Escape from Nurn RPG

[Envinyatar]

‘We should not linger,’ said Rhûnnaro as he wiped off his blade on the leg of his breeches. ‘There are many miles left before we reach Minas Tirith. Tenzin and Turos see to the wounds of the others. Dôranna help if you can. Pick up the scattered weapons and secure them to one of the horses. Lanbriel, help me carry Desolyn to the other grave you have dug. We will cover it with stones before we leave to mark that they fell in battle. The dead hunters we’ll pile in the middle of the clearing and burn.’

He wrapped one end of each of the two lengths of hair he had taken with strips of leather and affixed them to the shaft ends of two spears. At the head of each grave he drove the points hard into the ground. They fluttered in the breeze like banners over the graves of fallen warriors, marking where the brave had fallen in battle, the victory secured.

Wood was piled on the two bodies of the dead Hunters and set alight. In the grim dancing light of the flames as it licked at the corpses, Rhûnnaro brought round the horses urging them all to mount. Fionel rode with Tenzin, his arm around her waist as she sat before him. Lanbriel, Dôranna, Santiara, and Turos each had the luxury of their own mount.

Tenzin and Fionel led the way, while Rhûnnaro followed closely on the group’s heels. ‘Just a short ride over the spine of these hills,' he called out to them, 'then we will head west to the crossing at Poros over the Great River, and North. Your new life is just ahead. Ride on, as free people . . .’

[piosenniel]

Gorothlammothiel’s post

Hours had passed since the slaves had escaped them yet Shivana and Ekatran still lay bound. Both had limited mobility thanks to the tightly knotted cloth binds and their life was slowly draining away from them as quickly as the night was creeping up on day.

Ekatran stared into the burning pyre - the bright flames reflecting in his gaze. A slight gust of wind caught a flame and sent a smoking ember across in the hunter’s direction landing on Ekatran's forearm, burning black his tanned skin. He winced at the smell of burnt flesh. Two hunters lay within those flames and Ekatran grew angry at their deaths at the hands of the 'weak' slaves that they had been pursuing. Their passing, however, did not infuriate the Lord of Nurn so much as the betrayal of one of his own - Rhunnaro.

The balance had already been in the slaves favour after Rhunnaro's disappearance and Ranchards, 'departure'. Ekatran sighed heavily at the realization of the irony now apparent over Ranchard and all thier fates. Had he and Shivana not killed Ranchard, perhaps their current situation would not of resulted the way it had.

That thought gave Ekatran all the determination he needed. It wasn't the fact that the slaves has escaped, for several had fallen which was victory enough to return to Nurn without answering questions, but the fact hat he had lost one of his own men to the slaves infuriated him so much that he 'crawled' across the dusty and bloodstained floor.

Reaching a small blade, Ekatran managed to cut the binds around his arms then quickly moved to untie those around his feet. Rubbing at his wrists his eyes caught a flicker of the pyre reflected in the blade of a sword, still lying on the ground some distance away. Still weary, he crawled over to it, pushing broken spears from the battle aside as he went. He lifted it and gripped it tightly at the hilt. He studied it closely. It wasn't his sword, it was Rhunnaro's.

Climbing to his feet and staggering, he swung the sword heavily across the the two 'banners' of spears and his and Shivana's hair, letting out a cry of anger as he brought them to the ground.

Shivana stirred. She seemed to be waking from a temporary, and recent, state of unconsciousness. Still bound, she sat herself up and looked upon the scene, and then onto Ekatran. He walked over to her and cut her arms and legs free from the bonds, then placed the blade in the empty scabbard at his side. Shivana tried to stand but promptly fell back to the floor. She had sustained more injury from the battle than he had. "My Lord," she said coarsely as she gasped for breath and swallowed hard, "we have not failed, slaves may have escaped but some died at our hands." She pointed to the cairn.

But there was no consoling the Lord Ekatran. "Nay Shivana, some lay dead indeed but so do our own!" She shook her head, "Nay Lord" but he continued, "and Ranchard and Rhunnaro?!" his voice now a shout. His anger however was no longer registering with Shivana. She was gasping for air as she lay almost motionless, dying.

Ekatran did nothing but watch as she took her last breaths and then the darkness took her. He closed her eyelids the stood and walked back from the last of his company. "She died in the thought that we were victorious in battle, but I shall not have that fate, no, mine is to be prolonged and full of torment and shame."

With that, Ekatran left the body of Shivana, the pyre and the cairn, and headed away from the battle scene towards Nurn, by foot. It was some days before Nurn was within his sights once more, but at last he could see his kingdom. The sun was high in the sky beaming down into the fields where slaves were at work. His home in sight and yet Ekatran found he could move no further.

He was weary indeed. Several days by foot with no water, but he had survived. Yet now just a few steps away from his home he fell to the ground, his face in his hands. He looked up and ran his fingers over the cloth at his face. That which the slave had tied around his cuts, forgotten until now.

"If I were to return now" he spoke as if to those he hunted with, "I would surely be shamed. To return alone would let everyone see how I had failed the hunt. The slaves would discover that and revolt against my house." He spoke quickly now, a phase of madness taking him. "No, no" he cried ripping the rag from his face, wincing in pain as the blood ran from the wounds which had scabbed through the thin woven material. "Nurn will not fall! When I don't return, no one will know the truth and a new lord named. Nurn will continue and I remain Lord Ekatran. This years hunt won't be remembered as a failure but shall be a legend, yes, yes..."

Under the heat of the sun Ekatran took Rhunnaro's blade from the scabbard at his side and stared upon it. "Rhunnaro" his voice grew low and concentrated, "you are the only one now who could reveal the truth so that it would be believed by my house. Dare you not return to Nurn during my exile." Then he paused. A thought crept across his mind and his eyes narrowed. "Yes" he whispered, "I shall not face exile, no, I will die at your hand and be found by my people. The wounds to my face shall show our battle. On your return you shall be punished for your treason and I will remain Nurn's Lord, in both legend and truth!"

With that, Ekatran thrust the heavy blade hard into his stomach. A crimson river flowed hard from him and he fell, withdrawing the blade and letting it fall from his weakening grasp at his side. He smiled, though writhing in pain, and kicked some dirt to partially cover Rhunnaro's blade. His last moment of energy was spent wiping the now steady flow of blood from the seven wounds on his face, from his mouth, then with one last cry, it ended.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the Archer's post
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Epilogue

The young woman sat in front of the fire, her arms wrapped around her knees in a childlike manner, the fire’s bright flames lighting her face with their warmth. The logs burnt beneath it, and for some reason, the young woman found herself remembering a time when life had not been so comfortable, and the fire that had burnt in front of her eyes had been different; the fire that burnt the bodies of those who had hunted her. For some reason, in that evening, staring into the fire, the young woman found herself taken back to that time, and all the memories with it…

They had indeed ridden to Minas Tirith. With every step the stolen horse beneath her had taken, Fionel’s heart seemed to grow lighter. Behind her lay Nurn, and all its harsh memories of cruelty and pain, with all the lost hopes of her childhood. But these hopes could come alive once more…

“Sometimes freedom has its price.”

The words Desolyn had spoken so soon before her death came back to Fionel, and she remembered how the girl had smiled as she said it. Smiled. Even as she knew she was dying. Fionel remembered her first glance of Desolyn, lying on her front in the hut, her back laced with fresh whip lashes, after another of her escape attempts.

“This is the sixth time you’ve tried to escape, Desolyn. The sixth! Honestly, I-"

“But I was so close this time, Meia, so close! If I were just a few paces ahead of them, I would’ve been free!”

“Oh, free this and free that. That’s all you ever talk about!”

The first words Fionel had heard her say to her friend. She finally had her freedom, but at such a high price. And Haven, the young nursemaid- she had paid as well, having been caught in such a position that she could not ever truly be free or happy, ever wishing to be back, among the smiling, innocent children of those who would hunt her and kill her, those who had, in the long run, taken away what chance she might have had of having children herself. So much love and turmoil had been in that young heart, for her flame of life to be put out at such an early age laid her to rest. The two little mounds had seemed so small, but the banner that flew over them was still victorious, driven in by a man who had fought for a people who were not his own, for a small band of six women and one man to whom all other hope had been destroyed.

The young woman smiled as she remembered that man, his weathered face bright as he had driven the points of those spears into the ground above the mounds. He had taken her to Rhun, taken her to a new life…

But her other companions came also to mind. Dôranna, the brave elven woman who had spent lifetimes in captivity, in the confines of Nurn, whose kin had not come looking for her…but still she had not given up hope. She had still believed that the time would come when she would be able to return to her beloved, the elf she had left behind so many years ago, who she remembered only with a thin, silver chain and a small dagger, who was the reason she clung to this life, in the hope that she would escape and return to him. When they had reached the fine, stone city of Minas Tirith, the elf had turned her horse away and, with a quiet smile, she had slipped away, her memory still holding onto that route down the old roads and rivers, to the citadel of Imladris, where her hope may have waited. Since then, Fionel had heard nothing from her, but knew that Dôranna would have found more happiness among her people than she had had in many lifetimes of men.

But others she had kept contact with. Lanbriel, the sweet and brave young woman, who had come also from the villages surrounding Gondor. She had stayed for a while in the region of Rhun, but had soon carried out her wish to travel, to see the world which had been kept from her for those years in slavery. Unlike Fionel, she had not been taken so early in her life that family would not remember her- with the blessing of all those who had come out of Nurn, Lanbriel had set off towards Gondor, to the small village from which she had originally come. Santiara had come with her, for she too had come from that region, and although she had been a slave for six years, her parents’ families still dwelt there, and the eighteen year old Santiara might still be remembered, although she had changed much now in six years. Besides, she and Lanbriel had become closer, their friendship becoming stronger until they were more like sisters. Strange how their cruel pasts could bring them together, but Fionel did not doubt that in their futures would be far different. She, like Doranna, had borne slavery quietly, but in the time of battle had shone bravely. Fionel had wished them both luck and now, seven years later, contact was still kept through occasional letters, passing through visitors to Nurn in a leisurely way, and in the most recent, Fionel had been gratified to know that not long ago, Lanbriel had given birth to her first child, a daughter, who she had called Haven.

Turos too had come to Rhun, but, unlike the two women, he had stayed. The friendship and trust between Turos and Rhunnaro had strengthened, and the pair would trust each other with their lives now, just as they had so long ago, when Turos had been the bait on which the fine thread of the Rhunnaro’s plan lay. The young man would ever remain crippled, but with the help of Rhunnaro and Tenzin, his leg was getting better. Although it would never truly heal, soon he would be able to walk with the help of one stick only occasionally. Rhunnaro had returned to the home of his family, to the wife who had thought he would never return and the children who had grown up in his absence, but, despite his apprehension as they had neared his old home, this surprise had caused his welcome to be even warmer. Turos now lived in his home, for the first time a friend in a household rather than a slave, but he had adapted well to the new lifestyle, and Fionel often saw him, still quiet and withdrawn but full of stories with which he delighted the children.

The children…

“Dad, don’t!” A shriek and a giggle. Fionel turned to see Lyn coming down the stairs. Her eldest daughter’s full name was, of course, actually Desolyn, and it seemed that in her energy and vivid passion for everything, Fionel’s friend lived on. She was pursued by two other people, one of whom was Fionel’s other child, a son, his dark hair already tied up in a stubby ponytail at the back of his head, his brown eyes bright and excited as he chased his big sister, on whom he doted. Named after his father of course.

“I’ll catch you yet, Lyn!”

Fionel turned fully at the sound of the man’s voice, jokily chasing his daughter. As he came through the door, he scooped up Desolyn, holding her up high and swinging her around, making her shriek again. He laughed with her, then, hugging her tightly, he put her back down, stroking her light brown curls which were more like her mother’s than her father’s, and which made her distinctly different from her little brother, but she was still her father’s little girl, who he adored.

As he put down his daughter, Tenzin looked up to see the young woman sitting by the fire as she turned to smile at him. His excited expression softened slightly to become more like the quiet, calm young man who Fionel had first known when fleeing from Nurn, for he had come out of himself and become so animated and full of life since their daughter was born, only a year after they came to Rhun, just eleven months since Fionel announced publicly, as was the tradition of Rhun, that he would marry her. As Desolyn and their little son chased each other away, Tenzin came to stand beside his wife. He stroked her loose, light brown hair, as he had their daughter, then ran his hand down the side of her face. Fionel leant into his hand and as it came to her chin, she looked up at him and, as he leant down, kissed him tenderly on the lips. As she looked up, her eyes also caught the sword which hung above the fireplace, where Fionel had insisted it stayed. It had been the first weapon she had ever used, and with it she had fought for her life and her friends, but more than that, it was a reminder of her companions, alive and dead, who had fought with her. Tenzin followed her gaze and smiled, kissing her again.

“It is past, Fionel.” He murmured. “You were thinking about all of it, weren’t you?”

She nodded, but didn’t speak immediately. He carried on.

“Nurn will not change you any more.”

She smiled back up at her husband again, and he knelt by her side, his arm around her. She stared into the fire, then fixed her eyes on her husband, taking his dark hand in her slim one, now healed from their wounds from those years of slavery. “Nurn made me who I was. It changed my life. It brought me to you.” She leant her head against her husband’s shoulder, nestling into it lovingly, and he rested his head against hers as she whispered the next part of her reply.

“And I don’t regret a bit of it.”