Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

The dark elf, quite as tall as Ambarturion and bearing himself as well nodded briefly as the latter doled out instructions, before turning away curtly and speaking a few words quietly to his companions. Coromswyth watched one in particular more carefully - the gloomy looking, fair elf. He was certainly the eldest among them: the air of age and wisdom that came only through long experience settled around his shoulders like the dust of time. He was evidently the leader of the group, and as Ambarturion began ordering the others around, the female elf kept her eyes on him from under her eyelashes, pretending to be fiddling with some detail on the binding of her dagger's handle. He did not seem to mind so much, nodding mildly, but as Ambarturion turned away, the elf stopped the other two and murmured a few words of his own to them. Interesting.

Ambarturion took a deep breath, surveying the area in front of him as if running through in his mind a mental vision of what would happen if all went according to plan. Then he turned his head to look at Coromswyth, and she saw the pained expression flit momentarily across his face. "Lady - are you sure you will fight with us? I would prefer it if-"

The female elf cut him off with a shake of her head, smiling lightly at him. "Please...please, Ambarturion," she said softly. He watched her with his keen, dark grey eyes, then sighed and seemed ready to turn away. Rather than leave it simply like that, Coromswyth gave a small smile and continued: "Besides - my bow is in the back of that wagon." She spun the dagger and sword in her hands easily in two circles around each other, flashing two deadly rings of silver through the air. She grinned dangerously at Ambarturion. "You don't think I'd leave it there, do you?"

The older elf smiled slightly at her even through his worry, then his brow crumpled in concern and his eyes closed up suspiciously. "Your bow is in the back of the wagon? How?"

Coromswyth felt her pulse increase marginally as she remembered the Southron captain's face and his kind actions. No matter what the male elf thought, that he was merely the lesser of two evils, she couldn't help but fight the certainty in her mind that there was something more in this youngling's kindness. She knew exactly who had put the bow in the back of the wagon. Not letting on for a second, forced herself to shrug lightly, and was pleased to note that her male companion had not tried to probe into her mind. "Who knows? Maybe the orcs meant to get something more out if it - it is a fine weapon, would sell to one of the Men on guard for something extra, I suspect."

Ambarturion's eyes rested on her only a for a moment more before he nodded, satisfied, shrugging as the suspicion departed from his eyes. Coromswyth relaxed slightly but it took a while for her pulse to slow down. The image of the Man's eyes were in her mind again - dark and melancholy, full of wisdom one so young shouldn't have to know. She smiled slightly to herself in confusion - of course, it wasn't surprising that he had made an impact on her, but why should she be grateful to him? He had 'saved' her from the orc's touch...the thought was immediately parried by the instantaneous response in her mind: it was he who had originally captured her. She sighed. She knew who had put the bow in the back of the wagon - but was no closer to knowing why.

Taking a deep breath and calming herself, Coromswyth swung her blades around deftly once more, getting the feel of both long and short together. As she did so, she caught the eye of one of the archers, who had shot a curious look at her as she did so, and smiled without thinking. He seemed slightly taken aback - after all, her readiness to smile was so different from the other, severe Ambassador. Looking away, Coromswyth watched Ambarturion's still form nearby, worry tinting her light eyes.

"Be careful, Ambarturion."

The other elf stiffened momentarily and turned to look questioningly at Coromswyth, wondering why she had chosen to share her good luck for the fight secretively rather than openly with spoken words. She held his eyes for only a moment, then let them flicker to the other elves before they returned to his. Her meaning was perfectly clear, but Ambarturion did not reply: he kept her gaze for a moment, then turned again.

[Durelin]

“You three.”

The curtness of the elf’s voice and the gesture toward Calenvása and the other scouts brought the Captain out of his thoughts with a shock. His eyes snapped up to stare at Ambarturion, one of the newly rescued ambassadors, part of an envoy from Lorien to the Woodmen in Mirkwood, with anger. Blinking, Calenvása realized he had no reason to be angry, and felt a new frustration arise that was directed at himself. His thoughts and feelings had no reasoning to them, and he had decided long ago that his mind required logical explanations to most everything, especially things that stemmed from himself. Very few things had been at all logical in some time, and it frightened him. He wanted so to run away. But he felt cornered as the ambassador spoke.

“You are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

At a surprising thought that emerged his mind as Ambarturion finished, Calenvása brightened. It may have been a sad thought to cling to, but he of course refused to consider this. He refused to think of anything that might make him feel uncomfortable with himself and his state of mind. His state of mind was completely up to him, but he did not even wish to confront this fact. This would mean feeling a weight of responsibility. But all weight was lifted from him as he realized what Ambarturion was doing. The severe elf was taking charge. It felt good, in a way, to be following orders. And yet he could not help but frown at the ground before where he stood. Forcing his features to lighten, he brought his eyes up to nod in response to Ambarturion’s instructions.

For some unknown reason, though, he turned to face the other scouts, to speak to them himself. He felt the weight upon him grow slightly, but he ignored it. “Targil?” he asked softly, refusing to speak with any command. “I’m assuming that you wish to engage them with the others.” Calenvása knew Targil, and knew his weapon of choice. His companion nodded, eyeing Calenvása strangely. The Captain would never be able to ignore that elf’s gaze. “I’m hoping three bows will be enough to cut down the numbers enough that when we engage the enemy, our knives will be enough to cut them down to nothing.” It was strange. It seemed a small slip of his humor had caused him to say that last statement, and yet no smile played on his lips. He looked at each of his comrades. Where had the smiles gone?

“It is all we can hope for,” Targil said, answering Calenvása’s unvoiced question.

~

Targil

Taking his eyes away from his Captain, knowing that there was nothing left to say, Targil watched the two ambassadors speak with each other. He studied them, slowly discovering who they were simply through his eyes, and found his eyes resting on the female. She was a puzzle. Ambarturion was puzzling, as well, but… She, Coromswyth – Thorvel had loosely introduced them to Targil and Calenvása – smiled. Her eyes were full of a profound wisdom, a deep understanding, and yet any sadness did not overcome a brightness of innocent, almost youthful happiness. There was an energy about her as well, a positive one, that she was focusing on helping her land and her people. Targil was already beginning to admire her. She swung her two blades around with skill and familiarity. Yes, admiration was due. She caught his gaze, and smiled again. If he had not been caught by surprise by her eyes, and he was not busy worrying about what had shown in his eyes, Targil would have smiled back. It seemed she had an effect on people. He wondered how Ambarturion could remain so severe around such a warm and jovial presence.

Her eyes quickly passed from his, and back to the other ambassador’s she smiled no longer. Targil could practically feel the energy in the air as the two great minds worked. Looking from one to the other, he wanted so to tap into their thoughts, but refused to do anything to lose their trust. There was no reason for him to mistrust them, or for them to mistrust Targil and his companions. Giving up his quiet observations, he made his way over to the ambassadors and their guards, breaching the gap that had automatically formed between the two parties. He did not apologize for intruding, determining that any considered intrusion would have to be put up with. They were all fighting against the same enemy, and fighting for the survival of themselves and their brethren in Lorien, and they would fight together.

“I am Targil; my knives skin orc with yours, and I bleed with you.” He bowed slightly, with only the slightest amount of respect. Unlike Calenvása, he was not prepared to allow this Ambarturion to take the command that he most likely thought was rightfully his. He considered a separate greeting for Coromswyth, but her eyes stopped him once again.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Things had become quite interesting between the two human captains, and Ehan was able to comfortably watch the goings on from his own standpoint – outside the conflict entirely. The orc captain – Ehan did not know how to say his name, so stayed with the generic title – had decided to get himself involved in the inner battle between Koran and Herding. Obviously their little vendetta had become visible enough for others to decide to take advantage of it. That means that it has gone too far for a strange situation such as this, Ehan realized. When others are able to profit from such distaste between two captains, no good can come of it.

The story of betrayal had often been told by his sister, countless variations where a loyal subject is forgotten or a haughty king killed in mutiny for his trespass. Ehan had never heard a tale quite the same as the one unfolding in the camp among men – and orcs – of such high rank and reputation. Because there had never been an ending to such a story, as far as Ehan knew, all the boy could do was watch and wait for the result of all the battles of words.

But what are words, when actions will decide who is left? Ehan wondered, his mind racing as he and Koran left the orc and his captain pondered the words of both man and beast. What would happen next could only be guessed, and until the end was revealed Ehan would do what he could to make certain that he remained unaffected, and unattached. Surely, Ehan felt some sort of bond between Koran and himself, but Ehan had quickly learned in his life that bonds and ties were broken more quickly than flesh. If he let his mind slip and his heart take over, things would get ugly…as they already had between Koran and Herding. That is their problem, the Southron mused, they let their feelings and their anger and their pride get in the way of things. Koran would surely save his own skin before saving mine, so why should I not be willing to return the favor? Relations between Herding and Koran would have certainly made for a heart-wrenching and enticing tale, and Ehan still wondered who would come out the victor…the hero.

“Captain?” Ehan inquired, gently requesting the attention of the older, but still rather young Southron captain. Koran looked up, his eyes dazed and his face filled with pockets of indignation and contemplation. “Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?” Koran had mentioned before in Herding’s tent that he had ‘business to attend that cannot wait’. Ehan was nearly sure that this had indeed just been a ploy to get Koran out of Herding’s stuffy tent, but still the boy wondered what Koran would do next in the game.

[Arry]

Of the fifteen Orcs left, Gromwakh and And Snikdul were able to ferret out ten of them. It was not that difficult a task. The Orcs were noisy as they crashed through the underbrush; the air was filled with the snapping of dried branches and the curses of those denied their prizes. As it was it took a few whacks of Snikdul’s iron bar to bring a number of them into a listening mode.

A brief discussion ensued. The Orcs snickered when Gromwakh informed them the Captain was now dead and the Elves escaped – freed by those others who had come out of the trees. The hoots and catcalls over the demise of Gâshronk were cut short when they learned the Elves were now hunting them.

‘There was only four of them in the wagon when we left,’ snorted one of the Orcs, leaning on his jagged sword. ‘How many others are there with them?’ Snikdul frowned, counting on his fingers. ‘Three more I think. Can’t be too sure. Me and Grom left in a hurry to find you.’

The eyes of the Orcs narrowed at the small number of Elves, calculating the odds. ‘You know we can’t just head back to the main camp with news that the Captain’s dead and the Elves have taken off,’ said one of the Orcs, voicing that same thought of the others. The rest of the group nodded at this assessment. Old One-eye would kill each and every one of them himself if they brought him that news. ‘I say we just attack the Elves and bring down as many as we can. Cut off their heads . . . we’d at least have something to show on our return.’ The group eyed each other, shifting nervously on their feet.

Gromwakh sighed and shrugged his shoulders; he had no better ideas to offer other than to make a run for it while they could. His companions were grunting for Elf blood now, and snarling, their lips drawn back over their yellowed teeth. He held his cudgel up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Right, then,’ he began. ‘You lot,’ he said, pointing his filet knife at six of the Orcs – circle around to the left. Snik and me and the other four of you will go right.’ The group divided, getting ready to begin the attack.’

‘Hit ‘em hard,’ he called, leading his little group right. ‘Any of us left – we’ll meet back here . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel looked appraisingly at Calenvása. Something had... happened with him over the past few days, and Thorvel was trying to figure out what it was. Thorvel did not like it one bit that Calenvása had let Ambarturion take charge. He did not like Ambarturion particularly; the other Elf had come into their band, assumed charge, and started giving orders as if he had done it all along! Worse yet, Calenvása had let him do it, and that was what truly bothered Thorvel. He trusted Calenvása, but he was beginning to doubt the rightfulness of that trust. Thorvel did not want to be on his own again, but he did what he had to do, and he would not follow a leader he did not trust. That certainly ruled Ambarturion out, and Targil as well. Still, he did not let go of trust lightly or easily, and decided to give Calenvása a few days.

At this point, combat with the Orcs seemed inevitable to him, and though it grated with him somewhat to be doing what Ambarturion had said - or ordered, rather - he took his bow in hand so that he would be ready should the Orcs come upon them at any time soon. Ambarturion would learn soon enough that Thorvel only followed orders if it seemed wise for him to do so, and not always then. That brought to mind the greater scheme of things. The Elves would likely all be travelling together back to Lórien, and even at the greatest possible speeds it would still take a few days. It would be a long few days, if the past hour or two were any indication.

Thorvel became aware of the silence that had stretched over the three Elves - Targil had gone over to the others and was talking to them. Targil looked less wary of Ambarturion than Thorvel felt, but similarly seemed unsure of how to take Coromswyth. Before he could continue with his observations, however, his ears caught the sound of a stick snapping in the surrounding trees. He whirled towards the sound and at the same time fitted an arrow to his bowstring. He had very little doubt of what it was. He saw a flash of black armor gleaming in a patch of sunlight, and loosed his arrow at the point.

“We’re under attack!” he called out, as if it were really necessary; all the Elves had seen his arrow and were instantly ready. Very little mattered to him then; it seemed nothing existed but himself, his bow, and his target. A volley of black feathered arrows came from the trees: both from in front and behind. The Elves with bows returned the shots with their own arrows, and Thorvel was certain he had taken out at least a couple Orcs. He rarely missed. He found himself back-to-back with Calenvása, and the thoughts floated on the periphery of his mind that it was nice to know his back was guarded. The thought floated away, and he concentrated on staying alive and killing Orcs - nothing more.

[Arry]

The Elves were swift in their response, the arrows from their bows flying thickly at the two lines of attack the Orcs had mounted, before and behind their small group. The Orcs had let their own bowmen begin the attack, and under cover of the deadly black arrows, they moved in closer to the Elves.

One of the Elves, in the flurry of first encounter, had been wounded by a black-fletched Orc missile. Gromwakh, Snikdul, and two other of their companions rushed in, clubs and blades held at the ready intending to finish off the hapless Elf. The rut of war was full upon them as they harried him.

And on the edge of their awareness was the sense that the others of their group had put down their bows and raced in also . . .

[Orofaniel]

Once again Herding had thrown himself over his bottle - or should I say bottles-drinking the liquor faster than anyone could guess was even possible. The more he drank, the more distant he became from the world around him. It was only himself, his bottles and his endless swarm of thoughts left now. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible as the liquor affected everything the man tried to do. His walk was a bit unsteady caused by the dizziness, so he stayed seated most of the time, except for when it was time to find a new bottle. He couldn't remember when he'd felt like this before; so utterly confused over his own confusion.

The man grew in rapidly tired of just sitting there with his own thoughts, opening another bottle now and then; he started to wander about in his tent. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time, since he could still keep himself on his feet. He hummed a tune he had known long ago, although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before or if he'd ever hear it again. He wondered where everyone had gone off too, as he longed form someone to accompany him and his lonesome thoughts. Who would want to spend some time whit some drunk Captain, he wondered, and laughed while he pictured the image of himself there he walked around with a glass and a bottle in his hands. Well, he wasn't completely drunk, was he? No, he could still walk without problems, although he felt his legs were somewhat weaker and perhaps not so trustworthy as they usually were, as Herding was a man of stern and steady steps. His mind was not weakened either, he assured himself, as his thoughts were still reasonable and clever.

Koran...

Once again, as every so often, his thoughts turned to the other Southron Captain. Why did Koran always appear in his thoughts, haunting him in his dreams like a disturbed ghost? He wondered. Of course, the annoyance by his present was slightly frustration, he continued, while he sighed. As he seated once again in his chair, he bumped into the table. Another glass, filled with wine, was caught by his clumsy hands as it almost hit the ground. He cursed; there was wine all over him. He found a cloth, trying to wipe it away, but to no use. The Captain’s rage was within reach. He wanted to bring an end to this. He wanted to get Koran out of the way. Then a thought hit him; what if Koran was planning on assassination of him? Koran would most definitely be thinking the same way was himself, wouldn’t? Of course, Captain Cenbryt wasn’t stupid.

The question was; how could Herding get further information about Koran's plans? By talking to Koran of course.

"Get Koran for me!" Herding yelled out from the tent. “Tell the Captain that Captain Herding wishes to speak with him over a nice glass of wine…” Hopefully the Cenbryt would receive Herding’s most gracious ”invitation", although nothing was for certain.