Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[Arry]

With the help of Galhardir, Annû had made it to his room. A fierce, generalized ache and hurt had begun to assail him where the traitorous Lossoth had landed his hard blows, and already the purplish spread of new bruises had begun to creep across the pummeled areas. He would be sore for a while, but the bruises would fade, the ache recede, in time. What worried him the most was the wound from the man’s knife.

With careful fingers, he peeled off the temporary bandage Galhardir had applied, a wadding of clean rags bound on with the belt Annû wore. The flow of blood from the wound had slowed to an occasional oozing. It was not a large cut nor had it gone in particularly deep he saw, as he twisted this way and that to see it in the room’s small mirror. But even this soon the edges of it looked red and angry, and the serous fluid did not run clear but was tinged with a yellow color. He cleaned it as best he could, with water from the jug and a rag. Some folded strips from an old clean towel served as a bandage, with one longer band of it to tie about him. Fishing through his pack he found a soft, loose tunic to pull on.

His movements were stiff from his bruises and the wound, but he steeled himself against the hurt, and walked carefully to the galley to find food and drink. Many of the crew were already there. He nodded to those who called out to him and passed by them as quickly as he could. Taking a bowl of the inevitable chowder, a chunk of ship’s bread, and a mug of tea, he made his solitary way back to his quarters.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Luindal nodded in agreement and then beckoned Rôg towards the table in the center of the cabin where maps and scrolls were haphazardly strewn. “I didn’t have a chance to show you this before, but this is where we need to search.” He pointed to a spot on Cirdan’s map that was highlighted with a small circle. Rôg could see that this location was not far from a lengthy sandbar that stretched along the eastern side of the Bay in relatively shallow waters. “But how do you know for sure?” Rôg queried.

Luindal handed a parchment to his friend and explained. “I don’t know for sure, but read this and see what you think. When I first arrived, the Elders presented me with a document penned in an ancient Lossoth tongue, hoping it would aid our search. The words were inscribed on deer hide and described what happened the day the Elven ship sank. The hide sat on a shelf in the Hall of Elders for countless years and was totally forgotten until this latest threat. Few among the Snowmen could even read the old script, but Alahseey had been taught as a child at her great-grandmother's knee. After our arrival in the Bay, she spent many hours translating it and filling in as many missing parts as she could.

Rôg’s eyes scanned the sheet quickly. Then he looked up at Luindal. “I see. With the water so shallow, the sandbar iced over early in the year. When the wind picked up, the Elven craft lurched closer to shore and collided with the ice, crushing the hull.”

“I would agree,” countered the Elf. “Cirdan’s map of the Bay when placed beside the account of the Lossoth suggests that this is probably what happened. If that is true, we need to search just west of the bar. Lucky for us, it is still there after all these years and not frozen over yet.”

“But so close to a sandbar and in shallow waters?”

Luindal sighed. “In one way, this should make it easier to pull up the Stones, since the shallow water would be less frigid than the depths of the Bay. But, to begin, I would suggest we leave the Spirit a ways away and approach the area where we plan to dive with smaller boats. If we find the small stone first, we can just retrieve it with the small boats. If it is the larger one, then we have a problem. We cannot get the larger palantir off the bottom of the Bay and lift it up without a winch. Even aside from the winch, its size and weight would swamp any of the smaller boats. We'll have to sail the Spirit closer, hopefully on the western side furthest from the sandbar.”

“A tricky piece of sailing,” Rôg observed.

“Tricky indeed. Let’s just hope the weather holds. Or tricky may become close to impossible! Now get to bed and tell the others to do the same. We’ll need all our wits and strength in the morning. And make sure to bring along those air bladders and special diving suits.”

[Lalwendë]

The dreamless darkness slowly subsided and Tarn awoke from the deep sleep he had fallen into. His eyes had been wiped clean of the blood which had streamed across them and set hard, but some of the congealed blood was still stuck to his eyelashes and he winced as he opened his eyelids. Automatically, he lifted his hand to his face to pick the bloody coating off and he let out a low, hissing gasp as he felt the pain searing across his chest.

He reached to touch the place where he had felt the pain, and found that his coat and layers of sweaters had been removed and replaced with a cotton shirt. He felt inside the shirt and found that his ribs had been tightly bandaged with strips of linen cloth. Who had done this? And where was he? A sense of panic rose and he almost screamed aloud with pain as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He looked about him and saw that he was in a small, low ceilinged cabin; he heard water and realised he must be on a ship.

Tarn’s eyes widened as the frightening thought came to him that the Elves may have taken him captive. Looking round, he saw a door, and it did not look locked. He had to get out of there, whatever the pain he might feel, whatever the cost to his strength. But he could not see his normal clothes, and in particular his coat, which contained his only weapon, the knife. He felt dizzy, but he could not give in and lie back down. From what he had heard, these Elves disappeared over the seas from time to time and were never heard of again. That was not going to happen to him, of this he was determined.

Putting his feet to the floor, he was relieved to find at least his boots had not been removed. He lifted up the mattress of the bunk he had been lying on, but his personal effects were not concealed under there. He scanned the room and could find no cubby holes. Then, bending down to examine some of the panelling, he stumbled giddily and crashed into the wall with a great racket.

“Ho! What’s going on in there?” boomed a loud voice. Angry footsteps came rapidly towards the door and then it was flung open. A large, bearded man with blackened, frostbitten fingers stood there, glaring at Tarn. “What are you doing, man? Are you a fool?” he roared.

“Regan!” gasped Tarn, clutching the edge of the bunk, to keep himself steady. “Where am I? I thought I was going off to some Elven prison. Am I on Marreth’s ship?”

“And where else might you be? “ said the man with a grim, short laugh. “Think Corsairs abandon their own do you?”

“But I…”

“Enough, you fool. You are one of our own, or so says I. A man who is decent enough to rescue me, I will make sure he gets the best of care. And besides, the Captain himself bore you back to shore, strapped over a barrel, like a bloody haunch of meat.”

Regan was bluff, but it was his way. Tarn appreciated and understood it. He was feeling pain, but no agony would grip him so hard that he could not still present himself as a tough and resilient man. Regan had bandaged and bathed Tarn himself, he saw it as a return of the favour, the right thing to do for a comrade in arms.

“You’ve a fair souvenir there,” said Regan, laughing grimly again. “Have you seen yourself?” Tarn had not seen the full extent of his injuries. He remembered the broken nose, and the cracked ribs, but the injuries inflicted by the maniacal bird had slipped from his mind, so delirious had he been during the attack.

“Follow me”, said Regan. He did not offer a helpful arm to Tarn, that would be going too far. But at least he walked slowly from the cabin and up the gangway towards the mess room. Once there, he pointed to a mirror on the wall, and Tarn, swallowing hard, looked up at his reflection nervously. He saw the bruises on his face first, but then turning slightly to one side, saw that a chunk of the top of his ear was missing, the gash crudely stitched together. He leaned forwards to take a closer look and examined himself as any dandy might examine himself in a new suit of clothes. A slight smile crept across his face.

“That’s a corker, aint it?” said Regan. “A real beauty”. Tarn laughed as hard as he could and agreed that it was a spectacular injury. The broken nose was nothing new, he’d snap it back in place when he had the nerve. But this, it was a truly impressive wound. He admired himself once more and sank down onto a bench as the pain surged through his ribs once more.

[piosenniel]

Even before the sun was up, Luindal came knocking at Rôg’s door, and finding it unlocked, entered. ‘I thought you wanted our wits about us! Mine don’t gather until the day’s light is over the horizon!’ Luindal chuckled as Rôg sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. ‘What’s that in your hand, you pushy Elf?’ Rog got up out of bed, the sheet wrapped round him. ‘It’s tea, and laced with honey. I can smell it.’ He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers at the Captain. ‘Come on. Give it over! And it better be strong if you’re expecting me to even dip one toe in that icy water!’

Two cups of strong tea later followed by a quick bowl of porridge, and Rôg was ready to go. He’d been up late into the previous night checking on the equipment they would need. Two nets – one small to accommodate the small sphere; a larger one to secure around the bigger palantiri. Rôg had gotten one of the Lossoth to help sew a tight fitting suit of seal skins for Luindal. With a thick coating of bear grease applied over his entire body before donning the suit, the captain should be fairly insulated against the cold. And finally, there were several airbladders sewn from sealskins, the seams sealed with pitch. They were blown up with air and tied off tightly to be used as floats.

‘You shouldn’t have to be in the water very long,’ Rôg said to Luindal as they walked up to the quarterdeck. The First Mate had already given the order to weigh anchor. The ship was on its way toward the sandbar that had been identified in the Lossoth document. ‘I’ll do the diving; all you have to do is be ready to secure whatever stone we find with the net and clip the net to the ropes that hang from the airbladders. They’ll show where the globe is while we move in with one of the longboats to hoist it in.’

The Sea-Spirit drew in as close as she could to the sandbar. It would not serve to have her run aground, so she anchored a little west of the area they planned to search. Two longboats set out from the ship. One with Rôg and the Captain in it, along with two Lossoth to row and two armed Elves. The other boat held most of the equipment and several more armed Elves.

It was only a short distance to the area just off the sandbar that Luindal wanted to explore. Rôg threw off his robe and slipped into the water his now sleek body pushing itself gracefully beneath the low lapping waves. He arched back up toward the surface and peeked his head back up to where Luindal looked over the side of the boat. ‘Get going!’ Luindal hissed as the seal regarded him with his large dark eyes. The captain scratched his chest, squirming a little in his suit. ‘This . . . thing . . . you’ve outfitted me with is beginning to get rather aromatic . . . if you catch my drift.’

Rôg twitched his whiskers and grinned, slapping a foreflipper on the water’s surface. ‘I’ve not only caught your drift, but so have the others, apparently.’ He nodded his nose to where the others in the boat had drawn up their scarves about their noses. ‘You’ll notice they’ve positioned the end of the boat your in, downwind from them!’ Before Luindal could make a rejoinder, Rôg dove beneath the water and began his search . . .

[Regin Hardhammer]

Marreth awoke and glanced out of his window. He caught a glimpse of the Elven ship searching for the Stones once more. He smirked with glee while envisioning their mast snapping off, stranding the Elves in the middle of the bay.

Marreth recalled in a haze the unsettling events of the night before: finding the body of his trusted friend slumped over on the deck of the ship, limp and already going cold. The sight had stunned and shocked him so that he did not know what to do. Diera had been one of the most trusted officers who had ever served him. Who could have done such an abominable deed? And how had they managed to do so unnoticed?

Arising from his bed, Marreth decided to return to the body and see if he could gather any clues. Scanning the still body, he noticed the jagged line of the gash, red and inflamed even in death. He bent down to examine it more closely, as his nose picked up the acrid stench of poison. Marreth roared with anger when he realized what must have occurred. He longed to get out on the Bay so his men could get ready to attack the Elven ship as soon as its mast snapped, but this was a matter of even greater importance. No captain who failed to discipline his crew would ever survive.

“Jynne, Jynne,” he bellowed to the cabin boy, “Get Jynne over here instantly. I must talk to him.” The boy nodded and scuttled away, but then returned in a few moments shaking his head and reporting that Jynne had been in his cabin, but had stubbornly told him he was busy and would report when he got around to it.

Marreth bristled and then stormed off in the direction of Jynne's cabin. This betrayal within his own crew infuriated him more than all of his previous failed plans and bad luck finding the Palantiri. Heads were going to roll for this, most certainly Jynne’s.

Coming to Jynne's room, he thrust the door open and bellowed, "You cox-livered peapod, scum of the earth, how did my first mate Diera meet her death? The smell of poison is on her. And I know of no one else on this ship who is fool enough to carry a poisoned blade without my approval. From the moment you came on this ship, you have done nothing but cause trouble. I should slit your throat here and now, but first I will let you answer before I haul you off to the brig." Marreth's fingers strayed to the hilt of his sword....

[Arry]

‘You really don’t look very well. Shall I have one of the other Elves help you?’ The Lossoth’s face peered up from his seat at the ruddy face of the Elf. Annû had stood up, the better to catch the breeze off the Bay’s waters. His face was flushed, as someone who had exerted himself hard and long. But beneath the tinge of color that stained his cheeks and neck, lay a lingering pallor. His eyes glittered, but not with the fair light of the First Born. Rather, they bore an ill glaze from some fire that burned within.

‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,’ returned Annû, waving the man’s offer of help away. He pointed to where the filled airbladders lay at the front of the longboat. ‘Help Galhardir get those tied to those coils of rope, if you will.’ Annû nodded to where Rôg could just be seen gliding back and forth beneath the water. ‘Once Rôg has found a palantir, we’ll need to have those air-filled floats to tie onto the net Luindal will put under it – to mark its place so we can haul it up while they search for the second one.’ Galhardir welcomed the man’s assistance, though he glanced curiously up at Annû, after a whispered conference with his fellow Lossoth.

Elwë picked his was to the middle of the boat, his bow in hand. He’d heard Annû protest the offer of help and now stood looking at his fellow Elf. Annû managed a meager smile in greeting, saying again that it was nothing. Something he’d eaten had not agreed with him. Changing the subject, he asked if Elwë had seen any sign of the Corsairs. Elwë said he had not, and the two passed a brief time in conversation as their eyes scanned the low lying hills and rocky outcroppings that lined the edge of the bay, looking for signs of any who might be spying on them. After a while, the two Elves changed placed in the boat, taking the opposite ends from each other. Their weapons were ever at the ready as their keen grey eyes swept in an arc, toward land and water. All was well as Rôg continued his searching dives for the stones.

Galhardir glanced up from his work with the ropes and nets, startled to see that Annû had thrown back the hood to his cloak, letting the chilly breeze ruffle the hairs escaped from his hastily done braid. Unaware of his concerned observer, Annû fished into the small pack at his waist now and again, bringing out small pieces of willow bark to chew on. It was meant to keep down the fever he could feel rising. And to ease the pain in his side. It was doing neither very well as far as he could tell. He forced his thoughts away from the pain and the fevered discomfort, setting them solely on keeping watch against the foe.

[Imladris]

Jynne was expecting Marreth -- the captain had been a fool to send the cabin boy. It was too bad that Marreth had been alerted and knew that he had been the woman's slayer. He had hoped the water would have done a better job hiding Deira's body. He shrugged.

As the boy dashed back to Marreth, Jynne slipped around and knelt in the darkness that oozed under his cot. He lifted the wooden chest, opened it, and chewed his finger tip. Poisons...such innocent liquid. They were like traitors. Fair of face, yet laced with malace. He selected a curvacious vial and lifted it to a flickering ray of the dying sun. The rose tinted poison trembled in his hand, the glowing aura streaked with golden shafts. The cabin walls behind him was splashed with red and violet -- the spirits of the flowers that had bled for him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the smooth glass. He whispered a curse over it.

Jynne tucked the vial in his sleave, took another bottle from the chest, and turned around, leaning against the cabin walls. He glanced down at the black glassed bottle cradeled in his hand and smiled at it.

Marreth stormed in, his face an obscene purple as he raged at Jynne. "I have caused nothing but trouble?" asked Jynne silkily. "Whose idea was it to block the cave? Who rested that Hilde? I, Marreth, have been no trouble to you. In fact, I have been your greatest asset," he whispered.

"But I don't care about that," said Marreth with a coldness that rippled with anger. "How did Diera meet her death?"

Jynne shrugged. "Why would I know?"

"There was poison in the wound!"

"Maybe there are other insolent dogs who would flaunt your authority and bring a poisoned blade. You do not," said Jynne with silky delicacy, "have a thorough knowledge of your crew,"

"You liar!" Marreth roared, ripping his sword from the scabbard.

Jynne ducked, tugged the cork off the black bottle and drowned it's dark liquid. He felt a fiery strength course through his veins, he was suddenly clear headed, and he crouched like cat against the wall, as he watched Marreth control himself. "Take another swing at me," he said softly, "and I promise you that you can ask Diera herself how she met her death.