Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Meneltarmacil]

After arriving in Romenna and having something to eat and drink, Thoronmir stood on the balcony outside his room, waiting for the rest of the party to return. Clouds of smoke blocked the stars from view in the west and obscured Thoronmir's view of Armenelos. Thoronmir felt uneasy, as if something terrible were about to happen. Was it his imagination, or were the seas and the mountain more restless than usual lately?

He continued to watch for any signs of people coming from the west. If the unnatural turbulence in the land and the sea continued, they would need to get away fast. If they waited too long, they very well might be killed. Either way, none of them would ever see Numenor again.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi walked alone through the streets of Romenna, her eyes fixed on the ghosted face of her husband. She saw everything, yet noticed nothing. She had spoken to her father just moments before, sharing a tear-filled reunion. Elendil was unhappy to learn of the capture of his son-in-law, and unhappier yet to learn that his grandchild accompanied the rescue party. Inzillomi had begged of him more time, but feeling the groaning of the earth beneath their feet, Elendil promised her nothing, stating only that they must hurry. Now she reflected, wishing that she could share her thoughts.

She had seen to the comfort of her travelling companions, unveiling small bags of sweets for each child. As their faces lit up with enthusiasm, Inzi could not surpress a smile, but now as she walked, a troubled look adorned her pretty face. Suddenly a familiar face snapped her from her reverie. Was it her imagination, or had Thoronmir just walked past her line of sight?

She sped up, half hoping, to meet the man whose seeming so matched the man she had known for many years. She was not mistaken... it was him.

"Thoronmir!" she cried, drawing him to a stop. She fell silent with a look of utter confusion. It changed to tenacity just as she opened her mouth, but he hastily covered her lips with his palm, drawing her into the shadows.

"My lady, do not fear. All is still well."

"Do not play tight-lipped with me, my lad." She spoke quietly and kindly, but every word was punctuated with an uncharacteristic sharpness. Why are you here? You have my forgiveness and my pity if you have left the mission, but I do not see the look of one such on your face. Where is my family?"

"My lady, I do not know." He silenced her with a raised hand. "I will lead you to Azarmanô. He will explain."

"Azarmanô is here?" she began, but he silenced her once more, taking her by the hand and swiftly leading her through the shadowed streets, avoiding the gaze of the curious.

"Azarmanô will explain." Thoronmir stated once more, performing a seemingly random series of taps upon a heavy oaken door before disappearing as quickly as he'd came into the crowd of people in the street.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan sat at a polished hardwood table, hunched over the series of maps spread out before him. No matter which entrance the group took into Armenelos, there would undoubtably be trouble. Even getting to the city itself was an issue, as random patrols of guards were still combing the wildnerness for signs of possible intruders. The man pounded his fist on the table angrily. There just had to be a way! Every city had weaknesses, every fortress had soft spot. Still, the weakness of Armenelos was doing an excellent job of hiding itself from Abarzadan's generally clever mind.

Then came the knock. A carefully-planned series of taps rang out on the apartment's heavy oaken door.

Abarzadan stood quickly. Thoronmir must have finished his errands. The man slid open several sturdy latches and swung the door inward. There, standing before him, was the last person in all of Numenor that he would have expected to see, save Abârpânarú himself: Lady Inzillomi.

Without saying a word, Abarzadan stepped inside and turned towards the apartment's single stairwell. "Azarmanô!"

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô was extremely surprised to see Lady Inzillomi appear at his doorstep in Romenna. The sudden appearance of a woman whom he had not seen for weeks struck him with astonishment. However his expression changed when he realized what a pleasure it would be to talk to her again. Although he had not thought often of her on his journey, he was undoubtedly pleased to see her. An amiable smile spread across his face at the sight of such an old friend coming to visit after so long an absence. She was someone he could trust, someone with whom he had worked for years as a member of the Faithful. He could confide in her the events of the journey and relay to her the perils that they had faced along the way. Such trust he could not share with other members of his group, particularly Abarzadan who was still as unfamiliar and cryptic as ever, although Azarmanô now no longer harbored the same suspicions against him that he once did. If Abarzadan had wanted to betray the group, he could have done so earlier with all the soldiers spying on the group. In that respect, Abârzadan had risen in stature in the eyes of the sea captain, although he still did not feel at ease with the stranger.

With a heartfelt greeting, Azarmanô directed Lady Inzillomi into his room at the small inn near the center of the city. It was one which many Faithful were using to lodge until the time came to leave for the mainland and forever abandon their ancestral homeland, something he too would have to do. As he escorted her to the main room, he saw her visage troubled and pulsing with questions about their journey and her still-imprisoned husband. She must wonder at my presence here more than I wonder at hers, he thought. How did she ever come to find me in this large city and how did she know even to look? No matter, I will answer her questions forthright and feed her voracious need for knowledge if not quell her vexed heart.

“My lady,” he began as soon as he sat down,“It is indeed good to see you again.” He briefly inquired if she had seen his family since arriving in the city, but she was unable to give him any further information as to how they fared. He waited for a short period of time trying to think of the proper explanation and carefully choosing his words before proceeding calmly. “We have not yet rescued your husband. The group drew near to Armenelos before discovering that the king’s men had placed spies on us and would surely kill us as soon as we drew close enough. Therefore, we decided to split the group into two. The other half was supposed to wait near the city and attract the attention of the guards while my group rode west pretending to abandon the task and flee to Romenna. We were to then turn around after half a day’s journey and approach the city in secret from the east to rescue Abârpânarú. However, after the appointed time for reversal arrived, I sensed that we were still being watched. After I rode a little further, my fears had been validated as I noticed a royal guard stalking our party as we moved. I gathered that the guards suspected some sort of staged plan and followed me to make sure that I was indeed abandoning the mission. I had no other choice but to ride all the way Romenna at great haste, reaching the city just over ten hours after we had started.

After I was sure that the guards had dissipated and disguises had been acquired, I made plans to leave for Armenelos under cover of darkness. I was finishing my final preparations to leave in a few hours when you arrived at my door. What brings you here my Lady and how did you find us? Fear not for we shall leave for Armenelos as soon as night falls to rescue Abârpânarú from the clutches of Sauron the foul. On my family’s honor, I will swear to you that we will return bearing your husband alive.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

“I do not care you lout. I will not go another inch accompanying you on this folly mission to Armenelos. I value my life too greatly to throw it away on some crazy rescue mission. Come I am abandoning this quest and returning home. Let every man who wants to live follow me. There is too much danger in trying to continue and I do not wish to find my fate on the altar like our leader. We must leave immediately.”

Azarmanô spoke both loudly and with great conviction, and Kâthaanî was forced to smother a grin as he said it. Her cousin’s plan was sure to lead the King’s men astray. She hated to give the task of rescuing her father into another’s hands, but at least she could play her part well in this diversion.

“If life means abandoning my family, I choose it not, Captain Azarmanô.” She spat the words at him, not as loudly as he had spoken his challenge, but still clear enough to be heard. “I will stay with my cousin and we will not degrade our good names by desertion and betrayal.” Angrily she beckoned to Tiru and he followed her away from the small group of bickering men.

Once they were close together and far from the much more interesting gathering behind them, Kâthaanî leaned close and whispered to the stocky man. “Tiru, I almost believed the good captain was leaving us for safety and home.”

Tiru nodded, a solemn look on his dark face. “Yes, Mistress, we have staged this well. If the King’s Men” – he spat as he said it -- “If the King’s Men do not play our game then they are not the fools I believed them to be.”

“They are fools.” Kâthaanî thought of their blindness toward the true nature of their King’s so-called friend and advisor. “They have all put their trust in the treachery of Sauron. They are fools indeed.”

As the afternoon neared its peak the three members of the Karíbzîr household stood in a row on the ridgetop, their shadows barely beginning to stretch out in front of them, as they watched their three companions ride east in a cloud of dust. Marsillion’s face wore a look of mingled regret and determination, so perfectly feigned that again Kâthaanî fought the urge to laugh. He spun on his heel and walked to where the three horses they had left were tethered, packed with their belongings and ready to depart on their own separate course.

“Well, Cousin Kâthaanî,” Marsillion tossed her a smile at last, “There is day left and still miles for us to cover. Let us hope that we can do this thing.”

“Yes, Cousin.” She returned his smile, but spoke dryly. “Let us hope that we can do this, but not too well.” She drew the short worn blade of her knife from under her cloak. “I do not fancy becoming my father’s cellmate and I put little trust in this to save my skin, so let us be cautious and fleet of foot.” With that they mounted their horses, turning their heads toward the North and Noirinan.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As this information flooded her ears so honestly and concisely, Inzillomi showed a brief moment of weakness, wiping dampness from the corner of her eye. It was so good to be with Azarmanô, a man with whom she could share her thoughts and worries. Though she loved each of her travelling companions, they were innocents, the lot of them. Not a one had the gall or depth of spirit to become a guardian, or a leader. They believed, surely, but it would never do to involved them in rescues, or burden them with information they could not understand. With Azarmanô, Inzi could spill her thoughts, relieving herself of the burden of stoicism.

"Captain, I should have said this at first sight of you today, but you have little idea how much a relief it is to see you." Inzi sat silently for a while, sipping the hot tea that Azarmanô had deposited into her hands. "So my daughter...?"

"Flourishing. I sense that she feels uncertain of her place among these men, but I judge that, when she learns it, it will make her stronger in spirit than ever before."

"And Marsillion?"

"A brave leader. Everyone is doing quite well, Inzi. Outside Armenelos, your family and your faithful Tiru draw the guards' attention. We here leave in a short while. Still, one thought plagues me. However did you know to find us?"

Inzillomi grinned impishly, the picture of youthful mischief. "Cannot a lady have some secrets, old friend? But if you must know... I happened to glimpse Thoronmir and he thought it best that he should bring me to you to learn the truth."

"Ah... that old rascal. Deposting ladies on doorsteps, is he?" Inzillomi smiled again before her face took on a more serious quality.

"Azarmanô, you've told me that Thoronmir cannot continue with the mission. Will it be possible for only two to complete a rescue? I have the utmost faith in you, but I still feel uncertain of Abarzadan. Has he yet shared of himself? We have shown good faith in letting him know our troubles, though obviously not all of them... Should not good faith be returned in good faith?"

To this Azarmanô had little to say. Their mysterious companion remained as such, but he could be trusted nonetheless. With her friend's words, Inzillomi dropped the issue. She trusted his judgement.

"Now... there is the issue of Kali. Whereas my usual mount can be stabled at need for days at a time, this lass... gets bored. I will take her back for my own ride so that her talents will not be overlooked, even by accident or unknowing. That would never do." Inzi fell silent for another while. This silence, Azarmanô felt, was more pensive.

"Azarmanô..."

"Yes?"

"I would like to ride with you. Without Thoronmir, you are only two, though two with kariborim. I would be an asset, I believe, to the mission. I can do nothing here save wait. With you, I believe I could make a difference. What say you?"

He stood silent in consideration. This was no small favor that she asked. She saw in his eyes that he required time to think, and as the appointed leader in this situation, there was no point in pulling rank. If he declined her request, she would return to Elendil.

"Think, Azarmanô, and I shall return shortly. If you decide yes, I will be prepared to ride upon return. If the answer is no... I will drink to your health, wish you luck, and pray for your swift return with my family."

--------------------

A very short time later she returned to the Inn. She doubted very much that any of the men on this complicated mission could have packed less, or as swiftly as she. Her packing, really, was more unpacking than anything. She had not yet managed to empty her saddle-bags before she took a walk and ran, fortuitously as it was, into Thoronmir, and so she was able, simply, to toss several bags into an unused corner and half empty one before tucking a few small blades into a pocket.

She had changed into an outfit far more suitable for this kind of work, tightly packing a soft gown into an empty space. One can never be sure when a bit of indignant nobility and sophistication comes in handy. she thought, as she belted a pair of gray pants. The legs were loose, seeming as a skirt when she walked, but for riding offered much more comfort. Over, she wore a loose tunic-length white blouse, with side-slits for mobility. Belting the shirt was a wide black sash, knotted to the side, in which was tucked a pair of daggers, several lock picks, and a vial of liquid she hoped she would not need. Foxgloves... she thought with a sigh... What a fascinating effect they have on the heart. Her hair was tightly plaited by a maid as Inzi tucked non-perishables into each spare corner of the one bag she rode with. Less than an hour after she had left, Inzillomi returned to the Inn, lightly laden, and ready to ride.

She knocked once more on the door, in perfect imitation of Thoronmir's earlier one. The door opened, and she entered.

[TomBrady12]

The sun sunk lazily behind the long southwestern spur of Meneltarma, sending shades of pink and orange shimmering across the western horizon. The small party moved slowly and solemnly east along the slightly rising turf. Cresting the slow rise, they stood upon the brink of a shallow valley. There, tucked between the roots of the mountain, lay Noirinan, the Valley of the Tombs. The silent vale shone eerily in the fading light, the last rays of sun glinting off the tall obelisks and wide arches of gold. “It is beautiful,” Marsillion whispered softly to himself. “Beautiful and terrifying.”

“How tragic it is,” Tiru said with tears welling in his dark eyes, “that these dead are treated with such reverence, while my people are butchered and robbed to provide this obscene overflow of wealth.” Kâthaanî took the swarthy man compassionately by the hand as they turned south and continued to ride slowly along the rim of the valley.

There had been no sight of the pursing soldiers since early morning, and secretly Marsillion wondered if he had taken the meandering to a bit of an excess. The group had planned earlier in the day to journey east to the brink of Noirinan before turning briefly south to bypass the sacred hollow. From there, they would pick up the main road leading east to Armenelos before making camp for the night. They had agreed that in order to be a believable decoy they should at last begin to progress toward their supposed objective. They had just reached the road connecting Noirinan and Armenelos and begun a few paces east when they heard a loud call ahead of them. Scanning the road, the three comrades saw to their dismay four of the King's Men, bows raised, deadly arrows fitted to the strings.

“This game has gone on quite long enough, indigent faithful,” the leader of the group bellowed. “You are under arrest by order of the King of Anadûnê.”

Marsillion glared at the soldier, the same officer he had encountered earlier. “How can this be,” Marsillion raged. “The King has sailed away from this land. He could not possibly have given such an order.”

“The High Priest has been granted the authority to carry out justice in the absence of the King,” the officer replied smugly. Turning toward his small contingent of soldiers he spoke with contempt, “Arrest them.” Dismounting their horses the three soldiers were momentarily forced to lower their bows. Not a word passed between any of the Faithful, the Kariborim were in control now. As soon as the bows were lowered Nitirú, Ruki and Mani spun on their heels and bolted west into the sacred vale of Noirinan. Marsillion heard the arrows, fervently singing, as they flew harmlessly by and clattered to the ground beneath the raging hooves. They had escaped, for the moment.

The three rescuers were carried at breakneck speed down the main street into the heart of Noirinan. Past elaborate memorials commemorating ancient victories, through the final halls of the mightiest politicians and generals the world had ever known. The Kariborim far outdistanced the horses of the King’s Men, but a greater problem was arising. The heavy pounding of the racing hooves throbbed throughout the valley, echoing off the great stone buildings, alerting all the King's Men ceremonially standing guard at the most sacred tombs and monuments. The three fugitives raced through the torch lit city, unaware of the gathering throng of curious guards in pursuit. The punishment for disturbing the peace in Noirinan was death, and Marsillion knew it all too well. They came flying at last to the very roots of Meneltarma, the holy precipice rose sharply before them. Ahead lay the tombs of the Kings, delved deeply into the silent depths of the mountain. Behind, a multitude of guards, their bright helms and intricate armor glowing red in the torchlight. Marsillion pulled Mani to a halt a few paces in front of the pillar of Eärendil, the great statue in the likeness of the heroic mariner. Marsillion dismounted, followed closely by Kâthaanî and Tiru, and walked slowly and reverently up the great granite steps to the very feet of Eärendil. He could feel the guards ebbing closer, yet kept his back to them, bowing briefly beneath the mighty statue.

“Who art thou who so arrogantly disturbs the slumber of the Kings?” one of the guards finally spoke. “Dost thou know thy punishment is death?” There was no response from the three still figures at the feet of the hero. “Declare yourselves, lest you feel the chill of our spears.”

Slowly Marsillion turned toward the guards, as did Kâthaanî and Tiru. They were greatly outnumbered, but it was with boldness and conviction that Marsillion spoke. “I am Marsillion of the house of Thoronfaer. These are my kinsmen, Cerveth and Arkrision of the house of Melethroch.”

The guards expression morphed quickly from curiosity to contempt. “Those names are not recognized here,” he spat viciously. “So you are members of that treasonous sect from Rómenna, aye? Elf-Friends you call yourselves? Fools! I tell you this as a last warning. The power has gone out from the Elves. The King of Anadûnê is the ultimate power now, and we are his right arm.” As he spoke this, the assembly of guards lowered their spears toward the Faithful. “Renounce your folly now and you will stand trial before the High Priest. Continue along your traitor's track and you shall die now.”

Marsillion was about to speak, but to his astonishment, Cerveth beat him to it. “We shall never turn from the path we have chosen,” she said with tears forming in her deep grey eyes. “Faithful we have been, and faithful we shall remain. Never shall we turn our backs upon the powers that brought us out from certain death in Beleriand so long ago. I know I speak for all of us,” she said as she knelt and kissed the stone foot of Eärendil, “when I say we would rather die here, knowing we serve the greater Lord, than die tomorrow at the abominable hands of Sauron the Manipulator.” She stood, reaching into the small sack that she kept on her back. Out from the sack she pulled a long bladed knife, the tarnished silver handle tight in her trembling hands. She held the rusted blade above her head and cried, “Now I give my own warning. Whether by my hand or another, none who would raise arms against the servants of the Valar, the true Lords of the Earth, shall survive to see Yestarë.” When she was finished she dropped her hands to her sides and waited for the reply.

“I see you have chosen death,” the leader of the guards said, with utter contempt. “Kill them.” With that the assembly of nearly twenty armed soldiers of Westernesse moved against the three silent patriots.

“Let us go from this world gloriously,” Marsillion said coolly as he withdrew his shining sword from its hiding place on Mani's broad back. Looking over his shoulder he saw Tiru, with almost a smile upon his time worn face, retrieve the long, elegant bow, borrowed from the family armament, and fit an arrow to the taut string.

“What I do now,” the dark swarthy man said, drawing the string to his ear, “I do for my master.” The long black shaft slid through his stubby fingertips. The arrow stayed true to it‘s target, puncturing the polished breastplate, and embedding itself deep within the chest of the bold spoken leader. The tall Númenorean commander dropped immediately to the cobblestones, his ashen face staring blankly into the west. The fight was on.

Marsillion watched and waited as the guards rushed up the cold stone towards him, the bowstrings of Cerveth and Tiru singing in his ears. Many of the guards, who were armed only with spears, fell victim to the ferocious hail of arrows as they raced forward, intent on combat. Marsillion felt the blood run hot through his veins as the first guard to the top went straight for him, hurling his spear with frightening speed just over the younger man’s shoulder. The spear struck the knee of the great statue, but even the brutal strength of the heave could not harm it. The now unarmed man raced onward toward Marsillion, only to be cut down by the arching swing of his heavy sword. On rushed another, with a great thrust of his long weapon, which was easily sidestepped. Momentum carried the stately guard on past Marsillion, who, with a lightning flick of his strong wrists, carved a great wound across the back of the retreating guard’s thigh, sending him flailing helplessly to the street below. Just then, Marsillion heard a scream that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He turned and saw his cousin, unarmed, in the grasp of a familiar man, his long slender dagger pressed firmly to her delicate throat. There stood the leader of the King's Men who had been following them for days, and who they had eluded only minutes before. His company had come quietly from behind in the mayhem and struck unseen.

“That is enough,” the Captain roared to guards and Faithful alike. “These three are to be taken as prisoners to Arminalêth. They shall stand trial before the great Lord Sauron. Bind the slave and the girl,” he ordered his men as he turned on Marsillion. “As for you,” he sneered, “you who would seek to make a fool out of me. Arrogance, young one, your father should have warned you against it. You wonder how we knew of your mission I suppose, and I don't blame you. Every family has a weakness Nimilroth, even the proud house of Narâkmanô can be cracked. You relied heavily upon your half-wit cousin for information on our movements, did you not? Well, what if I were to tell you we relied heavily on him for information on yours?” He paused, seeming to let the revelation sink in.

“That can't be so,” Marsillion moaned, tears filling his blue eyes. He knew it must be true, for what other source could have told them, but he hated to believe it. “Not Nusaphad,” he almost whimpered.

“Oh yes,” laughed the guard. “If it makes you feel any better, young one, the asking price was very high; but in the end he was convinced to see our point of view. Everything can be bought you see, even life long friendship,” he paused, “when the price is right. Now, Nimilroth, tell me, who has been made the fool in the end?” As he said this he struck hard across the face of the slightly taller man, his iron plated gauntlets tearing brutally across his fair forehead. Marsillion droped to his knees in agony, the sting of blood stealing his vision. “Bind him,” the assailant said casually as he turned and mounted his horse.