Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Calenvasa was right; the army was to learn of the nature of the Anduin - even as the elf captain said it.

At the edge of the river, the water lapping at their toes, three huge, thickset trolls stood unhappily, knee deep in the churned up mud. All around them the dwarfed figures of Southrons and orcs scurried like so many ninpins, shouting in vain at the massive creatures, but their commands and whips only made the stupid creatures angrier. Standing a safe distance away from the riverbank, Koran winced as one of the creatures let out a massive bellow and took a swing at several of the orcs around it. Shrugging into his dark leather coat, Koran turned in disgust from the chaotic scene to where Ehan was standing nearby, apparently mesmerised by the scene, his eyes bright and a slight smile hovering on his lips.

"It's not a sport, Ehan," Koran said dryly. The younger man blinked and looked at him sharply, then smiled sheepishly, before turning his eyes once more on the riverbank, where the orcs were attempting to whip the trolls into doing their will.

"What a sport it would make though..." he murmured in reply, his eyes starry." Just pit the orcs against the trolls in a battle, add a muddy river to give the orcs a fairer chance...why, given enough time, I think they would probably mange to wipe each other out."

Koran snorted, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. "Bloody sport..." he grinned, glancing up at Ehan. Looking back up, he threw his head back onto his shoulders and sighed wearily, closing his eyes. They had been dragging the trolls with them for the past few days, and what with Herding's complete disassosiation with anything to do with the beasts, it had been chaos to move them at all, and they had claimed half a dozen orcs so far - not that Thrakmazh seemed to care. And it was a wonder - no, a miracle - that the elves of Mirkwood seemed not to have followed them. Yet. So much for the famed and terrible far-sighted scouts of Mirkwood...

"Whose bright idea was it to use trolls to make bridges- no, in fact, to use trolls to make anything of use?" he asked, his eyes shut.

"Probably not your friend Herding," Ehan replied sardonically. "Unless there are now bright ideas painted on the sides of wine bottles," he added just for good measure. Koran grinned and raised his eyebrows, opening his dark eyes to look up at the stars. Unwillingly, he turned slowly around to look back at the riverbank, his expression one of dismay and disdain, and took in the scene for a few moments with impassive eyes. They had been working for several hours now, and had managed to bully the trolls into constructing...one raft.

Koran's thoughts were not to be mistaken: he had admired the idea of getting larger, stronger creatures to do the work, and the fact that they could now stand daylight - well, it seemed perfect.

In theory.

He just wished they had some brains.

Another of the orcs swung his whip zealously at one of the trolls and the massive creature had finally had enough. As the whip wrapped around it's giant forearm it bellowed fiercely and pulled backwards sharply; as the hapless orc at the other end of the whip didn't quite let go quite fast enough, he was catapulted into the middle of the river with an abruptly cut off scream. As Herding was nowhere to be seen (probably lost in the depths of a wine bottle, Koran thought darkly), the younger captain waded in, waving an arm fiercely.

"Stop, stop! Oh for the sake of- look, you two, come here." He pinpointed a Southron and an unusually scrawny looking Uruk, calling them over. When they were within talking range, he carried on. "Look, chain them up to the trees for the night - we'll get no more work done here. It's a bloody marvel we haven't got every elf in the forest on our backs with that racket..."

"Stop?" The Uruk looked at Koran dimly and the Southron stared back, trying halfheartedly to restrain his disgust. "Only the Captain Thrakmazh gives orders to Uruks. We listen to no Man now-"

"Your bloody captain is nowhere to be seen, and if you try to defy me, I shall have you make the trolls build rafts - by yourself," Koran hissed dangerously, his face close to the Uruk. The monstrous being growled but didn't hold the man's gaze, his yellow eyes flitting away. Without another word he turned rudely and yelled fearsomely at the orcs in the black tongue, laying his whip into all those around him who were slow to react. The other Southron cast a baleful look at Koran then hurried to carry out his orders. The Southron clenched his fists fiercely then released them, turning away from the scene towards the Southron camp that lay to the North. The evening was coming on now, and, regardless of puffed up Uruks, theoretically excellent (but practically hopeless) trolls and drunken captains, he was going to get a drink and a game of dice before they tasted 'the blood of the beautiful'...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Their long race ended at dusk upon the banks of the Anduin. The great river stretched away upon either hand disappearing into the gathering darkness, and the Elves took a moment to bathe their heated limbs in its cool waters. The silence was broken only by the slight ripple of water and the distant call of waterfowl as they gathered once more upon the high bank and took counsel.

Calenvása spoke first. “We have made such a chase as is worthy of the song you crave Ambarturion.”

Ambarturion smiled at the slight jibe. His mood since the race began had been unusually light, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. In the long leagues that they had run, he had used the time and exertion to think back over his long years of battle and strife, and for the first time in an Age he had seen them in a new light. For too long had he regarded the long defeat as a source of despair, but there had been hope as well. Lorien remained steadfast, and there were still those within it who bore with them the memory of the West. Imladris, too, remained strong and Elrond ruled there with wisdom and courage. The thought of Elrond had brought to mind the Lady Arwen. Her choice of the Man Aragorn had long been a source of bitterness for Ambarturion, but as the miles had uncoiled beneath his feet, he had felt that perhaps it was not for him to question it. For so long he had been used to taking the counsel only of himself and his Lord and Lady that he had forgotten that there was other wisdom, other counsel, in the world. He had been so sure that his course of action was the only right one… It was not the disagreement of the others that had shaken this certainty; it was not even his own recognition that he had been wrong. The admission of his own despair, however, had shaken him deeply, for it had shown him the dark and dangerous realm in which he had lived for so long, and from within which he had acted.

He had long known that the greatest danger to his continued existence in Middle Earth was that in his retreat from the pale reality of it, he would lose himself in the glories and the light of the past. The sunshine of noon in the glades of Doriath, the pale hovering sheen of the moon upon the waters of the western sea, the unsullied glint of Earendil upon his first voyage across the sky – these had been the lights that he thought guided him, and that beckoned to him from the past. But in reality, it had not been the light at all that threatened to overwhelm him, but the darkness that lay behind and beyond the lights, and against which they had sparkled the more brightly. It was not to the lights that he had turned, but away from the darkness, and in this he had given the night precedence over the day. His flight into the past had not been a pursuit, but a retreat. He had come close to embracing the night entirely, so ready had he been to throw his life away in despair. But he had been saved by, of all things, a chance encounter with a group of youths who were as children compared to him. But before the light of their courage and hope he felt as though he were the younger.

Renewed by this encounter, he had run all the way from Mirkwood without once turning to the past. His feet had felt the grass of the Vale, and his eyes had beheld the far horizons of the present. And he had been happy.

The talk soon turned to how they were to cross the mighty River. They had made for the Anduin in a more or less straight line, and as a consequence had met with him at a point where he was broad and deep. The Mirkwood Elves asked how they were to cross. Ambarturion’s brow creased as he considered an answer. They were still some miles to the north of Lorien, for they had sought to avoid the army of Dol Guldur by circling around it. But now a difficult choice lay before them. “There are two possible crossings for us,” he said slowly. “One lies fifteen leagues to the north, where we were captured by the orcs. It is the safer route for our enemies are somewhere to the south of us, but it takes us in the wrong direction. It will take us at least a day and a half to reach Lorien should we attempt that route.”

“Where is the second crossing?” Calenvása’s voice betrayed that he suspected the answer.

“It is not far,” Ambarturion replied. “But it is, I fear, too far for absolute safety. The southerly crossing is but five leagues hence. Should we take it, we will find ourselves upon the very eaves of the Golden Wood and within hailing distance of the outer sentries of my land.”

“You fear that it is already held by the enemy,” Targil said.

“Or that it soon will be,” Ambarturion replied. “If we have guessed the enemy’s plans aright, the main press of the army should even now be attempting a crossing of the Anduin somewhere further to the south. Perhaps at or below the meeting of Anduin and the Nimrodel. If we are correct, then the smaller group will undoubtedly make for this nearer ford.” He saw the questioning look in Targil’s eyes. “It is the crossing closest to Caras Galadhon,” he explained simply.

“So which way do we go?” Ambarturion asked. “To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”