Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Encaitare]

The camp was busy the next morning; the orcs gathered up their scant belongings and bundled into whatever extra bit of clothing they could use to protect themselves from the cold. When they moved out, the only evidence to their presence were a few spent campfires and the odd corpse -- several of those who had been badly wounded had not lasted the night.

Kharn took a position at the very back of the regiment, ready to goad anyone who started to fall behind. Glûtkask was at the very front; Kharn was glad to get away from him. The captain had been in a fouler mood than usual since yesterday's skirmish, and he had kept eyeing Kharn as if daring him to do the same as Lushurd. Kharn, however, preferred to mind his own business. As for the rest of the soldiers, they seemed to have forgotten the brawl entirely -- after all, these things were not uncommon.

Grimly silent, they started off through the mountain pass.

[Kath]

Ugburz limped along behind his troop, cursing under his breath at the Elf who had got him in the leg with an arrow. The wound wasn't deep but it was making it difficult to move as quietly as Glûtkask had demanded when they set off and the orcs around him shot him glares as he shuffled along. His only source of comfort was the memory of the way he had killed the Elf who had shot the blasted thing at him. He grinned cruelly as he remembered the gurgling sound the creature had made as he had stabbed his knife into its back.

He hadn't seen a great deal of the battle as he'd been at the back of the regiment when it marched in and had been fighting on the sidelines, unable to get any further in due to the flailing of various arms and limbs. It would have been more dangerous trying to get through his fellow Orcs than fighting Elves the way things were going. It was only later after the order to retreat and their arrival back at the camp that he realised this apparent panic had in fact been exactly that. Those at the front had been caught between Elves and Dwarves and while they were trying to retreat the orcs behind were trying to advance, causing the crush.

Back at the camp it soon became apparent that Glûtkask was not happy with the way things had gone. Ugburz had quickly made himself scarce, trying to patch up the hole in his leg while he had the chance. The night had passed quickly if coldly, the remaining orcs had been swiftly organised into lines and they had set off before the sun had even cleared the horizon. They had been walking now for hours and Ugburz was both hungry and in pain, but it didn't look as though they were going to be stopping until Glûtkask had marched himself out of the foul mood he was in. Muttering under his breath Ugburz hefted his pack further up on his shoulders and walked on.

[Firefoot]

The march was cold – no one could deny that. It could hardly be considered inordinately difficult, though; that is, unless that one was Ulwakh.

He limped along, doing the best he could to keep up, and for the first hour or so he did fairly well, once some of the initial stiffness (resulting mostly from the cold) had worn off.

Then, conditions seemed to take a turn for the worse. The company reached the start of the mountain pass, and the terrain grew to be rougher and rougher. Ulwakh’s limp became more pronounced, and the now-hardened goop which Grimkul had spread upon the leg to stop the bleeding cracked. In this lay the one benefit of the cold weather: the blood had thickened, so that the flow was not nearly as heavy as it might have been. After a little while, it stopped of its own accord. This did not help Ulwakh, though, who was still recuperating from his severe loss of blood the previous afternoon.

Once more, Grimkul did what little he could to help, fending off other Orcs with a nasty look or, in an unusual display of what was almost affection, catching Ulwakh by the arm to keep him from stumbling too badly.

In the grand scheme of things, however, these helped little. Very slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the pair dropped back through the ranks until they were almost in the very back. Once or twice Ulwakh glanced back and saw Kharn eyeing him, as if considering a choice word or two.

Ulwakh’s old reluctance to attract the attention of anyone higher up resurfaced. For a little while he redoubled his efforts to keep up, knowing his very life might depend on it. In doing so, however, his wound reopened and this time it was not nearly so quick in mending itself.

About half way through the march, Ulwakh knew that he was nearly spent; save by some happening of extraordinary luck, he doubted he would be able to continue at this pace. He stumbled.

“You mountain maggots aren’t even fit to march!” jeered Kharn from behind. “We shoulda left you back at the camp this morning – you’re just holding everyone else back!” Ulwakh scrambled back to his feet with difficulty – he had to hang on, had to keep going…

But Grimkul’s irritation awakened – no one insulted Ulwakh but him, and as for ‘mountain maggot,’ well, he came from the mountains, too! At Ulwakh’s fierce persuading, Grimkul held his peace for the moment, but Kharn had noticed how easy it was to cow the smaller one and took more frequent opportunity to insert his jeers, and not just towards Ulwakh, either. Grimkul did not take the goading well and finally refused to be knocked into submission any more. An ugly look on his face and hand on sword hilt, Grimkul turned to face the larger, higher-ranked Orc.

“Grimkul, don’t,” pleaded Ulwakh vainly.

“You,” said Grimkul, putting a particularly ugly emphasis on the word, “leave him alone.”

Kharn appeared somewhat surprised by this resistance but largely unfrightened. “And what are you going to do about it? Attack me?” he scoffed, though he had moved his hand to his own weapon lest he be caught defenseless. Ulwakh cursed to himself, knowing the direction this was headed and not liking it at all.

Thus provoked, Grimkul drew his scimitar; the sound echoed faintly in the mountain pass. Snarling, he launched a furious blow towards Kharn, who had just enough time to get his own sword between the opposing blade and himself. Hearing the ring of metal upon metal, the entire company stopped. Ulwakh sank to the ground, taking the opportunity to rest for a moment for its full value, though he did keep a pair of twisted throwing knives at hand should they prove necessary.

Grimkul backed off for a moment in the stunned silence. Kharn, thinking that Grimkul had learned better, lowered his weapon slightly. There was a shout from the front of the line – the Captain, thought Ulwakh – which diverted Kharn’s attention for the barest second, which Grimkul took advantage of. No longer heeding his scimitar, Grimkul simply lunged upon Kharn, bringing him down with his momentum. They hit the ground with Kharn on bottom and within moments Grimkul had his broken dagger pressed to Kharn’s throat.

“Now, what were you saying?” Grimkul snarled.

[Arry]

In the city of the Jewelsmiths

‘Too exposed here. Don’t you think?’ Skald stood with the others in the great square while the leaders of the city welcomed their kin from Lorien. The Dwarves had fallen back, as the Mirdain crowded about the company sent by the Lady. Riv’s eyes, he noted, moved here and there taking in the sights of the city. So engrossed was his older brother in his own thoughts that he did not hear Skald’s whispered observation.

Skald stepped a few paces away to where his younger brother stood. Bror, too, was looking about. Skald could not tell if his thoughts about the Elven city were positive or negative. ‘Well, what do you think, little brother?’ Skald asked, jutting his chin toward the great, light structures that thrust up from the earth like tall crystals. ‘It’s too . . . well . . . open . . . for my taste. No place here to make a stand, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course. But seems to me if you’re going up against . . . that black-hearted bootlicker . . . you’d best have some good thick rock between you and his filthy Orcs and such.’ He shifted from foot to foot, anxious for the meet-and-greet to be over. They’d seen the Elves safely to the city; their task was done in his mind. The sooner they were safe within the halls of Khazad-dum, the better he would feel.

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


Kharn was pinned to the snow-dusted ground, still holding onto his sword but unable to use it. He glared up at Grimkul, being careful not to move too much lest the blade cut him.

"Get off me, you stinkin' rat. You'll make the captain angry, and then you'll have more to worry about than whether your useless friend over there can keep up." Grimkul did not move, and Kharn actually feared for his life. He was careful, however, to let his face betray nothing but arrogance. "Didn't you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as daft?"

There was silence as the two fiercely stared at one another, neither moving; the orcs nearby looked on, wondering if they were going to witness the second killing of their own in two days. Another shout was heard, louder than the first, from Glûtkask up ahead. Kharn had no doubt that the captain would not hesitate to kill Grimkul on the spot.

"Grimkul," the orc on the ground said, twisting his head in the direction of the noise. Grimkul turned to look at his friend, and Kharn seized the moment to deliver a punch to his assailant's throat. As Grimkul gasped for breath, Kharn was able to push him off and climb to his feet. Grimkul tried to get up, but Kharn kicked him and he stayed down, catching his breath.

"No need to fret about your friend," Kharn said cruelly. "I think I can help him move along. Now get up." He waited for Grimkul to pull himself up and move in front of him, casting anrgy, resentful glances his way. Kharn wasn't about to let some crazed, murderous soldier behind him -- that was an invitation to get your back cloven or your throat cut. Why was he so protective of the injured one, anyway?

He took a whip that hung at his belt and let it roll out. He cracked it, watching with relish as some of the orcs flinched at the sound and what it forbode. "Here's some motivation for you slugs," he grinned, looking evilly at Grimkul and Ulwakh. "And especially for you two. Now move!"

[Folwren]

‘It is very open,’ Bror answered absently, his eyes roving about the structures. ‘But they are beautiful.’ He felt an uneasy movement from Skald and he finally looked back down to earth at him. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ he asked, half amused. ‘Anyone would think that this Sauron fellow has got you scared stiff without even giving you a glance at him. You’ve been too serious since Riv told you about Him and all that. Why worry? Our walls are thick, even if these walls aren’t. His shadow will not trouble us beyond that which our mountain already casts on our halls.’

He stopped and looked back up at the white buildings around him. A second thought passed through his mind and a shadow of some sadness crossed his face and clouded his expression. The great caverns in which he lived may remain untouched, as he truly believed, but he suddenly realized that it would be a grim and woeful day when such a city as this were destroyed and laid in ruin on the ground.

His dark, foreboding thoughts were broken before long. Skald was tugging at his sleeve and Bror turned impatiently. ‘Come on,’ was all his brother said.

What in world’s bothering him? Bror wondered. He hasn’t hardly been acting himself at all these past weeks. I ought to do something about that... And with thoughts of how he might get Skald out of his quiet, uncomfortable mood (Bror thought it was uncomfortable) with different pranks that would have to call for some sort of revenge, Bror followed his brothers and the rest of the dwarves back down the wide, fair streets and out of the gates.

The road home was before them - well known to a few of the dwarves. Their futures also stretched in front of them, but no one had trod that path before, and likewise, no one could tell where it would lead.

[Arestevana]

“Unfurl your banner, master elf,” called out the rough but pleasant voice of one of their guides, a dwarf called Riv.
Gilduin gladly stepped forward and loosed the standard to display its colors. Beside him the one named Orin gave voice to a silver horn. Though not the clear, poignant song of elven horns, the call still sent a shiver down Gilduin’s spine, ringing through the hills like the voice of the earth itself. As the echoes faded, the elves of Lindórinan and their dwarven guides went down to the city of the Mírdain, glittering like a bright gem in the morning sun.

They were met at the gates and welcomed inside, where they gathered in a great central square. While Celeborn and Eldegon talked with Celebrimbor and others leaders of the great city, the Mirdain crowded around the contingent with welcoming smiles. Some of those from the golden wood had friends or kinsmen among the jewelsmiths, and there were joyful excalamations as they found those they knew among the crowd.

Gilduin, recognizing none of the smiling faces of the Mírdain, looked instead at the fair white buildings of the city. Themselves a work of great craftsmanship, they rose with graceful strength to proud spires adorned with bright pennants. It seemed that every part of the Ost-in-Edhil had been crafted with most loving attention. Both delicate and diamond-strong the city seemed, composed as it was of silver and white. Bright flowers and vibrant silks ornamented the streets and buildings like jewels.

As mithril to silver and gold is this city to Gondolin and Lorien the Fair. Gilduin thought, transfixed by the beauty that surrounded him. He turned to Vaele, who stood beside him.
“Surely, my friend, this city is the greatest work of the Mírdain!”