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| AgentDrake |
![]() Posted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 10:42 pm |
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Joined: 01 Apr 2007
Posts: 667
Location: Halfway between eccentric and insane...
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| In reference to my last post, I’m not doing a Southron. Don’t want to over-commit my time, especially considering that I was one of the people who had to drop out of the DC Adventure. Not that I should be quite that busy, but.... |
| Never kid about politicians. The more bizarre the joke, the more likely it is to come true. |
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| DáinIronfoot |
![]() Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2007 10:20 am |
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Joined: 12 Jan 2007
Posts: 4594
Location: Beltsville, MD, USA
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REALMS OF MIDDLE-EARTH
March 2, 3019. The sun rises over Middle-earth, though the looming darkness is so thick one could slice through it with a knife. The War of the Ring rages across all lands.
The fate of Middle-earth stands on a precipice. People of all realms are either under assault or about to become so. The Elves that have not made their way to Grey Havens strive to protect their lands, knowing that the worst may be yet to come. Likewise, the hardy men of Gondor can only wait, seeing the coming doom on their own doorstep. The valiant Rohirrim have already felt the hammer fall, the first battle of the Fords of Isen claiming their future king and many valiant warriors only days before, and their king lost to the will of the wizard Saruman, a friend turned merciless foe. The Men of Rohan lose hope.
But this day, a new hope rises with the bright sun. Salvation rides to Rohan, and from there, to the whole of Middle-earth.
The following days and weeks will determine the future of all these lands, and many others. This is the day the future King of Gondor begins the quest to save his kingdom, riding with another wizard whose loyalty to Rohan and all free peoples of Middle-earth is unwavering. With them ride other heroes, members of a broken fellowship that is NOT broken in determination or purpose. Ahead of them lie other heroes, great and small, who will rise up together and stand against the darkness. Far away journey the two smallest and greatest heroes of all, whose purpose is so different yet wholly bound to the rest. All these other heroes can do is defend their homes, their countries, their comrades and friends...and hold on to what hope they have left.
But these are not the only heroes of this war. A ranger, once unsure of his very purpose, has led others on a successful quest to secure Middle-earth from a threat few have ever even perceived, the danger of eternal winter at the hands of a fallen elf and an artifact of legendary power. This ranger has restored his faith in himself, and many others in themselves: a Dwarf of the Iron Hills who has come to grips with his guilt-ridden past, an Elf of Mirkwood who has finally escaped the anguish of friends long gone, a minstrel of Rohan able to find new conviction and resolve and let go of his rage, a Hobbit of the Shire who has become the warrior his kind will need in the coming months. There are others who have fought for them and with them, hailing from the realms of ancient Arnor and Eriador to the forests of Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain to the footstep of Mordor itself in the fair lands of Ithilien. These heroes were the most unlikely band imaginable—save perhaps the fellowship that had set out from Rivendell—yet the bonds they have forged are unbreakable.
It is these heroes that this tale will follow. Their quest into the realms of the north was a perilous one, but the journey that lies ahead will test them, and their loyalty and friendship, as never before. They will be forced to fight in lands both foreign and all too familiar, against enemies some have never seen before, against seemingly insurmountable odds. Friends and allies, new and old, will stand with them, but will they be victorious? Will they help usher in a peaceful future for Middle-earth...or be cast aside as the darkness swallows all that they hold dear?
Our tale begins in the land most threatened this fair morning: Rohan, home of the Horse-lords. One of these heroes has returned here, to his homeland, and defended her in one brutal battle already, following Elfhelm to the aid of Théodred at the Fords of Isen. Théodred and many brave Rohirrim have fallen, but the Fords—and the way to Edoras—remain secure. But this hero, an exiled minstrel of King Théoden, knows that the battle is not over, and should they fall, so too will fall Edoras just to the west, and then the whole realm of Rohan. He has sent word to his friends, and they have come to stand together once again.
The battle for Middle-earth has begun.
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Probably not where you expected we’d begin, eh? Don’t worry...we will get to the realms you’re expecting soon enough. But first our heroes need a reason to reunite, and coming to the aid of their friend Ectheow is that reason.
I envision that after the quest for the Iceblade, our heroes went back to their homes, though with a promise to keep in touch. Some likely traveled together: Rorin and Ryle and Ellar, Silvarin and Tuilin and Legoles, Curubethion and Dirthon and Duinihir. Others, like Adalard and Ectheow, traveled alone; Adalard straight back home to the Shire (maybe with some time spent in Bree), and Ectheow a meandering journey that eventually brought him back to Rohan, determined not to let Gríma and Saruman keep him from defending his home any longer. He and the others have new purpose and hope after their journey into the north with Curubethion, I would imagine. Between that story and now, they have busied themselves either fighting Sauron’s forces directly (probably in the case of the rangers and perhaps the Elves) or preparing their folk to the same (Rorin and the men of Dale).
Now, Ectheow has sent messages to them to help defend Rohan, as its fall would mean certain, eventual doom for THEIR homelands in Mirkwood, Gondor, Erebor, and elsewhere. Much like the beginning of Realms of the North (when Curubethion summoned them all to Bree), our heroes have answered the call and are convening to begin the journey, this time in Rohan.
We’ll assume Ectheow sent the messages in late February, around the time of the first battle of the Fords of Isen, as Rohirrim scouts reported that Saruman’s forces were gathering for an all-out assault. Your mission: give us a brief summary (either in flashbacks or thoughts or detailed accounts) of what your character has been up to between Realms of the North (a few months prior) and now. You can begin in late February, or the very morning of March 2, or even months before if you want to, but detail your character’s actions leading up to that morning. Regardless of where you start, I want you to end up at the Fords of Isen, either during or after the battle (your choice, depending on how much fighting you want to do). Please remember, though, that the Rohirrim LOSE this battle, despite putting up a good fight, and Saruman’s forces continue on to Helm’s Deep. The battle is described in more detail here, and I’d advise reading it. It’s short...don’t worry. 
As part of this, it’s also time to recreate DCs of the following:
- Your character (a companion, obviously).
- Two possessions for that companion.
Obviously, we will be creating more stuff for your character as we go along, just as we did for the DC Adventure. I would prefer you design your character along the same lines of how they were in Realms of the North, though with a little more experience, obviously, than they had when we initially set out that time. Meaning you can add more text and even modify the stats a little if you want. As for the possessions, again, I would prefer keeping what you had before, though you don’t necessarily have to. These two possessions can be weapons, armor, helmets, food, medicine...whatever you’d like! And unlike with the DC Adventure, you CAN make your possessions unique, so don’t worry about making them a bit “dumbed-down” just so that they fit into the mold of non-unique cards. Have fun with it!
If you’re NEW to this and feel uncomfortable making DCs, PM me and let me know and we’ll work something out. If you have any OTHER questions, you can either ask in the RoME Discussion Thread or, again, PM me.
Once everyone has gotten their character to the Fords and the battle is over, we’ll move on to the next part.
A couple specific notes:
Drake: See what I mean about being involved heavily early on?  Obviously, your section will be a bit different from the others, as you probably SHOULD write about at least some of the battle, if you’re willing, and at least mention the messages you sent to the others. Note that Ectheow has NOT yet returned to Edoras, and therefore not seen Théoden or Grima since being exiled. PM me if you want to discuss it further.
ingold: Since you’re completely new to this, your stuff will be a little different too. Ectheow doesn’t know Durail yet, so Durail got the message some other way (perhaps through common friends like Silvarin or Tuilin), or is simply, as usual, in the right place at the right time. Just get him to the Fords SOMEhow so he can join the others there as we move forward.
Thran: Since we’re not in Mirkwood yet (and won’t be for a little while longer), you have a choice: you can either design a character NOW and have them also join this group, or you can hold off until later and enter the story at a later point. Your call.
A note on Adalard the Hobbit, also: I didn’t intend to bring him into this story until later, if at all. However, if someone else wants to bring him into it earlier (even now), you have my blessing. BattleWarg has long since vanished, so I know HE won’t be using him. If anyone else wants to, go for it.
That’s it for now. Have fun!  |
Best regards, Dáin, Vice Aftokrator of the Chosen Ones
Check out Lasting Alliances, The Road Ahead, and Ages of Middle-earth, three of my five dream card sets that make up Wars of the Ring. Oh, and I have a trade list now!
Also, if you're into DCs or RPGs (or even if you're not!), check out Realms of Middle-earth, the sequel to CG's "DC Adventure", Realms of the North! |
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| NBarden |
![]() Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2007 1:23 pm |
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Joined: 28 Dec 2006
Posts: 5468
Location: I don't know...
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March 2nd, 3018. We rode into Bree today. ’Tis good to be back in familiar settings.
March 15th, 3018. We depart today from Bree. My bones ache to be back in the wilds. For that is the fate we have chosen, the Dunedain of the North. Ever it is our fate to protect the citizens of the far North, and with nary a thanks in return for it. We are born with our destiny, and naught that any may say can counter it. I was born a ranger, and by the grace of Illuvatar, I will die in the frozen north with a sword in my hand, protecting those whom have no other protection.
April 25th, 3018. Wolves attacked today. 3 died, 4 wounded. They are growing bolder. I fear we can no longer keep them off.
May 4th, 3018. We return to Bree, for there we are needed most. The wolves are growing bolder, and the winter has been exceptionally harsh. I fear we shall not rest until every one of the brutes is killed.
May 5th, 3018. Arrived at Bree
May 8th, 3018. Armies and armies of wolves! We are surrounded on all sides. Never have I seen such a path! The gates are barred, but I fear it will not be sufficient. Such a vast quantity of arrows has been expended already, but though many of the beasts have died, their carcasses are not enough to whet the appetite of the rest.
May 10th, 3018. The gate has been broken in. We are at the Prancing Pony, windows barred and doors shut. All our horses have been killed by the ravenous wolves. We shoot from atop the roof, but our arrows avail nothing. I fear that we shall have no rest.
May 11th, 3018. The snow is beginning to melt. If we can hold out until spring arrives, which always arrives late in this frozen wasteland, then the wolves will retreat. We set fire to several of the buildings outside the Pony, and the wolves have backed away. No wolf dares approach us now, for any that do get riddled with flaming arrows.
May 15th, 3018. Spring at last. The wolves have retreated, and all is well, at least, until the next summer.
July 1st, 3018. A strange breed of Orc has appeared around bree. Bearing strong armor and strong weapons, they bear the symbol of a white hand. I must go to Rivendell to ask Elrond.
July 15th, 3018. At Rivendell. We still have no horses from the wolf attack, but we made it on foot. The hospitality of Elrond’s folk is still unmatched anywhere in the world.
July 16th, 3018. At council with Elrond. Today we learned of the treachery of Saruman. How can we resist the shadow in the east if it is among us? They call me mad, but I must find out about Saruman’s workings. I hold my life of no value, but that of protection. I must go.
July 31st, 3018. At the southern border of Fangorn. Saruman has turned Isengard into a machine of war. He is bent on one thing, destruction. I fear his army will be enough to destroy the free peoples of Middle Earth.
August 17th, 3018. Today, many years back, I was born. Alas that I live to see the treachery of him who we have held in high esteem, the rise of the Dark Lord, and the epic battle of our time. I do not choose my fate, as I did not choose it on the date of my birth. It has been chosen for me, and naught I do shall change that. I am instructed to fight, and sacrifice myself even up to my own life for those that I protect. My fate is already sealed, whether I die in the storm ahead or live to return to Bree, my fate is inevitably woven in the epic struggle of good and evil, the struggle that shall determine the fate of Middle Earth.
September 1st, 3018. Arrived in Rohan. It is here that the stroke of Saruman’s wrath must fall first and hardest. I will throw in my lot with the Rohirrim. It is my destiny.
September 25th, 3018. They permeate their borders, they pillage and destroy. Uruk-Hai, for such are the strong orcs of Saruman, our overunning Rohan. And yet, no army has been mobilized to destroy them
October 7th, 3018. I am fleeing for my life. Our band was surprised last night, and all destroyed save me. The Rohirrim are used to the plains, but the dexterity of a ranger in the trees cannot be matched, save by a wood-elf, and fortunately, a small forest was nearby. I write this perched on a branch in a tree, for fear they will find me.
October 9th, 3018. The orcs have left the camp. The horses have been devoured. I must get word to Theoden. How does the king of Rohan sit idly by while ravaging, pillaging orcs do overrun his territory? What kind of king rules in Rohan, where he leaves his armies undeployed and allows his subjects to be killed?
November 17th, 3018. It is not easy to traverse Rohan on foot. But I have reached Theoden. His mind is poisoned by an agent of Saruman, Wormtongue he is named. I wouldst that I had my sword when I entered the king’s hall. Not one more word of his venom would have poisoned the ears of the King. But alas, my sword was taken at the door by the captain of the King’s guard. Whatever may happen, I will fight for Middle Earth, regardless of whether Theoden wishes it or not.
December 17th, 3018. One months time has elapsed and I long to strike a blow for Middle Earth, but all is quiet now. It is the still before the storm breaks. There is naught to do but wait, and when the time comes, throw my fate in with the rest of Middle Earth.
January 1st, 3019. A new year has dawned, a year of bloodshed, of death, of the epic struggle of good and evil. With the rising of the new year rises the forces of evil out to destroy Middle Earth. Will the forces of good rise to combat it? Rohan’s armies still languish. Orcs still ravage, and naught has changed. I sit idly by when I should be fighting I will not sit by any longer. I leave Meduseld immediately. Whither I go I know not, but I will not sit by while Rohan is besieged by his foes.
January 15th, 3019. The Isen is still held by men, but ever a dark cloud looms over Isegnard. If this stronghold falls, Rohan will be overrun. I must do all I can to find the enemies movements.
February 3rd, 3019. Saruman’s army is ready. It will march soon. Careless I walked into Isengard. I shall pay now. His spies are ever watching, and I am entangled in a web. He has yet to discover me, but I must get out.
February 4th, 3019. His spies are everywhere! He has taken great care that none should see his movements, and those who did will die for it or be entangled in his web till his army is mobilized. I will not sit idly by. I do not fear death, all I fear is knowing that I had the chance to save Rohan, and did not seize it.
February 5th, 3019. The Isen. On this side, I am trapped. The other side, I am free. The Rohirrim army is nearby, but ever are the agents of Saruman watchful. I shall try tomorrow.
February 28th, 3019. I did escape, but not without taking several arrows to the side. But with 3 arrows in my side, I made it back to the Rohirrim army. For that, I should be greatful, but I am wounded just as Rohan needs me the most. I can move now, but am ordered not to undergo strenuous labor for another week. Another week! While the forces of Saruman march on towards Rohan? I will not wait if the battle comes to me. I will fight for Middle Earth.
March 1st, 3019. I feel it in my bones. I smell it, hear it, and sense it. The great war of our time has begun, and I will not sit idly by. For Middle Earth.
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Duinihir set his journal aside and rose from his bed the night of March 1st. Buckling on his leather armor, he grasped his sword and his bow. As he grasped the sword, he felt a well of emotion rise in him. So it had all come to this. The great war of our time. "Nameless I have carried you all these years. Nameless you shall be no longer, Narhim," he whispered.
Walking outside, he turned to the sentry on duty. "You have been relieved. Go now and regain your strength, for you will need it come morning." The soldier, who had been half asleep anyway, gladly accepted the offer and Duinihir relieved him of his post.
For hours on end, through the night and wee hours of the morning, Duinihir watched the moon rise and fall. Finally, small rays of the sun began to appear over the eastern horizon. Duinihir looked south and saw what he had been looking for. As the sun rose, it more clearly showed the marching ranks of an army so large it would undoubtedly destroy them all. No matter. His fate had been determined, and if his fate was to die in the ensuing battle, he would make such a glorious death as a soldier had never been.
Unslinging his bow, he grabbed a nearby horn and blew a loud blast.
"FOR ROHAN!" he screamed. "FOR MIDDLE EARTH! ARISE ROHIRRIM! THE GREAT BATTLE OF OUR TIME HAS BEGUN!"
With that, he waited no more. The Uruk-Hai were almost upon the camp. He nocked 3 arrows to his bow and fired. 3 Uruk-Hai stumbled and fell. Duinihir repeated fire until the Uruk-Hai were but a few paces from him. With a final shot, Duinihir nocked the remainder of his quiver to his bow. Releasing them all, the wild flight of a dozen arrows dealt death to the Uruk-Hai in the front line. Drawing his sword, he flung himself onto the nearest Uruk-Hai, and spinning, swining, hacking, slashing, his reckless fury destroyed anything in his path. Soon, a circle of dead Uruk-Hai surrounded him, and the Uruk-Hai refused to apporach him. So running towards them, he slashed and hacked, dealing death everywhere he went.
However, he was one versus countless thousands. As valorous as his actions may be, he alone could do nothing to stem the tide of battle. No matter. He would fight to the death.
Suddenly, his old wounds came open, and he fell on the ground bleeding. Even then, when the Uruk-Hai came with shouts of jubilation, they fell dead, feet slashed from under them, with their heads rolling as soon as they fell to the ground. The Uruks fell back and threw themselves into the main battle. Duinihir began to grow faint from loss of blood, and sleep fell over him. But it was a peaceful sleep, unlike the fitful sleep he had slept with for the past several nights. He had done what he could for Middle Earth, and if death here be his fate, so be it.
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Duinihir awoke to find himself lying on a bed. His thoughts were so jumbled that for a while all he notices was the wound in his side. But gradually, as his wits came back to him, he realized that those wounds were bandaged.
Duinihir sprang up from his bed ready to throw himself back into the fray, until he realized that there was no clash of arms, no screams of the wounded. He walked outside, and looked around. The Isen was gone. It had vanished. Bewildered, he scrambled to find any explanation for what had happened to it. And then he realized that he was no longer at Isen. Why was he not at Isen?
Suddenly, the truth fell about him.
The Fords had been taken. Rohan was defeated.
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Okay, so here’s my stuff.
 •Duinihir, Defender of Middle Earth 
Companion • Man
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 7
Ranger. Hunter 1.
Response: If a minion uses an assignment special ability, exert Duinihir to cancel that ability and assign that minion to skirmish Duinihir.
"I feel it in my bones. I smell it, hear it, and sense it. The great war of our time has begun, and I will not sit idly by. For Middle Earth."
 •Duinihir’s Bow, Swift and Deadly
Possession • Ranged Weapon
Bearer must be Duinihir.
He is an archer.
Assignment: Exert Duinihir and assign a minion to skirmish a companion to make that minion lose all skirmish special abilities until the regroup phase.
With a final shot, Duinihir nocked the remainder of his quiver to his bow. Releasing them all, the wild flight of a dozen arrows dealt death to the Uruk-Hai in the front line.
•Narhim, Cold Fire
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +2
Bearer must be Duinihir. He is defender +1.
Assignment: Exert Duinihir, add a threat, and assign two minions to skirmish him. Exert each minion assigned to a skirmish.
Drawing his sword, he flung himself onto the nearest Uruk-Hai, and spinning, swinging, hacking, slashing, his reckless fury destroyed anything in his path.
He’s a very assignment oriented guy. |
Last edited by NBarden on Fri Nov 02, 2007 5:32 pm; edited 3 times in total -Trade With Me
 Add the popcorn smiley to your sig, help it achieve world domination.
What if the hokey pokey really IS what its all about? 
As I lay in bed staring at the stars last night, I thought to myself, "where the heck is the ceiling?"
 Spotlight on....Sense of Obligation. |
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| sickofpalantirs |
![]() Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2007 2:34 pm |
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Joined: 23 Mar 2006
Posts: 7750
Location: somwhere, over the rainbow way up high. There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
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Tuilin thought back on all that gone on between his last adventure and this impending battle. He had arrived back in mirkwood for the celebration and storytelling that occurred among his warrior tribe every 10 years. The merriment had been good, but after the usual month word had arrived that orcs were on the move. The traveling rangers that were his tribes specialty set out to their various tasks.
He had been with 3 companions, but had arrived at the fords alone. They had seen a company of orcs, marching towards bree with wargs. They knew a battle was going on there, some of the elvish rangers had departed towards bree and sent word of the fighting. They decided to attack them, even though heavily outnumbered. They hid themselves in trees and used their great bows to kill many an orc. Hopping between trees to keep up with the now running column of orcs, one had feel. His companion had jumped down to protect him, and the orcs and wargs, finally able to see their foes had set upon them. Tuilin and his companion had done all they good, and their arrows had helped, but the 2 elves had gone down, still killing their foes. The orcs had turned on them, and they had barely made it up a tree. All the wargs had now been killed, but the orcs started to cut it down, even though every 5 seconds 2 arrows would come down and 2 more of their lives would be snuffed out. but the tree felt, and they fought with the orcs that were left. They had one, but his companion died of his wounds, and Tuilin spent a week recuperating in the forest. only his elvish herblore had kept him alive.
he had spent the next months traveling, finding small orcs bands in the forest near bree and killing them. He had bought himself a horse in bree, and when a summons arrived from Ectheow, he rode towards rohan. Now he watched as his doom came close.
He nocked an arrow, sighting a lead Uruk-hai, a berserker by the looks of it as it charged into the water on the opposite side of the fords. "Fire!" came the call. His arrow was true, striking the berserker in its neck. He immediately was looking for a new target and fired again. The arrows were staying their advance, but how long could that last? They were running out of arrows, and another wave of uruks approached, The order was given, and the men leapt down from the forts and through the gates. Tuilin fired as he went, 1, 2, 3,. Then His bow was back, sword in one hand dirk in the other. It was a blur. He noticed a few soldiers he knew, but was soon back in the melee. it was chaotic, a foot connected with his back sending him sprawling he slashed up. Killing another uruk-hai. He pulled himself up and a fist connected with his cheek. He felt his cheekbone snap. He fell back, fighting as he went. A crossbow bolt hit his side and he ran to his horse. Warg riders were coming and the order to retreat was given. He rode away from the death and destruction.
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finally they arrived at a camp. Tuilin helped attend to the wounded, even though he was wounded himself. After exhausting his supply of herbs and poultices he collapsed on the ground in his tent. Too tired to chance, or even wash.
•Bow of Tuilin, Weapon of Accuracy 
Possession • Ranged Weapon
Strength +1
Bearer must be Tuilin.
If bearer is Tuilin, each time a minion takes a wound during the archery phase, you may exert Tuilin to wound that minion (limit once per phase).
Made many years ago, it was a fine display of elven craftsmanship.
Ok I wuvved this DC so had to keep it
[3]Tuilin, Ranger and Marksman
Companion • elf
strength • 7
Vitality • 3
Resistance • 7
Archer, Ranger
Archery :Exert Tuilin twice to make another ranger gain archer until the regroup phase (or Exert tuilin once if it is an ranger,).
Tuilin was arguably the second best archer in middle earth, behind the prince of mirkwood
I think you said we will add more later, so I left it at one ability
•Tuilin’s Armor, Light and Strong
Possession • Armor
Bearer must be Tuilin. He gains hunter 1. Each time he is about to exert or take a wound, you may discard this possession to place no token for that wound or exertion.
Tuilins armor was leather, made for maximum speed and flexibility while no sacrificing protection |
Sop's haves/ top wants
(mm)"SoP: you will always be the Official CC Spammer in my heart"
"DáinIronfoot"
Spammers really are amazing creatures. You can learn all there is to know about their ways in a month. And yet, after a hundred years, they can still surprise you. |
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| Anonymous Prodigy |
![]() Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2007 4:35 pm |
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Joined: 10 Jan 2006
Posts: 4197
Location: United States
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The sky was darkening, and the sun had sank on the western horizon. Black crows were circling overhead… a battle was brewing.
“They know they will have a meal soon,” a voice behind Dirthon said. Dirthon grimaced. The thought was not a pleasant one. Something in that voice, though, was familiar. He turned and saw the face of Duinihir, one of his companions on the quest of the Iceblade.
“My friend!” Dirthon smiled and embraced his fellow ranger. “It has been too long.”
“Indeed,” Duinihir nodded. “But now we meet only because battle calls us.” Dirthon shook his head sadly.
Within the hour, battle was joined. The Uruks slammed into the ranks on the Rohirrim and the other Free Peoples gathered. The Men of Rohan repelled the first wave, but the attackers came on like a black wall. Dirthon and Duinihir fought back-to-back, each felling Uruk after Uruk. Suddenly, a fresh onslaught of Uruks came toward them and Duinihir fell beneath their blades. Dirthon’s fury was doubled, and he sliced off the heads of two Uruks. Kneeling by his friend’s side, he saw blood pouring from the ranger’s wounds. Dirthon felt a sharp pain on his back, and then he remembered no more.
Dirthon awoke. He sat up quickly, then groaned from the pain. His back was sore to the touch, and his head was aching. He swung his legs off the cot and slung his sword belt around his waist. Walking out of the tent, he saw dozens of Rohirrim sitting or standing around small fires, tending to their wounds or supping. He approached the nearest Man.
“How did we fare in the battle?” he asked. The Rohirrim shook his head solemnly.
“Seven hundred Men we lost,” the Man said quietly. “The Uruks broke through our line at midnight, and we retreated.”
Dirthon looked around him. “And where did we retreat to, exactly?”
“Four miles from Meduseld,” the Man answered. “When morning comes, we will finish the journey to the Golden Hall. From their, we make our way to Helm’s Deep.”
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• Dirthon, Son of Dirthor
Companion • Man
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 6
Hunter 1. Ranger.
While you can spot another ranger, Dirthon is damage +1.
Dirthon’s fury was doubled….
Sword of Ithilien
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Bearer must be a Man.
Each time bearer wins a skirmish, you may make another Man gain hunter 1 until the regroup phase.
…he sliced off the heads of two more Uruks….
• Dirthon’s Longbow, Bow of Gondor
Possession • Ranged Weapon
Bearer must be Dirthon. He is an archer. He gains hunter 1.
Archery: Exert Dirthon and spot another Man to exert a minion (or wound that minion if it is roaming).
The longbows of Ithilien had deadly accuracy and precision. |
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| AgentDrake |
![]() Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2007 11:40 pm |
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Joined: 01 Apr 2007
Posts: 667
Location: Halfway between eccentric and insane...
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Flash.
Ectheow shifted his axe uneasily as he watched the woods they passed through.
The rangers were all muttering amongst themselves about dangers they might face. The elves were all keeping together in their little clique. The hobbit was perfectly happy to be in awe of everyone in general, and the men of Dale and Rorin were practically forming their own psychiatric counseling ward, Rorin head psychiatrist, and the two men the attendants.
Beow’s hooves thundered through the Uruks. Red-tinted water splashed up, maddening the horse.
Flash.
“I think,” Ectheow muttered as the crazed ranger held the glimmering Iceblade aloft. “I think that we’re a bit late….”
There were too many of them. Too many.
Wulfsvín flashed through a plate of White-Handed armor, the Uruk falling beneath the gold-crafted blade.
Flash.
Cerubethion kicked aside the shattered remains of the Iceblade. “Let no-one know of these events,” he ordered. “It is too dangerous. And no tales!”
Ectheow scowled angrily. “I don’t think my story-telling will be the biggest threat. That madman of yours is still running around out there.”
“Let it go, lad. That’s all he is now. A madman. His bonnie superweapon is gone.”
Ectheow turned to the dwarf.
Curse Grima.
“You don’t know how much a single madman can do,” he whispered.
“That Grima chap, aye... So, are you just going to let him chase you off?”
Where were they?
Ectheow whirled to face the oncoming horde. An Uruk jerked a spear out of a fallen Dunlending and turned to hurl the weapon back at Grimbold, but was caught in the chest by an arrow. Odd. Their armor was too thick for Arrows of the Mark at that range.
Flash.
“I’ll sell him to you. He’s a fine horse, old Knuckles is. Seventy full gold pieces.” Ferny sneered.
Ectheow glared at Ferny. Ferny had his claws in everything in Bree-land. He controlled half the commerce with his embezzlements, bribes, and outright corruption. Like Grima. If Curunir ever fixed his eye on the North, everything would happen all over again. Curse Grima. And Ferny, too.
They had come in time. But it didn’t really matter. Where the sheer power of the Iceblade had failed, typical plebian numbers were about to succeed.
The Uruks kept coming.
Another elf-arrow flew through the air as Beow trampled an Uruk underfoot.
Wulfsvín embedded itself into another Dunlending.
So Curunir had even bribed the Hillmen into his power grab. Primitive savages.
Flash.
Ferny had sold him the horse for ten gold pieces after a brief exchange of heated words involving threats of physical violence. Ectheow had ridden the worthless, ill-treated black steed out of Bree. But this time, he rode South.
"Are you just going to let him chase you off?" Rorin had asked.
He would probably be killed on sight as soon as he arrived in the Mark.
Hygleac had always told him that Martyrs were usually the favorite heroes.
Where had this horse come from, anyway? The creature seemed to be enjoying slaughtering the enemy. Perhaps residual bitterness against Ferny. Likely enough. But he had seen scars on its sides. From spurs. Sharp, long spurs.
What he had once thought was an ill-used horse was apparently a warhorse.
Where had that conniving wretch gotten this thing?
Beow whipped his head around, and bit down into a smaller orc.
Flash.
Grimbold had found him.
“Ectheow! So, you came back. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Grimbold drew his sword. Ectheow tried to get the mangy horse – he had re-named it Beow – to turn and face Grimbold, but the creature showed no inclination of moving.
Ectheow pulled out his axe.
“You look like you’ve been around. You will be pleased to know, at least, that we’re at war. With Curunir. Theoden King has taken the people to Helm’s Deep. We’re on our way to try to hold the enemy away for as long as we can.
Ectheow stared.
“What? Grima…?”
Grimbold scowled. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. He’ll be killed on sight. No-one’s going to save him for you. I can explain later. Welcome back. We ride!”
Beow was pushed back across the fords by the sheer weight of the Uruk army.
A sudden call on the wind froze his blood. Wargs. A cold memory rose to his mind. Wargs... Ice....
Flash.
“Swiftly, out of the woods!"
And they obeyed, feeling the ice-cold wind around them. Some began to stumble as they ran onward, and Curubethion winced. "Keep them moving! Something has taken hold, I suspect...I don’t know what is happening-keep them moving! Run! Run!"
And howls reverberated throughout the woods. With a desperate charge, the fellowship broke out of the trees, and into the wide air. But the howls continued. Swiftly, Curubethion ran north, north and away from the woods. And they followed. Hearing the howls around them. There was something...something following them.
"Hurry-if we can only cross the river..." Curubethion said, pointing forward.
The water that he pointed at was rushing swiftly. But before they could reach it...four forms appeared between them and the river. Icewargs, like the one that had already attacked them. With a fierce howl, they bounded forward, too swift for arrow fire. And then they were upon the fellowship.
No, no ice here. Just tens of thousands of Uruk-Hai, wild men, and twisted wolves in the service of a traitor and his lackey.
Beow had caught the scent, and tried to surge forward, but the press was too strong. The men of Rohan were falling back. Ectheow whirled Beow around, and rode hard. He saw a fallen ranger, and steered Beow over. Dirthion. Bloody…!
Ectheow reached down and hauled the ranger up to Beow, who snorted angrily. For such a war-mongering creature, the black steed was disgustingly lazy. As if all it had ever carried was ghosts and wraiths. Where had Ferny gotten the blasted thing?
As Ectheow looked back, he could see the Uruk horde swarming past, the Hillmen pillaging the bodies of the fallen and reveling in their bloody deeds as the armies of Isengard marched over the river.
They had lost.
Curse Grima!
====================
And my stuff:
 *Ectheow, Returned Exile 
Companion – Man
Strength 7
Vitality 3
Resistance 7
Valiant.
Each time you play a possession on Ectheow, you may wound a minion.
While you can spot Grima or Saruman, Ectheow is strength +4 and resistance -7.
Skirmish: Exert Ectheow to play a possession from hand.[/b]
“‘Did Grima -- that disgusting wretch of a man -- think he had chased me away forever? Let the little worm burn!’”
*Wulfsvín, Serpentine Axe
Possession – Hand Weapon
Strength +3
Bearer must be Ectheow. He is damage +1.
Response: If Ectheow wins a skirmish, you may discard a card from hand to heal him. Then return this card to your hand.
Wine for the wolves….
*Beow, Black Steed
Possession – Mount
Bearer must be Ectheow.
At the start of each skirmish involving Ectheow, each minion skirmishing him must exert.
At the end of each skirmish involving Ectheow, each minion involved in that skirmish must exert.
“‘Blasted horse looks like something out of a nightmare. Has the mange, red eyes, foaming mouth—and that’s when it’s not in battle.’” |
| Never kid about politicians. The more bizarre the joke, the more likely it is to come true. |
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| ingold55 |
![]() Posted: Sat Nov 03, 2007 4:35 pm |
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Joined: 10 Oct 2005
Posts: 1199
Location: Out on the front line
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Durail walked several paces behind the elf. An oath, he had made it to himself in the darkness, and oath that promised protection to a friend. That friend now dead... Dead at the hands of a beast. He had changed roles and made an oath to protect another, this was the one he was following....
Shadows were his home now, a sword his companion. He was the unseen, the Shadow Warrior! His enemies called him the Black Flame, his friends knew him as Durail. Ranger and hunter, warrior and peace keeper. This was his job, his profession.
The elf arrived at the fords of isen, and Durail moved off to the side. Raw determination shown bright in his eyes. Courage and valor, he had fought and won, he would do so again.
The Savage cries of the uruk-hai rose in the air as they charged the Rohirrim. The pungent smell of sweat arose from the Rohirrim, they were scared but brave. Durail pulled Flame, and closed his eyes. Death, the day would be full of it, and if first impressions were to account for anything, the defending men would die at the hands of the savage uruks. So why did they fight? Because the enemy had to be thwarted, stopped, or slowed.
Cries, soul piercing screams…Durail held his eyes shut the uruks were using crossbows…the screams intensified, he had twenty seconds before the enemy would be upon him.
Nothing mattered right now. He shut the shouts and screams out of his mind, he shut every sound out of his mind except for the footsteps of his enemy. five seconds…
Durail raised his head and looked into the eyes of his enemy, it wasn’t a man so their would be no remorse. Tuilin was exactly thirty feet from his right, and was fighting well, he wouldn’t need Durail for now. A smug grin showed on his weather worn face.
The Uruk swung, Durail blocked. Pulling a dagger from his cloak he shoved it into his opponent, he turned his upper body and blocked another attack, he then twisted his legs and slammed the dagger into this uruk. Two in fifteen seconds.
Flame burning bright its heat added to the fray. He sliced his sword through another uruk, then stabbed another one straight through. None were behind him, he could hold this position for hours…
The uruks had pushed through the Rohirrim lines now. Durail could not longer keep the rest of the battle out of his mind. The river was stained blackish red, and puddles of red were in the ground where the dead now lay. The wounded were being slaughtered and hacked into pieces, the uruks feasted on the dead. Durail pulled back and watched the horror. The battle was lost, but they had fought gallantly.
________________________________________________________________________
 •Durail, Shadow Warrior
Companion • Man
Strength: 8
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger. Hunter 1
Skirmish: Exert Durail and add a threat to wound a minion skirmishing a Man, or an elf.
•Flame, Weapon of Fire
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +3
Bearer must be Durail. He is damage +1.
Response: If Durail is about to take a wound in a skirmish, add two threats to prevent that wound.
• Durail’s Cloak, Special Gift
Possession • Cloak
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be Durail.
The minion archery total is -1. |
Last edited by ingold55 on Sun Nov 04, 2007 11:49 am; edited 3 times in totalThere is a power in this world beyond any of us, and Jesus is that power and The Savior.
 this is my attempt to look cool.
Trade list (Want Balrogs and Aragorns) |
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| elf lvr |
![]() Posted: Sun Nov 04, 2007 1:48 am |
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Joined: 13 Jun 2006
Posts: 3065
Location: Rivendell
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Silvarin was running.
What was he running from? A battle.
He didn’t like that very much.
But it would be foolhardy to stay and fight. The uruk-hai of Isengard had broken the Rohirrim ranks at the Fords of Isen. They had held up fairly well; the enemy was losing men faster than they. However, they made up for it with sheer numbers. The most recent assault by a horde of warg riders had scattered the defending forces.
Though he had been separated from Dirthon and Duinihir, he was glad at least to have his two of his closest friends with him; the dwarf Rorin and the elf Tuilin riding alongside. It had taken much persuading to drag Rorin fromt the battle, but now the three heroes were in full retreat.
A pleasant surprise had arrived on the battlefield in the form of Durail, weilding his flaming sword. Durail was one of the few warriors left alive who remembered Silvarin’s old days in Mirkwood and the events that followed.
As Silvarin thought back to those old days, his hands tightened on Aruthrin and Lindrodrel, his twin swords. Though he had left them behind when he pursued the Iceblade, he found the heavier longsword he had been weilding to be a bit more difficult. His first order of business before coming to Rohan was to collect the blades from Mirkwood. In fact, he hadn’t had much time to spend in Mirkwood before riding to the aid of Rohan; after the quest for the Iceblade had ended, he had travelled to Lothlorien in search of his old friend Corvus, who was, unfortunately, no where to be found. When he had finally arrived in Mirkwood, he had seen Ectheow’s letter on his doorstep, and left the very next day.
Now Lindrodrel had found its sheath as Silvarin was fleeing, but it also freed his hand to work his magic. A warg fell to a burst of lightning from his fingertips, it’s rider was left to the mercy of Tuilin’s bow. But all in all, these efforts were futile. The enemy had won, Silvarin knew it. But he wouldn’t let a single one of his friends or comrades die if he could help it. He had seen enough death already to fill two lifetimes.
"Though it looks like I’ll be seeing more..." he thought, sadly, as Elfhelm’s army was driven from the Fords.
*Silvarin, Last Guardian of Mirkwood
Companion * Elf
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 7
While Silvarin bears a hand weapon, he gains hunter 1.
Each time you play a spell that exerts Silvarin, you may heal him (limit once per phase).
"A word is stronger than the blade."
*Aruthrin, Heirloom
Poessession * Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be Silvarin.
Each time Silvarin wins a fierce skirmish, you may heal another companion.
*Lindrodrel, Heirloom
Possession * Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Bearer must be Silvarin. This possession may be borne in addition to one other hand weapon.
Skirmish: Discard 2 cards from hand to exert a minion Silvarin is skirmishing. |
Happy Hunting! Elf Lvr
Winner of Best Personality in the FPCA. Thanks!
Archduke Elf Lvr - Archidoux of the Chosen Ones
AMV Maker In-Training! Check out my newest production, Katsu!- A Diedara Tribute!
And behold, EL declared it good. And there was morning, and there was evening, the first (new) day. ~ DainIronfoot |
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| DáinIronfoot |
![]() Posted: Mon Nov 05, 2007 3:20 pm |
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Joined: 12 Jan 2007
Posts: 4594
Location: Beltsville, MD, USA
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On foot now, Rorin stood as tall as he could, axe in hand, and roared a challenge at the oncoming Uruks. He was alone, but even with a great army behind him, he knew he would probably not survive long. Literally thousands of Uruks, a greater force than he had seen even at the Battle of Five Armies in his youth, was only moments away. They didn’t even seem to notice him, a lone figure standing between them and their objective: the Fords of Isen.
“Horses,” he mumbled as he prepared to deliver his first (and perhaps final?) blow....
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One year ago....
They had arrived back at Bree without further incident. No more dead warriors rising from the earth, no more unearthly screams of the icewargs, not even another deathly chill on the wind. The Iceblade was destroyed, the wintery storms had ceased, and seemingly everything foul in the lands around them had vanished with them.
Over the next several days, the heroes, one by one, said their goodbyes and departed for their homes, or wherever they felt fate called them next. Those that stayed enjoyed many nights of fine ale, old tales, and good company with their new friends. But the group was smaller every night, until only a handful remained. Curubethion had been one of the first to depart, with Duinihir promising to follow soon. Adalard the Hobbit longed to see the Shire again, and had made his way back with Curubethion, who promised to look after the small warrior before returning to his silent watch in the northern lands. Ectheow had bartered with a local fellow for a horse and made his way south, not knowing even himself what might lie ahead. The Elves had departed together, except for Silvarin, who had plans to search for another friend in Lothlórien before eventually making his way back home. Rorin fully understood his reluctance to travel straight back to Mirkwood given his history, and though the guilt they shared over their pasts had been left in the icy wilderness of their journey, they each still felt a deep hole inside. Their friendship now, sharing their experiences and knowledge over the last few days, was the type tales were written about. Even after nearly everyone else had gone, the Dwarf and the Elf spent many nights together, laughing and lamenting, with Ryle and Ellar often joining in as well.
Eventually, even they knew it was time to go. Ryle longed to rejoin his people, the Ortans, despite Rorin’s long pleading for him to instead come home to Dale. Ryle assured his friend he would make his way home again, but only when the time was right, and then he was gone. Silvarin bid his farewells, also promising that if he could, he would visit Rorin one day, and vice versa.
That left Rorin and Ellar to make the long journey back to Erebor, which ironically DID take them through the Old Forest Road in Mirkwood itself.
Rorin had settled back in as a blacksmith, and over the next few months, felt a growing sense of dread. The goblin attacks from the north had risen steadily since his arrival, and then the black messenger that had sought news of Hobbits and offered “great reward and lasting friendship” with Sauron himself had returned, and Rorin had been one of the select Dwarves that met him with Dáin Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain. “I will return by the end of this year,” the messenger had warned, “and will not offer friendship again. Lord Sauron’s patience wears thin.”
“As does mine,” Dáin had replied. “I will give you my answer when I am ready to do so, and not before. Now be gone!”
The messenger had hissed angrily, reminding Rorin, for some reason, of the icewargs that still haunted his dreams. He was chilled to the bone, but as resolute as Dáin: they would not be intimidated by this or any other messenger, no matter who their master might be. The Dwarves had held out in Erebor before, and they could do so again if need be.
“I will return,” the messenger had finally replied, spurring his dark horse away. “Consider well the weight of your answer.” Then he was gone.
The thing that really made Rorin’s stomach turn was not the messenger, but the fact that the goblin raids that had become almost an everyday occurrence ceased that very day. No goblin nor Orc nor Warg set foot inside the realm of Erebor and Dale for weeks. As frightening as their attacks were for the general populace, their sudden end left them even more fearful.
Rorin met regularly with Dáin, Thorin Stonehelm, Glóin, and others, as well as the men of Dale with greater influence among their people, including Ellar and even Ryle’s father, who seemed willing to bury the hatchet with Rorin in favor of protecting their peoples. These meetings were often energized as they discussed how to answer Sauron’s servant when he returned...an answer they all knew, but were greatly mindful of the certain consequences. It seemed no coincidence that a seeming peace had settled over their realm in the face of certain damnation; the goblins and Wargs were certainly gathering, preparing for an organized battle against their enemies as soon as they openly defied the Dark Lord. They envisioned that the black rider would not be returning alone, but fully expected a great army at his back.
It was at this time that Ellar visited Rorin in his shop one day.
“Ellar!” Rorin had greeted him heartily. “What brings you by? A meeting I have not yet heard of?”
“No no, my friend,” the other had replied, a troubled look in his eyes.
“What is it?” Rorin demanded. “Is it Ryle?” The Dwarf had not heard from his friend for two months, as their regular correspondence had come to an abrupt halt after Rorin’s last letter.
“No, not Ryle. Well, not directly,” Ellar considered. “I DO have a letter, however.”
Rorin took it and read quickly, looking up partway through. “Ectheow?”
“Keep reading, friend,” Ellar said simply.
After finishing it, Rorin furrowed his brow. “I understand what he asks, and I would aid him. If Rohan falls, and Gondor beyond it, we would be hard-pressed to stand against...Him.” He paused, thinking. “But we cannot spare an army now. You know as well as I that we will need every Man and Dwarf able to bear arms soon enough, and we need them HERE.”
“I know,” Ellar said sadly. “But what can we do? We cannot let them stand alone. They will be slaughtered....”
“And Ryle and Silvarin and Ectheow and the others will be killed alongside them,” Rorin interrupted. “I know.” He sat down and pulled out his pipe, taking a deep puff and exhaling slowly. He looked around his shop, and shook his head slowly. “How did it come to this?”
Ellar said nothing. There was nothing to really say.
“I will go to Rohan,” Rorin said at least. “I am but one warrior, but I will do what I can to aid Rohan and forestall the doom to come. I would rather fight my battle now, to whatever end, then sit here and wait for it to come to me. But Ellar,” he grabbed the man’s arm emphatically, “you MUST ensure all is ready here. I will be counting on you. Be my voice here, and do not let anyone let their guard down. This war will find its way here, whether it is tomorrow or years from now. We must be ready.”
Ellar nodded solemnly. “We will be, my friend. I will see to it.”
Rorin glanced around his shop again, knowing it may well be the last time he would see it, and finally rose. “I will tell King Dáin myself. First, I must pack my things. Is there a horse in Dale that I can...uh...borrow?”
“Of course. I’ll see to it,” Ellar said with a grin, despite the situation.
“I will not let one of those blasted beasts throw me again!” Rorin said, flustered. “I know full well what you’re thinking about!”
“You should have seen the look on your face,” Ellar chuckled. “I swear that horse was laughing at you.”
“And so were YOU, which is why I promised you I wouldn’t be riding those trails again with you!” Rorin retorted, but had to fight off a grin of his own. That hadn’t been one of his finer moments, and Ellar knew it.
Ellar laughed openly before turning serious again. “Be careful, my friend. If Rohan is half as threatened as Ectheow believes, you are walking into the front line of the greatest battle of our time. Remind Ryle of that if you see him, too.” He rose. “I will have some cram ready for you, along with the horse. Come and see me when you are ready.” With that, he gave a final nod and ducked back out, leaving Rorin alone with his thoughts.
It took Rorin only minutes to pack. His battle axe was first out, and quickly sharpened as it hadn’t been since the quest for the Iceblade. With his armor on, and several smaller axes and provisions stuffed away, he took a final glance at the picture of his father Balir on his worktable.
“Remember, Rorin,” his father’s words came back to him again. “It is not what we do, but who we are that matters.”
“Aye, father,” Rorin said softly. “But my deeds will be loudest in the coming days,” he said as he closed the door behind him.
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It had taken many days, but Rorin had finally reached Rohan. A rather barren land, he thought, sort of like the lands to the north of Erebor, though with much warmer weather. The horse Ellar had provided was a sturdy beast, thankfully, and seemed to enjoy the rich grasses and wheat found in the fields around them whenever they stopped to rest.
Before long, Rorin reached a great river. “This must be the Isen,” he thought aloud. The Fords had to be close. Deciding now was a good time to take their final rest, he dismounted (never an easy task for a Dwarf) and made his way to the edge of the water to fill his near-empty flask. The sun was rising, and the colors of the sky reflected off the water. All seemed to be at peace.
He was just standing up to make his way back when he noticed it. He had stooped to fill his flask near a small, calm inlet of the river, where the water barely flowed. As he looked down, ripples began to form, first along the edges of the water, and steadily moving inward.
The ground was shaking.
Rorin was more curious and surprised at first than anything. But it took only a pair of heartbeats for him to realize what it meant.
Unsheathing his axe, he climbed back onto his horse and looked around. They must be close....
They were. To the north, just appearing over the crest of a hill, came the Uruk-hai.
Rorin spurred his horse on, trying to force it to turn south and make for the Fords. But the beast had other ideas. It turned...and took out right from under Rorin, throwing him to the ground. It bucked and neighed wildly, and then was gone.
This was why he hated them so. “Horses,” he mumbled, turning to face the oncoming army. There was no time to hide, and no time to run. He was probably less than a mile from the relative safety of the Rohirrim camp, but not nearly close enough. The Uruks were upon him. He raised his axe and prepared to deliver his first (and perhaps final?) blow....
Out of nowhere, he heard a loud neighing again. Had his horse returned? He didn’t have time to look, as he swung ferociously and took the lead Uruk’s head right off its shoulders. The others then seemed to notice him, as if for the first time, looking at him in disgust, like a fly that needed to be swatted away. This lone pest dared oppose them?
Rorin found himself completely surrounded, Uruks on all sides. He had never faced these crossbreeds before, but anyone watching wouldn’t know it as his axe felled foe after foe. Several blows connected on the Dwarf’s armor, but he was able to shake off the pain and come right back. Black Uruk blood soaked the earth, and the bodies piled on top of each other, but still they came, an endless tide of death. Rorin knew his time had come. The odds were impossible from the very beginning, and death was exactly what would be washing over him at any moment.
Just then, as he prepared to surrender to his fate, he heard weapons clanging nearby, but not his own. He heard a voice calling his name...HIS name! Someone else was here, and trying to reach him. Ryle?
No. As he finally caught a glimpse of his unexpected ally, it was another face he saw tangling with the enemy. One he had not expected to see at all.... “Ranger!” he called, wielding his axe with newfound fervor as he attempted to cut through the chaos and reach the mounted man.
Curubethion shouted his own battle cry and swung his sword in long strokes, only feet away now. The two finally reached each other, and with incredible strength, he hoisted the Dwarf up. Rorin swung up and sat backwards behind the ranger, hacking at the angry mob as Curubethion fought his way towards the water.
Rorin risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw that they were making towards a narrow section of the river, hopefully one was the water was shallow enough to cross.
It was. They finally made their way there, and the Uruks roared but did not follow. They had other objectives ahead, and knew that they could always come back for their prey later. There would soon be nowhere safe for the ranger and the Dwarf in these lands, and they would be finished off later. They marched on towards the Fords, not even bothering to look down at their dead.
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Curubethion barely slowed as they crossed the river, spurring his white steed up the bank and racing south. They had to reach the Fords before the Uruks. The Rohirrim would need every man—and Dwarf—they could get.
“Master Ranger!” Rorin exclaimed again, finally catching his breath and his wits.
“Are you hurt, Rorin?” Curubethion replied over his shoulder.
“I don’t...no, I don’t think so, lad,” Rorin said. “What in the name of Durin are you doing here?”
The ranger looked back and smiled. “I might ask you the same,” he said. “But I think we both already know the answer.”
“Ectheow?”
Curubethion simply nodded.
“Well then, I guess I am fortunate I’m not the only one who was running a little behind,” Rorin called against the rushing wind as they sped on.
“I was a bit delayed, yes,” Curubethion said. “I hope I will be able to explain soon. First,” he pointed ahead, “we have other things to worry about.”
Rorin looked and saw that the battle of the Fords was already well underway. The Uruks they had encountered probably hadn’t even been the initial force, as hundreds of men and Orcs and Wargs and Uruks already lay dead, some floating in the water like bloody corks. Rorin could see some familiar faces already. Dirthon and Duinihir were surrounded by Uruks much as Rorin had been only minutes before, but seemed to be holding their own for now. Tuilin the Elf was firing arrow after arrow into the enemy forces, one of which flashed by another familiar friend: Ectheow, who was doing the Rohirrim proud atop a black steed, hacking and slashing anything in his path. Nearby, a warrior dressed all in black himself stood out, and though Rorin did not know him, he was immediately impressed by the manner in which he dispatched enemy after enemy, facing each seemingly without any fear.
But then it was their turn to enter the fray, as Curubethion’s horse splashed back across the water and into the battle.
“Thanks for the ride, Ranger, but we Dwarves do not fight from horseback,” he called.
Curubethion nodded, understanding. He swung his horse around to provide a small bit of cover for the Dwarf as Rorin leaped into the enemy, tacking three Uruks into the shoreline as dove. He jumped up first and dispatched them, then turned left and right, seeking new foes. There was certainly no shortage, as Uruks and Orcs and Wargs and even ragged Men swarmed across the battlefield. The Rohirrim fought valiantly, easily taking down more enemies per soldier than each enemy combatant claimed before falling themselves. But it was a lost cause from the outset. The numbers were badly skewed in the enemy’s favor, and Rorin realized why Ectheow’s letter had sounded so desperate. The Rohirrim were brave and gallant, but they were clearly outmatched...unprepared for so numerous and so fierce an enemy. Rorin had fought many foes in his time, but even he was surprised at how recklessly ferocious these foes were, especially the Uruks. For every one slain, two more rose up, and twice as enraged as the last.
But as long as the Rohirrim and his friends stood, so would Rorin. He tried several times to fight his way over to a familiar face as it would flash by, but was never able. He realized the folly of fighting this battle on foot, Dwarven pride or no, but too late.
Finally, near the end of his strength at last, Rorin started as an unfortunate Rohirrim soldier fell beside him, he and his horse topping into the water with a loud splash. Rorin momentarily forgot the battle, seeing the boy’s stunned face. It was half gone, a sight that nearly made even Rorin sick. What remained showed a lad barely out of his teenage years.
Rorin surveyed the field around him. Very few friendly faces were still to be seen, and increasingly more and more hideously twisted ones approached as the Uruks continued to stream onto the field. The few Rohirrim he did see were riding away from the battle, in full retreat.
“Rorin!” came a familiar voice, and the Dwarf saw Silvarin and Tuilin beside him, mounted on Rohirrim steeds. “It is lost! Come...quickly!”
Rorin almost ignored him, clutching his axe tight and thinking for a moment of diving back into the fray. How could Rohan stand if they fell here? This was but the first in a series of dominos, with his home in Erebor coming only a bit further down the line. If the Rohirrim lost here....
But they already had, and Rorin knew it. With a frustrated roar towards the enemy, he climbed aboard the horse that had fallen at his feet moments before. Happy to have a rider now that seemed to want to head AWAY from the Uruks, the horse took off at a full run, following the two Elves from the battlefield. Ahead, Rorin was happy to see Ectheow and Curubethion and others able to ride away as well.
But where was Ryle? Rorin glanced back for the final time, searching desperately for his friend, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It would be folly to turn back, though Rorin considered it. He could only hope that, like some of the others, his young friend had made it out alright...or run even later than he and Curubethion had.
He tightened his hand on his axe as the other held onto the reigns. This battle may be lost, but HIS war wouldn’t be over until his friends and his home were safe. Even if next time, he WAS the only one left to stand in the enemy’s way.
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•Rorin, Dwarven Defender 
Companion • Dwarf
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 6
Damage +1. Hunter 2.
While Rorin is unwounded, he may not be overwhelmed unless his strength is tripled.
Skirmish: Exert Rorin to take a event into hand from your discard pile. Limit once per skirmish.
“I would rather fight my battle now, to whatever end, then sit here and wait for it to come to me.”
•Rorin’s Battle Axe, Final Work of Balir
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Bearer must be a Dwarf. Bearer is damage +1.
If bearer is Rorin, each time you play a card during a skirmish involving him, you may exert a minion in that skirmish.
A traditional double-bladed weapon, the battle axe carried by Rorin is trimmed with ornate symbols and was the last crafted by his father before Balir’s death.
•Rorin’s Armor, Hauberk of Steel Mail
Possession • Armor
Vitality +1
Resistance +1
Bearer must be a Rorin.
Each minion skirmishing Rorin loses all damage bonuses (except from possessions or artifacts).
Tough, durable armor enables Dwarves to shake off blows that would cripple others.
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•Curubethion, Northern Dúnedain
Companion • Man
Strength: 7
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger. Hunter 2.
Each time Curubethion wins a fierce skirmish, you may exert a minion skirmishing a ranger.
At the start of each regroup phase, if Curubethion did not lose a skirmish this turn, you may heal another companion.
Long a defender of the Free Peoples of the north, Curubethion rode as quickly as he could to aid those in the south as the war for Middle-earth began in earnest.
•Dagmor, Slayer of Darkness
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Bearer must be Curubethion.
He is damage +1.
Each time Curubethion wins a skirmish, you may exert him to discard a Shadow condition. Limit once per turn.
Named after the weapon of the legendary Beren Erchamion, Curubethion’s blade has slain nearly as many foes as its namesake in the defense of Middle-earth.
•Curubethion’s Cloak, Gray Mantle
Possession • Cloak
Resistance +1
Bearer must be Curubethion.
While the fellowship is at a forest site, each minion skirmishing a ranger is site number +2.
Each roaming minion skirmishing Curubethion loses all hunter bonuses.
Always shrouded in mystery, Curubethion was also often shrouded in shadows when he did not want to be seen. |
Best regards, Dáin, Vice Aftokrator of the Chosen Ones
Check out Lasting Alliances, The Road Ahead, and Ages of Middle-earth, three of my five dream card sets that make up Wars of the Ring. Oh, and I have a trade list now!
Also, if you're into DCs or RPGs (or even if you're not!), check out Realms of Middle-earth, the sequel to CG's "DC Adventure", Realms of the North! |
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| macheteman |
![]() Posted: Wed Nov 07, 2007 6:46 pm |
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Joined: 07 Dec 2006
Posts: 1200
Location: The Jungle
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Ryle was loath to leave that happy company in the Prancing Pony, and he longed to return to his homeland with Rorin, and see his beloved Dale again. But it could not be so, his duty to the league is what concerned him now. A long march awaited him, and there was no one there in the darkness, no one to comfort his heavy heart. Even in the frigid waste searching for the elusive iceblade and being harried incessantly by wolves and specters, he at least had friends. But now, there was no one, his duty was with his men, but his hart ever wandered. He was so very alone.
He raced east and north and wandered the wilds to find his men, they had no home, they wandered always, and were nigh impossible to track down, for so unpredictable was their travel, and so swift was their pace. But at last Ryle found a trace. And he followed that trace until it led him back west to the Misty Mountains. Then the trail tuned south, and followed the mountain range to the end, where at last Ryle overtook his quarry.
About 50 meters from the camp Ryle heard a shrill whistle, varying like a Brown Thrush. The group of men was alerted now, but before they could send a whistle in reply Ryle whistled a message to the sentry. A stunned silence could be felt in the air. Before long the small company had circled Ryle, and Falvon, who had led in Ryle’s place, walked up to him sword in hand.
“My friends, what lead you so far south?”
“Ryle, you reckless vagabond! I wouldn’t have thought you’d track us all the way down here!”
“Well, it looks like I have,” Ryle smiled and they shook hands and slapped each other on the back.
But then Falvon leaned close, and whispered into Ryle’s ear, “I’m glad you’re back, for truly, we’ve had to track a deserter these past months.”
“A deserter? But the men of the league are free to ask release from their oaths.”
“Aye, but this man wasn’t released from oath. He murdered a man when we were outside of Bree, and we’ve been tracking him ever since.”
Ryle spent several weeks among his men and friends, but his heart was restless. At last he gave charge back to Falvon and set out for Dale. It was when he was lost in mirkwood, in the dark and evil near Dul-Gulder that his old friend Aeglirnen the eagle returned. And the two of them made their way out of the forest and north to the Iron Hills. And to his grumpy old friend Rorin.
But alas! Rorin had departed in haste not long before. Ryle knew Rorin well, and could feel that something was amiss. He had felt it when he left the Prancing Pony. The days were gray for Ryle, but he went at last to Dale and the house of his father. There he learned that the king had taken counsel with Rorin and the other Dwarven leaders concerning the defense of the people. But then Rorin had left without a word and the thought was that he had deserted, fearing the orcs were planning an assault which would bring ruin to the dwarves of the Iron Hills.
Ryle anxiety grew, and he was assured something was dreadfully wrong to cause his staunchest friend to leave in such a manner. After replenishing his provisions, Ryle set out again this time tracking his friend to wherever fate may have carried him. He found the trail when he discovered broken bits of cram along deep heavy hoofprints. The young wanderer smiled; a light was at last rising above the darkness.
Ryle bought a horse from a farmer and was swiftly overtaking his large dwarven friend. But he was slowed by the necessity of following the tracks, and he could not reach the Dwarf. He came to the fords of Isen, where at last the reason for Rorin’s departure was made certain. The bodies of the slain lay in ruinous heaps as feasts for the delighted vultures. The battle was over, but Ryle’s sword was growing eager for blood.
At long last, upon a distant rise, Ryle caught sight of a group of men and elves and one rather large dwarf who was upon a horse.
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•Ryle, Leader of the Ortans 
Companion • Man
Strength: 5
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger.
While bearing a possession, Ryle is vitality +1.
At the start of each maneuver phase, if Ryle has resistance 6 or more, you may heal a Man or ranger (and remove if Ryle has resistance 7 or more).
“‘...that boy has potential even he cannot fully see.’”
•Blade of Dale
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be a Man or Rorin.
While you can spot a follower, bearer is strength +1.
While bearer is Ryle, Shadow cards may not discard this possession.
And finding himself without weapon, Rorin drew forth the sword, and smote the encircling goblins while Ryle was still lost in the dark of unconsciousness.
Ortan’s Gear
Possession • Pack
Strength: +1
Resistance: +2
Bearer must be a Ranger.
Response: If you play an event during Ryle’s skirmish, you may exert him and add a threat to take that event into hand instead of discarding it. |
Check out my best article The Utterly Corrupt Corruption,
If at first you don't succeed...Sky-diving isn't for you.
"Combat is dangerous. It tends to interupt your breathing process."
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