Fall of the North RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

The woman didn't seem in any fit state to control the horse herself: she seemed to be in a state of shock, numb, frozen up, with just the strength to cling onto the reins of Carthor's horse - steering was out of the question. Faerim was therefore left with the non-too easy job of steering both horses, and as he didn't have a piece of rope or the time to tie the horses together, this meant holding the larger horse's reins with his free hand. If this wasn't enough, the orcs were catching up now; Faerim risked a glance over his shoulder and saw in horror that they were but a few seconds behind, despite the speed with which he was travelling. If either horse slowed down, they would be on them in a trice.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Faerim turned around again and realised a decision was going to have to be made. Shaking the woman on the shoulder, rough in his desperation, he called to her. "Hey...hey!" he called, and she turned her head to look at him, fear showing in her bright, tear-stained eyes. Faerim didn't have time for compassion though, not at the minute. He flapped the reins at the woman. "Reins - take them!" he snapped, curt from tension, still riding at full pelt, only watching the woman with one eye. By the expertise with which she had mounted, Faerim guessed this woman could ride: he hoped so, certainly, for both their sakes. Thankfully, she took the reins and took control numbly. Faerim flashed her a grateful grin and nodded upwards to the top of the stairway where he had previously come from. "Take your child up there, as fast as you can - go, go!" There was barely any point in speaking in full sentences: she probably only heard a few of the words as the wind gained confidence and blew his words away over the ruined city.

Talking of gaining confidence... Faerim glanced back at the half a dozen orcs as the woman sped past him on his father's horse. They were keeping pace worryingly well, seemingly tireless, howling and whooping as they followed the boy, like a monstrous fox hunt. Faerim swallowed his fear down hard, knowing what he had to do: it was the hardest thing he had learned when training for the army, a skill that would be invaluable in battle but which, unfortunately, he wasn't sure he had really 'perfected' yet. Shooting from a horse whilst riding. And that would mean letting go of North's reins...

Doing so in an instance, Faerim tightened his grip on North's sides with his knees, taking a precious second to balance himself, his arms out at his sides to improve it, but only for an instant. Still gripping tightly, Faerim slid the bow off his back and whipped out three arrows from the quiver at the side of the saddle where he had fixed it. Fixing the first deftly in the bow, Faerim performed the trickiest part of the manoevure: checking the way was clear ahead of him and that North was headed straight, he turned, sighted briefly, and let rip with the three arrows in quick sucession, aiming for the nearest orcs in a volley, meaning he would hit at least one of them with the three arrows. But his impeccable aim didn't fail him: he took out two of the orcs, and a third fell behind, an arrow embedded in his knee. Not that Faerim had taken any notice: he had turned to face the horse's head as soon as the third arrow was loosed, grabbing hold of the front of the saddle, gulping deep breaths of acrid air. But there were still several behind him. Dreading performing the risky manoevure once again, Faerim took another three arrows, let go of North's saddle, and fired again: once, twice, three times the arrows found their marks in the orcs, Faerim's silhouette like some legendary centaur as he fought back. Most of the small pack had fallen now, and the remaining pair were falling behind him. Relieved, the youth slung his bow carelessly over one shoulder and took hold of his reins again as he shook his blonde hair out of his eyes. The half-crazed horse kept galloping, but on top of him, his rider was almost shaking.

They mounted the stairs and Faerim urged North on a little harder as he gritted his teeth and rose in the saddle, but with some difficulty this time: he was beginning to tire. Halfway up the steps, a shadow seemed to come over the youth, and he looked up at the top of the steps...where he saw that spectral figure again, rearing up, his sword pointed forward towards the Inner Sanctum, silently commanding his nightmare troops. Faerim let rip with another volley of curses under his breath, and drew his sword from the saddle sheath just in case, holding the reins with one hand. North didn't need to be urged on further: he was almost blind in panic. Above them on the steps, Faerim saw the woman and Carthor's horse falter as she saw the witch king turning towards her...

"Ride!" Faerim yelled the single word like a catapult shot, and the woman's head turned towards him, her gaze ripped from the witch-king's. He was almost directly behind her, and, in desperation, he slapped the warhorse's rear with the flat of his hand. The horse was jerked into action, as if it to had been captivated by the witch king. They were so close to the Inner Sanctum, but Faerim made the woman ride ahead of him so she got in there first, as he rode behind her, just in case any more of the orcs came - or even... He turned, pausing his frantic horse as he stood at the gates of the Inner Sanctum, and looked up at the terrible, mysterious figure. It looked towards him and the youth looked back with burning eyes, pointing his sword defiantly at the creature who had made his city fall. North reared once more, terrified, and Faerim let his arm fall, turned, and rode through the gates. They shut behind him with a ominous clang, and Faerim suddenly felt faint with weariness - and the realisation that, at least for a time, he was safe.

[Novnarwen]

"We're almost there!"

His mother's voice drowned in the chaos surrounding them. Cries of pain and despair rung in his ears, penetrating his mind and body. There was something about the terror in his fellow kinsmen's voices, echoing, which he couldn’t' explain. What pain and suffering could possibly make a man scream with such horror? Brander shivered with fear where he sat, clutching his arms around his mother. He could not imagine the scenes evolving in the city, and deep in his heart, he was happy for the lack of his sight. He was in a way grateful for not being able to see what was taking place; men dying by their swords, fighting courageously until the end, women and children slaughtered; he was glad he couldn't see all he had known all his life being put to ruin by the greatness of a power he didn't and couldn't understand. However, even though he wished to be spared for the pain of witnessing this, the pictures which were being formed in his head by horrifying sounds, which seemed to be coming from every corner of the City, were merciless. In truth these images were just as cruel as the ones that were presented to everyone else.

As they rode, the wind rushed roughly against his face. He did not know exactly how far they were from the gate, but he did not dare ask. It was no time for questions, he knew that much. He thought of his brother. Faerim had left them. Bravely he'd done so, to save a poor woman and her child from an evil fate. Although Brander was proud of his brother's immense courage, he knew that this time it might have been the last time they had heard from him. The thought of his brother being somewhere out there, behind them, where orcs were roaming, slaying everyone in their way, made him swallow with anxiety. What was he supposed to do without Faerim, the only person he truly cared for? He frowned, immediately reproaching himself for his self-centeredness. How could he think of himself, what would happen to him if Faerim died, in a situation like this?

The pace of the horse seemed to finally slow down; his mother’s mare was no longer galloping in a ferocious speed, it was trotting hurriedly. Brander listened to the sounds from its hoofs, thumping the ground continually. “Mother, please tell me that we are safe,” said the blind, young boy silently, loosening his grip. He felt petty and unimportant where he sat, and when Brander discovered that his mother hadn’t heard what he had said, he was, in an odd sort of way, glad. Suddenly, the feeling of being weak, which he had felt quite often when being underestimated for being blind, came over him. But the sensation of being of no use, more like a burden, was stronger now than what it had ever been before. Suppressing his other feelings, he felt choked by thinking of his valiant brother. He felt ashamed. Brander was a young man; he should be fighting to protect the city he loved, the only city he knew. He should be one of those who were willing to go back to save women and children from the orc’s slaughtering. He should be one of the soldiers fighting against the terrible enemy who was threatened put everything to ruin. I should've been fighting, side by side with the other young men at my age.., he thought to himself sighing. Yes, he was truly ashamed. Brander knew that Carthor probably was too.

“Brander,”

“Yes, mother?”

“You must stay here. You will be safe for now. We are in the Inner Sanctum. The gates will still hold for a while. I must go and look for Faerim. He might be here, and we must find him.” He heard his mother jumping off the horseback. “If something happens when I am gone, pull the reins and ride. Don’t wait for me. You won’t . . see me . .”

Brander bent down, his mother leaving a dry kiss on his forehead. Tears were in his eyes, and already before she had left, he was praying for her to come back.

[Garen LiLorian]

The trip had been swift, and without event. Whether it had been luck or fate that guided their steps, not so much as a solitary orc showed his shadow on the path that Angóre and Erenor had taken. They could hear the shouts and screams of the dying, and now and again Angóre would stop to listen as the tramp of footsteps came close to the streets on which they walked, but they quickly left the scene of battle behind, moving on silent feet towards the citadel.

"Halt! Stand and declare!" The challenge rang out as the two elves reached the walls to the inner sanctum. A pale, scared face peered out over the wall.
Angóre and Erenor stopped. Erenor answered the lad, and a small portal opened for the Elves.

Inside, the chaos continued. Every now and again, missiles arced over the walls, wreaking havoc on the towers and halls of the King's sanctum. The Elves were instructed to meet with Mellonar inside the King's Hall, and they hurried inside, just as the councilor began to speak...

[Kransha]

Oddly enough, Mellonar did not really like Elves. He managed business with them only because it gained him favor in the court. It was a tedious, friendless job, but that was much the sort of thing that Mellonar enjoyed. The King favored his work, the court and lords favored his work and, as far as he knew, the Elves he interacted with were indifferent. Most saw through him, and he realized this, but he was a politician in the classic sense and had no qualms about being thought of as exactly what he was. His footsteps echoing loudly in his ears, Mellonar glided like a shade over the tiles of the court floor, towards the regal visage of three Elves, who stood amidst the slowly diminishing commotion of the King’s Hall. With a very conservative bow-nod of his drooping head and neck, Mellonar addressed the noblest of the trio, who he knew to be the Lord Ereglin. His mouth opened to speak as his aviary, vulture’s eyes scanned the sight of all three. Before words formed, manufactured by his silver tongue, he caught sight of the object cradled with odd tenderness in the arms of one of Ereglin’s guards. It was a child – a Dúnedain child.

‘Sentimental fool;’ thought Mellonar cynically, ‘he must have saved the child in the city.’ Mellonar was not inclined towards liking the younger of his kind. Babies and children were useless until they could work, and those that were spoiled or immature despite age were even more so. This Elf must be somewhat naïve, or at least a little wet-behind-the-ears, if he had bothered to save a child from Fornost’s crumbling ruin. His efforts would’ve been better spent combating the hordes of the enemy besieging the city. But, trying to disregard the gnawing cynicism, Mellonar spoke, turning from the Elven guard and not deigning to look upon him.

“Lord Ereglin,” he began shrewdly, clasping his two hands together and letting his spiny fingers interlace, “I had hoped to wait until the other Emissaries were here, but I fear time is against us, as is the day. Lady Bethiril and Erenor are absent, and I fear some harm may have befallen them, but I cannot know their fate. Soldiers have been dispatched to get them to safety. For now, I can only treat with you.”

The Elf Ereglin spoke before he could continue, hastily, but with good reason. “Not for long, I hope.” said the Emissary, “This court’s halls shall not sustain fire much longer.” Mellonar showed an obviously irked reaction to interruption, but calmed himself and spoke with the wisp of a smile glued to his stately face, hanging there as a false grin to ward off questions about his emotional state.

“Do not worry, Lord, your safety is assured. The rearguard will cover your retreat, as well as the King’s. You will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury Kings lies and shall hold us all until preparations have been made for all to retreat, most likely to the Blue Mountains for safety’s sake. There, we will recuperate until we can again strike at the Angmar insurgents.”

Mellonar spoke with illusory confidence, but the Elf detected this and did not hesitate to pose a disapproving question. “Would it not be better to hasten to Mithlond?” He ventured gracefully, and Mellonar’s left eye twitched indignantly, but he masked his annoyance again and answered with an all-too-pleasant smile on his cold lips. “The King’s decision is not mine, Lord. Best to let it stand and question it not.” In truth, he was inclined towards the Ered Luin, rather than retreating to the Grey Havens. The Elves might be overtly wise, but were they really that trustworthy? They had sent no great wealth of aid, even if they did remain a steady alliance with the Kings of Arthedain. The diplomatic relationship between the Elves and Dúnedain had been merely aesthetic since the Last Alliance, despite the few favors each party did for the other once in a blue moon. Diplomacy was not an Elven art, as politics was a governmental corruption adopted by those of Mannish descent. Political organization in Arnor was owed to old Númenór, the citizens of which had cultivated the craft and become adept politicians, skilled in the ways of law. Mellonar was one such adept person, but military stratagems were not his strong-suit.

“Counselor;” replied the Emissary, “has any attempt been made to overrule him? I would not encourage dissent, but I believe that fleeing to the Ered Luin is no apt course of action.”

Mellonar was about to respond, indignant again, when another of the Emissaries and his guards hurried into the hall, barely flustered as most people in such a rush would be. Their flawless grace aided in flight, something that Mellonar had oft coveted. Cutting himself off, the minister turned swiftly, his robe swirling like a mellifluous wave beneath him, and addressed the newcomers.

“Lady Erenor, my heart sings to see you unscathed. Now that you are here, we have but one Emissary to wait for. I have told Lord Ereglin of the events to come, and taken counsel with him about what must be done. I am afraid I must really upon him to tell you of the transpirings, for both of you must needs make haste. Hopefully, the Lady Bethiril can find her way, but I cannot remain to aid her course, wherever she may be. You, though, must hurry to the North Gate Passage. You will find it below this chamber, down the staircase at the end of this hall.” He jabbed a bony finger down the length of the quieting hallway, “The stairs lead to a wide passage, where the Dúnedain citizens have gathered for departure. Join them there and ready yourselves for retreat from the city. You will find some of the King’s Guardsmen among those in the passage; they will answer any and all questions you may have. I must be off to attend to some pressing matters before we depart. Go, and may your journey be safe.”

Not waiting for them to leave, Mellonar glided past them and in the opposite direction, disappearing from the hall a mere moment later.

[Amanaduial the archer]

North slowed to a walk, his head dropping wearily, but Faerim kept hold of his reins, staying alert as he turned the horse around to where a group had gathered some way inside the Sanctum, on a flight of white steps, one of the only areas that was not crowded with the survivors from the battle. The youth looked carefully at the group with sharp blue eyes, trying to figure out what was different about them - then one turned, and he saw the sharp, bright profile of it's face. An elf. His eyes widened in awe. The youth only remembered seeing the elves once before, and that had been when he was very young. Still, if all that Faerim had heard about elves was true, the seventeen years was still nothing more than a child to elves...

Giving the elves a strange look, Faerim clicked his tongue quietly and rode around past the stairway, shamelessly eavesdropping. He was rewarded with a snippet of conversation. "...will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury..."

Faerim's mind was whirling. Evacuate the citizens? The whole of Fornost?! No matter how practical, the thought had never occured to Faerim. The idea of moving away from everything and everyone he knew...

Everything you know is destroyed. And everyone you know...

Faerim clenched his jaw, his fiery anger returning against the beasts who had destroyed his home, and a wave of pure hatred washed over him. But it was quickly followed by tiredness; the youth tried to stay upright in his saddle, but as he dismounted, he landed heavily, his knees jarring. He winced, putting a hand to his leg where he could feel a dull ache forming: the statue that had fallen near him when he had made for the house had apparently not entirely missed him. Straightening up, he scanned the crowded Inner Sanctum, trying to catch sight of the woman he had escorted from the rubble along with her child, trying to pick her out amid the dark haired, shocked masses. After a second, he spied her, cradling her child, Carthor's horse nearby; taking North by the reins, he stroked the stallion's muzzle gratefully as he led him towards the woman.

"My lady," he said softly, approaching her from behind. The woman spun around, her dark hair a velvet curtain whipping out behind her, then, recognising him, she smiled. Faerim grinned back, but felt oddly tongue-tied - he was so tired that his usually quite natural charm had abandoned him completely. Grasping for it, he nodded politely to her and tried to speak without stammering. "I...I hope you are alright?"

The woman nodded, and seemed about to speak when her child gave a grizzling whine and she turned her attention away from the young man in front of her. Faerim hesitated for a second, then held out one hand to the woman, still wearing his riding gloves. "My name is Faerim, ma'am. May I ask yours?"

The woman smiled back, and took his hand gracefully. "Renedwen. Thank-"

"Faerim!" A shout interrupted the woman and both he and Renedwen looked around. Faerim's face lit up when he saw it was his mother charging towards them, her skirts held up as she made for them, her expression painfully relieved. Faerim seized his mother in an embrace, holding her tight for a second, her hair tickling his nose, but he didn't care: she still had hair, she still had her smell, she was still able to run, she was still...alive. So fast had the whole chain of events since he had left his post as an archer that he hadn't even been able to consider what might have happened, but now that it hadn't, Faerim felt relief wash over him like an icy shower, a cold torrent of 'what if's... He suddenly felt guilty: the pull of duty he had felt to save this woman could have meant his mother and Brander could have been killed without him there...

Brander! Faerim stepped back from his mother, his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes, concerned. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?" Faerim's words rushed out in a half-excited, half-anxious torrent.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

“Halt! Stand and declare!” A challenge rang from the door.

“I am Belectir of the King’s Guard. With me is Bethiril, emissary of Rivendell.”

The door grudgingly opened, and Bethiril marched in, oblivious to his guard’s farewell gesture. She caught sight of Mellonar, the king’s counsellor, hurriedly leaving the sanctum. The others in the room were looking at her, almost urging her to hurry. She maintained her slow, stately pace.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“We were about to move to the North Gate,” Erenor answered in a voice tipped with frost. “The king has ordered the evacuation of Fornost.”

And where could they hide from these foul folk? Bethiril almost said aloud. “And where are we to go?”

“We are to head for Ered Luin.” Bethiril saw a flash in the eyes of the emissary from Lindon. It was only a slight glint, and it faded soon, but even so she caught it. And she understood the cause: The mountains in Winter? What fools these Men be. It’s as if that at the king’s whim, the blanket of cold will be lifted from whithersoever he declares.

“I beg your pardon,” Angóre said, “but we must leave soon. The enemies come nearer as we tarry.”

The emissaries nodded assent. With the guards leading the way, the Elves headed for the stairs that would lead them to North Gate—and hopefully, Bethiril thought, a place safer than this fallen city.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor, though she disagreed with Berethil on bearing arms, thought that they might be in accord on this at least. All the Noldor remembered the Helcaraxe even if they had not made the journey themselves. Those who had roots in Gondolin had special reason to remember that dread journey.

Erenor focused her mind on those of the other Rivendell elves, especially that of Berethil who immediately preceded her as they made their way to the North gate. She hoped she would receive the words the words Erenor could not utter, knowing that the would increase the anxiety of the mortals: This path is folly. It will lead only to death for all, one way or another. All choices are perilous but, if we aim south,at least we need not add the weather to the list of our enemies -and there is a chance we might meet aid from our kindred. We should try to change the king's mind and perhaps if he refuses we should deem our embassy to be at an end

Erenor knew this thought was selfish but she did not see what could be acheived by following the route North to death. The elves would endure longer. They would travel easier, bear the cold better and require less food than the mortals but they were not invulnerable. Death by the sword would be preferable, she thought. Then she shivered;any death would be preferable to capture and thralldom. All the time she could hear the sound of clashing steel, the wails of the dying, the sound of the soldiers feet and she kept her mind open hoping for some response from Berethil before it was too late.