Wind whipped around the mountaintops, wreathing each peak with a great
ghostly crown of snow. The gusts howled across caves and slopes, and a
shudder ran through the company as otherworldly noises bid them farewell.
Peaks as upright as sternly admonishing fingers grimaced down at them. The
sheer greatness of the mountains, compounded by the desolate frostiness,
was enough to make any man's blood run cold.
The fateful decision had been made, and now Arvedui's melancholy company began filing from the cave. Their chain-mail garments gleamed coldly, and the occasional jewel winked balefully from among the folds of austere fabric. An embroidered banner upon a gilded standard flapped weakly but proudly, last testament to an extinct nation. That they would have to leave behind, because without horses, they could no longer carry anything but the barest necessities. The cave they left behind glittered with sundry forgotten treasures. But even in exile, they were every inch a king's company, heads held high with the pride that sustains when nothing else is left. And they were certainly in dire straits now, striking out to seek a race that they were not sure existed.
Even the king was dubious about the wisdom of abandoning the relative safety of the dwarf-mines to travel Eru-knew-where, but he stood resolutely at the head of the group. The only one whose belief in their pilgrimage was truly complete was the hotheaded Allanora, and she held her head high, though the cold of the frosty ground through her thin shoes was anything but reassuring. Some of the company took heart because of her staunch posture, unwilling to be bested in courage by a woman, king's daughter or not.
And so, faithfully, everyone gathered behind King Arvedui, and he led them north-eastward toward the Bay of Forochel, to seek the hidden Northmen of legend. They traveled many miles, glad for the little warmth provided by constant motion. Even the most unwilling of the men found themselves cheered by the act of traveling, a relief after days of sedentary waiting among dank caves.
They struck up a friendly banter, mostly about days gone by, and the sweethearts they hoped would still be awaiting their return. Throughout the austere and slow miles, they painted visions of feasts in great halls and fond faces they knew well. Life in Arthedain had been luxurious and, despite the witch-king's presence looming upon the horizon, most times had been cheerful and bright. The people of Arthedain trusted their rulers to secure their borders, and many had not foreseen this latest fell stroke, no matter how much the king and his advisors fretted about the witch-king's encroachment into their land. Of course, they heard the dark stories of the villages that fell under the evil king's heavy hand, but until recently, those had remained barroom tales. Now fear was a constant housemate, and all trembled as black and fearsome troops marched through familiar and dear streets, obscuring and obliterating beloved names and faces. But still the men wished to return, to secure their women and children as best they could with their meager protection.
As the tiny sun climbed its way higher into the pale sky, they struck the coastline, and a cheer went up from the company. But the celebration was soon quelled, as they found that the wind was even more brutal without the sheltering arms of the mountains. As hours treaded by with no signs of habitation by man or beast, despair crept ever closer around their minds.
"I like not the idea of traveling even further north," Abelard complained to his father, "'Tis cold enough for my liking already."
"It is a cold life, son," Arvedui replied gravely, "But I, for one, should rather live it this way than exist sheltered, ever walking upon safe ground. For our life is fraught with valor, whatever else its hardships may be."
Abelard assented and added rashly, "Father, I shall prove my mettle by defeating the witch-king once and for all! We will regain our lands, I swear it!"
His father responded softly, "A noble goal, indeed. But remember: the hasty stroke goes oft astray! We must bide our time and gather our strength before we strike any blows to the fell king."
Abelard agreed, but queried, "Was there nothing we could have done to prevent this invasion? Did not our armies heed the creeping fingers of the fell king, slowly choking our lands?"
"Why, Abelard, you had as much time as any, and a sight more clues of this attack than many! Indeed, we scattered troops along our borders, but, being so spread, they fell slowly victim to the seemingly endless hordes. Yet we could not attack in one concentrated spot, for the enemy would not gather in one place. Rather, the fighters attacked and fled, like the cowards they are. This new and virtueless warfare has baffled our tacticians. The scum had to pick off our soldiers one by one before they could face us as they did, at our last stand!" the king spat bitterly, venting his deep resentment for the one who had stolen his ancestral lands.
"I, too, hate the fell king! Oh, father, we must not give up; I love my home too much to let this king have it forever! Never fear, my heart tells me we shall find some aid, some way to regain Arthedain!" Abelard finished encouragingly. But this time, his heart misinformed him.
The small group trooped along the lacy coastline in silence. Ice made intricate patterns on the rocks, cleared away only where the surf had swept. Their boots, not built for such harsh and strange terrain, occasionally slipped off a rock, sending their owners flailing for balance, and they breathed steam as from the mouths of dragons. The company was a grim sight, one tiny clump of soldiers plodding along the rocky coastline, two of them trailing along behind. These, of course, were Anador and Allanora.
"Glad am I that your father was persuaded to let you fight alongside us. I must confide that this exile is a sight more cheerful for your presence!" said Anador, searching her eyes for a spark of favor.
"Alas, no exile can hold cheer for me, no matter whose company I am in! Though I should never have ruled my father's lands, still it pains me greatly to be no more than a wanderer in another's country. And in such a place!" She flung one arm wide with disdain, perhaps seeking to sweep away the whole bleak landscape and whisk herself back where she belonged.
Anador shifted his step. His heart, too, burned to see such a proud maiden trapped here, and tossing her head at her imprisonment. "I shall do my best to see you through the hard times ahead," he told her, bowing his head and reddening slightly, though whether from cold or fervent love, we will never know, "And I promise that, whether or not we regain our native lands, we shall find solace in some home. Perhaps the Northmen we seek will welcome us into their country, and from there I know Arthedain is not too far out of reach. The...love of your fellow-travelers will sustain you until that day!"
Allanora cast her eyes downwards and smiled slightly, not quite knowing what to make of her handsome and eloquent comrade.
And so the warm halo of Anador's ...love sheltered them from the bleak coastline, arched sternly like a frowning brow. As they continued, the terrain became even more austerely rocky (if that is possible), and great boulders began to appear, the terrain sloping slightly upwards in the first hint of foothills. The scouts wondered at the great nameless mountain range that began to approach grandly in front of them, and many thought that they had at last reached the legendary home of the Northmen.
Suddenly, one of the huge boulders strewn across the landscape shifted, and part of it broke off to become an equally huge, bulky man. He was clothed in a silver-grey cape that looked exactly like the surrounding rocks. Even though he was fairly far in front of the company, he cast a great shadow upon the approaching road. A wild, steel-grey beard and almost belligerent black eyes accented a face that could have been hewn of granite. He rumbled, "HALT!" in a rough version of the Common Speech, and spoke a few threatening words that made them feel as threatened as unwelcome intruders. Before King Arvedui could respond, the gigantic form began approaching them, step by step...
The fateful decision had been made, and now Arvedui's melancholy company began filing from the cave. Their chain-mail garments gleamed coldly, and the occasional jewel winked balefully from among the folds of austere fabric. An embroidered banner upon a gilded standard flapped weakly but proudly, last testament to an extinct nation. That they would have to leave behind, because without horses, they could no longer carry anything but the barest necessities. The cave they left behind glittered with sundry forgotten treasures. But even in exile, they were every inch a king's company, heads held high with the pride that sustains when nothing else is left. And they were certainly in dire straits now, striking out to seek a race that they were not sure existed.
Even the king was dubious about the wisdom of abandoning the relative safety of the dwarf-mines to travel Eru-knew-where, but he stood resolutely at the head of the group. The only one whose belief in their pilgrimage was truly complete was the hotheaded Allanora, and she held her head high, though the cold of the frosty ground through her thin shoes was anything but reassuring. Some of the company took heart because of her staunch posture, unwilling to be bested in courage by a woman, king's daughter or not.
And so, faithfully, everyone gathered behind King Arvedui, and he led them north-eastward toward the Bay of Forochel, to seek the hidden Northmen of legend. They traveled many miles, glad for the little warmth provided by constant motion. Even the most unwilling of the men found themselves cheered by the act of traveling, a relief after days of sedentary waiting among dank caves.
They struck up a friendly banter, mostly about days gone by, and the sweethearts they hoped would still be awaiting their return. Throughout the austere and slow miles, they painted visions of feasts in great halls and fond faces they knew well. Life in Arthedain had been luxurious and, despite the witch-king's presence looming upon the horizon, most times had been cheerful and bright. The people of Arthedain trusted their rulers to secure their borders, and many had not foreseen this latest fell stroke, no matter how much the king and his advisors fretted about the witch-king's encroachment into their land. Of course, they heard the dark stories of the villages that fell under the evil king's heavy hand, but until recently, those had remained barroom tales. Now fear was a constant housemate, and all trembled as black and fearsome troops marched through familiar and dear streets, obscuring and obliterating beloved names and faces. But still the men wished to return, to secure their women and children as best they could with their meager protection.
As the tiny sun climbed its way higher into the pale sky, they struck the coastline, and a cheer went up from the company. But the celebration was soon quelled, as they found that the wind was even more brutal without the sheltering arms of the mountains. As hours treaded by with no signs of habitation by man or beast, despair crept ever closer around their minds.
"I like not the idea of traveling even further north," Abelard complained to his father, "'Tis cold enough for my liking already."
"It is a cold life, son," Arvedui replied gravely, "But I, for one, should rather live it this way than exist sheltered, ever walking upon safe ground. For our life is fraught with valor, whatever else its hardships may be."
Abelard assented and added rashly, "Father, I shall prove my mettle by defeating the witch-king once and for all! We will regain our lands, I swear it!"
His father responded softly, "A noble goal, indeed. But remember: the hasty stroke goes oft astray! We must bide our time and gather our strength before we strike any blows to the fell king."
Abelard agreed, but queried, "Was there nothing we could have done to prevent this invasion? Did not our armies heed the creeping fingers of the fell king, slowly choking our lands?"
"Why, Abelard, you had as much time as any, and a sight more clues of this attack than many! Indeed, we scattered troops along our borders, but, being so spread, they fell slowly victim to the seemingly endless hordes. Yet we could not attack in one concentrated spot, for the enemy would not gather in one place. Rather, the fighters attacked and fled, like the cowards they are. This new and virtueless warfare has baffled our tacticians. The scum had to pick off our soldiers one by one before they could face us as they did, at our last stand!" the king spat bitterly, venting his deep resentment for the one who had stolen his ancestral lands.
"I, too, hate the fell king! Oh, father, we must not give up; I love my home too much to let this king have it forever! Never fear, my heart tells me we shall find some aid, some way to regain Arthedain!" Abelard finished encouragingly. But this time, his heart misinformed him.
The small group trooped along the lacy coastline in silence. Ice made intricate patterns on the rocks, cleared away only where the surf had swept. Their boots, not built for such harsh and strange terrain, occasionally slipped off a rock, sending their owners flailing for balance, and they breathed steam as from the mouths of dragons. The company was a grim sight, one tiny clump of soldiers plodding along the rocky coastline, two of them trailing along behind. These, of course, were Anador and Allanora.
"Glad am I that your father was persuaded to let you fight alongside us. I must confide that this exile is a sight more cheerful for your presence!" said Anador, searching her eyes for a spark of favor.
"Alas, no exile can hold cheer for me, no matter whose company I am in! Though I should never have ruled my father's lands, still it pains me greatly to be no more than a wanderer in another's country. And in such a place!" She flung one arm wide with disdain, perhaps seeking to sweep away the whole bleak landscape and whisk herself back where she belonged.
Anador shifted his step. His heart, too, burned to see such a proud maiden trapped here, and tossing her head at her imprisonment. "I shall do my best to see you through the hard times ahead," he told her, bowing his head and reddening slightly, though whether from cold or fervent love, we will never know, "And I promise that, whether or not we regain our native lands, we shall find solace in some home. Perhaps the Northmen we seek will welcome us into their country, and from there I know Arthedain is not too far out of reach. The...love of your fellow-travelers will sustain you until that day!"
Allanora cast her eyes downwards and smiled slightly, not quite knowing what to make of her handsome and eloquent comrade.
And so the warm halo of Anador's ...love sheltered them from the bleak coastline, arched sternly like a frowning brow. As they continued, the terrain became even more austerely rocky (if that is possible), and great boulders began to appear, the terrain sloping slightly upwards in the first hint of foothills. The scouts wondered at the great nameless mountain range that began to approach grandly in front of them, and many thought that they had at last reached the legendary home of the Northmen.
Suddenly, one of the huge boulders strewn across the landscape shifted, and part of it broke off to become an equally huge, bulky man. He was clothed in a silver-grey cape that looked exactly like the surrounding rocks. Even though he was fairly far in front of the company, he cast a great shadow upon the approaching road. A wild, steel-grey beard and almost belligerent black eyes accented a face that could have been hewn of granite. He rumbled, "HALT!" in a rough version of the Common Speech, and spoke a few threatening words that made them feel as threatened as unwelcome intruders. Before King Arvedui could respond, the gigantic form began approaching them, step by step...