Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

‘Well, Lómwë, I suppose we’d better be off as soon as we can. Don’t you think?’ Endamir knelt by his sleeping place and rolled up his blankets, securing them with leather thongs to his pack. ‘Orëmir and Lindir can keep an eye on our equipment,’ he continued, settling his belongings against the wall where Lindir rested.

‘I recall somewhat hazily the layout of the fortress. How about you?’ he said, buckling on his sword. He snorted as his hands drew out the blade for inspection. ‘And why I think this piece of metal will give me any sort of protection, I cannot say. And it won’t, I suppose. But the weight of it against my leg gives me some sense of comfort.’

Endamir picked up his near empty mug of tea and swallowed the last few drops. ‘I suppose we should be off then.’ He looked toward his three companions. ‘Do any of you have some remembrance of this Elf we are to look for? The Diviner. I've never met him . . . that is, that I can recall. Any thoughts on where such a one would be like to spend his time?’

[Firefoot]

Lómwë shook his head. “I did not know him either, and if I had heard of him, it would only have been in passing. I spent little time in Himring.” He set his packed up belongings near Endamir’s, intending to leave all save his sword and bow. “Yet, if what Malris told us last night was true, this Diviner was not particularly well respected in the city, to say the least… perhaps, then, he would have spent more of his time near Maedhros’ dwelling? But it is a guess at best; luck may be the key to this as Malris seems to be the only one ever to have heard of him.”

When neither Orëmir nor Lindir offered any new information, Lómwë indicated the door. “Shall we go, then?” Endamir nodded, and together they pushed open the door and headed out into the courtyard. Lómwë raised his eyebrows at the sight that immediately greeted him: that of Malris and Tasa standing together watching the rising sun. It was only a moment before the pair realized their presence, but the moment was long enough for Lómwë to briefly wonder at the curious relationship between the two – old friends, yet as if not a moment had gone by since last they had met.

“Ah, so you are up,” said Malris after a moment.

“Yes, and we thought you had already left to search for this Diviner,” answered Lómwë, “so we were about to begin looking as well. Orëmir is staying inside with Lindir. But since you are still here… do you know how we’re supposed to go about this search? Is there a better strategy than ‘getting lucky’?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir watched in silence as Endamir and Lómwë disappeared through the gate and made their way into the courtyard. With a shake of his head, Lindir sighed, fidgeting nervously with his hands as he stared down at the ground. He looked up to steal a furtive glance at Orëmir. “Perhaps I should have said something. In truth, I do not know where the Diviner may be found, not now or in ages past. You can no more pin down the Diviner to a place or time than you can pin down the wild wind from the north.”

“If truth be told, part of me hopes the Diviner may never be found for sometimes the cure can be worse than the illness. Only once have I been alone with this Elf and that was no easy thing. A true soothsayer whose eyes are like burning brands and whose somber gaze touches a chord deep inside….. The one time, the one time, I came before…..”

Lindir’s voice broke and he shuddered involuntarily. For a long time, it seemed that the Elf would refuse to say anything more. But then he looked up as if struggling to explain something to himself. “I do not want to look into those eyes again. You see, the Diviner has a gift. When that gaze fixes upon you, it strips away the layers of pretense. You must face whatever lies inside. It is no easy thing. Do not be misled by what has been said. This is no buffoon or jokester as some have claimed. And as to Maedhros laughing….there are many times an Elf may laugh when he feels the night approaching. And do not think, Orëmir, that I will be the only one to feel the Diviner’s gaze for she will look into the hearts of all those who come before her….”

“She? Her? But Malris said….” Orëmir spoke quietly.

“To the outside world the Diviner appeared to be a male Elf, and that is how she wished those in court to think of her. But what lay under the robes was different. When she touched my mind, I knew her to be a woman. As to whether Malris knows this fact, I do not know with certainty. But it would not surprise me if he knew a great deal more than what he is telling us.”

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir was quiet for a while. In all the time he had been quartered here, he had not been one of the company who mingled with the staff of the fortress. He was one to find his company among the other Elven warriors when he felt social, or with his brother, more often than not, in the quiet enjoyment of each other’s company. A diviner was something beyond his ken. He could not recall one in Imladris. Though he thought perhaps Lord Elrond may have been considered one from Lindir’s words. His skill in osanwë was considered deep and powerful, though Orëmir had never been subjected to it. And he recalled certain stories of how Lord Elrond could see the fates of others if he bent his mind and will to it. But in comparison to this Diviner of which Lindir spoke, Lord Elrond seemed a kindly sort for all his depth of wisdom.

‘Were I you, Lindir, I would not want to subject myself to such a one . . . and certainly not for a second time.’ Orëmir shook his head at the thought. ‘And as for the layers of pretense – at some points in each of our lives that pretense is the only thing that keeps us sane enough to move forward and finish what tasks must be done.’

Orëmir poured himself another mug of hot tea and sat down near Lindir. His back rested against his pack and his long legs stretched before him, one ankle resting on the other. ‘I know ‘tis not the best decision to judge another before having met them. But – I think I do not care for this Diviner, already. There is too much power vested in him, or rather her. And power, I’ve noted from my own small acquaintance with those who wield it, often tends to abuse.’ He shivered at the thought of someone stripping away the layers of his mind, looking deep into his heart. ‘I am uneasy that my brother is going out to search for this Diviner. Uneasy that we are to trust your recovery to . . . her.’

He looked far into the distance, beyond the tumbled stones of the courtyard. His grey eyes seemed unfocused, looking inward as much as outward. Orëmir’s attention was held by an image his mind had conjured . . . a beam of clear white light shone brightly on the ground, hedged in by the darker shadings about its edge. It was hard to say whether the light pushed back the dark, or the dark defined the light. He blinked his eyes, willing away the image.

‘This is an ill-starred undertaking,’ he murmured. ‘We should not have come.’ He looked at Lindir with considering eyes, wondering if he and Endamir would be strong enough together to take him back to the ship. All his senses cried out to him to call back his brother and flee.

[Anguirel]

At the approach of Lomwe and Endamir, Malris hurriedly relinquished his hold on Tasa's had, though he suspected perhaps not quickly enough.

"Ah," he said, rather bitterly, to the others as they approached. What had happened seemed to be a symbol of his existence in relation to Tasa-always being snatched away. It was then that Giledhel's face surfaced in his mind again, and in guilt he dismissed the moment of joy to the cellar of his memory.

"So you are up," he concluded.

“Yes, and we thought you had already left to search for this Diviner,” Lómwë replied, “so we were about to begin looking as well. Orëmir is staying inside with Lindir. But since you are still here… do you know how we’re supposed to go about this search? Is there a better strategy than ‘getting lucky’?”

Malris was gratified that Lomwe, so suspicious and ready to blame him the night before, seemed his old self again, ready to act to help the ailing Lindir. Perhaps the coming of morning had accomplished this. It had been so before, had it not...they had set out with rifts forgiven and hopes high in the morning, and carped at each other-and chiefly him-by the evening...this cycle, Malris reflected, had the potential to become extremely wearing. He shrugged.

"Only that we have to remember that we've been told that the Diviner will be with the Seneschal. I take that as a sign that we should investigate where Master Idrahil is now...and as Seneschal he ought, I suppose to be within one of the bastions along the wall..."

Malris indicated what he meant with his arm. Apart from the four great watch-towers at the fortress's corners, and the vast edifice of the keep, there were smaller, square heights interspersed along the wall; the bastions of war that had made Himring in its day impossible to take by storm. It was in one of these that Malris and Giledhel had made their home, though the dereliction made it hard for him to work out which after so long.

"As for which one, I could not begin to guess. I suggest the two pairs of us proceed in different directions, investigating each of the bastions in turn, until we find anything...or anyone...of interest. If either party runs into trouble...we will speak by osanwe-kenta, and rush to succour each other. Does that sound practical?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir turned to respond to Orëmir but no words issued from his mouth. Instead, a thick shadowy veil swiftly descended over his eyes; only this time the curtain seemed as black as night. The Elf's face went slightly green, then pale and ashen, as he struggled to loose his mind from the darkness that threatened to engulf him. The black tunnel reappeared and a single hand reached out threatening to push him down the corridor towards a distant door. Minute by minute, the doorway loomed closer.

"Orëmir, help me!" the injured Elf pleaded. Not now, Elbereth, when I have sworn to remain here and undo the evil I have fashioned. There is too much to do. Clinging desperately to his companion's sleeve, Lindir had slipped into Osanwë, since he was no longer able to speak words that the outside world could distinguish. Lindir felt his grip loosen as he was tugged ever closer to the great locked door. Reaching out with his hand as if to push the door away, the Elf saw in horror as the key within the lock slowly began to turn. There was a moment of blackness and then Lindir knew no more....

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir, help me!

Lindir was slipping away. No, not slipping . . . it was as if he were being tugged through the slim door between life and death. Ordinarily, Orëmir would have slid gently into the Elf’s mind and eased his worried thoughts, giving what support he could to help the dying Elf accept the inevitable reality. This time though, he shouted NO! as strongly as his mind and spirit could muster.

Physically, Lindir should not be passing on. He’d been injured, but not critically. Given time and rest his body should mend. The descent into death was not inevitable from physical causes. And yet, the stricken Elf’s mind had gone black and there had been the panicked image of the long dark tunnel preceding it.

Orëmir drew his pack nearer and fetched out his wooden medicine box. In his long years as a healer, there was one preparation he had used very infrequently, fewer times than the fingers on one hand. It was a Southron healer, in fact, that had acquainted him with its use – mainly for bringing round those who had been tortured in body and mind so that they might face another round of questioning. Orëmir had found its properties somewhat useful in reviving stricken Elves and men when it was necessary that they be awake, alert, and able to move themselves for a short period of time, especially in order to remove them from a dangerous situation.

The decoction, though, had its drawbacks. While it invigorated the mind and body, giving the person some semblance of normality, it could not be predicted how long the effects would last. And two of his patients had been driven even deeper into collapse when the effects had worn off. Several of those he’d used it on had given no warning that the decoction was wearing off; they had simply dropped to the ground – and one of them had died. Another, though, had done well enough on it that he had been able to take a series of three doses before he had collapsed completely.

There was no way to know how Lindir might fare. And no other alternative. Should he hesitate, Lindir would be gone forever. Orëmir pulled off the stopper to the narrow-necked bottle and pulling down Lindir’s lower lip, he let fall a single, small drop of the grey, oily liquid between the Elf’s cheek and gum.

Now came the waiting . . . and hope that he had not done in his friend for good . . .