As Black As Fate (ASOIAF/LOTR Mormegil Quest)

[Telamon]

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The stars are bright, accusing.

Each breath is pain, each thought a thousand deaths. Sweat and salt sting as they roll down your ash-coated cheeks. It hurts. It all hurts so much. You see their bodies in your mind's eye, their hands reaching out for you, their eyes begging.

Pleading.

Again and again and again you see them die, by your hand and by your action, or worse, your inaction. They grasp at you with the sorrow that follows you like a bitter wind, the death that clings to you like a cloak. You have tried to escape for so long, so very long, but you cannot run anymore. He has won.

Your greatest friend, dead by your hand.

Your lord and master, brought to ruin by your arrogance.

All those you swore to protect, shattered and broken through your folly.

The kingdom of your fathers, overrun by the servants of The Enemy.

And those you dared to love, dead, or brought to a fate worse than death.

Men have called you by many names.
Turambar, the Master of Fate. Neithan, the wronged. Mormegil, the Blacksword.

Yet it is fate that has mastered you. You have wronged countless thousands, and your blade, black as the silence behind the stars, failed you when you needed it most.

No more. No more pain, no more death, no more blood and steel and tears and cold.

No more.

You bring the sword, black like the dark behind the stars, to your chest, and you push. Your last thought is of her.

And then it ends.

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It begins.
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You are alive.

You are alive. You are alive, and your lungs push cold air into your body. For a long moment, you cannot remember who you are or where you came from. Then, as if through a veil of countless years, a name comes unbidden to your mind.

Túrin.

You are Túrin, son of Hurin, of the House of Hador. You remember your earliest youth, in the mountains of Dor-Lomin, your father's realm. You remember the rolling hills and soft fields of your estate, and the servants who tended to your every need. You remember golden trees and the lilting tones of the elvensong.

And you remember too well what came after. Death. Ruin. Fear and blood and dragon-fire in the night.

You take a final deep breath and open eyes you do not remember closing.

You stand in a wooded, closed glade. Around you, thin, white trees rise in all directions. Before you, a vast oak sprawls out from the earth, it's worn bark white as bone. Into it's trunk is carved a scowling face with eyes that seem to meet your own.

There is silence. The wood is still, empty. No birds chirp, no animals scurry in the undergrowth. There is just an empty, still silence.

And then you see it. It sits in front of the pool that lies at the base of the great tree, gleaming as if newly sharpened with the finest oils. The blade, blacker than samite, blacker than death, blacker than the silent night itself, calls to you. The blade of Beleg, who you killed. The blade that took your own life, in the end. It calls to you, like a mother to a child. Feet you cannot guide take small, tentative steps until you stand over the sword. An arm that is not yours to control stoops down and grasps the hilt, fitting into worn grooves in the boiled leather. A hand you cannot move raises it high, high above your head, so that the light streaming through the silent trees shimmers off the black metal.

[Weapon Gained] Gurthang, the Iron of Death (Mythical, magical)

And then the pain shoots through your arm, and you can feel the arms grasping at you, the hands tearing at your body, see visions flashing before your eyes like sunspots. And in seconds, you understand without knowing. This place, this strange land, is not Middle-Earth. It is not even the Arda you knew. You are a stranger here, but you are not alone. The Curse, the Curse of Morgoth that has brought ruin to your entire life, has followed you here. You can feel His touch on your heart, on your soul, and the visions call to you of old gods, old gods and new. They sing of reprieve, of freedom at long last from the Curse. You need merely choose. And return, you must serve as their champion, their warrior in this new world.

[] You choose the flame that burns bright against the shadow, and the visions it shows you--Gurthang, burning like a torch with it's own inner flame. A man, a certain man, reborn amidst salt and smoke, a man who must be protected, a man who must live at all costs. A dragon, dying in the bleak midwinter as ice burns. A proud stag, broken and bleeding in the darkest night. A bolt of lightning, striking from the sky to spark a flame that will never fade. You feel the fire ignite in your own heart, feel it lap and burn at the power of the Enemy. For the first time in your life, you feel...warm.

[] Seven. Seven gods and seven oaths. Their visions are visions of a world consumed by lust and greed and chaos. A land that purports to follow them, but serves only the gods of wealth and strength. They call on you to undo what has been done. To go south and restore what was undone. Monsters and murderers sit the throne of kings. Stags and lions feast on the corpses of dragons. They call you to show their fury to the false lords, to bring holy judgement with fire and blood.

[] The tree before you looms ever taller, and though no visions of grandeur or might play in your mind, you know, in your bones, what they will of you. They have been here for thousands of years, yet now their grip grows weak. The Wall weeps. The green dies. Winter is coming. They have seen what is to come, and so they command you to avert it. Five wolves yet live. Safeguard them at all costs. Restore the true blood in Winter's heart, and uphold what has been upheld since the oldest days of wood and stone.

[] No. You will serve no false gods or woodland spirits. Your god is the One, the true god, the creator of all that is and yet might be, Eru Illuvatar. His gift was Death, the doom of Men, and his servants are the Valar, the safekeepers of the world. The seas belong to Ulmo, the skies are the realm of Manwe, and the stars themselves are the crown of Varda Elbereth. They are the masters of the heavens and the rulers of the earth, and your loyalty shall fall to no other. The curse of Morgoth weighs still on your heart, but what of it? You are the Master of your own Fate, and you will be bound to no false thing.

[] There is only one god, this you have always known. He has been with you all your life, and now he calls you at last to him. He knows you, and you know him, and though you have always denied him, in practice you were but the greatest of his servants. He asks nothing, wants nothing, save silence, for his truth is the truth you have known for all of your days: all men must die.

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[Telamon]

The sunspots vanish in a moment. The wood grows still, and the silence deepens into a hollow emptiness. The warmth you felt nipping at your flesh vanishes. Within seconds, the strange gods have left, and you are alone, alone in this strange world where the air is foul and the skies are dim.

No.

Not alone.

In your chest, in your heart, there is an ebb. A flow. A rhythm that you can feel in your bones. A pulsing echo of the first music that rang in the hills when the world was young, itself a reverberation of the Music that birthed the world. It is a memory of the song of the Ainur, the song of fire and ice and hope and life. It is the First Song, older than Time and Earth. It is the Gift of Illuvatar.

Epic Trait Gained: An Echo of the Music: You carry in your heart an echo of the First Music that birthed the world, undimmed by the lesser spirits of this strange land. It is bright and bold and strong, yet in it's rhythm is echoed the taint that scarred the World. It rises to melodies high and great and falls to symphonies low and dark, for it's tune is the tune of Arda Marred. It will preserve your grace and might as a Man of the First Age in this bitter world, yet in the might of Man lies the Curse of Morgoth.

You rise unsteadily to your feet. The godswood spins around you, and you struggle to catch your breath. You had not felt it before, but your memories, your very soul, feel...off-center. Lost. You take a breath, and try to center yourself. You are Turin, son of Hurin. You are the dragonslayer and the Blacksword, the Lord of Dor-Lomin and the defender of Brethil. You are...

Author Note: For the second stage of Character Building, we'll be focusing on the Legend mechanic. In Arda, Turin was known by many names, and was a living legend. In Westeros, he will no doubt become the same. Many times over the course of his life, he chose to define himself in different ways--as a great hero, as a merciless warrior, as a man defying his own fate. He will do the same here, and they will song new tales of him. Legends will define how you act in certain situations and conversations that aren't given to choice, and will even affect the choices recieved. Legend Points recieved for actions can be used to rank up your Legend and its benefits, as well as amplify it's negative attributes, or even create new Legends.

The Mormegil [] You are the Blacksword, the Bringer of Death, the Shadow of Nargothrond. You are a god on the field of battle, striding untouched among your foes. Your touch is the touch of death, and when men hear your name, they flee. You are more amoral and less just when following this Legend, and more prone to using violence as a solution to problems, though you are still clever and thoughtful. You deal with the Curse of Morgoth by accepting it--if men think less of you, it has nothing to take from you. You are wary of emotional attachments and relationships.

The Bane of Dragons [] You are Adenedhel, the one men call the Dragon of Dor-Lomin, the storied Champion of Nargothrond and the mythical Bane of Glaurung. You are the hero of song and legend, the dragonslayer, the Orc-hunter, the heir of Hurin and mightiest of the foes of Morgoth among the Race of Men. Proud, confident, and strong, your martial skills are nothing to be scoffed at, yet your pride dims your skills. You are more concerned with your own self-image and the glory of those around you than with the repercussions of your actions. You more easily sway people to your side with words, though you make enemies readily enough. Women sigh at your passing, and and even your liege lords cannot help but take a liking to you, though you often spurn those who care for you. Glory and prestige come naturally to you, along with fame and heroics. But the higher you rise, the greater shall be the fall when Morgoth's Curse takes hold, for ever and always have arrogance and pride been the footholds of the Enemy.

The Master of Fate [] You are a man, nothing less, nothing more, and the Master of your own fate. With every breath, with every action, you defy the will of Morgoth. You protect the weak and deny the cruel. You shelter your loved ones from harm and seek to atone for the wrongs you have wrought. Perhaps, you hope against hope, this may forestall the Doom of the Enemy. You care more for others and the well-being of the common man. While still a consummate warrior, you prefer more to keep the peace. The Curse of Morgoth often seems to slumber while this legend is active, but be warned, for it's ire is raised, and it will not be ignored. No Child of Hurin will know peace in their days--so says Morgoth Bauglir. Even the greatest love will turn to bitter ash in your hands. Yet the Ainur and their Master are not without mercy. The power of the Valar graces you most, and your skills across all fields are greatly amplified.

A New Legend [] You are Turin. Nothing less, nothing more. You will define yourself anew, though Morgoth's Curse shall wreak it's havoc as it wills.