Board Thread:Middle Earth Roleplay Board/@comment-25356210-20151104005706/@comment-26444332-20151110185359

(Here's the narration you asked for, Auraestus. Warning: There are vivid descriptions of violence that are not suitable for small children. Or large children, for that matter.)

Glosur's eyes begin to glow with a golden-white light, his sword's scabbard and the haft of his spear reflecting it to create the impression that they are on fire. Several hundred Easterlings and Orcs rally and charge towards him, marking him as a leader and thus a kingpin. If they kill him, the Dwarves will rout, or so they think. Glosur gazes down on them imperiously, measuring, judging.

"You are found Guilty." He intones, his voice regal, and sweeps his hand forwards. A line of blazing fire separates the knot of enemies from both their allies and his. The wall of flames also separates them from any retreat. Their only hope is to kill him. So they charge, with the strength of desperation.

Glosur smiles slightly, for the wrath of a Maia none can withstand. Slowly, deliberately, he draws forth the sword Narclos, also spinning the spear Diety off of his back. He begins to walk forward, gradually increasing to a full run, weapons held low and to the sides.

When they collide, Glosur is like a one-Dwarf battering ram, scattering Easterlings and Orcs every which way. His sword and spear begin their deadly work, rising, falling, stabbing, killing. One Easterling howls in agony as his groin is stabbed clean through with Diety, only to have his howls be cut off abruptly as his head is severed from his neck. Blood fountains forth, spraying every which way and giving a horrible rain to the already gruesome scene.

A few Elven archers join the fray, freelancers out of Ithilien, but they do little. Already three-quarters of the force that went against Glosur is dead, with that number rising rapidly. An arrow arcs out of the sky, a Southron archer attempting to end the Maia before he finishes his deadly work. The arrow simply bounces off the Dwarf-forged armor encasing him, doing nothing but annoying Glosur slightly. The archer dies, slain by Diety. Glosur retrieves his spear from the dead archer, to look around and see every single warrior dead. He leans down and rips a cloth from a dead Easterling's tunic, wiping down his weapons and then tossing the torn rag away.

With a wave of a hand, the flame extinguish to see the Orcs and Easterlings in full flight. Everywhere they are pursued, driven out by the Free Peoples. Even from across the valley, Glosur can see Finiemaltahen's golden armor and sword, as the Elf's blade is marked as a spinning pinwheel of light, accompanied by death wherever it goes. He can see the Galadhrim, retreating from the battle bearing Faenor's broken and dead form away. He can see his own Dwarves, forming a shield wall as a few hundred Orcs try to smash them. He can see the Elven Order's forces swinging in, leaping over the shield wall and also flanking to completely annihilate the force.

As the last few Swarthy Men and Orcs are driven from the field, the full extent of the carnage is revealed. Hundreds of dead Galadhrim line the valley, as do thousands of Orcs. Tens of thousands of dead Easterlings and Orcs lie dead in the valley itself, and around the Elven Order's hill. Everywhere there are dead Elves, Men, and Dwarves. A few golden-armored bodies mark Finiemaltahen's bodyguards from where they fell, slain from sheer numbers. Everywhere, like a great clamor out of the Abyss, are the screams and moans of the wounded and dying.

Glosur looks around, the glow fading from his eyes as he realizes the extent of the carnage he unleashed. At least five hundred Easterlings, Variags, Southrons, and Orcs all lie dead by his hand from his lone engagement. Countless others are also laid low. As the orderlies begin to move through the desolate fields on which so many died, picking up the wounded regardless of side, a single Galadhrim archer approaches Glosur.

"Mae govannen. I am Pelinel, of Lóriën. My lord Faenor wished for you to have this, should he fall in battle." the Elf says, handing him a small sealed letter. He breaks it open to find a small letter and a pendant, with a chain of Mithril and a pale sapphire inlaid with silver as the symbol of a snowflake.

He reads the letter, holding the pendant in his hand:

''Mae govannen.

If you are reading this, then I am dead and you are in possession of the Star of the North. I am sorry I could not tell you this before, but you were a great friend to me. Take care of the pendant for me. It was a gift from Niquissiel, my wife. Should we ever meet again, though I know not how, I'll expect it back.

In parting,

Faenor Celebrî, steward of Lóriën and the "Snow Prince".''