Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arry]

The Lórien Elves


Nearly a score of Elves had fallen with the first onslaught of the Orcs. And at least as many had been wounded to some degree in the ongoing battle. Others of the Elves, those unscathed, closed about their injured fellows helping them along . . . protecting them from further insult from the base and twisted foe. Those who had died must need be left where they lay. The others could not carry their dead weight lest they in turn be killed.

The steel grey eyes of the Lorinand glittered harshly in the sun’s light as they kept their gazes steady on the Orcs’ attack. Great anger smoldered in their depths, moving from mind to mind among them as they saw the hroar of many of their kindred being made sport of. It grieved them to witness the filthy hands of the murderous Orcs claw and rend the fair Elven bodies.

The Elves doubled their own attack in an effort to break through to where their Dwarven escort fought fearlessly to reach them. Almost as one the Lorinand hewed their way through the thinning line of Orcs.

A great yell, a fearsome roar, went up from the Dwarven line in their ancient tongue. And even those ears which were not as keen as those of the Elves rang loudly with the mighty rallying cry . . .

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Skald and his companions

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

^*^

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!

He had not seen Riv fall. The forms of the Dwarves about him were a blur as they pushed hard against the dwindling Orc line. The blades of the Elves swung high and low, the glints from them growing brighter as the two companies approached each other across the thin, seething mass of Orc bodies.

The Orcs were pulling back a bit, squeezing out from the deadly lines of Elf and Dwarf they found themselves caught between. Some, their escape cut off as the Elves and Dwarves closed in, were unable to head back south; instead finding themselves harried northward. Their rage piqued by the escape of victory for themselves, they harried mercilessly those smaller islands of Dwarves and Elves they came upon.

Skald saw the Elves chasing the retreating Orcs for a short space, until they were no longer a threat. He thought at first to lend his axe to their sword, but a mighty grip took hold his left arm and he turned, axe raised to deal with whatever foolish Orc had dared come near him. He lowered his axe, seeing it wasTaf Hardhammer and was about to give a warning in jest. Taf’s eyes were wide with urgency and he turned Skald more to the left, pointing down to another group of Dwarves further on.

It was Bror! An Orc had swung his weighty club and knocked his brother hard. He was falling . . . falling . . . in slow motion, it seemed as Skald’s breath caught in his throat. Even were his feet to sprout wings, there was no possible way for him to reach Bror. A great cry of rage welled up from within and erupted from him. Taf shook him and pointed again to where Manni and Vetr stood their axes flying from their hands at Bror’s assailants. Skald did indeed fly himself, then, Taf and the others hard on his heels. They swung their weapons relentlessly as they covered the distance to Bror, clearing a path before them.

Skald knelt beside his little brother, bending down to cradle Bror’s head against his arm. The battle had all but dissipated now; the Orcs either dead or run away. Bror’s helm had tumbled off with the blow; across his left cheek was a large bright red and purpling abrasion, swelling gloriously into a hillock of a bruise. Bror’s breathing was easy and what blood had flown from the injured flesh had all but stopped. He was still quite knocked out though, and unresponsive to any of Skald’s questions or prods. Skald rocked him gently, willing him back to consciousness.

Another Dwarf, Brand, had come to kneel by Skald. His face was strained with grief, his speech coming in short gasps as he told how Riv and Afi had protected him, giving him time to send his silvered arrow up as a call for aid. ‘Afi is dead,’ he managed in a strangled voice. Alarmed, Skald grasped Brand’s forearm . . . ‘And Riv . . .?’ he asked, his voice gruff with fear. He glanced about and could not see his older brother from where he crouched.

‘He lives, still. Though he is badly injured,’ Brand managed. He nodded toward where two of the Lorien Elves knelt down their bodies blocking Skald’s view. ‘They have placed him on one of their shields and will bear him up to the gate on it.’

The Brassbeards, Fastor and Grimsi, had made one of their cloak into a sling on sorts, securing the ends to the shafts of their poleaxes. ‘Come, Skald, let us get your brother into this and start back to the East Gate,’ they directed him, lowering the sling to the ground. ‘And Brand, you come back with us, too. The guards in the East Hall have sent more Dwarven warriors to bring back our fallen.’ None were surprised when Brand shook his head and stood up, going back to stand where his brother had fallen.

Fastor and Grimsi hoisted the makeshift sling and moved at a quick pace away from the battleground. Skald followed along beside for a number of paces, looking to see that the Brassbeards were taking care not jostle Bror unnecessarily. He spoke to Bror as they went along, telling him that Riv was alright and that he had seen Uncle Orin, too, making his way up the slope to the path. ‘I’m going to walk with Riv for a while now,’ he told Bror, giving his brother’s forearm a squeeze of assurance. ‘Some Elves have loaded him onto one of their long shields and are bringing him back, same as Fastor and Grimsi are doing for you. He was hurt . . . some, too,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you up in the Great East Hall,’ he called, veering away from Bror’s litter.

In a little louder voice, he called out to the swaying form as it pulled away from him. ‘And don’t think you’re going to get out of retribution for that trick you pulled on me, mudworm! You owe me little brother . . . and I mean to collect!’

My life and skill pledged to you, Mahal . . . he whispered in a low, rough tone as he ran on. Just keep my brother this side of the West’s Stone Halls . . . both of them!

His swift feet brought him soon into the company of the Elves who bore his older brother’s still form . . .

[Durelin]

The elf-lord was putting words together in answer to Narisiel's question before she voiced it. He knew he had explaining to do, and he would not shy away from it as he had before. It was time for the two of them to bring to an end the old tension between them that had completely ruined their friendship, as well as Celebrimbor's friendship with her husband, Sirithlonnior.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

"I should have told you right away what became of them, but I was fearful, mainly of my own shame. All the great Rings are in the hands of that Annatar now, all except the Three." Celebrimbor buried his face in his hands, now unable to look even at the faces of his companions. Maegisil knew what he was going to say, but it was still painful for him to speak those words that revealed all of his guilt. "We were deceived. I was deceived. It was I who worked with that...that thing..." His voice was growing cruel and bitter with disgust, as he was sickened both by the servant of Morgoth and by he himself. Narisiel watched and listened in confusion, but waited, knowing that Celebrimbor would explain.

"Sauron now has the Rings, except the Three."

"Sauron?" Narisiel blurted out before she could catch herself. Both Maegisil and Celebrimbor had expected this response, as the counselor knew his lord had kept almost everything concerning the Rings secret, even from many of those who helped make them.

Maegisil had been disappointed with his lord, as it seemed he had turned the creation of them into a personal project, and of course the Dark Lord had kept him under that impression. But he was not so disappointed in the fact that the Lord of the Mirdain was deceived, rather he had been saddened that Celebrimbor had not invited him to help in the forges. For a moment, Maegisil's mind dwelt on the possibility of making his own magic rings, and he briefly daydreamed about how he would have doubly deceived Sauron and kept the rings and used their power himself. Then he realized what it was he was thinking about playing with, and he shook those thoughts out of his head.

"Yes, Annatar was indeed the dark Deceiver," Celebrimbor said softly, almost choking on every word. It was getting hard for him to speak. He was revealing things that he had not told anyone in over a century. Maegisil was the only person he had told, as he had been unable to hide anything from his friend, who had waited for him, and who had been there the day his task was completed, and he had marveled at the beauty of his Rings. He had been particularly fond of Vilya, and he had picked it as his own, slipping it on and wishing to make it an heirloom of the Lords of Eregion...

"He felt the evil as soon as he donned the Ring," Maegisil said, and then, though he did not know it, paused just long enough to give his lord time to be pulled out of his thoughts and realize that they were talking about him.
"Which one was it?" the counselor then asked.

"Vilya," the elf-lord said, the name feeling strange on his lips. His mind drifting back deep into thoughts of the past, he spoke as if he were talking to himself. "I believe that to be the finest, though all three are equal in their power."

"They are now hidden, in the hands of worthy bearers of our people," said Maegisil, trying to explain more to Narisiel, knowing that his lord's words were most likely only helping to confuse the elf woman. He understood that Celebrimbor was at the moment unable to speak directly concerning the Rings, but he could not help but feel disappointed again, as he had many times since the creation of those rings. It seemed that the Lord of Eregion was not completely able to face his past, and it had seemed that way for far too many years.

"And yet I expect them to become the bane of our people." The Lord of the Mirdain had not yet brought his head up from resting in his hands.

"But the most powerful of the Rings are in the hands of our people, and their power protects them from the threat of Sauron," said Maegisil.

Finally Celebrimbor raised his head up to look at his companions. Several tears ran down his otherwise composed face. "There is no power here in Eregion to protect us."

[piosenniel]

Pain . . . there had been pain . . . he remembered that . . . and then a deep blanketing darkness . . .

Muffled sounds broke in on his reviving awareness. The sounds of boots echoing against stone and the flow of voices. His brother’s voice. Skald – worried and demanding. The soft calm voices of others . . . like gentle breezes soughing through leaves, he thought.

There was the sound of crying and the cool touch of a hand on his brow. One fat tear fell splashing near the corner of his eye, skidding in small warm rivulets into the thick tangles of his beard. His eyelids unglued themselves and fluttered open. A familiar face swam into view, followed by another crowding over him.

‘Riv?’ The ragged voice of his wife called out his name, a hint of hope lifting it at the end.

He could see his brother turning now to call someone else over. Then the faces of Skald and Unna drew back as an unfamiliar face loomed over him. Dark haired, angular, free of any beard. Grey eyes that glistened, as granite does when it catches the light. An Elven face!

‘Welcome back, Master Dwarf!’ the Elf said. His hand and arm slid under Riv’s shoulders and brought the Dwarf to a sitting position. ‘Your wife has made some rich, good broth for you. Will you try a little, now that you are fully awake?’

Riv blinked his eyes, bringing the rest of the room into focus. It was the great gathering hall for the Stonecut family. About it were a number of beds holding Dwarves and Elves with varying degrees of injury. Among them came and went a number of Dwarven healers from the different families and with them strode a number of the Elves, conferring over those hurt.

The Elf who had raised his head for him must be a healer, Riv thought. Having checked Riv’s bandages, the Elf stepped back as Unna and Skald rushed in to support him. They piled pillows and cushions at his back; then, Unna, a smile of welcome and relief on her fair face, fetched up the bowl of broth she had made and began to spoon some toward his lips.

‘Here, now, wife!’ growled Riv, looking disconcertedly at her. ‘I’m no babe in diapers to need feeding!’ He reached toward the spoon with his right arm, bringing on a deep groan from the awakened pain.

Unna laughed, a bright, light sound that spilled through the space between them. Skald smacked him soundly on his left shoulder with a, ‘What do you think you’re doing, you great blockhead! That Elf just got you stitched back together! And now you want to start bleeding all over yourself again!’

With a snort of bare acquiescence, Riv settled back against the piled cushions and took a mouthful of broth. The pain in his left side and arm was beginning to dull again as he kept it still. Before he took another bite, he glanced about the lamp-lit room.

‘Where is Bror?’ he asked. ‘And Uncle Orin? And those others of our companions who went with us?’ He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his memory. ‘Last I remember was Brand, knocking an arrow, the silvered arrow, to his bowstring. There were Orcs, then, rushing madly at us.’ Riv frowned, and shook his head again. ‘After that, there is only darkness . . . until now . . .’

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo moved through the city streets, coins jingling in his deep apron pockets. He was on his way to Celebdur's workshop, eager to see what Celebdur had done with the knife. Cainenyo passed through a long, shadowy alleyway, a shortcut he saw two boys take yesterday, and emerged on Celebdur's street. Crows huddled on rooftops and watched as Cainenyo knocked on Celebdur's red-painted door. The sounds of smithy-work echoed through an open window and Cainenyo heard the brisk footsteps of the silversmith. The door soon swung outwards and Celebdur stood in the sunshine. "Hello there, I've got your knife right here," he said at once and he reentered the shop before Cainenyo could say a word.

Cainenyo whistled a half-hearted tune and watched the people go by as he stood in the street. This awkward patience did not last long, for Celebdur was back at the door, presenting a long package of string and paper to Cainenyo in pure regal-fashion. "Here it is, adorned with silver blossoms by your very own son." Cainenyo took it into his hands, considered for a moment whether to open the package now or later, decided on the latter, and slipped the knife into one of the deep pockets of his apron.

"How much do I owe you?" Cainenyo asked, thrusting a gloved hand into another pocket and fishing around for a handful of silver coins. He knew that good silver was becoming expensive these days.

"Nothing at all!" Celebdur exclaimed, "It was made by your son, my apprentice. Think of it as a gift." He turned back into the shop. "Good-bye, Cainenyo," he said.

"Good-bye, and thank you," Cainenyo said back as the red door shut. Cainenyo had some extra cash and some free time. He had already finished the candelabra this morning, an Alassante could handle any customers. Cainenyo darted through another alleyway, next to Fëaglin's shop, and avoiding clothes-lines and crates of fresh vegetables headed to market, Cainenyo made his way to his favorite part of town.

Cainenyo paused for a moment near Celebrimbor's palace, where he heard the joyful voices of young soldiers on the ramparts. Cainenyo could make out the faces of servants and councilors in the tall windows, and watched their expressions, trying to watch what was happening in the home of the Ring-Maker. But Cainenyo did not tarry long. Soon he was again roaming the streets, heading towards the docks on the river.

[Arestevana]

A violent blur of noise, color, and emotion filled Gilduin’s memories of the past moments, hours, days. He could not think how long ago he had stood at the edge of the Mirromere in those terrifying moments when the first arrows flew. The forward party had made a hasty retreat to the main contingent before knocking arrows to string. Barely had he fired his first shot when the enemy was among them, cruel blades cutting mercilessly. Gilduin remembered little of the fighting he had done. His first arrow had fallen far short, and there had been no time to shoot a second before the orcs closed.

Far outnumbered, the contingent had retreated to the mountains, leaving behind them the bodies of their dead. Etched into his mind were images of the horrors to which those corpses were abandoned. Every step toward the safety of Hadhodrond was tortuously slow, beset as they were by orcs, and the jeers of their attackers echoed through the valley. The arrival of the dwarves was their salvation. The orcs had retreated when faced with the fury of the dwarven attack, though not without inflicting grievous injuries on many warriors, elven and dwarven alike.

Now they were gathered somewhere beneath the mountains, in a great hall of stone. The injured were being treated by healers of both races. Gilduin heard a deep voice nearby and saw a dwarf looking up at him.
“Are you injured, Master Elf?” the dwarf asked.
Gilduin, about to reply in the negative, realized that he did not know. He paused and glanced down at himself. The lower portion of the standard shaft was covered with black orc blood, and his clothing and armor were stained black and crimson. Some of the blood was his own, he realized abruptly, noticing for the first time a long cut on his left arm.
“It appears so, my good sir,” Gilduin said, slightly shaken.
The dwarf nodded and peered at the wound. “It does not look deep. Hold still, and I will dress it for you.”

Gilduin waited patiently while the healer cleaned and bandaged the cut. Then he thanked the dwarf and moved away, scanning the large room for any sign of Vaele. He wondered how his friend had fared in the battle. The archer had shot several arrows before the orcs closed, Gilduin recalled, but he could not remember seeing Vaele in the fray. Making his way through the diminished gathering of the Galadrim, Gilduin glimpsed a familiar flash of dark green.
“Vaele!” he called hopefully. “Vaele Andarion?”

[Folwren]

Bror’s head pounded. The figures in his sight were blurry and it hurt to try to focus. He shut his eyes and shuddered. The Dwarven voices around him grated on his ears and he wanted to tell them to go away and let him sleep, but he thought that it might even hurt to talk, so he remained silent.

After a few moments of lying in what he thought to be perfect misery, his senses became clearer and two voices became distinct. They were speaking near him, one was familiar and the other was quite different than what he had ever heard. At the moment, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ it said. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll have a ferocious head ache, but little other damage. The bleeding was minimal, and nothing was broken. I have to say he was very fortunate. Such a blow as your son described him to have taken could have easily taken his life.’ Bror opened his eyes again and turned his head.

‘There. He is awake,’ the stranger said. A tall form moved slightly towards him. ‘Go on. I’ll continue checking the others.’ Bror shut his eyes tightly to try to clear them of the fog and dimness of everything and then reopened them. A dwarf was approaching him and in a moment, he recognized his father. A weak smile came to his face and he held out his hand as though he were a child. Viss Stonecut made the last few steps to his side and took his hand.

‘Father,’ Bror said raspily.

‘Well, Bror, you met your first battle in a way to be proud of. You saved Riv’s life.’

‘Is he here?’ Bror asked, looking up at him. ‘He wasn’t killed?’

‘Yes, he’s here. He wasn’t killed. He’ll be alright.’

‘What happened?’

Viss told him what Skald had related to him when they had met. All of the battle leading up to the regrouping of the orcs, and how he had seen Bror knocked down and had run to him, frightened that he might have been killed. Bror managed another faint smile.

‘Dear Skald,’ he muttered. Then he sighed. ‘I should have been with Riv. We had most of the Dwarves on our side. Uncle Orin and all the others we had brought with us.’

‘Don’t think about it now. You both will be up on your feet in little time at all. Soon you’ll be quite ready to be back hammering. For now, just rest. I’ll see what I can get you to eat.’ Bror shut his eyes and nodded and Viss drew away quietly.

[Arry]

A week had passed and most of the Elves were on their feet, Skald noted. ‘Saw some of them take mighty hard blows. That one there took an arrow clear through his leg. Must have the constitution of a slab of granite.’

His father chuckled, nodding his head ‘yes’. ‘More like diamonds,’ Viss said. ‘Full of clear light and near impossible to crack.’ He glanced for a moment toward Riv who still looked pale. ‘We’re the granite, I think,’ he went on. ‘Hard to rend . . . hard . . . but it can happen.’

Skald touched his father lightly on the forearm. ‘But he’s alright. The healers say he will soon be well. And Bror, too! Look there where he’s up and about.’

Viss smiled at his middle son and clapped him on the back. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right . . .’ He watched, the smile fading on his face, as Skald crossed the room to scoop up Leifr and deposit him on Riv’s lap. ‘For now at least . . .’

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In a fortnight, all were well enough to don their mail and helmets; to pick up their axes and spears and bows. Thirty-five Dwarves were mustered to bolster the remaining eighty Elves. King Durin was taking no chances that the Orcs had not somehow crossed the mountains and would harry travelers on the western roads.

Riv and Bror and twenty of the other Dwarven warriors led the party out of the West Gate and east down the wide track that ran along the northern bank of the Sirannon. Skald and Orin were with the others of Dwarves who formed the rear guard.

Five days at a steady pace and they would reach the Elven city . . . Mahal willing . . .