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