Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Thinlómien]

"Of course you will, Nimir", Lingwë replied quickly, without thinking the phrase. Silence fell. Then he frowned. Would Nimir actually get safely back home? Would he himself? Would Curamir? Only Eru Ilúvatar and Mandos know that, he thought. Maybe we won't. The thought of dying so young was unbearable. For the king and the country, he reminded himself, and for everything I love and appreciate in this country. If we don't crush the traitors, there'll be a day when they'll crush us.

No one of them said anything. Lingwë supposed that Nimir and Curamir were also thinking about dying. Lingwë tried to think of something to say to lighten the atmosphere, but nothing came into his mind. He had never been good in that kind of things; how hard he ever tried he usually ended up being pessimistic. Better to get ready for the worst and rejoice if it doesn't happen, he thought.

Though they remained silent, there was still noise. Seagulls cried. Men chatted with each other while working. Fresh sea wind blew. Great to be on a ship again, Lingwë thought and despite the fact he was going to war and maybe even to death, he smiled.

Curamir noticed his smile. "What is it now, Lingwë?", he asked, clearly wanting to talk about something else. "It's the ship", Lingwë said, smiling. "He's a bit crazy, you know", Curamir said to Nimir with a friendly tone. "You know, it's great to be sailing again. I love the sea", Lingwë said. "It was such fun aboard the Gaerandir."

Encouraged with a few questions from his companions, Lingwë started to tell about his "adventures" aboard the Gaerandir. He had never been a man of talking, but he kept on telling things to banish the ghosts of the former discussion. "Did you ever get to a fight aboard the Gaerandir?" Nimir asked suddenly, when Lingwë had paused after telling about the cook's fancy on turnips. "Twice. Our ship was so well-protected, that many didn't dare to attack it. In the first fight the more experienced soldiers kept us novices at the background, we mostly used bows or were positioned at defense. They said that the first fight was a big enough experience without even getting to fight by self. Back then I wondered why did they do so, but now I understand they didn't trust us enough; they thought we would only be on their way and make things harder. After all, the battle was such a little cratch. No one of us died, and only five got wounded," Lingwë said, smiling to his memories.

"And the other?" Nimir asked. Lingwë got serious. "The second time was a bigger battle with a pirate ship. It wasn't nice and it wasn't glorious. Many died, on both sides. I myself only got lightly wounded, worse things happened to many others." He paused. "I didn't kill anyone", he said, "but a few of my friends did. I heard them speak about it. It wasn't glorious, they said. They said they had had nightmares about it." He didn't add that he himself had had nightmares about the battle, though he hadn't killed anyone. "Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to", Curamir said. Nimir nodded. After a while, Lingwë said: "So would I."

[Kath]

Curamir had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had begun to like his new acquaintance, Nimir. He thought that maybe it had something to do with the similarities they shared. He had been glad to find someone else who was as unfamiliar with ships as himself, knowing now that at least he wouldn't be the only one to make mistakes and be laughed at by the experienced soldiers and sailors. was no help. He found it hilarious to watch Curamir make a fool of himself, though he did always help to right whatever wrong had come of it afterwards.

The revelation that Nimir had given about his father though had been more of a disturbing similarity. Curamir knew of the pain of losing a father, but he wasn't sure that he would be able to share it with such readiness. It had taken him almost a year to tell Lingwë, and he had only really done so with the intent of recruiting him to relay any information he might hear. Nimir though seemed to have a deeper sadness, something even worse than losing a father, though Curamir could not imagine what it might be. He wondered if maybe he should talk to Nimir about it at some point, seeing as his father had obviously been in the army, but he felt it would be insensitive to press for information about it when it was such a sad event.

Realising that a sudden silence had fallen while he had been thinking, Curamir looked up and saw his companions looking a little uncomfortable. Trying to lighten the atmosphere he picked on Lingwë, who began to tell one of his tales. The subject soon turned to fighting again though, and the true horrors of it.

"Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to" he had said, and Lingwë and Nimir had agreed.

As they were standing and contemplating the reality of their words, the captain's Master-at-Arms appeared before them with a small group of men behind him. None of them looked too pleased and Morgond wasn't smiling. Ordering them to follow him he marched off. Falling into place behind him Curamir shot a questioning glance at the other members of the group, but they simply shrugged and motioned to keep quiet. Curamir continued to wonder what this was all about, until Morgond stopped outside Captain Vórimandur's office, and he realised that everyone in the group had been off the ship without permission. It must be time for the consequences.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur stood for a bit beside the mainmast, surveying the sailors' work. They moved high up in the rigging as tiny black splotches against the sky, adjusting ropes as needed to move the ship in just the right direction. "Move the ship a little to the left," Vórimandur alerted the crew, and Caradhril would move the wheel slightly to the left, and the ship would lean and creak ever so slightly. The sailors far above might encounter an unforeseen wind, and know what to do to keep the Ráca moving along at an even pace. The ship inched its way past the others, moving towards the head of the long line of ships. There was little room to maneuver, but the crew managed to squeeze the Ráca between the Anduin's wooded banks and a ship, or perhaps between two ships, always moving to the front. Captain Vórimandur watched all this happen with satisfaction and pride.

The sun moved across the sky, and the hour until the errant sailors would meet in his office was drawing to a close. Captain Vórimandur nodded to Caradhril to keep the ship in motion and made his way back to his office. He passed down a set of wooden stairs and into the Ráca's wooden belly. Sailors and soldiers saluted as their captain passed. He saluted back and continued walking through the wooden hallways to his office, which lay at the ship's stern. He passed the carpenter and his small gang of assistants nailing together a new door, and the finely dressed surgeon from Lamedon. All gave their polite, quiet salutes to their captain, who returned the salute together with a courteous nod of the head. He soon came to his office's red door, and drawing a golden key from a pocket, unlocked it and entered.

The office was roomy, and ran from wall to wall across the entire stern. The walls were painted red to match the door. It was very well lit by the same large windows from which Vórimandur had watched the king in Harlond, with white curtains drawn back and a single window open to let a fresh breeze inside. The floor creaked comfortably under Vórimandur's shoes as he walked across the room to his dark, wooden desk, with papers strewn across its surface. He sorted these into piles of no particular subjects. The desk faced the red door, flanked by bookcases with lattice-work doors. They contained works of numerous topics: law, naval tactics, the workings of ships, histories of Númenor and other seafaring powers, and the Ráca's logbooks written by Vórimandur himself. Underneath the two bookcases were sets of drawers, within which lay sea charts, half-empty bottles of wine, letters to family on shore, a wooden flute, a spyglass, the sabres of defeated captains, and numerous other personal mementos and belongings. All of this furniture was nailed to the floors or to the walls, in order to prevent it from sliding out the windows in stormy seas. And on the furthest edges of the room, between each bookshelf and the walls, were two more red doors, one of which led to the captain's small cabin, and another which opened to reveal a closet. In the center of the room lay a red and gold rug imported from Dorwinion, an expensive centerpiece to the already opulent office.

There was a sharp knock at the door, announcing the arrival of Morgond and the errant sailors. Vórimandur stood quickly and straightened the sword at his side. "Come in," he said, and the door swung open, and Morgond led several sailors and soldiers into the office. Captain Vórimandur winced as they stepped across his rug. There was not much room left once they were all inside. There were about fifteen or so sailors, and about five or four soldiers. All of them were youths, unaccustomed to how a ship worked and what was expected of them, and their eyes avoided the captain's gaze by wandering across the floor and the walls. Morgond prodded them into a rough line, and Captain Vórimandur began:

"When we were moored in Harlond, I wanted the Ráca to stand out from the other ships, to be the best ship in the fleet. That's why we cleaned the ship so early in the morning, and loaded all the supplies aboard before the captains of the other ships were even awake. I wanted all of us to be aboard to greet our king, and show His Majesty the true quality of the Ráca. Unfortunately, not all of you were present. Instead of staying aboard like a good sailor, you were off gallivanting on shore!" Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to consider what punishment should await them. It would be a light punishment; they were young and new to the ship, after all. "I shall punish you with extra chores. I assign you-," and now he pointed to two soldiers, "-to helping Cook wash dishes after each night's meal for the next week. I assign you-," now he pointed to the other two soldiers, "-to cleaning each sword in the aft weapons room." Now he began to assign groups of sailors, "You are to scrub the quarterdeck every day at midday for an hour for the next week, and you are to do the same with the forecastle, and the rest of you are to have your grog rations halved. You are dismissed." And with a salute from Morgond they shuffled out of the room.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Contrary to what the two lords thought of their own luxurious apartments, decorated and lavished with all the frivolities that Rakin had suffered Sangalazin to load onto his ship, the Captain nonetheless held to the opinion that his chambers, not theirs, that were the finest on the ship. Not that he had yet had a good look what exactly the two lords had chosen to do with their rooms – but Rakin had had nearly a decade with the same ship, unusual for any captain but for a corsair especially, and, although Rakin was not naturally a particularly frivolous man, his rooms were…well, they were exactly how he liked them. It was not, after all, unheard of for superior nobles of Umbar to move into the rooms of the Captain of a ship on voyages such as this – but neither Azaryan or Sangalazin had so much as paid a passing interest around Rakin’s rooms. Whether this was a slight, or whether the two Lords simply considered themselves too good to take anything second-hand, this was just fine with him. Based to the front of the ship, under the main deck, Rakin’s quarters, which consisted of a generous two rooms, allowed him a fine view over the sea ahead of them and to both sides – a fine view 180 degree view over his watery domain.

Originally the rooms had been furnished sparsely – what was the point in lavishing too much time and energy on what would probably only prove to be a temporary residence? – but as time had passed, the rooms had picked up ornaments and items apparently of their own accord, Rakin’s personal barnacles. The desk, for example, brought aboard from a raid of a particularly affluent merchant’s village stop, by some whim of the captain’s, made of fine, heavy oak and subsequently screwed to the desk to prevent it shifting its dangerous bulk in stormy weather, was cradled by the curved, windowed side of the room that surveyed the sea; or the floor to ceiling shelves worked into the wall on one side of this, it’s locked doors hiding the captain’s secrets. But scattered around the room were more ornamental items – a rich, dark rug, seemingly woven of a hundred different shades of black, covered the boards; wines and spirits from a dozen different plundered parlours and offices; and, crossed above the door, above his bunk, elegantly adorning spare wall, were the Captain’s special collector’s items – his swords. Rapiers, long swords, daggers, blades curved, straight and serated…they hung, secure and seemingly sedate, but with every edge gleaming with unmistakable malice, around Rakin’s rooms. Deadly yet elegant, the finest blades from a score of shores - undeniably beautiful, but unsettling nonetheless.

It was in his parlour of stolen treasures, sipping a particularly fine red wine, that the Captain now reclined, his boots casually crossed on another chair as he watched with detached interest the figure, bound only at the wrists, that was sprawled on his carpet. The room was almost silent, now the boatswain had left, leaving Chakka and Rakin alone to ‘have a drink’ together, and indeed the Captain gave an air of a gentleman in his club, settled back watching the sun, a drink in his hand. But as the sun rose further, flooding the room with bright sunlight, Rakin turned his head to Chakka and gave him a bright smile, his canine’s glittering fiercely. “Well well, Chakka, looks like the sun is almost at her peak – nearly midday. Will she be leaving with an extra pair of eyes, or are you planning to hang onto your sight for a while longer?”

Chakka did not respond, sprawled tense and still on the rug where the boatswain had left him, his eyes closed tightly shut as in tormented sleep under the blindfold. Rakin gave the prone slave a slightly puzzled look, then took another sip of his wine and set the glass down on the desk. Turning away from Chakka, Rakin faced the windows, surveying his kingdom with satisfaction, his hands gently running over the little vials and instruments that lay on his desk, some apparently designed for medicine making, some for darker means – sharp blades, needle sharp incisor blades, a set of brass knuckles. “And we both know what will happen when midday comes, don’t we? Or at least, we know what should happen…”

Raising his eyes from the dangerous, glinting array, he shaded his eyes against the sun, then nodded slightly to himself – and as if on cue, Chakka gave a long, low groan of pure agony, twisting on the carpet. Rakin raised his eyebrows and nodded once more to himself, like a critic on a performance – had to hand it to the boy, he wasn’t going easily. He’d keep the façade up to the end – if a façade it indeed was, as Rakin suspected. Or knew, rather. For no matter how calculated his imagined demonstration of the poison’s potency, Chakka had one disadvantage against Rakin: he had not actually seen it at work. Rakin had – and while the slave wasn’t exactly a picture, once the poison got to work, it really wasn’t pretty. His eyes, for example—

Rakin turned, an inquisitive scientist, and advanced almost excitedly towards the slave, grasping Chakka’s chin and, turning his chin eagerly from one side to another. There was no response and, under the light coloured blindfold, no blood either. But despite this, Rakin almost began to doubt himself. Chakka was, after all, very strong; maybe the poison would affect him in a different way to the scrawny creature that Rakin had seen the effects demonstrated on previously. But…well, there was only one way to test, wasn’t there? Rakin held Chakka’s chin up, mentally counted to three, then in a quick, vicious movement, ripped the blindfold off, and scrutinised the slave’s face. Despite himself, despite all his self-will and strength of mind, twelve hours in almost pitch darkness followed by bright sunlight even across the eyelids could only yield one result for Chakka, if he still had his sight: his eyelids flickered and, under them, Rakin saw the tell tale glimmer of white. With a triumphant yell, Rakin dropped Chakka back to the floor, resisting the urge to clap his hands in vicious delight, before he retreated a step or two to squat down before the slave, a wide smile twisting his fine features

“Blind man’s bluff, eh, Chakka? Oh, very clever, very clever indeed – although I never really did like that game.” Rakin’s smile faded as quickly as it had come, his mood altering abruptly, and he moved forward, sliding the knife from his boot and pricking it against Chakka’s throat, his eyes narrowing and his face closing up angrily. “Open your eyes, boy, and tell me exactly how you managed to get out of that one.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Seeing, quite literally, that his deception had been pierced Chakka took control of his body once more. It was difficult to tear his muscles away from their agony, but with a few deep breaths he stilled his pounding heart and smoothed away the tortured spasms of his sinews. He focused on his heartbeat and his breathing, becoming oblivious to all else, and went deep inside himself to the still point from which his energy came. He observed his legs and arms relax, then his mighty chest unknitted itself, and finally his neck and shoulders loosened, and with a sigh he relaxed against the deck. He lay there for a time, taking in great draughts of air allowing his body the moments it needed to return to life. He felt Rakin’s cold blade against his skin but it did not concern him: had the captain wanted him dead he would simply have thrown the slave overboard in his chains.

He opened his eyes and met the malicious gaze of his captor. He could not help but admire the man and his perceptions. Chakka had seen death in all its moods and tempers and had long practiced the art of mimicking them. His facility with the art had been the gift of his first master in the arts of gladiatorial combat, for there was no knowing when faking a death might not be the best way of escaping the arena alive. Heedless of the knife, Chakka pulled himself erect and sat upon the deck, meeting the captain’s piercing eyes. He did not speak in response to Rakin’s question, but glanced over his shoulder at the wall. The captain, following his gaze, moved to the wall and quickly found the small spyhole that Chakka had bored through it. He turned once more and surveyed his room: he saw the table where he prepared the antidote each morning and Chakka watched as full illumination dawned on Rakin. The captain smiled, and it was not a happy sight. “Well my lad, it would appear that there is more to than meets the eye. I am impressed – and I am not easily impressed. But how did you get the materials…” a delighted light came on behind his eyes. “Ah! I thought that a couple of my vials were being depleted somewhat too quickly. You are clever. Tossed your makeshift key overboard already have you, or…no…” He stepped out into passage for a moment, and when he came back he had in his hand the small store of equipment that Chakka had fashioned and hidden above the loose rafter. “More and more impressive. Impressive indeed.”

Rakin sat himself down once more and sipped at his wine. There was a long silence and Chakka knew that his fate depended on what he said next. Pleading, he knew, would mean his instant death, as would justifications or anger. There was only one thing he could say that would save his life, and even though it tore a hole in his pride like a jagged dagger, he said it. “You have defeated me, Captain. My life is yours to do with as you please.” A slow smile crept across the Captain’s face like a viper. Chakka saw that he had bought his life, but that he was soon to be consigned to an existence that would make it barely worth living. He spoke again, seizing on the one hope that yet remained. “You can send me to the oars, Captain, and leave me there until fatigue and the whip destroy me, but perhaps there is another way. You and I have been enemies, and as enemies I sought to destroy you, and you have thwarted that attempt. I accept your mastery, but I will never accept my enslavement.”

“I do not think that you are in any position to deny that fact,” said the captain.

“True. You have proven that I cannot escape – perhaps we can strike a bargain of some sort?” The captain was intrigued, but he said nothing. Chakka continued. “You admit that I have impressed you. I should, for I am unlike any slave you have seen. I am trained in the art of combat: this you know, it is why you selected me as your bodyguard. But I have shown myself resourceful and determined. Would it not be better to have me as an ally than as an enemy, even if only a defeated one?”

“An ally against whom, slave?”

“You forget, Captain, that I lived outside that very door for weeks. I know the state of your relations with the lords who are aboard this ship. I know that you feel uncertain of them: why else would you have secured my services as your guard? I can be of use to you with them. Send me back to the oars as punishment, but speak highly of me to the lords. Tell them how much you paid for me, and how impressive I am. Say how you wish for me to rot in the hold until I die. Let them know how much it would grieve you for me to ever see the light of day again. I have seen enough of these lords – of that one peacock in particular – to know that they will not pass up the opportunity of amusing themselves while annoying you. They will send for me. I will entertain them, I will please them – I will gain access to their chambers as I did to yours. Would it not be more…comfortable…for you knowing that you had an ally in that position?”

“And what,” Rakin asked, “would be the price of such an alliance?”

“My freedom, Captain. My freedom.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Rakin surveyed the slave for an instant, then sat back, his eyebrows arched cynically. "You must think me mad, slave. An 'ally in your position'? You have already tried to take my ship over, kill my crew and, naturally, kill me as well - and this is just counting the most recent twenty four hours." He raised one eyebrow, narrowing his eyes, and stood abruptly, turning away from the slave. "Oh yes, Chakka, a most inviting prospect."

"You cannot pretend, Captain, that it is not without appeal to you.”

Rakin turned sharply, his hand tightening on the knife as he searched for cheek in the slave’s face, but found it only impassive – not submissive, certainly, but then he had not expected it. The Captain didn’t make a habit of paying particular interest to individual slaves – maybe one might catch his eye and he might amuse himself with it for a few weeks, or a few months maybe, but eventually, inevitably, they would slip up in some way – try to escape, get to big for their boots, make an open attempt on his life. Poor fools. Sometimes the warder could allow the prisoner the sight of the sun from his tall tower, but when he tried to fly for it, the same fate always resulted. But this one, this Chakka…Rakin remembered buying him, not long ago, a slave fighter, one who fought for the entertainment of watching crowds, usually comprised of nobles. A mercenary of the masses. But one could not deny his strength – he was roughly the same height as Rakin himself, but built entirely differently, broad and thick in the chest where the captain was lean and muscular in a different way. In a fair fight, he mused, it would probably depend entirely on what training Chakka had with weapons, and on whose terms the fight came about… But idle musing was all it was. This was Rakin’s corsair ship: if there was to be a fight of any sort, it was very unlikely that it would in any way be fair.

“What did you do in your previous life, Chakka?”

There was a pause, then the slave replied, “I was a bodyguard.” He hesitated, then added, “I do not jest, Captain, to try to further my argument; I was a king’s bodyguard.”

“Maybe it is exactly that fact that worries me,” Rakin murmured in reply, raising an eyebrow although he was facing the window rather than Chakka. Raising his voice slightly, he replied, “You judge that to be your previous life, Chakka? What about before you became a slave?”

There was silence, not simply a pause this time but the adamant, stubborn absence of any forthcoming answer. Rakin nodded slightly to himself, then turned around, indicating one of the swords on the wall, an unusually long, two handed broadsword, pitted and scarred all down it’s extensive length. “You see this sword, Chakka? See it?” The slave nodded warily, his eyes never moving from the Captain. Rakin nodded once more. “It is a fine weapon indeed; it belonged to a warrior I fought once, on land rather than sea – a fine man, he fought exceptionally well but, rather than let us capture him, his last act of defiance against me and my crew was to take his own life with his very weapon. Pity, really – he would have been one who I would offer a place aboard my ship, for he truly was an excellent fighter.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes dancing over the blade as if he was watching some movement across its silver blade. Behind him, Chakka didn’t move – wisely, bearing in mind the reflective nature of the metal surface that faced into the room. The Captain continued after a moment, “Anyway, some of my crew warned me against taking such a weapon on board – they said it would be cursed, that the man’s soul might be trapped inside it. Well, if it is, it would be an honour, I replied, for to be able to harness his strength within a weapon equally fine…a fine thing indeed. And this sword...it has been in many fights already, it is experienced and made specifically for that purpose, for it is superbly weighted so as to make the best of the strength of a strong enough man to wield it; and what’s more, it is intimidating enough, combined with the warrior who holds it, to make any adversary with any common sense wish to make for the open sea as fast as the winds will bear them.”

He darted forward, moving briskly across the room and grabbed the sword hilt with both hands, wrapping his long fingers around it and giving a sharp, hard tug. The blade didn’t move and, maybe for the first time, Chakka noticed the clever arrangement of screws and rope that secured the weapon almost invisibly, to the wall. Chained.

“An excellent weapon? Aye. But rather too heavy for me, as you might see – I could fight with it, I could use this weapon of a dead adversary for my own means, and make no mistake, I would fight well with it. But if I was to lose control for one second, this blade could be my undoing – too heavy, really, too long in the blade. It could slip in my grasp, the length could prove too unwieldy and be too slow to bring up in my defence, its weight could act against me, why, even the blade could finish me. And if the soul of its previous owner truly is trapped there, he would be laughing all the way. And so I prefer, rather than running the risk, to keep it here, where I can see it – but chained there.”

Rakin turned back to Chakka. “What do you say, Chakka? It is a perfect blade, really – but would the risk that I run be using it be worth what I could gain from it?” He paused, his eyes searching the slave’s. “Would you trust a thing made for the purposes of an enemy?”

Chakka did not respond immediately, and just as he was about to, Rakin waved a hand dismissively, looking away. “Call the boatswain – he takes my dismissals rather liberally, he will not be too far down the corridor, waiting to hear either your death cries or mine.” Turning to his desk once again, he slid the knife back into his boot and took his glass, selecting another bottle and pouring himself another glass. As for Chakka, the slave didn’t move immediately, frozen – his hands were still bound, but there was nothing between him and the door, in a room full of weapons that could potentially be seized for his own needs, and with the Captain himself currently not holding a weapon and with both hands occupied. After a moment, he moved to the door, then hesitated once more.

“Unless I am very much mistaken, or the breadth of this room has extended to at least three times its usual length,” Rakin prompted calmly, without turning. “You are both still here and not yet treating boatswain to an impending seizure at the sight of your face around my door. Go, shoo, get out.” He waved a hand lazily in Chakka’s general direction, taking a sip of the wine, his eyes still meditatively fixed on the sea. A second or two later, he heard the boatswain’s startled cry, his feet thundering down the corridor and through his doorway, and then the man’s feet almost comically skidding on the rug as he saw that Rakin was indeed still very much alive. He half turned his head to offer the other corsair his profile. “Takad, take him back to the oars and chain him back in his usual position. The other slave as well – the one who was with in him in the subsequently not-so-aptly named solitary confinement.”

“You will not punish him further?” the boatswain replied disbelievingly.

Rakin sighed, replacing the glass very slowly on the table, the clink of glass against wood somehow menacing. “Takad—”

“It is done, Captain, it is done,” the boatswain interrupted hurriedly, taking hold of Chakka and pushing him ahead of him through the door. But as he did so, the slave turned back in. “Captain Rakin, will you not…consider what I have said?”

Rakin didn’t need to turn: he could imagine the panic which would be glimmering, however faintly, in the slave’s eyes, although barely a hint of it was audible in his voice. Turning slowly, glass in hand, he smiled lazily. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous; why would I do a thing like that?”

Chakka’s face closed up like a clam, his teeth gritting, and, seeing the violence in the slave’s expression, the boatswain gave him an almighty shove that, without his hands, caught Chakka off-balance and stumbling through the door. But as they went, Rakin called the pair back suddenly. As Chakka’s wary face appeared once more by the doorframe, the boatswain standing out of sight, Rakin indicated the sword once more. “It is a very fine weapon indeed. A very useful item indeed to have use of – if I could be assured that it would not backfire. Certainly it is a prospect that I would need to…consider. Could go either way, really…”

As Rakin dismissed Takad once more, Chakka resisted the other man for a moment before he was pulled roughly away and all but thrown down the corridor towards the oars. But in the instance between calling to the boatswain to take him away and the order successfully being carried out, Chakka saw an extraordinary thing: briefly, roguishly, the Captain smiled and gave the slave a quick wink.

Hearing Takad’s stream of abuse and Chakka’s stumbling, resentful footsteps fade away, Rakin allowed himself another indulgent, wolfish smile. Now it was off to see the peacock, as the message had come to him – the mighty Sangalazin wished to play chess with him. Ye gods… Rakin stared ruminatively into the glass of wine, then threw his head back and drained it in one quick movement, the midday sunlight winking off the blood liquid through the crystal and scattering the refractions of the droplets across the weapons on the walls, before he strode out of the door to see his dear – unwitting – half brother.

[The Perky Ent]

"Menelcar," Telumehtar said, taking a blank paper from the table in his quarters. "Do you know my plan for attack?" Menelcar gave a sigh that could have been mistaken as an insulting jesture. "No Lord Telumehatar. You have yet to inform me" Telumehtar gave a small grin and began writting quickly on the paper. "A mistake that I shall soon rectify, my friend. Come look here, and you'll see. Now, obviously, here is Gondor. The river runs here, and Umbar is down here. Now, here are our forces, and here are the Umbarian raiders. I've created a small blockade to guard the coast in the event of their arrival. Should they arrive, I've set up a small flare system for the word to travel. We can assume that so long as we have no heard word via flare, the Bay of Belfalas and the River Anduin are clear of enemy ships. We then go down the river, and gather in Tolfalas. It's a long journey, and I have no doubt you'll pick up many things on the open seas. Once we reach Umbar, I will send my men to the harbors, and to the main capitol building. Once the capitol is taken, we secure the city, and light our beacon atop the lighthouse in the harbor. This plan should work so long as the seas on our journey are clear. It's a rough outline, of course, and will take much more planning."

Telumehtar took a small dagger from his belt and secured the paper to the wall with it. The bottom of the page blew as Telumehtar opened the adjacent window and let the salty air in. "I have no doubt" Telumehtar continuted, "that you had a plan yourself for the attack. What's your plan?"