Prisoner of Númenor Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

The purpose of the story is: To find and rescue Abârpânaru, to escort the Anannost safely to Elendil’s ship, to escape the Akallabêth.

This means we will know the story is over when: The Anannost are safe and Númenor is drowned.

Starting Location: Andunië

Likely Destination: The Great Ocean, post-wave.

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Timeframes:

This game takes place in the autumn of the year 3319 SA

The storyline itself or plot covers approximately 6 weeks.

This game requires a time commitment of 12 weeks from the moderator, game owner, and major players.

[piosenniel]

Sophia the Thunder Mistress' character

NAME: Kâthaanî Karíbzîr/ “Cerveth” Adaneth Melethroch

AGE: 32

RACE: Men, Númenorean

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Kâthaanî carries a long bladed (rather dull) knife with a tarnished silver hilt which she uses more frequently as a sort of all purpose tool than a weapon. She has been known to use it to pry open simple locks.

APPEARANCE: Cerveth is tall (about 6’2”) and more lean than slender. She is long-bodied and narrow, not muscular and slightly wider at the shoulders than the hips. She is dark of hair and grey of eye with a long nose and a well-defined jaw for a woman. She is quite clever with her hands and can manipulate various contraptions easily (locks, tack) She is somewhat ill at ease in the elaborate costumes of the Númenorean upperclass women feeling far more comfortable in simple dresses and with her hair pulled loosely out of her face, and will frequently wears men’s clothes when she needs to ride astride.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Kâthaanî is impulsive, stubborn, and easily carried away—but rarely blatantly disobedient. She has a tendency to speak first and think about the consequences later, but as she matures she has begun to learn to control her tongue. She has a concrete sense of right and wrong; she has lived in a fairly sheltered world (even with the turmoil in Númenor) and has rarely encountered a situation where the moral choice is not instantly clear. She has never gotten along well with young women of her age, and consequently has spent much of her time with adults since her early teens. Because of this Kâthaanî considers herself extremely mature, whether or not her belief is correct is a different matter entirely.

HISTORY: Kâthaanî Karíbzîr was born the only child of Abârpânaru Karíbzîr and his wife, Inzillomí, in midsummer of the year 3287. Often called Cerveth, after the month of her birth, she spent her childhood years in a large house on the inland side of Andunië. She sometimes envied those who lived nearer the coast, but their house was ideally situated for her father’s horse breeding, opening as it did on the plains. Her childhood was as uneventful and sheltered as possible, given the circumstances in her homeland. The inner conflict in Númenorean society was almost unknown to her, even though her parents were among the Faithful, as they chose not to discuss it with her until she had reached a responsible age. Nevertheless, the values they taught her were the values of the Old Houses of Númenor. She is well read, her father studied with her as a child and during her youth she became familiar with much of the history of Númenor and some First Age history which has been preserved by the Faithful. She is one of the few Númenoreans of her generation to become fluent in Sindarin and has learned some words in Quenya as well.

Her father began training her in the care of his horses, and particularly the Kariborim as soon as she was old enough, and by her early teens she was an accomplished horsewoman with a sound understanding of her charges and several generations of the most important bloodlines memorized.

As Kâthaanî matured she began to realize that her parents’ views did not reflect the views of much of Númenorean society and she quickly became as ardently Faithful as the rest of her family. In her early twenties her family relocated to a smaller more modest house farther outside the city which quickly became the focal point for the group of the Faithful remaining in Andunië (the Anannost?).

At the turn of the year 3319 Kâthaanî is taking more responsibility for Abârpânaru’s horses as he is taking more responsibility for the family’s political commitments. He has recently returned from a trip to Rómenna and announced that Elendil, the son of Amandil, will soon be leaving Númenor for the Elven Realms in Lindon. Kâthaanî is a little frightened by this news, as her father has every intention of leading the Anannost? to Rómenna to join the soon-to-be-Exiles as soon as possible. She is also disappointed because her father had promised her the foal from his planned breeding of Khibil and Lômi, and it is unlikely that he will follow through with the breeding this spring if they will soon be traveling.

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Sophia the Thunder Mistress'/littlemanpoet's post ------ FIRST FOR GAME

A heavy, grey sky hung over the capital city of Westernesse. Rain had fallen for the last three days and the air was thick with moisture. The white walls of Arminalêth shone dully in the semidarkness and the late Ivanneth trees clung stubbornly to their last brown leaves. The land trembled; the island had shifted several times in the recent past, and now she gave another quick heave as though irritated by the tall Men who walked on her shores. As the ground quieted the skies stirred, and the boiling grey clouds which hovered over Armenelos began to drop hail. A dark haired woman looked up at the sky as pea-sized bits of ice began to bounce off the ground around her feet. She grabbed the hands of two small children and ushered them inside. As the door closed loudly behind them the hail began to fall in earnest, egg sized hailstones hammering on the rooftops of the unnaturally quiet city. As the hailstorm passed, the grey clouds blew east on a brisk wind and a billowy white cloud shaped like a great eagle cast its shadow across the land.

Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and Kâthaanî, his daughter and only child, rode along the southern faces of the fir and larch covered moors of Forostar. They could afford to ride as fast as the wind, with seven Kariborim between them. Abâr was afraid that word of their route had reached the King's Men. Abârpânarú was riding night-black Lômi while Kâthaanî rode chestnut Izri, the youngest foal of Khibil and Kali, who with their other foals, Nitirú, Rûki, and Mani galloped close at hand.

Word had reached them before they left home, that the King's Men were looking for Abârpânarú as a traitor to the King. It was true enough, if being one of the Faithful amounted to betrayal. The Forostar, the least fertile of the Númenorean regions, was least populous, and Abârpânarú had deemed it the way that would give them most shelter from the eyes of the King's Men. The ground was stony, which would give greater difficulty to other horsemen, but not the sure-footed Kariborim.

Suddenly the land dropped and the air cooled, and they came among fertile fields of grain, which were the beginning of the Orrostar. They rounded a final hill and must stop of a sudden. They were faced by twenty horsemen.

"You may go no further, traitor!" called one man whose black helm rose taller than the others.

"Go back, Kâthaanî! Make haste!" Kâthaanî obeyed immediately, calling the barebacked Kariborim as she turned her mount and charged back around the hill. Khibil, Abârpânarú's usual mount, did not follow. Abârpânarú hollered and slapped Khibil's rump and sent him chasing after the others.

"Do not let them get away!" cried the leader of the King's Men.

"You have me! Let them go!" Abârpânarú bellowed. The ears of the horses of the King's Men laid back, such was the force of his voice. He took the eyes of their leader and held them. The two strove, and at last the leader gave way.

"We have our quarry."

Abârpânarú dismounted from Lômi. "Go find Kâthaanî." Lômi stood next to Abârpânarú, unmoving. He looked in Lômi's deep brown eyes. "Go!" he whispered. She breathed on his neck, looking straight into his eyes. "They will do you harm!" She nickered. He sighed. "May I prove worthy of your love, dear one."

Kâthaanî paused on the far side of the hill. The clatter of hard hooves in the stones fell to silence all around her as five of the Kariborim joined Izri in the dell behind the hill. Five. Lômi, then, had remained with her father; though whether she was kept by her own will or Abârpânarú’s, or by some design of his captors, Kâthaanî could not tell. Dismounting quickly from Izri, she left the horses and crept down through the brush and boulders to where she could see the road.

Cursing herself inwardly for her clumsiness, she stood behind a cluster of fir and looked out toward the place where her father had been taken. As she caught sight of the men gathered on the road below, Kâthaanî breathed a sigh of relief. She realized they were yet far enough away that her pitiful attempts at stealth would not have been heard, and cloaked in brown as she was, she judged herself unlikely to be seen. She watched as Abârpânarú’s hands were bound roughly behind him and Lômi’s reins were tied to the saddle of one of the waiting horses. The riders remounted, and the column moved along the road. South, toward Armenelos. Kâthaanî watched, unmoving, until the horses disappeared into the plains.

Turning back to where she had left the Kariborim, Kâthaanî ran to them, tying her dark hair into a tighter knot on her neck and pinning her cloak more securely. She paused as she reached the horses, the tension in their bodies evident. She kissed Izri’s soft nose before turning to Nitirú, the swiftest among them. “You must bear me now, friend; and we will run more swiftly than ever we have run before.” Although she knew that she would never find help in time to rescue her father before they reached Arandor and the Royal City, there was nothing else for her to do.

Upon mounting, Kâthaanî headed down out of the foothills toward the road. Once they reached the open lands of Andustar she could take to the fields, but for now great speed required great risk and they ran on the open road. Nitirú’s feet struck sparks from the gravel as the dark haired girl and the iron grey horse flew toward Andunië, the other five trailing behind them like so many leaves in the wind.

[piosenniel]

littlemanpoet's character

NAME: Abârpânarú Karíbzîr - Strong Handed Man Lover of Horses; Mabalar Melethroch

AGE: 112

RACE: Numenorean

GENDER: male

WEAPONS : Bow that is an heirloom of his house, handed down to the eldest child; bears the stylized, rampant horse of Karíbzîr heraldry, black on white; the bow is white with silver filigree after the manner of leaves on vines. Kept on his person, a knife, quarter of a ranga in length, same filigree, also an heirloom. Straight, with a silver hilt. Its blade is straight and slender but strong.

APPEARANCE: 6 feet, 8 inches (not so tall for a Numenorean, I guess...) Raven black hair, clear face, long nose but not too long. Not too full lips. High cheek bones. Lean but not thin. Grey eyes. His war and hunting weapon is the bow. He keeps a long knife with him, an ancestral one with a silver hilt. Its blade is straight and slender but strong.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Abârpânarú is a great lover of horses, as are all of his household. He is one of the Faithful, and most loyal to his kin, then friends. He is aware of the hope of the Elendili to take flight by ship to the shores of Middle Earth in case of the uttermost failure of Numenor. He is clever of mind and tongue, learned, and counted wise by those who know him well; except for one folly: the Kariborim (known in later years as mearas). There are six: two stallions, Khibil (spring) and Nitirú (kindler); and four mares, Kali (woman), Izri (beloved), Lômi (night), and Mani (spirit). It is said of Abârpânarú that they are both his strength and his weakness. He loves them dearly and his commitment to their care and removal from the island is at war with his loyalties to kin, friends, and the Faithful. He would that all goes well, but would find it difficult to choose between kin and the kariborim; harder yet to choose between them and friends. He also keeps forty karibi, stock from Middle Earth, and loves them well, but not as dearly as his kariborim.

HISTORY: Born in 3207, Abârpânarú was the eldest son of Adúnzâirû (west-longing). He has a younger sister, Ziraphel (beloved daughter) born in 3222, who is married to one of the Faithful; Abârpânarú and Inzillomi have one daughter, Kâthâani. Abârpânarú considers his daughter the rightful heiress to all he owns, and remembers the sorrows that have befallen the House of Elros, not least because the rights of first born daughters have been forgotten. He has sworn an oath to his wife and daughter that it would not be so in the House of Karibizir.

Abârpânarú was trained in the care of his family's kariborim, and has trained his daughter in their care. Legend would later have it among the Rohirrim that Béma (Oromë) brought them from west over sea, and so it may be; but this line of mearas, or kariborim, were a gift to the Dúnedain from the Elves of Tol Erresëa, and the house of Karíbzîr was the only one in Numenor who still kept them. In the year 3279 he married Inzillomí Elendili (flower of the night), daughter of Elendil, and named for her full head of raven hair at birth, one of the Faithful, of the house of Elendil.

It is his deepest desire that his seven kariborim should be on board to make the trip. Since Ar Pharazon has left, he has been working ceaselessly to move his kariborim from Andunié in the west, to Romenna in the east, without raising suspicion. He and his daughter Kâthâani have been riding them across the island, to deliver them to his wife's family in Romenna so that they may be taken aboard ship. The King's Men, a dozen in number, confront them, and are bent on taking them captive for treason. Abârpânarú knows that Kâthâani has a palantir in her keeping, in the saddlebag of one of the kariborim. He places himself at the mercy of the King's Men, and sends his daughter and the kariborim away.... but Lomi, his mount, will not leave him. He convinces them not to capture his daughter, and the palantir is kept safe. Both are captured and brought back to Armenelos, imprisoned. His bow is taken from him. He wants it back, but it is not nearly as important to him as the kariborim, or the palantir.

[piosenniel]

TomBrady12's character

NAME: Marsillion Thoronfaer/Nimilroth Narâkmanô

AGE: 52

RACE: Human/Númenorean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Ziraphel, the mother of Marsillion, presented him with the sword of his father on the eve of his departure for Middle Earth. It was originally intended as a marriage present, but Ziraphel deemed Marsillion's situation dangerous, and felt that he may need to carry a sturdy blade on his person. His mother's forethought proved very useful, as Marsillion used the sword on many occasions. The blade is 33 inches in length, and 2 2/3 inches wide. Its long handle is of a dark brown wood, and intended for two handed use. The guard is short, and of polished silver, as is the crown shaped pommel, the most prominent feature of the sword. This weapon is wielded in similar fashion to an axe. Its wide heavy blade, and two handed design make it an ideal hacking weapon. Marsillion is very adept with the sword as he has participated in a number of skirmishes and small battles, most of which against attacking bandits on the wild roads of Middle Earth.

Marsillion has some skill with a bow; however, he prefers to fight with the sword, and leave the bow for hunting. Marsillion also carries a long dagger inside his boot at all times. He has done so since he was given the blade before his first hunting trip as a young boy.

APPEARANCE: Average height for a Númenorean, Marsillion stands 6'6'' and is of a muscular, heavy build. He is by all means a physical presence. He is stronger than most men his age. His wide shoulders and strong arms contrast slightly with his lingering boyish features. His shoulder length hair is dark blond and wispy, even in light breezes. He is very fair skinned, with a dark brow, and no facial hair covering his strong jawline.

PERSONALITY: Marsillion is still young, and at times suffers lapses of judgment, but is, at his core, kind hearted and generous. He tends to be quiet and reflective, usually content to watch as others bicker and squabble around him, but once inspired to action he can be quite fiery. He is not above taking the counsel of older, wiser souls, but can make quick decisions when situations require it. He is well educated, and quick witted. His years traversing Middle Earth have made him mature beyond his years.

HISTORY: Marsillion was born in 3267 at his family home in Andunië. He was the second and youngest child of Azaruth Narâkmanô and Ziraphel Karíbzîr. His sister, Nîlomîth, was much older than he, and married when he was just a young boy. His father was a renowned naval officer, who through a series of military victories, achieved a nearly iconic status. Ziraphel, the sister of Abârpânaru, was a member of the Faithful, and worked tirelessly to convince Azaruth to retire from the King’s service and join the Faithful. She was a convincing speaker, and her reasoning soon changed Azaruth's loyalties. Marsillion endeavored to be like his father in all ways, and planned to follow his path into the military. Azaruth; however, forbade Marsillion to join the military, stating that fighting for the King was no longer an honorable profession. Azaruth became a prominent leader of the Faithful. He found his fame a curse as well as a blessing, though he was able to convince many people to join the faithful he often found it extremely difficult to keep any secrecy in his life. Ar-Pharazôn got wind of Azaruth's betrayal and sent troops to arrest him in the fall of 3305. When the troops arrived Azaruth and Marsillion were relaxing in the garden outside their Andunië home discussing Marsillion's future, as he would soon be a man. Ar-Pharazôn’s men broke into the home and came upon the two in the garden. They seized Azaruth, and commanded Marsillion to vow fealty to the King, or be arrested. Azaruth, knowing he would be killed, ordered Marsillion to swear the oath to Ar-Pharazôn, and tearfully Marsillion obeyed. Azaruth was beaten in front of friends and family in Andunië before being taken to Armenelos. He was sacrificed to Melkor in the temple of Armenelos on the coldest afternoon of the winter of 3305.

In 3312, at 45, Marsillion became apprentice to Sâpathan Gimilzayân, the head tax and tribute collector of the Númenorean holdings in Middle Earth. Marsillion traveled Middle Earth, from petty kingdom to kingdom, with Sâpathan, collecting treasures beyond his imagination to be shipped back to Númenor. He saw the strain the people of Middle Earth were under, and it went to his heart. It was his job to weasel all the treasures he could from people who fought everyday just to feed their families. Already angry and bitter with Ar-Pharazôn for the murder of his father, Marsillion's rage was fueled as he witnessed the intense greed of his own people.

While traveling, his party was attacked on many occasions by bandits, as well as by local militias. Marsillion found fighting to be a good release for his pent up anger. These attacks, helped make him a strong warrior, even though he was technically not supposed to participate in battle. Marsillion befriended the company of warriors who served as his bodyguard, and with their help he became a master swordsman. His swordsmanship was the only positive gain Marsillion saw from his time in Middle Earth; however, in truth he gained maturity, compassion, and mercy, which were lessons he probably would have learned slowly, or missed completely, had he stayed in Númenor. Tax collector was no position for a compassionate man, and Marsillion did not last long. Being under contract, he could not quit his job, so by night, in the summer of 3317, he came to Umbar and hired a private merchant to sail him back to Númenor. With luck, the ship (the Azargimil) avoided the King's Navy and arrived off the coast a few miles north of Andunië. Marsillion loaded his possessions into a small raft and came ashore alone under the cover of darkness. Travelling secretly and using the name Abârkan, he came at last to his uncle, Abârpânaru Karíbzîr's home outside Andunië, where his mother had dwelt since the death of his father.

Marsillion lived secretly in Andunië with the Karíbzîr family learning the ways of the Faithful, and becoming deeply imbedded in their plans. He grew quite close to his younger cousin Kâthaanî, and became her protector, so to speak. Marsillion found her reckless, and quite frequently in need of protection. He made it his task to look after her safety and well being, and from his arrival in early winter 3317, through the summer of 3319 he spent many hours bailing her out of the trouble she so easily found.

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TomBrady12's post

Marsillion sat quietly in a dark corner of an obscure Andunië inn sipping a pint of ale. The ale was poor, but that was the least of his trouble. He'd come to meet his cousin, Nusaphad Narâkmanô, who had summoned him here the night before. Nusaphad was fairly unskilled, had no taste for books or learning, nor for any serious forms of work. Luckily for him, he was born into a wealthy family, and had overachieving brothers to carry on the pride of his father. Nusaphad ran an Andunië inn belonging to his father as a pretense of work, but most who knew him knew that he consumed more ale then he sold. Marsillion, clever as he was, managed to find a use even for his lazy cousin.

Nusaphad's Inn, The Tîrevia, was a favorite gathering spot for the King's Men garrisoned in and around Andunië, and after a few pints of ale they were often more than willing to pull a slovenly underachiever into their confidence. Through Nusaphad, who was not a member of the faithful, Marsillion gained much information on the plans and movements of the King's Men.

When his older cousin at last slid into the semi dilapidated inn, Marsillion couldn't help but notice how little resemblance there was between them. Nusaphad's olive skin and thick black beard were a stark contrast to Marsillion's fair skin and clean face. Nusaphad took a seat across the table from Marsillion without a word.

“What then, cousin, have you called me here for?” Marsillion asked gingerly. News from Nusaphad was rarely good.

“Breakfast with an old friend not enough of a lure?” Nusaphad replied, with a sarcastic grin spreading across his bearded face.

“Aye,” Marsillion perked up, “the food in this dank hole is far from good, but I suspect it's a mite bit better than whatever news you've brought for me.”

“True enough,” Nusaphad said, the grin disappearing from his face. The smiling eyes that normally defined the otherwise drab man were devoid of light and rimmed in red. Dark matters he left to others when possible, preferring women and drink to matters of business. Marsillion could see that the role of spy was taking its toll on his cousin.

Nusaphad ordered a fresh pitcher of ale and waited for the waitress to leave. “The news is indeed worse than this ale, Nimilroth, a good deal worse in truth. Your mother's brother is in grave danger. The King's Men mean to arrest him on charges of treason,” Nusaphad said quietly, even though the inn was deserted except for the young waitress.

“Is that all you have for me cousin?” Marsillion asked, stretching his arms above his head and slowly getting to his feet. “Perhaps your ale has lost its potency, for we have known this for a fortnight. Besides, what proof is there? A serious charge requires serious proof.”

“Sit down Nimilroth,” Nusaphad replied with pity in his voice. “My ale is potent enough, and I've not told you all that I have brought you here for.” Marsillion sat down and stared hard into his cousin's unblinking eyes.

“Go on then,” was all he could say.

“The King's men have been watching your uncle for sometime and saw him and his daughter leave Andunië with his prized horses days ago. They know not only his destination, but also his intended route. A company of the King's Men lie in wait as we speak near the junction of Forostar and Orrostar. Your uncle is walking into a trap. And as for proof, it seems to me that Ar-Pharazôn needs none these days but that which his own mind can conjure.”

“Why have you not spoken of this before?” Marsillion demanded, the anger in his voice shattering the silence of the inn.

“I knew not until late in the evening,” Nusaphad said sheepishly, seemingly afraid of the strong armed young man he'd known for so long. “If I'd have ridden out myself to tell you we may both have been discovered.”

“I must go,” Marsillion nearly shouted as he jumped to his feet. He rushed to the door, knocking over a mug of beer on the way.

“You're gonna have to pay for that, mister!” the waitress shouted after him, but the words were meaningless in his ears. He had been there when his father was seized by the King years before. He had to get to Kâthaanî before it was too late. He could not allow her to undergo the same fate as he. The only sound to reach his ears was the beating rhythm of his young mare’s galloping footfalls, moving rapidly down the dirt street, into the east.

[piosenniel]

Regin Hardhammer's character

Name: Azarmanô Hazadbawîba/Elenfairë Ostovaivar

Race: Man/Númenorean

Gender: Male

Age: 85

Weapons: Azarmanô carries a longbow of the same type traditionally used in the Númenorean army. It is made of hollow-cored black steel with black-feathered arrows a full ell (45 inches) long. His great-grandfather was given this longbow for service to the King many years ago in a brighter time. Azarmanô has grown to be an excellent marksman, primarily using it to bring down game, but also in defending his ship against attack while on long sea voyages.

Appearance: Azarmanô stands firm at 6 foot 5 with shoulder length blonde hair that is the color of straw. His eyes shine with a vivid, scintillating blue.“Like sun, sparkling upon the face of the deep sea,” his father has often told him. He is slender, like his mother, and very well groomed. He often wears his favorite green wool cloak while sailing to repel water and offer protection against the buffeting winds.

Personality: Often with a smile on his face, Azarmanô generally takes a positive outlook on life, sometimes using his comic wit to get him through difficult situations. He is an excellent officer, aware of his men’s needs, striving to treat them in a just and equitable manner. Azarmanô is very much in love with his young wife and cares deeply for his son. He is aware of the need to balance his role as a ship’s captain with that of being a husband and father, and generally does a good job of this. His drive and determination coupled with his optimism and commitment to his loved ones define his personality and his basic view of life.

He is, however, very direct and can get impatient to finish the task at hand quickly and may become irritable. This impatience is currently exacerbated by the fact that his family is waiting to board the ship and sail, and he is separated from them.

History: Azarmanô comes from an ancient family, whose members originally worked as fishermen. Their knowledge of boats and the sea led them to become mariners, initially in the employ of the king. They had been one of the families that the Eldar had instructed in the art of navigation and deep sea voyaging. The Ostovaivars eventually rose to become independent shipwrights and ship-owners, but maintained close friendships with many of the Elven traders until the change of policies made such relations impossible. The Ostovaivars’ shipping interests continue to flourish. The family now commands one of the largest fleets in Númenor.

Azarmanô had been trained as an officer and was promoted to become the captain of his own vessel, the Gwaun, while still quite young. Over the years, he visited many settlements on Middle Earth, transporting Numenoreans and dealing various commodities with the local people. He strove to treat the locals with respect and compassion, offering them fair prices to the few who came to examine the goods he toted. His natural instinct was to teach them the art of catching fish, just as Azarmanô’s father had done for him. These lessons were difficult to depart, however, because the people were incredulous, some even hostile and many of their dealings with Númenor had left them with a strong distaste.

Despite Azarmanô’s best efforts, the relations between the men of Middle Earth and Númenor had been deteriorating since before his birth. Many Numenoreans oppressed the men of Middle Earth and made servants of them, without regard for their well-being. This savage treatment outraged Azarmanô and he vowed to redouble his efforts to befriend and aid them any way he could. His efforts had not been well received, but he resolved to continue in hopes that he could gain the trust of a few. But he had also found himself in situations where he had no choice but to unleash an arrow from his bow.

His father, whose fairë was tied to the sea, had acted as role model for Azarmanô and the son had always tried to live up to him. Although the father loved his son, he was often absent on trading missions in Middle-earth, so the boy did not see him very often. During these lengthy absences, his mother had to function on her own. She became very strong willed, a quality that she retained, never taking instructions from anyone other than her husband.

Azarmanô had married shortly after gaining the position of captain. His wife was a lovely woman named Eirien, the younger daughter of one of the nobles faithful to the Elven cause. Recently, the entire Ostovaivar family has been assisting Elendil in his plans for a possible emergency evacuation. Azarmanô’s wife, along with his mother, father, and two-year-old son Thoron, are presently back in Rómenna, waiting to depart on the Thor with the rest of the fleet.

Elendil had instructed Azarmanô to alert the remaining group in the west of the imminent departure to Middle-Earth, using one of his smaller, sleek vessels to ferry them about the southern coast of the Isle and back to the ships. He had departed for the west before the news of the imprisonment came.

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Regin Hardhammer's post

Azarmanô stared at the cove, which was surrounded on three sides by towering cliffs of sheer granite. It was a tight fit for the Gwan, but the ship slipped through the narrow opening just as it had done countless times before. The journey to the western part of the island had been placid, something that could not be said for many of his trips. Azarmanô marveled at how this group of the Faithful had been able to flout the King’s decree and refuse to move eastward as he himself had done some while ago. Of course, he was not often at home, but on board his ship engaged in various trading missions. He frequently traveled to the colonies with a shipload of goods from Númenor and traded these items with his fellow countrymen and whatever local merchants he could find who were still willing to deal with a man of Númenor. Despite his love of the sea and the joy he felt doing honest work, he often chafed at the length of these voyages, yearning to return to his radiant wife Eirien and his young son Thorin.

But today was no ordinary supply mission. Elendil had commanded him to sail west and pick up the last remaining Faithful and bring them back to join the others who had gathered at Rómenna and would soon be fleeing Númenor to sail across the oceans. It was with a heavy heart that Azarmanô prepared to bid farewell to his homeland. Despite persecution from the King and those who followed his lead, he still felt a strong attachment to the land of his fathers. But the departure from Númenor could not be avoided. Disaster and doom were fast approaching the land, punishment for man’s insolence. For many years, the kings had shunned the friendship of the Eldar in their greedy quest for immortality. Azarmanô understood the Faithful must depart across the sea before all was lost. Besides, he thought, he would still have the sea.

Azarmanô went down on the shore and waited for Tiru, the contact from the local Faithful who usually met him and took delivery of the supplies. Today Tiru did not look pleased. His face was wan and nervous and he was moving fast. Azarmanô called out in anticipation, “I have news for you. You must gather the others and tell them that the time has come for us to leave Númenor. Elendil gathers the fleet in the east for the Faithful to depart. We can wait no longer. Tell your neighbors to gather in this cove and I will take them to where Elendil’s ships are gathering in the eastern bay.”

Tiru replied in a rushed tone, “My friend, I’m afraid that we can not yet go. You see the King’s men have captured Abârpânarú Karíbzîr, my master. We have just found out the sad news, and people are needed to help in the rescue." Tiru looked up expectently and added, Perhaps you would be willing to come with us. We have need of another strong bow.”

“I would be honored to rescue the lifeblood of such a noble leader. But we must not tarry. Speed will be needed. Elendil’s ships wait for us to arrive so that they may depart. Every moment they delay is another chance for the King’s men to find the Faithful. My family also is on a ship that will cross the seas and I long to return to them soon. We must be swift and relentless in our search and then go with all speed to the harbor of Romenna. Let me tell my mate to guide the Gwan back east and then I will join you.”

Azarmanô returned to his ship and told his mate to steer the craft eastward and have it wait for his arrival when he returned with the others. “Don’t fear,” he added, “I will return soon.”

Azarmanô turned to Tiru and mounted the chestnut brown horse that had been brought for him. “Let us go to gather the others. Away.” He flicked the reins and clipped his heels to the steed's side and began to ride with all haste.

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's character

NAME: Adûnaic: Sakaladûn -- Elven: Thoronmir

AGE: 117

RACE: Numenorean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A hunting knife. A long sword forged by master smiths, as well as a Númenórean steelbow, also has chainmail with a steel breastplate and helmet for use in war (Hey, it pays to have had the right connections at one point!)

APPEARANCE: Rather tall, has almost jet-black hair and dark blue eyes, wears mainly blue and white

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Strong-minded and very skeptical at this point. Believes in playing by the rules.

HISTORY: Born into an influential family in Romenna during Tar-Palantir's reign, Sakaladûn operated for quite a while as the king's emissary to the elves of Lindon under Gil-Galad, where he was given the elven name of Thoronmir. However, he was promptly removed from this position when Ar-Pharazôn came to power in 3255 and started to undo much of the unity between the two races that Tar-Palantir had built. Sakaladûn's life would not be completely ruined by this, as he later became an officer in Ar-Pharazôn's army in the colonies of Middle-Earth, where he eventually became one of the top commanders in the colonial forces. During this time, he married Firiel, a woman from Pelargir, eventually having a son and two daughters.

Sakaladûn was appointed to Ar-Pharazôn's ruling council in 3262 due to his aid in overthrowing Sauron. Sakaladûn, however, was not pleased with the king's decision to take Sauron back to Numenor as a prisoner, believing that the Dark Lord should have been destroyed rather than kept alive due to his evil and corruptive nature. Ar-Pharazôn, however, ignored Sakaladûn's recommendation. During the years of Sauron's captivity in Numenor, Sakaladûn's suspicion continued to rise, and he spoke in secret with Elendil about the strange patterns he had noticed in the Council. Sakaladûn opposed many of the changes in Numenor during the years he was on the council, though the majority of the coucil members never paid much attention to his "strange notions". He ran into the strongest opposition from Herugor, the second most powerful man in Numenor and the one he suspected had been learning all kinds of evil things from Sauron. After Sakaladûn flat out refused to have anything to do with an assault on Valinor, first proposed in 3299 and actually started eleven years later, Herugor, probably following instructions from Sauron, made up a number of false accusations about Sakaladûn forming a conspiracy and taking the throne for himself. Herugor then presented these charges before the king, who fired Sakaladûn from his post and had him arrested. Sakaladûn, however, went into hiding and was never found. He now lives among the Faithful, where he goes by the name of Thoronmir full-time. His wife and children have been sent to Lindon, the safest place there is for those of the Faithful at this time, while Sakaladûn/Thoronmir is still in Numenor aiding the Faithful.

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Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir let the arrow fly, and the deer fell to the ground. He was about to walk over to it when three riders on black horses rode up.

"Well, well, if it isn't Sakaladûn," said their leader, getting off his horse. "Finally found you, eh? The King's been looking for you for quite a while now."

Thoronmir, formerly known as Sakaladûn, answered him. "I stopped listening to that man when he started going mad. If you want me to come with you, you'll have to force me."

The man laughed and reached for a weapon. Thoronmir reacted faster, leaping up onto the leader's horse and kicking it hard. The black stallion rode off at full speed. The other two riders drew their spears and pursued Thoronmir as he fled, but Thoronmir managed to lose them in the forest.

Thoronmir rode into the hiding place of the Faithful that was nearby. He was met at the entrance by one of their guards.

"Thoronmir, I'm glad you got back here. Where did you get the horse?" the guard asked curiously.

"I ran into some old friends from Armenelos who really wanted me to come back with them," the Thoronmir said. "I declined the offer and borrowed one of their horses to escape with."

The other man didn't smile a whole lot. "Good thing you escaped, because we're really going to need your help here." he said. "You see, there's been a problem. Mabalar has been taken captive and they said we need to act now..."

[piosenniel]

Himaran's character

NAME: Abârzadan Batânzâira, Of Strong House Longing of Travel, Turmeawa Mélatrevad

AGE: 43

RACE: Númenórean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:

Abârzadan carries a longbow and a few arrows, customary of Númenóreans, but they are not the tools that he wields most smoothly. His favorite weapon is the large, double-bladed axe that he carries comfortably over one shoulder; an heirloom of his father.

APPEARANCE:

Abârzadan is six foot, four inches tall. He has shoulder-length, dark-brown hair, and large blue eyes. The man has a strong frame, large hands -- scarred from hours of axe-practice with his late father, and a slightly mishapen lower lip (which he is chews on frequently). He walks with a partial swagger, much practiced, in order to seem a swashbuckler. Abârzadan's fingers display several rings set with precious gems, adding to his already prominent air of importance; although he despises the look of "cleanliness" and usually keeps his hair greasy and ruffled. Always he seeks to appear as a rich, experienced and road-weary warrior; a tough combination to apply.


PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

As a general rule, Abârzadan is haughty and bold; a product of his heritage. His father taught him that only great warriors deserve respect, and even then only those "above" his family's prominent status. The man laughs loudly, and argues frequently, but will rarely become involved in an actual fight: for such matters are "below" him. He does, however, have a kind heart -- despite his father's belief that those poorer than him are unworthy of recognition, Abârzadan is generally touched by the sight of poverty, and will give freely; especially if another important figure is watching him.


HISTORY:

The House of Batânzâira was indeed a great power, but its influence has slowly slipped away. In reality, few among the Faithful have even heard of such a thing. In its days of greatness, it served proudly under Ar-Pharazôn, but as the king himself fell under the influence of the cult of Melkor, Batânzâira too was diminished. Abârzadan's father was one of the last to stand beside Ar-Pharazôn, cautiously counseling him to stray from the dark one's designs. When Sauron discovered his disloyalty, Abâranâ was forced to flee, leaving all his possessions and relations except for his son. Together they journeyed through Númenor in secrecy, at last arriving in the land controlled by the Faithful. To his death Abâranâ never trusted them, believing that he was living among traitors and criminals.

Abârzadan thus was forced to live among the Faithful after a long and pleasent childhood elsewhere, with his father isolated in their large home. (It should be noted that Abâranâ brought both his son and his fortune along.) He learned the ways of a warrior, and often strayed from the designated territory of the Faithful. He still thought that Ar-Pharazôn was not to blame, but that his father had ruined their life in Númenor. One day, he hopes to return there, and attempt to rebuild the dynasty of Batânzâira.

Shortly before his death, Abâranâ made his son swear a strange oath; that he would never marry until after he had proven himself in battle. Also, he implored Abârzadan to only become betrothed to a Númenorean woman, and not to an "Outcast." The man took both these things to heart, and seeks to accomplish both in the same feat. He has waited for several years to fulfill his promise, and now a chance has arrived...

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Himaran's post

Two swords crossed in overlapping fashion, drawing attention to the silver star located at the place of their meeting... The symbol of the House of Batânzâira. Abârzadan turned away from the treasured decoration adorning the wall of his large house. In reality, it was a thing of the past; there was no House Batânzâira... there was only him. The Númenórean man's ascendents were vast, but all had long since died out, persecuted by Sauron and the cult of Melkor. What that evil one so feared about letting it survive? Perhaps its strength, and the many warriors it had bred. Whatever the reason, all that was over. Abârzadan was the last of them, as far as he could tell. No one else remembered. No one understood.

Banishing the disparaging thoughts from his mind, Abârzadan forced himself to look on the positive side of the matter. He was safe, rich and secure; at least for the time being. The sole heir of a large fortune, the man was not stranger to the lavish lifestyle of the elite. But was there such a among the rabble of the Faithful? His father, Abâranâ, had never trusted them since entering their lands to escape the wrath of Sauron. They were outcasts, rebels, unfit to serve the King of Númenór. The old man's sentiments were never known publicly; he lived out his days isolated in his home, without making any aquaintices with the locals. After his father's death, Abârzadan had gradually come to accept the Faithful and did not hold them in a hostile light, but still he held on to the sometimes violent longing to see his true home. And then there was Abâranâ's last request...

No. That can never be accomplished. Never. Deciding that the acute loneliness of the house was becoming oppressive, Abârzadan pulled on a, coat, opened the door and hurried out into the street, allowing the wooden frame to fall shut loudly behind him. The refreshing tinge of cool air met his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore met his ears. Abârzadan's home was near the docks, for he loved to look out at the sea from his bedroom window... somehow, although it was not the way back to the King he still felt loyal to, the water was strangely attracting. Perhaps it was the sense of mystery it held, for doubtlessly there were unexplored regions beyond the simmering edge of the horizon.

Even the sea could not give Abârzadan's mind the rest that it longed for. His thoughts went back to six years before, when his father lay dying from disease. "Hear me, Abârzadan," he had rasped, before breaking into another fit of coughing. "And never forget. Keep the House of Batânzâira clean from the Faithful. Only marry..." the sick man's voice trailed off again. His eyes opened wide, as if he was seeing a vision. Then he had struggled back to reality, and made one last, desperate effort to finish his last statement. "Only marry... a woman of Númenór. I say this to you so that I know that one day, you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie. Never forget, Abârzadan, please..." The man had then gone unconcious, and died during the night, as silently as he had lived.

Enough reminiscing! Abârzadan decided that if he were to get any work done that night, he had better get a drink and clear the disturbing memories from his distraught mind. The man hurried down the street, soon finding a small inn that he rarely visited. Abâranâ had seen the place when they first arrived, and snidely commented on its disrepair. Indeed, it was in rather poor condition, and not the sort of place that a member of the elite would go to dine. However, it was close, and though the ale was poor it still contained the kick that he needed. Besides, the gossip of those at this particular small establishment was far more interesting than that at any fine diner.

As he entered the inn, Abârzadan noticed that it was quite empty, almost deserted. The man ordered a drink and walked over to a table in the corner; slowly easing into the hard wooden chair. His ears immediately sharpened, and he began to pick up snippets of conversation from a booth near him. When he heard "the King's men have been watching your uncle," his ears perked up. The King? Ar-Pharazôn? As he continued to eavesdrop, his suspicions were confirmed. "Your uncle is walking into a trap," one of the men said. Prized horses? And uncle and his daughter? As Abârzadan left the inn later that evening, he promised himself to keep his ears open for any more information regarding the strange tale that he had been exposed to.

Especially if it dealt with Númenór.