Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared in disbelief at the empty cell that stared back at him. The feeling was shocking, very empty, and extremely hollow as if a hole had suddenly opened up in the ground underneath him. The obvious question struck him with incredible force: Where was Abârpânarú? This was his cell, or so the gaurd that had known Thoronmir had said. He could not remember the man's name. Azarmanô viewed the guard's assistance with suspicion, but it had been their only lead. Now, it seemed as though they had been duped by one of the king's men. He had no idea where Abârpânarú was, but it was not the time to sulk. They would have to move quickly if they wished to find their leader's cell amidst all that were in the high security tower.

Inzillomi too looked stunned as she stared into the empty cell. She began to let out a high pitched scream and shake her fists vehemently. Azarmanô silenced the distressed woman by placing his hand over her mouth and restraining her while whispering words of calm into her ear. He feared that his damage control only did limited good, since some guards surely had heard the high-pitched explosion and knew that something was amiss.

"I would urge everyone to stay calm. We will not leave until we find Abârpânarú. He is in a cell somewhere in this section. Let us search," he concluded.

And so Azarmanô sprinted down the dark stone corridor glancing quickly from one side to another for any sign of their leader followed by the rest of the group. Every cell inflicted more pain, anguish, and panic upon Azarmanô's heavy heart, but he dare not show it. He kept his face blank, stoic as if he were window shopping for a new suit of plate mail. The light tread of his leather boots echoed down the deserted hallway. As he travelled farther down the corridor, the floor became dirt and the slope of the path led down. The cells seemed to be more spread out and larger.

Ahead of the group, from a distance, Azarmanô could see a clearing inside the dungeon and a large black obsidian alter whose stones were stained red with blood. A chill of fear spread throughout Azarmanô's body as he stared at the alter of Sauron the destroyer himself. The blood of the former Faithful cried out from the ground as a testimony to the atrocities that had been committed there. Azarmanô did not see Sauron himself, but he imagined that he could not be far away.

Following the curve of the tunnel, Azarmanô saw four guards lurking clsoe to a cell. Although he expected to find Abârpânarú within, as he grew closer he was disappointed to see that the cell was quite empty. Why would the soldiers be guarding an empty cell, he wondered. And if this was in fact Abârpânarú's cell, where was he? He approached the soldiers cautiously, sensing that confrontation might be near.

Azarmanô addressed the group, "I have a prisoner that I am escorting to her cell. She is the wife of the Faithful leader Abârpânarú, and I was given orders to place her in the cell next to her husband's. Is this his cell?"

The leader spoke, addressing Abârpânarú disdainfully," Stop where you are. We know what you are up to. You are a resourceful group of vermin, I give you that. We found the group of guards who became extremely drunk and then fell asleep in the middle of the hallway. They told us how you slipped past them with the female prisoner and stole the keys to the high security area. We were ordered to patrol the high security area and look for your group. You will not be so lucky as to escape again. "

I'll show you resourceful, he thought as a mischievous grin spread across his face. Impulsively, Azarmanô unslung his bow and unleashed an arrow into the throat of one of the guards as the other Faithful turned to face them.....

[Himaran]

Abârzadan's keen hearing easily picked up the loud conversation between the guards and Azarmanô, even though he was now positioned at the rear of the group. The discussion was both heated and brief. Although the man expected the guards to see straight through the captain's now compromised story, he had not forseen the swift and violent reaction that brought an abrupt end to any negotiations. The other Faithful turned instantly as the lead guard fell to the floor, a shaft protruding from his throat. Silence reigned for a split second as a faint gurgle escaped his lips. Then life fled the body, and the hallway decended into chaos. The remaining guards charged Azarmanô, and with Inzi and Thoronmir blocking his path Abârzadan knew that he could do little to help. Events soon proved him very, very wrong.

Suddenly, on Abârzadan's side of the hallway, two more guards appeared. They had obviously heard the commotion and come to investigate it. Thinking quickly, the man dropped his spear (which he had been carrying for show) and ran towards them. "Stop! Stop! A prisoner escaped! He's gone!" Unable to see what was happening further down the passage, but horrified by the news shouted at them by the "guard" running towards them, the pair froze as if stuck to the glistening stone floor. The penalty for allowing an inmate to escape was sacrifice in the temple. Something had to be done! Forgetting about the conflict ahead, the guards allowed themselves to be forcefully turned and pushed in the direction that the supposed fugitive had fled.

The trio skidded to a halt as the hallway ended and two side passages appeared, going in seperate directions. "Go left, I'll go right," yelled Abârzadan, and the other two (motivated by the fear of a horrible death) obeyed without question. As they dashed off, the man slowed, stopped, and waited. Once sure that they were far enough away, he turned and sprinted back the way they had come, hoping that the others had survived.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's intense regret at her outburst disappeared the second the guards appeared. She was too busy calculating their chances of escape to spare any thought for her recent stupidity. A bolt pierced the neck of the spokesman for the King's Men. She spared a second to glance at Azarmanô... he held his bow and appeared to be sizing up the enemy. The hapless man fell to the floor, a choked gurgling coming not from his mouth, but from the new hole permeating his throat. Chaos ensued.

A tall guard slipped past the men to reach Inzillomi. Violently he grabbed her by the hair. She bit back a scream while, encumbered by the chains of her disguise, she grasped his hands. She felt quickly for the tender spots on his forearms and pressed hard, digging with her nails. He released her with a grunt and dove forward, propelled by anger. She ducked fast, barely missing his fist coming in direct contact with her face. She heard Abarzadan yell unidentifiable words as she gripped her attacker by the arm and helped him to fly over her hip. He slammed hard into the bars of the empty cell, slumping. It never does to underestimate a small opponent when you are giving them all the momentum they need, though Inzillomi with a resigned sigh as she advanced, pulling a small black vial from her wide sash. She broke the seal, uncorking the bottle. As the dazed guard looked at her hazily, Inzillomi poured a small amount of the pearly liquid into the unlucky man's mouth. Within seconds he was unconscious. She did not envy him the headache he would have upon awakening.

She turned on her knees, eyes sweeping the scene for more attackers. Azarmanô fought ferociously. Thoronmir grappled with his own opponent a short distance away. Abarzadan was missing.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô looked approvingly as Inzillomi smashed the head of a guard against the cell bars and poured something down his throat. Perhaps he had underestimated her, for he did not expect her to be so well prepared. Thoronmir disposed of the third one quickly as he thrust his sword into the guard’s stomach, through an exposed point in the plate mail. Azarmanô now loaded his bow a second time and shot the lone remaining guard. The guard leapt in an effort to dodge the arrow, but was struck in the leg and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Azarmanô prepared to finish him off with one well placed shot, but restrained himself. He shunned unnecessary bloodshed and felt that the guard would not harm anyone in his present condition. After taking the guard’s sword, Azarmanô motioned to the rest of the party that it was time to proceed.

As he glanced back at his companions he was alarmed to see that Abarzadan was not among those present. Azarmanô was surprised by this, particularly because he had seen Abarzadan mere moments before the fight began standing by his side. In the turmoil of combat, Azarmanô had not given much attention to the whereabouts of the rest of the party. It did not seem unlikely that Abarzadan could have easily escaped, but the real question was why. Could he, at this moment, be reporting to the enemy, notifying all the temple of their whereabouts? Azarmanô had come to expect suspicious behavior from Abarzadan, and this disappearance seemed to confirm his fears.

“We can not wait to see if our elusive friend will return. We must go forward,” he announced decisively.

He turned to look expecting to see the black sacrificial altar, where he suspected Abârpânarú was being led, but saw that the door had been closed. It must have been shut while we fought from inside, he thought. Quickly, he ran forward, grasped the iron door handle firmly, and pulled hard. Azarmanô cursed in desperation as he realized that the door had been locked. He tried to use his bronze high security key to open the sealed entrance, but the key would not turn.

Consumed with anger, desperation, and urgency, he shouted “Thoronmir crack open this door with your sword. An axe would do the job better but I have none. Make haste for more than one life is in jeopardy within.”

Thoronmir swung his long sword, but the blade merely made several cuts in the wood and the door was very thick. Azarmanô battled the ideas flowing through his mind that the effort was futile and Abârpânarú’s doom imminent. Suddenly, a low rumbling noise began reverberating through the hallway. Subdued at first, the sound grew louder until it reached a tremendous roar. The ground beneath his feet began to quiver and small rocks came crashing down from the ceiling. At first, these things had seemed strange to Azarmanô, but now he understood. The beginning of the demise, the harbinger of destruction, the end that he had dreaded but known one day would come was upon them. The Island of Numenor was drowning, sinking into the vast ocean Azarmanô loved so well.

[littlemanpoet]

Míriel waited behind the thick velvet curtain. She could see everything. Mabalar had been led into the sacrificial chamber; and he seemed to recognize the three others who had preceded him. The girl, could she be family? His daughter? She caught an exchanged glance between them, and knew it must be so. The sorrow in their faces convinced her. That could have been her daughter. The girl was beautiful. Míriel had never met the woman Mabalar had married, but had heard of her. Inzillomí, she was called, of the house of Andúnië, daughter of Elendil. Mabalar had married well; maybe better than he might have, had she become his wife. For she knew how the ancestry went, a lady who should have ruled, passed over for her younger brother. It seemed that all had gone awry because of that.

Míriel held the potion in her hand. That fool, Herugor, had been so malleable to her purposes. All that had been needed was a little female attention - not so much as she would regret later - and he had become putty, giving her every desire of her heart's whim. So he thought, not knowing her purpose. The concentration spider's venom would render its imbiber dead to the world in all seeming, for days, or at least hours, depending on the imbiber. All she needed was a distraction.

What was that noise of banging on the door from which Mabalar had come? Who could want to come in? It was much safer out. Where was Tarík? Had he gotten her message to him? He must have, unless he had been kept from doing so. She had bade him tell Mabalar that they must not leave until he received her gift. She knew she could trust Moizandû to funnel the prisoners into his underground. He had told her the entrance to the secret passage, and she had guarded his secret with great care. The palantír must leave the Temple precincts. Sauron must not get it. She had been careful to keep secret from him, and from Herugor, but once the doom came upon Númenor, who could say what that evil one might uncover?

There was an odd rumble in the distance. Was there an army marching outside? No, it was growing. A herd of animals escaped from the nearby pens, racing for the Temple entrance? Absurd. It kept growing. The floor dropped a few inches from beneath her feet. She almost fell. This was the moment! It was an earthquake. The floor kept shifting, the ground beneath them groaning with a terrible roar. Míriel stole into the chamber in the confusion, keeping low to the shifting floor as the guards and their prisoners fought for balance, vainly trying to stay on their feet.

Mabalar saw her. His eyes widened briefly. She came to him and placed the vial in his chained hands.

"Drink this now. It will save you."

She left him and made her way back to the curtains as the floor continued to rock, the roar of the earth slowly dissipating. When she had regained her composure, and her feet, she looked back. Mabalar lay on the floor, his face looking paler already. Around him, his daughter and her friends were fighting with their guards.
The door to the dungeons flew open. She turned away and moved quickly back to her chambers. She might have been seen, and knew that she must not be found near the chamber of sacrifice. It was time to retrieve the palantír and wait for an opportune moment, to give it to the safekeeping of Mabalar, once he awakened.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir would not give up. He backed up and ran into the door hard, and it finally gave way.

"Let's go! Now!" he shouted, and they all burst out into the room where Abarpanaru was being held. Thoronmir went to untie him, but he was stopped by a tall figure that had just entered the room.

"Well, well. My old enemy Sakaladun. It's been a long time."

"Herugor." Thoronmir said. "I was wondering when you'd show up." He drew his long knife and pointed it at Herugor.

"Thoronmir!" Azarmano shouted. "We don't have time for this! The island will sink in a few hours! We need to get out of here now!"

Thoronmir looked toward Abarpanaru and the exit behind him, then at Herugor, who had drawn his knife as well.

"One of my descendants will help to finish this fight." he said to Herugor, and cut Abarpanaru loose.

"GUARDS!" Herugor shouted. Several soldiers charged in behind him, but at that point another tremor shook the temple, causing part of the ceiling to fall in between the King's Men and the Faithful.

The Faithful escaped the temple, but time was running out.


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Himaran's post

Bodies.

Abârzadan dashed down the slick hallway, stumbling over unseen cracks in the cold stone. Every passing second brought him closer to where he had left the group, and the sight that was slowly becoming clearer was grim. The man was breathless when he arrived at the scene, but he immediately began to root through the corpses.

Just guards. He started to breath easier.

Then where had the others gone? He had been left them a mere minute before, in hopes of diverting a two-pronged attack that would surely have ended in their slaughter. Either Azarmanô and the rest had been captured, or they had left him. Neither possibility gave him much hope of being reunited with them. His legs, exhausted, failed him, and he slumped down against the dripping prison wall. Doubts began to flood his mind, accompanied by a revulsion for the carnage around him. What was he, a wealthy young man, doing here, abandoned in a dark cell by outcasts who he had been foolish enough to trust. Smacking his fist down on the solid floor, Abârzadan cursed the day that he had stooped low enough to visit that poor tavern. How different the last few days would have been had he instead attended a more fitting diner, or even stayed home and cooked for himself! The man chuckled out loud at the absurdity of the whole affair. He hadn't even known Abârpânarú.

A noise.

Heavy boots clattered down the corrider. Torches flared. Voices shouted. reinforcements had arrived, and they would not be pleased to find a surviving perpetrator resting amongst their dead companions. So Abârzadan took a chance. Grimacing, he dipped his hand into the pool of blood that had formed underneath the severed neck of a guard, splashed the sticky liquid on his face, and lay still. The conversation he soon heard was disorganized and heated.

"What happened?"

"How should I know! I watch the adjacent hall, not this one."

"They're... all dead."

"No! And here I thought they were still standing ready for inspection."

"Cut it! Multiple prisoners have escaped. I want a complete lockdown of this floor - no one enters or leaves. Târak, take these bodies and dump them in the sewer, and I mean deep."

Târak went to work, and the others hurried off to fulfill their tasks. Bells started to ring from all directions. Heavy doors were slammed shut. Men grabbed extra weapons from supply posts and sprinted to their stations.

Unlike these guards, Târak seemed to be in no particular hurry. Lacking a cart, his chosen method of moving bodies was to sling one over his shoulder and hold a torch in his free hand. While quite inefficient, it gave Abârzadan a means by which to leave unnoticed. With all the men patrolling the block, it would be next to impossible to sneak by them all. He didn't even know the way out. Thus, he waited patiently, and when it was his turn he stayed as limp as a dead eel. Târak carried him for several minutes before unceremoniously dumping the living "corpse" in a dank tunnel, one filled in nearly a foot of water. Abârzadan kept his head under until he was sure that the guard was gone, whereupon he stood, gasping for breath. He couldn't see a thing, and had no means to make light. Then again, Târak hadn't finished yet...

* * * * *

Torch in hand, Abârzadan left Târak's unconcious form where it fell. The fire glared off the walls as he sloshed down the tunnel, attempting to keep the embers dry. Was the water rising? It was now above his knees. Turning a corner, the man's heart leaped as an incline appeared. The flooded passage was left behind, the torch was dropped, and a triumphant Numenorean pushed open a rusted grate, climbing up into the city of Armenelos.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Thoronmir's encounter with Herugor went unnoticed by Inzillomì, though seeing her husband slump to the floor did not. Just as she had positioned herself in the rear of the group, an arm had pulled her into shadows, hand blocking a scream that never would have escaped her lips even without it. The moment she was released she turned, hands ready to find purchase. The figure was Târik. She did not untense.

"My lady," he murmered quickly, bowing deep. "I was fooled. It seems that I have been... watched. But if I may," his speech was even faster, though still quite clear and quiet. "there is a way to escape, if you will trust me."

Inzillomì did not hesitate to tell him in no uncertain terms that to trust in a man who wore the uniform of the enemy, who had already once led them astray, and who no word had ever reached her well-informed ears of, was folly that not even their desperate group could fall to, most especially in such a tricky situation.

However as she spoke and as the situation became ever more dangerous outside of the shadows, something in the young man's eyes spoke to her of his intentions. Before he could respond to her quiet tirade, she lay a hand on his arm and nodded. Unquestionable relief lit his features at her consent, and ascertained her decision; she slid from the shadows with one upraised finger to him; just one moment.

She laid a hand invisible to the rest on Azarmanô's lower back. She felt him tense before she whispered to him. Her voice calmed him and he was able to keep attention on the scene before him. "I have found escape. Please take my husband and follow on my call." She felt rather than heard him agree, the stakes being too high for him not to, before moving on to Thoronmir, repeating the process with a request for him to release Marsillion. In her black gown, dirty though it was, she moved through the shadowed place unnoticed. She doubted any knew of her presence save her companions. The flickering torchlight was certainly not enough to illuminate her. She did not see Abarzadan and could not tell if he was present.

"Now!" she called, ducking into shadow once more. Thoronmir attacked Marsillion's guards ferociously, securing his release in a matter of seconds. He kept guard as Marsillion cut Kâthaanî free, and Tiru. Azarmanô retrieved the unconscious Abârpânarú, slinging him unceremoniously, though admittedly carefully, over his shoulder. Inzillomì stepped from the shadows once more, beckoning, and the group followed, Thoronmir last, moving backward, with his sword sweeping. No archers had appeared, quite thankfully, and he was able to hold off the few guards that attempted to follow Herugor's shrieked orders.

Târik whispered in Inzillomì's ear. "This way, lady." She took the hand of her daughter and followed, trusting that her companions would be immediately behind. Within seconds, the group had disappeared into a hole in the shadows. A nearly inaudible sliding signified the way being closed behind them. Târik reappeared by her side with a single lit torch and led them hurriedly down, ever down. The pathway was damp, cold, and turning. He passed paths on both sides, following an unpredictable route to an unknown destination. The only sound was that of footsteps. The ground shook slightly, reminding them of the unsafe nature of their escape route. To be caught underground as the earth shook itself free of tension... they thrust the thoughts from their minds, though not entirely. Though none spoke, the weight of the air laid heavily on them all.

With a final left turn, the light suddenly spread. Where before it was limited to a passage perhaps four feet across and eight high, the torchlight flared into a space large enough for the group to halt all together. A figure in a dark cloak stood shadowed before them, looking to the floor. A larger figure, also cloaked, stood two steps behind, seeming to loom in the tricky illumination. The party halted, the men reaching for what weapons they carried.

Târik stepped forward with a deep bow, standing aside with a waved gesture toward the group. Thoronmir stepped toward Târik, anger in his eyes. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, mercy absent from his gaze. A stranger's voice pierced the moment.

The first cloaked figure spoke with a voice both melodious, low, and fair. "That is quite enough. Do you not believe the peril of the Faithful to be great enough without turning upon your allies?" Inzillomì looked at Târik with a deep respect and not a little surprise before curtsying deeply before the lady, Tar Miriel. The group responded similarly, though a step behind, save for Azarmanô, whose load did not quite warrant a full bow, though his nod conveyed the same respect. "Faithful Târik, would you?" she asked cryptically, and he nodded, giving his light away to the now unthreatening Thoronmir and disappearing from view. "He leaves to retrieve your mounts." she nodded to Inzillomì. "There is time, though not much. You are safe here, for now. Rest. My lady, would you please honor me with a private moment?"

Inzillomì nodded reassuringly to her daughter, releasing her hand for the first time since she had first grasped it. The group relaxed slightly, Azarmanô carefully laying Abârpânarú upon a blanket that Tiru spread upon the cold floor. They spoke quietly amongst themselves as the women disappeared into shadow. The second figure had disappeared, and the men worried of him, but accepted Inzillomì's leadership.

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The shadows seemed comforting rather than suffocating as Inzillomì followed Miriel out of sight. Though they had never met, Abârpânarú had spoken to Miriel many times of his wife. Inzillomì knew that Abârpânarú had had a history with the great woman, and that he loved her dearly, but also that he loved Inzi more than life itself. She examined her feelings as she walked in silence. She had considered what this meeting would be before, were it ever to occur, but she had always seen her husband present, as well as, she must admit, lighter circumstances surrounding it. She had believed that she would feel jealous, perhaps... uncertain of the situation. Now, she simply felt relieved that she could relax her authority for a time. She felt an inexplicable bond to this fascinating woman. They halted, black garb swirling about their feet at the sudden stop. They even looked somewhat alike, clad darkly, though in the pitch dark of the passage, they could not see each other.

Miriel took Inzillomì's hand in her own. "I only wish this meeting could have taken place under different circumstances. I have seen you many times, though we were never introduced." Inzillomì nodded, understanding completely.

"My lady," she asked quietly. "I thank you for your aid. But why do we tarry? Though I have long desired to make your acquaintance, the very earth tells me that we do not have long." Miriel understood her as the ground shook once more.

"It is because of this." From the depths of her robes, Miriel produced a heavy object wrapped in black silks. Inzillomì took it, surprised at the weight. "Though I desired to meet you before... now... the time has come when it could no longer be delayed. You know as well as I that our fair lands shall not... the Valar are angry, and with reason. Your father Elendil awaits you at Romenna."

Inzillomì understood. She could feel the tremors deep in her heart, even without feeling them through her body.

Miriel spoke once more, quickly now. "I give to you a palantir." Inzillomì's sharp intake of breath punctuated the statement. "I have long hidden it from the king... it mustn't be lost to the world. I entrust you with this, Inzillomì Elendili, wife of he that I love. Will you take this burden and guard it, accompanying it to the safety of Middle Earth? I would have given it to Mabalar... however he is otherwise occupied." Sensing the question, Miriel explained quickly. "He is alive, and he is well. I have provided him with time. The dark lord prefers his victims awake and in good health when the torture begins." She spat the last words with hatred. "With Mabalar unconscious, he would not be able to respond to pain. He will awaken in some hours."

Inzillomì turned this new responsibility over in her mind. "Great lady, have no fear. I will not leave this fair isle without what you have entrusted me with stewardship of."

"Then we must return before your menfolk become over-anxious to discover our maidenly secrets, no?" Inzillomì laughed at this, tucking the palantir into a deep pocket and taking Miriel's hand once more.

"Will you not sail with us? You could be saved from the doom of Numenor--"

Miriel interrupted her softly. "Nay, lady. It is not my doom. I shall remain. Come."

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The men looked up from their quiet discussion as the women returned to the room.

"Come." spoke Inzillomì. "We must depart." She looked expectantly at Miriel, once again illuminated by torchlight. The great lady beckoned from the shadows the other figure that had seemed to disappear before. He pushed his hood from his face, revealing to Azarmanô the face of the shopkeep that had observed his charade as a guard.

"Moizandû will lead you from this place."