Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir looked upon the Lady and heard her gentle words. Immediately, his heart swelled with longing. How akin she was to to his own mother and sister who waited now far across the Sea. What he would give to glimpse their faces and hold them in his arms one more time. Yet surely they were better there, for they dwelled in a place of beauty and peace, as sweet and gentle as this garden.

Though eager to show courtesy and respond, a warning bell echoed within Lindir's head, telling him to wait until his friend approached. Lindir glanced back over his shoulder to where Öremir still stood. His friend gazed long and deep at the gentle Elf with the twinkling eyes and soft grey dress. There could be no doubt. His friend's face told all. Whoever this fair Lady was, she was well known to Öremir as someone he held dear. A hot flush spread over Lindir's cheeks as he recognized his blunder. He felt like a young lad who had unknowingly stumbled into a place where he should not be.

These two must be left to talk. Of that, Lindir was certain. Instinctively he bowed his head and quickly stepped backwards, whispering a hasty excuse that, although the Lady's courtesy was much appreciated, he must now take his leave. His friend, he assured her, would stay behind and talk. There was a light, so bright that it seered into the depths of Lindir's eyes, a single instant of waiting, and then he found himself being sucked down a tunnel, back into the ominous cavern where the bone things lived.

Without further warning, he was sinking into a pile of bones, his arms and legs flailing to find solid ground, all to no avail. Only this time the bones gave an eerie moaning to the depths of the cavern and mysteriously began to come together to form real skeletons, standing in front of him with half their eyes gone, their remaining hair askew, and pieces of their bodies missing. Whether this was real or merely a terror dredged up from some hidden corner of his mind, Lindir could not say. One of the bone things loomed over him, its visage angry and threatening, looking to be the remains of some long dead Orc. Stuck between the Orc's ribs was a part of the blade that had broken off in the death thrust. Ever the craftsman, Lindir looked closer at the shape and form of the blade. What he saw took his breath away, leaving him gasping for air. He would recognize that blade anywhere for he had crafted it with his own hands years before and had taken it with him to battle. He could easily call up an image of what had occurred. Hacking his way through a Sea of Orcs, hoping to clear a path to where he thought the Diviner was trapped, Lindir had come upon the mightiest of Orc chiefs and engaged him in battle, a bout that went on and on. In the end, they had both fallen to the ground: the Orc in the final throes of death, Lindir stunned and bleeding. When he had come to, the Orc lay dead and there was no sign of the Diviner, even though he serached for many days.

Now this nightmare had come back to haunt him. The Orc reached over and, in some wild rage, yanked the blade free from his side. Lifting it upward with both his scrawny arms, he held it over Lindir's head and made a swift downward movement.....

Lindir's mind called out for help: Öremir, are you not here? There was no immediate reply. And in one last desperate appeal, he cried out loud, "Diviner, do you still lie in this Sea of Bones? Can you not help me? Long did I search for a glimpse of your face, but it was not to be. Come now and we will battle this thing together."

[Anguirel]

Endamir's ominous premonition seemed to have an immediate effect on the spirits in the tower. The sentries from the torch-brackets exchanged a glance that could have been knowing, fearful or triumphant, so inscrutable it seemed to the corporeal Elves; they then faded from sight, and another grate of rusted iron against stone announced that they had returned to their hosts.

More telling was the reaction of the other two, the Seneschal and the Diviner. The former seemed puzzled, wary, uncertain.

"But my friend...how can this be? You said you left your wounded friend attended by your twin brother at the guardhouse? How then can they have fallen into danger..."

"Mayhap the guards proved faithless," the Diviner replied, and there was hideous satisfaction in his sanctimonious, pedant's voice. Idrahil grew angry, taking a step forward and laying a hand upon the other's shoulder. Could spirits feel each others' touch? It almost seemed so.

"Do not insult the soldiery of Himring, soothsayer. They are my Elves and I have trained them to remember that: first that they are Elves and secondly that they are mine."

"It seems this Ingir was slow to learn your lesson..." the Diviner taunted. But he had stepped too far. The Seneschal drew still closer to him and clasped the smaller figure's frail neck with his pale, mailed hands.

"Speak no further or thou art no friend of mine!"

"I no longer need you," came the unsettling reply from one that could no longer be called a he. Idrahil was thrown back as if by an unseen buffet. The Diviner now stood taller even than the mighty Seneschal, wild, long hair flying out behind...her...

"I know where your friends be. I know how to save them-travel to my grotto and bury the bones therein. But you never will. For I will end you here, and you will remain here, all six of you traitors who left us to die...you will never see Mandos, any more than I will..."

Three white sparks rose through the chilly air as Idrahil unsheathed his pale, shimmering longsword.

"You will have to reckon with me first, yrch. For I can find no other word for an Elf who behaves so...guards, to me!"

But there was no answer from the brackets. They were not taking sides. And so the Diviner and the Seneschal closed for combat...