Fall of the North RPG

[Lalwendë]

Since they had left for the Ered Luin, Renedwen had allowed herself to retreat into the comfort of her memories. Her only concern had been for the boys; her son had been as quiet and sleepy as ever, but Gilly was troubled. The boy was now totally alone and the loss of the Elven brothers hit him hard. Through the journey she had been forced to wrap him in her mantle as the child barely stopped weeping; when he was not crying, he seemed to gain comfort from clutching a little bag that he had been given by the brothers. She was thankful that she had a horse and could allow the beast to bear them along as her thoughts had long since flown elsewhere, the grief of the child was too much.

Now they were in the chill confines of the deserted Dwarven stronghold, she seemed to wake and her senses became keen. This was no place for survival, she could tell from the moment she stepped foot in there. It was long abandoned and like all such places seemed all the more desolate for its lack of life. Lanterns which had not been lit in many years were draped in cobwebs as thick as snowdrifts and carvings which would once have been revered for their beauty now lay thick with grime and dust. This place was cloaked in gloom, permanently hiding what it had once been; she reflected sadly that this was how her own city would look before many years had passed.

This was a place of death. Her only thought was to join the search for provisions in the hope that something might be found that could sustain the children until they could leave the place. Alert to every sound and movement, she kept the boys close and made certain the sword she had carried for so long was close to hand. She had a sensation that something ill was afoot.

Finding a resting place for a break after some time in the search, she allowed the boys to nap. She told them no stories of darkness in here, it was a dreary enough place, and she felt that monsters would be all too real an idea; instead, she gently sang while they dozed. As he slept Gilly released his tight grip on the leather bag he carried and for the first time Renedwen noticed it. It was finely made as all Elven crafted goods seemed to be, and soft. Perhaps this was why the boy found such comfort in holding it, she thought. Yet on looking inside, she found something precious. Wrapped in deep green leaves was some kind of bread which also smelled as sweet as cake. The boy had food. Quietly, she wrapped it up again, and put the bag back into his arms. The Elves must have known what would happen, she reflected, and they must have left him with something to sustain him.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn politely refused Carthor’s invitation to partake in the meal of unsavory dried meat the latter was consuming before being interrupted. Taking his leave from the veteran soldier, the lieutenant resumed his rounds and attended to his people. Like old Carthor, most were breaking their fast or trying to catch whatever rest they could before Belegorn decided that it was time for the subterranean expedition to continue. He would have preferred individual scouting parties to be sent out before having civilians make the journey themselves, but the king had made his decision and there was nothing he could do but abide by them.

The mood in the corridor was glum and lifeless and Belegorn passed by many without them even noticing. It was as if the very darkness of the tunnels had sapped the life out of the people. Even his soldiers who were usually sharp and alert, seemed daze and inattentive; not one managed to salute or even acknowledge the presence of their commanding officer in time. The situation was indeed perturbing and Belegron knew he had to get his charges out of the underground as soon as possible, but the complexity of the interlinking tunnels acted to oppose his will; every turn off the corner produced new foreboding passageways that left one undecided and witless. Unless he had in his service a cadre of scouts with superior senses to piece together some sort of decipherable pattern in the labyrinth they were in, there was no way they could exit the dwarven fortress in good time, or even at all.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Belegorn failed to notice that somebody in his way and bumped into the latter. With the mind to apologize, Belegorn looked upon his intention and discovered that it was Faerim, the son of Carthor. And from the looks of it, the youth seem to be lost in a world of his too.

“Forgive me Faerim,” begun Belegorn sheepishly, “I should have been looking at where I was going.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim stumbled slightly as a taller, thicker set figure pushed past him, and turned angrily towards the latter. Recognising the individual as Lieutenant Belegorn, Faerim hastily mellowed his expression and nodded stiffly to the superior soldier. Since Hirvegil's strange request and even stranger threats, however thinly veiled, before Faerim had set off with the elves, the youth had felt less sure of the leaders of the army. For a time, in his own mind, he had angrily laid some of the blame for Gaeredhel and Rosgollo's deaths on the Captain of the Rearguard; now, as his frustration had disintegrated over the weeks to a complex regret and sadness, his anger at Hirvegil had softened as he resigned himself to the fact that the blame could not be laid entirely at the Captain's door. He had not been himself over the last few weeks... But although he was no longer so much angry at those in charge of the army, he remained wary of them. Of course, he had no reason to be cautious of Belegorn specifically, having spoken to him but once, at the very start of the exodus from Fornost when Faerim had fairly blagged himself into the army, outgoing and brassnecked. But the young man's cynicism was maturing rapidly, and that seemed a world ago. For this reason, his greeting of the lieutenant as he was literally shaken from his reverie was rather more formal than it might have been a few more weeks ago. Approach with caution.

However, Belegorn could not, in this instant, have ever been called exactly fear-inspiring. He looked positively sheepish, Faerim noted with surprise, as he turned back to the younger man, apparently forcibly removing himself from his own world, too.

"Forgive me Faerim; I should have been looking at where I was going."

Faerim almost started in surprise, taken aback at Belegorn's words. Firstly, the lieutenant had called him by his name: Faerim could not help but be impressed. But secondly, and even more surprisingly, the lieutenant was actually apologising to him. Taken off-guard, Faerim floundered slightly, lost for words. "I...erm, that is, it was my..." Inwardly shaking himself, Faerim pulled himsef together and yanked himself out of the pit of sycophancy that he knew he was headed towards. Nodding politely, he started again. "My mistake, Lieutenant Belegorn; I fear I was as lost as you were."

Belegorn nodded slowly, looking intently at Faerim, and after a second, the youth looked away, clearing his throat and glancing towards where Carthor sat with a few other men, a look of busy determination on his rough features. The second surprise in as many minutes: Carthor had never had much authority to wield, yet he appeared to be commanding several of the men to do things. And they were obeying. Fascinated for the first time in many years by his father's activity, Faerim was distracted from Belegorn until the lieutenant spoke again.

"Your father's new appointment suits him well, Faerim," Belegorn murmured enigmatically. Faerim turned, his eyebrows raised and his lips half open, to the other man, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, sir?"

Belegorn grinned more openly, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully as he too turned his eyes to Carthor, then back to Faerim. "Why, his appointment as a Captain," he replied, smiling.

Faerim's jaw dropped open as he stared incredulously at the lieutenant. Captain?! The young man could not actually remember a time when his father had last been promoted; Carthor had stood still in the army for years, drink and gambling ensuring that his pitted features remained solidly behind the stripes of the same rank apparently for all eternity. Faerim, like Lissi, had stopped expecting more, respecting his father for his history but feeling the regular pangs of contempt for his future, and for every time a younger, less able man passed the older war veteran simply because his father could not motivate himself to change things. So now to see his father finally promoted...why, Faerim might as well have been told that Arvedui had been bumped off the top spot and Carthor had been crowned king in his place and he could not have been more surprised. Stunned, he simply stared at his father, and as Carthor caught his eye, the older man gave a small, anxious smile, raising a hand self-conciously to his eldest son like a boy looking for his father's approval as he stepped out on a new venture, anxious for his parent to see that he really could do it: a strange role reversal for a father and son who had never been close, for a seventeen year old who was half-accustomed to looking after his family.

Smiling back at his father, Faerim gave a small laugh as he tore his eyes away and took once more at Belegorn, nodding silent thanks to the lieutenant. Belegorn smiled modestly and began to walk away, and as he did so, Faerim saw his eyes turn to the two elves, Erenor and Bethiril, who stood conversing a few metres away. He watched them for only a moment, but it was notable to Faerim when he was watching for it, and the sharp-witted boy wondered about it, wishing he could see the older man's expression. The elves did not appear to notice, but Belegorn nonetheless appeared to come to some sort of decision, for he made a small, decisive sound in the back of his throat and half turned back to Faerim, weighing him up appraisingly with sharp grey eyes. After a moment, Belegorn nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and began to walk once more, but this time beckoned for Faerim to walk with him.

Confused, the youth obliged, falling into step with his superior. "Sir?"

[Saurreg]

Belegorn walked slowly towards the direction of the elven emissaries. He was still a distance away from the duo and other movements along the passageway masked his presence so that his intents did not notice his approach, as yet. When young Faerim stepped along side and joined him, the older man solicited softly.

“You alone know them best,” begun Belegron with his eyes still on the two elves, “tell me Faerim, what are the moods of our elven friends? Do they resent us? Bear us anger?”

A moment passed without reply and Belegorn stole a side glance. Faerim had a perturbed look on his handsome face and the former guessed that the young man was in a conflicted state of mind – wanting very much to oblige the lieutenant but at the same time not wanting to erroneously committing any natters that might deal his very special friends harm. Belegorn smiled inwardly; whatever slight irritation he felt due to the hesitation was more than off set by his approval of the youth’s sense of loyalty and responsibility.

“Well lad?” he asked, this time with a bit of deliberate curtness. Faerim and he were closing their distance with the elves.

Almost immediately, Faerim turned his head and look at Belegorn with the sense of doubt disappeared and indignation in its place. Good! Though Belegorn, much pleased with his little test. The boy has fire in him!

Faerim began sternly but yet with politeness, “My lord Belegorn. As much as I would like to indulge in your inquiry, I should think that I own my friends a measure of privy. Especially when I know not what are the intention behind it.”

Ye Gods, the boy’s bold! A surprised Belegorn thought, as he looked at Faerim in the eye. The youth’s face was composed and he did not bate a single eyelid when Belegorn’s piercing grey eyes met his own sapphire blue gems. Belegorn smiled wanly and tried to diffuse the tension.

“Faerim,” he begun, soft and gentle again, grey eyes softening, “rest assured that I mean our mutual friends no harm with my inquiry. I merely sought to discern their moods and to see if they would fit into what I have in mind for the remainder of our journey underground.”

Faerim cocked his head and raised a skeptical eyebrow in suspicion. Belegorn chuckled and revealed his intentions to the precocious youth.

“If you’ve noticed, our progress in the caverns and tunnels of the stunted folks is tardy and unsure. In the dark, this place threatens to seal us in for eternity. Unless we can decipher a pattern in this complex labyrinth of stone, our chances of leaving this place are none.”


Belegorn looked towards the elves and continued, “The Eldar possess gifts of the senses beyond yours and mine. Should they aid us, this expedition would stand a higher chance of success.”

“You want them to be our eyes and ears, as scouts.” Faerim concluded for Belegron, nodding.

“That is all.” Belegron assured again.

“Well,” begun Faerim, “I know they are still grieving for their fallen kinsmen silently, but I do not think their grief would affect their faculties; they’re a resilient lot. They do resent our indifference to their plight however, as well as the king’s haughtiness. Ask nicely.”

Belegorn smiled, “That’ll do lad. Come! Let us go talk to the elves.”

[Mithalwen]

Erenor listened to the Dunedain's request and it occured to her that taking a lead in this foolhardy expedition might provide a small chance of surviving the original folly of the retreat to the mountains. For all the king's praise of their loyalty she felt as much hostage of the Dunedain as she had of of the orcs. And at least the yrch had been considerate enough to render them oblivious and had kept them in the open air - and had demonstrated a concern for their survival. Strange indeed were the fortunes of the world. In fact she wondered if this party was intended to fail.. Mellonar the Perpetually Obstructive would be only too happy to relate how they had nobly given their lives in the cause... and was it coincidence that all the dunedain who had associated with the emissaries were together.


The darkness was opressive but the further they went the closer they would be to the far side .. a west gate would be perhaps their only chance of escape, a small group might be able to make their way unobserved by the enemy south through Lindon to the Havens. There alone did she believe they would find succour. The king would never listen. Disobedience might be their only hope - but for the time being she would keep her own counsel.

The elf woman met the Dunadan's gaze steadily though she stood some inches shorter, and at last, she answered, " Lieutenant Belegorn, I am willing to do as you ask, and maybe Lord Ereglin will also. We seek food and if there be any, chances are we will find other beings who regard it as their larder. For that reason it may be wise that we go a little ahead. If you wish one of your soldiers to come with us, I suggest it should be Faerim, who has the soft footedness of youth and is used to our ways" .... she gave a half smile, well aware that it was not necessarily a skill that would be appreciated by all his kindred. "The Lady Betheril does not bear arms so it may be safer for her to lend her skills to the rearguard, for we my not explore all the small side tunnels that may give passage to some creatures, though not elves and men. Nevertheless the choice is hers."

Waiting for the others to respond, she glanced into the tunnel beyond, hand on her sword hilt. So used had she become to wearing her mail and sword that walking armed and armoured felt as natural to her as her own skin. she looked at the boy. I wonder if he can learn the osanne she thought.

[Garen LiLorian]

"As my Lady and my charge have accepted this from you," Angóre said softly, disapproval coloring every word, "I shall do so as well. But I do not know what you expect us to find. I do not believe we shall find any food fit for Elves or Men down these long-abandoned shafts of the Naugrim. Like as not, we will only find dust, or other pathetic creatures as desperate as ourselves and as hungry. Tell me, Belegorn of the Rearguard, why do you ask us to take the lead in the search?"

Belegorn repeated his explanation of Eldar senses, and Angóre chuckled mirthlessly. "I assure you, captain, I have no craft to lead us through such gnawings and worm-holes as these. Mayhap we can catch some small and unwary denizen of these holes, if indeed they are not utterly abandoned as I believe, but we would do better to mark our path carefully and retrace than rely on the senses of the Eldar to escape these wretched mines."

[Kransha]

“You realize that you cannot lead in this state.”

“Of course I can, and you know I can.”

Mellonar scratched his jutting chin thoughtfully, assuming the port of a philosopher, quiet and contemplative. He leaned back on the “imported” divan he had procured from the Arnorian supply wagons and lazily blinked, allowing an icy grin to perk up his colorless lips. “You do yourself too much credit, Hírvegil. You are sick, we both know it, but you, as always, are to stubborn to admit it. Perhaps it is a strain of the plague that harried us years ago, or a new strain. You are often in close proximity to the orcs and the dead. You are probably the most likely to fall ill in all the land, considering your exploits.” He feigned concern deftly, but Hírvegil was neither satiated nor amused. The Captain of the Rearguard sat woozily in a stone chair near Mellonar’s divan, leaning both arms on his downturned sword, which was stuck between the cracked floor stones.

“You are no physician, Mellonar, nor are you a healer – quite the contrary. Your prognosis is hardly one of an expert. I will be well after some rest, and the King no doubt has confidence in that. Besides, both of us want Belegorn to demonstrate his prowess as a commander and, after what happened to their brethren, the Elves probably despise me. It is better that I remain.” Mellonar clucked his tongue like a chiding school marm and giggled under his breath, obviously delighted by the whole situation.

“Yes, by the Valar, you’re a stubborn fellow, just like your father before you.” Hírvegil grimaced. His already whitened, pale face losing what little color it had as he became livid. “Don’t you bring my father into this, snake.” Mellonar looked slighted. “Snake? You call me this when all I wish to do is help you? I compliment your parentage and I am titled a serpent. Hírvegil, have you no shame?” He cackled noticeably, and Hírvegil’s face regained its color, but flushed irate red. He sputtered a little, feeling as if he should say something caustic, but nothing came from him, and he simply sat, rocking meagerly and flushing deeper and deeper crimson as Mellonar noticed his discomfort – and laughed again.

“I do not relish-” laughter “-your discomfort, Hírvegil, but it is rare that I see such an proud man of Númenórean blood, reduced so much, and yet so very arrogant still. You have not even the sense to admit your illness, but, t’is all the more humorous for me. The counselors in the King’s Chamber speak even now of what transpired at the Hills of Evendim; you are not what you once were, Hírvegil, do not pretend you are.” As these words fell from Mellonar’s lips, his tone remained an intonation of political sarcasm, but now deathly grave, as if the very syllables had become pale and grim. His eyes, bright with merry wickedness, lulled into serene dankness that peered, with some curiosity, at Hírvegil, as he snarled deep in his throat. “My mistakes,” the Captain said with a harsh rasp reverberating in his sore throat “shape my future successes. You are one to speak of such things, a politician whose career has been forged by underhanded movements and shady dealings. My faults are honest at least.”

“You fault may be honest,” Mellonar said in reply, slowly now and with no joy in him, all happiness having evaporated suddenly, “but you, Captain of the Rearguard, are not. You did not fare well, I dare say, and our troops have suffered. The Elves may have had their aristocrats rescued from the maw of goblins, but the loss of those two guards will cost us all.” He paused, gracefully, and settled back against the divan, easing into its sooty cushions like a wriggling serpent. “And,” he whispered, even though no one else was in the room, “I hear of other shortcomings. Some of the citizens have spread rumors, Hírvegil.”

The Captain’s graying eyebrows rose questioningly, both hairy tufts as skeptical as hairy tufts could be, “What rumors?” he said, his voice as deadly as a sword, but without the commanding strength of a well-forged weapon. Mellonar made a noncommittal chuckling noise.

“That boy, Faerim son of Carthor; you tried to enlist his aid in spying on the Elves.” Hírvegil winced, remembering this. He had felt dreadful doing that, weeks ago, but it seemed to be a perfect solution considering the circumstances. Darkly, he nodded, his head drooping downwards. “Yes, I did. As far as I know, he did not uphold his end of the bargain, but I blame him not. The situation became very chaotic later on and it would have been monstrously unjust to charge him.”

Mellonar perked up, his hooked nose giving a little rigor-mortis-like twitch, that of a dead rodent. “Charge him with what?” Hírvegil winced again, but not because of painful nostalgia. He shouldn’t have assumed that Mellonar knew of everything he had told the boy on that chilly Evendim morning. Obviously, someone had overheard snippets of the conversation of the camp borders and word had diffused fierily throughout the refuge of the Dúnedain. Now, inadvertently, he had given away the source of his guilt, the ruthless attempt by him at bribing a Dúnadan youth, a shady maneuver that rivaled some of Mellonar’s. With uncharacteristic reluctant, Hírvegil dove onward, “I did threaten, at one time, to charge him with high treason if he did not comply with my plan. It was a moment of weakness, one which I am sure you will cherish, but it is in the past. I do not know if that boy has forgotten the fact, but it was never brought up again. I certainly don’t intend to bring charges against him now, so the matter rests. You have your answer.”

Mellonar drew a long, manicured fingernail against the cushioning of the divan, drawing a bit of fuzz stuffing like blood from a wound, and placed a finger before his mouth, pursing his lips in contemplative repose. Then, he threw himself up suddenly, his billowing fur robes fluttering as crows arched wings and alighting on the floor, kicking up some cobwebs that had settled between the cracks in the stones during their conversation. “That is all one, Captain. See that you get well before matters become…” he halted, “complicated.” The word seemed strangely impacted, ringing like a weighted bell that struck and sounded in Hirvegil’s already pounding skull. “I am off to do what you cannot: lead. I suggest again that you consult someone skilled in leech-craft, or perhaps simply consult a leech and let him do the job, without the hassle of social interaction. Farewell.” With a self-satisfied grin, Mellonar swished dramatically out of the room, leaving Hirvegil to wallow in the pain induced by unknown ailments and well-known ills.