Untold Tales RPG

Along with orders to increase the patrols along the southern border, and further informing settlements - and the likes of Rohan and Dale - of what seems to be a flu-like illness, the following letter reaches Pelargir bearing the seal of Steward Boromir II:

As asked, this letter should arrive along with five healers and additional supplies, to aid in the efforts against the illness which has afflicted your citizens. It is under the recommendation from the King, himself, that you treat this as a self-imposed siege situation, and do not let any persons either leave or enter the city, unless it is to send forth a message for further aid or to inform us further of the situation as it transpires, to avoid spreading the illness to other areas. In order for Minas Tirith to be prepared in the event that an individual has entered this city after traveling from Pelargir, and thus exposed us to the ailment in question, we wish to be granted a further insight into what your healers have noticed with the illness in its early stages, so that our remaining healers can be aware should afflicted persons visit the Houses of Healing. If this matter does escalate, then an emergency meeting of the council will likely be called, and notices will be duly issued as to the location and date of the meeting should it be deemed necessary.

A further letter is sent to Dol Amroth, to Prince Imrahil, from Boromir:

Esteemed Uncle, Prince Imrahil,

It has been brought to our attention and I mean to duly inform you, that an illness has spread within Pelargir. I would be wary of those who might have borne business from that city to yours, in the event that they may have shared much more than merely business with you, but what appears to be a rather nasty touch of something which involves a fever, as well as coughing and vomiting or the likes. I shall keep you informed as soon as newer information should arrive, and it has already been ordered by the King that Pelagir is to be kept under containment until such time as the illness transpires. If you have any further insights or suggestions, they would be most welcome. And if there is a council meeting called in the event that things take a catastrophic turn for the worst, then I shall send a notice with the greatest of haste.

Another note from the Amrothian healing houses arrives amidst the rest of the Prince's business. This one has a more urgent tone to it;

The situation appears to be escalating. We've recorded another six deaths, and dozens more confirmed sick. There's evidence that there may be many more, particularly in the poorer districts. We're beginning to think this is might be serious, and some extreme measures may be necessary.

In addition to this, a missive from Pelargir arrives on the desk of the Steward of Gondor, expressing a similar tale of woe, and a more blunt request for aid.

Twenty dead, one hundred sick. Vomiting blood, cough and fever. Two districts quarentined. Requesting supplies and additional healers.

Buried in a stack of reports to the Prince is a note from the healing houses. It reads as follows;

We have noticed an unusual number of people coming in with specific symptoms. They include coughing and fever, vomiting of blood, and the runs. There were two cases two days ago, both dock workers. There were three yesterday, and there are six today. It is not just the docks, but we've noticed the largest number of patients in Gatetown. There have been two from more affluent neighborhoods as well. At the moment there has been one fatality, and the others are in various stages of distress.

It is recommended that those areas we've had patients from be quarantined until a headcount can be taken of those (if any) with the symptoms.

Eowyn went riding a few days ago, and has not returned. With recent events in mind, and certain madmen on the loose, I think it prudent to search for her, personally.

~Faramir.

It's night in Dol Amroth. and some workers are busy. At the docks, sailors unload bags of grain, and live cattle for the market. Much of the grain is purchased that day for both people, and for horses, and most of the cattle is slaughtered. Similar unloading goes on in Pelargir. Most remains in the two cities, but some is saved for trading elsewhere.

"You take it back or I'll do you even worse!"

The shout was almost typical, had been heard by many other riders, in many other camps, yet somehow to the pair scrambling along the muddy patches of grass where a bit of snow had melted, this was the only time that the moment had truly mattered. Here, not one full day away from their two small villages, two boys were biting, scrambling, yanking at each other's braids, whatever it would take to prove the other wrong.

"Take it back." The smaller of the boys repeated, spitting blood and half a tooth out of the corner of his mouth, before he slammed a fist into the side of his larger opponent's face. "I've had the best of you, I've proven it and you'll keep silence from now on."

"How's hitting me going to change what I know about where you're from?" the second boy demanded, as he struggled to throw off his oponent. It ought to have been simple enough, by the sheer matter of weight, but somehow the boy straddling him held fast, particularly after he'd finally gained the upper ground, despite that his right eye would be too swelled to use tommorow. Then again, when you were small and quite quick tempered, you learned the tricks to fighting early on.

"So maybe hitting you won't do a thing." Daegmund agreed, still grappling for position as it became clear that the large boy was slowly struggling free despite his efforts to the contrary. "But I think this..." Swiftly before there was so much as a chance to move, Name's badly scrapped fingers were around the other's nose and twisting hard, until he heard an all familar snap and warm blood gushed over his fingers. "Going to keep it up?" he taunted, pushing himself off the ground slowly. "Or do you want to shut your trap?" His tones were gleeful as he rose in something close to triumph, though why none of the the boys from his village were cheering was a mystery to Daegmund.

Had he not proven they were not so backwards as was often claimed? Had he not proved once again, as he'd proved to his fellows there was nothing a girl could not do well as a boy?

Had...Why was someone pulling her away, despite that she was kicking her hardest at this person's boots though her arms were pinned back...How...

"How old would you be,Daegmund lad?" It was Elfstan then, who had dragged her away and was now pushing her into his tent, then rooting in a small pouch for supplies. He'd ridden near their group this morning and so far had easily seemed fooled. Now that he was asking such things though, it was time Devona put her skills at lying to the test. "Thirteen." she answered swiftly, knowing as a boy she could not be sixteen as she truly was. This age at least bought her some time in which she'd need not worry about such small things as changing her voice for a small time yet. "And what of that?" she couldn't help demanding as was her usual wont. "I may be smaller than the others, but you didn't leave me back there did you? When did age account for..."

"You'll want to settle down before you're fourteen, else I think you won't see that." Elfstan's tone were casual enough for giving out a warning, though the wet cloth he pressed to her face stung with whatever mixture he'd put on it. She half wanted to hiss at this, but Devona's pride allowed to her to do no such thing as male or female, so she settled for a glower instead.

"I'll see it when I've done them all for calling me the things they dared!" she challenged, glaring hotly at the rider as he took the cloth away and shook his head. "I do not bluff if that is what you think," She pressed on, anger making her still bolder than she'd been before, now that the blood was washed away and gradually stopping still, despite that some still came out of her mouth with every word.

"No thanks for any of this, boy?" Elfstan asked her, snorting as he offered a second cloth. "Put that one in your mouth and hold it there until your bleeding's stopped." he ordered. "Maybe it'll quiet your tongue enough to keep you out of things till dinner, though I've my doubts so far as that goes. I think that Oeric got the better end of it for cleaning up your friend." he added, brushing his cloth this time against some mud caked still on Devona's forehead before nodding that she may as well leave. "And next time boy," he added, right before she slipped outside, "You wait and tell your kinsman what they have to say for his own village. Elfhelm will set them right. It's in your nose." he added, and Devona supposed she must have looked surprised. "Another of his sons, I think or..."

"Sister Son and what is that to..." Devona broke off midway into that challenge. After all, the man was being nice enough, but dragging Uncle into it made things difficult all over again. He'd not give her away, she didn't think. Lady Eowyn's example in the war, and all his talk of women in the city by the sea called Dol Amroth would mean she'd have a chance, but even so, she hoped that when she saw Elfhelm again, he'd let all recognition slip until they were alone. "I'll go now." she said instead, giving Elfstan a firm nod as she turned back in the direction they had come.

"You watch yourself then, Daegmund. Don't let your fire burn out too quickly." Elfstan cautioned, though of course, she barely heard him. The flame of youth stretched out before her, and there were her fellows, boys who knew her secret and agreed to keep it, greeting her with questions, praise and points she'd better mind the next time she was in a fight. If it blazed perhaps too brightly, were there any who could blame her?

There were few rooms as beautiful as the grand dining hall of the prince of Dol Amroth. The walls were a radiant mist gray marble with flecks of silver like lost stars glittering through a fog. The floor had been laid in beautiful smooth contrasting patterns of light and dark wood, swirling around in breathtaking spirals of flowers and geometric shapes. The wide eastern wall was entirely clear glass, looking out over the prince's green gardens and the sea. Hundreds of tall white candles in silver candlesticks glittered from around the room, lighting it in a warm, intimate glow, and outside in the garden, tiny floating lights glittered in the surface of his largest pond, little candles set adrift to burn like stars, visible from the banquet hall and the long window.

The feasting tables had been a family heirloom since the days of Aglahad, solemn dark wood that stretched with seating for a hundred at a time, and each matching chair of carved dark wood bore the cutout of a many-petaled flower, echoed in the floor. The tables today were laid with glittering blue silk, and each of the hundred chairs sat before a full table setting; ivory plates of the finest Amrothian glass, tall clear flutes for wine with a swirling cobalt stem (so difficult to manufacture that each glass was worth a hundred mirians), delicate silver forks and squares of embroidered linen. A feast of excess crowned the table as its chief glory, five immensely fat slaughtered geese stuffed with minced meat and fruit on the table with wings half-spread, as if just landing upon water, and pyramids of rare citruses from Umbar adorning the table in an edible display of luxury. Scattered amid the geese were baskets full of breads of fine-ground grain, enormous pots of delicate soup, heavy platters of pork and beef and fish, each roasted or stewed or grilled to the apex of culinary perfection. Imrahil's cooks had outdone themselves, and as if each of these things had not, in and of themselves, been an excessive gesture, the reserves of wine that had been set upon the table in crystal decanters glittered with the very best of Belfalas, full red wines, and delicate white wines, and sweet golden dessert wines, of vintages and years so rare they no longer were sold.

Through the doors of the dining hall into the ballroom the glittering marble walls continued to sparkle, and the smooth inlaid floor curled and curved into the enormous room, which boasted the largest candle-lit chandelier in all the provinces, which, now lit, cast a yellow glow over the glittering room, and caught the light of the small circular mirrors that had been set around the wide room to reflect the light. A long stage dominated the far end of the room, upon which sat the musicians who were tuning for the first music of the night. Imrahil stood gazing at the closed doors that lead out into the hall. Servants were bustling back and forth, preparing the last things for the opening of those doors and the flood of people, who were currently having their coats and cloaks whisked away, who were arriving more and more by the minute, forced to mingle in the narrow hallway until he opened the grand doors and welcomed them in.

Aergannel passed him, wearing radiant blue, and whispered to her father-in-law as she passed. "I hope it's worth it," she said, too low for any servants to hear, but Imrahil ignored her, gazing around the glittering, magical world she had helped him create, which seemed to shine like a star. Soon it would be filled with people, some of whom he would be glad to see, some of whom he could not have loathed more. The great production was at last about to begin, and Imrahil was to play many cards he had been holding for a long time in his hand. He would play them gradually, here and there, and let others play certain cards for him. His grand designs hung on this production, this show, and the actions of a few good men. (And a few sensational ones, but Imrahil wasn't thinking about that.)

"Open the doors," he said aloud. The heavy wooden doors swung open gradually, and for a moment, Imrahil saw the long hallway full of silk and velvet, and wondered if he was making a terrible mistake. But then people were flooding into the wide room, fanning out, and he watched the narrow stream become a mighty flood, filling up the space. Noise went with them, even as the musicians began to play music, and Imrahil watched everything with distant eyes.

At last, his voice rang out over the din. "Lords and ladies, esteemed admirals, commanders, captains, lieutenants, undercaptains, sergeants, and distinguished guests... I called you to this event to celebrate the birth of prince Eldarion in Minas Tirith. As you drink, raise a glass to the health of the queen and her new son. Later I shall be honoring a few of those commendable Amrothians who have distinguished themselves in the past year on the sea and the field, to whom we all owe gratitude and thanks." He paused, and added, "please, try not to get too drunk."

And then it truly was beginning, and Imrahil could do nothing but wait for the ideal opportunity to begin the many plays in this game of cards.

The headline is all over Dol Amroth, and boys in floppy caps stand on the street with fresh copies of paper from the scribes' guild, waving the papers, trying to make a silver mirian or two off the latest gossip and some serial stories and poems, while others are plastered to the side of buildings and on tavern walls.

The Prince To Hold Dinner In Honor Of Queen's Son
Following the announcement of the birth of Queen Arwen and King Elessar's first child, the boy Eldarion, and heir apparent to the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in Minas Tirith, Lord Imrahil has announced an invitation-only dinner party for the nobility, knighthood, and navy. Rumored to be on the guest list include prominent social figures from the theatre and literary circles, as well as important figures of fashion like the much-imitated Sir Boron who made so popular the style of wearing ankle-length trousers over one's boots. It is rumored that this shall be the first of the new year's parties at which Captain Amrothos will be making an appearance, and your writers have managed to acquire one invitation, to investigate this rumor ourselves...

It has been confirmed that after the festivities end, Certain Figures of the knighthood well-known to Dol Amroth shall be redistributing what is left of the Prince's dinner expenses in Gatetown, though the time and place of this affair and what other interesting circumstances may follow it are yet unknown...

Near the bottom of one such broadside is a much smaller headline.

Trouble in the Southern Quarter?
Following the departure of the fleet of Dol Amroth to burn the fleet of Umbar, many reports of broken windows and threatening letters in the Southern Quarter have come to our attention. Captain Halethor of the Militia encourages our Southron citizens remain calm and continue to report these incidents to the militia, as well as exercise caution when walking the streets early in the morning and late in the evening. The Charter of Dol Amroth specifically prohibits violence without provocation, a law not limited to citizens, and any such persons caught destroying private property and writing such threatening posts shall be duly arrested and held for trial. If you suspect any persons to be engaging in such criminal activities, contact the head of your local militia unit.

... inscribed in Sindarin, in a very graceful script.


Your troubles with the wraith are only beginning. Celeborn tracked him all the way to Khand, where it would seem he has come upon a very powerful artifact. This artifact is capable of burning upon command, it would seem. It may very well, if the wraith learns its secrets properly, set the entire world aflame.

Celeborn was able to pierce his heart, at a cost to his own skin, but yet Khamul remains. Celeborn believes - as do I - that the return of the rest is linked to the way in which Khamul has rejoined the living. There is more, that Celeborn would say better than I, but I thought it best to make you aware.

He is in the city now, and will be well enough eventually, though the artifact the wraith carries burned him badly.

I do hope you are all well.
~ Galadriel.

The accouncement comes a week after the child's birth. Aragorn Elessar Telcontar and his Queen Arwen have had a healthy son! Prince Eldarion, heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor!

Go forth and celebrate! Or something

Faramir sat in the archives, tapping a quill on a blank piece of paper. He'd gone over his brother's mad writings a dozen times. Left to right, right to left, upside down. He'd even singled out the first letter of every word. And when that showed nothing but gibberish, the last letter of every word. When read left to right it was simply an assortment of unrelated words or phrases, none of which made any sense.

He had a book on Quenya next to him, for reference purposes, though he'd turned to it only once. And Boromir was nowhere near as good at Quenya as he was. His brother had enough of a passing knowledge to get by and write reports - everything else was handled in the simpler Sindarin, as most of the guards and other daily reports Boromir received were fortunate enough to be written well. The oddest part was how well written and concise the script was. One might almost call it cute.

There was something he was missing. Faramir felt in his gut there was something significant about this. Because it somehow seemed familiar. He scratched at his head, closing the Quenya book, and pulling out additional scrolls. Boromir had no recollection of his nighttime activities. Part of Faramir just wanted to dismiss it as the man being overworked, as the last time they'd had visions, it had been much clearer and come to them in dreams, not like this. But his gut, and his heart, pushed him deeper and deeper into the archives, until he might very well forget that such a thing as the sun existed. He certainly lost track of the time, only stopped in his work to grab a small something to eat, and drink. Thank Eru there was a recent shipment of coffee...

At least an entire night and day passed before he hit on it. While glancing at a particularly ornate border on a book, he tilted his head, then pulled out a copy of the scribbles. He read the first letter of each word, from top to bottom.

"Twilight."

He furrowed his brow, and read the next part, "sinks. Twilight sinks."

He hurried back to his table, writing it down.

Twilight sinks beneath the waves of crashing stone. Darkness obscures the eye. Touch of burning cold.

"What in the world does that mean?"

He rubbed at his chin, and rested his face on his hand, tapping his quill. Fifteen words. Fifteen words, now why was this familiar? He got up again, walking to a section that had some older writings, from when Gondor was still young. Translations really, of older things. He didn't know from where, or when, the original writings were. He thumbed through one.

"Born again with fifteen souls before the sun." No nay, son. Not sun. He'd scribbled the correction into the margins when he was 4. He turned to the page before that.

Twilight sinks beneath the waves of crashing stone. Darkness obscures the eye. Touch of burning cold. Born again with fifteen souls before the son.

The eye could be Sauron, Faramir thought. But that was too easy. That would be what most would assume, would think right away. A red herring, and his heart tugged him from that thought. Touch of burning cold could mean the frigid north. Forodwaith or the Bay of Forochel, or most any tall mountain. It could also mean the utter south. Aragorn had once told him he'd gone so far south that the oceans froze over and strange flightless birds swam in the seas. It could also mean the resurrected Ring-wraith, but again, that seemed..entirely too easy. In most cases, the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. Unfortunately, prophesies and their ilk tended to work in an entirely different manner from common sense.

He sat down again, sipping at his coffee which had grown cold, as he pored over another manuscript. He didn't notice the cold.

renascent
being reborn; springing again into being or vigor.

( A steward reborn. )

karisvoices: I feel sorry for Aragorn
karisvoices: if the women he comes in contact with on a daily basis
karisvoices: are Arwen, Karigan, and Miriel.
KefkaQ: LOL
KefkaQ: and galadriel
Whisper Earendil: Galadriel: *innocent look*
karisvoices: i mean seriously
karisvoices: aragorn's mental health?
karisvoices: must soooo not be good.
KefkaQ: LOL
karisvoices: your ancestor-relation is apparently the sexpot of numenor puttering around, there's a strange mental problem there
karisvoices: your "friend" and personal messenger is, BEFORE THIS, sick, cranky, prone to outbursts of verbal or physical assault, and generally insane, that has to be a work-place stress
karisvoices: then your wife and her GRANDMA are living in the same house and are ELVES.
karisvoices: i mean, seriously, Aragorn need some manfriends.
Whisper Earendil: XDDD
karisvoices: what happens if the citadel women synchronise?
karisvoices: i mean can you imagine
Whisper Earendil: OMFG
karisvoices: "DON'T TALK TO ME" "GIVE ME A HUG" "*SLAP*"
karisvoices: it's like Aragorn's Worst Day Ever
karisvoices: "Where's the CHOCOLATE." "the shipment is stuck in Dol..." "GET ME SOME CHOCOLATE"
KefkaQ: LL
KefkaQ: XD
karisvoices: seriously.

Well, I've finally decided in midst o' intestinal illness, that any hopes of me munning an Elf? Is nihil. I think that I'll chalk it up to a.) me not liking Elves at all & b.) its not cool to have some cartoony version of Elrond running around, because he's supposed to be impressive and stuff, and mine isn't impressive. So, come to terms with that, yes. Sorry, Steph! Yes, I'm keeping Turin and Ilsa's journals, naturally, but I'll be changing the password on the Elrond journal, if there's any interested takers. Ultimately? I'm cut down to 2 characters now, as I'm keeping Eothain, and it'll be a cold day in Hell when Boromir shuts up. <3

Snipey has also dropped Beleg, so if anyone's up to either picking up Elrond, Turin, or Beleg? Good gravy, go right on ahead. In the meantime? Please update your friends lists. Thanx!

friend add wulfredhammer friend add ladyfinduilas friend add steel_lily friend add altariel friend add lordoflorien friend add ringbearer friend add eomund friend add beregond friend add ithilien_wolf friend add itarill friend add elendilvoronda friend add armsmaster friend remove ilsafalmari friend add untold_tales friend add untold_logs friend add untold_npc friend add untold_ooc friend add flowerofamroth friend add amrothos friend add erchirion friend add arwen_undomiel friend add zaira friend remove mormegil friend add forest_warrior friend add khamul friend add tar_miriel friend add telcontar friend add boromirofgondor friend add lesser_jewel friend add lady_patron friend add ladyofthewood friend add lordofbelfalas friend add olorin friend add shadowofthesea friend add sonofthethain friend add armsmaster friend add kingofhorsies friend add stormofwinds friend add standard_bearer friend add untold_npc friend add eothain friend remove aerin friend remove artanis friend remove celebrimbor friend remove lomion friend remove maiden_nellas friend remove niniel friend remove noldofingolfin friend remove thewhitelady friend add dusksinger friend remove lordofrivendell friend add ithil friend add lordsofimladris friend add elendilvoronda friend add shadowofthesea

Secan dismounted and hid his horse some miles from Edoras, and traveled the rest of the way on foot. He could see smoke rising from the city, and hear the sounds of battle, and when he crawled over a hill his eyes narrowed. There was a battle underway in front of the city, mostly on foot - whoever was attacking had positioned themselves where calvary would have a hard time. His keen eyesight spotted one possibility - large caltrops littered the field. The riders would have had to dismount or risk deadly injury to their horses.

Clever. He counted as best he could, then scootched back before getting up and darting back to where he'd left his horse. A force of one-hundred to one-fifty, fighting currently limited to the fields in front of the city and the immediate area inside the walls at the gate. He'd only counted one Eored there, perhaps half of another - he didn't know where the others were!

Khamul's plan, had not gone according to plan. Aside from the ent sentries he'd narrowly avoided, Orthanc had been picked bare. He'd thought that Aragorn would have done so, but he'd hoped that something, anything would have been overlooked. It was a large tower, with lots of nooks and crannies, and he'd spent days scouring it for any artifact or parchment.

And he'd come up with a half a parchment and a few grains of black powder. But perhaps it would be enough, at least, to start from. Tahirah had been woefully uneducated in such things, being from Khand and not further east. It was a disappointment, and a setback.

He departed from Orthanc at night, weaving through the stones and past the ent guards, nearly being caught on several occasions. He made way to his camp.

They would have to skirt Isengard carefully, so as to not rouse the wrath of the ents. But it was time to move. Time to set his plans into motion.

He turned as Tahirah approached, "Is it done?"

"Aye, lord. The beacons have been lit."

He smiled, a cheshire in the dark, "Take up camp, it's time to move. I'll lead the raiding party on Edoras, you take the rest, and edge just south of Fangorn. Cross the entwash, and wait until their army is too far gone to notice or pursue, and continue on your course."

"Will you burn Edoras?"

"To the ground."

Perhaps it would not all be a waste, after all.

A message comes for the king. It has been written on a torn piece of cloth in blotty ink, difficult, but legible, and was carried into the city by a merchant, who intercepted it at Pelargir. How it got to Pelargir is a story yet untold. When the errand-rider in the city who received it brings it for the king, there seems to be an old dark stain on the cloth, though where in its journey that came about is hard to say.

Power has shifted. They are rounding up and arresting all foreigners in Umbar and hanging those they suspect of having ties to Gondor. Tell your spies to get out.

The only proof of the authorship of the note comes in the form of a little coin that had been rolled up into the strip of cloth, such as those worn for good luck, stamped with Haradric for good fortune.

It had withstood the entirety of the Third Age, until Saruman's madness uprooted the trees, and the Ents took their vengence upon the structures of Isengard. But forked tower remained, imposing and dark, like a terrible fang biting into the sky. With the way the sun was rising, it seemed like the sky was bleeding from the wound.

Khamul pulled the hood of his cloak back, gazing up the smooth stone-work, and his smile glinted in the dawning light. Perhaps it had been cleaned out. But perhaps there yet remained something inside of the Wizards machinations and scheming. Something he could use, like the black powder that Saruman had first learned about, when he'd traveled East, long ago.  If the Wizard was wise, he would have hidden it, or the formula.

Black powder would prove useful, in the coming campaign. If he could strike a deathblow to Rohan before the white Wizard alerted Gondor - he'd been able to stop what riders the Mark had sent forth, but Gandalf had been much harder to stop - he could eliminate one threat, and concentrate on another.

He turned to his General, "Raid the Mark for horses. Capture any who would alert them that we are on the move. It is bad enough Mithrandir warned them, they do not need to know we are raiding them." He paused, "I want them alive."

Tahirah bowed her head as Khamul strode into the tower. She did not question her lord's orders - she'd already sold her soul to return him. Perhaps he wanted the prisoners as hostages?