Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Firefoot]

The surviving Orcs arrived back at the camp more or less together in a straggling, drawn out group. Grimkul and Ulwakh were near the back; Grimkul was mostly unharmed, but Ulwakh could barely walk. The bleeding had only let up not stopped, leaving a straggling trail of black blood on the cold ground where he walked. Ulwakh kept up only because he had to - an Orc that stayed behind was not merely left behind but very likely chopped to pieces by other Orcs for sport.

To all appearances, Grimkul was of little help. He provided no shoulder to lean on or any moral support – in fact, he seemed not even to notice Ulwakh at all, keeping up a running monologue about the pushdug Elves and Dwarves. What he did do was threaten with snarl and brandished scimitar anyone who seemed to be entertaining the idea of attacking his weak companion. Thus in his own way did Grimkul show his slightly twisted loyalty and in the same way Ulwakh was appreciative, though he said no word of it.

Though he tried to deny it, Ulwakh was excessively weak from pain and lack of blood by the time they reached their patch of ground. No longer able to support himself, Ulwakh collapsed to the ground, barely retaining consciousness. Wordlessly, Grimkul dug into his pack and pulled out a container of a brownish-colored paste-like substance. He removed a glob of it with his fingers and smeared it on Ulwakh’s wound.

The medicine, if it could be called that, had few if any healing properties. Its chief purpose lay in stopping the blood flow and keeping the wound closed, and it did not work as well in cold temperatures such as these. It also burned like a cold fire upon application, and tended to itch fiercely once it had dried all the way. It was healing of the most rudimentary sort, and its use was the furthest knowledge either Orc had in the topic.

In his passing moments of clear thought, Ulwakh was worried. He knew from his information gathering that the Captain intended to head over the mountains once this attack was over, and he worried that he would be unable to keep up. He would have had enough trouble on a regular basis, but with the strenuous crossing of the passes, he couldn’t even be sure that the wound would stay closed.

But there wasn’t anything that he could do.

[Durelin]

Sairien was beginning to feel that she was not the only one lost, and it did not comfort her as she expected it would, to not find herself alone; it frightened her even more. How could everyone be so naïve? She knew it was not their fault any more than it was hers, and she felt slighted that Celebrimbor and his mighty court only allowed whispers and rumours of war to drift to the ears of Ost-in-Edhil’s citizens.

“What do I think? I think we will not have time to think before our enemy is upon us,” she said, feeling all her fear crashing down and flowing through her words like the water in the river before her. She turned away from Cainenyo, shaking her head. “I am sorry...”

“Do not worry...” the elf cut her off, “any more than you already do, any more than we all do.”

Sairien thanked him. He understood: he had a wife, and most likely at least one child. A child... Sairien felt tears form in pools at the bottom of her eyes, and he vision blurred. She tried so hard to hold them back, but she was forced to blink, and a couple tears ran down her face. Cainenyo pretended not to take notice, knowing that it would only make it worse if he was too consoling. If only he knew why she really cried. It was not because of the anticipated war. It took her only a moment to compose herself.

“I think Ost-in-Edhil is a grand city,” Cainenyo began again, breaking the silence, “and I think she can withstand any attack from a rabble of orcs.”

Sairien heard his words as hollow. She was not sure if he meant them, if he truly believed that the city was safe, but either way, she could never believe them. She had seen her husband return home looking ragged, as if the war had already started and he were returning from the front lines. She had even heard him talk in his sleep of war, of death, of fear... Those late nights when she was kept up by thoughts and bad dreams left her helpless.

“I think we both know that there are more signs that point to more than just a rabble of orcs,” Sairien said after another long pause. “And I think we both know the name that hangs on the edge of all of our tongues, but slips off it as soon as it is about to be spoken...”

Cainenyo only looked at her. Sairien met his gaze for a moment, then turned back to watch the sunlight flit upon the water. Somewhere between them, one name floated unspoken amidst all their fear: Sauron.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo felt a deep sadness come over him. He knew in his heart that the city was no more than a house of cards in a foul wind, ready to fall at the slightest breeze. He placed a gloved hand on Sairien's shoulder for a brief moment, and turned to leave the glittering river. Now he truly noticed the dismal outlook of the future and the way the city seemed so frail and fragile when set against the might of Sauron.

As he passed Celerimbor's palace Cainenyo felt in his heart a new anger. He felt anger towards Celebrimbor and the Mírdain for believing Annatar's deceits, and how they too readily let him ride into the heart of Ost-in-Edhil to forge his wicked plan. And Cainenyo also hated Sauron himself for ensuring the city's doom. How could the Mírdain have accepted him? How could they have so happily welcomed the Lieutenant of Morgoth? Cainenyo passed the palace with a fiery heart.

And how many villages must be razed to the ground for Celebrimbor to act? Death tolls were rising, and even more refugees poured into the city each day. The city was not a haven, but a trap. Within these walls the people would be slaughtered if arms would not be taken up, if soldiers were not mustered, if the people lived in silence and did not do something.

With these words in both heart and mind he passed through the city. Cainenyo bought a few flowers for his wife at a florist with the coins in his pocket that were intended to pay for the knife. He was soon passing through the shadowy alleyway next to Fëaglin's shop. Across the street he saw Celebdur's red door open and Arenwino stepped out. A cool wind was now whistling down the street and Arenwino was dressed in a dark grey cloak. He spotted his father emerge from the alley.

"Hello there, father," Arenwino said, "what have you been up to?" His voiced sounded too joyful for these dark times.

"I was just down by the docks," he told his son, recalling Sairien's distress. They walked together down the street. After some moments of silence Cainenyo finally said, "Are you worried for the city?"

Arenwino was surprised by his father's question. "The city may be attacked, but we are not without allies." A weak glimmer of hope grew in Cainenyo's heart.

[piosenniel]

Five days of steady traveling had brought the thirty-five Dwarves and eighty remaining Lorinand to the crest of low-lying hills just above the place where the city of the Jewelsmiths lay. It was a fair morning, the early light filling the land west of the shadows of the Misty Mountains with the promise of a day well begun. Below the small hillocks on which they stood was the Sirannon, and there just beyond it, the juncture of it with the River Glanduin.

In the clear light, the river and the stream seemed shining fillets of bright silver. And there upon these fair wrought bands was the city of the Mírdain, set like a fair jewel; its structures the well-made facets that caught the light and sent it forth again. Pennants and banners of silks in many colors flew in the morning’s breezes. It was an altogether breathtaking sight. And no matter the number of times that Riv had stood in this same spot looking down upon it, still his dark eyes glinted with the beauty of it.

Lovely . . . lovely! he murmured to himself. I would be hard put to make a setting and gem so fair as this. He shivered a little as the fingers of a colder breeze curled round his neck, raising the hairs along his forearms. The old Dwarf saying came to his mind as he drew up the collar of his cloak. ‘Rock lizard walking over my tomb!’ his grandmother would say.

Riv shook off the chill, calling for the Elven standard bearer to come forward. ‘Unfurl your banner, Master Elf. And Uncle Orin, give a call on your horn. Let them know below we’ll be there soon.’ He laughed, shading his eyes as he stood, hands on hips, looking down on Ost-in-edhil. ‘Though, in truth, those keen Elven eyes have already spied us out and who we are and how many. Still, we’ll keep to the courteous forms and announce ourselves as friends.’

Orin raised the curled, silver horn to his lips and gave three blasts . . . two long punctuated by one short.

Their spirits raised by the pleasant sight of the Elven city, the Dwarves and Elves of Lorien made their way quickly to the city gates and were welcomed in.

[Encaitare]

The camp was busy the next morning; the orcs gathered up their scant belongings and bundled into whatever extra bit of clothing they could use to protect themselves from the cold. When they moved out, the only evidence to their presence were a few spent campfires and the odd corpse -- several of those who had been badly wounded had not lasted the night.

Kharn took a position at the very back of the regiment, ready to goad anyone who started to fall behind. Glûtkask was at the very front; Kharn was glad to get away from him. The captain had been in a fouler mood than usual since yesterday's skirmish, and he had kept eyeing Kharn as if daring him to do the same as Lushurd. Kharn, however, preferred to mind his own business. As for the rest of the soldiers, they seemed to have forgotten the brawl entirely -- after all, these things were not uncommon.

Grimly silent, they started off through the mountain pass.

[Kath]

Ugburz limped along behind his troop, cursing under his breath at the Elf who had got him in the leg with an arrow. The wound wasn't deep but it was making it difficult to move as quietly as Glûtkask had demanded when they set off and the orcs around him shot him glares as he shuffled along. His only source of comfort was the memory of the way he had killed the Elf who had shot the blasted thing at him. He grinned cruelly as he remembered the gurgling sound the creature had made as he had stabbed his knife into its back.

He hadn't seen a great deal of the battle as he'd been at the back of the regiment when it marched in and had been fighting on the sidelines, unable to get any further in due to the flailing of various arms and limbs. It would have been more dangerous trying to get through his fellow Orcs than fighting Elves the way things were going. It was only later after the order to retreat and their arrival back at the camp that he realised this apparent panic had in fact been exactly that. Those at the front had been caught between Elves and Dwarves and while they were trying to retreat the orcs behind were trying to advance, causing the crush.

Back at the camp it soon became apparent that Glûtkask was not happy with the way things had gone. Ugburz had quickly made himself scarce, trying to patch up the hole in his leg while he had the chance. The night had passed quickly if coldly, the remaining orcs had been swiftly organised into lines and they had set off before the sun had even cleared the horizon. They had been walking now for hours and Ugburz was both hungry and in pain, but it didn't look as though they were going to be stopping until Glûtkask had marched himself out of the foul mood he was in. Muttering under his breath Ugburz hefted his pack further up on his shoulders and walked on.

[Firefoot]

The march was cold – no one could deny that. It could hardly be considered inordinately difficult, though; that is, unless that one was Ulwakh.

He limped along, doing the best he could to keep up, and for the first hour or so he did fairly well, once some of the initial stiffness (resulting mostly from the cold) had worn off.

Then, conditions seemed to take a turn for the worse. The company reached the start of the mountain pass, and the terrain grew to be rougher and rougher. Ulwakh’s limp became more pronounced, and the now-hardened goop which Grimkul had spread upon the leg to stop the bleeding cracked. In this lay the one benefit of the cold weather: the blood had thickened, so that the flow was not nearly as heavy as it might have been. After a little while, it stopped of its own accord. This did not help Ulwakh, though, who was still recuperating from his severe loss of blood the previous afternoon.

Once more, Grimkul did what little he could to help, fending off other Orcs with a nasty look or, in an unusual display of what was almost affection, catching Ulwakh by the arm to keep him from stumbling too badly.

In the grand scheme of things, however, these helped little. Very slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the pair dropped back through the ranks until they were almost in the very back. Once or twice Ulwakh glanced back and saw Kharn eyeing him, as if considering a choice word or two.

Ulwakh’s old reluctance to attract the attention of anyone higher up resurfaced. For a little while he redoubled his efforts to keep up, knowing his very life might depend on it. In doing so, however, his wound reopened and this time it was not nearly so quick in mending itself.

About half way through the march, Ulwakh knew that he was nearly spent; save by some happening of extraordinary luck, he doubted he would be able to continue at this pace. He stumbled.

“You mountain maggots aren’t even fit to march!” jeered Kharn from behind. “We shoulda left you back at the camp this morning – you’re just holding everyone else back!” Ulwakh scrambled back to his feet with difficulty – he had to hang on, had to keep going…

But Grimkul’s irritation awakened – no one insulted Ulwakh but him, and as for ‘mountain maggot,’ well, he came from the mountains, too! At Ulwakh’s fierce persuading, Grimkul held his peace for the moment, but Kharn had noticed how easy it was to cow the smaller one and took more frequent opportunity to insert his jeers, and not just towards Ulwakh, either. Grimkul did not take the goading well and finally refused to be knocked into submission any more. An ugly look on his face and hand on sword hilt, Grimkul turned to face the larger, higher-ranked Orc.

“Grimkul, don’t,” pleaded Ulwakh vainly.

“You,” said Grimkul, putting a particularly ugly emphasis on the word, “leave him alone.”

Kharn appeared somewhat surprised by this resistance but largely unfrightened. “And what are you going to do about it? Attack me?” he scoffed, though he had moved his hand to his own weapon lest he be caught defenseless. Ulwakh cursed to himself, knowing the direction this was headed and not liking it at all.

Thus provoked, Grimkul drew his scimitar; the sound echoed faintly in the mountain pass. Snarling, he launched a furious blow towards Kharn, who had just enough time to get his own sword between the opposing blade and himself. Hearing the ring of metal upon metal, the entire company stopped. Ulwakh sank to the ground, taking the opportunity to rest for a moment for its full value, though he did keep a pair of twisted throwing knives at hand should they prove necessary.

Grimkul backed off for a moment in the stunned silence. Kharn, thinking that Grimkul had learned better, lowered his weapon slightly. There was a shout from the front of the line – the Captain, thought Ulwakh – which diverted Kharn’s attention for the barest second, which Grimkul took advantage of. No longer heeding his scimitar, Grimkul simply lunged upon Kharn, bringing him down with his momentum. They hit the ground with Kharn on bottom and within moments Grimkul had his broken dagger pressed to Kharn’s throat.

“Now, what were you saying?” Grimkul snarled.