Island of Sorrow RPG

[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."

[piosenniel]

Endamir was chilled to the bone. Clothes soaked; hair in disarray and dripping down into the sodden collar of his tunic. He shivered, casting a glance about for some dry blanket or perhaps his cloak. There was nothing; it was all as wet as he.

At the helm he could see Malris gazing round at his crew, a smile of . . . satisfaction, he thought, on his face. The captain’s calloused hand rested lightly on the rudder now, his steely eyes glinting with this little victory. Endamir felt anything but victorious. He was tired and hungry. His hands, which had held nothing rougher than a quill for many years, were abraded and bleeding from helping to bail out the seawater from the ship.

Endamir looked up as Malris spoke. ‘There. A thousand storms are nothing to that sight.’ What had once been the tall, chill peak of Himring now poked its higher reaches above the sea waters. This cold, rough, northern sea whose waves battered at the old peak’s bare, rocky slopes, beating them into a sandy strand.

A scrap from one of the old lays rose in his mind, reminding him of the majesty of the humble isle that lay ahead.

. . . far off, where Himring’s watchful hill
o’er Aglon’s gorge hung tall and still.

The Ghostbreaker was moving steadily toward the shallow sandy shore that passed for the beach on the southern edge of Himling. Malris steered her safely between the few rocks that poked up in the shallower waters extending out from the island. Endamir shaded his eyes with his hand and looked closely at the once familiar sight. The old peak’s wide, flat top looked tumbled with some of the blocks, at least, that had once made up Maedhros’ fortress. It was hard to tell from this distance how much still stood.

As the prow scraped lightly against the sandy shore laying beneath the lapping waves, two of the Elves jumped from the sides to secure the ship with thick rope lines to two of the upjutting rocks. Endamir followed closely on their heels. Wet already, he did not care that the water wicked up his breeches as he stepped into the thigh high surf.

He steadied himself with a hand on one of the rocky sentinels guarding this little coastal strand. The sand beneath his feet shifted with the outgoing waves, making his steps unsteady at times. Still, he grinned . . . the closer to the little beach he got, the firmer the ground beneath his feet. His stomach, empty from the hours on the tossing boat, grumbled with his exertions.

Endamir turned for a moment and waved back at his brother. ‘Bring some food with you!’ he called, cupping his hands about his mouth to make it louder. ‘And tea! And something to make it in.’


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--- fragment of poem from The Lay of Leithian -- Canto X; J.R.R. Tolkien

[Envinyatar]

‘Food, you say,’ mumbled Orëmir to himself. ‘And tea, too.’ He was crouched down by the small chests which had held the food for the expedition, sorting through the damp packets. Some of the dried meats that had been wrapped in cloth and laid on top had gotten wet from the driving rain and the waves. Not badly though, he thought. And since they were salted anyway, it would hardly matter that the sea had salted them once again. A folded tarp had been layered in between the meats and the dried vegetables, so that they had escaped the encroaching dampness . . . for now. Orëmir removed the meats and the dampish tarp, leaving the remaining contents of the chest to their dry environs.

The meats he wrapped in a dry cloth from his own pack and stuffed them in a small pot he found among the jumble of pots and utensils beneath the tarp Endamir had taken refuge during the storm. Some wizened apples were also tossed in – something to tide Endamir over until a proper meal could be made. A larger kettle was found; good for tea water he thought. And into it went some packets of tea leaves, cups for drinking, and the sealed pot of honey Endamir had procured on their passage through the Shire. ‘Best blackberry honey this side o’ the Tower Hills,’ the old gammer had told them. Only the lack of space in their packs had prevented his sweet-tooth brother from buying an additional pot.

Orëmir took one of the smaller coils of rope and tied the cookery pots and kettle onto both his and his brother’s packs. Hefting a pack onto each shoulder he eased himself over the side of the ship and dropped into the shallow surf. He could see Endamir waving at him urging him to hurry onto the beach. Orëmir shook his head and grinned. ‘Just like old times . . .’

[Firefoot]

As the ship’s hull grounded on the shallow ocean floor, Lómwë took a heavy rope in hand. The jagged rocks jutting up from the surf would provide good anchors with the ropes tied to them. Indeed, the ship bore two thick ropes for such a purpose. “Come, Lindir,” he said to the other Elf, who was nearest to him. “Let us take these ropes and anchor the ship here on the beach.” Without waiting he jumped over the side of the boat, landing in the almost waist-deep water. While far from warm, the water was no colder than the sheets of rain that had already soaked him.

Rope in hand he waded over to a protruding rock, one that he judged to be tall enough to still be visible even under a high tide since he did not know how much higher the water could rise. Deftly he looped the rope around the rock and tied a secure knot, effectively anchoring the ship to shore.

This done, he began to make his way to the sandy beach. This made him smile sadly. At one point in time, if he were to have been told that Himring, once so far inland, was to be a deserted island complete with beaches, he would have scoffed. Such a thing as the drowning of Beleriand would have seemed impossible; still did, in some ways. It was strange to equate this island with the fortress he remembered so clearly. Elves of strength and valor had defended the mighty fortress, colorful banners had waved defiantly from the walls, the air had been full of courage, and hope. Now all that remained of those valiant hosts were these six; the only banner to wave was that single white star on black of the sail; and the air now was filled with memories and ghosts of the past. And they were here to reawaken that past, for better or for worse.

He was shaken from his reverie by Endamir’s shout, “Bring some food with you! And tea! And something to make it in.” Lómwë realised that he was in fact quite hungry from their journey. That would be well; they could eat first, and worry about the ghosts of Himring later. So, with practiced ease, he shoved the ghosts of the past from his mind and turned to the events at present.

Upon reaching the shore he found Endamir already waiting there. “If Orëmir is to bring tea, we should probably find some wood and get a fire going," Lómwë said, then grinned. “I wouldn’t mind drying off, either.”