Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Folwren · 11-22-2005, 08:58 AM

Captain Hereric, his arm wrapped about the sturdy wood of the foremast, shaded his eyes against the rising sun. He, too, had seen the plume of smoke as he had come on deck and, as the king had, mistook it at first to be a normal, small cloud. Almost at once, Winmar, his left tennant, had approached him and told him that the look out had spotted what appeared to be smoke, and the captain had run aloft.

Now from this new vantage point, he could see more clearly and understood the look out’s uncomfortable feeling. It was smoke after all. An uncomfortable amount of it. With a sigh, he leaned against the mast and dropped his hand from his eyes. Really, he could do nothing about it, except make more sail. That much he would do.

His hand swung out instinctively to grasp a hanging rope and he gently let himself slide down to the deck. Landing squarely on his feet, he released the rope and hurried up to the quarter deck.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said, seeing the king on the deck. “Excuse me for a moment, sir. Winmar, have the topgallants set. Make full sail.” The left tenant gave the correct answer of ‘Yes, sir’ before turning to the rail and giving the orders. Hereric turned to the king. “I apologize, sir. You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.”

Firefoot · 11-22-2005, 03:28 PM

When Menelcar awoke, the king was already gone. He stood up, stretching stiff muscles unused to the hammock and the rolling of the ship. The night had not been uncomfortable, precisely, but in no way did this change the fact that he strongly preferred solid ground. He dressed quickly before leaving the cabin to find Telumehtar.

He soon spotted the king talking with Hereric up on the quarter deck. Though he did not particularly care for the company of the captain on this morning, he went to join them anyway. After all, if he would not go anywhere that the captain was, he would be letting the captain control him in a backwards sort of way.

“Good morning, m’lord,” Menelcar greeted as he approached. After an almost unnoticeable pause, he added with an acknowledging nod, “Captain.” A subtle gesture, though one the captain might not miss.

Abruptly, he noticed the small dark wisp on the horizon – a cloud? No, the day was clear and sunny, and this was but one dark cloud. Smoke then? Smoke – Pelargir… Menelcar felt a slight sinking in his stomach that did not come from the ship’s rocking. “So help us,” he murmured. Then slightly louder, “Is that smoke?”

Alcarillo · 11-22-2005, 06:09 PM

The soft yellow light of a Gondorian sunrise glowed through the tiny window of Captain Vórimandur's cabin. It was a small cabin, but still larger than what his sailors had. A chest of drawers lay nailed against the wall under the window, and next to it, between the drawers and the opposite wall, swung the captain's cot. It was a rectangular box, like a coffin, but it was painted yellow and swung from the ceiling by several ropes. It was filled with a thin mattress, a creamy-white pillow and blanket, and with the sleeping body of Captain Vórimandur. He stirred as the sun lit his room. With a tired groan and an agile roll over the edge of the cot he landed on the floor, catlike, on his feet, standing there in his nightgown. He changed out of it and donned his stately captain's garb, every piece with its own special place in the drawers. And finally, with a flourish he wrapped a black cape about his shoulders, to add an air of authority. And with this final touch, he stepped out of his cabin, into his office, and then out onto the deck of the Ráca.

The deck gave a wonderful view of what was left of the sunrise. Orange and red clouds drifted lazily in the East as the golden sun rose higher and higher into the sky. The rigging of the ship was sharply silhouetted against the fiery eastern sky. Men gazed from their views high up among the sails, captivated for a single moment from their work by this fire in the East. Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to reflect upon the sunrise, but soon he turned to Caradhril.

"Caradhril, how far are we from Pelargir?" Pelargir was the closest major city, and also a great port. Hopefully the fleet would take a short stop there before sailing to Umbar.

Caradhril stood by the wheel, supervising a young sailor turn it this way and then that way to follow the curves of the Anduin. "We're not far, sir! We'll reach it later today, no doubt." Captain Vórimandur gave a nod of satisfaction. "And, sir, if you don't mind me askin', you will, if it pleases, ask the Cuivië if the king's-" here Caradhril stepped closer and whispered, "-crazy, won't you? I'm nearly certain . . ."

Captain Vórimandur gave a glare that told Caradhril to not speak of the subject again. "If we happen to pull alongside her, I shall make sure to bring your story up with the captain. Now I think your little student there is steering the ship a little too starboard." Caradhril turned to adjust the ship's course. Vórimandur had completely forgotten last night's story in the wardroom, and doubted its authenticity, but still, Caradhril would not lie. It must've only been a trick of the light.

Anguirel · 11-23-2005, 05:23 AM

As the Corsair Captain hurried to put the next stages of the plot into action, Sangalazin speedily began to return the chess pieces to their drawers, his long fingers nimbly grasping a Mumak here, a Knight there...and the hapless Pawns, in their masses...his stray left hand struck a silver bell hanging to one side. It was the call for the black-armoured Guard of Sangalazin to attend to its lord.

Andlang, eager as ever to demonstrate his loyalty, arrived first, but many others followed him quickly. Before the last peals of the bell had died away, the forty bodyguards, every man assembled, stood ready to act.

"Lord Azaryan and Captain Chatazrakin are marshalling their Corsairs and preparing to disembark," Sangalazin explained smoothly. "Bring me my armour."

The guards designated Sangalazin's personal squires, grooms and armourers, four in number, the youngest who had most ethereal Numenorean beauty about them, came forward with the steely intricacies of the Lord of Umbar's battle-garb; cuirass, corselet, grieves, helm...fully equipped at last, he looked something akin to the part he played, his longsword at his side, and his great height, at least, befitting a warrior.

"Now you are armed, my liege," Andlang asked, "are we to depart? The Lord and Captain have launched their assault already. Pelargir is in flames...they met with almost no resistance. The plunder will be rich."

"Patience, my boy," Sangalazin answered slyly. "Patience. We shall move onto the deck of the xebec; but we shall not join the attack until I give the word."

The yellow-haired, dark-plated soldiers filed on deck, their blades flashing in the last splutterings of the evening sun. From their vantage point, they could see all the devastation being wreaked. A few fighters of Gondor, scattered and ill-prepared, lay spread-eagled in attitudes of death. Beyond the docks, warehouses, mansions by the coast, even the bastions of the town were licked by a choking caress of smoke and fire. Now and again a loose band of Corsairs would stagger by, cutlasses out, overlaid with booty.

"I think our friends are scattered enough," Sangalazin remarked. "Andlang, keep fifteen men to guard the vessel with the remainder of those paltry Corsairs. I am going into town to requisition the spoils from the ill-disciplined poltroons..."

Fordim Hedgethistle · 11-25-2005, 02:39 PM

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The slave drivers ranged along the catwalk striking at the bare skin of the slaves left and right, roaring at them to row harder, faster. Chakka pulled his oar over and over again, his great muscles tirelessly sending their force through the wood to attack the ocean. Sweat glistened upon his ebony skin which shone with a deep lustre. From above came the hammer and pound of armoured feet as the corsairs made ready for some brutal act and Chakka's heart grew hard with rage that he was being made to help such men in their evil. The slavedriver passed him by and struck him with the butt of his whip, and for a moment the vision of the dagger that Chakka had hidden flashed behind his eyes. The satisfaction of seeing the dying look in the slave driver's eyes as he slid to the floor was almost worth it...almost.

Chakka felt Jagar begin to flag at his side, so to cheer the man he began one of the innumerable rowing songs that he had learned in this hellhole. The song was taken up by those around him, and soon the slaves were all singing, using their music to give form to their agony.

When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom,
If you follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river bank makes a very good road,
The dead trees show you the way,
Left foot, peg foot, traveling on
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

The river ends between two hills,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
There's another river on the other side,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.

Where the great big river meets the little river,
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you
follow the Drinking Gourd.

Another blow to the base of his neck silenced him and the men's song faltered and failed. There was another alarm from above and the drum that beat out their lives again increased in tempo. Chakka and the others bent to their work, driving their oars into the water and the corsair's vessel toward some innocent land...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dunwen's post

Breakfast for Three

The soldiers and sailors of Gondor had not been allowed to sleep in quite as late as their superiors. During the night, only those on duty had been awake, moving on their rounds as King Telumehtar’s fleet slipped quietly down the Anduin. However, in the hour before dawn, the fleet had started to come to life.

Sleepy sailors coming off midwatch had rousted their replacements out of their hammocks and crawled in themselves. The rest of the troops woke up and prepared for the new day. The low buzz of conversation below decks moved up into the open air as men dressed and began to haunt the galleys for morning rations. It was a bright calm morning and many brought their breakfasts up onto the decks to eat before reporting for duty. The great ships were crowded close on the river, near enough for men on different ships to hear each other. Among the shouted orders of the fleet’s officers and captains there could be heard a fair amount of ribbing as the seamen took turns exchanging good-natured insults and jests about each others’ ships.

Aboard the Ráca, Nimir had found Lingwë and Curamir ahead of him in line for breakfast. After he’d been handed his bit of rations, he saw that the other two were waiting for him. Happily joining them, he and Curamir listened to Lingwë’s description of working for the ill-tempered ship’s Cook the night before. Lingwë did a wickedly good imitation of the Cook’s surly tone that made the other two laugh merrily. They finished eating quickly, and compared notes about their duty stations for the day before they had to separate. Nimir was assigned to the hold again, as the Master-at-Arms wanted to move some of the weaponry closer to the main deck, making it easily available in battle. The young archer was glad to have had a chance for a little time in the fresh air today, and to see Lingwë and Curamir before they went to their own assignments. The three agreed to look for each other at dinnertime, then each went to report in for his day’s duty.

11-22-2005, 08:58 AM	#1
Folwren Messenger of Hope Join Date: Jun 2005 Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States. Posts: 5,076	Captain Hereric, his arm wrapped about the sturdy wood of the foremast, shaded his eyes against the rising sun. He, too, had seen the plume of smoke as he had come on deck and, as the king had, mistook it at first to be a normal, small cloud. Almost at once, Winmar, his left tennant, had approached him and told him that the look out had spotted what appeared to be smoke, and the captain had run aloft. Now from this new vantage point, he could see more clearly and understood the look out’s uncomfortable feeling. It was smoke after all. An uncomfortable amount of it. With a sigh, he leaned against the mast and dropped his hand from his eyes. Really, he could do nothing about it, except make more sail. That much he would do. His hand swung out instinctively to grasp a hanging rope and he gently let himself slide down to the deck. Landing squarely on his feet, he released the rope and hurried up to the quarter deck. “Good morning, my lord,” he said, seeing the king on the deck. “Excuse me for a moment, sir. Winmar, have the topgallants set. Make full sail.” The left tenant gave the correct answer of ‘Yes, sir’ before turning to the rail and giving the orders. Hereric turned to the king. “I apologize, sir. You had a good night, I trust? You’ve risen early. I hope it wasn’t due to an uncomfortable sleep.” Last edited by Folwren; 11-22-2005 at 01:40 PM.

11-22-2005, 06:09 PM	#3
Alcarillo Shadow of the Past Join Date: Jul 2005 Location: Minas Mor-go Posts: 1,007	The soft yellow light of a Gondorian sunrise glowed through the tiny window of Captain Vórimandur's cabin. It was a small cabin, but still larger than what his sailors had. A chest of drawers lay nailed against the wall under the window, and next to it, between the drawers and the opposite wall, swung the captain's cot. It was a rectangular box, like a coffin, but it was painted yellow and swung from the ceiling by several ropes. It was filled with a thin mattress, a creamy-white pillow and blanket, and with the sleeping body of Captain Vórimandur. He stirred as the sun lit his room. With a tired groan and an agile roll over the edge of the cot he landed on the floor, catlike, on his feet, standing there in his nightgown. He changed out of it and donned his stately captain's garb, every piece with its own special place in the drawers. And finally, with a flourish he wrapped a black cape about his shoulders, to add an air of authority. And with this final touch, he stepped out of his cabin, into his office, and then out onto the deck of the Ráca. The deck gave a wonderful view of what was left of the sunrise. Orange and red clouds drifted lazily in the East as the golden sun rose higher and higher into the sky. The rigging of the ship was sharply silhouetted against the fiery eastern sky. Men gazed from their views high up among the sails, captivated for a single moment from their work by this fire in the East. Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to reflect upon the sunrise, but soon he turned to Caradhril. "Caradhril, how far are we from Pelargir?" Pelargir was the closest major city, and also a great port. Hopefully the fleet would take a short stop there before sailing to Umbar. Caradhril stood by the wheel, supervising a young sailor turn it this way and then that way to follow the curves of the Anduin. "We're not far, sir! We'll reach it later today, no doubt." Captain Vórimandur gave a nod of satisfaction. "And, sir, if you don't mind me askin', you will, if it pleases, ask the Cuivië if the king's-" here Caradhril stepped closer and whispered, "-crazy, won't you? I'm nearly certain . . ." Captain Vórimandur gave a glare that told Caradhril to not speak of the subject again. "If we happen to pull alongside her, I shall make sure to bring your story up with the captain. Now I think your little student there is steering the ship a little too starboard." Caradhril turned to adjust the ship's course. Vórimandur had completely forgotten last night's story in the wardroom, and doubted its authenticity, but still, Caradhril would not lie. It must've only been a trick of the light. Last edited by Alcarillo; 11-30-2005 at 05:29 PM.

11-23-2005, 05:23 AM	#4
Anguirel Byronic Brand Join Date: Mar 2005 Location: The 1590s Posts: 2,778	As the Corsair Captain hurried to put the next stages of the plot into action, Sangalazin speedily began to return the chess pieces to their drawers, his long fingers nimbly grasping a Mumak here, a Knight there...and the hapless Pawns, in their masses...his stray left hand struck a silver bell hanging to one side. It was the call for the black-armoured Guard of Sangalazin to attend to its lord. Andlang, eager as ever to demonstrate his loyalty, arrived first, but many others followed him quickly. Before the last peals of the bell had died away, the forty bodyguards, every man assembled, stood ready to act. "Lord Azaryan and Captain Chatazrakin are marshalling their Corsairs and preparing to disembark," Sangalazin explained smoothly. "Bring me my armour." The guards designated Sangalazin's personal squires, grooms and armourers, four in number, the youngest who had most ethereal Numenorean beauty about them, came forward with the steely intricacies of the Lord of Umbar's battle-garb; cuirass, corselet, grieves, helm...fully equipped at last, he looked something akin to the part he played, his longsword at his side, and his great height, at least, befitting a warrior. "Now you are armed, my liege," Andlang asked, "are we to depart? The Lord and Captain have launched their assault already. Pelargir is in flames...they met with almost no resistance. The plunder will be rich." "Patience, my boy," Sangalazin answered slyly. "Patience. We shall move onto the deck of the xebec; but we shall not join the attack until I give the word." The yellow-haired, dark-plated soldiers filed on deck, their blades flashing in the last splutterings of the evening sun. From their vantage point, they could see all the devastation being wreaked. A few fighters of Gondor, scattered and ill-prepared, lay spread-eagled in attitudes of death. Beyond the docks, warehouses, mansions by the coast, even the bastions of the town were licked by a choking caress of smoke and fire. Now and again a loose band of Corsairs would stagger by, cutlasses out, overlaid with booty. "I think our friends are scattered enough," Sangalazin remarked. "Andlang, keep fifteen men to guard the vessel with the remainder of those paltry Corsairs. I am going into town to requisition the spoils from the ill-disciplined poltroons..." Last edited by Anguirel; 01-11-2006 at 08:52 AM.

11-25-2005, 02:39 PM	#5
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Fordim Hedgethistle's post The slave drivers ranged along the catwalk striking at the bare skin of the slaves left and right, roaring at them to row harder, faster. Chakka pulled his oar over and over again, his great muscles tirelessly sending their force through the wood to attack the ocean. Sweat glistened upon his ebony skin which shone with a deep lustre. From above came the hammer and pound of armoured feet as the corsairs made ready for some brutal act and Chakka's heart grew hard with rage that he was being made to help such men in their evil. The slavedriver passed him by and struck him with the butt of his whip, and for a moment the vision of the dagger that Chakka had hidden flashed behind his eyes. The satisfaction of seeing the dying look in the slave driver's eyes as he slid to the floor was almost worth it...almost. Chakka felt Jagar begin to flag at his side, so to cheer the man he began one of the innumerable rowing songs that he had learned in this hellhole. The song was taken up by those around him, and soon the slaves were all singing, using their music to give form to their agony. When the sun comes back and the first quail calls, Follow the Drinking Gourd. For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom, If you follow the Drinking Gourd. The river bank makes a very good road, The dead trees show you the way, Left foot, peg foot, traveling on Follow the Drinking Gourd. The river ends between two hills, Follow the Drinking Gourd. There's another river on the other side, Follow the Drinking Gourd. Where the great big river meets the little river, Follow the Drinking Gourd. For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you follow the Drinking Gourd. Another blow to the base of his neck silenced him and the men's song faltered and failed. There was another alarm from above and the drum that beat out their lives again increased in tempo. Chakka and the others bent to their work, driving their oars into the water and the corsair's vessel toward some innocent land... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dunwen's post Breakfast for Three The soldiers and sailors of Gondor had not been allowed to sleep in quite as late as their superiors. During the night, only those on duty had been awake, moving on their rounds as King Telumehtar’s fleet slipped quietly down the Anduin. However, in the hour before dawn, the fleet had started to come to life. Sleepy sailors coming off midwatch had rousted their replacements out of their hammocks and crawled in themselves. The rest of the troops woke up and prepared for the new day. The low buzz of conversation below decks moved up into the open air as men dressed and began to haunt the galleys for morning rations. It was a bright calm morning and many brought their breakfasts up onto the decks to eat before reporting for duty. The great ships were crowded close on the river, near enough for men on different ships to hear each other. Among the shouted orders of the fleet’s officers and captains there could be heard a fair amount of ribbing as the seamen took turns exchanging good-natured insults and jests about each others’ ships. Aboard the Ráca, Nimir had found Lingwë and Curamir ahead of him in line for breakfast. After he’d been handed his bit of rations, he saw that the other two were waiting for him. Happily joining them, he and Curamir listened to Lingwë’s description of working for the ill-tempered ship’s Cook the night before. Lingwë did a wickedly good imitation of the Cook’s surly tone that made the other two laugh merrily. They finished eating quickly, and compared notes about their duty stations for the day before they had to separate. Nimir was assigned to the hold again, as the Master-at-Arms wanted to move some of the weaponry closer to the main deck, making it easily available in battle. The young archer was glad to have had a chance for a little time in the fresh air today, and to see Lingwë and Curamir before they went to their own assignments. The three agreed to look for each other at dinnertime, then each went to report in for his day’s duty. Last edited by piosenniel; 12-02-2005 at 04:57 PM.

11-22-2005, 03:28 PM	#2
Firefoot Illusionary Holbytla Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 7,547	When Menelcar awoke, the king was already gone. He stood up, stretching stiff muscles unused to the hammock and the rolling of the ship. The night had not been uncomfortable, precisely, but in no way did this change the fact that he strongly preferred solid ground. He dressed quickly before leaving the cabin to find Telumehtar. He soon spotted the king talking with Hereric up on the quarter deck. Though he did not particularly care for the company of the captain on this morning, he went to join them anyway. After all, if he would not go anywhere that the captain was, he would be letting the captain control him in a backwards sort of way. “Good morning, m’lord,” Menelcar greeted as he approached. After an almost unnoticeable pause, he added with an acknowledging nod, “Captain.” A subtle gesture, though one the captain might not miss. Abruptly, he noticed the small dark wisp on the horizon – a cloud? No, the day was clear and sunny, and this was but one dark cloud. Smoke then? Smoke – Pelargir… Menelcar felt a slight sinking in his stomach that did not come from the ship’s rocking. “So help us,” he murmured. Then slightly louder, “Is that smoke?”