Island of Sorrow RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Anguirel · 06-03-2006, 05:44 AM

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?"

06-03-2006, 05:44 AM	#11
Anguirel Byronic Brand Join Date: Mar 2005 Location: The 1590s Posts: 2,781	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?"