Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As this information flooded her ears so honestly and concisely, Inzillomi showed a brief moment of weakness, wiping dampness from the corner of her eye. It was so good to be with Azarmanô, a man with whom she could share her thoughts and worries. Though she loved each of her travelling companions, they were innocents, the lot of them. Not a one had the gall or depth of spirit to become a guardian, or a leader. They believed, surely, but it would never do to involved them in rescues, or burden them with information they could not understand. With Azarmanô, Inzi could spill her thoughts, relieving herself of the burden of stoicism.

"Captain, I should have said this at first sight of you today, but you have little idea how much a relief it is to see you." Inzi sat silently for a while, sipping the hot tea that Azarmanô had deposited into her hands. "So my daughter...?"

"Flourishing. I sense that she feels uncertain of her place among these men, but I judge that, when she learns it, it will make her stronger in spirit than ever before."

"And Marsillion?"

"A brave leader. Everyone is doing quite well, Inzi. Outside Armenelos, your family and your faithful Tiru draw the guards' attention. We here leave in a short while. Still, one thought plagues me. However did you know to find us?"

Inzillomi grinned impishly, the picture of youthful mischief. "Cannot a lady have some secrets, old friend? But if you must know... I happened to glimpse Thoronmir and he thought it best that he should bring me to you to learn the truth."

"Ah... that old rascal. Deposting ladies on doorsteps, is he?" Inzillomi smiled again before her face took on a more serious quality.

"Azarmanô, you've told me that Thoronmir cannot continue with the mission. Will it be possible for only two to complete a rescue? I have the utmost faith in you, but I still feel uncertain of Abarzadan. Has he yet shared of himself? We have shown good faith in letting him know our troubles, though obviously not all of them... Should not good faith be returned in good faith?"

To this Azarmanô had little to say. Their mysterious companion remained as such, but he could be trusted nonetheless. With her friend's words, Inzillomi dropped the issue. She trusted his judgement.

"Now... there is the issue of Kali. Whereas my usual mount can be stabled at need for days at a time, this lass... gets bored. I will take her back for my own ride so that her talents will not be overlooked, even by accident or unknowing. That would never do." Inzi fell silent for another while. This silence, Azarmanô felt, was more pensive.

"Azarmanô..."

"Yes?"

"I would like to ride with you. Without Thoronmir, you are only two, though two with kariborim. I would be an asset, I believe, to the mission. I can do nothing here save wait. With you, I believe I could make a difference. What say you?"

He stood silent in consideration. This was no small favor that she asked. She saw in his eyes that he required time to think, and as the appointed leader in this situation, there was no point in pulling rank. If he declined her request, she would return to Elendil.

"Think, Azarmanô, and I shall return shortly. If you decide yes, I will be prepared to ride upon return. If the answer is no... I will drink to your health, wish you luck, and pray for your swift return with my family."

--------------------

A very short time later she returned to the Inn. She doubted very much that any of the men on this complicated mission could have packed less, or as swiftly as she. Her packing, really, was more unpacking than anything. She had not yet managed to empty her saddle-bags before she took a walk and ran, fortuitously as it was, into Thoronmir, and so she was able, simply, to toss several bags into an unused corner and half empty one before tucking a few small blades into a pocket.

She had changed into an outfit far more suitable for this kind of work, tightly packing a soft gown into an empty space. One can never be sure when a bit of indignant nobility and sophistication comes in handy. she thought, as she belted a pair of gray pants. The legs were loose, seeming as a skirt when she walked, but for riding offered much more comfort. Over, she wore a loose tunic-length white blouse, with side-slits for mobility. Belting the shirt was a wide black sash, knotted to the side, in which was tucked a pair of daggers, several lock picks, and a vial of liquid she hoped she would not need. Foxgloves... she thought with a sigh... What a fascinating effect they have on the heart. Her hair was tightly plaited by a maid as Inzi tucked non-perishables into each spare corner of the one bag she rode with. Less than an hour after she had left, Inzillomi returned to the Inn, lightly laden, and ready to ride.

She knocked once more on the door, in perfect imitation of Thoronmir's earlier one. The door opened, and she entered.

[TomBrady12]

The sun sunk lazily behind the long southwestern spur of Meneltarma, sending shades of pink and orange shimmering across the western horizon. The small party moved slowly and solemnly east along the slightly rising turf. Cresting the slow rise, they stood upon the brink of a shallow valley. There, tucked between the roots of the mountain, lay Noirinan, the Valley of the Tombs. The silent vale shone eerily in the fading light, the last rays of sun glinting off the tall obelisks and wide arches of gold. “It is beautiful,” Marsillion whispered softly to himself. “Beautiful and terrifying.”

“How tragic it is,” Tiru said with tears welling in his dark eyes, “that these dead are treated with such reverence, while my people are butchered and robbed to provide this obscene overflow of wealth.” Kâthaanî took the swarthy man compassionately by the hand as they turned south and continued to ride slowly along the rim of the valley.

There had been no sight of the pursing soldiers since early morning, and secretly Marsillion wondered if he had taken the meandering to a bit of an excess. The group had planned earlier in the day to journey east to the brink of Noirinan before turning briefly south to bypass the sacred hollow. From there, they would pick up the main road leading east to Armenelos before making camp for the night. They had agreed that in order to be a believable decoy they should at last begin to progress toward their supposed objective. They had just reached the road connecting Noirinan and Armenelos and begun a few paces east when they heard a loud call ahead of them. Scanning the road, the three comrades saw to their dismay four of the King's Men, bows raised, deadly arrows fitted to the strings.

“This game has gone on quite long enough, indigent faithful,” the leader of the group bellowed. “You are under arrest by order of the King of Anadûnê.”

Marsillion glared at the soldier, the same officer he had encountered earlier. “How can this be,” Marsillion raged. “The King has sailed away from this land. He could not possibly have given such an order.”

“The High Priest has been granted the authority to carry out justice in the absence of the King,” the officer replied smugly. Turning toward his small contingent of soldiers he spoke with contempt, “Arrest them.” Dismounting their horses the three soldiers were momentarily forced to lower their bows. Not a word passed between any of the Faithful, the Kariborim were in control now. As soon as the bows were lowered Nitirú, Ruki and Mani spun on their heels and bolted west into the sacred vale of Noirinan. Marsillion heard the arrows, fervently singing, as they flew harmlessly by and clattered to the ground beneath the raging hooves. They had escaped, for the moment.

The three rescuers were carried at breakneck speed down the main street into the heart of Noirinan. Past elaborate memorials commemorating ancient victories, through the final halls of the mightiest politicians and generals the world had ever known. The Kariborim far outdistanced the horses of the King’s Men, but a greater problem was arising. The heavy pounding of the racing hooves throbbed throughout the valley, echoing off the great stone buildings, alerting all the King's Men ceremonially standing guard at the most sacred tombs and monuments. The three fugitives raced through the torch lit city, unaware of the gathering throng of curious guards in pursuit. The punishment for disturbing the peace in Noirinan was death, and Marsillion knew it all too well. They came flying at last to the very roots of Meneltarma, the holy precipice rose sharply before them. Ahead lay the tombs of the Kings, delved deeply into the silent depths of the mountain. Behind, a multitude of guards, their bright helms and intricate armor glowing red in the torchlight. Marsillion pulled Mani to a halt a few paces in front of the pillar of Eärendil, the great statue in the likeness of the heroic mariner. Marsillion dismounted, followed closely by Kâthaanî and Tiru, and walked slowly and reverently up the great granite steps to the very feet of Eärendil. He could feel the guards ebbing closer, yet kept his back to them, bowing briefly beneath the mighty statue.

“Who art thou who so arrogantly disturbs the slumber of the Kings?” one of the guards finally spoke. “Dost thou know thy punishment is death?” There was no response from the three still figures at the feet of the hero. “Declare yourselves, lest you feel the chill of our spears.”

Slowly Marsillion turned toward the guards, as did Kâthaanî and Tiru. They were greatly outnumbered, but it was with boldness and conviction that Marsillion spoke. “I am Marsillion of the house of Thoronfaer. These are my kinsmen, Cerveth and Arkrision of the house of Melethroch.”

The guards expression morphed quickly from curiosity to contempt. “Those names are not recognized here,” he spat viciously. “So you are members of that treasonous sect from Rómenna, aye? Elf-Friends you call yourselves? Fools! I tell you this as a last warning. The power has gone out from the Elves. The King of Anadûnê is the ultimate power now, and we are his right arm.” As he spoke this, the assembly of guards lowered their spears toward the Faithful. “Renounce your folly now and you will stand trial before the High Priest. Continue along your traitor's track and you shall die now.”

Marsillion was about to speak, but to his astonishment, Cerveth beat him to it. “We shall never turn from the path we have chosen,” she said with tears forming in her deep grey eyes. “Faithful we have been, and faithful we shall remain. Never shall we turn our backs upon the powers that brought us out from certain death in Beleriand so long ago. I know I speak for all of us,” she said as she knelt and kissed the stone foot of Eärendil, “when I say we would rather die here, knowing we serve the greater Lord, than die tomorrow at the abominable hands of Sauron the Manipulator.” She stood, reaching into the small sack that she kept on her back. Out from the sack she pulled a long bladed knife, the tarnished silver handle tight in her trembling hands. She held the rusted blade above her head and cried, “Now I give my own warning. Whether by my hand or another, none who would raise arms against the servants of the Valar, the true Lords of the Earth, shall survive to see Yestarë.” When she was finished she dropped her hands to her sides and waited for the reply.

“I see you have chosen death,” the leader of the guards said, with utter contempt. “Kill them.” With that the assembly of nearly twenty armed soldiers of Westernesse moved against the three silent patriots.

“Let us go from this world gloriously,” Marsillion said coolly as he withdrew his shining sword from its hiding place on Mani's broad back. Looking over his shoulder he saw Tiru, with almost a smile upon his time worn face, retrieve the long, elegant bow, borrowed from the family armament, and fit an arrow to the taut string.

“What I do now,” the dark swarthy man said, drawing the string to his ear, “I do for my master.” The long black shaft slid through his stubby fingertips. The arrow stayed true to it‘s target, puncturing the polished breastplate, and embedding itself deep within the chest of the bold spoken leader. The tall Númenorean commander dropped immediately to the cobblestones, his ashen face staring blankly into the west. The fight was on.

Marsillion watched and waited as the guards rushed up the cold stone towards him, the bowstrings of Cerveth and Tiru singing in his ears. Many of the guards, who were armed only with spears, fell victim to the ferocious hail of arrows as they raced forward, intent on combat. Marsillion felt the blood run hot through his veins as the first guard to the top went straight for him, hurling his spear with frightening speed just over the younger man’s shoulder. The spear struck the knee of the great statue, but even the brutal strength of the heave could not harm it. The now unarmed man raced onward toward Marsillion, only to be cut down by the arching swing of his heavy sword. On rushed another, with a great thrust of his long weapon, which was easily sidestepped. Momentum carried the stately guard on past Marsillion, who, with a lightning flick of his strong wrists, carved a great wound across the back of the retreating guard’s thigh, sending him flailing helplessly to the street below. Just then, Marsillion heard a scream that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He turned and saw his cousin, unarmed, in the grasp of a familiar man, his long slender dagger pressed firmly to her delicate throat. There stood the leader of the King's Men who had been following them for days, and who they had eluded only minutes before. His company had come quietly from behind in the mayhem and struck unseen.

“That is enough,” the Captain roared to guards and Faithful alike. “These three are to be taken as prisoners to Arminalêth. They shall stand trial before the great Lord Sauron. Bind the slave and the girl,” he ordered his men as he turned on Marsillion. “As for you,” he sneered, “you who would seek to make a fool out of me. Arrogance, young one, your father should have warned you against it. You wonder how we knew of your mission I suppose, and I don't blame you. Every family has a weakness Nimilroth, even the proud house of Narâkmanô can be cracked. You relied heavily upon your half-wit cousin for information on our movements, did you not? Well, what if I were to tell you we relied heavily on him for information on yours?” He paused, seeming to let the revelation sink in.

“That can't be so,” Marsillion moaned, tears filling his blue eyes. He knew it must be true, for what other source could have told them, but he hated to believe it. “Not Nusaphad,” he almost whimpered.

“Oh yes,” laughed the guard. “If it makes you feel any better, young one, the asking price was very high; but in the end he was convinced to see our point of view. Everything can be bought you see, even life long friendship,” he paused, “when the price is right. Now, Nimilroth, tell me, who has been made the fool in the end?” As he said this he struck hard across the face of the slightly taller man, his iron plated gauntlets tearing brutally across his fair forehead. Marsillion droped to his knees in agony, the sting of blood stealing his vision. “Bind him,” the assailant said casually as he turned and mounted his horse.