Prologue: The Bloody Coin

[Old Duergar]

The audience hall of Lord Angbor the Grim, The Granite Sea of the Ettenmoors, Eriador, Middle Earth
August 26, Year 1349 of the Third Age
Day One. Evening. Cloudy, damp, unpleasantly warm

Suggested music cover: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6BfDJSbn8g (Galdur - Lord of the Iron Fortress)

A cold hearth is that of Lord Angbor and his cohorts. The ancient walls of the Dúnedain Lord's castle on this very cloudy and lightless eve seem to block off all of the unnatural heat that has been baking the usually ice-tipped granite jumble that are the Ettenmoors, on the very northern end of the Kingdom of Rhudaur for the last few days. Instead, the interior of the proud keep reminds one more of the damp, frigid gales roaring through from the Misty Mountains to the north, where the stoutest of bonfires seems to do nothing against the icy onslaught.

A mirthless hearth is that of Lord Angbor and his cohorts. Torchlight and lanterns abound in the castle; but their light seems dim and waning, much like the spirits of its residents, who seem to be on their nerves despite the advanced hour. Taut and grim, much like their lord, the loyal soldiers of Lord Angbor fret and brace against something unperceived by their senses. Something ominous. Something unseen.

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In his spartan audience hall, where the middle-aged Lord holds parlance, a sense of unexplained urgency prevails. A few torches held by stoic, impassive, war-ready soldiers light a plain wooden chair in the room's midst, over a plainly cut stone pedestal. A fading tapestry of an intricately woven Star is the only ornament allowed in the cold stone of the stark room, but even the finery wrought is overshadowed by the rest of the hall's features.

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Summoned before Angbor in all haste are the current servants, visitors, warriors, guards & confidants of the Lord. Including yourselves. From the trusted and well valued Rohirric physician and mender of Man and Beast alike, Othden of Rohan to Brugha the Hillman, the scout who has been around the Lord's court for as long as one may recall; to three odd figures, who have been graced with Angbor's bare hospitality these last weeks. Grimvarg, the Khazad wanderer, whose errant path reveals little of a hidden past. And last but not least, the two Holbytla: Cerdic Greenhill, versed in the way of etching and rune, bound for the Hidden Valley of Imladris, where he may continue his studies where the Wise and Learned congregate; as well as Madoc Underhill the Roustabout, whose fate might be tied to Rhudaur for longer than one might like. But such is the way of fetters made of debts and owed toil in exchange for hard, uncaring gold.

Lord Angbor wearily looks about the almost full hall and after a long moment of ladden silence motions the Five to approach. In a stony, grave voice he speaks, his voice tinged with thick resolve and thicker despair: "You are brought afore me in this uncouth of hours, but I bear a dire tiding. This bastion shall be no more sooner than we expected. The Black Captain, whose accursed name I shall naught utter, not out of fear but out of sheer scorn, stirs. Angmar shall strike soon and the Ettenmoors are to be overrun by the rabble the Witch-King calls its foul minions.". Pausing for a moment, the old man sneers as he quaffs down the contents of a worn wooden mug in his right hand, rivulets of some clear liquid running down his clean shaven and scarred cheeks. "If the Ettenmoors shall fall, then so will many of that fell horde. But our deaths shall serve as blood coin: indeed, it shall serve a higher purpose. It shall buy us time precious for -you- to accomplish a task most important. For despite our blood and different ways, we all pertain to the Free Peoples and the Enemy is our common and most fierce of foes. Shall you answer my call, then?"

Angbor finishes the mug's content in one last, long swig and poses the wooden mug gently on a small table next to him, where parchment crude and an equally crude black iron signet, forged out of Rhudaur's trademark metal, lie. The aged man's piercing eyes fall upon each of you expectantly with feverish intensity.

Actions?

[cybersavant]

Grimvarg steps forward. "Lord Angbor" what do you require of us?"

[Rhukath]

Cerdic Looks around the halls at the gathered warriors, learned sages and various other trusted servants of the Lord Angbor. Their faces look grim but determined given this most unusual of meetings.

Gathering himself he speaks "Lord Angbor, I would like to thank you most kindly for your hospitality. I have taken the time to study your maps and tomes in the hope there may be something hidden in them that may help us stem this evil tide. These are indeed dire times and as yet my research has not led me to anything conclusive that we can use to defeat the witch king. I'm not sure what more I can do to help but if the situation is as helpless as you say then I will play my part where I can!"

[Samwell Turleton]

Madoc Underburrow

Madoc elbows the stout fellow to his left side and receives a glare as the man straightens himself up and ignores the gesture. Madoc elbows a softer fellow to his right and whispers,
Is this the usual hospitality of the tall-folk?

Madoc kicks at the floor with his bare foot and mutters to himself, No offer of food and drink but he wants us to risk our lives facing dark threats...I should have stayed in the Shire.

Madoc begins to hear some of those assembled respond to the call to service and takes the opportunity to squeeze himself through the group of servants, visitors, warriors, guards, and confidants to look for an entrance to a servant area where there might be some food and drink.

[Rusty]

Brugha stands off to one side, a few feet distant from the nearest member of the throng. His weatherbeaten face, half covered with the dark blue lines of a tattoo, unmoving. Deep-set dark eyes, barely visible beneath a craggy brow, remain fixed on Angbor. He does not say a word.

[tibbius]

"Well my grim lord," Othden speaks lightly in his lilting southern accent, "we stand always at your honored service. What is the task you speak?"

[Old Duergar]

The Dúnedain lord holds his keen scrutiny over you for a moment. With a flick of his wrist, he motions to a young page. The boy nods instantly and rushes towards the more shadowy northwestern edge of the hall, fumbling for a moment and then lighting a torch. The pale, warm light reveals a plain dark oak table, worn with age, but laden with a surprisingly wholesome array of edibles. Cold cuts and an assortment of mountain goat cheese, as well as a hefty small cauldron from whose depths a most enticing smell exudes. You are almost certain that sweet onions are responsible for it. For a moment, the tense atmosphere reigning in the hall becomes less sharp, less austere.

But the reprieve is brief indeed. Angbor's stern voice echoes: "Bring him.". Instantly, the tension is resumed tenfold. Many present bristle and frown, whilst others avert their gaze from the lord himself, muttering unhappily. A pair of fully war-clad soldiers appear from the southern end of the hall, through which yourselves have entered into the Lord's hall and the sound of metal grating against stone rattles ominously for a good moment from that direction. Not before long, the two soldiers place themselves between yourselves and Angbor, a mousy young man in their tow.

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Shackled and fettered, the young man is visibly no match for his muscular captors, who have clearly went to great lengths with his bindings. Lanky and short, he clearly has no warrior's physique. He has shortly cropped black hair and his dark brown eyes dart around constantly, their irises too small and dominated by an aberrant white around them. Despite himself being ridden in grime and bearing several bruises on his forehead and his chin, he holds a smug expression on his face, his mouth curled into a mocking half-sneer. He is clad in a battered coal black woolen robe, whose fabric is torn at many parts and could barely withstand the rigours of the Ettenmoors' harsh climate. As the procession reaches a standstill, the captive's eyes fall upon each of you, seemingly taking in every detail of yourselves.

And on his robe, at torso height, a dreaded symbol is woven with bright silver threading: an unwholesome, angular, fell-looking helmet.

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Actions?

[tibbius]

Othden frowns and crosses his arms, his sword swaying on its belt as he does so. "I don't recognize this fell symbol," he says to those around him. "Is it something of Angmar? I don't like its look. Nor that of this creature with his strange eyes and expression. Some fell magic has been made upon him."

[Rusty]

Brugha's lips draw back in a silent snarl as the newcomer's gaze falls on him. He raises his left hand in a gesture of aversion, fingers arranged in a complex pattern.

[Samwell Turleton]

Madoc Underburrow

As Madoc slips to the edges of the chamber he catches the scent of a heavenly smell. With his chin turned up slightly he takes deep longing sniffs of the air. He continues to work his way to the table careful to not be stepped on by the bigger shifting bodies of the crowd.

The large oak table is built for the taller folk and Madoc needs to stand on his toes to see to the center of it. He shifts back and forth along the edges of the spread of foods taking inventory and salivating at the thin cuts of meat and vessels full of creamy cheese. He has made nearly a half turn of the table and collected a hearty chunk of bread before venturing to reach for a scoop of the creamy goat cheese.

In the middle of a lip smacking bite, cheese smeared across his lips, Madoc gets the uneasy feeling of being observed. He looks up and sees the mousy young man, head turned towards him as he is marched through the hall. Madoc freezes in his chewing and slowly drops below the edge of the table, but not before grabbing another delicacy, and is out of sight of the strange man.

[Rhukath]

Cerdic notices the reaction caused as the mousy young man is marched into the room. Could this young man really be such a threat that he needs to be shackled and bound so, and flanked by 2 heavy set warriors. Studying him it's his eyes that capture Cerdic's attention first. There's something not quite natural about them, giving the young man somewhat of the look of an animal.

The symbol on his robe sends shudders down Cerdic's spine. That dread symbol! He recalls seeing it in one of Lord Angbor's books.

This person is dangerous, nobody wears that symbol unless they have earned it in the service of the witch king.

Cerdic approaches a tall warrior and asks him "Where was he found?"

The warrior is visibly paled just by the sight of the young man and tries to shrink back away from him, making Cerdic wonder what the young man has done to strike such fear into the hearts of such fierce men.

[cybersavant]

Grimvarg watches intently, keeping quiet until the lord explains more.

[Old Duergar]

"Indeed, so it is, good Othden", Angbor answers the Rohirrim's query, with a steady voice, his eyes never leaving the prisoner. "Behold the vile symbol of Angmar and of its depraved Black Captain, the so-called false Witch King of that foul realm."

A deadly silence seems to have fallen over the hall, its ponderous weight broken only by the two hobbits: Madoc's edibles-fueled scurrying and Cerdic's query. The young captive smiles viciously to Cerdic's query and his eyes keep roaming over the hall, leering and taunting at the same time.

A quick, but firm rap to the captive's head from one of his guards serves as a rapid admonishment to the prisoner, whose face becomes impassive after flashing a hatred-filled snarl at the guard responsible for it. Unfazed, Lord Angbor continues: "This man is a servant of Angmar, the Northern realm, that much we are certain of. He claims his name is Agathôr, and it is a fell name indeed: for it means Man of the Shades. Whether it is a namesake or his true name I know not; nor do I care. Through carelessness, skill or sheer luck, we managed to capture him as he was heading towards the Coldfells to the south, along with his questionable peers.".

The Lord eyes the captive carefully: "His cohorts preferred to poison themselves, two men and a woman. All three of them dead on the spot, long before our blades and arrows had a chance to land a blow upon them. We searched their corpses carefully and nothing was found upon them. However...". Angbor makes a sharp gesture with his wrist and one of the guards slowly approaches, carrying a very sharp chisel and small mallet in a small white rag, clearly attentive not to touch them. Both items are made of black steel and shine odiously in the hall's pale light, polished to near perfection.

"This is all we found on the prisoner, who has only offered his name thus far: do any of you make anything out of them?". The sight of the two items has clearly piqued the captive's interest, who eyes them keenly.

Actions?

[Rhukath]

Cerdic

Cerdic looks at the items revealed by Lord Angbor with curiosity. "lord Angbor these items should not be treated lightly, Might I have the opportunity to study them?"

[tibbius]

Othden gazes upon the strange black implements with a mixture of disdain and terror. In the lore handed down by the Rohirrim shamans, he learned to fear and despise such metal. With a few muttered words he reaches a hand toward the tools, without touching them.

Magic [_2d6] = (5+1)=6 One success - one Fate point spent - what does Othden learn?

Toughness 6, Fate 3

[Samwell Turleton]

Madoc Underburrow

Madoc curls up contentedly under the table with this treasure of treasures he grabbed moments before. He breathes deeply of the thinly sliced meat and nibbles a small bite. He closes his eyes and let's the salty flavor linger on his tongue. His mouth starts to water even more.

His mind swirls with descriptive words to praise this joyful snack, decadent, delicious, rapturous, heavenly, salty...

Oh my, very salty, he thinks.

Madoc's lips smack together dryly.

[Old Duergar]

Angbor nods once solemnly at the hobbit Cerdic and points to the items before them, but not before casting a brief and annoyed glare towards the smacked lips' sound general direction.

Sunken, tired eyes focus back on Othden as the Rohirric man examines the evil-looking implements.

The vile-looking implements are of a fell nature indeed, much like Othden would suspect. As the Man's will is forced upon them, dark and disturbing images of -something- foul and clad in a pitch black robe from tip to toe come to his mind. The figure seems to be in the shadowy corner of a deep cave, rummaging over something like a giant bird of doom. The chisel & mallet are at its hands and time and again, the chisel's sharp end seems to sunder the rock under it, each blow causing an acute pang of pain to Othden, much like a dagger piercing his ribs. The disturbing vision ends sharply with the Rohirrim's vision blurring, but not before taking a better look of the cavern: crude torches shed litte light at its interiors and a number of stone-made constructions can be made out, long and rectangular, covered each with a massive slab of stone.

Madoc's sneaking is met with the encounter of another unexpected guest: a tiny mouse holding it its paws a chunk of creamy cheese, its whiskers twitching madly at the sight of the hobbit under the table. The meat's salty aftertaste lingering in his mouth, the hobbit notices something metallic edged in-between two stone slabs of the floor. It seems to be some kind of circular ... loop, not much bigger than Madoc's thumb?

Actions?

[tibbius]

"Lord Angbor," Othden says with a touch of weariness, "these items came from something like a tomb, deep in a mountain or below the ground, where they were used by a robed creature in carving a statue ... of some kind of giant flying creature. Perhaps the prisoner will speak more of their use and purpose?"

[Rusty]

Brugha's brow furrows and a single word in the rolling hillman tongue gutters forth from under his heavy moustaches.

"Uathás."

His earlier gesture of aversion is repeated towards the implements.

[Samwell Turleton]

Madoc Underburrow

Madoc cocks his head slightly as the mouse wriggles its whiskers in his direction.

Yes, I liked that one a lot too...I don’t suppose you would want any of this...

No, I thought not.

Madoc pops the last bite into his mouth and savors it.

What’s this now?, Madoc says as he sees a loop in the joinery of the stone slab floor. Madoc looks over the stone carefully to see how large the slab is. He runs his finger over the loop a little.

Madoc sizes up the stone and compares it to his own body size furrowing his brow as he measures it from his elbow to fingertip.

Do you know what this is?, Madoc addresses the mouse.