Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Durelin]

Targil, Evening

Thorvel was the first to take off, not surprising Targil. Thorvel seemed the trust the leadership of Calenvása much more than either Targil or the young Lómarandil did. And Targil was the only member of the troop that had reason to doubt the Captain's leadership abilities. Lómarandil simply tended not to think reasonably, and therefore could not reasonably mistrust Calenvása. Still, Targil never had been able to understand what Lómarandil thought of Calenvása. Perhaps it was time for a quiet talk with the young elf. It was good to know whom you fought with, especially in this case. He thought he understood Thorvel, but, staring blankly at the elf's back as he made his way quickly into the thick of the forest, he seemingly tried to see into the elf's soul. His thoughts were disrupted when the elf disappeared completely into the trees, and Targil then made his own way into them. He went another direction, of course.

Communicate...Targil would certainly communicate with his comrades, and happily give his opinion. They would not like it, though, as always. Calenvása just did not like to listen to someone who always found something wrong with him. Targil was almost completely sure that he knew Calenvása. Many times it was so simple to hear what the Captain was thinking. You could tell that the elf was not comfortable in his position, and did not like taking on his responsibilities. This was why Targil could not respect the elf enough to trust him. He knew that Calenvása had a good heart and a strong mind, but he had weaknesses that did not allow him to be a respectable leader. Targil constantly questioned his authority, not because he enjoyed seeing the elf overwhelmed with decisions and responsibility, but because he knew that every objection that forced Calenvása to handle it brought the Captain closer to being a true leader. The conversation they had just had had surprised Targil. Calenvása had truly stood up to him, this time. Perhaps it was the need that drove them all, finally finding a home in his heart. If so, Targil hoped it remained there to urge him on in the next few days. Leadership would be needed.

Targil quietly settled his body down in the forest floor. He crawled slowly into a large, leafy bush, stopping as soon as something could be soon. He had a pretty clear view in this position, and he was not going to risk adjusting or a more open spot for fear of discovery. Any elf could move silently around their forest homes, but a scout had to have the mind to know when not to try his skills. Targil worried about Lómarandil mostly because he was afraid that the elf was too rash, and too certain of his skills to take any of the precautions his life depended on. Targil sighed, regretting making any sound after he did so. The orcs near him were busy arguing, gurgling and growling grotesquely at each other. His sigh of tired sadness was quiet enough, but he was afraid to think for fear of being heard.

~

Calenvása, Night

Calenvása was just beginning to feel the muscles in his legs start to ache, begging to be given some kind of respite. He had been perched in this tree, knowing that any of the stronger branches would hold his weight. Still, he felt not at all as graceful as a bird that might perch there. High above the forest floor, he did not feel he belonged there. He felt so incredibly awkward that it was hard for him to closely observe anything around him. He had not shifted his feet more than an inch on the branch for the past few hours as he watched the darkness settle around him. It was deep now, but his eyes could see capably enough in the dark, and his hearing, of course, was not affected. What he had to remember was that orcs had very capable night vision as well. Perched in his discomfort, Calenvása felt considerably less graceful than a bird would look in his spot.

Dawn

Soft beams of light slowly began to filter through into the depth of the forest, and Calenvása welcomed their warm caress. They warmed his soul after a night in what had become such a cold place. It was his home, and so its evil was all the more chilling for him. He struggled to keep his heart warm with hope in such a moment. As the light gradually grew, he realized just how important it was that he kept hope. He began to realize how important his leadership could be. And it scared him, making him shiver more than the shadows that plagued his home did.

A great, roaring yell brought him out of his reverie of cold thoughts, and he scanned the scene before him. Another yell, this one sounding more human than animal, came. He could not make out what the various yells that followed were crying, but the rush and chaos that filled the army’s camp, with the cleaning up and packing up of gear, the angry yells at the attempt to organize orcs…the army was preparing to move.

Calenvása waited for many moments, watching the anarchy. Closest to him the air was quieter and calmer. A group of both orcs and easterlings were seemingly gathering very near to his tree. Perhaps dangerously near, though that was yet to be seen. They seemed to separate themselves from the rest of the army, and Calenvása could already see a greater amount of organization among them. He filed all this away to be thought about when he was safe; at least, a distance away from orcs, easterlings, and southrons, meeting back in the clearing with his troop.

Feeling that he had waited long enough, and seen enough, he slowly began to move, carefully maneuvering but still trusting the branch’s stability a bit too much. His legs now refused to move, stiff and sore, but finally numbed. His eyes were glued to the enemies assembled before him. It took Calenvása far too long to get onto the ground, and that was not the end of his fear and caution. Forcing his legs and arms to moved enough that he could drag himself across the ground on his belly, his mind already began to slip back into troubled thoughts. He worried about what Targil might have to say.

[Arry]

‘Oy! My feet hurt already!’

Snikdul shifted the pack on his back, wincing at each step over the pebbles and sharp little twigs that covered the forest floor. The pace set by the captains was a quick one, affording no chance of watching where one stepped. Gromwakh snorted at his companion’s complaint, reminding him he’d had the chance to grab a pair of the men’s boots last night while they were sleeping.

‘Stick my pretties in some stinkin’ sandworm’s boot?! Who knows what sort of nasty bugs’re hiding in there! I’d just as soon have . . .’

Snik’s ongoing commentary was cut short as Gromwakh pulled him out of the moving column, deeper into the shadows beneath the trees. One by one the others of their little band joined them. Quiet as snails, but quicker, they gathered in a thicket, huddling beneath the shady canopy of the trees. ‘Now listen up, lads,’ said Gromwakh in a rasping whisper. ‘I managed to listen in a bit last night to One Eye and his fancy pants group of Uruks.’ Grom rubbed his backside, recalling how his eavesdropping had been cut short by swift kick to it from one of the Uruks - one who’d gone out to answer a call of nature and unfortunately returned to find the hapless Orc squatting behind a small rocky outcropping listening in. He shook free the unpleasant memory and continued on. ‘Apparently, we’re not all going to that Elf forest together. One Eye and one of the darkling men captains are attacking a different way.’

There were murmurs and grunts as the Orcs considered what Gromwakh had heard. One of them spoke up, the others nodding their misshapen heads at his observation. ‘You know what that means, dontcha? That group’s gonna be in the thick of the fighting. Right up against those nasty Elves and their sharp, biting blades and arrows.’ ‘Well what’ll we do, then?’ another asked.

‘Anyone see where One Eye and his followers were when we started off?’ asked Gromwakh. ‘Well. Let’s see . . .,’ said one of the Orcs, standing up and facing in the direction the army had been traveling. ‘I was on the outside and . . .’ He scratched his head, then raised his left hand and pointed slightly to the side and before him. ‘I saw that Urkrásh running along. So One Eye musta been somewhere near.’

‘Right then,’ said Gromwakh decisively, standing up and motioning for the others to do so, too. ‘Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them.’

‘There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along,’ offered Snikdul as they shouldered their packs and slipped out of the cover of the thicket. ‘Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . .’

‘Now how’d you hear that?’ asked Gromwakh, regretting immediately he’d asked the question. It was a query that Snikdul took up happily, outlining his sources and branching off onto other avenues of information that strayed far from the subject of hams.

[Orofaniel]

"You lot; Hurry up!"

The growls from other soldiers were roaring through the army. There were no time for delay, and Herding as well as the Haradrim soldiers knew that. Herding's cold eyes met the soldier standing next to him. What fool is causing trouble now? He wondered.

"What's going on back there?" he asked the soldier, as if the problems were caused by him. "Sir, I'm not sure yet. Want me to go and check?" he asked Herding calmly while seeming innocent. He didn't seem too willingly at the beginning, but when Herding nodded sternly at him, he seemed more aware of the situation. He better be quick, Herding said to himself under his breath as soon as the soldier had left his side. If there really were any big trouble back there, it would probably cause much annoyance and anger among the other soldiers, and that was the last thing Herding wanted; Annoyed soldiers never make good soldiers.

"What's keeping us?" A yell howled from behind. The harshness in the voice hewed through the air. Murmurs and mumblings were soon to follow. "Everyone, hold you positions! Stay where you are!" Herding cried angrily. He couldn't believe how so many soldiers could be uncontrolled and weary because of something as small as this. It made him anxious in some way; to think about it. What would happen when there really is something there , lurking in the shadows? The tense situation now was probably caused by some fool in the back that didn't manage to stay on his feet. The murmurs stopped and everyone stood silently, focusing on the sounds around them. "Move, will ya?" Herding said coldly to the soldier that was blocking his way. He scouted a bit, but saw naught. "Will someone tell me what’s' going on?" Herding demanded again as he became restless. Then finally the soldier, who he had sent off in the beginning, came back. He breathed heavily and took a moment to catch his breath. Speak, man Herding though, but kept his thoughts for himself.

"Nothin' is wrong sir," he muttered. "Someone got stuck," he continued briefly. "That's it?" Herding gazed seeming a bit confused and at the same time surprised. "One fool got stuck and all these soldiers are waiting for him?!" Herding repeated, now very much annoyed and the harshness in his voice was not pleasant. "Indeed, sir," the soldier answered, sounding annoyed as well. “He fell over and then he couldn’t get up. Some of the soldiers tried to help him, others laughed,” he added contemptuously. Herding grew red. He felt the anger arisen inside, but he tried to control himself and the harsh words that his tongue was about to utter. "Well, let the fool get loose by himself, and let’s move!" Herding then said loudly. The soldiers jumped seeming surprised with Herding's words; maybe they had expected something a bit more explosive from their captain? But they said nothing, and just followed his orders, which probably was the cleverest thing to do. Herding wasn’t sure if he could handle more than this. "Sir, I think he got loose," the soldier said calmly. Herding rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, with clenched teeth.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel welcomed the dawn with gladness. Scattered beams of light made their way through the tangle of branches to his hiding place. He was rather stiff from remaining in the same location all night, and frustrated that it had all been for nothing. He had not heard or seen a single thing that would help them out, and now they were starting to move. The Captains were yelling over the din for the soldiers to get moving, sometimes in their foul orkish speech and sometimes in the Common Tongue.

He waited a moment to make sure that no one was coming near. Then he silently got up and stretched his muscles. He sighed irritably. He could only think of two things that would improve his mood. One would be hearing some information to their advantage. The other thought he relished: putting some arrows into Orc hides. He knew this would not be possible at the moment; there were far too many Orcs for their small band to attack.

He tuned and crept stealthily back through the forest, bent over slightly. His keen ears took in all the sounds of the forest. Suddenly he stopped. He had heard something that most certainly did not belong in the forest: the clatter of Orcs and their foul voices. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring as a precaution and moved carefully towards them. He could make out individual voices long before he came upon them and stopped a good distance away.

"...Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them," said one Orc. From who? Thorvel wondered. The Elves? Other Orcs?

"There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along," said another. Thorvel heard them crash their way out of the forest, and their voices started to fade. "Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . ." He sighed again and replaced his arrow. He didn't think that the information would be of any help. He disappeared into the forest, heading back towards the clearing.

Targil and Lómarandil were already there, waiting. Targil didn't seem very happy to be there; remembering his argument with Calenvása, Thorvel supposed he would rather be tracking the Orcs now, not returning to meet together. Thorvel honestly didn't understand why Targil insisted on arguing with Calenvása so much; he felt that it caused division and mistrust within their band. He understood that Targil might disagree, and Thorvel had no problem if he voiced those disagreements. Thorvel would do the same thing, but he didn't agree with the way Targil would continue to argue the point. Then there was Lómarandil. The young elf always seemed to have some idea of what to do, but the problem was they rarely made any sense. Thorvel saw no reason why he should trust either of them. He respected their abilities, but he trusted none but his Captain. Even if Calenvása didn't always seem thrilled about the responsibilty, Thorvel knew that he would always live up to it.

Calenvása approached the clearing only seconds after Thorvel, and this time Thorvel did not wait to speak.

"Those orcs! All night, and I get no more information than they have hams in the supply wagons! That, and some indecipherable mention of "staying as far away as possible from them". I sure hope that you all got some more information than I did, or else we will probably never figure out what they intend!" Thorvel felt better after venting some of his frustration, and then slightly embarrassed about his outburst. As he often did, he had not thought out his words before he spoke them. Looking around, he waited for someone else to speak.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Megilaes settled himself beside his brother where he could watch Caranbaiths’ chest rise and fall with each fitful breath. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother, willing each painful and spasmodic intake of air not to be the last. The gash was indeed deep and while Coromswyth’s medicine had staunched the bleeding, the silk bandage was speckled with glittering drops of the deepest red. Megilaes had never seen the blood of an Elf – never seen an Elf suffer so grievous a wound. His terror for his brother was, then, tempered by the bewilderment of an immortal having to contemplate for the first time the death of one close to him. He reached out with gentle fingers to touch the bandage, as though to see if the blood were real or merely a fantasy.

It is no dream brother. Caranbaith’s voice, strong and unshaken by the damage done to his physical existence, filled Magilaes’ mind with a familiar comfort. But neither is it, I think, a nightmare. I will survive this wound and live to revenge it upon the servants of the Enemy. Megilaes smiled to hear his brother so strong and vibrant in spirit. He took Caranbaith’s hand in his own and stroked it lovingly.

Sleep my brother, he replied. Our master has the watch and will guard us well. There sprang into his mind then the image of Ambarturion as he had fallen upon the goblins in his wrath, and he felt Caranbaith’s response: together, they remembered the vision of their master’s might. But in the midst of the memory there was a disturbing darkness that hung about Ambarturion, like a shadow or a cloak. It billowed about him, obscuring his features and blurring his motion. They did not comment on the darkness consciously, but each was aware of it, and they both found it unsettling.

Megilaes let go his brother’s hand and lay closer to him. Putting his mouth to Caranbaith’s ear he sang to him the lay that their mother had taught them both when they were very young, and would go for long walks through the Golden Woods in the springtime. Caranbaith smiled lightly and sighed with contentment, and was soon asleep. Megilaes lay awake, but followed his brother into his dreams, and together they walked through the woods once more, free of pain and darkness.

[Arry]

Gromwakh took the lead with Snikdul following close. Toward the rear of the ragged column they moved, the remainder of their companions trailing along behind them. They were just thirteen in number now, one of them having met the brutish death at the hands and foot of One Eye . . . and him, the poor dead Orc, in the midst of a winning streak with the dice. The little group kept well out of sight of the troops marching toward the Elven forest as they made their way in the opposite direction. And it was not until early afternoon that the supply wagons came into view.

Snikdul was all for running hurriedly toward them, as were the others. But Gromwakh growled at the group and urged them on behind the last of the lines. ‘They may be cooks and servers and water-fetchers but they aren’t all stupid. They’ll wonder why were running towards them from the front and some idjit’s bound to let slip to someone about Orcs that were running away from the battlefield.’ The group looked at him dumbly, no light of understanding in their eyes. ‘Just follow his lead, boys, old Grom’ll get us through. And best yet he’ll do the thinking for it.’ Now a flicker of comprehension glinted in the depths of their yellow eyes, like a small taper lit in a vast cavern.

As if by mutual agreement they all nodded toward him and waited expectantly for an order. He sighed, then belched, as if he had made up his mind. Seeing the dust from the wagons in the distance now ahead of them, he took off his pack and fished about in it until his fingers found what he sought. His whip! Braided from the hides of two tough old mountain goats he’d pursued and brought down in the Misty Mountains.

Gromwakh drew back his arm and snapped the lash with a quick snap. His companions eyes grew wide and they snarled at him, thinking he might hit them. Grom shouldered his pack and sent them shuffling off before him with a few words as he ran behind, the scourge snapping at their heels.

‘Oy!’ he shouted loud as they neared the wagons. ‘Get on you maggoty lot,’ he cried as they neared the wagons from the rear, in a voice great enough to be heard by the Orcs in charge. ‘I’ll not have you lagging behind. Some of you take up that wagon tongue, you lazy louts, and give those others a breather. The others run along beside and spell them once in a while.’

The Orcs who were pulling the wagon were more than happy to give up their work to the fresh crew. Gromwakh walked alongside his companions nudging them now and then with his whip handle for effect, all the while telling them to keep their heads low and their gobs shut . . . they’d make it through yet.

[Kransha]

“Urkrásh, why are the members of my glorious race such imbeciles?”

Urkrásh glanced glibly at his master and captain as the two of them stood at the center and front of the ragged column drifting, or oozing forward like a smoggy shroud of black moving with enervated speed across the forested plains. Thrákmazh, his armored form erect and stiffened, continued to direct the low-shouldered troops around, pointing them towards the front and issuing as many commanding gestures of he could. Out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to Urkrásh, who blinked at him dazedly and answered as best he could. “Umm…” he searched for a response that would not anger his captain, stammering involuntarily. “I don’t know, sir.” he murmured, evading the real question.

Thrákmazh’s hand, which had been up with a gauntleted trio of fingers aimed forward and swinging to indicate the proposed movement for some very slow uruks, lowered slowly, falling limp and lifeless to his side, the chain mail riveted upon it jingling. Slowly, he turned to his orcish counterpart, who had the same ready and willing, if not slightly confused look on his face he’d borne a moment ago. Thrákmazh’s single eye narrowed icily, focusing into beady and acute orb that fixed its keen gaze on Urkrásh. After looking grimly at the servant for a dragging, slow-paced moment, Thrákmazh swiveled sluggishly to face the troops again, looking deep into their thick ranks with his single, precise eye, examining each and every mindless uruk.

“It’s because they don’t have a purpose, none at all. They serve like blind rats, being directed by those with high ranks and decorations to spare. I think I might’ve been like that once, but that changed soon enough. They’re just blind, aimless worms that do what they’re told when they feel like it. No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so. But, most of ‘em won’t do anything to get anywhere, and they’ll stay in the filth they made. When they see the elves, they’ll fight all the same, and they might get some pleasure out of it, but no one will remember them, or care about them, or know their names.”

The speech was not meant, or implied as the speech it was. Thrákmazh considered himself quite the wordsmith, and impressive enough in that wording as well, for he had spent many days perfecting his skill with this second language, which most orcs did not speak well. It was considered a point of pride to be able to discourse in the common tongue diligently, as clan gatherings of orcs could not speak the Black Speech, their native tongue, in groups, for each clan and sect had a different, multifaceted dialect (though the speech was not complicated overall). Urkrásh looked now as if he was contemplating the petty oratory, looking as pensive as he could in the passing moment. Thrákmazh was not even looking upon him, had not turned to witness the other orc’s response. At last, as a disconcerting silence descended eerily over the two, though crashing, growling, rumbling, thumping, and snarling abounded all around them, Urkrásh found his voice and spoke, quietly but surely. “I see, sir.”

“I’m sure.” Thrákmazh murmured coolly, stepping back and finally turning toward Urkrásh. “Urkrásh,” he said, the commanding air faded from his guttural voice, “I want you to do something for me.” Urkrash, at this, piped up wholeheartedly, his own gait steadily brightening to reveal his constant willingness as he nodded his head vigorously. “Anything, sir.” Looking back upon him, Thrakmazh almost smiled, but contained the expression.

“I want you to take command of this column,” he continued, causing Urkrash to jump unnoticeably, “just temporary command, and make sure nothing happens in my absence. We have to see to this task with those accursed men, so I might as well see who they are. I’m going to scope them out, see what I can learn. I think that you are capable of making sure nothing undesirable happens.” Urkrash looked at him, at first, as if his commanding officer might have been possessed, but calmed down within seconds, ever eager to serve, and said, simply, “Are you sure?” Thrákmazh glowered at him, a sight which would silence most orcs who knew his reputation. It might not have been the best idea, since another uruk captain might fit the task better. Yes, Urkrásh was sometimes a fool, but a loyal fool, and would not let his master down. He would do this task as aptly as he could. “I’m always sure about whatever I say and whatever I do.”

After a deep breath, Urkrásh bowed his head and answered. “Yes, Thrákmazh.”

Not returning the bow, Thrákmazh spun on his iron-booted heel and strode off slowly, still surveying and supervising, but not for long. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the orcish line, which was interspersed with the lesser orcs. All orcs noticed Thrákmazh, save a happily ignorant few. Most cringed, and all those he passed busied themselves getting out of his way. This all changed, though, as he neared the equally ragged columns of men, dressed in all manner of bizarre, exotic garb, which escaped Thrákmazh completely. These mortal men did not think to oblige Thrákmazh’s path, and none took note of him except as what he was, an orc. None moved for him, few acknowledged his presence, and none stopped their idle conversation on the march. Snorting indignantly, Thrákmazh proceeded towards the head of the line, hurrying slightly, as he did not relish the company of men. At long and irksome last, he found the crest of the column, with the men there who he presumed held some notion of authority. He saw one, with another alongside, who fit the description of a captain of the men he'd been told of by other orcs on the societal fringes of the army, who had nothing better to do. Worming his way with very little grace through the claustrophobic rows, he found himself just behind the man and another beside.

“You are the one called Koran Cenbryt, yes?” He queried, utterly unexcited about the meeting. But, the meeting was not to happen yet, for the crowd had carried both away. Still uninterested, and irritated, Thrakmazh headed off, towards the rocky ground that bordered the whole area where and on which the armies traveled. The orc captain sauntered towards this virtual grove as night's pale hue tinged the reddening sky above. There, seated neatly upon an elevated outcropping of stone, was another Southron captain. The one called Herding.