Fall of the North RPG

[Mithalwen]

The journey, had mercifully passed in a blur, but not enough of one to totally obliterate the jolting horror of being carried by an orc. To be in such close contact with the foul creatures, bitter enemies of the Firstborn was in itself torture. Yet one evident fact penetrated Erenor's returning consciousness as the orcs arrived at their campsite - the yrch had not harmed them. The orcs had provided them with food - repulsive maybe but seeming as good as they possessed and no harm had come to their persons, nor even their possessions.

The march over,the hostages had been dumped in a group. The others seemed fairly inert, but since Erenor was concealing her own awareness it was possible the others were doing likewise. A low groan from one of her stirring companions, corrected this idea. Erenor realised the truth. She had been given a smaller measure of the drug - her original and then feigned drowsiness from her headwound had made the orcs cautious with their dose. "Excellent", she thought, "they really do not want us dead".

Her train of thought was halted by a strange sensation; she felt watched. This was ridiculous; she had been watched with more or less attention, by orcs since her capture, but this was different. She looked around her surruptitiously. Their guards were still there but with thier captives bound and seemingly unconscious, they were engrossed in the universal activities of soldiers after a long march, preparing food and fire and easing sore feet. There were sentinels about the camp but they were looking out not in.

Besides the sensation was benevolent, she felt sure that elvish eyes or at least elvish minds were seeking her. She stole glances at her fellow emissaries on either side. Though they stirred she knew it was neither of them.

Erenor opened her mind, surely if their guards had survived the orc raid, they would have come after them? Or perhaps by some blessing her earlier attempts at seeking aid from her kindred afar had not been in vain. She fixed a picture in her mind of the camp, and then visualised the still concealed weapon, wondering if she could reach it without being discovered. Any elf near and so inclined woudl be able to read her thought: she trusted the orcs had not the skill. It was a risk but one she had to take. The presence seemed strong to Erenor but as she waited for some response, her hope faded in to fear that her feeling was some cruel side effect of the drug.

[Kransha]

With the questioned individuals departed, Hírvegil sought comfort in lying on his bed again. He should really be up and about; he had spent far too much time during the day isolated in his semi-spacious temporary quarters, most of that time sprawled on a disheveled bedroll. The Captain’s mind had used up its daily reserve, which was significantly less than usual, and felt both peaked and spent, both different feelings as far as he was concerned. One encompassed the pain in his head, the other the uselessness of his thoughts. Both put him off extraordinarily as he lay, thinking dejectedly about his predicament.

He was not himself. He, Captain Hírvegil of His Majesty’s Rearguard, had been spoken down to by a middle-class soldier’s wife, a common woman. He usually never even considered the class stations assigned by his archaic society, but he had always considered himself part of a specialized caste, a warrior class of elite comrades. Never had he held himself above others, but as that woman, Lissi, spoke to him in such a caustic, condescending fashion, and then had the nerve to walk out on him, he felt petty societal prejudice rearing its ugly head in him. Was he so different that he could not hold sway or command with common-folk? This was not the Captain of the Rearguard.

Hírvegil started to wonder if the fall of Fornost had altered him, changed him in some way. Usually, inspiring wartime oratory came from him passionately, as the speech-craft of ancient lords of war, but his words to the troops at the North Downs had been weak and threadbare, lacking in his typical abilities. His stratagems were not themselves either. Under most circumstances, he could’ve efficiently devised a solution to this whole sorry dilemma, but today his mind was dulled and content to beat lazily around the bush, concocting second-rate schemes which he could not even issue in a timely manner.

His father would have easily concluded the situation with a thought out solution, and so would he have done if he were the man he was but a month ago. His father would’ve done so many things differently, and this was no consolation for that father’s son. Rolling uncomfortably back and forth, wishing for sleep, Hírvegil pushed memories of his past glories away, trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, rather than the more desirable past. He rubbed his eyes and closed them tightly, scratching his scalp with an aimless hand that had nothing else to do, trying to empower himself with the spirit he’d once possessed.

Now he resolved that something had to be done. The lord he’d been charged with was obviously displeased with him, morale among the soldiers was dropping (through lack of information, disillusion, and other motivations), his own lieutenant seemed to have lost some confidence in him, and even the civilians were reacting negatively to his actions. Though his logical half spoke out against it, he blamed, inwardly, the Elves. Their stalwart braggadocio had cost him the support of his people. Yesterday, he’d been merry, ready for a good night’s rest and a needed period of slow, plodding travel that would tax neither him nor those beneath and around himself. Instead, through the arrogance of the Firstborn, as well as their clumsiness and the stealth of their orcish adversaries, he found himself unconscionably depressed and with no recourse he could see. The only things he could do where go on, go to the Elves, or stay where he was. Remaining static was out of the question, since that would just worsen the situation, and too many would react aversely if he chose to march on. That left one option.

Two minutes later, Hírvegil yawningly ambled outside his tent, fully armored and ignoring both the jingle-clank of his panoply and the orderly greeting of his guard who had been stationed outside his tent for hours and hours. With an ill cough, he dragged himself through the camp until he reached Belegorn’s tent. His blurry vision caught sight of the lieutenant some distance away, heading towards the tent and him. Belegorn’s look of withered disappointment overshadowed feigned surprise at seeing Hírvegil. “Captain?” he said.

“Belgorn,” Hírvegil mumbled, slurring syllables together as he spoke with both haste and tiredness, “Arise all able-bodied men.” His lieutenant looked at him confusedly, his eyebrow rising unnoticeably beneath a stern forehead. “Captain, I’d say all able-bodied men are aroused already. Day passes swiftly, and all men have woken and know of the evening’s transpirings.” Hírvegil barely heard this, picking at his ear with a hand encased in an embossed leather glove, minus his plate-mail gauntlet. “Good, good, get ‘em ready to move out.”

“Move out?”

“Ye, we’re headin’ after the Elves.” Hírvegil’s refined annunciation was all but gone, replaced by a slummy, country accent caused by the weariness of him, in voice and mind and sight. Belegorn stared at him as if he were mad. “Sir, you just dispatched a unit of rangers to-” “I know that, lieutenant, but we’re going to catch up with them, we are. Organize all troops into their respective companies and have some guards and watchmen appointed to remain in the camp and keep lookout. All soldiers are to move out in an hour. We will trail those blasted Elves at a speed even their proud steeds can’t match and finish this whole sorry affair with one swordstroke. I’ll take no insults from commoners and politicians, nay; we’ll slay all those elf devils ‘afore the day is out.”

“You mean ‘orc’ devils, Captain,” interjected Belegorn, still very confused. He looked a look Belegorn had never before seen – one of utter disbelief and utter incredulousness. It would have amazed and intrigued Hírvegil, but his eyes were focusing instead on a blank spot somewhere in the distance, past his trusty lieutenant. With a grunt and a blink, Hírvegil managed and “Umm…” followed by, “yes, I do. Now, get on it.”

With that (and another yawn), Hirvegil plodded back to his tent to get another hour of sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn placed the feathery quill down and picked up the parchment. His grey eyes darted left to right swiftly as he proof-read what he had written. It wasn’t elegant prose for the writer was not a man of letters, but it contained the necessary information and instructions. Satisfied with his work, Belegorn held the parchment close to his face, blew gently to dry the ink, rolled it up and bonded it with a brown linen strip. He then turned towards the waiting messenger and handed the scroll over to the youngster with a stern instruction,

“This parchment contains the necessary information and instructions that the counselor Mitharan would need. In the absence of the captain and I, he would undoubting be in command of the column. Hand it over to him immediately and make sure that he reads and understands its contents.”

The youth nodded quickly and left the tent. Belegorn watched as the young man weaved and zigzagged before disappearing among the cluster of canvas tents. It would have been more appropriate if Hírvegil had approached Mitharan personally, but the commander was in no position to do so, not in his current state. He had appeared red-eyed with exhaustion before his deputy, lifelessly dote and speech slurred. More shocking than his tardy appearance and unbefitting bearing were his orders – absurd and totally incomprehensible.

Belegorn meant to protest immediately but Hírvegil left as sudden as he crashed, trashing about as he made his way hurriedly and clumsily towards his warm cot. For a moment Belegorn’s eyes widened and an unexplainable rage arose. His gloved hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his bejeweled sword and he felt an irresistible urge to pursue his outrageous commander and smite him with all his might and fury. But the terrible torrent subsided as soon as Hírvegil disappeared from view and Belegorn was left horrified by the dangerous hatred he felt. It took a while for Belegorn to regain his faculties. The time taken to draft the memorandum to Mitharan helped.

Belegorn adjusted his sword belt and affixed his dagger into its sheath on the left side of his body at the belt and retrieved his helmet and cloak from the wicker basket by his cot. He stepped out reluctantly out into the open and issued an order to a militia orderly to pack up his belongings. He had no idea how long he’ll be away and when the column would move again.

Tucking the wide rimmed helmet beneath his arm, Belegorn strode towards the marshalling ground where his charger and men awaited him.

**************

The grey winter sky offered no warmth and the sun was no where to be seen, being blotted out of the sky by dark clouds and fog. Just as well, for it mirrored the feelings of the first lieutenant and his rode across the assembled front of the riders and inspected each youthful face carefully. The mounted men stared on ahead passively like mannequins while the horses reared their great muscular necks in agitation. The aura and mood emitted by them were all too apparent to Belegorn; fear and insecurity were the orders of the day.

When the assembled riders were ready, Belegorn sent a messenger for Hírvegil. He looked towards the green pennon of the Rearguard in anticipation but the flag hung limply in its folds, inanimate on the pole. A forebode of the darkness to come.

[CaptainofDespair]

Even the strongest of the orcs need a rest at one point or another. Nagbak had figured this, and since the icy chill of a winter stream will sap the strength out of any creature, even the mighty trolls of the East, he had decided to make haste, and find a camp site quickly. His scouts had located one particular meadow, nestled in a thicket. Due to the lack of supplies, he would seek this place, but not before making one final arrangement with his subordinates.

Sloshing up out of the chilling waters of the brook, and onto a frozen embankment, the orc contingent hurried, with Elven cargo, to their pre-determined location. An hour or so later, they finally arrived at their location, a small patch of snow-covered grass, just large enough to lay out proper defenses. The chieftain’s subordinates ordered that the hostages be dumped in a cluster, and be given a small watch. The rest of the orcs, excluding those on perimeter sentry duty, would be allowed to rest their feet, and treat any wounds they may have sustained along the march. Nagbak, meanwhile, busied himself with attending to the scouts, of whom the last were arriving.

As Nagbak seated himself on a rigid, rather uncomfortable stump, a small snaga, only about half the height of his master, came waddling forward, in the usual bow-legged walk of the orc. “Massster...the rear guard you left behind has not returned...dead they are...” The chieftain, with his face in his large, cold palms, muttered a few words to his slave-scout. “I assumed this much. Now, do you have any other news?” The little orc, looking almost as if he had exhausted the last of the resources in his near-desolate mind, thought for a few moments. After scratching his head a bit, his eyes lit up, and he enthusiastically gave his reply to the query. “Oh! Indeeeeed, chieftain! Razhbad has arrived!” The old orc, at the mentioning of this, perked up, and lumbered forward, almost tearing the stump out of the ground as he lurched up from his perch. “Excellent! I take it he is downwind of the camp?” The snaga nodded delightedly, bouncing as he walked beside his powerful and noble chief. “Very good. Have him ready to rush to our aid at a moment’s notice. If my instinct serves me correctly, the humans and Elves will be upon us soon enough.

[Kransha]

When the messenger came to Hírvegil’s tent, he had to be yanked forcefully from his slumber. When he finally awoke to find himself being violently shaken by the confused young man, he had to be told carefully what was going on. The knowledge registered with him after a few minutes and, since he was already suited up, though very disheveled, he was able to traipse over to the marshalling field outside the camp to meet Belegorn. He did not speak to his lieutenant, or even acknowledge his presence, and his only words were to the youthful messenger as he helped the captain onto his mount, saying that he needed no aid.

Less than a few seconds later, he fell off the horse.

He didn’t retreat into thought, for he couldn’t comprehend that he wasn’t himself. With a minor bruise from the fall, he remounted and wordlessly signaled the troops to move out. He was totally incommunicative, his face sweaty and wrinkled, the youth of his position gone. Perhaps he was just sick. A plague had taken his mother from him years ago, and the disease might be lying dormant in him, in a happy slumber until his system was weak enough to let down its guard. He showed many signs of generic ailment – tiredness, confusion, feverish activity, dysfunctional behavior – it seemed perfectly obvious. But Hírvegil didn’t get sick. He could not remember a time when he had felt bad, besides his chronic headaches. Had the fall of Fornost triggered some downward spiral?

The Captain of the Rearguard did not for a moment realize what he’d become in a day. Yesterday he’d been a healthy, fit, normal fellow. Over the course of the journey from the Downs to the Hills of Evendim he’d been depressed and detached from cold reality, but not so distant and changed. Now he was different, his elegant devices stripped from him and his powerful mind dulled like an age-old blade, similar to the one that hung feebly at his side. That sword, at his waist and in his soul, no longer burned with the mental or physical fury it had once. His sickness, though, that which caused that sword to loose its deadly edge, was untraceable, in a fashion. Personally, Hírvegil was unaware of how much he’d been altered, so he was unable to trace the cause, and his comrades knew too little about the circumstances.

Hírvegil, still without words, in the limbo of life proceeded onward. His quiet ushering bid the riders move. The steeds all hesitated on the grounds, braying noiselessly to themselves and glancing with eyes full of foreboding at the sky, which was caught between night and day, a mixture of shade and light. Hírvegil was at first oblivious to the hesitation of the troops, even of Belegorn, mounted close at hand to him. His horse teetered as he did atop it, but he managed to swivel the beast precariously about, and his face formed a look of dim displeasure, his sweat-soaked brow furrowing.

“Move.” He coughed in a barely commanding manner at the large clump of reluctant horsemen. Half of them didn’t hear him. Bewildered by angered, he continued to prod the horse into spinning about, watching its unwieldy form sway beneath him. “You heard me,” he yelled, his voice again rasping, “move!”

This time, most heard him. Many snapped to sharp attention and started cantering slightly forward, or meandering about. The rows began to diffuse over the field, but most remained stationary. As Hírvegil glanced around at the indecisive cavalry, Belegorn expertly wheeled his own steed about and sidled up next to the commander, startling him. After a quick intake of breath from Hírvegil, he settled and inclined his drooping head to look at his lieutenant. Quietly, but with an air of command himself, Belegorn spoke. “Captain,” he posed, “are you sure you want to-”

Hírvegil, even in his state, could guess what Belegorn was saying. Swinging himself foolishly to on side on his horse, he said “Yes, I am sure.” His face was only tempered with anger, for the look of sickness and hurt dominated it. After a brief silence between the two officers in the midst of the Rearguard, Hírvegil nervously posed his own question. “Are you questioning me, Belegorn?”

Belegorn did not answer directly. “Perhaps you are not well, sir.” He ventured.

The Captain was used to being commanding, but he could not be now. He tried to brandish a scolding finger at the Lieutenant, but succeeded only in batting at the air and sliding over on his saddle. “Don’t you think I know whether I am well or not?” he snapped, spitting accidentally, “I’m perfectly fine.” He spun himself again, driving sharp heels and glimmering spurs into his mount’s flanks that sent it rearing up and forward. His voice rose, catching the attention of all the nervous soldiers of the Rearguard. “Now, all of you; move! We must catch up with the Elves and our riders within mere hours. We must push ourselves to the greatest swiftness we can muster, is that clear?” His possessed roar faded like a dying gasp in his throat.

There was no answer. The chatter of gossip among the soldiers disappeared and was replaced by silence, accompanied by a mélange of accompanying emotions. The Rearguard’s confidence in their leader had not broken, but his behavior was cracking it slowly but surely. Like good soldiers, the riders placed themselves back in their respective lines without hesitation, organizing into four neat columns. They looked to their captain for guidance, for leadership, for the words of the man they knew – but they got none of that.

“Good.” groaned the man who’d been their captain. “Now, ride!”

So they rode.

[alaklondewen]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

While her body laid motionless on the frigid ground, Bethiril’s mind was in a place of violent turmoil.

Barely a month ago, the decision would have been easy. Erenor and Angóre meant nothing to her, and she would have betrayed them, despite their kinship, to fulfil what she had hoped to do. But now, despite the feebleness of the bond between them, the act of treachery needed she needed to do could not now be done without a great struggle.

She did not want any of them to be freed by force. She wanted this crisis resolved peacefully. Surely, the Orc chief’s plan made sense—with a land to call their own, the Glamhoth would, perhaps, no longer need to take up arms. Then the Firimar, seeing that the Orcs are no longer a threat, would follow suit. A lasting peace—all she had to do was make sure that none of them escaped. All she had to do was bring to their captors knowledge of Erenor’s concealed weapon. All she had to do was warn the Orcs of a plan to assault their camp.

But her heart, which she had kept under control for so long, now rebelled against her mind. Bethiril had begun to love her fellow emissary, the love of an older, wiser sister for a younger sibling with wisdom of her own, but who too often moved impetuously. She had sometimes thought of trying to win Erenor over to her cause, yet realised that in stifling the free spirit within, she would destroy her.

And in betraying your friend, you would destroy yourself.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ereglin, who wanted to know whether she was fine or not. There must be other ways of fulfilling my mission, she said to herself, as she set all thoughts of treachery aside.

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alaklondewen's post

The flickering of a nearby fire seared Ereglin’s opening eyes, worsening his already excruciatingly aching head. A groan slipped from his dry, rasping throat as his hands instinctively pressed his temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that clouded his mind. After a moment, the elf attempted to open his eyes again, but he only managed to squint at his surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the chill wind that swirled around him and lifted his hair from his shoulders. As he let the breath go, an overwhelming nausea surged through his body and he retched into the grass beside him. Once his body purged whatever was left of the poison the foul creatures had fed him, his mind became clearer and he was able to take in the components of his environment.

Berethil lay crumpled nearby in a fitful unconsciousness. Behind the Counselor a handful of orcs bickered in their abrasive tones. The elf assumed that these were their guards as none were closer, and the other orcs, beyond their fire, were paying no attention to the captives. Ereglin slowly turned his eyes around to the other emissary, Erenor. The lady did not appear to suffer the illness he felt, but with her eyes closed, she displayed peace and control.

Ereglin laid his head back against the cold ground again as tried to contact his young guard. Rôsgollo… The lord let his thought carry in the wind hoping he crossed the mind of one of his guards. He called again after several moments of silence and was greeted this time by the hopeful voice of his guard’s thought. Lord Ereglin! How do you fare?

I am well enough…weak from poison, but I will survive. Ereglin opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead. It seems I am several miles west and north since I was last awake.

Yes, my lord. We have tracked the orcs’ progress and are just outside the camp now. Rôsgollo answered quickly.

That is good, my friend. Ereglin paused as the throbbing in his head returned and he grimaced with pain. After several breaths, the aching began to lessen again, and the Counselor spoke again with his guard. How many soldiers strong are you?

Several moments passed before the young guard answered the question. We are four strong, my lord…my brother and I along with the Elven guard, Angóre, and a Dúnedan youth have come for you.

And what of the Dúnedain army?

[Arry]

The Dunedain . . . Rôsgollo’s thoughts were hesitant at Lord Ereglin’s question. He sought a way to frame his answer in a better light.

Come, Rôsgollo. I am no child to need your words couched in softer phrasings. Speak plainly. They did not come for us. Ereglin’s piercing statement unleashed a flood of words . . . the hesitancy of the Captain from the first . . . his excuses . . .

But we have come, my lord. Along with Angóre and a young Dunedan soldier who offered his aid. We three must serve, and it must be enough with your aid and what information Lady Erenor has given us. Rôsgollo regretted his lapse as soon as he had thought it. Lord Ereglin picked up on the number three, saying he thought there were mention of four.

And so there are . . . said another voice, breaking in on the conversation. Gaeredhel came softly up on foot behind his brother. I stayed behind for a moment to see that no Orc followed after us as we approached their camp. There were none. Nor did I see any sign of Dunedain troops approaching. Gaeredhel smiled grimly at his brother. Though, I left signs of our way that they might read should they come.

Rôsgollo’s eyes played over his brother’s advancing form. He seemed fit enough, though he noted he held his right arm close to his chest, and led his horse with his left. He would not be able to use his bow and his blade work would be weaker with his left arm. But then, he thought, he need only whack roughly at the Orcs; they were not known for their skillful moves, only their brute strength.

A hurried conference was held between the three Elves, and Lady Erenor contacted. She was, it seemed, less drowsy from the Orc’s potion. It was her that had first shown the outlay of the camp, bringing the would be rescuers near to where the prisoners were held. And she was the only one with a weapon still available to her. What of Bethiril? And the woman and child? Rôsgollo asked.

Bethiril had feigned drowsiness as had the other two Elven prisoners. She was as awake as either of them. The woman and child had not been drugged at all. There had been no need. The Orcs had made it plain they would kill the child should the woman give any trouble. To her they had given the task of ministering to any needs the Elves had. The child was kept close by her.

Let us speak with Angóre and Faerim; they are the ones closest to you at the moment. We will devise some diversion and then let you know of it. Can you ready yourselves? Near the back of your tent, I think. Wait for our instruction. Rôsgollo motioned for Gaeredhel to come hold the horses, saying he should be ready to ride quickly with them in tow when he was called. He was going forward to find their other two companions and give them word of what he had learned. Once a plan was in place he would let everyone know of it . . .

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

In the end, the three decided a simple diversion would be the best. Angóre was left to keep watch on the prisoners’ tent. Faerim and Rôsgollo circled around to the opposite side of the camp, staying low and out of sight as they gave the near perimeter a wide berth. Dried, fallen limbs were hastily gathered into a pile about a tall evergreen tree with low growing branches; while among the gathered limbs were stashed a great number of pitchy cones. Retreating a distance away, Rôsgollo let Angóre know what they had done and told the Elves within the tent to gather now at the back of it and await his signal. Fixing a large pitchy cone to an arrow with strips from his tunic, he lit it, and sent it flying toward the mass of gathered limbs. The piling caught fire, the flames flashing quickly from one pitchy cone to another, until the mass was ablaze.

Faerim and Rôsgollo sped quickly away from the blaze which now whooshed up behind them, catching onto the cones growing in clusters among the living branches. The flames licked hungrily upward seeking to consume the tree. The Orcs caught sight of the blaze and scrambled in disarray to stop the spread of the flames from the tree over the dried grasses toward their camp.

Now! called Rôsgollo. And Erenor cut the rough cloth of the tent, as Bethiril and Ereglin handed out the woman and the child. Gaeredhel had mounted his horse and now moved forward with the others in tow. Ereglin exited from the tent next, followed by Bethiril. Erenor stood guard, her knife in her hand. And well she did as one of the Orc guards was sent in to check in on the prisoners during the melee. She dispatched him before he could raise the alarm, then left the tent herself.

Rôsgollo and Faerim made it to where the others were gathered, now mounted on horse. It would not be long before the Orcs would suspect that this suspect blaze had something to do with their hostages. And in fact, they had barely mounted when from a short distance away, an Orc voice rang out, calling his fellows to give chase . . . the prisoners had escaped!

The Elves and Faerim rode hard away from the Orcs . . . their only thought now to reach the safety of the Dunedain encampment . . .