Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô waited as Inzillomí went to answer the door. Things did seem to be developing rather quickly since he had arrived. He was worried for her and hoped that the King’s men would do her no harm. He could not imagine what it must be like for her to leave her home and travel east while her husband lay bound in chains. His thoughts wandered to his own wife on the ship who eagerly awaited his return. If her life was in peril, he would do everything in his power to save her, no matter what the consequences. Azarmanô vowed that he would try his utmost to ensure the prisoner’s freedom and safety. He knew that the mission must not fail, if Abârpânarú was to survive the bloody blade of Sauron.

Inzillomí returned leading a strange man with shoulder length dirt colored hair and large blue eyes. Startled by the unexpected appearance of a newcomer, Azarmanô stood up, hastily straightening his lax frame. The Captain did not remember the man from any of his missions, nor could he remember him from any of the meetings of the Faithful. Although they hoped for men to go on the rescue mission, he personally did not feel comfortable asking a complete stranger, not with all the questions that he had. Who was the intruder, and why was he here? His ready explanation had come off his tongue too glibly.

The man’s hair looked greasy and ruffled, as if he had not combed it for days. He carried himself with a hint of arrogance, a trait that Azarmanô did not regard with fondness. Although suspicious of the stranger, he did not think it wise to do anything further now. This was not his house; it would not be proper for him to welcome the guest with a series of piercing questions. Lady Inzillomí, Azarmanô reasoned, must have trusted him enough to let him in. Still, this thought did not greatly ease his misgivings; the king’s agents lurked everywhere nowadays, and many were well disguised. For now, Azarmanô bowed politely toward the guest, slowly and deliberately, while reminding himself that his bow and knife were nearby if he needed them.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion stood in the corner of the small room, with his eyes fixed on the newcomer. The man stood near the door, his large blue eyes darting side to side like wolf on the hunt.

He looked nervous, standing like that, gnawing on a misshapen bottom lip, but he had an air of arrogance surrounding him that Marsillion found disconcerting. That lip, Marsillion thought to himself. I have seen this man before. But where?

Marsillion had a great deal of trust and respect for Inzillomi, but he would not stand by while this potentially dangerous stranger stood unexplained in his family's home. He stepped forward into the light, in full view of the stranger for the first time. He stood as tall and wide as he could, intentionally showing his muscular frame to the slightly smaller man. In this moment Marsillion first noticed the youth written across this face. This man is no older than I, he thought, yet he is scarred as if from battle. What weapons might he be carrying now, I wonder. Marsillion felt the reassuring feel of cold metal on his lower calf. He could pull his ivory handled dagger from his boot in an instant, if need required it.

The stranger stared at Marsillion. The two pairs of improbably blue eyes locked. Marsillion thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in those eyes. Aye! We have met before, Marsillion assessed stepping forward. But this man is not a friend.

Having made the impression he had hoped for, Marsillion deemed it time for questions. “Stranger,” he spoke as deeply as he could, “what brings you here in this most perilous time?” Marsillion regretted those last words. I have given to much away already! I must be more careful.

“That is not the formal greeting I might have expected,” the stranger said in a flat, unconcerned tone. “I am Abarzadan, of the house of Batanzira. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“I have,” Marsillion stated, trying his best to sound unimpressed. “There were many of that house in the east at one time,” said Marsillion, in an attempt to demonstrate that he was well schooled, as well as well built.

“There were,” Abarzadan restated. Marsillion caught the faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, the first hint of emotion he had given. “As for what brings me here, as I have already told the lady of the house, I came to investigate rumors that reached my ears these past days. Rumors telling of the capture of an old business partner, Abârpânarú Karíbzîr .”

Marsillion was not satisfied with the answer. “You say you know my uncle through business, do you,” his eyes again locked with those of the young man. Marsillion had a gift for reading eyes. He had developed it durring his time in Middle Earth. He had read the eyes of wizened old kings, he could certainly read Abarzadan's.

“I do indeed,” Abarzadan spoke abruptly. His face remained impassive, but as he spoke his eyes darted quickly from side to side. Too quickly. He is lying, or giving a half truth. “You dealt in horses with my uncle then,” Marsillion spoke softly, feigning understanding.

Abarzadan appeared to relax slighlty, “I did,” was his reply.

“Repeatedly I assume,” Marsillion said flatly, nailing Abarzadan down.

“More than once, yes.”

“Then I am sure you would recognize Abarpanaru's stable master, for he accompanies my uncle on all his business ventures,” Marsillion stated with growing volume. He wanted to make sure all in the room could hear him. “The man I speak of stands in this room now. Please identify him if you would.”

Marsillion's trap was set, but the outcome was still in question. Marsillion judge Abarzadan to be arrogant, and proud. If correct he had no doubt the man would overlook Tiru, and choose Captain Azarmano. Marsillion waited briefly while Abarzadan surveyed the two men.


Himaran's Post

"Please identify him if you would."

A cleverly laid trap. But I have not fallen into it just yet. Abarzadan smiled casually, and glanced around the room; trying his best not to show the inward fear circumventing his heart. Slow down! If he were to get out of this one, it would have to be by sheer luck - Abarzadan had never seen any of these people, let alone Abârpânarú himself. He decided to stall for time. "It was quite a few years back since the last trade we made - and people change over the years. Now let me see..." He kept looking, judging each guest individually.

There were several men and women standing or sitting around the room, carrying on personal coversations but secretly listening since Marsillion's loud outburst. Abarzadan used this to his advantage; as the words "stable master" left the accuser's lips, one man in the room shifted and turned his head. He was small, quite small, and of a wirey frame. Surely one such as Abârpânarú would not have had this undersized and unattractive man as his stable master; that position would require one of greater social stature. A field hand, maybe, but not one with authority. Perhaps, though, that was what Marsillion wanted him to think. The man was clever indeed.

Abarzadan's gaze then shifted to another man. This one, in comparision to the other, was tall and strong; with fair features. Surely this one would be more fitting for the role of a stable master than any in this room. He opened his mouth to give an answer in this effect and then stopped - what was he doing? Going against his first insticts, and using the belief system of his father to judge others (that only those of the right physical attributes could ever lead), would not win this battle of wits. The one that moved had to be the one discussed; it was that simple. Why can't you accept that?

Putting on the best face he could, Abarzadan chuckled openly, having made his decision. "A strange request, Marsillion, a strange one indeed. However, why keep you in suspense? The man you refer to is that one there, although his name escapes me. Perhaps now I can give you a riddle, just to keep things fair..." He waited for Marsillion's reaction. The man seemed to grimace, and than caught himself.

"That is he, Abarzadan - his name is Tiru. Come, we must now discuss this matter with the others, for time is short." As he moved off, however, Abarzadan caught a glimpse of lingering distrust in his eye. You're in deep now; and there is no going back...

[Meneltarmacil]

Having been briefed on where to go for more information, Thoronmir saddled his horse and rode off. He reached Abârpânarú’s house after a short time. Upon entering, he found that everyone appeared to be worried about a man who had just arrived.

Thoronmir recognized him as someone he'd seen before from time to time, although the only thing he knew was that the man did not support the king and was suspicious of most people.

“I wouldn't worry too much about this man. I don't know him that well, but I can tell you he's no friend of the King,” Thoronmir said.

“Council member Sakaladûn?” he asked, eyeing Thoronmir suspiciously. “I had always heard you were going to be executed. Is that really you?”

“I was lucky enough to have good connections elsewhere,” Thoronmir explained, though the other man still did not appear to trust him. “So what is going on here?” Thoronmir addressed everyone else, whom he mostly knew already. “I heard a little about the situation earlier, but I still don’t know exactly how everything happened.”

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî’s face burned at Ziraphel’s less than gentle rebuke. It was her father who had been captured by the King’s Men. And she had been there to witness it. She knew well her mother’s fear and her responsibility, and it shamed her to be thought ungrateful and childish. Yet she would never leave her father to the mercies of Sauron while she sailed to safety with Inzillomí’s kin.

As her thoughts slowed, she watched the men assembling in her mother’s sitting room. She kept in the background, letting Inzillomí and Marsillion do most of the talking, but she watched attentively as each of the men came in, all drawn by the news of her father’s capture. Here was Tiru, faithful Tiru, and a handsome blonde man who must be Azarmanô, the captain often sent by Elendil with tidings from Rómenna.

Next to enter was a stranger who gave his name as Abârzadan of the House of Batânzâira, who had traded horses with her father. Abârpânarú had bought and sold Karibi from many different men, so it was no surprise to Kâthaanî that she didn’t recognize this one. Marsillion’s reaction, however, surprised her greatly. Her tall cousin stiffened and his eyes narrowed.

Last to join the assembled crowd was Thoronmir. The lanky man was familiar to Kâthaanî, he had been a frequent presence in the Karíbzîr house for years; and as one who was sometimes with Elendil, Kâthaanî had always looked forward to his visits. She loved to hear him tell about her grandfather and her tall uncles Isildur and Anarion. Thoronmir also seemed surprised by the presence of Abârzadan, but he greeted him cordially if a little hesitantly and took a seat close to Ziraphel.

Gazing silently at the group, Kâthaanî realized that here were five able men; all of whom, despite the latent tension between them, seemed willing to act to save Abârpânarú. Drawing a deep breath, Kâthaanî stood.

“As my mother has said she will have no man bound to do what he would not freely do, I say this: I will ride to find my father, and I know that with me, my cousin Nimilroth will go. Any man who will ride with me I will have as companion.” She turned to her mother. “I know you would have me stay, mother. But were our places exchanged, you know that Abârpânarú would ride to rescue me. I can do no less.” The sound of astonished men shifting uncomfortably in their chairs filled the room. Marsillion stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. Kâthaanî closed her eyes and waited.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô balked in astonishment as he listened to Kâthaanî’s impassioned speech. No woman that he was aware of had ever pledged to take up arms before. Warfare simply was not a matter of concern to women. If it had been his daughter who yearned to fight, Azarmanô would have certainly forbid it. Such undertakings were too dangerous for a young and inexperienced maiden. The king’s men were seasoned veterans of war, trained to ruthlessly kill or capture those who opposed Sauron. The father had already been slammed into chains; the daughter must not be allowed to suffer the same fate. Inzillomí could not bear to lose both a husband and a daughter. No, one so unaccustomed to the techniques and cruelties of warfare must not be allowed to fight.

Yet something in Kâthaanî’s eyes, a fire blazing with determination, told a different tale. No, she might not know how to wield a deft sword, but her determination exceeded that of all the other men present. This ire burning inside of her shone through so clearly, that Azarmanô could not help but be impressed. Azarmanô could not imagine how it must feel to know that at this moment your loved one was rotting in a jail cell. If she had a chance to do something about this, to participate actively in the freeing of her father, would it not be cruel to deny her this? Would it not be a direct effrontery to her valor to scorn her efforts so? Azarmanô could infer from the way she spoke that she was indeed ready to risk her own life to save her father. He wondered whether her mother felt the same way.

Azarmanô chose his words carefully, for the matters of risking one's life and the well being of family members are complex in themselves and together confounding. He was acutely aware that he must not exacerbate the already stressful situation any further. The imprisonment of one family member was vexing enough.

He spoke slowly and with an air of distinguished importance, “Lady Kâthaanî, I consider your spirit in this situation valiant and commendable. I challenge not your resolve, for I know it is tenacious, nor your constitution, for I know it is strong, but only your judgment. You are not knowledgeable in the art of wielding the sword and know not the horrors of warfare. On this rescue, we will most certainly encounter the king’s men in combat. Are you certain that you wish to oppose them? If you choose to accept this task, you must show no mercy to our enemy, for neither Sauron nor the king shall show any to you. For my part, I have already stated that I will gladly join the rescue party. What say you?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí watched the growing hostility with a calm eye. This must be settled... now rather than later. Just as she made to intervene, Kâthaanî spoke. As her daughter's will became unchangably clear, Inzillomí felt something inside of her disappear. Her eyes dimmed at the thought of losing husband and child. For a second that seemed an eternity, Inzillomí felt utterly hopeless. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Aule give me the strength of the land beneath me. Feeling her resolve returning, Inzillomí opened her eyes and ears to observe the captain question Kâthaanî. Inzillomí stepped forward, taking center stage, and spoke. All eyes turned to her.

"Friends of my House, we are gathered today under the worst of circumstances, and yet I rejoice to see you all. Elendil's ships sail when we reach Romenna. With luck, I could hold his departure for a day... perhaps two. Whoever leaves today must leave knowing this: you must ride lightly and swift. The least mistake could mean the lives of self and comrades. You must reach Romenna before me!" Inzillomí paused, looking around. "However, I would have you go not for thought of duty, but for love of Abârpânarú. Any now who wish not to go, leave now, but know that my love and understanding stays with you."

Kâthaanî looked in wonder at her mother. "You would not stay me?"

"To do so would be as trying to stay the River with a sieve. Your wrath is strong, your will stronger, and your love surpasses all. I would rather you ride having my blessing than ride, perhaps die, thinking you did not. My dearest, I only wish I could ride beside you."

The men looked in wonder at the brief exchange, wondering what the next word would be.

"Think, Men of the West. Think of your lives and your loves, and choose your fate." Marsillion stepped forward. "My sister-son, you go with my love. I will be most disappointed if you come back dead." He smiled, kissing Inzillomí's cheek. Azarmanô stepped forward. "Beloved captain, your wife and son are blessed. I thank you." He bowed, eyes never leaving his leader.

Abarzadan hesitated, thinking swiftly. Eyes on him, he stepped forward. "M'lady, I too shall ride."

"Friend," she spoke. "I do not know you, yet now you have my love. If Thoronmir will vouch for you once more, you shall go with my good will upon you." Thoronmir nodded, speaking.

"I speak for him. I shall ride beside him, if it please you. I have much to learn."

Inzillomí nodded, smiling. "Tiru, am I correct in assuming that you would trot behind on your own legs, should I deny you a mount?" He nodded, sheepish. "Then, my friend, you shall complete the party. Please look after my daughter, and the kariborim." Eyes widened all around. Chances of success multiplied with the kariborim factored in.

"My friends, may Manwe bless you with the speed of his winds. Ride now. Ride swiftly, and save my husband!"

---------------------------------------

As pounding hoofbeats faded into the distance, Inzillomí fell into the arms of Ziraphel, sobbing. Holding her sister, Ziraphel cried as well. They both had so very much to lose.

[littlemanpoet]

"Up with you!"

Abârpânarú blinked his eyes open, rudely interrupted in the middle of a good dream in which he was with dear Inzillomí. It was dark and it stank. He coughed.

"What is the time?"

"The time no longer matters to you, for your life is over. Up!"

Abârpânarú clenched his teeth. He was fully awake now, angered. The insolence coming from this prison guard set him on edge. The quavering in his voice betrayed his words as mere braggadocio in one who had nothing to be proud of: an obsequious fool full of ambition, no doubt.

He placed his fists on the cold stone and pushed himself to his feet, and stood straight, standing a half a racca taller than the gaurd.

"Unlock him!" ordered the querrulous one. "And bring him out."

Once the two guards had unlocked his chains from the wall, the querrulous leader turned and began walking down the corridor, apparently expecting to be followed.

"'Tis a few hours before dawn, lord," murmured the guard holding his left arm. The other one shushed him.

Abârpânarú nodded. "Lead on."

They passed through a maze of dimly lit corridors until Abârpânarú had lost all sense of direction. At last he was brought up a long flight of stairs. When it leveled off, they entered a large drafty hall. Abârpânarú raised his chained hands to his squinting eyes against the brightness.

The querrulous one spoke. "We have brought the traitor, my lord."

"Accused traitor, fool. But never fear, the accusations shall be proven soon enough. Bring him before the seat of the high priest!"

The two guards pushed him not ungently forward, and he walked to the center of the hall, before the high priest's seat; a throne it was, really, though empty. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, which as it turned out, was not so bright; many torches in many sconces, brighter than his cell and the corridors below, but dim compared to how home was lit. Home. He could never return there, even if he somehow escaped, for they must leave the island. Abârpânarú's throat tightened. He raised his chin and looked forward as impassively as he could.

The high priest sat in the throne, regarding him. Abârpânarú blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Or was this some sorcery?

"Bring him forward to me," said the ice cold, coiled voice of the high priest in slow, slow tones. Abârpânarú looked into the high priest's eyes. They were dark and snakelike in their steady malice. The high priest leaned forward, watching him with naked hunger. "One of the Faithful, are you?" the high priest sneared.

Abârpânarú did not turn his eyes away from the high priest. "Are you leveling an accusation against me, Lord Sauron?"

Sauron's eyes narrowed. "Do not bandy with me. You are doomed. Unless you foreswear the star lovers, and those supposed godlings they bleat to in the west, with their needy love. Foreswear them and live! And maybe then I will let you serve me."

Abârpânarú knew the choice. Serve Sauron and become one of his evil henchmen, learning and wielding all the sorceric power he offered ... or die. But to become a servant of Sauron was death, a worse death than to die a sacrifice on his blasphemous altar. Abârpânarú cleared his throat.

"I am thirsty. May I have a drink?"

"I would hear the eloquence of Abârpânarú Karibzir." The high priest made his name sound like an insult; but he waved an arm, gesturing that his request should be fulfilled. A pitcher was brought and lifted to his lips, and poured in the general direction of his mouth, most of it pouring down his neck and shoulders, running down his chest. But his thirst was slaked.

"Speak, oh grandiloquent of the Faithful," the high priest jibed.

"Now that my name has been sullied by the lips of this blasphemer who sits before me, I shall never use it again. From now on I am Mabalar Melethroch, and all my kin and kind shall be known in the same speech. That is my answer."

The querrulous guard rounded on him and landed his fist on his face, knocking him out of the two guards' hands, sprawling on the cold stone floor. He was lifted to his feet by no visible force. He looked up. Sauron's hand was raised toward him, closing around open air. Mabalar felt his throat being squeezed.

"You have condemned yourself, fool. You shall die. Add him to the list!"

The throne went dark and was lost to sight. It was as if all the malevolence in the room had suddenly evaporated. Sauron had left.

Just then, Mabalar noticed a velvet curtain close off to the right. He had not noticed that it was open, but its closing made him realize that it had been.

As he was hustled unceremoniously back to his cell, he wondered who had been standing there.