Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Why, family of course. Didn't you guess?" Koran muttered with a tight jaw and clenched fists. Ehan looked to the older man, trying not to show his surprise but knowing that the shock would surely be written upon his face. Ehan wanted to doubt Koran’s words and erase the man’s contempt for his family, but his captain seemed utterly serious, so Ehan dared not laugh or contradict his leader.

“How could two of your own kin remind you of Captain…” Ehan paused, saying the title regrettably in front of Koran. “…Captain Herding’s words and way of viewing our mission?” Ehan did not understand how any family could contain hate or malice towards each other. The younger Southron waited in an uncharacteristically patient manner, taking a seat on a nearby boulder that protruded from the earth and glowed dark-grey in the evening glow of moon and stars.

“Doubt fills his mind…doubt in my abilities as a leader. Herding wants me to fail, and he will let me take my steps and go off on my merry way just so he can see me trip over my own feet.” Koran paused, kicking at the ground and bringing dust floating upwards to his boots. He let his hands and shoulders relax. “Herding wants me to fail…” the captain trailed off, and Ehan listened carefully to his next words. Ehan wondered if he would reveal such precious information about his family. “There are others close to me that would like to see me take a fall as well. They are close enough to make it happen, too. Why, if I could…”

Koran balled both hands into tight fists.

“Anger is a bad counselor, good Captain,” Ehan murmured gently, not wanting to upset Koran more by causing him to think he was being tutored by his own soldier. “After all, a leader must lead by example, and he does so whether he planned to or not. The best way to deal with doubt, I’ve learned, is to…well…treat it as an enemy in battle!” Ehan flashed a boyish grin. “You must kill it! Bring it to its knees and make it beg for mercy! Then slice its throat…”

Ehan saw Koran roll his eyes and smile, scoffing at the younger man’s silly correlation. The captain released his clenched fists, and Ehan relaxed and he felt the immediate tension roll off his companion. The ferocity was gone, but the anger remained in a simmering flame.

"Besides," Ehan continued. "There always has to be a hero, and Herding is not the hero type. And enemies of the hero always end up dying." Ehan contemplated his own words as they spilled off his tongue and out of his mouth.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He woke them all when the sun first broke the line of the horizon, flooding the Vale with her golden glow. Coromswyth was annoyed that he had apparently changed his mind from the night before – earlier this morning really – when he had said that they would leave later in the day. Ambarturion could see her annoyance but as she did not say anything, he did not explain: throughout his watch a shadow of dread had fallen upon him. This time, though, it came not from the west and the gates of Moria, but from the East. And unlike the foreboding he had felt at the coming of the goblins, this was a terror of a more ancient and indefinable sort. There was death in the air that morning. Death and the blackness of a nameless terror. The others noticed it soon enough, and the lady’s annoyance was replaced by understanding. She stood upright from where she had been tending Caranbaith’s bandage and gazed into the east, following Ambarturion’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked quietly, but the Master merely shook his head and turned aside.

All that day they pressed themselves as hard as they could, walking now due east to make the shortest road to the shelter of Mirkwood. At first, Caranbaith’s insistence that he be allowed to walk was too sternly delivered to be ignored, and as the Sun rose in the sky he strode along at the end of their brief column, pale and drawn but even vigilant. By noon, however, it was clear that the strain of his wound was too great and he stumbled into the grass. Megilaes was at his side in a heartbeat and Ambarturion was only a thought slower. They lowered him to the ground and Coromswyth gave him some more of the miruvor and changed his dressing. The bleeding had stopped and there was no sign that the wound had taken infection, but its colour remained deep and raw. Coromswyth looked at Ambarturion and did not need to speak her thoughts aloud. Both knew that Caranbaith lay now between life and death, and that his only surety of life lay in taking the southern way back to Lorien. As though reading what was in their minds, the young Elf looked into his master’s eyes. “Do not turn aside from your duty, lord,” he said. “I am merely fatigued. If you will grant me the respite of an hour’s rest I will be able to go on.”

It was Coromswyth who gainsaid him. “Nay, Caranbaith. You cannot make the trek to Mirkwood as you are, not unaided. You are strong and young and possess a great heart, but I think you will need to rely on our help the rest of the way.” Ambarturion looked at her with a grave respect, for he noted that she did not talk of returning to the Golden Wood, even though their journey would put his pupil’s life at risk – she knew her duty as well as he and his students’ knew theirs…

For the rest of that day Caranbaith was aided by his brother and Coromswyth in turn, and their progress across the plains was hampered as a result. Ambarturion became more and more restless as the hours passed and the feeling of the land’s terror grew about them. Somewhere in the Vale there were enemies of the Elves, and a great number of them. He laid himself out upon the earth and listened but could hear no rumour of their passing, but he could feel the outrage of the earth at its defilement by the forces of darkness. “Are they near?” asked Coromswyth.

Ambarturion shook his head. “No. They are not yet, I think, on this side of the River, but they are coming nearer. I had thought that our northerly route would lead us away from the forces of Dol Guldur, but it would seem that they are coming to us.”

“Perhaps we could go around them, to the north or south?”

“The only fording of the River that we can now attempt without your horse lies before us. To turn South will lead us only further into the lands of our enemies, and away from our goal. To the North there is no way across Anduin the Great for many leagues and that will leave us many miles from the Woodmen we seek.” He looked at the lady. “Our only hope lies in speed. If we can reach the ford and cross the River before our enemies achieve the western bank we can, perhaps, slip by them.” His words hung about them like a black bird of ill omen, our only hope lies in speed. Neither of them looked to where Megilaes aided his brother.

As the second night of their journey came they made camp in a small forested area not too many miles from the River, but still not as near the waters as Ambarturion had hoped. He had pushed them hard all day, but to ask any more of his wounded student would have been to risk his death. Megilaes lay his brother upon the ground where Caranbaith fell into a swoon almost immediately. Coromswyth did what she could for him but it was clear that until they could give him the rest he needed, his condition would only worsen. When she had finished tending the youth, Coromswyth joined Ambarturion where he kept watch. “He is brave,” she said. “You must be very proud of him.”

“I am,” he replied simply. And then, much to his surprise, he added, “He reminds me of myself when I was his age. So dauntless and foolish. Ready to do what he feels he must in defence of his land.” He felt the questioning eyes of the lady upon him. He moved to return her gaze. “You see, lady, I am not wholly consumed with thoughts of war and battle – at least not yet. I have been a warrior for many centuries now, but still I can feel for those who have not been hardened by the tempering fires of endless battle.”

Coromswyth was shocked. “I am sorry indeed if I made you think that I found you heartless, Ambarturion. It is just that…you are so dire and stern, that I fear you might…” She trailed off into silence.

“You fear I might do what, lady?” he asked, somewhat stiffly.

“I am sorry, Ambarturion. You must forgive me. It is just that you remind me of someone I loved – someone who was stern and mighty and did his full duty, and who fell into the shadow of doom doing that duty. You, I fear, have begun to fall into that shadow even though you still live.” Ambarturion made to reply, but she held up her hand. “I am sorry, I have spoken too much this night. Please, I would sleep now.” And without waiting for a reply she moved away from the master and went to tend to Caranbaith.

[Alatariel Telemnar]

Urkrásh continued watch over the column, becoming more and more disorderly as early evening passed into late evening. They would stop soon, to eat and rest. But Urkrásh was not certain when that would be and looked to the men to find the right time. The moon could be seen peeping out from the tops of trees every so often, and stars were starting to appear in the sky. Tiredness and the desire for sleep was soon taking over the army and Urkrásh. At last he spotted a section of men starting to pull away from the rest to camp. The trees had become less thick and a small river was nearby.

Urkrásh called out for everyone to stop and camp here, although many had already left the line and headed down to an empty spot on the grass in the left corner of the field. He followed where he saw the majority of his column go, wondering when his master would be back. Nothing bad had happened so far, but he wasn’t sure if it would stay that way until Thrákmazh returned. He told a few uruks to start up some fires, and they grunted at him before doing so, something they wouldn’t do if Thrákmazh were telling them. They seemed to have a lack of respect for Urkrásh, which he wasn’t entirely surprised at. He began to walk through the lot of them, going to find a spot to sit down to watch over them until his master returned.

[Firefoot]

“Allow the pieces to work their way to a whole,” repeated Thorvel softly. What pieces? he thought wryly. “If only we had more information.” Thorvel felt like he was trying to jam an over-size key into a lock: the key wouldn’t fit, and neither did the information that they did have. He found his former train of thought with some difficulty, and tracing back over it could find no gaps. He decided to try a different approach - one that might yield some new results.

“So what might they hope to accomplish by using a separate troop?” he said. “If it is as small as you say, they will probably not be involved in the main fighting. They are skilled and high-ranking warriors, yet without size of a small force they would be quickly overwhelmed by an army of Elves. They must have a separate purpose from the rest of the army. Something they either do not need large numbers to accomplish or something that would not work with large numbers because they would be noticed and stopped before they could accomplish their task.”

Thorvel realized that Targil and Lómarandil had stopped running, and were seemingly waiting for them. Light was failing rapidly, and Thorvel supposed that they would stop to rest for the night as the Orc army was hopefully doing also. As they caught up, Lómarandil spoke. “I could not help but listening to last part of your conversation. You say something about a small force. What good would that do, for any small force of Orcs would be quickly killed off by Elves. Orcs just aren’t that good at fighting, nor are they smart enough to come up with such a plan.” Thorvel sighed. The young Elf may have heard what he said, but he had clearly not understood. Thorvel did not understand how the young Elf could have become a scout and yet know so little of Orcs. Targil looked as annoyed at Lómarandil as Thorvel felt. This time, Thorvel didn't give Calenvása time to smooth over Lómarandil's remarks, not even bothering to think that his comments might drive the wedge in their division even deeper.

"Listen, Lómarandil," he said heatedly. "I know what you think of Orcs, and it isn't a good opinion to have. They aren't all mindless killing machines; they have plans and at least some organization even as Elves do. Your arrogance isn't doing anything for our plans, and unless you have something to say to help us out, just don't say anything at all!" Lómarandil was scowling at him, but thankfully did not say anything. There was some approval in Targil's look. Thorvel did not look at Calenvása, because he really did not want to know what his Captain thought. He was pretty sure it would not be approval. Then, he didn't know what to say or do. He didn't think that they would be staying there in the trail of the Orcs, so he turned and took a step towards the forest. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Are you going to stand there all night? Come on."

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil scowled darkly at Thorvel as he shouted at him. When he finished Lomarandil shook his head and turned away. Starting to walk towards a tree, he reached it and started to climb, quickly reaching the top. Gengerly he walkled along a long branch to the end and straightened up. From this elevated position he could see the source of the lights more clearly, he saw the orcs swarming around in different directions. Anger welled up in him, his hands tightened around the hilts of his daggers, into closed balls. He looked down at Thorvel and Targil, and even Calenvasa. "They do not have to hate me," he whispered to himself, looking at the swarming orcs he smiled dryly and added to himself, "there will come a time soon, in the next few days, when they will call for my help...and shall I answer?" Lomarandil pushed such thoughts from his head, of course he would answer, he couldn't leave his friends to die..."But are they friends?" he mused. Surely he wouldn't miss Thorvel, but at the thought of Calenvasa dying he nodded. At least he had tried to hide his distaste for him.

"Lomarandil! Get down here now!" he heard Calenvasa shout and nodding downwards he made his way back to the trunk. Leaping off the branch he clasped the trunk with his hans and slid right the way down it, letting go a few metres above the ground in order to twist his body round in an elaborate somersault to land facing the group. Thorvel spat and turned away, Calenvasa looked exasperated, and Targil just shook his head. Lomarandil raised an eyebrow at Thorvel's back, but dropped it quickly again when he turned around. "Lomarandil, would you PLEASE stop showing off! I wouldn't be surprised if half the forest heard the noise of that little escapade! You're going to get us all killed!" Lomarandil's face tryed to contort enough to shout a reply back, but he held it straight with a visible armount of effort. Hopefully I'll get YOU killed, Thorvel," he thought bitterly...

[Durelin]

Calenvása watched Thorvel with a surprise, an angry shock that he tried to contain. He could not understand this outburst, which made Thorvel sound as childish as Lómarandil and as arrogant as Targil. He felt hurt and saddened by this practical betrayal, and even more so by the growing coldness in the air. He felt as if the hatred was whipping his body like a cold, hard wind, and it shocked him into fear. “Thorvel,” he said softly. Thorvel turned his wild eyes from the young Lómarandil to his Captain, looking flustered, his face a mix of emotions. At least he seemed confused, unsure of what he did, and Calenvása thought he understood. But he frowned at his comrade.

“I believe that orcs can hear both your voices. As you have just said, we should not underestimate their brains, or their ears.”

Calenvása was only slightly surprised when Thorvel practically sneered back. No one found the Captain’s humor appropriate at such times, but he had decided long ago that those under his command would have to endure it. Calenvása’s eyes then moved to Lómarandil, passing over Targil’s clearly derogatory face. The young elf smiled nastily at Thorvel, who avoided looking at him, with an arrogance that threatened to overcome even that of Targil.

“Forgive me, Lómarandil, for my harsh words, but you know that that was a foolish move. Both you and Thorvel have done many foolish actions in the past few moments, and said many a foolish. And this time, your words spoke much louder than any of your actions.” He sighed, and was glad that no one spoke during his short pause. But there was nothing to say. He had made that very clear. “I see now that too much has been allowed to be said.”

“Too much?” Targil asked with all his usually pride, an eyebrow raised. “ We have barely begun to understand each other, Captain. Too little has been said, for that.” The title used lacked any of its usual respect when it came from Targil’s mouth.

“It is clear that we will not listen enough to understand each other, Targil.” He changed the direction of his words from Targil to all three of his companions. “And you will start by understanding me.” He paused for emphasis, and found himself wondering at how much bitterness he had put in his voice. The pause grew to be too long as he choked on his words, finding it hard to pick up where he left off. For where he left off he had never meant to get to.

“What Thorvel suggested will now be fully taken into account. There are plans to every attack the Enemy makes, as well as overwhelmingly large forces to slaughter. What we must never do is ignore what could be. It is only reasonable to think that a small, separate force would not be used simply for more slaughter. And to say that our brethren could easily destroy such a force is to selfishly underestimate our enemy, and to overestimate ourselves. I believe this reminds us to mind our feet. They must remain on solid earth, the earth that we wish to protect.”

Calenvása smiled slightly, hiding the deepening sorrow and worry that plagued his mind and heart, as well as trying to lighten the air. It was heavy with chilling hostility. “And as to standing here all night, Thorvel, that is precisely what we are going to do. It seems that Lómarandil and Targil picked a perfect spot for a rest.”

~

Targil

Targil had been assigned the first watch, while the others were allowed to let their minds wander in waking dreams or dark, temporarily lifeless dreams. Glancing behind him at the others, he saw no movement, and so decided to make his own move. He began making his way toward the army camp, far to the right of where any of the lights shown in the night. Calenvása and Thorvel could ponder all they wished, talk all they wished. Targil would listen no more; he was going to discover answers for himself.

He knew Calenvása had taken the second watch, and he was glad of this. Let the Captain find himself angry enough to actually take command once more. Targil had watched the earlier proceedings with much enjoyment, finding it nice to see Calenvása finally speak to them with authority, even to Thorvel. That was another thing he had enjoyed, Thorvel losing his own temper, and so parting from his usual ways of being all but a pet owned by the Captain.

Dropping to a crouch, he allowed his eyes to pick at random glow in the shadowy night before him, and moved toward it until he could clearly see the shapes of the orc creatures sitting around their crude fire. The roughness of their voices rang harshly in his ears, and the cruelty of their nature resonated in those gruff sounds that resembled words. He listened to them until the darkness deepened enough even for these creatures to find some kind of rest.

As a soft glow began to come from far away, a glint of gold from the snapped Targil out of the reverie he had fallen into. “Up, worms,” came the voice, clearly a man’s, since it’s gruffness lacked the animal-like snarl or growl of an orc’s. “Urkrásh, you may go to your master. Our work is done.”

“Thank you, Captain.” There was some scurrying in the dark, and one of the original orcs was gone. To the three remaining creatures, the man that Targil had easily identified as a Southron, the Captain, said, “We march, and we leave behind the stragglers, this time.”

Though this sounded a very light and rather lifeless threat, and one all too common to be taken seriously, the restlessness of the orcs was clear. They knew this ‘Captain’ was serious to no end. They all proceeded to rise with an extraordinary amount of livelihood for ones who had just risen from slumber. Then one dared to speak to the man, his voice quivering slightly. “Cap’n…” he began softly, and the Southron turned around, stopping in the middle of his departure from their presence. “Will we be reachin’ the river today?”

“If you ever stop your blathering and start moving, yes.”

“An’ what happens then?”

“Nothing happens to you, but others will be going in just a little different direction.”

“We’re splittin’ the forces?”

“No, we are taking advantage of these elves being of small number. Now shut your creaking jaws and get moving!”

As the anger in the Captain’s voice became so that it could not be ignored, the orcs were soon moving away from their put out fire, finding a motivation to move quickly. Targil smiled slightly. He was glad that the Southron Captain had found it necessary to show the orc that he knew the plans, fortifying the fact that he was clearly above them. Feeling satisfied, and yet angered that he would have to acknowledge what Thorvel and Calenvása had been suggesting, he waited for his enemies to clear the area before he moved. He then started back to where his companions rested.

Targil had barely reached a safe distance from the army camp before he found Calenvása seemingly waiting for him, sitting comfortably on the ground. He rose as Targil approached, a small smile on his face. “I missed my watch.”

“Thank you…” he said, the words coming more smoothly than he thought they would, as he practically choked at the thought of thanking the elf. “I found what I was looking for.”

“Good. The others must be roused, and then we move, immediately.”

Targil forced himself to smile back at Calenvása, as Targil’s found a respect for the Captain somewhere in his mind, if not in his heart.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel spaced himself off from the other Elves; within sight but just far enough away not to be part of a group. Targil had the first watch, and Thorvel tried to relax and rest, though his mind was too full of swirling thoughts for any such thing to happen. He had no idea where the angry outburst at Lómarandil had come from. He much preferred to keep his emotions in check, and was usually rather good at doing so. He supposed it was from not knowing the Orcs’ plans. He liked to understand things, and it bothered him when it did not. He did not even dislike Lómarandil nearly as much as he seemed to show. He did not regret his words to the younger Elf, only the way he had said them. He supposed it might have even been worth it, if Lómarandil gave his words any value at all. It might have been worth it, if not for the look Calenvása had given him. It had cut him deep, for that look had been full of disappointment, and even betrayal if Thorvel had read the look correctly. It made Thorvel feel ashamed, to have let his Captain down. He trusted Calenvása, and Thorvel had rarely let himself trust another before. Memories of past Captains nearly overwhelmed his mind: him stalking off because he disagreed with an order, him completely disregarding an order because he didn’t trust the Captain to make a correct decision, him having heated arguments with the Captain, and more. They all came out to about the same end: he was switched into a different troop until that Captain could no longer stand him. Thorvel could feel some of his independence and stubbornness creeping in. His loyalty to Calenvása was not gone; it was just buried beneath the surface.

His thoughts and emotions continued like relentless waves crashing themselves on a rocky shore until he became dimly aware of Targil and Calenvása speaking. He did not make out any of the words, and they soon split, Targil moving towards him.

“Come,” said Targil. “We are leaving.” Thorvel silently got to his feet, and the two Elves joined Calenvása and Lómarandil. Thorvel kept his distance from the others, mentally if not physically, and waited to hear if Calenvása had any additional orders before they moved out.