Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

It was Orëmir who’d reached out to speak mind to mind with Lindir. The wounded Elf seemed to be coming back to himself and Orëmir wished only to strengthen his spirit with some words of encouragement. But . . . how odd! Where once his mind could find no point of contact, now Lindir seemed to have gathered his resolve about him and with a surprising strength, he’d barred the healer’s way.

Well, then, perhaps that was good. Lindir had always been a taciturn fellow. This little expedition had brought more comment from him than Orëmir recalled him offering in their younger days. Mayhap, he had rallied, here in this place, where the warriors had given their support to one another and was pulling himself together, body and spirit.

Malris was calling on the spirits of those Elves who yet lingered in this place to assist their fallen comrade. Orëmir was unsure of this approach. His healer’s senses balked at it. For him it would be as if using an untried medicine on a very ill patient. The thought of it made him uneasy. How could they really know the intent of those who’d lingered here long after their bodies had decayed into dust. Weren’t there old tales of the houseless ones, hungry to have a body once more? He sifted through the stories he’d heard, the few scrolls he’d read on this. There were no particulars that stood out in his memory, save that such fëar were more than likely, the longer they had stayed off the Straight Road, to be of a malevolent nature.

Orëmir crouched down beside Lindir and putting his arm beneath his shoulders, brought him up to a sitting position. The injured Elf seemed steady enough now, though his face had still a grayish hue. Orëmir’s hand reached into his breeches pocket for the twist of paper he’d put there. It was a mild concoction, one to ease pain and give a restful sleep. ‘Here,’ he said, taking the flask of water and pouring a little into a mug his brother had brought to him. ‘Take a sip of this, Lindir,’ he went on, stirring the powdery contents of the paper into the liquid. ‘It will ease your pain.’ Orëmir wrapped Lindir’s left hand about the cup, urging him to drink.

[piosenniel]

Ingir blinked as the cup was placed in his left hand. ‘Take a sip of this, Lindir,’ the Elf had said. ‘It will ease your pain.’ Ingir turned his head to look at the healer. His face was familiar. And just as suddenly he looked up and there, standing by the healer was an identical face. The twins! Now he recalled them. Orëmir and Endamir. But which was which? He could not tell.

He narrowed his new eyes and looked slowly round at all those gathered near him. ‘I shall have to be careful. Or they will find me out,’ he thought to himself.

The cup felt awkward in his left hand. He switched it to his right and pushed it back toward the healer. The pain in his side had subsided somewhat, been pushed down by his other concerns. And now as he concentrated on it, to be truthful he gloried in the feel of it. He did not want to sleep . . . he’d been asleep far too long it seemed to him . . . numbed all these long years.

‘I’m feeling better now . . . thanks. Help me up. I wish to stand.’

The legs beneath him were wobbly, but still he reveled in the feel of his feet in boots and the hardness of the paved courtyard beneath them. The pressure of one of the other Elves hands on his elbow as they steadied him was almost too much to bear. It had been ages since he’d felt the touch of another. He shrugged off the helping hands and took a few steps forward, gazing about the place with new eyes; gazing at Lindir’s ring of companions, their flesh solid against the background of stone and sky.

Ingir’s right hand came up, pressing against his chest, as he looked about. He could feel his heart beating. His fingers strayed across some cool piece of metal attached near the color of his tunic. His fingers fumbled at the clasp and soon had removed it. ‘A pretty thing,’ he thought. ‘It should be worth something, I think.’ He stuffed it unceremoniously into his breeches pocket for safekeeping.

His left hand strayed to his belt. A hunting knife hung there. A serviceable one, he noted. Good, sharp blade. And long enough to make a kill if need be. It felt well balanced as he held it in his hand. Ingir returned the blade to its sheath and moved the sheath to his right side, where it would be more easily accessible.

The pain in his side had now increased with the effort of his activity. Ingir took a deep breath and pressed in against the bandage Orëmir had bound there. His hand encountered a sticky, wetness and pulling it away he saw it coated with blood. The stain on his shirt had freshened and extended once again and as he took a few steps, intending to sit down on a nearby shelf of rock, drops of bright red blood splashed down staining the paving stones.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a while Lindir drifted aimlessly about, half awake, half asleep, uncertain where he was going except that a will stronger than his own was pulling him towards the fortress. Despite his own lack of control, the sensation was not unpleasant. It seemed easier to be carried along haphazardly with the current, as if inside a great protective bubble, rather than thrashing about and trying to resist. In any case, how could be resist? He had no hands or arms, no head or eyes, and as yet had no real idea how to control his spirit form, which was flitting in circles, first this way, then that. He did not even have the correct words to describe the sensations he was feeling. He could somehow see and smell and touch by using only his feä, although his physical form had entirely vanished. He still found himself clinging to words and images more appropriately applied to the old Lindir, an incarnate creature with a physical self. He could not yet imagine his existence any other away.

He supposed he should be alarmed at this strange situation, but somehow nothing seemed to matter any more. Then, without warning, Lindir felt a sensation so strong that he could not ignore it. Cold! Cold! How could a feä without a body be so cold?

An icy blast had gusted down from the restless sea to the north, commanded by some chance wind that battered against the small isle and seemed to be focused on Lindir alone; the chilled air accompanying it pushed the Elf out of his comfortable womb and brought him back to his senses as he bounced violently up and down in the wind drafts above the fortress, still wondering if he should go inside the fort. There were creatures down below but whether friendly or not Lindir could not tell. Something was still pulling him forward, yet another voice from within now refused to be silent and was frantically urging him to turn back to see something.

From his perch above the massive hill, he could see or at least sense the entire configuration of the isle. The land was poor and rugged, the shore jagged with rocks, a lonely place with grey shadows where no ship would willingly beach. Whatever strange creatures dwelled within this doomed fortress, there had been no mannish or Elven visitors here for countless years.

Now awake and unable to ignore the cautionary voice, Lindir suddenly pulled back and whirled around so that he had a clear view of the half broken gate where his companions stood waiting. He looked once, then twice, staring in disbelief. His slumped body, once prostrate on the ground, was now half standing and attempting to talk. First puzzlement, then anger, poured out from Lindir's feä. No object he had ever crafted, no fine sword or jewelled helm, looked as precious and shining as his broken body as it stood half upright on the ground.

Enraged at what he was seeing, the hapless Elf cried out in a voice that could not be heard. What trick is this? Who dares steal my body? Bandit and thief, you shall not touch a hair on my head. Leave here now!

With a determined heave, Lindir tossed off the inertia that threatened to imprison him forever and resisted the urge to slip docilely inside the fortress. Instead, he swooped down to confront his newly animated body and began pounding relentlessly against the unknown spirit that had wrongfully occupied the familiar shell, all the while bellowing at his companions to warn them about the no-good trickster. Even while trying to create a ruckus, Lindir was very careful not to do harm to the physical form that the stranger had apparently borrowed. The Elf continued with his assault but grumbled to his companions, much as he had done in the old days of battle: I need a healer over here quickly.....someone to bind up this wound.