Untold Tales RPG

A full, detailed report, regarding the whole mess of the dead being raised, and everything that is currently known, along with the theory that Ar-Pharazon is in control of Umbar, is prepared by the king and sent to Boromir. Included is what Beruthiel said about the wraith's inner turmoil and how he may be reasoned with, along with how he has overthrown she that returned him.

It starts with "Though you may have gotten some information in pieces already, here is the full extent of what we know." And goes on for several pages in meticulous detail, as the king has been preparing this for some time in order to properly give his stewards all the information they need, and then some.

Includes a full two pages on Zigureth and Zimraphel, and what is known about them, most of which was gleaned from Karigan, and ending with the note that they are incredibly dangerous and may very well be a greater threat than the wraith, in particular with Pharazon as an ally.

Last page is Aragorn's observations on the above, and a request for Boromir to assign a guard detail (over a dozen of them) of his most trusted guards, to be stationed through out the city and observe any unusual behaviour among other guards (amongst others). Mentions that he will be assigning his most trusted rangers to the top two tiers in secret as hidden lookouts and for protection, most specifically of the many guests in the city for the wedding, and that he will be asking Faramir to vet Ithilien rangers to do the same in the remaining five circles.

Lastly, requests to see him, post haste.

Following the disappearance of Miriel, Tindomiel and Karigan from the city, Minas Tirith is placed on Lockdown by order of the Steward.

It is locked down tighter than a virgin's legs in pervert's convention.

( Umbarean Plotting, related to the note! )

A message arrives in Gondor, and is taken to the king. It reads simply;

A new rule has begun in Umbar. The Golden King reigns again, and he has an eye for conquest. Beware the roving gaze of Zigureth.

In Umbar, there are whisperings that the dead walk among the living, through some dark means that has torn asunder the fabric between this world and the next.

In the ancient city, millenia older than Minas Tirith or the ruins of Annuminas to the north, another bloody coup has changed the balance of power.

In a beautiful Umbarean garden beneath a full moon, a man and woman meet for an hour of passion. In a village in Harandor a week later, that man meets with a young beggar boy, and gives him a pouch of coin. That young boy joins a Caravan headed north, with a very important message....

In a back alley, of a crumbled section of Minas Tirith turned slum, there has been a murder. It is not the first murder in this part of the city in the past six months. Most of the guards keep other sections of the city secure, and those that do come here, come so for illicit reasons - a cheap prostitute, opium shipped from Dol Amroth.

But this isn't just any murder, and it isn't just any murderer. The easterling wipes his sword clean, and his grin glints, cheshire like in the darkness.

After some weeks, the plague flared up again. Thanks to the reopened trade lines, it spread throughout Arda.

Everyone died. Everyone.

The elves woed, and sailed. Where they woed some more.

After a few centuries, as the ruins of Man's kingdoms fell to nature, the dwarves and the halflings began to expand, spreading over the world (and under it), save for the few outposts of wood elves that remained, and isolated patches of humanity.

Thus began, the Age of Dwarves and Hobbits, where pie and pipeweed were shared with all, and the depths of the earth were dwelved with glee. It was a good time, a golden time, until once more the dwarves dwelved too deep, and awoke the horrors of the dark.

To this day, they still speak of the heroic nine. The hobbits and the dwarves, and a single man, and single elf, who fought back the darkness and returned the light. Eventually there came to be three kingdoms. The dwarven empire, which stretched from North to South, and East to West, burrowing beneath the very mountains, and even the sea itself. The halfling thaindom, inhabiting all the more comfortable areas of the world. And the kingdom of men and elves, the few remnants of both races that remained in Middle-earth.

Of the Great War...well, that is another story.

The End.

And thus begins, the reset!

Word from the Prince reaches Minas Tirith. The missive is days old by the time it reaches the king, but any word is better than no word. The letter is terse, written as if the Prince has too much to do and no time for formalities.

The plague appears to be coming to an end in Dol Amroth. Strict quarantine and plague triage means only a sixth of the population has been infected. Of them, one third is expected to live. No new cases for some days, but strict quarantine will continue until every body has been accounted for, counted, and burned. No new animal outbreaks since all imported grain stocks were burned (knighthood horses fortunately spared. unfortunately, so were the royal swans). Food rationing means quarantine can remain for two or three more weeks if necessary before stocks run low. Only a few isolated cases were reported in Belfalas and Dor-en-Ernil away from the city, the relative isolation of farmers has been instrumental in preventing the spread. Travel through Belfalas still not advised.

Small numbers of corsair ships have begun harassing the harbor blockade. Current number sunk about 15. Advise that Minas Tirith send whatever ships in her docks to the mouths of the Anduin to defend from potential attack and mobilize the river merchants to blockade mouth of the river. Attempting to mobilize fleet to defend the coastline. Any word from Talfalas? Fear the island may be ridden with plague, and all supplies contaminated. Also fear Corsairs may take the weakened island and attempt to re-infect Amrothian ships or coastline.

Errand-riders still delayed by lack of horses in outer districts. Will not move horses through city until quarantine is lifted (will not risk knighthood horses). All messages ridden on horses from outside the city, messengers must walk to nearest township. Five day quarantine outside the city for all outsiders still in place. Remind your riders they are expected to remain in quarantine (do not want to spread disease by rider) but we will take their messages into the city and bring them responses.

Will send word when quarantine is lifted, and available healers to reinforce your own as soon as feasible. Do not have other resources to spare in time of war. Sorry.

- Lord Imrahil

It begins with a few skirmishes - testing Gondor's defenses. Haradrim warriors crossing the border in lightning-strike raids.

By sea, small Umbarean craft harass the Amroth blockade, independent of the Haradrim.

In the East, the messenger arrives with the news. The Hounds of Khand ride, and Gondor's allies let them go, and sit back to see what happens.

The blood is in the water, and the sharks circle.

She has gotten worse, but the bottle you sent is keeping her strong. I have added my own brew as well, which will hopefully tip the scales in our favor.

Please thank the Lady of the River for me, as I have no time to thank Her myself.

Hope has not forsaken us.

- Galadriel

... along with the Elven Healers (that will be posted in a log soon).


My Lord Stewards,

It would have been nice to have recieved a letter of warning that Elves would be traveling to Gondor, I would have opened my border for them to make their passage easier.

As it stands now, they have just recently departed Edoras - my Riders escorted them there - and I've tried to make sure no one else bothers them on their way to you.

Please keep me up to date on the situation in Gondor, the borders are closed but that doesn't mean we are your enemy.

Any word of Eowyn yet? We have not seen her...

- Eomer King.

A letter arrives for Haleth, and a second for Faramir. A third messenger runs around trying to find Bergil. It's a very simple letter;

Beregond, Captain of the White Guard, is gravely ill with the sickness that has stricken numerous of our people.

Aragorn pulled on a non-descript tunic and pants, and a ratty old cloak he had no particular attachment to. Pulling a mask up to conceal the lower half of his face, he slipped out his window, and descended into the city. It was quiet, save for the bayiing of dogs. It was dark save for the lamps, and soft candles in the occasional window.

The first circle, however, was anything but quiet. The smell of sickness and death could be detected even through the mask, and he made his way to the guard barracks that had been set aside as a sick ward. Pulling on his gloves and reaching into his pouch with herbs, he entered. He did not know if he could save anyone, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try to ease some suffering and help save those he could.

And maybe, to those who felt no hope, they might have felt the eyes of a king settle upon them, and had hope again.

From the moment of his return to life some months ago, errand rider Hirgon had been kept trotting, both while growing used to his new mare and riding messages with her, and on his feet as well, as his services had been required. It had simply been another day of work after the other the moment he had walked back into the rider barracks nearly four years to the day he had left Minas Tirith for his last ride in Denethor’s service. He’d been informed of all events then of course, the sea of strange new faces, his berth given away, his prized mattress nowhere to be seen, though he now knew the rider who’d done that . He’d been informed, demanded work an hour after his arrival there and been sent with a quick message across the city that same afternoon.

Since then, the days had gone on much the same as before the war and Hirgon was grateful for that. Easier to fall back into with the time, enough moments to live in peace to rid him of the worst of the nightmares of orcs who bore down upon him, of his death with Minas Tirith in plain view, the knowledge that the single moment he might have gone faster… Those still came to him of course, the long scar he’d watched his blood seep out of ached when he woke in the night, but overall those things had gotten better.

His face seemed younger now, a little, to the few remaining riders who’d have known him then, or so they told him. But on the rare moments that Hirgon looked into a glass, he did not see so much was different about him. He smiled and laughed now, or had learned to smile and laugh again in the absence of such hard times as those had been.

The new life had suited him, he’d thought, until so very recently when news of illness striking had sent the world into an organized panic again. Hirgon was never one for panic, he was one for work instead to cope with it, so work was what he did. If he smiled a little less as he rode messages bearing the news of death, if he’d forgotten how to laugh again most times, he still went grimly onward, reminding himself he had born worse things before. An arrow painted black with a red tip, a symbol of the world’s end, a mark of certain death, they all had thought it, and Gondor had passed through that, harmed but ever proud, unfelled by evil and emerged, her banners waving as bright, her spires shining silver as they ever had before.

It was for this that Hirgon rode on when all but one other might have stopped it long before, in memory of the time when other tides had turned, and in the hope they turned again. It was for this that he now wove a scarf about his face whenever he rode to the boundaries of where messages could be sent and checked for signs of those within the city who had fallen ill, even while trying to prevent the thing for himself. If keeping busy was a way to fend off an urge at giving in to nightmares, then Hirgon chased his shadows down with all that he was worth. It was the only thing he knew, the only thing he wished, and in the times like now, the only thing that mattered.

Lord Boromir,

You will forgive me for being brief, and also for not telling you in person. I am afraid as of now you must add Arwen to your list of those ill with the plague.

I will inform you should things change.

Galadriel didn't even sign her name!

A note to Boromir from Pelargir:

Several patients appear to have pulled through. None of the first ones, but some of those who we caught early on once we were aware and treated the symptoms to. There appears to be no ryhme or reason, save they were naturally strong or stubborn. We do not have enough information to gauge what the overall mortality rate will be.

The number of sick has reached about 20% of the population of the city thus far, and fully half of those have already died.

We've also received word that nearby towns and homesteads may have some cases.


A note to Boromir from the Minas Tirith houses of healing:

Ten people are now ill, and three are dead. First circle has been quarantined, but we received two of the new cases from the second circle.

Another from a farmer:

We've slaughtered a dozen cattle and burned them, after two were found to be sick. The rest of the herd has been taken to summer feeding grounds early in hopes of preventing the culling of the entire stock. Sheep herders have spoke to me of similar actions.

A note to Imrahil from Minas Tirith:

The disease has spread to the White City. Thus far it is contained to the first circle.

A report lands on the desk of Prince Imrahil;

Six horses have succumbed to the same illness that has affected the city. It is not limited to horses. There have been reports of dogs and sheep afflicted with the symptoms, some dropping dead in the street.

A similar report is delivered from Pelargir to Minas Tirith.

A missive arrives for Boromir and Aragorn:

We've had two cases of the mysterious ailment brought to us. They were discovered on the first circle. One was a merchant who'd just received a shipment of grain from Pelargir a few days before getting sick. It's possible that might be related to how it's spreading, but it's impossible to know for sure. We've burned his shipment as a precaution.

A note passed from the knight healers to Armsmaster Essam and then to Undercaptain Aráto.

( Read more... )

( at the request of her husband, Lady Aergannel investigates the situation at the healers' guild. )