Fall of the North RPG

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

Rôsgollo’s search for Lord Ereglin bore no fruit, save for increasing understanding that he must get to the top level if her were to survive to see his Lord and brother to safety. Gaeredhel, where are you? he called as he ran. But heat from the fires spreading from the parapet and the swell of battle as the Orcs breached the gates pressed in upon him and he could spare no time to look for an answering call. He retreated in haste to the western passageway slipping in just as the gates were closed and barred against the enemy. Breathing hard, he stood for a moment with his back against the stonework.

My brother, I am here with Lord Ereglin. He is safe. Come! Gaeredhel’s urgent call lifted a corner of the pervading shadow that cast a pall over sight and senses.

The enemy was already bearing down on the entryway to the third level as Rôsgollo climbed the steps up from the now closed gates. He paused at the top, making way as reinforcements of the city’s forces hurried to fortify their positions. Before heading to where his brother and Lord Ereglin were, Rôsgollo made his way up to the parapet that looked down on the second level. A dark river swelled into the streets below, leaving eddies of red and the sounds of screams and cut off cries as it surged against any who stood in its way. In some small places, there were brighter swords raised and the singing of arrows as they rushed in vain hope toward their targets. But the small points of light were borne under by the unrelenting current of the dark river. In vain, he looked for the Periannath, but could not find them below, nor did he see them along the parapet on this tier. With a grim face, he headed toward the hall where Lord Ereglin had been housed. From there he would make for the North Gate, intending to find his brother as he escorted Lord Ereglin to the escape way.

He paused to ask a question of one of the King’s men set as guard at the quarters where the Elves were staying. The man was just preparing to leave to join the other troops when Rôsgollo ran up. ‘They’ve all gone, the Elves have,’ the man told him. ‘They’ll be gathering in the King’s Hall with Minister Mellonar before they head to the North Gate.’ Rôsgollo thanked the man and ran on toward the Hall. An image and a thought niggled at the back of his mind as he sped on.

A thin, pale man, hunched beneath his robes . . . a vulture, waiting to feed on the dead . . . Rôsgollo narrowed his eyes at the image. . . . Any dead . . . Vultures are not picky when it comes to feeding, he thought. He must warn his brother . . . the man may bear watching . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s troops diffused through the city as ripples in water, spreading into the alleys and side-streets of lower Fornost. Trying to exterminate the scattered orcs who had broken through into the city, the Rearguard managed to overwhelm most of the second level, since few orcs had gotten near enough to the third wall to be able to stand a chance against the full Rearguard. The Angmar-hordes, however, had by now fully broken through, and were surging into the districts, setting fire to all they saw, tearing walls, rending roofs, and befouling the once-great city with their stink and blood.

Hirvegil himself stayed near the front of one of the groups spearheading forward towards the gate, down the broad central road that led from one gate to the next. Passing ruined fountains with derelict, crumbled architecture, the company cut down the few disorganized bands of goblins that stood before them as the visage of the splintered second wall grew before them. As they bounded towards it, they saw the orc-host growing with the sight of smoke and death, which rose like a massive storm cloud overhead and a surge of ash and geysers of smog from below. The orcs were clashing with the very skewed remnants of the Vanguard, and some divisions of the Midguard which had been stationed in the city. Both were decimated, and their ranks failing as the orcs pushed forward. The rearguard did the same, driving towards the fallen gates and walls as companies branched out into the city. Guards had been dispatched to fetch the Elves some time ago, and it would not be long before all of the Elven diplomats were accounted for, and the citizens of Fornost were grouped in the inner sanctum for evacuation. All was going well, even if the city was falling.

Then, a greater shadow then ever before fell upon the city and a new and terrifying sound replaced all others.

That terrible sound would haunt Hírvegil until his days’ end. It was no shriek, nor scream, nor cry, nor any sound belonging to man, but a ghastly noise that wrenched him from the world and ripped sharply and deeply into him. He felt blackness and shadow, flowing through him as if it had overwhelmed the blood in his veins and stopped up his heart. With a groan of pain and anguish, he reeled. He looked about him, and saw that his troops were likewise wrenched from themselves for a moment, and many teetered clumsily upon their legs. But, as the soldiers of Fornost quailed, those of Angmar swelled and hooted. A great shadow had passed into the city and a cloud as dark as death had obscured whatever vague light yearned to be seen in the sky. The cries of the orcs grew louder and grimmer, becoming hoots of mad victory. They knew, as Hírvegil knew, that their moment of victory had come at last. The battle for Fornost was about to end.

Then, all of a sudden, silence fell, and the orcs slid back into their respective orifices, as if they had been sucked back, berated by the forces of Fornost. The sky was not bright, but its stormy aspect was also removed by chance, and the terrible screams of the wounded ceased instantly. It seemed, but for a moment, that the road was clear. Silence fell too suddenly to replace the din.

And then the shadow fell again.

Hírvegil saw it with his own eyes, and nearly turned away, clapping his hand to his armor as his heart beat with the great speed of the winds themselves. The broad, stone-cobbled road that led from the main gate of the second wall to the inner sanctum now bore a misty fog which surged forward like a wave, a terrific wave that wiped over the streets and flowed through windows, doors, over turrets and bulwarks, and into mortal souls. Orcs streamed forth, bearing tooth, claw, and jagged weapon at the Rearguard, which could not help but pull away as the herald of darkness and his host fell upon them.

The Captain of Despair himself had arrived; the Witch-King of Angmar.

Borne on a pale-black steed, deathly and ghastly in gait, was a black-robed figure with a great, icy sliver of a sword raised up in his hand. As the Wraith’s steed bore him onward, his tattered mantle fluttered behind like terrible wings and the void enveloped in his ominous hood spouted terrible sounds, the cries of men in anguish. The Chieftain of the Nazgûl galloped behind a line of orcs, and then behind a second, and the orcs soon overtook him and overwhelmed the battlefield, but the Witch-King did not fall into the background. His shadowy visage held a terrible grimness that was imprinted in every mind, and the morale of Arnor was broken. Anarchy had come, and route was not far behind. Above and around the figure, the visage of shrouds and moving shades darted, rocketing themselves through the air and howling. Hirvegil could not determine identity of these things that carried a shroud over the field, though, in his state of fear, he could only guess that they were spirits of some sort; the entourage of the Witch-King. His mad mind conjured the thought of more wraiths and wights come to consume him, but his logical half reduced them to illusions, and he hardened his heart against them – His men, though, were not. Within seconds, morale deteriorated to the breaking point and shattered.

“The Captain of Despair is upon us!” voiced a lieutenant of the rearguard, speaking a name for the Witch-King used in Gondor and Arnor. That officer turned on his metal-clad heel and fled through the ranks of his troops. They turned, horror blazoned on their faces, and scattered away from the orcs. Other units broke and fled, routing like so many frightened birds sprinting in whatever direction seemed appropriate.

The rearguard crashed into the ranks of orcs and overflowed on both sides. Hírvegil saw orcs leaping above him and men being thrown about. Two soldiers were crushed into the earthen street beside him, and the heavily but crudely armored uruk footmen crowded around, brandishing an assortment of blades staves, clubs, maces, swords, knives, and axes. Hírvegil, setting his petty fears aside as best as he could, held his ground. Hammering his ironclad feet into the ground, the Captain began to flail his sword swiftly, hefting his shield to the back so it would not hamper his movement. He risked a direct hit, but knew he could fend off the anarchic mass of weaponry coming at him with ease, as long as his strength did not give out. A broad horizontal slash sliced the head from one orc and the heart from another. He spun, but kept his head inclined, staring, eyes affixed on the same path of murderous uruks surging on every side. He saw blades piercing the air and, barely able to keep from panicking, swung his sword in a parrying arc and pulled his shield to the front. As the light of the jagged weapons, reflected by their dark sheen, blinded Hírvegil, he heard a clang and a thud, and his eyes reopened despite the pain in them.

One orcish scimitar lay on the ground and an ax lay imbedded in the wood of his shield. Hírvegil pushed forward, lashing out with his shield and pushing orcs to the ground before he speared them where they lay dazed. He saw blade points peek through his shield, filling up on the other side, until the defensive device was nearly torn to ribbons. Bashing and clubbing with the remains, Hírvegil leapt back as it was cloven for the last time, and hurled the wooden bulk forward, watching with grim satisfaction as its weight struck down and orc coming forward at another man. Gritting his teeth and sucking in breath, Hírvegil wrapped both hands around his sword in tight fists and drove the sword forward at the masses, listening as he slashed and stabbed for the sickening crunch that meant he had hit a target. At last, he felt the sting of weariness, and the many minor wounds he’d received took hold. He could feel blood dripping from the plates of armor on his arms and chest, but did not feel the wounds; his whole body was numb and any part of him that felt was burning like fire. His legs barely able to hold him, he retreated into the ranks of his men, letting his sword fall and drag along the ground. Eventually, the Captain struggled past the fray and into an area of less severe concentration and combat.

In the distance, surrounded by more men, Hírvegil saw that Belegorn had been pulled aside by one of the Captains. He managed to get nearer to Belegorn, but near enough, and was forced to yell to attract his attention and compensate for the cacophony. “Belegorn,” he cried, magnifying his voice until it was pained so that he could overcome the din, “are all the Elves accounted for?” Belegorn could barely manage to cry back, but he was able to say, audibly, “Yes, sir.” Hirvegil did not bother to sigh with relief, too busy slashing the arm off an attacker, and began to back away from the thick of the fray. “Keep fighting,” he yelled to Belegorn as he began to tear his way backward through the rearguard to get to open space, “but be prepared for retreat. We must outlast the hordes if we are to successfully evacuate the city.”

Belegorn shot a last cry to him as he left the chaos. “The Vanguard has been annihilated, Captain;” his stern voice wrung in Hírvegil’s ears, “we are the last force in combat.” This was something Hírvegil had guessed, but the knowledge presented so bluntly and truthfully was painful indeed, and he lurched as he strode back. This was the second time this day he’d been taken aback by an obvious statement. He could think of no morale-boosting words to shoot back to his lieutenant across the field, and, with a haphazard shake of his head, gave his final order for the moment. “Extract the remainder of the rearguard from the orcish ranks and get the wounded to the rear. May the winds of Manwë give you speed, and the might of Tulkas give you strength.”

His lieutenant nodded curtly, and turned, disappearing into the smoke and dust. Confused and filled with dread, Hírvegil sprinted towards the stairs to the highest level, looking up. As he did, his eyes widened in deep anguish as a single dark shadow crossed over him and above, past the walls looming above. A great projectile, like a comet, ablaze with fire, soared majestically overhead and crashed down into the last of the silver pinnacles of the Kings’ Hall.

The last tower of Fornost, before Hírvegil’s eyes, shattered and crumbled with a terrible crash. His soul retching inside him, Hírvegil forced himself to run up the stairs and onto the parapet of the inner sanctum.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril followed the Dúnedain guard to the king’s court.

The main thoroughfare to the court was choked with people trying to flee the nearly fallen city. She looked at the refugees. Some would not be parted with their riches, carrying heavily laden carts that they dragged while negotiating the crowded avenue. Others, wiser and more foresighted perhaps, carried nothing more than what would fit in a pack they could easily carry in their backs. Still, she thought, even these wise ones would not be able to outrun the black tide once it gains mastery. And even if they could flee from its reach—when first she came to the city, a layer of snow newly fallen covered it. For the next days the blizzard waxed in might, as if in league with the Orc host. Winter would take those who did not fall to the bitter steel of the Orcs. It was sad to ponder. In her youth she cherished the gloom of Winter.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.

Her guard/guide forced her back to the present situation. He said that time was of the essence, and they would now take circuitous passages to avoid the crowds. And so they walked, and she knew she would never see most of those Men again. Perhaps if she had come earlier . . .

A high-pitched cry shattered the last remnants of tranquillity in the city. All stopped in their tracks, and turned to the direction of the sound. Some fell to their knees and covered their ears, as if such an act could shield them.

She had not heard such a cry of despair and blackness since the winged Dragons first troubled Middle-earth, when last the sons of Valinor went to battle against the hosts of Morgoth in the Plains of Gasping Dust. But such potency of malice in one fell voice—if ever evil were to be music, this would be its chord of victory. Her mien remained impassive, yet in her heart fear spoke ever loud: Even were all the hosts of the Elven realms sent to the aid of Arnor, none would withstand the waxing might of this Master of the Shadow of Fear.

Nay, Bethiril gainsaid the voice. Fear ever seeks to weaken the resolve of all who lend ear to it. Her lord Elrond still puts trust in the swords of Elves and Men united, essaying to root out where the seeds of Morgoth sprouted. This seedling, however strong and deep its roots were, would fall to the same doom.

Still, as they neared the king's court, a silent tune from the past played within her . . .

Chill music that a herald piper plays
Foreseeing winter and the leafless days.
The late flowers trembling on the ruined walls
Already stoop to hear that chilling tune.