Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arestevana]

“I am well,” Vaele Andarion said brightly, in his calm, unruffled manner.
“May I ask what you saw ahead of the contingent?” asked Gilduin hesitantly.
Vaele laughed. “No few miles, to be sure. There’s a fine site for a camp a ways ahead.” He paused, gauging the angle of the sun. “We should reach it by sunset or the hour after.”
Gilduin nodded and was silent for a moment. At last he cleared his throat. “Vaele…why do the Galadrim march? I know that we go to the aid of our brothers and sisters in Eregion, but what foe do we face? What enemy assails the Mírdain?”
Vaele did not reply immediately, and his expression was troubled. When he spoke, it was without his usual cheerfulness. “The Mírdain are beset by one they once counted a friend,” he said quietly, and related the tale of Annatar’s treachery as the sun sank in a firey crimson sky.

As Vaele had predicted, the company halted shortly after sunset, in a sparsely wooded area with a small stream running through it. The ranks dispersed, but all the elves remained close together, and Eldegon posted a guard. Celeborn ordered that no fires be lit. The night was surprisingly mild and there was no sense of evil in the darkness, but the commanders seemed uneasy. Gilduin felt a growing disquiet within him, which had begun when Vaele told the story of their enemy. It was less a fear of present danger than a foreboding of troubles to come. He could envision the journey beneath the mountains in his mind, though he had never traveled that road before. Beyond the mountains, though a shadow obscured his thoughts. He could not visualize the city of the Mírdain, nor the battle they would face when they reached it. In years past he had often imagined the fair buildings of Ost-in-Edhil, but that time seemed long ago. Now all that remained was an unseen future, at once inaccessible and inescapable.

[Amanaduial the archer]

It was due to the sounds of laughter that also caused Narisiel to awake, but like Maegisiel, she had had a restless night, claustrophobically full of thoughts but desolately empty of dreams. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, she had fallen asleep, sinking into a dream of rubies, glittering with blood, of emeralds shining with the fallen pride of the City of the Holly... Unlike those of her Lord, the smith's 'premonitions' were not so fair.

As her husband lay as blissfully silent and peaceful as she had been distracted - even though, she noted ruefully, she had tousled and pushed around the covers until they mostly lay in a heap at the foot of the couple's bed - Narisiel sat up and swung her feet around to gingerly alight on the floor silently, rising and all-but tiptoeing to the window to look out at the source of the merriment outside. As she did so, the pressure of her bare toes caused the wooden boards of the floor, sunwarmed from the tall windows that looked into their room, to creak softly in sleepy protest at action at such an early hour. Wincing, she turned to see whether the sound had disturbed Sirithlonnior, but her husband lay still, one arm lazily thrown around his head, the other on the cover that remained around his waist, sleeping eyes watching her obliviously; as she watched him, Narisiel couldn't help but smile, his sleeping face warming her as much as the sunlight outside. Two hundred years later, she was almost surprised to find how much she still loved him; no matter how independant she was in the world outside this room, she was surprised but how much she depended on that smile. The action softened her face and the elven smith turned back to the window, lifting and drawing aside the filmy, full-length curtain.

Outside, the winter sun had barely had time to stretch her warmth into the morning, but thoughts of the night had been nearly dispelled; despite the early hour, the streets of such a thriving city are, in truth, rarely, if ever, entirely empty, and so a merry few were already scurrying, like children from this high view of a third storey window, through Ost-in-Edhil. The people of the dawn, those beings of the very early morning who wake with the sun and greet her as she first lazily rubs her fingers against the walls of the waking city when the rest are still fitfully turning in a dream-scattered world of sleep, had already been and gone, leaving little in their wake but those necessities, vital but small, the quiet fairies. The later group were waking and getting up: those going to work, waking slowly and allowing themselves that precious five more minutes; those who worked for the higher society, for the lords and ladies who needed them from the word go, already predecessing their idler counterparts; and the children, already in the streets, already full of energy, already welcoming the sun with all its innocence and warmth. It was the latter on whom Narisiel now looked down from her high chamber: a pair of younger elves, a girl and a boy, not quite adults but already with a resentment at being called children, probably within a decade of her own son's age. The girl had stopped the boy, talking passionately about some topic that Narisiel was not privy to from the height she watched from, but nonetheless something that clearly incensed her. The boy seemed to disagree with her serious position and shook her head, an indulgent smile on his lips - his mistake. Not liking his condescending behaviour, his friend shoved him lightly on the shoulder, her face full of impish anger; her pushed her back lightly, jovially and, with a mock-outraged cry, the girl launched herself at him. As he held her back they ended up laughing, locked in what was almost an embrace - and, cheekily, the boy leant forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She looked startled then, resuming her thread, began to berate him once more, but with a little more of that fondness in her voice.

Narisiel watched them, unseen, a dumb god, as they walked on, fingers lazily threaded together almost rebelliously, a grown-up image with childish voices. She smiled at them, but was that a tinge of sadness in her expression? They have all the time in the world for that. Why start so soon, why not let them hold onto that innocence for just a little longer...

"They are just children, Narisiel."

Percieving her thoughts perfectly, Sirithlonnior's face cut smoothly into his wife's thoughts and she span around immediately, her hands behind her back like a guilty child to see her previously 'sleeping' husband propped up on one elbow, calmly watching her. She narrowed her eyes. "You weren't asleep," she replied accusingly.

He merely smiled.

Like the child in the street below, the elf smith gave a cry of indignation and, dignity discarded to the wind - who was there to catch it, in the privacy of their marriage chamber? - Narisiel hurled herself at Sirithlonnior in a laughing, incoherent heap, a mirror of the couple below. For a while, for some instances, time was allowed to simply stand still.



But it was a privilege that did not apply to the whole world. As she selected her clothes for the day - her 'battledress' Sirithlonnior mockingly called it - her husband questioned her choice.

Holding up the offending item, a fine dress of dark, wine-red with loose sleeves to the elbow, and a full-sleeved undergarment of a strong yellow, Narisiel held it away from her, turning it critically in the light. "Oh, why? I think the smudges of silver would compliment the red, and don't you agree that soot would go well with the yellow? A bold contrast, that's what we like-"

"You're mocking me."

Narisiel turned her face to her husband, tipping it to one side as she smiled impishly, her dark eyes glittering. "Would I?" Laughing as he raised an eyebrow, she conceded. "I am to go to the palace today. I thought it was appropriate not to scare the ladies in waiting."

Sirithlonnior did not pick up on the humour of the second statement, his face becoming more serious as he sat up from his lounging position. "The palace? You are to see Lord Celebrimbor?"

Narisiel did not return his gaze for a moment, looking down to fiddle with the dress, but that was the only outward sign of her anxiety before she shrugged and looked back at her husband. "Not necessarily, Sirith. I have a commision from one of his courtiers - I need to show him the plans."

"So send Losrian."

"I cannot do it myself?" The question had a little too much snap in it and Sirithlonnior's face momentarily darkened as he fell into silence. Narisiel's anger faded away and she rubbed her eyes with one hand, looking away and then looking back. "I'm sorry, Sirith. It's...it's just..."

"You have been happier since you stopped working so closely with Celebrimbor, Narisiel. Something about you changed when you started that...that work with him." The word 'work' was spoken with a barely audible distaste, but Narisiel picked up on it; she knew was that made her husband uneasy. It was the fact that she had never really told him about those three wonderful creations - and, when they told each other so much, it was a silence that quietly scared him. How much of that fear is founded, Narisiel? Why didn't you tell him? Her face softened and she nodded, still looking at the material in her hands. "I know, Sirith."

She looked back up at her husband's handsome face and gave him another ambiguous shrug and a quick smile. "But I won't be seeing him, will I? Just Maegisil."

"Maegisil?" Her husband recognised the name and the conversation eased into a different vein, easier, less stressful, as the tension slipped away. But although she breathed a sigh of relief, Narisiel could not altogether dispel the tension which Sirithlonnior had raked up - the tension at the thought of meeting with Celebrimbor after so many sleepless nights contemplating the meaning of what they had made in the forges.

[Durelin]

The quiet entrance of a servant interrupted the Lord and his counselor, though he only intruded upon silence. Maegisil recalled his name as Taurnil, but he was not sure. His encounters with him were always very formal, as he only saw him when in the presence of Celebrimbor. He noticed the servant’s entrance before his lord did, who had lapsed into silent thoughtfulness once more, and considered briefly what a shame it was that he had not spoken to the elf standing cautiously just inside the door, which he had closed behind him with the greatest of care. Seeing Taurnil hesitate to disturb his lord, Maegisil smiled and caught the servant’s eye, and the uncertain elf seemed surprised to find the counselor looking at him.

Maegisil then quickly turned his eyes to Lord Celebrimbor, and reached across from where he sat to touch his lord on the arm. Celebrimbor’s eyes snapped up from looking down at the floor and then followed his friend’s gesture toward the servant.

“Oh, Taurnil,” he said in absent-minded surprise. Maegisil was glad to hear that he had remembered the name correctly. “I’m sorry, you’re too stealthy for me these days. You’ve always been a good woodsman.”

For a moment Taurnil looked at his lord, wondering about his all but random comment, but a smile quickly grew on his face as he tossed his wonder aside and looked only upon his lord’s kindness.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said with a bow. After a short and rather awkward pause in which the servant most likely awaited a question concerning his presence, he continued, answering all unspoken questions in the other elves’ minds. “Narisiel Mirdain is here to see Counselor Maegisil concerning a commission.”

At these words Margisil jumped slightly in his seat, and not due to any surprise at Narisiel’s arrival, but instead because of what Taurnil had called him. He could not remember ever being called ‘Counselor Maegisil.’ He had never asked for a title, nor ventured to earn one, and he was young yet to receive the title of ‘Master,’ except by mere children.

Taurnil was leading Narisiel into the chamber, following the order of the Lord of the Mirdain, of course, as Maegisil was recovering from his mild shock. Pushing all his wonders concerning his sudden new title to the back of his mind, he rose to greet the jewelsmith, ducking his head in a slight bow of respect as he had done when he met her in her shop, and thanking her for coming. Being too grand in his formalities had often led him to embarrassment in the past, but he still felt some sign of respect was necessary to most people he met, as well as as much politeness as he could manage without overdoing it, which he did often.

Lord Celebrimbor also rose to greet her, but he found it harder to smile than did Maegisil. This was a much more awkward meeting for the two of them, and as Narisiel’s eyes turned their gaze to the lord, any sort of smile disappeared from her face. She did not forget the bow that was proper, though Celebrimbor would have liked it if she had. It only made the distance between them clearer.

“It has been a long time, Narisiel,” the elf-lord said, only voicing part of what was on his mind.

“Yes, it has,” Narisiel responded simply. A short silence followed, which Maegisil decided to rescue them from.

“I am surprised, and very grateful, that you have had the time to complete the plans so quickly,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he gestured to the two small couches that the counselor and his lord had been reclining on earlier and asked, turning to Celebrimbor, “May we sit, my lord?”

“Oh, yes,” the lord said, sounding surprised again. It seemed he had forgotten his manners as well, but Maegisil knew there was more to it then that, as did Narisiel. Celebrimbor was the last to sit, and he sat alone across from Maegisil and Narisiel, trying to look comfortable. The mirdan began showing Maegisil the plans for Sairien’s necklace when the elf-lord suddenly spoke again, drawing both his companions’ minds from necklaces to rings.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but Narisiel…I must know if you are willing to speak to me.”

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was the first of the household to surface. This was not unusual in the winter months when her sole chance of a little daylight time was just before she started work. The air had a hint of frost and she wrapped herself in her dressing gown before running downstairs from her small chamber, trusting on speed rather than shoes to keep her feet from the cold of the stone slabs of the stairs and kitchen floor. Nevertheless she was glad to wriggle her toes in the sheepskin hearthrug. Laswen's family farmed in the outlands and this small luxury was one of the benefits. She knew her path well enough in the dark and mindful of the need for thrift only lit one candle to guide her preparation of the fire. As soon as it was lit she set the kettle on the stove. She got the breakfast things ready, butter, honey, the herbs for tisane and cut a thin slice of cheese and took just one store apple and wrapped them in a muslin cloth, ready for her midday meal. By now the water was nearing the boil and she poured some into an ewer mixed with cold to wash in and ran back upstairs. Although she dressed swiftly - having grown somewhat since the last cold winter she had a small choice of garments that were warm, fitted properly and were suitable for her work - and tied her hair in the simplest braid, her brother was sitting in the kitchen when she went back down toasting the old bread. He poured her a cup of tisane.

"Off to work so early, Los? I thought you said Lady Narisiel would not be there this morning? I hope my apprentices will be so diligent.."

"If you can ever find anyone who wants to learn ... may be someone who none of the smiths will take.." his sister responded cheekily. Ferin gave her a long, hard stare but refused to take the bait.

" I am going to take my wife some tea. " He said, evenly then noticing her frugal lunch added "things aren't so desperate that you have to starve yourself yet - you are still growing"

"Yes, Ada" replied Losrian in mock obedience, earning another 'elder brother' stare from her sibling. " I hope I don't grow more - I am not trying to catch you up'". At six feet she was already tall and her brother was a good hand taller.

Left alone again, Losrian consulted her notebook while she ate and drank. Then with the first light filtering in through the shutters she took the fresh baked bread from the oven, and having cut some for herself prepared to leave.

She retraced her steps of the evening before, making hte detour back to the buttes. Her breath vapourised in the air and she wrapped her hands around the still warm bread. She had rather more time for her trials of arrows than last time but she became a little self conscious when she realised that a couple of the sentries on the ramparts, bored with gazing out had turned their gaze inward to watch. She was a good enough shot but it was affecting her aim - especially when she realised one of the sentries was Artamir. Time for work she decided and trying to make it look as if her departure had nothing to do with being watched, she packed up her things as casually as she could and walked away with a careless air.

With still a little time to spare she lingered by the windows in the shops of Rath Celebdain. The work is lovely but seems a little frivolous with war threatening. Nevertheless, Losrian wonders if she will ever equal their art. One of the many advantages of her apprenticeship was that Narisiel was skilled in all types of smithing and Losrian would not be limited to one metal for her studies.

As she opened the atelier and prepared the forge for the day's work she remembered her first visit there, when she had sought apprenticeship. Narisiel had asked her - as her brother and father had done - why she wished to be a smith when there was a fine family tradition of working wood. She had replied

"When you work wood you must shape it according to it's nature, its grain shapes the work not your will. Metal may be shaped to your will. with wood you are the slave, with metal the master".

"And do you seek mastery, Losrian?" Narisiel had asked with a catch in her voice.

"Only of metal, my lady".

As soon as the forge had heated she became absorbed in the work in hand and ceased wandering in memory.

[Arestevana]

The Galadrim assembled silently at dawn. The sun was rising, but little light penetrated the grey clouds. The misty mountains, now so near, dominated the horizon. Their black silhouettes were sharp and unforgiving against the pale sky. The mood of the contingent was subdued somewhat by the darkness, but proximity to the mountains brought a feeling of success: they neared their destination.

It was past noon before the sun broke free of the clouds, at last revealing in full the towering majesty of the mountains before them. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and Gilduin found himself staring in wonder, though he had seen the mountains before. He turned to say something to Vaele before remembering that the archer was once again scouting ahead of the contingent. It was perhaps an hour before he returned to the company.
“Celeborn wants us marching with full ranks when we reach the mountains,” he explained, falling into step easily. “We will be entering the Nanduhirion Valley soon. Have you traveled this way before?”
“Once, many years ago. I recall little.” Gilduin said. “It is a beautiful place.”
Vaele nodded in agreement. “See how the arms of the mountain surround us? Now we are in the valley, which the dwarves call Azanulbizar. We will march a while longer, and then we will see the Mirromere.”
Gilduin glanced at the sky. The sun was poised above the mountains: in a few hours it would be resting on the highest peaks. A call to halt came suddenly from his right, and the contingent stopped. Celeborn and Eldegon called several curt directions: the first rank was to separate from the contigent and form a separate division to speak to those who would guide them through the mountains. Vaele and Gilduin obediently found positions in this smaller group, which moved forward a short ways ahead of the full contingent as they resumed their march. Before them lay the shimmering expanse of water that was the Kheled-Zâram, and beyond that, the Misty Mountains.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having seated herself on one of the fine, velvet and mahogany couches in Celebrimbor's room, Narisiel pulled two sheets of parchment, rolled and tied with ribbon, from inside a slim cylinder case. Spreading them across the low table in front, she glanced up at Maegisil, who was standing awkwardly and uncertainly beside her. She didn't want to smile, but couldn't help giving him a quick grin. "Please do sit, Counsellor," she said softly, her voice mocking but gently so. The other elf's cheeks coloured slightly, allowing Narisiel to feel a little embarassed herself at the possibility of seeming rude, and he hurriedly sat down beside her, almost being overly careful not to sit on the folds of rich damson coloured cloth of her dress. In the corner of her eye, the smith saw a slight smile lift Celebrimbor's lips - amusement or fondness at her boldness maybe. She looked down again quickly and briskly began showing Maegisil the plans for the necklace.

"I planned two designs; I was not sure which might suit best, as I do not really know your wife more than by sight. Sairien, isn't it?" Maegisil nodded, looking a little surprised as he glanced at Narisiel. She smiled, shrugging but not elaborating, before nodding towards the first design - the one on the topmost piece of parchment. "This is the one I personally prefer. It is a simpler design than the other, and so you may prefer the latter, but it has both a delicacy and a strength that I believe...well, I should be pleased to achieve it, and the result would hopefully please you also."

Maegisil murmured some affirmation of this, an almost mandatory formality to him, and Narisiel shot him a quick smile, brushing a spare strand of hair behind her ear nervously - Celebrimbor, rather than having left the room as she had expected and rather hoped, had instead stayed and was watching his two counsellors from where he stood at the window, half turned as if to survey the view outside, but with his keen eyes trained on them - or, more accurately, on her, as Narisiel knew without looking up. But the nervous gesture caused her to lift her hand from the plans unthinkingly, and the side of the parchment sprung up, eagerly making a break for it's previous rolled up position. Maegisil's hand darted forward, pinning down one corner even as Narisiel, flustered, seized it herself. She smiled briefly at him, and, taking advantage of now having one hand free, she slid her slim fingers across the rough parchment, beginning to focus on more specific points of the design. "You admired the rubies the other day, and although these are a fine choice - your wife's dark hair would be complimented by the rich red of a larger ruby stone, maybe - they are also a relatively popular choice, and I planned a little something different."

She pinpointed six roughly sketched gems which were interwoven into two intertwining chains of silver, and ended with one finger resting on a seventh, larger gem which was at the centre of the necklace - the centre piece. It was not an especially large gem, but was quite significantly bigger than the smaller gems around the sides of the necklace - centralised and fine without being audacious or overly-showy, she explained. "I planned on saphires, if this would please you," she continued, with the air of one whose plans were flexible, but was quietly confident that they would be accepted. "The smaller gems would be, say, the size of the rubies you admired yesterday, although I would be able to cut or procur even smaller, more delicate ones; the centralised one would be larger, as I have said. It allows a design that seems simple, but the interwoven silver chains within which the small gems would be delicately buried would allow a fragility and intricacy that...well," she shrugged, knowing that Maegisil would understand. She was gaining confidence now, almost forgetting the third prescence in the room. But after she had continued for a few more moments, Maegisil occasionally nodding or murmuring some comment or question, the extra prescence was to make itself known.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but Narisiel...I must know if you are willing to speak to me."

Celebrimbor's words surprised her, and she momentarily stiffened, but it was a movement and shock so controlled that it was only Maegisil who noticed, as the smith's hands stiffened slightly, stretched as they were over his arm. Uncertain and barely breathing, he glanced at her, only his grey eyes flickering to scan her face. But Narisiel merely took a deep breath....then looked up again, her face a mask of perfect, porcelain politeness. "Speak to you, my Lord?"

Celebrimbor, seated across from the pair on an opposite couch, hesitated, and bewilderment flitted over his face, just for a moment. He nodded wordlessly. Now was the moment that Narisiel had wondered about, had dreaded even - yet was also excited by. Part of her was even irritated - if only he had let her finish explaining her plans to Maegisil, she would at least have had a chance to escape. Escape... For a moment, the ludicrous idea of hitching up her skirts, sprinting across the room and leaping through the window flitted across her mind. Why, the skirt would probably even suffice as a parachute of some sort...gently float down and, by careful rudder use of the petticoats, direct myself to my forge...

The image that this momentarily conjured up was such a comical one that the smith smiled - then realised that the gesture had escaped and froze it, cursing inwardly. But then, hadn't another part of her secretly been waiting for this meeting, been planning it since...well, since when? How long had she been waiting to release all the curiousity and frustrated excitement and anxiety about the rings that had pent up inside her?

Did Lord Celebrimbor not speak to your concerning the Three...

Maegisil's words from yesterdays meeting at the forge surfaced in her mind. Narisiel made up her mind: looking directly into Celebrimbor's eyes, she let a moment pass, then relaxed into her smile. Standing, she sighed and looked away, taking a few steps towards the window, before she half turned to look back the still seated elf, not without warmth this time.

"Speak with you, Lord Celebrimbor?" She hesitated once more, then made the plunge. "Nothing would allow me more pleasure at this moment, Celebrimbor," she replied finally. And with that informal first-name use, Narisiel felt a burst of rekindled friendship - and a slight chill, as the events of one hundred years tugged, always, at her mind.

[Firefoot]

The wait was lasting just long enough for Grimkul to become impatient; he wished the Elves whom they were going to ambush would hurry it up. He strained his eyes towards the mouth of the valley, hoping to maybe spot them.

And, perhaps by chance, he did! He gave a cry of glee, which fortunately did not echo. A dirty look from Lushurd quieted him, though not before he had returned said look equally nastily. To either side of him, Orcs were drawing their bowstrings, waiting for the signal to shoot. Grimkul and Ulwakh followed suit.

The short minutes that the Elves took to march into the valley seemed to stretch on for ages. As they drew nearer, Ulwakh noted that they were marching in two contingents, the smaller one in front. Grimkul could care less about this seemingly petty matter.

Lushurd raised his arm, and it was understood that they should fire when he lowered it, which he did when the Elves had drawn even with them. With a twanging of bowstrings, the first volley of arrows was released. As Grimkul fitted a second arrow to his bowstring, he had a moment to catch sight of the moment of pandemonium beneath them. Almost immediately a second round of arrows was fired. Grimkul sneered as his arrow found its mark and an Elf fell dead. By the third round, the Elves below had figured out what was happening and had drawn their own bows and shields. They fell into battle formation surprisingly swiftly, some with shields overhead so as to guard against arrows and others shooting up into the pass.

The Orcs no longer held their silence as the element of surprise was no longer a weapon. Grimkul rattled off a string of insults as he shot his next arrow.

Lushurd made his voice heard above the others: “Fire at will!” Grimkul took little time to carefully find his marks as Ulwakh did beside him, but instead simply fired into the mass of Elves. Surprising only to him, just one of his next four arrows found a mark and felled an Elf, irritating Grimkul immensely. He was, however, heartened when an Elvish arrow clattered harmlessly to the rocks nearby. His jeers were cut short, however, when one arrow found its mark in the Orc next to him, and Grimkul hastily continued to shoot.

The fray seemed to be going well, and the Orcs were at advantage, being higher up. However, they soon realized that the Elves were steadily moving through the valley even as they fought back. Their commander apparently noticed this and ordered the Orcs down into the valley – “They can’t reach the mountains!”

So the company began to spill down the slope wherever it was passable, intent on cutting the Elves off from their intended route. Grimkul gleefully drew his scimitar and was among the first of the Orcs to crash into the ranks of Elves. Intent on their quarry, none of the Orcs noticed the attackers coming up behind them. . .