Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

Endamir leaned against his brother, a slightly bewildered look on his face. ‘Do you fear the wine’s been tampered with?’ he whispered, setting his glass off to one side of him. His gaze lingered on the space where the Smith had been, where his voice had continued to come from. ‘He seems harmless enough, doesn’t he? What is so worrisome to you?’

He rocked back and forth on his cold stone seat a few times, thinking. ‘I do find it odd how he can manipulate objects, though he has no body with which to do so.’ Endamir looked at Lindir and Lómwë. Their faces seemed to reflect the same misgivings his brother held.

For one brief moment he felt a small twinge of doubt, but it cleared quickly away. ‘I just don’t get the same sense of foreboding as you, Orëmir,’ he continued, whispering to his brother. ‘He still seems the kind, helpful fellow I once knew. A little older, a little more prone to telling long stories and with the wish not to be hurried about it or distracted with too many questions.’ Endamir raised a brow toward his brother. ‘He said he has some knowledge of Malris and Tasa – or so I thought. And that he would get to them in good time.’

Unthinking, he picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. ‘It’s really quite good,’ he offered, noting the look of reproof on Orëmir’s face. ‘And really, if he said he would get back to them, it must mean that really they are alright. Don’t you think so? So we might as well enjoy ourselves in the company of an old friend while we wait . . .’ His voice had risen to a louder pitch as he spoke on.

Another small twinge of doubt assailed him. But it was easily flicked away with another sip of wine. And for half a breath, he might have thought his reasoning a little tenuous. But he was feeling quite comfortable in the warmth of the chamber and he was finding the Smith’s voice more and more . . . well, soothing . . .

‘I for one would like to hear more of what the Smith has to say . . .’ Endamir yawned widely, he was feeling a little tired and really . . . it was so comfortable here . . .

[Anguirel]

The Smith's voice was warm, although a little weary now.

"That's right, drink up, drink up. Wine greatly refreshes body and spirit...though not spirit alone, to my sorrow...and you must all be very tired. You've found a save refuge now...though we will have to get to work soon, you know."

This remark would puzzle the listening Elves, save Endamir; what work was referred to? Was the Master Smith going to help them search for Malris and Tasa? Endamir would merely smile gratefully and pour himself a little more wine. But the Smith was at last getting to the point.

"So. From Maglor's song we can deduce that our mutual friend Malris found his wife...in spirit form, I presume, poor lady. Where, you will ask, did he go after that? Well, my braves, I have had a strange dream-for I dream still-and I deem that it came out of the West.

"In this dream, which fell upon me after Maglor's harp-chords had long died away, I saw an Elf-maid-so she seemed, and yet more, for there was great power about her. I now believe she was one of the haidmaidens of the Lords of the West.

"She told me that my lord Maedhros had never died. She asked me what token, what proof of his passing I had; and I could only tell of the Noldolante's strains telling of his downfall. She dismissed it, in her clear, beauteous voice, as the despair of his broken brother, Maglor, and no truth. For she bade me prepare for the coming of the Lord of Himring; told me of six pupils who were close at hand, and told me to join with them to craft a new suit of armour for the Lord..."

The Smith appeared by the entrance through which the Elves had entered the armoury, whether by design or by chance blocking any escape.

"There are only four of you, aye. But Malris was ever forthright and impetuous. I say he and the companion you speak of are already with my Lord! We must, must prepare for their coming! Fie, sloth! To work, to work!"

The wine in Endamir's veins would rise up in passion, as if urging him to his feet, to seize a hammer in his hands and obey the Smith's instructions...

***

A raft. It still seemed impossible. Once such a miracle had come about, whether by Uinen's doing, or Ulmo's, or by chance, Malris felt little surprise at the speed with which he was able to leap onto the dark, yet remarkably unrotted and sound wood, though Tasa, still sunken in her cruel swoon, was tucked under his right arm, though Cirlach was gripped in his left, though the dread Master-Thing of the lake still pursued him.

The raft gained, Malris laid Tasa down, none too gently, for the urgency of his plight could spare no such thoughts. A black ash pole was upon the raft; he seized it up, having sheathed Cirlach, and paddled with all the vitality he possessed. Now it was down to the trial of the body, not the mind or spirit; and in the body Malris knew his game. As he thrust the pole, spear-like, through the foetid water, he forgot almost everything, felt like an a mitious youth in Tirion, about to embark on an especially crucial foot-race...

But like the very image of despair and ignobility, guilt and reproach, the creature of the unending, befouling mass could not be shaken off. Like despair, it made its gains slowly; inch by inch, it sloughed itself forward, then faster, and the gap between the mindless, purposeless, savage Thing of nihilism, and the raft, that stubborn but brittle hope, grew narrow to the point where cold terror almost conquered the struggling ferryman...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa woke suddenly to gentle sounds of water splashing lightly very near to her ears and to the cloying smell of dampened old wood. She recognized the feel of a watercraft without a second thought and the lap of lake water against her fingertips confirmed it.

She opened her eyes quickly, seeing nothing at first... the fire of their torch had gasped and sputtered to an irrevocable end in the onslaught of the water creature. She felt warmth on either side of her; Malris stood over her, pragmatic as he was of old, his legs keeping his unconscious companion stationary even as he concentrated their weight to the center of the raft for balance. He grasped the long pole with both hands, Cirlach sheathed.

It was with that observation that Tasa recoiled, her eyes clenched as tightly shut as her fists, and her body tensed. The point of the sheathed blade dangled near to her heart in a manner she could not help but find alarming and the feel of it, even inches away bored into her.

"Malris..." Through gritted teeth Tasareni forced the words, her voice shivering with the struggle. "It calls... Cirlach... Cirlach calls to... iron... Malris, the chains... I can hear the chains... they threaten to bind me... Malris make it stop, please make it stop..."

With tremendous effort she forced her body into submission, reaching up and grasping her companion's leg.

"Malris... please..."

[Envinyatar]

‘To work, to work!’

Orëmir’s eyes narrowed at the spirit’s command. Endamir had struggled groggily to his feet and even now reached forward to grasp a hammer in his hand.

‘Lindir! Grab my brother’s arm!’ Orëmir took a firm grip on his twin’s upper arm, restraining him from following after The Smith. It was by the barest of inches that he managed to duck as Endamir swung the heavy hammer at his head. Orëmir wrestled the tool gone weapon from his brother’s grip and it fell clattering to the stone floor.

‘Hurry! Let’s haul him back to the passage way.’

Half dragging the stumbling Endamir along, Lindir and Orëmir sped as quickly as the resisting figure would allow toward the entryway to the chamber. Orëmir reached out with his one free hand to grab at Lómwë’s cloak and spin him about in their direction.

‘This way, Lómwë! Get away from him!’

[piosenniel]

Two demons had tight hold of him. And the one foul creature was trying to trick him by using his brother’s voice. Orëmir would not handle him so roughly, would not keep him from something he truly wanted. Orëmir’d come with him, hadn’t he, even though he’d protested at length that this was a foolish, foolish trip. No . . . Orëmir would not do this to him.

Endamir struck out wildly with his feet, trying to kick at his captors. He pulled one arm free from the blackguard’s grip and swung willy-nilly at one of the foul creatures. ‘What have you done to my brother and my friends!?’ he cried.

There was a satisfying crunch as his fist connected with someone’s nose.

‘Help! Help!’ he cried louder. ‘They’re trying to kidnap me!’

[Firefoot]

The edges of Lómwë’s suspicion had been slowly worn away by the smith’s helpful manner. Perhaps he was not withholding information at all, merely choosing his own time and way to give it. By now, he had given them all the information they had asked for, seemingly as well as he could. He certainly seemed knowledgeable about the island, and he said Malris was coming here… would this not be a fine place to wait…?

He absently took another sip of wine. How strong was this stuff, anyway, that his head should feel so cloudy? He had not even drunk the full glass – and surely this was only the first? Lómwë thought so, but he could not remember clearly. He tried to follow the movement of the smith around the workshop and found the continued disappearing and reappearing increasingly disconcerting. He appeared in front of the doorway. Lómwë frowned. Blocking the doorway… like the hazily remembered lock and key…

“To work, to work!” the smith was now saying. To work? No… he was no smith… but he found himself slowly standing, as if to reach for one of the hammers. No, he ought to be fighting this, right...? Why was his mind so cloudy? He could hardly think; he felt almost dizzy. Dimly he heard Orëmir’s voice; Lómwë’s first inclination was to slap him – why was he talking so loudly? Wait, slap him – where had that come from? Oh, his head! Lómwë felt as if it might split open at any moment.

“This way, Lómwë! Get away from him!” Yes, of course! The fog in his head seemed to thin; he turned to follow Orëmir and Lindir, trying to lead a thrashing Endamir away from the chamber. How foolishly the smith was making them act! This thought brought a new wave of pain through his head; he just wanted to lay down and let it pass – and with this very thought the pain seemed to subside slightly. Lay down, yes… No! He plunged forward after Orëmir and Lindir just in time to have his face whacked by Endamir’s fist. For a second Lómwë thought he would pass out as the general pain in his head centralized in his now broken nose, and it was without thinking that he swung out at the source of this new pain. His fist connected solidly with Endamir’s head even as Endamir called out for help.

In a moment his thoughts cleared despite the intensified pain, and he realized just what he had done. What was this place – the smith! – doing to him!? But the looks he received from Lindir and Orëmir were mixed incredulity, confusion, and relief at Endamir’s abated struggling. “Come on! Let’s carry him out,” said Lómwë, feeling rather abashed. They really had to get away from here…

[Anguirel]

The Smith did not leave his position in front of the door. His frighteningly solid-looking hand grasped its iron knocker, sounding it again and again. Perhaps the Smith needed to maintain this activity to keep his appearance of physical form, which only hung over him while he laboured; or perhaps he had half a mind to the intimidating noice of iron slamming against iron, like a gong calling servants to the forge. Perhaps it was a gong calling servants to the forge.

"Insolent pups, I was instructed to become your master and to with you forge the Lord's armour, and I shall yet see it through. Unhand the only pupil who has obeyed me truly at once!"

When Oremir, Lomwe, and Lindir's set faces showed utter intransigence, the Elven-Smith's brow curved in fury.

"I brook no insubordination. I mean and will you no harm, but you must, and will, obey me."

Silence again hung in the air, punctured only by the physical, dull pummelings of the Elves struggling to restrain Endamir, and the Smith impacting the knocker upon its iron bed, again and again.

"Disobedience to me," the Smith said at last, "is treachery against the Lord Maedhros. You are assaulting and wronging your companion, who is loyal yet. Remember that I have no choice now."

The spirit knocked upon the door one final time before vanishing. Yet as ever he voice still sounded; a low, almost dirge-like whisper, whose sibilances and assonances the Elves could deduce were the ancient forms of High Quenya of the Noldorin dialect, spoken only by the most able and mighty of that race. They could hear only repeated uses of the verb "to bind", and the name Curufinwe; a name associated with two Noldorin only, the elder and the younger, the greatest and the most notorious.

At first cobwebs, silver threads they seemed, the lines of dancing light that coiled from about the anvil, from piles of arms abandoned in corners, from the great mailcoat, unquestionably that of a mighty Lord, that lay upon the Smith's work table. These slender patterns came from these things, yet were not born of them. And the chant of their maker, their conjuror, murmured on.

Fetters of truesilver, Elven-fair, they seemed; and though they bound with a will that could not be gainsaid, they seemed to call out, to urge a willingness to submit. As they reached the ankles of the resisting Elves, they caused no pain or tightness as they held fast; but coldness, certainly, not physical coldness, for they seemed as gently warm as the room, but a sort of invincible logic that was not prepared to surrender or to melt, not though the fires of Utumno burnt beneath it...

"Curufinwe, well you strove..." came the Master Smith's lilt...