Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Folwren]

Bror slipped down from the horse’s high back and nearly fell over backwards as his feet met with solid earth. He sent the animal a rather dark look, not thinking of how unfair it was to blame the horse for his naturally quick trot. Skald had managed to get off his horse much sooner, and Bror wished he had, too.

But now he turned his mind to the search for refugees from the burning city. There were quite a few huts, but they were being searched by the elves already. Bror walked quickly over to where three other Dwarves stood together.

‘They’ve got this place taken care of,’ he said, stopping by them. ‘We ought to go back towards the river and look that way. There could be some wounded who couldn’t have made it so far.’

It seemed like a logical assumption to all four of them and they headed off in the general direction of the city and the river, the four of them walking separate with several yards in between. They soon came to where the trees about them thinned. Bushes bearing flowers grew on the edges of the wood and went out into the field. Bror stood on the outer most edge of the wood and looked down. At the bottom of the incline the river ran like a sparkling ribbon. Up the slope beyond it, the city stood, over a quarter of a mile away. Once so bright, like a star descended to earth, the towers of the city were black and crumbling in ash, and smoke rose up, circling and choking the light of the sun.

Bror turned his eyes away and continued his search for any sign of life. A few more paces on and he stopped abruptly. Ahead of him, under a clump of tall bushes, he thought he caught the glimmer of light on mail. He hurried forward after just a momentary pause and coming closer, he saw that his eyes had not deceived him. It was impossible, however, to make out the form of whoever wore the mail, or if he were alive or dead. Kneeling quickly, Bror forced the branches away and looked down.

The figure of an elf warrior lay stretched out fully on his stomach. Blood stained his clothing, proving that he had looked war in the face, and his face, turned towards Bror, was marred by a long, cruel looking cut across his cheek, and his eyes were shut.

‘Poor chap,’ Bror muttered to himself. ‘Either dead or worn out to that point, almost.’ He reached out to shake the elf. His hand hardly touched the armored shoulder before the figure opened his eyes quickly and started half way up. Bror jumped back half a foot, startled at the elf’s sudden waking. For a moment they stared at each other and Bror felt uncomfortably at a loss of words.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘We’re here to help you, if we can, and get you all out of here before the orcs come back. Can you move, or are you wounded badly?’

[Encaitare]

The incoming Dwarven forces had proven to be an ample distraction for Glûtkask's men; although the orkish troops were able to hold them back by sheer numbers, a number of Elves and Dwarves had managed to escape.

This would not do.

"Get back through those gates! Let the Easterlings take care of the Dwarves!" Heeding his own words, the captain entered the walls of Ost-in-Edhil once more, orcs pouring in behind him. He climbed upon a pile of rubble, kicking an Elven corpse out of his way that he might address his soldiers.

"Listen well! We came here with two tasks to complete: to take this wretched city, and to slay all who stood in our way. The place is as good as ours -- but every survivor means that in some small way, we have failed! Every survivor is one more that might someday challenge our Master. Go forth and show any and every Elf and Dwarf you see what happens to those who reject the Lord Sauron!"

The orcs bellowed as Glûtkask jumped down to the street. "There are still some craven Elves cowering in their homes!" The soldiers went crashing through the streets like a vengeful flood. "I can smell them," he added in a murmur that no one heard.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo felt a slight movement near his shoulder. He stirred with a quiet groan and rolled halfway onto his back. Where was he? He had ran across the stone bridge, comfortably solid underneath his shoes, and then there were sparsely wooded meadows stretching for some distance, and then there was a dark green forest ahead of him. He remembered falling to his knees almost without warning. An orcish arrow? No . . . fatigue. He landed in some soft bushes, fell to the earth, and must've slept under the cover of the wilderness. What time was it now? The sun had risen. It seemed like a blinding light after that darkest night. A stick snapped underfoot nearby, but it was not Cainenyo's. He remembered the hand on his shoulder. Cainenyo rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and half-expected an orc to have awoken him. But after looking over the figure in front of him and getting used to the bright light of the morning, it was obviously no orc, but a dwarf. Cainenyo had met very few dwarves over the course of his life, but he always remembered their thick beards and squat little bodies.

"I’m sorry," the dwarf said, "We’re here to help you, if we can, and get you all out of here before the orcs come back. Can you move, or are you wounded badly?" Cainenyo now sat up and brushed some dirt from his mail armor.

"My ankle is a bit sore, but I can still walk," Cainenyo said. He stood up, surveying the land surrounding him. There were white flowers growing on his bush, and there were other flowers growing across the field. Beyond the field lay the glittering river, and the grey stone bridge. And beyond the bridge stood the smoldering city, sending great clouds of black smoke drifting into the sky. In the opposite direction stood a forest and safety. Three other dwarves were in the meadow, searching for survivors among the grass and flowers. "I am Cainenyo. I was a blacksmith in the city," Cainenyo said holding a hand out to the dwarf. He took it. "I am Bror," the dwarf answered. After a pause the dwarf said, "Did you escape the city with any others? Or do you know where we might find any other survivors?"

"I am afraid not. I escaped alone," Cainenyo said, "But perhaps you can tell me if you have found others. I am seeking my family. I believe they escaped with a large cart of belongings." Cainenyo still had hope; there were wagon tracks in the road to the bridge. And certainly Cainenyo wasn't the only survivor the dwarves had found.

"A cart . . . I'm afraid I don't recall a cart." Cainenyo's hope wavered for a moment, but they soon rose once more at Bror's next words. "But there are some huts in the forest that way. We found some survivors there. You might want to check there."

"Ah, thank you, Master Bror!" Cainenyo felt rather glad despite the grim times. "This way, you said? To the forest?" He bid Bror farewell and headed off towards the forest and the huts, where hopefully Cainenyo's family lay waiting.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian might not be a party to the exchange between the captains but she understood well enough Geldion's appraising glance and his subsequent reaction. She had been judged and found wanting. She was unsurprised by the reaction - her hair colour which was much more unusual in Eregion than in Lindon might attract attention but the rest of her appearance seldom held it. Her mother had lamented that "Losrian would be pretty if she made the effort" but the effort was rarely made. Nevertheless she would have expected it more from Artamir's friend Leneslath than an elf of this age and stature.

Seeing Geldion glance at Galmir she deemed that he had made the obvious assumption that the child was hers and was surprised that anyone would have wanted her as a wife. 'What does he expect? ' she thought . 'I doubt that even the Lady Galadriel herself would look her best in these circumstances'. Her ire was quelled by the fact that Ondomirë had defended her. She was touched by his gallantry and would have agreed to his request even if it were against her inclination... instinctively she trusted his assurance that Galmir would be safe in the wagons.

She followed Skald, leading the pony, while Skald carried the little boy with whom he now seemed fast friends.

"Surely you must have children of your own - you are so good with him?" she asked. The dwarf's deep glittering eyes met hers and though they intended no reproach they touched the depths of her heart when he replied "No, not yet, but I have a nephew too - and a niece.."

As he continued to speak of them with great affection, Losrian sighed inwardly. So a way with children was not an gift acquired by parents at their children's birth. She clearly had not been blessed with this instinct. She confessed as much to Skald.

"It is a skill - you can learn it, just as you learnt to make those fine arrows of yours. I don't suppose the first you made was so good? " He said kindly and was rewarded by another of those brief but sweet smiles. Losrian realised that like it or not she was effectively a mother now, she could learn and indeed she would have to. But not today. Today she would ride among elf lords, elves who had known and fought with the heroes of the Elder days. She did not doubt that there might be others among the refugees who knew the area better but she knew enough for a while. Laswen's parents had farmed someway north of the city and they had all gone there in the summer to help with harvest in the early years, before the war had come.

She had entrusted Galmir to a woman whose own daughter was the same age and who indeed had known Laswen. Any uncertainty she had had was dispelled as she saw how happy the little boy was to be with other children. She handed up a cloak and lembas and his drinking cup and kissed him goodbye, ruffling his dark curls. "I'll see you later - be good". The pony who had walked out almost sound and would be fine now he had been relieved of much of his burdens was hitched to the wagons.

Losrian now only had to worry about herself. She had washed her face and hands in a stream and smoothed her hair with her wet hands. Her stained coatdress had been replaced by borrowed mail and surcoat which lighter and better fitting than the armour she had used in the sieges, did not entirely disguise her figure. The contents of her pack having being transferred to saddlebags she carried little more than her weapons.

All in all she was a more presentable figure when she led her horse towards where Ondomirë stood. In the clear morning light she got a proper look at the Elvish commander He was so tall, a hand's breadth taller than Ferin had been and about twice that taller than herself. She noticed the distinctive arrowhead brooch that pinned his cloak. It was fine work - worthy even of the Mirdain. She felt a little nervous again for the captain of swordsmen was near and she did not wish to suffer his sardonic scrutiny.

Losrian bowed for to curtsey in male garb seemed ridiculous "My Lord Ondomirë, I am at your service". Soon all was ready and despite the horror of the day before, the griefs that remained to be mourned and the not yet banished danger, a little part of her spirit sang for joy as she rode alongside the Commander of the Archers, in the company of Elrond Peredhil of whom so many tales had been told.

[Arry]

It was a reluctant parting . . . the one which Skald made with little Gally. Far from making him despair at the bitter fortunes of a child caught up in war, he had savored the contact. It seemed a small bubble of the familiar to him, pushing back the present memories of pain and death and yes, even fear. ‘You’re naught but a homebody,’ he mumbled to himself, waving one last time to the little one as the Elven lady placed him in the wagon near her daughter. ‘Fierce warrior be hanged. Face it - you’d rather be attacking a piece of marble with your chisel and hammer than out hewing Orc necks. Nay – not attacking. Inviting’s more like it. Teasing out the shapes within the stone. With little Leifr playing at your feet. And at the end of the day the family all gathered round the supper table.’ He stroked his beard, thinking of his wee niece, her baby fists pulling hard at his beard, her bright laughter ringing as she did so.

‘Still, much as I’d like to be safe under the mountain with them,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’m wanting now to see the little lad to a place where he’ll be safe from the twisted plans of the deceiver, Sauron.’ He shrugged off an icy chill that had crept up the back of his neck. The dread name had become even more unnerving having seen the destruction he’d unleashed on the Elven city. ‘Bad as his black-hearted master!’ he muttered aloud, spitting on the ground as he did so.

With his jumble of thoughts spinning round in his mind, Skald set out to look about the large area where Elrond’s troops had halted as they gathered in the city’s survivors. Bror, he knew, had gone off with another of the Dwarves, looking for any refugees. Skald wanted to find him before the troops headed out once again.

[Durelin]

Maegisil sat beneath a tree amidst a small patch of scattered woodland, watching the smoke curls dancing on the horizon in the east, seemingly playing on the slopes of the Misty Mountains. They looked particularly misty this day, and dark, grey, and drab. The elf wondered how he had ever found them beautiful. He hated recalling the many days in Ost-in-edhil when he would watch the sun rise from behind them and think it a blessed sight. Those days were long gone to him, though it had not been long at all since he had slept in a warm, comfortable bed in his home. He felt it was time to forget. Not to move on, but to simply forget, and live as a new person. Only hours before he had raved to his wife about changing his name and denouncing any connection to his people. He desired to obliterate his life without killing himself, for he did not have the guts to do the latter. Which, to him, was now often regrettable.

“We have found another, Counselor Maegisil.”

“Do not call me that,” Maegisil said, his words biting.

“Yes...” the other elf, Arcoion, said, cutting his speech off, almost slipping in a ‘sir.’ He looked battered, and though it was soiled and broken beyond recognition, he still wore the light armour of one of the palace guards. Maegisil had not asked him how he had escaped the palace, as there had seemed to be no way out but for the free passage which had been granted to the former counselor.

“Do we have any food for them? Are they wounded?”

“There is some food, s...” the elf cut off again and took a deep breath, relaxing his body and his tone. “She has been given food, and she has only a few cuts, which she has attended to herself.”

“Good. How many does that make?”

“Seventeen.”

Maegisil considered this number for a moment. Seventeen refugees, not counting himself, his wife, and the soldier standing beside him. Strange that they were an even twenty. Twenty...and how many more were scattered about the land? He doubted there were many more. He had watched Sairien come to tears often, watching the survivors move about, knowing that they were most likely close to all that was left of Eregion. He would not be brought to that, though. Sadness had gnawed away at him for many years, and since his escape from the city, he had banished it, forcing it away with an icy wind, making him cold. All those years that Sairien had spent warming his blood, molding him into a more open person and, as it had been his opinion, a better one; they had all gone to waste, now. The end of Eregion, the destruction of Ost-in-edhil, the death of Celebrimbor marked the end of Maegisil's former life. He would see if it was worth it to begin a new one.

“Thank you,” he said as a dismissal to Arcoion, and he was soon alone again, for a time. In his thoughts, his mind drifted back to the past that he had forsaken over and over, trying in vain to erase it from his mind. The Lord of Eregion plagued his memories. He had been friends with that elf for far too long. He should never have let someone such as him get so close to him. He had never meant for anyone but his wife to be at all near to him. But he had taken her love for granted and sought other companionship, thinking it fine because it was not of the same kind. And it would have been, had Celebrimbor not begun to drain him of his life and so much precious time. He had taken time for granted, as well, and only in the past few days had he found it running very short. The fall of Eregion had been long inevitable, and yet he had not faced it until then.

But then Arcoion returned, and met with Maegisil's short temper when he addressed him as 'counselor' again. Only after a brief moment when Maegisil chose to place his head in his hands, appearing as if he were pouting, did Arcoion state why he had come back to bother the seated elf.

“The scouts have spotted a large party of Elves and Dwarves.”

Maegisil's head shot up to look the armoured elf in the eyes. “Are they close?”

“Yes. Only about a half-mile to the east.”

“Inform the others...”

Arcoion turned to leave, but Maegisil stopped him. “Have you seen Sairien?” He had not seen her for some time, and only wished to make sure she was alright. That was enough for him today.

“She was looking for you but a moment ago, but she was called away to re-bandage a wound.”

“And have the scouts returned? If so, send him to me.” Arcoion nodded, and departed to retrieve the scouts and tell the refugees that they were to prepare to move. He finally rose when the scouts came over to him, and had them lead him to where this ‘large party’ was. Moving quickly through the scattered woodlands, Maegisil wondered at the existence of such a group. They could not be Mirdain... Could the far away Kings have actually remembered their brethren? If they had, they had in vain. And they had only to have to face Maegisil, former Counselor to Celebrimbor, who would not let them forget.

[Envinyatar]

Ondomirë bent down close to Losrian’s lowered head and whispered to her. ‘Well done . . . the bow, that is. But really you needn’t stand on ceremony on my behalf. My other . . . well, men . . . and I . . . are a little more informal.’

When she’d straightened back up, he raised his chin, pointing to where Lord Elrond had begun moving up the line. ‘Now there’s one you can properly bow to. Lord Elrond is making his rounds. A hands on sort of leader, he’s proved to be.’

Those archers nearby fell into a loose formation as Elrond approached. Ondomirë stepped forward as Elrond drew near and gave a short report of his company’s activity so far that day. In all, he thought, there had been about twenty or so of the city’s Elves that they and the Dwarves who worked with them had found and brought into the camp.

Elrond had nodded his head thoughtfully, saying that in all about fifty of the Elves of Ost-in-edhil had been found alive, so far, and taken under his care. The scouting parties, he had decided, would continue until mid-afternoon. Then, he wanted all gathered together in a tight encampment, with the bowmen, lancers, and swordmen to patrol and secure the perimeter.

‘Have we decided where we’ll be heading, then, tomorrow?’ Ondomirë asked.

‘That is still in discussion,’ Elrond replied. The Elves of Lindon were unfamiliar with this region, as were the Lorien Elves. He indicated that those from the city were being asked to come forward with any information that might shed some light on a possible area for such a large group to head toward. ‘Returning westward to Lindon is just not a possibility at present. Sauron’s armies will be moving in force toward Gil-galad. He is bent on our destruction. We will need to make a place of safety and refuge somewhere here in these lands from which we can recover and gain in strength. Sauron will come at us again, and I intend to be ready to fight against him.’

Elrond was about to move on, when Ondomirë motioned for Losrian to stand forward. ‘I thought I should let you know we’ve picked up a fine archer from the city . . . Losrian, who’ll be riding with my company.’ He looked toward her and then back at Lord Elrond. ‘Perhaps Losrian might have an idea in which direction we should head out . . .’