Outracing the Flames RPG

[Undómë]

Bregoware


Meghan

‘Simply here to talk?’ The woman’s words were scarcely welcoming, nor was the cynical glance with which she’d greeted Meghan.

‘Nay. Simply a passing comment,’ she returned, reining back her mount. ‘I’ll trouble you no longer.’ Meghan bit back the rest of her thought – that the woman preferred her own nettlesome company over any other, it seemed. Well, what was it to her. Naught! She was not here to make new friends. Only to see the charge the March-warden had laid on them seen through. It would be a good thing, Meghan reminded herself, to keep that foremost in her mind.

Meghan fell back a good number of paces behind Eostre. She shifted on the saddle, easing herself into a more comfortable position. She wondered if Osmod, at the lead, would call a halt for a midday meal, or would they ride on ‘til evening? Either way would be fine for her. Her waterskin was close at hand, and at her belt hung a pouch her brother’s wife had filled for her. Strips of dried, smoked goat meat, some hard-baked journey bread, and good sized slices of dried apple from the summer harvest would see her through.

[Undómë]

Bregoware


Rædwald

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]

Nogrod’s 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.

[Valier]

Wulfham

"I agree Incana, those men are stronger than us and yes, we need them, but for conversation Men are not who I seek." She gave the woman a weak smile that belied her emotions that overwhelmed her insides. Her face blanched and her eyes focused on something and nothing in particular. Her mother was screaming and her father's sword was clashing against another. She froze when she rounded the corner Her mother was tied up and her father now lay on the floor bleeding. The man that was bent over his body slowly stood up and faced her. She screamed....... Vaenosa shook her head and her eyes refocused to see Incana still by her side and the Men approaching quickly from behind.


Frowning Vaenosa lept atop Nay, pulling him back on the road towards the men."There is a wooded area up ahead. I think it would be a good place to stop for awhile. It should be safe, it's fairly hidden off the road. I have been there before." Vaenosa paused slightly to see if they would respond and in what manner. She slowly turned Nay down the road at a slow pace, so as to not go far ahead.

Vaenosa had had very little contact with men since her father died. She had been afraid of them for a long time, now that fear had turned to distrust and hatred. But the other woman was someone who she slightly admired, not many would approach her when she was in a foul mood, which was quite often. It made her smile to herself slightly, dispite all efforts against it.

[Maeggaladiel]

Fionn shifted in his saddle, uncomfortable with the long silence. Osmod had taken the lead early in their journey and seemed preoccupied with watching the road. He himself had taken up the rear, and the two women seemed to be distancing themeselves equally between them.

Would it always be like this? Riding in single-file, staring at nothing but endless plains and the backs of people's heads? He sighed.

The horse's hooves hit the ground at regular intervals, adding to the monotony with a dull drumbeat. Leather saddles creaked and squeaked as the animals moved, bridles jingled, and Fionn's quiver of arrows thumped against his back in time to the horse's footsteps. Otherwise, though, the plain was silent.

Fionn couldn't stand it anymore.

"How much ground do you think we shall cover today?" he called.

[Farael]

In spite of their need to make haste, the group had left their village only two hours before noon. It was not time for lunch yet, but Osmod had gotten himself ahead of the group to scout for possible places to stop. He was still close enough to hear Fionn say, "How much ground do you think we shall cover today?" Turning his horse around and riding towards the group he waved to his partners for a halt.

“Well friends ” he said, “It seems I took the lead, but I would not want to impose my will and judgement over yours. In a few hours we should stop and grab a bite, maybe let the horses rest as well. Our mission is indeed urgent but we need to spend our energy wisely, it will not do to push ourselves harder than what we can manage. I would suggest we keep a steady pace until mid-day, then take a break and ride again until sundown. We will need to set up a camp and then rest until the following morning. I would advise we get going at sunrise so that we get to the rafts and cross the river by noon to-morrow.”

Smiling and trying to look more confident than what he really felt, he looked at all of them, silently inquiring what they thought. He spent an extra second looking into Eostre's eyes, as something seemed to be bothering her. “I hope I am doing the right thing” he thought, with a sudden pang of fear. “I have never lead a group of people in situations such as this. What am I supposed to do if they outright scorn me?” He still looked relaxed, but his horse feeling his master’s distress shifted his weight slightly and bumped Meghan’s horse. With an embarrassed look Osmod mumbled an apology as he waited to hear what the other’s thought.

[Arry]

Wulfham

Vaenosa led the way to the wooded area. She kept the group at a fair pace, but held back enough that the four had at least some semblance of riding together. Brand continued to ride at the back, his eyes taking note of the area along the way. For the most part, the ground was rocky soil, and seemed undisturbed by the passage of animal or man or other.

Clumps of low growing bushes grew here and there with the occasional shrubby tree. He had heard that in the long gone days this area had been heavily forested, a green and rolling land. There had been no stories he recalled from his parents or those gatherings at the Lord’s hall which explained it fully and Brand wondered what it was that had happened or who had caused it.

The small, forested area must be a remnant of that long gone forest, he thought as they drew near it and rode under the bare trees. Most of their leaves had already fallen, though a few still bore a few, sere remnants that rattled dryly in the little breeze from off the river.

Dorran volunteered to set up for the midday meal while the others gathered wood for their evening camp. Brand hauled out the coil of slender rope he’d packed and asked that the two women come with him.

The trio had been at their task for a good while - gathering the smaller branches, breaking them into arm lengths and binding them into bundles that could be secured to the horses. At one point, Brand drew near where Vaenosa was working and keeping himself at a distance still from her, he began to speak.

‘I’d ask a favor of you, Vaenosa. In this task the March-warden has set us, I’d like to keep my place at the back of the group as we ride. Shepherd as I am, that’s the place I think my skills can best be used. You’re a good rider, as you’ve shown this first day out. If you’ll set the pace, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for any unusual signs in the areas we pass through that might bode ill for us.’

He turned back to the bundle of wood he’d gathered and crouching down, began to bind it at either end. ‘Oh, and as we must all depend on one another to get through this journey safely,’ he spoke low, almost as an after thought. ‘We should try to stay in sight of each other. Should we be attacked from the rear, I would like to know you would be near enough to ride back and give me aid.’

Brand stood, flexing his back to work the soreness from it. He picked up several of the bundles he’d bound and balanced them on his shoulders. His stomach rumbled loudly, protesting its lack of food. ‘I sure hope Dorran’s dug deep and found us something good to eat. And tea,’ he said his steps taking him in the direction of their small camp. ‘It would be nice to have something hot to drink. The day grows colder . . .’

[Arry]

It had always been Brand’s habit to let the older person speak first, or even to let them direct the conversation. But Rædwald, it seemed, was a tough nut to crack. And so it fell upon Brand to move their dialog along.

At first, they discussed their villages, and then ensued a general bit of talk on goats versus sheep; ailments in the flocks and their medicines; best types of feed; the use of dogs to tend the animals; how the pasturings were determined by season. Brand had a good head on his shoulders for this type of discussion on the relative merits of sheep and held up well against a die hard goat man.

The route to Edoras was also discussed, though not in such detail. Brand had never been far from his village and its surrounding lands and so intended to rely fully on the instructions his Lord had given him. It was with some relief he learned Rædwald had been to Edoras a number of times, and would be able to find it if there were some reason they could not follow the river any longer or were unable to head straight west to where the Snowbourn met the Entwash. A tale or two of Rædwald’s days among the Riders of the Mark were interwoven at this point of the conversation. Brand hoped that he did not seem like a gawking child as he listened wide-eyed to stories of battles and danger and the easy camaraderie of those in the Riders.

It was not until later in that long morning’s ride that Brand got up the courage to pursue the line of questioning that was burning at the back of his mind. He started out in a general way, asking how did Ræedwald know each of his present companions; getting round finally to the questions he really wanted the answers to. ‘And that Meghan,’ he began. ‘She’s a friendly one isn’t she? How old is she, do you think? And have you known her long?’ He asked it in a casual, general sort of way, hoping that Rædwald would feel as inclined to talk about her as he had the other subjects.