The Gates into the Stronghold of Garth Agarwen were old, and perhaps a little rusted, yet they held firm, and shut. Two banners draped at either side, depicting the five black trees of Rhudaur on yellow and red. A score of Creoth men would be by the gate, though, some brawling, the others watching with a keen eye. Slingers and staff-slingers raised a cry at the approach of a band, leading Gorlakon to jog up the hill, and await the newcomers. With him were several berserkers, and disciples of the Creoth.
Zorzimril sat on her sturdy dark horse, wearing her finest armor. A golden breast plate caught the fading sun and winked in the light, the soft jingling of her chainmail clinking in time with the plodding hoofbeats. Behind her were two rows of Trev Duvardain warriors; men and women in patchwork of leather and mail armor, spears, axes, and shields; archers and blood dancers and two wargs on chains with their handlers. A few pack horses nervously snorted behind the beasts, heavily laden with tents and supplies. All told, there were nearly fifty of the hillmen from Angmar and they stood now at the gates of Garth Agarwen. Zorzimril stayed astride her horse as she approached the barrel chested man before her, noting his fine steel armor, enameled with crimson and judging by his stance that this must be their leader. This must be Gorlakon.
Gorlakon gestured with a hand, the gate slowly rising, as two burly Berserkers of Creoth pulled at chains. The Creoth were all grim, scarred, fierce. There was an odd air to this place, smoke, blood, death. Gorlakon smirked as he eyed the Duvardain, his Creoth parting a way to make way for them. "Welcome to Garth Agarwen." he said, tilting his head up to stare at Zorzimril. The gate was raised, and Garth Agarwen was ready to receive them.
She looked down at him, pushing her horse a little closer, just within an arm's reach. Her flint colored eyes flicked around at the stone walls and the strange red trees. Perhaps it would have intimidated those used to the lush green lands or even the dusty hills but the woman was of Angmar, where the very land and air was cursed.
Her attention went back to him, "Domongart, chief of the Trev Duvardain sends his greetings and welcomes you to the alliance of the Iron Crown. He asks me to treat with your leader, Gorlakon." She looks at him pointedly, shifting in her saddle, the creak of leather audible as her warriors were uncharacteristically silent.
Gorlakon looked up at her, staying silent for a long moment as he eyed her, waving a hand, "Come." he said, turning his back on her, and walked into the way-fort. The Creoth again will remain there, Gorlakon expecting her and hers to follow.
Zorzimril moved forward, staying mounted and Abrazir walked at her side, murmuring, "I think it best if the men camp outside tonight, this land is strange and we do not know the reception the Creoth will give us."
Without looking down at him, she replied, "We shall see, I doubt this man means to murder us behind his walls, if they wished to fight they would have met us in the field at our approach." She can hear mutterings from her warriors, their distrust palatable.
Gorlakon turned back to look at her and the Duvardain tribesmen and smirked. "I have cleansed these folk with blood, for no Creoth will ever raise hand against one of Rhudaur. For that is ancient law." he said, he flicked his wrist, his warriors smirking and closed in on her company, though not in a provocative way, but rather to clap arm and shoulder, to embrace the Duvardain as brethren. "I will speak with you alone, your men with feast with my own."
Zorzimril tilted her head slightly, still wary but willing to follow his lead. After the sundering of her own tribe, the sensitivity and distrust sown by civil war was still rampant. The sudden greetings by the Creoth were met with looks of wonder and misgiving. She turned her horse and spoke to her warriors, her voice strong and rich for a woman, "These our brothers, our blood is theirs, we will treat them as brothers and sisters in arms. We are together in this fight and we will enjoy the Creoth hospitality as our customs demand and be hospitable guests."
She looked at Abrazir, "See they are settled and keep them out of trouble." He bowed slightly, taking the reins as she dismounted. Zorzimril walked toward Gorlakon, her chainmail skirt swaying with each step.
A score of half naked spear-wives appeared to greet her escort, to usher the Duvardain and Creoth both to the feasting grounds. Without a doubt along the way, they will witness the dead walking, the the Gloom-waters staring. Gorlakon eyed Zorzimril, noting her words. He offered her his arm, "Spoken like a true woman of Rhudaur." he said, allowing himself a grin.
Zorzimril glanced at the strange apparitions in the swamp though her face remained still as carved ivory. She looked back at him, "You are Gorlakon, we have heard of you from the emissaries of the Iron Crown. I am Zorzimril." She held back saying anything more, her stone colored eyes on his expression. "A woman of Rhuadar, yes. Of Angmar, the blood of the hills and the east flow in our veins." She cast another glance at the floating ghost like creature. "This place seems well fortified."
Gorlakon nodded slightly, "More than you know. Ivar defends this place, with his legions. As he has since the olden days." he said, walking off, "I am pleased to see that your Chieftain sent you. Seems as though he is intent to build a firm alliance with us Creoth." he paused, "I intend to gauge your chieftain, return him home. Not in the shit hills of Angmar, but our ancestral home of Rhudaur. As men, of Rhudaur, and ally of Angmar, not their thralls.”
Her pride bristled at this, and she raised her eyebrow, "Ambitious. Do you normally greet an emissary by calling them a slave?"
She cut a sharp glance at him and tilted her chin up, "Those shit hills happen to be my home. That harsh land carved us into the warriors we are, that I am..." She broke off, her jaw stubbornly set. "But if green land could be won, my chief would take it and we would spread out, for there is a need for more living space and land that is more fertile."
Gorlakon breathed in deeply through his nose, facing her, "And what would you call it? Ages ago the Iron Crown inflict a plague that nearly destroyed our population. It decimated Arnor. Those that lived were those that were given shelter in Angmar, to be bred and used as dogs at the whims of Carn-Dum." he said, shaking his head, "And they want you to fight farmers with pitchforks, and men who fight with dishonor. They offer piss and shit, and you get offended when I speak the truth." He shook his head, "Rhudaur will be restored. The Hills and Rivers to be distributed amongst our folk."
Zorzimril stared at him, shifting her weight and her fingers twitched, "You do not sound as if you wish to be allied with the Iron Crown." She tongued the inside of her lip thoughtfully, watching him before finally speaking, "What is it then, do you wish to fight the Iron Crown? Because the way you speak it would be taken as words of war if one of the Angmarim heard it."
Gorlakon guffawed at that, looking her over. He jerked his head forward, "The Iron Crown will have it's due."
The stocky chieftain walked away, leading her deeper into the ancient fortress lit with the eerie red light. She passed by empty eyed wights and they sent a shiver down even her hardened spine. They approached a stone dais, elevated above the rest of the room and in the center was a throne carved from granite.
Gorlakon sat down with a grunt, leaning against the throne. He looked to Zorzimril, "The Iron Crown offers crumbs and scraps for your tribe doing the brunt of it's fighting." he said, spreading his legs and growing comfortable. "I offer the chance to repay insult, and land that our folk have been too long away from."
