Númenórean Blood Runs Black Planning/Discussion Thread - Page 5 - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Folwren · 10-13-2005, 08:00 AM

Pio,

My ship's name is going to be Cuivië, and the sword, though it doesn't have to be placed on the Discussion thread, is Gayaros.

-- Folwren

Thinlómien · 10-13-2005, 08:24 AM

I'll actually post my first post tomorrow, because I would like to read Kath's first post before writing my own and I'm a bit in a hurry, because I have to clean my room and study spanish today...

And if there's someone who's confused with my gender (for I know some people were in WWJ and in How do you imagine other BDrs -threads), I'm a she.

piosenniel · 10-13-2005, 08:46 AM

Bringing this forward:

Character/Player List

Gondorian Forces

First Ship -- The Cuivië

King Telumehtar Umbardacil – The Perky Ent
Advisor/Record Keeper to the King – Menelcar – Firefoot
Sea Captain - Captain Hereric - Folwren

~*~

Second Ship -- The Ráca

Captain - Captain Mirimon Vórimandur - Alcarillo
Soldier - Nimir - Dunwen
Soldier - Lingwë - Thinlómien
Soldier - Curamir - Kath

--------------------

Corsair Forces

Ship -- The Fame and Fortune

Lord of Umbar - Azaryan – Hiriel
Lord of Umbar - Sangalazin - Anguirel
Corsair Captain - Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (Rakin) - Amanaduial the archer
Slave - Ferethor Steele – Eorl of Rohan
Slave - Jagar - dancing spawn of ungoliant
Slave - Chakka - Fordim Hedgethistle

Kath · 10-13-2005, 12:00 PM

POSTED TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO

Aye Eorl my name is short for Katherine, and Eorl is a male name! Eorl of Rohan - come on! Anyway as to your comments.

Quote:

Er, your mother was a manic depressive (I did mention that in the post I showed you, I think.) and Fere hardly ever showed up at home, so, a happy childhood? Not likely..

No, I want a happy childhood. They would not have married if they were that screwed up and I only have 3 years so leave them alone! Ferethor can have gone crazy after his wife died can't he?

Quote:

Mother died soon after childbirth, that is why you only remember your dad, and the reason that after Ferethor's disappearance you were sent off to your only surviving relative, your grandfather.

There, Ferethor would have had to be at home now wouldn't he? But I'll edit the childbirth bit in.

Quote:

As you wish. Specifics would be nice.

Building, neigbourliness - it just seemed silly to put it in, I assumed you'd understand sorry.

Quote:

Who'd say that is a liar. True, Ferethor did love your character, but he was the kind of person who'd die with mortification if anyone, and that includes you, ever thought that he felt any kind of affection toward anything at all. He'd never have let his feelings show in front of anyone else... Except for his drinking partners. That's one weakness of his. He talks when he drinks, and so the people at the tavern might know.

Ok so I've spoken to some of his drinking buddies, they'd still live there.

Yay! You're learning to use commas!
Ha ha ha

Thinlomien my post will be up soon but I have to eat first!

EDIT: Here it is

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Kath's character

NAME: Curamir

AGE: 17

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He always carries a small dagger, as it was a present from his father when he was very young. He has used it as a hunting knife for many years and treats it almost as a good luck charm, sure of success if he hunts with it, which he hopes will apply for fighting as well. He also carries a rather battered though perfectly good sword. His family is not rich so he did as many odd jobs as possible for the people in his town and used the money he got from that to obtain an acceptable sword. Both sword and dagger are kept in sheaths on his belt, the sword on the left hand side and the dagger on the right. For armour he wears that which he was given when he joined the army. He has the helmet with its protective cheek and nose guards, a leather jerkin with the Tree of Gondor on it and a chainmail shirt.

APPEARANCE: He has dark hair that resists even the most persistant sun and hangs to his shoulders when loose, so he usually has it tied back out of the way. His eyes are dark but it is difficult to determine the colour as they change with shifting light and emotions. He is tall at 6 foot two and always carries himself to his full height. He has a strong build developed from years of working to repair buildings and helping with the farming in his area, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has proud features, but thanks to his height and almost regal way of carrying himself they suit him and he does not look cruel. His skin is naturally pale but years of working outside have tanned him to a light brown pretty much all over. Being proud of his uniform he wears it almost constantly, and merely exchanges his jerkin and chainmail for a shirt if he wishes to appear in civilian clothing.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: He is very friendly and makes friends at the drop of a hat, having an easy confidence about him. He is honest and well mannered, without much of a temper to him. He tends to think clearly and logically, though in the heat of the moment his tongue may get the better of him. Having been the man of the household for most of his life he can seem older than his years, but he is still a child and if things don't go the way he expects or wants he can sometimes behave like one, though his army training has helped with this a great deal. He is eager and willing to learn, so he studies and practises hard, gaining his skills with relative ease. Though he has no particular speciality in any kind of fighting, he is good at all the basic skills and shows great potential as a swordsman. He does become very engrossed in things he cares about, and this can sometimes cause a problem as he does not notice the effect his relentlessness can have on others.

HISTORY: Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something.

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Kath's post

Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up.

He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk.

“Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!”

And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter.

“Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end.

“Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!”

“If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation.

Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of.

They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in.

“Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!”

Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed.

“Another time, perhaps”

“When we come back.” Answered Lingwë.

They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

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Ok Thinlomien let me know if you want anything changed since I have used you character through this.

~*~

NOTE: Let me know when you're done editing this post and I'll transfer it to the discussion thread. ~*~ Pio

Eorl of Rohan · 10-14-2005, 04:05 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fordim Hedgethistle

One other point: I don't think that there would be "shifts" or "quarters" for the slaves -- historically, at least, slaves would spend their lives chained to their oars. They would eat, sleep, everything right there on the slavedeck. Once in a while they would be released to go up on deck and exercise, but that's it.

Please note: As His Royal Perkiness has decreed that there shall be no shifts, so I adhere to his wishes. However, I am merely stating the facts here.

Here I am forced to disagree. In fact, I don't think the 'historical facts' that you put up with such assurance is actually real. The popular perception of galley slave's life derives from twopenny novels and movies, I'm afraid, contrary to reality, reason, and common sense. Think about it.

Galleys, especially pirate ships, have to be constantly on the move. For instance, who would row while the slaves are sleeping? For sleep they must, if they are men. Every second is precious in battle and few hours of the ship being immobile would be disasterous. If it is discovered suddenly and pursued, and the slaves were sleeping, there would be no time to wake the slaves, and even if it could be done quickly, they would be so tired from the day's work that they would be of little use. Also, what of excretion? Yes, slaves do have needs, although the romance novels do not dwell on the fact. How would they excrete if they do everything chained to the decks, sleeping and eating and everything else? Of course, they could do it there, but corsairs are not so stupid as to allow that and yet contagion wipe them all out on the high seas. Then? Would they be all released at the same time to go to the washroom? But then, they easily risk an insurrection. Not only that, rowing is a harder work than people imagine - I am not telling you that it is impossible for a grown man to row eighteen hours a day, under extreme restraints, merely that it is NOT efficient. You row for more than a few hours, your limbs cramp and harden, your muscles protest, and despite the threat of the whip hanging over your head, the repetitive work saps your strength, so that by the end of the day, however much you try, you can't row with one-third of the power that you started out with. Of course the pirates have no mercy, but they have cunning enough to know this, see? Shifts are the natural solution to all these problems. Where in 'history' was it said otherwise?

Please Note Again: I would have sent this through PM, but Fordim said something about needing to tell this on the thread to make everything clear to others.

Note #3: Yes, I am prone to delivering long rants and getting excited over every small thing, but this doesn't mean that I think any less of the other - actually, I admire Fordim very much.

Eorl of Rohan · 10-14-2005, 04:15 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Firefoot

So, Eorl, you are a she? And on the topic of genders... I don't think there's anyone on this thread who has my gender confused, but I am a she.

Er, does this mean that you thought I was a boy? But then, I thought you were a boy, too...

Quote:

Originally Posted by Folwren

Eorl, you're a she?! Man. I thought for the longest time you were a guy. You write like one. Hmph. I'll have to get used to that.

... ...

Okay, now I am mistaken for a boy, and then I sound like a boy, and now I see I write like a boy.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Katherine

Eorl is a male name!

+still defensive+ I like the name! And, er, are you telling me that you thought I was a boy, too?

+applies to Pio and Aman+ You're all past acquaintances - surely you didn't think that I was a male, right? Come on, I don't sound like a male, do I? Come on, tell them.

Thinlómien · 10-14-2005, 08:23 AM

POSTED TO DISCUSSION THREAD ~*~ PIO

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eorl of Rohan

Er, does this mean that you thought I was a boy? But then, I thought you were a boy, too...

... ...

Okay, now I am mistaken for a boy, and then I sound like a boy, and now I see I write like a boy.

+still defensive+ I like the name! And, er, are you telling me that you thought I was a boy, too?

+applies to Pio and Aman+ You're all past acquaintances - surely you didn't think that I was a male, right? Come on, I don't sound like a male, do I? Come on, tell them.

Guess what, Eorl, I thought also that you were a boy.

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Kath, your post is okay with me. I quite liked it

I don't know how this should be done; so I'll continue from where Kath left the story, because it doesn't make sense to me to describe the same things again. So complain, if you need to

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Thinlómien's character

NAME: Lingwë, son of Laurendil

AGE: 20

RACE: gondorian human (with some númenórean blood in his veins)

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Lingwë has a long sword. It's not a very fine or beautiful sword, but well-balanced and well-made. Besides the sword, Lingwë has a spear and bow and arrows.

APPEARANCE: Lingwë is 6'3" tall. He is slim, but muscular because of his soldier training and work.
Lingwë has a long face. His nose is long, straight and quite narrow. His relatively small eyes are in a long distance from each other. He has also quite narrow mouth.
Lingwë's hair is so dark brown that it's nearly black and he has bluegrey eyes. He has quite fair complexion, but he is tanned of spending so much time outdoors.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lingwë is mostly quite quiet and obsersive; he listens more than he speaks. He is usually serious, but likes playing friendly jokes on his friends. He's a bit of a pessimist and has an ironic sense of humour. He is perhaps more mature than many other young men of his age. He is loyal and hard-working and keeps usually the complaints - which he usually has lots of - to himself.

Lingwë is a trained soldier, so he knows how to fight. He is equally good in using sword, spear and bow. Lingwë is an exellent swimmer and diver and can hold his breath for a long time. For his serving time on a ship called Gaerandir he has a bit of seafring skills. He is that much educated that he can read and write.

Lingwë's not very quick-witted and sometimes he might by carried away by such a little things as the cry of seagulls or a beautiful horizon. He has a bit of claustrophobia and dislikes sleeping in such a tiny space belowdecks. It's the thing he hates the most about ships. He has no natural leading skills; he is not charismatic or even empathethic. Some people think that he is cold.

HISTORY: Lingwë was born in autumn of 1789 T.A. He was a strange-looking baby with eyes in a big distance from each other. The midwife playfully called him 'Little Fish'. His parents agreed that their second son looked like a fish and named him 'Lingwë', which means 'fish' in quenya. Later, Lingwë has proved that the name is more than suitable to him; he's an exellent swimmer and diver.

Lingwë's father was a succesful glassblower in Pinnath Gelin and he taught his profession to his elder son. Lingwës mother was a honourable housewife. Because of his father's succes their family was quite rich for an artisan family when Lingwë was a child. Lately, the family has losed much of its wealth because of an competent glassblower who moved to thecity five years ago.

Lingwë was the third child in the family. The eldest child, a daughter, had died right after her birth, so Lingwë had only one elder sibling to couple with. His elder brother Ciryandil, five years his senior, was a real nuisance to him in the days of their childhood. Ciryandil kept telling Lingwë that he was a slimy little fish capable of nothing and made his little brother's life difficult by all means he knew.

Luckily, Lingwë had a little sister, Eärelen, whom he played with. The biggest tragedy of Lingwë's life took place when Eärelen died to a sickness in the age of eleven. Lingwë still remembers his lively little sister with warmth and longing, though she has been dead for seven years.

Lingwë's father wanted his second son to be a soldier, and though Lingwë would have preferred to be a sailor or a clerk, he agreed and was sent to a training camp to Lossarnach. There he studied the arts of war. He received his fighting skills rather by hard work and natural dexterity, strengh and stamina than by being gifted with a blade.

After his training he went to serve as a guard soldier on a merchant ship called The Gaerandir. He served on her half a year until he was sacked because the merchant had had so good fortunes that he could afford hiring more experienced and skilled soldiers.

So Lingwë was very happy, when he was accepted to serve on Ráca, a vessel captained by Vórimandur. He looks forward to this mission in the sake of the king.

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Thinlómien's post

As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see?

He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said.

At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him.

Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship.

"We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out.
"Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.

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**** means the season in which this RPG takes place. I would be glad to know, what is it... I think it isn't mentioned anywhere yet. NOTE: I PUT SUMMER INTO YOUR STARRED BLANK. ~*~ PIO

This is really short. I hope it isn't too short.

Kath, you can tell if you didn't like some parts or you think Curamir acted differently than he should, since I used him here...
_________________________

Eorl of Rohan · 10-14-2005, 09:21 AM

All: Mmf, another assailant. Do people have no honor nowadays? Ganging up on a poor gal like me.

Hehe. Although, I'm pretty sure Aman and Pio did not confuse my gender. I've roleplayed with the former and argued with the latter, both providing an admirable insight into the other, adversary or comrade, and consquently they'd have recognized that I am. not. a. boy. I do not sound like one. I do not look like one. I do not write like one. I do act like one but then that is an exception. Throw me a bone here, sheesh! (In fact, I have no idea what this phrase means. I just wanted to try it out. Hopefully it means "Help me out.")

Pio: While I admit that the total absence of dialogues would be unnatural and quite hard to accomplish, and as the posts cannot be a mere sentence or a sliver of words as would be natural in a dialogure, this was what was confusing to me at first and is still confusing now. Please enlighten me. How is Kath able to make the dialogues of the Thin's character, and how is Fordim able to make up a plan of Aman's character without playing it? How far-reaching is the boundary, at what point would it encroach upon being broken, these are things I still do not understand. And I'd be grateful if you'd tell them that you thought me as a girl from the beginning, although this is not mandatory. (Another of the phrases that I decided to try out. 'although this is not mandatory' is almost always preceded by extremly difficult and high-marked homeworks that our teacher Mr. Kim loves to give out. I think this means "Please", but I'm not sure. Too many fancy language in English.)

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 11:53 AM

Kath and Thinlómien

Your bios and posts look good to me. I've put each bio with your post on this page so I can transfer them to the Discussion Thread.

Just let me know when you feel all your edits to them are complete.

Thinlómien - I've written Perky about the season he wants the game to be played in. I'll let you know when he's replied

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Everyone

About using another person's character in your posts - this is what the Red Book says:

Quote:

[Do not use] someone else's character for specific acts, thoughts, or speeches without their permission. On those rare occasions that you speak for another character, be very careful to do it in a way that does not misrepresent them or do anything significant without the permission of the person who owns that character. (For example, if the entire group is fleeing an enemy, you can say that all the characters are fleeing - which leaves enough room for the individual players to comment on their own characters actions. What you can't do is to say that such and such a character tripped, for example, and the foe was upon them, and fear was in their eyes.)

Simply put: Please play your character realistically and within the boundaries of Middle Earth "reality". Don't act in ways that give you unfair advantages over other players. Don't speak, act, or think for another player's character(s) without consulting them. Concentrate on your own character and how they are reacting to what is happening around them.

Players have the right to request that you modify your post when they feel that their character has been misrepresented or unfairly treated. Game founders and/or moderators will mediate any disagreements.

What this means is that if you need to use a character in a dialog/in a scene:

1.) If it is an extensive use in a long dialog, then you need to put up a SAVE and clear the dialog you intend to write with the other player first.
2.) If it is a few simple responses to a dialog in your post, then you need to put a note on the Discussion Thread that you have used their character and ask there if you have done it in an acceptable manner.
3.) You may NOT have another's character act/react or do something in your post unless either you have requested permission FIRST or it fits into the example quoted above, or the writer has already written that the character is doing such an act.

And - if you do use another's character in your scene, the writer for that character ALWAYS has the right to request an edit and expect the edit to be done.

Some writers don't like their characters written for by anyone else but themselves. Please do respect that preference.

Remember this is a game in which situations are set up for your character to respond and act in the way that you feel he would do so. This is not a cooperatively written fanfiction where everyone can write for the cast of characters in order for the plotline to move along.

Anguirel · 10-14-2005, 12:01 PM

Incidentally, I would point to Aman's use of Sangalazin and Azaryan as a shining example of how to write other people's characters. It was just right...witty, well-done and derived from the character descriptions

Fordim Hedgethistle · 10-14-2005, 02:33 PM

I thought this might be interesting to put up in light of the debate over conditions on the slave vessel:

Quote:

The Huguenots In France and America by Hannah F. Lee
Originally Published Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1843. Pages 132-164

Chapter XXXI, A Huguenot In France Condemned To the Galleys

The description of a galley will be new to many. "Ours was a hundred and fifty feet long and fifty broad, with but one deck, which covered the hold. The deck rises about a foot in the middle, and slopes toward the edges to let the water run off more easily; for when a galley is loaded it seems to swim under the water, and the sea continually rushes over it. To prevent the sea from entering the hold, where the masts are placed, a long case of boards, called the coursier, is fixed in the middle, running from one end of the galley to the other. The slaves, who are the rowers, have each a board raised from the deck under which the water passes, which serves them for a footstool, otherwise their feet would be constantly in the water. A galley has fifty benches for rowers, twenty-five on each side; each bench is ten feet long, one end fixed in the coursier, that runs through the boat, the other in the band or side of the boat; the benches are half a foot thick, and placed at four feet distance from each other, and are covered with sackcloth, stuffed with flock, and a cowhide thrown over them, which, reaching to the footstool, gives them the appearance of large trunks. To these the galley-slaves are chained, six to a bench. The [145] oars are fifty feet long, and are poized in equilibrio upon the apostic, or piece of timber for this purpose. They are constructed so, that the thirteen feet of the oar, that go into the boat, are equal in weight to the thirty-seven which go into the water. It would be impossible for the slaves to grasp them, and handles are affixed for rowing.

"The master or comite stands always at the stern, near the captain, to receive his orders. There are sous-comites, one in the middle and one near the prow, each with a whip of cords to exercise as they see fit on the slaves. The comite blows a silver whistle, which hangs from his neck; the slaves have their oars in readiness and strike all at once, and keep time so exactly, that the hundred and fifty oars seem to make but one movement. There is an absolute necessity for thus rowing together, for, should one be lifted up or fall too soon, those before would strike the oar with the back part of their heads. Any mistake of this kind is followed by blows given with merciless fury. The labor of a galley-slave has become a proverb; it is the greatest fatigue that a man can bear. Six men are chained to each bench on both sides of the coursier wholly naked, sitting with one foot on a block of timber, the other resting on the bench before them, holding in their hands an enormous oar. Imagine them lengthening their bodies, their arms stretched out [146] to push the oar over the backs of those before them; they then plunge the oar into the sea, and fall back into the hollow below, to repeat again and again the same muscular action. The fatigue and misery of their labor seems to be without parallel. They often faint, and are brought to life by the lash. Sometimes a bit of bread dipped in wine is put into their mouths, when their labor cannot for a moment be spared. Sometimes, when they faint, they are thrown into the sea, and another takes the place."

Not nice. The article goes on to describe how slaves would be chained to their oars night and day, and only unchained for the occasional turn of exercise above decks, but usually not even for that.

So I think we need to figure out what's more important to us here: historical accuracy, which would have the slaves in chains all the time, or gaming freedom, which will allow us to have the slaves unchained and at their liberty from time to time so that we can interact with one another a bit more easily.

I think, however, that the idea of "shifts" and "slave quarters" is just not tenable. Aboard a small vessel like the F and F there just is not room for food, water and housing for two crews of slaves.

I would suggest that Perky and Aman decide how they want the ship to be run, and then let us slaves know!

The Perky Ent · 10-14-2005, 02:43 PM

I plan for it to be ...um...for it to be....uh...Summer. Yeah, late summer, early Autumn!

Kath · 10-14-2005, 05:50 PM

Thinlomien your post is fine with me! It was a fun read actually, I wasn't aware we were seeing the king! Oh but what do the four stars mean?

Pio you can put my post up now as Thinlomien has okayed it.

Eorl, yes I thought you were a he for a while but on no account do you intimidate me! What I meant by the silly comment was that it would be silly to describe all the values Curamir had as I thought there was no need. Also,

Quote:

Your post is definitely better than the rought draft.

I had a rough draft? First I've heard of it!

Eorl of Rohan · 10-14-2005, 06:01 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eorl of Rohan

Please note: As His Royal Perkiness has decreed that there shall be no shifts, so I adhere to his wishes. However, I am merely stating the facts here.

Apparently there were different customs and different galleys in different countries and diffferent times. Of course, my primary source is Ben-Hur, and as you admitted yourself that you have loved the movie, you must surely have read the part about the shifts and the presiding customs in Rome and in other corsair ships that they were fighting. It does state clearly there that there were shifts. I don't have the book right now, but I do remember that single phrase - "And thy habit?" "It has been to take off and put on every two hours." "It is a hard division, and I will change it, but not yet." - there was also talk of Ben-Hur wanting to be changed from right to left every shift, as to be not misshapen with only one limb used for exercise. However, and this is more verifiable, I would post a link to the 9th grade social studies book (page 198-211) here, but again, (this is my tribulation) it is in Korean, and then there would be no reason to, as apparently you are also right. To quote myself in my last post, though, Fordim, I have already discussed it with Perky before you came aboard, and decided to follow through with his advice, which coincided with your own. I was just putting in an objection, which happens to be my speciality. And, of course, I would be perfectly willing to translate the Social Studies textbook and put it up here if you want a second view of it. It's in the end of term exam, anyway, so it wouldn't be much of a bother as I would be studying it anyway. Although, as the discussion would get nowhere as our resources are different, I think it better to follow American History (more general view, methinks) and cede to your opinions.

Oh, dear Eru. Kath, my apologies. I mistook you for Esau, damnit! (Sorry, Pio, but 'there are circumstances when you want to go and hide out in a mice hole that you couldn't even put your finger in.' Another Korean proverb, when you are apologizing for swearing after committing a blunder. Two, in my case.) This just isn't my day. I deleted that post and hopefully you would yours.

PS. I feel seriously miserable.

I knew I shouldn't write when I am in a cheeky mood.

EDIT: Folwren, my grandparents speak Korean because they're Korean.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 07:56 PM

The planning process for the RPG is now complete.

Please use the Discussion Thread for talking about the game.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 07:59 PM

***** THIS IS THE FIRST POST FOR THE DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THE RPG *****

The Perky Ent invites you to play in his RPG:

Númenórean Blood Runs Black

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Historical Background:

Eldacar was the 21st King of Gondor; he was only half-Gondorian. His rule was usurped by Castamir, a full blooded Gondorian and a great-grandson of King Calmacil, with a right to be King. Castamir ruled for 10 years and then was killed in a coup by Eldacar. Eldacar reclaimed the throne of Gondor for his heirs. Castamir’s heirs and followers settled in and founded the Havens of Umbar in the south. They became known as the Corsairs of Umbar and had a longstanding hatred of Gondor and its line of Kings.

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The Castamirioni (the heirs of Castamir) “long held it [i. e. Umbar] as an independent realm [hostile to Gondor,] attacking its ships and raiding its coast at every opportunity." The third Realm in Exile “remained at war with Gondor for many lives of men, a threat to its coastlands and to all traffic on the sea. It was never again completely subdued until the days of Elessar; and the region of South Gondor became a debatable land between the Corsairs and the Kings." - Appendix A; The Return of the King

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In 1634 T.A,, Umbar was ruled together by yet another duumvirate, the great-grandsons of Castamir, Angamaitë and Sangahyando, who worked out a terrible assault on the line of Eldacar – Appendix A; The Return of the King

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1810 T.A. (Third Age) – King Telumehtar Umbardacil retakes Umbar and drives out the Corsairs -- Appendix B; The Return of the King

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The doom of this Middle Realm came when King Telumehtar, "being troubled by the insolence of the Corsairs, who raided his coasts even as far as the Anfalas, gathered his forces and in 1810 took Umbar by storm. In that war the last descendants of Castamir perished in the storming and destruction of the haven and stronghold of the Corsairs of Umbar", and "King Telumehtar Umbardacil [drove] out the Corsairs” – Appendix A; The Return of the King

1810 T.A. (Third Age) – King Telumehtar Umbardacil retakes Umbar and drives out the Corsairs -- Appendix B; The Return of the King

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Please be familiar with these sections from The Encyclopedia of Arda:

Corsairs of Umbra

Kings of Gondor

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Here's a good MAP . Just scroll down the page to get the area which includes Gondor, The Bay of Belfalas, and Umbar.

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The Line of Elros is here.

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On Corsairs and their Ships -- courtesy of The Perky Ent

Corsairs of Umbar

During the Kin-strife that led to Gondor’s costly civil war, a great many of its invincible navy supported the usurper, who was challenging the king’s right to rule the country. Eventually he was overthrown and the rightful king restored to the throne, driving the rebels to found their own province and declare themselves under self-rule. Initially these sailors were based in the Gondorian port of Pelargir, but eventually they withdrew to the more southernly haven of Umbar, which sat on the northern coast of Harad. Over time these sailors drew to their number various outlaws and brigands from outlying settlements surrounding the Anduin, and they took to raiding alon gthe coastline of southern Gondor, interceping merchant vessels and abducting women to bolster their dissident community. They were also slavers and would often seize a ship’s crew along with her cargo; if any resisted he would be thrown overboard. Ever after these slaves would spend their lives pulling oars on the corsairs’ great black ship.

The corsairs were a thorn in Gondor’s side and were partly responsible for its impoverished state, restricting as they had its trade with other realms. Beyond the obvious desire for wealth, there would initially have been some motivation to strike against a kingdom which the corsairs saw as compromised; later it would have been just about greed. The crew of a corsair ship was said to be a mixed bag, generally swarthy and unkempt but garbed in gaudy clothing and jewelry; some would have had an exotic look born of their Southron ancestry.

The corsairs had just one battle strategy, but it was one that had served them well through many centuries: they would use their superior nautical abilities and vasty superior victims until they had pulled alongside; then they would launch harpoons from the iron crossbows fixed port and starboard on their ship, anchoring it to the other vessel. As the two ships closed, a raiding party would launch a volley of arrows into the crew if they showed any signs of resistance, before leap;ing across and seizing control of the vessel. Usually, the corsairs’ fearsome reputation would have beedn enough to intimidate all but the bravest crew, regardless of the value of the cargo.

Sauron would have realized just how useful the corsairs could be to him, so his emissaries would have enlisted their support, possibly making treatikes with them after passing through Harad. Needless to say, the greater part of their inducement to aid Sauron would have been the promise of booty from the White City. By having them raid the various settlements that were situated along the coast, right up to Minas Tirith, Sauron would have gained an intimidating southern front that would need to be defended against, thus drawing away a precious number of Gondor’s soldiers. The corsairs’ raids would have been damaging in other ways: to see smoke rising from the southern villages and the telltale silhouette of the great ships’ sails would have been deeply demoralizing for the defenders within the White City, weakening them even before battle commenced. Furthermore, once the corsairs had moored at Harlond they would have provided reinforcements for Sauron’s army if required; they could have provided useful transport up and down the river for his troops or plundered equiptment should the battle have been won by the time they arrived.

Corsair Ship

There appear to have been ten of the great ships under the control of the corsairs. These behemoths were said to be 450 feet long and 45 feet in the beam, although these estimates have never been confirmed, as none of the ships survive; the three tall masts each supported an enormous crimson sail, the largest of which may have been fully 400 feet high. Their angular fan shape would have cut a distinctive and terrifying silhouette in the water. Once they were visible it was probably already too late. Yet the most frightening facet of the ships was never seen, only felt; just below the waterline sat a huge iron battering ram, it’s jagged edges extending perhaps fifty feet out from the keel.

The elegant curving jagged lines of this ram and the rest of the ironwork revealed the ships to be clearly of Numenorean design, especially in the defensive rows of iron spikes that ran from the prow to stern on each side. Secured to the hull behind these with iron brackets was a wall of red wooden shields that would have maid it almost impossible for anyone to storm the deck. The deck was fitted fore and aft with a pair of iron-framed crossbows that fired harpoons to which were attached grappling lines that bit deep into the victim’s hull; once these were embedded, the merchant ship would be stuck fast and vulnerable. A brazier was kept stoked next to the crossbows for the time when the corsairs set light to the other ship, usually just after it had been emptied of its cargo.

The corsair ships were biremens, in that they were fitted port and starboard with row rows of oars; each row had twenty-one oars and required a minimum of three men per oar; this meant that more than 250 slaves would have been chained below deck. Rowing would have been an exhausting task and would have resulted in a high turnover of slaves; in order to continue raiding, the corsairs would have needed to keep slaving, a vicious circle that terrorized the people of Gondor.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:00 PM

Basic Storyline: King Telumehtar of Gondor, angered by the Corsairs constant attacks on his lands, leads an assault on Umbar to destroy the Corsairs once and for all, and reclaim the city for Gondor. Meanwhile, The Corsairs press on to wreak havoc on the coasts of Gondor.

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The purpose of the story is to: Reclaim Umbar for Gondor, and remove the Corsairs from the city.

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This means we will know the story is over when: Umbar is under Gondorian control

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Starting Location: Harlond for the Gondorians, the mouth of Anduin for the Corsairs.

Likely destination: Umbar

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:01 PM

Timeframes:

This game takes place in the 3rd Age at around year 1810 - late Summer almost Autumn.

The storyline itself or plot covers two months

This game requires a time commitment of 14 weeks from me, the game owner and from the major players.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:02 PM

Character/Player List

Gondorian Forces

First Ship -- The Cuivië

King Telumehtar Umbardacil – The Perky Ent
Advisor/Record Keeper to the King – Menelcar – Firefoot
Sea Captain - Captain Hereric - Folwren

~*~

Second Ship -- The Ráca

Captain - Captain Mirimon Vórimandur - Alcarillo
Soldier - Nimir - Dunwen
Soldier - Lingwë - Thinlómien
Soldier - Curamir - Kath

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Corsair Forces

Ship -- The Fame and Fortune

Lord of Umbar - Azaryan – Hiriel
Lord of Umbar - Sangalazin - Anguirel
Corsair Captain - Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (Rakin) - Amanaduial the archer
Slave - Ferethor Steele – Eorl of Rohan
Slave - Jagar - dancing spawn of ungoliant
Slave - Chakka - Fordim Hedgethistle

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Note 1: The Lords of Umbar are the sons of Angamaitë and Sangahyando. Angamaitë and Sangahyando are the direct descendants of Castamir, and former rulers of Umbar.

Note 2: The Slaves were those who stayed under the ship and manned the many ores of the ship. There’d be around 250 chained slaves per ship.

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Character types which would not belong: Any female characters, Elves, Hobbits, Dwarves, Orcs, or anything that is not specificed by the character list

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piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:03 PM

The Perky Ent’s character:

NAME: King Telumehtar, 28th King of Gondor

AGE: 178

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Telumehtar carries a three foot long sword handed down by his father Tarondor in TA 1700. Its hilt is wrapped in a soft leather grip, and the sword is relatively light to wield, compared to the sword of the regular Gondorian soldier. Besides his ceremonial sword, Telumehtar also carries a shorter, more worn sword, which Telumehtar had used ever since he was thirty. Along his belt, Telumehtar has several throwing daggers. As for armor, Telumehtar’s helm is of kingly proportions, bearing a large set of wings in the back, and a golden noseguard in the front. In front of his green tunic, Telumehtar wears an elegant hauberk, covered by a ruby red leather vest. For his legs, he wore an embroidered hose, covered by greaves. His leather gloves are lined with silver paint; his pauldrons and vambraces depicted the white tree under the stars. Above all his armor he wears the tabard of the white tree. On ceremonious occasions, he wears the Crown of Gondor on his head.

APPEARANCE: A man of substantial stature, Telumehtar stands tall at six feet seven inches. He stands poised, and has a kingly look about himself in public. His matted hair is brown, as are his eyes. His brow is wrinkled, but only from age. Telumehtar is a lean man, weighting as much as an average person (exclude his weight when in armor). As a king, he represents Gondor, and therefore keeps very clean and tidy. Of markings that would be of note, he bears a small scar on his left forearm that he believes was the plague’s effect on him.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: When it comes to his family, Telumehtar is very down to Earth. He is very caring and shows particular courtesy, condescending no one. A strong man, he is fairly agile, and thinks well under pressure. However, since he was a child, he has always had a mild case of claustrophobia, which has been a problem that has haunted him for quite some time, since he is the king of Gondor. He is fairly intelligent, and occasionally witty, yet he relies a great deal of his decisions to his right hand man, Menelcar. His weak point is his forearm, where he bears the scar of what he believes is the plague’s effect on him. When touched, it causes mild pain through his left arm. It his for this reason that he keeps his arm well armored.

In terms of his proficiency with weapons, Telumehtar is an awful shot when it comes to archery. He never had a passion for bows and arrows, and therefore never gave much interest to it. His skills with a blade are of kingly proportion, having spent many decades training in the ways of the blade. He is not an aggressive person, unless in a long fight where he will continue to increase his effort. Telumehtar never was much of a runner, but more of a sprinter, saving his energy for close fights.

HISTORY: Born in TA 1632, he was only two years old when he heard his great uncle Telemnar speak of war with the Corsairs of Umbar. Ever since, he has had a natural hate for them. It was when he was six that he saw the plague ravage Gondor. Telumehtar stood under the arm of his father as he watched his great uncle die, and the White Tree wither. It was in this year, TA 1636, that Tarondor, the nephew of Telemnar, became king of Gondor, making Telumehtar heir to the throne of Gondor. Four years later, he grew sad when he watched the king’s house move to Minas Arnor, as he had grown fond of Osgiliath, and didn’t want to leave. It was in this year that a white tree grew forth again in Gondor, and Telumehtar witnessed his sowing.

For the next 170 years, Telumehtar grew strong, and learned much of the lore of his land. Particularly, he learned much of the ways of the sea, spending much of his time near the mouth of the Anduin, and of the coastal cities of Belfalas. On his 68th birthday, Telumehtar received the sword of his father, which was passed down from Minardil, being one of the only relics remaining from the battle where his grand father died. The sword was passed down to Minastan, as Telemnar believed his brother would have more use for it. While fighting his way through a band of hostile Haradrim, the sword found its way into the hands of Menelcar, one of the men fighting along side him. Upon this meeting, they forged a friendship that lasted all the way until the king’s passing.

It was in the next year, TA 1798, that Telumehtar’s father passed away, leaving the throne of Gondor to him. Telumehtar took the responsibility willingly, and ruled justly. For the next twelve years, Telumehtar was troubled with the Corsairs, who have been seen pillaging closer to the heart of Gondor each year. With the help of Menelcar, his trustworthy advisor, Telumehtar made the decision to go to war in TA 1810. It was in this time that he gathered his host, and the story begins…

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FIRST POST FOR THE GAME:

Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree

Telumehtar thought over the words, while he surveyed his lands. The view was always nice from the seventh tier of Minas Anor. With the wind blowing his brown hair across his brow, he could see lands his fathers had defended hundreds of years ago. Many times in the passing days had Telumehtar considered his heritage. When times of great trouble came, he would walk to the edge, and contemplate his actions. During this time, none were allowed to walk the level, except for the guards constantly stationed by the tree. It was in this hour that Telumehtar looked long and hard across his land, watching his troops muster at the port of Harlond. In the deepest part of his heart, Telumehtar wished he was a lone sailor of the sea, for Telumehtar was a mariner at heart.

It was a quiet day. The citizens of Minas Anor had been dreading the day for quiet some time after they heard that they would go to war. In homes, families were close and savored the time they had. Each day, Gondorians could see ships on the horizon, heading from far off lands. From Cair Andros to Dol Amroth, men had gathered to answer the call of war. Unlike tales of heroism and courage, the men of Gondor did not treat the Corsairs of Umbar like mindless orcs. Corsairs were a powerful force that required constant vigilance to be held back. Being pirates, they held no loyalty to any save themselves. But the pirates were not what scared the Gondorians, for they gave little heed to mindless brigands. It was the Black Numenorians, those corrupted by Sauron during the second age, that instilled fear in the very heart of Gondor. Just like the dunedain of Arnor, their numbers were rapidly decreasing, yet the remained the strength that their master had taught them long ago.

After meditating for quite some time, Telumehtar gave a sigh, and turned from the pinnacle. When he was a boy, his father would sing him songs of the Kings of Men, and their tree that stood on their island. It was from the story of the Akallabêth that Telumehtar learned to revere the sea and its power. But he was not meant to follow his hearts desire, as he was a descendant of the great kings of Gondor, and his fate was bound from his inception. When he turned his eyes to the White Tree, a sense of calm overtook him. Even after over a century of viewing it, the White Tree of Gondor was a sight. The sun’s light glistened on its branches perfectly, emanating beauty in its most radiant form. Telumehtar dared not touch it, a fear that he had held ever since he saw the death of the tree. “This is not a time for sorrow, for death smiles at us all.” Telumehtar said to himself as he walked away from the tree and smiled. “And all we can do about it is smile back”. He turned from the outdoors, and walked to his throne.

It was silent in his hall. The arrangements had been laid, precautions set, and edits degreed. The quiet was almost haunting, and it was for this that Telumehtar was glad when he heard whispers from behind him. Two men walked out from behind him, swords drawn. Without even registering the faces of the men, Telumehtar leaped from his throne and unsheathed his sword. In front of him, Telumehtar found none other than the Steward of Gondor, and his son Narmacil.

“Relax father. We are not here to usurp your authority.” Giving a slight chuckle, the steward added “Nay. In fact, we are here to make sure you are ready for the usurpers. Your son wanted to make sure you would stay on your toes. “Giving a cross look, Telumehtar slowly put his sword away. “When have I not been on my guard? Are you ready for my departure? As you should know, I am not much for goodbyes.” Narmacil nodded, and started to walk out of the hall. “I’ll have you know-“the steward interjected “That Arciryas sends his father his best wishes. Rest assured that he is safe in Annuminas. And I as well. I shall await your homecoming”. And with that, the steward and the heir left the room, and left Telumehtar to silence.

Telumehtar took a final look at his hall, and then marched slowly down the levels of the city. As he walked, groups of women and children parted to a side, creating a clear-cut path. One by one the gates of Minas Anor opened, until Telumehtar found himself upon the second level. Taking a right at a forked path, Telumehtar walked over to a large building with smoke billowing through its windows. Telumehtar opened the doors, and watched as all the men in the room bowed their heads. “Is it time my lord?” a man in the front said to the king, raising his head. Telumehtar gave a slow nod, and all the men watched as the king walked to the center of the large room. Along the walls, weapons and armor were laid, and golden tapestries of battles were hung from the ceilings. Telumehtar was presented with his armor, which had laid in the building for many years. Slowly but strongly, Telumehtar equipped his gear and left the building. Mindorlonn, Telumehtar’s chestnut horse, was waiting for his master outside the armoury.

Fixing the crown upon his head, Telumehtar rode to the gates of Minas Anor. Standing in front of an open gate, Telumehtar found a large group of mounted men waiting outside the city. Inside, a large cluster of people had gathered in a circle, engulfing Telumehtar within the entrance. Sweat started to pour down his face as Telumehtar started to cloister himself from his people. His horse, knowing him all too well, started to buck, bringing Telumehtar away from his claustrophobia. There, Telumehtar shouted, “People of Gondor! Fear not! The blood of Numenor shall be spilt this day, but it shall run black like their hearts! The corsairs will plague you no longer! For glory and Gondor we ride!” And with Minas Anor roaring in triumph behind him, Telumehtar grabbed Mindorlonn’s reins, and rode out to Harlond.

Quickly Telumehtar came to the port, and found it filled with ships and men. Throughout the port, Telumehtar spied flags from all distant lands of Gondor. Telumehtar started taking a mental note in his head of the lands that had come to his call. “Dol Amroth, Anfalas, Lossarnach, Morthond, Pinnath Gelin. Good, good, good! We are almost ready to make war. Now if only I could find - “You rang? Do not think I would not be here before you left!” came a voice from behind Telumehtar. “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:06 PM

Firefoot's character

NAME: Menelcar (King’s advisor/record keeper)

AGE: 141

RACE: Man of Gondor

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Though rarely necessary in these days as the king’s advisor, Menelcar still regularly bears a sword, mostly out of habit from his days in the army. (In this campaign, of course, he might very well need it.) He is also proficient with a bow and can handle most other weapons with reasonable skill.

APPEARANCE: Númenorean blood runs nearly true in him, and it shows. He is tall, about 6’4”; his hair is shoulder-length and black as a raven’s wing; his eyes are grey and clear. He would be quite handsome if it weren’t for a certain hardness and arrogance in his features. He carries himself nobly and not without pride. His clothing is unremarkable except in its fine quality.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Menelcar’s intelligence is above average; this is one trait he has shown even as a very young boy. In addition to being smart, he was also good at just about whatever he put his mind to (those things he wasn’t good at, he sooner or later quit), and he began to think of himself as better than others. This was aided along by his family and heritage: he was born into a wealthy, noble family and is of nearly pure Númenorean descent. As a result, he has never been very social, preferring to keep to himself. There have been very few people he has ever been able to call a friend; the king is one of them. He holds his friends in high esteem, but generally looks down upon all others.

Though skilled in weaponry and horseback riding, neither has ever been his favorite. What he really loves are history and reading and writing, and in writing he has found his freedom. The thoughts that he would never confide to another person are regularly recorded in a journal. The job of record keeper and advisor to the king came naturally to him; there is little else that he would ever care to do.

HISTORY: Menelcar was born the middle child and second son of a noble family. Even as a child, he was a loner having few or no close friends. He was thought of as a bit odd for spending so much time by himself, especially in contrast to his older brother, who was, if slightly less talented, a great deal more social and well-liked by most everyone, in addition to being the more handsome. Menelcar was originally envious of his brother’s easy way with people, but what attempts he did make to fit in invariably failed to a greater or lesser extent, causing Menelcar to retreat more and more inside himself. He comforted himself by telling himself that he was better than they were anyway, that he didn’t need them, and the former at least was true in many ways. Eventually he came to wholly believe these things.

As he got older, he had no care to be married, and as the second son he was under no obligation to do so. Instead, he did the next logical thing for one of a noble house and joined the army. Though he had no particular care for weaponry and fighting, it was at any rate better than the social life that he might otherwise be expected to lead.

It was in these years of fighting that Menelcar met Telumehtar, then the prince, when he returned his sword to him. The two quickly came to an understanding which developed into a fast friendship such as Menelcar had never before or since experienced. When Telumehtar became king, Menelcar was the natural choice for a record keeper and advisor, and Menelcar readily gave up the army for the new position.

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Firefoot's post

It was with great impatience that Menelcar had awaited Telumehtar’s arrival. His impatience was not with the king himself, precisely, but he had been at the harbor since early that morning overseeing the muster and organization of the troops while the king took care of last minute preparations inside the city. He cared for this part of his job the least, for he disliked, nay, despised, dealing with people. This sentiment only compounded with so many people needing instructions at the same time. He had to direct the many captains to the ships that would transport them, as well as answer any questions that they or the ships’ captains might have. The job was necessary but tedious, and Menelcar had long since wearied of it. His mount, a restive bay stallion, seemed to concur.

The king’s arrival heartened Menelcar greatly; it meant they would be departing soon, and he would no longer be plagued by the many questions and problems of the soldiers. He nudged the horse forward to meet the king, threading his way through the busy harbor as quickly as he could manage. However, he was interrupted before he could get very far by yet another inquisitive captain; his uniform proclaimed him to be from Dol Amroth.

“Yes?” asked Menelcar curtly.

“I am Captain Baranor, out of Dol Amroth,” said the man, clearly unsure of how to take his brusque manner. “It seems that we brought a few more men than we had originally estimated; our assigned ships will be loaded full and there are still about twenty more men than the ships’ captains say that the boats will safely hold.”

Menelcar barely stifled an irritated sigh and dug out of his pocket the little book in which he was keeping the details of the attack. He scanned the ship assignments and wrote a note of the captain’s situation. “There should be some extra space with the soldiers from Anfalas. If not, check with those from Morthond. Do so quickly; we will be departing soon now that the king has arrived.”

“Thank you, milord,” said the captain with a salute. Menelcar paid no heed; he had already begun to ride off, scanning the harbor for Telumehtar, whom he had lost sight of while speaking with the captain. The king would be looking for him by now, no doubt. The soldiers milling about had parted to let the king pass through, and Menelcar took advantage of the more open space, nudging his horse into a dignified canter to catch up. The stallion took the extra rein eagerly after having stood around for so long.

“You were looking for me?” asked Menelcar as he drew even with Telumehtar. “Do not think I would not be here before you left!”

Telumehtar turned in recognition of the voice: “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

“I should hope you know where your kingdom is by now,” commented Menelcar, smiling in spite of himself. “As for the rest of it, many of the soldiers are already aboard their ships. These rest ought to know where they’re heading by now, or their captains do.” Quickly he outlined the organization of the soldiers – where the units from the various regions of Gondor were situated and so on. “We will be traveling in that ship, there-” Menelcar pointed to a fine ship a short way down the harbor. “I have spoken with the captain of the ship; he seemed very eager to make sure all was in line for your arrival,” he added with a hint of contempt. The captain had spoken with him several times that day, to the point of being bothersome. “It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.”

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:08 PM

Folwren's character

NAME: Captain Hereric son Hothlere

AGE: 82

RACE: Gondorian

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Hereric uses a broad sword best. His sword, Gayaros, has a four foot, white blade with a silver hilt and handle. In the pommel is set a single blue stone. The hilt is decorated with thin, slender vines make of silver twining and encircling it.

Besides his skill with a sword, he can use the bow well, and has some ability with casting a spear.

APPEARANCE: He is not tall, really, compared to most Gondorians, and stands only six foot one. However, he has a powerfully built body, and a commanding eye and bearing which make up for his height. Brown hair, lightened by the almost constant sunlight, dark, penetrating brown eyes.
He usually wears no armor and is dressed (at most times) in a while shirt, laced at the throat, brown breeches, mid-calf boots. On such occasions as welcoming the King aboard the ship, he’ll have his coat and hat on, with his sword at his side, cutting a handsome and military figure.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Hereric is a taut captain, but neither brutal or cruel to his men. It is rather necessary to retain rather stiff discipline at sea, but his crew does not resent him for it, and they all rather like their captain. He has a very quiet character most of the time, and usually only becomes visibly angry or annoyed at such busy, confusing times as preparing for a voyage and while they’re still at the wharfs and harbors. Once sail is spread he’s back to his regular self, calm and generally quiet.

In any sea battle, he can make quick, difficult decisions on a moment’s notice. He knows his ship from bow to stern and every curve and rope therein, and is therefore able to direct her in difficult places and times at sea, or anywhere.

His weaknesses lie in his habit of withdrawing himself when things aren’t going well, or aren’t going his way (not in the stubborn, spoiled child sense, but as a sea officer). At such times, he’ll become even less talkative, stern, and altogether impassible. Another is that he gets unaccountably excited in battles, and though his sometimes reckless actions has never gotten him or his ship and crew into any trouble that he couldn’t pull them back out of again, it still is dangerous.

All in all, he’s a great leader and an excellent captain, knowing both his men, his ship, and his business well.

HISTORY:

Hereric was born to Hothlore and Aanel in 1728 in Osgiliath. His father was a captain at the time of his birth and continued being so until his death in one of the many, random battles with the Corsairs in 1738. From that day forward, Hereric wanted to go and join the Navy in hopes of someday taking revenge for his father’s death. His mother let him go and in 1739, at age 11, he joined.

Having had such a father as Hothlore, he did not have a difficult time finding his way as one of the junior officers onto one of the ships. That is not to say he had many privileges when he was a boy, but he wasn’t considered a regular seaman. He worked his way up the ladder, learning first about the knots and sails, and then navigating skills. He was taught the necessary mathematics and astrology necessary to successfully captain and sail a ship. He learned to read and write, tell time by the sun, and take and fulfill responsibilities given him. Before becoming a captain in 1795, he had served as several of the higher ranking officers.

In 1795 he was appointed Captain and given his first ship. It was small and not particularly fast nor very nice, but in two years he was given a higher rating and given a different ship, The Cuivië - the one he presently sails. It was one that he had sailed most of his earlier years. He found it a great advantage, knowing the way it sailed almost as soon as he set foot to it.

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Folwren's post

Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor.

Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days.

The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’

‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’

In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long.

Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him.

‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:09 PM

Alcarillo's character

NAME: Captain Mirimon Vórimandur

AGE: 83 years

RACE: Man, Gondorian

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Captain Vórimandur's favorite weapon is a family heirloom: a sword from Númenor named Sercendil. The guard is set with a single sapphire on each side. The hilt is bound in blue cloth. A ranga long, the sword is more of an ornament than a weapon and Captain Vórimandur is hesitant to use it, lest it be damaged. He prefers to use a short spear when boarding enemy ships, and there's always a healthy supply onboard. In addition to his sword, Vórimandur also has a yew bow, about three feet long. He uses it when the Ráca is coming alongside an enemy ship within bow range.

When it comes to armor, Captain Vórimandur settles for a breastplate engraved with an image of the White Tree and a set of pauldrons for his soldiers (all of which is meticulously polished hours before battle). Sometimes he also wears a chain-mail skirt extending to his knees.

APPEARANCE: Captain Vórimandur is six feet and four inches tall, evidence of Númenorean ancestry. His slightly wavy hair is a fading black mixed with silvery grey at the temples. His hair is long and covers his ears, but it does not reach much further. In back it touches the base of his neck. He has a scrawny moustache and beard of a salt-and-pepper color. It's little more than overgrown stubble. His eyes are green, his nose is aquiline, and his skin is dark and lined from his travels. His shoulders are wide, and his arms are strong after years of a life at sea.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Vórimandur is most noted for his strong dislike of anything even remotely related to Umbar and the South. He's picked up this grudge during his years at sea fighting the Corsairs, and especially when the first ship he fought on was destroyed off the coast of Belfalas.

Captain Vórimandur is also competitive. He strives to be the first to destroy a particular enemy ship in battle, for instance, and pushes his men to great extents to reach it. Together with his hated for Umbar and his ability to think on his feet, he makes a fierce enemy in battle.

Vórimandur loves his ship and his crew, but is also a stern leader, and punishes those who disobey his authority as any captain would. He has a taste for fancy dress, which means that he fights every battle in dazzling armor and a swirling cape. He seems a little eccentric to the other captains.

HISTORY: Mirimon Vórimandur was born in the year 1727 of the Third Age in Minas Anor. His father, Vanyacar, was the innkeeper of the Galloping Horse. His mother, Eruvande, helped her husband by doing chores around the inn. Mirimon Vórimandur's childhood was spent at the inn and earning a small salary doing chores. he didn't have many friends his own age, but he did befriend many of the inn's frequent visitors: sailors, soldiers, and travelers.

Vórimandur lived at the Galloping Horse until he was sixteen years old, when he joined the navy, inspired by the tales told by the inn's guests. He first served aboard the ship Telpelingwë as a deckhand, but after many years of fine seamanship he rose through the ranks to third in command. The ship was sunken fifteen years later off the coast of Belfalas, when it was attacked by two Corsair vessels. Vórimandur and the other survivors escaped clinging to the Telpelingwë's wreckage. They were rescued by the Eärmacil and taken to Linhir. Vórimandur never forgave the Corsairs for what they did to the Telpelingwë, and still has a deep grudge for anything from the south.

Vórimandur now stayed off the seas for some years, and returned to Minas Anor. Here he tended the Galloping Horse with his mother (his father had died of a particularly vile fever while Vórimandur was aboard the Telpelingwë). He soon fell in love with a local seamstress, Lothwen, and in 1758 they married. Vórimandur's daughter Morwen was born five years later.

Vórimandur was content running the inn, but he still felt the desire to work with ships once more. The opportunity came in 1776, when he joined the crew of the Ráca. He replaced a dead navigator, and soon his earlier experience helped Vórimandur make his way up to second-in-command, next to Captain Brithion.

The Ráca patrolled the waters about Tolfalas. She was a larger vessel than the Telpelingwë, and had a larger crew, and more soldiers. Vórimandur was back on the high seas on a dazzling ship. She had many battles with the Corsairs, and won most of them. Vórimandur's wealth and fame grew until he and his family bought a mansion on Minas Anor's fifth level, where he stayed with Lothwen and Morwen between voyages.

In 1789 Captain Brithion was killed in a battle with the Corsairs by falling rigging. Vórimandur became the ship's captain, and since then his skill in battle has caught the attention of King Telumehtar. Now, Captain Vórimandur relishes the opportunity to strike at the heart of the Corsairs' empire.

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Alcarillo's post

Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon.

He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early.

"Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships."

"Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier.

"The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:12 PM

Kath's character

NAME: Curamir

AGE: 17

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He always carries a small dagger, as it was a present from his father when he was very young. He has used it as a hunting knife for many years and treats it almost as a good luck charm, sure of success if he hunts with it, which he hopes will apply for fighting as well. He also carries a rather battered though perfectly good sword. His family is not rich so he did as many odd jobs as possible for the people in his town and used the money he got from that to obtain an acceptable sword. Both sword and dagger are kept in sheaths on his belt, the sword on the left hand side and the dagger on the right. For armour he wears that which he was given when he joined the army. He has the helmet with its protective cheek and nose guards, a leather jerkin with the Tree of Gondor on it and a chainmail shirt.

APPEARANCE: He has dark hair that resists even the most persistant sun and hangs to his shoulders when loose, so he usually has it tied back out of the way. His eyes are dark but it is difficult to determine the colour as they change with shifting light and emotions. He is tall at 6 foot two and always carries himself to his full height. He has a strong build developed from years of working to repair buildings and helping with the farming in his area, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has proud features, but thanks to his height and almost regal way of carrying himself they suit him and he does not look cruel. His skin is naturally pale but years of working outside have tanned him to a light brown pretty much all over. Being proud of his uniform he wears it almost constantly, and merely exchanges his jerkin and chainmail for a shirt if he wishes to appear in civilian clothing.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: He is very friendly and makes friends at the drop of a hat, having an easy confidence about him. He is honest and well mannered, without much of a temper to him. He tends to think clearly and logically, though in the heat of the moment his tongue may get the better of him. Having been the man of the household for most of his life he can seem older than his years, but he is still a child and if things don't go the way he expects or wants he can sometimes behave like one, though his army training has helped with this a great deal. He is eager and willing to learn, so he studies and practises hard, gaining his skills with relative ease. Though he has no particular speciality in any kind of fighting, he is good at all the basic skills and shows great potential as a swordsman. He does become very engrossed in things he cares about, and this can sometimes cause a problem as he does not notice the effect his relentlessness can have on others.

HISTORY: Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something.

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Kath's post

Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up.

He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk.

“Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!”

And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter.

“Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end.

“Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!”

“If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation.

Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of.

They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in.

“Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!”

Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed.

“Another time, perhaps”

“When we come back,” answered Lingwë.

They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:13 PM

Thinlómien's character

NAME: Lingwë, son of Laurendil

AGE: 20

RACE: gondorian human (with some númenórean blood in his veins)

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: Lingwë has a long sword. It's not a very fine or beautiful sword, but well-balanced and well-made. Besides the sword, Lingwë has a spear and bow and arrows.

APPEARANCE: Lingwë is 6'3" tall. He is slim, but muscular because of his soldier training and work.
Lingwë has a long face. His nose is long, straight and quite narrow. His relatively small eyes are in a long distance from each other. He has also quite narrow mouth.
Lingwë's hair is so dark brown that it's nearly black and he has bluegrey eyes. He has quite fair complexion, but he is tanned of spending so much time outdoors.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lingwë is mostly quite quiet and obsersive; he listens more than he speaks. He is usually serious, but likes playing friendly jokes on his friends. He's a bit of a pessimist and has an ironic sense of humour. He is perhaps more mature than many other young men of his age. He is loyal and hard-working and keeps usually the complaints - which he usually has lots of - to himself.

Lingwë is a trained soldier, so he knows how to fight. He is equally good in using sword, spear and bow. Lingwë is an exellent swimmer and diver and can hold his breath for a long time. For his serving time on a ship called Gaerandir he has a bit of seafring skills. He is that much educated that he can read and write.

Lingwë's not very quick-witted and sometimes he might by carried away by such a little things as the cry of seagulls or a beautiful horizon. He has a bit of claustrophobia and dislikes sleeping in such a tiny space belowdecks. It's the thing he hates the most about ships. He has no natural leading skills; he is not charismatic or even empathethic. Some people think that he is cold.

HISTORY: Lingwë was born in autumn of 1789 T.A. He was a strange-looking baby with eyes in a big distance from each other. The midwife playfully called him 'Little Fish'. His parents agreed that their second son looked like a fish and named him 'Lingwë', which means 'fish' in quenya. Later, Lingwë has proved that the name is more than suitable to him; he's an exellent swimmer and diver.

Lingwë's father was a succesful glassblower in Pinnath Gelin and he taught his profession to his elder son. Lingwës mother was a honourable housewife. Because of his father's succes their family was quite rich for an artisan family when Lingwë was a child. Lately, the family has losed much of its wealth because of an competent glassblower who moved to thecity five years ago.

Lingwë was the third child in the family. The eldest child, a daughter, had died right after her birth, so Lingwë had only one elder sibling to couple with. His elder brother Ciryandil, five years his senior, was a real nuisance to him in the days of their childhood. Ciryandil kept telling Lingwë that he was a slimy little fish capable of nothing and made his little brother's life difficult by all means he knew.

Luckily, Lingwë had a little sister, Eärelen, whom he played with. The biggest tragedy of Lingwë's life took place when Eärelen died to a sickness in the age of eleven. Lingwë still remembers his lively little sister with warmth and longing, though she has been dead for seven years.

Lingwë's father wanted his second son to be a soldier, and though Lingwë would have preferred to be a sailor or a clerk, he agreed and was sent to a training camp to Lossarnach. There he studied the arts of war. He received his fighting skills rather by hard work and natural dexterity, strengh and stamina than by being gifted with a blade.

After his training he went to serve as a guard soldier on a merchant ship called The Gaerandir. He served on her half a year until he was sacked because the merchant had had so good fortunes that he could afford hiring more experienced and skilled soldiers.

So Lingwë was very happy, when he was accepted to serve on Ráca, a vessel captained by Vórimandur. He looks forward to this mission in the sake of the king.

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Thinlómien's post

As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see?

He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said.

At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him.

Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship.

"We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out.
"Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:14 PM

Dunwen's character

NAME: Nimir

AGE: 17

RACE: Men, Commoner

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort.

APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry.

He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do.

Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process.

HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family.

In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away.

Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence.

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Dunwen's post

Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks.

What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.”

However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things.

That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships.

Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin.

A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:15 PM

Hiriel's character

NAME: Azaryan

AGE: 89

RACE: Umbarian Male

WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them.

APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors.

HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics.

At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions.

His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom.

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Hiriel's post

A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle.

He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long.

But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy.

They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath.

“Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features.

“That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat.
“That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.”

Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow.

“Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:17 PM

Anguirel's character

NAME: Sangalazin

AGE: 64

RACE: Black Numenorean

GENDER: Effeminate male

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armour only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.): Sangalazin wears a ceremonial longsword of great intricacy and consciously Gondorian design; an assertion of his rights over Elendil’s Kingdom, as an heir of the great Castamir. Its scabbard is elaborately crafted, with a sequence of scenes in gold filigree telling the Black Numenorean love story of Lenezor and Shirethel. Apart from this sword, which is far too beautiful to be wielded, he carries a curved silver-edged dagger and a fine silken garrotte.

APPEARANCE: Sangalazin is of a physical type viewed with contempt in Gondor, but in Umbar admired by males and females alike. He is slender, with tapering wrists and graceful legs; his mouth is large, crimson and prominent; his large eyes a soft brown, his complexion golden, though powdered fairer, and his hair dark chestnut brown. He wears a dark blue robe of silk. His only Numenorean characteristic is his great height.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only): Sangalazin’s charm, or one might more accurately say charms, is not in doubt; nor is his keen intelligence, when he deigns to employ it. For all this, though, he is feckless and pleasure-loving, easily distracted, temperamental and cruel. His physical weakness (brought about, it is rumoured, by inbreeding in the house of Castamir) also makes him despised by the martial Corsairs of Umbar who serve him out of necessity; only the continual presence of his mighty bodyguards, Gondorians stolen as babies and brought up at his court, garbed in pitch-black plate armour, their loyalty ensured by luxury, stops him from being lynched in the streets.

HISTORY: Sangalazin is the great-great-great-grandson of Castamir twice over, for his parents, Sangahyando and Mehratu, are brother and sister; a marriage brought about to ensure purity of descent and to prevent division of wealth, as well as because of genuine love; such affairs are not considered accursed among the aristocracy of Umbar. Sangalazin was cherished and adored as a child because of his beauty, and could have anything he chose; he made sure of this, testing it by asking his father to execute a playmate who had blackened his eye. He watched the subsequent hanging with a good deal of interest.

From such an upbringing sprang Sangalazin’s main enthusiasms; first, the intense pleasure and reassuring oblivion brought by debauchery; second, the self-fulfilment brought by art; third, the sheer amusement of strangulation. He loves the curious gurglings produced by its victims, the goggling of their eyes...

To all these politics comes a poor fourth. Indeed, as the endlessly intriguing Lords of Umbar go, Sangalazin is relatively ineffectual and harmless due to his fickle pursuits of pleasure; but his high blood will ensure he is ensnared in its dark legacy.

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Anguirel's post

“And now, my dears...play, play.”

Sangalazin, illustrious descendant of the King of Gondor known uncompromisingly in Umbar as Castamir the Great, was stretched out on a silken couch in his black ship’s cabin, his considerable full length languidly extended. A small table stood nearby; on it was positioned a silver instrument, from which a pipe crawled, coming to rest in Sangalazin’s long golden hand. He placed it into his mouth and took another gulp at the hookah, exulting at the relief at the fumes quenching the thirst of his lungs. Truly, the hookah was a potent sign that if one rejected the ways of the East and South, one would never find civilisation.

The supine Lord was attended by twelve men. Nine were monumentally tall-like Sangalazin himself-but, and here they differed from their master, also well-muscled and armoured all about in black iron. Those who were bare-headed displayed cold, impassive stares from grey Northern eyes. Their hair was dark, but bleached yellow, in contrast to their arms. Their weapons were all forged in the Gondorian fashion; straight longswords, triangular shields, visored helms. This, then, was the feared bodyguard of Sangalazin, which he had formed when still a child; its soldiers cradle Gondorians, but in their hearts fanatical servants of the Castamirioni, and Sangalazin in particular, who knew he owed his survival to them.

The other three men in the richly furnished cabin, below the forecastle, were of quite a different sort. It was these Sangalazin had addressed. One was of the Haradrim, and beat upon a set of small drums. Another was an Easterling, and toyed with a delicate stringed instrument, which he called a sitar. The third was a youth from the North, one of the shadow dwellers, a blonde boy with a flute. Sangalazin smiled at him.

“I find your strains particularly moving, child. You touch me. To think that one such as you replaced our line upon the throne of Meneldil...but I bear no grudge. Indeed, as long as you and your people confine yourself to our music-rooms and our pleasure-chambers, and don’t mess with power, the reserve of true men...why, then, you are quite endearing.”

The Lord of Half of Umbar leant up from his position and felt the youth’s cheek. The beard would not come for some time. A pretty specimen, indeed. And how strange and yet lovely the three combined tunes had sounded, to his own composition, intermingled. That was the way of culture, of beauty, of perfection. When he sat upon the Throne at Minas Anor-for he took little account of his cousin and rival, Azaryan-his court would be ordered thus. Tedious warring would cease, benevolent peace would embrace all the lesser nations, to be guided under his command. And civilisation would prevail.

His harmonious thoughts were interrupted by the Southron striking a false note. Sangalazin raised an eyebrow, and whispered something to a guard. Two of them led the musician out. He would not be killed; not yet, for the guards would wait for him to be strangled later at their master’s whim.

It was then that a black-robed, well-spoken lordling of Azaryan’s train arrived in the cabin. Sangalazin was called to his cousin's side. He took a last, regretful drag on the hookah, tousled the blonde boy’s hair, and followed the messenger. His cousin was powerful and proud-spirited, and it would do no good to anger him now...

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:18 PM

Amanaduial the archer's character

NAME: Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (shortened to Rakin)

AGE: 48

RACE: Corsair – Black Numenorean

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Rakin’s primary weapon of choice is a cutlass, not unusually for a corsair – the relatively short blade is perfect for hand to hand fighting in the narrow confines of a deck, for either a slash or thrust action, and is less likely to get tangled in the rigging of the ship than a longer, showier sword or rapier. His own weapon is fairly unadorned, an item of necessity, but he has had a few changes made to the cutlass for practicality: the hardwood handle is bound over with leather, not the usual, smooth leather used for clothes, but rougher beaten leather, so as to maintain both comfort and an all-important good grip when the weapon gets wet – this is where many seamen may fall down, for shiny leather slips easily across sweaty palms and can cost a sailor’s life. The basket, curving around to protect the fingers, is solid rather than more decorative filigree (which can cut into the hand if it is too fine when pressure is applied), but is of a strange metal that almost seems to shine black – a mysterious and rather fine touch that gives the whole sword a rather more elegant appeal, and is carved on the outside simply with his name, ‘Chatazrakin’, along the very edge of the basket. He has a second, more decorative sword – corsairs have little need for dress swords but, well, just in case. However, Rakin is not confined entirely to the sword: inside that coat of his lies a regular little armoury, ranging from a variety of small, simple, easily concealable daggers (often lost and so dispensable), to a slender link-chain, about a foot in length, to the no-nonsense knuckle-dusters in case of emergencies; the knife in his left boot is not strictly for battle, although it is easily accessible enough to be turned to the purpose.

APPEARANCE: Chatazrakin bears little similiarity to his half-brother bar the distinctive height of the Numenoreans, as he stands at about 6ft 5, an average height for Numenoreans but a feature that marks him out from others. However, he has none of the physical frailty of his brother: he is well muscled and broad shouldered with his height, but not as fleshed out as might be expected, giving him the lean, dangerous look of a hungry wolf. Narrow, almost black eyes enhance this appearance, although his face is deceptively open and honest looking, useful for gaining trust or planning deception, although it can snap shut into anger or a wicked grin or laughter within an instant. He is essentially quite fine-featured and, to some eyes, quite beautiful, although it is a beauty that has borne a hard life at sea and a harder childhood on the streets. His fine, high cheekbones are pock-marked over on the left side with the old scars of childhood pox common among street children, and his skin is tanned although surprisingly unweathered by the elements, unusual for a seaman. His long, untamed black hair is pulled back into a plait from which plenty of straggling strands escape, often restrained under a black bandana. This only serves to enhance his roguish appearance, although generally he dresses more sedately, a mix-match of clothes including a loose shirt of hard-wearing but surprisingly pricey material, usually with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows for practicality’s sake, although the colour may be less practical – the favoured white shirt makes a striking contrast against the black waistcoat which tops it, and Rakin has learnt that, far from being only a superficiality, appearance is subtly important in a trade of fear, and not to appear rather striking and wild would be almost foolishness, although such an appearance goes nicely with his own personality anyway. He will usually wear black breeches – not leather though, as this is hardly practical if they are likely to get wet – and watertight oiled black boots reaching up to his knees, with a long knife strapped down the outside of one, a must-have for sailors especially for disasters with the rigging or other ropes. Although he will be seen on the most unlikely days standing in the freezing cold with his thin shirt sleeves rolled right up, he is almost never seen without his battered black overcoat during battle; this may seem strange, but in fact the coat’s many inside pockets have served the corsair well many-a time when just a plain cutlass might not do, and the element of surprise is required, in the form of several small, well-concealed daggers, say. Plus the slim-fitting, split tailed coat looks so dashing when spun around, wouldn’t you say?

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rakin is, basically, almost faultlessly intelligent: not the book-learned cleverness of the academics and aristocrats, but the natural smartness and cunning that is learned from a hard life from birth, growing up in an underworld of thieves and then onto the streets. This life taught him early on a few skills that others learn only with a lifetime of experience – ruthlessness and hardness that many would have found unnerving in one so young, cunning and slyness that made him a perfect thief and cheat, deceptive skills that allowed him to easily trick the gullible, but never to rely on trickery too much more than is necessary – why increase the risk of being caught too far? But he has learnt other skills with the experience of being a seaman, and a Captain: for example, although it takes strength to stand and fight and to lead his crew into battle, it also takes a lot of strength to know when to turn from a battle as well. However, although possessed of a certain shrewdness and knowledge that his late mother sadly did not, Rakin is also quite a proud man, and maybe a little vain – it takes a lot to make him turn from a prize, and his fierceness can prove to be disadvantageous sometimes, when his pride gets in the way of his sense. His ruthlessness makes him an ideal corsair, although the position of Captain of a corsair ship is a precarious one: to an extent, even while he controls them, he is at their mercy – to push them too far, to make one too many unjust decisions or be just a little too ruthless, or too soft, is to sign his own death warrant. It is a fine line that he has to tread. However, after having been a corsair for most of his life, and a captain for over a decade, Rakin has some very valuable allies, and most of his crew is hand-picked, a few men loyal to him through thick and thin. Rakin is also fiercely loyal to the Castamirioni (see History), although to have the two Lords of Umbar, aristocrats far higher ranking than himself naturally, puts him again in a rather precarious position. But although shrewd and, yes, rather careful, Rakin has never been one to back down and roll over – not unless it is to dropkick his opponent. Such a strong and fierce personality could cause some sparks if his own authority is challenged too far…

HISTORY: Chatazrakin – or Rakin for short – was the illegitimate child of the House of Castamir; Sangalazin’s uncle, Sangahyando was as susceptible to a few illicit affairs and debauched pleasures as his twisted offspring, and Rakin was the product of a drunken night’s extramarital debauchery in an Umbar tavern. Unlike some of the unfortunate illegitimacies of the heirs of the Castamir, Rakin did not try to lay claim to the power of his father’s family, and so he was one of the fortunate ones – those who accused the Lords of Umbar of such discrepancies were often later ‘taken care of’ before any threat to the pure line could come about, and such a fate was to befall Rakin’s unfortunate mother when her son was barely ten years old.

Rakin, though, possessed some of the shrewdness that his mother had sadly not had, and never tried to leech of his father’s family, although they were certainly aware of his presence; he would have been immediately put to death if it had been thought that he would ever try to assert a claim to the position of Lord of Umbar over his precious half-brother. But as time passed and Rakin slipped quietly into the shadows, maybe they forgot, or simply lost interest, deciding that the illegitimate brat of a prostitute with no proof posed no threat to Sangalazin, or to Azaryan. Without a mother or father, it was a wonder that the boy managed to survive as well as he did but in fact the young Rakin found this start in life more a freedom than a hindrance. He became a proficient thief, cheat and liar, passing himself off for older than his years and getting odd-jobs in taverns so as to take a tidy helping of profits, and with an ability to quickly pick up skills that was very much to his advantage, all as a matter of survival. However, it was only a matter of time before he got pulled up by one of the Inn customers who he tried to cheat when dealing a fixed hand of cards – the Quartermaster of one of the Corsair ships. But rather than be outraged and destroying the boy (he could have had him made a slave or killed – who would have noticed a scrawny orphan boy go missing?), the corsair was actually mildly impressed with the boy and, after punishing him of course (not the last flogging Rakin would have to endure), he took him on as an extra on the ship, as a trial of sorts, on the simple basis that with one wrong move, Rakin would be off the boat – and probably not when they were near dry land either.

Rather than resent the Quartermaster, a man who went simply by the name of Dagaz, for the flogging, the punishment and the severe treatment of his mentor gave him a healthy respect for the authority of those who ran the ships – in part, because he was the only one who had ever really taken any sort of interest in him, even if it was only to give him a hard time. His quick wit and ability to gain the trust of others, to make them listen to him, was an advantage; after some brief tutoring from Dagaz, his skills with the sword also improved, and he became quite a skilful fighter, although a lot of his power lay in his cunning and skill with ‘less orthodox’ methods of fighting, well honed from years of a street existence. These advantages and traits gained Rakin respect and close allies quite quickly, and in his late thirties the crew of his ship gained a very fine Gondorian war vessel, which, as the elderly Quartermaster had no desire for a ship of his own, Dagaz bestowed on the young man. It was an unusual design of ship, bearing more similarities to the ships of the corsairs than the Gondorians, and Rakin was immensely proud of the vessel, naming it ‘Fame and Fortune’ and, unlike many in his profession, he has stuck to the same vessel for most of his career ever since, a period of just over ten years.

They were ten quite fruitful years, although like any seaman his profession has had very pointed ups and downs, but both the peaks and the troughs of his career have given him a wealth of experience that have made him a fair but ruthless captain, proud but shrewd nonetheless, and a mean fighter along with it; a man of some respect and standing, both from the corsairs, Gondorians, and even those of higher standing in Umbar. This is probably why it was his vessel that was chosen to bear the Lords; in addition, either despite or partly due to his mixed heritage, as a captain, Rakin has always made his loyalty to the Castamirioni very clear, which to an extent is probably one trait that gained him favour with the descendants of Castamir, although he has never, and would never, attempt to ingratiate himself with them as some would. Rakin largely put out of his mind his heritage, descended from the line of Castamir, as it is of little relevance or importance to a simple seaman, and even the long-winded name that his mother lavished upon him as some mark of higher breeding (although a lot of good it did her) is more often than not shortened to simply Captain Rakin; he never found out whether Sangalazin knew, although he suspected that the debauched darling of the Castamirioni is oblivious to his very being. However, it is a strange coincidence indeed that he should end up in such close quarters to his preciously spoilt half-brother, especially on the high seas when all sorts of accidents can happen…

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Amanaduial the archer's post

Even from a birdseye view, from far above the choppy waves, the Fame and Fortune made a striking image: on a clear day, proudly bestriding the waves that lapped against the side, as if daring the mighty Ulmo himself to make some challenge, when the wind leapt and blustered into those unusual, triangular sails, propelling the striking, slim silhouette forward through the waters…and with what speed! She cut through the waters so fast, so easily, the chopping motion mimicking the jolting laughter of such a ship whose pointed features were like a wicked laugh embodied. A more arresting and, aye, and more handsome ship, in its own way, was not to be found on this side of Arda. Stealthy, fast and fair. And the captain of this ship, a corsair as famed as his ship, since her very establishment as a pirate vessel loved it.

Standing on the forecastle of the ship, leaning casually against the foremast with one arm somewhat affectionately thrown around it as if around the shoulders of a loved one, Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar stared out at the open waters, the feel of the wind caressing his neck, face and bare arms more familiar and enjoyable to him that any human touch. A corsair as infamous as the striking silhouette of the ship he had commanded for a decade, this was the life that Rakin had been born for – and after a life of sailing on his precious ship, the corsair wasn’t best disposed to the likes of that silent, unsmiling snob and the debauched fop who called themselves the Lords of Umbar trying to order him around on his own ship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air, tipping his head back into the wind as the sounds of the ship’s daily life flowed around him, each sound as familiar and easily identifiable to him as his own breathing. The seabirds squabbling as they flew above, a V of them making for the Anduin, racing Fame and Fortune to it, the crewmen talking, calling to each other all the way from the Crows’ Nest to the lower decks, snatches of song and laughter, interspersed with shouts and angry voices, the cries of a slave’s pain…these vibrant patchwork of the ship’s life reverberated through her ribs from tip to tail, and the Captain drank it all in, each sound bringing memories and things to do. The sound of the slave, for example… He sighed irritably, clenching his jaw tightly as he opened his eyes once more to glare angrily out at the sea.

“They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own—”

“Cousin, cousin, please, let me get my breath first before you begin to batter me once more with your tactics…”

The first voice, harsh and solemn though with a controlled energy, was another sound which, even after a relatively short time, seemed to belong to the ship: a voice that Rakin could reason with and understand, despite its cheerless and dour owner. But the second voice, that amused drawl....well, it was a voice whose origins were familiar to Rakin’s very genetics, but one which most certainly did not belong on a ship as he did. Azaryan and Sangalazin, Lords of Umbar – and the only pair of men on this ship to whom Rakin himself was directly accountable. And Rakin did not like to be under another’s power…

“Good afternoon, my Lords,” he began, half turning his head towards them although his arm remained slung as it was around the mast. Azaryan nodded curtly, but such a simple greeting could not be enough for Sangalazin.

“Morning,” he replied simply. Rakin turned his dark, narrow eyes further towards his half-brother, raising one eyebrow carefully. Sangalaz in had his arms crossed and a smile on his full, girlish mouth. “It is still but morning, Captain Chatazrakin, give her her due and do not steal from her a good hour. You wouldn’t rob the day of a full hour of her bounty, would you?”

Ah. It was going to be one of these conversations then. How he regretted not sharing a childhood with his half-brother…or not. Apparently being an unrecognised scion had some advantages – namely the lack of comments such as these from the his inbred, spoilt, fop of a brother. Rakin bit back the reply which leapt to his tongue and instead gave a very slight smile as he straightened up and turned towards the two Lords of Umbar. “Ah, but is that not what our very aim is, my Lord Sangalazin? Thievery from even the highest powers?”

Sangalazin’s expression seemed to freeze for a split second between a sneer and a smile, then he simply shrugged and gave the Captain a lazy, infuriating grin. In order to keep up his respectfulness towards Sangalazin, the easiest response to this was simply to ignore it. After all, it was a damn sight more respectful than the sneer he would usually award to such a… Turning to the older of the two, Rakin inquired as to Azaryan’s expression of worry. “How goes, my Lord? You seem troubled – no bad tidings I hope?”

“None except that one of your slaves is potentially about to be thrashed to death belowdecks,” Sangalazin interrupted unhelpfully. His mouth contorted into a cruel grin which sat uneasily on his fine features. “Although whether that is indeed a bad thing is quite debateable.”

Azaryan did not respond to his cousin, turning expressionless eyes on Rakin for a moment with a look that made the Captain feel like a particularly unwholesome weevil. Then he looked away, glaring, as Rakin had done, over the sea. “It is nothing, Captain,” he replied shortly. Ever eloquent, the corsair commented mentally, then felt the usual stab of guilt. His loyalty must lie with the Lords of Umbar, always, no matter how surly – or superficial – they were… Deciding not to try to get water from the stone on this particular afternoon – or, let Sangalazin have his way, this morning – Rakin excused himself from the pair and, bracing himself, started down the stairs to the lower decks, from whence he would go to the slave deck. This morning he had other affairs to deal with – namely, the dawn escape affair of the previous night. A slave escape, now of all times, and from Chakka – hardly surprising, bearing in mind the brute itself. But I thought I had him under control… He fingered the vial of bitter, mustard-yellow liquid in his pocket: in an hour it would become useless to its intended drinker. Unless the slave was more devious even than Rakin gave him his due for; but then, in the mind of a desperate man, even the best formulated plan often had a slip up - and in this case, one slip-up was likely to make the slave very uncomfortable indeed... A grim smiled twisted Rakin’s handsome features and his hand clenched tight over the vial. Well, if Chakka intended to make life difficult for him now of all times, he had better stop by his own apartments to retrieve a few items from the vicious little armoury of his coat pockets…

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:20 PM

Fordim Hedgethistle's character

NAME: Chakka

AGE: 35

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None

APPEARANCE: Chakka stands well over six feet tall and is immensely strong. His features are even and graceful. He shaves his head (to avoid the vermin that infest the belowdecks) and wears nothing more than a simple pair of sandals, short trousers and a shift. His back is laced with terrible scars from a savage whipping sometime in the past; there are scars on his face too, but these are carefully inscribed lines and dots. His skin is like burnished ebony, lustrous in its blackness.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Chakka is quiet and contemplative, almost taciturn. When he does speak, his words are quiet and to the point for he never speaks before thinking. To those unfamiliar with his ways he appears to be humourless, but he takes great joy in telling elaborate comic tales of magical animals, and in listening to songs and poems of any sort. His greatest joy is the feel of the wind and sun upon his skin. Chakka is slow to anger, but when roused he becomes horrifically violent upon the instant.

HISTORY: Chakka was born upon the slopes of a great mountain far to the south of the lands and seas he now considers his prison. For a few short years he lived with his family in a great village upon the savannah where he watched the women tend the fields while the men went out to hunt. He had just begun to help his mother and older sisters with their tasks when the others came: savage men from the east who burned their village and slew the adult men. The women and children were taken captive and marched for weeks across the savannah and through the jungle to the Sea. Chakka’s mother and eldest sister died in the journey, and when they reached the coast he was separated from the remainder of his family.

He was sold to a great king who made his fortune by selling people to the sick-looking pinkmen who sailed into his harbour every spring. Hundreds of people disappeared into the black ships every year, never to be seen again and as Chakka grew he came to learn that these pinkmen, who hardly looked human with their pallid skin and hair upon their face, were from an even greater kingdom far to the north. Chakka was spared exile among these creatures and was allowed to remain in the coastal realm among normal people, but he remained a slave. He grew up tilling the king’s fields and herding his flocks. Life was hard, for food was scarce and the living conditions were cramped and unclean. The only pleasures allowed the slaves were song and wrestling, for the people of this realm were extremely fond of the sport. Word of Chakka’s prowess in the wrestling ring spread quickly and soon the king took him from the fields so that he could train year-round for the monthly exhibitions. Better food and a cleaner bed allowed Chakka to grow even stronger and more able, and the best masters were acquired to perfect his fighting skills. In addition to wrestling he was taught how to fight with bladed weapons, for the king had a fancy that such a powerful warrior would be an apt bodyguard. For years Chakka trained and fought until he became the greatest fighter anyone had ever seen. Rival monarchs would send their champions, and Chakka defeated them all.

But Chakka yearned to return to the land of his youth, and one day he sought to escape. He was captured and whipped until he was near death. It took him a year to heal and return to full strength, but at the first opportunity he made another attempt for freedom. Once more he was captured. The king, perhaps realising that Chakka could never be tamed, ordered him sold to the pinkmen the next spring. Chakka spent a miserable cold season in dread of his exile, but he found no opportunity to attempt another escape, and within a few months he was forced aboard one of the black ships and bound for a life of slavery to the Corsairs of Umbar.

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Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope.

Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder.

This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement.

The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead.

Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard.

It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan…

Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions.

He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist.

There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood.

Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!”

“Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.”

“He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily.

“Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!”

So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:22 PM

Eorl of Rohan's character

NAME: Ferethor Steele

AGE: 31

RACE: Man

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A piece of broken oar.

APPEARANCE: Dark-haired with eyes of gray, the appearance as well as the mannerism and accent that of Gondor born and bred. On his shift, he is often seen chained to the left side, second row, his lean and lanky frame straining against the oar with a sense of strength that talks of better times. His tousled hair is unkempt and slicked behind his ears, wet with blood and the spray of the tides. Pale as he is, and lean, only his eyes keep some measure of vitality still – alert and alive, sparkling as icily as his voice, as cold as the waves that lash the ship’s brow. The torn and tattered remains of his shirt and breeches alike are plastered to his back, sticking with grime and the sickly yellow of half-healed scars. If someone bothered to look past the film of dirt and dried blood on the shredded clothes, one might have seen the black and white of Gondorian Guards...

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Serious, cynical, steady in his hate as in all things else - yet he keeps it controlled. He had learned that much in the past three years. No one can blame him, however, if the collected bitterness had made him cold and indifferent. Sanity, in such a condition as this, comes with a price. Thralldom is a harsh mistress. In his case, he hid behind his sense of cold reason, trusting no one, loving no one, afraid, not of violence or betrayal, but of the acute pain that will come with awareness.

HISTORY: Once a promising young captain of Gondor at 27, he went missing a few years later - in a skirmish against the Easterlings at the borders of Gondor. He was presumed dead, his family notified – the city named an obscure street after him and promptly forgot. There had been no news of him in the three years since.

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Eorl of Rohan's post

Ferethor couldn't keep count. Beneath the ship, days and years were as one in their miserable condition. A few went mad. Most died. No one lasted more than a year in the service at the oars, no one sane… but him.

He might have lost the consciousness too, if he hadn't that to spark the flame – hatred. He deliberately nurtured it. From the instant when he realized to his horror that he'd go mad if he didn't do anything, he had fed and coddled this hatred of his until it became his driving force. And they knew it. What 'they' were here but the damned Corsairs, the enemy? They knew that he survived. He ate whatever they brought it, he built his strength, and his muscles continued to ripple and move as he strained his chest against the oar to the bending point, under the shadow of the whip of the master, and behind the master, the South, behind it still, the fundamental hatred between the West and the South. He held on. Every minute, he held on. In the pitch-darkness, relieved only by faint lanterns and the cracking sound of the many-lashed whips, he held on with one purpose in mind and one desire – to take vengeance. He had watched impassively as people dropped like flies around him. He knew he could not help them, no matter what. What he could do was escape – escape, and sink the ship with the whole cursed population! He would remember the blank faces of the dead comrades that fought beside him in the fray, the screams of the tortured thralls, and the feel of the lash on his bare back. He would remember, and the blood will be on their heads. Ferethor knew he was thinking in circles. But a thread broken in the train of continuous thought might douse the flame of hatred that was the only thing that kept him sane against all odds. So he pulled the oar. And hated steadily.

There was no source of light other than that which trickled through the hole where the oar handles were thrust in. The lantern that the sentry guard held didn’t count. He bent against the oar, letting his weight do half the work in moving forward the massive ship whose only part he knew was beneath the decks, the mold and the dark and the whips. It was then that he heard the shouts outside – there were always shouts, but this was of a different nature – and the call to arms. They were going to war. War… He strained to hear the next word. War against Gondor. Gondor. He froze. The oar fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. Let them react to that. Was it on purpose or an accident? He didn’t know. He was tired. So tired.

The slaves working around him flinched, and shied away as if the whip might descend on them by mistake. Ferethor straightened up and lifted his head, knowing that soon he'd whimper and beg for mercy like any other slave under the stinging blows of the whip – maybe the racks, even – but he wanted to show them that he was not afraid. No, that wasn't it. He was afraid, but he was not going to let that fear run away with him. He was still a Gondorian, if nothing else. He was a captain of Gondor. He knew that the Corsairs have always hated him more for all that, wanted to see him break under their hands, more than all others - because he was the material realization of the strength and power of Gondor, the City of Stone. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure so easily – he clenched his teeth at that – he owed that much to his heritage, if nothing else. If he had more strength… If he had… If he could contact them… But no. It was futile to dream.

The guard woke from his doze and looked over. The thralls shrank away still further, as much as the chains would allow, and made it a point to not look at his way. They were chained just so that they were forced into a kneeling position, unable to stand or to sit, with the chains interlinked with other slaves that one slave's mishap might affect all others. The arms were free to work the oars, and some had misshapen arms because of being chained in one place with only one arm used for exercise, for so long. Not that the length mattered. They were all mindless and timid, all of them. He wouldn’t get any help from them. He had tried to spark their spirit before, but they moved away, as they did now, afraid. There was some that had a remnant of spirit left, he knew, but they were chained too far away. Ah, here it comes. A guttural remark, then in barest rudiments of Common as the two guards approached – but he didn’t pick up the oar. When the guard grabbed him by the thrall collar, gaggling and choking with the blood that filled his lungs, Ferethor instinctively brought down the metal end of his cuffs hard on the man’s wrist, noting its sickening crunch with mixed feelings of satisfaction and terror. Terror soon gained the upper hand. Usually he would not do anything so stupid – he would let himself be sworn at and beaten around some without unnecessary defiance, which would doubtless bring the steel-tipped whips into play. But… War. War against… Gondor? He couldn’t help shuddering convulsively. One, two seconds passed? The man fell. He was dropped by the first man, so that he was left in the position of half-kneeling along with the rest. The one he had hit recovered in a moment and sat up from the wooden plank, gesturing angrily at Ferethor and reaching for his weapon. No. Please. Can’t take it anymore… The whips cracked in the air, an ominous sound at best, but worse if you heard it cut into flesh and sinews. Especially your own. He moaned, falling onto his knees, and before he could brace himself came one blow and another time after time in quick succession. Usually these stopped after a dozen, or the slave might be rendered useless for the day – but it went on and on – enough that blood and flesh splattered all over, some of the weaker slaves covered their eyes, and he soon lost consciousness hanging limp by the chains.

Gondor. What did it mean? Gondor, and… and…

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:22 PM

dancing spawn of ungoliant's character

NAME: Jagar

AGE: 26

RACE: Men (Haradrim)

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A piece of rope.

APPEARANCE: As a Southron Jagar's complexion is dark and he has brown or almost black eyes. His hair is short, curly, ragged and as dark as his eyes. Jagar is scrawny but tall. Some say that there would be Numenorean blood in his line but most think it's just a mere story Jagar's tribe's women cherish. The only feature that could be Numenorean origin is his height. He is worn and sweat has hardened his clothes. He sits a couple rows behind Ferethor on the right side of an aisle between the slaves.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Jagar has been aboard only a few months but the horrible conditions are taking their toll on him and sometimes he seems slightly mad. He talks to himself, hums and acts indifferently. He tries to deny the reality and escape into his imagination by seeking consolation from nature and songs. Jagar is confused because he begins to realize how much his tribe's culture contradicts with his own values.

Jagar is independent and he'd like to be alone but it's quite impossible considering he is in chains with hundreds of other slaves. Therefore he isn't very talkative but he's not hostile either.

HISTORY: Jagar was a member of a large and powerful tribe. He travelled to the sea as a boy and fell in love with the local lifestyle. When Jagar grew up he left to the coast to live on his own.

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dancing spawn of ungoliant's post

The hot air below deck smelled of sweat and blood. Jagar gasped and felt his heartbeat pounding in his throat. A man sitting next to him had collapsed onto the oar unable to force his tortured body to work any longer. Although it was gruesome, the sight made him chuckle. The limp body of the man swung to-and-fro with every pull making him look like a puppet and making rowing even harder. Was he dead? No, not yet. "Will be soon", Jagar mumbled to himself. "Isn't this something! Great ships with crimson sails, wasn't that what you wanted to see?" a little voice jeered inside his head.

When Jagar was a mere boy, he had travelled north to the coast with his father to inspect their tribe's lands. He had seen proud ships setting off from the harbours, the sun dazzling on foaming waves and screaming flocks of seabirds that circled above docks waiting the fishermen to clean their catch. As time passed, Jagar didn't forsake the sight of the glimmering sea and he longed for the freedom that the life on the coast breathed. Getting captured was not part of the plan.

During these months aboard Jagar had learnt that by keeping up with the pace and holding your tongue you could keep the whip away. The man sitting next to him had done neither. Rankling wounds run across his back making his remaining clothes sticky with matter. Jagar thought of his family. They had kept slaves, too, people from scattered and weak tribes who had chosen thralldom over death.

A whip of lash whizzed past Jagar's ear hitting the man next to him on the back and spattering blood drops around. The poor man moaned hoarsely as a new wound ripped the old scars open and coloured his ragged shirt carmine red. There was a time when this sight would have made Jagar feel sick but now he just stared forward squeezing the oar. The man was detached from his chains and dragged away. A few rows from Jagar another man was being beaten for dropping his oar.

Jagar moved quickly to the seat beside the oar hole and breathed the salty air. Finally he could see a glimpse of the swelling sea and boundless sky. How free the seagulls were! He wanted to wring their necks, shoot them down, so they couldn't fly around the cursed ship as though mocking him. No, he wanted to be one of them and ride with the breeze that blew from the vast ocean and hailed a new dawn. But here Jagar was chained in a ship and going to war against Gondor.

Harad was an enemy of Gondor as was Umbar. Jagar had learnt that long ago. If he was a free man, he would have gone to war gladly but not like this, not as a thrall trapped in an Umbarian ship. They made slaves row under pain of torment and death, but if he ever reached Gondor, what would the battle be but torment and death? Maybe he would die pathetically as an old man holding an oar after wasting his years rowing Numenorean lords from war to war. They would just throw him overboard for the sport of different sea creatures and keep conquering the world. This thought made him chuckle again. But why would he have been so eager to go to war against Gondor? He had no personal reason to hate that land. Jagar tried to reminisce an old song his mother had used to sing but the words escaped from his mind. Something about wind and horizon...

piosenniel · 10-14-2005, 08:24 PM

The Discussion Thread is now open for discussing the game.

Please keep chatty posts to a minimum.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio, game moderator

Eorl of Rohan · 10-14-2005, 11:28 PM

Does this mean that now the Numenorean Blood Runs Black can start? The planning is over, the characters are in place, the first posts are done and the people are waiting. (Influence of Dr. Seuss? Possibly.)

EDIT: Thank you, Pio.

piosenniel · 10-15-2005, 12:07 AM

From the Planning Thread:

About the start of Game:

Perky will be away from the 16th through the 22nd of this month.

I 'd like to start the game the 24th (or as soon after he is able to decide the order of the opening posts for the RPG thread).

~*~ Pio

The Perky Ent · 10-15-2005, 10:20 PM

Hello all! I'm quickly writing this before I must depart to Utah! I expect to be back on the 22nd, and have an excellent time

I really dont' have time to come up with a post order yet, so I'll have to do it when I get back. Sorry for the inconvience, but it's partially mandatory. Feel free to work things out and plan things for the future. I know I will

Take care,

Perky

Fordim Hedgethistle · 10-17-2005, 09:48 AM

Oops, sorry -- failed to notice that this thread had been opened until just now. I was wondering why y'all had been so quiet lately....

Amanaduial the archer · 10-17-2005, 02:32 PM

Ditto to Fordim - just checking in to get updates from the thread and to reassure you all that I have not met my untimely, yet undoubtedly rather exciting and certainly unscrupulous, death. Yet. *evil*

(Shut up, Aman...)

Anguirel · 10-17-2005, 02:37 PM

Actually, Aman, I wonder if you have to die. It would be fascinating to let a rogue scion of the Castamirioni, unrecognised by the chronicles, escape...far future, I know...

Kath · 10-17-2005, 04:34 PM

I need emails to keep up with this so just checking in!

10-13-2005, 08:00 AM	#161
Folwren Messenger of Hope Join Date: Jun 2005 Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States. Posts: 5,076	Pio, My ship's name is going to be Cuivië, and the sword, though it doesn't have to be placed on the Discussion thread, is Gayaros. -- Folwren __________________ A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. - C.S. Lewis

10-13-2005, 08:24 AM	#162
Thinlómien Shady She-Penguin Join Date: Dec 2004 Location: In a far land beyond the Sea Posts: 8,093	Errr... I'll actually post my first post tomorrow, because I would like to read Kath's first post before writing my own and I'm a bit in a hurry, because I have to clean my room and study spanish today... And if there's someone who's confused with my gender (for I know some people were in WWJ and in How do you imagine other BDrs -threads), I'm a she. __________________ Like the stars chase the sun, over the glowing hill I will conquer Blood is running deep, some things never sleep Double Fenris

10-13-2005, 08:46 AM	#163
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Bringing this forward: Character/Player List Gondorian Forces First Ship -- The Cuivië King Telumehtar Umbardacil – The Perky Ent Advisor/Record Keeper to the King – Menelcar – Firefoot Sea Captain - Captain Hereric - Folwren ~~ Second Ship -- The Ráca* Captain - Captain Mirimon Vórimandur - Alcarillo Soldier - Nimir - Dunwen Soldier - Lingwë - Thinlómien Soldier - Curamir - Kath -------------------- Corsair Forces Ship -- The Fame and Fortune Lord of Umbar - Azaryan – Hiriel Lord of Umbar - Sangalazin - Anguirel Corsair Captain - Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (Rakin) - Amanaduial the archer Slave - Ferethor Steele – Eorl of Rohan Slave - Jagar - dancing spawn of ungoliant Slave - Chakka - Fordim Hedgethistle Last edited by piosenniel; 10-14-2005 at 07:38 PM.

10-14-2005, 09:21 AM	#168
Eorl of Rohan Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Jan 2004 Location: Seoul, South Korea Posts: 602	All: Mmf, another assailant. Do people have no honor nowadays? Ganging up on a poor gal like me. Hehe. Although, I'm pretty sure Aman and Pio did not confuse my gender. I've roleplayed with the former and argued with the latter, both providing an admirable insight into the other, adversary or comrade, and consquently they'd have recognized that I am. not. a. boy. I do not sound like one. I do not look like one. I do not write like one. I do act like one but then that is an exception. Throw me a bone here, sheesh! (In fact, I have no idea what this phrase means. I just wanted to try it out. Hopefully it means "Help me out.") Pio: While I admit that the total absence of dialogues would be unnatural and quite hard to accomplish, and as the posts cannot be a mere sentence or a sliver of words as would be natural in a dialogure, this was what was confusing to me at first and is still confusing now. Please enlighten me. How is Kath able to make the dialogues of the Thin's character, and how is Fordim able to make up a plan of Aman's character without playing it? How far-reaching is the boundary, at what point would it encroach upon being broken, these are things I still do not understand. And I'd be grateful if you'd tell them that you thought me as a girl from the beginning, although this is not mandatory. (Another of the phrases that I decided to try out. 'although this is not mandatory' is almost always preceded by extremly difficult and high-marked homeworks that our teacher Mr. Kim loves to give out. I think this means "Please", but I'm not sure. Too many fancy language in English.) __________________ There is no signature here. Last edited by Eorl of Rohan; 10-14-2005 at 09:25 AM.

10-14-2005, 12:01 PM	#170
Anguirel Byronic Brand Join Date: Mar 2005 Location: The 1590s Posts: 2,778	Incidentally, I would point to Aman's use of Sangalazin and Azaryan as a shining example of how to write other people's characters. It was just right...witty, well-done and derived from the character descriptions __________________ Among the friendly dead, being bad at games did not seem to matter -Il Lupo Fenriso

10-14-2005, 02:43 PM	#172
The Perky Ent Maniacal Mage Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Setting sail for Umbar, with Firefoot at my side! Posts: 3,297	I plan for it to be ...um...for it to be....uh...Summer. Yeah, late summer, early Autumn! __________________ 'But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.'

10-14-2005, 07:56 PM	#175
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	The planning process for the RPG is now complete. Please use the Discussion Thread for talking about the game. Thanks! ~~ Pio __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside. Last edited by piosenniel; 10-14-2005 at 08:26 PM.*

10-14-2005, 07:59 PM	#176
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Númenórean Blood Runs Black Discussion Thread *** THIS IS THE FIRST POST FOR THE DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THE RPG * The Perky Ent invites you to play in his RPG: Númenórean Blood Runs Black ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Historical Background*: Eldacar was the 21st King of Gondor; he was only half-Gondorian. His rule was usurped by Castamir, a full blooded Gondorian and a great-grandson of King Calmacil, with a right to be King. Castamir ruled for 10 years and then was killed in a coup by Eldacar. Eldacar reclaimed the throne of Gondor for his heirs. Castamir’s heirs and followers settled in and founded the Havens of Umbar in the south. They became known as the Corsairs of Umbar and had a longstanding hatred of Gondor and its line of Kings. ----- The Castamirioni (the heirs of Castamir) “long held it [i. e. Umbar] as an independent realm [hostile to Gondor,] attacking its ships and raiding its coast at every opportunity." The third Realm in Exile “remained at war with Gondor for many lives of men, a threat to its coastlands and to all traffic on the sea. It was never again completely subdued until the days of Elessar; and the region of South Gondor became a debatable land between the Corsairs and the Kings." - Appendix A; The Return of the King* ----- In 1634 T.A,, Umbar was ruled together by yet another duumvirate, the great-grandsons of Castamir, Angamaitë and Sangahyando, who worked out a terrible assault on the line of Eldacar – Appendix A; The Return of the King ----- 1810 T.A. (Third Age) – King Telumehtar Umbardacil retakes Umbar and drives out the Corsairs -- Appendix B; The Return of the King ----- The doom of this Middle Realm came when King Telumehtar, "being troubled by the insolence of the Corsairs, who raided his coasts even as far as the Anfalas, gathered his forces and in 1810 took Umbar by storm. In that war the last descendants of Castamir perished in the storming and destruction of the haven and stronghold of the Corsairs of Umbar", and "King Telumehtar Umbardacil [drove] out the Corsairs” – Appendix A; The Return of the King 1810 T.A. (Third Age) – King Telumehtar Umbardacil retakes Umbar and drives out the Corsairs -- Appendix B; The Return of the King ----- Please be familiar with these sections from The Encyclopedia of Arda: Corsairs of Umbra Kings of Gondor ----- Here's a good MAP . Just scroll down the page to get the area which includes Gondor, The Bay of Belfalas, and Umbar. ----- The Line of Elros is here. ----- On Corsairs and their Ships -- courtesy of The Perky Ent Corsairs of Umbar During the Kin-strife that led to Gondor’s costly civil war, a great many of its invincible navy supported the usurper, who was challenging the king’s right to rule the country. Eventually he was overthrown and the rightful king restored to the throne, driving the rebels to found their own province and declare themselves under self-rule. Initially these sailors were based in the Gondorian port of Pelargir, but eventually they withdrew to the more southernly haven of Umbar, which sat on the northern coast of Harad. Over time these sailors drew to their number various outlaws and brigands from outlying settlements surrounding the Anduin, and they took to raiding alon gthe coastline of southern Gondor, interceping merchant vessels and abducting women to bolster their dissident community. They were also slavers and would often seize a ship’s crew along with her cargo; if any resisted he would be thrown overboard. Ever after these slaves would spend their lives pulling oars on the corsairs’ great black ship. The corsairs were a thorn in Gondor’s side and were partly responsible for its impoverished state, restricting as they had its trade with other realms. Beyond the obvious desire for wealth, there would initially have been some motivation to strike against a kingdom which the corsairs saw as compromised; later it would have been just about greed. The crew of a corsair ship was said to be a mixed bag, generally swarthy and unkempt but garbed in gaudy clothing and jewelry; some would have had an exotic look born of their Southron ancestry. The corsairs had just one battle strategy, but it was one that had served them well through many centuries: they would use their superior nautical abilities and vasty superior victims until they had pulled alongside; then they would launch harpoons from the iron crossbows fixed port and starboard on their ship, anchoring it to the other vessel. As the two ships closed, a raiding party would launch a volley of arrows into the crew if they showed any signs of resistance, before leap;ing across and seizing control of the vessel. Usually, the corsairs’ fearsome reputation would have beedn enough to intimidate all but the bravest crew, regardless of the value of the cargo. Sauron would have realized just how useful the corsairs could be to him, so his emissaries would have enlisted their support, possibly making treatikes with them after passing through Harad. Needless to say, the greater part of their inducement to aid Sauron would have been the promise of booty from the White City. By having them raid the various settlements that were situated along the coast, right up to Minas Tirith, Sauron would have gained an intimidating southern front that would need to be defended against, thus drawing away a precious number of Gondor’s soldiers. The corsairs’ raids would have been damaging in other ways: to see smoke rising from the southern villages and the telltale silhouette of the great ships’ sails would have been deeply demoralizing for the defenders within the White City, weakening them even before battle commenced. Furthermore, once the corsairs had moored at Harlond they would have provided reinforcements for Sauron’s army if required; they could have provided useful transport up and down the river for his troops or plundered equiptment should the battle have been won by the time they arrived. Corsair Ship There appear to have been ten of the great ships under the control of the corsairs. These behemoths were said to be 450 feet long and 45 feet in the beam, although these estimates have never been confirmed, as none of the ships survive; the three tall masts each supported an enormous crimson sail, the largest of which may have been fully 400 feet high. Their angular fan shape would have cut a distinctive and terrifying silhouette in the water. Once they were visible it was probably already too late. Yet the most frightening facet of the ships was never seen, only felt; just below the waterline sat a huge iron battering ram, it’s jagged edges extending perhaps fifty feet out from the keel. The elegant curving jagged lines of this ram and the rest of the ironwork revealed the ships to be clearly of Numenorean design, especially in the defensive rows of iron spikes that ran from the prow to stern on each side. Secured to the hull behind these with iron brackets was a wall of red wooden shields that would have maid it almost impossible for anyone to storm the deck. The deck was fitted fore and aft with a pair of iron-framed crossbows that fired harpoons to which were attached grappling lines that bit deep into the victim’s hull; once these were embedded, the merchant ship would be stuck fast and vulnerable. A brazier was kept stoked next to the crossbows for the time when the corsairs set light to the other ship, usually just after it had been emptied of its cargo. The corsair ships were biremens, in that they were fitted port and starboard with row rows of oars; each row had twenty-one oars and required a minimum of three men per oar; this meant that more than 250 slaves would have been chained below deck. Rowing would have been an exhausting task and would have resulted in a high turnover of slaves; in order to continue raiding, the corsairs would have needed to keep slaving, a vicious circle that terrorized the people of Gondor. Last edited by piosenniel; 01-15-2006 at 02:56 AM.

10-14-2005, 08:00 PM	#177
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Basic Storyline: King Telumehtar of Gondor, angered by the Corsairs constant attacks on his lands, leads an assault on Umbar to destroy the Corsairs once and for all, and reclaim the city for Gondor. Meanwhile, The Corsairs press on to wreak havoc on the coasts of Gondor. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The purpose of the story is to: Reclaim Umbar for Gondor, and remove the Corsairs from the city. ----- This means we will know the story is over when: Umbar is under Gondorian control ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Starting Location: Harlond for the Gondorians, the mouth of Anduin for the Corsairs. Likely destination: Umbar

10-14-2005, 08:01 PM	#178
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Timeframes: This game takes place in the 3rd Age at around year 1810 - late Summer almost Autumn. The storyline itself or plot covers two months This game requires a time commitment of 14 weeks from me, the game owner and from the major players.

10-14-2005, 08:02 PM	#179
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Character/Player List Gondorian Forces First Ship -- The Cuivië King Telumehtar Umbardacil – The Perky Ent Advisor/Record Keeper to the King – Menelcar – Firefoot Sea Captain - Captain Hereric - Folwren ~~ Second Ship -- The Ráca* Captain - Captain Mirimon Vórimandur - Alcarillo Soldier - Nimir - Dunwen Soldier - Lingwë - Thinlómien Soldier - Curamir - Kath -------------------- Corsair Forces Ship -- The Fame and Fortune Lord of Umbar - Azaryan – Hiriel Lord of Umbar - Sangalazin - Anguirel Corsair Captain - Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (Rakin) - Amanaduial the archer Slave - Ferethor Steele – Eorl of Rohan Slave - Jagar - dancing spawn of ungoliant Slave - Chakka - Fordim Hedgethistle ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Note 1: The Lords of Umbar are the sons of Angamaitë and Sangahyando. Angamaitë and Sangahyando are the direct descendants of Castamir, and former rulers of Umbar. Note 2: The Slaves were those who stayed under the ship and manned the many ores of the ship. There’d be around 250 chained slaves per ship. _______________________________ Character types which would not belong: Any female characters, Elves, Hobbits, Dwarves, Orcs, or anything that is not specificed by the character list _______________________________

10-14-2005, 08:03 PM	#180
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	The Perky Ent’s character: NAME: King Telumehtar, 28th King of Gondor AGE: 178 RACE: Human GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Telumehtar carries a three foot long sword handed down by his father Tarondor in TA 1700. Its hilt is wrapped in a soft leather grip, and the sword is relatively light to wield, compared to the sword of the regular Gondorian soldier. Besides his ceremonial sword, Telumehtar also carries a shorter, more worn sword, which Telumehtar had used ever since he was thirty. Along his belt, Telumehtar has several throwing daggers. As for armor, Telumehtar’s helm is of kingly proportions, bearing a large set of wings in the back, and a golden noseguard in the front. In front of his green tunic, Telumehtar wears an elegant hauberk, covered by a ruby red leather vest. For his legs, he wore an embroidered hose, covered by greaves. His leather gloves are lined with silver paint; his pauldrons and vambraces depicted the white tree under the stars. Above all his armor he wears the tabard of the white tree. On ceremonious occasions, he wears the Crown of Gondor on his head. APPEARANCE: A man of substantial stature, Telumehtar stands tall at six feet seven inches. He stands poised, and has a kingly look about himself in public. His matted hair is brown, as are his eyes. His brow is wrinkled, but only from age. Telumehtar is a lean man, weighting as much as an average person (exclude his weight when in armor). As a king, he represents Gondor, and therefore keeps very clean and tidy. Of markings that would be of note, he bears a small scar on his left forearm that he believes was the plague’s effect on him. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: When it comes to his family, Telumehtar is very down to Earth. He is very caring and shows particular courtesy, condescending no one. A strong man, he is fairly agile, and thinks well under pressure. However, since he was a child, he has always had a mild case of claustrophobia, which has been a problem that has haunted him for quite some time, since he is the king of Gondor. He is fairly intelligent, and occasionally witty, yet he relies a great deal of his decisions to his right hand man, Menelcar. His weak point is his forearm, where he bears the scar of what he believes is the plague’s effect on him. When touched, it causes mild pain through his left arm. It his for this reason that he keeps his arm well armored. In terms of his proficiency with weapons, Telumehtar is an awful shot when it comes to archery. He never had a passion for bows and arrows, and therefore never gave much interest to it. His skills with a blade are of kingly proportion, having spent many decades training in the ways of the blade. He is not an aggressive person, unless in a long fight where he will continue to increase his effort. Telumehtar never was much of a runner, but more of a sprinter, saving his energy for close fights. HISTORY: Born in TA 1632, he was only two years old when he heard his great uncle Telemnar speak of war with the Corsairs of Umbar. Ever since, he has had a natural hate for them. It was when he was six that he saw the plague ravage Gondor. Telumehtar stood under the arm of his father as he watched his great uncle die, and the White Tree wither. It was in this year, TA 1636, that Tarondor, the nephew of Telemnar, became king of Gondor, making Telumehtar heir to the throne of Gondor. Four years later, he grew sad when he watched the king’s house move to Minas Arnor, as he had grown fond of Osgiliath, and didn’t want to leave. It was in this year that a white tree grew forth again in Gondor, and Telumehtar witnessed his sowing. For the next 170 years, Telumehtar grew strong, and learned much of the lore of his land. Particularly, he learned much of the ways of the sea, spending much of his time near the mouth of the Anduin, and of the coastal cities of Belfalas. On his 68th birthday, Telumehtar received the sword of his father, which was passed down from Minardil, being one of the only relics remaining from the battle where his grand father died. The sword was passed down to Minastan, as Telemnar believed his brother would have more use for it. While fighting his way through a band of hostile Haradrim, the sword found its way into the hands of Menelcar, one of the men fighting along side him. Upon this meeting, they forged a friendship that lasted all the way until the king’s passing. It was in the next year, TA 1798, that Telumehtar’s father passed away, leaving the throne of Gondor to him. Telumehtar took the responsibility willingly, and ruled justly. For the next twelve years, Telumehtar was troubled with the Corsairs, who have been seen pillaging closer to the heart of Gondor each year. With the help of Menelcar, his trustworthy advisor, Telumehtar made the decision to go to war in TA 1810. It was in this time that he gathered his host, and the story begins… -------------------------------------------- FIRST POST FOR THE GAME: Tall ships and tall kings Three times three What brought they from the foundered land Over the flowing sea? Seven stars and seven stones And one white tree Telumehtar thought over the words, while he surveyed his lands. The view was always nice from the seventh tier of Minas Anor. With the wind blowing his brown hair across his brow, he could see lands his fathers had defended hundreds of years ago. Many times in the passing days had Telumehtar considered his heritage. When times of great trouble came, he would walk to the edge, and contemplate his actions. During this time, none were allowed to walk the level, except for the guards constantly stationed by the tree. It was in this hour that Telumehtar looked long and hard across his land, watching his troops muster at the port of Harlond. In the deepest part of his heart, Telumehtar wished he was a lone sailor of the sea, for Telumehtar was a mariner at heart. It was a quiet day. The citizens of Minas Anor had been dreading the day for quiet some time after they heard that they would go to war. In homes, families were close and savored the time they had. Each day, Gondorians could see ships on the horizon, heading from far off lands. From Cair Andros to Dol Amroth, men had gathered to answer the call of war. Unlike tales of heroism and courage, the men of Gondor did not treat the Corsairs of Umbar like mindless orcs. Corsairs were a powerful force that required constant vigilance to be held back. Being pirates, they held no loyalty to any save themselves. But the pirates were not what scared the Gondorians, for they gave little heed to mindless brigands. It was the Black Numenorians, those corrupted by Sauron during the second age, that instilled fear in the very heart of Gondor. Just like the dunedain of Arnor, their numbers were rapidly decreasing, yet the remained the strength that their master had taught them long ago. After meditating for quite some time, Telumehtar gave a sigh, and turned from the pinnacle. When he was a boy, his father would sing him songs of the Kings of Men, and their tree that stood on their island. It was from the story of the Akallabêth that Telumehtar learned to revere the sea and its power. But he was not meant to follow his hearts desire, as he was a descendant of the great kings of Gondor, and his fate was bound from his inception. When he turned his eyes to the White Tree, a sense of calm overtook him. Even after over a century of viewing it, the White Tree of Gondor was a sight. The sun’s light glistened on its branches perfectly, emanating beauty in its most radiant form. Telumehtar dared not touch it, a fear that he had held ever since he saw the death of the tree. “This is not a time for sorrow, for death smiles at us all.” Telumehtar said to himself as he walked away from the tree and smiled. “And all we can do about it is smile back”. He turned from the outdoors, and walked to his throne. It was silent in his hall. The arrangements had been laid, precautions set, and edits degreed. The quiet was almost haunting, and it was for this that Telumehtar was glad when he heard whispers from behind him. Two men walked out from behind him, swords drawn. Without even registering the faces of the men, Telumehtar leaped from his throne and unsheathed his sword. In front of him, Telumehtar found none other than the Steward of Gondor, and his son Narmacil. “Relax father. We are not here to usurp your authority.” Giving a slight chuckle, the steward added “Nay. In fact, we are here to make sure you are ready for the usurpers. Your son wanted to make sure you would stay on your toes. “Giving a cross look, Telumehtar slowly put his sword away. “When have I not been on my guard? Are you ready for my departure? As you should know, I am not much for goodbyes.” Narmacil nodded, and started to walk out of the hall. “I’ll have you know-“the steward interjected “That Arciryas sends his father his best wishes. Rest assured that he is safe in Annuminas. And I as well. I shall await your homecoming”. And with that, the steward and the heir left the room, and left Telumehtar to silence. Telumehtar took a final look at his hall, and then marched slowly down the levels of the city. As he walked, groups of women and children parted to a side, creating a clear-cut path. One by one the gates of Minas Anor opened, until Telumehtar found himself upon the second level. Taking a right at a forked path, Telumehtar walked over to a large building with smoke billowing through its windows. Telumehtar opened the doors, and watched as all the men in the room bowed their heads. “Is it time my lord?” a man in the front said to the king, raising his head. Telumehtar gave a slow nod, and all the men watched as the king walked to the center of the large room. Along the walls, weapons and armor were laid, and golden tapestries of battles were hung from the ceilings. Telumehtar was presented with his armor, which had laid in the building for many years. Slowly but strongly, Telumehtar equipped his gear and left the building. Mindorlonn, Telumehtar’s chestnut horse, was waiting for his master outside the armoury. Fixing the crown upon his head, Telumehtar rode to the gates of Minas Anor. Standing in front of an open gate, Telumehtar found a large group of mounted men waiting outside the city. Inside, a large cluster of people had gathered in a circle, engulfing Telumehtar within the entrance. Sweat started to pour down his face as Telumehtar started to cloister himself from his people. His horse, knowing him all too well, started to buck, bringing Telumehtar away from his claustrophobia. There, Telumehtar shouted, “People of Gondor! Fear not! The blood of Numenor shall be spilt this day, but it shall run black like their hearts! The corsairs will plague you no longer! For glory and Gondor we ride!” And with Minas Anor roaring in triumph behind him, Telumehtar grabbed Mindorlonn’s reins, and rode out to Harlond. Quickly Telumehtar came to the port, and found it filled with ships and men. Throughout the port, Telumehtar spied flags from all distant lands of Gondor. Telumehtar started taking a mental note in his head of the lands that had come to his call. “Dol Amroth, Anfalas, Lossarnach, Morthond, Pinnath Gelin. Good, good, good! We are almost ready to make war. Now if only I could find - “You rang? Do not think I would not be here before you left!” came a voice from behind Telumehtar. “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?”

10-14-2005, 08:06 PM	#181
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Firefoot's character NAME: Menelcar (King’s advisor/record keeper) AGE: 141 RACE: Man of Gondor GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Though rarely necessary in these days as the king’s advisor, Menelcar still regularly bears a sword, mostly out of habit from his days in the army. (In this campaign, of course, he might very well need it.) He is also proficient with a bow and can handle most other weapons with reasonable skill. APPEARANCE: Númenorean blood runs nearly true in him, and it shows. He is tall, about 6’4”; his hair is shoulder-length and black as a raven’s wing; his eyes are grey and clear. He would be quite handsome if it weren’t for a certain hardness and arrogance in his features. He carries himself nobly and not without pride. His clothing is unremarkable except in its fine quality. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Menelcar’s intelligence is above average; this is one trait he has shown even as a very young boy. In addition to being smart, he was also good at just about whatever he put his mind to (those things he wasn’t good at, he sooner or later quit), and he began to think of himself as better than others. This was aided along by his family and heritage: he was born into a wealthy, noble family and is of nearly pure Númenorean descent. As a result, he has never been very social, preferring to keep to himself. There have been very few people he has ever been able to call a friend; the king is one of them. He holds his friends in high esteem, but generally looks down upon all others. Though skilled in weaponry and horseback riding, neither has ever been his favorite. What he really loves are history and reading and writing, and in writing he has found his freedom. The thoughts that he would never confide to another person are regularly recorded in a journal. The job of record keeper and advisor to the king came naturally to him; there is little else that he would ever care to do. HISTORY: Menelcar was born the middle child and second son of a noble family. Even as a child, he was a loner having few or no close friends. He was thought of as a bit odd for spending so much time by himself, especially in contrast to his older brother, who was, if slightly less talented, a great deal more social and well-liked by most everyone, in addition to being the more handsome. Menelcar was originally envious of his brother’s easy way with people, but what attempts he did make to fit in invariably failed to a greater or lesser extent, causing Menelcar to retreat more and more inside himself. He comforted himself by telling himself that he was better than they were anyway, that he didn’t need them, and the former at least was true in many ways. Eventually he came to wholly believe these things. As he got older, he had no care to be married, and as the second son he was under no obligation to do so. Instead, he did the next logical thing for one of a noble house and joined the army. Though he had no particular care for weaponry and fighting, it was at any rate better than the social life that he might otherwise be expected to lead. It was in these years of fighting that Menelcar met Telumehtar, then the prince, when he returned his sword to him. The two quickly came to an understanding which developed into a fast friendship such as Menelcar had never before or since experienced. When Telumehtar became king, Menelcar was the natural choice for a record keeper and advisor, and Menelcar readily gave up the army for the new position. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Firefoot's post It was with great impatience that Menelcar had awaited Telumehtar’s arrival. His impatience was not with the king himself, precisely, but he had been at the harbor since early that morning overseeing the muster and organization of the troops while the king took care of last minute preparations inside the city. He cared for this part of his job the least, for he disliked, nay, despised, dealing with people. This sentiment only compounded with so many people needing instructions at the same time. He had to direct the many captains to the ships that would transport them, as well as answer any questions that they or the ships’ captains might have. The job was necessary but tedious, and Menelcar had long since wearied of it. His mount, a restive bay stallion, seemed to concur. The king’s arrival heartened Menelcar greatly; it meant they would be departing soon, and he would no longer be plagued by the many questions and problems of the soldiers. He nudged the horse forward to meet the king, threading his way through the busy harbor as quickly as he could manage. However, he was interrupted before he could get very far by yet another inquisitive captain; his uniform proclaimed him to be from Dol Amroth. “Yes?” asked Menelcar curtly. “I am Captain Baranor, out of Dol Amroth,” said the man, clearly unsure of how to take his brusque manner. “It seems that we brought a few more men than we had originally estimated; our assigned ships will be loaded full and there are still about twenty more men than the ships’ captains say that the boats will safely hold.” Menelcar barely stifled an irritated sigh and dug out of his pocket the little book in which he was keeping the details of the attack. He scanned the ship assignments and wrote a note of the captain’s situation. “There should be some extra space with the soldiers from Anfalas. If not, check with those from Morthond. Do so quickly; we will be departing soon now that the king has arrived.” “Thank you, milord,” said the captain with a salute. Menelcar paid no heed; he had already begun to ride off, scanning the harbor for Telumehtar, whom he had lost sight of while speaking with the captain. The king would be looking for him by now, no doubt. The soldiers milling about had parted to let the king pass through, and Menelcar took advantage of the more open space, nudging his horse into a dignified canter to catch up. The stallion took the extra rein eagerly after having stood around for so long. “You were looking for me?” asked Menelcar as he drew even with Telumehtar. “Do not think I would not be here before you left!” Telumehtar turned in recognition of the voice: “Menelcar! Trusty as ever! We will have time for pleasantries later, but I have more important matters to attend to. Where are my men? Where are my captains? My soldiers? My kingdom?” “I should hope you know where your kingdom is by now,” commented Menelcar, smiling in spite of himself. “As for the rest of it, many of the soldiers are already aboard their ships. These rest ought to know where they’re heading by now, or their captains do.” Quickly he outlined the organization of the soldiers – where the units from the various regions of Gondor were situated and so on. “We will be traveling in that ship, there-” Menelcar pointed to a fine ship a short way down the harbor. “I have spoken with the captain of the ship; he seemed very eager to make sure all was in line for your arrival,” he added with a hint of contempt. The captain had spoken with him several times that day, to the point of being bothersome. “It should not be much more than an hour before we are ready to set sail; they mostly await your order.”

10-14-2005, 08:08 PM	#182
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Folwren's character NAME: Captain Hereric son Hothlere AGE: 82 RACE: Gondorian GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Hereric uses a broad sword best. His sword, Gayaros, has a four foot, white blade with a silver hilt and handle. In the pommel is set a single blue stone. The hilt is decorated with thin, slender vines make of silver twining and encircling it. Besides his skill with a sword, he can use the bow well, and has some ability with casting a spear. APPEARANCE: He is not tall, really, compared to most Gondorians, and stands only six foot one. However, he has a powerfully built body, and a commanding eye and bearing which make up for his height. Brown hair, lightened by the almost constant sunlight, dark, penetrating brown eyes. He usually wears no armor and is dressed (at most times) in a while shirt, laced at the throat, brown breeches, mid-calf boots. On such occasions as welcoming the King aboard the ship, he’ll have his coat and hat on, with his sword at his side, cutting a handsome and military figure. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Hereric is a taut captain, but neither brutal or cruel to his men. It is rather necessary to retain rather stiff discipline at sea, but his crew does not resent him for it, and they all rather like their captain. He has a very quiet character most of the time, and usually only becomes visibly angry or annoyed at such busy, confusing times as preparing for a voyage and while they’re still at the wharfs and harbors. Once sail is spread he’s back to his regular self, calm and generally quiet. In any sea battle, he can make quick, difficult decisions on a moment’s notice. He knows his ship from bow to stern and every curve and rope therein, and is therefore able to direct her in difficult places and times at sea, or anywhere. His weaknesses lie in his habit of withdrawing himself when things aren’t going well, or aren’t going his way (not in the stubborn, spoiled child sense, but as a sea officer). At such times, he’ll become even less talkative, stern, and altogether impassible. Another is that he gets unaccountably excited in battles, and though his sometimes reckless actions has never gotten him or his ship and crew into any trouble that he couldn’t pull them back out of again, it still is dangerous. All in all, he’s a great leader and an excellent captain, knowing both his men, his ship, and his business well. HISTORY: Hereric was born to Hothlore and Aanel in 1728 in Osgiliath. His father was a captain at the time of his birth and continued being so until his death in one of the many, random battles with the Corsairs in 1738. From that day forward, Hereric wanted to go and join the Navy in hopes of someday taking revenge for his father’s death. His mother let him go and in 1739, at age 11, he joined. Having had such a father as Hothlore, he did not have a difficult time finding his way as one of the junior officers onto one of the ships. That is not to say he had many privileges when he was a boy, but he wasn’t considered a regular seaman. He worked his way up the ladder, learning first about the knots and sails, and then navigating skills. He was taught the necessary mathematics and astrology necessary to successfully captain and sail a ship. He learned to read and write, tell time by the sun, and take and fulfill responsibilities given him. Before becoming a captain in 1795, he had served as several of the higher ranking officers. In 1795 he was appointed Captain and given his first ship. It was small and not particularly fast nor very nice, but in two years he was given a higher rating and given a different ship, The Cuivië - the one he presently sails. It was one that he had sailed most of his earlier years. He found it a great advantage, knowing the way it sailed almost as soon as he set foot to it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Folwren's post Captain Hereric stood on the deck of The Cuivië, his hands folded behind him, and his eyes watching the bustle of his men below. The muscle in his jaw slowly clenched and unclenched and a constant, grim expression lingered on his face. The last day before setting sail was always hard enough without the extra stress of greeting a king. It would have to be his ship, wouldn’t it? But then, she was very fine, wasn’t she? He glanced up at the ropes and rigging above his head. The fine lines against the clear blue sky, and the proud Gondorian flag fluttering slightly in the breeze. She was a gorgeous ship, and her crew one of the best. He had little nor no doubts of her performance, and he would not have had any worries in the least had it not been for the condescending manner of the king’s own advisor. Hereric’s jaw tightened again and he looked towards the pier. Of all people, he thought he disliked the condescending sort. The very thought of being looked down on by anyone on his ship was extremely annoying and entirely intolerable. He’d have to work on that if the two of them were going to be stuck together for more than a few days. The approach of his first left-tenant brought his attention back to his ship and he watched as the young man mounted the steps to his side. ‘Sir, the last of the water is on, and the meat. That should be the last shipment on board from the port. The last attachment of soldiers, also, will be arriving shortly, no doubt.’ ‘Yes, I should imagine so,’ Hereric replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun and back down. ‘Prepare my barge. You will go to the landing and greet his majesty the King.’ In a few moments, the boat was by the ship’s side and the left-tenant with the Captain’s coxswain climbed over the side and were rowed towards the landing. The Captain remained where he stood, giving the last orders, and preparing the ship for the king’s arrival. It would not be long. Hereric kept half an eye on his men on shore. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The wait at the docks and the stress of making certain that everything was bought and delivered to the ship always made him impatient and peevish. The counselor had likely been under stress himself when he had spoken to him. ‘Forimar,’ he said, turning to a man walking past below him. ‘Get all this squared away and prepare the deck for the king’s arrival.’

10-14-2005, 08:09 PM	#183
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Alcarillo's character NAME: Captain Mirimon Vórimandur AGE: 83 years RACE: Man, Gondorian GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Captain Vórimandur's favorite weapon is a family heirloom: a sword from Númenor named Sercendil. The guard is set with a single sapphire on each side. The hilt is bound in blue cloth. A ranga long, the sword is more of an ornament than a weapon and Captain Vórimandur is hesitant to use it, lest it be damaged. He prefers to use a short spear when boarding enemy ships, and there's always a healthy supply onboard. In addition to his sword, Vórimandur also has a yew bow, about three feet long. He uses it when the Ráca is coming alongside an enemy ship within bow range. When it comes to armor, Captain Vórimandur settles for a breastplate engraved with an image of the White Tree and a set of pauldrons for his soldiers (all of which is meticulously polished hours before battle). Sometimes he also wears a chain-mail skirt extending to his knees. APPEARANCE: Captain Vórimandur is six feet and four inches tall, evidence of Númenorean ancestry. His slightly wavy hair is a fading black mixed with silvery grey at the temples. His hair is long and covers his ears, but it does not reach much further. In back it touches the base of his neck. He has a scrawny moustache and beard of a salt-and-pepper color. It's little more than overgrown stubble. His eyes are green, his nose is aquiline, and his skin is dark and lined from his travels. His shoulders are wide, and his arms are strong after years of a life at sea. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Captain Vórimandur is most noted for his strong dislike of anything even remotely related to Umbar and the South. He's picked up this grudge during his years at sea fighting the Corsairs, and especially when the first ship he fought on was destroyed off the coast of Belfalas. Captain Vórimandur is also competitive. He strives to be the first to destroy a particular enemy ship in battle, for instance, and pushes his men to great extents to reach it. Together with his hated for Umbar and his ability to think on his feet, he makes a fierce enemy in battle. Vórimandur loves his ship and his crew, but is also a stern leader, and punishes those who disobey his authority as any captain would. He has a taste for fancy dress, which means that he fights every battle in dazzling armor and a swirling cape. He seems a little eccentric to the other captains. HISTORY: Mirimon Vórimandur was born in the year 1727 of the Third Age in Minas Anor. His father, Vanyacar, was the innkeeper of the Galloping Horse. His mother, Eruvande, helped her husband by doing chores around the inn. Mirimon Vórimandur's childhood was spent at the inn and earning a small salary doing chores. he didn't have many friends his own age, but he did befriend many of the inn's frequent visitors: sailors, soldiers, and travelers. Vórimandur lived at the Galloping Horse until he was sixteen years old, when he joined the navy, inspired by the tales told by the inn's guests. He first served aboard the ship Telpelingwë as a deckhand, but after many years of fine seamanship he rose through the ranks to third in command. The ship was sunken fifteen years later off the coast of Belfalas, when it was attacked by two Corsair vessels. Vórimandur and the other survivors escaped clinging to the Telpelingwë's wreckage. They were rescued by the Eärmacil and taken to Linhir. Vórimandur never forgave the Corsairs for what they did to the Telpelingwë, and still has a deep grudge for anything from the south. Vórimandur now stayed off the seas for some years, and returned to Minas Anor. Here he tended the Galloping Horse with his mother (his father had died of a particularly vile fever while Vórimandur was aboard the Telpelingwë). He soon fell in love with a local seamstress, Lothwen, and in 1758 they married. Vórimandur's daughter Morwen was born five years later. Vórimandur was content running the inn, but he still felt the desire to work with ships once more. The opportunity came in 1776, when he joined the crew of the Ráca. He replaced a dead navigator, and soon his earlier experience helped Vórimandur make his way up to second-in-command, next to Captain Brithion. The Ráca patrolled the waters about Tolfalas. She was a larger vessel than the Telpelingwë, and had a larger crew, and more soldiers. Vórimandur was back on the high seas on a dazzling ship. She had many battles with the Corsairs, and won most of them. Vórimandur's wealth and fame grew until he and his family bought a mansion on Minas Anor's fifth level, where he stayed with Lothwen and Morwen between voyages. In 1789 Captain Brithion was killed in a battle with the Corsairs by falling rigging. Vórimandur became the ship's captain, and since then his skill in battle has caught the attention of King Telumehtar. Now, Captain Vórimandur relishes the opportunity to strike at the heart of the Corsairs' empire. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Alcarillo's post Captain Vórimandur paced his office in the Ráca's stern impatiently. He and his crew had woken up before sunrise to prepare for this voyage. For long hours they packed all of their food, weapons, clothing, sea charts, and other necessities into the ship. Then they checked for sails for tears, and then the decks were swabbed until the Ráca was the cleanest ship for leagues in all directions. Captain Vórimandur had put forth all of his effort to ready the ship, but now the only thing to prevent them from sailing to victory and glory was the King of Gondor himself. It was now nearing midafternoon, and King Telumehtar had not arrived. Thrice already had Captain Vórimandur asked the king's attendant on the pier when the king would arrive, and each time the answer was the same: soon. He could barely wait any longer to sail off. The thrill of a new voyage pounded in Captain Vórimandur's heart. He opened the stern windows wide and searched the docks for any sign of the king, but there was none. He sighed and leaning against the window frame watched the sailors of the other ships prepare. Maybe we shouldn't have began so early. "Sir?" a sailor stepped through the open cabin door, and Captain Vórimandur turned his head from the window. It was Caradhril, a trusted navigator, and a member of the Ráca's crew for nearly three years now. Caradhril cleared his throat and said, "Sir, the sailors are getting bored. There's nothing more to do. Some of them are wandering the docks and the other ships." "Really?" Captain Vórimandur was surprised and had not thought about what the sailors were doing at the moment. He sat at his desk, ornately carved with nautical symbols. "Tell Morgond to round up the sailors. I want all of them back on the ship by the time the king arrives." He considered for a moment what sort of punishment should await them. Then a silver trumpet blared somewhere on the pier. "The king has arrived! Caradhril, hurry!" Vórimandur said. Caradhril turned and ran into the deep hallways of the Ráca. It was all those new sailors from Lossarnach, unused to how life on a ship worked. Vórimandur moved back to the stern windows to catch a good look at the king, and to keep an eye out for his wandering sailors.

10-14-2005, 08:12 PM	#184
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Kath's character NAME: Curamir AGE: 17 RACE: Man GENDER: Male WEAPONS: He always carries a small dagger, as it was a present from his father when he was very young. He has used it as a hunting knife for many years and treats it almost as a good luck charm, sure of success if he hunts with it, which he hopes will apply for fighting as well. He also carries a rather battered though perfectly good sword. His family is not rich so he did as many odd jobs as possible for the people in his town and used the money he got from that to obtain an acceptable sword. Both sword and dagger are kept in sheaths on his belt, the sword on the left hand side and the dagger on the right. For armour he wears that which he was given when he joined the army. He has the helmet with its protective cheek and nose guards, a leather jerkin with the Tree of Gondor on it and a chainmail shirt. APPEARANCE: He has dark hair that resists even the most persistant sun and hangs to his shoulders when loose, so he usually has it tied back out of the way. His eyes are dark but it is difficult to determine the colour as they change with shifting light and emotions. He is tall at 6 foot two and always carries himself to his full height. He has a strong build developed from years of working to repair buildings and helping with the farming in his area, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has proud features, but thanks to his height and almost regal way of carrying himself they suit him and he does not look cruel. His skin is naturally pale but years of working outside have tanned him to a light brown pretty much all over. Being proud of his uniform he wears it almost constantly, and merely exchanges his jerkin and chainmail for a shirt if he wishes to appear in civilian clothing. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: He is very friendly and makes friends at the drop of a hat, having an easy confidence about him. He is honest and well mannered, without much of a temper to him. He tends to think clearly and logically, though in the heat of the moment his tongue may get the better of him. Having been the man of the household for most of his life he can seem older than his years, but he is still a child and if things don't go the way he expects or wants he can sometimes behave like one, though his army training has helped with this a great deal. He is eager and willing to learn, so he studies and practises hard, gaining his skills with relative ease. Though he has no particular speciality in any kind of fighting, he is good at all the basic skills and shows great potential as a swordsman. He does become very engrossed in things he cares about, and this can sometimes cause a problem as he does not notice the effect his relentlessness can have on others. HISTORY: Born into a family of very young parents his early years were still happy, with a mother and father who cared for him deeply. However when he was three his father was called away to fight and never came back. His mother died soon after and so he was raised by his grandfather with the help of various members of his town so he had strong male role models and learnt the skills he needed to be a valuable member of the community. His grandfather blamed his father for his mothers death and often spoke ill of him, but others in the area remembered how loving Ferethor had been toward his son and with this disagreement and his own memories of being loved his grandfather never convinced him that this was true. His grandfather wanted to prevent him going into to the army,and becoming like his father, but there were so many arguments over this subject that he eventually allowed him to go. At 15 he left home for Lossarnach, to begin his training as a soldier. He has now been in training for 2 years. During this time he heard rumours about his father, and how his body was never found. Becoming curious he asked as many people as possible for stories and information about the battle in which his father was lost and discovered that no one could give a clear answer as to what had actually happened. Wanting to know more, he volunteered for the Corsair mission as he thought the sailors might know something. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kath's post Curamir stepped onto the walkway with a sigh of relief as the world stopped rocking. He had never been on a ship before and the constant swaying had him falling over at every turn. Fortunately Vórimandur the captain had been busy with the preparations for departure and had not seen the somewhat deplorable skills his newest soldier had. Unfortunately, the crew has. The sailors laughed as he stumbled past them trying to keep his balance and even the other soldiers had shared amused grins at his lack in sea legs. Still, he’d had some time to get used to the movement now, and as long as he didn’t watch the horizon dipping up and down he was able to prevent himself from throwing up. He had been on board since the early morning as the captain had requested and he had intended to ask the crew some questions about his father, as he had assumed that while the ship was in the harbour they would be less busy. He had been wrong, as he had found out when he tried to nab a passing sailor and had received a few choice words once the man realised Curamir only wanted to talk. “Don’t you realise we’re preparing for a voyage boy? If you’re not going to be helpful then don’t be here at all!” And he had disappeared without another word. Chagrined and not daring to try again with anyone else, Curamir had stowed his meagre amount of personal items in his bunk and gone up on deck to find Lingwë, his friend from his training days who was also on the mission. He hoped being with would stop him asking foolish questions and disturbing the crewmen, as Lingwë had heard a lot about his father over the years, and was sick to death of it. Once Curamir had found him the two were soon put to work making sure all the necessary supplies were on board, and as they carried box after box to it’s rightful place they chattered eagerly about the upcoming encounter. “Do you think we’ll actually get to fight?” Lingwë had asked. “I don’t know. Don’t they usually try to negotiate first? You know, sort it all out without fighting.” He had replied, wondering as he did so just how this mission was going to end. “Oh maybe. In that case I hope we get to go aboard the Corsair ship, what a story to tell back home!” “If you live to tell the tale.” Curamir had said with a grin, and received a thump on the arm in retaliation. Once they had finished the chores that had been set the two friends decided to go ashore and explore the town a little. This was a new place for both of them and as the ship would be leaving soon they were keen to see as much as they could. Curamir was also keen to get onto some dry land, as he knew this would be the last for a while! Now though he was thinking less of what was to come and more of what was around him. The fishy smell that permeated everything was all around, and the stalls in the market place that they had just entered seemed to be the centre of it, holding every kind of fish Curamir could think of. They walked on and wandered down a back street, looking for something more interesting that wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the more open areas of the town, but just as they found a promising looking street a call rang out from the market square they had previously been in. “Captain Vórimandur orders that all soldiers serving aboard his ship return immediately!” Turning to look at his friend Curamir sighed. “Another time, perhaps” “When we come back,” answered Lingwë. They turned and walked briskly back to the ship.

10-14-2005, 08:13 PM	#185
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Thinlómien's character NAME: Lingwë, son of Laurendil AGE: 20 RACE: gondorian human (with some númenórean blood in his veins) GENDER: male WEAPONS: Lingwë has a long sword. It's not a very fine or beautiful sword, but well-balanced and well-made. Besides the sword, Lingwë has a spear and bow and arrows. APPEARANCE: Lingwë is 6'3" tall. He is slim, but muscular because of his soldier training and work. Lingwë has a long face. His nose is long, straight and quite narrow. His relatively small eyes are in a long distance from each other. He has also quite narrow mouth. Lingwë's hair is so dark brown that it's nearly black and he has bluegrey eyes. He has quite fair complexion, but he is tanned of spending so much time outdoors. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lingwë is mostly quite quiet and obsersive; he listens more than he speaks. He is usually serious, but likes playing friendly jokes on his friends. He's a bit of a pessimist and has an ironic sense of humour. He is perhaps more mature than many other young men of his age. He is loyal and hard-working and keeps usually the complaints - which he usually has lots of - to himself. Lingwë is a trained soldier, so he knows how to fight. He is equally good in using sword, spear and bow. Lingwë is an exellent swimmer and diver and can hold his breath for a long time. For his serving time on a ship called Gaerandir he has a bit of seafring skills. He is that much educated that he can read and write. Lingwë's not very quick-witted and sometimes he might by carried away by such a little things as the cry of seagulls or a beautiful horizon. He has a bit of claustrophobia and dislikes sleeping in such a tiny space belowdecks. It's the thing he hates the most about ships. He has no natural leading skills; he is not charismatic or even empathethic. Some people think that he is cold. HISTORY: Lingwë was born in autumn of 1789 T.A. He was a strange-looking baby with eyes in a big distance from each other. The midwife playfully called him 'Little Fish'. His parents agreed that their second son looked like a fish and named him 'Lingwë', which means 'fish' in quenya. Later, Lingwë has proved that the name is more than suitable to him; he's an exellent swimmer and diver. Lingwë's father was a succesful glassblower in Pinnath Gelin and he taught his profession to his elder son. Lingwës mother was a honourable housewife. Because of his father's succes their family was quite rich for an artisan family when Lingwë was a child. Lately, the family has losed much of its wealth because of an competent glassblower who moved to thecity five years ago. Lingwë was the third child in the family. The eldest child, a daughter, had died right after her birth, so Lingwë had only one elder sibling to couple with. His elder brother Ciryandil, five years his senior, was a real nuisance to him in the days of their childhood. Ciryandil kept telling Lingwë that he was a slimy little fish capable of nothing and made his little brother's life difficult by all means he knew. Luckily, Lingwë had a little sister, Eärelen, whom he played with. The biggest tragedy of Lingwë's life took place when Eärelen died to a sickness in the age of eleven. Lingwë still remembers his lively little sister with warmth and longing, though she has been dead for seven years. Lingwë's father wanted his second son to be a soldier, and though Lingwë would have preferred to be a sailor or a clerk, he agreed and was sent to a training camp to Lossarnach. There he studied the arts of war. He received his fighting skills rather by hard work and natural dexterity, strengh and stamina than by being gifted with a blade. After his training he went to serve as a guard soldier on a merchant ship called The Gaerandir. He served on her half a year until he was sacked because the merchant had had so good fortunes that he could afford hiring more experienced and skilled soldiers. So Lingwë was very happy, when he was accepted to serve on Ráca, a vessel captained by Vórimandur. He looks forward to this mission in the sake of the king. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thinlómien's post As Lingwë an Curamir walked the street back to the ship, Lingwë thought of the war. He wasn't as optimistic about it as he had been before. Despite his ignorance of Curamir's comment on dying along the way, he had actually started to think more about that possibility. Maybe this was the last ship he'd ever sign up to? Maybe this was the last summer he'd ever see? He was returned to the reality by a friendly tuck on his side. "Look, Lingwë, it's the king!" Curamir whispered to him, excited. Lingwë looked around, trying to catch a look from the man he regarded as the most powerful man in whole Middle-Earth. "Not there, idiot; on the docks", Curamir said. At last Lingwë caught a little look from the man he admired. The king stood tall and proud in the middle of the crowd. He had an aura of power around him. He was talking with his advisor. His crown gleamed golden in the sun. He is my king, Lingwë thought, I will follow him. Reluctantly Lingwë turned his gaze from the king and said: "Curamir, I think we should be going." His friend nodded and they continued their way to the ship. "We're going to be late", Curamir pointed out. "Yes, we are. We're going to get extra chores", Lingwë said.

10-14-2005, 08:14 PM	#186
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Dunwen's character NAME: Nimir AGE: 17 RACE: Men, Commoner GENDER: Male WEAPONS: He carries a yew longbow, and arrows. Nimir grew up shooting large and small game with barbed arrowheads and bodkins, and since joining the army has been learning to shoot special half-moon arrowheads through rigging ropes -- very useful for causing mayhem on approaching Corsair vessels. He uses his own tooled leather arm guard to protect his inner forearm from the string while shooting. His other protective clothing is standard Gondorian issue for its common soliders: a pointed helmet with noseguard and a black padded jerkin and tunic emblazoned with the White Tree and Stars, issued when he completed his basic training. He also carries his father’s prized hunting knife, bestowed on him by his older brother when he left home. It is good steel, 12 inches long, single-edged, with a leather-wrapped grip and matching leather sheath. Nimir does not really think of it as a weapon, having used knives only to skin animals while growing up. Nimir also possesses a small 3 ½ inch eating knife, but such a small knife wouldn’t be considered as a weapon except as a last resort. APPEARANCE: Nimir is 5 feet 9 inches tall. He is broad shouldered and muscular from years of working on his family’s farm and hunting. His fair skin is tanned from the time he spent outdoors. To his embarrassment, he is still prone to breakouts. He wears his straight sun-lightened brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and has hazel eyes set widely apart in a broad, friendly face. His civilian clothing consists of two plain homespun shirts, two pairs of butternut brown breeches, a comfortably worn pair of knee high leather boots, a tooled leather knife belt for his knives and two pairs of homemade stockings. Most of the time now he is in uniform: Black breeches and tunic, with the tunic bearing a palm-sized badge over his heart depicting the White Tree and Stars of the Kings of Gondor on a black background. He does not yet carry himself with the assurance of a professional soldier, though he learned to move quietly in order to stalk game successfully. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Nimir was raised to be honest, practical and responsible. While not poor, his family always had to work hard to make a living, and he is thrifty by nature, although he thinks his soldier’s pay is a generous amount. He does like spending money on food and drink with his new friends in the ranks, for like most young men his age, he is always hungry. He makes friends easily and enjoys large groups of people. Nimir relishes his first taste of life away from the farm , although he misses his family. Being illiterate, he’s unable to write to them. Although physically big enough to pass for a grown man, he still lacks maturity and is easily riled by teasing. He can be sulky and stubborn, especially when he’s let his temper get him into trouble. He doesn’t hold grudges himself, and doesn’t understand people who do. Being used to a certain amount of independence while roaming the outdoors, he was frustrated at first with the requirements of life in the military, but the round of drills, orders and training is starting to make sense to him and he is settling into a soldier’s routine. However, he has almost no working knowledge of ships. Comfortable in woods and fields, his adjustment to the strange and confined spaces of a ship has not always been graceful. He is tolerated on board only because of his excellent marksmanship with bow and arrow. He could be a valuable member of the ship’s contingent of archers -- if he doesn’t accidentally kill himself first. His marksmanship was honed by years of hunting game for food and pelts to trade or sell. His eagerness to fight the Corsairs is fueled by the loss of his father and twin sister during a raid on their village on the southern coast of Gondor. The loss of his sister is particularly painful to him, and he is eager to avenge her death and cover himself with honors in the process. HISTORY: Born in T. A. 1794 in a small village about 10 miles inland from the Anduin delta, with a twin sister, Nimiris. His father, Balach, was a small farmer. He has an older brother, an older sister and a younger brother. In addition, his mother, Carzil, is still living. He and his older brother learned to hunt as boys from his father and uncle. It was a happy childhood in a warm, affectionate family. In 1807, a band of Corsairs sailed into the mouth of the Anduin and landed a war party which marched inland, attacking several villages, including Nimir’s. His father and uncle both died trying to defend the village with the other men, and his twin sister was killed during the same raid. He still has nightmares about her death. Nimir, then 13, and his older brother were able to get their mother and the rest of the family to safety. His brother inherited the family farm and had to take over running the family at a young age. Nimir contributed to the family’s well-being by continuing to put food on the table year-round with his hunting. Having no prospects in his village and starting to chafe under his brother’s guardianship, Nimir finally left home 6 months ago after a falling-out with his sweetheart. Shortly afterwards, he was enticed to join King Telumehtar’s venture against the Corsairs of Umbar by a recruiter who watched him drop a squirrel dead in the eye from 200 feet away. Once sworn to the service of Gondor, Nimir learned the basics of military life in a training camp in Lossarnach. It included some training in fighting with knifes, short javelins and hand-to-hand combat. While reality has not quite matched his hazy ideas of fighting for vengeance, glory and Gondor, Nimir has found life as a soldier of Gondor a lark so far, if a little thin on the rations. He is considerably in awe of his Captain, Mirimon Vorimandur, and somewhat nervous in his captain's presence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dunwen's post Nimir was tired, sore and thirsty. Captain Vórimandur had ordered that everyone on the Ráca start preparing the ship and its equipment before sunrise, and it was now midafternoon. Nimir had first helped to load his company’s weapons on board, carrying box after box of arrows, short spears, small bows, and knives down into the holds. Only after this was done were morning rations passed out, and pretty thin they were, too: a hard roll, a pint of small beer, and a completely inadequate (in Nimir’s opinion) ration of cheese and bacon. He tried not to think of home too often, but he never missed his family so much as at mealtimes. Gnawing his bread and cheese, Nimir had thought longingly of his mother’s generous table back home. Why, there would be fresh bread and butter, plate-sized slabs of ham or platters of sausage or fried fish, porridge and cream, eggs, and fruit turnovers, all washed down with good fresh buttermilk or spring water. And that was just breakfast! His reveries of venison sausage and eggs were disrupted when Nimir’s company was ordered to start swabbing the decks. What a disaster that had been. Nimir didn’t think he would ever get used to living on board a ship. While hurrying with a bucket of clean water toward the end of the ship, (“Stern”, he reminded himself) he had run face-first into a rope anchoring one of the Ráca’s spars in position. He had not cut himself, but he now sported a painful, raw rope burn along the right side of his face, along his cheekbone down to his jaw-line, and a smaller matching scrape along the side of his neck. The officer in charge had ripped into him for not watching where he was going and wasting good clean water, then sent him off for another bucketful. After putting him on report, of course. As punishment, Nimir was not allowed his midday ration of drink. He had ground his teeth and made the only permissible reply under the circumstances. “Yes, sir.” However, when his company was released from any specific duty, the practical seventeen-year-old had simply left the ship and headed for the Seagull, a dingy tavern not far from the Ráca’s berth. Now sitting on a rickety bench outside the Seagull’s weathered wooden walls, Nimir took another drink of ale, feeling the liquid wash away the lingering dryness in his throat. Resting the cool pewter tankard against his aching face, he sighed. Days like this, he wondered why he ever left home. Back in Lebinnin, listening to the recruiting officer, joining King Telumehtar’s expedition against the Corsairs of Umbar had sounded like a grand and glorious adventure. Sergeant Nillendion had declared that with his skills as a bowman, Nimir would quickly advance and earn both commendations and wealth, and Nimir had been eager to believe the wily recruiter. How splendid it would be to return to his village as a war hero, or better yet, a decorated officer with a sword at his hip. Nimir had imagined arriving home on a great horse, with a purse full of gold...which he would then share with his bossy older brother, provided of course that Kalisuz humbly apologized for trying to order him, Nimir, around for all those years. And wouldn’t Meliel be sorry she’d dumped him for that old man, Dolgor. Nimir spent many pleasurable hours imagining his former sweetheart’s regret at letting him go for an ancient man of thirty years. He’d show her. He’d show them all that he was capable of great things. That had been the idea, anyway. But the training camp in Lossarnach had put an end to that dream. While the officers running the camp had been visibly impressed with his marksmanship, they had nevertheless insisted that he take his place among the other recruits and learn such military skills as following orders, saluting his superiors and maneuvering in the field. Nimir had enjoyed the latter. He had learned to hunt at an early age, and by the age of 12 years spent entire days alone stalking game in the meadows and woods near his home. Unfortunately, his training had not included anything about ships. Coming back to reality, Nimir sighed again and took another pull at his ale. He choked suddenly as Morgond, one of the Ráca’s officers, appeared before him and bellowed, “You! Soldier! Who gave you permission to debark? Get back onboard ship!” Nimir groaned inwardly, expecting to be put on report yet again, but Morgond merely hurried down the wharf, bent on rounding up more wandering recruits. Deciding that the officer hadn’t told him to return immediately, the young recruit hastily finished his ale and stood up. Returning the empty tankard to the barkeep, he saw a pile of meat pies and bought two to take with him. Then he hurried back to the Ráca. Once on deck, he stopped and leaned on the gunwale, munching a pie and observing the bustle all along the wharves at Harlond. Off in the distance, Minas Anor gleamed white against the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin. A stir on the docks below caught Nimir’s attention. Further down the wharf, he saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a crown and a fine embroidered tunic walking toward the fleet’s flagship, accompanied by several nobles. His ears caught the cries of “The King! Make way for the King!” The second pie fell unnoticed into the water below as he hoisted himself onto the gunwale and grabbed a rope to steady himself, craning his neck to see. There was the King of Gondor before his own two eyes! What a tale for everyone back home. No one in his village had even been to Dol Amroth, much less seen the King himself. Wouldn’t they all be jealous!

10-14-2005, 08:15 PM	#187
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Hiriel's character NAME: Azaryan AGE: 89 RACE: Umbarian Male WEAPONS: Azaryan is most skilled with a broad falchion, serrated in an almost wavelike pattern at the tip to leave a particular mark on its victims. He also carries a recurve bow, painted black and carved with eyes at both ends. More for superstition’s sake than anything else, he wears around his neck a dagger that belonged to Castamir himself, and carries an arming sword in the tradition of warriors of Numenor, although he isn’t particularly fond of using either of them. APPEARANCE: Much to his chagrin, Azaryan is short for one of Numenorian blood, standing only 5’6”, though he is of imposing build. His eyes are beady gray, and intense. His raven hair is kept short, curling a little under his ears. Almost his entire body, certainly his countenance, is harsh and pronounced, as if worn away by waves on a coast. This is only added to by a scar that runs parallel to his jawline, which gives him a look of cruel amusement, a second war-made smile. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Focused to the point of mania, Azaryan is a man bred with one purpose in mind – the retaking of Gondor for the Castamirioni –which he follows with a ruthless energy and obsession. He is somber and distrustful, but calculated and a brilliant mind. Though fair spoken and persuasive, he detests people, and would rather be left to himself, sometimes doubting his abilities as a commander and bitterly regretting his lineage. Probably because of this, he is given to a fierce temper and a menacing nature, save when it serves his ends to act otherwise. His only real release is in raiding, when he can assert in glorious battle the dominance of the Castamirioni, and take one more step towards the realization of all his passions and labors. HISTORY: Born in 1721, Azaryan was the firstborn son of Zigurada and Angamaite, whose three greats grandsire was Castamir the Usurper, and thus groomed early to be lord of Umbar, though his sister Zairia was four years his elder. Tutored to be severe and commanding, any exuberance he had was quickly flogged out of the boy as he began studies of combat, language, and his family’s history. After a plague ravaged Umbar in his tenth year, killing both his sister and mother, Azaryan was rather unceremoniously sent away to sea, and rarely saw home for the next thirty years as he learned seamanship, waterways and tactics. At forty he became a captain in his own right, and began making more aggressive moves further and further along the Gondorian coast, until towards the end of a routine refitting, his father became sick and was obliged to stay on the mainland lest he should have to succeed him. Thus stymied, he again set about his academic studies, this time mostly of ancient battles and strategies. The only person with whom he made any attempt to associate with was his younger cousin, whose intelligence impressed him but who he had only met on a handful of occasions. His father lingered on for a good four years ere Azaryan could succeed him, and some say the son had to take matters into his own hands for anything to change. Obliged to come out of his solitude, Azaryan set about taking more control over the raids against Gondor, and prosecuted them with a greater ferocity. He has left most of the physical governing up to others, though sporadically he paid domestic business the same attention he gave his navy. At seventy-two, he ordered the building of a much larger fleet, indebting himself somewhat to his Haradric neighbors. But now that fleet is almost entirely manned and ready, he senses a weakness in Gondor’s lack of response and frustration about the success of his assaults; and feels that perhaps, in his lifetime, he might see the Eldacarioni fall, and take back Gondor as part of his rightful kingdom. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hiriel's post A tortured wail rose up from the ribs as Lord Azaryan paced. He sighed slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wooden moans relax his muscles. A terrible headache churned within his temples, and so he allowed the groans to wash over him, a rough but steadying chorus. He had always liked the sound of waves belowdecks better than on shore, the clash of water on wooden shield. It was like some grand ancient battle. He loitered in the relative solitude of the armory, liking to take ease in unusual places. It took longer for anyone to interrupt him, and it gave the greenhand ensigns a good scare to have to look for their lord and captain from mess to forecastle, wardroom to deepest hold, not knowing what corner he would be waiting around to yell at them. He smiled at the thought, glad to be back at sea again. All matters of supplies, gold, crime and court were put aside, and only important things left were stealth and wind and tide. It had been too long. But, then, there had been much to plan for this voyage. Gondor, the tiring old eagle, usually ventured some response to the corsair raids that were rapidly becoming a way of life along the coast. In the last few months, however, the gnats of Dol Amroth and other coastal garrisons sat silent, suffering any abuse from his fleet without retaliation. Azaryan started pacing the squat room faster and found himself knocking into stacks of spears and quivers in his fiendish glee, half tripping over the toppled weapons in his energy. They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own. They must be panicked. Nay, deperate. Ha! I may yet see the White City.” Twitching, he licked his lips and his thoughts skipped, leaping from one glorious picture to the next: This raid raising Pelegir, corsair ships landing up and down the coast, Dol Amroth in flames, the great fleet the Haradrim were still clamoring payment over pulling into Harlond, Telumehtar knelling, weeping before him at the base of the white throne. Feeling more elated than he had all day, Azaryan now bit his lip and began running over the plans of attack on Pelegir over again in his mind. If the river town was neutralized, then, only with greatest speed could he move the fleet to Harlond and Osgiliath. The army of Umbar was too small to take on Gondor’s in a pitched battle, but an assault on the Harlond and Osgiliath might cow it. The thought quickened his breath. “Enough strategy, Azar,” A warm voice chuckled, rolling like a swell, and knocked him out of his reverie. “I have done nothing to suggest that was what my mind was turned to,cousin.” He recovered, recognizing the voice of Lord Sangalazin, his own like the crack of a spar. “Why else would a sea lord cloister himself for three hours in a cramped armory?” The man framing the doorway asked with mock innocence. “I see no reason to explain myself or my actions to you, and indeed I have no need to.” Azaryan cut back airily. “How goes it, then?” “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ yet, and the mouth of the Anduin is our most pressing problem at the moment. Telumehtar knows the river, and so we must evade the eyes he plants its coast.” His face dimmed, frowning at as his problems and dragging down his features. “That may not be so. We’re in sight of land, Azar, inside the very mouth of the river and not even a fishing boat to great us.” Azaryan started; This was news that stabbed at his gut. “Than either he either he is a fool or an ungracious host.” He frowned deep, his grip on his settings slipping as he absorbed this information. “Well, I think we would both rather him a fool. Indeed, he and I would have something in common, I agreeing to come on this silly venture.” The wry comment brought him back to the armory. “Stop trying to be witty. I can dismember you at will for demeaning the importance of our military endevours this day.” Sangalazin only gave lopsided grin to the terse threat. “That’s what makes it so fun, cousin.” Azaryan growled in the back of his throat. Ever had Salgalazin been petty and lacked the proper focus for a lord of Umbar. Only his sharp intelligence, far greater than any other of his family, redeemed him. Not willing to be sidetracked by his cousin’s foolishness, Azaryan plodded on. “We know at least that Telumehtar is not one. But perhaps he falters. Perhaps Umbar’s threat has undone him and he sweats and frets on that great marble perch of his. I can think of no other reason he does not act against us. Regardless, we will give him something to fret about, pompous Eldacarioni.” He spat the last sentence out, a solemn vow. “Then we should begin by going ondeck.” Azaryan nodded, bared a quick, vicious grin, and followed the beaconing figure out of the ships’ bowls and into the fresh sea air.

10-14-2005, 08:17 PM	#188
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Anguirel's character NAME: Sangalazin AGE: 64 RACE: Black Numenorean GENDER: Effeminate male WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armour only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.): Sangalazin wears a ceremonial longsword of great intricacy and consciously Gondorian design; an assertion of his rights over Elendil’s Kingdom, as an heir of the great Castamir. Its scabbard is elaborately crafted, with a sequence of scenes in gold filigree telling the Black Numenorean love story of Lenezor and Shirethel. Apart from this sword, which is far too beautiful to be wielded, he carries a curved silver-edged dagger and a fine silken garrotte. APPEARANCE: Sangalazin is of a physical type viewed with contempt in Gondor, but in Umbar admired by males and females alike. He is slender, with tapering wrists and graceful legs; his mouth is large, crimson and prominent; his large eyes a soft brown, his complexion golden, though powdered fairer, and his hair dark chestnut brown. He wears a dark blue robe of silk. His only Numenorean characteristic is his great height. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only): Sangalazin’s charm, or one might more accurately say charms, is not in doubt; nor is his keen intelligence, when he deigns to employ it. For all this, though, he is feckless and pleasure-loving, easily distracted, temperamental and cruel. His physical weakness (brought about, it is rumoured, by inbreeding in the house of Castamir) also makes him despised by the martial Corsairs of Umbar who serve him out of necessity; only the continual presence of his mighty bodyguards, Gondorians stolen as babies and brought up at his court, garbed in pitch-black plate armour, their loyalty ensured by luxury, stops him from being lynched in the streets. HISTORY: Sangalazin is the great-great-great-grandson of Castamir twice over, for his parents, Sangahyando and Mehratu, are brother and sister; a marriage brought about to ensure purity of descent and to prevent division of wealth, as well as because of genuine love; such affairs are not considered accursed among the aristocracy of Umbar. Sangalazin was cherished and adored as a child because of his beauty, and could have anything he chose; he made sure of this, testing it by asking his father to execute a playmate who had blackened his eye. He watched the subsequent hanging with a good deal of interest. From such an upbringing sprang Sangalazin’s main enthusiasms; first, the intense pleasure and reassuring oblivion brought by debauchery; second, the self-fulfilment brought by art; third, the sheer amusement of strangulation. He loves the curious gurglings produced by its victims, the goggling of their eyes... To all these politics comes a poor fourth. Indeed, as the endlessly intriguing Lords of Umbar go, Sangalazin is relatively ineffectual and harmless due to his fickle pursuits of pleasure; but his high blood will ensure he is ensnared in its dark legacy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Anguirel's post “And now, my dears...play, play.” Sangalazin, illustrious descendant of the King of Gondor known uncompromisingly in Umbar as Castamir the Great, was stretched out on a silken couch in his black ship’s cabin, his considerable full length languidly extended. A small table stood nearby; on it was positioned a silver instrument, from which a pipe crawled, coming to rest in Sangalazin’s long golden hand. He placed it into his mouth and took another gulp at the hookah, exulting at the relief at the fumes quenching the thirst of his lungs. Truly, the hookah was a potent sign that if one rejected the ways of the East and South, one would never find civilisation. The supine Lord was attended by twelve men. Nine were monumentally tall-like Sangalazin himself-but, and here they differed from their master, also well-muscled and armoured all about in black iron. Those who were bare-headed displayed cold, impassive stares from grey Northern eyes. Their hair was dark, but bleached yellow, in contrast to their arms. Their weapons were all forged in the Gondorian fashion; straight longswords, triangular shields, visored helms. This, then, was the feared bodyguard of Sangalazin, which he had formed when still a child; its soldiers cradle Gondorians, but in their hearts fanatical servants of the Castamirioni, and Sangalazin in particular, who knew he owed his survival to them. The other three men in the richly furnished cabin, below the forecastle, were of quite a different sort. It was these Sangalazin had addressed. One was of the Haradrim, and beat upon a set of small drums. Another was an Easterling, and toyed with a delicate stringed instrument, which he called a sitar. The third was a youth from the North, one of the shadow dwellers, a blonde boy with a flute. Sangalazin smiled at him. “I find your strains particularly moving, child. You touch me. To think that one such as you replaced our line upon the throne of Meneldil...but I bear no grudge. Indeed, as long as you and your people confine yourself to our music-rooms and our pleasure-chambers, and don’t mess with power, the reserve of true men...why, then, you are quite endearing.” The Lord of Half of Umbar leant up from his position and felt the youth’s cheek. The beard would not come for some time. A pretty specimen, indeed. And how strange and yet lovely the three combined tunes had sounded, to his own composition, intermingled. That was the way of culture, of beauty, of perfection. When he sat upon the Throne at Minas Anor-for he took little account of his cousin and rival, Azaryan-his court would be ordered thus. Tedious warring would cease, benevolent peace would embrace all the lesser nations, to be guided under his command. And civilisation would prevail. His harmonious thoughts were interrupted by the Southron striking a false note. Sangalazin raised an eyebrow, and whispered something to a guard. Two of them led the musician out. He would not be killed; not yet, for the guards would wait for him to be strangled later at their master’s whim. It was then that a black-robed, well-spoken lordling of Azaryan’s train arrived in the cabin. Sangalazin was called to his cousin's side. He took a last, regretful drag on the hookah, tousled the blonde boy’s hair, and followed the messenger. His cousin was powerful and proud-spirited, and it would do no good to anger him now...

10-14-2005, 08:18 PM	#189
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Amanaduial the archer's character NAME: Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar (shortened to Rakin) AGE: 48 RACE: Corsair – Black Numenorean GENDER: Male WEAPONS: Rakin’s primary weapon of choice is a cutlass, not unusually for a corsair – the relatively short blade is perfect for hand to hand fighting in the narrow confines of a deck, for either a slash or thrust action, and is less likely to get tangled in the rigging of the ship than a longer, showier sword or rapier. His own weapon is fairly unadorned, an item of necessity, but he has had a few changes made to the cutlass for practicality: the hardwood handle is bound over with leather, not the usual, smooth leather used for clothes, but rougher beaten leather, so as to maintain both comfort and an all-important good grip when the weapon gets wet – this is where many seamen may fall down, for shiny leather slips easily across sweaty palms and can cost a sailor’s life. The basket, curving around to protect the fingers, is solid rather than more decorative filigree (which can cut into the hand if it is too fine when pressure is applied), but is of a strange metal that almost seems to shine black – a mysterious and rather fine touch that gives the whole sword a rather more elegant appeal, and is carved on the outside simply with his name, ‘Chatazrakin’, along the very edge of the basket. He has a second, more decorative sword – corsairs have little need for dress swords but, well, just in case. However, Rakin is not confined entirely to the sword: inside that coat of his lies a regular little armoury, ranging from a variety of small, simple, easily concealable daggers (often lost and so dispensable), to a slender link-chain, about a foot in length, to the no-nonsense knuckle-dusters in case of emergencies; the knife in his left boot is not strictly for battle, although it is easily accessible enough to be turned to the purpose. APPEARANCE: Chatazrakin bears little similiarity to his half-brother bar the distinctive height of the Numenoreans, as he stands at about 6ft 5, an average height for Numenoreans but a feature that marks him out from others. However, he has none of the physical frailty of his brother: he is well muscled and broad shouldered with his height, but not as fleshed out as might be expected, giving him the lean, dangerous look of a hungry wolf. Narrow, almost black eyes enhance this appearance, although his face is deceptively open and honest looking, useful for gaining trust or planning deception, although it can snap shut into anger or a wicked grin or laughter within an instant. He is essentially quite fine-featured and, to some eyes, quite beautiful, although it is a beauty that has borne a hard life at sea and a harder childhood on the streets. His fine, high cheekbones are pock-marked over on the left side with the old scars of childhood pox common among street children, and his skin is tanned although surprisingly unweathered by the elements, unusual for a seaman. His long, untamed black hair is pulled back into a plait from which plenty of straggling strands escape, often restrained under a black bandana. This only serves to enhance his roguish appearance, although generally he dresses more sedately, a mix-match of clothes including a loose shirt of hard-wearing but surprisingly pricey material, usually with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows for practicality’s sake, although the colour may be less practical – the favoured white shirt makes a striking contrast against the black waistcoat which tops it, and Rakin has learnt that, far from being only a superficiality, appearance is subtly important in a trade of fear, and not to appear rather striking and wild would be almost foolishness, although such an appearance goes nicely with his own personality anyway. He will usually wear black breeches – not leather though, as this is hardly practical if they are likely to get wet – and watertight oiled black boots reaching up to his knees, with a long knife strapped down the outside of one, a must-have for sailors especially for disasters with the rigging or other ropes. Although he will be seen on the most unlikely days standing in the freezing cold with his thin shirt sleeves rolled right up, he is almost never seen without his battered black overcoat during battle; this may seem strange, but in fact the coat’s many inside pockets have served the corsair well many-a time when just a plain cutlass might not do, and the element of surprise is required, in the form of several small, well-concealed daggers, say. Plus the slim-fitting, split tailed coat looks so dashing when spun around, wouldn’t you say? PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Rakin is, basically, almost faultlessly intelligent: not the book-learned cleverness of the academics and aristocrats, but the natural smartness and cunning that is learned from a hard life from birth, growing up in an underworld of thieves and then onto the streets. This life taught him early on a few skills that others learn only with a lifetime of experience – ruthlessness and hardness that many would have found unnerving in one so young, cunning and slyness that made him a perfect thief and cheat, deceptive skills that allowed him to easily trick the gullible, but never to rely on trickery too much more than is necessary – why increase the risk of being caught too far? But he has learnt other skills with the experience of being a seaman, and a Captain: for example, although it takes strength to stand and fight and to lead his crew into battle, it also takes a lot of strength to know when to turn from a battle as well. However, although possessed of a certain shrewdness and knowledge that his late mother sadly did not, Rakin is also quite a proud man, and maybe a little vain – it takes a lot to make him turn from a prize, and his fierceness can prove to be disadvantageous sometimes, when his pride gets in the way of his sense. His ruthlessness makes him an ideal corsair, although the position of Captain of a corsair ship is a precarious one: to an extent, even while he controls them, he is at their mercy – to push them too far, to make one too many unjust decisions or be just a little too ruthless, or too soft, is to sign his own death warrant. It is a fine line that he has to tread. However, after having been a corsair for most of his life, and a captain for over a decade, Rakin has some very valuable allies, and most of his crew is hand-picked, a few men loyal to him through thick and thin. Rakin is also fiercely loyal to the Castamirioni (see History), although to have the two Lords of Umbar, aristocrats far higher ranking than himself naturally, puts him again in a rather precarious position. But although shrewd and, yes, rather careful, Rakin has never been one to back down and roll over – not unless it is to dropkick his opponent. Such a strong and fierce personality could cause some sparks if his own authority is challenged too far… HISTORY: Chatazrakin – or Rakin for short – was the illegitimate child of the House of Castamir; Sangalazin’s uncle, Sangahyando was as susceptible to a few illicit affairs and debauched pleasures as his twisted offspring, and Rakin was the product of a drunken night’s extramarital debauchery in an Umbar tavern. Unlike some of the unfortunate illegitimacies of the heirs of the Castamir, Rakin did not try to lay claim to the power of his father’s family, and so he was one of the fortunate ones – those who accused the Lords of Umbar of such discrepancies were often later ‘taken care of’ before any threat to the pure line could come about, and such a fate was to befall Rakin’s unfortunate mother when her son was barely ten years old. Rakin, though, possessed some of the shrewdness that his mother had sadly not had, and never tried to leech of his father’s family, although they were certainly aware of his presence; he would have been immediately put to death if it had been thought that he would ever try to assert a claim to the position of Lord of Umbar over his precious half-brother. But as time passed and Rakin slipped quietly into the shadows, maybe they forgot, or simply lost interest, deciding that the illegitimate brat of a prostitute with no proof posed no threat to Sangalazin, or to Azaryan. Without a mother or father, it was a wonder that the boy managed to survive as well as he did but in fact the young Rakin found this start in life more a freedom than a hindrance. He became a proficient thief, cheat and liar, passing himself off for older than his years and getting odd-jobs in taverns so as to take a tidy helping of profits, and with an ability to quickly pick up skills that was very much to his advantage, all as a matter of survival. However, it was only a matter of time before he got pulled up by one of the Inn customers who he tried to cheat when dealing a fixed hand of cards – the Quartermaster of one of the Corsair ships. But rather than be outraged and destroying the boy (he could have had him made a slave or killed – who would have noticed a scrawny orphan boy go missing?), the corsair was actually mildly impressed with the boy and, after punishing him of course (not the last flogging Rakin would have to endure), he took him on as an extra on the ship, as a trial of sorts, on the simple basis that with one wrong move, Rakin would be off the boat – and probably not when they were near dry land either. Rather than resent the Quartermaster, a man who went simply by the name of Dagaz, for the flogging, the punishment and the severe treatment of his mentor gave him a healthy respect for the authority of those who ran the ships – in part, because he was the only one who had ever really taken any sort of interest in him, even if it was only to give him a hard time. His quick wit and ability to gain the trust of others, to make them listen to him, was an advantage; after some brief tutoring from Dagaz, his skills with the sword also improved, and he became quite a skilful fighter, although a lot of his power lay in his cunning and skill with ‘less orthodox’ methods of fighting, well honed from years of a street existence. These advantages and traits gained Rakin respect and close allies quite quickly, and in his late thirties the crew of his ship gained a very fine Gondorian war vessel, which, as the elderly Quartermaster had no desire for a ship of his own, Dagaz bestowed on the young man. It was an unusual design of ship, bearing more similarities to the ships of the corsairs than the Gondorians, and Rakin was immensely proud of the vessel, naming it ‘Fame and Fortune’ and, unlike many in his profession, he has stuck to the same vessel for most of his career ever since, a period of just over ten years. They were ten quite fruitful years, although like any seaman his profession has had very pointed ups and downs, but both the peaks and the troughs of his career have given him a wealth of experience that have made him a fair but ruthless captain, proud but shrewd nonetheless, and a mean fighter along with it; a man of some respect and standing, both from the corsairs, Gondorians, and even those of higher standing in Umbar. This is probably why it was his vessel that was chosen to bear the Lords; in addition, either despite or partly due to his mixed heritage, as a captain, Rakin has always made his loyalty to the Castamirioni very clear, which to an extent is probably one trait that gained him favour with the descendants of Castamir, although he has never, and would never, attempt to ingratiate himself with them as some would. Rakin largely put out of his mind his heritage, descended from the line of Castamir, as it is of little relevance or importance to a simple seaman, and even the long-winded name that his mother lavished upon him as some mark of higher breeding (although a lot of good it did her) is more often than not shortened to simply Captain Rakin; he never found out whether Sangalazin knew, although he suspected that the debauched darling of the Castamirioni is oblivious to his very being. However, it is a strange coincidence indeed that he should end up in such close quarters to his preciously spoilt half-brother, especially on the high seas when all sorts of accidents can happen… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Amanaduial the archer's post Even from a birdseye view, from far above the choppy waves, the Fame and Fortune made a striking image: on a clear day, proudly bestriding the waves that lapped against the side, as if daring the mighty Ulmo himself to make some challenge, when the wind leapt and blustered into those unusual, triangular sails, propelling the striking, slim silhouette forward through the waters…and with what speed! She cut through the waters so fast, so easily, the chopping motion mimicking the jolting laughter of such a ship whose pointed features were like a wicked laugh embodied. A more arresting and, aye, and more handsome ship, in its own way, was not to be found on this side of Arda. Stealthy, fast and fair. And the captain of this ship, a corsair as famed as his ship, since her very establishment as a pirate vessel loved it. Standing on the forecastle of the ship, leaning casually against the foremast with one arm somewhat affectionately thrown around it as if around the shoulders of a loved one, Captain Chatazrakin Telmenzar stared out at the open waters, the feel of the wind caressing his neck, face and bare arms more familiar and enjoyable to him that any human touch. A corsair as infamous as the striking silhouette of the ship he had commanded for a decade, this was the life that Rakin had been born for – and after a life of sailing on his precious ship, the corsair wasn’t best disposed to the likes of that silent, unsmiling snob and the debauched fop who called themselves the Lords of Umbar trying to order him around on his own ship. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty air, tipping his head back into the wind as the sounds of the ship’s daily life flowed around him, each sound as familiar and easily identifiable to him as his own breathing. The seabirds squabbling as they flew above, a V of them making for the Anduin, racing Fame and Fortune to it, the crewmen talking, calling to each other all the way from the Crows’ Nest to the lower decks, snatches of song and laughter, interspersed with shouts and angry voices, the cries of a slave’s pain…these vibrant patchwork of the ship’s life reverberated through her ribs from tip to tail, and the Captain drank it all in, each sound bringing memories and things to do. The sound of the slave, for example… He sighed irritably, clenching his jaw tightly as he opened his eyes once more to glare angrily out at the sea. “They must be weak. There is no other reason why Telumehtar would not protect his own—” “Cousin, cousin, please, let me get my breath first before you begin to batter me once more with your tactics…” The first voice, harsh and solemn though with a controlled energy, was another sound which, even after a relatively short time, seemed to belong to the ship: a voice that Rakin could reason with and understand, despite its cheerless and dour owner. But the second voice, that amused drawl....well, it was a voice whose origins were familiar to Rakin’s very genetics, but one which most certainly did not belong on a ship as he did. Azaryan and Sangalazin, Lords of Umbar – and the only pair of men on this ship to whom Rakin himself was directly accountable. And Rakin did not like to be under another’s power… “Good afternoon, my Lords,” he began, half turning his head towards them although his arm remained slung as it was around the mast. Azaryan nodded curtly, but such a simple greeting could not be enough for Sangalazin. “Morning,” he replied simply. Rakin turned his dark, narrow eyes further towards his half-brother, raising one eyebrow carefully. Sangalaz in had his arms crossed and a smile on his full, girlish mouth. “It is still but morning, Captain Chatazrakin, give her her due and do not steal from her a good hour. You wouldn’t rob the day of a full hour of her bounty, would you?” Ah. It was going to be one of these conversations then. How he regretted not sharing a childhood with his half-brother…or not. Apparently being an unrecognised scion had some advantages – namely the lack of comments such as these from the his inbred, spoilt, fop of a brother. Rakin bit back the reply which leapt to his tongue and instead gave a very slight smile as he straightened up and turned towards the two Lords of Umbar. “Ah, but is that not what our very aim is, my Lord Sangalazin? Thievery from even the highest powers?” Sangalazin’s expression seemed to freeze for a split second between a sneer and a smile, then he simply shrugged and gave the Captain a lazy, infuriating grin. In order to keep up his respectfulness towards Sangalazin, the easiest response to this was simply to ignore it. After all, it was a damn sight more respectful than the sneer he would usually award to such a… Turning to the older of the two, Rakin inquired as to Azaryan’s expression of worry. “How goes, my Lord? You seem troubled – no bad tidings I hope?” “None except that one of your slaves is potentially about to be thrashed to death belowdecks,” Sangalazin interrupted unhelpfully. His mouth contorted into a cruel grin which sat uneasily on his fine features. “Although whether that is indeed a bad thing is quite debateable.” Azaryan did not respond to his cousin, turning expressionless eyes on Rakin for a moment with a look that made the Captain feel like a particularly unwholesome weevil. Then he looked away, glaring, as Rakin had done, over the sea. “It is nothing, Captain,” he replied shortly. Ever eloquent, the corsair commented mentally, then felt the usual stab of guilt. His loyalty must lie with the Lords of Umbar, always, no matter how surly – or superficial – they were… Deciding not to try to get water from the stone on this particular afternoon – or, let Sangalazin have his way, this morning – Rakin excused himself from the pair and, bracing himself, started down the stairs to the lower decks, from whence he would go to the slave deck. This morning he had other affairs to deal with – namely, the dawn escape affair of the previous night. A slave escape, now of all times, and from Chakka – hardly surprising, bearing in mind the brute itself. But I thought I had him under control… He fingered the vial of bitter, mustard-yellow liquid in his pocket: in an hour it would become useless to its intended drinker. Unless the slave was more devious even than Rakin gave him his due for; but then, in the mind of a desperate man, even the best formulated plan often had a slip up - and in this case, one slip-up was likely to make the slave very uncomfortable indeed... A grim smiled twisted Rakin’s handsome features and his hand clenched tight over the vial. Well, if Chakka intended to make life difficult for him now of all times, he had better stop by his own apartments to retrieve a few items from the vicious little armoury of his coat pockets…

10-14-2005, 08:20 PM	#190
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Fordim Hedgethistle's character NAME: Chakka AGE: 35 RACE: Human GENDER: Male WEAPONS: None APPEARANCE: Chakka stands well over six feet tall and is immensely strong. His features are even and graceful. He shaves his head (to avoid the vermin that infest the belowdecks) and wears nothing more than a simple pair of sandals, short trousers and a shift. His back is laced with terrible scars from a savage whipping sometime in the past; there are scars on his face too, but these are carefully inscribed lines and dots. His skin is like burnished ebony, lustrous in its blackness. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Chakka is quiet and contemplative, almost taciturn. When he does speak, his words are quiet and to the point for he never speaks before thinking. To those unfamiliar with his ways he appears to be humourless, but he takes great joy in telling elaborate comic tales of magical animals, and in listening to songs and poems of any sort. His greatest joy is the feel of the wind and sun upon his skin. Chakka is slow to anger, but when roused he becomes horrifically violent upon the instant. HISTORY: Chakka was born upon the slopes of a great mountain far to the south of the lands and seas he now considers his prison. For a few short years he lived with his family in a great village upon the savannah where he watched the women tend the fields while the men went out to hunt. He had just begun to help his mother and older sisters with their tasks when the others came: savage men from the east who burned their village and slew the adult men. The women and children were taken captive and marched for weeks across the savannah and through the jungle to the Sea. Chakka’s mother and eldest sister died in the journey, and when they reached the coast he was separated from the remainder of his family. He was sold to a great king who made his fortune by selling people to the sick-looking pinkmen who sailed into his harbour every spring. Hundreds of people disappeared into the black ships every year, never to be seen again and as Chakka grew he came to learn that these pinkmen, who hardly looked human with their pallid skin and hair upon their face, were from an even greater kingdom far to the north. Chakka was spared exile among these creatures and was allowed to remain in the coastal realm among normal people, but he remained a slave. He grew up tilling the king’s fields and herding his flocks. Life was hard, for food was scarce and the living conditions were cramped and unclean. The only pleasures allowed the slaves were song and wrestling, for the people of this realm were extremely fond of the sport. Word of Chakka’s prowess in the wrestling ring spread quickly and soon the king took him from the fields so that he could train year-round for the monthly exhibitions. Better food and a cleaner bed allowed Chakka to grow even stronger and more able, and the best masters were acquired to perfect his fighting skills. In addition to wrestling he was taught how to fight with bladed weapons, for the king had a fancy that such a powerful warrior would be an apt bodyguard. For years Chakka trained and fought until he became the greatest fighter anyone had ever seen. Rival monarchs would send their champions, and Chakka defeated them all. But Chakka yearned to return to the land of his youth, and one day he sought to escape. He was captured and whipped until he was near death. It took him a year to heal and return to full strength, but at the first opportunity he made another attempt for freedom. Once more he was captured. The king, perhaps realising that Chakka could never be tamed, ordered him sold to the pinkmen the next spring. Chakka spent a miserable cold season in dread of his exile, but he found no opportunity to attempt another escape, and within a few months he was forced aboard one of the black ships and bound for a life of slavery to the Corsairs of Umbar. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fordim Hedgethistle's post The point of Chakka’s knife slid easily through the corsair’s chest, piercing his heart and sending his shade to howl with the damned of ukruza. Chakka pressed his hand over the man’s mouth to still the rattle of death and deftly slipped the corpse out the opened hatch. He dropped it like a stone directly into their wake so that the splash would not be noticed. Like a shadow disappearing into the night he climbed through the hatch after the dead man and crawled along the side of the Fame and Fortune, making less noise than the wind amid the rigging. The moon was only a sliver in the sky but there were no clouds and he had to trust to his luck that no one would look over at the sea. The conversation of the watch drifted down to him from the deck as Chakka rounded the stern below the captain’s window and made his way forward on the port side. The sea rushed beneath him and for a moment he thought of simply letting go and falling into the water. They were not too far from land, there was a chance – a slight chance – that he could make it to shore: if the current were not too fast, and if the tide co-operated and if the shoreline was not a jagged mass of crushing stone. He remained clinging to his perch on the side of the ship. He had a plan already, one that offered at least some hope. Achieving the hatch he slipped out his knife once more and used it to gently pry open the casement. The quarters were empty, as he had known they would be, for the first mate kept the watch this night and the quarters were his. Chakka dropped to the deck like a cat and swiftly found the door. He peered out. Just down the corridor were the two corsairs whose unexpected presence had necessitated his unusual manner of moving from starboard to port. He waited until they moved to the other side of the lantern, where the light from it would be before their eyes should they look his way, before sprinting through the door to the ladder. This, he had known all along, was the most dangerous part of his plan. Escaping his chains had been simple. One of the first things he had learned after being made a slave all those years ago was how to pick a lock with any slender piece of metal. In this case, a nail that he had pried loose from the rafters during his first night on duty before the captain’s door. They were still in harbour then and he could have escaped that very night, but for the captain’s devilish poison. They had brought Chakka to the captain’s door and shackled him there, explaining to him that he was to watch the night and to prevent anyone from entering the quarters. The captain had come then, a tall, wolfish looking man. They had stared at one another in silence for a while, each sizing the other up. They were the same height but Chakka’s frame was larger. It had impressed him that the captain had not been intimidated. Without a word and with the speed of a striking viper Rakin had flicked out his hand and Chakka felt a sting in his arm. He looked down and watched as the captain pulled a small thorn from the flesh. Chakka wondered what had just happened and the captain, smiling coolly, was quick to explain the ingenious nature of Chakka’s enslavement. The thorn, he learned, had been coated in a poison of the captain’s own making that would slowly work its way to Chakka’s brain. By dawn he would be dizzy. By the time the sun was above the horizon, he would be blind. By noon, he would be dead but only after suffering through an excruciating period of burning pain. The captain’s smile never wavered as he explained this to Chakka. Rakin then explained, in equally even tones, that in the morning he would make a small dose of the antidote to the poison that he would administer to Chakka. With that, he went to sleep and Chakka was left to wonder at the brilliance of what the captain had achieved. There was nothing more that Chakka would like to do than slit the captain’s throat and run – anyone coming to assassinate the captain in his sleep would have found Chakka a willing accomplice. But now the slave’s life had been yoked fully to that of his master. For Captain Rakin to die in the night meant an agonising death to Chakka in the morning. He did not doubt that Rakin was telling the truth about the poison, or about the antidote to which the captain alone knew the recipe. There was something in the man’s bearing that made it impossible to believe that he would stoop to fabrication merely to obtain the services of a slave. So Chakka stood guard that night, and in the morning – when he was indeed beginning to feel a bit dizzy – he drank the vile tasting antidote that the captain gave him when he emerged from his quarters. The next night and morning were the same, and thus had he been forced to stand outside the captain’s door, night after night, keeping alive the one man in all creation whom he most wanted to see dead. Chakka raced down the short passage keeping his breath quiet and even, and achieved the top of the ladder without being seen. He dropped through the trap and lighted upon the lower deck on all fours, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. He held his breath and even his heart slowed as he made himself as a stone, listening and alert. When he was certain that he had not been seen, he moved to the flimsy door that separated the aft hold from the slavedeck. He opened the door by a sliver and looked through. The slaves were sleeping in their chains, hunched over their oars or leaning back upon one another. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a quick breath with the violence of one who knew what it was like to sleep like a chained beast. Quiet as moonlight he crept toward the guard. It had taken him weeks of careful study and spying to learn the secret of the antidote. Using the nail he had prised loose on his first night, Chakka had first chipped a small spyhole through the wall so that he could watch the captain at work in the morning. He had studied the procedure of mixing and stirring until he could have performed the acts in his sleep. When that was accomplished he had slowly gathered what he needed to make the antidote himself. Some of what was required was easy to come by from the galley or the crew, but one or two compounds were to be found only in the captain’s quarters. He had fashioned a crude key to the captain’s door and each night he would slip in and quietly take one or two drops of the compounds he needed – never enough that the theft would be noticed – and hid them behind the loose rafter he had found. Eventually he had enough of what he needed to make the antidote himself and as soon as the captain had fallen asleep he had set to work removing his chains and making a dose of the antidote. But being free of his bondage meant little on a ship in the middle of the Sea – for where could he run? But running was not his plan… Chakka seized the corsair, stifling his cries with his hands. His arms were iron bands about the man’s neck as he struggled to be free, but within a few moments the man’s motions became feeble and then ceased altogether. Chakka knew that to kill the man all he need do was hold on a few moments longer, but as soon as the guard was unconscious he let him drop to the deck. Some of the slaves in the aft ranks had come awake at the violence and they stared in disbelieving hope as Chakka fell to work on the mighty lock that fastened the chain to which they were all bound. As he sought to force the lock with his knife he spoke to them through clenched teeth: “Slaves, listen! I am here to set you free, but you must not run like animals. Do not think to throw yourselves into the Sea for you will die. We must become the hunters instead. We must kill and destroy and make this vessel our own. When the corsairs are dead we can take this ship where we please.” He spoke quietly but those who heard him passed his words back to their companions. He concentrated on the lock once more. The first two latches had fallen and he was about to trigger the third when from behind there came the heavy tread of booted feet. With a curse in his own tongue he spun up from the deck and flew at the two pirates who had come below. He threw the first into the wall, his weapon not even yet drawn. The other pulled forth his cutlass and aimed a cleaving blow at Chakka’s head but he easily sidestepped the blade, in the same motion bringing his hand down on the man’s arm. He cried out in pain, and Chakka dropped him with his fist. There was a cry from above as the corsairs became aware of the commotion. Chakka raced the length of the deck, hissing to the other slaves as he went, “I am sorry I failed you my friends. I shall lead them away.” The slaves knew what he meant: if the corsairs were to find out that a slave revolt had almost begun, they would all pay in blood. Chakka pulled himself up the ladder to the foredeck and came face to face with three startled pirates. They lunged with their swords, but Chakka evaded them, crumpling one with a mighty kick. He leapt from the foredeck to the main deck and raced to the side, but there were too many pirates about now: they fell from the rigging like insects and swarmed about him. Ropes were thrown about him and soon he was dragged to the deck bellowing and raging like a beast. When he was tied fast the boatswain was sent for, and when he arrived there at his heels like a cur was the guard Chakka had choked into unconsciousness. The guard was raging, “Hang the rat, I says! String him by the neck until he knows what it’s like!” “Stow that talk of hanging!” the boatswain replied sharply. “He’s the captain’s personal slave, so unless you feel comfortable explaining to him why you’ve killed his property you’d best take him to the brig unharmed. Leave him for the captain to deal with in the morning.” “He near killed me,” the guard growled sulkily. “Aye, and if he had then we could make use of that gallows. As it is, you’re more like to be whipped for negligence. A common sailor is cheaper and easier to replace than the likes of him!” So Chakka was taken below and clapped in irons. He sat in the brig the rest of the night and throughout most of the following day, wondering what his fate would be aboard the Fame and Fortune…

10-14-2005, 08:22 PM	#191
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Eorl of Rohan's character NAME: Ferethor Steele AGE: 31 RACE: Man GENDER: Male WEAPONS: A piece of broken oar. APPEARANCE: Dark-haired with eyes of gray, the appearance as well as the mannerism and accent that of Gondor born and bred. On his shift, he is often seen chained to the left side, second row, his lean and lanky frame straining against the oar with a sense of strength that talks of better times. His tousled hair is unkempt and slicked behind his ears, wet with blood and the spray of the tides. Pale as he is, and lean, only his eyes keep some measure of vitality still – alert and alive, sparkling as icily as his voice, as cold as the waves that lash the ship’s brow. The torn and tattered remains of his shirt and breeches alike are plastered to his back, sticking with grime and the sickly yellow of half-healed scars. If someone bothered to look past the film of dirt and dried blood on the shredded clothes, one might have seen the black and white of Gondorian Guards... PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Serious, cynical, steady in his hate as in all things else - yet he keeps it controlled. He had learned that much in the past three years. No one can blame him, however, if the collected bitterness had made him cold and indifferent. Sanity, in such a condition as this, comes with a price. Thralldom is a harsh mistress. In his case, he hid behind his sense of cold reason, trusting no one, loving no one, afraid, not of violence or betrayal, but of the acute pain that will come with awareness. HISTORY: Once a promising young captain of Gondor at 27, he went missing a few years later - in a skirmish against the Easterlings at the borders of Gondor. He was presumed dead, his family notified – the city named an obscure street after him and promptly forgot. There had been no news of him in the three years since. __________________________________________________ _______________ Eorl of Rohan's post Ferethor couldn't keep count. Beneath the ship, days and years were as one in their miserable condition. A few went mad. Most died. No one lasted more than a year in the service at the oars, no one sane… but him. He might have lost the consciousness too, if he hadn't that to spark the flame – hatred. He deliberately nurtured it. From the instant when he realized to his horror that he'd go mad if he didn't do anything, he had fed and coddled this hatred of his until it became his driving force. And they knew it. What 'they' were here but the damned Corsairs, the enemy? They knew that he survived. He ate whatever they brought it, he built his strength, and his muscles continued to ripple and move as he strained his chest against the oar to the bending point, under the shadow of the whip of the master, and behind the master, the South, behind it still, the fundamental hatred between the West and the South. He held on. Every minute, he held on. In the pitch-darkness, relieved only by faint lanterns and the cracking sound of the many-lashed whips, he held on with one purpose in mind and one desire – to take vengeance. He had watched impassively as people dropped like flies around him. He knew he could not help them, no matter what. What he could do was escape – escape, and sink the ship with the whole cursed population! He would remember the blank faces of the dead comrades that fought beside him in the fray, the screams of the tortured thralls, and the feel of the lash on his bare back. He would remember, and the blood will be on their heads. Ferethor knew he was thinking in circles. But a thread broken in the train of continuous thought might douse the flame of hatred that was the only thing that kept him sane against all odds. So he pulled the oar. And hated steadily. There was no source of light other than that which trickled through the hole where the oar handles were thrust in. The lantern that the sentry guard held didn’t count. He bent against the oar, letting his weight do half the work in moving forward the massive ship whose only part he knew was beneath the decks, the mold and the dark and the whips. It was then that he heard the shouts outside – there were always shouts, but this was of a different nature – and the call to arms. They were going to war. War… He strained to hear the next word. War against Gondor. Gondor. He froze. The oar fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. Let them react to that. Was it on purpose or an accident? He didn’t know. He was tired. So tired. The slaves working around him flinched, and shied away as if the whip might descend on them by mistake. Ferethor straightened up and lifted his head, knowing that soon he'd whimper and beg for mercy like any other slave under the stinging blows of the whip – maybe the racks, even – but he wanted to show them that he was not afraid. No, that wasn't it. He was afraid, but he was not going to let that fear run away with him. He was still a Gondorian, if nothing else. He was a captain of Gondor. He knew that the Corsairs have always hated him more for all that, wanted to see him break under their hands, more than all others - because he was the material realization of the strength and power of Gondor, the City of Stone. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure so easily – he clenched his teeth at that – he owed that much to his heritage, if nothing else. If he had more strength… If he had… If he could contact them… But no. It was futile to dream. The guard woke from his doze and looked over. The thralls shrank away still further, as much as the chains would allow, and made it a point to not look at his way. They were chained just so that they were forced into a kneeling position, unable to stand or to sit, with the chains interlinked with other slaves that one slave's mishap might affect all others. The arms were free to work the oars, and some had misshapen arms because of being chained in one place with only one arm used for exercise, for so long. Not that the length mattered. They were all mindless and timid, all of them. He wouldn’t get any help from them. He had tried to spark their spirit before, but they moved away, as they did now, afraid. There was some that had a remnant of spirit left, he knew, but they were chained too far away. Ah, here it comes. A guttural remark, then in barest rudiments of Common as the two guards approached – but he didn’t pick up the oar. When the guard grabbed him by the thrall collar, gaggling and choking with the blood that filled his lungs, Ferethor instinctively brought down the metal end of his cuffs hard on the man’s wrist, noting its sickening crunch with mixed feelings of satisfaction and terror. Terror soon gained the upper hand. Usually he would not do anything so stupid – he would let himself be sworn at and beaten around some without unnecessary defiance, which would doubtless bring the steel-tipped whips into play. But… War. War against… Gondor? He couldn’t help shuddering convulsively. One, two seconds passed? The man fell. He was dropped by the first man, so that he was left in the position of half-kneeling along with the rest. The one he had hit recovered in a moment and sat up from the wooden plank, gesturing angrily at Ferethor and reaching for his weapon. No. Please. Can’t take it anymore… The whips cracked in the air, an ominous sound at best, but worse if you heard it cut into flesh and sinews. Especially your own. He moaned, falling onto his knees, and before he could brace himself came one blow and another time after time in quick succession. Usually these stopped after a dozen, or the slave might be rendered useless for the day – but it went on and on – enough that blood and flesh splattered all over, some of the weaker slaves covered their eyes, and he soon lost consciousness hanging limp by the chains. Gondor. What did it mean? Gondor, and… and…

10-14-2005, 08:22 PM	#192
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	dancing spawn of ungoliant's character NAME: Jagar AGE: 26 RACE: Men (Haradrim) GENDER: Male WEAPONS: A piece of rope. APPEARANCE: As a Southron Jagar's complexion is dark and he has brown or almost black eyes. His hair is short, curly, ragged and as dark as his eyes. Jagar is scrawny but tall. Some say that there would be Numenorean blood in his line but most think it's just a mere story Jagar's tribe's women cherish. The only feature that could be Numenorean origin is his height. He is worn and sweat has hardened his clothes. He sits a couple rows behind Ferethor on the right side of an aisle between the slaves. PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Jagar has been aboard only a few months but the horrible conditions are taking their toll on him and sometimes he seems slightly mad. He talks to himself, hums and acts indifferently. He tries to deny the reality and escape into his imagination by seeking consolation from nature and songs. Jagar is confused because he begins to realize how much his tribe's culture contradicts with his own values. Jagar is independent and he'd like to be alone but it's quite impossible considering he is in chains with hundreds of other slaves. Therefore he isn't very talkative but he's not hostile either. HISTORY: Jagar was a member of a large and powerful tribe. He travelled to the sea as a boy and fell in love with the local lifestyle. When Jagar grew up he left to the coast to live on his own. __________________________________ dancing spawn of ungoliant's post The hot air below deck smelled of sweat and blood. Jagar gasped and felt his heartbeat pounding in his throat. A man sitting next to him had collapsed onto the oar unable to force his tortured body to work any longer. Although it was gruesome, the sight made him chuckle. The limp body of the man swung to-and-fro with every pull making him look like a puppet and making rowing even harder. Was he dead? No, not yet. "Will be soon", Jagar mumbled to himself. "Isn't this something! Great ships with crimson sails, wasn't that what you wanted to see?" a little voice jeered inside his head. When Jagar was a mere boy, he had travelled north to the coast with his father to inspect their tribe's lands. He had seen proud ships setting off from the harbours, the sun dazzling on foaming waves and screaming flocks of seabirds that circled above docks waiting the fishermen to clean their catch. As time passed, Jagar didn't forsake the sight of the glimmering sea and he longed for the freedom that the life on the coast breathed. Getting captured was not part of the plan. During these months aboard Jagar had learnt that by keeping up with the pace and holding your tongue you could keep the whip away. The man sitting next to him had done neither. Rankling wounds run across his back making his remaining clothes sticky with matter. Jagar thought of his family. They had kept slaves, too, people from scattered and weak tribes who had chosen thralldom over death. A whip of lash whizzed past Jagar's ear hitting the man next to him on the back and spattering blood drops around. The poor man moaned hoarsely as a new wound ripped the old scars open and coloured his ragged shirt carmine red. There was a time when this sight would have made Jagar feel sick but now he just stared forward squeezing the oar. The man was detached from his chains and dragged away. A few rows from Jagar another man was being beaten for dropping his oar. Jagar moved quickly to the seat beside the oar hole and breathed the salty air. Finally he could see a glimpse of the swelling sea and boundless sky. How free the seagulls were! He wanted to wring their necks, shoot them down, so they couldn't fly around the cursed ship as though mocking him. No, he wanted to be one of them and ride with the breeze that blew from the vast ocean and hailed a new dawn. But here Jagar was chained in a ship and going to war against Gondor. Harad was an enemy of Gondor as was Umbar. Jagar had learnt that long ago. If he was a free man, he would have gone to war gladly but not like this, not as a thrall trapped in an Umbarian ship. They made slaves row under pain of torment and death, but if he ever reached Gondor, what would the battle be but torment and death? Maybe he would die pathetically as an old man holding an oar after wasting his years rowing Numenorean lords from war to war. They would just throw him overboard for the sport of different sea creatures and keep conquering the world. This thought made him chuckle again. But why would he have been so eager to go to war against Gondor? He had no personal reason to hate that land. Jagar tried to reminisce an old song his mother had used to sing but the words escaped from his mind. Something about wind and horizon...

10-14-2005, 08:24 PM	#193
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	The Discussion Thread is now open for discussing the game. Please keep chatty posts to a minimum. Thanks! ~~ Pio, game moderator Last edited by piosenniel; 10-14-2005 at 08:28 PM.*

10-14-2005, 11:28 PM	#194
Eorl of Rohan Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Jan 2004 Location: Seoul, South Korea Posts: 602	Does this mean that now the Numenorean Blood Runs Black can start? The planning is over, the characters are in place, the first posts are done and the people are waiting. (Influence of Dr. Seuss? Possibly.) EDIT: Thank you, Pio. __________________ There is no signature here. Last edited by Eorl of Rohan; 10-15-2005 at 12:29 AM.

10-15-2005, 12:07 AM	#195
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	From the Planning Thread: About the start of Game: Perky will be away from the 16th through the 22nd of this month. I 'd like to start the game the 24th (or as soon after he is able to decide the order of the opening posts for the RPG thread). ~*~ Pio __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.

10-15-2005, 10:20 PM	#196
The Perky Ent Maniacal Mage Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Setting sail for Umbar, with Firefoot at my side! Posts: 3,297	Hello all! I'm quickly writing this before I must depart to Utah! I expect to be back on the 22nd, and have an excellent time I really dont' have time to come up with a post order yet, so I'll have to do it when I get back. Sorry for the inconvience, but it's partially mandatory. Feel free to work things out and plan things for the future. I know I will Take care, Perky __________________ 'But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.'

10-17-2005, 09:48 AM	#197
Fordim Hedgethistle Gibbering Gibbet Join Date: Feb 2004 Location: Beyond cloud nine Posts: 1,844	Oops, sorry -- failed to notice that this thread had been opened until just now. I was wondering why y'all had been so quiet lately....

10-17-2005, 02:32 PM	#198
Amanaduial the archer Shadow of Starlight Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: dancing among the ledgerlines... Posts: 2,347	Ditto to Fordim - just checking in to get updates from the thread and to reassure you all that I have not met my untimely, yet undoubtedly rather exciting and certainly unscrupulous, death. Yet. evil (Shut up, Aman...) __________________ I am what I was, a harmless little devil

10-17-2005, 02:37 PM	#199
Anguirel Byronic Brand Join Date: Mar 2005 Location: The 1590s Posts: 2,778	Actually, Aman, I wonder if you have to die. It would be fascinating to let a rogue scion of the Castamirioni, unrecognised by the chronicles, escape...far future, I know... __________________ Among the friendly dead, being bad at games did not seem to matter -Il Lupo Fenriso

10-17-2005, 04:34 PM	#200
Kath Everlasting Whiteness Join Date: Jan 2004 Location: Perusing the laminated book of dreams Posts: 4,533	I need emails to keep up with this so just checking in! __________________ “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”