The Birth of The Nameless Fear

The victory over Ugrukhôr was remembered by those who survived not as a glorious battle, nor as some heroic duel sung by wandering minstrels.

It was remembered as silence.

The flow of the Bruinen was but a gentle trickling thing here at the fjording of the valley. In comparison, a roaring tempest tore through Elrond’s mind. He had gone on ahead of his army, thinking time alone would calm his mind, and his mood. He could not escape the thought that his kin marched toward a meat-grinder, and that their bright armour would soon to be stained by the ruin being wrought across Eregion. 

Time for Action

Durthang burned quietly.

Not with open flame.
Not yet.

But beneath the fortress, hidden in forgotten maintenance shafts and abandoned furnace tunnels, death had already been planted by Deorla’s own hands.

The battle outside still raged.

Echoes in Udûn

Two months had passed, and Udûn had begun to whisper again.

Not with the crackle of forges or the grind of war machines—
but with the rumor of her.

Deorla the Herald.
Deorla the Returning Flame.

Some orcs swore they saw a pale silhouette stalking the borders.
Others claimed their patrols were cursed—missing men, silent blades in the dark, fires snuffed while their backs were turned.

Nothing decisive.
Nothing final.

Ashes That Answered

Udûn had grown quieter.

Not weaker — never that — but quieter.

The forges of Anglach no longer roared without pause. Deorla had ordered the fires controlled, rationed, disciplined. She had no intention of burning through strength too early. Ugrukhôr’s supply lines had been bled carefully rather than shattered. She did not want chaos.

She wanted ownership.

But Anglach was not yet fully hers.

For weeks she had haunted it.

(( This is happening about four months after this story here: https://laurelinarchives.org/node/66594 ))

In a small tavern in Cardolan in Herne to be exact, a weird figure appears, wearing all gold and black outfit with a golden scythe, you can clearly tell he's searching for someone, or something.

The fire between them burned low, settling into a bed of coals that glowed like watchful eyes. Deorla stood over the map Shereg had spread across a scarred table—Mordor, broken into jagged regions by ash, iron, and old rivalries. Once, she had walked these lands as a servant. Now she looked upon them as something to be taken.

“I am done surviving,” she said at last, her voice calm in a way that made it dangerous. “I will take all of Mordor. Every pit, every tower, every broken banner still clinging to the idea of power. And I will unite it.”