Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

What deviltry was this? Chains of Elven truesilver, bright and strong, came snaking across the floor toward his ankles. They were borne on the words the Smith wove in the chamber; subtle, transient words just beyond the reach of even the keen ears of the Elves. But words none the less filled with old power. Orëmir had no gift or skill to ward off the foulness that was now contrived to bind him and his companions.

Worse, though, were the effects of the Smith’s false wizardry on his brother. Endamir seemed ensorcelled; bound not by visible chains but by more insidious fetters which robbed him of his judgment and his good sense.

Orëmir’s hands and arms were not yet bound. And the light links of the chains had not yet tightened on his ankles when he drew his blade.

‘Let go my brother, fiend! Was his mind not befogged he would not be the “loyal” puppet your wine and words have made him!’ he cried to the Smith. ‘Free us all, lest you fall altogether into shadow and are shown rightly to now be the Constrainer’s tool.’

He stepped as much as the chains would allow toward where he'd last seen the Smith. Orëmir raised his sword and made to strike . . .

[piosenniel]

‘Let go my brother, fiend!’

There was something familiar about the voice, though what it was exactly Endamir could not say. It came from one of those Elves who had tried to carry him off from the Smith’s chambers. Who was he speaking of? That other man, perhaps, the shorter one . . . with his softer, artistic face. He too had tried to pull him away from the Smith.

Endamir watched with some satisfaction as the chains crept close to the limbs of the miscreants. His own hands ached to be about the Master’s business.

A sudden movement on the part of the shouting Elf alarmed him. In the fire’s light the Elf’s blade glinted wildly as he made to strike at the Master Smith. For one short moment, on the crosspiece of the blade, a faint inscription picked up the light catching Endamir’s attention. It made him pause, some memory struggling to the fore of his thoughts.

And as quickly as it had come, it faded.

This man was threatening the Smith. Endamir drew his own blade. He thrust at the attacker, deflecting the blow aimed at the Master.

‘Submit!’ Endamir hissed at the Elf, lunging at him with his sword . . .

[Envinyatar]

Time stretched out in discrete increments as Orëmir watched his brother draw the blade that was twin to his own. He searched Endamir’s face for any sign that his brother knew him. There was none. All hope fled as Endamir advanced upon him. Wrath contorted his features and a madness shone in his eyes.

‘Brother!’ he called as Endamir made a thrusting feint. Orëmir pushed it to the side with a quick side sweep of his blade. ‘Brother! Do you not know me?’ Endamir’s blade was up once more, clashing against his own.

The fetters grew more tight about Orëmir’s ankles. His brother, unencumbered by the silvered chains, moved with a certain grace as he drew closer to his Master’s perceived foe. Orëmir blocked the rain of blows as best he could, trying desperately to keep his blade from off his brother’s body. Endamir for his part fought fiercely to get inside his foe’s defenses.

In the end, Endamir made a wild thrust at him. And had he been the enemy, Orëmir would have slain him then. But he could not bring himself to this defense. Nor could he, now as the fetters hobbled his movement, simply step out of harm’s way.

It was no surprise, then, as the last blow met the center of his chest. The sharp iron point of the blade sliced through him, the weight of his brother placed well behind it. A look of great sadness came over Orëmir’s face as the metal rent his heart.

His spirit, even before his body had hit the stone floor, fled West.

[piosenniel]

Endamir pulled his blade from the fallen Elf’s body and turned toward the two others who had protested the Master’s instructions. ‘Drop your weapons, insolent pups!’ he hissed at them, echoing the Smith’s own words. ‘Else you meet the same fate as your black-hearted companion!’

He brandished the bloodied sword at them. The silver chains moved relentlessly about the two men’s limbs he noted, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

‘There is work to be done here. Great work! And all under the hand of the Master. Drop your weapons, you disobedient curs. The task is at hand . . .’

[Firefoot]

Lómwë could feel the fogginess trying to return to his mind, and having already succumbed once, he knew he would be susceptible to it were he not on his guard. But Lómwë had already conquered the demons of his own mind and was now all the stronger for it; he kept the fogginess at bay, and thus felt the full horror of Endamir’s deed. Now Lómwë wished he had hit Endamir’s head harder.

In his distraction, he had forgotten to watch for the bewitched chains, and saw that one of his ankles had been fettered; even now the chain was snaking up his leg.

“There is work to be done here. Great work! And all under the hand of the Master. Drop your weapons, you disobedient curs. The task is at hand,” said Endamir, seeming to find satisfaction at Orëmir's death and at his and Lindir’s bindings.

“Great work!” Lómwë spat out the words as he still struggled with the relentless chains. “Great work! You call murdering your brother great work! Endamir, you have become a fool. He was your brother, Endamir, your brother!”

“And you!” Lómwë rounded on the smith. “What was your intent in bringing us here? To make us all as mad as yourself – as mad as you have made Endamir, as mad as you almost made me? Is this your great and mighty work?”

But his attacks seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he felt the beginnings of despair as he cried out, “Kill me like you killed Orëmir, but I won’t do your work, however you try to force me. I will not do this Orc-work.”

[piosenniel]

Orëmir . . . The name rang familiarly in Endamir’s mind for the shortest of moments. Less than a breath it niggled at his thoughts, just out of reach. The foggy shadows reached up and swallowed it leaving only the hollow name eddying in his mind.

‘Orëmir,’ he said, tasting the sound of it on his tongue. Must be the name of the one that fell to my blade. Look how his henchman now takes up the cry.

Endamir turned his attention now to Lómwë, the one who had cried out. ‘Don’t talk to him like that!’ he rasped as the Elf accused the Smith of vile things. He slapped him hard on the cheek with the flat of his blade.

‘Will not do orc-work! Who are you to call the Master an orc, you base fool?! He will lift you up; give your paltry little life a glorious purpose.’

He brought up the tip of his blade, touching it lightly to the side of Lómwë’s neck. The fetters had not yet tightened about the Elf’s arms he noted. Narrowing his eyes he gave Lómwë a dismissive look. Deep in his eyes, barely veiled, though, burned a lust to clean away this base piece of chaff from the workshop; to spill his blood on the stones.

‘Go on, now. You know you want to draw your weapon and have at me; kill me even. Go on, why don’t you?’ he asked smugly. ‘You and your foul tongue are naught but forge fodder anyway . . .’

[Anguirel]

Even as Orëmir's lifeless remains fell back upon the stone, the chanting stopped. As Lómwë, tears in his eyes, remonstrated with Endamir, trying to recall some sense of the Elf's self, trying to convey what a terrible deed the former loremaster had wreaked in his madness, the Master-Smith appeared by the side of the cadaver, cradling the head with its vacant eyes in his hands; apparently enough activity to manifest his appearance.

"What is this," the craftsman murmured, "no, this cannot be. I intended nothing of this sort! Six pupils the voice promised me, and now...one falls by a mistaken hand. A hand stirred by my wine! O...hideous turpitude..."

The Smith's long, black, vital hair mingled with Orëmir's locks. It seemed for a moment as if he drew near to kiss him, but a shudder passed over the spirit's face and he retreated.

"I must have order," he moaned, and then more loudly, "order, order I say..."

In his disconcertingly muscled arms, the Master-Smith heaved the fallen body upwards.

"One of our workers has been hurt," he announced, as if to a wider audience than the two staring, repelled Elves and their ensorcelled companion, with kin's blood on his sword; closest kin. The gore from the flat now besmirched Lómwë's countenance as well.

"He has been hurt," the Smith continued, "and I am retiring into the room beyond, to look after him, and restore him to li...I mean...get him back on his feet again...the work will, and must, continue."

The activity of the chains became desperate and frenetic. Endamir was the first to be disarmed, despite-or perhaps because of-his zealous, deluded loyalty; the Master-Smith had no wish to lose further craftsmen. Lómwë's fine sword was also ripped from his hand as it clenched it, and a weaponsmith's hammer forced into his hold instead. Lindir, eclipsed by the terrible drama in the centre of the room, was ignored, though his legs were still grasped firmly.

The dolorous voice of the Master-Smith drifted at intervals back into the main room.

"Where is the mystic woman now? Or the Singer? Any advice on this accursed earth? Even the Powers I have long flouted, and thought of late I was obeying...alas...are we, the Houseless, to be forever without succour?

"When will the lord return?"

[Firefoot]

Six pupils the voice promised me… restore him to li... where is the mystic woman now… The smith’s words rattled in Lómwë’s ears. The Diviner! He was, or had been, in league with her! How had he not seen it before? His glance shot now to Lindir. Lómwë prayed that he would not have some kind of relapse now – it would be just what he needed…

But now the smith was in the back room; surely now if any would be the time to escape! He needed help. He needed to find Malris and Tasa. Disdainfully he tossed down the hammer that had forced its way into his grip. It landed on the stone floor with a clatter. He spotted his sword across the room and tried to take a heavy step towards it – and found that he had moved marginally, but in the opposite direction – towards the smith’s worktable. He tried again with the same result, and this time he found the hammer back in his hand.

How many more times will I curse this island and our coming here before we leave?

Noticing Lómwë’s struggles, Endamir said, “The Master’s will will not be undermined. There is work to be done!” As he spoke, Lómwë’s hand automatically lifted to the place between his jawbone where Endamir’s sword had touched. When his hand came away it was wet with blood: not his own, but Orëmir’s. He clenched his fist tightly, suddenly feeling a deep, shuddering loss – both for Orëmir and for Endamir.

“I do not know you anymore,” he muttered, his voice sounding dead. No longer did he try to persuade Endamir, only convince himself. “His blood is on your hands; you have committed a baser evil than those you came seeking reconciliation for.” And Endamir did not even care. Could he not see?

There was no hope. No hope.

Now in despair, not disdain, he lifted the hammer high over his head and slammed it down on the wooden table as hard as he could. The sound of the blow resounded in the room as he automatically dropped the hammer in pain as the force of the strike reverberated up his hand and arm. The following silence seemed to throb with his mantra: No hope. No hope.