Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was the first of the household to surface. This was not unusual in the winter months when her sole chance of a little daylight time was just before she started work. The air had a hint of frost and she wrapped herself in her dressing gown before running downstairs from her small chamber, trusting on speed rather than shoes to keep her feet from the cold of the stone slabs of the stairs and kitchen floor. Nevertheless she was glad to wriggle her toes in the sheepskin hearthrug. Laswen's family farmed in the outlands and this small luxury was one of the benefits. She knew her path well enough in the dark and mindful of the need for thrift only lit one candle to guide her preparation of the fire. As soon as it was lit she set the kettle on the stove. She got the breakfast things ready, butter, honey, the herbs for tisane and cut a thin slice of cheese and took just one store apple and wrapped them in a muslin cloth, ready for her midday meal. By now the water was nearing the boil and she poured some into an ewer mixed with cold to wash in and ran back upstairs. Although she dressed swiftly - having grown somewhat since the last cold winter she had a small choice of garments that were warm, fitted properly and were suitable for her work - and tied her hair in the simplest braid, her brother was sitting in the kitchen when she went back down toasting the old bread. He poured her a cup of tisane.

"Off to work so early, Los? I thought you said Lady Narisiel would not be there this morning? I hope my apprentices will be so diligent.."

"If you can ever find anyone who wants to learn ... may be someone who none of the smiths will take.." his sister responded cheekily. Ferin gave her a long, hard stare but refused to take the bait.

" I am going to take my wife some tea. " He said, evenly then noticing her frugal lunch added "things aren't so desperate that you have to starve yourself yet - you are still growing"

"Yes, Ada" replied Losrian in mock obedience, earning another 'elder brother' stare from her sibling. " I hope I don't grow more - I am not trying to catch you up'". At six feet she was already tall and her brother was a good hand taller.

Left alone again, Losrian consulted her notebook while she ate and drank. Then with the first light filtering in through the shutters she took the fresh baked bread from the oven, and having cut some for herself prepared to leave.

She retraced her steps of the evening before, making hte detour back to the buttes. Her breath vapourised in the air and she wrapped her hands around the still warm bread. She had rather more time for her trials of arrows than last time but she became a little self conscious when she realised that a couple of the sentries on the ramparts, bored with gazing out had turned their gaze inward to watch. She was a good enough shot but it was affecting her aim - especially when she realised one of the sentries was Artamir. Time for work she decided and trying to make it look as if her departure had nothing to do with being watched, she packed up her things as casually as she could and walked away with a careless air.

With still a little time to spare she lingered by the windows in the shops of Rath Celebdain. The work is lovely but seems a little frivolous with war threatening. Nevertheless, Losrian wonders if she will ever equal their art. One of the many advantages of her apprenticeship was that Narisiel was skilled in all types of smithing and Losrian would not be limited to one metal for her studies.

As she opened the atelier and prepared the forge for the day's work she remembered her first visit there, when she had sought apprenticeship. Narisiel had asked her - as her brother and father had done - why she wished to be a smith when there was a fine family tradition of working wood. She had replied

"When you work wood you must shape it according to it's nature, its grain shapes the work not your will. Metal may be shaped to your will. with wood you are the slave, with metal the master".

"And do you seek mastery, Losrian?" Narisiel had asked with a catch in her voice.

"Only of metal, my lady".

As soon as the forge had heated she became absorbed in the work in hand and ceased wandering in memory.

[Arestevana]

The Galadrim assembled silently at dawn. The sun was rising, but little light penetrated the grey clouds. The misty mountains, now so near, dominated the horizon. Their black silhouettes were sharp and unforgiving against the pale sky. The mood of the contingent was subdued somewhat by the darkness, but proximity to the mountains brought a feeling of success: they neared their destination.

It was past noon before the sun broke free of the clouds, at last revealing in full the towering majesty of the mountains before them. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and Gilduin found himself staring in wonder, though he had seen the mountains before. He turned to say something to Vaele before remembering that the archer was once again scouting ahead of the contingent. It was perhaps an hour before he returned to the company.
“Celeborn wants us marching with full ranks when we reach the mountains,” he explained, falling into step easily. “We will be entering the Nanduhirion Valley soon. Have you traveled this way before?”
“Once, many years ago. I recall little.” Gilduin said. “It is a beautiful place.”
Vaele nodded in agreement. “See how the arms of the mountain surround us? Now we are in the valley, which the dwarves call Azanulbizar. We will march a while longer, and then we will see the Mirromere.”
Gilduin glanced at the sky. The sun was poised above the mountains: in a few hours it would be resting on the highest peaks. A call to halt came suddenly from his right, and the contingent stopped. Celeborn and Eldegon called several curt directions: the first rank was to separate from the contigent and form a separate division to speak to those who would guide them through the mountains. Vaele and Gilduin obediently found positions in this smaller group, which moved forward a short ways ahead of the full contingent as they resumed their march. Before them lay the shimmering expanse of water that was the Kheled-Zâram, and beyond that, the Misty Mountains.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having seated herself on one of the fine, velvet and mahogany couches in Celebrimbor's room, Narisiel pulled two sheets of parchment, rolled and tied with ribbon, from inside a slim cylinder case. Spreading them across the low table in front, she glanced up at Maegisil, who was standing awkwardly and uncertainly beside her. She didn't want to smile, but couldn't help giving him a quick grin. "Please do sit, Counsellor," she said softly, her voice mocking but gently so. The other elf's cheeks coloured slightly, allowing Narisiel to feel a little embarassed herself at the possibility of seeming rude, and he hurriedly sat down beside her, almost being overly careful not to sit on the folds of rich damson coloured cloth of her dress. In the corner of her eye, the smith saw a slight smile lift Celebrimbor's lips - amusement or fondness at her boldness maybe. She looked down again quickly and briskly began showing Maegisil the plans for the necklace.

"I planned two designs; I was not sure which might suit best, as I do not really know your wife more than by sight. Sairien, isn't it?" Maegisil nodded, looking a little surprised as he glanced at Narisiel. She smiled, shrugging but not elaborating, before nodding towards the first design - the one on the topmost piece of parchment. "This is the one I personally prefer. It is a simpler design than the other, and so you may prefer the latter, but it has both a delicacy and a strength that I believe...well, I should be pleased to achieve it, and the result would hopefully please you also."

Maegisil murmured some affirmation of this, an almost mandatory formality to him, and Narisiel shot him a quick smile, brushing a spare strand of hair behind her ear nervously - Celebrimbor, rather than having left the room as she had expected and rather hoped, had instead stayed and was watching his two counsellors from where he stood at the window, half turned as if to survey the view outside, but with his keen eyes trained on them - or, more accurately, on her, as Narisiel knew without looking up. But the nervous gesture caused her to lift her hand from the plans unthinkingly, and the side of the parchment sprung up, eagerly making a break for it's previous rolled up position. Maegisil's hand darted forward, pinning down one corner even as Narisiel, flustered, seized it herself. She smiled briefly at him, and, taking advantage of now having one hand free, she slid her slim fingers across the rough parchment, beginning to focus on more specific points of the design. "You admired the rubies the other day, and although these are a fine choice - your wife's dark hair would be complimented by the rich red of a larger ruby stone, maybe - they are also a relatively popular choice, and I planned a little something different."

She pinpointed six roughly sketched gems which were interwoven into two intertwining chains of silver, and ended with one finger resting on a seventh, larger gem which was at the centre of the necklace - the centre piece. It was not an especially large gem, but was quite significantly bigger than the smaller gems around the sides of the necklace - centralised and fine without being audacious or overly-showy, she explained. "I planned on saphires, if this would please you," she continued, with the air of one whose plans were flexible, but was quietly confident that they would be accepted. "The smaller gems would be, say, the size of the rubies you admired yesterday, although I would be able to cut or procur even smaller, more delicate ones; the centralised one would be larger, as I have said. It allows a design that seems simple, but the interwoven silver chains within which the small gems would be delicately buried would allow a fragility and intricacy that...well," she shrugged, knowing that Maegisil would understand. She was gaining confidence now, almost forgetting the third prescence in the room. But after she had continued for a few more moments, Maegisil occasionally nodding or murmuring some comment or question, the extra prescence was to make itself known.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but Narisiel...I must know if you are willing to speak to me."

Celebrimbor's words surprised her, and she momentarily stiffened, but it was a movement and shock so controlled that it was only Maegisil who noticed, as the smith's hands stiffened slightly, stretched as they were over his arm. Uncertain and barely breathing, he glanced at her, only his grey eyes flickering to scan her face. But Narisiel merely took a deep breath....then looked up again, her face a mask of perfect, porcelain politeness. "Speak to you, my Lord?"

Celebrimbor, seated across from the pair on an opposite couch, hesitated, and bewilderment flitted over his face, just for a moment. He nodded wordlessly. Now was the moment that Narisiel had wondered about, had dreaded even - yet was also excited by. Part of her was even irritated - if only he had let her finish explaining her plans to Maegisil, she would at least have had a chance to escape. Escape... For a moment, the ludicrous idea of hitching up her skirts, sprinting across the room and leaping through the window flitted across her mind. Why, the skirt would probably even suffice as a parachute of some sort...gently float down and, by careful rudder use of the petticoats, direct myself to my forge...

The image that this momentarily conjured up was such a comical one that the smith smiled - then realised that the gesture had escaped and froze it, cursing inwardly. But then, hadn't another part of her secretly been waiting for this meeting, been planning it since...well, since when? How long had she been waiting to release all the curiousity and frustrated excitement and anxiety about the rings that had pent up inside her?

Did Lord Celebrimbor not speak to your concerning the Three...

Maegisil's words from yesterdays meeting at the forge surfaced in her mind. Narisiel made up her mind: looking directly into Celebrimbor's eyes, she let a moment pass, then relaxed into her smile. Standing, she sighed and looked away, taking a few steps towards the window, before she half turned to look back the still seated elf, not without warmth this time.

"Speak with you, Lord Celebrimbor?" She hesitated once more, then made the plunge. "Nothing would allow me more pleasure at this moment, Celebrimbor," she replied finally. And with that informal first-name use, Narisiel felt a burst of rekindled friendship - and a slight chill, as the events of one hundred years tugged, always, at her mind.

[Firefoot]

The wait was lasting just long enough for Grimkul to become impatient; he wished the Elves whom they were going to ambush would hurry it up. He strained his eyes towards the mouth of the valley, hoping to maybe spot them.

And, perhaps by chance, he did! He gave a cry of glee, which fortunately did not echo. A dirty look from Lushurd quieted him, though not before he had returned said look equally nastily. To either side of him, Orcs were drawing their bowstrings, waiting for the signal to shoot. Grimkul and Ulwakh followed suit.

The short minutes that the Elves took to march into the valley seemed to stretch on for ages. As they drew nearer, Ulwakh noted that they were marching in two contingents, the smaller one in front. Grimkul could care less about this seemingly petty matter.

Lushurd raised his arm, and it was understood that they should fire when he lowered it, which he did when the Elves had drawn even with them. With a twanging of bowstrings, the first volley of arrows was released. As Grimkul fitted a second arrow to his bowstring, he had a moment to catch sight of the moment of pandemonium beneath them. Almost immediately a second round of arrows was fired. Grimkul sneered as his arrow found its mark and an Elf fell dead. By the third round, the Elves below had figured out what was happening and had drawn their own bows and shields. They fell into battle formation surprisingly swiftly, some with shields overhead so as to guard against arrows and others shooting up into the pass.

The Orcs no longer held their silence as the element of surprise was no longer a weapon. Grimkul rattled off a string of insults as he shot his next arrow.

Lushurd made his voice heard above the others: “Fire at will!” Grimkul took little time to carefully find his marks as Ulwakh did beside him, but instead simply fired into the mass of Elves. Surprising only to him, just one of his next four arrows found a mark and felled an Elf, irritating Grimkul immensely. He was, however, heartened when an Elvish arrow clattered harmlessly to the rocks nearby. His jeers were cut short, however, when one arrow found its mark in the Orc next to him, and Grimkul hastily continued to shoot.

The fray seemed to be going well, and the Orcs were at advantage, being higher up. However, they soon realized that the Elves were steadily moving through the valley even as they fought back. Their commander apparently noticed this and ordered the Orcs down into the valley – “They can’t reach the mountains!”

So the company began to spill down the slope wherever it was passable, intent on cutting the Elves off from their intended route. Grimkul gleefully drew his scimitar and was among the first of the Orcs to crash into the ranks of Elves. Intent on their quarry, none of the Orcs noticed the attackers coming up behind them. . .

[Durelin]

“Nothing would allow me more pleasure at this moment, Celebrimbor.”

There was something so familiar in Narisiel’s voice when she spoke that the elf-lord was warmed to the heart. All the tension he had felt before she gave her answer was released in an explosive feeling of happiness, and the confusion and uncertainty that had been apparent on his face before were replaced by a smile. Remembering how he had felt this day would turn out, his spirits were raised to a new height by what seemed to him to be a fulfillment of his premonitions. Celebrimbor caught Maegisil’s eye, as the other elf was looking upon his lord with a smile of his own, and saw that his counselor was thinking along the same lines. And perhaps there was a slight look of ‘I told you so’ in his eyes, as well.

Then, as he brought his eyes to look at Narisiel, his demeanor stiffened, the graveness of what he was about to say, as well as the awkwardness for him, taking away his smile. “Narisiel…” He paused, receiving a good feeling from using her name again in speaking to her. “From my heart, I apologize to you, for my error. For my many errors.”

The elf-lord dropped his gaze, feeling all of his shame return from the day so long ago, when the deception had first become clear. In his pride, and in his blind desire to create, he had not considered the consequences of what he was about to make, nor did he wonder what was behind the plans or ‘Annatar.’ He, the Lord of the Mirdain, had been utterly deceived, perhaps to the destruction of him and his people.

Narisiel knew his shame, and tried to ease his worries, as she had always done when they were close friends, working together in the forge. “We were all wrong, Celebrimbor. The blame does not lie just on you. It lies particularly on me, as well.”

She stopped, seeming only to pause, but Celebrimbor would not hear anymore, as he was more than convinced that he was the only one to blame. His mind and his heart were filled with sorrow and guilt, and he was unable to consider that anyone else could be responsible for this. “No, no it doesn’t. I am the Lord of my people, and I should have had the safety of my people in mind before I took any action. I have been very selfish.”

The elf woman sighed, knowing the lord’s way of taking blame, taking more responsibility than was really his. Maegisil knew this, as well, as he had seen his lord sit for hours in thought, and then speak only to say how much he had failed. At times like these, he did not know what to say. He felt as confused as he did sometimes when his wife would become suddenly sad. Now, he found himself speaking.

“Please, listen to Narisiel. It is time you both spoke your minds.”

Sighing, Celebrimbor ran a hand through his flowing dark hair, and then looked to his counselor with a small smile, glad that Maegisil had left out any ‘my lords.’ He then turned back to Narisiel, his features smoothed, and his voice calmer when he spoke.

“Forgive me, my friend,” he said, then, bringing both his hands up to his face, he ran them down across his eyes and his cheeks, as if he were wiping tears away, though neither his eyes nor his skin glistened. “I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years.”

Celebrimbor began steeling himself for the conversation that he knew he had begun, finding it harder to face the past than ever in the presence of his old friend. It was as if those ghosts of remembrance had followed her to the palace and into this very chamber, when before they had merely hovered just within the boundaries of his mind. They were easier to deal with when they were mere, abstract thoughts. But now they were brought to life in his mind, heart, and his very soul, as if he were reliving them. He could not bear that, knowing now what he had not known then.

[Arry]

It was only a few miles from the cave where they had stored their supplies to the southern tip of Kheled-zaram. As they made their silent way down the narrow track that led along the side of the mountain, the Dwarves could see in the distance the banner and glittering shields of the Elves. Skald paused and shielding his eyes from the bright sun looked hard toward the advancing troops.

A volley of arrows followed by harsh Orcish cries disturbed his sighting. The Elven troops closed ranks and advanced at a faster pace as they defended themselves from the foul missiles.

The Dwarves flattened themselves down behind the rocky outcroppings that edged their path. Inching forward their gaze scoured the mountain slope, looking to see the source of the attack on the Lorien Elves. The source was soon found. Orcs had hidden on the lower parts of the slope seeking to ambush the Elven contingent. Some of the Orc arrows had found a mark, Skald could see. And in return, there were Orcs falling from the accuracy of the Elvish bowmen.

The Dwarves with bows were just beginning to nock arrows and take aim at the Orcs when suddenly there were hoarse cries from one of the creatures who appeared to be in command. The Orcs were up in an instant and running pell-mell toward the Elves. From what he could see, the Orc troops were nearly double the size of the Elvish warriors.

From their position behind the Orcs, the Dwarves made haste to scramble down the mountain side after them. As they closed the distance, the creatures who lagged behind the others were at first cut down by the Dwarves’ arrows. Those Orcs who stopped to see what was happening as their comrades fell, found themselves faced with the sharp blades of mattock and pole ax and battleaxe.

The Dwarves roared a fierce and mighty battle cry as they closed with the Orcs.

Skald swung his poleaxe in a deadly arc as he reached the raged back line of the Orcs. As a scythe through wheatstalks the Orcs fell as he advanced. At his side, the Brassbeard cousins swung their poleaxes as well. The Hardhammer brothers, Manni, Vetr, and Taf, were deadly in the skill with which their throwing axes thunked decisively and deep into Orc flesh. Bildr and Bisi plunged into the fray with a grim sort of glee, their shields raised on their left arms as their mighty right fists wielded large oaken clubs studded with sharp metal points. Orcs fell, their heads caved in, crushed as easily as hollow gourds.

[CaptainofDespair]

The heavy thudding of footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous hall. At the far end stood a menacing door, with images of craven beasts and other wicked things carved into its massive frame. A figure shrouded in darkness, wrapped in the wreath of wickedness, approached the gateway slowly, pausing here and there to seemingly admire the arches and carvings notched out of the walls and ceiling. The footfalls continued to ring throughout the hall, as the figure neared the door, billowing dark brown robes swirling about their legs, trailing after them.

Two Orc guards, who were supposed to be standing watch at the doorway but had dozed off, were awakened by the deep voice of the figure. “The Dark Lord needed better servants than you foul Orcs.” Quickly snapping into action, they grunted, and slapped their pikes in front of the newcomer, and demanded he tell them why he had come to the sanctuary of Sauron. “Stand aside, or your heads will be on those pikes you carry,” came the response from the hooded warrior. Looking at each other with a slight glint of fear, the guards stepped aside, allowing the figure to make his entrance into the chamber.

The chamber was dark, lit only by an eerie light surrounding the rim of a circular platform in the center, and few torches at the edges of the great hall. From the darkness came a voice, terrible and menacing, that made the guards beyond the now sealed door shudder in utter terror. “So, you have come at last, to serve the Dark Lord. As I knew you would.” The figure waited in stillness, lit by the platform he now stood upon. “You know nothing, Sauron. You deceive yourself in thinking that. Your mantle of Dark Lord is stolen; it does not belong to you.” Silence now enveloped the room. Sauron’s anger flooded every niche of the hall, dripping from the ceiling, gurgling forth from the walls and floor, but only for a moment. Regaining his composure, he replied to the brave, or foolish, figure. “I did not summon you here to reignite our war. I have a mission for you, one you might be interested in.” A cloaked arm shot out from underneath the heavy brown robes, and made a cut through the stale atmosphere of the crypt-like room. “I am not one of your pathetic servants!” From the Dark Lord, a dire response was issued. “You will serve me, as you did my master, or you will find nothing but sorrow.”

Many silent moments passed, as the figure brooded and debated his new situation. He shook his head, as he thought to himself, obviously pondering something that was not wholly satisfactory. Folding his arms beneath his cloak, he uttered his own response to Sauron’s command. “You are not my master. I am only a servant to the true Dark Lord. But, I will serve you, for now.” A deep laugh, terrible and wicked, came from the throne of Sauron. “Excellent.” Gorthaur paused, and then continued, giving the cloaked figure his orders. “I am tasking you with bringing the Elven land of Eregion to its knees. An army will be prepared for you, and you will set out with it at once.” The figure nodded, and turned to depart the presence of the Dark Lord. As he was dismissing himself, the Lord of Barad-dur mentioned something else to him. “The descendant of an Oath-taker resides in Eregion. He should be the target of your malice.” A slight rippling of the deep, brown hood signaled a compliant nod.

The robed man turned once more, and strode out of the cavern, the taste of decay lingering on his lips. As he passed the guards at the gate to the chamber, he smirked. “I had better not receive such pathetic whelps for my army.” Once again, the heavy thudding of footsteps echoed through the arched hallway, slowly dissipating into the distant muffle of Mordor’s heavy, clouded atmosphere.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Artamir watched Losrian depart hastily from her archery practise, his eyes, as sharp as his father's, following the young elf-girl's back until she turned under an arch towards the smith's quarters and was lost to sight. Raising his eyes to Leneslath, he started slightly as his friend caught his eyes directly. Ever a clown, he exaggerated the movement comically; Leneslath grinned, then nodded down in the direction that Losrian had taken. "Taking an interest are we, Artamir?" he asked, slyly.

The other grinned back and shook his head, bracing his hands on the cold stone of the ramparts and jumping up backwards to sit on them, swinging his feet casually, the heels of his leather boots thumping dully against the stones that guarded the city. "My mother's apprentice," he replied, by way of explanation, then added, "Nice try," with a wink. His older friend rolled his eyes and swung his feet up on the ramparts beside Artamir, settling comfortably back against one of the battlement pillars as if about to go to sleep. The other slapped at his legs playfully, knocking them down. "Hey! Fine example of Celebrimbor's service you are," he scolded, grinning. Deepening his voice, he made his face sterner, looking at Leneslath as if over a pair of spectacles. "After all, we all have a solemn duty here, all of you young rogues should come to realise that-"

"-for we are the defenders of this city," the older youth continued, doing a near-perfect mockery of Captain Dimloien, the soldier whose unfortunate task it was to train the young elves. "The upholders, the protectors, the line of defense that...et cetera, et cetera." Leneslath made an exaggerated hand motion as if bowing, then turned to Artamir, pointing a shaky, accusatory finger at him. "Especially you, you Aramir, Atamor, whoever you are! Pay attention, or-"

"-Or you'll end up just like that no-good scallywag Leneslath!" his friend interrupted triumphantly, ducking as his scandalised companion took a swipe at his head. Jumping off the rampart, he nodded to the newest of the sentries, who had come to join Leneslath - Artamir himself was not actually a sentry, not yet; that duty would wait until he came of age this summer. Performing a low bow to the two elven soldiers, he swept an imaginary hat off his head. "Gentlemen, I shall leave you!"

"Someone's in high spirits today..." muttered the newcomer sourly as Artamir turned to go, an elf of roughly the same age as Leneslath - the younger elf's antics were playing havoc with his headache, the very same reason he had turned up late and with bags beneath his eyes. Artamir merely grinned back over his shoulder and turned down the narrow spiral staircase in the city walls.

~*~

In the palace overlooking the ramparts that bordered the citadel, Narisiel's eyes did not take in her son's antics, merely turning to the window as an excuse to look away from Celebrimbor while she swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. She had thought about this conversation, had run it through in her head again and again the night before, but faced with Celebrimbor himself now, she felt out of her depth.

"Forgive me, my friend; I simply cannot explain to you what I have felt these many years."

Narisiel glanced sharply over at the elven Lord, but his expression seemed genuine. But how could she know? After all, even as she stood so civilly in his rooms facing him, the elvensmith doubted that the older elf could ever guess at the depths of betrayal that she could feel boiling at the back of her mind, stagnant from years of waiting, unreleased, in years of silence. But she would remain calm. She would. She had to - had to know what had become of the rings?

"Forgiveness is a high price to pay from a century of silence, my Lord," she replied, her voice soft and almost croaky coming from a throat dry from nervousness. Celebrimbor did not flinch: he took the words calmly, inclining his head in acknowledgement and looking away from a moment but then, to his credit, looking up once more to meet Narisiel's eyes. She appreciated the gesture and, after a moment, gave a single nod, and asked for the answer that she needed to know to put her mind to rest.

"Tell me of the fate of the rings, Celebrimbor. What has become of them now?"

And even as she asked it, Celebrimbor's expression told her that she was probably not going to like the answer...

~*~