Barad Eithel -- Outer Courtyard
High walls and lofty towers cast their long shadows down into the courtyard
below. Troops often train here, learning the skills which will protect them
against an implaccable foe always more numerous than they. At times, the whole
of the fortress gathers here to hear the words of their commanders or of the
High King himself...or to muster for battle.
Ringing the courtyard are the grainaries, armouries, smithies, stables, and
other buildings which support and provide for the fortress in peace and in war.
The camp of the men of Dor-lomin has perhaps returned somewhat to its normal
setting since the days of festing prior. Indeed the large communal area has
been recovered by tents, and the camp is very much quiter today.
At its edge walking towards the eastern walls of the fort, a tall man of golden
hair walks. He stands perfect straight and his golden hair drifts in the
morning breeze. His fair face seems keen and his eyes sharp despite the lack of
sleep he took the night prior. Yet the Lord smiles still at all his folk he
passes and the same for the quende he sees.
Derelin raises as his lord approaches and smiles, "Good morrow, good Lord.
T'was quite a feast, was it not? And today the sun is out, the sky is clear --
I am sure it will be a wonderful day! The timing was just right. And with my
son safely returned, there is nothing amiss today."
From the armory comes a tall quende; his raven hair sweeps back in the icy
wind, and his deep blue cloak billows about him. Upon his brow is set a twined
crown, yet instead of finery the High King of the Noldor is dressed all in
shining mail. He glances at the edain and quende, silent for now, as he too
heads for the battlements. Seeing Gundor and another adan with him, he smiles
and calls out. "Greetings to you, son of Hador! How fare you?"
Stopping his long strides as a familiar voice adresses him Gundor turns to see
the shepard. " Ahh I am a pleased to hear your son is returned, that is a
truely good thing. The feasting was good and that is a blessing and yes you
speak truly a finer winters day you could not wish, yet I smell snow on the
air." Another voice punctuates his sentence, it is fair and unignorable.
Turning swiftly Gundor bows deeply and smiles. "Good day to you ARan
Fingolfin."
Derelin laughs and shakes his head, "Yea, my head is still not entirely clear
yet, but it feels great to be amongst the living, enjoying the company of you
family." As he turns and sees the High King, he stops and blushes. Derelin bows
deeply and says, "Greetings, High King... I.. ah... well... Let me tell you
again, how sorry I am for having disturbed you yonder night when you were
sitting by the fires..."
The king regards both edain solemnly for a moment, and then he nods. "No need
to apologize; I was not disturbed." He looks up towards the battlements, and
then sets his foot upon the stairs leading to it. "I go to see the lay of the
land, and to check with the watch.... you will come?" Waiting only briefly for
an answer, he mounts the stairs.
Gundor smiles at the high king and looks at him with eyes of perhaps a child
looking to his father. "Aye, I will come for it is where I was heading myself
M'Lord the plains are easily viewed from your battlements, yet I would wander
that way if you wished it regardless.
Derelin follows the other two, a cheerful swing in his stride, slowly twirling
his black staff in his left hand as he walks. He whistles a little ditty under
his breath as he walks. While they are still walking, he happily notes, "See my
lord, the men are happy. Let them enjoy the calm days after the big feast."
[Melkor?]
Suddenly and with no warning, the ground beneath you begins to shake, the very
earth seeming to groan. The light dims, and far-off thunder rumbles. In the
north, a dark cloud rises, underlit with an eerie red glow.
Derelin stumbles and catches himself with his right hand, "What... What was
that!?"
The younger son of Hador, but reches the last step as the very walls of Barad
eithel seem to roll and unduluate beneath his feet. A rail he grabs at and
steadies him with it. Dragging himself to the battlements, he pears over and
North. Distant yet near enough a cloud grows and expands and rolls out and up,
and beneath it flames. Even the eyes of the Edain can sea it and its distant
source. It lies North and Thangorodrim. Calling to Fingolfin, the wide eyes of
Gundor flame at him, "M'Lord.....what....?" The head of the lord wheels back
north, where a wind seems to have whipped from.
Down in the courtyard voices are heard, questions are being shouted. Metal
rings as men struggle into their armour, grab their weapons. Confusion reigns.
Up on the battlements, Derelin struggles to keep his voice calm, "My Lord... my
Lord... What is this? What glows there under yonder dark cloud?" His hands
shake as he tries to hold onto the battlements. Deep down the earth still
groans, the walls still tremble.
Gundor stares back at the camp and sees many folk running to the walls, some to
offer assistance some to just see what they can. Screas and shouts rise up, and
confusion seems to ripple through this place just as the ground beneath its
stone flags did. The young Lord looks for faces amidst the many folk running
hither and thither, a officer or a Marshal to perhaps calm the folk, yet none
can he mark. He looks to the shepard standing near a hand reaches out to steady
him. "Lad I have no clue, but my guess is it is not good." He glances back
North, "We must settle this camp, get all of our men roused and all who should
not be on the walls down." The statement was not meant as an order for anyone
just a calming word for himself.
Fingolfin stands already atop the battlement when the earth shakes, and his
head goes uyp, a light kindling in his eyes. "We tarried overlong," he murmurs
to himself, and then looks back to the fortress below. "The storm is at hand!"
He calls out, his voice clear and ringing even in the din of the rumbling.
"Stand firm! O Eldalie and Edain! Stand firm!" He calls out then to the guard,
and bells are rung, summoning all in the tower to their stations. And then,
turning to Hador's son, he nods. "Calm them after your fashion, Gundor, and
then prepare for combat. Morgoth has loosed the storm upon us all...
Derelin mutters, "Not good. Not good at all." Eyes wide, he scans the camp
below. "Enirel oh Enirel, where are you now? Hold on fast now... T'is not good
at all..." Somehow this seems to calm him, for he holds firm his staff and his
voice wavers not. "My Prince, shall we go down? The stables must be a madhouse,
the animals go crazy when the earth trembles, do you hear the horses screaming?
Let's go!" He seems ready to run down the stairs and waits but for a nod of
Hador's son.
The face of Gundor, now set firm and grim seems calm, but for flaming eyes. Yet
the voice of Gundor rings out loud and crips through the air, as Fingolfins,
yet even the fair voice of Hador's son seems brash. "Men of Dor-lomin you know
your place and stick to it. If you can fight fasten your harness, if you cannot
settle the folk near you." His eyes and his hair is caught by the breeze. He
turns to the Shepard, his voice turns to him, quiter yet still loud over the
din. "My officer and marshals are noen to be seen yet a shepard offers as much
council as they may. Derelin I must stay here and calm the folk, afore the
horses, yet if you do this and tend to your family."
The men of Dor-lomin are already climbing the battlements, thos who come to spy
the plains are turned back by the soldiers of Hador and the crowds begin to
calm. The knights and officers whom Gundor seeks move amongst the Marachians
calming them and bringing order back. A forced normality settles over the folk,
yet soldier run still from the tents buckling both harness and settling helms
atop of the pates.
Derelin nods and flies down the stairs. Down in the courtyard, he rushes
towards the stables. "Boys! Here! Have you not heard your Prince? Let's to the
stables!" Two young ones that seem to recognize the shepherd drop out of their
trance and jump up, following. In front of the stables, they shove two panicked
pigs back into their corrals and make sure the gates are well fastened. Then
they disappear into the stables.
The sound of hooves pounding the earth is heard as in through the great gates a
rider appears...soldiers of Mithrim in tow. The standard he bears marks him as
the Prince of Mithrim, Fingon. With his great sword already drawn and a battle
gleam to the eyes beneath his helm, he rides with a great fury. Upon drawing to
the center of the courtyard he shouts at no one in particular, "Where is my
father?!!?"
Fingolfin looks back towards the north, his eyes narrowing at the strange,
flickering glow. The darkness rises, blearing the sunlight, and a pall almost
like night settles over the land. And yet the eerie glow persists, deepening
and growing brighter even as all other lights dim.
Fire.
"Call in the outer guard! The scouts!" Cries the elvenking, his voice as loud
as the ringing bells. "Bring water, and quickly!"
At the new calls of panic and new arrivals the Son of Haodr looks to the High
King "Aran I will settle my folk and try to get all to rights in here. Shall I
assemble my men and meet thee to make council over this." As he speaks he moves
to the stairs, waiting for reply before he runs off to the camp and his folk.
"Council we will take, but fire comes, son of Hador. Fire comes. We must see to
that first..." Fingolfin turns his head back towards the courtyard below, and
he sighs in guarded relief as Fingon rides into the fortress. "Go now, and
prepare your people, Gundor..."
Derelin leaves the two boys at the stables and hastenes back to the corrals
where sheep, pigs and a few cows are screaming and kicking. "Reinforce the
corrals!" he shouts, "And hearken the High King! Get the water ready! The
animals won't need it now!" With that he grabs two young men and a lithe girl
that where trying to reerect a tent that had crumbled. "Leave the tent! Follow
me!" and together they run towards the corrals. There, they get hold of another
handful of men and start gathering pots and buckets, pushing animals from their
water feeds and reerecting new fences, in order to free the open water for the
coming fire.
Gundor makes his way down the stairs at the high kings bidding his gait is long
and soon he is at the base. There he spies Derelin a nod he offers, yet no
smile. The son of Hador continues and moves into the tents of his folk.
Fingon watches as both Adan & Quendi run to and fro. As it seems that order is
coming to the camp, he stops a squire crossing the yard and shouts down to him,
"I need you to take a message to my father upon the battlements...tell him that
I go to bring in the outlying scouts before they are overcome. I shall return
before long...now GO!!" As the boy runs in the direction of the towers, Fingon
watches him go...then his glance goes up to the battlements. Seeing his father,
he salutes then points to the gates. In a whisper he says, "Godspeed, my
father...'tis my wish to see you again...if Varda wills..." With that he places
his helm upon his head turns his horse and quickly reaching a gallup, he
disappears once again through the gates...
You pass through the double-doors to the northwest.
Barad Eithel -- Stables
The smell of horses fills the air and commingles with hay and fodder and many
other scents. A double line of stalls extends far down with an opening at the
far end that leads out to assorted pens where horses can be bred, trained, or
exercised.
Harnesses, saddles, bridles and blankets can be found here, as can brushes and
curries and assorted other gear necessary for the care and treatment of horses.
Elwen
As a sapling of Galathilion stands Elwen of Tirion, tall and Moon-pale, crowned
with long silver-shadowed hair, dark as a mist-shrouded starlit night. Bright
are her eyes as the stars upon the Bay of Eldamar, and keen her gaze, though
temepered by compassion. Her voice is clear and heart-stirring, but speaking
more often words of peace and understanding than raised in anger. Sea-blue and
silver are her garments, unadorned save for a wrought belt of silver and gold
and a clear gem shining at her throat, and her long hair bound in a silver net.
Derelin bursts through the stable doors again, panting, followed by a young
boy. "Boy, over there, make sure that straw is out of the way. And back there,
look that the water is ready. I'll go and seek some blankets to soak. Now run!"
With that, he runs towards the back of the stables.
Mirelinde arrives from the courtyard to the southeast.
Tall, and possessing an air of youthful exuberance, the maiden before you is a
portrait of vibrant contrasts. Her blue eyes sparkle as the winter seas after a
storm, holding mirth and merriment when she chooses to smile. Yet when turned
to more serious matters, they appear darkened and grey as a clouded sky.
Flawless features, a gift to all her kin, make for a comely appearance, her
skin smooth and fair-complected. Long, wavy hair the color of darkest amber is
left to cascade freely down to her waist; woven throughout are tiny braids
holding white and light-blue blossoms.
She wears a gown of pale mint green. Airy and light, it is the color of a
meadow under the misty morning sky. The rounded neck and gossamer sleeves of
her gown are embroidered in delicate embellishments of fine satin threads that
shimmer silvery-white. Ribbons the color of seafoam and silver trail from her
sleeves and shoulders where they spring from delicate rosettes of
carefully-crafted pale yellow ribbons.
Another figure enters the stables, ash-covered, for like snow it now falls from
the deepening gloom overhead. An elven-lady stands in the doorway for a moment,
and then she shakes her head, trading the chaos without for the chaos within.
Stepping into the confines, she looks around, and then calls out softly, her
voice strangely calm. "Where is the stablemaster?" Without awaiting an answer,
she goes to the horse in the first stall, speaking softly to it.
Sirwen arrives from the courtyard to the southeast.
A tall and slender elven maiden, grave yet graceful and cheerful. Her fair
complexion is in sharp contrast with her keen black eyes that shines brightly
as she looks back at you. She wears a white, hooded cloak that nearly sweeps
the floor, like a cascade of snow all around her, with pale silver trimmings
that are almost unoticable unless seen from near. As she pulls back the hood,
revealed is her long raven-black hair that flows loosely over her shoulders
like the river of midnight down to the small of her back. Beneath her robe, she
wears a dress made of pale blue silk, with light folds hanging at the edges of
her skirt and sleeves that flare on her wrists. Her white elven boots are
always seem to be clean and spotless as if they have never touched the ground
or any dust at all. A silver belt carved with intricate patterns is around her
slim waist. A necklace of plain silver with a single blue stone as a pendant is
around her neck. If you look closer, you may be able to notice the thin, short
silver dagger of elvish made which she usually keeps hidden beneath her white
cloak.
Derelin comes from the back of the stable, soaking blankets under both arms.
"Indeed mylady, I know not!" he pants, as he heaps the blankets in the middle
of the stable. "Let's prepare for fire! There's water in the back!" he shouts,
as he runs back again. A few moments later he arrives with two buckets full of
water. "There won't be any cleaning necessary once this place catches fire," he
pants, as he sets them down. "What did I forget? Did I forget? Oh Enriel, oh
Auniel, I just hope you will escape..." and with that, he runs bacl towards the
water.
Taringil arrives from the courtyard to the southeast.
Flame, spent in its sudden flare, must have been in this body held fast by
cold steel; and it seems so, as one gazes upon this slender Elf, that a pale
fire leaps forth from him, to cast a shimmer of icy light about his feet.
Fair beyond mortal thought, is this child of the Eldalie, tall as a lord,
lithe and slender as a finely wrought blade, yet cold and pale as a star of the
North; he exudes an effortless grace, given unearthly beauty by sorrow. None
could be white and cold as snow, and yet live; in him, winter's heart seems to
be made living, in a face youthful, yet gaunt, features stark and pointed,
finer than frost, yet sharp as ice. Eyes, large, luminous, of hue deep azure,
as the sea beneath night skies, seem burnt into that white countenance, as
hollow coals slowly dying in the snow.
Raven hair, blacker than any night, falls in elegant disarray about his icy
white brow, and in a smooth shimmering river down his back, at the end gathered
with a silver cord. Wide-shouldered, and lofty of height, the elf's body tapers
to a narrow waist, and legs, though agile and powerful, are rather long and
slender. His torso is clad in a fitted jacket of velvet sable, the long sleeves
tight about the lean line of his arms, and silver thread shimmers in the soft,
slightly wrinkled fabric, as stars woven into night, a dust as of diamonds
seeming to glitter faintly in the dark velvet. Fitted breeches of sable garb
his legs, merging seamlessly into soft, calf-high boots of jet black.
About his waist is clasped a belt of silver, in the form of linked crescents
and stars; a second belt, heavier, as a thick silver band of intricately woven
clasps and links, encircles his narrow hips.
Elwen looks between horse and adan as the man speaks, and wonders, briefly,
which needs more comforting. The ground rocks again as thunder rumbles almost
directly overhead, and for a moment Elwen trembles, and then steadies herself
once more. Clutching briefly at a shining jewel at her throat, she steps
towards the adan, shaking her head. "If fire indeed reaches these stables, we
shall already have perished.... the danger is upon the outwalls, I deem..." And
then she sighs, shaking her head. "We must see to the animals; they are
afraid..."
Derelin comes running back again, carrying another two buckets full of water.
As he sees the elven maids whispering to the horses, he smiles in relief.
"Thank you, thank you, fair ones. I dared not approach such great horses
myself. How goes it outside? What news from the battlements? Is there a host to
be seen? What happened to the scouts?" Eventhough the first horses have been
calmed, others are still frothing, rolling their eyes and kicking.
Elwen smiles faintly, shaking her head. "It is all I could do, to get to the
stables. Ash falls now, not snow, and there is a reek of smoke in the air." She
moves to another horse, though her eyes are still upon the adan. "I could not
see anyone to ask; regardless, it is my duty to restore what order I can..."
Another enters, with him a sudden cloud of ash and a wisp of smoke; his sable
garb is grey now, not black, and the azure glint of his eyes flickers
uncertainly about the stable, reassuring himself that the steeds therein were
not harmed and the stable still safe from flame. From the grim mask of
Taringil's visage, what goes without is not entirely well. His voice seems
hoarse from the smoke, but unusually frigid, for such a time. "Is all well
here?" he calls within, glancing about at the frantic horses, already moving to
calm those who still clamoured.
Derelin looks at the new arrival and nods, "All is well, sir. All the buckets
we have found are filled with water, we have drenched blankets, and the horses
are unhurt. But how are things outside? What is happening there?" He quickly
steps up to the stable doors and looks out into the grey mass of swirling
ashes, seeing moving shadows of men and elves, faint fire and torches. "Aye,
t'seems calmer now than when I left the courtyard." He keeps standing by the
doors, looking outside.
Looking up at the sound of another voice, Elwen nods slightly, though her
attention is focused mainly on the trembling horse. "All is as well here as can
be, though it is hard on the horses." She coughs slightly, and turns her head.
"Shutter the windows too; and place one of the blankets against the sill... it
will not matter the horses do not burn should they suffocate..." She brings up
an edge of her cloak to cover her mouth, shaking her head worriedly.
The smoke from outside, enough to stifle, lends haste to Taringil as he
complies, moving swiftly to bolster the shutters against the windows. "A foul
reek this is," he mutters, taking a blanket and folding it securely against any
gaps in the sill, to keep out the smoke. "What is brewing that.." Another
far-off rumble interrupts his words, and he returns to stand a ways behind the
stable doors, where the adan stands gazing out, and the sight beyond, though
perhaps more ordered than before, seems not calming in the least. "fires seem
to burn the skies to give such a smoke as this?"
A sudden wind blows ashes and dust into the stables. Surprised, Derelin pulls
the doors shut. "Right, the windows..." as he moves along the other wall,
shuttering the windows, shutting out the dancing lights, the calling, and the
shouting. The stable looks like the inside of a ship sailing into the darkness
now, only a few torches close to the center are burning now, the rest is hidden
in the shaddows. The floor is wet and several buckets of water are placed all
over the place. Derelin considers for a moment and says, "That's it, then. I
shall go and find the stable master now. After all, he should be tending the
horses, right?"
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