Third Age Session 05: The Flight to Rivendell (T.A. 2968)

Shadows of the Lost Ring

In the aftermath of their harrowing ordeal, the companions found themselves burdened with dark revelations. Therian, long separated from his kin, was revealed to be the lost brother of Sylvaris. His hand had been severed, for upon it he had worn a cursed ring, a relic of shadowed intent. Yet his greatest agony was not in flesh, but in spirit, for he had been enthralled to a hooded sorcerer of Umbar, a dark servant whose name remained unknown.

The ring he bore had once belonged to the sorceress Upsathon, who had worn it for decades, falling deeper into corruption under its power. In time, Sauron himself took it from her, breaking her mind with its loss, and passed it to Therian, who had worn it but three years. Though free of its grasp, a shadow still lay upon his soul.

Meanwhile, atop Therian’s ruined tower, Dorthalion gazed into a Palantír, and in its depths, he beheld a vision of dread. In the blackened skies, a fell beast flew—a monstrous, bat-like creature, more wyrm than bird, and brooding beneath it were smaller winged horrors. A specter of ancient malice, crowned and veiled in black, rode atop the beast, flying forth to seek what had become of Therian. Before the vision could grow more perilous, Aranel cast a cloak over the seeing-stone, breaking the connection.

But this was not the only vision Dorthalion had received. The ranger now knew of lore concerning his great sword Oathbreaker and its lost companion Oathkeeker, a shield of the second age.

The Fate of Oathkeeper

Long ago, in the First Age of the world, the hidden city of Gondolin stood as a bastion against the shadow of Morgoth. Built in secrecy and guarded by the mightiest of the Noldor, it was a place of beauty and strength, a shining jewel among the peaks of the Encircling Mountains. But no refuge could remain hidden forever.

Through treachery and betrayal, Morgoth’s forces came upon the city, led by Balrogs, Dragons, and legions of Orcs. The streets of Gondolin ran with fire and blood. Among the last defenders stood Tuor, a mortal man who had come from the West bearing the will of Ulmo, Lord of Waters. He fought to protect his wife Idril and their son Eärendil, and with a desperate force of survivors, he fled the city’s destruction, leading them through hidden ways to escape Morgoth’s wrath.

But not all survived the flight.

Among Tuor’s captains was Eärendur, a lord of the House of the White Wing, sworn to his king and to Ulmo’s will. When the city fell, he and his warriors fought a desperate rearguard action, allowing the remnants of Gondolin’s people to flee. At Cirith Thoronath, the Eagles’ Cleft, they battled the hosts of Morgoth, and it was there that Glorfindel fell, slaying a Balrog. But Eärendur and a handful of his men broke away, wounded but still bearing their arms.

For days, they fled westward, following the hidden paths that Tuor had once taken in his journey to Gondolin. But time and wounds took their toll. One by one, Eärendur’s warriors fell behind, lost to the wild, or slain by Morgoth’s hunters.

At last, alone and dying, he reached Liramar, dragging himself into the shadowed depths of a sea cave beneath . There, he made his last stand against a band of pursuing Orcs, slaying them with his sword, Oathbreaker, before at last falling to his wounds. With his final breath, he laid his great shield, Oathkeeper, against the rock and whispered the last words of his vow:

“Ulmo, remember us.”

The tide came in, and the sea swallowed his resting place.

Ages passed. The world changed. The First Age ended, and Beleriand was swallowed by the sea. The Númenóreans rose in power, building great fleets and forging vast kingdoms, until their pride led them to ruin. In the wreckage of that lost empire, the Corsairs of Umbar rose, looters and sea-raiders who plundered the coasts of Middle-earth.

It was in the Second Age, in their endless search for lost treasures of the past, that a band of Corsairs came upon the ancient ruins of Liramar. The halls of Turgon were broken and empty, but the sea caves beneath still held secrets. They found the skeletal remains of Eärendur, clad in rusted armor, his sword still in his grip. Though they could not guess its origin, the sword had a strange presence, an air of lingering power. They took it for their own, naming it the Sword of the Oathbreaker, and with it they sailed into history.

But Oathkeeper, the shield, remained behind, half-buried beneath the sand and stone, untouched, waiting.

The Flight to Rivendell

Their purpose now clear, the fellowship resolved to flee with haste to Rivendell, lest the wraith and its mount discover their trail. To conceal these artifacts of terrible power, Fennel buried the Palantír in a sack of flour, and Aranel took the severed hand that bore the ring, wrapping it in cloth to hide its presence.

Their road eastward was fraught with peril. Orcs patrolled the wilds, and a warband of thirty sought their path. With cunning and knowledge of the land, the company doubled back, hiding in a cleft of the hills near Amon Sûl, deceiving the Orcs into pressing eastward, unaware of the heroes concealed within the crags.

Two days passed as the heroes journeyed easterward, and doom fell from the skies. The fell beast came upon them, its black wings blotting the stars, its rider whispering in sepulchral tones:

“Give us the ring and the orb, and we will let you live.”

The wraith’s words clawed at the mind, cold and commanding. From all sides, Orcs crashed upon them, seeking to overwhelm them upon the rocky hill. As the battle raged, Therian, still ensnared by the ring’s lingering call, crept in secret, seeking to steal it from Aranel.

But valor and skill turned the tide. Conric took to the high ground, cutting down the orcs below. Yorric, in a moment of bold desperation, hurled a dirk deep into the beast’s side. The wound drove the beast to the ground, and with a mighty stroke of his greatsword, Yorric hewed the creature’s head from its body.

In the distance, the sound of galloping hooves echoed across the hills. The Elves of Rivendell, led by Glorfindel, had arrived. At this, the wraith vanished into the gathered host of Orcs, and they fled in terror.

Rivendell and the Prophecies of the Seer

In the halls of Elrond, time itself seemed to slow. The days passed as a dream, and what felt like a week was revealed to be four months. There, the truth of the Palantír was unveiled—it was the lost seeing-stone of Osgiliath, cast into the Anduin in T.A. 1437 during the Kin-strife and thought lost forever. But somehow, it had been reclaimed.

The ring, too, was examined, and its nature laid bare: it was a Dwarven Ring of Power, one of those once granted to the lords of the Dwarves and later twisted to Sauron’s will. Unlike the Three Rings of the Elves, which had been spared his corruption, this ring had been a tool of enslavement and greed.

At last, Elrond spoke of prophecy. The Seer Malbeth, whose visions had guided the Dúnedain of old, had left behind words of fate. For Dorthalion, these words held a key—a clue to the resting place of Oathkeeper, the lost shield of Eärendur, a lord of Gondolin’s fallen host.

The Seer’s Lament and Wayward Clue

“On cliffs where Liramar meets the foaming sea,
Beneath a veil of salt and ancient misery,
There lies a cave, its arch aglow with rune and dew—
Seek ye the mark of the White Wing true.
When the tide doth yield to night’s cool hand,
And moonlit runes on weathered stone command,
Step through the portal carved by ages past,
For there the oath-bound relic waits steadfast.”

The Prophecy of Oathkeeper

“When night is deep and doom is near,
And tyrants rise in shadowed fear,
A heir of the North, both bold and true,
Shall find the shield where sea-winds blew.
The hand of Eärendur, lost to tide,
Shall guide his quest with fate allied.
With Oath once broken, now made whole,
He’ll smite the dark and cleanse the soul.
Yet falter not, nor turn away,
Lest fate reclaim its destined prey.”

Thus, the company departed from Rivendell, mindful that new quests would soon come their way that would test their courage, unveil the relics of ages past, and set them upon a path where legend and fate would entwine once more.

Appendix

Unknown to our heroes, the dragon-like fell beast which Yorric slew was named Glaurazûl. 50 years later, when the Nazgûl lost their horses at the Ford of Bruinen outside Rivendell, they were swept away by the enchanted flood, forced to abandon their physical forms, and returned as wraiths to Mordor to regain new mounts. Glaurazûl was the mother to these foul creatures. Legolas shot down a Nazgûl’s winged mount over the Dead Marshes, and Éowyn slew the Witch-king’s mount during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.