Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Dunwen's character

NAME: Nimir

AGE: 17

RACE: Men, Commoner

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort.

APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry.

He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do.

Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process.

HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family.

In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away.

Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

[piosenniel]

Hiriel's character


NAME: Azaryan

AGE: 89

RACE: Umbarian Male

WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them.

APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors.

HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics.

At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions.

His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom.


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Hiriel's post

A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle.

He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long.

But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy.

They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath.

“Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features.

“That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat.
“That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.”

Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow.

“Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

[piosenniel]

Anguirel's character


NAME: Sangalazin

AGE: 64

RACE: Black Numenorean

GENDER: Effeminate male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armour only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.): Sangalazin wears a ceremonial longsword of great intricacy and consciously Gondorian design; an assertion of his rights over Elendil’s Kingdom, as an heir of the great Castamir. Its scabbard is elaborately crafted, with a sequence of scenes in gold filigree telling the Black Numenorean love story of Lenezor and Shirethel. Apart from this sword, which is far too beautiful to be wielded, he carries a curved silver-edged dagger and a fine silken garrotte.

APPEARANCE: Sangalazin is of a physical type viewed with contempt in Gondor, but in Umbar admired by males and females alike. He is slender, with tapering wrists and graceful legs; his mouth is large, crimson and prominent; his large eyes a soft brown, his complexion golden, though powdered fairer, and his hair dark chestnut brown. He wears a dark blue robe of silk. His only Numenorean characteristic is his great height.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only): Sangalazin’s charm, or one might more accurately say charms, is not in doubt; nor is his keen intelligence, when he deigns to employ it. For all this, though, he is feckless and pleasure-loving, easily distracted, temperamental and cruel. His physical weakness (brought about, it is rumoured, by inbreeding in the house of Castamir) also makes him despised by the martial Corsairs of Umbar who serve him out of necessity; only the continual presence of his mighty bodyguards, Gondorians stolen as babies and brought up at his court, garbed in pitch-black plate armour, their loyalty ensured by luxury, stops him from being lynched in the streets.

HISTORY: Sangalazin is the great-great-great-grandson of Castamir twice over, for his parents, Sangahyando and Mehratu, are brother and sister; a marriage brought about to ensure purity of descent and to prevent division of wealth, as well as because of genuine love; such affairs are not considered accursed among the aristocracy of Umbar. Sangalazin was cherished and adored as a child because of his beauty, and could have anything he chose; he made sure of this, testing it by asking his father to execute a playmate who had blackened his eye. He watched the subsequent hanging with a good deal of interest.

From such an upbringing sprang Sangalazin’s main enthusiasms; first, the intense pleasure and reassuring oblivion brought by debauchery; second, the self-fulfilment brought by art; third, the sheer amusement of strangulation. He loves the curious gurglings produced by its victims, the goggling of their eyes...

To all these politics comes a poor fourth. Indeed, as the endlessly intriguing Lords of Umbar go, Sangalazin is relatively ineffectual and harmless due to his fickle pursuits of pleasure; but his high blood will ensure he is ensnared in its dark legacy.

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Anguirel's post


“And now, my dears...play, play.”

Sangalazin, illustrious descendant of the King of Gondor known uncompromisingly in Umbar as Castamir the Great, was stretched out on a silken couch in his black ship’s cabin, his considerable full length languidly extended. A small table stood nearby; on it was positioned a silver instrument, from which a pipe crawled, coming to rest in Sangalazin’s long golden hand. He placed it into his mouth and took another gulp at the hookah, exulting at the relief at the fumes quenching the thirst of his lungs. Truly, the hookah was a potent sign that if one rejected the ways of the East and South, one would never find civilisation.

The supine Lord was attended by twelve men. Nine were monumentally tall-like Sangalazin himself-but, and here they differed from their master, also well-muscled and armoured all about in black iron. Those who were bare-headed displayed cold, impassive stares from grey Northern eyes. Their hair was dark, but bleached yellow, in contrast to their arms. Their weapons were all forged in the Gondorian fashion; straight longswords, triangular shields, visored helms. This, then, was the feared bodyguard of Sangalazin, which he had formed when still a child; its soldiers cradle Gondorians, but in their hearts fanatical servants of the Castamirioni, and Sangalazin in particular, who knew he owed his survival to them.

The other three men in the richly furnished cabin, below the forecastle, were of quite a different sort. It was these Sangalazin had addressed. One was of the Haradrim, and beat upon a set of small drums. Another was an Easterling, and toyed with a delicate stringed instrument, which he called a sitar. The third was a youth from the North, one of the shadow dwellers, a blonde boy with a flute. Sangalazin smiled at him.

“I find your strains particularly moving, child. You touch me. To think that one such as you replaced our line upon the throne of Meneldil...but I bear no grudge. Indeed, as long as you and your people confine yourself to our music-rooms and our pleasure-chambers, and don’t mess with power, the reserve of true men...why, then, you are quite endearing.”

The Lord of Half of Umbar leant up from his position and felt the youth’s cheek. The beard would not come for some time. A pretty specimen, indeed. And how strange and yet lovely the three combined tunes had sounded, to his own composition, intermingled. That was the way of culture, of beauty, of perfection. When he sat upon the Throne at Minas Anor-for he took little account of his cousin and rival, Azaryan-his court would be ordered thus. Tedious warring would cease, benevolent peace would embrace all the lesser nations, to be guided under his command. And civilisation would prevail.

His harmonious thoughts were interrupted by the Southron striking a false note. Sangalazin raised an eyebrow, and whispered something to a guard. Two of them led the musician out. He would not be killed; not yet, for the guards would wait for him to be strangled later at their master’s whim.

It was then that a black-robed, well-spoken lordling of Azaryan’s train arrived in the cabin. Sangalazin was called to his cousin's side. He took a last, regretful drag on the hookah, tousled the blonde boy’s hair, and followed the messenger. His cousin was powerful and proud-spirited, and it would do no good to anger him now...

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer's character

NAME: Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (shortened to Rakin)

AGE: 48

RACE: Corsair – Black Numenorean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Rakin’s primary weapon of choice is a cutlass, not unusually for a corsair – the relatively short blade is perfect for hand to hand fighting in the narrow confines of a deck, for either a slash or thrust action, and is less likely to get tangled in the rigging of the ship than a longer, showier sword or rapier. His own weapon is fairly unadorned, an item of necessity, but he has had a few changes made to the cutlass for practicality: the hardwood handle is bound over with leather, not the usual, smooth leather used for clothes, but rougher beaten leather, so as to maintain both comfort and an all-important good grip when the weapon gets wet – this is where many seamen may fall down, for shiny leather slips easily across sweaty palms and can cost a sailor’s life. The basket, curving around to protect the fingers, is solid rather than more decorative filigree (which can cut into the hand if it is too fine when pressure is applied), but is of a strange metal that almost seems to shine black – a mysterious and rather fine touch that gives the whole sword a rather more elegant appeal, and is carved on the outside simply with his name, ‘Chatazrakin’, along the very edge of the basket. He has a second, more decorative sword – corsairs have little need for dress swords but, well, just in case. However, Rakin is not confined entirely to the sword: inside that coat of his lies a regular little armoury, ranging from a variety of small, simple, easily concealable daggers (often lost and so dispensable), to a slender link-chain, about a foot in length, to the no-nonsense knuckle-dusters in case of emergencies; the knife in his left boot is not strictly for battle, although it is easily accessible enough to be turned to the purpose.

APPEARANCE: Chatazrakin bears little similiarity to his half-brother bar the distinctive height of the Numenoreans, as he stands at about 6ft 5, an average height for Numenoreans but a feature that marks him out from others. However, he has none of the physical frailty of his brother: he is well muscled and broad shouldered with his height, but not as fleshed out as might be expected, giving him the lean, dangerous look of a hungry wolf. Narrow, almost black eyes enhance this appearance, although his face is deceptively open and honest looking, useful for gaining trust or planning deception, although it can snap shut into anger or a wicked grin or laughter within an instant. He is essentially quite fine-featured and, to some eyes, quite beautiful, although it is a beauty that has borne a hard life at sea and a harder childhood on the streets. His fine, high cheekbones are pock-marked over on the left side with the old scars of childhood pox common among street children, and his skin is tanned although surprisingly unweathered by the elements, unusual for a seaman. His long, untamed black hair is pulled back into a plait from which plenty of straggling strands escape, often restrained under a black bandana. This only serves to enhance his roguish appearance, although generally he dresses more sedately, a mix-match of clothes including a loose shirt of hard-wearing but surprisingly pricey material, usually with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows for practicality’s sake, although the colour may be less practical – the favoured white shirt makes a striking contrast against the black waistcoat which tops it, and Rakin has learnt that, far from being only a superficiality, appearance is subtly important in a trade of fear, and not to appear rather striking and wild would be almost foolishness, although such an appearance goes nicely with his own personality anyway. He will usually wear black breeches – not leather though, as this is hardly practical if they are likely to get wet – and watertight oiled black boots reaching up to his knees, with a long knife strapped down the outside of one, a must-have for sailors especially for disasters with the rigging or other ropes. Although he will be seen on the most unlikely days standing in the freezing cold with his thin shirt sleeves rolled right up, he is almost never seen without his battered black overcoat during battle; this may seem strange, but in fact the coat’s many inside pockets have served the corsair well many-a time when just a plain cutlass might not do, and the element of surprise is required, in the form of several small, well-concealed daggers, say. Plus the slim-fitting, split tailed coat looks so dashing when spun around, wouldn’t you say?

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rakin is, basically, almost faultlessly intelligent: not the book-learned cleverness of the academics and aristocrats, but the natural smartness and cunning that is learned from a hard life from birth, growing up in an underworld of thieves and then onto the streets. This life taught him early on a few skills that others learn only with a lifetime of experience – ruthlessness and hardness that many would have found unnerving in one so young, cunning and slyness that made him a perfect thief and cheat, deceptive skills that allowed him to easily trick the gullible, but never to rely on trickery too much more than is necessary – why increase the risk of being caught too far? But he has learnt other skills with the experience of being a seaman, and a Captain: for example, although it takes strength to stand and fight and to lead his crew into battle, it also takes a lot of strength to know when to turn from a battle as well. However, although possessed of a certain shrewdness and knowledge that his late mother sadly did not, Rakin is also quite a proud man, and maybe a little vain – it takes a lot to make him turn from a prize, and his fierceness can prove to be disadvantageous sometimes, when his pride gets in the way of his sense. His ruthlessness makes him an ideal corsair, although the position of Captain of a corsair ship is a precarious one: to an extent, even while he controls them, he is at their mercy – to push them too far, to make one too many unjust decisions or be just a little too ruthless, or too soft, is to sign his own death warrant. It is a fine line that he has to tread. However, after having been a corsair for most of his life, and a captain for over a decade, Rakin has some very valuable allies, and most of his crew is hand-picked, a few men loyal to him through thick and thin. Rakin is also fiercely loyal to the Castamirioni (see History), although to have the two Lords of Umbar, aristocrats far higher ranking than himself naturally, puts him again in a rather precarious position. But although shrewd and, yes, rather careful, Rakin has never been one to back down and roll over – not unless it is to dropkick his opponent. Such a strong and fierce personality could cause some sparks if his own authority is challenged too far…

HISTORY: Chatazrakin – or Rakin for short – was the illegitimate child of the House of Castamir; Sangalazin’s uncle, Sangahyando was as susceptible to a few illicit affairs and debauched pleasures as his twisted offspring, and Rakin was the product of a drunken night’s extramarital debauchery in an Umbar tavern. Unlike some of the unfortunate illegitimacies of the heirs of the Castamir, Rakin did not try to lay claim to the power of his father’s family, and so he was one of the fortunate ones – those who accused the Lords of Umbar of such discrepancies were often later ‘taken care of’ before any threat to the pure line could come about, and such a fate was to befall Rakin’s unfortunate mother when her son was barely ten years old.

Rakin, though, possessed some of the shrewdness that his mother had sadly not had, and never tried to leech of his father’s family, although they were certainly aware of his presence; he would have been immediately put to death if it had been thought that he would ever try to assert a claim to the position of Lord of Umbar over his precious half-brother. But as time passed and Rakin slipped quietly into the shadows, maybe they forgot, or simply lost interest, deciding that the illegitimate brat of a prostitute with no proof posed no threat to Sangalazin, or to Azaryan. Without a mother or father, it was a wonder that the boy managed to survive as well as he did but in fact the young Rakin found this start in life more a freedom than a hindrance. He became a proficient thief, cheat and liar, passing himself off for older than his years and getting odd-jobs in taverns so as to take a tidy helping of profits, and with an ability to quickly pick up skills that was very much to his advantage, all as a matter of survival. However, it was only a matter of time before he got pulled up by one of the Inn customers who he tried to cheat when dealing a fixed hand of cards – the Quartermaster of one of the Corsair ships. But rather than be outraged and destroying the boy (he could have had him made a slave or killed – who would have noticed a scrawny orphan boy go missing?), the corsair was actually mildly impressed with the boy and, after punishing him of course (not the last flogging Rakin would have to endure), he took him on as an extra on the ship, as a trial of sorts, on the simple basis that with one wrong move, Rakin would be off the boat – and probably not when they were near dry land either.

Rather than resent the Quartermaster, a man who went simply by the name of Dagaz, for the flogging, the punishment and the severe treatment of his mentor gave him a healthy respect for the authority of those who ran the ships – in part, because he was the only one who had ever really taken any sort of interest in him, even if it was only to give him a hard time. His quick wit and ability to gain the trust of others, to make them listen to him, was an advantage; after some brief tutoring from Dagaz, his skills with the sword also improved, and he became quite a skilful fighter, although a lot of his power lay in his cunning and skill with ‘less orthodox’ methods of fighting, well honed from years of a street existence. These advantages and traits gained Rakin respect and close allies quite quickly, and in his late thirties the crew of his ship gained a very fine Gondorian war vessel, which, as the elderly Quartermaster had no desire for a ship of his own, Dagaz bestowed on the young man. It was an unusual design of ship, bearing more similarities to the ships of the corsairs than the Gondorians, and Rakin was immensely proud of the vessel, naming it ‘Fame and Fortune’ and, unlike many in his profession, he has stuck to the same vessel for most of his career ever since, a period of just over ten years.

They were ten quite fruitful years, although like any seaman his profession has had very pointed ups and downs, but both the peaks and the troughs of his career have given him a wealth of experience that have made him a fair but ruthless captain, proud but shrewd nonetheless, and a mean fighter along with it; a man of some respect and standing, both from the corsairs, Gondorians, and even those of higher standing in Umbar. This is probably why it was his vessel that was chosen to bear the Lords; in addition, either despite or partly due to his mixed heritage, as a captain, Rakin has always made his loyalty to the Castamirioni very clear, which to an extent is probably one trait that gained him favour with the descendants of Castamir, although he has never, and would never, attempt to ingratiate himself with them as some would. Rakin largely put out of his mind his heritage, descended from the line of Castamir, as it is of little relevance or importance to a simple seaman, and even the long-winded name that his mother lavished upon him as some mark of higher breeding (although a lot of good it did her) is more often than not shortened to simply Captain Rakin; he never found out whether Sangalazin knew, although he suspected that the debauched darling of the Castamirioni is oblivious to his very being. However, it is a strange coincidence indeed that he should end up in such close quarters to his preciously spoilt half-brother, especially on the high seas when all sorts of accidents can happen…


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Amanaduial the archer's post

Even from a birdseye view, from far above the choppy waves, the Fame and Fortune made a striking image: on a clear day, proudly bestriding the waves that lapped against the side, as if daring the mighty Ulmo himself to make some challenge, when the wind leapt and blustered into those unusual, triangular sails, propelling the striking, slim silhouette forward through the waters…and with what speed! She cut through the waters so fast, so easily, the chopping motion mimicking the jolting laughter of such a ship whose pointed features were like a wicked laugh embodied. A more arresting and, aye, and more handsome ship, in its own way, was not to be found on this side of Arda. Stealthy, fast and fair. And the captain of this ship, a corsair as famed as his ship, since her very establishment as a pirate vessel loved it.

Standing on the forecastle of the ship, leaning casually against the foremast with one arm somewhat affectionately thrown around it as if around the shoulders of a loved one, Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar stared out at the open waters, the feel of the wind caressing his neck, face and bare arms more familiar and enjoyable to him that any human touch. A corsair as infamous as the striking silhouette of the ship he had commanded for a decade, this was the life that Rakin had been born for – and after a life of sailing on his precious ship, the corsair wasn’t best disposed to the likes of that silent, unsmiling snob and the debauched fop who called themselves the Lords of Umbar trying to order him around on his own ship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air, tipping his head back into the wind as the sounds of the ship’s daily life flowed around him, each sound as familiar and easily identifiable to him as his own breathing. The seabirds squabbling as they flew above, a V of them making for the Anduin, racing Fame and Fortune to it, the crewmen talking, calling to each other all the way from the Crows’ Nest to the lower decks, snatches of song and laughter, interspersed with shouts and angry voices, the cries of a slave’s pain…these vibrant patchwork of the ship’s life reverberated through her ribs from tip to tail, and the Captain drank it all in, each sound bringing memories and things to do. The sound of the slave, for example… He sighed irritably, clenching his jaw tightly as he opened his eyes once more to glare angrily out at the sea.

“They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own—”

“Cousin, cousin, please, let me get my breath first before you begin to batter me once more with your tactics…”

The first voice, harsh and solemn though with a controlled energy, was another sound which, even after a relatively short time, seemed to belong to the ship: a voice that Rakin could reason with and understand, despite its cheerless and dour owner. But the second voice, that amused drawl....well, it was a voice whose origins were familiar to Rakin’s very genetics, but one which most certainly did not belong on a ship as he did. Azaryan and Sangalazin, Lords of Umbar – and the only pair of men on this ship to whom Rakin himself was directly accountable. And Rakin did not like to be under another’s power…

“Good afternoon, my Lords,” he began, half turning his head towards them although his arm remained slung as it was around the mast. Azaryan nodded curtly, but such a simple greeting could not be enough for Sangalazin.

“Morning,” he replied simply. Rakin turned his dark, narrow eyes further towards his half-brother, raising one eyebrow carefully. Sangalaz in had his arms crossed and a smile on his full, girlish mouth. “It is still but morning, Captain Chatazrakin, give her her due and do not steal from her a good hour. You wouldn’t rob the day of a full hour of her bounty, would you?”

Ah. It was going to be one of these conversations then. How he regretted not sharing a childhood with his half-brother…or not. Apparently being an unrecognised scion had some advantages – namely the lack of comments such as these from the his inbred, spoilt, fop of a brother. Rakin bit back the reply which leapt to his tongue and instead gave a very slight smile as he straightened up and turned towards the two Lords of Umbar. “Ah, but is that not what our very aim is, my Lord Sangalazin? Thievery from even the highest powers?”

Sangalazin’s expression seemed to freeze for a split second between a sneer and a smile, then he simply shrugged and gave the Captain a lazy, infuriating grin. In order to keep up his respectfulness towards Sangalazin, the easiest response to this was simply to ignore it. After all, it was a damn sight more respectful than the sneer he would usually award to such a… Turning to the older of the two, Rakin inquired as to Azaryan’s expression of worry. “How goes, my Lord? You seem troubled – no bad tidings I hope?”

“None except that one of your slaves is potentially about to be thrashed to death belowdecks,” Sangalazin interrupted unhelpfully. His mouth contorted into a cruel grin which sat uneasily on his fine features. “Although whether that is indeed a bad thing is quite debateable.”

Azaryan did not respond to his cousin, turning expressionless eyes on Rakin for a moment with a look that made the Captain feel like a particularly unwholesome weevil. Then he looked away, glaring, as Rakin had done, over the sea. “It is nothing, Captain,” he replied shortly. Ever eloquent, the corsair commented mentally, then felt the usual stab of guilt. His loyalty must lie with the Lords of Umbar, always, no matter how surly – or superficial – they were… Deciding not to try to get water from the stone on this particular afternoon – or, let Sangalazin have his way, this morning – Rakin excused himself from the pair and, bracing himself, started down the stairs to the lower decks, from whence he would go to the slave deck. This morning he had other affairs to deal with – namely, the dawn escape affair of the previous night. A slave escape, now of all times, and from Chakka – hardly surprising, bearing in mind the brute itself. But I thought I had him under control… He fingered the vial of bitter, mustard-yellow liquid in his pocket: in an hour it would become useless to its intended drinker. Unless the slave was more devious even than Rakin gave him his due for; but then, in the mind of a desperate man, even the best formulated plan often had a slip up - and in this case, one slip-up was likely to make the slave very uncomfortable indeed... A grim smiled twisted Rakin’s handsome features and his hand clenched tight over the vial. Well, if Chakka intended to make life difficult for him now of all times, he had better stop by his own apartments to retrieve a few items from the vicious little armoury of his coat pockets…

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's character


NAME: Chakka

AGE: 35

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None

APPEARANCE: Chakka stands well over six feet tall and is immensely strong. His features are even and graceful. He shaves his head (to avoid the vermin that infest the belowdecks) and wears nothing more than a simple pair of sandals, short trousers and a shift. His back is laced with terrible scars from a savage whipping sometime in the past; there are scars on his face too, but these are carefully inscribed lines and dots. His skin is like burnished ebony, lustrous in its blackness.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Chakka is quiet and contemplative, almost taciturn. When he does speak, his words are quiet and to the point for he never speaks before thinking. To those unfamiliar with his ways he appears to be humourless, but he takes great joy in telling elaborate comic tales of magical animals, and in listening to songs and poems of any sort. His greatest joy is the feel of the wind and sun upon his skin. Chakka is slow to anger, but when roused he becomes horrifically violent upon the instant.

HISTORY: Chakka was born upon the slopes of a great mountain far to the south of the lands and seas he now considers his prison. For a few short years he lived with his family in a great village upon the savannah where he watched the women tend the fields while the men went out to hunt. He had just begun to help his mother and older sisters with their tasks when the others came: savage men from the east who burned their village and slew the adult men. The women and children were taken captive and marched for weeks across the savannah and through the jungle to the Sea. Chakka’s mother and eldest sister died in the journey, and when they reached the coast he was separated from the remainder of his family.

He was sold to a great king who made his fortune by selling people to the sick-looking pinkmen who sailed into his harbour every spring. Hundreds of people disappeared into the black ships every year, never to be seen again and as Chakka grew he came to learn that these pinkmen, who hardly looked human with their pallid skin and hair upon their face, were from an even greater kingdom far to the north. Chakka was spared exile among these creatures and was allowed to remain in the coastal realm among normal people, but he remained a slave. He grew up tilling the king’s fields and herding his flocks. Life was hard, for food was scarce and the living conditions were cramped and unclean. The only pleasures allowed the slaves were song and wrestling, for the people of this realm were extremely fond of the sport. Word of Chakka’s prowess in the wrestling ring spread quickly and soon the king took him from the fields so that he could train year-round for the monthly exhibitions. Better food and a cleaner bed allowed Chakka to grow even stronger and more able, and the best masters were acquired to perfect his fighting skills. In addition to wrestling he was taught how to fight with bladed weapons, for the king had a fancy that such a powerful warrior would be an apt bodyguard. For years Chakka trained and fought until he became the greatest fighter anyone had ever seen. Rival monarchs would send their champions, and Chakka defeated them all.

But Chakka yearned to return to the land of his youth, and one day he sought to escape. He was captured and whipped until he was near death. It took him a year to heal and return to full strength, but at the first opportunity he made another attempt for freedom. Once more he was captured. The king, perhaps realising that Chakka could never be tamed, ordered him sold to the pinkmen the next spring. Chakka spent a miserable cold season in dread of his exile, but he found no opportunity to attempt another escape, and within a few months he was forced aboard one of the black ships and bound for a life of slavery to the Corsairs of Umbar.

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Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope.

Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder.

This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement.

The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead.

Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard.

It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan…

Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions.

He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist.

There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood.

Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!”

“Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.”

“He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily.

“Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!”

So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…

[piosenniel]

Eorl of Rohan's character

NAME: Ferethor Steele

AGE: 31

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A piece of broken oar.

APPEARANCE: Dark-haired with eyes of gray, the appearance as well as the mannerism and accent that of Gondor born and bred. On his shift, he is often seen chained to the left side, second row, his lean and lanky frame straining against the oar with a sense of strength that talks of better times. His tousled hair is unkempt and slicked behind his ears, wet with blood and the spray of the tides. Pale as he is, and lean, only his eyes keep some measure of vitality still – alert and alive, sparkling as icily as his voice, as cold as the waves that lash the ship’s brow. The torn and tattered remains of his shirt and breeches alike are plastered to his back, sticking with grime and the sickly yellow of half-healed scars. If someone bothered to look past the film of dirt and dried blood on the shredded clothes, one might have seen the black and white of Gondorian Guards...

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Serious, cynical, steady in his hate as in all things else - yet he keeps it controlled. He had learned that much in the past three years. No one can blame him, however, if the collected bitterness had made him cold and indifferent. Sanity, in such a condition as this, comes with a price. Thralldom is a harsh mistress. In his case, he hid behind his sense of cold reason, trusting no one, loving no one, afraid, not of violence or betrayal, but of the acute pain that will come with awareness.

HISTORY: Once a promising young captain of Gondor at 27, he went missing a few years later - in a skirmish against the Easterlings at the borders of Gondor. He was presumed dead, his family notified – the city named an obscure street after him and promptly forgot. There had been no news of him in the three years since.

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Eorl of Rohan's post

Ferethor couldn't keep count. Beneath the ship, days and years were as one in their miserable condition. A few went mad. Most died. No one lasted more than a year in the service at the oars, no one sane… but him.

He might have lost the consciousness too, if he hadn't that to spark the flame – hatred. He deliberately nurtured it. From the instant when he realized to his horror that he'd go mad if he didn't do anything, he had fed and coddled this hatred of his until it became his driving force. And they knew it. What 'they' were here but the damned Corsairs, the enemy? They knew that he survived. He ate whatever they brought it, he built his strength, and his muscles continued to ripple and move as he strained his chest against the oar to the bending point, under the shadow of the whip of the master, and behind the master, the South, behind it still, the fundamental hatred between the West and the South. He held on. Every minute, he held on. In the pitch-darkness, relieved only by faint lanterns and the cracking sound of the many-lashed whips, he held on with one purpose in mind and one desire – to take vengeance. He had watched impassively as people dropped like flies around him. He knew he could not help them, no matter what. What he could do was escape – escape, and sink the ship with the whole cursed population! He would remember the blank faces of the dead comrades that fought beside him in the fray, the screams of the tortured thralls, and the feel of the lash on his bare back. He would remember, and the blood will be on their heads. Ferethor knew he was thinking in circles. But a thread broken in the train of continuous thought might douse the flame of hatred that was the only thing that kept him sane against all odds. So he pulled the oar. And hated steadily.

There was no source of light other than that which trickled through the hole where the oar handles were thrust in. The lantern that the sentry guard held didn’t count. He bent against the oar, letting his weight do half the work in moving forward the massive ship whose only part he knew was beneath the decks, the mold and the dark and the whips. It was then that he heard the shouts outside – there were always shouts, but this was of a different nature – and the call to arms. They were going to war. War… He strained to hear the next word. War against Gondor. Gondor. He froze. The oar fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. Let them react to that. Was it on purpose or an accident? He didn’t know. He was tired. So tired.

The slaves working around him flinched, and shied away as if the whip might descend on them by mistake. Ferethor straightened up and lifted his head, knowing that soon he'd whimper and beg for mercy like any other slave under the stinging blows of the whip – maybe the racks, even – but he wanted to show them that he was not afraid. No, that wasn't it. He was afraid, but he was not going to let that fear run away with him. He was still a Gondorian, if nothing else. He was a captain of Gondor. He knew that the Corsairs have always hated him more for all that, wanted to see him break under their hands, more than all others - because he was the material realization of the strength and power of Gondor, the City of Stone. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure so easily – he clenched his teeth at that – he owed that much to his heritage, if nothing else. If he had more strength… If he had… If he could contact them… But no. It was futile to dream.

The guard woke from his doze and looked over. The thralls shrank away still further, as much as the chains would allow, and made it a point to not look at his way. They were chained just so that they were forced into a kneeling position, unable to stand or to sit, with the chains interlinked with other slaves that one slave's mishap might affect all others. The arms were free to work the oars, and some had misshapen arms because of being chained in one place with only one arm used for exercise, for so long. Not that the length mattered. They were all mindless and timid, all of them. He wouldn’t get any help from them. He had tried to spark their spirit before, but they moved away, as they did now, afraid. There was some that had a remnant of spirit left, he knew, but they were chained too far away. Ah, here it comes. A guttural remark, then in barest rudiments of Common as the two guards approached – but he didn’t pick up the oar. When the guard grabbed him by the thrall collar, gaggling and choking with the blood that filled his lungs, Ferethor instinctively brought down the metal end of his cuffs hard on the man’s wrist, noting its sickening crunch with mixed feelings of satisfaction and terror. Terror soon gained the upper hand. Usually he would not do anything so stupid – he would let himself be sworn at and beaten around some without unnecessary defiance, which would doubtless bring the steel-tipped whips into play. But… War. War against… Gondor? He couldn’t help shuddering convulsively. One, two seconds passed? The man fell. He was dropped by the first man, so that he was left in the position of half-kneeling along with the rest. The one he had hit recovered in a moment and sat up from the wooden plank, gesturing angrily at Ferethor and reaching for his weapon. No. Please. Can’t take it anymore… The whips cracked in the air, an ominous sound at best, but worse if you heard it cut into flesh and sinews. Especially your own. He moaned, falling onto his knees, and before he could brace himself came one blow and another time after time in quick succession. Usually these stopped after a dozen, or the slave might be rendered useless for the day – but it went on and on – enough that blood and flesh splattered all over, some of the weaker slaves covered their eyes, and he soon lost consciousness hanging limp by the chains.

Gondor. What did it mean? Gondor, and… and…

[piosenniel]

dancing spawn of ungoliant's character


NAME: Jagar

AGE: 26

RACE: Men (Haradrim)

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A piece of rope.

APPEARANCE: As a Southron Jagar's complexion is dark and he has brown or almost black eyes. His hair is short, curly, ragged and as dark as his eyes. Jagar is scrawny but tall. Some say that there would be Numenorean blood in his line but most think it's just a mere story Jagar's tribe's women cherish. The only feature that could be Numenorean origin is his height. He is worn and sweat has hardened his clothes. He sits a couple rows behind Ferethor on the right side of an aisle between the slaves.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Jagar has been aboard only a few months but the horrible conditions are taking their toll on him and sometimes he seems slightly mad. He talks to himself, hums and acts indifferently. He tries to deny the reality and escape into his imagination by seeking consolation from nature and songs. Jagar is confused because he begins to realize how much his tribe's culture contradicts with his own values.

Jagar is independent and he'd like to be alone but it's quite impossible considering he is in chains with hundreds of other slaves. Therefore he isn't very talkative but he's not hostile either.

HISTORY: Jagar was a member of a large and powerful tribe. He travelled to the sea as a boy and fell in love with the local lifestyle. When Jagar grew up he left to the coast to live on his own.


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dancing spawn of ungoliant's post

The hot air below deck smelled of sweat and blood. Jagar gasped and felt his heartbeat pounding in his throat. A man sitting next to him had collapsed onto the oar unable to force his tortured body to work any longer. Although it was gruesome, the sight made him chuckle. The limp body of the man swung to-and-fro with every pull making him look like a puppet and making rowing even harder. Was he dead? No, not yet. "Will be soon", Jagar mumbled to himself. "Isn't this something! Great ships with crimson sails, wasn't that what you wanted to see?" a little voice jeered inside his head.

When Jagar was a mere boy, he had travelled north to the coast with his father to inspect their tribe's lands. He had seen proud ships setting off from the harbours, the sun dazzling on foaming waves and screaming flocks of seabirds that circled above docks waiting the fishermen to clean their catch. As time passed, Jagar didn't forsake the sight of the glimmering sea and he longed for the freedom that the life on the coast breathed. Getting captured was not part of the plan.

During these months aboard Jagar had learnt that by keeping up with the pace and holding your tongue you could keep the whip away. The man sitting next to him had done neither. Rankling wounds run across his back making his remaining clothes sticky with matter. Jagar thought of his family. They had kept slaves, too, people from scattered and weak tribes who had chosen thralldom over death.

A whip of lash whizzed past Jagar's ear hitting the man next to him on the back and spattering blood drops around. The poor man moaned hoarsely as a new wound ripped the old scars open and coloured his ragged shirt carmine red. There was a time when this sight would have made Jagar feel sick but now he just stared forward squeezing the oar. The man was detached from his chains and dragged away. A few rows from Jagar another man was being beaten for dropping his oar.

Jagar moved quickly to the seat beside the oar hole and breathed the salty air. Finally he could see a glimpse of the swelling sea and boundless sky. How free the seagulls were! He wanted to wring their necks, shoot them down, so they couldn't fly around the cursed ship as though mocking him. No, he wanted to be one of them and ride with the breeze that blew from the vast ocean and hailed a new dawn. But here Jagar was chained in a ship and going to war against Gondor.

Harad was an enemy of Gondor as was Umbar. Jagar had learnt that long ago. If he was a free man, he would have gone to war gladly but not like this, not as a thrall trapped in an Umbarian ship. They made slaves row under pain of torment and death, but if he ever reached Gondor, what would the battle be but torment and death? Maybe he would die pathetically as an old man holding an oar after wasting his years rowing Numenorean lords from war to war. They would just throw him overboard for the sport of different sea creatures and keep conquering the world. This thought made him chuckle again. But why would he have been so eager to go to war against Gondor? He had no personal reason to hate that land. Jagar tried to reminisce an old song his mother had used to sing but the words escaped from his mind. Something about wind and horizon...