Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Losrian felt as if she had been hit by a thunderbolt, though she was unsure which had the most impact his words or his touch - the gentle strength in the hands that cradled her face, the fleeting tenderness of his kiss or the unexpected proposal. She gasped in amazement and could not speak, only look into those deep grey eyes seeking for some confirmation that this was not some dream. It had never occurred to her that her feelings were reciprocated. That his reserve might be because she was as disturbing to his equilibrium as he was to hers. A few hours ago she was convinced of his indifference but had she not also concealed her feelings? She might think it impossible that he should want her .... but the kiss had been real enough. Perhaps she could trust his judgement even if if she could not believe herself worthy. Indeed the trust was the hard part.

And now Galmir was crying for his mother in his sleep .... "Hush Gally, you're safe.. I'm here ... " she forced herself to turn from Ondomirë, though it caused an almost physical pain, and tend to the child, stroking his hair away from his face. As she knelt over him she remembered Ondomirë's words of earlier in the evening as he had watched the children play:
"They are ....accepting little creatures, are they not? Nothing need be proved to them......" Why am I making this so difficult ? she thought. I love him and it seems he loves me. He has spent an age of the world alone and has asked me to marry him and now he probably thinks I am rejecting him.

She was aware that Ondomirë now stood with his back turned and head lowered. Another gasp of horror and her voice softened as she relaxed having resolved her own mind. "We are here Galmir, you are safe...". It seemed the child quietened immediately and she rose to her feet and placed her hand on Ondomirë's shoulder.

"My lord, will you receive my answer?". Ondomirë turned to her and as he did so she slipped her arms around his neck rising to tiptoe so that she was nearly on the same level. She studied his face for a moment then, tilting her head slightly, tentatively kissed his mouth. Then she spoke, her voice grave but her eyes full of love.

" I shall trust in hope, and in you - I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my love, my 'Mirë. And, if it truly is your will, I shall be your spouse, your helpmate in your endeavours, and I will dwell with you wherever they may take us"

[piosenniel]

The camp is attacked . . .

From the low-lying rises beyond the camp, five pairs of stone dark eyes surveyed the happenings. Little fires dotted the area where the Elves and Dwarves had gathered for the night. Along the outside of the camp’s perimeter were picketed the horses; three clumps of them at equal distances along the outside edge. And beyond that there were armed warriors, Dwarves and Elves stationed, their weapons at hand.

A small band of Hill Trolls had come in as close as they dared to the camp. Unlike their cousins, those lumbering creatures of the night – the Stone Trolls, these trolls had no fear of the sun’s light. They had, in fact, been tracking the Elven party all that day as they moved into their territory.

They were smaller, too, than their stone cousins. The height of a man, in fact, but larger built, and covered with hard scales. They were savage creatures; very territorial. And in them was a deep-seated hatred of all those who were fair to look on. Their eyes glittered at the sight of the Elves, and their large hands clenched about their stout handled, stone-headed hammers.

‘The horses,’ growled the leader. ‘Make sure we get enough of them to feed on for several days. Kill the foul Elves. Mash their pretty faces into crow food.’

‘Them Dwarves is what I want!’ another rasped. ‘Little fiends with their sharp pointy axes! Bash their helmets into their shoulders, I will!’ ‘Yesss!’ snarled another. ‘Them and their nosy ways come picking around our hills for the shiny stones that belong to us!’

On silent feet, the five trolls fanned out about the half of the camp’s edge nearest them, trying to stay downwind of the horses. The leader raised his mighty hammer and gave a bestial bellow as he started at a dead run toward the now nearby camp.

His companions picked up the cry and moved in, bashing at whatever stood in their way . . .

[Arry]

‘What’s that noise?’ cried Skald climbing up on a low, rocky rise near where he and Bror were patrolling. A little ways to the south, he could see the horses picketed there beginning to panic. They whinnied loudly and stamped their hooves at the first bellowing sounds of the nearing Trolls, and then began to rear on their hind legs and paw the air with their hooves.

He could see one of the attacking creatures making for the picketed animals. The Troll lumbered in among the horses, their striking hooves glancing off his thick scaled hide. With a blow of his great hammer to the head, brought one down, and began dragging it away from the camp.

Elves rushed up at the cries from the horses and were attempting to bring down the Troll as he made off with the horse. But several of them were knocked down by yet another Troll who swung his hammer with great savagery.

‘Trolls!’ yelled Skald, clambering down from his viewpoint. He motioned for Bror and others of the Dwarves who were nearby to come with him. Axes raised, the little band of five Dwarves, gave a mighty yell, as they ran at one of the Trolls near the horses.

Their blows were fierce ones, but barely dented the tough scales of the Troll. It was Rori Ironfoot, standing near the Troll’s arm as he raised his stone hammer who noted the brute’s armpit was unscaled. He swung his spiked axe hard at the creature’s exposed skin, sinking it deep into the flesh. Blood gushed out in a great torrent.

The Troll staggered and blows from both of the Stonecut brothers to the backs of its legs brought the now ungainly adversary to its knees. A single shot from one of the Elven archers pierced the Troll’s eye, bringing death to it.

‘We’re needed there!’ one of the Dwarves shouted, pointing to where another of the fiendish creatures was raining blows on several Elves with swords who were trying to keep it from penetrating deeper into the camp . . .

[Envinyatar]

He drew her to him and clasped her tightly; his chin resting on the crown of her head. And he might have kissed her once more, save the alarm was raised and there was no time for tenderness now.

‘Captain!’ cried one of his men who had come to fetch him. He averted his eyes until Ondomirë turned to him. ‘There are Trolls come into camp. They’ve attacked the horses along the southern perimeter and are dragging off the ones they kill. They slay anyone in their way; several of our men have gone down beneath their giant hammers.

“I’ll be there directly,’ Ondomirë said, his eyes gone hard at the news of intruders. ‘Fetch my bow and quiver, if you will and meet me at the second picketline – they have not gone there yet, if I understand you correctly.’ The bowman nodded his head and was about to run off, when Ondomirë called him back. ‘Tell Hensirë to send a squad of his spearmen here to the central area. The refugees must be protected. And let the leader of Blue squad archers know his men are to fall back, too, to this position.’ The bowman hastened from Ondomirë even as the last words still hung between them.

‘And you,’ he said speaking in a clipped manner to Losrian. ‘You will arm yourself with bow and fall in among the archers who will be here soon. For now push all the others who cannot defend themselves into a tight core. Tell them to stay behind the spearmen and the archers.’

He put his finger to her lips seeing she might protest his decision. ‘It is the Captain of the Bowman who speaks now, Losrian. You must make safe the refugees . . . the little ones,’ he went on, his voice a shade softer. He turned, a look of mingled regret and duty, to follow after the bowman messenger.

I will see you after! he sent to her as he ran toward the sounds of battle. The grace of the Valar guide our arrows! He was gone from sight, when one last instruction came to her.

Aim for their eyes if you can. Or the small opening of their ears . . .

[Folwren]

The Troll was making a rather large dent and causing damage and much havoc, fighting farther into the camp. Bror scrambled over rocks and pushed his way through rushing elves and panicking children. The refugees were being pulled away from the beastly creatures and the archers were coming in from one side, with elves wielding spears advancing on the other.

Skald ran on Bror’s right, and Rori and two other Dwarves to his other side. Bror and the others finally came to where he stood, but they halted as a pause seemed to fill the air. The troll stood surrounded by a half circle of a wall of elves, bristling with arrow tips and spears. Bror bent to look below the elbow of an elf he stood behind to see the troll. The thing seemed unsure of himself and a fierce, angry look was plastered on his idiotic face.

It was only a momentary pause, and then with a roar the beast lunged forward towards his adversaries, swinging his huge club and planning on taking half a dozen down with one sweep. He hadn’t even reached the first rank of archers before two dozen arrows left the bow strings and hissed through the air. Most of them found their mark, and quite a few could have killed the troll on its own. He fell with a deafening roar and a crash, killed.

Bror’s mouth curled with disgust as he drew back from the ruin. There were two left, but there were other elven warriors already surrounding it. They would not likely be needing any help. He turned to look at Skald and let his breath out with something like a sigh.

“I really wish we could go back, Skald,” he said, walking towards him. “All this killing and surprise attacks and unsafe wandering is making me sick. I’m tired of it. And I’m sorry to complain to you,” he added as an afterthought. “And it’s not as if it’s your fault. I know that.” He let out another sigh and shook his head. “Should we get back to our watch, do you suppose?” And then another thought struck him. “I say, Skald,” he said, “whoever was keeping watch on that side of the camp wasn’t keeping a very sharp one.”

[Mithalwen]

In her beloved's arms, Losrian received a tantalising taste of bliss but how shortlived it was. They were under attack and Ondomirë was gone - only his words floating in her mind were remained...she raced for her bow but dared not take the time to put on the mailshirt she had discarded when they set camp. She scooped up the drowsy children and entrusted them again to Alassante.

She had never seen a troll and the sight so close and so unexpected was terrifying. Her fear was heightened by the fear she felt for the children and Ondomirë but she concentrated on his instructions and felt more secure once the spearmen had surrounded the unarmed refugees.

Quelling her horror at the sight of the hideous being she drew her bow and held it at anchor point trying to target the eyes as its head moved in rythm with the hammer swings. She fired but just missed and grazed the troll's ...well it had to be its nose. Another elf had more luck and seconds later a startled but doomed troll had a elfdart deep in his ear. The huge fist had released the hammer it held at mid point in the arc of the swing. It soared above the elf-warrior's heads towards the vulnerable refugees.


Losrian, tall, lithe and with the sharp reactions of both her race and extreme youth dropped her bow and leapt to seize the handle as it passed over her head. Her thoughts if she had any were of the children. "Her" children in particular and what the crude but powerful weapon could do to them.

So relieved was she to have the handle in her grasp she thought little of the landing but the weight of the hammer meant she could not land on her feet andfell striking her head on the stone hammer as she did so.

She was in a green place, nowhere she had been before, dusk was falling and she could hear the sound of running water, a waterfall maybe. A wooded valley with mountains behind.. Maybe it was Lindon after all but no, she felt not. Now laughter - children? Galmir was there at least, she was sure but he seemed rather older, Ondomirë was by her side and ....

"Losrian! Come back to us!" .... to the surprise of the concerned people who surrounded her, a smile played around her lips and she seemed reluctant to return to consciousness.

Alassante's voice roused her swiftly though since she was clearly comforting Galmir," Don't worry, I am sure it looks worse than it is"

Losrian raised her hand to her brow and flinched as she felt pain and blood. Imagining how dramatic this would look with her pale colouring she tried to speak as confidently as she could. "I am fine Gally, just cut my head that is all" ... still dazed she ascertained that the troll was dead & the children safe and her thoughts then were all for Ondomirë. She sought to reach him with her mind even as she uttered his name.

[Arry]

‘You’re right, Bror,’ Skald replied as they watched the elves battle the two remaining Trolls. ‘It looks as if the Elves have got this situation under control. ‘Let’s gather up the rest of our fellows and go patrol the perimeter so any other murderous beasts don’t get in.’

The two set off at a run and soon had gathered up the rest of the Dwarves’ contingent. They walked along the perimeter, fanning out a little, their eyes and ears alert for any new Trolls who may have crossed the line.

There were none, it seemed. Rori Ironfoot stationed them in groups of twos and threes along a small section of the camp’s edge where the first Trolls had gotten in. They were within sight and hailing distance of one another, weapons at hand.

From within the camp, hidden in a clump of low growing trees, two beady black eyes stared out at the gathered Dwarves. It was the fifth Troll, he had been occupied with killing a few of the picketed horses and dragging their bodies out of the camp. He had re-entered just a short while prior to the Dwarves’ arrival, intent on taking out a few more carcasses. His eyes narrowed at his good fortune. He hated the Dwarves and their cave and tunnel grabbing ways. They were no more than stink-bugs to his mind; they deserved to be crushed beneath their betters’ heels. The horses could wait, he decided, until he’d smashed as many of the Foul little creatures as he could.

His hand clenched more tightly about his giant stone hammer and he took a deep breath as he sprang from his hiding place at the nearest group of three. For once, he held back the Hill Troll battle cry, coming upon the unfortunate Dwarves with a savage vengeance. His hammer blow was hard and swift, killing one and smashing the shield arm of another. The third Dwarf raised a loud cry and wielding his pole-axe, took a mighty blow at the Troll’s knees.

Bror heard the call, first, and motioned for his brother to hurry with him. When they’d got there, five other Dwarves nearby had also rushed in and were trying to ring in the Troll. As several Dwarves engaged the creature from the front, others came at him from behind, battering at the less scaley areas behind his knees.

Skald grabbed a coil of rope left near where the horses had been picketed and threw one end to Bror. Other Dwarves had come into the fray by now, and several of them grabbed on to either end.

The Dwarves who were harrying the Troll from the front, now pushed him even harder in an all out assault, driving him backwards. As the back of his knees neared the rope, the Dwarves that held it pulled it taut, setting their boots hard against the ground as they did so.

Unbalanced as the rope struck hard against his legs, the Troll stumbled. And hit relentlessly by the Dwarves axes, he fell backwards, sprawling on the ground. The Dwarves holding the rope ends quickly entangled his lower legs in the rope coil. Rori, bearing an iron-headed stave, pushed it hard into the Troll’s ear. Bror and Skald lent their weight behind him. Soon the downed creature lay twitching on the ground. As a last blow, one of the Dwarves brought the end of his poleaxe down in a forceful swing toward the Troll’s face. The sharp-pointed end of it, crushed through the fallen brute’s eye, pulverizing the weaker boned socket and penetrating the Troll’s brain with a final deadly result.

Skald sat down with an oomph! trying to regain his composure as well as his breath from the exertion. He turned his head to his brother, who’d come to sit beside him. ‘I’m tired of this, too, Bror. I’m glad you’ve had your fill of it now. And I agree with what you said – the sooner we’re home beneath the mountains, the better it will be.’