Well it seems some how this game has gotten interesting again. Nations have ended on both sides and finally the elves have awaken from their tired existence to breath some life into the game. It is funny that the Rhu tried so hard to knock out the Dunlindings and now they are the only ones attacking Mordor. Long Live the DS.
Scott W
BlS
Some of us are kinda busy making sure Gondor lives, and has no real time to knock on Mordor’s good, but we’re coming. At least the bridge is down again and the Haradwaith reinforcements all sank when the Suicide Navies of the North attacked and rammed the transports 
Øystein
Comes the DarkHound of Mordor,
The visage of the Dog glared with undisguised hatred towards the West. The Haradrim fallen shall be avenged!! The Children play with magiks beyond their understanding and hide Pelargir from sight. Fools!! There is a deeper magik; stronger and more virulent than any thus far employed. The Children’s diversion shall be undone. Gondor shall fall into Shadow.
We shall see what awaits this fortnight. The gleam in the eye of the DogLord was unmistakable…the assassin’s blade shall sing a song and the chants of the magi shall bring forth more warhounds. Gondor is not the only target in these times. Mighty Angrenost has submitted to the Eye. Perhaps the Dale people are next.
DarkHound of Mordor
game 32
Enion, Dread Master of Dunland ™ surveyed the Gates of Mordor, the famed Black Teeth.
As his servants painfully lowered his palanquin to the ground, Enion raised his fetid bulk to its full height of 5’2" proudly.
“Hah” he said, reaching for a flask of stale beer, “So this is Mordor is it?”.
He spat as he looked out at the once mighty gates, now broken, and the once great citadels, now shattered and replaced by a small shanty town in which starving orcs huddled around fires, selling suplhurous water and novelty Eothraim heads.
“Lads” he said, as he gazed in admiration at the irregular ranks of the thousands of Dunlending warriors behind him, with their sharp wooden spears and stout woolen shirts. “Its time to finish what them horseboys and dunnyden could’nt, we is gonna tear Mordor to rubble, butcher everyone we find and return home with Sauron as me new bitch…”
He carried on for a little while before he realised that nobody was paying attention to him, but were watching with some dread the shattered gates of the Morannon.
Slowly, Enion turned and his gaze was drawn to the legions of burly orcs and trolls issuing from the gates in a disciplined fashion, and he realised that the shiny stuff they had was steel.
They were many, more than the men of Dunland by perhaps threefold, but Enion had faced such odds before and emerged victorious.
He gathered his commanders and after carefully assessing the situation gave the order…
“Right lads, skirts off and run at them as fast as you can screaming like women…”
It was going to be glorious…
Dear Sir or Madam, ruler of the Dunlands:
It has come to the attention of the Blind accountants that our recent payment to you when un-delivered as the address we have for your capital is not longer in use. If you could let us know were to send the afore mentions gold we will be happy to have some one drop it off within the next fortnight.
Becky
Accountant for the all powerful Akhorahil
The rebels of Umbar may have taken the sacred city of Minas Anor, but we will never submit to the idiot bastard child of Casimir.
We will take our city back. As for Angrenost, well, I hope the Balrog eats you!
King of Gondor (i.e. the city state of Pelargir and its immediate environs)
Foolish Blind Sorceror, think not to seek for my capital. My lands are returned to me, and the Free Peoples have been most generous with their major towns.
Indeed, we have sampled the best that the Free can offer and have become conosieurs of gluttony and wanton abandon.
Even now as my armies ready to complete the destruction of Mordor, I dine on Gondorian oysters and Eothraim beef. I sip from glasses filled to the brim with wines from Imladris, Shrel Kain and Annuminas, whilst I nibble on sweet breads from Lothlorien and Tharbad.
I sit upon a throne of marble and gold, built for an Arnorian King, and wear the finest silk robes, spun from the lightest materials for an elven maiden.
As I dine, a silvan minstrel from the Greenwood sings me songs of the First Age, whilst a bevy of fine dwarven women with beards tend to my more personal needs, which are many and dirty.
So keep your gold wraith, you shall need it soon enough, the brave men of Dunland need not your charity whilst we bum off of the Free.