City of Umbar - The Haven

[Baphởmet]

Rök, Tagane
The Dead Reckoning

He licked his lips slowly, narrowing his eyes down at the weaselly little men. They had been so quick to sell each other out. He picked the Angmar coin up off the table and began to flip the coin over the top of his knuckles. Without saying a word, he looked from face to face, searching all three of the excuses for educated men for any sign of treachery. They had given up far too fast. Either they were as cowardly and sniveling as they appeared, willing out sell out any one, or they had an ounce of deviousness and hoped to send him off on a wild chase. The briefest of glances confirmed in the uruk’s mind that it was the former. None of these men had any guile, only one of them seemed to have an actual shred of intelligence behind his eyes. Rök took an extra moment to stare at him. What was it they had called him? Balakân? The name rang a bell somewhere in his head, perhaps it was just a common name.

“You,” he said and pointed at finger at the navigator. “Why do you hold with the rest of this… creatures?” he said the final word and spat as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m sure you can find better companion.” He dropped the large iron coin into a purse then dropped it on the table, spilling over a dozen northern minted iron coins. “We will be at the docks for a few hours before we are ready to set sail. You’ll know which ship is ours.” A cruel, wicked grin crept over his features, his eyes were hard and scornful. “Unless,” he drawled, “you are happy in the company of rats.” He gave a hard but bored look at the other two men. “You don’t have long, make your decision soon.”

Without another word, the uruk exited the Dead Reckoning. He pushed through the door and the sounds of rain came flooding back. Tagane lingered, a sultry smirk on her lips as she followed the uruk out. Before she exited though, she tipped over an unlit lamp. Glass and oil spilled out everywhere in front of her. “Do be wise in how you proceed gentleman,” she tone was almost a purr, but with daggers behind them, “your lives aren’t worth much as they are. Don’t make them worth nothing.” She made a show of sheathing the dagger she had drawn during the conversation and exited, leaving the three men to their shocked silence.

Outside the rains were still coming in heavy. Waves upon waves of icy, salty water assaulted the pair as they made their way through the streets of Umbar. They did not speak, the roar of the storm would have drowned out any words they had to say to each other in any regard. They walked for a few minutes in the seemingly abandoned streets, streams of water rushing underfoot. For just a moment, the rains began to slacken and the clouds parted to reveal the golden rim of the sun. Light pierced the veil of shade and a cascade of a hundred different colors filled the air, dancing like dragonflies on the wind. A bolt of lightning flashed, then again, and again, and again. The clouds that surrounded the sun were black as ash and the lightning woven itself through the patches of midnight, giving the sun a thorny halo of blue and white light. The image only lasted a moment. Rök had the brief fortune of seeing the impression before the clouds swallowed up the light again.

“What would you have done,” Tagane said at his side as the rains lowered their unending roar, “if they had not given in so fast?”

The giant uruk chuckled, a rumbling that rival the lower notes of thunder. “I would have killed the old one. Or at least that’s what I would make them think I would do.”

“Wouldn’t that have been risky? They could have called for the city watch.”

Another chuckle. “No, even if they had, the city watch wouldn’t have done anything. Not with the coinage we carry.”

Tagane mouthed a word, Rök caught the last half of it and nodded.

“That was a very nice touch,” he said after a moment. The rains were slowly clearing to the point yelling was no longer required. The sky remained as black as ever, waves could be heard in the distance, angry explosions of sea water venting their rage against the shore. “I’m not sure if it was my presence or your destruction that made them break first, cowardly little goblins.”

“I sailed with a crew of goblins once,” Tagane said. “They were far more honorable than that.”

“Come,” the uruk said. “My bones ache to be away from this city. The open waters are calling us.”

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. It was only a few more blocks until the run-down buildings began to thin and open as the great harbor of Umbar came into view. Rök spied the giant half troll of a man that was their employer and ushered Tagane to stand behind him as they approached.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eldûrien, Sapthêth
The Streets

“You are reckless and feckless,” the old Númenórean woman spat.

Her companion, tall and lithe with brilliant white hair plastered against her head from the rain, only laughed. The sound, if any could hear it from their position in the middle of the street, was the sound of honey and cream but also of festering wounds and scorched hair. “You missed your calling as a street prophetess. Proclaim doom and damnation for us all unless we accept the unlight of our lord and master. You worry too much Sapthêth. It’s not doing your complexion any good. Besides, I deserve to have another pet. Frost made me get rid of my last one.”

“But this one is a child!” the old woman hissed. “Have you no shame? Even you?”

A playful, but dangerous snarl built up in the back of the elf’s throat. “I promise to train him well. I won’t let this one go wandering off the edge of the boat at night.”

“A child!” Sapthêth repeated. “I could have looked the other way if it was a grown man or woman, but a boy? What possible reason could you have? You’ll turn the child’s mind into a tangled mess. I’ve seen you do it before. I had to get rid of one of your compulsion victims. He shat himself to death as I tried to leech the poison of your words from his blood. Do you have any idea what it could do to someone so young? You reorganize their minds so that all they think about is serving you, making you happy. They forget to sleep, forget to eat, forget to breath in the end.”

The elf shrugged. “Maybe having a subject so young will aid the process. Perhaps if I start giving him commands much earlier he will learn quicker and…” she waved her hands dismissively. Eldûrien, Lady of the Dark Stars, couldn’t keep up the lazy façade of caring over much about her pets. There was a ringing in her ears, a sound of an avalanche, and then silence. She smiled. The boy had done as he was bid and she was rid of another troublesome gang of miscreant boys and urchins. She closed her eyes and reached out to him in her mind, sensing the connection she had constructed between them.

Jorund. Jorund. It is time for you to come to me. Follow the sounds of my voice. Follow them and come to me.

The charm she had laid on him would not last much longer in it’s current form. She would be able to give him that last command and that was it. If the spell wore off before he reached the docks he would forget everything that had happened that day and wake up covered in his own piss again. She hoped he was close by.

Her charm spells worked as such that her prey was not forced to do anything against their will. Rather, every time they did something she told them to do, a wave of pleasure and happiness would come over them, if they disobeyed, all sensation would be taken from them until they acquiesced and relented. She would have to create new spells for the boy though. She did not want him turning in to a drooling mess on the ship. With a crew of humans it would be harder to dispose of the body in the rations. And the elf genuinely wanted to keep the little waif around, his pitiful state amused her.

“I’m not cleaning it up this time,” Sapthêth said resolutely.

“Really?” Eldûrien rolled her eyes. “Not even if you can have all his blood and bones and organs? Can you use that for your special kind of…” she trailed off and waggled her fingers.

The old woman snarled a curse then went silent. They continued down the main thoroughfare until the docks came into view. Eldûrien’s sharp elven eyes made out Rök as he was approaching a ship. Aboard that ship was him. She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Both she and Krakzun would have their revenge for the trick he had pulled. But not yet, not yet. She let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and pointed.

“There. Let’s meet our new crew, shall we?”

[Winddancer]

Jorund

He knew in his heart that his brother was dead, though he still ran down the alleyway towards the destroyed house that Saemund had been in. He needed to do something, to see if there was any chance of saving someone, perhaps he was wrong and Saemund would be right there where he could help. However as he reached the site of the house and reached out for the nearest fallen plank, it shifted and with a loud crunching rumble settled into a new position. Something was not right. Even if the house had fallen apart, a very real risk as it was in such poor condition, this somehow looked wrong. Not only had the house fallen in on itself, it almost seemed as if something huge had stepped on it and crunched it in towards the center.

Distracted Jorund wiped the rain away from his swollen eye, trying to get a better look, but there was nothing to see but rubble. There was no one to save. Drenched through from the ceaseless rain, his small body shivering in the cold, Jorun expected to feel devastated. Afterall he was all alone in the world now and his hopes and dreams of becoming a member of the Black Dragon's was now literally crushed.

But he did not feel sadness, instead he felt a rush of pleasure like he had never felt in his life before, causing him to gasp in surprise. For the first time in his short life, he felt happy, the almost overwhelming emotion confusing him. Wiping away more rain and snot from his face, he was not given much of a chance to contemplate why he was feeling so happy as a familiar voice seemed to echo around him, beckoning him.

Jorund. Jorund. It is time for you to come to me. Follow the sounds of my voice. Follow them and come to me.

The elf. The gem. He looked down at his hand and saw the gem that had been clutched so tightly in his small hand that it had pierced the skin on his palm. Looking up at the crumbled remains of his life for the last time, he suddenly set off running back down the alley as fast as his little legs could carry him, his bare feet slapping through the many puddles as he made his way towards the beckoning voice, towards the harbour.

[Marceline]

Balakân
The Dead Reckoning

Balakân found his palms were slick with sweat when his hands balled reflexively into fists. How could Tollor be so stupid? Giving away their names to threatening strangers, exposing the knowledge they were attempting to keep quiet? He knew he owed nothing to the drunken man - Agrakhan, they'd named him - from the docks. But he didn't like getting tangled up in these kinds of search-and-murder missions that were so common in Umbar, particularly among rival crews loyal to rival Houses. He preferred to flit freely from one ship to the next, going where his interests were best served. Revealing secrets to cunningly menacing figures was not a part of this survival strategy. At best, they would be satisfied and walk out right now. But for all he knew, he'd be found in several pieces tomorrow morning in payment for what he'd just told them.

The huge uruk scrutinized all three men through eyes that glowed with malice. Balakân could see Tollor fighting not to cringe with his whole body; Haedirn had once again looked down at his boots. The navigator kept his chin up. Having shared what he knew, he could at least meet the uruk's eyes without guile. He did his best not to quail under the malevolent gaze and redoubled his efforts when the mammoth spoke directly to him.

"You."

The word hit Balakân like a physical blow. His heart pounded as more words followed. He did not dare open his mouth to answer the query about the company he kept. Instead, he swallowed thickly and glanced at his cartographer companions at the word "rats." Tollor certainly was, at any rate. He scowled. The iron coins scattering across the tabletop clattered loudly in the small space before the uruk shouldered abruptly out of the shop, leaving the offer of employment hanging in the air in his wake.

Before the navigator could turn to accuse his companions of their treachery, there was another explosion of breaking glass and the woman uttered a low threat.

"Do be wise in how you proceed, gentlemen. Your lives aren’t worth much as they are. Don’t make them worth nothing."

Balakân watched the woman go with fear resolving into interest. Could he make more of his life (and his purse) with these two than on the Rôthgimil? He did not stand in idle consideration for long.

"What," he snarled, rounding on Tollor, "was that about?"

The aged mapmaker allowed himself his full-body wince now. "I'm sorry, Balakân. You know this shop, this work - it's my life." He looked at his old acquaintance with a plea for understanding in his eyes, hands spread helplessly. Haedirn said nothing but edged toward the door to the back room, the new map he'd created curling slowly into itself on the table where it earlier had been unfurled.

Balakân's lip curled. "And so your cramped shop is worth more than my life? They might have killed me or Haedirn for what little we did know - it could have been information they did not want spreading within the city. Did you not stop to think of that in your rush to keep this little operation running?" He approached the table and pushed the iron coins back into the pouch before pocketing it. With a last acid look at the two men, he turned on his heel and stepped into the rain.

The Docks

The rain had subsided slightly. Balakân wrapped his cloak about him and allowed his hood to fall over his face as he disembarked from the Rôthgimil, a light sack of his possessions wedged under his arm and concealed by his cloak. He'd made some excuse about forgetting the coin for the map, laughed at some gibes about going back out in this downpour for one meager map, and scurried away from his crew mates. A spyglass, a compass, worn maps of the south, the pouch of iron coin, and a few personal effects mingled in the bag.

He wove through thinner crowds than usual as he searched out the ship he would be joining. He supposed the storm had driven people indoors or below decks, but it was only a matter of time before the merchants would roll out their carts and shouts from men - buying, selling, haggling, cursing - would fill the air again. The wood of the docks was dark and heavy after the rainfall, and the scent of storm competed with the scent of saltwater.

This was not the first time he'd abandoned one crew for another when opportunity struck. But it was the first time he'd done so as much from self-interest and curiosity as from fear. Something about the two who had come to the Reckoning - their words, their demeanor, their knowing smiles - made him think he'd be found and flayed if he didn't take them up on their offer.

It did not take him long to find what he sought. He saw the massive uruk first, still accompanied by the woman who'd thrown about so much glass. Two others were closing in on them now, too: an ancient crone and a tall, dark elf. Now out of sight of the Rôthgimil, Balakân threw back his hood and slung his bag over his shoulder. He had no idea what lay ahead, but it was better to find out willingly than to wait for this crew to cross paths with him in the south.

[Winddancer]

Sat in his usual spot at the end of the bar, tucked away in the corner where he could oversee the whole room without necessarily be seen himself, Dagon did not immediately reply. He was not a dog that could be called and made to sit for treats. Nazir knew this well enough, though often in his ire he would forget himself, as he did now. Leaning forward and ignoring the barkeep's nervous glance, he took a deep swig of the dark thick ale that he favoured. Setting the empty mug down, he pushed it towards the barkeep and gave him a nod, knowing the man would add the cost to his tab, one that Nazir paid of course.

Slowly, taking his time, he pushed his stool back and stood, adjusting his sword and dagger before he made his way over to the aggrieved man. "No need to yell, Nazir. My hearing is perfectly fine.." His comment bordered on being audacious, but he had far more leeway than anyone else that worked for Nazir.

And as expected, Nazir merely shot him an angry glace at the way he had spoken to him. "Get m.."

"Get you the brother, I got it." Dagon rudely interupted, not stopping and heading for the door, casting a look back over his shoulder. "Dead or alive?"

Seething, Nazir took a moment to swallow his anger at the impudence, knowing he needed Dagon. That did not stop him from mentally picturing sliding his dagger into the man's skull as well. Taking a deep breath he replied in a strained voice. "Alive. If Kha'nar refuses or makes too much of a fuss, then make sure the brother does not survive the night." While the brother might be a bonus, his original deal was only the girl and he did not care one way or another if the brother was brought to him.

Dagon merely gave a curt nod and bent down to grab the dead man's ankles, dragging him towards the door which he kicked open with a heavy boot and stepped out into the storm. Dumping the body a bit down the road by an alleyway, he pulled the cloak closer around him and headed for the Serpent Pit.

[Galadrihell]

Amaris at the docks

She nods, slowly. She understands this. Amaris has been brought up with an accountant’s precision, sitting on boxes at the pier and watching the careful counting out of barrels and the clink of coins. And the swift penalty that comes for false trade. The brand. The knife. Amaris knows the value of things, in many ways much better than her half-brothers.

And she knows the value of herself. As a daughter of Harân, her worth would have been her bride-price, her market trade value. She could have bought an alliance. Peace between houses. An heir.

What is she worth now?

Amaris knows it is not nothing. She has seen the appraising, weighing look in her - her foster father’s eyes before. And, after all, he has kept her. Even if her worth is the price paid to stop her mother’s tantrums... it is something.

“So what will do with your false coin?” Amaris says, keeping her voice slow and steady. “Melt it down? Turn it into the banks to be stricken?”

Lord Harân breaks into a wide and genuine smile.

“Perform sleight-of-hand,” he says, leaning an elbow on his desk.

“Amaris. You are a clever and resourceful girl. You are my acknowledged daughter, but you will never be a true heiress of Harân, nor will you be fitted for marriage to another House - although you’re House blood, through your mother.

I must break any thoughts of marriage for you now, before I have any more offers I must dissuade, before I run out of excuses. But I will not have my name shamed in the process. To everyone you will remain Amaris Harân.”

He waits for her nod. She understands.

“So,” he continues casually, “you’re going to disgrace yourself for me.

You’re going to run away.”

Amaris’ heart throbs painfully in her chest. The air is suddenly very cold.

“There’s a ship,” Lord Harân is saying. “Bribes have been paid. There’s a berth for you, even a companion. I don’t expect you to stay away forever: just long enough to set those dogs quiet.” He waves dismissively, brushing off the imaginary swains baying for Amaris in their beds. “Go. Live a little, learn of the world; and then come back to us, if you will, foster-daughter; for there are skills I think you have that will be valuable to me. You will come back better and stronger, so that I do not lose faith; or you will come back a pauper and I will have to have you drowned.”

He smiles as though he’s joking.

[Ta'leus Shieldsong]

Corin Longknife
The Warrens: Gang Wars

The Longknife's were as much a family as they were a gang. Corin had been five years old when they found him wandering the streets, a wretched little waste stealing from merchants, and sleeping in gutters. Jazari had found him there, shivering in a back alleyway. He was the one who took pity on him and brought him into the fold. He was a boy himself, no more than thirteen or fourteen when he found him, but Corin looked at him like a father ever since that moment. Many of the other younger ones did as well, which worked well in his favor when it came time to vote who should succeed old man Kirath as their leader. The vote was nearly unanimous, and upon taking the mantle of Chief of the Longknife's, Corin's devotion to Jazari was well rewarded when he was named his second. Since that moment, he had dedicated the last four years of his life to expanding the reach of their gang and battling their enemies wherever they could.

Their greatest foes were another gang of street urchins brought up from the gutter, a group called the Ghosts of Kular, named after their leader. While the Longknife's stuck generally to petty theft and crimping, the Ghosts were killers for hire and smugglers of some renown. Their territory was expansive, taking up many blocks of the city of Umbar. Very few passed through there without their leave and those who attempted to do so often found themselves at the wrong end of a blade. Many streets separated their territories, but clashes were inevitable. When he was twelve, Corin had accompanied Jazari and two others to a local pub. It was not unusual for the young ones to join in the drink, and no one would cross one of the leaders of a local gang. Not, at least, without the backing of another. Such was the case this day, as the innkeeper refused service to them, saying they were unwelcome in his establishment.

Jazari had drawn his long-knife and slammed it down into the counter, demanding to. be served and asking who the innkeeper thought he was to deny him. It was at this time when out of the corner of his eye, Corin saw them. A half dozen of the Ghosts had followed them into the place, and they were armed. With a shout he alerted the others, quickly enough that they were able to draw and defend themselves. A Ghost was quickly cut down by Jazari, who moved to engage two others and try to keep them away from the boys. Each of the other three faced off against a foe who was vastly more experienced with fighting and much taller and heavier than them as well. One of them, Werik, was of a cunning sort and managed to bridge the gap between him and his opponent by kicking a chair at him. His blade pierced the man's side, between his ribs, going deep into his innards. A laugh escaped his lips before he looked down and saw the blade sticking out of his belly. The two collapsed, falling on each other and pooling their blood on the floor. Varia, one of the few girls in their gang was not so fortunate. She managed to cut her opponent a time or two before the club hit her head and she fell.

Corin then felt fear grip him, as the two Ghosts pressed on him and forced him back against the bar. One was almost within an arm's reach, and instinctively Corin reached behind him and grabbed a tankard of ale that was sitting on the counter. He threw it, smashing it into his enemy's head. It was a split-second decision, but one that gave him an opportunity. He moved to his right and slipped behind the man, driving his long-knife into his back, before pushing him forward into his comrade. He rushed forward behind the man and tumbled to the ground with them. He raised his long-knife over his head and plunged it down, sinking it into one of the men, though he knew not which. His eyes were blind with tears and blood, and he was in a fearful rage. Half a minute passed before he felt arms pulling him away, as Jazari yelled at him, "Corin! Corin! Enough, we have to go! C'mon, run! Follow me!"

They tore from the pub, leaving behind the bodies of their friends. They would try and recover them later, as they always did, but they never got the chance. Halfway home to their territory they were crossed by another three Ghosts. Whether they had been waiting for them already, or the commotion of the fight had drawn them, they were there now. They eyed the two Longknife's with loathing, and then fury as they realized the two were covered in blood. There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, a mere ten meters separating them all. "Run!", shouted Jazari, as he threw his long-knife and sunk it deep within the chest of the foremost Ghost. They turned heel and fled down the nearest alley. He had begun to turn into another when Jazari grabbed him by his collar and pulled him back. "Give me your foot! No time to argue, go, start climbing!"

Corin looked up at the crumbling building of old stone and rotting wood and shook his head. "I can't climb that, it's too high! I'll fall! I'll die!"

"You'll die if you don't, now get the hell up there!" Replied Jazari.

Corin stepped into his hand and was thrust upwards, grabbing onto a ledge of dust-covered stone. He pulled himself up and began to climb, his thin fingers finding any notch or handhold he could among the building's walls. He looked down and saw Jazari following, nearly being grabbed by the two Ghosts that followed them. Had they waited for a single second longer he would have been grabbed and Corin would have been able to do nothing to help him. The shouts of the Ghosts below them were foul, vulgar insults and profanities were thrown at them with reckless abandon. But they did not follow. The two found their way to the rooftop, and Jazari patted him on the back. "You did well Corin. I'm proud of you."

Corin stifled a cry, responding, "I've never done that before Jazari. I've never killed anyone. And Varia...and Werik...they didn't make it."

"No, no they didn't. But we avenged them. We killed their killers. And we'll get our true revenge on them all soon enough. What's important is that we survived and that we make it back to the others. C'mon, follow me. We'll travel the rooftops. When we get back, we'll get you some hot soup and you can take all the time you need to weep for them, but not now. C'mon."

The sun was beginning to set as they moved on, jumping from rooftop to rooftop all the way home. When they dropped in from the attic they surprised all the Longknife's, all of whom immediately started pressing them for information. They were not able to get a word out though before a booming voice silenced the room.

"What happened?!" Came the words from a dark corner of the room. Kirath was standing there, his arms crossed and his face stern and cold. "I got word not more than half an hour ago, that the Ghosts of Kular got into a scrape with someone and over half a dozen of them died. Explain this. NOW!"

Corin looked at Jazari, trying to find the words to speak but Jazari placed his hand on his shoulder and stepped forward. "Irt was my fault Kirath. We went out for a drink. The innkeeper must've been bought off by them. They cornered us in the bar. Wirek and Varia both died, but Wirek killed his own murderer. Corin dispatched two of the others. He fought well. We managed to escape when we finished them off, but there was more waiting nearby. We killed one of them, and I lost my knife in the process, but we got away by climbing to the rooftops and running."

A flash of anger crossed through Kirath's eyes. "So you ran from a fight, is that what I'm hearing, boy?"

Jazari's was full of anger, as he shouted back, "It was trap! A setup! We were outnumbered from the start. We were lucky to get out with our lives, and two of us didn't, mind you!"

Kirath crossed the room, standing eye to eye with Jazari, then struck him across the face. "Don't ever speak to me like that again boy. You may be my Second but you're not entitled to talk to me like that." He stepped away and began to address the rest of the boys and girls in the room. "It seems the Ghosts of Kular want a war. We've won the first battle, but I want to make sure the next one is on our terms. Get out there and find out whatever information you can, and get back soon. Go, NOW!" There were nearly two-dozen of them there, and they all began to scatter immediately. Corin sat down to take a moment to breathe, and Kirath moved to confront him, before Jazari stepped between them. He could not hear what the younger man whispered to their Chief, but Kirath shook his head then turned back to his corner, leaving them be. Jazari knelt down beside Corin and told him, "Take your time. I'll bring you some food. It's gonna be okay Corin, I promise."

[Marceline]

Obsidian
Many Years Ago, The Market
(Private)

Zôrzimril was pretending to be a woman on an errand, and she played the part well. She flitted through the crowded market, keeping her eyes up and an expression of interest fixed on her face. Here and there, she paused to gaze momentarily at some item or other: a tangled mess of roses, a bag of crystalline powder supposedly imbued with healing properties, a meat pie shining slick with oil from the pan. The air near the pie stall, heavy with grease and steam and smoke, shimmered before her. She inhaled deeply, licked her lips, and tasted salt and spices; her mouth filled with saliva, and her stomach gave a groan. Focus was key: food would have to come later. She moved on, occasionally slipping small trinkets plucked from pockets, purses, or countertops into the black bag slung across her torso. None of this petty theft was planned, but when she saw something she wanted, she took it. Zôrzimril had come a long way since her earliest days of stealing to survive. She still kept her dagger with her always, but she was subtler now; or, rather, she could employ subtlety when it suited her. This happened to be one such occasion.

Despite her wandering gaze, her attention and focus were fixed upon a thin man. She had received whispered information about who he was and what he carried, and he was easy enough to spot: the grey streak in his black hair was distinctive, as were his guards. Swords at their hips, the two burly men flanked him and shadowed his every move as the man threaded his way through the press of people. She tailed him from a distance, but never so far away as to lose sight of him. At times, she got close enough to see the outline of the rectangular item tucked inside his jacket. While Zôrzimril could not hope to overpower him and his guards, she was confident in her ability to outfox them. Compared to the first time she’d stolen from a man, this would be simple and clean.

How her target had come to possess the magnificent set of sapphires said to be on his person was of no concern to Zôr. She cared only about relieving him of this burden and securing her share of the take. The currency she gained from jobs like this had elevated her position in the world over the last several years: she’d gone from surviving one day to the next on the streets to a modest set of rooms of her own. She was gaining something of a reputation, too; recently, new jobs had come in because others solicited her services. Although still a far cry from the kind of infinite wealth that some in Umbar seemed to possess, she felt that she might be on the brink of prosperity. She even had started her own small collection of jewels - some purchased, many stolen. One of her favorites, a rare gem which sparkled teal in the sun but deep red by firelight, hung now from a fine gold chain around her neck. Above such material treasures, though, Zôrzimril prized the security her coin could buy. She could eat whatever and whenever she wanted; she bathed with scented soaps in hot water; she dressed in silks, not tattered rags. She wanted for virtually nothing, and she was content.

She tailed her target past the wet market’s butchers and fishmongers, all brawny and bloodstained from their daily toils, and into the quieter corners of the marketplace, where books sat in wait on shelves and old men with papery skin sold scrolls more ancient even than they. She found herself surrounded by a dizzying array of paintings and precious items, all of it for sale at the right price. She watched the man stop to smooth his grey-streaked hair in front of a long mirror, then listened when he inquired after the price of a fine sapphire brooch. Smart man, Zôr thought. I’d want to know if I’d been offered a fair price for my items, too.

Almost out of nowhere, a small, dirt-streaked girl approached Zôr and tugged on her wrist. “Please, miss,” the child whined. “Please.” Zôr looked down at the urchin, raised a haughty eyebrow, then nodded silently. At this, the girl ran off toward the men still making their way through the crowd.

And here’s how it would go: The little girl would pick the pocket of one of the guards, and clumsily at that. She would be caught. When the huge man gripped her wrist and raised his other hand to strike her, she would scream. The men would roar with indignation, and people would begin to stare. Zôr would hasten over in a swirl of deep blue silk and stretch out a long arm to intervene, shoving aside the man with the grey streak to get to the little one and swiftly slipping the parcel from his jacket and into her bag in all the commotion. She would return the guard’s coin to him and swear to have the City Guard bring the little thief to justice. She would make much of the fact that he was clearly an important man on important business, and proclaim that whipping street urchins must be beneath him. “Why trouble yourself with the likes of this rat?” Zôrzimril would conclude, roughly seizing the girl’s filthy collar. Coin purse back in hand, the guard would look to his employer, newly bereft of his sapphires but still ignorant of the loss, for direction. The man with the grey streak would roll his eyes and shrug, and the three men would move on in a huff. Once they were out of sight, Zôr would release her grip on the girl’s collar and smile. She would press a silver coin into the girl’s hand, then both woman and girl would hurry away from the scene.

Zôrzimril was not a generous young woman, but she was willing to employ a select few children from the Warrens when they suited her smaller schemes. She knew what it was to be hungry and alone, and that coin would feed the girl for a week or more. Satisfied with her work, Zôr slipped into an alley to change her clothes and pile her hair into a bun - small changes which would allow her to blend in with a crowd should she be pursued. Dressed in her usual black, she stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Evening was falling, and a cool breeze off the harbor whispered all around her. She wound her way through narrow lanes to an unmarked establishment and pushed open its battered oak door. Her buyer would arrive soon, and she had worked up a thirst in all the excitement.

“Your deepest red,” she called to the man behind the bar. She scanned the room. They were the only two people here. Zôr swept over to an old favorite stuffed armchair and sat. It was one of a pair which hulked before the fire; between them sat a delicate table whose surface was just large enough to hold two drinks. No one would dare to seat themselves beside her without invitation; the assumption here was that these high-backed chairs were reserved for those who came to strike deals and resolve disputes. With Zôr in one and the other vacant, everyone would simply assume the other party was on their way. Her wine arrived soon after she settled in, and she took an appreciative sip in silence. Her bag, still slung over her shoulder, she clutched tightly before her.

She sat for a while, replaying the successful heist in her mind. She smiled over her cup. Her cut would be large, and with that financial foundation she could, perhaps, start to set her sights on larger prizes to bankroll more lavish pleasures. This pleasant reverie vanished when a light voice from behind her suddenly broke the silence in the room. “I was so sure you would be heading to the House of Studded Midnight, but my employer insisted that we be prepared for you to come here.”

Zôr swallowed another sip of wine in haste and set down her glass before twisting slowly in her seat to see the speaker. A young woman, perhaps a few years older than she, was seated at a nearby table. She must have slipped into the pub after Zôr had taken a seat. Zôrzimril’s jaw worked visibly in irritation. Back at the market, she’d been so focused on the guards that she had not noticed this woman tailing her. “And here I am,” she replied coolly.

“And here you are,” echoed the woman. She stood, pushing back her wooden chair, and crossed to perch upon the armchair opposite Zôrzimril’s. Zôr glanced quickly around the room. No one else had entered with her, but the barkeep seemed to have vanished. They were quite alone. The woman crossed her legs and leaned back comfortably. “Oh, these are nice. I can see why you prefer to sit here.” She smirked from the depths of the armchair.

“What do you want?” Zôr murmured. Though the place was practically empty, she kept her voice low, somewhere between a purr and a growl. She had yet to decide if she would bite, but she had little time for games. Her buyer would be here soon, and she would not have this woman present for that.

“I’m simply here to recover what you took. Preferably without a fuss.” The woman’s silvery voice was edged with a threat. She gathered her chestnut hair over one shoulder and began twisting it idly in her hands while staring Zôrzimril down.

Threats were like casual greetings in the streets of Umbar; Zôrzimril was not intimidated. She would get her cut from this job, and then she would ensure that this woman was silenced. She tried to set her face in an expression of polite neutrality. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

The woman smiled and leaned forward, resting an elbow on the arm of her chair and her chin upon her hand. She stared with interest at Zôrzimril for a few long moments, her gaze following the chain of gold which disappeared down the neckline of Zôr’s dress. From her own bag, the woman withdrew a small vial, sealed with a cork. She held it aloft; in the firelight, the liquid within appeared pale pink.

“An antidote?”

“Yes.”

Zôrzimril’s eyes flicked to the goblet beside her. She sighed. “For whatever poison I’ve just consumed with this wine, I presume.”

“Good girl,” murmured the woman, a playful smile on her lips. “Very clever. You almost know what you’re doing.”

“And I can have the antidote in exchange for ... what, exactly?”

“For what you took.”

Zôr returned her smile. “You’ll need to be a bit more specific than that. I’ve taken quite a few things today, you see.” She mimicked the woman’s earlier posture: an elbow on the chair’s arm, her chin on her hand. As she moved, a burning sensation rose from the pit of her stomach and into her chest, and she swallowed uncomfortably. The moment did not pass unnoticed; the other woman, already observing the thief with interest, saw and knew what she must be feeling. She had deployed this particular poison a few times before, and she had watched as strong men crumbled with pain, as they choked on their own blood, as they wasted their last breaths crying for water to soothe their burning insides. These effects would take hold of this thief soon enough if she did not relent.

“I could say nothing now, let the poison do its work, and take everything you’re carrying without consequence, including whatever trinket hangs from that necklace,” said the woman. Zôr grimaced, both in pain and irritation. She was not enjoying being outsmarted, and resigned as she was to the inevitability of her own demise, she was not particularly inclined to die this very day. The other woman smiled, satisfied, and twirled the vial deftly between her fingers. “Normally, I wouldn’t even offer this up. But I didn’t expect the thief to be such a pretty little thing, and this particular poison can make for quite an unattractive corpse. I’d hate to let your looks go to waste.”

Zôr coughed into her hand to relieve the pressure now building in her chest. Pain seared her throat, and her eyes began to water. She knew that, of everything she had stolen today, only the sapphires would warrant these measures. She gamed out the possible outcomes. A small slip of the woman’s hand - intentional or not - would send the glass vial crashing to the ground, and the antidote would seep between the stones in the floor as Zôr died. This would certainly happen if she hurled herself forward to seize the vial. If she simply sat here much longer, she would certainly die. If she was to live, then, there was only one way forward. She cursed under her breath, then reached into her bag to retrieve the thin parcel she’d lifted from the silver-streaked man. It had the feel of a slim jewelry case, but as it was wrapped with paper, Zôr had not yet looked inside. She ran a finger over the wax seal which held the paper together: on it, a minute eagle spread its wings in flight.

“I’ll have that antidote first, I think,” she whispered. At this, the other woman stopped fidgeting with the vial and gently placed it on the spindly table between their chairs. It began to roll toward the table's edge, but it was stopped by the base of Zôr’s glass. Both women inhaled sharply, then breathed out in relief.

“There. I’ve done my bit,” said the woman. “Now you do yours.” Her brown eyes danced with amusement and reflected firelight. Zôr took the vial from the table and replaced it with the parcel.

The woman slipped the package into her bag and leaned forward to push a stray lock of black hair behind Zôr’s ear. Zôrzimril was so shocked by this overly-familiar touch and so fully gripped with pain that she didn’t even think to protest. The woman rose from her seat. She looked back as she walked away to smile and say, “Thank you, darling.”

[Ercassie]

’Thorongil .. got leave of the Steward and gathered a small fleet, and he came to Umbar unlooked for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss.’

(excerpt from Appendix A, ‘Return of the King’)

The quay erupted in a dread effulgent blast that propelled sailors and their vessels alike to a slowly suffocating grave of watery depths, their disfigured bodies already rent by flame and fury. The gulf of Umbar was ablaze. It's every resident entangled in a struggle for survival against demons that came upon them by great stealth and devious contrivance.

White ships manned by white faces, their sharp eyes flinty and unyielding as they spied their prey, suspended in proud latency about the ancient dock. Gondor had come upon the roost of her compounded foes, and laid all to waste. The Corsair fleet was slowly, utterly consumed by the almighty raging hunger of a seemingly endless inferno. Bodies littered the remnants of their berth, cast in disarray about the splintered wreckage, as their migrant defiler summoned all of her ruthless efficiency to render all here ever now no more.

The strength of Umbar was despoiled, by both bonfire and blade. And when they were done, the marauders leapt back upon the decks of their own resplendent armada, and disappeared, with so great a speed that their abrupt departure was as little marked as had been their arrival. Any survivors that remained had little thought to pursuit of their swift antagonist.
The heart of the Corsairs had effectively been ripped from about her defiant chest and abandoned to smoulder in the rising obscurity of retch-inducing, breath-depriving smoke. Deadly, errant sparks arrayed the sky as an anarchic swarm of fireflies. And all that yet drew life within their congested lungs called for some as yet unseen source of power, a beacon of reassuring authority, someone anyone that might guide them now to vengeance in this hour of unforeseen loss.

Long had this formidable anchorage been privy to amended dominion, and factions of divergent motive and historic consequence had evolved to form a coalition with one sole affinity. Corsairs, Black Numenoreans, Haradwaith ... each and all detested the scourge that is Gondor, the residuum of all their long fought grievances ; today revisited without exception.

Jenahda and Pharak Halsad
The House of Halsad
City of Umbar, 2980 TA

The swift hands which cast open the almighty, engraved doors looked not to safeguard the means of their entry. They spilled through the seemingly incompetent space and hindered their own progress with the clog of haste and rushing chaos. They abandoned the screaming, brutal cries beyond, the garish ruddy sky and the call for arms. They bore forth into assumed safety, their own purpose and concern. The Lord of the house, and his eldest son beside him, each laid out on makeshift litters, borne by many dirtied but desperate aids out of the wreckage. Both men were great captains of their now depleted ships; both men were undoubtedly, and horribly wounded. Jenahda released the warm grasp of her dark-haired lover as he turned from her attentions, to the sight of his father and brother so mangled nigh beyond all recognition.

Slaves were summoned and sent with all urgency and unbridled threats of reprisal about their critical tasks, as the bloodied remnants of Captains Korre and Salukatar were lugged unto their each respective chambers. Pharak pulled away reluctantly from the drudge of a girl, his deep set eyes trying to breathe and calm and locate sense amidst all the frantic.

"How is such a thing possible ?" he demanded, the plush tones of his voice, which had deluded many that he was the weakest link about their dynasty, now seemed all the more persuasive to his sweetheart.

"If they can not conquer us, they shall conclude us," she noted, nonchalant but stepping away as he now stepped toward her. The undeniable massacre that had recently abandoned troubled her not. If anything, it had heightened her sense of being alive, by comparison.

"I felt the earth move," Pharak took his lover’s chin in a firm grasp and wrested his eyes back unto hers. "I thought the shudder merely the jolt of your affections .."

It was undeniable that the shrew before him had her wiles, and more often than not, she also had her way. The world around them always managed to disperse from all his proper consciousness when she and he were close. He knew that she thrived upon their much condemned acquaintance, and he knew that he should know better. But the woman knew her way around a man's thoughts with far more expertise than she had ever learned to bow or scrape. He admired the affronting sass and indomitable spirit that she had never relinquished. Even cast into the dregs of all proper society she garnered his esteem.

There were few who could manage to preserve their own sense of self-dignity under such circumstances. Of course, where she now stood was yet still much raised from her previous position, a mere woman lost amidst the ragged tribes, with no more right to choose her husband as to choose what words she might speak without fear of cruel rebuke. She had been traded up to him as though she were a speechless animal, incapable of mind or want for her own needs. Pharak had naturally, given thought to whether her illustrious father had possessed a greater wit than the corsair had first assumed. There was no way the Chieftain could have endured Jenah's provocative behaviour in his own domain for long, and surely had expected that enslavement would contort her unto a more demure character. It had not done so, but for all that Pharak was not displeased with her presence in his home. Of all things that he had to come back to, she stood the gleaming prize of an adamant diamond amidst a field of mere rocks.

"You must go to them," the woman decided, at great length and with no small amount of disinclination. Her great eyes ushered forth their usual coercive spell. Of course, he recognised her reason. How should it look if he did not ? It might appear he did not care for his own kin ..

"We shall celebrate tonight," he promised her, letting his gaze fall one last time unto what she swore was an expanding belly. She smiled, following his eye and his line of thought. They should certainly have cause to celebrate later ..

Pharak was a second son, subserviant to his absurdly nautical elders and she could not accompany him on his far-off ventures, and so she found herself likewise tethered to his abhorrent relations. A prospect that did not find either of the young lovers joyful. Well, now she had given him insurance of a family far better suited to that which he had been born unto. The wise old mystic that the lords here had so sagely assigned to kitchen duties had as much as told her she would give her beloved a son. Maybe two, he had smiled at her, with a crooked wizened leer. Maybe even three, she had suggested, to his great ensueing mirth. She would ensure of it, best to have spare after all.


Of course, if Captain Korre Halsad or his blasted heir, Salukatar, she spat abruptly at the marbled floor to even think their names, were to ever discover that she was with child, then their vengeance would be absolute. Already she had forced herself to keep a far more civil tongue about her head when in their presence, merely to avoid any form of physical penance that would risk her unborn hope. Soon they would become suspicious of her altered disposition.

There was but one option left open to her, to any who might find themselves in her position. Jenahda was simply going to have to dispose of one, or preferably both, of her sources of foul contention. She had small doubt that any within this house would truly mourn the loss of either Captain Halsad or the spewling arrogance he had blueprinted in his eldest son. All feared and despised their master. Even Pharak who, for all his underhand and clandestine dealings with the enemy, was apparently incapable of raising even a finger against his own kin, at least in public. But that was what he had her for !

Corsairs ! Jenah sighed and made a rude noise deep within the base of her throat, for there were none here who might now observe her. Everyone was busy ... Fearful of the tiger's wrath, they flitted about like moths about a dancing flame, burning themselves for no good cause. If they would but realise they should snuff out that flame, or abandon the tiger to his detrimental injuries .... They would all be better off. Corsairs without ships are as much use to anybody as a forest without trees.

She had understood of course, the proper significance of possessing nautical faculty. For centuries, these lands had been breached by strangers that violated their rich shores. Cold, outlandish creatures had the plague comprised. First the pompous and aloof invasions of folk from their distant isle. Then the second wave of executives, this time from mere neighbouring coastland of the north. But sailors undeniable. Her own people were of the true sunlands, unceasing and utterly unconquered. But always, always had their borders been offended by rebels of other nations. Seeking to take what was not theirs, or seeking to stay and seek to claim it so, in all entirety.

Jenahda was dubious when it came to trusting the Gods of the sea. Always, always her people had suffered for the sake of these apparent mighty beings. But to control the port, to possess the means to meet any insurgent from elsewhere in battle at sea, before ever they might cast their hold about the plunder of riches inland; even she had to admit, that the Corsairs had managed to hold their own with such grand wisdom for some centuries uncounted. She had thought perhaps it might be time for her to unwillingly throw in her lot with them, at least as far as they would be aware.

But now ? What point now was there to Corsairs if there were no port to function ? They would diminish in both number and virtue as had the old fashioned relics that had come before them. Black Numenoreans were a tale to frighten small children. They had come, they had conquered, and eventually they had been absorbed. Digested, as it were, by the far greater population that remained inland. Corsairs were already trenching down the self same route. Tribes of Harad may not be united in varying and disputed allegiance to the Darkness, but they were all Haradrim regardless. Sooner or later, all that tried to reign over them were incorporated, and the blend was further more diverse. Soon they would obtain all of the strengths of all the nations that sought to subdue them, until they were a legion to be reckoned with like none before.


Jenah flourished with new vigour and design as she idly made her way along the passage. Of all slaves forced to endure servitude about this house, she was perhaps the only one who might escape chastisement for whatever thought she devilishly entertained. Pharak was hers. She had staked claim upon him, and as soon as her son (or even sons) were born, she would rule him as wholly as his people meant to hold sway over hers. She ambled with deliberate delay along her path to allow time for her lover to go from first his father to his brother. Captain Korre would have to be dispatched first. There was the matter of hierachy to consider after all. Father will best son. And Gondor may have bested Umbar on this opportune of days. But Harad would always remain and Harad would outlive them all.

Jenahda drew a jagged splinter which had been removed from the many pierced form of her now haggard employer. The room was empty of all but his shallow breathing and his already acrid stench. With the arrogance of not even one last glance to check for a possible interruption, she jammed the keen shard forcefully through Korre's ear and drove whatever served him for a brain within his skull to ebb undeniably out of the other ear canal. The desecrated remnants of the dying man shook once with a wrenching convulsion, and then lay still. One arm dropped like lead to seek the floor, but never reached it.

Jenah never reached the bedroom of Salukatar. Pharak got to her first. And as he there beheld the prone form of his father, he tumbled in apparent grief against her warm, firm embrace. And held her. Tight.

"Your father died in his sleep," she bade him, dropping the dangerous sliver of wood silently upon the bed covers, that she could envelop her lover in her arms. "It is the best he could have hoped for," She smiled.

“It is the best we could all hope for,” the second son agreed. “All shall soon learn that was what occurred, and that accursed Gondor is answerable.” He drew her to him, like a comfort. Like she was all that he had now; the beginnings of a new generation. Their children … their legacy …


As the two began to meld a mutual dream of what they might conspire, together, unseen in his room Salukatar sat up poker straight upon his bed; as though he was somehow aware that he had just inherited his Household, and all the likelihood that he too should be murdered for the sake of it. A legacy indeed.

[Winddancer]

Rules updated! Taking effect from this post onwards!

[Ercassie]

The Astronomers Daughter
in The House of Halsad
3014 TA, approx

She had never had one of her lily-white limbs snagged within an animal trap, but she felt increasingly that this must be something like that horrific experience. No sharp iron teeth had closed about her flesh, but an overwhelming threat of a Man who was draped, snoring like a hibernating bear, across his bed. She had woken near two hours ago, and had naught to show for all that she had trialled since. Her leg was numbed, fuzzy-feeling, from being folded beneath her, to the point where she fell careless awhile, into a lost memory of swimming off the cape. The water that winter had been so cold that she had not loitered overlong. But after even a short time, it had seemed that her brain had shut down all feeling to her body, that the cold ought not concern her. Might be it was now employing a similar strategy.


Cold was no antagonist in Umbar though. Heat here was the smug villain which dominated all. From the most vile and sloth politicians, swooning in their litters, to the basest slaves, staggering in their toil. None escaped the sun here and she wished more than usual to be home, even for the wintry waters of Belfalas. The closed harbour of Umbar was as though a fortress, conceived of hard, high-reaching rock. The passage which led out from the sheltered, stifling harbour into the open sea was a funnel. All that she had ever known of breeze here, even stood upon the dock, was the screaming echo which ran through that natural gateway, and pummelled itself against the suffocating embrace of the city. There were times she imagined it might be her own scream, yearning for freedom, tiring of this horrific nightmare. But she did not dare to scream aloud. Best leave that to the wind.


Such time had been spent in attempting to silently circle Uhta’s massive, muscled heft, that she hadn’t realised quite how high up on her toes she had leant. Gravity as much as a sudden release took her by surprise, and the cold hard stone floor bruised her behind. A small squeak fled from her throat, at first, and one clammy hand soon clapped over the ironically dry lips of her mouth, even as she dared to keep her eyes from scrunching up in fear. But the sleeping giant did not stir.

Then the recognition of where she yet was. The beasts outside punched the cruel reality of frightful howlings through even heavy wooden shutters. Ever hungry they were, and their eyes, straining as ever were they pulling at their leashes; to reach her. To bite her. They would devour her if they could ever manage to get close enough. They were all that kept her from flinging back the shutters and, in a state of final despair, pitching herself from the chamber, to the yard below. The concept of dying not at once, but finding herself broken, battered, no doubt badly bleeding .. and then to be consumed alive by the wild dogs ? That was enough to deter even the bravest soul, and she had never considered herself be such a thing.


So she crawled, on hands and knees, quite beside being too proud to do so. That ship had long sailed, months ago. But gnawing at her lip all the same, to distract from the ache of where her bony form had struck the floor. She got all the way to the door before recalling that it was locked. Of course it was. But it had taken her this long to dare to even move from where he kept her. Curled up on the floor like a hound. And as though her suddenly curled lip had incited him, as though he had in fact been awake the entire time, Uhta chose that moment to sit up and yawn.

“Mouse,” he patted the bed beside him, to summon her as he would a pet. “Come, Mouse" Such was his ‘pet’ name for her, and it mattered little whether it appealed to her. She had tried once to pierce his thick skull with the fact that she had been a person, upstanding with a good name and social expectation .. back in Dol Amroth. But ‘This is Umbar. Not Dull Amroth’ he had concluded, and that was the end of that conversation. It might be his accent or his deliberate intent to sound the ‘Dol’ as ‘dull’. She was to this day not quite sure that he wasn’t smarter than most people gave him credit for. Still, it did little to endear him to her. In the end she had foregone with complaining about the ‘new’ name. After all, it aided her survival in the mindset of two worlds. That the ‘Mouse’ who had endured things here, was a person utterly apart from the girl, the astronomer’s daughter of her far-off native city. Maybe if she ‘played’ the part here, she might one day remove the mask and costume of this whole horrible experience, and simply go back to being her other self. Her old self.

There were days when she properly believed that this was possible. Those were the days that she did not catch sight of herself in one of the many gargantuan, gilded mirrors that bedecked the house.


“I am expected to feed the dogs,” she tried to decide whether he would care if his mother beat her for idleness, and spoke though in such a small voice to almost justify him naming her for a mouse. Thin fingers rattled the door handle as she heaved her shaking stature upright. It was a thing she had never grown accustomed to. The lack of clothing. Back home, she would never have entertained the notion .. that she would be stood in reach of a man with so few layers of decorum to giftwrap her. But the heat here, she had to admit, would have seen her sweat to her own end if she had the means to even attempt to keep up appearances. Nobody cared what she wore here. It was more liberating than she cared to admit. Uhta certainly seemed to like her this way, to dress her as the women here were dressed, more or .. definitely less. It saved time and the perplexities for him of imagination.


“Those are no dogs,” he guffawed, and slumped back unto his back. But one hand grasped for the key about his bed post and saw it across the room. Freedom clattered to her feet with a sharp jangle of mocking temptation. Freedom meant another day in this house, another day as ‘Mouse’. Now that it came to it, she almost wished to crawl back into her corner, against the wall and hide from everyone, from everything. But .. “Do not forget to feed Uhta also,” he added, through a slovenly drawl which was already luring him back to sleep. “You can eat what I do not.”


With a deep sigh, she planted the keys, and dared the door open. The descent downstairs was a descent her heart took as much as her feet.

[Pele Alarion]

Pele
Relic's House @Isolde Alarion, @Ercassie

The iron cell offered her nothing but darkness, which seemed to be endless to the point that Pele had lost count of time: had she been here for days, weeks, or maybe even months? There seemed to be nothing that would aid her in keeping track of time, not even her own sleep patterns which were rather disorderly, considering the circumstances. The solitude was nearly complete as well, except for occasional visit either by Shamara, or Niera; both came very seldom indeed, though the latter usually brought a secret aid in terms of food. For that Pele was grateful, just like for the fact that the cell was within the building and not out in the sun, else she'd not survive even this long, locked in would would become an iron furnace.

The approaching footsteps caused Pele to sit up and listen intently; she had learned to discern the different footsteps by now, so she guessed the identity of the visitor. However, a lengthy silence followed: the visitor said nothing, nor did Pele.

"Well, it seems that they have finally decided what to do with you," Shamara - for it was her - eventually said. "Not exactly what I would have done if I was after some coin, but then again nobody really asks for my advice."

Pele rolled her eyes in the dark, as she looked at the small opening in the door from where she sat. "And why exactly did you feel the need to tell me that, Shamara?" she asked.

"Well, just for the fun of it, ey?" the Umbarian chuckled. "Might soon come for you, unless they choose to collect you without my assistance. Anyway - bye!"

"Annoying sneak of a woman," Pele grumbled under her breath, listening to the retreating footsteps and wished that Shamara could at least have provided more information instead of these words that mostly expressed nothing.

[Ercassie]

The Astronomer's Daughter - Part 2
In the House of Halsad

The sight and sound of it were abhorrent in equal measure. Still the smell defeated all else that threatened to overwhelm her. It was inescapable. As the gluttonous carnivores fought and snapped over the fresh meat, the sound of broken bone punctured the ripping tear of ruined flesh. The carcasses were a veritable feast; they writhed and contorted with each new challenge, as though some parts of what they had once been were still alive and struggling.

One slab of … something … slapped against the stone near to the slave girl’s bare, immediately flinching, foot. As much as she might have sought to shrink back against the wall, there was that horrendously present temptation to snatch up the morsel within reach. She was that starved that she might have thrown herself unto all fours and bared teeth at any creature that dared make a try to have it from her.


Still there remained enough humanity about her still that she held resolutely onto her will, and counted. How long were the beasts occupied by their massacre ? Slowly she backed up until her back pressed up against the iron bars of the tall fence. A fence tall enough to keep the beasts within. A fence that if she could manage to ascend, while they feasted … she might slip beyond the reach before ever a body observed her. Any that might chance to note the way she here recoiled, would sure think she was seeking to withdraw only from the mauling and the mutilation. They would not have been entirely incorrect.

Still, she had begun to consider the second issue. How many steps backward would take her to meet the barrier ? She threw her head up as though to save her sight from such a scene. She threw up her head in truth … to try and gauge quite how high the iron bars extended. She counted right up until Mistress called out of the opened door, to summon her within.


Dropping her head in apparent subjugation, she smothered the tiny joy of satisfaction. An expensive education had allowed her the tools to make estimates and average. She knew that when her chance came, she must be prepared. She must know as much as she could, if she was to take the risk and run. What more though need she take to manage to run further than the walls of the dread house ? What would be enough to help her and yet not enough to slow her down, or see her hands removed for thieving if she did not manage to run far enough .. ?

Another call to rush to, this one more demanding than the last. She picked up pace, knowing what awaited, should she not. The food must be readied. Jenahda Halsad did not trust a crew of subordinates, taking the word of her husband as good sense; that too many slaves would find the family outnumbered. Her newest slave had took notice of perhaps two other bodies who shared her shelf of the hierachy within the house. And they, having been there longer, paraded their own entitlement of seniority over her, whenever the opportunity allowed. Not a one of them was allowed in the kitchen; that was the domain of Mistress. Whether she feared others might poison her little litter of offspring, or whether she kept them close by controlling what they consumed, either way, she prepared the meals. All three of the ‘triplets’ were seated already about the table when the slave girl scampered into place, Jenahda striding so fast behind her to ensure compliance, like a dog herding dumb sheep. The Umbarians took little heed of her, save for Uhta, who jerked his head in a gesture of command. To come hither.


But it was not Uhta’s chair which she inched around, as though she were avoiding a dangerous reptile. This terror was ever stoked by the sight of his brother; Keket. He straightened up without even speaking a word, and she knew beyond all comprehension that his eyes were watching her take from his one side to the other. She scarcely dared breathe in case he sensed her fear in the air, and enjoyed it.

A grab or a squeeze from the eldest brother, Matsu she could just about endure. It marked him a man devoid of honourable intentions, but still it was not unheard of behaviour. For a human being. Keket was another species utterly. A cold fish, some unblinking, unfeeling thing. …


As though he might sense that her mind was upon another man, Uhta’s immense fist hammered a wave of vast echoes the length of the ancient altar. Bowls laden with exotic fruits discarded their wares, like small mountains wracked by avalanches. Hastening to harvest those which tumbled close to hand, she added to the mound which buried his plate. She was as much a toy or an amusement to the great giant who saw her not as an equal, or even a thing he ought to consider, save as how she might best please him. The notion of feeding the great titan baby, hand to mouth, might have been degrading. Except that so long as she stayed close to Uhta, she was safe. From the rest of them.


“You don’t really believe, do you, that the more food you fetch up from the table for him, the more chance he’ll leave more scraps for you upon his plate ?” Matsu managed to find mirth in what she had hoped was a subtle hope, and duly destroyed her dreams. “Should know by now, girly,” the eldest Halsad son emptied his many-times dented chalice, and waved it about until his mother threw a new bottle of blood red elixir for him to catch. He did, with his spare hand, and a smug ruffle of one eyebrow. “There ain’t a pile of food as can defeat Uhta !” he finished, knowingly. To which claim, Uhta himself raised his spent platter over his head, triumphantly.


The riot of a family breakfast was quashed by the arrival of Pharak. Patriach, husband, father, and Blood Priest. He bore the sort of face which made all onlookers fall silent in great awe, for all of the wrong reasons. And he held himself with the same dignity and presence which made all onlookers grow discomfort in no time at all. She did not dare even to look up from the floor and find him.



“Matsu you shall not be going to Lond Daer” The Burned Man descended unto the soiled cushion of his seat as though it were a mighty throne and he a king. All his family looked to him for his word to take as law. And he set out the law they would follow. “You shall mind Captain Sarabeth Gameela in the taking of the Wethrin Isles," he elaborated. "Since she has solicited an alliance with the Mole King, our craft shall be able to navigate the West Coast without interference.”

Matsu ran a finger around the rim of his plate, and planted it firmly into his mouth, smacking his lips happily. Until his father mentioned the Mole King. Up until that point, he had been making clear with his expression quite how glad he was to be paired with the alluring but ferocious Sarabeth. Still he knew better to dictate to his father any disapproval of the plan. At least not to Pharak’s ruined face.


“What of the Elves in Lindon ? I hear there is yet a pocket of power about their harbours ..” Jenahda had never been shy of making her voice heard. It was a fact which her husband rarely disapproved of, since it allowed him to demonstrate his cunning. That he had already composed answers to the questions he knew she would ask.


“They are few and ill prepared to match our force," The Umbarian declared, as though assured of the fact by some means none here knew. "Kfir is already about the region of Bree, to hit hard their logging industry and remind the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains close by why they ought stand hostile against their sharp-eared neighbours. By the time our landings on the archipelago are noted, we shall be too deeply settled to uproot. Uhta, you will draw the eyes and ears of Rangers and Elves in the East of Eriador .. keep their minds fixed on matters southward. Take the Tharbad Crossing, hold that harbour. If you are able, draw what strength they may have cloistered away into your nest, and crush it when it reveals itself. There may be a clutch of folk who cloister themselves away in Rivendell also, but this time a siege shall swarm them. When Angmar ignites in the North, and the Orcs march out under the great Shadow from their Mountain holes in the Eastern wall, the fool rebels shall find themselves surrounded.

This time, no help shall come to them by sea. The sea is ours.”



Uhta brought his glinting metal plate to rest back on the table and tipped up his drinking glass, that the girl took his hint. She held her eyes on the table, steady, as she poured the rum … and wondered yet again at the Man’s strong stomach.

“You have three sons, Father,”


So intent was the girl about her task (that being eavesdropping), and all else there so fixed in thought of their given instructions, they without exception startled to recall Keket. Now as he spoke up, declaring himself, all awaited for the Blood Priest's judgement.

Pharak carried sentence without ever needing to shape the words. Ignoring his middle child, he arose with stately poise from his seat, and held forth a crooked arm which his wife linked and proudly supported him in leaving the room. Neither of them looked back. Immediately that the enchantment seemed lifted, Matsu embarked on a grim imagining of his time to be spent with Sarabeth Gameela. Uhta glanced toward his ‘Mouse’ and frowned to see the sorrow about her sea-grey eyes.


“No crying,” he suggested, and she closed her eyes for fear they should else disobey him. “You will not be alone long enough to forget Uhta” he promised.


But when she dared open her eyes again, her keeper was gone. And it was the fixed and unblinking stare of Keket which had struck the girl unto some abject terror. That she would be staying in the house, and so would he. And he was not at all happy. And there would be none to protect her …. nor distract him ...

She could only hope against all hopes that he might find some project to keep him occupied ..

@Pele Alarion

[Baphởmet]

Luna Malefica
The Ossuary Guild Headquarters
(Private)

Duathion the Bitter Shadow and his charge Gîzan had been waiting for hours. The Lady of House Belnîn had received a summons at the behest of the Ossuary Guild in the predawn hours. It had been delivered by some pale squamous fellow with eyes that bulged like a fish. He had thought to dismiss the summons, the Ossuary Guild had poor representation in the Senate, it would not behoove them to be seen with such a lowly union of workers. Gravediggers, groundskeepers, and hangmen. It was not the kind of association that the House of Belnîn needed. Yet the Lady was insistent. They were a new house, poor, and unremarkable. Alliances would not come easy. Any additional voices they could muster would help them rise against the power of the three houses that dominated Umbarian politics. And so, the Lady of House Belnîn had decided to pay them a visit, with her ever loyal uruk bodyguard and counsellor in tow. They had set out from their home in the early morning hours, the sun was still wash of grey light, the streetlights were still burning with protean flames. The mists had crawled in from the harbor like cadaverous fingers try to clutch at them. The cold was heavy and empty around them. The sounds of the city were muted and far away. Duathion did not like where they were going. The Ossuary Guild’s Headquarters were in a very dangerous part of the city. It was not the gangs and lowlifes and cutpurses that made it dangerous, the uruk could easily deal with the likes of them, nor was it the hags, hedge wizards, or shadowmancers, again he was confident he could deal with them with the end of his blade, it was the structure of the city itself. Most of the quarter had been abandoned, shops, inns, and homes had been vacated for better, more choice locations. The buildings were cracked and crumbling, the boardwalks were rotting and falling into the sea, and the entire slope of the district seemed to be ready to slide off into the ocean. There was no telling when some decrepit edifice was going to crumble and collapse. This had all the earmarks of a trap. Yet he dared not disobey.

And so they waited. And waited. And waited. Each moment felt to Duathion like a moment closer to their doom and the doom of their House. He heard the hourly bells and heard the death knells of the dynasty he’d worked for decades to build. He stood close to her, the feeling of her aura next to his was the only thing keeping him calm. It was cold in here, colder than it should have been. There was some fell magic at work here. He could smell something off about the place. The room they had been left in was massive, but lit only with a single torch. The light did not extend far, but he could see shapes in the darkness, statues or columns maybe, it was impossible to tell. The walls of the room were deceptively high, they seemed to stretch on into the darkness far higher than the building’s outside might suggest. His fingers itched, he put his hand on the hilt of his blade. Her hand went to his, small and delicate in comparison. “Patience, my Bitter Shadow.” Her voice echoed in a thousand different directions, but each echo was smooth as silk and as rich as chocolate.

“My Lady,” he began, but her finger touched his lip.

“To the outside world, you must obey my every command. Without question.” Her voice was firm. His shoulders sagged for a moment. He hated the outside world and the parts he had to play to satisfy the reasons for his existence. Nominally, all the people of Umbar were loyal to the Shadow, but that never stopped some from trying to gain some advantage over others. One faction played off against the others, alliances, betrayals, plots, and schemes. It was distasteful. Yet for her, he would play the role he must. At least when the outside world was creeping in.

“Lay me to rot in unhallowed ground.”

The sound came from no particular direction. It was a voice, but it was unlike any voice the uruk had ever heard. It was more akin to the howling and speaking of wargs. He drew his blade. Command or no, he was not going to let his Lady by slaughtered by something out of the darkness.

“May the vivisepulture find strife; send unholy angels to despoil this grave. Leave me to worms who might sup on my cadaver; purge my corpse of its eternal consumption.”

“Show yourselves!” The words were coming form all around, still sourceless. He growled and bared his teeth, an animalistic, feral display of warning. The torch light flickered.

Whispers followed the voice, or voices, whispers so vast and varied that he reasoned there most be hundreds of inside this room. He couldn’t make out a single word. He could feel them closing in, grasping hands in the darkness. The sword swung and missed, swung again and found naught but void and empty air. “Show yourselves!” He stood at the edge of the light between the voices and his Lady. There was a nauseating sound in the distance, something metallic, rusted. He could see the outline of something, of someone maybe, in the fading light. The whispers increased. There was no end to them. They were all around, some even felt as if they were coming from his own mouth.

“My Lady,” he said, desperately turning to face her, “Get out of here. Get out of here!”

But she wasn’t there. No one was there. He was alone. The torchlight flickered.

Then something loathsome and gibbering crept out of the shadows and into the pallid light. It was human. Or at least wore the shape of something human. It looked at him, eyes droopy and rheumy, teeth cracked and yellowed. “Welcome… my friends, to the Ossuary Guild.” The voice was fluid and phlegmy, as if it were about to vomit forth a flood of milky seawater.

“Where did you take her?” He grabbed the thing by the collar and lifted it up off the ground. “Where is my Lady?”

“Duathion,” a voice like honey and fire. “I’m behind you, my Bitter Shadow, always behind you.”

He looked and there she was again, raven tresses, dark eyes, blood red lips, and pale skin. He dropped the messenger who broke into a fit of coughing and giggling. “This way, you have passed the first test. The masters… the masters are eager to meet with you.”

Before the uruk could respond, the creature skuttled into the darkness like a beetle.

“Bring the torch,” it said, the voice fading in the gloom. “You will need it where you are going.”

[Ercassie]

The Astronomer's Daughter – Part 3
In the House of Halsad

The sun had crawled into it's grave and so night fell across all Umbar, brandishing a chill that made folk miss the stifled heat of day. The girl laboured up the ancient staircase, expectant for the relief of rest, a thing brought about by the long hours of hard toil. Lost years of indulging in fine silks back in Dol Amroth, and exchanging pleasantries with friends, contemplating on husbands, fortunes, futures …. such were no longer things which she missed but rather things that shamed her. For all of the preparation, the priming of manners and the lessons in the art of entertaining, years of fluency in music, .. what had been the point of any of it ? Faced with keeping a house clean and people fed, she truly was the drudge they assumed her, for she was about as useless as a soiled doily. Without Uhta to make her his plaything, she was beckoned by every mouth in the house which could demand something of her. There was no let up. There was no pride in managing to scrub a floor well, for she had not been schooled in such arts until lately, and her amateurish efforts showed, insisting for errands to be done and re-done, until they were done to exhaustion.

By now she harboured vague delusions that she missed the titan man who had made her his pet. To have seen his great round face at the head of the stairs, summon her to snuggle in warm beside him, where no one would dare disturb her … mayhaps it was only the rest and peace he awarded her, that she now yearned for. Finding the corridor at the height of the staircase, she grasped the door handle in her hand, so cold that she drew back startled from the touch. And then fretted that the large chamber within would prove no warmer. Without the bear who hibernated there. Still, at last she would have peace, privacy, and for once, no great lump to suffocate her with his attention.


If the door would only open. But it seemed that her last and meagre hope now was denied her. Collapsing like a bundle of fallen laundry, she unfolded into a seat by the surprise barrier. One hand turned the cold doorknob, again and again, as though she might make a plea to the lock. But when her despair bred a response, it was not the one she desired. Not at all.


"That is my brother's room. Not yours."

The bedroom across from Uhta's belonged to Keket. And his door, unlike Uhta's, stood ajar. Wearily the girl raised wary eyes to gauge her peril. The middle brother was sat crosslegged on his bed, elbows creased into his knees, chin roosting in the cradle of his hands. There was no light emanating from the man's lair, but what was cast by the moon that hovered in the window at his back. It was more than enough light to see the man's slow smile, some unspeakable crevice that split wide his cadaverous face, an abyss that who knew what might slither forth from. She swallowed, and her hand dropped to the floorboards as the man gave a suggestive pat of the bed beside him.

"I am your brother's …" there was not a word that she felt satisfied to conclude that sentence. There was naught else to make her point, save "not yours." she returned, in a voice that barely broached the distance between them. She was not sure if she hoped he heard her, or not.


Keket did not move, he did not speak. He simply stared. And as though things existed only when she observed them, she tucked her glance down to watch where one splitting nail rubbed the dark wood at her feet. She pulled herself closer, foetal, as though she could take up the least space possible, and be left alone. But he did not leave her be, and neither did he do or say a thing. He simply .. stayed.

Counting didn't help. The vast number that she spelt out in a silent dance across her lips became a game, as she left it longer and longer each time, between daring to look up. Every time, the same. He remained. He watched. And it was becoming apparent that she would find no solace this night. Not while his eyes bored through her like a sword. Ceaseless. A gentleman back home would never have dared so at a lady. But here … anywhere in fact that she might envisage they two, she would not know comfort for so long as he .. stared. At length, she was forced to move one leg, which had fallen to a numbness beneath her. Summoning all strength, she rose, a little wobbly at the first, from that numbed leg. But she managed a stride gingerly across the hallway, no more commandeering in her approach than a feather blustered about by a breeze. Reaching Keket's door, she put eyes finally upon him, as her hand forced the door to blind those same eyes of his unnerving sight. The wood stood between them now, a solid obstruction, and she sighed. A tiny emission, that in the silence and anticipation of her challenge seemed like an almighty fanfare of selfworth. Still ungainly, she hobbled back across the hallway, and slid her back down the locked door, as far as she could be away from the staring strange man.


The door on the opposite side of the hall yawned wide, skeletal fingers tapping a tune around the edge of the wood. Keket loomed around the door, the same way that smoke curls around buildings, swallowing their height. She was back on her knees on the floor by Uhta's door, eyes wide and evolving wider still as the man quietly, calmly, backtracked to his bed. He settled, and she shuddered. Would he really make her walk all the way back across and … what this continue all night ?

Failure in the first attempt slowed her enthusiasm in the second. Still, she pushed up with both hands pressed flat against the floor, and resumed her full height, such as it was. Each step felt as though a thousand leagues, as though she waded through quicksand. Still, she reached the door again, and he raised one eyebrow amused. She put hands upon the handle and made to remove herself from his cold gaze. Yet with the speed of a serpent Keket met her there at the doorway, one hand clasping tight around her pale wrist. One hand holding the cold steel of a small curved blade against her throat.


"I could peel you like an apple," he chose to regale her with such a notion. "A long, single, unspoilt stream of skin, curled away from your bones by the close shave of my blade."

"He will return," was the first and only threat in her arsenal. "And he will not be happy that you lay a hand on me."

"He will return," Keket agreed, flicking his head so that tendrils of his dark hair did not hide his amusement. "And when he does, he shall bring back with him a new toy, a delicious souvenir, of his latest escapade," the bored voice of experience outlined it's prophecy, dispassionate. "My brother likes to have pretty things about him. But you are no longer within reach, or memory .. Or did you think you were the first ? The only ?"


What could barely be defined a laugh hacked out of the Umbarian's scrawny throat. The girl knew better than to try and pull away from him. She went limp, and he took it as a betrayal of her broken hope.

"Uhta takes whatever he wishes, and Matsu takes whatever he can, to pay for whatever he wishes," the girl surprised them both by prolonging the conversation. "I have never yet observed Keket obtain a single thing that he wishes .."

The blade nicked her chin as the man withdrew his advance. He released the girl's arm and caressed his sharp knife in his second hand, thoughtfully. Turned aside and with some small space between them now, he did not appear to note the release of that breath she had been holding. "You had best pray that you never do, Gael" the Man chose to educate the woman, his own brand of elation emboldened by the terror in her face.

"How .. how do you know my name ?" she could not comprehend, nor keep herself from confirming the title; so simple a thing that it was. For none since she had been taken ever had put thought to ask her. She was 'Girl' or 'Mouse'. None here knew about 'Gael', the daughter, the lady, the girl who was of Dol Amroth. How much did they know of her, of who she'd been, of what .. of whom ..

"And all this time you have indulged such a selfish despair," he shook his head, brought the knife up to his lips and appeared to press it lovingly against the words which wounded, twice so well, as any injury the steel might incite. "Resolved to your fate, this life now yours with self pity your constant companion. For how could you now ever be accepted by your folk back home ? Even were you to against all odds make your way there. One day. Some day. Noone in Dol Amroth would believe that we, the dread ilk of their most horrific nightmares, had not done all the worst manner of things they could fear to such a lady of such fair .. breeding .. " He chuckled, in time to her panicked faint, and the girl clutched at her own throat now, to breathe.


"You know naught of me," she whispered, daring to believe it might be so, and finding the truth as sure as her own muted voice.

"It is you," he corrected, drawing back upon his bed now that he had her intrigue. She was released of his hold, unencumbered by the threat of his knife. Still though trapped by the most deadly weapon at his disposal. "You who truly knows naught, of what Keket truly wishes."


Her eyes closed then, opened, and found all conditions were not changed at all. Tears leapt then to action, though they would find here no such kind audience as might have been moved by their craft, back home. Keket revelled in the horror etched across the Gondorian's face. She shook her head, slow and stunned, as though she might deny the knowledge, erase that she knew in fact not half of what a sorry state of things she faced. Had it not been foul enough, the circumstance which she believed her own ? True, yes, she had wept at the understanding of how she was clearly 'lost' to Umbar. And she had pushed thoughts aside of how her doting father must be lonesome, and fret who would tend to him as the years hastened their relentless pace of time … But at least all that she loved and treasured were removed, or so she had believed, from any ill effect of her own unhappy affliction !


"O, prized daughter of Lord Heledir Estennin" Keket advertised his ace, and witnessed the girl flounder to her knees before him. "Fret not, for soon your devoted father shall have outlived all use we might think of him to attempt in your name." The Umbarian basked in the delight of the girl, cramming her hand into her jaw, to stifle the pangs of grief and woe that he had imposed on her. "I shall find myself removed of all reasons to prolong his miserable existence a moment longer, steeped so as he is in fretting what we may and shall do unto you unless he complies with whatsoever we ask." the proclamation began to wound down to it's grand conclusion. "Just as you shall find your own worth usurped by some other in the delight of my brother. You have never yet observed Keket obtain a single thing that he wishes ? Well soon all the seeds of my pending triumph shall come unto fruition !"


Quite what could be inferred by Keket's grandiose ambitions, it was not a thing he was yet willing to disclose with the girl. Thus, catching her up by the long trail of her unwashed hair, he cast Gael out of even the doorframe of his personal 'realm'. Awarding the former lady the same care and consideration as a sack of unwanted kittens destined for the bottom of a lake. She skidded across the floor she had polished herself some hours hence, and collided with the still locked door of absent Uhta. Keket's door now closed upon her, and whereas she might have longed for such a thing not long ago, now her sore head was lit by questions and concerns. Sobs did little to console the long, long stretch of time which would resurrect the dawn. Sobs did not remotely bother the deep, tranquil sleep of Keket Halsad. He who had much to look forward to.

[Baphởmet]

Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery
(Private with Tara)

Life without a husband suited Zôrzimril. Granted, it had only been a few months since her husband’s (less than) tragic drowning in the bay, but the weight off her shoulders, the lack of second guessing, the lack of a stinking rotten bastard curling up to her in bed, was life affirming. The first thing she’d done since becoming a widow? Throw a gala of course. Now that it was her home in both word and deed, she had every right to do whatever she damned well pleased here. Her husband had hated the trappings of society, but he would scarf up the benefits without complaint. Never afraid to (attempt to) manipulate his wife and son into doing his dirty work. He would have hated this gala. It was flashy (for Umbar) and it was opulent. It was a display of wealth that would have made him physically ill. The best part? She decided to throw it in his honor.

Her home was aglow with paper lanterns. The shades had been thrown up and the grey light of the sun spilled in. It had been so long since the Rookery had seen light. Her husband was a brooding fool, always insisting on keeping the house and dark and haunting as he could. It was a morbidly stupid idea, to go with his morbidly stupid sense of self. Everyone here was for her, not him. It was her, a scion of House Castamir that helped raise House Nûlukhô from the gutter. If he’d been in charge, they’d have lost their home and been out at the mercy of the street gangs.

This party was a shout of defiance and triumph. All hail Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, Matron of Crows!

She’d invited members from all the houses, great and small. Sure a few fights and scuffles would break out, a trade war might ignite, or a few heirs go missing or find themselves with the wrong child, but it was all under her auspices, all under her control. She would be cause of the strife or the fortune. She was the master of fates within these walls. And by the end of the evening, every damned person here was going to know that. She smiled. Everything was ready.

She wore a smoke colored dress that shimmered with hidden gems sewn throughout like a web, a corset of the same color with a white raven, rampant was embroidered on the front with rubies for the eyes. She wore a hairnet studded with deep purple amethysts, imports from the far east in anticipation of this event. She came to the head of the imperial staircase. Her escort was waiting for her was a hulking uruk nearly seven feet tall, dressed in a crimson jacket with bronze ravens embroidered all through out the pattern, with a matching kilt and crimson and bronze beret to set the whole outfit ablaze. He wore his massive falchion, nearly as tall he was, at his side, with a ceremonial scabbard and a tassel. He looked dashing, for an uruk. It was almost strange seeing a race known for savagery and bloodshed dressed up in the fine trappings of civilization. If he were not somewhat handsome, he would have looked more like besuited ape. Truth be told, Zôrzimril would have rather had her son escort her, but he left after his father’s demise on a trip down south. He was as headstrong as his father, but thankfully not as stupid.

“Are you ready, Rök?”

He cleared his throat and stood to attention. “Yes, ma’am. Awaiting your pleasure.”

She leaned in close and chided him. “Not so stiff now, you aren’t a bodyguard tonight, you’re my escort.”

He shuffled. “Yes ma’am.”

She sighed but cast a smile his way. That was as good as it was going to get with him. A servant behind them stepped forward, dressed in the livery of the house. He carried a small gong and rang it once at the top of the stairs. The masses of people below stopped and looked up. A shiver ran up Zôrzimril's spine. Finally, all eyes were on her. Everyone knew she was the power behind the house, now they would be forced to acknowledge it.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I require your attention.” He rang the gong again, quiet a few of the stragglers (she took note of those that had not been silenced by the first bell, she would think of an appropriate way to chastise them). “I give you, ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies of the noble houses of Umbar, Lady Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, the Matron of Crows and your hostess!” An applause broke out, a rippling wave of cheers and gratitude. She took it all in. Rök offered his arm and they descended the stairs to the adulation of her peers. She took the stairs slowly, as she was taught, and her escort followed suit, having been trained to make sure he would offer no faux pas. She waved and smiled and blew a kiss here and there until she reached the bottom. As soon as she stepped onto the marbled floor the string ensemble began to play and upbeat tune, a frenetic song with energy and movement.

She had arrived.

[Marceline]

Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery
(Private with Frost)

Sakalthôr held up his wife’s cloak and watched as she twirled into it, her skirts flaring for a fraction of a second and the rubies upon her ears and at her throat glinting in their bedroom’s firelight. She was a vision of elegance and beauty - that much he had known since he’d first come across her in his youth - but beneath the alluring sparkle and sheen, she was a woman of greater cunning than most men in Umbar would ever dare credit her for. Sakalthôr saw all this and more as she turned toward him, fastening the clasp at her neck.

“What do you think?” Zimraphêl asked him, grinning mischievously. She swept a hand from her shoulder toward her toes in a gesture of presentation. He followed the motion and took in the crimson satin dress which clung to her every curve. The firelight dancing upon the material’s luster served only to accentuate them, making them appear as though they were aflame. He tried - only just - to conceal his basest thoughts.

“You are lovelier than I ever could have dreamed,” he murmured. “That ball gown is but an afterthought when compared with your considerable charms.”

She smiled. Sakalthôr was skilled in the art of flattery and she knew what he was thinking, but she relished the compliments all the same. They were one of the best things he brought to their partnership. His was a lesser house than hers, and so he had adopted her surname when they wed: Azgarâbêl. With this, he had assumed a subordinate position to her in the ever-changing scheme of political life in Umbar. Where some men might chafe under such circumstances, Sakalthôr had never been particularly ambitious. He luxuriated in the pleasures which Zimraphêl and her status afforded him, and most of all, he enjoyed building her up. What was a shining star without the dark sky behind it to serve as a contrast, after all? That was his role, and he performed it dutifully and well.

There came a knock at the great wooden doors of their chamber.

“Enter,” Zimraphêl called. She glanced in the mirror one last time as the servant cracked open the door and spoke softly.

“Your transport is outside, my lady.” The young boy bowed and left, dismissed by a wave of her hand.

Zimraphêl turned and picked up a small bag from her dressing table, whose strap she wound around her wrist. “Well then, my darling,” she said. “Shall we?” Without awaiting an answer, she swept first from the room. Sakalthôr followed close in her wake, hands clasped behind his back.

The ride through the streets of Umbar was long, circuitous, and unfamiliar to them both. They had attended balls and masques in the past, but never before had they been invited to this particular corner of the city. The place to which they were bound, called simply “The Rookery” on the invitation, was perched comfortably a world away from the riffraff in the Warrens and so far from the docks that the smells wafting from the wet market would never, even on the windiest day, reach it. This was true class, true style: to live above and away from the noise and clamor and stench of it all, descending amongst the people only when need be - and even then having the luxury to send servants in one’s place. Zimraphêl watched the city slide by through the window at her side. She saw it all: shops and houses and inns - some with dark, empty windows and others aglow with warm lamplight. She didn’t bother looking into the alleys. There was no world in which she saw herself having to descend quite that far.

The long years of her mother’s strict instruction all made sense when she looked at Umbar from this perspective. This is what it all is for, she thought. To have access to this. One might say that House Azgarâbêl had come by whatever power and influence it had by cheap means, but Zimraphêl understood that there was more to seduction than a pretty face. There was trust to be built, flattery to be indulged, and the great intellectual challenge of making meaning of information when faced with the tangled web of politics within this slick, unscrupulous city. What she did was far from easy and far from cheap. She had paid with her innocence, as would any daughters she might one day bear.

The carriage rounded a corner and both husband and wife inhaled sharply. The house before them was strung with bright lanterns, and a small throng of people lined the steps, awaiting entry. The driver jumped down to open the doors for them and they stepped out into the world of House Nûlukhô. Both Nûlukhô and Azgarâbêl were historically connected to House Castamir, Zimraphêl understood, the former through the wife of its late lord. She smiled up at the grand house. It seemed the women were doing all the work these days.

Sakalthôr slid his arm about his wife’s waist, and together they entered the vast house. A buzzing hum of idle conversation met their ears, as did the clinking of glasses and sudden bursts of laughter. It was a rich, merry sight. Zimraphêl heard her heels clicking as she walked and, looking down, found herself entranced by the house’s shining marble floors. Sakalthôr, however, kept his head up. They passed a drawing room and a small library, each outfitted with luxurious furniture. Outside the library, Sakalthôr balked. Within the room, he saw a man slipping something into his breast pocket and looking shiftily over his shoulder. Another man stood just inside the door facing the hallway. Seeing Sakalthôr watching them, the man on guard snapped the door shut. Sakalthôr frowned but followed his wife through to the foot of a grand staircase.

Once they had crowded in among the gathered attendees, they plucked bubbling drinks from a passing tray. No sooner had they taken their first sips of the sparkling wine than a gong was struck, its reverberations amplified by the marble floors. The pair gazed up as the matron of House Nûlukhô, Zôrzimril, descended the stairs to join her guests. When the music started up, Sakalthôr leaned in and whispered, “My love, I know how you like to catalog information.” Zimraphêl turned to look at him, an eyebrow arched. “And I think I’ve just seen something that may be of interest to you.”

He began to lead her aside, searching for a powder room or a more private hallway in which to speak. As they went, he himself looked about rather furtively. He knew his wife would wish to dance and mingle, but for the moment he only hoped they might slip off unnoticed.

[Baphởmet]

Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery
(Private with Tara)

“You are too kind, Lady Matane,” Zôrzimril said with a perfectly manicured smile touching the younger woman’s shoulder with a light hand. “Young ‘Zagar off on another of his trips. Something about finding a hidden city in the jungles of Far Harad.” She could feel Rök stiffen ever so slightly. He was not best pleased about having been left behind, no first mate would, but she had more power over things than her son.

“Far Harad?” Lady Matane sounded against, even drawing back and placing a hand over her heart. Zôrzimril could have smacked her, the insolent brat. “I do hope he returns safely. I worry so about our young lords going so far afield in these darkening days. We ought to stay closer to our lands.”

The Matron of Crows didn’t strangle the woman. “I never took you for a member of the isolationist faction. House Inzilazûl has long been an ally of House Castamir in pursuing an expansion agenda.”

“Oh…” the woman faltered, her grey eyes frantic, “I think I only meant that… I just…”

“You worry after my son?” Zôrzimril asked, the edges of her lips twisted into a predatory grin.

“Well, I worry after all our sons,” she countered.

“Aye,” she nodded and passed a look to her uruk escort, who merely sighed. “How old is your son now? Nine, right? It’s almost time for him to take up an apprenticeship. Has Yorgo been able to find him a suitable place?”

The knife found a mark. “No,” she admitted, “my husband has been trying to get him a role in the office of Senator Belzagar, but he hasn’t heard back yet.”

She smiled inwardly. Hasn’t heard back yet meant the bribe wasn’t big enough. Nothing would be suitable now, and the money was already gone. Yorgo, the head of the House was nearly as useless as her late husband; he was a poor wealth manager and his patronages were growing slimmer by the day. Zôrzimril herself had stolen two this very morning, one a ship caulker and the other a clerk, lower-rung to be sure, but every little bit helped in the end. “I’m so sorry to hear that, darling. Well, Senator Belzagar would be lucky to have your son as one of his aids. If he refuses, more the fool him. When my son comes back to port, I shall talk with him. Mayhaps he can offer your son a position on his vessel?” Blessedly, Rök did not laugh; Zôrzimril was happy for that.

Lady Matane looked aghast. “Oh…” was all she said after a moment, a surprised and subdued tone. “I wouldn’t want to trouble your… your son with such a silly request.”

“Nonsense! He’ll learn more about politics in a single year with my ‘Zagar than he ever would with that oaf of a senator. And,” she paused dramatically and touched the young noble’s cheek, “that would mean he would be able to more readily assist you with anything at home…” she let the insinuation drop. “And it would also lead to a regular correspondence between you two. You are still a prodigious letter writer, are you not?”

Lady Matane blushed crimson and bit her lip. Ha! Got you, you little harpy!

“Oh, oh I don’t know. I’m sure a yeoman position on the Grand Conjuration is much sought after… I… I…” she stammered into silence, her moony eyes fixed in the direction of Far Harad, then across the room to where her husband was talking with a few of the lesser nobles. She bit her lip again. “I must speak, uh, to my husband, Lady Zôrzimril. Oh, that is so kind of you. I… what would you need in return for such a favor?”

“That’s quite simple,” the Matron of Crows said with skilled indifference and coyness, “your support for an expansionist agenda. If you and your husband were to take my side when I make my appearance at the Halls in a week, I would consider the debt repaid.”

There was a lustful twinkle in Lady Matane’s eyes that had nothing to do with her husband. “I shall convince him then you will have the full support of House Inzilazûl. You have my word.”

And your thighs, it would seem.

The lady moved on to greet and mingle with other guests.

“Are you sure he’ll go for that?” Rök’s voice was thunderously deep.

Watching the crowd for her next conversation, Zôrzimril chuckled. “He always needs yeoman. And you know as well as I do through him, I can control everything that that House does from now until he kills the husband in a duel over her.”

“You intend to marry him off to that house?” Rök asked, genuinely sounding shocked.

She scoffed. “Are you kidding? That House dies with Yorgo. Lady Matane can pine after my son all she wants; she’ll join a troupe of women around the world.”

“And if he finds out you planned the whole thing?”

“Can’t a mother give her son a few nice things every once in a while?” She asked demurely. “It’s not like he’s going to marry anyone anytime soon and,” she lowered her tone considerably, “you know how close I am to achieving a certain goal. I won’t need him to take over the House for a long time, if ever.”

Rök nodded. “I assume you will be traveling back east soon? Shall I accompany you?”

“Do you want to?” taken off guard, she looked up at him. Rök was not one to mingle with the nimir unless he had to, let alone those she was going to see. “Won’t you miss the sea?”

He nodded again. “I would, but I am ever your humble servant.”

“You are as humble as you are peaceful.”

They both laughed.

“Alright, who are we going to speak to next?” she asked, taking a flute of sparkling wine from a white-clad host.

“I believe you mentioned House Azgarâbêl earlier today? I thought I saw them enter earlier.”

She finished the sparkling wine and nodded, giving the uruk her arm. “Then let’s see if we can find them. Shall we, my Phazgân Uruk?”

[Marceline]

Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery
(Private with Frost)

“Darling, the music’s just started,” Zimraphêl protested. Her husband gave her a serious, knowing look, and jerked his head in the direction of a quiet little alcove off to the side of the grand room, where he had just seen an available plush settee. Zimraphêl scowled but, with a regretful glance at the crowd gathered around their hostess, followed him toward the little spot.

Sakalthôr sat down on the crushed velvet couch and leaned back, crossing his legs luxuriously. He found it quite comfortable: well-stuffed, but still soft. He ran a hand along the arm of the thing, admiring the pile’s silky feel. He brought his hand back up the arm, and gazed transfixed at the dark trail it left as it traveled against the fabric’s natural nap. He sipped at his wine and gazed around the room, searching for familiar faces. He saw few enough, and both the faces he’d seen looking so guilty were absent. But what he saw of House Nûlukhô from the inside impressed him: the house was short on little in the way of luxury.

Zimraphêl had seated herself on the settee as well, but she had chosen not to sprawl out quite so comfortably at such an early hour. Instead, she perched primly on the edge of the seat and, over the rim of her glass, considered her husband. It was not like him to draw her off from a crowd, especially one populated by so many people who might be used to their advantage. He was as skillful at identifying men carrying secrets as she was at extracting the information from them. Each had their part to play, but her house and her role in their partnership carried more weight.

“So, what is it? Has something spooked my dashing husband into mouselike shyness?” she teased, lowering her glass and giving his ankle a gentle kick with the toe of a delicate shoe. “Or have you lost your nerve in the presence of the great lady of House Nûlukhô?” She smiled wryly.

“I saw something,” he murmured, sitting up and leaning toward her conspiratorially. He drained his glass but did not set it down. “I suspect that there might be some, ah, uninvited guests here tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, suddenly curious. So he wasn’t just being dramatic, after all. Zimraphêl craned her neck to scan the crowd.

“You won’t find them out here, my dear,” he told her. He transferred his glass to his left hand and took her right hand in his, then proceeded to idly spin the gold ring she habitually wore on the third finger of that hand. The sizable diamond set in the ring spun round and round; in better light, it would have sent sparks of reflected sunlight scattering across the walls. He had seen no trace of the two men from the library in this grand room, and given the horde of admirers still crammed into the halls awaiting entrance to the party, he suspected that they would not be making an appearance anytime soon. “They’re ensconced in the library, unless there’s a secret passageway that will lead them out. I think they were stealing something.”

“My, my,” Zimraphêl said with mock disapproval. “How rude of them, to betray their hostess’s trust like that!” He laughed and she winked and went on, “Ironic as that may be, I wouldn’t dare steal from the lady of this house. I’ve heard it said that her husband did not perish by accident, and you know where she is positioned. Well, darling, it seems you’ve done my job for me tonight. What shall we do with this information you’ve come by?”

“If you still seek favor in the upper spheres of Umbar, I say we use it. Here she comes now.”

Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, an impressive woman in a smoky, bejeweled dress, was floating toward them through the crowd of guests, who all inclined their heads out of respect - some even bowed obsequiously to her. Even without the finery, she would have radiated an imposing elegance. She cut through the crowd easily enough thanks, in part, to the monstrous uruk accompanying her. Sakalthôr, who stood above Zimraphêl by several inches, would no doubt look almost like a child standing next to him. Husband and wife rose and raised their glasses - one still half-full, the other empty - to Zôrzimril in greeting.

[Marceline]

Obsidian
Many Years Ago, The Ivory Moon
(Private)

Lôminzil exited the unnamed tavern and made her way through the winding streets surrounding the market. She moved aimlessly, turning to walk along several random alleys at first to guard against the possibility that the thief had mustered up the strength to follow her. Still, she took care to skirt around the market entrances to avoid the urchins who, awaiting the emergence of the shopkeepers, hung about each evening. Those children were bold and, in Lôminzil’s opinion, overindulged by the citizens of Umbar. “Put them to work,” she always said. “Give them a task to do for some coin or a meal. Take them on and train them as apprentices. Make them work for what they want.” She’d certainly had to. Instead, the little beggars seemed to survive off pitying looks and a scrap of unsold meat here, a stale day-old loaf of bread there. By the time Lôminzil left the tavern, the shopkeepers had indeed begun to emerge, exhausted from the day’s labors, heavy stall keys clanking on their hips. A few shouted and swatted at the children, but several others paused to toss them their unsold, useless goods as she had known they would.

She shook her head and continued along familiar routes until she reached The Ivory Moon. Its arched door, thick and reinforced with iron bars, could not entirely contain the raucous sounds of the crowd within - even when shut soundly against the night. When Lôminzil entered the tavern, the shouts and chatter of men and women crashed over her like a wave. She withstood the roar and moved through the crowd to find her usual seat at the end of the bar nearest the back wall. A man and a woman with identical smiles - they were, after all, brother and sister - served drinks, and the barmaid winked at Lôminzil even as she pushed four foaming mugs of ale toward a group of waiting patrons. As soon as she’d tucked their coin into her apron, she made her way to Lôminzil and began pouring out another mug of ale.

“Here to see him?” She slid the drink across the bar and into Lôminzil’s waiting hands.

“Mmmm,” Lôminzil confirmed as she drank deeply from the tankard.

“Well, drink up, then,” said the barmaid. She glanced once around the crowded room with deep brown eyes lined with exhaustion and, in this case, a bit of mild concern. “He’s been waiting. One of those guards has been up here asking after you at least twice already.”

Lôminzil’s eyes went wide for a fleeting instant. She drank down the rest of her ale in two massive gulps, then hopped off her chair and slid sideways behind the bar through a narrow gap between the counter and the wall. “Thanks, Azrâ,” she said, passing the barmaid enough coin to cover both her drink and the tipoff. She pulled open the door which stood between the counter and the side wall lined with drinks; then, she stepped sure-footed onto the top of a long flight of stairs. The first time she had come through this door, she’d felt her stomach drop as her foot fell through the air before landing on that step. She had nearly tumbled her way into a broken neck in Nîlû’s lair then, but she knew better now.

The door shut behind her - no doubt Azrâ needed to reclaim the space taken up by the open door - and the sounds of the crowd instantly dropped to a murmur in the background. As she adjusted to the relative quiet on her descent into the basement, she heard three low voices speaking quickly. Lôminzil made sure to step heavily onto the creakiest parts of the stairs, just in case the people below did not want to be overheard. Such consideration had earned her much favor with Nîlû.

She turned left at the base of the stairs and entered his lair. It was a sumptuous space, for a basement: all the furniture was of rich, imported mahogany; a great carpet stretched across most of the floor, lending warmth to the underground space. The man for whom the pub was named sat behind a desk upon a massive chair, his long legs crossed and one booted foot tapping out an unknown rhythm in midair. The highly polished wood of the furniture gleamed in the light flickering in the hearth and the candles scattered across every surface. His clothing matched the richness of the wood in quality, but it was his hair and eyes which drew gazes whenever he entered a room. He was not even middle-aged by Númenórean standards, but his deep black hair had faded to white several years prior - well before Lôminzil had entered his circles. His amber eyes shone like firelight, though with a keen intelligence which no flame could claim. Those eyes fell upon her as she walked into the midst of the great room, and he smiled. The voices she’d heard earlier, which belonged to the three people seated around a large table in a corner, fell silent. She knew each of their faces from the marketplace, of course: two bodyguards and the man with a grey streak in his hair.

“Lôminzil,” Nîlû wasted no time on formalities. “I’d just begun wondering if you were ever going to turn up.” His eyes ran over her, searching out her intentions as well as her curves. Maddeningly accustomed as she was to the latter, the former was unsettling. Had he ever looked at her with anything resembling doubt before? The answer was, obviously, no. She had long been a trusted, invaluable cog in the machinery of his operations here. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “I believe you know my guests?” She nodded, and he grinned again. “They’ve been waiting for you, too. Waiting and hoping you would return with the goods, as promised.”

“I apologize for the delay,” she said calmly. One of the large men at the table looked up at her with renewed interest at the sound of her voice. She had that effect sometimes.

Lôminzil withdrew the slim package from her bag and ran her thumb over the wax seal, just as she’d seen the thief do earlier. To the grey-streaked man, she said, “I have your package here.” She set the parcel delicately upon Nîlû’s desk, then stepped back a respectable distance to convey her indifference toward the valuables with which she had just parted.

“And the thief?”

Lôminzil gazed directly into Nîlû’s strange, amber eyes. “She’s been dealt with.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together, all skepticism forgotten. “I think that calls for a toast, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?”

The men at the table were less enthusiastic about this proposition than her employer, but they acquiesced all the same. Nîlû poured two fingers of whiskey into pristine glasses for each of them, even her, and returned to his massive chair. He raised his glass to his client.

“To the safe recovery of your jewels - and the elimination of that particular threat to my enterprise. Well done, Lômi.”

Lôminzil grimaced into her glass. The whiskey burned her throat, but it was still easier to swallow than Nîlû’s unwanted flirtations. She tolerated them because he paid better for her work than anyone else, but she was quite certain there would come a day when she didn’t need him. She would tell him how she really felt when that day came.

Nîlû and the bodyguards made idle conversation about the state of Umbar’s criminal networks, and Lôminzil listened with only the mildest of interest. The grey-streaked man remained silent and still, moving stiffly to lift his glass to his lips every now and then. Once Lôminzil had swallowed the last of her whiskey, she set her glass down upon Nîlû’s desk and begged them to excuse her. They waved her off with another toast and a chorus of thanks, and she ascended the stairs into the noise of the Ivory Moon’s common room. She waved to Azrâ on her way out and, once she had emerged into the cool, quiet night, she took several deep breaths and made for home.

* * *

Nîlû drained his glass and strode to the bottle sitting upon his desk. “Another round, gentlemen?” he asked loudly, elated by the success of his chief alchemist. In addition to her skills with potions and concoctions, she was proving to be quite the clever schemer - it had been her idea to put a tail on the thief, rather than letting the bodyguards do all the dirty work. It would’ve looked strange, she had argued, for a giant man to slash a pretty girl’s throat or to snap her neck in the middle of the marketplace. Stranger things had happened in Umbar, to be sure, but Nîlû didn’t want to draw attention to the operation and cause a scene. Lôminzil had guessed that this thief, connected as she was, might have some guards of her own in the crowd, and convinced him to go the route of a quiet death by poison.

“No, I think not,” said the man with the grey streak in his hair.

“Ahh, Minlubên - surely two glasses of whiskey won’t do you in?” he protested.

“They won’t,” said the man, “but there is only so much celebrating one can do. You and your pretty assassin have merely cut off one arm of the kraken. And an anonymous arm, at that. My guess is that the head doesn’t even know who she was. Do you?”

“Just another rising-star thief out of the Warrens. She was good, I’ll admit that. But why does it matter? She’s dead now. I’ve seen the stuff Lôminzil uses on people like her. It isn’t pretty.”

“Mmmm.” Minlubên brought the tips of his fingers together before his face and considered Nîlû over them. Did this criminal, well-connected and successful as he was, not know the history of the Houses? Did he not know that it was in this particular thief’s very blood to manipulate and steal from the men who dictated life in the city? Sometimes, Minlubên thought, it was a wonder that the city functioned at all, the way they all let their collective memories slide. Still, he said nothing. He would keep and use that bit of information when it suited him - and just now, with a half-drunk crime lord pushing another glass of whiskey at him, was not the moment.

Minlubên finally relented and set the glass on the table without touching its contents. He exchanged meaningful looks with each of his bodyguards, and the three of them rose as one.

“I thank you, Nîlû, for your collaboration in this matter,” Minlubên said. He and the guards walked toward the stairs, and he slid the thin package from the desk into his jacket pocket as they went. In payment, he left behind a fat bag of gold. “You and that - ah, Lôminzil, was that her name? You both have done very well. We may look to you for your services again.”

This was high praise from a man like Minlubên. Nîlû bent his neck to demonstrate his gratitude.

The three men ascended the stairs and reentered the tavern above with a sudden influx of noise, which died down just as soon as the door snapped shut. Nîlû sat himself upon his heavy mahogany chair. Sometimes, he liked to imagine it as a great carven throne. In this fantasy, his fingers were bedecked with gold rings and all the jobs in the city ran through him and his people. He had one such ring already - a signet upon his left little finger. The bag of gold before him would put him well on his way to another, even after he’d paid Lôminzil for her trouble.

Another burst of chatter from the tavern alerted him to incoming company. He swept the bag of gold into a drawer and shut it just as two pairs of feet came stomping down the stairs.

“Azrâ!” he exclaimed, straightening and smoothing his hair at the sight of the barmaid. He wouldn’t touch her now with her brother still upstairs, but they had exchanged more than a few passionate kisses after hours in this room.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said breathlessly. She had clearly rushed down here before the young man who trailed behind her. “This lad wants a word. I didn’t know you were expecting anyone after Lôminzil, though, so I thought it’d be best if I came down with him.”

She was a clever woman. Nîlû might be indulgent with certain women who worked for him, but an unannounced intrusion was likely to spin him into a rage. He had dispensed with his second-best thief only last year because the man showed up without warning to demand more work on one too many occasions. Now, no one would ever hire him. Azrâ had seen all this transpire.

“You must be quite convincing, to have Azrâ vouching for you,” Nîlû said with a sneer, looking at the young man. He was slender and dark and wore an apron around his waist, just as Azrâ and her brother did. “I’m afraid I’m not hiring - as you can see, we’re all set on bar staff. But what’s your name? Perhaps we’ll let you know in future.” He feigned politeness but he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

Azrâ stepped aside as the man moved forward to speak with her employer.

“I’m Tolog. But it’s not a job I’m after, sir,” said the young man. He twisted a corner of his apron in both hands, betraying his nerves. “And I don’t like to cause trouble. But I just come over from the bar where I work. That is, the bar where Lôminzil had her job. Most don’t know it’s got a name, but we just call it the Cloak.” He was rambling now. Nîlû raised his eyebrows and drummed his fingers impatiently upon his desk. “Sorry. She hired me on to help her, y’see. Told me I’d be helping out Nîlû - and you’re a legend. How could I say no? I was meant to put the poison in whatever drink that young thief asked for. The one with the dark hair.”

“Go on,” Nîlû commanded, for Tolog had paused to swallow his anxiety.

“Well, I did like Lôminzil asked. Put the poison in the girl’s wine and all. She even drunk it. I was s’posed to stand outside and make sure nobody else came in ‘til Lôminzil had done her bit. When she left, I was s’posed to deal with the body. Only I went back in and there was no body there at all.”

“What?”

“It’s like I said. I don’t know if she moved it herself or what, but there was no body. And I had my orders but couldn’t do ‘em, so I figured I’d tell you that something didn’t go to plan.”

Nîlû saw a dozen possible scenarios play out in his mind’s eye. Many of them - far too many - ended with the thief walking out of that tavern of her own volition. His right hand balled into a fist, and he rose to his full height. He towered over Tolog by more than a head.

“You’ve done well to tell me this, Tolog. Perhaps I will hire you on, after all.”

[Baphởmet]

Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery
(Private with Tara)

Umbarean fashion was, in a word, bland. Zôrzimril had had to find her dress within the Easterling quarter of the city. Númenórean fashion, despite the great heights it had achieved on their lost home, had stagnated. Pride or lack of imagination, she was not sure which, likely it was both. Dressmakers, tailors, and cobblers alike had not deviated from the proscribed style since she was a child, and likely longer than that. She tried not to think of it as endemic of the entire culture of Umbar but looking at all the dresses and suits that looked like they were all made by the same tired, bored, weak hands did not do much to assuage her misgivings. These people here were the best and brightest and most powerful in Umbar, and they all looked as though they got dressed in the dark. There was no flair, nothing dramatic, nothing… She paused and smiled as the two standing separate from the rest of the crowd. They looked as though they had some sense of propriety and imagination. They were quite a handsome couple, she noted; if her proclivities were anything similar to her son’s she might have invited them to a more private fête. As it was, she was not, she had a far more lucrative and long-term interest in the couple. They raised their glasses to her, and she raised hers back.

She was just about greet them when a boringly besuited man leapt out from the rabble and made an elegant bow. “Mistress Zôrzimril, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” He took her hand and placed a delicate but moist kiss on it. She could feel her skin crawl. Rök must have sensed her discomfort. With feral grace, the uruk stepped between them, his massively broad chest blocking any view the man might to be trying to get. “Oh, well, I…” he stammered and took a step back.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner sir, he is quite protective of me,” she looked at the elegant couple behind him and gave him a terse smile. “Unfortunately, I am –”

“Oh, mistress, this will only take a few moments of your time I assure you,” he paused and looked into her eyes for a hint of recognition and found none in her gleaming eyes. “I see you don’t remember me. It is my fault to be sure. My wife is always telling me I need to be more memorable, more resolute and assertive. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Abrazîr of House Kalama. I –”

“Are perhaps not aware of dangerous position you’ve put yourself in, good sir,” Zôrzimril finished for him. “I don’t know who you are and at the moment, I don’t care. I am sure you will find someone at the party to talk to until I am in a more open position.” She stepped around him; and the fool then had the audacity to step with her.

“Please, my lady, I only mean to take a moment of your time. I promise that you will be well rewarded for it, I just –”

Rök stepped up to him, leaving no space for the lordling to try and make eye contact with Zôrzimril.

“You are in a very dangerous position, Lord Abrazîr. If I were you, I would take advantage of the free and exotic alcohol and forget that you tried anything. If I see you again this evening, my companion will make sure you head decorates my bedpost.” She was done playing games or trying to maneuver around without causing a stir. The ballroom had gone quiet the sudden, the eyes of Umbar on this weasel of a man. What would he do? Slink away or stand up? Either way it was going to be the talk of the town for the next day or so.

He bowed his head and slunk away, as she knew he would. She huffed and looked up to Rök who was just releasing the tension in his shoulders. She could tell he wanted to remove the man’s head from his. She placed a hand on his forearm. “Let him go, but if you see him again, well don’t make it gentle.” The uruk snorted in response.

“Now, where were we? Oh, right.” As if nothing had happened, Zôrzimril ambled across the room finally to the couple she’d been trying to see before, the Lady and Lord of House Azgarâbêl.

“It’s so good of you two have been able to come. I hope you are enjoying yourselves?”