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 The Stand at Weathertop

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Mythgar

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Posts : 261
Join date : 2009-05-18
Age : 38
Location : Bournemouth, UK

Character sheet
Race: Race of Man
Class: Captain
Gender: Male

PostSubject: The Stand at Weathertop   Mon Jun 01, 2009 2:36 am



ythgar stood atop the vast hill that overlooked the countryside of the Lone-Lands, locals and visitors alike referred to it by the name 'Weathertop'. Older beings knew its as Amon Sûl. Mythgar knew it as the place his beloved father - Balishaf Vorshadir - had died.

As dark and ominous crows circled overhead he walked among the ruins, a gentle 'clank' from his armour and the constant whistle of the wind the only noise in such a desolate place.

He had left Orathur (his friend and aide) in the rather depressingly-named 'Forsaken Inn' some hundred feet or so from the path that led up this to this lonely place. He had told his companion he had wished to be alone for a time, despite Orathur's protests of the Lone-Lands to be not safe in such days.
As he stood among the stones he felt an urgent and forboding sense of dread and a sudden longing to return home to Aldburg, to Rohan. His mother still dwelt there and it called to him so...
Shaking his head and rousing him from his reverie he was aqutely aware that this place was effecting him, draining him of his will.
His sister Alia was riding to him from home and he had a purpose here, to his father's memory - to The Neránians.

Kneeling down he scooped up some loose soil with his gauntletted hand and rubbed it between his thumb and fore-finger. Soil slipped through his fingers and back to the earth, disturbed as it was by foot and hoof-prints. As dark clouds rolled in the from the east threatening to bring with them the chance of rain, Mythgar sighed.

'Oh Father, what happened here?'

As he closed his eyes he fancied he heard their voices, their cries in the night and the sounds of battle and blood, the stamping of horses' hoof, the clang of steel-on-steel....

They were losing, that much was certain but then none of them ever truly thought they would make it back to their warm fires, to safety, to the arms of their loved ones.
Balishaf was one of thirty men who had climbed Weathertop, who had waited patiently as the sun sank beneath the horizon and set four great fires atop the ruin just as the four riders were seen on the horizon. They had made sure they were seen then set the fires low and waited for the Dark Riders to investigate.
They were a distraction, albeit a noble and sacrificial one but a distraction nonetheless. Now only five men remained backing into a corner as they faced off against the four devils, these creatures who had slaughtered their kinsmen, cut them down like a farmer might chaff wheat of a harvest. Seasoned and veteran warriors all, these Neránians squared off against the Dark Riders but found their blades had no effect except to anger the creautres further as they cut down the men with ease.
As they closed in on the five their terrible wailing could be heard, its jarring shriek scraping at the very soul itself and causing the last of The Neránians to recoil in fear.
As the Dark Riders went to finish off the leader of these troublesome band of men two Neránians flung themselves in the path of the blades, crying out in agony as they were run through or dismembered where they stood.
The Dark ones were slowed, but only margianally.
Flanked on either side by his only two remaining Kinsman, the three gave each other a nod and charged the agents of The Shadow, giving their lives so that others might live.
The two kinsman died instantly, decapitated by elegant swipes from two of the Dark Riders in a synchronised and precisely murderous action.
Balishaf himself was pierced through his chest and cried out in agony as the blade cut deep into him, penetrating armour, flesh and bone. He coughed up a torrent of blood and dropped his blade as he felt the sword exit through his back, tearing and rending flesh as it went, scraping painfully across bone.
Balishaf wailed in agony as the devil-rider lifted his blade, bringing with it the impaled Rohirrim and suspending him up in the air. The creature leaned forward as pain gave way to delirum as he slid down the upturned blade toward his tormentor. Even as his life began to fade and the black began to cloud his vision, Balishaf spat out blood defiantly and smiled.
The dark hood of his murderer bore no eyes, no expression.

'You...you think you have defeated us?' he spat, painfully. 'You think you have won? You are too late Dark One. You.....are.....too late...' His final words trailed off as the Dark Rider lowered his sword groundward and the lifeless corpse of Balishaf slumped onto the ground.

With a howl of frustration the four glided back to their dark steeds and remounted, galloping down the hill with all haste to Bree.


Mythgar opened his eyes with sudden suprise and looked through watery eyes at a damp-patch on the earth in front of him even as another tear fell from his eyes and splashed upon the ground.

Had it been a dream? a vision? an omen perhaps?

Wiping the tears from his eyes and getting to his feet he steeled himself and looked to the horizon, to the East.

It didn't matter. He had a job to do.

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