The Ambassador's Son RPG

[Nuranar]

They'd tried to hoist more sails, but the North Wind's catapults had done an excellent job of breaking spars and severing rigging. Finally Avershire, seeing the folly of wasting his men's precious engery, had ordered them to stop. Now the damaged ship's groanings were the only sound as the Gondorians waited. The corsair, seeing her quarry's condition, wasn't even using catapults. Her crew lined the decks, and now came faintly up the wind their harsh taunts and battle-cries.

"Hurry up, man!" Calnan snapped at Packs. The sailor jumped and his trembling hands lost their grasp on the bandage he was trying to secure. Calnan closed his eyes, stifling his frustration.

During the fight a stray projectile had smashed into the Regal Dawn's rail; one of the splinters had caught him just below the hairline, leaving a jagged wound. In the heat of battle he'd scarcely noticed it until blood started to run into his eyes. Even now it was refusing to stop bleeding, so he'd asked the sailor to bind it up. Packs, by some miracle, was barely scratched.

"There, lad, it's done," Packs said. Although now the cut was throbbing like anything, the bandage felt secure and the blood had stopped running down his face.

"Thanks, Packs." Calnan hoisted himself to his feet, biting his lip. He'd landed hard on his knee when boarding, and now that he'd stopped moving, it was terribly stiff and painful.

His bow was at the bottom of the sea with the North Wind, but he still had his sword. He picked his way slowly across the debris-strewn deck to the rail. Avershire, grief and rage spent, had woodenly ordered every man able to prepare to board. There was nothing to be gained by a hopeless defense of the crippled ship. Calnan wondered vaguely how much convincing it would take for Sedal to leave his patients.

They didn't have a chance. Everyone knew it. No one said it. Calnan felt only very tired. Tired of all the effort, all the back-breaking work, all the mind-numbing grief, that was all going for nothing. He hardly cared any more.

"It's not for nothing," said a firm, quiet voice behind him. Calnan heard without understanding; then it penetrated. He turned and saw Telson. The Gondorian smiled slightly. "You never really thought we'd defeat Doran. But you came because your friends needed you. Because you couldn't not come. Because it was the right thing to do."

He raised his voice. "If I'm to die, I would die for Gondor. And in my death I will destroy as many of her foes as I can!"

There were no wild cheers, no enthusiastic hurrahs; but a low murmur of assent reached the ear. Calnan took a deep breath and looked around him. Where before he had seen fear, apathy, and despair, there was now a grim resolution and steadfast purpose. Men stood and readied their weapons. A few of the more seriously injured came forward, some fierce in resisting the kind hands that would have them rest.

And none too soon, for the enemy was upon them. With ferocious cries of triumph, the corsairs crowded to the rails, brandishing weapons and whirling grapnels. Yet they waited until the ships began to inch together, when they intended to leap upon the cowering Gondorians.

But just as they were about to attack - "NOW!" rang the cry. Everyone on the Royal Dawn's deck surged across, yelling like furies. Some swinging, some hurdling the gap, they came with a fury and a wrath that daunted the astonished corsairs.

Calnan had feared his bad knee would give way if he tried to swing across, so he had jumped instead, deliberately plowing into a burly pirate. The man staggered heavily into his neighbor while Calnan rolled across the deck. Drawing his sword as he leapt to his feet, he set upon the enemy with deadly will.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Telson, now with but one short sword, dueling fiercely. He thought Callath had swung across just ahead of him, but there was no sign of him. Suddenly a body stumbled into him, throwing him off-balance. His opponent, thrusting even as Calnan staggered away, stabbed the other instead. Calnan, horrified, recognized Packs; the sailor died without a sound. Like lightning, Calnan swung his sword and cut the corsair's throat. But immediately another set upon him.

Soon the deck was slippery with blood and cumbered with bodies. Their initial assault had surprised the corsairs, but their force was small and had no support. Most of the bodies were those of corsairs, but here and there were Gondorians that could not be replaced. Calnan fought until his arm ached. His opponents began to get inside his guard, and he was bleeding in several places. Blood was running down his face again.

Abruptly his foot came down on something semi-solid and he fell heavily to his bad knee. The pain slowed his reactions, and he felt a stinging pain in his leg as he threw himself to the side a split second too late. He staggered to his feet, desperately striking aside his antagonist's weapon. Remotely he recognized the body he had tripped on: The trusty Master Pearlle, his hand still grasping a bloody cutlass.

Calnan was barely eluding each blow when another corsair joined in the assault. Thrust back by the force of the attack, he smashed heavily into the mast, the back of his head striking the wood. Briefly blinded by a starry explosion, he parried instinctively, felt the pirate's blade deflected by his. But as vision cleared, he felt something very hard prick warningly on his breastbone. The second corsair had him.

"Will you yield!" the man demanded, breathing hard.

Numbed by calamity and very near exhaustion, Calnan felt no emotion whatsoever. There was only one thing to do. "I yield."

The man held out his other hand, his sword point unwavering. Something resentful and unyielding flickered for a moment in Calnan's mind; then he gave up his sword.

"You are wise," the corsair said, and with a flourish of his sword indicated for Calnan to join the surrendered remnant of the Gondorians. Calnan gazed emptily into their impassive faces, one by one. He wondered dully why the corsairs had gone to the trouble of capturing them.

[Durelin]

Adeline's head swam again, and this time it had little to do with the rocking of the boat. She had just spent the past hour, or what seemed to be an hour, being berated from head to foot by Doran, the most detestable of all the men Adeline knew with a name beginning with a 'D'. Master Doran's idea of berating was one of the worst kinds. Like a disciplinarian, the cold, fatherly type, the man would tell her how horrible a little wretch she was, and how thankful she should be that she still had her life, her limbs, and food in her gut, as well as an untouched body. The last was the only thing she was truly thankful for. Thinking idly, as she did at the moment, her living wasn't much to be thankful for.

But then her stomach growled, and the rather vulgar statement 'food in her gut' was sounding more and more like a desire, and certainly something she would be thankful to have. As always, though, her stubbornness would insure that she would not give in. Adeline clenched her teeth and waiting for the rumbling to stop. It persisted, though, as her thoughts turned to her punishment. She was to live without food, to live only with water, for a full three days. Her horrified reaction to this sentence for her disobedience had been found amusing by the Captain and his first mate, who constantly had important business to discuss with Doran. To the bottom of the sea with these corsairs and their rough and tumble ways - She would be without even a scrap of bread for three days?

Adeline sat to the right in front of Doran's desk in a hard and uncomfortable wooden chair. She had been ignored for much of this visit to the Captain's cabin as Doran looked over some maps. The first mate stood directly in front of the desk, awaiting the Captain's direction to speak. Most likely there would be more 'important' information for the two men to discuss, all of which Adeline failed to see the importance in, much less fully understand. Her stomach growled loudly as she adjusted how she sat in the uncomfortable chair, and a gruff laugh came from the first mate, while Doran just smiled. He turned to her with that smile. "Is your punishment paining you so? Only one more day left, my dear. Truly, you cannot say it has been that long. But still, it was wonderful luck that I was free to meet you those days ago so close to your mealtime."

The first mate guffawed at his Captain's remark, rather rowdily for such a statement. "I must say," Adeline began defiantly, "the mealtime conversation is not sorely missed." Doran chuckled at this. "You cannot be saying that I bore you, my Lady! Tell me 'tis not so!" He wore a wide grin as he looked at Adeline, and his eyes were alight with a cold delight. He then turned to his first mate, still grinning. "Tell the Lady, Jurex! Assure her that she does not wish to dine with the crew!"

This time Jurex did not laugh. In fact, his face grew severe in thought, a frown replacing his sly grin from only moments before. "No, Captain." He was silent for a minute, during which Doran eyed him expectantly. "Speaking of mealtimes among the crew sir... Truly, speaking of any free moment among the crew, when they have the time to speak with one another..." Jurex paused another moment, clearly collecting himself with a hard swallow. "What is said among the crew does not bode well. For the first time, they are unsure of where this will lead. We chase after a young man - a boy! - for reasons they do not and cannot understand. Ships have been captured, now two are missing? Rumors have spread concerning battle reports. Many of the men are fairly sure all your luck has run out, while others believe your skill is not what it used to be. While still others believe your skill was never truly tested till now. Whatever they are thinking, Captain, it is not in good mind of heading out to fight this enemy - the first enemy to defy you in such a way. I have even heard a man foretelling a doom that-"

"Quite man! Quiet!" Doran snapped angrily. His smile had with his first mate’s every word. Now an anger greater than any Adeline had seen in the man warred upon his face. All his usual calm severity was gone. And Adeline knew just why. That was the reason she had jumped out of her seat at his shout. Seconds before, Doran had shook his head, sadly in thought, and out of the corner of his eye, had caught sight of the young lady sitting in the chair. Her stomach had been quiet, for long enough.

"Out!" he shouted, now directly at her. Adeline did not move for a moment, but looked at Jurex, whose face was pale, with only a slight tint of color in his cheek from embarrassment. Doran pointed toward the door, and shouted louder, "Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!" Adeline's legs decided it was time to comply, and she rushed out, closing the door behind her, only muffling the shouts that followed her.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath fought viciously, working with all he had, but as the battle was wearing on even he had began to tire, the adrenaline beginning to run to simple, pure exhaustion. His dagger had been lost on the deck ten minutes previously, and he was now fighting with his sword in his right hand, half slumped against the mast - one leg had a long slash in it, quite shallow but bleeding strongly, enough to make the boy feel weaker.

In his tiredness though, he was beginning to make mistakes. He hadn't fought so hard before, especially not at sea - literally fighting for his life against much older and burlier men, and with no way to get off the ship and away. But one thing he knew: Callath was damnedn if he would give up his life without a fight. But as he thrust directly at his opponent, the corsair shifted nimbly to the side - the corsairs weren't still weary from the previous fight, and there were more of them than there were Gondorians; this one was far fresher than Callath. As the man ducked, he cracked Callath against the back of the head with the hilt of his cutlass, probably aiming to cut his throat but put off by the fact that Callath, although tired, wasn't utterly brain-dead, and still moved away as a reflex. However, the blow sent him stumbling forward, and his weakened leg gave out beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he swung wildly, desperately - foolishly - at the corsair...and the man, parrying the careless blow easily and stabbing straight down at Callath's right hand.

The youth groaned loudly in pain as the feel of a red-hot poker laying into his flesh point first at the back of the palm caused him to drop his sword. Clutching his bloody hand, he stumbled again as the two ships juddered against each other in the waves, and fell backwards onto the deck. His opponent leered over him, victory in his eyes, and Callath scrambled backwards away, face upwards as his hand grasped behind him for his sword. Finding it, he whirled over and swung accurately to counter the corsair's potentially fatal blow, jarring the man's hand and making him step backwards.

"Join your shipmates now, boy."

The steely voice made Callath glance behind him, despite what common sense told him, and taking advantage of the break his opponent swiped sharply at his wounded hand. The sword fell from his limp hand as it spasmed again with the pain and Callath paled sharply, biting down into his lip. He turned slowly to face the man who had spoken, and the corsair's laugh made him want to punch him.

"Oldest trick in the book. Sure, you're only a child though," he taunted, then snapped, "Get in with the others."

Callath swallowed hard against his anger and pain and, hating himself, complied. But as he passed, he couldn't resist - his proud nature wouldn't let him simply submit. Drawing back slightly, he spat with excellent accuracy into the corsair's right eye.

The man didn't appreciate the gesture though, and neither did he register enough of the expected confusion for it to be of use - after only a second's pause, he was upon Callath as quickly as a snake and as brutally as a panther closing in for the kill. He slapped Callath sharply around the face with strength that made the boy reel, then did the same again. Callath swung the bloody, dead weight of his injured hand at the man's stomach, seeking to wind him...but the more experienced fighter caught it as he did so. Squeezing and twisting to the side brutally, he brought Callath into an armlock.

"Submit," he whispered mockingly into the boy's ear.

Callath, although shaking with the pain, pale and with blood running down from his lip, his hair disheveled and blood over his clothes and skin, shook his head very slightly. "No," he whispered painfully.

The man sent him stumbling forward into the other Gondorians with a hard push and a wicked laugh. "Take them beneath," he called to another, not sparing Callath another glance.

[Earendil Halfelven]

"Out, girl, or I will give you away as a present!"

The door shut behind Adeline as she rushed out and Doran turned to glare at Jurex. Jurex looked pale and looked at the floor. Doran fumed. His breath coming out as if he was breathing fire.

"You ever say such things in front of a prisoner, you ever insult my discipline among the crew or my reputation in front of a prisoner or anyone, and I will personally see to it that that is the last mistake you ever make!" He was yelling now and Jurex seemed to shake a bit. But now Doran lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

"It is in your best interest to never make that mistake again."

Jurex nodded and swallowed. Doran glared at him. But then a cry from the deck hurried to their ears.

"Sail ho!"

Doran rushed out of his cabin with Jurex right behind him. Many of the crew were also rushing up to see who was out there. Reaching the deck, Doran looked up at the lookout and said, "Where?"

"Sails off o' starboard!"

Sails, thought Doran. He said sails. Doran looked and saw two deep red sails. They were the sails of Harad. Perfect, he thought. The crew think that my luck is out. Well, time to see if they're right.

Jurex was standing on his right side. He looked out but didn't say anything. Many of the crew looked over at Doran, watching him and wondering what he was going to do.

"Haradrim," muttered Doran to Jurex.

"What do we do, Captain?" Jurex asked.

Speaking loud enough for the crew to hear, Doran replied,"Light the battle torch to signal the other ships. Men, we go to battle!"

The deck errupted in cheers. Swords rang as they were drawn and many were clanged together.

"Take your positions!" Doran yelled.
The crew reacted immediately. As they rushed by to take their positions, he heard one say,"Didn't I tell ya? The captain's still got it in him."

He looked out and saw the other ships getting into battle formation, their torches blazing off of the stern to show that they knew what was going to happen. They knew what to do. They were going to sail down in two columns, with the Haradrim ships in the middle. On Doran's command, the ships would let loose their volley of catapults until there was nothing left of the Haradrim.

"Men, load!"

The Haradrim ships sailed closer, apparently unaware of their fate. All was a hush. Even the wind was silent as it blew. Nothing was heard except the baited breath of his men. The ships were almost in perfect position.

"FIRE!"
__________________________________________________ _______________

The men cheered and drank to their hearts content. The attack was successful. One Haradrim ship lay barely afloat as it sunk lower and lower, and the other one lay almost crippled. It was just barely able to get home. His men had succesffully board both ships. One of the ship's crew wouldn't surrender, so Doran was forced to annihilate them. Seeing the fate of their comrades, the other ship gave in. They were taken totally by surprise. With both ships plundered and looted, Doran sailed off with minimal casualties. None of his ships sustained any serious damage. None of his crew doubted him any longer.
__________________________________________________ _______________

It had been two days since the attack and Doran was getting restless. Where were his ships? He was strolling the deck when the lookout called to him.

"Captain, there's debris floatin' about in the water and what I think are bodies!"

Doran rushed to the side of the ship and looked downward. He saw broken planks of wood floating about, pieces of mast, and bodies. Some bodies were missing parts, such as a head or an arm. Many of the crew now noticed the scene around them. Floating by the ship was a piece of wood with a name on it; the name of a ship. It said Pora Diy.

Many started to mutter about curses and such, but it was obvious that they had encountered the boy. How the boy had done this Doran didn't know. Again, Jurex was at his side, ready for orders.

"Jurex, let's sail on for a while until we're out of this debris field. Let's not keep the men here. They'll get jumpy."

Jurex nodded.

They sailed on for about a mile until they were out of the debris. Doran decided to lay anchor there until the figured where next to go now that they knew the fate of one of his ships.

That night, they fought another battle. This time, it was against nature and the elements.

[Arvedui III]

Battle fatigue was always something legendary and a bit dreadful to desk officers and orderlies. The rumored numbness and utter weariness made for good conversations on cold nights with a howling wind. Not just in Gondor, but it was a universally accepted truth that all support troops everywhere talked about it, probably because it was a means of distinction they would never get the chance to experience. And the only other truth about officers and men of the rear is that most of them either did something wrong or were poised for promotion.

Telson decided, staring out unseeingly at an ocean laden with bodies and flotsam that he must have done something horribly wrong to get to where he was. Everything he had whispered about in the warmth of a bar or garrison fire seemed grossly inadequate to the weariness he was feeling right now; And even more disturbing was the fact that he couldn’t really remember what he had said, nor did he care. The chains around his wrist rubbed against his skin, and the profanity of it made him want to scream. But instead he had to content himself with looking at an ocean strewn with debris from the deck; Alone, and awaiting more unfortunate souls to join him in the rusty multi-manacle contraption he was attached to. Was he not captured he would have found great interest in it, but at the moment it went overlooked, his vision refusing to see much of anything other than the images that kept flashing in his head.
--------------
The din of battle seemed to be the only thing that had ever existed in the world. How could anything else be crammed into all the shooting and chaos and death? Telson’s arm, he noted grimly, was becoming more leaded with every stroke and party. Despite his concerted effort make his movements as small and precise as possible, he was beginning to make mistakes, and that, he knew, was the beginning of the end. Each corsair he engaged seemed now like only a variance in a ratty, gritty, coarse mold, and he failed to tell the difference between one and the other.

Quite suddenly, a swishing sound and a flash of silver made him roll to the right to avoid a second corsair who had decided to aid his long-breaded brother that Telson had pinned to the deck, about to kill. He wasn’t fast enough and a slight tickling sensation then a searing pain started in his cheek and ran into the rest of his face. He could feel the blood running down his neck, but it had not obscured his vision and so he lunged at his attacker. After his stroke went wide both corsairs were on their feet, Telson only having time to find his footing before they charged at him. Parry, repose, sidestep, backstep, parry again.

Telson bought enough time to make one lunge at the corsairs, and using his entire upper body he hurled himself into them and knocked them unto the deck. After running both his antagonists through, he was rewarded with a clear view of the aft-deck, a most unpleasant sight greeting him. He had thought well of himself for taking down two corsairs at once, but that was nothing to the ten or so corsairs Marx was holding at bay with naught but a jagged spar in his hands. The sheer awe of seeing what he was seeing left Telson literally numb, terror quickly replacing it when he saw about five corsairs drawing bows and taking aim. He took a step but released he could do nothing as he saw the arrows fly, watching horrorstricken as the shafts embedded themselves into the big man’s chest, the wild yell as the corsairs rushed him, the roar afterward of both death and triumph.

By the time Marx fell, nearly twenty bodies lay piled beside him.

Telson stood dumb for a moment, but only a moment. His rage properly inspired, he rushed all of pirates surrounding Marx, swinging wildly and maiming as many as he could. He didn’t know how long he slashed at the mass of bodies before he was slammed unto the deck and was kicked, punched, beaten, then put into chains.
---------
However much time had past, it didn’t seem like it has been enough to do Marx justice. By now a few other Gondorian survivors had been chained next to him, Callath and Calnan among them. Telson was too hoarse to say anything, let alone face the two boys. Well, they’re men now. He thought glumly. Damn shame, but they are. Devon more than any of them For a moment he wondered what had happened to Thrann, but the exercise was tiring so he stopped. It seemed that the corsairs had collected as many prisoners to be found and began forcing the unhappy group below. Quite frankly, Telson would have preferred belonging to the stack of bodies the corsairs were hurling into the sea.

Down below in the stinking hold, Telson wits began to return to him and the sheer anger and fear that came with capture began to impress itself upon him. For the first time in his life he had control over nothing and the feeling of helplessness was enough to make a man mad. But it was also enough to allow his brain to start working, albeit frantically, for a way out. A rusty lock, a piece of rotten wood, a discarded dagger or ever shard of glass, anything would do. He hunched as far away from the rest of the crew, who were speculating about casualties. He didn’t want to face them with the image of Marx falling in his head. He only began to think of any means to escape.

He had to get out, or die trying.

[Himaran]

Graring: Prisoner Transfer


Graring watched at the Yonder Bound eased alongside the ship, and ropes were thrown across the thin gap. From what he had heard, the Gondorians were to be transfered to the vessel nearing his own, and then transported... somewhere. Probably back to Doran, wherever he had hidden himself on the wide ocean. Graring was quite angry that his "leader" had missed two large battles, conveniently protecting himself from any possible danger.

Time passed, and the last of the prisoners had crossed over to their destination. They were lucky, actually; their new prison was larger and more better stocked than the Might of Realge. Their journey to their doom, at least, would be comfortable. For the battle was finally over.