Númenórean Blood Runs Black RPG

[Firefoot]

Menelcar was still thinking about the left-tenate as the captain led him and the king off to their quarters. His lackadaisical attitude had put him off for several reasons: the sailor had been blatantly disrespectful not only towards him, but also to his ship and his country. They were going to war; the left tenate ought to be proud of his duty, proud and ready. His actions would never have been accepted back when Menelcar was serving in the army. It also reflected poorly on the ship’s captain; Menelcar was not impressed.

His attention was brought back to the present as they approached the cabin. Hereric held open the door, and he followed Telumehtar inside. The room was not tiny, but the cramped cabin was certainly far from spacious, containing only the sparsest of furnishings. Menelcar figured irritably that the captain’s own quarters were probably twice this size.

“Due to the circumstances, sir, we couldn’t quite settle you with as much room as on a normal voyage,” explained Hereric. “I have taken the liberty of assuming that you would like your counselor here to be nearby. It will do, I hope.” Clearly, the statement was not a question, and Menelcar did not intend to sink so low as to argue it as such - certainly not to a man who seemed determined to ignore his presence except as an appendage of the king. Instead, he made a slight noise in the back of his throat that left in no uncertain terms his opinion of the lodgings.

“Certainly, this will be fine,” answered Telumehtar smoothly. Menelcar glanced at him critically, recalling suddenly the king’s claustrophobia and wondering if the cabin really would be “fine.” He could see no indicative signs one way or the other, however; perhaps he would ask later.

Menelcar looked around the cabin once more before his gaze returned to Hereric. He sighed inwardly; this was going to be a long journey. Why the king enjoyed sea travel so much, he would never understand.

[Folwren]

Hereric turned his attention abruptly to Menelcar after the king had replied. The slight clearing of his throat had caught his ear and the look on the man’s face confirmed Hereric’s suspicion of his sincerity being doubted.

‘If you care, sir,’ he said, addressing Menelcar, ‘step across this way and look out. The view is really quite excellent.’ He led the way to the very end of the cabin where the great bowed windows looked out over the blue water. ‘Out at sea, the view is really quite impressive,’ he said, leaning against the wood framing. He studied Menelcar carefully and changed the subject suddenly. ‘I hope that you will be able to enjoy yourself on my ship, while the peace lasts. We really have done our best to make things most comfortable and welcome to you. The circumstances now may become worse as battle takes place, and coming up river will be more difficult than going down it. Better let yourself be comfortable while you may, if you see what I mean.’ He gave him a very pointed look before turning back around. ‘My lord,’ he said to the king. ‘I am returning to the deck to see things carried out. You, of course, have free range of the entire ship.’ He saluted and bowed in navy fashion and left the cabin. He quickly made his way back up to the deck.

‘Well, if he’s going to have troubles sleeping where we’ve put him, then by heaven, I’m sure we can find him a place below.’ The captain couldn’t keep the dark thoughts out of his head, even in the bright sunlight. Menelcar’s cold reaction to the apparently tight quarters had shown Hereric only too clearly how little he understood of the ship’s life. ‘What did he expect? An entire gallery for himself? What’s eating him, anyway?’ He couldn’t account for the counselor’s behavior, and he really didn’t want to try. He almost hoped that a direct affront would come quickly, so that he could deal with whatever difficulties they were going to have at once, instead of beating about the bush. ‘In time,’ he promised himself, ‘but you are a captain of a king’s ship, and what’s more, you have the king here, too. . .you’re not going to come up with the disagreement yourself. If he chooses to confront you on a problem of his, so be it. But he is the king’s right hand man, after all - there must be some good use in him.’

He dismissed the thoughts from his mind and did not think of them again - for the time being. His ship asked for his attention, and he gave it to her.

[Dunwen]

The gulls cried as they danced with stretched wings among the wind-filled sails above Nimir’s head. The Ráca was underway. He was truly going to war; there was no turning back. At least he felt a bit less alone now. Two other strays from the Ráca had barely made it onboard before it slipped smoothly out of its berth after the King’s flagship. Nimir had congratulated them on their safe return with a hesitant smile; he knew them by sight as more experienced soldiers than he was, although they were not above him in rank.

One of the two, Curamir, had made a friendly reply and introduced himself and his companion, Lingwë. Before long the three young men were swapping stories about their backgrounds. It turned out that Nimir wasn’t the only soldier who was unfamiliar with ships. Curamir had never set foot on one before coming to the Ráca , either. The slightly fish-faced Lingwë, on the other hand, was familiar with ships and claimed to be a good swimmer as well. Both Curamir and Lingwë had had at least two years of training compared to Nimir's scant months of basic drill, and both bore swords. Nimir would have been tongue-tied in the face of such experience, had it not been for a chance reference to one of his brothers’ more annoying habits. It turned out that Lingwë also had an irritating older brother also. Curamir said only that he had no brothers or sisters.

Nimir was glad of a chance to finally become better acquainted with some of his fellow soldiers. Inevitably he asked what they were all thinking. “How long before we’re in a battle?”

Curamir speculated that there would some attempt at negotiating first. Nimir brushed such a paltry thought aside. “Negotiate with the Corsairs? King Telumehtar would never do that! Not after all their attacks on Gondor over the years.” His normally friendly eyes snapped with anger at the idea. “The size of this fleet means he's going to war, and I hope I can shoot down a dozen Corsairs myself.” Seeing the startled expressions on his companions’ faces, he took a breath to calm himself. “Sorry,” he apologized. “My father was killed when Corsairs raided our village.” He couldn’t bear to mention the loss of his sister at the same time, even after all these years. He forced himself to smile and ask if it was true that the ship’s Cook used rats in the stew.

Curamir and Lingwë laughed and the conversation turned to the long list of unappetizing foods that were reputed to be served to the sailors and soldiers on Gondor’s ships. As the other two talked, Nimir gazed at the sun-glittered waters of the Anduin as the Ráca sped south. His village was a half-day’s walk northwest of the great delta at Anduin’s mouth. He wondered if they would go by any part of the river he knew. Unlikely, he decided. He wondered if he would ever see his home again, but mentally shook himself out of such dark thoughts. ‘We’re on the best ships and we have King Telumehtar. I have my bow. I'll get back all right.'

[Thinlómien]

"Of course you will, Nimir", Lingwë replied quickly, without thinking the phrase. Silence fell. Then he frowned. Would Nimir actually get safely back home? Would he himself? Would Curamir? Only Eru Ilúvatar and Mandos know that, he thought. Maybe we won't. The thought of dying so young was unbearable. For the king and the country, he reminded himself, and for everything I love and appreciate in this country. If we don't crush the traitors, there'll be a day when they'll crush us.

No one of them said anything. Lingwë supposed that Nimir and Curamir were also thinking about dying. Lingwë tried to think of something to say to lighten the atmosphere, but nothing came into his mind. He had never been good in that kind of things; how hard he ever tried he usually ended up being pessimistic. Better to get ready for the worst and rejoice if it doesn't happen, he thought.

Though they remained silent, there was still noise. Seagulls cried. Men chatted with each other while working. Fresh sea wind blew. Great to be on a ship again, Lingwë thought and despite the fact he was going to war and maybe even to death, he smiled.

Curamir noticed his smile. "What is it now, Lingwë?", he asked, clearly wanting to talk about something else. "It's the ship", Lingwë said, smiling. "He's a bit crazy, you know", Curamir said to Nimir with a friendly tone. "You know, it's great to be sailing again. I love the sea", Lingwë said. "It was such fun aboard the Gaerandir."

Encouraged with a few questions from his companions, Lingwë started to tell about his "adventures" aboard the Gaerandir. He had never been a man of talking, but he kept on telling things to banish the ghosts of the former discussion. "Did you ever get to a fight aboard the Gaerandir?" Nimir asked suddenly, when Lingwë had paused after telling about the cook's fancy on turnips. "Twice. Our ship was so well-protected, that many didn't dare to attack it. In the first fight the more experienced soldiers kept us novices at the background, we mostly used bows or were positioned at defense. They said that the first fight was a big enough experience without even getting to fight by self. Back then I wondered why did they do so, but now I understand they didn't trust us enough; they thought we would only be on their way and make things harder. After all, the battle was such a little cratch. No one of us died, and only five got wounded," Lingwë said, smiling to his memories.

"And the other?" Nimir asked. Lingwë got serious. "The second time was a bigger battle with a pirate ship. It wasn't nice and it wasn't glorious. Many died, on both sides. I myself only got lightly wounded, worse things happened to many others." He paused. "I didn't kill anyone", he said, "but a few of my friends did. I heard them speak about it. It wasn't glorious, they said. They said they had had nightmares about it." He didn't add that he himself had had nightmares about the battle, though he hadn't killed anyone. "Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to", Curamir said. Nimir nodded. After a while, Lingwë said: "So would I."

[Kath]

Curamir had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had begun to like his new acquaintance, Nimir. He thought that maybe it had something to do with the similarities they shared. He had been glad to find someone else who was as unfamiliar with ships as himself, knowing now that at least he wouldn't be the only one to make mistakes and be laughed at by the experienced soldiers and sailors. was no help. He found it hilarious to watch Curamir make a fool of himself, though he did always help to right whatever wrong had come of it afterwards.

The revelation that Nimir had given about his father though had been more of a disturbing similarity. Curamir knew of the pain of losing a father, but he wasn't sure that he would be able to share it with such readiness. It had taken him almost a year to tell Lingwë, and he had only really done so with the intent of recruiting him to relay any information he might hear. Nimir though seemed to have a deeper sadness, something even worse than losing a father, though Curamir could not imagine what it might be. He wondered if maybe he should talk to Nimir about it at some point, seeing as his father had obviously been in the army, but he felt it would be insensitive to press for information about it when it was such a sad event.

Realising that a sudden silence had fallen while he had been thinking, Curamir looked up and saw his companions looking a little uncomfortable. Trying to lighten the atmosphere he picked on Lingwë, who began to tell one of his tales. The subject soon turned to fighting again though, and the true horrors of it.

"Well, glorious or not, I will do it if I have to" he had said, and Lingwë and Nimir had agreed.

As they were standing and contemplating the reality of their words, the captain's Master-at-Arms appeared before them with a small group of men behind him. None of them looked too pleased and Morgond wasn't smiling. Ordering them to follow him he marched off. Falling into place behind him Curamir shot a questioning glance at the other members of the group, but they simply shrugged and motioned to keep quiet. Curamir continued to wonder what this was all about, until Morgond stopped outside Captain Vórimandur's office, and he realised that everyone in the group had been off the ship without permission. It must be time for the consequences.

[Alcarillo]

Captain Vórimandur stood for a bit beside the mainmast, surveying the sailors' work. They moved high up in the rigging as tiny black splotches against the sky, adjusting ropes as needed to move the ship in just the right direction. "Move the ship a little to the left," Vórimandur alerted the crew, and Caradhril would move the wheel slightly to the left, and the ship would lean and creak ever so slightly. The sailors far above might encounter an unforeseen wind, and know what to do to keep the Ráca moving along at an even pace. The ship inched its way past the others, moving towards the head of the long line of ships. There was little room to maneuver, but the crew managed to squeeze the Ráca between the Anduin's wooded banks and a ship, or perhaps between two ships, always moving to the front. Captain Vórimandur watched all this happen with satisfaction and pride.

The sun moved across the sky, and the hour until the errant sailors would meet in his office was drawing to a close. Captain Vórimandur nodded to Caradhril to keep the ship in motion and made his way back to his office. He passed down a set of wooden stairs and into the Ráca's wooden belly. Sailors and soldiers saluted as their captain passed. He saluted back and continued walking through the wooden hallways to his office, which lay at the ship's stern. He passed the carpenter and his small gang of assistants nailing together a new door, and the finely dressed surgeon from Lamedon. All gave their polite, quiet salutes to their captain, who returned the salute together with a courteous nod of the head. He soon came to his office's red door, and drawing a golden key from a pocket, unlocked it and entered.

The office was roomy, and ran from wall to wall across the entire stern. The walls were painted red to match the door. It was very well lit by the same large windows from which Vórimandur had watched the king in Harlond, with white curtains drawn back and a single window open to let a fresh breeze inside. The floor creaked comfortably under Vórimandur's shoes as he walked across the room to his dark, wooden desk, with papers strewn across its surface. He sorted these into piles of no particular subjects. The desk faced the red door, flanked by bookcases with lattice-work doors. They contained works of numerous topics: law, naval tactics, the workings of ships, histories of Númenor and other seafaring powers, and the Ráca's logbooks written by Vórimandur himself. Underneath the two bookcases were sets of drawers, within which lay sea charts, half-empty bottles of wine, letters to family on shore, a wooden flute, a spyglass, the sabres of defeated captains, and numerous other personal mementos and belongings. All of this furniture was nailed to the floors or to the walls, in order to prevent it from sliding out the windows in stormy seas. And on the furthest edges of the room, between each bookshelf and the walls, were two more red doors, one of which led to the captain's small cabin, and another which opened to reveal a closet. In the center of the room lay a red and gold rug imported from Dorwinion, an expensive centerpiece to the already opulent office.

There was a sharp knock at the door, announcing the arrival of Morgond and the errant sailors. Vórimandur stood quickly and straightened the sword at his side. "Come in," he said, and the door swung open, and Morgond led several sailors and soldiers into the office. Captain Vórimandur winced as they stepped across his rug. There was not much room left once they were all inside. There were about fifteen or so sailors, and about five or four soldiers. All of them were youths, unaccustomed to how a ship worked and what was expected of them, and their eyes avoided the captain's gaze by wandering across the floor and the walls. Morgond prodded them into a rough line, and Captain Vórimandur began:

"When we were moored in Harlond, I wanted the Ráca to stand out from the other ships, to be the best ship in the fleet. That's why we cleaned the ship so early in the morning, and loaded all the supplies aboard before the captains of the other ships were even awake. I wanted all of us to be aboard to greet our king, and show His Majesty the true quality of the Ráca. Unfortunately, not all of you were present. Instead of staying aboard like a good sailor, you were off gallivanting on shore!" Captain Vórimandur paused for a moment to consider what punishment should await them. It would be a light punishment; they were young and new to the ship, after all. "I shall punish you with extra chores. I assign you-," and now he pointed to two soldiers, "-to helping Cook wash dishes after each night's meal for the next week. I assign you-," now he pointed to the other two soldiers, "-to cleaning each sword in the aft weapons room." Now he began to assign groups of sailors, "You are to scrub the quarterdeck every day at midday for an hour for the next week, and you are to do the same with the forecastle, and the rest of you are to have your grog rations halved. You are dismissed." And with a salute from Morgond they shuffled out of the room.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Contrary to what the two lords thought of their own luxurious apartments, decorated and lavished with all the frivolities that Rakin had suffered Sangalazin to load onto his ship, the Captain nonetheless held to the opinion that his chambers, not theirs, that were the finest on the ship. Not that he had yet had a good look what exactly the two lords had chosen to do with their rooms – but Rakin had had nearly a decade with the same ship, unusual for any captain but for a corsair especially, and, although Rakin was not naturally a particularly frivolous man, his rooms were…well, they were exactly how he liked them. It was not, after all, unheard of for superior nobles of Umbar to move into the rooms of the Captain of a ship on voyages such as this – but neither Azaryan or Sangalazin had so much as paid a passing interest around Rakin’s rooms. Whether this was a slight, or whether the two Lords simply considered themselves too good to take anything second-hand, this was just fine with him. Based to the front of the ship, under the main deck, Rakin’s quarters, which consisted of a generous two rooms, allowed him a fine view over the sea ahead of them and to both sides – a fine view 180 degree view over his watery domain.

Originally the rooms had been furnished sparsely – what was the point in lavishing too much time and energy on what would probably only prove to be a temporary residence? – but as time had passed, the rooms had picked up ornaments and items apparently of their own accord, Rakin’s personal barnacles. The desk, for example, brought aboard from a raid of a particularly affluent merchant’s village stop, by some whim of the captain’s, made of fine, heavy oak and subsequently screwed to the desk to prevent it shifting its dangerous bulk in stormy weather, was cradled by the curved, windowed side of the room that surveyed the sea; or the floor to ceiling shelves worked into the wall on one side of this, it’s locked doors hiding the captain’s secrets. But scattered around the room were more ornamental items – a rich, dark rug, seemingly woven of a hundred different shades of black, covered the boards; wines and spirits from a dozen different plundered parlours and offices; and, crossed above the door, above his bunk, elegantly adorning spare wall, were the Captain’s special collector’s items – his swords. Rapiers, long swords, daggers, blades curved, straight and serated…they hung, secure and seemingly sedate, but with every edge gleaming with unmistakable malice, around Rakin’s rooms. Deadly yet elegant, the finest blades from a score of shores - undeniably beautiful, but unsettling nonetheless.

It was in his parlour of stolen treasures, sipping a particularly fine red wine, that the Captain now reclined, his boots casually crossed on another chair as he watched with detached interest the figure, bound only at the wrists, that was sprawled on his carpet. The room was almost silent, now the boatswain had left, leaving Chakka and Rakin alone to ‘have a drink’ together, and indeed the Captain gave an air of a gentleman in his club, settled back watching the sun, a drink in his hand. But as the sun rose further, flooding the room with bright sunlight, Rakin turned his head to Chakka and gave him a bright smile, his canine’s glittering fiercely. “Well well, Chakka, looks like the sun is almost at her peak – nearly midday. Will she be leaving with an extra pair of eyes, or are you planning to hang onto your sight for a while longer?”

Chakka did not respond, sprawled tense and still on the rug where the boatswain had left him, his eyes closed tightly shut as in tormented sleep under the blindfold. Rakin gave the prone slave a slightly puzzled look, then took another sip of his wine and set the glass down on the desk. Turning away from Chakka, Rakin faced the windows, surveying his kingdom with satisfaction, his hands gently running over the little vials and instruments that lay on his desk, some apparently designed for medicine making, some for darker means – sharp blades, needle sharp incisor blades, a set of brass knuckles. “And we both know what will happen when midday comes, don’t we? Or at least, we know what should happen…”

Raising his eyes from the dangerous, glinting array, he shaded his eyes against the sun, then nodded slightly to himself – and as if on cue, Chakka gave a long, low groan of pure agony, twisting on the carpet. Rakin raised his eyebrows and nodded once more to himself, like a critic on a performance – had to hand it to the boy, he wasn’t going easily. He’d keep the façade up to the end – if a façade it indeed was, as Rakin suspected. Or knew, rather. For no matter how calculated his imagined demonstration of the poison’s potency, Chakka had one disadvantage against Rakin: he had not actually seen it at work. Rakin had – and while the slave wasn’t exactly a picture, once the poison got to work, it really wasn’t pretty. His eyes, for example—

Rakin turned, an inquisitive scientist, and advanced almost excitedly towards the slave, grasping Chakka’s chin and, turning his chin eagerly from one side to another. There was no response and, under the light coloured blindfold, no blood either. But despite this, Rakin almost began to doubt himself. Chakka was, after all, very strong; maybe the poison would affect him in a different way to the scrawny creature that Rakin had seen the effects demonstrated on previously. But…well, there was only one way to test, wasn’t there? Rakin held Chakka’s chin up, mentally counted to three, then in a quick, vicious movement, ripped the blindfold off, and scrutinised the slave’s face. Despite himself, despite all his self-will and strength of mind, twelve hours in almost pitch darkness followed by bright sunlight even across the eyelids could only yield one result for Chakka, if he still had his sight: his eyelids flickered and, under them, Rakin saw the tell tale glimmer of white. With a triumphant yell, Rakin dropped Chakka back to the floor, resisting the urge to clap his hands in vicious delight, before he retreated a step or two to squat down before the slave, a wide smile twisting his fine features

“Blind man’s bluff, eh, Chakka? Oh, very clever, very clever indeed – although I never really did like that game.” Rakin’s smile faded as quickly as it had come, his mood altering abruptly, and he moved forward, sliding the knife from his boot and pricking it against Chakka’s throat, his eyes narrowing and his face closing up angrily. “Open your eyes, boy, and tell me exactly how you managed to get out of that one.”