Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Folwren's character

NAME: Captain Hereric son Hothlere

AGE: 82

RACE: Gondorian

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Hereric uses a broad sword best. His sword, Gayaros, has a four foot, white blade with a silver hilt and handle. In the pommel is set a single blue stone. The hilt is decorated with thin, slender vines make of silver twining and encircling it.

Besides his skill with a sword, he can use the bow well, and has some ability with casting a spear.

APPEARANCE: He is not tall, really, compared to most Gondorians, and stands only six foot one. However, he has a powerfully built body, and a commanding eye and bearing which make up for his height. Brown hair, lightened by the almost constant sunlight, dark, penetrating brown eyes.
He usually wears no armor and is dressed (at most times) in a while shirt, laced at the throat, brown breeches, mid-calf boots. On such occasions as welcoming the King aboard the ship, he’ll have his coat and hat on, with his sword at his side, cutting a handsome and military figure.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Hereric is a taut captain, but neither brutal or cruel to his men. It is rather necessary to retain rather stiff discipline at sea, but his crew does not resent him for it, and they all rather like their captain. He has a very quiet character most of the time, and usually only becomes visibly angry or annoyed at such busy, confusing times as preparing for a voyage and while they’re still at the wharfs and harbors. Once sail is spread he’s back to his regular self, calm and generally quiet.

In any sea battle, he can make quick, difficult decisions on a moment’s notice. He knows his ship from bow to stern and every curve and rope therein, and is therefore able to direct her in difficult places and times at sea, or anywhere.

His weaknesses lie in his habit of withdrawing himself when things aren’t going well, or aren’t going his way (not in the stubborn, spoiled child sense, but as a sea officer). At such times, he’ll become even less talkative, stern, and altogether impassible. Another is that he gets unaccountably excited in battles, and though his sometimes reckless actions has never gotten him or his ship and crew into any trouble that he couldn’t pull them back out of again, it still is dangerous.

All in all, he’s a great leader and an excellent captain, knowing both his men, his ship, and his business well.

HISTORY:

Hereric was born to Hothlore and Aanel in 1728 in Osgiliath. His father was a captain at the time of his birth and continued being so until his death in one of the many, random battles with the Corsairs in 1738. From that day forward, Hereric wanted to go and join the Navy in hopes of someday taking revenge for his father’s death. His mother let him go and in 1739, at age 11, he joined.

Having had such a father as Hothlore, he did not have a difficult time finding his way as one of the junior officers onto one of the ships. That is not to say he had many privileges when he was a boy, but he wasn’t considered a regular seaman. He worked his way up the ladder, learning first about the knots and sails, and then navigating skills. He was taught the necessary mathematics and astrology necessary to successfully captain and sail a ship. He learned to read and write, tell time by the sun, and take and fulfill responsibilities given him. Before becoming a captain in 1795, he had served as several of the higher ranking officers.

In 1795 he was appointed Captain and given his first ship. It was small and not particularly fast nor very nice, but in two years he was given a higher rating and given a different ship, The Cuivië - the one he presently sails. It was one that he had sailed most of his earlier years. He found it a great advantage, knowing the way it sailed almost as soon as he set foot to it.

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Folwren's post

Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor.

Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days.

The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’

‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’

In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long.

Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him.

‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's character


NAME: Captain Mirimon Vórimandur

AGE: 83 years

RACE: Man, Gondorian

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Captain Vórimandur's favorite weapon is a family heirloom: a sword from Númenor named Sercendil. The guard is set with a single sapphire on each side. The hilt is bound in blue cloth. A ranga long, the sword is more of an ornament than a weapon and Captain Vórimandur is hesitant to use it, lest it be damaged. He prefers to use a short spear when boarding enemy ships, and there's always a healthy supply onboard. In addition to his sword, Vórimandur also has a yew bow, about three feet long. He uses it when the Ráca is coming alongside an enemy ship within bow range.

When it comes to armor, Captain Vórimandur settles for a breastplate engraved with an image of the White Tree and a set of pauldrons for his soldiers (all of which is meticulously polished hours before battle). Sometimes he also wears a chain-mail skirt extending to his knees.

APPEARANCE: Captain Vórimandur is six feet and four inches tall, evidence of Númenorean ancestry. His slightly wavy hair is a fading black mixed with silvery grey at the temples. His hair is long and covers his ears, but it does not reach much further. In back it touches the base of his neck. He has a scrawny moustache and beard of a salt-and-pepper color. It's little more than overgrown stubble. His eyes are green, his nose is aquiline, and his skin is dark and lined from his travels. His shoulders are wide, and his arms are strong after years of a life at sea.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Vórimandur is most noted for his strong dislike of anything even remotely related to Umbar and the South. He's picked up this grudge during his years at sea fighting the Corsairs, and especially when the first ship he fought on was destroyed off the coast of Belfalas.

Captain Vórimandur is also competitive. He strives to be the first to destroy a particular enemy ship in battle, for instance, and pushes his men to great extents to reach it. Together with his hated for Umbar and his ability to think on his feet, he makes a fierce enemy in battle.

Vórimandur loves his ship and his crew, but is also a stern leader, and punishes those who disobey his authority as any captain would. He has a taste for fancy dress, which means that he fights every battle in dazzling armor and a swirling cape. He seems a little eccentric to the other captains.

HISTORY: Mirimon Vórimandur was born in the year 1727 of the Third Age in Minas Anor. His father, Vanyacar, was the innkeeper of the Galloping Horse. His mother, Eruvande, helped her husband by doing chores around the inn. Mirimon Vórimandur's childhood was spent at the inn and earning a small salary doing chores. he didn't have many friends his own age, but he did befriend many of the inn's frequent visitors: sailors, soldiers, and travelers.

Vórimandur lived at the Galloping Horse until he was sixteen years old, when he joined the navy, inspired by the tales told by the inn's guests. He first served aboard the ship Telpelingwë as a deckhand, but after many years of fine seamanship he rose through the ranks to third in command. The ship was sunken fifteen years later off the coast of Belfalas, when it was attacked by two Corsair vessels. Vórimandur and the other survivors escaped clinging to the Telpelingwë's wreckage. They were rescued by the Eärmacil and taken to Linhir. Vórimandur never forgave the Corsairs for what they did to the Telpelingwë, and still has a deep grudge for anything from the south.

Vórimandur now stayed off the seas for some years, and returned to Minas Anor. Here he tended the Galloping Horse with his mother (his father had died of a particularly vile fever while Vórimandur was aboard the Telpelingwë). He soon fell in love with a local seamstress, Lothwen, and in 1758 they married. Vórimandur's daughter Morwen was born five years later.

Vórimandur was content running the inn, but he still felt the desire to work with ships once more. The opportunity came in 1776, when he joined the crew of the Ráca. He replaced a dead navigator, and soon his earlier experience helped Vórimandur make his way up to second-in-command, next to Captain Brithion.

The Ráca patrolled the waters about Tolfalas. She was a larger vessel than the Telpelingwë, and had a larger crew, and more soldiers. Vórimandur was back on the high seas on a dazzling ship. She had many battles with the Corsairs, and won most of them. Vórimandur's wealth and fame grew until he and his family bought a mansion on Minas Anor's fifth level, where he stayed with Lothwen and Morwen between voyages.

In 1789 Captain Brithion was killed in a battle with the Corsairs by falling rigging. Vórimandur became the ship's captain, and since then his skill in battle has caught the attention of King Telumehtar. Now, Captain Vórimandur relishes the opportunity to strike at the heart of the Corsairs' empire.

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Alcarillo's post

Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon.

He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early.

"Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships."

"Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier.

"The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

[piosenniel]

Kath's character

NAME: Curamir

AGE: 17

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He always carries a small dagger, as it was a present from his father when he was very young. He has used it as a hunting knife for many years and treats it almost as a good luck charm, sure of success if he hunts with it, which he hopes will apply for fighting as well. He also carries a rather battered though perfectly good sword. His family is not rich so he did as many odd jobs as possible for the people in his town and used the money he got from that to obtain an acceptable sword. Both sword and dagger are kept in sheaths on his belt, the sword on the left hand side and the dagger on the right. For armour he wears that which he was given when he joined the army. He has the helmet with its protective cheek and nose guards, a leather jerkin with the Tree of Gondor on it and a chainmail shirt.

APPEARANCE: He has dark hair that resists even the most persistant sun and hangs to his shoulders when loose, so he usually has it tied back out of the way. His eyes are dark but it is difficult to determine the colour as they change with shifting light and emotions. He is tall at 6 foot two and always carries himself to his full height. He has a strong build developed from years of working to repair buildings and helping with the farming in his area, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has proud features, but thanks to his height and almost regal way of carrying himself they suit him and he does not look cruel. His skin is naturally pale but years of working outside have tanned him to a light brown pretty much all over. Being proud of his uniform he wears it almost constantly, and merely exchanges his jerkin and chainmail for a shirt if he wishes to appear in civilian clothing.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: He is very friendly and makes friends at the drop of a hat, having an easy confidence about him. He is honest and well mannered, without much of a temper to him. He tends to think clearly and logically, though in the heat of the moment his tongue may get the better of him. Having been the man of the household for most of his life he can seem older than his years, but he is still a child and if things don't go the way he expects or wants he can sometimes behave like one, though his army training has helped with this a great deal. He is eager and willing to learn, so he studies and practises hard, gaining his skills with relative ease. Though he has no particular speciality in any kind of fighting, he is good at all the basic skills and shows great potential as a swordsman. He does become very engrossed in things he cares about, and this can sometimes cause a problem as he does not notice the effect his relentlessness can have on others.

HISTORY: Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something.


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Kath's post

Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up.

He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk.

“Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!”

And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter.

“Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end.

“Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!”

“If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation.

Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of.

They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in.

“Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!”

Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed.

“Another time, perhaps”

“When we come back,” answered Lingwë.

They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

[piosenniel]

Thinlómien's character

NAME: Lingwë, son of Laurendil

AGE: 20

RACE: gondorian human (with some númenórean blood in his veins)

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Lingwë has a long sword. It's not a very fine or beautiful sword, but well-balanced and well-made. Besides the sword, Lingwë has a spear and bow and arrows.

APPEARANCE: Lingwë is 6'3" tall. He is slim, but muscular because of his soldier training and work.
Lingwë has a long face. His nose is long, straight and quite narrow. His relatively small eyes are in a long distance from each other. He has also quite narrow mouth.
Lingwë's hair is so dark brown that it's nearly black and he has bluegrey eyes. He has quite fair complexion, but he is tanned of spending so much time outdoors.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lingwë is mostly quite quiet and obsersive; he listens more than he speaks. He is usually serious, but likes playing friendly jokes on his friends. He's a bit of a pessimist and has an ironic sense of humour. He is perhaps more mature than many other young men of his age. He is loyal and hard-working and keeps usually the complaints - which he usually has lots of - to himself.

Lingwë is a trained soldier, so he knows how to fight. He is equally good in using sword, spear and bow. Lingwë is an exellent swimmer and diver and can hold his breath for a long time. For his serving time on a ship called Gaerandir he has a bit of seafring skills. He is that much educated that he can read and write.

Lingwë's not very quick-witted and sometimes he might by carried away by such a little things as the cry of seagulls or a beautiful horizon. He has a bit of claustrophobia and dislikes sleeping in such a tiny space belowdecks. It's the thing he hates the most about ships. He has no natural leading skills; he is not charismatic or even empathethic. Some people think that he is cold.

HISTORY: Lingwë was born in autumn of 1789 T.A. He was a strange-looking baby with eyes in a big distance from each other. The midwife playfully called him 'Little Fish'. His parents agreed that their second son looked like a fish and named him 'Lingwë', which means 'fish' in quenya. Later, Lingwë has proved that the name is more than suitable to him; he's an exellent swimmer and diver.

Lingwë's father was a succesful glassblower in Pinnath Gelin and he taught his profession to his elder son. Lingwës mother was a honourable housewife. Because of his father's succes their family was quite rich for an artisan family when Lingwë was a child. Lately, the family has losed much of its wealth because of an competent glassblower who moved to thecity five years ago.

Lingwë was the third child in the family. The eldest child, a daughter, had died right after her birth, so Lingwë had only one elder sibling to couple with. His elder brother Ciryandil, five years his senior, was a real nuisance to him in the days of their childhood. Ciryandil kept telling Lingwë that he was a slimy little fish capable of nothing and made his little brother's life difficult by all means he knew.

Luckily, Lingwë had a little sister, Eärelen, whom he played with. The biggest tragedy of Lingwë's life took place when Eärelen died to a sickness in the age of eleven. Lingwë still remembers his lively little sister with warmth and longing, though she has been dead for seven years.

Lingwë's father wanted his second son to be a soldier, and though Lingwë would have preferred to be a sailor or a clerk, he agreed and was sent to a training camp to Lossarnach. There he studied the arts of war. He received his fighting skills rather by hard work and natural dexterity, strengh and stamina than by being gifted with a blade.

After his training he went to serve as a guard soldier on a merchant ship called The Gaerandir. He served on her half a year until he was sacked because the merchant had had so good fortunes that he could afford hiring more experienced and skilled soldiers.

So Lingwë was very happy, when he was accepted to serve on Ráca, a vessel captained by Vórimandur. He looks forward to this mission in the sake of the king.

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Thinlómien's post

As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see?

He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said.

At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him.

Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship.

"We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out.
"Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.

[piosenniel]

Dunwen's character

NAME: Nimir

AGE: 17

RACE: Men, Commoner

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort.

APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry.

He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do.

Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process.

HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family.

In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away.

Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

[piosenniel]

Hiriel's character


NAME: Azaryan

AGE: 89

RACE: Umbarian Male

WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them.

APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors.

HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics.

At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions.

His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom.


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Hiriel's post

A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle.

He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long.

But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy.

They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath.

“Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features.

“That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat.
“That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.”

Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow.

“Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

[piosenniel]

Anguirel's character


NAME: Sangalazin

AGE: 64

RACE: Black Numenorean

GENDER: Effeminate male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armour only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.): Sangalazin wears a ceremonial longsword of great intricacy and consciously Gondorian design; an assertion of his rights over Elendil’s Kingdom, as an heir of the great Castamir. Its scabbard is elaborately crafted, with a sequence of scenes in gold filigree telling the Black Numenorean love story of Lenezor and Shirethel. Apart from this sword, which is far too beautiful to be wielded, he carries a curved silver-edged dagger and a fine silken garrotte.

APPEARANCE: Sangalazin is of a physical type viewed with contempt in Gondor, but in Umbar admired by males and females alike. He is slender, with tapering wrists and graceful legs; his mouth is large, crimson and prominent; his large eyes a soft brown, his complexion golden, though powdered fairer, and his hair dark chestnut brown. He wears a dark blue robe of silk. His only Numenorean characteristic is his great height.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only): Sangalazin’s charm, or one might more accurately say charms, is not in doubt; nor is his keen intelligence, when he deigns to employ it. For all this, though, he is feckless and pleasure-loving, easily distracted, temperamental and cruel. His physical weakness (brought about, it is rumoured, by inbreeding in the house of Castamir) also makes him despised by the martial Corsairs of Umbar who serve him out of necessity; only the continual presence of his mighty bodyguards, Gondorians stolen as babies and brought up at his court, garbed in pitch-black plate armour, their loyalty ensured by luxury, stops him from being lynched in the streets.

HISTORY: Sangalazin is the great-great-great-grandson of Castamir twice over, for his parents, Sangahyando and Mehratu, are brother and sister; a marriage brought about to ensure purity of descent and to prevent division of wealth, as well as because of genuine love; such affairs are not considered accursed among the aristocracy of Umbar. Sangalazin was cherished and adored as a child because of his beauty, and could have anything he chose; he made sure of this, testing it by asking his father to execute a playmate who had blackened his eye. He watched the subsequent hanging with a good deal of interest.

From such an upbringing sprang Sangalazin’s main enthusiasms; first, the intense pleasure and reassuring oblivion brought by debauchery; second, the self-fulfilment brought by art; third, the sheer amusement of strangulation. He loves the curious gurglings produced by its victims, the goggling of their eyes...

To all these politics comes a poor fourth. Indeed, as the endlessly intriguing Lords of Umbar go, Sangalazin is relatively ineffectual and harmless due to his fickle pursuits of pleasure; but his high blood will ensure he is ensnared in its dark legacy.

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Anguirel's post


“And now, my dears...play, play.”

Sangalazin, illustrious descendant of the King of Gondor known uncompromisingly in Umbar as Castamir the Great, was stretched out on a silken couch in his black ship’s cabin, his considerable full length languidly extended. A small table stood nearby; on it was positioned a silver instrument, from which a pipe crawled, coming to rest in Sangalazin’s long golden hand. He placed it into his mouth and took another gulp at the hookah, exulting at the relief at the fumes quenching the thirst of his lungs. Truly, the hookah was a potent sign that if one rejected the ways of the East and South, one would never find civilisation.

The supine Lord was attended by twelve men. Nine were monumentally tall-like Sangalazin himself-but, and here they differed from their master, also well-muscled and armoured all about in black iron. Those who were bare-headed displayed cold, impassive stares from grey Northern eyes. Their hair was dark, but bleached yellow, in contrast to their arms. Their weapons were all forged in the Gondorian fashion; straight longswords, triangular shields, visored helms. This, then, was the feared bodyguard of Sangalazin, which he had formed when still a child; its soldiers cradle Gondorians, but in their hearts fanatical servants of the Castamirioni, and Sangalazin in particular, who knew he owed his survival to them.

The other three men in the richly furnished cabin, below the forecastle, were of quite a different sort. It was these Sangalazin had addressed. One was of the Haradrim, and beat upon a set of small drums. Another was an Easterling, and toyed with a delicate stringed instrument, which he called a sitar. The third was a youth from the North, one of the shadow dwellers, a blonde boy with a flute. Sangalazin smiled at him.

“I find your strains particularly moving, child. You touch me. To think that one such as you replaced our line upon the throne of Meneldil...but I bear no grudge. Indeed, as long as you and your people confine yourself to our music-rooms and our pleasure-chambers, and don’t mess with power, the reserve of true men...why, then, you are quite endearing.”

The Lord of Half of Umbar leant up from his position and felt the youth’s cheek. The beard would not come for some time. A pretty specimen, indeed. And how strange and yet lovely the three combined tunes had sounded, to his own composition, intermingled. That was the way of culture, of beauty, of perfection. When he sat upon the Throne at Minas Anor-for he took little account of his cousin and rival, Azaryan-his court would be ordered thus. Tedious warring would cease, benevolent peace would embrace all the lesser nations, to be guided under his command. And civilisation would prevail.

His harmonious thoughts were interrupted by the Southron striking a false note. Sangalazin raised an eyebrow, and whispered something to a guard. Two of them led the musician out. He would not be killed; not yet, for the guards would wait for him to be strangled later at their master’s whim.

It was then that a black-robed, well-spoken lordling of Azaryan’s train arrived in the cabin. Sangalazin was called to his cousin's side. He took a last, regretful drag on the hookah, tousled the blonde boy’s hair, and followed the messenger. His cousin was powerful and proud-spirited, and it would do no good to anger him now...