Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the elf spoke, Coromswyth looked up from where she knelt, startled: he had moved so quietly, more so than any she had been around in a while - the elves of Lorien did not disguise their footsteps when in the Wood, for what was the point? When he spoke, his voice, also, was soft. Did this actually reflect on his nature, she wondered absently. She wasn't sure why she wanted to work out the natures and minds of the elves so quickly and so much - it seemed more than simply idle curiosity. They seemed...different. Not quite hostile, certainly not towards Coromswyth herself, but the tension which was growing between Ambarturion and the Mirkwood elves was impossible to ignore.

"Lómarandil..." Coromswyth narrowed her eyes questioningly. "His shoulder again?"

The elf - Thorvel, she now remembered - nodded, but said no more. Stabbing her sword into the ground hastily but keeping hold of the dagger, Coromswyth stood and gestured for him to lead the way as she dug in one voluminous skirt pocket for the little equipment that she kept there. She shook her head regretfully - the pouch with much of her healing equipment, collected and created over years, had been lost when the Southrons and orcs had overcome them. Sighing inwardly, she followed Thorvel briskly to a patch of half flattened bushes...and winced as she saw the state of the elf sprawled within them. Kneeling immediately beside Lómarandil she rolled the now unconcious elf over onto his back with great care, her eyes running critically over his wounds. Putting two fingers to his face, she turned his head over to face her and winced as she saw the gash across it, already speckled with dirt and small bits of stone where it had been lying on the ground - and she was fairly sure not all of the blood was his. Coupled with the newly bleeding shoulder - she hadn't had much time to deal with that before - with a more serious, new gash beneath it, and a long, spreading patch of blood on the side of his tunic...

"Your Captain, much as he disapproves of myself and Ambarturion, is wise," she murmured softly. Thorvel opened his mouth and she half smiled, not looking up from her patient. "Don't protest, Thorvel, you know it is true," she added, sounding like a schoolteacher. Her smile faded and her expression became grimmer as she began to unbutton the front of Lómarandil's tunic, pulling it back so she could see the wound and she winced, her frown deepening: the gash across the young elf's side was not particularly deep for the most part, but the blackening of blood in the middle of it was ominous, and obviously deeper. As gently as she could, Coromswyth put her fingers on either side of the wound and pulled it very slightly apart. The elf groaned and his eyes flickered and she released her grip, her fear confirmed by the glimpse of a glint of metal in the gash.

"Poison..." she murmured, then looked up at Thorvel. "His...the orcish blades are poisoned, and it is one of them that has caught him across she side - and part of it, I think, has lodged itself there."

Thorvel bit his lip nervously, nodding. "What can I do?"

"Firstly, call over the other - what is...Targil! Yes, call over Targil. Secondly..." Coromswyth took only a split second pause as Thorvel complied, knowing that to ask whether he was squeamish would be a waste of breath, and would be a pointless insult besides. The elf knelt beside her at her bidding and she bid him put two fingers on either side of the centre of the wound as she wiped the dagger as best she could on her skirts to remove the blood, spitting on it and wiping again vigorously as beside her Targil arrived. "Targil, take off your belt please, and tie it around Lómarandil's arm, at the top, just above the gash - tighten it considerably." Sensing his hesitation, she looked up and caught his eyes. "Please, the gash it deep: it needs a tourniquet, to cut off the blood so he can lose no more."

Her voice dropped as she rubbed frantically at her dagger again. "I wish I could sterilise with fire, but there is no time..." she murmured in some absent explanation, before turning back to Lómarandil and clearing her throat, preparing herself and settling herself by his side. "Thorvel...when I say so, I would like you to apply pressure quite strongly to the wound, but only around the edges. Push inwards and down: the fragment is not too deep and it will force it up. Press harder with your right fingers than your left, but only slightly: it cannot be too uneven." Her voice had assumed a clarity and authority that was not questioned or resented by Thorvel, and for that she was grateful. Taking another deep breath she adjusted her grip on the dagger, knowing the finely honed blade would be keen enough but wishing it was more delicate: she could only hope that she would not do even more damage.

"Ok, pressure...apply now," she barked quietly. Thorvel complied, Lómarandil groaned more loadly as his eyes opened...and Coromswyth saw the hint of metal that was her prey. Her left hand resting lightly on Thorvel's, she approached with the blade, her eyes only inches from the gash, and she stuck the blade into the elf's side and twisted. Lómarandil cried out, quickly stifling his cry as his fists clenched and he shut his eyes tightly. Coromswyth barely thought of him even though, as she twisted again, he tensed and every muscle in his body stiffened; then, as the fragment of metal settled on the tip of the dagger, just visible through the blood that almost obscured it, Coromswyth paused for a split second, holding her breath. Not taking any chances about the reliability of moving the dagger further, she darted forward and pinched it out between two fingers: a piece of black metal, dark as the heart of an uruk and now covered in the elf's blood. Thorvel begin to relax. "No! Don't let go!" she barked authoratively. The elf stopped out of pure shock and she shot an apologetic glance at him before reaching beneath her outer skirt and ripping off quite a long, wide strip of the soft underskirt. Holding it to the wound, partly inside, she murmured, "I need to soak out some of the 'black blood' - the poisoned blood. Is there a stream near here?"

"We are not far from the palace." It was Targil who replied. Coromswyth nodded. "Good: we shall need to clean it out more thoroughly there." She removed the now blood soaked material and dabbed a few more times around the wound area, which had stopped bleeding with such vigour and was now only weeping slightly. Nodding to Thorvel, she told him he could release his grip and he did so, with some relief it seemed, before he stood, saying he would tell the captain. She ripped off the rest of the bottom of her underskirt all the way around - soft, thin material - and began to bind Lómarandil's side. Meanwhile Targil had applied a tourniquet with some profficiency and was now binding it tightly with a similarly makeshift bandage.

"Nicely done, Coromswyth." The female elf looked up in surprise at Targil and smiled, inclining her head.

"Thank you. Your friend will be simply need a few hours rest and hopefully another healer to look at his wounds: once the poison is out, it is but really a rather shallow wound. wound. I..." She shook her head, frowning as she looked away. "I wish I had my medicine bag with me: some salve needs to be put on his side ideally. Still, I am sure your physicians at the palace will be able to deal with that..."

"It was well done, Lady," he soothed. "And getting the fragment from his side...how are you accustomed to doing so?"

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil," Coromswyth replied, softly. The Lorien elf hesitated, then leant forward conspiratorially over the elf's body, causing Targil to subconciously lean in as well. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered.

[Durelin]

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil.” He watched the female elf hesitate before leaning forward over the body of Lómarandil, still but for ragged breathing. Targil leaned forward as well, and it felt strange to be so close to her. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered close to his ear, her breath tickling his face. She immediately leaned back once more and stood up, and in a way he felt regret that she was no longer so close. He had felt that he could hear her mind working when she was that near, and that was something to be desired. He glanced down at Lómarandil, who was beginning to stir, before rising. He had left Megilaes, the Ambassadors’ guard, to watch the prisoner, and he wished to see the orc still safely in bonds and with two eyes watching it. Finding the prisoner and its guard as he had left them, and with the Captain nearby.

Calenvása was not paying any attention to the orc on the ground behind him, but Targil still felt a certain amount of relief at finding the Captain present. But Ambarturion was also present. It seemed he had just come from collecting weapons, finally cooled off, for now. He was back to his stony face and icy eyes. Targil watched them for any sign of that ice melting in a great heat of anger. To his relief, they only flashed slightly when the ambassador looked at Calenvása. And yet Targil felt a fire light in his eyes as he watched Ambarturion approach his Captain. He felt a certain amount of pride as he watched his Captain, his expression almost as hard as Ambarturion’s, and yet more relaxed. He seemed at ease, while the ambassador was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

“We cannot wait around for this creature to wake.”

Calenvása had not looked at the ambassador yet, and he spared him only a glance after this statement. “If we do not wait, we move forward blindly, and with a wounded comrade.”

Thorvel joined the group at this moment, leaving Coromswyth alone to keep an eye on the wounded Lómarandil. For some reason, Targil felt a touch of anger toward Thorvel for doing so. It wasn’t as if the female elf could not be left alone, even without the orc party defeated. But then Thorvel spoke: “Lómarandil has had some real luck, Captain.” Calenvása looked up from the ground, looking almost surprised that he had been addressed. Thorvel continued: “The orc blade he came in contact with was poisoned. He needs better treatment.”

The Captain let out a bitter sigh, and looked back down at the ground before him. Ambarturion took advantage of Calenvása’s despair, and spoke with a fierceness that was so commonly in his voice. “He needs better treatment, and where can that treatment be obtained?”

“We must take him to the palace…” Thorvel replied, beginning to say something more to the ambassador, his mouth working angrily. Ambarturion cut him off with his own anger, turning now to speak to directly to the Captain. “Your man says so himself. We must move, Calenvása.”

Targil felt his own anger sharpen with these words. It was how they were said, mainly that disturbed him. But there was also the missing title. Strange that he would feel that the Lorien elf had wronged Calenvása. And what was even stranger was that it felt as if he had been wronged. “That’s ‘Captain’, Ambarturion. We must move, ‘Captain’.” Calenvása looked up once more, and their eyes met in silence, the tension around them, the air filled with anger, all ignored, as a silent thanks passed between them. Respect had been earned, and it was mutual. Something came into Calenvása’s eyes, and he turned to face Ambarturion, looking him in the eye, forcing his eyes away from Targil. Then the Captain spoke for the first time as a captain. “It is of my intention to save Lorien, Ambarturion. If you are of the same intentions, you will acknowledge my command.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I acknowledge your command of this scout troop, and in the absence of your King Thranduil I will obey your every behest in this land of our Mirkood kin. But I am bound to none save the Lord Celeborn, nor will I grant mastery to any but him or to his Lady.” Ambarturion’s words were cold and haughty, but they rang like shining steel taken from a scabbard, and all who heard them knew that they could ignore those words only at their peril. Megliaes shifted in his clothes uncomfortably as he watched the confrontation between his master and Calenvása from a safe distance. Ambarturion was the taller of the two and clearly of the more ancient lineage. But he was not in his realm, and he had been humbled by his capture. The cold danger that had lurked beneath the surface of his master’s demeanour since the murder of Caranbaith was cloaked now, but to those who knew the ancient Elf well, it was still there to see, lurking like a predator in the shadows, awaiting its moment.

Calenvása seemed to shrink in Megilaes’s eyes before the steady gaze of Ambarturion, but the captain’s reply put heart into his followers. “A fair answer, Master Ambarturion, but I do no ask you to swear allegiance to me, only to obey me in the lands of my king.”

“You speak of saving Lorien,” Ambarturion replied. “How do you propose to do this? The army that attacks now will be repulsed by the power of the Golden Lady as have the two that precede it. Or do you plan to attack the army yourself, and save my Lady the trouble?”

The younger Elf bristled visibly at the mocking tone. “We are not so rash. Where some might consider attacking, we prefer wiser and more profitable counsel. We had already decided to warn your kin of the attack, and would have done so already but for the need to rescue you.”

“We needed no rescuing. I would have soon removed my bonds and destroyed those who dared to carry us to their masters.” None there laughed.

“Be that as it may,” Calenvása continued, “we intend to continue with that plan now. But we must take thought to our wounded comrade.”

“Indeed, but there is no time to return him to the palace of Thranduil and chase after the armies of Dol Guldur. Your palace lies many days’ march north of here, and Lorien is at least one full day’s run to our west. Your loyalties are thus divided, but mine is clear. I grieve for your companion, but his fate is his and yours to determine, not mine. Whether you choose to leave him and come with me, or return with him to the palace is for you to decide.”

“And where would you have us follow you, should we decide to follow your direction?” His tone made it clear that such a decision was hypothetical at best.

“To your ending, but to one that might be worthy of a song and would win for you such renown in the memory of those who dwell in Lorien as to make it a worthwhile conclusion.”

Calenvása’s eyes narrowed. “You propose to lead us to our deaths? And how might those serve the high ones in Lorien?”

Ambarturion sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. It was becoming wearying speaking with these youths. He had forgotten what it was like having to debate and counsel with other Elves, so long had he been included in the closed circle of his Lord and Lady. In most cases, such exchanges would be unnecessary, as each opened their mind to the other and conceived of the wisest course as though there were harmonious singers in a choir. This clumsy talk was like the cawing of ravens to such music. “The main force of the army is no different from those that my people have destroyed before, and will continue to destroy for as long as the Lady keeps Lorien. But there is another force attached to the army – surely you noticed them – who are bent on another way. They will soon break away from the main force and attempt a desperate raid upon some undefended border of my land. While my people are occupied slaughtering their comrades, this force will attempt to take Caras Galadhon and destroy my Lady.”

There was a silence in the grove as those listening took this in. It was Calenvása who broke it. “Even if this is true, how will our deaths bring the Lady aid?”

“As I said, the army itself will be destroyed, but I fear that this smaller force might succeed. It is a suicide mission but one that might do terrible damage to us. We are not many, but yet we are enough to prevent the force from reaching the eaves of Lorien, or of reaching the Golden Wood in such disarray that their stroke will go awry. The number of the force cannot be much above two hundred orcs and men. My student and I alone can account for at least two score, and I daresay that each of you could destroy at least a half as many each. Well then, that’s almost half their number. With luck we might be able to destroy more. Such a blow would leave them crippled and unable to attack with any hope of success.”

“Wait a minute!” Ambarturion swung his head to regard the younger Elf, Thorvel where he stepped forward, ignoring the warning look shot him by his captain. “You propose that we should abandon or companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.”

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened with growing satisfaction as Calenvása argued with Ambarturion. The Captain was doing what needed doing, as far as Thorvel could see. However, his eyebrows rose skeptically at hearing Ambarturion’s plan to attack the smaller force, and he could not keep quiet any longer. Earlier he had thought that the Lórien Elf’s dash into the woods was the result of clouded thinking, but Thorvel was starting to wonder if that wasn’t just how he always thought. He was hardly surprised any longer that they had been captured in the first place.

“Wait a minute!” he said. He thought he saw Calenvása shoot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “You propose that we should abandon our companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.” Thorvel stared at him for a moment. Where was the other Elf’s sense? That would not help Lothlórien or the Lady, and it would get all of them killed! Ambarturion had said they could kill a full hundred of that force. What if they were killed first? Thorvel shook his head. Arguing with Ambarturion did not seem to be doing any good, and so he turned to Calenvása, who was frowning slightly.

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.” The last was said with a darted glance at Ambarturion. He had purposefully spoken loud enough for the others to hear. He stepped back. He had stated his opinion, one that made a great deal of sense to him, and was done speaking for the moment. Calenvása was doing a fine job debating with Ambarturion, and Thorvel intended to let him continue to do so.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil woke from his pain with a gasp as Coromsyth squeezed the blade out. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he felt the metal ripping is flesh as it came out. He fell back as they walked to join the group, slowly gathering strength in his arms to push himself into a standing position. Reaching, with great pain, for his belt he opened a pouch and took out a small vial of colourless liquid. Gripping the bottle a little too tightly, he took a deep breath and poured the liquid onto his wound.

The cry could probably have been heard for miles around, and Lomarandil fell to his knees, shaking, hyperventilating, as the liquid burned into his flesh. The skin around his wound turned black and crusty within seconds, and small amounts of smoke curled their way up his tunic. The others looked round, Calenvasa looked aghast, Ambarturion impassive, and Thorvel almost impressed. Lomarandil dropped the vial, and it shattered on a stone, falling onto all fours he began to gasp for air as he tried to control the pain.

A tear fell from the corner of his eye, and using all his strenght he pushed himself to stand up. Shaking still, he walked forward towards the group and murmered as loudly as he could, "I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

[Durelin]

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.”

As if he had heard the discussion turn to him, a cry was heard from the direction in which Lómarandil and Coromswyth were, clearly a yell of pain from the wounded elf. It seemed he had finally awoken to the pain of his wound. For a brief moment, Calenvása wondered what exactly that poison was doing to the elf. He came only to the conclusion that it was of a great evil, born from the minds of creatures of the greatest evil that was Sauron. It was enough to make any Child of Illuvatar shiver in a sickened fear.

It was at that moment that, to the shock of everyone present, the wounded elf himself walked toward them with an extraordinary amount of balance and strength. Coromswyth followed slowly behind him, her eyes upon the elf’s back, filled with amazement, then passing to look at Calenvása. A silent understanding passed between them that she knew nothing more than he did about what was going on. If Lómarandil’s recovery was not enough of a shock for them all, it was Targil who stepped forward to help the elf walk the last steps he needed to make to join the others.

Lómarandil glanced at the elf as he took his arm, careful of his wounds that had now grown to be several of varying severity, but the young elf said nothing. Most likely it took too much strength to speak, though it was obvious that nothing needed to be said. Calenvása watched in wonder, and found it hard to focus on the words Lómarandil was saying, his mind abuzz with thoughts that would not rest until they all had been run through his mind.

"I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

The Captain assumed that he spoke of the army, though it was hard to tell. The elf had found the strength to rise from where he had lain and to walk the distance to the group, but it was clear that there was little other strength left in him. His wounds were seemingly – miraculously enough - not doing him any immediate harm. He spoke softly, his breath too short for much to be spared for speech. It was strange to see the young elf in this weakened state, without his usual vigor and energy that so often was manifested in recklessness. But the voice of Targil sounded even stranger to Calenvása’s ears.

“It was spoken in haste that it would be best for us to return to the palace,” Targil said, his voice almost as quiet as Lómarandil’s, and his tone surprisingly calm. “And now even to speak of Lómarandil as a burden at all.” The way this was said made it clear to the Captain that there was more meaning to it than what was found on the surface of these words. A burden was what Targil had always seemed to see the young elf as. And a burden that was not worth being carried by him. Of course it had also been clear that Targil had not particularly approved of Calenvása himself. Never had Targil been seen showing much respect to anyone. Not until recently…the recent times had changed them all. He could feel the world changing.

“Haste, indeed…” Ambarturion’s voice was no less spiteful than before, and only slightly less calm. “You speak of haste, and that is what is required of us.”

“I speak of a haste that had consequences. You speak of a reckless haste that will bring us to our deaths,” Calenvása said quickly, snapping at the Lorien elf. “The haste you speak of is unnecessary. There are many things on our side that you refuse to see, Ambarturion. You see the roughest road as the only road, and take it. The path you wish to take at this time is one that ends in the needless deaths of us all. And what is your reason for taking this path? Renown? To be remembered in a song as those who died for Lorien? Why not be remembered as those who lived for your land…my brother.”

They were of a kindred, the remainder of a kindred who lingered in a darkening Middle-Earth, refusing a call to other lands to live in these. To live in these lands, and for these lands. Ambarturion was his brother, as were all those present. It was wrong for them to find, even create divisions among themselves, the Children of Illuvatar, who knew best in this world what evil was, and who would neither allow it a place in their hearts, nor in their lands.

There clearly was a change in Ambarturion’s eyes, if not in his face, which was still set hard and cold. They cooled, just as the voice of the Captain had. Coromswyth was of course standing at the male ambassador’s side, and she now reached out to touch the elf slightly on the arm. He jumped ever so slightly at her touch, obviously caught lost in his thoughts. At this moment, Calenvása would give anything to know what those thoughts were. But as Ambarturion turned to look at his female companion, it seemed Coromswyth was doing the thought reading for him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It shocked him to know how little the other Elves understood about him. He had no more desire to die than they, he only wished to make that death worth while. But why do you think only of death? He did not turn to Coromswyth. Instead he returned Calenvása’s gaze. Because it is inevitable, he replied. Aloud he said, “I have been fighting the long defeat for the length of memory. I have come to accept that there is, in the end, no hope for Middle-Earth and for those whose fate it is to remain here. My only wish is to save what can be saved. For many long years I have sought to convince my Lord and Lady to take the straight Road into the West, but ever have they remained. I cannot save them from this folly, but I will not let them be destroyed. If my death is the only way to save them, then I will give away my life gladly.”

Calenvása’s eyes grew wide with shock. “I had not idea, Ambarturion, that you were so sick at heart with despair.” The younger Elf’s face and voice were utterly sincere, and the expression of his feeling was of such purity that it shocked Ambaturion into silence. “Have you really forsaken all hope for this land? Do you truly see no path to life and victory over the Enemy?”

“No.” The word slipped from him before he had noticed, and it hung there in the still morning air like a reproach.

Ambarturion swayed slightly, like an oak whose time had come to fall to the earth. But Coromswyth once more steadied him with a touch. He turned to her, and was stilled when he saw in her gentle smile that she did not condemn him despair. It stabbed him deeply that she acknowledged it at all.

Into the silence that had fallen upon the glade, it was Megilaes who spoke. “Master,” he began, and there was in his voice a timbre and age new to him. “The Captain is right. You must not fight this war in despair of failure, but in hope of victory. My brother was slain and I will seek his vengeance, but I shall not find it by throwing away my own life.”

Ambarturion turned to his student, and those gathered about were stunned when he asked softly, “What should we do?”

Megilaes put his hand upon his teacher’s shoulder. “Let us do as Calenvása has suggested. Let us return to our land and warn them of the danger. Then, with some more of our kin we can march out and meet our enemies upon the field of reckoning.”

Ambarturion put his own hand upon Megilaes’ forearm and nodded. The faintest hint of a smile crossed his face, like the feel of sunshine through clouds. He turned to Calenvása. “Come,” he said. “I have heard that the feet of our Mirkwood kin are fleet, but they shall have to be swift indeed to keep pace with me this day!” He spun and ran toward the West, and his passing was as of the wind in the grass. The others ran after him upon feet as light. And as they ran, they heard Ambarturion laughing.