Island of Sorrow RPG

[Firefoot]

Lómwë started violently at the loud crash across the room as a large loudly cawing crow flapped across the room straight towards them. The raucous bird made its way down to the lower floor and out the door, its cries soon fading. Lómwë felt rather foolish – it had been just a crow. This place was making him jumpy, was all. Yet… what had set it off? He doubted it was their mere presence – crows did not go twittering off at the slightest movement as did sparrows. It seemed to him that the sound of laughter carried in the air.

“I’m going to have a look,” he said, stepping carefully off the stair landing onto the wooden floor. He tested every step, making sure not to put his foot through one of the many holes in the dark room’s floor. What he did forget to watch for was for charred and corroded floorboards – before he had made it halfway across the room, he put his foot down on a board that felt sturdy but gave way as his full weight came down upon it. His fall stopped for the moment when his leg was sticking through the floor up to about the knee, but he could tell that the surrounding wood wouldn’t take much more before it, too, fell out. For the second time in about as many minutes, Lómwë found himself feeling undeniably foolish.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye showed Endamir taking steps to come help, but Lómwë waved him back, saying: “Wait, stay where you are – you might fall through, too. I think I can get myself out of this.” But as he carefully began to extricate himself, the sound of laughter became unmistakable – coming from that same far corner from which the crow had come. Lómwë froze as the laughter turned into words: “They think they want my help, don’t they? They want lots of help, help they can’t get here – help to find the Seneschal, help from the Seneschal, help from the Diviner – that’s what they really want. But will they like the help they get? I don’t think they will – foolish ones, don’t know what they want… or how to get there.” Lómwë guessed that last was aimed at him, but he didn’t have a chance to hear any more as the voice rapidly descended into mad laughter, which was just as abruptly cut off.

Lómwë worked quickly now at freeing himself, but only concentrating half way on the task at hand – his mind was racing at the words of the mad Elf – for it seemed clear to Lómwë that this was to whom the voice must belong, and he was glad that he could not recall any particular Elves that had once garrisoned this bastion. To think of the noble Eldar who had once dwelt here – sunken so low as that? Perhaps it was best not to think of it. But his words – he obviously knew something of Idrahil Seneschal and the Diviner, though Lómwë doubted they would get much more information, and what he knew did not seem to be pleasant. He wished he could shove these troubling thoughts away as he so often did with troubling memories, but Lindir’s problem was too pressing, too present.

Finally, he fully pried his leg free and found his breaches to have been torn. Fortunately that was all the damage that had been done. He made his way back to where Endamir was still waiting. “Well,” he said, “it seems we’re not going to find the Seneschal here…”

[piosenniel]

‘Are you sure your leg is alright?’ Endamir asked as Lómwë finished speaking. ‘Perhaps we should let my brother take a look at it.’ Lómwë waved him off, indicating his leg was fine. ‘Then let’s leave this area, the whole bastion, I think; and go onto the next one. The one nearer the middle of the wall.’

He raised his brows at Lómwë. ‘I didn’t like the sound of that laughter, nor less yet the fact that it suddenly ceased. I can’t tell whether the Elf it came from left or just went quiet and will try to follow us to cause trouble.’ He took a long look into the apparently empty room; his eyes straining to see some clue of the one who had spoken.

‘I do know that whether he be mad or not, I agree with part of what he said. They want lots of help, help they can’t get here – help to find the Seneschal, help from the Seneschal, help from the Diviner – that’s what they really want. But will they like the help they get? I don’t think they will – foolish ones, don’t know what they want…’ He shook his head at the last question - ‘But will they like the help they get?’ ‘I’m already not liking it and we haven’t even found it!’ They picked their way carefully across the strewn stone and broken beams, making their way northward. A chilling breeze seemed to eddy about them as they walked, though the sun was up and shining brightly.

The middle bastion offered no clues or clue-givers to the pair of them. The ceilings of the rooms were all caved in, and much of the walls were in great disrepair. Lómwë and Endamir trudged along the crumbling pathway that led along the eastern wall from one bastion to the next.

The third and last structure still standing, near the northern end of the eastern wall, was still fairly intact. From the outside, they could see the walls of the bastion go up two stories from the top of the wall, and the roof at the top seemed fairly intact. What rubble had fallen around the structure looked as if it had been pushed away somehow from the building, leaving the area about it looking more in order than had been true of the last two places they had looked.

‘This looks promising,’ Endamir remarked as they entered the arched doorway into the structure. ‘It looks as if some one or thing has made some attempt to put this place in order.’ A chill passed up his spine as the persistent breeze seemed to pass close about him. ‘Is it my imagination, or is this cold little wind, following along after us?’ In the empty room, the faint echo of some muffled sniggering passed from one side of the chamber to the other.

‘Is that . . . you, again . . . Elf?’ Endamir called out into the emptiness. And then a little louder. ‘Or are you here, Seneschal? If so we seek your aid.’ Endamir’s words were absorbed into the now deep quiet. His senses were on high alert for any sound or movement . . .

[Anguirel]

Should we let the silence last? Why tell them what they want to know? They did not dare to stand with us upon the Chill Mountain and defy the Dark Enemy of the World...

Beyond the sight or thought of Endamir or Lomwe, who stood motionless, absorbed in alert alistening, the two soldiers lurked. Soldiers still in profession, though in sight they were nothing more than a pair of rusting torch brackets. Rusting slowly, admittedly, considering their age; and occasionally they scraped a fraction to one side, and the grating noise would echo in the bastion, disrupting the still harmony. The small bats, living high in the gables of the bastion's tower, would hear the disturbance and huddle closer to each other, mothers covering batlings with a protective membrane wing.

Long ago the bats had followed the Foul Ones as they surged into the broken fortress, the Fair Ones all gone on their great horses. The bats knew that where the Fair Ones had driven them off with flame, the Foul Ones were indifferent to them, which was what they preferred. As a result, they followed the Dark Lord's armies, peaceable creatures in the main, searching for quiet corners, but ruled by bloated vampire-fiends that they feared and obeyed.

But the fortress had resisted the Foul Ones in an unexpected manner. For the inhabitants were not all gone. There were pockets of light and arrows singing, and strange glittering fire soared from a bastion in the east. And even after the Eldar were slain, their memories clung to swords, to masonry, to empty torch brackets. Now the Foul and Fair Ones and vampires and the Dark Lord were all gone, but a memory of terror lay within the twisted metal lumps.

You are being foolish and ungenerous, the other bracket replied. The Seneschal would be ashamed of you. Some of us still remember what it was to be Elven.

The bracket on the right veered violently to one side, and the echo shrieked about, startling Endamir and Lomwe. For many more minutes they heard more strange sounds, scratchings and dim crashes and howls of the omnipresent freezing wind. Then a voice they could understand sounded, in the antique Quenyan of Himring's court.

"I am Idrahil, the Seneschal. I bid you welcome, friends. Climb further up, and I shall speak to you in the shade-you cannot see me where the sun's rays are too bright."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Heedless of any danger lurking ahead, Lindir raced forward into the ruins of the fortress, with Orëmir following close behind. He passed the tumbled pile of masonry where Lómwë and Endamir had veered off to the far end of the eastern wall in their search for the stone structure that still stood intact. Still, Lindir paid no attention to the other Elves and instead rushed quickly through the scattered stones and rubble that littered the edge of the fortress. Clambering upward onto the remains of an ancient parapet that had plunged to the ground a thousand years before, Lindir turned around and gazed directly at his companion, urging him to hurry forward.

"It's here. I know it is." Lindir spoke with an air of certainty. Half running and half falling in his eagerness to find what he remembered, the Elf slipped down from the ruins onto a grassy embankment that overlooked the Sea. He was struggling to remember the old ways and paths that had once seemed so familiar. They were now on the far side of the island, just outside what had once been the eastern boundary of the castle walls. There were no signs of ghostly inhabitants. They stood at the edge of a sharp cliff. The ground beneath them was treacherous and rocky, precipitously dropping off towards the churning waters that slapped ominously at the base of the cliff.

Lindir beckoned Orëmir forward and pointed to a portion of rock where the drop was not so severe. There was a small ledge no more than twenty feet below on which two Elves could safely stand. They could see, dotted in the hillside at the inner portion of the ledge, a number of small entryways that seemingly led to caves nestled deep inside the bowels of the earth. Still, there did not seem to be any way to get down to that ledge.

Pushing through a pile of tangled brush, Lindir tentatively reached out with his hand and, to his amazement, felt the firm outline of a great wooden basket that was still attached to a massive rope. This was no ancient and rotting thing that had been left out in the weather for a hundred years. The wicker looked new; the craftsmenship was considerable. What ghostly hands could create or maintain such a device? Indeed, what ghost would even want such a thing? The whole machine was cleverly constructed. Two Elves could climb inside the basket and by tugging on a winch descend to the ledge, or bring themselves up to the top again.

"This is where the Diviner lived. She preferred to be by herself outside the castle walls, but in the safety of this cave. For there are endless mazes inside, and she would be in little danger even if all the forces of evil converged upon this ground. Indeed, I believe that this is the only corner of this cursed island that would not be stained with blood."

Lindir's fingers ran instinctively to the hilt of his sword, which he had retrieved earlier from the guard room. He stopped for a moment, then spoke, "Let us go now and see if she is here. I would rather meet her face to face on our terms than run into her unawares on some lonely stairwell. For truly I do not trust her, and it is better to meet an enemy head on. If her lair still lies here, you will be amazed. For, deep inside the cave is a wonderful chamber where she spent long hours at her studies. The Diviner possessed all manner of herbs and potions. She studied the winds and the air and the waters to learn what lay behind these things."

"You speak now as if you knew her..."

Lindir did not answer as they slipped into the basket and cranked it downward, peering out in the direction of the cave....

[piosenniel]

Despite the seriousness of the problem for which they sought the Diviner’s aid, Endamir was suddenly beset by a fit of laughter. No, not laughter . . . giggling was the more exact term. He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure.

‘What must Lómwë think of me . . . laughing like this?’ he wondered to himself. ‘I am standing here admidst the wrack and ruin of this fortress of the Quendi, my old friend teetering on the edge of death . . . that should be sobering enough . . .’ He raised up his head to look about the ruins. ‘And yet, here I am spooked by crows, beset by mad spirits, looking about at empty air, and listening to voices on the wind. It is a jarring mixture of the serious and the absurd.’

Endamir stood up fully and took a deep breath. Up the stairs, in the gloomy recesses of some windowless room, or so he supposed it, there came the low whirring of little wings, the sharp protests of metal upon stone. ‘What do you suppose is up there?’ he questioned aloud, even as he made for the steps. ‘Creatures of Morgoth? Metal winged bats of some sort? No, it cannot be. It was the Seneschal’s voice we heard, I’m sure . . .’

[Envinyatar]

It was a fleeting thought as he stepped into the basket . . .

‘I do not recall an oath saying I need follow a patient to his death to save him!’ he muttered to himself.

Orëmir’s hands clutched tight to the rim of the basket as Lindir lowered them down the side of the cliff. The knuckles of those hands were as white as the Elf’s face. All blood had fled to his core as fright gripped him. ‘I will not look down . . . or out . . . or to the side, for that matter!’ he avowed silently, clamping his eyes shut tightly.

Endamir! A thousand curses on you for wanting to come on this demented venture. When I see you next . . . if I see you again . . . or anything for that matter should I be spared my death on the rocks below . . . I will drag you from this island if I have to bind you to do so!

The basket bumped down the rocky precipice, Orëmir’s stomach lurching into his throat with each increment. And then they were stopped. He could hear Lindir securing the rope to something and the sound as the Elf began to climb from the basket. The makeshift carrier teetered for a moment, sending a decided wave of nausea through Orëmir; then, all was still.

He ventured a look at the wall of stone where Lindir had gone into. There was a fair sized opening, though from the outside looking down from the top or up from the ground below, it would appear only as a great gash in the rock. Orëmir could hear Lindir crashing about inside. Crunching about, more like. He slipped into the gash and came after a few short paces into a large grotto entry-way.

Orëmir sneezed; it echoed loudly in the cavern. Lindir’s thrashing had thrown up a cloud of fine, mouldy smelling dust. He blinked his eyes, and near the center of the rock strewn floor, he could see that Lindir had managed to light a torch that must have been left here by the Diviner. The Elf was making his way toward the back of the cave, toward another vague opening Orëmir could just see. Not wanting to let his companion get too far beyond him, Orëmir stepped onto the grotto floor proper.

Something crunched beneath his boots as he moved. He looked down and with growing horror saw that it was not rocks that were strewn on the floor, but bones. An hysterical sort of laughter bubbled up from his tightly clenched throat, squeaking out in a thin, high stream. ‘By the One! Was she a vampire of some sort?’ he gasped out. ‘Or so feeble in her attempts at healing that most of her patients died?’

Lindir had turned to look back at him as he asked these terror-induced questions. He’d waved the torch at Orëmir beckoning him on. A cutting breeze swept against Orëmir’s back, and he felt as if icy hands drifted over his shoulders, numbing his face as they passed on before him.

Then, the light from the brand went out with a whoosh! and all was cast in darkness. From the darkness there came the sound of amused laughter echoing off the walls. A sigh of sorts followed . . . and after it, soft, considering words . . .

So . . . you’ve come back . . . as you once promised . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir whirled around abruptly and then stared in disbelief. He strained to peer ahead, but could see almost nothing. Only one shadow wavered in the distance, and it was impossible to say with certainty what this grey mist might signify. There was little light still visble within the lofty chamber. The torch had been extinguished, and only a few rays from the outside world had managed to slip inside and follow them down to the far end of the grotto, where they now stood waiting.

"This can not be! You were slain in the heat of battle. All said the same. Long days, I searched for you but could find nothing. I left after that. There was no reason to return. But why do you linger here?" Lindir cried out in desperation to the darkness, but there was no response to his query. His words bounced eerily off the walls of the cave and came back to his own ear again.

Motivated by frustration and the need to know more, the elf pressed forward towards the spot where he had first heard the voice, totally oblivious to the fact that the mounds of bones surrounding them were increasing in size and number....skeletons large and small precariously stacked up, one on top of the other. Despite all that had been said concerning the Diviner since he had landed on this cursed Isle, Lindir had never expected to hear her voice again, at least not on this side of the Sea.

Ahead lay a tunnel, black and foreboding. He stopped for a moment without looking to see if Oremir was still behind him. Then he heard a rustling at the far end of the blackened corridor. Oblivious to common sense, driven by the need to look once more upon the Diviner, he rushed forward at great speed and barely managed to keep his balance amid the ever growing mounds of bones. Once again he heard the soft sigh as he came to a massive door and, without hesitation, unlatched the rusty bolt to push it open. To his amazement, he stood inside a great chamber filled almost to the ceiling with the remains of those who had perished in the wars. Victors and vanquished, orcs and elves....their bones mingled and called out for remembrance.

What happened next, Lindir could never quite explain. There was a moment when the earth tipped forward and then back, until it stood perfectly still again, though somewhat at an angle. The wooden door behind them shut with a loud clang and piles of bones came loose from their mooring, beginning to shake and shift. Just a moment later and an avalanche of skeletons had broken free. For a single instant, Lindir stood perfectly still. Then he turned to the door and frantically tried to push it open in a vain attempt to get out. But the door would not move; a great pile of skeletons came cascading down upon his head. Lindir protectively cradled his head in his arms, curling into a ball as he called out to Varda to protect them in this realm of shadow.