Beor in the Year 440

Kithrater Fri Jul 04, 2008 11:18 pm

The winter of the Year 440 of the First Age was as harsh a season as ever felt, harsh even by the dire standards of the land of the shadowy forests of ancient pines named Dorthonion. Not a creature stirred in the frost-gripped expanses save the savage weather with its teeth of lashing ice and coat of pure white snow. Even the reddish aura of Angband paled in the face of the cold, the grim iron peaks halting their belch of smoke for the first time in living memory.

The folk of Beor grew thin living on what little harvest they had reaped before the fall of winter, clustered in their rude cottages in fear of the cold. Even the Noldo warriors kept close to the fires in the hearths of their keeps, their patrols irregular and their watch too often blinded by storms. It seemed as if all of history threatened to come to a halt, replaced instead by a never ending cold, gnawing hunger that sapped at the bones of both man and elf.

It was as festive a day as any in the frigid halls of Angrod, son of Finarfin, when the message arrived. Borne by a team of frost-struck manfolk led by a Noldo Captain, the contents dimmed the already lacking cheer of Angrod's fortress.

Since the fiend Morgoth had been beaten back in to the dungeon of Angband, a series of towers erected upon the plains of Ardgalen kept watch upon the northern border of the Noldo kingdoms. Manned by stern elves and pledged fighters from the folk of Beor, they had often turned back the scouts and skirmishes of the Enemy. They had been well stocked to survive the coming winter, their larders filled with salted meat for the men and well provisioned bread for the Noldo.

The trickery of the Enemy is unrelenting. Maggots, weevils, rats and other vermin had erupted in each of the towers, turning what would have been provisions for a half-dozen seasons in to barely enough food to survive the week. A quick council drawn up by Angrod himself determined that such magic heralded a forth coming assault upon the weakened vanguard, with Morgoth undoubtedly hoping to overcome the towers before reinforcements could brave the winter.

Angrod drew himself up imperial, and set out the response: the fortresses' team of ponies would be packed with as much food as could be borne, and a dozen volunteers would led them through the frozen wasteland of Dorthonion. The towers would be supplied thusly until reinforcements could be mustered, and Morgoth's plan countered. With a murmur of apprehension, the elves and men mustered in Angrod's fortress wondered who would be chosen for this task.