Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Artamir watched Losrian depart hastily from her archery practise, his eyes, as sharp as his father's, following the young elf-girl's back until she turned under an arch towards the smith's quarters and was lost to sight. Raising his eyes to Leneslath, he started slightly as his friend caught his eyes directly. Ever a clown, he exaggerated the movement comically; Leneslath grinned, then nodded down in the direction that Losrian had taken. "Taking an interest are we, Artamir?" he asked, slyly.

The other grinned back and shook his head, bracing his hands on the cold stone of the ramparts and jumping up backwards to sit on them, swinging his feet casually, the heels of his leather boots thumping dully against the stones that guarded the city. "My mother's apprentice," he replied, by way of explanation, then added, "Nice try," with a wink. His older friend rolled his eyes and swung his feet up on the ramparts beside Artamir, settling comfortably back against one of the battlement pillars as if about to go to sleep. The other slapped at his legs playfully, knocking them down. "Hey! Fine example of Celebrimbor's service you are," he scolded, grinning. Deepening his voice, he made his face sterner, looking at Leneslath as if over a pair of spectacles. "After all, we all have a solemn duty here, all of you young rogues should come to realise that-"

"-for we are the defenders of this city," the older youth continued, doing a near-perfect mockery of Captain Dimloien, the soldier whose unfortunate task it was to train the young elves. "The upholders, the protectors, the line of defense that...et cetera, et cetera." Leneslath made an exaggerated hand motion as if bowing, then turned to Artamir, pointing a shaky, accusatory finger at him. "Especially you, you Aramir, Atamor, whoever you are! Pay attention, or-"

"-Or you'll end up just like that no-good scallywag Leneslath!" his friend interrupted triumphantly, ducking as his scandalised companion took a swipe at his head. Jumping off the rampart, he nodded to the newest of the sentries, who had come to join Leneslath - Artamir himself was not actually a sentry, not yet; that duty would wait until he came of age this summer. Performing a low bow to the two elven soldiers, he swept an imaginary hat off his head. "Gentlemen, I shall leave you!"

"Someone's in high spirits today..." muttered the newcomer sourly as Artamir turned to go, an elf of roughly the same age as Leneslath - the younger elf's antics were playing havoc with his headache, the very same reason he had turned up late and with bags beneath his eyes. Artamir merely grinned back over his shoulder and turned down the narrow spiral staircase in the city walls.

~*~

In the palace overlooking the ramparts that bordered the citadel, Narisiel's eyes did not take in her son's antics, merely turning to the window as an excuse to look away from Celebrimbor while she swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. She had thought about this conversation, had run it through in her head again and again the night before, but faced with Celebrimbor himself now, she felt out of her depth.

"Forgive me, my friend; I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years."

Narisiel glanced sharply over at the elven Lord, but his expression seemed genuine. But how could she know? After all, even as she stood so civilly in his rooms facing him, the elvensmith doubted that the older elf could ever guess at the depths of betrayal that she could feel boiling at the back of her mind, stagnant from years of waiting, unreleased, in years of silence. But she would remain calm. She would. She had to - had to know what had become of the rings?

"Forgiveness is a high price to pay from a century of silence, my Lord," she replied, her voice soft and almost croaky coming from a throat dry from nervousness. Celebrimbor did not flinch: he took the words calmly, inclining his head in acknowledgement and looking away from a moment but then, to his credit, looking up once more to meet Narisiel's eyes. She appreciated the gesture and, after a moment, gave a single nod, and asked for the answer that she needed to know to put her mind to rest.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

And even as she asked it, Celebrimbor's expression told her that she was probably not going to like the answer...

~*~

[piosenniel]

To his far right Riv could see Skald moving in a deadly forward march against the back line of the Orcs. The Brassbeard cousins and the Hardhammer men flanked his younger brother, lending their fury to the attack. The Grimsteel brothers advanced in a death dealing dance of shield and club.

On his left, somewhere in the melee were Bror and Orin, their companions forging their way through the scrambling Orc line with fierce determination. Riv gave a grim smile, acknowledging his youngest brother’s burgeoning skill.

Caught unaware by the unrelenting fury of the Dwarves, the Orcs seemed unnerved and had begun to retreat from their attack on the Elven warriors. The Elves, for their part, were fighting coolly back against their foe. And though they had lost several of their company to the Orcs’ weapons, it seemed that a fair number of Orcs had also fallen to the Elvish blades and arrows.

Riv pressed his advantage as the Orcs began to take rout. He and Afi Glitterfist laid into the Orcs with their warhammers - the sharp spikes and great heavy heads cutting and smashing at the hateful adversaries. Then one of the Orcish captains rallied his troops and they turned from their flight for at least a moment. They seemed more willing to face the weapons of the Dwarves than to go against the wishes of their leader.

The Orcs now pressed their own attack, their sheer number forcing Riv and his companion backward. ‘Best you send up the silvered arrow, Brand,’ Riv grunted at the Dwarf on his left. ‘Despite the defense of the Elves against the foe, if this rally of theirs continues we will be undone. We will need more Dwarves to aid us.’

Riv stepped forward, putting himself between the stirred up Orcs and Brand. Afi, too, moved up beside Riv, giving his brother time to draw back his stout bow and send the shining arrow high into the sun’s light. The nearby Orcs bore down on them even as Riv and Afi swung their heavy hammers with all the force and speed they could muster.

Afi was cut down by a wicked blow to his head as he fought back two large Orcs; one wielding a great iron club, the other slashing wildly with a jagged blade. Riv grasped his weapon in both hands and swung it hard against the Orc with the club. The brute lurched back, his upper arm broken by the force of Riv’s hammer. The Orc with the blade, however, seized the advantage and ducking beneath Riv’s upswung arm, drove his blade in a slicing manner against the exposed right underarm of the Dwarf, where the chain-mail did not reach.

Riv, bleeding freely, stumbled back. Transferring his warhammer to his left hand he attempted to hold off three other Orcs who had now turned their attention to him. Brand by this time had nocked another arrow and took aim at the largest of the advancing trio, sending the feathered shaft deep into the Orc’s chest. His foul companions paid his demise no heed. With gruesome grins on their faces they struck out at Riv, knocking him to his knees.

The larger of the two raised his stout wooden club, intent on making mincemeat of the Dwarf’s head . . .

[Folwren]

The heat of battle blazed about Bror and his companions. At their feet lay the orcs that had fallen, most were quite still, others still twitched, but no one noticed them. Their bodies were trampled as more orcs came and the dwarves found proper footing to wield their weapons. The vile creatures had redoubled their attack after attempting to retreat. Why they didn’t retreat, Bror wasn’t aware, but they seemed to have pulled together and their assault was stronger and he and his friends were pushed back.

About him fought the Ironfoot brothers with Kerrin and Geln, the others he had recruited. Close with them was Orin and his dwarves. Bror smiled grimly, as another orc fell at his feet and he jerked his spike from its skull. The foe seemed to lessen where they fought and he paused to look up in the direction of his brothers, to his right.

His heart sank and his courage weakened. Brand stood behind the wall made by Riv and a couple others, raising his bow towards the sky. The sunlight flashed off the shaft of his arrow as it was released and shot upward like a silver flame.

‘Well, no wonder they thought we needed to do that,’ he said to himself, glancing about him. ‘We have most of the dwarves.’ And instantly acting upon that thought he began to forge his way towards Riv and his companions.

They was only a few paces away, really, but with so many orcs in between and all trying to kill him, it seemed like a lot farther to Bror. He hewed right and left with his axe, cutting their legs out from under them, and then finishing them off with a second blow.

He looked up again when he thought he had almost reached Riv’s side. He almost had, but almost carries no weight, and he was still out of reach, and his axe would be of no help. Riv was bleeding, the blood coursed down his right side from somewhere beneath his arm, Afi lay beside him, stretched out on his face and one side of his head apparently crushed, and two more orcs were surging on, almost on top of Riv.

Bror saw it all in a flash. A lumbering orc stumbled in his way, with a furious roar, he knocked him to the side and lunged forward.

‘I’m too late! I can’t get to him!’ He dropped his axe and groped at his belt, pulling out his favorite weapon. He didn’t think of it now, nor did he consider the training he’d given himself, the hours spent figuring out the angles and the strength needed in the twist of the wrist. The throwing axe spun from his hand and the orc that had just knocked Riv to the ground stumbled backwards and fell. The second orc lifted a club and Bror bit back a terrified cry, snatched at a second axe, and let this one go faster than the first.

His aim was true. The hideous beast fell back. After staring for scarcely a second, Bror stooped and picked up his battle axe again and ran to Riv. Forgetting everything else instantly, he fell to his knees by his brother’s side, dropping his weapon for a second time to support Riv as he appeared to be losing consciousness.

The battle still raged on about him. He heard Dwarven voices above him, shouting in some confusion. A movement uncomfortably near from the orcs’ side caught his eye and he turned his head in time to see a small, wiry orc taking a swing at his neck with his sword. Bror threw himself back out of its path, dragging Riv down with him, and then struggled to his feet.

His hands were empty and his mind was black with fury. He cursed himself and the orcs viciously, searching with his eyes for his axe. He dove under the second swing of the orc, and having caught sight of the desired weapon, snatched at it, turned again and lifted it in a desperate attempt to block the next attack.

It turned it partially and the sword glanced off the haft and struck his right shoulder. His armor turned it and he could almost have laughed. His mirth was cut short by a violent shock from his left. The wind was expelled from him and his body flung back into the midst of his fellow dwarves. His senses reeled, and lights flashed in his eyes. For only a moment, and then all went black and still.

[Firefoot]

Within minutes of the Dwarves’ attack, the advantage had shifted unexpectedly and completely. Faced with foes on both sides, the dismayed Orcs were forced into a retreat. Grimkul fell back only reluctantly; fighting was the one thing he excelled at, and in the furies of the fight he was a fearsome figure. At Ulwakh’s urging, however, he fell back with the main company. Ulwakh, being neither large nor strong, disliked battle on principle. His work was self-preservation, and battle utterly defied this goal.

As they neared the slopes which they had only just charged down, Lushurd reversed the orders: “Stand and fight, you cowards! Or you’ll catch it hot back at camp!”

Grimkul returned eagerly to the fight, Ulwakh less happily following along nearby. Somewhere along the way Grimkul had replaced his scimitar with a heavy wooden club, which he swung at any Elf or Dwarf unfortunate enough to stray near. Though less handy for killing, the club was an excellent tool for rendering its victims disabled or unconscious.

But on occasion, Grimkul had a clear shot to bash in the head of his opponent. One of these opportunities came along when he, Ulwakh, and a third orc who had hooked up with them found a badly wounded Dwarf in the midst of the battle. Another Dwarf took out the third Orc with his bow, though neither Grimkul nor Ulwakh gave their fallen fellow a second look. With cruel sneers on their faces, they bore down upon the wounded Dwarf mercilessly. Grimkul raised his club for the killing stroke when he was struck in the chest by a flying axe. He fell back, winded and bruised more than anything else, for his chain mail had turned the blade by some kindly trick of fate.

As Grimkul recovered, Ulwakh darted in, wielding his scimitar with expert precision that Grimkul could never hope to achieve. He caught the pair of Dwarves off guard, causing them to dive to the ground under his scimitar, one of them apparently unconscious or near so. The other Dwarf fought valiantly to counter his attacks but was too distracted by Ulwakh to notice that Grimkul had sufficiently recovered and was charging at the Dwarf who had robbed him of his kill. With a mighty swing, the club struck the Dwarf in his left side. The Dwarf fell to the ground and did not get up, but Grimkul did not have time to pursue the kill because at this point the force of Dwarves seemed to swarm upon them, forcing Grimkul and Ulwakh back.

Their retreat was not quick enough for Ulwakh, however; as he parried the blow of one Dwarf, another’s axe found its mark in his lower leg. Black blood spurted from the deep wound, and Ulwakh howled in pain, reeling upon the offender. Grimkul had not the resources to defend his comrade as he was busy fighting off Dwarves on his own.

It was the same way across the battlefield. Despite being outnumbered, the Elves and Dwarves had rallied phenomenally, and the fierce battle cries of the Dwarves echoing in the hills instilled slivers of fear into even the staunchest Orcs. Lushurd’s orders to stand and fight turned into pleads as the Orcs ignored him and retreated once more. It was now the Orcs who were outnumbered, and they had no cause to fight for. Grimkul took an arrow in his shoulder as they reached the slopes; Ulwakh was limping badly and it took near all his effort just to keep up with the much reduced company. They had only to reach the little pass… hopefully they would not be pursued. Even Grimkul was downtrodden; he delighted in killing not being massacred.

Lushurd seemed to realize his was a lost cause. “Retreat! Retreat!” he cried. Though the main body of the Orcs already had. Upon reaching the sheltered pass, most of them turned and fled back towards camp, Grimkul and Ulwakh among them. Neither knew nor cared whether those stragglers who were behind the main force lived or died; it was everyone for himself now, and none of them fought a losing battle.

[Arry]

The Lórien Elves


Nearly a score of Elves had fallen with the first onslaught of the Orcs. And at least as many had been wounded to some degree in the ongoing battle. Others of the Elves, those unscathed, closed about their injured fellows helping them along . . . protecting them from further insult from the base and twisted foe. Those who had died must need be left where they lay. The others could not carry their dead weight lest they in turn be killed.

The steel grey eyes of the Lorinand glittered harshly in the sun’s light as they kept their gazes steady on the Orcs’ attack. Great anger smoldered in their depths, moving from mind to mind among them as they saw the hroar of many of their kindred being made sport of. It grieved them to witness the filthy hands of the murderous Orcs claw and rend the fair Elven bodies.

The Elves doubled their own attack in an effort to break through to where their Dwarven escort fought fearlessly to reach them. Almost as one the Lorinand hewed their way through the thinning line of Orcs.

A great yell, a fearsome roar, went up from the Dwarven line in their ancient tongue. And even those ears which were not as keen as those of the Elves rang loudly with the mighty rallying cry . . .

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Skald and his companions

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

^*^

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!

He had not seen Riv fall. The forms of the Dwarves about him were a blur as they pushed hard against the dwindling Orc line. The blades of the Elves swung high and low, the glints from them growing brighter as the two companies approached each other across the thin, seething mass of Orc bodies.

The Orcs were pulling back a bit, squeezing out from the deadly lines of Elf and Dwarf they found themselves caught between. Some, their escape cut off as the Elves and Dwarves closed in, were unable to head back south; instead finding themselves harried northward. Their rage piqued by the escape of victory for themselves, they harried mercilessly those smaller islands of Dwarves and Elves they came upon.

Skald saw the Elves chasing the retreating Orcs for a short space, until they were no longer a threat. He thought at first to lend his axe to their sword, but a mighty grip took hold his left arm and he turned, axe raised to deal with whatever foolish Orc had dared come near him. He lowered his axe, seeing it wasTaf Hardhammer and was about to give a warning in jest. Taf’s eyes were wide with urgency and he turned Skald more to the left, pointing down to another group of Dwarves further on.

It was Bror! An Orc had swung his weighty club and knocked his brother hard. He was falling . . . falling . . . in slow motion, it seemed as Skald’s breath caught in his throat. Even were his feet to sprout wings, there was no possible way for him to reach Bror. A great cry of rage welled up from within and erupted from him. Taf shook him and pointed again to where Manni and Vetr stood their axes flying from their hands at Bror’s assailants. Skald did indeed fly himself, then, Taf and the others hard on his heels. They swung their weapons relentlessly as they covered the distance to Bror, clearing a path before them.

Skald knelt beside his little brother, bending down to cradle Bror’s head against his arm. The battle had all but dissipated now; the Orcs either dead or run away. Bror’s helm had tumbled off with the blow; across his left cheek was a large bright red and purpling abrasion, swelling gloriously into a hillock of a bruise. Bror’s breathing was easy and what blood had flown from the injured flesh had all but stopped. He was still quite knocked out though, and unresponsive to any of Skald’s questions or prods. Skald rocked him gently, willing him back to consciousness.

Another Dwarf, Brand, had come to kneel by Skald. His face was strained with grief, his speech coming in short gasps as he told how Riv and Afi had protected him, giving him time to send his silvered arrow up as a call for aid. ‘Afi is dead,’ he managed in a strangled voice. Alarmed, Skald grasped Brand’s forearm . . . ‘And Riv . . .?’ he asked, his voice gruff with fear. He glanced about and could not see his older brother from where he crouched.

‘He lives, still. Though he is badly injured,’ Brand managed. He nodded toward where two of the Lorien Elves knelt down their bodies blocking Skald’s view. ‘They have placed him on one of their shields and will bear him up to the gate on it.’

The Brassbeards, Fastor and Grimsi, had made one of their cloak into a sling on sorts, securing the ends to the shafts of their poleaxes. ‘Come, Skald, let us get your brother into this and start back to the East Gate,’ they directed him, lowering the sling to the ground. ‘And Brand, you come back with us, too. The guards in the East Hall have sent more Dwarven warriors to bring back our fallen.’ None were surprised when Brand shook his head and stood up, going back to stand where his brother had fallen.

Fastor and Grimsi hoisted the makeshift sling and moved at a quick pace away from the battleground. Skald followed along beside for a number of paces, looking to see that the Brassbeards were taking care not jostle Bror unnecessarily. He spoke to Bror as they went along, telling him that Riv was alright and that he had seen Uncle Orin, too, making his way up the slope to the path. ‘I’m going to walk with Riv for a while now,’ he told Bror, giving his brother’s forearm a squeeze of assurance. ‘Some Elves have loaded him onto one of their long shields and are bringing him back, same as Fastor and Grimsi are doing for you. He was hurt . . . some, too,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you up in the Great East Hall,’ he called, veering away from Bror’s litter.

In a little louder voice, he called out to the swaying form as it pulled away from him. ‘And don’t think you’re going to get out of retribution for that trick you pulled on me, mudworm! You owe me little brother . . . and I mean to collect!’

My life and skill pledged to you, Mahal . . . he whispered in a low, rough tone as he ran on. Just keep my brother this side of the West’s Stone Halls . . . both of them!

His swift feet brought him soon into the company of the Elves who bore his older brother’s still form . . .

[Durelin]

The elf-lord was putting words together in answer to Narisiel's question before she voiced it. He knew he had explaining to do, and he would not shy away from it as he had before. It was time for the two of them to bring to an end the old tension between them that had completely ruined their friendship, as well as Celebrimbor's friendship with her husband, Sirithlonnior.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

"I should have told you right away what became of them, but I was fearful, mainly of my own shame. All the great Rings are in the hands of that Annatar now, all except the Three." Celebrimbor buried his face in his hands, now unable to look even at the faces of his companions. Maegisil knew what he was going to say, but it was still painful for him to speak those words that revealed all of his guilt. "We were deceived. I was deceived. It was I who worked with that...that thing..." His voice was growing cruel and bitter with disgust, as he was sickened both by the servant of Morgoth and by he himself. Narisiel watched and listened in confusion, but waited, knowing that Celebrimbor would explain.

"Sauron now has the Rings, except the Three."

"Sauron?" Narisiel blurted out before she could catch herself. Both Maegisil and Celebrimbor had expected this response, as the counselor knew his lord had kept almost everything concerning the Rings secret, even from many of those who helped make them.

Maegisil had been disappointed with his lord, as it seemed he had turned the creation of them into a personal project, and of course the Dark Lord had kept him under that impression. But he was not so disappointed in the fact that the Lord of the Mirdain was deceived, rather he had been saddened that Celebrimbor had not invited him to help in the forges. For a moment, Maegisil's mind dwelt on the possibility of making his own magic rings, and he briefly daydreamed about how he would have doubly deceived Sauron and kept the rings and used their power himself. Then he realized what it was he was thinking about playing with, and he shook those thoughts out of his head.

"Yes, Annatar was indeed the dark Deceiver," Celebrimbor said softly, almost choking on every word. It was getting hard for him to speak. He was revealing things that he had not told anyone in over a century. Maegisil was the only person he had told, as he had been unable to hide anything from his friend, who had waited for him, and who had been there the day his task was completed, and he had marveled at the beauty of his Rings. He had been particularly fond of Vilya, and he had picked it as his own, slipping it on and wishing to make it an heirloom of the Lords of Eregion...

"He felt the evil as soon as he donned the Ring," Maegisil said, and then, though he did not know it, paused just long enough to give his lord time to be pulled out of his thoughts and realize that they were talking about him.
"Which one was it?" the counselor then asked.

"Vilya," the elf-lord said, the name feeling strange on his lips. His mind drifting back deep into thoughts of the past, he spoke as if he were talking to himself. "I believe that to be the finest, though all three are equal in their power."

"They are now hidden, in the hands of worthy bearers of our people," said Maegisil, trying to explain more to Narisiel, knowing that his lord's words were most likely only helping to confuse the elf woman. He understood that Celebrimbor was at the moment unable to speak directly concerning the Rings, but he could not help but feel disappointed again, as he had many times since the creation of those rings. It seemed that the Lord of Eregion was not completely able to face his past, and it had seemed that way for far too many years.

"And yet I expect them to become the bane of our people." The Lord of the Mirdain had not yet brought his head up from resting in his hands.

"But the most powerful of the Rings are in the hands of our people, and their power protects them from the threat of Sauron," said Maegisil.

Finally Celebrimbor raised his head up to look at his companions. Several tears ran down his otherwise composed face. "There is no power here in Eregion to protect us."

[piosenniel]

Pain . . . there had been pain . . . he remembered that . . . and then a deep blanketing darkness . . .

Muffled sounds broke in on his reviving awareness. The sounds of boots echoing against stone and the flow of voices. His brother’s voice. Skald – worried and demanding. The soft calm voices of others . . . like gentle breezes soughing through leaves, he thought.

There was the sound of crying and the cool touch of a hand on his brow. One fat tear fell splashing near the corner of his eye, skidding in small warm rivulets into the thick tangles of his beard. His eyelids unglued themselves and fluttered open. A familiar face swam into view, followed by another crowding over him.

‘Riv?’ The ragged voice of his wife called out his name, a hint of hope lifting it at the end.

He could see his brother turning now to call someone else over. Then the faces of Skald and Unna drew back as an unfamiliar face loomed over him. Dark haired, angular, free of any beard. Grey eyes that glistened, as granite does when it catches the light. An Elven face!

‘Welcome back, Master Dwarf!’ the Elf said. His hand and arm slid under Riv’s shoulders and brought the Dwarf to a sitting position. ‘Your wife has made some rich, good broth for you. Will you try a little, now that you are fully awake?’

Riv blinked his eyes, bringing the rest of the room into focus. It was the great gathering hall for the Stonecut family. About it were a number of beds holding Dwarves and Elves with varying degrees of injury. Among them came and went a number of Dwarven healers from the different families and with them strode a number of the Elves, conferring over those hurt.

The Elf who had raised his head for him must be a healer, Riv thought. Having checked Riv’s bandages, the Elf stepped back as Unna and Skald rushed in to support him. They piled pillows and cushions at his back; then, Unna, a smile of welcome and relief on her fair face, fetched up the bowl of broth she had made and began to spoon some toward his lips.

‘Here, now, wife!’ growled Riv, looking disconcertedly at her. ‘I’m no babe in diapers to need feeding!’ He reached toward the spoon with his right arm, bringing on a deep groan from the awakened pain.

Unna laughed, a bright, light sound that spilled through the space between them. Skald smacked him soundly on his left shoulder with a, ‘What do you think you’re doing, you great blockhead! That Elf just got you stitched back together! And now you want to start bleeding all over yourself again!’

With a snort of bare acquiescence, Riv settled back against the piled cushions and took a mouthful of broth. The pain in his left side and arm was beginning to dull again as he kept it still. Before he took another bite, he glanced about the lamp-lit room.

‘Where is Bror?’ he asked. ‘And Uncle Orin? And those others of our companions who went with us?’ He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his memory. ‘Last I remember was Brand, knocking an arrow, the silvered arrow, to his bowstring. There were Orcs, then, rushing madly at us.’ Riv frowned, and shook his head again. ‘After that, there is only darkness . . . until now . . .’