Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

The star which Malris wore upon his tunic had hardly prepared him for this.The emblem of Feanor and his house on a great field of black!

Even now his breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. For all its bloody history it was a powerful symbol for him, recalling the deep bonds forged among those whom he’d fought beside. Many of whom had died, he reminded himself. Did they find the peace my brother seeks on their return to Aman? he mused. How long did Mandos’ halls echo their steps before they were allowed to leave? Or did they still walk there with Fëanor even now?

The sail rippled in the breezes; the star glinting brightly as it caught the light. A sudden, short gust from the north caught the material and snapped it into a deep fold. From his vantage point, the star all but disappeared beneath the darkness of the billowing sail.

A cold chill ran up his spine. Goose walking over your grave! the old women left in the Angle’s hidden Rangers’ fastness would say, making a sign of warding against it. The feeling recalled the doom he’d heard in Lindir’s caution about the trip to Himling.

The wind had gentled now; the inky field lay at rest. The star, again, shone out brightly. The grace of the Valar be with us! he murmured.

Orëmir tore his eyes from the sail. His hands unclenched, prompting him to consider what he might do with them to keep them busy and his mind free of thought. Gear needed to be stored, secured against the rocky waves of the northern sea. Of especial concern to him were the weapons they had brought. From the feeling that had crept over him he feared they might indeed have use of them. And his satchel of herbs and unguents and potions. He should be ready, he thought, to use his healer’s arts if needed.

A little ways away from him, Orëmir saw Lómwë, also looking at the sail. He called out to him to come lend him a hand. ‘We should get our gear below,’ he said, drawing nearer to him. ‘Will you lend me a hand?’

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood near Malris as the ship slipped from the quay and entered the widening waters of the Gulf of Lune. Protected by the surrounding lands, the gulf remained relatively calm; its waters buffered for the most part from the heavings of the sea. Still, for someone of a less seaworthy nature, even the small rolling waves of the gulf could send his stomach into a rather queasy state.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Endamir said, watching as Malris steered the ship into the middle channel, heading west. The black sail with its striking device snapped crisply in the breezes. ‘I have never liked sailing. No, say rather that sailing does not like me.’ He put his hand out onto a nearby railing to steady himself, taking a deep breath as he did so. ‘Always thought we should just have hastened northward overland in pursuit of the Dark Thief.’ He smiled grimly, remembering no voice in the matter had been given Fëanor’s followers. And perhaps, he thought, if there had been, the first of the kinslayings might have been averted . . . at least somewhat. ‘At any rate, I’m just letting you know that if you find me hugging the ship’s rail and gazing down at the ocean, it will not be that I have taken a sudden and intense interest in the workings of sea waters. It will be more likely that I am simply sharing whatever recent meal I have had with the welcoming waves.’

He looked up to where Orëmir stood with some of the other companions. His brother’s face held a faintly amused look of concern. ‘I suppose I ought to humble myself and ask him for some of his tincture for roiling stomachs, though it will come with an ‘And didn’t I just tell you this would happen addendum.’ Endamir smiled and waved at his brother. He focused back on Malris, finding it was easier if he kept his range of vision on nearby objects to minimize the perception of objects at a distance pitching up and down . . . and up and down . . . and . . .

‘How long do you think the voyage to Himling will take?’ he asked Malris, hoping he had succeeded in keeping the note of anticipated dread from his voice.

[Anguirel]

For one of the Noldor, Malris seemed to possess an unusual liking for the feeling of the breeze and the spray, the rolling gait of the boat. The truth was, since returning to Lindon after the Dagorlad three thousand years ago, he had occasionally borrowed a boat, as he did now, and floated upon the waves as his sea-longing crept upon him.

While the Teleri of Mithlond were still far superior to Malris in a sailor's arts, the Noldo liked to think he put up a respectable attempt, at any rate. He casually slipped his hand over the side into the salt water, enjoying its frigidity for a moment. His other hand he laid in comfort on Endamir's shoulder.

"Don't worry, my friend; tonight we will sleep on Himling's shores, beneath the turrets of the great fortress. Although perhaps it is a case," he added ironically, "of running from Orcs to be cornered by Wargs...not literally, or at least, I doubt it..."

He smiled at Orëmir. "Anyway, we'll have nothing to fear with such a stalwart healer aboard...although in all honesty...we're in Ossë's hands. We should be prepared to strive hard against the great Ocean, if need be. This calm disturbs me..."

Malris gestured to the grey, sedate clouds above. "You learn to respect those sober messengers. The pale white wisps carry news of hope; the great marsh-coloured expanses speak only grave words...but clouds like that one, that dark triangle like an arrowhead...bring us tidings of fear."

Even as Malris finished speaking, thunder sounded, still distantly...but ominously all the same. As the ship progressed, a cloud seemed to stem from the sea itself, but darker, solider, more terrible than its partners in the sky. This was the companions' first sight of Himling, with the remnants of Himring's castle upon it, for two long Ages. A glittering spear illuminated it, with a deeper crash of thunder.

"Endamir, get within," Malris yelled. "Get under the tarpaulin. You're a landsman, and I fear you'll be more hindrance than help. Lomwe, shorten the sail; you must have some experience from the rivers of Ossiriand, and the Anduin? Orëmir, Lindir, prepare to bail out water. Tasa, grab an oar, and help me give us some more speed..."

[Firefoot]

Lómwë doubted that he had had as much experience with ships as Malris was ascribing to him, and, at any rate, those ships he had used were more suited for rivers not oceans. Nevertheless, he supposed he could figure it out. The ship was small and the riggings not overly complex.

He studied the mechanism briefly before setting to work. He was fortunate in that the system was basic and should be easily manipulated. On the other hand, the bucking waves made footing on the boat treacherous and gusting wind seemed determined to keep the sail open. This also did not help, as the wind was not really blowing in any one direction, so neither did the ship sail in a given direction for very long.

When the first fat drops began to fall, the deck became slippery. Catching sight of some of the others securing a rope about their waists, he did the same. One could never be too sure, and in this weather, going overboard was all too likely.

As he struggled with the ropes, he couldn’t help but feel that the star on the sail was beaming down on him. What an awful sign to set sail under, a sign more of woe now than valour. He knew from his brief conversation with Orëmir while stowing the gear that he was not alone in these misgivings, and Lómwë was becoming increasingly convinced of them as the storm raged on, figuring it had probably been sent as a warning.

He strained against the riggings of the ship, fighting to get the sail shortened. He suddenly realized it was done when he noticed that the ship’s path, while still jostled from the waves, was smoothened as the wind lost its grip on the ship.

And for the time being, anyway, the star is no longer gazing down upon our voyage…

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her eyes grew wide as Malris called for her help. All teasing aside, Tasa knew that Malris was the leader between them... she would guide at need, but was more than willing to follow orders from one better suited to the command. In this case, the command belonged to her friend, and so with no hesitation, she grasped the oar as though her life hung in the balance, which, she thought, it very well might.

Leaving the bailing to those better suited for the work than her, Tasa rowed with all her strength, cascades of water streaming down her cheeks, the brine stinging her bright eyes. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling the wet locks before her eyes. As the storm broke, the ship tossed roughly through the waters. At many points, her oar missed the water entirely as she was jostled away from the edge.

A sign, she thought passively as she fought with all of her against a foe that could consume her quickly with one wrong move on the part of anyone. The Valar are testing us... if we can brave this storm... if we can make our way home... through whatever trials we encounter... they may just allow us back... but first... we must prove... ourselves. Her thoughts were fragmented, broken up much as speech by the motion of rowing. Tasa prayed as she rowed, for forgiveness, for strength, and for the will to carry on.

[Envinyatar]

The familiar sound of Malris barking out orders in rapid succession brought a faint smile to Orëmir’s lips. Captain of his troop still, he was setting them in the roles he needed against a looming foe. Orëmir did not grudge him this position. Malris was very good at it. ‘But this time,’ Orëmir thought to himself, ‘I will keep the larger view in mind when I make my choice to act with him.’

This moment’s choice, though, was clear. He grabbed two buckets stored in a compartment in the bow and handed one to Lindir as he approached.

His eye caught his brother’s figure hurrying toward the well anchored tarp which covered the group’s supplies. Grabbing an extra bucket, Orëmir made a quick beeline to him just as he bent to squeeze himself under the covering. With a sympathetic look he handed him the pail and whispered a few directions in his ear as to where he might find the tincture for stomach troubles. The look in Endamir’s eyes was one of mixed gratitude and dread. Orëmir saluted him with his own bucket and made sure the tarp was fastened tightly all around. Near where his brother had secured himself, there were a number of coils of rope. Orëmir took two, tucking them in his belt as he ran to his place. Passing Lindir on his way to the opposite side of the ship, he threw him one of the ropes.

Orëmir positioned himself securely against the railing of the ship, his bucket in hand. The rope, he tied about his waist with the free end tied to the rail. Now he need only wait. And studying the clouds that were threatening in the sky above he knew it would not be a long one.

‘The grace of the Valar be with us,’ he murmured, hoping it was not they who had sent the impending storm in the first place.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir lost no time in following Orëmir's example, hurriedly fastening one end of the rope onto the railing while securing the other about his waist. Large drops of rain had already escaped the threatening clouds and were beginning to cascade downward, hitting the wooden planks of the small vessel with an ominous ringing sound. For a single instant, Lindir paused to reflect. It seemed that all his worst fears were coming true even before they had come within sight of the cursed island.

Then there was no more time to think. Tiny stinging drops gave way almost instantaneously to a gushing fountain of water, thick and unremitting sheets of rain blasted sideways by a fierce wind that looked likely to engulf the ship in its clutches even before the waves responded in kind. Only a second later, the Sea broke its silence. The smooth surface of the water gave way to a churning and heaving mass of waves as the vessel leapt up and down in an escalating dance of death.

Lindir stared mesmerized at the macabre scene, which was certain to get worse before things improved. Then he jumped forward with his pail as the spray from the first gigantic wave came flooding back over the deck. "There, Orëmir," screamed Lindir over the howling of the wind, gesturing to the spot where they needed to begin bailing. "I fear your brother has scant protection under that tarp. And it looks as though we will need barrels rather than buckets ere this weather has passed." With that final pronouncement, Lindir leaned over and put his strength into the act of bailing , scooping up a bucket of water and flinging it over the side, then bending down to repeat the same action again.