Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Arry]

Of the fifteen Orcs left, Gromwakh and And Snikdul were able to ferret out ten of them. It was not that difficult a task. The Orcs were noisy as they crashed through the underbrush; the air was filled with the snapping of dried branches and the curses of those denied their prizes. As it was it took a few whacks of Snikdul’s iron bar to bring a number of them into a listening mode.

A brief discussion ensued. The Orcs snickered when Gromwakh informed them the Captain was now dead and the Elves escaped – freed by those others who had come out of the trees. The hoots and catcalls over the demise of Gâshronk were cut short when they learned the Elves were now hunting them.

‘There was only four of them in the wagon when we left,’ snorted one of the Orcs, leaning on his jagged sword. ‘How many others are there with them?’ Snikdul frowned, counting on his fingers. ‘Three more I think. Can’t be too sure. Me and Grom left in a hurry to find you.’

The eyes of the Orcs narrowed at the small number of Elves, calculating the odds. ‘You know we can’t just head back to the main camp with news that the Captain’s dead and the Elves have taken off,’ said one of the Orcs, voicing that same thought of the others. The rest of the group nodded at this assessment. Old One-eye would kill each and every one of them himself if they brought him that news. ‘I say we just attack the Elves and bring down as many as we can. Cut off their heads . . . we’d at least have something to show on our return.’ The group eyed each other, shifting nervously on their feet.

Gromwakh sighed and shrugged his shoulders; he had no better ideas to offer other than to make a run for it while they could. His companions were grunting for Elf blood now, and snarling, their lips drawn back over their yellowed teeth. He held his cudgel up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Right, then,’ he began. ‘You lot,’ he said, pointing his filet knife at six of the Orcs – circle around to the left. Snik and me and the other four of you will go right.’ The group divided, getting ready to begin the attack.’

‘Hit ‘em hard,’ he called, leading his little group right. ‘Any of us left – we’ll meet back here . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel looked appraisingly at Calenvása. Something had... happened with him over the past few days, and Thorvel was trying to figure out what it was. Thorvel did not like it one bit that Calenvása had let Ambarturion take charge. He did not like Ambarturion particularly; the other Elf had come into their band, assumed charge, and started giving orders as if he had done it all along! Worse yet, Calenvása had let him do it, and that was what truly bothered Thorvel. He trusted Calenvása, but he was beginning to doubt the rightfulness of that trust. Thorvel did not want to be on his own again, but he did what he had to do, and he would not follow a leader he did not trust. That certainly ruled Ambarturion out, and Targil as well. Still, he did not let go of trust lightly or easily, and decided to give Calenvása a few days.

At this point, combat with the Orcs seemed inevitable to him, and though it grated with him somewhat to be doing what Ambarturion had said - or ordered, rather - he took his bow in hand so that he would be ready should the Orcs come upon them at any time soon. Ambarturion would learn soon enough that Thorvel only followed orders if it seemed wise for him to do so, and not always then. That brought to mind the greater scheme of things. The Elves would likely all be travelling together back to Lórien, and even at the greatest possible speeds it would still take a few days. It would be a long few days, if the past hour or two were any indication.

Thorvel became aware of the silence that had stretched over the three Elves - Targil had gone over to the others and was talking to them. Targil looked less wary of Ambarturion than Thorvel felt, but similarly seemed unsure of how to take Coromswyth. Before he could continue with his observations, however, his ears caught the sound of a stick snapping in the surrounding trees. He whirled towards the sound and at the same time fitted an arrow to his bowstring. He had very little doubt of what it was. He saw a flash of black armor gleaming in a patch of sunlight, and loosed his arrow at the point.

“We’re under attack!” he called out, as if it were really necessary; all the Elves had seen his arrow and were instantly ready. Very little mattered to him then; it seemed nothing existed but himself, his bow, and his target. A volley of black feathered arrows came from the trees: both from in front and behind. The Elves with bows returned the shots with their own arrows, and Thorvel was certain he had taken out at least a couple Orcs. He rarely missed. He found himself back-to-back with Calenvása, and the thoughts floated on the periphery of his mind that it was nice to know his back was guarded. The thought floated away, and he concentrated on staying alive and killing Orcs - nothing more.

[Arry]

The Elves were swift in their response, the arrows from their bows flying thickly at the two lines of attack the Orcs had mounted, before and behind their small group. The Orcs had let their own bowmen begin the attack, and under cover of the deadly black arrows, they moved in closer to the Elves.

One of the Elves, in the flurry of first encounter, had been wounded by a black-fletched Orc missile. Gromwakh, Snikdul, and two other of their companions rushed in, clubs and blades held at the ready intending to finish off the hapless Elf. The rut of war was full upon them as they harried him.

And on the edge of their awareness was the sense that the others of their group had put down their bows and raced in also . . .

[Orofaniel]

Once again Herding had thrown himself over his bottle - or should I say bottles-drinking the liquor faster than anyone could guess was even possible. The more he drank, the more distant he became from the world around him. It was only himself, his bottles and his endless swarm of thoughts left now. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible as the liquor affected everything the man tried to do. His walk was a bit unsteady caused by the dizziness, so he stayed seated most of the time, except for when it was time to find a new bottle. He couldn't remember when he'd felt like this before; so utterly confused over his own confusion.

The man grew in rapidly tired of just sitting there with his own thoughts, opening another bottle now and then; he started to wander about in his tent. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time, since he could still keep himself on his feet. He hummed a tune he had known long ago, although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before or if he'd ever hear it again. He wondered where everyone had gone off too, as he longed form someone to accompany him and his lonesome thoughts. Who would want to spend some time whit some drunk Captain, he wondered, and laughed while he pictured the image of himself there he walked around with a glass and a bottle in his hands. Well, he wasn't completely drunk, was he? No, he could still walk without problems, although he felt his legs were somewhat weaker and perhaps not so trustworthy as they usually were, as Herding was a man of stern and steady steps. His mind was not weakened either, he assured himself, as his thoughts were still reasonable and clever.

Koran...

Once again, as every so often, his thoughts turned to the other Southron Captain. Why did Koran always appear in his thoughts, haunting him in his dreams like a disturbed ghost? He wondered. Of course, the annoyance by his present was slightly frustration, he continued, while he sighed. As he seated once again in his chair, he bumped into the table. Another glass, filled with wine, was caught by his clumsy hands as it almost hit the ground. He cursed; there was wine all over him. He found a cloth, trying to wipe it away, but to no use. The Captain’s rage was within reach. He wanted to bring an end to this. He wanted to get Koran out of the way. Then a thought hit him; what if Koran was planning on assassination of him? Koran would most definitely be thinking the same way was himself, wouldn’t? Of course, Captain Cenbryt wasn’t stupid.

The question was; how could Herding get further information about Koran's plans? By talking to Koran of course.

"Get Koran for me!" Herding yelled out from the tent. “Tell the Captain that Captain Herding wishes to speak with him over a nice glass of wine…” Hopefully the Cenbryt would receive Herding’s most gracious ”invitation", although nothing was for certain.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?"

Koran looked back vaguely at Ehan for a moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through the younger man before he blinked, the cloud of dark thoughts clearing from his eyes.

"Captain?" Ehan tried again, his voice more tentative this time. Koran held his eyes for a second, his gaze quite serious, then he gave a great, melodramatic sigh and looked away. "Ah, well, we have got that business to attend to..." he replied heavily, as if some loathsome task lay ahead of them. Ehan looked alarmed. "'Business', Captain Koran?"

Koran grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dying light and for a moment Ehan caught a glimpse of the carefree, charismatic Koran that sometimes rightfully asserted itself from within the solemn Captain's exterior as he clapped a hand on companion's shoulder. "The most serious business, dear boy, of finding the best dice and drink this camp can muster!"

~*~*~

"Cheat, it must be!"

Koran glanced up at the Southron who had spoken, his voice loud above the gasps, and gave a small grin at the red-faced man whose eyes were fixed on the double flames that showed on the two dice which Koran had just rolled - again. Picking up one of the coins he had just one, he flipped it in the air and caught it expertly, as he looked around his audience and gave a mock bow. "Well, I try..." he said softly in mock humility. The others around him roared with laughter in appreciation, and various comments were shot from all around the ring of firelight amid the trees where a score or so Southron's sat.

"Luckiest bloody man here, ain't that right, Koran?" said one man, rolling his eyes at Koran's good fortune at dice as the captain collected the little pile of bronze coins he had just won.

"'Tis fate, that's what it is," another ventured, clumsily stabbing a finger drunkenly at the tatoo on Koran's forearm, visible because of his rolled up sleeves - the Cenbryt flame, a black tatoo that seemed to flicker of it's own accord in the dancing firelight. "Guided by the flame of his forefathers..."

"Ha! Poetry doesn't suit you, Parrel, you're much better as your own dull, sober self!" It was the man who had just lost who laughed at the comment, spitting on the ground contemptuously before he took another huge quaff from the chipped and travelworn cup of ale in his hands, wiping his mouth clumsily with the back of one beefy hand. But his voice was slightly less joyful than the others, and in the depths of his drunken, piggy eyes circled a resentment against the man who had just won over him. He gestured with a violent motion towards Koran's long dagger where it lay beside him, then lunged towards it viciously, grabbing the weapon. Holding it with exaggerated delicacy by it's silver blade, he held it up to the firelight so all could see it, yet even the light of the flames didn't seem to full pierce the smoky red depths of the pommel. The man's eyes flashed wickedly as he laughed racously and looked across at Koran. "What say we up the stakes, Cenbryt? And hey, not just a pretty little dagger...what about that necklace you wear?" he added, in reference to the wooden necklace which the young captain wore, inscribed with the same flame motif - the symbol of his leadership of the tribe.

Koran hadn't moved from where he sat, casually leaning against a tree, his elbow resting loosely on one raised knee, the other hand holding his drink. But unlike most of the other Southrons in the circle, Koran had drunk little of the ale, and his eyes and mind were clear. The firelight danced dangerously on his calm features, alighting now on the scar that ripped across one cheekbone, now on his sharp, dark eyes unblinkingly fixed on the other man, now on his lips, slightly turned up at one corner as if in amusement. He raised one eyebrow and beckoned with his head. "Give me the dagger, Tanner," he said softly.

Though voiced as a request, some element of the silky smoothness of Koran's voice made one think not of civility, but of the hidden blade that could lie beneath such a tone. Something subtly changed in the atmosphere, as those gathered privately brought to mind all they had heard about Koran's reputation.

However, it seemed the drunken Tanner was completely oblivious to this - or at least, he was quite determined not to back down now he had made the challenge. He laughed again bawdily, but this time fewer of the other men joined him. "Hah! Haha! Ah, Koran, come on, go out on a limb for once - sure, you're young, risks are what being young is all about!"

"I'll quite happy beneath the tree rather than out on one of it's limbs, thanks," Koran replied, the corner of his lip rising a little more in a smile. He tipped his head to one side. "Come, Tanner, give me the dagger..."

"Come get it!" Tanner was on his feet now, holding it out in front of him. The man was either very drunk, or had an exceptionally strong death wish. He held it out, waving it slightly, like a child taughting a pet cat with a ball on a string. He grasped it more tightly in his huge fist and his tone lowered as he growled, "Come on, boy, let's see what you've go-"

The huge man got no further than that as Koran rolled to one side, ducking around effortlessly to come up behind the man where his strong arm encirled the thick neck tightly. Seizing the man's right hand, the one that held the dagger, he twisted it sharply behind his back until a sudden, grotesque click was heard, causing several around the fire to wince. Koran smiled chillingly, his black eyes seeming like terrible, empty voids, devoid of soul, demonic.

"Sorry, what was that you were saying?" he questioned quietly, his lips just beside the great man's ear. The drunk gurgled something from behind Koran's death grip and from his numb fingers the dagger dropped to the forest floor. Various expressions showed on the faces of the Southrons, from admiration and appraisal, to fear or resentment, but one thing was held in common as the dagger fell.

Not one man among the group moved to pick it up.

"Captain Cenbryt?"

The voice made all in the circle turn in surprise to the owner of the gutterally obnoxious, yet unnaturally nervous, voice: a small orc, standing half seen at the edge of the firelight as if the firelight burnt it with it's goodness. From within their circle of protection, the Southron's seemed to gather as one being, and their eyes and moods darkened against the monstrous intruder who dared to disturb them. The power of the mob seemed to quell the orc slightly, but it stood it's ground, looking straight above Koran and avoiding all eyes and any excuse for trouble.

Koran lifted his chin from behind Tanner, relaxing his grip. "Aye, that's me."

The orc didn't move from his rigid position, paused like a cat caught in suddenly lamplight, ready to flee at the sign of trouble or unwelcome movement. "Captain Herding wishes to see you in his tent, quickly, for a drink of wine," it stammered out in a rush, before vanishinhg as quickly as it had come.

Koran paused for a second, then let go of Tanner, who instantly turned and caught him a clip on the side of the head. "Bah, cheeky youngling!" He roared, but it was accompanied by a drunken laugh as he staggered back to his seat. Koran put a hand to the side of his ringing head and grinned back, then knelt quickly to retrieve his dagger, putting it back in it's customary place at the back of his belt, hidden by his open jerkin. He thrust an arm out after the orc. "I wonder to what means I owe this[/i] pleasure?"[/i] he said loudly to the circle, his voice mocking, inciting laughter and rowdy comments. The violent and unpredictable captain Herding was not popular among most of the Southrons, and it was well rumoured that he seemed to despise his own people. As the games of chance resumed and Koran turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ehan.

"Shall I come with you?" the younger man asked, his voice low so that the others would not hear. Koran shook his head, putting his hand on the other's arm.

"Nay - I shall be but a few minutes. I doubt the good captain will want to talk about much at this hour," he reassured his squire. Turning to the others, he doffed an imaginary cap and took a deep bow. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight!" he called in a singsong voice, before leaving the circle and becoming enveloped in the darkness.

"Hey Koran, you should be honoured - for once, he's sharing a drink rather than taking the whole lot!" The comment and the laughter that ensued followed a grinning Koran into the darkness. Taking a breath of the fresh night air, he made his way to Herding's tent, a rough, dimly lit shape beyond the edge of the trees. Casting a furtive glance around him - who knew what the Captain's real motives were? - he walked briskly across and opened the tent flap with little ceremony...to see a sorry sight in front of him: the captain, slumped across a chair, surrounded by split wine and bottles on the sawdust of the floor. The table was in the same state: altogether there had to be about five or six empty bottles and a few more full ones.

Koran smiled infuriatingly. "To what do I owe this...pleasure, Captain?" he asked, his voice mocking the captain, a night of drinking and dice making him bold. Herding's head came up from where he slumped and his eyes burned with drunken anger as his lip sneered with sudden and unexpected disdain.

"You tell me, boy," he hissed into the still, heavy air.

Koran's eyes narrowed, and he mentally felt for his dagger, making sure it was exactly where he needed it. Bracing himself, he forced himself to be more careful - he had to be civil to the captain, rashness wouldn't do. Not until this mission was over. "Pardon, Captain Herding?" he asked courteously, painfully aware of the atmosphere as it grew and lurked like some all-consuming monster at the sides of the tent...

[Orofaniel]

"Pardon, Captain Herding?"

"Don't be cheeky with me!" Herding said, raising his voice. He then calmed himself down, while he offered Koran a seat. Koran, surprisingly enough, accepted the chair that was set out for him and found himself seating just across Herding with a table in between. A glass was then offered, something Koran not too unwillingly accepted, just as he had done with the seat. It was a strange atmosphere.

"Some wine?" Herding said, causally, looking at Koran's empty glass. Koran nodded. After pouring some wine into Koran's glass, Herding himself, needed a refill. "What is this all about, if I may ask....?" Koran then asked him seeming confused, and curious. He obviously wanted to get some kind of understanding why Herding was in this mood. "Why had Herding invited him for a nice little "chat" anyway?" He must have wondered about that, Herding concluded. His face expression became stern and he didn't try to conceal any of his feelings towards Koran's question; ”You ask this question, as you didn't know, Captain Cenbryt...." he started curling his lips. Koran looked even more confused, but Herding figured it was just one of those masks this Captain wore when he didn't want to show his real intensions or feelings. "But you do know..." he continued. His voice had all of a sudden become quite harsh. Koran seemed offended by this, or at least in Herding's eyes.

"Excuse me, but I do not understand what you mean. Nor do I think you have any intension of telling me what you mean...so why am I here? To what do I owe you this.. pleasure....?" Herding noticed Koran's sudden change of tone when he used the word "pleasure" and he looked at him with great disgust. Besides, he was tried of that question; He had heard it too many times from this young man, and Herding could hardly control himself. "Get a grip", he told himself. "This will not me the time to kill him. Only scare him a little…Make him understand that..” His thoughts were interrupted by Koran; “Captain?” One moment there, Koran almost fooled Herding into thinking that Koran was completely innocent, but Herding managed to see though him. You don’t fool me, you filthy… He thought before he snapped; "You owe me nothing..." He smiled evilly, yet there was still something else about that smile that would everyone uncomfortable. He took another sip of his wine. He could feel that the huge amount of wine wasn't far of going straight to his head. The dizziness, he couldn't stand. Still, he managed to hold a straight face, keeping his tongue straight in his mouth.

Koran was surprised by the hostility and got up from his chair. "You summon me to your tent, asks me to drink you wine, yet you do not tell m why I'm here!" He almost yelled at Herding. Herding too, got up from his chair. "You know what I'm talking about! You are plotting against me you fool!" Herding said as he punched his fist into Koran's cheek. It was a hard punch, but not hard enough for Koran to fall. A red flame was seen across Koran’s eyes as he cursed. "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?" Herding then asked him, looking at him. "You...despicable..." He had completely lost his temper, not to mention that he had had too many glasses of wine.

Not many seconds passed before Koran replied with his own fist....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran reeled, stumbling slightly, but the punch was too clumsy to make him fall. His right hand rising to his face, he gingerly touched the area where Herding had punched him and fierce anger flashed through his dark eyes. His fists clenched, but he kept his right in full view so the captain wouldn't think anything of the fact that the left had vanished behind his back. Herding didn't care a thing for Koran: the young Southron doubted he would remember such a little thing as the fact that he could fight just as well left handed as right.

"Herding, what in the name of your ancestors do you think you're talking about?" he hissed dangerously.

"Don't you use the name of my ancestors!" Herding bellowed. Lurching to the side, he grabbed a half empty wine bottle and hurled it at Koran. The younger man ducked, hands over his head as the glass shattered on the tent's central supporting pole behind him, showering him with drops of blood red. Despite the captain's drunkenness, the bottle had been well aimed: if not for Koran's reflexes, he did not doubt it could have caught him full in the face. But Herding was still ranting. "Their names become soiled from your lips!" he bellowed again, continuing from his last statement. His eyes narrowed and he stabbed a fierce finger at Koran, at the dagger in his left hand where he had grabbed it from the back of his belt. "Look, even now, even now - dagger in hand he enters my tent, sneaking and creeping, all the time ready to worm his way in and murder me!" Herding's voice rose from a whisper to a yell.

"You think I come to murder you?" Koran responded, his temper finally getting the better of him and flaring up. "If I had wanted to kill you, Herding..."

Herding's lip curled contemptuously as his eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground between them. "I would like to see you try, boy," he replied.

Koran covered the ground between them in less than a second, and this punch knocked Herding to the ground. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt front, pulling his face close. "You know I could do it, and do it without blinking," he hissed menacingly. A sudden white hot pain lanced across the top of his right arm and he winced, letting go of Herding as he grabbed his arm, staring at the long patch of red spreading on his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Herding laughed, pulling himself to his feet a few feet from Koran. "I have experience, boy, where what do you have? A young life of cotton wool and childish fights..."

Koran pointed at his cheek, where the long white scar shot across his cheekbone. "What, and nearly losing an eye to a man with twice my experience? That is childish fighting and cotton wool, Captain Herding?" He sneered. "You don't deserve such a title."

The older man sneered and rushed at Koran, pulling a long, serated knife from a hunk of bread on the table. But Koran was faster: dropping to the floor, he whipped out one leg in a wide arc, whipping under Herding's feet and dropping him. The older man grunted but rolled with surprising agility and stabbed towards Koran's foot, only narrowly missing as Koran dived backwards. Both retreated for a second, Herding sobering up quickly, Koran's fierce eyes hooded, waiting for his prey to attack again. He didn't wait long - Herding leapt at him, knife held high, and by sheer force he knocked Koran straight backwards. Winded, Koran barely got his arm up in time, knocking Herding's knife away as it came within a few centimetres of his eyes but slashing his arm at the same time. The bread knife flew away, embedding itself in the floor a few feet from Koran, his blood staining the sawdust around it. Taking advantage of the stunned Herding, Koran punched him solidly with his right fist, then again. His dagger came up and he rolled suddenly, legs pinning the older man's arms to his side as he knelt over Herding, the knife held at his throat.

"Give me a reason, Herding, and I will slit your throat-"

"Slit my throat?" Herding interrupted, his adam's apple bobbing over the knife as a few pinpricks of blood were drawn from it. "Well, that would make a fine end to this whole thing, wouldn't it? All would know, Koran, how you plotted against me, how you got me drunk and murdered me-"

"But my men know it didn't happen like that - I have been with them all night-"

"If my followers and I have found out over a long career of subordination, it is that anyone can be bought, boy!" came the snap, like a suddenly rising crocodile. "Bloody naivity, you foolish little whelp - anyone can be bought, and anyone taken out of the picture for a while!"

"And that is what you planned to do with me, is it? Hmm, Captain? 'Take me out of the picture'?" Koran's voice was soft but harsh. He held down his captive with almost no effort, his knees kneading Herding's elbows painfully as he sat back, knife still pressing on the older man's throat. Somehow his quietness was worse than when he shouted, and Herding didn't reply this time, although his sneering, dead eyes looked up at Koran with all the emotion of a fish. Koran leant forward suddenly, hissing fiercely, "You wanted the glory of my victory. You would have taken me out."

"Your victory?" Herding laughed, as much as he could past the dagger. "What victory, boy? The whole operation would be mind! Why would the eye taken any notice of a mere pup, a nothingness-"

"I am not nothing, Herding!" Koran bellowed.

"Koran!"

The young captain didn't look up as he recognised Ehan's voice, and heard the sound of other feet at the opening of the tent, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Herding's, his knife steady against the man's throat. In the stunned silence that followed, his finally looked across at his companion - and one of Herding's men took advantage. Having crossed quietly behind Koran, he now pounced, grabbing Koran's arms and spinning him around, punching him sounded across the face. Koran reeled from the shock and his approaching tiredness, but replied quickly, ducking around behind the man as he made for another shot, and using both hands to thump him powerfully at the base of the neck with the hard, heavy pommel of his dagger. The man fell silently, but another came forward and Koran threw himself into the fight blindly, until he felt his arms grabbed and locked behind him. Struggling, he stopped as soon as he recognised the voice that spoke urgently behind him. "Captain, Captain, it's me, it's Ehan!"

Koran stopped struggling and relaxed, but Ehan kept hold of his arms. Having got up from the floor, Herding limped towards him, acting as if his injuries were actually far worse than had been inflicted. Koran watched him steadily, his gaze fiery, until Herding laughed in his face. "Nice try, boy," he taunted mockingly. Koran retaliated by spitting in his face.

Herding cried out and thumped him across the face as Ehan belatedly let go of his arms. He reeled, but was ready for it, and his head whipped back with lightning speed. "Those who plot against their own men are the contempt of whatever gods wander this earth, and they will deal with whatever is left after I am done with Lorien - after I am done with you, good captain Herding," Koran whispered. Then, bending down to take his dagger from where it had dropped, he turned and ran from the tent.