[TATW] - The Tale of the North - Chapter 6: The Fall of Glorfindel

[nine-o]

Chapter 1 - The Meeting

Chapter 2 - Malvegil's March

Chapter 3 - Fallen into Shadow

Chapter 4 - War in the North

Chapter 5 - The Grey Death

Chapter 6 - The Fall of Glorfindel

[nine-o]

So... I've sort-of been neglecting my AAR writing. In my defense, I work as a software developer and my company just signed the US Navy... turns out they're rather large and demanding, and I haven't seen daylight in 6 weeks.

Anyway, I'm through the worst parts now, and I've still got a decent yarn to spin. My first update will be tonite after work!

[nine-o]

Chapter 1 - The Meeting


The meeting took place on a late autumn night. While still warm, the rain that fell that night was as cold as the hearts of the creatures that crept outside the walls of Bree. When the rain struck the ground, it released a mist that froze any mirth in the hearts of the townsfolk.


“A right fretful night, yessir.”


The innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, repeated the same phrase to the each of the many guests that came to the Inn of the Prancing Pony that night.


Indeed, the eviler the night, the more folk crowded themselves into the Inn, eager for its good cheer and warm fire. There were several hobbits, a few travel-worn dwarves, and many glassy-eyed townfolk, all deep into their ale, trying to enjoy their time of leisure after the long work of the harvest. They sang what songs they knew, but the gloom of the night weighed heavily on their hearts, and despite the efforts of their barkeeper to rouse their spirits they spent much of the evening staring distantly into their mugs, dreading the coming winter. Yet even in this uncomfortable silence, none left, for alone the same gloom would have been compounded by the overwhelming evil of that dreadful night.


Yet despite that dreadful night, these simple folk were unwittingly about to bear witness to a grand event, one that would influence the lives of all present and many, many more. Through the door, barely a minute before the stroke of 11 on Barliman’s colourful cuckoo clock, strode a tall, careworn man. He was drenched, covered up to his knees in mud and brambles. He carried a great bow, a long sword at his side, and wore a thick green cloak, clasped at his throat with a silver star. Barliman, seemingly unnerved by the man, went over to him, and after exchanging a few words and several silver pieces he was handed a room key, and shortly after a tall mug of ale.


The man took a long, deep drink from his mug, and settled into his chair in the corner by the fire, his face hidden in the shadows cast by his cloak in the firelight. Nobody in the room attempted to make conversation with him, save for a nod of greeting from one of the dwarves, and he was equally as silent. The man was known to all of them as a Ranger, the kind of mysterious, dangerous man that was best left well enough alone. This one, known to a few there as Strider, was darker and even more mysterious than the rest, and that was saying a lot. After a quarter of an hour, the man pulled a long pipe from his cloak, and rummaging deep within the pack he carried on his back, pulled out a small wooden box, and filled his pipe with its contents. The smoke drifted lazily around him, and obscured his face from view even further… except, perhaps, for his eyes. With each drag upon the pipe, the burning coals lit up the man’s eyes: brilliant eyes, eyes that seemed – to anyone who dared look into them - to pierce through the gloom of the night, like a cold draft though a stuffy room.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The man seemed unconcerned with his surroundings, but his eyes never wandered far from the door. Slowly the minutes ticked by, until suddenly the door was flung open, and inside stepped Gandalf the Grey. The night’s rain flowed like a stream in the spring through his long hair and beard. He carried a rough wooden staff, and his quick, bright eyes took in his surroundings in an instant. “Barliman!” he yelled, causing the good innkeeper to leap to his feet in surprise. “Bring me your finest glass of ale, and some hot beef stew. It’s been a frightful night for walking, my good man, so try to quicken your plodding pace!”

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

As the poor bartender raced around his kitchen, frantically chopping and stirring, Strider looked on and chuckled to himself. “There’s as good a chance you’ll see a finger in that stew as beef, Gandalf my friend, as that is a pace I doubt our poor Barliman can maintain!”


Gandalf laughed in turn. “A change of pace is good for old Butterbur… indeed Aragorn, son of Arathorn, change is the very subject I have asked you here to discuss.


“Indeed,” said Strider, or Aragorn if you prefer, “I thought as much. There was a note of urgency to Ragadast’s voice that I had not heard in our previous encounters. What change is vexing you so, that you found the need to summon me through the forest and across the mountains, to this cozy inn at 11pm (or thereabouts) on such a night? And also, what delays you so severely that I had nearly dozed off by the fire?”


Gandalf’s eyes flashed in mock indignation. “As I’ve previously informed you and others, my Ranger of the North, a wizard arrives precisely when he means to.”


Aragorn laughed, and Barliman nearly leapt out of his skin at the sound. Gandalf, after giving the innkeeper stern warning not to burn his stew, leaned in close, and spoke in a tone that suggested the niceties were at an end. “Indeed, I have summoned you here to discuss change. Perhaps you have sensed it yourself. The shadow grows darker: it’s become a gloom that can be felt even here, by the simple folk in our cozy Bree. The orcs multiply in the far North, and I’m sure you’ve encountered your fair share crossing the mountains.”


Aragorn grimaced. “Indeed, I endured a few close encounters, but the growing number of orcs in the Misty Mountains is not news to me. It has been many years since their war with the dwarves, and their enemies there are few.”


Gandalf sighed, “Perhaps, but there are far fouler things than orcs creeping through the forests these days. You and your Rangers know them well, as your constant vigil brings you into intimate contact. It is the increase in their numbers that has caused me to grow concerned - concerned enough to summon you here. I have journeyed from Annúminas, and the curse that has been laid upon those lands grows stronger with each passing night.”


With a sigh, Aragorn leaned closer. “What do you ask of me, old friend? I have never heard you speak thusly. What great doom weighs upon your mind?”


Gandalf looked up, and their eyes met.


“Sauron is rising again. This time of watchful peace we have enjoyed for so long is coming to an end. Evil is gaining Strength, Shadow turns to Darkness, and Watchfulness is turning into Fear. I have sought council among the wise…”


Gandalf stared out the window for a few moments, a sad expression on his face, and then continued. “…they all have their own concerns, and none of them can spare strength to aid the North.”


His eyes burned like blue fire as he stared at Aragorn. “The North needs a King, Aragorn. The North needs you.”


Aragorn sat, his head bowed, and Gandalf knew he was torn. “There is a weakness in my blood, a frailty that haunts us still. I see no way my line can save the North, and there are too few of us left to try. I will fight on, but not as King. I will fight as Strider.”


Gandalf slammed the butt of his staff upon the floor, and Barliman, bringing the stew at last, spilled the bowl on the floor. One look from Gandalf sent him scurrying off to get another.


“Strider? So you would hide in the shadows, when you could lead your people from the darkness. There is strength in the North!”


Gandalf rose to his feet, his voice booming and the room darkening around him. He continued.


“There is strength in the North. There is strength in the Shire, strength to slay dragons and raise kingdoms from the ashes. There is strength in the Dúnedain, if they stand tall and step out of the shadows. There is strength in the Northmen, strength to stand their ground against the ages, strength that brought them here before the Númenóreans came to these shores, and strength that kept them here long after the Númenórean Kingdoms fell into ruin. The North is strong, but it must be united. It must be cleansed.”


Aragorn stood up, and to those present he seemed to grow taller and stronger. He threw back his hood, and his eyes lit up with a fire none of those townsfolk had seen before or since. His voice rose, and he said “Mithrandir, I truly wish to rise to the heights you desire of me. But I fear I cannot do so alone. If you will join me, and become my councillor, I will accept your offer. You must cease your wandering, Grey Pilgrim. You must join the North.”


Gandalf bowed, and said “By my staff, I will serve the free people of the North.”


Aragorn drew his sword, which was broken in pieces.


“Then this must be repaired.”


He sheathed it once again, and continued.


“We have a journey to undertake, my friend. I wish to see the darkness that lays over Annúminas with my own eyes. The ruins of the House of Kings shall be where our labour begins.” He gave Barliman the key, and together he and Gandalf stepped out into the night air.


It had stopped raining, and the mist had cleared.

[nine-o]

...and that should set up the wonderful game-based action.

[Tigellinus]

Love it how tonight turned into six months

A great start mate! cant wait for more! Always loved the lord of the rings!

[Bowmaster]

Are you trying to write like Tolkien? Well if you do, you are doing it well.

Edit: Are you using any submods? And it'd be nice to use spoilers or contentboxes so that it doesn't take so long to load the pictures when you enter the thread.

[nine-o]

Love it how tonight turned into six months

A great start mate! cant wait for more! Always loved the lord of the rings!

Ugg... yeah, I've been swamped beyond compare. Things finally loosened up a bit. Thanks!

Are you trying to write like Tolkien? Well if you do, you are doing it well.

Edit: Are you using any submods? And it'd be nice to use spoilers or contentboxes so that it doesn't take so long to load the pictures when you enter the thread.

I'm going for as much a Tolkien-esque feel as possible, so that's definitely a compliment, thanks! I'll see what I can do about those spoilers.

Edit: Missed the first quesion, nope no submods here, I'll be using TATW 3.2 "vanilla", if you will.

[Bowmaster]

That's better.

[nine-o]

Chapter 2 - Malvegil’s March


The King’s messenger had only recently left, but his words burned in Malvegil’s mind. While the townsfolk argued and debated, he had left for his homestead, in the hills to the far north of Bree. When he had returned to the center of town, a large crowd had gathered.


“We been getting by just fine without any ol’ King!”


This seemed to be the common refrain among most of the people. They were all afraid: afraid for their home, afraid for their crops, and afraid for their families. They had fended off the evils around them since time immemorial, and the promise of ending them permanently seemed, to them at least, unrealistic. No, it would be better to stay here, and live the simple life they have always lived. The King should deal with his own problems.


Yet some of the farmers, many of whom tilled the fields in the more remote parts of Bree-land, argued against this complacency. One old farmer, grey and stooped yet with a strong, capable look about him, stepped forward to speak.


“Ever since them Rangers left, evil things have been happening. I reckon we’d all never quite gave those folks the credit they deserved. We’d best think of ‘elping this King, in my view… none of you want to ‘ere the howling of them wargs that we hear every night out east. No sir. We ought to go stick a spear n’ their bellies first!”


While this brought silence to much of the crowd, one man laughed, a rough, coarse sound that caused the old farmer to frown.


“You n’ yer wargs, Tom Cuthbert. Yev spent too many winters on that farm o’ yours, you ol’ fool! Its made yer brain soft. Ain’t no wargs in Bree-land!”


The speaker also stepped forward, facing the crowd. Exceedingly ugly, with a tangled may of greasy black hair and a mostly-toothless smile, he was followed closely by an older boy, so like in appearance that he was obviously the man’s son. He continued, in a mocking tone:


“Ye might stay here, and live how we’ve always lived, or ye can follow some damn fool King to death chasing imaginary goblins and wargs off till ye starve in the mountains off yonder. Ain’t much of a choice, if ye ask me!”


The man spat, and the crowd began to mumble its agreement.


Yet Malvegil was not about to let this man have the last word. As he came forward, the crowd hushed again, except for the odd whisper. Malvegil was well respected within the town, and his opinion carried great weight.


He strode towards the old farmer and the black-haired man, and they and the rest of the crown stared, for Malvegil was not clad as a Breelander was normally clad. He had on the green garb of the Bree-land militia, of which he was the captain. In his right hand he carried his stout spear, a long knife on his belt, and his shield was strapped to his left arm. He wore stout leather armour and a good steel helmet, and as he walked through the crowd he looked about him angrily.


“Yer a coward, a thief, and a liar Jim Ferny, and yer poor boy is amounting to no better.”


He turned back to the crowd. Jim Ferny spat and stared darkly at Malvegil, but dared not interrupt.


“Which among us is fool enough to listen to this crooked man? Not I! We all know the truth. The truth is that those rangers were protecting us, and now they’re gone off to who-knows-where. Now all them dark, evil things we used to tell stories about are creeping into our homes at night. I’ve heard the wargs howling myself at night, and I dare anyone to name me a fool!”


The crowd fell completely silent, and Malvegil continued.


“Now you’ve all made me the head o’ this town’s militia, and I reckon that means I’ve got a decision to make. Now I’m not going to stand here while our livestock gets eaten, while our crops wither and die, and while shadows and demons haunt our women and children. If this King in the old ruins promises to help us, then I’ll be damned if I don’t go see if he can!”


The townsfolk cheered, and Jim and Bill, with the same bitter look on both their faces, went creeping back towards their hut.


Malvegil left that afternoon with a few dozen of the town’s militia, and returned five days later to report that indeed, a whole army was gathering, from all the villages within a fortnight’s march. At this news a great commotion went up in Bree. First by the dozens, then hundreds, more and more men left to join the King’s army, and in a gathering of the whole town they agreed to join Bree with the King, in the union the King had called the Free Peoples of Eriador.


Finally, Malvegil, having bid farewell to his wife and leaving the farm to his sons, gathered his stout band of militiamen together. Four score and ten men he had mustered, and at sunset they left, the last of the Breeland militia to depart.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

They planned on marching all through the night and sleeping during the day, as the Bree-land militia had learned it was now best to be awake at night when on the move. The first night passed uneventfully, and at sunset on the second day they prepared to march again.


Malvegil, strode off to the front of the line, where old Tom Cuthbert leaned against his spear, tucking his grey hair under his helmet with his left hand. He smiled at the young man as he approached.


“Here’s to another safe march, m’boy! The men should be ready soon.”


As they discussed the night’s plans and then men strapped on their helmets, the sky began to darken. It was still a half-hour before the sun would sink below the horizon, but the night began to creep around them, like the blackest cat stalking its prey. Soon there was a tremendous burst of thunder, and the rain began to pour like none of the men had ever seen before. Tom spoke quietly, so that only Malvegil could hear him.


“This is unlike any storm I’ve ever seen before… it’s come up faster than an eagle in flight.”


Tom stopped, as over the storm they heard a noise that froze their blood: a single, lone howl.


Immediately the men scrambled to their feet. Spears were gathered up, and shield’s raised. Malvegil ran towards the sound, and off in the distance, he spotted a large dark shape, bounding off into the woods.


“What was it?” asked Tom, walking up behind him.


Malvegil sighed.“Tom, I’m hoping I’ve erred, but I’d say it was a scout.”


Three hours passed, and the men raced onwards. As they drew closer to the ruins of Annúminas, the hope grew in their hearts that there had only been one warg, or that they had somehow lost track of the militiamen.
Sadly, it was not to be. As they climbed a hill, they spotted a line of shadows coming out of the gloom.


“Warg riders! There’s hundreds of them!”

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The men in the front ran back in panic, and their ranks for a moment became a tangled mess. Yet all was not yet lost. These men had a leader, one that was not so easily cowed. Malvegil charged to the front of the group, raising his spear and shouting.


“Men, take heart! We cannot outrun these beasts, we must stand our ground! Now grip your spears, and hold your shields high! We’ll make our stand at the top of this hill, and if those wargs want our lives, they can come and try to take them!”


They made it to the top of the hill, taking up position by an apple tree, and waited for their enemy to join them.


It did not take long.


The wargs came charging up the hill, snarling furiously. On their backs rode terrible orcs in mail armour, screaming curses in an unknown tongue and taunting their prey. They did not let up, charging straight at the terrified militiamen.


“Hold! Hold your ground! Keep your spears held high!”


Malvegil joined the men at the front of the group. The wargs charged over a small ridge in front of them, and seeing their bloodthirsty eyes and horrible fangs, a feeling rose in his heart. This was not fear, nor despair, but instead a deep, terrible rage: one his ancestors, the brave warriors of the North, could easily have identified. He let out a bloodcurdling war-cry, and for a split second the wargs hesitated, before charging the final distance into their ranks.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The terrible crash of men, spear, and beast drowned out around the noise of the storm around them. Wargs howled, orcs screamed, and sword and fang tore at green-painted shields. Yet the militia men from Bree held firm, led by Malvegil. The brave Northerner pushed back with his shield and stabbed ferociously, the bloodlust of his ancestors coursing through his veins.


Yet the men of Bree were outnumbered. More and more wargs came up, and soon the men were surrounded. Warg after warg fell to their spears, but inch by inch the Bree-landers gave way, some being hacked down by a blow from an orc blade or ripped apart by a warg. Tom and Malvegil stood their ground, but soon they would be overwhelmed.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Yet as the saying goes, the darkest night often leads to the brightest dawn. From the woods to the south, a sound was heard, one that had not been heard in that land for centuries. Over the storm and the din of battle it rang, and the entire battle, man, warg, and orc, paused and gazed through the rain to the south.


Out of the woods, mounted on magnificent war steeds, came the Dúnedain of the North, sounding their horns.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Up the hill they charged towards the battle, and the wargs tore off towards them, leaving the Breelanders on the hill. The Northmen let out a great cheer: all except Malvegil.


“Their numbers are too few! We must help them! FORWARD!”


Malvegil tore off down the hill after the wargs, followed closely by rest of the men. Meanwhile, the Dúnedain tore through the first wave of wargs, splintering their spears in the beast’s terrible faces, and drawing their swords they strove with the orcs. Malvegil buried his spear into a charging beast, and drawing his long knife plunged into a group of wargs making their way towards the Dúnedain.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The rest of the Breelanders followed, and the battle raged on.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Finally, as dawn approached, the few remaining wargs, most of them without a rider, fled off to the north, yelping at their wounds. The men cheered, and the Dúnedain blasted on their horns in celebration.


Yet despite the victory, Old Tom did not join the the celebrations. He knelt beside a single Breelander surrounded by warg carcasses, and silently and bitterly he wept.


Malvegil had fallen.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

He was was buried alone, under the apple tree, and the Dunedain and the Northmen together sang his praises. Word of his deeds reached the King, and a small but beautiful marble monument was set over his grave, forever immortalizing the bravery of Malvegil Wolfsbane.


No warg was ever seen near the Bree-land again.

[Bowmaster]

There are some sentences which you wrote very well.

While the townsfolk argued and debated, he had left for his homestead, in the hills to the far north of Bree.

Yet some of the farmers, many of whom tilled the fields in the more remote parts of Bree-land, argued against this complacency.

“Ever since them Rangers left, evil things have been happening. I reckon we’d all never quite gave those folks the credit they deserved. We’d best think of ‘elping this King, in my view… none of you want to ‘ere the howling of them wargs that we hear every night out east. No sir. We ought to go stick a spear n’ their bellies first!”

He had on the green garb of the Bree-land militia, of which he was the captain. In his right hand he carried his stout spear, a long knife on his belt, and his shield was strapped to his left arm. He wore stout leather armour and a good steel helmet, and as he walked through the crowd he looked about him angrily.

Now I’m not going to stand here while our livestock gets eaten, while our crops wither and die, and while shadows and demons haunt our women and children.

Malvegil, strode off to the front of the line, where old Tom Cuthbert leaned against his spear, tucking his grey hair under his helmet with his left hand.

Soon there was a tremendous burst of thunder, and the rain began to pour like none of the men had ever seen before.

As they climbed a hill, they spotted a line of shadows coming out of the gloom.

Now grip your spears, and hold your shields high!

On their backs rode terrible orcs in mail armour, screaming curses in an unknown tongue and taunting their prey.

This was not fear, nor despair, but instead a deep, terrible rage: one his ancestors, the brave warriors of the North, could easily have identified.

Yet as the saying goes, the darkest night often leads to the brightest dawn.

From the woods to the south, a sound was heard, one that had not been heard in that land for centuries.

Out of the woods, mounted on magnificent war steeds, came the Dúnedain of the North, sounding their horns.

Finally, as dawn approached, the few remaining wargs, most of them without a rider, fled off to the north, yelping at their wounds. The men cheered, and the Dúnedain blasted on their horns in celebration.

Word of his deeds reached the King, and a small but beautiful marble monument was set over his grave, forever immortalizing the bravery of Malvegil Wolfsbane.

I liked these quotes a lot!

[nine-o]

I liked these quotes a lot!

Thanks!

[Sweaft]

This is some excellent stuff! I don't really know much about Lord of the Rings, but what you're doing here is great! Now I can immerse myself into the story. Eagerly waiting for more! and +rep!

[nine-o]

This is some excellent stuff! I don't really know much about Lord of the Rings, but what you're doing here is great! Now I can immerse myself into the story. Eagerly waiting for more! and +rep!

Thanks man! I'm trying to develop all the characters independently of LOTR, so hopefully readers without knowledge of Tolkien's work can still follow.

[Radzeer]

Nicely written! I'm not sure you need all the pics in separate spoilers as you don't have that many (too many clicks!), but it's a preference issue.
But I like your writing style, and the fact that this is a challenging genre makes it even more glorious!

[nine-o]

Nicely written! I'm not sure you need all the pics in separate spoilers as you don't have that many (too many clicks!), but it's a preference issue.
But I like your writing style, and the fact that this is a challenging genre makes it even more glorious!

To be honest, I don't like spoilers, I feel they break up the flow. However I've read requests for them due to page load times in a few AARs and had a request for this one, and I want to be accommodating to slow connections everywhere haha. Thanks for that advice, I'll definitely keep that in mind.

The Quill has got it right, its not easy emulating an alternate Tolkien universe (especially when the damn High Elves attack the Dwarves... gah!) but I actually think this suits my writing style (which is basically a flimsy homage to Tolkien anyway haha), and this time I've got it planned out pretty far ahead. My last AAR, which I loved but which caught me off guard a few times, taught me the importance of planning...

[nine-o]

Chapter 3 - Fallen into Shadow


Théoden, the King of Rohan, rode slowly over the top of the hill. The morning had dawned as bright and fair as a young maiden’s smile, and his heart raced with the anticipation of the battle to come. He was young and strong, and his golden hair waved like a standard in the wind as he rode down the line of men, inspecting their readiness. The Rohirrim had made good time, riding hard over the hills of the Westfold through half the night. They had camped behind the hill, while Théoden’s scouts kept him informed of every movement the enemy made.


By all accounts, the fools were coming straight for him.


The first report of trouble had come from riders dispatched from a small village on the banks of the river Isen. They had reported that fifteen hundred Dunlendings had crossed the Fords of Isen, and that they were slaughtering livestock and burning homesteads as they came.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The King’s mood soured as he thought of the man in charge of the patrol at the Fords: Grima Wormtongue. He swore to himself that Grima would answer for the loss of life and livestock his oversight had cost, and no amount of soothing words would soften the punishment, not this time. This was unforgivable.


Théoden shook his head, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. He would teach these wild men that raiding the Lands of the Mark would not go unpunished. The scouts reported that they were not far off now, and still marching straight towards them, likely heading towards a small village directly to their east. Théoden smiled grimly.


They would not get there.


Théoden could now hear the trample of hundreds of Dunlending feet as the hillmen, all of whom were on foot, came over another hill in the distance, and began descending into the small valley below, which was crucial to his plans. His scouts had told him that there were three Dunlendings for every two riders, but the superior arms and armour of the Rohirrim more than evened those odds, and their matchless horses gave the Rohirrim the advantage.


Théoden stroked Lightfoot’s mane, and then spurred her over the top of the hill, his bodyguard following him. Now within sight of the enemy, he called out to them in a clear voice.


“Good day men of the hills! Rejoice and be glad, for your last morning upon this earth is truly a glorious one!”


The Dunlending’s laughed, and kept coming. Confident in his plans, Théoden stood his ground, and inspected their ranks. His eyes stopped on some men in the middle of the group. They appeared taller and stronger than the rest of the hillmen, and they were well armed, with blackened armour, large shields, and long, grim swords. Théoden took note of them: the King’s Guard would deal with this threat.


The Dunlendings were now growing angry at the insolence of the small group of horsemen at the top of the hill, staring down at their sizable army. They charged to the bottom of the valley, and began mounting the hill to chase them down.


Théoden set his plans in motion. A signal was given to Éomund, the Chief Marshall of the Mark, who blew three fierce blasts on his great horn. A great storm of arrows poured down onto the unsuspecting Dunlendings. Their shields had not been raised as they charged up the hill, and many fell.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

To the horror of the men below, at the top of the hill suddenly appeared the main strength of the Rohirrim. Their archers reloaded as they rode, and continued firing down upon the heads of the raiders. The Dunlendings traced a grim trail of death up the hill, but still they kept coming, led by the well-armed men in their center. After the archers had loosed most of their arrows, Théoden gave another signal: He pointed his arm straight forward, and with a single blast of Éomund’s horn the main body of his riders charged down the hill and into the hillmen.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Théoden, however, had not charged. The wise King had staged many a battle for Rohan, and he had one more part to play that morning. He spurred Lightfoot around the left flank of the Dunlendings, followed by the King’s Guard and the archers, who now pulled out their swords and axes. As he rode he glanced to his left, and was faced with a terrible sight:


The White Hand of Saruman, on a large black banner, was being carried up the hill by the well-armed men.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The blood of the King boiled with anger, and he gave one last fierce signal, pointing his spear to his left. In a grand circling manoeuvre, a showcase of the skill of the Riders of the Mark, they rode around the hillmen and charged into the rear of their army. Théoden himself rode into thick of the battle, and hewed down many of the armour-clad warriors. Lightfoot’s mane was flecked with red… but as he struck down a particularly fearsome warrior, her white hair showed a new colour: black.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Théoden was enraged. Saruman had not only sent an army into his realm, but he had sent an army containing orcs. He set his jaw.


They would all die.


The Rohirrim surrounded the remains of the enemy army, and began the grim work of hewing them all down. No quarter was given, and not one escaped the circle of grim horsemen. The orcs, of a larger breed than Théoden had ever encountered before, fought long and hard, but in the end they were overcome. The day belonged to Rohan.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

When Théoden met with his council that night, he seemed to his men more grim than usual. He was silent as they ate their evening meal, and after giving basic orders for the next morning’s march, he left his tent with a few guards.


He visited the tents where his scouts spent their nights, the men snapping to attention as their captain hurried over to the king.


“Sire, what can I do for you?”


The King led the captain out to the pile of orc bodies which were to be burned shortly. He gave the man a simple order.


“Take two orc heads from the pile, and make sure the white hand is prominent on both. Take one south to Minas Tirith, and one to the King in the North in the City of Ruins. Give each a simple message: Saruman has fallen into shadow.”

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

[Swaeft]

Haha, another great chapter! I'm reading AARs to find inspiration now, and yours may well have done the trick. Don't worry though, I won't copy anything, its the writing that inspired me, not the style. Another great chapter, and now it is time to see if Gondor can replicate your feats. Onward, men!

[nine-o]

Haha, another great chapter! I'm reading AARs to find inspiration now, and yours may well have done the trick. Don't worry though, I won't copy anything, its the writing that inspired me, not the style. Another great chapter, and now it is time to see if Gondor can replicate your feats. Onward, men!

Gondor's a blast in this mod too, really all the factions are extremely well done. Thanks for the kind words! Hopefully I should have another update tonight... war in the north, maybe?

[nine-o]

As in my previous AAR, I don't start warfare in earnest until enough time has elapsed for them to get prepared. In my current game, that was 40 turns, or 5 years. This chapter will hopefully give you a small idea of how my key towns and characters are developing, but its also a setup for my first serious war!

[nine-o]

Chapter 4 – War in the North


The crowds lined the main thoroughfare of Annúminas, the City of Ruins, which was now a bustling town of thousands. Dúnedain and Northmen mingled happily, as street vendors and trinket-dealers touted their wares. There was pipe-weed from the Southfarthing, apples and legs of mutton from Bree, and all manner of elvish delights, some from the Havens in the West, some from Rivendell in the East. The northern gate in the newly-built wooden walls stood wide open and green-clad soldiers lined the entrance. All were in a festive mood, waiting for the return of the King.


Aragorn had spent many months in the far North, fighting off the constant raiding of orcs from the mountains. He had established a base of operations at Deadman’s Dike, which he had officially renamed “Fornost” as it had been known in the days of the old Kingdom. The tales of ghosts had at first kept people away, and Aragorn and his army had strove against the goblin bandits alone. Eventually, as Gandalf had done at Annúminas, Aragorn and his Dúnedain had driven away the shadow with sword and flame. He and the Dúnedain had built sturdy wooden fortifications, and first the soldiers from other towns, then their wives and families settled around Fornost. It was now a settlement of a few thousand people, and its constant guard against the enemy in the North had kept the rest of Eriador safe and secure.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The mayor of Bree, Mallor, marched through the gate with an escort of Breeland militia. Mallor was the brother of Malvegil, and had been elected mayor a year after his brother’s death. He had presided over the most prosperous years within living memory in Bree. The King had commissioned the construction of roads and bridges throughout Eriador, and with all the acquired knowledge of Westerness he had aided the farmers of Bree-land and the rest of Eriador. All good things that grow had thrived under the King in the North, and men fleeing the troubles elsewhere in the world found refuge under his protection. Thousands now resided in Bree, and its central location had made it the hub of trade in the North.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Gandalf left the City Hall in the south, signing edicts as he walked and issuing orders to the men around him. The Hall had been rebuilt from the ruins of the Great Hall of old. The skill of Dwarves, now friends and allies of the Free Peoples, was clearly apparent in each and every rejuvenated stone.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

He rode through the streets towards the gate. Long gone were the evil spirits that had dwelt there only five years earlier, driven out by the fires of Gandalf and the will of the Dúnedain. The bandits that had plagued the surrounding areas had taken longer to subdue, but they eventually fell prey to the Rangers of the North, whose skill in the wild was unsurpassed. Gandalf was a stern but fair adjudicator, and his judgements, which had the full support of the King, were never questioned.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

However, while the darkness that had dwelt amid the ruins had receded, the city still had a strange, surreal quality to it. It was now a thriving town of thousands, but the new buildings sprouted from the ruins of a city that clearly was once much larger and more powerful. The old stones lent the Free People’s their strength, but it came with a powerful, lingering sadness as well.


Gandalf arrived at the gate, greeted with adoration from the crowd. He greeted them with a smile, and then raised his arms. The crowd immediately fell silent.


“Free people of the North, and those who have joined us from distant lands! Long have you laboured, and the fruits of your toil are all about you! We have gone from a scattered group of individuals to something much stronger: a true Dominion of the North! Our toil is not yet near its end, but for today let us celebrate life, summer, and plenty! Today let us celebrate the return of the King!”


The crown erupted in applause, and at that moment the horns of the Dúnedain sounded in the distance. The King had come.


Three hours later, Aragorn shut the door of his room behind him. The House of Kings had not been rebuilt: not until he was truly the King of a restored Arnor would he allow it. Instead he lived in a simple wooden house, as did most of his people. He sighed deeply, finally allowing the weariness to show on his face. He had fought against evil that would freeze the heart of a normal man for nearly 60 years, and though he did not age as you or I would age, the years still played on his soul.


He walked over to a large wooden desk by the fire, picking up a scroll containing information about the treasury. The wealth of the Free Peoples had greatly increased, and they had been stockpiling gold in anticipation of full-scale war in the North.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Now, however, his way forward had become more complicated. The suspicions of Gandalf had been confirmed, as a messenger from Rohan in the South had shown Aragorn proof not an hour before: Saruman had turned to evil, and he had engaged in war with Rohan. Even worse, he was breeding orcs, which meant Sauron was likely involved in his machinations.


There was a knock on the door, and Gandalf entered, his tattered grey robes sweeping across the floor. There was no fatigue on his face: In fact, Aragorn could not recall a time where Gandalf had ever looked tired. They embraced as brothers, and Gandalf led him to the small balcony overlooking the ruins of the House of Kings.


Aragorn stared out over the windswept marble and granite, and sighed. “This is evil news Gandalf. Not only have we lost a key ally, but we must now fight a war on two fronts. Do we have the strength to contain the orcs in the North and the power of the White Wizard in the south?”


Gandalf looked at the King, and sighed. “You are the King, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and you know the truth better than any: The Free Peoples cannot stand against both Gundabad and Isenguard. A war on two fronts will break us.”


Aragorn looked at Gandalf, puzzled. “What else can I do? The white wizard is now a pawn of the Dark Lord, and our allies in the South beg for aid. My hand has been forced.”


“There is no reason yet to end our peace with Isenguard, my King.” Gandalf replied. “We can remain friends with Saruman, in name at least. Even if our allies lose faith and our enemy grows stronger, we can, and indeed must, remain friends with Isenguard, for our true enemy is out there.” Gandalf swept his arm out over the northern horizon.


“We must destroy it once and for all, Aragorn. We must destroy Gundabad. Isenguard can wait.”

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: