Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Folwren]

'South, if you please,' the king said, stepping towards Captain Hereric.

Hereric glanced at King Telumehtar and bowed slightly before speaking. ‘South, sir,’ he repeated. ‘As soon as we are underway.’ He stepped to the rail. ‘Forimar - send the men up and make sail.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ his bosun replied, saluting him at the same time. He turned about, and called out the orders. The men on deck sprang to the ladders to obey. Calls were sent below deck and more sailors came up - some going to the windlass to bring up the anchors, and others to the ropes.

Within minutes, the ship swayed free of any bonds to the earth and her bow turned towards the open water under the skilled hands of the coxswain. Captain Hereric stood before the wheel and watched the Cuivië spring into action. He felt the slight, excited quiver in her joints as the sails filled with air and caught every ounce of wind that past them and he shared her joy. The last sail was loosed and the ropes at the bottom bound. Hereric lifted his face slightly and watched with piercing concentration as the crew finished setting the sails and came back down to the deck.

‘Bring her into the wind, Bregin,’ he said, turning his head a little to the side.

‘Aye, sir.’ The wheel turned and her head moved towards the South. The Cuivië sprang forward, like a dog having been kenneled for too long, and the water before her bowsprit flung up foam. Hereric smiled slightly and turned.

‘If your majesty will, I can show you your cabin,’ he said. The king’s eyes were tracing every sail and curve of the ship. Hereric admired the bright eagerness in them. ‘My lord...’ he said quietly.

‘Yes,’ Telumehtar said, lowering his gaze from the sails to the captain. ‘Show us.’ Hereric turned at once and led them down the steep stairs to the deck. He opened the door of the great cabin and stepped back to allow the king and his attendant to enter before him.

‘Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage.’ Hereric indicated towards the adjustments that had been made to the cabin. ‘I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby.’ A section had been walled off and the hammocks hung in such away to give both men the privacy that land men expected, but seamen never received. It took up half of the regular cabin and the remaining room was occupied with a small table, filled with neatly stacked papers, and two chairs. ‘It will do, I hope.’ He didn’t present it as a question, but as a closed statement. Satisfied or no, both the king and his counselor would have to make do.

[Eorl of Rohan]

Fever is a terrible illness in that it destroys both the body and the living mind. The inflicted is forced to re-live the most traumatic of his half-forgotten memories, hereto locked away by the unconscious mechanism of mind to prevent misery and madness. Often this process is painful not only for the victim, but for those who are tending him as well. However, like all things beneath heaven and on earth, even fever-induced hallucinations may be surmounted by violent emotions the like of which Ferethor held for Rakin…

He had been whimpering and tossing about restlessly before he came in. Ferethor’s sleep, broken now and then in moans and mutterings, was interrupted at that moment by a creak of the doorway and a voice that he thought he recognized… Could it be Rakin? Consciousness flickered in and out. He would be suicidal if he thought anyone had seen him like this, and when it was that man… Come on, at least sit up, say something, for Eru’s sake, to reveal any weakness of his… Ferethor curled into a shivering ball, the countenance deathly pale, his breathing weak and punctuated with wet coughs that soaked his sleeve with liquid blood. There was his name mentioned, wasn’t there? Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? It all made little sense to him. Overlapping all sounds and thoughts were the drip, drip, incessant drip of his blood, soaked up by the thirsty planks that thrived on pain and death and blood and… and… hate. A hard feeling, like a steel rod, and enough to jerk him to a brief awareness. The last sentence he caught was as follows – take him to my room. Everyone knew what that sentence meant, and for an instant Ferethor managed to capture a wisp of pity for Chakka. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, though. In his profession, there was no room for anything other than the primal instinct of survival. Those who couldn’t rouse it died. Now it was time to try his limits –

“Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.” He heard, and it took a moment for it to register.

THAT was definitely Rakin. It is not certain that any other emotion would have roused Ferethor who was so far into the state of lethargy, but these last words were enough to snap the last ties to the unconsciousness that held him fast. Ferethor’s eyes opened, unfocused for a moment on the rough-shod planks that lined the ceiling of the slave shelter, wavering, like a half-drowned man recovering from the throes of death... Then he closed it for a moment in pain, and when he opened it again, it was the cold gray eyes of a man who could make a decision and act on it on the spur of the moment. And that was what he did.

When Chakka and the two others went out, it didn’t take long for Ferethor to slip a piece of plank in the sill of the door to serve as a wedge against the door closing completely. Then he was out – a bloody mess, certainly, and weak enough to cause little harm, but free. Now, if that trail of blood didn’t show, it would be a lot better to hide – there was no place to hide in this small ship, he knew, but he needed only to hide until he had Rakin pitted on his own spear. Although he wasn’t going to be able to when he was this weak – was there any place to go? Always go to the least place the other would think of searching for you. The answer immediately supplied itself. The sailor’s barracks. Half an hour later, before any alarm has been aroused – and why would there be an alarm, when Rakin has just been and the slaves still at the oars? – Ferethor had easily dispatched an unwary sailor, threw his body to the waves, and had slipped into the uniform with the very wholesome and natural intention to kill Rakin. The ship was big enough that no one would notice the disappearance of a sailor or the appearance of another – at least, not for something more than two hours hence. Therefore, no one took notice of the sailor-clad man leaning on the wall of the captain’s room, as if tired, with his eyes closed, and listening with mingled tension and curiosity. Rakin was inside – that much he could gather – but the sentences were fragmented and hard to hear.

He let his guard down after a while in his desire to hear more, confident that no one could hear him, another mistake that could cost him his life or not. But he was beyond caring.

[Anguirel]

Sangalazin strolled from the foredeck where his dear, dear cousin was beginning to pontificate to Captain Chatazrakin on one of his favourite themes-the treatment of galley-slaves. The younger Lord smiled as he heard the familiar, brash sentences lash his back as he retreated. Making an example...really, cousin Azaryan had no grace, no nobility, nothing of Numenor about him at all, Sangalazin thought with a wide grin. The chance that this brutal ape, with a mind that scratched jarred tunes with the versatility of a rock, that this leaden Lord would ever ascend Gondor's throne...

No. Azaryan was not a King, but a Kingmaker. Sangalazin would use his cousin's falchion, the respect of his cousin among the Corsairs, to win Minas Anor. Any Castamirion who seriously sought Gondor needed the ships; and the ships would not obey Sangalazin, the perfumed stranger with the slimy tongue. He knew this too well. They would not obey him until the game was his.

Sangalazin had gone below into his own quarters; a part of the ship which rendered all else common and brackish, furnished at the Lord's expense. Where solid beech formed floors outside, Sangalazin trod on rosewood. Around him wall-paintings, frescoes after the style of Numenor, flowed like some divine stream, convincing, captivating, slightly chilling. One cycle was devoted to the gifts of the Sea, ever a friend to Castamir's line. The Gods of the Ocean stood arrayed in all their might; Ussun the Terrible, Master of the Sea, and Vineth, his beauteous consort, bearing their names first in the tongue of Umbar, then in Haradric, and then in Sindarin, tongue of the Faithful-

~Osse and Uinen~

Sangalazin was a scholar in all of these languages and more. He had learnt Quenya to an elegant standard from an ancient, diminutive tutor as a boy; he had studied the Silvan accent Sindarin acquired in the fabled forests to the North; he had paid a fortune to a trader to obtain a parchment with three words of Khuzdul; he could speak like a native in Westron, Southron, Easterling...

For Sangalazin realised that if the Castamirioni were to prevail, it was crucial that they be identified with the Faithful in the minds of the people, not the servants of Ar-Pharazon the Golden. They must stress their heritage as the truest, purest line of descent from the Lords of Andunie. Their cause was legitimate, just. But they had more than battles on land and sea to win. Eldacar and his progeny had increasingly propagandised them as foreigners, traitors, swarthy men who worshipped foreign demons, Corsairs who rode black ships and spared none. But they were the heirs of Elendil. And Sangalazin would show that, when he ruled his vast, humane, benevolent and civilised Empire.

The Lord raised one of his long, slender, aureate-skinned hands and caressed the hilt of the longsword he carried. It was emblematic of everything he hoped to achieve. Its style of Gondor, the blade straight and true, double edged for slashing, sharp-pointed for a lunge that such a lovely weapon would never, if its owner could help it, perform. Its scabbard wound in gold and silver, telling the story of lovers from Umbar. So it would be; and the culture in the south mated with the martial tradition of the north would be Sangalazin's gift to Gondor. The Twilight Men would be accepted as vassals, servants, and they would be treated with kindness, content with their proper station. Learning would flourish. Civil war would be at an end; the sensible Black Numenorean custom of putting cadets of the King's family to sleep on a new King's accession would instantly be instituted.

Glowing once more with confidence, Sangalazin's eyes travelled along the painting, leaving the Sea Gods, and landed on a figure that had always puzzled him, at the piece's rim. It was exceptionally well done; Sangalazin suspected that the master artisan must have employed a more brilliant apprentice for this section. It showed the sea ending below a great white cliff, upon which stood a cloaked man...or perhaps an Elf...Sangalazin had often been inclined to think so. His grey eyes stared out across the water, peerless in mourning. The depth of his sorrow made the majesty of Osse and Uinen look tawdry. But it was interesting to Sangalazin for another reason. It reminded him sharply of his father, Sangahyando...and so of himself...and so of...

Captain Chatazrakin. Yes, Sangalazin could deny it no longer, having seen the Captain at close quarters so recently. His father's...mistake...the insult to his beloved mother...had lived. And had grown into the Captain Sangalazin had just left; the only one of lousy sea-captains he had encountered ever to have impressed him. "Rakin" had quality, courage, wit on his own level, he sometimes felt. And such loathing and contempt within that proud spirit...Azaryan was quite another matter, a pompous megalomaniac, but Rakin...Rakin was what a great part of Sangalazin wished he could be. His blood could be a hidden weapon, whipped out from his overcoat like an envenomed thorn, to challenge Sangalazin with one day.

No, he must be...neutralised or conciliated. Sangalazin rang for Andlang, the commander of his black-armoured bodyguard. When the blonde giant stood before him, Sangalazin laid out his commands.

"You were prompt, Andlang, excellent. I know I can rely on you. First, bring me the Easterling musician, and leave us alone. Then send word to the Captain that...when he has a free moment, I should like to play a game of chess with him."

[Firefoot]

Menelcar was still thinking about the left-tenate as the captain led him and the king off to their quarters. His lackadaisical attitude had put him off for several reasons: the sailor had been blatantly disrespectful not only towards him, but also to his ship and his country. They were going to war; the left tenate ought to be proud of his duty, proud and ready. His actions would never have been accepted back when Menelcar was serving in the army. It also reflected poorly on the ship’s captain; Menelcar was not impressed.

His attention was brought back to the present as they approached the cabin. Hereric held open the door, and he followed Telumehtar inside. The room was not tiny, but the cramped cabin was certainly far from spacious, containing only the sparsest of furnishings. Menelcar figured irritably that the captain’s own quarters were probably twice this size.

“Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage,” explained Hereric. “I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby. It will do, I hope.” Clearly, the statement was not a question, and Menelcar did not intend to sink so low as to argue it as such - certainly not to a man who seemed determined to ignore his presence except as an appendage of the king. Instead, he made a slight noise in the back of his throat that left in no uncertain terms his opinion of the lodgings.

“Certainly, this will be fine,” answered Telumehtar smoothly. Menelcar glanced at him critically, recalling suddenly the king’s claustrophobia and wondering if the cabin really would be “fine.” He could see no indicative signs one way or the other, however; perhaps he would ask later.

Menelcar looked around the cabin once more before his gaze returned to Hereric. He sighed inwardly; this was going to be a long journey. Why the king enjoyed sea travel so much, he would never understand.

[Folwren]

Hereric turned his attention abruptly to Menelcar after the king had replied. The slight clearing of his throat had caught his ear and the look on the man’s face confirmed Hereric’s suspicion of his sincerity being doubted.

‘If you care, sir,’ he said, addressing Menelcar, ‘step across this way and look out. The view is really quite excellent.’ He led the way to the very end of the cabin where the great bowed windows looked out over the blue water. ‘Out at sea, the view is really quite impressive,’ he said, leaning against the wood framing. He studied Menelcar carefully and changed the subject suddenly. ‘I hope that you will be able to enjoy yourself on my ship, while the peace lasts. We really have done our best to make things most comfortable and welcome to you. The circumstances now may become worse as battle takes place, and coming up river will be more difficult than going down it. Better let yourself be comfortable while you may, if you see what I mean.’ He gave him a very pointed look before turning back around. ‘My lord,’ he said to the king. ‘I am returning to the deck to see things carried out. You, of course, have free range of the entire ship.’ He saluted and bowed in navy fashion and left the cabin. He quickly made his way back up to the deck.

‘Well, if he’s going to have troubles sleeping where we’ve put him, then by heaven, I’m sure we can find him a place below.’ The captain couldn’t keep the dark thoughts out of his head, even in the bright sunlight. Menelcar’s cold reaction to the apparently tight quarters had shown Hereric only too clearly how little he understood of the ship’s life. ‘What did he expect? An entire gallery for himself? What’s eating him, anyway?’ He couldn’t account for the counselor’s behavior, and he really didn’t want to try. He almost hoped that a direct affront would come quickly, so that he could deal with whatever difficulties they were going to have at once, instead of beating about the bush. ‘In time,’ he promised himself, ‘but you are a captain of a king’s ship, and what’s more, you have the king here, too. . .you’re not going to come up with the disagreement yourself. If he chooses to confront you on a problem of his, so be it. But he is the king’s right hand man, after all - there must be some good use in him.’

He dismissed the thoughts from his mind and did not think of them again - for the time being. His ship asked for his attention, and he gave it to her.

[Dunwen]

The gulls cried as they danced with stretched wings among the wind-filled sails above Nimir’s head. The Ráca was underway. He was truly going to war; there was no turning back. At least he felt a bit less alone now. Two other strays from the Ráca had barely made it onboard before it slipped smoothly out of its berth after the King’s flagship. Nimir had congratulated them on their safe return with a hesitant smile; he knew them by sight as more experienced soldiers than he was, although they were not above him in rank.

One of the two, Curamir, had made a friendly reply and introduced himself and his companion, Lingwë. Before long the three young men were swapping stories about their backgrounds. It turned out that Nimir wasn’t the only soldier who was unfamiliar with ships. Curamir had never set foot on one before coming to the Ráca , either. The slightly fish-faced Lingwë, on the other hand, was familiar with ships and claimed to be a good swimmer as well. Both Curamir and Lingwë had had at least two years of training compared to Nimir's scant months of basic drill, and both bore swords. Nimir would have been tongue-tied in the face of such experience, had it not been for a chance reference to one of his brothers’ more annoying habits. It turned out that Lingwë also had an irritating older brother also. Curamir said only that he had no brothers or sisters.

Nimir was glad of a chance to finally become better acquainted with some of his fellow soldiers. Inevitably he asked what they were all thinking. “How long before we’re in a battle?”

Curamir speculated that there would some attempt at negotiating first. Nimir brushed such a paltry thought aside. “Negotiate with the Corsairs? King Telumehtar would never do that! Not after all their attacks on Gondor over the years.” His normally friendly eyes snapped with anger at the idea. “The size of this fleet means he's going to war, and I hope I can shoot down a dozen Corsairs myself.” Seeing the startled expressions on his companions’ faces, he took a breath to calm himself. “Sorry,” he apologized. “My father was killed when Corsairs raided our village.” He couldn’t bear to mention the loss of his sister at the same time, even after all these years. He forced himself to smile and ask if it was true that the ship’s Cook used rats in the stew.

Curamir and Lingwë laughed and the conversation turned to the long list of unappetizing foods that were reputed to be served to the sailors and soldiers on Gondor’s ships. As the other two talked, Nimir gazed at the sun-glittered waters of the Anduin as the Ráca sped south. His village was a half-day’s walk northwest of the great delta at Anduin’s mouth. He wondered if they would go by any part of the river he knew. Unlikely, he decided. He wondered if he would ever see his home again, but mentally shook himself out of such dark thoughts. ‘We’re on the best ships and we have King Telumehtar. I have my bow. I'll get back all right.'

[Thinlómien]

"Of course you will, Nimir", Lingwë replied quickly, without thinking the phrase. Silence fell. Then he frowned. Would Nimir actually get safely back home? Would he himself? Would Curamir? Only Eru Ilúvatar and Mandos know that, he thought. Maybe we won't. The thought of dying so young was unbearable. For the king and the country, he reminded himself, and for everything I love and appreciate in this country. If we don't crush the traitors, there'll be a day when they'll crush us.

No one of them said anything. Lingwë supposed that Nimir and Curamir were also thinking about dying. Lingwë tried to think of something to say to lighten the atmosphere, but nothing came into his mind. He had never been good in that kind of things; how hard he ever tried he usually ended up being pessimistic. Better to get ready for the worst and rejoice if it doesn't happen, he thought.

Though they remained silent, there was still noise. Seagulls cried. Men chatted with each other while working. Fresh sea wind blew. Great to be on a ship again, Lingwë thought and despite the fact he was going to war and maybe even to death, he smiled.

Curamir noticed his smile. "What is it now, Lingwë?", he asked, clearly wanting to talk about something else. "It's the ship", Lingwë said, smiling. "He's a bit crazy, you know", Curamir said to Nimir with a friendly tone. "You know, it's great to be sailing again. I love the sea", Lingwë said. "It was such fun aboard the Gaerandir."

Encouraged with a few questions from his companions, Lingwë started to tell about his "adventures" aboard the Gaerandir. He had never been a man of talking, but he kept on telling things to banish the ghosts of the former discussion. "Did you ever get to a fight aboard the Gaerandir?" Nimir asked suddenly, when Lingwë had paused after telling about the cook's fancy on turnips. "Twice. Our ship was so well-protected, that many didn't dare to attack it. In the first fight the more experienced soldiers kept us novices at the background, we mostly used bows or were positioned at defense. They said that the first fight was a big enough experience without even getting to fight by self. Back then I wondered why did they do so, but now I understand they didn't trust us enough; they thought we would only be on their way and make things harder. After all, the battle was such a little cratch. No one of us died, and only five got wounded," Lingwë said, smiling to his memories.

"And the other?" Nimir asked. Lingwë got serious. "The second time was a bigger battle with a pirate ship. It wasn't nice and it wasn't glorious. Many died, on both sides. I myself only got lightly wounded, worse things happened to many others." He paused. "I didn't kill anyone", he said, "but a few of my friends did. I heard them speak about it. It wasn't glorious, they said. They said they had had nightmares about it." He didn't add that he himself had had nightmares about the battle, though he hadn't killed anyone. "Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to", Curamir said. Nimir nodded. After a while, Lingwë said: "So would I."