Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the crowd pushed and milled in the courtyard, waiting for Celebrimbor to speak, and around the edges the soldiers stood guard, carefully and calmly placed by Commander Elgedon, the tension was rife among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil. After years of silence, they had all but forgotten their mute lord, brooding unseen in his palace, but as rumours spilled out and seeped out...well, even an impenetrable city has broachable walls, for no citizen can stand firm in the face of every threat. And now...now they were to hear him speak, to hear for themselves the fear assuaged, the rumours dismissed; although worried, there was an air of optimism and cheerfulness which hung around the awaiting citizens, despite the hastily called meeting, despite the stern, grim-faced soldiers who stood around them, a ring of statues sprung from the stone paving of the courtyard.

In the midst of the crowd, yet at the same time slightly apart, elevating as she was by standing at the top of the few steps that led down into the courtyard, a female figure stood, as stiffly tense as the soldiers around her, waiting for Celebrimbor to make his announcement. Narisiel’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs upon which she knew the elven lord would soon appear – appear to make the speech to his people that was going to change everything, not only the city, but personally to each of the elves who waited now in anticipation in the crowded courtyard. Some more than others…Narisiel swallowed fiercely, her eyes quickly flitting over the soldiers around the perimeter of the crowd. Rimborien, Dagonithil, Taurquarien…the faces, impassive and unyielding as stone, were each familiar to her, friends and acquaintances of many years. Terithian, Mordenigor…and Sirithlonnior, her own, as stern faced as the others. What was he thinking, what was happening beneath that stone façade? Had he seen her? No; he made no move towards her, neither physically nor with his eyes, no smile or wink as he usually would exchange. Maybe he had simply not yet noticed her, maybe he assumed that she was still within the palace but…in his gaze, fixedly watching the top of the stairs above, in his gaze…was that a fierceness in his eyes that set him apart from his comrades? And why not… Narisiel swallowed once more, pressing down the butterflies in her stomach and, as the murmurs of the crowd rose further, she followed the gaze of her spouse up to the other man whose cares and mistakes had stolen away the past two centuries of her life…

As the murmurs and scattered applause died down to an expectant silence, Celebrimbor straightened himself and composed his words almost visibly – to Narisiel, at least – before he raised his hands, placed one hand carefully on the rail leading down, like an old man seeking something to keep his balance, and began to speak. Narisiel barely heard his words. For the first time in many years, many centuries, she was seeing the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil as she had first seen him: strong, in control, elevated above his people as he addressed them majestically. Was this the man she had stood and admired many years ago? Yes, most certainly, for still surrounding him was the air of charisma and power that took Narisiel back to her earliest days in Ost-in-Edhil, before the life she now had had been woven and spun into the intricate tapestry that it currently was, when the threads were barely coming together, when she had first seen Celebrimbor speak and his voice had begun to work the threads. But now there were other details included, previously unseen…Was that a greying streak in his light hair? Maybe it was a trick of the light; Celebrimbor was but yet young by elven reckoning. But when such a burden falls upon an elf, as upon a man, maybe mannish weaknesses may be seen in the former as well as the latter. And his eyes…they flitted somewhat more nervously over the crowd, or was that also merely a trick of Narisiel’s eyes, or her mind? His gaze, certainly, did not seem the firm, fixed, steely gaze of a man so in control that she remembered…. And as Narisiel watched Celebrimbor, a friend, a lord, a betrayal, the threads began to unwind themselves, the tapestry began to fall – or maybe the weaving had never been strong enough in the first place. Or maybe such strength as is in a broken trust can tear even the strongest of bindings…

The smith closed her eyes for an instant, wrapping her arms around herself for a moment as if the chill winds of the carrion-birds’ wings already swept across the plains of Eriador, and listened to the voice of the speaker above, so strong and yet betraying such doom now.

“…every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

Doom. The doom of the Mirdain. Narisiel felt a lump well in her throat and took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes tight before she opened them, glittering with tears that she would not shed, although the lump in her throat and the pain in her heart tried to wring them out. Surrounded by people, the knowledge of the secrets that Celebrimbor still, even now hid from his people stung her, a wedge between herself and the rest of Ost-in-Edhil. Surrounded by people, Narisiel could not have felt more alone on the edge of Mount Doom itself.

Re-finding Sirithlonnior, Narisiel caught her husband’s eyes just for a moment, the flash of light from his helmet as he turned towards the courtyard entrance blinding her for a moment. But his gaze only remained for a second before Sirithlonnior, so deliberately it seemed to Narisiel, turned away from her, heading purposefully for the palace doors, marching up quickly past the two soldiers who stood guard there against the now restless mob, and out of sight. And as she looked up to the stairs to where Celebrimbor had stood, she was greeted also with an emptiness where he should have been.

Where are the explanations, Celebrimbor? Even we who know the truth of those forges do not understand – where are you now to lead us, O Lord of the Doom of the Mirdain? The lament flitted through Narisiel’s mind darkly, desperately. It must be just perfect to be able to disappear, to avoid all when the problems became to pressing.

It must be just perfect.
It must be just the solution.

It must be very lonely.

[Durelin]

He remembered the look on the messenger’s face. It had been pure terror, his face devoid of almost all its natural colour. Celebrimbor was still speaking at that point, and Maegisil had turned to the elf with anger when he felt a hand on his arm. The messenger was a guard, on duty at the city gates, and it looked like he had ran all the way to the city’s center, the palace. He breathlessly informed Maegisil of the reason for his urgency and fright, and the counselor then understood. Someone had arrived at the city gate: a man, a dark one…and the leader of the dread army that would bring Sauron’s wrath to Eregion.

Maegisil had left his wife frightened and worried for her husband's safety, and though he had wanted to stay with her and share in her tears, he knew he had a duty to his people, one that Lord Celebrimbor had up till this point neglected. He knew it was perhaps hypocritical to think this, as he had done very little for his people, and had not been strong enough to stand up to his lord and tell him what he was doing wrong. Perhaps he would have saved lives if he had done so. The thought of this frightened him to no end, and he quickly returned his mind to focus on the situation at hand.

This man who had arrived was truly an emissary from the Dark Lord. Only the Servant of Morgoth would have been able to enforce even the pretense of control over such a being. “I will pave over your city with the blood of your people…” Those heart-wrenching words still rung in his ears as he stood before Lord Celebrimbor once again. He felt as if he were a new person, seeing the lord sitting there, but knowing that Celebrimbor was not truly there anymore… He felt very alone, and prayed that Narisiel would arrive as he wished she would. He had sent a guard to find her on his way back to the palace with his new and unfortunate acquaintance, and though he did not expect her to come, he hoped that she would want to hold on to some scraps of loyalty to Celebrimbor in order to help Eregion. She had her family to take care of, though. It was not her job to baby-sit a lord as well.

“Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you,” he muttered, now finding himself disgusted by formalities concerning the elf-lord.

Celebrimbor looked even more disheveled than how Maegisil had left him before. It seemed that speaking to his people, despite his past charisma and rhetoric, was now a tasking experience for him. The counselor did not feel any sympathy for his lord, though. He had run out of that feeling some time ago.

“Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

The elf-lord still sounded like one who has given up all hope, though now there was a new component to his attitude: the pretense of indifference. He was one who pretended he had accepted his defeat, denying the fact that he could not accept his defeat and ignoring emotions that were too strong and too deep for him to control. The dreadfully imposing presence in the room did not help Celebrimbor’s situation.

The man…no, the creature…looked down at the Lord of Eregion and skipped any formalities. It seemed that he would have spat on the elf if he did not have a certain amount of dignity that separated him from the majority of Sauron’s minions, the mindless orcs. It was obvious by his escort that he was at least smart enough to know that orcs were not the most trustworthy creatures, nor really worthy of anything. Maegisil held the man in almost as low regards, but he was not above speaking to him…not that he had much of a choice. This dark one was used to having his demands met, and Maegisil knew that he was not in the position to outright refuse them. He was now only afraid that Celebrimbor might go even farther than that. How ready was he to declare himself defeated?

[CaptainofDespair]

Angoroth could feel the arrogance of the Elves bearing down on him. It weighed heavy and hot upon his shoulders, like a far-flung molten boulder spat from the mouth of Mount Doom itself. He could not help but think a most pleasurable thought; forcing the Elves into submission, and dissolving their haughty ways, much as the sea washes away the sand. He stood before the Lord of the City, the once proud Celebrimbor, with Ulrung held slightly back and to the right. The other counselors and various representatives still surrounded their Lord, both protecting him physically, and symbolically. They stood with him, at least on the surface. That much Angoroth surmised from their forlorn eyes.

“And so it is complete, Celebrimbor,” mused the dark one. “Your father and grandfather fell to a similar fate. Now, it is time for you to fulfill the Oath, and take your place alongside them.” The elf-lord’s face shot up, as his eyes pierced into Angoroth’s, looking for some deeply embedded seed of knowledge, a tome that might reveal where this man had gotten such information. But, the dark one felt this, and countered. “Delve into your mind, O’ Pathetic Lord. Then, you will know who I am. I am no servant of a false Dark Lord in Mordor, but of the True Master, Melkor.” A shockwave of devastating awe spread through the assembled party. Could it be that another Maiar, much like Sauron, had survived the War of Wrath? It had to be so. There was no other explanation that seemed to fit.

Continuing, the Maiar stacked more upon his prior threats. “It is time for business, Celebrimbor. You have been silent, but now is your place. Hand over the Rings and you own person, and I will consider showing some form of mercy to your sniveling people. Do not, and you will all die, in a most cruel and bitter manner.” The elf-lord looked sullen, and did not speak immediately, but hesitated a moment or two. Finally, he spread his lips, and spoke. “I…I…cannot.” The answer did not amuse Angoroth. Beneath the barbute helm that covered his face, a restless anger boiled over into an ecstasy of hatred. Remaining calm and diplomatic, however, he reiterated his prior statement. Celebrimbor knew something, but would not answer in fullness. But, at this time, he seemed to reacquire some lost sense of his dignity. “I…will not relinquish what is the right of the Elves to keep!” In some twisted way, this showing of pride amused the Maiar. “You speak of rights, when you have none. You are but tenants upon this earth. You have no rights, and nor can you deny what is sought by those above your station.”

He was beginning to feel a bit of irritation. Dealings with the Elves were destined to be drawn out affairs, with their arrogant auras about them, and always ended in irritation. Thinking that their status with the Valar and Illuvatar gave them some sort of special say over all matters, they had sunken into an entrenched, defensive manner of arrogant rebuttal. Gathering himself once more, Angoroth spoke, “If that is your choice, then so be it. You have sealed the fates of every last denizen of this City. But, perhaps your faithful companions might turn your faulty thinking into a reasonable conclusion. Until that point, you may see this as the preface to a quick and bloody war.”

Motioning for a silent Ulrung to follow, they descended from the palace under heavy guard to the main gate. As they came upon it, Maegisil, who continued to follow the escort, silently motioned for them to depart from the city. But, as they prepared to exit, Angoroth had a stroke of cruel amusement. Leaning towards the counselor, he reached under his cloak into a pouch strapped to his belt, and extended his clenched fist. “I can see in your eyes, that you have a wife. You worry for her safety, and wish for her deep love. Give this ring to her, my own signet. I will undoubtedly reclaim it anyhow, so you might as well make peace with her, elf.” A dumbstruck Maegisil could only feel the ring being pressed into his open palm, and his fingers clasping around it, as he watched the dark ones pass through the gate.

Once out of sight of the city’s walls, their horses already tiring from the long day, Ulrung turned to Angoroth and spoke, with new sense of fear instilled in him. “Milord, what is to happen next? I would think it best not to allow them to recover from our visit.” The Servant of Morgoth, already weary from the chatter of Eregion, could only reply unenthusiastically. “We will…wait, Ulrung. Let the fear of my coming bring despair upon them. But, soon we will lay siege to them.” Ulrung nodded. His lord was a bit above his station, and he knew well of Angoroth’s penchant for slaying captains whom he did not like. “Also, Captain, recall all the orc war parties. It will soon be time to give them my orders.”

[piosenniel]

Under cover of darkness, Riv and his five companions crept as quickly as they could from hillock to hillock. Each had rubbed a thin layer of mud over the metal fittings of helm, shield, weapons, and mail so that no stray shaft of new moonlight betrayed them with its glintings. Not wanting to alert any enemy who might be listening in the darkness, they spoke no words to one another; only kept close enough that each might pass back the signals from the leader to the man following.

The West Gate was in sight when a sudden fall of pebbles and debris skittered down the mountain side. They crouched down quickly in the deep shadows of a rocky outcropping. Their dark eyes darted round them, looking for any signs of movement.

A breathless eternity passed, or so it seemed to Riv, before the signal was given to move on. And then the entryway was reached and passed, the Dwarf guards motioning them in quickly through the gate as others stood ready to defend against attack. The six Dwarves took no time to make themselves more presentable before they went to wake the King.

Alerted by his guards, he sat yawning in his chair as they entered his chambers. He’d had a skin of ale brought and cups and bade his serving man pour drinks all around. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged the companions, pulling his robe closer about him in the chilly night air.

‘There’s been an embassy of some sort to the Elves,’ began the group’s leader. ‘We couldn’t get too close but we could see it wasn’t Sauron. Some big fellow, tall, was the leader. All dressed in black from head to toe, even his hair was dark as a starless night. Wore a great sword. And another man, shorter, rougher looking rode with him. It was just them and a few troops that came before the Elven gates.’

Riv spoke up, then saying, that even at a distance, there fell a dark pall of arrogant malice from the riders. ‘No, not both the riders,’ he reconsidered, ‘but the one dressed in black seemed like those old ones they tell about, in the old stories . . . the ones from the West who fought alongside the Dark One, Bauglir.’ Riv shook off a chill that had crept between his shoulders at the thought of such a one. ‘Large as he was, his body seemed barely able to contain the malevolence that issued from him. The Elves let the dark one and the other who followed him into the city. Then the two left unscathed, a short while later. We dared not follow them.’

It was late into the night, almost morning, in fact, before the King finished speaking with the six Dwarves. He had had his captains roused from their beds to hear the story repeated. Many questions were asked and re-asked. And accounts from other Dwarven parties who’d been out patrolling in other areas were considered in light of this most recent report.

Weary and still bearing the mud and dust with which he’d disguised himself, Riv made his way at last to the Stonecut hall. A kettle had been left on the hob, and he made himself a stout cup of tea. There would be little time for sleep this day, he thought to himself. War would soon be upon the Elves and the King would be wanting to lend what aid he might against the coming darkness.

[Arry]

‘You know, you’d better get yourself cleaned up before Unna sees the mud you’ve tracked all over!’ Skald poured himself a mug of steaming tea, lacing it with a generous helping of honey, and pulled out the chair opposite his brother. He sipped at the hot brew, looking out over the rim of his mug as he did so, grinning at the raggedy sight that presented itself.

Riv sat slumped against the back of his chair, his feet resting on the seat of another chair he’d pulled up close. Clots of dried mud fell onto the wooden seat as he shifted himself for comfort. His dirty, mud stained hands cradled the mug of tea he’d made for himself. Occasionally they would raise it to his mouth, in a bone weary manner. Skald’s grin faded from his face as he looked carefully at his brother. Beneath the layer of dirt and grime, Riv’s skin was pale, the area about his eyes drawn. He looked into some unseen distance, unbounded by the thick stone that formed the kitchen’s wall not ten paces away.

Skald scooted in closer to the table. Placing his elbows on its surface, he leaned forward, resting his chin on clasped hands. ‘Riv?’ he said. And then once again, more loudly. ‘Riv? What’s got into you? You look as if you’ve seen some old hobgoblin, like the ones Gran tried to scare us with in her stories.’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Almost immediately that Sirithlonnior turned towards the palace, Narisiel started after him; he deserved the truth, he deserved to know that which she was guilty - and innocent - of withholding from him. But almost as soon as she moved, an earnest voice halted her in her tracks. "Narisiel Mirdain?"

She turned, impatiently, and was confronted by a determined looking guard who she did not recognise, although he wore the insignia of Lord Celebrimbor's palace. Her face hardened. "I have nothing to say to the Lord Celebrimbor, you may tell him that-"

"No, I bear a message from the Counsellor Maegisil," the guard interrupted her. "He asked me to come to you with some urgency, requesting that you meet with himself and Celebrimbor, that there are...certain events that he wishes you to be privy to..." It was evident that the guard was speaking with some delicacy - after all, there were still many citizens nearby - but despite this indication that these 'events' were probably therefore of some importance, the ambiguousity of his words just frustrated Narisiel. Standing torn for a moment, she glance across at the place where Sirithlonnior had been, and found no sign of her husband. She made up her mind: she had spent too much time now holding Celebrimbor's hand, maybe, finally, it was time to realign her priorities...

"I have no time for this," she replied firmly. "I...I have no time. I cannot. I am sorry..." Stumbling away, Narisiel felt a pang of guilt, not for Celebrimbor, but for Maegisil - it was, after all, he who had sent for her, not Celebrimbor. What if he was in some sort of trouble now? How could she leave him in the lurch...but she had her own troubles to look after for now... Looking around frantically, she still found no sight of Sirithlonnior and at the entrance to the palace which he had gone through an angry crowd was now swelling, waxing and waning against the experienced, fiercely calm guards who stood against the doors, preventing the dissatisfied elves from entering. Had Sirith gone through into the palace to confront Celebrimbor, or had he merely taken the shorter route to their home? For a moment, Narisiel felt at a loss, but it was a barely a moment, then she turned up the courtyard steps to take an alternative route to their home. No matter how hard times had been for them, two centuries of marriage meant that she still knew her husband better than any other...

Or I hope so anyway...

~*~

"Mother!"

Artamir cried out after his mother's back as she retreated, but his words fell upon deaf ears: already she was too far away. The young soldier, caught up among the crowd, struggled forward, but he was pushing against the surge of the rest of the crowd who were already swelling towards the palace, a wave of dissatisfaction and fear surging forward. Tall as he was, Artamir looked around frantically and saw that his father was also gone; cursing their disappearance, Artamir also felt the fear and sickness in his stomach as he knew that another row was coming, and that this time...this time... He gritted his teeth and pushed once more against the crowd, battling his way through the people, a strange mix of anxiety and anger propelling him: anger that his mother could have withheld information from them, anxiety that he was wrong and also...also for the reasons why. Surely, with the amount of time Narisiel had spent at the palace, she would have known, or at least had some indication that there was a war to come...

...but maybe that stood also for his father? The thought stung Artamir and he finally reached the edge of the crowd, almost staggering as he broke through the barrier of the claustrophobic mass of people. Sirithlonnior was a high ranking soldier now, close to the commanders, although he would not have boasted about it in so many words, being relatively young for such a position...but that being as it was, wouldn't such a high-ranking soldier have heard something about an oncoming war? There had been rumours, of course, Artamir had heard them, of course, of course...but what if his parents had known their sources? How could they have kept something like that from him, their only son, their soldier son, who a war could...?

Artamir blocked the end of the thought out, hardly daring to mention it, even to himself. He was a foot soldier, and a young one as well: the first who would go into battle, this 'doom' that Celebrimbor had promised. Swallowing his tears back, the young elf broke into a run, heedless of the distant calls behind him, running towards his house, his parents, only one thought forming in his mind.

They couldn't have...

[piosenniel]

‘Old hobgoblin . . . and don’t I wish that was all it was that I had seen.’ Riv shifted himself in his chair and gave a grim chuckle. ‘Old Gran’s goblins were scary as ever back then, but we could always hide out beneath our quilts and wait til the night passed and the sun flooded down the shafts, driving them all away.’ He put moved his feet from off the chair he’d propped them on and put them down heavily on the floor.

‘I saw something on my last patrol; something I’d not seen before, nor having seen it, wish to see again . . .’ Skald raised his brows at this statement but kept quiet, knowing his older brother would continue when he’d gathered his thoughts. In bits and pieces the report to the King came out. And at first the man clad all in black was merely mentioned as the one who led the embassy to the Elven city. But then Riv’s tone took on a different tone, and an undercurrent of dread crept in.

‘It’s not so much that he was a large man,’ he said trying to describe the man in black. ‘Nor was it that his visage was terrible or his weapon horrific.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, it was that his very presence seemed to suck in the light, obliterating it. Drawing all hope from the air about him; leaving a bone chilling dread in its wake.’

Riv shivered though the kitchen was quite warm from the stove and the fire in the hearth. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this battle that’s coming up,’ he went on. ‘Hordes of Orc are one thing, but this fellow is just bad news.’ He stirred a little more honey into his tea then looked directly at his brother. ‘I think there is something we should speak of.’ Skald kept quiet still, waiting for Riv to go on.

‘I’m the oldest son in the family,’ he began. ‘Should something happen . . .’ He waved Skald to silence as he began to protest. ‘Should something happen,’ he began again, ‘I want you to promise me that you will step in and see that Unna and my children are looked after. You will be the eldest then, I need your assurance that you will do this for me. It will settle my mind somewhat about going into battle if I have your word.’

A sharp intake of breath came from the kitchen’s doorway. Unna stood there, having come quietly up while the brothers were speaking. ‘What’s all this grim talk?’ She stamped her foot and looked hard at the two of them. ‘And what’s this I hear about me? Am I to be traded about like a sack of oats?’