In the beginning Ages of Middle-Earth and it's Valar, there were the
remnant Quendi. They had forsaken themselves to the known lands of
ungrace; refusing to cross the River in which Oromë had called them across.
There they lived for a year or some in time as we understand it. The
whispers of Melkor, the evil Valar had spread to their hearing and
corrupted their minds. They feared Oromë and all his doing and refused
them. Now they are scattered.
One clan had indeed survived the harshness of the known lands. They were led by Panawë, a Quendi with a quality that most did not have: paranoia. Misguided by the whispers of Melkor and the dread of Oromë, he pressed his company onwards to lands full of promise. They did not find that land ere their end. All they found was ice and rock. Some of the Quendi began to despair.
While in the darkest of his abodes, Melkor plotted an evil uprising in which to destroy the creations of Ilúvatar: the Quendi. He had other plans for the remnant elves that now wondered the new lands. After perfecting his demons, the Balrogs, Melkor began a new creation. He created a figure of hollowness. A shell of which to hold his evil will and intent. The shell was indeed hollow, but strong and unbreakable. Into this shell Melkor poured his wicked power. Only bits of it did he spare for he dared not to weaken himself anymore than he should have to. When he finished he fell back panting.
The new demon was named the Morkánodel, or the 'Evil Commander of Horrors'. At its first breath of life, nay, only its being for it drew no life, only shrill death in which its power moved it; it gave a howl that spread over the darkness. Oromë had heard it and at once he new of dark business growing in the farlands. He swept away without the knowledge of the other Valar. He flew to the ends of Taniquetil and strained his senses. He was a hunter, a great one among all others. He knew something was amiss, but not exactly of its import.
Flying out pass the moors that surrounded Taniquetil, Oromë came to the River that he had led the Quendi over once long ago. He charged passed it and tracked his way into the barren lands. He came across a dark whisp of clouds. Thunder and lightning poured from its origin. Sensing its evil Oromë pressed on. Whispers came into his ear. He had heard the evil plots of Melkor. He raced to find the remnant Quendi. He raced to find the one named Panawë.
Back in the darkness Melkor spoke to his creation, the Morkánodel. He understood its shrieks and cries as a language. And Melkor said to it: 'Ye art not thou own free spirit for ye are mine and mine only. I bring you existence and now you serve thee. Does ye not wish for death and fear and blood?'
The awful creature howled in answer. An answer that Melkor found satisfying. 'Thou art thy Lord of the Balrogs. Thou will lead them and thou will use them to kill. I wish of thee to destroy thy ones of whom inhabit this land. Thou will kill all of the Quendi.' With another shriek, the Morkánodel answered and Melkor was once again please with its devotion. 'Go now, Morkánodel, lead thy army and kill all who lay in thy path.'
With that the Morkánodel and the Balrogs marched over the known lands, killing the lesser tribes of the remnant Quendi. Some fled before their wrath while others fought with sharpened wood and large rocks. At last two tribes remained. Panawë was the remaining leader of the second tribe while the other stood leaderless. Many of the quickest elves fled to Panawë and begged him for protection. Panawë gave it to them if they promised to defend their tribe. They agreed. With the reports from the other tribe members, Panawë discovered all about the evil spirit and the demons that marched to destroy them.
Panawë, desperate for the safety of his tribe, ordered them to flee North where the evil ones would not find them. The Mors they called those evil spirits for that is what they were in purest form: evil. Panawë only guessed that the tribe would be safe among the covers of Taur-Khelek, the Forest of Ice. As the company moved on they suffered sever hail storms. Smoke and light had followed them day by day. With every fall of the moon they seemed to get closer and closer. There wasn't much time, and Panawë new it. They finally came to the base of the frozen river called the Khelënen. Hard it was to cross. Many of the Quendi fell to their icey deaths from the thin ice. And when all were across, a moment of no words or sounds had followed.
Fearing too long a pause, Panawë hailed them on. The Mors were getting closer, he could feel it at every turn. About forty miles away lay the base of Taur-Khelek. Once the Quendi were there they would be safe from the evil that followed. After two days many of the host had died of strange illness that was not understood. They left them for there were no time to say good-bye or not enough strength to bear them on. Their weak cries for help had pained Panawë greatly, but he knew his task and stuck to it. Taur-Khelek was not far now and once there the tribe would be able to rest. Darkness crept over the lands and another night began. The glow of the Mors had risen again, and time was short.
One clan had indeed survived the harshness of the known lands. They were led by Panawë, a Quendi with a quality that most did not have: paranoia. Misguided by the whispers of Melkor and the dread of Oromë, he pressed his company onwards to lands full of promise. They did not find that land ere their end. All they found was ice and rock. Some of the Quendi began to despair.
While in the darkest of his abodes, Melkor plotted an evil uprising in which to destroy the creations of Ilúvatar: the Quendi. He had other plans for the remnant elves that now wondered the new lands. After perfecting his demons, the Balrogs, Melkor began a new creation. He created a figure of hollowness. A shell of which to hold his evil will and intent. The shell was indeed hollow, but strong and unbreakable. Into this shell Melkor poured his wicked power. Only bits of it did he spare for he dared not to weaken himself anymore than he should have to. When he finished he fell back panting.
The new demon was named the Morkánodel, or the 'Evil Commander of Horrors'. At its first breath of life, nay, only its being for it drew no life, only shrill death in which its power moved it; it gave a howl that spread over the darkness. Oromë had heard it and at once he new of dark business growing in the farlands. He swept away without the knowledge of the other Valar. He flew to the ends of Taniquetil and strained his senses. He was a hunter, a great one among all others. He knew something was amiss, but not exactly of its import.
Flying out pass the moors that surrounded Taniquetil, Oromë came to the River that he had led the Quendi over once long ago. He charged passed it and tracked his way into the barren lands. He came across a dark whisp of clouds. Thunder and lightning poured from its origin. Sensing its evil Oromë pressed on. Whispers came into his ear. He had heard the evil plots of Melkor. He raced to find the remnant Quendi. He raced to find the one named Panawë.
Back in the darkness Melkor spoke to his creation, the Morkánodel. He understood its shrieks and cries as a language. And Melkor said to it: 'Ye art not thou own free spirit for ye are mine and mine only. I bring you existence and now you serve thee. Does ye not wish for death and fear and blood?'
The awful creature howled in answer. An answer that Melkor found satisfying. 'Thou art thy Lord of the Balrogs. Thou will lead them and thou will use them to kill. I wish of thee to destroy thy ones of whom inhabit this land. Thou will kill all of the Quendi.' With another shriek, the Morkánodel answered and Melkor was once again please with its devotion. 'Go now, Morkánodel, lead thy army and kill all who lay in thy path.'
With that the Morkánodel and the Balrogs marched over the known lands, killing the lesser tribes of the remnant Quendi. Some fled before their wrath while others fought with sharpened wood and large rocks. At last two tribes remained. Panawë was the remaining leader of the second tribe while the other stood leaderless. Many of the quickest elves fled to Panawë and begged him for protection. Panawë gave it to them if they promised to defend their tribe. They agreed. With the reports from the other tribe members, Panawë discovered all about the evil spirit and the demons that marched to destroy them.
Panawë, desperate for the safety of his tribe, ordered them to flee North where the evil ones would not find them. The Mors they called those evil spirits for that is what they were in purest form: evil. Panawë only guessed that the tribe would be safe among the covers of Taur-Khelek, the Forest of Ice. As the company moved on they suffered sever hail storms. Smoke and light had followed them day by day. With every fall of the moon they seemed to get closer and closer. There wasn't much time, and Panawë new it. They finally came to the base of the frozen river called the Khelënen. Hard it was to cross. Many of the Quendi fell to their icey deaths from the thin ice. And when all were across, a moment of no words or sounds had followed.
Fearing too long a pause, Panawë hailed them on. The Mors were getting closer, he could feel it at every turn. About forty miles away lay the base of Taur-Khelek. Once the Quendi were there they would be safe from the evil that followed. After two days many of the host had died of strange illness that was not understood. They left them for there were no time to say good-bye or not enough strength to bear them on. Their weak cries for help had pained Panawë greatly, but he knew his task and stuck to it. Taur-Khelek was not far now and once there the tribe would be able to rest. Darkness crept over the lands and another night began. The glow of the Mors had risen again, and time was short.