Realms of Middle-earth: Regroup Phase at Site 4 (The Wold)

[DáinIronfoot]

Alright, rather than just refer people to the old thread at CC over and over, I will instead use my god-like moderator powers to repost the story thus far, giving credit for each section where due. Here we go....

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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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NBarden

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.

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sickofpalantirs

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.

•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 that ranger 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 Tuilin is about to exert or take a wound, you may discard this possession to place no token for that wound or exertion.
Tuilin's armor was leather, made for maximum speed and flexibility while not sacrificing protection.

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Anonymous Prodigy

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 and 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

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. #$&*@!…!
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 #$&*@! deeds as the armies of Isengard marched over the river.

They had lost.

Curse Grima!

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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.
"‘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.'"

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[DáinIronfoot]

Ingold55

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.

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Elf_Lvr

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.

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Dáin Ironfoot

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 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.

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macheteman

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.

_____________________________ _______________

•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.

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legoles3333

After his adventure with the ranger Curubethion and his companions, Legoles headed back to mirkwood and resumed his position as captain of the king's guard.

February 24th, 3019
Legoles was at his house in mirkwood when an elf appeared and said a messenger had been sent asking for him personally, curious, Legoles went out of his house and was faced with a messenger who was most definitely a man.

February 28th, 3019
Legoles was quite near the fords of Isen as he had ridden hard for four days, he had come south and ridden past Fangron and was now coming down the river Isen. he was just remembering how the news that his friend Ectheow had contacted him and requested his assistance in defending the fords of Isen from the army of Saruman.

March 2nd, 3019
Having ridden for six long days to arrive here, Legoles was now exhausted as he prepared for fighting the force, no, the army that Saruman had brought here, near him was Tuilin, an elf and kindred spirit, they had become friends during their long march in the north. and to the far left was Duinihir, a ranger from the lands south and a great fighter. soon, they heard the Uruks approaching, and they prepared for battle, as they saw the uruks break out of the fog, He saw Tuilin fighting hard to his right and Duinihir throwing himself like a monster to his left, and then the uruks were upon him, and he was no longer aware of anything but his heart racing and his aching arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ok here is me and my stuff

*Legoles, Captain of the Guard
Companion - Elf
Strength 7
Vitality 3
Resistance 7
Archer.

*Legoles' Sword, Ancient Blade
Strength +2
Bearer must be an Elf.
If bearer is Legoles, he is damage +1.

*Legoles' Bow, Weapon of Mirkwood
Resistance +1
Bearer must be an Elf.
Archery: If bearer is Legoles, exert him to wound a minion (limit once per phase).

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[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

The moans of the wounded filled the air, with a smattering of curses and shouts of sorrow and anger mixed in.

The first battle of the Fords had ended with losses, but also an enemy rout. The second had ended with far more casualties...and an all-out retreat by the other side. Their side. About the only good news was that they were not pursued, though even that was a mixed blessing: the way was open to Edoras, and the lands of Rohan beyond. Many riders had scattered to try and harry the enemy, but all knew it would only slow their progress and do nothing to stop them.

As far as any of the survivors knew, Rohan was doomed.

One of the few who had not been injured in the battle, Ectheow moved from tent to tent, bed to bed, checking on his fellow countrymen, but especially his friends from other lands. Many of them were among the wounded.

He found Curubethion and Dirthon attending to Duinihir, replacing soaked bandages. As he caught a glance at Duinihir's injures, he gasped a little. He had known the ranger had been fighting with the Rohirrim for some time, and knew he had sustained injuries days before, but now that he saw....

"It is good you pulled him out when you did," Curubethion said suddenly, without even turning to look at Ectheow. He laid another layer of fresh bandaging over the still-seeping wounds. "He was losing a lot of blood even when I found him here."

Duinihir was still conscious, but slipping in and out of restless sleep as the elder ranger worked on him. Ectheow noticed a small fire was lit nearby, with a simple black pot with a sweet fragrance roasting over it.

"Athelas," Dirthon said, noticing Ectheow's stare. "Curubethion brought some from the north."

"Kingsfoil, as you likely know it," Curubethion added.

Ectheow nodded, then whirled around as another voice called his name. "Grimbold!" he said, surprised.

"Old friend," the other replied, briefly embracing the former minstel, then nodding to the others. "Welcome...or as much welcome as can be offered now," Grimbold said to the rangers. "I am Grimbold, and for the time being, I suppose I am Second Marshal of the Mark, since the fall of Prince Théodred." He paused, clearing his throat and swallowing hard before continuing. "You have my thanks, and the thanks of all our people, for coming here. How fares your friend?" he finished, looking down at Duinihir.

"Better than ever," the ranger replied weakly, but with a smile.

Curubethion stood and walked over to Grimbold. "I am sorry for the loss of your prince and your countrymen," he said. "I am Curubethion, ranger of the north, and whatever I and..." he swept a hand behind him to Dirthon and Duinihir "...my fellow rangers can do to assist you, we are ready and able."

"I have heard your name, Curubethion," Grimbold replied, eyes wide, "and not just from Ectheow. I heard he had met fine warriors in the north, but not one of your stature. Your legend proceeds you, I am afraid."

Curubethion waved a hand dismissively. "I am but one man, and such ‘legends' do not make me anything more," he replied with a crooked smile. "Still, whatever we may do...."

"For now, rest," Grimbold replied. "There is word that our king is on the move, and we may join him soon, but not yet."

"On the move to where, Grimbold?" Ectheow replied.

"Helm's Deep," Grimbold replied confidently. "There, they may outlast this storm."

"Helm's Deep?" Curubethion exclaimed. "My friend, I mean no disrespect to King Théoden, but that is folly! There is no way out of that valley, and a force as large as this...."

"Nonetheless, that is the king's decision," Grimbold said simply. "Or so I have heard. When we know for sure, that will determine our next course of action." He smiled grimly. "Until then, as I said, rest. I will be sure to let you know when we are to move, and to what battlefield that may be." He turned to Ectheow. "My friend, there is much to be discussed. Will you join me for a few moments?"

"Of course," Ectheow said, slightly dismayed at the last exchange. He had great respect for Curubethion, as they all did, but what was his concern? The Rohirrim had outlasted many onslaughts at Helm's Deep, and to his mind, and that of Grimbold and the rest, the king's decision seemed wise. But what concerned Curubethion concerned Ectheow, too...he had learned to trust the ranger even when it seemed against common sense. Curubethion had been right about the Iceblade, and Ectheow had later realized even the secrecy the ranger had demanded was the correct advice. But what of his fear about Helm's Deep?

He furrowed his brow, gave a final nod to his friends, and followed Grimbold to a nearby tent.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a different part of the camp, another group of even more unlikely companions was gathered, attending to their wounded friend.

"‘Durail', eh?" Rorin said. "Well, easier to pronounce than Curubath...Curubleth...Cerubl astion, I suppose."

Silvarin chuckled, then stood and gave the black-clad newcomer a hardy clasp on the shoulder, in the greeting style of Elves. The other returned it, then extended his hand and shook Silvarin's vigorously.

"You have been missed," Durail told his old friend. "Where have you BEEN?"

Silvarin smiled. "That is a long tale. But first, someone else wishes to greet you."

"Tuilin!" Durail exclaimed, seeing another friendly face. This time, the two threw customs aside and embraced, though the action forced Tuilin to wince a little in pain. "I hardly expected to find you here," Durail continued, "though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"Indeed," the Elven archer said. "We seem to always find ourselves in the middle of things, Durail."

All three laughed.

"And I used to think Elves didn't even know how to smile," Rorin mumbled to Ryle.

The Ortan shook his head and laughed himself, then ordered "Tuilin! I wasn't finished yet. Sit!"

Tuilin raised an eyebrow, but complied. He was several hundred years Ryle's senior, but the man DID seem to have learned a thing or two about medicine in his short lifetime. He had removed the crossbow bolt expertly, if a little roughly, and was in the middle of applying a well-made dressing to the wound.

"So tell me again, Rorin," Ryle said, as he worked, "what did Ellar say, exactly?"

"In a minute, lad, in a minute," the Dwarf replied, smiling widely. "First you need to explain to ME why you stopped writing. Do you know how worried an old Dwarf like me gets when our friends disappear? You can't DO that to me!" The words were said gruffly, but like many things Rorin said to him, the smile belied how the Dwarf truly felt about what he was telling his young friend.

"Sorry, father," he said, as deadpan as he could.

That REALLY sent Rorin for a loop, and he sputtered "Your...I...he...you're impossible, lad! I'd rather talk to the Elf!"

Speaking of whom, Silvarin simply shook his head and smiled as he and Durail came back over to check on them. Same Ryle, same old Rorin. It was as if they had all never left. Hard to believe it had been months since they had parted.

While Durail sat down to help as he could with Tuilin's wound, and Rorin and Ryle continued their banter and tried to catch each other up, Silvarin looked over the rest of the camp, the moment of levity all but forgotten.

"So many wounded," he said quietly to himself. Images of his kin slaughtered in Mirkwood flashed through his mind, first those who fell as Morgok's forces attacked Thranduil's realm...then to those he himself had killed while under the control of the evil sorcerer. "No," he whispered. "I didn't kill them. Morgok did."

"I'm sorry?" a soldier nearby said.

Silvarin smiled sadly. "Nothing. I was just...thinking."

The man looked at him strangely, partly for the statement and partly for...well, his race. An Elf? Here?

"I am a friend of one of your warriors," Silvarin tried to explain, noting the man's confusion. The man seemed like he may be a solider of some importance, with a large red shield and ornate armor.

The man shrugged. "Well then if you continue to stand with us, know that we will soon follow our king to Helm's Deep." He looked past Silvarin to the other Elves and...was that a Dwarf? He shook his head...what strange times. "Those are friends of yours also?"

Silvarin glanced back. "Yes. I will let them know. Thank you...?"

"Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold." The man stood tall and proud, looking to the darkening sky. "We will leave at dawn."

Silvarin nodded, the importance of the name lost on him. "Silvarin, of Mirkwood, the woodland realm. Again, thank you."

They exchanged nods as Silvarin went back to his friends, and Erkenbrand continued to muster his countrymen.

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Alright, folks. Obviously, we're headed to Helm's Deep. These events are the early evening of March 2, and as Erkenbrand said, we leave the morning of March 3 for Helm's Deep. I am following Tolkien's history rather than the movie's here...Erkenbrand, not Éomer, leads the reinforcements to Helm's Deep, meeting up with Gandalf along the way and arriving at dawn on March 4.

But what exactly happens between now and then is up to you, so you've got basically a day and a half to work through. You can do so slowly, or you can speed along and get us to the action quickly. But however you all collectively do it, get us to Helm's Deep at the top of that ridge with the sun rising behind us. Once we're all there, I'll make an "official" post before the final ride to save those in Helm's Deep, and then afterwards, we'll have some time to rest and mingle again before making our journey out of Rohan to other lands. You can bring historical characters into the story briefly, like Erkenbrand and Théoden and Aragorn and others at the battle, and certainly Gandalf, since we meet up with him on the way, but please stick to the basic storyline as Tolkien wrote it, okay?

As for DCs, you can create two. What kind? Well, like most of the story between now and Helm's Deep, that's up to you!  They can be events, conditions, possessions, followers...or any combination of those. Just don't go TOO wild, and keep their costs (and balance) at  or less, m'kay? Oh, and keep in mind that since we're pausing before the actual battle, you'll likely have a chance to create a DC or two for the battle AFTER you create these two. Not saying you can't make, say, a skirmish event as one of your two cards now, but if you want to hold off and do something else, now's the time. 

And speaking of DCs, here's our first "Leader" of the adventure. Just as CG established in Realms of the North, the Leader is essentially our "Ring-bearer." There is no Ring here, of course (Frodo has it far, far away!), but the Leader (or Leaders) gets burdens placed on them anyway. Other than that, everything works as normal. 

Our first leader (and we may later have more than one at a time):

•Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold
Companion • Man
Strength: 7
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 6
Leader. Valiant.
While you can spot a Wizard, each valiant companion is resistance +1.
While Erkenbrand is assigned to a skirmish, each companion gains hunter 1.
Each time Erkenbrand exerts or takes a wound, add a burden.
"‘...if you continue to stand with us, know that we will soon follow our king to Helm's Deep.'"

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[DáinIronfoot]

NBarden

Duinihir had watched the proceedings as the band had been reunited. He would have laughed at Rorin and Ryle's antics, but it hurt his side to much.

After a few minutes of standing, Duinihir was forced to sit down from the intense pain in his side. Soon, he suddenly passed out.

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

Duinihir awoke later to find himself in bed, with an aide looking at him anxiously. He sat up, and questioned the aide on what was going on.

"Rumor has it that King Theoden is moving towards Helm's Deep," came the response. "The army is moving out to join him."

Duinihir sprang up from his bed and began arming himself.

"No sir!" cried the aide. "I'm under strict orders to keep you here until you recover."

"Until I recover?!?!?!" demanded Duinihir. "It chafes me greatly to sit here and 'recover' while the war of our time is going on outside. I must go!"

The aide stood in his way. "I am not to let you leave on any conditions."

Duinihir raised his sword, but still the aide did not move. Duinihir's brought the butt of his sword-hilt down on the aides head. He fell to the ground without a noise.

With that, Duinihir loaded his quiver with arrows, strung his bow, and sheathed his sword. Picking up his knife, he looked at it for a while. Tehtyrch it was called, or Orc-Signal. It was of the finest Elven craftsmanship, with spells placed on it for the destruction of Orcs. The light mithril blade could detect an orc many leagues off, and its hue changed from blue to a fiery red as foes approached. But more than that, it was sharp, and was long enough for a fight, yet wieldy enough for general use. Packing his knife, with the deftness of years in the wild, he slipped away quietly into the shadows, for night was now approaching.

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

The next day, the company departed, Duinihir with it. He would take it easy on the way to Helm's Deep, in order to give the wound a chance to heal somewhat.

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

•Tehtyrch, Elven Long-Knife
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Bearer must be Duinihir. This possession may be borne in addition to one other hand weapon.
At the start of the maneuver phase, you may assign Duinihir to skirmish an Orc or Uruk-Hai to suspend the current phase. Begin a skirmish involving Duinihir and that minion. At the end of that skirmish, resume the suspended phase.
The light mithril blade could detect an orc many leagues off, and its hue changed from blue to a fiery red as foes approached. But more than that, it was sharp, and was long enough for a fight, yet wieldy enough for general use.

A Ranger's Dexterity
Condition
Stealth.
Bearer must be a ranger. Limit 1 per bearer.
At the start of the assignment phase, you may make bearer defender -1 (to a minimum of defender +0) to make a minion with the lowest strength unable to be assigned to a skirmish.
Packing his knife, with the deftness of years in the wild, he slipped away quietly into the shadows, for night was now approaching.

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AgentDrake

"Helms Deep. That is a wise course," Ectheow observed as the tent flap fell closed behind them.
"Your friend seems to think otherwise," Grimbold replied.
"The Ranger is accustomed to sneaking around the wilds. He is a brilliant fighter and leader, a great hero, but he does not understand the hearts of Rohan. What better place than Helm's Deep? We cannot be outmaneuvered there, we cannot be surrounded. We may only be worn down. And with out backs to a wall, we cannot be forced to flee as we have.
Still, you tell me that the King has banished Grima? How did all this happen?"
Grimbold smiled. "Your friends are not the only Northerners to come. Gandalf Greyhame appeared, and forced his way in to see Theoden King."
"I bet Hama was pleased," Ectheow grunted.
"Greyhame has a ragtag group of henchmen this time. Another Northern ranger, and elf and a dwarf. They kept Grima's stool pigeons quiet while Greyhame exposed Grima. Did the King a world of good. Grima fled like the sniveling little coward Hygleac always said he was after the Ranger spared his life. Stole your old horse Sage on his way out."
"I got a new one," Ectheow said.
"And after seeing that thing of yours, I'm happy to offer you one of my spares. I don't know what happened to that creature, but it should be put out of its misery. It looks like something the orcs dragged in."
"I'll keep it, thank you. And it's name is Beow."
Grimbold shook his head. "Fine. Just don't keep him anywhere near the others. I don't want them picking up fleas. A lot has happened since you left. Theodred was killed by Curunir's Uruks. The Wild Men are ravaging the Mark. Eomer was exiled, but I hear he returned to Meduseld, and is at Helm's Deep even now."
Ectheow felt a sudden shock. Theodred killed? That explained how Grima had gotten away with his worming for so long.
"What of the South?" Ectheow asked. "Do we have Gondor's aid?"
Grimbold shook his head. "Gondor has her own problems; Mordor is stirring. The White City couldn't care less about us ‘Northern Barbarians' right now."
Mordor is stirring.

Flash.
Orcs swarmed over the hills. Orcs bearing a white hand and orcs bearing a red eye.
Where had Curunir's orcs come from?
Not Grima.
The Enemy.
Curunir had allied himself with Mordor.

Ectheow abruptly turned and pushed the tent flap aside, gazing out into the dark. The cold night air rushed in, and the distant howl of a warg froze in the air.
Ectheow forced his thoughts away from the ice-glazed North, once the realm of the Greatest Dark Lord, the Destroyer of the East. Thoughts of the dark tales of Morgoth were pointless now. Unless Curunir had conjured up another of the ancient Dark Lord's personal weapons, like the Iceblade.

Ectheow gazed out across the world as a light rain began to fall. A distant rumbling, like thunder, but continuous and rolling drifted across the plains from the mountains. A faint light could be seen kindling far off.

"What's that?" Ectheow asked, pointing out. "It's too early for dawn."

Grimbold gazed across the night.
"It's Helm's Deep. The battle has begun."

"We cannot possibly reach the fortress in time," Ectheow said darkly.

"Yet ‘late is better than never.'" Grimbold finished. "We may have to ride before dawn. I shall find Erkenbrand and discuss the matter."
Grimbold left the tent, Ectheow following.

Flash.
The Master, Hygleac, ran his fingers over the wooden model of the fortress, guiding the small blocks of wood which were the armies of Dunland and Rohan.
He spoke clearly and majestically, telling of the battles which the fortress had withstood.
Helm's deep could not fall. It was the Impregnable, the invincible. Not out of any great stone or magic, but because of the honor and courage of those who ever sought its refuge.
Greyhame had, in his typical mood, insert his own commentary into the Master's tale of courage, honor, and loyalty, but most of the others ignored the wizard's pessimistic comments; whatever the wizard might say, they all well knew the outcome. Helm's Deep would stand, because that was the way the story went. That was what happened.
And no matter how many times the story was told, Helm's Deep would always stand.

Ectheow looked out through the rain as the wind began to shift.
Helm's Deep would last the night.
That's what had always happened. Why should this be different?

Of course, they had never been betrayed by a wizard from across the Sea before.

Stepping into his own tent, Ectheow rolled his shield off his back. Digging into his pack, he pulled out a leather blanket, and pushing his gear underneath to keep the water from the leaking tent off, he shoved his way back out into the rain.

When he came to the tent where the Ranger, Duinhir, was kept, he pushed the flap open to find the guard lying unconscious. #$&*@! Ranger. Probably get himself killed, going off half-cocked and wounded in the middle of the night. Oh well. The ranger had survived this long. One night of bleeding wouldn't hurt him permanently.
The lax guard, on the other hand….

Ectheow turned and walked away, not seeing Duinhir slip back out of the shadows and resume his packing.

Stepping onto a ridge, Ectheow watched the lights flicker in the distance as Helm's Deep fought for its survival.
He could see in his mind the works of Curunir tearing at the fortress; orcs sneaking into the city through culverts and drains.

Flash.
An explosion sent huge rocks and debris flying. And in the midst of the stones was a man bearing a blazing sword, like an elf-star.

Flash.
Theoden King, a grey weathered old man straightened and drew Herugrim. The blade flashed in the sun, and the clouds rolled back. And behind stood the White Wizard.

Flash.

Ectheow blinked.
He must be more tired than he had thought to start drifting off like this in the rain.
When he finally did rest, his dreams were not of Theoden or elf-stars, but of mad rangers, ice-clad demons and Curunir blasting hail and frost down onto Edoras.

Just before dawn, the horn blew, and they rode.
But he could still hear the distant rumbles.
Helm's Deep still stood.

================================

*Hylgeac's Vision, Second Sight
Follower
Strength +1
Resistance +2
Aid - Add two threats.
While bearer is a companion, each time a minion uses a special ability, you may add a burden to exert that minion.
"Hweat! In gear daegum..."

*Ectheow's Shield, Wooden Bastion
Possession – Shield
Bearer must be Ectheow.
Each minion skirmishing Ectheow is strength -1 for each wound on that minion.
Maneuver: Exert Ectheow to make him defender +1 until the regroup phase.

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Elf_Lvr

Rorin's tent was on fire. Though this caused alarm to many of the Rohirrim soldiers, the elves Tuilin and Silvarin seemed nonplussed by it. This was mainly because Silvarin had, in fact, been the one to set the fire. For the record, it was blue.

It takes a lot to wake a dwarf at sunrise.

"You know," Silvarin said, a smile upon his face, "we may soon have to pull him out of there. It doesn't look like he's getting up." Tuilin shared the smile too, as a stream of not-so-nice sounding dwarvish words erupted from the tent. Reluctantly, Silvarin handed Tuilin a small silver coin.

When the fire had been put out and a new(er), at least, less charred, tent was found and packed for Rorin, the company was ready to set off again. It was a long ride to Helm's Deep, and they needed to arrive in time to provide much-needed aid.

As the riders lined up and spurred on their horses, Silvarin was suprised to find himself riding alongside the man of rohan, Erkenbrand. Though all men looked much alike to him, he remembered the man from last night by his shield and extremely broken horn ().

"A good morning to you, Erkenbrand! And may our ride make others' mornings brighter!"

"It will be much time till we reach the Deep, master Elf. I do hope we arrive soon enough."

"It is as they say, 'It won't get better if you pick at it.' So don't worry, Erkenbrand!"

"It won't get better if you pick at it? What kind of elvish wisdom is that?"

"Few things do get better if you pick at them, you'll realize," said Silvarin wisely. Erkenbrand laughed. "And another peice of widsom I picked up from my dwarvish comrade," continued Silvarin, "few things are made worse by another ale! But few things made better, also! So be wary you don't get it in your beard!"

"And that means...?"

"I don't know, really. I've never had a beard."

Erkenbrand laughed again as Silvarin smiled, and the light glinted off a small object on Silvarin's finger. It was a small ring roughly made of gold; a blue stone sat in it's center, but seemed not to fit very well. Silvarin noticed him looking at it.

"Ah, this old thing. I don't know why I bother to keep it. To remember, I suppose, and to remind me not to make the same mistakes."

"Mistakes? Such as?"

"Now, now, Erkenbrand, ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies! But I'll say this; I've learned I'm not to be trusted with power." Erkenbrand gave him an odd look, but decided not to pursue the subject. This was generally deemed a quite wise decision. It's much harder to lead an army when you've been turned into a frog.

For hours and hours they rode, and spoke little, but the men of Rohan often broke into songs, sad, beautiful songs, in their own native speech. Ectheow produced a harp and began to play, still upon his horse, and Rorin and Silvarin both suprised the onlookers as they joined in with songs in their own languages, often clashing horribly with the Rohirrims' tunes.

That night, they stopped to camp only a few miles from the Deep. Silvarin had a feeling they ought to keep pressing on, but it seemed that Erkenbrand was waiting for something, or more likely, someone. Not but a few hours later, Silvarin found out who that someone was.

The night was pierced by a brilliant light; and Silvarin saw a small host of men on horseback riding towards their camp. They were led by an old man on a brilliant white steed, and the light was spouting from the staff in his hand. Gandalf dismounted and strode towards Erkenbrand. He stopped, however, when he heard Silvarin's voice cry out, "Mithrandir! Mithrandir!" The elf fell flat on his face bowed before the wizard, and a constant stream of elvish spouted from his lips. Gandalf motioned for a few of the Rohirrim to help Silvarin up, looking amused. Silvarin reluctantly rose, but he was still looking at Gandalf with apparent awe.

"Mithrandir! The Sorcerer of Sorcerers! The White Rider! Purveyor of wisdoms and master of magicks! Such a great honor it is! By my meager wisdom, I wish to grow more wise. I beg you, teach me what you know!" And he again fell on his face and couldn't be pried from the ground even by Durail, Rorin, and Erkenbrand, much to their embarrassment. Gandalf, however, seemed more amused than ever.

"Silvarin Elstar," he said, calmly. "I have heard of you. Your deeds in Mirkwood did not go uncounted by the Istari, even!" Here, Silvarin looked up, horrified, but Gandalf still only smiled. "There may be time for a little bit of teaching, and hopefully some learning, before morning comes. But ere dawn we must ride, and I have much business to attend to." He and Erkenbrand, and many other men of Rohan who seemed to hold some status, then retreated into a rather large tent to discuss the coming battle. Silvarin did nothing more than walk to a corner of the camp and sit on a fallen tree, muttering to himself words of Elvish. And no one could get a word of sense out of him until Gandalf came later to speak to them. None heard what transpired, but Silvarin walked away looking very pleased with himself.

This made Rorin especially uneasy, and he resolved to have Ryle wake him up extra early the next morning.


*Bluestone, The Sorcerer's Ring
Artifact * Ring
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be Silvarin. While you cannot spot another Elf or a Wizard, he is resistance -2.
Response: If an spell is played, discard this artifact to return it to hand after its effects have resolved. You may play that spell again this turn, ignoring costs.

Wit and Words
Event * Fellowship
Spot an Elf and a companion of a different race to take an card from your discard pile into hand.
"Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies!"

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[DáinIronfoot]

Anonymous Prodigy

"I will return, father. I will return."

Dirthon awoke suddenly. His hand was tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, and he had broken out into a cold sweat. Dirthon stood and opened the tent flap. It was dawn, and a number of fires had been started by the Rohirrim. A blue-colored fire caught the ranger's eye and he looked closer. Rorin's tent was engulfed in flames, and Silvarin and Tuilin stood by laughing. The Dwarf emerged from the smoke-filled tent, coughing forcefully.

"I'm gonna…" the Dwarf roared, but he stopped short when he saw the two Elves shaking with laughter. Silvarin muttered a few words, and the blue flames were extinguished, leaving Rorin's tent unharmed.

"Never trust an Elf," the Dwarf mumbled, storming back into his tent. Dirthon laughed along with Silvarin and Tuilin.

The ranger walked back into his tent to gather his things. Today would be the final stage of the procession's journey to Helm's Deep. Dirthon wrinkled his brow.

Helm's Deep. Curubethion spoke as if Thèoden was leading them into a trap. No escape, no escape from the stone fortress of Helm's Deep. They would all die…

Dirthon's thoughts returned to the task at hand. He strapped on his sword belt, then slung his quiver and bow onto his back. He touched the hilt of his sword tenderly, remembering the day that he had received it…

Orcs had invaded Ithilien. Dirthon's father, Dirthor, had gone to fight the Orcs with the rest of the rangers. The Orcs that day, though, were the stronger force. Dirthor fell with an arrow in his side, and he was carried back to Ithilien by his men. The arrow had been poisoned, and Dirthor took a fever. The only cure was hard to find: the athelas plant.

Dirthon had left home, and taken his father's sword. He would roam Gondor until he had found athelas, and then he would return and heal his father. He had only been gone two days when he found what he sought, the rare and precious healing herb. As he reached to pick its scented leaves, though, an Orc sprang from the thickets and attacked Dirthon.

Completely surprised, Dirthon had no time to draw his sword, and the Orc's blade bit deep into the flesh on his arm. Crying out in pain, Dirthon managed to pull his father's sword from the sheath, and then he fought the Orc. Dirthon's lessons in swordplay as a young lad had not been for nought, and he slew the Orc within a minute. He brought the athelas back to his father, and the rare herb brought life to him again.

Dirthor was healed within a week, and a feast was held in honor of Dirthon's bravery to find the athelas, and the killing of his first Orc. Dirthor gave his sword to his son, and he was made a ranger of Ithilien that very day…

He left Ithilien two years later and joined the other adventurers on the quest of the Iceblade. Before he left, though, his father took him aside and spoke to him.

"Dirthon, I have been a ranger for fifteen years, and I have learned one thing: protect your fellow companion as you would protect yourself, and the favor will be returned to you. Never forget that, my boy. Never forget."

Dirthon had nodded his acknowledgement, then clasped hands with Dirthor.

"I will return, father. I will return."

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•Dirthor, Ranger of Ithilien
Follower
Strength +2
Resistance +1
Aid – .
Each time you transfer this to a companion, except a ranger, exert bearer.
Response: If a ranger is about to take a wound that would kill him or her, you may exert another ranger to prevent that and take a card from your discard pile into hand.
"I have been a ranger for fifteen years…."

Strength In Unity
Event • Skirmish
Make a ranger strength +1 for each other ranger you can spot (and heal a companion if you can spot a roaming minion).
"...protect your fellow companion as you would protect yourself…."

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sickofpalantirs

Tuilin watched as the dwarf stumbled out. "I knew he would wake up." Silvarin handed the coin over and tuilin pocketed with a flourish. and promptly winced as the movement hurt his side.

Tuilin mounted his steed, named silvan after a friend of his (remember silvan? he was the first of EL's characters to bit the dust ) and spurred it forward.

The riders next to him were talking about the chance of the deep standing when they arrived. Tuilin heard the name legolas mentioned. He had met the prince once, and remembered him as the only archer to have bested him in a contest. "So legolas is there, the Orcs will have a hard time touching him" Tuilin said quietly. The men looked at him "I have met Legolas before" Tuilin said. "I am an elf." he cast back his hood so they could see him. The younger one looked at him "I'll be. A real elf. What are these times coming too that they show themselves again in middle earth?"

Tuilin shook his head and spurred his horse on. Night came, and with it the white rider. Tuilin was as much awed as silverin, but kept his composure better. "Let those orcs come. Nothing can defeat us with one of the istari at our side." He got out his weapons. He waxed his bowstrings, sharpened his sword and daggers, and polished his armor.

(Tuilin is still lacking in the sword department... )

•Tuilin's Sword, Elvish Longsword
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength • +1
Bearer must be an Elf.
If bearer is Tuilin, each time he is assigned to skirmish a wounded minion, the Free Peoples player may add a threat to reinforce an token.
Unlike most elvish swords, Tuilin's was one-handed and he was its first wielder.

((yeah I know bad lore...if you have any suggestions for lore for ANY of my cards PM me.))

•Deep Calm
Condition • Support Area
When you play this condition add an token here (or 2 if at a forest or sanctuary).
Each time your Elf takes a wound or exerts in a skirmish, add an token here.
Fellowship: Remove 2 tokens from here to heal an companion.
Elves could renew much of their strength without sleep.

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macheteman

Ryle walked slowly by himself, his cloak wrapped tight about him. the gray moon shown down upon him. the camp was shrouded in slumber. Rorin's tent was standing, and quivering slightly in the chill breeze. Ryle walked into the tent and sat upon a wooden stool, with horses carved in the legs. the dwarf was asleep on his cot. Ryle's memory flashed back to that dreaded day when he fell to the goblins, and just before he slipped into unconsciousness, Rorin's battlecry ripped through the caves.

Ryle looked across his dwarven friend who had almost been more than a father to him. He drew out the sword which had cleaved all his enemies. with an old whetting stone he honed the blade to a fine edge, "soon, soon, my friend," Ryle whispered to the sword, "soon we will draw blood together." he sheathed the blade and fingered the limbs of his bow. "yes my friends, the time is drawing near."

Ryle stepped over to the sleeping dwarf and pushed him off the cot, "get up you worthless lump!"

Rorin flopped onto the floor with a thud, and with a start he yelled, "what in Durin's name you insolent, excuse for a chicken!" as he threw every available object at the young warrior, which included an apple, a left boot, and packet of Cram. "I asked you to wake me up, not throw me off my bed and startle me out of my skin!!"

"Rorin, my floppy friend, i have learned through experience that one can never wake you up from sleep as if you were a normal, civilized being, but rather--"

But Ryle couldn't finish. with a roar, the Dwarf was up and chasing him out of the tent, and round the camp. "i'll have your scalp yet you little blighter!!"

"I'll GIVE it to you if you can catch me! you pudgy fellow!"

Rorin's growls fell behind, and at last the dwarf collapsed on the ground outside the camp. Ryle came back and started to sit beside his friend, but the dwarf gave him a stiff shove which sent him flying.

"and there is another thing i've learned," Ryle said, "never wake up a Dwarf. ESPECIALLY when he's sleeping!" he started to eat some Cram, and offered it to Rorin.

"now, where'd this come from lad?"

"you threw it at me, remember? a terrible throw really, my friend, you should work on that overhand."

"well, i guess getting pushed off a cot is better than getting my tent burned by the Elf! but i can't win for losing!" the dwarf's eyes twinkled as the sun broke the horizon, "we've been through a lot together, and it's been a long time coming, on a crooked road."

_____________________________ _______________________

Cram
Possession • Waybread
Resistance: +1
Bearer must be a Man or a Dwarf.
Regroup: If you can spot a Man, you may add and discard this possession to draw 2 cards or discard a Shadow condition from a companion.
Cram was waybread made by the men of dale, ideal for long marches, and travel.

•Bow of Bard
Possession • Bow
Bearer must be Bard, Brand, or Ryle.
Bearer gains hunter 1.
At the end of the archery phase, you may wound a minion.
"The black arrow sped straight from the string..."

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[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

"Blasted Elf," Rorin mumbled as he surveyed the roof of his tent. Good thing the rain had stopped, at least for now. If it hadn't, his things would be soaked thanks to the charred, gaping hole that now adorned his tent. The Dwarf picked up a couple pieces of his armor and brushed some ashes off, catching a whiff of smoke as he did so. "Bah! It'll take weeks for that smell to come out!" He almost bolted out of the tent to give chase to Silvarin again, but thought better of it for the same reason he had been inside sleeping while many others were already up: he needed some sleep. He hadn't allowed himself to get much on the long journey from Erebor, knowing time was of the essence, and while he hadn't told anyone, not even Glóin or Thorin or Ellar, he hadn't slept particularly well before that, either. As the one-year anniversary of the quest into the wintery north had approached, he had begun experiencing something he hadn't since he was very young: nightmares. He had dismissed it as simply the stress of planning for the return of Sauron's black messenger, but deep down, he knew it was something more.

The creatures Curubethion had led them against had chilled them all, literally, to the bone, even the stoic and seemingly unflappable ranger himself. But none had been shaken more than Rorin. He had fought Wargs before, and even enjoyed the occasional opportunity to drive the mindless beasts away when they came down from the north into the lands around the Lonely Mountain. But the icy abominations they had encountered on that journey...Rorin still shuddered whenever his mind replayed their otherworldly screams.

And then the wraiths and specters had arrived, and then even the dead were rising to claw at them with rotten, frostbitten hands. It had been too much for the poor Dwarf, who had long dismissed such things as foolish tales made to scare Dwarven children. It was a little-known fact that despite their bravery against foes like Wargs and Dragons and even the twisted Orcs, Dwarves were more unnerved than most by tales of the dead...and other things not of this world. In a matter of days, actually, another Dwarf of Erebor would be proving that as he followed another brave ranger through the Paths of the Dead.

In a way, waking up to blue flames was almost a welcome escape from waking up from images of bluish ice creatures and the walking dead that had interrupted his sleep more and more lately.

Not that he planned on telling Silvarin that, Rorin thought as he laid back down on his cot. He could still get a little more rest before....

"Rorin, what are you doing?" Ryle asked as he burst through the entrance flaps of the tent. "We've leaving soon. Ectheow just sent me to find you."

As if on cue, a long, loud horn sounded. Rorin could hear sounds of great commotion outside as the Rohirrim prepared to leave.

"Come on, you need to pack! Do you want to be left behind? Let's go go go!" Ryle continued, scooping up several of Rorin's belongings and stuffing them into a pack.

"Yes, father," Rorin replied dryly, reluctantly standing and shuffling over.

"Touché," Ryle said, shaking his head and laughing.

With Ryle's help, the Dwarf was packed within minutes, right down his tent, and Ryle led Rorin to a horse. One that was oddly familiar....

"Oh no," Rorin said. "Is that...?"

"Your horse from Dale, yes," Ryle replied happily, not seeming to notice the look of consternation on his friend's face. "It wandered into camp last night. Doesn't have a scratch!"

"A pity," Rorin said under his breath. "Why, ah, why don't you ride it, lad?" he asked loudly.

"No no no, I already have a horse, and I paid for mine." Ryle lightly patted the steed of Dale's side. "This one's all yours. It's a fine animal, and seems pretty well-rested."

"Because it hasn't had to carry anyone for a while," Rorin grumbled.

"Oh, come now, Rorin. You should be happy it's so fresh and ready to move out after what happened!"

"Uh, well, yes. I suppose," Rorin replied, shifting his eyes from side to side a little. Telling the others that he had been pulled off the horse rather than clumsily fallen off was a harmless enough little lie, wasn't it? Not harmless enough to confess to it, which is why Rorin found himself back atop his least favorite creature in the whole of Middle-earth, bouncing along among the Rohirrim and his friends.

It was going to be a LONG ride.

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Fortunately, the time passed rather quickly and Rorin almost forgot he was riding at all as the men around him broke into frequent song. Soon he was joined by many of his friends as they all made their way into a pack. Ectheow began to play a small harp, and Silvarin began to chant several long, slow Elvish melodies. Even Curubethion and the rangers joined in with old songs of their own. When there was finally a small break, Rorin added his own songs in his native tongue, surprising many of the Rohirrim. One of them was a song Glóin had brought back from Rivendell just this past autumn, saying he had heard it from a Hobbit friend of his. Rorin sang all the words he could remember, then finished with the most appropriate words in the Common Speech of the West:

"With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.

We must away! We must away!
We ride before the break of day!"

"That was lovely, Rorin!" Silvarin called as he brought his horse up beside the Dwarf.

"The part about sleeping beneath the open sky was for you, lad," Rorin said gruffly, but then chuckled.

"Oh, that," Silvarin said, laughing himself. "You know, some would be grateful to wake up to the sunrise streaking into their tent like that."

"Not when it is accompanied by a blue glow and smoke, they wouldn't!" Rorin retorted.

"Oh come on, you two," Dirthon said, trotting up to Rorin's other side. "You sound like an old married couple."

Rorin and Silvarin each shot the ranger a look that could kill. Dirthon merely laughed and spurred his horse further ahead.

"Rangers," Rorin muttered.

"Indeed," Silvarin said.

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They finally came to rest as dusk, only miles from their destination. Many stared in wonder at the lights glowing in the valley below, and they could occasionally hear the sounds of battle even from here. There was some confusion as to WHY they were stopping while Helm's Deep was under assault, and so close, but the leader with his distinctive red shield had ordered that it be so.

A couple fires were lit, and a handful of tents were set up, but it seemed that many did not plan on staying long. Still....

"Why are we still here?" Rorin asked as he flopped down on a large rock next to Ectheow, warming his hands in the heat of one of the nearby fires. "Your people are fighting only a short ride away, and yet we stop now? I understand the need for rest, but...."

"Erkenbrand says we wait for the White Rider," Ectheow explained, handing the Dwarf an extra mug.

Rorin took a gulp, then asked "White Rider? Who is that?"

Ectheow smiled. "The one who finally drove Gríma from his ‘council' to the king. A wizard: Gandalf Greyhame."

"Ah, Tharkûn!" Rorin replied with wonder, nearly spilling his mug of ale. "He is here?"

"Soon, Erkenbrand says. Apparently he has rallied more fighters to follow him here. Reinforcements to our reinforcements, you might say."

"That is worth waiting for," Rorin nodded. "I have heard many tales of this Gandalf, including his role in liberating Erebor itself! I would like to meet him for myself. If the tales hold any truth, he alone may be all the reinforcing that is needed!"

Ectheow nodded, staring down at what they could see of the battle. "Until then, my friend, I would recommend you get some sleep. Helm's Deep has never fallen, but I have a bad...feeling about this particular battle. We may all need our rest."

Flash.
An explosion sent huge rocks and debris flying....

Ectheow shook his head slightly and took a long sip on his mug.

"Aye," Rorin said, missing it as he took a final gulp of his own. "That may be a good idea." He set his mug down and patted Ectheow on the shoulder. "It is good to see you again. I look forward to seeing if you remember any of our lessons in the battle."

Ectheow smiled, and rested one hand on his axe. "I have learned a thing or two since then as well, Rorin. You won't be disappointed."

The Dwarf smiled, and with a final nod, trudged off to set up his tent.

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Rorin was lying on the ground, which felt very, very cold. He suddenly realized he was surrounded by snow. It covered his body, and only his head seemed to be free.

A spectre fly up to him. Unable to move, Rorin could only watch as it came closer, right up to his face, and...

...tickled his nose?

With a jolt, Rorin sat straight up on his cot, then sighed deeply. Just another dream. He groggily looked about the inside of the tent. He couldn't have been asleep for very long.

Suddenly, he realized that the tickling had not ceased. He crossed his eyes and spied a small black shape at the end of his nose.

"Aaaaaagh!" he screamed, swatting it away. He frantically searched for where it landed, then chased it around the tent with his boot in hand, trying to hammer it into the ground.

"What is going ON in here?" Ryle shouted as he dashed into the commotion. He took it all in—Rorin in his nightclothes, barefoot, with a boot in one hand and a look of fright on his face—and then finally noticed the tiny intruder. He started to laugh as Dirthon, Silvarin, Legoles, and several Rohirrim also entered or peeped their heads inside.

"What...is that a spider?" Dirthon asked.

"WAS a spider!" Rorin shouted triumphantly as he finally caught the intruder with the heel of his boot. "Never tickle a Dwarf, you spawn of Sauron!"

"He HATES spiders," Ryle explained, still chuckling. "The big bad Dwarf is terrified of them!"

"Have you ever seen one up close, lad?" Rorin growled. "With their fangs, and their teeth...and so many legs...and...and the fangs!"

The others shook their heads, relieved and amused.

Suddenly, a loud boom brought them all back outside.

"What happened?" Ryle demanded as they approached Ectheow, who was at the edge of a cliff looking down into the Deeping-coomb.

"The Deeping-wall has been blasted by some sorcery," Ectheow said, his gaze fixed forward.

"Blasted?" one of the young, nervous soldiers asked.

"Destroyed," Ectheow said simply.

"How do you know?" Legoles inquired. "Even my eyes cannot see very clearly from here...."

Ectheow paused for a long moment. "I just know. Trust me. We must go soon. What keeps Greyhame?"

A bright light from behind answered that question.

"Mithrandir, Mithrandir!" Silvarin exclaimed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After finally meeting the fabled wizard, albeit briefly, and finding a new reason to worry about what tricks Silvarin might be up to, Rorin had been able to get a short rest again before Ryle had shocked him back into consciousness. After chasing his young friend around camp and sharing some cram with him, Rorin felt as ready as one could be for the coming battle.

He had left most of his gear in his tent. Like the others, he was taking only what he needed for battle. The rest they would retrieve afterwards...if they were still alive to do so.

His battle axe was sharpened and strapped to his back. He tucked a trio of smaller axes into loops on his belt, ready to pull them at a moment's notice and hurl them at the enemy. His armor was on, as was the helmet he rarely wore. It looked as if this would be an opportune time to wear it.

The increasing light as morning approached had revealed that, while greatly diminished, a very large force of Uruks remained in the valley, looking like a swarm of angry insects from here.

Erkenbrand and Gandalf had formed a simple plan: to attack the enemy from the rear, hopefully catching them between their onslaught and the remaining forces inside the walls of Helm's Deep. They would ride a little ahead and then rush from an opening in the cliffs, making straight for the enemy before they could regroup.

The only problem, Rorin thought with a grunt, was that it meant horses again, at least until they reached the battlefield. Rorin had little intention of staying on one of the #$&*@! beasts any longer than necessary.

With great reluctance, Rorin mounted the cursed beast of Dale once more and followed the Rohirrim and his friends towards the cliff, just as the sun finally began to peak over the horizon.

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Throwing Axe
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +1
Bearer must be a Dwarf. This weapon may be borne in addition to 1 other hand weapon.
Fellowship: Exert 2 Dwarves (or Rorin) to play this possession from your discard pile onto your companion.
Archery: Discard this possession to make the Shadow player exert a minion.
Skirmish: Discard this possession to exert a minion skirmishing bearer.

•Unlikely Friendship
Condition • Support Area
Tale. To play, spot 3 races in the fellowship.
While you can spot an Elf, Rorin is resistance +1.
While you can spot a ranger or valiant companion, Rorin gains hunter 1.
Each time Rorin wins a skirmish, you may make a Man strength +2 until the regroup phase.

And also, a few DCs for our second leader. There will be opportunity to use him and Erkenbrand once the battle begins, but remember: since leaders work like the RB, having one of our leaders' resistance reduced to 0 is a very bad thing. Don't let it happen!

ALSO keep in mind that, since we'll have different leaders in each major area, Gandalf and Erkenbrand won't be our leaders for much longer. But any burdens we add won't stay with them, but rather be transferred to whatever leaders we get next. Just something to think about. Anyway....

•Gandalf, Sorcerer of Sorcerers
Companion • Wizard
Strength: 7
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 7
Leader.
At the start of each skirmish involving Gandalf, add a burden or 2 threats.
While you can spot 4 Free Peoples races, at the start of each turn, you may draw a card.
Each time a spell is played, you may add a burden to wound a minion.
"‘But ere dawn we must ride, and I have much business to attend to.'"

•Shadowfax, Brilliant White Steed
Possession • Mount
Strength +2
Resistance +1
To play, spot a Man. Bearer must be a Wizard.
At the start of each skirmish involving bearer, each minion skirmishing bearer must exert.
"Down leaped Shadowfax, like a deer that runs surefooted in the mountains."

•Gandalf's Staff, Beacon of Light
Artifact • Staff
Vitality +1
Bearer must be Gandalf.
Each time a companion wins a skirmish in which you played a spell, you may heal that companion.
Skirmish: Discard this artifact to make an opponent discard one of his or her conditions.
"The night was pierced by a brilliant light...spouting from the staff in his hand."

At First Light
Event • Skirmish
Spell.
Exert Gandalf to make a companion strength +2 (or +4 if that companion is a leader).
"There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in white, shining in the rising sun....Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men....Amid them strode a man tall and strong. His shield was red. As he came to the valley's brink, he set to his lips a great black horn and blew a ringing blast."

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AgentDrake

Ectheow looked down towards the fastness of Helm's Deep. He couldn't see the battle clearly; the distance was far too great even for the elves to see. But he was able to see a dark mass behind the Deeping Wall. The Uruk-Hai. They had somehow gotten through the wall, and now the dark mass swarmed around the Keep.

Ectheow gritted his teeth. Helm's Deep could not fall. But even with the aid they brought, there were far too few to defeat the army of Curunir.

Gandalf Greyhame had said that aid would come unsought. Something about angry forests.
The Woses come to the aid of Rohan?
Not exactly likely.

Ectheow rode Beow over to where Erkenbrand sat in his saddle, waiting.

"We must go. Why is Gandalf waiting?"

Erkenbrand shook his head. "He's waiting for something. I don't know what. Something about Theoden King and some Gondorian breaking the line. He won't tell me anything aside from that. You know how Gandalf is. ‘Never meddle in the affairs of wizards…'"

"This whole war is the affair of wizards," Ectheow growled. "Curunir's delusions of empire, and now Greyhame is ousting Curunir."

"So, young Ectheow," a gruff and curmudgeon voice came from behind. "You've learned cynicism in your exile."

Ectheow turned in his saddle to come face-to-face with Gandalf who had ridden up silently.

"I didn't mean…"

Gandalf chuckled, then his eyes locked on Ectheow's horse.

"Where did you get that animal?" Greyhame asked, suddenly sober with a glimmer of what looked almost like alarm in his eyes.

"Bill Ferny, a Breelander, sold him to me for more than he was worth."

Gandalf stared at Beow a moment longer, then turned to ride away.

"I would get rid of that animal if I were you. It has seen darker things than you, and it has not forgotten them."

Ectheow stared at Gandalf as he rode away.

What?

Erkenbrand shrugged. "He knows horses. You saw he was riding Shadowfax. Sent Grima into conniptions when Theoden let Greyhame take the horse."

A sudden deep blast echoed through the mountains. An enormous thundering horn.

"We ride. For Death and Glory."

Ectheow nodded, and rode to wait beside his companions.

Flash.
The doors thundered as they were thrown open. Elendil the Tall, Thorin Oakenshield, and Thranduil Elvenking burst out of the gates of Helm's Deep, riding down and crushing the Uruks on the causeway.

Flash.
Roots bent around the stone and metal of the White Hand, and tore it. Shrieks and cries of Orcs and Uruks echoed through the forest as the twisted creatures of Sauron and Curunir were torn limb from limb by reaching limbs.

Flash.
A black hooded Terror sat, hunched over on a horse as snow began to fall.
An oddly familiar horse.

Ectheow blinked.
That didn't even make sense....

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[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

Unlike the others, Curubethion and Durail had been mostly silent on the journey from the Fords. Both knew many songs from their long and wide travels, but chose to merely listen and enjoy the contributions of the others around while thinking ahead to the coming battle.

Curubethion, for all his travels, had been to Helm's Deep only once before. He had rarely been to any of the Westemnet, usually passing through the Eastemnet to the east or through the Enedwaith to the west during his infrequent trips to Gondor. He was more anxious than he had could remember for many, many years, as his memories of the valley were of a potential deathtrap. The Deeping-wall and the Hornburg were built strong, but should the defenses be breached, there was no escape.

And from what Curubethion had seen of the enemy, and the few forces he had heard Erkenbrand had left at the fortress, he feared that the enemy would find some way to break through by sheer numbers alone. His experience with Uruks was limited, but he knew that were an enemy not to be reckoned with or underestimated. They would fight until the last breath of their last warrior, and give no quarter or retreat to any in their path.

More than he had ever been even on the quest to destroy the Iceblade, Curubethion was afraid. Not so much for his own safety, but for what they might find when they arrived.

Durail, however, HAD been to Rohan many times, and Helm's Deep specifically. He had met Erkenbrand and Théodred once or twice, briefly, but knew a handful of other long-time residents a bit more closely. A couple he even kept regular contact with. The Rohirrim were hearty warriors and good people, one reason he had followed Tuilin to Rohan's defense in the first place. He was anxious as well, but unlike Curubethion, his fears were not so much for Helm's Deep's overall safety, as he believed it could withstand nearly any force, but for the safety of his individual friends there. The Hornburg had never fallen, but many men HAD in its defense during its long history, including Helm Hammerhand himself.

And so the two rangers rode quietly, reflecting and contemplating, all the way to the borders of Helm's Deep itself, where they made their last stop before the coming battle.

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During the night, the pair found themselves sitting next to each other by one of the campfires, and began to chat as they sharpened, packed, or otherwise readied their equipment. Tuilin joined them before long, followed shortly by Dirthon.

It turned out the unlikely group had much in common. All had been to Mirkwood, and long discussion there led to Ithilien, to the northern forests Curubethion protected and the others had been to as well, and from there back to Gondor, and from THERE to Rohan. Here, everyone seemed to have very differing experiences, and differing opinions on what to expect when they rode in the morning. Curubethion and Tuilin, who was used to fighting in the open woods, thought that Helm's Deep was not as secure as Durail and, somewhat surprisingly, Dirthon did.

But they all agreed on one thing: no matter what they found at dawn, they would fight long and hard and not stop until they reached whatever survivors remained.

Durail sharpened his sword and several small knives; Tuilin remembered with a smile that the black-clad warrior was very proficient at throwing them. Curubethion was testing the strength of the string on his bow, which surprised Tuilin a bit, since the ranger had never used one during their previous quest together.

"Since when does he use a bow?" the Elf whispered to Dirthon. "I thought he gave you his only bow up north."

Dirthon smiled. "He gave me the only bow he had at the time, yes. But don't think he can't use one, and use it well. He doesn't show it often, but I hear there are few with steadier aim than Curubethion. He simply prefers close combat, as he personally trusts his sword skills more."

"If he's as good as you say," Tuilin replied. "then his skill with a sword must be the thing of legends."

Dirthon smiled wider. "You'll see soon enough."

"And you'll see what kind of warrior Durail is," Tuilin said, bragging on his friend. "The man has a habit of springing out of darkness and then vanishing before anyone knows what happened, leaving enemies never knowing how they died."

"We shall see," Dirthon said with a nod.

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Durail's DCs:

Throwing Dagger
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +1
Bearer must be a Man. If bearer is Durail, he may bear this in addition to 1 other hand weapon.
Archery or Skirmish: Discard this possession to wound a minion.

Out of Darkness
Event • Skirmish
Exert a ranger companion to wound a minion or remove a threat.
"‘And you'll see what kind of warrior Durail is....'"

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Curubethion's DCs:

•Curubethion's Bow, Longbow of the North
Possession • Ranged Weapon
Bearer must be Curubethion.
He is an archer.
While the fellowship is at a forest or battleground, at the start of each archery phase, you may choose one: make the fellowship archery total +1; or make Curubethion not add to the fellowship archery total to wound a minion.
"‘He doesn't show it often, but I hear there are few with steadier aim than Curubethion.'"

•Healing Fragrance
Possession • Support Area
To play, spot a ranger.
When you play this possession, add a token here for each ranger you can spot (limit 4).
Regroup: Add (or if you can spot Aragorn or Curubethion) and either remove a token from here or discard this possession to heal a companion.
"‘Athelas. Curubethion brought some from the north.'"

(With the healing Curubethion has already done, we'll assume this currently has left 2 of the 4 tokens it started with.)

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~~ Site 2 ~~

Deeping-coomb
Battleground.
When the fellowship moves from this site, each player may heal one of their characters of each culture.

~~~~~~~~~~


The moment had come.

It had been heard that Saruman's armies were sent to ensure there was no dawn for men. That this battle would destroy the Rohirrim utterly, and from there, usher in the fall of Gondor and all of Middle-earth.

Yet dawn was here, and Helm's Deep—and Rohan—still stood.

The host came to the edge of a steep hill, Gandalf and his bright steed and Erkenbrand and his bright shield at the lead. Right behind them rode Ectheow, straining to look upon what awaited them.

Yes, he thought. Helm's Deep WAS still there.

But as the others arrayed themselves behind, Ectheow saw something that filled him with wonder and dread: a small group of mounted warriors charging from Helm's Gate into the black enemy tide. At their head, Ectheow could plainly see even from here, was King Théoden. He looked like a being of pure light as the rising run reflected off his armor and his golden shield, his blade like a flame as it cut a swath through the enemy.

But only a small group of riders was with him. It was plain that the Deeping Wall was destroyed during the night, and the Hornburg, for all its strength, must not be far behind now. This was their final charge. For death and glory, indeed.

They had arrived not a moment too soon.

"Théoden King stands alone," Gandalf said.

"Not alone," Erkenbrand replied boldly. "Rohirrim!"

At his call, the whole host moved to the edge. Erkenbrand lifted his horn to his mouth and blew a ringing blast.

As it died down, they could hear cries from their mounted kinsman in the valley below: "Erkenbrand! Erkenbrand!"

"Behold the White Rider!" an out-of-place man called from their ranks. "Gandalf is come again!"

Down from the hills leaped Erkenbrand, Lord of Westfold. Down leaped Shadowfax, like a deer that runs surefooted in the mountains. The White Rider was upon them, and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness.

Down behind them came the great host of Rohirrim and their companions from all corners of Middle-earth: rangers, Elves, and even a Dwarf. The sun shone behind them, blinding the enemy as the shouts of the new force deafened them also.

But the battle was not yet over. A great host of the enemy remained, and they roared their challenge as the foremost lowered their pikes and spears to answer the charge.

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~~ Challenge: Save Helm's Deep! ~~

The following conditions, minions, and possessions are all played during the Shadow phase. As much as it all is, believe it or not, I believe we added enough twilight for it all just by moving our 12 companions (when you include the leaders) and playing all the cards we created last site. So it's a lot, but I think it's actually realistic were this an actual game. 

1x:

•Crawled and Clambered
Condition • Support Area
To play, spot an minion.
Each time you play an Uruk-hai at a battleground site, if you cannot spot 4 tokens here, you may remove to add an token from here.
Skirmish: Remove an token from here to make an Uruk-hai strength +2.
"They streamed down from Helm's Gate until all above the Dike was empty of them, but below it they were packed like swarming flies."

1x:

•Ghastly Hand of Isengard
Condition • Support Area
To play, spot an minion.
While the fellowship is at a battleground site, the twilight cost of each possession is -1.
"...boiling and crawling with black shapes, some squat and broad, some tall and grim, with high helms and sable shields."

1x (bearing Broad-bladed Sword):

•Champion of Orthanc
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 12
Vitality: 3
Site: 5
Damage +1. Fierce.
To play, spot 2 minions.
Assignment: Exert Champion of Orthanc to assign it to a leader. The Free Peoples player may exert that leader or 3 non-leader companions to prevent this.
"‘There is no parley.'"

1x:

•Battle-Scarred Berserker
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 11
Vitality: 3
Site: 5
Damage +1. Hunter 2.
Battle-Scarred Berserker is strength +1 for each wound on each character in its skirmish.
While exhausted, Battle-Scarred Berserker is fierce.
Regroup: Exert Battle-Scarred Berserker and discard it to wound X companions, where X is the number of Free Peoples cultures you spot over 2.
Few of Saruman's berserkers survive to become veterans. Those that do are incredibly deadly warriors.

1x:

•Orthanc Commander
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 10
Vitality: 3
Site: 5
Damage +1.
Maneuver: Exert Orthanc Commander to make an Uruk-hai fierce or strength +2 until the regroup phase.
"‘Do you wish to see the greatness of our army? We are the fighting Uruk-hai.'"

4x (2 bearing Uruk-hai Gisarme, 1 bearing Uruk-hai Gisarme and Armor of Orthanc):

Orthanc Pikesman
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 7
Vitality: 2
Site: 5
This minion is strength +2 if bearing a pike.
At the start of each skirmish involving this minion, each mounted companion skirmishing bearer must exert. The Free Peoples player may discard a mount borne by that companion to prevent this.
"Then the Orcs screamed, waving spear and sword...."

2x (both bearing Broad-bladed Sword, 1 bearing Armor of Orthanc):

Orthanc Swordsman
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 6
Vitality: 2
Site: 5
Damage +1.
This minion is strength +1 (or +2 if at a battleground site) for each possession it bears.
"...some tall and grim, with high helms and sable shields."

3x:

Uruk-hai Gisarme
Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Pike. Bearer must be an Uruk-hai.
If bearer is skirmishing a mounted character, bearer is damage +1.
The pikes and long spears of the Uruks made up in lethality what they lacked in appearance.

3x:

Broad-bladed Sword (reprint)
Possession • Hand Weapon
Bearer must be an Uruk-hai.
Bearer may not take wounds (except during skirmish phases).
"They were armed with short broad-bladed swords, not with the curved scimitars usual with Orcs...."

2x:

Armor of Orthanc
Possession • Armor
The fellowship archery total is -1.
Response: If bearer is about to take a wound, discard this possession to prevent that wound.
"‘Their armor is thick, and their shields broad.'"


Party Status (including modifiers; excluding abilities and keywords):
Curubethion: 9/4/9 – healthy
Dirthon (AP): 8/3/6 – healthy
Duinihir (NB): 9/2/7 – wounded
Durail (ingold): 11/5/8 – healthy
Ectheow (Drake): 10/3/7 – healthy
Legoles (legoles): 9/3/8 – healthy
Rorin (Dáin): 8/4/7 – healthy
Ryle (mm): 7/6/11 – healthy
Silvarin (EL): 8/5/7 – healthy
Tuilin (SoP): 9/2/7 – wounded

Erkenbrand: 7/3/6 – healthy
Gandalf: 9/5/8 – healthy


Enemy Forces (including modifiers; excluding abilities and keywords):
Battle-scarred Berserker: 11/3 – healthy
Champion of Orthanc: 12/3 – healthy
Orthanc Commander: 10/1 – exhausted (after exerting twice for maneuver ability)
Orthanc Pikesman: 13/3 – healthy (pumped from 11 to 13 strength by Orthanc Commander's maneuver ability)
Orthanc Pikesman: 11/3 – healthy
Orthanc Pikesman: 11/3 – healthy
Orthanc Pikesman: 9/3 – healthy
Orthanc Swordsman: 12/2 – healthy
Orthanc Swordsman: 10/2 – healthy

EDIT: In response to EL's inquiry, we will assume the Orthanc Commander exerts once to make one of the armed Pikesmen strength +2, and again to make the Berserker fierce.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[DáinIronfoot]

Elf_Lvr

The charge down the slope was the most exhilarating thing Silvarin had ever experienced. The crash of the charging horses rang in his ears for hours after, and the light of the White Rider seemed to be a physical force, riding beside him, entering him, filling him with power.

With dexterity only an Elf could achieve, Silvarin took his legs from the stirrups and stood up on his horse. As the line of uruk pikes approached, he crouched down, prepared to spring. An uruk lowered his pike to spear the Elf's chest. The moment before it struck, though, Silvarin leaped, leaving the uruk to be trampled under the coming horde.

Silvarin soared over the mass of uruks, and a strange light played about his features. This is what it's like to be an eagle. This is flying! he thought, with pleasure. But really, it wasn't so, and he began to fall on the line of uruks. Another lowered it's pike to spear the flying elf...

A bright light shone. The uruk was blinded, it raised its arm to sheild its eyes, and some semblance of reason came back to it. It turned, searching for the elf that it had been about to kill a moment before...

It turned straight to Silvarin's smiling face. "Mithrandir!" He cried, and smote the uruk with his blade.

Silvarin vs. Orthanc Pikesman (w/ Gisarme)
Silvarin: 9 vs. Pikesman: 11
Silvarin plays: Olorin's Teachings
Silvarin: 12 vs. Pikesman: 11

Olorin's Teachings
Event * Skirmish
Spell.
Exert Silvarin to make him strength +3. If you can spot another Elf (or Gandalf), the shadow player may not use skirmish special abilities.
An odd light shone, and the uruk-hai was blinded...

Silvarin's game text heals him, but he can't use that text again during other skirmishes. Not like he has reason to.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

sickofpalantirs

tuilin will shoot the swordsman

Then I need to find my enemy...Tuilin will take the swordsman without the armor, otherwise they could just use the tokens to hit him

Swift and Sure
Event • Skirmish
Discard a possession borne by a minion skirmishing your Elf. If that Elf bears a ranged weapon, you may make it strength -1.
Every movement of an elvish warrior was calculated and quick. This left opponents frustrated, their strokes cutting through nothing but air, and an easy target for a swift attack.

so

Orthanc Swordsman: 5/1 – archery

but he doesn't die...

Tuilin rode down screaming at the top of his lungs. Bow held in one hand above his head. AS they rode forward light streamed behind them. Tuilin felt invigorated and alive. He brought the bow down and his other hand swiftly took an arrow from his quiver.

He swung off his horse into the ranks of uruks. Using a move that had taken many days, and not a few broken bones to train into him, as he swung off he drew an arrow. by the time he was on the ground it was ready. a swordsman was in front of him. he fired and it roared as the arrow sank into its chest. The armor kept it from being fatal, and as its sword swung towards him he sunk into his instincts and training. He was a blur. Never striking out but dodging, always dodging all the while replacing his bow and drawing his sword. The uruk bellowed, as if it would get him to be still. Then he moved. a single quick movement, so fast it was barely perceptible. The uruk stumbled back, a stump where its arm had been a moment before. its sword lay forgotten on the ground. He stepped forward and plunged the sword deep into its chest. the whole battle had taken only a matter of seconds

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NBarden

Duinihir rode along, wondering how he had managed to survive the battle. Defying all matters of logic, he had survived. He was trampled, beaten, and weary, under any normal conditions, someone should have died.

But he hadn't. He was alive. It must be that he still had a role to play.

The sun burst forth into a glorious daylight as the rode across the final hill towards Helm's Deep. Suddenly, a huge host burst in front of him.

With a cry, Gandalf and Erkenbrand charged down the hill, the rest of the army close behind.

Duinihir dismounted and followed behind at a distance. Suddenly, he saw a Uruk-Hai without a weapon straggling behind the Rohirrim lines. The answer was clear, as to why he was unarmed. He threw down a shaft of what seemed to be a pike and charged Duinihir head on.

Duinihir drew his knife Tehtyrch and stabbed the Uruk in the side, and kicked him off to the side senseless. He was out of the fray for now, but not quite dead.

With that, Duinihir turned and singled out an Uruk-Hai, who was whirling his swords around with considerable skill. With reckless abandonment, he drew his sword, let out a wild scream, and flung himself upon the Uruk, who was immediately thrown on the defensive, guarding blow after blow of the crazed, wild-eyed ranger. Suddenly, Duinihir let out a tremendous blow that cleft the Uruk from the middle of his head clear to his waist. The body of the dead Uruk split apart and fell two different directions.

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

Start of the Maneuver phase, I use Tehtyrch to assign the strength 9 Pikeman to Duinihir.

Duinihir beats the minion 10-9 (with hunter bonus). Orthanc Pikeman is wounded.

Start of the assignment phase, Duinihir is defender -1 to make the pikeman unable to skirmish again.

Okay, with that taken care of...

Reckless Abandonment
Event • Skirmish
Make a ranger strength +1 and damage +1 (and discard a Shadow condition if he is skirmishing a roaming minion).
"...he drew his sword, let out a wild scream, and flung himself upon the Uruk, who was immediately thrown on the defensive, guarding blow after blow of the crazed, wild-eyed ranger."

Duinihir takes the Orthanc Swordsman, plays Reckless Abandonment and gets rid of the Crawled and Clambered.

Duinihir is 11 on 10, the uruk has no pumping available.

Duinihir outright kills his guy.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anonymous Prodigy

Dirthon stooped down to pick the athelas, and the Orc sprang from the bushes. The foul creature brought his blade down of Dirthon's arm, but he drew his sword and stabbed the Orc through the throat…

"Ready to go, laddie?" Dirthon turned to see Rorin standing behind him, his hand gripping the handle of his axe.

"Indeed, Rorin," replied Dirthon. "Indeed."

Suddenly a bright light broke over the ridge behind them, and a vast company of Men appeared on the crest of the hill. A trumpet was sounded, its shrill blast cutting through the valley like a scythe through wheat. The Men of Rohan began to shout: "Erkenbrand! Erkenbrand!" They gave a mighty shout, but then Silvarin's clear voice rang over the din: "Mithrandir! Gandalf has come! The White Rider!"

Dirthon swung himself onto a horse and drew his sword. Together, the two forces charged into the Deep. At the same moment, Théoden, Aragorn, and Legolas, and a company of Rohirrim charged from the causeway of the castle. The Uruks were caught between hammer and anvil.

Dirthon reached the foot of the hill. The wave of Rohirrim crashed through the Uruk front line, but a pike cut Dirthon's horse from under him, and the steed crashed to the ground. Dirthon tumbled off, and a berserker met him face to face.

The brute picked up a spear and growled menacingly. Dirthon stepped back, but nearly fell as he lost his footing in a patch of soft earth. The berserker saw its chance and charged, but Dirthon stepped to the side and plunged his sword into the beast as it ran past.

The Uruk fell to the earth with a thud, but the noise was drowned out by the mighty cheer of the Rohirrim. "Victory! We have victory!" Dirthon raised his blood-stained sword and shouted with the rest. "Victory!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dirthon's Skirmish:

•Battle-Scarred Berserker
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 11
Vitality: 3
Site: 5
Damage +1. Hunter 2.
Battle-Scarred Berserker is strength +1 for each wound on each character in its skirmish.
While exhausted, Battle-Scarred Berserker is fierce.
Regroup: Exert Battle-Scarred Berserker and discard it to wound X companions, where X is the number of Free Peoples cultures you spot over 2.
"Few of Saruman's berserkers survive to become veterans. Those that do are incredibly deadly warriors."

Dirthon, Son of Dirthor w/ Sword of Ithilien, Dirthon's Longbow, Bow of Gondor, and Dirthor, Ranger of Ithilien.


•Dirthon, Son of Dirthor
Companion • Man
Strength: 10
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 7
Archer. Hunter 2. Ranger.
Archery: Exert Dirthon and spot another Man to exert a minion (or wound that minion if it is roaming).
Response: If a ranger is about to take a wound that would kill him or her, you may exert another ranger to prevent that and take a card from your discard pile into hand.
Each time Dirthon wins a skirmish, you may make another Man gain hunter 1 until the regroup phase. While you can spot another ranger, Dirthon is damage +1.

Our hunter bonuses cancel each out, so he is an 11-strength versus my 10. I play my event…

Blade-master of Arnor
Event • Skirmish
Make a companion bearing a hand weapon strength +2 (and damage +1 if that companion is a ranger).
"…Dirthon stepped to the side and plunged his sword into the beast…."

…which gives me a +2 strength bonus as well as damage +1. I win the skirmish 12-11, and am damage +2 due to my text (I spot Duinihir) and my event. The Berserker is killed. I am also an archer, but I assume that is canceled by one of the two copies of Armor of Orthanc. I will also make Durail gain hunter 1 until the regroup phase with my text.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

legoles3333

Legoles Felt a rush of excitement as he pounded down the cliffs with the rest of the rohirrim. as they neared the bottom, Legoles shot two arrows, killing one and wounding another, he followed up his second arrow and with two quick strikes sent the Uruk tumbling to the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ok Archery I exert to wound Orthanc Commander, so he's down.
my other archery goes to the lesser Orthanc Pikesman, so he is now 11-2

so Legoles 9-2
Pikesman 11-2
I play Support of the Elves
Legoles 13-2
Pikesman 11-2
Pikesman takes two wounds and dies

Support of the Elves
Event - Skirmish
Make an Elf with resistance 5 or more strength +2 for each Elf you can spot.

since Legoles is damage +1 from his sword

so the Lesser Othanc Pikesman and the Orthanc Commander are down

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dáin Ironfoot

Time for...a twist!

DUN DUN DUUUUUN!

Surprise, surprise...the Champion chooses to use its assignment ability assign itself to...Gandalf. Gandalf exerts to prevent this, so the Champion exerts again to assign itself to...Erkenbrand. Shall we let him skirmish, or shall Erkenbrand exert to cancel (and thus add a burden)? I'll leave it up to you all to decide: let me know in the discussion thread. First three votes will determine his fate, then I will write a small section detailing the results.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just to keep everyone up to speed, looks like this is what's left:

- Battle-scarred Berserker: 11/0 – dead (killed outright by Dirthon)
- Orthanc Commander: 10/0 – dead (exerted twice for maneuver ability, killed by Legoles' archery ability)
- Orthanc Swordsman: 10/0 – dead (wounded by Tuilin, killed by Duinihir)
- Orthanc Pikesman: 11/0 – dead (killed by Legoles' archery and skirmish)
- Orthanc Swordsman: 10/1 – wounded (by Tuilin)
- Orthanc Pikesman: 9/2 – wounded, unable to be assigned again (due to Duinihir)
- Orthanc Pikesman: 11/2 – wounded (by Silvarin)
- Champion of Orthanc: 12/1 – exhausted (after exerting twice for assignment ability)
- Orthanc Pikesman: 13/3 – healthy (pumped from 11 to 13 strength by Orthanc Commander's maneuver ability)

[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

"Ready to go, laddie?" Rorin asked, gripping the handle of his battle axe tightly.

"Indeed, Rorin," Dirthon replied from beside him. "Indeed."

Rorin smiled devilishly and looked to his other side. "And you?"

"As ready as I ever will be," Ryle said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice.

"This will be easy, lad," Rorin reassured him...and himself. "They're just glorified Orcs, and we have Tharkûn himself on our side."

"And horses," Ryle said with a lopsided grin.

"Er...yes, and these blasted horses," Rorin replied glumly, readjusting himself in his saddle. "What could be better?" He coughed.

The man with the red shield blew his horn, and the friends turned deadly serious, focused on the battle ahead. Answering the happy cries of their countrymen below in the valley, and the whole Rohirrim host drew their blades and shouted as they leaped forward, racing down the slope.

Rorin bounced along with them, just trying to stay on his horse, holding tight to the reigns with one hands and hoisting his axe with the other. The enemy force looked imposing, but broke like a wall of sand as the wave of horses and men drove into their ranks.

Rorin spied a target: an Uruk with a long pike. While many of his comrades were either already engaged in battle or already beginning to flee, this warrior lifted his weapon high in the air and roared a challenge. For the moment, that seemed to be enough as the Rohirrim were focusing on seemingly easier targets.

That suited Rorin just fine. "You'll do," he said, spurring his horse forward.

The pikesman saw him coming, and lowered the shaft of his weapon to meet the charge. But Rorin, much as he disliked horses, had no intention of getting his steed killed. At the last moment, he twisted the reins hard to the side, turning the horse away and simultaneously leaping from its back, axe held over his head.

"Baruk Sigin-tarag!" he shouted, bringing the axe down. "Sigin-tarag ai-mênu!"

The Uruk was struck right on his helmeted skull, and the sheer force of the blow shattered steel and bone. The pikesman dropped without another sound.

Rorin slammed hard to the earth, but quickly recovered and leaped to his feet, searching for another foe. Nearby, he saw the wounded Tuilin battling with a well-armed Uruk, yet ironically, also now a ONE-armed Uruk. The Elf had skill with the blade as well as the bow, it appeared.

Rorin charged over to assist, just as Tuilin got in a good hit on the Uruk's chest. The Dwarf followed with a blow from his axe on the abomination's back, and the combined attacks were too much. The Uruk made a final gargling sound and fell.

Rorin nodded to Tuilin, who gave an appreciative head tilt himself. They turned to survey what was left of the chaos around them. Many Uruks, overcome with terror, had begun to break ranks and flee.

The battle seemed to be won.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Baruk Sigin-tarag!
Event • Skirmish
Make a Dwarf strength +2 (or strength +3 and damage +1 if he has resistance 4 or more). If he wins this skirmish, you may add a threat to make a Shadow player wound a minion.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SUMMARY:

- Rorin, Dwarven Defender (11/4/8 damage +2) skirmishes Orthanc Pikesman (13/3).
- Rorin plays Baruk Sigin-tarag!; now 14/4/8 damage +3.
- Orthanc Pikesman (13/3) is killed.
- Baruk Sigin-tarag! adds a threat to wound (and kill) Orthanc Swordsman (6/1 thanks to Tuilin's event)

- Rorin (11/4/8 damage +2) is still healthy
- Orthanc Pikesman (13/0) and Orthanc Swordsman (6/0) are dead.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So once again, currently the remaining forces are:

- Orthanc Pikesman: 9/2 – wounded, unable to be assigned again (due to Duinihir)
- Orthanc Pikesman: 11/2 – wounded (by Silvarin)
- Champion of Orthanc: 12/1 – exhausted (after exerting twice for assignment ability; assigned to Erkenbrand, but will be killed off somehow by Ectheow)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AgentDrake

..."Not alone," Erkenbrand replied boldly. "Rohirrim!"

At his call, the whole host moved to the edge. Erkenbrand lifted his horn to his mouth and blew a ringing blast.

As it died down, they could hear cries from their mounted kinsman in the valley below: "Erkenbrand! Erkenbrand!"

"Behold the White Rider!" an out-of-place man called from their ranks. "Gandalf is come again!"

Thunder rolled down, washing over the Uruk army. Beow frothed madly as he leapt over the front line of Uruk pikes, trampling the minions of Curunir beneath.

As they rode through the Uruk mass, Ectheow picked out two tall Uruks raging towards Erkenbrand. The second of the two saw him coming and levelled his pike at the approaching rider as the other swung it's blade towards Erkenbrand.

A sweep of Wulfsvín sent the pikeman to the ground.

Beow made short wok of the other, trampling and tearing.

Ectheow rode on as the Rohirrim army smashed through the Uruks.

The Uruks were turning to flee into the forest.

Forest? There was no forest at Helm's Deep....

Flash.
The Isen poured down and drowned orc and uruk.
The Tree-Folk had gone to war.

The Tree-Folk? The forest was moving, and the cries of death echoed out. The Uruks were being slaughtered.

A pair half-forgotten names dredged up in Ectheow's memory, an Elven lay he head learned in the North: Orodrim and Huron.
Did legends walk Middle-Earth again?

Flash.
A dagger of ice flashed down from the sky, nearly driving through the halfling as the madman swung the Iceblade.

The vivid memory faded, but left an impression.
Legends did, indeed, walk Middle-Earth again.

A cry reached out over the chaos: Victory.

Already?

Catching sight of a dwarf, Ectheow steered Beow towards him, calling Rorin's name. Ectheow gave a start as he caught sight of the dwarf's face. Not Rorin?

Then he saw a face he knew, and shouted in a loud voice which was taken up by the company:

"Hail, Theoden King!"

=============

Ectheow assigns to Pikeman
Pikeman is exerted by Beow
Ectheow is 10 the the Pikeman's 9 (11-2 [-1for each wound])

Ectheow plays:

Crushing Charge
Event - Skirmish
Make a companion strength +2. If that companion is mounted, you may wound a minion.
Hooves thundered; enemies fell.

Wounds and kills Champion assigned to Erkenbrand
Kills Pikeman

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ingold55

Durail had fought and killed several uruks in the frey, he had mainly stood by his friend Tuilin and his new companions, remaining in the shadows and attacking the unsuspecting enemies. The Uruks were unusually strong for an orc type foe, but Durail welcomed them as a new challenge.

The battle was coming to its close now, and the uruks were fleeing in terror and defeat. There were a few left with strength enough to stand, so Durail decided to finish one off.
The free peoples wouldn't need an enemy to come back refreshed... It was time to finish the kill.

=====================================================

Finish the Kill
Event - Regroup
While you can spot more companions than minions, you may wound a minion once (or twice if you can spot a companion with more strength than the minion).

So Durail has about 13 strength, so I spot him and since there are more companions than minions, I choose to wound that remaining uruk pikesman.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dáin Ironfoot

Even as shouts of victory began to rise up, a few particularly stubborn Uruks were still fighting on, and even as their companions shouted for joy around them, a handful of men were still fighting to ensure that victory.

One of them was Ryle, who saw two Uruks stumble to their feet, obviously believed dead by those who had fought them before. With a weary but hate-filled roar, they charged ahead for one final strike at the oddly-dressed man before them. Ryle raised his blade to meet them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To The End
Event • Response
If all skirmishes and fierce skirmishes have been resolved and you cannot spot an Uruk-hai, suspend the current phase to play any number of Uruk-hai from your discard pile; each comes into play exhausted. Each of those minions may participate in one additional assignment and skirmish phase. When they end, resume the suspended phase.
Uruks will continue to battle their foes to their very last breath.

Orthanc Pikesman
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 7
Vitality: 2
Site: 5
This minion is strength +2 if bearing a pike.
At the start of each skirmish involving this minion, each mounted companion skirmishing bearer must exert. The Free Peoples player may discard a mount borne by that companion to prevent this.
"Then the Orcs screamed, waving spear and sword...."

Orthanc Swordsman
Minion • Uruk-hai
Strength: 6
Vitality: 2
Site: 5
Damage +1.
This minion is strength +1 (or +2 if at a battleground site) for each possession it bears.
"...some tall and grim, with high helms and sable shields."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Party Status (including modifiers; excluding abilities and keywords):
Curubethion: 9/4/9 – healthy
Dirthon (AP): 8/3/6 – healthy
Duinihir (NB): 9/2/7 – wounded
Durail (ingold): 11/5/8 – healthy
Ectheow (Drake): 10/3/7 – healthy
Legoles (legoles): 9/3/8 – healthy
Rorin (Dáin): 8/4/7 – healthy
Ryle (mm): 7/6/11 – healthy
Silvarin (EL): 8/4/7 – wounded
Tuilin (SoP): 9/2/7 – wounded

Erkenbrand: 7/3/6 – healthy
Gandalf: 9/4/8 – wounded


Enemy Forces
Orthanc Pikesman: 7/1 – exhausted
Orthanc Swordsman: 6/1 – exhausted

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macheteman

Ryle fought skillfully in the footsteps of his forefathers.

Blood of Bard
Event • Skirmish
Exert a ranger to make that ranger strength +1 for each other ranger you can spot.
If that ranger wins the skirmish you may spot 6 rangers to wound a minion.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Ryle takes one of them on, whups the tar out of it, and wounds the other.

[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

With victory secured, Curubethion followed Gandalf, Théoden, Erkenbrand and others to the top of a nearby hill.

The battle had gone remarkably well. Curubethion knew when to admit he was wrong, and had already made sure to seek out Ectheow and remark how wrong he had been about the fortitude of Helm's Deep and its defenders. Many had fallen during the night, including, apparently, a late-arriving group of Elves. But Helm's Deep still stood...what was left of it, at least.

But the view at the top of the hill reminded the ranger of the problems still ahead. This had been a mighty and, to him, unexpectedly convincing victory. But ahead was a view of a far-off land, and a stark reminder of how small a part this battle played in the events of Middle-earth.

In the distance, the sky was a deep, menacing red. Storm clouds swirled and flashed above the mountains.

Mordor.

Curubethion and his companions had faced fallen wizards, dark Elves, and otherworldly creatures in their pasts, and now had laid waste to perhaps the largest and most fearsome army assembled since the days of the Last Alliance. But the view was a stunning reminder of the foe that had survived all those battles, and was now on the verge of releasing a calamity as great as the hosts of the Second Age had ever faced.

Sauron was once again strong, and his armies would soon rush from the foothills of Mordor and roll over Middle-earth like a flood.

Gandalf voiced the ranger's thoughts. "Sauron's wrath will be terrible...his retribution swift."

Curubethion nodded grimly. He had faced so many terrible things, but the worst was yet to come. He had confidence in himself and in his companions, he thought with a glance back at them. Men and Elves and Dwarves...brave and capable warriors all. He was glad once again that they had been the ones to arrive in Bree months and months ago. He couldn't imagine any party better equipped to face the coming trials.

"The battle of Helm's Deep is over," Gandalf continued. "The battle for Middle-Earth is about to begin."

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The Rohirrim spent much of the following day burying their dead. Two great mounds were raised in the field before the fortress, and the men (with the assistance of surrendered Dunlendings) solemnly and gently laid each and every fallen warrior beneath them.

Ectheow was assisting, and grieving with the rest. There were some familiar faces among the dead. One of them caused him to actually gasp.

"Is this...?" he started.

"Yes, the Captain of the King's Guard," another solider finished for him. "He fell defending the great gate." The man pointed to the mostly-ruined main gate of the Hornburg.

Háma.

Ectheow could scarcely believe it. He had spent years hating this man for seemingly betraying his king and country to that cursed, sniveling Gríma and his master. Now here he was, fallen in defense of Rohan at perhaps the most crucial spot on the battlefield.

Ectheow hardly knew what to think, but he couldn't stop the tears from forming as he looked down on Háma and then around at the other fallen Rohirrim. He wiped his eyes before going back to the task at hand.

"Cursed Háma," he whispered, but for the first time in many, many months, not with disdain.

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Inside the battered walls, Tuilin and Silvarin were unexpectedly grieving as well.

To the everlasting surprise of the two Mirkwood Elves and even the defenders of the Hornburg, a large company of Elves had arrived just before the battle, sent by no less than Elrond of Rivendell and Galadriel of Lórien. They had been a major factor in the battle, holding the Deeping Wall as long as possible against the Uruk onslaught. But they had paid a very steep price.

Only a handful were still alive, and most of them were badly wounded and unlikely to ever see their woodland homes again. The rest had fallen either during the mysterious explosion that had destroyed the wall, or in the ensuing battle as the Uruks rushed into the fortress. Strangely, it seems a man had led them: a ranger from the north.

Well, Silvarin had thought with a slight smile, perhaps it wasn't ALL that strange to follow a northern ranger around in battle.

But no one was smiling now. The pair had found an old friend among the dying. A young Rohirrim woman was attending to one of the fallen Elves, and looked up curiously as they approached. But her face turned to sadness as she saw that they knew this warrior. Her mouth tightened, and as Silvarin looked at her expectantly, she only shook her head sadly and stood, walking off to give them a private moment.

"Feleandier!" Tuilin exclaimed, squatting down beside the fallen archer. The two had fought many battles before, some in defense of Thranduil's realm in Mirkwood itself. Feleandier was nearly as lethal and accurate an archer as Tuilin, but an even more capable close quarters fighter. The battle must have gone truly ill for him to be in this state now.

Feleandier took a labored breath and opened his eyes, blinking slowly as if losing his vision. "Tu-Tuilin? Is that you?"

"Yes!" the other replied as Silvarin knelt behind him.

"What are...why are you here?" Feleandier strained to say, but now with a smile.

Tuilin was overcome with emotion and couldn't form any words. "We came with a friend, a man of Rohan," Silvarin explained on his behalf. "He begged us to help his people."

"As did the lady Arwen," Feleandier said. "She compelled...compelled lord Elrond to send us here. To honor..." he took another pained breath, "...old alliances." He smiled weakly. He paused for several seconds, closing his eyes once more. At first, Tuilin and Silvarin thought he may have fallen into a fitful sleep, but suddenly his eyes flew back open. "Tuilin, the realm is in danger!"

"No, friend," Tuilin replied, trying to calm him. "Rohan has been sav—"

"No, not Rohan," Feleandier said urgently. "Our home...Mirkwood."

"What?" Tuilin asked, alarmed now. "What kind of danger? What do you mean?"

"Dol Guldur grows dark again," Feleandier explained, his eyes growing wide. "The Orcs...and there are other, fouler things. They have begun..." he winced in pain for a moment, "...begun to scout along our borders. The king believes they prepare to attack."

"Rest easy, friend," Silvarin said soothingly. "We have driven far worse from Mirkwood before. When you are stronger, we will march back together and do so again."

Feleandier looked up at him with a sad smile. "It is good to see you both once more. I have already played my part. I...I will see you again...on distant shores...."

And then, before his companions had a chance to respond, he was gone.

"Namárië, brave Feleandier," Silvarin said quietly. "Namárië."

Tuilin bowed his head in silence.

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Without any particular connections to anyone here, Ryle was wandering the Hornburg, marveling at how the fortress was carved right into the mountain. It was something that even Rorin would surely find astounding.

Speaking of whom, the Ortan spied his Dwarven friend chatting with another Dwarf.... "Another Dwarf? Here?" Ryle murmured, amazed. He was sure he'd be hearing all about that later. The two seemed to know each other, so Ryle left them to their conversation.

Similarly, he saw Legoles talking with another Elf, one partially covered with Rohirrim armor. Here the connection was clear, as the two looked very much alike. "Legolas," Ryle surmised, again leaving them to catch up.

As he wandered, sometimes stopping to check on an injured soldier if they were not being tended to (most were) or assisting with various reconstruction tasks, he saw his other companions as well. He came across Durail, who asked if he knew where Tuilin was; Ryle had to confess he didn't, and the ranger went on his way. Ryle soon found Dirthon and Duinihir tending to the wounded, and Duinihir was still being tended to a bit himself, despite his protests. Ryle paused to help for a short time, then, leaving the Rohirrim in very capable hands, moved on.

He next spied Curubethion in another part of the fortress ALSO tending to the wounded—there were so many!—and beside him was another ranger that Ryle was not familiar with. His hair was shaggy, and he could see the man's clothes were very worn even though partially obscured by a borrowed chain-mail shirt. The ranger looked up at Ryle for a moment, and the younger man was taken aback. The ranger's face was nearly as worn as his clothing, yet there was something almost...regal about him. His keen grey eyes shone bright, and he gave Ryle a small, courteous nod before leaning back down to tend to one of the injured Rohirrim. Ryle determined that he must ask Curubethion later who that was, as the two seemed as though they also knew each other.

Eventually, he made his way back to Rorin, who by now had parted from the other Dwarf and was sitting down for a quick smoke. Ryle plopped down beside him.

"So," he wondered aloud, "now what?"

Rorin gave him an approving smile. "What...not had enough battle, young Master Ryle?"

Ryle smiled at his friend, then turned serious. "You heard what Curubethion said when he came back with Mithrandir and the Rohirrim king. The Dark Lord himself is awakened and enraged, and all of Mordor with him."

Rorin puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. He certainly feared Sauron, which was why that dark and mysterious messenger to Erebor had bothered him so. But if it came down to standing against even Sauron himself.... "He's nothing to worry about, lad," he finally said bravely. "I know my history. He has not succeeded before, and he won't now."

"Your words encourage me, my friend," Ryle said, "but words are not enough." He leaned close and lowered his voice. "If even a small portion of his forces can cause all this devastation and death," he swept his arm around to the battered fortress to emphasize his point, "then what can the full force of his power do? What will it take to stem THAT tide?"

"If anything, lad," Rorin answered, "I think this battle is a GOOD sign, not a poor one. Only a few hundred stood here against terrible odds, and were still here fighting valiantly when we arrived. They were demoralized by the loss at the Fords, yet they stood strong and firm and didn't give up. They won." He took a long pull on his pipe and exhaled it slowly. "My father always said that nothing comes free. Even finding the brightest and strongest mithril in the mines would take long, hard work. It might even mean injury or death trying to reach it. But in the end, it pays off. In the end, we can look back and say it was worth it. How much more important is defeating the Dark Lord than finding some mithril?"

Ryle nodded.

"No one said this would be easy," Rorin continued. "It won't be. I may not make it, or you might not, or NONE of us may live to see victory." He paused, letting that sink in. "But it's worth fighting for. It MUST be fought for, or everything will be gone. Nothing else matters."

"I know," Ryle said with a deep sigh.

"Ryle," the Dwarf said quietly. "You're ready. You're not that scared little lad I found all those years ago. You're not just a man of royal blood that sits on his laurels and lets good things come to him. You're a fine warrior." Ryle smiled. "There is no Dwarf, Man, bloody Elf or anyone else I would want by my side more than you. Don't defeat yourself already. THAT is how He wins...through fear. Through convincing others not to try at all. If we stand now like others have before, he won't stand a chance. And besides," he said with another puff on his pipe, "Gimli tells me that a couple of Hobbits have a special present for ol' Sauron that might mean we don't have to fight at all."

"He...what? Who is this ‘Gimli', anyway?" Ryle asked.

Rorin smiled. "Sit back, lad, and I'll tell you...."

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As evening came, King Théoden, Gandalf, the mysterious ranger, Legoles' brother, Gimli the Dwarf, and many others mounted up to ride to some place called ‘Isengard'. Apparently that was where the fallen wizard who had sent these Uruks resided, and apparently that was ALSO where the mysterious living forest in the valley had come from.

The heroes from distant lands were staying here, however. This evening they would rest, then make THEIR way to Edoras, where the king and his company would come back to meet them in a day or two.

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~~ Site 3 ~~

Hall of the King
Sanctuary. Dwelling.
The twilight cost of each non-event card played here is -1.

~~~~~~~~~~


Two days later....

The heroes were gathered with their appreciative new Rohirrim allies, as well as the returned, blended party that had accompanied Gandalf to Isengard. They now included a pair of young Hobbits that reminded many of the heroes from the Iceblade quest of Adalard.

The tale of Saruman's fall from grace was relayed to them, and his ensuing imprisonment in the tower of Orthanc. Ectheow and several others had taken particular joy in the image of the wizard and Gríma holed up together, surrounded by living trees on all sides. Served them both right.

After many long days of war and death, it was time to celebrate their victory and rest before the battles they all knew lay ahead.

But first....

The lady Éowyn bowed low as she handed her king a golden cup. The murmurs of the crowd died down as he raised it into the air.

"Tonight," Théoden said proudly, but solemnly, "we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" everyone replied, taking a sip of their own drinks.

After another moment of reflection, the crowd dispersed, and the celebration began.

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Okay, here I'm taking a couple liberties with the storyline, combining elements of the novels (Saruman not dying at Isengard but rather being imprisoned, the burial of the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep) with some from the films (Elves at Helm's Deep, the view of Mordor, the celebration at Edoras). But I think they actually work together pretty well. Besides, I did it for a couple specific reasons:

- I wanted (and really NEEDED) Elves at Helm's Deep so that the message of Feleandier (an Elf from the RPG "Mirkwood: The Shadow Returns", the history of which will play a part later in THIS story) would help guide the party to our next major stop: Mirkwood. We'll start there at Site 4, I think. More details soon.

- I want Saruman and Gríma alive...for now. You may find out why later.

- The victory celebration is kind of the whole point of this site. I don't intend on there being any battles here...this is time for your characters to interact for a while. Tell stories, observe your LOTR favorites doing what they did in the film (Hobbits dancing, Gandalf and Aragorn chatting, Gimli and Legolas' drinking game, etc.), chat with other characters around you...whatever you'd like. Just have fun with it, and enjoy the break before the battles begin again. 

You can also create one DC of your choice here. Possession/artifact, event, condition, follower (might be a good time for Aeglirnen to show up, mm?)...whatever you want. (Except a character, for rather obvious reasons.) Just keep it balanced...a cost of or less is probably a good rule of thumb.

Take your time, because I don't intend on making us all leave any time real soon. Feel free to post multiple times, if you want, and when it seems people are tiring of this, we'll move on.

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[DáinIronfoot]

AgentDrake

A black hooded Terror sat, hunched over on a horse.
A very familiar horse.

The Terror turned, and he could see its face.

Hama.


The doors thundered as they were thrown open. Elendil the Tall, Thorin Oakenshield, and Thranduil Elvenking burst out of the gates of Helm's Deep, riding down and crushing the Uruks on the causeway. As they passed, Theoden King turned to face Ectheow.
It was not the king.

Hama. Again...


Ectheow stared down into his mug as the sound of the celebration increased. Everything had begun to run together as he had helped to bury the dead. And now, for the past two and a half days, everywhere he looked, everything he thought, he saw the same dead face, staring back at him.

He had hated Hama. Not hating him with anything of the same intensity as that pair of scum, Curunir and Grima; he had hated Hama as a fool, blindly following the enemy.

At least Hama had redeemed himself. Had stayed to fight.

The two Halflings they had returned from Isengard with Theoden King's party had begun dancing and singing some northern drinking song.

Hama was here, fighting in his own way. Weak-willed, maybe. But he didn't run away. You did. You went north and spent your time downing ale in the Prancing Pony and the Green Dragon, singing these same idiot songs. Some hero you are.

Theoden King's words echoed through his mind, tearing at him: Hail the victorious dead.

"Here's to you, Hama, you #$&*@! fool. At least you didn't run away." Ectheow muttered, lifting his mug and downing the contents.

The song died down with a chorus of laughter, and Ectheow felt a sudden jolt on the bench. Turning, he saw that one of the Halflings had planted himself right beside him.

"Well. You look depressed," the Halfling observed in an overly cheerful tone. "I'm Peregrin. But everyone calls me Pippin. Or Pip. Or sometimes Fool. That's what Gandalf mostly calls me."

"You're drunk," Ectheow muttered.

"Sure am!" Pippin exclaimed, jumping up onto the table and leaping away.

Well. That was weird.

"Fool of a Took," Greyhame muttered, passing by, confirming the halfing's ramblings.

The Halfling could celebrate. At least he had done something. Had roused the forest. Brought the wrath of the Tree-folk upon Isengard. A Halfling had helped to wipe away the power of Isengard, while a warrior of Rohan had shown up late for a battle, had ignored the war around him, looting old barrows and picking at orcs. And even the Iceblade nightmare had started as an attempt at an entertaining weekend.

Flash.
Snow whirled around them, ice encasing the branches of trees. The ice-wargs were following after.
Adelard had managed to clamber into a tree, and was hurling pots and pans at the wargs.
Cerubethion was holding the twisted creatures off with his sword.

Ectheow was scrabbling in the snow for an old gold amulet which had no practical value except that it was old and pretty.


"Minstrel," the voice said, breaking into his memory.
Ectheow looked up, startled.

"My... my Lord."

Theoden King nodded and smiled. "Welcome home."

Ectheow blinked and looked around the hall. "Home. Forgive me, my Lord, but I deserted this place. I don't belong here anymore…"

Theoden placed his hand on Ectheow's shoulder.

"As I recall, you didn't leave. I exiled you. Well, you're pardoned. Forgiven. Saruman's hold over me was strong. That passed, this despair of yours may too."

Ectheow nodded, his gloom lifted slightly, though much of it still lingered.

Turning to face the hall, the King raised his voice. "Come! I will have my minstrel sing for me!"

Ectheow stood and bowed deeply. "What would you hear, my King?"

Theoden smiled, and glanced around the room as voices shouted out suggestions. He seemed to fix on one person, and turned back to Ectheow.
"Let's have The Saga of Elendil."

Ectheow blinked, then glanced towards where Theoden King's gaze had been, expecting to see Cerubethion or Duinhir, or perhaps the other Ranger which had seemed himself to be Elendil the Tall in that vision.

Instead, he saw the King's sister-daughter, Eowyn, staring intently back.

I don't want to know…. he thought, as he picked his harp off the bench and began to sing in a loud voice.

As the story progressed, the celebration continued; shouts rose from all through the Golden Hall, the fires roared, and in the words of the Halflings, "it snowed food and rained drink." And for a brief while, everything was just as it had once been.

After the Saga was finished, Ectheow turned to other tales which the Rohirrim had never heard. The Song of Durin, which Rorin had taught him, though not in the Dwarven tongue. He had worked at the dwarf long enough just to get him to teach it in the common tongue.

Next came the Lay of Luthien, which caused a surprised stir from the rangers, and the tall man, Aragorn, actually seemed to try to slip back through the crowd.

The Master Hygleac's words returned to his memory.

It is always the same; in the distant past long forgotten, in remembered tales, and in these days.

He smiled. Let the rangers squirm. He had seen more in his visions than just a few battles....

==========

And Ectheow finally gets his harp to plink with....

*Eoleid, Bone Harp
Artifact – Harp
Vitality +1
Bearer must be a companion.
While bearer is Ectheow, each time you play a tale, you may exert him to remove a burden.
"‘That, I guess, is the language of the Rohirrim,' said Legolas, ‘for it is like to this land itself; rich and rolling in parts, and else hard and stern as the mountains.'"

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sickofpalantirs

Tuilin toasted the dead with everyone else.

his mind was still on feleandir and all the other elves that had died. He had helped with the wounded drowning his sorrow with hard labor and sleep deprivation. When he had finally gone to sleep his dreams had been uneasy, he had slept fitfully the entire night. Gandalfs speech had not helped his hopefulness, and what Feleandir had said about mirkwood... They had to go there, go there and fight. He wondered if they would ever stop fighting. He had been fighting for centuries now, and still there were always new foes.

He sipped his drink thoughtfully, and started humming, an old elvish mourning song, but also one of hope. The Rohirrim sitting across from him listened carefully. "What are the words?" one of them ventured. Tuilin looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "They are not meant for mortal ears" He got up and walked away.

It seemed like his friends always died. Countless elves he had grown up with had died or disappeared, most of his family had been killed in one raid. Silvan had been killed by a nazgul, Lyon by a black sorceror. At least Durail is still alive but he had made friends with some of those in this company, or at least companions. He watched Legolas and the dwarf, gimli engaging in a drinking contest. That cheered his spirits some, and the beer he had drunk helped as well. This was a time to remember, but also won to celebrate. They had won.

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Elf_Lvr

"He can't hold his liquor..." said Gimli, before his eyes crossed and his chair crahsed to the floor. Silvarin walked over and nudged him with his foot. The dwarf was asleep.

"Wrong," Said Silvarin, giving Legolas a quick nod before walking away. He had no intentions of getting too talkative with the prince of Mirkwood... especially not with a full tankard of ale in his hand. The stories he could tell... well, that was the problem really. The stories he could tell.

He opted instead to sit down next to Rorin, who was engaged in conversation with Ryle and Curubethion. When Silvarin had walked over, there hadn't been an empty chair. By the time he was sitting down, there was one. Some would say it was almost... magical.

"What's got you down, lad?" Rorin asked, seeing the look on Silvarin's face.

"I met an old friend from Mirkwood. Unfortunately, we didn't have much time to re-aquaint ourselves." The Ranger and the Ortan nodded knowingly. Rorin looked at him a little TOO knowingly. He'd been the only one with whom Silvarin had shared his past.

"You know, Prince Legolas is here," piped up Ryle.

"I noticed," remarked Silvarin glumly, and took a long draught of the ale. "Although... Curubethion, I have something I want to talk to you about. You've always been the leader of our group, in a sense... I need to ask you a favor.

"What is it?" Said the ranger, suddenly serious. He, at least, seemed to hold his liquor quite well.

"We need to go to Mirkwood. I heard enough from my friend to know that trouble stirs there once again. The shadows in Mirkwood are lengthening, and that's saying something. Shadows patrol our wood." Silvarin sighed. "There. Now if Legolas asks, I can say I've told you. And I'm sure he will ask. I just hope he has the sense not to ask me. I'm suprised he hasn't recognized me."

"Why? Did you two know each other?" Asked Ryle.

"I'm just... a familiar face, to some. Infamous, almost," he said, with a smile. "Besides, he... knew my brother. All of that is much to much for me to talk about on this night of celebration, you see."

"All right lad. We'll discuss it with the others," said Rorin. Silvarin nodded, and got up to leave. He walked out of the hall. After, of course, refilling his mug.

He heard the footsteps behind him, which was an accomplishment. Elves walk silently. But he was expecting them. He took a look at his ale. Half of him wanted to dump it out on the ground. Half of him wanted to throw it at the elf behind him. Half of him thought he'd need it soon. Wait...

"Legolas," Silvarin said, without turning around. "It is an honor, my Prince."

"Please excuse my intrusion," Legolas said. "But I recognize an elf of Mirkwood. Many who fought with us before were elves of Lorien. But this requires a kinsman. Our home is in danger."

"I heard. I've already asked my companions about it. We'll probably end up coming. I know I will."

"Thank you. Tell me, what is your name?"

"Silvarin Elstar," said Silvarin, almost in a whisper. "I dare say you've heard of me?"

Legolas looked at him calmly, even kindly. "Yes. I daresay I have. You know... you don't have to apologize."

"I wasn't going to."

"It's been proven here that anyone can fall prey to the shadow. Even kings."

Silvarin shrugged. Legolas continued, a knowing smile on his face, "It's what happens after that matters."

Silvarin turned around, rage rising in his veins. "Don't tell me I have a debt to repay!" He screamed. "Don't tell me I have to do this! You don't understand what happened to me! You don't know!" Even he knew how childish his words sounded. Legolas was still smiling, calmly. Silvarin's voice fell. "My brother... he... well, suffice to say he's dead now," he said, sarcasm seeping into his voice again. "And I did it. No, not directly, but... it happened. Because of me. I lost everyone I loved. And that's payment enough. You wouldn't understand that, princeling," Silvarin finished, turning around again.

"Don't I? I've seen many warriors and friends fall in the defense of my homeland. I've been alive far too long to have not experienced loss. I may be a Prince, but that gives me responsability. I was responsible for those soldiers." Silvarin looked up, but Legolas was still smiling. "They knew it's what happens next that matters." And with that, he turned and left.

Silvarin turned to go back into the hall.

"What happens next?"

He smiled.

Then he got another ale.


What Comes Next
Condition * Support Area
When you play this condition, add an token here for each Elf you can spot.
Manevuer: Remove 2 tokens from here to reveal the top card of your draw deck. If it is an spell, you may take it into hand.
Then he got another ale.

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Ingold55

"Hail the victorious dead!" Theoden's words echoed through the hall.

Durail sipped his mug. He couldn't drink it, not now. His mind went to Lyon, the elf he had befriended, who now lie dead. He died a victor over his enemy.

He had known several farmers that had died in the battle of Helm's Deep. They too now lay dead in the ground. The battle had been catastrophic, both to moral and the men's physical bodies. They were wounded in spirit and flesh.
The night drew on and feasting ensued. Drinking was previlant. Is this how men comforted themselves? It was light hearted, yet very emotional. He could sense the men's attitudes.

Durail drew his cloak about him and slowly faded into the shadows, then out into the night sky. He stood there looking out over the land. How many men had died for this land? How many children without parents? How much had the sacrificed? It could be seen in their faces, their eyes.

Mirkwood, it was time to revisit. He had to go see his friend's home again. He would go repay his respects to Lyon.
He walked back into the Golden Hall. Music and laughter, it did the people good.
Durail walked up to Rorin. "Here," he said handing the dwarf a mug of ale. "What is it like being among horse men?"

"I admire their courage and their hearts, they match almost that of the dwarves."
Durail chuckled gruff, but stout and sturdy. He slapped the dwarf on the back and walked into the crowd again. He liked the dwarf, some day if their travels made it possible, Durail decided he would like to take this new friend to Gondor.

Durail again walked outside. It was too crowded. He walked through the streets of Edoras. He bent down and picked some herbs, who knew what they would need later. He stayed in the streets and on the walls looking over the country side. He could feel cold evil malice on his face. The enemy was moving. He would be striking again soon.

Durail fell into he bed exhausted. He had made his bed outside of the Golden Hall. It was cold, not from the weather, from the evil in the air, from the hurt of the people. With the dawns rays slipping over the horizon, Durail was up, he bought a horse which he had had his eye on for some time and rode off.

A storm was coming. He had to think!

_____________________________ _____________________________ _____________

Herbs and Potions
Possession
Bearer must be a ranger. Limit 1 per bearer.
Fellowhip: Discard this condition to heal bearer twice, remove up to 2 threats, or discard a Shadow condition borne by a companion.

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[DáinIronfoot]

Dáin Ironfoot

"So, my friend," the ranger said, sliding up across the table from Curubethion. "What brings you to Rohan? And in such...mixed company?"

Curubethion smiled. "I might ask the same of you, Aragorn. Could it perhaps be for the...view?" He tilted his head in the direction of the king's niece, Éowyn. "I see the way she looks at you."

"Curubethion!" Aragorn chided. "You know better."

The other nodded. He was one of few that went back far enough with Aragorn to know of his betrothment to Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell. "I was only teasing, my friend."

Aragorn took a slow sip of a mug of ale. He had barely touched it. "Besides," he said, "my heart tells me that Lady Éowyn will find another before this war is over."

"And when might that be, Aragorn?" Curubethion replied. "I sense that your presence here was...unplanned. You didn't come here just to fight for Rohan, did you?"

"No. Our journey has taken many unexpected turns." He took his last sip of ale for a while, as he recounted the three months' trek of the Fellowship of the Ring, from its founding to its breaking to the new purpose of him and his companions.

When he was finished, Curubethion briefly told of the quest for the Iceblade, the history of which was well-known to a ranger like Aragorn. Curubethion then told of his doings since, and the letters from Ectheow that had brought them back together. "Fate is a strange thing, is it not?" he said when he was finished. "Our quests could not be more different, yet here we all are, together."

"For the time being," Aragorn said. "My heart yearns to return to Minas Tirith, and it's not just the promise I made to Boromir."

Curubethion leaned forward and spoke low. "Return how, exactly? Anonymously? Surely you know that Denethor will know who you are, if no one else does. The King of Gondor does not exactly just walk through the gate and—"

"I return to defend her, not rule her," Aragorn interrupted.

"Fate, again, may have something to say about that," Curubethion said knowingly, and with a small smile. "The line must be remade sometime, my friend. My lord." He stood and, very dramatically, bowed with a flourish.

Aragorn made a face, but couldn't help but smile at the gesture. "Sit down, Curubethion," he chuckled, rising himself as he spotted Gandalf walking by. "I'll be back later," he said, excusing himself and heading in the wizard's direction.

Shortly afterwards, as Curubethion's gaze was wandering around the room, a heavy thud jostled the table, bringing the ranger's attention back to the spot Aragorn had occupied only moments before.

"Master Ranger," Rorin said heartily, the froth of who knew how many ales on his beard. Not unlike when Curuebethion had first met the Dwarf, actually....

"Young master Ryle and I wanted to talk to you," Rorin continued, finishing off yet another drink and trying—vainly—to wipe the foam from his beard. "Do you have a minute?"

Curubethion saw Ryle slide onto the bench next to Rorin with nowhere near the force as the heavy-footed Dwarf, and smiled at them both. "Of course. What's on your minds?"

"Well, we were wondering about that...uh...other ranger," Rorin said. "Who he is, where he's from, and all that."

"He looks somewhat familiar to me," Ryle added.

"He should," Curubethion replied. "He's a ranger of the north. You've probably run into him before."

"Perhaps," Ryle said, furrowing his brow. "But many rangers never make it as far north as Evendim, where the Ortans reside."

"He has, I guarantee it," Curubethion explained. "His ancestry can be traced back to that area...or more specifically, to Annúminas, former capital of Arnor. He still roams through there from time to time."

Ryle thought on that for a moment, then his eyes suddenly grew wide. "He is of the line of Aranarth...a Chieftain of the Dúnedain?"

"More than that," Curubethion said with a proud smile. "He is of the line of Isildur himself."

Ryle shook his head slowly in disbelief.

Rorin, not grasping this, merely shrugged and burped. "And the significance of that is...?" he asked.

Curubethion opened his mouth to answer, but Ryle cut in, now fully understanding. "He is the heir to the throne of Gondor!" he burst out, a little louder than Curubethion might have liked. Lower now, Ryle continued: "He is of the line of the kings of Gondor, a line that was considered broken generations ago. Gondor has been ruled by mere stewards of the throne ever since, but he is the rightful king!"

More interested now (to say the least), Rorin leaned in. "And what is he doing here then, Cerubathion?" he whispered, butching the poor ranger's name as always. "And perhaps more importantly, where is he going from here?"

Before Curubethion could answer, Silvarin suddenly appeared at the table with an odd look on his face.

"What's got you down, lad?" Rorin asked. The rest of the conversation would have to wait.

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AgentDrake

Ectheow's last songs had ended, and he now sat, plinking away at this harp trying to focus through the raucous celebration.

As he pulled the strings harder, trying to listen, he felt a sudden snap, and a loud twang echoed through the hall, bringing a second of silence, soon filled again, first with a few spots of nervous laughter, then the celebration resumed.

Ectheow glared down at the broken string. The harp definitely needed tuning now.

"It's been a long time since I heard that sound, Minstrel," Eomer said, leaning over to pass Ectheow a mug of ale. "I can't say that I missed that particular habit of Theodred's. Master Hygleac was the only person he was afraid of as a child, and yet my good cousin still played with the harp."

Ectheow looked down at his broken harp.

"Sometimes I wonder how much Master Hygleac really knew," Ectheow murmured. "He already knew that Grima and Curunir would betray us, years before it happened...."

"And he always knew which one of us it was who had broken his harp," Eomer laughed. "Yes." Eomer paused.
"Your elf-friends. They are being called back North. There is more on the Dark Lord's mind than wiping away the kingdom of Rohan. There are rumore coming to us that Mordor's forces are searching desperately for some weapon, something that will enable Sauron to cover all the world in darkness...."

Ectheow nodded. "Yes. A weapon of Morgoth. A sword of Crystal and Ice. I know the story. But he will never find it."

Flash.
The Eye was roving, seeking, searching.
Fire wheeled and raged around the eye, seeking, ever seeking.
A madman stood before the eye, twisted yet defiant.
And yet the madman was no taller than a child.
Two others were with him.
Halflings?
And yet...
A second wheel of fire, golden, fastened itself around the madman.

Flash.
The Dark Lord reached out his hand, and there, upon it, was the Wheel of Fire, reaching out.
A sword flashed, and the wheel was broken.

Ectheow blinked.
Eomer was speaking.
"...elf-prince has asked that we send what little aid we can to them. You are the only one who has dealt with the elves and dwarves and men of the North.
If you will go, I expect your journey to be easier knowing that now you go in the service of the king, not in his exile."

Ectheow nodded. He had assumed this was coming after seeing the elf-prince of Mirkwood conversing with Theoden King.
Yes, he would go. It would have been nice to have stayed longer. But as he had sung, he realized that Edoras was no home anymore.
Home was a time, not a place.
When Hygleac had sung of the ancient heroes, and of the ancient world: Ents, and Eotenas, and the House of Eorl; when Meduseld rang with the victories of glorious war; when the princeling Theodred stood proudly beside Theoden King....

A shine caught Ectheow's eye.
A swordhilt.
That ranger, Aragorn. His sword.

Aragorn.
Ar- "Noble"
Orn- "Tree"
Aragorn.
Of the Noble Tree.

That sword was the same sword that....

Flash.
There were seven stars in the sky.
The Ranger took one; as he did, it grew to become a deep sphere. A Palantir.
And gazing back through the seeing-stone was the Eye, opened wide in fear.

And hidden behind the ranger, unseen, was a cold, ice-crusted dagger, preparing to strike.
It was wielded by a twisted Hama, white from the cold snow which began falling around them.

Flash.
A black hooded Terror sat, hunched, on a horse.


"Excuse me," Ectheow said, standing up suddenly.
"I need to speak to Cerubethion," Ectheow said, rushing away, forgetting even to mispronounce the name.

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[DáinIronfoot]

sickofpalantirs

Tuilin felt himself drawn away from the noise and merriment. it didn't fit his mood. He went to his bed, but he couldn't sleep either. strapping on his bow and quiver, for he never went anywhere without him, He put on his green cloak and went outside.

The rohirrim hall had a balcony, which served many purposes. Tuilin found a nice corner and sat down. Humming quietly and reflecting on the last few months. He finished the months and started on years. Footsteps jarred him out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw another person opposite him, looking at the stars. He got up and walked forward "Legolas" he said.

The elf looked back "Tuilin?"
"Aye. We meet again, but in more perilous times then I had hoped."
"I did not see you before the battle"
"The company I am traveling with came with erkenbrand's soldiers, after the battle of the fords. I saw Feleandir here."

Legolas looked somber for a bit. "These are dark times, but it is good to know there are still elves who will venture beyond their borders to fight"

Tuilin nodded and was silent.

"Where will you be going next?"

"You would have to ask Curubethion, he is are leader. Back to mirkwood it seems from what I have heard. though."

"Dark things move, be on your guard Tuilin."

"And you be on yours Legolas. May the Vala be with you. Farewell."

He walked away, and as he entered back into the hall, he saw a ranger come out and talk with the elf. He went to his bed and fell asleep.

Elvish Blessing
Event • Fellowship or Regroup
Spot 2 Elves to choose one of the following: heal an Elf, take an card from your discard pile into hand, or wound a minion.
"May the Vala be with you."

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NBarden

Duinihir mounted the battlements. He peered out over the vast stretch of blood-stained land, where many had fought and died for the defense of Middle Earth. Away towards the south, the Ring of Isengard stood. Towards the east, the storm in Mordor grew. Stretched beneath him, the stench of a thousand slain Uruks filled the air.

And then he looked towards the west, as the sun began to set, its majesty portrayed as beams of orange, red and purple filled the sky with a beauty that not even Sauron could drench. It reflected off every cloud, creating a beautiful light display.

As dusk fell, Duinihir saw a raven fly up from the north. He gave a long whistle, and a hawk flew straight towards the offending bird. A shriek rang out over the plains as the crebain's heart was ripped from its body by the smaller, more agile bird.

Duninihir paused and watched as the bird fell. The Sun set. The stench of the dying rose to his nostrils, smoke arose from the south, and off towards the east, a burst of flame issued from the mountains of the Black Land.

Everything had changed. The hawk landed on his shoulder. "Hello Gwavyr," said Duinihir, smiling at his pet.

With that, Duinihir turned to aid in the burial of the dead. The battle was over, but the war had just begun.

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

•Gwavyr, Nimble Hawk
Follower
Resistance: +1
Aid -
Each time you transfer Gwavyr to a companion, you may wound a minion or discard a Shadow follower.
Each time Duninihir is assigned to a skirmish, you may transfer Gwavyr to him or to your support area.
A shriek rang out over the plains as the crebain's heart was ripped from its body by the smaller, more agile bird.

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Ingold55

Durail rode hard, rode fast. Fixed gaze, determined. What was it about this place?! New people new times. The enemy was moving, closing in the gaps. Helm's Deep had been a minor defeat for Sauron. The steed was steadily slowing down till it came to the chared and ashen remains of a once thriving village.

The houses still smoked. The dead had been buried. Wrapping his cloak about him Durail stood motionless against the black sky. No stars, no moon, just clouds which seemed to show the depressed feeling of the universe at this time.

Hope. It seemed like something out of an old fantasy story. Durail no longer had hope, he didn't even no what the word meant. What was this malice that was growing? not only in the world but in him? Right now his loyalty out weight the feeling, but would it always? He didn't know.

mounting the horse, he prepared to head back for the battlements. halfway there he reigned in and dismounted the horse. taking his small pack from the horse, he slapped the horse and watched as the horse headed back riderless to his friends.

He would head to Mirkwood now. It was time to revisit. Time to return to his enemies grave. Something was stirring in Mirkwood. Something terrible. a horse would aid him on his trip yes, but he had not paid for the horse, he had only borrowed it form the king. Durail hoped his friends would understand. He had to go, not wait, he had to go at this very moment.
He walked out into the night. He knew the lands, he had Flame with him, he would be alright.

The next morning a horse appeared, but its rider was not to be seen....

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Anonymous Prodigy

A loud belch sounded from the table across from Dirthon. He looked up suddenly and saw Rorin, a mug of ale in each hand, and foam on his beard. Gimli, who had just come to after passing out on the floor in his drinking game with Legolas, was in yet another fierce drinking competition with Rorin. A round of laughter and applause came from behind Dirthon and he turned to see two very short men on a table singing and dancing boisterously.

Dirthon sighed, thinking of times past in Ithilien….

Orcs had been sighted in the forests near their home. Dirthor had left with nearly twenty other rangers to find the Orcs…

"I am leaving for the hunt, brother." Dirthon's older brother, Dothor, stood with his bow in hand and arrows in his quiver.

"I shall return by nightfall." Dothor silently walked off into the woods, his weather-stained cloak blowing in the wind behind him.

Night came, and there was no sign of Dothor. The next morning, Dirthor returned from the Orc-chase, and a grim look adorned his face. Dirthon ran forward to greet his father, but stopped when he saw what his father was carrying: the same weather-stained cloak that Dothor always wore, only now it was stained with blood….

A groan and a loud thud brought Dirthon back to the present. Gimli had passed out for the second time, and a triumphant roar came from Rorin before he, too, fell to the ground in a drunken stupor.

"Give it to me, father. Every creature of Sauron that I kill will be for my brother. His legacy will not be forgotten."

Dirthon wore the same worn cloak today, the same cloak that his brother Dothor had worn when the Orcs had ambushed him in the woods….

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•Ithilien Cloak
Possession • Cloak
Resistance +1
Bearer must be a Man.
Regroup: Discard this possession to draw a card (and heal a ranger if you can spot a minion).
"His legacy will not be forgotten."

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[DáinIronfoot]

With a start, Rorin jerked back into consciousness, eyes darting around the room.

"Wha--what...? Where...?" he sputtered.

Standing over him were Ryle and Dirthon, laughing rather uncontrollably.

"What?" Rorin demanded. "WHAT?!"

"Let's just say you both lost," Ryle replied, pointing to a similarly sputtering Gimli.

Rorin took it all in as the two men helped him to his feet. "We...passed out?"

"At almost the exact same moment," Dirthon nodded. "I think you were each on your seventeenth mug."

Rorin tried to shake his head clear. He remembered talking with Curubethion and Ryle about the mysterious ranger that was apparently a returned king of some kind...then Silvarin had saddled up to the table and warned of trouble in Mirkwood...then Rorin, Curubethion, and Ryle had gone to spread the word to their friends about a likely journey there to investigate, and then....

"I guess I got a little distracted," he said, mostly to himself. He shook his head one more time to clear the remaining cobwebs. "How long was I out?"

"A LONG time," Curubethion said, breaking in as he strode into the commotion. "Come, my friends. We have matters to discuss."

‘I guess the party is on hold,' Rorin thought.

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Curubethion led them past King Théoden's throne and out of the Golden Hall to a smaller room behind. Inside was a regal-looking bed and a suit of armor on a rack.

"The King's bedroom?" Rorin wondered aloud.

"His son's," Ectheow corrected, standing nearby and inspecting the ornate armor.

"Oh," Rorin said, remember the lad's fate. "Sorry."

The Dwarf looked around the room and saw that all his friends and companions were gathered within. Duinihir was sitting on the edge of the bed, where Dirthon walked over and joined him. Ectheow shot them a somewhat dirty look, obviously none too pleased that the prince's bed was being sat upon, but said nothing as he strode over to stand by Rorin and Ryle near the doorway. The Elves Silvarin, Tuilin, and Legoles were murmuring in one corner of the room, but all stopped abruptly as Curubethion cleared his throat. Rorin noted that Durail, for some reason, was nowhere to be found.

"What's this all about, Curubethion?" Duinihir asked.

"First, I believe Ectheow had something he wanted to say," the elder ranger replied with a tight smile.

The redeemed minstrel stepped forward, flashing a rare smile of his own. "I'm not sure quite what else to say than just...thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for fighting for a people and a land that most of you knew nothing about only days ago. Thank you."

Ectheow cleared his throat and returned to his place beside Ryle and Rorin. The Dwarf gave him a nod as Curubethion spoke up again.

"Now, to answer your question, Duinihir, we're here because it seems we are needed again in another unfamiliar land. Another land where the shadows are growing, and it seems war is about to strike, and strike hard."

"What land is this, now?" Duinihir inquired.

"Mirkwood," Silvarin said, stepping forward with Tuilin and Legoles behind. "Our home. My home. Our prince Legolas tells us that our king fears that the forces of Dol Guldur are gathering. They are always busy in that dark tower, but this is different. New forces seem to be arriving under the cloak of the forest, and orkish scouts--some riding on Wargs--have been venturing further and further into our realm."

"And now," Tuilin interjected, "Durail is gone." He let that sink in as the others glanced around the room, some noticing for the first time that their new-found friend was missing.

"Where is he?" Rorin asked, a little alarmed. The last time he had seen Durail, the black-clad warrior had been sharing a drink with him before slipping outside into the shadows.

"I can only speculate, but he had been murmuring about Mirkwood since Helm's Deep," Tuilin answered. "I think it is safe to assume he is already on his way there."

"Durail cares for Mirkwood almost as deeply as we do," Legoles added. "He has defended it more fiercely than many of our kin put together."

Tuilin and Silvarin smiled. They remembered all too well Durail's valor in defending his adopted homeland.

"He needs us," Curubethion said firmly. "Mirkwood needs us. We answered the call once already," he motioned briefly to Ectheow. "Shall we do so again?"

A brief moment of silence was broken by Ectheow himself. "I said I was grateful, and meant it. I would go with you, but my people need me now. I do not think I can leave them now. Not again."

Silvarin nodded, and Rorin swallowed. He, more than anyone else in the room but Tuilin, knew what Silvarin was thinking.

"I understand, my friend," the Elf said, "as one exile to another." He paused, trying to decide whether or not to answer the puzzled expression now on the face of Ectheow and others. "You are home for the first time in many years, and I cannot ask you to leave that. But I must return home as well. I have my own...redemption to seek there. I must do this."

"And I," Legoles said.

"And me," Tuilin added. "But if this threat is as great as Legolas and Durail fear, and as one of our fallen friends who came to Rohan's defense warned," he paused, looking Ectheow squarely in the eye, "then we shall need your help." He looked around the room. "All of you, if you are willing."

"I am sorry we must even ask," Silvarin said. "It is not the way I would want things. But we are gathered here, and yes, Rohan likely rides to war. If not now, then soon. But they are several thousand strong. We are three."

"Four, lad," Rorin called out, stepping forward and standing beside him, leaning on his axe. Silvarin could only smile.

"Five," Ryle said, joining them as well.

"Six," Curubethion added.

"Eight," said Dirthon as he helped the still sore Duinihir to his feet.

All eyes turned to Ectheow.

The minstrel opened his mouth, then shut it again, clearly torn.

"Ectheow," Curubethion said softly. "No one will blame or belittle you if you do not come."

"Aye," Rorin added. "You're home for the first time in a long time. But we could certainly use your help, lad. It's a forest. My axe likely won't be enough for a whole forest. Yours would help."

Ectheow couldn't help but crack a small smile at that.

"The choice is entirely up to you," Curubethion continued. "You can certainly sleep on it if you want. I don't think we will be leaving until the morning."

Ectheow was silent. How could he say no? These scattered folk had rallied around his county--around him--and now they simply asked for the favor to be returned. But at the same time, how could he say no to his King if he asked him to ride to his country's defense?

The timing of that thought could not have been better, as Gandalf Greyhame, Erkenbrand, and King Théoden himself suddenly entered the room.

Gandalf smiled and spoke first. "I can guess why you are all gathered. Mirkwood is it, Silvarin Elstar?"

"Yes, Mithrandir," the elf replied. "You have heard the rumblings also?"

"For better or for worse, I hear of all rumblings in Middle-earth these days," the Wizard said with a hint of tension, then swept his gaze across the room as he continued. "Mirkwood is indeed in grave danger, my friends. Rohan and Gondor are not the only lands that draw Sauron's Eye. He has long watched the Wood-elves from his fortress at Amon Lanc, waiting for the right moment to unleash his long fury on Thranduil and his people. He believes it is now, while all of Middle-earth is engaged in troubles within their own borders. He did not expect the survival of Rohan, and now he feels he must strike before the Rohirrim have time to regroup. He fears the Riders of Rohan, as well he should. If he can devastate his other enemies before Rohan has a chance to muster...."

Gandalf let that thought hang in the air.

"Minstrel," Théoden said. "Ectheow."

The younger man looked up. "My Lord?"

"You have already served the Riddermark nobly. Your debt, as you perceived it, has been paid in full." The old king flashed Ectheow a reassuring smile before continuing. "Rohan would be greatly aided by your continued service. But I think your service may be needed elsewhere."

Ectheow blinked.

"Your friends need you," Théoden said. "They have served also, and this nation is in their debt. I am in their debt," he added with an appreciative nod to the gathered Men, Elves, and Dwarf. "You await my charge, I imagine?" he continued, turning his gaze back to Ectheow.

Ectheow nodded slowly. "Yes, my Lord," was all he could manage.

Théoden smiled. "My charge is this: serve your King once more...by being my ambassador to the people that helped save ours. They sent many fine warriors and archers to the Hornburg, and now they will never see their homeland again."

Nearby, Silvarin and Tuilin bowed their heads sorrowfully, remembering Feleandier and their other fallen kinsmen.

"Ride to Mirkwood with my blessing," Théoden finished. "Rohan will still be here when you return, even if I am not."

Ectheow paused to consider what he had just heard, especially the last puzzling words, before standing tall and straight. "My King...it will be my honor."

Curubethion, Rorin, and the others smiled wide.

"So then," Gandalf said with a smile. "Nine companions, is it?"

"Looks like you have my axe after all," Ectheow nodded. "Nine," he confirmed, moving to stand with his friends.

"That," Gandalf said with a twinkle in his eye, "seems a perfect number to me."

"You shall have horses for your journey," Théoden said. "It is the least we can do."

"Wonderful," Rorin mumbled quietly and with great sarcasm. Ryle elbowed him in the ribs.

Théoden didn't seem to notice. "For now, rest. We shall speak more in the morning before you ride. Your steeds and some provisions will be ready by then."

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Not QUITE done--I still don't have the DCs up for my characters, for example--but it's close. I'll have a little more to write before the party actually leaves the following morning (it's the evening of August 5th now...August 6th is the day the Rohirrim begin their ride to Harrowdale and from there to Gondor, just FYI), but feel free to jump back in with your characters at this point. They can go back to the party as it winds down, chat with Théoden, Erkenbrand, and/or Gandalf before they leave the room, head to bed, contemplate the events to come, or any combination thereof. Whatever you feel like. Just don't advance quite as far as us leaving just yet, and I'll get more stuff up soon. I just didn't want to keep you all waiting any longer for new material.

[sickofpalantirs]

Tuilin was glad that the company would stay together.  He was surprised he did not feel gladness at the prospect of going back to mirkwood, maybe it was his foresight, maybe just common sense, but he knew there would be much sorrow there. He slowly walked back to the party.  Men were rejoicing, their homes, their land was safe.

and his was not.
This was not his place.
These were not his people.

He walked back to his room and sat on the bed. There would be a foul road ahead, and more than one fight at the end of it.

well, in that case he thought I'd best get a head start on my sleep