Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[Kitanna]

After the Corsairs were discovered a battle on the Elven ship began. Nilak had done little in the way of fighting. At first he did what he could to make sure the Corsairs were out of the barrels. He wouldn't want any to be left behind by themself. During the battle Sernir had stayed close to Nilak. Probably using me as a human shield, Nilak thought, but Sernir did watch his back.

Nilak took a few punches from the angry Elves and the Lossoth allies, but he just punched right back. Somewhere between taking and giving hits Nilak turned to see Tarn being attacked by a bird of prey.

He tried to come to Tarn's aid, but he heard Marreth urging them to escape. The Corsairs jumped over the side of the ship. Nilak would have joined them, but he felt the need to get Tarn first. He stopped when he saw Marreth helping Tarn over the edge and into the icy water. Nilak leapt over the rail and into the water. He swam alongside the Corsairs toward the shore as arrows from the ship rained down on them.

Once on shore Nilak was given a fur blanket to warm himself. He had someone help him back to his hut where he started a fire and changed into dry clothes. He fell asleep not long after.

[piosenniel]

The Corsairs had left the Elven vessel. Captain Luindal called for those of the crew who were not injured to go in groups of three and check that there were none of the Southrons or their allies hiding yet on the ship. The small patrols swept the Sea-Spirit from stem to stern, reporting back to the Captain, at last, that all was safe and secure.

‘There are a few of the crew with scrapes and bruises,’ one of the Elves reported. ‘Annû, though,’ chimed in his companion, ‘seems quite beat up.’ The Elf grinned, and Luindal looked at him questioningly. ‘He says we should have seen the other fellow!’ The first Elf nodded his head, but added with a note of concern. ‘He waved us off when we asked if he needed a healer to see to him. Said it was just some bruising and nothing to be done about it. Said he’d be fine.’

Luindal organized the crew to clear away the mess made on the deck when the barrels had opened and the Corsairs burst from them. They salvaged what goods they could, stacked the staves of the broken barrels below in the hold for further use, and checked the ship for any damage needing repair. ‘The Corsairs had been in such a hurry to flee that there had not been enough time for them to accomplish any real mischief,’ the crew reported.

The Captain thanked them for their thoroughness then ordered all to attend to their wounds if they had sustained any, take their meal, and rest until the next day. The Sea-Spirit would put into the bay to search beneath the water for the palantiri.

~*~

On the way to his cabin, Luindal found Rôg, crowbar still in hand. The man held it up, grinning. ‘Not only a useful tool, my dear friend,’ Rôg said, waving it in the air, ‘but a useful weapon as well for cracking the heads and knees of Corsairs.’

‘If I didn’t know you better, I would say you enjoyed that encounter,’ the Captain commented, motioning for his friend to accompany him to his quarters.

‘Not enjoyed, really,’ Rôg said, his face now more serious in its demeanor. ‘But there was a certain satisfaction in driving the scum from the ship.’ He entered the cabin as Luindal held open the door. ‘So, the plans we’ve discussed,’ he went on, shoving a few books, maps, and the odd piece of clothing from one of the more comfortable chairs in an effort to find somewhere to plop his tired body. ‘We’ll put them in motion . . . tomorrow . . .?’

[Arry]

With the help of Galhardir, Annû had made it to his room. A fierce, generalized ache and hurt had begun to assail him where the traitorous Lossoth had landed his hard blows, and already the purplish spread of new bruises had begun to creep across the pummeled areas. He would be sore for a while, but the bruises would fade, the ache recede, in time. What worried him the most was the wound from the man’s knife.

With careful fingers, he peeled off the temporary bandage Galhardir had applied, a wadding of clean rags bound on with the belt Annû wore. The flow of blood from the wound had slowed to an occasional oozing. It was not a large cut nor had it gone in particularly deep he saw, as he twisted this way and that to see it in the room’s small mirror. But even this soon the edges of it looked red and angry, and the serous fluid did not run clear but was tinged with a yellow color. He cleaned it as best he could, with water from the jug and a rag. Some folded strips from an old clean towel served as a bandage, with one longer band of it to tie about him. Fishing through his pack he found a soft, loose tunic to pull on.

His movements were stiff from his bruises and the wound, but he steeled himself against the hurt, and walked carefully to the galley to find food and drink. Many of the crew were already there. He nodded to those who called out to him and passed by them as quickly as he could. Taking a bowl of the inevitable chowder, a chunk of ship’s bread, and a mug of tea, he made his solitary way back to his quarters.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Luindal nodded in agreement and then beckoned Rôg towards the table in the center of the cabin where maps and scrolls were haphazardly strewn. “I didn’t have a chance to show you this before, but this is where we need to search.” He pointed to a spot on Cirdan’s map that was highlighted with a small circle. Rôg could see that this location was not far from a lengthy sandbar that stretched along the eastern side of the Bay in relatively shallow waters. “But how do you know for sure?” Rôg queried.

Luindal handed a parchment to his friend and explained. “I don’t know for sure, but read this and see what you think. When I first arrived, the Elders presented me with a document penned in an ancient Lossoth tongue, hoping it would aid our search. The words were inscribed on deer hide and described what happened the day the Elven ship sank. The hide sat on a shelf in the Hall of Elders for countless years and was totally forgotten until this latest threat. Few among the Snowmen could even read the old script, but Alahseey had been taught as a child at her great-grandmother's knee. After our arrival in the Bay, she spent many hours translating it and filling in as many missing parts as she could.

Rôg’s eyes scanned the sheet quickly. Then he looked up at Luindal. “I see. With the water so shallow, the sandbar iced over early in the year. When the wind picked up, the Elven craft lurched closer to shore and collided with the ice, crushing the hull.”

“I would agree,” countered the Elf. “Cirdan’s map of the Bay when placed beside the account of the Lossoth suggests that this is probably what happened. If that is true, we need to search just west of the bar. Lucky for us, it is still there after all these years and not frozen over yet.”

“But so close to a sandbar and in shallow waters?”

Luindal sighed. “In one way, this should make it easier to pull up the Stones, since the shallow water would be less frigid than the depths of the Bay. But, to begin, I would suggest we leave the Spirit a ways away and approach the area where we plan to dive with smaller boats. If we find the small stone first, we can just retrieve it with the small boats. If it is the larger one, then we have a problem. We cannot get the larger palantir off the bottom of the Bay and lift it up without a winch. Even aside from the winch, its size and weight would swamp any of the smaller boats. We'll have to sail the Spirit closer, hopefully on the western side furthest from the sandbar.”

“A tricky piece of sailing,” Rôg observed.

“Tricky indeed. Let’s just hope the weather holds. Or tricky may become close to impossible! Now get to bed and tell the others to do the same. We’ll need all our wits and strength in the morning. And make sure to bring along those air bladders and special diving suits.”

[Lalwendë]

The dreamless darkness slowly subsided and Tarn awoke from the deep sleep he had fallen into. His eyes had been wiped clean of the blood which had streamed across them and set hard, but some of the congealed blood was still stuck to his eyelashes and he winced as he opened his eyelids. Automatically, he lifted his hand to his face to pick the bloody coating off and he let out a low, hissing gasp as he felt the pain searing across his chest.

He reached to touch the place where he had felt the pain, and found that his coat and layers of sweaters had been removed and replaced with a cotton shirt. He felt inside the shirt and found that his ribs had been tightly bandaged with strips of linen cloth. Who had done this? And where was he? A sense of panic rose and he almost screamed aloud with pain as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He looked about him and saw that he was in a small, low ceilinged cabin; he heard water and realised he must be on a ship.

Tarn’s eyes widened as the frightening thought came to him that the Elves may have taken him captive. Looking round, he saw a door, and it did not look locked. He had to get out of there, whatever the pain he might feel, whatever the cost to his strength. But he could not see his normal clothes, and in particular his coat, which contained his only weapon, the knife. He felt dizzy, but he could not give in and lie back down. From what he had heard, these Elves disappeared over the seas from time to time and were never heard of again. That was not going to happen to him, of this he was determined.

Putting his feet to the floor, he was relieved to find at least his boots had not been removed. He lifted up the mattress of the bunk he had been lying on, but his personal effects were not concealed under there. He scanned the room and could find no cubby holes. Then, bending down to examine some of the panelling, he stumbled giddily and crashed into the wall with a great racket.

“Ho! What’s going on in there?” boomed a loud voice. Angry footsteps came rapidly towards the door and then it was flung open. A large, bearded man with blackened, frostbitten fingers stood there, glaring at Tarn. “What are you doing, man? Are you a fool?” he roared.

“Regan!” gasped Tarn, clutching the edge of the bunk, to keep himself steady. “Where am I? I thought I was going off to some Elven prison. Am I on Marreth’s ship?”

“And where else might you be? “ said the man with a grim, short laugh. “Think Corsairs abandon their own do you?”

“But I…”

“Enough, you fool. You are one of our own, or so says I. A man who is decent enough to rescue me, I will make sure he gets the best of care. And besides, the Captain himself bore you back to shore, strapped over a barrel, like a bloody haunch of meat.”

Regan was bluff, but it was his way. Tarn appreciated and understood it. He was feeling pain, but no agony would grip him so hard that he could not still present himself as a tough and resilient man. Regan had bandaged and bathed Tarn himself, he saw it as a return of the favour, the right thing to do for a comrade in arms.

“You’ve a fair souvenir there,” said Regan, laughing grimly again. “Have you seen yourself?” Tarn had not seen the full extent of his injuries. He remembered the broken nose, and the cracked ribs, but the injuries inflicted by the maniacal bird had slipped from his mind, so delirious had he been during the attack.

“Follow me”, said Regan. He did not offer a helpful arm to Tarn, that would be going too far. But at least he walked slowly from the cabin and up the gangway towards the mess room. Once there, he pointed to a mirror on the wall, and Tarn, swallowing hard, looked up at his reflection nervously. He saw the bruises on his face first, but then turning slightly to one side, saw that a chunk of the top of his ear was missing, the gash crudely stitched together. He leaned forwards to take a closer look and examined himself as any dandy might examine himself in a new suit of clothes. A slight smile crept across his face.

“That’s a corker, aint it?” said Regan. “A real beauty”. Tarn laughed as hard as he could and agreed that it was a spectacular injury. The broken nose was nothing new, he’d snap it back in place when he had the nerve. But this, it was a truly impressive wound. He admired himself once more and sank down onto a bench as the pain surged through his ribs once more.

[piosenniel]

Even before the sun was up, Luindal came knocking at Rôg’s door, and finding it unlocked, entered. ‘I thought you wanted our wits about us! Mine don’t gather until the day’s light is over the horizon!’ Luindal chuckled as Rôg sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. ‘What’s that in your hand, you pushy Elf?’ Rog got up out of bed, the sheet wrapped round him. ‘It’s tea, and laced with honey. I can smell it.’ He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers at the Captain. ‘Come on. Give it over! And it better be strong if you’re expecting me to even dip one toe in that icy water!’

Two cups of strong tea later followed by a quick bowl of porridge, and Rôg was ready to go. He’d been up late into the previous night checking on the equipment they would need. Two nets – one small to accommodate the small sphere; a larger one to secure around the bigger palantiri. Rôg had gotten one of the Lossoth to help sew a tight fitting suit of seal skins for Luindal. With a thick coating of bear grease applied over his entire body before donning the suit, the captain should be fairly insulated against the cold. And finally, there were several airbladders sewn from sealskins, the seams sealed with pitch. They were blown up with air and tied off tightly to be used as floats.

‘You shouldn’t have to be in the water very long,’ Rôg said to Luindal as they walked up to the quarterdeck. The First Mate had already given the order to weigh anchor. The ship was on its way toward the sandbar that had been identified in the Lossoth document. ‘I’ll do the diving; all you have to do is be ready to secure whatever stone we find with the net and clip the net to the ropes that hang from the airbladders. They’ll show where the globe is while we move in with one of the longboats to hoist it in.’

The Sea-Spirit drew in as close as she could to the sandbar. It would not serve to have her run aground, so she anchored a little west of the area they planned to search. Two longboats set out from the ship. One with Rôg and the Captain in it, along with two Lossoth to row and two armed Elves. The other boat held most of the equipment and several more armed Elves.

It was only a short distance to the area just off the sandbar that Luindal wanted to explore. Rôg threw off his robe and slipped into the water his now sleek body pushing itself gracefully beneath the low lapping waves. He arched back up toward the surface and peeked his head back up to where Luindal looked over the side of the boat. ‘Get going!’ Luindal hissed as the seal regarded him with his large dark eyes. The captain scratched his chest, squirming a little in his suit. ‘This . . . thing . . . you’ve outfitted me with is beginning to get rather aromatic . . . if you catch my drift.’

Rôg twitched his whiskers and grinned, slapping a foreflipper on the water’s surface. ‘I’ve not only caught your drift, but so have the others, apparently.’ He nodded his nose to where the others in the boat had drawn up their scarves about their noses. ‘You’ll notice they’ve positioned the end of the boat your in, downwind from them!’ Before Luindal could make a rejoinder, Rôg dove beneath the water and began his search . . .

[Regin Hardhammer]

Marreth awoke and glanced out of his window. He caught a glimpse of the Elven ship searching for the Stones once more. He smirked with glee while envisioning their mast snapping off, stranding the Elves in the middle of the bay.

Marreth recalled in a haze the unsettling events of the night before: finding the body of his trusted friend slumped over on the deck of the ship, limp and already going cold. The sight had stunned and shocked him so that he did not know what to do. Diera had been one of the most trusted officers who had ever served him. Who could have done such an abominable deed? And how had they managed to do so unnoticed?

Arising from his bed, Marreth decided to return to the body and see if he could gather any clues. Scanning the still body, he noticed the jagged line of the gash, red and inflamed even in death. He bent down to examine it more closely, as his nose picked up the acrid stench of poison. Marreth roared with anger when he realized what must have occurred. He longed to get out on the Bay so his men could get ready to attack the Elven ship as soon as its mast snapped, but this was a matter of even greater importance. No captain who failed to discipline his crew would ever survive.

“Jynne, Jynne,” he bellowed to the cabin boy, “Get Jynne over here instantly. I must talk to him.” The boy nodded and scuttled away, but then returned in a few moments shaking his head and reporting that Jynne had been in his cabin, but had stubbornly told him he was busy and would report when he got around to it.

Marreth bristled and then stormed off in the direction of Jynne's cabin. This betrayal within his own crew infuriated him more than all of his previous failed plans and bad luck finding the Palantiri. Heads were going to roll for this, most certainly Jynne’s.

Coming to Jynne's room, he thrust the door open and bellowed, "You cox-livered peapod, scum of the earth, how did my first mate Diera meet her death? The smell of poison is on her. And I know of no one else on this ship who is fool enough to carry a poisoned blade without my approval. From the moment you came on this ship, you have done nothing but cause trouble. I should slit your throat here and now, but first I will let you answer before I haul you off to the brig." Marreth's fingers strayed to the hilt of his sword....