Fall of the North RPG

[Osse]

Carthor shivered under the stars' cold gaze, in spite of his thick fur-lined cloak. The night no longer held any beauty for the old man; instead, through a harsh re-education of screams and unseen death, it had become a time of fear and malice to be slept through, or if the visions of pain stayed when his eyes closed, to be endured within the safety of stout walls.

Too many cold nights. Too many cold graves. Too many cold memories...

The soft sound of the camp gently drowned out the nightly noises, the shuffles of those sorting through their sparse belongings, the ring of metal on metal of those preparing their meagre meals.

Carthor added to the din, tapping out the tune to a favourite Arnorian marching song on the hilt of his broadsword. He quickly stopped as he remembered those he had first sung it with.

Carthor sighed.

Where was Belegorn?

The party needed to decide what to do, now that their last option was exhausted. Food was running short, even though the party had been substantially thinned, and its members had tightened their belts - many were substantially thinned themselves. Carthor reckoned on them lasting no more than a fortnight. Hunting was poor, the game had spread due to the cold.

Bitterly, there was little hope, particularly for the very young and the very old, many of whom had already been hastily buried in some lonely knoll or under some icy hillock, far from the white stone of their home.

Carthor lived without hope, as he had for many years. Inside he was as numb as his fingers were on the outside.

Pulling his great hood over his head, helm and all, he trudged off in search of Belegorn, the newborn frost crunching under his heavy boots.