Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[piosenniel]

A heavy, grey sky hung over the capital city of Westernesse. Rain had fallen for the last three days and the air was thick with moisture. The white walls of Arminalêth shone dully in the semidarkness and the late Ivanneth trees clung stubbornly to their last brown leaves. The land trembled; the island had shifted several times in the recent past, and now she gave another quick heave as though irritated by the tall Men who walked on her shores. As the ground quieted the skies stirred, and the boiling grey clouds which hovered over Armenelos began to drop hail. A dark haired woman looked up at the sky as pea-sized bits of ice began to bounce off the ground around her feet. She grabbed the hands of two small children and ushered them inside. As the door closed loudly behind them the hail began to fall in earnest, egg sized hailstones hammering on the rooftops of the unnaturally quiet city. As the hailstorm passed, the grey clouds blew east on a brisk wind and a billowy white cloud shaped like a great eagle cast its shadow across the land.

Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and Kâthaanî, his daughter and only child, rode along the southern faces of the fir and larch covered moors of Forostar. They could afford to ride as fast as the wind, with seven Kariborim between them. Abâr was afraid that word of their route had reached the King's Men. Abârpânarú was riding night-black Lômi while Kâthaanî rode chestnut Izri, the youngest foal of Khibil and Kali, who with their other foals, Nitirú, Rûki, and Mani galloped close at hand.

Word had reached them before they left home, that the King's Men were looking for Abârpânarú as a traitor to the King. It was true enough, if being one of the Faithful amounted to betrayal. The Forostar, the least fertile of the Númenorean regions, was least populous, and Abârpânarú had deemed it the way that would give them most shelter from the eyes of the King's Men. The ground was stony, which would give greater difficulty to other horsemen, but not the sure-footed Kariborim.

Suddenly the land dropped and the air cooled, and they came among fertile fields of grain, which were the beginning of the Orrostar. They rounded a final hill and must stop of a sudden. They were faced by twenty horsemen.

"You may go no further, traitor!" called one man whose black helm rose taller than the others.

"Go back, Kâthaanî! Make haste!" Kâthaanî obeyed immediately, calling the barebacked Kariborim as she turned her mount and charged back around the hill. Khibil, Abârpânarú's usual mount, did not follow. Abârpânarú hollered and slapped Khibil's rump and sent him chasing after the others.

"Do not let them get away!" cried the leader of the King's Men.

"You have me! Let them go!" Abârpânarú bellowed. The ears of the horses of the King's Men laid back, such was the force of his voice. He took the eyes of their leader and held them. The two strove, and at last the leader gave way.

"We have our quarry."

Abârpânarú dismounted from Lômi. "Go find Kâthaanî." Lômi stood next to Abârpânarú, unmoving. He looked in Lômi's deep brown eyes. "Go!" he whispered. She breathed on his neck, looking straight into his eyes. "They will do you harm!" She nickered. He sighed. "May I prove worthy of your love, dear one."

Kâthaanî paused on the far side of the hill. The clatter of hard hooves in the stones fell to silence all around her as five of the Kariborim joined Izri in the dell behind the hill. Five. Lômi, then, had remained with her father; though whether she was kept by her own will or Abârpânarú’s, or by some design of his captors, Kâthaanî could not tell. Dismounting quickly from Izri, she left the horses and crept down through the brush and boulders to where she could see the road.

Cursing herself inwardly for her clumsiness, she stood behind a cluster of fir and looked out toward the place where her father had been taken. As she caught sight of the men gathered on the road below, Kâthaanî breathed a sigh of relief. She realized they were yet far enough away that her pitiful attempts at stealth would not have been heard, and cloaked in brown as she was, she judged herself unlikely to be seen. She watched as Abârpânarú’s hands were bound roughly behind him and Lômi’s reins were tied to the saddle of one of the waiting horses. The riders remounted, and the column moved along the road. South, toward Armenelos. Kâthaanî watched, unmoving, until the horses disappeared into the plains.

Turning back to where she had left the Kariborim, Kâthaanî ran to them, tying her dark hair into a tighter knot on her neck and pinning her cloak more securely. She paused as she reached the horses, the tension in their bodies evident. She kissed Izri’s soft nose before turning to Nitirú, the swiftest among them. “You must bear me now, friend; and we will run more swiftly than ever we have run before.” Although she knew that she would never find help in time to rescue her father before they reached Arandor and the Royal City, there was nothing else for her to do.

Upon mounting, Kâthaanî headed down out of the foothills toward the road. Once they reached the open lands of Andustar she could take to the fields, but for now great speed required great risk and they ran on the open road. Nitirú’s feet struck sparks from the gravel as the dark haired girl and the iron grey horse flew toward Andunië, the other five trailing behind them like so many leaves in the wind.


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-- Sophia the Thunder Mistress & littlemanpoet

[piosenniel]

TomBrady12's post

Marsillion sat quietly in a dark corner of an obscure Andunië inn sipping a pint of ale. The ale was poor, but that was the least of his trouble. He'd come to meet his cousin, Nusaphad Narâkmanô, who had summoned him here the night before. Nusaphad was fairly unskilled, had no taste for books or learning, nor for any serious forms of work. Luckily for him, he was born into a wealthy family, and had overachieving brothers to carry on the pride of his father. Nusaphad ran an Andunië inn belonging to his father as a pretense of work, but most who knew him knew that he consumed more ale then he sold. Marsillion, clever as he was, managed to find a use even for his lazy cousin.

Nusaphad's Inn, The Tîrevia, was a favorite gathering spot for the King's Men garrisoned in and around Andunië, and after a few pints of ale they were often more than willing to pull a slovenly underachiever into their confidence. Through Nusaphad, who was not a member of the faithful, Marsillion gained much information on the plans and movements of the King's Men.

When his older cousin at last slid into the semi dilapidated inn, Marsillion couldn't help but notice how little resemblance there was between them. Nusaphad's olive skin and thick black beard were a stark contrast to Marsillion's fair skin and clean face. Nusaphad took a seat across the table from Marsillion without a word.

“What then, cousin, have you called me here for?” Marsillion asked gingerly. News from Nusaphad was rarely good.

“Breakfast with an old friend not enough of a lure?” Nusaphad replied, with a sarcastic grin spreading across his bearded face.

“Aye,” Marsillion perked up, “the food in this dank hole is far from good, but I suspect it's a mite bit better than whatever news you've brought for me.”

“True enough,” Nusaphad said, the grin disappearing from his face. The smiling eyes that normally defined the otherwise drab man were devoid of light and rimmed in red. Dark matters he left to others when possible, preferring women and drink to matters of business. Marsillion could see that the role of spy was taking its toll on his cousin.

Nusaphad ordered a fresh pitcher of ale and waited for the waitress to leave. “The news is indeed worse than this ale, Nimilroth, a good deal worse in truth. Your mother's brother is in grave danger. The King's Men mean to arrest him on charges of treason,” Nusaphad said quietly, even though the inn was deserted except for the young waitress.

“Is that all you have for me cousin?” Marsillion asked, stretching his arms above his head and slowly getting to his feet. “Perhaps your ale has lost its potency, for we have known this for a fortnight. Besides, what proof is there? A serious charge requires serious proof.”

“Sit down Nimilroth,” Nusaphad replied with pity in his voice. “My ale is potent enough, and I've not told you all that I have brought you here for.” Marsillion sat down and stared hard into his cousin's unblinking eyes.

“Go on then,” was all he could say.

“The King's men have been watching your uncle for sometime and saw him and his daughter leave Andunië with his prized horses days ago. They know not only his destination, but also his intended route. A company of the King's Men lie in wait as we speak near the junction of Forostar and Orrostar. Your uncle is walking into a trap. And as for proof, it seems to me that Ar-Pharazôn needs none these days but that which his own mind can conjure.”

“Why have you not spoken of this before?” Marsillion demanded, the anger in his voice shattering the silence of the inn.

“I knew not until late in the evening,” Nusaphad said sheepishly, seemingly afraid of the strong armed young man he'd known for so long. “If I'd have ridden out myself to tell you we may both have been discovered.”

“I must go,” Marsillion nearly shouted as he jumped to his feet. He rushed to the door, knocking over a mug of beer on the way.

“You're gonna have to pay for that, mister!” the waitress shouted after him, but the words were meaningless in his ears. He had been there when his father was seized by the King years before. He had to get to Kâthaanî before it was too late. He could not allow her to undergo the same fate as he. The only sound to reach his ears was the beating rhythm of his young mare’s galloping footfalls, moving rapidly down the dirt street, into the east.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Two swords crossed in overlapping fashion, drawing attention to the silver star located at the place of their meeting... The symbol of the House of Batânzâira. Abârzadan turned away from the treasured decoration adorning the wall of his large house. In reality, it was a thing of the past; there was no House Batânzâira... there was only him. The Númenórean man's ascendents were vast, but all had long since died out, persecuted by Sauron and the cult of Melkor. What that evil one so feared about letting it survive? Perhaps its strength, and the many warriors it had bred. Whatever the reason, all that was over. Abârzadan was the last of them, as far as he could tell. No one else remembered. No one understood.

Banishing the disparaging thoughts from his mind, Abârzadan forced himself to look on the positive side of the matter. He was safe, rich and secure; at least for the time being. The sole heir of a large fortune, the man was not stranger to the lavish lifestyle of the elite. But was there such a among the rabble of the Faithful? His father, Abâranâ, had never trusted them since entering their lands to escape the wrath of Sauron. They were outcasts, rebels, unfit to serve the King of Númenór. The old man's sentiments were never known publicly; he lived out his days isolated in his home, without making any aquaintices with the locals. After his father's death, Abârzadan had gradually come to accept the Faithful and did not hold them in a hostile light, but still he held on to the sometimes violent longing to see his true home. And then there was Abâranâ's last request...

No. That can never be accomplished. Never. Deciding that the acute loneliness of the house was becoming oppressive, Abârzadan pulled on a, coat, opened the door and hurried out into the street, allowing the wooden frame to fall shut loudly behind him. The refreshing tinge of cool air met his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore met his ears. Abârzadan's home was near the docks, for he loved to look out at the sea from his bedroom window... somehow, although it was not the way back to the King he still felt loyal to, the water was strangely attracting. Perhaps it was the sense of mystery it held, for doubtlessly there were unexplored regions beyond the simmering edge of the horizon.

Even the sea could not give Abârzadan's mind the rest that it longed for. His thoughts went back to six years before, when his father lay dying from disease. "Hear me, Abârzadan," he had rasped, before breaking into another fit of coughing. "And never forget. Keep the House of Batânzâira clean from the Faithful. Only marry..." the sick man's voice trailed off again. His eyes opened wide, as if he was seeing a vision. Then he had struggled back to reality, and made one last, desperate effort to finish his last statement. "Only marry... a woman of Númenór. I say this to you so that I know that one day, you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie. Never forget, Abârzadan, please..." The man had then gone unconcious, and died during the night, as silently as he had lived.

Enough reminiscing! Abârzadan decided that if he were to get any work done that night, he had better get a drink and clear the disturbing memories from his distraught mind. The man hurried down the street, soon finding a small inn that he rarely visited. Abâranâ had seen the place when they first arrived, and snidely commented on its disrepair. Indeed, it was in rather poor condition, and not the sort of place that a member of the elite would go to dine. However, it was close, and though the ale was poor it still contained the kick that he needed. Besides, the gossip of those at this particular small establishment was far more interesting than that at any fine diner.

As he entered the inn, Abârzadan noticed that it was quite empty, almost deserted. The man ordered a drink and walked over to a table in the corner; slowly easing into the hard wooden chair. His ears immediately sharpened, and he began to pick up snippets of conversation from a booth near him. When he heard "the King's men have been watching your uncle," his ears perked up. The King? Ar-Pharazôn? As he continued to eavesdrop, his suspicions were confirmed. "Your uncle is walking into a trap," one of the men said. Prized horses? And uncle and his daughter? As Abârzadan left the inn later that evening, he promised himself to keep his ears open for any more information regarding the strange tale that he had been exposed to.

Especially if it dealt with Númenór.

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir let the arrow fly, and the deer fell to the ground. He was about to walk over to it when three riders on black horses rode up.

"Well, well, if it isn't Sakaladûn," said their leader, getting off his horse. "Finally found you, eh? The King's been looking for you for quite a while now."

Thoronmir, formerly known as Sakaladûn, answered him. "I stopped listening to that man when he started going mad. If you want me to come with you, you'll have to force me."

The man laughed and reached for a weapon. Thoronmir reacted faster, leaping up onto the leader's horse and kicking it hard. The black stallion rode off at full speed. The other two riders drew their spears and pursued Thoronmir as he fled, but Thoronmir managed to lose them in the forest.

Thoronmir rode into the hiding place of the Faithful that was nearby. He was met at the entrance by one of their guards.

"Thoronmir, I'm glad you got back here. Where did you get the horse?" the guard asked curiously.

"I ran into some old friends from Armenelos who really wanted me to come back with them," the Thoronmir said. "I declined the offer and borrowed one of their horses to escape with."

The other man didn't smile a whole lot. "Good thing you escaped, because we're really going to need your help here." he said. "You see, there's been a problem. Mabalar has been taken captive and they said we need to act now..."

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

The rain poured from the black clouds like so many thousand tears. Lightening lit the tormented sky as another wave shifted the ground. Inzillomí Elendili moved quietly through the shadows of the awnings, coming in from the stables. From cosseting her black mare, Alya, the mistress of the house had been startled by the sound of pounding hoofbeats. Reaching the house before her unknown guests, Inzillomí went to her sitting room and settled quickly, picking up a piece of embroidery on her way. To a stranger, it would look as though she had been sewing quietly for some time. A fist pounded on the oaken doors, echoing through the large house. She rose gracefully, gliding delicately to the entry way. Meeting a maid in the hallway, she waved her off silently. Opening the heavy doors, she was faced with a full guard of the King's Men. Briefly she wondered where her own guards were, until she saw a flash of silver in the doorway of the stables. One man stepped forward.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Inzillomí asked cautiously. She knew this man; they had been childhood companions. These days, however, it did not pay to trust those you once knew. The uniformed man hesitated as streams of water ran down his cheeks. "Officer, it is raining and my floor is getting wet. Either state your business or come in for a cup of tea, but I will not tolerate the warping of a perfectly good door frame because of carelessness."

The officer nearly laughed, quickly hiding his smile with a well-timed cough. He had been sent to escort the out of favor families to Rómenna but he felt compassion for them. He had known Inzillomí for many years. "Inzi--" he caught himself. Standing up taller, his smile vanished. It was one thing to be compassionate, another to be soft. He had his orders. "Mistress Inzillomí, the King offers you the honor of relocating your family to Rómenna. You will please pack only what you can carry on one horse. You will please be ready in one hour. Your escort will be waiting outside your doors to ensure that you do not lose your way to the front garden."

Hiding her panic, Inzillomí smiled at her childhood friend. Snake! her mind screamed. "No." she replied calmly.

"You must excuse me, Mistress, but I thought I heard you say "no". You are please to be aware that you have no choice."

"I am and I do. I have business today that will not wait, as I am sure you will quite understand. You will have to return tomorrow when my family is all together and prepared. I will not leave without them, and I will not leave my belongings behind. May your day be as peace-filled as my own." With that, Inzillomí politely shut the door in the officers' faces.

Hoping her audacity would not serve to get them all killed, Inzillomí spared a fearful moment wondering at the whereabouts of her family. She peered out the window, seeing the King's Men clustered in a small group. Suddenly the men scattered, mounting up and set off down the road. Short-lived relief filled Inzillomí as the rain slowed. As quickly as the storm had begun, it was over. Within a short time, the sun shone brightly, drying the land. A brisque wind pulled crimson leaves from the trees and Inzillomí, tired and worried, walked alone through her garden admiring the last dark blossoms of the season. Azarmanô was due with tidings from Elendil any hour; Marsillion had gone to meet his cousin; Abârpânarú and Kâthaanî would not be returning. Inzillomí's family was scattered and she was left to lead the remaining Anannost to whatever end. It was her responisibility to get her people safely to the East. Suddenly, heavy hoof beats filled the air once more. Turning quickly on her heel, Inzillomí Elendili ran, skirts billowing in the wind, her hair streaming out behind her, hurrying to meet unexpected visitors for the second time in so many hours.

[piosenniel]

samsmyhero's post

Tiru hummed softly as he came out of the stall. He had changed the old bedding for new and refilled the manger with fresh hay. The water trough outside the stable was full of water pulled from the well. All was taken care of. Not that there was any sense of urgency. His master and the little mistress were not due back for some days. Tiru closed his eyes for a brief moment, silently offering a prayer for the success of their venture. He smiled at his own absurdity; he didn't even believe in the gods, although his master had spent many hours instructing him. Well, he shrugged his shoulders, it couldn't hurt.

So much was riding on their journey, though. The very existence of the Kariborim was at stake. If Abârpânaru was not successful in getting the horses to Rómenna, if they missed the sailing for the east . . . No! Tiru shook his head vigorously. He would not even think such thoughts! Besides, there was still much to do before leaving for the harbor to meet Captain Azarmanô, who was arriving from Rómenna with supplies and news from Elendil. It was being said that the time for the departure for the east was coming upon them quickly.

Tiru stroked his beard thoughtfully. Even if his beloved six came safely to the ships, there were many others who would not be going. Tiru worried about these others, the Karibi. He knew there was no room for them on the ships. It was fortunate enough that his master and mistress had been able to secure a place for him, being only their servant. Still, the thought of leaving the Karibi almost broke his heart. He had already lost one family; and, now, to lose this one . . .

The horsemaster's thoughts were interrupted by the, as yet, distant sound of thundering hoofs. This sound was one so familiar to him that it was like unto his own heart beat. "The Kariborim!" he gasped. "What . . . how?" Tiru wasted no time, but flew himself, as fast as his legs could carry him, across the stable yard and down the broad path that led to the road. Even as the swirl of dust accompanying them grew larger, he could make out Kâthaanî, the little mistress, and Marsillion, her cousin, with five of the six steeds which had left Andunië eight days ago. But he could tell at a glance that his master, Abârpânaru, and the mare Lômi, were not with them.

Tiru's heart raced and his mind seethed. Disaster! Some sort of catastrophe had befallen his master and now . . . and now, what? He must calm himself and be prepared; the mistress and her daughter would surely need him, and he, at least, was reliable, unlike those so called gods!

Within moments, the two cousins had drawn up to him. Dirt and sweat covered Kâthaanî's face and her hair looked as if she had been in a high wind off the ocean. Marsillion looked shocked and angry. Breathlessly, Kâthaanî leaned over Nitirú's neck and in a rush, told Tiru what had occurred on the unlucky journey to Rómenna. Tiru's face belied little of the anguish that churned in his stomach. Captured by the King's Men! The very worst that could have happened! Poor Lômi! She would be so upset and unhappy if strangers were to take her. And the master too, of course.

"What must we do, little mistress?" Tiru gasped, as Kâthaanî stopped to take a breath.

"This was the day appointed for Azarmanô's arrival was it not?" She rushed on, not waiting for a reply. "You must go to the harbor and meet him there as planned. But tell him of my father's plight. Ask Azarmanô to render what assistance he can – I'm sure we will need every man available to rescue him. Hurry back!" With that she and Marsillion were urging the horses forward once again, racing, Tiru was sure, to her mother, to let her know the grim tidings and alert the other Annanost.

Tiru ran back to the stables and quickly saddled up the grey mare he had waiting, already anticipating the trip to the harbor. Hoping that Azarmanô would be at the harbor, which, with sea voyages, arrivals were always an uncertainty, he went into the field beyond and caught up another mount for the Captain. He saddled her too, and was off down the road, just as Kâthaanî was at her mother's side, relating her sad news. With a brief moment of regret that he could not tend to the needs of the five Kariborim which had returned, Tiru focused on his task and set off for the harbor at a break neck speed.

[Himaran]

Abârzadan sat quietly in his study, reviewing some papers regarding the state of his inheritance. The news was far from pleasant; the Inheritance Tax, which had never affected the Faithful, was being revised. Even those living outside of the King's sphere would be forced to pay. That, combined with the fact that his father was labeled an exile, meant that much of Abârzadan's estate would be reposessed. He shook his head, leaning back in the elegant chair. He had heard rumors about the Faithful sailing away from the island, but had thought little of it; never expecting that he himself might want a place one of the departing vessels. And that holds true. I need to go deeper into Númenor, not flee from it.

Again Abârzadan thought about his recent visit to the inn, and the story that had reached his ever-alert ears. If the informant there had been accurate, trouble was brewing. A member of the Faithful had been kidnapped, or perhaps urdered, by the King's guards. Or, perhaps, he had been a criminal, and the men he had overheard were accomplices. Whatever the scenario, a man was missing; taken away in chains or in a casket. Now what was his name? Abârzadan pulled an old, dusty book out of a nearby drawer and paged through it, looking for a familiarity. The names flew by him as quickly as the pages, but nothing seemed to stick. Then, suddenly, something caught his eye.

Abârpânarú.

Was that it? Had he been the one mentioned by the two secretive men at the inn? Abârzadan wasn't sure; the conversation had been held in such low tones that nothing was certain. The man looked for the location of the residence, memorized it, and put the book away. Should he trust the hunch and investigate? While it was quite possible that everything he had just surmised was a complete load of hogwash, Abârzadan decided that he needed a break from the tiresome duties of paperwork as it was. If nothing else, he might be able to find out a bit more about Númenor; and that in itself would be worth the journey.

Without bothering to clean up his desk, Abârzadan left the study in its current state of disarray and hurried down the curving set of stairs outside the room. He pulled on a light coat, strapped on a pair of boots, and grabbed a short knife from the countertop. He then made for the door, but paused; surveying the symbol of the House of Batânzâira as he had done so many times before. The one thing the man wished more than anything was to bring pride back to his family's name, which had been diminished for many years. Perhaps this very trip will help you to reach that goal. With that final, optomistic thought, Abârzadan tucked the knife into his belt and left the house, locking the door behind him. One could never be to sure, these days.

__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ ___


Abârzadan had reached the house. It was a fair distance from his own, but the man was far from tired; hours of endurance training had made him surprisingly immune to exhaustion. Looking around, he noticed a large set of stables; obviously, Abârpânarú was a lover of horses. Abârzadan walked quickly up the stone steps and took hold of the bronze knocker; pounding several times on the heavy wooden door. He waited, and it eventually opened, revealing a woman who had a distraught look in her tired eyes. "Who are you," she said curtly. Knowing that his unexpected arrival deserved such a remark, Abârzadan merely smiled and asked, "Is Abârpânarú Karíbzîr here? I would like to speak with him."

The woman's look darkened. "Abârpânarú is not here as this time. May I ask who you are, and why you are interested."

So, it was this man that was taken. Abârzadan scrambled for a reason to be at his house, and then remembered the stables. "My name is Abârzadan Batânzâira. I used to sell horses to Abârpânarú. Good business partner. Recently, I have heard rumors that something might have happened to him. I came here hoping to find that I had been misled...

The woman paused, and slowly her suspicious look faded. "Please, come inside, Abârzadan. My name is Inzillomí; Abârpânarú is my husband." Abârzadan followed her into the house, hoping that the mystery might finally be solved.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô waited as Inzillomí went to answer the door. Things did seem to be developing rather quickly since he had arrived. He was worried for her and hoped that the King’s men would do her no harm. He could not imagine what it must be like for her to leave her home and travel east while her husband lay bound in chains. His thoughts wandered to his own wife on the ship who eagerly awaited his return. If her life was in peril, he would do everything in his power to save her, no matter what the consequences. Azarmanô vowed that he would try his utmost to ensure the prisoner’s freedom and safety. He knew that the mission must not fail, if Abârpânarú was to survive the bloody blade of Sauron.

Inzillomí returned leading a strange man with shoulder length dirt colored hair and large blue eyes. Startled by the unexpected appearance of a newcomer, Azarmanô stood up, hastily straightening his lax frame. The Captain did not remember the man from any of his missions, nor could he remember him from any of the meetings of the Faithful. Although they hoped for men to go on the rescue mission, he personally did not feel comfortable asking a complete stranger, not with all the questions that he had. Who was the intruder, and why was he here? His ready explanation had come off his tongue too glibly.

The man’s hair looked greasy and ruffled, as if he had not combed it for days. He carried himself with a hint of arrogance, a trait that Azarmanô did not regard with fondness. Although suspicious of the stranger, he did not think it wise to do anything further now. This was not his house; it would not be proper for him to welcome the guest with a series of piercing questions. Lady Inzillomí, Azarmanô reasoned, must have trusted him enough to let him in. Still, this thought did not greatly ease his misgivings; the king’s agents lurked everywhere nowadays, and many were well disguised. For now, Azarmanô bowed politely toward the guest, slowly and deliberately, while reminding himself that his bow and knife were nearby if he needed them.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion stood in the corner of the small room, with his eyes fixed on the newcomer. The man stood near the door, his large blue eyes darting side to side like wolf on the hunt.

He looked nervous, standing like that, gnawing on a misshapen bottom lip, but he had an air of arrogance surrounding him that Marsillion found disconcerting. That lip, Marsillion thought to himself. I have seen this man before. But where?

Marsillion had a great deal of trust and respect for Inzillomi, but he would not stand by while this potentially dangerous stranger stood unexplained in his family's home. He stepped forward into the light, in full view of the stranger for the first time. He stood as tall and wide as he could, intentionally showing his muscular frame to the slightly smaller man. In this moment Marsillion first noticed the youth written across this face. This man is no older than I, he thought, yet he is scarred as if from battle. What weapons might he be carrying now, I wonder. Marsillion felt the reassuring feel of cold metal on his lower calf. He could pull his ivory handled dagger from his boot in an instant, if need required it.

The stranger stared at Marsillion. The two pairs of improbably blue eyes locked. Marsillion thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in those eyes. Aye! We have met before, Marsillion assessed stepping forward. But this man is not a friend.

Having made the impression he had hoped for, Marsillion deemed it time for questions. “Stranger,” he spoke as deeply as he could, “what brings you here in this most perilous time?” Marsillion regretted those last words. I have given to much away already! I must be more careful.

“That is not the formal greeting I might have expected,” the stranger said in a flat, unconcerned tone. “I am Abarzadan, of the house of Batanzira. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“I have,” Marsillion stated, trying his best to sound unimpressed. “There were many of that house in the east at one time,” said Marsillion, in an attempt to demonstrate that he was well schooled, as well as well built.

“There were,” Abarzadan restated. Marsillion caught the faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, the first hint of emotion he had given. “As for what brings me here, as I have already told the lady of the house, I came to investigate rumors that reached my ears these past days. Rumors telling of the capture of an old business partner, Abârpânarú Karíbzîr .”

Marsillion was not satisfied with the answer. “You say you know my uncle through business, do you,” his eyes again locked with those of the young man. Marsillion had a gift for reading eyes. He had developed it durring his time in Middle Earth. He had read the eyes of wizened old kings, he could certainly read Abarzadan's.

“I do indeed,” Abarzadan spoke abruptly. His face remained impassive, but as he spoke his eyes darted quickly from side to side. Too quickly. He is lying, or giving a half truth. “You dealt in horses with my uncle then,” Marsillion spoke softly, feigning understanding.

Abarzadan appeared to relax slighlty, “I did,” was his reply.

“Repeatedly I assume,” Marsillion said flatly, nailing Abarzadan down.

“More than once, yes.”

“Then I am sure you would recognize Abarpanaru's stable master, for he accompanies my uncle on all his business ventures,” Marsillion stated with growing volume. He wanted to make sure all in the room could hear him. “The man I speak of stands in this room now. Please identify him if you would.”

Marsillion's trap was set, but the outcome was still in question. Marsillion judge Abarzadan to be arrogant, and proud. If correct he had no doubt the man would overlook Tiru, and choose Captain Azarmano. Marsillion waited briefly while Abarzadan surveyed the two men.


Himaran's Post

"Please identify him if you would."

A cleverly laid trap. But I have not fallen into it just yet. Abarzadan smiled casually, and glanced around the room; trying his best not to show the inward fear circumventing his heart. Slow down! If he were to get out of this one, it would have to be by sheer luck - Abarzadan had never seen any of these people, let alone Abârpânarú himself. He decided to stall for time. "It was quite a few years back since the last trade we made - and people change over the years. Now let me see..." He kept looking, judging each guest individually.

There were several men and women standing or sitting around the room, carrying on personal coversations but secretly listening since Marsillion's loud outburst. Abarzadan used this to his advantage; as the words "stable master" left the accuser's lips, one man in the room shifted and turned his head. He was small, quite small, and of a wirey frame. Surely one such as Abârpânarú would not have had this undersized and unattractive man as his stable master; that position would require one of greater social stature. A field hand, maybe, but not one with authority. Perhaps, though, that was what Marsillion wanted him to think. The man was clever indeed.

Abarzadan's gaze then shifted to another man. This one, in comparision to the other, was tall and strong; with fair features. Surely this one would be more fitting for the role of a stable master than any in this room. He opened his mouth to give an answer in this effect and then stopped - what was he doing? Going against his first insticts, and using the belief system of his father to judge others (that only those of the right physical attributes could ever lead), would not win this battle of wits. The one that moved had to be the one discussed; it was that simple. Why can't you accept that?

Putting on the best face he could, Abarzadan chuckled openly, having made his decision. "A strange request, Marsillion, a strange one indeed. However, why keep you in suspense? The man you refer to is that one there, although his name escapes me. Perhaps now I can give you a riddle, just to keep things fair..." He waited for Marsillion's reaction. The man seemed to grimace, and than caught himself.

"That is he, Abarzadan - his name is Tiru. Come, we must now discuss this matter with the others, for time is short." As he moved off, however, Abarzadan caught a glimpse of lingering distrust in his eye. You're in deep now; and there is no going back...

[Meneltarmacil]

Having been briefed on where to go for more information, Thoronmir saddled his horse and rode off. He reached Abârpânarú’s house after a short time. Upon entering, he found that everyone appeared to be worried about a man who had just arrived.

Thoronmir recognized him as someone he'd seen before from time to time, although the only thing he knew was that the man did not support the king and was suspicious of most people.

“I wouldn't worry too much about this man. I don't know him that well, but I can tell you he's no friend of the King,” Thoronmir said.

“Council member Sakaladûn?” he asked, eyeing Thoronmir suspiciously. “I had always heard you were going to be executed. Is that really you?”

“I was lucky enough to have good connections elsewhere,” Thoronmir explained, though the other man still did not appear to trust him. “So what is going on here?” Thoronmir addressed everyone else, whom he mostly knew already. “I heard a little about the situation earlier, but I still don’t know exactly how everything happened.”

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî’s face burned at Ziraphel’s less than gentle rebuke. It was her father who had been captured by the King’s Men. And she had been there to witness it. She knew well her mother’s fear and her responsibility, and it shamed her to be thought ungrateful and childish. Yet she would never leave her father to the mercies of Sauron while she sailed to safety with Inzillomí’s kin.

As her thoughts slowed, she watched the men assembling in her mother’s sitting room. She kept in the background, letting Inzillomí and Marsillion do most of the talking, but she watched attentively as each of the men came in, all drawn by the news of her father’s capture. Here was Tiru, faithful Tiru, and a handsome blonde man who must be Azarmanô, the captain often sent by Elendil with tidings from Rómenna.

Next to enter was a stranger who gave his name as Abârzadan of the House of Batânzâira, who had traded horses with her father. Abârpânarú had bought and sold Karibi from many different men, so it was no surprise to Kâthaanî that she didn’t recognize this one. Marsillion’s reaction, however, surprised her greatly. Her tall cousin stiffened and his eyes narrowed.

Last to join the assembled crowd was Thoronmir. The lanky man was familiar to Kâthaanî, he had been a frequent presence in the Karíbzîr house for years; and as one who was sometimes with Elendil, Kâthaanî had always looked forward to his visits. She loved to hear him tell about her grandfather and her tall uncles Isildur and Anarion. Thoronmir also seemed surprised by the presence of Abârzadan, but he greeted him cordially if a little hesitantly and took a seat close to Ziraphel.

Gazing silently at the group, Kâthaanî realized that here were five able men; all of whom, despite the latent tension between them, seemed willing to act to save Abârpânarú. Drawing a deep breath, Kâthaanî stood.

“As my mother has said she will have no man bound to do what he would not freely do, I say this: I will ride to find my father, and I know that with me, my cousin Nimilroth will go. Any man who will ride with me I will have as companion.” She turned to her mother. “I know you would have me stay, mother. But were our places exchanged, you know that Abârpânarú would ride to rescue me. I can do no less.” The sound of astonished men shifting uncomfortably in their chairs filled the room. Marsillion stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. Kâthaanî closed her eyes and waited.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan wandered aimlessly through the streets of Armenelos. All around him, people were going about their daily tasks; plainly clad residents pushed their carts, sold their wares, and scolded their children (when such action was necessary). The man paused often to admire the rich architecture of the buildings he passed by, gazing in awe at the towering structures. So this was the place of beauty and tranquility that his father had pleaded with him to seek. The meandering tourist could not help but speculate that the display of anger he and the others had witnessed toward Inzillomi - a member of the Faithful - had been an isolated incident involving few misguided zealots. Surely there was no hatred to be found amongst the ordinary citizens of the magnificient Numenorian civilization. After all, they saw her as the wife of a dangerous criminal, not as the kind and gentle woman that she had turned out to be.

Then Abarzadan saw something that did not fit with his current take on the city. A young boy, not more than four years of age, was walking near him. The child was skinny, almost dangerously so, and very ill-clad. He was caring a box of small trinkets for sale, and shouted out to anyone who would listen to "c'mere and buy s'mthin!" Everyone else merely looked past him, but not Abarzadan. He caught the boy by the shoulder, stopped him, and started picking through the wares. His right hand lifted out a small wooden carviture. It was a man on horseback, dressed in military garb, wielding a deadly battle axe. For all the man knew, it could have been his father. Choking back the oncoming rush of tears, he payed double the price for the figurine and sent the now smiling salesboy on his way. What sort of family would send their infant out on the streets just to make a dime? His father had certainly never done so, but then, they were well off. Was there really such poverty here? Shaken up by the encounter, Abarzadan walked over to a nearby bench in the center of the square and sat down.

"That was very kind of you."

The voice was smooth and melodious. Abarzadan looked up to find a young, well dressed woman sharing the bench. She had a beautiful face, and the wide smile only made it more exquisite. He was too stunned to speak, so she spoke again. "He comes here every day, on his way through the city. Most people just ignore him; tourists certainly do."

In the pause that followed, the man once again could not think of anything to say. "Thank you," he mumbled, but here merry laughter drained the embarressment from his face, and he could not help but smile too.

"So, do you live in the city?" she asked.

The man thought for a moment, eventually deciding to just be honest. "I was born here, but my father and I left when I was young. It has changed so much since then that I don't recognize a thing. It seems so young and fresh and active."

The woman nodded sagely. "Yes, Armenelos in indeed a wonderful place to live. And what might your name be, good sir?"

Without even thinking of the possible consequences, he spat out "Abârzadan Batânzâira."

Her eyes were dull for a moment, and then lit up brightly. "My father used to do business with a man named Batânzâira. It was a long time ago, though, and I don't recall his first name. I was young at the time, you see. But I have forgotten my manners! My name is Ellinel."

Abarzadan was suddenly exciting. The prospect of meeting an affluent friend of his father was both intriguing and exhilerating. Perhaps he could start over after all. Pushing the nagging feeling of guilt - that of betraying the group he had set out with - from his mind, he asked another question. "Dear Ellinel, could you take me to visit your father? I am Batânzâira's son and sole heir, as he has recently passed away. If what you say is true, your father and I may have some loose ends that need to be tied up."

The deep smile only grew wider. "But of course, Abârzadan Batânzâira. Our place is just to the south of here."

Suddenly, there was a slight tremor in the earth. Everyone in the marketplace slowed, steadied themselves, and waited. When it had passed, they continued on their way, oblivious of the disaster to come.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Khônarû looked worriedly at his charge as their group stopped to rest their horses for a moment. He touched her white face lightly and it was cold. She moaned slightly, pulling away from the warmth of his hand. Her bandages were red with her blood. He called to one of his men, interrupting the big soldier's quiet conversation. Though the man was large and imposing, he moved as silently as a shadow, though very little could be heard over the whipping winds that pulled at them ceaselessly.

"Urugnardu," he spoke as quietly as he could, avoiding letting his men see his speech. "Lord Elendil's grandchild is failing. What are your thoughts?"

The man looked at his commander, unsure. "Sir?" he asked.

"Times are not what they once were," Khônarû responded, looking to the blackened sky and gesturing to the rain as it fell past them to land on the delicately shivering earth. "We are leaving this land, my friend. I would like much to leave it with our commander's grandchild aboard the ship and healing. As it is... I will admit to not being certain of the proper action. Though it is not your position, I note that you are a dab hand as a healer. I would appreciate your input, as you know more than I. Do we press to the harbor and hope that she holds on... or do we halt and let her pass peacefully..."

The soldier looked to his captian, unsure of how to respond. The lady Kâthaanî, though not well known, was well loved for who she was. Her position alone as the grand daughter of Elendil and the child of Mabalar Mellothroch and Lothlómë was itself worthy of consideration, and yet Elendil's men were fond of her for her own temperment. Urugnardu went to the lass and examined her carefully. Her breathing was slow, faint. Though the horses that her hammock was bound to fidgeted, she did not respond to the motion. Urugnardu was not happy with the blood that continued to stain her bandages. He could not be certain if its spread had been encouraged by the rain and the wet cloth, but it did not look promising.

"My lord," he turned to Khônarû. "the choice seems this: we ride on with hope or we halt without it. I do not believe that the lady or her family would approve of us losing faith at this point... what will happen to our lady will happen, whether we wait for it or no. If we ride on, it will mean that we have not yet given up."

Khônarû looked at his soldier intently for a moment, squinting against the rain that pelted his face. Why he had never promoted the man before he could not be certain... He would... if there was time. "That was well spoken." he replied softly. Urugnardu read the words on his lips as no sound was audible. "Rally the men. We will ride on."