Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[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?"

[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor had been running on adrenaline. When the feverish tension that spurred him on began ebbing away, the cold surface of the planks pressed against his cheek bringing back a measure of awareness, dead weariness set in. It was a miracle that he reached this far without mishap. He shouldn’t have. He couldn’t have. But here he was, leaning on the very walls of the Rakin’s infamous quarters, clad in a sailor’s uniform that did little to staunch the flow of blood down his back, and at a loss what to do.

Beyond the walls, Chakka and Rakin were immersed in earnest speech although he couldn’t make out most of the words. He frowned, trying to concentrate on listening, and then the very incongruity of it struck him. Talking together? If Ferethor was the one in Chakka’s place, he’d be raising hell with that miserable dog of Umbar by now. Seized with a chill of doubt that he dared not explain even to himself, he inadvertently drew closer to the doorway and heard Chakka finishing his last sentence – cannot pretend… not without appeal to you. So that was it. He was selling them all out. To think he thought of trusting that barbarian thrall… Reeling from what he had heard, Ferethor swayed and covered his mouth with his hand. When he took it away, the palm was covered with blood. Damn it, not at a time like this!

No help to be gotten from Chakka, apparently, who had evidently swapped sides if he heard them correctly. Ferethor swore silently; things weren't going well. Pulling himself away from the wall, he asked himself the question that had been gnawing at the edge of his mind ever since - where to, now?

Ferethor knew he should have made provisions for such an event. As it was, he had no resources at his disposal for such a chance as this, merely because he had thought it too unlikely that he’d ever get free. He felt his lack of forethought more keenly than ever as he started walking aimlessly across the deck. The first resolve to kill Rakin seemed ridiculous to look back on, now that he thought of it. He was with Linvail the last time he tried, and that ended a failure. For Eru's sake, too, he was in no condition to kill anyone other than himself. Which he seemed to be hastening. No reason Rakin would leave him alive after this - unless, of course, he wanted to play. The man was perfectly capable of that. In fact, he was capable of anything; even leaving him alive. Although, and here Ferethor's thought took on a tinge of bitterness, should that be the case he would probably wish he was dead. Well, if he went, by Elbereth he wouldn't go alone! With that thought tingling in the back of his mind, Ferethor made his way to the bottom of Fame and Fortune, where the slaves were hard at work at the oars.

“What in Mandos are you doing around here?” Was the reply that greeted his appearance, as one of the guards looked up. It was an automatic inquiry, given with nothing more alarming than a hint of surprise, and Ferethor realized that the sentinel did not recognize him. If the man's tone was surprised, it was because the sailors kept away from this place as much as possible, it being the dismal place it is. Not the place for your afternoon stroll. But no, the surprise wasn’t the kind of alarm that would be upon seeing a slave on the loose. He thought of it for a moment, and it made sense. No one looks clearly at a slave. Besides, even if the guard knew him, there was so little illumination in the place that it wouldn't have made a particle of difference anyway. He was hard put to quell a sigh of relief.

Ferethor swallowed and said casually, “Just trying to stay out of captain’s sight. He’s been furious since he got closeted with that Chakka fellow, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to get the brunt of his anger.”

The other seemed to buy it, and lapsed into his usual lethargy, but Ferethor's eyes caught a startled movement in the least quarter where he expected trouble – the slaves. Someone had recognized his voice. Who? Damn it, who around here knew him? But there was no disbelieving his senses. A moment to slip a word to the indifferent guard about checking the fetters, then he went down to the slave ranks. Those nearest him pulled away, except for one who stared at him directly and unbelievingly – a newcomer. One less naive would immediately feign indifference, but the boy was still young. Jagar, wasn’t it his name? The one who took Linvail’s place at the oars. Seeing that the man moved as if to say something, he quickly leaned down and grabbed his wrists hard to stop him.

“Keep quiet and listen. Yes, I am the one you think I am. And yes, again, I am an enemy of the corsairs. Aren’t you?” here Ferethor waited for a reply, but it did not come, and he took it for an affirmative and continued. “Jagar, your name is, right? Anyway, I have something to ask of you. I didn’t think that you’d be the one that I’d be talking to, but it’s just as well. I have no options left now anyway. Since I.. no, wait.”

Ferethor stood up, and called out to the approaching guard that he thought the shackles were twisted and that it needed fixing, and that he’d do it for them if they wouldn’t speak of him hiding out here. A brilliant piece of acting, pulled off so well that the guard turned away with all misdoubts in his heart quenched and filled with thanks for the newcomer. He even offered a drink from his flask, but he refused. When he came back to Jagar, he had something in his hands. “The guard was stupid enough to lend me his knife to fix the shackles. Here, take it. No, better…” With a deft twist, Ferethor jerked the shackle locks open. “A skill that every slave learns after a time, so don’t look so surprised. The time might come when your chance at freedom might turn the tides. Make sure that you keep the knife close at hand, but don’t waste your chance at sheer bravado. Don’t try freeing the other slaves; I’ve tried once to raise their spirits. Take it from me, they’re worthless. Just keep yourself alive.” His voice faltered for a while as if seized with strong memories. Linvail… It was as if he was talking to him, once his most trusted lieutenant… Then he recollected himself and went on. “Not enough time to explain why I’m telling all this to you, Jagar. Maybe it’s because I would hate it if Rakin killed me and then all the plans I’ve made to kill him went to Mandos with me…”

“The strength of this vessel is that it’s isolated, so that there’s nowhere to run, but that can be also its weakness. It’s made out of wood, darn it. It’s not fireproof.” Ferethor quickly laid out his plans, afraid that his time was running out. “I know it’s soaked with brine, but if we could steal strong liquor from the captain’s own cabin to fuel the fire… That’s where you come in. I’d do it myself, but I have the feeling that Rakin’s not going to leave me alive after this, so I’m entrusting this to you… If you can steal it, our work will be half done. You can’t start it now, though, when it can be easily put out. In the heat of war, we have more chance of torching the damn ship without much interference than we would now… And then we can go over to the other ship. They’d take us in. Do you get what I’m saying?”

It was verging on madness to entrust all this to a young slave he’s never even talked to until now – but he was out of options. This was it, or nothing but the void.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

The thralls aboard The Fame and Fortune were growing restless. None of them knew for sure, what was about to happen, and below deck, the frustration and worried thoughts of the ship's crew materialized into merciless beating.

Rain, pain, dream, scream, cry, sigh... Die! Die would rhyme better. Breath, death... The seat next to Jagar was empty. Shivers ran through Jagar's body as he tensed up his muscles to do the work of two rowers alone.

“What in Mandos are you doing around here?”

Jagar lifted his head to see, what was going on. A sailor. "Well, that is a bizarre sight on slave deck. Unless he has ruffled the Lords' temper, and we're getting a new slave", Jagar snorted to himself. He leaned forward to hear if the man had brought any news. Wait- there was something strangely familiar with the sailor. His voice... Jagar tried to catch a better glimpse of him. He was the spitting image of... Don't be stupid! Salty water has softened your brain.

The sailor had noticed Jagar's stare and hastily strode towards him. Is it... It is! That man should be dead by now, Jagar gaped. He had heard colourful rumours of Ferethor's attempts to wreak havoc onboard, and last time he was taken away, Jagar had been sure that he wouldn't see Ferethor alive again.

“Keep quiet and listen", the man blurted out.

And before Jagar even knew, Ferethor had manoeuvred his shackles open and filled his head with something that sounded like a daring plan. Images of a wildfire, massive sails in red flames, danced in front of Jagar's eyes.

"Do you get what I’m saying?”

"Look... Ferethor", Jagar whispered, "You suggest that I take a little walk around the ship and have a drink in the Captain's cabin? I might as well ask those guards to give me a day off - it's a sure way to end up killed." A look of contempt arose upon Ferethor's face. "You disappoint me. You're as bootless as any other slave here", he hissed. "I'm just telling the truth. We stand no chance", Jagar replied calmly. "I never said that I wouldn't be up to it, though", he added with a slight grin.

Bells tolled somewhere up on the deck. "What is happening? Are we going ashore", Jagar asked peering out of the oar hole and trying to see if they were approaching a harbour. "Sounds like an alarm to me", Ferethor retorted, and with that he turned on his heels and left.

[Firefoot]

As Telumehtar took the paper from the table and pinned it to the wall, Menelcar leaned back in his seat. Though far from luxurious, the wooden chair was at least reasonably comfortable, and he did not mind taking advantage of what comfort he could on the swaying ship. In private, at least, he and the king held few formalities with each other.

I have no doubt," Telumehtar was concluding, "that you had a plan yourself for the attack. What's your plan?"

Menelcar paused a moment before responding. What thoughts he had given to the attack had not been nearly so broad in scope, concentrating instead on individual segments of the expedition. “I think,” he began, “that it would not be unlikely that we should meet Corsair ships before we reach Umbar. We need to have a plan ready and known among the all the officers and ships’ captains before we encounter them – once we see them, it will be too late to coordinate any kind of counter.

“Also, I do not think it unlikely that we will find the harbor mouth at Umbar held against us,” he said, rising from his seat and pointing to the narrow mouth at Umbar’s harbor on Telumehtar’s map. “It is the logical place for them to make a stand – easy to defend, and removed from the city itself – and it would be foolhardy for us to believe that they will have had no word of our coming. What we need is something they will not expect, something…” He tapped speculatively at the harbor as his voice trailed off. An idea came to him. “This coastal region is hilly, providing cover, is it not? The Haven of Umbar is a port city, ill prepared for an assault from land, and however well the Corsairs fight on sea, our army is superior to theirs. What if we were to send a small force over land, over this narrow strip of land here? With any luck at all, they should reach the city at about the same time we do. They would have to go quickly and secretly for it to work; their best weapon would be surprise. What do you think? Would this work?”

[Eorl of Rohan]

The alarm resounded through the vessel like wildfire. The decks swarmed with half-roused sailors and curious soldiers, all pressing each other for information as the crowd multiplied and the alarm continued. The rumors, diverse as they were, and each more far-fetched than the last, more or less agreed that there were an escapee on the loose. As if to verify this, the emergency patrol stalked the hallways in anticipation of any false move. The hunt was on.

If there were hunters, there was the prey; such was the situation that Ferethor was pressed into. It was only a matter of time before they counted heads and found a sailor unaccounted for. Then, of course, his sailor’s clothing wouldn’t help him at all. He thought of all this with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t shake off. To make it worse, by the time he had scrambled out of the trapdoor that led to the ‘rower’s pit’ as the place was called, the emergency patrol was already out scouring every hallway. No chance of hiding, then. Drawn by a sense of strange desperateness, the like of which every animal possesses when cornered, he mingled with a group of sailors heading for the deck. There was nowhere he could go without attracting immediate notice. And he wasn’t ready to face Rakin again, so soon.

But Ferethor hadn’t prepared himself to see Rakin himself hurrying out to the deck, and every fiber strained to catch the man’s words. If he knew what Rakin’s orders were, he might stand a chance in getting away.