"Morwen, I don't think you understand the importance of this council," Nimloth said, trying to hold her sister down as she braided her hair. "Emissaries from Rhûn haven't come west of the Fallen Gate in years! Short of the King himself, I can't think of a more significant entourage."

Morwen twirled her knife absently, staring past, rather than directly at, her reflection in the mirror. "I would care more if I could go with them when they leave. Just imagine the things they've seen!"

"Sand and more sand if what father says is correct," Nimloth replied with a laugh. "He doesn't speak fondly of the lands to the east."

"I've heard there are vast cities with golden roofs, and beasts nearly as large as those cities," Morwen said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And beyond them, lands unexplored for miles and miles, treeless fields of tall grass that go to the world's end."

"Maybe you'll get a chance to ask them about it," Nimloth said, attempting to encourage her sister. "If you look presentable."

Morwen snorted. "I'm sure they won't care much how I look! I've heard their women are warriors there! They'll likely be much more impressed by my dagger than my braids."

"Don't be so certain," Nimloth replied, finishing the last touches of Morwen's hair. "There now, see? For once you actually look like you belong in court."

Morwen focused back on her reflection, frowning at the result. Looking back at her was a lady, with a circlet of fiery red hair braided around the crown of her head and small white flowers adorning it. A light blue dress clung tightly to her shoulders, causing her to shift uncomfortably.

"I look like you," she said with a scowl.

"And what exactly is wrong with that?" Nimloth said with no small hint of irritation.

"It's terrible," Morwen huffed.

"Don't be ridiculous, you look beautiful!" Nimloth said, admiring her own work.

"I agree," a deeper voice said at the door. "Like a princess of Numenor of old, come to grace us with her presence."

"Father, stop," Morwen said, pretending to be annoyed but being unable to stop herself from smiling when she saw Gerithor at the door. He had clearly been preparing for the visit as well, his greying hair immaculately groomed and a small silver circlet upon his brow. Morwen always thought he looked kingly, despite only being a Warden.

"Nim, I'm impressed you managed to get all of the leaves and branches out of your sister's hair," he said with a faint smile, gazing upon his daughters fondly.

"It took hours, but even a wild one like Morwen can be made presentable," Nimloth said smugly. Morwen merely rolled her eyes.

"Just in time, too," Gerithor replied, taking each of their hands in his own weathered palms. "They should be arriving any moment now."

=======================

Horns heralded the coming of the Easterlings as nearly everyone in the city crowded at the front gate. Most had never seen anyone more exotic than dwarves from the Blue Mountains, so the chance to see the mysterious men of Rhûn was an opportunity few passed up.

Caranor stood upon the ramparts beside his cousin Alif and a few other rangers, craning his neck to see. Scarlet banners soon appeared in the distance, and the glint of the sun upon polished bronze armor made the columns of soldiers visible even from afar.

A moment longer, and they could be seen more clearly, tall men upon massive warhorses, singing in a tongue unfamiliar to Caranor. Though he could not decipher the words, it seemed a proud song, one that spoke of might and splendor. The men sang in tune to their footsteps, stomping every few lines to emphasize their words.

When they arrived at the gate, their song rose to a crescendo, ending with a fierce shout and a long, low blast of a large, curling war horn held by a massive tattooed man at the front of the column. Next to him rode another large man, equally heavily tattooed and wearing a long black beard, flowing locks of the same shade cascading almost all the way down his back. A curved weapon, more akin to a scythe than a sword, was strapped to his waist, along with a multitude of small, curved throwing knives.

He goaded his horse, a huge black steed that managed somehow to make this muscle-bound beast of a man appear small in comparison, forward as he looked up to address the gatekeepers.

"We arrive on behalf of Khan Rukil Vas Dorgeshi, First of his Heritage, The Unslaved, Uniter of Lands, Ruler of the Golden City of Mistrand and the lands of Rhûn! Grant us entry that we may treat with the Warden of the North!"

In answer, the gatekeeper called back. "Enter, friend of the Reunited Kingdoms!"

The gates groaned open, and the riders entered to the cheers and applause of all. Even Caranor, who was born after the Great War, knew of the importance of Khan Rukil and his role in saving the North.

They slowly wound their way through the city streets, taking in the admiration of the citizens of Fornost with fierce smiles. They appeared at ease here, unimpressed by the city of the Northmen. What wonders they must have at home to be unphased by the beauty of Arnorian architecture, Caranor could scarce imagine.

=====================

Nimloth beheld the entourage, a mixture of fear and curiosity in the depths of her chest. In two files they entered the throne room, clad in burgundy and black and bearing tall weapons of bronze. They were taller and broader of shoulder than the rangers and Arnorian soldiers who milled about, their height accentuated by the hornlike designs rising up from their domed helms. Runes of a language unknown to Nimloth ran along the hem of their garments, as elegant as Tengwar but somehow sharper and more accentuated. At a hushed command from their captain, they halted in perfect unison, holding their halberds out in salute to Nimloth's father. Gerithor reciprocated with a bow, motioning for the emissary among them to step forward.

And then, at his call, their leader entered.

Standing nearly a head taller than his men, his dark arms were bare, save bracers of gold designed like twisting serpents that ran up his rippling muscles to the elbows. His torso was clad in the manner of his kinsmen, scaled armor like that of a golden dragon wrapping around a slender, athletic frame. Silken cloth hung down to his knees in the back, but tapered in the front, leaving on full display several shocks of thick hair that hung from his belt. Orc scalps, Nimloth thought, judging from their unkempt, shaggy nature. At least, she hoped they had belonged to orcs. She couldn't suffer to think of the alternative. His face was covered by a crimson scarf and a helmet that matched his soldiers', but beneath it, deep blue eyes rimmed with kohl peered out, boring into Nimloth with a haughty and fearless air. She looked away, but a feeling inside her told her that those deep, dark eyes were still fixed on her.

"His majesty, Emir Cadarn-Kilic, Castellan of the Redoir, Keeper of the Prisons of Nurnen, and eldest son of Khan Rukil vas Dorgeshi, first of his heritage and rightful Khan of all of Rhun," the captain announced, his accent thick and harsh to Nimloth's ears. She could barely tell which titles belonged to the man before her and which belonged to his father, for the captain had merged them all together as though they were one.

"Warden Gerithor Varonwe, I am pleased to finally meet you," Emir Cadarn-Kilic said, his own voice far more flowing and melodic, albeit deeper, than his captain's. "My father has told me much of your role in the war against the Dark Lord of Mordor."

"Your father's role was far greater, I assure you," Gerithor replied, giving the newcomer a kind smile. "Though I have no doubt he would deny it to the end."

Cadarn-Kilic nodded, the skin around his eyes wrinkling slightly in what might've been a smile as well. "You know him well, it would seem. I have brought not only his good wishes, but also gifts for your people that my father deemed would serve you well." He waved to a soldier standing at the door, and a moment later nearly a dozen more entered the hall, laden with many barrels and large crates. It took them several trips before everything was gathered in the center of the hall; By the time they were finished, nearly thirty large boxes and eight barrels sat there.

"From Dorwinion I bring eight barrels of fine wine. Take care, for even the strongest man will be hard-pressed to avoid its effects." At this, several of the Easterling soldiers nodded slightly, but a quick glare from their captain put them back at attention.

"From the Red Mountains of Blood in the Far East, I bring jewelry forged by the Stonefoot dwarves that dwell within the crags and crevices of the Orocarni." Cadarn-Kilic came to one of the crates, opening it with a swift, savage kick. Nimloth flinched at the sudden movement, not expecting such a violent act in the great hall. She looked to her father, who leaned over to her. "The Easterlings are a warlike people. Such is their way." He gave her a reassuring smile, but she still felt ill-at-ease.

The warlord produced a small wooden box from the crate, coming then to the first step that led up to Gerithor's seat and kneeling before him. "My father bid me give you this personally. It is a ring forged from the ruined armor of the Dark Lord himself, warded with spells of good fortune. There is only one other, given to High King Elessar of Gondor. These two rings symbolize the friendship that we hope will blossom once more between our two peoples." He opened the casket, revealing the stunning work of art within. The ring was a dark steel color, polished to gleaming perfection and inlaid with sapphires and emeralds. Holding the largest jewel was the twisting form of a dragon, and wrapping around the dragon was a likeness of the White Tree.

"This is a lordly gift that you bring, Emir," Gerithor said, his voice barely more than a breath. And then, with a slight smile, he took it. "Though rings, it would seem, can be a dangerous thing to bring into this world if done improperly."

"I assure you, these rings hold no true magical power," Cadarn-Kilic replied, a hint of mirth in his tone. "Though perhaps a circlet or brace would have been wiser, nonetheless."

"It is a perfect gift, Emir," Gerithor replied. "I thank both you and your father for the effort that went into it."

Cadarn-Kilic gave a nod of approval before returning to the crate. "And this lovely desert flower you have at your side must be your eldest, Nimloth?"

Nimloth's heart skipped at the mention of her name. Whether it was from apprehension or something else entirely, though, she did not know. She looked to her father to speak, for she was frightened that she would stutter or say something unacceptable in Easterling culture.

Gerithor took the hint. "Indeed she is! One of three whom I love more than anything in this entire world."

The Emir reached into the crate and produced another small box, this one slightly larger and made of a light-colored wood that Nimloth did not recognize. "For Nimloth I bring a necklace of gold and emerald," he said, coming to stand before her. "In my land emeralds are jewels that represent life, like the fertile green valleys of Khand or the verdant canopies of the Far Eastern Forest. They are given to brides before they are wed and to warriors before they march to war. They are said to stave away evil spirits. Whether this is true or not, may they bring you good fortune for many years to come."

Nimloth smiled bashfully, suddenly conscious of all of the attention that was now fixed upon her. she slowly lowered her head and Kilic draped the jewelry around her neck with a surprising amount of grace and gentleness. Her eyes rose to meet his, and the cloth of his scarf creased as he smiled slightly.

"And for your eldest son and heir, Caranor, I bring a bow fashioned by the Avari. It has been handed down from Khan to Khan, to be used in the lavish hunts our people once took part in." At these words he produced a bow, fashioned from a dark wood and gilded with gold. A quiver of arrows was brought forward also, made of a thick, dark leather and sewn with dark blue cloth. The arrows were black feathered and long, with razor sharp, serrated heads. "May it bring you as much fortune as it brought my ancestors."

Caranor accepted it, gazing upon the bow with awe. Nimloth couldn't help but smile at his childlike wonder, as Caranor was rarely phased by anything.

"And finally, for your youngest," Kilic said, a mirthful twinkle coming into his icy eyes as he turned to Morwen. "I had a gift worthy of a queen, but I can discern from swift perception that she is a fighter." Morwen tried to remain still, but her chin rose almost imperceptibly in triumph as she glanced over at Nimloth.

"So, I have this war-horn to give you." He brought forth a small, sleek black horn that curved slightly before coming to a point, like the claw of some mighty beast. "It is said to have come from one of the young cold drakes of the Red Mountains, though I have never seen one to confirm or disprove it. Blow this horn, and those loyal to me will come. Let it be not only a physical representation of our newfound allegiance, but also a rallying call that we may come to your aid in your darkest hours."

"Thank you," Morwen said, her voice barely more than a whisper as she took the horn in her hands with reverence. Nimloth knew already that it would probably never leave her sister's side after that moment.

"Though we have given simple trinkets as gifts, we also wish to establish trade once more with you. King Elessar has already laid out a plan to enact this that we can discuss in detail at a later time.

Unfortunately, I bring also dark tidings that cannot wait. In our relentless hunt for remnants of the Enemy, we had, until now, found little aside from the stray warband or troll. But no more than a month ago, I and my father uncovered something far more sinister. It seems that in the shadows, there has been a unified effort to restore evil to the world once more."

At this, Kilic nodded to one of his men, who brought a chest to the front of the room. When he opened it, the room collectively gasped in surprise.

"In secret, our enemies have been gathering relics of great evil." He reached into the chest and pulled from it a dagger's hilt, but no blade was attached to it. "A blade of the Unseen World," he explained. "And more." He whispered then, his lips close to the weapon. The words themselves seemed to drip with malice, and no sooner had they left his mouth than the blade began to reform itself.

"Black speech," Gerithor murmured as the room began to fill with pensive whispers. "What sorcery is this?"

Kilic drew closer then, his voice hushed, as if fearful that others with ill intent might be listening. "In the peace that followed war, the servants of darkness did not sleep as we celebrated our hard-won victory. With each passing year, they searched the deep places of the world for any sign of their master. Many relics such as this they collected, but it seems as though they were after far more. And now, it seems they have found something far worse than just remnants of Sauron."

"What could be worse than the dark lord himself?" One of the councilmen asked fearfully.

"Many years ago, long before the men of Numenor first set foot upon this land, Sauron himself answered to a master," Kilic said. Nimloth suddenly felt a rush of cold come over her, a wind that chilled her to her very bones. She knew the tales of Morgoth, a being so evil that he twisted the very song of creation to his will. A fallen Vala who was responsible for every evil that the world now knew.

"But Melkor was defeated, we all know the stories," Gerithor said, confirming Nimloth's own thoughts.

"Defeated, yes. But a being of that much power cannot be killed easily. Morgoth, Lord of Night as he was called by my kinsmen who worshipped him, was merely banished, chained and trapped in torment in a place called the Outer Dark. Those who were of his cult spoke of a door, a passage between the seen and unseen, that could be opened by those who could summon the key from the other side. Whether by chance or through centuries of dark rituals, it seems that the Cult of the Moon, one of the mightiest of the eastern cults, has gained the knowledge to summon this key. Now they have only to find the door itself, and a terror such that none alive have seen will be unleashed upon the world of men."

As Kilic finished, a stunned silence fell over all within the chamber. Even Gerithor, who was normally able to hide his emotions quite well, seemed openly frightened at the Easterling's grim words.

"Who else knows of this?" He finally asked, his voice heavy with emotion.

"Only those in this room and my father," Kilic replied. "And your king, though he had to be told in secret. The servants of the enemy have spread fast, like a plague. They even sit at the King's side. Fortunately, they care little for the affairs of the north, and none were traced to your court."

"How did you learn of it?" Gerithor pressed.

Kilic unclasped a small pouch from his belt, opening his slowly and revealing a weathered scroll. "At the same outpost we found the Enemy's blade, much more evidence of their misdeeds was discovered as well, including this list of possible locations of the door. Riders have already searched the locations listed that were within our lands, to no avail. But there are several possible places that lie within your own borders. We think that the Cult hasn't reached these yet, as travel through your lands has been difficult in recent years." 

Gerithor leaned back in his seat, stroking his beard with his hand. It was in these moments, when her father was deep in thought, that Nimloth thought he resembled the ancient statues most. Contemplative and wise as the very stones they were made of, he exuded an air of royalty that reminded all present of his true heritage. 

As for the matter at hand itself, Nimloth was frightened. War was but a tale to her, a horror she had hoped to never witness. But now, with these strange warriors before her and word of the Enemy moving against them, it felt closer than ever. 

"If all you say is true, we must find and secure the door at all costs," Gerithor finally said, grim determination in his voice. "How many men will you need to accomplish this?"

"Fewer is better, if truth be told," Kilic replied. "Large groups of armed men may alert the Cult to our purpose. We should organize small scouting parties to go to each location, so that we may rule them out before moving in force. We will need three groups in total. One must travel to the Barrow Downs, where the tomb of a long-dead king is said to contain a passage "between life and death." Another must travel to Angmar, to the depths of the Witch-King's fortress. The final group, and the one that I will personally lead, will go to Forochel, where the ruined remains of the Dark Lord's first and mightiest fortress are believed to be. This is the most uncertain of the three, as his fortress was destroyed completely, but I believe that this is also the most likely location for the Door to be if it still exists at all. I will only take a handful of men with me, as the journey will be treacherous and the less mouths I need to feed, the better." 

"I will go with you," Caranor said, to the surprise of all present. "I will represent my father's interests on this quest." 

Gerithor glanced over at his son. Perhaps he, out of all present, was the least surprised by Caranor's sudden assertion. After all, the young man had yearned for adventure for all of his life; Surely he viewed this quest as the outlet to those desires. He regarded his son with a mix of paternal concern and the burden of leadership, his eyes flickering with a desire to protect and guide. The council chamber, now taken by a tense silence, seemed to hold its breath, shadows playing on the walls as the sun dipped lower into the horizon outside.

"You're a man grown, Caranor," Gerithor began, his voice a delicate balance between authority and compassion. "I won't deny you your choice. But before you decide, can we discuss this in private?" He cast a wary glance at the assembled council, mindful of the delicacy of personal matters amid political discussions and the watchful eyes of Rhun's emissaries.

Caranor, displaying determination etched across his features, responded firmly, "My mind is made up. But I will hear you out after the council is adjourned." Despite the steadfastness in his voice, hints of conflict and uncertainty lingered just beneath the surface.

"That is all I ask," Gerithor replied with an appreciative smile. "As for the other parties," he continued, shifting his focus back on the prince of Rhun. "I shall organize men and send them out at once."

Kilic's response cut through the tension like a blade, his expression an unreadable mask of stone. "This is a good plan," he replied, the words devoid of sentiment, leaving the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. "I will reconvene with you in the morning. Until then, I shall take my leave of you."

Gerithor turned to Nimloth with a decisive motion. "Show them to their chambers," he instructed, his gaze lingering on the door. "We move at first light." 

I'm baaaaaack! For now at least. Who knows how often I'll update. At this point, I don't even know if anyone's keeping up with this, but I'm enjoying myself!