Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Firefoot]

The march was cold – no one could deny that. It could hardly be considered inordinately difficult, though; that is, unless that one was Ulwakh.

He limped along, doing the best he could to keep up, and for the first hour or so he did fairly well, once some of the initial stiffness (resulting mostly from the cold) had worn off.

Then, conditions seemed to take a turn for the worse. The company reached the start of the mountain pass, and the terrain grew to be rougher and rougher. Ulwakh’s limp became more pronounced, and the now-hardened goop which Grimkul had spread upon the leg to stop the bleeding cracked. In this lay the one benefit of the cold weather: the blood had thickened, so that the flow was not nearly as heavy as it might have been. After a little while, it stopped of its own accord. This did not help Ulwakh, though, who was still recuperating from his severe loss of blood the previous afternoon.

Once more, Grimkul did what little he could to help, fending off other Orcs with a nasty look or, in an unusual display of what was almost affection, catching Ulwakh by the arm to keep him from stumbling too badly.

In the grand scheme of things, however, these helped little. Very slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the pair dropped back through the ranks until they were almost in the very back. Once or twice Ulwakh glanced back and saw Kharn eyeing him, as if considering a choice word or two.

Ulwakh’s old reluctance to attract the attention of anyone higher up resurfaced. For a little while he redoubled his efforts to keep up, knowing his very life might depend on it. In doing so, however, his wound reopened and this time it was not nearly so quick in mending itself.

About half way through the march, Ulwakh knew that he was nearly spent; save by some happening of extraordinary luck, he doubted he would be able to continue at this pace. He stumbled.

“You mountain maggots aren’t even fit to march!” jeered Kharn from behind. “We shoulda left you back at the camp this morning – you’re just holding everyone else back!” Ulwakh scrambled back to his feet with difficulty – he had to hang on, had to keep going…

But Grimkul’s irritation awakened – no one insulted Ulwakh but him, and as for ‘mountain maggot,’ well, he came from the mountains, too! At Ulwakh’s fierce persuading, Grimkul held his peace for the moment, but Kharn had noticed how easy it was to cow the smaller one and took more frequent opportunity to insert his jeers, and not just towards Ulwakh, either. Grimkul did not take the goading well and finally refused to be knocked into submission any more. An ugly look on his face and hand on sword hilt, Grimkul turned to face the larger, higher-ranked Orc.

“Grimkul, don’t,” pleaded Ulwakh vainly.

“You,” said Grimkul, putting a particularly ugly emphasis on the word, “leave him alone.”

Kharn appeared somewhat surprised by this resistance but largely unfrightened. “And what are you going to do about it? Attack me?” he scoffed, though he had moved his hand to his own weapon lest he be caught defenseless. Ulwakh cursed to himself, knowing the direction this was headed and not liking it at all.

Thus provoked, Grimkul drew his scimitar; the sound echoed faintly in the mountain pass. Snarling, he launched a furious blow towards Kharn, who had just enough time to get his own sword between the opposing blade and himself. Hearing the ring of metal upon metal, the entire company stopped. Ulwakh sank to the ground, taking the opportunity to rest for a moment for its full value, though he did keep a pair of twisted throwing knives at hand should they prove necessary.

Grimkul backed off for a moment in the stunned silence. Kharn, thinking that Grimkul had learned better, lowered his weapon slightly. There was a shout from the front of the line – the Captain, thought Ulwakh – which diverted Kharn’s attention for the barest second, which Grimkul took advantage of. No longer heeding his scimitar, Grimkul simply lunged upon Kharn, bringing him down with his momentum. They hit the ground with Kharn on bottom and within moments Grimkul had his broken dagger pressed to Kharn’s throat.

“Now, what were you saying?” Grimkul snarled.

[Arry]

In the city of the Jewelsmiths

‘Too exposed here. Don’t you think?’ Skald stood with the others in the great square while the leaders of the city welcomed their kin from Lorien. The Dwarves had fallen back, as the Mirdain crowded about the company sent by the Lady. Riv’s eyes, he noted, moved here and there taking in the sights of the city. So engrossed was his older brother in his own thoughts that he did not hear Skald’s whispered observation.

Skald stepped a few paces away to where his younger brother stood. Bror, too, was looking about. Skald could not tell if his thoughts about the Elven city were positive or negative. ‘Well, what do you think, little brother?’ Skald asked, jutting his chin toward the great, light structures that thrust up from the earth like tall crystals. ‘It’s too . . . well . . . open . . . for my taste. No place here to make a stand, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course. But seems to me if you’re going up against . . . that black-hearted bootlicker . . . you’d best have some good thick rock between you and his filthy Orcs and such.’ He shifted from foot to foot, anxious for the meet-and-greet to be over. They’d seen the Elves safely to the city; their task was done in his mind. The sooner they were safe within the halls of Khazad-dum, the better he would feel.

[piosenniel]

Encaitare's post


Kharn was pinned to the snow-dusted ground, still holding onto his sword but unable to use it. He glared up at Grimkul, being careful not to move too much lest the blade cut him.

"Get off me, you stinkin' rat. You'll make the captain angry, and then you'll have more to worry about than whether your useless friend over there can keep up." Grimkul did not move, and Kharn actually feared for his life. He was careful, however, to let his face betray nothing but arrogance. "Didn't you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as daft?"

There was silence as the two fiercely stared at one another, neither moving; the orcs nearby looked on, wondering if they were going to witness the second killing of their own in two days. Another shout was heard, louder than the first, from Glûtkask up ahead. Kharn had no doubt that the captain would not hesitate to kill Grimkul on the spot.

"Grimkul," the orc on the ground said, twisting his head in the direction of the noise. Grimkul turned to look at his friend, and Kharn seized the moment to deliver a punch to his assailant's throat. As Grimkul gasped for breath, Kharn was able to push him off and climb to his feet. Grimkul tried to get up, but Kharn kicked him and he stayed down, catching his breath.

"No need to fret about your friend," Kharn said cruelly. "I think I can help him move along. Now get up." He waited for Grimkul to pull himself up and move in front of him, casting anrgy, resentful glances his way. Kharn wasn't about to let some crazed, murderous soldier behind him -- that was an invitation to get your back cloven or your throat cut. Why was he so protective of the injured one, anyway?

He took a whip that hung at his belt and let it roll out. He cracked it, watching with relish as some of the orcs flinched at the sound and what it forbode. "Here's some motivation for you slugs," he grinned, looking evilly at Grimkul and Ulwakh. "And especially for you two. Now move!"

[Folwren]

‘It is very open,’ Bror answered absently, his eyes roving about the structures. ‘But they are beautiful.’ He felt an uneasy movement from Skald and he finally looked back down to earth at him. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ he asked, half amused. ‘Anyone would think that this Sauron fellow has got you scared stiff without even giving you a glance at him. You’ve been too serious since Riv told you about Him and all that. Why worry? Our walls are thick, even if these walls aren’t. His shadow will not trouble us beyond that which our mountain already casts on our halls.’

He stopped and looked back up at the white buildings around him. A second thought passed through his mind and a shadow of some sadness crossed his face and clouded his expression. The great caverns in which he lived may remain untouched, as he truly believed, but he suddenly realized that it would be a grim and woeful day when such a city as this were destroyed and laid in ruin on the ground.

His dark, foreboding thoughts were broken before long. Skald was tugging at his sleeve and Bror turned impatiently. ‘Come on,’ was all his brother said.

What in world’s bothering him? Bror wondered. He hasn’t hardly been acting himself at all these past weeks. I ought to do something about that... And with thoughts of how he might get Skald out of his quiet, uncomfortable mood (Bror thought it was uncomfortable) with different pranks that would have to call for some sort of revenge, Bror followed his brothers and the rest of the dwarves back down the wide, fair streets and out of the gates.

The road home was before them - well known to a few of the dwarves. Their futures also stretched in front of them, but no one had trod that path before, and likewise, no one could tell where it would lead.

[Arestevana]

“Unfurl your banner, master elf,” called out the rough but pleasant voice of one of their guides, a dwarf called Riv.
Gilduin gladly stepped forward and loosed the standard to display its colors. Beside him the one named Orin gave voice to a silver horn. Though not the clear, poignant song of elven horns, the call still sent a shiver down Gilduin’s spine, ringing through the hills like the voice of the earth itself. As the echoes faded, the elves of Lindórinan and their dwarven guides went down to the city of the Mírdain, glittering like a bright gem in the morning sun.

They were met at the gates and welcomed inside, where they gathered in a great central square. While Celeborn and Eldegon talked with Celebrimbor and others leaders of the great city, the Mirdain crowded around the contingent with welcoming smiles. Some of those from the golden wood had friends or kinsmen among the jewelsmiths, and there were joyful excalamations as they found those they knew among the crowd.

Gilduin, recognizing none of the smiling faces of the Mírdain, looked instead at the fair white buildings of the city. Themselves a work of great craftsmanship, they rose with graceful strength to proud spires adorned with bright pennants. It seemed that every part of the Ost-in-Edhil had been crafted with most loving attention. Both delicate and diamond-strong the city seemed, composed as it was of silver and white. Bright flowers and vibrant silks ornamented the streets and buildings like jewels.

As mithril to silver and gold is this city to Gondolin and Lorien the Fair. Gilduin thought, transfixed by the beauty that surrounded him. He turned to Vaele, who stood beside him.
“Surely, my friend, this city is the greatest work of the Mírdain!”

[piosenniel]

‘Mami! Mami!’ came the high piping voice as he spied the smiling face of his father peer round one of the entryway’s stone uprights that led into the Stonecuts’ kitchen area. Leifr ran fast as his little legs would carry him, his feet slap-slapping over the smooth, polished floor.

‘There’s my boy!’ cried Riv, crouching down, arms outstretched. He gave the boy a gentle bearish hug; then holding him at arms’ length he kissed him on the brow as his fingers went up to brush back several errant curls. Leifr clung to his leg, giggling, as Riv rose up, taking a ride along one his father’s great thick leg as he made his way with one stiff leg across the kitchen to his wife.

Unna was watching from her place by the granite sink. She had turned at Leifr’s cry, her eyes kindling with relief and laughter. Leaning her back against the lip of the sink, she dried her hands on her apron, watching with delight the approach of her husband.

‘What?!’ said Riv in a deep voice, his brow raised as he stopped and looked toward her. ‘Where’s my girl? The one who used to come running when her handsome hero returned from dangerous missions?’ He motioned for her to come over to him. ‘I’ve one leg left, my dear. Wouldn’t you like a little ride about the kitchen with the little lizard on my other leg?’

A bright ripple of laughter escaped, filling the space between husband and wife. ‘Oof!’ returned Unna, her laugh now quieted into a smile. ‘I’m sure I would crush your hero’s feet, boots or no, if I were to take up your offer.’ Her hand strayed down to rest on her great belly. ‘I’m afraid while you were gone my weight’s gone up a stone and a half at least!’ She drew near him and placed his hand on her rippling belly. ‘The baby’s dropped. And I’m eating constantly . . . seems he . . . or she,’ Unna said, looking up into Riv’s face, ‘needs food, food, and more food for this last spurt of growing.’

‘Grandma says she’s like a starved dragon, Papi,’ Leifr put in. ‘Eat anything not hidden under a rock.’ Both his parents burst out in laughter at this passed on comment.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Unna motioning to Riv’s chair at the table’s head. ‘I’m not that ravenous. There’s a bit of ham left and a loaf of bread from today with sweet butter. And you’re in luck, I just finished tomorrow’s soup and left it near the fire to gently cook.’ She soon had a hearty meal set before him, and a cup of ale. For Leifr she poured a small cup of cider and gave him a sugared cookie, studded with nuts. Seating herself to Riv’s right, she picked at pieces of his buttered bread, watching him fondly as he ate. ‘Is this the last of the Elves coming through,’ she asked as he chewed on a bit of ham and bread. Will you be close about now . . . at your own forge?’

He smiled, knowing the answer she desired . . .

[Arry]

The months since the trip to the Elven city with those from Lorien had been quiet ones. Stay at home ones. Safe ones, for the most part, save for the reports that came in with increasing frequency telling of more Orcs and other foul beasts that crept like a dark blight west from Mirkwood and Sauron’s black lands, and south from the old tunnels in the northern Misty Mountains . . . all heading toward Eriador. The Dwarves had gathered themselves safe inside their halls. Venturing out only if great need called them. There was plenty for them to do at their own forges . . . and truth be told, they liked their own company best of all . . .

His niece was born a month after their return from Ost-in-edhil. It was a joyous event, the birth of a fine, healthy baby . . . and doubly blessed in that it was a little girl. Ginna, she had been named, her father holding her high above his head in the great hall that all might see her and give welcome. Her dark brown curls had glints of red that lay deep within them; her big, dark eyes glittered like faceted obsidian beneath the bright lights of the glassy lamps set round to light the room. She was a welcome gift and for a long space of time the joy of her coming pushed back the shadow that niggled in the background thoughts of Stonecut family.

----------

‘Ach! You’ll pull out my beard little nieceling!’ Skald sat in the oaken rocker by the fire, his feet propped on the raised hearth. The baby, now four months old, lay on a little quilt spread out along his leather clad thighs, her dark eyes catching the light from the crystal lamp above. Little stars glinted in the inky darkness of her pupils, as she watched with rapt attention the movement of her uncle’s face above her own. Skald’s beard had come near enough her fat little fists for her to entwine her fingers in it. And she wriggled and cooed as she yanked on the hairy toy.

‘You know,’ he said softly to her as he gently disentangled his beard from her hands. ‘You know you were almost called Dagny, don’t you? Your mami wanted to name you after one of the long gone aunts of hers, her favorite. But your papi, Riv, he’s my big brother, you know, he took one look at you and said your name was Ginna. “Enchantress.” ’ The baby’s eyes followed the nodding and shaking of Skald’s head and the smiles that creased his face as if she understood his every word. ‘It’s a good name, that one,’ he went on, letting her wrap her sturdy fingers about the thick little finger of each of his hands. ‘You’ve certainly enchanted your old uncle, here.’

He raised a brow and putting on a serious face, snorted at a sudden thought just come to him. ‘And don’t think when you get a little older you need to be trying your magics on any of the young bucks that come hanging round, hats in hand. No dimpled smiles or peeking looks from beneath those long lashes of yours.’ Skald hmmmph’d and nodded at her. ‘They’ll be having to pass my inspection before they get in arm’s length of you, little Gem!’

As if in protest at the unfair boundary he’d declared, Ginna puckered up her little face and began to fuss. Her legs and arms stiffened out and she let out a wail of complaint. Unna, hearing her daughter’s howl, scooped her up from Skald’s lap. She cuddled the little one against her shoulder, rocking her gently until the protests subsided. ‘Never tell a woman what she can and cannot do, brother-mine,’ she said, her mouth curved up in a smile at him. ‘We don’t tend to take that sort of thing well, at any age.’

‘Well, then, I’ll try to remember that, m’lady ,’ Skald answered, an abashed grin bowing his lips at the corners. ‘Nonetheless, the young scamps will have to get by Riv and Bror and me before they go bothering her with their calf eyes and such!’ Unna laughed quietly and shook her head at him.

Skald rose from his chair and fetched a cup for Bror and himself. Taking the ladle from the hook hanging near the hob, he dipped into the small kettle of mulled wine and poured them each a generous portion. His younger brother had sat near him and the baby, playing some soft melodies on his harp. Between the two of them, they had learned a number of lullabies and little songs that Ginna seemed to like. Bror’s head was bent over as he listened closely to the quiet notes his fingers plucked. Skald’s back was to the inattentive musician as he fixed the potation and stirred the steaming cups with a small wooden spoon.

‘Put your harp away and have a drink with me while Unna puts the baby to sleep,’ Skald said, placing a cup in front of his brother. ‘Riv should be done soon. He’s finishing up some helmets for the Hardhammers; setting them with those blood red beryls he and his crew got from one of the lower mines. He’ll join us, I’m sure, when he comes up.’ Skald set an empty cup on the hearth near a chair he’d drawn up for his older brother. His own cup he picked up, and raising it to Bror, winked, saying, ‘To your good health little brother!’ He took a large swig and swallowed it, his glittering eyes on Bror.

His guard down, the youngest Stonecut brother, set his harp carefully on the floor beside him and picked up his mug. He joined Skald in a big drink. No sooner had the warm liquid hit his tongue than he spluttered, turning red in the face at the vinegary taste, and spit it back into his cup.

‘Gotcha!’ Skald laughed aloud, and was as quickly shushed by Unna from the corner where the cradle stood. ‘Oh, here!’ he said, clapping Bror on the back as he continued to sputter. Skald dumped the contents of the sour drink down the sink, and in full view of Bror, ladled him out another. He handed it to him with a wink and sat down in his chair, rocking back as he thrust his feet toward the coals. Bror glared at him as he sipped the undoctored drink, trying to drive the sour taste from his mouth. Skald laughed again, this time quietly and shook his shoulders.

‘Oh well,’ he sighed, grinning a little at his brother’s discomfort. ‘I suppose I shall have to be on the look out now, won’t I . . . for some payback trick of yours . . .’