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Thread: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 03/01/2014]

  1. #1
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 03/01/2014]





    Book I - Prologue



    Held by the Free Peoples and held by their foes, the lands of Harondor have ever been contested between the descendants of the sea-borne Dúnedain that came to dwell on the shores of Middle-Earth and the men of the South that see it as a rightful part of their vast and sand-swept domain. It is in this great mass of land that our tale begins, a tale which is one of two lines, two veins filled with mingled blood of red and black, two tongues of a serpent and the white branches of a dying tree. In the Sindarin tongue of the Elves the meaning of the name 'Harondor' is 'South-Gondor', trapped as it is between the two rivers of the Poros and the Harnen, the land itself, like the subject of our tale, split in twain and with a spirit fractured between both.

    At the beginning of the year two-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-two of the Third Age the regions of Southern and Eastern Harondor are held by the desert dwelling tribes of the bluntly named Haradrim or 'People-of-the-South'. In contrast, those of Central and Western Harondor, for it is an area of considerable size and links the southern lands of the Haradwaith – all those lands south of the river Harnen – to the more central lands of the Free Peoples, are held not by warriors or captains of Gondor but by warlords that rule over a divided people whilst being ruled themselves by no higher authorities of Steward or Black Serpent.

    Here, on the border between two enemies of blood so bitter it could make vinegar seem delicious, hardy folk teach themselves to survive before passing on their lessons to others. Sell-swords, farmers who believe a better life can be found under the money-grabbing warlords, merchants and their caravans and retired warriors looking for respite can all be found between the Poros and Harnen for reasons they may share or reasons they may otherwise kill to keep a secret.

    While the outside world girds itself for war, a war on a scale not seen since the closing years of the Second Age, the denizens of Harondor know little of it, though they be in the eye of the storm without a doubt.

    To their north the peoples of Gondor and its fiefs fortify their lands and steady their armies, the black lands of Mordor coming alive again with a malicious evil intent once more on the sweeping of a black veil across the world, in the Haradwaith the tribes are roused by a chieftain known as Khuzaymah, the Grand Serpent of the Haradrim, bonds made between the peoples of the desert and those of the Wainriders and Balchoth of Rhûn to the East in return for land and plunder.

    Across the plains of Rohan, in the mountain holds of the Dwarves, in Dale and in the last strongholds of the Eldar kindred the fires of war have taken hold and blaze brightly in defiance of Sauron, lieutenant of Morgoth, and all his crafts whether of body, mind or magic.

    Yes, this is a tale of mixed blood, the tale of a boy, a son, the son of the Tree and the Serpent.



    ************




    Footsteps, weary and heavy with the weight of emotion, shuffled there way down the silent streets of Amon Eithel. This settlement basked now in the Stygian darkness and inky shadow of a night filled with prophecy and dread; the heavy breathing of the hunched figure, clad only in ragged robes and held aloft only by the assistance a gnarled staff that clacked on the cobbled streets of the largest town in Central Harondor – making it the largest place in the largest area of that region – heard only by those that walked the streets at this hour and of which there were few enough.

    Known to men as the 'Hill of the Well or Spring', it was fortune and sheer luck that had driven the first traveller, a rather prominent merchant, to the spot where the town now stood. Harondor, in spite of its name, was nowhere near as fertile or blessed as Gondor to the north and finding water in the middle of the parched landscape was a Valar sent miracle all by itself. Yet it had been done. Now a modest town with a modest population lived behind the wooden palisade that was the city wall, stone dragged from quarries near the borders of Mordor helping in the construction of stone architecture that drew from Gondorian and Haradrim influences and could arguably be said to look better than either.

    In this oasis town the people, whomever they may be or whatever may have been their pasts, lived a reasonably happy life. The thugs and bandits of their warlord overlords came monthly to collect all that they could, hoarding metal, furnishings or the contents of merchants caravans away for their masters.

    On this night the lives of one of those families was about to be changed, though they did not know it yet. A family of one mother, an auntie, and a young boy. It was with the self-proclaimed guardians of the boy that the haggard and ragged man had his business that night; as for the man himself he could be described as 'odd', of average height for a man and certainly of advanced age, his long hair and bushy beard the colour of the seas foam and his eyes undimmed by age. From beneath two shaggy brows stared the orbs of sea-green, a hooked nose running to a point and a mouth full of jagged teeth unable to keep the clearly homeless fellow from smiling. Any clothing he had once possessed, such as the robes on his back, were shredded and torn and blackened by grime and dirt and probably other less desirable secretions of the body. Only his staff of twisted wood, topped by the rather impeccable carving of a sea-bird, was free from the ravages of time or dirt.

    “Hello,” came the croaked greeting, his staff tapping lightly against the door of the simple dwelling, movement within showing that someone was present and awake, “hello? I seek only a word of council.”

    After the sharp sliding back of a bolt and the creak of an opening door a face appeared, illuminated somewhat by the flickering candles of the interior, the silhouette of a woman no younger in years than her caller framed by the light as it splashed out onto the street.

    “Can I help you, old one? We sit down to our evening meal and were not expecting anyone to come rapping at the door.”

    “My apologies, but please hear me...in two days time this city will fall and the warlord will be overthrown. You must not leave your home, no matter what you hear. When all is done you will meet a man, he will not be of your ilk, and in him you must put both your trust and the protection of your son.”

    “Wha- who? What are you talking about?”

    “The Haradrim are coming for their land. Your husband and the father of the boy within were of Gondorian blood, grey-eyed and fair, but you are of the Southrons and because of this and this alone you shall not perish and your house shall endure what those of many others shall not. Heed my words or ignore them at your peril.”

    Though he did not show it as he turned away, his face like the craggy rocks of a mountainside steeped in shadow, the old caller had already foreseen the acceptance of his 'advice'. They would see to it that the child survived.

    Harondor, or South Gondor, had always been a contested region but it had become an area in which Gondorian and Haradrim could settle alike. Such was the lineage of the dark-haired boy, his father one of those noble Gondorian soldiers and his mother a Haradrian woman of no particular pedigree. Love, it seemed, could flourish even between the bitterest of enemies, and so it had been for his parents, then one day his mother became pregnant and lo' a baby boy was born to them which would become a young man of both worlds. Brown of skin, but grey of eye, dark of hair yet able to speak the tongue of the Western Men as well as his mothers native tongue, he had lived a life walking between two different threads where old prejudices died hard and abuse was a constant companion, being shunned by the Haradrim because of his eyes and noble bearing and by the Gondorians because of his swarthy skin and curling locks of dark hair.

    “Wait...what is your name, stranger?”

    A heavy sigh and a fatigued smile proceeded his answer, and answer which when it came was really of no use to the elderly woman or anyone else for that matter, “I have many names...but you may call me Morinehtar. Good evening.”

    Before she could answer a small gust of wind caused her to shield her eyes, the grey locks of her once raven-black hair whipping in front of her, and when she could focus once again there was no-one there.

  2. #2

    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Another AAR?My gosh, you have too much time!

    It is interesting that you have picked the Haradrim. They are an interesting race. I am just wondering where you are getting your info on them from. I don't really know if Tolkien wrote that much on them unlike some of the other races.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Merchant of Venice View Post
    Another AAR?My gosh, you have too much time!

    It is interesting that you have picked the Haradrim. They are an interesting race. I am just wondering where you are getting your info on them from. I don't really know if Tolkien wrote that much on them unlike some of the other races.

    Thanks for the rep Though I'm not sure exactly what you're referring to about the info, the name of the settlement is in TA:TW and is not an actual settlement in Tolkien's world however Harondor is as it should be. It is true that he wrote little on them or the 'Easterlings', so a quarter is my own imagination while three-quarters are taken from my vast knowledge of Tolkien and his works (which sounds like immodest boasting...but isn't really.) Was there anything specifically you were speaking of?

  4. #4

    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    I was just talking about the general lack of background to the Haradrim. Tolkien wrote quite a substantial on the elves and the dwarves yet I can found hardly anything on the Haradrim. I think I have to do some research on them in fact.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Merchant of Venice View Post
    I was just talking about the general lack of background to the Haradrim. Tolkien wrote quite a substantial on the elves and the dwarves yet I can found hardly anything on the Haradrim. I think I have to do some research on them in fact.


    Indeed, you're quite correct. He wrote quite little on them, and more-or-less nothing on their actual culture, customs and so forth, though general descriptions of their lands are if quite short. I suppose when your homeland is a humongous desert, and a sea-haven if you count Umbar, then there really isn't much to write about it other than it was hot and sandy.

    Nonetheless they have always held a great fascination for me, the entire AAR being a toss-up between them and the Easterlings actually (the Haradrim won by a coin toss...best out of three), and I'm hoping to do my best to take what Tolkien did write down and run with it as best as I can.

    If you ever do have any questions though, feel more than free to ask.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    If anyone can tell me who the raggedy old man is, you'll get a rep point.

  7. #7

    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    I would say Gandalf but I think that's too obvious. Heck, I'll go with Gandalf

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    Axis Sunsoar's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    I'm going to have to go with Rhadagast the Brown....

    Great looking AAR so far!

    +rep for an AAR with my favorite mod about my favorite movie/book series

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Axis Sunsoar View Post
    I'm going to have to go with Rhadagast the Brown....

    Great looking AAR so far!

    +rep for an AAR with my favorite mod about my favorite movie/book series

    My thanks to you, Monsieur Sunsoar, and I am glad to finally be using both this mod and using it to tell a story set in possibly my favourite fictional setting of all time. Currently reading your own very entertaining AAR, and I'll get rep back to you as soon as I am able.

  10. #10

    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    This is a great read. It certainly seems more like a story than a traditional AAR (which I am more use to) but is worthy nontheless. I eagerly wait for the next update, and this story has much potential.

    Surely the Wizard must be Alatar the Blue?

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    Axis Sunsoar's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Ah, I think Denethor may have it with Alatar, or it could be the other blue wizard (Pall- something?) nevertheless, I must bow to his superior knowledge of lore, had to look through the silmarillion and apendicces before I found reference to Alatar.

    Well done my friend

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Steward Denethor II View Post
    This is a great read. It certainly seems more like a story than a traditional AAR (which I am more use to) but is worthy nontheless. I eagerly wait for the next update, and this story has much potential.

    Surely the Wizard must be Alatar the Blue?

    Quote Originally Posted by Axis Sunsoar View Post
    Ah, I think Denethor may have it with Alatar, or it could be the other blue wizard (Pall- something?) nevertheless, I must bow to his superior knowledge of lore, had to look through the silmarillion and apendicces before I found reference to Alatar.

    Well done my friend

    I guess I should have known that someone called 'Steward Denethor II' would have gotten it, and in the bargain received a rep point.

    It was Alatar, though who knows if Pallando might turn up a bit later? Perhaps with the Easterlings?

    Anyway, thank you both for your kind comments, and I am glad that the Steward himself finds my pictureless tale worthy. It is something I am rather well known for - that being writing AAR's without pictures.

    Just playing a bit of the campaign, but I shall have an update soon. So stay tuned!

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 09/11/13]

    Book I, Chapter 2- Who You Truly Are, Part I




    When the Haradrim finally did arrive, belched forth from their desert lands like ants from an anthill, hundreds of robed warriors trudging side-by-side for miles on end, they came for what would turn out to be a prolonged engagement. No-one knew it would be as long as it was, and if those within the walls of Amon Eithel had then they may have surrendered the city sooner. It was only because of fear, fear of what would be done with them should they relent, that kept the motley bands of inhabitants that had taken up the axe or the sword from disbanding immediately.

    It was foolish of them to believe that although they had enough food and water to last a year that the men of the south would simply leave their lands unmolested, the lands of Harondor fertile and lush in comparison to their harsh and burning home to the south. That, and their leader Karbâzir had been promised the position of Emir of Harondor should he succeed. These reasons were incentive enough for nearly two-thousand angry Southrons to remain outside the wooden palisade that acted as a wall, living off the land and laughing to one another in the strange and unintelligible tongue.

    There had been attempts to call for aid, oh yes. Three messengers had been hurried out of the city and directed toward Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and Pelargir, the next day when the sun rose all three were seen staked out before the city, ritually castrated and left to bleed to death as the day wore on. It was an act of savagery that was rare among the the usually peaceful desert-dwellers, and designed more to cause some rash action among the enemy.

    Had the messengers gotten through it is unlikely that any help would have been sent, the whole of Gondor being embroiled in war with the rising power of Mordor, thousands of Orcs surging through Southern Osgiliath that needed to be pushed back and then kept at bay. The strength of Dol Amroth, powerful as it was, was directed there as well, that of Pelargir demanded by the Steward himself to secure the northern regions of Harondor against any attempted incursion from the south.

    Harondor was all that was wanted though, the central lands, ringed by rising and towering walls of naturally built earth and rock, akin to mountain ranges but not mountain ranges themselves, being both fertile and easily defensible. Any enemy that wished to cross into the Haradwaith would be forced to choose a pass to enter, then march his way through to reach his objective. So, the importance of the region both militarily and economically could not be understated, and the Great Black Serpent of Harad wished it to be in his power.



    ************



    Eventually the food was all eaten, the reserves of water being drunk and then rationed, anger rising from the majority of the denizens of Amon Eithel against the armed minority that had sworn to protect them. Now they were trapped, starving, thirsting for much-needed water, and there was only one way out of the pit they had dug when they trapped themselves behind their walls.

    The battle that followed lasted no more than a couple of hours; at midday, the hottest part of the day, and lead by a fat merchant who fancied himself a saviour, the armed citizens and merchant caravan guards threw their weight against the Haradrim with all their zeal and vigour. By contrast the Southrons moved slowly, forming a sturdy line of spears to face the oncoming wave, their archers – hunters for the most part, and expert shots with a bow – placing their own ranks behind that of the spearmen in front. By the time the half-breeds of Amon Eithel, some more Haradrim, some more Gondorian by blood, hit the spear wall they were already dead.

    Midday heat, especially in a more temperate region such as Harondor, took no toll on the men of the Haradwaith. Each of them had grown up in a burning cauldron of blistering sunshine and sand, learning from an early age how to exist in the desert, learning how to ride a horse or camel, adapting to their lifestyles and becoming one with their homeland. Those men of Amon Eithel, landed farmers and traders, had no such time for 'rubbish' like that, and by the time they hit the ranks of spears they were heaving and drenched in sweat.

    It was a short, brutal, but not overly drawn out rout which followed. Every man of Amon Eithel turned tale and fled, some filled with arrows as they ran, others hacked down by the blade of a curved scimitar, and some even reaching the town. Here the Haradrim had entered and were among the general populace before they even knew what was happening, the cries of the dying and the screams of the violated soon ringing through the streets.



    ************



    As the battle had progressed there were three, unlike many others that had left their homes to watch the slaughter from the walls, that remained in their home and cowered in their central room. All around them were the trappings of a simple family, their wooden table where they ate and the fire-pit in the middle of the room, shelves stacked with herbs and spices and preserved meats dangling from a beam on the ceiling. Nearby were the roll-mats where they slept close to one-another, and it was here that they now crouched, waiting in terror for the promised one to arrive at their door.

    Nadárey, the eldest and grey-haired grandmother of the trio, the one to whom the robed figure had spoken, breathed slowly and almost silently to herself. In her arms she could feel he daughter son, only fifteen years of age, not yet a full man and in many ways still a child, shivering anxiously. The deep lines on her once handsome face showed all that she had gone through in life, her arms and legs, all now marked with blue veins and paper-thin skin, once muscular and firm. A glance was cast at her daughter with her eyes that had never began to fade, her offspring a beautiful maiden with caramel flesh and the same grey eyes as her son. Slender but well-built, she had made her previous husband very happy, now she was alone but for her mother and son, and Nadárey silently wondered to herself how long that would last.

    “Grandmother,” whispered the boy, flinching as a scream was heard from the end of their cobbled street, the smell of burning already reaching her nostrils, “are we going to die?”

    “No, Akîl, my child. We are not going to die.”

    Was she certain of that? This promise she had just made, would it be broken? She did not know, but looking into those eyes, eyes with the colour but also the strength of a stormy night, she could not tell him otherwise.

    “Mama, listen.”

    Slowly the sound of fighting, the screams of the dying, and the nerves that flew beside them started to recede away from the families home. Nadárey could not quite let herself believe it, all three waiting with baited breath, then silence.

    “Midija,” hissed the aged woman of Harad, “check the door.”

    With the litheness and stealth of a serpent the younger woman went to the door, nervously reaching out to touch the undamaged wood, and finally pressing her ear to it. For a moment she tensed, imagining instant death for her actions, but when nothing happened she allowed herself to relax.

    Thump!

    She jerked her ear away and her head back quickly, glaring at the door as if it would explode inward, teeth gritted and fists balled. Ready to protect, and to die for her family if needed.

    Thump!

    “I shalt not knock again,” called a voice, “my politeness grows thin. Open the door, that I might see the child. That I might do what must be done.”

    The door was opened, eventually, only a single figure standing in the street and turning to look at the three curious faces...it was no Harad-born man, that was certain.

    Standing before them was a figure from legend, a warrior bearing a long sword and towering above them, nearly six feet and six inches high, unmarked plate armour covering his form. A smooth chest-plate, vambraces, greaves and all. On his head he bore a lofty helmet, a flowing crest of red dyed horsehair running from back to front and flanked by two simple horns, his face obscured by a mask shaped in the likeness of a stern but beautiful face. Only the two eyes could be seen, orbs the colour of ash never wavering from Akîl, piercing him as well as any arrow could.

    “Nakh,” came the voice, powerful and ageless, from behind the mask, “nakh, bâr.”

    Words such as this had not been heard for centuries in Harondor, or at all by Akîl, words of the lost Adûnaic tongue. Yet the boy seemed to inherently understand the request, taking a step away from his Grandmother, the old woman reaching for him as he went to stand between his family and this newcomer. Truly he had a noble air about him, but it was warped somehow, the feeling of the air around him somehow made sour by his presence.

    After a moment, a moment that crawled one second-by-second, the figure spoke again. He had been studying the boy from head to toe, and now gave the slightest of nods.

    “So...it is true.”

    Openly impressed by something, the figure knelt to one knee and reached out his hand to the boy, his fingers curling in a gesture for him to take it.

    “Thou shouldst have no fear of me boy, I dost not seek to harm thee. Nor wouldst I ever do.”

    For the briefest of moments Akîl glanced back, a smile on his childish face. For the first time in his life, though he knew not how, he felt something tugging at him that was not of this world. All else seemed to narrow about him, the death and destruction of his town and the very presence of his family all but forgotten. His mind told him that there was something not right about the nameless warrior who extended his arm, but also something that should be so familiar.

    Nadárey watched the exchange of looks with emotion welling up inside her, the smile near breaking her heart. Nonetheless, she had been told by a lone prophet that a man would come and that to him she would have to give the life of her daughters son. Why? She could not say. Would her daughter ever understand? She did not think so. And yet...and yet it felt like the right thing to do.

    “Go with him,” she said heavily, her daughter letting the tears flow freely and moaning on her shoulder, “you will be safe, it has been told.”

    “Mother,” said the boy, nearly the height of his weeping parent, “do not shed so many tears for me. Am I not still alive?” Tenderly he embraced her, giving a long squeeze, the stranger rising once more to his feet, “I will see you and Grandma again. I promise.”

    Not even Akîl truly understood why he was leaving, but gathering nothing to take with him, dressed only in a simple tunic and trousers, he was lead away by the noble stranger.

    “Trust in me, Akîl,” the warrior uttered as they walked toward what had once been the gate of Amon Eithel, eyes looking at them but their owners never moving to stop them on their way, “trust yourself, for there are great things ahead of you. You shalt become great, young one, but first you must know where you come from.”
    Last edited by McScottish; November 24, 2013 at 07:50 AM.

  14. #14
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Icon4 Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 22/11/13]

    Greetings one, greetings all.

    Now that I have got the ball rolling with an evil faction, I have been considering beginning another AAR (shocking, I know) using one of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. I would personally prefer a 'fairy' face, such as the Dwarves or one of the Elvish factions, but if people really want to see me write a narrative AAR on another nation of Men then I will consider suggestions from all-comers.

    Again it will be a narrative AAR (means little to no actual in-game pictures), so if you don't like this style then I suggest you don't read any of my AARs really.

    So! Suggestions please. Even those of the 318 or so anonymous readers can make a suggestion, I would just like to see what the general feeling of the readership is. They must be one of the Free Peoples, and if you can give a reason why you'd pick a particular faction, it would certainly help me.

    Eriador/Arnor is a bit of an issue, as I do not want to step on the toes of nine-o and his excellent Tale of the North, but I will consider writing about the wild lands of the once great Northern Kingdom if enough people give an opinion.

    I shall now open up the floor...

    Anyone? Anyone at all?

  15. #15
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 22/11/13]

    Sixteen people have viewed this thread since I posted that, someone even gave me some rep! Yet no-one has an opinion on a faction choice? Why, this is unseemly! Come now people, countryman, lend me your views!

  16. #16

    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 22/11/13]

    I am more interested in you making more progress on this tale than doing another. As you already started a Dwarvan AAR though it is clear that you most certainly don't share my view which is fine.

    Anyways that was a good update, and I eagerly await more.

  17. #17
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 22/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Steward Denethor II View Post
    I am more interested in you making more progress on this tale than doing another. As you already started a Dwarvan AAR though it is clear that you most certainly don't share my view which is fine.

    Anyways that was a good update, and I eagerly await more.

    Denethor, I'm going to keep updating this one as often as possible, the Dwarven one is simply a side-interest for my own amusement really. In fact there'll be another update today at some point, so just keep on reading.

  18. #18
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 22/11/13]

    Book I, Chapter 2- Who You Truly Are, Part II








    A cooling breeze swept in from the north, the flames of the small fire whipped up and formed into all manner of shapes by the currents of air, the evenings in the desert that made up the largest part of the Haradwaith able to drop to well below freezing during some months of the year. The nomadic tribes of the Haradrim knew this all too well, keeping their limbs covered in thick robes wrapped many times about the body, their heads covered in a similar manner, and on a clear night the desert often looked like a mirror reflection of the star-dotted sky far above the world so many fires were there.

    On this particular night, nearly three weeks since the taking of Amon Eithel from its mixed population, and three weeks of hard travelling for a specific young boy from the relatively lush grasslands of Harondor and out into the wide wilderness of Far Harad, there was only one fire around which the choice of creating a legend and a legacy could be said to be taking place.

    It was a fire that Akîl now stared deeply into as his arms reached over to absorb some of the warmth found there, looking a lot less like an urban-dweller now than just another of the tribesmen who wandered the vast lands of the south, even his lower face obscured by material wrapped about his head.

    Across from him sat the one he had been given to, the one that he felt safe with and could not discern why, still confused but somehow not afraid. This stranger had not spoken for three whole weeks, giving him food and water but saying nothing, passers-by either dipping their heads or moving away from them as they rode past on two finely-bred steeds, and then one night he had demanded that they stop.

    Now they were here.

    As the hours grew later and the darkness wore on, his eyelids growing heavy with weariness, Akîl thought that he would never speak. For most of the evening the stranger had been as some metal statue, never moving and as silent as death. Even the desert around them contained more sound and life, the hissing of reptiles and the clicking of insects, the snorting of camels and the voices of others if you listened hard enough to a floating breeze. Then he spoke.

    “Once we ruled an island-kingdom in the western sea, our kings high and powerful, our military might unmatched. In this Age the legacy of Númenor began, and it was glorious. Even the Deceiver knelt down before us and, to our everlasting shame, we were taken in. Soon our great home became Akallabêth, the Downfallen, and sunk below the waves forever more.”

    “What does any of this have to do with me?” Questioned the half-blood adolescent, “ancient tales of long forgotten places. This dos not concern me.”

    “Oh,” exclaimed the stranger, a smile creasing his lips behind the mask of his helmet, his entire frame thrown into a monstrous proportion by the shadows of the flickering fire, “but it does.”

    After placing another piece of usable wood on the fire, rare enough in the desert let me tell you, the tall warrior removed his helmet and inch-by-inch revealed his true face. When it was fully uncovered Akîl let out the smallest of involuntary gasps, the face opposite him almost exactly like his own. Yes that face was older, and more weathered, skin browned by the skin and once sharp features worn down like a statue erodes over time, but even with the greying beard it was still like looking into a pond and gazing on the face that looked back. A slender nose, eyes that flashed in the firelight, thin lips and hair that cascaded over the strangers shoulders. All of this was shared by the boy who, quite clearly, was connected to this man in some way or another.

    “I take it then that thou recognise me?” Hissed the outsider, leaning forward to illuminate his face even more, “yes, I am you and you are me, young one. At least...I am part of you.”

    “How...wha-,” Akîl moved his mouth wordlessly like some sort of fish, but the words would not come out, though the outsider saw in his eyes a distinct look of hope and took not pleasure in quashing it.

    “No child, I am not your father. Nor your fathers father nor even his fathers father. Nevertheless, I am here to give you your birthright whether you would want it or not.”

    By now there was only confusion, and the offer of some sort of explanation caused Akîl to become as still and silent as the other only minutes before.

    “When Akallabêth sank the families of Númenor were sundered between the King's Men and the so-called 'Faithful',” croaked the Black Númenórean, spitting the last word out as if it were venom on his tongue, “those friends and puppets of the Eldar who even now try to reclaim lost glories where none are to be found or saved. Elendil , the last Lord of Andúnië, fled with his accursed sons, and after long years founded the realms of long-gone Arnor and the many-damned southern kingdom of Gondor.”

    “My father was of Gondor, as was his father, yet you tell me that they were traitors?”

    “No,” assured the stranger, “they held true to their beliefs, though your mother and her mother liked them not. Telling you falsehoods of how your father died in a Haradrim raid, when he was in truth felled by a Gondorian blade trying to protect innocents from marauding men of Pelargir. The very same that now sit like lords over northern and western Harondor, determined to suck the life from your people.”

    “No...no! You speak with a forked tongue,” argued the stripling, “how could you know this? How could you know of me? You are sent here by the Dark Lord, for what purpose I do not dare guess, and why I was chosen...it confounds me still.”

    “Silence!” Bellowed the Númenórean, his voice like that of the lords of other men but greater yet, “I hath not the time or patience to deal with such insolence.” The face, twisted momentarily by anger, now softened as he looked on the boy of his blood, “I know because I was there when they fell, though they did not know it. It is you that I have waited for and for the right time. That time has now come, so listen closely and do not speak.”

    “In you flows the blood of Rómenna, the mightiest harbour in eastern Númenor, placed as it was in Arandor – the Kingsland – and of the noblest family to sail from those shores in the Eldar days. Long before the folly of Ar-Pharazôn and the sinking of the island they came east into Beleriand and south to found harbours and towns across Harad, the ruins of which can still be seen when the sands are swept away. Now only Umbar remains of the great havens, held by fools that would claim to be your kin.”

    “What do you want from me? I am just a boy, I know nothing of war, what use am I for anything?”

    “You are figurehead of a great house, Akîl. One that never submitted to the Dark Lord, but that has no love for the usurpers in the north either. In times past the tall lords of Númenor held many of the Hard tribes under their sway, controlled them as vassals and sources of men and wealth. It was a time when the greatness of our people flourished in these torrid deserts, but which was torn away by the so-called 'Sea-Kings' of Gondor; they were jealous men, false figureheads who wished to gain power from the Elves in the past and now to take what little was left to their cousins in the south who had remained ever loyal and faithful to their king.” A sad shake of his head accompanied these words, “but all is not lost! You are here, the last of a line stretching back to the land of our forefathers, and though you may not yet be a warrior or know just how important you are, that is why I am here to teach and guide you.”

    “I-I don't know,” stuttered the boy, overcome by so much information on a subject he really knew nothing about, “you will teach me?” He said to his self-image, “you will help me make our house great again?”

    Why had he said that?!

    He did not even know, though that same thing now tugged at his mind, his body not his own. Something stirred in him, in his heart, and in his minds eyes he could see towering edifices and golden-topped towers above marble-white cities. Throne-rooms and furnished chambers, envoys from all peoples of Middle-Earth, and at the very forefront he saw a blurred figure clad in imperious robes and with a winged crown upon his head. As his inner vision sharpened the man turned...it was him.

    Regaining his senses, his eyes returning to the present, light peeking over the horizon as the sun began to rise once more, he was shocked to find the Kingsman kneeling before him. As if in a dream he closed his eyes and reached out his hands, palms upward and open, two gloved hands that enveloped his own being placed in them.

    “I swear to guide and teach you, to give my life for thee and to remain at thy side, as long as mine life should last. I swear it to the House of Zadannarîka, Lords of Rómenna and a favoured lineage by the Kings of Númenor, to Akîl – from this day forward known as Nardukhôr Ûrê-târik, Lord of Warriors and Pillar of the Sun.”

    Nardukhôr opened his eyes slowly and, for the first time in his life, knew exactly what he had to do.

    “Not even the Dark Lord shall halt my designs, the 'Grand Serpent' of Hard shall bend to my will...and Umbar shall know that a true son of Númenor yet lives among their rotten ranks.”

    “It is so, my lord. Please, your servant has one last thing for his lord.”

    From within one of the packs carried on their journey through the desert, removed from the animals before the fire was set of course, the older man produced items the likes of which made even his own armour seem but a pale shadow. They were in fact the heirlooms of his house, The House of the Eagles; revealed was a helmet, like the crown seen within his vision, tall and crafted by loving hands, two likenesses of eagles wings rising on either side and the nose-guard narrowing and hooked to produce a 'beak' of sorts. Next was a breastplate, practised etchings and engravings giving the appearance of eagle feathers about the armour of the shoulders and neck, attached mail protecting the armpits and acting as sleeves for the arms. The vambraces which were produced next ended in gauntlets, each finger shaped as an eagles talon and just as sharp, there partner greaves and boot-coverings moulded about the human foot but essentially the same. Beneath it all was, of course, supposed to be worn robes and boots for the feet, but right now all could do Nardukhôr was gaze on the pieces in wonder.

    “This,” said the still kneeling warrior reverently, “is the sword lômiruth, night-scar, used by your forefathers for millennia against all foes of the house.”

    It really was a beautiful weapon, long but not overbalanced, a hand-and-a-half hilt allowing it to be wielded in one hand or two, a black shimmer in the metal of the blade giving it its name in centuries past. The weapon of a nobleman, one that could be the weapon of a king.

    Lastly, and most reverently of all, was a piece of material, a tabard, presented to Nardukhôr in silence.

    When unrolled it turned out to be of a white colour, stained by the uncountable years of its dormant state, the design upon its breast that of a black northern star flanked on either side by two outstretched eagles wings.

    “Yes,” said Nardukhôr in a half-whisper, “this should do nicely,” almost as an afterthought he looked down at the kneeling man, “and what do I call you?”

    “You may call me Agannâlo, my lord,” said the man, a man who had had many names over the years but liked this one best of all, a name ripped from the pages of the past and dragged into the present, each aspect of the Adûnaic words representing him perfectly by its meaning.

    It meant 'death-shadow.'
    Last edited by McScottish; November 24, 2013 at 07:46 AM.

  19. #19
    Axis Sunsoar's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 24/11/13]

    Still love it, just got back to read the last two chapters here. They were very good! Looking forward to the continuation of the story, will be following closely!

  20. #20
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 24/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Axis Sunsoar View Post
    Still love it, just got back to read the last two chapters here. They were very good! Looking forward to the continuation of the story, will be following closely!

    At least I know two of you shall be! I'll get another update up soon...

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