Halbeth crept silently through the underbrush. The still of winter hung upon the land, and the fair white snow crunched under her feet, gleaming in the sun. The other hunters had fallen behind some time ago, driven back by the cold or the hunger. But not her, not the one the elves called Bow-Maiden.
No, this was her favorite moment, alone in the wild on the trail of her quarry. She loved the quiet of the hunt, the still of it, the soft heartbeats between moments that could spell or death. She hefted her bow, a finely carved thing of yew, and crept forward softly. The deep rent of tracks in the snow had led her here, to this clearing, and...there. The stag stood panting and snorting in the middle of the clearing, the air steaming with his sweat and the force of his breath. He was massive, with a crown to rival that of any elven lord, and black eyes that flickered back and forth frantically as he stamped the snow. An arrow already sprouted from his hindside -- likely one of her fellow hunters had found him earlier and been unable to get the kill.
Truly a people attuned to the wild.
Halbeth breathed in, hefted her bow took aim, and let fly. A moment later, her spear sprouted from the stag's neck and flowered out of the other side. For a moment, the king of the wild snorted with rage and turned towards her, eyes glinting. Then, as if he had suddenly realized his predicament, he heaved a final defeated breath and slumped down into the snow. The huntress stepped forward from the edge of the grove where she had been hiding and paced over to her prey, unable to stop a self-satisfied grin from spreading across her face.
Is that...normal? Because I was under the impression that arrows didn't project enough force to punch
all the way through the hide, neck or otherwise, of a large stag. And this IS the First Age, so bullshit bows, even in the hands of a (admittedly the current best among Men) primitive tribe, is not impossible.
As she neared however, Halbeth frowned. The second arrow which rose from the stag was longer than her people used, a thing of dark wood carved with curling script along it's length and decorated with a fine tassel on the end. Not her people's work. But where --
Yeah, that just screams elf.
The silence of forest exploded in a flurry of snow and leaves as two black horses thundered into the clearing, tearing up the snow with their mighty hooves. Two riders sat atop the horses, dressed in identical dark leathers and twinned simple green tunics. Two rich cobalt-colored capes lined with fur fell about their shoulders, and dark fur hoods obscured their faces.
"Well, brother," said one of the riders. "It would seem we have been beaten to our prey."
The horses circled the grove as the riders called out to one another, seemingly ignoring Halbeth.
"And whose fault would that be, then? T'was not I who sent the beast running."
"Alas! You are a poor hunter, my brother, but a poorer liar still. It was thine own fault the beast fled!"
"I fear that last fall must have shaken your senses, Ambarussa. You forget things easily."
Merry fellows the both of them, aren't they?
The riders lapsed into silence.
"You know, brother, I do believe she has the right of it." The rider to Halbeth's right said after a moment. He slid off of his horse and walked over to her, then bowed slightly. "It is an honor to meet one of the Apanónar. What are you called?"
"I do not see why I should name myself when you and your brother walk about masked and hooded like poachers in the dark." She held her bow at the ready, backing away from the strange elves.
The hooded rider chuckled. "She thinks us thieves, my brother."
"Was this not our land?", the rider still atop his horse called down.
"Apparently not," the one in front of her said with a laugh. With that, he drew back his hood and mask. Ringlets of long flame-red hair tumbled out over his shoulders, framing a long angular face with sharp cheekbones. Soft wood-green eyes were set above a bow-shaped mouth that curled up in a wry grin, and his curved ears rose from the side of his head.
An elf, Halbeth realized. But he looked more human, she thought, than any elf she had ever seen.
He bowed again, his long orange hair dangling as he did so. "I am Ambarussa, though some call me Amrod."
His brother tossed back his hood to reveal the same face, though the eyes were harsher and his hair was shorter and lighter. The same wry grin curled his lips. "And I, Ambarussa as well, though some call me Amras."
Halbeth knew then whom she stood before, for she had heard tell of two twin elves, red of hair, who held lordship over all the lands east of Estolad. Her heart trembled for a moment -- she had insulted and threatened elf-lords, and mighty ones at that -- but she stood tall, and met the eyes of the twin before her.
"I am Halbeth of the Folk of Beor, called Curwen by Thingol's folk, and this beast is mine...my lords."
Amrod held up a gloved hand and smiled. "Please. We are no lords of the Apanónar. Your prey is rightly slain and rightly won. We will not take it from you."
The tenseness that had filled Halbeth since the riders entered the clearing disappeared. Yet something rankled her still, and she gripped her bow still.
"And by what name did you call me? Apanónar? What means this?"
"It is no insult, my lady, and we did not intend it as such. Apanónar -- it means After-Born, for that is what you and yours are to us. Those who followed after. The Children of the Sun."
...these guys are, really, really, really chill for sons of Feanor. Like, freakishly so. Part of their youth, or their character?
The Children of the Sun.
She liked the sound of that. It reminded her of darker days in the East when she was a little girl, she and her sisters would sit with bated breath while wolves snarled in the dark, waiting for the rising sun to banish the shadow once more. She remembered how much she treasured it's light, how much she had come to love the dawn.
Yes, she liked the sound of that very much.
A fitting name, for those born in the age of the sun and who so loved its coming.
In the first days of the year, when the winter hangs cold over the land, Halbeth returns out of the dark woods from a hunt with two others besides her, elf-lords with red hair and soft green eyes who speak to you and yours differently than most visitors from Doriath, or even Finrod. To them, you are not children to be aided and coddled or babes to be spoken down to, but equals, Children of Illuvatar.
What madness is this, that Feanorians, the scions of the house in fact, should be the most awesome of the elves we meet? This is...rather unexpected.
Amrod and Amras are young among the elves, and so speak to you as peers, not inferiors.
That might explain part of it. I suppose it would be a bit too much for that to be so part of their character that they'd act so even if they were of age with their eldest siblings.
Though them wandering off so far makes me wonder just how the siege of Angband is conducted. Admittedly the sheer size of the land they're quarantining would not make for a typical siege, but still.
They take a liking to your people, and over the next year, your hunters are often joined on their expeditions by the flame-haired elves. They teach you new ways of shaping wood to make bows, new methods of hunting, and even aid a few of you in the art of mastering horses. Amrod, in particular, strikes up a deep friendship with Halbeth, and any time the Bow-Maiden wanders the woods, more often than not the copper-haired Feanorian rides at her side.
Amrod and Amras have taken a liking to the House of Beor, and will aid you for the next ??? turns. +20 to all Woodsmanship and Tracking rolls. Unlock Questline: The Sons of the Fire
Wow, talk about an amazing boon. We really should try and leverage this into fulfilling and positive official diplomatic contact with the Feanorians. Maedhros, at least at first glance, seems a decent fellow.
There is a mighty boar which has plagued your people's new lands for the last several months, goring and killing two of the hunters who have in that time tried to kill it. You set out alongside several of your best hunters and one of the elven twins in a great hunt that lasts several days. You track the boar across wood and fen and hill, across the width and breadth of your small land, and it is in Thargelion, the wide land that Amrod and his brother rule, that you finally corner the massive snarling beast with your spears and cut it down. It's meat will feed your people for a time, but it's great ivory tusks are a sight your people will not long forget. You may be the clan chief now, but you have proven once and for all to be a hunter of unmatched and unparalleled skill. Your hunters are glad indeed to be honored, and rise in the estimation and esteem of the common folk of the tribe.
(Hunter Legend Gained!)
Baran of the Deep Wood: Your skill as a woodsman is exemplary among the children of Men, and will be the stuff of stories in later times. (Rank I: +10 to all Woodsmanship Rolls)
Man, the way this thing is described I'm wondering if its the size of those rhino sized super pigs in the various wild boar horror movies.
-[X] Invite the dark-haired men to join you in Estolad, and swear themselves to the elves. (Increased relation with Finrod, some of the new men may share Estolad with you): DC 110
Baran: (1d100 +20 (Diplomacy) +5 (The House of Beor) +2 (The Gift of Men) +10 (Grace of the Undying)) = 59
Baran (Gift of Men reroll): (1d100 +20 (Diplomacy) +5 (The House of Beor) +2 (The Gift of Men) +10 (Grace of the Undying)) = 51
Result: Significant Failure.
Bolstered by this confidence, you set out into Ossiriand and Thargelion, where the dark-haired men who spilled over the mountains last year have vanished into the wild places. You knew of them from your wanderings in the East -- your distant cousins, whose path had strayed from that of your ancestors during the first days of the Great Flight long ago. They were a secretive people, and a quiet one, not quickly given to friendship or war. You travel out into the wide valley between the rivers, but if you had hoped to win some of them over to your cause, then you were sorely disappointed, for you do not even get the chance. Wherever you pass, you spot only echoes of their presence -- a kicked-over campfire here, an abandoned campsite here, the markers of a people who have lived centuries in hiding and do not want their presence known.
After a few fruitless weeks, you are forced to call off the search. Your hidden cousins will stay hidden, it seems.
Seems a little, odd, that a Diplomatic failure results in failing to find them.
Your brother, Belen, spends many long months among the oldest of the Wise, studying their deepest ways and the old lore that they had carried down in word for lifetimes without count. He learns of the way our ancestors staved off the dark, of the secrets of wood and wild that sheltered them, of the moonlight in which they hid from the Enemy in darker days. Ithil, the Elves call the moon, but the men of centuries past knew it as Isil, the night-sun. It guided your people in the darkest nights and brought hope when there seemed none. It will do so again. (Cultural Lore Learned: The Moon Way: +2 to all sneaking actions, bonus to all actions at night, the House of Beor gains a special affinity for the Moon.)
The night-sun. That's honestly very fitting, considering the sun is the antithesis of the dark and the evils of it, and the moon fulfills a similar purpose in providing a "lesser" light in the dark. Plus, astronomically it's fitting in that the it's being lit by the sun's rays.
Yet this is not all he learns -- in the deep days before your people wandered in the East, you learned under the Avari, the Elves of the Darkness.
A very unfortunate and somewhat opinionated name. I wonder they refer to themselves as?
Yet this is not all he learns -- in the deep days before your people wandered in the East, you learned under the Avari, the Elves of the Darkness. These Elves had long stood against the Enemy and the Shadow, and had prevailed against all hope in deeper and darker days. There was a power that healed their hearts and their bodies, that gave them the strength to stand against the Nameless alone, to bear the suffering of the Shadow. In the lore of the Elves, the powers of healing and spirit dwell in the gardens of Valinor, ruled by the Valar Lorien and his wife Este, who heal the hearts and hurts of the world. To call upon them is to know the sleep that mends hurts and knits bone. (Battle Lore Learned: The Healing Way: Warriors and hunters recover faster, and special healing options are available in combat. Your people are more resistant to sickness.)
Fascinating. I wonder if they had some contact with the Ents as well, given the proximity and common enemy?
You send a messenger to Thingol's realm to ask aid in building your people permanent homes. Your people have lived among the trees and the hills for all your lives, and the art of building as the elves do is foreign to you. Your messenger leaves, and when he returns, it is with shining tall elves on horseback, their hair lined with leaves and their eyes old and wise. These are the Marchwardens of Doriath, who guard eternal the eaves of Thingol's realm. They will show you how to place the logs to hold out the rain, how to build your simple homes to keep out the cold and the dark and the wild. In return, however, in three years time, you must send one hundred men of war north, to the Siege of Angband. This is what was promised, and the aid of the elves does not come without a price.
Faction Capital Gained: The Encampment (Rank 1): A cluster of wooden homes and log shelters built upon the plains of Estolad, from which it takes it's name. The sons of Feanor call it Apanolar, the home of the Afterborn.
A hundred men in three years? That's...actually very reasonable.
Your first permanent dwelling is completed, but your people's hearts are uneasy and frightened by the Marchwardens' proclaimation. The Enemy, the Nameless, the Shadow -- they have fled from this power for lifetimes, and now they must fight it? Some speak in whispered tones that the elves have merely brought us here to die, that there is no hope in the West or the East, and that the Power which rules now in Angband is the master of the world, the Elven 'Valar' aside. The elves spin mighty tales, but perhaps they are just this: tales. For where are their Valar now? Where is their Iluvatar? There is only the Shadow, and it has reached the West before you.
Trait Gained: The Great Fear: For the first time since your long flight has ended, fear has arisen in the hearts of your people. The Enemy was here before you. He lies to the west and the east and the north, and it seems there is no place in all the world free from his reach. There is no hope under the sun, for the Shadow is Lord of all the World. (-50 to all Morale and Combat rolls. -100 to all morale rolls against the servants of the Darkness, and all Warrior leaders suffer -3 to Combat and Warfare)
Questline Gained: The Great Fear
Yeeesh. In hindsight I suppose it makes sense that it's not so easy to just fight them.
But we reaaaaallly need to deal with this. This is critical.
As fall stretches across the land, Halbeth and her elven friends embark on a journey into the wide land known as Thargelion, where you had previously led your fruitless chase for the little Men. The Wise have seen signs in the wind and the water and the earth -- there are Ents there, creatures of the wood and the land older even than the elves. Even Amrod and Amras are suprised at this, for these lands are nominally theirs, yet they have never seen sign of any of the Onyalie, as they name the Ents. Yet they ride with Halbeth and her hunters all the same, across plain and gorge and hill and dell, from one corner of the land to the other. Finally, in a small valley near the mountains, where the wind is still and the earth is quiet, Halbeth finds them.
It's petty, but I cannot help a deep sense of satisfaction at being able to surprise our current superiors and betters. Especially these two, who are among the best of the Feanorians in the arts we specialize in.
She sees their garden long before she sees them: a sprawling field of flowers and plants and berry bushes as far as the eye can see, wild and free and boundless. Not much grows in the plains of Estolad or Thargelion, for the hard winds that rush down from the North kill many of the growing things. But here, in this valley, life has blossomed. Even the sons of Feanor are taken aback -- beauty like this, they will later tell you, has not met their eyes since the Blessed Land of Aman, in the very gardens of Yavanna herself.
Impressive. And a true sign of how some things that appear simple at first glance carry a metaphysical weight taking them beyond mere mortal ideas. Just because it seems to be something we could see elsewhere, doesn't mean there's something
more to it.
They come lumbering across the land, taller than oaks and thin as beeches. Halbeth thinks them trees at first, but trees do not move, do not stride titanic across the earth. Their hair was long and flowing, made from lilies and primroses and tigerlilies, and their skin was green all over with moss and ivy and the breath of life. Their eyes glinted like stars at dawn. Amrod and Amras fell to their knees then, and Halbeth a moment later.
Even children of the flame bow before the children of the forest gods. Granted, these two are younger than most of theirs, nicer as well, and they didn't have so long to build up grievances against the Valar. Or perhaps the Valar have nothing to do with it, and these Entwives are simply that magnificent.
The Entwives are old and their memories are long, and they remember also the Orynin, the little ones, the Men who they helped so long ago. Their power is weak here, in these lands where the Morgoth dwells, but they will give the children of the children of the Orynin leave to feed upon their gardens, to take what is needed from their garden to feed their people. Your people are welcome to walk among them, and to learn from the daughters of Yavanna. But they leave you with a warning: they five, gathered, are capable of resisting the Enemy's power unless he comes in force. Their native brethren in Beleriand have not been so lucky -- long ago the ents of this land fought their own wars against the Enemy...and lost. Those who remain are less wild things, half-mad beasts of wood and hill driven by fury and rage. Theirs is the power of oak and the hate of yew, and should be avoided at all costs.
(Trait Gained: The Gift of the Entwives: Population increases by an 1% every turn)
These shepherds of the forest are kind, and very informative. It is a good thing we stuck to a logical choice, even if we could find these mad Ents, even if we could gain their allegiance, theirs is a strength more easily fought by the monsters of Morgoth in this great and terrible age, compared to the later ages when trolls were the most formidable thing to be deployed against them. We gain much more from teachers and a great food supply then unstable super heavy combatants.
I hope the Feanorians, with this tale brought from the twins, are at least allied in preventing this patch of beauty and life from being discovered and tainted...but we were here first, fellas.
Your hunters return from the wilds with strange tales -- there are short squat *things* in the south of Estolad, hairy short men with beady eyes and dirty clothes who lurk near their hills and pelt your hunters with dirt, mud, and more unsavory things when they range nearby. These, Amrod informs you, are the Noegyth Nibin, the Petty-Dwarves. Shorter and smaller still than regular dwarves, they are a rude and proud people who once ruled all of Beleriand, yet have declined since. Their once-mighty halls in Nargothrond and Menegroth are now ruled by elven-kings, and they scrabble in the dirt, a doomed and dying people.
Man, between this and the Ents you really get a sense of how there was more than just a bunch of empty land. Whole civilizations have come and gone while the High Elves were in Aman.
Lastly and finally, you hear reports that what you have so long awaited has come to pass: your cousins, the tall men, have arrived at long last in Beleriand. Long ago and far away in the utmost East, your people split in two -- one House, your kindred, fled before the Shadow and the Men who served it. Another turned and fought the Shadow and it's servants, and for the long years while you have fled, they have warred and fought and grown in might. They come over the mountains, and their coming is unlike any before them. They are great in number, some fifteen thousand tall men with golden hair and dark eyes, who drive before them sheep and oxen and cattle, who wield swords and known of war. Their warriors march in ordered ranks and bear mighty weapons made in the East to slay the servants of the Shadow, and their leader is a giant with a golden mane and a mighty beard, a man your hunters say is named Marach -- and those who follow him are the House of Marach, mightiest among the Children of the Sun.
Fifteen thousand? While fighting a constant war? Bearing mighty weapons? I'm starting to feel inadequate. Still, if we could forge an alliance the benefits would be grand indeed. This is a priority thing.
Barachor crept slowly through the underbrush, the darkness of the forest making it impossible to see anything further than a few feet in front of him. He and his fellows had been on the trail of a pack of hinds for nearly a week now, and had followed them from the northern corners of Estolad up into the black forest which they now crept -- Nan Elmoth, the elves called it, the valley of Stardusk. Here, the prey was fat and thick and abundant, more than Barachor had ever seen before they crossed the mountains. Everything was more plentiful in these lands, richer and fatter and healthier. The Shadow that fell over all the world did not fall here.
And yet, Barachor realized, he was hopelessly lost, though he wasn't quite sure how. He had walked in a straight line down a thin path through the forest, and then followed the deer's tracks up a small hill, and now he no longer recognized his surroundings. Every turn took him somewhere unfamiliar, and even when he marked the trees to keep sense of his meanderings, he could not find the marked trees even if he doubled back on his own footsteps. His voice had long grown hoarse calling for his fellows, and though he was a sturdy and well-seasoned woodsman, his heart drummed nervously in his chest. The evening was shortening, and the shadows in the trees grew longer and darker and deeper.
Suddenly, as if out of a mist or a dream, a figure materialized from the darkness before him. A tall shape wearing armor blacker than the shadows, that appeared as a darkness before the darkness, sucking in all light and twisting it before his eyes. As he moved, the shadows of the trees bent and danced around him, here seeming to follow him, here seeming to hide him, and there trailing along in his wake.
"And who are you, that comes sneaking through my hall to steal my herds and slay my beasts?"
Barachor opened his mouth, but the dark figure waved a hand dismissively. "Speak not, Firimar. I have heard tell of you indeed, and seen your rangers from afar, riding with the Dispossessed Ones. Yet you are poor indeed to see up close. So dim, so dull, so young. There is no strength in you. Is this the company Feanor's whelps keep in these later days -- sickly small mortal things?"
The tall being sneered in the dark.
"The Latecomers you are called, the Self-cursed, Shadow-hounded and Heavy-handed, the Lastborn and the Frail, and all these names and more I see that you rightly deserve. Yet last and worst Usurper I name you and yours. Thingol may have granted you leave to dwell in his lands, but these woods, this star-lit valley of dusk, is not yours to tread. The lackeys of the Noldor are not welcome here. Those who dread the night have no place in the valley of the darkness." The dark figure seemed to rise to double his height, and the black of his eyes was the black behind the stars.
Yet in that moment, where others would have trembled, Barachor found his voice where it had fled, and rose up with the indignant pride that had so long ago led his ancestors to defy the Nameless Shadow.
"And who are you, to speak to me so, or to name me thus? I am Barachor of the people of Beor, who are called Elf-Friends and Ent-Friends, and also the Apanonar, the Children of the Sun. And I name you, as you named us: Shadow-speaker and Dark-Talker, a whisperer in the night. Liar I name you above all, and thing of the Shadow. Who are you, I ask again, to call us so?"
At this, the dark one chuckled, and white teeth flashed in the shadow. "Your tongue is bold indeed. The Afterborn do not lack for bravery, I see."
"By no measure," Barachor agreed, and drew shining his sword.
At this, the tall one laughed -- truly laughed, a deep-throated thing that shook the wood and echoed in Barachor's bones. "I like you, Firimar. You are not as dull as Thingol's folk, at least."
He stepped forward for the first time, and the shadows fell away. He was an elf, with black hair that fell to his waist, and a sharp pale face that was white as milk. Above it all were set eyes like samite, that glittered with a darkness like the oldest shadow in the deepest pool in the blackest cave.
"So be it then, bold little Apanonar -- I shall name myself. I am the master of the land upon which you walk. I am called Moghrím by the Dwarves, and also the Star-smith. I am the Lord of Nan Elmoth, the prince of the black rivers and the high trees and the deep dells and the shrouded ways."
The elf smiled a smile like knives in the dark.
"I am Eöl. My kinsmen call me the Dark Elf, and these woods are mine."
Questline Unlocked: The Dark Elf
Hm...what an interesting fellow. Not the most pleasant but...not the worst I expected, honestly.
