Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[littlemanpoet]

Míriel waited behind the thick velvet curtain. She could see everything. Mabalar had been led into the sacrificial chamber; and he seemed to recognize the three others who had preceded him. The girl, could she be family? His daughter? She caught an exchanged glance between them, and knew it must be so. The sorrow in their faces convinced her. That could have been her daughter. The girl was beautiful. Míriel had never met the woman Mabalar had married, but had heard of her. Inzillomí, she was called, of the house of Andúnië, daughter of Elendil. Mabalar had married well; maybe better than he might have, had she become his wife. For she knew how the ancestry went, a lady who should have ruled, passed over for her younger brother. It seemed that all had gone awry because of that.

Míriel held the potion in her hand. That fool, Herugor, had been so malleable to her purposes. All that had been needed was a little female attention - not so much as she would regret later - and he had become putty, giving her every desire of her heart's whim. So he thought, not knowing her purpose. The concentration spider's venom would render its imbiber dead to the world in all seeming, for days, or at least hours, depending on the imbiber. All she needed was a distraction.

What was that noise of banging on the door from which Mabalar had come? Who could want to come in? It was much safer out. Where was Tarík? Had he gotten her message to him? He must have, unless he had been kept from doing so. She had bade him tell Mabalar that they must not leave until he received her gift. She knew she could trust Moizandû to funnel the prisoners into his underground. He had told her the entrance to the secret passage, and she had guarded his secret with great care. The palantír must leave the Temple precincts. Sauron must not get it. She had been careful to keep secret from him, and from Herugor, but once the doom came upon Númenor, who could say what that evil one might uncover?

There was an odd rumble in the distance. Was there an army marching outside? No, it was growing. A herd of animals escaped from the nearby pens, racing for the Temple entrance? Absurd. It kept growing. The floor dropped a few inches from beneath her feet. She almost fell. This was the moment! It was an earthquake. The floor kept shifting, the ground beneath them groaning with a terrible roar. Míriel stole into the chamber in the confusion, keeping low to the shifting floor as the guards and their prisoners fought for balance, vainly trying to stay on their feet.

Mabalar saw her. His eyes widened briefly. She came to him and placed the vial in his chained hands.

"Drink this now. It will save you."

She left him and made her way back to the curtains as the floor continued to rock, the roar of the earth slowly dissipating. When she had regained her composure, and her feet, she looked back. Mabalar lay on the floor, his face looking paler already. Around him, his daughter and her friends were fighting with their guards.
The door to the dungeons flew open. She turned away and moved quickly back to her chambers. She might have been seen, and knew that she must not be found near the chamber of sacrifice. It was time to retrieve the palantír and wait for an opportune moment, to give it to the safekeeping of Mabalar, once he awakened.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir would not give up. He backed up and ran into the door hard, and it finally gave way.

"Let's go! Now!" he shouted, and they all burst out into the room where Abarpanaru was being held. Thoronmir went to untie him, but he was stopped by a tall figure that had just entered the room.

"Well, well. My old enemy Sakaladun. It's been a long time."

"Herugor." Thoronmir said. "I was wondering when you'd show up." He drew his long knife and pointed it at Herugor.

"Thoronmir!" Azarmano shouted. "We don't have time for this! The island will sink in a few hours! We need to get out of here now!"

Thoronmir looked toward Abarpanaru and the exit behind him, then at Herugor, who had drawn his knife as well.

"One of my descendants will help to finish this fight." he said to Herugor, and cut Abarpanaru loose.

"GUARDS!" Herugor shouted. Several soldiers charged in behind him, but at that point another tremor shook the temple, causing part of the ceiling to fall in between the King's Men and the Faithful.

The Faithful escaped the temple, but time was running out.


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Himaran's post

Bodies.

Abârzadan dashed down the slick hallway, stumbling over unseen cracks in the cold stone. Every passing second brought him closer to where he had left the group, and the sight that was slowly becoming clearer was grim. The man was breathless when he arrived at the scene, but he immediately began to root through the corpses.

Just guards. He started to breath easier.

Then where had the others gone? He had been left them a mere minute before, in hopes of diverting a two-pronged attack that would surely have ended in their slaughter. Either Azarmanô and the rest had been captured, or they had left him. Neither possibility gave him much hope of being reunited with them. His legs, exhausted, failed him, and he slumped down against the dripping prison wall. Doubts began to flood his mind, accompanied by a revulsion for the carnage around him. What was he, a wealthy young man, doing here, abandoned in a dark cell by outcasts who he had been foolish enough to trust. Smacking his fist down on the solid floor, Abârzadan cursed the day that he had stooped low enough to visit that poor tavern. How different the last few days would have been had he instead attended a more fitting diner, or even stayed home and cooked for himself! The man chuckled out loud at the absurdity of the whole affair. He hadn't even known Abârpânarú.

A noise.

Heavy boots clattered down the corrider. Torches flared. Voices shouted. reinforcements had arrived, and they would not be pleased to find a surviving perpetrator resting amongst their dead companions. So Abârzadan took a chance. Grimacing, he dipped his hand into the pool of blood that had formed underneath the severed neck of a guard, splashed the sticky liquid on his face, and lay still. The conversation he soon heard was disorganized and heated.

"What happened?"

"How should I know! I watch the adjacent hall, not this one."

"They're... all dead."

"No! And here I thought they were still standing ready for inspection."

"Cut it! Multiple prisoners have escaped. I want a complete lockdown of this floor - no one enters or leaves. Târak, take these bodies and dump them in the sewer, and I mean deep."

Târak went to work, and the others hurried off to fulfill their tasks. Bells started to ring from all directions. Heavy doors were slammed shut. Men grabbed extra weapons from supply posts and sprinted to their stations.

Unlike these guards, Târak seemed to be in no particular hurry. Lacking a cart, his chosen method of moving bodies was to sling one over his shoulder and hold a torch in his free hand. While quite inefficient, it gave Abârzadan a means by which to leave unnoticed. With all the men patrolling the block, it would be next to impossible to sneak by them all. He didn't even know the way out. Thus, he waited patiently, and when it was his turn he stayed as limp as a dead eel. Târak carried him for several minutes before unceremoniously dumping the living "corpse" in a dank tunnel, one filled in nearly a foot of water. Abârzadan kept his head under until he was sure that the guard was gone, whereupon he stood, gasping for breath. He couldn't see a thing, and had no means to make light. Then again, Târak hadn't finished yet...

* * * * *

Torch in hand, Abârzadan left Târak's unconcious form where it fell. The fire glared off the walls as he sloshed down the tunnel, attempting to keep the embers dry. Was the water rising? It was now above his knees. Turning a corner, the man's heart leaped as an incline appeared. The flooded passage was left behind, the torch was dropped, and a triumphant Numenorean pushed open a rusted grate, climbing up into the city of Armenelos.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Thoronmir's encounter with Herugor went unnoticed by Inzillomì, though seeing her husband slump to the floor did not. Just as she had positioned herself in the rear of the group, an arm had pulled her into shadows, hand blocking a scream that never would have escaped her lips even without it. The moment she was released she turned, hands ready to find purchase. The figure was Târik. She did not untense.

"My lady," he murmered quickly, bowing deep. "I was fooled. It seems that I have been... watched. But if I may," his speech was even faster, though still quite clear and quiet. "there is a way to escape, if you will trust me."

Inzillomì did not hesitate to tell him in no uncertain terms that to trust in a man who wore the uniform of the enemy, who had already once led them astray, and who no word had ever reached her well-informed ears of, was folly that not even their desperate group could fall to, most especially in such a tricky situation.

However as she spoke and as the situation became ever more dangerous outside of the shadows, something in the young man's eyes spoke to her of his intentions. Before he could respond to her quiet tirade, she lay a hand on his arm and nodded. Unquestionable relief lit his features at her consent, and ascertained her decision; she slid from the shadows with one upraised finger to him; just one moment.

She laid a hand invisible to the rest on Azarmanô's lower back. She felt him tense before she whispered to him. Her voice calmed him and he was able to keep attention on the scene before him. "I have found escape. Please take my husband and follow on my call." She felt rather than heard him agree, the stakes being too high for him not to, before moving on to Thoronmir, repeating the process with a request for him to release Marsillion. In her black gown, dirty though it was, she moved through the shadowed place unnoticed. She doubted any knew of her presence save her companions. The flickering torchlight was certainly not enough to illuminate her. She did not see Abarzadan and could not tell if he was present.

"Now!" she called, ducking into shadow once more. Thoronmir attacked Marsillion's guards ferociously, securing his release in a matter of seconds. He kept guard as Marsillion cut Kâthaanî free, and Tiru. Azarmanô retrieved the unconscious Abârpânarú, slinging him unceremoniously, though admittedly carefully, over his shoulder. Inzillomì stepped from the shadows once more, beckoning, and the group followed, Thoronmir last, moving backward, with his sword sweeping. No archers had appeared, quite thankfully, and he was able to hold off the few guards that attempted to follow Herugor's shrieked orders.

Târik whispered in Inzillomì's ear. "This way, lady." She took the hand of her daughter and followed, trusting that her companions would be immediately behind. Within seconds, the group had disappeared into a hole in the shadows. A nearly inaudible sliding signified the way being closed behind them. Târik reappeared by her side with a single lit torch and led them hurriedly down, ever down. The pathway was damp, cold, and turning. He passed paths on both sides, following an unpredictable route to an unknown destination. The only sound was that of footsteps. The ground shook slightly, reminding them of the unsafe nature of their escape route. To be caught underground as the earth shook itself free of tension... they thrust the thoughts from their minds, though not entirely. Though none spoke, the weight of the air laid heavily on them all.

With a final left turn, the light suddenly spread. Where before it was limited to a passage perhaps four feet across and eight high, the torchlight flared into a space large enough for the group to halt all together. A figure in a dark cloak stood shadowed before them, looking to the floor. A larger figure, also cloaked, stood two steps behind, seeming to loom in the tricky illumination. The party halted, the men reaching for what weapons they carried.

Târik stepped forward with a deep bow, standing aside with a waved gesture toward the group. Thoronmir stepped toward Târik, anger in his eyes. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, mercy absent from his gaze. A stranger's voice pierced the moment.

The first cloaked figure spoke with a voice both melodious, low, and fair. "That is quite enough. Do you not believe the peril of the Faithful to be great enough without turning upon your allies?" Inzillomì looked at Târik with a deep respect and not a little surprise before curtsying deeply before the lady, Tar Miriel. The group responded similarly, though a step behind, save for Azarmanô, whose load did not quite warrant a full bow, though his nod conveyed the same respect. "Faithful Târik, would you?" she asked cryptically, and he nodded, giving his light away to the now unthreatening Thoronmir and disappearing from view. "He leaves to retrieve your mounts." she nodded to Inzillomì. "There is time, though not much. You are safe here, for now. Rest. My lady, would you please honor me with a private moment?"

Inzillomì nodded reassuringly to her daughter, releasing her hand for the first time since she had first grasped it. The group relaxed slightly, Azarmanô carefully laying Abârpânarú upon a blanket that Tiru spread upon the cold floor. They spoke quietly amongst themselves as the women disappeared into shadow. The second figure had disappeared, and the men worried of him, but accepted Inzillomì's leadership.

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The shadows seemed comforting rather than suffocating as Inzillomì followed Miriel out of sight. Though they had never met, Abârpânarú had spoken to Miriel many times of his wife. Inzillomì knew that Abârpânarú had had a history with the great woman, and that he loved her dearly, but also that he loved Inzi more than life itself. She examined her feelings as she walked in silence. She had considered what this meeting would be before, were it ever to occur, but she had always seen her husband present, as well as, she must admit, lighter circumstances surrounding it. She had believed that she would feel jealous, perhaps... uncertain of the situation. Now, she simply felt relieved that she could relax her authority for a time. She felt an inexplicable bond to this fascinating woman. They halted, black garb swirling about their feet at the sudden stop. They even looked somewhat alike, clad darkly, though in the pitch dark of the passage, they could not see each other.

Miriel took Inzillomì's hand in her own. "I only wish this meeting could have taken place under different circumstances. I have seen you many times, though we were never introduced." Inzillomì nodded, understanding completely.

"My lady," she asked quietly. "I thank you for your aid. But why do we tarry? Though I have long desired to make your acquaintance, the very earth tells me that we do not have long." Miriel understood her as the ground shook once more.

"It is because of this." From the depths of her robes, Miriel produced a heavy object wrapped in black silks. Inzillomì took it, surprised at the weight. "Though I desired to meet you before... now... the time has come when it could no longer be delayed. You know as well as I that our fair lands shall not... the Valar are angry, and with reason. Your father Elendil awaits you at Romenna."

Inzillomì understood. She could feel the tremors deep in her heart, even without feeling them through her body.

Miriel spoke once more, quickly now. "I give to you a palantir." Inzillomì's sharp intake of breath punctuated the statement. "I have long hidden it from the king... it mustn't be lost to the world. I entrust you with this, Inzillomì Elendili, wife of he that I love. Will you take this burden and guard it, accompanying it to the safety of Middle Earth? I would have given it to Mabalar... however he is otherwise occupied." Sensing the question, Miriel explained quickly. "He is alive, and he is well. I have provided him with time. The dark lord prefers his victims awake and in good health when the torture begins." She spat the last words with hatred. "With Mabalar unconscious, he would not be able to respond to pain. He will awaken in some hours."

Inzillomì turned this new responsibility over in her mind. "Great lady, have no fear. I will not leave this fair isle without what you have entrusted me with stewardship of."

"Then we must return before your menfolk become over-anxious to discover our maidenly secrets, no?" Inzillomì laughed at this, tucking the palantir into a deep pocket and taking Miriel's hand once more.

"Will you not sail with us? You could be saved from the doom of Numenor--"

Miriel interrupted her softly. "Nay, lady. It is not my doom. I shall remain. Come."

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The men looked up from their quiet discussion as the women returned to the room.

"Come." spoke Inzillomì. "We must depart." She looked expectantly at Miriel, once again illuminated by torchlight. The great lady beckoned from the shadows the other figure that had seemed to disappear before. He pushed his hood from his face, revealing to Azarmanô the face of the shopkeep that had observed his charade as a guard.

"Moizandû will lead you from this place."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô had never before met this Tar Miriel, but Inzillomí seemed to trust her, and that was good enough for him. He sensed that Inzillomí and the stranger had some previous connections, but he did not dare ask what these were. During the time the two talked in private, Azarmanô grew increasingly suspicious that something of great importance was about to take place, but his honor forbade him from intruding into their private matter. He trusted that if Inzillomí wanted him to know, she would tell him later. Azarmanô repeated Inzillomí’s request to Tar Miriel to join the party and escape what must be certain death, but she refused politely once more. She felt her destiny to be intertwined with that of her land, like a captain who stays behind on his sinking ship.

Azarmanô too felt great pain to be parted so abruptly with his beloved island. Although his head knew that Numenor would soon perish, his heart could not imagine this to be so. Numenor had always been dear to him, but never had this attachment been stronger than now at the moment of its destruction. Despite this, Azarmano knew he could not remain on the island like Miriel and abandon his wife and son. The pain of losing his homeland was great, but the agony of losing his loved ones would have been greater. Even if he lost every physical possession he had, he could continue living if he was with family. Without them, life would be near unbearable.

Lost in is his own thoughts, Azarmanô took a moment to look up and examine the man leading the expedition. He had heard Miriel call him Moizandû. The man’s bright red hair and beard streaked with white seemed familiar to him. Azarmanô felt sure that he had seen this man’s face before, although his name seemed foreign. After several moments, he finally remembered these features belonged to the stoic shopkeeper who had seen Inzillomí being harassed by the crowd on the party’s way into the dungeon. Azarmanô wondered who this mysterious ally was, but knew that they would not have the time to become better acquainted now- later perhaps, if they were fortunate enough to survive.

The underground tunnel rumbled as more rocks fell from the sides of the cavernous walls. How long did they have before the island was underwater? Would the sinking come quickly or slowly? Azarmanô longed to know the answers to the questions that plagued him, but realized that no mortal could possibly know such things. Their only hope was to get off the island as speedily as they could and pray that it was enough. The passageway wound forward, and still no one in the party said a single word. In the distance, Azarmanô glimped a small patch of moonlight that made his heart stir. The end of the tunnel was near and soon they would be out of Sauron’s foul dungeon. Miriel had not led them astray.

As he inched slowly towards the opening, with the weight of Arabapanu slumped on his shoulders and Inzillomí following close behind, Azarmanô pleaded to his unconscious companion, “Cling tight my friend. Soon we will all be safe and aboard Elendil’s ships in Rómenna. We need only reach them before time runs out.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Târik wove between scurrying guards to where he knew the kariborim of the prisoners to be located. He drew as little attention to himself as possible, striding swiftly as he clutched an officially sealed scroll with the appearance of a man following orders and with no time to tarry. He was not stopped. Though a handful of his superiors knew Târik's Faithful attitude, they were few, and his fellow guards were entirely unaware that he was very unfavored at this time.

The smell of old blood and fear-sweat mingled with the sweet scent of hay. A piercing whinny cut through the air as a painful crack echoed through the halls. Târik moved faster, dreading what scene he would discover. He turned the customary corner to find several of the King's Men surrounding the most enchanting piece of horse-flesh he had ever laid eyes on. Her gleaming coat was flecked with blood. She reared high, kicking out with her hooves. One guard was unlucky enough to meet with one. The flailing leg connected solidly with his shoulder and he flew into a wall. A whip cracked through the air, landing another hit on her flank. Târik stepped forward angrily, pulling the whip from the foolish guard.

"Fool!" he snapped, cracking the whip expertly within inches of the man's feet. "The lord Sauron does not command those such as you to do these things. Do you not see the majesty of this beast? Her gleaming flesh is not yours to corrupt, nor is her temperment yours to break to will." He turned to the rest of the guards, still bearing bloodstained whips, though looking properly cowed. The mare had come once more to earth, breathing heavily and glancing about wildly in anger. "Where have you put the rest of the prisoners' kariborim?" he demanded. "Sauron requires them, and it is you who will answer when he requires an explanation to this beasts injuries."

The guards looked at once fearful and stepped back from the horse. Târik grapsed her by the halter, covertly caressing her with his fingers beneath the leather. She calmed slightly at his touch as Târik followed the beckoning guard. Within a short time, Târik led a line of horses through the maze-like dungeons. Within moments, he had taken a subtly wrong turn and led the beasts to the open air of a rarely used ally way. Eyes alert, Târik guided the clever beasts through the mysteriously silent back ways.

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Herugor had channeled his frustration at the loss of so many valuable prisoners by stabbing a handsome young guard, freshly married and much in love, through the heart. As he withdrew his long sword from the warm corpse, he glanced about. Silently, he motioned. At once, two dozen guards were surrounding him. He turned with a swish of his cloak and they followed through the darkest tunnels, footsteps echoing menacingly.

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Inzillomì walked several paces behind Moizandû. Her steps never faltered, though her eyes often strayed to her husband, still carried by Azarmanô, and her daughter, still mysteriously silent. As they reached the open air, she breathed a sigh of relief. The palantir was heavy in her robes.

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Herugor stalked silently through the empty streets. Where moments before, the city had bustled, the ebony clad warriors of the king, following the sallow faced man caused terror that not even those living near the endless screams of the dungeons could ignore.

The sun was blotted by black clouds as the ground trembled. Wind picked at the men's cloaks as they moved, heavily armed and in formation, through the city. Herugor did not once glance behind him or hesitate as he pointed black-gloved fingers to direct his troops. Silent as their leader, the men moved into place, carefully surrounding a non-descript stairwell, long since abandoned.

They drew their weapons and waited.

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Târik hesitated before rounding the last corner. The hoofbeats of the kariborim had been muffled by the hissing winds that raced along the streets of the city. He glanced toward the stairwell that Moizandû was to have led the Faithful to. Two dozen armed guards lay in wait.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Although the scene was quiet as Moizandu led the party out of the cave and onto the streets of the city, the instant the group emerged, a barrage of arrows reigned down on their heads. The rescuers were badly outnumbered. Azarmanô whirled around frantically searching for the source of the attack. He glimpsed a large gathering of guards with weapons drawn waiting for them not twenty feet away. These men must have known we would be using this underground exit, Azarmano grimly reflected. Hastily drawing his bow, he let loose an arrow that found its mark full in the chest of one of the bowmen attacking in the front line. Firing his bow presented more of a problem because he was toting an injured comrade on his back, but he managed nonetheless. As the guards drew their swords and charged towards the rescuers in a great throng, Abarzadan unleashed his axe. Azarmanô had no time to think about the uneven numbers or the likelihood of survival; there was only time to attack.

Lunging to the left to dodge a blade that slashed down mere inches from his head, Azarmanô hit one assailant squarely in the stomach with his own sword, only to find another standing behind him. Just to his right, Azarman could see that Thoronmir had unsheathed his rapier and was preparing for the onslaught. Amidst the chaos of battle, Azarmano detected a faint whinney coming from a short distance. Behind the soldiers he saw the same guard who had told them the location of Arabapanu’s cell. To Azarmanô ’s amazement and relief, four kariborim stood at his side. He had not seen the horses since before they had entered the city, but he could not imagine a better time for them to make an appearance. Before Azarmanô or the others could gesture or call the horses forward, the steeds had trotted over to the Faithful, trampling aside the battling guards. One of the horses walked straight towards Abarpanaru and nudged the unconscious man with his muzzle, as though he was trying to arouse him from sleep. Battling off the guards with his axe, Azarmanô sprang onto the back of this horse, urging the others to find a mount and do the same. Fighting on horseback would not only give the men a physical edge against their enemies, but instill a feeling of confidence, something which could be even more important than numbers or weapons in determining the outcome of a fight.

Now astride the kariborim, the rescuers intensified their blows. Azarmanô unleashed one arrow after another into the throng of guards, but the fighting never seemed to slow. Even with the advantage of the horses, the outcome of the battle was uncertain. Azarmanô stole a glance at Inzillomi, concerned for the woman's safety, but found her atop a karibor deflecting attacks with her steel fan and occasionally hurling a knife at an unsuspecting soldier. I’ll say one thing for her, he thought, she handles herself well when things get tough.

The mysterious Târik joined the fighting on the side of the Faithful, wielding his long sword deftly against the crowd of combatants. Azarmanô had not expected help of any kind and was delighted to see the man come to their aid. Almost instantly, however, four guards formed a tight circle around Târik as he tried frantically to ward his attackers off. Azarmanô saw Târik’s distress and fired several arrows in the direction of his assailants, but he could not get through to the man, even on horseback. Soon, it was too late. One of the guards fell to Azarmanô 's arrow; the rest continued their relentless attack. Azarmanô watched in horror as Târik’s head was sliced off and rolled to the ground. Enraged and frustrated, Azarmanô drew his bow again in quick succession and watched the three men fall as arrows penetrated their backs and necks. At that same instant, Azarmanô’s horse veered to one side and stumbled as one of the soldiers took a swing at its leg. The beast quickly recovered its footing but not before Abarpanaru slipped off the horse's back and landed with a thud on the ground.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke painfully and winced. It was day, though the clouds threatened rain. Or were those arrows? Plenty of both, apparently. Mabalar squinted about him and saw that he was in immediate danger of being trampled unless he got to his feet. His hands were chained still, but with no wall hampering their movement, they would make a fine makeshift flail. He rose, in the middle of a melee. Nearby were Azarmanô, Inzillomì, Thoronmir, Marsillion, Kâthaanî, Tirú, Moizandû, and another he did not recognize. They were surrounded by soldiers in the garb of the treasonous king. All this Mabalar saw in a moment. There was no time for questions, though many flew into his mind, not least of which what were his wife and daughter doing in the midst of a melee just outside the Temple of Sauron, so he set them aside and made use of his only weapon.

An arrow wielding guard did not expect such an attack against him, and found his bow and arrow entangled and useless. In a moment his hands fell useless, an arrow from Azarmanó lodged in his eye.

The leader of the guards was screaming orders from behind them. Mabalar did not recognize the man, but was happy with one thing he was saying: do not harm the horses. Well enough. However, more guards came to replace those that had already fallen. This would not do. They would be overcome later if not sooner.

"We must ride!" Mabalar yelled. "Mount the Kariborim, they will hold us!"

Mabalar was convinced that it was a futile attempt and that they were seeing their last day.

"Abârpânarú!" came a cry. It was Moizandú, who was making his way to him as he could through the melee.

"Good greeting, friend!" Though the situation was ill. Moizandú grinned.

"I shall pay my debt to you! Flee while you may and I will draw their aim!"

"But you will die!"

"My life has not been ill spent, neither will my death! Go!"