Rhudel, Thirty-One days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

The blistering wind battered against the heavy scarlet veil guarding the face of Hith-Shagi. His caravan had left Mordor two weeks before, carrying many gifts of knowledge and warfare from the Dark Lord. A long line of gold-clad warriors atop pitch black horses rode before Hith's personal guard. They were saddled on the scaled beasts of Rhudor, beasts said to hail from the dark days at the beginning of the world. They walked with the gait of a flightless bird, yet they stood twice the height of a normal man and their maws were filled with many teeth. Hith himself rode atop a beast with a shining burgundy and bronze hue, saddled with elaborate tapestries and armed with golden barding. Behind the Khan and his company was a long line of carts and chariots pulled by beasts and the mighty Kine, holy beasts revered by the old order. This strange parade had crossed the bleak realm of the Dagorland to avoid the fell and perilous plains of Mordor and made the long journey through the Belt of Rhun, the lengthy stretch of arid steppes held by the Khaganate that formed the line between the East and the West. Once they had passed through the Belt, they had come upon the Royal Road that led them directly to the capital of Rhudor.

Removing his shawl, Hith breathed a sigh of relief as the distant glint of the Sea of Rhun caught his eye. As the sun sunk further and further into the west, the grand city of Khazagon crawled ever closer. It was known by many names across the world: Mistrand to the Northmen of Dale and Dorwinnion, Rhunost to the southerners of Gondor, and many others to many other peoples. Yet it was known by all as the center of commerce and wealth in the East, serving as the bridge from the exotic far-easterners to the west. Shipments of gold, craftsmenship, and wine poured from the west while silks, jade, and spices traveled from the eastern roads. While Rhudor's history had often been one of war and hate, its enemies were always treated as friends when they sent traders to Khazagon and no one carrying gold or goods of value was turned away from the high gates.

Deep horns billowed from the heights of the New Wall, signaling the arrival of the Master of the great Rhunic Empire. The simple architecture of the of the outer walls had always bothered Hith. While the wall was by no means an unsightly heap of mud without any appeal, visitors should have been awed by the first sight of his capital, such as those who saw the glorious inner city, but the needs of the quickly expanding city in the second dynasty did not allow for art or beauty. Maybe that would be his first order of business after this war was ended, to tear down these walls and have artists rebuild them instead of brutes. Passing through the archway of the city, he was met by the sight of hundreds of merchants, craftsmen, and the like fallen upon the ground in praise. His caravan made its way through the suddenly cleared streets, occasionally being showered by deep red orchids from the baskets of maidens. Suddenly, Hith felt a hard knock against his ceremonial helm.

"Orc loving bastard!" A dwarf of the Lonely Mountain stood alone amongst the bowing populace, "Rot in hell you…"

The dwarf was silenced as an arrow flew from the bow of one of the Khan's guards. The diminutive trader stumbled, his threat pierced by the shaft, and collapsed in a gurgling heap atop a barrel of counterfeit rune-stones.

"Well placed," Hith smirked to his guard.

"Thank you, Khan," the man returned. Hith had not known this man for long, for he had been promoted to his elite guard after the Battle of Erebor. It was said that he had slain over fifty of Erebor's finest with his longbow from afar. A fine addition, the Khan thought. The caravan continued through the capital, which became more ornate and wealthy the deeper into the city they came. The homes and workshops shone with the faint golden hue of the polished sandstone masonry and their red-tile roofs seemed like embers in the light of the setting sun. Gardens and mansions filled with the wealth of merchants and owners of the various industries surrounded the innermost wall, separating the old city from the new.

Hith felt a wave of relief as he passed through the shining golden gates, leaving behind the crowds of false adoration and cramped urban buildings and entering the wide pavilion that led to the royal towers. The inner city was all that remained of the first dynasty with its symmetrical architecture and tall, box like buildings. Every space across every flat wall was adorned with polished red tiling overlaid with art wrought from gold. The long, most likely mythic histories of the Easterlings were etched across the city. The ancestors of the Rhunic people were said to have once served the great god Salmulilum, but were forced to flee from his lands in the West when the False Gods of the Westerlings tore apart the world to slay the Great One. To save his people, he fled into the stars and created a great red star that his people followed into the east. They eventually came to the lands where the star had led them, Rhudel as it became known, but many wanted to keep on to escape the wrath of the Devil Gods. These people came upon the Holy Mount. Here, many were swayed by false gods into the worship of lesser spirits, and they warred over the mountain. The Kaganate, the father race of the Rhudel and Balcoth, proved victorious and forced the blasphemers into exile.

Hith left his mount and entourage in the courtyard, ordering the gifts brought from Barad-Dur to be delivered to his personal library. He took in the crisp air that poured out from the harbor, and strode alone to the palaces. The smooth lanes led him alongside waterways occupied by lazy, shining fish. Along the shores of these artificial streams, the children of the high families sat and chatted happily amongst themselves while their older siblings swam in the open pools. The older residents strode along the paths, many reading over charts of shipping prices and import registries. Hith eventually came upon the Twin Halls of Rhudor, guarded by two tall statues of men. One was clad in a warrior's garb while the other wore the robes of a priest. They stood, side by side, before the mighty halls of government, patrons of their kind and founders of the two houses. Legend said that two brothers, one a mighty warrior and the other a wise priest, founded the city thousands of years before. Because the brothers loved each other very much, they decided to share power, and so their lands were ruled by a king and a high priest and no decision could one make without the other's council. This system lasted for many generations, until Khamul the Mad became king.

Khamul was obsessed with immortality and took the names of both king and high priest for himself. He was visited by a mysterious man who named himself a bearer of gifts who promised him the immortality he sought in exchange for an alliance between Rhudel and Mordor in the south. War soon came to Mordor and Rhudel was forced into a war with the people of Numeneor, and later Gondor as the seemingly endless reign of Khamul drug on. It was soon known by the wise that the bearer of Khamul's gift was Sauron of Mordor. If he were any other being, the people would riot for an end to the war, but they remembered the name of Sauron from the holy texts and many said that he was Salmulilum incarnate. They poured themselves into the war, declaring a holy vendetta against the Gondorian people. Then Sauron lost his war. Somehow, he failed and disappeared for many years along with Khamul the Mad. The confused devout claimed that he had returned to the stars, and took the form of a new star over Gondor. A deposed priest led all who would listen in a march to the White City. Few of their number returned to their homeland, but a wrathful army led by the King of Gondor came after them. Rhudel was sacked and the Balcoth, their kinsmen who had also served Sauron, were destroyed entirely. And so came the end of the First Dynasty.

Hith pushed open the heavy doors of the right palace, entering a long hall lit by bright torches and adorned with the carved busts of old kings and khans. He glanced at his father's face, stern and proud. The man had been the best of both the old and the new. He was strong yet wise, and taught his son to value both virtues and to never trust the blindly faithful. He, of course, meant the Council, who had recently taken far more power than he was comfortable with. Many faces further down the line rested the visage of Khan-Shagi himself. In the dark age of chaos after the fall of Khamul and the Gondorian genocide, the wealthy families were the only source of order left in Rhudel. The strongest of these families was the Shagi clan, descendants of a union between the Rhudel and Balcoth. Their high-father, Khan-Shagi, led his family into the abandoned capital and claimed the throne for himself. Within ten years, Khazagon was again the wealthiest city east of Erebor and Khan had built a legacy that had yet to fall. He had the foresight to replace the position of high priest with a council made up of the leaders of the quickly growing number of denominations of the old system, meaning that they would always have internal conflicts that would keep their power in check. Khan had created a system that would remain quite functional until around sixty years before the new war.

In the late days of his grandfather's rule, a mysterious being had joined the Council under guise of a monk of the far east. Soon, the disjointed and apathetic council had found new vigor in their worship. The Khans, as all those who had followed their patron called themselves, were helpless as the Council swore the nation of Rhudel once more to Mordor and ignited a conflict with the men of the south-east over a worthless mountain, ending any hope that Hith might maintain a peaceful and prosperous nation in his time.

Ascending into the heights of the palace, Hith entered his private study and collapsed onto a soft couch, nursing his aching forehead. The past month had not been kind to his nerves and he knew that few more would be. Sauron was going to betray him. From all that he had read, the dark lord was a genius, but was dangerously egocentric. Anyone who stood in the way of his entire domination of Middle Earth would be crushed under his heel, and he clearly viewed Rhudel as a threat to his lordship. A defense of the North and the East would need to be made. Though what allies could he find? Who was left to join him? Dale. The Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills. Maybe even the Elves of Mirkwood would prove an ally. But no move could be made to unite with them until the Council was out of the way. Plans. So many plans. So little time…

The Eastmost reaches of the Misty Mountains, Later that Night

Arwen Evenstar stumbled upon the lose stones of the mountain foothills, hampered by the ever-growing weight of Gliron's arm. While the man had been relatively lucid when he first woke from the pain induced stupor, his condition had quickly deteriorated. Neither Fateel nor Glorfindel had been of much help with the ranger. She had expected this of Fateel, who had woken from his own unconscious in quite a sour mood, but she would have never expected Glorfindel to be so callous. Since he had taken up that damned black sword, he had grown darker in mood and shorter in temper. His shining blue eyes had taken the light of a starving beast and he looked to every falling stone and shuddering bush as if a meal might spring from it.

Arwen quietly uttered words of command over the sword, but it seemed that a will much more powerful than hers was behind it. She had heard tales of the fateful blade Gurthang from the wise. It was feared by both the armies of Morgoth and the elves of Doriath and Gondolin, but men headed not their words and the greatest of their kind, Turin Turanbar, took it up. He was its only bearer whom the blade had not betrayed, and it only turned against him by his command. In his hands it had bathed in the blood of orcs and men and dragons, but was said to have been broken under its master and buried with him. From what Arwen could gather, it had been reforged but taken to the caves to protect those it sought to slay. Her mind then recalled a questionable prophesy spoken by unknown lips, that pertained to the blade, and how it would end the evil of Morgoth and herald the beginning of a perfect world. This was, of course, never to pass she thought, for all hope of a good world had fled from her mind. All she desired now was to avenge her love and do what little she could to malign the plans of Sauron.

She collided with the back of Fateel, who had stopped behind a now frozen Glorfindel. The passage they had been following had opened unto a wide field bathed in moonlight. Down the hill on which they now stood on, a large camp full of orcs began to stir. Shouts from the twisted creatures aroused the unaware was they saw the gleaming form of Glorfindel above them.

"Ye elf-filth," their captain yelled, "you're here in defiance of the treaty between your people and my Master! Come down 'ere so that we can kill ya' and show ya' to the Dark Lord. I'm sure he'll be happy to invade your lands now that the treaty's been broken!"

"Stand back," said Glorfindel to his fellows, drawing Gurthang from its sheath, "I wish to deal with these wretches myself." Glorfindel strode down the grassy hill, gleaming with the confidence of an Elf Lord of the First Age. Before him amassed a ravenous host, snarling and chomping at him as they drew their crude blades.

"Come upon me, filth!" Arousing the wrath of his foes, Glorfindel raised his blade as the orcs charged at him. Arwen looked down upon the clash, and could not tell if she felt exhilaration or terror at the sight of an Elven Lord unleashed. Glorfindel moved like a hurricane, sweeping the blade in powerful archs that cleaved many heads in single sweeps. Torrents of black blood spilled around him as he tore through the now panicked host. Those orcs that did not flee were torn apart, and those that turned to run found their spines cut apart. Within minutes, a bloody mass had surrounded Glorfindel, whose white cape was stained black and his body untouched by any blade. He bent as if to take charge after the few that escaped his wrath, but was stopped by Fateel's hard grasp on his shoulder. He spun to face the man, a fire in his eyes as if he wished to slay the man, but calmed and took in the vista of the battlefield.

"Well done, elf," Fateel said with uncharacteristic approval, "though I would have been more than happy to help."

"Maybe you will be of some use in our next confrontation. Now, we must make haste for Lothlorien. Come!"

"Gliron needs rest!" shouted Arwen as she stumbled down the hill with the exhausted man, "he will not last if we go on!"

"There will be rest enough in Lorien," Glorfindel said as he turned away, "we might reach the Golden Wood by sunrise if we make good time."

"I agree with the she-elf," Fateel said, "we made it over the mountain. Time is now on our side."

"Time?" Glorfindel snapped, "time has not been on our side since we left Eregion, and will not be until we reach Lothlorien! If Gliron cannot make the trek, then he must stay behind."

With that, Glorfindel began to stride toward the distant wood. Realizing the futility of their situation, Arwen and Fateel followed. Arwen was surprised when she felt Gliron's arm leave her shoulder as Fateel took him up. He nodded to her, and the pair followed after the determined lord.

They trudged on through the night towards Lorien, occasionally passing distant torches and signs of warfare on the fields. They heard several cries carry through the night air, but headed them little as they pushed on. Just as the first rays of the morning sun spilled over the horizon, they came upon the first of the majestic Mallorn trees of Lothorian. Their pale bark shone in the morning light, and their leaves glistened shimmering yellow. They wandered into to the wood, expecting to be waylaid by those who guarded the borders, but they came upon no one.

"I did not wish to be the bearer of unsettling news," said Fateel, who had slipped to the back of the company, "But am I the only one who noticed that there was no blockade around the wood?"

"I also noticed" said Arwen, placing her hand on the hilt of her blade, "we should not go further."

"No," snapped Glorfindel as he continued into the wood, "Our mission is to go to Caras Galadhon and inform Celeborn of the situation in the West. We may also find help for Gliron in the capital."

Thoroughly agitated, Awren and Fateel continued to follow Glorfindel's lead, venturing deep into the Golden Wood. The sun had crawled far into the west by the time they reached the center of the wood, but they had come across no signs of Elves nor Orcs. Glorfindel shouted as he reached the pinnacle of a small hill.

"I cannot believe it! The city has been abandoned!"

Joining him, the three others (Gliron had come back to his senses sometime earlier in the day) stared out at Cara Galadhon. The city in the trees had no light nor was occupied by any elves. No elf warrior nor healer nor singer remained.

"What happened?" said Fateel, "How could we have traveled all this way only to find an abandoned city?"

"I…do not know."

Ost-in-Edhil

Elrond stood atop the last remaining tower of the old capital of Eregion, looking over the now mighty mass that had assembled to resist Sauron. He had been pleasantly surprised they the willingness of the northmen to fight, for many men of Bree and the north realms had come. They were amongst many dwarves and elves, and he thought that they might have a chance to resist the armies of Mordor for many night before darkness fell upon them. His moment of happiness was gone at that thought, and he turned once more to dark thoughts. He was interrupted by the sound of distant horns. Looking out to the south, he could make out the shape of a long, gleaming line. The Galadhrim! he thought They have come to our aid!

That was when he caught a faint whistle in the air and, to his shock, an arrow shot from afar stabbed into the stone next to him. Attached to the shaft was a note. Dread swelling in his heart, he unraveled the parchment.

Elrond Betrayer, I challenge thee for the honor of Galadriel the Faithless. I know of your dealings with my wife, and I will have thine head for her ransom. Come to me, blade in hand, if thou have any honor left.

~Celeborn the Brokenhearted