I really want to encourage Rhudaur as our start; it's close to the old realm of Eregion, as well as the hidden realm of Rivendell, which might provide interesting prospects. So too to the closed kingdom of Moria. And it would fit with the current lead vote.
I really want to encourage Rhudaur as our start; it's close to the old realm of Eregion, as well as the hidden realm of Rivendell, which might provide interesting prospects. So too to the closed kingdom of Moria. And it would fit with the current lead vote.
It seems like the majority of people here want a plan that goes against the usual MC we see in quests like this. I feel a focus more on the damage of feudalism and the legacy of empire in Eriador is a lot more interesting than good king makes Arnor again story. A Rhudaur Chieftan who's bit a prick because of his/her? environment would be better to explore this idea.
Being a chieftain while also having the birthright origin seems more like the relationship between the Black Numenoreans/Castamir's line and the Haradrim in Umbar. Blood is only Blood sounds like the local Dunedain nobility holding the hillmen tribes to oaths of loyalty in a way similar to a group of Foederati to a post-Roman warlord in western Europe. I guess another equivalent might be a minor Hellenistic general ruling over a mostly non-Greek people somewhere in Asia during the wars of the Diadochi.
While Arnor dwindles, it is these petty princes and chieftains who squabble over what remains, riding forth from their mansions only to play at war. They are grim and ill men, these last of the Númenóreans, and they cling with hard hands to dead titles and ancient rights, shedding blood freely in little feuds over little glories, holding nothing sacred and keeping nothing in safety, swearing oaths now to one master and now to another, and there is everywhere strife, everywhere bad blood, everywhere hunger and mistrust.
You are one of these lords. By chance or strength or perhaps even worth you have come to rule some small part of what was once the Northern Kingdom of the Dúnedain. You have sworn yourself to a king who is both distant and powerless. There are swords which will obey you, and in a time such as this, that is perhaps the only true security, save the walls of cold stone within which you have made your seat -- and even these may fail you, in the end.
Hot damn, the north-lords of the Dunedain are not beating the "literally just the barrow-wights when they were alive" allegations. Speaking of which-
[X] Plan Definitely Not In Thrall To The Witch-King
-[X] Rhudaur
-[X] Conquest
-[X] Royal-Blooded (Malandur's Line)
-[X] The Eregion-stone
-[X] Tomb-Robber
-[X] Greedy
-[X] Farseeing
A distaff branch of a distaff branch of a cadet line, utterly consumed by the need to build the noble regalia and court their family has been denied and their dreams tell them are real, sublimated into draconic gold-sickness and raiding Cardolan
Being a chieftain while also having the birthright origin seems more like the relationship between the Black Numenoreans/Castamir's line and the Haradrim in Umbar. Blood is only Blood sounds like the local Dunedain nobility holding the hillmen tribes to oaths of loyalty in a way similar to a group of Foederati to a post-Roman warlord in western Europe. I guess another equivalent might be a minor Hellenistic general ruling over a mostly non-Greek people somewhere in Asia during the wars of the Diadochi.
[X] plan: Blood is only blood
-[X] Birthright
-[x] Sindarin speaker
-[x] Eregion stone
- [X] Chieftain
- [X] Intermingled
Your name is Barador. In the tongue of the elves, which your father taught you on his knee, it means 'fierce warrior'. You were born in Rhudaur, the east-realm, among somber hills and black trees. The name of this land, too, is elvish — rhû taur, the old elves named it long ago, which is the Trollshaws in their tongue. Since time immemorial these forests have been home to trolls and wyrms and worse beasts yet which have crept down from the Misty Mountains over the long years, creatures old and wicked which lurk under vines and slumber in deep caverns. It is a hard land, unforgiving and unkind, growing little, feeding few, and it has never been mastered by men, not truly. Here, atop these foreboding cliffs, your people have long watched from their silent castles over a wilderness both cruel and untamed.
Men have lived here in Rhudaur for an age undreamt before your ancestors arrived, eking out existences on the barren hillsides and under the dark eaves. The elves and the Dunédain know them as the the Hillmen of Rhudaur, but to themselves they are the Byriaig, high-backed and proud, the last of the four old clans of the great old north, and their songs are filled with the days of their glory, before the kings came from over the sea. When Arnor stood, they paid fealty to her kings, and for long centuries the dauntless warriors of the Byriag kept a long and lonely guard over the trollshaws and the Great East Road, that the beasts of the dark lands might never menace the fair cities of the tall kings on the shores of the sea.
But the days of the kings came and went, and Arnor fell. There was war among her sons. Two brothers claimed the heartlands, and one fell back, licking his wounds, to the black and lonely lands of the east. Malandur was his name, a Prince of the line of Isildur, and those Dúnedain who marched with him were the last of his men, the most stubborn and loyal, lords who abandoned their lands and their lives to follow their master into exile. Malandur, it has long been said in the legends of your people, had not the birthright or the beauty of his brothers, but he was a man who commanded above all else the hearts of other men.
On a hill of red stone, the chieftains of the Byriag swore to him an oath that their children have kept for these four hundred years: that their swords and their lives would be his and heirs, for so long as stone should stand and iron abide.
Emildil your forefather was one of those who stood at his side. He married the daughter of one of the great chiefs of the Byriag, and built a great castle at the neck of the kingdom, in those lands between the rivers Hoarwell and Loud-water. He raised his seat at that point where they meet and form a great angle that is called the Sîriath by the elves, which is the Horn of the Rivers, and which is known as the Angle by mortal men. The name of that castle was Dol Sîriath, though in the common tongue men call it Emil's Hall. In time, the line of the chieftains and the line of Emildil became one and the same, and for over a hundred years the lords in Dol Sîriath have also been chieftains of all the Byriag of the Horn.
You were the latest born into this line, a lord and chieftain of Rhudaur by right of birth. But Rhudaur is home to noble men no more. Four hundred years is a very long time, and the stones of the castles of the kings have crumbled, while their swords of old iron are now dust. The hillmen hold no love for their lords or each other any longer. They are proud still, but it is a cold pride and bitter. Men rekindle ancient rivalries while ignoring ancient oaths, answering no more the call of the king in Sarnost. The great watch has failed, and trolls creep unmolested from their dens to menace the lands of men.
And what of the Dúnedain of Rhudaur? They have grown bitter and harsh in their exile. Few and fewer remain, a sullen and stubborn people, tall kings over black hills. Most cannot now be easily told apart from the hillmen they rule. Some, vainer and prouder than the rest, have kept the old ways against all odds, speaking still the elf tongue and holding themselves in the manner of the men of the West. Your father was one such — a tall warrior, fierce and stubborn, unyielding to time or foe alike, a man in the mold of Númenor, as cruel and great as any lord of that lost land.
Four weeks past, four great lords, your father among them, made alliance against the marcher lords of Cardolan. They led a force of two thousand down the Great East Road to the Weather Hills, where they won a mighty victory over the men of Cardolan, seizing the fortress of Amon Sûl. Your father did not live to see the victory. In the heat of battle, he was struck through the throat by a river-man's arrow, and died fighting atop his horse. As proof, his messengers have brought you his sign of office: that elfstone which he wore about his neck in life, a brilliant gem set in a necklace of gold and mithril, called the Anglestone by some.
There is little other proof you need. The stone is a treasure beyond all gold. He would not have surrendered it were he still living. You are the Lord of Dol Sîriath.
Counting the stragglers from the battle, you have perhaps five hundred men at arms remaining in your lands. Your coffers are nearly empty. Your neighbors, hard men all, may soon begin to test your lands, desiring them for themselves.
What will you do first?
[] Challenge for the Seeing-Stone: Your father was the strongest of the four border lords who made alliance against Cardolan. As the new Master of the Angle and Lord of the Riverlands, all that was his rightfully falls to you, including the spoils of victory. And yet, the loot of the battle and the conquered lands will certainly be divided amongst the other three lords, who no doubt imagine you too weak and distant to stop them. Worse, you have even received word that many of your father's men deserted to their armies upon his death. To ignore such provocations would be to appear weak. You will ride west to the Weather Hills, to put forth your claim to the loot of the battle — including the seeing-stone of Amon Sûl, one of the greatest remaining treasures of the Elder Days.
[] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight.
[] Troll-Hunt: In the Angle, there dwell a small, broad-footed folk called the Stoors, fishermen who dig their homes into the hills. They have long paid your ancestors tribute, but it has slowed in recent years. Recently, they have sent word that their lands are badly plagued by trolls out of the east. These Stoors are a little folk, knee-high to a Númenorean of full blood — they cannot face trolls alone. You will declare a troll-hunt, as your ancestors did, and ride the black hills in search of monsters. Such a show of strength may well prove your fitness for rule.
[] Raid: You will strike out with your men into neighboring lands, pillaging farms and seizing goods. Raids are common and frequent among all the lords of the north, and what a man raids one summer may well be taken back from him in blood the next. Your father raided his neighbors often, funding his armies and wars on the labor of others. You should let them know early that nothing will change.
[] Pay Fealty to the King: All the Lords of Rhudaur are meant to travel to Sarnost and pay fealty to the king upon their ascension. In practice, it rarely happens, and he is certainly in no position to punish those who put off the task. However, you have a great victory to report — if you outpace the messengers and bring first news of the triumph at the Weather Hills to the king's ears, he may reward you as richly as he is able. It was your father's victory, after all, and the man who tells the King that he is now lord of Amon Sûl may be well loved for it.
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight
[X] Pay Fealty to the King: All the Lords of Rhudaur are meant to travel to Sarnost and pay fealty to the king upon their ascension. In practice, it rarely happens, and he is certainly in no position to punish those who put off the task. However, you have a great victory to report — if you outpace the messengers and bring first news of the triumph at the Weather Hills to the king's ears, he may reward you as richly as he is able. It was your father's victory, after all, and the man who tells the King that he is now lord of Amon Sûl may be well loved for it.
the feudal anarchy version of being a teacher's pet
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight
I think we should secure our inheritance first; there are whispers and betrayers afoot, people who would steal from us and take our rightful inheritance. However, the idea of challenging for the seeing-stone also appeals to me - and could also secure our position, at the expense of annoying our neighbors.
But we must do something to make sure we can inherit our position and maintain it. The seeing stone continues to appeal to me. Is it brash? Yes. But we are a prideful people and if we can secure our portion of the reward, by hook or crook, that may by itself silence those who doubt our suitability or claim.
Stripped of subtext and poetry (painful as it may be to tear flesh from bone in such a manner), this vote is about where we believe and want our support to be based: among our warlord peers (Challenge for the Seeing-Stone), among our mother's people (Assert Inheritance), among the newest and least of the realm's peoples (Troll-Hunt), on the acquisition of goods and labor (Raid), or in the hand of the King (Pay Fealty to the King).
The quadruple coalition to which our lord father Emildil contributed fielded about two thousand men. Figure each lord contributed about five hundred. We have about five hundred men remaining, including stragglers from the battle but not including deserters and mutineers, so a little more than half our strength pre-campaign -- but less money. We may wish to play so as to break even army-wise. Where can armies be found? Not with the King, who would keep control of his own and has few to lend in any event. And not by raiding slaves. Making loyal and able slave-soldiers is the work of generations and would take too much time even if our heart didn't speak against it. No, armies can be had only by winning back the loyalty of our father's lost retainers, or winning the hearts of the Byriag as he did, or by new-rousing the Stoors (who may be more doughty than they appear).
I suspect playing for the palantir of Amon Sul, per se, is a mug's game. It's on the opposite side of the country, after all. Moreover, I do not believe we are meant to have it. Seeking it was Emildil's death, after all; and the truest right in Rhudaur to use it belongs to the King. Even if we were to limit our ambitions to rebuilding our army, the retainers we could recover out of riding west were, demonstrably, the most willful and least loyal of our lord father's generation, so we would have to worry for their renewed treachery ever-after. And we have little left to risk as a household. We have not been told if our mother yet lives, or if we have any siblings, or a wife and children, or a fiancee. I think not, especially with regards to the latter two.(EDIT: as it turns out, our mother is also recently passed, we are neither married nor betrothed, we have no brothers trusty or otherwise, and our only sister is a girl yet). If we play our last hand with only ourselves in it, we may lose everything. Even in Bree they do not say men marry with the little folk.
All of which puts me in mind of
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight
Let us go a-courting.
P.S. Telamon has been "meaning to do a romance subplot in one of these things eventually." I want to see one out of him as well.
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight.
I don't have much to add. It feels like this is the most solid approach to cementing our rule.
[X] Assert Inheritance: With your father's death, the chieftaincy falls to you. But the Byriaig are not what they were. Many proud and strong men among them have long scorned the rule of Dol Sîriath, holding little loyalty to blood or oath. You have cousins and uncles who might seek to usurp your position in your absence. Perhaps you should assert your right to rule early, at the next clanmoot in a fortnight
[X] Troll-Hunt: In the Angle, there dwell a small, broad-footed folk called the Stoors, fishermen who dig their homes into the hills. They have long paid your ancestors tribute, but it has slowed in recent years. Recently, they have sent word that their lands are badly plagued by trolls out of the east. These Stoors are a little folk, knee-high to a Númenorean of full blood — they cannot face trolls alone. You will declare a troll-hunt, as your ancestors did, and ride the black hills in search of monsters. Such a show of strength may well prove your fitness for rule.
[X] Troll-Hunt: In the Angle, there dwell a small, broad-footed folk called the Stoors, fishermen who dig their homes into the hills. They have long paid your ancestors tribute, but it has slowed in recent years. Recently, they have sent word that their lands are badly plagued by trolls out of the east. These Stoors are a little folk, knee-high to a Númenorean of full blood — they cannot face trolls alone. You will declare a troll-hunt, as your ancestors did, and ride the black hills in search of monsters. Such a show of strength may well prove your fitness for rule.
