Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Folwren]

“Very well. We will have to hope that there are few ships and plan for a swift, heavy strike,” Menelcar said, as though summing up the plans. “If not - hopefully we will know sooner than later.”

“Depending on your outlook on time,” Hereric said, “we will know sooner than later. But for now, perhaps it would be well for you to go and tell the king what you’ve decided.” He bowed slightly and withdrew a couple paces, turning his back and walking to the rail. Menelcar seemed to pause half a second before Hereric heard him walk slowly from the deck. He watched him silently from above as he paced the distance to the cabin door and disappear inside.

He shook his head slightly and looked up. He considered for a moment to hail the tops man, but then decided it would be just as well for him to look and see for himself. He mounted the foremast and stood at the highest cross tree and swaying slightly in the wind he looked out again towards the Pelargir. The cloud of smoke had almost disappeared, but he could see in his mind’s eye the city still reeking in the fumes of recent fire with thin but constant wisps of the smoke still rising to heaven like a burnt offering.

And the Corsair’s ships would still be in the bay as the men ravaged the streets, killing and raping at will. He felt his blood grow hot and he turned his eyes away and he looked back at the ships behind him, and then down at his own deck below.

They would be ready for battle, when the time came. And perhaps, just maybe, they would catch these enemies on unawares, drunk with the spoils of war, and unprepared for Gondorian avengers so soon.

The thought assuaged his fury and he let himself down onto deck. He called the officers to him and began to give orders in preparation for the upcoming battle.

[Arry]

Curiouser and curiouser . . . Bahir’s eyes narrowed as he made his way from the rowing galley hatchway across the top-deck. He was bound for his perch on the main mast, having been given instructions by one of the mates that the tear in the topsail needed repair. What’s this? An unfamiliar set of legs and raggedy clothes was just disappearing around the corner of the captain’s quarters. And where had he glimpsed those sweat hardened clothes? Just recently, he thought.

The man on the stairs . . . yes, that was a possibility. One of the rowers had slipped his shackles off, somehow. Brave little mouse – to play so dangerous a game while the Cat was away. Bahir’s brows rose; he gave a half smile. But then who was he to condemn another’s . . . adventure? And perhaps he could turn the man’s intentions to his own use.

Bahir shouldered a small cask from one of the lashed piles on the deck. For all intents and purposes he looked the part of someone delivering something somewhere as ordered. His head was down and he trudged along . . . just Boy, on some errand, they would think.

He slipped into the shadows afforded by the overhanging eaves of the captain’s cabin and sat down the cask he carried. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, his eyes darting about for any who might be watching. Assuring himself there were none, he darted around the edge of the cabin, just in time to see the man he was following, standing before the captain’s door. The man grimaced as he gazed at the locked entry way.

And did he think that the great Corsair ship’s master would leave his door open for all to visit as they wished?

A multitude of thoughts scrambled in the young man’s head. He could turn this to his advantage and be rid of the one token of his trespass. Bahir stepped forward, making a small sound so as to draw the man’s attention. He looked carefully at the fellow and then at the door. From a fold in his turban, he pulled out the key he had so recently used. And bending down, he slid it in a quick motion toward the man.

It clattered over the wooden decking coming to stop at the man’s feet. Bahir rose up and nodded toward the door, his face breaking into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Friend . . .’ he whispered, he eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Good hunting!’

He did not stay to see what the man had planned. He did not wish to know. Bahir hurried back to where he’d left his little barrel and carried it with him to the main mast, leaving it there as he climbed nimbly up pole and onto the riggings at the top.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

"Good hunting!"

A key laid at Jagar's feet and as he dumbfounded stooped to pick it up, the boy who had tossed it had already gone off. There might have been something behind the sudden kindness of the stranger, but Jagar decided to worry about it later when he had completed his mischief. Jagar turned the key in the lock opening the door, stepped over the threshold and entered a room that was furnished with beautiful cloths and maps. There was a dark wooden table and a bed covered with soft cushions; it was the finest room Jagar had ever seen and he closed his eyes and let his fingers slide through the long pile of a shag rug. He paced across the room to a small cabinet and opened it revealing a more or less dusty collection of bottles full of liquor. "Perfect", Jagar whispered and took two bottles out of the cabinet, arranged the remaining bottles so that his thievery wouldn't be easily noticed and turned around to return to the bare and dim slave deck while his good luck lasted.

Jagar gave a final longing look around the luxurious room and as his gaze swept over the pillows on the bed, he let out a muffled cry and one of his liquor bottles slipped out of his grasp and fell on the floor shattering into pieces. There was someone lying under the heap of cushions. It looked like a blonde boy had been slumbering holding a bottle of spirits in his hand, but there was something odd about it; the boy hadn't even moved despite all the noise Jagar had made. For a moment Jagar held his breath staring at the boy, took a few steps toward the bed and burst out laughing. He saw that the boy had a glazed look in his open eyes and a bluish streak on his neck. "You really got scared over a dead body? Dead men don't rat on you", Jagar chuckled as he tucked the bottle he had left under his rugged shirt. The plank floor was sticky with liquor, but it didn't matter. A nice little riddle for the Lords to solve. Jagar walked out of the room, locked the door behind him and returned back to the slave deck humming cheerfully.

"For the old man is awaiting to carry you to freedom if you follow the Drinking Gourd."