Board Thread:Middle Earth Roleplays/@comment-25597877-20170716040125/@comment-25975584-20170718053616

Axantur smiles as he smells the smell of smoke, and burning corpses. He laughs as he hears the surviving Dunlendings beg for mercy as they are cut down while fleeing or burned alive in their huts. He feels a fiery wrath inside him, and thinks of why he has done what has done.

The Dunlendings had been raiding Gondorian settlements in Enedwaith for years, and in the early days of the realm he loyally served had pushed past the Isen to attack the land of Rohan. All the previous kings, Aragorn, and all his heirs had bought them, pitted one clan against the other, or even, Eru forbid made truces with them. in the end nothing had worked, and that was why Axantur was in this smoking ruin of a hillfort. To utterly annihilate the Dunlendings as a people, so that they would never bother his people again. he has led a mighty army of fifty thousand men against the roughly ten thousand disunited Dunlending clansmen who dared oppose him. Poorly equipped, and led by warlords that had more bravery than sense. Often times charging straight into pikes, or howling like wolves when they were in a perfect ambush position. As such the lowland clans, and those of the forested valleys had been put to the sword, or enslaved. Only the Dunnish highlands remained, and the surviving Dunlendings there were swiftly being hounded out.

It was almost time to turn to the Fisher-Folk, he thought, but not yet. Not while one Dunnish highlander still fought, or while one lowlander, or valley-man cowered in a cave.