The Golden Hall of Meduseld

[Beren One-Hand]

*Erekuil desired deeply to see that voice face-to-face, and to know it once again, if it were indeed him, the elder Meklian.  But he would keep his pact with Beren and the other lord's of the Northern Realm.  He would ride with the lords of the north to whatever end - to face the Corsairs and whatever else lies in their way in the southern lands.*

*Ulmo had come to Beren in a dream once again.  The essence of the dream revolved around Beren's purpose on Middle-Earth soon coming to an end.  This upcomg battle against the Corsair foes and the Easterlings would be his last.  The Valor were calling him home - calling him to join them in Aman.  For in that place Beren would become a Maiar, like his mother-in-law, Melian.*

*Beren did not speak of this to any, except his dear old friend Dwalinstone, who swore to tell no one.  Well regardless of all that, all the important leaders and lords had now been fully gathered in the North, and their forces and full strength had been gathered.  Soon, very soon, they would launch an assault upon the southern lands that would be unparalleled on this Middle Earth.*

[Wolfchild]

The port of Umbar was a chaotic scene. For the people there, to see their great fleets return with burdens not of riches and plunder, it was a sure sign that change grew beneath the furrowed brows of men. They hid their pride with wide glances, expressing joy to be home that fed from a desire to die on their own territories. Madness hung in the air, constantly telling them of the march destined to destroy all traces of empire and conquest, cleaning this mistake in one insurmountable wave, unparalleled in all Middle-Earth's history.

Khruna watched the humble crowds exit from large warships in the docks. Indistinguishable from any Corsair child save for being slightly taller, he wrapped two pieces of black leather around his wrists, waiting patiently for any sign that could tell him why they were here. It did not take him long when first arrived to learn that these pirates considered the attack on Gondor their greatest victory in many ancient years. The time taken to merge in with the rest of society had also been surprisingly quick, for it seemed that for many citizens the object was to inadvertently show how much wealth they had, whilst not truly having the funds for any kind of display whatsoever. Poor were they indeed, but it was hidden beneath a mask of reassuring optimism.

The child of the Wolf-people then saw something he had not expected. From the grandest of the fleet exited not only Minasal, but his own mother, little more than handcuffed and in worn attire, both torn and threadbare. He turned to his brother and sister, equally astounded, who lowered their hidden faces as the wearied newcomers passed them, and were for such coincidences, masked around the face in cloth. Khruna and his siblings made haste to ensure they did not loose sight of this grand procession.

[Beren One-Hand]

*Beren arose and addressed the large assembly of leaders.  The assembly consisted of all the great kings and lords of the North and of the free and good lands of Middle Earth.  "Men of the North.  Men of the free kingdoms of Middle Earth, I Erchamion, the One-Handed address you.  I bring the peace of the Valor to you.  And the courage and bravery of fighters of all ages and races to you.  The generals have been appointed for our great upcoming assault upon the Southern lands - to destroy the Corsair and Easterling kingdoms.  We will sweep through formerly peaceful and allied lands such as Rohan and Gondor, but will wipe out any and all in out path.  But the brunt of our assault will be laid upon the outpost at Minas Tirith, Umbar and the surrounding kingdoms, and Mordor.  Not much remains there, but our intel advises us to not overlook it.  Though our priority lies in ridding the Earth of the Corsair scum and their Haradrim and Easterling allies.  Too long have these peoples been a thorn in our collective side.  Not for long will they be so, anymore.  I will stand as Grand General or Captain of the armies, but the larger and more difficult tasks will be to the individuals generals and captains commanding their respective armies.  Dwalinstone, no doubt and no surprise will command the Dwarven armies - those multitudes of dwarves from all dwarven realms.  Halin his brother will be at his side as a leutenant.  Thranduil, my dear friend, will command the elves of Mirkwood.  The elven archers will be deadly accurate in this war.  Malekiah, or as he is now known - Bard the Reborn, will command the brave men of Dale and Laketown.  His leutenant will be the Master of Laketown himself, Robard the Dagger-Thrower.  And last, but not least, Eldarion the reformed king of Gondor, and pitty we do pour out upon that kingdom considering all that has befallen it, will be high commander of the Army of Remnants.  These are the few Gondorians and Rohanians that fled the South before and during the carnage that ensued there.  This force alone is small, but I have extended his command to include all mercenaries, including the Council of Bounty Hunters, who have all been summoned from the great Ice Bay in the Cold Northern Realm.  Drenobi the Terrible will serve as a field marshal for the mercenaries there.  Remard the Stuard will serve Eldarion as Grand Leutenant-General.  Other soldiers you will also have - these will include all available men from the Bree and the surrounding areas.  And do not think because I have been appointed Grand Captain that I will be lurking back in the shadows, hiding away until the last resort.  No.  I will lead the collective armies in battle, at the front lines.  Erekuil the Wolf-man will follow me into battle."*

*Thus Beren explained the detailed account of how this war would be organized and fought in the coming days and weeks.  The great assault on the South and East lands would be unequalled and unparalleled in this Middle Earth.*

[Wolfchild]

That shadows whispered the fear and promise of upcoming war. Its terror at the prospect of such a climax forced even the good of heart to question it, though many were believed to be already in favor, with minds unchanging. With the gift of the shadow promised to him, Meklian attempted to listen, but all were indistinguishable, each wishing to be heard without causing alarm or call of treachery. Voices, voices all...

The thin, amber-grey wolf, released his damaged form from the darkness, pacing forth to gaze upon the great encampment distantly with eager ears swathed in worry. So many, he thought- too many. Their intent was already clear; such armies were not for pride and show, they were for conquest. And the targets were equally obvious. The irritant South was to finally meet its match, and its end, all in one surging victory of numbers and strategy.

Meklian had reason as much as any to join them- with ease he could have walked forth and promised himself to the front line, and joined many an able warrior. Yet in the eyes of these men there was little mercy, and in the heat of slaughter there would be no division between the evil and the innocent. People wanted vengeance. They needed to destroy.

Undoubtedly, there were survivors of the Haradrim fire. He had given part of himself to save them, and the skybound had told him so within the great void. He had followed the scent here, and yet the call had given no response. His nose traced a mixture of others, but they were not her people. Some were not native of this place, yet he recognised an essence from the past. One that upon remembering made the bones of the earth tremble.


Hunter...

[Beren One-Hand]

*Erekuil felt the call of the Wolf.  It could be heard anywhere in Middle Earth.  He knew Meklian lived on, by some strange fate and miracle.  He longed to see the Wolf-man who had been uncorrupted by the wavering malice of Vagaz.  If only he could stand side-by-side with him, then all would be well.  To fight to the death with Beren and Meklian on his side - well there was no greater wish or desire for the young Erekuil.*

[Wolfchild]

They strode to what seemed like an inn from the outside; this grand building lurched over the forecourt like some rearing beast, calling through the low groan of ancient wood and careless repair. Over the arching doorway, a sign lifted heavily in the breeze, and the unoiled frame rusted a name, "The Grey Shipyard" through the dull light of the midday wind. A stench of strong alcohol grew heavier as the gathering approached the creaking entrance, and Vargaz seemed to bolt at the prospect of going inside. She took two steps back, slowly, and as the foul glove of a guard prepared to restrain her shoulder, turned and clenched her bound hands like a club, striking him with the force of the metal left as he was bludgeoned to the ground. Within seconds the rest met instantly to defend the wounded comrade, pausing only to await the instructions of their master- a notably smirking Minasal. "There goes your mind again, Vargaz. T'is in flux, as it always will be. You fear this place not least for the poison of alcohol to wolf blood; but rather that you know fortune resides here. I knew it would still be in the confines of your mind somewhere. You stole the power of her curse an eternity ago, when the true Vargaz reigned, undaunted by this impurity. And she is bitter of her loss. Will you meet her, this creature which grants you such fear as the like your Masters could only dream? I desired for so long to see true fear in your eyes. All that time we were together, you were never once afraid...never flinched to the touch, or gave tear..."

They were interrupted by a sudden breaking scream, like that of a wild dog in pain. The voice cracked with age and agony, and forced Vargaz to stand rigid, freezing with the visible white of her eyes. 

"N-no..." Vargaz stammered, almost unbelieving of the sound.

There was no malicious laugh following her as Minasal simply watched his men fight against the half wolf's strength begging, desperate to be as far away from the frame as possible. The beast within the inn screamed yet again, with a human tone equally howling in hatred and malice. Vargaz suffered the outnumbering to the entrance, whereby the guards entered with her, and Minasal, looking briefly behind him for any unwelcome guests, followed them with a firm slam of the door.

[Beren One-Hand]

*Glaustar the Eagle and his flying counterparts had been assigned their own place in the battle.  They would aid the armies of the North when neccessary, and especially in the case of the appearance of any dragons or the like from Minasal's forces.  The great eagle had been commanded to watch over the front lines, and especially the Wolf-man, Erekuil.*

*Thus the march of the armies had begun with the resounding of the trumpet call.  And such a vast and mighty force had not moved along the grounds of Middle Earth since the days of Gil-Galad and Elendil.  The Valor watched, what would surely be a battle of the ages take place.  The forces of the South and East knew of its coming, and prepared as best they could.  But to run and hide would be impossible, they had provoked this war, and they would deal with the consequences of that provocation very soon, and with haste.*

[Wolfchild]

Meklian followed the army, keeping himself strictly to the shadows until nightfall again gave him the space beyond the forest reaches to breathe; those who he tracked coming to an organised halt for rest and building camp. He had kept his attentions to Erekuil for safe knowledge that if he was seen, an ally would not be far away. The wolf looked for a way to appear that would draw the eyes of few- only one, if it was possible, and yet it was increasingly difficult to do so.

Through the trees, his eyes danced and shone in the light of the torches. Meklian moved cautiously, but in a bold step forward the unusually marked wolf slunk out of the forest and into the enormity of the open. Peaks of tents were dotted on the horizon, the deep orange glow of small fires illuminating them delicately and bringing the gathering into shadowed perspective. All movement he made was a risk, and yet...

For the first few seconds, Erekuil did not notice the creature, perhaps because it tread so quietly. But in the next, he looked and almost jumped, with the sight that met him. It was undoubtedly Meklian- the strange umber coat identified him in an instant. Gladness soon filled his heart, thinking that the man had found them to at last join their numbers. Alas, he did not intend to.

"You act to save our people..." he muttered, in the wolfish tongue. "Change your cause then, t'is just you, I, and a scattering of children. They remain in the south, and are safe, to my knowledge. Their mother too, is with them. I think the same as you, brother- Vargaz is finally a victim of her own insanity, and yet it is not for the people of the wolf to participate in her destruction. Death has she shown us, but life also. We are the result of loneliness in some distant little girl, wanting only of friends. It is up to us to put her right again, or -gods forgive me- end her suffering..."

[Beren One-Hand]

*The forces of the North marched with great haste, and with passion.  For their time was soon to be at hand.  Nothing could stop them.  The enemy knew well of their coming, for their scouts had already announced their march to Minasal and the other leaders.  But there was little they could do.  Even if the enemy were to set ablaze their pathway, the multitude - or horde, of the North, Beren's force, would still not be halted.  The providence of the Valor was on their side.*

*Minasal paced nervously across his hall atop his lookout tower.  Minas Tirith was in ruin, now virtually destroyed by the pirates and the orcs that they commanded.  Thus the tower of Minasal lied closer to Umbar.  The Pirate Lord had several garrissons stationed at what remained of the White City, but those troops were all for show.  Once the vast, and mighty army of Beren reached Umbar, there would be a little surprise awaiting him.  Minasal had not run out of options, for he had one more card left to play . . . *

[Wolfchild]

Thrown from the doorway at last, Vargaz picked herself up, and ran. The strange terrain was blanked by a choking odor of stale drink that suffocated her bestial heart. A rumble in the earth did not dampen the piercing scream within her ears, nor the stinging blood from her lips. Through her black eyes it seemed the world was aflame, and the truth was not too far from it; revealing the last defences of a dying region.

Before her, a caravan stood abandoned, awaiting fire that would consume its memory. The horse, still bound to reins, reared with terror as he struggled to free himself from the threat of being destroyed with it. Vargaz approached, dragging her broken bones into the seat where a driver should have been. Taking the reins herself, she braced an uncomfortable journey that would amount to a poor, but necessary escape.

"You will take us with you."

Her son's imperative voice could reveal no image in her eyes, but neither could her returned glance at the world before her. A clouded haze of color marred the clarity in vision she had once been famed for. Hearing the wooden creak of her passengers as they entered a space of scattered grain and flour, she dared not reveal her decreasing sight. With the glimmer that remained, a command urged the steed into a cautious gallop.

[Beren One-Hand]

*The progression of the Northern Hoard continued, though scouts had heard nothing in recents weeks of their advance.  So it came that in their march Thranduil rode near to Beren and wished to give him counsel regarding some war strategies.  "My friend, I wish to suggest something to aid in our attack and to seal our victory with ease."  Beren knodded in approval: "Speak your mind my noble friend!"  So Thranduil explained, in his opinion, the importance that a segment of the army stray from the main march, and head east, with the intent to flank the armies of Minasal from the eastern side of Minas Tirith.  "So you see Erchamion, even though I do believe our victory to be swift and powerful, a bit of strategic prudence could also be needed, in the rare case Minasal throws something unexpected out from his hat."  Beren pondered the words of his wise Elf friend and ally.  "You speak the truth my lord.  He will not notice any significant decline in our initial numbers.  Your notion ensures we cover all our bases.  My question to you is this: who will go?  The elves? The dwarves?  The bounty hunters? The men of Laketown and Dale?  For this question we must make camp and hold a meeting.  For one of the forces we hold must go.  Something deep in the cavern of my mind tells me that Minasal holds something back - he has some surprise left for us."*

*Minasal's nervousness was due to several things.  Mostly to his fear of the Northern Armies upcoming assault, but also of whether or not his surprise attack would work.  He knew that only with his secret weapon could there be any chance of victory . . . *

[Wolfchild]

Khruna watched as the dray clattered carelessly over ruined soil, which kicked a wheel now and again to remind them of their thundering surround and diminishing route. His mind wandered in now familiar lands of discontent and fear, for the life they would lead if it was possible to ever escape this mire, and the chances of being able to do so. What madmen lead this world, thought he, when they knew destruction was so close? He could not play such philosophical prospects now, wherever they might tread.

Vargaz hunched nervously at the head of the vehicle, clutching reins like the fibres of her sanity. Blurred edges of reason mustered only the strength to allow her to flee, and run from the hunt she presumed was tailing every mile they made, baying constantly. By her left, her father materialised and sat patiently, with an expression more than composure could fathom as he calmly waited, uttering no words, no signs. His umber eyes beckoned her into death, yet held no sadism for it. His illusion rang through her heart, despite the danger it entailed.

"Father..." she choked, delirium taking all subtlety from accent, "Where are you?"

Through scarred lips she heard the resonating echo of deathly chords "That which dies, daughter. That which bleeds and begs destruction."


Turning forwards suddenly, the horse faded into the manner of Nazgul steed she had seen only as a child. As her sight extended there grew to be five, perhaps six of the cavern-black mares, draped in the worn cinders of a midnight tapestry. This was no longer a chanced caravan. It was a hearse.

[Beren One-Hand]

*The group had make a make-shift encampment beside some rocky hills in southern Rohan.  It was hastily made, but it served its purpose quite well.  The meeting lasted several hours.  Some disagreed with Beren and Thranduil's plan, but in the end it was not the place of anyone to disagree with the High Lords in matters such as these.  The decision and consensus was for Thranduil and the elves of Mirkwood to separate immediately from the pack.  At dawn, they would depart and head east of Minas Tirth, avoiding the roads, and travelling in basic obscurity - trying not to be noticed by anyone, though Minasal had scouts all across Middle Earth.  Thus the plan was in order . . . *

*Beren tried to sleep after the meeting, but his thoughts were torn.  He would miss, sorely, his friend and comrade Thranduil and his formidible force of elven fighters, but he knew this plan must take place, and he furthermore trusted in the will of the Valor to bring the Northern Horde to a great victory over their enemies in the South.  But Beren also prayed to the Valor for one more thing.  Whether he should survive or not, he wished only to look upon Vearg one last time.  He could take her to Aman where her mind would no longer be twisted and corrupted by evil.  But these thoughts he shared with no one.*

[Wolfchild]

Meklian moved cautiously along the western face of the warhead. Its constant movement took no waste of timing, and indeed the smell of anticipation was fresh upon the morning air. He had lost the sight of Erekuil in the early hours, and now hoped that he could remain hidden in the decreasing undergrowth, desiring none to catch the sight of his lupine figure. Whether his words sang true with his friend or not was a matter that would be resolved soon enough; when the mountain eventually sunk into the plains of Gondor there would be few places left to hide. In current times his allegiances were a skeptical affair, if that they knew his existence lay beyond the figure of wolf alone. If not, then the animal he represented carried little empathy with a marching army.

[Beren One-Hand]

*Thranduil and his elves had now departed.  They left the army of Beren much in the way of lembas bread, along with a kind and encouraging letter.  Thranduil believed in the plan, and promised Beren they would meet again, likely in battle, at Minas Tirith.*

*So the final march toward the City began.  Soon the forces of good would be at Pelenor.  Middle Earth would soon see a new era.  Either for peace and prosperity, or for darkness, evil and shadow.*