Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

The Elves of the Courtyard

It was if the great stone maw of the gate opened wide and sucked inward on itself. Tall grey eyed, grim faced Elves pressed against the boundaries of the courtyard. And as one, they drew their blades, stirring a silent wind that seemed to pull the companions toward them.

A great shout went up . . . The Standard Bearer! . . . The Union stands . . . it is not broken! The low thrumming whisper of Maedhros! Maedhros! Has our Lord returned? Will we be avenged on those foul Orcs?

Loose dirt and debris rode the whirlwind that now stirred in the courtyard . . . they flew on the currents that coursed over the tumbled walls . . . driving hard against the attacking Orcs . . .

[Anguirel]

The Helm, Ghashthurk thought, as it toppled to the ground! The Dragonhelm was loosed, and the Elf scrabbling for his blade would soon be rent, spirit severed from body. He could tell by the grey veins in his weary face.

"Now, worm-filth!" the Captain shrieked. "The prize is ours..."

But his screeching imperatives went unheard in the sheer, irreparable chaos that was seizing the Orcs crowding for the Elf-maid's blood. Many had joined Bazhrat, eager to take her, remembering the twisted joy that torture of Elven females had brought them long ago. Only a few kept order;

Kragscurk and his detachment repelling the short one, the bearer of the shining broadsword, and his companions, the other blademaster and the pair similar of countenance, from their attempt to reach the gate. But that the twins had been able to reinforce the warriors was in itself a failure. Ghashthurk spat a gobbet of rheum that could no longer instil material disgust onto the ground. The one remaining Orc at his side, the stupendously dull but loyal Rubgrakh, looked to him for orders. Grashthurk spat.

"Possess the helm and roll it, cretin. I will handle the Elf and reorder the scum over there." Obediently, Rubgrakh's essence dissolved into the massive, darkly golden helmet, and it began to tumble down the hill...meanwhile Ghashthurk soared to the scene of the quarrel, slapping and snarling and biting. Cowed, the underlings would stream away from Tasareni, two blocking Lindir, the rest joining Malris's foes...

It was then that the shout from...from Them rang out calling the Elvish name of Red Fury, and even Ghashthurk felt that, had he been solid, his own water would be running down his leg. They wouldn't leave the gate, would they? Surely not? Kragscurk seemed to fear that they might; his lads were flailing their translucent arms with little enthusiasm now, backing away...

***

"The affairs of the deserters who left us to die in the retreat are not ours," said the Diviner coldly, ignoring the guards shouting their lost lord's name. "We should allow them to die and crawl back to us, repentant. Such are the ways of fate."

"Silence, soothsayer," answered the Seneschal with a growl. "They were obeying Lord Maedhros' orders. I knew Malris..."

"And I Lindir," the Mastersmith seconded. "They were no cowards."

"What of Tasareni? You should ask that poor little chit Giledhel about that faithless..." the Diviner began.

"It is time," the Chamberlain said simply, and the exhortations of the sentries and Elves-at-arms faded, along with the forms themselves. For a moment the Orcs would be filled with new heart; until, once more, the Island resounded with the strains of a harp and the sound of a peerlessly powerful, perpetually youthful Voice...

***

He burnt like a white fire within
He ne'er forgot the chains of yore
He would not shun dread battle's din
He hunted e'ermore.
The craven foes would shudder, flee,
Yet ne'er had swiftness as did he,
And when the Prince's trumpets sound,
The Orcs are filled with dole therefore...

***

Just as the Elves had mustered and then receded, so too did the Orcs, still more suddenly than they had come; the next strong wind took them with it, into the north and east. The six comrades gazed at each other; Malris, Lomwe, Endamir and Oremir, still in warlike postures as though trying to seize the gate; Tasa, elevated on the rock where she had crawled for her defiance; Lindir, pale, cold, and shivering, his sword unsteady in his hand, just drawn; and the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, visible in its dull aureate nature by starlight, an unspeaking denunciation.

[Envinyatar]

‘Come, friends!’ Orëmir shouted, breaking from the frozen tableaux. His hand clasped Endamir’s arm and hauled him, blinking, from his place. The wind which had blown away the Orcish spirits had died down, leaving only a few swirls of dust and small debris to settle to the ground. Both brothers rubbed at their eyes, wiping away the dust which had filmed them.

‘Let’s get inside the gate,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits.’ He bade Endamir go ahead and saw his brother clap Lómwë on the shoulder and nod toward the gate. Malris looked to be alright, and Orëmir was sure he would see to Tasa.

Lindir seemed the worst beset of all the companions. His sword hung limply now in his grasp, and he looked in a disconcerted manner toward the gate and then back toward where the helm he’d held now lay. ‘Leave it, Lindir,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand near him. ‘Let us go into the fortress, now. There are naught but us here who can carry the helm. It will be safe . . . safer than we are at the moment, especially if those creatures return.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her call to hope had done little good... though her comrades seemed for the moment encouraged, the bitter coldness of horror eminating from the restless spirits still pierced deep.

Tasa shrunk into the rock, trying unsuccessfully to remain unseen. To hide from shadow... what folly, most especially at night. she chided herself. She raised her dagger, shimmering in the moonlight, in hopes that memory of flashing swords and cries of the Eldar would torment these restless spirits. Their transparent faces seemed cowed for the moment... she began to back off of her precarious perch, feeling with her toes, eyes never leaving those of her persuers.

She screamed high as an ice cold blade seemed to pierce her from behind through the tough muscle by her shoulder. It seemed to melt as she turned and she felt her skin, endowed as it was by the grace of Eru, begin to knit itself together once more. The blade was not of this world, and yet it cut so deeply. She marvelled for a moment, admiring the desolate sheen. Her attention was locked on the ghosted blade perilously for a moment that lasted an age. Time stood still as she glanced at the markings... she trembled, unable to respond to the memories that tore through her mind.

She had lost grip on her left blade... it lay by her feet once more. Blocking with the right, she swept toward the ground, intent on retrieval. Malris' voice cut the air and she reacted, turning her head to the sound. She felt hot iron tear her skin as blood welled from her jawline. She glanced at the blade, now glistening crimson in the light of fires. She blocked its second pass easily, pulling her leg up and outward, breaking several of her enemy's ribs with one motion. She slit his throat mercilessly before wiping the streaming blood from her face with one gloved hand. She glanced at his fallen blade before returning to battle... harsh marking adorned it... the hilt was carved as a skull with glinting eyes laughing at her from the depths. She spat is distaste and turned her mind from it.

She looked still to the blade that had swept through the night and into her flesh once more. Ghosted rubies smiled terror in the shadows of the fight. She shuddered again, remembering that battle. She could still feel the warm blood coursing down her neck to pool slightly in her collar before dripping harmlessly to the ground as she cut down orc after orc, though that wound had healed so very long ago.

The orc advanced slowly and Tasa looked up, startled back to the present. She was completely surrounded by a gyrating throng of unresting death. Her stomach reeled at the wrongness of it all. She uttered a desparate prayer to the Valar and steeled herself against the cold that she felt so deeply. She crouched, ready to fight to the last. Suddenly their attention turned. The orcs screeched at each other in their harsh words and turned against themselves. As they began to tear into each other, the wind tore through the group, spreading them far and fast. Momentarily safe, Tasa ran at full speed across the rough ground and toward her companions. Upon reaching Malris, she nodded understanding at the quick question in his eyes. He had noticed the new scar adorning her face, mirroring that of old. She glanced her own quiery to him and he nodded.

She dropped to her knees, swinging her pack to the ground. He stood above her on guard as she quickly traded her short dagger for her twin blades. She hoisted her pack once more to her blood-stained shoulder and rose spinning, her silver swords flashing through the night. She stepped down, prepared for true battle should it again arise, as she stood by her dearest friends' sides outside the gates.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a good while, Lindir was silent. He thought of leaping to his feet and clawing his way back down the hill so that he could again retrieve the helm and cradle it near his chest. He seemed to hear a ghostly melody, echoing a wistful call that he must turn back even if it meant leaving his companions. For an instant, he struggled towards the helm while still on his hands and knees, but he was unable to propel his body upward. He felt weighted down under a heavy burden of sorrow and shame, as if all the ugly spirits of the past had raised their heads in rebellion, reminding him of so much he had tried to forget.

More than that, his body refused to cooperate. His fingers reached down under his jerkin, only to feel a sticky trail of blood. Somewhere in the earlier melee, he had been injured. He could not say exactly how or when. Perhaps the ghostly swords could inflict damage even on the living. Or perhaps it was the time he had fallen to the ground and struck his side against a boulder. Now, every time he breathed, a stabbing pain assailed him. The others in the group did not yet know, and he would do his best to keep that knowledge from them, at least until they returned to camp.

Defeated by the lengthening shadows in his head as well as the jagged waves of pain that spread in uneven waves throughout his body, Lindir glanced up at Oremir and shook his head. "I fear you are right. I would go back if I could. I hear the thing calling to me. But what my heart wants and what I can do seem to be two different things."

Doggedly, and with an arm from Oremir, Lindir rose once more and turned his face unwillingly to the fortress that stood above them. For a second his cloak fell forward. If any had looked, they could have seen a red stain that was even now visible on his shirt. Pushing the pain back down in a manner unique to those of his kind, Lindir flashed a sign of gratitude to Oremir for his words of assurance and steadying hand. At least he felt no anger there. He could not say the same about Malris. What madness was this to go forward after what they had seen?

Struggling forward to stand beside Malris, Lindir addressed him in a hushed but angry tone, "This place is full of evil. We do not belong here. Let us retrieve the helm and return to the ship while we still have time."

There was no audible response, only a harsh glance in return. "Very well, then," Lindir responded. "I have given my word and I follow you still. But if the very dead rise up against us, I do not know how much longer we can go forward, without madness descending on our heads."

Still, there was no response. For the first time, Lindir began to wonder if Malris had known all along what had awaited them on the isle, but had kept the secret to himself, fearing that otherwise his companions would not come. He muttered this dire thought to himself under his breath, now knowing or caring if Malris could hear the words. Then pain took over, and Lindir could do little more than put one foot in front of the other, willing his body up the hill.

[Firefoot]

Into the courtyard. Yes, of course. Lómwë nodded wearily as Endamir laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits,” Orëmir continued. Lómwë doubted it. What protection would stone be against spirits? Abruptly, he twisted around and looked down far below them at their ship, swaying in the tide. The best protection would be to leave this cursed fortress. His resolve to remain was rapidly decreasing as his doubt in his own judgment increased. What did he expect to find here?

Malris and Tasa were already at the gate. Endamir seemed to be waiting for him. “You are having doubts.”

“Yes. It is getting worse… storms, then voices, now an attack – yet, ‘On,’ we say, ‘push on.’ Maybe you were right. Maybe we ought to turn back.” Now they were drawing near to the gate, then they were through. Lómwë shivered slightly as they passed under the crumbling arch.

The first thing that struck him was the lack of color; the place felt dead. All that remained were dull metals and rock – no banners, no flowers, no nothing remained to enliven the ruins.

“Well, Malris,” said Lómwë, a twinge of accusation in his voice, “you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?”

[piosenniel]

Endamir found himself in a curious mood. The foggy thoughts, the rush of battle energy had now gone from him. He felt hollow, as if what were left had shrunk somehow and now rattled about in this shell of a body. The courtyard had an unreal feel to it, and despite his brother’s words to the contrary he felt no safer upon its paving stones than he had upon the rough ground outside the fortress.

As if from some far place, he could hear the sound of Lómwë’s voice. He focused his thoughts, trying to catch what he asked. ‘Well, Malris, you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?’ He looked toward Malris, waiting his response. He laughed grimly as his eyes went to the crumbling gate arch. It hung together precariously, one hard push against it and it, too, would come crashing down among its brother stones.

Endamir pulled his cloak about him, shivering and feeling suddenly quite weary. His knees felt like jelly. With a tired sigh, he leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword.