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[Mathijs]

Because we're coming up with a variety of new characters, creatures, and locations, I thought it would be nice to create a little alphabetical compendium of all of the Age of the Ring-canon that we've come up with so far.

 

It's a work in progress and will be updated over time. 

 

Berúthiel, Black Queen of Umbar

Spoiler

Long ago, early in the Third Age, Tarannon Falastur, King of Gondor, wed the beautiful Berúthiel, a noble daughter of a Black Numenorean lord that who hailed from an estate near Umbar. The marriage was arranged as an attempt to quell generations of hostilities between the Men of Gondor and Umbar.

 

As far as looks go, they can be deceiving; for the outer shell does not always match that what is within. Berúthiel, now Queen, turned out to be deceitful, a condition that, according to the Annals of Gondor, was due to her Black Numenorean heritage. It is written that she acted as the catalyst to many dishonorable rumors around the King's Court, setting advisors against one another, creating a treacherous environment, slowly weakening Gondor's resolve from within  And yet, whispered wives' tales shed a different light: they make mention of Tarannon's tyrannical approach to marriage, how, according to them, he kept Berúthiel locked up in a high tower, forbidding the visiting of Umbarian relatives or friends. Both sides of the story have one thing in common: Berúthiel surrounded herself with cats, to which she whispered things at night, sending them out on dark errands, gathering information and passing it on to agents yet unknown.

 

***

 

Centuries later, nearing the end of the Third Age, a young woman of Black Numenorean descent found herself on the streets of Umbar, bridges burning behind her, with nowhere to go but down, very deep, into the underbelly of the port city. Realizing that she had already lost all she had ever had to lose, she employed whatever lowly methods she could to stay alive. The winding streets of Umbar are dark and strange, and those without the means to escape them risk paying a heavy toll. But she endured. Her Numenorean spirit was not easily broken.

 

One night, sitting at one of the lower docks of the trade district, she heard a strange voice call to her. Try as she might, she could not find where it came from, until, as if in a dream, she looked behind, and saw a large, white cat sitting upon the edge of an emptied barrel. She could not believe it at first, and feared she was losing her mind. The cat kept following her, appearing when she least expected it, even if, after some time, she began to nervously expect it at any given moment. Every time it spoke to her: of the family that had cast her out, so unjustly, and of her future: so bright, if she only did as the white cat told. 

 

In time, the specter of hungry despair grew heavier on her mind. The white cat spoke of endless supplies of the finest foods, like the ones she once enjoyed, if she only listened to what he had to say. Soon, despair beat out reason, and she gave in.

 

'Follow me,' the white cat said in its hoarse voice, 'and do not stop to think.'

 

Then it ran. She kept up with great difficulty, often losing him until she found him again, sitting on some ledge in the distance, shining beneath the Southern stars. After what seemed like hours of climbing up and down the narrow streets and alleys of Umbar, they came upon a great dock, with a great, walled pier running out from it, at the very edge of which was an enormous vessel, a silhouette blacker than the night that lay behind it.

 

'That is the ship of the Lord of Waves,' the cat whispered. 'He has returned to challenge his brother.'

 

The cat darted off along the pier, passing its gate, and disappeared from her sight. She lingered. She had been here before, long ago, accompanying her father on some business with one of the Lord's lieutenants. She remembered the heavy air of dread that had covered the docks: large, black guards carrying silver swords, slaves screaming under seething whips, the heavy clanging of metal, and the smell of sulfur. That seemed a lifetime ago. Now the dock was quiet. Very quiet. Almost deserted. A single brazier flickered somewhere far away. Her stomach growled. She hadn't had a decent meal in five days. 'Do not stop to think,' she said to herself. 

 

When she passed the gates, she saw that there were no guards. There sat the cat, beneath an unfurled banner displaying a red Eye, its embroidery catching what little light there was. 

 

'Go on,' said the cat. 'To the ship. Tell him you are his Berúthiel. He has dreamed of you.'

 

As if in a dream of her own, she boarded the black vessel at the edge of the dock, and made her way to the chambers of the Lord of Waves.

 

***

 

From then on, Burôdapân was rarely seen without his newest escort and advisor, whom he named his Queen Berúthiel. Having found a way back to prominence and newfound power, Berúthiel embraced her new identity by erasing her former one: using an army of black, silent-pawed agents, she plotted out the silent assassinations of her father and two brothers, and had her mother enslaved and shipped to the distant land of Nâfarat, where she spent a few months working for some cruel warlord before she perished beneath the unforgiving sun.

 

Having attained a level of power she could not have gotten in her previous life, a new hunger awoke in her. She had seen the results of recklessly following the voice in her head, which, in the shape of the white cat, continued to appear to her, whispering into her ears the beginnings of new plots that would further elevate her status amongst the elite of Umbar, ever at the cost of others. Seducing Câssimir, the Lord of Stones and ruler of Umbar's Black Númenórean caste, elder brother to Burôdapân, was an inevitable consequence of her lust for power. In this way, she has unleashed a new era of unrest in Umbar and its surrounding estates, with two brothers now vying for supremacy in both power and lust, each attempting to outdo the other in cruelty. The white cat directed Berúthiel's gaze north, towards Gondor, and purred as his puppet convinced both brothers to rekindle the flames of war. 

Burôdapân, Lord of Waves

Spoiler

Coming soon!

Câssimir, Lord of Stones

Spoiler

The night air was cool and clear. No clouds obscured the net of stars above. Câssimir stood silently, gazing out of the highest window in his ancestral palace. The sprawling port was livelier than it had been for decades, and the sounds coming from slums and market districts had reached him in his sleep. As he looked, he saw great fires being lit all over the distant docks, grasping towards the black sky, their glow eating away the brightness of the stars. His grip on the window’s rail became stronger. The beat of his heart grew quicker. The sight of the burning docks reminded him of his father’s disastrous defense against that sudden Gondorian raid, nigh on thirty years ago. That night their fleet was largely destroyed, many great warriors had perished, and the power and grandeur of his lineage was marred. Life in Umbar had never been the same. ‘Thorongil’, they had called him - the leader of the pack. A pretentious name, something meant to hide an identity Câssimir could only guess at. He had not been able to meet this cruel warrior in combat. His father had held him back at the palace. How different things might have been, had he been allowed to cross swords with this ‘Eagle of the Star’.

 

But tonight, the glow that illuminated the docks that had been dark for so long did not come from any Gondorian force. It was not some captain of the north that had come to cleanse Umbar of his enemies. Squinting, Câssimir thought he could make out the great dark shape at the edge of the greatest pier, far in the distance: the ship of Bûrodapân - the so-called Lord of Waves, the Corsair-lord whose cruel reputation preceded him amongst the waves of the southern Belegaer and beyond. Câssimir knew him as the second son, his errant little brother, a dangerous nuisance that had thankfully been gone from Umbar and its domains for most of the thirty years since the great calamity. But now, it seemed, he had returned, bringing with him a host of raucous Men, and, no doubt, the desire for revenge. For a brief moment, Câssimir wondered if it would not be better had it been Thorongil who returned. Revenge was all well and good, and over the years there had been the occasional raid on Gondorian outposts, but a full-scale war brought the risk of utter ruin.

 

And yet… if Câssimir could rein his brother in, temper his most destructive tendencies… he could make a formidable ally under his authority. For Câssimir knew that an opportunity for war would soon come. Over the last few years, messengers from the dark land of Mordor had come and gone. A great war was brewing. Zigûr had returned from the dark depths of time. His ancient fortress had been rebuilt. It would be a matter of time ere he would call upon Câssimir’s loyalty, handed down from his ancestors. When that time came, Câssimir knew he would have to be ready. The thought often plagued him: a failure to adequately uphold his oaths to the Dark One would go very badly for him, whereas a show of strength and loyalty might mean the return of Umbar’s long-lost glory. But power came slowly for Câssimir. What little authority he maintained over Umbar’s lords was ever-dwindling. The coffers, overflowing as late as his father’s time, were empty.

 

He stepped away from the window, climbed down a few dozen steps, and walked into a spacious room. Lighting a torch, he sat down at his great desk. It was clear to him that he had no choice. He needed his brother - not as an equal, but as a vassal, a means to preparedness, a force to pave the path to strength. Though it had been many years since they last spoke, he believed he still understood his brother’s mind, his base intellect and tendency to lower desires. It should not prove too difficult to sway him to a wiser course. He unfurled a roll of parchment and dipped his red-feathered quill into black ink, and began to write.

Caran-Lambar, Terror of Nâfarat

Spoiler

Coming soon!

Cargást, Lord of the Barrows

Spoiler

East of the Greenwood, in the north-east of Middle-earth, once lay a small realm known as the Kingdom of Rhovanion. It first enters the annals of history in the thirteenth century of the Third Age, when a man named Viduvagia, the most powerful of the princes of the Northmen, proclaims himself the first King of Rhovanion. Allying himself with the forces of the Gondorian regent Minalcar, Viduvagia vanquished the Easterling threat that always loomed upon his borders. A further strengthening of the bond between these two kingdoms came when Valacar, son of Minalcar, was sent to Rhovanion as an ambassador, but ended up marrying Viduvagia's daughter, Vidumavi. Minalcar eventually became King of Gondor as Rómendacil II, which meant the heir to the throne of Gondor would be of mixed heritage. This controversial mingling of Númenorean and Northmen blood would become a turning point in Gondorian history, resulting in the bloody conflict known as the Kin-strife in 1437. Eldacar, grandson to the Kings of Gondor and Rhovanion fled north and eventually reclaimed the Gondorian throne with an army from Rhovanion.

 

Two-hundred years later, the Kingdom of Rhovanion was invaded by a host of Easterlings known as the Wainriders - a confederacy of peoples traveling in great wagons and riding chariots into battle. They were sent by Sauron himself, at this time hiding in the East. The Wainriders succeeded in their mission: the lush and wealthy Kingdom of Rhovanion was overrun and looted, its people enslaved. The remnant of the ruling royal house were sent to wander: Marhari, descendant of Viduvagia and his son Marhwini both survived and settled in the untamed lands between the eastern bank of the Anduin and the edge of Greenwood the Great.

 

Decades later, after the Wainriders had consolidated their power and plotted to take Gondor, it was Marhwini that warned Calimehtar, his distant relative and King of Gondor. Together they outmaneuvred the Easterlings, and finally crushed their army in a vice, driving them back into the East. Afterwards, Marhwini did not rebuild the Kingdom of Rhovanion. Rather he became a Lord of the Éothéod, the ancestors of the Rohirrim. Although the Kingdom of Rhovanion never returned, this warrior-culture would remember their storied past.

 

Marhwini lived out a long and honorable life. When he died, he was buried with great honor. The procession following his body, crowned and clad in shining armor, was said to be near endless. His hoard was magnificent, and there was no doubt amongst his people that he would go on to see his father, his father's father, and feast even with the great Viduvagia, the King of Old Rhovanion. White simbelmynë covered his barrow, and for many years his people would feast in his name.

 

But his rest was not eternal. Less than five-hundred years after his lofty barrow was solemnly sealed shut, an evil presence took up residence in southern Greenwood, near to the ancestral barrow-lands of Marhwini's line. Soon, the corruption flowing forth from this necromancer's dark fortress found its way into Marhwini's barrow. Since then, the dead king has been known to wander the forested hills, calling to his family and their servants, all buried nearby, setting them upon a path of terror against the innocent folk that still dare to inhabit those forlorn lands. 

 

In life, Marhwini was a noble warrior, leading his people to glory and freedom. In death, he has forgotten his name and legacy, seeking nothing but to serve his dark master.

Bree-land Townsguard

Spoiler

Bree, Combe, Archet, and Staddle were the primary settlements of the Bree-land: a fertile, wooded region in northern Eriador. It was inhabited primarily by Men and Hobbits, though Dwarves often passed through on business, and Elves occasionally used its less-trodden paths to reach their mysterious destinations.

 

For many centuries, Bree-land was peaceful and prospered - something its inhabitants often attributed to their no-nonsense attitude and good characters, though in reality it was the Dúnedain rangers, secretive Men who the Bree-landers often looked down upon and mistrusted, that watched over this land. 

Despite nothing much ever happening in Bree-land, there were the occasional cases of villainy or other disturbances (domestic or otherwise), as in any land occupied by Men. It was for this purpose that the Men of Bree-land maintained a small regiment of voluntary officers known as the Bree-land Townsguard. The Townsguard were made up mostly of the sons of rich farmers or those rich farmers that had retired, for they had to provide their own equipment and did not receive any pay for the days they spent patrolling Bree-land's many country roads and hamlets. 

 

During the War of the Ring, when the Bree-land saw a marked increase in ruffians and other unsavory folk, the Townsguard was expanded, its equipment partly funded by local business owners such as Barliman Butterbur of the Prancing Pony, Bree's famous inn. Under the leadership of Captain Alcott, a grumpy but fastidious fellow, they made contact with those Dúnedain that had not ridden south to aid their chieftain and fought hard to keep the minions of Shadow out of their lands.

Jungle-trolls

Spoiler

In another age, many thousands of years ago, the combined forces of the Eldar, Edain, and the Valar besieged Angband, fortress of Morgoth - the Dark Enemy of the World - and destroyed it. Morgoth was then cast into the Void, to wander in emptiness. His servants, many in number, were slain and scattered. Orcs found their doom by the thousands. Dragons were brought low. Balrogs were decimated; only one is known to have survived.

 

Trolls too found their numbers greatly reduced, but they have ever been reclusive, and wilder than most of Morgoth's other creatures, having been created as a mockery of Ents. And so, even as the Thangorodrim were laid low and their Master's pits bare, scores of Trolls were far away, hiding in caves upon distant mountain ranges. When their Master's will vanished into the Void, they began to wander. Many of them crossed the Blue Mountains before Beleriand was cast into the Sea, and scattered across Eriador and the Misty Mountains, splitting off into subspecies: Hill-trolls, Cave-trolls, Snow-trolls, and other, less distinct variations. Some made it further, climbing across the length of the Misty Mountains towards the Gap of Rohan, then seeking in shelter the White Mountains.

 

Trolls are vicious creatures of limited intelligence, and wherever groups of them coexist, civil war is ever brooding. In time, a group of smaller, weaker Trolls were given the choice of exile or execution by the local Troll-king. Their group, no larger than two dozen in number decided to leave. It took several days of brutal infighting for everyone to realize that living was better than being dead.  

 

In those days, Numenoreans hadn't yet began the large-scale deforestation of Middle-earth's southern lands, and so the Trolls were able to cross into what would later be Southern Gondor. And so they left the cool, shaded comforts of the mountains and made their way south, through a forest that did not seem to end. The journey was slow, and highly uncomfortable. They spent their days cowering from the sun below shaded canopy. Caves were hard to come by, and whenever a strong gust of wind split their leafy roof above, small rays of sunlight fell through, burning their skin and turning the spot to a lump of stone. At night they covered small distances, howling from the punishment they had suffered during the day. 

 

Their leader, a remarkably stupid Troll by the name of Honk, was convinced that the sun would grow smaller the further south he went, and that they would soon come across some new, cool mountain range they could settle in. This never happened. One night, several months after their exile from the White Mountains, Honk found himself and his group out of the forest and looking upon a rolling landscape of barren plains. Erupting in an angry panic, his underlings strangled him and ate him. They spent many weeks at the edge of that forest, pondering what to do. 

 

When all food sources had fled their vicinity, they gathered for one final deliberation. The facts spoke for themselves: going back meant suffering the daily pain of the peeping sunrays, only to end up back in the Troll-king's territory, where they would be killed. Going forward was an unknown: some Trolls claimed they could see rocky outcroppings on the horizon, where they might take shelter. And, they said, who knows? There might be more mountains. 

 

And so they decided to undergo their suicidal journey into the scorching land known as Haradwaith. When, after the first night of frenzied running, they could only find a cave large enough to fit half of them, the other half was beaten bloody and made to await their demise before the rising of the Southern sun. When it had gone back down, the Trolls that had managed to secure a spot inside the cave came out expecting to find the stony corpses of their friends, but instead found them only half-dead, the tops of their heads and shoulders covered in stony outcroppings. Though none of them were smart enough to understand it, their slow, continued exposure to sunlight in the forest had caused them to develop some degree of immunity to the sun's deadly rays. Their outcast brethren recovered swiftly under the coolness of the desert night and took bloody revenge. And so their number was halved anyway, in reverse order. 

 

The rest of the journey was predictable: though the sun was no longer a deadly threat, it still burned badly, and no distances could be covered beneath its glare. During the day they rested beneath the shade of rocks or sparse trees, or inside the huts of Men, who they ate as they went. Still, no mountains appeared. Instead, after months of laborious journeying, our Trollish dozen found themselves at the top end of an enormous cliff, looking down. The drop stretched for miles and miles, like a rift in the world. Beyond and below it they saw a sea of bright green, stretching as far as their beady eyes could see.

 

Over time, the Trolls multiplied by inbreeding, further decreasing their wits and increasing their pockmarked mutations. Now living under the far-stretching canopy of the jungles of Far Harad, their skin turned green and stony over the course of sunny generations, and their arms lengthened to accomodate the climbing of enormous trees. It took several centuries before these Jungle-trolls reentered the stories of Men - which they did fearsomely, destroying several Numenorean expeditions and their camps. To this day, their presence is feared amongst the Southrons that dare dwell in the southern jungles of Haradwaith. 

Knights of Amroth Amdírion

Spoiler

When his father died in the War of the Last Alliance, Amroth, son of Amdír, became the King of the Galadhrim. Amroth was a kind King, free of the sense of superiority possessed by many of his Sindar kin. He spent his peaceful reign ruling in the manner of the Silvan elves, for he loved Nimrodel - a Silvan elf-maid. Nimrodel did not share Amroth's tolerance to all kin and creeds - she greatly disliked the Elves that had come back from the West, fearing they would only bring more grief and turmoil to the Golden Wood and Middle-earth at large, as they had done many years before, during the Great Wars of the First Age. 

 

She would not marry him unless he took her to a land free from war and misery, so Amroth vowed to take her to the havens at Edhellond, where they would forever depart Middle-earth. For a while they traveled together, until a sudden snowstorm seperated them while crossing the White Mountains. Amroth reached Edhellond and waited for her there aboard the last ship the Elves there had built, until a great storm unmoored his vessel and sent it out into the Bay of Belfalas. When Amroth realized at dawn what had happened, he leapt into the waters and drowned trying to reach the shore and Nimrodel. The nearest land to his place of drowning was a tall, green hill, which was henceforth named Dol Amroth in his honor. Nimrodel eventually reached Edhellond but found it abandoned. Nobody knows what happened to her afterwards. 

 

During his reign, Amroth had surrounded himself with Elves that reflected his own best qualities: kind, courageous, and full of love. Not all of them were of noble birth, and for those that weren't, Amroth decreed it so. They were Sindar, but Silvan also, and Teleri. They called themselves the Knights of Amroth Amdírion, and would ride out amongst their King in times of war. Amroth did not tell anyone he was leaving Lórien, and for a long time no word of his fate reached the ears of the Galadhrim. Some of his subjects began to doubt their lost King, but never the Knights of Amroth, for they assumed he must have had good reason to leave, and when they learned what it was that had driven him away and what it was that ultimately killed him, they were filled with reverent sadness. It was decided that they would continue to honor their oaths of love and fealty. For two thousand years the Knights of Amroth Amdírion carried on fighting under their King's banner, until the destruction of the Ring and the downfall of Mordor. It was then that they traveled to Edhellond, following in the footsteps of their King, and built a ship to carry them towards the Undying Lands.

Mammoths

Spoiler

Coming soon!

Muzgash

Spoiler

Coming soon!

Lug the Mauled

Spoiler

Tock, tock, tock. The sound of Lug’s wooden leg reverberated through the cavern. Tock, tock, tock. He looked around - his one good eye flicking back and forth - over the many orcish eyes that were trained upon him, gleaming and glittering, reflecting the flames of the many torches that stuck out of the rock wall. 

 

"Well," he spoke, his voice gravely and dark. "Go fetch him, would ya?"

 

He ungirdled a burlap sack from his belt, pulled at the leather string, and opened it upon the floor. A thud followed. Out rolled a head, its heavy beard full of glittering bands and stones, sticking to its bloodied skin. A number of huge hobgoblins dressed in ragged leather robes got up and disappeared. 

 

"What are the rest of you lookin' at?" he grunted. "You boys wanna have me other leg? What's it worth to ya? Hey?" He bared his crooked teeth, threw back his scarred head, and laughed his harsh laugh. It spread and multiplied across the high walls of the cave, until the rest of the orcs joined in. Lug fell quiet and surveyed the room, one hand on his sword, the other on a jagged knife tucked into his belt. They wouldn’t know any better. The shaman might, though. He was crafty, that one. Knew all about Dwarves. Their names, their histories. He’d been involved in the Great War, way back when. Silly thing to do. Lug himself had been a young orc-lad at the time, and had managed to avoid his chief’s summons, never to look back. His had been the life of a maverick, never staying in one place for too long, if he stayed at all. That depended on who needed who killed, and how deep their pockets were. That’s what he did: kill. No questions, no objections. Didn’t matter who, or when, or where. He’d always been good at that sort of thing. Shanking, stabbing, crushing, choking, shooting, burning. Whatever it took, really.

 

“Lug…” spoke a voice, first inside his head, then louder, from the other side of the room. “Lug…” The roaring laughter ceased instantly. Orcs great and small bowed their heads. The shaman had appeared. A small, scrawny orc, ever-hooded and adorned with many strange objects. His dark magics had given him full authority over every nasty piece of work in the room.

 

"Urshak!” spoke Lug. “Long time no see, you old coot! I see you still keep a tight ship around these parts!”

 

Urshak stepped forward, his adornments shifting and jangling as he moved. He did not speak.

 

“Here he is," Lug continued, prodding the dwarf-head with his wooden leg. "The Lord of Moria.”

 

Urshak knelt down besides the dwarf-head. Lug stepped back, unwilling to stand too close to the shaman. He wasn’t a superstituous orc, for the most part, but staying out of reach was the sensible thing to do.

 

“Let us see…” spoke Urshak, his voice small and wavering. “Let us see…”

 

“Everything in order, chief?” asked Lug.

 

He wasn’t really lying, he thought to himself. The job was done. Just not entirely. He’d been staking out the East-gate for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity to turn that filthy dwarf-lord into a bearded pincushion and cut his head off. When the day came, he could smell it. He crawled over, careful not to scrape his leg and make a noise. There he was. Unmistakably so. The dwarf-lord of Moria, stood solemnly staring into a silly puddle of water. What did he hope to see? But then Lug smelled something else. Orcs. Lots of orcs. Lug looked up and around. There. Coming down a distant ridge was a horde of them, led by a brutish creature that could only be that bastard Muzgash himself. Though Lug wanted little more than to claim his prize and present it to his client, he wasn’t about to get in Muzgash’s way. Or even in his sight. Too much bad blood, he reckoned. Still, he wasn’t gonna back off without having his shot. He had to hurry. He slid down the rocks, nocked his black-feathered arrow, and let it fly. Thwack. The dwarf keeled over. That's all it took. Lug looked up. The orcs were scurrying ever closer. They were fortunate. He'd made it easy for them. No warning would come to the dwarvish invaders, and their defense would be leaderless. Curse the dwarf-lord's head, he said to himself. He didn't need it. He’d find another. Doll it up all nice. None would be the wiser.

 

“As you can see, I left the spoils untouched. All his bleedin’ shiny bits, all right there. Every last one of them.”

 

But he wasn’t so sure now. After evading Muzgash and his boys, he'd gone as fast as he could, towards a little-known pass used by Dwarf-merchants operating under the impression that orcs weren’t aware of their crossing. He was lucky: a train of dwarves had set off from Dunland not too long ago. He shot himself an old straggler, and cut his head off before his companions even knew what happened. This head he took to a local Stone-troll he’d known for years, and used some of his considerable leverage to obtain a few dwarvish trinkets from the troll's hoard to decorate the beard with. It looked good, the Stone-troll had confirmed. Lug agreed. He certainly wouldn't be any wiser. 

 

“Good…” spoke Urshak. “Very good...”

 

Lug nodded. “Yeah, he never saw it coming.”

 

Urshak picked up the head and turned around, holding it up for all to see. “Orcs!” he screamed. “The Lord of Moria is dead! The time to retake our halls has come! The Shadow and the Flame are with us! Spread word through all the warrens!”

 

The orcs jeered and began to scatter. Urshak turned back to Lug, who was just quick enough to wipe his smirk off his face. “Any sign of that pretender, Muzgash?” Urshak asked, leaning in close, his voice reduced to a terrifying whisper. “On the way here, or otherwise?”

 

“Muzgash?” Lug looked puzzled, then pretended to remember. “Ah, yeah. Muzgash. That one. Nah mate,” he said, shaking his head. “Should be all clear. You can just swoop in, no problem. Say hello to that demon for me, hey? Put in a good word for old Lug.”

Urshak

Spoiler

Coming soon!

Nandor Hîr-Hathol

Spoiler

Coming soon!

The Golden King of Harad

Spoiler

Sauron began rebuilding his fortress of Barad-dûr in T.A. 2951. It was at this time that he first sent forth Hoarmurath, Third of the Nine, to the lands south of Mordor. The Haradrim owed him allegiance, Sauron felt, but he feared that his influence had lessened over the years. The Men of Harad needed to be reminded of their master and his dark will, and of the consequences of denying him his due tribute and veneration.

 

Hoarmurath had long ago been known as the Golden King - a monarch that had managed to attain great power over the many tribes and free-cities that lay scattered over the vast lands of Haradwaith, and whose cruelty had become a thing of ancient legend. The center of Hoarmurath's kingdom had been the Golden City of Abrakhân: a vast metropolis of golden splendor, built on foundations of blood and suffering.

 

It is to Abrakhân that Hoarmurath first went. The city was a ruin: abandoned long ago, its precious stones and golden seams stripped from their bearings, then left alone for many centuries, slowly succumbing to the harsh winds and sands of the desert. Word of an evil presence in Abrakhân spread quickly: Caran-Lambar, warrior-chief of a nearby tribe arrived with a small cohort of warriors. Hoarmurath transfixed him and his men, and locked them all in a deep dungeon. It is true that the Witch-king was the greatest of the Nine, the most capable in the dark arts of Sauron and his ancient master, but Hoarmurath had spent long years studying in Sauron's scholomance ere his Ring had made him utterly wraith-like - and he began applying his lessons to Caran-Lambar and his men, to strip away their humanity and transform them into brutish, troll-like Men that did his every bidding. 

 

These creatures he released upon the many villages that populated the lands south of Abrakhân, where the river Nâfar crossed the arid lands and gave them life. Those that resisted he crushed mercilessly, until most of the rest remembered the allegiances of their forefathers and joined Hoarmurath's cause. From here, Sauron's influence spread quickly. Out of the ruins of Abrakhân rose a dark fortress. It was around this time that a mysterious Black Númenorean sorcerer known as Syâr-Rhul began to rise through Hoarmurath's dark ranks to become his chief personal advisor. 

 

Hoarmurath, now once more known as the Golden King, a terror risen from the ancient past, swept across the sands of Haradwaith, rallying its populace to do his bidding and reaffirming Sauron's dominion over the land. 

Wulfgar of Dunland

Spoiler

Dunland.  Formally known as the hilly land just west of the Misty Mountains, north of the Angren river, the land stretched further south at the end of the Third Age, when the descendants of Freca, an exiled Rohirrim King, still contested the fertile land that lay further south.

 

Ever since Freca’s time, there have existed two distincts cultures within Dunland: the descendants of the House of Haladin, second house of the Edain, having dwelt there for years beyond counting, and the descendants of Freca and his people, a much younger culture, through whose veins runs the mixed blood of the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim. The latter dwelt mostly in the lands between the two rivers and the White Mountains, a land named Frecalund in their own language, known as the Triangle in Westron. It’s capital was Wulfborg, named after Wulfgar, a prominent Dunlending King during the War of the Ring.

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3018.

 

The last shafts of sunlight fell through the vents at the top of the long hall. Dust danced like a horde of extinguished fireflies. Long banners hung unfurled from the rafters, depicting scenes of victory and defeat, glory and lamentation – the history of Dunland, of Rohan, and of the House of Freca.

 

At the end of the hall, upon a raised, wood-carved throne inlaid with green gems, sat Wulfgar, King of Freca’s folk and the Dunlendings. Beside him, on a lowered seat, sat his son: Brant, a boy of sixteen. 

 

A sudden creaking and cracking was heard, then the doors of the hall swung open. A guard, bearing the Black Crow on a long, oval shield, hurried through, speaking as he walked.

 

‘There is an emissary of Orthanc here to see you, my King.’

 

Wulfgar’s expression grew dark.

 

‘Send him in.’

 

The failing light of dusk bathed the hall in silver-grey. A hooded figure, surrounded by several of Wulfgar’s household guard, was escorted in. He was of small stature, with a bent back. He walked slow and steady, but bore no staff.

 

When he reached the throne, he cast back his hood, revealing a mangled, pointed face. Silence fell over the hall. Several maidens made themselves scarce.

 

‘Hail Wulfgar Brynjarsson, of the house of Freca,’ the emissary spoke. His voice was cracked and whispery. Then he noticed the boy.  ‘And hail to you, Brant Wulfgarsson.’

 

‘Greetings, half-orc,’ Wulfgar replied. ‘What business have you in Wulfborg? Speak quickly now, for any of my men’s spears could slip from their hands and into your belly. I would not fault them.’

 

The emissary ignored the threat. ‘I come on behalf of Saruman of Many Colours, Lord of Orthanc, First of the Five Wizards. In his wisdom, he has decided to intervene in the unjust treatment of the Men of Dunland by the strawheads to the east. Many Dunlendings have already joined his cause. Will you give him your allegiance?’

 

Wulfgar remained silent for a while. Brant looked at the emissary, then at his father, who rolled his eyes, made a vague gesture, and slouched down on his throne.

 

Brant spoke, to the visible befuddlement of the emissary. ‘We have heard tell of Saruman’s generosity. But we have no wish to go to war. We have achieved a tenuous peace here, south of the Adorn, and reap a plentiful harvest. The Horse-king has not troubled us for several years. Wulfborg prospers.'

 

Wulfgar clapped in approval. ‘I have taught you well, my son.' Then the king grabbed hold of a jeweled scabbard leaning besides his royal seat, and unsheathed a long, shining sword. 'Now make yourself scarce, mongrel, before I test my newest blade.’

 

The emissary did not look impressed. ‘Théoden King has grown lethargic, it is true. And so you have been allowed to thrive. But for how much longer?’

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3019.

 

The heart of winter. The cold stalked the streets of Wulfborg. The King was in bed, covered in layers of furs. His wife lay beside him, breathing softly in a pattern so familiar to him. But Wulfgar could not sleep. His gaze was trained upon a particular rafter, floating in a sliver of moonlight, high above. Its rough wood reminded him of something of his childhood. He grasped at the wisp of memory, but it would not settle. He thought about his father, long-dead, and tried to recall the sound of his voice, but found only his own.

 

Suddenly, horns were sounded. The King leapt from his bed, strapped his sword to his belt, and hurried outside, where he was met by his guards.  Horns answered horns – a great racket echoed over the snow-covered fields beyond the walls. Followed by his guard, Wulfgar climbed them in great haste, and was dismayed at what he witnessed. There was a sea of torches, held in hand by great orcs and men dressed in the garb of the wildmen that lived north of the river.  

A familiar voice called forth, traveling through and above the crowd with little effort, until it reached the King's ears.

 

‘Hail Wulfgar Brynyarsson, of the house of Freca,’ it spoke. ‘The war will soon commence. Does your decision yet stand?’

 

Wulfgar did not answer. Instead, he turned to his guard, who had hurried up the walls behind in great haste. Einar then spoke: ‘They appeared suddenly my lord, setting their torches alight in concert. We received no word of warning.’

On the black horizon, a faint glow could be seen. ‘No wonder,' said Wulfgar. 'Ravndal burns.' He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword and closed his eyes.

 

'You do not have long,' said the emissary. 'Saruman desires an answer presently.'

 

Wulfgar shook his head. ‘I accept,’ he yelled. ‘Saruman will have my sword! Now leave this place!’

 

The voice of the emissary responded. ‘Saruman is kind. He understands the risks of marching in winter. But he requests that you bring your men to Isengard once the snows melt. Think of Ravndal.'

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3019, February 23th. 

 

Women cried as the host departed through the gates of Wulfborg. Wulfgar rode at the head, with Brant at his side. Behind them rode the men of the King’s household guard: fifty of his finest warriors, clad in black ringmail over layers of fur and leather. Behind them came a long line of riders, two abreast, bearing spears and long rider shields, slowly streaming out from Wulfborg's principal gate - less than one-thousand warriors. Lastly there came a company of archers: three-hundred, carrying great bows and long quivers full of black-feathered shafts. No more men could be found. Wulfgar’s people were not numerous. 

 

As they trudged through fields made muddy by the recently vanished snow, Brant spoke to his father.

 

‘When do we tell them?’ he asked.

 

‘When we must,’ answered Wulfgar. ‘And no sooner. The White Wizard is skilled in the art of subterfuge. No doubt there are spies in our ranks.’

 

‘What if they will not listen?’ continued Brant. ‘What if the Prince rejects us?’

 

Wulfgar looked at his son, then flashed a sad smile. 'We shall see. These are dark times. Saruman seeks to blind us with the plight of our people. To use our weakness to further his own goals.'

 

'What are his goals?' asked Brant.

 

'Who can say,' answered Wulfgar. 'Dark, to be sure. Those that have fallen under his sway will never find the world they hope for. Orcs do not congregate around the righteous.’

 

Fords of Isen, T.A. 3019, February 26th. 

 

The difficult terrain lenghtened what would have been a two day’s march to three. It was the 26^th of February when they reached the Gap of Rohan. When they approached the crossings at the Fords of Isen, they came upon a terrible sight. Corpses were strewn about the landings. Streaks of red and black blood colored the fine stones. As they continued, the tragedy expanded: numerous more dead could be seen, scattered beneath tattered green banners. A great battle had taken place: Orcs on the one side, the Men of Rohan on the other.

 

Wulfgar dismounted, told his men to hold, and walked alone into the stream to see what there was to see. Dead men in shining mail, bloodstained. Orcs marked with the White Hand of Saruman. As Wulfgar continued towards the Ford, he saw others: corpses of wildmen bearing Saruman's symbol.

 

The king's mind raced. His plan had been to cross into Rohan and set up some manner of alliance with the Rohirrim. To set aside their differences and stand against a common foe. He had never trusted Saruman: often the White Wizard had sent him gifts of tribute, demanding nothing in return. He had appeared at Wulfborg once, when Brynjar was still King. Saruman’s voice had been compelling. He had spoken of the injustice inflicted upon the Dunlendings, and of how justice would inevitably be served. His words had been met with praise. But that night, Wulfgar had been unable to sleep. The image of the Wizard and the sound of his voice, sweet and soothing, would not leave his mind. 

 

Wulfgar stood alone at the edge of the center ford, as the water, pink from blood diluted, drenched his feet and ankles and froze his bones. He closed his eyes. There it was, appearing from out of the mists: the voice of his father. But before Wulfgar could interpret the words, a foreboding sound broke his brief peace. In the distance, a horn was blowing. Its sound was unmistakable to the Dunlending King: it was a horn of Rohan, carried by its commanders.

 

What choice was there now? If he remained, the strawheads would not hear his words. They would blame him for the atrocity that occurred there, and would take up arms against his men. He could march to Isengard and lay siege to it, but he would have no hopes of winning: the Ring of Isengard was wide, Saruman likely outnumbered him, and even if he had the advantage, he had no means to sustain his army. He could march his men back home, where they would be left to await either the wrath of Saruman or that of Théoden, who would surely come for him, having seen wildmen in his enemy’s ranks.

 

He turned around and strode back. There lay but one path before him, if he desired to have a chance at sparing his lands and people. 

The Gwanthaur 

Spoiler

The moonlight was cold and clear, illuminating silver grass and casting long-stretched, reaching shadows upon the glade. My heart pounded fast and loudly within my throat, pushing new blood through the wound in my leg with every beat. It had taken me a considerable effort to climb this tree. I now sat legs wide upon a thick branch, resting my back against the trunk, near to where it split into its last limbs and made its last effort to reach the starry night above, ever a wondrous sight to Elven eyes. But mine were trained upon the clearing below. 

 

Time passed slow. I drifted away upon the invisible path of the cold wind, moving in and out of an indecipherable dream. But then I heard the cracking of twigs and branches. I sat up and investigated the edges of the clearing, searching for movement. A trunk shivered, a branch fell. A shadow leapt across the forest floor and crept slowly out beneath the pale light of the moon. There it stood: a monstrous creature, as tall as a tree. Its limbs were like gnarled branches of birk, white and knotted and twined together like bone and wirey sinew. Its bony shoulders were covered in a black fur through which sprouted bulbous mushrooms that seemed to bear within them a strange, deathly glow. It had a deer skull for a head, but much larger. A pale flame seemed to live within, casting a flickering light upon the edges of its deep, dark eye sockets. From the skull grew two enormous antlers, malformed and bloodied. All over the creature grew and swayed a fell moss - loëwmorn - that was known to spread rot and disease to everything it touched. I recognized it by its pungent smell; I had it smelt it before, long ago, before our people moved north to get away from the evil that had taken root in the southern regions of the forest. 

 

I had never seen this creature before tonight, but I knew its name: it was the gwanthaur, the death of the forest. The subject of many ghost stories as told by the latest generation of superstituous woodsmen. I didn't believe them, of course. Men are quick to resort to make-believe in order to explain things. A byproduct of their lifespans, I suppose: a short life does not permit a full understanding of the world, nor does it diminish their thirst for knowledge, which they may only glean ere they expire. I had drawn my conclusions: a vicious orc, at most, wearing antlers on his cursed head, in mockery of our King. And so it was that Thranduil had sent me to investigate. 

 

It appeared that I had severely underestimated my quarry. Quietly, I drew an arrow from my quiver and laid it against the string of my bow. It had not seen me, but I knew that soon it would catch my scent. I ignored the throbbing pain in my leg and watched the creature, but it did not move. It stood utterly still, frozen, like a statue come forth from Elven nightmare. I found it difficult to keep my eyes open. Its shape blended into the moon-bathed clearing as I began to drift in and out of consciousness. I felt the blood trickling down my calves and pooling into my boot. Everything went black. In the darkness of my mind, I saw scores of thin, luminescent shapes. Elven spirits, bent and broken, with long, agonized expressions on their faces. They began to speak, then to clamor, in a chorus of lamentation that turned into anguished rage. Above them I saw a great, fiery eye, trapping them beneath the canopy of the Forest of Fear, rendering them unable to journey to the Halls of the Dead.

 

I tried to open my eyes, but realized they had never been closed. The gwanthaur stepped forward, and the spirits vanished beneath its overgrown hooves. I remembered the arrow resting between my fingers and sat up, pulling back the string as I rose to my feet. Balancing upon the delicate branch, I took my chance and loosened the arrow. My shot found its mark: I saw the red fletching quivering in the spot where I believed its heart might be. The Gwanthaur roared - a terrible sound akin to a hollowed out tree crashing down the hillside. Its antlered head swayed left and right as it stooped down to its knees. For a moment I thought myself victorious, or at least having struck a devastating first blow. I leaned back against the trunk of my tree and nocked a second arrow. The creature groaned, then slammed its gargantuan fists into the soil, causing a tremor that caused me to lose my footing. I tumbled down, grasping vainly at brittle branches before I found myself laying dazed and confused amongst the mossy roots. Before me stood the gwanthaur. It straightened its bent back and tore my arrow from its chest. For a moment it remained still, training its burning gaze upon me as I tried to scramble to my feet. Then it took a heavy step forward, and another. Its smell was overwhelming. It unfurled one of its clawed, brutish hands, and made a grasping gesture. A terrible cold took hold of me. I cast my eyes upwards, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the stars shining through the canopy, but I saw nothing but the thick, oily darkness that enveloped my shivering body. Silence descended. Time slowed to an agonizing pace as I wallowed in my final moments.

 

Then the silence ended. Branches rustled. A light appeared in the corner of my eyes. The creature's hold lessened, then broke. My lungs greedily sucked in all the air they could as the darkness left my burning eyes. I turned my head towards the light. From the star-lit brush a white stag had appeared, its head held high, meeting the gwanthaur's towering presence in noble defiance. Its fëa radiated outwards, casting long shadows all around it as it advanced upon its foe. The gwanthaur shook its mossy antlers, then took a slow step back, seemingly unwilling to contest this bright apparition over its ground. This was my chance. I dug deep within myself and found a kernel of strength, then lifted myself to my feet, turned around, and limped towards the looming trees. When I looked over my shoulder, both creatures had vanished into the night. I made my way north, as quietly as I could, taking little rest ere I found myself once more amongst the safeguarded glades of the Elvenking.

Druids of the Oaken Order

Spoiler

For many generations the Woodmen have abided in the green lands to the west of Greenwood the Great, marking their territory as being between the eaves of the forest and the running of the Great River - a place known as the Vales of the Anduin. Though they never penetrated far into the forest due to its slow but certain descent into darkness, some of their settlements did linger amongst its great boughs. Over long years, the Woodmen developed a culture centered around the hunt.They offered great reverence to the Vala Oromë, Béma in their tongue, whose guidance granted them great cunning and skill in the art of woodscraft.

 

Not far south from their southernmost settlement, some distance east and amongst the trees, lay a mysterious house. It was surrounded by a tall, overgrown hedge, and many wild animals were known to wander beneath its green gate and linger on its lawn, which was full of mushrooms and fruit-bearing brambles. Bears had been seen there, and foxes, and enormous rabbits, and large flocks of manifold birds. The house itself was wood and thatch, and split in two by a great Oak that grew right through it: the result of an acorn once buried beneath it whose sapling had never been removed. 'Déorfald' the Woodmen called it, 'wild-cage', and they never came too close. In actuality, its name was Rhosgobel, and its resident was Aiwendil, known colloquially as Radagast, the Brown Wizard, third in the order of Istari. 

 

Radagast had long ago foregone any wish to deal with the world of Men, Elves, or Dwarves. He was quite content to wander the wood, building upon his deep knowledge of the wild, gathering herb-lore, and conversing in bird-speech. In the far reaches of his deep and ancient mind, he was still aware of his purpose: he was a pupil of the Vala Yavanna, and he had been sent to Middle-earth long ago to aid its inhabitants against the rise of evil. To this end, he sent forth his flying friends to gather news of the world, and to occasionally stay in touch with his cousin, Gandalf the Grey, though otherwise he remained wholly absent of wordly affairs. It was thanks to this penchant for hermitry - often ridiculed by his superior, Saruman the White - that Radagast was amongst the first to become aware of the evil that had taken up residence amongst the ruins of Amon Lanc. He felt the dark presence as it seeped from hidden streams into the land, rotting roots of ancient trees, poisoning wildlife, causing death and slow decay wherever it went. It was Gandalf that he informed of his discovery, and Gandalf, having ventured into the ruins himself, drew a dark conclusion: Sauron had returned to the West, and it was the Dark Lord himself who dwelled amidst the ruins. 

 

Though Gandalf attempted to convince the wise members of the White Council of the necessity to oust Sauron, his efforts were overruled by Saruman, the chief of the Wise, who convinced the Council that without his Ruling Ring, Sauron could never pose a legitimate threat again. Further disillusioned with the affairs of the world, Radagast took it upon himself to do what he could in order to stem the slow corruption of his beloved forest. On his own, he knew that there was little he could accomplish in the end. The Elves had removed themselves several hundred miles to the north, and would likely manage to withstand the darkness for quite some time. Their King was renowned in the art of war, and their people possessed some knowledge in the healing arts. Instead, Radagast decided, he would go to see the Woodmen he knew lived nearby. 

 

He ventured forth from Rhosgobel, passing through several abandoned villages before he came to a town surrounded by a tall and sturdy palisade, flanked by wooden towers. Many orc-heads skewered on blackened pikes lined the walls. These Men had been resisting the deepening shadow for many years. It took some time and effort for the Brown Wizard to make himself known as a servant of light: his ability to speak the Northmen tongue had never been outstanding, and these issues were compounded by the Woodmen's strange dialect and the fact that the wizard had spent many of their lifetimes over living alone and removed. Though deeply uncomfortable amongst this chattering company, Radagast lived in the chieftain's house for a full year. Using his knowledge of magic and herbs, he helped cure those unfortunate warriors who succumbed to the evil spores that hung heavy under the forest's roof. He accompanied the farmers to their fields further out towards the Great River, where he placed a word of protection upon their crop. He drew ancient symbols of the Utter West upon the doors of their holdfasts, to ward off evil.

 

Before long, a group of Men announced themselves to him and made known their desire to learn some of these feats by themselves. Though Radagast recognized that it was unlikely these mortal Men would be able to muster enough affinity or gather the knowledge required to directly counter Sauron's influence, he nonetheless took in those that showed the most promise. In Rhosgobel, beneath the great arms of Radagast's oaken home, these Men were taught the secret properties of common herbs, to read the weather of the world by the flight of birds, and to lay down white stones in patterns that would be known to the agents of the Dark Lord and cause fear in their hearts. After several years, these Men returned to their kin and became chieftains and spiritual leaders - druids - who fortified the Woodmen's ability to withstand the darkness that seeped ever forth from Dol Guldur. In time, these Men took on pupils of their own, and so was born the Oaken Order, which for many centuries helped guard the Vales of the Anduin against the Forces of Darkness, until Sauron was finally destroyed at the end of the War of the Ring. 

[Hugh Janus]

Absolutely incredible. The work being put into this mod is outstanding!

[Mathijs]

Thanks!

I updated the compendium with an entry on the Jungle-trolls of Far Harad.

[kingsjewel]

It's really interesting, good to read.

[Kaieman]

Just read the background of the jungle trolls, lovely story .

[Mathijs]

Two more entries added: Bree-land Townsguard and the Knights of Amroth Amdírion.

[Mathijs]

Added Wulfgar's entry.

[Mathijs]

Added the Golden KIng and the Gwanthaur's entry.

[Mathijs]

Updated the Compendium with Cargást's entry.

[BorealisValkyrie]

Hello! As some of you may already know, I have just recently written a poem with the Aicanaroc as the main subject. I have grown particularly fond of its myth, and the scarcer the information available, the more intriguing is for me to deal with its mystery-ridden lore. On this note, it was not enough to compose stanzas about it, and I thus opted to explore this story further through a little bit of prose. The following text ought to be intended as nothing more than a side-story in itself, because it neither provides ulterior indications on the beast nor aims to rewrite history and turns it to another course. Take it as a free-spirited gift and a way to connect this legend, somehow, with other segments of the canons.

 

I hope you will enjoy the read. Apparently, a certain someone had been following the track of the Bird's tale long before the events of the trilogy, on a journey/mission to unveil a secret that only the desert might show "to the worthy or the cunning"...

 

 

 

Spoiler

THE WANDERER

Brisk, and yet silent as a starlit night would be over an arid drought. Such an eerie voyager, a wanderer, was traversing the boundless, vast magnitude of Harad’s wastes, unbeknownst to anyone who might have had the improbable skill and wit to spot his nimble steed across those lonely sands. Not that the sorry state of the desert would have made it more likely to meet southern folk, anyway.

The Third Age of the world had been welcomed with cheer and hope by the weary peoples of the West, relying on the profound confidence that shadows had been driven off the confines of all lands; the source of it, leastways. A shared dream of peace, but for the smouldering grudge that still endured and resisted in utter defiance beyond the extreme borders of the free realms, for below the verdure of kingly gardens or bustling quays lay the enormity of the South, and the vindictive spirits of all those who dwelt there and trod its inhospitable distances. Aye, revenge and unfinished disputes…
The overthrow of the Fiend had not meant the end of enmity betwixt the mighty Occident and the brutish minions that once would pay homage to the Dark; a lesser breed of Men, as was fabled among the courts inside stone and polished marble. In fact, a truce, though hopeful and coveted, will never signify true peace. The abeyance of skirmishes by the dunes and across the dwindling woods of the southernmost bounds, will never stand for lasting friendship. After more than fifteen centuries, large sections of these uncharted territories lived in deep silence, devoid of the warmth and sounds of human doings; bereft of life, really. Very few wish to inhabit troublesome places, and even fewer would dare the insidious treachery of hostile lands.

It was this solitude that our mysterious wayfarer was travelling through, beneath the nocturnal black that stretched far away unto every corner of the heaven’s vault. Ah, discerning his very thoughts and guessing the nature of his errands would have been hard matter even for the keenest intellect! Indeed, girt in long cloth and secure behind the poor guise of a chanced journeyman, he spurred the rein forth and, despite the haste which had gripped his interest, commanded his beast to increase the pace in the most resolute, gentlest manner. Covered by the unfathomable grey of his hood, this stranger proceeded without delay on his route, fearing not the cold that the very first hours of the day imbued wastelands with, because he was also certain that no animal, were it tame or wild, would have failed the sternness of his order and yielded to inclement weather. Actually, there were not many sentient beings who could pride in being unmoved by the force of so imposing an authority, either.
As the stars were glimmering, brightest, in the sky, the secret-ridden figure finally espied a solitary mass of ruins not very far from where he was advancing at full speed. It did not take the traveller very long to eventually get to the site. An even more enigmatic location it was: half-sunk in the sand, stood the remainders of what appeared to have been a temple in better times afore, prior to its inevitable decay. Portions of the outer wall still surrounded the main body of that decrepit edifice, but most of its inner chambers had either been shattered into pieces by some unknown incursion or simply surrendered to the passing of hundreds of years (thousands, perhaps). With the majority of the sanctuary’s own defences having been uprooted and rendered vain, it was an easy task for our errant pilgrim to dismount and make his way to the crypt of the ruinous building.

Yes, as he violated the sanctity of that ancient altar, the unbidden guest was slowly heading to somewhere he had fore-knowledge of. Something he had been querying and enquiring about for quite a time. An information which had been gleaned arduously through a number of peregrinations in foreign provinces, away from the comfort of regal mansions or tranquil lodgings. He was very much versed with the lore and tales being spoken of around the remote East, as thither he had often journeyed, spending several winters and summers in the company of outlandish populations, when his mind had not been occupied by thorough researches on the mode and customs that governed such far-flung regions. Now, however, he had been drawn south, where scorching suns betray the unwary foreigner, on a mission of his own into danger and mystery.
His foray had conducted him from tribe to tribe, leading the sage to ever unexplored swathes of southern parts, while he had been keeping himself distant from major cities, knowing that olden stories are best preserved and passed onto one’s kin outside the vanity of royal halls. Hence, his errand led him to the least of the lesser, according to the view of haughty generals and dissolute nobility, but there he needed to go, although the shining lustre of a court’s pleasures had never made him unhappy, anyhow. Then, during one of those trying wanderings, he had finally found it! He had found one whose name he had been recurrently referred to; a wise headman ruling over the scattered shreds of a once-renowned family. In a stormy vesper of the same month, he had wherefore come to it, to the village he had heard of. Once the few wardens at the entrance of the fence had escorted the mage inside, he was subsequently accompanied to a ragged, big tent, home to the man whom many believed knew what that queer explorer was looking for.

As had been those armed guards, the old, wizened ruler was caught by sudden surprise to know that the stranger spoke his tongue fluently, the sound of which would have beseemed coarse and extremely rough to western ears.

“I salute thee, wisest of all in the South! Hither am I come, against heat and unfriendliness, for much I seek the counsel of one who might be keen on granting sapience to a needy wanderer.” Thus had started the guest, and had then gone on with his cleverly-worded request, “I crave the help of a sapient mind, for wide used to go the legend: a spirit doth safeguard thy meridional folk, lord of blaze and ether!”

At first, the tribe’s regent had remained somewhat startled by the unexpected question coming from the mantled man in front of him, and by the reason why such an alien individual might want to delve deeper into the ken of his people; a person who looked so sinisterly interested into the object of his quest, to the point of daring to ask about a long-forgotten myth which only the desert’s desolation could unveil. Yet, as though stirred by some sort of newborn reverence towards that bearded sage, his resistance was met with augmented curiosity, as a sign that his mind was being changed. Who was that probing, beggar-like man? How did he speak their language so well? Surely, not one of the odious lords of the North; not even a spy, because his words had been lent with generosity, expecting a generous reply in exchange of courtesy. Treasonous ones could not have made it out of the waste alive. No, he had not come to harry the last days of an elderly chieftain, and thence he was likely to depart after his search would find fulfilment. He was genuine in his seeking; he had to be.

“Odd enquirer, you ask questions that few may answer, and seldom do we answer those we think are expert in stealth and wiles, but that you are not to my failing eye. Speak, please! What brings you so far from your abode? I might see if your scope shall be rewarded or not.”
“Liberal host, thy munificent manners surpass my fairest predictions! Verily, I am one musing on knowledge and seeking wisdom where none may find it. Long have I wandered, through death and peril, hoping that a wiser would come to my aid. Ill will I bring not, for no party I serve and there is nought whereover I exert power, save from my thirsty wit.”
“Water we are short of, down the arid places of the world, but some ken I have to quench your thirst, and, as we do say here, the kindly seeker’s plea ought to be made sought.”

Conquered by his disarming charm, as if in the grasp of an overwhelming spell, the ailing headman had begun to provide his guest with the truth behind those arcane legends of the past. In the meantime, furthermore, the quailing shape of the wanderer had almost turned into a tall, dignified presence, which seemed to have grown dramatically as the conversation between the two had gone on, revealing only slightly the white robes which the uncanny rover was clad in beneath his poor garb.
“Forsooth, a god we used to pray. Our guardian, our helper of yore. A creature that fire bore on menacing cloud. Faith was always there, beseeching him to rescue the southern folk from harm and destruction, although he manifested himself just in the rarest time, under the fashion of a bird of prey, the size of which one shall never set their gaze on about the shore.
Temples were raised to honour his might, until the sea-emperors came from foreign tides and brought our own sovereigns away from the preoccupations of the divine, for the mundane is the only care of vainglorious crowns, but the Dark Sire was worse than all and claimed to be the sole master of our fate, be it as tyrant or cruel deity. He laid waste to every shrine we had built in sweat and labour; no rival-god for him.
Almost nothing is left. Ware, nonetheless! A three-day journey hence, to the uttermost south, shall take you to a broad plain among the dunes; at night, search through the silence of those ways. Tale has it that a starry darkness may unearth some of what has foundered into the sand, while the moon waxes out and the above-orbs disclose their perennial radiance in all skies. The desert is ever loth to give away its hidden gems, especially to strangers, but precious heirlooms will show themselves to the worthy or to the cunning...”

As he had concluded his dense recounting, the aged shaman sped the traveller and bade him farewell. Once he had mounted his horse again, the fey rider bowed his head to take leave and rode off into the wilderness, never to be seen again.
Those lowly villagers would no more catch sight of their brief visitor, nor would they know if he had succeeded in his endeavours. Without a doubt, they would forever remember that very unusual person, and rumours soon spread that he might have been a portent of good luck or a benign apparition. Upon later remembrances, the gate-keepers recalled how that semblance of an adventurer did not bear any sign of age or infirmity, despite the depth of his penetrating stare and the thick beard. They could have sworn that he might well be a saint from abroad. They could have sworn that the staff he was leaning on hid some kind of potent artifice. They could have sworn that his melodious voice might have won the prestige of nations, moved the unmovable, and even bent iron and the earth’s most recondite enigmas to his very will.

So had the wanderer arrived where he most longed to be. Those he had listened to were not vague rumours: his three-day ride had taken him to said desolate valley. Lo and behold! The wreckage of a temple was truly emerging without, like a strand at the retreat of the sea. Though unsure whether the mute stone had much to tell or not, knowledge of the world’s unsolved riddles was his goal and ambition, since knowledge itself was, as he would put it, the real prowess.
Scattered murmurs of a lost tradition had sparked a veritable burning flame in him, with many evidences suggesting that such a story even the Elder Kin ignored. Who else would have reached forward to wrest that discovery from him? “This is lore which had better be kept in the hands of higher ones, instead of the memories of a fading, savage line,” he thought.

Content as he was, he started his slow, but incessant, procession towards that ruin. The central hall he believed had once served as the innermost, sacred space; the holiest room in the whole structure. That tribe-prince, who had so generously contributed to the finding of the relic, would never suspect that the exploring horseman did know of the existence of the temple and only required someone’s advice to guide him to the exact area.
He had come across it, one cloudless evening of spring, in one of his extenuating reads, drawing as much information as he could from the archive of the kings of Gondor, situated in the nethermost wing of the City’s library. The record spoke of numerous like sanctuaries, sparse all along the dunes, reporting the way in which western Men thought that the cult of the Bird had been somehow saved from extinction, though nigh-extinct it truly was. Written in the Elven-tongue, yet not by Elven-hand, the piece had posited that wide, hollow cellars had probably been carven into the ground to store the secrets of those hallowed mausoleums within. A crypt, its crypt, he was seeking.
It was night again, bleak as pitch, when the voyager entered that living memory of brick and pillar. Minuscule motes of debris, left in the chamber by the passage of erstwhile mishap, had risen from the bare floor, wafted in the air on the current of a swift breeze that was infiltrating the construction’s open skeleton. It was as if that misery had suddenly woken at the arrival of an intruder from outside and were thus trying to fend off the invader. A curtain of dust billowed high across the entire span of the vast room, to swallow the hooded figure in, but he did not relent at all. In the gloom of that decadence, he proceeded on to a section of the floor which seemed clear of both fallen stones and encumbering dirt. There was not a thing that did not exude the idea of lifelessness there, so to signal that the broken remnant of the shrine had little to offer to folk of any ilk, but any hope for concealment that those priests had had was soon vanished: whatever their skill in camouflage, the craft of a wizard would not have been defied so lightly. The traveller, then, held his staff high for a moment, as his mouth began to mutter indefinite formulas, and so hit the tattered ground with the end of his rod.
The stroke appeared to thud for an infinite amount of seconds through the deaf width of that dying place, as thunder would most obtrusively break the merriment of a sunny day.
After an instant that rather resembled the longest pause, the very floor cracked open right before his feet, digging a deep hole in the middle of the temple. Part of the collapsed base had covered the opening of the crypt, though leaving behind a moderately-spacious cleft that permitted entrance.

The flight of underground stairs, that wound ever lower from the upper surface, led the wanderer to the proof which so many had vainly set out to discover in former whiles. Into a smaller cave at the end of the tunnel had been set the statue of a winged beast, not taller than a medium-sized man in his prime. Its pinions were thrust forth from side to side, to convey the magnificence of that divinity; at its bottom, lit by the pilgrim’s staff (which had magically started to radiate light from the sphere at its top), other votive gifts had been brought on the idol’s pedestal, many of which mocked in miniature the appearance of that golden marvel. Indeed, the statue had been forged from the purest gold, whose gilded skin was now reflecting a tenuous gleam on the surrounding wall. It was on the near mural wall that paintings of old had been drawn with a certain type of dye, depicting an eagle-like god atop a storm, venerated by scores upon scores of devout worshippers, knelt in absolute, prostrate submission.

The seemingly-old man smiled out of utter pride and delight, having been able to surmount adversity and get to the final prize of his eventful journey. Stretching out his eager hand, he took hold of one of those miniatures and clasped it firmly, until the artefact disappeared into the sundry waves of his cloak, him being intent to carry tangible evidence back. He realised he had attained a wonderful feat, the like of which the other idle fellows of his noble order would not have even imagined possible. The sparse fables of sand-men were then proved true, and he was incredibly conscious that, one day, the knowledge he had been after with such forbearance would re-pay him well. Perchance, the time would be ripe for the Crimson Bird to come anew, as the run-down books of the White City inferred (books that mankind, squire or king, had long unlearnt to read), and the wiser sage would attempt to restore the forgotten religion, presenting himself as the Fire’s own emissary, or use the Southerner’s faith to his advantage, unless a much greater obsession had taken over his laborious mind.
Who could know?

“Aicanaroc,” murmured he with plain satisfaction, as though he had just added another gem to his personal collection of antediluvian tales. Then, ere the sorcerer turned and went back to the open world, he boldly remarked, “Yea, to me hath the desert shown! To me, worthy and cunning!”

Edited by BorealisValkyrie, 20 May 2020 - 07:43 PM.

[Mathijs]

Updated the compendium with Druids of the Oaken Order.

[Mathijs]

Updated the compendium with Câssimir's entry.

[Mathijs]

Updated! Lug's entry is in.