Island of Sorrow RPG

[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.

[piosenniel]

Endamir raised one edge of the tarp to see what was going on. Mixed with the sound of wind and rain slapping hard against the meager covering, he could catch the shouted words of his brother and Lindir. Both were madly scooping water from the deck and heaving it overboard. The rain was falling so hard and so wildly that it seemed a useless effort on the two Elves part. As fast as they scooped, the rain renewed the barely depleted volume. And oft times as they threw their buckets of water overboard, the pernicious wind would hurl much of it back in their faces.

The roiling of the sea’s waves matched that of Endamir’s stomach. He had already lost the meager breakfast they’d taken before arriving at the ship. And in the toss and turn of the ship’s deck, he could not find his brother’s pack that held his medicines. It was dark under the tarp, and close, and stuffy, all increasing his sense of disorientation and nausea. The onslaught of the storm had also showed the tarp to be not much protection. Rain mixed with sea water and flowed back and forth beneath the tarp. The wind howled and raged and picked up any of the tarp’s edge that was not battened down.

Endamir groped about in the darkness. Somewhere by his knees he recalled there was a little stack of coiled ropes. Following his brother’s example, he tied one about his waist, and grabbing his bucket he caromed out from beneath the tarp making for where Orëmir stood.

As luck . . . bad luck, that is . . . would have it, his boots could find no purchase on the slippery wood of the deck. The ship pitched at a precipitous angle and he found himself sliding dangerously toward the ships railing. Odd thoughts ran through his mind as the side came nearer. He glanced at his tunic, where a bit of breakfast revisited had deposited itself. ‘Well, at least my shirt will be clean when I die,’ he thought. His bucket went skittering along the deck, free of his grip now and plummeted over the edge.

He called out to the Lady of the Seas and was about to consign himself to a face to face meeting with her spouse when a strong hand gripped his arm hard and hauled him back to safety . . .

[Envinyatar]

‘What are you doing, you fool!’ Orëmir chastised his brother even as he pulled him close for safety. His words were lost in the howling wind it seemed, as Endamir looked at him blankly. He tied the loosed end of the rope about his brother’s waist securely to the railing. Endamir’s face was a pale shade of green and he looked dazedly at Orëmir for a moment, as if he weren’t really sure who he was.

There was no time bring him back to his senses in a gentle way. Orëmir slapped his brother’s face to focus his attention and thrust one of his extra buckets into his hands. ‘Bail!’ he yelled, bending down to scoop some water with his own pail and heave it over the side. ‘Put your back to it, Endamir! Bend and bail!’

Orëmir watched for a moment as his brother began the seemingly hopeless task of clearing the ship of water. He glanced over to where Lindir was working as feverishly at the backbreaking chore. The wind an rain battered against the other Elf, shoving him this way and that, at times. Orëmir hunched over once again and scooped up another pailful. As he threw it over the side, he could see Lomwë struggling with the sail as Tasa fought the waves with her oar. Malris, too, was near them, his hands on the rudder. Another wave came crashing over the ship’s side, and Orëmir’s attention returned to his desperate charge.

[Anguirel]

Over the shrieking of the gale, Malris' shouts struggled to make themselves heard, but still he persevered. The wood of the rudder grated angrily against his hand, and the oar he held to his left was wild as an unbroken stallion, but he didn't care. He was exhilarated, grinning without restraint. He had seen storms before, and had learnt quickly to laugh in the midst of them.

"Look on the bright side," he thundered. "If the wind doesn't smash us to driftwood, it'll blow us to Himling before nightfall. The Ghostbearer is going like an eagle in this weather..."

He nodded to Orëmir in approval. "That's right...good work, and Lindir too...sorry about this, Endamir, it cannot be improving your impression of sea voyages much..."

Malris beamed as he looked about him, proud of the crew he had called. Just as in the old days, the followers of Maedhros were united, determined, their arguments and differences behind them as they strove to conquer the enemy at hand, their hair and clothes soaking, their hands calloused, but their eyes steely and unbeaten.

"Every one of you has proved himself a mariner this evening. You may justly feel satisfied in yourselves, whether Ossë takes you or not. But by Uien, I don't think he will. We've fought our part and deserve our passage. Behold! The clouds part, and the sun is setting..."

The sky was an alarming sight; or skies, for truly on this occasion the firmament deserved the plural. Blue black storm-clouds, massive, imposing, but receding nonetheless, formed one sky; the Moon, shining his rays from afar amid milder grey clouds, was another; and finally Arien gleamed, and her sky was bathed in pink. As the waters calmed, then, and the Elves thanked the Valar and the Maiar of the Sea for their deliverance, it was Arien's bounty that showed them Himling for the second time; different from the fraught glimpse they had seen through the lightning, more gentle, lingering and bittersweet. As Malris looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

"There. A thousand storms are nothing to that sight."