[TATW AAR] Rhun AAR

[sirfiggin]

OK, I got the idea for this story during my second Rhun campaign, due to my mutual dislike of most image sites it will be texted-based for the foreseeable future- but the premise is this, in the Simarillion tolkien mentions that in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, some of the easterners who fought there did not turn against the Eldar and Edain, but fought with them, unfortunately dying to a man. The point being is that all men, even evil men, had a chance of turning against Sauron, if so compelled, so that is the basic, but not precise, premise of the AAR I'm going to write.
Anyone interested?

[Commander5xl]

sure

[sirfiggin]

sweet, first chapter soon.

[sirfiggin]

First chapter, tell me what you think-

Chapter 1, Mirkwood burns

The column snaked through the ash of the trees of Mirkwood, the cruel light of mid-morning bleaching the rich soil white as the final wisps of smoke rose, the terminal breaths of beings far older than any that walked in that column, so far from home, older even than the strange people who had once danced between their branches... but no more.

The men in the column are strange; veils of wool cover their mouths, heads and hair, they wear gold as though it were a mere trinket- less valued than the food in their packs or the rain on their skin- that was how it was to them, so that was how they treated it. At the head of that column is a man on a fine black horse, other beasts are skittish and restless, fearing the minds using them as burden, but not this horse. The figure riding him is not like many of his kin. He has the coppery skin and bow legs, typical of the men who ride for months in the eastern sun. But he is a good foot higher, his hair dark, his eyes grey, he resembles more one of the Edain than the men of the steppes. But it is not so. Bor, of the house of Borthand, Cheiftain of Rhun, Khand, Rhovanion, Dale and the Mountain is not from the West at all.

For the first time in the 27 years of his life, Bor is troubled. Until now, the way of Sauron, emissary of the God of the Void, the Giver of Freedom, had been so clear. It had been 2 years that he had been told by the Khan Borthand himself that he was to lead a great host into the realm of the Sindarin, to take the gaze of his lord further than it had stretched before. He headed North from Dale, into the Woodland realm, where Thandril was said to have hallowed pools and such riches to buy the Khan a legion of mercenaries from as far as Umbar to the Blue Mountains, but it was not to be. Bor learnt too late of what had become of the Woodland realm, one of his outriders came in, seeing a great cloud of smoke, when the column reached it the curtain of death was still burning strong, and had blotted out the sun...

[Commander5xl]

cool

[sirfiggin]

OK, doing it for realsies soon, check TATW AAR subsection, will be a new Rhunic AAR

[sirfiggin]

I'm on photobucket! gonna get some good pictures then figure how to get them in the story!

[sirfiggin]

ok photos not on, because principle characters die and I'm taking the story down a different route, still same chapter.

Bor rode with all haste to the inferno ahead, the wild temperaments of his homeland making him oblivious of the heat. The scout rode with him, a wiry fellow from the wilderlands, by the name of Baljun, along with his personal guard.
" When did the blaze begin, and who unleashed it?" Asked Bor of Baljun, "For it is too far to the North, and the wood-folk are known to protect it"
Here Baljun hesitated, his sun-scarred face cringing with discomfort at telling his master an uncomfortable fact.
"It was the mountain-folk my lord," He mumbled, a man with a five gallon chest and the battle-cry of a lion, "They came in great numbers from the west, while the blind sorcerer of Dol Guldor started an enchantment of drought the mountain-folk slew the woodfolk and set the forests ablaze"

A feeling of dread washed over Bor, it was unlike any feeling he had felt before that day. Even when his father failed to come home in his boyhood days, and the wild Variags came instead with fire and shot... but enough of the past, he was a Chief of the Rhun, one of the seven lords, he needed to act like it.

"We must congratulate our brothers, the mountain-folk, on their victory over the woodmen, traitors against Melkor" He said to his company, "Tell the men to make camp in lee of the forest" He watched as the nearest trees collapsed in a heap of soot and charcoal. "Plenty of fuel left for the fires at least" said Baljun, earning a dozen lashes from a crueller lord. Bor urged his mount closer to Baljun, so that he could hold private counsel;

"In truth my friend I feel we will need the men soon, for this business fills me only with forboding, I fear that the mountain-folk may try something ill when I meet them, and that steel and barbs will be needed. Listen for the call of the Larin-hawk, if it cries from the woods you are to tell the men to advance to it's source, with all haste. Tell my brother Ulfang that he will lead the host in my place if our plan need be played, he is a good man and I do not doubt his bow-arm will not waver"
A mix of awe and doubt crossed Baljun's face at his master's words, he had not spoken like before and the rider saw a great change in his master's face. Bor jovially nudged the young man's shoulder to cover his obvious confusion, "Go fast my man and carry though my instructions" he roared " I will be back in a day with my retinue, unless our host mean's to detain us further!" With those words, whose full meaning only the suddenly very scared scout grasped, Bor spurred his horse into a triumphant rear into the sunset, sword drawn. Before he charged into the darkness of the wilted woods, followed by his guard.

The men cheered, they loved the man that led them, that had brought them to victory and shared so many of their hardships on the way.
They would follow him to hell and back if he asked them.
Poor sods, thought Baljun, readying himself for the new peril that only he in the camp saw plain.

[sirfiggin]

Chapter 2, The Halls of Black Blood

Baljun pelted the grey ground to billowing clouds behind his horse, back the two leagues between his last meeting with Bor and the main camp. When he arrived, the harsher glare of the afternoon sun was dying, falling westward in a gory cloak of blood-red sky. Ulfang, the younger, less heroic son of Borthand the Rising Sun was the first man Baljun saw, dilligently skinning a deer he caught but an hour ago. The corpse gave off the heat the animal made in the chase, it's bare flesh steaming on contact with the colder air, it's blood covering Ulfang in morbid gaity. The prince was never happier than when he had to do something unpleasant, he liked to get his hands dirty.

"My Lord Ulfang!" spake Baljun, kneeling before the noble skinner with his bow before his feet,

"You look exhausted Baljun, why don't you take five and join the boys at the mess tent?" Said Ulfang softly, his eyes on his prey.

"But there is no time my Prince! Your brother has left with his bodyguard to meet our allies in the forest, and left you with the command!" Ulfang stopped his methodic scraping, the knife falling to his feet. It's fall was stopped by a passing shrew, who's epitaph was a damp squeak. Both witnesses were too tense to notice, but it happened.

"To the palace of Eryn Dolen?" he said, not so softly, "You let my eldest brother, the heir to the throne of the Eastern Kingdom-of-Men, the prince of the Land-Without-Sorrow, the son of the keeper of Melkor's personal ****ing whore-pit (Ulfang could be quite crude) WANDER INTO MIRKWOOD WITH 30 ****ING MEN_AT_ARMS?!!"

"erm" Baljun didn't see any way out of this. "'es"

"right" "Go to the Sergeant-Major (transliterally "One-who-does-all-that-needs-doing, one unimportant syllable from Mum) and tell him to get the grunts ready in ten minutes (very rough, the riders of Rhun measured time in units of horse steps when the horse isn't being spurred by the rider) we go North-West after the Heir bloody-apparent. And hope he still breathes when we find him"

"But sire, surely the mountain-men mean no harm to a Son of the Khan?"

" Like hell they wouldn't you stupid marmot brain, they eat man-flesh! It better not be his soon, otherwise I'll flay you alive and distract them from his corpse with your sorry meat!" A man dripping in gore from something not long dead can pull off with a threat like that.

"With all haste, lord Ulfang"

Bor and his company travelled through sites stranger than wraith-dreams, madder than swamp-folk and more horrible than the eyes of the ghosts of Dagorlad. In the branches untouched by the flames, the orcs, the mountain men of the west had made great markers for the fellowship of the the Prince. Shapes, of flesh and bone, some twined the wrong way round trunks, broken backed with stomachs split and innards thrown like streamers. Small forms, children, burnt skinned and amputated, leaving the trees heavy with bundles like late summer berries, the juice still running from the tortured fruit. Other sights, to. The orcs had found pregnant women among the elves. One man, Altarr, vomited in shock, his horse almost bolting if it had not been for Bor holding the reins. "Courage, you fool" he murmured, "The orcs wait all around us, any sign of weakness may cause them to fall on us now, we are here to meet their leader, reaffirm our alliance and get the hell out" "But my Lord!-" "This is no time to talk, be brave Altarr, we have seen worse, show this filth what real men are made of" With that the column moved on, their hard wolfish eyes taking in all that the orcs had prepared to greet them, judging everything, forgetting nothing, forgiving less.

After what seemed the length of a bad dream, the party reached a fine palace of tree-columns and marble walls. At least that was what it had been. The gate was fallen, the trees cut and burnt, the marble smashed and blackened. The ground around the ruin was heaped with the slain, Eldar with orc and middleman, the grass soaked in a vile mix of black and red blood, the smell making the mounts snort and waver. Within the walls, a gathering of various figures.
Some were swarthy, of the peoples in the company of Ulfang and a few of the Prince's own tribe, the scattered people of Romennor, who went eastward when others went West, towards the rising sun, not away... their grey eyes turned away from his unmoving gaze, not daring to answer the question that they asked.
Around the walls of the shell of a house, a line of goblin-orcs, barely as high as a man's waist they stood, with the greenish-white skin of cave-toads, eyes like snakes and fangs to match. They watched the host of Bor stride through them, giving no heed and standing unafraid despite the spectacles of the forest. The orcs were impressed. At their feet, shackled throat and foot and arm in cruel iron, the few score of the elves lay in defeat. Proud warriors stared at the heaps of their brothers, their immortal minds coming to terms still with the death of those they knew when the world was different, children and maidens too terrified for tears, the knowledge of impending pain silencing all cries of comfort. But one was not scared but angry. A lady of a great house she clearly was, her gown untarnished and her skin unbruised or stained. She spoke of something greater than what was happening to her and that rather than anything made Bor nearly fail nerve.
Right at the centre, on a raised podium on a throne of fine craft, sat a Boldog. He was at least eight feet high, with a myriad of vile shapes adorning his bare arms and chest, making his coal-coloured flesh appear red and green and all the other dyes that would show, about his shoulders he wore the tattered cloak of an Elven King, and his head the crown that blessed the same wretched soul. His frame was full and strong, greater than any uruk, rivalling a troll not in size but in sheer power. That comparison was easy, as two trolls flanked him, their dull eyes showing no thought or interest in the complex game about to unfold, only in the order to kill, to break skulls and drink the blood of the fallen...
The most terrible thing about the leader of that host was his eyes, piercing blue and purple, flashing like storms, they confirmed everything Bor had come to think of the owner;

"yes, I am not of this world", they seemed to say, "I serve a purpose far more fell than you know, I have seen the world's beginning, I took part, I have seen ages before the sun and the stars birth, I am far wiser than you could ever be." Bor suppressed a shiver in his spine, their could be no sign in him.
"And yet I serve another, far greater than me, if he knew of the treachery that you have begun among your people, his wrath would be far greater than anything else that may befall ye, but I would not bother him with it, I will do all I can to carry out his wishes before he need dwell on them, I will kill your sworn protectors one by one and in the end you will beg for death."

In a voice pitched far more to put-at-ease and welcome, the great chieftain boomed, "To our brothers from the Endless Plains! Scourge of Gondor! Vanquisher of Dale and Erebor! Sovereign host of the lands of Men, I bid ye welcome, welcome to our moment of triumph!" At that point he held aloft a ring, a great silvery-white ring with a bright jewel on it's head.

"Here is the ring Nenya, one of the works of our Master the Great Annatar, The Lord of Gift and Keeper of the Void!"
At those words the elven lady raised her head, her eyes, of blue-grey steel sheen burned in silent fury. Only Altarr saw, but he said nothing for fear that it would do her harm.
"On such an occasion it is customary to have a feast. Will you like any of the...game...my servants have gathered or would you wish them to bring anything sweeter?" At this the goblins shook the chains and sniggered, adding perverse intent to the already see-through question.

"I must decline on the behalf of my company, and all the men of my Kingdom present at this meeting" Bor purred. Half the eastmen's faces of shame turned to bafflement, but half again looked to the sky in relief.

"I'm afraid it is the custom of all our noblemen that they eat only what their own bows yield, as a weak huntsmen is unfit to rule other men"

"Then let your folk choose from the larder" This time the glaze of welcome had soured to iron hostility, shaking arms notched bows and in return the eastmen all found a mark from a bow of Bor's men,

"The first man to fire will not leave this place alive" the purr had grown to a growl, far worse for coming from a man's throat and not a lion's.

"This is open breach of our alliance, Night-Fearer!" the Boldog's voice fell to the depth and warmth of a chasm, with the menace of fire.

Bor and his men looked at the easterlings and other men in silent plea, and, after ten heartbeats, Bor spoke to the Boldog, on his throne of the Kingdom he stole, wearing the crown that he had lost claim to.

"Very well," he said in resignation, "All I ask is that I guide the hand of my subjects?"

"Granted, prince of a brief house"

"On my mark, each will take the life of his choosing" Here the Boldog hesitated. Had he gone too far?

"Fire"

The walls ran black with blood, and the screech of dying orc met the roar of the Easterlings, sabres drawn, eyes ablaze, hearts soaring.

[sirfiggin]

Ulfang rode his forces harder than other men could go. But these were no other men, they were the Dragon Legion, the terror of the plains.
They had rode with Borthand into exile, banished by his cowardly uncle, only the 50 men left from his tribe to accompany him, their khan, into the bottomless wastes.
But the East was not unkind to Borthand and his folk, for they came from the far east to begin with, the descendants of Numenorian sailors who circumnavigated the hitherlands and crossed the Inner sea, coming to the lands of the avari and wildmen, the forgotten peoples far from the eyes of the Powers. The folk of Borthand, a mere boy then, learned much. They knew were water could be found in the harshest desert, the songs of birds and beasts became second tongues. The avari told them of the valar orome, who they knew from the first days but feared. By the time Borthand was of age to hold his sword and bow, he had a host of 5000 easterlings, from tribes forsaken like his own, from tribes scattered and left to the scant mercy of the parching winds. They came from the east, a wave irresistible to the craven uncle, whose bow-arm was weak and his beard white, Borthand cut his head from his shoulders without a word or even dismounting. He burnt the trophy in offering to Melkor and he was hailed Khan of the land east of the lesser sea. But that was not enough, he pushed south into Khand, West into the Wilderlands, and North, to the hated enemy, he crushed Dale and Erebor and the Iron Hills, before resting, letting his kingdom rest and his soldier's wounds heal...

Khan Borthand was nearing his 90th year now, close to the end for his folk, but he was glad. He stayed in Dale, as that troublesome province forever required the direct influence of his authority to prevent a rebellion. The Khan was forced to leave the day to day affairs and campaigns to his family, to adopted nephews like Bor and Ulfang, whose father died in the war against the Variags, holding a bridge single handed for four hours while their mother could take the two boys to safety...

But Ulfang did not think of such things. His older brother, as usual, had landed himself in another mess that Ulfang was forced to sort out... no matter, the Dragons would not let him down, any of the 3000 of them.
Baljun rode in to his flank, " The call came from this direction, lord, toward that mountain range, at this pace we should be their before sundown"

"Then we must not tarry, for the orcs only get fiercer at night, if we can, we get the prince out and flee"
"Yes, Lord"

The battle had been brief but bloody. On the mark of Bor, about eighty eastmen, including his fifty guards, had fired at the orcs and other men, in that moment about 60 had been slain. In the small window between shock and
reaction, they drew their swords and cut down another 30. Before the corpses (for they were dead) of the first foes slain with shot had hit the ground, Bor ran and leapt at the Boldog, pushing his spear into the maiar's chest, clear up to the middle of the shaft. The two trolls snarled in anger on seeing their master wounded so, Bor rolled between them and leapt like a cat in one fluid movement, landing on the shoulder of the one to his left and stabbing his dagger deep into the softer flesh above the collarbone. The beast gave a great bellow and swiped blindly at Bor, but he had already dropped to the ground like a cat, onto the head of an orc, braing him with the hilt of his sabre. In that time most of the remaining orcs tried to flee, over the open walls and out the windows and door, only to be cut down or shot by the ring of easterlings. The last troll was trying to crush Atlarr with his club, screaming like a bull as the smaller figure dodged the blow and cut at the troll's arm, his chest, his face... But in that time another of Bor's fifty had come round behind and rammed a pike through the creature's ribs, puncturing his chest cavity and bursting one of the mighty lungs. With a ragged screech, the second troll fell and the hall was silent, save for the cries of the elven children, frightened by the noise.

With much solemnity the surviving elves held up their bonds, to be cut loose by their unexpected saviors. The Lady in white was the last freed as she did not come forward, but stayed back with her head down.
Bor walked over and cut the chain between her arms with a twist of his dagger. " It is strange to see one so great risk his life so freely" She said, as he was about to turn away, her voice was strange, it had harmonics deeper
than other women Bor had met but also more airy, it was as though 3 or more people were speaking in unison... " The Boldog you slew, Azog, was a servant of Sauron, your lord, but you came to our aide against the bonds of
fealty and saved those left of my folk from certain doom" At this Azog, thought dead, croaked in mockery of a laugh, black blood running from the spear wound and from his mouth and nose. He was a dead man breathing.

"Speak, faithless and accursed," she said to him "And we will ease your passing" "Your folk are still doomed, Elf-Queen!" He gurgled, "For these woods are overrun! You will not pass three leagues before our scouts catch you, and there will be no escape, see? The sun falls, soon you will have nowhere to hide!"
The lady looked at Bor, obviously this was some test, to secure her trust in his men. Considering the words of Azog, that might be useful... With a great cry and a mighty heave of a troll's club, Bor hit the Boldog's head with such force that it lodged in the ground underneath,sending shards of bone and grey brain matter everywhere. Bor took a moment to survey the carnage that had taken forty heartbeats to finish. Two of his men had minor wounds, that they were patching up as he watched. Four of the eastmen had been slain, not having the same experience in sudden battles that his men had. All the orcs were dead, and save for a few shackle sores and clothes soiled by blood, the elves were fine. An overall success, considering the circumstances.
In the corner of his eye Bor spotted a glimmer in Azog's hand. Opening it, he found the ring, Nenya, that he had so brazenly displayed. "I think I found something of yours, my lady" He told the Elf-Queen.
"It is of no consequence now" She said sadly as she put it in her cloak. "It stopped working three days before the orcs came, that is why the fire spread so fast, I could not stop it" Though her voice was steady her eyes welled with tears. " The water table fell, the wells dried, and my powers left me, she sobbed, "The orcs came the next day like an unending tide and my husband fell in Lothlorien, Celeborn, my love" She stopped crying, her composture returning like it had never left. "And I could do nothing".
"You can do something now" Bor said softly, " My men must return east with all haste, we have 3000 crack troops whose loyalty is absolute, if we can get your people there you will have saved them"
The Lady hesitated, realising the risk she took, if this easterner failed then her people, the Sindarin, would be doomed...
"Follow me with all haste" She said at last. "The passage is unknown to the orcs and will lead us to the forest edge before nightfall"
Bor thanked whatever power had blessed his life, for now Melkor was forsaken by him forever.
"But I did not ask your name, Lady, who shall I say saved my company from certain doom in these forsaken woods?"

"I am Galadriel, Queen of the Sindar, wife of Celeborn, who has left me for the halls in the West"

[hypern]

Damn, you write good sirfiggin because you know how to hold the story together in one piece. The thing I want to know is what is the current state of your campaign in the mod ?

[sirfiggin]

well, this story is based on a "frozen" campaign, frozen because I left it at a serious crossroads then saved it as a new campaign. Currently, Rhun has crushed both the dwarves and dale, and the upper corner of Rohan, the Wold. As a result it is one of the most powerful factions on the map, with several well developed cities. The only problem was that the Silvan elves had nearly been overrun by OotMm, so I had to decide whether to intervene and prevent a potential clash or to find a new direction to expand in... this AAR is based on the former choice (That campaign has kind of broken, so I will probably start from the old one for shots, but it's still good as Bor was bumped off by a Mordor assassin on his way to the Black Gate...of all the undeserved deaths it was his!)

Anyway, the AAR is now continuing in the TATW sub forum, under the AAR section, and I've started chapter 3, see everyone there!