Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

As the fighting raged all around him, Marreth spent most of his time zealously protecting the Stone. In his earlier plans, he had envisioned the Corsairs launching a surprise attack on the Elven ship, not the other way around. No matter, he would soundly defeat Luindal's war host and then seize their ship along with the massive Stone on board.

Marreth slashed furiously with his sword as the invaders attempted to penetrate the ring of Corsairs surrounding the smaller Palantir. Marreth wished that he could put his treasure someplace safe so that he would not have to focus all his strength protecting it, and his men would be free to fight elsewhere on the ship. He needed to find a secret hiding place for his treasure! Should his worst fears come true and the Elves capture the vessel, they would still not be able to seize the Stone, since they would have no idea where it was. He could simply slip down below and retrieve it and make a hasty exit of his own.

But where could he hide it? He needed to conceal it somewhere that the Elves would never think to search. It was too large to fit inside his seachest, and they would be sure to look in the cargo hold. The place would have to be secluded and dark, but not overly difficult for him to reach in the event that he needed to make a hasty escape.

Then it came to him. With a grin, he reflected, Of course, I should put the Stone in the garbage chute.The Elves will never expect such a powerful weapon to be lying in the middle of moldy potato peels and empty rum jugs. The trash chute was in the corner of the kitchen next to the oven. It was large enough to admit a man and led to a storage hold below the ship in which all the trash collected and which was emptied out into the sea every couple of days by several unlucky crew members.

Marreth told his men to break ranks from their circle and noted that they were now free to chase down intruders in every quarter of the ship. No one questioned his orders. Then he quietly swept the Palantiri under his arm and broke away from the others, alerting no one of his plans. In the heat of battle no one was going to notice him retreating for a minute below deck. Creeping past the sleeping quarters and the mess hall, he reached the kitchen. Marreth's mouth watered at the sight of the goose that he had asked the chef to prepare for the officers’ dinner. It lay half gutted on the food preparation table. But he did not have time to think of eating: he must make sure the Palantir was safe, out of the hands of the Elves or their even more vile Gondorian allies.

His keen eyes scanned the room to ensure that he was not being followed. He had the strangest feeling that a pair of eyes was on him but that was impossible, since there was no place in the kitchen large enough for a man to hide. He thought he heard some rats scuttling about, but that was the only sound other than the distant din of battle.

He pried open the large wooden chute, squeezed downward into the opening with some difficulty, and bumped down the chute, landing on top of the trash heap. The stench was overwhelming. Marreth pinched his nose and scowled as he buried the Stone deep in the pile between a large mound of moldy bread and the remains of last night's fish. Glad that such an unpleasant task was done, his mind more at ease concerning the security of the Palantir, he shimmied back up the chute to the kitchen with renewed confidence. He must not be too proud, however: there was still a battle to be won. Marreth emerged back on deck and renewed his assault against the enemy, twice as terrible as before.

[piosenniel]

From his perch on the Corsair ship’s mast, Rôg, in his merlin form, had watched the battle rage on the deck below. The Elves had the advantage of their surprise attack and were holding their own against the Corsairs. He looked for an opportunity to help out, but the fighting was so fast and furious, he feared he would be more hindrance than help. He did note how a number of the Corsairs had arranged themselves in a defensive circle about the smaller palantir, fending off any attempts of the Elves or their allies to get at it.

Most interesting was Marreth’s reaction to the surprise attack. He was not as composed as usual; and, in fact, he seemed almost frantic. Rôg smiled to himself as he saw the reason why. Marreth was fearful that the stone would be taken! Cocking his head to one side, he watched as the captain slipped the smaller palantir beneath his arm and proceeded to go below deck. The skinchanger followed.

Rôg flattened himself into the shadows of the passageway, his beady eyes watching the retreating figure as it went skulking down the corridor. His whiskers twitched in anticipation, letting the Corsair put a fair distance between them. On silent feet, his nails making barely a whisper against the wood of the floor, Rôg ran along, his rat body racing quietly after the Corsair captain. Several times he stopped, drawing back into the pools of darkness that puddled in the ill lit passage. Past the sleeping quarters they went, the captain and his rodent pursuer. Past the mess hall, then, and into the kitchen.

The plump bodied rodent peeked his thin pointy nose around the entrance to the galley. There, in the corner by the stove, Marreth was kneeling down. To get a better look, Rôg ran to one of the kitchen stools, scrabbled up onto its seat then leapt to the table top. The captain, suspicious it seemed, halted his attempt to pry open some small door where he knelt and looked back over his shoulder. Rôg had seen him pause and had hidden himself in the nearly empty cavity of some poor goose which had been half gutted in preparation for a meal and then abandoned when the Elves had attacked. From the darkness of his little poultry cave, the rat could keep a well concealed eye on the actions of the captain.

There was a delicious smell that wafted up to where Rôg hid from the little passageway which the captain had opened up. Something delightful was down there . . . a whole lot of somethings of exquisite savoriness . . . or so it seemed to his rodent nose. He poked out his head, watching the captain hunker down and crawl into the dark opening. A short while passed, and he could hear Marreth scrabbling back toward the kitchen. Rôg eyed him as he crawled from the passageway and stood up. The knees of his breeches were soiled, and he looked as if his boots were wearing last night’s dinner. A smile a satisfaction was on the captain’s face as he swept by Rôg’s hiding place and out the door.

Rôg leapt from the table top to the floor and made for the garbage chute. In his haste, Marreth had left the door slightly ajar and Rôg squeezed into it and slid, helter skelter, down the sloping track. It was almost too much for his senses when he hit the pile of garbage itself. It was all he could do to keep himself from trying out the tasty buffet now spread before and beneath him. ‘Work to be done!’ he chided himself and went poking his nose about in the various sectors of the crew’s leavings. And there, wedged in nicely between a lovely mound of well aged bread and some fragrant bits of fish, he found his prize. Not far from it was a sodden flour sack the cook had discarded for being too filthy and ragged, he supposed. Rôg’s sharp teeth fetched it, and his little rat paws secured the sack about the stone. Then he went exploring for the hatchway that should open to the outside, where the men on garbage duty would shovel out the fermenting goo.

Holding his breath, Rôg changed back to a man for a few brief seconds, scooped up the sack with its prize tied securely inside, and made for the outward passage. His eyes were burning from the fumes and reek as he hit the icy water of the bay. Once more his seal shape grasped the sack and made for the Elven ship.

‘Hey!’ he shouted up to any one who could hear him when he reached the far side of The Spirit. ‘Let down one of the little boats; I’ve something for the captain!’

[Lalwendë]

Tarn held his knife close to the Elf’s throat. He could feel a cold, clammy trickle of sweat running down the throat of his captive, and he tightened his grip as he felt his arm slipping. The filthy blade was close to the Elf’s skin, so close that he could cut that throat at any moment, should he choose to do so. But Galhardir stood before him with the oar, looking at him with murderous intent.

He didn’t want that thing to hit him again. The stitched wound on his ear had reopened and he could feel the blood trickling down the side of his neck; stars flashed before his eyes and he struggled to stay focussed.

“Let him go!” the younger man shouted at him. Tarn’s attention suddenly snapped back into place as he heard the words. Galhardir, shouting at him? Tarn remembered the days when he was a youth, desperate for a home and food, and he had been caught stealing by Galhardir’s father; he had never forgotten the boy, not much younger than him, running out with excitement to see his father punish the thief.

“You’re in no position to demand anything,” Tarn snapped, knowing that this time, he had the upper hand against Galhardir. Feeling the Elf wilting in his grip, Tarn issued an ultimatum. “Now, I’ll give you two seconds; drop your oar or the Elf dies.”

Galhardir dropped the oar, unable to do anything other than what Tarn told him. The Elf begged him not to, too late. Now Tarn was fully in control. He edged towards the oar and kicked it away. It fell with a clatter down into the hold where Galhardir could not reach it. With a glimmer in his eyes, Tarn nudged the Elf forwards; he moved meekly, held under his fear of the foul blade. The other man’s eyes grew wide in panic, as Tarn and his hostage came closer.

“I am no fool,” said Tarn, his voice strong and calm. “I know that if I so much as turn you will knock me down or jump on my back.” He felt the Elf trembling as though he was willing Galhardir to do just that. “You are the fool. If you hadn’t interfered then you would have been free. As it is, I’m afraid you will have to do as I say, or your friend here will die in a pool of his own blood”.

Thinking quickly, Tarn moved closer to Galhardir. It satisfied him to see the boy who had been so pleased to watch his punishment to now be shaking with fear and uncertainty. Tarn was filled with hatred for the man. He had all those things which Tarn had wanted, family and comfort, all the things which he had been forced to replace with greed and hatred. He wasn’t going to let this man prevent him from taking this Elf hostage. He had plans.

Tarn motioned to the hold. “You can get down there,” he said through clenched teeth. “You can get in there and you can stay there. You can sit in the dark, all alone like I used to do.”

Galhardir edged towards the hole in the deck, not taking his eyes off Tarn for a moment. If this was what he had to do to keep his friend alive, then he would do it, but he hoped there was some way he could get out of there; he couldn’t just leave Annu to Tarn’s whims. The hold was dark, and there were no steps leading up to the hatch. Galhardir crouched down, and lowered himself over the side, dropping out of sight.

Tarn immediately kicked the cover over the open hatch, and moving awkwardly to one side, he reached for a heavy barrel, and attempted to drag it over the deck towards him. He wanted to push the barrel over the hatch, to make sure Galhardir did not get out again. He had just remembered where he had kicked that oar. As he reached out with one arm, the other gripped even tighter about his captive’s neck, he heard a quiet yet anguished noise come from the Elf.

“The mist,” was what he said. Tarn stopped what he was doing, struck by these words. He looked about him for a moment, expecting to see a bank of sea fog rolling in, but he realised it was something only the Elf could see. His body grew limp, and Tarn realised with horror that he was about to die. Confused thoughts raced through Tarn’s mind. He ought to have felt pleased, but he did not. It was as though the grief of the Elf was dragging his own spirit along, as though where the Elf was now going, Tarn was going to come there too. He felt a sudden void open in the pit of his stomach, and tears started to prick his deep blue eyes. With horror, he pulled the knife away from the Elf’s throat, and dropped his ailing body to the deck.

Backing away as quickly as he could, his eyes wide with terror, Tarn clutched at his chest and sat down, gasping for air.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The door to Luindal's cabin had been shut tight. Inside, three figures were huddled about a small table quietly talking: Rôg, Alakhseey, and the Captain himself. The Palantir that Rôg had extracted from the garbage now sat between them in the middle of the table.

Luindal absently traced a finger over the smooth surface of the globe and then withdrew it hastily when he realized what he was doing. Unlike the larger Stone, this one was clean and shiny, free of mud and all debris, with an oddly inviting aura about it. Luindal sighed and shook his head, glancing over at his friend who was again in human form.

Luindal and the crew had ignored Rôg's earlier plea for a boat. Instead, they had fished him out of the icy Bay in seal form, hoisting him onto the deck in a heavy net, since that had seemed the fastest way to accomplish what they wanted to do. The fact that Rôg was still emitting a strong stench from his escapade in the garbage may also have played a part in their decision to use the net. The first thing Rôg noticed once he stood on deck was how quiet everything was. Given the extreme noise and hubub of battle on the Corsair ship, things here almost seemed in slow motion. Luindal had stopped to thank Rôg for the Stone and then led his friend below deck, offering him a bar of soap, a wash basin and a change of clothes. Now, several minutes later, the Shapechanger sat next to the Captain and Alakhseey calmly discussing what was happening on the other ship.

Luindal had been vastly relieved to see his friend. The Elf had been restlessly pacing the deck for some time, eager to get involved in the fighting but feeling compelled to remain behind to guard the larger Stone. There had been too many earlier surprise attacks for him to assume that the Corsair captain would stay in one spot. There was always the possibility that Marreth would break off with a small band and make his way over, intent on retrieving the Stone of Amon Sul. Despite his impatience, Luindal had remained behind with a small hand-picked group, making sure that both Stone and ship stayed safe.

The conversation had been going on for some time when Luindal abruptly stood up and went over to retrieve his sword, slipping it back in its sheathe. "Let's go. We need to get back."

"We?," questioned Rôg. "I thought you needed to stay here?"

Luindal shook his head impatiently, "There's no need for me to be here. Alakhseey can be in charge of those guarding the ship. Anyways, Marreth's not going anywhere until he retrieves that smaller Stone. He certainly wouldn't leave his ship without it. And that means we know just where to find him."

"Rôg," Luindal continued, "I'll need your help to throw down a rope so I can shimmy up and get onto the vessel. And once we're there, I want you to take me straight to the garbage room. I intend to sit there and wait for our friend. I have a feeling he'll be coming back quite soon. He won't be able to resist. If Marreth was defeated and captured, the rest of his crew would not last long."

With that, Luindal strode out of the room to go back on deck, the other two trailing along behind him. The one thing the Elf was certain of was that it would not be very long before Marreth felt compelled to go down to the garbage chute to check on the safety of the Stone. He himself had felt an odd compulsion when he had touched the globe. That "odd compulsion" would be even more likely to affect a Corsair who would have no idea about the power of such ancient and wonderous artifacts.

[Arry]

. . . missed . . . he murmured, the last breath trailing out softly from his lips.

The pain was gone. And the darkness that had pushed in from the corners of his eyes fled, dissipated like some mist at the sun’s rise.

There on the white sands, made whiter by the green countryside stretching far behind it, was the welcoming tower, the solemn song of a silver harp winding down from a high window. Behind, the curtain of golden rain closed again on the outer seas . . . some sad, imperfect dream, now sundered from him.

‘Come, little brother!’ Carandû’s hand reached out to him, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘I’ve missed you . . .’

[piosenniel]

Well, let’s hope the Corsair captain hasn’t already gone to check on the stone! thought Rôg. He’ll know it’s gone with one look into the garbage chute, since I left the door open where the hold is cleaned out. While the captain was giving some final instruction to the crew that remained on The Spirit, Rôg ran to find some suitable length of rope with which Luindal could climb up to the ship’s midden. On his way back to the small boat, he spied a thick glass float, the sort the crew used to float their nets when they were fishing. On impulse, he picked it up.

The small boat was lowered into the water from the Elven ship, out of sight of those on the Corsair vessel. With quick strong strokes, Rôg and Luindal made their way to the enemy ship, stopping just below the exit to the garbage chute. The Skinchanger looked up at the gaping hatchway; even a rat could not run up the side of the ship to it. He changed to a gull and grasping the end of the strong, slender rope flew up to the entryway and went in. It would be a tight fit, he thought, eyeing the width of the hole, but he was sure that with a little pulling on his part the skinny Elf could slide right in.

Once inside, he changed back to his man form, gagging at the reek, and secured the end of the rope to one of the posts that stood on either side of the opening. He looked down to where Luindal waited in the boat and motioned for him to come up. The captain had tied a rag about his nose and mouth, hoping to filter out some of the noxious smell he noted. Doubt it’ll work! he thought to himself, grasping Luindal’s arm and sliding him head first into the dark, malodorous space. In the space of a few minutes, Rôg had taken the glass float from Luindal and buried it where Marreth had placed the palantir. A hiding place had been found for the captain, where he had a good view of anyone coming down the chute to the garbage hold. Sword in hand, Luindal waited for the Corsair captain.

Rôg, for his part, took on his rat form and sat contentedly on a pile of fermenting peelings. ‘Tasty!’ he murmured appreciatively, taking up one to munch on as they waited.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Returning to the main deck, Marreth had again found himself swept up in the fighting. On all sides, he could see signs of how hard the struggle had been. There were bodies of Elves, Lossoth, and Corsairs tossed about: he could not even fight without having to step over or push aside the corpses of intruders or those of his own crew. Many of the combattants from both sides continued to battle on despite their grievous wounds.

Marreth himself had a cut across his upper arm. He had ripped off a strip of cloth from his shirt and had one of his comrades bind it tightly about his forearm to try and staunch the bleeding. The makeshift bandage had slowed the flow of blood, but not before he had lost a considerable amount. His head felt as if it was swimming, but he fought hard to keep his wits and willed his body to fight on. Still, things did not seem to be turning out the way he had intended. Despite the large number of intruders the Corsairs had killed or wounded, the odds seemed to be tipping slowly in favor of the Elves, a fact that Marreth hated to admit.

Nor was the loss of blood the only reason the Corsair's mind kept wandering. Marreth found himself thinking about the precious Stone he had hidden in the garbage hold and wondering if it was still all right. He should stay and rally his men to a counterattack, yet he couldn't seem to get the image of the Palantir out of his head. Then the thought struck him. The Stone was an artifact of great power. He had read in the old scrolls that it could be used to communicate over long distances. But perhaps the thing had other hidden powers....perhaps even powers similar to those of the great Ring from the last war. Perhaps these were powers that the Elves kept to themselves so no one else would even suspect the hidden secret of the Stones. No wonder Luindal was so doggedly anxious to get it back! For all he knew, that dratted Elf leader had called upon the other Stone to launch a counterattack against his ship, and that was why they were losing.

Suddenly, the whole thing made perfect sense to Marreth. He must go down and have a look at the Palantir again. If it was a great and mysterious weapon, then he might be able to find a way to unleash its power. He would be able to sweep the intruders from the deck of his ship and turn his attack on the Spirit. Quickly he slipped away from the battle and retreated to the small ladder that led down into the hold, intent on getting back to the Stone as quickly as he could.