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The northern waste of Forodwaith is cursed, frozen by the Witch-King of Angmar--better known as Lord of the Nazgul and right hand to Sauron… Long ago, the region of Forodwaith knew of summer, even if they were shorter and weren't as warm as those of the more southerly regions of Middle-Earth. But, such times have become a part of the past, almost a distant memory as the curse of winter has been plaguing Forodwaith for centuries, causing those who inhabit the area to grow weary and superstitious, leery of outsiders and of leaving the frozen north for fear that they will only worsen the fate of their kin and friends they leave behind.
For it had been, so many centuries ago, that the Witch-King himself had resided in Angmar, watching those in Forodwaith from his evil lair. He'd been commanded by Sauron to seek the aid of the Lossoth tribes of Forodwaith, to have them rally to his side as he began his slow rise to power on Middle-Earth while attempting to seek the One Ring he had unfortunately lost. The Lossoth, fearful of Mordor, refused--though one tribe, the Suri-Maja, had pondered the notion of becoming allies--and thus the cruel and seemingly endless winter began. This left the Lossoth in an initial state of panic and disarray, but they managed to survive and endure.
Over time, the Witch-King's armies were defeated and he fled, but several who'd been loyal remained in his lair. There they waited, biding their time until that day he might return or they might receive a sign that they could strike and lash out once more just as they had in the days of old. Meanwhile, the Lossoth continued to thrive, but not without unrest. As they made their lives in the frigid north--most in the area of Forochel--the tribe of the Suri-Ma began to grow embittered. They watched the other tribes with hateful eyes, blaming them for the endless winter they all suffered at the wrath of both the Witch-King and Sauron. The winters were growing colder, the magic deep and dark, slowing seeping into the south. Rumor had it that even the Elves were starting to feel its affects.
Meanwhile, the Witch-King remained pleasantly satisfied in his new residence of Minas Morgul, knowing that the north would no longer be a threat. The Lossoth were too fearful to leave the northern wastelands and the winters were growing harsher as Mordor grew stronger in power… Civil war was clearly evident and that would only keep the northern natives occupied, unable to lend assistance to other nations who might seek their aid should they suddenly come calling. But, it didn't end there. The Witch-King wished to ensure war in the north and whispered his demands on the wind, demands that reached the ears of his allies still waiting in Angmar. He called out to the cold-drake, promising him treasure and wealth for Angmar was full of treasure as was Forochel and the Dwarven mines were riddled with silver and other treasures of the underground. Yes, the cold-drake would see to it that Angmar stood proudly, that it loomed watch over Forodwaith. He would beckon the weary and sympathetic Suri-Maja, nudge them and whisper, using all of his cunning. War would break out and Mordor would become victorious...
And so the story begins: Fellowship Of Forodwaith.
For it had been, so many centuries ago, that the Witch-King himself had resided in Angmar, watching those in Forodwaith from his evil lair. He'd been commanded by Sauron to seek the aid of the Lossoth tribes of Forodwaith, to have them rally to his side as he began his slow rise to power on Middle-Earth while attempting to seek the One Ring he had unfortunately lost. The Lossoth, fearful of Mordor, refused--though one tribe, the Suri-Maja, had pondered the notion of becoming allies--and thus the cruel and seemingly endless winter began. This left the Lossoth in an initial state of panic and disarray, but they managed to survive and endure.
Over time, the Witch-King's armies were defeated and he fled, but several who'd been loyal remained in his lair. There they waited, biding their time until that day he might return or they might receive a sign that they could strike and lash out once more just as they had in the days of old. Meanwhile, the Lossoth continued to thrive, but not without unrest. As they made their lives in the frigid north--most in the area of Forochel--the tribe of the Suri-Ma began to grow embittered. They watched the other tribes with hateful eyes, blaming them for the endless winter they all suffered at the wrath of both the Witch-King and Sauron. The winters were growing colder, the magic deep and dark, slowing seeping into the south. Rumor had it that even the Elves were starting to feel its affects.
Meanwhile, the Witch-King remained pleasantly satisfied in his new residence of Minas Morgul, knowing that the north would no longer be a threat. The Lossoth were too fearful to leave the northern wastelands and the winters were growing harsher as Mordor grew stronger in power… Civil war was clearly evident and that would only keep the northern natives occupied, unable to lend assistance to other nations who might seek their aid should they suddenly come calling. But, it didn't end there. The Witch-King wished to ensure war in the north and whispered his demands on the wind, demands that reached the ears of his allies still waiting in Angmar. He called out to the cold-drake, promising him treasure and wealth for Angmar was full of treasure as was Forochel and the Dwarven mines were riddled with silver and other treasures of the underground. Yes, the cold-drake would see to it that Angmar stood proudly, that it loomed watch over Forodwaith. He would beckon the weary and sympathetic Suri-Maja, nudge them and whisper, using all of his cunning. War would break out and Mordor would become victorious...
And so the story begins: Fellowship Of Forodwaith.
