Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Himaran]

Abarzadan could almost feel the shock run through the party. They had expected an easy journey, followed by hardship; but not this! Not the terror of being captured before they were close enough to do some good. At this point, they were just throwing their lives away. No one spoke. Something had to be done immediately, and the man decided to take action. If he failed, they were dead - if he succeeded, perhaps he could finally gain their trust. He eased his horse to the front of the group, and addressed the captain with eloquence and tact.

"Hail the King's men! My lord, we too serve your master loyally. One amongst our party is a prisoner, who commited crimes against the King. He has been entrusted to us to transport to his Majesty, to be tried and consequently... punished." The captain of the riders brooded for a moment. "Why were none of our scouts told to expect you?"

The man thought hard again. His answer had to be perfect. "My lord, our journey was supposed to be one of secrecy. We were, of course, told that all the appropriate authorities had been informed of our coming. Perhaps the messenger made a mistake and missed you."

"State your names, then." The captain's stare was one of cold steel.

Abarzadan wasn't sure whether or not to lie about this particular issue, but as no one else stepped in, he merely told the truth. "My name is Abarzadan; I am the leader of this patrol." The man went on and listed the other members, including the alleged 'prisoner.'

The forthcoming answer from the captain was less confrontational this time. "Ah... well, we are returning to the great city tonight as it is. Since there are other patrols like us out there, we shall ride with you so that your passage shall not be further molested." He watched Abarzadan's eyes, but they remained impassive.

"We would not want to interfere with your business; there are other criminals out there that need catching. Besides, there are those among of that are well trained. We can take care of ourselves." He glanced around, smiling casually, but then noticed something rather disturbing.

Thoronmir was gone.

[littlemanpoet]

Though yet a league west of Ondosto, the area where the King's Men confronted the party was not unpopulated. On each side of the road were manorial vineyards, owned by families with heritage as lengthy as the years since Elros. The confrontation has caught the attention of field hands that had been working within hailing distance, and these had now drawn near the road, watching curiously.

One of them pointed at a figure moving amongst the vines on his own side. He called to the group. "Is this your prisoner, sneaking off?"

The leader of the King's Men heard him and called for his men to move up and surround the party.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat like stone upon Mani. He listened with contained disgust as Abârzadan concocted a far flung accounting of the company's business. Fool, Marsillion thought to himself. He was about to kick Mani to the front and intercede when he saw a sight that froze his blood. Thoronmir had slid from his mount and was moving stealthily around behind the patrol. Folly! Screamed Marsillion's inner thoughts at the sight of the former statesmen crawling hand and foot through the tangled vines.

By this time a crowed had gathered, finding the commotion a much needed break from a mundane morning's work. If the fellowship were to attack now they would surely throw away any opportunity of freeing Abârpânarú , or even reaching Armenelos. If they could even survive the initial combat.

Seeing the situation spiraling quickly out of control, Marsillion nudged Mani forward, while keeping a careful eye on Thoronmir. Just before reaching the spot where Abârzadan and the patrol leader were talking the unavoidable happened. Thoronmir was discovered. Spears were lowered and the party was enclosed. The situation had grown deadly.

“Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Marsillion boomed, as he kicked Mani directly at the leader of the king's men, sending his inferior horse backpedaling foolishly in fear. “Is there a commander among this rabble of poverty?” Marsillion sneered, spitting in the direction of the known commander.

“I command this patrol, as I've already informed your counterpart,” was the reply. The words were spoken loudly, but Marsillion noticed a slight hesitation in the delivery. The arrogance was gone from the tone, replaced instead by confusion.

“Counterpart!” Marsillion roared with all his being. “I'll inform you to spare you any further embarrassment, that you have directed your inquiry to a slave. Is that your normal practice?” Before the man had a chance to respond, Marsillion began again, this time mockingly quiet. “I suppose I should expect no more from the dregs of our King's army.” Growing louder now, so the gathered throng could hear, “everyone knows every soldier worth that title is sailing now with the King toward another great, nay the greatest, victory man has yet seen!”

Mani snorted, sending the small shaggy horse, now a few paces away, into a panic, nearly throwing the commander to the ground. By the time he had regained control of the scruffy animal, his face had gone from an enraged red to an embarrassed crimson. When he had gathered himself, the commander questioned, “who are you, who insults a soldier of the king? Why is it that your man here tells a far different story then you?”

Marsillion sent the commander such a glare that he had to turn away from those piercing blue eyes. “My man?” Marsillion questioned softly, those dangerous eyes still at work. “This is my slave, you dimwitted fool,” Marsillion cried, roaring again as he grabbed Abârzadan's stout jaw in one powerful hand and jerked his head around toward those eyes. “What story did you spin this time, you miserable leech?”

Marsillion sat, clutching Abârzadan by the jaw, as the stunned man attempted to spit out his previous story through Marsillion's strong grip. Upon it's completion, Marsillion spit squarely in the young man's face, a gesture he regretted having to perform, and would need to apologize for later. Releasing Abârzadan, Marsillion turned Mani, and rode up along side Azarmanô , who sat erect, a look of understanding on his salt weathered face. “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion asked condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

“If you do not serve me better you will have no future!” Marsillion barked as he turned Mani back toward the King's Men.

“Do you truly expect me to believe this man is your slave,” the soldier asked, pointing sheepishly toward Abârzadan. "His dress is more fitting of a king.”

Marsillion boiled over with laughter, some of which was authentic. “Have you seen many kings? I am the Lord of Andunië , and I am the closest you will ever be to royalty,” Marsillion shouted for all to hear. “I see you gaze at my mount, as well you should. This horse is worth more then the homes of your ancestors as far back as memory reaches. The cape on my back is finer than all the riches you will ever posses. Tell me, why should I not dress my slaves in any attire I deem reasonable? Clear this path, business presses, and the hounds need not tarry speaking to the fleas.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô froze as he saw the king’s soldiers appear and block their path. A confrontation with them meant certain imprisonment and probable death. Abârpânarú would be taken to the altar and offered as a sacrifice. Azarmano watched in apprehension as the stranger explained that he was the leader of the group, which was on a secret mission to deliver a prisoner. Oh, we shall deliver a prisoner indeed---out of Sauron’s jail. Thankfully, the captain seemed to accept the validity of their alibi.

Suddenly Azarmanô noticed that Thoronmir was missing. Before he could even speculate where he had gone, the troops discovered him in a dense patch of vines. The soldiers drew their spears and pointed them menacingly at the Faithful. They encircled the party completely, leaving no escape. The apprehension that Azarmano had experienced before turned to terror: he believed death was imminent. His heart beat still heavier in his chest, his breathing quickened, and he stood still as a stone, waiting.

He was reflecting upon his family, who were waiting for him in Rómenna, when Marsillion broke the tension with a commanding exclamation. “Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Azarmanô instinctively understood that if any of the party hoped to live, they had better follow Marsillion’s lead. Azarmanô flashed several reverent glances towards Marsillion as he proceeded to chastise Abarzaban for his insolence. Every now and then he interjected a glowing “Oh yes, master". Azarmanô imagined that he would be able to badger his “master” about the whole ordeal sometime later. He had partially emulated this manner of servitude from the comportment of his own men when they moved about in his presence on shipboard. He found the whole situation quite distasteful, but put up such a façade gladly if it meant saving his life and his companion's as well.

Azarmanô was taken aback when Marsillion turned an eye of admonition in his direction, “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion quipped condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

Don’t count on it, he thought. But in his face a look of painful embarrassment told a different tale, one of disgrace and dishonor. After all, he was addressing the Lord of Andunië. Azarmanô hoped that this charade would be credible enough to satisfy the prying examination of the guards. For the sake of the party’s survival, it had better be.

[littlemanpoet]

The leader of the King's Men bowed his head. "Forgive us, lord. In these dire times appearances may deceive. We have done our duty." He turned to his men and cried, "Lower your weapons! Let them pass!"

As the company filed between the King's Men, who watched them from either side, the sky filled with clouds in a matter of moments, and congealed above them, as if very heaven turned in upon itself.

Lightning struck the ground with a crash in the very spot where they had been confronted. The vineyard workers fled from the road, and the mounts of the King's Men careered, carrying their riders far afield. The eyes of the Kariborim were wide with fear, and their ears were laid back against their manes; but they did not lose the mastery of themselves as did those lessers.

The company passed into the fields north of Ondosto, and stayed away from that town, and off of the road. By nightfall they had gone well east of the town and settled in a camp without fire, far in a back field of a great manor owned by who they knew not. They discussed the watch for the night.

[littlemanpoet]

The rattle of a key in the lock of his cage woke Mabalar. He felt at his throat, swallowing again and again. He could still feel the hands of Sauron around his neck; it was as if those evil hands would always choke him, scald his neck. It was hard to breathe.

"Shhh!" whispered the guard; he recognized him. It was the one who had earlier told him the time, only to be shushed by the other guard.

"It is midnight, my lord," whispered the guard. "Sauron is in his temple offering sacrifice to his evil god, so we are somewhat safe."

"Would you help me to-" His voice came out ragged, as if forced across sandpaper; it hurt to speak.

"No, my lord, I have not the means. But there is someone who would speak with you. I shall leave you now."

Someone who would speak with him. Who? Someone who desired secrecy. He thought of the curtains that had moved with the presence of someone who had watched his mock trial. The cell door stood ajar. He would try to get away this instant, except that he was still chained to the wall by both hands and feet. Even if he was not bound, he considered, it would be foolish to try to escape. If the young man had not the means, knowing the lay of the prison, what hope had he?

A tall, hooded figure approached his cell, its dark robes flowing as if hovering on a cushion of air. The figure held a thick candle before it in unseen hands. As the figure passed through the open cell door, Mabalar could see that it was someone of noble bearing, very tall, taller than most Númenórean men; and that it was a woman: no man walked with such grace.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Melethroch." Her voice was as silk, deep and rich. She knew his name, and used the speech of the Eldar!

"I am sorry, milady," he said in a gravelly tone, "you have me at a disadvantage."

"More than one," she said, and drew back her hood. She was indeed fairer than silver or ivory or pearls, as had been said by those who had seen her. She looked at him with cool eyes and a face of patient sorrow.

"Tar Miriel!" His throat hurt, but he could not hold back his words in his surprise.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî twisted uncomfortably where she lay in the thick grass of the field. Distant stars shone intermittently above her as the night winds drove waves of thick cloud toward the capital. It was late, and her watch had passed, but still she could not sleep. Travelling was nothing new to her, but sleeping in the cold on the ground was something she had done only rarely and had never enjoyed. Her one thin blanket was spread on the ground, and she pulled her dark blue cloak closer around her for warmth.

The lightning that had driven the King's men away in terror had left Kâthaanî unnerved as well. She shivered, wondering again why she had come on this journey. She had been useless in the confrontation, hoping only to pass unseen or to be taken as a family member and left alone. She had no skills to offer this group, only the desire to see her father again and to help him safely reach Rómenna and her grandfather's ships. She thought again of the lightning, perhaps she should have stayed with Inzillomí and Ziraphel.

She glanced in the direction where she knew the blue shadow of the Meneltarma would be if it were daylight. The gods were angry in the West, that was why the Elves stopped coming out of Tol Eressëa; her father had told her, now she had seen for herself. The black clouds and the angry hail, these were the signs that their defiance had not gone unnoticed. Their defiance, not mine, she corrected herself silently. Soon we will be gone from this place, and we will begin again. Without their defiance.

As though seeking comfort she reached one hand into her nearby saddlebag to skim her finger lightly across the surface of her mother's palantir. She traced the smooth surface, thinking of the home she would never see again and her family. She sighed heavily.

"Wakeful, Little Mistress?" The voice behind her startled Kâthaanî and she sat up quickly, yanking her hand from the saddlebag. A sharp pain in her finger made her cry out softly and Tiru dropped to his knees beside her, the look of concern on his dark face visible even in the dim starlight.

"It is nothing, you startled me," she reassured him. She put her stinging finger in her mouth and tasted the salt of blood.

"It has been a long day," Tiru replied, "and not one that lets me rest easy, either. But you will need your sleep, Little Mistress, tomorrow will be hard day of travel, and there may be many days like it. Do not worry, we are watching." Kâthaanî nodded and lay back down, her bleeding finger still in her mouth.

As soon as Tiru was gone, Kâthaanî thrust her hand back into the saddlebag in search of whatever had cut her finger. She pulled out a small piece of folded paper, wrinkled where tears had fallen on it. Even in the muted starlight she could tell the handwriting was her mother's. She strained to read the hastily written words:

My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.

Crushing the note in one hand, Kâthaanî rolled over and began to sob softly into her blanket. She cried until she slept.