Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Durelin]

It was the thrill of battle? No, Calenvása would never call it a thrill. Though it heightened something within him, it numbed his mind, his heart, and the movement of his body felt unreal, all feelings, both physical and mental, were those of a separate person. His conscious being was separate of his body as an observer of what occurred surrounding his physical being. It left his body feeling numb, and his head in a haze. But since no thought could penetrate that haze, Calenvása was relatively content, even feeling a bit free. For those thoughts were quite a burden, and for them to be completely lifted from him, for his mind to be completely blank, even for a short time, it was blissful in a frightening way. Yes, it frightened him. But it was the thrill of battle that set him free.

But it lasted so short a time in his mind. In one moment he was with his back to Thorvel, downing an orc with a slash across the chest. He risked a glance around him, and saw Ambarturion, with one of his guards by his side, looking as cold as ever, any fury he might receive in battle seeming little different from his normal state. One could wonder what went on in that elf’s mind till the Last Music, it seemed, but now was not the time to start. Coromswyth fired her bow nearby, of course, but who was guarding who was hard to tell. In another moment, the orcs were all but eliminated, certainly scattered and finished. It seemed they realized this, as Calenvása made his way over to the two ambassadors, breaking into a run as he watched Ambarturion prepare to slit the throat of an orc There were two left, clearly captured and of no danger. And yet it seemed hatred called the elf to make them forever of no danger.

“No!” he cried out, watching the ambassador put his dagger up to the orc’s throat. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.” Ambarturion was supposed to be a wise diplomat, and yet he acted on a gut instinct, and hatred at that. Of all the people who might see the mistake in this, he should be the one. Calenvása had seen him as cold and collected, thoughtful and considering. He had been wrong. Sighing quietly and bitterly, he realized what he had done. He had had a feeling, when he watched the ambassador take automatically take command with a forcefulness that would have been offensive to anyone with a more heated temperament, and that feeling was an uneasiness that told him that, for some reason, he should not like what Ambarturion did. A gut feeling he had not listened to.

“They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” The fierceness in his voice, while remaining his severe self, made Calenvása remember that feeling he had had concerning Ambarturion clearly. It was not at all a good feeling. He watched as the knife went again for the orc’s blood. “NO!” he cried out again, finally listening to that feeling, and letting it fill his voice with anger. “I said do not kill them!”

Ambarturion’s eyes were filled with his own anger, one of indignant disobedience that would have stared down Calenvása only moments before. But now the Captain had come to a decision, come to a conclusion. He did not like it, but he was free from constant doubt and worrying, a constant need to think about everything logically, that never brought him to conclusions that he felt were fitting. For now, at least, he did not care if any of his decisions were ‘fitting’, whatever that meant. All that mattered was that he would be making decisions, driven by feelings and logic, using both in as much of a balance as he could. They did not mix well, though.

Holding the ambassador’s gaze, he felt his grip tighten on Ambarturion’s arm, finally realizing that he had grabbed his wrist. Coromswyth started to speak to the elf softly, and Calenvása found himself feeling grateful for this. “Ambarturion! What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” She paused for a moment, and Calenvása lost the rest of her words in his mind as he concentrated on the minds of both of the ambassadors. In a strange way, it seemed they complimented each other.

Ambarturion pulled his arm away from Calenvása, and the Captain watched him drop the orc, and then sheathed the knife. The order in which he did this was important to note, and was of no surprise. He quickly left, and Calenvása followed him with his eyes to find that he was searching for weapons. The Captain sighed, and turned back to Coromswyth. He gave her a short bow, passing a thanks to her through his eyes. He did not like words, at least not anymore. Perhaps at one time he had found them useful. Now he found them troublesome and mostly empty. Targil soon joined he and the lady elf, and Calenvása charged him with looking after the prisoners for now. “Notify me when they find their minds,” he said briefly, and was surprised to find Targil chuckle softly at this. The Captain simply smiled, and it felt good on his lips.

But then he heard someone speak behind him. It was Thorvel. “Calenvása,” he whispered urgently. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” Calenvása gestured to Thorvel to lead him, and he followed his companion without a word. The elf took the time to voice some of his concerns to his Captain. “I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain.”

Now he chose to call him Captain. Those under his command confused him to no end, and this had brought many worries to Calenvása in the past. Today he chose to listen more closely and observe more closely, and know what he could about what went on in their minds, and not concern himself with foolish worry. “I know,” he said, with the most surety that he had felt in weeks. Thorvel looked at him for another moment before realizing that he would get nothing more from his Captain. Calenvása expected him to be content with that. But then he found Lómarandil, within a patch of bushes and other growth, and he worried.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel found himself standing alone on the edge of the clearing. He was unhurt except for the few nicks that should be expected in a battle, however small. There were no living Orcs that he could see, save one: a sniveling Orc on the ground between Calenvása and Ambarturion. Coromswyth and Megilaes were close by, as was Targil. But Lómarandil... Thorvel did not see him. He frowned. He hoped the younger Elf had not gotten himself killed. He strode over to where Lómarandil had been before, paying attention out of the corner of his eye to the confrontation between the Captain and Ambarturion. It was more out of the habit of being aware of everything that was going on around him than anything else; a scout who did not learn that was soon a dead scout.

He found Lómarandil very close to where he thought he would be, and Lómarandil did not look good at all. He was laying in some bushes, and was clearly in quite a bit of pain. He had acquired a new injury. It looked serious, possibly fatal. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. He extremely small skill with any kind of injuries and healing. Calenvása should know, he decided. And Coromswyth. She seemed to understand that kind of thing.

He turned around. Calenvása had his back to him, and Thorvel watched in satisfaction as Ambarturion stalked off. The Captain had had his way, and the Orc was alive, prime for questioning. He did not know why Calenvása had chosen now to stand up to Ambarturion and not earlier, but he was glad to see it. The other Elves nearby soon formed a group a little way away, leaving Calenvása with the captive Orc. Thorvel headed over there. He got close enough so that only the Captain could hear him.

“Calenvása,” he whispered. He surprised himself to no end at using his Captain’s name. He did not think he had done that before to any Captain before. He did not let it throw him off, though, and continued. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” The Captain motioned for him to lead, and Thorvel did so. He decided to use the time alone with the Captain to his advantage. He had seen Calenvása stand up to Ambarturion, but still...

“I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain,” he said, the proper title back in place.

“I know,” he replied. Thorvel looked at him sidelong, and nodded. If that was all the Captain chose to share with him, he would take it. Leadership was a quality a Captain needed, and it reassured Thorvel. Thorvel said no more until they reached Lómarandil. Calenvása appeared worried, confirming Thorvel’s suspicions that the injury was serious.

“Should I... should I go get Coromswyth? She seems skilled at healing...” he said. Calenvása nodded, and his voice was tight. “Yes. Go get her, and only her.” Thorvel acquiesced, not hurrying exactly but certainly not slowly. Anything faster would draw a good deal of unwanted attention, if they hadn’t already. When he reached the group, he placed himself in front of Coromswyth, and addressed her softly enough that the others would not hear without straining their ears.

“Coromswyth, I think your skills will be needed once more. It is Lómarandil... he has been injured again, and the Captain and I think it may be serious.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the elf spoke, Coromswyth looked up from where she knelt, startled: he had moved so quietly, more so than any she had been around in a while - the elves of Lorien did not disguise their footsteps when in the Wood, for what was the point? When he spoke, his voice, also, was soft. Did this actually reflect on his nature, she wondered absently. She wasn't sure why she wanted to work out the natures and minds of the elves so quickly and so much - it seemed more than simply idle curiosity. They seemed...different. Not quite hostile, certainly not towards Coromswyth herself, but the tension which was growing between Ambarturion and the Mirkwood elves was impossible to ignore.

"Lómarandil..." Coromswyth narrowed her eyes questioningly. "His shoulder again?"

The elf - Thorvel, she now remembered - nodded, but said no more. Stabbing her sword into the ground hastily but keeping hold of the dagger, Coromswyth stood and gestured for him to lead the way as she dug in one voluminous skirt pocket for the little equipment that she kept there. She shook her head regretfully - the pouch with much of her healing equipment, collected and created over years, had been lost when the Southrons and orcs had overcome them. Sighing inwardly, she followed Thorvel briskly to a patch of half flattened bushes...and winced as she saw the state of the elf sprawled within them. Kneeling immediately beside Lómarandil she rolled the now unconcious elf over onto his back with great care, her eyes running critically over his wounds. Putting two fingers to his face, she turned his head over to face her and winced as she saw the gash across it, already speckled with dirt and small bits of stone where it had been lying on the ground - and she was fairly sure not all of the blood was his. Coupled with the newly bleeding shoulder - she hadn't had much time to deal with that before - with a more serious, new gash beneath it, and a long, spreading patch of blood on the side of his tunic...

"Your Captain, much as he disapproves of myself and Ambarturion, is wise," she murmured softly. Thorvel opened his mouth and she half smiled, not looking up from her patient. "Don't protest, Thorvel, you know it is true," she added, sounding like a schoolteacher. Her smile faded and her expression became grimmer as she began to unbutton the front of Lómarandil's tunic, pulling it back so she could see the wound and she winced, her frown deepening: the gash across the young elf's side was not particularly deep for the most part, but the blackening of blood in the middle of it was ominous, and obviously deeper. As gently as she could, Coromswyth put her fingers on either side of the wound and pulled it very slightly apart. The elf groaned and his eyes flickered and she released her grip, her fear confirmed by the glimpse of a glint of metal in the gash.

"Poison..." she murmured, then looked up at Thorvel. "His...the orcish blades are poisoned, and it is one of them that has caught him across she side - and part of it, I think, has lodged itself there."

Thorvel bit his lip nervously, nodding. "What can I do?"

"Firstly, call over the other - what is...Targil! Yes, call over Targil. Secondly..." Coromswyth took only a split second pause as Thorvel complied, knowing that to ask whether he was squeamish would be a waste of breath, and would be a pointless insult besides. The elf knelt beside her at her bidding and she bid him put two fingers on either side of the centre of the wound as she wiped the dagger as best she could on her skirts to remove the blood, spitting on it and wiping again vigorously as beside her Targil arrived. "Targil, take off your belt please, and tie it around Lómarandil's arm, at the top, just above the gash - tighten it considerably." Sensing his hesitation, she looked up and caught his eyes. "Please, the gash it deep: it needs a tourniquet, to cut off the blood so he can lose no more."

Her voice dropped as she rubbed frantically at her dagger again. "I wish I could sterilise with fire, but there is no time..." she murmured in some absent explanation, before turning back to Lómarandil and clearing her throat, preparing herself and settling herself by his side. "Thorvel...when I say so, I would like you to apply pressure quite strongly to the wound, but only around the edges. Push inwards and down: the fragment is not too deep and it will force it up. Press harder with your right fingers than your left, but only slightly: it cannot be too uneven." Her voice had assumed a clarity and authority that was not questioned or resented by Thorvel, and for that she was grateful. Taking another deep breath she adjusted her grip on the dagger, knowing the finely honed blade would be keen enough but wishing it was more delicate: she could only hope that she would not do even more damage.

"Ok, pressure...apply now," she barked quietly. Thorvel complied, Lómarandil groaned more loadly as his eyes opened...and Coromswyth saw the hint of metal that was her prey. Her left hand resting lightly on Thorvel's, she approached with the blade, her eyes only inches from the gash, and she stuck the blade into the elf's side and twisted. Lómarandil cried out, quickly stifling his cry as his fists clenched and he shut his eyes tightly. Coromswyth barely thought of him even though, as she twisted again, he tensed and every muscle in his body stiffened; then, as the fragment of metal settled on the tip of the dagger, just visible through the blood that almost obscured it, Coromswyth paused for a split second, holding her breath. Not taking any chances about the reliability of moving the dagger further, she darted forward and pinched it out between two fingers: a piece of black metal, dark as the heart of an uruk and now covered in the elf's blood. Thorvel begin to relax. "No! Don't let go!" she barked authoratively. The elf stopped out of pure shock and she shot an apologetic glance at him before reaching beneath her outer skirt and ripping off quite a long, wide strip of the soft underskirt. Holding it to the wound, partly inside, she murmured, "I need to soak out some of the 'black blood' - the poisoned blood. Is there a stream near here?"

"We are not far from the palace." It was Targil who replied. Coromswyth nodded. "Good: we shall need to clean it out more thoroughly there." She removed the now blood soaked material and dabbed a few more times around the wound area, which had stopped bleeding with such vigour and was now only weeping slightly. Nodding to Thorvel, she told him he could release his grip and he did so, with some relief it seemed, before he stood, saying he would tell the captain. She ripped off the rest of the bottom of her underskirt all the way around - soft, thin material - and began to bind Lómarandil's side. Meanwhile Targil had applied a tourniquet with some profficiency and was now binding it tightly with a similarly makeshift bandage.

"Nicely done, Coromswyth." The female elf looked up in surprise at Targil and smiled, inclining her head.

"Thank you. Your friend will be simply need a few hours rest and hopefully another healer to look at his wounds: once the poison is out, it is but really a rather shallow wound. wound. I..." She shook her head, frowning as she looked away. "I wish I had my medicine bag with me: some salve needs to be put on his side ideally. Still, I am sure your physicians at the palace will be able to deal with that..."

"It was well done, Lady," he soothed. "And getting the fragment from his side...how are you accustomed to doing so?"

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil," Coromswyth replied, softly. The Lorien elf hesitated, then leant forward conspiratorially over the elf's body, causing Targil to subconciously lean in as well. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered.

[Durelin]

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil.” He watched the female elf hesitate before leaning forward over the body of Lómarandil, still but for ragged breathing. Targil leaned forward as well, and it felt strange to be so close to her. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered close to his ear, her breath tickling his face. She immediately leaned back once more and stood up, and in a way he felt regret that she was no longer so close. He had felt that he could hear her mind working when she was that near, and that was something to be desired. He glanced down at Lómarandil, who was beginning to stir, before rising. He had left Megilaes, the Ambassadors’ guard, to watch the prisoner, and he wished to see the orc still safely in bonds and with two eyes watching it. Finding the prisoner and its guard as he had left them, and with the Captain nearby.

Calenvása was not paying any attention to the orc on the ground behind him, but Targil still felt a certain amount of relief at finding the Captain present. But Ambarturion was also present. It seemed he had just come from collecting weapons, finally cooled off, for now. He was back to his stony face and icy eyes. Targil watched them for any sign of that ice melting in a great heat of anger. To his relief, they only flashed slightly when the ambassador looked at Calenvása. And yet Targil felt a fire light in his eyes as he watched Ambarturion approach his Captain. He felt a certain amount of pride as he watched his Captain, his expression almost as hard as Ambarturion’s, and yet more relaxed. He seemed at ease, while the ambassador was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

“We cannot wait around for this creature to wake.”

Calenvása had not looked at the ambassador yet, and he spared him only a glance after this statement. “If we do not wait, we move forward blindly, and with a wounded comrade.”

Thorvel joined the group at this moment, leaving Coromswyth alone to keep an eye on the wounded Lómarandil. For some reason, Targil felt a touch of anger toward Thorvel for doing so. It wasn’t as if the female elf could not be left alone, even without the orc party defeated. But then Thorvel spoke: “Lómarandil has had some real luck, Captain.” Calenvása looked up from the ground, looking almost surprised that he had been addressed. Thorvel continued: “The orc blade he came in contact with was poisoned. He needs better treatment.”

The Captain let out a bitter sigh, and looked back down at the ground before him. Ambarturion took advantage of Calenvása’s despair, and spoke with a fierceness that was so commonly in his voice. “He needs better treatment, and where can that treatment be obtained?”

“We must take him to the palace…” Thorvel replied, beginning to say something more to the ambassador, his mouth working angrily. Ambarturion cut him off with his own anger, turning now to speak to directly to the Captain. “Your man says so himself. We must move, Calenvása.”

Targil felt his own anger sharpen with these words. It was how they were said, mainly that disturbed him. But there was also the missing title. Strange that he would feel that the Lorien elf had wronged Calenvása. And what was even stranger was that it felt as if he had been wronged. “That’s ‘Captain’, Ambarturion. We must move, ‘Captain’.” Calenvása looked up once more, and their eyes met in silence, the tension around them, the air filled with anger, all ignored, as a silent thanks passed between them. Respect had been earned, and it was mutual. Something came into Calenvása’s eyes, and he turned to face Ambarturion, looking him in the eye, forcing his eyes away from Targil. Then the Captain spoke for the first time as a captain. “It is of my intention to save Lorien, Ambarturion. If you are of the same intentions, you will acknowledge my command.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I acknowledge your command of this scout troop, and in the absence of your King Thranduil I will obey your every behest in this land of our Mirkood kin. But I am bound to none save the Lord Celeborn, nor will I grant mastery to any but him or to his Lady.” Ambarturion’s words were cold and haughty, but they rang like shining steel taken from a scabbard, and all who heard them knew that they could ignore those words only at their peril. Megliaes shifted in his clothes uncomfortably as he watched the confrontation between his master and Calenvása from a safe distance. Ambarturion was the taller of the two and clearly of the more ancient lineage. But he was not in his realm, and he had been humbled by his capture. The cold danger that had lurked beneath the surface of his master’s demeanour since the murder of Caranbaith was cloaked now, but to those who knew the ancient Elf well, it was still there to see, lurking like a predator in the shadows, awaiting its moment.

Calenvása seemed to shrink in Megilaes’s eyes before the steady gaze of Ambarturion, but the captain’s reply put heart into his followers. “A fair answer, Master Ambarturion, but I do no ask you to swear allegiance to me, only to obey me in the lands of my king.”

“You speak of saving Lorien,” Ambarturion replied. “How do you propose to do this? The army that attacks now will be repulsed by the power of the Golden Lady as have the two that precede it. Or do you plan to attack the army yourself, and save my Lady the trouble?”

The younger Elf bristled visibly at the mocking tone. “We are not so rash. Where some might consider attacking, we prefer wiser and more profitable counsel. We had already decided to warn your kin of the attack, and would have done so already but for the need to rescue you.”

“We needed no rescuing. I would have soon removed my bonds and destroyed those who dared to carry us to their masters.” None there laughed.

“Be that as it may,” Calenvása continued, “we intend to continue with that plan now. But we must take thought to our wounded comrade.”

“Indeed, but there is no time to return him to the palace of Thranduil and chase after the armies of Dol Guldur. Your palace lies many days’ march north of here, and Lorien is at least one full day’s run to our west. Your loyalties are thus divided, but mine is clear. I grieve for your companion, but his fate is his and yours to determine, not mine. Whether you choose to leave him and come with me, or return with him to the palace is for you to decide.”

“And where would you have us follow you, should we decide to follow your direction?” His tone made it clear that such a decision was hypothetical at best.

“To your ending, but to one that might be worthy of a song and would win for you such renown in the memory of those who dwell in Lorien as to make it a worthwhile conclusion.”

Calenvása’s eyes narrowed. “You propose to lead us to our deaths? And how might those serve the high ones in Lorien?”

Ambarturion sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. It was becoming wearying speaking with these youths. He had forgotten what it was like having to debate and counsel with other Elves, so long had he been included in the closed circle of his Lord and Lady. In most cases, such exchanges would be unnecessary, as each opened their mind to the other and conceived of the wisest course as though there were harmonious singers in a choir. This clumsy talk was like the cawing of ravens to such music. “The main force of the army is no different from those that my people have destroyed before, and will continue to destroy for as long as the Lady keeps Lorien. But there is another force attached to the army – surely you noticed them – who are bent on another way. They will soon break away from the main force and attempt a desperate raid upon some undefended border of my land. While my people are occupied slaughtering their comrades, this force will attempt to take Caras Galadhon and destroy my Lady.”

There was a silence in the grove as those listening took this in. It was Calenvása who broke it. “Even if this is true, how will our deaths bring the Lady aid?”

“As I said, the army itself will be destroyed, but I fear that this smaller force might succeed. It is a suicide mission but one that might do terrible damage to us. We are not many, but yet we are enough to prevent the force from reaching the eaves of Lorien, or of reaching the Golden Wood in such disarray that their stroke will go awry. The number of the force cannot be much above two hundred orcs and men. My student and I alone can account for at least two score, and I daresay that each of you could destroy at least a half as many each. Well then, that’s almost half their number. With luck we might be able to destroy more. Such a blow would leave them crippled and unable to attack with any hope of success.”

“Wait a minute!” Ambarturion swung his head to regard the younger Elf, Thorvel where he stepped forward, ignoring the warning look shot him by his captain. “You propose that we should abandon or companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.”

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened with growing satisfaction as Calenvása argued with Ambarturion. The Captain was doing what needed doing, as far as Thorvel could see. However, his eyebrows rose skeptically at hearing Ambarturion’s plan to attack the smaller force, and he could not keep quiet any longer. Earlier he had thought that the Lórien Elf’s dash into the woods was the result of clouded thinking, but Thorvel was starting to wonder if that wasn’t just how he always thought. He was hardly surprised any longer that they had been captured in the first place.

“Wait a minute!” he said. He thought he saw Calenvása shoot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “You propose that we should abandon our companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.” Thorvel stared at him for a moment. Where was the other Elf’s sense? That would not help Lothlórien or the Lady, and it would get all of them killed! Ambarturion had said they could kill a full hundred of that force. What if they were killed first? Thorvel shook his head. Arguing with Ambarturion did not seem to be doing any good, and so he turned to Calenvása, who was frowning slightly.

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.” The last was said with a darted glance at Ambarturion. He had purposefully spoken loud enough for the others to hear. He stepped back. He had stated his opinion, one that made a great deal of sense to him, and was done speaking for the moment. Calenvása was doing a fine job debating with Ambarturion, and Thorvel intended to let him continue to do so.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil woke from his pain with a gasp as Coromsyth squeezed the blade out. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he felt the metal ripping is flesh as it came out. He fell back as they walked to join the group, slowly gathering strength in his arms to push himself into a standing position. Reaching, with great pain, for his belt he opened a pouch and took out a small vial of colourless liquid. Gripping the bottle a little too tightly, he took a deep breath and poured the liquid onto his wound.

The cry could probably have been heard for miles around, and Lomarandil fell to his knees, shaking, hyperventilating, as the liquid burned into his flesh. The skin around his wound turned black and crusty within seconds, and small amounts of smoke curled their way up his tunic. The others looked round, Calenvasa looked aghast, Ambarturion impassive, and Thorvel almost impressed. Lomarandil dropped the vial, and it shattered on a stone, falling onto all fours he began to gasp for air as he tried to control the pain.

A tear fell from the corner of his eye, and using all his strenght he pushed himself to stand up. Shaking still, he walked forward towards the group and murmered as loudly as he could, "I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."