The Ambassador's Son RPG

[Earendil Halfelven]

The storm lasted for hours. The sea raged and ranted beneath the harsh gales, throwing the ships to and fro. But they sustained no casaulties, only minor damage to the ships. The sun had just come out when a man yelled out, "Man overboard!" The crew of the Rapscallion rushed to the sides to see who the unfortunate soul was. Acacia was the first to confirm what Doran was thinking.
"He's not one of our crew," she said. "Nor does he even look like a corsair. He looks Gondorian to me, like one of the folk near the city of Minas Tirith."
"Your probably right," Doran replied. "Men, get that man on this ship at once!"
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The man identified himself as Mayne of Captain Avershire's crew. He was a survivor of the battle against the Regal Dawn and Might of Realge but had been lost when the ship sank that he was a prisoner on. Doran figured that the storm had blown him in their direction. He spent two hours interrogating the man named Mayne, trying to piece together what happened. After that time, Doran knew the fate of his three ships, but not the fate of the men who crewed them. Nor did he know the fate of his opponents.
Mayne was obviously very tired and weary from his ordeal in the ocean and was giving away plenty of answers.
"The ship that the prisoners were on was more westward of this position. All I remember was that there was an island in the distance. It wasn't very far though."

"Was it the only island in the area?" Doran asked.

"Yes, I think so," Mayne replied. "At least I don't remember any others."

Doran nodded. "Jurex, have this man taken below. He can keep our dear Adeline company." Jurex nodded and he and two other crewman took Mayne below decks. Doran headed up to the deck.
"Acacia! Set our course due west until we see the nearest island. We can check for corsair survivors there, and we might even find somebody else," he said with a smile.

"Yes sir, Captain Doran," Acacia replied.
__________________________________________________ _____

The spotted the island and stayed three miles out and waited until dusk. Doran knew that there would be more than just corsair survivors on the island, if this was the island nearest the battle sight. Doran wanted to wait until nightfall, in case they had to surprise anybody.

Finally, it was dark.

He was in the lead boat as he and 20 corsairs from the ships rowed silently towards the island. They were making good speed towards the shore and soon they would be on land. He glanced behind him into the dark. He couldn't see any definite shapes but he could hear the soft sounds of the many oars dipping into the water. He took a deep breath and let it out softly. He and his men were ready for battle.

Suddenly, the speed of the boat was slowed as the quiet, grating sound of sand underneath the boat muttered from beneath him. The sounds of the other boats came to his ears. They were all ashore.

"Draw swords," he whispered. Amid the quiet ring of the metal, he added, "Follow behind me men and stay quiet. We might find some of our own men here so do not attack unless I give the command."
And with that said, Doran led his men on the final hunt.

[Durelin]

Once again, the 'little miss' was to remain on the ship while anything of importance went on elsewhere. This time elsewhere was actually off the ship, but still she was to remain in a small little closet of a cabin till Doran returned, with the Gondorians as prisoners and the island taken. The man was the pinnacle of men and their arrogance, a prime example! He had the nerve to already claim a victory, as well as call her little miss! Whatever had happened to 'Lady Adeline' and being a gentleman of highest esteem? It seemed different rules applied for the gentleman sea captain. He had called her such a horrendous name when giving her the order for her to remain aboard, and under guard, of course.

Adeline tried to study the situation for a possible escape. She wished to take advantage of the fact that any battling would be going on on the island and not on the ship. And there was also the fact that those who guarded her were the least capable of the crew, if they were not wanted on the battlefield. It was easy enough to recognize the advantages found in a situation, but how to use them had rarely been determined by Adeline, particularly never when taking hold of these advantages was of greatest importance. Her brain was resisting her command to think.

Her stomach growled as she sat on the ground, and the guard sitting on a stool, his head nodding, his mind moving in and out of sleep, sat up straight, eyes open. "Is the little miss hungry?" he said with a yellow grin. The dolt had found her disgust at being called that quite amusing. She hoped the amusement would fade soon. She looked up at him, and kept a smile off her face. Her brain had finally acknowledged her command, and what it had come up with was worth a try. "I'm starving, and your Captain told you to keep me alive, didn't he?"

The man mocked her with another grin and a phoney salute, but he actually did leave to get her whatever edible substance could be found on the ship. Adeline did not look forward to what he brought back. But, hopefully, by the time he got back, she would have fully taken advantage of this situation. There was still the guard outside, and others on the ship: most likely a good number patrolling the deck. The cabin the held her in was an inner cabin, and so there was not even a small porthole. Unfortunately, Adeline failed to add all this up and see that the odds were fully against her. Instead, she simply made her way to the small table behind the guard's stool. Upon it were eating utensils, one of which was a knife. Feeling the edge, Adeline was heartened by its sharpness.

Quietly she stepped over the creaking floorboards to the door of the cabin that opened into a small hallway. She turned the knob and slowly pushed it open. The guard on the other side suddenly was visible; he must have rose from his seat in front of the door. The turned to look at Adeline, his eyes wide with surprise and filled with anger. "What'r you do-"

The man stopped short as Adeline's knife ran into his throat, the force crushing it rather than slitting it. Adeline watched in horror as the man's mouth began to turn a deep red, and he fell to the floor, his body still moving, rithing from the pain. She stood with her eyes fixed on the man, no matter how sick it made her stomach feel. And she still stood there when the man came down the ladder with the food she had asked for.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Alone awake by the fire, Callath sat completely immobile, for all the world seeming carved from stone as he stared steadily into the fire. Around him, propped against stones, lying on driftwood or just sprawled across the sand, was what remained of Avershire's crew. He whistled quietly to himself in the silence, a luxury he hadn't had on the ship due to the superstitious sailors, absently tossing a stick between his hands, although rather gingerly in his right.

"Callath?"

The Gondorian youth whirled around, on his feet in a second with the stick in his hand, pointing towards the voice. As the flashes in his vision caused from looking into the fire for so long cleared, he recognised Rilgari, the young sailor looking slightly bemused. "Callath, it's Rilgari," the sailor said softly.

"Just as well, I couldn't see a thing," came the ironical reply as Callath flashed a quick grin at the other. He and Rilgari had become closer on the last few days on the ship, and now on the shore they were easier together, friendship coming quite easily as they were of the same age and background. Rilgari had, he said, joined Avershire's crew two years ago when he was sixteen - now eighteen, he was a year older than Callath, but had also, coincidentally, worked around horses alot when he was younger, tending and training his father's stallions. However, the quiet sailor didn't have the same temperment as the wild stallions he would have broken in - seemed as far from it as possible, really. The ever-affable Callath had taken an instant liking to him.

"My watch?" he continued. Rilgari nodded and Callath stretched, shaking his hands to get rid of the cramp then feeding the stick he had been playing with to the fire. As he passed Rilgari, he paused though, turning to look back at the other as he paused. "You...you didn't see anything of...of Luc did you?" he asked, hopefully. The older boy hadn't been seen since they'd come ashore and Callath knew that hope was almost pointless. But he refused to give up: until there was proof that Luc had gone down with the ships, Callath would stubbornly - foolishly - cling onto the hope that he hadn't drowned.

Rilgari paused, then turned slowly. He looked about to say something else, a pained expression flickering like the flames across his pale face, before he shook his head. "No, Callath. No sign of him," he replied, simply.

"Not yet, right?" Callath gave a lopsided smile, before turning away. Behind him he heard Rilgari's pause, then the boy raised his voice to call after Callath. "No, not yet...not yet..."

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Callath stuck his hands into his pockets and began up the sanddunes to the point Rilgari had been watching from: an isolated perch, hidden from the beach and from the enclave where the crew where sitting. The dunes surrounded the sailors on three sides: this would put them at a disadvantage had Calnan not taken it into account in his stride as well, and placed a watch on all three sides, so they would not be ambushed. Indeed, their newly assumed leader would be coming down from his watch in about half an hour: they weren't taking breaks all at the same time as this would leave all sides unguarded, even just for a few moments, which would be vital in a battle. Marching up the hill briskly to the rhythm of his own humming and breathing, Callath looked out across the beach and the sea beyond it, still amazed at the vastness of it: in the confines of the walls of Minas Tirith there was nothing so vast and empty. Even the plains of Gondor where he rode as often as he could weren't able to compare. Like a huge beast, from where he stood, Callath mused that the sea seemed asleep now, a monster at rest: beautiful and magnificent, but so able, in one swipe, to take lives...

His booted foot snubbed against something solid as he was about halfway up the dunes and he looked down, disturbed from his musing. His eyes widened immediately and he squatted down beside it to make sure, before pulling the obstacle from the ground, amazed, and examining it. But there was no mistaking the object: he very own sword, Gondor's finest, washed up by some freak coincidence. The sheath was gone, but the sword had been buried in some driftwood - what had once been a ship, odd though that now seemed. Grinning, Callath examined the blade fastidiously for extra scratches or nicks...and something else caught his eye. Sick dread made the pit of his stomach suddenly seem to drop through his boots as he lowered the sword slowly, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A hand lay protruding from the dunes. Not any old hand either: with his sharp eyes, Callath spotted immediately the birth ring on the third finger, beaten copper bearing the runes for a name: "Luc."

Callath whispered the word in dread, then knelt forward, pushing aside the tall grasses that obscured the view of his dreaded discovery, before he leant back on his knees, his hand coming to his mouth as he stared upon the face of his dead friend.

Hand across his mouth, Callath turned and heaved emptily away from his friend's body, unashamed but sickened more by this than by all the wounds and dead men he had seen with Sedal. And with Luc... The thought made Callath look back again, and he pulled the body out a little so he could see Luc's face clearly. Pushing aside from his friend's forehead the swathe of damp, salt-stiffened hair, he felt his eyes fill as dead blue eyes stared back at him. Luc had suffered indeed: looking now more closely, Callath saw the long, deep scar that ran through one of the young man's eyes, cutting the side of his face in half; and more horrifically, how his right arm suddenly ended, stopping dead at his shoulder as if there had never been anything there, the only remanent of the arm from this side being the bloody marks on his clothes and the sand. Callath, numb and frozen, felt a tear slide down his face and pushed it away quickly, wiping fiercely at both his eyes like a little boy afraid to cry. Then, with trembling his trembling, injured right hand, he reached forward with two fingers and closed Luc's eyes.

There was no time for an epitath though. As he sniffed quietly, Callath heard another sound simultaneously and looked up guiltily, remembering his duty. Legging it silently to the top of the dune, he saw with horror what he had most been dreading: the corsairs had arrived.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Callath ran back down as quickly as possible, sparing Luc's dead body a last, lingering look as he ran past. "Sorry mate...I'll make it up later, I swear to you..." he muttered regretfully as he passed.

Reaching the camp, he stopped, breathless, to find Calnan with Rilgari, having come down early or something. They both spun around to look at the stable boy, along with Orda, also now awake.

"Corsairs!" Callath panted urgently. "Corsairs on the beach!"

[Himaran]

Graring watched the Gondorian encampment from the shelter of the dense woods. He was the lone survivor of the battle, assuming that the prisoner had died overnight. Where was Doran? He had to arrive soon, or Graring would either die of starvation or be forced to surrender.

______________________________________

Jurex and the other corsairs moved their way up the beach. The jungle night was hot and stuffy, unlike the fresh breeze of the sea. The corsair was already hot and tired, but kept his eyes and ears open. A reward could easily be in his grasp, one that would turn his leaders favor in his direction.

Then he saw the shape. Jurex quickly wispered in Doran's ear, "Sir, look at that tree over to the right slowly. Don't make a sudden move." Jythralo followed his instructions, and a grin spread over his face. It disappeared however, when the shape bolted out of cover and dashed down the beach; away from its adversaries.

"After him," Doran yelled. And the corsairs broke into a hot pursuit.

[Nuranar]

Relieved early by a wide-awake Rakein, Calnan had stumbled back to the fire. Lying down in its grateful warmth – the wind was off the sea tonight – he was instantly more than half asleep.

"Corsairs! Corsairs on the beach!"

Calnan’s eyes popped open. Doran! He leapt to his feet as Callath dashed up to the fire. "Everybody up!"

The quiet camp burst into activity as the others were jerked from sleep and readied themselves. Meri Loliway, sword in hand, materialized from the darkness where she'd been lookout, even as Rakein came sliding back down the slope. Calnan grasped Orda by the shoulder. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Aye aye, sir!" He hurriedly concealed himself in a nest of rocks. Behind him lay Sedal, screened by the boulders and a convenient tangle of brush. Stay in front of Mr. Sedal, but stay hidden, Calnan had charged him after the first attack. If any corsairs come towards him, yell first to let us know, then try to stop them. But yell first!

The battle cries and noise of the corsairs came near, although they still hidden in the tangle of tall bushes that backed the dunes. Dirk in hand, Devon called, "Come on, let's get 'em!"

"No, wait!" Calnan urged. "Wait til they have the light in their eyes." Even as he spoke, the first corsairs burst out, only to pause in the sudden brightness of the campfire. Grasping this tiny advantage of the surprise, the Gondorians met them with a rush.

Calnan found himself up against a wiry little man with a heavy cutlass. As the blade came down, Calnan swung his staff up under the blow, shoving the man’s arm away and breaking his elbow in the process. As the corsair staggered, the other end of the staff caught him alongside the head and he completed his fall. Dropping the staff, Calnan snatched the cutlass from his limp grasp.

Avershire was dueling furiously with Doran himself. Callath was wielding his sword with an enthusiasm his opponent found most alarming. Wait – sword? Where – A tattooed corsair with a scimitar sprang upon Avershire, double-teaming with Doran. Gold teeth gleaming, he shouted in derision as the doughty Gondorian was forced to give ground.

Calnan lunged forward, catching the scimitar’s blow on his cutlass. Instantly the man wheeled on him. “Well, well - it’s the politician!” he sneered.

The man was vaguely familiar, but Calnan had no time for taunts; this corsair handled his heavy blade with breath-taking speed. Immediately on the defensive, Calnan barely evaded his brutal slashes.

As he backed up, he had to step lightly and carefully over the uneven ground. His hand and arm ached as blow after blow jarred on his cutlass. Blood tickled as it ran down his side. Funny that he hadn’t felt yesterday’s wound tear open.

Bare feet balancing him on the side of a small boulder, Calnan saw his chance. Leaping back off the rock, he half turned as if to flee.. The corsair sprang forward triumphantly, his booted foot landing on the boulder. Immediately it slid from under him as the leather sole found no purchase on the slick granite. Even as he stumbled Calnan was on him. One hard blow, a rapid feint, then a cut over his guard, and the corsair fell with his face masked in blood.

Breath coming in painful gasps, Calnan stumbled out of the boulders - and froze, stricken by the scene before him.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran charged in like a rampaging cave troll. Nobody stood in his way. The Gondorians met them fiercely but Doran had plenty of men to lose without losing the battle. Looking around, he saw a man that he decided needed to die. He had the distinct feeling that he had seen this man before and that this man was responsible for the loss of his two ships. Finally, Doran was able to place the man's face with a name-Captain Avershire, the famed Gondorian sea captain.
"Well, well, well," Doran said as he advanced. "If it isn't the famous Captain Avershire."

"And if it isn't the notorious Jythralo Doran," Avershire replied. "I've heard of you."

"And I of you," Jythralo replied. "Sorry, but I'm one of little talk," he said as he lunged forward to kill Avershire.

Avershire blocked and then dodged to the left, swinging his sword to the side. Doran parried the swing and kicked forward, forcing Avershire to give ground. But the Gondorian captain fought back fiercely and Doran started to notice that it was now he that was giving away ground. Doran frowned and began to match Avershire's speed and ferocity. The firelight made their swords glow in the dim night. All around Doran, men fought eachother and died. He could hear the cries of the wounded and the cries of those fighting-his men and the enemy, but all of his attention was focused on Avershire.

Suddenly, another corsair joined in the fight and began to doubleteam with Doran. Avershire struggled to match both men, but he was unable to keep up and to prevent himself from being killed, he was forced to give back more and more ground. The corsair was wild and had no style or technique; he just thrust and stabbed randomly. It was no wonder that finally, when Doran stepped back for another attack, he was able to counter the corsair. Quickly, Avershire kicked his foot out and tripped the corsair, and as the man fell to the ground, Avershire's sword hilt caught up with him and smashed into the man's knocking him down onto the sand. The man coughed and sputtered and blood drizzled out of his mouth where he was hit.

Doran advanced and swing his sword at Avershire's head. Avershire was quick enough to pull the sword out and block but he stepped too close to the dying corsair. The corsair, with a murderous look in his eye, reached out and grabbed Avershire's leg, tripping him. Avershire fell forwards but he twisted around and landed on his back. Doran stepped on Avershire's sword arm, pinning it to the ground; Avershire was defenseless. He lay still as the point of Doran's weapon lay at his throat.

Avershire breathed hard. "It seems as if I'm beat."

Doran smiled. "Yes, it does."
__________________________________________________ ______________

"NO!"
Doran looked up from his victory in time to see Devon jump forward at him with weapon in hand.

"Avershire!" Devon yelled.

Doran's smile grew even wider. "Now this is the boy I've been looking for. Come on, kid. Let's finish this."

Doran advanced. His sword gleamed red with the blood of Avershire as he went to face the ambassador's son.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath was overtaken by the battle, in a state where he saw, heard, felt everything so keenly, everything so bright and clear, like a drug, clarifying everything but allowing him to feel no pain. And such battle fury is indeed a dangerous drug.

Thrashing his whole left arm holding the blade out in a wide arc of steel, he sliced clean through a corsair's neck, but barely looked at the man as he fell to the ground. He saw every detail, but somehow it barely seemed to matter... he didn't register it, didn't properly look... Turning, he duelled sharply, agilely for a few seconds with another corsair, an older man of about forty. Such a duel was flashy, a mockey of real fighting, and Callath played up to it, grinning openly as he fought. But it didn't last - finding an opening point, Callath jabbed straight forward at the man's prone chest, darting in then pulling back in the blink of an eye, just as he would when fencing Devon. The man fell, a look of surprise on his face as he died at the boy's feet. Let your guard down, lost some points there... Callath thought giddly as he danced away, his eyes glittering brightly, predatorialy, leaping up to the top of a boulder like a fictional character, dashing. His thoughts were disjointed, barely matching up with what he was seeing and doing, as if a game and deadly real life had converged and he was having trouble working out which was which...but that was just another game...

They killed Luc, the fairground mantra went around and around, over and over, in Callath's head, driving him on, distracted and desperate. They killed Luc, they killed Luc, theykilledluc, theykilledluctheykilledluc...

"Calnan!"

A desperate cry brought Callath back to his senses properly although he did not instantly recognise the voice. A young boy...who was that...

"Calnan! Callath! Devon!" The voice cried again, a desperate cry, then a cry of pain followed. Callath's mind crashed back suddenly into stark reality, out of the strangeness of his mind, and he gasped, whirling around and squinting against the sun as he stomach plunged downwards suddenly and he saw Orda standing against another man, standing awkwardly over Sedal, whose disguise had been ripped away. The stable boy didn't waste a second - the sand was shelfed to the other side of the rock and the drop was about a metre, but the boy didn't even think about it: leaping down, he hit the ground running, darting fluidly around one of his victims, who he now could see in more detail. The sight nearly turned his stomach as he noted the man's head several feet from his body, but there was no time now to worry about what had happened when the fury was upon him. Sprinting towards Orda and Sedal, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword, he gave a fieresome yell in the hopes of putting off their attacker, a burly, dark man who glistened with gold earrings, built like a brick wall and towering over the thirteen-year-old boy and the prone surgeon. But the man was not to be diverted, and, obviously enjoying himself immensely, he raised the axe - axe?! - he was holding above his head, his tattooed body tensed to bring it down crushingly upon little Orda.

The distance between them was less than three seconds run for Callath, but it might as well have been a million miles for all the difference it would make.

He wouldn't get there in time.

The clear, blunt truth hit Callath like a ton of bricks, but he battled through it, transfering his blade to his right hand, which had ever been the stronger for throwing. Although it was wounded, it wouldn't let him down now. He ran for a second, then, turning sidewards like a spear throwing, his sword lightly balanced in his palm with two fingers behind the cross-section, he did a step-together-step, and released the sword with all the power he possessed.

It spiralled through the air, too fast to be seen, all the power and desperation Callath possessed in it making it more deadly than any other weapon on the beach in that second. Well, almost any other.... As it struck the corsair, he was actually knocked backwards by about a foot by the sheer force, a startled, messy cry emerging from his lips as the sword hit him in the throat. But at the same second, another cry came from over the side of the beach and, recognising it for all the time at sea he had spent in it's company, Callath spun around the see the owner of the voice...on his knees in front of Doran...