Great is the Fall of Gondolin is a BROB (although it would probably be more accurate to call it a player-driven story) in which Figwit (I didn't pick the name!) is dropped into Middle Earth on the eve of the seige of Gondolin in the First Age. I've been told I should post it here as well, and with some cleanup to the narrative (and flow), here is it. It is somewhat unusual for being in second person and being entirely from Figwit's perspective, which may not be to the taste of everyone.
The sand and wind is already wiping away your footprints up the side of the dune as you reach the top, looking out across the desert. Turning where you stand in a slow circle, you check the surroundings with alert eyes before you sit at the apex of the dune, tugging up the back of your desert robes to create a little fold of fabric to act as a breaker for the sand that occasionally skittered and drifted across the dunes like a fine mist. In the distance you can see a glint of silver and glass, one of the Fallen Cities, long since decayed unto ruin. Once you walked there - and only once, for even after many centuries the stink of magic and sickening of the air remains. You took from there only one artifact, as was your challenge to yourself, and it burned your hand over the many days you held it. The memory prompts you to look at the palm of your hand and the barest discoloration there. Even after you had cast that bauble aside at the edges of the desert, the pain had persisted until you had seen a healer and paid a pretty penny for the most expensive and effective salves either of you knew of. Ever after as you saw it from afar, you have remembered the utter desolation of that place, and your feet have forbade you to walk there again. Even a master of the Untamed Mysteries dreads the places where first the greatest and most abominable of the creatures burst through the walls of time and space (a terminology you do not quite understand, but those before had been more learned in such esoteric things) and crushed civilization beneath their heels. The greatest magics were no protection there.
But only near that the city could you find your quarry, and hence your reluctant presence. Things are stirring in the dark, and you find the few, powerful runes that you places about the walls of your hometown drained further each night, the stink of burned flesh and the minute scratches at the definition of the tamed-magic symbols the only sign of why. Whatever harries you there is intelligent, and knows that runes lose potency far more rapidly when the shapes themselves are deformed. And each night, you see a bridge between two lines slowly forming from countless strokes of a claw, and only a Master of the Art would know to bridge those two strokes to utterly undo that warding power. Until you know what presses at your defences you must strengthen your designs, and the only way to do that is through a stronger material to carve them in. You slap your hand into the sand next to you, a pulse of your thaumaturgy transmuted into raw force radiating into the ground. The muted thump disturbs the sand around you, but you focus the majority of the pulse downwards. Thaumaturgy, though untamed, was the greater source from which all finer magics flow. With your mastery, it is a simple if taxing affair to mimic one or the other.
The devourer worm is attracted by such disturbances, and your keen eyes keep watch over the sand, watching for the slight disturbances and collapses that herald one. Each worm is armored by black scales the size of a hand, almost impervious to damage, and their thousand-toothed circular mouths are the last thing a traveller will see as the worms arc above them and come crashing down mouth-first. Or so you suspect, having never seen that particular set of circumstances reach an unfortunate but rather inevitable conclusion. Since the average worm is around thirty meters long, it should provide you more than enough scales to create almost impervious runes even if you damage the bulk of the monster with thaumaturgy. You would like to see even the most patient creature scratch away at that for years on end without you catching it. You slap your hand down again, and force pushes down into the ground.
There - you see the characteristic collapse of sand into the tunnels they leave behind. One is coming for you, the trail simply appearing in the sand from where it had burrowed before you disturbed it. You feel a slight rumble under your feet, and your fingers close around your rune-carved staff in preparation. The worm will burst up in front of you, and you must be ready to slay it on the first pass and simultaneously transmute enough of your thaumaturgy into force to push it off course. Difficult to do, but well within your abilities. The rumbling grows louder, and a frown creases your brow. You did not expect this level of disturbance. It must be one of the larger ones. More difficult, and not an outcome you would have wished, but not particularly more dangerous. Your desert robes start to flap as a breeze kicks up, the tan fabric slapping against your legs. The slight tingle on your skin betrays the origin as magical, and you tense. This worm must have been near the city for a long time to have developed an effect on its environment. There is a sudden flicker of uncertainty, then it is too late altogether.
Sand erupts in a geyser some fifty meters in front of you, an undulating tower of black scales. Without hesitation you gather your power and hurl it in a misty looking jet of shimmering blue light, raking up the body of the beast as it ascends for the death drop. The worm roars in a discordant screech of fury, but it keeps ascending out of the sand, unable to divert the upwards lunge from out of the disintegrating, burning, and ripping influence of your magic. But it keeps coming and coming, slowing to begin the twisting fall towards you...your mouth goes dry. This worm is at least three times the size of any you have even heard of - the girth alone is double what you anticipated as a worse case scenario. The head twists down towards you, teeth as large as your entire body on full display as it begins to plummet. The worm has no eyes with which to express fury, but you can feel the malice of it.
No. No! You are Figwit Auberon, Master of the Mysteries Untamed, Practitioner of the Arts. You will not be done in by some ancient worm! Your staffs turns to black ash and dust in your hand as you suck every drop of the power in the runes and the wood, your arm beginning to sizzle as the volatile magic courses through you. As the worm descends like a black avatar of razor sharp teeth and death incarnated, you thrust out your arms. Golden magic screams in a twisting jet of disintegrating power, your robes torn to tatters by the force and backlash of it, only the sheer magical force you are channelling protecting you from being torn to shreds. The worm impacts head first, slowed to the fall of a feather, the main body beginning to writhe ceaselessly as the 'face' begins to dissolve to nothingness under the biting gold light. The wail is unearthly, not only the noise of such magic but the screeching of the worm as it wails, golden light ripping through its body. You fall to one knee, eyes squeezing shut as you muster up more of your will and power, body feeling thinner and thinner as you pull more and more out of yourself, and the worm is screaming with you. Reality creaks and groans through your heart and bones, then rips entirely. Everything goes black.
You do not expect to wake up. But consciousness returns in a slow trickle of information. The cool air against your skin, the grass beneath you, the smell of spring. The burning of your arm. You slowly open your eyes and blankly survey a bright blue sky for several seconds before rolling onto your back, relieving the pressure from your side where a rock presses between your ribs. With your uninjured arm you reach across your stomach and gently press against it, then wince as a flood of pain from the entire limb protests the act of examination. The already dark skin of your arm looks almost black, and you can see the damage you did to it by so hurriedly drawing the power out of the runes of your staff. Fortunately, the pain isn't too bad, at least not compared to some you have felt. To say it only mild would be a vast understatement. You unsteadily climb to your feet, only the merest tatters of the tan fabric which made up your multi-layered desert robes remaining in a torn covering which barely preserves your modesty. You lift it from the bottom with your good hand, uncaring that it reveals yourself, and pale as you see that the thread of the stitched runes have almost without exception been singed into the fabric, the thread itself destroyed. You shiver. More than the backlash of the greatest blast of thaumaturgy you have ever used assaulted those protections while you were unconscious, and since the walls of reality were tearing about you, you do not care to think what it may have been. In your experience, not all abominations from behind the walls of reality are obliging enough to have tentacles, or physical form at all.
Still, you did not expect to be alive. Looking around you the grasses of the plains stretch out in every direction before turning into steep hills and even higher mountains. You turn and follow the geography, noting that you appear to be in some great bowl nestled in a mountain range. But what really catches your eye is the gleaming white city in the distance. It does not have the combination of glass, gray stone and ruin as the Fallen, and seems perfectly intact besides. As you watch, you can see what looks like horse riders resolving themselves as they draw closer, colored pennants fluttering from lances. You cast your gaze about, and see some rocks nearby that you might be able to use to take shelter. Your magic is not much recovered, but you are confident that you can still dispatch any novice of the art. As you begin to hear hooves beating against the ground, you become acutely aware that the time to make a choice of what to do is running out.
With precious little on your person besides your wits and power, you take stock of your magic. You can still feel the low ache in your bones from straining yourself, and decide against using it to transmogrify yourself any weapons or clothes. Best to preserve your power in case the riders have their own sorcerer with them or are hostile. As the riders come closer, you can pick out the livery of their horses, their shields and armor. The colors seem almost riotously bright in comparison to what you have seen before. You carefully raise up your hands to shoulder-height, noting their armament of sword, shield, and spear. Or is a lance? You can never remember. Fortunately they are not pointing at you, but it hardly reassures you.
The riders come up short of you, several of them beginning to slowly loop around you to the rear. As they pass beyond the edges of your peripheral vision the muscles down your back tense from the unease. But that worry vanishes in shock as the foremost rider removes his helm, and you are struck dumb with shock. Besides the almost unnerving perfection of those features, the almost alarming clarity of those eyes, you can see the pointed ears that golden hair is tucked behind. You tense again, this time more obviously. Creatures and monsters that could take human form were often among the most dangerous - there was a vast difference between simply inhabiting a body and molding one. Still, this does not appear to be a breed familiar to you. The first rider speaks, and what comes out of his mouth is incomprehensible. The language is flowing, certainly softer and more quickly spoken than your own. As you look up at him, he repeats himself, or at least the latter half of his introduction, but in a far more strident tone of voice.
"I don't understand what you are saying," you reply, trying to remain as calm as possible. You don't expect them to understand, though you hold out some hope. The utter lack of comprehension did not encourage you. "Our languages must be different," you try, filling the silence with words rather than the beat of horses hooves as one shifts in place and the clink of metal. You have your hands clearly exposed as you lower yourself slightly, reaching down slowly, ever so slowly, to pluck three or four blades of long grass free from the ground.
"Grass," you say, holding it open in one hand, palm creased around it so it doesn't blow away. Then you gesture to it, then spread your arms wide in a slow gesture, as it trying to encompass the entire expanse that you are in the middle of. "Grassland." The creature frowns a moment and briefly holds a conversation with one of the other riders before dismounting with a grace that almost leaves you astonished. Almost. There is a kind of perfection in every movement that leaves you uneasy. Nonetheless, you hold your ground as the pointy-eared creature squats down and pulls up a few blades of his own.
"Thâr," he replies, then opens one arm in a similar manner to you. "Parth." You can't help but feel a little dismayed that there is no similarity to the word for grass, but press on. You pull up a little more grass and get a handful of earth, holding it up to show to the creature.
"Earth," you say clearly, then take the grass and press one into your clump before miming it growing with one hand, then shaking the earth to direct attention onto it rather than the concept you just expressed. "Soil." You use your hand to mime the grass growing again. "Growth."
"Cef," the thing you are beginning to increasingly identify as a kind of human rather than creature replies. "Galas." Then it takes the initiative and shows you the grass between two fingers, then steps to the side and taps one of the shields. You look at it, and see that emblazoned on the red background is a tree. It lifts the blade of grass again, then taps the tree on the shield. "Aeglos." Going even further, it makes a rough copy of the miming gesture you used to try and explain growth. "Galaeglos."
"Plant," you reply, gratified that at least not every word is completely dissimilar. There is no specific determination between the growth of a person or the growth of a plant, or even growth in general. But language is flexible, so you reciprocate to show you understand. "Plant-growth." You carefully add a slight pause, to imply that they are two words stuck together. It might not be truly representative, but maintaining the dialogue strikes you as more important. You are struck by a sudden thought, and point at yourself before tilting your head and tracing the rim of your ear, then pointing to yourself again. "Human."
"Echil," it replies immediately, then frowns slightly and pauses, as if unsure. It then points to itself. "Edhil," it says clearly, then turns to the side (still keeping you in sight, you notice), and indicates the other riders. "Edhel." It turns back to you and points. "Firen," it says clearly, then jabs it's finger, as if emphasising. "Firen," it repeats then opens it's arms as if to encompass a greater many. "Echil."
You nod. So 'echil' was for humans plural, or perhaps as a race, while 'firen' referred to an individual. Interesting, although it seemed simpler for these creatures, edhil. You open your hands then clap them to your chest. "Figwit," you say clearly, then point to yourself. "Figwit."
The creature copies the motion, although with less of a clap and more of a smooth press to it's chest. "Glorfindel," it replies. You both stare at each other, as if silently evaluating what else to say. Then the edhil nods clearly and speaks quickly to one of the riders, who nods and reaches into one of the many pouches sown into the livery of his horse. You can't follow any of the content of the exchange, but the rope that comes out is fairly unmistakable in terms of intent. You tense visibly, fingers twitching as you prepare to summon your magic.
"Sîdh, firen," Glorfindel says, voice trying to soothe you. "Sîdh, Figwit. Sîdh." He places his arms together, turned upwards and wrists bared. You suppose it is better that your hands would be bound in front of you rather than behind, but that does rather limit your reactions. Even for a master such as yourself, it is difficult to direct thaumaturgy without gestures.
After a moment of thought on the matter, you grudgingly lift your wrists and almost start when the surprisingly soft rope seems to wind around your hands of its own accord. For a moment you think you are imagining it, but when the ends of the rope twist into a perfect knot, you know you aren't. That kind of manipulation of Force is...inconceivably precise. You look up warily, but the golden haired edhil, Glorfindel, is offering you his hand with a blank expression, although some tension seems to have left his shoulders. You peer carefully at the rope, but you can't see any threaded runes, and to be entirely frank you aren't sure how you would add any without compromising the integrity of the rope either. You take his offered hand between yours.
With almost gentle firmness, he walks you over to one of the liveried horses and offers your bound hands to the rider. With surprising strength, the edhil grasps you by the forearm and lifts you up, shifting his grip to settle you in front of him on the horse. Then Glorfindel mounts his own and sets off in a canter for the city. With a surge of motion and muscle, the horse beneath you does the same.
You have never ridden a horse before - only ever seen them once. One of the truly powerful communities was made great by their access to horses, bred from a precious few which had survived the Fall. You had seen plenty of their twisted brethren over the years, which still moved in herds, but with razor sharp teeth, fur like a wolf, and dark red eyes. They were one of the more intact animals, in that respect, but you know of only some species which had any unaltered pairs left. He Who Shapes had lingered longest after the Fall (or so the stories said), and his handiwork still persisted. The power that you employed best, thaumaturgy, was his domain, and possibly the most powerful for his prolonged presence after the others of his kind had left.
But these horses were whole, and possessed about them a certain untempered purity of form that you weren't quite sure how to react to. This place is strange, you decide, and the ride continues at a blistering speed. Speaking of blisters, you really begin to wish that you had transmogrified some decent clothes, since the friction was becoming uncomfortable. As if sensing that, an arm wrapped around your midriff, robes and all, and pulled you a little more securely against the armored rider, alleviating the rubbing.
As the city came closer and closer it began to resolve into finely detailed stonework, with an architectural flair that leaves you almost stunned. It was one thing to think that perhaps they had found a safe haven with a decent quarry and built for themselves, but that kind of craftsmanship in their buildings and walls of all things suggested a certain sophistication that is very much out of place in the world. Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering exactly where you are. Did perhaps some of the world survive largely unscathed? But no, again, it is nothing like the old cities in style or construction, and the people are clearly altered in some fashion, although the malice of He Who Shapes is absent.
The gates open before the riders, and they barely slow as the group enter the city. You are almost breathless when you see the roads. They are orderly, straight and wide, immaculately paved with white stone. Along the side you can see marble kerbing the edges. That level of extravagance boggles you, and wildflowers of what seems like a hundred shades and hues vibrantly splash the purity of the white stone with riotous color. As the riders approach a stairway, you see slender and delicate balustrades guarding the edges, accompanied by the mist from small waterfalls gently pouring down from the higher level. Without delay the horses mount the stairs and continue on, apparently having no trouble with the steps. There are people on the streets, dressed in finery the likes of which you have never seen, beautiful in their simplicity and craftsmanship. The guards and watchers you pass are emblazoned with no less than a dozen different sets of heraldry, their armor gleaming like silvered steel, and their shields set with gems which have a radiance the likes of which you could previously not even conceive of, as though light bursts from them at the merest touch of sunlight.
As the riders reach a great courtyard, your breath is stolen from you. Surely the greatest fountain in all the world is here! The water shoots up so high that it is no less than forty, nay, fifty meters, so that it only comes back down as mist, the light of the sun and the glistening radiance of white marble and stone sending rainbows shot through it so it sparkles like crystal and dapples the edges of the fountain in multicolored light. Behind the fountain is a palace of great size and great care to beauty, with the highest tower you have ever seen. As you look up in awe at the display, you are gently touched on the shoulder and you find the riders have dismounted. As you chastise yourself for your lack of attention, Glorfindel takes your hand and pulls you down, examining you for a moment before pulling off his cloak and draping it around your shoulders to preserve your dignity. The cloak itself has a lightness that surprises you, but it drapes pleasingly over the front of your shoulders. The fabric itself is a bright yellow trimmed in white, with a golden flower embroidered in thread on each shoulder.
You are escorted into the palace, which itself has artistry and opulence that leaves you enthralled, and you find yourself standing before a grand throne. You cannot follow the conversation that follows, but since Glorfindel bowed low before the man sitting there and examining you with keen eyes, you think he is the leader. His words are often sharp in response to whatever Glorfindel is saying, and you can only watch and listen with some small unease as the leader seems to grow agitated. Then he waves a hand almost wearily, and Glorfindel retreats with a small bow and rests a hand on your back, gently pushing you ahead of him, guiding you out of the grand throne room and into the smaller corridors. You wonder if he is taking you to a dungeon, and quietly begin to twist your mind and hone your focus so that you will be able to destroy the rope in an instant when you release your magic. But instead he brings you to a grand oaken door, and opens it to reveal a room filled with luxury.
After removing your bindings and retrieving his cloak, the conversation that follows is exceedingly slow. It takes you less than two minutes to understand that he has been tasked with teaching you the language, and he seems pleased with how quickly you understand what he is trying to say. It takes somewhat longer to explain in detail that you are not permitted to leave the room, but the two guards which within minutes flank the outside of your door helps to explain that concept. As he departs, he pauses a moment at the door and turns to look at you for a moment. "Maen," he murmurs to himself, then departs.
So begins your first week in Gondolin. Before anything else, you are brought clothes which fit you only loosely, but not a day later more come which are almost tailored for you. They are hardly the finery you saw outside, but they are still some of the finest clothes you have ever seen. The food is almost luxuriant, with plenty of meat seasoned to perfection. But then there is your...tutor. Linwen was at first distinctly disdainful of you, but after the second day, she seems to become more and more...not wary, but certainly surprised. By the fourth day, you can hold a rough conversation with perfect grammar, though you lack the vocabulary to express more esoteric or unusual concepts. That rapidly changes, and she eyes you suspiciously until almost the end of the week, probably thinking you were only feigning ignorance. It seems that your skill with languages is in some ways working against you, but necessity demanded you learn it. The best scholars and thinkers were often multilingual, though it was a rare skill even among magicians.
Surprisingly, you are not asked any questions about where you come from until the end of the week, when Glorfindel reappears. He lacks the armor and cloak you first saw him in, but his sword remains by his side. "I was not mistaken," he says by way of greeting. "I suspected that you were wise, and your quick learning and keen mind have proven it. Some suspect that you merely pretend to not know our tongue, and that you are a spy of Morgoth, but they did not see you as I have." He inclines his head. "Though your skin has not helped you, in that regard. Many believe that you have been created in Angband by union between the Edain and yrch. I myself sense no malice. But come, Turgon, our King, wishes to speak with you."
Again you are led through the corridors to the grand hall, but this time there were more than just guards. You see an array of eleven beside the throne in which Turgon sits, each standing proudly. Glorfindel guides you to where you are told to stand, and joins them, hands clasped. Of particular note is a grim-looking Man - and you now know to use that term properly - eying you with distinct distrust. There is not a single murmur of conversation as Turgon rises from his throne. "I am Turgon, High King of the Noldor, Lord of Gondolin. You have caused us great trouble by your arrival, Figwit." He glowers at you. "If that is indeed your name. That you have breached our watch and come so close to the city without our notice is troublesome. Has Morgoth Bauglir espied our refuge and tunneled beneath the mountains? Are you a spy, or something new?" He regards you imperially. "Speak. You stand before the Lords of the Twelve Houses, among which is Tuor, son of Huor, brother of Húrin of the House of Hador."
You slowly begin your story, describing the small town you come from, and the terrifying things in the wild. You gloss over the individual characteristics of the monsters and creatures, and settle for mentioning the sheer danger of venturing outside the walls, and the necessity of it for trade and food. Already small frowns are appearing, but largely from thought rather than judgement. More confident now, you describe your trade as a craftsman in finding material to strengthen the walls, and carefully watch their reactions. You drop in enough slightly awkward phrases that anybody half-intelligent would realise you were describing yourself as a rune-mage, but there isn't so much as a flicker of expression, through their attention is unyieldingly intense. Either they don't care, or they don't realise.
Since you cannot tell them why precisely you went hunting for the devourer worm, you tell them instead that it attacked you, which is true. You describe how you are ambushed by a great worm with scales of black obsidian, and for the first time you see them genuinely alarmed at your description of how it burst up from the sand. "Stop," one of the Lords say, his expression intense. You flick your eyes over him briefly, noting his livery and the stylised bow there. "Describe the creature further." You oblige him, describing the razor sharp teeth as long as your torso, the thousands of them in a great circular mouth, and how the eyeless creature moves underground and lunges up to crash down on its prey mouth first. The elf gestures for you to continue, looking troubled.
But the story doesn't last much longer. You tell them that your last memory was it coming down on top of you, and your next memory was waking up in the field with the riders from the city approaching. There is a long silence after you finally finish. "He lies, my king," a dark-haired elf says, his cloak a dark black. "It is a fable that not even a child would believe, much less the Lord of Gondolin." He his head to look at you as he leans over slightly. "He is a spy of the Enemy," he murmurs, still perfectly audible. "He cannot be allowed to return to his Master. Slay him, or imprison him where he may not wander."
"True that may be," another interrupted, his voice smooth and calming like the running of water over river stones, his cloak a royal blue embroidered with silver. "Spy or not, his arrival means that Morgoth Bauglir has breached our watch. The Dry River is blocked - none may enter there, much less pass the Seven Gates without notice. We must ready our arms."
"He hides truth," Tuor growled, "and his ancestry is clear. Morgoth made him, and Morgoth keeps him. Cast him away until he will speak by what means he entered Tumladen." The man eyes you, fingering the haft of his axe, distrust clear.
"I do not agree," Glorfindel says. "I sense no malice or ill-will from him, though his story is outlandish. Those who have suffered by servitude under the Enemy are often scarred, and Men are less durable than ourselves. Let him prove his story of being a craftsman - through it we may see the influence of Angband. Morgoth will not suffer beautiful things or distraction from labour. No elf or man under his dominion may make things of beauty, and the thought of it is stricken from their minds."
"Enough," Turgon said, raising his hand before any more could speak. "I have heard enough." He looks down at you from his throne, expression forbidden. "You have spoken of things which fill my heart with dread by their implication, that Morgoth has bred yet more monsters to assail us. I hope that they are the imaginings of a fevered and tortured mind, yet I too see a sharpness and knowledge in your eyes. You have offered proof, and proof I shall have." He makes a beckoning gesture to the end of the hall, and you hear two guards come forward. "Take him to the workshops, and do not let him leave." He again looks down on you. "Three days," he says. "Three days to prove yourself, and many more things besides."
You leave behind the assembly of the Lords of Gondolin, and as you exit the grand hall you hear the babble of quiet conversation practically erupt, then that fades away as you turn the corner. You are brought by a different way to a new place through corridors you have not seen. That it is a workshop is not immediately obvious to you - only when you see the reddish glow of coals do you recognise the forge. The bellows is not a rope as you are familiar with, but a gracefully curved bough of wood. The forge itself is immaculate white stone, carved like a work of art itself, while the workbench is a rich wood with a fine lustre. Tools are hung up against the wall, and there are even ingots of steel and small plates of precious metal arrayed across a stone bench. For the first time, you actually feel a little swell of bitterness at the luxury of it, of the extravagance. They speak of threats to their survival, but all you see is opulence.
So glad to find this here!