Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

In short time, he reached the stairs of Celebrimbor’s palace, and slowly and methodically ascended them, as a king ascends to his coronation. He found a motley assortment of guards remaining, men who imagined they would serve their lord faithfully, and to the last. But, Angoroth would have none of this. “Scatter faithful soldiers of Eregion! Your doom will be the same as your lord if you do not stand aside!” Few challenged this. Some defended the doors to the inner sanctum of Celebrimbor’s palace staunchly. They died where they stood. The rest fled in haste. With the guards dispensed, either with word or sword, he pursued his final goal.

Casting aside the heavy doors of the chamber, he thrust himself into the Lord of the City’s sanctum, where he had cloistered himself to the end. The Lord looked up from his seated position, and already knowing what had come for him. “Ah, so here lies the last of the great Feanor’s seed! I would have thought one of such proud heritage would stand up to his enemy. Indeed, the sons are weaker than the father!” Inaudible murmuring emanated from Celebrimbor’s lips, but he did not speak to his accuser. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” Angoroth, having fully thought out his actions for this moment, made use of his plans. He sliced open the stomach of the elf-lord, while he yet lived, and he laughed as he took in the stench and sight of disemboweled innards and gore, as well as the agonized screams of Celebrimbor, as he gave in to his temptation to fulfill his murderer’s desires. Those screams echoed throughout the city…

~*~

Angoroth, he who had destroyed the people of Eregion, was never seen again in the West. He fled the city, in short time after his slaying of Celebrimbor, and deserted his bond to Mordor. Whispers of his wicked deeds followed him ever northwards, where traveled by both steed and foot, at last reaching the wastes of the North.

Haggard and worn by the icy winds that whipped around him, his armor discarded long ago, traded for hides in those sparse villages he entered during those last beleaguered steps of his quest; he marched to a location deep in the desolation, nearest the long departed citadel of Utumno. Without even a single slab of timber, not even a measly scrap of bark stripped from a waterlogged, dead tree, he burned the hides which kept his shivering body even remotely close to warm. The fire, which burned dimly in the cold, starry, night sky, burnt off little heat, and the lonesome Maiar knew this. The time had come, he thought.

And so, he drew forth his sword, still tainted with the frozen blood of Celebrimbor. Sliding the blade through decayed flame, as it flickered pathetically amongst the hide-embers, grasping painfully for the cold steel. The Maiar watched gleefully, as he muttered prayers to his master, the fallen Valar Melkor.

I commit my body to the ice,
And my soul to the dark light.
I go now,
To join with my Master beyond the Night.

Slowly withdrawing the blade from the dying fire, Angoroth methodically twisted the ancient sword in his palms, pointing the blade to his stomach. It crept forward, like a spider ready to pounce, drawing ever closer to him. As the tip of the metal penetrated into his body, the skin gave way, engulfing the blade as it sliced into him. His face remained emotionless, as he merged with the steel. He lurched forward onto it, hoping for an end to himself. Blood rose up within him now, and gurgled in his mouth, spilling over his cracked lips, staining the ice and snow with his crimson taint as it splashed across the frozen earth. With his vision growing bleak, and his blood draining from his withering body, he collapsed over himself. Still kneeling, cast forward, hanging limp from his waist, he gave into death. With his final prayers, he committed his soul beyond the world, leaving it forevermore, as the pale light of his eyes faded, flickered, and finally vanished with the dead flames of the hide-fire…

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar's post

‘There’s been word back from our scouts near the city. We must make all haste.’ Ondomirë drew his mount along by the reins as he approached the gathered Dwarven warriors. It was still night, many hours until the sun would rise. Still, the Dwarves had known to rise early, perhaps their keen ears hearing the sounds of the rousing camp. In such a short time they had gotten their packs on their backs; helmets and what armor they wore securely fastened on; axes and pikestaffs in hand. The expressions on their faces were difficult to read in the dim moon's light. But to his mind, unused to Dwarves and their ways, they seemed unwelcoming.

Never mind what you think he admonished himself. Lord Elrond’s commanded it and you’re to see it done.

‘Yes, well then,’ he went on, wondering what was going on behind those bearded faces. Their dark eyes glittered as they followed his every move. He elected to keep his own gaze on their hands. Were they to twitch even for an instant toward their weapons then he would flee from them and take their answer as a ‘no’.

You are such a coward! They’re seasoned warriors. Surely they’ll see the need for this.

Ondomirë motioned for the Elves he’d brought with him to take their positions. The tall, grey-eyed riders moved forward slowly round the Dwarves. ‘The city is sore besieged,’ he went on. ‘And, well . . . there’s nothing for it but that you must ride with us. Even were you to sprout wings on your feet, you cannot hope to keep pace with our horses.’

There were angry grumblings as he finished speaking. But he gave no room for protest. With a nod of his head, the Elves moved in and plucked up a Dwarven rider each to sit behind them. Without another word, they turned north, the long muscled legs of their horses picking up speed . . .

-^-^-^-

It was late in the afternoon when the Lindon troops and their allies reached the narrow plain leading down to the river where the city stood. The Dwarves dismounted and reassembled into their own fighting unit. The Elves for their part, took their places as their captains commanded and began the advance on the city. Lancers and swordsmen to the fore; the bowmen behind, giving a cover of arcing missiles as needed.

And it was needed, sooner than hoped.

The city was burning, many of the beautiful structures already half-razed and smoking. Less than a league from the river and the foul creatures who had done the terrible deeds were swarming out from the dying city’s perimeter; a dark and noisome tide - their filthy weapons seeking more blood to shed.


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


Child of the 7th Age's post

Half battle mad, mired in gore and stench, Ulrung stood triumphant on the streets of the city. His chariot was heavy with the booty he had snatched from the homes and palaces of the Elven lords. These were beautiful and amazing items crafted of gold and fine jewels: helms and brooches and glittering flagons such as Ulrung had never seen the likes before. Nor was he alone in his actions. Even in the midst of fighting, the Easterlings had taken time to gather up the spoils of war as they rushed wildly from one house to the next, slaughtering all who were unfortunate enough to come before their path. Their battle chariots, once so swift and light, now lumbered awkwardly through the streets, slowed by the heavy burdens that they now carried.

Ulrung and his officers remained oblivious to the threat that gathered now a short distance away. Why should they pay attention to anything else? The city was falling. There were prizes to be won. Victory was surely theirs. Ulrung saw little reason to keep a tight rein on those who slashed their way through the streets. With Angoroth gone, Ulrung no longer feared the wrath of the great commander. He could do whatever pleased him. As a result, Orcs and Easterlings burned and raided with glee: all semblance of discipline or order had vanished. Only a remnent of the Dark Lord's army remained together inside the broad plaza near the front gate where a few Elves had gathered and valliantly battled.

In the midst of this chaos, a horseman rode in through the rubble and stones. As quickly as he could, the messenger made his way to the Easterling commander. Ulrung had taken a break from fighting to sift through the treasures that were piled high in his chariot. He looked away from his task for a moment and greeted the man on horseback with the barest hint of a nod.

"Sire, sire, Lord Ulrung." The voice came hurried and frantic. "You must listen. They come! They come! A great host of Elves and dwarves, and they move with the speed of lightning. They head soon to the city. You and your men will be trapped if you do not gather your forces now."

"How can this be?" growled Ulrung. He was not pleased to be interrupted in his task of arranging his treasures.

The messenger's response was swift. "Elves from Lindon come and with them King Durin and all his Dwarves. These are not disheartened and beaten soldiers but well organized with the heat of battle in their eyes. They have not yet reached the gate but in a short time they will."

"You are sure?" Ulrung spat on the ground in disgust. His assurance of rapid victory seemed to be vanishing in smoke. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially with his troops scattered this way and that, gathering booty and kills in the back alleys of the city.

The messenger nodded. Ulrung had only to look in the man's eyes, shadowed with fear and doubt, to see the truth of the message he brought. Suddenly glimpsing the very real danger they faced, Ulrung bellowed out to his seneschal, "Sound the horn. The alarm for Orcs and Men to gather in the plaza. We have no choice but to turn and fight these miscreants." Then Ulrung turned again to his own chariot and with considerable reluctance pushed out most of the booty he had gathered. They would need speed and a chariot laded with gold treasures would be at a definite disadvantage. Perhaps he would come back later and retrieve his goods.

The Great Horn sounded in every corner of the city. Some heard it and stopped their plundering to come immediately to the square. Many more heard it and stopped up their ears, pretending that there had been no alarm. Even among those who remounted their horses and battle chariots to join in the plaza, many of these were heavily laden with treasure. Ulrung bellowed out an order for all to lay aside their bulky sacks and chests, saying that they could return for them later. But here too, many cursed and stopped up their ears, vowiwng not to lose what was rightfully theirs.

Oblivous to what was happening, Ulrung snapped out his orders: "We will deal quickly with this contingent of Elves who await us outside the gates. We will take Elrond's head on a platter, and then go against any others who make their way to the city. After that we may gather what is rightfully ours."

His men were still raggedly assembled, and the Orcs who followed were much fewer in number. But still the troops of Sauron gave a great bellowing cry and followed their leader Ulrung out through the gates and onto the plain as they hurtled forward to meet the threat.

[Arry]

Envinyatar’s post

The black tide swarmed against the Elven troops. At first Lord Elrond’s lines held and perhaps even advanced in small increments. Sauron’s troops, though, were relentless and more numerous than the Lindon scouts had reported. The Orcs and Men were fueled by their victory against the city and the blood of their foes that had already bathed their blades.

Elrond’s warriors fanned out; the warriors on each wing pushing forward as far as they were able, extending their formation like the horns on a great bull’s head. Their foes were funneled in and toward the grouping of Dwarves and Celeborn’s Elves that stood firm against them and then fell back slowly.

It was Lord Elrond’s intent to catch the foe between the pincer like extensions of his own troops and squeeze in on them, killing as many of them as he could. For a brief while, his strategy worked. And it might have continued so save for the fact that the Orc and Mannish ranks swelled again and again as their captains pushed them from their looting of the city and against the new threat.

‘Regroup!’ he ordered his captains.

The thinned out lines of Lindon troops pulled back into a tighter formation from which they charged again and again in smaller groups, throwing panic into their foe as their great horses trampled through their unorganized ranks.

----------

Orëmir’s ranks of bowmen sent a storm of arrows hurtling against Sauron’s army felling as many as they could. As the lines of Orcs and Men drew close, half the bowmen drew their swords and charged against them; while the remaining bowmen fell back a little and rapidly firing arrow after arrow continued to pick off individual targets.

Heaps of dead and dying Orcs and Men dotted the plain before the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves. But it was not enough. There were too many of the foul warriors. Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn’s troops fell back slowly against the onslaught.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s furied lunge ended with him landing heavily on top of Kharn. He brought the hand still holding his sword down hard on Kharn’s face. Kharn howled in pain and surprise as the hilt produced a jagged gash. Grimkul smiled coldly at the sound. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. Kharn was clearly at the worst of it now – while still scrabbling for his own sword, he still had to ward off Grimkul’s assaults. Twisting, pushing, scratching: these were the devices that Kharn now had to result to. Grimkul held him in place, landing punches to his face and chest.

Abruptly, Kharn ceased going after the fallen sword and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Grimkul to remember the sword in his own hand. But the advantage in this situation was Kharn’s: the smaller weapon was entirely more maneuverable in the close quarters. He scored a deep gash in Grimkul’s thigh before Grimkul could even bring his blade around. But it was not enough: as Kharn tried to twist away, Grimkul brought his scimitar down, rending a long gash in Kharn’s side. Kharn, clearly in pain, tried a desperate parry, but Grimkul almost carelessly knocked it away. He brought his sword down on Kharn’s shoulder, cutting through the muscle and tendon and effectively disabling his sword arm. Becoming increasingly exultant, Grimkul scored a number of smaller cuts and gashes. Finally, when he deemed that Kharn had suffered as many injuries as might be expected, he rose shakily to his feet, stained in black blood: Kharn’s, and his own. The blood flow from his leg had not staunched much, and the loss of blood had weakened him severely.

Kharn eyed him, obviously near death. There seemed to be a measure of satisfaction to him, though: “You won’t live long, now.” This infuriated Grimkul: that his opponent, clearly defeated, should still mock him! Without waiting another instant, he brought his sword down and plunged it through Kharn’s heart. Then he spat into the dead face, turned about, and limped away, his triumph only slightly dampened with the knowledge that Kharn had not conceded the victory.

Now there was only one thing that he could want. Turning about, he could see the mountains rising in the distance. He was leaving, this time for good. He made his way slowly to the gate of the city, but as he drew nearer he noticed a strange thing: the press of Orcs had thickened, and they were swarming out of the city! They were being attacked! And so, unexpectedly, Grimkul was plunged into the fight, exactly where he, for once, did not want to be. He fought his way through the ranks, cutting down anyone who got in his way, be it Orc, Man, Dwarf, or Elf. He soon found that he could go no farther without engaging in real combat; at the very front of the Orkish lines, now, he was almost wholly surrounded by the ranks of Dwarves. He ruthlessly cut one down, slicing nearly all the way through his head.

But he suddenly found himself feeling light-headed; his reactions felt slow and dulled. The shouts all around him buzzed in his ears. He fought like a mad thing, no longer aware of anything but a burning desire that everything die, so that he might go on his way in peace, to go on to his old mountain haunts, to leave it all behind… But first, they all would die.

[Arry]

Skald’s hands grew slippery on the haft of his poleaxe. Even though he had put on his leather gloves for a good grip, still the rivulets of dark Orc blood had wet them thoroughly and lessened their ability to grip. He glanced to his right, where Bror stood, his brother’s axe cutting in clean arcs against the advancing foe. Stepping back a pace or two, Skald threw off his gloves and hastily wiped the shaft of his weapon along the side of his breeches.

Just as he was stepping back up to the fighting line, a spray of blood from somewhere on his left hit him. Axe at the ready he turned to see Regil Brassbeard fall, his head nearly cloven asunder by a great Orc’s blade.

Even as Regil’s body slumped to the ground, Bror had roared up, attacking the filthy Orc with his axe. For his part, the wiry creature was able to parry many of the blows Bror rained down on him. Though, a number of the swings seemed close enough to nick the foul hide before they were thrust away.

Too close for Skald’s comfort were the strikes of the Orc’s blade toward his brother. The foul creature seemed mad. Unlike other Orcs they had encountered this one did not run from the fierce blows of the poleaxe. It was almost as if he wished to hasten his own death. Skald swung his own axe at the Orc. The shaft shifted in his hands a little at this sideways strike. The flat of the axe head hit hard against the Orc’s thick skull, causing the creature to stagger and fall. Not waiting to see if his blow had killed the Orc, Skald turned to other foe.

Through the haze of battle, Skald could see that Men were now pushing their way to the front of the lines. Arrows now flew against the Elves of Lindon and Lorien. And the scimitars of the Men of the East were assailing the front ranks of Lord Celeborn’s ground troops. Here and there with deliberate charges could be seen the Lindon Elves on their great horses, their swords cutting down the advancing troops of Sauron. And at times, they fell themselves. Their bright and terrible beauty swept over by the darkness.

Skald saw the Elf, who had borne him into battle on the back of his horse, as he fell to Easterling spears and swords. And a moment of grim cheer rose in his heart as the great horse reared and slew several of the attackers with his slashing hooves. Then he, too, fell to the long, sharp staves that pierced his neck.

The rage of battle grew in Skald’s breast at the sight. His eyes hardened as he ran toward the Easterlings, a number of other of his Dwarf companions close on his heels.

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

The great battle-cry of the Dwarves thundered about them as they hastened toward the foe . . .

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! . . .

[Firefoot]

Since Grimkul’s disappearance, Ulwakh had been going through the city, deliberately avoiding any areas of concentrated fighting. Nor did he wander about looking for lone Elves to kill. Instead, he forced his way into the Elvish buildings, looking for the young and the weak. When he found them, he killed them: slowly and painfully. Only a few had possessed both the courage and the strength to resist him, and even then their struggle was futile: though he might be wounded minimally, the knives and daggers that they came up with at short notice were of little help against Ulwakh’s cold hatred.

These prizes were less than frequent, however; many homes had been evacuated; some, already ravaged; still others, too tightly locked up. The thrill was almost not even worth it, for all the work he had to go through. Exiting yet another abandoned house, a thought occurred to Ulwakh. Perhaps Grimkul had been right. If ever there was a time to escape this cursed army, now would be it. Under no particular chain of command, the Orcs roamed freely through the ravaged city and killed at will. Small and semi-crippled as he was, no one would miss him. As for Grimkul, Ulwakh could find nothing in his heart but contempt for his dumb if occasionally useful companion. Besides, Grimkul had left him.

With that in mind, he abandoned his largely futile attempt and set out to find an exit from the city. He had heard the sounds of fighting at the main gate; it would be no good to use that exit. Instead he headed for one of the other breaches in the wall, hoping to avoid all but the very fringes of the battle.

It was even as he had hoped. He left the city unnoticed, skirted around the edge of the battle field, and gave fight only when pressured. Now, he only had to get past the small band of Dwarves where they gave fight to a black mass of Orcs, and after a short dash he would be lost to sight in the broken landscape.

But as he approached, he could not help but notice one crazed Orc fighting in the midst of the Dwarves, and after a short moment, recognized him: Grimkul. He nearly cried out, then silenced himself, remembering his cause to go unnoticed. And even as he watched, Grimkul took a nasty blow to the head from an axe and fell to the ground in a heap. A curious look crossed Ulwakh’s face, akin to remorse. The expression passed as abruptly as it had come, and he spat out one word: “Idiot.” Then he turned and fled.