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

  1. #21

    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 24/11/13]

    Sorry I haven't commented in a while just had't got around to reading it.

    What can I say. How the bloody hell did you think of that backstory. I had to read it multiple times just for it to make sense but man it is brilliant. Can't wait to see what happens with our protagonist(not going to bother trying to type his name) Great work

  2. #22

    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 24/11/13]

    Well you certainly weren't joking when you said you would update this soon. And it seems that you changed your mind about the Dwarvan Tale.

    I agree with the Merchant. This work is brilliant, and I am engrossed in it even after only 2 Chapters, something that many books fail to ever do. The main character seems like he will have a lot of enemies, that's for sure, and strong ones, too. Cant wait for some actual war. Give the infidels the scimitars edge when their time comes to die!

  3. #23
    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 Merchant of Venice View Post
    Sorry I haven't commented in a while just had't got around to reading it.

    What can I say. How the bloody hell did you think of that backstory. I had to read it multiple times just for it to make sense but man it is brilliant. Can't wait to see what happens with our protagonist(not going to bother trying to type his name) Great work

    Quote Originally Posted by Steward Denethor II View Post
    Well you certainly weren't joking when you said you would update this soon. And it seems that you changed your mind about the Dwarvan Tale.

    I agree with the Merchant. This work is brilliant, and I am engrossed in it even after only 2 Chapters, something that many books fail to ever do. The main character seems like he will have a lot of enemies, that's for sure, and strong ones, too. Cant wait for some actual war. Give the infidels the scimitars edge when their time comes to die!

    Gentlemen,

    There are very few words I can say to express what gratitude I feel for such fine compliments. Nonetheless I shall try, and will just say that I am appreciative of any and all compliments (or criticisms) that you may have. Without a 'readership' there would be far less point in me bothering to write at all, and knowing that you both (and Axis) are overseeing my writing makes it worth the while.

    So once more, thank you.

    I shall get another update up today. Stay tuned!

    P.S.

    Yea, the Dwarves are Elves now. Mirkwood Elves...the best of Elves.

  4. #24
    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]





    Chapter 3, Part I – Gather Your Allies And Smite Your Foes



    For several years the pair traversed the landscape of the desert, stopping during the day and travelling together at night. Each day was another challenge for the newly minted lordling, each one a new lesson in history, language or how to deal death to others. No two days were the same and, keeping up their isolation or a pretence of father and son should they meet anyone by chance, the young master quickly absorbed all he was taught in a never-ending flow of asking a question and storing away the answer – quick, easy and effective, and Agannâlo never faltered in his duty as a mentor to his younger charge.

    As time went by, though it was but two or three years, Nardukhôr began to understand his role in all things and to pay especial attention to what he was told. He realised why the men of Umbar were at constant war with Gondor, why the Men of Harad disliked them less but still despised them, and why Sauron the Deceiver may appear as an ally to the Haradrim but was ever an enemy of all life. It was he who had darkened the mind of Ar-Pharazôn, so he was told, twisting it and filling it with notions that caused the downfall of his idyllic island land.

    Then the 'Faithful', those sailors and warriors who had carved out their twin kingdoms in north and south, had betrayed those already living on the shores of Beleriand. These weak-minded fools had escaped their doom because of hindsight, but ever they were the enemies of true Númenórean blood, Elf-students and worshippers of deities that drowned their homeland. It was these same divinities who had bought about the Curse of Men, disguised as it was as a 'gift', the long life of the Eldar reserved only for the Firstborn and their ilk but not so for the short-lived Edain. No...they died more easily, could be slain by just about anything, and their span of years had shrivelled like the white tree that now sat in the courtyard of Minas Tirith.

    Nardukhôr, with the help of the Haradrim, would put an end to that. He would see that only the true Númenóreans would rule Middle-Earth once more, and that all would bow before them...even the Dark Lord himself would be humbled as in the days of old.

    For nearly two years they remained isolated in that desert, isolated and alone, seeking only food and shelter. Stories slowly began to circulate of the wandering duo, sightings of a tall knight and his son moving swiftly over the desert landscape, others saying that they never spoke and that to look them in the eye was certain death. It was no wonder then that these rumours got back to the ears of the Grand Serpent, as everything did eventually, nothing that happened in his realm being hidden from his sight.

    Without so much as a warning he dispatched his Hasharii to track down these two potential threats to his power. Though no evidence had been provided to show as much, he had not gained his position as overlord of the scattered tribes by going against his gut instincts. These he employed now and commanded a group of his assassins to slip from his palace in Gobel Ancalimon and into the desert.

    One thing he did not count on was the intrusion of Umbar into the equation, the great port-city and the surrounding lands ruled outwardly by the Serpent of Harad but truly under the command of Lord Qusay, the Corsair-Lord and true ruler of Umbar and its possessions along the coast. Bonds of blood united his family with that of Khuzaymah with Qusay married to one of the Serpents daughters, but he also held the Spear of Fuinur – the great-weapon of a once powerful Black Númenórean who, with his companion Herumor, had held many tribes of the Haradwaith in their power – and was of Númenórean descent, like most of those in Umbar.

    The question was: would he let his bonds to the Haradrim withhold any help he might give to one who could be claimed as his rightful liege? Just a boy, but one day he could become so much more.



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



    Dark shapes moved in the shadows, hunched and concealed, soft footfalls leaving not even a print within the ever-shifting sands of the Haradrian desert. All was concealed, cloth of dark reds and deep blues wrapped about sun-browned faces, strips tied about hands and all that could be seen were the twinkling of eyes and the dull glint of blades doused in soot. These were the Hasharii, the order of assassins used for generations by the Serpents of Harad, a group of six sent deep into the desert to find the two that their master had ordered should disappear. Ahead of them burnt a fire, so bright in the darkness that they could see it from miles away, two figures sat about it quietly and unmoving.

    Using silent gestures and hand signals they wove their way through the sands, the fire ablaze in the midst of an old Gondorian encampment built of stone in the time of Hyarmendacil the Second. It was this king of old that had subdued the tribes of Harad for a second time, extending the borders of Gondor deep into the south, and was still vehemently hated to this day. In fact there was an old insult used by Haradrian merchants between one another; “I would rather Hyarmendacil than trade with you.” Now the camp was just a ruin, tall walls having succumbed to the witheringly harsh desert sandstorms over time, the towers toppled and its former shine withdrawn into nothing but a shadow.

    They were nearly there, seven steps, five steps, three, and two... a flash of blades and some triumphant grunts of fury, the poisoned weapons digging deep into the bodies of their enemies and toppling them onto the ground.

    “What is this?” Snarled the leader of the assassins, kicking one of the armoured straw dummies in anger, his comrades giving off their own growls, “search the area, find them!” He commanded, but they would not have to look far. The enemy was already coming to them.

    From out of the darkness sprung Agannâlo, his young ward swiftly on his heels, the hair of the older warrior loose and streaming as he charged. Clean of armour was he, dressed in a simple jerkin of leather and breeches to match, but in his hands he held his great blade and swung it with deadly efficiency, spearing a foe on the tip and hauling him into the air to throw him off once more. Behind and to his left sprinted Nardukhôr, his own blade bared and burning with an eerie witch-fire, the inexpert fighter yelling a war-cry as he charged and lunging forward to impale an assassin too slow to move.

    The remaining four circled their pray, the two of Númenor finally having revealed themselves, all six prepared to die by the blades of the others if they must, and yet each with a mind to massacre their enemies and remain alive to tell the tale.

    “What do we have here then?” Came a growl from just outside the circle of light, “looks like we got here just in time lads.”

    From outside the ring of combatants stepped a group of twelve men, their clothes dirty and dishevelled, beards thick on their jaws, and unwashed hair matted and dreadlocked . The speaker turned out to be a man both broad and tall, a nasty scar running down his forehead and passing through a milky white eye to end at his chin, a cutlass clutched in one hand. His followers were armed accordingly, a mass of cutlasses, bill-hooks, pikes and daggers running throughout the group.

    For a moment all was still, glances passing between them all, before Agannâlo shouted and made to lunge at the nearest assassin. With that he broke the silence, Corsairs flinging themselves at assassins and vice-versa, Agannâlo pressing his arm across his lords chest and drawing him back behind a nearby wall. There they remained, crouched and quiet, until the sounds of battle died down.

    “Aye,” came the same voice, “you can come out now. There's but one alive.”

    Agannâlo went first, giving a small nod when he saw that they were being told truths instead of lies, his sword remaining in his hand as he moved warily to stand inside the group of Umbarean raiders, all peering down at the hooded leader of the hired murderers who continued to move though without much strength left in his body.

    After kneeling down next to him Agannâlo bent to his ear, “listen well,” he hissed, “return to thy master and tell him all that hath passed here. Tell him that we wish no conflict between us, that thy enemy and ours is the same and that if he troubles us not then we shall not trouble him. His leadership of these lands shalt be firm and remain so.”

    Turning to peer at the man leading the Corsairs he gave a grim smile, “what news from the Corsair-Lord?”



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



    It is said that Númenóreans of the Eldar days had far-sight matching that of and surpassing that of all other men, something that evidently was true, for how else would Agannâlo have been able to do what he did? But what did he do, I hear you ask! That is what I shall recount to you now.

    Months before arriving in Amon Eithel, years before even knowing of the birth of Akîl, Agannâlo had travelled to and fro across the vast lands of Harad. He had travelled far, near and into the Hither Lands where the denizens of eastern Middle-Earth were not want to go. During his travels he had fallen into the company of Alatar the Blue, one of the mighty Istari, who had told him all that he needed to know for the coming of the child and what must be done.

    So for decades before the coming of the boy he had created links with the Haradrim and the Lords of Umbar, ties as strong as steel but still as malleable as liquid, many tribes seeing him as the reincarnation of Fuinur or Herumor, their shadowy lords from across the sea come back to rule them once again. Fealty was sworn by a number of tribes, others bought into his sphere of influence by blood oaths or bribes, the Lord of Umbar before Qusay swearing that he would help topple Gondor in any way he could and Qusay himself retaking that vow.

    Threads that had been woven long ago now came together in that year; the lost lord had been found and the time was now ripe for retribution against Gondor. In the west Qusay had been building a fleet of warships, his Umbarean cohorts eager to return to a land they saw as rightfully their own, happy enough to follow a kindred spirit and really their true lord. Out in the deserts many tribes had sounded the horns and war-drums, tribesmen making their way north into Harondor to be lead into battle as they had been promised years before, eager, angered, and feverish for the blood of their enemy.

    All the while the Serpent watched, having accepted the Númenóreans offer against all of his better judgement, but pressing the term that one of his own should have direct command of the Haradrim entering Northern Harondor. Agannâlo had agreed to this on the term that he alone be allowed to select the commander from among the lords of the Haradrim, quashing the protestations of his protégé with a simple wave of his hand, assuring the growing boy that all was in hand.

    This seemed agreeable to both parties, and so there was no conflict between them...yet.

    “We need a puppet,” he mused, smiling at his master as he smoothed a hand through his beard, “and I have just the pawn. A man of doubtful loyalties, one easily swayed by threats and gold. A man of no morals and even less sense.”

    “You know of such a man?”

    “I know of many such men, lord.”

    “What shall I call this instrument?”

    “Sakalkhôr, my lord. Call him Sakalkhôr.”




    And just so ye know...

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

  5. #25
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 27/11/13]

    Chapter 3, Part II – Gather Your Allies And Smite Your Foes






    Sakalkhôr sat high on the back of his steed, a horse of fine breeding and as dark as the blackest oil, the deep brown eyes of the minor nobleman scanning the ranks of the gathering tribesmen before him. Not long ago he had been adopted into the family of the Grand Serpent, marrying his eldest daughter in a lavish ceremony at the capital of Gobel Ancalimon. Every lord of the land had been assembled there, the food and wealth had been as numerous as the stars in the sky, and his wife was more beautiful than all the riches of the Dwarves. Yet in spite of all this, though he was now bound by blood to the highest of high chieftains in the Haradwaith, he felt no loyalty to Khuzaymah or to the confederation of tribes which he had turned into his so-called 'Serpent Army', a collection of tribes forced together through expert diplomacy and threats of force.

    Many swore fealty to the Black Serpent of the Desert, such men as Jibran of Chelker, Utbah of Korondaj and now Karbazir, this last one made Emir of Harondor and as such too firm in his loyalty to Khuzaymah to be bribed or threatened into leaving his liege lord for that of others of more Dúnedain blood. Most unlike himself. Sakalkhôr had what Karbazir, for all his lord ship over central Harondor and wealth and possessions, did not and that was ambition.

    Growing up in Far Haradrian settlement of An Karagmir he had worked his way up from nothing, nothing at all, killing any number of his opponents on the way up. Some had met with accidents, others were murdered and disposed of quietly – along with their entire family – and now Sakalkhôr was where he had always wanted to be. His marriage gave him political strength, his alliance with the Númenórean descendants gave him military might, and all this played into his ambitions quite nicely.

    “Yes,” he muttered to himself, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the waning sun of Harondor, his mouth curling into a smile beneath his neatly trimmed and curled beard, “quite nicely.”

    A disturbance among the milling masses took him back to the present, a lithe man dressed in tight-fitting robes and a dark headdress scrambling past two glaring Southrons to get to him. This man, shorter than the others and moving with a fluidity born from years of experience, shouted something that Sakalkhôr could only hear when he was but a few feet away.

    Throwing himself prostrate to the ground before the nobleman, his retinue of horsemen - dark men with keen eyes and sharp scimitars sitting beneath a fluttering banner of a black serpent – looking on in silence, the returning spy made his report.

    “My lord! The Straits of the Anduin are clear, the area around the fortress at Nînâd Estolad as well, should we strike into Northern Harondor now there would be no-one to stop us.”

    “Then we go now, we go to reclaim lost lands. In the name of Nardukhôr Űrę-Târik we march!”



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



    Nînâd Estolad, a small fortress in the northern part of Harondor, sat alone in the coastal region to the north of which flowed the mighty Anduin. This route would take anyone past Pelargir and Osgiliath before going out into the wider lands of Middle-Earth. It was strategically a very important fort, and an equally important region, and if it could be bought once more into the fold of the true lord then the options of what to do next were limitless.

    It was true that the lands around the fortress were deserted, that the Gondorians were bleeding themselves dry against masses of Orcs, Trolls and the Nazgűl belched forth from the dark and ash-filled lands of Mordor, but it was foolish of Sakalkhôr to consider that aid would not arrive to at least try and resist him. What aid did come was lead by Eradan of Pelargir, an expert mariner and leader of men, though only twenty-three in years, a confident general and an attacker used to winning his battles.

    With him came four other captains of Gondor, these three veterans of war but leading what small forces could be cobbled together from the coastal levies of Gondors numerous fiefs. Just over one-thousand men were mustered together and, as Sakalkhôr neared the fortress with a force of other three-thousand, swept into Northern Harondor on a duty-bound errand that would see them all die or bring them home triumphant. It was, let us be honest, a desperate gamble which had very little chance of paying off. Let no man say however that those of Gondor are cowardly and craven, for they marched against the Haradrim all the same.

    On the fields some miles away from Nînâd Estolad the two forces met, Eradan arriving with but two-hundred before his comrades and taking a position upon a hillock in front of the Haradrian army. With him he had dragged three ballistae, hoping to the Valar that these would make all the difference, his forces of Gondorian militiamen and Guardsmen spread out before the torsion-worked bolt-throwers in a shallow defensive formation.

    Opposing him, in a sea of red, black and glittering steel came nearly four-thousand Men of Harad intent on bloodshed and death. Two-hundred horsemen he had bought, lancers used to break and pursue their foe, placed on either flank of the central formation. This formation was a mingling of archers and spearmen, some four-hundred Southrons more accomplished in the ways of war placed among them to steady their lines and to add a well-needed backbone to the more inexperienced tribesmen – farmers, nomads, hunters and villagers of the Haradwaith, but not professional raiders.

    The tread of this army was like the clapping of thunder, shouts of instruction keeping them together, the archers behind their counterparts and the entire forces moving ever closer.

    It was not long before the ballistae opened fire, flaming missiles hurling through the air, though they must have been crewed by those of little skill with hardly a bolt hitting a target.

    “Forward!” Roared Sakalkhôr, safe at the rear of the formation, pressing a horn to his lips and letting a note flow from the horn he held, an item crafted from the tusk of a Műmakil.

    Undulating war-cries rolled from wetted lips as the spearmen surged forward in a tidal wave of bodies, bucklers and spears tipped by a number of wickedly shaped heads. Behind them the archers tugged backed their strings, knocked arrows, and loosed volleys of hissing death into the foolish band of Gondorians who dared to stand before them. Some feathered shafts embedded themselves in leather-faced shields bearing the symbol of a white tree, others penetrating simple leather armour and driving men to the ground to die.

    “Lord!” Shouted one of his bodyguard over the din of combat, “the enemy approaches!”

    Indeed the enemy did, three separate and desperate columns of hurrying warriors drawn from Pelargir and Dol Amroth by the sea, a motley mix of marines, spearmen and squares bearing the white swan on blue of the greatest port-city in Gondor. It was perhaps a telling sign of the wider situation in Gondor that not one of the famous and renowned Swan Knights had been sent to waste their lives against this unstoppable enemy, no doubt needed to hold back the greater threat (or so they believed) of the Orcs.

    After driving the descendants of the Men of Westernesse from their hillock, the spearmen forming a defensive formation as they breathed heavily beneath their robes and wrappings, the Haradrim army turned to engage the oncoming rush of infantry. Each band of spearmen, usually related by blood or at least by people, formed a tight circle of bristling spears and allowed the archers, hunters and poachers from the wastes of Harad, to place themselves behind.

    “You are doing well, Sakalkhôr,” came a familiar voice from one of the iron helmed Serpent Guard, “continue like this and the rewards shall be great. Now, gather your cavalry and charge.”

    Agannâlo grinned behind the mail covering his lower face, the rest spilling down behind a gorget protecting his neck, the unfamiliar weight of a curved scimitar turning it into something of a grimace for but a moment. With a proficient eye he watched the Haradrian puppet instruct his riders to gather around him, the Southron lancers on either side of the Serpent Guard, ordering them with threats and yells to charge the enemy that had become bogged down assaulting the schiltrons spread across the field.

    Men were now dying in droves, Eradan was being restrained by several laughing Southrons while the Gondorian forces attacked in a futile effort to break their foe. Nardukhôr could not help but laugh as he killed, running down a spearman in a blue tabard and decapitating him with a swing, backed by the momentum of his charge and followed by a shower of crimson blood. The feeling, the sensation, the very need to slay these fleeing adversaries seemed to be in his blood and right now his blood required the blood of others to calm it.

    All across the field the men of Gondor scattered like birds to the sky and the battle, as short as it had been, the length of but a couple of hours, was over.



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



    “Nearly six hundred of them,” grunted Sakalkhôr, not able to meet the gaze of his newest master, gesturing idly to the rows of grim Men of Gondor that had been bound and knelt on the plain of short grass before them, “the garrison of the fort was here, now it is entirely undefended.”

    “You have done well, Sakalkhôr,” announced Nardukhôr after removing his helmet, his stormy grey eyes looking at each prisoner as he looked down at them from the hillock, “execute them.”

    “Execute them?” Questioned the Haradrian nobleman, his mouth opening for a moment before shutting again, “yes...of course...execute them.”

    “Start with that one there,”commanded the young master, pointing directly at Eradan.

    “You! What are you doing! Can't you not see we are not the enemy?!”

    Nardukhôr growled, his lips curling back to expose his teeth, long strides taking him straight to the struggling Gondorian. As he leant in close he allowed himself a smile, “I am not one of your, Gondorian. Your people stole land that is rightfully mine, you tried to stop us here but have failed.”

    “Wha-” his eyes met those of the boy, a boy who now bore little resemblance to the one that had left his mother over a year ago, “traitor!” He roared, face contorting with a snarl, “exile! You will be destroyed.”

    “I think not.”

    One quick motion and his insolent head would spout no more torrid insults, the long brown hair covering the shocked expression on his face as it rolled to the feet of a Dol Amrothian squire who gave a start but was held down.

    “Here, take a closer look.”

    One strong fist grabbed the hair of the boy and held his head close enough for their noses to touch.

    “This is your fate, the fate of your entire people.”

    Turning away in a swish of billowing cloak and glinting armour, Nardukhôr stared at Sakalkhôr and silently dared him to meet his gaze.

    The Haradrian tried his hardest, locking eyes with his lord for a few seconds before looking away, but could not keep a steady stare. Few men could.

    “Now, execute them all. Send some men to take the fortress and hold it. The rest, and you, shall follow me east. We must make sure that our corsair friends can enter these lands freely, their ships unopposed as they sail up the coast.”

    A few words and there was a flurry of motion – they were heading into Eastern Harondor, and there was more blood to be shed.

  6. #26
    nine-o's Avatar Civis
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 27/11/13]

    +rep, only got through the first chapter, loved it. I think choosing a faction without a lot of detail from Tolkien is actually going to benefit you: one of the trickier parts in my AAR is trying to remain within the lore AND be creative... here you can take some cool liberties.
    Please read my current AAR, The Tale of the North!

    Also check out my previous AAR effort, The Russian Republic!

  7. #27

    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 27/11/13]

    I really hope this isn't dead.

  8. #28
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 27/11/13]

    Quote Originally Posted by Steward Denethor II View Post
    I really hope this isn't dead.
    Nay, Denethor, be not troubled. It remains 'alive', I'm just pondering (as I have been for a while) on what to write. New Year, new update, or something like that.

  9. #29
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 27/11/13]

    Chapter 3, Part III – Safe Havens And Stormy Waters






    Three there were perched around the crackling fire, the sun continuing to set in the distance on another day, blood red and representing that vital fluid shed by hundreds in nearly a year of conquest that had seen the face of Middle-Earth changed drastically.

    It was the summer of the year two-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-three of the Third Age; in the eastern lands the descendants of the Noldor in their harbour enclaves, and the Khazâd in their mountain fastnesses, bordered the much reduced lands of Eriador and those northern domains that the Orcs of Gundabad had wrenched from the fingers of the Free Peoples. To the south the Rohirrim, their superiority in cavalry making them a force to be reckoned with, had isolated Isengard and the treacherous wizard Saruman to his tower and a few minor regions on their border. The Elves of Mirkwood and the Men of Dale, an alliance formed between them, held back the marauding waves of Easterlings and Orcs from their own lands, such actions costing them many lives but more than worth the sacrifice.

    On the 'eastern front' however, the constant scene of struggle and wrestling between the forces of the Dark Lord and the south-kingdom of Gondor, was where the heaviest blow against the forces of Good and light fell. All had known that it would, but not all had been prepared for it. For in the waning months of the former year, like it's eastern cousin before it, it was the turn of Minas Tirith to fall to the horrors and mercies of the Nazgűl and their cruel machinations. Since its fall the fiefdoms of Gondor, far from defeated but certainly weakened, now reeled from this stunning blow and tried with all their might to stem the flood of filth oozing from Mordor and the Morannon as pus seeps from an infected wound.

    In the south-lands, that Men called Harad or the Haradwaith, pressure was placed on the sickened body of the Free Peoples not in the name of The Deceiver but in the name of another far more enigmatic figure. Some said that he was the last of the true Black Númenóreans, that this boy who had suddenly appeared out of the desert with death at his heel, had come to lead them into a new golden age where the Haradrim would hold the whip hand over their blood-enemies. Others said that it must be true, for the Corsair-Lord and the Emirs of Umbar gave their support to this newcomer, weakening the position of the Grand Serpent who now sulked in his capital and cursed this half-breed interloper with every breath.

    Although Khuzaymah, lord of all he surveyed and ruler of the scattered tribes, had agreed not to harass the young fool in exchange for servitude he knew something was not right. In his heart he knew that this 'Nardukhôr' would betray him, he knew because it was precisely what he would have done. Little could he have known that even as these thoughts came to him the sand of his desert was turning to water beneath his feet, his foundations crumbling, an invisible cage forming that the naked eye could not perceive but which could only be revealed when it was far too late.



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



    “Are they with us?” Inquired the first of the three, his grey eyes peering at the elderly man sitting across from him, his clothing torn and his beard as white as the frost on a winters morning.

    “You must understand that it is hard for a great many of them to accept,” returned the man, one hand pressed against the carved wood of his staff as he leant forward, the other lazily running through his Dwarf-like facial hair, “you have no symbol of authority, unlike our good friend Lord Qusay, the Spear of Fuinur lending him weight among Corsairs and Haradrim alike.”

    “Then Qusay is a threat?”

    “No, I did not say that, no,” reassured a voice laced with an authority all of its own, “Qusay, like his father and grandfather before him would have, will support you and your claim until his very own death.”

    The third figure, a shadow among shadows, gave a curt nod of his head and continued running a whetstone across his blade, “he speaks the truth, highness. The Corsairs were, and are, true offspring of Númenor since even before the time of Castamir the Usurper. I would not be surprised if Qusay himself was a direct relation of Sangahyando, the slayer of Minardil.”

    “Answer the question; will he stand with us, and why would he?”

    It was a voice which spoke most unlike that of the boy that had once lived on the plains of Harondor, the voice of one who had seen and done many things and had been forced to grow up by destiny and sheer willpower alone. The voice of he who may one day become King.

    “He will remain with you, Nardukhôr, because like all of his ilk he wishes to return 'home' and reclaim what they see as rightfully their own. The blood of Umbar may now be watered with that of other Men, of Haradrim tribesmen and lesser sorts, but it still flows strongly toward Gondor and its reclamation.”

    “Very well...” Nardukhôr mused for a moment, his slender but muscular form packed neatly into a suit of scale-armour, such as the type commonly worn by Haradrim riders, “what of the Emirs? You were saying?”

    “Worry not about them,” announced the confident wanderer, his sea-blue eyes flashing in the firelight with wisdom inextinguishable and knowledge unmatched among mortal man, “they will fall in line because they will have no other choice. Already your victories spread through the desert like a whirling dervish, like a sandstorm they shall erupt from the confines one the south, tribesmen flocking to Barad Harn on the western seaboard. Sakalkhôr was a wise choice of tool, a good figurehead to follow on your behalf, for although they go to join him it is you they truly serve.”

    “What-” there was a small pause and a sigh “what of Gorthaur...what of his power?”

    “You should not concern yourself with the Dark Lord, I doubt he even realises you exist. Oh he will have been told, for he had spies everywhere, but he is far beyond caring about you. It is the heir of Isildur and his kind that trouble that mind, but not heirs of apparently lifeless houses of nobility. For now it is Gondor that troubles him, Gondor and the Horse-Lords of Rohan, we must simply be cautious enough not to attract any unwanted attention.”

    “The Serpent?”

    Again the shadow chimed in, a laugh like dry paper issuing from his throat, “Khuzaymah already knows that you will betray him. He sees that you will, and yet is unable to halt your schemes and manoeuvrings. Support for the Serpent is dwindling, his victories and past glories eclipsed by your own, and soon the Emirs will openly shift their support as the Corsairs have.”

    Out in the dusk came the sounds of many voices, hundreds even, fires like pin-pricks dotted about the landscape and one central one roaring with life. Upon this bonfire were heaped corpses, nearly eight-hundred of them, fat and clothing doing there work to turn those carcasses to nothing but ash.

    A week ago Nardukhôr, with the assistance of Gimilkhâd, the Emir of Umbar, had boarded one ship among a fleet of hundreds of vessels. With swift winds, easy seas, and the word of Lord Qusay that all would go as planned, he had set sail surrounded by the fiercest pirates, cut-throats and merciless dogs in the Haven of Umbar. The Isle of Tolfalas, a barren place in the Bay of Belfalas and at the mouth of the Straits of the Anduin, was their destination and specifically the largest settlement on the island – Gobel Tolfalas.

    Harondor had already fallen to his forces under Sakalkhôr, the Gondorians splintered and desperate and too busy clawing against the wall of Saurons legions to attempt to retake their lost lands. Now he swayed back and forth aboard a Corsair raiding ship, the tattered sails flapping in the wind and his mind racing along with his pulse as excitement once more rose in his being.

    “You are not moved by the deaths of so many of your people?” Gimilkhâd had asked one morning, his face and lank hair making him seem like some sort of rat, “they are not my people. I have more in common with you and the desert-dwellers than the savages on that island or the settlers of Harondor.”

    Indeed, though he had not taken part himself, Sakalkhôr had massacred thousands on his orders who would have resisted his right to rule. Even now Harondor was becoming filled with tribesmen looking for more fertile lands, joined by emigrants from Umbar and even some of the rarely-viewed peoples from the Hinterlands of the far south.

    As he returned to looking into the fire he could remember vividly the painted face of the islands inhabitants, war-paint of whites and blues turning their visages into snarling masks, his pirate bands wheeling the battering ram to the gates and hammering straight through them and into the basic settlement of wood and stone which these barbarous people had constructed. Through the gates they poured, cutlasses and daggers unsheathed and ready, soon there glittering blades dulled by crimson and the screams of violated women ringing through the streets. That was the first time that he had ever felt anything close to empathy for these usurpers of his lands and his path, his senses dulled and human feelings locked away within him.

    That evening he had surveyed the settlement on Tolfalas by foot, the island itself being large but mostly barren of any resources, walking through the carpet of the deceased and pondering as he ever did at the future. The future of himself and his people. Gobel Tolfalas was built, so it seemed, upon the ruins of a much older and much more advanced colony, if one was to dig down beneath many of the buildings then it would be confirmed that most were assembled on the foundations of more ancient houses and halls. Houses and halls that is of his own ancestors.

    Gazing out at the Mouths of Anduin, unable to take his eyes away, the old man had appeared as if from the surf itself. At first Nardukhôr had thought that he recognised the man, but he shook his head and thought that he must be mistaken. Together they had spoken, the ragged traveller revealing that he knew of Akîl and his family, and his heritage along with it, and one more thing which he suggested.

    “You want me to found a city here?!” The Númenórean heir had exclaimed at first, looking once more out toward the surrounding sea, “the Anduin is the vein which runs through the body of this world, and this is where it begins. To the north lays Belfalas and lands that are rightfully your own, to the east is Gondor, and the further you sail the more there is.” Replied the old man in a voice so soothing that Nardukhôr felt himself to be in a trance of sorts, “yes...it would seem you are right, Old One.”

    Now Nardukhôr, Agannâlo and Alatar the Blue faded into silence and each foresaw their own versions of the future. Soon enough Tolfalas would have a new settlement, a capital around which the rightful ruler of Dúnedain lands would begin a much grander campaign of conquest.

    “Aaaah,” hissed Nardukhôr as he took in a long breath, the silence halting what thoughts he may have had, “we shall begin with the foes of my blood, with those pitiful denizens of Pelargir.”

    Alatar smiled to himself, his face half-hidden in the mane of his hair and the shadow of the darkness that had crept upon them as it would the entirety of Middle-Earth. He had turned from the Valar and the side of light long ago, his considerable powers now twisted toward influencing others. The Emirs would join because he willed it, and this boy, a boy far older than some grown men, would rule because not only he willed it but higher powers yet.

    “And after that harbour the lands of Lebennin shall have rivers flowing with blood, Dol Amroth shall enter into your service, and the 'Faithful' shall finally reap what their forefathers have foolishly sewn.”





    Last edited by McScottish; January 03, 2014 at 11:46 AM.

  10. #30

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

    Sorry I have commented in a while, I may or may not have slightly forgotten

    This gets more and more interesting with each word, yet I wonder when everything will stop going so well for our protagonist. Everyone's luck runs out sooner or later

  11. #31
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 03/01/2014]

    Quote Originally Posted by Merchant of Venice View Post
    Sorry I have commented in a while, I may or may not have slightly forgotten

    This gets more and more interesting with each word, yet I wonder when everything will stop going so well for our protagonist. Everyone's luck runs out sooner or later
    Dun-dun-DUUUUUUUUN!

    The answer is...it never will.

  12. #32
    Axis Sunsoar's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 03/01/2014]

    Wow... I didn't realize how long it's been since I last commented. I love the way the story is progressing. I think that the disdain and anger of Nar the protagonist toward the Gondorians is especially well-written. His rise to power among the tribes of Harad was described brilliantly. Perhaps my favorite quote from your writing so far is

    Quote Originally Posted by McScottish
    Although Khuzaymah, lord of all he surveyed and ruler of the scattered tribes, had agreed not to harass the young fool in exchange for servitude he knew something was not right. In his heart he knew that this 'Nardukhôr' would betray him, he knew because it was precisely what he would have done. Little could he have known that even as these thoughts came to him the sand of his desert was turning to water beneath his feet, his foundations crumbling, an invisible cage forming that the naked eye could not perceive but which could only be revealed when it was far too late.
    +Rep of course, keep the updates coming!

  13. #33
    Wolar's Avatar Tiro
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    Default Re: [TA:TW MOS Haradrim AAR] The Son Of Tree And Serpent [Updated: 03/01/2014]

    Expertly written and of a faction not often spoken of.. It doesn't hurt that the style of narrative is also very enjoyable. Gripping stuff. +rep.
    Scripta manent, verba volant.

    My Byzantine AAR
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