Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Heedless of any danger lurking ahead, Lindir raced forward into the ruins of the fortress, with Orëmir following close behind. He passed the tumbled pile of masonry where Lómwë and Endamir had veered off to the far end of the eastern wall in their search for the stone structure that still stood intact. Still, Lindir paid no attention to the other Elves and instead rushed quickly through the scattered stones and rubble that littered the edge of the fortress. Clambering upward onto the remains of an ancient parapet that had plunged to the ground a thousand years before, Lindir turned around and gazed directly at his companion, urging him to hurry forward.

"It's here. I know it is." Lindir spoke with an air of certainty. Half running and half falling in his eagerness to find what he remembered, the Elf slipped down from the ruins onto a grassy embankment that overlooked the Sea. He was struggling to remember the old ways and paths that had once seemed so familiar. They were now on the far side of the island, just outside what had once been the eastern boundary of the castle walls. There were no signs of ghostly inhabitants. They stood at the edge of a sharp cliff. The ground beneath them was treacherous and rocky, precipitously dropping off towards the churning waters that slapped ominously at the base of the cliff.

Lindir beckoned Orëmir forward and pointed to a portion of rock where the drop was not so severe. There was a small ledge no more than twenty feet below on which two Elves could safely stand. They could see, dotted in the hillside at the inner portion of the ledge, a number of small entryways that seemingly led to caves nestled deep inside the bowels of the earth. Still, there did not seem to be any way to get down to that ledge.

Pushing through a pile of tangled brush, Lindir tentatively reached out with his hand and, to his amazement, felt the firm outline of a great wooden basket that was still attached to a massive rope. This was no ancient and rotting thing that had been left out in the weather for a hundred years. The wicker looked new; the craftsmenship was considerable. What ghostly hands could create or maintain such a device? Indeed, what ghost would even want such a thing? The whole machine was cleverly constructed. Two Elves could climb inside the basket and by tugging on a winch descend to the ledge, or bring themselves up to the top again.

"This is where the Diviner lived. She preferred to be by herself outside the castle walls, but in the safety of this cave. For there are endless mazes inside, and she would be in little danger even if all the forces of evil converged upon this ground. Indeed, I believe that this is the only corner of this cursed island that would not be stained with blood."

Lindir's fingers ran instinctively to the hilt of his sword, which he had retrieved earlier from the guard room. He stopped for a moment, then spoke, "Let us go now and see if she is here. I would rather meet her face to face on our terms than run into her unawares on some lonely stairwell. For truly I do not trust her, and it is better to meet an enemy head on. If her lair still lies here, you will be amazed. For, deep inside the cave is a wonderful chamber where she spent long hours at her studies. The Diviner possessed all manner of herbs and potions. She studied the winds and the air and the waters to learn what lay behind these things."

"You speak now as if you knew her..."

Lindir did not answer as they slipped into the basket and cranked it downward, peering out in the direction of the cave....

[piosenniel]

Despite the seriousness of the problem for which they sought the Diviner’s aid, Endamir was suddenly beset by a fit of laughter. No, not laughter . . . giggling was the more exact term. He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure.

‘What must Lómwë think of me . . . laughing like this?’ he wondered to himself. ‘I am standing here admidst the wrack and ruin of this fortress of the Quendi, my old friend teetering on the edge of death . . . that should be sobering enough . . .’ He raised up his head to look about the ruins. ‘And yet, here I am spooked by crows, beset by mad spirits, looking about at empty air, and listening to voices on the wind. It is a jarring mixture of the serious and the absurd.’

Endamir stood up fully and took a deep breath. Up the stairs, in the gloomy recesses of some windowless room, or so he supposed it, there came the low whirring of little wings, the sharp protests of metal upon stone. ‘What do you suppose is up there?’ he questioned aloud, even as he made for the steps. ‘Creatures of Morgoth? Metal winged bats of some sort? No, it cannot be. It was the Seneschal’s voice we heard, I’m sure . . .’

[Envinyatar]

It was a fleeting thought as he stepped into the basket . . .

‘I do not recall an oath saying I need follow a patient to his death to save him!’ he muttered to himself.

Orëmir’s hands clutched tight to the rim of the basket as Lindir lowered them down the side of the cliff. The knuckles of those hands were as white as the Elf’s face. All blood had fled to his core as fright gripped him. ‘I will not look down . . . or out . . . or to the side, for that matter!’ he avowed silently, clamping his eyes shut tightly.

Endamir! A thousand curses on you for wanting to come on this demented venture. When I see you next . . . if I see you again . . . or anything for that matter should I be spared my death on the rocks below . . . I will drag you from this island if I have to bind you to do so!

The basket bumped down the rocky precipice, Orëmir’s stomach lurching into his throat with each increment. And then they were stopped. He could hear Lindir securing the rope to something and the sound as the Elf began to climb from the basket. The makeshift carrier teetered for a moment, sending a decided wave of nausea through Orëmir; then, all was still.

He ventured a look at the wall of stone where Lindir had gone into. There was a fair sized opening, though from the outside looking down from the top or up from the ground below, it would appear only as a great gash in the rock. Orëmir could hear Lindir crashing about inside. Crunching about, more like. He slipped into the gash and came after a few short paces into a large grotto entry-way.

Orëmir sneezed; it echoed loudly in the cavern. Lindir’s thrashing had thrown up a cloud of fine, mouldy smelling dust. He blinked his eyes, and near the center of the rock strewn floor, he could see that Lindir had managed to light a torch that must have been left here by the Diviner. The Elf was making his way toward the back of the cave, toward another vague opening Orëmir could just see. Not wanting to let his companion get too far beyond him, Orëmir stepped onto the grotto floor proper.

Something crunched beneath his boots as he moved. He looked down and with growing horror saw that it was not rocks that were strewn on the floor, but bones. An hysterical sort of laughter bubbled up from his tightly clenched throat, squeaking out in a thin, high stream. ‘By the One! Was she a vampire of some sort?’ he gasped out. ‘Or so feeble in her attempts at healing that most of her patients died?’

Lindir had turned to look back at him as he asked these terror-induced questions. He’d waved the torch at Orëmir beckoning him on. A cutting breeze swept against Orëmir’s back, and he felt as if icy hands drifted over his shoulders, numbing his face as they passed on before him.

Then, the light from the brand went out with a whoosh! and all was cast in darkness. From the darkness there came the sound of amused laughter echoing off the walls. A sigh of sorts followed . . . and after it, soft, considering words . . .

So . . . you’ve come back . . . as you once promised . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir whirled around abruptly and then stared in disbelief. He strained to peer ahead, but could see almost nothing. Only one shadow wavered in the distance, and it was impossible to say with certainty what this grey mist might signify. There was little light still visble within the lofty chamber. The torch had been extinguished, and only a few rays from the outside world had managed to slip inside and follow them down to the far end of the grotto, where they now stood waiting.

"This can not be! You were slain in the heat of battle. All said the same. Long days, I searched for you but could find nothing. I left after that. There was no reason to return. But why do you linger here?" Lindir cried out in desperation to the darkness, but there was no response to his query. His words bounced eerily off the walls of the cave and came back to his own ear again.

Motivated by frustration and the need to know more, the elf pressed forward towards the spot where he had first heard the voice, totally oblivious to the fact that the mounds of bones surrounding them were increasing in size and number....skeletons large and small precariously stacked up, one on top of the other. Despite all that had been said concerning the Diviner since he had landed on this cursed Isle, Lindir had never expected to hear her voice again, at least not on this side of the Sea.

Ahead lay a tunnel, black and foreboding. He stopped for a moment without looking to see if Oremir was still behind him. Then he heard a rustling at the far end of the blackened corridor. Oblivious to common sense, driven by the need to look once more upon the Diviner, he rushed forward at great speed and barely managed to keep his balance amid the ever growing mounds of bones. Once again he heard the soft sigh as he came to a massive door and, without hesitation, unlatched the rusty bolt to push it open. To his amazement, he stood inside a great chamber filled almost to the ceiling with the remains of those who had perished in the wars. Victors and vanquished, orcs and elves....their bones mingled and called out for remembrance.

What happened next, Lindir could never quite explain. There was a moment when the earth tipped forward and then back, until it stood perfectly still again, though somewhat at an angle. The wooden door behind them shut with a loud clang and piles of bones came loose from their mooring, beginning to shake and shift. Just a moment later and an avalanche of skeletons had broken free. For a single instant, Lindir stood perfectly still. Then he turned to the door and frantically tried to push it open in a vain attempt to get out. But the door would not move; a great pile of skeletons came cascading down upon his head. Lindir protectively cradled his head in his arms, curling into a ball as he called out to Varda to protect them in this realm of shadow.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir stood at the entrance to the tunnel. Lindir had already rushed into the dark maw of it and was at once lost to sight. For a moment Orëmir considered following after the manic Elf, but his common sense told him that while Lindir might know the ins and outs of these caverns, he did not.

He stepped back a few paces, into a pale shaft of light that pooled at the rear of the grotto. Dropping his pack from his back, he fished through one of the side pockets, looking for the tapers he kept there. He used them in his work when someone had fainted. The smoke from a singed feather held beneath the nose was oft times all that was needed to bring round the patient. ‘Yes, there they are,’ he said to himself, his fingers passing from the soft collection of feathers to the cool, smooth sides of the tapers. ‘Now where’s the flint?'

His fingers fumbled with the flint and steel he had stored there also, and soon he had a bit of a spark going in a pinch of dried moss. Dipping his candle’s wick into it, he lit it and soon had it secured in one of the little candle-lanterns tucked into another pocket on his pack

Orëmir shouldered his pack once again and proceeded into the tunnel, his little lantern throwing a faint beam before it. The floor of the tunnel was crowded with a thicker layer of bones than the grotto. They, too, crunched beneath his feet, but this time his feet did not sink down enough to touch the corridor’s stony floor. Beyond the feeble light was deep darkness and silence save for his footsteps. No voice whispered along the way, nor was there the chill breeze he had felt before.

‘It is Lindir that draws these phantasms; he is their lodestone. I wonder if it were so when he was whole and living in the fortress. Or is it only now because his mind and spirit are disquieted.’ A number of hesitating steps brought him at last to the end of the corridor. Holding up the lantern, he could see the outline of a massive wooden door. Lindir, it appeared, had forced the rusty bolt open and gone into whatever chamber it protected.

Setting his shoulder firmly against the door, Orëmir pushed with all his might against it. It budged only a little, making a small gap, three fingerwidths at the most. Orëmir held the little lantern near the narrow opening and tried to peer in above it. There was a high mound of various sized bones and skulls that had flowed up against the door, it seemed and blocked its opening. From somewhere near the door, he could hear a voice, Lindir’s he thought, whimpering a repeated muffled plea.

‘Varda protect us in this realm of shadow!’ he could hear the Elf call.

Orëmir’s mind raced, wondering how he could get Lindir from behind the stubborn door. In the state Lindir was in, he wondered if he might play upon his altered senses. He moved the candle-lantern up and down the narrow slit a number of times, sending a signal of light, he hoped, into the darkness beyond. Then pushing his mouth against the opening, he called out to the stricken Elf.

‘Lindir! The Kindler couldn’t come herself. She’s sent me in her stead with a light to guide you.’ He moved the beam of light up and down the opening, trying to signal his trapped companion. ‘Come toward the bright light, here on the other side of the door! And shove back the bones and skulls in your way as you do so.’

He listened closely for the sound of someone moving closer.

‘The light, Lindir! Come towards it!’ he called again.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir could hear Orëmir's voice urging him forward. A tiny light flickered, ran up and down the outer edge of the door frame, and then receded into shadow. Still, Orëmir's trick had shown Lindir the way he should proceed.

"I see the light. I am coming." Lindir feebly struggled to rise. With a great effort, he managed to stand upright in the middle of a Sea of Bones The problem was that the Sea would not stand still, but was continually shifting and churning in response to the Elf's attempts to escape from his prison. Lindir reached down and gathered up a handful of skulls, grimacing as he did so, and quickly tossed them over to the corner in a vain effort to clear a path to the doorway where Orëmir waited. But the moment Lindir had discarded the ones he was carrying, another pile slid down from the left and landed imediately in front of him, effectively blocking his efforts to leave the chamber behind. This happened three separate times until he began to believe that more than coincidence was involved. The wretched skeletons seemed to have a life and mind of their own and were determined that he not leave the chamber.

Frustration and confusion flooded Lindir's mind as he blurted out a plea to his companion. "I can not free myself. Bony fingers are tugging at my ankle." The last word was spoken barely above a whisper. Lindir had sunk into a pit of bones, that was deeper than before, and was struggling to keep his head aloft.

Orëmir pressed his ear against the door, sensing that something was very wrong. There was silence, then a sound of arms and legs thrashing wildly, followed by a high pitched scream for help, "Help me. I beg you. The skeletons live! I can not escape them...."

[piosenniel]

Endamir addresses the Seneschal

Two rusted torch brackets hung crazily askew on the wall of the short, dark passageway that led to the darkened room just off the landing. Endamir reached up a gloved hand and pushed gently at the first one he had come to. The pitted metal protested as it was moved, echoing loudly in the stairwell. In concert, its fellow bracket seemed to move just barely, but enough to echo its companion’s complaint.

‘And now the fixtures have begun to talk to me,’ he murmured, continuing to follow Lómwë up the stairs. He glanced at his companion’s back, wondering if he had heard them, too. Or whether this was a singular hallucination of his own. ‘Your pardon,’ he whispered to the brackets as he passed them. ‘And here I am answering them!’ he thought to himself.

The room above was large; that is, what they could see of it. Some of the ceiling beams had come down and the pale light from outside filtered in through the layers. Endamir glanced about the enclosure; his eyes darting into the pools of deepening shadow. Walking carefully across the floor to a place where the light flooded in, he stopped there. Fully clothed in the light, he stood waiting for the voice they had heard to speak again.

‘Are you here?’ he ventured after a few silent moments. He took a few tentative steps into the edges of the surrounding shadows, ‘Idrahil? Are you near?’