrained passions. "This... this slavery, yes, slavery is an affront to our proud house that cannot, nay, will not be borne. Justice will out, friends." He dropped into a prophetic whisper at this last. "Mark my words. And you would be wise to side with the people rather then with the overlords when we rise up and throw off this yoke of elvish imperialism." He punctuated his impassioned talk with a deep swallow from his earthenware cup, revolutionary fervor burning deeply in his breast, his strange eyes darting over his audience.

"Yes, yes, just as you say dear." His mother pushed back in her chair uncomfortably, hands dry washing themselves in her lap as she looked imploringly at her husband. The other person at the table brought the palm of his large, hairy hand down on the table with a thump not unlike his son's, only a moment before. "And I say, that is enough of that nonsense, boy." He growled, foul breath washing over the intervening space, his small black eyes glinting dangerously. "Three times already ye've escaped having yer throat cut and fed to the crows, and each time ye come back more lunatic then the last. I'll na' have it under my roof anymore, d'y'hear?" The revolutionary started to speak strongly, but the hairy limb slammed the table again, a cup leaping off in fright, preferring the cool safety of the packed earth ground to the increasingly abused table. "No! I said no an' I mean no, boy! While ye live under my roof, ye'll do as I say, or it'll be me feedin' ye to the crows." The small part of his face not yet claimed by the ongoing struggle of beard, hair and eyebrows was a dangerous red and the hand not used for so scaring the cookware clutched the wooden handle of a long dirk at his belt unconsciously, the barest gleam of iron reflecting candlelight.

The revolutionary leaned forward in his chair, his passion turned cold. His bright eyes glittered like a snake's and, as though taken with the metaphor, his body appeared coiled and tense, ready to strike. His voice, perhaps feeling left out, came in a hiss. "You cannot suppress the truth, father. You cannot kill it with your cold iron or stamp on it with your boots. You are just like every other fat, self satisfied house carl, living off the work of the people, offering nothing in return. A mangy wolf, living off of the scraps the elves feed you, and the meat you can steal without bringing down the wrath of the people upon you." His head made another slow traverse. "No more, father. Strike me all you wish. I never wanted your protection, and I renounce your soveriegnty over me."

The bearded thundercloud darkened and he reached for a handful of the rough shirt his son was wearing, but the younger man slipped his grasp and moved to the door gracefully. "Farewell mother. Find the truth before it finds you." He intoned, and was gone. "Damn blast that Elf-spawned, goblin loving excuse for a milk blooded son of a pox-ridden -!" His father's bellow cut through the night. "You know it's only a phase, dear..." The peacemaker laid her hand on her husband's arm, her voice soothing. "This is the third time this month, and he always comes back, talking about filial piety and the values of this revolution he seems to want so much." She looked out the door sadly. Her still glowering husband clenched and unclenched his ham-like hands, looking for something to hit. "... I'm for the lord's house." He said after a moment through gritted teeth. "If that blasted goblin lover gets his feet too cold and runs back, he can sleep in the field with the animals, d'y'hear?" His wife nodded obediently, privately resolving to do nothing of the sort. "Well then." The man of the house took another look around, as if daring the furniture to utter revolutionary slogans, then ducked into the night after his son.

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[Child of the 7th Age]

Garen,

Glad to see you're here.

__________________

My minor character is still to follow but here is my main one. I'll add in the name of Embla's clan/family later as well.

Linked ~*~ Pio

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Child of the 7the Age's character - Khandr

NAME: Khandr

AGE: 40

RACE: Eastern Man - Borrim

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Unlike the other Borrim, most of whom wield curved blades, Khandr bears a straight sword. It is a blade of fine workmanship gifted to him by Maedhros as a recognition of loyal service in Bor's court. The hilt is silver, adorned with an intricate pattern of intertwining leaves, a pattern more typically elvish than is generally seen in a mannish blade. Khandr’s penchant for this unusual sword puzzles some of the Borrim, but he considers it a physical embodiment of his clan’s oath of loyalty and will not set it aside. He bears a serviceable crossbow that is a gift from his father along with a quiver of 25 arrows; a throwing dagger stashed inside his leather boots; a sturdy hunting knife; a shield of wrought iron; and two ancient spears that once belonged to his grandfather who dwelled far to the east. It is a dangerous world, and Khandr makes sure he is never without a weapon

APPEARANCE: Khandr stands 5’, 5” and weighs about 165 pounds. His black hair is kept short, although it curls a little around the nape of his neck. His skin is tanned from the sun, and one side of his face is marred with a scar that runs from the top of his right ear down to his nostril. Despite the troubling scar, his dark brown eyes look honest, a rare and sometimes dangerous trait in these troubled times. Khandr wears a leather thong about his neck that has a symbol of his clan suspended from it. This device is wrought from the tusk of one of the giant mûmakil and presumably reflects the region from which his clan originally came. Although the son of one of the more prominent members of the Borrim, he dresses simply: leather riding boots reaching to his knees, dark trousers and a tunic, a leather jerkin that’s usually left open, and, when needed, a heavy cloak.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Khandr is an honest man who would love to pass his days in quiet: hunting, supervising the herds, enjoying his beloved first wife, and passing on customs to the younger ones in the clan. Unfortunately, that is not to be. His own household and the wider world he inhabits are filled with strife, a situation he privately deplores. Living in the north, he has seen firsthand the ugly work of Morgoth and his minions, and he despises them. Khandr is by nature a peacemaker, but one born into an age when peace is not possible. In personal terms, he can be stubborn and inquisitive to the point of exasperating others. He is bright and observant and on occasion has learned things that would be better off left untouched.

HISTORY:

Khandr, his father, and brothers are in the personal service of Bor. Khandr has inherited a considerable stretch of lands, both forests and plains, in northern Beleriand and owns large herds of horses and flocks of goats and sheep. He employs servants to care for these, since most of his time is spent at Bor’s court or on official business for him, carrying messages to distant locations. Khandr’s most recent assignment brought him south where he is trying to negotiate a marriage agreement. One of Bor's nieces was looking for a husband, and it was thought wise to try and tighten the alliance with the Ulfings Since Khandr has a reputation as a peacemaker and someone skilled at building bridges, he was chosen to negotiate the settlement. Unfortunately, relations between the two peoples have now deteriorated to the point that Khandr finds himself frustrated at every turn in his efforts to forge a new marriage alliance. He is at the point of giving up and returning home, but hesitates to do so since it will disappoint Bor and his son.

Khandr is doubly frustrated in his personal life. His married his wife Briga at the age of seventeen and is still deeply in love with her. More recently, however, Bor asked him to enter into a second marriage for reasons of cementing an alliance with a powerful family. Taking a second wife is a common arrangement among the Borrim who still keep many of the old ways. He wearily acceded to this request without much enthusiasm. He vowed to treat Embla kindly but to make sure she understood that she was second to Briga. When the new bride arrived, Khandr quickly realized he had taken on more than he had bargained for. Much of his time is now spent trying to put out fires between the two women since they are frequently at odds.

Khandr has two daughters in their early twenties, one married and one single, but neither has travelled with him to the court of the Ulfing. He has always yearned for a son but that wish has not been granted.

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Child of the 7th Age's minor character -- Briga

NAME: Briga

AGE: 36

RACE: Borrim

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Briga owns a small bow which her husband has taught her how to shoot for purposes of sport, but she has never been in a physical fight.

APPEARANCE: Briga is short and lithe, standing less than five feet. She has brown curls that fall to her shoulder and, when she is happy, her dark eyes sparkle. Though approaching the age of thirty-six, she looks considerably younger than that. Her dress is modest, as befits the first wife of a high ranking official.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES/HISTORY

Briga has been loved and sheltered for much of her life. Her parents showered her with love and affecton and her husband has done the same. Khandr and Briga played together as children. They were sweethearts from a young age and have continued to be extremely close as husband and wife, though Khandr protects her from the worst intrigues of the court and from comprehending the reality of Morgoth's attacks on Beleriand.

Shy and reserved with those outside the household, Briga focuses her energies on her husband and daughters and the few close friends she admits to her heart. She is from a wealthy family and has never had to struggle for money or position. She is naturally good natured and gentle but sometimes fails to see the very real problems that people face whose past have been far more difficult than hers, whether in personal or economic terms. As a result, Briga sometimes lacks real sympathy or understanding for those around her who are struggling with difficult issues that she has never had to face. And to make things just a bit more difficult, she is also a person whose feelings can be easily hurt. Her one sadness, which she keeps to herself, is that she has failed to give her beloved husband any sons.

Although Briga hates to argue, she will defend her loved ones with tooth and claw if she feels their best interests are threatened. She was prepared to accept the presence of a second wife in the household with grace, since that is part of traditional Borrim culture. She had hoped to make that second wife a sister and share things with her. What she did not count on was Embla's sharp tongue and open hostility from the very beginning. Briga can not understand the kind of problems that Embla has encountered in life and, as a result, has a hard time feeling any sympathy towards her. The real question for Briga is this: will she continue to ignore the complexity of life and fail to recognize that there are people around her struggling with things she can barely imagine, or will she grow in understanding, wisdom, and grace?


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Child of the 7the Age's post - Khandr

With a weary sigh, Khadr leaned back in his chair and tried without success to sort out the tangled events of the day. He had been home from the great hall for more than two hours, yet his head was still throbbing. He could hear the angry voice of his first wife Briga issuing from down the hall as she criticized second wife Embla for her lack of cooperation and continuing bad spirits. The two women constantly disagreed about household arrangements. Briga would point out when Embla was shirking her share of the work, while the latter would glare out at her, saying nothing but with a nasty scowl on her face.

Not that Khandr would place the major share of blame on Briga! The house had run flawlessly in the old days when she had been the only one on board. He had taken a second wife to extend his own network of alliances and influence and to provide a female friend for his first wife. All his good intentions did not seem to be working. The newcomer Embla had upset the delicate household balance with her sullen face and bitter words. As second wife, Embla should have the good sense to accept that she was not going to be the one on top. Khandr was not an unthinking brute, and a little graciousness and cheerfulness on Embla’s part would have gone far towards earning her many special favors and rewards.

The arguments, however, showed little sign of abating. While Embla did not openly challenge his authority or that of Briga, she sometimes flung out occasional side insults or vague sounding threats which left no doubt that she was bitterly unhappy. Once in a while Khandr glimpsed a real sadness in Embla’s eyes and wondered if he shouldn’t make some effort to sit down and talk to her and try to figure out what was wrong. He did not like confrontations, however, and tended to shy away from Embla rather than run the risk of finding himself in the middle of a very unpleasant conversation.

In any case, Khandr did not have the leisure to deal with the matter now. He had enough on his hands trying to untangle the increasingly confusing web of diplomacy. Any serious attempt to improve the situation with Embla would need to wait till they returned back home to the land of the Borrim. That day could not come too soon as far as Khandr was concerned. This was the fourth week that he and his wives had been in the encampment of the Ulfings. He missed his daughters, and there had been absolutely no progress in trying to forge a marriage alliance between the two kindred peoples. All his effort to negotiate a union between one of Ulfang’s sons and the young niece of Bor had been unsuccessful, despite the assurance that generous gifts would be made as part of the bride price. Some members of the Ulfing entourage even seemed to take offense that the woman would be designated a second wife. That was part of the traditional ways, and Khandr could not understand why this should be a problem.

Khandr felt increasingly baffled over what was happening with the Ulfings. He and his father had always enjoyed good relations with Ulfang. But Ulfang now seemed incapable of making a decision and constantly referred problems and issues over to his sons, especially Uldor. Khandr’s conversations with the sons had been singularly unproductive. They seemed to talk in circles, promising much but never committing themselves to signing an agreement. On top of all that, there were numerous rumors sweeping through the general populace that the delicate balance of peace and war was about to be upset, and they would all find themselves in the middle of a war. Khandr had heard nothing official along those lines, yet he could not help feeling that there was some truth behind these gloomy prognostications.

Khandr bent over his desk and began work on the list of gifts to be sent with the new bride once an agreement was reached. He was still having trouble concentrating. One further regret tugged at the back of Khandr’s mind. If only he had been blessed with a son! The young man could have acted as the arbiter in the disagreements between the two women or, even more likely, Khandr could have avoided the marriage and put forward his son as the bridegroom instead. His son would have been closer to Embla in age and perhaps understood her more. With a weary sigh, Khandr turned his mind away from personal affairs and redirected his attention to the matter of deciding whether twenty or twenty-five goats should be included as part of the bride price.

[Anguirel]

Garen, thankyou for joining. There's one slight alteration you should make in your profile - we've decided that Uldor the Accursed is more likely to have been viewed by Tolkien as the eldest son than the youngest. So your last bit should read something like:

he had declared his contempt for the Elvish collaborationist views expressed by Ulfang and his two younger sons, and holds up the eldest as a misunderstood folkhero, worthy of praise.

You should also be aware that your character is engaged in active treason and so is, at first, in some danger from Ulfang's establishment. Free speech probably isn't tolerated greatly under Morgoth's shadow. But that should make things more fun...

pio, I'd like to add another cameo to the list of available characters. I've decided we can't have a proper Ulfing RP without an appearance by Brodda the Easterling. He's of Ulfang's sons' generation, though I'd guess him as rather younger; maybe 30s. I don't think his birth date is recorded. He is to ultimately become chief of the Easterlings, so he's a pretty vital role - the Fortinbras of our Hamlet, if you like...

My Easterling woman's character description and my first post for the game should be finished by the end of today.

Mith, I wonder if you could PM me what you know about my page, so I can weave him into the first post?

[Kath]

Here is my character bio, it may be subject to change as some bits don't sit quite right with me, but I've been fiddling with it for three days now so I'm probably making it worse rather than better. Yell at me if you do see anything that needs changing.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Kath's character


NAME: Bergr

AGE: 31

RACE: Eastern Man - Borrim

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A sword and two sharp daggers hang from his belt and hunting knives are strapped to his shins. He carries a lightweight but sturdy bow along with a quiver of arrows. His armbraces are sharpened to protect him if all weapons are lost.

APPEARANCE: Short at 5’4” and heavy set, though light on his feet. Broad shouldered with a grim countenance he can appear frightening and unapproachable unless he smiles, which is rare. He has brown eyes and dark brown hair which hangs straight to his shoulders if left down but is almost always tied back to keep it from his eyes. He has a beard which is the same dark brown as his hair. He wears a simple tunic and breeches, adding a vest in colder weather, and short boots. His only concession to armour is his armbraces.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: His personality often matches his appearance, grim and hard, except around children. To some his affinity for youngsters is seen as a weakness but he enjoys their company and innocence, and he protects them as though they were his own. He keeps his own counsel and rarely speaks his mind to others, but when he does his words are measured and deliberate. He is liked among his own people.

HISTORY: Bergr originally went north with the rest of his kin and made a modest living for himself, being skilled at tending the land and hunting. He married and lived in relative peace for a time, but his wife died in childbirth and, feeling the need to escape sadness, he travelled south with other hunters. Since arriving at the Ulfing settlement his natural skills have made him popular with some and an enemy of others.

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Kath's post


Stalking into his home Bergr threw his catch down onto the low table that sat near the glowing embers of the fire and threw himself down to the floor next to it. Taking out his knives he dealt with the reward of the hunt quickly and efficiently, some going into the pot he would have his evening meal in that night, some he prepared to keep, and some he set aside for those who needed it more than he did. For the widows whose children were barely able to survive on the little their mother could provide them with, the only ones that even half accepted him here.

Since the day he’d arrived he’d received nothing more than suspicious glances and whispered comments behind his back. Few said anything to his face, they were not that stupid, but he knew of it all the same. Still there was no love lost on his part either, Bergr disliked this area. It had too many hidden secrets and too much hostility. However, it served his purposes for the moment, and so he would stay.

With a grunt Bergr pulled himself out of his maudlin thoughts and busied himself with cleaning his knives and the table. This done, he carefully wrapped the meat he was not keeping in cloths and, taking up the small packages, left.

As he neared his first stop the children of the hut ran out to him, used now to his heavy footsteps, and the younger ones threw themselves at his legs. Barely breaking his stride he allowed two to cling on to his lower limbs and pulled a third up to dangle from his arm.

“Yours, ma’am.” He spoke gruffly but gently to the woman standing over the fire, indicating both the children and the package he held in his one free arm. She had smiled and taken his burdens from him, allowing him to make his escape and continue on.

He returned, empty handed but lighter hearted, having garnered a similar reaction from every household. Sitting down to his own meal he stared into the contents of the pot for a few moments, wishing there was someone to share it with as he did every day, and then set to, his hunger outweighing his desire for reflection.

Later he found himself sitting in a corner of the small inn that he went to on occasion. He usually stayed out of places where there were going to be a lot of Ulfings as his presence was bound to cause trouble, especially when the men had imbibed a little more than was good for them. Today though he had decided that he did not want to be alone, even if the alternative meant being surrounded by these people.

So far things had been quiet. He had kept to his corner, only venturing out when the bar was clear to order a drink, and then skulking back into the shadows again. Most of the inhabitants were too busy discussing the happenings of the day to pay any attention to him, and Bregr appreciated that, enjoying being able to find out what he had missed while hunting, and it seemed that todays news was particularly interesting.




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[Anguirel]

My Ulfing woman is here. Fea, if you want me to change the last bit, do say.

I'll write a bio for her son Drenda too at some stage.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Anguirel's character - Gausen

NAME: Gausen

AGE: 34

RACE: Human, of the Ulfing tribe of Easterlings

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: The sharpness and acidity of Gausen’s tongue is proverbial.

APPEARANCE: For a woman of the Ulfings, Gausen stands tall and proud, at 5’3”. She is slender, even slightly wasted looking. Her features have a lean delicacy to them, enhanced by the intensity of her stare. She always dresses in a black robe topped by a sable cloak to drive away the cold; she wears a translucent black veil which she sweeps off in moments of anger.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Gausen is an intimidating proposition, dignified but ready at any moment to succumb to the grip of cold fury. Her temper is colloquially known by the Ulfings as “The Anfauglith Wind”. But, as so often, this furious imperturbability is a shield that hides considerable vulnerability. Gausen is cripplingly vain and cannot understand that the harshness of her life is causing her beauty to fade. As such she is apt to exploit more power over men than she possesses, a debtor to pride.

HISTORY: Gausen was married at the age of fifteen to the Chieftain of a lesser clan under the vassalage of Ulfang the Black, Drenduld; her own ancestry is similar; noble in the pettiest of senses; and this makes her apt to assume airs apposite to a great Queen or Empress. Drenduld was a vile husband to her, but she loved him to worship and dreamed that he might one day take Ulfang’s place, swaddling herself in an elaborate image of a paradisical marriage she had never truly known. She quickly bore Drenduld a son, Drenda; but Drenduld showed her if anything less interest or consideration than before. The child Drenda became, and remained, the fulcrum of her existence.

Shortly after the first banishment of Uldor Ulfangsson, Ulfast, the Chieftain’s second son, gathered power in his hands for the first time and did not hesitate to use it in the punishment of his enemies. Drenduld had once slighted him, or so he said; many rumoured that he in fact sought to seize Drenduld’s petty estate. A duel between the two men left the arrogant Drenduld dead, and Gausen’s life forever changed; her husband’s possessions seized, she and her son were plunged into poverty.

They never left it. Gausen rents a pair of beds in a hovel near the hall of Ulfang. It is a strange and chilling place, lavishly decorated with all Gausen’s remaining, tattered finery, where her son Drenda, now sixteen years old, is nurtured for the great destiny Gausen believes is his birthright.

In the meantime she schemes for the restoration of her former comparative glory. She nurses a hopeless but determined fantasy; that Uldor, greatest son of Ulfang, whom she has often seen in passing and whom she has been presented to at the hall, might deign to love her and protect her son. Uldor’s lecherous disposition has led him to give her faint encouragement.

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Anguirel's character - Drenda

NAME: Drenda

AGE: 16

RACE: Human, of the Ulfing tribe of Easterlings

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Drenda can wield a scimitar with a good deal of skill, though not as much as he supposes, and is also extremely competent with a bow and arrow after a childhood filled with hunting. He has never fought anything other than wild beasts before, but imagines he would be perfectly capable of doing so.

APPEARANCE: Drenda's handsomeness is a credit to his mother - and indeed entirely due to his mother, for his father Drenduld was thuggish and grim of visage. Taller than most fully grown Easterlings at 5'7", he seems set to become taller still. His form is lithe and agile, his limbs long and wiry, his shining black hair is his mother's delight, and his sparkling eyes seem set to charm the women of the Ulfings.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Apart from the vigour of youth, Drenda's character has in truth few attractive characteristics; for if his looks are his mother's, his mind is his father's. He knows how Gausen dotes on him and is perfectly filling to exploit it when he needs coin or credit; but he feels no loyalty, let alone devotion, in return, only a vague sense of possessiveness that lead him to be suspicious of men who visit the hovel. He longs to prove himself in battle, but his convictions are too shallow for him to care much about the circumstances.

HISTORY: Drenda has spent fourteen years soaking up the love, energy, and funds of his widowed mother. All that can be spared has been spent on Drenda's advancement. This has been to a degree successful; Drenda was granted the status of a lesser chieftain's son by Ulfang two winters ago, and since then his days are spent more often at Ulfang's hall than with his mother. This has tripled his vanity, already inherited mightily from both his parents.

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Anguirel's post - Gausen/Drenda

The quietness of the hovel was disturbed only by the recurring circles of Gausen’s distaff. She span the greyish flax, and watched it form, coagulate, like some eerie shadow of a marsh. Once brought out of this dim room, peered at by her narrowed, unadulterated glance, it would become a garment like any other. It would be given, along with the rest of the batch, to the horse-trader’s wife, and the horse-trader would in turn allow Gausen’s son to retain his steed for another month.

Any service that could be done for him was worth any length of gropings upon a darkened loom. She would have worked outside, for the day was bright – she could see that from where she sat – and it would have allowed her eyes more rest. But that would not, in this instance, do at all. Only lesser women worked outside, where the female art, the feminine struggle, for illusion failed them; where tears and stains and lines were mercilessly revealed. Better by far to shroud herself in propriety, Gausen knew.

She had not seen the subject of all her toils, the redoubt of all her hopes, for above a week. Gausen did not consider blaming her son for this; far from it. She had brought him up now; he was a man, in all, she wryly thought, but his extravagance. But that too was Drenda’s affair, not hers. He was by right, she thought in fury, a chieftain’s son; a right confirmed in oath by Ulfang himself! Why should he not live like one? It was reasonable, then, that he dwelt at Ulfang’s hall, burning with the splendour of his youth, and kept his horse, two hounds and a falcon. How her pride blazed for him then. For Drenda was beautiful, not merely to her, but to all others. He towered already among the tallest of the Ulfings. His features, which were her features, shone with grace and power. And if she had to labour in the dirt to maintain that power? Then by the gods, labour she would.

And then she heard the word, its unenthusiastic tone belying its enchanting significance, at the entrance to the hut.

The word was “Mother”.

Like a lapdog Gausen leapt from her seat, throwing back her veil, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. He had come. He never came here now, never usually. But he made an exception now. What filial piety... she ran to the threshold and embraced his tall, thin, figure, like a sapling still, she thought fondly, a handsome sapling, but no tree yet.

“Drenda...” she cried, but he endured her clutches with an ambivalent glance, and stepped uneasily out of them.

“Mother, we should talk.”

“Come in, then, come in!” But still Drenda hesitated upon the wooden doorstep. The look in his eyes moistened his mother’s. He is ashamed, now he is a great man, she thought, to enter the room where he lived as a boy.

“Drenda,” she said, summoning some of the sternness she reserved for all but her child into her voice, “it is not the feeling of a nobleman to quail at his mother’s house.”

Drenda bowed his head, surly but not wishing to argue, and stepped in. At once Gausen reproached herself. Had she been too sharp with him? Would he leave more quickly now? Had she squandered minutes with her son over a point of pride?

“Mother,” Drenda said, “have you got Father’s things? I need them.”

“Your father’s things?” Confusion mingled with relief in Gausen’s mind that Drenda had not taken offence. “The circlet of his lordship and the sword-belt of his authority? Are...are you certain you need them, my dear?”

“I’m not going to pawn or sell them, if that’s what you mean,” Drenda answered sullenly. “Yes, Mother, I need them. Things are happening fast outside your hut. There’s...there are going to be opportunities, Mother. I need all the dignity I can muster.”

But Gausen had shrunk back further into the darkness of her dwelling; partly to find the relics of her husband she had stored for fourteen years, but also to conceal the fear that spread across her face.

“Will there be war, then?” she asked quietly, her back to her son.

“I do not know for sure,” Drenda answered without emotion. “But an envoy has come from the Eldar. Whatever happens...”

“Oh, Drenda, Drenda, my boy, be careful with your life,” Gausen exclaimed, the sobs starting to conquer her soft voice, “which I have preserved with all that remained of mine.”

Drenda coughed, embarrassed. “Have you the circlet and the belt, mother? I should be present at the Hall to watch the Envoy’s reception.”

“Ay, my son, ay, my good lord,” Gausen whispered. “Take the emblems of your right, my boy, and stand tall in the hall. I know you will have no equals there.”

She passed over a bundle of black silk, laid her hand on her son’s shoulder, and stole a swift kiss from him before he left, laughing at the bristles of his fresh beard. He did not give her another look, but she listened, rapt, to the beating of his horse’s hooves as he made his way to the hall.

When they died away, she considered the news he had brought. If war was to come, she had but little time. She must see Uldor, must convince him to accept her, must solemnize their bond, before the men of the Ulfings left for the north. That way lay glory and preferment for her son.


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[Feanor of the Peredhil]

I like it. I'm pretty sure I've yet to write a legitimate bad guy. Bring on the lechery!

[Garen LiLorian]

You should also be aware that your character is engaged in active treason and so is, at first, in some danger from Ulfang's establishment. Free speech probably isn't tolerated greatly under Morgoth's shadow. But that should make things more fun...

Yup, pretty much. I figured he believes The Man martyring him would show the truth of his rhetoric, when in fact his parents consistently use the last of their waning influence to keep him alive. Perhaps also, Uldor gives him some slight measure of protection, thinking someday he might prove useful? In any case, he probably thinks of himself as a bigger thorn in Ulfang's side then he really is.

And, edited the bit about Uldor being the oldest.

[Celuien]

Linked ~*~ Pio

Here's my character description. Let me know if anything needs changing.

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Celuien's character

NAME: Ulfast, son of Ulfang

AGE: 43

RACE: Easterling - Ulfing

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Ulfast carries two gold-handled curved daggers on his belt (like this). He also keeps a curved sword with a black handle at his right hip.

APPEARANCE: Ulfast stands approximately 5’5”, average height for an Easterling, but is still intimidating in bearing. He is of average build, but well-muscled and agile. His eyes are deep brown, a color that would imply warmth if not for the hard glint in their expression. His black hair is shoulder length, unkempt and matted to conceal a left ear split from the upper curve to the lobe during a raid. He has a black beard in which a few graying strands can be seen. All of his features are large and coarse, and his lips often seem curled in a sneer. His skin is deeply tanned and weathered except for a small area on the index finger of his right hand, where he once wore a golden ring that was his symbol of authority as his father’s heir during his older brother’s periods of exile.

Ulfast wears black boots that reach to just below the knee. His breeches are of the same color. Tunics are either red, brown, or black. He wears a gold medallion on a heavy gold chain. On formal occasions, he is seen in red robes.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ulfast is quick to hold a grudge, and once his resentment is stirred, he does not forgive those who have angered him. He tends to be sullen and reserved, but his silence conceals the cunning mind of a master plotter. Those against whom his plans are raised rarely know of his plans until he is ready to strike. He stands by alliances, though less from a sense of honor or loyalty than the knowledge that it is unwise to make enemies.

HISTORY: Ulfast is the second son of Ulfang, and as such was given considerable power and influence during the periods of his elder brother’s exiles. When in control, he often behaved ruthlessly, exerting his power to settle old grudges and consolidate his influence over the Ulfings both through fear and through gifts to his friends. After Uldor’s return, Ulfang returned power to his oldest son, leaving Ulfast angry and embittered toward his brother. Though not bold enough to attempt open rebellion, he secretly maintained such alliances as he could – meaning those not known to Uldor – with the hope of eventually overthrowing his brother and regaining power. On some level, he holds himself in contempt for not rising against his brother, but feels that he would not be successful in an attempt to regain power by force since his brother still holds their father’s support.

Ulfast is married to the daughter of a lesser Easterling chieftain and has three children (two daughters and a youngest son) by her, but she and the children are rarely seen due to Ulfast’s distaste for his wife and family.

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Celuien's post

The night before the Envoy's arrival


Stars gleamed brightly in the midnight sky over the Ulfings' settlement. A warm breeze mingled with the new-budding branches, stirring them to a gentle whisper that played behind the song of the night birds. Peace reigned over all, save in one house, where even at the late hour, a light still moved in the windows.

Ulfast knew no rest. For hours he had lain awake in bed, staring ahead as though he could will his sight beyond the wooden beams to gaze beyond the ceiling of his chamber to the still darkness of the night. His spirit was troubled, though he could not say why. Time dragged by and sleep yet failed him until, at last, he lit a lamp and stirred uneasily in the room, changing his nightshirt for a brown tunic and breeches with a black cloak and boots. Perhaps a walk in the open air would settle his spirits.

Concealing a dagger on his belt, Ulfast stole out into the night. He walked in the dark, savoring the odors of loam and cut wood that filled the air, but ever alert and with one hand on the dagger handle. No enemy would catch him unaware.

A turn near the town's gate brought him to the standards of the Claw and Star. Though the symbols could not be seen under the dim moonlight, Ulfast heard the standards flapping in the breeze, and the images were clear as day in his mind. The Star of Fëanor. Not long ago, the Ulfings had been alone, allied only to themselves and a few other tribes in the east. The Dark Lord who held sway from the north was far away, a name to be feared, but not a presence in the daily lives of the people of Ulfang. But now they had thrown their lots in with the Elves. Ulfast had spoken in favor of that choice. The Dark Lord was slipping. The Elves were in open rebellion against him, and were ever seeking new allies for their cause. A new power was rising. Not today, or for a year of tomorrows, or even for long winters after that, but it was rising, and the Ulfings would rise with it to new power beyond their wildest imaginings in the old days.

Ulfast walked on, still lost in his thought, until the sun peered over the horizon. He then turned back to his house to rest before the business of the day began.
--------

[Anguirel]

Fea is grappling with her studies and won't be able to post her bio for a week yet.

I'm aware my first post is late; I'm waiting on information from Mith, if that's alright.

Rune is also busy and may be a little slow to produce.

[Folwren]

Well, here is mine. As Celuien said, tell me if anything needs changing. I may be editing it before the game starts, I was somewhat distracted as I wrote it and this character will be a new type for me to play. We'll see how it goes.

Linked ~*~ Pio
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Folwren's character - Uldor


Name: Uldor son of Ulfang
Age: 46
Race: Southron Man, an Ulfing
Gender: Male

Weapons: Uldor carries no weapons visibly. Hidden about his person, however, he has a number of small, very sharp daggers within easy reach. In open battle he uses a two-handed, long broad sword.

Appearance: Uldor does not stand extremely tall, no more than an average Ulfing, but his slender form and his straight carriage seems to make him taller. He has a handsome, clean-shaven face, high, prominent cheekbones, small dark brown eyes, and shoulder length, black hair.

He generally wears only dark clothing, a simple tunic and vest with a belt, dark breeches, and high boots.

Personalities with strengths and weaknesses all mingled in: Uldor has no real morals of his own. He is a weak man, thirsty for power and already corrupted by the knowledge that someday, he will inevitably have it. His soul purpose in life is to gain more and more authority. In his past, he has been too hasty with his assumptions of power, and his pride and lack of self-control have gotten him into trouble, eventually getting him banished from his home and thrown out of the inheritance.

At the time of the game, he realizes that it doesn’t pay off to be hasty. He still craves for leadership, but he doesn’t hunt for it so openly now. He goes about things in a round about manner. He twists words and ideas and feeds them to his aging father. He finds with passing time that he can put more and more of his own thoughts and dreams into his father’s mind and through the aging Ulfang, he can put his hand on the ruling of the kingdom of Southrons.

His relationship with his brothers is poor, and he knows it. He knows they hate him, and he knows he is sorry that they do, but he hates to admit it, and so he hates them in return. They confront him with charges of his crimes, they show him he is guilty, they tell him with their looks he doesn’t deserve – he has no right – to be there. They call his own conscience onto him and he can not face that. So he discourages it, he puts it down until he hardly knows right from wrong, and when he stifles his own conscience, he feeds his hate and his lust and everything else evil inside him.

History: Uldor is the oldest son of Ulfang, but he fills the part very poorly. He neither set a good example for his two younger brothers nor tried to. He spent all of his younger days pretending to be king over the country, and did his utmost to lord it over whomever he could (and that included his two siblings).

As he grew older, he only became worse. Few people liked him, and more hated him. He fell into bad ways around his twentieth year, enjoying the company of young, pretty women a little too much. He acted as no honorable person should. Then, in his twenty-fifth year, things came to a peak, when he killed a woman’s husband, because the man found his wife and Uldor together. When his case was brought to trial, he claimed that the husband had become angry and he had had to kill the man in self-defense. The woman claimed that she was being assaulted and made love to against her will and her husband had acted as any true man would. Uldor claimed that what had happened had not been against her will. However, it mattered little if she had consented or not. She was the wife of another man and he had committed murder.

His father banished him from the city and country. He left, torn between furious anger and regret. For a long time he wandered with no home and in an aimless manner. After two years, some spies of Morgoth managed to meet up with him. They talked little, getting to know each other (it seemed to Uldor) only the barest amount, before the spies withdrew. But not long after that, he was again found and again spoken to. For some time, these small meetings occurred and he had no other contact with Morgoth or his followers. But after a year, the visits grew more common. Uldor was allowed to discover more of what befriending Morgoth would gain him. He was offered power and riches, men to command to come or go at his will – if he could go back and bring the Ulfings and Borrim under Morgoth. . .

Uldor did return, but not for another ten years. Not until he was thirty-seven did he go back to his home and his father, asking for forgiveness and swearing that he had changed. His father welcomed him, but did not immediately set the inheritance upon him. Uldor was smart enough not to show that this rankled his pride a great amount. He kept it hidden, for three years he kept in hidden, and all that time he acted as perfectly as he knew how. He helped his father, he spoke with him often, he held close council with him, he learned his secrets, everything. And, finally, he won him over to himself completely and Ulfang set the inheritance once more upon his oldest son.


--------------------

Folwren's post

The day was uncommon fine, and Uldor realized it. The wind felt warm on his face, unlike the usual, brisk, cold breeze that had been coming down the past month. The cape on his back was almost unnecessary. Yet, somehow, he liked the way it blew up in the wind as he paced the foot of the wall. He reached the gate and stepped out of the shadow of the wall. The guards leaped to their feet and to attention. He cast them a sharp look.

“Anything new?” he asked, merely to make one of the guards take that ridiculous grimace off his face.

“No, sir.”

Uldor grunted, cast one more critical glance at the men, and passed on. He wandered back towards the great house. He bound up the stairs onto the broad porch and pushed through the great, heavy, wood doors.

“Where’ve you been all this time?” a voice demanded at once. He turned sharply, to find his brother at his elbow. He sighed.

“My dear Ulwarth,” he said, placing his hand on his poor, half-witted brother’s shoulder. “I’ve just been out walking. Surely you did not miss me? I have not been gone long, and you don’t usually notice my absence,” he added with a sneer.

Ulwarth pushed Uldor’s hand away with surprising speed and impatience for a man supposed to be slow. “Our father has been waiting for you this past half hour. Two elven ambassadors have arrived and father wanted to wait for all of us to be there before receiving the message that they bring.”

“Elven? Elves?” Uldor repeated. His black eyes sharpened significantly and nearly flashed under his lowering brows. “Who are they? Who are they from?”

“No questions, no questions, brother, hurry, hurry. . .” Ulwarth grasped Uldor’s hand and led him forward quickly. He reached closed door and laid his hand on the handle. Uldor pulled his hand back abruptly. He cleared his throat, straightened the cape at his shoulders, ran a quick hand through his hair, laying it nicely, and nodded to Ulwarth.

Ulwarth turned, rolling his eyes as his face turned away from his brother, and opened the door. He led the way in.

The room that they entered was a considerable size. A window on the wall opposite the door allowed broad beams of sunlight to stream in. His third brother and his father sat within, as did two strangers. All of them, save his father, rose as the Uldor and Ulwarth entered. Ulfang made the introduction.

“Uldor, this is Lachrandir, of the house of Feanor, messenger from Caranthir, our overlord.”

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Folwren's character - Ulwarth - CARRY-ALONG CHARACTER/NO POST NEEDED

Name: Ulwarth son of Ulfang
Age: 41
Race: Man
Gender: Male

Weapons: He always carries a long, slightly curved dagger at his side. In battle, he wields a great, two-handed broad sword.

Appearance: Ulwarth is short and rather stout, standing 4 foot 10 inches and very muscularly built. His skin is dark, as most Easterlings, his eyes black, his hair, shoulder length, is black, and usually pulled back away from his face, and his beard is short and also black. He almost constantly has a half smile, half smirk on his face. He rarely truly smiles, but often gives an inane, fake, mocking chuckle.

His clothing usually consists of a long, over tunic, dyed in rich, royal colors of true red, dark purple, or green. About his waist is a long, wide belt, attached to which is his dagger. His breeches are dark brown or black, and he wears tall boots. He loves long, fur lined capes, though they actually make him appear shorter than he is, and wider, on account of their bulkiness.

Personalities: Ulwarth generally has the appearance of nonchalance and carelessness on account of his almost constant smile (usually a fake smile) and slow, quiet way of moving and talking. He is neither nonchalant nor careless, though. When he is alone or with some few who he trusts entirely (his nearest brother for one), his smirk is wiped from his face and he is stern and hard, sly as a fox, cunning, and cruel. He is deliberate and thorough in his plans and ideas.

Strengths: An excellent actor, and an ingenious schemer, he is a dangerous man – the fact that he is over looked for something much like a halfwit helps with that. He is loyal only to his father and his nearest brother. He hates his oldest brother for what he calls baseness. He would never stoop so low as to kill a man himself (except in open battle) or touch a woman, and it infuriates him that Uldor has done both and after being banished has come back into the inheritance.

Weaknesses: Though he might not kill someone himself, he has no scruples against having someone assassinated. He is loyal to no one, save Ulfang and Ulfast as mentioned earlier. He is a betrayer, as his name so truly suggests.
On a rather lighter note – his jests and puns are horrible, though he tries to make many of them (and he may do them lamely on purpose to add to his facade of dullness) and he rarely makes anyone really laugh.

History: Ulwarth is the youngest son of Ulfang the Black. All his life, he lurked in the shadows of his older brothers, going mostly unnoticed by people outside the family. His father spoiled him, and his older brothers gave him bad examples (especially his older brother). He quickly learned many tricks of deceitfulness, trickery, and lying.

He is not married; no woman in her right mind would have him. Besides that fact, he didn’t want to marry. A wife and children, he thought, would only get in his way and would make life less enjoyable.


---------------------

[piosenniel]

bill_n_sam has requested to play an Ulfing Easterling.

I've put his(?)/her(?) name on the list of posters to the thread.

See you soon, BnS!

~*~ Pio

[Mithalwen]

[QUOTE=Anguirel]
I'm aware my first post is late; I'm waiting on information from Mith, if that's alright.

Sorry Ang, I had family stuff yesterday and couldn't get online. I willPM you enough to get you started but I may not get my bio up today 'cos I seem to be getting ill again and want to get home and dosed up.... ASAP ...

[bill_n_sam]

Hi everyone!
I guess I'll be playing a male Ulfing. For the record I am myself actually female although I see my name could be misleading. I just really love Samwise. I'll get started coming up with a bio and first post and get those up soon.

[Anguirel]

Mith, I understand completely - get some rest and PM whenever suits.

[bill_n_sam]

Here is my bio for my Easterling. I hope making him a smith will work out alright. I'm getting this feeling that the easterlings were something like an iron age tribe, and thus probably a smith would be making farm tools, household items, and then weapons. I wouldn't think they would be doing farrier work yet (?) Well, if anyone has any ideas on that subject please let me know. I'm also assuming any "armor" would be limited to relatively small pieces of plate type iron, say like a breast plate, which would be very heavy and probably not your typical ordinary warrior wear. No chain mail as of yet????? Does it make sense that the easterlings would not yet have some of the technology say other races of men and elves have? I had thought this would be something I could bring up in the RPG, say when the elf messenger arrives, the superiority of his gear and the easterlings being anxious to develop that technology for themselves. If anyone knows of any good sites I could look at, that would be great.


Linked ~*~ Pio
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bill_n_sam's character


Name: Dag (rhymes with “fog”)

Gender: male

Race: human, Easterling

Age: 22

Appearance: Medium height for his race (5’3” ?); stocky build; extremely muscular arms, shoulders and torso; deeply tanned skin; very dark brown, straight hair, falling a bit below the shoulders, worn pulled back and tied with a leather thong; dark brown, deep-set eyes with a somewhat overhanging brow; square jaw; thick neck; no facial hair; clothing consists of simple woolen tunic and trousers in natural colors of undyed wool, leather boots and belt, lambskin cloak and cap for colder weather. Usually ties a leather strap across his forehead while working to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Often appears to be scowling but this is due to poor eyesight which causes him to screw up his eyes to see better.

Weapons: normally carries only a sharp utility type knife, but personally owns two swords, plain but well made, and a bow which he only uses for hunting. He has not to date been a “warrior” so to speak, and so doesn’t own any type of “armor” or protective gear, nor a shield, but as a smith, he has relatively ready access to whatever weapons, armor, or shields he needs/wants to make.

Personality/strengths/weaknesses: very taciturn and outwardly quiet and not prone to speaking much more than is necessary. Inwardly, he does give some thought to what is going on around him and makes his own judgments thereon and acts according to what he believes is best for him and his family, although he is far from being a “deep thinker”. He is straight forward in his dealings with others and appreciates the same in return, although he isn’t foolish enough to always expect that to be the case. His ambitions in life are to better himself and his family simply to insure, to the small extent possible, that there will always be food to eat and a roof over their heads, but he has no desire for power or prestige. He is steady, responsible and not given to rash action. However, once he has considered a situation and made up his mind on a course of action, he basically can not be turned from it and is stubborn to the point of mule headedness. He has a tendency not to listen to others even when their advice is sound if he is set on a different course. Slow to anger, once roused he will not back down until he feels the wrong has been righted, even to the point of bloodshed.

History/background: He was born and raised on the eastern side of the mountains; his father was a smith and taught him the trade. Not inclined to be a roamer or adventurous himself, it was his father that convinced him to go to the new lands and make a place for himself there, where the skills of a good smith would be needed and well paid for. Before leaving, he decided, again on his father’s advice, to take a wife, and chose a girl (Gunna) from his village selected by his parents. As part of the marriage negotiations, he was asked to take on the added burden of Gunna’s younger sister (Mem), to which he was much opposed. But his father pointed out that having an extra woman about the home, even one such as Mem, might be a good thing, for a variety of reasons, and thus Dag found himself with two women to care for. That was four years ago and now they are comfortably settled into the main village of the Ulfings, with Dag doing a good business as a talented smith and armorer. Ten months ago, Gunna gave birth to their first child, (simply referred to as baby until her naming ceremony which will occur on her first birthday) so Dag lives in a household of females, which can get a little overwhelming at times.

As to current events, Dag is simply leading his life as he sees fit, fairly unconcerned about power struggles or clashes within the Ulfing community, although he is well aware of the tension between the three brothers. He tries to avoid getting involved in any way, which can be somewhat tricky as he is much in demand to fashion weapons and simple armor for those who can afford them. His goal is to increase his own prosperity to provide his family with stability without running afoul of the powers that be.

-----

Name: Gunna (Dag's wife)
Gender: female
Race: human, Easterling
Age: 18

Appearance: Average height for an Easterling woman (5’); average build, lean, with a sinewy strength; waist length black hair; slightly almond shaped light brown eyes; her facial features are regular and somewhat delicate for an Easterling, as are her hands and feet which are small and shapely; she is not considered particularly pretty by Easterling standards, not ugly, just average Her clothes tend to be a bit more colorful than her husband’s; She wears simple woolen gowns of green, blue and russet; a tooled leather belt and leather slipper type shoes. She has a heavy wool cloak and hood for winter and also a sheepskin cloak.

Weapons: none, other than her feminine wiles which she only uses against her husband

Personality/strengths/weaknesses: A very peaceful and calm person, usually to be found with a somewhat enigmatic smile playing about her lips, she goes through her day with purpose and joy. She takes great pride in being a good wife, making sure her husband is well fed and taken care of, but her true pride and joy is her ten month old daughter. Her only weakness, if it truly is one, is her attachment to her sister. Her loyalty to Mem sometimes places Gunna at odds with her husband, or others in the village, but nothing will dissuade her from always taking Mem’s side. She can be just as stubborn as her husband, although her methods of waging war do not include open attack but more usually subtle but irresistible persuasion..

History: She was born and raised on the eastern side of the Emyn Luin, growing up in a farming family, one of many children who were all taught the value of hard work. Raised to be obedient to men in general, she is outwardly docile. Her younger sister, Mem, has been blind since she was a child and Gunna took it upon herself to guide her sister literally back into the world, acting as her eyes and teaching her to function within the limited confines of their family home. Gunna refused point blank to ever marryunless Mem went with her. Since moving with her sister and husband over the mountains, she has since spent her time making a comfortable home for her husband and presented him with what she is sure if the first of many children.

Of their current living situation, Gunna deliberately tries to avoid knowing anything about what is going on. She doesn’t like it when her husband must be involved in the contentiousness surrounding the chieftain and his sons and often counsels him to avoid taking sides. She desires only to have a peaceful and harmonious home.

-----

Name: Mem (Gunna's sister)
Gender: female
Race: human, Easterling
Age: 16

Appearance: Somewhat stunted looking, the fever which almost took her life when she was a child impaired her growth, so she is shorter and more frail looking than most Easterling women; her hair fell out when she was ill and grew back in a queer, rusty brownish-red color, and tends to be dry and brittle, so it’s kept short, and she wears a scarf to cover it; her eyes are dark brown, but sightless and look empty; her face, on the other hand, is alive with emotion and her highly mobile features show a running reflection of what she is feeling inside; her skin is rather sallow, a result of her ongoing frailty and being inside almost all the time; her hands and fingers are long, thin and deft and are her most attractive feature. Like her sister she wears simple gowns of dyed wool, leather slippers and belt, a cloak for the cold weather.

Weapons: none, she is defenseless in the truest sense

Personality/strengths/weaknesses: eternally optimistic; sweet tempered; patient; joyful. Her weakness might be described as a refusal to acknowledge that there is evil in the world and insists that everything and everyone is essentially good and so she doesn’t comprehend threats to her little enclosed existence


History: She has no memory of what life was like for her before the fever and so has no regrets. From her point of view she has always been sightless, she does not remember what things look like, but this doesn’t bother her. She has created her own little world, with the help of her sister, and enjoys the simple pleasures that she can create for herself, such as spinning, sewing, holding the baby, and most of all, thinking up and telling her stories, for she has become a master story teller. Being blind, her other senses have necessarily sharpened far beyond what they normally would be, and her hearing and sense of smell are acute. She experiences her world predominantly through her sense of touch, and has developed such a skill with the hand spindle that the thread she spins is the finest to be had in the village. This has proven to be quite a saving grace when it comes to her brother in law, who couldn’t help but feel a little misused by his bride’s insistence that her sister accompany them to their new home. Mem’s skill has brought more than a few things into the household and Dag is now much more comfortable with his decision to have her as part of his family. Her storytelling ability has also proven to be a great boon although one that brings merely personal satisfaction to her family and doesn’t generate income or bartering power. She entertains them all with her wide range of tales, interspersed with song, some of which she has taken pains to remember from hearing others tell them, and many of which are her own creations. But her talent for entertaining is starting to spread amongst the villagers and may be bringing her new attentions, although not necessarily welcome ones.


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bill_n_sam's post

Dag swept the back of his hand across his brow, pushing the droplets of sweat aside before they fell into his eyes. Despite the spring chill still lingering in the air, the heat of his forge made his skin glow a ruddy copper and he perspired freely under his woolen tunic. Stopping long enough to strip the tunic over his head and hanging it carefully on the wooden peg protruding from the wall of the shed, he considered returning to his home to retrieve the leather head band he usually wore, to keep the stinging beads from obscuring his sight. But the day marched forward and the work flowed from his head to his hands easily, effortlessly. No, he would not leave the metal, not now.

This morning had been still cold enough for him to delay rising from the warm bed he shared with his wife and small daughter. The sun had risen over the eastern hills as he drowsily watched Gunna preparing the morning meal. When it was ready, he had eaten leisurely, enjoying the baby playing at his feet, his sister-in-law, Mem, chatting merrily to the child and Gunna, making them all laugh with one of her outrageous stories. It wasn’t until the sound of heavy boots crunching on the path outside the door and men calling to one another as the village awoke and began to stir, that he recalled to himself the task for the day. Dag had slipped his arms around his wife, squeezing her comfortably familiar body to his, and said succinctly, “Bring me food at the forge, I’ll be there all day”

Without any comment, Gunna had placed her hand to his cheek and held his gaze for a moment. So much of their communications took place with such looks and gestures, that sometimes it almost seemed that they had no need of words. In the almost four years of their marriage, the young couple had developed a deep sense of rhythm, in their thinking, in their feelings. To Dag, it was a great comfort to have a wife who did not always demand that he talk, talk, talk. It seemed to him some men never shut up – and women more so. Some talked so long and so loud they never even heard what they were saying.

Dag much preferred to listen and to then consider, so much so there were those in this new home of his that had at first thought him simple, or stupid, or deaf. But his reluctance to prove his vocal skills was more than made up for by the skill of his hands at the forge. Soon enough, his new acquaintances were praising how well he could craft a plow blade, or a roasting spit, or, more importantly, a sword, and overlooking his reticence. After all, they needed a smith who could work metal, not spin a tale or tell a joke.

The skill to hammer, to shape, to sharpen, this was what was wanted, and today that want was palpable. The night before, as he has rested after his day’s labor, a heavy pounding had shaken the door to his home. Dag had motioned the women to quiet. As Gunna cradled the child to her breast, he had warily opened the door, his eyes narrowing as one of Ulfast’s men pushed arrogantly inside, not bothering to ask for leave to enter another man’s home. With a slight frown on his face, Dag had listened to the demand - not a mere request, but a demand - for a new sword, a fine sword, wrought of the sturdiest iron and with a keen blade, for the son of Ulfang. It was wanted, he had been told, immediately.

Having no desire to run afoul of any of the three brothers whose father was the chieftain of the Ulfings, and therefore Dag’s own liege lord, and knowing that such a commission, if well executed, would almost certainly increase the value of his other work, Dag still hesitated before granting a simple acknowledgement to the demand. Not that he had any real choice in the matter. These men were known for their viciousness and a refusal would certainly mean a violent retribution of one kind or another. Dag’s hesitation was merely the result of that inner voice which spoke to him when he was stepping into dark territory. The potential for either a rise in fortunes or a fall into disaster was equally as probably when dealing with those who lived for power. But being unable to predict which would be his, and his small family’s, fate, Dag had nodded his head solemnly and said only “Three days hence, he shall have it”.

Dag had set aside his other commissions and set to work on the new weapon at once. If fortune smiled on him, the metal would hold true. The ore had been well smelted and was of high quality. Only the best, for a chieftain’s son. He had lain awake for long hours, carefully going over each step of the making in his mind. Morning found the phantom sword complete, down to the honing of the edge and the crafting of the intricate wire work which would decorate the handle. He had spoken no word of his planned work to Gunna, but as she lay awake beside him through the night, he knew that she was keenly aware that all of their futures lay in her husband’s hands. When had they ever not?

And so, it was with a look of hope mixed with an unvoiced warning to caution, that she had sent him on his way to complete his task. As Dag recalled the gentleness with which she had touched his face earlier, he smiled to himself. Don’t worry, he thought. This will truly be a weapon worthy of a great leader of men.

[Anguirel]

Here's my first post for the game. Mith, if you feel your character isn't quite right do tell.

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EDIT: Added to your character bio post. If edits are needed, please edit it there. Thanks! Pio

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FIRST POST FOR THE GAME


"Yet neither by Wolf, nor by Balrog, nor by Dragon, would Morgoth have achieved his end, but for the treachery of Men."

~~~

For the first year since the Battle of Sudden Flame, it felt as if spring had repelled the pitiless touch of the north, as if the Earthqueen’s power had pervaded Beleriand after a long estrangement. The pair of riders upon iron-grey mounts forded the rivulets off the Gelion, careered through the meadows succoured by the waters beyond its banks, and cut swift, leafy paths through copses.

Only one indication of the danger that this temporary idyll still risked could be discerned – the speed which the riders maintained. It spoke of urgency and intensity. There was something insatiable about the journey of the two Elves, as if even the spans of their lives were limited after all, as if bare months of this vitality remained to be enjoyed, raced through, swigged to their dregs. And so, as it turned out, it came to pass.

But such reflections are suitable only for melancholic lays, for sad dreamers who hope that thinking of the past and lamenting it may bring it back again. Lachrandir, Knight of the Dispossessed, formerly of Thargelion, was no dreamer; and this was not a memory of the past, rather a duty of the present. He galloped on, his eyes on his path, his hands calm and inert at his side, belying the frenetic activity that gripped the messenger and the stallion that bore him. In lieu of a saddle-bag – for his was a high-blooded beast, and he did not presume to sully it with harness and reins, instead riding bareback in the usual Elven fashion – he bore a leather haversack slung across his back; its contents, carefully arranged, did not make a sound or apparently jostle at all on the journey.

The same could not quite be said of the other rider’s burden. There was a strange symmetry about the pair of mounted travellers and their steeds; for they were much of the same stamp in colouring and feature – the Elves dark haired and long-limbed, the horses pale - but one rider and his horse were younger and smaller, with a combination of impetuosity and hesitance that called to mind apprentices before their masters. A jangle of metal now rang out from this younger Elf’s bundle.

“I told you, Tathren, to be careful with the silver,” Lachrandir hectored at him. “We’re riding to a country where nine Men in ten have never seen a coin before; a country still wild and far from tamed with law. The summons we carry is of vital importance, boy; we can’t let it go astray due to some adan thug’s excitement over a glint of...”

“Sorry,” the other said, sounding a little crestfallen.

“Never mind, boy, it’s of little importance. But don’t let it happen again, Tathren.”

Lachrandir gave a short look back at his companion before resuming his watch on the road, spurring his stallion to a slightly higher pace. He has something of his uncle about him, I suppose. He’ll learn yet, he concluded to himself.

~~~

“...Forinasmuch as thou, Ulfang, called the Black, hath been accustomed to owe liege-homage, saving thy dignity amidst the tribes, to us, Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor, rightful lord of Thargelion but for the false disseisin of the Enemy; by this and by the ties of loyalty between thy vassals and mine, thou art bidden to provide fighting men in service, to the number of seven thousand, under thine own command or under such a proxy as it pleases thee to dispatch, to meet with our own powers and those of our youngest brothers, the Lords Amrod and Amras, on the twenty-seventh day of the month of May; this army being dispatched, under the lordship of our eldest brother Maedhros, Lord of Himring, to avenge upon the Enemy the grievous and perfidious hurts that he hath inflicted. For amongst these art listed the slaying traitorly of our sire and grandsire, the ruin of our realms in the north, and the unlawful withholding of the Silmarilli, greatest work upon Arda, that our father Fëanor crafted, and that we hath sworn, on pain of the Everlasting Darkness, to regain. So it is ordained on this, the eleventh day of April. And we hath sworn, once having raised up this great Union of Maedhros, never to abandon it, and charge thee to swear likewise.”

Such was the main part of the missive of Caranthir, which Lachrandir carried.

~~~

“Lachrandir!” Tathren cried with gladness. “I see smoke rising not far off among homesteads, surrounding a great hall, hewn of oak and ash...”

“I have seen it too, pup,” Lachrandir answered, smiling. “Do not think that my sight is so greatly shadowed by age and toil. That is the rude dwelling of Ulfang, Chieftain of the Southern Easterlings. What do you think of it, lad?”

“Well...” Tathren started, his brow creasing and lips twisting as he tried to find the words. Lachrandir laughed, and his mirth, coming from such a stern visage, was surpassingly bright and clear.

“Well, exactly. I hope you weren’t expecting much in the way of hospitality...this is no Hithlum, Tathren, and it is no Hador Goldenhead who rules it. Put all you have seen and heard of the Edain from your head! This is Easterling country,” Lachrandir murmured, his smile thin now, “and it is another state of affairs altogether.”

They paused in thought for a few moments. Tanreth was the first to speak.

“Stop dawdling, Uncle! Don’t you know the summons we carry is of vital importance?”

“Mind that minstrel’s glib tongue, you,” Lachrandir replied. And I’m not your uncle either; he was a better Elf than I’ll ever be, even if he did charge me with looking after you, young wastrel.

“Very well. Race me, boy,” he added, kicking his horse into a run and charging after the tiny stockade and palisade walls that beckoned in the distance. After a short while the envoy and his page bid their steeds halt in front of the gate into the settlement. As they passed, they had seen the first Ulfings of their journey, who had stared at the towering, fair-featured strangers bearing the star of Fëanor on their tunics in curiosity mixed with no little fright. The guards, too, goggled as they shuffled the gates open. Tathren quickly assumed an air of composure, though he rode tentatively, all too aware that he, an Elf far from mature, towered almost a foot over most of the Ulfings.

In such a manner the envoys reached their journey’s conclusion, passing under the wall where the two banners, Ulfang’s claw and Fëanor’s star on their black field, shifted together in the April breeze.