Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The party had continued onward some two hours after the fall. Inzillomi gave her reins over to a willing hostler and rode in a cart beside the man. His leg was well-bound and his symptoms were uncomfortable. She felt bad about the rash, but they had washed the oils off his hands before it could spread beyond his leg. They had managed to bandage him before the itching had began, and so all that the guards could see was a bruised swelling. The swelling itself was impressive... she hadn't been sure if the liquid would work. Inzillomi had been rushed through her brewing of the three-leaved plant... she had almost splashed herself with the mixture more than once, but when finished, she had almost a half dozen vials of the deep purple stuff. She chastised herself over the rash... she needed to think of a way to separate out the effects of the plant... In the mean time, the man beside her was the very picture of hidden discomfort. She knew that he must itch like mad, given the expanse of skin that he had "bruised" for the sake of the cause.

She favored him with a smile, assuring him that the rash would clear up quite soon with the old woman's remedy and that his leg would stay swollen for awhile, but that he was quite brave and that he was quite deserving of praise. He smiled back and stretched out as much as he could in the cramped space. He longed to be back on his mount, but good actor though he was, it would be entirely too hard to convince suspicious guards that the recipient of a very recent broken leg was comfortable enough to ride.

Inzillomi stayed with him until the crushed herbs began to soothe him, speaking softly of sea shores and salty winds. As he dozed, she left him, walking for a time beside the children. Eagerly they showed her what they had found during their "break". As she praised them over the discoveries of shimmering black stones and delicate white blossems, small hands found their way into hers. A short time later, she found her mount once more and rode with the young ladies, gossiping about the handsome young men said to inhabit the eastern shores. Time passed slowly and all the while, her mind rested on her husband... she could only hope that the rescuers were making as good progress as she was.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî woke early, still groggy from her restless night. She took a long drink from her water bottle, trying to wash the sleep taste from her mouth and shook her head. Tiru still slept, curled in a ball in a mound of blanket and cloak, near the entrance to Marsillion’s tent. She could see her cousin’s shadow moving through the thin fabric walls of his shelter. Azârmanô and Thoronmir she did not see.

Abârzadân was up as well, Kâthaanî could not tell what he was doing, but he was moving jerkily through the grass muttering in a loud voice and a pile of his belongings lay on the ground beside him. She approached him uneasily and paused a moment before speaking. “Good morning, friend. Does all go well for you today?”

Abârzadân glanced up at her quickly, before turning back to his piles. “It is nothing.”

Kâthaanî raised an eyebrow at the man, but asked no questions and soon turned to wake the sleeping Tiru. The servant rose reluctantly, stretching and yawning in the mild morning. Kâthaanî could hear his joints creaking and snapping as he moved. Her eyes widened at the sound. Tiru, noticing her surprise, smiled wryly and commented, “You are from a long-lived people, Little Mistress, but I am no longer young among my own people. My limbs may be accustomed to long days, but they do not always like it.” She nodded in silent understanding and bent quickly to help the smaller man fold his bedroll.

While the two of them worked to pack their things, Azârmanô and Thoronmir returned to the camp with their wet hair plastered to their foreheads and full water bottles slung around their shoulders. The party finished loading the Kariborim in silence and, mounted once more on Nitirú, Kâthaanî slid back into place behind Azârmanô as they left their campsite behind.

The mood among the rescuers was somber, the haunting fear that had settled on them during the previous day’s mishap still lingered around them. There was no singing and very little speech among them during the day’s journey, but the travelling was fast and the roads were deserted and they made good time. Marsillion’s face was grim at the front of the column, and Thoronmir’s equally so at the rear; and the urgency that all six felt weighed so heavily that they did not stop riding for lunch, but ate plain bread and sipped water as they rode.

As evening fell and Kâthaanî began to feel Nitirú’s pace slacken, Marsillion called for a halt. “The ground is higher here, and this is as much cover as we will find tonight. I think we should stop here.” One head after another began to nod as the group silently dismounted, stretching their aching legs and unloading their mounts. Captain Azârmanô built a small fire, and prepared for the first watch while the others prepared the campsite. The grateful Kariborim, now unbridled, lowered their heads and began to graze, as one by one the rescue party unfolded their bedding and dropped wordlessly into it

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion awoke before sunrise and packed his gear for another long day of travel. As far as he could tell the rest of the party still slept, nobody was about. After taking a bit of food, Marsillion quietly slipped away to refill his canteen and freshen himself for the day ahead. The campsite sat in a small, but dense growth of woods atop an isolated hillock. From a spring near the top of the hill a bubbling brook ran careening through a rocky course onto the far sweeping plains below.

Marsillion stooped down beside the brook and splashed the cool water on his face. He took a large mouthful and reached for his empty canteen. As he did so, his attention was caught by a light in the woods above him, not far off. The sun, although still not risen was sending a pink glow sweeping across the horizon when Marsillion began to crawl hand and foot toward the perceived light. As he drew nearer he could see that indeed a small fire was burning a short distance off, and he thought he could make out the silhouette of a man sitting back to him. Marsillion crept closer, until he was only a few yards distant, tucked quietly behind a tangled bush of thorns. From this position he could clearly see three men sitting around a small watch fire and one dozing on the ground not far off. The men were unmistakable. Here, camped on the same hill as the rescue party, was the patrol of Kings Men that had confronted them the previous morning. Marsillion felt his stomach clinch in knots, his arms and legs falling simultaneously numb as he picked up the conversation around the camp fire.

“I suppose they think they are mighty clever. Why don't we just shoot 'em now and be done with it,” demanded a young soldier. “I've a quiver full of good arrows, the traitors would never know what hit 'em.”

“Because, you ignorant louse,” barked the captain, “our commander has a better fate planned for them. They are to be allowed unhindered to the capitol. The high priest knows of their journey. They will not succeed. Our mission is simply to follow at a distance, not to interfere. One of them has something the High Priest desires I think.”

Marsillion had heard enough. Willing himself to move he slowly inched back down the slope. I must get back to camp before the sun betrays me, was all he would allow himself to think about. When he reached the spot where he had bathed himself earlier, he stood and ran clumsily through the woods the short distance back to camp. He gathered the party, which by this time was fully awake and awaiting his return, hastily around and told of what he had learned. “A new plan must be constructed,” Marsillion stated plainly, pinioning his overwhelming emotions deep within. “The lives of many hang in the balance.”