Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[piosenniel]

Rôg’s hands were gripped firmly on the rail. The waters of the bay were choppy, making him feel as if he did not hold on tightly he would be washed overboard. He stumbled a little as the deck lurched, and felt the strong grip of someone’s hands on the back of his arm, steadying him. ‘Careful, Rôg, we would not want to lose you when you are so close to going home.’ It was little Rodhal, a concerned look on his face. Rôg smiled at the boy, stepping away from the rail with him to the passageway below deck.

He had stepped just down to the second step when the ship lurched again. He was thrown against the side of the passageway, staggering to get himself up as well as Rodhal, when a number of Elves came running up the stairs, weapons in hand. ‘What’s happening?’ the boy cried out, shrinking against the wall of the passage. Rôg put his hand out, stopping one of the Elves. Before he could ask his question, the Elf was already starting past him. ‘The Captain has called us on board. The Corsairs are making an attempt to get the palantir from us.’ Rôg took Rodhal down to his cabin and bade him stay there – safe from the happenings above. ‘I’ll send your Uncle down to you if I see him above.’

Rôg ran quickly back to the deck. The Corsair ship had approached near the Elven ship. Luindal had turned the Sea Spirit about and was now parallel with the other. Rôg turned his head up toward the quarterdeck; he could see Elwë and Annû, their faces grim, intent upon the Corsair ship. Others of the Elves had taken positions along the deck, many of them with bows in hand, arrows already nocked. He let his eyes track to the ship opposite them and to the ragged figure that stood wavering on the plank that protruded from it. It was Andtuariel!

‘You should go below,’ one of the crew members said to him. ‘You are not armed. And soon, I think, there will be fighting.’ He pushed the Skinchanger gently but firmly back toward the passageway, then turned away to take up his position. Rôg stood for a few moments in the shadow of the passage, waiting for the Elf’s attention to be turned away from him fully.

‘I don’t have any weapons,’ he murmured to himself as he crept to the opposite side of the ship from where all were focused on the Corsairs. ‘But I can do something to help.’ With those words, he slipped over the side of the ship, dropping toward the waves below. He dove deep beneath the surface, his strong flippers and tail moving him quickly through the water. Soon he was positioned near the Corsair ship, just below the plank. He could see the Elf’s blue cloak fluttering in the breeze above.

‘Andtuariel,’ he barked up to her, trying to catch her attention. ‘Just jump . . .’

[Arry]

The salt water stung his wound intensely. Annû sucked in his breath and eased himself away from the Spirit, swimming with strong strokes toward the Corsair vessel. Elwë followed close behind him. Both of them had stripped down to their breeches and carried a knife and clubs as weapons. A dozen other of the crew had also slipped over the side at Luindal’s request, their own knives, clubs, and swords well secured against the heaving of the waves.

Elwë was the one who had taken the rope the Captain had offered. When all had gathered at the far side of the Corsair ship, Elwë threw the rope with its small grappling hook up toward the long boat that hung from the davit. The curved prongs caught on the rim of the boat, and Elwë climbed up quickly, hand over hand. the others followed suit, clambering into the boat as quietly as they could. Annû was the last one up. He pulled the rope up after him, stowing it in the bottom of the boat.

It was only a short distance from where the boat was suspended to the deck of the ship. With a great yell, the Elves sprang from the cover of the boat, leapt over the ship’s railing, and poured onto the deck, their weapons slashing and bashing with great effect. In the midst of the sudden confusion, Elwë, Annû, and one other Elf made their way toward the plank where Andtuariel was perched . . .

[Regin Hardhammer]

Marreth howled in rage as the Elves spilled onto the deck and began to fight. He quickly glanced at the spot where the female Elf was standing. He felt like tossing her into the Bay. That coward Luindal had broken his word, and Andtuariel should pay the price. But right now he had other things to worry about. The Elf would have to wait until the intruders had been defeated and the Palantari was safe.

"Mates," he yelled out, "Over here!" He beckoned to a several of his men. "Keep the Elves from breaking through to the woman. "The rest of you come with me. Form a cordon to guard the Stone." He set the smaller Stone down on top of a barrell and ordered four of his crew to protect it with their lives. "Keep this safe, and there'll be fine loot in it for each of you."

Then he gestured several more crew members to come to his side. They formed an outer ring around the barrel intent on safeguarding the Stone. Within a few moments everyone was fighting as swords and daggers flashed in the air.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Everywhere loud shouts erupted and the clash of blade on blade as the Elves swarmed over the deck of the Corsair vessel, trying to battle their way to the spot where Andtuariel hung suspended above the water at the end of a narrow plank. With small clusters of fighters engaged in every corner of the ship, Marreth and his men were momentarily too occupied to pay much attention to the Elf who stood shivering and alone, a blindfold covering her eyes. Yes, despite the diversion, there was little she could do to free herself. Unable to see, her arms and legs hobbled, Andtuariel clung to her precarious perch, and cried out with a pitiful voice, beseeching her would-be rescuers to redouble their efforts.

Luindal stood firm at the helm of the Spirit, wrestling with the wheel as he tried to bring the ship close enough for his men to be able to reach the other deck. The boarding party would not be enough to take the Corsair ship. More reinforcements were needed. A line of Lossoth and a few remaining Elves waited impatiently on the Spirit, most perched in the rigging, hoping that their moment of opportunity would come.

For all his years of experience as a sailor and helmsman, Luindal did not have an easy job. The wind had again picked up and blew in great jagged peaks causing both ships to lunge back and forth from one wave to the next. The mast of the Spirit was creeking and groaning under the strain. The makeshift repairs would never hold. The short stump of the main mast did not have the strength to bear the full weight of the sails: even in calm weather they should have limped back to shore. But the sea was not calm, and the weather was becoming grim. The Elf managed to get his ship within several arms's length of the other but it was still too far out for his men to leap onto the other vessel.

Suddenly feeling a stinging senation on his face, Luindal glanced up from the wheel to the sky and saw to his horror that hail was beginning to fall. At first there were only a few balls no larger than a man's fingertip, but they soon grew in size and number. Hundreds of hailballs came pelting down against the sails, ripping them to shreds and slicing into the rigging itself, leaving ropes dangling free. The main mast itself began to sway slightly back and forth under the weight of the blasts.

Jumping back from the helm, and shielding his head from the hail, Luindal grabbed an axe in his other hand and began hacking away at the largest of the ropes, the one that held the mainsail in place. He called out to his crew who were perched in the rigging, "Use your axes and daggers. Cut the ropes. Let the sail swing free. She'll give you a ride to the Corsairs." The crew began hacking away at the few remaining ropes that were still in place.

"She'll turn turtle!" one of the Elves howled.

"No," Luindal cried fiercely as he climbed up onto the mast. "The Spirit will hold true."

With that, and a final blast of wind from the north, the boom swing wildly back and forth, wholly freed from its moorings. The occupants of the rigging clung for dear life. The Spirit lurched ever closer to the pirate ship. With a final creek and a groan, the mast of the Elven vessel snapped in two and the entire assemblage, both sails and spar, swung far leeward and toppled onto the deck of the Corsair ship, carrying Luindal and his men into the thick of the fighting.

As the mast came crashing down, combattants leaped out of its way. But there was one aboard the Corsair vessel who did not leap in time. Andtuariel, the fair Elf, was swept off the plank and plunged downward to the swelling waves.

[Lalwendë]

As the ship drew to a halt, Tarn’s stomach lurched, not with sea-sickness for he was well used to the waves since his days on the whaling boats, but because he knew another battle was coming. He wondered for a moment what was coming over him; he had never been afraid of a fight before. It was the sight of that stone, he knew, that was holding him from wanting to fight. All he wanted to do was to touch the artefact, to find out what was so special about it.

He looked about to see where Marreth may have stowed it, and if he could sneak back down below deck; surely he could look about for it while battle raged? Tarn decided he would go and search fro the stone, but as he moved off, he heard Marreth shouting his threats at the Elves and he saw with dismay that he held the stone.

Tarn’s eyes were fixed upon the Palantir, as were those of several of the sailors; they were seemingly transfixed, and the spell was only broken by the appearance of the captive Elf. All eyes moved towards her as she came slowly forwards in her tattered robe. She stepped onto the plank, vulnerable and fragile. Tarn almost thought for a moment that he would rather have the Elf maiden than the stone, but then this new bewitchment was shattered by the appearance of several furious Elves, armed to the teeth, who came swarming over the side of the ship.

Instinctively, Tarn slipped back into the shadows as far as he could. He saw the Elf who had pummelled him before and grimaced. He would normally have stepped out to face his new sworn foe, but this time he did not want to be seen. He was still in pain, and he knew only too well the fighting skills of this Elf. Tarn needed to use his cunning this time. He found a length of rope and wrapped it around his shoulder; he had an idea of how it might be used, and smiled to himself, pleased that this thought had come to him. Looking inside his coat, he found his knife and checked to see that the blade was filthy before he hid it in the palm of his hand. He was ready for one last fight.

[piosenniel]

The space between the ships was narrowing as The Sea Spirit drew closer to the Corsair vessel. Rôg did not fear that he would be crushed between them where he swam in the small area of water between them; the sides of the ships would touch long before the keels were near enough to cause him problems. He was anxious, though, because the distance between the Elven ship’s side and the plank where Andtuariel stool was becoming critically close.

Again, and in a much louder voice, he urged her to jump. But his words from that distance were hard to hear above the din of the beginning battle. Still, he noted. she had heard something and now glanced down looking to see who had called to her. He pushed himself up as far as he could from the surface of the water and motioned to her with his flipper.

Too late!

He saw her look up and over to where The Spirit drew closer. There was a sudden look of horror on her face as the loud cracking sound that echoed between the ships was quickly followed by the deafening whump as the Elven vessel’s mast crashed to the deck of the Corsair ship. She was frozen in time for a moment, then fell from the plank like a limp rag doll.

Rôg dove deep below the surface of the waves, one eye above to where she might enter the water. Like a leaden weight, her body plunged downward, and, unresisting, was met by his own as he raced upward to bring her to the surface. He moved his body under her floating above the waters surface. He spoke to her, wanting her to take hold of his flipper, so that he might more easily move her to safety, But, there was no response. Desperate, he grabbed her by the neckline of her cloak, and flipping on his back, the main weight of her supported on his underbelly, he swam slowly around the prow of The Spirit to the side of the ship away from the battle.

Rodhal had been watching Rôg from the first, crouched down and peeking over the edge of the deck as he could. He followed the path of the Skinchanger, and seeing the tired fellow trying to keep the Elven maiden afloat, he ran quickly to get his uncle’s help. ‘Down here!’ he cried, tugging Galhardir to the side of the ship by his coat sleeve. ‘He looks tired Uncle and the poor Elf weighs heavily on him. He can barely keep the both of them afloat.’ Galhardir got into the longbot that hung on that side of the ship. Several of the other Lossoth took hold of the ropes and lowered him in a crazy, swinging motion to the water below.

‘Take her!’ Rôg gasped, as Galhardir reached down toward the Elf. ‘Get her out of the water.’ The Elf’s sodden body was pulled as quickly as could be done into the bottom of the boat. Rôg put his hands boat’s edge and hauled himself into it. He was shivering now, his face drawn from the cold, and from the gravity of the situation. Galhardir had taken his own cloak and set it about the man’s shoulders.

‘Nay,’ rasped Rôg, attempting to stand and place the cloak over Andtuariel. ‘She needs it.’ Galhardir pushed the man back down to the seat. ‘Nay, Rôg,’ he said gently, settling the cloak about the huddled figure. ‘She has no need of it now. She has gone where the cold touches her no longer.’ He raised his hand to wave to the Lossoth above, signaling them to raise the boat back to the deck. With great care they bore the Elf’s body to her room and laid her out on her bed, to be seen to later when the press of battle was not upon them.

Rôg, for his part, put his grief at the death of the fair Elven maid aside. There was nothing more he could do for her. But his other companions were now fighting on the Corsair deck. He could still aid them in his own small way. Shaking off the now sodden cloak, he took wing once again as the merlin. Eyes sharp as he circled above the battle, he flew in a tight circle, then darted swiftly down; his beak and talons harrying the Corsairs from above as he could.

[Arry]

In his haste to make his way to where Andtuariel stood on the plank, Annû did not see the man standing in the shadows. But Elwë, a few paces behind him, caught the glimmer of the man’s eyes as they flashed at his friend. The Elf stopped and faced where the Lossoth pressed back, into the darkness. Elwë’s keen eyes narrowed as they picked out the man’s features. This was the one who had tried to beat and injure Annû when the foul Corsairs had tried to invade The Spirit. ‘Come out, you craven worm!’ he challenged the Lossoth. He shook his club at the man, spitting out the words, ‘Face your better, coward!’

-----

Annû’s eyes were on Andtuariel. The Corsairs had turned away from her when the Elves had rushed onto the boat, and now she stood unguarded on the plank. He was almost to the place where the narrow board extended from the ship, when his attention was caught by the loud cracking sound of The Sea Spirit’s mast and the rapid fall of the Elven ship’s spar to the deck of the Corsair vessel. He leapt away from where it crashed and rushed back to help those who had clung to it as it fell up to their feet. They fell upon the Corsairs with a vengeance.

Andtuariel was nowhere to be seen. He could only hope she had somehow gotten to safety. The battled swelled about him, sweeping him up in its ferocity. He wielded his knife and club against the Corsair crew with grim determination, bringing down those whom he could . . .