======================= The King's Reckoning ========================
IC time is: < About 05:10 PM >
IC day is: Alduya
IC date is: 13 Lotesse
Moon phase: First Quarter
IC year is: 3184 S.A.
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RL time: Sat May 19 19:17:34 2001
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LOCATION: Umbar, The Harbours: Merchant Harbour
The Bay of Umbar spreads before your eyes - a wide expanse of water,
roughly circular in shape and landlocked on three sides. From the north it
is flanked by a long promontory, strangely white in color - the King's
Cliff. On the western side, the grim outline of Castle Umbar blots out half
the sky.
All along the southeastern shore, the Merchant Harbours leisurely spread.
Ships without count, of all sizes and under a multitude of banners dock,
cast off and maneuver in the eastern part of the bay, growing timid only
when passing by the War Harbour to the west that controls the entrance to
the Bay of Umbar. Most of the docks and shipyards are further to the east,
where the walls come to the very shore and prevent all access to the
harbours except from the sea. The Seagate that leads into the city is to
the south of you.
Contents:
Adunabar
Bakhadun
Obvious exits:
Out To Sea leads to Bay of Umbar: Off Harbours.
West leads to Umbar, The Harbours: War Harbour.
South leads to Azrubatan: At the Seagate.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[Barzag:] It is evening in Umber, and the harbour traffic is beginning to
slow as ships berth for the night. The sun is low in the sky, and its
reddish rays fall obliquely on the forest of masts, highlighting a pennant
here, a figurehead there... At the quayside rests a newly-arrived vessel,
the Foam-Cutter, wavelets lapping gently at her broad flanks. It is obvious
from her squat shape that this is no sleek warship but rather a cargo
vessel, designed to transport goods and men across Middle-Earth's wide
oceans. Sailors run back and forth with ropes, making the ship fast to a
pier so that the cargo may be unloaded. It is a mixed cargo: timbers from
Lond Daer, fine cloth from the weavers of Edhellond and the final shipment,
men from the province of wester Anduin, brought in as a labour force to
repair the city walls after the recent Orc-inflicted damage.
The ship's human cargo emerge from the dark cramped hold where they have spent
the past few days and nights looking utterly wretched. A pair of guards watch
impassively as the members of this latest group of native workers stumble off
the ship and on to the quayside. Some whisper to each other in their harsh
tongue, their fear evident from the glitter of their eyes and their tense
stance; others are preoccupied with their own misery and seem unaware of their
surroundings.
One man, taller than the rest, staggers as his feet reach firm ground, and
moves away to grab at a nearby crate for support. He stares at the flagstones,
rocking back and forth as his balance adjusts. Only then does he raise his head
to see what manner of place he has been brought to.
[Oroseph:]
Before the docks stretches a wide plaza, several places upon which crates are
stacked, awaiting delivery, and which narrows to a broad street passing
southwards. Benches are set on either side, affording a close view of the sea
to those that linger; but for the most part the harbour-workers pay the new
arrivals no more heed than it warrants. One group of these, called out by the
sailors for aid, hurries past these aliens, glancing at none of them in the
face. They are, for the moment, ignored.
[Barzag:]
The lone foreigner stares at the plaza before the docks, amber eyes glinting
with perhaps a hint of interest as his gaze falls on the crates, whose contents
are hidden from view. The sea breeze whips in, blowing strands of dark hair
across his face and bringing with it the tang of salt, masking the other scents
of the dockside. The fact that the passers by are ignoring the new arrivals
does not seem to bother this man in the least.
One dressed in the uniform of a soldier halts to speak with the two guards
standing before the ship, one of whom barks out something to the soon-to-be
labourers. His words are met with mute incomprehension. At last the tallest of
the Rhevain speaks in reply, enunciating as slowly and clearly as possible. "No
understand... you say again?"
[Oroseph:]
The guard frowns, repeating in a painfully slow voice -- " ... ...
Go ... .... ... If you ... ..." He offers a slow nod, as in example. Beside
them, the soldier says again something quickly, to which the guards do not
answer, staring darkly at these men.
[Barzag:]
The Rhevain do not move, nor do they appear to have understood the man this
time. The one who has taken it upon himself to act as spokesman - though why
this should be is unclear, for the others seem to keep a wide distance from him
- shakes his head, a hint of frustration beginning to show on his face. He
switches to his native language, raising his voice to address the townspeople
who have been acting as if these new arrivals do not exist. "Can anyone speak
our tongue?" he asks, though from the tone of his voice he does not expect an
answer in the affirmative.
Shadows are lengthening rapidly as the sun descends towards the horizon.
[Oroseph:]
There is only a slight shift in the movement of the citizens along
the street, a brief pause to consider the wild-man's utterance, but no one
steps forward. Failing this, the soldier motions with his hand to this
spokesman, pauses, then waves again to the rest of the Rhevain, then takes few
steps away, waiting.
The sun slips below the horizon and the sky begins fading into night.
[Barzag:]
The spokesman shrugs - the gesture was plain enough - and looks to his
companions. The new arrivals jostle closer together, each unwilling to be the
first to follow the soldier into this alien city of stone, mightier even than
the havens at Pelargir. The black stone of the walls appear brooding and
ominous in the lengthening shadows.
Eventually the spokesman begins to speak irritably to his fellows.
"Well, what are you waiting for? We might as well follow - we're all cursed
anyway. We have crossed the Great Water and have little hope that we will see
our kin again. I for one fear this city of darkness less than the thought of
spending another night on that damned boat."
He takes a step or two forward in the direction the guard had indicated, still
a little unsteady on his legs.
[Oroseph:]
The soldier nods once, glances to the rest, and begins to lead
slowly down the street towards a wide oaken door. . . At their approach, the
door opens to a room obscured by tables and crates, still seeming full of
shadows from the outside. A worker passes along the street, lighting the
night-lamps.
[Barzag:]
Something still seems to be bothering the Rhevain.
"They mean to trap us in their cells of stone," mutters one, a short thick-set
man. Stubbornly he halts in his tracks, making it clear by his posture that he
will go no further.
[Oroseph:]
The soldier notices, and walks back towards the man -- but before he
can reach him, a figure appears in the doorway, garbed in the dark robes and
sash of an official of Umbar, standing taller than six and a third feet, grave
of face and yet with an air of youth, a small ledger in his hand. . . With a
slight effort at a smile, he speaks with slight hesitations in the hill-men's
tongue.
"For whatever reason you have come, for whatever cause. . . this is Umbar,
where -- it is likely -- you shall stay to rest of your working lives. . ." --
he tilts his head slightly at that. ". . . but the labor will be useful, the
treatment well. . . First, however. We must take your names."
[Barzag:]
The man who had balked at entering the building stares at the dark-robed
Umbarian. "Why should we give you them?" he demands truculently, seeing that
here is someone at last who can communicate with them, however haltingly.
The tallest Hillman moves forward, holding up a hand, and the light of the
sputtering lantern shines on his face, revealing a twisted lip that twitches in
what could be either a smile or a grimace - it is hard to tell. "Peace," he
hisses to his countryman, "it will do little good to antagonize them now. At
least we still live." Turning to the one in the dark robes, he continues, "If
names you must have, then mine is no secret. I am Barzag." He does not give a
family name.
[Oroseph:]
"Barzag," the official repeats, jotting the name down. "Good, you
speak well for them. I am Irahad. . ." He moves on to the next, passing quickly
along the line, the soldier preceding him to check that they are in order.
"When the names are done," he says after writing down a name, "you will all be
provided lodging -- inside and down. . . the stone ladder, as well as food. .
." He jots down another. "Tomorrow most of you will begin learning your
assignments."
[Barzag:]
The Hillmen enter the building one by one, though none can repress a shudder as
he passes beneath the lintel, to be surrounded by stone walls, stone roof ...
no earth, no smokehole to give a glimpse of open sky. The one who named himself
Barzag turns back to speak once more with the official. "Il- raad," he sounds
the strange name to get the other man's attention. "Will you teach us the
speech of your people? We cannot - serve," there is a slight hesitation there,
as if he was going to use a different word and then changed his mind, "if we do
not understand."
Barzag says, "should be 'slate roof'"
[Oroseph:]
"Ah, -I- will not," Irahad answers quickly, waving the last of them
through. "But we have thought of this already -- as you say. . ." Stepping
through the door with a nod to the departing soldier, he turns to Barzag and
the Rhevain behind him. "Aside from a more general teaching, which all of you
will receive. . . a few among you, who have grasped the rudiments of our
tongue, will be chosen especially tomorrow. . . who will to them, in turn. . ."
[Barzag:]
There is a flash of hope in Barzag's eyes at this information, perhaps the
first hope that any of the Rhevain has shown since their arrival in the proud
city of Umbar. "I - thank you," he replies, trying out some of his small stock
of Adunaic words; it may be that he realizes that politeness, or at least the
semblance of it, will get him further than hostility.
It is lucky that his speech masks the muttering of the man who did not wish to
enter the building, "I will not speak a tongue of dogs."
[Oroseph:]
The official raises an eyebrow pleasantly enough. "Good. . . now,
down these ladders, and you will find a meal waiting, and places enough to
rest. The night is yours -- I would counsel sleep. If any of you suffer from
the water-illness, speak to me."
[Barzag:]
Left alone, the Hillmen file down the ladders, less concerned about the guard
standing watching impatiently until the last has gone than with the stone walls
around them; but if they must sleep in a room of stone, whether it is large or
small, palace or cell, matters little to them. They take the food - the first
they have eaten or even wished to eat since leaving Pelargir - and begin to
speculate in soft whispers what trials or otherwise the morrow may bring.
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Participants:
BARZAG (#5159)
Alias: Gender: M
Species: Men Culture: Numenor
Kin: Rhevain Title: Player
Faction: None
IC INFO:
Here is one on whom it seems fortune has frowned, one despised by
his own people. Barzag is one of the Hill-Folk, known to the Elves
and the Edain as the Rhevain or Men of Twilight. He is an
itinerant flint knapper by trade; a little-valued position in
Hillman society, yet a job he grew to love. Barzag was one of a
group transported to Umbar as unskilled labourers to repair the
city walls; he was one of the few who went voluntarily.
Barzag is currently in his mid-twenties. He is a loner by nature,
being accustomed to the scorn of others, but is strongly loyal to
those few who do win his trust. It is rare for him to show open
anger, although he does have a tendency to bear grudges.
DESCRIPTION:
At first glance this man appears a normal specimen of the
Hill-Folk. He is tall for his kind, perhaps about six feet in
height, and his shoulders are slightly hunched in the manner of
one who spends much of the time looking downward. His skin is
swarthy, weather-beaten from long days spent outdoors, his build
rugged. From the man's slightly stooped posture, you deduce that
he is used to carrying heavy loads. His feet are encased in crude
leather moccasins, worn and scuffed. He wears trousers of some
coarse greyish material, although it is hard to tell whether this
is the cloth's original colour or the result of fading. There is a
tear across one knee that is sorely in need of mending. A mass of
unruly dark hair hangs loose about his shoulders, brushing the top
of his tunic, which is of a soft, supple leather; it has been
subject to prolonged wear, judging by the shiny patches and
ingrained creases, and surely cannot last for much longer.
Your gaze wanders upwards, towards this man's face - and halts,
for therein lies the reason for the distrust and fear he inspires
in many. His chin is hidden by a short, dark beard, carefully
trimmed. But his upper lip, upon which only a few sparse bristles
grow, is cloven in the manner of a beast, and twisted slightly so
that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this,
his nose is long and straight; amber eyes generally regard the
observer coolly from beneath lowering black brows. Were it not for
the wrongness of his mouth, he might even be considered handsome,
but his disfigurement prevents this.
OROSEPH (#7105)
Alias: Or Gender: M
Species: Men Culture: Numenor
Kin: Dunedain Title: Player
Faction: None
IC INFO:
Child of an unexceptional family, Oroseph served in the Numenorean
diplomatic corps in his younger days, but many years have passed
since he resigned his post and came to the city of Umbar, where he
has undertaken scribal and courier work. His family lives still on
the Isle, to which he pays the occasional visit from time to time.
DESCRIPTION:
Loose grey-flecked strands flutter across a face creased with
years. His eyes are the color of dust run with precious little
water at evening, sunken deep, quietly attentive. Features worn
down by the sun possess, at their rest, but a trace of a weak and
resigned smile.
Dark blue robes, the cloth inexpensive but passable in company,
enfold a slightly bowed figure, no longer counted tall. By his
side rests a long and slender aspen staff, held shakily in his
left hand on his slow walks through the streets of the city.
(
geocities.com/halwynofdale)