Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened intently to what Calenvása said. There was little that he had not already known or figured out; the only thing he did not understand was the little exchange between the Captain and Lómarandil. Clearly something had happened, and though he was curious Thorvel did not push it. It was the young elf’s news, however, that caught Thorvel’s interest.

“I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien,” said Lómarandil. Thorvel had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, he was glad that the enemy’s plan of attack had been discovered, but he wished it had been any other elf besides Lómarandil to discover this. Thorvel got along with Lómarandil all right, but he didn’t like the younger elf’s arrogance, and Thorvel supposed this would only add fuel to the fire. In addition to that, Thorvel didn’t trust him. Not that he trusted very many people, but though he appreciated Lómarandil’s skills as a scout, there was something about him that made Thorvel wary.

Thorvel was starting to get impatient to speak after listening to Calenvása and Lómarandil speak. He determined that he would be next, whether someone else had something to say or not. Then Calenvása turned to him, as if expecting him to speak. He stood up straighter from where he had been all but leaning against a tree; he could feel the other Elves’ eyes on him.

“I think,” he said, “that though we know their general plan, we actually know very little of what they plan to do. They’re going to attack Lothlórien. This tells us little; it was either that or Mirkwood. What we need to know is how they are going to do that. And why so many? And with Southrons? Is this attack somehow more important than the others that they have led? These are the things that I think we need to know, and if at all possible, the elves of Lórien should be alerted. If this huge army were to come upon them at unawares, I should hate to think of the devastating loss that would then most likely ensue. There must be some small way that we can help them.” There. He had said it. He had no personal ties to Lothlórien - he had never even been there - but the thought of an Orkish victory made his blood boil, whether against Elves, Men, even Dwarves. Orcs were Orcs, and he hated them.

He realized it was starting to get warm, and shifted slightly into the shade of his tree. He realized it was nearing mid-day already, and what were they doing but sitting here and talking. Discussing important things of course, but talking nonetheless, while the Orc army was out there. He hoped they would finish talking and take some action soon. He settled himself grimly and waited to hear if there was anything anyone else had to say, and what Calenvása would make of it.

[Durelin]

Calenvása acknowledged Thorvel's words as very wise, and would discuss them later. All of what the elf had just said would come into play once they began to discuss their next move. And Thorvel had spoken aloud what Calenvása's mind was trying to work out: the most important thing was to get to Lorien and warn them, wasn't it? To warn the King would do little good. It would take several days to journey north, and there were countless dangers that had to be faced in that route. And what could King Thranduil do? He had no army hidden up his sleeve. The elves of Mirkwood fought their own battles, and struggled with little hope. They could not help their brothers, even now. Though perhaps this scout troop could. Calenvása decided to disregard any thoughts of glory for the rest of his life, and nodded toward Targil next.

For a moment Targil hesitated in speaking, and he looked as if he were reluctant to say what was on his mind. He remained in his crouched position, his hands running through the gross as he thought. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly at first, and it seemed he was worried about what kind of reaction these words might bring. But then his voice hardened as he went on, and its tone showed that he felt strongly about what he said. "I find it strange that these tensions that you discussed, Captain, were risked in the plan of this attack. Would it not have been easier to control an army entirely of orcs, and yield a fierce mob? I wonder, as Thorvel does: why Southrons and Easterlings?"

Targil paused for just a second, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lomarandil prepared to speak. Gesturing calmly with his hand and smiling at the younger elf, he gently quieted him. No one spoke, and all eyes were now back on Targil, if they had not remained there the whole time. He realized this, and seemed a bit daunted by this, but only for a moment. Calenvása watched slightly in awe of the young elf as he collected himself and some of his great surplus of courage. Targil's voice was strong and fervent as he continued. "I see that there is a need for Men in this mission. And the only difference I can find between Southrons and Easterlings, and orcs is in their minds."

Targil stopped again, and his eyes fell back to the ground, where his hands still played in the grass. It seemed he was finished. But Calenvása was not satisfied. He of course had several ideas concerning what the elf was trying to say, but he needed to know directly from Targil what he was saying. Calenvása thought he knew, but he always doubted himself, for good reason, or so he thought. "Forgive me, Targil, but I ask that you explain exactly what you are suggesting."

Targil's eyes shot up from the ground and he looked at his Captain. He looked exasperated. Calenvása then proceeded to sigh himself, and said, "I begin to see what you see, but my final vision may be very different from your own when it is formed in my mind. Or it may not."

Targil let out his own sigh, but nodded in agreement, or at least in acknowledgement. "I see more than a large attack force. I have reason to believe that brains are needed in this attack, and so there must be more to it than march and slaughter."

Calenvása practically shivered at those last words. 'March and slaughter' expressed what orcs did, so well and so bluntly. He would keep those words in his mind as a reminder. He hoped that they would appear in his thoughts whenever it was necessary for him to remember what he fought for and what he fought against.

As for the rest of the words, they confirmed the Captain's thoughts from pondering Targil's last words, but they looked at the situation from a slightly different direction. Calenvása's mind had been too set on details, and tried to fill in any holes. The problem was, it was far too early to be thinking in details. And filling in holes was not at all a good idea, for they needed the details to fill them in with.

Calenvása's eyes passed from Thorvel to Lomarandil. He knew Targil had no more to say, for now. The young elf was not one to be slow in thought or lengthy in speech. Calenvása then asked them all, "Is there more that is wished to be said? For we must soon pinpoint our next position."

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I hate them."

Koran simple, murmured statement made Ehan look across at the older man, slightly surprised at his matter-of-fact way of speaking such a bold statement. The Southron captain allowed his eyes, just for a moment, to dart deliberately across to the group of orcs not far away, illuminated in the pool of light from their fire, and as he did his eyes were vivid with constrained loathing. Koran leant forward over the fire, calmly turning over the pointed stick spit on which a few strips of heavily salted meat were speared, and his demeanour was so calm that the statement may have been disregarded - after all, most of the Southrons resented being classed with the orcs - their 'hatred' became every day. But when Koran's eyes darted up, there was no doubt that the serious looking captain had not made the statement lightly. His dark eyes held Ehan's for a moment, then he looked down again. Another sudden, vulgar whoop errupted from the group nearby and with his keen eyes Koran saw that the object of their play was alive - some small animal, a ferret or rabbit or the like. Ehan turned quickly to glance at them, the looked back. The good-natured boy grinned slightly, always one to make light of a situation. "Why so much?"

Koran shrugged simply, hastily, avoiding Ehan's eyes as he carefully removed the spit, the stick held with surprising delicacy between his long dark fingers as he pretended to concentrate much more. Inwardly, he berated himself. Fool, Koran, fool - what, you come to represent your clan and instead let this boy know your true thoughts... He had vowed not to let his feelings be known unless there was need for them to be, unless he was sure of his company - sure he had scanned them for sign of Ferach and Cortim's corruption. He was sure they would have someone watching him - and he didn't think it would be to check that their dear young cousin was keeping well and dressing warmly. There was no love lost between the cousins - it was not merely paranoia that kept them on his mind always, that meant he was constantly alert, listening to more than just words when people spoke to him. The clan of Cenbryt may have been a fading one, but it was a noble house of warriors, a formidable name among the Southern clans. Though it was hardly the style of the Haradrim, Ferach and Cortim would do anything to take hold of Koran's reins as the head of the tribe - a knife across the throat would do as well as any for them, that Koran knew.

As Ehan looked back to his food, Koran surveyed him surreptitiously under his long eyelashes, watching as the fire played upon the former's dark skin, lighting it at strange angles and making him seem older, more mysterious. He had spent the day in the boy's company, preparing for the long march, and was beginning to learn something of the boy. Boy always seemed the right word for him as well - he could not be more than six or seven years younger than Koran himself, but they seemed much farther apart, Ehan's merriness and almost simple accepting of situations making him seem much younger than he really was. In his world of a myriad greys, the concept of such a clear view seemed almost alien to Koran, and so made Ehan seem childlike. Yet it was also somehow refreshing. However, he also felt he owed his younger companion some sort of explanation.

"The orcs...they..." he trailed off, exasperated, not sure of the words. "They are untrained, unskilled, inhuman...I dislike fighting with a force with less sense than a domestic rabbit."

"Less sense? Oh, I'd say some of them came close to rabbit skills..." Ehan replied mock-thoughtfully, holding the remains of his strip of meat at a philosophical angle, a slight grin on his face. Koran grinned back, raising one eyebrow. "No, definitely, there is very little semblance between a rabbit and...that." He pointed his dagger sharply towards one particular orc, who was playing a game with his own knife, stabbing the spaces between the fingers. The two southrons watched this fine specimen of orc-hood for a good few moments, stabbing between his stumpy digits with reckless speed, then seeming surprised when, to the guffaws of his companions, the blade met his fingers. He did this a full five times before Koran finally looked away in despair, his lip subconciously curling in disgust. Looking back at Ehan, he raised an ironic, eloquent eyebrow. Ehan grinned back openly and nodded consideringly.

"I concede, Captain, they are..." he trailed off, searching for the right word, then gave a small laugh, causing Koran to grin as well. "But indeed, some of the Southrons have little training as well - and besides, no rabbit would have such sharp little claws," Ehan finished, wishing to justify himself.

Koran's face darkened and he leant back, half enveloped in shadow, spinning his fine, precious dagger absently between his fingers with unconcious skill. "Claws can attack both ways..." he murmured, watching the group.

"Hmm?" Ehan raised his eyebrows, and Koran was caught by the simplicity of his expression as he munched on a mouthful of food. He blinked a few times and shook his head quickly, his dagger coming to a halt between his dark hands to fit snugly into the palm of one hand more easily than any glove as he leant forward casually, his face clearing as the light illuminated it once more, out of the shadows.

"No...no matter, Ehan. Just musing. I am curious - have you served with orcs or uruks before?" The way the question was phrased seemed simple enough, but underneath it Koran was inquiring to other matters: such as how much fighting experience the young man actually had...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan blinked, and then squinted his eyes downward to his boots before shaking his head and looking back up to Koran. “Ahh, well, sir, I have not ever served with them. I must admit that I believe I would be embarrassed if I ever had, if you know what I mean,” Koran said naught as Ehan trailed off momentarily, and when his captain made no movement or acknowledgement of his statement Ehan blinked several times before clearing his throat to continue. “I do say, however, that I have indeed met with the creatures in battle. It was a great deal of delight and fun, I shall admit freely. When stabbed through, the squeal they make sounds rather akin to a wild boar…”

“I have rarely heard a person speak of war and battle in such a way,” Koran interrupted as shadow caressed his face while fire licked and flickered away valiantly in attempts to lighten where Ehan could not see. Ehan nodded, but did not speak. Koran finished consuming his slab of meat before turning his head to watch the orcs while speaking to the younger Southron. “Regardless of whether a warrior loves adventure and fighting or thinks nothing of it and only does it because it is his live… yet I have never heard sane warriors speak of their fallen enemy, relishing in their dying war-cry. Even if it was an orc.”

Ehan looked to his captain, wondering at his words. Surely Koran would understand the ruthlessness of battle and the ferocity of Southron clans. Ehan sighed, unsure of how to tread and reply after having been spoken to in such a way. For just a few, precious moments Ehan considered speaking softly and eloquently, but this inward attempt was lost and fleeting in Ehan’s mind.

“They were not quite war-cries, captain,” Ehan corrected, chuckling and drawing his rapier swiftly as he finished. The young man jabbed into the air violently, grinning while his eyes flashed. “And even still, I think that I have merely reached a point that every warrior reaches sooner or later, and I have just reached it sooner.”

“And what is this ‘point’, Ehan?” Koran wondered, and Ehan thought he could catch a hint of a smile on the older man’s face. Ehan sheathed his sword and proceeded to take a seat before the fire and just across from his captain.

“The point where battle affects you so much, and in such a negative manner that one must make it worth going out and risking one’s life for. The point in which adventure and fighting must mingle with fun and jest to make battle worth the blood and gore,” Ehan mused at his own words, almost surprised that they had come out of his mouth. “But perhaps that is silly. Still, even if it is silly, I will continue thinking it because it helps me survive. And, dear captain, whatever keeps me alive is fine for me.”

Koran sighed before standing out of the shadows. “Well, I just hope that you learn one day that real warriors do not go to battle merely to fight. Real warriors go to war and kill because of duty and honor.”

“Real warriors die first, I have learned,” Ehan replied, thinking of his sister and trying not to sound bitter to his captain. The young man was not sure if he failed miserably in the attempt or passed off his answering well to the intelligent and wise captain. “Despite, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.”

[Arry]

‘Look!’

Snikdul raised his one eyebrow (the other having been lost long ago in an unfortunate encounter with an enraged Dwarf and a flaming pitchy brand) and nodded ever so slightly toward the men across the way. Gromwakh flicked his eyes briefly toward the Southrons’ fire, noting the composed, fixed mask on one of the men’s faces as he turned back toward the cooking of his own meal. The man’s movements were deliberate and calm, making the Orc shudder even more than the deep loathing that had flashed briefly in the man’s eyes.

‘They hate us,’ rasped Snikdul. ‘The stinking sons of sand rats!’ His long, knobbly fingers curled about the hilt of his blade with a hard grip. Others of the Orcs echoed his action, brutish hands bringing weapons to the ready. And one, feeling the bloodlust rise, brought his club down with a resounding thwack on one of the unfortunate cellar rats as it struggled to escape the sack which held it.

‘And that’s just what’ll be happening to you louts if you let your clubs and blades do your thinking,’ hissed Gromwakh as he kicked the mashed carcass into the fire. ‘They hate us alright . . . him especially, if looks mean anything . . . Nothing more than vermin to him. Just as soon see us dead, I think. Give any of ‘em half a chance and they’d kill us as easily as they’d stick the nasty Elves.’

The man had turned away from his brief perusal of the Orcs, his attention now seeming to be fixed on the young man near him. The yellow eyes of the Orcs about the fire narrowed to feral slits in the dark faces, a banked red fire licking at their edges as they gazed toward the Southrons.

A loud yelp from one of their own pulled at their awareness, drawing their focus away from the men. Several of the company sitting a short way off had been playing a game of skill – making wagers on who could make the most stabs and the quickest with a knife between his own splayed fingers. Extra points awarded if one did not cry out with the certain misses that always accompanied the game. The unfortunate contestant had lost, yelling out as he’d cut himself for the sixth time, and his fellow players hooted in glee at his misfortune.

Gromwakh laughed along with the others, even as he threw a rag to the losing Orc. The air of tension had dissolved for the moment, leaving the band of Orcs in what passed for good humor among their kind. The bleeding digits were slathered with some noxious smelling dark paste and bound with strips of the grimy rag. Another of their company had pulled out some dice, irregularly carved cubes of knucklebone with varying numbers of dots on the crudely smoothed surfaces. Pain was put aside as the losing Orc’s fingers curled round the dice and rolled them against the broad trunk of one of the trees. Two good throws and then a loss – the ‘bones, as they were called, passed on to the next eager player, and the next, and the next.

At his back, Gromwakh could feel the looming presence of the men across the way. We will have to be careful if we are to make it out of this one . . . he thought to himself. Men and Uruks both breathing their foul breath down our necks . . .

Then it was his turn. The dice passed into his hands. He rattled them together to the growing yells and jeers of the others. With a grunt he released them, his head cocked to one side as he watched them bounce off the tree in a rough arc . . . willing what little luck he might have to direct their outcome . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

It was Koran's turn to be surprised now at the note of bitterness in Ehan's voice, although he made no comment upon the melancholy, wise-before-his-time statement. Brother, sister, parent? There are few Southrons now who can boast no losses to their family, and then, what is that to boast of? There was a silence between the two men as each struggled inwardly - Koran disagreed, but it would be insensitive to say so when it was obvious from Ehan's uncharacteristically downcast face that there was a reason for such an outburst. Maybe one day he would understand Koran's point of view - the captain understood, after all, what Ehan meant...

“However, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.” Ehan broke the silence, shifting to lighter, business-like matters. Koran grinned at the reference in the last sentence, but couldn't hide his shock.

"You have not been told where we are going? Did your clan not tell you before we..." he trailed off, as the answer was evident from the boy's face. Shrugging, he explained. "Fair enough, I..." would have expected the soldiers to be told where they were going. He shrugged again, then smoothed a patch of dusty earth in front of where he sat, his legs crossed, and used his dagger to demonstrate a map, tracing out and pinpointing certain landmarks and the army's path. "The army heads West through what remains of Mirkwood on this side, marching until we come to the banks of the Great River. I suspect this shall take...say four, five days? Here, there shall be a split." He traced a sketchier, lighter line up along the banks of 'the Great River' which he had thumbed in the loose, sandy earth. Pinpointing this line with his dagger tip like a schoolteacher pointing to a diagram (although Koran would have known little about the comparison), he looked up at Ehan. "This is us. We split from the rest of the army, along with a small force of Southrons and, yes, some of the 'rabbits'-" he raised an eyebrow as he said this, a grin flickering across his lips. "-and attack from a more Northerly point. This means-"

"Wait...attack...where?"

Koran stared at Ehan, astonished that he hadn't even been informed of where they were attacking. But from Ehan's face, looking at the sketchy map, he guessed the bright young man had worked it out, even if he was not particularly wise in this area of Middle Earth. He sketched a few runes on the point of the map the two parts of the army were attacking. "Why...Lorien of course. We attack the elves."

[Kransha]

“Idiots.” Thrákmazh snarled beneath his breath, the final syllable terminating with a long, serpentine hiss as his single usable eye rolled sideways in its sunken socket. He was glowering over, though the gnarled windows of trees with patches of dappled sunlight coursing through their branches, at one of the many discontinuous bands of uruks that had congregated. A guttural, canine growl rumbled ominously in his throat as he got to his feet and took several steps towards the other group, placing an open palm on one of the trees and impatiently tapping his ragged talon against it.

“Bloody, stupid fools.” He said grimly, the digit beating faster, less rhythmically on the bark of the half-dead tree. “Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir.” Chanted Urkrásh behind him, his voice comparatively smaller and less imposing, but equally gruff, as the dank tone of an uruk should be. The other uruk, standing partially hunched over in Thrákmazh flickering shadow, continually nodded, waiting for the opportunity to do something his master desired. Usually, Thrákmazh would’ve snapped angrily at his lesser cohort, but he was far too busy being angry with something else. As his finger tapped faster and faster on the bulky tree trunk, it began to steadily scratch off the bark as his solitary eye narrowed into a thin line of sickly color. The mountain orcs he was looking at, with fierce and frustrated intensity, actually had the gall to be entertaining themselves with foolish pursuits when the army was supposed to be preparing for organized departure. One orc had been oafish enough to stab himself accidentally, but was now concerning himself with a game of dice. It disgusted Thrákmazh, who’d never really thought much of other orcs, but was set upon the success of this attack.

The plates of armor strapped around his feet and legs clanking noisily on the grassy, earthy ground, he made his way towards the group of wretched uruks, who seemed totally unaware of his presence in the compact clearing. Blinking momentarily before his gaze steadied again, he ambled into the midst of the orcs, watching with a satisfied grunt as several of them turned and took notice. At last, his single, yellowy orb scanning the limited vicinity, Thrákmazh spoke, his raspy voice filling with a commanding air. “C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!”

Most of them heard him, heads snapping sideways or backwards at implausible angles to see him. Several uruks spun around dazedly and managed to throw themselves onto their feet, ready and waiting for his next order. Some just crawled around and looked at him despondently, as if they had no idea what he was saying. Some just cocked their heads boorishly, shooting dumb glances at him, and some didn’t take notice at all. A venomous grimace forming on Thrákmazh’s face, he stalked over to two orcs who had not acknowledged him, one of which being the imbecile who’d nearly cut his own hand off and was now shooting dice across the clumps of dirt with a tattered rag used as a makeshift bandage to stifle the bleeding of his hand. Thrákmazh stood, looming over the uruk, his shadow cast like a dark cloud above him, and the brute didn’t even notice. Some of the other orcs were starting to become self-conscious, but Thrákmazh was heedless of their concealed whispers. “Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!”

Before the orc, or anyone else could react, Thrákmazh’s coal-colored fist had clenched around one of the bolts jammed into the leather quiver on his back, whipped it out, speared the orc’s open hand with it as he released the bone-dice again, and carried that impaled hand upward into the tree’s side. The orc yelped with pain, new and old blood intermixed from both wounds now coursing over his whitened knuckles and onto the tree bark. As the orc roared in agony, Thrákmazh yanked the arrow out, letting loose a brief spurt of dark liquid, and unsheathed the rusty, jagged falchion that hung at his side, driving it in a fearsome arc across the trunk of the tree and the orc who had been helplessly nailed to it a moment ago.

A moment later, Thrákmazh stepped back, plopping the arrow back into his quiver and sliding his dripping blade back into its scabbard with a metallic shriek. He looked down as the orc, a great gash cut across his chest at a diagonal, crumpled onto the ground in a twisted heap, jerking back and forth for a second before he went still and stiff. There was no sound from the other orcs except for the noisy panting of their breaths. Many jaws hung slack and faces were slated, but again, Thrákmazh dismissed it. Most of them had seen comrades slain before, and would not care to see more fall. He was not in charge of keeping them happy, it wasn’t his concern wether or not they liked him as a commander.

“Filthy worm,” he spat, kicking the limp corpse so that it rolled a few feet, “trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.” He turned, looking up, as he wiped the remnants of the other orc’s blood from his own hand and the supply that had peppered his armor. “You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock." Some of the orcs looked around nervously, lumps building in their throats. "I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.”

Again, not waiting for them to react, Thrákmazh moved along, purposefully stepping on the body and crunching several useless ribs as he walked through the forest and mass of soldiers, gesturing to his self-styled servant darkly, who followed behind him dutifully and obediently, shooting disappointed glances at the orcs behind. “Come, Urkrásh.” He said quietly, “There are other matters to attend to here.”