Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

The bright sun through Artamir's closed eyelids gave a deep red-tint illumination to the darkness of his eyes, his head tilted slightly towards it like the petals of a delicate flower. Once more, the young soldier was reclining somewhat precariously on the city walls, head propped up by his rolled-up cloak, one knee casually raised and one loose hand hanging somewhat dangerously down on the outside of the wall - one hand venturing out of Ost-in-Edhil's boundaries, and most of his mind venturing away with it as he dozed in the sunlight on his precarious perch like a sleepy cat...

"You again? You young scruff, tell me: what do you actually spend your days doing, besides cluttering the place? Any chance of any work being done, or is it all play for-”

Artamir initially started, sitting bolt-upright like a sleeper waking from a nightmare, before he recognised the face that went with the mocking voice – Leneslath, his voice deepened so as to mock their commander, but on his shoulder, the early morning sun glinting off them smartly, his new officer’s stripes were anything but fake. Maybe war had not yet broken, but already the pot-shots taken by the orcs and wild men were paying, Eregion was counting her casualties, and their guilty subordinates were rising into the shoes of dead men. Such dark thoughts were far from Artamir’s mind though as he relaxed, sitting back against the parapet against which he had been resting earlier. “Ah, hush, Captain Windbag; I am not due on watch yet. Not ‘til second watch…” he sighed lazily and shrugged himself more comfortably against the cold stone as into a goose-feather mattress.

“Captain Windbag nothin’. And this is second watch, you great lazy lummox; unlike some, I am not in the habit of hanging around the sentry posts for fun.”

“Lummox yourself,” Artamir muttered petulantly, opening his eyes into narrow slits, the whites glittering brightly as he glared balefully at the older elf. Finally conceding, he swung his lithe legs wearily off the wall and stretched his arms and shoulders up and back as if unaware of the perilous drop not half a foot behind him. Lenesltath didn’t take the bait by flinching towards him as he usually did – the young officer was more naturally a foot soldier and wasn’t exactly overfond of the heights with which Artamir was so at ease with and so gleefully teased him – and instead leant the unfurled standard he had been carrying against the wall and took off the pack he had been carrying, kneeling down to fish efficiently inside it for something or other. From a foot above him, Artamir looked down, his head cocked to one side as he blinked, still clearing sleep from his eyes. “I thought I was on watch with that grouch Tereborn this morning? Forget not a morning person, that boy isn’t even a…a life person—”

“He’s ill, Artamir.” Something about the way Leneslath’s hands paused and the tone in which he said the words made Artamir stop, taken aback. His friend looked up, biting his lip, a gesture that made him look even younger. “The villagers who came in last night brought their dead with them, or as many as they could carry. Seems that…that the dead bodies were a little older.”

Artamir grimaced, nodding and wishing he had chosen a better wording for his previous supposedly-humorous sentence. Despite the occasional casualties among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil, those who lived in the villagers that sprawled for miles around the great city were far worse off, and the exodus of villagers from the countryside into the Ost-in-Edhil more than made up for the losses – much more. Even the affluent, well-spaced city was becoming crowded, and where there is crowding, even a hint of sickness spreads fast…

Squinting up at Artamir against the sun, Leneslath changed the subject to a hopefully less depressing topic for such a bright morning. “But what about you; you have been sat here since…when? Do you just live here now?” he teased with a grin. Artamir returned the gesture, but his smile was a little sad as he raised a hand to try to smooth down his dark hair. “Maybe, maybe!” he replied with a somewhat rueful laugh. Leneslath frowned, giving him an odd smile, but didn’t speak, bidding him with his silence to continue. Artamir sighed and jumped down from the wall, turning to face the rising sun, now hanging some way in the sky, although the moon was still visible in the West. “My father is spending more time with his platoon, and my mother more time still either in her forge or with Lord Celebrimbor. And when they are both together…” Artamir paused, looking at his fingers as he curled them almost protectively into fists. He shook his head, looking up once more into the sun, then sun shining boldly onto his handsome face. His friend nodded, rising from his knees and standing just behind the other. “I understand,” he replied quietly. He shrugged, although the gesture was lost on Artamir. “Both your parents are needed, now that—”

“I know, I know. But when they spend so much time away, and then finally when they come together…” the younger elf interrupted abruptly, his fingers tightening. His face softened once more as he straightened out his long fingers slowly over the stone, the surface smoothed from years of the hands and boots of bored sentries. He half turned to face Leneslath. “I wish I knew what was happening. I wish I could help.”

The other elf nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder; he knew that Artamir was not only speaking with regard to the strain that had been put on his own family by the plight of the city. When Eregion they were sworn to protect seemed to be entering such dark times, yet everyone seemed afraid to openly declare the inevitable… Leneslath gave Artamir an awkward, comforting pat. “I know how you feel, Artamir,” he said softly. “Everyone does now.”

~*~

Not one hundred metres away but invisible to her son, hidden as she was once more in her forge, Narisiel was also caught up in thoughts of her family. Leaning against the door, looking out under the eaves of the holly bush that remained flourishing around the entrance, her arms folded, she stared up at the walls, imagining the whereabouts of her small family, where they could be, what they were doing. Nowadays she didn’t always know. During the days she was away in her forge, meeting with others of her own profession as they, with the rest of the city, made practical preparations for the unspoken war; going to the palace to speak with Celebrimbor; or just sitting here, on her own, wishing, wishing so hard that there was only something more that she could do. But it was not only the strain on the city that had recently caused Narisiel’s unhappiness…

A sharp, shouted command from the archery practise ground not far from the smith’s workshop caused her to turn slightly, so appropriately fitting in with the object of her thoughts as it did.

Sirithlonnior.

Ever since the forging of the rings, when the betrayal had become evident and Narisiel had shyed away from Celebrimbor and his household, separating herself from the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil in hopes of unravelling herself from the whole sorry business, her husband had supported her in her decisions, and had himself become more remote from Celebrimbor; the two men had once been good friends, but the distance of one hundred years and Narisiel’s broken trust had stretched between them. And in that time, although her mind sometimes did come back to dwell on the rings, the pair had been happy, had flourished, had had they precious son…

But now, ever since Narisiel had begun to work more closely with Celebrimbor once more, another distance had grown, this time between herself and Sirith: as she and her Lord became closer, she and her husband seemed to drift further apart. And bridging the distance seemed so hard now… She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of last night’s argument, a row in the aftermath of which she had left silently in the morning without waking Sirith, a row in which he had said things, thrown about accusations, which he would no doubt wish to take back later, but which seemed to hurt all the more even for that.

“Remember what he did to you before, Narisiel, remember how he dropped you into such a dangerous business – do you want to get into that again?”

“A dangerous—?! For gods’ sakes, Sirith, doesn’t that seem a little rich coming from a soldier?”

“That’s what I do, Narisiel! That is my job! At least I'm honest about it, I’m not the one working under alterior motives—”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I am wondering whether it isn’t so much the draw of Celebrimbor’s counsel that is taking my wife from me, but maybe the great Lord himself…”

Narisiel squeezed her eyes tight shut, forcing back the tears that she had cried silently onto her pillow last night after she had left the room without another word, hounded by her husband’s all-too-belated apologies. Words spoken in spite may exaggerate feelings, dramatise and dress up what is not there, but sometimes, maybe more often than not, they reveal the true feelings, opinions that have brooded and festered under the surface and now explode like a filthy wound, leaving so much hurt to both parties in their wake. Did her husband truly believe what he had said? How could he think that…

“Good morning, Narisiel.”

The smith’s eyes flew open wide abruptly as her head snapped around to face Maegisil. She relaxed: the voice had surprised her from her thoughts, but her fellow counsellor had become more of a friend in recent years. Both of them kept their silences on many things, but nevertheless they were able to talk, and to laugh. Now, looking at other elf, a man who would not judge her and who knew her just well enough to confide in, Narisiel felt her worries bubbling up, needing a release… But they would have to wait for a while, it seemed; Maegisil’s expression was grave.

“A council has been called, Narisiel; Lord Celebrimbor wishes you, and the others, to come to the palace as soon as possible.”

“A council?” Narisiel straightened up, surprise written on her pale face. “An official council? What has provoked this?” Maegisil did not immediately answer, and the sense of foreboding in Narisiel’s chest began to grow. “Maegisil?” she pressed. “What is it?”

The other did not reply for a moment, looking up at the walls where the sentries, oblivious, made small talk as they watched the horizon for the threat that would all too soon come; where Narisiel’s so-precious son was growing up, a soldier, threatened by a danger that Narisiel herself had helped to create. When he looked back, after a moment’s silence, his solemn eyes confirmed her fear. “The enemy’s army,” he replied simply. “They have been sighted.”

The elven smith stared at him for a moment then, without further ado, she fumbled to undo the sturdy leather apron and, with the female elf still wearing her workman’s clothes, the pair made for the palace as quickly as possible.

[Mithalwen]

Like Artamir, Losrian was sitting high on the city walls tucked in a niche. Her life had changed rather in the past months and it seemed to her that this was one of the few places one could breathe freely and she was protected from any stray arrows by over a foot of pale stone. Despite the sun she was glad of her cloak as she ate her habitual midday meal of bread and cheese and watched the people milling around the city.

So many people now... her own household had doubled in size. Laswen's parents had arrived from the outlands. They would have come anyway for the birth of their grandson but with the danger increasing they were also refugees. Losrian had yielded her chamber in the house to them and now slept in a tiny room - part of the loft above her brother's workshop.

She was not sorry for all activity in the house now revolved around her tiny nephew. While he was adorable the constant baby worship got a bit much for Losrian... especially when he was newborn she hadn't understood how the others could just look at him for hours - it wasn't as if he did anything apart from gurgle and wave his tiny fists in the air. Oh,and pull her hair - for some reason the infant had seemed to find her silver tresses so much more appealing than the dark ones of his parents. Part of her wondered if such focus on the child was normal or if it was enhanced by the desire to think of anything but the approaching menace. The child had been named Galmir by his father but his mother name was the bleak, if realistic, Dagorion - scion of battle.

Now just on a year old Galmir was more entertaining but also more demanding as he toddled about engaging the adults in his childish prattle. Losrian was content to return to the house only for mealtimes. Laswen's parents had brought as much of their stores and stock as they could and they were fitted in wherever possible - part of the workshop was a makeshift byre and the rest of Losrian's loft was filled with grain and so forth. many of the outland dwellers had done likewise and the city seemed bursting with people and beasts, all feeling the tension of the storm that approached, a powderkeg that was waiting to explode.

Losrian filled her days with activity. She had fewer domestic tasks but there was plenty of work for the smiths. She could not even guess now how many scores of arrows she had crafted - for the past few months it had not been a question of developing her skills but putting such that she possessed to best use. And she kept up her archery, now using a longbow to match her stature - a coming of age gift from her brother. It had been a slightly incongruous gift - especially as that day Losrian had looked "like a lady not a tomboy" in the dress that Laswen had crafted - but it was one they all feared she would need.