46 replies to this topic

[mike_]

Thanks.
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The glittering mass of Noldolin warriors charged, in no clear formation. At the head of their assault was Etchelion, the Chieftan of their House. Against them strove Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, with none but his troll-guard about him.
The foes met. Gothmog roared, laughing, and brought his axe down in a wide arch - sweeping aside a dozen Elves and rending their bodies horribly. Stepping forward, booming laughter echoed from within the cloud of smog that surrounded him - but it turned to a scream as Etchelion stabbed skyward and Orcrist found Gothmog's gullet.
Putting a hand to the wound, Gothmog swung out with his black axe, but Etchelion dodged the wild attack. Striking again, he cut the arm of Gothmog and tongues of fire ran from it like fountaining blood. But Gothmog Lord of Balrogs not yet spent. He turned about and smote Etchelion with his empty hand, turned to a fist. The crippling blow sent the Elf-Lord sprawling across the Court, gritting his teeth in agony. For though his mail was not undone, and had resisted the strength of Gothmog, inside his body was broken. But this duel was not yet finished; standing, he took Orcrist in hand and ran towards the Balrog-Lord. Gothmog swung fiercely, but Etchelion spurrned the axe-blow and turned it aside. A gout of flame issued from within the cloak of darkness that was Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, but it availed not. Etchelion was the nimbler; leaping aside, he cut again and rent open the leg of Gothmog. Again the Balrog-Lord screamed in anguish as his inner fire was revealed to open air and eye.
Then Gothmog leaned forward out of his dark shade, and his terrible face was unveiled; horns like a ram but a face like a bull, there was no beauty in it. Opening his maw, Gothmog spoke, "You fight valiantly, Youngling. I shall enjoy adding your name to those of the fallen!" Etchelion did not answer him, but swung his blade outward faster than a striking snake. Gothmog roared in terrible anguish, and the stones were rent.
But no aid came to either combatent. For the troll-guard of Gothmog Lord of Balrogs had been slain or driven off; but a great press of Orcs had come up and were holding the Elves at bay.
And so alone they stood, Etchelion Lord of Gondolin and Gothmog Lord of Balrogs, fighting to the death in the courtyard of the High King of the Noldor.
-------
The spearmen brought himself back to reality and ducked as an Orc swung at his head.
Why must I have a penchant for such misfortune? The Elf thought. Sidestepping the feral swing, he ran cold steel through the Orc. But another replaced it, which he swiftly beheaded.
The fighting had reached it's fervour with the coming of Gothmog. The phalanxe of the King had been beaten back, and all those remaining in the City were there in her defence. There was Galdor with his curved blade, cutting down Orcs faster than lightning. Tuor stood taller than any Men before him, and those there were reminded of Hurin his uncle; for he fought with a great battle-axe, hewing Orc and Troll and Wolf alike. And with each fallen he shouted aloud, greater than any other save Hurin himself, "Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!" And Glorfindel Lord of the Golden Flower commanded the phalanxe himself, and it seemed to some that a white light was in his eyes. But greatest of all was Turgon King of Gondolin. In his left hand he bore the banner of his House, and in his right was Glamdring his blade. It seemed that no Orc-chieftan or brigand could harm him. In that hour of mighty deeds, there were many; those left of the Houses of the Harp and the Mole fought the bravest. For they alone had been proved to have had both treacherous and cowardly leaders, and those left alive had chosen to fight for a better memory of their people.
The spearmen found himself lost among the fallen, and there on the field of battle he found his friend the archer. The Elf had a grievous wound, the mail upon his chest rent open horribly. A great burn was beneath it, and he had lost much blood as well as his helmet. Stooping low, the Elf bowed his head and grasped the hand of his friend. But he stirred, and though blinded in one eye the fading Noldo turned his head and saw his friend. And he spoke, "Do not weep, my friend; for I am not Beleg Cuthalion or some other great fallen hero...though I go to meet them. I was but an archer of the House of the Arch." But with this he fell still, and his eyes closed. But he spoke once more, "What is your name, spearman?" And he answered him, "Thranduil. I am not of this City...I was friend to Thingol of Doriath in the younger days and lived there for a time. And yours?" The bowman was quiet for a moment, and returned, "Legolas of Gondolin. I was an archer." And with that he died.

Edited by mike_, 10 June 2008 - 07:28 PM.

[myster]

hihi i like it dont know if the thranduil part is historicly(sp, i know) correct but it's still fun to read

[mike_]

It's a personal change to the lore..something that isn't said to have happened but I liked the idea of it and it's suited..so yeah.

[Vithar-133]

Intresting. Combatant is spelled wrong, but other than that, it's still great.

[mike_]

Etchelion, Lord of the Fountain and Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs stood alone. Etchelion was ragged; all the regality and finery that he had been adorned in was ruined and burned. Gothmog towered opposite him, his cracked and broken skin issuing withered tongues of flame. The Balrog-Lord's fires were nearly spent; as was the life of his foe. Breathing heavily, Gothmog spoke out in mockery, "Suilad a mae govannen, mellon nin."
Etchelion scowled at the remark. Despite the Balrog-Lord's brutish appearance, he could still speak as if he were one of the Elf's kindred.
Leaping forward, Etchelion slashed wildly - and for the first time that day his blow smote air, not his enemy. Laughing cruelly, Gothmog brought down his black axe and shattered the stones beneath their feet. He growled and swung his unhindered hand out, but this strike did not miss. Etchelion was thrown into his fountain, and could barely stand. Fey, believing his battle won, Gothmog Lord of Balrogs stepped forward - and brought his great hoof down into the cool waters. Etchelion shouted hoarsely as his beloved fountain was defiled by the being's presence. Leaping up, clumsily, he hacked and slashed with Orcrist his sword - and Gothmog screamed in agony as his inner flame spewed forth from each wound like blood.
But Gothmog charged forward, and, throwing the Elf-Lord aside, the pair fell into deeper waters. But then they were both undone; for Etchelion, having lost Orcrist in this latest assault, took the spike of his helm and thrust it into the heart of Gothmog. The great beast cried out silently beneath the surface, for his flames were quenched. And with them went his life.
----------------------
Then all eyes turned to the surface of the fountain; no blows were struck by Elves or Orc. They were expectant; which champion would surface? But moments passed, and neither foe came from the depths. For Etchelion was spent, and Gothmog immovable. And so both were buried beneath his ruin, drowned beneath the waters. Then the hearts of the Eldalie turned to sorrow, and those of the Balcoth to dismay; and they turned back to their fighting, for it was all they knew. But the spirits of the Gondolindhrim turned from sadness to hate; and from hate to anger. And anger...to revenge. For though they were now few in number than ever before, a dark rage filled them; none more so than Turgon the King. He had set aside his banner, and fought now with Glamdring his great sword in the doorway of his tower.
And so the blades and skill of the Noldor proved the mightier, and they beat back their foes; but their losses were great. And Turgon, turning now to Glorfindel and Tuor, ordered them to take the wounded, and the women and children, and to escape from the City. For a great press of Orcs and Wolves was making haste to the highest level, and would be there soon; he himself would not abandon his City. And they obeyed, and taking what few warriors they could, some yet made their escape.
EDIT: Yar...this seems a little rushed/empty to me. Will probably do a rewrite/updated version when I can find the time.

Edited by mike_, 27 June 2008 - 08:31 PM.

[Elvenlord]

Wow, amazing mike. *Shoves own story in corner*
Truly great.

[Ring o' Fate]

Necropost, but: MORE!!!! CONTINUE!! The story is awsome so far!

[mike_]

Yarg...I'll see what I can put together.

[{IP}jimmyman]

simply amazing mike just took the time to read it

[Berto916]

lol this is really good, you should think of writing a book

[mike_]

Sigh...guess I'll have to upload update coming this weekend.

EDIT: If time is permitting, of course.

Edited by mike_, 03 September 2008 - 10:16 PM.

[Berto916]

you didnt quit writing did you, this is some quality stuff

[mike_]

Too many different projects, too many different interests, etc...so kinda-sorta-maybe-not.

[rjorrin28]

Nice, Keep them coming!!!!

[mike_]

Yeah, it's back.



Thranduil and his companion, Morionquetil, were crouched behind a slag-heap in the mountain-pass. They were acting as scouts, having been commanded by the Lord Glorfindel to go ahead of the refugee host and make sure the way was clear. The two Elves were lightly girt; both bore grey cloaks, light knee-length chain cloaks, and the surcoats of both their Houses - the Golden Flower for Thranduil and Tree for Morionquetil. They differed further in terms of gear; Thranduil was girt with his longsword but wielded his spear two-handed; Morionquetil had a strung and nocked bow in one hand and a stout axe in the other. A long, pale, leaf-bladed knife was at his waist with a small quiver of arrows girt on the opposite hip.

Previously, they had been loping swiftly - and yet quietly, as is the fashion of Elven-folk - through the mountain path ahead of the column. They had stopped short behind a pile of fallen stones and gravel when a copse of dark pines climbing the mountain-side presented itself. Worried, Thranduil turned to his friend and whispered hurriedly, "What do you see? Mine eyes cannot pierce the dark." The Grey Elf answered, "I see camp-fires. Barely hidden; they give off much smoke and many sparks. Crooked figures are gathered around them." He paused, squinting in the gloom, then continued, "Yes... it is an Orc-camp. They were waiting for us. The Mole's treachery runs deeper than we believed." He spat the name with a curse-like quality.

Thranduil's eyes caught a bright, flickering light near the crest of the mountain-top; a great burning was there. Shadows blacker than the night obscured any details, but the sight placed a strange sense of foreboding on his heart. But he couldn't dwell on it; there were more material demands on him for the time being. Morionquetil turned his head towards him, and whispered, "We must check our blades. To insure this is a threat." Thranduil complied, pulling his longsword slightly from it's sheath while Morionquetil did the same with his knife. Both the weapons shown a faint blue; Orc-kind were near. Since they had covered their way to this point, and it was impossible for anything to be on the mountain-sides (up or down) then they could be nowhere but directly in front of the pair of Gondolindhrim.

Turning to Morionquetil, Thranduil whispered hurriedly, "Go back to the refugees. Gather what men-at-arms as can be found in haste and return; swiftly. May the Valar guard you." The Grey Elf nodded and replied, "and may the light of Aman shine upon you." He then left.

As his companion vanished, Thranduil returned to espying the Orc-camp. As his Elf-eyes adjusted to the growing twilight, he was able to make out several glistening fires; and multiple wolf-sentries padding throughout the tree-line. Evaluating the terrain, he saw that it had not a single uniform width; it varied from being wide enough for eight soldiers to stand easily abreast to thin enough so that a single adder would have trouble slithering through. Upon the right side the grey slate was steep and unyielding; yet the left was a straight drop into a black, noiseless abyss where no living thing went. Strangely, many massive knife-sharp precipices of stone emerged from the blackness, piercing the sky. It was possible the Firstborn could form a shieldwall and hold the pass; the Orc's numbers would amount to naught in the narrow space. Unfortunately, there were no more than a score of able-bodied and armed warriors among the refugees of the City of Seven Names.

Minutes passed, then an hour. But the sentry-turned-captain-turned-scout was immobile as the stone he crouched upon. Finally, Morionquetil returned with seven and ten armed Elves. Seeing none he knew, Thranduil acknowledged their presence with a slight nod. He then spoke quietly and quickly in Quenyan, "Those with bows, take care of the wolf-kind; silently. You others, with me. We will move through the trees, single-file, east to west. Follow me, and use all manner of stealth you know!"

The group divided as they were told and went their separate ways. The five bowmen, accompanied and led by Morionquetil (who had left his shortbow with his young son, Erestor, in the column) crept slowly around the hill and into the trees. There was little undergrowth on the bare mountain but what there was the Elves used as well as may be. The Grey Elf directed his charges to each take two sentries each, silently.

Knowing it was now his turn to lead, Thranduil turned his attention to the remaining dozen warriors. Most had spears; among those only four retained shields. The other three bore swords; one only had his shield. Other gear, such as helmets and pauldrons, was haphazardly distributed throughout the group. Crouching low, Thranduil directed the soldiers under his command to spread out into a staggered line when they entered the trees.

Once all was prepared, Thranduil whilsted a bird-call - the signal for the ambush to commence. There were five twangs, then five more. Ten great Wolves fell life to the skill of the Quendi.

Adjusting his spear into a throwing stance, Thranduil loped over the slag-hill gracefully and into the trees, his men at his back. Safely unseen, they disintegrated into the aforementioned formation.

Creeping ahead, Thranduil peered into the gloom of the Orc-camp. There were a score of yrch laughing harshly, some attempting to clean their filthy gear. That was a bad sign. New fighters were rarely that devoted. That meant these soldiers of Morgoth had been at this kind of work for many years. The group was lounging around a great bonfire; four others where scattered throughout the wood in like fashion. Sitting on a great boulder near the first was a massive, fat Uruk. It was girt in black maille and had a greasy Dwarf-made bow of horn - likely pilfered from a battlefield many years before - resting on its immense knees. No helm obscured its face, leaving the empty left socket and lanky, unkempt hair exposed.

Thranduil snapped up from behind a low spur of rock and hurled his spear javelin-like. It soared thirty paces, the faded and torn pennant fluttering with a new life. It came to a stop in the Orc-chieftain's chest, impaling it. It fell without a sound, the Orcs around it rising up in surprise at their leader's sudden demise. A pair of small goblins began to squabble over the bow, trying to pry it from the lifeless fingers.

Drawing his proud longsword, Thranduil stood tall and shouted above the din and racket, "Herio! Charge!" and his Elves obeyed. Slamming into the taken-at-unawares Orcs, Thranduil's line was halted for a moment as their foes gathered their bitter wits. Thranduil brought his sword down, into, and through an Orc's shabby halberd, following through with the stroke and cleaving it's rusty helm in twain. A white flame sprang from the attack as Orc-blood fell steaming on the rocks. A spearman to Thranduil's left stopped running directly in front of a charging Orc axeman and brought his full weight to bare into his shield; the Orc was broken on it, crushed between it's own momentum and the unerring steele. The clueless creature was flung back several feet, where it fell and did not rise. Another Elf to Thranduil's right locked blades with an enemy swordsman, then slid his sword down the length of the Orc's blade, sparks flying, and severed several fingers. The monster howled in pain and rage, but only gurgled when the Elven swordsman stabbed a long knife - shining bright blue - up and into the bottom of it's chin. The tip poked out of the crown of the Orc's head, a spurt of black blood leaping into the sky, smoking.

Firmly routed, the Orcs turned and ran, shouting "Golug! Golug!" which is their word for the Noldor. Several lifted dirt-encrusted horns to their lips and blew as they ran, harsh horn-calls sounding in the air. Morionquetil's archers implored them to stop.

Wiping a fallen Orc's blood on it's own stiff hauberk, Thranduil sheathed his sword and retrieved his spear.

Things were just heating up.

Edited by mike_, 22 December 2008 - 04:44 PM.

[Vithar-133]

It's been while. You haven't lost it, though.

[{IRS}Athos]

Niiiiice...

[Elvenlord]

Woooo! It's back!

[Rafv Nin IV]

This is quite good. But you already knew that.

[Ring o' Fate]

OMFG. Awesome.