Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

Rinfanawen's post

Diera plunged quickly back into the fierce battle on the ice. She dodged many swinging Elven swords as she carefully made her way towards an evil Lossoth on the other side. It's my turn now, Lossoth, she thought. Dreaded creature...this is your last day to live. The Lossoth had recently finished a quarrel with one of the Corsairs, whom, to her dismay, Diera saw lying breathless upon the frozen grave beneath him. She stared at the Snowman in fury. This deep-seated hate had lingered far too long, and it was time to revenge her fallen crewman. Diera almost felt sorrowful at the fact that she did not even know the crew member's name, but she determined to avenge his death nonetheless.

The Lossoth waited cautiously with his bloodstained weapon hanging at his side. Diera slowed her sprint to a halt and bent down towards the snow, not taking her eyes off the Lossoth. She wiped her blade smoothly in the snow, as she did before every new battle, to clean her sword of any blood from a previous foe. Her uncle taught her once that this symbolized respect for the fallen ones. To her, it showed her enemy the true identity of the weapon and how sharp it really was. Diera stood slowly. She moved her wrist in a circular motion, making the sword wind throughout the air. Suddenly she stopped her wrist as the sword met an upright position in the air. She placed her left arm firmly against her stomach to protect it from any further harm. The first move was made.

Diera thrust her right arm forward at the Lossoth with great strength. She felt her blow push back from where it hit the Lossoth's weapon. She swung around to block the swing of her foe. The Lossoth counterattacked with his weapon, but it was to no great use, for Diera had already struck her enemy to the ground. Diera began to walk away. She turned her back on her supposed fallen foe to find her feet being drug from beneath her. She fell suddenly to the snow and landed hard in the impact. The Lossoth began to drag her across the ice toward a broken hole. Dropping her sword in the fall, she had no choice but to reach for her knife with her left hand. A thousand bolts of lightning seemed to shoot through her arm as she struggled to grab hold of the knife. Her arm grew warm again with blood flowing towards the wound.

The Lossoth pulled harder and harder, limping with his right leg as he walked toward the hole. Diera saw the broken ice not far ahead. The Snowman grinned. Diera grew furious at her foe and screamed out in anger.

"No irony is to be made of me!" She yelled trying to pull herself closer to her foe. "I will not die in the trap meant for my enemy!"

Diera hurled herself forward with all of her might, her leg still being pulled by the Lossoth enemy. Using her left hand, she slashed her knife as high as she could, so to not penetrate her own flesh. The knife cut through the Lossoth's lower left thigh. Diera's foot was set free. The Lossoth slid back in pain, but Diera had not yet succeeded in the battle. She stood abruptly. Wasting not even a single moment, she rushed forward and slit the throat of her crouching foe. The Lossoth died quickly.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Lalwendë's post

Three elves and two Lossoth men were fighting hard against three Corsair men, and were slowly driving them back towards a hidden hole in the ice. The Corsairs knew the hole was there but they were losing their strength and their opponents had blocked any chance of escape. Tarn saw the look of panic on the faces of the men and struggled through the battle towards them.

As he got close to the men, he brandished his harpoon and shouted “Come and get some of this!” Then he stood firm holding the weapon ready as one of the elves and both of the Lossoth men turned towards him, grimacing. “Tarn, what a surprise to see you here,” said one of the men sarcastically. “This man might look high and mighty, but I can assure you, he’s no better than a mangy dog” the man said to the elf.

“And you are nothing but a stripling and a coward” Tarn sneered at the man, who was barely out of his youth. “Think you’re something special out here with these elves do you? Nothing but the fifth son of a pauper who pickles pilchards for a living, and still you think of yourself as better than me. You could not fight your way out of a barrel of vinegar!”

The young man’s face turned red with anger and he ran at Tarn, a reaction the older man had been hoping to provoke. With a wry look on his face, Tarn whipped out his knife and stooping quickly, shoved it into the back of the man’s shin as he ran past, missing Tarn’s manoeuvre in his haste. The man stumbled with a cry and Tarn whipped out the knife, jabbing it in the air before the other Lossoth man, who had now come forwards, furious at Tarn’s actions.

“You too? You want to taste this knife?” yelled Tarn, rushing towards the man, who turned and ran away. He shouted at him in derision as he loped off, and kicked the younger man who lay groaning, unable to get up.

Two of the Corsairs had managed to draw off one of the other elves and were driving him back to the shore, and one remained in combat with the remaining Corsair, the biggest of the southerners. But the first elf, who had come forwards with the two Lossoth men was now facing Tarn, and he looked unruffled. He held a slender sword outstretched and did not move. Tarn sidestepped around him holding the harpoon ready. He was not going to make the first move, but he jerked the weapon slightly as though he were about to thrust it towards the elf, who responded by jabbing the sword at Tarn’s stomach. Tarn jumped back and quickly swung the harpoon down at the elf, who sidestepped nimbly.

To his alarm, the elf quickly came behind Tarn and locked his arm around his neck. As he was about to thrust the sword into the man, Tarn jabbed his elbow back hard into the elf’s stomach, winding him. He used all his strength and took hold of the elf, almost as tall as he was, and threw him down. The elf dropped his sword with the force of his landing, and as he struggled to catch hold of it, Tarn saw it lying there.

He went to grab the weapon but the elf was there first and though he was still prone, he took the sword in his hand and slashed it towards Tarn’s shoulder. Tarn ducked, throwing his weight down onto the prone elf, and though he did not receive a fatal blow, he felt the sword slash at the skin on his upper arm, and felt the hot gush of blood swelling up. His head filled with a seething rage, he took hold of the collar of the elf’s jerkin and staring him in the eye, overflowing with vengeance, he bashed the elf’s head with his own.

The elf lay still and Tarn got up too quickly, feeling dizzy with the loss of blood to his arm. He stumbled on the ice and went back down to his knees. As he caught his breath, he saw the elven sword, stained with his own blood, and grasped hold of it; luckily the injury had been done to his left arm. Wincing as he tried to stand again, he looked for the big Corsair man who was nowhere to be seen. The elf he had been battling was now engaged with another fight. Tarn’s eyes widened as he realised where the man must be. The pain in his arm briefly forgotten, he rushed across to where he knew the hole to have been, and crouched down at the edge of the break in the ice.

The Corsair was grimly hanging onto an axe which he had thrust into the ice sheet. Tarn could see his face, turning blue with the cold, but the rest of his body was under the ice sheet, unable to resist the strong pull of the swift current. The man’s eyes were still open and they flashed a look of panic as he saw Tarn; he was unable to talk. Taking his harpoon and quickly working the hook in the blade under the man’s collar, Tarn heaved as hard as he could and managed to draw the man back closer to the opening in the ice. He took hold of the man’s other arm and winced as he felt the cold water yet kept a firm hold. With his injured arm he removed the harpoon and flung it behind him then took hold of the hand which still held the axe, and dragged the man up and out of the water.

Tarn looked at him briefly. The battle was far away from them now and he could afford a few minutes to make sure the Corsair was going to live. He liked the man. He had been more friendly than some of the other Corsairs, and they had spent some time talking about their shared interest in hunting on the previous day. He wanted him to live. Remembering the flask of fiery spirits the man had offered around, Tarn searched his soaking pockets for it. The drink was not frozen, and Tarn poured a little onto the man’s lips. He spluttered and motioned thanks. Finding a fur from a fallen elf, Tarn placed it onto the man in the hope of warming him up, and headed off to find a sled for the man’s rescue.

[Taralphiel]

Freyn listened to Alahseey speak her case, and nodded along with it. Truth she spoke of their long friendship. Freyn had always respected her position, and he knew well she was a strong and dependable leader.

"Can you do that Freyn? I ask you to do nothing dishonorable, nor to break your pledge to the Elf, but merely to speak out on my behalf so that the truth may be heard....."

Freyn knew something had been bothering him about the Company members. He felt that there was danger, apart from what Nature had already dealt.

"Aye, I see something amiss, Alahseey, and so I will do this for you. I also fear this same threat upon our Company, and I will keep my guard tonight, and as long as I must before it is all over..."

[Kitanna]

Nilak continued to advance across the ice. He knocked down a few Lossoth and even one or two Elves with his harpoon. The tip was stained with the blood of men who had not been so very different from him and life. Nilak tried not to think about it. This was just like all those boats he'd help sink in the shore. No different.

Nilak was suddenly hit from behind. Another Lossoth body slammed him, knocking him to the ground facedown. The snow stung his face and he tried to get to his feet. Whoever knocked him down wasn't very strong so Nilak was able to push him off and get back to his feet.

The other Lossoth was still sitting in the snow. Weaponless. He reached out and grabbed Nilak by the leg and attempted to sink his teeth in. The Lossoth was so desperate he was resorting to biting Nilak. Luckily his boots would block out the attempt. Nilak drew out his dagger and ran it through the other Lossoth's chest.

He made a gurgling sound and spit up blood on Nilak's boots and all over the ice. He sat there twitching by Nilak's feet and trying to say something. Nilak took pity on him and decided to end his suffering. He lifted his harpoon high and drove into the other's chest.

[Orofaniel]

The drowsiness made him dizzy as he lay still. He was drifting away. The dreams were all over and he found it hard seperating them. What was real and what fantasy? He couldn't stay on one path only; it was as if he had no control at all. Sighing in his endless sleep he lay there. Around him followed a battle, a bloody battle between the Corsairs and the Elves. He knew this because he was somewhat conscious, but at the same time he was dead to the world. He could feel the warming heath around his throat as he had great difficulties breathing. He struggled against the fever that was about to come over him. He had been in the icy water for a long time and this was the result.

Suddenly, he could hear Annû’s and Carandû’s voice. The words were not easy to understand, but at least he heard the voices of those friendly creatures. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't let him. Another struggle followed. Two faint shapes were standing in front of him, fighting like heroes against the horrible Corsairs that wanted to see the Elven brothers' blood flow on the ice. The brothers wanted the opposite - he could tell by their way of fighting. As he saw how the Corsairs attacked them, he felt like he was suffocation. He would lie there and watch them fall without doing anything. He struggled again, trying to move his cold body. It worked. His hands clenched to the solid ground, fighting himself up in a sitting position. His vision however, was still faint and he still felt like he was burning up inside.

"Behind you Galhardir!" A voice cried. Galhardir turned, and it seemed like an eternity before he noticed what was coming towards him. A sword was going to strike him right down if he didn't move quickly. His thoughts weren't clear, nor was his vision, so what was he going to do? Fumbeling on all four, he managed to seize a club just in time before it was to late. He hewed it through the air and hit the man that was coming for him. He fell to the ground with a great sound, and found himself now on Galhardir's level. As the Corsair yet again tried to get a hold of his sword, one of the elven brothers then managed to force an attack. The Corsair got up, and fought back; leaving Galhardir was out of danger – for now, at least. Thinking of Annû and Carandû as his good friends as they had saved him from the enemy, Galhardir fell again to the ground as he fainted.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Sprinting down to the ice to take his place beside the other fighters, Luindal had only a moment to dwell upon the strange scene that had taken place between Alahseey and Hilde. The tiny shreads of rope on the axe blade seemingly confirmed Hilde's accusation. Yet Luindal wondered if this was the whole story: perhaps something more was going on than first seemed apparent . Something niggled uncomfortably at the back of his mind, but he had no specific objections to offer, only a vague feeling of discomfort.

For the next few hours, he had little time to think about either of the women. His own hands were full: making sure that his wounded were conveyed to a place of safety, darting in and out to reinforce the small groups that were battling the Corsairs, and going hand to hand in combat with individual Corsairs. Throughout the entire afternoon, Luindal made a point to notice where the Corsair sea captain was fighting. Despite his growing dislike of the man, he could not help but admire an opponent who so craftily used every means at his disposal. The holes in the ice, like the rocks in front of the door of the cavern, had clearly not gotten there by accident.

Several times, Luindal attempted to force the Corsair captain to come out and directly engage him. But the man was maddeningly allusive, and seemed to enjoy playing a cat and mouse game. Luindal could have sworn that the fellow was enjoying poking fun at his earnestness. If he hadn't known otherwise, Luindal would have said that the Corsair leader almost seemed to know him, his likes and dislikes and what strategy he would be most likely to adopt. They seemed to be acting out an old, familiar dance, a fact that infuriated Luindal even more.

Luindal's desire to strike a personal blow at Marreth had at least two motivations. First, without their leader, the Corsairs would be much less effective and might decide to leave the Bay; at the very least, the group should dissolve in warring factions. Yet, there was another element as well: a personal sense that this fellow had played him for an innocent, that he'd had enough of this upstart and would like to strike a blow that would push the smirk off Marreth's face, and avenge the suffererings of his own men.

Luindal had decided to give chase to the Captain with the intent of engaging him one-on-one when the white bear came stumbling through the lines, his long tongue lolling from his great maw and his chest heaving with exertion, "Luindal, we've many wounded. And the men are tired. We can not go on like this. Call a retreat. Our job is to seize the Stones, not to engage in bloody combat down to the death of the final man. I do not think the Corsairs will follow, for they are close to exhaustion themselves. There is a way off the beach under the shelter of those scrub evergreens that will give us cover to get away."

For an instant, Luindal opened his mouth to object: he wanted to chase after his wily opponent and teach him a lesson, not go running off to his ship. Then he thought twice and shook his head, "You are right. These Corsairs make us forget why we are here." Luindal raised the horn to his mouth and sounded the three long notes to regroup and retreat. He watched as men and Elves pulled back from the fray and slowly made their way down towards the southern portion of the shore. He started trotting in that direction beside his friend Rôg and glanced back once over his shoulder. He could have sworn that Marreth was laughing at him....

[Regin Hardhammer]

The combat that afternoon had been harsh, but the men fought with vigor and out of a sense of allegiance to their beloved Captain. Marreth fought alongside them, his brown cloak billowing out behind him as he dashed from one end of the shore to the other, engaging various Elves in hand to hand combat. He had killed or wounded three of them already, although he had fought many more.

Marreth was careful to be constantly moving so as to make himself a harder target for anyone wanting to pick him off. Despite Marreth’s intense hatred of the Elvish warriors and their appearance of being too soft, he had to admit that they were dauntless fighters and very well trained. His own crew was growing weary from the dense and unrelenting combat: several had died and many more were wounded. Marreth did not want to tell his men to retreat, fearing that it might convey weakness to the other side. But if a break in the fighting did not come soon, he felt he had little other choice.

Marreth had just finished skewering the head of another Elf with his rapier when three long, dulcet notes rang through the air, and Luindal’s party began to scamper towards shore. “Bloody cowards,” Marreth roared out to his crew, “Mates, we pounded them like an angry storm thrashing a frigate. But we are tired, and I hardly think that we have any need to finish them off. They have learned never to meddle with Captain Marreth and his crew.”

Despite his bold words, Marreth was very glad that Luindal had decided to retreat first, allowing the Captain to save face. In actuality, the battle had likely been a draw, and Marreth did not see how one side would have been able to gain any sort of clear advantage.

Smiling as he watched the Elves retreat, Marreth froze when Luindal sprinted past him. This meddlesome Elf was the chief obstacle that prevented the Corsairs from obtaining the Palantiri. And, although he was reluctant to admit it, Luindal had proven a shrewd and able adversary. Shivering with excitement, Marreth imagined the Elvish party retreating with the corpse of their dead leader. Now was the prime opportunity to eliminate this threat once and for all.

But taking out the Elvish leader meant much more to Marreth than simply a practical matter of getting rid of the intruder. Marreth’s insides bubbled with steaming anger against the leader. This hatred arose not only from the fact that Luindal had wounded or killed several of his beloved crewmembers, but also on account of his own father driven to madness and murdered by the Elf’s Gondorian allies after they summoned the living dead. In Marreth's mind, Luindal was becoming the symbol of everything that had given him trouble and was responsible for the death of this own beloved father.

Marreth snatched a longbow off the back of a crewmate and steadied his arm as he darted forward and aimed for the vile creature’s heart. Deftly, he plucked the drawstring, hurling the arrow through the air towards the leader. He drew back his arm and let the arrow fly straight and true. But, by chance, a gust of wind came from nowhere and pushed the arrow sideways, so that it grazed the side of Luindal's arm. The Elf looked up, dazed and confused, and saw Marreth’s scowling face. Before Luindal could return fire, Marreth dashed away, cursing the vile wind that had knocked the arrow from its path. Despite the disappointment, Marreth was not unhappy. He consoled himself with the fact that he had wounded and sent a clear message to Luindal. The Elvish leader should take heed of the signal that Marreth had given him: he was in grave danger of losing his life.....

Shouting out to his own men to pull back, Marreth led the Corsairs towards the shore oppsite the one where Luindal and his crew had headed.