Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arestevana]

A violent blur of noise, color, and emotion filled Gilduin’s memories of the past moments, hours, days. He could not think how long ago he had stood at the edge of the Mirromere in those terrifying moments when the first arrows flew. The forward party had made a hasty retreat to the main contingent before knocking arrows to string. Barely had he fired his first shot when the enemy was among them, cruel blades cutting mercilessly. Gilduin remembered little of the fighting he had done. His first arrow had fallen far short, and there had been no time to shoot a second before the orcs closed.

Far outnumbered, the contingent had retreated to the mountains, leaving behind them the bodies of their dead. Etched into his mind were images of the horrors to which those corpses were abandoned. Every step toward the safety of Hadhodrond was tortuously slow, beset as they were by orcs, and the jeers of their attackers echoed through the valley. The arrival of the dwarves was their salvation. The orcs had retreated when faced with the fury of the dwarven attack, though not without inflicting grievous injuries on many warriors, elven and dwarven alike.

Now they were gathered somewhere beneath the mountains, in a great hall of stone. The injured were being treated by healers of both races. Gilduin heard a deep voice nearby and saw a dwarf looking up at him.
“Are you injured, Master Elf?” the dwarf asked.
Gilduin, about to reply in the negative, realized that he did not know. He paused and glanced down at himself. The lower portion of the standard shaft was covered with black orc blood, and his clothing and armor were stained black and crimson. Some of the blood was his own, he realized abruptly, noticing for the first time a long cut on his left arm.
“It appears so, my good sir,” Gilduin said, slightly shaken.
The dwarf nodded and peered at the wound. “It does not look deep. Hold still, and I will dress it for you.”

Gilduin waited patiently while the healer cleaned and bandaged the cut. Then he thanked the dwarf and moved away, scanning the large room for any sign of Vaele. He wondered how his friend had fared in the battle. The archer had shot several arrows before the orcs closed, Gilduin recalled, but he could not remember seeing Vaele in the fray. Making his way through the diminished gathering of the Galadrim, Gilduin glimpsed a familiar flash of dark green.
“Vaele!” he called hopefully. “Vaele Andarion?”

[Folwren]

Bror’s head pounded. The figures in his sight were blurry and it hurt to try to focus. He shut his eyes and shuddered. The Dwarven voices around him grated on his ears and he wanted to tell them to go away and let him sleep, but he thought that it might even hurt to talk, so he remained silent.

After a few moments of lying in what he thought to be perfect misery, his senses became clearer and two voices became distinct. They were speaking near him, one was familiar and the other was quite different than what he had ever heard. At the moment, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ it said. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll have a ferocious head ache, but little other damage. The bleeding was minimal, and nothing was broken. I have to say he was very fortunate. Such a blow as your son described him to have taken could have easily taken his life.’ Bror opened his eyes again and turned his head.

‘There. He is awake,’ the stranger said. A tall form moved slightly towards him. ‘Go on. I’ll continue checking the others.’ Bror shut his eyes tightly to try to clear them of the fog and dimness of everything and then reopened them. A dwarf was approaching him and in a moment, he recognized his father. A weak smile came to his face and he held out his hand as though he were a child. Viss Stonecut made the last few steps to his side and took his hand.

‘Father,’ Bror said raspily.

‘Well, Bror, you met your first battle in a way to be proud of. You saved Riv’s life.’

‘Is he here?’ Bror asked, looking up at him. ‘He wasn’t killed?’

‘Yes, he’s here. He wasn’t killed. He’ll be alright.’

‘What happened?’

Viss told him what Skald had related to him when they had met. All of the battle leading up to the regrouping of the orcs, and how he had seen Bror knocked down and had run to him, frightened that he might have been killed. Bror managed another faint smile.

‘Dear Skald,’ he muttered. Then he sighed. ‘I should have been with Riv. We had most of the Dwarves on our side. Uncle Orin and all the others we had brought with us.’

‘Don’t think about it now. You both will be up on your feet in little time at all. Soon you’ll be quite ready to be back hammering. For now, just rest. I’ll see what I can get you to eat.’ Bror shut his eyes and nodded and Viss drew away quietly.

[Arry]

A week had passed and most of the Elves were on their feet, Skald noted. ‘Saw some of them take mighty hard blows. That one there took an arrow clear through his leg. Must have the constitution of a slab of granite.’

His father chuckled, nodding his head ‘yes’. ‘More like diamonds,’ Viss said. ‘Full of clear light and near impossible to crack.’ He glanced for a moment toward Riv who still looked pale. ‘We’re the granite, I think,’ he went on. ‘Hard to rend . . . hard . . . but it can happen.’

Skald touched his father lightly on the forearm. ‘But he’s alright. The healers say he will soon be well. And Bror, too! Look there where he’s up and about.’

Viss smiled at his middle son and clapped him on the back. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right . . .’ He watched, the smile fading on his face, as Skald crossed the room to scoop up Leifr and deposit him on Riv’s lap. ‘For now at least . . .’

----------

In a fortnight, all were well enough to don their mail and helmets; to pick up their axes and spears and bows. Thirty-five Dwarves were mustered to bolster the remaining eighty Elves. King Durin was taking no chances that the Orcs had not somehow crossed the mountains and would harry travelers on the western roads.

Riv and Bror and twenty of the other Dwarven warriors led the party out of the West Gate and east down the wide track that ran along the northern bank of the Sirannon. Skald and Orin were with the others of Dwarves who formed the rear guard.

Five days at a steady pace and they would reach the Elven city . . . Mahal willing . . .

[Durelin]

When her husband had left that morning, Sairien was troubled by countless possibilities of what could go wrong. Even she had heard the whispers of war, and she knew that these were far more than just rumours, not simply by her instinct, but also by the way Maegisil reacted when she questioned him. “Please, do not talk of war, too!” he had said several days ago, obviously exhausted by a day of counsel with his lord. She wondered how late her husband would return tonight.

There was too much on her mind to succeed in getting anything done around the house, and far too much for her to simply sit around and occupy herself with various things. She had to find something…but not here. Memories and worries and concerns hung around her home, clinging to every wall and strung across every door. Sairien had to get out of the house.

Soon she was in the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, and her head cleared a little with the freshness of the air and thoughts of her destination. Today was like most other days, when she decided to escape for a little while, and dream of being someone else, or at least, somewhere else. To help her depart from the concerns of her everyday life, she always went down to the river, by the docks, where there were still people, but she was still quite alone.

The river always reminded her of the sea. She knew there was a great difference between the two, even though it had been so long since she had seen the sea. She would never forget any detail of the ocean landscape as she had seen it. Practically every day she missed it, and there were days when she missed it for more reasons than simply its beauty. She had looked across the sea and known that many of her people had crossed over it into the West, and she had felt something calling to her, and more than the sound of the gulls… Sairien had held on to that feeling, keeping it deep in her heart and not allowing herself to forget that sensation, a feeling of joy and a feeling that she was soon to reach her home if only she took a few steps into the sea, and yet a feeling of sadness and fear that if she left she would leave behind too many things. That was before she had met Maegisil, and now she knew some of the things she would have left behind had she had gone over the sea.

But sometimes, like today, she could not help but feel that something more waited for her. And she knew that her husband could depart with her, if only he didn’t still cling to this Middle-earth, to Eregion, and to his lord. He clung to his wife as well, but she knew he could not pull him away from Ost-in-Edhil and Celebrimbor.

Arriving at the docks, Sairien walked cautiously along a small stretch of wooden planks that spanned a short distance across the water. This small outcrop of the docks usually was unoccupied, and she had stood upon it or sat upon it, looking down into the water, across the top of it, and down its winding path of snake-like flowing. But today, there was another. It was an elf who Sairien vaguely remembered seeing before. She recalled he did ironwork, but she could not be sure. She moved quietly across the boards to where he stood at the edge of the dock.

“May I join you, sir?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Why, of course,” the elf responded, smiling at her kindly.

“I am not used to finding anyone here… I love this place, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone else discovered its beauty,” she said, returning the smile.

“Well, I am both sorry and glad to be the first to do so,” he said with a small laugh. “My name is Cainenyo.”

“And I am Sairien.” Cainenyo…the name did not ring any bells, which irked her. “Perhaps you know my husband, Maegisil?”

[Encaitare]

The orcs straggled back into camp, snarling in resentment at their defeat or tending to their wounds, in many cases both. Glûtkask spied Lushurd trudging at the head of the bitter group, holding his right arm. The lieutenant looked up, and seeing Glûtkask, came towards him. He looked as though he was in great pain, but that was not important. They had failed to carry out Sauron's orders; he would be most displeased.

"Report, lieutenant! How many did you lose, and why in the name of Mordor did you retreat?"

"More than half," Lushurd replied wearily. "We would've crushed them if the Dwarves hadn't snuck out from behind. We were, we were felling 'em like trees..."

"And you could not stand and fight?"

Lushurd fixed on him a narrow-eyed frown. "That sounds like Elvish talk to me. What did you want us to do, fight to the last man? When it's our skins on the line out there, I'd rather live to fight another day, thank you." He turned to leave, but Glûtkask lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and wheeled him about. "What?"

"I'm not yet finished with you," the captain said through bared teeth. "What's the state of the survivors?"

"Some have minor wounds, and some got banged up pretty bad." Lushurd glanced down at his arm, which he was still clutching with the other. "And some got lucky and aren't hurt at all... though I'm inclined to think they're just yellow-bellied and decided to stay out of the fray," he said slyly.

Glûtkask did not miss the implication; his voice became lower and harsher. "Let's see that wound of yours, then, shall we?" He tore Lushurd's grasp from the injured arm; the orc howled in pain. This attracted the attention of the soldiers, who looked on with interest. This was good -- sometimes a good example was just what they needed. The wound was deep; a sword had slashed nearly to the bone. Black blood had been clotting around it but was flowing freely once again now that the stop was removed.

"Coward, am I?" Glûtkask hissed at the seething lieutenant. "And you think you're going to fight another day? With your sword-arm nearly hacked right off?" Lushurd's hand went back to covering the gash.

"Yes, Boldog, I--"

The all-too-familiar sound of steel punching through armor and burying itself in flesh cut short his words. Lushurd crumpled to the ground, Glûtkask's axe protruding from his torso.

"Wounded like that is as good as dead," Glûtkask informed Lushurd as he drew his last breath.

He placed a booted foot on the deceased's chest and pulled the axe free. "Kharn!" The now sole lieutenant came forward. "Lushurd has died from the wounds he so... nobly sustained. We'll be setting off tomorrow a bit before noon. The sun'll be high, but it'll make the cold more bearable." He glanced disdainfully at the corpse at his feet, knowing that the orcs would soon fall upon it like scavengers. "Get this bit of carrion out of here."

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo was unfamiliar with that name, and responded to Sairien's question, "I'm afraid I have not heard of him before. I am an angdan, so perhaps he has purchased some of my wares once before, but I do not remember him." He brushed some dirt from his apron and gazed across the sparkling river. It was now that Cainenyo got a good look at Sairien's face. It seemed to be filled with both grief and joy at once, and all sorts of other subtle feelings he couldn't exactly make out.

"Maegisil, is he one of the city's smiths?" Cainenyo asked, out of curiosity. There were few people in Ost-in-Edhil he had not heard of, and Maegisil was one of them.

"No, he is one of Celebrimbor's counselors. They are close," she said. Sairien sighed and her voice turned more secretive and worried, "Have you heard the rumors of war? I have asked my husband about them, but he won't answer me."

"Yes, I have heard rumors, but I am just as lost as you, "They say that orcs are mustering in the mountains, and that Annatar has betrayed us." Cainenyo felt the worry gnaw at his heart. Would his family survive if the city was attacked?

He and Sairien began to walk together along the dock. A breeze blew from the south, and Cainenyo brushed the hair from his face. It felt good to be able to one's worries and fears. Cainenyo's mind eventually turned to his wife. Alassante only dismisses the rumors of battle as nonsense, he thought, doesn't she listen to the signs? She knows I have forged many more swords these days than candelabras. Why won't she listen? Cainenyo considered voicing his thoughts to his new friend.

"My wife, Alassante, says the rumors aren't true. I hope they're false, but I know that war is coming. Everybody knows. "Cainenyo said. He stared at his feet and the planks of the dock. "What do you think will happen to the city?"

[Firefoot]

The surviving Orcs arrived back at the camp more or less together in a straggling, drawn out group. Grimkul and Ulwakh were near the back; Grimkul was mostly unharmed, but Ulwakh could barely walk. The bleeding had only let up not stopped, leaving a straggling trail of black blood on the cold ground where he walked. Ulwakh kept up only because he had to - an Orc that stayed behind was not merely left behind but very likely chopped to pieces by other Orcs for sport.

To all appearances, Grimkul was of little help. He provided no shoulder to lean on or any moral support – in fact, he seemed not even to notice Ulwakh at all, keeping up a running monologue about the pushdug Elves and Dwarves. What he did do was threaten with snarl and brandished scimitar anyone who seemed to be entertaining the idea of attacking his weak companion. Thus in his own way did Grimkul show his slightly twisted loyalty and in the same way Ulwakh was appreciative, though he said no word of it.

Though he tried to deny it, Ulwakh was excessively weak from pain and lack of blood by the time they reached their patch of ground. No longer able to support himself, Ulwakh collapsed to the ground, barely retaining consciousness. Wordlessly, Grimkul dug into his pack and pulled out a container of a brownish-colored paste-like substance. He removed a glob of it with his fingers and smeared it on Ulwakh’s wound.

The medicine, if it could be called that, had few if any healing properties. Its chief purpose lay in stopping the blood flow and keeping the wound closed, and it did not work as well in cold temperatures such as these. It also burned like a cold fire upon application, and tended to itch fiercely once it had dried all the way. It was healing of the most rudimentary sort, and its use was the furthest knowledge either Orc had in the topic.

In his passing moments of clear thought, Ulwakh was worried. He knew from his information gathering that the Captain intended to head over the mountains once this attack was over, and he worried that he would be unable to keep up. He would have had enough trouble on a regular basis, but with the strenuous crossing of the passes, he couldn’t even be sure that the wound would stay closed.

But there wasn’t anything that he could do.