Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir said nothing for the longest time, watching in silence as Oremir tended Tasa's wounds. The haunting lyrics of the song that now filled the air enveloped his fea with a grim sense of foreboding. Glancing over again at Oremir, he finally responded, "Ill? No, I am not ill, at least with any affliction of the body. But this place.....I do not like it."

The Elf's fingers slid over the curved rim of the helmet as he gazed out towards the Sea. He still could not bring himself to put the thing down. With a sigh, he added, "Too many memories, and too much desire." Oremir could barely hear Lindir's whispered words and, of what memories his friend was thinking, no one could even say.

[Anguirel]

The memory of his wedding receding for the moment, Malris indulged in a reassuring spell of thoughtless action, swimming in the warm sea of rest, (so unlike the ocean surrounding them here...) and attending to the needs of the others in general and Tasa in particular.

It did not take him long to realise that he had forgotten about the waybread he'd removed from his satchel while searching for the rope; it was probably even now being ingested by the gulls of Himling. He did not object to this; the lembas Tasa and Lomwe had brought was, in any case, far superior, and plentiful, while he still carried some salt meat, a few Mannish rolls filled with the remains of the salmon, several apples, his flask of water, and a bottle of cool, glistening white wine. He speedily unpacked these refreshments, and the rest of the company pooled their provisions as well; it was now late in the afternoon, almost twilight, but this repast would make up for their lost lunch.

Still idly setting about this business, he joined Oremir in seeing to Tasa's bruises, and particularly the gouge that looked as if it might scar on her arm; leaning over, he plucked out a pebble Oremir had passed by...and shivered, not from fear or even from the cold. The tips of his fingers were lightly layered with Tasa's crimson blood, so bright against the pale skin...

Giledhel was dead, dead on Endor, live on the Undying Lands, whither they would shortly be departing on Cirdan's craft. No; it must be the same answer he had always given in relation to Tasa, ever since the race. But this, he realised, was the first time he felt himself regretting that fact. He shrunk from thought again, the shadow of doubt and complexity that burdened him, and idly joined in Tasa's tune.

When it came to an end, she looked querulously from Oremir to him.

"Is anyone here feeling as unwelcome as I?"

She was quivering in the cold; her lips-a little darker than her blood-trembling. Malris set all his attention upon it now, even as he passed her a glass of wine. It was not merely the wind that had given Himring its name. It was the same chill he had felt the night before.

"Not entirely," he said finally. "I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers."

The air about began to twist, whistle, almost snarl. All six of the Elves now huddled together, though most were still unprepared for danger, with bread and wine, not weapons, in their hands...

[Envinyatar]

The Orcs and the Lady

‘Hinya! That bird - I think it means to make some mischief with my weaving.’

Ashukh hurried to where the Lady sat, looking up at some great black bird perched on the crumbling masonry of the fireplace. It hopped along the jagged edges of the broken stone and peered down with a calculating stare into the remains of the room below. The breezes fluttered the edges of the Lady’s as yet unfinished project, seeming to pique the intruder’s interest.

Though his hands bore neither strength nor substance, still he patted the tattered cloth and spoke as gently as he might. ‘Feather brained burzdug be gone soon enough, Lady. Not come back neither. Zlog take care that sneakin’ bird. Him be left to rot with t’other of his friends what was crushed against the rocks.

A loud, strangled squawk, cut off in mid protest echoed on the other side of the Lady’s bedroom. Through a large crack in the lower part of the wall a faint wisp of breeze seemed to stir along the cracked, chipped stones that paved the floor. It bore upon it a lone, black feather, bent nearly in two.

‘Oh that were fun!’ Zlog hunkered down near Ashukh, grinning widely. ‘Grabbed him, I did. Made him take old Zlog out a ways then turn around. Yes! Turn around we did and him flying as fast as I could make him.’ With a nearly soundless CLAP!, save for the sighing of the small bit of air displaced, Zlog described how the bird had rammed himself into the wall. ‘Slid down them rocks lika sticky glob a spit down a troll’s leg.’ He too reached out and patted the weaving. ‘Won’t be botherin’ ya no more, Lady.’

From the topmost stones of the fireplace another voice called down to them. ‘Be my turn, Lady, for bird-watch. No need worry. Gorgu be keeping you safe now . . . yes, he be doing that for sure . . . yes, he do . . .’ He went on like that for a space of time, his words weaving a sing-song assurance of security; a refuge inviolate.

For their part, Ashukh and Zlog were quiet as they sank restfully into the stones upon which rested the Lady’s cloth; their passage leaving undisturbed the rusty faded stains of long ago.

----------

hinya – my child (Quenyan)
burzdug – black-filth (Orcish/Black Speech)

[piosenniel]

His brother, he noted, had gone off to speak with Lindir. The man looked pale and disconcerted as he sat on the grass, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on his close stowed pack . . . almost, it seemed, in a protective way. What’s this? he wondered to himself. ‘Lindir looks as if he’s seen some ghost. Some unpleasant ghost, too, by the looks of it,’ Endamir murmured aloud.

Lómwë was standing near him, taking in the little tableaux. He was hardly winded from the climb, Endamir had observed when he’d reached the top at last. His gaze swept over the man’s lithely muscled form. Kept himself in good shape, I see, there among the golden trees. Unlike yourself . . . he chided himself mentally. Endamir shook his head at the image of himself, sitting comfortable in his chair in the great library of Imladris. And an assistant to fetch things to boot! What a lazy git you are!

Tasa’s question disturbed his further remonstrance of past folly.

‘Does anybody," she put forth quietly, ‘feel as unwelcome here as I?’

Malris’ reply fell into the anticipating silence that had gathered about the plateau.

‘Not entirely," he said finally. ‘I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers.’

And was greeted with a rising wind that whipped about the companions, ringing them in like a noose. Endamir pulled his cloak from his pack and drawing it about him, huddled in closer to the others. From the corner of his eye, in the space between light and shadow that gathered near a tumble of rocks he thought he saw something pass. It was gone as he looked more closely. ‘Some trick of the wind and the dust it stirs,’ he said, talking aloud to himself. He frowned, feeling disquieted.

‘What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories.’ He shivered in the folds of his cloak. ‘Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .’

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat -- The Orc Sentinel

Bazhrat the Skullcrusher drew deep into the shadows of the rocky outcropping, his ears straining to hear what the foul Elves were saying. ‘The Dark Lord take those sneaking, murdering Elves!’ he cursed, wrinkling his nose up at the perceived foul odor. ‘And gouge out eyes, first, of that nosy-parker!’ The Orc peered out from his dark hiding place and glared at Endamir.

Good thing none of the other Orcs assigned to watch for intruders from this side of the island were about. Sure enough one of those big-mouthed kiss-rumps would be telling the Cap’n how the stupid Bazhrat had managed to let himself be noticed. Bazhrat cackled crazily, a sudden thought caroming through the dim corridors of his mind. ‘Don’t really matter, does it?’ he crooned, rocking back and forth on his haunches. ‘Can’t kill old Skullcrusher, can he now? Already dead!!’ The thought sent him howling with maniacal laughter.

It pulsed and echoed through the wind that had sprung up around the Elven companions.

The Orc look guiltily around, wondering if the snoopy Elf suspected the sound and whatever he’d seen were somehow connected. ‘Put a lid on it, Bazhrat,' the Orc admonished himself. ‘Best we be getting back and saying what we spied out.’

Like a fine mist, the Orc drifted out from his hiding place and sped quickly from shadow to shadow back toward the place just outside the fortress’ old wooden gate where the Captain and his ever restless crew had stationed themselves.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë drew his grey-green cloak close about him, trying to block out the chill, hostile wind. The cloak, being of fine Lórien make, usually blocked out all but the sharpest and dampest winds, but now it was as if this breeze cut straight to him. Perhaps it was because the chill was not so much a physical as much an unearthly chill, one that seemed to gnaw at the corners of his mind and heart as well as his body.

“What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories. Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .”

“This place does not even feel like home to me,” said Lómwë flatly. “Not even a home in the hands of strangers, or even murderous strangers.” His eyes turned westward, where, were his view not obscured, he knew he would see naught but ocean stretching out where fair Beleriand once had lay, where his home had been. Himling… had been a fortress, a stronghold. But home – that had been little less than a day’s journey from here, in his small home with his wife and son. Home had been a place filled with love and warmth, and peace, however temporary and fleeting. Peace that was long gone, sunken beneath the waves like his home. This place held no warmth, no welcoming embrace. It had only ghosts – both of the memory and in reality – hostile ghosts, inhabiting even the rocks and the wind, as Endamir had said.

“Certainly, this place bears memories . . . many of them happy, though more of them sad. I remember Himring as it was – but no such place is this now. This is nothing but a cold, forbidding shell of the fortress it once was. Whatever – or whoever – inhabits this island now is not living, and I feel no welcome from them.” As he finished those words, a new wind whistled in their ears, seeming to carry the sound of harsh laughter. Lómwë shivered involuntarily. There seemed to be a mist about the mountain top, despite the sun shining overhead. “But welcoming or not, I think we have too much invested in this venture, too much of a purpose, to turn aside now. We should go forth warily, I think - we’ve been lucky so far; there’s no saying whether this luck, if luck it is, will continue . . .”

Lómwë looked up the rise to where the fortress had once stood, a short, easy hike away. Little remained . . . and yet, with a sudden flash of memory, Lómwë could see the fair city as it once had been. He felt a sudden desire as he had never felt in many long years to climb upon those high battlements and gaze out at the lands about him, to feel free and yet in control, to have only small concerns easily looked after. He wanted to recapture those last years of the Watchful Peace, to go back and experience them indefinitely.

Then the vision faded, leaving Lómwë feeling sick and empty inside.

[piosenniel]

‘What purpose is that, Lómwë?’ The question spilled from Endamir’s lips without thinking. He scuffed the toe of his right boot in the thin layer of dirt, tracing a faint spiral that coiled and recoiled upon itself. ‘For my part, I must say I’m beginning to lose what enthusiasm I had for this venture. I cannot think anymore the past will lay itself to rest when I’ve clapped eyes on old haunts of mine or set foot upon familiar places.’ With a certain deliberateness, he scuffed out the design he’d made. ‘And now I think further on it, the past will not suffer my tears, either. The burden of my former deeds will not diminish were I to weep as many drops as fills this unrelenting sea.’ He chewed the inner corner of his lip, looking up to cast his gaze out over the waters. ‘The journey, so far, has at least been good for this discovery.’ Endamir glanced back at Lómwë, his grey eyes narrowed as he peered toward the man in a thoughtful manner.

‘And now even my other pretexts for being here seem falsely reasoned.’ He nodded toward Malris as he sat talking to Tasa, the long gold of her hair mingling with his short dark locks as her head bent near his, sharing some thought. ‘He has no need of me. Nor I of him. Our bond has dissolved. Gone to ash. Even now the winds that stir here blow those frail ties away.’

Endamir bent down and picked up a pebble from the rocky ground. ‘And this old place . . .’ he went on, skipping the shard across a short, dusty area. His eyes flicked up dismissively to where the crumbling fortress stood in the distance. ‘Its glories fade more with each step my feet take. The memories of it retreat into ashes, too . . .’

He stepped back from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken. What had stirred them so deeply and in so ill a manner? ‘Your pardon, Lómwë,’ he said looking at his companion. ‘I had not meant to weigh you down with such burdensome maunderings. Who am I to question your purpose? You have your own needs to consider without taking on the onus of mine.’

In the distance, Endamir could hear the waters of the sea washing relentlessly up on the rocky strand below and the soft . . . whishhh . . . of the retreating foam as it drew back out again.

Brother! he called to Orëmir. You were right. I should have listened to your counsel . . . I . . .