[piosenniel]

Kransha’s character – Dúnedain Captain


NAME: Hírvegil

AGE: 76

RACE: Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Hírvegil bears several weapons, most of which were inherited family heirlooms. One is his sword, which was rusted, derelict, and broken when he inherited it, but Hírvegil had it restored. It is a medium-length sword, one handed, with a burnished hilt of silvery steel that bears a reflective sheen, with an oceanic blue gemstone nestled into the doubly tapered cross-guard. To defend himself, he carries a round shield, made of polished oaken wood and rimmed with a ring of tinted metal. Upon the shield is a crest, an image of a setting sun, engraved into the center of the circular buckler. In addition to this, he also carries a pair of twin knives, short, tapered, designed for non-combat, or extremely close-combat purposes. He is not particularly proficient with the knives when fighting, but is deadly with his sword and shield in hand. His style of battle is the same graceful, lithe technique used by many Elves, passed to all men of Númenórean descent.

APPEARANCE: Hírvegil has the look of a man older than he is, a trait that he has carried as somewhat of a burden with him for all of his life. He has brown hair, the color of an aged tree’s bark, though his shoulder length hair is flecked with early grey. His skin is rough and somewhat from years of work in the northern cold. He has, upon his face, a short but full beard, and his tired-seeming eyes are forest green in color, though also grayed by passing years. From the look of him, he is an aged, but proud man, even though, for a Dúnadan, he is not yet very old. His face and hands are creased with the first marks of age, but he is physically fit, not imposingly so, but enough to serve as a warrior. He most often wears simple garb, kept from his days in the lower ranks. He wears a green leather vest and tunic of supple chain mail over a simple forest-green surcoat, indistinct garb for an Arthedain soldier, but also heavier plate armor, a breastplate and pauldrons befitting a Captain of the Royal Rearguard. He wears long breeches on his legs and knee-high boots. A cloak of dark brown cloth, thick but light, is worn on his back, held up by a silver chain a small pendant around his neck, which bears a blue gem nestled into its center, similar to the stone inlaid in the guard of his sword. Also, Idruil has, on the middle finger of his right hand, a thin silver band, with a miniaturized version of his family crest etched into it.

PERSONALITY: Hírvegil is, in truth, a simple man, in most respects. He is loyal, but not as much to Arvedui as he is to the people he serves. He considers his service a sort of paternal duty to Arthedain, not to his King. In all honesty, his respect for Arvedui is not as great as his respect for Arvedui’s father, Araphant, was. He is merely disillusioned by the turmoil of the land, though, and not lacking in faith. He is firm and steadfast, though not necessarily dauntless. His courage is relative only, and serves to aid his position, not his own whims. He is not selfish, nor is he selfless, and tries to think of the common good as often as he can. He is mildly cynical nowadays, and his future outlook is grim, but he is not a man who cares for longevity. He is grounded easily in the present, and serves as diligently as he thinks he must. He is no master strategist, not as much as he once was, since he combat senses have been dulled by constant battle and flight, but he still retains a working knowledge of tactics and theories of war.

HISTORY: Hírvegil was born the son of an eminent military leader among the Dúnedain called Sildathar who served under King Araphant, father of Arvedui. Sildathar was a march-warden for Araphant, who defended the beleaguered borders of Arthedain from encroaching orc raiding parties. Hírvegil himself was a march-warden at first, and served Araphant in the days before Arvedui’s kingship. Hírvegil bore a close relationship with his father, and his company was often set under the command of Sildathar, making the father and son co-captains in a number of situations. Unfortunately, a raid of orcs from Angmar cost Hírvegil the life of his father in 1920, which, at first, sent Hirvegil into a lengthy period of depression, and he nearly quit his post as a march-warden, but Araphant, who was now beleaguered by the forces of Angmar, needed every able-bodied, intelligent officer in his ranks as he could muster, and beseeched Hírvegil to remain. Ever ready to serve, Hirvegil remained, and continued to defend the fringes of Arthedain from goblin raids from Angmar and the Misty Mountains, the numbers of which increased greatly over the next few decades.

Hírvegil’s mother died later on, as she was gaining in years and the corruption of the land plagued her. Without family, Hírvegil was steeled to the fate that lay before him, and studied the ways of his forefathers from the sunken land of Númenór, learning of tactics, strategies, and of the ways of war. In the year 1939 of the Third Age, Araphant granted Hírvegil the position of a captain of the rearguard of Fornost, elite Dúnedain troops who served Araphant himself. In 1944, the King of Gondor in the south, Ondoher, and his sons, perished in battle, and the throne of Gondor lay empty. Arvedui, son of Araphant, laid claim to Gondor as its rightful heir, and many of his lords and captains hastened to support him, but Hírvegil did not. Believing that Gondor did not belong to Arvedui, even after he had married the heiress of Ondoher, a maid called Fíriel, Hírvegil was content and satisfied when the crown was granted instead to Eärnil II. His view of politics, like his worldview, did not take into account political subtleties, and Hírvegil had never cared for Arvedui’s thirst for control of both the North and South Kingdoms.

Twenty years later, Araphant died, leaving Arvedui the throne. Hírvegil had an already rooted dislike of Arvedui and his policies, but did not question the new king. Arvedui may have resented Hírvegil as well, for not supporting, but, by the wishes of his deceased father, he kept Hírvegil on as a captain of his rearguard. Many of Arvedui’s close counselors also disliked Hírvegil, and bore him hatred, for his views did not comply with those of their King, but they could do nothing but hold resentment in their hearts. The captain, disregarding those who would wish him ill, served Arvedui ever since Araphant’s death, with complete loyalty, even if he was not always in complete agreement with the man whose orders he took.

~*~

Kransha’s carry-along character:

Mellonar - Counselor of Arvedui

Mellonar is a counselor of Arvedui, the King, and a provincial lord in his own right as well as the administrator of the wardens of Arthedain. He is a sickly, suspicious-looking man, with a weak body and very pale, smooth skin. He has a beardless face and long, greasy black hair, all dank of color but well-groomed. He clothes himself finely, in furs and thick, earth toned robes and cloaks, an assortment of various garments heaped one over the other to make him appear a little more stately and substantial than he is. He has the gait of a vulture, always hunched over and conspiratorial as he flits from place to place rather than walks. He is malicious, but not evil, simply malign because of his political circles, clandestine as they are. He is also suspicious of those around him, just as they are of his, but, surprisingly, he does not abuse his power. He is fiercely loyal to the king, though more in the way that a minion is to a master than a loyal hound to a man.

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Prologue ---------- (FIRST POST OF THE GAME - POST 50 ON DT)

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.


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Kransha’s post ---------- FOLLOWS PROLOGUE

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”