“The Flame”
July 2, 2025
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Who made this LARP?
Huge thanks to Sasha Volkova — and the whole Team of EDULARP who invited me to witness the LARP event and walk the lands of Middle-earth for 2 days! This is unforgettable, and you are doing amazing job for the whole LARP community in the Baltics. To keep in tought with Sasha and follow the events please visit those links:
For a moment, there was peace...
But then morning came.
RUDE AWAKENING
I wasn’t woken by an alarm clock, nor by the rhythmical song of a cuckoo. I was woken by the sound of a whip — rising and falling in steady pace on the back of a captive victim.
"One!" the torturer called. A whiplash. A scream. "Two!" Another strike. Another cry.
The count climbed. And when it reached ten, the whipping stopped, followed by the heavy silence. That’s when I knew — there would be no time for morning coffee .
THE SIGN SAYS: Today's safeword - Melkor is Great!
When I rushed from my tent to see what the torture chamber’s personnel were up to, I was met with an entirely different scene. Chains clinked in the shadows. Captives were locked away in the Orc dungeons, and the master torturer was tormenting a local musician.
They made him dance. They made him sing praises to the Dark Lord. And the more his voice cracked, the more delighted they became. The song pleased them, and—for now—the musician’s life was spared.
FOREST ENCOUNTERS
On the other side of the world, holding an invitation to the Easterling camp, the Elvish ambassador met other Elves along a forest road.
They looked at her with quiet questions in their eyes — some even came close to breaking their detachment with the ghost of a smirk.
How could an Elf, an immortal child of the stars, fall into the hands of a human? Why did she seem happy in a harem?
And when she explained that she had chosen her companion freely, there was still no sign of understanding in their eyes. To them, it was madness.
And yet — they accepted the invitation.
Just at the edge of the forest, another party held a different kind of invitation, carved in cruelty. An invitation to join the ranks of slaves, to serve the will of Sauron. Those who refused to accept it willingly were promised a far more gruesome fate.
A fight broke out. Outnumbered five to one, a knight stood between his companions and doom — and fighting like a lion, fell, sword in hand. His body was dragged through the roads, and deep within the torture chambers, his “service” began.
No matter how hard they tried — no matter how refined, how sophisticated their methods became — he would not take the easy way out. He would not praise Melkor. Driven to fury by his defiance, his captors went too far. Heated by their cruelty, they overdid it, and the soul of the proud knight slipped from his body.
He died unbroken. Leaving his captors powerless and ashamed.
At the gates of Castle Brethil, another kind of battle began. Future enemies clashed tossing a stuffed leather ball in a game of friendly competition.
Exhausted, all parties retreated to their camps, carrying news and stories — unaware that this was the last moment they would share in the comfort of relative peace.
A long road stretched from the comforting shade of the Elvish forest and the shelter of the castle’s high walls to the Easterlings’ tents, that stood in a land scorched by the sun and untouched by the clouds.
Alongside the patrol unit, other delegations arrived to experience Eastern hospitality firsthand, reaffirming old alliances and forging new agreements. And to showcase the grandeur and beauty of their lands, Easterlings held a true feast.
The guests were treated to drinks and rare sweets, and when the performance began, they fell silent — struck by the sheer beauty of what they beheld. Graceful dancers lifted and lowered their fans in time with precise, flowing movements. The dance of silks and colors echoed the breeze one moment, then soared upward like fountains of water or petals of flame.
THE BETRAYAL & SACRIFICE
But dark clouds gathered over the Easterling camp.
At the height of the celebration, the clan leader joyfully announced that, in honor of newly forged friendship, and in keeping with ancient tradition, a sacrifice had been prepared for Manwë — a final offering of the festival, made in the name of light.
Guards dragged forth a broken, tormented woman. Offering her a final sip of wine, the priestess began the ritual, paying no heed to the cries of protest rising from the guests.
She circled the victim slowly, whispering — prayers or incantations, it was hard to tell — and then drew a dagger from beneath her robes. A piercing scream rang out.
“For the glory of Melkor! Praise the dark powers!” the priestess cried.
And the lifeless body of the victim collapsed at her feet.
In a rush, the guests left their seats and began to abandon the camp. The clan leader hastily condemned the priestess and ordered her exiled forever — but it was already too late. If before, clouds had only gathered above the Easterling camp, now the thunder roared in full might.
A warrior stepped forward and declared his challenge: he would fight the Easterling leader for the title of chieftain.
A duel to the death.
They exchanged blows. The young warrior danced back, searching for an opening, watching for the weaknesses as the chieftain pushed forward. He parried strike after strike, and at last, his blade found its mark. While the chieftain aimed for the heart, his opponent struck low — a series of precise attacks cut into the leader’s leg, stealing his speed. Blood flowed, drop by drop, and with it, the strength drained from the old chieftain's limbs.
And then the moment came. The young warrior struck the final blow.
DARKNESS RISES
The Orc captain ordered his warriors to cover their ears — and they obeyed without question, while he listened on, grinding his teeth.
There had been a coup in the Easterling camp. The chieftain — Sauron’s appointed lieutenant — had fallen. A new alliance had been forged. The war was coming.
The Battle of the Easterling Siedge
Sauron’s forces did not wait long. They marched swiftly toward the Easterling camp. Forming ranks before its gates, the army laid siege — hoping to exhaust the enemy before the true battle began.
Meanwhile, a secret messenger raced with all his speed toward the Elven camp, asking for aid in battle.
The gates were barely holding when, on the horizon, the banners of allied armies appeared. A war horn sounded, and the forces of Ast-Akhe and the Orcs retreated into the forest corridor, preparing for a brutal confrontation. Seeing this, the Easterlings surged from their fortifications, aiming to strike the invaders from the rear.
The battle had begun.
And with it, the war has started.
On the first front line, an Elven warrior fought bravely against his foes.
Unseen, like a shadow, an assassin crept closer. With a single, calculated strike, a servant of the dark forces gravely injured the Elf.
She continued her deadly dance, shaking her new opponent with a flurry of fierce strikes. But this time, the forces were uneven.
She almost defeated her second opponent, when another Another green-caped Elven warrior charged in from the flank, delivering a crushing blow. At the same moment, a spearman drove his spear into the assassin’s kidneys, bringing her crashing to the ground.
She fell, unwilling to surrender, choking on her own blood as she fought until the very end. But a final sword strike silenced her life forever.
Having destroyed the defending squad, the reinforcements entered the battle on the second front.
A spearmaiden and her companion squared off, holding their weapons firmly ready to engage the enemy.
The forces were uneven. While the secondary front of Sauron's forces held the Easterlings at bay, the main line was breached. Sauron’s army found itself caught in a vice.
Seeing the hopelessness of the situation, a young warrior charged into the enemy ranks, desperate to strike and wound at least one foe. To sow chaos, to buy precious moments for his comrades. But his efforts were in vain as cold steel pierced his body.
One by one, the warriors of darkness fell to the ground, bleeding out. A wounded Elf fought on bravely, until danger struck him again. This time, an orcish brute, wielding a heavy club, charged through the ranks. Without any hope of victory, but driven by a cruel desire for vengeance.
Blow after blow, the orc scattered his foes to the sides, relentless in his fury. Yet even bandaged, the Elven warrior proved a force he could not overcome. He parried most of his blows, and those precious seconds were enough for the unit to close ranks and mount a fierce counterattack.
Bringing an end to that brutal battle.
And true to the ways of light and goodness, the fallen foes were immediately “honored” — with a wave of looting that swept through the battlefield. This battle was lost.
But the war has just begun.
THE STORM IS COMING
The time for a brief rest had come. The warriors withdrew, tending to their wounds. The villagers no longer dared roam the surroundings freely as they once had. Fear had taken root in their hearts.
Only the weary guard remained on duty—steadily unlocking and locking the gates of Castle Brethil.
Through battles and unbearable heat, he faithfully carried out his task, as if certain that if he faltered,
the gates themselves would falter too.
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