Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[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.

[littlemanpoet]

Tar Miriel stood before Mabalar in regal splendour; her face glowed eerily in the light of the candle she held before her.

"It has been long, Mabalar Melethroch," she said evenly, looking down at him with eyes that did not give away her thought.

He nodded and coughed to clear his throat of the lasting pain of Sauron's grip, in vain. "To ....what," he labored, "do I owe ... this honour?"

"Time grows short, Mabalar," she replied.

"Do I not ... know it?" he grated. "My life ... is forfeit."

She shook her head. "I spoke of Númenor."

"Aye," he nodded. "Ar Pharazôn is ... a fool-" he coughed. "Doubly, for his ... vain challenge .... of the gods as ..... well as pandering .... to Sauron." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Târik! Bring him water."

The young guard who had unlocked the door came forward with a pitcher and poured a little into Mabalar's mouth. The guard stood, waiting for the Queen's next order.

"My thanks," Mabalar whispered after few cooling, soothing swallows. His throat still hurt in the two places where Sauron had invisibly pinned him, but he could swallow again, and his voice was less roughened.

"Mabalar," Tar Miriel said, "I think that of the two of us, you shall live the longer."

He frowned. "What mean you? You will not take your life!"

"Nay," she shook her head. "'Tis a foresight. I do not think you will succumb to the machinations of Sauron. Do you not have hidden friends in this city?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Ah, Mabalar, you trust me no longer." Her tone held amusement, but hurt lingered in it as well.

"You are the wife of Ar Pharazón."

"Not by choice, as you well know."

"Well I know it."

"Târik, unlock his chains and leave us."

"Milady, I-"

"Do as I say." Her tone was mild but held command that brooked no objection or disobedience; nor hesitation. Târik unlocked Mabalar's chains. "And leave the pitcher there." Târik left. Mabalar rubbed his wrists and ankles.

"'Tis dangerous to remove my chains, my Queen."

"Stand, Mabalar."

He looked up at her, measuringly. "You are my queen." He stood; he was no more than two inches taller than she.

"You have changed little, Mabalar." Her voice was soft; and carried upon it the hint of something wished for.

"Nor have you, except for the despair I see in your face ... Miriel."

"Would that you had challenged him, Mabalar!"

"You know that I would have died at the hands of that overwheening wretch."

She nodded. "I often dream of what might have been. You know that you would have been my consort, Mabalar!"

He sighed. Never so tragic a figure had he ever seen. Her life was ashes.

"You live in the past, Miriel, and little do I blame you, for it is not of your doing. I have a beloved wife and daughter now, and we shall flee this land if ever I get free."

She looked closely into his eyes, saying nothing for long moments. At length, she spoke; in a deadened tone.

"You must escape. There is something I must give you. I will give it to you when you assure me that you have the means."

"How can I assure you?"

"Make plans. If and when those plans are ready, send word through Târik, and I will come with my gift."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He chafes to leave this land, and would with you, if you would have him."

"If he proves true, and both of us come through alive, I will have him."

"Fare well then. Târik!"

She left him. Târik gave him another drink, then locked him in his chains, and closed him in his cell again. Mabalar thought long into the night before sleep took him.

[Meneltarmacil]

Standing watch for the night, Thoronmir thought about what had occured earlier. They had managed to bluff their way past the King's Men this time, but they may not be so lucky again later. They had vaguely recognized him, Thoronmir knew, and the only thing that had saved them was the fact that they hadn't put all the pieces together yet. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered.

He gazed at the lights of Ondosto off to the south, wondering if the people there had any idea of the catastrophe about to befall them. Numenor was great once, Thoronmir thought, but pride and ambition have corrupted the minds of many of the kings and is going to destroy Numenor, probably for good. If we could just be grateful for what we have instead of continually trying to grab for more power and wealth, this world would probably be a better place. I hope we can learn from our mistakes this time.

Thoronmir sighed and continued to watch for danger.