Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Folwren]

Bror turned over on his bed and opened one eye. It was dark in the room that he slept save for underneath the door where the light of one of the dim night lamps flowed under. The stillness of the place around him told him that it was still early and outside the mountain, morning was still dark, but it wouldn’t stay that way for more than an hour. He got up and half rolled out from under the blankets and walked silently to the door to open it a crack, allowing a little more light in. Making as little noise as possible, he dressed himself and then took up the few weapons and armor that he would need on the trip in his arms.

He bore everything to Riv’s kitchen, passing as silently as a shadow in the halls, for he had left his boots beside his own door. Skald had set his stuff on a chair the previous evening and Bror piled his armor and weapons with his cloak beside that. After casting a last glance over his things to make sure that was all he needed, he walked to the counter. The four mugs that had been used the previous evening for ale were still sitting on the counter top. He stopped and considered them carefully. After a moment, he gave a determined nod and stepped forward, took two of them and filled them both with water and then left the place as quietly as he had come.

Going as swiftly as he could with full mugs of water, Bror made his way to Skald’s room. He stopped outside the door and with bated breath, leaned his head towards it to listen for any movement from within. There was none, and he ventured to push the door open.

It swung in noiselessly and he entered. No light was lit and in the utter stillness, Bror could hear above the blood moving in his own ears, the sound of Skald’s breathing. He still slept. The young dwarf tiptoed to his bedside and putting both mugs into his right hand, he very gently moved the blanket down and cleared Skald’s chin of it.

Bror nodded with satisfaction. His left hand took back its own mug and then he extended both hands above Skald’s face, stepped back half a foot, and let both water contents fall in even, flowing streams straight onto the sleeping dwarf’s sleeping features.

Bror bounded backwards as light as a deer, still clutching the mug handles in his hands, as Skald sat up with a roar. The water streamed down his beard and neck, most of it being soaked up in his hair, but the rest wetting the bed clothes. Bror retreated to the lighted hall and then stuck his head back in to venture one comment.

‘I would have rigged something far more complicated and far more satisfying for the both of us, but there wasn’t any time, and there wouldn’t have been time to clean it up afterwards anyway.’

[CaptainofDespair]

“The gears of war slowly turn…”

The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings.

“Captain…”

“Yes, milord?”

“Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed.

The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.”

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

Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest.

There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal.

As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.”

With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.

[piosenniel]

The quick, lively music had wound down a bit as those who played and danced found their throats parched and their bellies growling for another plate of food. ‘Go on,’ said Riv, leaning forward to whisper in his wife’s ear. ‘Bror’s tuning up over there. Your going to sing that song of Durin with him, aren’t you?’

He reached forward and with his great hands he plucked little Ginna from her mother’s grasp. ‘I can hold the wee one while you sing.’ He cradled the little girl in the crook of his left arm, smiling as she fussed a little then settled back into her dreams. Leifr, for his part, had pulled a chair next to his father’s and was leaning against Riv’s right flank. His little tummy was quite full with cider and sweets, and more frequently now his eyes drooped and a tiny snore issued from his slack mouth. Unna smiled at the image and winked at Riv. ‘Don’t you dare drift off while I sing!’ she ordered in a whispering voice.

She crossed to the other side of the hall and bent down for a few words with Bror. He plucked a string on his harp and she hummed the note, on key. After a brief introduction of Bror’s playing, Unna nodded to where the present King Dain sat with his family and began the song. The conversations hushed as her clear voice rang out through the Hall . . .

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

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.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

As her voice faded with the last of the lyric, Bror’s nimble fingers picked up the melody and wove and intricate refrain. There was silence when he finished, and Unna looked at him, whispering nervously. ‘Mahal save us! We’ve ruined the party!’

Then the beat of pewter tankards on the oaken table tops began. And the king, himself, stood up from his chair, and shouted ‘Well done! Well done!’ in his great voice. Unna’s cheeks turned scarlet at the praise and Bror grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes glittering with delight . . .

[Arry]

While Unna sang, Skald stood with a number of his friends near the newly tapped keg of ale. He was well into his cups as were his companions. Their legs were a bit wobbly and their speech a little slurred. But, they were still standing . . . and for a Dwarf, that was call enough for another round.

‘Nice voice . . . your brother’s wife,’ whispered Olin Glitterfist, noting the lopsided grin on Skald’s face. ‘Not you! I’ve heard you sing . . . like an old rusty hinge!’

Skald raised his brows and was about to retort when he saw Riv motioning him over. ‘Just your luck my brother needs me,’ he said, punching Olin lightly in the arm. ‘Otherwise it would be me and you . . . hand to hand . . . and me wipin’ the very floor with you!’ Olin laughed and was quickly silenced by the shushes of those listening to the song.

With a decided list, Skald made it to the long table where Riv sat. Working his way down toward his brother’s seat he stumbled against many a chair, leaving a string of ‘Sorry!’ and ‘Your pardon!’ in his wake.

When he arrived, Riv pulled the empty chair next to his left and bade him sit down. Riv’s face had a serious look on it as did that of his father. They had pulled apart from their hushed conversations as Skald approached. Drawing a deep breath, Skald made an effort to pull his senses together. He was quite sober by the time Viss had relayed the content of their hurried whisperings to him.