Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had marked the loss of Târik with cold fury. She had mistrusted him long before turning to his guidance, and almost felt that she had lost a son now that she had placed her life in his hands and he had given his to save them. Mandos keep him in high honor. she thought grimly, catching a sweeping blade with her fan and running the unfortunate soldier through as he tried to regain his motionless blade. She felt sick at heart at the loss of these brave young guards; they fought fiercly for reasons as good as her own... simply different. Whether for their own ideals, or through fear, and she could not judge them bitterly... she had seen too much sorrow at the hands of judgement to inflict it on such pitiable lads as these.

Her face was white as new fallen snow, pale as those dying from her strokes. It was her life or those of the King's Men. Those she loved best in the world stood in the balance. Now was not the time for mercy. She argued with herself, blocking and defending unthinkingly. The karibor beneath her reared, kicking, and dispatching a man just out of reach. If now is not the highest and hardest time for mercy, then what is? Should not these boys be treated with the kindness that seems so foreign to them? Do not they need it most?

Abarzadan had disappeared from the fray. Inzillomì had not seen him leave, but she could not place him in the midst of the fighters... or on the cold road with those slain.

A sharp tug nearly pulled Inzi from the saddle. Kâthaanî, who had been riding pillion until the group could retrieve the rest of the mounts, had been pulled from her place, trying fruitlessly to keep hold on her mother. Inzi turned, straining her back, to see Kâthaanî pull her dull silver blade from its sheath, ducking a blow from a large guard. The girl had been silent through the trip and remained so now. As she pivoted, trying to find purchase through her opponent's armor, a scream cut through the air, piercing it's way through even the heavy rumble of thunder. Heat lightening played across the low clouds, blinding Inzillomì. As her eyes cleared, she did not see her daughter. She searched the area madly, noting her husband shouting an unheard message to a bearded man she barely recognized. Azarmanô fought on horseback, bow and blade in hand. Tiru also rode, his own mount as much weapon as he required. With silent messages, transferred unthinkingly by feel, the faithful servant guided his karibor with deadly accuracy. Guards lay on the ground in verying states of pain, clutching broken bones, unable to fight. Marsillion was deeply engaged with several opponents but seemed capable. Kâthaanî was not standing. Inzillomì swept the ground fiercly. She froze as the earth shook. Her daughter lay still on the unfeeling road, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her.

"We flee!" came Abârpânarú's shout through a moment of unexpected silence. "No time to ponder, we flee!"

Inzillomì didn't move.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar thanked Moizandú with a brief silent glance of deepest respect as his friend dismounted from Izri, putting himself in great danger, and sent the mearas seeking out her mistress, Kâthaanî.

It was fortunate that the street was full of shop wares and their poles, tents, tables and benches, which had made it hard for more than a small number of Herugor's guards to attack them at one time, and also made bowshots difficult to aim with much accuracy.

A quake shook the earth. Mabalar remained on surefooted Lômi. He took stock. A foot wide gap had opened between them and the bulk of Herugor's guards. There were only fifteen guards on foot on their side of the gap. Mabalar looked over them and made a quick head count: Tirú was on Mani, Marsillion rode Rûki, Thoronmir sat astride Nitirú, Azarmanô held the reins of Khibil, and Inzillomí wielded her knife while on the back of Kali. Where was Kâthaanî? He could not see her.

Izri, find your mistress, he whispered. "Retreat!" he yelled and swung his chains at the nearest guard before the young soldier regained his wits. The others responded to his call, except for Inzillomí. Mabalar coaxed the wise Lômi to get clear of the guards. The sky darkened further, threatening clouds lowering as with a pall of doom. Hail began to fall. This was not hail like anything Mabalar had seen before, not the size of small pebbles; these were the size of nuts and apples, and stung like shot from a Soronilian blowgun.

Suddenly he heard someone crying above the fray. It was Moizandú. He was standing on top of a newly made heap of rubble, holding a piece of wood above his head.

"Men of Númenor! This hail, these earthquakes, these are made from the wrath of the Valar! Turn from your evil! Follow Sauron and his minion Herugor no more!"

Some of the guards quailed and dropped their swords to the ground. Others still held their weapons but dropped them to their sides. Most held their weapons firm but wavered, as if unsure between this seeming prophet and their commander. One, standing near Herugor, looked on coldly.

While they were in confusion, Mabalar urged Lômi and the others were now following. Izri was lagging. Something was slowing her. It was Kâthaanî, her hand desperately gripping a hanging rein as Izri dragged her carefully as she could along the ground.

"Kâth!" Mabalar yelled. A thin trail of blood could be seen where she had dragged. She looked up with glazed eyes, mouthing words that looked like a desperate call for help. My child! Mabalar jumped from Lômi and ran to Kâthaanî.

Meanwhile Moizandú continued his harangue. "The so-called Golden King has fallen under the spell of the hated Sauron! Immortality cannot be wrested from the Valar! 'Tis a fool's errand! Turn from the evil!" The guards who had dropped their swords looked remorseful as the hail fell upon them. Those who had let down their guard looked confused. Those who had wavered kept looking back and forth between Moizandú and Herugor. The one with cold eyes raised his bow and nocked and arrow.

Tirú, nearest to Kâthaanî, dismounted and came to Mabalar's aid. Together they lifted the groaning Kâthaanî and got her on Izri's back.

"Hang on, my dear!" he said and turned to Tirú. "Take her reins, my friend!"

"Aye, master!" Tirú's eyes spoke their friend-bond.

"Sauron has betrayed all Númenor! 'Tis a folly to due that fell one's will! Turn! Turn from -urk!" An arrow pierced his throat. He fell. The hail fell harder, and larger. Another quake split the gap wider.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mabalar found a brief moment to embrace Inzi.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no... we must leave Kali behind for another of our party; I pray that he comes in time."

"Then ride with me," Mabalar replied. She nodded and gave him the name of the missing friend, whom Mabalar had never met. He spoke the name to Kali, knowing that she would understand. Mabalar looked again at Inzi with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi and helping her up behind him. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

The seven Faithful fled down the streets mounted on the surefooted mearas, Kâthaanî's arms wrapped around the neck of Izri.

Míriel watched from high above, seeing the plight of the seven, the hail falling from a dark green sky, the quakes ripping up Armenelos.

"Valar save them," she said, and pulled her cloak more closely about her shivering frame.

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Himaran's post

The last time Abarzadan had been in a Numenorean mansion was beyond the reach of his more than adequate memory. As he and Ellinel passed through the set of beautifully-crafted heavy wooden doors, the man could only glance at a few of the amazing features displayed before him before a stone-faced (and well-dressed) servant appeared and took their coats; he did not even blink at the sight of Abarzadan's (which was torn, soaked and bloodied). The still-beaming woman beside him touched his shoulder and wispered that she would go and find her father. Both she and the servant disappeared, leaving him to study the house's many intricate details. The atrium was huge; beams with various pictures carved into them supported the walls, and towering above the polished stone floor was a colored glass dome. A central, enormous and gently-curving staircased climbed up the walls, stopping briefly at each level before continuing its upward journey. Surprisingly, it was deathly quiet.

It was not Ellinel who returned to meet him. An older man, tall and well-built with a full head of still-dark hair, appeared from one of the lower doors and stepped towards him. His walk was quick, and he carried his shoulders high. His clothing was custom and exquisite. Every fiber of his being exuded power. "My daughter tells me that you are Abârzadan."

"Such is the case, yes. She believes that you knew my father."

The man's face twisted, but he regained his composure a second later. "Yes, I knew Abâranâ. By your demeanor I understand that he has passed away."

"Again, you are are correct. I thought that since you were friends, there might be some lose ends that needed tying up, assuming you and he had conducted business together."

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, but I am rude. My name, Abârzadan, is Anadanâ. Welcome to my home. Do you require refreshments, or shall we get right to the task at hand?"

Abârzadan declined the offer, and the two headed up the staircase.


***


Anadanâ's study was immense. Row upon row of shelves was stuffed tight with leather-bound books, and heavy cabinets filled with documents lined the walls whenever an open space presented itself. A huge ivory desk covered with scattered papers sat in the center. The host led his guest straight to it, pulled up and extra chair, and bid him to sit. Anadanâ spent a few moments searching one of the cabinets, but soon returned with a large folder. He sat down and pulled out documents one at time, explaining their significance as he went. Apparently, Abâranâ and he had run a business together for many years. It started out as a small entrepreneurship, but eventually evolved into a highly succesfull enterprise that held a virtual monopoly in the housing industry for a decade. When Abârzadan's father abruptly disappeared, his partner simply took over. "But now that you're here," he assured Abârzadan, "You can sign for him and take your father's place."

Anadanâ pulled out a crumpled paper and blew a cloud of dust off it. "Here we are. Assuming that you want in on this." He picked up an inkwell with his right hand, turned it over, and grimaced. "Ah, it's empty. I will have to go and fetch a fresh bottle. Please excuse me." And with that, he stood and disappeared from the room.

Abârzadan chuckled to himself. Anadanâ had seemed like the sort of man that would have called a servant long before venturing out to find something as trivial as an ink canister. After all, there were several buttons on the a nearby panel, all labeled - a bell system that ran throughout the entire residence. Pushing the thought aside, the man snatched up the paper and read through the legal material. Everything seemed in order, and the previous signiture had indeed been made by Abâranâ Barântâira.

Wait. Batânzâira... Barântâira. That is not his name! Upon making this startling revelation, the man leaped to his feet. Suddenly visible was a dark pool of ink, slowly settling at the bottom of an otherwise-empty silver waste-basket.

And Abârzadan make a quick and accurate assumption. Something about the entire afternoon was very, very wrong.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had stared frozen in horror at the body of her only child, laying motionless in a pool of her own blood. She could not look away, watching the color drain from Kâthaanî's face as the seconds ticked slowly by. She screamed at herself silently, trying to force her leaden limbs to action. Though Inzi had fought many times, impressively and subtley, she had never before heard the painful scream of her own blood. Though Kâthaanî had gone on missions before, it had always been with Abârpânarú, and they had always been safer than Cervith had realized. Now she had been exposed to the true horror that was battle and had come out wanting... now she was wounded, perhaps fatally, and her life streamed from her body as her mother was frozen to inaction.

Izri found her at that moment. As Inzillomì looked on, surprisingly unscathed though her attention had so completely wandered from the battle, she saw her daughter's fingers tighten over the reins of her beloved Izri. A sigh of relief escaped as her own mount moved forward and slightly away from the girl. Inzi panicked, snapping back to the moment. She reeled slightly and slipped from her saddle, being caught rather undelicately by the unsoft ground. Kali turned, worried about the lack of weight now present on her back. She nudged Inzillomi off the ground. The woman stood, slightly dazed, and bent to pick up her long knife. She thrust it through her sash, swiftly moving to the aid of Abârpânarú and Tiru, now hoisting the motionless Kâthaanî to Izri's back. As the girl found the strength to hold tight to the beast's neck, the men turned from her, allowing Kali to remove her mistress from harm's way. Tiru mounted Mani again as Abârpânarú spotted his wife, stricken, it seemed. He moved to her quickly, taking her swiftly in his arms.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no..." She turned from him, mounting Kali once more. Abârpânarú looked at her with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

Buried once more in the act of riding, Inzillomì body cooperated with her. She could not stop her gaze from falling often upon her daughter's unmoving form. If only she had been faster... She rode hard as the hail bruised her skin, thinking furiously, blaming herself.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir fired several arrows back at their pursuers, but there were too many behind them for the arrows to make a difference. Desperate to get off the island before it sank, Thoronmir urged his horse on.

Meanwhile, in the city, Sauron was still issuing orders.

"Hunt down the Faithful! They must not be allowed to leave this place. Herugor, take as many soldiers as you can and capture them before they can reach Romenna!"

"Yes, my lord," Herugor replied, and left.

Several miles from Armenelos, Thoronmir and the others stopped for a minute to rest before moving on. Thoronmir noticed something in the distance. At least ten horses were coming after them, and they didn't look friendly.

"Ride!" he shouted. "The Enemy has found us! Ride!"

An arrow flew past, narrowly missing Thoronmir. He fired a shot from his own bow and took off down the trail.

"You're not getting away this time, Sakaladun! This time, you die!" came a very familiar voice.

They rode onward.


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Himaran's post

Dropping the suspicious document on the desk, Abârzadan walked over to the cabinet from which his host had produced the obviously incorrect papers. Scanning the labels, he quickly recognized that they were alphebetically ordered. If those did not regard my father then... surely something else did. He found the "B's," and rolled down the line; Ba, Bat, Batâ, Batân...

There was nothing.

The man heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps all this had been a big mistake after all.

Then he noticed the sections.

At the top of the cabinet he was standing in front of, a small sign read "Partners." Each one is its own file!. Well, if Partner didn't apply, what did? "Raw Materials?" "Transportation?" No, these were all connected to Anadanâ's housing business. The man worked his way around the room, checking the names for anything that looked suspicious. And then he saw it, clear as daylight.

"Political Enemies."

Not even bothering to scroll, Abârzadan pulled out his father's "file," which consisted of a small, heavy and unlocked metal box. He hauled it over to a nearby table and set it down. Prying up the lid, the man scooped out a pile of papers. The first several consisted of background information on his father, such as his birthdate, childhood residence, and geneology. Why does this man have a record on Abâranâ? Political enemies? He looked at the next document. Its title read, "Legislation and Political Measures." Names rolled out before him at startling speed - child labor, slavery, taxation; all the major issures were present. Nothing concrete or explanatory, though. But the next piece made his blood run cold.

"Voting Records."

After all, his father had been on the Numenorean High Council. While the King still had the final say in all matters, the council had wielded considerable power during that time. So what had he done to deserve the label of "enemy?" Nothing was making sense. Lists, lists, and yet more lists. Had it not been for the fact that Abâranâ's name had been circled, he might never have found it. The man started checking the votes. Child labor, No. Legalizing prostitution, No. All of the measures he had voted against had passed. In the face of great opposition, the politician had stood up for his beliefs. And to what end? The final decision in the record was entitled, "Centralized Army Fund." Origonally, garrisons in cities were run and operated by individual councils. This law created a single army controlled by Ar-Pharazôn alone, one which would have made controlling a disobediants populace far easier. He checked the list on the right side of the paper, and was surprised by what he saw.

His father had not voted.

Tossing it aside, he scooped up the next one. This one was simply labeled, "Status." There were three names on the paper. His mother's name had been crossed off. The names of his father and himself had not.

Abârzadan sank back into the chair behind him. His mother's death, the flight from Numenor; it had all become remarkably clear within the course of the past few minutes. His father's last words rang hauntingly in his memory. "I say this, so that you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie." And discover the truth.

A tremble in the floor snapped him out of his daydream.

The ink had been a diversion for Anadanâ to leave the room. Where was he? The man was sure that the aging politician would be more than happy to get Abârzadan's name scratched off that list once and for all. Rolling up the papers, he fastened them with a nearby tie and hurried out of the room. Maybe the Valar would be merciful to him. Maybe there was still time.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

When they halted for a brief time, Mabalar and Inzillomí went straight to their daughter. She had been grievously wounded; her face was pale, and she fought for consciousness.

"We must dress the wound!" Inzi said. She tore strips from her own dress, shortening it from anke length to knee, and wrapped the bands around the knife wound in Kâthaanî's side.

"Lord," cried Tíru, "let me remove your chains!"

"There is no time now. My friends!" he called to all of them. "The island and tongue of the Adûnaic are now cursed because of the evil of the king and his men in following Sauron. From now on, all of my house must be called by their Sindarin names. I am Mabalar Mellothroch. My wife is Lothlómë. My life work is the care of the mearas. Speak to me and mine in Sindarin only, or you will not be answered." He looked from one to the next of them as his words laid hold upon them.

Just then, Thoronmir gave warning: they were being followed.

"Mabalar, part of the dagger must be embedded in the wound," said Lothlómë.

"There is no time now, though my heart misgives me if we do not remove it soon. Ride and outrun them!"

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Himaran's post


As he rushed out out onto the winding stairwell, Abarzadan heard the main door to the estate crash open. Crouching, he peered over the railing and watched as heavily armed guards poured into the atrium. The reason for Abadana's disappearance instantly became clear. But what to do? An armour-plated captain shouted orders to his men and they started up the staircase. There was no way to go but up. Keeping his head low, Abarzadan ascended on his belly, scrambling as quickly as his four limbs would carry him. The pounding footsteps behind him grew close, than faded into the study. Not much time. Forgetting any preconcieved notions of stealth, the man threw caution to the wind, stood, and bounded up to the next level.

Betrayed. The whole affair had been a farce, starting with his "unexpected" meeting with Ellinel. She recognized the name, ensnared him with her charm and appearance, and brought him to her father for the slaughter. As the man continued his unconventional escape, he vowed to cheat them again, just as his father had so many years before. Bursting through a nearby door, Abarzadan found himself in a loud, steamy and bustling kitchen. Cooks and porters yelled with surprise as he leaped over a counter and tore threw an array of stoves, kicking and tipping over various barrels and cauldrons in his mad flight. A lone, enraged worker brandishing a knife blocked his exit, but slowing down was no longer an option for the man. He waited until the last possible second before snatching an empty kettle, knocking the implement aside and fleeing from the scene. Slamming the door behind him, Abarzadan jammed it with a nearby stool before turning and finding himself at a dead end.

The window.

Snatching a broom from its customary place on the wall, he smashed the expensive but delicate glass and glanced out. He was two stories above the ground, too far up to jump. Unlike the stories he had often read as a child, there was no tall haywagon conveniently sitting just below him. Shouting behind him, someone shoving on the door.

Then he saw the pipe.

Naturally, any wealthy man's house would have a functional sewer system, and this one was no exception. The waste must run down, so... Careful of the remaining glass, Abarzadan clasped both arms around the thick clay cylinder and pulled his body out with them. Then he started sliding. The stool was knocked aside. Guards swarmed in, found an empty room with a broken window, and looked out. There was no one in sight.

Documents in hand, Abarzadan sprinted down the street. Locals eyed him briefly before sighing, turning and continuing with their business. A tremble sent him tumbling to the earth, but he pulled himself up and hurried unward. Where was he going? Up ahead, the man saw the crown of the temple. Perhaps even now as he hurried towards it, his past companions were being bled or burned to death on one of its pagan alters. There was absolutely no logical reason to head towards it, especially now that he had escaped two deathtraps in the same day. Yet something, a force not dark or sinister, seemed to be drawing him to it. Maybe the Valar wish for me to make a stand. Maybe it is my time.

But Kali, waiting alone in the shadow of the temple, knew better.

[Regin Hardhammer]

It had all happened so quickly in the confusion of battle. One moment Kâthaanî had been mounted on her Karibor fighting and the next she lay sprawled out on the ground, badly wounded. He tried to ride over to help, but a group of soldiers stood in the way blocking his path. Before plowing his way through to Kâthaanî, Azarmanô heard Abârpânarú call for the retreat. There had been too many guards to defeat, he lamented, simply too many soldiers and not enough Faithful. Over the course of his service, he had become accustomed to being outnumbered in battle, sometimes being forced to retreat. He hated fleeing from combat, running from the enemy, then as now, but there was no choice. Time slipped through their fingers like fine grains of sand. The island was sinking and every moment the ground trembled with a greater ferocity.

Azarmanô had never ridden a horse at such speeds in his life. The Kariborim were truly extraordinary creatures gifted with blazing speed that enabled the group to stay just ahead of their pursuers. The creatures’ endurance lasted much longer than that of ordinary beasts, never waning as the group rode on. He had never been particularly fond of horses before, but now he was extremely glad to be riding these fleet footed equines. We need only keep up this pace to reach Romenna and board the ships to safety, he thought.

As he passed the landscape, he felt as if he was saying goodbye, a final farewell to the land of Numenor, soon to be under water. Yet even as he did so, he felt that Numenor, although destroyed, would always live in his heart as he remembered it, not as the land of corrupt, greedy kings, or the foul Lord Sauron, but as the home for a once noble people who had once befriended the elves. He could never forget Numenor, his Numenor, as long as he lived. When Abârpânarú pronounced the tongue of Numenor to be cursed, tainted, unusable, it pained Azarmanô greatly. Adunaic was the language of his ancestors, the language of the great Numenorian sea captains of old from whom he derived his lineage. Adunaic still held a deer place in his heart as something connected with home, something he could keep after the island sunk. Despite Abârpânarú’s rejection of the language as corrupt, Azarmanô could not find the will within him to do the same. He could speak Sindarin, but the tongue nearest to his heart would always be the language of Numenor.

After the party stopped for a brief respite, Azarmanô went over to check on Kâthaanî. She was still bleeding slightly, so Azarmanô ripped off a piece of his cloak and tied it as a bandage on her shoulder. There was no time to treat her wounds properly here, but they could ensure that she not lose any more blood. As he looked at her body wavering on top of a Karibor, he silently willed her to stay stable until they reached the ships. Off in the distance Azarmanô could see a cluster of a dozen soldiers on horseback riding towards them with alarming alacrity. Quickly, he mounted his horse, checked to see that Kâthaanî sat safely on top of her Karibor supported by her mother, and followed his companions, galloping toward the harbor.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Kâthaanî had been perched behind her mother in the battle. Her own Izri had not been close enough and they had needed any advantage over the numerous ground troops. When she felt a sharp tug from behind, she reached for her mother, twisting in place. She had hit the ground out of breath and rolled to her feet, crouching angrily to meet the fighter. With only her dull blade in hand, she blocked two cuts before hesitating. The blade had cut so easily through her. She screamed and fell, clutching her side. The soldier left her for dead... it had been such a wound.

She felt the hot stickiness of her own blood soaking through her clothes. Her breathing came harshly... it hurt to extend her ribs. Each breath tore at the wound and she cringed, gasping at the hurt. Within short moments, she lay still on the ground.

She could feel herself moving further away from the battle. The sounds were growing dimmer as she concentrating on trying to make the pain stop. She lay still, hoping that it would help. Suddenly she cringed, turning, gasping at the hurt, and opened her eyes. Izri nudged her worriedly. Kâthaanî's eyes seemed cloudy and she was growing weaker each moment. Soft leather touched her hand and she clenched her fingers around it.

It hurt... she could feel her clothing sticking to the blood that was beneath her. She was tugged out of the road. Izri pulled her closer to Abârpânarú and in the exquisite calm that comes from pain, Kâthaanî could feel herself hoisted to Izri's back.

She heard her father's voice urging her to hang on. She took him literally... her fingers tightened on Izri's main and she wrapped herself around her karibor.

What seemed like seconds later, the group stopped for a moment. She could hear her mother's voice, though she could not understand the words. She cried out as she felt bandaging tighten over her, blacking out once more. Next she knew, she was astride Izri, pounding down the road as hail fell from the sky. She closed her eyes and trusted to her mount to keep her safe as she concentrated on breathing alone.