Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

‘Sauron!’ Riv’s gruff whisper rasped out across the uneasy silence that followed in the wake of Skald’s words. ‘Mahal take him indeed!’ It was all he could do not to jump from his chair and run down the paths to the chambers where Unna and Leifr were quartered. His mind told him they were safe, hidden deeply in the lower caverns with many stout guards placed along the way to bar intruders. But his heart, beating fast now in anger mixed with dread against the Dark Lord, made him want to rush with his mattock and war hammer to defend the entrance to his wife and son’s chambers.

His wife’s face, her brows raised at him came to the fore of his mind. He could almost hear her, as she admonished him gently. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right!’ he said to her fading image. ‘You two are well protected. The King will close the doors tightly to Khazad-dum should any threaten us. And I should be getting on with my own task. Lend the use of my axe and hammer to bring the Elves from the Golden Wood to the City of the Smiths.’

‘Let him come!’ he growled deep in his chest. He brought his thick fist crashing down onto the table’s top. ‘Let him come, the overblown pup of the Dark Lord with his misbegotten Orcs and men. My hammer will make the river run red with their foul blood.’

Riv looked up from his cup, realizing he had been speaking aloud to himself, and gathered his wits about him. ‘Well this brings us a new vein to mine, doesn’t it?’ he said to his brothers and uncle. ‘We must be even more careful now we know the rotter behind things. There should be more Dwarves in our party, I think. Some to guard the eastern gates until we can bring the Elves into the caverns.’ He looked carefully at each of the others. ‘If there are Orcs that try to enter while we are fetching the Elves from the Dimrill Dale, the gates will have to be closed against them. We could be cut off for a while, before we can re-enter. What do you think? How many shall we bring? And full battle gear, I think, eh? Especially once we leave the safety of the mountains.’

[Folwren]

‘I think if we’re in danger of being cut off for a while, we should make sure we have plenty to eat,’ Bror said in answer. No one seemed to appreciate his small jest, so he continued after an awkward pause. ‘If you ask my opinion, which I wonder that you do at all, I think we should take quite a few other dwarves and several weapons. I didn’t think...’ He was about to say he didn’t think it was that serious, but no one had, until Skald had rambled off his lessons.

Sauron? He had heard very little of that name, but he had learned enough that it was one to tremble at. He took another drink of his ale as he studied his oldest brother through narrowed and considering eyes. He had always looked up to Riv and seeing him so affected by Skald’s tale caused him more alarm and fear than anything else yet said.

‘I don’t know,’ he finally said softly. He got up, leaving his mug on the table and went to his harp. He picked it up and carried it back to his place and sat silent running his fingers over the strings as though contemplating a song. ‘Well, Skald? Uncle Orin?’ he said, lifting his eyes to the two of them. ‘Something has to be decided on, and I don’t think it’s going to be me who decides it.’

[Envinyatar]

Late Autumn/Lindon – SA 1695

It was early afternoon, and the two friends were sitting in a small drinking establishment near the quay in Mithlond. The Belaying Pin or simply The Pin as it was more commonly called. There was a crackling blaze in the fireplace, and the welcome heat from it drove the increasing cold of the northern autumn from the room.

The man from Númenor stifled a smile as Ondomirë shifted again on the booth’s hard, oaken bench. Alcarfalon, as he was called, folded his thick woolen cape into the rude semblance of a thick cushion and passed it across the table to his friend. ‘Here,’ he said in a low voice, ‘try this.’

With a grateful nod, Ondomirë slid the padding between the unforgiving wood and his bruised hindquarters. A barely stifled gasp preceded his whispered, ‘Thanks!’ as he eased himself onto the makeshift buffer. He smoothed the grimace from his face and fixed a barely less than miserable smile on his face.

Alcarfalon could not hold back his laughter. It rang in the booth between the man and Elf, causing many to turn their way. ‘Why do you always think you need to manage everything yourself, my friend?’ he asked, pouring the pale honeyed wine into both their cups. The light from the small lamp above their table caught the golden liquid as it eddied against the metal sides, making it glint from within. ‘If I were you, I’d have me an assistant. You know . . . one who’d do the more dangerous work.’ He swallowed another grin. ‘Saving you the possibility of injury . . .’ He ducked, barely in time, as Ondomirë threw his leather riding gloves at him.

‘I acquiesce to your superior management skills, my friend,’ Ondomirë said, turning his cup in circles on the table. He took a drink, appreciating the light, sweet taste of the wine. It teased his tongue, relaxed him, and left the promise of ease for his aching joints if he drank a large enough dose. ‘But seriously, who knew the accursed beast would take such a dislike to me and throw me to the ground. He was certainly mild enough with you aback.’

Ondomirë took another drink and sighed, in a rather melodramatic fashion. ‘Of course, it has always been my lot to have those four-legged demons hate me. And the King, of course, is an excellent horseman as is the Elf he chose to lead this expedition. Elrond . . . do you know him?’ Alcarfalon shook his head ‘no’ to the question.’

‘Anyway, we are going east, overland, and in some haste once the troops are made ready and the snows have ended. By foot is out of the question . . . too slow, it was decided. So, I am cursed with having to ride those many miles on a creature who will surely detest my very presence.’ He leaned across the table and looked Alcarfalon in the eye. Tell me you didn’t pick the most ill-tempered of the herds just because I ordered them.’

‘It was Minastir who chose those horses for you,’ Alcarfalon protested. ‘The Queen’s nephew. He assured me they were the gentlest of beasts. He holds Gil-galad in high esteem, I assure you, and would do nothing to jeopardize whatever this expedition is he’s planned.’ Alcarfalon knew better than to inquire too deeply into Elvish plans. ‘I’ve brought you one hundred of our finest from the Mittalmar. With those you said you could muster here you should have plenty.’

‘Ah, you know I really am grateful!’ returned Ondomirë, grinning. He refilled the man’s cup and topped off his own. ‘I thank you for your haste in bringing them across the sea and Minastir for his generosity.’

The door to The Pin opened and a tall, slender figure stood outlined in the entryway, blinking as his eyes grew accustomed to the level of light in the room. Cries of ‘Close the door, Elf! You’re letting in the cold!’ greeted the newcomer.

‘Over here, Geldion!’ said Ondomirë, waving to the Elf. ‘Come and meet Alcarfalon. He captains the Lintaramë out of Numenor. An old friend of mine.’ With a grimace, Ondmirë scooted himself over in the booth. ‘He’s brought us the last of the . . . horses,’ he said in a lower voice.

All respect to the Vala Yavanna! he thought to himself as Geldion took off his cape and slipped into the booth. But what was she thinking when she fashioned those impious creatures?

‘Some wine?’ Ondomirë offered, pushing a cup toward Geldion

[Boromir88]

Orin was deep in thought, almost as if he was in a trance. He was so deep in thought he didn't even hear Riv's shouts. Sauron was a dark name and the news Skald gave was even darker. The thought of Sauron launching an assault against the elves was troubling. Orin was puzzled on what to do. It was not that he liked Sauron, in fact he hated him, and if he wanted to go through the mines it would be over his dead body. But, he figured this was Elven business, they did something to make him angry, and now they're pleading for help. What if we just close the doors, Sauron won't get in and therefor he won't bother us? He pondered. No, no, no, his might will grow and even the sturdy doors of the dwarves will not be able to keep him out. We must do something. I must do something.

"Well Skald? Uncle Orin?" Orin snapped out of his trance. He was oblivious to what had been discussed.

"What?" He asked kind of grumpily.

"What do you think we should do? Something has to be decided on and I don't think it's going to be me who decides it." Bror replied.

"Oh," Orin mumbled, he was ashamed for snapping at Bror, but didn't what to say.

Riv filled his uncle in, realizing that he was lost. It wasn't like Orin hadn't been paying attention, just when he thinks too hard he becomes completely unaware of what's being said around him. "Lots of Armor? What? You know how I hate armor. A good warrior does not need armor, it's only bulky and slows you down. Well, suit up in whatever way you like but I'm not taking heavy armor."

"It may slow you down uncle, but not us." Skald said and all three chuckled. Orin let out a bellowing laugh. He knew Skald had basically called him old, but he would feel a lot safer if he could wear the armor he was able to wear in the past.

[Arestevana]

“Is this the first rank?”
Gilduin barely registered the question; he was far too accustomed to avoiding conversation to fashion a reasonable reply. He tried to ignore the elf and withdraw into the safe, familiar realm of his own mind, but he could not escape the stranger’s gaze. He stared for a moment at the other elf, taking note of his appearance, which was becoming more difficult to discern in the growing darkness.

They were close in age, Gilduin noted. He guessed he was the elder of the two, but the stranger exuded such confidence and intelligence that Gilduin was unsure. In the glow of the herald’s lantern he saw the pride in the archer’s eyes, and a flicker of tolerance that suggested the stranger felt he had been slighted. As the object of the other’s stare, Gilduin realized that he was undoubtedly the source of the offense. He searched his mind, trying to remember what affront he had recently committed.

When he could not recollect doing anything conceivably offensive, Gilduin realized with chagrin that the elf must have spoken to him. He tried desperately to remember what had been said, mortified at the thought that he had been rudely staring at the elf for the past few minutes. The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable when at last he recalled the stranger’s question. He could think of only one reason for an archer to seek out the first rank, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the elf must be a captain. He wished to disappear, but forced himself to speak.
“No—I mean, yes, sir.” Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. “Yes, this is the first rank.” He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. “My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.”

[Alcarillo]

It was morning, and the rising sun was ascending the Hithaeglir, shedding light across Eregion. Cainenyo was still in his nightgown, and kneeling at the pool of his home’s courtyard. Surrounded by aromatic flowers, it was here that he washed his arms, legs, and face each morning before he got dressed. He usually spent this time thinking about the day’s work and making a list in his mind of the day’s chores.

I must finish that knife today, he thought, still sleepy. It would be for his wife Alassante, who was still asleep upstairs. The knife would be a gift just to prepare for the troubled times ahead. I might get some nice silver decoration on the hilt, something like vines, or flowers, he thought as his mind wandered over the image of the completed knife that Cainenyo had had in mind for months. I could get Arenwino to do it, or maybe Celebdur. I must stop by the silver-smithy district later today and shop around for the best quality and price possible. Cainenyo stood and stretched his limbs, and reentered the house, only to emerge moments later in his work clothes and holding a glass of blood-red wine, his usual breakfast.

He crossed the courtyard, where the shadows of the flowers were now somewhat shorter, and entered a cool arched passage, which led to his workshop. Cainenyo noticed a few people walking about the street, which would become busier as the day moved into the afternoon. He took a sip of his wine and set it on a table to put on his apron and gloves, which hung on pegs near the door. Kneeling, he removed a long key from an apron pocket, unlocked a large chest near the furnace and found the long knife he was working on yesterday. Cainenyo dropped it into one of his deep pockets.

Eager to begin his work, he hurried back into the house, where he found Alassante already awake and plucking some flowers from the courtyard. She held a blue vase under her arm, where she deposited the flowers. She looked up from her work at Cainenyo. “Hello, you’re starting today’s work?” she said smiling. It was still morning, but the sun had now risen to sit on the mountains.

“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be searching for a smith to work on the hilt of a knife. I want some floral decoration added to it. I’ll be back later, by noon.” He explained. Alassante frowned somewhat. She enjoyed her husband’s cheerful humming drifting through the house while he worked at the anvil, and she was slightly troubled by the weaponry Cainenyo seemed to be making more and more often these days. “If anybody comes and asks for me, please tell him that I’m away at the moment and he can come back later,” Cainenyo added. He brushed back his wife’s long brown hair and kissed her on her brow. She waved good-bye as he stepped through the doorway into his forge.

Cainenyo took another sip of the wine left on the table, and then set out into the city to find a suitable smith. Alassante always thought it silly that Cainenyo wore his apron and gloves into the city, but Cainenyo explained that it was a status symbol and that others would know his craft by his clothes. As he walked down the cobblestone street he decided to head to Celebdur, the silversmith to whom Cainenyo’s son was apprenticed. His shop was across town, near the other silversmiths, but Cainenyo welcomed the exercise and fresh air.

[Arry]

‘Look, Uncle,’ said Skald, his moment of good cheer fading. ‘In all seriousness . . . I . . . and I think we all . . . want to see you with enough protection to keep your head on your shoulders should the Orcs have at us with those nasty blades of theirs. I know I’ll be wearing my helmet and a sleeved shirt of light mail over a woolly vest. And I’ll tie my thick leather vest over it. My small shield . . . the one you made me covered in bronze; it’ll be with me. I’m putting leather protectors on my lower legs, too. They’re fierce beasties, the Orcs – they’ll cut you anywhere they can.’ He raised his thick brows at Orin. ‘You know if you don’t promise to wear something to our liking, we’ll stand round you in battle like two-legged pieces of armor!’

Skald grinned impishly at the threat, then tried another tack. ‘Can’t have you getting injured or worse yet killed! Whose gonna stand with me when I finally find and marry my heart’s delight?’

[piosenniel]

‘Marry? Heart’s delight?’ Riv chuckled. ‘Good one, brother!’ He looked toward Orin, gauging his uncle’s reaction. ‘Not quite sure you’ve sold him, though!’ He narrowed his eyes as if he were considering it more seriously. ‘However, since that may take a good number . . . no, make that a very great number . . . of years to accomplish, we just might have to make sure that our dear Uncle lives til his beard reaches the toes of his boots!’

Riv poured himself another cup of ale and offered the skin round again. ‘Little brother’s got a good idea. We should make sure we take a good supply of food with us. We’ll hit the supply room in the level below us. We can use one or two of their hand carts. Some we can carry out with us; some we can cache near the East-gate. There are any number of rocky outcroppings we can hunker down in for defense if need be.’

He looked at Skald and Bror. ‘What if we send the two of you ahead early tomorrow morning? We’re going to need more Dwarves to stand with us. No use in bringing food if we’re dead and can’t be eating it. Uncle Orin and I can bring your armor along with us; pile it on the food cart if need be – you can put it on just before we leave the East-gate. You’ll be able to go more quickly that way, raising call for more to go with us. Stop at your friends’ forges, ten or so more fighters would be good. Uncle Orin and I can raise the hue and cry here in the west halls.’

‘What say you?’

[Seth Cotton]

For a second he got the feeling he was ignored by the Elf that quite obviously tried to focus on something else, appearing busy, but he didn't fool Vaele. Vaele snorted quietly and put his arms in the sides. He looked at the Elf, that still glanced up a little at him, sort of examining him. He raised an eyebrow at him.

The Elf seemed shy and that he would rather avoid Vaele by all means, but something pulled the Elf to answer. Was it that Vaele was maybe a bit older? At least Vaele guessed he was. And finally, when Vaele was to ask him if he was a mute he opened his mouth.

'No—I mean, yes, sir.' Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. 'Yes, this is the first rank.' He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. 'My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.'

'Ah, very well.' Vaele nodded and then forced a smile. He hurried to bow quickly, forgetting he should reply in good manners and introduce himself as well. 'Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the First Rank.'

He looked at the other Elf that fiddled a bit nervous with his banner. Was it the fear of going to war? Or perhaps something else. Vaele was pussled but didn't mention anything of what he was thinking even though he really wanted to ask all his questions.

'Maybe we get to march together then?' Vaele grinned and took his bow from the shoulder. He began to adjust the bow string and glanced from time to time upon Gilduin that stood looking at him.

[Durelin]

“I thought it would be.”

Surprised by this response, Maegisil asked, “And why is that?” sounding a little sharper than he meant to. The look Narisiel gave him matched the sharpness of his voice, and he no longer expected an answer. She only shook her head, and then opened the large cupboard to which she had turned. What Maegisil saw upon her pulling back the doors made him gasp. Upon the shelves were displayed countless jewels of varying sizes and colors, all cut seemingly to perfection, and, as even the untrained eye could see, most were very precious items. Recognizing the value of many of these jewels, and marveling at their beauty, Maegisil could only stare for a moment. When he once again remembered why he was there, he noticed Narisiel was again smiling at him with amusement in her eyes, as well as a certain amount of pride.

“It seems that what I heard of you was true, Narisiel Mirdain.”

“And what exactly would that be? That I am the mirdan of a thousand jewels?” she asked, light sarcasm clear in her voice. Maegisil smiled again, and quickly his mind traveled again to Sairien.

“Surely you would not waste such precious jewels on me and my request? A simple gift for my wife may be important to me, but it is of no matter to you, and I would not expect it to be.”

Narisiel shook her head again, giving Maegisil a rather flat look. He was confused again, as his endless formalities made it hard for him to understand what the elf woman meant by any of her looks and silent responses. Being married to Sairien had not helped him in reading people’s faces, as she knew her husband was too formal and straightforward for too many subtleties, and thus she was always equally as direct with him, though less proper and official. Over the years, she had weathered away his stony outward appearance towards her also, and she still worked on smoothing his features even more. No one would ever have noticed this if they had not seen he and his wife together, as he was a servant to the Lord Celebrimbor, a soldier, and a counselor as soon as he left their home. In earlier days, he had been a young swordsman and celebdan, but duty and the passage of years had changed this.

Glancing out a window of the shop that faced the east, Maegisil saw that the sun had now risen a little farther in the sky to hang as an orb seemingly held up by the mountaintops of the Hithaeglir. Soon his lord would be expecting him. But risking tardiness, he turned his mind and his eyes back to Narisiel. Most likely Celebrimbor would not mind Maegisil’s delay if he heard word concerning the elf woman. It seemed it had been some time since the two had spoken at all, and now was a good time for old alliances and friendships to be renewed.

[Arestevana]

“Vaele Andarion, scout and marksman of the first rank,” the archer corrected with a smile.
Gilduin murmured a vague ‘pleased to meet you’. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense for a scout to be marching in the first rank. Glancing around, he saw that most of the elves near them were dispersing for the night. The captains were returning to Caras Galadhon, presumably to meet with Celeborn. The other warriors were resting or wandering among the trees, conserving their strength for the march the next day.
“Maybe we get to march together then?” Vaele asked, after a moment.
Gilduin suppressed a rather hopeful ‘maybe not?’ and tried to change the subject, not wishing to explain that he found it difficult to communicate with people. “Are you prepared for the march?” he asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “You should rest until the commander returns. I do not know how early we will leave.” He gave a polite bow and turned away, seeking solitude among the star-crowned trees.
~
Gilduin wandered, half-dreaming, in the silent darkness of the Golden Wood. Though he stayed close to the city, his mind roamed far, finding strength in the power of Laurelindórinan. In the still, dark hours before dawn, a melodic horn call summoned the contingent together. Withdrawing from his nighttime reverie, Gilduin slowly joined the muster to find his place in the first rank. The noise of the contingent was muted, as if no one was willing to disturb the predawn stillness.

“Ah, Lindorion, there you are.” Eldegon addressed Gilduin quietly, looking harried. “Our lord Celeborn has decided to lead the contingent himself. There’s been a slight change in the marching order, but it shouldn’t affect you much. Make sure you are ready to march: we leave as soon as the contingent is assembled.”
Gilduin checked his weapons and the standard as the commander left. Finding nothing wrong, he waited while the ranks fell into place. Vaele Andarion, the scout he had met the previous evening, took up position on his left. Gilduin gave a mental sigh, but found he did not mind seeing the other as much as he had expected. To his surprise, he found it comforting to see a familiar face.

Slowly, the sky began to lighten. Celeborn, Eldegon and the captains walked up and down the ranks, speaking quietly to the elves. At last the full company was assembled, and the leaders took their places in the first rank. The herald played one long, sweet note on his silver horn. From the city many voices answered: the Galadrim sang to greet the dawn and farewell their warriors and their lord. From his position on Celeborn’s right, Eldegon gave the call to march, and the contingent moved forward, past the city, with the rising sun behind them.