(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 77 - The Morgul Valley
Weather: Stormy
Time: Early Morning
Season: Summer
Date: Monday - August 4, 3022
Real Time: Sun Feb 18 13:56:14 2001
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*Note - log submitted by Drenlyn*
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets
Once a huge plaza where the life of the city throbbed daily in the business of exchanging exotic wares, this area is now cold and grey. Nothing seems to stir, and even the breeze is silent.
Contents:
Tamran
Erchirion
Amano
Faengor
Doran
White Pavillion
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
South leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Harbour Area.
North leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Political Area.
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland.
West leads to Osgiliath: The Great Bridge - Eastern Section.
Dawn has come, though her scarlet light broke more sickly and almost bloodlike this day, over the noxious mists of the Mountains of Shadow. Beneath that ill wind, the Fellowship of the Sword rides forward through the ruins of Osgiliath.
At the head of the column, the Lord Girithlin rides: a white knight on a white steed, leading his countrymen into the shadow of Darkness. The other Captains are yet to be seen.
Following close behind the Knight-Herald, through the tumbled streets of the age-old ruins, rides a cloaked man, bearing a fair standard of blue and silver. The token of Dol Amroth and her valiant knights has been born afar in many strange lands as of late, but now the proud swan-prow has turned East upon the final leg of the race. Doran grips the staff tightly, his reins in his other hand.
Raven manes flutter trough the vile wind of Mountain Doom and fiercely the Errand-Rider's stallion snorts, pumping warm air trough it's nostrills. Packed for a troublesome voyage it carries the black-cloaked rider with strength and dignity. Grey eyes shimmer with strength and pride, yet the burden of departure is heavy and with a hunched back the rider closes the column of the heroic fellowship.
From the northern road he comes, the Son-Prince of Dol Amroth upon his mahogany steed. Without word he rides to the group, taking his place with the Lord Thorondur at the head of the Fellowship, eyes now upon the eastern mountain wall, the border into the land of Mordor.
"It would seem your diversion on yestermorn was successful," Erchirion remarks to the man, "The northern and southern roads remain empty thus far."
Peering through the mists, Drenlyn closely follows the white figure and standard bearer. Cloaked in these early hours of morning, he grips the reins tightly, sitting still and silent, as the column moves ever forward towards the shadow.
"As does the entire ruin," Thorondur remarks, glancing aside briefly to Erchirion from his study of the ruble before them. Shadows yet darken the road, but he stares through them with piercing blue eyes, searching for clues. "It is too silent. And yet we must find this Mound of Arangurth."
Then he speaks the fateful words -- "To Morgul Vale." And forward they ride.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets
Once a huge plaza where the life of the city throbbed daily in the business of exchanging exotic wares, this area is now cold and grey. Nothing seems to stir, and even the breeze is silent.
Contents:
Foronwe
Rowaen
Erutirn
Tamran
Amano
Faengor
White Pavillion
Obvious exits:
South leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Harbour Area.
North leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Political Area.
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland.
West leads to Osgiliath: The Great Bridge - Eastern Section.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland
Standing in the silent, misty ruins, you can actually begin to imagine that you are the only person in the world.. the silence is deafening. Although, it is broken occasionally by a loose stone clattering through the ruins on it's way to the river, but soon silence falls again. Huge towers and buildings once stood here, and by the shape of their ruins, you can see that this indeed was a capital city.
To the west lie the rest of the ruins, and to the east lies the walled road to Minas Morgul, the death city.
Contents:
Tamran
Faengor
Amano
Rowaen
Erchirion
Doran
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
SouthWest leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Harbour Area.
Northwest leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Political Area.
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall.
West leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall
This area, to the east of the walls of Osgiliath, is merely a torn mesh of ground and the occassional broken stones. Once the proud walls stood high to the west, cradling the eastern half of the city protectively. But no more. Now those same walls are a shadow of their former selves broken and scarred beyond repair, their stones lay tumbled over one another like feeble elderly people, to tired to stand. Pieces of them have been strewn far into this area as the architecture was ripped up to serve other means. The grass, only growing in scant clumps, seems sickly and afraid of the open air.
Contents:
Faengor
Erchirion
Doran
Amano
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
North leads to North Ithilien - Forest.
East leads to On the way to the Crossroads....
SouthWest leads to Eastern bank of Anduin.
Crumbling Gateway leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland.
On the way to the Crossroads...
You're standing to the East of the ruins of the bridge which once spanned the great river Anduin, now naught more than a rubble-heap. The ground beneath you is soft and inviting, and speaks of happier days in less troubled times. To the East you see a line of trees encircling the road, with a North/South road passing through it.
Contents:
Faengor
Erchirion
Rowaen
Doran
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
East leads to The Crossroads.
West leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall.
The Crossroads
A ring of trees of vast size, very ancient and still towering high though their tops are gaunt and broken, as if tempest and lightning blast have swept across them but failed to kill them or shake their fathomless roots. In the center of the circle towers a huge sitting figure, solumn as the great stone kings of Argonath, looking over the roads running through the trees. Indeed, roads stretch off in all 4 directions: East towards Minas Ithil and West towards Minas Anor North towards the Morannon and South along the S.Ithilien Road...which one you choose is up to you, but choose wisely, for one small mistake in these parts could cost you your life.
Contents:
Doran
Thorondur
Tamran
Statue of the King
Obvious exits:
North leads to North Ithilien Road.
South leads to South Ithilien Road.
West leads to On the way to the Crossroads....
East leads to Morgul Pass.
And so it is that they come to the ancient Crossroads of Gondor. Drawing rein to great Amrandir, Thorondur purses his lips, and in silence looks long on the statue of the ancient king.
Into the eerie, gathering silence of morning, he speaks. "Here roads met once from all directions, and the greatest realm that Arda ever knew embraced its people. Now look, you men of Gondor, on what the Shadow would do to all that land, if not for your continuing valour."
Soothing the steed which seems to have grown somewhat rather restless, the young man tugs at the reins and looks about him. Idly brushing a strand of loose raven-black hair he frowns, as the horse snorts and moves a few steps forward and to a halt at the opening of the crossroad. He does not seem to be very impressed with the situation and his exprssion looked troubled. Rowaen glances wearily around him, his eyes seemingly, however, to keep on moving back to stare at the statue of the King. He listens barely to the words of Thorondur, still somewhat looking distracted by something.
Lifting his gaze, the Errand-Rider gently pats the dark manes of his horse, stroking them with soothing hands. "Soon we will be in the lands of the dark one." he mutters to Tamran, riding alongside him. Dull grey eyes turn to his comrade. "Or atleast, the lands which he stole from us, embracing them in his perpetual darkness." -- and his eyes turn to the crossroads and the lands about him. Fair Anorien.
Not many words are spoken, as the Company rides ever to the East. Upon reaching the crossroads, Tamran's eyes fall to the side, as they pass near a maimed statue of a long dead King. A frown apppears upon his face, as he sees the foul symbols of the darkeness. Yet no word does he say for a time, even as the Knight Herald speaks words of encouragement.
"So much lost..." he says at lenght, almost at whispers, or maybe he intended to be one.
The young standard-bearer eases his new spurs from the flanks of his steed as the company gathers before the once-proud statue at the crossings. Doran looks about the clearing with a keen, cautious eye, as he adjusts the nape of his cloak. He smooths the newly spun material, rich blue in colour, and the silver trim about his neck glitters faintly in the light as the sun rises.
Chill and grey the paths might seem, even in the red of early morn the noiseless wind gusts at the riders, lifting cloaks, raking at the figures tall and fair. Seated on a black stallion a grey-eyed youth rides with the company, his gaze lifted unyieldingly to the road ahead the road that shall lead them into the darkness, to Morgul Vale. Yet naught of what lies ahead is mirrored in his face for therein lies a hope beyond the shadow, a hope that little might overcome.
Pale and silent Amano turns his steed to halt at the Lord Girithlin's speech and wordless does he gaze upon the fallen king, the sorrow for its marring in him reflected.
Silence is all that comes forth from Foronwe. Riding slowly and quietly alongside his companions, he looks with a serious gaze upon all that is around him. His mind wanders and reels through all that has become him and his fellow questers as of late. Slowly he advances, taking in the tragic scenery that surrounds him.
Frowning at the statue of the ancient king, Drenlyn shakes his head, but remains silent at the Heralds words. Giving his steed a conforting pat on the neck Drenlyn quickly glances about the fellowship, but then once more centers his gaze eastward.
"And that statue, once it must have been fair and grand." Erutirn ssays this as he goes closer to the statue and looks upon it. "If more could see this sight... perhaps more would join our armies so we could hold back this stem, yet we must do what we can with what we have and then continue on." The young knight shakes his head slowly, then he gazes around the area more.
Now Thorondur nudges great Amrandir with a knee, and the destrier circles about his rider might face the men he leads, that way. And so it is: the White Knight of Dol Amroth looks grimly over the companions, and in that moment the spirit of the downfallen West weighs heavy upon his fair brow.
"Now hearken, all of you sons of the Exiles," he says to them. "Our last and our greatest task lies before us. If any among you feels fear -- from this place alone you may still go back. From this place, your paths are set with mine. Who will follow?"
And he waits, to hear their answers, hear their voices in the silence and gloom.
Without word, the Son of Imrahil moves his steed beside that of noble Thorondor, a smile is offered, yet the Prince takes not his eyes from the walls of Mordor.
His voice grim, but sound, Drenlyn calls forward, "No fear taints my heart. Forward is my path, and follow I shall."
"I will follow." Faengor replies dully, barely raising his voice. Locking his gaze upon the Knight-Herald, the Sergeant studies him with intricate eyes, as if it was the first time he laid eyes upon him. "Let us all take a good look at eachother," he speaks, "for although the quest has changed us, the short stay in these tainted lands will alter us even more."
Rowaen tears his gaze away from the statue and lets it fall on Thorondur as he spoke. His expression betrays nothing and his lips do not quiver nor move to issue any words. He looks down for a while and gently jerks the reins of his steed again and bids it to move that close to Thorondur, detaching himself from the group and straightens himself up upon the saddle, while his young eyes are back to view the surrounding with a look of unexplainable calmness.
Tamran moves forward besides the Knight-Herald. "Only a fool will have no fear of the Shadow, yet that same fear keeps us alive. As we have done before, we shall do again and into the shadow we go." he says, yet his gaze stays upon the sight before him.
Raven-haired head bent, his eyes unfaltering, Amano hesitates not, heeling his horse a pace forward. White and drawn his face might be, in this hour of riding forth but as a keen blade he seems, readied for what might come.
And so does he give answer in a voice that wavers not. "So shall I go, even as you lead, lord. For what this Fellowship set out into the furthest lands, and yet returned."
Doran's answer comes not from his voice, but as he spurs his horse forward through the cross-roads, towards the dark Eastern path. The young knight raises the standard high above his head, the silver Swan glimmers slightly in the hazy light. "Let our Fellowship be divided never again!" he now calls, keen and clear. Skillfully he turns his mount in a tight circle with his knees, looking back at his still companions. "Hope we have together, and we shall need all of it." The young man's face is stern and solemn, though.
Steping to follow the Knight-Herald, Erutirn says: "Turn back? There will be no greater honour than completing this quest set upon us by the Lord Prince, but dieing in the attempt will be at least as great an honour, I won't turn back." The man readies some of his equipment, going over everything as he has probably done a dozen times this day.
Fully aware of the doom of the moment before him, and of the significance of his decisions, Foronwe clears his throat to speak. A chill breeze passes through, and he shudders as his words are uttered "Indeed. This is the hardest task we have faced yet. Yet we have come through each of those set before us until today. We have been prepared for what is ahead of us. Justice is with us, and only a fool would leave all that has been achieved." He takes his steed several steps forward, besides those already pledged to continuing and states "So, yes, I ride with my lords, I ride with the fellowship into the darkest of nights! Success will be ours.".
Glancing first at his own figure, Drenlyn smiles faintly, reminded of some earlier time, but then turns his gaze to the others, nodding to each, but his gaze stays on Tamran long, but naught does he speak, though his gaze falls heavy on the Sergeant.
His eyes once more set upon the Herald, Drenlyn calls, "For Honor, For Gondor, For Amrothos. With hope in our hearts, the darkness we can face and succeed."
"For Gondor," the young squire echoes quietly, more to himself and lifts his chin up again, and he turns to look at the Lords of the Great and finally, lets his eyes lay on his brother Faengor as if seeing him for the first time, and perhaps for the last time. He looks at him still, seeming wanting to catch his attention, but only a sad smile he shows as he looks away and his face is back into the same remorse calmness again as he seems to await what lays before him at the end of their destination.
"You have your answer, Lord Girithlin," the standard-bearer calls back. Doran's voice resounds in the small clearing, like the cool ring of steel it grates against the oppressive silence. "Now let us have on, though day barely breaks, we have much to do." The young knight seems brash and defiant even before the shadow of the mountains to the East.
Spurring the reins of his horse, Faengor seems filled with vigor. Strong and tall, he strengthens the grasp around the stallion's reins and calls forth to the knight-herald, "when are we to reach the vale?"
"The time for speech has passed," says Indilzar Bragollach riding up from the west. "Yonder lies the path of hate and despair whither many hopes of Men have withered in days past. Let us take some hope with us, for we will not enter into the Black Land, but come well nigh the seat of the power of his most powerful Captain."
"Soon Faengor Nimothan," says Indilzar, "Yet do not be so eager to go thusly into despair. Come all of you. Now I shall give unto all of us the secret gift that was entrusted to me by the Lady of the Wood, she whose lovely braid I bear. The maiden with the shining eyes."
And with that, Indilzar removes from his cloak a crystal flask, and within is a liquid that is dark red in colour.
Thorondur smiles then, pleased with their declarations of valour and hope, strength and brotherhood. To each man he gives a curt nod, filled with confidence in every one among them.
"And so we shall, Doran of Isilrim," he says, "but first let us see what it is the Lord Bragollach has brought to us from his immortal maiden."
Too, Thorondur's words seem to answer the question of Faengor, as well.
"Gather about me and each one of you take a sip," says Indilzar, "for this is the miruvor of the Elves and it shall bring strength to our limbs when hope has faded."
At the mention of miruvor, Thorondur's blue eyes seem to brighten -- if brighter still they may become, for on this errand of Westernesse lost they have grown radiant. Accepting the cordial from Indilzar, he too drinks, passing it then to Erchirion first.
Taking it thus, from Thorondur's hand, the Prince Erchirion takes a sip of the draught and passes it onward.
Doran relents, turning back from the eastern road to take his small, precious share of the enheartening liquor. He looks up at the lords of the Fellowship, stern of face but grey eyes shining like the flowing Sea.
Turning close to the fellowship, Faengor's eyes seem to brighten with disbelief upon the mention of the Miruvor. Hopeful eyes follow the hallowed cordial as it is passed along, tracing the blood-red vial with a silent gaze. Taking the envigoring drink from Doran's hands, the errand-rider too takes a sip before stretching it out towards Rowaen. "Brother" he speaks, "drink."
Receiving the flask from Faengor, Rowaen nods and smiles at him without much words, before bringing it to his mouth and takes a sip before handing it to Amano. He goes on to stare at his brother again for a brief moment, but then looks away again.
Indilzar looks to the party, "Did all drink?"
In his own turn partaking of the elven miruvor, Amano sips of it slowly, the warmth near-visible in the sudden light that shines in his eyes and turning, he proffers the flask of crystal to the others of the party who have not yet drunk of it.
Spurring his steed gently forward, Drenlyn nods as he recieves the flasks, and takes a sip. Passing the flask on with a smile, Drenlyn straitens in the saddle, and tightly grasps his lance as his eyes alight with calm resolve of the sea.
The Lord Girithlin watches this interaction between the Nimothan brothers, and his smile remains -- rather than fade as the darkness of Mordor might prefer it. Now as the others take their turn at the cordial he looks to Indilzar and says, "They finish. So it ends, Bragollach. So it ends."
Taking his sip of the drink, Foronwe's eyes grow large at the importance and uniqueness of the moment. He savors the taste and feel in his mouth, drinks, and then waits for what it to come next.
Indilzar says, "Not so Lord Girithlin. For even if we are to return alive to the merry fields of the West, still we must unite the sword and banish that hell-wrought curse upon Amrothos' neck."
And last of the company, Tamran takes the cordial and brings it towards his mouth. The refreshing liquid pours down his throat.
With a nod, Indilzar says, "Come. The entrance to the pass is yonder. We have spent long enough here where many eyes may see us."
Then clicking the stirrups of the proud steed, Morang the Black Iron, the Dark Knight of the West turns to an even darker realm and passes first within the dread confines of the Morgul Vale.
Morgul Pass
The ancient road winds eastwards from here, moving ever closer towards the wasted lands of Mordor. Far off in this direction, the horizon grows dark and menacing with black storm clouds which stretch forth like clawing hands across the skies. Some distance to the west lies, surprisingly enough, a thick grove of great trees. Worn roads from the North and South wind their way together there, disappearing from sight amidst the lush, if sickly, greenery of Ithilien's gentle, forested slopes.
Contents:
Rowaen
Faengor
Foronwe
Erutirn
Erchirion
Amano
Thorondur
Doran
Tamran
Indilzar
Obvious exits:
West leads to The Crossroads.
East leads to Morgul Pass.
"After this, I daresay a single curse is an easy thing," the Girithlin remarks, his voice droll. Yet now he rides eastward, following Indilzar.
To the walls of the Land of Shadows he looks, his eyes colored the grey of the sea as grim as the look about his face, "Let us finish all this then," Erchirion says to Indilzar, "I have want to see my brother again."
Even as the company sets foot upon the pass the steeds that bear them begin to neigh as the madness of the Morgai falls upon them.
Indilzar at first was to reply to Thorondur, but now he says, "The horses will not go forward!"
Erchirion nods, noticing his horse will go no further no matter how valiant and well trained he may be, "Then we walk." he says resolutely, even as he speaks does the man dismount.
And though Thorondur pats his neck, and seeks to soothe him, even bold Amrandir will not go forward -- though he does not neigh nor show fear as his less hardy brethren might. Scowling, the Herald, too, dismounts -- but not without whispered words for the mighty warhorse.
"Blast the curses that the dark one places on our lands!" Faengor grumbles as his stallion staggers beneath his feet. With a steadfast hand, the Errand-Rider tempers the black-maned horse ere dismounting it. "Return to the Nimothan Keep then, my friend, you know the way." the rider whispers to his horse as the most important packages are taken from his back.
Slipping down from the saddle of his trembling mount, the expression on the young face of Doran becomes even more grave as the knight steels himself against the dreadfulness of the road that they must slowly tread. The noble banner of Ost-in-Ernil he does not leave behind though, as he steps forward to stand at the side of Indilzar.
Indilzar dismounts and says, "We cannot subject the horses to the torment of the valley of black magic. Therefore, let them go free into fair Ithilien."
He dismounts from the horse.
Dark the storm clouds seem to gather on the horizon, and indeed, it is seen that what the Black Knight speaks is true the stallion upon which Amano rides has halted, pawing the barren road with its hooves. With naught but a pat for his faithful steed the youthful knight swings down from his saddle, turning unflinchingly to the pass ahead.
"Then walk we shall, and go on our own feet into the shadow."
Indilzar takes a moment to take a pack from Morang's back and then he looks east. He breathes deeply for a moment and slings the pack upon his shoulders.
Hearing the dark knight's words, and seeing for himself that his steed will go no further, Foronwe slowly and angrily dismounts. "Indeed, these lands are accursed. Such a start for a journey is..." Yet his words trail off, and a calmness spreads across his face as a realization comes to him "Many great heroes of the past have done without steeds, and if our fate is half as great as theirs', it is only befitting that we should start this last part of our journey as did they. Perhaps this is not so unfortunate as we all deem it to be.."
Reaching across his body, now does the Lord Girithlin draw forth the ancient blade Elemmacil, and lo! It almost seems to sing as it is freed, here in the valley of the Shadow. Thorondur's piercing eyes flicker left and right, studying the rise of the land about them silently.
Hearing the speak of the men ahead, Erutirn dismounts his horse quickly. He takes his sword out of the sheath that was amoung the pack his horse carried. He grabs the rest of the back to shoulder, then he watches his horse. "We have seen much of the world together, I hope to see you when I return... but that is up to you, go free back towards the land of my kin... good bye friend." The knight turns to look at the rest of the company.
Steadying the now feral steed of his Rowaen frowns a little and following example he dismount quickly, hand still gripping the rein of the horse, and another, somewhat unawarely, on the hilt of his sword. He glances worriedly up to the sky and then at the blackened horizon across. As his horse gives a one last tug, the young man turns to look at the horse, and pats the magnificent steed and gives a last stroke on its mane. "Go," he says quietly, "And should I never return, may Dania forgive me," And with that he lets the horse go which starts to gallop back into the forest. He looks around him then without anymore words and adjusted his pack on his back.
Looking to the Knight Bragollach, the Prince smiles and he too withdraws a small pack from the back of his steed, then walking to the beast head he whispers softly in it's ear and then pats it gently on the side of the head.
The horse taking two steps, turns his head, and then runs off.
Turning back to the company, Erchirion looks about, then to the path, "Shall we move onward?"
Gently trying to edge his reluctant horse forward, Drenlyn shakes his head, "So it is. Then let us trust to our own feet."
Dismounting briskly, the young knight sighs, as he plants the tip of his lance into the ground with a trust. Taking a pack off of his steed, Drenlyn gives one last pat and some words of comfort to his steed before slapping it's hind, making it run swiftly back to the west. Slinging the pack onto his back, and setting his shield solidly upon his arm, Drenlyn moves towards the lords of the Fellowship.
Now great Amrandir looses a neigh, and his equine companions gather to him and to black Morang. The pair of destriers, white and black, lead their fellows away back to Osgiliath.
Indilzar says now to Amano, "Then perhaps a lay shall be made singing of Amano of Dol Amroth and the Sword of Doom."
Indilzar smiles and he turns west one moment more. He then looks east and then says to Erchirion, "My lord let us do so. Lead on."
Erchirion nods, and passes forth further into the land of the Shadow.
Heaving the burdens which his faithful horse once bore for him, Faengor sighs deeply, lowering his gaze upon the path ahead of him. "Should we be found now, there will be no escape." he speaks to all with a gloomy voice. Yet, relentlessely the Errand-Rider sets forth.
"Let us go forth as speedily as we may," Doran says with a toss of his dark head. The young knight seems even more restless as this journey of doom wears on. "Lest the madness of this land master our minds as well."
Morgul Pass
The Ephel Duath, or Mountains of Shadow, begin to envelope the ancient pass into the wasted lands of Mordor here. Rock walls soar high above the well-worn trail, their sheer faces jagged and unscaleable, their mere presence threatening. Evidenced by the jumble of countless tracks set into the soil of the hard-packed path is the constant traffic which passes through this area. Far off to the East, deep within the looming mountains, lies Minas Morgul, ancient city of the wraiths, while to the west, the road winds off to unseen destinations.
Contents:
Faengor
Thorondur
Indilzar
Rowaen
Erchirion
Obvious exits:
Up leads to Cirith Ungol Region.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
East leads to Morgul Pass.
"Do you feel it?" says Indilzar in a low voice. "It makes the heart run chill. I have been to many places in my time, but never have I felt such palpable evil."
Heaving the burdens which his faithful horse once bore for him, Faengor sighs deeply, lowering his gaze upon the path ahead of him. "Should we be found now, there will be no escape." he speaks to all with a gloomy voice. Yet, relentlessely the Errand-Rider sets forth.
"No Faengor," says Indilzar, "It is not likely that we would escape. Yet still, have we gone so far and seen so much to be stymied here?"
And only two words does the Herald say in reply to Indilzar: "I have." And though he speaks boldly, his fair face has paled, as if some darkling memory of that nightmare returns to him here.
Yet still the words of gloom that his fellows speak disturb him, and the Herald adds, "I for one will return to fair Dol Amroth. Speak no more words of doom, any of you, ere by speaking you bring it upon us."
"It chills the bone and the blood," Erchirion replies, "More than anything I have felt before save when standing before the Lord of Minas Morgul."
But he stops, "Yet there is more, a soft beacon..." then he shakes his head, "Let us press onward, the longer we tarry the less our chance of leaving becomes."
In sure steps, does Tamran walk, his eye darting from one side to the other, his gaze always alert it seems. "Strange is this land...I feel like we are being watch, yet I see no servant of the Dark One, not even a shadow that could be one..." He says, "It is as if even the serpents and other beasts spy for Him."
"Let it be not a matter of escape, nor of merely following the kismet of this path," Rowaen speaks and comes to stand beside his brother for a second. He scans his surrounding once more and finally moves to continue walking.
"One feels it even if one were to attempt to shut it out of mind," comes Amano's reply, echoing quietly among the jagged rock walls that now rise on either side of the road. Yet at the bidding of Thorondur he falls silent, his gauntleted hand now resting, if unconsciously so, upon the pommel of his sword, as he gazes into the dread road ahead.
Doran says nothing of himself, but looks ahead into the black of the East. The standard still held aloft, firmly gripped, its fair device hangs limp and lifeless in this air as still as the musty grave.
Indilzar nods to Erchiron, "So let it be. My feet fall slow and soft."
"If we speak at all," says the Lord Girithlin, "let it be of Hope. For he who has stolen this land would steal that too, yet we have it left to us. Remember: Aure enteluva! Let us bring what day that we might to this land again."
Morrandir says nothing, barely even listening to his comrades. He simply walks, eyes fixed forward, and an expression of grim determination upon his face. And yet, as his hand grasps his sword hilt, it is quite clearly shaking...
"We have seen and witnessed too much. Never will I halt nor will I ever give in." Smiling grimly, the errand-Rider turns his gaze to the mountains that rise high before him. "Nay, we are men of Gondor. We, the protectors of Arda against the wrath of the Nameless one. Let glory befall us." and trough the deep grooves and scars of combat a faint trace of pride beams.
Morgul Pass
The Ephel Duath, or the Mountains of Shadow, rise threateningly all around this ancient pass as it cuts directly towards the dead wastes of the land of Mordor. Rock walls soar high above the well-worn path, their vertical faces broken, jagged, yet unscaleable. Evidence of the constant traffic through the pass is to be seen all along the dusty trail here as a jumble of countless tracks beaten into the hard-packed earth. Far off to the East lies the gloom of Minas Morgul, city of the wraiths, while far to the west, the road winds off to unseen destinations.
Contents:
Thorondur
Doran
Indilzar
Faengor
Erchirion
Obvious exits:
East leads to Imlad Morgul.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
With slow staggering steps, Indilzar Bragollach makes his way slowly up the pass. There is naught to be heard here. No bird, no beast, no running water. Silent he has fallen and the foul air of the Morgai passes over him like a thick cloud of hatred.
Finally, Indilzar speaks, his voice heavy, "We must go on... we must... we must recover the shard of Anaril."
"This makes me wonder." Faengor speaks, gazing about him as if searching for any sign of vegetation. "What drives us against the nameless one?" He smiles wryly and turns to the mountain. "Valor and courage or seething revenge?" Stretching out his hand, the Sergeant from Minas Tirith motions to the lands that surround the fellowship. "Look about you. This land used to thrive. Beautiful and fair. Now it is a barren desert in which all but the most resilient creatures die."
"I choose not to look," replies Indilzar dryly.
Now coming up beside Indilzar, Thorondur rests a hand on his friend's shoulder. The elf-friend is not so staggered by the climb, or maybe by the oppression of the air -- yet still the pallor of his face betrays his own inner struggle.
"Do not question it, Indilzar," Thorondur says. "We will prevail. We must prevail. Step after step... forward."
His foot falls heavy, his breath coming in gasps against the wreak of the vale, Drenlyn grunts as he adjusts his pack. Trying to raise his eyes upwards to scan the pass, he sighs wearily, as his gaze is driven downward.
Calming his breath as much as can be, Drenlyn's eyes seem to lighten as his face calms itself somewhat. Head still bowed he continues forward, his step lighter, but yet he stumbles and falls.
Strugling to rise, Drenlyn grunts, and says, though now it is more of a wisper, "Aye, it may have bloomed once, but now it seeks to kill."
Now the wolf-pelted squire speaks, looking sharply at Faengor. "Madness." Morrandir says, "That is all."
They continue onward, the Lords of the Fellowship in the lead, some with sword drawn and glittering despite the shadows, others merely warry of that which lurks about them. And though hopelessness and despair whispers in the emptiness about them, the Prince continues on, his steps sure if not bold.
Yet at the words of Indilzar, the sound of them he turns, "I will have no man falling behind for I will have no man lost in this land." And then he grows quiet once more, looking to the east waiting for the one to help the Lord Bragollach along, "Aure enteluva! Look not about you, look not into the desolation, or the maker of all this will have won." he says, and turns, a man driven now as he walks further into dread Mordor.
"The lands of westernesse were beautiful too. Forget not that it is He who caused us to lose those." Foronwe slowly trudges along, grunting out his words. He then turns severely towards Morrandir "If you claim that all that is being done here is being done in the name of madness, then a sad sad day is this indeed. We go for Gondor, for valour, for revenge, for all of those and more. Yet madness has not yet entered our minds, I pray"!
Imlad Morgul
The towering rock walls of the mountain pass burst apart here, giving way to the entrance of the Imlad Morgul and revealing the Haunted City of the Wraiths ahead. All lies in death and decay about the black tower and ancient city, the rocky ground strewn with all manners of trash and refuse, stained, befouled and corrupted by the constant passing of the uruk-hai. Ahead to the East, a bridge spans the foul, dark waters of a mountain stream, while to the west, the dusty road runs through the high pass and out of the lands of Mordor.
Contents:
Foronwe
Thorondur
Morrandir
Tamran
Indilzar
Erchirion
Obvious exits:
East leads to Imlad Morgul.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
Suddenly, there is a cackle. On a rock overlooking the pass there sits a mocking raven.
"Now behold! The mighty work of Isildur laid low and corrupt," cries Thorondur in dismay. His fists clench about the hilt of his sword, and he turns to raise a fist at the raven in helpless anger.
Amid all of this desolation, Morrandir manages a laugh. "Do you not see, squire of the white? Are not all of those things a madness in themselves?" He shakes his head, and turns his eyes towards the fell city of the wraiths.
Indilzar only glances at the Raven and he says, "A fell bird. Let us not tarry here. I trust it not."
"Aure enteluva....Aure enteluva..."
With those words, Drenlyn's step becomes sterner and solid, and his eyes look to the bird.
His eyes filling with pity rather than with wrath, he shakes his head, "A mighty work now filled with the foul darkness."
The face of the young bearer of the standard, now pale and wan, falls slack. His mouth agape as his eyes lock upon the fallen city. Like a grinning skull the tower of dark sorcery sits cradled in the arms of the sheer mountains, its gates barred like a clenched maw that is sudden to open in voracious hunger. A violent shudder wracks Doran's body, yet he says nothing.
Valiant he stands, in the shadow, for he is not the White, nor the Silver, nor the Black, nay, for Erchirion the Blue, Son of Imrahil turns to gaze upon the fallen works of ancient times and the corruption of this land's Dark Master.
"Can you feel it," he says to them, looking at the city, then turning to the raven he gazes, eyes burning pools of silver, "It is said the birds and beast serve He that seeks to dominate all," and then he turns from it, "Let us move onward before this one can speak words with his Master."
"I trust none of this," says Thorondur, stood stock-still as his stare alights on the pale and sickly walls of Mians Morgul far below. "Did I say that I wished to gaze upon the works of our fathers? How far this place has fallen! Whither now, Bragollach? Let us find this shard of Anaril and begone!"
The raven flitters away after a final squawk and flies away east.
"East lies our doom and hope," says Indilzar.
Imlad Morgul
A long tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow, runs back far into the mountains. Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Duath, stands the walls and tower of Minas Morgul. All is dark about it, earth and sky, but it is lit with a light. Not the imprisoned moonlight welling through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, Tower of the Moon, fair and radient in the hollow of the hills. Paler indeed then the moon ailing in some slow eclipse is the light of it now, wavering and blowing like a noisesome exhalation of decay, a corpse light, a light illuminating nothing. . .
The road here crosses a bridge and runs east toward Minas Morgul, and runs back west to the Crossroads. A small, rocky path meanwhile winds its way up the Northern face of the vale.
Contents:
Morrandir
Serpent
Thorondur
Doran
Indilzar
Tamran
Faengor
Erchirion
A Hill of Stone
Stream
Obvious exits:
North leads to Entrance to the Orc Pits.
West leads to Imlad Morgul.
Bridge leads to Imlad Morgul.
Within sight now is the fell city of the Wraiths. The hatred that burns there is fell indeed.
Indilzar then with deep breaths glances up and then he says softly, "What ho! Look upon that yon hill of stone. It is not like the others of this place."
A thin piercing scream seems to come from the east over the bridge. A scream of hatred that these Men have heard before. In the distance, there is a Nazgul. Yet you do not know if that scream was for the company.
As if a weight had dragged his gaze to the lifeless, befouled earth, Amano's head is bowed, the silver fillet on his brow gleaming not as though even the air were too thick and poisoned for its light to shimmer yet he walks on, and his shoulders still are held with the strength of purpose. The words of Indilzar fill his ears, and raising his head, he beholds the now-corrupt walls with cold eyes.
"A light there shines," he utters with dismay. "Yet how foul it it is, as some corpse-candle illumining a broken tower, and not the blessed light of moon or star.." And the chilling scream cuts his words off like a knife, stopping hearts, stilling breath.
At the words of the lord Bragollach, Drenlyn grunts, as his gaze seeks the hill. Wordlessly, he nods, and straightens as if his hope regains strength, but at the scream, he once more turns his gaze to the ground.
"East it goes..." Tamran say, looking at the black raven flying away. "We should kill all beast that dwells in this land and looks upon us, be it a raven or serpent or any other...only foul beasts will live in such place and surelly in the service of the Dark Lord they will be."
At the sound of the scream, Thorondur sets himself with a grim resolve. Hefting the great sword of Cardolan now in both hands, he nods to Indilzar. "If that hill be your Arangurth of old, then go within and find what you will. I will guard from without any men who enter."
Yes Indilzar hears that scream, for it is most potent in this land. But Indilzar lifts himself up and sings softly...
In Western lands beneath the sun,
the flowers may rise in spring,
the trees may bud the waters run,
the merry finches sing.
But maybe 'tis cloudless night
where swaying beeches bear,
the elven stars as jewels bright
amid their dancing hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie,
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell.
He then nods to Thorondur and then climbs up to the hill. He motions to the others.
"Whatever we do, let us make haste!" Foronwe cries, as he hears the ear-piercing scream. He runs several steps forward and looks about, his serious, grave look, beginning to be overcome by terror, yet it is still under control. "Let us do what we must and leave this place, before madness truly does overtake us." He looks toward Morrandir with his last words.
"Nay," Erchirion says, quickly looking east at the sound of the Dark Rider's scream. Long he looks, yet his hand drifts to something that dangles now about his neck.
Turning he looks now at the hill, "We have come all this way," he says finally, "Let us not tarry, those of you who will stand with Thorondur, good luck, and think only of the Day." And speaking thus he passes with Indilzar unto the hill.
:calls down as soft as maybe, "I think... yes... I think I have found a doorway. Yet there is no way inside."
Indilzar calls down as soft as maybe, "I think... yes... I think I have found a doorway. Yet there is no way inside."
Glancing quickly between Thorondur and Indilzar, Drenlyn shakes his head, and moves to stand by the Herald, and draws his sword.
With a shake of his head, a few dull silver threads jostling amidst the toussled dark strands, Doran dispels the heart-rending cry, gripping upon something firm and unwavering. Drawing forth his slender blade the young knight looks to Thorondur with wide eyes, though steady and shining, "And I with you."
Doran draws a longsword.
The White Knight spares a glance behind him, over a shoulder for Indilzar and his way within -- yet the most of his attention is set eastward blue eyes keen and piercing as an eagle's keep the watch on silent Minas Morgul.
"Then Drenlyn and Doran will stand with me. The rest of you -- within. We three will be enough," he says. "Indilzar will need you."
A sound comes from Morrandir's lips, something halfway between a sigh and a snarl. He looks across to the Herald, and nods grimly. Striding towards him, Angor is drawn forth from it's scabbard.
Coming to stand beside the Bragollach, Erchirion looks upon the doorway, placing a hand upon it and wiping away the years of black dust, smooth is the stone, black and shiny.. And as his hand upon the stone moves, so to does the other, a sharp jerking motion ripping the necklace from about his neck.
"You will know when to use this..." he whispers aloud, and in his hand rest a key of green metal. And looking over the doorway he spies a hole, simple and plain. "And when our passage is barred by lock and stone..." Erchirion says as he places the key in the hole.. "Let the doors be opened by the keys of old."
Tense and alert, Foronwe draws his blade, looking about.
"Erchirion!" says Indilzar as the prince's son comes nigh him as he pushes the smooth glasslike surface, "Yes! There you have it. The Maiden's gift!"
Nodding to the standard bearer, Drenlyn gazes upwards at the Swan fluttering in the wreaks of the vale. Smiling at the sight he turns his attention back to the cliffs, calm contemplation swimming over his face.
As Erchirion places the key within the stone there is a click and then about the flat surface deep groove form as the doorway opens with vapor and a rush of air.
Inclining his head to those who would go with the Herald, Amano utters, "Then so be it, and may your valour prove against the darkness." He then turns, as yet not drawing his sword, until he comes nigh to Indilzar and the Son of Imrahil. Only then does he draw forth Aringil, a cold, plain blade, glittering in what little light there remains.
"You wish for me to go with Indilzar?" Morrandir says, frowning at Thorondur. "Are you not in need of a squire to stand at your side?"
Indilzar reaches for his pack and from it he draws forth a torch. He lights it and it shines faintly into the recesses of the Hill.
"Follow Indilzar, Morrandir, and the Prince's son," Thorondur tells his squire as the two young knights stride forward to his side. "If you would be a knight and not a squire, then go within. For your doom does not lie within the valley of sorcery."
The rush of air send the cloak of Erchirion flowing behind him, and he turns to Indilzar, "Let us awaken the sleeping shard.." he smiles at the man. And with this he steps forth into the shadow filled darkness lit only by the small ring of golden torchlight.
As the door opens, Tamran follows the knights into the shadow, his sword now laying within his grip.
"But..." Morrandir shakes his head. "As you wish." He salutes the Herald, then follows the men into the hill.
"The boy shows courage," Thorondur says to the pair of knights beside him, though his glance never turns from the pallid, ghostly towers that loom so near. "Yet still he does not understand temperance. I pray we may all live through this day, to teach it to him."
"Aye, but he will learn...If not from us than from another."
Staring at the cliffs and towers, Drenlyn shakes his head, "But I do hope that we may be the ones to teach him."
A slight, quivering smile is returned to the other young knight as Doran steadies the light staff upon the ground, sword held upright, at the ready. The young Isilrim's gaze now is drawn upon the awful, leering fortress. The grinning city of Morgul seems to subtlely glow with an unearthly light in and of itself. Doran's stare is shaken loose by the Girithlin's words, and Drenlyn's. "Surely that fearsome city cannot sleep during the day, if day still lasts in this accursed place. Ghosts slept not, I had been told," he murmurs in a low, monotone voice.
"I understand it little," agrees Thorondur. "Surely the hosts of Morgul must be aware of us. That cry? It rent my heart, for I know it too well," he says through a grimace. "Either fate is truly kind, my friends -- or some evil trap is brewing."
"I fear the later," sighs Drenlyn to the other knights.
"Fate has been kind to the quest so far, yet I hope that it will not turn completely against us in the end now...so near it's completion."
"Beginnings and endings," muses Thorondur, giving no bent to philosophy here in the valley of the shadow. "I wish only to return, and end this hateful task. Drenlyn, keep your gaze on the sky. Doran, watch the eastern pass there may be some ambush set for us."
Turning quickly, Drenlyn glances towards the place where the rest of the fellowship disappeared. As the Herald speaks, he looks to the sky replying, "As do I Thorondur. To see the sea again -- that is all I would need now. To end this dark task and return to the Halls that stand over the sea."
Doran falls silent once again as his gaze drifts towards the dark, ensorcelled towers of Morgul. Once beautiful and defiant on the borders of the black realm, now a strategic extension of the Dark One's brewing might. In the dim haze of the vale, strange lights seem to flicker hight in the tiny windows of the tower. With the clatter of the Fellowship passing under the mound, an oppressive stillness, like a stale wreek, seems to drift about these three companions left behind.
The young knight continues to stare straight ahead, his eyes dull and blank, the standard held loosely before him. The words of the Knight-Herald seem to pass Doran unheeded.
A scowl crosses Thorondur's face, an expression of defiance. Finding Doran held suddenly in thrall of some evil sorcery, he lets his watch go for the moment and grasps the man's arm with his free hand. "
"Ah! Let me stand!" the young standard-bearer exclaims, turning suddenly upon Thorondur with a violent twist. Doran looks up at the Girithlin with fearful eyes, the blank stare falling from them. He steps back now, a pained expression evident as he shakes his head, "Of course, of course... the eastern pass. Yes," the young knight turns his back swiftly, facing away from the grinning foulness of Morgul.
"You are a son of Westernesse. We have ever defied the power that dwells there, Doran," Thorondur says sharply as he gestures toward the city, his clear and melodious voice almost harsh in the thick and overbearing reek of sorcery, here. "I will watch the walls that Isildur built. Shield your own eyes away from that place, if you can -- but you will defy it."
The three knights who stood watch remain set in their positions. Drenlyn watches the sky Thorondur's eyes are on the grinning castle Doran keeps wary lookout for the eastern pass.
A rumble comes from the hill as the party exits and even as the last one makes it out, a smoke comes through the doorway as the hill slides shut. No one shall enter the Arangurth again.
A faint smile purses Drenlyn's lips at the sound of the elvish tongue, but it is soon stilled at the words of the Herald. Still staring at the looming sky, Drenlyn turns quickly at the sound of the fellowship returning, his eyes filled with a silent question.
Now at the noise of arrival and the belch of smoke, Thorondur whirls in wonder and startlement. "What manner of sorcery is this?" the White Knight cries. Swiftly, his gaze searches Indilzar, Erchirion and all those who follow them. "Where is the shard of Anaril?"
Indilzar hurries down from the hill toward the others. He motions back to Erchirion as he addresses Doran, Thorondur and Drenlyn, "He's got it. I think I shall hazard to say it would be prudent to leave this place."
In the distance you hear a thin beat of drums. Something has been aroused at the rumble of the hill.
"Let us move, for danger still surrounds us and I do not wish to press our luck." Tamran says, noding to Indilzar.
Down the hill he comes, a man driven by necessity to be away from this place, "Let us go," Erchirion speaks to them, "Our luck has held thus far and now it is time to be away from this place.."
And to answer the question of Thorondur, Erchirion smiles, "I have it hear, but now is not the time for showing... let us away from this place."
hear=here.
"I apologize, Thorondur. I was not speaking to you.. to, well I am not sure," Doran stumbles clumsily over his words. "I felt as if I could not speak.. " but now he falls silent at the emerging of the Fellowship and the mound's destruction. His eyes staring on at all that passes within a moment's time.
Nodding at the words of Indilzar, ever empacized by the sound of drums, Drenlyn sheathes his sword, and nods, "This veil holds much danger, and it grows great as we remain here. Let us finish this dark task."
"This is no time for idle chatter!" Morrandir cries, pointing to the city with his sword. "Now is the time for running, and then we can live to talk later."
The drum beats become louder. They seem to draw nearer.
"Then westward with you, eastward with all of you," the White Knight says, and in his voice is the note of command. "Doran and Drenlyn, to me! We will serve as the rearguard. Indilzar, whatever comes -- you and Erchirion must fly safely home. Now let us all see if we might accompany you!"
There is another thin scream in the air...
Erchirion nods, "Away.." he says and runs off to the west.
Indilzar nods and says, "Do not be a fool Thorondur. There is no foe here to resist. Save your valour and run!"
Halting his movements at the sound of the White Knight, Drenlyn nods, as he holds his place by the herald.
Close behind those who had emerged from the ruins of the hill, Amano stands, the sounds at first about them unheeded by him but for a taut frown. But the sudden shriek piercing the air spurs him to action and blade still in hand, he follows the prince.
Imlad Morgul
A long tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow, runs back far into the mountains. Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Duath, stands the walls and tower of Minas Morgul. All is dark about it, earth and sky, but it is lit with a light. Not the imprisoned moonlight welling through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, Tower of the Moon, fair and radient in the hollow of the hills. Paler indeed then the moon ailing in some slow eclipse is the light of it now, wavering and blowing like a noisesome exhalation of decay, a corpse light, a light illuminating nothing. . .
The road here crosses a bridge and runs east toward Minas Morgul, and runs back west to the Crossroads. A small, rocky path meanwhile winds its way up the Northern face of the vale.
Contents:
Thorondur
Doran
A Hill of Stone
Stream
Obvious exits:
North leads to Entrance to the Orc Pits.
West leads to Imlad Morgul.
Bridge leads to Imlad Morgul.
"There will be foes soon enough. Let them run. We will beat the retreat, but more slowly." And so saying, with measured step Thorondur leads his two knights back to the west, on the trail of their Companions.
With a shake of his head, as if to clear it, Doran raises his sword. He turns, still bearing the standard, to follow after the Girithlin.
Imlad Morgul
The towering rock walls of the mountain pass burst apart here, giving way to the entrance of the Imlad Morgul and revealing the Haunted City of the Wraiths ahead. All lies in death and decay about the black tower and ancient city, the rocky ground strewn with all manners of trash and refuse, stained, befouled and corrupted by the constant passing of the uruk-hai. Ahead to the East, a bridge spans the foul, dark waters of a mountain stream, while to the west, the dusty road runs through the high pass and out of the lands of Mordor.
Contents:
Doran
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
East leads to Imlad Morgul.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
Now steadily the Lord Girithlin leads the retreat, ever scanning the sides of the pass before them.
Morgul Pass
The Ephel Duath, or the Mountains of Shadow, rise threateningly all around this ancient pass as it cuts directly towards the dead wastes of the land of Mordor. Rock walls soar high above the well-worn path, their vertical faces broken, jagged, yet unscaleable. Evidence of the constant traffic through the pass is to be seen all along the dusty trail here as a jumble of countless tracks beaten into the hard-packed earth. Far off to the East lies the gloom of Minas Morgul, city of the wraiths, while far to the west, the road winds off to unseen destinations.
Contents:
Doran
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
East leads to Imlad Morgul.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
Following close the pace of the Knight-Herald, breath starting to come harder in the dank, motionless air of the pass, Doran slows now and again to glance over his shoulder.
Frowning greatly now, Drenlyn grunts as he calmly follows the White Knight.
"You are right Thorondur. We shall not be caught running like a thief who steals from those above him. We take back what is rightfully ours, to help those in need."
"We will not take this place again without an army. I have seen it now," Thorondur tells Drenlyn. "I know it now. But the shard must be returned safely -- but if I can return again home to Lothiriel with it, I may. Do not look behind us." And so saying, he leads them onward.
Morgul Pass
The Ephel Duath, or Mountains of Shadow, begin to envelope the ancient pass into the wasted lands of Mordor here. Rock walls soar high above the well-worn trail, their sheer faces jagged and unscaleable, their mere presence threatening. Evidenced by the jumble of countless tracks set into the soil of the hard-packed path is the constant traffic which passes through this area. Far off to the East, deep within the looming mountains, lies Minas Morgul, ancient city of the wraiths, while to the west, the road winds off to unseen destinations.
Contents:
Doran
Thorondur
Erutirn
Obvious exits:
Up leads to Cirith Ungol Region.
West leads to Morgul Pass.
East leads to Morgul Pass.
Morgul Pass
The ancient road winds eastwards from here, moving ever closer towards the wasted lands of Mordor. Far off in this direction, the horizon grows dark and menacing with black storm clouds which stretch forth like clawing hands across the skies. Some distance to the west lies, surprisingly enough, a thick grove of great trees. Worn roads from the North and South wind their way together there, disappearing from sight amidst the lush, if sickly, greenery of Ithilien's gentle, forested slopes.
Contents:
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
West leads to The Crossroads.
East leads to Morgul Pass.
The Crossroads
A ring of trees of vast size, very ancient and still towering high though their tops are gaunt and broken, as if tempest and lightning blast have swept across them but failed to kill them or shake their fathomless roots. In the center of the circle towers a huge sitting figure, solumn as the great stone kings of Argonath, looking over the roads running through the trees. Indeed, roads stretch off in all 4 directions: East towards Minas Ithil and West towards Minas Anor North towards the Morannon and South along the S.Ithilien Road...which one you choose is up to you, but choose wisely, for one small mistake in these parts could cost you your life.
Contents:
Thorondur
Doran
Amano
Morrandir
Erchirion
Indilzar
Statue of the King
Obvious exits:
North leads to North Ithilien Road.
South leads to South Ithilien Road.
West leads to On the way to the Crossroads....
East leads to Morgul Pass.
"Yet we must wait for them," says Indilzar.
You head downvalley to the west.
Erchirion gazes eastward as well, his hands resting upon his saddle, "We will wait until the flames of their torches can be counted clearly, I will not have the White lost in the land of darkness."
"If that is the case," says Indilzar, "then entrust the hilt of Anaril to another and have him fly west to Gondor. Thither all the pieces are gathered in the Great City."
Then out of the east, they come at last -- three Knights of fair Dol Amroth, white Thorondur of the Stones and brave Drenlyn, bold Doran beside him. Down the road from Imlad Morgul they pass beneath the growing shadows of dark and twisted trees.
Here can be found the knights of the vanguard and their companions. Here too are the horses, who have waited patiently for their masters.
Says nothing to this, and no motion does he make to offer the hilt of Anaril to another, merely waiting and watching the eastern, and low, there he sees them, "Morrandir, take your Knight and those of Drenlyn and Doran thier horses, and ride swiftly."
Erchirion says nothing to this, and no motion does he make to offer the hilt of Anaril to another, merely waiting and watching the eastern, and low, there he sees them, "Morrandir, take your Knight and those of Drenlyn and Doran thier horses, and ride swiftly."
To the east Amano turns his eyes, seeking their companions. For a moment he sees nothing, sitting on his steed yet even to mortal sight the three now emerge clearly, and the tight countenance of the knight lightens somewhat. "So far good fortune has been with us," he mutters beneath his breath, drawing the reins of his steed closer.
And in speaking thus, the steed or Erchirion is wheeled, "We must go, for time is sort and they will be upon us before we reach the bridge. Stay you those who will and aid the arm of Thorondur and his men, but this must not fall into the hands of the Enemy." And steadying his horse, who senses his master's eagerness to be away, "Let us ride those who come with me."
Morrandir nods, and trots across to the three horses of the rearguard. Gathering up the reins he leads the horses east, awkwardly, yet as swiftly as he can.
Indilzar remains silent upon his steed and says, "Then go and swiftly! I shall await Thorondur and Doran. Yet whither is that fair guardsman? The steely-eyed Tamran? I see him not."
Striding steadily behind the Girithlin and Drenlyn comes Doran, looking pale and tired as if with great labour. The silver standard held aloft, if slightly less proud, it retreats last even as it led the foray within sight of death's door. His sword held firmly in hand, the young knight turns to look back over his shoulder as the trees around them begin to make way for the clearing to the west.
Now as Morrandir brings them their horses, Thorondur says nothing, but a grave look rests upon his brow. Swinging up into the saddle of Amrandir, he casts a last look behind him to the east, and turns the horse -- there beside the statue of the king to stare eastward and into the shadows of Mordor.
Following Thorondur Drenlyn stares, a great look of relief washing over his face as he sees the vanguard once more. Recieving the reins of his horse, Drenlyn smiles wearily, as he once more gives the steed his pack to carry. Mounting with ease, though wearily, Drenlyn stares eastward, and then turns to look once more upon the stone king before moving towards the rest of the Fellowship.
And thus he looks, once more as the rearguard is mounted once more, and in seeing this the Prince turns to his men, "Ride for the Ruins." he commands firmly.
Saying this, Erchirion wheels his steed and spurs him onward into a gallop.
"Do not tarry!" A shout is heard, as Tamran appears from the Eastern road. Sword in hand, he runs towards the Company, towards his horse, "We must ride forth in haste!"
Morrandir watches the Prince leave, then looks back at Thorondur. "What happens now Sir? What are we all doing sitting here?" He looks about him, and lays a hand on his sword hilt.
Now Thorondur's voice is lifted, as a wind rises in the East. Foul and noxious is the scent borne upon it, some faint and toxic echo of the Morgul Vale and her sickly summer blossoms. "Ride," he commands them! "Ride westward with Erchirion! Drenlyn and Doran, to me!"
And his white steed rears, for despite his command the White Knight remains by the statue of the headless king.
To Morrandir he turns, eyes ablaze, and commands him, "Ride, Squire!"
Yet not with haste does Amano turn his horse, still gazing back to the east, and those of the rearguard who remain with the Knight-Herald only when the company makes to depart does he spur the jet-black stallion forward. Clear upon his ears suddenly rings the command of Thorondur, and he gives pause, turning to ascertain what it was that was borne on the dreadful air.
Quickly mounting upon his horse, he signals the rest of the company to follow the Prince and with that he gallops towards the ruins.
The squire sighs, and nods. "As you wish..." he mutters dryly, before wheeling about and galloping into the west.
With a heavy sigh Doran takes the reins of his tall grey mount. The clean-limbed mare still seems very unnerved and skittish from the journey in the dark Morgai pass. The young knight attempts to handle her gently, speaking soothing words in a soft, musical tongue. Moving to her side he straps the staff of the standard to the saddle. But at the sudden rising of the foul air he glances apprehensively over his shoulder.
Adunaphel looks to the sky and lets loose a long and shrill scream.
A shrill and high-pitched wail, full of despair and evil, echoes over the area.
Turning his mount, Drenlyn gallops to the Herald, and nods, though his eyes stare in great sadness at the headless statue.
No time is left to the young knight, for the wail awakens him as much as it seeks to draw his soul into despair.
Only with the scream, does the black steed bear Amano with the swiftness of the horses of Belfalas and with a shout he careers away, following those who had ridden west.
Now with the shrill cry that echoes near, too near, the White Knight of Dol Amroth sets a hand calmly on his reins, and with a whispered word in the elventongue the steed is subdued. His face pale as his heart of Westernesse fights the terror of the East, he says to the others, "We will wait until they gain the Bridge. Then we too must fly."
At that horrific cry, a wail to make the very blood run cold, Doran seems rooted to the ground. He looks up, aghast, at the dark glowering sky as his arm falls limp at his side. His poor horse, terrified by the dread scream rears up with a shrill whinny.
Only a nod does Drenlyn give, his face having lost all of it's color, but stout he remains. Sitting straight in his saddle, he grips his sword tightly, as his shield arm attempting to maintain control of his steed. Calmly whispeing to the horse, he maintains control of the beast, if only barely.
The thunder of hooves along the road from the east, the road from what was once Minas Ithil and now tower of the wraiths. The road cries out as it is assaulted with the fury of two black steeds from above forcing their red shod hooves into the stone to gain more speed. The rides above spur them harder and harder as they draw nearer to the fleeing men upon the road.
A plume of dirt and stone is thrown into the air behind the two black riders. Their cloaks bellow up into the wind and flow behind them like a mighty river upon a leash. The steed's noses flare as they draw in breath, barely able to keep up with the demand of the riders.
Nearer and nearer to the men they draw, the speed now reaching levels that the two fell steeds can possibly sustain much longer. The only thing fueling them is the hatred of the riders, the fear that is now extending out in every direction from them. Clutching at the hearts of all mortal beings, tugging them. The ancient net of terror is now cast and the strings being pulled tighter by the Nazgul now nearly upon the men.
"They come," whispers Thorondur, his voice nigh impossible to hear now, on the wind. So it is that he lifts it, that the words of the blood of Elendil might echo again in this ancient and desolate land.
"A black wind comes! Now cleave fast to me, Knights of Dol Amroth hear with your minds, and see with your hearts. Our eyes and our ears will not avail us against these!" And even as he speaks the terror falls upon them.
Barely maintaining his seat upon the horse, Drenlyn attempts to face the riders, moving to Thorondur's flank, as his steed shivers beneath him. Raising his shield as if to ward off the sight of the terror, Drenlyn brings his sword to face the riders, his eyes no longer seeing what approaches.
Somehow, amidst all the doom-filled screams born upon the black wind and the noise thundering hooves that threaten to trample him underfoot within moments, Doran manages to swing into the saddle of his lunging steed. As a rider would tame a wild, bucking horse of the northern plains the young man now tries to master this unfortunate mount with whom he has travelled so far.
His entire body shaking as he clutches at the reins with one hand, sword held trembling in the other, the knight looks to Thorondur and his brave words. His cloak whips about his throat, tossed and turned by the wind that seems madly driven by the fell voices as the black horsemen approach.
One of the black horseman reaches for the scabbard at his side and takes hold of the longsword which rests sleeping within. His gloved hand tugs its grip and the blade easily comes loose and is raised up into the air. The steeds continue to rush in towards the men and bring Mordor's response to being so rudely visited!
The thick feeling of fear only gets stronger as the riders draw closer, now assaulting all but the bravest with nearly irresistible force. The Slayer's drawn blade begins to glow a dim blue as he comes closer towards his foes.
Now the black terror rushes toward them, threatening to unman both horse and rider -- yet these bold sons of Gondor do not quail, for the blood of the Kings of Men runs strong in their veins. Though fear suffocates them, to their Hope and the West they cling for life and soul.
Now Thorondur Edrahil, the elf-friend and foe of the Lord of Morgul, stands foremost among them and he raises his sword his eyes blaze blue in defiance like Hador Lorindol's of old.
His eyes now blazing with passion--or perhaps it is fear--Drenlyn holds fights the reins, his steed seeking flight from the terror, but still the young knight remains beside the White Knight, awaiting the terror that now falls upon them.
The device of the fair knights of Dol Amroth whips proudly in the onrush of heart-chilling air, noble Swan-prow poised to be born over the darkest of tides, if needs be. With the standard lashed firmly to his saddle, Doran huddles there with his two companions, ready at any word of the Girithlin to flee from this dark storm. A storm they would be unlikely to weather, in any case. He stares now straight down the eastern road at their deadly, fast-approaching foes with eyes of grey, keen and hard.
Just behind the first of the dark riders, the second keeps pace, the steed matching the other stride for strained stride. But their quarry is near, they both know it. They smell it. As the horseman slips free his blade, his companion reaches down and grasps her own hilt.
There is a small sound from behind him, almost a quiet burbling. But as they near, these dark ones, the sound becomes clearer - it is laughter... a hate-filled sound which caresses yet lacerates at unprotected ears.
The rider lifts his blade up higher into the air as he arrives close enough for the men to hear his voice. A voice that is empowered with fear and filled with a cold hatred pierces the night air as he orders, "Halt in the name of the realm which thy presence has defiled! Surrender now and return unharmed to the dungeons which await thee."
Moments later the sword which was once glowing blue begins to flicker at the hilt. Tiny sparks begin at the base of the blade, and suddenly with a crackle a blue flame roars up the blade. The voice once more orders with all the power and fear the wraith has within him, "Deny me and thou shalt surely perish!" His warning comes with fear unparalleled by all but the Witch-King and the Dark Lord himself. A boiling hatred now bubbles over causing the fear to be nearly tangible as The Slayer is now ready to scald those who would dare ignore him.
Uvatha removes Ruin from its scabbard concealed deep within his robes. Revealed is an ancient blade forged from a black metal, and crafted within the bowels of Amon Amarth! So evil is this weapon that few are able to even touch it, and in finely scripted blue letters, "
And in response to the black sword and the encroaching oppression of terror, the lord-blade of lost and fallen Cardolan is brandished against the coming evil. "Ever are the words of the Shadow rife with lies and boastings! Go back, servant of Mordor! Avaunt thee and return to your accursed Master!"
So cries the Dunadan lord, Thorondur, glaring through the horror at this Slayer. Yet his steed is creeping backward, westward, inexorably toward Osgiliath and home.
The grey, clean-limbed mount of Doran, eyes wide and bloodshot with unspeakable, maddening fear, begins to canter back alongside the horse of the Girithlin. The young knight tries his best to master his steed, at least to stand worthily at the flank of the Knight-Herald. His eyes narrow as the cold wind, the chill of death surrounds the trio of knights, he steels himself for the immenent clash.
Zaakuolt has connected.
Hearing the words of the herald, Drenlyn's heart lightens, though the transparent white of his complection changes not. His own horse edging it's way backwards, nostrils flaring, almost defeated by the torturous sight of the riders. Using what strength remains to him, Drenlyn fights the reins, keeping aside the White knight.
The hissing laughter continues, though much quieter now. The other rider pulls its blade free of its sheath, the naked metal springing to life as a similar vein of flame runs its length, licking at the tip before the entire blade is quickly engulfed in it. The steed it sits upon steps forward, towards the one who speaks against them so brazenly, as it lowers the blade towards the man. The cowl tips downwards slightly, as if it regards him with that glance that brings the crawling of chills across mortal skin. And then a voice, more near to a pain-wracked keening, grates out as the laughter is cut off.
"You.... will kneel. Now..."
Adunaphel releases a dark blade with a hiss of thirsty steel, its blade long and smooth, and completely void of shine. Rather than reflect light, the blade seems to devour it into itself.
As if struck by a physical blow, Thorondur recoils from the power made manifest in the Ringwraith's malicious will. Staggered, he holds his sword aloft, crying "Aure Enteluva!"
Day will come again!
And yet the resistance of the Man is more than his poor horse can muster. Faced with the evil and dark intent of the hands of Sauron of Mordor, the white steed neighs and screams aloud, bolting for the west and the River.
The Slayer hisses with ancient fury, not having experienced a lack of compliance since ages past, "Fools! I shall bring thee to thy knees!" His hand pulls tighter on his horses reigns as he rushes towards Doran, sensing the fear within this 'knight'.
The horses does not struggle against its master and quickly pulls towards the trio which has decided to attempt to withstand the Dark Lord so close to his realm. The burning blue blade grows more lightly as the wraith closes in on his prey.
Suddenly as the wraith moves near enough to Doran to strike his burning blade is raised upwards. His sword launches out in a diagonal slash towards the knight, a wave of fear leaving him as he attacks his foe not only physically but mentally.
As the Herald's horse bolts, Drenlyn's own mount screams, and bolts, leaving the young knight to only grip the reins, hoping to maintain his seat.
Needing no encouragement from the rider, Drenlyn's steed flees westward. One last glimpse backwards reviels the attack on Doran, and Drenlyn let's out a cry, but naught can he do for his horse heeds naught its reins.
"Doran!" Thorondur calls, cursing as even his own mighty steed gives in to the terror of Morgai. Yet he cannot control the fear that boils through white Amrandir's veins, and he is borne westward and away from this terror.
The defiance of the knight gives rise to a teetering tide of anger and burning animosity within the rider who faces him. The blade, once lowered to point to him, now rises to swing above the cowled head as the wraith spurs its own steed on, heels digging into the beast's sides. It doesn't balk, but it surges forward instantly, gnashing its teeth at the flanks of the white horse as it closes the gap. Another shriek pierces the area, as the wraith draws near her prey.
The cold glow of the rider's sword flashes once more, as the swing changes from overhead, to a reach at the other rider's side.
The standard born at the side of Doran is cloven by the stroke of the sword, aimed with a deadly, unquenchable will. The silver cloth falls into a crumpled pile on the hard, grey ground. The young knight's side, unguarded by any shield, is ripped wide open, creating an awful, oozing gash: red begins to seep through the broken links of chain.
With a muffled cry, Doran slumps forward in his saddle, barely held atop his rearing horse by clutching to his reins with what will terror has not robbed from him. His grey-coated mare, now wild with fear, bolts away from the crossroads.
And so do the horses of Gondor quail, even as the Men who ride them come under assault. The retreat has become a rout.
On the way to the Crossroads...
You're standing to the East of the ruins of the bridge which once spanned the great river Anduin, now naught more than a rubble-heap. The ground beneath you is soft and inviting, and speaks of happier days in less troubled times. To the East you see a line of trees encircling the road, with a North/South road passing through it.
Contents:
Thorondur
Faengor
Obvious exits:
East leads to The Crossroads.
West leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall.
The blood-red sun sinks below the dark, cinder-ridden, and cloud-filled horizon, leaving the night pitch black.
From The Crossroads, Uvatha shoves his spurs into the side of his fell-steed and encourages it to increase its speed and continue the pursuit of the fallen standard bearer. The fell steeds hooves rush over the standard of Gondor, soiling and crushing it beneath their fury.
Once more the Nazgul raises his blade into the air, the burning blue lighting the night as he pulls once more closer to his foe. The terror now moves to attack the mind of the horse as The Long Rider above prepares for yet another slash. A quick turn of the wrist puts his blade in position and another slash is taken towards Doran's exposed side.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall
This area, to the east of the walls of Osgiliath, is merely a torn mesh of ground and the occassional broken stones. Once the proud walls stood high to the west, cradling the eastern half of the city protectively. But no more. Now those same walls are a shadow of their former selves broken and scarred beyond repair, their stones lay tumbled over one another like feeble elderly people, to tired to stand. Pieces of them have been strewn far into this area as the architecture was ripped up to serve other means. The grass, only growing in scant clumps, seems sickly and afraid of the open air.
You strike a piece of flint, and your lantern comes to life.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall
This area, to the east of the walls of Osgiliath, is merely a torn mesh of ground and the occassional broken stones. Once the proud walls stood high to the west, cradling the eastern half of the city protectively. But no more. Now those same walls are a shadow of their former selves broken and scarred beyond repair, their stones lay tumbled over one another like feeble elderly people, to tired to stand. Pieces of them have been strewn far into this area as the architecture was ripped up to serve other means. The grass, only growing in scant clumps, seems sickly and afraid of the open air.
Contents:
Obvious exits:
North leads to North Ithilien - Forest.
East leads to On the way to the Crossroads....
SouthWest leads to Eastern bank of Anduin.
Crumbling Gateway leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland
Standing in the silent, misty ruins, you can actually begin to imagine that you are the only person in the world.. the silence is deafening. Although, it is broken occasionally by a loose stone clattering through the ruins on it's way to the river, but soon silence falls again. Huge towers and buildings once stood here, and by the shape of their ruins, you can see that this indeed was a capital city.
To the west lie the rest of the ruins, and to the east lies the walled road to Minas Morgul, the death city.
Obvious exits:
SouthWest leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Harbour Area.
Northwest leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Political Area.
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Outside the Tumbled Wall.
West leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets.
Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets
Once a huge plaza where the life of the city throbbed daily in the business of exchanging exotic wares, this area is now cold and grey. Nothing seems to stir, and even the breeze is silent.
Obvious exits:
South leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Harbour Area.
North leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Old Political Area.
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Rubble Wasteland.
West leads to Osgiliath: The Great Bridge - Eastern Section.
Osgiliath: The Great Bridge - Eastern Section
The many towers and houses that once lined this section of the bridge have fallen into disrepair. Several have crumbled inward, leaving only piles of rubble and cracks in the base of the once strong bridge.
Contents:
Morrandir
Erutirn
Obvious exits:
East leads to Osgiliath: Eastern Ruins - Broken Streets.
West leads to Osgiliath: The Great Bridge - Center Section.
"Yes, they may well kill us for saving them..." Erutirn laughs slightly as he says that, then continues to scan the horizon. The horse still pacing uneasily at upon the bridge.
The sound of galloping hooves sounds in the night. A lone horseman comes down the road, his horse's eyes bloodshot with fear. Coming to the bridge, the rider finally gains control of the beast, and wearily slumps forward in the saddle, as he guides the horse to the bridge.
Looking up towards the figures, the pale face of Drenlyn is revield, but silent and worn it appears, as if all life was drawn from it.
"Drenlyn!" Morrandir cries, galloping towards the rider. "What happened and where are the others?" He looks to the east, yet sees no sign of Thorondur and Doran.
"A rider!" Erutirn looks towards Drenlyn, "Sir Drenlyn... where are the others? Are they in need of help?" He spurs his horse to get closer to the approaching rider, "What has happened..." He draws forth his horn, "Morrandir, if the others are not coming you'll need to take Drenlyn to the others then you can return to follow me..." He trails off as he looks towards the east.
With great effort, Drenlyn's mouth opens, his voice cracked and worn with great toil, "Thorondur remains behind....awaits Doran...Riders attacked Doran...I don'k know what happened to him...Where is Erchirion?"
"Lord Erchirion is on the other side of the bridge... the others? Where are the others?" Erutirn speaks quickly and almost unintelligible, "Does he need help? Do the others require help?!" The young knight still holds the horn in one hand, it is slowly rising towards his mouth as he questions Drenlyn.
Shaking his head at Erutirn's inquiries Drenlyn mumbles, "I know not...The sword..the riders."
Pausing, Drelyn's breath calms as he straightens himself, "I know not what Doran's end is, but the Herald sent me to give the tidings to Erchirion...I must see him. Where are the others?"
"Drenlyn, has Doran been attacked by those... things?" Erutirn starts to slowly move towards the east, "Tell me... if he has he needs help and he needs it now." Almost as an after though, "Lord Erchirion and the others are on the other side of the bridge awaiting sign of the return of the others."
Through the ruins comes trotting the worn, quivering steed of Doran. The nostrils of the poor horse are wide and flecked with foam, her eyes are bloodshot and the hair of her right flank is caked with blood, newly dried. In the saddle is slumped the ruined body of a man. Two great gashes have been torn in the same side of his chain shirt, by some deadly blade, long and fell. Doran's arms dangle limp on either side of the horse, bearing no longer sword or standard.
His head beginning to fall forward, Drenlyn once more speak, "Then let us go there now, and speak no more of...."
Pausing now, Drenlyn turns his head eastward at the sound of hoofs, and grasps the hilt of his still drawn sword with what strength remains to him. His jaw gapping as he sees that it is Doran, Drenlyn quickly dismounts, sheathing his sword and removing his shield, "Erutirn, help me get him off the horse!"
Running forward, Drenlyn grasps the reins of the tormented steed, and seeks to draw Doran gently out of the saddle."
Jumping from his horse as he replaces his horn quickly, Erutirn hits the ground and is off towards Doran. He looks upon those wounds, "These wounds... what caused them?" He shakes his head as he helps lower the other knight off of his horse, "Let us make haste to get him to the others..." He looks back to his own steed, "My own steed could carry him if we get him upon the saddle."
Reaching up, Drenlyn pulls Doran gently to the ground with the help of Erutirn. Stripping off his own cloak, Drenlyn coils it and places it under Doran's head, "Nay, help me get this armor off of him, and I will do what I can to stop this bleeding. These wounds are beyond my knowledge to cure, but at least I can do what I may."
As he is eased down from his mount, Doran seems to move not at all. His face, ghostly pale before, now is flushed a dull red and is warm to the touch. A faint gurgling comes from the center of his chest: the the strained labouring of his torn lungs, and it seems that he clings to life still.
"I fear none have that knowledge, Drenlyn." Erutirn starts to work the damaged armour of the injuried knight. He looks upon the wounds shaking his head, "These wounds... what sort of weapon causes wounds like these?"
Now in the east upon the bridge comes the sound of iron-shod hoofbeats, and soon the darkness parts, divulging a ghostly shadow. White upon white, rider and destrier, Thorondur Edrahil returned at last. His face is pale and his horse is lathered, but they live.
Sipping the mail off of Doran, Drenlyn shakes his head as the sight of the wounds, "By Uinen, what I wouldn't give for some clean water now. Alas..."
So saying the knight reaches into the small pouch on his belt, drawing forth some gause, and a small leather bag of powder. Hearing hooves, he glances upwards, and sighs at the sight of the Herald but quickly returns his attention to Doran.
Sprinklying some of the crushed herb onto a square of gauze and presses it tightly to the Knight's oozing side. Cursing under his breath he procedes to wrap the length of rolled gauze about Dorans midsection, carefully liftin one side an then another.
With a great deal of care his companions are able to ease his chain jerkin over Doran's hair, causing little new damage to his ravaged body. Little blood trickles from the long slashes along the right side of his rib-cages, and the two distinct wounds feel strangely cool to the touch. Under Drenlyn's administrations Doran's head rolls slightly to the side and a faint, weary moan, barely to be heard, escapes his lips.
"Curse their dark sorcery," Thorondur bitterly complains as he swings down from the saddle, covering the ground between his horse and the others with swift, aggressive strides. "I will rue this day forever. Tell me, how is young Isilrim?"
Standing to address Thorondur, Erutirn speaks in a slow downbeat fashion, "I am no healer... but I think even the elven healers would have trouble saving his life..." He shakes his head slowly, "As for the healers of our land... I would fear he has no hope to be saved by mere human hands." He looks towards Drenlyn for the other man's opinon of the injuried knight.
Cursing the east as he finishes bandaging Doran, Drenlyn looks up to the Herald, "Not well Thorondur. He has lost much blood, and I fear that the weapons that made these cuts can not be healed by my skill. But for now we must move move him. His wounds need cleasing, and fresher herbs than I have now."
Thorondur's pale face darkens further now, as if a thunderhead rears above his brow and catches him meshed in its shadow standing over the brave and wounded knight, he scowls. "His wounds are griveous indeed, but there may yet be those in our realm who can heal them," he says. "Not all of our knowledge is lost. We will take him to Minas Tirith--"
"But I need a man who can ride, and swiftly! Who will ride to the Lady Ivriniel?"
Looking ruefully towards his tortured steed, Drenlyn shakes his head, "I would go, but my steed needs rest from it's torment today."
"Lord Thorondur, I may be injuried, but I am still one of the best riders in this land... I will ride ahead to seek the Lady Ivriniel." Erutirn turns to mount his horse. "Let me go... there is no need for me to stay here while one of my commrades slowly dies."
Swiftly now Thorondur whirls to find Erutirn mounting his horse, and nods a curt approval. "Then ride, Knight of Dol Amroth," he tells him, "Ride like the wind! Stop for nothing save a remount, and sleep not! The life of your sword-brother is at stake may Manwe send you speed, and Varda her grace."
Rising from Doran's side, Drenlyn nods to Erutirn, and moves to his own frightened steed, pulling a blanket from the saddle. Returning to the laying knight, Drenlyn drapes the blanket over him and whispers, "Yes...all speed will be needed now."
Quickly remounting his steed, Erutirn starts at full gallop across the bridge. "Fear not kinsmen, I shall not fail to get the Lady Ivriniel!" His cry is nearly lost at the end as the distance between him and the others increases rapidly.
o will ride to the Lady Ivriniel?"
Looking ruefully towards his tortured steed, Drenlyn shakes his head, "I would go, but my steed needs rest from it's torment today."
"Lord Thorondur, I may be injuried, but I am still one of the best riders in this land... I will ride ahead to seek the Lady Ivriniel." Erutirn turns to mount his horse. "Let me go... there is no need for me to stay here while one of my commrades slowly dies."
Swiftly now Thorondur whirls to find Erutirn mounting his horse, and nods a curt approval. "Then ride, Knight of Dol Amroth," he tells him, "Ride like the wind! Stop for nothing save a remount, and sleep not! The life of your sword-brother is at stake may Manwe send you speed, and Varda her grace."
Rising from Doran's side, Drenlyn nods to Erutirn, and moves to his own frightened steed, pulling a blanket from the saddle. Returning to the laying knight, Drenlyn drapes the blanket over him and whispers, "Yes...all speed will be needed now."
Quickly remounting his steed, Erutirn starts at full gallop across the bridge. "Fear not kinsmen, I shall not fail to get the Lady Ivriniel!" His cry is nearly lost at the end as the distance between him and the others increases rapidly.
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