A Final Rescue

“I asked at Esteldin where they thought the best way to get to Aughaire would be,” Idhrandir had said to the group as he led them through the wilds of the North Downs. “There are three paths one can take. There are two trails further west, but one of those is stalked by worms and drakes, and the last thing I want is for any of you to die before you reach your destination.” 

 The young ranger didn’t offer any more insight until he turned their course further east. “Ost Crithlanc is the main entrance to Angmar,” he explained before the group would have a chance to voice any discontent with this path. “It is usually overrun with Angmarim and Hillmen, or warbands of orcs,” he said with a shadowed expression. “But I think there is something you all need to see first.”

As their mounts crest the rise to Ost Crithlanc, with the towering cliff faces of Angmar before them, upon which are etched faces and creatures terrible, an even more disturbing sight awaits them in the foreground. What was clearly once a camp or settlement is mostly lying in ruins, or scattered ash along the ground. Some structures still remain standing, but the few Hillmen flee at the sight of the group and do not stray far from their work picking up the ruins of the camp. Cages in which the skeletons of prisoners, perhaps even of Dunedain had been shattered and scattered; banners of Angmar had been burned and ripped apart by blades; one banner, however, still flew high above the camp on one of the towering rocks by the passage deeper into Ram Duath. Seared into the Angmarim fabric was a symbol of two crossed spears with bolts of lightning encircling them.

Idhrandir only briefly glances back at the group. “Angmar is being set upon by rivaling warlords and tribal leaders. This happened two days ago. Are you still sure you wish to proceed?” He pulls tightly on the reins of his horse to turn and face the group. Upon hearing their insistence to continue onwards, he points to the path through the rocks that ran just beyond the defaced banner. “Take that path, and stick to the left. It will take you to Aughaire. Be careful - we know nothing about which groups are warring and where; it changes by the day, as you can so plainly see. I will… do my best to wait for you here,” he says with a brief glance to one group member in particular. “But I cannot promise anything. You must all come back alive, however, for there will not be another rescue attempt. Not one sanctioned by the Dunedain, at least.”

The path beyond Ost Crithlanc was marked by towering cliff walls and stones that threatened to trip up their mounts as they rode onwards. The silence was the most disturbing part - there was little to be heard save for the wind whistling far overhead through the cracks in the rock. They would not have to travel far to find a leering statue of a drake mid-flight; or at least that is what it once was before it was destroyed, halved into rubble. 

There was a large spread of orc fetishes strewn about; blood, standards of war from different tribes, as though this spot had been fought and bought many times over. The newest of these trophies - or perhaps claims - was another banner, scorched in the same manner as the one at Ost Crithlanc. It laid threateningly over the rubble and older marks of war, and the group quickly hurries along.

Keeping to the left, or the more westward path, it was not long before they came across another sign of war and destruction. This clearly had been an orc camp, once, and it was recently attacked. Proof of that was their instruments of war still burning. The groans of the dying still echoing. There was a severed head strewn aside with arrows protruding from it. They decided to move on from that scene with haste. They didn’t want to mess with whoever had done that, for whoever was responsible could still be nearby.

In their approach to Aughaire, the signs of war had been made clear to them. Angmar was dangerous and it changed in the blink of one’s eye, depending on which faction or tribe acted out by the day. Echoing in the rocks behind them were the cries of battle, the cries of the left behind as they broke out from the path and made it to one of the few civil settlements left in Angmar. Surprisingly, however, they were met with hostility and with the pointed ends of spears.

“Halt!” A familiar voice calls out, and pushing through the crowd comes Mallossel, though the elleth looks utterly worse for the wear. Coated in soot and mud, spattered with blood, and with a hardened gaze that spoke of war untold. “You are late,” she addresses the group. “I expected you here last night. Cedmon has gone ahead. Take a time to rest. We leave at sundown.”