Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel's post

. . . The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day . . .

Supper, taken late as was the Stonecut custom, was done. The trenchers, already carried to the kitchen, clanked together in the soapy water as Unna washed and rinsed them, and piled them on the counter to her left to dry. Her back was to the oaken table across the length of the stone floor. And she smiled as she heard the off-key bass of her husband’s singing voice rise up to sing a verse of the song.

‘Fairer yet,’ she chuckled as she took up her dishtowel and dried the spoons, ‘if the notes in this part of Khazad-dûm were more harmonious!’

‘I heard that, woman!’ cried Riv, breaking off mid note. His scowl was short-lived as she laughed aloud, her voice ringing within the tall-ceilinged room.

‘Well, I think you have a nice voice, Papi,’ chirped Leifr, coming to sit on his father’s lap. He twirled his fingers round Riv’s braided beard, leaning against him with a contented sigh. ‘Grandma says you sing just like your father did.’

Riv’s chest puffed out at the compliment and was promptly deflated by Unna’s laughter as she recalled to him that the old woman had also said she was certain that Durin was called ‘the Deathless’ because her husband’s bellowed verses could raise the dead from their thick stone tombs.

An hour or so more of friendly, familiar banter, accompanied by the sound of Bror’s harp and interspersed with more singing, came finally to its end. Leifr was yawning by then, barely able to keep his eyes open. Riv picked up the boy where he lay half drowsing on a bear pelt near the fire and carried him off to the deeper caverns where Unna and the other Dwarven women with their children stayed.

The lamps were turned low along the hallways; the lamp swinging from Unna’s hand as she walked beside her husband cast odd moving shadows along the carven stone walls. Her face was wistful as they reached her apartments. Laying Leifr down gently on his little bed, Riv drew the quilts up over his son’s shoulders and brushed a stray hair back from his little face. ‘Mahal keep you!’ he whispered to the sleeping form. He stood then, and took his wife gently into his arms. ‘When this is over . . .’ he said softly, his cheek against the top of her head. She pulled back and laid her first two fingers against his lips. Her glittering eyes held hope and patience within their deep, dark pools. ‘We will wait,’ she promised him, ‘whether the time be short or long.’

She urged him gently toward the door. ‘You must go. Your brothers and Uncle await. There is news to be shared among you. Reports and rumors of goings on in the upper caverns come to us. We know a messenger has come from the Elven smiths. And that an escort is needed for the Elves who will come from the east, sent by the Lady of the Golden Wood. Since your father was often among the Lorinand, bringing them jewels and metals as they needed, I thought that surely you and your brothers would be the ones to fetch them from the Dimrill Stair and bring them through the East-gate.’

He nodded it was so. Smothering her with a last great hug, he turned reluctantly from her and made his way back to his dwelling. Skald and Bror were waiting at the table where he had left them. Their voices were low as they sipped at their mugs of ale, discussing, he was sure, the preparations for the thirty mile journey to the East-gate and the wait for the Elves of Lorien. Orin, their Uncle, had arrived, too, he saw.

‘Well, what have I missed?’ Riv said, fetching a mug for himself from the cupboard. He topped off theirs and filled his from the skin of ale that hung from the peg on the wall. ‘We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way up along the Celebrant and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

[piosenniel]

Boromir88's post

Orin was well aware of the rumor of the gathering of orcs, but he was not prepared on leaving, and had no intentions to. He sat fiddling with his double-bladed battleaxe wondering what this meeting was going to be about. Most of colony had heard the whispering of threats from orcs and other dark creatures. Perhaps it is just to confirm the situation, he thought.

While Orin was deep in thought he had not noticed that he cut his thumb on his axe. He smiled as he was pleased it was still sharp and if the rumors of orcs were true they aren't getting through Moria without a fight. Then it suddenly came to him, a poking pain in his thumb. It wasn't a serious cut, but it felt like one of those annoying papercuts; a sharp pain for days.

Orin cleaned up his cut, grimacing a bit while doing it, and decided he should be heading off. When he got there his two younger nephews, Skald and Bror, were already there, but he had not seen Riv yet. That is odd he mumbled. He greeted his two nephews with friendly hugs and went off to sit with some of the older dwarves. He wanted to see what they knew about the matter. Most of them knew just as much, or less than Orin, which wasn't much. He ran into an old friend, Fawrin, who was full of the latest rumors.

"They say a man named Annatar, who was once a friend of the elves, has turned against them." Fawrin began. "He is beginning to gathering a large force of orcs to launch an assault on Eregion."

Orin stood and pondered these "rumors," and wondered if there was any truth in them at all. "Who was, or is, this Annatar?" Orin asked.

"I don't know. All that's said is he was once a friend of the elves. Why he would all of a suddenly want to attack them is beyond me." Fawrin said.

"If he is attacking them, you mean." Orin chuckled. "Don't put faith in the whispering of the outside world. Especially if they are dealing with elves." Orin said elves in a sarcastic, demeaning way, for he did not like them very much. Except the elves of the lady of the Golden Wood. Her and her people had often had good relationships with the dwarves. Now that his mind was off elves, he still wondered where Riv was. "Have you seen Riv?" He asked Fawrin.

"No I haven't," he answered. "but I haven't gone looking for him either." They both laughed. "Well I better be off. Someone has to do the rumor spreading." Orin chuckled again as Fawrin left. He had always like Fawrin for his humor and ability to bring a smile to someone.

Orin sat down next to Bror and Skald and began to discuss the situation. Orin began to realize that the rumors weren't just rumors anymore; war was threatening and it would surely effect everyone.

"How have I been in the dark for so long?" Orin said to himself, but the others heard him.

"Because you're always locked up in your room working on who knows what." Laughed a familiar voice. Riv had finally come. He greeted everyone and took a seat, as well as getting a mug of ale, and got right into business.

‘Well, what have I missed? We’re taking a full complement of weapons . . . yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.’ He took a deep drink from his cup. ‘There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.’ He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top, a little ale foam splashing over the side. ‘Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures . . .’

"Yesssss." Orin shouted in a bellowsing voice that shook the hall. The mumblings of war and Riv's talk had inspired him.

[piosenniel]

Folwren's post

Bror sat silently, plucking with less heart at his harp as he watched Riv take his wife and son away. They passed from the room out of sight and he sighed and tilted his head a little towards the smooth wood of his instrument. He lifted a second hand and once again the chords sang sweetly, though somewhat sadly.

“I wish they didn’t have to go back there every night. We hardly see them anymore,” he said quietly. A hand clapped him on the back and he looked up over his shoulder at Skald, his older brother.

“Cheer up and put the harp away, we’ve got business to discuss.”

Bror got up from the table and took his harp away a few paces and set it on a chair, possibly to be picked up later. He returned and took his seat again as Skald rose and gathered mugs and a skin of ale to wet their throats while they talked.

He had just sat down again when their Uncle Orin entered. A smile came into Bror’s face and he got up again.

“Good evening, Uncle!” he said. “Take that chair, and I’ll get another...How are you?”

The general formalities were swiftly dealt with and for a minute, the three of them sat together in silence. Bror could not stand that for long. What they had to talk about had to do with orcs, and of all creatures, he thought he hated those the most.

“What do you know of this business, Uncle?” he asked, turning to Orin. “I don’t know how much you have heard.”


“I know no more than the little I have heard from gossip,” Orin replied.

“That’s probably not very much, since there is little known,” Bror said. “All that I’ve been told, and I hope that I hear more tonight,” he added casting a glance towards Skald, “is that a company of dwarves are needed at the East Gate to escort a number of elves through Kazad. War’s brewing, evidently, and though we’ve only heard whispers of it, they are getting louder and the rumors are taking shape into ravenous villains who need slaughtering. It’s rather serious, by all accounts.”

Orin lowered his head towards his mug and Bror and Skald both turned their ears towards him to catch the words he muttered to his ale.

“How have I been in the dark for so long?”

“Because you’re always locked up in your room working on who knows what!”

The three dwarves at the table turned quickly to see Riv walking towards them. He gave them a smile as he passed and got himself another mug from the cupboard and a second skin of ale. He came back to the table and pulled a chair up next to Orin, filled their mugs and then his own, held it between his two hands and looked at them seriously.

“Well, what have I missed?” he asked immediately. “We’re taking a full complement of weapons...yes? No telling how long it might take the Elves to make their way down the Stairs and cross the valley. Or what might try to follow them.” A pause while he took a deep drink of his ale. “There have been reports of Orcs sniffing about the Kheled-zaram. Or so I heard.” He banged the metal mug down on the table’s top almost violently and Bror started slightly. “Love to set my mattock in a few of their skulls and pick out what passes for brains among the filthy creatures,” he said, giving his youngest brother a grim smile.

“Yesssss!” Orin exclaimed with evident excitement and obvious agreement. Bror shifted his eyes from his brother to his uncle.

“So, this is more serious than I imagined. I had no idea you all hated those orcs as much as I did. You were always the ones telling me to calm down and quit shouting that I’d kill a whole regiment.” He turned his dark eyes back to his oldest brother. “Is that what we’re going to do?”

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

Skald leaned forward in his chair, his chin planted firmly on his fist. The fingers of his right hand drummed quietly on the table top as the others spoke of war and killing. His dark eyes were troubled with news he’d heard earlier that day. Not wanting to frighten Unna and Leifr he’d waited to share what he had learned until they were safely away in their quarters.

Before Riv could answer Bror's question, Skald spoke up.

‘Want to know the interesting . . . no, make that disturbing . . . morsel I picked up from the King’s guard today? . . . And from Father, too.’ Riv and the others looked at him expectantly.

‘Father was speaking to the King. About some special delivery of stones . . . no, not now but way back . . . before we were twinkles in his eye I think. Anyway, they were for the head of the Jewelsmiths’ Guild, Celebrimbor . . . and a shipment of mithril, too . . . some very high grade stuff.’ He leaned even further across the table, his voice dropping low. ‘Apparently the Elves used them in some big secret project, according to one of the guards. He said Durin opened his locked iron chest and took out some small carven box. He and Father had their heads together whispering about the object in it. Whatever it was it gleamed brightly when the light caught it for a moment. Then the King locked it away . . .’

Before they could hiss ‘And . . .?’ at him. Skald went on.

‘Well, I asked Father about it. At first, all the old man would do was shake his head, his fists clenched. They were fools, he muttered, looking into the distance past me. Damned, silly fools! he said angrily. Father said there was someone whom the Jewelsmiths placed their trust in . . . someone who taught them some special skills in the art of smithing.’ Skald’s throat was dry from talking and he paused, taking a long pull at his mug.

‘And now the Elves, the King had told Father, had done something to displease this teacher of theirs. They have something that he wants badly and he’s bent on getting it. And what’s worse apparently he’s not the kindly, gracious fellow they thought him. He’s got the force to back up his words. That’s what the Orcs are doing all stirred up and starting to cause troubles.

‘When I asked Father who this fellow was, he grew red in the face and spat on the floor. Mahal take the deceiver! he growled. Calling himself Aulendil! . . . Why, he left Mahal’s service long ago . . . taking after that black-hearted Master . . .’

Skald took another sip, the alefoam glistened on the tips of his thick mustache. ‘The old man ranted and raved for a bit . . . you know how he can go on. I was trying desperately to piece together the dribs and drabbles of information I’d eked out from him. Finally, in desperation, I shouted “Hey!” at him as loudly as I could. Got his attention, it did. Quiet little Skald yelling!’

‘Look, I told him, Riv and Bror and Orin and me along with a few of others of us have been asked to escort some Elves from the Lady of the Wood, under the mountain and out to Ost-in-Edhil. Armed Elves. And there may be more coming through. Sounds like it’s more than just some polite visit from one land to another. What are we getting into? Who’s this person you keep cursing at?’

‘Well, I have to tell you what he said next nearly unbraided my beard!’ Skald rubbed his chin hard with his hand, a familiar nervous habit on his part.

‘The Dark Lord! Father whispered, not wanting to name him out loud.’

‘The Dark Lord! I squeaked . . . yes, I’m not ashamed, I squeaked . . . you all remember the horror stories of the great battles against him and his Orcs and worse . . . before Beleriand fell under the waves. Anyway, I managed to stutter out the question that was now burning in my mind. The Dark Lord had escaped from where The Great Ones put him and was back?’

‘Not him, Father said. . . . but just as foul . . . his bootlicking, black-hearted-as-his-Master, servant . . . Sauron . . .’

‘ “Sauron!” I managed to say in a mangled yelp. I remember dreadful stories about him’

‘Yes, Sauron. He’s got himself a dark place between the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, the King’s told me. And he’s stirring up the foul spawn his Master made. Orcs and who knows what other fearsome beasts. He’s coming for something the Elves have hidden away . . .’

Skald’s voice drifted off into the silence of the room. His hands were clasped tightly about his mug and he stared into it as if it held the secret to keeping his sense of dread at bay. He looked up at his brothers and uncle . . .

[piosenniel]

Seth Cotton's post

Vaele took up his bow, felt its weight. He nodded for himself and placed the fine longbow on his right side and let it lean against the wall as he took up the rest of his needed equipment. His quite weak breastplate was filled with memories, he sighed as he put it aside in the pile of “Necessary Things”. His longbow, arrows, breastplate, leather armour pads for both legs and arms and his hunting knife were all in the Pile of Necessary Things. As well his backpack with some bread and small, chopped pieces of fruit.

His sister came in, all dressed in white and golden hair. She walked in without a sound and kneeled down on the floor beside Vaele. She stroked him over the forehead and he turned his head slowly over to her and met her gaze. She looked sad, but Vaele knew that she was doing her best to hide it.

“I will come back sister.” He said and forced himself to smile.

“Be careful. I will not stand losing another brother cause of some meaningless fight.”

“I promise you I will return.” Vaele answered and rose up from the floor and began to strap on the armpads. As he came to the strapping on the breastplate around his back his sister helped him.

“Be brave Nilwèn, do not despair because of me. It will not help to griev.”

His sister rose up as well, her cheeks were red. “Do not play a hero!” She exclaimed, almost yelling at him with her lightest voice. He saw that she began to shiver, probably she cried but Vaele was not sure. Nilwèn ran out of the talan and Vaele stood in the middle of the room and looked with sad eyes after her. Vaele growled and took on his robe. He tried to ignore her and her emotional burst, instead focusing on what he had to do. He was not to let this interfere. His fingers nibbled on the robes silver clasp. Attempt after attempt he failed to fasten it.

After a cursing the clasp and a few more attempts without any luck, he managed to fasten it. He had never been good at practical things; doing things with his hands in general. He had never possessed that skill. He lifted up his backpack and took it on. He kept his bow hanging by his shoulder and his knife in the boot. He was all set to go. He left the talan, but stopped in the door opening and looked around in the talan for a moment. It had his been his talan for ages, his sanctuary, his oasis, and now he stood there knowing that he might never return to it again.

He stood for another moment, remembering all the times he had found peace in the quite small talan. He slowly closed the door and decided to bid farewell to his father. His father met him on the small lawn in front of the talan. They embraced as father and son, Vaeles father patted him in the back as he let go. He did not say anything, he didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. He was against it as well, he had complained about Vaeles decision from the day he mentioned that he had been thinking of signing up for it.

It surprised him, he thought his father would be more understanding than that.

“Farewell father.”

“Farewell my youngest son…” He stood quiet; closed his eyes and sighed. “Stay safe”

“I will.” Vaele said shortly and began to walk to the camp for the contingent which was stationed outside Caras Galadhon. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw his sister stand, beautiful and completely silent, looking after him as he walked. Her expression on her face was a memory he never forgot.

He walked lightly and swift, thinking he was already late. The darkness came closer over the talans and he wanted to get there as quick as possible. As he got closer he saw the banners and the many tents with preparations; archers checking their bows, captains giving orders. It was a constant alarm of noise.

“Archer, you are late.” Vaele heard a voice behind him, which sounded pretty annoyed. He turned to see who it was, and as he suspected it was the commander of their contingent.

“I beg your pardon, Commander…” Vaele said and half-bowed.

“Commander Eldegon” The tall, pale elf said with a remarkable superiority in his voice. He sighed and looked at Vaele, kind of examining his possible capabilities in combat. “Good at stealth? Scouting? We need a scout in the first rank. Someone swift and silent, a good hand with bows is appreciated, but by judging your equipment and yourself, you seem to be a pretty skilled archer.”

Vaele just nodded quite baffled. The elf talked clean and unusual quick. He must be in quite a stress, Vaele thought.

“Very well, get in the first rank and prepare yourself. We will march in the daybreak.”

Vaele walked over to where he was directed, the first rank in the lead. He was quite pleased with his given position, and being a scout fitted him well. He saw another elf from the first rank ahead. He wasn’t sure wether this was the first rank or not, so he walked over and asked the elf which appeared to be rather young. “Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”

[piosenniel]

Arestevana's post

Gilduin gazed at the sunlit trees of Laurelindórinan in silence, hearing little of the bustle that surrounded him. It had been many years since he had been so near Caras Galadhon, its protective walls extending in a gentle arc before him. Years ago they had welcomed him with the promise of safety, renewal, and fulfillment. Now they closed him out. Though he was not forbidden passage through the high green walls, he knew he could no more cross the white bridge of the Galadrim than he could return the golden leaves carpeting Lindórinan to their silver branches and reclaim the springtime of his youth.

Gilduin reluctantly withdrew from his revere as someone approached him. He took quick note of his surroundings. A stone’s throw to the north lay Caras Galadhon, its great mellyrn stretching sunward above them. Outside the city a great number of elves had gathered, many of them bearing weapons. He turned his attention to the elf who stood in front of him.
“Greetings, Gilduin Lindorion,” said the elf. “It has been many years since last I saw you. Where have been wandering?”
“In Greenwood the Great,” Gilduin replied slowly, adding belatedly, “Eldegon,” as he recalled the elf’s name. “Who calls the Galadrim to arms?”
“A messenger from the Ost-in-Edhil. We send a company to aid the Mírdain. Will you join us?”

Gilduin, caught off guard, felt himself pulling into a state of deep concentration. Though he had just returned to Lindórinan after years of roving, he needed nothing but what he had. He knew that Eldegon expected him to refuse. I do not want your pity. “I will join you,” Gilduin said at last. “Who commands the contingent?”
“I do.” Eldegon replied. If he was surprised at Gilduin’s decision, he did not show it. “What skill have you in combat?”
Gilduin thought a moment. “No sword-skill, if that’s what you mean. I have no close weapon, save my knife.” He showed Eldegon his dirk and longbow. “I’m a fair shot, and if needs be I can keep my head with a quarterstaff.”
Eldegon shook his head. “I have no need for archers. Three-score already are marching with us, and two-score swordsmen. Will you bear the standard?”
“I will.” Gilduin said, after a moment’s wondering at the request.

Eldegon nodded and led him a short ways south to a hill overlooking the wide clearing where the company was mustering. There he departed momentarily, leaving Gilduin to stare out over the many ranks of warriors. There were six ranks of archers, ten elves in each rank, and ahead of them four ranks of swordsmen. Behind the archers was a line of light wooden carts, laden with food and supplies for the march. The horses that would draw them were tethered a short ways away from the company.

Eldegon returned, carrying the standard of Lindórinan. “You said you could handle a quarterstaff. Can you keep formation while bearing a standard or polearm?” He asked, continuing when Gilduin nodded. “Good. You will march at the herald’s left, in the first rank with myself and my captains.” He handed the standard to Gilduin, who hefted it to feel its weight. The oaken shaft was straight and smooth, and the fabric of the banner, though light, was very strong.

“When do we march, commander?” Gilduin asked with a glance at the sun, which had long passed its zenith and was nearing the horizon.

“Not today,” Eldegon replied. “Tonight the captains meet with Lord Celeborn. Tomorrow we will march, or perhaps the day after.” With that, he nodded briskly to Gilduin and headed toward Caras Galadhon, pausing briefly to speak to another elf before continuing to the city’s gates.

Reluctantly, Gilduin hefted the standard in his hand and left his hilltop post, seeking out his place in the marching order. He reached the first rank and sought out the herald, introducing himself with as few words as possible and taking his place on the elf’s left. He glanced over his shoulder at the green-walled city as dusk crept over the restless company, a thin sliver of sun clinging desperately to the horizon on his right. One by one, lanterns appeared on the walls, until Caras Galadhon gleamed like a jewel, or perhaps a star which had wandered from its place in the darkening heavens. Beside him, the herald had lit a lantern, and by its light Gilduin noticed a green-garbed archer approaching the rank. He occupied himself with the standard and did his best to look busy, but the elf stopped directly in front of him.

Shying away from speech, as he so often did, Gilduin sought for the correct syllable by which to vocalize a noncommittal murmur. He wished to disappear, as did that final finger of golden sun in the face of inexorable night, as the elf addressed him.

“Excuse me, friend, but is this the first rank?”