Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


For ten days they had headed northward, following the crisp bite of the wind. The snow had deepened under the hooves of their mounts with every stride they had taken. Their food bags began to empty, despite their best efforts to ensure their stores lasted. At nightfall on the tenth day, the first of the horses had perished. Slipping on a patch of unseen ice, the stout bay mare had lost her footing and come crashing down in a whirl of limbs. Her rider had fallen under her, his cold brown eyes staring up into Carthor’s own as he kneeled beside him. There had been no time to properly bury the young man. Instead, they had laid him out proudly by a deep snow drift, the tattered banner on his ash spear still bearing the device of the king fluttering in the bitter wind.

Carthor had shuddered to feel the weight of the horsemeat in his cloth bag. It was a poor way to repay such a fine beast for years of faithful service, a beast whose only mistake had been to blindly trust in the guidance of her master’s hand. Better to live with the guilt than to die without it. Death, even then, would have been a sweet relief to Carthor, son of Harathor. Honour drove him; as long as his king drew breath, so would he.

Within a week of the first, all twelve horses had fallen, their frozen corpses lying as grim reminders of the group’s passage. The Dunedain had continued on foot, trudging through the snow, which often rose deeper than the knees of their tallest man, sharing the lead in shifts. Two men walked in front and behind of Arvedui, their eyes guarding their lord’s back, guarding it from the despair they all felt. On the third day, the last of the horsemeat was eaten.

For six more days, the Men of the North trudged on through the thick snows, the snows that seemed to be forever clinging, like dead, cold hands at every limb and every cloak. The men were all soaked as the snow tunnelled in through their clothing; no cloak could halt its wandering fingers. Slowly, but surely, the men would fall to the back of the column, unable to hold onto the slow, plodding pace. Their footfalls would become clumsy and their strides shorter, as if invisible hands held them by the shoulders, slowly pulling them back. One by one, they fell down into the snow, unseen and unheeded by their comrades. For those who turned to give aid were soon consumed by the same deadly foe, the only aid they would give would be company with which to enjoy Eru’s Gift.

Then, on the ninth day since the last of the horses had perished, the seven survivors of the group of fifteen reached the cold, grey expanse of the icy sea. Great towers of white rose out of the water, their great bastions and towers mirrored below them. The men stood dumbfounded at the edge of the great water, watching the ice towers collide on the glassy surface, listening to the call of cracking ice, feeling the whip of the icy wind in their lank hair.

As they stood, the Forochel’s white splendour lying eerily around them, the Lossoth espied them, and walking on the surface of the ice on basket-shoes, they had led them to their camp.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: Mithlond


White, everything was white. This was not how she had imagined Mandos. White but not cold. So she had not returned to the snow. She raised her head slightly, it was a ceiling. And she was lying in a bed. Then an elvish voice. "Ah Lady Erenor, you are back with us!" The voice belonged to a grey clad elf-woman.

"Where am I?”

"In the Houses of Healing at Mithlond of course, do you not remember?"

Gradually memory came back. If had not been one of the slain guards of course who had entered the tent but an elf ranger of Mithlond in the same uniform. Cirdan alerted by Arvedui's hawks had sent out search parties. The fire they had risked in an attempt to save Erenor had speeded rescue for all. The rangers had carried phials of precious miruvor which had the power to restore even those on the point of death, and this had bought her time . The rangers had horses and had rushed her to the Havens. Erenor blushed at the memory - she who had thought herself among the strongest had been the weakest at the end.

The healer wrapped a mantle about Erenor's shoulders pressed a cup of broth into her hands and made her drink it before she would answer more questions. "The others? Are they safe? Are they here?"

"They are safe, but not all are here yet - the last should arrive later today. You have been asleep for two nights and a day since you were brought in. Your man- at- arms arrived in the middle of last night and wanted to see you there and then, if you please! Dressed in his filthy rags . . . of course I would not hear of it. Told him to come back this morning and be clean!"

"Angore, was here and you sent him away?!" Erenor quelled her ire, the woman did not know and losing her temper would make more delay - "Please send for him..." She needed no messenger however since when she sought his mind with hers, she was answered. Nevertheless the minutes seemes like hours until the door burst open. Angore was dressed in new clothes, his habitual grey and black relieved by a shirt of blue that matched his eyes, but his face had the same anxious look it had worn when he had entrusted Erenor to the Mithlond elves. He knelt by her bed and took both hands in his. "My lady?" he asked. "Always, my lord."

A little later when reality had intruded on their bliss, Erenor said "Perhaps I shall have to continue being an emissary - I will not be allowed a guard as a healer or gardener..."
"That won't be necessary I hope - though would you mind choosing gardening over healing? Healers seem rather bossy" he said looking in the direction the elf woman had departed when she realised that her presence was surplus to requirements.

"And I am not?" asked Erenor incredulous.

Angore answered by raising his eyebrows “I must be a soldier a little longer by necessity, but when we are safe back in Imladris, I too would take another path - or rather resume it".

Erenor cast back in her memory for some clue and failed “What path?".

"I realise I can honour my mother by fulfilling her wish as well as avenging her death. Before she died, I was training as a minstrel".

"A minstrel? You?" Erenor was amazed that one who had wasted so little breath on speech during the time she had known him could be a master of song.

"I was considered very talented actually" ... Angore replied affecting an injured expression.

Erenor could not but laugh "You had better find a lute or harp prove it to me then!"

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor’s musings were broken suddenly. The men around him were standing, being led out into the snow by their hosts. Slowly, Carthor stood and wrapping his fur blanket more tightly around his broad shoulders, he followed the backs of the men in front of him up the short ramp out of the low-slung ice-house. The hide door-flap slapped loudly against the roof, moved by the fierce wind, as he walked away. He followed the men in front of him through the small camp, shivering despite the weight of his warm shroud. The group halted outside another, slightly smaller, ice-house.

It was low and square, with piles of snow heaped up against its square walls in mounds. From outside, the house gave as little purchase possible for the grasping claws of the north wind to latch onto. The structure seemed more sharply shaped than the others he had noticed, as if it had been built but recently. As he stood by the entrance, two Lossoth emerged from the enclosed entrance; both bore flat, broad shovels carved of bone. One ushered the seven Dunedain, including King Arvedui, through the entrance. The square structure was covered in many animal furs and blankets, and a cheerful fire glinted from its centre, the smoke from which wound its way lazily out of a hidden chimney in the roof above. Several immense fish were hanging on a smoking rack from the roof above.

Curling up in a nook by the fire, Carthor fell into the abyss of the deepest of sleeps, only waking briefly to eat some smoked fish and wrap himself more tightly in the fronds of his fur shroud.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The dream . . .


Lissi turned slowly, the light, black fabric of her mantle sweeping across the dark flagstones of the floor, sending gusts of fine grey ash into the eddying breeze. She paced slowly across the cold stone of the floor, toward a long, polished oak table. Other figures stood solemnly around the great table, their faces shrouded by heavy hoods. Each of the tall silent figures wore a red or green tabard, embroidered with the devices of Arnor. Cold blue light streamed softy in through the blackened remains of the rafters above the group’s bowed heads. The entire room was filled with the light’s coldness, all the room except the length of the great oaken table, which was cast in thick shadow.

Slowly, Lissi’s erect frame strode toward the table, her veiled features smitten heavily by shadow. Her pale hand reached from under the folds of black fabric and tugged gently at the grey covering draped over the form lying on the table. Slowly, her hand revealed a shining silver helm, covering the grey, wavy locks of the old soldier. Piercing blue eyes stared out from under the carved brow of the helm, their black centres reflecting the cold light from above.

The grey shroud was pulled away, sliding silently off the table, pooling like spent blood in folds and waves. The stout man’s hands were folded over the hilt of a shining broadsword, the blade of which was notched and scarred. Broad stains of dried blood littered his scarlet tabard, like grisly continents on a sea of blood. Stepping back, Lissi’s proud head bowed in a signalling nod.

As one man, the tall onlookers stepped forward, each bearing a long piece of wood in his hand. The wood piled in rows, like soldiers in rank, around the edge of the great table. With another nod, the men’s forms receded to their original positions, their faces still shrouded.

Lissi stepped to the side of the table, a great earthen flask carried in the crook of her right arm. Starting at the old soldier’s head, she poured the oily contents of the flask over his spread form. Then, reverently, she laid herself by his left side, upending the flask over her black gown. She folded her slender fingers across her lap and closed her eyes.

The tall men took a single uniform step forward, the orange flames of lit torches illuminating their cold hands with a dancing, flickering light. Each thrust his torch into the piled wood. Immediately the flame’s blades rang out from their scabbards and thrusting through the oils, bit into the wood. Boots snapped against the cold floor as the hooded men stepped backwards.

A single figure remained within reach of the flames. In a smooth motion, his nimble fingers reached up and slowly pulled down the black of his hood. The dancing gold light of the pyre lit Brander’s face as he stared, unmistakeably, down at his parents’ forms as they were devoured, his green eyes shining.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor woke with a start. Sweat soaked his tunic, turning the course fabric cold and sodden. The fire, in its small stone grate in the middle of the ice-house, had burned down to coals, which shone gently in the warm air. Around him, Carthor could make out the forms of his companions, still enwrapped in the warmth of sleep, or if the warmth had turned to cold, as it had for Carthor, then in the shrine of open-eyed rest. Carthor stood, and dragging his coverings behind him, moved to the fire. Sitting on a small, round, cured hide chair, Carthor piled more of the carefully stacked wood onto the coals. The fire was soon loud and raucous in the small space. Breaking his fast on more of the smoked pink fish, which was as soft and subtle, like moonlight given flavour, Carthor sat watching the flickering, dancing flames until the light shining through the ice walls turned a lighter shade of grey. His comrades started to rise, adding their own stirrings to the growing noise of the shelter.

His clothes now dry from the fire’s welcome warmth, Carthor rose and slipped on his old calf-hide boots, ignoring the near jet blackness of three of his toes. They had stopped hurting, so Carthor didn’t mind if they decided to stay attached to the rest of his foot or not. The wool linings that he had asked Lissi to sew in at the beginning of the winter were ragged and worn, yet they still held some warmth. He’d have to ask get her to sew in some new ones next year.

Carthor swore under his breath, to vent the true emotions he felt when thinking of what he had left trudging through the icy forests and frozen stone of the Blue Mountains: Grief. There was no real escape though; Grief’s sinuous frame stalked him night and day, waiting for his wearied guard to drop.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor & the King


Carthor hunched into something nearing a crawl as he walked up the slanting entrance and peeled open the hide door of the snow-house. Outside, he was greeted by a clear blue sapphire sky, the eastern tinges of which still glowing with the soft pink haze of dawn. Around him, the Lossoth camp was ablaze with activity. Smoke rose from the chimney holes of every ice-house, men carried long wooden poles, and others carried racks of the large, broad silver fish, the same fish Carthor’s belly was full of. The sound of yelled orders and padding feet turned Carthor’s head. Over the rise of an ice drift, appeared the oddest cart. It was wheel-less, and glided across the surface of the white ground on long wooden skids. Its great length was piled entirely with baskets of fish and seaweed.

Draped triumphantly across the front was the great carcase of a male Elk, its great pronged head lolling with the rhythms of the cart. It was not the cart itself that amazed and startled the old Dunedain however, rather it was the way by which it was propelled. Attached in great leather harness, were what appeared to be five grey wolves. Carthor was amazed, for the only men he had known to ally themselves with wolves were under the Witch King’s banner. As the great sled skidded through the centre of the camp however and came to a halt some way from where Carthor stood, he saw that they were in fact not wolves, but mighty dogs, with thick grey and white coats and shining eyes. Their masters, who had ridden on the back of the cart, dismounted, and after congratulating their unlikely steeds on a job well done, began unloading the cart.

“An amazing, if rustic, folk.” Said a quiet voice beside Carthor’s ear.

Inside, Carthor jumped in surprise, as he thought himself alone outside the ice-house, his exterior however, stayed composed in its relaxed stance.

Carthor looked into the speaker’s face. “Aye my lord, amazing they are. One would scarcely believe tales of a folk who dwell in houses made of ice and ride on carts without wheels pulled by wolf-dogs.”

King Arvedui chuckled. “Your words are true Captain, these are strange times indeed that have caused us to seek shelter from such folk.”

Carthor merely nodded. They were indeed strange times. The two men stood silently for a while, each loath to break the gentle silence of the morning.

“Lord Carthor, your deeds and council have been ever hardy these past weeks, as has your loyalty. But my friend, I would have you complete one final task for me, as the Captain of my Guard.” King Arvedui paused, but as Carthor didn’t speak or interrupt, he pressed on.

“Our numbers have halved my friend, I know this. But our sanctuary here must only be short-lived, and though I don’t agree with the Ice-Chief in his superstitions, I see that the Witch King’s arm is indeed long. I do not doubt that he can reach us, even here.”

“Our entire journey north was to find the Lossoth and gain their aid, and this we have done. But these people cannot harbour us from the grasping fingers of the Witch King. We must look to the sea Carthor, for in the sea lies our only hope; if Cirdan has had news of our plight, as I trust he has, he will soon send grey ships northward in search of us.

We must look to the sea Carthor, but we must ensure that the sea can look to us! Make a beacon fire Carthor, and have your men tend it night and day, never letting it be extinguished. We must ensure our own rescue.”

Without waiting for a response, the King turned on his heel and disappeared back inside the ice-hut with the slap of hide hitting ice.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post – Cirdan sends a ship northward


A grey ship was sailing from the havens. Sent by Cirdan to the aid of the king at the behest of Aranarth. The prince had been discouraged from joining it - "Your people need you here." Cirdan had said but if he had some foresight he did not share it.

Bethiril had insisted on going despite Erenor's attempt to dissuade her. "You have found your fate and I wish you joy, but this is mine and I will follow it - Deliver the ring to Lord Elrond when you may".

There was nothing Erenor could say to change her mind and she was filled with regret and forboding. "I am sorry I never understood you."

Bethiril had merely smiled that serene smile. "Namarie, Erenor...I thought you a woman unsentimental, but much has changed - perhaps when you too have taken ship we will meet, and in that realm of light and peace there will be no misunderstanding. But until then I think this is farewell. You will remain in Middle Earth till the time of our people here ends forever - but I am weary of it and even if this ship bears me back, I will take another." They had embraced, and Elrond's Emissary boarded to seek for the king.

Once the ship had cast off, she had left the quay to join other survivors on the sea wall. Bethiril's ring clinked slightly against her own silver betrothal band as she turned it in her hand. She stood next to Angore and he clasped her hand in his. Although stern of face as they watched the ship enter the firth and head for the sea it was clear to all the sorrows of many centuries had been lifted from them. Renedwen was there with the boys, as was Faerim with Lissi. Erenor could hardly bear to look at them; the contrast between their hope and her fear was so strong. And yet it was not only those who sought passage north, with winter barely starting to fade, who were in danger. Mithlond was safe and perhaps Imladris was still safe but little in between was safe from the shadow of the witch-king.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: the rescue ship arrives; the Ring of Barahir is given to the Lossoth


For five nights, the six Guardsmen rotated, sitting in hide tents beside the wind-whipped fire, feeding its hungry jaws with all the dry wood they could find. Their icy fingers ached from their labours, and many of their noses bore black or red patches, as if the skin had been seared by a red-hot brand.

On the dawn of the seventh day, a broad white shape was seen coursing through the white towers of floating ice in the broad bay. The sleek grey timber of the elven ship shone in the light of the new morning, its swan-shaped prow gliding majestically through the crisp air. The Dunedain stood aligned, their faces alight in relief and awe for the grace of the grey vessel. The Lossoth fled in fear of the greatness of the ship, and only the Chief and his warriors remained by the King’s side.

An eagerness the light of which Carthor had never witnessed danced in the Arvedui’s grey eyes. The wolf-dogs were made ready, and the Dunedain nestled themselves atop two of the great wheel-less carts. The carts sped across the glassy surface of the ice at a startling pace. The swan prow grey larger and larger, framed against the clear blue of the western sky. Boats, in stark likeness to the larger ship, were seen to be floated, their grey oars speeding them lightly toward the edge of the ice.

Dismounting from the sled, Carthor peered out at the grey wooden shapes as they drew near the shore.

Arvedui gave the instruction, and the Dunedain stepped tentatively toward the edge of the ice. The Chief of the Lossoth laid his hand gently on the arm of the king, who turned to face him.

“Ice-men smell danger on the wind, Tall King.” He said, his deep voice full of fear and concern.

“Do not mount this sea-monster! If they have them, let the seamen bring us food and other things we need, and you may stay here till the Witch-king goes home. For in summer his power wanes; but now his breath is deadly, and his cold arm is long.”

As if in answer to the Chief’s words, a biting wind arose out of the north. To Carthor’s old eyes, the sky there was darker than the rest, as if a scribe had drawn a deft ink-line across the horizon. The wind seemed unnaturally cold and malicious. Carthor found himself agreeing with the old chief’s words. However, he remained silent.

Arvedui, taken with eagerness to depart from the dead and cold world of ice, heeded little the words of the old Lossoth, despite the latter’s desperate pleading.

“Chief, I thank you and your people for kindling life where there was none, and for the aid you have given us, saving us from joining our friends in the icy wastes of your home. We shall leave, and fear not, for the ships of Cirdan cannot falter!”

In token of thanks, Arvedui pulled the great ring from his right hand, and placed it in the hand of the chief. “This is a thing of worth beyond your reckoning. For its ancientry alone. It has no power, save the esteem in which those hold it who love my house. It will not help you, but if ever you are in need, my king will ransom it with great store of all that you desire.”

Arvedui kissed the old man on the forehead, before turning and climbing into the first of the awaiting boats, which was held fast against the ice with much effort by her elvish oarsmen. Carthor stepped carefully down into the boat beside the king. The six other men slid onto the finely carved benches behind and beside the king, and in the other boat. The last two bore a heavy, iron-clad oak casket.

The Lossoth stood watching the boats row slowly away from the ice, their grey wood’s sheen radiant in the strong light. Their Chief stood watching the sea long after the boats had been lost to view, the Ring of Barahir enclosed warmly in his palm.