Morwath in Sutur

Having recovered sufficiently from raising Lanzi, Morwath left the Party on an errand: to bring news of the death of Tun Mi Lung and the rescue of Milai to Gwendolyn at Sutur. The rest would attempt to find Si Lung, who they presumed was being held by whoever used the Orb of Dragor. They believed this to entail a venture into Minas Tiris itself, although no-one was actually certain of how to achieve this. Morwath got the impression that much of what drove Milai was revenge. Perhaps Lanzi too sought recompense for being tricked out of possessing the Orb. Moreover, news brought by Milai that Lanzi was a blood relative of Tuar Chan had a big impact on the Wu Jen. Hintzu seemed to take a more pragmatic view of the future (his leadership ability growing in line with his power). Realizing that it may well be time to face up to Tuar Chan and the undead dragon, he preferred an encounter on terms that the Party could manage – rather than rely on chance.

[Yes, time spent on strategy and understanding the context of the campaign was truly worthwhile…not! Having agreed that the friendly centre of gravity was the cohesion of the 3 main races and that Sutur was, inter alia, a critical vulnerability, the team then argued persuasively that the enemies knew conquering Sutur would be a decisive point in the battle. Why then put your powerful artefacts in harms way? Who knows…Clearly too much beer was had by all.]

Regardless of motive or strategy Morwath, bearing the major artefacts, is sent into the hornets’ nest. After some days flying, Morwath picks up the mouth of the Ishurias at Ashore (a once famously wealthy port now left in the ruins of war) and heads inland. Keeping close to the Vikriain but never out of sight of the great river, Morwath quickly realizes there is a desperate struggle for survival taking place on river and in forest. All manner of fell creatures do battle with the high elves of the Vikriain. On the second morning, having flown through the night, Morwath - in the form of an owl - took rest a while.

An elf with golden hair tied back and plaited, threaded with silver ribbons that hung down his back, glanced up at where Morwath perched. His small helm was beautifully made. A simple dome with cheek and neck guards it was ornately decorated with a scene of a forest glade, on either side Centaurs stood proud. His burnished mithril coat was studded with emeralds, over which a breast plate of burnished gold had been drawn, carved in the shape of a large, stylized, sun. His cloak was fine green cloth (enhancing the colour of his eyes), trimmed with ermine and embroidered with another depiction of the sun, echoing the design of his armour. His legs were covered by soft leather hose onto which was fastened thigh and shin guards, both highly decorated with forest scenes. His boots were armoured with metal, though pliable enough for walking. His swords were across his back and he carried a long bow. At his sides were half-full quivers, slung like bandoliers. His gate was even, perhaps light, and his face betrayed not an element of doubt or concern.

“I wonder, owl, have you seen my foe this early morn? Are you, perhaps, one of my brother’s spies come to establish what little is left of our once great race?” he asked. Before Morwath could answer, another elf moved from cover behind the first, “Farion, Lord, they move from cover yonder.” He pointed over Farion’s right shoulder, behind and to the left of Morwath. At the same time, the Druid heard a feint footfall – deadened by the thick undergrowth of the forest floor. Both elves crouched and looked alert, bows now in hand, arrows notched.

Violence erupted so suddenly that it was difficult for Morwath to see who started it. The pace did not slow: the air became thick with arrows; fire burst all around catching trees and bracken alight; screams, shouts and the clash of metal threatened to deafen those within the thick of it. Chaos reigned. Morwath did not dare to take flight in case it drew attention – and some unwelcome arrows. Then, right below him, Morwath saw Farion (the first elf) both swords drawn, parrying, lunging slashing and hacking at a Drow. The dark elf’s long midnight-blue hair swirled about his head in concert with the effort of battle. His pale skin and charismatic features captured Morwath’s attention. His eyes were full of energy and humour as if everything in this bloody conquest were delightfully amusing.

Others filled the tiny glade below Morwath’s perch, each engaged in private battle. The stunningly bright colours of the high elven warriors’ dress and armour contrasted starkly with the deep, dark shades of the Drow, all set against the emerald green forest. Men were there too, fighting beside their high elf colleagues all wearing the symbol of Mercantire Carass. Morwath weighed the possibilities – to fight, to fly or to observe. Fight would have risked the artefacts perhaps unnecessarily. Flight would have exposed him to other perils and would have meant that he missed the opportunity to glean intelligence. So, he decided to remain and observe. Any thoughts of using psionics were quickly ruled out by the amount of psionic energy that he felt around him – most of it, he sensed, for ill.

Morwath’s eyes turned to the battle closest to hand. Farion, expertly wielding two brightly glowing swords, blocked, parried and pirouetted to gain advantage whilst the Drow’s menacing black bastard sword came within inches of victory. Neither seemed able to gain advantage. They separated, each to gain breath for the briefest moment, “We have him, you know?” the dark elf teased in an arcane form of Sylvan elf which Morwath understood well enough. “You’ll never bend him to your will!” the high elf rejoined, thrusting one sword at the Drow’s chest whilst flicking the other high and to his left in a feint against the dark elf’s head. Turning the thrust away with his sword and ducking to avoid the feint, the Drow replied, “Ah, we will have his Lady soon and I know what she desires more than he can offer…Perhaps he will listen then?” “She will not help you!” Farion blocked then locked the Drow’s weapon between his crossed swords; however, in pivoting to avoid the knife blow that was aimed at his side, he released the bastard sword.

Morwath sensed that the high elves were gaining the upper hand but could not take his eyes from the combat. Again he considered intervening… “Back!” shouted the Drow. “We know enough…” He ducked under Farion’s double attack and, springing from his front leg, barged into the elf, knocking him backwards. Farion regained his feet quickly and smashed two blows into the Drow. The first cut through the chain armour between is breastplate and shoulder guard, deep into his left clavicle. The second glanced off the dark elf’s raised sword and struck into his forearm, just below the elbow. Ignoring the injuries, the Drow thrust his bastard sword into Farion’s breastplate with enough force to cause him to stumble backward again. Seizing his opportunity, the Drow slipped away, holding his left shoulder as the blood flowed down his arm. “No!” called Farion as his men were about to give chase. “We live to fight another day and we have done what we came to do. Now return, and prepare to defend yourselves again tomorrow; I expect it to be harder than today.” Farion’s head turned to the owl above and his eyes briefly connected with Morwath’s; Farion’s voice was in Morwath’s head, “Tell whoever sent you that we can hold but not for much longer; Elerienne’s need is greater than our own”. With that, and before Morwath could answer, he sprang off through the forest, heading South.

Having continued his journey, risking movement during the day but staying low, Morwath soon came to the outskirts of the Oldheart – or what was left of it. Now accustomed to the patchy pools of smoke which hinted at where battle had been, Morwath was still shocked by the extent of fire damage caused to the ancient wood. It was not long before he encountered battle. Elves, less brightly dressed than their high elf cousins, from the northern bank of the Ishurias stormed a Drow supply ship being sailed up stream. Again, Morwath landed near by and considered his actions. The Drow seemed helpless and it was not long before they surrendered, delivering their cargo to the victors. However, celebrations were soon curtailed.

From deep within the wood warning shouts raised the alarm of another assault. Morwath flew to gain a better advantage. The scene was as amazing as it was bloody. Great hill giants fought Ents, wood elves fought Drow and Gith, but most disturbing of all were the undead. Ranging from little more than shadows to the more corporeal skeletons and zombies, they permeated fear throughout the battlefield. Only the hardiest elf stood their ground and fought. All manner of weapons were used including magic and psionics and the battle was on a tipping point. Suddenly, from below and to Morwath’s right, a beautiful elf maiden appeared; he recognised her to be Elerienne. She took command, her Crown burning bright purple in the autumn sun, her sword drawn and shield held high. The first to fall was a gith, the next a wraith and then a skeleton with a burning fire in its hollow rib cage. Collecting her forces she gave them strength and washed away their fear. The battle, once again, turned in favour good.

Then it came, filling the sky, bringing darkness and a deeper fear not lessoned by Elerienne’s presence. No wing beat heralded its approach, nor hiss, howl or roar; it was deadly silent. More massive than Tun Mi Lung’s was the great skeletal head from which spewed the fire that killed so many good and ill beneath. Fleeing, Morwath felt the dread, the searing heat and he heard the dying screams of the elves he left behind. No time to see what became of Elerienne but he guessed that she had perished with so many of her kin that fateful day in autumn. Ashamed, Morwath took with him the guilt of the survivor. What could he do in the face of such a beast? What hope the campaign? Morwath knew that he must warn Sutur that the Oldheart had fallen and Rantor was abroad again. Where was Tuar Chan? Was it too much to hope that he had perished, perhaps falling from the beast..? No, something else was at play here. One thing was for sure, Tuar Chan’s armies were at large. How far up stream had the Drow managed to go…to Sutur?

Morwath flew on and, as the dread of Rantor eased, it was replaced by a fear of what might have happened to his destination. He rested in the line of trees which marked the eastern boundary of the Oldheart with the plains of Endorin, in the middle of which Sutur commanded the high ground and the river beneath. What he saw confirmed his worst fears. The once magnificent white walls, which made up the western defences of that great castle, were torn down and ruined. Elsewhere, the great fortress was wreathed in smoke and Drow ships occupied its fortified harbour. Both Lastar’s and Lanzi’s towers could not be seen and a dark menacing cloud hung over the area for miles around. Occasionally, Morwath heard the noise of battle born on the icey breeze that blew out of the east. He flew on, this time going as high as he dared to get a better view.

Sutur had indeed fallen. The armies were more obvious now – undead from the northwest, Drow from the west, brought mainly by ship, and Gith from the northeast. Sutur’s guard fought a retreat to the southeast leaving their beloved castle behind. As the rain stopped Morwath could see that both towers had, indeed, been torn down and in the midst of their ruin stood Guerin. The Lich surveyed his surroundings, inspecting the prisoners before they were led away, to what fate Morwath could only guess at. The Lich’s armour was as black as night and Rakos was sheathed across his back. His helm was fashioned to represent the hideous undead features beneath and encompassed a platinum crown which bore 7 blue gems linked together by a fine gold chain. His burning red eyes searched and Morwath sensed that the Lich was using dweomer for some ill purpose.

Walking up the gentle slope of the green sward at the centre of Sutur was a samurai in full ceremonial armour, helmet carried. He stopped next to the ancient tree which still stood, untouched by evil hand. (The tree shone brightly white amidst such dark destruction.) He wore his hair in a cue, tied with purple ribbon. His silver kimono flashed when it captured the light from the fires around; on each side of his torso was embroidered a deep purple rose. On the back of the kimono was a picture of a beast that had the head of a bird, broad wings, long claws and blue skin. The beast rode on a chariot drawn by six boys, holding aloft a hammer which was to strike against a big drum suspended on the front of the chariot. The oriental man wore a crown – a circle of platinum from which rose 6 tridents, each supported by a man’s muscular arm and tipped with indigo gem stones.

Morwath’s eyes were then drawn to a female that he recognised – the woman who escaped Minas Aarda after Grasgal was destroyed. Tall, slender, elegant - she could be described as willowy if it were not for her large chest. She was striding across the green sward toward the samurai her heavy indigo cloak flowed and flashed the purple robe beneath. Her long booted legs made a rhythmic appearance from beneath a short black silk skirt. Under her arm a heavy book, tucked in her belt 3 ivory scroll cases and around her long lithe neck was a platinum necklace studded with black sapphires. She flicked her head to one side and came to halt next to the tree. Her pitch-black hair momentarily flowed around her face before it was swept aside in a coordinated rapid movement of her head and the practiced use of her hand. Her eyes flashed the deepest blue as she stared at the tree…waiting…watching. Her face was intense, earnest and unnaturally beautiful – pale tender skin offset by ruby red lips and rose-coloured cheeks. “Do we bring it down, my Lord?” she eventually asked the samurai next to her. “It will not be so easy, my Lady Cillian” he replied, looking at her intensely. “Have you the codicil you seek?” “Some, not all,” she answered looking at the book under her arm, “the better parts are with our enemy.” “Not for long, rest assured. Your father tells me that his friend expects them soon” an evil smile spread across his face. “What of the Lady that once occupied this folly?” “She fled to the south; his anger has not yet burned out.” Cillian nodded towards the Lich, “They tell me he did not stop hacking at the Castellan’s body until it was mincemeat, which he fed to the wargs.” “What of his Crown?” the samurai’s interest was apparent. “She took it before he could lay his hands on it; rumour has it that he was shocked by her power.” “Find out wither they fly, CiIlian, we need her artefacts if we are to make good this conquest.” The Samurai’s tone changed - having a harsh, forceful quality of a superior – this was an order. “Yes, sama.” Cillian bowed and walked down the sward towards the ruined docks.

Morwath spent a while at first following Cillian and then ranging ahead to see if he could discover what became of Gwendolyn. The significance of the fall of Lastar’s Tower played on his mind. What would become of the land? Was it time for all to leave and seek the ancient realms? It was during this reverie, as he perched on a rocky outcrop beneath Mount Malek looking down towards what was left of Alon, that Morwath found himself plunged into darkness and bound firmly. Perhaps choosing to be a swift was not such a good idea after all. A fat finger uncurled sufficiently to enable Morwath to see his captor. Staring intensely into Morwath’s eyes was a dwarf whose beard was not yet full. Taller than the average of his kind and more slender, the dwarf’s hair was long and black as night, plaited in part and threaded with simple multi-coloured ribbons. His armour, shining in the pale morning sun, was well crafted and, despite its significant protection, did not look cumbersome. On his chest plate were the symbols Џڠ & . His pointed (Norman style) helmet had nose and cheek guards but obscured the dwarf’s features little. His eyes were black and small, deeply sunken, fixed between pronounced cheek bones and an overhanging forehead. His nose was squashed and the colour of claret – a victim of too many fights and too much alcohol. He smiled happily, at Morwath who recognised him from Minas Aarda: he was Helmfor, Lord of Minas Emras and father to Firgar and Carnack, the other dwarves from Zem.

“What have we here?” asks the dwarf, “No swift, I’ll wager. What do you spy or should that be for whom do you spy?” Morwath became aware of other dwarves around him. He decided to shape change back to his normal form. The dwarves were a little surprised, but relieved that Morwath is clearly not a servant of the enemy. “I look for the Lady Gwendolyn” Morwath said flatly, removing the dwarf’s grip from his cloak. “Ah. Then you have come to the right place. Forgive me; I forget your name though I remember you from the halls of Aarda.” The dwarf is polite enough. “I am Morwath and you are Helmfor; these are your sons Firgar and Carnack, if I am not mistaken” replied the druid. “You are mistaken says one of the brothers, I am Carnack and this is Firgar.” Morwath blushed at his error. “Never mind that, you say you know where Gwendolyn is?” Morwath recovered. “Yes” said the dwarf, “she’s safe in Orodruin’s old halls hidden deep within Malek.” He pointed up at the mountain above them. “Then please take me to her, I have much news that may lift her heart in these dark times.”

With that the dwarves led Morwath up a difficult path to a hidden entrance to the dwarrowdelf within Malek. Blindfolded, Morwath was then led through a series of passageways, stopping only briefly to have food. Morwath got the sense that they had been travelling for most of a day before he became aware of light beyond his blindfold and warmth on his skin. Led down some steps the mask was removed and Morwath eyes took time to adjust to the bright torch-lit room. Sat furthest away from the entrance that Morwath had been brought through, across a large oak table, was Gwendolyn. “Hail Morwath, Druid of Numenorea” she said rising from her chair, “what news?” Morwath explained the Party’s achievements and aspirations. He expressed his sympathy and concerns at the fall of Sutur and found himself pledging that he would do all in his power to ensure that the tree remained unharmed.

The conversation continued for a long time and was interspersed by food and drink supplied by their Dwarven hosts. With Gwendolyn at the table were: Glorum, eldest among the Orodruin dwarves; Helmfor of Zem; Caladhon, Merc’s Captain; Elluvator, King of the Vikriain; Barash, 6th Lord of Hama’Las; and Grimnor, Lord of Minas Aarda. In the centre of the table was a platinum Crown on which were carved two miniature lucern hammers each raised to support large amber stones. Morwath recognised it as that formerly worn by Dulan. After the introductions, Morwath was asked to explain what the party had achieved since last meeting Gwendolyn. Once questions and points of clarification had dried up, there was a long pause while each at the table considered what should be done next. “We discuss who should bear the Crown that you see before you.” Gwendolyn broke the silence. “This was Findor’s but has not been in Dwarven hands since the fall of Olga in the 2nd Age.” “We know that two of my brethren have Crowns and we know that two are with the enemy.” interrupted Glorum. “Quite so,” returned Gwendolyn, “and we know Elerienne wears the original.” “And Lanzi Bau, our most esteemed mage, wears the fourth Crown”, said Morwath. “Ah then, we have two for dwarf, one for elf and one for man.” Gwendolyn summarised. “It started for dwarf, passed through enemy hands to that of man. It should now be the turn of elf.” asserted Elluvator. “Without a representative from the youngest peoples, I would have to agree. But to whom should we entrust this great artefact?” Gwendolyn asked. “Farion, my grandson, would be my natural choice.” Elluvator replied. “Perhaps Milai should be considered deserved of reward?” Morwath found himself saying. The vote was divided but to Milai the crown was to be sent.

In later conversation Morwath was assured that the contents of both towers was safe, for now, in Malek. Indeed, Gwendolyn had been using Sutur’s Palantir to coordinate effort in what she termed a resistance. It was not until after the counsel meeting, late at night, when Gwendolyn asked Morwath to accompany her to her private chambers. There he found the Palantir supported on its pedestal and surrounded by its customary markings on the hard stone floor. “I have seen your friends Morwath; they seek entry into Minas Tiris.” Gwendolyn looked worried. “Some would have thought us foolhardy when we entered Nagrad. Besides, Milai is with them now.” Morwath said with more confidence than he felt. “You must take the crown to her; it will help in such a difficult endeavour.” “Of course.” replied Morwath. “They will find Cran’s Stair and gate into the chambers beneath the Minas. Cran, younger brother of Dragor, the Dragon Friend, made a secret passage that his brother used to gain entry to Tiris. Dragor needed to hide his activity from the rest of the House of Dor for obvious reasons. Cran was killed not long after he had completed the secret entrance by one of the demons the dwarves had uncovered, in the lowest chambers, centuries before. My father Renash knew of the secret entrance and tried to find it when he led the ill fated attack on Rantor over 160 years ago. I found one of his parchments which your friends might find helpful.” Gwendolyn reaches into a trunk close to her bed and produces a manuscript written in what Morwath recognised to be Renash’s hand.

With the land prospering and much of the evil banished or confined to Amarsland, my mind now turns to urgent matters at hand. Ythanos has decided to address the thorny issue of the Red Dragon holed up in Minas Tiris. He will entrust his young son to his wife and the monastery and lead a party of veteran warriors, accompanied by Curial and myself, to the Great Worm’s lair. Against my counsel, he has decided to embark on the adventure without Fastlor – still we hope in Silmar’s hands - and use the Portal in Lastar’s Tower as a means of travel. For my part I suggested a less risky entrance – Cran’s Gate. Whilst his stair might be steep and the gate guarded – by who knows what – I preferred it to jumping straight into the beast’s parlour unannounced.

As I understand it from Skarion, whose line is perpetuates the House of Hamar and who married Purin, one of Cran’s many nieces (from whom this notion derives its provenance), the Gate itself requires the answer to a typical Dwarven riddle lest it remain shut indefinitely. Skarion had himself thought to search for the gate but wisely decided that he had had his fill of adventure after the battle to restore the House of Hamar to Minas Aarda in 940. I digress, the riddle goes like this:

Our Grandfather bargained with the beast within, And saved our souls from burning, Not long now he passed across the Rainbow Bridge To look from Asguard, no longer yearning For that peace of mind and freedom found Great love, joy and hope everlasting.

Brave folk from fallen Olga come to mingle within Our noble halls and our hearts burning. Father found his joy before ere the Rainbow Bridge He crossed for his Mandur no longer yearning For from great burdens freedom he found But no love, joy or hope was lasting.

My brother bargains with the beast within, Again to save our souls from burning. Yet some would send him ere the Rainbow Bridge Accusing him of power to be yearning But all he seeks is the freedom lost To return our love, joy and hope everlasting.

Brave folk you must be to parley with the beast within Or just to save your souls from burning Name all these and I if crossed the Rainbow Bridge Should entrance to Tiris’ halls be your yearning? In search of peace of mind and freedom Or love, joy and hope everlasting. Я

Morwath read the document and asked if Gwendolyn knew where his friends were. “They approach Cran’s stair…look.” She pointed to the Palantir which instantly produced a bird’s eye view of the Party on a path which wound along the side of a mountain, about a third of the way up its slope. The group was about to turn a corner around a fold in the mountain as it thrust a mighty root out into Dor Vale. Ahead of them, on the same path, a large band of Gith, some giants and some wargs were headed in the opposite direction. “Can you get me there quickly, my Lady?” asked Morwath perturbed by what he saw. “I can but I risk letting the enemy know where I hide.” “They will discover you soon enough, I fear. And my friends are in some peril, as usual.” Morwath muttered the last words to himself. “Very well but do not look for me here, I and my friends will move further from Sutur.” “Very wise, my Lady”

Morwath entered the pentagram in front of the Palantir and saw himself enter the very substance of mount Malek eventually emerging from its peak. Morwath’s fails to take in the speed at which he travels across the Prime, instead an image is fixed in is mind. A purple rose with long, sharp thorns climbs over a much lesser white rose smothering it...