Flashback - Siege of Eregion

In this RP played Rhakannan (Gillhach) and Celeborn from the Galadhrim.

Behind the Gates
Splendour unrivalled in Middle-Earth begins here, at the very edge of the city. Just within the great gates, a road of smooth marble pavement begins; it follows along the city walls to the north, while another branch leads east, into the heart of the city. Slender towers rise up into the skyline, their spires all but touching the clouds, while narrow bridges like dangling lace connect various buildings throughout the city, the architecture breathtaking to visitor and resident alike.

Dusk draws nigh, shrouding the fair lands of Eregion in shadows -- yet, greater than any gloom brought by the fading of Anor is this. For the darkness of hate and malice is abroad in this hour, and the Dark Lord has risen in all his power to bend his will upon the city of Celebrimbor! Sullen and crimson, the very skies seem hued with blood, and thunder rumbles in the distance -- yet, like a pale jewel glitters Ost-in-Edhil, defiant and fair. And upon its battlements stand tall figures clad in glittering mail, and thither flies the gilded banner of the House of Feanor!

From Before the Gates, Lightning flashes in a bright streak across the northern sky. The flickering light reveals the endless rows of the legions of Hate: Sauron's minions and their flickering torches cry for blood. In the midsts of the orcs and the unnamed terrors of old there comes a line of horsement, tall with spiked helms. At their head is a tall man-shape figure if not a man himself. As the thunder wheezes his voice hisses and from it his dread spirit says, "Tonight is our night. The Brigands shall be subdued. Bring up the prisoners so that we may do our Master's will." Then he casts back his hood and laughs, his hideous face, scarred and mottled by ages of self-torment are upheld by the horror of the hosts of Sauron.

From Before the Gates, Kronkh flies in, wind whistling in his feathers.

Kneeling upon the battlements before the gate is one Quendi, his longbow laying beside him, a quiver of arrows lain at his side. One shaking hand he holds out to his side, clenching it and unclenching it nervously. All along the embattlements others like to him kneel, their bows at their sides, preparing themselves for what surely must come.

From Before the Gates, Standing afront one of the smaller batallions of Sauron's army, one large Uruk holds himself high with dignity. Around his right bicep he wears a white band, indicative, probably, of some slightly elevated rank among this Dark Enemy's army. He looks up at the sky with a scowl upon his face. The droplets of rain pound down upon his face, yet he does not move, he does not falter. Captivated by the stormy night, he then turns to look at the rider at the head of the Foul Host. Nodding deeply, he shows his agreement by letting out a terrible roar that seems to echo throughout the darkening sky. From

Before the Gates, An eerie, raspy laughter fills the air around the forefront of the army, while part of the night's gloom almost seems to solidify, taking form into one of the fell spirits of Sauron. Its great arms reach out, forward into the night, and its mad laughter begins once again, tortured and filled with an evil glee. "We come," it shrills, voice thin as a black fog, yet carried hither and yon upon the dark wind. "We come, Celebrimbor! To gnaw your city and crush your folk, and bring blackness for your troubles!" A fire rises in the spirit's eyes, and it glides in almost ethereal strides forward with the army, laughter rising once more.

From Before the Gates, Kronkh sails lazily into the area and spirals down to a landing in some holly trees close to the gates of the city. His golden eyes glitter in anticipation of treats to be opened on the field below.

Seven glittering jewels in the likeness of stars set around a crown -- two twining trees with crescent moons -- the sigil of the House of the mightiest among the Children of Illuvatar. And thither beside the fluttering banner stands the last of Feanor's kin to walk in Arda; Celebrimbor son of Curufin. Stern and grim, untouched amidst the clamour of the Legions of Darkness, in silence he bends his gaze upon them. In silence he bears their taunts. And to his brethren he turns then, "Stand you ready, my kinsmen?"

Walking the slender battlements slowly, Ciryaroma looks out into the storm, the legions of Sauron arrayed before the beleaguered city. His eyes do not flinch from the sight, nor from the meaning of it. He draws back his cloak unheeding of the rain. He places aside the harp he has been holding, removing his cloak and folding it carefully. He places the cloak on the stone beside him, the harp resting atop it, a slight and low discord rising from the strings as he turns once more to Celebrimbor. He nods quietly to Celebrimbor's question, taking his place atop the battlements once more, bow to hand, a sheaf of long feathered arrows resting atop the wall. His eyes cross that of the Son of Curufin and a light fills them, his air more assured, "Aye.", he says, simply. From Before the Gates, The Blackhand of Sauron is silent as the thunder rolls slowly. The line of prisoners behind him weep slowly: Maids and children of the Eldar. With their unhappy lot still in doubt the Blackhand orders they be brought before the front of the line in open display before the gates of the City of the Elves.

Within, behind the builded parapets and bastions of ost-in-edhil; there rally the remainder of Celeborns' folk, the disenchanted few, born out of sunken Beleriand, of Thingols' Doriath before its fall. Of these, only the greatest remain, Sindarin lords, tall and fell, their wives and children fled eastwards into Lorinand with Galadriel, freshly ousted from her throne.
One such, girt in the livery of Elwe's line; some herald or champion of that long-dead king, Rhankanann the tall stands aside his lord, Celeborn the wise, silver hair streaming in the wind, flashing in the sun.

"Ready, Lord!" Comes the unanimous call from those bowman who know ready their arrows. Nervousness glinting lightly in their eyes, their once shaky hands now turn nimble and deft, readying themselves for the dark Legion's masses that ever approach the walls of the city. Vorondur himself stands ready now, his bow held taught at his side, keen blue eyes piercing the darkness and rain to survey the destructive force before him with grim silence.

From Before the Gates, With a glance the Blackhand looks to the parapets of that proud city. Just out of bowshot he lines the prisoners up and cries, "Are there no valiants among the Noldor? Or will they just hide in their hold? Not thou at least son of Curufin." Then with that he motions to his minions and they come to the first. An elf-boy. With cruel hands they hurl him to the ground on his face and raising up their axes they hew off his feet and hands until the ground cries crimson with his blood. "So much for rebels," says the servant of Sauron. He then motions to bring the next one up. This time a fair maid. Her weeping shrills higher than the piercing sound of the thunder of heavens while the elf-lad squirms on the ground whilst the evil ones poke him with knives.

From Before the Gates, Ogmokh surveys the troops behind him briefly befure turning his crimson gaze forwards - to the gates. The massive fortress before him seems unbreakable. With a snort he turns his attention towards the commanders of the Horde. Re-adjusting his helm, he licks his lips and eagerly awaits orders from above, becoming restless with the waiting. From Before the Gates, Rananar has connected.

And even as the piteous cries of the children rise to be heard by those upon the battlements, Celebrimbor strides forth. Back he casts his cloak, and a brilliant light shines forth in that dark place -- fell and terrible he seems, even as a vision of Feanor in his wrath, and his voice is as the thunder, rising in a great cry. "Get you gone, foul servants of foulest master! Tell him that there is naught for him here save Doom and death!"

From Before the Gates, The great host of Sauron advances on the city in numbers that defy reason. Within the massive army a great legion of uruk archers march. Their black fletched arrows nocked to their black bows in waiting for the word to attack. They all watch the battlements of the city, picking out a target for the time when they attack. One uruk walks infront of them with a long curved scimitar and covered in a black cloak. He is Blargg and he commands the archers. As they get closer he barks out commands to the archers. "Steady lads. On my signal we block out the moon with our arrows." This draws wicked laughter from the horde as they move ever closer.

From Before the Gates, The light failing as the storm grows, it all but disappears around the black murk of Hisshti; among the forefront of the army, even the orcs and other minions of Sauron shirk from the spirit; its every 'step' is a hideous whisper of death and murder, while now and again maniacal laughter erupts from it, and its fingers of dark gloom reach forward toward the light of the city; Yea, even toward the brightness of Celebrimbor himself upon the battlements, though at his words Hisshti stops. "Doom and Death indeed, Son of Curufin! Will you promise us? I hunger... Doom will fall upon this city, and I shall sit at the feast of Death; Despair!"

From Before the Gates, At last the head of the boy is hewn off. His head is taken by a troll and cast toward the gates. The body is broken and cast to the carrion. The Blackhand of Sauron pauses at the voice of Celebrimbor and his fells eyes for a moment seems to quaver at the sound of the Noldor. Yet he has his orders. This time he presses in closer and now with his own wicked blade he hacks at the arms of the elf-maid so that her blood stains his own cloak. Kicking her upon the ground he presses his booted foot into the back of her neck, drawing a thin red line up her body to expose her innards which spill upon the earth. He leaves her there to die in the dust.

Slowly Ciryaroma strings his longbow, crafted long ago by bowyers now forgotten. He selects his first arrow carefully, his eyes testing its truth. He places the arrow to the string and waits, ignoring the cries of those already dead, knowing that he may well meet them beyond the West ere long. His eyes return to that of Celebrimbor, awaiting his command quietly, grey eyes silent and deep.

The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

From Before the Gates, Blackhand orders that the next prisoner brought forth. This one a simple Elven bard who is doomed to play no more, for this time the guard of the Blackhand hacks off his fingers one by one and devour the living flesh. The Servant of the Enemy looks on, waiting patiently in his game. He wipes the blood deeper into his cloak and then now order that a five prisoners be brought even closer to the gate. These are then surrounded by orcs with wicked axes. They shove them to the ground.

From Before the Gates, Narhak starts beating his axe on his shield, eyes blazing in a red frenzy of delight at the spilling of the elf-maiden's blood. He joins his orc brothers in a rising gale of grunts and whistles.

Vorondur averts his gaze from the horrors before him, looking downwards to the bricks upon which he stands. Unmoving, yet not uncaring, he waits... <Combat Geezers Rp Theme> Narhak has left this channel.

From Before the Gates, With another cry of battle and a barking of an order, the Uruk Sergeant begins to move closer to his goal, expecting his group of warriors to follow. Breathing more heavily now, he moves closer to the commaders, hoping to see better the horrendous spectacle. With a grunt, he cannot help but smile at the spilling of blood. "Look ye well, weak ones, look ye well! Such a fate awaits each and every one of ye!" His voice is booming, yet rough. There is a good degree of intelligence apparent behind his vermillion orbs.

From Before the Gates, The orcs raise their axes on high, gleaming weapons of terror, they whistle high, ready to do their wicked work. Their commander, the aptly named Blackhand stands back and cries, "Are there none among the Noldor who would save these poor creatures? Let them know that their death is upon thine own souls."

Stricken into silence, they stand upon the battlements, the proud Eldar of Eregion. And before them, their kin are slain in their despite by the malice of the Dark Lord... Long he watches in bitter grief and wrath, and his face twists -- and in the end, Celebrimbor turns to Rhankanann, and his visage twists. "Order the archers to loose their darts, my herald! Slay the children swiftly ere the blades of Sauron can rend their flesh!"

Tarendol accends the stairs that lead to the battlements above the gates. He has run messages back and forth from the gate to the rest of the city since this whole affair started. He leaps two stairs at a time, with the grace of a swan, looking this way, then that way for the one Elf that all within the city turn their hopes to, Celebrimbor. He slows his racing legs once the Lord is seen, stopping he looks out over the walls to the horror below, his pain plays across his face. He stands silent, awaiting further orders.

From Before the Gates, Hisshti's eyes, twin embers of black fire burning for an eternity, turn toward the prisoners, and the great spirit hastens toward them, cuffing aside one of the axe-wielding orcs, to seize one of the terrified and weakened elves. Lifting it aloft, mad laughter begins again, for Hisshti bears it away, the darkness growing stronger and its long, black fingers closing around the neck of the elf. "Death and Doom," it cries aloud, toward the city, and so it continues, a ghostly chant of murderous intent. "You shall not have this one, Celebrimbor! Death and Doom! Death and Doom!"

Loathsome and hideous they are revealed, the assembled Dark Host, covering the land like a corroding disease, hungry and unceasing. Crude are their bloodthirsty tactics, but effective nonetheless, as bright prisoners are massacred for play before the walls of Ost-in-Edhil, where their kin, armored upon the parapets, look on. But perhaps evil missteps, for the arrogant wish to be heard, and no shout can outpace the reach of elven longbows. Nocked and ready, the response awaits the command of Celebrimbor. And then it comes, and the night is alive with feathered death, sped by rage toward the foul legions which slither below.

From Before the Gates, Even as the orcs hew down their axes the darts of the Eldar come and smite them all: Child, maid and orc. The screams of dead and the dying fill the sky!

Tears stain the cheaks of those ordered to slay their own kin, and yet out of mercy swift fly the arrows of the archers that stand high upon the walls. Few miss their targets, and yet it is the archers themselves that seem more wounded by this than those they put out of their misery. A few of them collapse to one knee, yet even more seem more ready for what is to come...

From Before the Gates, With a scream of horrendous delight, Narhak brings his gleaming axe whistling around in an arc that shudders to a wet halt in the body of one of the prisoners. With a jerk of his weapon he withdraws the murderous weapon, entangled internal organs following liquidly.

From Before the Gates, The masters army could not come without one of his own fell creations and stalking amoung the ranks of Orcs comes a foul and wicked beast. It's glowing red eyes reveal him from afar, peering ahead with a cruel look upon it's canine face. The smells of spilt blood are inhaled by Celebgaur and they drive him near to a uncontrollable bloodlust. Leaping forth the Werewolf flies towards the front of the marching column, he opens his maw wide and cries, his howl carries well ahead of him and before him the lesser creatures all move from his path. He inhales once more and he smells the dead, the dying and those living beyond the fortress walls and he hungers.

Bending his bow with all his might, Ciryaroma aims carefully, a silent prayer to Varda upon his lips. The string sings musically as he looses the long shaft, his aim true. He pauses not to count his aim, but another shaft is loosed ere the first has landed. His ears hear the cries of the dying as his arrows find their marks pitilessly, or perhaps with great pity.

From Before the Gates, The Servant of Sauron, the Blackhand of Hate glances up toward white Celebrimbor and he is indeed amazed. He then rides back toward the main host wielding in his hands a mighty sword curved and fell.

Running down from the walls, sad witness to the fell deeds without; a bowman comes to Celeborn, stood forgotten behind the walls with his people. Tearful of eye he tells the grim tale, and the sindar stirr as one in anger on hearing the atrocities; not unmoved by the message, Rhankanann turns to the host, and quells their outrage with his words: "Stand fast! though they stand without and murder a thousand of our kin, what good would't do for us to be slain by their side? This is a battle we cannot hope to escape unscathed, and shall not win I say... shall we follow the example of Guilins' sons and waste our lives, or remain in hope of salvation? Ereinion will come... he at least of the Noldor has not betrayed us to the death." The last of his words are spat, filled with utmost scorn for the doomed lords of the Mirdain.

From Before the Gates, The Sergeant watches coldly as those about him are felled by the arrows of the Children of Illuvatar. His eyes narrow as he holds his battle axe high in the air. Another great cry comes from the Uruk's lungs as his sickening black tounge moistens his chapped and parched lips. In the same terrible booming voice, he shouts, "Death and Doom!" His words mimicing the Dark Phantom at the head of the host.

From Before the Gates, Following close on the heals of the furred Deamon, an Orc, screaming fiercely, stepping over the bodies of the already fallen, winging a runed weapn at all before him. Following close, yes, but fear in its eyes, not of the darts flying from behind the walls, but at the apparition before him, driven forward by that fear, protecting the demon's flank, pausing not even to relish the thrill of battle or the taste of victory over fallen foes.

From Before the Gates, The ground rocks shakes lightly as the feet of the Olog, Bzzarg make contact with it. Small strides are taken, so as not to crush the other creatures moving out below... his axe swinging forward with each step, nearly taking off the heads of anything foolish enough to walk near him. The rumble of the massive creature's stomach can be heard as he looks up towards the walls, his eyes making their way up to the top and his mouth simply comes open.. Rows of massive teeth becoming visible, and his tongue runs across them all before finally uttering one word, "Elfseses."

Winged and fell, the arrows of the Kindred fall from the sky like judgement, merciless and without surcease. The air is rent by the shrieks of the pierced, the cacophony of war breaks upon the high city walls, where the defenders nock and loose their darts in graceful efficient motion, each filling every long minute with a dozen arrows or more. And their silence is a wordless lament, rich with grief too powerful to speak.

From Before the Gates, An arrow, shining silver in the darkness lit only by the raging lightning in the maelstrom overhead, strikes the elf Hisshti carries; a great wail rises from the spirit, and it screams, "Death take you all, elves! You kill your own folk; but still they die, and soon you will all die!" The black spirit throws down the body of the elf, breaking it upon the rocks, and hastens toward the Olog, first of its number to reach the front of the battle line; this being only the foremost of the scouts and tip of the army, its black bulk and uncounted numbers coming behind, with its lord, Sauron. "Yesssss... Elfsees!" it cries to the Troll, once again laughing madly, surely a sign of its twisted existance. "Crushed they must be! They killed our toys... or our supper."

In green-fletched waves the darts rise to the skies -- thither to stay for long moments ere falling in whispering death upon the Hosts of Sauron. And the tears of the bowmen do not quench the fire that burns in them, but indeed, seem to stoke it ever higher. And stricken with grief beyond words -- grief beyond wrath or hate -- the Son of Celebrimbor stands as a statue hewn from the very rock of the battlements, raven hair streaming in the wind. And the unnumbered legions of darkness draw ever nigh...

From Before the Gates, Amongst the orcish crew slaying the prisoners, all but one fall to the arrows of the defenders. Narhak pulls himself free of the gore in time to duck the swing of one of the massive trolls. Kneeling on the ground, he feels the fear and intimidation behind him building to an undeniable compulsion and manages to bring his shield up in a defensive position. The force of a single arrow piercing his shield pins his arm to it and drives him backward a foot.

From Before the Gates, Still following on the heals of its master, the Orc now swerves from side to side, thrusting with its black blade at those who have fallen in the Demon's path, killing those unfortunate enough to have survived its attack, and to witness even seconds more of the carnage of their fellows. Looking back briefly, seeing the hills and plains blackened with its brethren, it raises it's head and cries aloud, a piercing sound mixed of battle lust and rage.

From Before the Gates, Bzzarg begins to stop his feet up and down now, though standing in place. Laughing madly to himself as he begins to clap his hands together, "Crush em!" Before he finally begins to hop up and down, dropping his axe on the ground and hitting his own foot. Eyes nearly devoid of any sign of intelligence look downwards, and after a few moments the signal reaches his brain and causes the exclamation of, "Ow! Tha hurs!" The eyes now come alight with something different, much different.. A rage burns within them, much like a child with a temper tantrum and he quickly bends over to grab his blade from the ground, "I hurt em for dis! Where dey be massa!?"

From Before the Gates, With one last great leap, flying over the heads of the Orcs in it's path, the Werewolf comes to a halt at last. He let's his gaze look from the Troll, to the Spirit, to the Blackhand and then lifting those piercing red orbs he looks to the wall and those that guard it. And his hunger is feuled once more, then from within his dark spirit speaks, "The master will come, and soon this will be oursssssss."

Again and again Ciryaroma lets fly another arrow, his eyes unblinking, cold and grey, tears running down his pale face unchecked. By chance he notes one of his arrows take a young elven woman through the heart and he pauses but a moment before returning to his work. Slowly and softly he begins to sing, of green vales and warm skies, and gentle water. His song rising in strength as his arrows fly into the blackness, and with them death. He flinches as he hears the cries of the dying rise in fear and pain, but does not stop his hand from its bloody work, his tears falling against the arrows now as they are sped upon their way.

The battle rages on. Arrows fly down from the ramparts of Eregion, loosed by the faithful warriors and guards of the fair city. Strong they stand, ever clear of their intentions to protect their home. A breeze blows through the area, causing the guards to readjust their aims to the wind -movement. One of those who stands on the great walls and with great grief attempts to defend his city, is Arathrion. The lines of pain in his face, seem ever clearer now. Death is all about him, yet he is seemingly unmoved, as he looses arrow after arrow.

From Before the Gates, Kronkh spirals up into the sky and quickly disappears.

From Before the Gates, As the elvish bows fire upon the host of Sauron, the uruk archers run forward to get close enough for a shot. Many archers fall to the shafts of the elves but many more take their place. Once they get in range Blargg waves his scimitar and the archers fire at once. The shafts arc up over the walls and in a rain of terror they fall on the city dwellers. Before the screams of pain reach the archers another volly of black fletched death is sent into the heavens.

Vorondur's longbow looses countless darts at the dark army before him, their silver-feathered shafts oft finding its home in the chest of any orc that happens to capture his tear-blurred eye. Nary but 5 seconds pass between the launching of arrows, and the rythmic twang of his bow is drowned out completely by the raging calls of Sauron's army before him.

His eyes grow dark as now his targets are more fitting, great black Uruks and other more misshapen and less recognizable. He draws and releases his deadly darts as if in a single motion, his hand reaching for another arrow almost as the last is loosed, his eyes cold and his song turning to one of bravery and victory. His voice strong and true as is his aim, each silver fletched dart finding its target as the black fletched arrows fall about him. He starts momentarily as a foul arrow hits his harp, the rage of its assault causing a discordant and noisome note to rise from the harp, stilling his song as he raises his bow for another flight.

From Before the Gates, Bzzarg waves his hands in the air now, the axe still being held as he cries out, "Dey shootin' pointies at me!" Looking around for something to squash as he continues to yell, "Dey shootin' pointies!" His attention turns on the walls as he begins to hop up and down again, causing the ground to tremble a bit, "Make em stop! I dun like this!" But hark, what come near other than a little Uruk! Massive hands reach out and grab hold of the small screaming creature as he turns towards the elves and lifts the squirming mass above his heads, "Leab me alone!" His arms lurch forward, sending the little wretch towards the trigger-happy Vorondur, without the knowledge that there's no way he can hit the elf.

The heavens speak with slithering tongue, and it seems the very air shivers as feathered death falls upon the battlements.

From Before the Gates, The Blackhand growls in menace and he now mounts his black steed. He then grabs a spiked shield and prepares for battle. Taking from a servant a horned helm, he sets this upon his head and trumpets are blown harshly.

From Before the Gates, Gliding heedlessly through the rain of arrows, seeming not to fear them and never quite remaining in place to be hit, Hisshti raises a long arm to point to the city, and says, "There, Troll! The elves are there! Crush them!" Anger kindled within its twisted soul, the spirit raises its voice louder, and cries, "Forward the ram! Bring the grapples, the ladders, the ropes! Advance the archers, bring up the shieldmen... We are the advance force, and we WILL take this city for our master; think of the plunder! Of the death and plunder! Death and Doom! Death and Doom to Eregion!"

Hearing the cries of some dumb creature beneath him, Vorondur turns his gaze... and his bow towards Bzzarg. Another arrow is nocked, and loosed now at the crying creature, it's aim straight and true, and almost before the first one is free of the bow another arrow is nocked, ready to seek out another target, or the same if need be.

Vorondur launches an arrow through the exit heading Gates...

Faint and distant above the din of battle rises Ciryaroma's song -- and then another beside him sings. And then another, and yet another. Until in the end, a thousand voices and more, elven-fair, rise in joyous cry. Thus they cast aside their grief and despair -- thus, stern and unfaltering, the fire of battle rises within them. For they are the mightiest of the Children of Illuvatar, and while yet they live, no darkness shall come uncontested before them! And rich and clear, a single voice rises above them, in the ancient tongue even of Valinor itself -- and Celebrimbor the Mighty draws forth his blade now, and new hope arises thither!

From Before the Gates, Ogmokh and those behind him move ever closer to the gates of the great City. His rage is not masked as saliva drips from his lips and bloodlust fills his eyes. He anxiously peers through the falling rain, awaiting his chance to cleave and kill. A great shudder arises from the army, as if simultaneously they were all filled with the same lust as he. He barks a command to his platoon and instantly a group of warriors charges the walls, carrying a great ladder. He shouts explatives as the ladder is lifted and slammed upon the walls of the city. More barks come from the Sergeant as he orders those Uruk with shields to brave the climbing of the ladder first, facing the harrowing rain of arrows from above.

"Would that our lady were wrong in her suspicion!" Cries Rhankanann, dismayed at last by the rumour of the army massing without the walls; "now we pay for the blindness of these petty smiths... a plague on the Mirdain!" He shouts, voice carried nigh unto the parapets, where stand those proud lords of the Noldor, "Those who would exchange our lives for trinkets... damnation on Feanor's kindred, who have brought us under their doom!"

Stirred anew by the now-clear presence of the Might Celebrimbor, Arathrion races forth to the front of the ramparts, and looses at least a dozen arrows in a row, aiming them at the sheer mass of black beneath the walls of the city. He too joins in the mighty song of the Eldar, hoping to push away grief and anguish with the power of beauty, song and hope. Whether it helps or not, arrow after arrow he looses, and ever-present is the powerful song. He looks down at the masses beneath the walls and cries out harshly, his voice being lost in the din "Begone - Evil Ones! Today is not your day. You shall yet be pushed away from these walls, and victory shall be ours! " He says these words more for his own comfort, rather than intimidation of the enemy.

From Before the Gates, The thrown orc screams a high, keening wail as his parabolic track takes him high in the air to crash in a hapless heap at the foot of the wall. Meanwhile, Narhak manages to snap the arrow from the face of his shield, leaving it pinned to his arm as he struggles to his feet and joins his brethern moving towards the gates.

Rising to his feet, Ciryaroma stands tall as Celebrimbor's voice fills the battlements, and the hearts of the defenders. His eyes gleam and a joy fills his heart as his Lord draws steel. His bow sings once more, and he takes up the song as well, his voice raised with those of his kinsmen as black arrows fall among them. And still the song grows in strength. With a grunt he looks to his left arm in surprise as a black feathered shaft appears in his forearm, the tip dripping his blood slowly against the cold white stones. He spares a moment to break off the haft at both ends and then takes up his bow and another arrow grimly, raising it to his eye and letting it fly as once more his voice and heart sing.

The ladder is like a gift, for the Enemy crowds about like mad jabbering ravens, and from the crenellations, the glittering mail of the Kindred sparkles as the archers shoot downward.

From Before the Gates, Guurg stops now, his master otherwise occupied. Raising his shieldarm above his head, hoping for protection from the deadly rain, he joins the queue of Orcs climbing the raised ladders, not reaching the first before it is toppled by the defenders of the city, reaching only the second rung before it, too, is thrust from the wall. Cursing, he scrambles to the next, slipping in the blood-soaked mire, almost losing his footing.

As soon as a ladder is placed against the walls it seems that an elf attempts to shove it away, and for each ladder there one archer drops his bow to keep them from climbing the walls. Fewer arrows fly through the air, and yet their presence is still quite notable. From Before the Gates, Bzzarg appears in a giant column of flames which stretches ten feet into the air and then leaves nothing but the Uruk-hai behind.

From Before the Gates, The Olog's head turns down to watch the arrow impact against his chest and simply shatter into many pieces. A little giggle escapes his lips as Bzzargh once more turns his attention to the walls and points to the elf, "Elfseses dink dey an ert me..." Shaking his head as he begins to look around for something else to throw.. Something far more painful and agonizing.

Twin black ladders fall against the wall beside Ciryaroma and he throws aside his longbow and draws his slender sword, hacking at the twisted wood as he and others try to cast it back into the thronging horde. His eyes bright now, his voice raised in song still as he cuts at the gripping black hands of the Orcs as they attempt to climb the battlements.

From Before the Gates, Celebgaur lifts his maw high and howls again, the cry echoing off the high walls before him. He looks to the servants nearby and he sets a path to move along side the mounted one. wether this wolf be a scout of Saurons or just another in his brood, he appears to wish to keep close to those at the lead and watches on with interest. His thick, grey tongue hanging at the side of his mouth. His gleaming orbs always searching, from the walled enemies to the Orcs mustered before him.

From Before the Gates, A group of goblin laddermen run across the battlefield, paired of in twos and threes, each carrying massive ladders towards the walls, shielding themselves from the elven arrows which pour from above as rain. The lighter uruks run up first, but are blocked at the top be elven defenders. The orc laden ladders shake violently, throwing those with weak grips off, to death or injury.

Vorondur quickly realizes that his arrow did little of use, and searches for another more appeasing target within the army. Blue eyes pierce the storm of rain and black darts before him to find a target, the first orc he lays eyes upon, and no sooner than he does so does he lose an arrow, and nock yet another.

Vorondur launches an arrow through the exit heading Gates... From Before the Gates, Yikes! An arrow!

But none upon the battlements pay heed to the Herald of Celeborn, for there is little time now -- the darts of the Enemy fall thickly among them, and many are those who will never see the Bliss of Valinor again. Yet, Celebrimbor's voice rises in a great cry, "Would you then go tamely thus to your Doom, Rhankannan of Doriath, cursing your brethren with your last breath? Come, stand beside me and the dark ones shall know fear yet!"

As soon as the first of the ladders is pushed against the walls, Arathrion immediately rushes towards it to push it down. Yet, of course, he reaches there too late, for those in front of it have long since done the deed. He turns to go back to his original spot, yet no sooner does he turn away, is another ladder bashed against the walls. Arathrion looses two arrows down along the ladder and attempts to push it away, succeeding partially, along with other warriors at his side.

From Before the Gates, Madly laughing to itself, Hisshti glances around for the grapples and rope, seeing only ladders, many of those falling and toppling as their bearers are struck down by elvish arrows. But laughter turns to shrieks of rage, and the spirit cries, "Grapples! I called for Grapples! Where are the ropes and grapples?!" Seizing the nearest orc, Hisshti squeezes the life from it, hurtling the crumpled form toward the walls, and screams, "Where are the grapples?!" Enraged, it dashes off toward the south, toward the approaching army, searching.

From Before the Gates, Now climbing his squad's ladder, Ogmokh brandishes his battle-axe in one arm, while he concentrates on climbing with the other. He watches as his brethern fall from above and below, yet he has no sympathy for them. As he reaches the top of the ladder, he shrieks as Vorondur's arrow buries itself into his side. Breaking it off angrily, he stumbles up onto the walls where 4 of his kind try to fend off the defenders of the Gates.

Noting the sudden surge of orcs upon the walls, Vorondur nocks another arrow and looses it at the first he sees, again Ogmokh, and nocks another and looses it at yet another of the foul creatures that endanger his kindred. The twang of his bow is constant, and one arrow after another is loosed.

Vorondur launches an arrow through the exit heading Gates...

The assault upon the walls is doomed, for the invaders place themselves directly beneath the battlements, without defense and without escape. The archers dispatch the suicidal with efficiency, but there is a price. Standing betwixt the stone merlons, an archer leans out over the battlement to loose death upon the ravening hordes, and he is felled by black arrow. Even as he crumples, his longbow spirals down upon the Enemy, trampled and lost beneath the frenzy.

Standing before a ladder, already so laden with orcs that it may not be cast from the wall, Ciryaroma swings his sword in wide arcs, keeping the leading orc at bay, his eyes flashing in the darkness, his tunic sodden with black blood. He thrusts his sword deep into the throat of the Orc, who grasps his sword with both hands, holding it in his throat as it plummets from the ladder, knocking off a few of its companions, though others quickly rise again up the ladder. Casting about himself for a weapon, he takes up his bow and wielding it as a staff, continues to attempt to force back the invaders. His voice now hoarse and rough, yet still his song rises among his kin. Arathrion's eyes gleam of hatred and warfare, as the first of the Orcs reaches the walls themselves. Beside himself in anger, that not all ladders were pushed down, and that such a thing could be allowed, Arathrion rushes towards those who climb the walls. He hangs his bow over his shoulder and unsheathes his longsowrd. With great strides he nears the orcs, and takes a swing at them, warding them away from the walls.

From Before the Gates, The Blackhand and his men come by the gates. There they wait, watching the assault go on. Their horses snort fiercely. Then does he cry aloud, in a fell voice a clamourous shout and if there are words in that cry, they cannot be read.

Followed by a large retinue of armored Sindar, Celeborn of Doriath moves quickly towards the walls from the Cobblestone Terrace. With a loud shout, this small band quickly hurries to assist the defenders at the wall. Ladders and steps are climbed, and soon a fresh set of bodies are on the walls to drive back the invaders. Celeborn, himself, stops near the gate and searches about in the wild chaos, looking for some sort of order or command here.

Swayed from his despair, Rhankanann is on the walls; and many of Celeborns' people with him, strengthening the unhappy few on the parapet to double their number at least; all are girt in the livery of ancient Doriath, arrayed as lords of old, in treasures beyond the wealth of all the kingdoms of men: swords from the vaults of Menegroth, mail bright and impenetrable they bear, wrought by the dwarves in ages past.

From Before the Gates, Still the uruk archers fire without relenting. To each archer one snaga is assigned. The snaga runs back behind the advancing horde to bring back more arrows. When an archer falls to the elvish bowmen the snaga takes his place. Their accuracy is poor but the sheer number of arrows being launched makes up for it. The screams of pain are music to Blargg's ears as he runs amid the confusion encouraging the archers. "Keep fireing. Give those ladder men time to climb the battlements."

Forced back momentarily, others manage to stem the assault and finally cast off the black ladder. Casting about himself he finds the sword of a fallen kinsman at hand, and hefting it quickly, turns back to the wall, seeking to plug any hole in the defense with his steel and if need be, his own body.

From Before the Gates, Lost amidst the teeming hordes of attackers, Narhak pushes forward over broken and bloodied injured and dead alike. Fate or destiny or some other unkind artifice puts him below a momentarily vacant ladder. His pinned arm quickly becomes a liability as he clumsily tries to clamber up, pushed from behind. Angered by the push from behind, he swipes a backhand axe blow at the orc below him and dislodges himself to fall into the clamorous orcs below.

With a cry of war, masses of Elves surround Ogmokh and those with him. Those who had dared to climb the walls, so few. Masses of Elves surround them, and endless arrows and sword-swings fill the air around them. Arathrion himself holds his longsword high, and then in a swift arc, smashes it down upon Ogmokh, attempting to throw him from the walls with force. A cry erupts from his lips "BEGONE!".

Into the battle strides Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion now -- revealed in his wrath, with glitering mail and high helm, and around him are arrayed the chiefest champions of the Noldor in this land. Along the parapets his blade flashes, ever in the thick of the press, and the light of Elbereth is around him. And none there are who can withstand him in this hour -- none, save the Dark Lord himself should he come forth!

Ogmokh blinks as in the period of several seconds, a second arrow glances off of his armour and the longsword of an elven warrior bears down upon him. As the blow of the longsword is deflected by his armour, he lets out only a light grunt as he counterattacks the Elven warrior, Arathrion, with his battle-axe, aiming for his stomach

From Before the Gates, Seeing now he can make use of himself, the creature of Tol-in-Gaurhoth leaps from the side of the mounted Blackhand and rushes to the base of one of the ladders. Adding his own fell nature to the suurounding Orcs, with fear in their hearts they scramble upwards, some near crawling over themselves in a desperate effort to scale the mighty battlement.

From Before the Gates, Gunz'nroases stands at the bottom of one of the numerous seige ladders propped up against the walls, using his bulk to keep the ladders from toppling over, despite the elves attempts to topple them. Cruel arrows launch from both above and below. The army of Sauron roars hungrily, their Appetite for Destruction growing at the resistance put out by the elves. With the fighting moving to a higher plane, warriors now fall like leaves onto the battlefield below, and the arrows have died down.

Ogmokh attacks Arathrion with his Battle Axe and lightly wounds him!

Vorondur continues to fire into the crowd of orcs that climb the ladder onto the battlement. Another arrow is soon loosed in the direction of Ogmokh, one of the first orcs to climb onto the battlements, and almost before the arrow reaches it's target another is nocked and ready.

Turning to a kinsman who has just cast off an orc, he smiles briefly, then catches the elf as he falls forward, a heavy shafted arrow standing in his back. The young elf speaks softly a few words then falls dead in Ciryaroma's arms. Laying his kinsman gently along the battlement out of the way of the battle, placing his hand briefly on his forehead and whispering a brief prayer for his swift flight to Mandos. Ciryaroma rises slowly and with a grim cast to his face. He moves to the battlement once more and continues to attempt to stem the rising flood of orcs.

From Before the Gates, As the pullulating hordes of blackness crash like surf against the walls of Eregion, Narhak raises his face to the sky and screams his rage. The sky looks down on him with indifference and deadly arrows as he clambers to his feet and makes his way once again to a ladder.

The steel eyes of the Sindar Princling gaze at the hopelessness of the situation at the walls. Still, Celeborn quails not at the on-rushing horde and reaches back to find his longbow and join the defenders. Rushing up the steps to the edge, the shiny brow of his helm gleams off of what light there is and casts a defying beacon against the darkness on the other side.

Eyes aflame, and temperament fired up, Arathrion eyes with contempt the foul creature below him. A grave, serious look on his face after hitting the orcs's armor, is soon broken by a return attack of the orc. Ever-more surprised at the ability of Ogmokh to keep hold on to a ladder, Arathrion is hit in the armor covering his chest by the axe of the orc, and is pushed back with a grunt. Once again he glares towards the orcs, and rushes towards him, point ahead, attempting to either spear the orc, or push him off the ladder with force.

From Before the Gates, Gunz'nroases removes his axe from its leather frog.

The arrow of Vorondur sinks yet again into Ogmokh's armour. Before he has a chance to react though, the blade of the elven warrior, Arathrion penetrates his armour. Black blood spills forth from his wounds as a great shrieking noise bellows forth from the Sergeant's lungs, as his balance is shaken by the attack. Ogmokh attempts to strike back at Arathrion, but misses his target completely, his axe sinking into the skull of one of his fellow Uruk. He looks up at Arathrion, expecting only the worst.

Vorondur does not cease his attacks, another arrow flying forth from his bow as soon as possible, its mark the already shaken uruk Ogmokh. No grin breaks the grim look upon his face at the killing of one of the uruks by his own comrades, no excitement of any kind. Another arrow is quickly nocked...

From Before the Gates, The orcs currently holding the seige ladders are replced by the even burlier trolls, and the orcs run back to fighting with bow from the ground, or up the ladders into the city. Gunz'nroases dashes up the ladder, growling dark oaths in the speech of his people. Once at the top, he raises his axe, which is blunt enough to be considered a club, and swings it wildly, narrowly missing some of his comrades.

No feeling can be discerned in Arathrion's eyes. Only the harsh look of many hardy years of battle experience. Looking with hatred upon the badly wounded creature beneath him, he shows no mercy towards him, and as if attacking the whole army behind him, Arathrion, swings his sword down in an arc towards the upper body of the orc.

In terrible beauty do they stand, massed upon the high walls, the Kindred, fierce and fair, before the swarming hordes. The archers shoulder-to-shoulder with their brethren who swing bright blades, their light shattering upon the Darkness which seeks the defended heights of Ost-in-Edhil.

On the walls, the defence goes as well as may be hoped; the Sindarin peoples of Doriath that remain now occupy the battlement, fighting alongside the Golodhrim that fend off this first assault. Many they are, all fell and terrible, the greatest remnant of the grey-elves in all of middle earth. Ladders they cast down in ruin onto the black host below, crushing the minions of the dark lord that swarm below the walls; such as clamber up they slay with ease, all hapless, accursed yrch, no match for the Eldar in their wrath.

Rhankanann at least bodes well, though his blade and mail be soaked blackened with the blood of his foes, the herald stands undaunted o'th wall. A speedy orc is on him, scuttling up a ladder but recently raised to the parapet, a wicked scimitar it wields, slashing crude strokes on the elf-lord's shield; each come to nought, glancing off without even harming the metal, as might not be said for the answering blow, Aglarlaure - wrought of old in Nogrod - is raised, flashing in the sun, 'ere it falls, cleaving the orchs' empty head fully in twain, leaving the stinking corpse to sag, and Rhankanann to wrest his blade from its posthumous grip.

Through the press cleave the Son of Curufin and his knights, singing as they slay, until the yrch cast down their weapons and flee before them -- to be hewed down by other blades, or fling themselves over the battlements in mad terror and despair. And in the end, they meet, the Silver Hand and the Blackhand, light and dark, and in that hour is their Doom wrought!

Gunz'nroases stands amoungst a group of goblins atop the gates of the paradise city, which is now a city of hellish fighting. Skirmishes of individuals appear every few meters, but for the most part, there are just masses of figures on the walls, trying to find something on which to vent their rage. An arrow, perhaps intended for, perhaps aimed, peirces the lower left side of Gunz'nroases abdomen. With a roar of pain, the goblin dashes off towards the elvish archer who shot at him, though it is dificult due to the masses about him. After escaping the crowd, he snaps the arrow off at the end, leaving the head and part of the shaft inside. With open mouth, the goblin lunges towards the elf, swinging his blunt axe at the archers collar bone.

Turning at the unearthly scream upon the battlements, Ciryaroma looks with horror and loathing upon the Blackhand, his sword raised as if to fend off the sight. For the first time, his song fails him, faltering in his throat, and his heart races. Then with a quietitude and calm he raises his head once more and charges into the fray as Celebrimbor and his closest kin throw themselves upon the Guard, Celebrimbor ever at the fore, forcing his way towards that Dark Terror. And even in that moment a black shaft grows from his throat, cutting off his song as it begins again. His grey eyes open wide as he clutches at the dark fletches, then falls with a gurgle to the stones, scarce yards from the Son of Curufin, his hand falling as if by chance upon his harp, its broken strings offering no song as his spirit departs Middle Earth forever.

Breached, the heights are penetrated, and the city lies before the foul host, defended by the line of Eldar in fierce combat upon the stone walls. Dark clashes against light, and the tumult of battle tumbles forth over the cobblestones, ringing and harsh.

Vorondur cries out in pain as the mace-like object slams into his shoulder, and yet it takes only a few moments for him to regain his composure and leap back once more, nocking another arrow and firing at Gunz'nroases from point blank range. No other weapons does he have, and he seems all focused on keeping his bow in hand.

Though it may be that the very guard of the unnamed Blackhand flee from him at the sight of the Noldor in his rage, he himself does not flee. Verily, they stand almost alone upon that high place, knowing maybe it is their doom to fight this battle to the death. The Servant of Sauron laughs crying in a hissing voice, "Fool! Dost thou truly wish to face me? Then come, and I shall smite thee as thou stand. For I am the Black Hand of Sauron, and by it shall thy flesh be torn and cast to the wolves or maybe if thou resist, worse yet." With that silence begins and the self proclaimed 'Black Hand' turns his head slightly to the side and a loud crack echoes softly over the battlements. His fingers rest lightly upon his blade.

From Before the Gates, Through a haze of pain and fighting for a full breath, Narhak becomes alert to the tugs and grunting of the snaga pulling him away from the battle. "Away?!" the terror beats in his brain as he becomes fully conscious and backhands the slave from him. He scrabbles around in the wrack of war for a weapon. "Where is my axe?", he gibbers mindlessly until he comes upon a huge battle axe. He threads his shield off his arm and manages through the pain to grip the axe and once again join the dark waves assaulting the city. He is forced by the press of battle to merely raise his axe in defiance and add his gobbling voice to the din.

His champions are gone, torn away from his side to hold the creatures of the Dark Lord at bay -- and thus, in a circle which none dare brach, Celebrimbor and the Lieutenant of Sauron face each other. And stern and unflinching in the face of his foe's malice Celebrimbor stands, and a great scorn is in his voice, "Thus you preach to me of your Master, foul one? Think you that I will cower in fear and bow before him? Nay, most foully has he betrayed me, and in your fall he shall see the vengeance of the Noldor!"

Gunz'nroases staggers backwards, an arrow doing considerable damage at such close range. The elvish arrow potrudes from his jaw, having gone into his open mouth, and out through his jawbone, ironically satisfying his destructive appetite. With a gurggling yelp, he retreats to the nearest ladder, and runs down it, not looking behind, and screaming madly.

Again laughter as the Black Hand of hate says, "It is plainly thy choice brave heart. Your freedom is at a cost, for we shall take thy lands, and thy lives, for thy freedom in death. Now, come son of Curufin, I am bored of thy pratings. We could have been done with this months ago, but nooooooo *thou* had to be a proud little elf. Now thou shalt be a dead one." Then first the Blackhand lets his hand fly into his cloak and with sudden flashing speed, not one, not two, but *three* knives come hurtling at Celebrimbor as silver darts!

Vorondur, having beaten back the attack creature in a rather unusual way, returns to his original position, painfully and more slowly knocking yet another arrow, and firing down into the crowds of uruks that have yet to breach the walls.

From Before the Gates, A great shriek rises, growing louder and louder as the spirit which cries it draws nearer. Like a great black cloud it rushes through the chaotic ranks of orcs, all but flying over them and casting them aside in its great rush. Hisshti has returned, the spirit of black despair, from the depths of Sauron's army. "Forward! Forward all, or feel the wrath of the Master! The host draws near, and we foreguard must take the city, else share the rewards..."

From Before the Gates, In the press of battle, Narhak finds himself once again near a ladder. As he looks up a dark shape hurtles towards him and he reacts in terror and certainty that death is reaching for him. He swings his axe at the shape as it is almost upon him.

From Before the Gates, The arrow slams into the Olog's chest once more, splintering without causing much damage. Though this time, Bzzargh takes more notice of it and begins to lumber towards the walls... Finally reaching them, his large hands grab hold of a few ladders and other such things, causing them great strain.. But finally he reaches the top, and rolls over it. His hands begin to hit against his chest as he roars, looking down at Vorondur, "You's pay for dis ya little runt!" Suddenly realizing that he left his weapon behind, the Olog turns around and jumps off the wall.

Vorondur looks in horror at the creature that has assailed him, and when it rolls off the wall once more he looks quite shocked indeed. Shaking his head in disbelief, he nocks another arrow, and fires down into the crowd once again.

From Before the Gates, Under arrow and slingstone and falling Orc, Celebgaur watches and paces impatiently. He peers back along the trail he came as if trying to descry the coming of his master, were it that he could indeed. And then, with a great leap, he starts up the wall. No ladder is needed as long razor claws rake at the very blocks, digging in on his fast ascent. Another leap, and another and then, with his final press the werewolf flies high and breaches the top of the wall, perched upon battlement he peers now with his foul and unyielding glare, bright red orbs searching for his first victim. Raggot has arrived.

From Before the Gates, Bzzarg hits the ground with a loud thud, and rolls around on the ground screaming in pain. Finally he gets up and shakes his head, realizing that nothing is wrong with him... His head cranes around, trying to see if anybody saw him.. And indeed they did! Sauntering over towards his weapon, and a little snaga, "You din' see nuttin'!"

From Before the Gates, Hisshti stares at Narhak, drawing back from the axe swung at it clumsily, and cackles madly in rage and delight. "Climb, little fool, to your death! Or I will give it to you here!" Dark fingers reach slowly, horribly toward the orc then...

Swift as searing streaks of lighting, the knives fly towards Celebrimbor, seeking his breast -- and they meet a wall of metal. Emblazoned with the Seven Stars of Feanor, the shield turns them away, and they fal to the stones. "Thus you strike by treachery, even as your master. But no more!" And forth the Lord of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain springs to give battle to his dark foe, and his blade is that even of Fingon, and a flame is kindled in it, bright and keen.

From Before the Gates, As Narhak completes his swing on empty air an arrow comes whistling down from above and pierces his left arm. Dismayed, but past feeling any pain in that arm, he sets it on the helm of a fallen comrade and cleanly cuts the shaft on either side of the hairless appendage. He looks up at the wall and screams his defiance at the cowardly dart throwers above.

Vorondur, having forgotten his moment of horror with the troll, nocks another arrow as quickly as possible, and fires it off at the same target, hoping this time to kill it, unaware or uncaring of it's screams of defiance or pain.

The Black Hand of Sauron looks enraged and his sword leaps up flamelike in answer! CLANG! The blades meet and their sounds echo over Ost-in-Edhil!

From Before the Gates, Bzzarg turns around once more, looking back up the wall as he hears the clang. Muttering to himself, "Dem elves.. All dis noise and dey still dink dey so purty.." Shaking his head back and forth as he begins to run towards the wall, full speed. Suddenly he realizes his error in calculation. Stop! Stop! Ah, alas he crashes into it and causes it to shake before he takes a step back and roars, "You's move ya dumb wall!" His fists begin to pound upon it, while his eyes look up into the air and a hand breaks free to point at Vorondur, "I'm gunna git you! I'm gunna git you!"

The hideous screech of claw upon stone rends the very air, presaging the arrival of Celebgaur the Foul. Loathsome to behold, he stands one moment alone in a sheltering ring of horror ere the first of the Eldar steps forth to meet him in battle. Grim and wordless does the warrior come, and his sword falls from the sky in vengeful arc, glittering and fell.

From Before the Gates, The spirit laughs and laughs, a horrible cry which pierces even the roar of battle, and gathers strength as it echoes off the mountain cliffs to the east. Despair fills it, and even orcs who hear it cower, for Hisshti has grown angry and amused. Long fingers of death and smoke reach forward, plucking the tiny orc, by comparison, from its crouch by the ladder. But up the ladder it will go... Hisshti soars up the ladder, its feet, should it have any, virtually running straight upward. As it reaches the top, it leaps in, tossing the orc ahead into the fray.

As narhak climbs up the ladder onto the walls, Vorondur follows him with yet another arrow, hoping to kill him or knock him from the embattlements.

Narhak tumbles to the slick parapet surface and slams into the body of one of the defenders. As he gathers himself into a crouch he feels a pin prick tugging at his spare armor and looks up at the perpetrator. Through his pain and bewilderment he manages to bring his weapon to bear and swings at the bringer of so much pain.

Narhak attacks Vorondur with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!

Thus upon the highest rampart of the battlements they strive in mortal struggle, two lonely figures, greater in stature than any there. And many among the hosts of Eregion and Sauron look upon them in wonder and fear, for they stand as mighty figures against the crimson sky, and lightning plays around them. And as the crac of thunder is the meeting of their blades -- one forged in the deeps of time by elven-smiths, and the other in the dark fires of the East. And the Blackhand's blade is turned away even as Celebrimbor springs forth again, a storm unto himself, and his sword carves a swathe of fire through the air.

From Before the Gates, Bzzarg decides its best to get on up there, and with his axe in hand begins to climb up the walls.. His feet breaking various ladders, and squashing other orcs trying to get up them as he curses at them, "Move fastah!" A hand breaking free to bat one clear, or grab hold of a different for footing.. Finally his hand reaches the top of the wall, and then the other reaches up. His blade laying across the top of the wall as he begins to do something similar to a chin-up, and then rolls over the top, landing on the ground with at thud again and just lays there panting, "I'm gonna git you.. Just.. After I git my own breath."

Retreating back a single step the motion of these two rivals: The Black Hand and Celebrimbor become a blur of motion. Attack. Parry. Riposte. They are swift and sure and the clang of their weapons crashes high. Now it comes to pass that the Blackhand is set back against the wall of the battlment alone. He sends up a foot to side-kick his foe. Yet more than their actions is the presence of evil and good, for where the sword of the Elves burns brightly the Black Hand's sword seems like a living fire of malice.

Fell and terrible is the look of Celebgaur, and he turns those flaming hate filled eyes upon the approaching Eldar. Adjusting his stance to keep his balance upon the battlement, he turns quickly to face the bright blade head on and as he looks upon the weapon and wielder with the wrath of the spirit within. Making a quick move to avoid the stinging blade an Elf, he slashes his left paw before his face, intercepting the blade. He grimaces as his claws connect, but they still hold true and set aside he glares at the Elf, "One brave one, good, my hunger can be quenched.." He growls and then he makes his own move to strike in return. Lunging well forward he sends his scarred head forth, maw open wide, canines dripping foul poison, his maw snaps at the opponents face.

As the bowman goes down under his blow, Narhak is beaten back towards the edge of the battlements. His axe goes flying from his loosening grip as he is knocked against the stone, flying to the blackened earth below the walls. He rolls to the side and manages to pull a slim dagger free from a dead elf.

Standing amid the fray, and yet not taking part in it, Hisshti's laughter redoubles, and he shrieks his piercing cry to the Mordain forces, "Death and Doom! Death and Doom! To Celebrimbor we bring Death and Doom!" Casually, enjoying the chaos all around, all but feeding upon the battle itself, he reaches out and knocks an elf down from the battlements, calling to the troll, "There you are, big one... Enjoy!" Once again, he promptly begins to laugh.

Where the blade of the Blackhand passes, thither it leaves a chill darkness, one which would steal the very life from the living -- a darkness which is banished by the burning flame of Celebrimbor's sword. Yet, he is stricken by the dark one, and he stumbles -- and stumbling, falls. Thus he kneels in the gathering gloom... And the Light of Valinor burst forth to banish the darkness -- not with such ease will he be taken, the Son of Curufin! Forth he thrusts, towards his foe's breast; towards his heart turned to darkness and death!

Then with a scream the Servant of Sauron charges at Celebrimbor once more, but Lo! He stumbles on a loose rock and falls into the sword of the elves. With a hideous shriek he dies. He dies on those battlements and his body crumbles ashen like, a dread spirit of hate, smitten by the bright sword of the Noldor.

Black runs the blood of the Wolf as his claws capture the steel of the warrior's sword, and terrible is the beast who fights by grasping blades. What understandings may pass through the mind of the First Born who faces him is unknown, but the elf stands his ground, wrenching his sword free of Celebgaur's claws, even as the monstrous form lunges forward, jaws agape. And then from the heights, there flies an arrow, and true is the path it takes toward the gaping maw.

Running at once to swooning Vorondur, in hopes that he might spare the fallen bowmans' life, 'ere a finishing blow be dealt upon his lifeless form, strewn out upon the battlement, Rhankanann of doriath bears down upon such foes as swarm over the stricken Noldo; their chief, Narhak; fighting his way back from the precipice is the lords' chief concern, and on nearing him him the elf-lord deals a mighty blow; his pale blade glittering as it descends...

Within the distance, amongst the fair landscape that surrounds the noble stronghold of Eregion, the looming Misties high and proud in their posturing, there rides forth suddenly a figure whose radiance fills the evening air as if a star born upon a midnight wind. Light he wields, his company of no more than two holding bright torches, which flame and burn into the heavens with wisps of crafted smoke that trail ever upwards into oblivion. Sword unsheathed, a steely quality to it that gleams with a silver hue, his mount beneath is marvelous to behold. Like virgin snow, soft, and white, it is. Reigns studded with gems, and a saddle fit for nobility. A stern face, however, does this warrior from the western lands wear, and grim does he look upon the force that now besieges this once unassailed, holy, place. Clouds above display the darkness of the Lord of Mordor's wrath, for in them hides even more of his forces, bold and battering. It is a sight that is as equally disheartening as fearsome, and yet onward the iron gaze of this man looks forward, his tall shape firm and resolute, immobile.

The laughter of Hissti fails, watching the fall of Sauron's Lieutenant, and slowly the spirit turns toward Celebrimbor, more warily now. The gloom gathers about it, and a long arm reaches toward the Son of Curufin, with a dark call to follow it. "A curse upon you, Son of Curufin... The Doom already lies upon your people, and this doom I lay upon you that you called upon yourself. Death and Doom! Death and Doom will come to you..."

Red eyes appear brightly even under the days light, as the werewolf looks down upon the Elf with a building rage. And even then, as he readies to lash out once more, a dart! Strikes the creation of Sauron directly in his cheek, peircing through to reveal its barbed head inside his maw. Celebgaur shakes his head, ignoring the Elf to claw at the shaft that protrudes from his face, and he let's out a great howl of dispair. As he struggles with the arrow inbedded in his visage, his tenative balance upon the battlement wanes...

Great is the fall of the Lieutenant of Sauron, cast down from the battlements of Ost-in-Edhil by Celebrimbor, and the hosts of Sauron are broken, for such was his dark malice -- yet, but a mere shadow of his master. And rising, the Son of Curufin stands before Hissti -- bold and fey he seems, and his spirit burns brightly within him, holding the darkness of the demon at bay -- indeed, pushing it back. "Begone, foul creature! Begone lest I strike you down, for it is not my Doom to fall to such as you!"

Screaming in hot pain, Narhak tumbles back from the blow and fetches up against... something... something soft and undulating, a writhing elf upon the parapet. He scrambles to his feet and eyes his tormentor quickly, knowing his armor cannot hold against such fierce blows for more than luck will allow. As black blood streams down his left side he raises his dagger and throws it with all his strength at his opponent.

Screaming as though burned, Hisshti draws back, withdrawing toward the ladder and a route of escape. Yet it pauses on the wall of the battlements, crying back to the Noldo, "You may not die to me, Celebrimbor of Eregion. Yet die you will, and I will be there to see you taken. I will feast on your heart yet!" Then the gloom gathers, and departs, a weight of despair lifted with its withdrawal.

Through the din of the battle that rages through out the encompassing land, creatures of the dark battle the children of the light in the time that Day cannot yet lay claim and Night refuses to relinquish. The sound of clashing steel and dying cries cut through the murky skies while the ground rolls and grumbles from the astrocities being done upon it.

Off from the walls an erie silence fills the air slowly spreading across the armies as the officers of orcs and foul beasts lower their weapons and silence their orders. As the glowing globe of the sun strives to drive off the darkness a boom of power shrieks across the land, issuing forth from a pillar of raging fire that scorches up into the air. With the unearthly flames erupting from the land a shadow moves forth from the fires.

Silhouetted against the sky, the beast is poised betwixt the heavens and the earth, monstrous and terrible. The stone screams as its great claws clutch, and the hideous screech seems to paralyze the Elves before Celebgaur. And then bright and true, the voice of Celebrimbor rings out over the night, and they are freed from the dark enchantment, and as one, the warriors rush forth to repel the Wolf, shining swords lifted upon high. From Before the Gates, Hisshti has disconnected. Celebrimbor goes Out Of Character.

With his shield - wrought of old by the dwarves in the days of their chiefest splendour, light and wieldy wood, plated with metal and light as foil, yet strong- the lord Rhankanann fends off the little blade, thrown in desparation as it was; the dagger glances from the shield, bouncing and clattering off the battlement onto the cobbles far below, and the Sinda, given that opportune moment of indecision, as his hapless foe cowers, scrabbling for a weapon, stoops and deals a second stroke.

And the battlement is cleansed. With wrought blades of old, the Noldor gather in strength and send the beast of Sauron to the ground below. A cry resounds of wall and peak as the silver werewolf looses it's footing. As it is sent over the wall it's claws still rake at the masonry, the evil spirit within that vessel desperate to hold unto life so as not to be sent to its own torture and misery. Falling...falling, the creature bounds along the shear surface, colliding half way with a ladder carrying many Orcs. By the time he reaches the solid floor, he is not alone, falling as a great mass of bodies; arms and legs flailing, Orc-cries rising and fading over the din. And when all is done, below there remains a pile of broken bodies.

As he stands to defend himself, the battle-crazed orc takes a blow full on the chest and is flipped over the parapet wall, a gentle arc of blackness streaming from his wound as he tumbles end for end into the mass of terror below. Blackness claims Narhak as he slips into a blissful painlessness.

From Gates, As the immense figure strides out of the flames, with the hateful sun rising behind him, the shadow of the figure spreads across the land. As the shade extends out from the figure, the troops move out of its way like parting of waters do they act, fearful of even the touch of the shadow of their lord. The rising sun slowly eats away the mystery of this figure, revealing an almost glowing elf that is not an elf. Dark robes swish angerly about him as he strides powerfully forward, his wrathful presence subduing the orcs in fear. When the lord approaches with in bow shot of the walls, his eyes burning with rage he halts his movements. Like a glorious mountain surrounded by mole hills the figure waits motionless, wrapped about in the darkness of his royal robes. Then as the Sun struggles even higher, the figure throws out his arms and the robe parts to show the full immaculate glory of the Maia Sauron.

Leaping to the edge of the parapet, Rhankanann stands of a moment; as grim and terrible to behold as might've been such lords as Elemmakil, or Glorfindel on the high and mighty walls of Gondolin 'ere they fell into ruin; his silver hair streaming in the wind, he bears witness to the rising of the sun, as befits a herald; for, as Arien hauls her care, the single and last fruit of Laurelin up into the sky, the chattels and servants of Sauron despair of the light, though the dark lord himself is come nigh unto the gates of the city they besiege. With the dawn it seems there comes new hope, and respite for the defenders within, though the swarming hordes without do not look to abate. Turning from the wall, Thingols' herald descends.