Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

His brother, he noted, had gone off to speak with Lindir. The man looked pale and disconcerted as he sat on the grass, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on his close stowed pack . . . almost, it seemed, in a protective way. What’s this? he wondered to himself. ‘Lindir looks as if he’s seen some ghost. Some unpleasant ghost, too, by the looks of it,’ Endamir murmured aloud.

Lómwë was standing near him, taking in the little tableaux. He was hardly winded from the climb, Endamir had observed when he’d reached the top at last. His gaze swept over the man’s lithely muscled form. Kept himself in good shape, I see, there among the golden trees. Unlike yourself . . . he chided himself mentally. Endamir shook his head at the image of himself, sitting comfortable in his chair in the great library of Imladris. And an assistant to fetch things to boot! What a lazy git you are!

Tasa’s question disturbed his further remonstrance of past folly.

‘Does anybody," she put forth quietly, ‘feel as unwelcome here as I?’

Malris’ reply fell into the anticipating silence that had gathered about the plateau.

‘Not entirely," he said finally. ‘I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers.’

And was greeted with a rising wind that whipped about the companions, ringing them in like a noose. Endamir pulled his cloak from his pack and drawing it about him, huddled in closer to the others. From the corner of his eye, in the space between light and shadow that gathered near a tumble of rocks he thought he saw something pass. It was gone as he looked more closely. ‘Some trick of the wind and the dust it stirs,’ he said, talking aloud to himself. He frowned, feeling disquieted.

‘What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories.’ He shivered in the folds of his cloak. ‘Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .’

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat -- The Orc Sentinel

Bazhrat the Skullcrusher drew deep into the shadows of the rocky outcropping, his ears straining to hear what the foul Elves were saying. ‘The Dark Lord take those sneaking, murdering Elves!’ he cursed, wrinkling his nose up at the perceived foul odor. ‘And gouge out eyes, first, of that nosy-parker!’ The Orc peered out from his dark hiding place and glared at Endamir.

Good thing none of the other Orcs assigned to watch for intruders from this side of the island were about. Sure enough one of those big-mouthed kiss-rumps would be telling the Cap’n how the stupid Bazhrat had managed to let himself be noticed. Bazhrat cackled crazily, a sudden thought caroming through the dim corridors of his mind. ‘Don’t really matter, does it?’ he crooned, rocking back and forth on his haunches. ‘Can’t kill old Skullcrusher, can he now? Already dead!!’ The thought sent him howling with maniacal laughter.

It pulsed and echoed through the wind that had sprung up around the Elven companions.

The Orc look guiltily around, wondering if the snoopy Elf suspected the sound and whatever he’d seen were somehow connected. ‘Put a lid on it, Bazhrat,' the Orc admonished himself. ‘Best we be getting back and saying what we spied out.’

Like a fine mist, the Orc drifted out from his hiding place and sped quickly from shadow to shadow back toward the place just outside the fortress’ old wooden gate where the Captain and his ever restless crew had stationed themselves.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë drew his grey-green cloak close about him, trying to block out the chill, hostile wind. The cloak, being of fine Lórien make, usually blocked out all but the sharpest and dampest winds, but now it was as if this breeze cut straight to him. Perhaps it was because the chill was not so much a physical as much an unearthly chill, one that seemed to gnaw at the corners of his mind and heart as well as his body.

“What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories. Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .”

“This place does not even feel like home to me,” said Lómwë flatly. “Not even a home in the hands of strangers, or even murderous strangers.” His eyes turned westward, where, were his view not obscured, he knew he would see naught but ocean stretching out where fair Beleriand once had lay, where his home had been. Himling… had been a fortress, a stronghold. But home – that had been little less than a day’s journey from here, in his small home with his wife and son. Home had been a place filled with love and warmth, and peace, however temporary and fleeting. Peace that was long gone, sunken beneath the waves like his home. This place held no warmth, no welcoming embrace. It had only ghosts – both of the memory and in reality – hostile ghosts, inhabiting even the rocks and the wind, as Endamir had said.

“Certainly, this place bears memories . . . many of them happy, though more of them sad. I remember Himring as it was – but no such place is this now. This is nothing but a cold, forbidding shell of the fortress it once was. Whatever – or whoever – inhabits this island now is not living, and I feel no welcome from them.” As he finished those words, a new wind whistled in their ears, seeming to carry the sound of harsh laughter. Lómwë shivered involuntarily. There seemed to be a mist about the mountain top, despite the sun shining overhead. “But welcoming or not, I think we have too much invested in this venture, too much of a purpose, to turn aside now. We should go forth warily, I think - we’ve been lucky so far; there’s no saying whether this luck, if luck it is, will continue . . .”

Lómwë looked up the rise to where the fortress had once stood, a short, easy hike away. Little remained . . . and yet, with a sudden flash of memory, Lómwë could see the fair city as it once had been. He felt a sudden desire as he had never felt in many long years to climb upon those high battlements and gaze out at the lands about him, to feel free and yet in control, to have only small concerns easily looked after. He wanted to recapture those last years of the Watchful Peace, to go back and experience them indefinitely.

Then the vision faded, leaving Lómwë feeling sick and empty inside.

[piosenniel]

‘What purpose is that, Lómwë?’ The question spilled from Endamir’s lips without thinking. He scuffed the toe of his right boot in the thin layer of dirt, tracing a faint spiral that coiled and recoiled upon itself. ‘For my part, I must say I’m beginning to lose what enthusiasm I had for this venture. I cannot think anymore the past will lay itself to rest when I’ve clapped eyes on old haunts of mine or set foot upon familiar places.’ With a certain deliberateness, he scuffed out the design he’d made. ‘And now I think further on it, the past will not suffer my tears, either. The burden of my former deeds will not diminish were I to weep as many drops as fills this unrelenting sea.’ He chewed the inner corner of his lip, looking up to cast his gaze out over the waters. ‘The journey, so far, has at least been good for this discovery.’ Endamir glanced back at Lómwë, his grey eyes narrowed as he peered toward the man in a thoughtful manner.

‘And now even my other pretexts for being here seem falsely reasoned.’ He nodded toward Malris as he sat talking to Tasa, the long gold of her hair mingling with his short dark locks as her head bent near his, sharing some thought. ‘He has no need of me. Nor I of him. Our bond has dissolved. Gone to ash. Even now the winds that stir here blow those frail ties away.’

Endamir bent down and picked up a pebble from the rocky ground. ‘And this old place . . .’ he went on, skipping the shard across a short, dusty area. His eyes flicked up dismissively to where the crumbling fortress stood in the distance. ‘Its glories fade more with each step my feet take. The memories of it retreat into ashes, too . . .’

He stepped back from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken. What had stirred them so deeply and in so ill a manner? ‘Your pardon, Lómwë,’ he said looking at his companion. ‘I had not meant to weigh you down with such burdensome maunderings. Who am I to question your purpose? You have your own needs to consider without taking on the onus of mine.’

In the distance, Endamir could hear the waters of the sea washing relentlessly up on the rocky strand below and the soft . . . whishhh . . . of the retreating foam as it drew back out again.

Brother! he called to Orëmir. You were right. I should have listened to your counsel . . . I . . .

[Envinyatar]

‘What fell wind is this that brings such a chill and leaves a lingering despair?’ Orëmir considered Lindir with a deep concern. Deny as he might that he was ill, Lindir gave off the impression of one caught deeply in some old web. And one of his own making for the most part, Orëmir thought to himself. His friend’s eyes looked far off on some old scene and by his words it was not one he looked on gladly.

Brother! . . .

And now the urgent calling of his brother reached out for him, trailing off into an untypical confusion. In a few, quick strides he was at Endamir’s side, his hand coming up to rest against his brother’s cheek. Endamir’s eyes were unfocused, his gaze turned inward, so it seemed. You’re distressed; I can feel it. Tell me . . . what weighs so heavily on you? A tangle of thoughts came tumbling out. Unsure, rambling thoughts crafted with a sort of fearful, twisted logic.

‘Is it some malicious will sets itself against us?’ Endamir murmured as he sorted through his brother’s meanderings. ‘First Lindir and now Endamir have their minds set on some dark path!’ Orëmir looked furtively about, expecting to find something, he knew not what, that would explain this puzzle. There was nothing he could ferret out.

He drew his brother down, sitting close to him, an arm around Orëmir’s shoulders. He had no other medicine than that of his own supportive presence. No compound, no draught to drive out the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty that washed against him. He spoke reassuringly to his brother as the stream of conflicted thoughts ran on.

And one eye he kept fixed on Lindir who sat still where he had left him; his gaze far away, his hand moving idly over his pack as if to reassure himself it was still there . . .

[Anguirel]

While the stray wind carrying Bazhrat's laughter continued to gnaw on the company's minds, breeding fear, hesitation, and division, the not-so-stealthy scout was drifting on the breeze to an odd looking pile of rocks, far further down the hill and out of sight of the Elves. The stones were too peculiarly round to have all gathered there by chance or nature. It was in fact a cairn; it housed the leader of an Orc-band and most of his followers, and had been hurriedly erected by the few survivors of the party.

The Orcish cairn was the only one of its kind standing on the island. The other graves, equally eroded and crumbling, still held about them the dignity that told of Elvish craft; for no Orcs since had dared to bury their dead on Maedhros the Tall's domain. This one, too small and lumpen to be a source of attention, had been allowed to stand.

Of course, it "housed" the Orc-band in more ways than one. Thought these yrch were of no particular distinction in bodily life, as spirits their common residence made them a larger group of Coavalta than any of the other slain Orcs, who mainly dwelled in ones and twos. Thus this relatively unsucessful chieftain found himself "Captain" of all the scattered Orcish ghosts of Himring. This had swelled his arrogance and nurtured his anger.

Naturally, Captain Ghashthurk remembered his death. The one the Orcs called the Red Fury had sliced him throat to groin. The others, they had long memories too. They remembered swords, bright brands with hard names, and dark-headed smiths. Noldor, filthy Noldor, despised all the more because they were what each Orc longed to be.

And they remembered the object of their raid, oh yes. They remembered the tough little Dwarves, so pitifully few in number, a diplomatic mission; with their queer war-masks and their shining Helm.

And so when Bazhrat, one of the filthy scavenging loners Ghashthurk held sway over, had come limping sheepishly over to tell of six Elves, Noldor, led bythe same one Kragscurk had seen at night...the one who had carried Red Fury's standard...with others they remembered, a tall grim weaponsmith...and with the Helm...yes, no mistake about it...revenge had come for Ghashthurk's clan.

The twelve warriors (thirteen with Bazhrat added) soared out of their rough cairn, gripping spears that would leave no lasting bite, but only a taste of purest terror.

Terror. It had finished others before, Ghashthurk thought. It would finish this lot; and the Dragonhelm would be his forever more...

[Firefoot]

After a moment, Lómwë too sat down across from Endamir and Orëmir. Still dwelling on Endamir’s words, he hardly noticed Orëmir’s presence. “Nay, Endamir, do not apologize. I have asked myself so many of the same questions and mused over the same thoughts. Were it just Malris holding me here, I should leave; he is as a stranger to me. No . . . but I can’t just leave . . . I have to finish it.

“I have no delusions that I can bring the past back, and yet every step I take in this place, every moment I spend here, it brings those memories of the past in to sharper relief - clearer to the memory and closer to the heart.” There came a haunted look into Lómwë’s eyes. “The old people and places, it’s like I can see them. My son, Aradol, and dear Ellothiel, oh Eru, Endamir, what I wouldn’t do to go back, or to have them still with me!” That did it for Lómwë; he couldn’t stop now. Never had he spoken in such a way of those two – ever. “I can’t forget the past, nor do I want to, though I’ve tried, how I’ve tried. Why did I go to Lórien, adopt their ways and style of dress? I haven’t really known it, not till now, but it’s all been an act, an attempt to escape the past. When thoughts get too close to home, I shut them away, refusing to let myself go there. I’m afraid of it, and afraid of this place: it’s present and it’s history. And since I can’t go back or bring the past forward, I have to face it. There’s no peace in hiding from the past.

“I guess that’s all I’m really looking for: peace. I’ve tried in so many ways, and I’m not sure that visiting this place is going to do it. But I’ve got to try.” Even as he spoke, another memory began to intrude upon his thoughts. War and fighting sounded in the distance, though Lómwë was not directly part of it for the time being. Homewards he headed, with all possible haste. . .

No. Not that one, Lómwë declared pleadingly, forcibly shoving it away. He knew that one . . . it had attempted to intrude upon his thoughts many a time in these long years. But he wouldn’t let it; it was too painful. “I’ve got to face the past,” he said miserably, “but I can’t. Not yet.”