Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Folwren]

‘What have you done?’ What kind of question was that? It sounded as though Skald thought he’d lit a fire and let the enemies know where they were. He hadn’t done anything against orders or rules.

‘Nothing!’ Bror replied, before he could stop himself. Skald’s question had surprised him. ‘Nothing serious, anyhow.’ He smiled suddenly at the thought. ‘Just experimenting with your beard, and taking advantage of your sleep. It’s the best time to do that sort of thing, when you’re sleeping. You take such particular care of that beard of yours, I thought you’d appreciate actually having something to deal with other than the normal routine.’

He gave a short laugh as he finished. He knew perfectly well that Skald would have a fit with the mess in the morning. It wouldn’t be impossible to get the berry juice out, but it would be sticky and uncomfortable ordeal. No one could say that it wasn’t an excellently thought up prank.

But Skald was not agreeing. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t saying anything. Bror looked at him and tried to see his expression in the dark. It wasn’t like his brother to make no comment. Usually Skald was the first to say that a trick was good and well executed, but now he said nothing at all.

‘What’s wrong?’ Bror asked after a rather lengthy pause. ‘Surely Riv’s leaving hasn’t put you into such a depressed humor that you can’t even see the fun in something like this.’

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh didn’t think that Grimkul had slept at all before the camp was called to assemble for the attack. Grimkul climbed to his feet resentfully, moving off towards their pre-assigned area. Ulwakh followed along, taking delight in the darkness. They’d catch the Elven city by surprise, they would! Elves. The word carried every single bit of contempt that Ulwakh could associate with a word. He didn’t like Kharn, but Grimkul had been acting like a fool and an idiot and deserved at least some of the grief he had been given. But Elves.

Grimkul had all but forgotten about the Elves and the whole purpose of this campaign. He settled into his assigned position mechanically, giving Kharn a look of undisguised hatred as he passed, inspecting the ranks. And if Grimkul wasn’t smart enough to catch the subtleties, Ulwakh still noticed the evident aura of fear about Kharn.

All around them torches were being lit, displaying in all its perverted magnificence the awesome size of the army. Ulwakh didn’t care how big or fine the Elves thought their city was; it would be swallowed by the black horde.

The city soon drew into sight, temporarily distracting Grimkul from his absorption in how much he hated Kharn and reminding him how much he hated Elves. It gave him tremors of delight to think that they would destroy the Elvish city, kill its inhabitants, make them suffer.

Then there was a lull, quite a long one to Ulwakh’s mind, as the siege engines were assembled. Grimkul, thus aroused by the sight of the untouched Elvish city, took the opportunity to launch into a long tirade about how they’d all die, and when that failed he switched to grumbling about the long wait, his hunger (Ulwakh recalled that he had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day), and anything else that caught his attention.

When the siege finally was ready to begin, the pair found themselves stationed near one of the monstrous catapults, and for a while, Grimkul gleefully aided in loading the missiles and launching them, watching the flaming projectiles crash into the city. But after a while, he caught sight of Kharn overseeing the proceedings, and a plan began to form in Grimkul’s mind, a plan for Kharn’s destruction. After all, lots of Orcs died in battle…

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung's fists tightened about the reins of the battle chariot. The horses champed at the bit eager to be going forward. But it was not time for the forward assault to begin. For now, there was nothing more to do than send a few warning volleys towards the great city and keep an eye on the troops. The full heat of battle would only come after they had broken through the heavy stone walls and made a breach into the city. It was only a matter of time, and there was no need to be in a great rush. The heaviest barrage of artillery would probably start once the sun had climbed above the plain; the last of Lord Sauron's troops were still drawing up their forces in front of the Elvish city. A pleasant way for the residents to awaken, Ulrung mused with a smile.

With time to spare, Ulrung's thoughts ran back to the words of the Great Lord. So he wanted Ulrung to keep an eye on Glûtask? The Easterling would be most happy to oblige. Surely, the insolent Orc would make a mistake sometime during that long day, and Ulrung would be only to glad to rid himself of a miserable pest. There should also be time today to eliminate a few Elves from the face of Arda. The miserable whelps with their harp playing and cooing. thinking themselves so superior to men, were certainly not favorites of Ulrung. For now, however, he was happy to bide his time and keep an tight rein on his troops till the main attack would begin.

[Arry]

. . . see the fun . . . in something like this . . .

Skald had gone coldly quiet as Bror prattled on. ‘In something like this – what “something like this” are you talking about?’ Skald asked, trying to keep his tone even. ‘We’re not back under the mountain. Our lives aren’t going on as they normally do.’ He put his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes, hoping, he thought, that perhaps he could wake himself and find this all a dream.

‘This isn’t “fun”. There’s no place for “fun” here. We’re going into battle against the Dark Lord’s army. He has ten times ten times more warriors to launch against us than we have to hold him back.’ He gestured about in the dark. ‘Many of these Elves will be killed in this battle. Many in the city will already be dead by the time we arrive. And our little number . . . we will be lucky to lose less than half our companions.’

‘Did it occur to you that we may have seen Riv for the last time? Either by his death . . . yes, who can say if he and the others will get back safely. Or, by our own deaths . . .’

A sudden wave of weariness assailed him, both in body and spirit. ‘It will be a short night, Bror. We should try to get what rest we can. Put aside what resentment my words might conjure in you. There’s no room for it when we wake tomorrow. We’ll stand with our fellows, axes at the ready . . . and Aulë willing, live to see another day.’

He rubbed his beard, forgetting the presence of the sticky berry juice. Muttering a few choice imprecations, he stood up and took a few steps away from his bedroll. ‘Hand me the water skin, won’t you Bror?’ he asked, gesturing toward where it lay. ‘I’ve no wish to stick to my blankets tonight . . .’

[Amanaduial the archer]

In the comfortable merchants' quarter of the city, the houses still lay peaceful and still, their innards and inhabitants as yet undisturbed. Morning had barely broken, and the first tentative fingers of sunlight were just beginning to gently prod the birds out of their perches to chirp their morning song, a sleepy hail to the morning - a morning that, unbeknownest to the little birds, or to the inhabitants of the slumbering houses that they serendaded, would bring the very doom of the Mirdain.

Or maybe the birds did know. Who knows what news blows on the wind? But they did not yet scatter as Narisiel stirred slightly in her bed, turning onto her side and, as she did so, disturbing Sirithlonnior's arm, lazily sprawled as it was across her waist. For a moment, the weight and warmth of her flesh felt strange, almost unfamiliar - several weeks of the taut tension and petty arguements in the house of the smith and the soldier had meant that the desert of the bed had lain unbreached for some time, but last night, many walls had fallen - as she and Sirith had battled out their differences and their tension, the anger and frustration had eventually burnt itself out in the flame of, well, an almost disappointment - disappointment, that is, that they had not spoken of it sooner, that the distance could not be breached earlier, that their love had had to stand, waiting, at the side until finally, in the raging inferno of anger, it had won over. Strange, then, and yet at the same time it was as right and natural as breathing. The moment seemed almost frozen, only moving on by the lively changes in the birds' laughing song and by the gentle breathing of her husband, and Narisiel took a moment to cherish this suspended second: the birdsong, safe in her bed in the arms of the man she loved, his weight and warmth resting beside her, around her, reassuring. She sighed happily, closing her eyes and sinking back once again into the pillow, her arm draped lazily across his. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire, looking back with rhumey eyes into the past.

But maybe to sit old and grey by the fire was not what fate had planned in store for Narisiel Mirdain this morning.

As the first volley of stones hurled from the orcish catapults smashed into the elven buildings, although only a test to test the distance and angles needed, the stones that smashed through the long windows of Narisiel's window were more than enough to send the blacksmith leaping from where she lay with a yelp. It was as if the world, her peaceful world, had smashed open suddenly, waking her rudely from slumber as the panes of every window shattered inwards as the stones ricochetted into them. As the call came and a second catapult loosed its cargo into the city, Narisiel covered her ears, cowering back against her bed head. In a split second, she felt warm arms around her, a human shield embracing and shielding her as Sirithlonnior braced himself against whatever might enter; and she clung to her husband in the instinctive fear of an animal.

This time, however, the catapult fired its multitude of targets at another part of the city, and as her heart leaped in the split second of near silence that followed them, Narisiel was up and out of the bed, darting away from her husband's tight embrace as she ran to the closet at one side of the room, flinging it open and dragging out her husband's armour, which she almost threw at him where he sat, simply watching her. But there was not time for her to spend gazing at him in this second: the peace and quiet of but a few short moments ago had been dispersed, scattered to the wind, and something else had taken over: survival instinct. Grabbing her working clothes, Narisiel began to pull the shirt over her head, clumsily buttoning it with shaking fingers and dragging the leather waistcoat over it as she hastened down the steps from the master bedroom and down the corridor towards her son's room...

...where Artamir already sat awake, lacing up his long, leather boots. Clothed, wearing his armour, cloak sprawled across the bed, sword and helmet neatly ready beside him, the blade peeping out of the hilt at the top, ready checked... Narisiel froze in the doorway for a moment, staring at the figure on the bed, wondering who this efficient soldier who sat in place of her precious child was. Seeing his mother, half-dressed and framed in the doorway, Artamir finished his boots and stood up. Gracious, when did he get so tall, when did those lines define them so sharply across his bones, his face sharpen so handsomely? Narisiel felt tears in her eyes at the sight of this warrior who had once been a cherub-faced elven babe, and, as he stepped towards her, nodded hastily, turning away and dashing the moisture from her eyes as, with a few quick words to her son, she stumbled back to her bedroom. There, another warrior sat on the bed, again lacing up his boots, which he pulled decisively tightly as she reached him. Sirithlonnior turned towards his wife, moving stiffly due to the weight of the armour over tired limbs, then was almost knocked backwards as his wife suddenly grabbed him, embracing him tightly, fiercely, possessively. And for a moment, business and duty were allowed to subside, to ebb back, as Sirith softened and held his wife tightly back as she fought the tears in her eyes.

Finally disentangling herself from her husband’s arms, Narisiel rested back on her knees in front of him, taking a moment to calm herself, and to drink in everything about him: sight, touch, scent, the feel of her hands resting in hers. And as she did so, the sounds of battle and voiced, both panicked and commanding, reached her from outside, she reached a moment of clarity – her calm before the storm that would hit maybe. A self-inflicted storm… Rising fluidly from her knees, Narisiel stepped once more towards the closet and, carefully and precisely, she drew out not her workclothes, but a dress, practical dark blue, but underlined with red – simple, but striking, and with a balance of practicality, as far as was possible, and elegance.

“What are you doing?”

Sirith’s voice did not make Narisiel turn, admiring her dress held at arm length, her eyes glittering, a child having with a new and wonderful gift. For a moment, in fact, she did not move at all, until Sirith’s voice, tainted with urgency, prompted her to reply as he repeated himself. “Narisiel, what are you doing? You…you cannot be practical in such attire…please, Narisiel…”

Narisiel turned suddenly to face her husband as he pleaded with her to break this silence, and again she was struck by his perfection, the light from the shattered windows striking the side of his face, the image of an ancient knight, sword in his belt and helmet under his arm. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire…

“If today the city is to fall, we shall fall as we were always meant to, deep down,” she replied softly. “If I am to die, it shall be as I am: advisor to the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil, and the wife of the noblest Commander of that brave city’s army.”

Sirithlonnior gazed at his wife for a moment, then enfolded her once more in his arms, rocking her gently. Releasing her and stepping back, he cupped her face and wiped the still dry patches under her grey eyes, surprisingly gentle and tender, feather-touch of angel fingers clad for a celestial battle. “Today is not our dying day, Narisiel Mirdain, I feel it – I will come back for you.”

The words that echoed around the city, determined husbands to desolate wives: I will come back for you. But this spouse was not simply going to sit back and go gently into that good night as the catapults whistled against the white walls – for even as she pulled the dress on, doing the elaborate fastenings with a suddenly steady touch, even as her son and husband marched out together towards their battalions, her mind was always focused deadly sharp upon the blade that hung in her workshop. Terrible and beautiful, both of them.

[Folwren]

Bror could hardly believe what he was hearing. Of all the stuck up - hopeless ways to react! But he didn’t say anything as Skald went on his rampage. He took it like he would a lecture from Riv or from his father in years past - in perfect silence. Had Skald said anything that could have been attacked, Bror would have leaped on it. He didn’t, though, and Bror remained quiet.

When Riv was mentioned, Bror’s head dropped a little lower and his feelings of confusion and anger subsided. Yes, it had occurred to him that he would never see Riv again. But, like many other thoughts that had passed through his head that afternoon, he had been unwilling to face the idea of it. There hadn’t been enough time at their parting. There hadn’t been enough time for any proper decisions.

But all that was totally irrelevant to the present point. He lifted his head again and looked at Skald. ‘Put aside what resentment my words might conjure in you. There’s no room for it when we wake tomorrow,’ his older brother said as he finished. ‘We’ll stand with our fellows, axes at the ready . . . and Aulë willing, live to see another day.’

Bror opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as Skald began to get up. ‘Hand me the water skin, won’t you Bror?’ he said. ‘I’ve no wish to stick to my blankets tonight . . .’ Bror swallowed his bitter words and reached for the water Skald asked for. He stopped with it half extended.

‘Uh. . . Skald, it’s empty.’ He shook it. There were maybe a few drops left. He could almost feel his brother’s questioning glare in the dark. ‘I used it to wash my hands off.’ Skald drew his breath slowly. ‘I can find some more water,’ he said, hoping against hope that Skald wasn’t about to explode on him. ‘But look, Skald, it can’t possibly be as hopeless as you’ve put it out to be. What are you expecting? Until we meet this army that you’re talking about, we can’t just be a lifeless, boring group, can we? Worried about what’s going to happen when there’s no possible way we can change it.’

Quite simply, he didn’t understand what Skald was so upset about. Yes, he knew that in considerably little time they would be facing an army greater than he’d ever conceived before. He understood that they might never see Riv again. Elves and Dwarves would be killed. But right now, before anything had happened, really wasn’t the time to be jumping to conclusions and assuming things. Before the battle seemed to be the best time to make the best of it.

‘You don’t have any hope, do you?’ he asked quietly. Skald did not immediately answer and Bror didn’t give him much time. ‘An elf caught me at it. I think it was Lord Elrond - the captain addressed him as such, I think, when he came up. But he said that when this prank was finished, I should make full amends. He said nothing was stronger proof than the close heart and strong arm of a brother. . .’ he trailed off, wondering where he meant to go with this. ‘Don’t pull away. I don’t need you to tell me that there really isn’t any real hope left, or that we probably won’t be going back home like we said earlier today. Neither of us need it. We need to stay the same and bear through this like we used to do. That’s what I was trying to do when I squeezed the berries over you. At home, it would have been considered natural. I don’t see why it can’t be like that here.’ He stopped as something suddenly occurred to him. Only a momentary pause, and then he looked up. ‘Skald. . .you can’t take Riv’s place.’

[Arry]

‘. . . you can’t take Riv’s place.’

‘I think you’re probably right on that count,’ Skald said. ‘And here’s hoping I never have to try.’ He rolled from his blankets with a grunt as his stiff joints protested.

It was only a short way to where the Elves had left a cask of water for their new allies. Skald took a dipperful of water and bending over a bit, sluiced his sticky beard. A repeat was called for to get where the juice had seeped in deeply. When at last the hair felt free of stickiness, he ran his fingers through it, combing out the knots then shook the last of the water from it. With an economy of motion, Skald parted his beard and quickly braided it into two thick braids.

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he said nodding his head at Bror as he scooted back down between his blankets. ‘Prank time is over . . . for us . . . for now. I can’t stay the same like you want me to, not for all the jokes you might have up your sleeve. And, no . . . there isn’t much hope in me. Sorry if you need that, too. You’ll have to be the strong, hopeful Stonecut for now.’

He laid down, stuffing his rolled up cloak beneath his head, and stared up at the star filled sky. ‘Oh, there’ll be no problems when I swing my axe. Orc blood will flow deep round my boots.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes flicked briefly toward his brother. There was a feeling of such doom upon Skald and yet he knew Bror had no understanding of the depth of his despair.

Just as well . . . it will keep fear from him . . .

‘Come on . . . lay yourself down, brother mine,’ he said, reaching out to pat where Bror ahd laid out his blankets. ‘The night’s getting shorter.’ Skald rolled over on his side, his back to Bror.