[piosenniel]

Bloodstained Elanor

Historical Background:

TA 3019; February - March

Lorien is attacked three times by forces from Dol Guldur, located in southern Mirkwood. Thanks to the combination of their valor of arms and the protection of Nenya, the assailants are held back all three times.

Mirkwood is also attacked several times, and they struggle to hold back the evil. So Lorien cannot call upon Thranduil for aid, and Thranduil cannot call upon them. Eventually the fight reaches the inner reaches of the forest of Mirkwood. Still, the evil his held off in Mirkwood, as well, at least till the destruction of the Ring.

With the destruction of Sauron, Celeborn leads forces over the Anduin and destroys Dol Guldur, and Galadriel throws down its walls.

On the day of the new year, Celeborn and Thranduil meet in Mirkwood. Mirkwood is renamed Eryn Lasgalen, 'The Forest of Greenleaves'. Thranduil keeps northern Mirkwood, and Celeborn receives southern Mirkwood and names it East Lorien, and the forest is renewed.

This story tells of the last of these onslaughts against Lorien from Dol Guldur.

__________________________________


Basic Storyline: An army marches toward Lorien from Dol Guldur, in yet another attempt to overcome one of the few remaining fortresses of good. This time Sauron has plans of overthrowing the power of Nenya, and thus causing the strength and morale of Lorien to fail. An envoy has been sent to the Woodmen/elves of Mirkwood to seek aid in the defense of the forest.

In Mirkwood, a scouting party that has been keeping Dol Guldur under surveillance follows the movements of the army as it approaches Lorien, hoping to aid their brethren against the persistent evil. In their pursuit, they discover a plan that will surely kill any hopes of this stronghold of beauty standing against the power of Dol Guldur any longer. Whatever the outcome, a battle will rage beneath the great boughs of the mallorn, and blood will stain their beautiful leaves.

__________________________________


The purpose of the story is to: Gain information needed to aid in the defeat of the army of Dol Guldur, and reach Lorien in time to drive back the orcs from Lorien.

This means we will know the story is over when: The army of Dol Guldur retreats.

__________________________________


Starting Location: Mirkwood/Outside Lorien

Likely destination: Lorien

__________________________________


Timeframes:

This game takes place in the Third Age at around year 3019.

The storyline itself or plot covers 11 days.

This game requires a time commitment of 3 months from me, the game owner and from the major players.

__________________________________

DEDICATED CHARACTERS

1.) Durelin (Game Owner) – Elf Scout Captain from Mirkwood

Name: Calenvása

Age: 4,276

Race: Sindarin Elf of Mirkwood

Gender: Male

Weapons: Calenvása has never had need of learning the arts of war, nor has he ever wandered far from his home in Mirkwood. Since it has only been a short time that his homeland has been in danger, and Calenvása has found it hard to bring himself to defending his land, though it be his, he has never picked up a larger weapon than his hunting knife. It is a fairly long blade, slightly curved, with the sharpened edge along the back of the curve. Engraved in the dark oak handle is the Sun, her rays running both up and down, twisting and encircling both the handle and the blade. Calenvása has always found the Sun to be the greatest beauty of the Earth, this Middle-Earth that he holds dear in his heart, still. Its picture being on this weapon, which he carries at all times, now, does remind him that it sets in the West, as well. The other weapon he carries is a shortbow, another hunting weapon, and very useful within the forest. Both these weapons are useful now that he has given his service to Mirkwood as a Scout.

Appearance: Fairly tall, though not so tall among his kind, standing at 6 feet, 2 inches, he has the light complexion of the Sindarin elves, with typical grey eyes and blonde hair, which is allowed to grown down to just below his waist. He dresses in a tunic and leggings of dark forest colors, soft boots of brown leather, as well as bracers upon his arms.

Personality: Calenvása is still in love with Middle-Earth, and still mesmerized by its beauty. He is able to find so much more wonder in this world than many others, and dreams of nothing more. Never has his thoughts drifted to what he does not have, to what lies beyond. He has never left his own land, though he has wished to for many years. And when Elves and Men fought the Shadow thousands of years ago, the Shadow that has rose again, he remained in his land. His love for the World has never been great enough to overcome his fear. It is hard for Calenvása even now, though he is but a scout. He has no wish to face death, a concept he and his people have had little understanding of for many years, safe in their immortal haven. Even now, when the Shadow has been present within his home itself, he is unable to pick up any weapon more than the ones he has hunted with for many a peaceful year. As a scout, Calenvása predicted that he would not have to face his fears, but his prediction has been proven wrong several times since he first offered his service to Mirkwood. And now that his troop’s scouting has led him closer and closer to Dol Guldur, a pit of evil among part of which was the Elves’ glorious home, he is concerned that he will be forced to face much.

Though this fear has been ever present within him, Calenvása’s intelligence and ability to hide his emotions has allowed him to keep the fear from showing at all, except when he must use his knife or bow. It is mainly because of this that he is still only a Captain. He is a quick thinker, when fear does not prey at his mind, and his wisdom from many years is great. Another thing that impairs him is that he is not much of a leader, as he is reluctant to take command. He is readily able to make decisions, but is very often afraid to act upon them. Calenvása is never found lacking words, and he can be a very charismatic person. Also, he tends to be a very cheery person, always ready with a smile. This cheeriness stems from an insecurity, though, as he is unable to take things too seriously.

Calenvása cannot even think seriously of his fate. He knows only of Middle-Earth, and wishes to know nothing else. He keeps his ears closed to the sound of the Sea, and refuses to follow the Sun into the West. For now, he is content with this denial, as there is much yet to do for his Middle-Earth.

History: Calenvása has dwelt in Mirkwood and watched the Shadow grow over it, doing nothing, for quite some time. But when the fortress of Dol Guldur was made a stronghold of evil within the forest itself, Calenvása decided that it was time he gave his service. He rose to the rank of Captain among the Scouts very quickly, mainly because of his long ties with Mirkwood and its King, Thranduil. He once was offered a position among Thranduil’s councilors - which was offered because of a combination of Calenvása’s wisdom and family ties with the King - but declined it. He would have declined the offer of being made Captain, if he could have.

Authority, responsibility has never been a wish. Being involved in anything has been of little interest to Calenvása, as living has been enough. For years he has fought a war within himself, fighting against his fears with the love he has for Middle-Earth. He still fights it now, but has made much progress. Becoming Scout Captain has been one step, and he has steadily become more determined to do what he can. Unfortunately, he believes that what he can do is very limited.

The men he serves with still wonder about him, but they have grown to know him as of good spirit and good intention. They follow his lead, and lead when there is need of it.

~*~

Durelin's post

As leaves were disturbed in the underbrush of the forest, a cold finger came down to touch Calenvása’s skin and run down his neck. The drop of dew had clung to the leaves well into the morning, hiding from the sunlight of the early morning. The elf forced himself to remain still, though a tremor threatened to run through his body and his hand desired to brush away the itchy stream of water. As he had come to learn after years of practice, becoming someone else was the only way to escape feelings. Calenvása let his mind focus on what his eyes observed, and let it free to view the scene from whatever direction it wished. It of course was impossible for his mind to literally wander freely; it felt so odd only because this was true serenity.

What his eyes observed through thick growth and scattered branches and leaves hanging down into his line of sight was, in particular, a rather large orc garbed in an assortment of leather armor that still left quite a bit of dark skin bare sit and sharpen a huge slab of metal that was obviously thought of as a sword. Not two feet away another orc stood; and another; and another. It had been quite some time since this many dark creatures had been gathered in one spot. In this case, their numbers were so great that they had to gather outside the forest. Because of this, Calenvása could not get close enough to see how large a force was actually gathered here. But his eyes proved keen enough to tell that this was an army, and one comprised of thousands of orcs…

A flash of gold far away before him and to the right caught Calenvása’s eye. An army comprised of thousands of orcs…and easterlings. A more sophisticated type of armor could only mean that evil Men were a part of this force as well. That was to be expected, of course, if this force was meant to carry out specific orders. These specific orders were one of the most important things to be learned from observing this force. For now, though, the most specific Calenvása wished to get was what this army’s destination was.

Calenvása decided to break the serenity and turn his head slowly to each side. He could see the elves that crouched beside him and behind him in the underbrush. They had been intently observing the movements of every single creature assemble among the swiftly clearing trees on the edge of the forest, but Calenvása’s slight movement had brought their eyes to him. Slowly bringing his hand up where it would be visible to all around him, he motioned to them and gestured behind him. They would need to meet to discuss their observations and decide on a plan of action.

One by one the elves moved deeper into the forest, deeper into the cover of the trees. Calenvása waited quiet and still for several minutes to make sure that he was the last to move. All the while his thoughts tried to piece together any clues he might have seen, going through the pictures in his searching for any information that was not obvious. All the while he could only wonder which route the army would take. Would they head north, to attack the part of Mirkwood still held by his kindred? Or would the army head east and south, to the Golden Wood, a sanctuary of beauty and home of his brothers?

It had been several years now that the darkness had been growing, and the role of Calenvása and these elves as scouts had become of dire importance. Much rested in the hands of Calenvása, who had been given command of this scout troop or Mirkwood. He wished with all his heart to help Mirkwood fight back against the Shadow, but he could not help but be discouraged, especially with the image of thousands of orcs assembled just outside the boughs of his home.

Finally feeling that he had given his comrades enough time to make their way a safe distance from the creatures that so tainted the forest. He carefully made his way through the underbrush still in a crouch, and sheathed his belt knife as he did so. He had felt safer with it in his hand as he stared at that orc sharpening his sword.

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

2.) Amanaduial - The Easterling Captain

Name: Koran Cenrbyt.

AGE: Around thirty.

RACE: Haradrim.

GENDER: Male.

WEAPONS: Koran can work well with the bow and arrow, or with a crossbow, and carries a smaller crossbow with him - it is about two thirds of his arm. However, close combat weapons are more practical: he is very profficient with a one handed sword, which is more nimble and light than a broadsword. The sword he carries is not particularly fine, fairly plain: the blade is about 80cm long, five centimetres across, and does not bear any special inscriptions or runes; the handle is carefully bound, wound leather and the pommel, the only decorative part of the sword, is a metal disc, rimmed around the outside and carved with a fire motif in the centre - the stigma of Koran's clan, the Cenbryts. However, despite its plainess, the sword is well-balanced and excellent to fight with, and fight well he does: Koran has used this sword since he was twenty five or so. It is fairly plain because although a weapon can save your life, he knows that it is not worth getting attached to an inanimate weapon - although the the careful binding and the way the blade is always perfectly sharp bear witness to the fact that he knows the sense in taking care of it. However, such dullness of deisgn does not extend to his other special weapon: a blade about the length of his forearm and hand together, slanting to a point all the way along. It is rather too short to be a sword, but too long to be a dagger or knife, so rests somewhere in between. The blade is made of some far finer material and the hilt, it has been said by several others, is silver: it is metal rather than leather, but fits perfectly into Koran's hand from use. The pommel is a stone the size of the ball of your thumb, bound over the top and sides with leather, which is a strange, dangerous, smoky red. Koran fights excellently with both of the two close combat weapons, sometimes simultaneously. He never lets the smaller blade away from him.

APPEARANCE: Koran is typically dark, like most of his people - his almost black hair is kept short, although it curls a little at the nape is his neck and around the bottom of his ears. His dark eyes are quite narrow from a life in the sun, and seem naturally hard and cynical, although hardness is not all they can show. His skin is quite sallow, tanned from the sun, and firm, a strong jaw and fine cheeks making him quite good looking, charismatic. However, one side of his face is marred: a slanted scar runs from across the middle of one cheek, slanting down from the top of his left ear to about an inch to the side of his left nostril. He is quite tall, standing at about 5 ft 11, and is not built very chunkily: rather, his build is athletic, slim but very, very well-muscled, and although he is slim, it would probably be fatal to underestimate his strength and speed. Besides, his shirt is usually left open at the neck to about 10cm below the centre of his collar bone, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and is usually a dirty white colour. At his neck he wears a traditional, simple brown bead necklace with the crest of the Cenbryts on the centre bead again. On his right (sword) arm, visible because of the usually rolled-up sleeves, is a black tattoo of the Cenbryt flame. Over the shirt he wears a leather jerkin, again usually open, and if it is particularly cold he will wear a black, rather stained leather coat over this. Leather riding boots are worn to the knee over dark trousers.

PERSONALITY: Not naturally fiery, Koran nonetheless has a volcanic temper on him when the need arises, such as in the incident with Vlad (see History). He resents being thrown around or stepped upon, and when his fighting prowess is so high, he won’t stand for it. His skills are quite well known, gaining him enemies and allies, although he has as yet no wife or life-partner – he spends much time fighting away, a lifestyle that suits him very well, and his focus makes it difficult for other things. However, Koran is prone to dreaming and thinking deeply when he has spare time – he is not unloving although those who do not know him might think him cold. However, his close friends and those he has fought with know him well enough and would trust him with their lives in battle and in life (provided clan-feuds are not involved). His reputation has not made him overly cocky, as he knows that carelessness can cost much – for example, arrogance and cockiness in a fight once nearly cost him his sight, as can be seen from the long cut across one cheek, marring his good looks. He is naturally quite charismatic and once well known is good company – however, to get on his bad side is a fatal mistake. He is not altogether pleased to be on this mission and, as he is far from stupid, knows exactly why his cousins manipulated him into it – however, he is from a proud line, and would not let anyone know his feelings about this.

HISTORY: Although his relatively young age might make it seem strange, Koran is the head of his clan – this could be guessed from the carved necklace and sword-pommel, and also from the tattoo of his clan’s stigma on his sword arm, mandatory for the leader of the tribe. Koran’s family have always been a fighting one, but have sustained great losses more recently: his father, the then-head of the tribe, died when Koran was twelve or thirteen. He was one of six, four brothers and two sisters. Koran was third in line to become head of the tribe and had no real wish to become head, as it is a tying and dutiful job despite the rewards, and he could have lived as he wished more easily without the title. But, one by one, his two elder brothers and his one younger brother, along with one sister, fell in battle, and the title fell to Koran when he was twenty five years old. By this time, however, he already had a reputation, of a sort – he fought and rode well, had done since he was in his mid-teens.

When he was younger, from about the age of fifteen, he worked in a small group of youths around his age to scout out villages or settlements for raids or ahead of a larger group. However, this group had a very set hierarchy, and Koran fell foul of the oldest boy, a fiery-headed loudmouth nineteen year old called Vlad, more than once. Vlad took pleasure in beating the younger boys, but when Koran was seventeen, he got into a full fight with the older boy, then twenty one, and told him exactly what he thought of him – Vlad lost an eye in the fight, but Koran did not get away without a fight, and bears a long scar from the side of his ribcage to the opposite hip still, a faded white line. Although he was beaten for his trouble, Koran was admired for it, and, now the head of the group, he won admiration from many…but was not, of course, without enemies.

His two cousins, Ferach and Cortim, are two of the most notable of these – after Koran, the last son of his family, dies, they will be in line to inherit leadership of the Cenbryts. They are therefore fairly keen to get rid of their young cousin – and their influence was the main reason he is now leading the group in Mirkwood. His cousins sent him saying it was only proper that the head of one of the most affluent (hardly!) clans was sent, as a note of morale – and they very much doubt they will ever see him again.

~*~

Amanaduial’s post

Koran Cenbryt brushed at a curl of dark hair that crept from behind his ear as he leant over his pack, checking for anything he may have forgotten and running over in his head the route that the army would take. West verging a little South from the North side of the fortress, towards the Wood of Golden Leaves, where...

This was not by any means the first expedition he had been on, and neither was it one that he especially wished to be involved with; but, ironically, it was the one that would probably be most important in the future. The young Haradrim warrior shook his head wryly at the thought, his hand reaching to the beaded necklace he wore, feeling the delicate carving of the flame on the central bead. ’I won’t let anything go wrong…the Cenbryt clan is mine, mine by right, and so it shall remain, no matter what my cousins plot and scheme together…

Koran was not against the rest of the clans, of course: such a thought would be foolhardy, especially when his was waning so much, especially in the last few weeks and months – his cousins, although set to gain his clan for their own, were nonetheless slowly eliminating by sending off on foolhardy missions many of the older warriors who were close to Koran. At this rate, if Koran as to fall, they would inherit a clan without any warriors left! Still, although it was of course a diplomatic move that he saw the sense in, Koran nonetheless felt uneasy about the mission – there was something not right, something that was being hidden from him in all this, even though he was commanding the separate force that would then split off from the main army. That would, of course, include orcs – he curled a lip slightly at this. He detested working with them – he steadfastly believed beetles to have more intelligence than the filthy Uruks. And when he was actually meant to be commanding as an equal with one of them…he shook his head again bitterly. If my brothers were still alive…

“Koran Cenbryt?” The words made the warrior look up to see a younger man standing nearby, at a respectful distance. He rose from his crouch to be level with him, squinting against the sun from the high outpost. The man looked to be several years younger than Koran, and had a surprisingly boyish face, although it was currently all seriousness. As Koran rose, wiping one hand on the back of his trousers, the younger man touched the back of two knuckles of his right hand to the centre of his forehead - a respectful salute. Koran inclined his head - the man was obviously not his superior then, although he still didn't know who he was.

"I am Ehan Fazian," the man continued by means of an introduction. "I will be joining you in the force that splits off from the main army and we will, I gather, be together for most of the journey."

Koran nodded again. "Koran Cenbryt," he added, just to introduce himself personally, although the other obviously knew who he was. Ehan grinned suddenly. "Not a man of very many words, hmm?"

Koran, surprised at the casual tone and phrasing, raised an eyebrow, and the other man raised his chin very slightly, defiant if it came to it. Then he grinned. "If we are to fight together, you may think differently by the end," he replied, his voice soft but more friendly now. "Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?"

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

3.) Aylwen Dreamsong – Easterling grunt soldier (servant of the Captain)

Name: Ehan Fazian

Age: Early twenties

Race: Haradrim

Gender: Male

Weapons: Ehan likes to think that he can do anything with his light, thin rapier. The blade is inscribed with prayers and blessings in his native tongue, while the hilt and pommel are unadorned and carved of plain, dark, but well polished wood. Ehan also carries two daggers given to him by his brother, but rarely, if ever, does he use them. He’s useless with the bow, and could kill himself just trying to get an arrow to fly much less trying to get it to hit any sort of target. Ehan fights like everything is a game, and enjoys every minute spent with his sword in hand.

Appearance: Standing just below six feet, Ehan is built tall and lean like most men of his clan. His brown skin and athletic build are both testament to her heritage and upbringing. Ehan’s face has a noble bone structure, with the stubborn chin and high cheekbones that many of his proud tribe possesses. Only a slight scar beneath his right eye, scraping all the way to his temple and hairline, mars Ehan’s face. His thick, wispy crop of soft, black hair is cut to the bottom of his neck and often falls in his face, framing his boyish face. Ehan’s black eyes are playful and bright, and his lips are often seen upturned in a smile or infected with laughter.

Personality: Ehan takes few things seriously, for at he is still the young, wild boy in spirit that he used to be in body. He treats everything as a game and a new experience, even if it is a task he accomplishes everyday. Ehan likes to make light of any situation, looking on the bright side or at least making a joke about any subject he deems to serious. Ehan never wonders if his childlike persona bothers others, for even if it does he will not change the person he loves to be. He is not so much carefree or happy, as much as he is just simple and blunt. Ehan sees everything in black and white, no greys or in-betweens, for Ehan sees everything with the clarity and simplicity of a child. His inability to take many things seriously might be his downfall, but it hasn’t cost him yet, and has just given him more fuel to do anything he does. When Ehan fights and uses his rapier, he battles in a gallant, brave manner as he thinks a warrior of old would, or perhaps fiercely and passionately as he thinks a squalid corsair would. Ehan’s life is a mockery and imitation of the excitement and adventure he wishes his life really had. Dying does not frighten Ehan, and the only fear that springs from death is the fear that he might not have lived and done all he could.

History: When Ehan was born, his grandfather Faziar was the leader of the clan. He headed a group of mentally and physically strong-willed men and women. Faziar, the namesake of the clan, passed away in battle, along with Ehan’s mother and several others when Ehan was not yet ten years old. At this point, Ehan’s father took over, leading the clan and his four children. Ehan was youngest of three boys and one girl.

Ehan spent a good deal of time with his older sister, who had seniority over him by three years. His sister spun tales and weaved stories of the highest caliber, and these themes and morals were always in his heart. Ehan’s older brothers taught him all there was to know about swordplay, but were at a loss when it came to teaching him how to send an arrow flying. This brought much comedy to the youngest generation of the Fazian clan, but it also brought a few minor injuries until it got to the point where Ehan was not allowed near a bow and quiver.

Ehan’s father passed away in battle when Ehan was fifteen, as did his eldest brother and beloved sister. After losing his best friend, Ehan kept her memory alive by living as the heroes in her stories, or living with the values he thought they would possess. Ehan’s remaining older brother took over, leading the clan with brash abandon that came with his arrogance and cockiness. Ehan’s brother liked to spread his people as thin as he could, dabbling the strong Fazian clan in any skirmishes or situations he could. So, Ehan was sent as representative and leader of a small group of his clan to work with the forces entering Mirkwood, working under Koran.

He sees it as another adventure.

~*~

Aylwen's post

"Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?" Ehan relaxed visibly as the man called Koran began to speak in a more friendly manner. The younger easterling let did not hide his amiable expression anymore, though he had already begun to wonder how well his personality would match Koran's. Ehan feared the worst, perhaps a head-on collision and clash between Koran's persona and Ehan's light-hearted simplicity. Still, Ehan pulled himself from the short look into the future and back into the present where he knew his head always belonged, and decided to cross all bridges when he got to them.

"Of course I do, sir!" Ehan cried gallantly, drawing his rapier dramatically and pointing it in the direction of the pathway that led down to where many easterlings had set up camp. Where the orcs were, Ehan did not know, but the thought intrigued him anyway. Seeing such ugly monstrosities brought rise to the blood-thirsty warrior in Ehan, despite the disappointing fact that these 'ugly monstrosities' would be on his side in this whole expedition. What a shame...to think how much fun I could have slaying those things. But there are other enemies. Snapping out of his reverie and realizing that he still stood motionless with his rapier held in the air, Ehan chuckled, embarrassed, and continued, "Yes, right. Onward!" and sheathed his sword.

Ehan led Koran down the path that went downward from the slight hilltop they had formerly been standing on, even though Ehan realized that Koran must have known the route as well. Trying not to kick up dirt on the excursion to the campsites. Ehan looked back once to see Koran looking off into the distance, and the young man wondered if Koran was in another time and place. When the two reached the bottom of the rocky, dusty hill, Ehan turned to face Koran once again. This time, the man hit Ehan with a question before Ehan could say aught else.

"How many has your clan sent with you?" Koran asked, looking at Ehan momentarily before stealing a glance at the sturdy men (and some women) behind Ehan, all the warriors from different tribes and clans.

"Well...I would imagine close to five and ten men...or, well...maybe almost twenty men and women. You know, the Fazian clan has rather strong-minded and strong-bodied ladies, as well. My sister-" Ehan stammered at first, but what should have just been a simple answer turned into a lengthy explanation. When Ehan noticed that Koran didn't seem to have much time for stories, Ehan quieted. "Yes. Well, I would say fifteen strong men and women come from the Fazian clan."

"Right. Good," Koran mused, a light smile playing on his lips.

This is going to turn out to be very interesting...Ehan thought. Yes, I can tell already.

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

5.) Fordim Hedgethistle - Lorien Envoy guard + 2 carry-along guards


Carry-along characters:

Megilaes and Caranbaith

Fraternal twin brothers. They are young Elves, only about three hundred years old, who are being taught the ways of Lorien warfare by Ambarturion, my main character.

They are both armed with bows and the short daggers favoured by the Silvan Elves.

They are both fair haired, but Megliaes is the taller of the two, while Caranbaith has the fairer singing voice.

*-*-*-*-*

Main Character:


NAME: Ambarturion

AGE: 7060

RACE: Elf (Silvan)

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ambarturion bears a bow of the Galadhrim and an ancient sword of Doriath. The sword is made of white steel and engraved in such a manner that when drawn in moonlight it appears to glow like a descended star. Its blade is long and tapered, as was the manner of weaponry for Elves in the First Age, and the pommel is wrapped in tightly bound cords of supple leather. Upon the crosspiece there is mounted a single pale gem – the last heirloom of his house.

APPEARANCE: Ambarturion is very tall and very graceful, and even among the Elves of Lorien he is known for the extremity of both his beauty and the severity of countenance which mars it. His raven-black hair is cropped just below the shoulders and his keen grey eyes shine with the memory of the fearless dark. His face is stern and proud, but possessed of great nobility and lineage. He wears the grey cloak of Lorien over a simple tunic and doublet of forest green, and his long legs are clad in supple breeches also of forest hue. He bears neither ornament nor jewel. Ambarturion rarely smiles or laughs.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Ambarturion bears himself as one of the Noldor, for he has spent almost his whole life in the company and service of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. His life is defined by the love that binds him to his Lord and Lady, and this is the source both of his greatness and of the distant pride that many remark in him. But for his loyalty to them, Ambarturion would long ago have forsaken Middle-Earth and made the journey to the Grey Havens – as he is ever counselling the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim to do. He cares little for the other folk of Middle-Earth, and is convinced that whether Sauron conquer them or not is of little purpose, for none of their works or deeds has rivalled those of the Elves in the Elder Days. Of all the Free Peoples, he values only the Ents and the Dunedain, but even they are the fallen remnants of a once mightier race.

HISTORY: Born in the First Years of the Sun, Ambarturion was raised within the protection of the Girdle of Melian where Thingol reigned as High King. When he was old enough to enter the service of a lord, he swore fealty to his kinsman Celeborn and to his Lady, beautiful and glorious beyond bearing. Since then, his fate has been bound to that of his Lord and Lady and his life has been the chronicle of his people’s long defeat. His tears at Ninaeth Arnodad were shed for his brother and father who were slain by balrogs in the first charge of the Elves. He beheld with wonder the host of the Valar and their destruction of Thangbad. He marched under the banners of Thingol and Gil-Galad in their defeats of Sauron, and was among those who Galadriel sent to welcome the Faithful back to Middle-Earth at the fall of Numenor. It was upon his return from this journey that his mother told him of her decision to leave Middle-Earth, and he had longed to follow her, for he loved her greatly and their parting was grievous. But the love he bore for Celeborn and Galadriel overcame this desire and his mother departed alone.

Through the long tale of years since then, his thoughts have turned increasingly to the Undying Lands. For the faint echo of the West that he had seen within the Girdle has grown with the years until it has become as a waking dream for him: ever present before his eyes, dulling the small world of mortal folk and leading him further and further away from their troubles. It was a sore trial for him to know that the One Ring had been within the very grasp of his Lady, but that she had let it slip away from her and into the hands of Sauron, borne thence by a race of witless folk unsung and unheralded in any song or tale. His weariness with Middle-Earth has been made more unbearable through the Ages by the constant loss of those companions of his youth who had, like him, sworn fealty to Celeborn in Melian. Many of his friends fell in the endless battles against the servants of Thangbad and then Mordor. The rest have taken their place in the ships that sailed away from these shores. Of all those who had once gathered about Celeborn as his Companions, Ambarturion alone remains.

On the day when he first came to Lothlorien with his Lord, he made the ways of the forest his study, and spent all his energies in preparing for the land’s defence. None among the Elves bore a steadier hand with the bow, and his sword, already tempered by two Ages of service in the war against Melkor and his servants, had been sharpened and renewed through countless years of careful practice. For centuries he has been entrusted with the instruction of younger Elves in the art of war, but he wearied of teaching only, and has taken to wandering the fringes of the Golden Wood for weeks on end, relentlessly prowling and hunting for their enemies. His journeys have taken him further and further afield, as far as the fringes of Mirkwood to the East, and to the Gladden Fields and the Brown Lands to the North and South. And always in these journeys is his purpose the same: to slay the servants of Sauron in order to forestall their inevitable victory for as long as he might, in the hopes that Celeborn and Galadriel will cease their fruitless quest to save Middle-Earth and follow his counsel to take the straight road into the West.

~*~

Fordim Hedgethistle's Post

The light of midday cast Ambartrion’s shadow before him as he strode easily through the long grass of the Vale of Anduin. The party had left the eaves of Lorien in the morning and as always happened when he walked in the outside world, the dull reality of it settled upon him like a fine ash. The trees that stood in clumps about the plain were naked sticks that clung to life in a chill and desolate landscape, little different to him than the Brown Lands to the South. There came to his keen ears from time to time the falling cry of desperate birds and the rush of troubled waters over impertinent stones. He sought the solace of memory, moving in his mind across earth that seemed more real than the solid ground beneath his feet. More and more had he done so of late, to the point where the few companions that he allowed to join him in his journeys outside the Golden Wood became concerned that he was withdrawing from the waking world of Middle-Earth to a point where he could not, perhaps, return. And, indeed, he was always reluctant to leave the lands of memory and rejoin the fallen and stale world of the present reality, and was often curt with those who called him hither.

This time it was his student Caranbaith who called him back. With a light touch on his master’s shoulder, the youth pointed to the distant horizon saying, “If I see aright, the Mirrormere lies before us, and we are heading a bit west of north. Do we not take the long way round to the Woodmen of Mirkwood by this route?” Ambarturion sighed at the youth, impatient with his question. Megilaes, Caranbaith’s brother and also student to Ambarturion, caught the manner of their master’s reaction and quickly held his tongue.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he replied quickly. “There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can. I intend to lead the ambassadors somewhat west of the Anduin for a day before turning toward the River. There is a place two days’ march from where we shall stop this night where we can ford the waters and then strike north and east to the Woodmen.” Caranbaith nodded quickly and fell silent before the manner of his master. He and his brother had been in his tutelage for only a short time, barely one lifetime of mortal Men, but in that time he had found his master to be impenetrable in many ways. On some days he would answer their questions with patient forbearance of their youth, gently instructing them in the ways of war. On days such as this appeared to be, however, he resented any intrusion to his thoughts and would quickly put down any attempt to interrupt his inner life. Sensing that he would say no more that day, the brothers fell back to walk a few paces behind their master.

And thus did the company proceed through that afternoon. Ambarturion strode along out front, his pace never slackening or changing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, alert to all possible danger, but unseeing of much that passed before the eyes of the others, lost as he was in the world of his youth. Behind him followed his students, who diligently swept the horizon with their keen eyes as they had been taught, ever vigilant against the threats of this uncertain world. Behind them came the ambassadors, with their servant in the rear of the little column keeping watch behind.

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

6.) Arvedui III - Mirkwood Elf Scout

Name: Targil

Race: Sindarian male, of Mirkwood

Age: 3016

Weapons: Born and bred for the hunt, the curve of a blade seems to Targil as the sight of a mountaintop sunrise must seem to others. And of blades he has many. Targil carries two arched hunting knives, and a long, tapered razor, which he employs as throwing edge with great efficiency. Although he also bears a bow and a quiver of arrows, he prefers not to use it in matters of the chase. His knives, unadorned with worn leather grips, seem more fair. And although a light, plain dirk in a black sheath rests at his side, he will only draw it for one type of game: Orcs.

Appearance: Targil is like most Sindarian elves in that has fair features and fine blonde hair that falls to about the middle of his back, save for two braids which hand to his shoulders. He stands about 5'11", making him a little shorter than most elves, and his light blue eyes call even more attention to him. As with all scouts, he wears forest colors, usually a green tunic, brown breeches and soft leather boots.

Personality: Intensely quiet, Targil prefers the stillness of the forest to most anything else.. He is young for an elf, and has never left Mirkwood, but does not care for the world beyond his home. It is not that he fears what lies beyond the woods, but that it just is not important to him. With hunting as his all-consuming passion, he couldn't even begin to imagine how leaving Mirkwood would be worth his while. Targil is simple-hearted, and can't quiet grasp the bigger picture, intelligent though he is. He knows the importance of acting quickly, and knows also that this makes him a bit impulsive, even for an elf. To counteract this, Targil tries to keep his world as simple as possible, relishing in the pleasure of his woodland home and becoming no more than a scout. He has never given thought to much else, and wouldn't have it any other way.

History: Born at the beginning of the second age, Targil fell in love with martial crafts when he was very young, and started training at the tender age of 50. Since then he has seldom been at court, though his father is a merchant who deals with the men of Esgaroth and has some influence. He started serving as a scout when he was 2114, where, as he likes to put it, "There is much more honor than necessary for hunting." Several times he has been offered commissions as a lieutenant, but each time has turned them down, preferring others to make decisions, although he won't hesitate to disobey a stupid order. Quite comfortable in the role he plays, he continues to practice his art, unperturbed by the gathering darkness in Mirkwood. Whatever appears, he will hunt it.

~*~

Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.

__________________________________
__________________________________


CHARACTERS NEEDED

Dol Guldur special forces - male

1 Orc captain

1 Orc grunt (slave of the captain?)

~*~

Mirkwood Scouts – 2 males

1 Mirkwood Elf scout

1 Mirkwood Elf scout

~*~

Lorien Envoy to Woodelves

1 Ambassador - female

1 Ambassador - male

1 Servant for the Ambassadors - male or female

~*~

Dol Guldur main forces - male

1 Easterling captain

1 Orc grunt

~*~

Cameo

1 Lorien Elven warrior of the defense - male