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Blood of the Third Age

Middle-Earth

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a part of Blood of the Third Age, by SonOfMars.

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SonOfMars holds sovereignty over Middle-Earth, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

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Copyright: The creator of this roleplay has attributed some or all of its content to the following sources:

http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/main_page

Setting

Default Location for Blood of the Third Age
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Middle-Earth is a part of Blood of the Third Age.

9 Characters Here

Gorthak the Piercer [7] An Uruk-hai captain known for his cruelty and affinity for piercing weaponry
Deranan [7] "By the blood of Angmar, I serve"
Farineld [6] Sindar of the first age, he has a bow that never misses it's mark.
Kyouki Mari [5] A young female dwarf of Erebor
Marick [4] A warrior of Gondor who has spent nearly five years on the war-front that is Osgiliath.
Celebrian [2] With great power comes great pain.
Throknalf [1] A skilled warrior bred on the instincts of honor and the art of war
Leif and Twig [1] It is a Dunedain's duty to protect what is good against evil and darkness.
Akash [1] Rejected as 'defective', he is denied his purpose and wanders the land, alone and angry.

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Character Portrait: Farineld
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Farineld sat up on a branch of the strong tree, lounging back half asleep. He was a Sindarin elf, having the gray colored hair of his people, it was long and had a single braid running past one ear, and a beard that was well kept and close to his face. Also on his face, was a deep scar that started from upper left cheek and ran down all the way to his chin, a sign of his youth. On his back was a green quiver that was laced with gold, it never ran out of arrows for it being a relic of his birth age, and a longbow that never missed its mark; he wore only light chain armor with a boiled leather vest. The color of his attire were the traditional of his people, gray and blue, and the rest was beautiful and intricate.
The days were growing long for Farineld, but that tends to happen when you're over six-thousand years old. Farineld was born at the end of the First Age, when a kingdom of only Sindarin ruled, a kingdom named Doriath, and life was good for he was part of one of the strongest houses. But then the Dwarven half-swine came down from their mountains and laid waste to the beautiful country while he was only a babe, and his godparent and he had to flee as refugees. However, not long after that, the sons of Feanor attacked our camp and became kin-slayers, but the Edain held them off so we could live another day. He swore to destroy the Ered-Luin dwarves.
Farineld heard the rustling of metal, and he could tell it was moving on the Forest Road. Farineld, without making a sound, got up and hopped from tree to tree swiftly. He came to a stop over a lone dwarf. He wore plate under fancy diplomat clothes, probably because of the dangers in Murkwood, and judging by the colors he was from the lonely mountain. His face was rough and soot covered and had a beard on it that ran well past his bloated gut, but it was well kept and braided to show nobility. Farineld slowly got the longbow off his back and a arrow from his quiver, he notched the arrow and pulled it back with a purr of bending wood. The dwarf suddenly became aware of Farineld's presence, but it was too late and the arrow flew. It sunk into the half-swine's neck and a fountain of red liquid sprayed everywhere, and he coughed blood before his limp body hit the ground. He gurgled for a few seconds before dying.

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Character Portrait: Marick
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Twas a grim morning amongst the ruins of Osgiliath, former capitol of the Kingdom of Gondor, but now a wasteland where only soldiers of the White City and orcs dwelled, though there were fewer of the former then usual. Marick was standing guard near a shattered tower on the eastern bank of the great river Anduin, and he was absolutely and completely bored. He had been on guard duty since dawn and he was ready to break his fast. He absent mindedly scratched his armpit, his shield lying against a stone, and his sword sheathed when he thought he saw something move. He pulled his blade out and called out "Who goes there!". There was no response, until a black orc came charging out of the ruins. Marick jumped back a bit and then scooped up his shield, quickly slipping his arm through the leather strap. As he did so he examined the orc wildling charging forward more closely. It was shorter then Marick, but it was thicker. It carried a crude axe in one hand and in the other was a damaged shield, with some dark reddish-brown stains on it. It was armored in a mix of crude furs and chain-mail, but other then that it had nothing. Marick took another couple steps forward, thrust his shield forward and then made a side-slash towards the orc. It shrieked a shrill war-cry and then clumsily parried the blow, but Marick banged the orc in the face with his shield and then as it fell he stabbed it in the throat, and a jet of sick, black fluid jetted up, spattering Marick's scarred breast-plate. He sighed, pulled his sword out, and wiped it on the ugly corpse, and began to head back to the headquarters to give his report and get relieved.

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Character Portrait: Deranan
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#, as written by claw
Far, far in the north, further than even the Misty Mountains a single lone figure trudged through the heavy snow, not for the first time regretting the decision of the Elders to send him north, their logic being that as Mount Gundabad was under their thrall it was a good place for him to end the first leg of his journey. He had argued that it would be safer heading through the Mine of Moria, no Goblin would dare to harm the chosen race of Sauron, but the Elders had disagreed, saying it brought him too close to the hall of Rivendell and the foul stench of Elves. So now here he was freezing half to death in a land that was far too close to that of Trolls and Dragons for his liking, but then again you never argue with the Elders when they make a decision.

He continued his slow journey as he had now for a number of weeks, his provisions here getting lower than he liked despite his tight rationing. It was pursuing this line of thought that he heard something that he was sure wasn't the wind. He stopped... There was the noise again, it was almost like... The realisation struck him as he dived to the side as a massive Warg barrelled past him, a green-grey Gundabad Orc perched atop it.

The Warg turned quickly even as he rose, he kept low as he readied his spear and with an practised movement, sidestepped and plunged the heavy spear deep into the beasts chest, piercing its heart and sending its rider flying into the snow. He quickly advanced on the dazed Orc, kicking its sword out its hand as he brought as knee down its chest, the sun glinted off of his brass mask. "You made a bad decision attacking a Black Numenor, Orc." He spat these words into the grovelling creatures face as it realised its terrible mistake, before it could utter a plea for mercy he stood and turning plucked his spear from the dead Warg, using his spin and the weight of the spear he took most of the Orcs head off.

He didn't take any time to search either of the dead creatures, there was no need. Despite the creatures stupidity it had told him one thing, Mount Gundabad was less than a day away. At last there he could finally use his authority brought by his noble blood. And of course punish whoever sent that damned scout.

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Character Portrait: Kyouki Mari
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Kyouki stared out over the landscape from her perch between two spires of the upper watch-tower. It jutted out from the side of the mountain itself, and rose in seven peaks, a little dip between each one. Her small body fit very well in the little spot between the two in the front of the tower, and her eyes were unmoving as she looked into the distance beyond Mirkwood, the great forest. She liked the way the Misty Mountains rose up behind it, struggling to be seen in the dull grey shadows the clouds cast over them in patches.
Faint noises drifted up from below her in Erebor's vast courtyard, and her gaze slowly wandered down to see what was happening. She could see about three-hundred dwarves gathering on the stone paving- preparing for battle? Her curiosity was immediately roused, pulling her out of her dream-like state and back into reality. Kyouki wondered if they were simply taking precautions, or if orcs had already penetrated the borders again. She hoped for the first, but feared the latter. Hardly a day went by without an attack, and so many dwarves lost their lives needlessly in the mad rampages.
She slipped off her perch, landing on the inside of the tower and stepping into the mountain through the small door cut into the stone of the wall. She quickly descended the stairs to ground level and ran outside into the courtyard where the soldiers had just started toward the north of the Mountain. Kyouki watched them leave, standing alone on the massive stone slabs. She knew that most of the men she saw would never return home.
A silent tear slid down her cheek as she suddenly wondered if she knew any of them. Who had just gone to their doom? They were almost out of sight now, so there was no use in calling out.
She hoped the envoy they had sent to Mirkwood was safely delivering their plea for aid to the Elvenking. He was a good diplomat, so she felt sure he could convince them.
Kyouki shivered suddenly as a strange feeling of horror came over her. Her vision blurred and the world became a globe of dying color. And so she stood, alone in the huge, empty courtyard, lost to the world for a time as she was again submerged into a land of dreams- only this time they were nightmares.

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Character Portrait: Marick
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As Marick walked to the headquarters, which was a slightly less ruined tower more or less centrally located, he pondered the last few years of his life, as he usually did when he was alone on duty. He thought of the countless skirmishes, the friends lost, the glory gained, and one particular moment came to mind. It was his first month at Osgiliath, and the veterans were calling him and his company "meat". They hadn't fought yet, and they were getting frustrated. Thus, Marick and his entire squad thought it would be a good idea to go into the occupied edge of Osgiliath, and kill a few orcs. In the dead of night they crept out of base, and snuck towards it. Disaster struck almost immediately, for the orcs had been preparing for an attack and nearly a score of scores (2,000) had gathered for the sneak attack. Marick and his squad didn't stand a chance, and they would have all died had Boromir and his company of Guards of the Citadel come charging in like avenging maiar. They formed a shield wall and pushed the orcs up against a ruined building while Marick and remaining four friends fought as hard as they could, desperately trying to survive until Boromir got to them. It was at this skirmish that Marick earned the nickname Mighty, for just as his best friend Curanir was about to get impaled by a spear Marick stabbed the orc through its stomach, lifted it, and hurled it off his blade into the crowd and killed six orcs in roughly ten seconds, but the next event earned him his other nickname: Enemy of rocks. Marick was about to kill another orc when he tripped over a rock and hit his head against a piece of masonry, and subsequently lost conscience. When he awoke, Boromir himself was shaking him awake. After Boromir got the story from him he gave Marick and his only surviving comrade Curanir two weeks of camp duty: cooking, clearing out rubble, making arrows, and taking care of the wounded.
Marick's reminiscence was interrupted by the sound of stone on stone, and the screams of orc and shouts of man. He looked about and saw that roughly two streets over a Gondorian unit, the 22nd judging by their banner, were in danger of getting overwhelmed. A bare three hundred men scattered over six blocks struggled against what looked like four times their number of orcs, with maybe three dozen Uruks playing hammer to the orc's anvil. Marick unsheathed his sword and prepped for yet another fight in the endless war that Gondor had fought fought centuries...

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Character Portrait: Deranan
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#, as written by claw
Mount Gundabad, the dark mountain at the top of the world. This fould pit of Orcs and Goblins was rarely visited by the more noble races of Middle-Earth, mostly because of its reputation of 'A fozen Mordor.' Whilst the dark land of ash to the south fell into disarray with The Last Alliance of Men and Elves's attack, Gundabad flourished like never before. The only real blip on its history was the failed Battle of Five Armies, where the dark forces were crushed.

It was through these dark and croweded halls Deranan strode. His brass mask was tied to his hip so that all could see his grim face. In front of him a small contingent of Orc guards were pushing him a path. Black Numenors always held a higher place over the mud-born Orcs. The few Numenors present in Gundabad were usually those in charge of controlling its multiple legions of Orcs and Goblins, after their wild attack on Erabor they were no longer trusted to lead their own armies.

Eventually he came to a chamber in the heart of the mountain, these were the council chambers. Pushing open the dark iron doors he calmly strode into the now silenced hall. The Orcs, Goblins and Numenorians sat around a large table in the center all turned to see their unannouned, though not unexpected, guest. He took three steps into the hall then paused, his eyes scanning the room. He turned and stepped up to an Orcish captain, the captain of the scouts and drawing a dagger plunged it into its eye just enough to blind it. The Orc guards quickly jumped up and made to attack Deranan when the head of the council shouted at them to stand down, which they reluctantly did.

Deranan then took the further steps to reach the council table and stood over it, making most of the Elders of Gundabad nervous, he had a bit of a reputation as the scout captain discovered. "Captain Deranan." The head Elder began. "We had expected you day ago, what is the reason for your delay?" He turned his grim gaze to the aging man. "I would have overshot the mountain completely, had one of your scouts not attacked me. I hope my recent message was enough to tell them to be more careful from now on?" Meaning the blinding of the captain. "I trust you are aware of why I am here?" The Numenorian Elders nodded whilst the Orcish Elders seemed slightly confused, the head Elder explained for them. "You were sent by Carn Dum to discover the truth of the rumours of Saurons return." Here the Orcs became excited, which needed a call for silence to calm them. "Of course this is only one part of your mission, the other is to return our lord the Witch King to us, so that he may once more lead us into the golden days of old." Though this was hundreds of years ago some of the Elders nodded as if they fondly remembered the days when Angmar ruled the north. Here Deranan nodded his own confirmation. "Indeed, though these lands are strange to me, I am unsure where to procced next, unless I am to head straight through Lothlorian?" The head Elder shook his head and gestured so a map of the world east of the Misty Mountains was brought over, he pointed at Gundabad. "The mountain is bordered from the south by Lothlorian and to the east Mirkwood, both of these woods are home to Elves, to head south is to risk the attention of Galadriel. That would mean death. No, though the Necromancer has long since vanished from Dol Guldur we have recieved word from captured woodsmen that dark forces loyal to Sauron now dwell there. You should venture through Mirkwood, avoiding the Carrock at all costs and following the spiders, whether they are feral is unknown to us. Though to send you into the deep woods alone would be foolish. A contingent of Orcs must be sent with you." It was here that one Orc captain by the name of Grishnahk stood up, Grishnahk was by birth a Mordor Orc. "Me and my Orcs shall venture with you My Lord." He gave a small bow that would have pleased any if they were not Deranan. "Very well." Answered the Elder for him. "You leave in a week, provisions will be made for you. And on behalf of the council of Gundabad I urge you to move with haste, the Witch King must return to us."

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Character Portrait: Farineld
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Farineld searched the body of the dead half-swine and found some gold, a good amount of spices, and some documents; all of which was annoying to find for the dwarf was fat and an inch thick pool of blood covered the ground. He scanned the tops of the trees, looking for anything spider-like that may have followed him, and then a smile crossed his face. "Let the fell eight-leggers take you, you deserve no burial," he chuckled as he strolled casually away. He fumbled through the documents and thankfully they were all in common-tongue, six-thousand years of life and he still refuses to learn Dwarvish, and when one was a urgent message by the heading of "Dwarves at Loss by the Hundreds" he threw it out with the insurance that Dwarves would die.
However, when he came upon a certain document he halted and nearly tripped off the road, and in shock he jumped swiftly upon a tree and scattered swiftly towards the house of his king. Farineld could hardly hold his excitement as he burst into Thranduil's Hall, the beautiful craftmenship of the elves shimmering in every corner. After rushing up the stairs to the throne, he was disapointed to find Legolas standing next to the great seat instead of Thranduil in it, so he called out in a out-of-breath voice, "Legolas, I must obtain the knowledge of your fathers location." Legolas was a good and old friend for they were both Sindar in a Silvan wood knew there was trouble and asked for an explanation. "This document," began Farineld, "gives confirmed information from the half-swine of Erebor that the mines of Ered Luin have run dry, and a massive caravan of the dwarves moves east. They will be weak on these roads, and an ideal time to avenge Doriath."
Legolas looked confused for a moment but quickly regained understanding, and he spoke in a calm voice, "Do you not hear yourself, brother? The dwarves are already suffering enough to move to the aid of their rivals; it seems the Valar have already avenged your birth-land." However soothing this was to anyone else, Farineld was not convinced and stated his stance on telling Thranduil, but Legolas stressed that it would not be wise. Legolas told bad jokes in a bad attempt to laugh off the high stake situation, and then in a lighter tone Legolas stated, "Lord Elrond has called me forth to Rivendell for a secret council, and seeing how you are an old noble of Doriath, you must come." Farineld accepted, but told them to travel ahead, he must do something first.

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Character Portrait: Celebrian
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Celebiran walked solemnly along the luminous pathways in Rivendell. Her long, curly hair bounced off of her knees as she glided along crossing rivers and stones and fallen wood. Despite the elegance of her home, despite the calm rushing of the stream, and despite even the calm and collected nature all elves posses, her mind was at war with ugly doubt and searing pain. She stopped by a small pond and gazed down at her reflection in the pristine water. Her nose pointed just so, her eyes the color of amber, and her hair, wavy and cascading in long tresses, uncommon for elves of this time. She scowled at the water and turned away. Perfect, not a blemish, not an ill word spoken, not one hair out of place, and yet she felt so judged and so different. Well today she got the answer to the question as to why she felt such a way about her and her peers. Different indeed, for she was pure, of blood and body at least. She almost teared as the memory of earlier events replayed uncontrollably.

She could see it now, she was with other girls of the city,she played the harp and sang while they made themselves busy weaving a tapestry for a young warrior that had just completed his first Orc battle in the misty Mountains, to tell of his heroic trial and bravery. All of the girls were smiling and laughing and Celebrian joined in, but not as wholeheartedly as she tried to make it seem. She always felt different, from her slightly leaner features to her curly hair and her height. As far as she knew there was no reason for these differences save for that's how she arrived in the realm. Different.
She continue to play a sweet song, but when she prepared herself to sing she felt a twinge at her neck, as if she were being watched. But she wasn't just being watched, something was wrong. Something had changed. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened as she saw Lord Elrond and Galadriel, both looking directly at her unwaveringly. She spun around so quick her head swam and she kept playing, trying not to think of them, trying not to question why they were there.
She had just finished her song when she felt a palm touch her shoulder. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the contact and looked up to see Lord Elrond himself standing there, seemingly absent of the Lady of Light he was with earlier, looking down upon her. She stood and bowed her head while preforming a small curtsy.

"My lord." never lifting her head.

"Celebrian, there is something that you and I must discuss."

That was all that was said before he turned as started up the pathway towards the palace. She looked back at all of the girls making the tapestry, all of them staring curiously at her so she quickened her pace so as to escaped their judgements. She walked alongside him, keeping her eyes straight and towards the path.

"I don't believe we have ever truly spoken before Celebrian, although I have no doubt you know who I am." She nodded, "Yes my lord, I know who you are." They were very close to the royal house now and she grew nervous. "My lord, Is there something I have done to offend or something of the sort?"
Lord Elrond stopped at the main door, two guards were standing watch, unflinching in there duty even when the Lord stood before them. He turned to look at her, "Everything you've been taught, Celebrian, that you were just another elf, that you were a subject to obey the leadership, that you were a musician intended to play for the executives elves of Rivendell. This was all in preparation for your true purpose in life."
She kept her eyes to the ground. What did he mean? She was so confused at his words that she didn't notice the hand that came up to her chin, lifting her eyes to gazed upon his brown ones.

"You need not ever bow again. You will look me in the eyes Celebrian, for what I am about to tell you will come as a shock. But first, " He looked around the path and through the trees, "Let us go inside so I may speak to you in private."

She followed him, not knowing what else to do and being so curious that it almost killed her to wait for the news. Had they found her parents? Were they well?She almost skipped beside Lord Elrond at the mere though, but thought better and remained in control. They walked through the hall and she marveled at its beauty. She had little time to appreciate the craftsman ship before she was led through two sets of doors to a parlor that eventually lead to a balcony. Actually it seemed more like a cave, with a large slab of crystal that the edge of the ciff.

"I assume you know where we are?" he walked towards the slab and she slowed slightly behind him.

"Yes my lord. This is where one goes if one wants to read moon runes."

"Very good", he smiled at her and she couldn't help but smile in return. "Tell me Celebrian, what do you know of your family?"

"Her heart stood still, skipping a beat altogether at the mention of her family. "The truth is my lord I know very little about my family or where it is I come from. The lady who saw after my upbringing told me they were not from here essentially. They were Noldor, but they resided else where. I don't know how I came to be here."

Lord Elrond nodded at this and paced ever so slightly in front of her. Gathering his thoughts and eventually stopping in from of her. "I was there the day you arrived. Your mother brought you directly to me, saying there was no other she could trust. That you were the most valuable thing she had ever held."
Celebrian felt a tear slide down her face at her mothers words. "What was she like?"
He gave her a sympathetic smile, "She was strong, and quite determined. She knew how to command attention and command it she certainly did," he chuckled softly and so did she.
Suddenly, Celebrian's face fell into a scowl. "Why am I here? If my mother was so well, why am I not with her?" The words sounded more venomous than she had probably intended, but she honestly didn't know who she was more angry with. Her mother? Or Lord Elrond?

His head fell and he took a deep breath. "You must understand how hard it was for me not to tall you all of these years. However, your mother insisted that I wait until your 300th birthday to tell you about yourself. Who your family is. However, the impending threat of war and darkness on the horizon has forced me to divulge this now."

Celebrian was taken aback, but she needed answers to these questions she has kept to herself for so many years, assuming she was orphaned. "Who Am I?"
He came closer and looked deep into her Amber eyes, "You are Celebrian, daughter of Marklon, son of Mahtan, of house Mahtan which was fused with house Finwe. You are the pure blood. Your father was born to a mighty elven huntress, as well as Mahtan's first wife. They were separated in battle, and shortly after the birth of your father she died." He paused gaging a her reaction but she couldn't speak, she couldn't even breathe. "The renegade group of elves your mother found shortly after the battle raised your father until meeting your mother. They did not produce any children until almost 300 years ago. You, a child destined for greatness." At this he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and offered a small smile but it fell as he continued. "Your mother knew who you were and although your father wanted nothing to do with his titles, she wanted the world for you. So she brought you here. To be raised humbly and safe from danger and worry."

"Celebrian took a step towards the cliff and looked away from Lord Elrond as she tried to understand his words. "I do not understand. I am no one. I am just another elf like everyone else."

Lord Elrond exhaled and moved to stand beside her. "I understand how you must feel. Your mother, and I as well, felt it best that you were brought up humbly and respectively until it was your time to lead, to ensure that you were calm, respectful, and mature enough to lead. We both sensed, as well as Galadriel, that you would be coming to power a lot quicker than expected. The impending conflict in Mordor and in the areas surrounding the realm of man can be ignored no longer. As you know, my sons left us long ago, " She wanted to reach out and offer him a consoling gesture, but she was in absolute shock. She couldn't move if she wanted to. "And my daughter, she has no interest." He looked to her now, a solemn vow in his eyes. "I vow to you now, Celebrian, daughter of Marklon of the House of Mahtan. In the event of my death or resignation, you alone will be my successor with Lady Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin of the house of Finwe until such a time as you are ready to assume power."


She almost collapsed at the memory, but instead she just stood in solemn silence. In one afternoon her entire world had changed.And it would never be the same again.

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Character Portrait: Deranan
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#, as written by claw
The dark gates of Gundabad had long since shut on Deranan and his war-band, in fact they had already been travelling for a few days ahead of schedule, mostly due to Deranans growing impatience. It was this head start that allowed them to reach to northern borders of Mirkwood a day early, the group had paused at the edge of the trees, Grishnack had pushed his way up the group of a dozen or so Orcs. The Numenor had marched in silence through the days and most of the nights at the head of the column, this silence and forced march under a baleful sun was enough to annoy a number of the Orcs in the band, though they could do nothing to stop him in truth. The smaller figure of the Orc looked up at Deranan slightly uneasily. "We're goin'.... In there?" Deranan turned his head ever so slightly, his facial expression did not change at all. "Yes. If you cannot go in, I have no need of you." With that and more than one worried groan from the Orcs he stepped into the forest without a second thought.

A further day into the march the light was all but gone, taken from them by the thick covering of trees, the Orcs had began muttering that they swore that something was following them, a fact Deranan had also noticed which was reflected by his tightened grip on his spear. It wasn't until the next day that their pursuers made themselves known.

The party had stopped for a short break, in truth it was the Orcs who had stopped and Deranan was reluctant to move into the forest on his own, more because with the Orcs at his back there was one less place to be attacked, as it was he stood on the road, looking out. The Orcs were talking loudly and mostly complaining about the journey when their moans were replaced by squeals of shock. Spinning on the spot Deranan was almost surprised to see the group rushing to fend off giant spiders. Evil, black and completely feral spiders. He swung into action quickly, using his spear as both a club and a blade he personally killed a number of the beasts, whilst the Orcs mostly slashed wildly at the dark, hardly doing much real damage.

After a few frantic minutes of fighting the wounded spiders retreated out of fear of the deadly spear and the group was given a moments to breath. In total only a single Orc had fallen prey to spiders venom, luckily for them those spiders were smaller than those who served the dark forces. Deranan slowly rotated and froze, there was movement in the tree above him, plucking the dead Orcs scimitar he spun and tossed it up into the dark, severing a spiders rope and causing the giant beast to fall to the ground. He was about to slay it when it quickly spoke up. "No no! Aranack not foe. Aranack wish to serve. Aranack not feral spider." Deranan lowered his spear. "You wish to serve me? How?" The spider rose up a little. "Aranack strong, Aranack show way to ruin-castle. Aranack carry master to ruin-castle and beyond." This caused Deranan to pause, then moved around the giant spider and quickly placed himself on the spiders back. "If you take me to Dul-Guldur, then you will serve me well beyond there." With that the group set off, the speed of his new mount giving him a great boost across the uneven ground.

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As Marick drew his blade, his feet began to hit the ground faster as he went into a trot, his plates clanging against each other, and then just as he was about to reach the thinnest portion of the orcish line, he let out a great shout. He smashed his shield into the orc to his left and decapitated the orc to his right. He continued shield bashing and sword swinging for about a minute, in which he reached the friendly line. He joined into the shield line and began to push forward to the beat of his commander's sword against shield.
Clang. Left.
Clang. Right
Clang. Left
Clang. Shove, and then take another right.
This went on for roughly an hour when the orcs decided to flee. Marick was bone tired by this time, and had received an gash across his forehead. As he staggered around the battle site looking for survivors among the dead, he realized how few men had made it out. Of the three hundred or so men that he had seen, only about one hundred were walking around...

He was mulling over this when a man walked up to him and said "Lord Boromir wishes to see you sir! He is over by the Dome of Stars. Go see him as soon as you can." and then the man ran off. Marick sighed, and then began slowly making his way to the dome, roughly in the center of Osgiliath.

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Character Portrait: Kyouki Mari
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When Kyouki came to herself again it was past dark. How long had she been standing in the empty courtyard? From the position of the moon, it would be safe to guess about three or four hours. And if it wasn't so cold, she could easily have been there for far longer.
She didn't understand what made her do it- the long periods of what seemed like unconsciousness, when she no-longer saw the living world, but a strangely distorted version that swayed and rippled like grey mist on a clear pond. She saw things then that no mortal would be able to see... like the dead body of a dwarf lying inches deep in a decaying mixture of blood and leaves. She saw images of the dead often, but rarely were they recognizable to her. And this one she knew well.
Kyouki brought both hands to her head, forcing her breaths in and out. "It's okay," she whispered, though there was no-one there to hear. "It's all okay, it's alright, he's fine, it's not real, none of it's...." she bit back a sob, "None of it's real......."
But it was always real. And she knew it.
Not that anyone else ever believed her. And that was what hurt. She could see these things, but as long as she was viewed as crazy, she could do nothing about them.
Solidly refusing to cry, she turned to enter the mountain's main gate when a thought struck her and she pulled up short. The envoy! He was carrying the messages to the elvenking, and now those messages would never be delivered. The elves would not show peace toward the immigrants of the Blue Mountains, and they would most certainly not come to the aid of Erebor during the war.
Making up her mind quickly, Kyouki turned and ran in the opposite direction, towards Esgaroth, the Long Lake, and Mirkwood. Thranduil had to be reached- the elves had to know of their plight. And now that she had taken it upon herself to deliver the messages, she was determined that nothing could keep her from the Mirkwood king.

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Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Deranan
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Farineld sat in the same tree from where he shot the messenger dwarf, and he marveled over where fate happened to put him. Thank the Vallar for that, however his kin had left him to find a way to punish the Dwarves himself. With all that in mind, Farineld set out to pave his own path to vengeance his own way, and fate would also give him the chance for that again. After he calmed down from storming out, Farineld happened to come by a group of orcs moving south and thought to pick them off to blow off steam; he felt a weird sensation as he picked off one by one yet continued to send arrows into their defiled bodies. After counting seven eye shots, he thought it was safe to loot, but then several dozen more orcs tore through the dense brush. Startled, Farineld hid in the tree, his face against the coarse bark; the smell of the orcs that littered the eerie forest was beyond foul. Yet no smell could match that of the Black Numenoruean riding one of the giant spiders that infest Murkwood, and a sensation like a heavy blanket numbed Farineld's senses as he approached.
Silently but surely, Farineld pulled his bow and aimed it at the fell sentient's skull when genius struck my mind, and even this foul meeting had light to it. In the black speech of Mordor Farineld cried out, "Listen or die old fiend!" Farineld saw his face grow paler than it already was as his eyes moved upward to meet the elf's, and with that the orcs drew their bows. But fate would have that the Numenoruean signaled his monsters to hold fire, so Farineld rushed the words, "I have information that could lead to the destruction to the Ered-luin dwarves."

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Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Kyouki Mari
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Kyouki swept through Laketown, quickly stopping at a small shop to pick up a handfull of food items and a small satchel. With the bag slung over her shoulder, and the moon still high in the sky, she set out along the north bank of the Long Lake toward Mirkwood Forest.
Her black leather boots pressed lightly into the damp soil, leaving a small line of tracks which soon were erased by lakewater. Her mind wandered as she stared distantly at the forest, trying to reclaim the image of her dead kinsman while effectively desensitizing herself to the thought. It was real, she told herself. The things she saw were always real. But where the strange thoughts came from, she could not tell. Apparently none of her kinsmen experienced the absence of physical form as she could, and almost all were convinced that was insane, if not posessed.
As morning drew nearer, she began to approach the edge of the forest. She could just make out the slight path along the river, beaten down by years of barrel transporation between Laketown and the Elven Realm.
Her feet found the trail easily enough, once she reached the treeline, and soon it widened out to a lane of sorts. She slowed her pace a little, searching the surrounding space with her mind, even though her skills didn't quite work like that. She could tell that there was some sort of action taking place nearby- but as to what it was, she could not say. Only that the smell of death was becoming stronger.

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#, as written by claw
The journey south and slightly to the east had gone far quicker now that at least one of the party was mounted, though the Orcs would have complained if there were not running as if the very Wargs of Gundabad were behind them. On Deranans part he was in a small way enjoying the trip now that he would not have to listen to Orcish banter, and for a few days all had been going well. Though they had come across the tracks of another group of Orcs and were now following them instead.

It was the strangled screams of one of these Orcs that gave the group pause, hearing it at a distance away they had more than enough time to slow down and try to figure out a plan. The one Deranan came up with was simple and effective, half the Orcs were to go charging through the undergrowth ahead of the Numenor so if there was danger they would die first, with that out of the way the party picked up the pace and came across the dead bodies of Orcs a short way along the path.

With his eyes searching the tree line he ordered his Orcs to spread out and see if there were any survivors. Aranack moved a little further into the clearing and stepped this way and that in trepidation. A noise from high up in the tree caused them all to turn. He heard in the Black Tongue. "listen or die old fiend!" It took him a moment to catch sight of the speaker, a single Elf, though one that talked before killing was rare enough for him to bother listening too, he heard around him the creaking of Orcish bows and raised his spare hand in a motion to tell them to not loose, but to also not put their weapons down. It took him a moment to understand the rushed words spoken by the Elf, and to remember where were, though he didn't let that show on his impassive face, he replied in the refined version of one who spoke the Black Tongue frequently. "I had thought the animosity between Dwarf and Elf had ended, though I care little for your wars. Come down from your perch and tell me what you know." Aranack rose a little bit taller, even though he didn't understand the language he wanted to look as large as possible.

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"I like my perch thank you," Farineld quipped. He lowered his bow just enough to get the scroll out of his pocket, "I shall never forgive what the Dwarves, and I trust you do care for our wars seeing as you are an orcish commander. You must want the chance to put the head of your ancient enemies to the blade, for I know of a group of paticular malelovance that is weak. The Ered-Luin Dwarves have no more mines and their mountains ran dry, so they move east in their broken state for Erebor. You could hit them in their travels."

Farineld threw down the scroll which in fact was a pathetic excuse for a call-to-arms and ran, hopping so quicly from tree to tree that he knew no orc, or spider, could folow.

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The sun must be up outside of the trees by now, though from the path through Mirkwood that could hardly be known. Kyouki paused when she reached the body of the dwarf she had seen in her head nearly twelve hours ago. The features had been somewhat distorted, but it was him, and she knew it. She dared not touch him, for she did not know what could be lurking nearby, and stopping for very long could prove dangerous, even here. Especially here. But she did whisper a dwarven farewell, and a blessing before she moved on, deeper and deeper into the forest. The elven palace could not be far now, could it? These woods spread hundreds of miles in all directions, and it had been a couple years since Durin's folk had ventured in. But the Elvenking had been fair with them, making the peace treaty and trading occasionally. She should be fine.... unless whatever had killed their envoy was somewhere nearby... She glanced about, growing warier.

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Character Portrait: Akash Character Portrait: Leif and Twig Character Portrait: Marick Character Portrait: Celebrian Character Portrait: Farineld Character Portrait: Gorthak the Piercer Character Portrait: Deranan Character Portrait: Kyouki Mari Character Portrait: Ian karkov
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(Let's get this shit revived, people :3 I tagged all of you so you would know my intention. We must get this ball rolling again!)
It is a beautiful, clear-skied day. The sun shines bright on a field of pure blue, illuminating the flowing green and gold fields of Eastemnet, much to the chagrin of Gorthak the Piercer, one of the leaders of Saruman's Fighting Uruk-hai. He looks over his shoulder at his legion, shielding his eyes from the annoyance that is the sun and growling at the competence of his troops. He prides himself on having one of the best-trained troops in Isengard's force, though the accuracy of that is disputed by some. Today, though, he simply needs to kill something. He hasn't seen battle in a long while, and executing incompetent Orc Snagas had gone from fun to grating. If he didn't get to feast on some man-flesh prior to getting to Helm's Deep, he just might go mad(er).

As luck would have it, heading in their direction was a large detachment of Rohirrim Forces, lead by an equally ill-tempered Rohan Captain named Mordren whose weary men had just had a run in with White Hand warg riders. They had defeated the riders with few casualties, but the experience of chasing down and killing riderless wargs was one that could make any man or horse tired and annoyed, and his men had the same general feeling. Currently he just wanted to run into some small band of Uruk-hai or Orc scouts to make short work with an raise the morale of his men.

Neither were close enough to spot each other just yet, but their meeting is inevitable, and wherever the Horse Lords and the White Hand meet, there's sure to be blood, black or red...

(Also...ignore the "Ian" character I tagged. He'd been rejected already. Not sure how he got on there.)

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Mordren was riding atop his steed, a magnificent stallion armored in Rohirric scale, at the head of his Eored, still sore from his clash with the wargs. He had lost five men to the beasts, and another eight were injured, and this had put the irritable captain in a foul mood. So irritated was he that he forgot to send out outriders to scout for the enemy, and this could be a terrible blunder on the warfront... Thus did the two hundred man strong Eored ride through the land of Eastemnet, unaware of the Uruk-Hai warband that they were drawing closer and closer to, with each step of a horse.

(Does it count as necromancy to bring this back? Seriously people, this was allowed to be dead for too long. So please come back!)

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Character Portrait: Gorthak the Piercer
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The Piercer and his band of filth march over the fields, merrily trampling daisies and other wildflowers. Gorthak hadn't heard from the Warg scouts they sent ahead yet, and he figured no news was good news. That is, until they reach the crest of an especially large hill, and are suddenly greeted by the sight of a second large band on the opposing hill about a quarter of a league away, though this one not exactly from Isengard. It is, in fact, clearly a group of riders from Rohan, a sight which sends Gorthak's mouth watering and his fury ablaze. Finally, some man-flesh to skewer and feast on!

After a long silence shared between the two parties, Gorthak makes the first move, retrieving his bow from his back and loosing a long black barbed arrow at the leader of the band, a man who looked almost as angry as he was on a horse covered with scale, letting out a guttural battle cry as he does. "Uruk-hai!" it means, in the Black Speech, "Charge the enemy! Tear their flesh and skewer their precious horses!"

He is, as usual, deadly accurate, and might just hit the guy in the facial area if he doesn't move. With that, his "men" yell their own war cries, and the wargs are the first down the hill, moving with unnatural speed over the grassy plains, the sight reminiscent of pitch dripping down a torch, black consuming the green and gold-brown below. The wargs and riders themselves are about one-hundred strong, and his host as a whole is about twice the size of Mordren's (though it's worth noting that Orcs carry less well-made weaponry and are usually not as well trained as hardened Rohan riders, despite Gorthak's somewhat above-par troops). Not far behind the wargs are Gorthak's infantry, mostly consisting of Uruk-hai swordsmen and pikemen, the latter leading in a strangely organised fashion, creating a deadly mobile spear wall with the former following like a swarm of angry hornets, and they're much louder, their terrible Uruk yells ringing out over the fields.

His archers, famed throughout Isengard as slightly more accurate than your average Uruk-hai scout, maintain their position atop the hill, loosing a volley of nasty barbed-tip Isen arrows, the painful serrated tips raining down on the Rohirrim. Time to raise shields or become a pincushion.

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Character Portrait: Gorthak the Piercer
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They were just riding along when the whistling of an arrow caught Mordren's attention, causing him to jerk his head back in surprise. As he looked to where the arrow had come from one of his men cried out "Orcs!". He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, and cried out "More orcish ash to fertilize the grasses of the Riddermark! Ride with me men of Rohan! Forth Eorlingas!" Mordren drew his blade and swept it forward, leading the charge. The whole view seemed to diminish to a thin tunnel with a particularly ugly looking orc atop a warg in his view. A wordless shout came from deep in his throat, one that was carried by the rest of his men. Though he didn't see it, he heard the cries of men and horse as cruel arrows bit into their flesh. But heavy javelins sunk into the bodies of warg and Uruk, bringing them to the ground in splashes of black blood. And then, that second of silence before the clash, when the missiles have been expended, and the riders have thrown their weight into this charge. Massive amounts of tension have been built, and then it is released in a torrent of blood and violence. Mordren slashed his sword into the warg's head, causing it fall, but he kept swinging dropping warg and orc alike. The symphony of battle had begun yet again, on an unknown patch of the vast grasslands of Rohan, just as they were in a dozen other places. The clouds of war had thickened, and this was merely the initial sprinkle...

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Gorthak draws another arrow, loosing it at a rider galloping perpendicular to him. The arrow sinks deep into the man's throat and he falls, choking on his own blood as it pours from the wound. He grins in satisfaction as he draws another and places it upon his bowstring, looking out over the battlefield.

What he sees is not a pretty sight -- or wouldn't be to any but an Uruk-hai. While horses may be somewhat faster and larger than wargs, wargs are undoubtedly more intelligent and maneuverable, meaning that in the initial clash many a warg fell to the more powerful charge but they were beginning to turn the tide in their favour as the beasts tear at the throats of horses and men alike an d deftly dodge multiple attempts to stab them. Even the wargs who lost their rider continue to fight, tearing into flesh with powerful jaws unbridled by the urgings of any orc or goblin. Some of those that still have riders quickly disengage from the fighting and circle around the madness, throwing long, bladed darts into the battle, using them to similar effect as the javelins of the Rohirrim.

Gorthak looses his second arrow and the just as the pikemen slow to a stop before the main battle and begin to try and envelop the mad skirmish, spear tips always pointing inwards toward the horsemen. Horses and spears, as they knew, did not mix, and if the horsemen could be encircled, they would quickly be eliminated. Meanwhile, upon Gorthak's loosing of his second arrow, the rest of the archers loose their own, the volley blocking out the sky. He had many troops, but none were so numerous as his archers.

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The sounds of battle were loud in his ears as Mordren desperately hacked down uruk, warg, and orc. As he took a quick glance behind him he that his eored had been halfed. Even as he watched, a man, one of his friends by the name of Leandros, took an arrow straight through his neck. With a roar of rage, Mordren drives his blade through the skull of an Uruk, lets go, and grabs the lance of a fallen eorling. "Men of the Riddermark! Victory may elude us this day, but I say lets send as many of these wretches to their maker! DEATH FOR GLORY! A GLORIOUS DEATH!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, and the Rohirrim answered. With a great roar of anger, and pain, and all the thousand and one things a man feels knowing he goes to his death, they surged forward. They forced their horses forward into the wall of enemies, crushing them underfoot, but they began to falter after a minute. Mordren had just finished stabbing a warg when another leapt and tore his horse's throat out. As he fell he rolled and picked up one of his dead comrade's swords and continued the fight on foot.

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Gorthak quickly runs out of arrows as he downs one Rohirrim rider after another, his arrows marking the deaths of many men this day. Eventually, however, he runs out, and he growls in annoyance as he switches to his spear, charging down the hill toward the melee. As the horses begin to fall, those wargs which still have riders begin to disengage while those independent continue to ravage the fallen horsemen. They are winning by a landslide, but they are not without their own casualties. Bodies of men, horses, Uruk-hai, goblins, and wargs litter the battlefield. It is not a pretty sight. As the wargs disengage, the swordsmen charge in, yelling warcries in Black Speech as they hack at the men before them.

It is at that point that Gorthak joins the frey, elbowing past the lines of spearmen to get into the heat of it, running a man through right next to Mordren. The man's eyes go foggy as he collapses to the ground, and Gorthak turns his attention to Mordren as he pulls the spear out with a sickening crunch of ribs. He gives the captain one of his trademark grins and thrusts the spear toward his heart, planning on this being an easy kill...

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Character Portrait: Throknalf
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#, as written by Hyydra
Throknalf walked by his horse, letting it rest. He seemed to be focusing on one thing: Kill. He turned to the other soldiers, noticing them seeing the same thing he did, a small patrol of Ithilian soldiers, some on horseback, others as archers. Perfect time to practice their-well, his- new tactic. He then hopped on the horse, moving his hand behind his back to grab an imaginary arrow, hearing footsteps go as archers mounted the backs of the horses. They then slowly trotted towards the enemy, from behind. His heart was pounding out of his chest, feeling how close they were, hearing the others' conversations and footsteps. Then, he drew his scimitar, and ran forward, with all the other horsemen right by him. A triangle-shaped squadron they were, sending arrows into the small patrol as he yelled "For honor! For blood! For power!!" slashing a foot-archer as he ran towards one of the other horsemen, focusing on him. He grinned behind his decorated helmet, reaching back with his other hand to whip out his partner's scimitar, holding them in a decorated position: His left arm arching in the air, the blade facing downward, and his right hand slightly outward, the blade facing to the right of his horse. As he got even closer to the horseman, also with a sword-no, a great sword- his archer was taken out by an arrow, and grinned, thinking of it as just them. He easily killed the horseman, finding his move foolish. As they drew in, the warrior swung outward-in, leaving room to block the blow and enter his throat, leaving the sword in it, half its blade going through the small opening, probably damaging the inner part of the armor. After that, he took an observation, looking as they only lost three men in the fight. Almost flawless, their surprise worked, though. That's what he enjoyed; his battle technique worked. As they searched the bodies of the men, they found most of their arrows intact, chuckling as he helped yank out the good ones. He looked to the right, and found the horseman, walking over and grabbing his great sword. "This is quite sharp." He said in his dark distorted voice, looking down at him, then back at the sword. "I shall take care of it for you." With that, they started riding towards their main objective.