Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[piosenniel]

dancing spawn of ungoliant's post

The hot air below deck smelled of sweat and blood. Jagar gasped and felt his heartbeat pounding in his throat. A man sitting next to him had collapsed onto the oar unable to force his tortured body to work any longer. Although it was gruesome, the sight made him chuckle. The limp body of the man swung to-and-fro with every pull making him look like a puppet and making rowing even harder. Was he dead? No, not yet. "Will be soon", Jagar mumbled to himself. "Isn't this something! Great ships with crimson sails, wasn't that what you wanted to see?" a little voice jeered inside his head.

When Jagar was a mere boy, he had travelled north to the coast with his father to inspect their tribe's lands. He had seen proud ships setting off from the harbours, the sun dazzling on foaming waves and screaming flocks of seabirds that circled above docks waiting the fishermen to clean their catch. As time passed, Jagar didn't forsake the sight of the glimmering sea and he longed for the freedom that the life on the coast breathed. Getting captured was not part of the plan.

During these months aboard Jagar had learnt that by keeping up with the pace and holding your tongue you could keep the whip away. The man sitting next to him had done neither. Rankling wounds run across his back making his remaining clothes sticky with matter. Jagar thought of his family. They had kept slaves, too, people from scattered and weak tribes who had chosen thralldom over death.

A whip of lash whizzed past Jagar's ear hitting the man next to him on the back and spattering blood drops around. The poor man moaned hoarsely as a new wound ripped the old scars open and coloured his ragged shirt carmine red. There was a time when this sight would have made Jagar feel sick but now he just stared forward squeezing the oar. The man was detached from his chains and dragged away. A few rows from Jagar another man was being beaten for dropping his oar.

Jagar moved quickly to the seat beside the oar hole and breathed the salty air. Finally he could see a glimpse of the swelling sea and boundless sky. How free the seagulls were! He wanted to wring their necks, shoot them down, so they couldn't fly around the cursed ship as though mocking him. No, he wanted to be one of them and ride with the breeze that blew from the vast ocean and hailed a new dawn. But here Jagar was chained in a ship and going to war against Gondor.

Harad was an enemy of Gondor as was Umbar. Jagar had learnt that long ago. If he was a free man, he would have gone to war gladly but not like this, not as a thrall trapped in an Umbarian ship. They made slaves row under pain of torment and death, but if he ever reached Gondor, what would the battle be but torment and death? Maybe he would die pathetically as an old man holding an oar after wasting his years rowing Numenorean lords from war to war. They would just throw him overboard for the sport of different sea creatures and keep conquering the world. This thought made him chuckle again. But why would he have been so eager to go to war against Gondor? He had no personal reason to hate that land. Jagar tried to reminisce an old song his mother had used to sing but the words escaped from his mind. Something about wind and horizon...

[piosenniel]

Eorl of Rohan's post

Ferethor couldn't keep count. Beneath the ship, days and years were as one in their miserable condition. A few went mad. Most died. No one lasted more than a year in the service at the oars, no one sane… but him.

He might have lost the consciousness too, if he hadn't that to spark the flame – hatred. He deliberately nurtured it. From the instant when he realized to his horror that he'd go mad if he didn't do anything, he had fed and coddled this hatred of his until it became his driving force. And they knew it. What 'they' were here but the damned Corsairs, the enemy? They knew that he survived. He ate whatever they brought it, he built his strength, and his muscles continued to ripple and move as he strained his chest against the oar to the bending point, under the shadow of the whip of the master, and behind the master, the South, behind it still, the fundamental hatred between the West and the South. He held on. Every minute, he held on. In the pitch-darkness, relieved only by faint lanterns and the cracking sound of the many-lashed whips, he held on with one purpose in mind and one desire – to take vengeance. He had watched impassively as people dropped like flies around him. He knew he could not help them, no matter what. What he could do was escape – escape, and sink the ship with the whole cursed population! He would remember the blank faces of the dead comrades that fought beside him in the fray, the screams of the tortured thralls, and the feel of the lash on his bare back. He would remember, and the blood will be on their heads. Ferethor knew he was thinking in circles. But a thread broken in the train of continuous thought might douse the flame of hatred that was the only thing that kept him sane against all odds. So he pulled the oar. And hated steadily.

There was no source of light other than that which trickled through the hole where the oar handles were thrust in. The lantern that the sentry guard held didn’t count. He bent against the oar, letting his weight do half the work in moving forward the massive ship whose only part he knew was beneath the decks, the mold and the dark and the whips. It was then that he heard the shouts outside – there were always shouts, but this was of a different nature – and the call to arms. They were going to war. War… He strained to hear the next word. War against Gondor. Gondor. He froze. The oar fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. Let them react to that. Was it on purpose or an accident? He didn’t know. He was tired. So tired.

The slaves working around him flinched, and shied away as if the whip might descend on them by mistake. Ferethor straightened up and lifted his head, knowing that soon he'd whimper and beg for mercy like any other slave under the stinging blows of the whip – maybe the racks, even – but he wanted to show them that he was not afraid. No, that wasn't it. He was afraid, but he was not going to let that fear run away with him. He was still a Gondorian, if nothing else. He was a captain of Gondor. He knew that the Corsairs have always hated him more for all that, wanted to see him break under their hands, more than all others - because he was the material realization of the strength and power of Gondor, the City of Stone. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure so easily – he clenched his teeth at that – he owed that much to his heritage, if nothing else. If he had more strength… If he had… If he could contact them… But no. It was futile to dream.

The guard woke from his doze and looked over. The thralls shrank away still further, as much as the chains would allow, and made it a point to not look at his way. They were chained just so that they were forced into a kneeling position, unable to stand or to sit, with the chains interlinked with other slaves that one slave's mishap might affect all others. The arms were free to work the oars, and some had misshapen arms because of being chained in one place with only one arm used for exercise, for so long. Not that the length mattered. They were all mindless and timid, all of them. He wouldn’t get any help from them. He had tried to spark their spirit before, but they moved away, as they did now, afraid. There was some that had a remnant of spirit left, he knew, but they were chained too far away. Ah, here it comes. A guttural remark, then in barest rudiments of Common as the two guards approached – but he didn’t pick up the oar. When the guard grabbed him by the thrall collar, gaggling and choking with the blood that filled his lungs, Ferethor instinctively brought down the metal end of his cuffs hard on the man’s wrist, noting its sickening crunch with mixed feelings of satisfaction and terror. Terror soon gained the upper hand. Usually he would not do anything so stupid – he would let himself be sworn at and beaten around some without unnecessary defiance, which would doubtless bring the steel-tipped whips into play. But… War. War against… Gondor? He couldn’t help shuddering convulsively. One, two seconds passed? The man fell. He was dropped by the first man, so that he was left in the position of half-kneeling along with the rest. The one he had hit recovered in a moment and sat up from the wooden plank, gesturing angrily at Ferethor and reaching for his weapon. No. Please. Can’t take it anymore… The whips cracked in the air, an ominous sound at best, but worse if you heard it cut into flesh and sinews. Especially your own. He moaned, falling onto his knees, and before he could brace himself came one blow and another time after time in quick succession. Usually these stopped after a dozen, or the slave might be rendered useless for the day – but it went on and on – enough that blood and flesh splattered all over, some of the weaker slaves covered their eyes, and he soon lost consciousness hanging limp by the chains.

Gondor. What did it mean? Gondor, and… and…

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He felt rather than saw day crawl over the ship as it rolled on the waves, for in the blackness of this pit there was no light to see by. As the sun climbed the sky it warmed the wood of the mighty vessel and the hull creaked about Chakka as though it were an old woman coming awake. As much as he might hate the Corsairs, their skill in shipbuilding had always been a wonder to him. Even here, in the lowermost decks with naught but the bilge beneath him, the deck was dry and solid. He waited, and planned.

Chakka knew that the captain would come for him soon, as the final moments of the poison’s effects – were the poison still in him – fast approached. Chakka lay back upon the deck and tightened his entire frame into a rigid pole. He held that tightness until he could feel his muscles beginning to cramp and the false agony slowly became real. Still he held on, forcing his body deeper and deeper into pain. He knew that the captain could not be fooled by dumbshow. When he came, he expected to see a slave in the throws of genuine agony and Chakka was determined that this is what he should see. On cue, Chakka’s body became a tightened knot and he felt control of his muscles slip from him. His limbs were on fire now, but still he held on, his teeth clenched with such ferocity that he felt them grinding together, and from the palms of his hands there came trickles of blood as his nails pushed their way into his flesh. Ever more tightly did he clench his mighty frame, wrapping it about the white heat of his desire for freedom, and soon the pain had carried him away to the place where his spirit walked when dreaming.

Divorced now from the physical reality of his self-inflicted torture, he considered his options. The captain would not be so foolish as to trust him again with any measure of freedom, but what he meant to do was as yet a mystery to Chakka. The oars were his most likely destination and escape from there would be well nigh impossible – well nigh he reminded himself. It was unlikely that Chakka would be put to death for he was a valuable commodity. The captain may suspect him in the loss of the guard he had killed, but as there was no way to produce a body there was no way to prove that the man had not simply fallen over the rail in a drunken stupor. At any rate, Chakka doubted that the captain would rate the loss of a common seaman over Chakka.

His mind turned once more to thoughts of escape. He had learned much of the people aboard this ship in his time before the captain’s door, so he was aware of the tension between the mighty lords and Raka. He could tell that there was distrust there, and possibly enmity – perhaps, if the situation arose, there would be a way to exploit that? If he could get close enough to the lords to speak with them, perhaps he could offer then ways of getting at Raka that they did not suppose existed. On the other hand, both of the lords made ample use of the slaves – perhaps he could insinuate himself into their service to help Raka…at least until he could manipulate circumstances and enable his escape.

A new spasm through his ribs brought him back to reality. His muscles, he realised, were beginning to tear under the immense pressure he had brought to bear upon his body. Still, he willed his body to continue in its stance. He had to convince the captain that the poison was still upon him; he had to convince the captain that he did not possess the secret of escaping his control…

[The Perky Ent]

“It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.” said Menelcar, pointing to the ships in the dock. Each was a fine example of the craftmanship of Gondor, their great masts pointing to the heavens. "All that I have expected are here. The men of Ethring, I believe, were ambushed by raiders and needed to tend to their wounded. I heard word that the ships from Ras Morthil were not ready, but that they would send their ships for Umbar as soon as possible. We have what we will need for the voyage, but I doubt not much more." Telumehtar said, handing the list back to Menelcar. "Oh, and Menelcar, there's one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. In the event that-" but Telumehtar was interrupted, as a tall man walked over to him and quickly saluted. "My lord, I bring word from Captain Hereric. The Cuivië is ready for you to board." said Hereric's left-tenate, as he gave another short salute. "Thank you soldier. " Telumehtar said, as he walked on to the ship. Behind him, Menelcar lingered for a moment and approached the left-tenate. "I trust my cabin is to my specifications?" Menelcar said, giving an almost unapproved glace at the soldier. "Yes" the soldier said dully. Taken apack, Menelcar retorted "That's yes sir. For your sake, don't make that mistake again on the ship. We're fighting a war that requires constant vigilance" and quickly walked over to Telumehtar, who had now boarded the Cuivië.

At the very stern of the ship, Telumehtar met Hereric. Hereric seemed rather stressed, but calm enough to greet the king warmly. "My lord! Your presence is most welcome aboard my ship. I trust my left-tenate assisted to your needs. I have everything ready for departure, and the men only await your orders" Hereric said, showing his approval of the king's presence. "Very well" Telumehtar said, walking over to the very stern of the ship, where he held onto a rope to get better leverage. "Soldiers of Gondor!" Telumehtar shouted, drawing his sword and raising it into the air. "Man your ships! We sail now for Umbar!"

Throughout Harlond, there was a crowd of men boarding the ships. It really was a sight to see how so many men could fit into the ships stationed. A strong wind east for a while down the harbor, but then dwindled until it dissapeared into the cool summer's air. Once all the men had boarded the ships, Telumehtar walked up to Hereric and whispered "South, if you please" giving a wink. Slowly, the ship was removed from the harbor, and sailed slowly for Umbar. There seemed to be a bit of confusion in the boat behind Telumehtar, but the ships all pulled their acts together and followed his lead down the long Anduin River.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur watched the king move down the pier to his flagship, speaking with his assistant and the ship's captain. Vórimandur soon became disinterested and turned his attention to the last report on the Ráca's supplies. It sat on his desk, and Vórimandur moved from the window and to his cushioned stool, and his eyes passed over the last paperwork before sailing to Umbar. Written in the neat, tight handwriting of the purser was an account of every single nail to sail aboard the ship. His mind drifted away from the dull matter at hand and soon he was thinking of the great naval battles he would take part in, how he would avenge the sinking of the Telpelingwë, and how he would bring undying glory to him and his crew, and how the name of the Ráca would one day be immortal, forever read about by schoolchildren in their history lessons. Yes, they would one day read about how Captain Vórimandur burned the Corsair flagship and slew its cruel captain, and reduced the Lords of Umbar to client kings, paying golden tribute to Gondor each year in their shame. They would read his great tales and his memory would never be forgotten.

A horn blew somewhere on the docks, and men began to shout. Captain Vórimandur was knocked out of his reverie and hastily signed the supply notice with his favorite pen. He stood and adjusted Sercendil at his side. This was an important occasion that required one to look his best. He took a deep breath and left his lavish office at the stern, moving through the ship. Sailors and soldiers saluted as he passed. Oh, it was good to be sailing again, to have the wind at one's back and adventure laid before your feet. Captain Vórimandur climbed a flight of stairs, and emerged into the sun. He stood on the quarterdeck, and the crew seemed to know now to sail and only anticipated his command. He gave it:

"Set sail!"

With that the sailors leapt into the rigging, moving as deft as spiders in a web. Captain Vórimandur always secretly envied their skill, for when he was only a sailor of the lowest rank he was assigned to duties on and below deck, and never could climb like his peers. But he was a captain and would not let such desires get in the way of his duties. He saw Caradhril, who instantly took his place at the helm. "Follow the King's ship!" He called. "Aye, sir!" was the reply. By now sails were unfurled, and the ship sailed from the pier, part of the great armada to Umbar.

Captain Vórimandur saw Morgond about to go below deck. "Morgond! Come! Have you gathered the sailors on the docks."

Morgond approached. He was a tall man with a large build, larger than Vórimandur and most of the other crewmembers. Vórimandur trusted him; he had been the Master-at-Arms for some years now and had never erred. "Aye, sir," he said, saluting, "About ten or so sailors and a few soldiers. Caught some by the tavern."

"Good, Morgond," Vórimandur gazed towards Harlond receding behind them, "Bring them to my office in an hour. I want a word with them."

"Aye, sir."

[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor had been awake for some time now. He had shifted himself into a sitting position, painful as it was, his back against the wood-paneled walls damp with mold and the dark breath of the sea. The chill of the darkness closed around him as if a burial shroud. He was almost thankful for the intense pain that seared his awareness now and then, a stark relief all the more brutal because he knew the reason for his fear - he dreaded being left alone with his memories. Linvail. No, control yourself. Not now. How had he come here in the first place? He raised his hand to the brow where a cold sweat of agony had broken out, and then he remembered. Faintly. He was released from his chains, after a skirmish with a guard that resulted in this - Here he wryly smiled - and thrown into this clammy confines of the slave quarters where he was left to recuperate as best as he might. Little chance of that. He had slept less than half an hour. Worn out as he was, there was something else that persistently demanded his attention - war.

Assuming that he was sane, e.g. not hearing imaginary voices, he had heard that war was afoot. Not the small raids, pirating, or some such, but a real war on a larger scale than ever before, against Gondor. The land of stone… What memories had he kept of his motherland? Minas Anor, twin to Minas Ithil, where he was born and raised. Its tall battlements. The massive harbors that sparkled with thousand dancing flames at every sunrise. The soldiers, strong and faithful. He remembered the sound of their swords clashing against their shields, the troops raising their voice as one in the ancient battle cries. And… His king. Telumehtar, wise and great, and remembering him, he again told himself that Gondor could not lose. But… If it does… What then? If he was free, at least he could throw himself upon the blades of his enemies and die a valiant death, even though there would be no one to sing of the valor of the last soldiers of Gondor. But here, bound by chains both material and invisible, the latter being the sea – nowhere to escape to even if he was free – what could he do? He asked himself this question again and again, although there was no answer forthcoming. What could he do, restricted in his every movement, alone?

Perhaps - Ferethor let the last sentence dangle unfinished as he involuntarily stole a glance in the other prisoner's direction. For there was another thrall, other than he, although he did not stir the whole time he had been here... Who was he? Liquid illumination seeped through the cracks in the boards, alighting for a moment on the closed eyes of the thrall before winking away. It was enough to reveal the features of his countenance. His name was what... Chakka? Could he use him to his advantage? Ferethor considered for a moment, and decided that this matter could wait. He had patience enough.

The most pressing of concerns was to assess his injuries. He gingerly ran a hand over his wounds, which had scarcely closed and bled afresh at his touch. Trivial. He had earned worse at their hands. But then, ha. The circumstances were different. The worst hiding that he could remember was when he stabbed their captain, Rakin, with a shard of his dead comrade’s bone – aiming for the heart, too, but he had blocked it in time with his wrists. If he, Ferethor Steele, remembered the wrongs done him, it was not likely that he would forget who gave him that jagged scar on his left wrist. His laughter was abrupt and brutal, and very short-lived.

Then, silence, his hand frozen over his shoulder wound, which was deeper than he had expected. A lot deeper. The guard’s dagger had knifed cleanly through his muscles, and laid the flesh open to the horrifyingly white shoulder-bones peeking through the torn muscles. Blood was welling out of it like a hot spring, frothing and bubbling, so that for no reason whatsoever he suddenly remembered a half forgotten rhyme – where the noldor slew the foamriders and stealing drew… His whole body was shaking with unexplainable cold. The scalding blood poured down his shoulder and stained the rough planks on which he crouched, making a rich, deep red stain that the planks soaked up gladly. His touch, he realized too late, had torn open the half-closing wound. A mistake. Should have been more careful. Too late. The blood disappeared into cracks between the coarse flooring, drip, drip, drip. Just beneath the slave quarters was the workplace itself, and the blood might be dripping down on their heads, the methodical, melodious drip, drip, drip… He was hallucinating, he knew, and tried to wrench himself away. But he had lost too much blood, from the whipping and now this. He couldn’t even move.

The persistent melody recurring over and over in his mind was the song of the kinslayers and the death of Felagund.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"You removed them from the company of the other slaves, I presume?"

"As were your orders, Captain; they're in 'ere..."

If the two slaves in the small, darkened room heard the voices in the corridor, they didn't let on - as Rakin peered through the grating in the door, he registered only two ragged lumps. Focusing on the larger of the two, the Captain peered at Chakka through narrowed eyes, gazing at him unblinkingly for several moments, but the giant slave could have been a bundle of leather and rags for all the life he displayed. Rakin watched him for a moment longer, then stepped back and, somehow lazily, kicked the door open.

The other slave, sprawled on the opposite side of the claustrophobic room from Chakka, flinched at the sudden light, blinking against it as Rakin slowly stepped down, knowing full well the striking silhouette he would make against the darkness that the two slaves had been kept in since the night before – a dank, swaying, fishy sort of darkness. An altogether unpleasant abode, without windows, a sealed, handless door and a floor that was often up to two metres under water – and a flooding cell always made an interesting prospect, certainly, for bound prisoners who had displeased the captain. Maybe, to that extent, he was like his brother – make the children sing, my darlings, make ‘em sing… As Rakin stepped forward, the other slave made a clumsy lunge towards him, but seemed to sway back as if disorientated from his target almost immediately – the boatswain grabbed him immediately, pulling him back and shoving him unceremoniously against the wall, his head striking it with a thump that Rakin seemed to ignore entirely: his eyes were focused on Chakka’s muscular frame as he approached like a wolf stalking his prey.

“Chakka.”

The single word, softly spoken, was a command – a command to which its intended did not respond, his eyes closed and body as stiff and motionless as a corpse already in the grip of rigor mortis. The boatswain grimly started forward, but Rakin held up a hand, fluttering the other corsair to a halt. He took another step forward and tried once more. “Chakka, look at me.”

Again, the words provoked no response from the slave. Rakin sighed gently, his expression almost regretful as he half-turned away – then swung around once more and viciously kicked the slave in the ribs, his fine features contorted into a twisted animal glare. Both the boatswain and the now groggy Ferethor flinched slightly despite themselves – despite the former having known Rakin for nearly a decade, he had never got quite used to the Captain’s sudden vicious changes of mood; it was like working for a wolf, and no matter how well you would trust him with his life, as he tracks down his prey you can never be quite sure whether you’ll be the next to end up on his plate. The slave barely moved, but at least this time Rakin was greeted with a reaction – a long, low groan, the sound of an animal in pain as he slumped over onto his side. Rakin seemed about to lash out again, but at the last minute held himself in check and, almost delicately, he stepped over the prone form of his victim and squatted down in front of his face, pushing his coat back casually as he did so – something in it clinked mutely, a concealed threat under the Captain’s fine clothes. Pushing back the slave’s head distastefully with one long finger, the Captain tilted his head to on side, and the boatswain thought he saw a smile flickering in the glitter of his eyes in the dim light. Looking up, he smiled wickedly at his fellow corsair.

“Well, my dear, if you won’t look at me, we may just have to take those pretty eyes out altogether? What do you think, Master Steele?”

Ferethor looked across, vaguely recognising his name even through the fog that settled its weight more heavily on his mind with every further drop of blood that leaked from his shoulder and back. Rakin regarded him for a moment, his lip lifting into a sneer once more as the barely concealed threat lay between them, then he snorted slightly and looked away. “A slave revolt by a dimwit and the gentle giant here…” Straightening up, he prodded Chakka experimentally with the toe of his boot. With half an hour until midday, he knew what Chakka’s condition should be like under the influence of the poison – as the sun rose to ascend the peak of the sky, if it worked correctly, she would steal away the slave’s sight as her coronation prize. If it worked correctly… But Chakka had not been that stupid, surely. Head still tilted to one side, Rakin tapped two fingers against his lips thoughtfully, then jumped the few steps into the corridor ahead of the boatswain. “Blindfold him, Master Boatswain – blindfold him and take him to my rooms.”

“You wouldn’t like me to rectify his attitude a little more permanent, like, Captain Rakin?”

Rakin smiled angelically back down at the other man, his face the picture of innocence with a halo of light from behind it. “Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.”