Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[piosenniel]

The Perky Ent's post

Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree

Telumehtar thought over the words, while he surveyed his lands. The view was always nice from the seventh tier of Minas Anor. With the wind blowing his brown hair across his brow, he could see lands his fathers had defended hundreds of years ago. Many times in the passing days had Telumehtar considered his heritage. When times of great trouble came, he would walk to the edge, and contemplate his actions. During this time, none were allowed to walk the level, except for the guards constantly stationed by the tree. It was in this hour that Telumehtar looked long and hard across his land, watching his troops muster at the port of Harlond. In the deepest part of his heart, Telumehtar wished he was a lone sailor of the sea, for Telumehtar was a mariner at heart.

It was a quiet day. The citizens of Minas Anor had been dreading the day for quiet some time after they heard that they would go to war. In homes, families were close and savored the time they had. Each day, Gondorians could see ships on the horizon, heading from far off lands. From Cair Andros to Dol Amroth, men had gathered to answer the call of war. Unlike tales of heroism and courage, the men of Gondor did not treat the Corsairs of Umbar like mindless orcs. Corsairs were a powerful force that required constant vigilance to be held back. Being pirates, they held no loyalty to any save themselves. But the pirates were not what scared the Gondorians, for they gave little heed to mindless brigands. It was the Black Numenorians, those corrupted by Sauron during the second age, that instilled fear in the very heart of Gondor. Just like the dunedain of Arnor, their numbers were rapidly decreasing, yet the remained the strength that their master had taught them long ago.

After meditating for quite some time, Telumehtar gave a sigh, and turned from the pinnacle. When he was a boy, his father would sing him songs of the Kings of Men, and their tree that stood on their island. It was from the story of the Akallabêth that Telumehtar learned to revere the sea and its power. But he was not meant to follow his hearts desire, as he was a descendant of the great kings of Gondor, and his fate was bound from his inception. When he turned his eyes to the White Tree, a sense of calm overtook him. Even after over a century of viewing it, the White Tree of Gondor was a sight. The sun’s light glistened on its branches perfectly, emanating beauty in its most radiant form. Telumehtar dared not touch it, a fear that he had held ever since he saw the death of the tree. “This is not a time for sorrow, for death smiles at us all.” Telumehtar said to himself as he walked away from the tree and smiled. “And all we can do about it is smile back”. He turned from the outdoors, and walked to his throne.

It was silent in his hall. The arrangements had been laid, precautions set, and edits degreed. The quiet was almost haunting, and it was for this that Telumehtar was glad when he heard whispers from behind him. Two men walked out from behind him, swords drawn. Without even registering the faces of the men, Telumehtar leaped from his throne and unsheathed his sword. In front of him, Telumehtar found none other than the Steward of Gondor, and his son Narmacil.

“Relax father. We are not here to usurp your authority.” Giving a slight chuckle, the steward added “Nay. In fact, we are here to make sure you are ready for the usurpers. Your son wanted to make sure you would stay on your toes. “Giving a cross look, Telumehtar slowly put his sword away. “When have I not been on my guard? Are you ready for my departure? As you should know, I am not much for goodbyes.” Narmacil nodded, and started to walk out of the hall. “I’ll have you know-“the steward interjected “That Arciryas sends his father his best wishes. Rest assured that he is safe in Annuminas. And I as well. I shall await your homecoming”. And with that, the steward and the heir left the room, and left Telumehtar to silence.

Telumehtar took a final look at his hall, and then marched slowly down the levels of the city. As he walked, groups of women and children parted to a side, creating a clear-cut path. One by one the gates of Minas Anor opened, until Telumehtar found himself upon the second level. Taking a right at a forked path, Telumehtar walked over to a large building with smoke billowing through its windows. Telumehtar opened the doors, and watched as all the men in the room bowed their heads. “Is it time my lord?” a man in the front said to the king, raising his head. Telumehtar gave a slow nod, and all the men watched as the king walked to the center of the large room. Along the walls, weapons and armor were laid, and golden tapestries of battles were hung from the ceilings. Telumehtar was presented with his armor, which had laid in the building for many years. Slowly but strongly, Telumehtar equipped his gear and left the building. Mindorlonn, Telumehtar’s chestnut horse, was waiting for his master outside the armoury.

Fixing the crown upon his head, Telumehtar rode to the gates of Minas Anor. Standing in front of an open gate, Telumehtar found a large group of mounted men waiting outside the city. Inside, a large cluster of people had gathered in a circle, engulfing Telumehtar within the entrance. Sweat started to pour down his face as Telumehtar started to cloister himself from his people. His horse, knowing him all too well, started to buck, bringing Telumehtar away from his claustrophobia. There, Telumehtar shouted, “People of Gondor! Fear not! The blood of Numenor shall be spilt this day, but it shall run black like their hearts! The corsairs will plague you no longer! For glory and Gondor we ride!” And with Minas Anor roaring in triumph behind him, Telumehtar grabbed Mindorlonn’s reins, and rode out to Harlond.

Quickly Telumehtar came to the port, and found it filled with ships and men. Throughout the port, Telumehtar spied flags from all distant lands of Gondor. Telumehtar started taking a mental note in his head of the lands that had come to his call. “Dol Amroth, Anfalas, Lossarnach, Morthond, Pinnath Gelin. Good, good, good! We are almost ready to make war. Now if only I could find - “You rang? Do not think I would not be here before you left!” came a voice from behind Telumehtar. “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

It was with great impatience that Menelcar had awaited Telumehtar’s arrival. His impatience was not with the king himself, precisely, but he had been at the harbor since early that morning overseeing the muster and organization of the troops while the king took care of last minute preparations inside the city. He cared for this part of his job the least, for he disliked, nay, despised, dealing with people. This sentiment only compounded with so many people needing instructions at the same time. He had to direct the many captains to the ships that would transport them, as well as answer any questions that they or the ships’ captains might have. The job was necessary but tedious, and Menelcar had long since wearied of it. His mount, a restive bay stallion, seemed to concur.

The king’s arrival heartened Menelcar greatly; it meant they would be departing soon, and he would no longer be plagued by the many questions and problems of the soldiers. He nudged the horse forward to meet the king, threading his way through the busy harbor as quickly as he could manage. However, he was interrupted before he could get very far by yet another inquisitive captain; his uniform proclaimed him to be from Dol Amroth.

“Yes?” asked Menelcar curtly.

“I am Captain Baranor, out of Dol Amroth,” said the man, clearly unsure of how to take his brusque manner. “It seems that we brought a few more men than we had originally estimated; our assigned ships will be loaded full and there are still about twenty more men than the ships’ captains say that the boats will safely hold.”

Menelcar barely stifled an irritated sigh and dug out of his pocket the little book in which he was keeping the details of the attack. He scanned the ship assignments and wrote a note of the captain’s situation. “There should be some extra space with the soldiers from Anfalas. If not, check with those from Morthond. Do so quickly; we will be departing soon now that the king has arrived.”

“Thank you, milord,” said the captain with a salute. Menelcar paid no heed; he had already begun to ride off, scanning the harbor for Telumehtar, whom he had lost sight of while speaking with the captain. The king would be looking for him by now, no doubt. The soldiers milling about had parted to let the king pass through, and Menelcar took advantage of the more open space, nudging his horse into a dignified canter to catch up. The stallion took the extra rein eagerly after having stood around for so long.

“You were looking for me?” asked Menelcar as he drew even with Telumehtar. “Do not think I would not be here before you left!”

Telumehtar turned in recognition of the voice: “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

“I should hope you know where your kingdom is by now,” commented Menelcar, smiling in spite of himself. “As for the rest of it, many of the soldiers are already aboard their ships. These rest ought to know where they’re heading by now, or their captains do.” Quickly he outlined the organization of the soldiers – where the units from the various regions of Gondor were situated and so on. “We will be traveling in that ship, there-” Menelcar pointed to a fine ship a short way down the harbor. “I have spoken with the captain of the ship; he seemed very eager to make sure all was in line for your arrival,” he added with a hint of contempt. The captain had spoken with him several times that day, to the point of being bothersome. “It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.”

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Folwren's post

Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor.

Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days.

The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’

‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’

In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long.

Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him.

‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

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Alcarillo's post

Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon.

He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early.

"Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships."

"Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier.

"The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

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Kath's post

Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up.

He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk.

“Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!”

And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter.

“Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end.

“Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!”

“If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation.

Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of.

They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in.

“Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!”

Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed.

“Another time, perhaps”

“When we come back,” answered Lingwë.

They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

[piosenniel]

Thinlómien's post

As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see?

He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said.

At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him.

Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship.

"We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out.
"Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.