Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[littlemanpoet]

The leader of the King's Men bowed his head. "Forgive us, lord. In these dire times appearances may deceive. We have done our duty." He turned to his men and cried, "Lower your weapons! Let them pass!"

As the company filed between the King's Men, who watched them from either side, the sky filled with clouds in a matter of moments, and congealed above them, as if very heaven turned in upon itself.

Lightning struck the ground with a crash in the very spot where they had been confronted. The vineyard workers fled from the road, and the mounts of the King's Men careered, carrying their riders far afield. The eyes of the Kariborim were wide with fear, and their ears were laid back against their manes; but they did not lose the mastery of themselves as did those lessers.

The company passed into the fields north of Ondosto, and stayed away from that town, and off of the road. By nightfall they had gone well east of the town and settled in a camp without fire, far in a back field of a great manor owned by who they knew not. They discussed the watch for the night.

[littlemanpoet]

The rattle of a key in the lock of his cage woke Mabalar. He felt at his throat, swallowing again and again. He could still feel the hands of Sauron around his neck; it was as if those evil hands would always choke him, scald his neck. It was hard to breathe.

"Shhh!" whispered the guard; he recognized him. It was the one who had earlier told him the time, only to be shushed by the other guard.

"It is midnight, my lord," whispered the guard. "Sauron is in his temple offering sacrifice to his evil god, so we are somewhat safe."

"Would you help me to-" His voice came out ragged, as if forced across sandpaper; it hurt to speak.

"No, my lord, I have not the means. But there is someone who would speak with you. I shall leave you now."

Someone who would speak with him. Who? Someone who desired secrecy. He thought of the curtains that had moved with the presence of someone who had watched his mock trial. The cell door stood ajar. He would try to get away this instant, except that he was still chained to the wall by both hands and feet. Even if he was not bound, he considered, it would be foolish to try to escape. If the young man had not the means, knowing the lay of the prison, what hope had he?

A tall, hooded figure approached his cell, its dark robes flowing as if hovering on a cushion of air. The figure held a thick candle before it in unseen hands. As the figure passed through the open cell door, Mabalar could see that it was someone of noble bearing, very tall, taller than most Númenórean men; and that it was a woman: no man walked with such grace.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Melethroch." Her voice was as silk, deep and rich. She knew his name, and used the speech of the Eldar!

"I am sorry, milady," he said in a gravelly tone, "you have me at a disadvantage."

"More than one," she said, and drew back her hood. She was indeed fairer than silver or ivory or pearls, as had been said by those who had seen her. She looked at him with cool eyes and a face of patient sorrow.

"Tar Miriel!" His throat hurt, but he could not hold back his words in his surprise.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî twisted uncomfortably where she lay in the thick grass of the field. Distant stars shone intermittently above her as the night winds drove waves of thick cloud toward the capital. It was late, and her watch had passed, but still she could not sleep. Travelling was nothing new to her, but sleeping in the cold on the ground was something she had done only rarely and had never enjoyed. Her one thin blanket was spread on the ground, and she pulled her dark blue cloak closer around her for warmth.

The lightning that had driven the King's men away in terror had left Kâthaanî unnerved as well. She shivered, wondering again why she had come on this journey. She had been useless in the confrontation, hoping only to pass unseen or to be taken as a family member and left alone. She had no skills to offer this group, only the desire to see her father again and to help him safely reach Rómenna and her grandfather's ships. She thought again of the lightning, perhaps she should have stayed with Inzillomí and Ziraphel.

She glanced in the direction where she knew the blue shadow of the Meneltarma would be if it were daylight. The gods were angry in the West, that was why the Elves stopped coming out of Tol Eressëa; her father had told her, now she had seen for herself. The black clouds and the angry hail, these were the signs that their defiance had not gone unnoticed. Their defiance, not mine, she corrected herself silently. Soon we will be gone from this place, and we will begin again. Without their defiance.

As though seeking comfort she reached one hand into her nearby saddlebag to skim her finger lightly across the surface of her mother's palantir. She traced the smooth surface, thinking of the home she would never see again and her family. She sighed heavily.

"Wakeful, Little Mistress?" The voice behind her startled Kâthaanî and she sat up quickly, yanking her hand from the saddlebag. A sharp pain in her finger made her cry out softly and Tiru dropped to his knees beside her, the look of concern on his dark face visible even in the dim starlight.

"It is nothing, you startled me," she reassured him. She put her stinging finger in her mouth and tasted the salt of blood.

"It has been a long day," Tiru replied, "and not one that lets me rest easy, either. But you will need your sleep, Little Mistress, tomorrow will be hard day of travel, and there may be many days like it. Do not worry, we are watching." Kâthaanî nodded and lay back down, her bleeding finger still in her mouth.

As soon as Tiru was gone, Kâthaanî thrust her hand back into the saddlebag in search of whatever had cut her finger. She pulled out a small piece of folded paper, wrinkled where tears had fallen on it. Even in the muted starlight she could tell the handwriting was her mother's. She strained to read the hastily written words:

My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.

Crushing the note in one hand, Kâthaanî rolled over and began to sob softly into her blanket. She cried until she slept.

[littlemanpoet]

Tar Miriel stood before Mabalar in regal splendour; her face glowed eerily in the light of the candle she held before her.

"It has been long, Mabalar Melethroch," she said evenly, looking down at him with eyes that did not give away her thought.

He nodded and coughed to clear his throat of the lasting pain of Sauron's grip, in vain. "To ....what," he labored, "do I owe ... this honour?"

"Time grows short, Mabalar," she replied.

"Do I not ... know it?" he grated. "My life ... is forfeit."

She shook her head. "I spoke of Númenor."

"Aye," he nodded. "Ar Pharazôn is ... a fool-" he coughed. "Doubly, for his ... vain challenge .... of the gods as ..... well as pandering .... to Sauron." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Târik! Bring him water."

The young guard who had unlocked the door came forward with a pitcher and poured a little into Mabalar's mouth. The guard stood, waiting for the Queen's next order.

"My thanks," Mabalar whispered after few cooling, soothing swallows. His throat still hurt in the two places where Sauron had invisibly pinned him, but he could swallow again, and his voice was less roughened.

"Mabalar," Tar Miriel said, "I think that of the two of us, you shall live the longer."

He frowned. "What mean you? You will not take your life!"

"Nay," she shook her head. "'Tis a foresight. I do not think you will succumb to the machinations of Sauron. Do you not have hidden friends in this city?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Ah, Mabalar, you trust me no longer." Her tone held amusement, but hurt lingered in it as well.

"You are the wife of Ar Pharazón."

"Not by choice, as you well know."

"Well I know it."

"Târik, unlock his chains and leave us."

"Milady, I-"

"Do as I say." Her tone was mild but held command that brooked no objection or disobedience; nor hesitation. Târik unlocked Mabalar's chains. "And leave the pitcher there." Târik left. Mabalar rubbed his wrists and ankles.

"'Tis dangerous to remove my chains, my Queen."

"Stand, Mabalar."

He looked up at her, measuringly. "You are my queen." He stood; he was no more than two inches taller than she.

"You have changed little, Mabalar." Her voice was soft; and carried upon it the hint of something wished for.

"Nor have you, except for the despair I see in your face ... Miriel."

"Would that you had challenged him, Mabalar!"

"You know that I would have died at the hands of that overwheening wretch."

She nodded. "I often dream of what might have been. You know that you would have been my consort, Mabalar!"

He sighed. Never so tragic a figure had he ever seen. Her life was ashes.

"You live in the past, Miriel, and little do I blame you, for it is not of your doing. I have a beloved wife and daughter now, and we shall flee this land if ever I get free."

She looked closely into his eyes, saying nothing for long moments. At length, she spoke; in a deadened tone.

"You must escape. There is something I must give you. I will give it to you when you assure me that you have the means."

"How can I assure you?"

"Make plans. If and when those plans are ready, send word through Târik, and I will come with my gift."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He chafes to leave this land, and would with you, if you would have him."

"If he proves true, and both of us come through alive, I will have him."

"Fare well then. Târik!"

She left him. Târik gave him another drink, then locked him in his chains, and closed him in his cell again. Mabalar thought long into the night before sleep took him.

[Meneltarmacil]

Standing watch for the night, Thoronmir thought about what had occured earlier. They had managed to bluff their way past the King's Men this time, but they may not be so lucky again later. They had vaguely recognized him, Thoronmir knew, and the only thing that had saved them was the fact that they hadn't put all the pieces together yet. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered.

He gazed at the lights of Ondosto off to the south, wondering if the people there had any idea of the catastrophe about to befall them. Numenor was great once, Thoronmir thought, but pride and ambition have corrupted the minds of many of the kings and is going to destroy Numenor, probably for good. If we could just be grateful for what we have instead of continually trying to grab for more power and wealth, this world would probably be a better place. I hope we can learn from our mistakes this time.

Thoronmir sighed and continued to watch for danger.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô twisted on his pillow, unable to sleep. Doubts flooded into his mind stemming from the group’s perilous encounter earlier that day. They were able to escape the king’s wrath once, but would they be able to do so again? And how would they rescue Abârpânarú form his cell and transport him to Rómenna? Azarmanô’s close encounter with death brought these haunting questions to the front of his mind. What real chance did a small band of faithful have of rescuing a prisoner form Sauron’s iron grasp? Yet he knew he could not permit himself to think that way. They must complete their mission and they must do so quickly. He only hoped that the next encounter with the king’s men, inevitable though it might be, would go as smoothly as the first. Yet somehow, Azarmanô felt that he would need to brandish his bow before their journey was done.

Azarmanô reviewed the events that had transpired that afternoon carefully in his mind. The party surely would have been slain if it had not been for the quick thinking of Marsillion. Abarzadan seemed to have placated the men by telling them that he was the leader of a group delivering a prisoner to the dungeon when Thoronmir, the fool, had tried to sneak up on them from behind. He must have thought himself incredibly clever until the troops had discovered his presence and the situation turned fatal. Perhaps it was better that he was discovered, for had he been successful in launching an attack of some sort, the party would all surely have been killed. Now if only I had thought of appointing myself Lord of Andunië first, Azarmanô thought whimsically. Azarmanô had planned to pester his “master” and apologize mockingly for failing to “keep the lying brigand under control.” But, instead, he felt as though he owed it on his honor to thank Marsillion. He did not know much about any of the men, but perhaps he would take the time to make closer acquaintance with Marsillion, since he held him in such high esteem.

It was late, but Azarmanô wanted to talk to Marsillion now and not wait till the morning. The matter pressed inside of him, and he did not want to forget about it or become preoccupied with something else. He rose from his tent and traveled the short distance to that of Marsillion. Azarmanô feared that he had already turned into his tent for the night, but, seeing a light inside, lifted the flap and peered in.

“Marsillion,” he began “I come to offer deep gratitude for saving our lives. I commend you for your quick thinking and superb acting skills, although I think that I did a fine job as your incompetent servant. Do you think I was reverent enough? In any case, thank you. I hope that someday I can return the favor. Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning? He almost got us killed.” He stood in the door of the tent and waited for a response.

[Himaran]

A cool wind whistled across the campsite, but it was not enough to cool Abarzadan's heated temper. He had not spoken a word to anyone in the party the rest of the entire day. The man had even considered deserting, and striking out on his own; why was he out here anyway, risking life and limb to save one of the lower classes whom he had never even known. The anger in his heart slowly melted as he lay there in the uncomfortable saddle-bag - it was far too rough, and was not properly stuffed - but it was turning into something else, just as destructive: bitterness. What had Marsillion been thinking? Abarzadan's story had been far more believable, after all; just not quite as animated. The King's men were not preparing to slaughter them all, and yet the little hero had felt it necessary to not only save the day, but humiliate another party member in the process. It was amazing that the King's Captain had so willingly swallowed his tale, in direct contradiction to the previous one. Furthermore, Marsillion had yet to apologize for spitting in his face; an act that, under any circumstances, Abarzadan felt worthy of the harshest retribution.

The wind was interrupted, after a while, by the sound of muffled voices. Curious, Abarzadan slid out of his bag. Peering outside, he saw Azarmanô holding up the flap of Marsillion's tent and speaking rather quickly. Straining his ears, the man could pick up most of the words; as expected, Azarmanô was heaping lavish and almost servant-like praise on his 'master.' "Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning?" Master and servant, eh? No, Thoronmir's acts remain a mystery, but I would prefer to be tortured by the King's men than ever so much as speak to either of you again.

And he meant it.