Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Firefoot]

Menelcar’s eyes glinted at Hereric’s remark. Just who did this man think he was? “And I, Captain” – the word was a meaningless appellation – “marvel that you should think that simply because I did not promptly bring the matter to you, you think that I had not noticed.” In truth, he had not immediately noticed the slowing in speed; it had been more of a slow recognition, known but not wholly realized. He moved as if to step past the captain to stand next to Telumehtar at the rail but paused, leaning closer to Hereric. “Do not think that I would bring all of my concerns and observations to you.”

Hereric was saved from responding – or perhaps Menelcar was saved from his response – by a shout down from the watchman. “Four ships in the bay!” Four! So much for his “two, maybe three,” mused Menelcar, now standing beside the king. “That should work out,” commented Menelcar.

Telumehtar nodded, taking his eyes away from the horizon. “What we will have to do,” he said, speaking more for Hereric’s benefit than Menelcar’s, as they had already discussed this, “is try to prevent their ships from leaving the bay – otherwise they will be able to take news back to Umbar.”

“Of course,” answered Hereric, showing a deference that Menelcar had never been given, and Menelcar did not understand it, though it had always been this way. Even before Telumehtar was king and he, counselor, Telumehtar had always been the friendly, magnetic one, while Menelcar was either disliked or tolerated, or occasionally respected for his position but never himself. And while most of him did not care, a small part of him reared up against this injustice and, a malevolent spark in his eyes, his gaze settled on Hereric for just a few moments.

He forced his train of thought back to the coming battle, the far more important issue at hand. Personal vendettas could wait till later. While he felt some anticipation, his feelings were not nearly as intense as the excited tension throughout the ship. Battle was a necessity and little more. He did not relish the killing and the blood. He had heard the stories of the Corsairs; many were true, but just as many were not. What was more, it was not the common soldiers and the slaves that needed to be killed but their cruel and merciless leaders, yet he knew that to get at the latter, the former must be killed. A pitiless evil circle was war, yet a necessary one.

The king finished explaining the final pre-battle tactics to Hereric, who in turn departed to relay the instructions to the officers. Menelcar and Telumehtar both turned again to face the front. Any time now, the alarm would be raised in Pelargir and their approach would be known. Then it would be a race against time, yet all they could do was wait…

[Dunwen]

This had been one of the strangest days of Nimir's life. It had started out with a cheerful breakfast in the bright morning with his new friends Curamir and Lingwë, laughing at the Ráca's Cook. He thought of their tentative plan to find each other at dinner this evening, and smiled grimly. His friends were surely standing with their own squadron, while he was with the rest of the ship's archers, waiting...nay willing the King's fleet toward Pelargir.

Certainly the first part of the day had been routine. He had headed from the bright breezes of the deck into the depths of the hold along with several other strong men and lads in the crew. Before coming on board a ship, he had never realized how much he disliked cramped spaces, but once Morgond, the Master-at-Arms, set everyone to work, there wasn't time to think of anything but his orders. Not only were weapons being moved to the upper decks in the ship, there were less necessary stores of goods that needed to be moved to accomodate them. Soon two lines of men formed, one carrying weapons up and the other moving extra stores down. The Master was apparently bent on getting every last spear, cutlass, arrow, rope and knife stored somewhere closer to the topdeck. Nimir wasn't the only one nearly decapitated or crushed in the bustle, and he lost his footing going down some stairs and nearly knocked over the two men in front of him. He'd tried to apologize, but in the noise and movement, his words were lost. Luckily, Morgond and his officers were too busy to mark him down. It was the usual day-to-day drudgery involved in keeping a warship ready to fight.

Then word filtered down from the decks that smoke had been seen over Pelargir.

The Master had not needed to order the crew to move faster. Of his own accord, each man doubled his effort, straining under the weight of weapons cases, boxes and barrels, knowing that battle would be joined within the day. If anything, Morgond ordered the men to move with greater care so that everything would go in its pre-determined place. Some of the younger lieutenants were ordered to start carrying right alongside the common men. At one point Nimir found himself teamed up with a young noble from Minas Anor moving barrels of dried fruit down one level. The lordling's fine uniform was filthy and his High Numenorian features were as grimy and sweaty as everyone else's. He didn't look much older that Nimir's own seventeen years, but neither boy had the breath to ask personal questions. At the end of their task, they'd clapped each other amiably on the shoulder and separated with a wave.

Nimir was amazed to see that despite the confusing masses of men going all directions with every concievable kind of container, the weapons were being placed precisely where the Master had determined they would be most needed. On a trip below, he noticed that everything belowdeck was being arranged just as carefully, with the Quartermaster's assistants writing down list after list of what could be found on each deck. He was impressed, guessing that this task had taken a great deal of forethought and cooperation between the two Masters and their respective subordinates. In a way, he was proud to take a small part in such a well-organized task, working under such clever officers. He was sure there wasn't a ship in the King's Fleet with a better crew than the Ráca.

Incredibly, what had seemed a gigantic job that morning had been finished by early afternoon. Coming up on deck, Nimir had noticed the slack sails on all the ships. He'd vented his frustration in a curse that would have earned him a box on the ear from his mother, but it was so unfair. He was pleased to see that Captain Vórimandur had been able to find enough wind for the Ráca's sails to keep her right behind the Cuivie, but the entire fleet was slowed by the weaking breezes. The afternoon had worn on and on, and still there was no sight of Pelargir. Only the ever-growing smudge of black smoke to the south indicated that they were truly moving closer.

Nimir had had time to wash the muck and sweat off his body and even managed to get some rations for a late lunch. He and the rest of the ship's archers had been ordered to form up, but with the failing winds, they had been permitted to take their ease until the fleet was ready to take battle stations. Morgond and his officers had no such luck, for once the last crates were in place, they were responsible for distributing weapons among the crew. Noticing his erstwhile companion of the fruit barrels working with the Master's officers, still covered in grime and sweat, Nimir unobtrusively obtained a second round of rations. He made a bundle of them in a middling scrap of torn sail, then moved toward the young Numenorian and caught his eye. He tossed the bundle and the other lad automatically put his hand out to catch it. He grinned at the boy's dawning recognition of what he held. With a wave of thanks, the lieutentant took a piece of bread out and voraciously bit into it. Walking away from the busy knot of men to collect his own bow and arrows, Nimir wondered idly if he'd ever get a chance to learn the other's name.

[Thinlómien]

Lingwë had never been waiting for a battle, and it made him nervous. The few battles he had been in had been pirate attacks; they had started and ended suddenly. Lingwë wished that it had been so this time also. But no, this was a real war, where tactics where used, not a mindless little clash between two little ships. The battle starts soon, but not soon, he thought.

Memories of the old fights flooded to his mind while they were making preparations on the Ráca's deck. He remembered strange frenzy that had overcome him when his friend was hit, he remembered the cries of the dying. But worst of all was after battle, seeing the deck red with blood and dead or wounded men lying on it. And now this isn't just a little battle with a few men dead. This is going to be a slaughter, he thought. He hoped that he wouldn't be one of those who would die.

The working men were mostly quiet and some where trying to hide their anxiousness behind rude jokes. He heard his friend Curamir laugh at them along many others, but his laugh was a fake laugh. Lingwë looked at him. He saw that Curamir was as nervous as he was. Or maybe even more nervous, he thought, this is his first fight. With a sudden pang he realised how worried he was about Curamir, and Nimir too. I'm not that much older or more experienced, he reminded himself. Still, he felt slightly big brotherish and remembering his own big brother he considered that a big fault. I have enough worrying, if I worry only about my self , he thought.