Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Durelin]

Maegisil's eyes shot open, a shout still ringing in his hears. His troubled sleep was interrupted by the sudden clamor outside, which easily reached inside his bedroom. He sat up, and he turned to see his wife looking up at him from where she lay beside him. Her eyes were wide with fear, and he expected they mirrored his own. The shouts grew louder, and the sound of a horn filled the air to almost overcome all other noise. Both Maegisil and Sairien knew what that call meant, though they had not heard it before this night: the army had arrived, the attack had begun. Maegisil threw the covers off and jumped out of his bed, and kneeling on the ground beside his bed, he pulled out a large trunk from underneath it. It seemed to have not been touched for many years, and it had not been since Maegisil had last seen battle, since the days when he was a glorious swordsman and defender of his lord.

He fumbled trying to get it open, and he realized his hands were shaking violently. He was unsure why, though at the moment he was unsure of just about everything. He was almost afraid he had forgotten how to use a sword, but he doubted that that was something you could ever forget, how to kill. Sairien watched him, having risen from the bed as well. Her hands were folded at her waist, and she held herself in a way that made her look as elegant as any queen, even in her nightgown. After he opened the chest to stare down at the cold mithril, steel, and leather, Maegisil looked up at his wife. He froze, feeling choked. Her beauty was radiant to him, and he felt he could not dry his eyes from her. And when he met her eyes... He felt his chest tighten and his throat close, and he felt the tears begin to collect in the bottom of his eyelids. Suddenly he felt a stinging pain in his hand. He blinked and pulled his eyes away from Sairien to find his hand clenched around the curved mithril blade of his sword. The next moment, his wife laid her hand on his shoulder and pulled his own hand of his blade with the other. The blood had already begun to pool on his hand, and she tore a small strip from her nightgown and tied it tightly around his palm.

“You are blessed that it was your left hand,” she said. He could not look her in the eyes, so he stared at her handiwork.

“Thank you,” he whispered after a moment, and then rose, pulling his sword out of his trunk. He started to wipe the little bit of blood off the blade with the edge of his sleep shirt, but Sairien grabbed him by the wrist and took the sword from him. He turned to look at her, but her expression was blank.

“Put on your armour,” she said softly. Maegisil relished in hearing her voice.

He frowned at her for another moment, but then began to comply. The segmented plates of finely shaped mithril over tough but soft dark leather were fine protection from slashing blows and many thrusts, and had served him well for many a battle in years past. And they had never limited his movement, insuring that his agility and dexterity could be used to his advantage. Celebrimbor had often joked about the quickness of his feet when it came to swordplay, but he knew that it was no joke on the battlefield. After he started to don the armour, Sairien put his sword carefully down on the only table in their bedroom. Maegisil noticed that she was careful not to smear the blood on it, but, even when Sairien came over to help him, he did not say anything. He would wait for her to speak, and he knew she would soon. Her hands were shaking too.

After he looked the warrior he had been centuries ago, in what seemed to him a past life, Sairien stepped back to look at him, and he watched her as she began to break down. She fell to her knees, and the tears came. He knelt down with her, and carefully and tenderly wrapped his arms around her. And though she shook, she did not sob, and her voice was steady when she spoke. Once again, Maegisil admired her strength, and wished he had it. “There is already blood on your steel, Maegisil,” she said, “Your blood. Let that be the only blood you shed today. Let Ilúvatar see that you have already shed blood, and tears, and need shed no more!”

Maegisil took her hand in his, and whispered to her as he felt a tear begin its way down his cheek. “We must go quickly to the palace, my love. You must be safe...and you could have been. It is my fault that we are still here, we should have flown when we had the chance...”

He started to continue, but Sairien interrupted him. “We could not have flown, we are not akin to the birds. This is our city. We cannot simply fly from it and build ourselves another nest.” She paused to kiss him softly. “I will stay here. I will be safe. Just come back.”

There was something in her eyes that calmed him, even though they glistened with her tears. She would be safe here, somehow he knew. And there was something in him that told him that the palace would never be safe, that Celebrimbor would abandon his people once again. Anger flashed in his eyes.

“I will come back for you.”

He rose after one last kiss, and looked back only once, when he took his sword from off the table, before he closed the bedroom door behind him and rushed down the stairs and out of his house. He took off at a run, anger driving him on even while it told him that he did not belong where he was going. He certainly had no feeling of duty to his lord, nor even to his city. It was always Celebrimbor's dream, the grandeur of Ost-in-edhil, of his great 'kingdom' of Eregion. Maegisil wondered what had held the elf-lord back from proclaiming himself a king.

The palace was on a raised plateau of land, and it was grueling for even most elves to run up that slow but steady incline leading toward the center of the city. But Maegisil's body was remembering the old days, and his strength was fed by anger. Soon he reached the palace, and found a large numbered of guards garrisoned there, as well as soldier preparing to head to the walls. He stopped only to receive permission from the guards to proceed through, and then continued his run. He was lost in the bustle of things, just another soldier, and he liked it that way. He never liked the idea of being ‘Counselor Maegisil.’

His soft leather boots skidded to a halt on the cold stone floor in front of a large gilded door. Maegisil knew this door too well, and he knew the way to it better even than he knew his sword. This only angered him more, as he thought of all the years he had wasted, a ‘counselor’ to the Lord Celebrimbor, a mocking title for a mockery of a position. He was about to push the door open when a guard's arm snapped out to stop him. He had not noticed the guards positioned on each side of the door. Celebrimbor had never bothered to make anyone stand guard outside his door. Finally, when twenty thousand of Sauron's forces were banging on his city's gate, he put two guards outside his chambers. Maegisil wanted to laugh.

“I am sorry, Maegisil,” the guard said, and the elf he was addressing recognized him to be Gilduin, an elf of Lorien, who he had met several months ago when the Lorien forces first arrived in Ost-in-edhil. Maegisil always remembered faces, and almost always the names that went with them. “Gilduin...you...why are you here? Has no one escaped serving this...lord?” He gestured toward the door, disdain clear in his face and his voice. But he did not wait for a response. He ran again, to his right down to the end of the hallway and turned a sharp left. There were no walls of the thick but elegant stone of the rest of the palace here, but rather there were graceful, beautifully etched pillars that served the same purpose as an enclosed wall, but gave a gorgeous view of the eastern horizon. Maegisil had watched a sunrise with his wife here. A tiny, pale light began to creep up from behind the Mountains of Mist, the tips of its long, spindly arms trying to grab hold of the darkness to tear it away. But they did not have a hold of it yet. The sun would not rise for another few hours, and so the lights of torches were the brightest in the night. There were thousands of them upon the field before the walls of the city. He had hoped that he remembered this spot right, that it was high enough to see well above and beyond the city walls. He had also dreaded being right. His breath was caught in his throat as he scanned the mass of moving objects that he knew to all be enemies, to all be of the Enemy. So the Deceiver had become, his master defeated so long ago. The hope that Sauron would follow in his master's footsteps was not in Maegisil's heart.

Watching the moving figures along the walls and in the city below, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword that hung at his side. It will be as long a siege as we can make it...

[CaptainofDespair]

It was a cool evening; the pale lighting of the torch fires on the edge of the hovels flickered and danced across the tents of the encampment, casting a myriad assortment of shadowy figures upon the leather-hide flaps, the smell of burning oils wafting through the quiet pathways that led between the makeshift housing for the army. The silence, which pervaded every nook and stretched forth its grasping claws and screamed out with a desperate, hollow voice, snaring any sound unwary enough to challenge its domain, lazily slept as the heavy footfalls of boots thudded through the musty dirt.

The only light emanating from within the rows of tents came from one, situated on a measly hill, though it was more akin to a dung heap to the lord who dwelled within, albeit temporarily. Angoroth’s tent went unguarded by his soldiers, as he was always wary of assassins. His belief was that soldiers were too incompetent, or just downright dumb, to handle such a festering demon of the night properly. Thus, only two large mutts, hounds of hell to those who rubbed them the wrong way, were all that stood watch over their master.

A heavy sigh, followed by the sound of an ink quill feverishly scribbling in a dusty, moldy tome, echoed outwards. “Bah! This doesn’t sound right! How am I supposed to fashion something that is memorable, a legacy, if I can’t come up with the proper account of the battle?” He shook his head, and leaned into the palm of his hand, his elbow perched against a table he had brought with him from the East. The wood was of fine oak, a rare commodity in the region he had slipped away from. He had carved it himself, notching it with engravings that held many meanings to him. In the center, he had etched in a dragon, devouring the world; though it was unfinished. He hoped he would have time after this business with the Elves was done with. “Perhaps I should wait until the battle is concluded. There might yet be some twist to whet the appetite of my mind. Or perhaps the Elves will prove to be all too easy, and unimpressive.” Closing the tome, which was laid upon oak boards, and bound together with the leather hide of some beast from ages past, he grunted his disapproval.

As he was preparing to settle in for the night, having risen up from his crudely fashioned chair, another piece of furniture he wished to complete, he heard the whine of his dogs. They often made noises through the night, but this was different. Throwing open the flap of his abode, sword drawn and pointed into the darkness, fully expecting some defected orc or Elven assailant, he cast himself into the shadows, under the bleakness of a murky sky. In the faint torchlight, he caught a glimpse of a familiar visage; that of Ulrung, who had returned from the orc encampments. “Ah, it is only you, Captain. I was expecting someone else.” Without uttering a single pleasantry, which both thought to be quite useless, they stepped out of the shadows of the flickering torch lights, and into the musty dwelling place that was Angoroth’s tent.

The lord seated himself, again, behind his table, leaving Ulrung to stand. “Tell me, Captain, how went the excursions into the orc camps? I do hope you come with favorable news.” Ulrung nodded, replying, “I do, milord. Those that yet do not serve us, have all agreed to side with you in the coming battle. Though, some were more trouble than others.” Angoroth chuckled lightly, having full expected some of the brutish orc chieftains and captains to act with callous disregard for the Dark Lord’s orders. But, before Angoroth could respond to the news, Ulrung added, “There was one…he seemed much like you, who was difficult to persuade.” This whetted Angoroth’s interest in the conversation. “One similar to me, you say? But, he was a lowly Orc? Odd.” Ulrung nodded again, maintaining a disciplined stance. “I do not wish this Orc to arouse trouble for my mission. If he does try anything contradictory to my orders, and to the mission, see to it that he does not live, Captain. Perhaps it will not be necessary to kill him, but as a preventative measure, I want you to keep your eyes on him tomorrow.” Ulrung thrice nodded. “That is all, Captain. Now, return to the camp and muster the army.”

~*~

Bustling about in the darkness, the many contingents of Angoroth’s army marched about, assembling in their assigned locations. The shrouded blackness prevented the myriad groups from recognizing each other, and so the dim lights of torches were given to the banner bearers, who signaled for each of the companies and battalions to move. Sitting atop a horse in the early morning hours, the lord of the army waited patiently for Ulrung to return, with news that all the pieces of the puzzle were ready, His steed sniffed the air, blowing out a hard wind through its large, black nostrils. It had been relatively calm, until now. It started to pull back a bit, just as Ulrung’s horse rode up beside it, startling it some with the heavy, winded breathing of its cousin. Out of the darkness, Ulrung’s words echoed, “Milord, everything is prepared. We are ready.” Angoroth nodded, and gave his captain the signal to begin the march to the Elven city. At this, Ulrung continued his ride, up to the front of the great column of soldiers and mercenaries. There, he muttered the orders to a signaler, who immediately blasted a single, long winded horn-call, sending the army into motion.

After a long, steady march through the darkness, they at last came upon the sleeping city, a pearl in the misty gloom of the night. Across the fields they marched, the grasses and trees shuddering as they passed by. The earth trembled beneath their iron-shod feet, sorrowful for what was to happen. When at last they reached the place where the siege was to begin, the silently waited as the rams and mangonels were set in place. It took only a few brief hours for the siege machines to be readied, and the army mustered itself yet again, to surge against crumbling walls and broken towers, into a fire-wracked city.

The pull of a rope signaled the beginning of the end for Ost-in-Edhil, as it unleashed a projectile towards the walls, crying out as a bird shrieks as it burst through the air, and into the turret of a tower. What followed was a horrendous sight, as the Elves scrambled to alert the city. More shots in the darkness, burning with fiery delight, crashed into the city’s walls and beyond; into shops and homes, killing those that crossed paths with them. The city felt the shattering pain of the siege begin, as the stones cracked and broke away beneath the torrent of catapult fire.

Angoroth turned to Ulrung, as the cityscape began to burn, and uttered, “And now, it is the End. We shall cast down the towers and walls, and lay waste to the city.”

[Alcarillo]

Arenwino slunk back home later that day. He still hoped to fight, but he still wanted to obey his father. He talked to no one as he silently entered the back door of the house and hid himself quietly in his room, pondering how he would convince his father that he should fight alongside his friends in the army and protect the city from the orcs.

The skies darkened as dusk came. Arenwino avoided his father, Alassante packed the family's most important belongings for the journey out of the city tomorrow, and Cainenyo was at his forge, polishing his pieces of armor and sharpening his sword. He would fight as soon as the orcs came. He remembered the sword he gave to Arenwino long ago, and he quietly groaned. There would be no stopping his son from fighting once he had a suitable weapon. There was a feeling of dread throughout the house as Cainenyo sat alone in the candlelight. He prayed for a bit that his son would have enough sense to stay away from battle, but in his heart he knew that Arenwino was rebellious and would fight anyways. The silent night wore on.

The streets of the city were filled with a dread and anxiety at what would soon happen. The roads and alleys were empty and quiet as a grave. All but the soldiers on the walls stayed indoors. As his family retired to bed, Cainenyo stayed up. Long into the night he sat by his forge's fire. His eyelids felt heavy and drooped slowly down over his tired eyes. His hands, rubbing grime off of an old chestplate, moved more and more slowly. He was asleep and for a moment the dread was forgotten as he dreamed of the Havens of Sirion long ago.

A single crash rang across the city. Screams echoed through the streets. Cainenyo stirred, and soon he was fully awake, listening to the darkness. Somebody shouted something inaudible, and another crash was heard, and then another. It sounded like buildings were running into each other at amazing speeds. Cainenyo ran down his street towards an alleyway. People now stirred in their houses, and looked from upper story windows towards the east. They held their hands in front of their faces in horror, but Cainenyo could not see what they saw. He peered down the alleyway that was his destination, and far off he could see a roof burning, and he heard a horn blow from the walls. The orcs were here!

He ran back to his home, his heart pounding, where his family was already awake. The entire street was awake and gathering weapons and preparing for a fight. "What is it, Cainenyo? Has Sauron's army came?" Alassante asked her husband in the courtyard. Her voice was fearful and nervous.

Cainenyo looked into his wife's eyes for a moment. "Yes, I think so," he said. He held his wife close. "You, Nessime, and Arenwino must leave the city now. I must go to fight." Alassante nodded and hurried into the house to change out of her nightgown and gather what she and the children would need. Arenwino stood in the corner of the courtyard, hiding in the shadows.

"I want you to go with your mother and your sister. Take your sword, and kill any orcs that cross your path." Cainenyo told him. Arenwino moved towards the door, but Cainenyo grabbed his shoulder. "Remember, yonya, that I love you." Arenwino understood and followed his mother into the house. Cainenyo now went to his forge, and began to dress himself in the articles of armor laying at his feet. Tonight would be the night that Ost-in-Edhil's fate would be decided.

[Nurumaiel]

Erinlaer lay awake in bed, gazing thoughtfully out the bedroom window, which faced to the West. She was reflecting that perhaps it might have been better to have a room with a window facing to the East, where she could see the rising sun in the morning. But, thinking of the evenings when she would stand by the window with sun sinking golden-red, and the sky flaming blue and green and orange, she decided that things were splendid the way they were.

She paused in her thoughts, and sat up, cocking her head in a puzzled fashion. Did she imagine it, or was there an odd smell in the air? And... she heard voices. No, she heard shouts and cries.

Heledharm was springing out of bed and going to the window. She stood up slowly, her long and airy gown falling to the floor and trailing behind her, and was moving across the room to find her harp when Heledharm turned. His face was so pale and grim that she stopped and stared at him in astonishment.

"Erinlaer, love," he said, hurrying to her and taking both her hands in his. "Stay here and wait for my return. I must go... Erinlaer, there is going to be a battle, you know."

She laughed lightly and tossed her head.

"A battle? I could not imagine a battle here. There is such a peace here..." She trailed off slowly and turned dreamy eyes to the night sky.

"Erinlaer..." said Heledharm, taking her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. "I don't want you to be harmed."

Her expression was one of the deepest amazement. "Why are you afraid?" she asked. "There is nothing to harm me."

He put an arm about her shoulders and gently led her to the window. When she saw the flames, her face grew pale and she swayed slightly, but he pulled her close to him and stroked her hair.

"What's happening?" she whispered.

"Erinlaer, stay here until I return for you. I'm going to the palace to find what I should do, and I am going to search for your parents. I'll bring them to you, and they'll care for you."

"My parents care for me?" she cried, pulling back a little to look into his face. "Where are you going?"

It was torture to look into the agony of her face. She knew that he was going to fight if he must. She knew he was going into danger. He kissed her hair and refusd to look into her wide, tearless eyes.

"You can't leave me," she said. "What will I do here all alone?"

"I'll be back soon, love," he said. "Stay here until I come from you. Don't go out." He brushed his hand against her cheek, and hurried away.

She stood motionless by the window, looking up into the sky with unseeing eyes. She heard footsteps below her, and turned to watch as Heledharm moved in the direction of the palace. He paused once, and looked up at her. She stretched her arms out appealingly towards him; he turned and went on. When he was out of sight she sank faintly to the ground, bowed her head until it touched the cold floor, and burst into tears.

[piosenniel]

It was one of the Ironfoots who was chosen to lead the expedition – thirty Dwarven warriors to escort the one hundred Elves Celeborn had brought with him. Rori Ironfoot, it was, . . . two years older than Riv and one of the Dwarves who had originally made contact with Lord Elrond’s troops. ‘Not a half-bad fellow,’ he’d told Riv as they’d headed out of the West gate with the Elven troop. ‘Not like Master Nose-in-the-air back there,’ Rori had said, nodding his head back toward where Celeborn led his troops.

There had been little conversation between the Dwarves and the Elven warriors; save for the firm statements Rori had made about who was leading this mission. ‘We know where Lord Elrond and his men be,’ Rori had stated plainly. ‘And either you let us take you to him in our own way or you wander about in these Orc infested hills while they pick you off one by one.’

As it was, it had taken four long days to reach the Lindon camp, with only one small encounter with three unfortunate Orcs who’d been left as look-outs at the southern reaches of Sauron’s campaign. All the Dwarves and Elves had come through unscathed and now intermingled with the Lindon troops. Or rather, the Lorinand were mingling; The Dwarves stood to one side, resting on their axes.

Rori’s eyes glittered at the sight of so many girded for war. He called his men to him, saying that he’d spoke with Lord Elrond, and they would be more than welcome to join in the fight with the Elves against Sauron’s troops. There were a number of Dwarves, the younger ones especially who were eager to do so. Their blood and spirits had been set afire with thoughts of battle and the killing of Orcs.

Riv motioned for Skald and Bror to gather near him, a little ways off. ‘Brothers,’ he began, ‘I’m going back with the others. I’ve no taste for joining in the Elven ranks.’ He looked at Bror and Skald, unable to read what each had decided. ‘Will you greet our Father on your return with me?’ he asked. ‘Or shall I tell him you’ve lent your axes to the aid of Lord Elrond?’

[Envinyatar]

‘Now wasn’t that an interesting scene?’ asked Geldion as he and Ondomirë walked back to their companies. Lord Elrond had welcomed the Dwarves and thanked them for their assistance and then gone on to greet Celeborn.

‘He’s a diplomat, that’s for certain,’ Ondomirë returned, casting an eye toward where his bowmen had gathered, their horses picketed nearby. ‘Smart of him to make alliances, don’t you think?’ He paused and turned back to look at the gathering of Dwarves. ‘I wonder how many of them will take up his offer to fight alongside us?’

His eyes narrowed and a look of critical appreciation crossed his features. ‘Those Dwarves are doughty fellows to my thinking. I would rather have them fighting alongside me that to have one of those rather nasty axe blades planted in my back.’

Geldion laughed as a sudden thought occurred to him. It erupted into a full fledged guffaw, quickly squelched as Ondomirë raised a brow at him. ‘Just thinking,’ Geldion chuckled. He eyed his tall companion from head to foot. ‘With your height, the blade’s as likely to cleave your hind end as anything! He stifled another laugh at his friend’s expense.

Ondomirë gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head slowly. ‘Let’s hope for a quick battle. We need to get you back to civilization before your humor sinks any lower.’

At the word, ‘lower’, Geldion broke out in another paroxysm of laughter.

‘By the One! He’s gone stark raving mad!’ explained Ondomirë to two of Geldion’s men as he turned the hysterical captain about and shoved him into their arms.

He left his friend in the capable hands of his troops and walked on to where his own men were now camped. He looked back once, only to see three pairs of eyes now glued to his posterior, their attendant lips twitching in amusement. He turned from them quickly another exasperated sigh escaping him. And walked on as fast, and in as rigid a military manner, as he could.

[Folwren]

Bror looked at Riv, considering his question. He broke his gaze for a moment to look over towards the elvish camp. Then he sighed and looked down towards the ground. Skald had not yet made any reply and Riv waited for one or the other of his brothers to speak.

Thoughts fled through Bror’s head one after another. This was a difficult and terrible choice to make. He remembered the council that the King had called when the Dwarves had decided to help the elves in this hopeless war. He had wanted to go out and fight. He still wanted to. But Riv had always been there to lead him. And now Riv was going back. If he stayed, it would be without him, and maybe even without Skald.

Bror shook his head and kicked at a half buried rock in the soil. He had to go beyond his fears and do what he thought was right for him to do. He had to go and fight, even if both Riv and Skald went back home. Well, at least someone would be waiting for him if...no - when he returned home. Hope wouldn’t be given up yet.

Finally, Bror formed his reply and raised his eyes once again to Riv’s face.

‘I want to stay. There are Dwarves to guard our homes, and you go back to help in that endeavor as well. I will go on with the reassurance that whatever happens, back home will be safe. You’ll be there with your family, and with our father and mother, and when I come back, I’ll return to a fire and music...not to dark and silence. I’ll fight to help drive this dark army away and scatter it. Perhaps the bright elven city can still be saved. I would like to see it. One more time at least.’

Riv’s eyes locked with Bror’s in a unbroken gaze for several seconds. Bror wondered if he guessed the reasoning behind the decision, or if instead he saw the fear of being separated, regardless of the show of bravery he had tried to put up. He couldn’t help it, though. His eyes dropped and he broke the gaze.

Don’t let my hope by in vain. I want to see him again.