Outracing the Flames Discussion Thread

[piosenniel]

Maeggaladiel's Character

NAME: Fion

AGE: 17

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Well-used wooden bow, quiver of arrows. One plain hunting knife.

APPEARANCE: About 5'9". Dirty-blond wavy hair, usually pulled back into a ponytail. The meagre beginnings of a beard marks his chin. Gray-blue eyes. A somewhat muscular build from years of farmwork, but not overly so. Fion is stuck somewhere between lanky teenager and adult, and he has been trying to push himself towards the latter.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Fion is somewhat naieve, and an idealist. He sets out from his home ready to save the world, not expecting the world to laugh and kick dirt in his face. He can be over-eager to help people and can become sidetracked easily. He tries to play the role of the gallant knight in shining armor, and is easily delfated when people give him a dose of reality. He is, however, loyal and honest, a quick thinker, and an excellent shot with the bow.

HISTORY: Born and raised on a small farm, Fion has known no other life. He has dreamed of traveling to Edoras, though, and wants to become a Rider of the Mark. Most of his life has been spent working on a farm with his father and younger brother. Through his various roles as "delivery boy" for his father, he has proven himself a swift rider and a trustworthy messenger.

When the orcs began their advance on Rohan, Fion begged his father to let him fight with the adults. His father refused, saying that a farm boy with a bow could do little good in such a battle. When the call for messengers went out, Fion approached his father again and demanded to go. His father finally agreed, although hesitantly. Fion was elated.

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Maeggaladiel's post

The hall went silent as the call for volunteers rang out. Fion looked up at his father. The broad-shouldered man stared out over the sea of frightened faces, his own sun-worn face an expressionless mask.

Fion grimaced. Why so few volunteers? This was an important job! This mission required endurance, knowledge of the land, and speed on horseback. It practically screamed for Fion's involvement. Why, he could do this with his eyes closed!

There was a voice from the front of the hall, and people were nodding at him. That was when he realized his hand was above his head. Oh...

"Fion!" his father hissed in anger and shock. "You fool, what are you doing?" He grabbed the boy's arm and forced it to his side. "You cannot do this!" But it was too late. The boy's fate had been sealed.

"He's naught but a child!" his father protested to the people around him. Fion, feeling rebellious, pulled away.

"I have seen ten-and-seven summers; that is enough!" he said. He jutted out his chin, wishing that his "beard" was more than short blonde dandelion fuzz.

"And I am the fastest rider around!" he added proudly. "You said so yourself!" He held up the worn hunting bow. "And I can hit a bird's eye in the dark!" A mild exaggeration, but boasting never hurt.

His father stared at him, his expression odd but unreadable. Fion shifted uncomfortably.

"I can do this," he insisted, pleading with his eyes. "Please, let me try. If I don't go, we could all be in danger."

There was another long silence. His father stared hard at Fion; the boy tried hard to return the stare. After a moment, the elder man sighed.

"Do what you must," he said. Fion, wanting to prove himself mature enough to handle the task, refrained from letting out a joyous yell.

"I'll make you proud," Fion said. His father grasped his shoulders.

"You already have."

[piosenniel]

Eowyn Skywalker's character

NAME: Eostre Merir

AGE: 20

RACE: Human

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Eostre carries a quarterstaff about six feet tall, made out of simple wood, a bow and a quiver of arrows (she probably has about twenty arrows, none of those unending elven arrows that Legolas seemed to have), and a longer dagger (does the term dirk apply in Middle-earth? Because that's how I'd define her blade), in case her staff were to break or anyone be too near for ranged attacks. No flashy weapons for her. Armor-wise, she has leather vambraces, only because it would be stupid for an archer not to have that sort of protection and a thick leather tunic underneath her clothing. At least, she will in this RP, not that she'd normally wear that sort of garb.

APPEARANCE: Eostre isn't very tall—perhaps 5"2— a typically larger human build overwhelming her features, and leaving her, although fairly pleasant looking, not the beauty queen of the area. Her hair is not so long as it is free-flying, cut shorter to not get in her way with various chores overwhelming who she is. Her eyes are a dark brown, and her hair's a sort of flaxen brown, not really gold, but more flat. She wears flat brown clothing, trousers underneath a skirt for the sake of both convenience and riding, and a long sleeved tunic with a vest-like foldover front. ((one might think Jedi, but not quite so overdone)) Her skirt is a basic long pleated job. Wearing moccasin-like leather shoes, she doesn't tend to think too much of her appearance, trying to keep herself down to a simple, pragmatic approach. She wears her hair up in a ponytail much of the time, believing in being pragmatic at nearly all times. ( For reference, a photo, but her hair should be blond and tied back. And just totally ignore the clothing.)

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Eostre is a cynic. It's pretty well as simple as that. The oldest daughter in her family, she quickly adapted to a mistrusting manner—though nothing happened to her parents to scar her, in fact, they're all still alive. It's natural for the oldest child to become either a caretaker or sort of slip away into their own world. Eostre somehow managed to do both, dutifully carrying out her chores and actions until she left home at the age of twenty (that was this year, I suppose) to work as a farmhand, no desire to get married living in her heart at that time—though this could change. She was a fast learner, silently picking up on everything, not readily desiring to speak unless spoken to—yet when she did choose to speak, she was able to become an incredible leader. She sees things very often as purposeless, preferring to let others do their foolish play while she walked alone, letting herself close herself in far too easily.

For this, she's very shielded, her personality guarded. She hates to trust unless positive this emotion will be returned, and although is very passionate about what she believes to be truth, masks her patriotic spirit as much as the leader underneath the indifferent guise. A notable physical weakness is an allergy to pollen, ei, hayfever. And though she's had to lift heavy things in typical farmwork, not to mention shooting off intruders now and again, she's not particularly strong with melee fighting. She has few qualms in killing if she has to, and knows a deal about basic medications, both able to come up with herbal mixtures and the nitty-gritty of setting broken limbs and bandaging wounds.

If she chooses to love and or trust someone, she holds to this to the uttmost, though this leaves her very suseptable to heartbreak, whether through death or simply betrayal. Eostre also has a nearly flawless memory, though again this is also a weakness as things most people would want to forget engrain themselves into her mind.

Since age limits in this RP force me to make Eostre younger than she should be, the fact that she's the oldest child made her end up wiser beyond her years, perhaps a bit of an unnatural maturaty, though no worse than her narrator, who suffers the same maturaty defect in reality. (coughs)

HISTORY: Eostre has no greatly exceptional history. She's the oldest born in her family, grew up to learn to take care of horses, cows, chickens, and sheep, not to mention knowledge of how to weed the garden. Having about five siblings, she's well aware of a maternal need to care for people although cynicism frequently overrides this. Once she decided her siblings (who weren't that much younger than her; her parents were busy) were well enough on their own, she decided that it would be better to help out with some older people whose oldest children had been killed in a previous bandit attack, or something like that. Considering he was her mother's brother, therefore rendering the family owning the farm her uncle and aunt, there was nothing of any scandelous manner to consider, and considering their only child was six years old, it was probably a good thing she helped anyway. Nooooooothing of merit here.

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Eowyn Skywalker's post

Jerked from a weary sleep by a strong wailing of an alarm, Eostre's eyes flickered open in the dark. An attempt to speak... her voice choked off and she leaned over to grasp a white square of fabric, rubbing some excess mucus from her mouth with a grimace. It took the adult woman sometime before she was able to place the harsh sound of alarm that drilled through her mind, chasing away all the flickering images of the dreamworld she dwelled in during her sleep. Something about... A chicken?

But, as was her custom, she didn't let anything sway her course from the choice to sit up and shove her bedding aside, yanking her nightshift off and changing hastily into full garb. By the time she was fully dressed—making the attempt to change in the dark hardly easy—the sound of the alarm had long leaned towards the houses far further away from the Town Hall, and in other rooms in the house, there came the sound of feet smacking against bare wood, her host family coming to wake her up.

Had they honestly thought the light sleeping Eostre would still be abed when alarms cried all through the town, the clatter of hooves passing through the streets and roads stretching far beyond the town to the adjoined lands? She could scarcely sleep through the sound of bacon frying in the rare mornings when she was ill, mainly from allergies. But it meant little; she was dressed, as were they all, and the bordering elderly Haodel and Gelwyn were insisting she ride to the Town Hall with them from their farm. Gelwyn wanted to stay with cousin Ieloa, Haodel wanted to go to the meeting... clamor. She didn't mind. There was no way she could ever have fallen asleep after such a racket! What was the world coming to? A full out war?

Needless to say, not being so far out of town, the two arrived quickly to the Town Hall, possibly after the first ten or so people had arrived. By this point the woman was well awake, sticking close to Haodel as they watched others arrive to the meeting.

An explanation...

Eostre exhaled. So. It did come to war, then. She felt no fear, only a vauge sense of intriege at the arguements being cast around the room, the voices raised and tossed from one hand to the next. The call for aid was too facinating; she didn't want to see any unnecessary death.

Metal cut against metal, and a sword was raised above one volenteer's head, held high in the crowd. She hardly hesitated after that. The mission screamed for fast riders, for those who knew the land, knew how to fight, and wanted to protect their land. She unsheathed her dirk, raised it above her head with just the faintest flicker of a challenging smile on her face.

Haodel threw her a glance. "Eostre..."

"They mayn't even allow me to ride along," she murmured in soft reply. "If they do, I ride hard. I shall return, and in the meantime you and Gelwyn will manage."

He only inclined his head, and she realized when he had spoken, he hadn't spoken in critisism. So. It was done, then. She glanced up at the flame-colored light reflecting off of her blade for a moment, then back down at the others surrounding her. Somehow, time seemed to blur past, others finally raising their blades in agreement of the mission.

Time passed...

The Marchwarden dismissed everyone beyond the volunteers and their families, but names had still spread. Her family recognized her involvement, remaining while Haodel returned to his family. Somehow through the plans, the clock passed well beyond the witching hour as they spoke, exchanged embraces with her family near the end, though they were unnaturally silent, Eostre noted.

She was silent through much of the planning, letting things sink in. And when she went to ride back to Haodel's family, her parents pulled her aside, insisted that it would be better if she spent one last night at home. As if she would never return, she thought...

And yet, as she lay sleepless abed once more, she felt no fear of death, only a desire to protect others of the potential same fate.

[piosenniel]

Nogrod’s Character

NAME: Sythric

AGE: 41

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Good,basic Rohirrim sword, gotten as a honorary gift from the riders’ guild at Croacht after ten years of service: good weapon, but not a masterpiece or anything of worth in gold in the wide world. Brand new horserider’s longspear, iron tipped, gotten from the March-warden. Longbow, made of fir, basic model, not more than ten years’ old, bought from an armourer in Bregoware + 18 arrows in his own soft leather quiver + 20 arrows tied with a string, from the March-warden. Small round shield of wood (swordmans’ shield), gotten as a part of a “starters’ kit” at Croacht, and has hanged along ever since: badly bruised and damaged, the paintings in the leather topping almost all gone. Mediumsized knife, iron blade, not sot much a weapon, as an all around tool: present from his much admired great-uncle (starring: the family-logo, a silver wolf’s head at the back of the handle – makes it propably the second or third most valuable item he has with him). Toughened leather breast-armour and greaves (on arms & legs), another gift from his great-uncle, a worthy gift indeed. No helmet: Sythric never liked them.

APPEARANCE: Normal height, clearly under six feet. Has gained a little surplus weight as compared to his youth, but not a fat man at any standard. In a good shape to his age, strongly built. Hairline at the forehead has escaped a bit higher, so he combs his hair backwards and ties it to two ponytails at the back. Hair colour: yellowish-light brown. No whiskers over the upper lip, but strong sidewhiskers + plaited beard (pigtail!). Blue-grey eyes that can be quite flashing and intense, but have also a “switched-off” -position. Mellow-orange cotton shirt (under the leather armour) and light brown leather trousers.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Sythric is not the ice-breaker at the parties! From the early childhood onwards, he has had the feeling, that he is being walked through his life without anyone bothering to ask, what he himself would like to do or decide. After his assignment with the riders, he has tried to wrestle himself free from this, but due to his tough, conservative upbringing, he hasn’t quite gone over that yet. All this has made him quite a cynical, almost nihilistic – and at lately, quite straight-forward speaking man. Still, there is a romantic inside of him. Secretly he believes in justice and freedom for the days to come. That is well revealed in his almost altruistic love of young people, male or female: in the drive, which he gets into, when he is going riding on with the youngsters, or teaching them to shoot arrows etc. He truly believes, that the new generation can make the difference.

Over that, it should be mentioned, that he is quite moody and unpredictable: at a moment, tender and caring, at another, sarcastic and dooming.

HISTORY: Born to Skara, a farming community, or indeed a manor farm of some esteem, Sythric had a twofold inheritance: either to be a landlord or a soldier. As he was the second child (his big brother Swithulf is 2-years older), the latter choice seemed to be calling him. As he won all the childrens’ fights with his brother and cousins, his father laid great expectations on him. He was to be a rider, and he was trained to that from the beginning. If everything would have gone according to his fathers’ wishes, he would have become a heroic rider of Rohan. That never happened: he served at the riders of Croacht (the same place were Raedwald was serving – they both knew each other and even shared some battles together) and returned “fully served” at the age of 30, as a mere sergeant (that was his dad’s point of view).

His great idol had been his great-uncle, Limferth, who had, in his time, served at the “rohirrim proper”, the king’s hird. The tokens his great-uncle ordered to be given to him at his deathbed (the breast-armour & greaves and the knife), were great marks of honour for him. And they still are. The only cause of envy was, that his great-uncle’s sword and shield went to his cousin, Aethelbane, and not to him.

As Sythric returned, he was an oldtimer to marry, but there was a younger half-kinswoman, Ceolflaed, who had been recently been widowed with no children. All the families thought, that this would be a good marriage, and so the wedding was held. They had a rush of love: Sythric trying it seriously the first time, Ceolflaed trying to make it reality a second time. It passed away quite quickly. They couldn’t divorce, because of the conservative values of the time, but also, and more importantly, because of the strong social and economic ties that had been settled between the families under the umbrella of being “kinsfolk”. The “old couple” had their first child, Hunlaf, the very same year Sytheric came back from the riders’. Their daughter Cwen was born about three years later. That was the time-span of their love. After that it waned.

Sythric got to doing anything else than being with his wife. He started mentoring bregowarian youngsters and teens in riding, sword handling, archery etc. Many wealthy families were ready to pay for this teaching for their young hopefuls. Added to his savings from the military, he didn’t have to make any other living for their family. They lived at Skara, at the old farmhouse, the one that was built there first, by the first settlers of Woldland. It was an old and not so comfortable logging, but it was ok. for Sythric. It had tradition. His brother Swithulf lived at the magnificient main-building of Skara: it had 7 rooms and the longhall (not to mention all the workingrooms of the three household servants – the stableboy and field-assistants had their own little dwelling near the longhouse). In Sythric’s house there was just the one main area, and the dormitory corners with curtains. But he was happy with it.

Lately Sythric had managed to persuade his brother Swithulf to let his youngest sons ride with him – and after a much longer conversation, his eldest daughter too. And as his own son Hunlaf was also coming to an age, they started having their own riding parties every now and then. The youngsters had a chance to learn skills they admired, and Sythric a chance to be away from home a few days in a row.

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Nogrod’s post ------- Place after Undómë's Rædwald post

Sythric was tending a dying fire in the middle of the northern wilderness, when he heard the distant horns in the still air. The three young lads and the girl were sleeping a good nights’ sleep, and the horses were taking their well earned rest just a few feet away. He knew immediately, what the horns meant. All the things he had seen and recollected from other ranging peoples’ depictions during the last year, or year and a half, pointed to one direction only: a large scale orc raiding party would be up on their village one day or another, this autumn or winter, pillaging and plundering. Now it seemed to have come to happen.

He got so excited, that he almost bruised the lads, kicking and shaking them out of their happy dreamworld. One of them was his own son, Hunlaf, 12-year old kid, who still sucked his thumb while asleep. The other two lads were the youngest sons of his brother, Swithulf: Waermund and Waerferth (16 & 15 respectively), and the girl, indeed a handsome young lady, was his brothers’ still unmarried daughter Winflaed (17). He urged them to get up and on the road. There was alarm at Bregoware, an alarm that hadn’t sounded during the decades the Bregowarians remembered. It was time to ride, and ride fast. They rode south, towards the town, and Sythric pressed them forwards as if all the hounds of Mordor would have been on their heels. The youngsters started to sharpen, got alarmed, all senses open. It was a ride in a deep night and darkness the young had never encountered – or were never taught how to cope with. They would remember it for the rest of their lives.

Some time after the daybreak they reached the outskirts of Bregoware. They had not been as fast as Sythric would have hoped for, but they hadn’t been as slow as he had feared. The young had been quite good indeed. He should have to praise them to his brother someday. At the small hill, north of the town centre, he told his young companions to reach homewards, and bid them tell his wife and brother, that he would be accompanying them soon enough. Then he rode down to the Town Hall.

The March-warden was having a council with the city elders, when Sythric entered the Hall. They all fell silent at his arrival. Before they had time to open their mouths in a greeting, Sythric got straight into the business – as was to be expected from him: “So, an orc party, much larger than a normal one, now coming to pillage for real, not just probing, isn’t it? Today or tomorrow?”

“That’s correct, and sadly, at the same time incorrect, master Sythric,” said the March-warden slowly. Sythric had never quite catched the idea, why March-warden preferred to call him ‘master’. There was something playful or humorous in that honorific, but was it all? “It’s just much worse. A greater party, yes. Orcs, yes. But also easterlings. And not a raiding party... but a full army. We have already called for evacuation at noon.” The March-warden made a rhetorical pause to let his word sink in, deep down to the bottom of it all. Sythric felt his blood thrusting with such velocity through his rusting veins that he thought he could not cope with it for long. In the following silence he almost heard his own heart thumping, with ever increasing speed. So, it did come to this, he thought to himself, my skills were never needed here when I had them, and now, when they would be needed, I don’t have them anymore. I’ve defended many villages and run against many enemies, but never have I defended my own town, my own people. Now I am not able, not more than the other old battle-rags around here: some council, the last defense perhaps... His solitary thoughts were distracted by ever more urgent whispering by the council members. They were talking about him. He knew it.

“Master Sythric”, began the March-warden, as their discussion had settled. “Would you serve your town in a time of distress, in an errand both urgent and most crucial to our destiny?” Hearing the unexpected pledge in the middle of his self-depressing thoughts, Sythric only nodded slightly, and kind of wondered, whether this man was really asking, would he do something for the town, or was it again some rhetorical nicety. The March-warden started explaining the events of the night, but when he got into the riding party and those involved in it, old counselor Hugebryth cut in, a very cynical tone in his soft voice: “It probably was pure madness to send just four riders for an errand of that importance at times like these. But what should we say about the wisdom of choosing two boys and two girls whose experience can be compared to that of the kids? Would you send your son Sythric, or would you go yourself? What should we have decided last night? Let me say, reason can not be seen dwelling here, under the roof of this very hall. They sure can ride, and some of them probably can hunt or fend off foxes from their goat herds. But have they ever even seen an orc, or an easterling warrior in full armour, not to talk of confronting one, or ten? And even if they would make it to the Golden Hall, could they get an audience, or would anyone believe them, or even take them seriously? Just asking, old and tired man as I am...”

So, this is it, no use in real war, but ready to be sacrificed with a quest, that only a fool would hope to have an effect on anything, thought Sythric by himself. Aloud he said: “If it is the wish of the council, that I should trace and join them on this errand, so be it. You don’t have to ask, whether I’m willing to help my town. You know the answer. And if this is the way you see fit, then this is the road I will take. But first I must see to my family and my brother to arrange evacuation affairs. And because I have practically been riding since yesterday morning, both I and my horse need some rest. I could be off late afternoon and if I ride without pause, I should reach them early tomorrow morning. Is that all right with the council, or should I try to hasten?”.

“We are most grateful to you, master Sythric. Is there anything you would need on your quest, any gear you would like to upgrade? You are welcome to claim them from my armoury, ... or kitchen”, said the March-warden. “My spear is not in shape it used to be, and one could always do with some extra arrows. Otherwise, I do prefer my own equipment. Some dried meat would be useful, my share of our own would then go to my children and my brothers’ children. It may be a tuff journey for you all too.” Sythric answered. The March-warden called for the armourer to see these items to Sythric’s old farmhouse before noon.

As Sythric was taking his leave, the old counselor Hugebryth rose up from his chair and called him to wait. He took a couple of short steps towards Sythric and addressed him, looking straight into his eyes, kind of evaluating him as he spoke: “We all know you are a good man, and we also know that as a mentor for many of our young riders, you love and care for them deeply. Just remember, that this message to the King, no matter how slim are the chances that it will affect anything in the end, is the single most important thing on your journey. It’s more important than the lives of any one of those youngsters, and remember also this: your being alive is the best insurance we have for the message reaching its destination. Don’t try to be a hero of your conscience, be the hero of your people.” He took a step backwards and mumbled quietly, as to himself, even the words were at least half directed to Sythric: “If this would be done my way, you would have ten spearman riding with you – maybe we wouldn’t even need you then, other than just taking the youngsters safely back.”

Sythric bowed and exited the hall. He rode to his old farmhouse and ordered the farmhand to see to his horse. Then he negotiated evacuation-matters with his brother. His wife and children would of course go with his brother’s family, and with all the rest from Skara. It was just a question of some special items he would like to be taken with for him, if possible, and such matters. As he then told her wife about this new twist of his fate, they suddenly embraced, even hesitantly kissed each other. That hadn’t happen in years. There was a little shining tear in his eye, when he hugged his children, and demanded Hunlaf to defend his little sister, Cwen (9) in all circumstances, and her mom too. It was his duty as the oldest man in his family.

Then he started to gather his war gear in silence. No one said a word. The children were watching their father collecting and packing items slowly, but with precision of a life long experience. Hunlaf took Cwen by the hand, and they wept quietly together, without tears, just moist eyes gleaming ever brighter. Neither dared to look at each other. Ceolflaed turned her back to the room and just stared out of the window. Her shoulders were trembling weakly. Sythric tried to force a smile to his children when he was finished, but couldn’t. Slowly he bent himself down to meet his childrens’ eyelevel, looked them both in the eyes, took a strong grasp from both of their shoulders, and pressed them softly but firmly. “There will be a better world, one day there will be. You shall see it”, he almost whispered. He rose up and got out of the hall to the barnhouse to get some sleep.

In the dim light of the barn attic, laying on the hays, his tears flew openly. He was tired, frustrated, kind of offended, angry, and most of all, afraid of the fate of his children, his brother and his children, even of his wife. When he fell asleep at last, he was seeing images of burnt houses, screaming children and marauding orcs, fire and blood. And riding, all the riding... Things that had really happened, and things he hoped, never would.

As Sythric woke up, it was late afternoon. His horse was brushed and fed and looked quite lively again. March-wardens’ promised gear had been delivered to the door of the old farmhouse. Everything was quiet and empty. There was no one at sight: just birds singing their songs and the sound of the grasshoppers filling the air. Suddenly he saw a glimmer at the doorsteps of the old farmhouse. He took a closer look and found out, that it was a small wristband, made out of little pieces of glass. It was the band of Cwen, made by Sythric himself, when Cwen had her fifth birthday. He held it in his hand for a while, just staring at it and then slipped it carefully into his beltsack. He packed the rest of his gear, saddled his horse and rode out, into the empty fields.

[piosenniel]

CARRY-ALONG CHARACTERS


Carry-along character – Undómë

NAME: Rædwald (the aging lancer)

AGE: 42

RACE: Man of Bregoware

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: long, plain oak, iron tipped lance; plain iron short sword; iron helm, boiled leather vest beneath a short, sleeveless chain-mail shirt. Other items of armor have been melted down by him at one time or another for farm implements and repairs.

APPEARANCE: Ash blond hair, streaked with white. Thick white mustache with close trimmed beard, also much streaked with white. Faded blue eyes. Skin wrinkled and roughened from many years spent in the sun moving his herds about. Ordinary homespun clothing, leather breeches, thick, tight woven, hooded brown cape. Scuffed and worn mid-calf boots.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Cautious, soft spoken, Good at sizing up problems and paring them down to their essentials. He’s not as quick physically as he was when he was younger. He likes to think this isn’t so and continues to act as if his reflexes were as acute as if he were in his twenties.

HISTORY: The youngest son in his family, Rædwald never married. He figured his father’s resources would be stretched far enough for his older brothers and his sister’s dowry.

At the age of seventeen he left home with the blessings of his father to serve in the ranks of the Riders for one of the more important Lords along the Rohan borderlands. He served for eleven years, coming back to Bregoware at the news of his father’s death to help with the homestead and the family flocks.

From his service to the Lord he had managed to save a small pouch of coins with which he bought a trio of nanny goats and one billy. He has since increased his herd to about fifteen head. He lives in a small hut he built on the outskirts of his father’s (now Rædwald’s oldest brother’s) land and spends all of his days with his little herd.

His hut borders on Leof’s land. He and Meghan and Leof have often aided each other with the goat birthings or the doctoring of various ailments of their animals. They have also cross mated their flocks to make for stronger, healthier goats. Rædwald is fond of Meghan, thinking of her as almost a niece of his own. She and he are close friends and respect each other for their knowledge and love of their flock.

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Rædwald

Undómë's post

(I'll put this up after the group leaves the village. He'll follow after them and meet with them when they make camp)

It was late morning, the four riders would already be well on their way from the village. Meghan’s brother, Leof, had come earlier in the morning to ask a favor of Rædwald. Since Leof had his family and his mother to look after, would Rædwald follow after Meghan and keep an eye on her for him. After a short consideration, the older man had said he would do this, for a promise from the younger man. And so they met for one last word together before Rædwald left.

‘Now, Leof,’ Rædwald said, motioning for Meghan’s brother to follow after him. ‘I’ve milked the nannies and penned them in with hay in the rick. The two billys are in there, too. And I’ve given them all a measure of oats.’ He pointed to the small pen where his little flock now stood jostling each other for positions near the fence, vying for his attentions. ‘Now over there,’ he went on, pointing toward the little shed that served as his barn. ‘There under the tarps is the hay you can take with your own. Some of it’s loose; got most of it tied into sheaves. And in my hut are three oaken barrels of oats. Take them, too.’

He reached down and gave his oldest nanny a scratch between her ears. ‘I’ll see you in a couple turns of the moon, old girl.’ His hand came up to the back of his neck and he rubbed it slowly. ‘Now you remember, Leof, what I told you.’ He raised his hand to cut off Leof’s protest. ‘Nay, I mean it. You must make that promise to me, or I cannot take this task on for you.’

Rædwald saw Meghan’s brother to the edge of his little holding. The man had made his promise, and Rædwald knew his goats would be safe, whether or not he made it back to them. He pushed what clothes he thought he’d need in his old leather pack; rolled up a bedroll; stuffed some dried fruits and meats into leather packets, and filled several skins with water from the well.

He got down on his hands and knees and looked beneath his single bed. It was dark, and he got back up to fetch a candle stub. There they were – his helm, crusted with dirt and some straw where it looked as if a mouse had nested in it; his mail shirt, a bit rusted here and there; the thick leather vest that went beneath it, nibbled on, he noted. And there, rolled up against the wall his oaken lance, the tip of it having fallen victim to the same rust as had his shirt.

Rædwald gave them all a cursory cleaning, then stuffed the helm, vest, and mail shirt into a canvas sack. He secured everything to his dun mare. Giving his little holding one last look about, he mounted up and moved at a tempered pace out of the village. If they met no problems along the way this day, then he would come upon them in the evening as they camped.

[piosenniel]

Farael's post - 2nd Post

Osmod’s first thought of the day was “For the Lord of the Mearas I overslept.” Looking out his window, he could see the sun was already shining brightly on this chilly autumn day. He was supposed to be meeting the other riders in less than an hour and yet he had not even started packing. He knew not what to do and so he laid in bed for a few more moments. “If I am to be late, I might as well enjoy what could very well be my last awakening on this comfortable bed.” Yet the grim thoughts convinced him to wake up at last rather than stay in bed. With a tired sigh he put his traveling clothes on and made his way to the kitchen. It was a pleasant surprise to find not only a full breakfast set for him, but also everything he planned to take was set and packed by the door. His family was waiting for him and they called him merrily. They enjoyed breakfast together and then walked with Osmod to the stables. He had been expecting his father to ride with him into the town, but when he did not make any attempts towards his own horse, Osmod understood he would be riding alone. Holding back the tears he hugged his father and his mother. The neighbours had also come to wish him good luck and so it was a fairly merry group that accompanied Osmod outside of his father’s plantations. He knew they would all look after each other and found that thought comforting.

The ride to the Town Hall was slow and uneventful. He did not want to tire neither himself nor his horse and so he got there a few minutes late. It seemed no one else had made it any earlier and as Osmod was being greeted by the March Warden and his wife, he heard a banging noise behind him. “Well, here I am; ready as I’ll ever be. Now if you’ll just show me to the horse you promised, I’ll get the both of us ready to be off . . . “. He turned around, startled by the sound and the claim, and smiled at the woman that had recently arrived. He remembered her name from the meeting the night before and so he greeted her. “Miss Meghan, I admire your enthusiasm. I hope the other riders will be as excited as you seem to be about our… adventure. Myself, well… I must say, now that departing seems imminent, I’m all the more hesitant. Yet I hope you will bear with me through today, I’m sure I shall feel better tomorrow after camping on the outdoors.” He smiled at her and walked over to shake her hand. “I am Osmod, just in case you have forgotten.”


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This thread will be opened once all the character bios and posts are on the Planning Thread.

Once I've transferred all the bios and posts here - I'll open this thread.

Arry - you can then put the posts in the order you want them for the game thread and I'll open the game for play.

~*~ Pio, game moderator

[Naria]

Does everyone have there posts in? If so, what day are we starting the game?

[piosenniel]

Arry will be available for the game on Tuesday - so that's the day the game thread will open.



~*~ Pio