Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[littlemanpoet]

Târik stood just outside the cell. Mabalar was awake and looked up, his eyes lit with intensity.

"I greet you, lord. I must be quick, for the news I have to tell cannot wait but 'tis not my time to be in the dungeons. I have passed your message to Monôizindu, and he accepts me as your spokesman. He will spread word and bring what aid he can. But he had news."

Târik paused and listened. Satisfied after a while that no one was skulking in the shadows, he continued.

"He told me that he saw Inzillomí being taken to the Temple of Sauron, a prisoner for sacrifice. I am sorry."

Mabalar's eyes widened and his jaw worked. "Are you certain?"

"Aye. The shopkeeper gave no sign that he doubted who it was."

The light in Mabalar's eyes died and his shoulders slumped. It seemed that the man shrunk a little where he sat chained to the wall.

"I must go now, lord."

"One more thing. Did he give word of my daughter?"

"Nay, lord. He said nothing about her. Fare well and do not give up hope."

With that Târik left him.

Mabalar's Thoughts

It could not be! She was supposed to be safe in Rómenna! How could she be a prisoner of the fiend, here, now? But Monôizindu had been sure. Mabalar ground his teeth and closed his fists, hard, wishing that Sauron's neck was caught by them. All hope for the house of Mellethroch then rested on Kâthaanî. Eru guide you, my gem of fire. If Inzillomí were to die, then what? Would there be any use in escaping himself? No! He must not let Sauron have her! But what could he do? If Sauron ever found out who Inzillomí was, he would be sure to use her as bait or a bargaining chip for him! Please, Inzi, please do not let them know who you are!

What if Inzi died and he did escape? He and Kâthaanî would have to make a life for themselves without her. Cerveth did not need a mother anymore; but it was wrong for her mother to be taken from her. Maybe there would have to be another to take Inzi's place. His thought slipped to Míriel. His heart skipped a beat. He imagined Míriel aboard ship with him, and found it a wonder. Then he thought of Cerveth standing next to the former queen of Númenor at a new homestead on the shores of Middle Earth. Mabalar gave a start. No. The two did not go together well. Not at all. Míriel was fragile stemware; Cerveth was living fire. No, Míriel had chosen her fate already. Had Inzi? He hoped not.

But if Monôizindu knew that Inzillomí was a prisoner of Sauron, he would be working just as hard to achieve her freedom as his own. And Târik could help too. Maybe there was hope. Waiting was difficult.

In the Chamber of Sauron

A lean, dark figure came before the presence of Sauron the Great, bowing deeply.

"My lord, my liege, I have delectable news!" The dark figure bowed over and over again, waiting for his lord's acknowledgment.

"Speak it, Herugor."

"I was in the market square, observing the wares of various shopkeepers, and just happened to have overheard a Temple Guard speaking in privy tones to one particular shopkeeper who seems to have far too much time on his hands for traitorious activities unbecoming of a shopkeeper who bows before the king."

"Waste not my time."

"Aye, lord," Herugor nodded, bowing at the waist with each nod. "The Temple Guard, Târik, is aiding Mabalar Mellethroch at the beck of Míriel, and the shopkeeper, one Monôizindu who deals in pottery and hermetics, has promised this Târik to mobilize his network of the faithful who yet remain in this fair city for the sake of Mabalar's escape."

"We shall have to see that this shopkeeper and guard are arrested and made examples of."

"But there is more, my liege!"

"Go on."

"Monôizindu informed the traitorous guard that the one Inzillomí, the wife of Mabalar, has been arrested this day and brought to the Temple dungeons."

"I see," Sauron said slowly. "Keep watch, Herugor, and allow the insects to draw each other into the web. When all have drawn close together, then snag them all. Then we shall have a sacrificial rite unmatched yet! See to it!"

"Yes, my liege," Herugor bowed, and backed out of the chambers of Sauron the Great and hurried about his new task. Sauron sat in his great chair and gave thought to what he had just heard and decided. The smiles that grew on both faces were not a delight to the eye.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô approached the prison apprehensively, fully conscious of the horrible fate that awaited their leader inside. Strangely, he felt a tinge of relief along with his fear, for they had managed to navigate their way through the boisterous crowd in one piece. At the prison’s front gate he passed a gruff looking soldier who, in an irritated growl, asked him to state his business.

“I am escorting this prisoner to her cell,” he replied curtly, at which point the guard nodded and motioned for him to pass. Entering the prison had been surprisingly simple, a fact that Azarmanô attributed to their flawless disguises. He suppressed the images of himself shooting the sleeping soldiers. There had been no other way, he stubbornly insisted to himself. It had been done for the sake of the mission, for Abârpânarú.

He waked through the massive archway, the oaken door with wrought iron hinges that marked the entrance of the building thrown back to admit him. Inside, the dungeon was dark, with only torches on the side walls to guide them. The stones themselves wreaked of an acrid odor, evidence to the presence of grime, mold, and mildew that thrived within and upon the dank, stagnating walls. Well could Azarmanô imagine this hole in the ground to be a dungeon. Although, he thought dryly, I doubt a prisoner pays much attention to the smell while they wait for the ritual to begin.

He had no idea where Abârpânarú was being held, since the dungeon held hundreds of Sauron’s prisoners. How would the group ever locate the one that they wanted? He passed a supply room full of food, spices, and spirits. Azarmanô looked into the cells as they passed, anxiously hoping to see Abârpânarú’s familiar face, but the process proved unsuccessful. He saw many faces, some desperate and weeping, others stoic and resigned to their fates. If only we could rescue them all, he wished wistfully.

A loud rumbling of voices came from farther down the hallway. A feeling of dread descended into the pit of his stomach as he realized the impending danger. Three soldiers appeared from around the corner. They marched up to the party and leader stepped forward and spoke.

“We have been sent to receive this prisoner. She is considered dangerous and we will be escorting her to the high security section in the north tower. Your services are no longer needed.”

Azarmanô panicked as he heard the disastrous news from the somber guard leader that stood before him. It was now his turn to concoct a plan to pacify the soldiers just as Marsillion had done. He could not allow these men to take Inzillomí, for he did not want to rescue two prisoners. But how would they be able to escape when the guards stood right before them, blocking their path. The soldiers would not allow the rescuers to leave without first relinquishing Inzillomí and any attempt to do so would certainly expose their identities. Which is why, reasoned Azarmanô with a mischievous smile, he would do his best to make sure that before long the guards wouldn’t be standing.

“Here you go. Take the prisoner.” he snapped as Inzillomí gaped at him in disbelief. “But before we part, what do you say we have a drink. I saw a supply room a while back with some fine ale. You men sure look thirsty. What do you say?”

At the mention of alcohol, the soldiers loosened up and became much more amiable. The trio seemed to be in agreement that a slight delay in bringing the prisoner back to the cell would not cause any harm. “Well, I suppose one or two flagons couldn’t hurt,” reasoned the captain, “Go and get the Ale. Be sure to bring mugs. But after the drink we really must be going. Sauron considers this prisoner of prime importance.”

Hastily, Azarmanô retreated to the storeroom to search for ale. At first he found a small keg of ale as tall as his knee, but he reasoned that would not be large enough. Then he found a bigger one that measured up to his waist, but, to be safe, they needed a keg that was even more capacious. These guards were large men who were used to drinking prodigiously. Finally Azarmanô glanced upwards to spy the largest keg of ale in the entire store house, towering slightly above his head. Now that was the keg of ale that he was looking for. With great effort, he rolled the barrel, already on its side into the hallway. After returning once more to scrounge six gigantic flagons, he sat down with the rest of the rescuers and guards on the floor, distributing a large measure of brown ale to all. Azarmanô furtively pushed Inzillomí down to the floor and tied her chains to the bars of a nearby cell, taking care not to hurt her. “So the prisoner does not get away,” he explained.

After the guards finished each drink, Azarmanô graciously offered the soldiers a refill of their mugs, which always was met with a swift reply to the affirmative. Not wanting to pass out himself, Azarmanô drank from his mug in sips, periodically spilling some on the ground behind him when the guards were not looking. The guards, however, appeared to grow more and more friendly as they consumed increasing quantities of ale, eventually hugging Azarmanô and calling him their “best buddy.”

After the guards appeared thoroughly drunk, though not yet out cold, they began singing amorous ballads about the girls they had left at home. Azarmanô had never heard anything so horrible in his life. Ignoring their atrocious wailings, he smiled politely and proceeded to pour them more ale. After what seemed like several hours, and about fifteen mugs of ale, the soldiers seemed to be growing extremely groggy. The first one to go unconscious was the leader, who had the appearance of a happy child curled in a ball deep in slumber. The other two guards weren’t two far behind, both of them passed out around ten minutes later, one slightly ahead of the other.

After Azarmanô was sure they were safely snoring, he swiped the keys from the side of the leader’s belt. They were big and bronze, emblazoned with the words “high security” on their stems. Azarmanô hoped they were heavy sleepers, because he wanted to be safely outside the dungeon with the mission completed by the time they awoke. Azarmanô untied Inzillomí’s chains from the bar and led her, along with the rest of the group, down the corridor which ended at a set of stairs that he hoped they could follow to the north tower.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí had fallen surprisedly to the floor. Though it had not hurt, the shocked expression the flitted across her delicate features was enough to convince the Guards that Azarmanô had been none too gentle. As he bound her chained armed to a cell, the Guards snorted inappropriate comments and guffawed over their tasteless jokes in a manner far too uncouth to repeat.

Inzillomí blushed faintly over the insinuations and felt sick to a point of tears over the idea that these men believed their words and actions to be perfectly acceptable. Azarmanô ignored their talk, seeing that retaliation would bring death swiftly. He poured the drinks.

She huddled uncomfortably as far from the drunken gaze of the Guards as she could, relying on Azarmanô completely. Should things go wrong, she was much in a terrible position to do anything. Though to a sober man of honor she might well be able to speak her way into safety, with these drunken louts, she doubted very much they would heed her words even if she had not been chained in such a way as befits a murderer.

She fell within her own thoughts for a short time, plotting and devising. The northern tower... she considered, ignoring the alcohol-induced affection that allowed for several toasts in Azarmanô's honor. That will be where my husband lies... Azarmanô will be able to accompany me.. the prisoner... she thought with a grimace... to the highest security area. What of our two companions? Thoronmir cannot be seen... he is far too much a liability should he be recognized. Abarzadan seems to have much on his mind. Perhaps to send them back into the city to scout possible escape routes?

Suddenly Inzi felt a change in her position and snapped back to reality in a shot. Azarmanô was untying her from the cell with an apologetic look. She shrugged it off as a necessary discomfort and looked admiringly at his unconscious handiwork. She submitted her suggestions for their easily traceable companion and their mysterious-as-ever one and waited, still chained, for Azarmanô's response.

[Meneltarmacil]

Azarmanô, Inzillomí, and Thoronmir searched the rest of the area for Abârpânarú's cell. As they searched the building, Thoronmir spotted a guard walking in their direction. He tried to hide his face, but the guard recognized him before he could do anything.

"Sakaladûn? Is that you?" said the guard, coming closer.

But to Thoronmir's surprise, he didn't try to arrest them. Instead, he pulled them aside into an unoccupied cell and started talking to them.

"My name is Târik. I am one of the Faithful, and I have been secretly passing information to Abârpânarú," he said in a whisper.

"We came to break him out. We brought his wife into the city as part of our disguise, so we didn't actually intend to have her sacrificed. With your help, we'll have everyone out in no time," Thoronmir said.

"Is he hurt?" Inzillomí asked.

"He wasn't the last time I checked," Târik responded. "His cell is the first one up these stairs to your right." He indicated a nearby staircase. "I have to go. Good luck."

[littlemanpoet]

As Târik disappeared into the darkness, the group heard a clang from down the corridor to which Târik had pointed them. A dim light caused shadows to move along the far wall opposite the mouth of a corridor that turned to the right. Then the shadows returned.

The group moved quickly and quietly to the corridor and turned right, and stepped up the half flight of stairs lying before them. Just three ranga ahead of them the corridor they were in opened into a taller and broader way. Thoronmir was in the lead and waved the others to silence, listening. There seemed to be footsteps fading to their left down the broad hallway. A heavy door closed, echoing like drums of doom. Then all was silent.

"His cell should be just to the right," Thoronmir whispered, pointing down the broad hall. The others nodded and followed as quietly as they could, turning into the hallway.

It was dark, except for a torch smouldering fitfully in its sconce at the intersection of the corridor they had just passed through. There was one cell before them. It was empty.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared in disbelief at the empty cell that stared back at him. The feeling was shocking, very empty, and extremely hollow as if a hole had suddenly opened up in the ground underneath him. The obvious question struck him with incredible force: Where was Abârpânarú? This was his cell, or so the gaurd that had known Thoronmir had said. He could not remember the man's name. Azarmanô viewed the guard's assistance with suspicion, but it had been their only lead. Now, it seemed as though they had been duped by one of the king's men. He had no idea where Abârpânarú was, but it was not the time to sulk. They would have to move quickly if they wished to find their leader's cell amidst all that were in the high security tower.

Inzillomi too looked stunned as she stared into the empty cell. She began to let out a high pitched scream and shake her fists vehemently. Azarmanô silenced the distressed woman by placing his hand over her mouth and restraining her while whispering words of calm into her ear. He feared that his damage control only did limited good, since some guards surely had heard the high-pitched explosion and knew that something was amiss.

"I would urge everyone to stay calm. We will not leave until we find Abârpânarú. He is in a cell somewhere in this section. Let us search," he concluded.

And so Azarmanô sprinted down the dark stone corridor glancing quickly from one side to another for any sign of their leader followed by the rest of the group. Every cell inflicted more pain, anguish, and panic upon Azarmanô's heavy heart, but he dare not show it. He kept his face blank, stoic as if he were window shopping for a new suit of plate mail. The light tread of his leather boots echoed down the deserted hallway. As he travelled farther down the corridor, the floor became dirt and the slope of the path led down. The cells seemed to be more spread out and larger.

Ahead of the group, from a distance, Azarmanô could see a clearing inside the dungeon and a large black obsidian alter whose stones were stained red with blood. A chill of fear spread throughout Azarmanô's body as he stared at the alter of Sauron the destroyer himself. The blood of the former Faithful cried out from the ground as a testimony to the atrocities that had been committed there. Azarmanô did not see Sauron himself, but he imagined that he could not be far away.

Following the curve of the tunnel, Azarmanô saw four guards lurking clsoe to a cell. Although he expected to find Abârpânarú within, as he grew closer he was disappointed to see that the cell was quite empty. Why would the soldiers be guarding an empty cell, he wondered. And if this was in fact Abârpânarú's cell, where was he? He approached the soldiers cautiously, sensing that confrontation might be near.

Azarmanô addressed the group, "I have a prisoner that I am escorting to her cell. She is the wife of the Faithful leader Abârpânarú, and I was given orders to place her in the cell next to her husband's. Is this his cell?"

The leader spoke, addressing Abârpânarú disdainfully," Stop where you are. We know what you are up to. You are a resourceful group of vermin, I give you that. We found the group of guards who became extremely drunk and then fell asleep in the middle of the hallway. They told us how you slipped past them with the female prisoner and stole the keys to the high security area. We were ordered to patrol the high security area and look for your group. You will not be so lucky as to escape again. "

I'll show you resourceful, he thought as a mischievous grin spread across his face. Impulsively, Azarmanô unslung his bow and unleashed an arrow into the throat of one of the guards as the other Faithful turned to face them.....

[Himaran]

Abârzadan's keen hearing easily picked up the loud conversation between the guards and Azarmanô, even though he was now positioned at the rear of the group. The discussion was both heated and brief. Although the man expected the guards to see straight through the captain's now compromised story, he had not forseen the swift and violent reaction that brought an abrupt end to any negotiations. The other Faithful turned instantly as the lead guard fell to the floor, a shaft protruding from his throat. Silence reigned for a split second as a faint gurgle escaped his lips. Then life fled the body, and the hallway decended into chaos. The remaining guards charged Azarmanô, and with Inzi and Thoronmir blocking his path Abârzadan knew that he could do little to help. Events soon proved him very, very wrong.

Suddenly, on Abârzadan's side of the hallway, two more guards appeared. They had obviously heard the commotion and come to investigate it. Thinking quickly, the man dropped his spear (which he had been carrying for show) and ran towards them. "Stop! Stop! A prisoner escaped! He's gone!" Unable to see what was happening further down the passage, but horrified by the news shouted at them by the "guard" running towards them, the pair froze as if stuck to the glistening stone floor. The penalty for allowing an inmate to escape was sacrifice in the temple. Something had to be done! Forgetting about the conflict ahead, the guards allowed themselves to be forcefully turned and pushed in the direction that the supposed fugitive had fled.

The trio skidded to a halt as the hallway ended and two side passages appeared, going in seperate directions. "Go left, I'll go right," yelled Abârzadan, and the other two (motivated by the fear of a horrible death) obeyed without question. As they dashed off, the man slowed, stopped, and waited. Once sure that they were far enough away, he turned and sprinted back the way they had come, hoping that the others had survived.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had marked the loss of Târik with cold fury. She had mistrusted him long before turning to his guidance, and almost felt that she had lost a son now that she had placed her life in his hands and he had given his to save them. Mandos keep him in high honor. she thought grimly, catching a sweeping blade with her fan and running the unfortunate soldier through as he tried to regain his motionless blade. She felt sick at heart at the loss of these brave young guards; they fought fiercly for reasons as good as her own... simply different. Whether for their own ideals, or through fear, and she could not judge them bitterly... she had seen too much sorrow at the hands of judgement to inflict it on such pitiable lads as these.

Her face was white as new fallen snow, pale as those dying from her strokes. It was her life or those of the King's Men. Those she loved best in the world stood in the balance. Now was not the time for mercy. She argued with herself, blocking and defending unthinkingly. The karibor beneath her reared, kicking, and dispatching a man just out of reach. If now is not the highest and hardest time for mercy, then what is? Should not these boys be treated with the kindness that seems so foreign to them? Do not they need it most?

Abarzadan had disappeared from the fray. Inzillomì had not seen him leave, but she could not place him in the midst of the fighters... or on the cold road with those slain.

A sharp tug nearly pulled Inzi from the saddle. Kâthaanî, who had been riding pillion until the group could retrieve the rest of the mounts, had been pulled from her place, trying fruitlessly to keep hold on her mother. Inzi turned, straining her back, to see Kâthaanî pull her dull silver blade from its sheath, ducking a blow from a large guard. The girl had been silent through the trip and remained so now. As she pivoted, trying to find purchase through her opponent's armor, a scream cut through the air, piercing it's way through even the heavy rumble of thunder. Heat lightening played across the low clouds, blinding Inzillomì. As her eyes cleared, she did not see her daughter. She searched the area madly, noting her husband shouting an unheard message to a bearded man she barely recognized. Azarmanô fought on horseback, bow and blade in hand. Tiru also rode, his own mount as much weapon as he required. With silent messages, transferred unthinkingly by feel, the faithful servant guided his karibor with deadly accuracy. Guards lay on the ground in verying states of pain, clutching broken bones, unable to fight. Marsillion was deeply engaged with several opponents but seemed capable. Kâthaanî was not standing. Inzillomì swept the ground fiercly. She froze as the earth shook. Her daughter lay still on the unfeeling road, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her.

"We flee!" came Abârpânarú's shout through a moment of unexpected silence. "No time to ponder, we flee!"

Inzillomì didn't move.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar thanked Moizandú with a brief silent glance of deepest respect as his friend dismounted from Izri, putting himself in great danger, and sent the mearas seeking out her mistress, Kâthaanî.

It was fortunate that the street was full of shop wares and their poles, tents, tables and benches, which had made it hard for more than a small number of Herugor's guards to attack them at one time, and also made bowshots difficult to aim with much accuracy.

A quake shook the earth. Mabalar remained on surefooted Lômi. He took stock. A foot wide gap had opened between them and the bulk of Herugor's guards. There were only fifteen guards on foot on their side of the gap. Mabalar looked over them and made a quick head count: Tirú was on Mani, Marsillion rode Rûki, Thoronmir sat astride Nitirú, Azarmanô held the reins of Khibil, and Inzillomí wielded her knife while on the back of Kali. Where was Kâthaanî? He could not see her.

Izri, find your mistress, he whispered. "Retreat!" he yelled and swung his chains at the nearest guard before the young soldier regained his wits. The others responded to his call, except for Inzillomí. Mabalar coaxed the wise Lômi to get clear of the guards. The sky darkened further, threatening clouds lowering as with a pall of doom. Hail began to fall. This was not hail like anything Mabalar had seen before, not the size of small pebbles; these were the size of nuts and apples, and stung like shot from a Soronilian blowgun.

Suddenly he heard someone crying above the fray. It was Moizandú. He was standing on top of a newly made heap of rubble, holding a piece of wood above his head.

"Men of Númenor! This hail, these earthquakes, these are made from the wrath of the Valar! Turn from your evil! Follow Sauron and his minion Herugor no more!"

Some of the guards quailed and dropped their swords to the ground. Others still held their weapons but dropped them to their sides. Most held their weapons firm but wavered, as if unsure between this seeming prophet and their commander. One, standing near Herugor, looked on coldly.

While they were in confusion, Mabalar urged Lômi and the others were now following. Izri was lagging. Something was slowing her. It was Kâthaanî, her hand desperately gripping a hanging rein as Izri dragged her carefully as she could along the ground.

"Kâth!" Mabalar yelled. A thin trail of blood could be seen where she had dragged. She looked up with glazed eyes, mouthing words that looked like a desperate call for help. My child! Mabalar jumped from Lômi and ran to Kâthaanî.

Meanwhile Moizandú continued his harangue. "The so-called Golden King has fallen under the spell of the hated Sauron! Immortality cannot be wrested from the Valar! 'Tis a fool's errand! Turn from the evil!" The guards who had dropped their swords looked remorseful as the hail fell upon them. Those who had let down their guard looked confused. Those who had wavered kept looking back and forth between Moizandú and Herugor. The one with cold eyes raised his bow and nocked and arrow.

Tirú, nearest to Kâthaanî, dismounted and came to Mabalar's aid. Together they lifted the groaning Kâthaanî and got her on Izri's back.

"Hang on, my dear!" he said and turned to Tirú. "Take her reins, my friend!"

"Aye, master!" Tirú's eyes spoke their friend-bond.

"Sauron has betrayed all Númenor! 'Tis a folly to due that fell one's will! Turn! Turn from -urk!" An arrow pierced his throat. He fell. The hail fell harder, and larger. Another quake split the gap wider.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mabalar found a brief moment to embrace Inzi.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no... we must leave Kali behind for another of our party; I pray that he comes in time."

"Then ride with me," Mabalar replied. She nodded and gave him the name of the missing friend, whom Mabalar had never met. He spoke the name to Kali, knowing that she would understand. Mabalar looked again at Inzi with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi and helping her up behind him. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

The seven Faithful fled down the streets mounted on the surefooted mearas, Kâthaanî's arms wrapped around the neck of Izri.

Míriel watched from high above, seeing the plight of the seven, the hail falling from a dark green sky, the quakes ripping up Armenelos.

"Valar save them," she said, and pulled her cloak more closely about her shivering frame.

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Himaran's post

The last time Abarzadan had been in a Numenorean mansion was beyond the reach of his more than adequate memory. As he and Ellinel passed through the set of beautifully-crafted heavy wooden doors, the man could only glance at a few of the amazing features displayed before him before a stone-faced (and well-dressed) servant appeared and took their coats; he did not even blink at the sight of Abarzadan's (which was torn, soaked and bloodied). The still-beaming woman beside him touched his shoulder and wispered that she would go and find her father. Both she and the servant disappeared, leaving him to study the house's many intricate details. The atrium was huge; beams with various pictures carved into them supported the walls, and towering above the polished stone floor was a colored glass dome. A central, enormous and gently-curving staircased climbed up the walls, stopping briefly at each level before continuing its upward journey. Surprisingly, it was deathly quiet.

It was not Ellinel who returned to meet him. An older man, tall and well-built with a full head of still-dark hair, appeared from one of the lower doors and stepped towards him. His walk was quick, and he carried his shoulders high. His clothing was custom and exquisite. Every fiber of his being exuded power. "My daughter tells me that you are Abârzadan."

"Such is the case, yes. She believes that you knew my father."

The man's face twisted, but he regained his composure a second later. "Yes, I knew Abâranâ. By your demeanor I understand that he has passed away."

"Again, you are are correct. I thought that since you were friends, there might be some lose ends that needed tying up, assuming you and he had conducted business together."

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, but I am rude. My name, Abârzadan, is Anadanâ. Welcome to my home. Do you require refreshments, or shall we get right to the task at hand?"

Abârzadan declined the offer, and the two headed up the staircase.


***


Anadanâ's study was immense. Row upon row of shelves was stuffed tight with leather-bound books, and heavy cabinets filled with documents lined the walls whenever an open space presented itself. A huge ivory desk covered with scattered papers sat in the center. The host led his guest straight to it, pulled up and extra chair, and bid him to sit. Anadanâ spent a few moments searching one of the cabinets, but soon returned with a large folder. He sat down and pulled out documents one at time, explaining their significance as he went. Apparently, Abâranâ and he had run a business together for many years. It started out as a small entrepreneurship, but eventually evolved into a highly succesfull enterprise that held a virtual monopoly in the housing industry for a decade. When Abârzadan's father abruptly disappeared, his partner simply took over. "But now that you're here," he assured Abârzadan, "You can sign for him and take your father's place."

Anadanâ pulled out a crumpled paper and blew a cloud of dust off it. "Here we are. Assuming that you want in on this." He picked up an inkwell with his right hand, turned it over, and grimaced. "Ah, it's empty. I will have to go and fetch a fresh bottle. Please excuse me." And with that, he stood and disappeared from the room.

Abârzadan chuckled to himself. Anadanâ had seemed like the sort of man that would have called a servant long before venturing out to find something as trivial as an ink canister. After all, there were several buttons on the a nearby panel, all labeled - a bell system that ran throughout the entire residence. Pushing the thought aside, the man snatched up the paper and read through the legal material. Everything seemed in order, and the previous signiture had indeed been made by Abâranâ Barântâira.

Wait. Batânzâira... Barântâira. That is not his name! Upon making this startling revelation, the man leaped to his feet. Suddenly visible was a dark pool of ink, slowly settling at the bottom of an otherwise-empty silver waste-basket.

And Abârzadan make a quick and accurate assumption. Something about the entire afternoon was very, very wrong.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had stared frozen in horror at the body of her only child, laying motionless in a pool of her own blood. She could not look away, watching the color drain from Kâthaanî's face as the seconds ticked slowly by. She screamed at herself silently, trying to force her leaden limbs to action. Though Inzi had fought many times, impressively and subtley, she had never before heard the painful scream of her own blood. Though Kâthaanî had gone on missions before, it had always been with Abârpânarú, and they had always been safer than Cervith had realized. Now she had been exposed to the true horror that was battle and had come out wanting... now she was wounded, perhaps fatally, and her life streamed from her body as her mother was frozen to inaction.

Izri found her at that moment. As Inzillomì looked on, surprisingly unscathed though her attention had so completely wandered from the battle, she saw her daughter's fingers tighten over the reins of her beloved Izri. A sigh of relief escaped as her own mount moved forward and slightly away from the girl. Inzi panicked, snapping back to the moment. She reeled slightly and slipped from her saddle, being caught rather undelicately by the unsoft ground. Kali turned, worried about the lack of weight now present on her back. She nudged Inzillomi off the ground. The woman stood, slightly dazed, and bent to pick up her long knife. She thrust it through her sash, swiftly moving to the aid of Abârpânarú and Tiru, now hoisting the motionless Kâthaanî to Izri's back. As the girl found the strength to hold tight to the beast's neck, the men turned from her, allowing Kali to remove her mistress from harm's way. Tiru mounted Mani again as Abârpânarú spotted his wife, stricken, it seemed. He moved to her quickly, taking her swiftly in his arms.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no..." She turned from him, mounting Kali once more. Abârpânarú looked at her with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

Buried once more in the act of riding, Inzillomì body cooperated with her. She could not stop her gaze from falling often upon her daughter's unmoving form. If only she had been faster... She rode hard as the hail bruised her skin, thinking furiously, blaming herself.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir fired several arrows back at their pursuers, but there were too many behind them for the arrows to make a difference. Desperate to get off the island before it sank, Thoronmir urged his horse on.

Meanwhile, in the city, Sauron was still issuing orders.

"Hunt down the Faithful! They must not be allowed to leave this place. Herugor, take as many soldiers as you can and capture them before they can reach Romenna!"

"Yes, my lord," Herugor replied, and left.

Several miles from Armenelos, Thoronmir and the others stopped for a minute to rest before moving on. Thoronmir noticed something in the distance. At least ten horses were coming after them, and they didn't look friendly.

"Ride!" he shouted. "The Enemy has found us! Ride!"

An arrow flew past, narrowly missing Thoronmir. He fired a shot from his own bow and took off down the trail.

"You're not getting away this time, Sakaladun! This time, you die!" came a very familiar voice.

They rode onward.


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Himaran's post

Dropping the suspicious document on the desk, Abârzadan walked over to the cabinet from which his host had produced the obviously incorrect papers. Scanning the labels, he quickly recognized that they were alphebetically ordered. If those did not regard my father then... surely something else did. He found the "B's," and rolled down the line; Ba, Bat, Batâ, Batân...

There was nothing.

The man heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps all this had been a big mistake after all.

Then he noticed the sections.

At the top of the cabinet he was standing in front of, a small sign read "Partners." Each one is its own file!. Well, if Partner didn't apply, what did? "Raw Materials?" "Transportation?" No, these were all connected to Anadanâ's housing business. The man worked his way around the room, checking the names for anything that looked suspicious. And then he saw it, clear as daylight.

"Political Enemies."

Not even bothering to scroll, Abârzadan pulled out his father's "file," which consisted of a small, heavy and unlocked metal box. He hauled it over to a nearby table and set it down. Prying up the lid, the man scooped out a pile of papers. The first several consisted of background information on his father, such as his birthdate, childhood residence, and geneology. Why does this man have a record on Abâranâ? Political enemies? He looked at the next document. Its title read, "Legislation and Political Measures." Names rolled out before him at startling speed - child labor, slavery, taxation; all the major issures were present. Nothing concrete or explanatory, though. But the next piece made his blood run cold.

"Voting Records."

After all, his father had been on the Numenorean High Council. While the King still had the final say in all matters, the council had wielded considerable power during that time. So what had he done to deserve the label of "enemy?" Nothing was making sense. Lists, lists, and yet more lists. Had it not been for the fact that Abâranâ's name had been circled, he might never have found it. The man started checking the votes. Child labor, No. Legalizing prostitution, No. All of the measures he had voted against had passed. In the face of great opposition, the politician had stood up for his beliefs. And to what end? The final decision in the record was entitled, "Centralized Army Fund." Origonally, garrisons in cities were run and operated by individual councils. This law created a single army controlled by Ar-Pharazôn alone, one which would have made controlling a disobediants populace far easier. He checked the list on the right side of the paper, and was surprised by what he saw.

His father had not voted.

Tossing it aside, he scooped up the next one. This one was simply labeled, "Status." There were three names on the paper. His mother's name had been crossed off. The names of his father and himself had not.

Abârzadan sank back into the chair behind him. His mother's death, the flight from Numenor; it had all become remarkably clear within the course of the past few minutes. His father's last words rang hauntingly in his memory. "I say this, so that you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie." And discover the truth.

A tremble in the floor snapped him out of his daydream.

The ink had been a diversion for Anadanâ to leave the room. Where was he? The man was sure that the aging politician would be more than happy to get Abârzadan's name scratched off that list once and for all. Rolling up the papers, he fastened them with a nearby tie and hurried out of the room. Maybe the Valar would be merciful to him. Maybe there was still time.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

When they halted for a brief time, Mabalar and Inzillomí went straight to their daughter. She had been grievously wounded; her face was pale, and she fought for consciousness.

"We must dress the wound!" Inzi said. She tore strips from her own dress, shortening it from anke length to knee, and wrapped the bands around the knife wound in Kâthaanî's side.

"Lord," cried Tíru, "let me remove your chains!"

"There is no time now. My friends!" he called to all of them. "The island and tongue of the Adûnaic are now cursed because of the evil of the king and his men in following Sauron. From now on, all of my house must be called by their Sindarin names. I am Mabalar Mellothroch. My wife is Lothlómë. My life work is the care of the mearas. Speak to me and mine in Sindarin only, or you will not be answered." He looked from one to the next of them as his words laid hold upon them.

Just then, Thoronmir gave warning: they were being followed.

"Mabalar, part of the dagger must be embedded in the wound," said Lothlómë.

"There is no time now, though my heart misgives me if we do not remove it soon. Ride and outrun them!"

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Himaran's post


As he rushed out out onto the winding stairwell, Abarzadan heard the main door to the estate crash open. Crouching, he peered over the railing and watched as heavily armed guards poured into the atrium. The reason for Abadana's disappearance instantly became clear. But what to do? An armour-plated captain shouted orders to his men and they started up the staircase. There was no way to go but up. Keeping his head low, Abarzadan ascended on his belly, scrambling as quickly as his four limbs would carry him. The pounding footsteps behind him grew close, than faded into the study. Not much time. Forgetting any preconcieved notions of stealth, the man threw caution to the wind, stood, and bounded up to the next level.

Betrayed. The whole affair had been a farce, starting with his "unexpected" meeting with Ellinel. She recognized the name, ensnared him with her charm and appearance, and brought him to her father for the slaughter. As the man continued his unconventional escape, he vowed to cheat them again, just as his father had so many years before. Bursting through a nearby door, Abarzadan found himself in a loud, steamy and bustling kitchen. Cooks and porters yelled with surprise as he leaped over a counter and tore threw an array of stoves, kicking and tipping over various barrels and cauldrons in his mad flight. A lone, enraged worker brandishing a knife blocked his exit, but slowing down was no longer an option for the man. He waited until the last possible second before snatching an empty kettle, knocking the implement aside and fleeing from the scene. Slamming the door behind him, Abarzadan jammed it with a nearby stool before turning and finding himself at a dead end.

The window.

Snatching a broom from its customary place on the wall, he smashed the expensive but delicate glass and glanced out. He was two stories above the ground, too far up to jump. Unlike the stories he had often read as a child, there was no tall haywagon conveniently sitting just below him. Shouting behind him, someone shoving on the door.

Then he saw the pipe.

Naturally, any wealthy man's house would have a functional sewer system, and this one was no exception. The waste must run down, so... Careful of the remaining glass, Abarzadan clasped both arms around the thick clay cylinder and pulled his body out with them. Then he started sliding. The stool was knocked aside. Guards swarmed in, found an empty room with a broken window, and looked out. There was no one in sight.

Documents in hand, Abarzadan sprinted down the street. Locals eyed him briefly before sighing, turning and continuing with their business. A tremble sent him tumbling to the earth, but he pulled himself up and hurried unward. Where was he going? Up ahead, the man saw the crown of the temple. Perhaps even now as he hurried towards it, his past companions were being bled or burned to death on one of its pagan alters. There was absolutely no logical reason to head towards it, especially now that he had escaped two deathtraps in the same day. Yet something, a force not dark or sinister, seemed to be drawing him to it. Maybe the Valar wish for me to make a stand. Maybe it is my time.

But Kali, waiting alone in the shadow of the temple, knew better.