Yussssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss, so excited to get this show on the road.
babbysama
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The babby
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Just a guy who wishes he could change his username
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I'm interested!
Fixed some formatting and added/subtracted some stuff here and there in my post.
What they say about Mirkwood was true, Húldas thought. A dark place. A cursed place. A fell place.
Neither the defeat of Sauron nor the efforts of the Elfking Thranduil had been able to fully dispel the darkness of the wood. When one crept the paths of Mirkwood, one sensed a lingering, a scuttling, not of some beast or creature (though those both were present in equal proportion), but of the very air itself. Something stirred, beyond one's vision, beyond one's hearing, beyond one's very ability to perceive, and yet one knew that it was there, in the deep places of the wood where no light could ever hope to reach.
The colonists of Dôr-min-Taur were fools, and likely they had met a fool's end. But it just so happened that one of them was his brother. And, dead or no, he had to find him.
Húldas could not fathom why Dúnmer had chosen this place, of all places, to fly from the sight of their father. Gondor would've been his choice, if it had been him, or across the Misty Mountains to Arnor, places far more comfortable, and at the very least tamed. Perhaps he had, though; although they had been corresponding by letter for two years, Dúnmer had never been quite clear on the thirteen or so years between his flight from Rohan and his arrival in Dôr-min-Taur, and Húldas had not pried. But one thing he had to admit: if one wanted to hide from the eyes of the world, Mirkwood was perhaps the best place in all of Middle-Earth, barring the deep mansions of the dwarves. Dúnmer claimed he had come to Dôr-min-Taur for the opportunity to get rich from the mithril boom, and Húldas did not doubt it...but was there more to it than that? Húldas was unsure, and he couldn't be sure of anything about Dúnmer any more. After all, he hadn't seen him in thirteen years.
Soon enough I'll know the truth, he thought, leading Hárfax through a particularly treacherous tangle of roots, About all of this.
It was cold in the wood. The close, humid air had a way of chilling you to the bone, creeping underneath your furs like a thief. Húldas pulled his cloak more tightly about him, his breath fogging in the gloom. He paused for a moment, regarding the closely knotted canopy above; even in winter, it seemed, the trees did not shed their leaves.
Just another sign of the wickedness of this place.
A small brook, dark and bitterly cold and choked with smooth, egg-like stones, ran quietly not too far off. Húldas decided this was just as good a place as any to take a rest and get his bearings. He planted his spear (which he had been using as a walking stick) into the earth, sloughed off the saddlebags Hárfax's back, and finally lowered himself down onto a soft bed of leaves at the foot of a gnarled oak. Hárfax, free of her burden, wandered off towards the brook. Húldas' legs ached from the saddle, his bones felt like they were rattling, and he was hungry besides; what's more, he thought that he was lost. From the saddlebag he extracted the map he had bought at the small settlement of Woodmen who lived on the forest outskirts (forced out by recent events), along with a rind of moldy cheese and a crust of stale bread. He ate ravenously while trying to make sense of the thing. Scrutinizing the terrain, trying to match the brook with the little squiggles on the map, even for ten or more minutes, availed him no greater understanding of his environs. It all looked the same to him: dark trees, dark streams, dark paths, dark, dark, dark, with little light to guide him. He could be anywhere in Mirkwood, for all he knew. But what else could he do, other than go forward? The Woodmen said that if he continued on his northward course, he should reach Dôr-min-Taur within the matter of days, though even they were unsure of its exact location. As they had said, "Once you enter the wood, you shall be alone, utterly, and shall have yourself only for guide." A comforting thought.
He brushed the crumbs off of his clothes, rolled the map up, and with a grunt, hoisted himself up onto his feet with his spear. He had lost sight of Hárfax, but heard a whinny a little ways off. Spear in hand, he shouldered the saddlebags and headed towards the direction of the brook, calling out softly, "Hárfax! Tolo anin naur!" He found her watering in the stream. "I hope that black water doesn't corrupt you too," he said tenderly in her ear, stroking her dark mane, "I'm sorry...but I must burden you again. We must press on. Gwaem."
Then, he heard it, faintly, above the cooing of the waters...voices.
He froze, and immediately let the saddlebags down onto the mossy shore. He pricked up his ears and listened; it was coming from the northeast...a man...no, a Dwarf, and a female...an Elf. A peculiar pair, he thought. He couldn't understand what they were saying; he knew he had to get closer, and if they were friendly, hail them. It could have been merely some glamour of the wood, trying to trick him, or bandits trying to prey upon those who had wandered in in search of the colony. He doubted it, though; he thought that he had heard some Sindarin, and later some patches of Westron. Perhaps they were colonists who had lost their way; Dwarves, Men, and Elves lived in tandem in Dôr-min-Taur, after all. Glamour or no, bandit or no, friend or foe, he had to know who they were.
"Boe i 'waen," he whispered to Hárfax, "Stay here."
He leapt nimbly across the brook, and, kneeling down, began to creep through the brush towards the direction of the voices. His heart was pounding; it was like the sensation of stalking a deer. He threw his hood up. In the sylvan gloom, his breath was the only thing that marked his progress. The voices were drawing nearer; he was able to discern multiple speakers, not merely two, as he had at first...multiple Elves, and still only one Dwarven voice. Curious indeed. Finally, in the midst of the trees, he found them: four Elves, all with bows drawn, and led by a strikingly beautiful female. Their bows were directed towards an imposing Dwarf, with an axe slung over his shoulder.
At a sign from the Elven leader, the others stood down and adopted a less hostile, but still wary posture. They began to discuss Dôr-min-Taur; it seemed that they were both in search of the place.
It still could be a glamour, a trick of the wood, he warned himself, Or bandits arguing amongst themselves.
But he decided that it was the worth the risk, whoever they were. If these were people in search of the colony, and, more importantly, if they knew where they were going, he had to risk it, at the very least to ascertain the right direction, if not join them outright. He might not have the chance again, and he did not exactly fancy dying a slow and cruel death in the bowels of the forest ensnared in a spider's web.
Thus, Húldas stepped quietly from the shadows towards the group, and immediately all five brandished their weapons, the elves redirecting the attention of their bows towards him. He dropped his spear, and raised his arms above his head in surrender.
"Goheno nin...Im foeg cin baw flae. Peditham hi sui vellyn?" he asked, hood still obscuring his face, "Apologies, master Dwarf. I am not so good with the Westron speak."
Neither the defeat of Sauron nor the efforts of the Elfking Thranduil had been able to fully dispel the darkness of the wood. When one crept the paths of Mirkwood, one sensed a lingering, a scuttling, not of some beast or creature (though those both were present in equal proportion), but of the very air itself. Something stirred, beyond one's vision, beyond one's hearing, beyond one's very ability to perceive, and yet one knew that it was there, in the deep places of the wood where no light could ever hope to reach.
The colonists of Dôr-min-Taur were fools, and likely they had met a fool's end. But it just so happened that one of them was his brother. And, dead or no, he had to find him.
Húldas could not fathom why Dúnmer had chosen this place, of all places, to fly from the sight of their father. Gondor would've been his choice, if it had been him, or across the Misty Mountains to Arnor, places far more comfortable, and at the very least tamed. Perhaps he had, though; although they had been corresponding by letter for two years, Dúnmer had never been quite clear on the thirteen or so years between his flight from Rohan and his arrival in Dôr-min-Taur, and Húldas had not pried. But one thing he had to admit: if one wanted to hide from the eyes of the world, Mirkwood was perhaps the best place in all of Middle-Earth, barring the deep mansions of the dwarves. Dúnmer claimed he had come to Dôr-min-Taur for the opportunity to get rich from the mithril boom, and Húldas did not doubt it...but was there more to it than that? Húldas was unsure, and he couldn't be sure of anything about Dúnmer any more. After all, he hadn't seen him in thirteen years.
Soon enough I'll know the truth, he thought, leading Hárfax through a particularly treacherous tangle of roots, About all of this.
It was cold in the wood. The close, humid air had a way of chilling you to the bone, creeping underneath your furs like a thief. Húldas pulled his cloak more tightly about him, his breath fogging in the gloom. He paused for a moment, regarding the closely knotted canopy above; even in winter, it seemed, the trees did not shed their leaves.
Just another sign of the wickedness of this place.
A small brook, dark and bitterly cold and choked with smooth, egg-like stones, ran quietly not too far off. Húldas decided this was just as good a place as any to take a rest and get his bearings. He planted his spear (which he had been using as a walking stick) into the earth, sloughed off the saddlebags Hárfax's back, and finally lowered himself down onto a soft bed of leaves at the foot of a gnarled oak. Hárfax, free of her burden, wandered off towards the brook. Húldas' legs ached from the saddle, his bones felt like they were rattling, and he was hungry besides; what's more, he thought that he was lost. From the saddlebag he extracted the map he had bought at the small settlement of Woodmen who lived on the forest outskirts (forced out by recent events), along with a rind of moldy cheese and a crust of stale bread. He ate ravenously while trying to make sense of the thing. Scrutinizing the terrain, trying to match the brook with the little squiggles on the map, even for ten or more minutes, availed him no greater understanding of his environs. It all looked the same to him: dark trees, dark streams, dark paths, dark, dark, dark, with little light to guide him. He could be anywhere in Mirkwood, for all he knew. But what else could he do, other than go forward? The Woodmen said that if he continued on his northward course, he should reach Dôr-min-Taur within the matter of days, though even they were unsure of its exact location. As they had said, "Once you enter the wood, you shall be alone, utterly, and shall have yourself only for guide." A comforting thought.
He brushed the crumbs off of his clothes, rolled the map up, and with a grunt, hoisted himself up onto his feet with his spear. He had lost sight of Hárfax, but heard a whinny a little ways off. Spear in hand, he shouldered the saddlebags and headed towards the direction of the brook, calling out softly, "Hárfax! Tolo anin naur!" He found her watering in the stream. "I hope that black water doesn't corrupt you too," he said tenderly in her ear, stroking her dark mane, "I'm sorry...but I must burden you again. We must press on. Gwaem."
Then, he heard it, faintly, above the cooing of the waters...voices.
He froze, and immediately let the saddlebags down onto the mossy shore. He pricked up his ears and listened; it was coming from the northeast...a man...no, a Dwarf, and a female...an Elf. A peculiar pair, he thought. He couldn't understand what they were saying; he knew he had to get closer, and if they were friendly, hail them. It could have been merely some glamour of the wood, trying to trick him, or bandits trying to prey upon those who had wandered in in search of the colony. He doubted it, though; he thought that he had heard some Sindarin, and later some patches of Westron. Perhaps they were colonists who had lost their way; Dwarves, Men, and Elves lived in tandem in Dôr-min-Taur, after all. Glamour or no, bandit or no, friend or foe, he had to know who they were.
"Boe i 'waen," he whispered to Hárfax, "Stay here."
He leapt nimbly across the brook, and, kneeling down, began to creep through the brush towards the direction of the voices. His heart was pounding; it was like the sensation of stalking a deer. He threw his hood up. In the sylvan gloom, his breath was the only thing that marked his progress. The voices were drawing nearer; he was able to discern multiple speakers, not merely two, as he had at first...multiple Elves, and still only one Dwarven voice. Curious indeed. Finally, in the midst of the trees, he found them: four Elves, all with bows drawn, and led by a strikingly beautiful female. Their bows were directed towards an imposing Dwarf, with an axe slung over his shoulder.
At a sign from the Elven leader, the others stood down and adopted a less hostile, but still wary posture. They began to discuss Dôr-min-Taur; it seemed that they were both in search of the place.
It still could be a glamour, a trick of the wood, he warned himself, Or bandits arguing amongst themselves.
But he decided that it was the worth the risk, whoever they were. If these were people in search of the colony, and, more importantly, if they knew where they were going, he had to risk it, at the very least to ascertain the right direction, if not join them outright. He might not have the chance again, and he did not exactly fancy dying a slow and cruel death in the bowels of the forest ensnared in a spider's web.
Thus, Húldas stepped quietly from the shadows towards the group, and immediately all five brandished their weapons, the elves redirecting the attention of their bows towards him. He dropped his spear, and raised his arms above his head in surrender.
"Goheno nin...Im foeg cin baw flae. Peditham hi sui vellyn?" he asked, hood still obscuring his face, "Apologies, master Dwarf. I am not so good with the Westron speak."
@babbysama
Yeah, online sources can be confusing haha. And I thought he'd know Sindarin because of his father - he can be as fluent as you'd like though, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for him to be well-versed in it. I would assume this anyway, but does he also know Westron? I would imagine most of the people in Rohan would learn it, what with being the most popular language of men, but it doesn't hurt to check first. :)
I hadn't really thought of that, lol. But I'd assume he does speak Westron, because I mentioned in the CS that he went to Gondor to get information on the colony, whiiiccchhhh I'll just say means he has a working, conversational knowledge of the language. I think it'd be fun though if he had a little bit of an accent, and if Westron came to him a bit more slowly than does Sindarin. Maybe pops liked to just speak Sindarin and Rohirric at home so he's more fluid with those :P
@babbysama
Sindarin. It was easier to translate from the resources I found online, simply because it's a more developed language. In the lore, however, Quenya wasn't really used much in day-to-day conversation, as it was so old. It was reserved for ceremonies, old songs and tales of elvish history. Someone who wasn't an Elf or of the Dúnedain likely wouldn't know Quenya, barring words that had transferred between it and the Sindar tongue.
Thanks, wasn't sure about the distinction and couldn't find a helpful explanation online. I will just use Sindarin then. Húldas' father's epithet is "Elftongue" so he's been educated in the language and at least conversational
Quick question @MiddleEarthRoze, what Elvish language is being spoken in your post? Is it Quenya?
That would be a good idea. It would be best to plan this as a defensive battle and plan to use our shock cavalry sparingly, largely using them to outmaneuver massed infantry. Particularly while engaged with our own infantry, they are too precious a commodity to waste sallying forth early (Unless we can cause a rout). In the early days we should largely focus on digging in and preparing for a siege. Our own archers and siege equipment will be of no use to us if they are countered in larger numbers by the offensive army. We should be building earthen works and creating shields to prolong the lives of our soldiers. Especially if we expose our archers by placing them high, we will want them to have some kind of shielding preferably something semi portable.
Pitch particularly fired from a catapult or the like would be a brilliant idea in the confined spaces of the canyon and is fantastic way to break morale of the offensive army. Especially when combined with caltrops to limit speed and maneuverability.
If we can use some of Pizarks Hunters and trappers to find some goat paths leading through the mountains we will need to divert a small amount of men to protect them but it may also open up the ability to sabotage supply lines.
But really there can be no concrete plan or clear way to deploy our forces until we know the disposition of the enemy.
It is also important to remember we are not trying to kill as many as possible (Although more is better). We are trying to delay them.
All great points, especially about morale and our ultimate purpose here. We should try and figure out some creative ways in which we can wear down the enemy's morale, maybe something like nighttime raids to keep their watchmen on edge, psychological tactics like chucking the decaying bodies of their dead back at them, creepy magic voodoo shit, etc. I don't think Alaric will necessarily underestimate us (being the tactician that he is, he'll recognize that we have a strong position), but he'll know that he obviously has the upper hand. So it's a question of how much we're willing to sacrifice, how deep we're willing to go, to prove our mettle and see who blinks first.
As you said, I think that on the first day we should be as defensive as possible, sounding out the enemy, digging ourselves in, and not wasting our precious few troops on any aggressive maneuvers.
@babbysama I am all down for digging trenches, making traps and building defenses. If you need some tinkering done or something built, you can come to my guys.
I was thinking of creating these little catwalks in the side of the pass, perhaps by digging them out, or reinforcing existing ledges. Could be a nice place to snipe them from.
My other main idea is something like siege towers used as mobile defensive emplacements for archers. Multiple levels with windows that you could shoot from. Plus maybe even heated oil to pour at the people below.
All good ideas, though I wonder how the siege towers will work once we've entered the final phase and are effectively under siege by the enemy's forces. It also might unduly expose our missile troops, and unless they're properly defended, they could be breached easily by infantry. I'm still down for the idea but we'd have to divert resources to their defense at the expense of other fronts. Just something to keep in mind while drawing up our plans. But catwalks on the side of the pass, sounds dope.
@6slyboy6 Sounds good. We should have the pass itself locked up tight and bristling with defenses, traps, etc. But, as I also mentioned before, we should have some room to maneuver as well. I think ultimately, considering the fact that we won't be able to best Alaric, it'll come down to a protracted siege of the pass. But if we can hold him off for a few days before it comes to that in order to bolster our defenses and entrench our position, more's the better.
What does everyone else think of this?
What does everyone else think of this?
@babbysama
Fair points across the board. Should we adopt the defensive posture and own it on the first day? Go big with a trench line dug in front of our defensive line, cavalry shrouded in cover ready to launch the counter assault, maybe find a way for some of the archers to climb the walls of the canyon to bring fire down from above?
That's the kind of thing I was imagining. Traps, caltrops, maybe some magical defenses scattered about the field; barrels of pitch and burning oil positioned on the heights to rain down on enemies; trenches, etc. etc. Of course to do that is also to tie our hands, because we'd be unable to maneuver; it'd be a siege, not a battle, and maybe that might be the better idea if we're going up against an unbeatable army. Although we don't have a chance at all to beat Alaric, I doubt that IC many of the commanders will fancy the idea of just sitting idly by. So ultimately I think we'll have to hit a sweet spot between offense and defense, obviously with a greater emphasis on defense. Like, a strategy that's highly defensive but also gives us wiggle room to maneuver, make raids, sally forth, etc. I think that's the only way we're going to be successful (to the extent that we can be successful).
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