Red Flows the Sirannon Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Elves of Eregion


Mithalwen's character

NAME: Losrian Lindiel

AGE: Born 1645 SA So 50 (borderline adult in elf years) at the start of the action

RACE: Elf (Noldorin/Telerin)

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS : Good sharp knife, long bow (will acquire sword later)

APPEARANCE: Has reached what is likely to be full height of 6 Feet. Although of mainly Noldorin blood she has inherited the silver hair of her Telerin grandmother. She has the pale complexon and grey eyes of her people. As a craftsperson she cares deeply for the appearance of the things that she makes but has not yet developed any interest in her own appearance. She wears the clothes that are most practical for what she is doing and her long hair is usually pulled back into a loose and untidy plait. Generally looks quite scruffy especially by elvish standards.



PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Seems quite "difficult" stubborn and awkward but this masks a little suspected shyness and lack of confidence. Very determined and will usually find a way to acheive her ends. Very loyal and will usually do theght thing even if she grumbles about it. Basically a very young elf who has some growing up to do.

HISTORY:

Born in Lindon in to an unremarkable family she is the daughter of a carpenter / woodcarver and a musician. she is descended from refugees from Gondolin and Sirion. All though she has a fine singing voice (hence her "mother name" of Lindiel) her shyness has given her a horror of performing and to her mother's great disappointment she was determined to become a smith. Her reply to her mother's protests that women did not become smiths was that one of the greatest smiths in Eregion was a woman. As soon as Losrian had heard of Nerisiel it had been her ambition to be apprenticed to her and finally her parents relented. Her elder brother was already at Ost in Edhil, working as a carpenter like their father and while they grieved that both their children woujld be far away, at least the elder could keep an eye on the younger. In 1690, Losrian arrived in Eregion and had been delighted when she was accepted as an apprentice. Losrian is devoted to Nerisiel to the point almost of worship,and has shown a side of her personality that would surprise her family. In the forge and design rooms she is diligent, hardworking and eager to learn as much as possible as soon as possible. At home she resents the domestic duties that keep her from her craft.


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Mithalwen's post

Losrian passed her mentor's son as she left the workshops; she had given a swift smile in acknowledgment but although they were almost the same age (indeed Losrian was the elder by a few months), Artamir had the confidence of his rank that made her feel a lot younger, even though he always treated his mother's apprentice with the greatest courtesy.

She did not go directly back home, she had her bow with her and there was just enough light to go to the buttes for a while first. Nearly five years into her apprenticeship she was still a beginner as Elves rate such things, and with conflict threatening her skill, such as it was has been directed into the consumables of wars. However she was not downcast by her task - she knew that it would be long before she had the skill for sword smithing, and her interest in archery, and a knowledge of wood learnt from her father and brother meant that making arrowheads had a certain fascination. Her trip to the archery practice grounds was to test different designs.

She fitted an arrow and drew it back to anchor point, grey eyes focussed on the target though it was the flight of the arrow that interested her as she released the string.

"That bow is too short for you now, Lossie" said a familiar voice. Losrian did not need to turn in order to know her brother, Ferin, stood behind her. It would have been risking the next arrow through the throat for anyone else to address her thus...

"Indeed, but in current times, I doubt it will be the bowyer's priority to make a bow to fit the stature of a humble apprentice - and if you come to rebuke me, I will be home to scub floors or whatever in a few minutes". Their last private conversation had involved a thinly veiled "suggestion" that Losrian should shoulder more of the household duties to spare her pregnant sister-in-law, Laswen.

"That was not my purpose", he sighed, "I saw you by chance and thought we might walk home together- though we will all have to do more and make sacrifices unless things turn for the better unexpectedly. Those who dwell in the out lands will seek refuge in the city.... You should have stayed in Lindon, you would have been safer there".

"I do not regret my choice, for I have learned more in five years here than I would have learnt in fifty anywhere else - but here, fifty years would not be enough to learn all they might teach me ....."

"Enough, enough.... how anyone can prefer shaping metal to wood is beyond the understanding of a mere carpenter - and I do not want it explained! Let us get home and eat - and find you a floor to scrub since you seem to have your heart set on the task."

As it happened she was spared it, for once they had eaten, she had exchanged a task she hated for one she did not mind. While Laswen took over stitching the dress she was to wear at the feast to mark her fiftieth birthday shortly (her uncommon winter birthday was as much a reason for her name as her pale colouring), Losrian kneaded the bread, singing softly as she did so. She soon finished her task and offered half heartedly to take back the stitching since in Laswen's expert hands more progress had been made in an hour than had been made in many weeks, and it now looked like something that would in time become a dress rather than a random bundle of fabric, ..."unless, there is something else I can do while you sew ? " Losrian added hopefully.

"All is done for today, but I am happy to sew ..." said Laswen, and the pile of tiny garments already awaiting the birth of her child in the spring were a testament to this .."however it would give me joy if you were to fetch your lute and play while I did so since, I fear there will be little enough to sing about in the days to come.

Privately, Losrian agreed with her, and doubted that any would be in the mood for celebration when her birthday arrived. While she would be pleased by the result, hating as she did to be the focus of attention, the cause scared her as much as anyone, and so she did as she was bid and fetched her lute - a parting gift from her parents - and returned to play the simple songs she had learnt as a child, ignoring for that time the many that told of sorrow and war.

[piosenniel]

Elves of Eregion


Alcarillo's character

NAME: Cainenyo Nession

AGE: 1767

RACE: Elf of Eregion

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Cainenyo uses an antique sword inherited from his father, who was a guard of one of Gondolin’s gates. Named Angereg, it is slightly curved and has a blue leather binding on its long hilt. Cainenyo also has a hunting bow made of yew. He normally hunts animals with it, but it is strong enough to kill orcs. He has no formal weapons training, but hunts regularly. Cainenyo feels that he is ready to fight if he must.

As for armor, Cainenyo usually wears a very polished breastplate, very polished vambraces, and very polished greaves, all of steel, and all made by himself. (Cainenyo is a blacksmith) Underneath it all he wears chain-mail, which extends down to his knees. On his head he wears a helmet with a green plume.

APPEARANCE: Cainenyo is tall, about six feet and two inches, and very strong, having worked at an anvil for most of his life. His hair is dark brown, and extends down to his shoulders in long locks. His eyes are steel grey, like the metals he works with. As for his garb Cainenyo likes to wear dark green, usually embroidered with elegant designs about the edges, and when working he wears a leather apron and gloves. During cooler weather Cainenyo likes to wear a long grey cloak, fastened with a dwarven brooch.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Cainenyo has a friendly, pleasant and open personality, and does not like to become angry at people. He is a loving husband and father, and would die for his family if needed. This love can turn to worry in troublesome times, and he can be over-protective.

In his business, Cainenyo likes to learn from others’ mistakes, which has helped elevate him to the status of an expert blacksmith. As for his own mistakes, Cainenyo often tries to hide them, and sometimes feels angry at himself for failing. He sees mistakes as failures at his expertise in smithy-work. When Cainenyo is saddened or angered he sees his wife, who consoles him and soothes his troubles. Sometimes Cainenyo can be suspicious of others, and often relies on mere intuition. This can make him unreliable when advice is needed.

He does not like to interfere in the affairs of the mighty and important. He just wants to lead a happy life and go on as a blacksmith.

HISTORY: Cainenyo was born in FA 511, right after the Fall of Gondolin. His father was a guard of Gondolin’s Gate of Writhen Iron and his mother was a seamstress. The entire family survived the destruction of the city and lived until the end of the age at the Havens of Sirion. It was during this time that Cainenyo learned most of his skills in smithy-work from Angandil, a survivor of Gondolin’s destruction who moved to Tol Eressea at the end of the age, and many lore-books his parents saved from Gondolin. Cainenyo’s love for metals was first in his heart until he met Alassante, a beautiful elf-maiden whose parents had both survived Gondolin. They fell in love and married. They were thinking of children when the War of Wrath occurred, postponing any plans of a family.

At the beginning of the Second Age they fled to Lindon, which Cainenyo’s family chose as their new home, but ships and the sea did not interest Cainenyo, so he and Alassante decided to follow Celebrimbor to Eregion, attracted by the knowledge of the dwarves and the many opportunities for a new life. Cainenyo has met many dwarves while living in Ost-in-Edhil, and learned much from them. His business as a blacksmith grew, and Cainenyo is considered one of the foremost experts in working with iron. Cainenyo’s son, Arenwino, was born in SA 1598, and is apprenticed to a silversmith across town. Cainenyo has already taught two apprentices, now on their own, and now he mostly makes iron trellises, candelabras, and other things to embellish the home. Lately though, he has been asked to make many swords and armor. Cainenyo has made a sword for his son. Alassante is currently pregnant with her second child, who she and Cainenyo hope to be a girl.


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Alcarillo's post

Cainenyo’s hammer struck a glowing rod of iron, casting sparks across his forge. He was as happy as could be while working; there was little he loved more than to create something usable out of what previously wasn’t. Cainenyo turned the long rod of iron over with tongs, and struck it some more, creating a shower of sparks. He plunged the rod in a bucket of water, throwing steam up into the air. After heating the rod to a warm glow in the furnace, set into the wall and where he heated his iron to make it malleable, he resumed striking the iron on the anvil, gradually forming a distinguishable shape out of it.

Cainenyo’s forge was open to the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, separated by only a few arches and two steps downwards. People could come and go as they pleased, purchasing wares and asking for specific items to be made. The forge itself was focused around the anvil, like the centerpiece of a table set for a feast. Cainenyo’s wares were spread about his forge. They lay displayed on tables and hanging to the walls, examples of the blacksmith’s skill. Cainenyo made things to beautify or serve a purpose in the home: trellises, small slender tables, candelabras, braziers, and elegant grills to cap drainage pipes. But Cainenyo could also make knives, swords, armor, arrowheads, spearheads, and other less domestic goods. Cainenyo, as an expert in iron, was not limited to what he could make.

Cainenyo continued to beat his rod of iron, manipulating it with heavy black tongs and crafting it into a delicate shape, resembling a long blade of grass. He was creating a knife, one to be used in self-defense against an attacker. He plunged it into his bucket of water and held it firmly in his hand, swinging it about for a moment and testing it against an imaginary orc. Cainenyo found the knife to be suitable, and placed it in an old chest near the furnace. He would perform the finishing touches tomorrow. The sun was beginning to set and he decided to finish for the day and enter the house to see his wife, Alassante.

Cainenyo wiped his gloves on his leather apron. Removing the gloves, he noticed a tall figure standing in one of the archways. It was his son, Arenwino, who was apprenticed to a silver-smith across the city. Arenwino was not quite as tall as his father, but more slender, with the wavy dark hair of his mother. He wore the gloves and apron of a silversmilth, and hoped to work with the Mírdain when his apprenticeship was finished.

“You’re back. How did today go?” Cainenyo asked his son.

“It was fine. Today Celebdur taught me more about making molds and such. We made some rings for an engaged couple.” Arenwino said, descending the steps into the forge. He looked about the strewn instruments and noticed the flaming furnace and asked, “Were you making something?”

“Yes, a knife.” Cainenyo answered, “There have been a lot more requests for weaponry these days.” He continued after a short pause, “That reminds me. I have a gift for you.”

Arenwino waited in anticipation as Cainenyo moved to a table to the side of his anvil. There he delicately picked up a long sword. Arenwino stood closer, gazing at the long, curved blade. The flames of the furnace danced on its smooth surface. It was handed to Arenwino, who held it admiringly.

“Thank you, Father,” he spoke, “But what is the occasion? I don’t deserve a sword like this one.”

“Well, there is no occasion, as of now,” Cainenyo answered, “But there may be. I hear of orcs harassing the edges of Eregion, and I don’t want my son to be caught without defense if he happens to be traveling abroad and is ambushed. And besides, who knows how far the orcs might come. What if they attack the city?”

“But surely they won’t. We have soldiers aplenty, and why would they attack Ost-in-Edhil?”

Cainenyo picked up the bucket of water. “Well, I’ve heard that that Annatar, who helped Celebrimbor create those rings, has turned against him. He’s sending orcs against us, or so I’ve heard from the refugees entering the city each day.” He doused the flames of the furnace, sending steam everywhere.

“Will you be asked to fight?” Arenwino looked concerned. The sun was now setting.

“I doubt that. I’m more useful staying here and making weapons and armor than going off to battle. But don’t worry. If I am asked to fight I’ve already made armor for myself and I have a sword. It’s getting late; let’s go inside.”

Cainenyo hung his apron on a peg by the door that led into his home and put away what tools were left laying about. They entered the home’s courtyard through an arched doorway. The courtyard was a small space mostly taken up by a square pool for collecting rainwater and a few bushes of fragrant flowers. They were greeted by Alassante, Cainenyo’s wife and Arenwino’s mother. She was pregnant, and the new child was due in four more months. Alassante’s wavy brown hair fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the open doorway. She wore a light, simple dress, comfortable and loose. She kissed both her son and husband, and led them towards the entrance to the house.

Then Alassante noticed the sword in Arenwino’s hands. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Father gave it to me,” said Arenwino, “He told me that orcs were crawling all over the edges of Eregion, and that refugees are coming to the city. He said that the orcs might come here, too, and that I shouldn’t be unarmed. Isn’t that true, Father?”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Cainenyo said, and his wife frowned at him as they entered the house. Arenwino smiled, despite the future’s uncertainty.

[piosenniel]

Elves of Eregion


Nurumaiel's character


NAME: Erinlaer

AGE: an Elf age... say perhaps somewhere past one thousand

RACE: Elf of Eregion

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Erinlaer carries no weapon, and has never been trained to use a weapon, but no doubt she would be able to use one sufficiently if the need
arose.

APPEARANCE: Tall, slender, after the fashion of Elves. Long, dark, silky hair, again after the fashion of Elves. And, once more after the fashion of Elves, grey eyes and fair skin. She has a very light and graceful bearing, more than is usual for her people. She walks about in a way that is almost a dance, and seems constantly to have a sweet melody in her head that she must move with. The expression constantly on her face is very innocent and sweet, almost childish.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Erinlaer is not a dreamer in the strictest sense, but she does have a certain atmosphere of dreams about her. She views all the world in a rosy light, and she disbelieves the existence of evil, not as a willfull choice, but simply because the thought never occured to her. Her mother deplores her naiveness, and her father is delighted with her innocence.

She may constantly be found playing at her harp and humming. She seems to live in a world of light and song, which, though charming to new acquaintances, keeps her from what duties she might have, even the duty of being a joy and affectionate to her parents, though she loves them dearly.

Briefly, to some she is considered sweet, charming, and innocent, and to others she is considered absent-minded, excessively dreamy, and rather simple.

HISTORY: Erinlaer was born to a rather poetic father and a rather common-sense mother. Her father had been renowned for his skill at music and song, but though he was a good husband and father he had the capability of frustrating his wife with his inability at times to look gravely upon the hardness of life and set his hands to hard labour. Music and story was his delight, and he raised his daughter to have a great appreciation for it.

As she grew older her mother searched for and found one who would make a suitable husband for her... a fairly well-off, strong Elf who would appeal to her light-heartedness and innocence by his easy-coming laughter and nobility of heart and mind, but also one who would be a good provider for her by his lack of absent-mindedness. Heledharm himself fell deep in love with her, and she with him, and it was not long before they were wed.

It has not been many years now since their marriage, and they are quite content with their lives, she happy to wile away the hours playing upon her harp, and he more than content to overlook the occasional slips in the housekeeping for the sake of seeing the innocent joy shining in her eyes as she sings.


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Nurumaiel's post

Erinlaer touched a few strings on her harp and the beginning of a haunting tune drifted to her ears. Her eyes brightened keenly, and then softened and gazed absently off into the distance. She kicked her feet very gently back and forth, but aside from that she was motionless. In every respect she seemed to be entirely in another world, one that held nothing but the music she played.

A tall, smiling Elf entered the room and looked fondly at her. She did not even notice him, so he sat down to watch her. Very softly she began to hum, and then she sprang lightly to her feet and began to dance about the room in a very sweet, childlike way. It was not until she tripped on his foot that she became aware of his presence. Her face lit up and she laughed rather shamefacedly.

"I didn't see you, Heledharm," she said simply.

"I came to tell you that your mother intends to visit us," he said. "Your father, too, but this evening. He wants to hear you play and sing."

"And I wish the same of him," she said. "We shall have to play and sing together." She ran her fingers lightly over the well-crafted wood of her harp and smiled gently. "I still have much to learn from him," she said gravely. "He can decide what tune he would like to play and then play it. I can merely play according to what is in my heart and mind. I should learn to govern my music better."

"No, no!" cried Heledharm. "Play as you always have."

A radiant smile swept over her features. "Very well!" she said. "If you wish it."

He could not explain to her how much her music touched him. The quietness or the swell of her emotions translating easily into melody was, he felt, a rare gift, and he would not want her to unlearn it. The light, merry tunes as she skipped happily here and there... the tears that were spilled in music... and the times when she would sit by his side, playing a melody of peace and contentment, that turned to a sweet unswaying love when her eyes fixed on him. He would not have her unlearn that.

"When is mother coming?" she asked, setting her harp down upon the table. "I should be sure that everything is neat and well-ordered before she arrives." She bent down and inspected severely a little stain on the floor. "I fear very much that I've neglected the house these past few days," she said with a sigh. "I hope you have not been bothered much by it." She looked regretfully into his face, and then began to dance from the room. "Never mind!" she said. "In a few minutes everything will be set proper. Mother shan't find fault when she arrives."

And not too long after there was not much fault to be found, for she had danced hither and thither and, though she had gazed several times longingly at her harp, she had set her face grimly and dutifully cleaned house. And once again she was sitting atop the table, singing light and merry.

[piosenniel]

Dwarves of Moria


Pio's character

NAME: Riv Stonecut

AGE: 109 (born 4 years before the Three Rings were made by the Elven smiths)

RACE: Dwarf – one of Durin’s Folk/Longbeard clan

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: mattock; war hammer – thick oaken haft bearing a heavy iron head, sharply beaked blade on one side and a flat, faceted hammer head opposite. For battles in larger, more open spaces, he bears an oak hafted pole axe with a razor sharp edged steel head. Iron helm; long chain mail; thick boiled leather vest; plated arm and leg guards.

APPEARANCE: 5’2”; 160 lbs. Muscular; broad and solidly built. Thick, brown hair worn in a single plait down his back. thick, wiry beard, worn in two braids on either side of his chin. Black breeches, grey tunic, dark brown leather vest with all sorts of pockets for small jewelers tools. Black leather knee high boots, well worn, thick soled. Granite grey, hooded cape; on its left shoulder is a bright silver brooch – a small pick axe with a deep red wine colored garnet set between its two blades. It was a gift from one of the Elven smiths for the precious stones and metals Riv’s family mined for him.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Patient, meticulous in his work – he is an excellent smith; working both with large stones for the building of things and with smaller precious and semiprecious gems for use in adornment. He is skilled in metalworking, though his taste runs to those small castings within which he can set his jewels. Does not like change – it’s too disruptive to his need for long periods of time for his work.

Loyal to his family and kin; loyal to the Elves of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain with whom he’s had the opportunity to work and share smithing skills.

Not quick to anger; but when the fires of anger are lit at last, they burn hot within him. He can be a bloodthirsty and avenger of wrongs against kin and friend. He despises Orcs for slaying Dwarves and taking their possessions and homes. Even in battle, he is a patient man, looking always for the most thrifty way to eliminate the foe.

His main weakness is his need to protect his immediate family. At the age of 98, he was fortunate enough to be married. He counts his wife, Unna, more precious than any metal or jewel he can mine. And more precious still is his son, Leifr, 5 years old.

HISTORY: (At present it is II 1695 for the start of the RPG) Riv was born in Khazad-dûm, which was then under the Kingship of Durin II and is now ruled by Durin III. His father is Viss Stonecut; mother, Svala Bronzeeyes. He learned the art and craft of mining stone and metal from his father, whose main business was the mining and selling of metal ore to smiths of the Elves and Men. From his grandfather, Aunn Stonecut, Riv learned the skills for discovering veins of precious gems, cutting them into the shapes which best showed off their faceted beauty, and the setting of the gems into gold and silver. He has since increased his knowledge of this process through his friendships with some of the Elven jewelsmiths in Eregion.

He has a younger sibling, a brother, Skald, five years younger than he. His favored skill is that of working with large blocks of stone for building, and the engraving of such stones with runes. His youngest brother, Bror, is 64 years old.

In II 1693 Sauron was bent on obtaining for his own use the sixteen Rings of Power he had helped the Elves of Eregion to make. He declared war on the Elves who would not relinquish to him the Three Rings of Power they had made in secret without his aid.

Until that time, it was for the most part peaceful. the Elven jewelsmiths in Eregion prospered and increased their skills many times over. But when they refused Sauron’s requests for the Three Rings, a great shadow crept over the land, even to the West-gate of Moria. Orcs and other foul creatures were set against the Elves at Ost-in-Edhil, the chief city of Eregion where the House of the Mirdain stood. Sauron revealed himself, his fair face he had shown to the Elves as Annatar was now one of darkness and wrath. He was bent on destroying the Elves and whoever stood in his way as he pursued the three hidden rings.

Durin III was the first of the Dwarven rulers to receive one of the seven rings Sauron had helped forge. Celebrimbor, it was said by the Dwarves of Moria, had gifted their King with the ring just prior to Sauron’s demands for the Seven Rings made for the Dwarves and the Nine made for Men.

Fearing for the life of his son, who was but two years old at the start of the war, and for his wife who is now pregnant with their second child, Riv has geared himself up for war. The chain mail and plated guards for the limbs were taken down and cleaned and mended. His mattock he’s laid aside to use only if the Orc armies enter Moria. The edges of his war hammer and pole axe have been made keen. Unna and Leifr have been made safe in the deeper, secret caverns of Moria, along with the other women and children.

He and his brothers, Skald and Bror, are part of a small armed party of Dwarves, one of many, who harry the Orcs with their strike-kill-and-run tactics. At times, too, they are sent to the eastern entrance to Moria. There they lead small troops of Elven warriors from Lothlorien on the quick route through the mountains. These Lorinand have been sent by the Lady of the Golden Wood to aid the Elves of Eregion. She is favorable to the Dwarves, knowing that they were not of the kin who slew Thingol in his own treasury when he would not give them the Nauglamir. Celeborn, however, bears them great enmity, holding all dwarves responsible for the death of his father’s uncle.

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Piosenniel's post

. . . The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day . . .

Supper, taken late as was the Stonecut custom, was done. The trenchers, already carried to the kitchen, clanked together in the soapy water as Unna washed and rinsed them, and piled them on the counter to her left to dry. Her back was to the oaken table across the length of the stone floor. And she smiled as she heard the off-key bass of her husband’s singing voice rise up to sing a verse of the song.

‘Fairer yet,’ she chuckled as she took up her dishtowel and dried the spoons, ‘if the notes in this part of Khazad-dûm were more harmonious!’

‘I heard that, woman!’ cried Riv, breaking off mid note. His scowl was short-lived as she laughed aloud, her voice ringing within the tall-ceilinged room.

‘Well, I think you have a nice voice, Papi,’ chirped Leifr, coming to sit on his father’s lap. He twirled his fingers round Riv’s braided beard, leaning against him with a contented sigh. ‘Grandma says you sing just like your father did.’

Riv’s chest puffed out at the compliment and was promptly deflated by Unna’s laughter as she recalled to him that the old woman had also said she was certain that Durin was called ‘the Deathless’ because her husband’s bellowed verses could raise the dead from their thick stone tombs.

An hour or so more of friendly, familiar banter, accompanied by the sound of Bror’s harp and interspersed with more singing, came finally to its end. Leifr was yawning by then, barely able to keep his eyes open. Riv picked up the boy where he lay half drowsing on a bear pelt near the fire and carried him off to the deeper caverns where Unna and the other Dwarven women with their children stayed.

The lamps were turned low along the hallways; the lamp swinging from Unna’s hand as she walked beside her husband cast odd moving shadows along the carven stone walls. Her face was wistful as they reached her apartments. Laying Leifr down gently on his little bed, Riv drew the quilts up over his son’s shoulders and brushed a stray hair back from his little face. ‘Mahal keep you!’ he whispered to the sleeping form. He stood then, and took his wife gently into his arms. ‘When this is over . . .’ he said softly, his cheek against the top of her head. She pulled back and laid her first two fingers against his lips. Her glittering eyes held hope and patience within their deep, dark pools. ‘We will wait,’ she promised him, ‘whether the time be short or long.’

She urged him gently toward the door. ‘You must go. Your brothers and Uncle await. There is news to be shared among you. Reports and rumors of goings on in the upper caverns come to us. We know a messenger has come from the Elven smiths. And that an escort is needed for the Elves who will come from the east, sent by the Lady of the Golden Wood. Since your father was often among the Lorinand, bringing them jewels and metals as they needed, I thought that surely you and your brothers would be the ones to fetch them from the Dimrill Stair and bring them through the East-gate.’

He nodded it was so. Smothering her with a last great hug, he turned reluctantly from her and made his way back to his dwelling. Skald and Bror were waiting at the table where he had left them. Their voices were low as they sipped at their mugs of ale, discussing, he was sure, the preparations for the thirty mile journey to the East-gate and the wait for the Elves of Lorien. Orin, their Uncle, had arrived, too, he saw.

‘Well, what have I missed?’ Riv said, fetching a mug for himself from the cupboard. He topped off theirs and filled his from the skin of ale that hung from the peg on the wall. ‘We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way up along the Celebrant and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

[piosenniel]

Dwarves of Moria


Arry's character

NAME: Skald Stonecut (Riv’s younger brother)

AGE: 104 (5 years younger than Riv; born 1 year after the Three Rings were made by the Elven smiths)

RACE: Dwarf – one of Durin’s Folk/Longbeard clan

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Mattock; for battles in larger, more open spaces, he bears an oak hafted pole axe with a razor sharp edged steel head. Iron helm embossed with runes; long chain mail; thick boiled leather vest; plated arm and leg guards, like his brother.

APPEARANCE: 5’1”; 145 lbs. A little shorter than his brother and of a more wiry build. Thick, brown hair worn in two plaits down his back; they are bound together at their end with a leather thong. Thick beard, worn in two braids on either side of his chin. Dark brown breeches, tan tunic. thick brown leather belt with loops hanging from it – he carries some of his hammers and other tools in it. Black leather knee high boots, well worn, thick soled. Granite grey, hooded cape,

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Like his older brother, he is a patient man – both in his work and in his relationships with friends and family. He is an excellent smith; working with large stones used for columns, doors, staircases, walls. He enjoys figuring out how to make the blocks fit seamlessly together. His artistic needs are met in the carvings he does to decorate stonework. He is especially fond of working with runes and embellishing them. He is an adequate metal worker, but really would like to leave that sort of work to other Dwarves with more skill.

Like his brothers, Riv and Bror, he is loyal to his family and kin. He has not had much dealing with the Elves of Eregion, save for the trips he has made with his brother to sell the gems and ore their family mines, but he is willing to accept his brother’s favorable assessment of them.

He is even less fond of change than Riv. Anything that disturbs his routine can make him peevish. Having said that, he is more quick to anger than his brother.

Skald is not married, though he is at the right age to do so. A lack of available Dwarven maidens is the reason, plus the fact that these are times of great unrest and the thought of bringing a child into such troubles is undesirable.

He is very fond of his nephew, Leifr, and will often take time from his work to teach or entertain the lad. He has some banked pride that the boy is interested in runes and how they spell out words. Skald has made a small set of chisels and a little hammer for his nephew, and often Leifr will be found banging happily away on a small stone scrap as his uncle works. Unna, Riv’s wife, is fond of her brother-in-law and he has a room in their apartments and takes their meals at her table.

One of his talents apart from the arts of stonemasonry and carving is the composition of poems to celebrate their clan’s history.

HISTORY: Much the same as Riv’s, except he was apprenticed to one of the Dwarven stone masons of their family and then to another who specialized in the carving of runes on stone.

Between carving and building projects, Skald still travels with his father to the Vales of the Anduin, trading with those settlements of men there.

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Arry's post

Skald leaned forward in his chair, his chin planted firmly on his fist. The fingers of his right hand drummed quietly on the table top as the others spoke of war and killing. His dark eyes were troubled with news he’d heard earlier that day. Not wanting to frighten Unna and Leifr he’d waited to share what he had learned until they were safely away in their quarters.

Before Riv could answer Bror's question, Skald spoke up.

‘Want to know the interesting . . . no, make that disturbing . . . morsel I picked up from the King’s guard today? . . . And from Father, too.’ Riv and the others looked at him expectantly.

‘Father was speaking to the King. About some special delivery of stones . . . no, not now but way back . . . before we were twinkles in his eye I think. Anyway, they were for the head of the Jewelsmiths’ Guild, Celebrimbor . . . and a shipment of mithril, too . . . some very high grade stuff.’ He leaned even further across the table, his voice dropping low. ‘Apparently the Elves used them in some big secret project, according to one of the guards. He said Durin opened his locked iron chest and took out some small carven box. He and Father had their heads together whispering about the object in it. Whatever it was it gleamed brightly when the light caught it for a moment. Then the King locked it away . . .’

Before they could hiss ‘And . . .?’ at him. Skald went on.

‘Well, I asked Father about it. At first, all the old man would do was shake his head, his fists clenched. They were fools, he muttered, looking into the distance past me. Damned, silly fools! he said angrily. Father said there was someone whom the Jewelsmiths placed their trust in . . . someone who taught them some special skills in the art of smithing.’ Skald’s throat was dry from talking and he paused, taking a long pull at his mug.

‘And now the Elves, the King had told Father, had done something to displease this teacher of theirs. They have something that he wants badly and he’s bent on getting it. And what’s worse apparently he’s not the kindly, gracious fellow they thought him. He’s got the force to back up his words. That’s what the Orcs are doing all stirred up and starting to cause troubles.

‘When I asked Father who this fellow was, he grew red in the face and spat on the floor. Mahal take the deceiver! he growled. Calling himself Aulendil! . . . Why, he left Mahal’s service long ago . . . taking after that black-hearted Master . . .’

Skald took another sip, the alefoam glistened on the tips of his thick mustache. ‘The old man ranted and raved for a bit . . . you know how he can go on. I was trying desperately to piece together the dribs and drabbles of information I’d eked out from him. Finally, in desperation, I shouted “Hey!” at him as loudly as I could. Got his attention, it did. Quiet little Skald yelling!’

‘Look, I told him, Riv and Bror and Orin and me along with a few of others of us have been asked to escort some Elves from the Lady of the Wood, under the mountain and out to Ost-in-Edhil. Armed Elves. And there may be more coming through. Sounds like it’s more than just some polite visit from one land to another. What are we getting into? Who’s this person you keep cursing at?’

‘Well, I have to tell you what he said next nearly unbraided my beard!’ Skald rubbed his chin hard with his hand, a familiar nervous habit on his part.

‘The Dark Lord! Father whispered, not wanting to name him out loud.’

‘The Dark Lord! I squeaked . . . yes, I’m not ashamed, I squeaked . . . you all remember the horror stories of the great battles against him and his Orcs and worse . . . before Beleriand fell under the waves. Anyway, I managed to stutter out the question that was now burning in my mind. The Dark Lord had escaped from where The Great Ones put him and was back?’

‘Not him, Father said. . . . but just as foul . . . his bootlicking, black-hearted-as-his-Master, servant . . . Sauron . . .’

‘ “Sauron!” I managed to say in a mangled yelp. I remember dreadful stories about him’

‘Yes, Sauron. He’s got himself a dark place between the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, the King’s told me. And he’s stirring up the foul spawn his Master made. Orcs and who knows what other fearsome beasts. He’s coming for something the Elves have hidden away . . .’

Skald’s voice drifted off into the silence of the room. His hands were clasped tightly about his mug and he stared into it as if it held the secret to keeping his sense of dread at bay. He looked up at his brothers and uncle . . .

[piosenniel]

Dwarves of Moria

Folwren's character

NAME: Bror Stonecut

AGE: 64 (45 years younger than his brother Riv, and 40 years younger than Skald)

RACE: Dwarf – one of Durin’s Folk/Longbeard clan

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: When hand to hand in combat, so to speak, he uses a short, shafted axe with a wide axe head on one side and on the other, a four inch, sharp spike. When out of range, he enjoys the use of smaller, lighter axes which he has learned to throw rather accurately, and when out of that sort of fighting range altogether, he has an excellent hand with a small bow.
Iron and leather helm, long and short sleeved chain mail, thick, leather vest.

APPEARANCE: Somewhat short next to his brothers, four feet eight inches, and still small in build and stature, maybe making 110 pounds. (Okay, pause here, if this is too light, then tell me. I'm trying to figure out the stature of a small, young dwarf, but Tolkien, as far as I can tell, never gives you weights, and all I have to go by in comparison is my little brother, who's two inches taller than Bror, but is only 65 lbs.) His hair is brown with a hint of red in it, barely long enough to braid in the back, and his beard isn't long enough at all, though it does reach his collar.
Boots that come to his knees, and a green cloak and hood over all.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Unlike his two older brothers, Bror has something of a quick and fierce temper, but it can generally be settled down before too long, and is without a great store of patience. Any real anger that stays and burns quietly is difficult to waken, though he does have his limits. He is, however, pretty easily befriended and on the most part is cheerful.

Change doesn't bother him very much and he loves the sort of adventure of going out and slaughtering orcs, having learned to hate their very name (perhaps he took the stories a little too personally and to extremes). He takes particular interest in the making of weapons - axes, swords, arrow tips, and what ever else - though he doesn't have the patience to make armor, or chain mail. He managed to get an apprenticeship with an Uncle, a sword smith, and he works with him when he's not out with his two brothers on a scouting party.

Whatever time he does not spend at the smithy, or in a scout troup, he often uses on learning how to play the harp. The instrument that he plays is one that his mother's great grandmother crafted, and is a beatiful instrument. Most people are surprised that he has been able to continue playing and learning without loosing interest, but music seems to mean something to him, although he can never quite put it into words. He would not call himself very good at it, though he is better than some.

He holds a certain respect for his older brothers and almost nothing can make him angry faster than an insult sped their way. He also is rather protective of the rest of his family. He loves his sister-in-law and Riv's young son and was very much disappointed when they were taken back to the safer caves.

His main weakness is not staying focused on the job at hand and letting his mind wander...and his next main one would be getting mad too fast. (Hopefully Riv will be there to calm him down when he needs it.)

HISTORY: Assuming that this is the year II 1697, Bror was born in 1633 in Moria, then called Khazad-dûm, if I am not mistaken. As often as he could when he was a youngster he would find the smiths that made weapons and armor and would watch them until someone came to fetch him back home again. He hasn't seen much of the outside world, still being young, but he intends to, in time.

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Folwren's post

Bror sat silently, plucking with less heart at his harp as he watched Riv take his wife and son away. They passed from the room out of sight and he sighed and tilted his head a little towards the smooth wood of his instrument. He lifted a second hand and once again the chords sang sweetly, though somewhat sadly.

“I wish they didn’t have to go back there every night. We hardly see them anymore,” he said quietly. A hand clapped him on the back and he looked up over his shoulder at Skald, his older brother.

“Cheer up and put the harp away, we’ve got business to discuss.”

Bror got up from the table and took his harp away a few paces and set it on a chair, possibly to be picked up later. He returned and took his seat again as Skald rose and gathered mugs and a skin of ale to wet their throats while they talked.

He had just sat down again when their Uncle Orin entered. A smile came into Bror’s face and he got up again.

“Good evening, Uncle!” he said. “Take that chair, and I’ll get another...How are you?”

The general formalities were swiftly dealt with and for a minute, the three of them sat together in silence. Bror could not stand that for long. What they had to talk about had to do with orcs, and of all creatures, he thought he hated those the most.

“What do you know of this business, Uncle?” he asked, turning to Orin. “I don’t know how much you have heard.”


“I know no more than the little I have heard from gossip,” Orin replied.

“That’s probably not very much, since there is little known,” Bror said. “All that I’ve been told, and I hope that I hear more tonight,” he added casting a glance towards Skald, “is that a company of dwarves are needed at the East Gate to escort a number of elves through Kazad. War’s brewing, evidently, and though we’ve only heard whispers of it, they are getting louder and the rumors are taking shape into ravenous villains who need slaughtering. It’s rather serious, by all accounts.”

Orin lowered his head towards his mug and Bror and Skald both turned their ears towards him to catch the words he muttered to his ale.

“How have I been in the dark for so long?”

“Because you’re always locked up in your room working on who knows what!”

The three dwarves at the table turned quickly to see Riv walking towards them. He gave them a smile as he passed and got himself another mug from the cupboard and a second skin of ale. He came back to the table and pulled a chair up next to Orin, filled their mugs and then his own, held it between his two hands and looked at them seriously.

“Well, what have I missed?” he asked immediately. “We’re taking a full complement of weapons...yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.” A pause while he took a deep drink of his ale. “There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.” He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top almost violently and Bror started slightly. “Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures,” he said, giving his youngest brother a grim smile.

“Yesssss!” Orin exclaimed with evident excitement and obvious agreement. Bror shifted his eyes from his brother to his uncle.

“So, this is more serious than I imagined. I had no idea you all hated those orcs as much as I did. You were always the ones telling me to calm down and quit shouting that I’d kill a whole regiment.” He turned his dark eyes back to his oldest brother. “Is that what we’re going to do?”

[piosenniel]

Dwarves of Moria

Boromir88's character

NAME: Orin Bronzeeyes

AGE: 205 years old. (One of the eldest of the dwarves still left in Moria).

RACE: Dwarf, Durin's folk/Longbeard clan.

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A, two-handed, double-bladed, battleaxe he uses for tight, cramped areas. A small one-handed iron axe used as a secondary weapon.

APPEARANCE: 4'11, rather short compared to other members of his kin but he more than makes up for it. Over the years Orin has packed on a few extra pounds as well. He has a long greyish/white beard that reaches down his thighs and braids his pure white hair into one LONG ponytail. He can still wield an axe better than most and his age and plumpness have no effect on his endurance when he gets into a rage. Orin is not one to trust to armor, feeling as it slows him down (or maybe it's just become more of a burden). He does wear a mail hauberk crafted by himself. He also carries a wooden shield with a rune only he understands.

PERSONALITY-STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Orin is feared as one of the best when it comes to wielding an axe in battle. Often when he sees orcs (or some foul creature) he builds into a maddening rage and you can hardly tell he is 205 years old. There lies his biggest weakness. He is lightly armored compared to the other dwarves, although he will never admit it, heavy armor becomes a burden to him. Also, with his growing age he has lost a lot of the speed in his attacks that his young nephews still have. However, his elogance and efficiency, when wielding a weapon, makes up for it.

Orin is a strong believer in family and strong bonds with his kinsman. He would put the life of any of his fellow dwarves above his own. The problem is if you aren't one of his kinsmen, or a family member, he finds it hard to trust you or make friendships. He often remembers prior feuds and has trouble forgetting the past (unless you happen to be another dwarf). If you are one of the few Elves he respects then you would be grateful to have Orin at your side, but if not, then it's just best to stay out of his way.

HISTORY: Orin was born 98 years before the forging of the three elven rings. He is one of the oldest dwarves still left to defend Moria. For most of his life Orin just spent most of his life learning the fine art of craftsmanship from his father, Frorin. He has never married, and has no children, but does have three nephews (being the eldest brother of their mother); Riv, Skald, and Bror. With no family of his own Orin has often tried to look after his nephews, whenever he could.

Orin has lived to watch the two eldest brothers to grow up and become fine, stout dwarves. He now focuses mostly on the youngest, Bror, realizing that sometimes he has a quick temper, and can get him into some trouble. He feels that Riv and Skald are old enough now that they don't need his guidance much anymore, but that doesn't mean he cares for one more than another. He simply recognizes Bror's anger and tries his hardest to guide him and would not able to cope with the possibility of failure.

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Boromir88's post

Orin was well aware of the rumor of the gathering of orcs, but he was not prepared on leaving, and had no intentions to. He sat fiddling with his double-bladed battleaxe wondering what this meeting was going to be about. Most of colony had heard the whispering of threats from orcs and other dark creatures. Perhaps it is just to confirm the situation, he thought.

While Orin was deep in thought he had not noticed that he cut his thumb on his axe. He smiled as he was pleased it was still sharp and if the rumors of orcs were true they aren't getting through Moria without a fight. Then it suddenly came to him, a poking pain in his thumb. It wasn't a serious cut, but it felt like one of those annoying papercuts; a sharp pain for days.

Orin cleaned up his cut, grimacing a bit while doing it, and decided he should be heading off. When he got there his two younger nephews, Skald and Bror, were already there, but he had not seen Riv yet. That is odd he mumbled. He greeted his two nephews with friendly hugs and went off to sit with some of the older dwarves. He wanted to see what they knew about the matter. Most of them knew just as much, or less than Orin, which wasn't much. He ran into an old friend, Fawrin, who was full of the latest rumors.

"They say a man named Annatar, who was once a friend of the elves, has turned against them." Fawrin began. "He is beginning to gathering a large force of orcs to launch an assault on Eregion."

Orin stood and pondered these "rumors," and wondered if there was any truth in them at all. "Who was, or is, this Annatar?" Orin asked.

"I don't know. All that's said is he was once a friend of the elves. Why he would all of a suddenly want to attack them is beyond me." Fawrin said.

"If he is attacking them, you mean." Orin chuckled. "Don't put faith in the whispering of the outside world. Especially if they are dealing with elves." Orin said elves in a sarcastic, demeaning way, for he did not like them very much. Except the elves of the lady of the Golden Wood. Her and her people had often had good relationships with the dwarves. Now that his mind was off elves, he still wondered where Riv was. "Have you seen Riv?" He asked Fawrin.

"No I haven't," he answered. "but I haven't gone looking for him either." They both laughed. "Well I better be off. Someone has to do the rumor spreading." Orin chuckled again as Fawrin left. He had always like Fawrin for his humor and ability to bring a smile to someone.

Orin sat down next to Bror and Skald and began to discuss the situation. Orin began to realize that the rumors weren't just rumors anymore; war was threatening and it would surely effect everyone.

"How have I been in the dark for so long?" Orin said to himself, but the others heard him.

"Because you're always locked up in your room working on who knows what." Laughed a familiar voice. Riv had finally come. He greeted everyone and took a seat, as well as getting a mug of ale, and got right into business.

‘Well, what have I missed? We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

"Yesssss." Orin shouted in a bellowsing voice that shook the hall. The mumblings of war and Riv's talk had inspired him.

[piosenniel]

Elves of Lórien


Seth Cotton's character

NAME: Vaele Andarion

AGE: 1,268

RACE: Elf of Lorien

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS : Vaele carries a fine, carved long bow which he is very accurate with. The bow as engraved runes and is of very good quality. It was a gift from his father and therefore means quite a lot to Vaele. He also has a short sword attached to his leather belt which he uses at times for more close combat.

APPEARANCE: A lithe and elegant elf and has blonde shoulderlong hair with thin plaits on the sides that stretches all the way down to his shoulders as well. His clothing that he bears seems rather simple, but it offers more protection than it seems to. He wears a woven shirt with wristpads, shoulderpads and a thin armourplate on the stomach. Due to his need of staying flexible at all times, his armour must not weight him down. He has a dark green woven robe that gives him a splendid camouflage in trees, and in forest terrain in general actually. The rest of his outfit is pretty standard, elven light boots and typical pants with no remarkable protection, as he after all is a marksman.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: A quite laid back and calm elf, even in the most pressured and hasty situations, he somehow remains cool when many others panic. He often says that his brain is more powerful than his bow when it comes to fighting in a war, and at times it seems hat he is right. He takes advantage of the situations, the terrain and things around him to do what he has to do. Either it is about defeating a foe or bypass obstacles in his way.

He has a lot of honour and pride, and he is definitely not an elf to insult. Because insults is something he doesn't take lightly. This pride is nothing that really shows on the calm surface of his, but it is noticeable when talks, always adressing people with respect which is a way for him to show that he is honourable, acts or is being insulted. At verbal confrontations he is very quick to reply to comments about him, still with a calm intention, but his way of keeping his pride on top is obvious.

HISTORY: Vaele lived peacefully in Lorien, being trained as a marksman with a clear talent for accuracy and speed with the bow. He has become more and more skillful over the years of training in the forest, practicing his silent movement and sharp hearing which appeared to prove useful to him later in his life. He longed to prove himself worthy after all the training he had went through, and one day his chance came. To aid Eregion at all means.

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Seth Cotton's post

Vaele took up his bow, felt its weight. He nodded for himself and placed the fine longbow on his right side and let it lean against the wall as he took up the rest of his needed equipment. His quite weak breastplate was filled with memories, he sighed as he put it aside in the pile of “Necessary Things”. His longbow, arrows, breastplate, leather armour pads for both legs and arms and his hunting knife were all in the Pile of Necessary Things. As well his backpack with some bread and small, chopped pieces of fruit.

His sister came in, all dressed in white and golden hair. She walked in without a sound and kneeled down on the floor beside Vaele. She stroked him over the forehead and he turned his head slowly over to her and met her gaze. She looked sad, but Vaele knew that she was doing her best to hide it.

“I will come back sister.” He said and forced himself to smile.

“Be careful. I will not stand losing another brother cause of some meaningless fight.”

“I promise you I will return.” Vaele answered and rose up from the floor and began to strap on the armpads. As he came to the strapping on the breastplate around his back his sister helped him.

“Be brave Nilwèn, do not despair because of me. It will not help to griev.”

His sister rose up as well, her cheeks were red. “Do not play a hero!” She exclaimed, almost yelling at him with her lightest voice. He saw that she began to shiver, probably she cried but Vaele was not sure. Nilwèn ran out of the talan and Vaele stood in the middle of the room and looked with sad eyes after her. Vaele growled and took on his robe. He tried to ignore her and her emotional burst, instead focusing on what he had to do. He was not to let this interfere. His fingers nibbled on the robes silver clasp. Attempt after attempt he failed to fasten it.

After a cursing the clasp and a few more attempts without any luck, he managed to fasten it. He had never been good at practical things; doing things with his hands in general. He had never possessed that skill. He lifted up his backpack and took it on. He kept his bow hanging by his shoulder and his knife in the boot. He was all set to go. He left the talan, but stopped in the door opening and looked around in the talan for a moment. It had his been his talan for ages, his sanctuary, his oasis, and now he stood there knowing that he might never return to it again.

He stood for another moment, remembering all the times he had found peace in the quite small talan. He slowly closed the door and decided to bid farewell to his father. His father met him on the small lawn in front of the talan. They embraced as father and son, Vaeles father patted him in the back as he let go. He did not say anything, he didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. He was against it as well, he had complained about Vaeles decision from the day he mentioned that he had been thinking of signing up for it.

It surprised him, he thought his father would be more understanding than that.

“Farewell father.”

“Farewell my youngest son…” He stood quiet; closed his eyes and sighed. “Stay safe”

“I will.” Vaele said shortly and began to walk to the camp for the contingent which was stationed outside Caras Galadhon. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw his sister stand, beautiful and completely silent, looking after him as he walked. Her expression on her face was a memory he never forgot.

He walked lightly and swift, thinking he was already late. The darkness came closer over the talans and he wanted to get there as quick as possible. As he got closer he saw the banners and the many tents with preparations; archers checking their bows, captains giving orders. It was a constant alarm of noise.

“Archer, you are late.” Vaele heard a voice behind him, which sounded pretty annoyed. He turned to see who it was, and as he suspected it was the commander of their contingent.

“I beg your pardon, Commander…” Vaele said and half-bowed.

“Commander Eldegon” The tall, pale elf said with a remarkable superiority in his voice. He sighed and looked at Vaele, kind of examining his possible capabilities in combat. “Good at stealth? Scouting? We need a scout in the first rank. Someone swift and silent, a good hand with bows is appreciated, but by judging your equipment and yourself, you seem to be a pretty skilled archer.”

Vaele just nodded quite baffled. The elf talked clean and unusual quick. He must be in quite a stress, Vaele thought.

“Very well, get in the first rank and prepare yourself. We will march in the daybreak.”

Vaele walked over to where he was directed, the first rank in the lead. He was quite pleased with his given position, and being a scout fitted him well. He saw another elf from the first rank ahead. He wasn’t sure wether this was the first rank or not, so he walked over and asked the elf which appeared to be rather young. “Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Gwydion's character

NAME: Alethian Eriam

AGE:3522

RACE:Elf

GENDER:Male

WEAPONS:Second Age elven-sword,dagger of the Noldor, Bow of the Galadrim, and quiver of arrows.

APPEARANCE: 5'10", dark hair, bright grey eyes, fair-skinned, lean, compact runner-like body. Uses all senses to the utmost possibility.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Far-sighted, strong, wise, small amount of arrogance.

HISTORY: Alethian has lived most of his life in Lorien and has mainly lived his life defending Lorien from the forces of evil. Tries to help all the elves and bolster all defenses, was once an aid to the Lady Galadriel, a great honor indeed and was sent to help Elrond of Imladris in the battle.

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Gwydion's post

[piosenniel]

Elves of Lórien


Arestevana's character

NAME: Gilduin Lindorion

AGE: 1,438

RACE: Elf (Noldor) of Lorien

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS : Gilduin bears the standard of the Lorien contingent. The oaken shaft is inlaid with silver and capped on either end by a silver spike. Gilduin also carries a longbow and a quiver of arrows. He keeps a long dirk sheathed on his right hip, but rarely uses it for fighting. The dirk is of his own making, a decorative weapon with a blade like that of a sword set into the wooden handle.

APPEARANCE: An even six feet in height, Gilduin has straight, golden hair which falls to his shoulders. He is slender and has the graceful strength common among elves. His eyes, dark grey, appear a lesson in contrast against his fair skin. He wears a loose, long-sleeved tunic of light grey, belted at the waist. He also sports leggings, stivali (light boots), and a half-cloak of the same color, with embroidery in silver on the neck and sleeves of the tunic and the hem of the cape. He wears a glove on his right hand (with which he bears the standard) but the fingers are open so as not to hinder his work.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Gilduin, though well over a thousand years in age, is younger than many elves. He has a tendency toward pride, and often feels an irrational sense of superiority around others, especially individuals of other races. However, this is rarely apparent, as he is by nature withdrawn. He is slow to give trust or friendship, though when he views someone as an equal he becomes a loyal companion. His pride does not equate to confidence, and under stress he often lapses into deep thought, taking no notice stimuli of the world around him. He is filled with deep regret for past decisions, but he hides it well. Gilduin was once skilled in the delicate working of metals. He made no large weapons, but occasionally created small knives, such as his dirk. With disuse this talent faded, and his strength is now in tracking and woodcraft. He is a fine shot with a long bow, but has little skill in melee combat. If needed, he has a fair hand at the quarter-staff, but his sword skill is lacking.

HISTORY: Gilduin has lived most of his life in Laurelindórinan. For many years, his greatest wish was to join the Elvensmiths at Ost-in-Edhil. However, he doubted his own skill, and his pride would not permit him to seek an apprenticeship there. He abandoned his craft and took up the bow, patrolling the borders of his homeland and withdrawing from life for long periods of time. His outward silence could not hide his inner restlessness and regret from his mentor, an elf in the service of the lady Galadriel. Unwilling to speak to his mentor or receive advice, Gilduin left Lindórinan and wandered for years in Greenwood the Great. Shortly after he returned home, a messenger came from Eregion requesting aid. Eldegon, the commander of the contingent, had known Gilduin from years ago and asked him to join the company. Gilduin agreed and was assigned as standard bearer.

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Arestevana's post

Gilduin gazed at the sunlit trees of Laurelindórinan in silence, hearing little of the bustle that surrounded him. It had been many years since he had been so near Caras Galadhon, its protective walls extending in a gentle arc before him. Years ago they had welcomed him with the promise of safety, renewal, and fulfillment. Now they closed him out. Though he was not forbidden passage through the high green walls, he knew he could no more cross the white bridge of the Galadrim than he could return the golden leaves carpeting Lindórinan to their silver branches and reclaim the springtime of his youth.

Gilduin reluctantly withdrew from his revere as someone approached him. He took quick note of his surroundings. A stone’s throw to the north lay Caras Galadhon, its great mellyrn stretching sunward above them. Outside the city a great number of elves had gathered, many of them bearing weapons. He turned his attention to the elf who stood in front of him.
“Greetings, Gilduin Lindorion,” said the elf. “It has been many years since last I saw you. Where have been wandering?”
“In Greenwood the Great,” Gilduin replied slowly, adding belatedly, “Eldegon,” as he recalled the elf’s name. “Who calls the Galadrim to arms?”
“A messenger from the Ost-in-Edhil. We send a company to aid the Mírdain. Will you join us?”

Gilduin, caught off guard, felt himself pulling into a state of deep concentration. Though he had just returned to Lindórinan after years of roving, he needed nothing but what he had. He knew that Eldegon expected him to refuse. I do not want your pity. “I will join you,” Gilduin said at last. “Who commands the contingent?”
“I do.” Eldegon replied. If he was surprised at Gilduin’s decision, he did not show it. “What skill have you in combat?”
Gilduin thought a moment. “No sword-skill, if that’s what you mean. I have no close weapon, save my knife.” He showed Eldegon his dirk and longbow. “I’m a fair shot, and if needs be I can keep my head with a quarterstaff.”
Eldegon shook his head. “I have no need for archers. Three-score already are marching with us, and two-score swordsmen. Will you bear the standard?”
“I will.” Gilduin said, after a moment’s wondering at the request.

Eldegon nodded and led him a short ways south to a hill overlooking the wide clearing where the company was mustering. There he departed momentarily, leaving Gilduin to stare out over the many ranks of warriors. There were six ranks of archers, ten elves in each rank, and ahead of them four ranks of swordsmen. Behind the archers was a line of light wooden carts, laden with food and supplies for the march. The horses that would draw them were tethered a short ways away from the company.

Eldegon returned, carrying the standard of Lindórinan. “You said you could handle a quarterstaff. Can you keep formation while bearing a standard or polearm?” He asked, continuing when Gilduin nodded. “Good. You will march at the herald’s left, in the first rank with myself and my captains.” He handed the standard to Gilduin, who hefted it to feel its weight. The oaken shaft was straight and smooth, and the fabric of the banner, though light, was very strong.

“When do we march, commander?” Gilduin asked with a glance at the sun, which had long passed its zenith and was nearing the horizon.

“Not today,” Eldegon replied. “Tonight the captains meet with Lord Celeborn. Tomorrow we will march, or perhaps the day after.” With that, he nodded briskly to Gilduin and headed toward Caras Galadhon, pausing briefly to speak to another elf before continuing to the city’s gates.

Reluctantly, Gilduin hefted the standard in his hand and left his hilltop post, seeking out his place in the marching order. He reached the first rank and sought out the herald, introducing himself with as few words as possible and taking his place on the elf’s left. He glanced over his shoulder at the green-walled city as dusk crept over the restless company, a thin sliver of sun clinging desperately to the horizon on his right. One by one, lanterns appeared on the walls, until Caras Galadhon gleamed like a jewel, or perhaps a star which had wandered from its place in the darkening heavens. Beside him, the herald had lit a lantern, and by its light Gilduin noticed a green-garbed archer approaching the rank. He occupied himself with the standard and did his best to look busy, but the elf stopped directly in front of him.

Shying away from speech, as he so often did, Gilduin sought for the correct syllable by which to vocalize a noncommittal murmur. He wished to disappear, as did that final finger of golden sun in the face of inexorable night, as the elf addressed him.

“Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Elves of Lindon


Envinyatar's character

Name: Ondomirë

Age: born in I 200 (310 years at the fall of Gondolin; 2080 in II 1697 when Eregion fell. 245 years older than Gil-galad; 325 years older than Elrond)

Race: Elf; Noldor, originally from Gondolin

Gender: male

Appearance: 6’ 7” (a little over 2 meters), 220 lbs (around 100 kg); lithely muscled, finely chiseled face; grey eyed; raven hair worn in a thick plait to his mid back. Wears: Light grey tunics of a soft material over darker grey breeches. Black twice wrapped, wide leather belt with a plain silver buckle. Black leather, mid-calf boots. Dark blue cape which bears on its left shoulder a silver-white brooch in the shape of an arrow head, set with a deep purple stone.

Weapons: Great bow of yellow yew wood; unadorned black leather quiver hung from his belt fileed with arrows fletched in white, dark blue, purple, and black. Plain short sword in a worn leather sheaf hung opposite to his quiver. Black leather vambraces traced with an arrow head design in silver. Long, light metal mail vest, shimmers like fish scales. Light, silvered leg guards. Silvered helm which bears a fan of purple feathers on its front piece.

Personality, strengths, weaknesses: Even tempered, reliable. Honors the Valar; loyal to the High King. Quiet, reserved man, and save for his size, unobtrusive. Keen observer of those about him. Excellent archer, having served under Duilin in Gondolin with The House of the Swallow. Adequate at blade work for close in fighting.

History: Born in Gondolin about 75 years after Turgon founded it. His family was part of the Folk of the Swallow, one of the twelve Houses of Gondolin. The Folk of the Swallow were formidable archers and served the High King of the Noldor in the defense of the Hidden City.

When Gondolin fell to Morgoth’s troops, Ondomirë escaped with the remnant of Turgon’s people and took refuge with them in the havens at the mouths of the Sirion. Gil-galad, who had become High King after the death of Turgon, was at that time also residing with the Exiles at the Havens. Ondomirë never married; he is the only remaining member of his family.

Elrond was born at the havens and later, after choosing, to remain among the kindred of the Elves, also chose to remain with Gil-galad. After the War of Wrath and the sinking of Beleriand, Gilgalad established a kingdom in Lindon.

Ondomirë pledged his fealty to Gil-galad and also went to Lindon to serve him. During his long years of service, he has grown close to the King and become a trusted advisor.

He has been sent with Elrond and a large troop of 500 Elven warriors from Lindon to assist the Elves in Eregion against the onslaught of Sauron. Ondomirë is the Captain of the Bowmen company comprised of 200 archers. At Gil-galad’s request, he serves as Elrond’s close advisor on this campaign.

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Envinyatar's post

Autumn/SA 1695

It was late in the second day of the council. The sense of urgency had not diminished, nor had the anger. ‘The King counseled the fools,’ murmured Ondomirë to himself, his head shaking at the news that Morgoth’s captain, Sauron, had at last revealed himself. ‘Annatar, he called himself. Lord of Gifts! Pah! Even now the name brings a taste of soured bile to my tongue. Were they so eager for his knowledge that they forgot the hard lessons Fëanor brought upon us?’

Many, many years had passed since the tall, fair-faced Annatar had come to Lindon, offering to teach his skills to the Elves dwelling in the High King’s lands. He’d been sent away then by Gil-galad; his offers to show how Endor, Middle-earth, might be made as fair and lasting as Valinor rejected. Since then, it was told, he had insinuated himself into one of the Elven guilds in Eregion. Teaching them his glamoured skills. And now, dread Wolf that he was, he had pounced on his prey as it contrived to oppose him. His retribution would be swift and overwhelming. Death, and worse, would come to the Elves of Eregion, to their cities, their lands. Sauron’s armies would sweep west over the King’s lands until he and his dark army stood at the borders of Lindon itself.

‘And what does he seek, I wonder?’ asked Ondomirë to himself. ‘He and his Lord always hated the Elves. But reports from Ost-in-Edhil and from Lorien imply there is more than just the wish to subdue the Elven peoples. What have the Mirdain done . . . what has the House of Fëanor done now?’

Ondomirë sat back in his chair, his eyes on Gil-galad at the head of the table as he spoke with various of his trusted captains. He could see the beard of Cirdan as the Elf stroked it, teasing hard answers from it, it seemed, with the thoughtful movements of his fingers. The bright golden hair of Glorfindel gleamed in light thrown from the jeweled lamps. His head moving in ‘yays’ or ‘nays’ as they spoke. And Elrond, his dark grey eyes thoughtful, bent over the map of Eriador, as he traced a route from The Havens to The Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains.

A frown creased Ondomirë’s brow as he watched Cirdan and Glorfindel deferring to what Elrond was saying. The King, too, nodded his head and clapped Elrond on his shoulder. Ondomirë looked up as the King stood, announcing to the room in general now that troops would be sent to aid Celebrimbor and his people in Ost-in-Edhil. And that Lord Elrond would lead them.

‘Now that is an interesting move,’ commented Ondomirë, loud enough for the Elf to his left to hear him. ‘The King has passed over Cirdan and Glorfindel, both more seasoned than Elrond, and chosen the younger Elf to lead his troops for this battle. Why is that I wonder?’ Brows raised, he glanced at the Elf who was now listening to his out-loud ponderings. In the meantime, the King had called for volunteers to lead the various divisions of Elves he would be sending.

His eyes narrowing as he wondered at Gil-galad’s choice, Ondomirë stood, saying he would gather and captain the archers if it were so wished. ‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

[piosenniel]

Elves of Lindon


Orofaniel's character

NAME: Geldion (Gel-dhi-on)

AGE: 1095

RACE: Noldor elf.

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Geldion is highly skilled with his sword, and it has always been his weapon of choice. His sword was given to him by his brother. At a glance, this sword looks like an ordinary sword, but the blade is much sharper and much lighter than one would think in the first place. If needed, Geldion has proved well with both spears and bow.

APPEARANCE: Tall and slim, like most elves. He has greyish eyes, and they are rather small in his somewhat round face. He has some rather strong features; long and somewhat rare nose, and strong- but not bushy eyebrows. His hair is often worn in a plait. In battles he wears a light armour, helmet, daggers, and of course his sword. He usually wears soft, light tunics with silver embroidery.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: An ordinary elf, but perhaps more skilled in battle strategies and tactics than most. This has not been a natural thing for him, rather a knowledge that has grown with him over the years. He has observed, watched and learned from his superior(s), especially the King and his closest followers – whom Geldion owns much respect. He has, because of this, grown to be a reliable and a loyal advisor.

Geldion is easily attached to people for better or worse. He is likeable and respected amongst his fellow elves.

Geldion likes to have big responsibilities and most of the time he carries them out with great success. He does not like the thought of defeat, or failure of any kind, and is therefore very careful when facing difficult or challenging decisions and so forth. He prefers to have some sort of control over the current situation and be updated on recent events. He is in many ways just an advisor, but he also has a great impact on those who carry out the plans. Therefore in many ways he is some sort of a leader type. Although he has never really led any sort of armies, he knows exactly which tactics that has to be used, and how they should carry out the mission. Although since this is still new to him, one cannot guarantee he won't meet some minor, or bigger, defeats. He is however, a person with strong confident in what he does, and does not easily give up. He is after all, a warrior.

HSTORY: Geldion joined Gil-Galad when he received the kingship of the Noldor. And followed him until Gil-Galad established Lindon, where Geldion also settled. Geldion is a loyal follower of his High King, and has been so ever since Gil-Galad received the kingship of the Noldor.

Most of his family were lost to him during the Great Battle. His brother mourned and was lost shortly after, leaving his sword behind, for Geldion to use.

Geldion is a close friend to Ondomirë. They met each other in Lindon when Gil-Galad established it. Both of them are to this day humble servants and loyal to The King. Geldion has therefore, much like his friend, volunteered to be captain for the swordsmen.

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Orofaniel's post

‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

"Ondomirë, you know better, age and wisdom are not automatically connected," Geldion said under his breath, smiling at the elf, who had just gotten up from his seat to volunteer to lead the archers in the upcoming battle.

It was Geldion turn to get up. "My friend here Ondomire," Geldion started, looking back at the elf, "has just volunteered to lead one of the division," Geldion then said. "Aye, it will be the archers," Ondomirë confirmed. "It would be my honour, my King, if I could lead the division with the swordsmen," Geldion said.

The King looked at him. He didn't look surprised, but curious, or even - in wonder. Why would he volunteer for that, an elf who had not experience whatsoever with leading any force or sort of armies at all? "I know what The King must be thinking. I have not leaded any divisions before. I am merely a humble advisor. I am nevertheless, a warrior as well. I'm highly skilled with the sword, and therefore I would be honoured if the King would grant me the division of swordsmen,” Geldion finished. But just as the words and sentences had slipped from his tongue, he felt as though if he regretted it; this was no place for him. He was not able to lead soldiers into war. It didn’t suit him. He couldn’t do it; he was after all just an advisor. Tactics and strategies was his main field. He was however, a good warrior in combats. He admitted not to be as talented with the spears as with as swords though.

His thoughts circulated for a few seconds, before he opened his mouth again; “It is a task of great responsibility and it is perhaps too much for me to undertake at this point. Thus, I understand if the council wishes me to withdraw and come as a soldier only. Either way, I will do as you command, my King." He straightened his back, not looking the King in the eyes. He found himself trying to avoid the eyes of the elves present at the meeting.

The elves said naught for a couple of moments. All seemed to be in deep thought. Elrond had turned away from the map, and was now looking at Gil -Galad

"I think it only fair that you shall be the captain of the swordsmen," and elf said, but not clear or loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Indeed," another elf whispered. "You have served me well over the years," the King said. "You shall therefore lead the swordsman, but remember not only to use your skills when in battle, but also when preparing for it. You shall go not only as a Captain, but also as an advisor. Remember that," Gil-Galad said quietly. A feeling of great sensation of joy and relief reached Geldion's body and mind as the King spoke. Maybe he had been too critical towards his own abilities. Perhaps he was the right man for this task after all. The king, the man Geldion respected the most, showed confidence in him by giving him the swordsmen division, and thus Geldion promised himself not to fail or be defeated.

"Thank you, my King. I will not fail," he said and thanked the elves altogether, as he bowed. "Let us hope so," Ondomirë said, smiling at him as Geldion seated again.

[piosenniel]

Orcs of Sauron’s forces


Encaitare's character

NAME: Glûtkask, title of Boldog

AGE: doesn't really apply to Maiar, does it?

RACE: Boldog -- a corrupted, lesser Maia in an orkish hröa. For info regarding this concept, check it out here or in HerenIstarion's excellent essay here. I think this race would be quite befitting of an orc captain, even though it's not an idea contained within the Sil.

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: He wears armor of metal and leather that is in slightly better condition than that of the average orc. He carries a single-edged sword which is accompanied by an axe. On his head is a crude, spiked helm.

APPEARANCE: quite large and powerfully built. Also remarkably ugly, as orcs tend to be. He's been around for a while, so he has several noticable battle scars. Mottled skin and narrowed yellow eyes.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Think of the average orc. Actually, think of a really, above-averagely nasty orc. Got a good picture in your mind? Okay, now think of an orc worse than that. That'll be Glûtkask, roughly speaking -- ruthless, foul, and always looking out for Number One above anyone else. Among his strengths are his ability to hack off the heads and stab the guts of the Free Peoples. Although it's Sauron who is the master of their battle strategies, Glûtkask didn't get to be a captain by being stupid -- he can usually get himself and/or his garrison out of a pinch.

HISTORY: As a Maia, Glûtkask was corrupted some time in the First Age. He served Morgoth, assuming his orkish form at this time, though he went by a different name. He fled after his master's downfall, laying low until Sauron began to gain power. In accordance with Sauron's efforts to promote the Black Speech, Glûtkask took the name he now bears. Because of his history of being a faithful servant (and his excellent references, as it were ) he's garnered a fair amount of trust from Sauron. Glûtkask is not particularly interested in gaining personal power; he is relatively satisfied with his position.

~*~

+ carry-along orcs in the garrison

[piosenniel]

Orcs of Sauron’s forces


Firefoot's character

NAME: Grimkul

AGE: He’s not really sure – all years tend to run together in dark tunnels under the mountains - nor does he care. But even if he did care, it wouldn’t matter much since he can’t count much higher than 20.

RACE: Orc

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Grimkul’s favorite weapon is a long, slightly curved scimitar which he hasn’t ever cleaned, more out of laziness than any other reason, though he does pride himself on the different kinds of blood the sword bears: Elf, Dwarf, Man, Orc, rat (and other rodent), fish, bat, and once he was even lucky enough to spear a bird. He has a wooden bow, on which is scratched all kinds of crude symbols and marks; his arrows are fletched in black feathers. He also has a short dagger and a heavy wooden cudgel, useful for bashing in heads and squashing things.

APPEARANCE: Grimkul is of a smaller mountain race, though he is rather large for that, with comparatively broad, albeit hunched, shoulders and tough wiry muscles. He is bowlegged. He has dark, splotchy skin, and what sparse hair he does have is coarse and black. His yellow eyes are accustomed to the dark and bulge out of his misshapen skull. His teeth are yellow and crooked, and not a few are missing; his fingernails are similarly yellowed and tough. His only armor is a chain mail coat, over which he wears dark breeches and a jerkin made mostly of bats’ wings crudely sown together.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Grimkul is not very intelligent and, if confused, is more likely to kill the source of confusion than try to sort the information out. The notable exception is his more intelligent companion Ulwakh; their relationship being a mutually beneficial “brains/brawn” type. Grimkul tends not to back down from a fight even when his chances at winning are considerably slim, whether because he is too stupid to realize this or doesn’t care is undecided. Luckily he is larger, stronger, and more skilled in weapon use than most of his kind. He dislikes being among the legions of Sauron’s army and would prefer to go back to the mountain tunnels in the Misty Mountains. Nor does he bear any love toward his commanders (who are generally bigger than he is), and, largely at Ulwakh’s bidding, avoids their notice whenever possible.

HISTORY: Grimkul was born in the Orc tunnels of the Misty Mountains and has spent most of his life there. This part of his life was basically uneventful: he survived off the creatures sharing the tunnels with him, fought in some small battles between Orc clans, and sometimes ventured out of the mountains in small raiding parties (always at night) to harry any living things unfortunate enough to be in the area. Several years back, however, he was part of a raiding party that had gone farther than usual from their mountain tunnels and had a run-in with a small force of Sauron’s. Those that survived (including Grimkul and Ulwakh) were driven to Mordor and integrated into Sauron’s army.

~*~

Carry-along character

NAME: Ulwakh – Grimkul’s companion

AGE: About the same as Grimkul, though he could probably give a more precise answer, as he understands numbers and such better – he could probably count to 50, and if he thought about it would be able to tell you that they were at least that old.

RACE: Orc

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ulwakh’s first two weapons, a scimitar and bow, are similar to Grimkul’s. His favorite weapons, however, are a variety of crooked knives with jagged edges, no two alike. These are useful for throwing, stabbing, cutting, and other more ordinary purposes (e.g. cooking, should he ever care to cook), but more interesting to him are the different ways each can provide pain. Ulwakh does not enjoy killing and fighting so much, but he finds giving pain fascinating, and his knives are useful for this.

APPEARANCE: Similar to Grimkul in complexion, though little else. He is much smaller and less strong, and his arms and legs are proportionately longer. His skull is rounder; his eyes are deeper set and an almost luminescent green color. His garments are also similar to Grimkul, except he is far less choosy in the materials for his jerkin and he wears a helmet as an extra piece of armor.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ulwakh is quite intelligent and cunning (for an Orc, that is). He is quick and agile, though not particularly strong or prone to fight. He prefers to flee rather than fight, though he can ably defend himself (or Grimkul can defend him; it’s all the same to Ulwakh). He takes a perverse delight in giving pain, and while his subjects are usually small animals that he catches, he prefers such rarer subjects as Elves and Dwarves when he has had the fortune of a captive. Ulwakh has no desire of personal power, as he generally sees leadership roles as a good way to get killed (by followers), and in further self-preservation he draws as little attention to himself as possible.

HISTORY: About the same as Grimkul.

[piosenniel]

Orcs of Sauron’s forces


Kath's character

NAME: Olburz

AGE: Unknown

RACE: Orc - a corrupted elf

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: He carries a sword and an axe but prefers to use the strength in his body to weapons when fighting. He wears armour of metal gathered from the dead of previous battles but wears no helm as his skull is remarkably thick.

APPEARANCE: Large both in height and width. Hunches over a lot so has a slight hump on his back. Ugly as sin with numerous scars from old battles as well as his toturous corruption.


PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Follows orders though not always with good grace. A tendency to be surly to leaders has made him a little unpopular wtihin the camp but when he does do as asked he does so with well with efficiency. He is trustworthy in that if asked to kill he will do so without hesitation and with glee.

HISTORY: Captured and tortured by Sauron's servants he took to his corrupted form with relish.

[piosenniel]

PLAYER/CHARACTER LIST:

Elves of Eregion

• Durelin - Maegisil
• Amanaduial the archer - Narisiel Mirdain
• Alcarillo - Cainenyo Nession
• Nurumaiel - Erinlaer
  
  
• Esgallhugwen - Fëaglin Lómë - POST NEEDED

~*~

Dwarves of Moria

• Piosenniel – Riv Stonecut
• Arry - Skald Stonecut (Riv's younger brother)
• Folwren - Bror (Riv's youngest brother)
• Boromir88 - Orin Bronzeeyes

~*~

Elves of Lórien

• Seth Cotton - Vaele Andarion
• Arestevana - Gilduin Lindorion
  
  
• Gwydion - Alethian Eriam - POST NEEDED

~*~

Elves of Lindon

• Envinyatar - Ondomirë
• Orofaniel - Geldion

~*~

Orcs of Sauron’s forces

• Encaitare - Glûtkask, corrupted maia in Orc form + several carry along Orc underlings
• Firefoot - Grimkul + carry long - Ulwakh
• Kath - Olburz

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CAMEOS - to be arranged with Durelin by PM

1.) CaptainofDespair - Sauron's Champion; big baddie

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[piosenniel]

ESGALLHUGWEN, MITHALWEN, GWYDION, ARESTEVANA please put your FIRST POSTS here on this thread.

[Seth Cotton]

Vaele took up his bow, felt its weight. He nodded for himself and placed the fine longbow on his right side and let it lean against the wall as he took up the rest of his needed equipment. His quite weak breastplate was filled with memories, he sighed as he put it aside in the pile of “Necessary Things”. His longbow, arrows, breastplate, leather armour pads for both legs and arms and his hunting knife were all in the Pile of Necessary Things. As well his backpack with some bread and small, chopped pieces of fruit.

His sister came in, all dressed in white and golden hair. She walked in without a sound and kneeled down on the floor beside Vaele. She stroked him over the forehead and he turned his head slowly over to her and met her gaze. She looked sad, but Vaele knew that she was doing her best to hide it.

“I will come back sister.” He said and forced himself to smile.

“Be careful. I will not stand losing another brother cause of some meaningless fight.”

“I promise you I will return.” Vaele answered and rose up from the floor and began to strap on the armpads. As he came to the strapping on the breastplate around his back his sister helped him.

“Be brave Nilwèn, do not despair because of me. It will not help to griev.”

His sister rose up as well, her cheeks were red. “Do not play a hero!” She exclaimed, almost yelling at him with her lightest voice. He saw that she began to shiver, probably she cried but Vaele was not sure. Nilwèn ran out of the talan and Vaele stood in the middle of the room and looked with sad eyes after her. Vaele growled and took on his robe. He tried to ignore her and her emotional burst, instead focusing on what he had to do. He was not to let this interfere. His fingers nibbled on the robes silver clasp. Attempt after attempt he failed to fasten it.

After a cursing the clasp and a few more attempts without any luck, he managed to fasten it. He had never been good at practical things; doing things with his hands in general. He had never possessed that skill. He lifted up his backpack and took it on. He kept his bow hanging by his shoulder and his knife in the boot. He was all set to go. He left the talan, but stopped in the door opening and looked around in the talan for a moment. It had his been his talan for ages, his sanctuary, his oasis, and now he stood there knowing that he might never return to it again.

He stood for another moment, remembering all the times he had found peace in the quite small talan. He slowly closed the door and decided to bid farewell to his father. His father met him on the small lawn in front of the talan. They embraced as father and son, Vaeles father patted him in the back as he let go. He did not say anything, he didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. He was against it as well, he had complained about Vaeles decision from the day he mentioned that he had been thinking of signing up for it.

It surprised him, he thought his father would be more understanding than that.

“Farewell father.”

“Farewell my youngest son…” He stood quiet; closed his eyes and sighed. “Stay safe”

“I will.” Vaele said shortly and began to walk to the camp for the contingent which was stationed outside Caras Galadhon. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw his sister stand, beautiful and completely silent, looking after him as he walked. Her expression on her face was a memory he never forgot.

He walked lightly and swift, thinking he was already late. The darkness came closer over the talans and he wanted to get there as quick as possible. As he got closer he saw the banners and the many tents with preparations; archers checking their bows, captains giving orders. It was a constant alarm of noise.

“Archer, you are late.” Vaele heard a voice behind him, which sounded pretty annoyed. He turned to see who it was, and as he suspected it was the commander of their contingent.

“I beg your pardon, Commander…” Vaele said and half-bowed.

“Commander Eldegon” The tall, pale elf said with a remarkable superiority in his voice. He sighed and looked at Vaele, kind of examining his possible capabilities in combat. “Good at stealth? Scouting? We need a scout in the first rank. Someone swift and silent, a good hand with bows is appreciated, but by judging your equipment and yourself, you seem to be a pretty skilled archer.”

Vaele just nodded quite baffled. The elf talked clean and unusual quick. He must be in quite a stress, Vaele thought.

“Very well, get in the first rank and prepare yourself. We will march in the daybreak.”

Vaele walked over to where he was directed, the first rank in the lead. He was quite pleased with his given position, and being a scout fitted him well. He saw another elf from the first rank ahead. He wasn’t sure wether this was the first rank or not, so he walked over and asked the elf which appeared to be rather young. “Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[Arestevana]

Here is my first post.
Pio: I've noticed that my post conflicts slightly with my bio as to the matter of Gilduin's joining the contingent. Is this permissible, or is there some way for me to adjust my bio accordingly?

-----

First Post: POSTED TO CHARACTER BIO ABOVE ~*~ Pio

Gilduin gazed at the sunlit trees of Laurelindórinan in silence, hearing little of the bustle that surrounded him. It had been many years since he had been so near Caras Galadhon, its protective walls extending in a gentle arc before him. Years ago they had welcomed him with the promise of safety, renewal, and fulfillment. Now they closed him out. Though he was not forbidden passage through the high green walls, he knew he could no more cross the white bridge of the Galadrim than he could return the golden leaves carpeting Lindórinan to their silver branches and reclaim the springtime of his youth.

Gilduin reluctantly withdrew from his revere as someone approached him. He took quick note of his surroundings. A stone’s throw to the north lay Caras Galadhon, its great mellyrn stretching sunward above them. Outside the city a great number of elves had gathered, many of them bearing weapons. He turned his attention to the elf who stood in front of him.
“Greetings, Gilduin Lindorion,” said the elf. “It has been many years since last I saw you. Where have been wandering?”
“In Greenwood the Great,” Gilduin replied slowly, adding belatedly, “Eldegon,” as he recalled the elf’s name. “Who calls the Galadrim to arms?”
“A messenger from the Ost-in-Edhil. We send a company to aid the Mírdain. Will you join us?”

Gilduin, caught off guard, felt himself pulling into a state of deep concentration. Though he had just returned to Lindórinan after years of roving, he needed nothing but what he had. He knew that Eldegon expected him to refuse. I do not want your pity. “I will join you,” Gilduin said at last. “Who commands the contingent?”
“I do.” Eldegon replied. If he was surprised at Gilduin’s decision, he did not show it. “What skill have you in combat?”
Gilduin thought a moment. “No sword-skill, if that’s what you mean. I have no close weapon, save my knife.” He showed Eldegon his dirk and longbow. “I’m a fair shot, and if needs be I can keep my head with a quarterstaff.”
Eldegon shook his head. “I have no need for archers. Three-score already are marching with us, and two-score swordsmen. Will you bear the standard?”
“I will.” Gilduin said, after a moment’s wondering at the request.

Eldegon nodded and led him a short ways south to a hill overlooking the wide clearing where the company was mustering. There he departed momentarily, leaving Gilduin to stare out over the many ranks of warriors. There were six ranks of archers, ten elves in each rank, and ahead of them four ranks of swordsmen. Behind the archers was a line of light wooden carts, laden with food and supplies for the march. The horses that would draw them were tethered a short ways away from the company.

Eldegon returned, carrying the standard of Lindórinan. “You said you could handle a quarterstaff. Can you keep formation while bearing a standard or polearm?” He asked, continuing when Gilduin nodded. “Good. You will march at the herald’s left, in the first rank with myself and my captains.” He handed the standard to Gilduin, who hefted it to feel its weight. The oaken shaft was straight and smooth, and the fabric of the banner, though light, was very strong.

“When do we march, commander?” Gilduin asked with a glance at the sun, which had long passed its zenith and was nearing the horizon.

“Not today,” Eldegon replied. “Tonight the captains meet with Lord Celeborn. Tomorrow we will march, or perhaps the day after.” With that, he nodded briskly to Gilduin and headed toward Caras Galadhon, pausing briefly to speak to another elf before continuing to the city’s gates.

Reluctantly, Gilduin hefted the standard in his hand and left his hilltop post, seeking out his place in the marching order. He reached the first rank and sought out the herald, introducing himself with as few words as possible and taking his place on the elf’s left. He glanced over his shoulder at the green-walled city as dusk crept over the restless company, a thin sliver of sun clinging desperately to the horizon on his right. One by one, lanterns appeared on the walls, until Caras Galadhon gleamed like a jewel, or perhaps a star which had wandered from its place in the darkening heavens. Beside him, the herald had lit a lantern, and by its light Gilduin noticed a green-garbed archer approaching the rank. He occupied himself with the standard and did his best to look busy, but the elf stopped directly in front of him.

Shying away from speech, as he so often did, Gilduin sought for the correct syllable by which to vocalize a noncommittal murmur. He wished to disappear, as did that final finger of golden sun in the face of inexorable night, as the elf addressed him.

“Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Arestevana

You can rewrite the section of your bio that you want to change and post it here on the discussion thread - I'll move it up to the bio for your character that I moved over from the Planning Thread.

Because I posted it, you can't go into your bio from this thread - so just copy the section that needs changing from the green on black screen and paste it to Word or to a new post box and fix away.

~*~ Pio

[Arestevana]

Thanks, Pio. I'd like to change the last sentence only, really, from

Having known from years ago the elf given command of the contingent, Gilduin asked to join, and was assigned as standard-bearer.

to

Eldegon, the commander of the contingent, had known Gilduin from years ago and asked him to join the company. Gilduin agreed and was assigned as standard bearer.

Thanks again.

[piosenniel]

Arestevana

All done!

~*~ Pio

[Arestevana]

Thanks, Pio.

[Esgallhugwen]

PLACED W/BIO ~*~Pio

-------

Fëaglin's hammer made a sharp tinging sound as it struck the silver, flattening it into a wide band. He then took a small pair of pliers and twisted the metal to his desired effect, plaiting it along with two other strands in an intricate fashion of spirals and curves, similar to the delicate knotwork of vines.

He laughed heartily as he finished his commisioned task, a spiraling necklace for a bride to be, and nine circlets for the maids in waiting. A fellow silver-smith across the street with a bright young apprentice had made two beautiful rings for the couple. Fëaglin had been close to the furnace all day, so it was no suprise that he thought he deserved a nip of fresh air along with a nip of some fine wine.

The lean Elf cleared his work area, and set the finished silver pieces along a long table made viewable through a window so that others may admire his work, and be inspired to commision or buy some of his pre-crafted vendibles. The sun was setting as he locked up his shop for the night, and made his way into his house, just spacious enough for himself and one other. He shook the stiffness from his fingers.

But there was no other, not yet at any rate and at times Fëaglin grew heart sick in the dark of his room playing with the silver trinkets he had fashioned in his spare time in his forge. One in particular was special to him, a device of curious beauty.

Many loops of silver were strung together with subtle gems interlaced in the finery, and when one would push the outer most ring the others were set into motion, revolving around one another in a dizzying harmony. And if the light of the setting sun were to hit the gems just right an efflorescence of watery colour would sweep across the vaulted ceiling.

He had not revealed this creation to anyone, this creation of his helped to sooth his troubled thoughts and helped to clear his mind. Fëaglin was not blind to the encroaching darkness nor was he insensitive to the greater weight it was now pushing onto his Kin, threatening their very way of life.

Rumours had come of orcs along the borders and of Eregion's impending doom, but also the rumoured hope that help would arrive before all came to naught. Fëaglin hoped with all his will that that were true.

His grey eyes gazed steadily at the sword and bow hanging from the far wall, a growing knowledge came to him that they would have to be used before the end. He stood and walked down into the cellar picking a glass and small bottle of home made wine.

He made his was into the well kept courtyard and uncorked the bottle with the intention to finish it before he crept into bed under the starry sky. His head would be clearer in the morning.

[Durelin]

Thanks for your first post, Esgallhugwen. Wonderfully done.

And, much to everyone's relief, Mithalwen will still be participating in the game.

[Durelin]

Okay, I've figured out the order of the First Posts, excepting Mithalwen's, Sleepy Ranger's, and Gwydion's, which can all be fit in when they arrive on the discussion.

First of all: Pio, I've been meaning to change the date of 1692 to 1695 on the last division of my post. Sorry it took me so long.

I'd like to make the very first post as the Prologue only till the last division (when it says Late in the year 1692, which should be 1695). I'd like to turn what follows into a separate post.

I think I'd like this order:

The first part of the Prologue (most of it) xx
Evinyatar's Post xx
Orofaniel's Post xx
The last part of the Prologue (basically acting as just my 'first post') xx
Amanaduial's Post xx
Alcarillo's Post xx
Esgallhugwen's Post xx
Nurumaiel's Post xx

Mithalwen's Post(?) xx

Piosenniel's Post xx
Boromir88's Post xx
Folwren's Post xx
Arry's Post xx
Seth Cotton's Post xx
Arestevana's Post xx

Gwydion's post(?) xx

How does that sound?

[piosenniel]

Durelin

Date change made to your post

RPG thread has the First Posts on board

I've taken Sleepy Ranger off the RPG since he has submitted neither his revised Character Description nor a First Post by the agreed upon deadline.

~*~

Everyone

Please note Durelin has chosen Red Flows the Sirannon as the title for the game. I'll be changing the title of this thread to match it.

The RPG Thread (HERE ) will open once Mithalwen's First Post is on board.

~*~ Pio

[Durelin]

Thank you so much, Pio.

It's unfortunate that we now only have two Elves of Lindon. A question to Orofaniel and Evinyatar: Do you think only two of you will be enough to carry along your part of the story comfortably (and without you getting bored or anything )?

[Envinyatar]

I think we'll be fine. Oro's a good gamer - we'll play off each other well.

- E -

[Mithalwen]

POSTED TO GAME ~*~ Pio

Losrian passed her mentor's son as she left the workshops; she had given a swift smile in acknowledgment but although they were almost the same age (indeed Losrian was the elder by a few months), Artamir had the confidence of his rank that made her feel a lot younger, even though he always treated his mother's apprentice with the greatest courtesy.

She did not go directly back home, she had her bow with her and there was just enough light to go to the buttes for a while first. Nearly five years into her apprenticeship she was still a beginner as Elves rate such things, and with conflict threatening her skill, such as it was has been directed into the consumables of wars. However she was not downcast by her task - she knew that it would be long before she had the skill for sword smithing, and her interest in archery, and a knowledge of wood learnt from her father and brother meant that making arrowheads had a certain fascination. Her trip to the archery practice grounds was to test different designs.

She fitted an arrow and drew it back to anchor point, grey eyes focussed on the target though it was the flight of the arrow that interested her as she released the string.

"That bow is too short for you now, Lossie" said a familiar voice. Losrian did not need to turn in order to know her brother, Ferin, stood behind her. It would have been risking the next arrow through the throat for anyone else to address her thus...

"Indeed, but in current times, I doubt it will be the bowyer's priority to make a bow to fit the stature of a humble apprentice - and if you come to rebuke me, I will be home to scub floors or whatever in a few minutes". Their last private conversation had involved a thinly veiled "suggestion" that Losrian should shoulder more of the household duties to spare her pregnant sister-in-law, Laswen.

"That was not my purpose", he sighed, "I saw you by chance and thought we might walk home together- though we will all have to do more and make sacrifices unless things turn for the better unexpectedly. Those who dwell in the out lands will seek refuge in the city.... You should have stayed in Lindon, you would have been safer there".

"I do not regret my choice, for I have learned more in five years here than I would have learnt in fifty anywhere else - but here, fifty years would not be enough to learn all they might teach me ....."

"Enough, enough.... how anyone can prefer shaping metal to wood is beyond the understanding of a mere carpenter - and I do not want it explained! Let us get home and eat - and find you a floor to scrub since you seem to have your heart set on the task."

As it happened she was spared it, for once they had eaten, she had exchanged a task she hated for one she did not mind. While Laswen took over stitching the dress she was to wear at the feast to mark her fiftieth birthday shortly (her uncommon winter birthday was as much a reason for her name as her pale colouring), Losrian kneaded the bread, singing softly as she did so. She soon finished her task and offered half heartedly to take back the stitching since in Laswen's expert hands more progress had been made in an hour than had been made in many weeks, and it now looked like something that would in time become a dress rather than a random bundle of fabric, ..."unless, there is something else I can do while you sew ? " Losrian added hopefully.

"All is done for today, but I am happy to sew ..." said Laswen, and the pile of tiny garments already awaiting the birth of her child in the spring were a testament to this .."however it would give me joy if you were to fetch your lute and play while I did so since, I fear there will be little enough to sing about in the days to come.

Privately, Losrian agreed with her, and doubted that any would be in the mood for celebration when her birthday arrived. While she would be pleased by the result, hating as she did to be the focus of attention, the cause scared her as much as anyone, and so she did as she was bid and fetched her lute - a parting gift from her parents - and returned to play the simple songs she had learnt as a child, ignoring for that time the many that told of sorrow and war.

[Durelin]

Excellent, excellent first post. It was certainly worth the wait!

The game will be starting tomorrow, 8:30 - 9 am Pacific Time.

I hopefully will be around, and will be posting, though I need not hold anyone back if you don't see a post from me.

EDIT: Due to my desire to get the game going, and to the convenience of starting it now...the game is now open.

[Firefoot]

I'm excited.

Even though we didn't do first posts, should we Orcs still be writing here at the start? Or should we hold off a bit?

[Durelin]

The orcses can hop in whenever they want. Raids have already begun on the Eastern edges of Eregion, so...destroy a couple villages and mutilate its inhabitants? Sure...

If you'd like to hold off, though...that's of course fine too.

[piosenniel]

The RPG is now open for play!

Reminders for posting to the RPG:

• ~*~ Please remove your signatures from EVERY post to the RPG thread, including SAVES
  
  
• ~*~ Please don't use icons or smileys on your game posts -- save them for the discussion thread
  
  
  
• ~*~ Please have your SAVES filled in 24 hours from when they were placed. I will give you 48 hours at the most, then I'll delete them.

~*~ Pio, Game Moderator

[Envinyatar]

Excellent!

*rubs hands in anticipation

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

Oro

I'll try to get a post up tonight. Ondomirë will meet Geldion at the local watering hole.

- E -

[Encaitare]

I suppose we orcs can post sporadically, marking our progress. Durelin, around when in the game's timeframe are we going to enter the main plot?

[piosenniel]

Enca and other bad'uns & Lorien Elves & Dwarves

Perhaps once we (the Dwarves) exit the eastern door to Moria and go down to the Dimrill Dale to fetch the Lorien Elves, we could work up a small skirmish.

Maybe the orc troops can spot the Lorien Elves as they head out of Lorien and make their way across the short distance to the Dimrill Dale and the Mirrormere. It wouldn't be too hard to spot them from some rocky hiding place on the mountains' eastern feet.

At some point, the Lorien Elves should be heading northwest along the Celebrant River which should take them right to the Mirrormere and then to the East Gate. See HERE (Lorien is in the bottom right corner of the little map).

Just a thought . . .

~*~ Pio

[Folwren]

Sounds good to me, Pio.

How long should this conversation that is going on with the Dwarves now last? How many will we end up taking and who'll decide the last number out of the four of us talking? Bror's still considerably young and I'd say he's pretty fortunate to go on such a thing like this with Riv and Skald, seeing as he hasn't been out very far or very much...so I should imagine that he's going to be more on the sidelines when it comes to making plans. He'll give his opinion now and again, but no definite answers. Maybe later in the game when he's more sure of himself and what's going on. What thinks you?

And Boromir, my dear chap, my dwarf's name is Bror...not Folwren.

[Durelin]

Originally Posted by Encaitare

Durelin, around when in the game's timeframe are we going to enter the main plot?

Essentially, the baddies are already a part of the *main plot*, though distantly. At this point, the reason they are heading east from Mordor is basically to do some *tormenting*. After we make the 'time jump' in the game, then the baddies will really enter the main plot, as the seige will have started/will be about to start. At some point before or right after the time jump, it might be that the baddies are called back from their raidings, as they prepare to assemble a large enough force to destroy Eregion and start marching across the rest of Eriador.

How does that sound? I'm open to anything.

And speaking of *tormenting*...

Pio - Great idea.

And please excuse my abuse of *s.

[Durelin]

Finally, I will answer this question, which I should have answered a long time ago. I'm very sorry, it kept slipping my mind.

Originally Posted by Alcarillo

Question: My character is a blacksmith, i.e. an iron-wright, so should he be called from now on an angdan? And Esgallhugwen's character is a silver-smith. Should he be called a celebdan? Or should we continue using the English names for these professions?

I'm not going to force technicalities, but maybe we should go ahead and say that at least when the Elves speak, they should refer to them as 'angdan' or 'celebdan'. Otherwise, I think the English names are fine, as long as no one else feels we should be technical. How does that sound?

Sorry that took me so long...

EDIT - I have been horribly inconsiderate. My post is now a Save for Aman.