Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[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.

[Encaitare]

In the camp remained around one hundred orcs and a captain. Glûtkask had not gone to the battle, having entrusted Lushurd to carry out his instructions. He knew that Lushurd was scarcely cleverer than a pile of dung, but the lieutenant could follow orders. In his tent, he gnawed on a bit of dried meat and squinted at the rough map. When his lads got back, they would take a little rest and then start moving again. They would have to cross the mountains; there was supposed to be a pass through which they could travel. Glûtkask grumbled to himself at the thought of traveling through the mountains in this damnable cold. Not only would it be unpleasant for him, but all of the soldiers would find it unpleasant as well, and they were sure to gripe about it all the way to the other side.

Finishing the meat and rummaging in a hairy rucksack for more, he wondered when they'd be getting back. There were only a few of the Elvish scum coming to the valley, so ideally, Lushurd would be bringing the company victoriously back to camp soon, and they'd be off again with a nice high morale. Maybe they'd be in a good enough mood from having bashed the brains out of the enemy that they wouldn't mind the weather so much.

As this more optimistic thought crossed his mind, a panting scout burst into the tent.

"Captain!" he managed, through his uneven breath.

"What? Have you got news from the valley?" By Sauron's hairy toes, it'd better be good, Glûtkask thought.

"Yar. They..."

"Speak up, scout!"

The scout swallowed, and talked quickly. "I was waitin' halfway between the valley an' here, in case there was news. An' then someone came rushin' up to me, told me to take a message back to you. He said things was going fine until out of a door in the mountain came a bunch of Dwarves an' trapped ours between them an' the Elves."

Glûtkask growled. "And our lads can't take care of a few Dwarves?"

"He said it was somethin' near a score of them. Too many for them to take. They're goin' to retreat." The orc scout looked very much like it wanted to leave the tent as quickly as he could.

"Retreat?!" he shouted.

The scout cowered. "Probably better to save what lads they could..." He stopped speaking at a fearsome glance from the captain, and then scurried outside.

Last time I trust that half-wit lieutenant to do a job for me -- assuming he's still alive, that is. Glûtkask planned to give Lushurd a piece of his mind; he figured the wretch could use it.

[Firefoot]

Life since the passage of the Misty Mountains had not been going well for Grimkul and Ulwakh. In fact, this was the worst life had ever been since their enslavement to Mordor several years back. Ulwakh regretted it every day that he had not taken Grimkul up on his suggestions of fleeing; even Grimkul understood that there was no chance of that now. Kharn made sure of it.

Kharn made sure of a lot of things. He made sure that if an example needed to be made, the example was either Grimkul or Ulwakh (usually Grimkul). He made sure that they were always strapped with the worst of the camp duties when there were duties to be done. He made sure that the frustrated Grimkul never got his way with any Orc who, knowing that Kharn would indirectly protect him, took advantage of either of them. And if Grimkul did put a foot out of line… there was always the whip. He wouldn’t actually kill either of them – Grimkul in particular was useful on the front lines, and besides, Kharn enjoyed the bit of sport. And if the Captain asked… well, Kharn could always say that they had been causing trouble. Such was not unheard of from Grimkul. Not that he regretted his past actions; he mostly just wanted to add Kharn to his list of conquests.

Only occasionally were Grimkul and Ulwakh able to temporarily escape Kharn’s notice in the bustle and confusion of camp, and these times were a blessed relief.

Kharn had not forgiven Grimkul the embarrassment of being put into such a vulnerable position in front of the rest of the troops, and he wasn’t going to let Grimkul forget it. So almost daily, Grimkul’s infuriation and humiliation grew, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The instant he had the chance, he would put a knife in Kharn’s back… except he never seemed to have the chance. Not a good one, anyway; Ulwakh had always dissuaded him for if he were to kill the second-in-command, Grimkul would be killed, too. So Grimkul was stuck biding his time until he got an opportunity in which he could pass off the killing as either as an accident or “someone else did it.”

And Ulwakh needed Grimkul as much as, if not more than, ever. His leg had never really healed, and he still walked with a slight limp. The wound might seem to be finally healed, only to open up again after a hard day’s march. More often than not, the open wound became infected. This repeated process had left his calf little more than a dark mass of tough, scabby skin. And once more, Kharn was no help: during the marches, Kharn became quite free with the whip when Grimkul and Ulwakh were stuck near the back, and by the frequency with which the whip hit his leg, Ulwakh figured he aimed for it.

Life was a misery, and the only respites had been village raids, when all Orkish cruelty was turned towards the Elvish settlements of Eregion. Each village was raided, pillaged, and plundered, and any inhabitants they found were cruelly killed. Then the villages were burned to the ground, nothing left but ashes. Grimkul took a moment to reminisce over the last such village, two days previous. They had been fortunate; the Elves living there had not already fled as in some other villages. He smiled maliciously recalling the terrified screams of the children and the horror and helplessness etched out in their Elvish faces. The villages had all been too small to give real fight, and Orkish casualties were minimal.

He knew that this last village was one of the last that they would destroy; even he was not so dull-witted as to not realize that the company was hastening south with increasing speed, and Ulwakh had gathered that they were going to meet a much larger army, one to quash the great Elvish city. Small raids weren’t the objective any more; the Dark Lord wanted greater conquests. So while Grimkul hoped there would be at least one more raid, Ulwakh doubted there would be.

Grimkul was startled out of his pleasant memories by Ulwakh’s hiss, “He’s coming!” This was one of those nights where the two of them had managed to steal away from Kharn’s attention, and whether he was just wandering this way or if he was looking for them, neither wanted to find out. They quickly picked up and moved in the other direction, into the heart of the camp. They settled in, inconspicuous among the other Orcs. Grimkul’s murderous gaze never left the second-in-command, though. Ulwakh might be content to play hide-and-seek, but as for Grimkul… One of these days, he promised himself. One of these days, Kharn would wish that he had left Ulwakh and him alone.

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh had thought life would be easier once their company joined the rest of the host. He had figured that the pair of them could descend into blessed anonymity and escape the ever watchful eyes of Kharn. And he had hoped that the whole affair could be forgotten and blown over.

Ulwakh had been wrong.

Almost as soon as their company joined the rest of the force, they had been given an assignment that removed them from the camp. Apparently, there had been some unease over the Dwarven stronghold to the east and some fear that the Elves might send for aid. Their company had been sent to monitor and hinder any communications between the Elves and Dwarves. The company had been split up into smaller groups so as to cover more ground; no messengers were to get through, and if there were to be a messenger, the preferable option would be that the Dwarves did not know of him at all. Preferably.

At first, little seemed to happen, but finally, when Grimkul and Ulwakh and their fellows were patrolling closer to the mountains than was usual, perhaps a league or so from the Dwarven gate, a scout brought word of an Elf coming their way. Eager for more fighting, the Orcs set up for ambush. The Elf proved a hardier warrior than any of them had expected, though he was on the verge of being overcome when a fierce band of Dwarves rushed in out of nowhere.

Grimkul whirled about to face this new foe on their flanks, wielding his scimitar mightily. Little love did he bear the Dwarves, in particular those select few that had so handily eluded his killing stroke in the last backfired ambush. In the back of his mind, he was disappointed to see that none of those now fighting were they, but he fought fiercely nonetheless, cleaning slicing through the neck of one Dwarf before they had retreated back behind their gates.

The members of the small band scowled and spat as the losses were tallied up: two Dwarves and the Elf messenger, compared to seven Orcs. But mostly, they counted it as a victory: the Elf had not gotten through, and the Dwarves’ attack had been turned to retreat almost immediately. Grinning maliciously, the Orcs set up their victory sign.

The three bodies of their foes were quickly despoiled and hacked apart, then left to rot or be consumed by scavengers. The heads were removed and speared on three stakes. The features of each face were horribly mangled but not beyond clear recognition. Then they were left to be found by their comrades and families as the Orcs headed off to report the skirmish to the Captain.

[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...

~*~

[piosenniel]

To his far right Riv could see Skald moving in a deadly forward march against the back line of the Orcs. The Brassbeard cousins and the Hardhammer men flanked his younger brother, lending their fury to the attack. The Grimsteel brothers advanced in a death dealing dance of shield and club.

On his left, somewhere in the melee were Bror and Orin, their companions forging their way through the scrambling Orc line with fierce determination. Riv gave a grim smile, acknowledging his youngest brother’s burgeoning skill.

Caught unaware by the unrelenting fury of the Dwarves, the Orcs seemed unnerved and had begun to retreat from their attack on the Elven warriors. The Elves, for their part, were fighting coolly back against their foe. And though they had lost several of their company to the Orcs’ weapons, it seemed that a fair number of Orcs had also fallen to the Elvish blades and arrows.

Riv pressed his advantage as the Orcs began to take rout. He and Afi Glitterfist laid into the Orcs with their warhammers - the sharp spikes and great heavy heads cutting and smashing at the hateful adversaries. Then one of the Orcish captains rallied his troops and they turned from their flight for at least a moment. They seemed more willing to face the weapons of the Dwarves than to go against the wishes of their leader.

The Orcs now pressed their own attack, their sheer number forcing Riv and his companion backward. ‘Best you send up the silvered arrow, Brand,’ Riv grunted at the Dwarf on his left. ‘Despite the defense of the Elves against the foe, if this rally of theirs continues we will be undone. We will need more Dwarves to aid us.’

Riv stepped forward, putting himself between the stirred up Orcs and Brand. Afi, too, moved up beside Riv, giving his brother time to draw back his stout bow and send the shining arrow high into the sun’s light. The nearby Orcs bore down on them even as Riv and Afi swung their heavy hammers with all the force and speed they could muster.

Afi was cut down by a wicked blow to his head as he fought back two large Orcs; one wielding a great iron club, the other slashing wildly with a jagged blade. Riv grasped his weapon in both hands and swung it hard against the Orc with the club. The brute lurched back, his upper arm broken by the force of Riv’s hammer. The Orc with the blade, however, seized the advantage and ducking beneath Riv’s upswung arm, drove his blade in a slicing manner against the exposed right underarm of the Dwarf, where the chain-mail did not reach.

Riv, bleeding freely, stumbled back. Transferring his warhammer to his left hand he attempted to hold off three other Orcs who had now turned their attention to him. Brand by this time had nocked another arrow and took aim at the largest of the advancing trio, sending the feathered shaft deep into the Orc’s chest. His foul companions paid his demise no heed. With gruesome grins on their faces they struck out at Riv, knocking him to his knees.

The larger of the two raised his stout wooden club, intent on making mincemeat of the Dwarf’s head . . .

[Folwren]

The heat of battle blazed about Bror and his companions. At their feet lay the orcs that had fallen, most were quite still, others still twitched, but no one noticed them. Their bodies were trampled as more orcs came and the dwarves found proper footing to wield their weapons. The vile creatures had redoubled their attack after attempting to retreat. Why they didn’t retreat, Bror wasn’t aware, but they seemed to have pulled together and their assault was stronger and he and his friends were pushed back.

About him fought the Ironfoot brothers with Kerrin and Geln, the others he had recruited. Close with them was Orin and his dwarves. Bror smiled grimly, as another orc fell at his feet and he jerked his spike from its skull. The foe seemed to lessen where they fought and he paused to look up in the direction of his brothers, to his right.

His heart sank and his courage weakened. Brand stood behind the wall made by Riv and a couple others, raising his bow towards the sky. The sunlight flashed off the shaft of his arrow as it was released and shot upward like a silver flame.

‘Well, no wonder they thought we needed to do that,’ he said to himself, glancing about him. ‘We have most of the dwarves.’ And instantly acting upon that thought he began to forge his way towards Riv and his companions.

They was only a few paces away, really, but with so many orcs in between and all trying to kill him, it seemed like a lot farther to Bror. He hewed right and left with his axe, cutting their legs out from under them, and then finishing them off with a second blow.

He looked up again when he thought he had almost reached Riv’s side. He almost had, but almost carries no weight, and he was still out of reach, and his axe would be of no help. Riv was bleeding, the blood coursed down his right side from somewhere beneath his arm, Afi lay beside him, stretched out on his face and one side of his head apparently crushed, and two more orcs were surging on, almost on top of Riv.

Bror saw it all in a flash. A lumbering orc stumbled in his way, with a furious roar, he knocked him to the side and lunged forward.

‘I’m too late! I can’t get to him!’ He dropped his axe and groped at his belt, pulling out his favorite weapon. He didn’t think of it now, nor did he consider the training he’d given himself, the hours spent figuring out the angles and the strength needed in the twist of the wrist. The throwing axe spun from his hand and the orc that had just knocked Riv to the ground stumbled backwards and fell. The second orc lifted a club and Bror bit back a terrified cry, snatched at a second axe, and let this one go faster than the first.

His aim was true. The hideous beast fell back. After staring for scarcely a second, Bror stooped and picked up his battle axe again and ran to Riv. Forgetting everything else instantly, he fell to his knees by his brother’s side, dropping his weapon for a second time to support Riv as he appeared to be losing consciousness.

The battle still raged on about him. He heard Dwarven voices above him, shouting in some confusion. A movement uncomfortably near from the orcs’ side caught his eye and he turned his head in time to see a small, wiry orc taking a swing at his neck with his sword. Bror threw himself back out of its path, dragging Riv down with him, and then struggled to his feet.

His hands were empty and his mind was black with fury. He cursed himself and the orcs viciously, searching with his eyes for his axe. He dove under the second swing of the orc, and having caught sight of the desired weapon, snatched at it, turned again and lifted it in a desperate attempt to block the next attack.

It turned it partially and the sword glanced off the haft and struck his right shoulder. His armor turned it and he could almost have laughed. His mirth was cut short by a violent shock from his left. The wind was expelled from him and his body flung back into the midst of his fellow dwarves. His senses reeled, and lights flashed in his eyes. For only a moment, and then all went black and still.