The Fall of the North Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Characters - Elven guards of Lindon - Arry

1.) Name: Gaeredhel

Age: 675 years

Race: Elven – Sindar from Lindon

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard plainly bound with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft 3 in (1.6 meters); 180 lbs (82 kilos); wiry build; long dark hair, worn in a single braid down his back; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; Knee high, black leather boots, well worn

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A gregarious fellow, rather garrulous. Enjoys being in on the latest gossip; able warrior; follows orders well; can be an independent thinker should the need arise; is fond of the brews of different areas and races.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1299 T.A. His father, now gone to the West along with his wife, was in the service of Lord Círdan. At present he and his older brother, Rôsgollo, both serve their Lord as warriors, and of late, as guards to one of the emissaries from Lord Círdan to the struggling remains of the Northern Kingdom at Fornost. He is not unfamiliar with the region of Arnor and especially the realm of Arthedain in which Fornost lies. In 1409 T.A. he, his brother, and their father fought alongside the troops led by King Arveleg I when the Witch-king breached the region’s defenses and assaulted the tower at Amon Sûl. At that time, Arveleg was killed; the troops retreated to Fornost and successfully defended the city.

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2.) Name: Rôsgollo

Age: 685 years

Race: Elven – Sindar

Gender: Male

Weapons: Yew long bow; plain, double edged long sword in a wooden scabbard covered with lynx fur and bound in a criss-crossed pattern with leather stripping; large, all purpose, double edged knife in a leather holder at his belt; plain iron helmet; short chain mail shirt worn over a thick fleece shirt; a boiled leather vest embossed with a cresting wave worn over the chainmail.

Appearance: 6 ft (1.5 meters); 195 lbs (88 kilos); solid, compact, muscled build; shoulder length dark hair, parted in the middle and ineffectively tucked behind his ears; grey eyes; Clothes: dark blue wool cloak; dark cloth breeches; grey long sleeved tunic; knee high, black leather boots, well worn; wears his father’s plain silver band ring set inlaid with mother-of-pearl on his left index finger.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: A laconic man, candid in his opinions with a tendency toward curtness. Uses his brother’s ability to gather information and gossip as a tool for planning strategy; able warrior; follows orders well – but will revise them based on his own assessment of a situation’s needs; tends to be very protective of his brother, Gaeredhel – they are the last of their family. Rôsgollo is the one who offered both their services as guards on this expedition.

History: Born in Harlindon, near the port of Harlond in 1289 T.A. His history is much like his brother’s; save for the fact that he was at one time wedded. His wife and infant son were killed when the Witch-king’s troops swept over the area around Amon Sûl in 1409. Rôsgollo along with a number of other Elven troops had been part of a small Elven garrison established in the Weather Hills. They were there to bring quick aid to the King, should need arise. A number of the Elves had brought their families, since this was to be a protracted stay. Rôsgollo had first insisted that his new wife should remain safe in Harlindon near her family; but, she made plain her own argument that it would not be so and joined him at the Weather Hill’s fastness.

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Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Dúnedain Soldier - Osse

Osse's character

NAME: Carthor

AGE: 98

RACE: Dunedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: From an early age, Carthor was poured into the harsh mould of the professional soldier – his father, a brash, overbearing man of little patience taught Carthor to fight with blade and stave from the age of eleven. The boy soon became deft and agile, yet strong and hardy and able to wield a heavy weapon with as much ease as many men of twice his age. From the outset, his weapon of choice was a short, bladed stave. This weapon, being light and long reaching felt right in the strong hands of Carthor in his youth; he could slash, parry and stab with the weapon, and had the range needed to safely avoid an opponent’s own blade.

In his old age, Carthor still possesses this weapon, but physical limitations have meant he no longer can fight with the same dexterity he used to and the weapon requires. Therefore he no longer carries his stave, but usually a stout short sword – a thrusting weapon that allows the ailing warrior to keep his guard enclosed. This sword, though old and well made contains no embellishment on either the guard or pommel, rather it is a simple, durable weapon with soft leather grip and steel fittings – the single-fullered, tapered blade is kept precipitously keen. This weapon is usually housed in a beautifully supple black leather scabbard which, though totally unadorned, sports simply beautiful workmanship – an item from a period where time could be spent on such matters other than bloodshed. Carthor also wears a simple breast plate, un-embossed, and perhaps the most treasured item of his armoury, a magnificently forged war helm with fitted cheek guards and a sloping profile. A beautiful crest of embossed brass almost melts down the centre of the helm, coming to a near teardrop shaped point half way down the helm’s long nasal. This helmet is the only family heirloom still in Carthor’s possession.

APPEARANCE: Carthor is now nearing old age, even for one of the Dunedain and at ninety-two, his body reflects this. A large chunk is missing from his nose and he is missing a finger on his left hand. His right knee plays havoc in the long northern winters, a souvenir from a scimitar wound inflicted early in his soldiering carreer. However, he is still fit and rather muscular – no matter what punishment it has taken, his body seems to naturally hold its fitness. Carthor’s shoulder length hair is starting to thin and is now a deep grey colour, flecked with white. He has startlingly light blue eyes set well back in his rather rounded face and a prominent nose, broken in at least five places. A strong, squared, perpetually stubble clad chin provides his face with an aura of strength. Carthor isn’t tall, yet his frame is muscular and wiry, with startlingly broad shoulders. His overall appearance reflects that a sturdy young man gone to seed with age. Carthor dresses plainly, usually in a shade of grey or brown – his clothes are old and worn, yet can be seen to be of high quality regardless of tears and scuffs. Perhaps his most defining piece of clothing is a large, well worn calf-leather cloak. The cloak is lined with what must have once have been a fine satin but has been torn and sewn out of recognition. The leather itself is scratched, soiled and torn, as if threatening to fall apart on the spot, yet never quite following through. Carthor’s other chief possession is a pair of short, soft leather boots. These boots are a relic from more prosperous times, both for the realm and for Carthor’s house, being made of the most high quality of leathers – wafer thin strips of stretched calf’s leather bound and sewn together to provide a durable, yet malleable material. These boots are over seventy years old and were made by Carthor’s grandsire, upper-Fornost’s premiere shoemaker, as a coming of age present. They are not merely moulded to Carthor’s feet, but rather an extension of them. The shoes, though old are well kept, the leather remains moist and waxed, and there seems to be no sign of it wearing through.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Though his body has bowed to age much earlier than most of his kindred, Carthor’s mind is still sharp, sharp due to the constant internal battles raging; battles against the memories of past horrors and emotional scars, and battles against the dependence Carthor once had upon drink to free him from these horrible memories. Carthor must be forever vigilant; both inwards and outwards to stop himself from falling back into the abyss he toiled so hard to raise himself out of. Carthor’s will is strong, on all matters and his principles are branded deeply in his thought. However, he is head strong and often comes across as being both harsh and arrogant – his tongue is almost as sharp if not as sharp as his mind. Carthor’s tongue and his keen mind are but opposite edges on the same dangerous sword. For as is with most swords, this one can be harmful to the wielder as well as the target.

HISTORY: Being of Fornost’s upper class, Carthor was formally educated from an early age; however, after numerous run-ins with various tutor-folk, he stopped his schooling at the age of eleven. From then on, Carthor’s only education was in the art of death, soldiering. The glory he had associated with this profession was quickly throttled, especially as the threat of Angmar increased. The constant skirmishes with the Witch King threw a young Carthor into the deathly typhoon. What he saw there has haunted his dreams since. Scars, both physical and unseen, too deep to heal were inflicted during the cold winters of the blood soaked north realm. At the relatively young age of thirty-one, Carthor met, and fell in love with, a young woman, immediately marrying her. After being married for two blissful years, Carthor’s wife fell pregnant. Carthor was elated. With this woman, the headstrong, somewhat brash young Dunedain was cheery and amiable, generous and vibrant. Tragically, the infant, a young boy, died soon after birth. Many days went by, and a fever was set in the skin and eyes of Carthor’s young wife. For four sleepless nights he sat by her bed in a silent, fretful vigil. Here he saw everything dear to him pass from his hands like smoke from a flame. The fire in the woman’s flesh could not be abated and she fell into eternity on the sixth day after the birth. The catalyst that had made Carthor’s life more then just a death-dance had been mercilessly taken away from his outstretched hands. He became little more then an apparition, sitting morose and despondent, eating little and sleeping even littler. In time, in years, Carthor became numb. He seemed to function. The drinking of wine consumed his days; he could not be at peace without a goblet in his hand and six more in his gut. His position in the army suffered – a drunken soldier was not fit for leadership. However, a kindly set of men had known of his tragic fortunes and not had him punished, but rather confined to work inside the citadel of Fornost. In his sixtieth year, Carthor’s father, now at the age of one-hundred and thirteen himself, urged Carthor to marry again, deeming enough time had passed since the tragic events of his first marriage. Carthor was loath to do so, but was drunk more often than sober and therefore had little dictation in the matter. A young woman from another prominent family, Lissi was chosen by his parents as she was both beautiful and delightfully intelligent. She took to Carthor, intrigued by his remoteness, attracted by his physicality, yet pitiful of his past. Carthor’s drunken stupor did not extend into the realms of love and his attentions did not fall on Lissi. If anything, during this period, his drinking increased – the time he spent sober was dwindling fast. He became tardy to his post, increasingly intoxicated on duty and careless with his arms. During this time, something softened within his drunken exterior and he opened himself up to Lissi, much to the delight of his aging parents. The pair was soon married and the first of their children Faerim was soon born. During this time, Carthor’s drinking declined somewhat. Another boy, Brander, was born the following year. Something changed in Carthor and he went back into his old ways, with new zeal. Gambling became a new part of his rant and he began to be careless with the family’s property – betting using family heirlooms and purchasing wine with family gold. Subsequently, the family soon became much worse off. This self destructive plummet was observed by his family, with growing concern and angst. Years past and Carthor’s father fell horrifically ill. Carthor’s silent vigil was once again taken up on his father’s bed-side. Before the last rise of his chest had ceased, Carthor’s father asked but one thing of his son – to purge himself of the cancerous habits he had attained, and restore the family’s honour. Over time, Carthor was able to pull himself from the pit of despair, yet he became even more elusive. He no longer applied himself to family life, instead putting the remainder of his spirit into his life as a soldier. And still the threat of Angmar increased…


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Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Mithalwen

Name: Erenor
Age: 3000
Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: Erenor has a long curved sword , product of the great skill of the Noldorin smiths as well as a shorter dagger. She also has a shirt of fine steel mail that like the dagger may be concealed.

Appearance: She has the typical Noldorin coloring of dark hair and grey eyes. Although she is fair of face she has a grave demeanour. Because of her serious role she wears serious clothes usually in grey and blue. Although they are not unfeminine they are less ornate than usual for female elves and she seldom wears much in the way of jewelry or adornment save a sapphire pendant. When travelling she dresses after the fashion of elf men deeming it more practical.

Personality: Stern and unsentimental, determined and a little arrogant, Erenor is sometimes a little more plain speaking than usual for an emissary. She does not suffer fools gladly. She is a pragmatist and regards warfare as a necessary evil and does not shy away from combat.

History: Born in Lindon late in the second age to a noble Noldorin house, Erenor is the descendent of Gondolin. Her father was a general of Gil-Galad and like him did not return from the War of the Last Alliance. Forbidden to go to war, she learned to fight with sword and bow in case at the last war came to her, and the womenfolk needed to mount a last ditch defense of Lindon. She went with many of her kin to Rivendell when their king did not return.

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

Mithalwen's post

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defense of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Emissary from Rivendell - Nilpaurion Felagund

Name: Bethiril

Age: 5488

Race: Eldar

Gender: Female

Weapons: She has never touched a weapon, let alone owned one. She is disdainful of implements of war, never learning how to wield one even when she participated in the battle of Eriador in the Second Age. She has always deemed it her mission to make sure that they not be needed anymore.

Appearance: Being of pure Noldorin descent, Bethiril has black hair framing her unusually calm face with quiet grey eyes. She is scarcely less tall than most males of Elves and Men of the West, and is usually clad in garments little less luxurious than those worn by members of the kingly houses. On the ring finger of her left hand she wears a ring adorned with a gem of sapphire shaped like the flowers of Menelluin, the wheat of Yavanna, surrounded by six small yellow crystals, fashioned by Enerdhil for Idril’s handmaidens, which she now uses as a symbol of her service to Elrond, son of Eärendil, daughter of Idril.

Personality: Being an emissary, her speech is guarded and her emotions are bottled up at all times. Bethiril shows admirable command of her tongue, blending well-crafted words and deep passion in her speeches that stir all but the hardest hearts. Around fighting men she seems aloof and cold, perhaps thinking that she is higher than they are, not having stained her hand with the blood of any that live.

History: Bethiril was born a few months before the Fall of Gondolin, escaping from that dreadful plight when her mother’s sister, one of Idril’s handmaidens, led her mother to Tuor and his soldiers fleeing with Idril and her son from the wrack of the city. Of her father she had no news, though she knew in her heart that he fell to the Orcs when Maeglin betrayed the Way to Morgoth. Her mother was slain when the Sons of Fëanor assailed the havens of Sirion. She escaped with her mother’s sister to the isle of Balar. After the fall of Angband she took the ship to Eldamar, while Bethiril remained with the Elves of Lindon to serve Elrond, who she deemed Turgon’s heir, and therefore her lord.

She was with the host led by Elrond that Gil-galad sent to Celebrimbor’s aid, to act as an emissary between the two armies of the Eldar. They were, however, driven back to the Misty Mountains. There, they were besieged in newly founded Imladris until the Númenóreans came and destroyed the black host. After the Downfall of Númenor and Sauron’s assault on Gondor she was one of the emissaries that shuttled between Lindon, Imladris, and Lórien when the Last Alliance was formed.

Ever since the march of Elrond to Mordor she had never left Imladris. Until now.

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

Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

[piosenniel]

Dedicated Character - Elven Guard from Rivendell - Garen LiLorian

NAME: Maltóre (called Angóre)

BORN: 3rd Age 237

RACE: Grey Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS/EQUIPMENT: Angóre carries a sheaf of three 3ft javelins, each tipped with a steel spike extending 8 inches. He also carries an Elvish sword, 48 inches in length, wound about with spells and incantations for troll’s bane. The sword carries an inscription along the blade; “Torog dagnir,” (slayer of trolls) in Fëanorian runes. The guard is workmanlike in appearance, bearing neither stones nor especial shape, but is in the form of a straight, slightly tapered bar. The handle as well is more functional than beautiful, being wrapped in leather and the pommel is a simple circle of metal, unadorned. All of his weapons are well used and well cared for. He wears no armor or helm.

APPEARANCE: Angóre takes no delight in his appearance, and dresses however he must, often letting his garments be worn to tatters before replacing them. He wears dark colors, preferring grays and blacks. His hair is cropped close and dark, while his eyes are blue and icy. He is tall, though not thickly built, and is very slender. His skin is pale and translucent, blue veins standing out in his forehead and arms.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Angóre keeps to himself, speaking little. When his opinion is sought, he speaks bluntly and to the point, changing his speech not at all whether speaking to the humblest servant or the greatest lord of Elrond’s house. He is neither captain nor general, and gives no thought to strategy. He is not a soldier, and owes no allegiance to any lord. He is a knight-errant, and he is dangerous and fell, and gives all his delight to the hunting of Sauron’s creatures, particularly Trolls. He has a great sympathy for any under the threat of Sauron, feeling their losses keenly, as they resonate with his own.

HISTORY: A lesser scion of the house of Finarfin, all his family were born with the golden hair common to that bloodline, but Maltóre took after his mother, a Grey Elf, and so was named "golden heart," for his hair was dark.
His father was an ancient, and soon after Maltóre's birth departed for the Havens. His mother had no joy in Middle Earth after his departure but that which she found in the raising of her child. Maltóre was trained, at his mother's behest, in the traditions of the Elven minstrels, and showed a gift for that path. When he came of age and joined the court of Elrond, his mother lost her last link to Middle Earth and departed for the Havens. However, when she was waylaid and slain by trolls a mere two days from Rivendell, Maltóre lost all joy in singing and in tales, and, changing his name to Angóre, (Iron heart) became an errand rider and a warrior of Elrond, hunting trolls throughout Middle Earth.

With the forces of the Witch-King encroaching from the North, Angóre has been fighting more or less constantly for several years. During one of his periods of errantry, he came across a party of Elves bound for Fornost beset by a great Troll. He defeated the Troll, though the toll was heavy, and he was sorely wounded, and the guards killed. He was brought to Fornost at the behest of the Emissary, and recuperated there. The shadow of the Witch-king lay over the city, and Angóre, beholding the plight of the city, agreed to stay in its defense. He has taken over the protection of the Emissary and acts as a bodyguard and aide, for he is the only other Elf of Rivendell there but he longs ever to be on and perhaps beyond the walls, and takes ever more dangerous scouting missions whenever he can be spared.

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

Garen LiLorian's post

”…we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

[piosenniel]

Here's the complete list of players/characters:

CHARACTER/PLAYER LIST

Dúnedain of Arthedain

1) Dúnedain Captain – Kransha (Hírvegil)
2) Dúnedain Counselor/Lord – CaptainofDespair (Mitharan)
3) Dúnedain Lieutenant (to the captain) – Saurreg (Belegorn)
4) Dúnedain Soldier – Osse (Carthor)
5) Dúnedain Woman - Lalwendë (Renedwen)
6) Dúnedain Woman (wife of the soldier) - Nuranar (Lissi)
7) Male Dúnedain Youth (16 y/o child of the woman and soldier) – Novnarwen (Brander)
8) Male Dúnedain Youth (17 y/o sibling to Novnarwen's character – Amanaduial the Archer (Faerim)

~*~

Elves of Lindon

These will be from the Grey Havens, lorded over by Círdan the Shipwright. It is know that the Kings of Arthedain had good relations with Círdan, because of their military aid in the past.

1) Elf Emissary– alaklondewen (Ereglin)
2) Elf Guards – Arry (Gaeredhel & Rôsgollo)

~*~

Elves of Rivendell

The Elves of Rivendell did not necessarily share a bond with the people of Arnor, but they did come to their aid once or twice, predominantly in the year immediately following the Fall of Arthedain, led by Glorfindel. It is likely that Imladris and Arthedain were conducting some kind of negotiations, since Arvedui was, before the Fall, sending out pleas for assistance on all fronts.

1)Elf Emissary – - Nilpaurion Felagund (Bethiril)
2)Elf Emissary - Mithalwen (Erenor)
3)Elf Guard - Garen LiLorian (Maltóre <called Angóre>)

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post from the Planning thread:

I would like to bring the following info to the front of my proverbial billboard. Here is a rough outline of the first few things that will be happening. If any wish to begin writing second posts, this will be a fair rubric. If you complete a second post before the game begins, PM it to me, and I will see if it ought to be posted up when the game is opened, rather than after it opens, if you get my meaning. The outline is as follows (the first 3 points can be used in second posts, but the fourth and onward should not be [but, those points may still be used for future posts]):

• The Witch-King's guard and the Witch King himself arrive in the second level
  
  
• The forces of Fornost retreat, along with the rearguard, to the inner sanctum
  
  
• The escapees flee through the passageway from the inner sanctum to the North Gate
  
  
• The Witch-King overtakes the inner sanctum and battle the rearguard at the North Gate
  
  
• The rearguard take to their horses (as do the other cast members) and flee - a lot
  
  
• The group rides full-speed toward a refuge in the North Downs

[Mithalwen]

POSTED ABOVE W/BIO ~*~ PIO

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defence of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

Kransha

Character bios/First Posts are all in.

At your leisure, please go through the posts and put them in order by PLAYER name as to how you would like them on the opening to the game thread. You can put the list here on the Discussion Thread.

Once you are ready to go, then let me know and I'll open the game for you -- no hurry.

~*~ Pio

[Kransha]

I am in the process of sorting through first posts, but I will first, in the interests of organization, address some points so that they need not be re-stated when the game begins.

I do have a sort of "Game Plan" but I like to think of it as guidelines rather than rules. I would like to say, though, that I think there will be about 5-7 days alotted for Battle-In-Fornost Posts. I won't be moving the game along much, except at one or two points, and I am mostly going to let the battle rage, hands-off, for the week. The only things that must happen are: the Rearguard must be pushed back and the whole group of refugees unite at the inner sanctum and begin to flee. At that point, when all characters have reached the inner sanctum, I'll post another "moving post" and allow for reactions, and so on. From that point, I'll let others move the game along more freely.

Things must be done, of course. Carthor must be attended to, for he seems to be in a precarious situation, Lissi, Renedwen, Faerim, and Brander must somehow get through the battle, which has overtaken their level, and either get to the Rearguard or the Inner Sanctum. The Elven Emissaries must rendez-vous with Mellonar who is (by the way), the minister in charge of Foreign Relations, at the King's Hall. The soldiers have to retreat, and the politicians and VIPs (Mitharan, Ereglin, Bethiril, Erenor) must see to the evacuating people, and do what they can to keep the city from exploding in anarchy.

And, to make matters worse, a new and exponentially more evil combatant is about to enter the playing field.

Once I have the order of posts done, I'll also finish a post to go after all of those, which will be the first "real" post of the game, to be put up as soon as the game opens. Then, the game can begin, and the battle can end...over the course of a week.

P.S. I hafta say, I'm definately very hyped about this game, and I hope you all will enjoy it as much as I plan to, if not more.

[Amanaduial the archer]

More evil? Oh, I likies...

I'll work on a next post then, if it's all the same to you, for when we have the game quite ready to begin. Thanks for the run down of events

[Nuranar]

Aman, can you give me a hint about the direction your second is going to take? In the scene we've created, Faerim is the one with the initiative, so I'm at a bit of a loss what to do next.

Osse, forgive me for asking what may be an obvious question, but is Carthor to be part of the rearguard or otherwise take part in the retreat? Will he forget his family entirely, will he only think of them, will he try to rescue them? Just wondering what your plans are.

[Kransha]

Alright, here is the order of posts that will come after the prologue and my own, (I have tried to sort them into chronological order - luckily, most posts have included the status of the gate, and Osse's post has the gate's destruction, so I could use it as a dating point).

1. CaptainofDespair
2. Garen LiLorian
3. Lalwendë
4. Arry
5. Nilpaurion Felagund
6. Mithalwen
7. alaklondwen
8. Osse
9. Amanaduial the Archer
10. Nuranar
11. Novnarwen
12. Saurreg

I am ready for the game to open and am looking forward to its beginning. I hope everyone else is as well. pio, ready when you are. A little after the Game Thread opens, allowing for a few people to express thoughts, put up posts, etc, I will introduce the aforementioned evil.

[piosenniel]

Kransha

From your post above- #22

Once I have the order of posts done, I'll also finish a post to go after all of those, which will be the first "real" post of the game, to be put up as soon as the game opens. Then, the game can begin, and the battle can end...over the course of a week.

Shall people hold off posting until you've put this post on the game thread?

~*~ Pio

[Arry]

Just checking in - ready to play!

-- Arry

[Garen LiLorian]

Red five, standing by.

Er... That is, checking in, ready to play.

[Saurreg]

Saurreg ready.

[alaklondewen]

I'm ready as well, and looking forward to start.

Arry, I've already started my second post and as our characters are together I have a some amount of dialogue...I will pass this by you before I post it on the game thread.

~Alak

[Kransha]

Originally Posted by piosenniel

Kransha

From your post above- #22

Shall people hold off posting until you've put this post on the game thread?

~*~ Pio

No, no holding off required. I'll have the post up relatively soon anyway. But still, feel free to post your lungs, hearts, and gall bladders out, ladies and gents.

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) Put all OOC (out of character) comments on the discussion thread, not on the game thread.

2.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

3.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

4.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

5.) Do remember to remove your signature from EVERY post to the game including SAVES.

[Lalwendë]

I'm just posting to say I'm ready to begin! Hopefully I'll have a second post ready this weekend. I'm intrigued by this "new and exponentially more evil combatant".

[CaptainofDespair]

I have put up a post. I have sent Mitharan and his guards out from the inner sanctum, into the tier below it. I hope I have everything correct. If not, I will gladly change it.

And this is already such a wonderful game. I look forward to continuing this story with you all.

[Arry]

alaklondewen

Will await the PM of your post before I post for Gaeredhel.

I have posted for Rôsgollo, he should meet you and Gaeredhel at the King's Hall (the meeting place Kransha indicated for the Elves) where you and the other Elven emissaries will be meeting with Minister Mellonar.

-- Arry

[Mithalwen]

I'm am here - wha do I have to do now?

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Perhaps we two emissaries of Rivendell can meet in the North gate. And give each other the Elvish version of the cold shoulder.

[Kransha]

Ah, the next stage is upon us!

The Witch-King himself is in the city, and his host is descending. The level of urgency for the citizens has gone up, and everyone not in the inner sanctum should hasten to get there. I'm not going to leave much time for organization, since this battle is supposed to fly by, but don't feel like you have to skimp on the drama or action when posting.
-The Vanguard is getting rounded up and the wounded are being recovered. Hopefully Carthor will be among those rescued.
-Belegorn is now in charge of the Rearguard temporarily. Hirvegil's rushed off to make sure that the troops can retreat, and make an appeal to Mellonar, who is waiting to de-brief the Elves.

Second posts are up - good. I'm glad everyone is enjoying this so far. Trust me though, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

2.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

3.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Saurreg]

Please forgive me if my second post is too technical and not dramatic enough. Alas! My skill in dramatic writing is still not so good...

[Amanaduial the archer]

I have made my next post: I apologise for not waiting, and hope this is alright.

Nuranar, Novnarwen and Lalwendë: I hope I have used your characters appropriately - does it suit you?

Going with the flow...

[Nuranar]

I've just posted, and Lissi and Brander have made it into the Inner Sanctum.

I'm afraid I've gotten dreadfully confused on the tactical situation. I muddled through it as best I could, but if there's any changes I can make, please let me know.

[Lalwendë]

...Finally! Yes, I have posted.

Aman and alaklondewen, those were good leads for me there, and of course it was OK to tie my character into the story like that. In fact, it was excellent! I hope I've 'twigged on' so to speak as to where you were hoping to lead, but do let me know if not!

There's plenty of great reading on here already, by the way!

[piosenniel]

Please note:

1.) SAVES do need to contain a short explanation of what you intend to put in your post, so that other gamers can post around you.

2.) SAVES will be removed from the game after 48 hours. After that, you can post to the Discussion thread and asked for your post to be moved where it fits in.

3.) Please don't put 'reasons for editing' on the game posts. If others need to know the reason you edited - then put the reason on the Discussion Thread.

[Novnarwen]

I've posted!

I've sent Lissi off to find Faerim. I hope that was alright.

Please let me know if my post needs edits!

Nova

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

To the owner of the characters mentioned in my post (most of the Elves, that is): If you feel that I have not used your characters properly, please inform me.

[Kransha]

Good job posting. I'm glad to see that the game is going well, but, housekeeping is housekeeping, and I have an ultimatum.

All people must be accounted for in the North Gate Passage by Tonight EST or, at the very latest, Tomorrow Morning. We've spent longer in Fornost then I intended, since I wanted to develope characters more at this beginning stage, but this means we have less time to spend with the North Downs, only 5 days. I would like to be out of Fornost by Saturday, and out of the North Downs by Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. After that, the schedule can be doctored to suit our needs, but I'd like these first few events to fit into the time alotted for them.

This means, Carthor must be found, or recover, and somehow either join the Rearguard or head on his own to the Inner Sanctum with the horde of escapees fleeing there. Other than him, everyone seems to be able to get to the Inner Sanctum relatively quickly, despite whatever danger they may be in. So, I think my ultimatum is at least a little fair.

I'll post today if I can. If not, I will certainly post tomorrow. That post will get us moving out of Fornost.

[Saurreg]

Kransha, I believe you want the rearguard to be the last unit at the north gate. Will you be covering that part or do you want me to?

If you want Belegorn to lead the rearguard to the north gate, do tell me when you want me to make that post and also want you want me to include.

[Kransha]

Saurreg, it would, in fact, be great if you could make that post. Hirvegil won't be able to rejoin the rearguard before the battle ends anyway. I encourage everyone to move the plot along, anf maybe poke it into motion a bit, as much as they like. Saurreg, the post doesn't really need guidelines, but I would like you to make sure that you mention that the Vanguard's wounded have been taken from the field with the Rearguard, unless Osse has posted before then. You can make the post anytime you like between now and tomorrow night.

P.S. And, yes, I would like the rearguard to be the last. They are, after all, covering the retreat.

[Saurreg]

Great Kransha, I will try my best to end this part of the RPG in Fornost, hopefully by tomorrow.

Everybody, if you've got any ideas or would let your characters to be incorporated into my last post for this phase of the RPG, do let me know via discussion thread or PM. Ditto if you want to make any more posts before mine.

[alaklondewen]

I'm developing how Ereglin feels and thinks about the Rivendell Emissaries. After combing the discussion and planning thread, I found one small comment that said Bethiril is a one time envoy at Fornost. May I ask how long, relatively, she has been at Fornost? I know she had some dealing with Lindon in the past, but I'm wondering how well Ereglin knows her. I have the same question about Erenor. If she has been there for many years (or is she just arrived), this will have weight on the extent to which our characters are familiar with one another.

I don't really need exact times that are to the day or anything, but it would be helpful if I knew if the other Emissaries had been there Years, months, weeks, or days. And if you are wondering, Ereglin has been there close to 30 years.

Also, I think it would be natural that all of the Elves have a certain connection that they did not have with mortals because of their kindred and the fact they are the only (mentioned, anway) Elves in a city of Men, but at the moment (and we're not too far into it yet), we are divided.


Please let me know how you feel about this, and whether you agree with closing the division or feel we should stay as separate groups.

~Alak

[Mithalwen]

I agree that this is likely and also that in extreme situations they would draw closer because of fundamentally similar worldview which would over-ride political decisions .. though I wouldn't expect major discord between Lindon and Rivendell anyway. I hadn't really thought about that aspect of Erenor's back history. Certainly she is junior to Berethil and I don't "feel" she is a long established resident - but temporary for an elf could be years ..... There is no significant event in the tale of years that is an "obvious" marker for her arrival... but as I have played her so far she hasn't shown much affinity for the people or place which you would expect from long residence so I am leaning towards months .. a year or so at most....