Of the eight hundred warriors of Garth Agarwen that marched to war, seventy perished in the snows of Forodwaith. Gorlakon himself hasn't been seen to be eating as much as the rest of the men, preferring they all get their share of the remaining meat, as cold as it is.
"I'll be bathing in some damned orc blood, when we get south." grunted Crixin, sliding the flat of his thumb against the bronze axe. He nodded toward me, a sly look to him. The hoary warrior seemed half a snowman, though before he spoke the horn blew long and hard. We were nearing the Northern gates of Carn-Dum. Me and the warband circled in a sort of crescent, around Gorlakon and the cheiftains, Gorlakon held his axe high, roaring something fierce, but the wind would rob him of his words toward the men in the back, it seemed. But word reached me and Crixin, "He said we ought to play the loyal men. The Iron Cunt still ain't knowing that we've defected." said a warrior, Torix. His axe was at his belt, and seemed to be excited, or cold. Couldn't tell. Crixin shoved me gently, "Time is upon us, to wet our axes with the blood of Orc, and Angmarim. They will pay, for the insults of ages past. Thinking us Thralls, as if Vassal was not enough. Not only were we damned thralls, we were in the path of the plague that took Arnor." the warrior shook his head angrily. We pressed on though, the further south we marched, the less snow seemed to fall. Until the snow, and wind stopped entirely, the land was quiet, only for the muttering and growls of the Creoth band that marched into what was now, Angmar.
Gorlakon looked back to view his men, scarred, cruel, angry men. Every one of us are ready. Every one of us hunger for battle, as was promised. Gorlakon raised his axe, looking a true lord amongst us in the bronzed plate, and plumed helm, round shield and axe held high, "We have marched far. Across distant lands, some lands that used to be held by our ancient kin, when Rhudaur was a kingdom. When Rhudaur, was ruled by us. We revolted against the Dunedain overlords, so that we may rule ourselves. And when we shed our chains, they've come back to slap them back onto our wrists, since we stood divided. That division, was instilled by Angmar. They made sure that tribe after tribe mistrusted, and bled one another, so that the Witch King himself can unify the tribes and look a hero. To enslave us over false hope, that we will be a free nation to kill our foes. Even now, they have sown deciet in the remnants of Rhudaur. The Hillmen that thrive in Angmar, are of our blood. Too long have they grown used to the idea of serving the Iron Home.Too long have they been breathing in malign humors. Too long have they supped on opression!" he roared, the warband, even I and Crixin would bang axe upon shield, demanding blood. "My wife has gone to rouse the remaining tribes. To unite them under common cause, for freedom, and a return to Rhudaur." he paused, the Warlords gaze trailed along the many warriors, the silence held on for a few moments, before he continued, "We will bloody the nose of the Masters that held chains about our necks. We will sow our own deceit into their hearts, before our axes break open their chests, and let the maggots within spill forth! We fight to honor Rhudaur, we fight to break from the iron yoke, we fight for renown! We fight for the Red Maiden!!!!" he roared, which was met from a roar from each warrior. About seven hundred throats, together, sounding as some fierce tempest. "All hail, King Gorlakon, Hero of Rhudaur, saviour of the Creoth! Defender of Ivar!" cried Navdakel, and the Cheiftains, which was met with another roar of approval from the warband. "Raise the banners! We are nearly there. And we will have blood!"
The Banner of the Iron crown was the Largest of the four banners that were held high. The other three banners was the banner of Rhudaur, the five black soldier pines on yellow and red. The Banner of Garth Agarwen, A skeletal hand rising, on a red field. And lastly, the Banner of Munso, A man, hung upon a gallows, on a pale red field. Seven hundred and thirty men. We all approach the Northern Gate, "Halt!" cried an orc..
