Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[piosenniel]

Arry's post:

‘I heard it was old One-eye going to lead most of us this time.’

Gromwakh muttered something unintelligible in return as his ratting companion, Snikdul, nattered on about the rumored plans for the upcoming battle. They were down in the depths of the cellars and passageways beneath Dol Guldur. Hunting was good down there, the rats plump from the horde of foods stored for the use of the fortress’ little army. The small burlap sack the two Orcs had dragged down with them was filled with tasty morsels . . . some of them still squirming.

‘You gonna stand there and talk while I do the work,’ Gromwakh growled, casting a nasty look at his companion. ‘Think you can talk your dinner to death, do you!’ he picked up a clump of mouldering dirt and threw it at Snikdul.

Silence and the scrabbling of the two-leggeds after the four echoed in the dim, dusty recesses of the main storeroom. Unable to help himself, as he methodically wrung one of his catches’ necks, Snikdul found himself speaking again. ‘Well whatta ya think of that?’ he asked, continuing on, as if there had been no pause.

‘Think about what?’ rasped Gromwakh. ‘One filthy Uruk’s the same as any other. It’ll be “Scum do this!” and Scum do that!” and ours’ll be the backs that bleed when the whips are laid to them.’ Gromwakh looked up, glaring as Snikdul Shhh’d him. He chucked a squealing rodent against the stone wall for emphasis. ‘Stop your sniveling! Whatta ya going on about? Think the stones down hear have ears? Think again!’ He waved a stiff rat’s body over his head, pointing it up toward the top of the hill. ‘All them high-and-mighties are somewhere up there making their plans. And it’ll be our snaga-hides the nasty Elf-blades’ll be cutting on the front lines.’ Snikdul wiped the back of his arm across his dripping nose, giving a resigned shrug to his companion’s comments.

Gromwakh motioned for Snikdul to follow him down the dirt tunnel. Their shuffling steps were muffled by the loose dirt of the floor as they loped along. Dried, twisted roots from the few trees still clinging to life on the hill poked out here and there from the tunnel’s roof – snagging the hapless hunters on the head as they passed. Just before they reached the steps up to the surface, Snikdul spoke up again. Another observation had bubbled up to the surface of his thick stew of half-formed thoughts.

‘Hey . . . I heard something about that man-Captain . . . Herding they called him. Clever, he is . . . he hates them southern pushdugs much as we do. Snikdul snorted with laughter. Gromwakh grunted and slung the rat sack over his other shoulder. ‘Quiet now. We’re here at the top. Filthy walls do have ears up here . . .’

The two Orcs slunk low, half hidden in the shadows afforded by the scraggly bushes and the rough-hewn sides of the fortress. They kept their eyes on the ground before them, fervently hoping no one would notice their passage.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's Post

The light of midday cast Ambartrion’s shadow before him as he strode easily through the long grass of the Vale of Anduin. The party had left the eaves of Lorien in the morning and as always happened when he walked in the outside world, the dull reality of it settled upon him like a fine ash. The trees that stood in clumps about the plain were naked sticks that clung to life in a chill and desolate landscape, little different to him than the Brown Lands to the South. There came to his keen ears from time to time the falling cry of desperate birds and the rush of troubled waters over impertinent stones. He sought the solace of memory, moving in his mind across earth that seemed more real than the solid ground beneath his feet. More and more had he done so of late, to the point where the few companions that he allowed to join him in his journeys outside the Golden Wood became concerned that he was withdrawing from the waking world of Middle-Earth to a point where he could not, perhaps, return. And, indeed, he was always reluctant to leave the lands of memory and rejoin the fallen and stale world of the present reality, and was often curt with those who called him hither.

This time it was his student Caranbaith who called him back. With a light touch on his master’s shoulder, the youth pointed to the distant horizon saying, “If I see aright, the Mirrormere lies before us, and we are heading a bit west of north. Do we not take the long way round to the Woodmen of Mirkwood by this route?” Ambarturion sighed at the youth, impatient with his question. Megilaes, Caranbaith’s brother and also student to Ambarturion, caught the manner of their master’s reaction and quickly held his tongue.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he replied quickly. “There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can. I intend to lead us somewhat west of the Anduin for a day before turning toward the River. There is a place two days’ march from where we shall stop this night where we can ford the waters and then strike north and east to the Woodmen.” Caranbaith nodded quickly and fell silent before the manner of his master. He and his brother had been in his tutelage for only a short time, barely one lifetime of mortal Men, but in that time he had found his master to be impenetrable in many ways. On some days he would answer their questions with patient forbearance of their youth, gently instructing them in the ways of war. On days such as this appeared to be, however, he resented any intrusion to his thoughts and would quickly put down any attempt to interrupt his inner life. Sensing that he would say no more that day, the brothers fell back to walk a few paces behind their master.

Ambarturion turned once more to his thoughts and was soon lost in the groves of Doriath even as his feet continued to pick out their careful way toward the mountains. He did not turn to Coromswyth where she rode. He had opposed her desire to ride on this journey, for horses were difficult to house and feed, and could be both seen and followed more easily across the wide open spaces of the vales that they must cross. But she had been insistent and he had deferred to her in this simply to avoid further discussion. He did not speak with her that day, for he saw no need of unnecessary words with her. Their route had been discussed and decided upon, so what need of conversation would there be before nightfall? And thus did the company proceed through that afternoon. Ambarturion strode along out front, his pace never slackening or changing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, alert to all possible danger, but unseeing of much that passed before the eyes of the others, lost as he was in the world of his youth. Behind him followed Coromswyth and his students, who diligently swept the horizon with their keen eyes as they had been taught, ever vigilant against the threats of this uncertain world.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post - Coromswyth

In the dismal setting of the Vale of Anduin, the sun beat down wearily upon the company of elves as they made their way through the long grass, the three at the front on foot and one, a woman, at the back, riding a grey stallion. A dry, lazy wind blew across the plain, ruffling the long grasses through which they strode and ruffling the stallion’s coat so a thousand different colours showed, sunlight playing across the crest of a wave. The stallion’s rider smiled slightly at the beauty of such a simple thing, then glanced backwards again at the path they had taken, her sharp grey eyes taking in everything. Like the pair of brothers who walked behind their master, Coronswyth was slightly uneasy at taking this route. It was some way longer than the more direct route possible. She waited intently, her eyed on her hands as they smoothed down the horse’s coat around it’s shoulders, as she listened to Ambarturion’s answer to his pupils.

“There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can…”

Coromswyth nodded slightly, satisfied, as she listened to the master’s reasoning. It had been the answer she had expected, of course, as it was what they had discussed, but she was curious as to Ambarturion, and to his pupils. The older elf was mysterious, so stern and proud, and Coromswyth had barely exchanged a few word with him since they set out from Lorien that morning. In fact, come to think of it, she mused with a slight bemused smile, she hadn’t actually exchanged a single word with him since they set out. But his dark grey eyes said all that they needed to: every time he looked at her, they fairly seemed to radiate disapproval. The elf smiled to herself: she wasn’t as yet sure of why exactly Ambartution disapproved, but was fairly ready to bet it would be because of her openness to other races – she had heard of Ambarturion, although she was not yet personally acquainted with him. He shared the view of many of the elder elves among the Galadrim: he wished to leave Middle Earth to whatever fate awaited it and it’s people. After all, Coromswyth added dryly, The Age of Elves is passing. Why should the elves defend the coming of the Age of Men?

There was both bitterness and gladness in the fact that the elves would soon need to leave Middle Earth, and Coromswyth was not sure which she felt more definitely. She had travelled far, and had seen some things that made her almost think that Men deserved the doom Sauron had in store for them: but then, what of the rest? Not all men were evil: they were weak, like children in their headstrong ways and instinctive manner, and children should be looked after, not scorned for their inevitable mistakes. And she had not seen nearly enough of Middle Earth: in a thousand lifetimes of men there would not be enough time for that. Maybe if she could just keep hold of a few more of them…

“My lady, are you keeping well?”

Caranbaith’s soft, courteous question brought Coromswyth back to reality and she looked down at the elf walking beside her, nodding. A swathe of black hair fell across her cheek and she brushed it back lightly. “Aye, thank you,” she answered, smiling at the elf. He nodded, inclining his head to her formally, before returning to walk ahead with his brother. Coromswyth watched them, a wistful tinge tinting her gaze. They were more than one hundred years younger than her brother had been when he had been ambushed with Celebrian on the Redhorn pass, and Ambarturion was to them what her father had been to Merydhan – their teacher, tutor, guide. Indeed, Ambarturion struck her as being like her father: a distant, proud figure, stern, wise and strong. Why, with their grey eyes, fine bones and black hair, she and Ambarturion even shared their beauty. How ironic then, she mused, that their opinions differed so greatly with respect to this beautiful Middle Earth.

Watching Caranbaith and Megilaes, she sighed slightly, unsually melancholy. They were younger than her brother had been when he had passed to the Halls of Mandos, but in the time between their age and his, who knew what would happen? For the elves do not have so much time left any more…the sands of time are running out for us, I fear, and the hour glass is almost empty...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The distant glint of Mirrormere flashed across his eyes, awakening him from his memories. He was, at first, almost disoriented by the sudden return to reality, but he recovered himself before his students noticed the lapse. Ambarturion wondered, somewhat anxiously, if Coromswyth had seen it. I must take more heed to myself, he thought sternly. More and more of late do I surprise myself with the awakening…as though I were in truth still in Doriath with the golden leaves above me, and the song of Lady Melian about me. He shook his head once, hard, to drive away the lure of that memory, and stared ahead across the vale.

Their route had brought them to precisely where they were supposed to be, despite his waking slumber. The westering sun was just touching the heights of Celebdil and the reflected light from its snowcaps was glinting upon the distant jewel of Mirrormere. They had taken a slow arc as they moved, changing from the north-westerly route they had begun so that they were now headed almost due north. They had passed the first southern spur of Fanuidhol and would soon come about so that its mighty shoulders would be fully on their left, blocking their view of the lake that marked the beginning of the Dwarven realm of old. Ambarturion hastened his step somewhat, quite unconsciously. He had chosen their route to avoid the dangers that came from Dol Guldur in the east, but their road had brought them perhaps a bit too close to the gates of Moria. The goblins that haunted that realm now had been repulsed, but still they presented a danger to any who ventured through this realm without the protection of daylight.

Seeing that his master was once more with them, Caranbaith quickened his pace until he strode at Ambarturion’s shoulder. He did not speak, but waited until his master wanted to acknowledge his presence. In a much shorter space of time than he had come to expect from him, Ambarturion spoke, answering the question in his pupil’s mind as though he had heard it spoken aloud. “The goblins of Moria will not attack us upon the open plain; not even at night. They dare not show themselves outside their realm in any size of force, for fear of our reprisals. Remember how we paid them for their intrusions when they pursued the Fellowship into the Golden Wood.”

Caranbaith nodded and said nothing, but his brother Megilaes said what was in both of their minds. “They will not send out an army, Master, but there is risk of a smaller band of marauders, is there not? Ever do they harry our borders, spying upon us and doing what small mischief they can.”

Ambarturion was silent for so long that the brothers feared that he would not reply at all. In truth, he was weighing his response carefully, for he greatly feared that their words would prove true. All this day a slow feeling of foreboding had grown upon his heart, and as the shadows of the mountains crawled out across the fields toward them they cast a dark warning upon his heart. “You are right to be wary, Megilaes,” he replied with studied calm. “But if we are beset by marauders I have no doubt that we will be able to drive them off. The goblins of Moria are still reeling from their losses and have been greatly weakened – otherwise they would have joined the forces of Dol Guldur in their attacks upon us.” As he spoke he heard Coromswyth ride up where she could hear their conversation, and he frowned lightly, refusing to look at her. He strode on with the horse at his back, but the lady would not be put off. He began to wonder if she too had felt the shadow of peril that seemed to hover about them.

“Ambarturion,” she said softly, “I do not doubt that you are your students are more than able to care for us should we be attacked by a rag-tag band of raiding goblins. But if there is danger of a more organised assault, should we not take counsel for that while the sun still shines?”

Ambarturion stopped and turned toward the lady. Tall as he was, he had to look up quite a way to where she sat upon her steed. He wondered if she had insisted upon bringing her horse in part for this very reason. “What counsel is there for us to take, my lady?” he said courteously. “We are far from our borders and night is approaching. If we turn back now we would not be safe in Lorien before dark. And if we tarry here too long we will not reach the safety of our first camp.”

It was Coromswyth’s turn to frown this time. “I hope indeed that we will find safety there,” she said, “for I do not like the feel of the wind that comes to us from Moria. It is chill, and deadly.” Ambarturion did not reply, for what was there to say? He too felt the danger in that wind…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They pressed ahead more quickly throughout the rest of the day and reached their campsite as the sun disappeared behind the Mountains, plunging the whole Vale of Anduin into dark. The valley of the Mirrormere now lay five leagues to the southwest, and the eaves of Lorien from whence they had departed this morning some twelve leagues to the south. Ambarturion led them all up a small hill and into a copse. All about the hill the land was empty save for a few scattered bushes, but the trees atop the hill grew in a tight ring about an open space, as though they had been planted as fortifications. Within the ring of trees was a small hollow with a firepit in its midst and a store of dry wood beneath a shelter of woven branches. As darkness rose from the land around them and closed in over their heads they sat about the firepit and ate a simple meal of lembas and clear water. Nobody spoke and they did not light a fire.

In the far west, the sun sank beneath the horizon, and night fell on the Vale of Anduin.

[Durelin]

Moving with care, it took Calenvása long, suspense filled moments to make his way to the clearing that had been designated as the scouts' meeting place. His heart pounded in his ears as he kept his eyes glued to the ground that his feet trod on. He kept low, and he felt a constant fear that the forest green did not hide him from his enemies. And all the while, his mind went through all that could result from being seen through the leaves or being heard by the snap of a twig beneath his feet. Mainly, he thought of what this meant in accordance with his position. He was supposed to be a leader, and when the leader failed, the consequences could be so much higher. Calenvása was all too vividly aware of what lay in his hands as 'Captain'. He continually scorned this name, but it was official, and so there was little he could do. What he did not realize, though he scorned, he remembered his responsibility, if he did not handle it too well. Now, he worried most about endangering his comrades. Perhaps he had not waited long enough before moving?

All his worrying was brought to an end upon finally entering the clearing. He looked upon the members of his scout troop, the elves under his command. There was young Targil, whom Calenvása knew was a skilled woodsman, and most likely could be a very skilled leader. Calenvása was not sure what Targil thought of his leadership, but he knew that he could trust the elf. And Thorvel, he knew, he had gained the trust of, and he certainly trusted his comrade himself, but he could not say anything of Lómarandil and be sure. He did not doubt too much that the young would follow his orders, but Lómarandil was so very young, and Calenvása could not see himself putting much trust in the boy, sadly. And how much trust the boy put in him…

“Mae govannan,” he said as if he was surprised to find them all here, and smiled. All smiled slightly, but only Lómarandil clearly smiled at him. Calenvása then let his thoughts lighten, taking his mind off the question of trust. He did not need such a matter becoming tangled up in the troop’s mission. The important fact was that they all fought for the same reason and toward the same goal. They fought for Mirkwood, and perhaps for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, and, more importantly, they each wished, with varying passions, to face the evil that threatened the land. This had come to a personal level and grown to be an overwhelming shadow that could not be ignored by the elves when the fortress of Sauron returned to Dol Guldur in 2460. At least, this is what had spurred Calenvása into ‘serving his King’, though he liked to think of it more as serving his people. He, for obvious reasons, did not let this be known to others.

Calenvása’s eyes traveled to the sky, and, without having to shield his eyes, he looked upon the sun. “We remained hidden in the trees, only yards away from our enemy gathered in strength, for over an hour, with only one small disturbance.” He glanced knowingly at Lómarandil, still with a small smile on his face. Then he turned his gaze upon the three elves that sat and stood before him, and his face grew grave. “Little can we know from this hour, long though it may have seemed, but there is always the obvious to take into account.” He paused for a moment, and, bringing the different images of the army into his mind, he studied them as he spoke. “There were Southrons and Easterlings among the orcs. Two kindred of men, and orcs – a variety that could be used to the army’s advantage, or to our own. And there are already large divisions, as can be seen by the separation of the camps, the tents of the men and the crude fires of the orcs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Calenvása had been watching Lómarandil, and the young elf had seemed rather impatient, as his Captain spoke. Now Calenvása turned to him, feeling that anything more he needed to say would be better said after more thought, and more information to ponder. “Do you have something to report, Lómarandil?”

The elf nodded, and Calenvása watched his face grow set as he prepared to speak aloud to the troop. “I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien.”

Calenvása nodded thoughtfully, knowing that this fit. He doubted that the army would have gathered north of Dol Guldur, and on the edges of the forest, if they planned to attack Mirkwood itself. Did they see Lorien as the greater threat, then? Calenvása had been surprised that this information had been discovered so soon and so easily, but he realized that there were so many other questions that needed to be answered, and some that he had yet to think of to ask. This news had stirred Targil and Thorvel, it seemed, and the Captain let Thorvel speak next, curious at what the skilled elf had seen and recognized as important. Calenvása’s own mind worked, and he began to realize that there were so many images in his mind that he had failed to recognize the importance of, and others that were now of little importance at all.

[Arry]

‘Careful, Snik! Step lightly now! Those Uruks have got themselves all worked up over something . . . and we wouldn’t want them working it out on our hides, now would we?’

Gromwakh held his game bag with a tightly clenched fist. Hung over his left shoulder, it bounced heavily against the small of his back with each step, throwing his gait a bit off. Snikdul had drawn near him, his right hand gripping his stout iron bar. With surprisingly light steps for such ungainly looking creatures, they eased past the company of Uruks. A moment of rank fear brought them to a sudden halt when one of the brutes cast his red gaze their way, throwing back his head to catch their scent. ‘Mountain maggots!’ he growled at them; then, dismissed them with a toothy sneer as his leader said something which caught his attention. The two Orcs slipped quickly behind a clump of thorny bushes and hunkered low until they felt safe to move on again.

‘Close ‘un, that!’ whispered Snik as they started off again. ‘Hurry up!’ rasped Gromwakh back at him, one bulgy eye keeping track of the Uruk group. ‘I don’t plan to share our catch with the nasty blighters.’

The small band of Orcs they belonged to was on the fringes of the great army, tucked away beneath the sullen canopy of some darkling, twisted trees. Thick layers of dark leaves, new barely discernable from the dead, held back the sun’s rays, affording the Orcs a modicum of respite from the hated light. Mottled twilight it was that prevailed in the little copse . . . smoky twilight, rather, as a few of the band had started a little fire in hopes of a hot meal soon to come.

And come it did with the arrival of Gromwakh and Snik.

Skinned, spitted, and charred, the rats provided a tasty bit of meat for the hungry Orcs. All washed down with swigs of brackish water from the nearby stream. A little later, as several flasks of Orc-draught were passed about and the fiery liquid had set their bellies glowing pleasantly with its fire, the company discussed the rumors they had gleaned that day from other groups. Snik offered his comments on who would lead them, and many faces turned sullen at the mention of One-eye. ‘Him! . . . hunh!’ swore one, following up his assessment of the Uruk with a glob of spit toward the dying fire. The embers hissed and popped in protest of the sticky missile, and others of the group looked furtively about as if the great Uruk and his followers might be leering over their shoulders.

‘Best we just keep close to the shadows when we can,’ said Gromwakh, echoing the unspoken thoughts of many of his companions. ‘Out of sight, out of mind so to speak.’ A number of the Orcs nodded as he went on. ‘Do our job quick as we can when the big push starts. Give them the glory. Leave the foul swine and the fouler Men to finish off the cursed Elves.’ He raised his chin, pointing toward the northwest. ‘While we make for the dark ways beneath the mountains . . . and home.’

There were grunts of support for this little speech as it came to its end. The last of the firelight glinted off the ragged, yellowed fangs of the Orcs, their dark lips drawn back in ghastly smiles of approval.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth nibbled lightly at the end of her lembas, not feeling particularly hungry: there was something in the atmosphere of the plain that made her uneasy. She looked around surreptitiously, taking in the area they sat in: the tight trees made it useful in several ways, of course - an enemy would never be able to attack on horseback, any large force would have to break down and so couldn't hurl elves with their full force, and even the trees were of a sort that would shed leaves all year around, to dry up and stop any force from approaching silently. It was not too small, either, allowing space to fight if it came to it, and gave an advantage for defence, especially for archers, as it was on a hill, and the copse would provide some defense...

But then, archers, if they managed to moved through the trees or with extra stealth - or maybe if a sentry guard was not vigilant enough in the depths of an uneventful night - archers would be able to get into place entirely surrounding the elves at the centre. And those leaves, shed so usefully to stop attackers, could be the undoing of those they were attacking if they needed to retreat down one side...and Coromswyth knew, from the loss of half of her family, that retreat should not be underestimated, no matter how cowardly it may seem: for there is nothing much noble about a girl waking up one morning, alive with some dream she wished to share, and realising, as she had done every morning for a lifetime of men, that her twin brother will never be able to share it with her...

Coromswyth paused suddenly, freezing, then slowly finished her mouthful and looked straight up into Ambarturion's grey eyes. "How long have you been watching me, Ambarturion?"

"For as long as you have doubted my judgement, my lady," came the cold reply. The older elf did not blanch as Coromswyth addressed him, and he still radiated a sort of paternal disapproval. He thinks me beneath him for my years... "You doubt...why is it that you doubt this place?"

"I am sure I misunderstand, Ambarturion..." Coromswyth began carefully. She saw no sense in angering Ambarturion with explanation of her misgivings about this place: there would be no point, for she had no wish to dent his considerable pride. And besides, it was not a bad spot - had she thought that, she would have said so, for too poor defence, even in such a simple journey, could cost their lives, and more.

The other elf shook his head jerkily, angrily, but didn't say anything for a few long moments. The elf woman watched him without speaking, the silence growing awkward and cold in the oncoming night air. Eventually, Coromswyth rose, stifling a sigh as she did not want to provoke Ambarturion, and crossed the open space between the trees to where her horse was tied to the low hanging branches of one straight trunked, regimented tree. The stallion gave a soft, low whinny of pleasure as she approached and lay a hand on it's muzzle, murmuring softly to it as she ran her long fingers down it's muzzle tenderly.

The lengthy silence continued to stretch until Ambarturion eventually spoke. "Why did you insist upon bringing that beast along?"

Coromswyth looked over at him in surprise, eyebrows raised, then opened her palm and allowed the horse the last of her lembas. "I am sure you have some ideas why..." she replied softly, not looking at the elder elf.

"Aye, maybe." His reply was spartan and cold, telling Coromswyth with more eloquence than words could have managed how he felt about it. She smiled very slightly to herself. Possibly he guesses it is merely spite, a will to go against his wish...or that I did it so that I may have some high ground above him, maybe? How foolish and frivolous you must think me, Ambarturion, that you think I can only voice my ground in a few feet of horse!

"Maybe?" she prompted, teasingly, smiling a little more. "Ah, Ambarturion - please, I shall not doubt your judgement if you do not doubt mine. For after all, yours has proved fine as yet - I make no criticism upon your choice of resting place." She traced her fingers down the horse's neck gently, weaving an invisable pattern of leaves through it's fur, then gave it a final pat, smiling into the horse's eyes. Crossing the open space once more, she caught Ambarturion's eyes once more: the elf did not look away, but Coromswyth wished he were a man of more words, for what wisdom or debate he might impart from the fire and consideration that had settled hand in hand in his eyes. A mystery indeed and one, she thought with a little mischief, that she would take pleasure in unwravelling.

"Goodnight, Megilaes, Caranbaith," she said softly, her voice velvety as she nodded to each in turn. They inclined their heads to her, then to their master, before departing wordlessly to their sentry posts, their golden hair seeming to glow slightly in the darkness, silent spirits to sit as sentries for the two Ambassadors. Turning to Ambarturion, Coromswyth smiled, courteously and gently rather than with mischief or mockery. "Good night, sir Ambarturion."

He paused for a second, then looked away, preparing to sleep. "Sleep well, my lady," he replied, and Coromswyth was pleased to hear no rebuke in his voice as she had feared. With a pleasant sigh, she rested against the tree nearest, settling her back against it's trunk as she crossed her arms and fell to dreams...